Drowning in Christmas (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) Read online

  I eased off the highway onto the sharply curved ramp that led beneath an overpass bearing the image of the Charter Oak, then swooped into Pulaski Circle with the rest of the traffic. As Sister Marguerite had instructed, I swung around the circle to Elm Street, which ran between Bushnell Park and the block anchored by the Bushnell Memorial Theater. It was a place that held magical memories for me and most other Connecticut theater-goers, as well as visitors who came by the busload. Armando and I had shared many wonderful evenings there together.

  Pausing at the light, I gazed straight ahead at the gleaming dome of the State Capitol. The Legislature must be in session, I surmised from the packed parking lot and plethora of Capitol Police in the area. No doubt the lawmakers were in a last-minute flurry, trying to get pending legislation passed before the lawmakers could adjourn for the holidays.

  The light changed, and I swung left past the Capitol building and right onto Capitol Avenue, which I followed several blocks past the State Library, Legislative Office Building, and assorted residential and commercial structures. A right onto Flower Street took me up the grade leading to Farmington Avenue and the area of Hartford referred to by the locals as Asylum Hill. It had been so nicknamed for the Asylum for the Education and Instruction of Deaf and Dumb Persons that had commanded the hill until around 1920. Then the institution was moved to West Hartford and more appropriately renamed the American School for the Deaf.

  Today, the king of the hill was The Hartford Insurance Group. No, it was now The Hartford Financial Services Group, I reminded myself. It was one of the many huge insurers, including The Travelers and Aetna, that had given Hartford its national identity as the Insurance City.

  Another lengthy traffic light gave me a chance to check out the current landscape of the Hill. I had never really paid much attention before, but now I took note of the churches that competed for pride of place. Among the older edifices were Emanuel Lutheran, which I had already passed on Capitol Avenue, Asylum Hill Congregational, and Trinity Episcopal, but there could be no question that The Cathedral of St. Joseph dominated the area.

  When the light finally changed, I headed west toward the small building in the shadow of the Cathedral, which housed the administrative staff of United Christian Charities. The organization was entirely ecumenical, Sister Marguerite had hastened to assure me, and served people in need throughout the region without regard to religious affiliation “or not,” she had twinkled at me, well aware of my lack of religious convictions. “We welcome even the heathens among us, Katie, so fear not.” Although she had spoken in jest, I wondered if that was how she secretly thought of me.

  I parked and locked the Jetta up tight, mindful of Sister Marguerite's warning that this was no longer the safest of neighborhoods, and made my way to the back entrance of the humble building that had once been a two-family house. I pressed the electronic doorbell and faced the monitor, trying to look as unthreatening as possible. “Can I help you?” a woman greeted me in a British accent that not even this system could distort completely.

  “Kate Lawrence here to see Sister Marguerite,” I offered obediently. “She's expecting me.” I was promptly buzzed through the outer door and climbed a half-staircase to the interior door, where I paused, suddenly weary. Here I was, facing yet another new job in a new location, my third such transition in as many years.It could be worse, I told myself firmly.I could have nowhere to go and nothing to do. Sister Marguerite needs my help, and at this particular moment, that feels pretty darned good.I took a deep breath, plastered a smile on my face, and turned the doorknob. Nothing happened. Then more buzzing led me to understand that this door, too, was locked electronically and had been similarly released by the receptionist.

  “Goodness,” I joked, approaching her desk. “I must be pretty shifty looking to require all these security precautions. I'm Kate Lawrence. I believe Sister Marguerite is expecting me this morning.”

  “It's not you,” the pleasant-faced brunette apologized. “It's become an unfortunate fact of life that we have to keep both doors locked at all times, whether we're in the building or not. Too many bad experiences, I'm afraid.”

  “Wow, do you mean you've actually been robbed?”

