The Night Before Christmas Read online

  The Night Before Christmas

  Joyce Sullivan

  To Alain, my own hero, husband and friend

  I would like to thank Paul V. Polishuk, M.D.; Lynn Peterson, Archaeologist; Lorraine Vassalo, Criminologist; Constable Joe Fitzpatrick, North Vancouver Detachment of the RCMP; and Jean Tremblay, Chemist, for sharing their knowledge and expertise.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Laurel Bishop (Wilson)—She was trying hard to make a new life for herself and her daughter, but her past was catching up with her.

  Ian Harris—His aunt was missing and he was determined to find her.

  Gertie May Harris—She opened her home and her heart to Laurel and Dorie. Now would she live to regret it?

  Dorie Bishop (Wilson)—She wants Santa to bring her a new daddy—or a puppy for Christmas.

  Steve Wilson (deceased)—Married too young. He gambled away his money and his life.

  Victor Romanowski—A developer, who’s not going to let an old lady stand in his way.

  Frederick Aames—Gertie May’s next-door neighbor and confidant. Did Gertie May confide too much?

  Henri and Marguarite Boudreault—Guests at Harris House B & B for the holidays.

  Janet Smithe—Was this guest a poet—or a spy?

  Barbara Wilson—Her stepson was dead. Could she bury the past?

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Prologue

  Nelson, British Columbia

  “Come to Nana, Dorie. Your mom will be home soon—I hope.” Barbara Wilson couldn’t keep her disquietude from choking her voice as she hoisted her granddaughter onto her hip and glanced at the kitchen clock.

  What was keeping her daughter-in-law? Laurel had been at the police station for three hours. What was happening? Had she been arrested for murder? Or would the results of this second polygraph test confirm that Laurel was telling the truth? That she wasn’t responsible for Steve’s death.

  Barb paced the galley-style kitchen and crooned a singsong of soothing words that took the fearful chill out of the deathly still house as she watched the carport for Laurel’s red Tercel. There was a better view of the quiet street from the living room window, but the thought of entering the room where her stepson had died so violently on Christmas Eve was beyond her capabilities.... The pain was still too fresh. Too raw.

  Dorie grew limp as a rag doll in her arms. Ah, asleep at last. They could both use a little peace. Barbara kissed Dorie’s sticky brow, and laid the toddler in her crib, tucking her special bunny blanket around her tiny body to ward off the dampness of the March rain. Dorie caught colds so easily....

  Barbara hovered over the crib rail. “I may have lost Steve, but I still have you, child,” she whispered softly, her voice catching. Of course, she wasn’t Dorie’s nana by true blood relation. Steve’s mother had died when he was ten. But still, she deserved the title....

  She’d been a good stepmother. None better! She’d been there when Steve needed a hug or a word of encouragement. She’d stood by him during the turbulent years of his adolescence and into adulthood, always smoothing things over when he had blowups with his dad. She’d slipped him money when he needed it. They’d both grieved when Steve lost his dad.... Barbara squeezed her eyes tight; her cheeks ached from the struggle of holding back her emotions. Thank God, Charlie never knew about the gambling, but what did it matter now, anyway? Steve was dead, too. And the innocent were taking the brunt of the blame.

  Barbara’s hands fluttered onto her chest, trying to rub away the deep spasm of pain in her heart. Oh, the things people were saying in town about Laurel. Unfounded lies.... It was so unfair. Not that newspaper reports were any more accurate. It was none of their business anyway.

  Her glasses misted over and Barbara removed them, dabbing at the thick lenses with the hem of her sweater. There was too much humidity in these old houses. In the distance she could hear the splashing of tires navigating the puddle on the driveway. Then an engine cutting out. Laurel’s home.

  Barbara threaded her way through the house, avoiding Dorie’s push toys. She arrived in the kitchen just as Laurel entered by the back door. One look at Laurel told the tale: her brown eyes shone with a luster that had been missing for the past three months. A smile trembled on her lips.

