Candy Cane Murder (Hannah Swensen #9.5)(77)

What’s more, I’d totally scotched things with Tyler, and had about as much chance of getting a writing gig from Sister Mary Agnes as I had of fitting into Angel’s size 0 jeans.

Which, incidentally, I never did take with me when I left. So the little brat would get to wear them, after all.

Oh, well. I had to keep reminding myself that if I hadn’t been out in Glendale, I would never have discovered Garth’s killer.

I made up my mind to forget about last night’s fiasco and get back to Garth’s murder, which, after what I’d just been through, was beginning to look like a ride in the wine country.

I put in another call to DiMartelli, but he wasn’t in. The desk sergeant told me he was expected around noon, and I planned to be there the minute he walked in the door.

Willard Cox would be convicted and serving a life sentence before the good lieutenant ever returned my call, and I was determined to tell him my story.

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After a gourmet breakfast of Pop Tarts and Pancreas Entrails (the entrails were for Prozac), I got dressed and drove over to my dry cleaner. I figured I might as well get some errands done while I waited for DiMartelli to show up.

The clerk had a hearty chuckle when I asked him if he could get eggnog/éclair/brownie/chocolate mousse stains off my cashmere sweater and suede boots. Yes, indeed. Just about broke the meter on his giggle-o-meter.

I bid him a haughty goodbye and was heading back to my car with my ruined clothing when I realized I hadn’t filled Ethel Cox in on what I’d discovered at the mall. She had no idea that, thanks to yours truly, her husband would soon be out of jail. So I decided to make a quick pit stop at Hysteria Lane and tell her the good news.

“Sweet little Cathy Janken?” Ethel blinked in surprise. “A killer?”

We were seated across from each other in her living room, where I’d just finished telling her about my adventures at The Cap Shack.

“Absolutely,” I nodded. “She’s having an affair with another man and wanted out of the marriage. So she sabotaged the roof, then later planted her specially ordered roofer’s cap in Willard’s toolbox to frame him for the murder.”

“Oh, dear.” Ethel shook her head in dismay. “That’s just awful. To kill her own husband, and then to blame poor Willard.”

Clearly she hadn’t glommed onto the plus side of the story.

“Don’t you see, Ethel? As soon as I tell the police how Cathy Janken aka Claudia Jamison ordered that roofer’s cap, Willard will be off the hook.”

“Do you really think the police will let him go?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“Oh, Jaine! That’s wonderful!” And for the first time since this mess began, I saw a smile on her face. “How can Willard and I ever thank you?”

THE DANGERS OF CANDY CANES

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Just seeing her smile was thanks enough. After my dismal failure as an L.A. Girlfriend, I was happy to finally bring joy to someone’s life.

“I know!” she said. “Let’s celebrate with some tea and homemade brownies.”

You’d think after last night’s flying dessert-a-thon I’d never be able to look at another brownie again, but you’d be wrong.

“Sure,” I said, as always unable to resist the lure of chocolate.

“Make yourself comfy, sweetheart,” she said, bustling off to the kitchen, “while I make the tea!”

Alone in the room, I got up to admire the Coxes’ stately Christmas tree in the corner, heavily laden with elaborate reindeer ornaments. With any luck, Willard would soon be home to celebrate his reindeer-themed Christmas.

I wandered over to the fireplace, where a single stocking hung from the mantel, embroidered with the name “Pumpkin.” Poor Pumpkin, I sighed. Clearly Ethel was having trouble letting go of her beloved pet.

I was just about to head back to the sofa when I noticed an airline ticket lying on the mantel. Snoop that I am, I picked it up and peeked at it. It was a round trip ticket to Bermuda, in Ethel’s name, leaving Christmas day.

How odd. Why would Ethel be going to Bermuda at a time like this? Maybe she had relatives there and was going for emotional support. Still, it was strange she’d be leaving Willard alone in his time of crisis.

And then I saw something else on the mantel, something that sent a chill down my spine. It was a brochure for a quaint bed and breakfast. It wasn’t the inn itself that jolted me. In fact, it looked like a very lovely place. No, what made the little hairs on my neck stand at attention was the name of the inn: The Claudia Jamison House.

Holy Moses. Could it be? Was Ethel Claudia Jamison?

At that moment I became aware of footsteps behind me. I whirled around to see Ethel coming at me—not with tea and 264

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brownies—but wielding one of Willard’s huge neon candy canes.

The last thing I noticed before it came crashing down on my skull was what Ethel was wearing: A pastel sweat suit.

Just like Claudia Jamison.

I came to on the floor near the Christmas tree, my wrists and ankles bound tightly with packing twine, my head throbbing like a bongo drum.

Ethel was kneeling over me, putting the finishing touches on the twine around my ankles.

How wrong I’d been about Ethel. All along, I thought she was a helpless housefrau. The woman was about as helpless as a Sherman tank.