sidewalk. They stopped near the Kranks’ mailbox. “Closer,” Scheel yelled. “They won’t mind.”
They lined up near the house, next to Luther’s favorite flower bed. Scheel ran to his front door and told Bev to call Frohmeyer.
Luther was scraping the sides of his yogurt container when a racket commenced very close to him. The carolers struck quick and loud with the opening stanza of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” and the Kranks ducked for cover. Then they darted from the kitchen, staying low, Luther in the lead with Nora on his back, into the living room and close to the front window, where, thankfully, the curtains were closed.
The choir waved excitedly when Luther was spotted peeking out.
“Christmas carolers,” Luther hissed, taking a step back. “Right out there next to our junipers.”
“How lovely,” Nora said very quietly.
“Lovely? They’re trespassing on our property. It’s a setup.”
“They’re not trespassing.”
“Of course they are. They’re on our property without being invited. Someone told them to come, probably Frohmeyer or Scheel.”
“Christmas carolers are not trespassers,” Nora insisted, practically whispering.
“I know what I’m talking about.”
“Then call your friends down at the police department.”
“I might do that,” Luther mused, peeking out again.
“Not too late to buy a calendar.”
The entire Frohmeyer clan came running, Spike leading the pack on a skateboard, and by the time they fell in behind the carolers the Trogdons had heard the noise and were joining the commotion. Then the Beckers with the mother-in-law in tow and Rocky the dropout lagging behind her.
“Jingle Bells” was next, a lively and loud rendition, no doubt inspired by the excitement being created. The choir director motioned for the neighbors to join in, which they happily did, and by the time they began “Silent Night” their number had ballooned to at least thirty. The carolers hit most of their notes; the neighbors couldn’thave cared less. They sang loudly so that old Luther in there would squirm.
After twenty minutes, Nora’s nerves gave way, and she went to the shower. Luther pretended to read a magazine in his easy chair, but each carol was louder than the last. He fumed and cursed under his breath. The last time he peeked out there were people all over his front lawn, everyone smiling and shrieking at his house.
When they started with “Frosty the Snowman,” he went to his office in the basement and found the cognac.
Eight
Luther’s morning routine hadn’t changed in the eighteen years he’d lived on Hemlock. Up at six, slippers and bathrobe, brew the coffee, out the garage door, down the driveway where Milton the paperboy had left the Gazette an hour earlier. Luther could count the steps from the coffeepot to the newspaper, knowing they wouldn’t vary by two or three. Back inside, a cup with just a trace of cream, the Sports section, then Metro, Business, and always last, the national and international news. Halfway through the obituaries, he would take a cup of coffee, thesame lavender cup every day, with two sugars, to his dear wife.
On the morning after the caroling party on his front lawn, Luther shuffled half-asleep down his drive and was about to pick up the Gazette when he saw a bright collection of colors out of the corner of his left eye. There was a sign in the center of his lawn. FREE FROSTY the damned thing proclaimed, in bold black letters. It was on white poster board, reds and greens around the borders, with a sketch of Frosty chained and shackled somewhere in a basement, no doubt the Kranks’ basement. It was either a bad design by an adult with too much time to spare, or a rather good design by a kid with a mom looking over his shoulder.
Luther suddenly felt eyes watching him, lots of eyes, so he casually stuck the Gazette under his arm and strolled back into the house as if he’d seen nothing. He grumbled as
They lined up near the house, next to Luther’s favorite flower bed. Scheel ran to his front door and told Bev to call Frohmeyer.
Luther was scraping the sides of his yogurt container when a racket commenced very close to him. The carolers struck quick and loud with the opening stanza of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” and the Kranks ducked for cover. Then they darted from the kitchen, staying low, Luther in the lead with Nora on his back, into the living room and close to the front window, where, thankfully, the curtains were closed.
The choir waved excitedly when Luther was spotted peeking out.
“Christmas carolers,” Luther hissed, taking a step back. “Right out there next to our junipers.”
“How lovely,” Nora said very quietly.
“Lovely? They’re trespassing on our property. It’s a setup.”
“They’re not trespassing.”
“Of course they are. They’re on our property without being invited. Someone told them to come, probably Frohmeyer or Scheel.”
“Christmas carolers are not trespassers,” Nora insisted, practically whispering.
“I know what I’m talking about.”
“Then call your friends down at the police department.”
“I might do that,” Luther mused, peeking out again.
“Not too late to buy a calendar.”
The entire Frohmeyer clan came running, Spike leading the pack on a skateboard, and by the time they fell in behind the carolers the Trogdons had heard the noise and were joining the commotion. Then the Beckers with the mother-in-law in tow and Rocky the dropout lagging behind her.
“Jingle Bells” was next, a lively and loud rendition, no doubt inspired by the excitement being created. The choir director motioned for the neighbors to join in, which they happily did, and by the time they began “Silent Night” their number had ballooned to at least thirty. The carolers hit most of their notes; the neighbors couldn’thave cared less. They sang loudly so that old Luther in there would squirm.
After twenty minutes, Nora’s nerves gave way, and she went to the shower. Luther pretended to read a magazine in his easy chair, but each carol was louder than the last. He fumed and cursed under his breath. The last time he peeked out there were people all over his front lawn, everyone smiling and shrieking at his house.
When they started with “Frosty the Snowman,” he went to his office in the basement and found the cognac.
Eight
Luther’s morning routine hadn’t changed in the eighteen years he’d lived on Hemlock. Up at six, slippers and bathrobe, brew the coffee, out the garage door, down the driveway where Milton the paperboy had left the Gazette an hour earlier. Luther could count the steps from the coffeepot to the newspaper, knowing they wouldn’t vary by two or three. Back inside, a cup with just a trace of cream, the Sports section, then Metro, Business, and always last, the national and international news. Halfway through the obituaries, he would take a cup of coffee, thesame lavender cup every day, with two sugars, to his dear wife.
On the morning after the caroling party on his front lawn, Luther shuffled half-asleep down his drive and was about to pick up the Gazette when he saw a bright collection of colors out of the corner of his left eye. There was a sign in the center of his lawn. FREE FROSTY the damned thing proclaimed, in bold black letters. It was on white poster board, reds and greens around the borders, with a sketch of Frosty chained and shackled somewhere in a basement, no doubt the Kranks’ basement. It was either a bad design by an adult with too much time to spare, or a rather good design by a kid with a mom looking over his shoulder.
Luther suddenly felt eyes watching him, lots of eyes, so he casually stuck the Gazette under his arm and strolled back into the house as if he’d seen nothing. He grumbled as
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