Murder on the First Day of Christmas (Chloe Carstairs Mysteries) by Billie Thomas
Authors: Billie Thomas
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office to get the three-ring binder that held everything we needed to know about finishing the Browley house.
The downstairs phone rang, and almost against my will, I answered it.
It was Dad. “Thought you two would want to know that they finished the autopsy.”
He thought wrong about my wanting to know, but I listened anyway. An overdose of digitalis, Saul’s heart medication, was determined to be the COD or cause of death, for those of you who don’t watch cop shows. My mom and I do, so terms like GSR (gun shot residue) or ALS (alternative light source) just roll off our tongue.
“So they’re saying it’s murder?” I asked.
“They’re starting an investigation - a quiet one. It could still be a bizarre accident, but given the whole thing with the hand and the rat, nobody’s taking any bets on it.”
As much as I wanted to speculate about Saul’s death now that we had some real information, we just didn’t have the time to spare. Nancy’s 8,500-square foot house had to be decorated, top to bottom, in just over two days. It was get-busy time.
Miss a client deadline? Over my DB!
CHAPTER 7
“Want to know what I think?” Cassie spoke around the straight pins she was holding in her teeth. “I think, in your heart, you’re not really single. You’re looking at this as a forced, but temporary exile till Jacob comes to his senses.”
This was her take on why I left Saul’s party with my parents rather than some sexy stranger.
“Well, there was that little matter of a dead body in the foyer,” I protested, feeding her more ribbon to be pinned to the mantle’s evergreen swag.
“Excuses, excuses.”
Across the room my mother shot us a dark look, the reason behind it hard to read. Was she irritated that we were being flip about Saul’s death? Were we gabbing too much and working too little? Did I sound like I was on the prowl, trying to pick up men at parties? Or did she think Cassie should know better than to talk with pins in her mouth? Whatever the reason, Mom had been in a mood all morning.
Yes, we had tons of work in front of us. And yes, we were behind schedule. But every job brings with it some kind of challenge (severed hand, anyone?), and Mom always manages to pull them off. I didn’t think the Browley’s house would be any different, even if Nancy Browley had asked for a blanket of fake snow on her front yard. Mom hates fake snow.
The theme for the Browleys’ house was simple enough - Santa Claus. Since Oscar dressed up like the jolly old fat man every year, it was a natural. And in typical Amanda Carstairs fashion, the décor would be over the top and fabulous.
Scattered throughout the house were three thousand Santas of all shapes and sizes, from the fur draped Old World Santas, to nesting dolls painted like Russia’s Ded Moroz or Grandfather Frost to France’s Papa Noel. And that wasn’t even counting the life-sized version in an antique sleigh on the front lawn. The faux-snow covered front lawn.
Of course, Mom could’ve over-ruled the idea. Her name doesn’t go on any design unless she’s completely happy with it. But Nancy had pleaded and had seemed so stressed that Mom had relented. A good designer knows how to work with a client’s vision.
Cassie took the last pin out of her mouth and smiled. “Not that I’m one to talk. I can’t remember the last time I had a boyfriend around Christmas. Too bad Jacob can’t set me up with one of his architect buddies. My dad would love that. Being an architect was his dream job growing up.”
Jacob was not a subject I wanted to discuss. Our breakup was going a little too well for my taste.
“Women are going to seem very dull to Jacob after me,” I had complained to Mom when we had first decided to see other people. “Bigger breasted, sure, but very
The downstairs phone rang, and almost against my will, I answered it.
It was Dad. “Thought you two would want to know that they finished the autopsy.”
He thought wrong about my wanting to know, but I listened anyway. An overdose of digitalis, Saul’s heart medication, was determined to be the COD or cause of death, for those of you who don’t watch cop shows. My mom and I do, so terms like GSR (gun shot residue) or ALS (alternative light source) just roll off our tongue.
“So they’re saying it’s murder?” I asked.
“They’re starting an investigation - a quiet one. It could still be a bizarre accident, but given the whole thing with the hand and the rat, nobody’s taking any bets on it.”
As much as I wanted to speculate about Saul’s death now that we had some real information, we just didn’t have the time to spare. Nancy’s 8,500-square foot house had to be decorated, top to bottom, in just over two days. It was get-busy time.
Miss a client deadline? Over my DB!
CHAPTER 7
“Want to know what I think?” Cassie spoke around the straight pins she was holding in her teeth. “I think, in your heart, you’re not really single. You’re looking at this as a forced, but temporary exile till Jacob comes to his senses.”
This was her take on why I left Saul’s party with my parents rather than some sexy stranger.
“Well, there was that little matter of a dead body in the foyer,” I protested, feeding her more ribbon to be pinned to the mantle’s evergreen swag.
“Excuses, excuses.”
Across the room my mother shot us a dark look, the reason behind it hard to read. Was she irritated that we were being flip about Saul’s death? Were we gabbing too much and working too little? Did I sound like I was on the prowl, trying to pick up men at parties? Or did she think Cassie should know better than to talk with pins in her mouth? Whatever the reason, Mom had been in a mood all morning.
Yes, we had tons of work in front of us. And yes, we were behind schedule. But every job brings with it some kind of challenge (severed hand, anyone?), and Mom always manages to pull them off. I didn’t think the Browley’s house would be any different, even if Nancy Browley had asked for a blanket of fake snow on her front yard. Mom hates fake snow.
The theme for the Browleys’ house was simple enough - Santa Claus. Since Oscar dressed up like the jolly old fat man every year, it was a natural. And in typical Amanda Carstairs fashion, the décor would be over the top and fabulous.
Scattered throughout the house were three thousand Santas of all shapes and sizes, from the fur draped Old World Santas, to nesting dolls painted like Russia’s Ded Moroz or Grandfather Frost to France’s Papa Noel. And that wasn’t even counting the life-sized version in an antique sleigh on the front lawn. The faux-snow covered front lawn.
Of course, Mom could’ve over-ruled the idea. Her name doesn’t go on any design unless she’s completely happy with it. But Nancy had pleaded and had seemed so stressed that Mom had relented. A good designer knows how to work with a client’s vision.
Cassie took the last pin out of her mouth and smiled. “Not that I’m one to talk. I can’t remember the last time I had a boyfriend around Christmas. Too bad Jacob can’t set me up with one of his architect buddies. My dad would love that. Being an architect was his dream job growing up.”
Jacob was not a subject I wanted to discuss. Our breakup was going a little too well for my taste.
“Women are going to seem very dull to Jacob after me,” I had complained to Mom when we had first decided to see other people. “Bigger breasted, sure, but very
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