For an artificial Christmas tree, this one wasn't half-bad. At least that's what Martha Schoen said, and she ought to know. Having browbeaten her critics into silence years before, Martha reigned as the town's undisputed authority on all things great and small, fake balsams included.
"I chaired St. Mark's beautification committee for thirty-two years," the silver-haired matron sputtered when Gail Garvy rebuffed her offer to supervise the trimming of the seven-foot tree. "No one's more qualified for the job than I."
Martha snatched the box of ornaments from Gail's hands with a snort of contempt. Holding the box aloft like a worn but trusty battle flag, she marched across the room with the resolve of a crusader off to fight the Saracens, her progress punctuated by a running commentary on the stupidity of modern youth. Only when she spied May Eberle did she pause for breath, and then merely to refocus her outrage on the tiny woman standing slumped against the west window. Frail in body and spirit, May offended the sensibilities of the tough-minded Mrs. Schoen. Weaklings had no place in Martha's world. She firmly believed in survival of the fittest, and May was far from fit in any sense of the word. The elderly spinster existed as a shadow dweller, a woman more dead than alive whose terror of the real world confined her to the dark corners of her private universe. May rarely spoke except to whimper over some perceived slight or whine about life in general. She spent most of her waking hours wrapped in a cocoon of silence, her body held rigidly still, her face an inscrutable mask concealing all thought.
At present, May's attention appeared riveted on a glazed section of windowpane where frost fairies had traced icy tendrils on the glass. Martha doubted that the artistry of winter could so capture the other woman's fancy. It seemed more likely that senility had just punched another hole in the Swiss cheese brain of little Miss Eberle. Much as she disliked May, Martha knew her duty when she saw it.
"Snap out of it, Eberle. You're daydreaming again."
May Eberle winced. The choir had begun its final hymn. Six men in black suits lifted her casket to their shoulders and processed solemnly down the aisle. In their pews, the little congregation wept.
"Did you hear me, May? Stop all that nonsense and come lend a hand with these ornaments."
The choir faltered, their sweet harmony disintegrating into cacophonous gibberish that grated on May's ears. She forced herself to concentrate, but the fantasy continued to fade. First her casket disappeared, then the mourners vanished. When she could no longer smell the incense on the altar, May turned from the window in surrender. No use fighting it; the cemetery would have to wait.
"I'm coming, Martha." May glared at her nemesis. Today had been ruined, but tomorrow she'd have her revenge. Tomorrow she would plan Martha's funeral. How different it would be from her own!
"Be careful now," Martha commanded when May sidled up to her. "I spent all morning making this." She handed May a string of popcorn and cranberries and pointed to the tree. "Drape it on the branches, but don't break it!"
May caressed the garland with bony fingers, momentarily forgetting her hatred of Martha Schoen as a wave of memories flooded over her.
"My sister April and I used to string cranberries at Christmas," she whispered. Her brow puckered in a frown. "But Papa was so particular. If even one berry didn't meet his approval, he'd make us take the whole string apart and start over."
"Humph." Martha dismissed Papa Eberle with a wave of one plump hand. "I'd never put up with such behavior from a man." She tucked a dented Santa deep in the tree where it wouldn't be noticed. Satisfied with the result, she turned and studied the woman standing next to her. With her tight gray bun and beady black eyes, May reminded Mrs. Schoen of a field mouse that had wandered mistakenly close to a sleeping cat. Martha flexed her fingers, mentally extending her claws.
"But of course," she purred, "I've always said, one should do things right the first time. Sloppiness is a wicked habit. It springs from sloth, and you know what the Bible says about that."
May Eberle's head shot up. She stared at Martha, but saw Papa scowling back at her, Papa whose mouth twisted in condemnation. May clamped her hands to her ears to shut out the sound of her father's wrath.
"Watch what you're doing," Martha screamed as shredded popcorn fluttered to the floor. "You'll crush the garland."
May buried her face in the berries, terrified at the extent of Papa's rage. She prayed he wouldn't hit her. Papa had hit April, and looked what had happened then.
"Oh, give me that!" Martha lunged at May, but the frightened woman pulled away. The garland tore in two and cranberries cascaded down May's legs.
