The Twelve Days of Christmas - by Pho
part - 01
The infamous 'Twelve Days of Christmas' played merrily from the loudspeaker as Tom Ryan made his way through the mall. His arms were definitely overloaded, and the crowds didn't make his trek any easier. 'Only one more store today, only one more store today.' His silent chant had become a mantra as he traversed the large Miami mall. A false mantra, but that was in character. He'd been swearing it was 'only one more store' since he got to the mall. As he passed the book store, he paused, wondering if he'd gone too far. He hadn't seen the music store - could it have been moved since he was last here? Fortunately, the mall map was in its same location at the intersection of a main second floor entrance, and three other corridors. Juggling his packages out of his way, he studied the map, relieved to find that the music store had only moved to a new location. Of course, it *was* at the other end of the mall, on the first floor, but...
Sighing heavily, Tom turned toward the nearby stairs. He didn't have to meet Cassy at the music store for another thirty minutes, so why not rest for a while? Maybe he could find somewhere to sit down near the music store and wait for her there. And maybe, just maybe, Cassy would be early. ... Right. He'd see snow in Palm Beach first.
The hike took forever. As he paused near the music store he noticed an elderly woman ease her way off an otherwise empty bench. Glancing around furtively, he moved quickly forward and claimed it as his own. His arms ached, his feet ached, his head ached, and he was sure that after twenty minutes on the bench, his butt would ache also. Still, he gratefully lowered his packages to the floor around him, and closed his eyes, hoping to at least ease the pain in his head. His repose was interrupted as his attention was captured by frantic cries coming from further up the mall.
"*STOP them!*" The strong voice was shaking with anger.
Two teenage boys flew past where Tom had collapsed on the bench. Tom groaned inwardly as he saw a necklace dangling from the hip pocket of one of them. Cop instincts took control and Tom leaped over his packages as he took off in pursuit of the young thugs. A flying tackle that would have made a college linebacker proud brought both boys down. Unfortunately, it was more like grabbing a pair of greased pigs than human beings, and Tom lost his grip on one of the youngsters. Cursing under his breath as he struggled to control the squirming boy with one hand, he managed to snare a pair of baggy jeans with the other. Loud language of the worst kind escaped the boy's lips as he fell heavily to his knees. Two squirming, angry youngsters were two too many, and Tom was on the verge of losing them again, when mall security arrived. The tall, heavy guard roughly yanked Tom to his feet. "What the hell is going on?"
Stunned, Tom gaped at the guard as the other one pulled the boys to their feet. The loudest of the boys began to protest. "Hey, we was just going to the movies when this asshole jumped us for no reason."
"Right!" The Palm Beach detective replied sarcastically. "Then why were you running?"
"We didn't wanta be late. We mighta missed something good."
"Like an X-rated promo, maybe?" The thinner of the two guards glared at the kids. "Now, Mr. ...?"
"Hey, we got rights..."
"Yeah, yeah, now Mr. ..."
"Ryan, Tom Ryan. Palm Beach PD."
"Right. What..."
"Oh, thank God, you caught them." A young man pushed his way through the curious crowd, hobbled toward the small group, and pointed at the boys with his cane. "You caught them."
The heavyset guard snapped angrily. "Will someone explain all this?"
"I'm Mark Miller. I own Miller's Jewelry Store in center court. That one," he pointed to the more obnoxious of the two boys, "'slipped' and fell outside the store. He complained of a hurt ankle, so one of my clerks helped him to a chair. While we were distracted, his friend grabbed a display of Rhinestone jewelry and took off. Then he shoved the clerk to the floor, and took off. I went after them."
"Excuse me, Mr. Miller, but you're using a cane, why would you risk chasing them?"
"Cane's not the norm. Twisted my darn knee yesterday, not bad enough to go to the doctor, but decided to borrow a cane for today since I'm on my feet at the store most of the day."
"I see, and then..."
"Realized I couldn't catch 'em, so I shouted for help. *He*," Miller nodded toward Tom, "was good enough to oblige."
"We didn't steal nuthin!" Bluster combined with minimal brain power sealed the youth's fate.
"Right, then where's your receipt, and bag?" The younger guard kept a tight grip on his prisoner's arm.
"I, uh, I..."
"That's what I thought. Mr. Miller, if you'll be kind enough to accompany us back to the store, we'll see about settling this matter."
"Of course."
"Mr. Ryan?"
"Yes? You'll want me..."
"No, sir, I don't believe that's necessary. You do have a card?"
"Uh, yes."