  She shrugged. “A couple of break-ins. Nothing at gunpoint or anything. I'm Shirley, by the way. Please hang your coat over there on the rack. Coffee's fresh. I'll tell Sister you're here.” She waved in the general direction of a coat rack and a tiny kitchenette behind it where a coffee urn and mugs stood waiting on the counter. I hung my parka on a hanger and decided against more coffee. Instead, I admired Shirley's impressive array of potted plants, which thrived in the sunshine streaming through a window beside her desk.

  Although small and somewhat cramped, the reception area had a friendly feel to it. The murmur of Monday-morning conversations among congenial coworkers met my ears, a poignant reminder of other Monday mornings at MACK Realty. I quickly turned the page on that thought and perched on one of the three chairs which, along with a small corner table, constituted the anteroom's entire furnishings. I struggled to get myself into a serene frame of mind, suitable for interaction with these kindly, gentle people who were about to become my temporary colleagues.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”

  My mouth dropped open, but Shirley didn't turn a hair at this surprising outburst from some interior office. Sister Marguerite appeared from behind a door at the end of a short hallway. She shoved it open energetically and hustled out to greet me. “What kind of a knucklehead takes up busy people's time on a Monday morning trying to sell them things over the phone, I ask you?”

  Shirley calmly continued festooning a rather dusty plastic fir tree that occupied the tabletop next to my chair.

  “Sorry, m'dear,” Sister Marguerite apologized to me. “Telemarketers have driven more pious women than I to bad language and strong drink. Shirley, how many of these trees have you got in this place, for the love of God? I feel as if I'm suffocating in tinsel.” A twinkle in her eye softened her words. Shirley merely grinned and went on decorating the already overburdened tree.

  “Come in, come in,” Sister Marguerite urged me and reversed direction. I scrambled after her down the short hallway, which was crowded with filing cabinets and overflowing bookshelves. Sister bustled into her office and addressed her guest chair. “Off with you now.” She made shooing motions, and a fat poodle, which I had mistaken for an overstuffed pillow, lumbered to the floor. “Go to your bed, Aloysius.” The dog wagged his stub of a tail to show there were no hard feelings and made his way arthritically to a snug pet bed behind his mistress's desk. “I shouldn't allow him on the furniture, I know, but he's quite an old fellow now,” Sister explained. “Sit, sit!”

  I sat. My eyes welled with grief for my own old pet, and I blinked the tears away. Two lines rang simultaneously on Sister Marguerite's phone, which she ignored. A tiny woman with gray hair stuck her head in the door. “Is this a good time to get some things signed, Sister? Oh, sorry,” she amended, spotting me. “I didn't see you sitting there. Another time.” And she was gone.

  An hour later, I sat in a cramped conference room with the organizers of the annual UCC holiday fundraising event, a cocktail party and auction scheduled for this very Thursday evening. I had been introduced as Mary Alice's temporary replacement, warmly welcomed, and promptly buried in an avalanche of logistical details concerning the annual gala to be held at one of the crown jewels of Hartford's cultural community, the Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art.

  The castle-like building was the oldest public art museum in the United States and the largest one in Connecticut. The Museum was particularly beautiful at this time of year. Thousands of additional visitors were attracted to its annual Festival of Trees& Traditions, a huge display of Christmas trees, wreaths, and other decorations constructed by local organizations and individuals and donated to be sold for the benefit of the Museum. That made the UCC gathering a fundraiser-within-a-fundraiser, so to speak.

  The pe
tite woman who had stopped by Sister Marguerite's office earlier turned out to be Lois Billard, the committee chair. She gave brisk updates on the budget, catering, entertainment, raffle contributions, and RSVPs received to date, which I struggled to take in. My head was spinning. It was clear that this was a major social occasion of the Hartford social season, and despite the downturn in the economy, this year's turnout was going to be a record setter. As Lois outlined the schedule for the evening, it was apparent that the major players from every segment of the business community would be present, as well as leading clergy from all of the Catholic, Protestant and Jewish denominations in the region.