"Now look what you've done," cried Martha. She fell to her knees and scrabbled at the berries. Horrified, May retreated a step. Thick drops of blood rolled past her feet. She cringed when Papa plucked some from the carpet and hurled them at her.
"You stupid woman!" Martha pitched another handful of berries at May. "You destroy everything you touch."
"For God's sake, turn it off."
The sudden intrusion of another angry voice so startled Martha that she pitched forward and sprawled unbecomingly on the carpet. Overcome with fury and embarrassment, she twisted around to lash out at the newcomer.
"Who do you think ... Oh!"
Martha blanched at the sight of Thomas Adrian's clenched hand quivering inches above her head. Adrian's face was contorted, his olive skin suffused with an unhealthy reddish glow that extended from collar to hairline. The cords on his neck bulged like wire ropes with each ragged breath.
"Nobody gives a damn about you and your berries," Adrian snarled. "You're not as important as you think." He whirled around, almost colliding with May who shrank against the tree in terror. "I'm the one they're after. It's me they're out to get."
Martha scrambled to her feet and fled to safety behind a worn leather recliner.
"You're mad," she gasped. "Absolutely mad."
"Shut up, you old souse." Adrian's eyes glittered darkly. Flecks of spittle dampened his lips and chin and high on his left cheek a muscle twitched.
"You tell her, Tommy boy."
Will Chapell strolled into the room, his fists tightly balled in the pockets of his grease stained jeans. A wicked grin creased his craggy features as he took in the scene near the Christmas tree.
"Havin' a little argument, are we?" Chapell approached the group, his gaze sliding over the two women and coming to rest on Adrian. Having chosen his victim, he edged nearer to Thomas and slapped him on the back. "Now, now, Tommy boy. Mustn't let these old biddies get under your skin. If they're causin' trouble, just shoot 'em 'tween the eyes and be done with it."
"Stay away from me." Adrian spun out of Chapell's grasp. He despised the big blond oaf with his work-worn hands and hillbilly accent. He let it show in the look he threw at Will.
"Ooh, Tommy! Aren't we touchy today," Chapell sneered.
"That's enough."
Gail Garvy appeared in the doorway, arms akimbo and eyes blazing. Anger gave her the voice of a drill sergeant as she bore down on the group.
"Keep it up and there'll be no Christmas party today, tomorrow, or any other day this year." Gail's gaze strayed to the mess on the floor, then moved up to the frightened face of Martha Schoen. For a brief instant she almost pitied the woman. "We'll clean this up later, Mrs. Schoen. For now, let's all get back to work."
Ignoring an eruption of complaints from the suddenly loquacious quartet, she herded them toward the tree, then bullied them into decorating it. Chapell and Adrian traded jibes despite Gail's threats while May Eberle cowered in the background eyeing both men anxiously. Only Martha Schoen seemed to relax as she concentrated on the placement of each ornament. After setting the last one in place, she claimed the privilege of fixing the angel on the top branch.
"Now it's done," she exclaimed after backing ponderously down the stepladder. A perfectionist to the end, she checked the placement of the angel from all sides of the tree before nodding in satisfaction. "Nice and straight, exactly as it should be."
"Ain't a bad lookin' tree if y'all like institutional trees," Chapell drawled.
"Bea-u-ti-ful! The tree is sooo bea-u-ti-ful!"
Curled in a fetal position on a corner sofa, Richard Canty had awakened from his nap and clapped his hands in delight. Martha pursed her lips and frowned at the pale little man with the bald head and watery eyes. She'd forgotten he was there in the room, almost forgotten he'd existed.
"Do something about him, Garvy. He's ... he's ... sick!"
"Ain't she the perceptive one," crowed Chapell. He grinned at Martha, then leaned forward and said softly, "Angel's crooked, Mrs. Mayor."
Martha threw him a withering look. "Mind your own..."
"Institutional tree! Institutional tea! You can pay a hefty fee to sit in here with tree and tea! I'm a poet, and don't I know it." Richard Canty rocked back and forth on the sofa. His high-pitched voice crackled with an adolescent excitement that belied his advanced age.