"Fine, then we'll know how to get in touch if we need you."
Tom looked puzzled as he spoke. "But, I thought..."
"Mr. Ryan, it's the holiday season. I assume you're down from Palm Beach to shop. No reason to detain you, but we appreciate the help."
"You're wel... Oh, God!"
"Sir?" The two guards looked briefly at each other.
"My packages!" Tom pushed his way past the crowd blocking his view of the bench. "Damn it! They're gone." Turning to the onlookers, he called out. "Did anybody see anything?" The already thinning crowd melted away into the mall. "Terrific. Thank you very much!"
"Tough luck, Mr. Ryan. Would you like to file a complaint?"
Tom's pager went off as he replied. "No. What good would it do?"
"Probably none." The older guard admitted.
"Didn't think so. Where are the phones? I need to answer this page."
"Down the mall on the left, just past the hobby shop. Merry Christmas, Mr. Ryan."
"Yeah, right. Thanks." Tom's Christmas spirit had vanished with his gifts. His mood was gloomy as he found the bank of phones. All, of course, were busy, except for the two marked as out of order. He leaned against the wall, and grumbled to himself as the 'eight maids went a milking' - again. A phone freed up and he moved quickly to secure it. Dialing a familiar number, he waited. "Harry, it's Tom. It's my day off. What do you want?"
"Stow it, Ryan. Is Cassy with you?"
"More or less. We're *shopping*."
"Not anymore. Get her. You've got a new assignment."
"Harry..."
"It's a really weird one, ..."
"...I'm not in..."
"...the dead man was clutching..."
"...Palm Beach. I'm in..."
"a partridge in a pear tree."
"...Miami." Tom finished his thought as the speakers over his head merrily announced the 'twelve drummers drumming'.
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part - 02 ↑
"Just what was I supposed to do, Cass, let those little thieves get away?" Tom gripped the steering wheel of the Mustang tightly as he spoke. They'd been arguing his involvement in the jewelry store fiasco for the better part of their ride from Miami.
"No, I'm just saying you should've kept one eye on your packages."
"Exactly how was I supposed to do that?"
"Well, I'm sure *I* don't know. They were, key word *were*, your packages."
"Cassy..."
"Turn right, Tom, I think the murder scene's down this road."
"This isn't Ocean Circle."
"No, but there are flashing lights down at the end of the street."
"Cass, it's Christmas, you're probably seeing Christmas lights..."
"Just turn, Tom."
Grumbling under his breath the Palm Beach detective followed his partner's instructions. He still didn't see anything as he drove down the merrily decorated street. Obviously, the residents of this neighborhood were in some sort of ritual 'let's outdo the Joneses' competition. He sucked in a gasp of frustration as Cassy grinned and pointed. Sure enough, on a small cul-de-sac, the Palm Beach coroner's wagon, and assorted police vehicles were parked in front of a Spanish style one-story home. Sliding the Mustang behind one of the cruisers, Tom grumpily climbed out of the car.
Cassy took note of her partner's dour features. "Cheer up, Tom. You'll be right one day. ... Maybe."
"Ha. Ha. Funny, Cass." Tom turned to the patrolman on duty. "Hi Barney, where's the corpse."
The officer shook his head. "In the back yard. *This* one has to be seen to be believed."
Tom took hold of Cassy's arm and propelled her forward. She protested vigorously. "Thomas, I wanted to..."
"Sorry, Cass, forgot to mention that Harry said the victim was holding a partridge in a pear tree."
She jerked to a stop. "Excuse me?"
"*I* had the same reaction, but that's what Harry said." He'd pulled her toward the tall wooden backyard gate as he spoke.
"Harry said what?"
"Oh, hi, Morton. Tom was just telling me about how the victim was found."
"Oh, yeah, really weird. We've left the body alone. Thought you ought to see him for yourselves."
The detectives nodded their thanks and followed Sterling Morton into the backyard. Looking around in confusion, the pair glanced at each other then Cassy asked. "Okay, where's the body?"
Morton looked puzzled. "I thought Harry told you..."
"He said the guy was holding a partridge in a pear tree." Tom's words died as the pathologist began to laugh. "There is something funny here?"
"Oh, my God. Did he really? I mean, I can see... Oh, my God."
Cassy touched the man's shoulder. "Uh, Morton, are you okay?"
Wiping tears from his eyes, the man blushed with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, but that was too funny."
Tom looked even grumpier than when they'd arrived. "*What* was too funny, Morton?"
"Sorry. It really isn't. Guess I've got a bad case of morgue humor. It..."