  The plan was to gather everyone in a prominent location, dazzle them with ambience, mellow them out with heavy hors d'oeuvres and spectacular wines donated by some of Connecticut's finest eateries and vineyards, then begin the auction. “Liquor them up and get those wallets open,” was Lois's candid plan of action. “Then, just when they may be feeling they've overspent a tad, we'll bring in Santa Claus to distribute the goodie bags filled with gift certificates and enough electronic toys to thaw the tightest wad among them.” She grinned at the assembled committee members, who chuckled appreciatively. Obviously, these people were not nearly as strait-laced as I had imagined them to be.

  I had to admit that I quite looked forward to Thursday evening. “Who plays Santa?” I couldn't help asking. Sister Marguerite was quick to reply.

  “Why, our very own Santa, of course,” she smiled, gesturing to the bespectacled, middle-aged gentleman beside her who had sat quietly throughout the meeting and resembled Kris Kringle not at all. “Meet James O’Halloran, our chief financial officer, Kate. He's been playing Santa for us for nearly thirty years now. Says it makes a nice change from counting our beans the rest of the time.”

  “After all these years, I'm beginning to look the part,” O’Halloran joked along, patting his flat belly as if it were round. “I believe I know one of your business partners, Ms. Lawrence. My wife and I bought a house in Wethersfield a couple of years back, and she had the listing. Cheryl? Sharmaine? Anyway, a delightful lady. Made the experience relatively painless, as I recall.”

  “Charlene Putnam,” I smiled, “and yes, she is.”

  “James'wife Mary is a mainstay of the Wadsworth Atheneum's Women's Committee, which was how we managed to book that amazing space for our most important fundraiser of the year—and during the Festival of Trees, no less,” Sister Marguerite beamed. “Of course, it took even Mary two years to pull it off,” she added wryly, and everyone chuckled.

  On that note, the meeting adjourned, and the staff quickly scattered to pursue their various last-minute assignments. Mine was to keep track of all of the other assignments and serve as the focal point for all gala-related communications in addition to answering Sister Marguerite's phone, screening incoming requests, and assisting with the daily business of the UCC, which was helping local people in need to cope with their current crises.

  With Connecticut's unemployment rate threatening to become the highest in history, the stream of requests for help continued unabated throughout the afternoon, which whirled by in a blur. Just before five o'clock, the steeple bell of Asylum Hill Congregational Church rang out. “Two minute warning!” Sister Marguerite called out cheerily, and the staff members scurrying in and out of each other's offices and cubicles heaved a collective sigh of relief. “Quitting time, don't you know,” Sister explained, “but that bell is a little off.”

  “Does it ring all day?” I asked in amazement. Until this moment, I had been unaware of it.

  “Every hour on the hour,” she assured me, “and two minutes early for every blessed one of them. Well, that's it for me, Katie girl. Come along, Aloysius, you spoiled dog. Time for us to get our supper and see if we can still manage a little walk between us.” The poodle, who had been waiting patiently by Sister's briefcase, thumped his stubby tail on the carpet and creaked to his feet. She snapped a leash on his collar and picked up the briefcase, which bulged with paperwork to be attended to after dinner, no doubt. “Thanks for everything, m'dear,” she said, patting my shoulder in passing as they headed for the door. “Can we expect you back tomorrow?”

  “I'll be back,” I assured her.

  I let myself out into the parking lot, making sure that the door locked firmly behind me, as I had been instructed to do. The early darkness never failed to surprise me on these December evenings, but the lot was well lit. I joined the other going-homers in the late afternoon traffic and crept from traffic light to traffic light, reflecting on the events of the day.

  Now that I had the time to notice, I realized how weary I was. A few days ago, I had been sitting in my recliner planning my next career move. Now I was orchestrating a Martha Stewart Christmas Eve for Emma's new beau, hosting my nephew's holiday wedding, and juggling the myriad details of the UCC’s gala fundraiser. It wasn't surprising that I felt as if I were drowning in Christmas.

  What I didn't know was that I was about to go under for the third time.

  Two

  “I can't believe Jeff is getting married.” Emma, on the phone with me before work on Wednesday morning, was obviously jolted by the news. “He's younger than I am.”