  “I’m free, Barb. The police believe I didn’t do it.” Her words carried the joyful ring of the vindicated.

  Barb hugged her tightly. “I’m so glad. So very glad.” Laurel felt so thin and fragile beneath the thick folds of her coat. They clung to each other, shedding tears of sorrow and utter relief, until Barbara remembered that tearful displays of affection were not in her nature. She wiped her glasses again and put the teakettle on to boil. “Now, what do you say we put this behind us? I think you and Dorie could use a change of scenery. I have a friend in North Vancouver....”

  Chapter One

  Brazil, South America

  Mission accomplished.

  Ian Harris deposited the priest’s white collar in the overflowing garbage can of the men’s washroom in the S;atao Paulo International Airport. The subterfuge was over, monies and gems safely exchanged. He had to make one more business stop in Los Angeles, then he was going home for Christmas. Home.

  Ian shook his head with a wry smile. For a man who’d lived his life traveling the globe without ever laying claim of ownership to a single piece of property, he still clung tenaciously to the boyhood memories of the holidays spent within the loving walls of his elderly aunt’s ramshackle house. It hadn’t exactly been his home, he’d had parents, but the feeling he’d had there—the normalcy of having a room that was especially his and not some sterile hotel room or sparsely furnished rental home—had always stayed with him. Sometimes, particularly at Christmas, he needed to see Gertie May.

  Ian dug into his toiletry kit for a razor and shaving cream, ready to begin another transformation. The sandy beard that had hugged his square jaw for the past six months came off easily. He wouldn’t miss it. A couple days in the sun would take care of the paler skin underneath. Next he put on a pair of eyeglasses with round, brown-and-amber-toned frames. He looked different already. The expensive, trendy frames focused attention on his eyes. Made them look more brown than gray.

  But his hair still didn’t look right. It was too ragged. Too long. Maybe something upscale, GQ-ish, like the young studs in the nightclubs in Rome. A little long on top, enough to fall onto his forehead, and clipped short on the sides. And he’d need some new clothes. Black just wasn’t his color; he felt downright sacrilegious. A cigar-colored suit, with a green paisley tie. That should do it. He was thinking of making one of the most important and difficult decisions of his life, and he wanted to look the part when he discussed it with his clients.

  With a sense of purpose, Ian gathered up his belongings and emerged from the men’s room. Only the faint, nagging twinge from a recent wound in his left leg—a nasty souvenir from a bandito on a lonely stretch of road in Colombia—slowed his progress as he went in search of a barber.

  * * *

  North Vancouver, British Columbia
>
  TWILIGHT SPREAD a darkening hand across the still, lavender waters of Serenity Cove and crept slowly toward the snow-encrusted shore where it leapt up to clasp the drooping arms of evergreens mantled with pristine snow.

  From her icy perch atop the antiquated porch railing of Harris House Bed and Breakfast, Laurel Bishop paused in the midst of replacing a burned-out Christmas bulb to appreciate the tranquillity of her view.

  With Christmas two days away, lights of every color glowed from the masts of sailboats moored in the cove. They also bordered windows, doorways and rooflines of the cottages huddled side by side along the shoreline of the Burrard Inlet. The scene was Christmas-card perfect and Laurel’s heart filled with hope.

  Surely here, in Serenity Cove, in this quiet North Vancouver village, she and Dorie were safe from the ghost of Christmas past.

  “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer...” she sang cheerfully as a red bulb illuminated in her gloved fingers.

  “No, Mommy. Stop that singing. That’s my song,” Dorie protested, her pink-mittened hand held up in the sudden outrage of a three-year-old.

  “Okay.” Smiling, Laurel tried another version. “Dorie, the red-nosed little girl, had a—”

  “Mommy. I don’t like that.”

  The sound of the front door opening saved Laurel from explaining that people over the age of three were allowed to sing, too.