"MORTON!" Both detectives screamed the man's name.
Getting himself under control, he pointed to the yellow tape. "Over there. Mr. Albert Partridge. Found by his maid, hanging dead in a pear tree."
**********
The annoying knock on his office door only added to his headache. Harry Lipschitz frowned, rubbed his temples once more and muttered a quiet "Come." His only response was a louder rapping on the wooden surface of the door. Raising his voice he called out. "For heaven's sake, leave the door standing, and come in."
Tom poked his head around the door. "Sorry, Harry. Is Cassy in yet this morning?"
"No, but she'll probably be just as loud."
"Headache."
"What a stroke of insight, you have, Thomas Ryan."
Tom winced and held a hand up for quiet as Cassy bounced through the open door. Nodding toward the police captain, he mouthed. "Headache."
"Harry, you're in pain. Let me help you." Cassy moved swiftly forward, ignoring Tom's raised eyebrows as she began to massage Harry's temples. The older man sighed as her gentle fingers rolled small circles near his temples, then suddenly remembered where he was. "Uh, thank you Doctor St. John."
Ignoring the sarcasm, she moved to stand next to Tom. "Did Tom tell you what we've got?"
"I just got here, Cass."
"Oh, should I go first?" Without waiting for a response, Cassy continued. "Well Albert Partridge didn't have an enemy in the world or so says Mrs. Partridge. Poor woman, it's taken me two days to find her. Seems she's been visiting her sister in New York. I finally found her about two this morning. She and her sister will be here later today."
"I take it suicide is out."
Tom nodded grimly. "Yeah, Harry, he was definitely knocked unconscious and then hung from a tree-limb. Morton's initial analysis," he opened the report, and spun away, deftly keeping it from Cassy's grasp, "shows that he never regained consciousness. There were no signs of struggle as he slowly strangled on the rope."
"What about the maid? Did she see anything?"
Cassy shook her head. "No, she wasn't even supposed to be there that night. She'd come by a couple of days early in hopes of getting her Christmas bonus early. Seems the Partridges are very generous employers. The maid and the gardener get large bonuses at Christmas, their birthdays and the anniversaries of their employment with the Partridges."
"Unusual. What about the gardener?"
"Stage hand at his granddaughter's Christmas pageant, then handling clean-up until the wee hours of the morning.. Was in the sight of *someone* at the church all evening, most notably, Father Murphy." Tom replied quickly.
"Okay, what are you missing?" The Captain glared at his two detectives.
Cassy shrugged. "Don't know, Harry. All the neighbors say he was a very nice, quiet little man, who'd retired from Swan pools a few years ago. He was an accountant."
"An accountant? With a maid and a gardener?"
"Been there, asked that, Harry." Tom responded. "Mary Partridge, his wife, inherited a tidy sum from her aunt a few years ago. They were living off the interest plus his retirement."
"Well, you've got to be missing something..." The phone on his desk rang, interrupting his train of thought. "Lipschitz. Blast! Where? Okay, they're on their way." He jotted down an address and hung up the phone.
"Who's on their way?"
"You and Cassy are."
"Harry."
"Don't 'Harry' me. You've got most of your caseload cleared, which is more than I can say for the rest of my staff. I know the Partridge case is an odd one, but Martin Crenshaw and Amanda Henning took the last call. And I don't dare add anything else to rest of the staff's workload."
Tom and Cassy exchanged exasperated looks. The most recent additions to the Palm Beach squad room were *not* popular. Politically astute yes, professionally competent no, and popular ... not at all, at least among their peers. Cassy grumbled to herself as Tom asked the question. "Where are we going?"
"Believe it or not, to a farm."
Cassy's eyes opened wide. "We have farms?"
Tom smirked a little at her ignorance. "Yep, lotsa them. What do we have so far, Harry?"
"Some farmer found dead in his hen house. Looks like foul play. No pun intended."
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part - 03 ↑
"A penny for your thoughts?" Cassy was eyeing Tom closely as they left the scene of the crime.
"Hmmm?"
"Tom, what's on your mind?"
"I'm sorry, what?"
"The Martians have landed in New England."
"Whatever, Cass ... what?"
"Now that I have your attention, *what* are you thinking about?"
"The rope."
"And?"
"I think it was hemp, dyed green."
"Yeah, that was weird."
"No, the Partridge murder. The rope was hemp, dyed red."
"You're not thinking..."
"...that the two crimes are related? Actually, the thought had crossed my mind."