  “What's that got to do with anything?” I wanted to know. “Is it a competition?”

  She was reassuringly scornful. “I could have gotten married about six times since I turned fifteen, as you well know. It's not his age. I'm just astounded that he's getting married at all. He's such a maverick, and he and Donna have been doing just fine the way they are, like you and Armando, you know?”

  I swallowed guiltily. Despite my determination never to marry again, about which I had been vociferous, Armando and I had had several conversations over the past year on the subject of marriage, specifically, the possibility of ours. Never say never.“Well, we can't know what prompts these things. Maybe Donna needs health insurance, and Jeff's employer won't provide coverage for domestic partners. Circumstances back people into corners sometimes.”

  She considered that possibility. “I suppose. Do you think that might ever happen to you and Armando?”

  “The way this real estate market is shaping up, I wouldn't discount the idea altogether,” I hedged. “People have gotten married for worse reasons, and if they're committed to each other anyway, why not?” I cleared my throat. “Of course, plenty of people still seem to want to get married for more romantic reasons, you know, stand up in front of their friends and families, say the words, take the vow.”

  Emma digested this surprising commentary from me in silence but forbore to grill me further on the subject. “Whatever. So Jeff's getting married, and Daddy has volunteered you to host the big event. Is that about the size of it?”

  I hastened to soften her father's part in this scenario. “Pretty much, but you know he would have had it at his place if he could have. It's just not possible. Plus, there's a terrific caterer who's agreed to do most of the work.”

  Emma laughed. “Yeah, right. He'll sail in forty-five minutes before the ceremony, unload a bunch of food, and go outside to have a cigarette. What about the table set-ups and the drinks and the decorations? How about flowers, photographs? Who's sending out the invitations and tracking the responses? Are Jeff and Donna registered someplace so people will have a clue about gifts?” She paused for breath.

  “Good grief, are all of those things up to me to arrange?”

  She chuckled mirthlessly. “You know that movie where Katherine Heigl has been a bridesmaid a couple of dozen times? Well, I'm thirty, and I have a lot of girlfriends. Take my word for it. There's a ton of work involved here. The good news is, a lot of the arrangements should be taken care of by the maid or matron of honor. Who's that going to be?”

  My knowledge of the details of this wedding was sketchy, at best. “I don't know. Are you volunteering?”

  “Heck, no, I'm not volunteering. I just need to know who to call to get this show on the road.”

  My hea
rt lifted as I sensed help on the horizon. “You're willing to do that?”

  I could hear the smile in her voice. “That's why you called me, isn't it? Since I already have you doing the traditional New England Christmas Eve bit on my behalf, the least I can do is help you out with this wedding. A wedding!” I heard her slap her forehead. “This is going to be some kind of Christmas, isn't it?” Was I imagining it, or was Emma actually enjoying this?

  “Some kind,” I agreed cautiously. I had always found the holidays somewhat overwhelming, and until this year, I thought Emma felt the same way. Maybe she harbored some Norman Rockwell leanings after all. I knew that her brother had a soft spot for the holidays, despite his trucker machismo, but Emma? Well, at least she had volunteered to help. I clung to the thought.

  “I'll call Sheila today and get the skinny, then track down that maid of honor. Don't worry, Momma. It'll be fine.”

  Her confidence buoyed my spirits, and I went about my morning routine with a lighter heart.

  Twenty minutes later, I crossed the Silas Deane Highway and entered Wethersfield's historic district on Old Main Street. I might not work here at the moment, but starting my day without coffee from the Village Diner was unthinkable. A sign announcing that the town had been established in 1634 alerted me to the change in ambience that waited around the first curve. Almost immediately, the morning traffic sounds dropped away. The few remaining cars were relatively easy to ignore. The houses occupying the first few blocks, circa 1940, quickly gave way to far older structures. Once past Garden Street, I was plunged into the nineteenth century, then the eighteenth, as plaques next to weathered front doors announced each house's vintage. Finally, discreet signage approved by the local historic commission directed visitors to the museums and homesteads of particular significance.