  “Hello, Gertie May,” Laurel said as her friend/landlady/employer appeared on the veranda. The elderly woman was bundled from head to ankle in an outrageous orange wool coat and slacks. Orange leather gloves protected her hands from the [minus] 4C weather and an orange beret was balanced on her iron gray hair, which she wore in a smooth bob. Since orange winter boots were hard to come by, Gertie May Harris had settled for a rugged pair in black leather.

  Laurel carefully lowered herself down from the railing.

  “Oh, it looks so beautiful.” Gertie May covered her rouged cheeks with her hands. “Dorie, I see you made sure your mum didn’t miss any lights. Good girl. Heavens, Laurel, I don’t know what I’d do without you. You and Dorie have brought such joy to my life. You’ve been a godsend.”

  Sudden tears of gratitude stung Laurel’s eyes. She could easily say the same thing of Gertie May! For the past twenty-one months Gertie May had provided them with a safe harbor far from the nightmarish Christmas Eve when she’d found Steve murdered.

  “What a perfect Christmas this will be. Now, if only Ian would come....”

  For a moment the brilliant light of Gertie May’s blue eyes faded. “No package has arrived,” Laurel reminded her optimistically. Ian Harris, Gertie May’s nephew and sole living relative, only visited his aunt at Christmas and always without notice. Whenever he failed to show, a package would arrive in the mail—a doll from one of the countries where his work as an international gem dealer took him. Last year Gertie May received a set of Guatemalan worry dolls to add to her collection.

  “That’s true.”

  “And don’t forget Barbara will be here after Christmas, as soon as she’s done with those tests the doctor ordered.”

  Gertie May smiled. “Thank you, dear. I’m off to the drugstore to photocopy the petitions for the Serenity Cove Heritage Society. And I have to buy a lottery ticket at Chan’s Market before five. You know the machine closes then.” Gertie May’s dedication to the Lotto 6/49 equaled that of a soap opera fan. She couldn’t miss one.

  “Remember the Boudreaults, the couple from Quebec who were here last year?” Gertie May continued. “They’re coming to visit their grandchildren for the holidays. I expect them at any time. Put them in the lilac bedroom. Miss Smithe, that poet lady, is still in her room.”

  “I’ll just finish clearing the sidewalk and the drive, then I’ll put some apple cider on the stove for the Boudreaults.” Laurel picked up a snow shovel and handed a smaller plastic model to her daughter.

  “I won’t be long. I know you have to work tonight.”

  “Thanks, Gertie May.”

  While Dorie industriously cleared a snowdrift from the front steps, Laurel tackled the walkway. She loved being outdoors in the snow. Everything looked pristine and pure. All the faults of everyday life were covered up.

  But Laurel’s next-door neighbor, Frederick Aames, a spry septuagenarian, apparently didn’t share her thoughts. He hailed her from his yard and grumbled, “I’m getting too old for this kind of weather.” He gave the foliage of his beloved viburnums a vigorous shake to remove the weight of the day’s snowfall.

  Laurel leaned on her snow shovel and suppressed a laugh. “Oh, Frederick, you don’t mean that. You’ve got the most beautiful winter garden in town and you know it.”

  “Bah! The eyes of youth. In a few years, when you hit thirty, we’ll discuss it. So, what did you think of Monday’s district council meeting?” he added gruffly, moving on to his prize rhododendrons that were the size of haystacks. “The town won’t be the same if we lose the park.”

  Frederick’s home bordered the gentle slopes of Panorama Park, which, to the dismay of the citizenry of Serenity Cove, had apparently never been officially designated parkland. Now a developer wanted to purchase the land and rezone the site for a condo development. The influence of the Hong Kong market had tripled property values in the region over the last five years and the district council was looking to ease its dwindling coffers with new tax revenues. Gertie May and Laurel were spearheading the committee to prevent the overdevelopment of Serenity Cove’s waterfront to maintain the town’s quaint character.

  For Laurel it was a pleasant way to stay active in community affairs even though she’d been forced to abandon her dreams of running for office. “The issue’s been deferred until the council meeting after the holidays. Gertie May’s sure we’ll have everything worked out by then. I know Romanowski’s hoping no one will bother.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t. These developers always get what they want anyway. Money talks.”