"Come on, Thomas. I doubt that Henry LaCrosse even knew Albert Partridge."
"Henri."
"What?"
"Henri not Henry. He was French... oh, my God!"
"No. Absolutely not. I will not even consider it."
"Cassy, we've got A Partridge found dead in a pear tree. And now a Frenchman is found dead in his hen house."
"So you're thinking three French hens?"
"Ah ha."
"How? How do you get three French hens?"
"Easy. There were only three chickens in the entire hen house." Tom smirked as he responded.
"And I suppose they were hens?"
"Yes."
"You're sure?"
"Cassy, I thought you grew up in the country?"
"We had cattle, not chickens."
"All ranches have chickens."
"Ours didn't."
"Why not?"
"Grandma was allergic ... to feathers."
****************
A manila folder flopped heavily onto Tom's desk and slid to a stop mere inches from the edge. "Same rope."
Tom looked up to find his disgusted partner staring at the folder, obviously hoping it would vanish into thin air. "Ouch."
"I thought you'd be pleased." She eyed him with confusion.
"Much as I occasionally want to be right, I was really hoping I'd be wrong. This could be bad, very bad. There're what, twelve verses to that song?"
Cassy now stared at Tom as if he'd suddenly grown two heads. "Tom, what are you talking about?"
"'The Twelve Days of Christmas'. I'm sure you know the song."
"To know it is to loath it. Between it and that awful 'Redneck Twelve Days of Christmas', you can't go *anywhere* without catching at least one of them. Thomas, you aren't still thinking that nonsense, are you?"
"What nonsense, kids?"
"My theory, Harry."
"It's nothing, Harry."
"Nonsense, Cassy, I want to hear any theories about the murders that you have. Tom, you have suspects in the two slayings?"
"No, Harry, but I think there's only one killer."
"What?"
"A serial killer, Harry, doing his ..."
"... or her." Cassy interrupted.
"Serial killers are almost always male, Cass."
"Occasionally not. Look at that woman right here in Florida."
"Cassandra, I do..."
"Excuse me, but if it's not too terribly much trouble, your Captain, the man who signs your paychecks, is waiting for an explanation." Harry stood with his arms crossed over his chest, glasses sliding unnoticed down the bridge of his nose.
"Sorry, Harry. As I was saying, I think we've got a serial killer who's focused in on the 'Twelve Days of Christmas' song."
The police captain's eyes widened as a small snigger could be heard coming from... somewhere. His arms never moved, his mouth never moved, but Tom could have sworn the little laugh had a male sound to it. The older man's arms unfolded, and he slowly, carefully pushed his glasses back into the correct position, then peered over the top of the frames at the young detective. "Thomas, have you been in the eggnog?"
"Harry, I'm serious."
"So, Detective Ryan, am I."
"Excuse me, Harry, I think I can put a stop to this nonsense."
"Be my guest, Cassy."
"Tom, I'll admit that the first murder of Mr. Partridge in that pear tree was a little odd. And that the Mr. LaCrosse found dead in the hen house *could* be interpreted as the French Hen part, but where oh where are the two turtle doves?"
Tom's mouth opened, then snapped shut in disappointment. As the threesome fell into an uncomfortable silence, an argument could be heard from across the room. Martin Crenshaw and Amanda Henning were in a heated discussion about their latest assignment. "It's a cote, not a coop, Martin."
"Coop, cote, who the hell cares, Amanda. It still stunk to high heaven."
"That's because the owner had been dead for two days, Martin. Morton's autopsy report showed that."
"Well, the dead doves didn't help the smell."
Before Amanda could counter the argument, Tom interrupted. "Excuse me, but what are you talking about?"
"Our latest assignment, Ryan. Man found dead, in a dove *cote*," Martin glared at Amanda as he spoke.
"And, just what was his name?"
"Huh?"
Tom's eyes gleamed with an unholy delight. "Was it by chance, Turtle?"
"God, no. It was Mark Smith."
Cassy and Harry both started to grin as Tom's face fell. Amanda looked pensive for a moment, then spoke up. "It's odd you mentioned 'Turtle', Tom, Mr. Smith lived at Two Tortoise Crossing."
****************
"Maggie! Hey Mags, I'm home!" The Stetson was yanked from his head and whirled across the room, where it spun three times around the hat rack, and fell ignominiously to the floor.
A plump woman emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel as she came. "Heavens, Charlie, I hear you. The *whole* neighborhood hears you. OH!" She gasped in astonishment as he swept her off her feet, and swirled her around in increasingly smaller circles. "Charlie, what on earth? Put me down." Batting at him with the dish cloth, she managed to regain her feet, and catch her breath at the same time. "What?"