"Bet you could shut him up with this." Chapell plucked a peppermint cane from the tree and tossed it to Adrian. "Unless you'd rather eat it yourself."
Adrian stared blindly at the striped candy, then threw it down and ground it into the carpet with a twist of his foot. His eyes met Chapell's and he grinned triumphantly.
"You think I'm some kind of fool? You can't poison me that easily."
Chapell opened his mouth to retort, but Gail held up a restraining hand.
"Enough! We need to light the tree before everyone arrives for the party. How about doing the honors, Mr. Chapell?"
"Got a match, Garvy?" Chapell waggled his thumb in the direction of May and Martha. "I bet the little ladies would enjoy warmin' their britches by a bonfire."
Martha's lips drew back in a silent hiss of disapproval. May's expression, though, remained benign. Absorbed in planning Richard Canty's funeral, she hadn't heard Chapell's crude reply. Gail disregarded the remark also. She'd grown tired of Chapell's word games, just as she'd grown tired of Martha's bossiness, May's tears, and Adrian's paranoia. Canty didn't count; she considered the man already brain dead. The only one worth bothering with was the bronze-skinned ex-soldier standing quietly at attention near the electric fireplace. Much to Gail's frustration, even the inscrutable James Belding was fast becoming a bore.
"Could we get on with it?" Martha demanded. "Light the tree, Garvy."
"Light the tree," May Eberle echoed dreamily.
"Light the tree and serve the tea," sang Richard Canty.
"It's traditional to gather around it first," Gail insisted. "Then we can..."
"Traditions are all well and good," interrupted Martha. "But you're wasting your time if you're looking for a volunteer to plug in the lights. The outlet is near the floor, and I, for one, refuse to dirty my skirt crawling around under those branches."
"Let Mr. Belding do it."
Of course, thought Gail. What better way to draw the recluse into the group. She turned toward the fireplace, a pleased smile lighting her face, and motioned to Belding.
"How about it?" she said, coaxing the man forward. "Will you light our tree?"
Lost in a world where Christmas no longer existed, James Belding chanced a look at the present and saw in the eyes of his jailer the pain of empathy.
'This one knows,' his first self said.
James raised his index finger, then slowly uncurled the second, third, and fourth fingers. "Four to go," he whispered.
Gail inclined her head and nodded.
'She only thinks she knows,' warned his second self.
James Belding groaned. Resigned to captivity, he obeyed the order given him and walked slowly toward the tree. Gail pointed to the electric cord dangling from the trunk, then signaled the others to come closer.
"Si-i-lent night..." she sang.
Belding reached for the cord with trembling fingers.
"Ho-o-ly night..." caroled Martha Schoen.
He sank to one knee and forced himself to concentrate.
"All is calm..." May Eberle added sotto voce.
'Fool,' hissed his second self. 'They've got you now!'
"All is bright..." they sang in unison.
'I know,' cried his first self.
"Thy will be done," James shouted. He plunged the plug into the outlet.
The explosion was immediate and devastating. By the time Caroline Rhodes reached the doorway, Recreation Room 2, Psychiatric Ward One, St. Anne's Hospital, no longer existed.
Neither did its inhabitants.
)
It was nobody's fault, unless you counted the mice, and even they didn't mean to start trouble. A forgotten candy cane lured them to the Christmas tree stored in the basement of St. Anne's Hospital. The nibbling and gnawing just went on from there. Now there are holes in the trunk where none should be and not a single branch will stay in place. Despite this disaster, the nurses of Psychiatric Ward One are determined to deck the blues by decking the halls. When an anonymous donor sends them an artificial balsam, they happily press their patients into decorating it. But lighting the new tree ends with a bang! Who planted the bomb that wrecks havoc in the little town of Rhineburg? A frustrated employee fired by St. Anne's despised administrator? A student terrorist from Bruck University? Or Caroline Rhodes, a nurse with a suspicious past who survived the explosion but refuses to discuss it? Tagged as a suspect by the FBI, Caroline must prove her innocence by unraveling a devilish plot devised to eliminate one man's nemesis. Aided by history professor Carl Atwater, Caroline cuts through a maze of conflicting stories, red herrings, and downright lies to bring a killer to justice.
