X is for Xmas Read online

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  INTRODUCTION, by Carla Coupe

  A CHRISTMAS PIT, by John Gregory Betancourt

  MR WRAY’S CASH BOX, by Wilkie Collins

  HO HO HOMICIDE, by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  MURDER ON SANTA CLAUS LANE, by William G. Bogart

  THUBWAY THAM’S CHRITHTMATH, by Johnston McCulley

  DEATH WILL TRIM YOUR TREE, by Elizabeth Zelvin

  DEATH PLAYS SANTA CLAUS, by Johnston McCulley

  A STAKE OF HOLLY, by Lillian Stewart Carl

  A REVERSIBLE SANTA CLAUS, by Meredith Nicholson

  BELIEVING IN SANTA, by Ron Goulart

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 2011 by Wildside Press.

  All rights reserved.

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  “A Christmas Pit,” by John Gregory Betancourt, originally appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, January/February 2006. Copyright 2006 by John Gregory Betancourt. Reprinted by permission of the author. “Mr. Wrays’s Cash Box,” by Wilkie Collins, originally appeared in 1861. “Ho Ho Homicide,” by Sue Ann Jaffarian, originally appeared in Carols and Crimes, Gift and Grifters. Copyright 2007 by Sue Ann Jaffarian. Reprinted by permission of the author. “Murder on Santa Claus Lane,” by William G. Bogart, first appeared in G-Men Detective, January 1943. “Thubway Tham’s Chrithtmath,” by Johnston McCulley, originally appeared in Detective Story Magazine, December 24, 1921

  “Death Will Trim Your Tree,” by Elizabeth Zelvin, first appeared in The Gift of Murder. Copyright © 2009 by Elizabeth Zelvin. Reprinted by permission of the author. “Death Plays Santa Claus,” by Johnston McCulley, first appeared in the December 1945 issue of Popular Detective magazine. “A Stake of Holly,” by Lillian Stewart Carl originally appeared in published in Death by Dickens. Copyright © 2004 by Lillian Stewart Carl. Reprinted by permission of the author. “A Reversible Santa Claus,” by Meredith Nicholson, originally appeared in 1917. “Believing in Santa,” by Ron Goulart, originally appeared in Christmas Crimes. Copyright © 1996 by Ron Goulart. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  *

  Published by Wildside Press LLC.

  www.wildsidebooks.com

  INTRODUCTION, by Carla Coupe

  Christmas is a time for giving, for receiving…and for mysteries, murder, and mayhem. We’ve collected ten Christmas stories, old and new, that will spike your eggnog, trim your tree, and hopefully add a dash of spice to your Christmas cheer.

  In John Gregory Betancourt’s “A Christmas Pit,” Peter “Pit Bull” Geller not only saves the life of his old college friend Davy Hunt, he manages to find the perfect Christmas gift for the man who has everything.

  A bust of Shakespeare, young love, and Christmas are featured in Wilkie Collins’ little-known classic, “Mr. Wray’s Cash Box.”

  An unexpected encounter with a dying Santa lands Sue Ann Jaffarian’s amateur sleuth Odelia Grey in hot water, both with the police and a group of killers. Can Odelia save her skin in “Ho Ho Homicide?”

  There’s a war on and blackouts are the rule, even in Hollywood. Rookie cop Johnny Regan foils the crooks and solves a murder in William G. Bogart’s “Murder on Santa Claus Lane.”

  Pickpocket Thubway Tham has a code of conduct, even if it’s not one shared by his nemesis, Detective Craddock. In Johnston McCulley’s “Thubway Tham’s Chrithtmath,” Tham metes out justice and brings Christmas cheer.

  Holidays are hell for alcoholics, but being a member of Alcoholics Anonymous helps Bruce stay sober and solve a murder in Liz Zelvin’s “Death Will Trim Your Tree.”

  In Johnston McCulley’s classic “Death Plays Santa Claus,” Detective Mike O’Hara just wants to be with his family on Christmas, but instead, he’s called out to investigate Santa Claus’ murder.

