“Things are a little weird,” Hope admitted as the women and dog headed down the sidewalk together.
“I heard,” Jo Ellen admitted. “The grapevine is faster than the internet. Carol Thomas. Good grief. I’d like to shake her. Her husband is a jerk. I wish she’d open her eyes and see Clive for what he is. But nope, she won’t do that. She puts up with his antics and then she rages at the woman she thinks is cheating with him. I call it displaced anger. She can’t or won’t deal with Clive so she projects her frustration and anger onto someone else … even if that someone else is innocent.”
“I think you’re right.” Hope pulled her gloves from her jacket pocket and slipped them on. “She sure seems like she’s going to explode. You should have seen her at the school concert. I thought she was going to rip me limb from limb.”
Jo Ellen put a hand on Hope’s back. “I know it’s near impossible to do, but try and stay clear of that woman. And if you can’t do that, then try to ignore anything she says. Clive’s family is a mess. Don’t let them leach their poison into your life.”
After more discussion about Clive and Carol, the conversation turned to the holidays.
“I love Christmas,” Jo Ellen said. “It’s the preparation that nearly kills me.”
Hope chuckled. “I understand what you mean.”
“And the boys are getting so excited and wound up, they’re driving me nuts.”
“Cori’s excited, too. She’d really like to go back to Ohio, but I just can’t afford it. And I can’t face it either.”
“It’s the first Christmas since you lost Doug. You need time. Maybe next year, you can go back for a visit. There’s no rush. Take the time you need. If you’re feeling down on Christmas, come over to our house.” Jo Ellen smiled and shook her head. “It will be so noisy and busy that you won’t have time to think about anything. Anytime you need a diversion, just knock on our door, or text me and we can go for a walk.”
“You’re a good friend,” Hope told her. “I sure appreciate it.”
When Hope returned from the stroll around the neighborhood, it was too early to start dinner, so she climbed the steps to her attic office. She was caught up on all her school tasks, so she had time to delve into Doug’s screenplay and search for another password that would open some of the encrypted files.
The last password she’d figured out had been Etaples. It was a place in France where the 1918 flu pandemic spread. Etaples … a place where something bad had started. She knew Doug had chosen the password for a reason.
From her satchel, she pulled the sock Santa Diana had given her. It was adorable. Hope had the notion that it cost Diana a great deal. It came with sacrifice, and those were always the most heartfelt gifts.
Sacrifice.
Great strength came with sacrifice. People who could put their desires away, in order to serve a greater good. Those were people who enjoyed success. It was all about will, that quality that couldn’t be found in any book. Some people thought that will was a like a muscle, that it grew stronger with use. Hope wasn’t sure about that. Yet, she was pretty sure strong people sacrificed.
Hope set the sock Santa on her desk and checked her email. There wasn’t anything that required her attention, so she turned to the laptop that had, so far, failed to yield its secrets. Yes, she had decrypted exactly two files, and they were mostly articles about pandemics. Doug had accumulated a great deal of information about the black plague, smallpox, cholera, Ebola, and half a dozen other scourges of mankind. Hope had waded through some of the articles, but she was not Doug. She didn’t need all the background information. She needed something else.
Pulling up the screenplay Doug had written, Hope looked for the Greek and Latin names sprinkled through the pages. She happened upon “Algea,” a name she didn’t recognize. A few mouse clicks later, Hope discovered that the Algea were the personification of sorrows in Greek mythology. What sort of “sorrows” had Doug encountered. Why would he choose something that personified pain and murder and misery and lies? She knew he was careful with names, often researching names in order to better understand people. But Algea? Would the name work on the files? Which ones? Hope wrote down the name and opened the laptop. She had time for a quick search.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Herring.”
Hope turned. “Hello, Max.”
He stood a few feet away, and he wasn’t smiling.
“May I ask where you acquired the Santa Claus on your desk?”
“It was a gift from one of my students. Why do you ask?”
“Because, it is identical to one that was stolen from my house, this house, the holiday season before I died. It was made by my grandmother and left under the tree for me when I was seven or eight. I don’t recall exactly. It was always my favorite Santa.”
“Well, I’m guessing this is a replica of your original. I mean, the Santa could hardly be that old and my student told me she’d made it.”
“If you would,” Max said. “Would you turn it over and look at the back side?”
“Why?”
“My grandmother stitched my initials into the sock. She was good that way. She always made sure my things could be identified.”
“I don’t see what good it will do, but, of course.”
Hope took the Santa off the shelf and turned it over.
“No initials,” Hope said.
“Look at the bottom. They were quite small.”
She looked.
“Nope.”
“I stand corrected. Perhaps my memory fails me.”
“Wait,” Hope said peering at the fabric. “There is something.”
She pulled open a drawer and fished out a magnifying glass, something she used on the small print her students sometimes employed.
“There are some holes,” Hope said. “As if something had been embroidered.”
“My initials?” Max asked as he looked at the Santa.
Hope frowned. The empty holes could have formed Max’s initials, but how likely was that? Diana told Hope she’d had to “lift” the sock in order to make the Santa. Where did she lift the sock from?
“I don’t understand,” she said. “How could this possibly be your century-old Santa Sock?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” he said. “I haven’t thought about that Santa for years.”
“You say it disappeared right before you died?”
“The Christmas before I died, yes. It was always prominently displayed on the mantle during the season. As we hosted parties, a number of people could have taken it. Probably as a drunken lark. People do that sort of thing on occasion. Their discretion fails, and they do something they deeply regret. Rather than admit their lack of morality, they get rid of the item or hide it somewhere, perhaps expecting to summon up the courage to return it one day.”
“Yes, people are like that,” Hope said. “But how in the world could it have ended up in the hands of my student?”
“You’re the sleuth, Mrs. Herring. Add another mystery to the ones you are already investigating.”
“Just what I need, another case. I doubt very much that this could be your Santa sock from long ago. Tell me, did your grandmother make any other Santa socks for her grandchildren? Did any of them have the same initials?”