Murder Under the Tree Read Online Free Page A

been the food.”
    “But wouldn't others at the table have been poisoned, then?” Deirdre asked.
    “I doubt there was a cupcake with Les' name on it,” Elizabeth said.
    “But it was only poison to Les.”
    * * * *
    The sounds of Christmas came over the public address system in the streets downtown. Shoppers with hopeful expressions, meandered in and out of the stores carrying their packages in the near freezing air. Christmas still held an aura of magic with me. Deirdre and I stopped to gaze at the window displays at Goodman's.
    Elizabeth glanced at the windows. “Well, I'll leave it to you girls to stare at Santa Claus putting candy in stockings, in this God-forsaken cold. I'm going to start my shopping. I need to find something for John.” Elizabeth hustled, not all that gracefully, in her heels into the department store.
    This year's theme was “The World Celebrates.” Deirdre and I went from window to window viewing the mechanical movements of a family gathered around a table, lighting their menorah for Chanukah, a girl dressed as St. Lucia wearing a white dress and a crown of candles, and several others. I loved all the details.
    Snowflakes started to fall by the time we entered Goodman's. Deirdre and I headed to the men's department where she wanted to look for a sweater for Mike.
    “Kay, which sweater do you like best?”
    I looked through the pile. “Oh...this green one is nice.”
    “So do I...relaxing, peaceful, soothing, tranquil.”
    “Deirdre, can't you just like the green sweater because you think it will look good on Mike? Does everything always have to be feng shui compliant? What if Mike looked great in a color that wasn't worthy?”
    Deirdre gave me a blank look of incomprehension.
    “Aw, forget it. Green's nice.”
    Deirdre craned her neck around. “I need some stocking stuffers.”
    “What about a book for Mike?”
    “Or music. But which jazz artist? Who does Phil listen to?”
    “Miles Davis, Wynton Marsalis, Blue Mitchell, Thelonius Monk....”
    As I started rattling off musicians, I noticed Nancy Reinhardt, the director at Hawthorne Hills, walking in our direction. Her eyes met mine. She did an immediate 180 right where a huge wreath hung from the high ceiling of the store.
    “Deirdre, did you notice Nancy Reinhardt—”
    “Coming towards us and then turn away? Yes. Maybe she suddenly remembered something she had forgotten.”
    “Or she wanted to avoid me,” I said.
    Deirdre shrugged. “Maybe she's just bad at making small-talk.”
    I nodded. I could believe that. She had all the personality of a jellyfish. And the sting.
    Four kids raced past, in the direction of the toy department to where Santa was waiting. They brushed again us. Their mothers trailed behind and when they came up to us said, “Sorry, ladies. These kids...it's hard to contain their excitement.” I smiled, thinking of my boys when they were young.
    We went downstairs to the music department. Deirdre looked through the racks of CDs and ended up buying a boxed set of Dave Brubeck.
    Elizabeth walked towards us, juggling several bags and packages. It was hard to imagine her making it to the car without dropping some. “Ready to go?” she said.
    “Elizabeth, I found some great gifts for Mike. Did you find something for John?”
    “Well sort of. I bought this fabulous dress for my party tomorrow night.”
    * * * *
    After arriving home, I made a quick cup of tea, and started preparing for the mystery party. There'd be eight of us; I had invited only our closest friends. Having decided on the jazz theme so Phil and his two friends Mike, Deirdre's husband and Dinesh, who owned Gupta's New Delhi, would be interested, I sent out invitations two weeks ago. They read, “Come Dressed to Kill.” I figured this would be enough time for everyone to figure out their costumes and parts. Our dining room would be transformed into a private room at the Apollo Theatre, a jazz club in Harlem in the 1930s.
    I covered the buffet