  Lillian Stewart Carl channels Charles Dickens in “A Stake of Holly.” Tim Cratchit turns detective in Victorian London at the deathbed behest of his mentor and patron, Ebenezer Scrooge. With the help of the spirits, he solves an old case—and finds new love.

  Thief Billy ‘The Hopper’ Aikens must overcome a host of obstacles to return an unwanted gift in “A Reversible Santa Claus,” by Meredith Nicholson. His persistence pays off and restores amity between two bitter enemies, not to mention an honest bit of cash for Billy and his wife.

  Oscar Sayles contemplates a Christmas murder in Ron Goulart’s “Believing in Santa.” He can’t make a triumphant comeback without his dummy, Screwy Santa, now in the clutches of his vindictive ex-wife. Can he rescue Screwy Santa, take out his ex, and return to his former glory as children’s entertainer?

  So sit back, grab a mug of hot chocolate or eggnog, and prepare yourself for events most sinister. These ten great holiday tales are sure to send a chill down your spine!

  A CHRISTMAS PIT, by John Gregory Betancourt

  When my doorbell rang, the sound jolted through me like an electric shock. I accidentally sloshed Jack Daniels across my lap and began cursing all unexpected visitors.

  Carefully, so I wouldn’t spill another drop, I set the bottle on my night table, grabbed my walking stick, and swung my ruined legs over the side of the bed. Standing usually hurt, but I’d already drunk enough to feel a comfortable numbness instead.

  The doorbell rang a second time, an annoying brzzz that set my teeth on edge.

  “Stop that racket! I’m coming!” I yelled. I shrugged a robe over my underwear, knotting the belt halfheartedly, and limped out into my rather Spartan family room.

  By the time I turned the deadbolt and yanked open the front door, I half expected to find the hallway deserted. The brats upstairs enjoyed playing jokes like that—“bait the cripple,” I called it.

  Tonight, however, I found a soggy young man in an Atlanta Braves baseball cap and a cheap brown coat. Water pooled around him and the duffel bag he’d set down. Rain—that explained why my legs had been aching worse than usual.

  “What do you want?” I demanded. “Don’t you know what time it is?”

  Involuntarily, he covered his mouth and nose and took a half step back. I had to reek like a distillery.

  “Uh…six o’clock?” he said. His voice had a slight southern twang.

  “Oh.” Only six o’clock? My sense of time was shot; I would have sworn it was past midnight. “I thought it was later than that. It gets dark early now.”

  “Are you…Peter Geller?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Yes. You’re here to see me?”

  “Sir…David Hunt sent me.”

  I had gone to college with Davy. We had been in the same fraternity. Since Davy came from old money, he got in because his family had always belonged to Alpha Kappa. I got in because I was smart: all the jocks and rich kids needed help to keep up their GPAs. Sometimes I had resented it, being used, but it got me into all the parties, and I still graduated at the top of our class.

  My life had been a downward spiral after college. I had landed a plum job at an investment bank, but overwork and my always-racing mind led to a nervous breakdown. Six months later, a taxi ran me over and left me permanently crippled. I lost touch with everyone I’d ever known and began trying to drink myself to death, until Davy called me out of the blue to help him out when he was being blackmailed. That had been five months ago. We’d had dinner and drinks a dozen times since then, rekindling our old friendship. In fact, earlier this afternoon I had been wondering what to give Davy for Christmas. He already had everything money could buy.

  “Are you some sort of social worker?” I asked warily.

  “No, sir! I’m Bob Charles.” At
my puzzled look, he added, “Cree’s brother.”

  “Got any I.D.?”

  “Uh…sure.” He dug around his coat’s inside pocket. “Driver’s license? Passport?”

  “Either.”

  He handed me a military passport. Marine Corps issue, and the name under his picture read “PFC Robert E. Charles.”

  I nodded, my mental wheels starting to turn. Cree was the actress-slash-model Davy had been talking about marrying. Like Cher and Madonna, she only used one name.

  “I guess you’d better come in,” I said.

  “Thanks.” He scooped up his duffel bag and entered my apartment, looking around curiously. I didn’t own much these days: a worn yellow sofa, a pair of white-and-yellow wingback chairs, a battered coffee table, and thanks to the miracle of Ikea, two tall wooden bookcases mostly devoted to bric-a-brac. No clocks, no calendar, no TV—nothing to remind me of the outside world. Nothing to stimulate my mind and set it racing again.

