On their laptops, Henry Stratton and his girlfriend are tipsily harmonizing on “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” from their own Victorian (once the residence of Jorge Castro and his “friend”).
“Aren’t you just the cutest elf ever?” Roddy says.
“Watch him, he’s a shark,” Emily says. The elf laughs and says she will. Emily shows her back to the door. “Do you have more stops to make?”
“A couple,” says the elf, and points to her bike at the end of the walk. A cooler, presumably holding two more cellophane-wrapped plates of canapes and two more sixpacks, has been bungee-corded to the package carrier. “I’m glad it’s warm enough to bicycle. Professor, this was such a fantastic idea!”
“Thank you, dear. Very kind of you to say.”
The elf gives Emily a shy side-glance. “I took your Early American Writers the year before you retired. That was an awesome class.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“And this year I finally decided to apply for the workshop. You know, the Writer’s Workshop? You’ll probably come across my submission, if you’re reading them for Mr. Stratton—”
“I am, but if you’re applying for the fall semester next year, I think we’ll have somebody new.” She lowers her voice. “We’ve asked Jim Shepard, although I doubt if he’ll agree to come.”
“That would be amazing, but I probably won’t make the cut, anyway. I’m not very good.”
Em pretends to cover her ears. “I pay no attention to what writers say about their work. It’s what the work says about the writer that matters.”
“Oh. I suppose that’s very true. Well, I better get going. Enjoy your party!”
“We will,” Em says. “What’s your name, dear?”
“Bonnie,” the elf says. “Bonnie Dahl.”
“Do you ride your bike everywhere?”
“Except in bad weather. I have a car, but I love my bike.”
“Very aerobic. Do you live close by?”
“I have a little condo apartment by the lake. I work at the Reynolds and pick up other work—odd jobs, like—when I can.”
“Should you be looking for another odd job in the near future, I might have something you could help me with.” She wonders if Bonnie’s response will be awesome or amazing.
“Really? That would be awesome!”
“Are you computer-friendly? Working in the library, you must be. I can hardly turn mine on without Roddy to help me.” Emily speaks this lie with a disarming smile.
“I can’t fix them, but work with them, sure!”
“May I have your number, just in case? No promises, mind.”
Bonnie complies happily. Em could put it in her iPhone contacts as quick as winking, but in her current persona as a computer illiterate, she scratches it on a napkin featuring a dancing and obviously inebriated St. Nick and the words HAPPY HOLIDAZE!
“Merry Christmas, Bonnie. Perhaps I’ll see you again.”
“Cool! Merry Christmas!”
She goes down the walk. Emily closes the door and looks at Roddy.
“Nice legs,” he says.
“Dream on, Lothario,” she replies, and they both laugh.
“Not only an elf, an aspiring writer,” Roddy says.
Em snorts. “Awesome. Cool. Amayyyzing. I doubt if she could write an original sentence if someone put a gun to her head. But it’s not her brains we’d be interested in. Would we?”
“Oh, don’t say that,” Roddy says, and they both laugh some more.
They have a little list of possibles for next fall, and this Santa’s elf would make a good addition.
“As long as she’s not vegan,” Roddy says. “We don’t need another one of those.”
Emily kisses his cheek. She loves Roddy’s dry sense of humor.
July 23, 2021
Vera Steinman lives on Sycamore Street, which is devoid of sycamores. Devoid of any trees, in fact. There are plenty in the manicured and well-watered acres beyond Sycamore Street’s dead end, but they are sequestered behind the gates and meandering rock walls of Cedar Rest Cemetery. In this neighborhood of treeless streets named for trees, there are only tract houses standing almost shoulder to shoulder and broiling in the sun of late afternoon.
Jerome parks at the curb. There’s a Chevrolet occupying the cracked driveway. It’s at least ten years old, maybe fifteen. The rocker panels are rusty and the tires are bald. A faded bumper sticker reads WHAT WOULD SCOOBY DO? Jerome has called ahead and started to explain that he came across Peter Steinman’s name while pursuing another case, but she stopped him right there.
“If you want to talk about Peter, by all means drop by.” Her voice was pleasant, almost musical. The sort of voice, Jerome thought, that you’d expect from a well-paid receptionist in an upscale law or investment firm downtown. What he thinks now is that this little house standing on a dead lawn is no upscale anything.
He pulls up his mask and rings the bell. Footsteps approach. The door opens. The woman who appears looks like a perfect match for the upscale voice: light green blouse, dark green skirt, hose in spite of the heat, auburn hair pulled back from her face. The only thing that doesn’t fit is the whiff of gin on her breath. More than a whiff, actually, and there’s a half-full glass in her hand.
“You’re Mr. Robinson,” she says, as if he might not be sure himself. In the direct sunlight he sees her smooth middle-aged good looks may be due in large part to the magic of makeup. “Come in. And you can take off the mask. Assuming you’ve been vaccinated, that is. I’ve had it and recovered. Chock-full of antibodies.”
“Thank you.” Jerome steps inside, takes off his mask, and shoves it into his back pocket. He hates the fucking thing. They’re in a living room that’s neat but dark and spare. The furniture looks strictly serviceable. The only picture on the wall is a humdrum garden scene. Somewhere an air conditioner is thumping.
“I keep the shades down because the AC is on its last legs and I can’t afford to replace it,” she says. “Would you like a drink, Mr. Robinson? I’m having a gin and tonic.”
“Maybe just some tonic. Or a glass of water.”
She goes into the kitchen. Jerome sits in a slingback chair—gingerly, hoping it won’t give way under his two hundred pounds. It creaks but bears up. He hears a rattle of ice cubes. Vera Steinman comes back with a glass of tonic and her own glass, which has been refreshed. He will tell Holly when he calls her that night that in spite of what one of the Dairy Whip skateboys said, he had no idea he was dealing with a deep-dish daily drunk until the end of their conversation. Which came suddenly.
She sits in the boxy living room’s other chair, puts her drink on the coffee table, where there are coasters and a spread of magazines, and smooths her skirt over her knees. “How can I help you, Mr. Robinson? You seem very young to be chasing after missing children.”
“It’s actually a missing woman,” he says, and gives her the rundown on Bonnie Dahl—where her bike was found, how he and Holly (“my boss”) went down to the Dairy Whip to talk to the boys skateboarding there, and how Peter’s name had come up.