  “Not always. It’s our community. We can, and should, have a say in it.” Laurel refused to be put off by Frederick’s dour tones. Frown lines framed his thin mouth like parentheses, giving him a sour expression. She knew his negativity came from the burden of caring for his wife, Anna, who had Alzheimer’s.

  Frederick shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I’ll believe that when the Realtors stop phoning to ask if I’d be interested in selling this place. I got an offer yesterday for five hundred thousand dollars. As if I’d ever sell! My father built this house. It’s the only place Anna finds familiar.”

  “How is Anna today?”

  “So-so. She has a cold. Keeps asking why her mama doesn’t come to tuck her in. She thinks I’m her papa.” Frederick shook his head.

  Laurel smiled sympathetically. “How ‘bout if we come over for a Christmas Eve tea party tomorrow? Dorie’s made something special for Anna for Christmas, haven’t you, love?”

  “Shh, Mommy. It’s a surprise.”

  Frederick stooped over the snow-flanked cedar hedge, his mouth easing into a rare smile beneath the brim of his stern, gray felt hat. “Don’t worry, Little Miss. Your secret is safe with me. I won’t breathe a word to Anna, but I shall look forward to our tea. We have a gift for you, too.” He tipped his hat. “I should go in now. I don’t like leaving Anna alone. Sometimes she slips out the back and I have trouble finding her.”

  Laurel finished shoveling the driveway, then stripped holly leaves off a twig to serve as arms for the snowman Dorie was making. “Know what, Mommy?”

  “What, lovey?”

  “Gertie May says after this nighttime we have to leave Santa some cookies by the chimmy—and carrots for Rudolph.”

  Laurel laughed as a warm, motherly glow spread through her. This was what Christmas was all about: playing in the snow with her daughter, baking cookies, and making surprises for the special people in their lives. Steve’s murder was safely in the past.

  “We won’t forget the cookies or the carrots. Now come inside, I need a helper with
the apple cider.”

  By the time Gertie May returned, the Boudreaults had checked in and Laurel had changed into her waitressing outfit: a short, black leather skirt, black stockings and a feminine, white organza blouse. Her crystal earrings bobbed in a sparkling cascade from her earlobes as she filled plates for supper. If she had a good night of tips serving drinks at the Crow’s Nest, she’d have enough money to finish paying off Steve’s car loan. That was her Christmas present to herself. Of course, there were still the credit cards and the other debts Steve had accumulated, but at least she was making progress. In two years she’d be debt free. And once she finished her business courses, she could provide Dorie with a future.

  “Mommy, I don’t want chicken,” Dorie announced, eyeing her supper with distaste.

  Laurel sighed, taking a seat next to her. It would be her last opportunity to sit down tonight. “Good, because we’re having pork chops.”

  Gertie May tapped Dorie’s plate. “You might want to eat a bite or two, Dorie-girl. Santa makes it his business this time of year to see which boys and girls are keeping their rooms tidy and emptying their plates. Hey, what was that blur of red at the window? Say, you don’t suppose that was Santa...?”

  Brown eyes wide as acorns, Dorie popped a piece of pork into her mouth.

  Gertie May beamed, her china blue eyes forming upside-down crescent moons. “By the way, Laurel, I found this card addressed to you at the door when I came in. Maybe you’d like to open it for your mum, Dorie.”

  “That’s odd—I wonder who it’s from. We were here. I guess whoever dropped it off didn’t have time to ring the bell.”

  Dorie eagerly tore at the stiff, buff-colored envelope. “Look, Mommy, an angel.”

  “Oh, pretty. Let’s see what it says.” Smiling, Laurel reached for the ornate card imprinted with a Renaissance angel. “‘Seasons Greetings,’” she read the gold-embossed type out loud. Then her smile dimmed as she felt the blood drain from her face. Below the salutation someone had scrawled I know about your past—murderess in black felt lettering.