  “How is Davy?” I asked.

  “Good. He and Cree just left for Cancún.”

  “Oh? I thought he had business in New York tomorrow.” At least, that’s what he’d told me over the weekend.

  Bob shrugged. “Cree’s doing a photo shoot for Sports Illustrated—filling in at the last minute—so they decided to turn it into a vacation. They’re flying out tonight. Probably already in the air.”

  He pulled off his coat, revealing an off-the-bargain-rack suit. I waved vaguely at the sofa.

  “Sit down. Let me clean up. I wasn’t expecting visitors. If you want a drink, help yourself—there’s beer in the fridge.”

  * * * *

  Twenty minutes later, I’d washed my face, run a razor over a three-day growth of beard, combed my hair, and put on nearly-clean slacks and a sweater. I almost felt human again, and I’d gotten rid of the worst of the whiskey smell.

  Unfortunately, I had also begun to sober up, and with returning mental sharpness came all-too-familiar pains in both legs. Alcohol blunted my senses better than drugs; that’s why I drank as much and as often as possible. I only stopped when I had to.

  Finally I limped back out to the family room. Bob leaped up when he saw me, running one hand quickly across his nearly-shaved head and pulling his suit jacket straight.

  “Let me guess,” I said, really studying him for the first time. His too-short hair and well-developed muscles screamed military. “You just got out of the service and decided to pay your sister a visit. She suggested Davy might be able to find you a job.”

  He gaped. “Did you talk to Cree?”

  Slowly I settled into one of the wingback chairs, folded my hands across my belly, and stretched out both legs. They hurt less that way.

  I said: “Why else would an ex Marine come to Philadelphia, if not to see your sister and her fiancé? You’re dressed up—I assume for a job interview—though I’d lose the baseball cap next time. But the real question,” I said, warming to the subject, “is why Davy Hunt sent you here.”

  Bob frowned, brow furrowing. “He said he trusted your opinion. If you think I’m good enough, he’ll take me on.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “Bodyguard.”

  I raised my eyebrows slightly. “Davy needs a bodyguard?”

  “My sister thinks so.”

  After their problem with blackmailers, I understood Cree’s concern. Davy’s net worth ran somewhere upwards of fifty million dollars—more than enough to make him a target for opportunists.

  I opened my mouth, but before I could say anything, the doorbell rang again. From outside came faint childish giggles.

  “You can start by taking care of those kids,” I said to Bob. “Ask them not to bother me again.”

  “Sir!” Like a panther, he sprang to the door and threw it open. Ten-year-old boys scattered, screaming, as he gave chase. I heard Bob shouting something about “whooping hides” if they bothered me again, then several doors slammed shut.

  When he returned, he was grinning. “I love kids,” he said. “I don’t think they’ll bother you again, sir. At least, not for a few days.”

  “Thanks.” Maybe bodyguards had their uses.

  “Then you’ll give me a try?”

  I stared at him blankly. “I don’t follow you.”

  “Sir, I’m supposed to be your bodyguard for the next few days. You can kick the tires. Try me out. Make sure I’m everything I ought to be to keep David safe.”

  “I don’t need a bodyguard. I don’t want a bodyguard. I leave my apartment once or twice a month at most!”

  “David knew you’d say that.” His brow furrowed. “He told me to tell you—beg your pardon, sir—to shut up and pitch in.”

  Just like Davy to be blunt with me. Maybe I did object too much. Maybe it did take a kick in the pants to get me moving. But did I really need a bodyguard?

  It wasn’t for me, though. It was for Davy. If he valued my opinion this much…well, I needed to get him a Christmas present anyway. This would be it, as I would let him know the next time I saw him!

  “Very well.” I motioned unhappily with one hand. I’d need rent money soon, anyway. “You can start bodyguarding in the morning. It’s time I ran some errands, anyway.”

  Rent money meant a trip to Atlantic City and the casinos. Sometimes having a trick memory helped, like when I needed to know the number of face cards played from an eight-deck blackjack shoe.

  “It’ll be over sooner if I start tonight, sir.”

  “‘Over sooner’?” I chuckled. “Bob, you sound like you don’t want to baby-sit a seedy drunken cripple!”

  “Sir!” He looked alarmed. “I never said that!”

  “Then you do want to baby-sit a seedy drunken cripple?”

  “That’s a fool’s argument, sir.” He shrugged with wry humor. “You know I can’t win. I just thought you’d want me out by Christmas day.”

  “I don’t care. Start when you want. End when you want. It’s all the same.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Do you have a place to sleep?”

  “Uh…not yet. I was hoping to bunk here.”

  It figured. Why did I suddenly feel like Oscar Madison from The Odd Couple, with an eager-beaver Felix about to move in?

  “There’s only one bed,” I said, “and I’m usually passed out in it.”

  “The sofa is fine—after sleeping in a Humvee for six months, pretty much anything will do. Just give me a blanket and I’ll be out like a log.”

  “There’s one in the linen closet.” I jerked my head toward the back of the apartment. “And an extra pillow on the top shelf.”

  Using my walking stick, I levered myself unsteadily to my feet. My legs ached again. Slowly I limped toward my bedroom, thoughts of Jack Daniels and sweet oblivion dancing in my head.

  * * * *

  Sometime later—it could have been hours, it could have been days—a loud humming filled my ears. It took a few minutes, but I finally realized the noise came from outside my skull. It shrilled on and on, incessant and very annoying.

  When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I rolled over and opened my eyes. Daylight leaked in around the blinds, casting a pallid gray light over my bedroom. Groaning, I got my feet to the floor and sat up.

  The world swung and tilted. My head throbbed and my eyes burned. It had been a long while since I’d felt this sick. Usually when pain and nausea and headaches hit, I can lie still and wait for them to pass. This humming grated on my nerves so much, though, that I rose and stumbled toward the door.

  When I entered the kitchen, the noise grew louder. But what brought me up short was the brilliant, blinding light.

  Every surface gleamed. Steel and chrome and glass shone and glistened. The burnt-out bulbs in the ceiling fixture had been replaced, the dishes in the sink had been washed, and my months-ol
d collection of pizza boxes had disappeared from the counter. Underfoot, the white-with-gold-specks linoleum had a new glossy sheen. Even the trashcan had a fresh white plastic liner.

  The humming came from the family room. Bob Charles slowly moved into view, pulling a little canister vacuum around the floor, sucking up dirt and dust bunnies. He wore a clean white shirt and tie, but had on the same brown pants as yesterday.

  “Good morning,” he called cheerfully, switching off the vacuum. “Ready for breakfast?”

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded. My voice came out as a croak.

  “Tidying up.”

  “Don’t you know the difference between a maid and a bodyguard? I was still in bed!”

  “It’s ten-thirty in the morning. You’ve been asleep for more than sixteen hours, Pit. Half the day is gone!”

  “Not asleep. Unconscious. Delightfully, painlessly unconscious. And how do you know my nickname?”

  “Nickname?”

  “Pit. Short for Pit-Bull. Got it in college.”

  “Didn’t you mention it yesterday?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe.”

  But I hadn’t. I could remember every word we had exchanged from the second I opened my front door to the second I’d gone to bed. Names, faces, facts, figures—I never forgot anything.

  Maybe Davy had called me Pit, and Bob picked up on it subconsciously. I could only think of one other person besides Davy who still called me by my old nickname, and it seemed unlikely that Bob had ever met an organized crime figure like “Mr. Smith,” as he called himself.

  Bob was staring at my legs. I realized I hadn’t put on a robe. Gray Jockey shorts didn’t do much to hide the hideously scarred flesh running from my ankles to my hips.

  Swallowing, Bob looked away. Pity—that was always the worst. It showed in his eyes.

  “In case you’re wondering,” I said bitterly, “I got run over by a taxi.” Everyone always wanted to know what had happened, even if they were too embarrassed to ask.

  “David didn’t say anything about that.” Bob forced his gaze back to my face. “He did tell me to take you out for breakfast today, though—on him.”