"Well, little lady, you are looking at the four time winner of the National Bird Calling Championships."
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part - 04 ↑
It was Tom's turn to look smug as Harry and Cassy turned disbelieving eyes toward the other detectives. Harry glared so long that the pair began to wonder what they'd done wrong. Martin screwed up his courage first. "Uh, Captain, is something wrong?"
"Please tell me you did *not* say 'Two Tortoise Crossing'."
"No can do, Captain, that's where he lived." Amanda replied nervously. She cringed slightly under his unwavering gaze. "Is there something Martin and I should know?"
Harry remained motionless, refusing to look at Tom. "Cassy?"
"Yes, Harry?"
"Get me the lyrics to *that* song."
"Right Harry."
"Tom?"
The detective swallowed back a snicker. "Yes, Harry?"
"You, Cassy, my office, as soon as she's got the lyrics."
"Right, Harry."
"Martin? Amanda?"
"Yes, Captain?"
"Looks like your case is tied to Tom and Cassy's. I want you to pull together your notes, and brief them as soon as possible."
"You're pulling us off the case?" Martin's voice held a hint of outrage.
"Not exactly. We may have a serial killer on our hands. Tom and Cassy had what may be the first and third victims, you two had what could be the second. That makes them primary." With that Harry turned on his heels and disappeared into the sanctuary of his office.
The other detectives exchanged confused glances, then looked at Tom for an explanation. Tom sighed. "Looks like some nut case is killing people that relate, somehow, to 'The Twelve Days of Christmas'."
"You *are* kidding?" Amanda asked skeptically.
"I wish I was. Our first case was a Mr. A. Partridge, killed in a pear tree," Tom struggled to maintain a professional air as Amanda's eyes widened. "The next case we got was a Mr. LaCrosse, killed in his hen house."
Martin choked back a laugh. "Hen house ... Three French hens?"
"You got it."
Amanda gasped. "Two Tortoise Crossing. Tortoise, turtle. God! Dove cote. Oh, God. This would be sooo funny if three people weren't dead."
Martin slipped quickly into his chair. "Tom, it'll take us a couple of hours to pull together our notes. Get together after lunch?"
"Sure." Tom watched the other pair of detectives huddle together around Martin's desk, then walked back to his own.
Cassy, meanwhile, was already on her PC, skillfully weaving her way through the Internet, in search of the lyrics to the song she so detested. "God, I *really* hate that song."
"I like it."
Cassy looked up. "What?"
"I said I like it."
"Like what?
"The Twelve Days of Christmas. It's neat, and there's a lot of history in that song."
"Terrific." She replied grumpily. "There're more than one thousand sites that reference it. Good Lord!"
"What?"
"The 'Star Trek' twelve days, the 'Cat Lover's' twelve days. I guess I should count my lucky stars that the original's the one you usually hear."
"We need the original."
"I *know* that but there doesn't appear to be any... wait. What the..."
"Cass?"
"Just a minute."
Tom couldn't stand it, her eyes were glued to the screen and her forehead was scrunched up in little wrinkles that could in no way be called 'laugh lines'. Rising, he moved swiftly around their desks to stand behind her. Absently placing his hands on the back of her chair, he looked at the monitor she was perusing. "Well, those aren't the lyrics, but the items are right."
"You're sure?"
"Yep. I told you, I like the song."
"Okay, I'll print this. Let's go see Harry." Cassy clicked the printer icon on the monitor, then looked at Tom. "There's such a thing as a 'Calling Bird'?"
***************
"*Damn!*" Charlie McMillan cursed loudly as he glared at the broken glass. "Damn kids! No respect."
"What's wrong, Charlie?" Maggie called out from the laundry room.
"Hole in the damn window. That's what's wrong, Mags."
"When did that happen?" Her voice was muffled as she leaned into the dryer to remove the last of the load.
"Just a few seconds ago."
"Another baseball?" She appeared suddenly, carrying a stack of neatly folded towels.
"No. Hole's too small. Looks like someone's been playing with an air gun."
"Good Lord, are you all right? Turn around, let me see if you're hurt."
"Mags, my love, I'd know if I was hurt. I'm fine. Nope, I dropped that new bird call I'd been working on. Bent over to get it and got a head full of glass. Guess I'm just a lucky guy. Mags, hon, are you listening?"
The woman's face was pale as she stared at the wall directly across from their large picture window. "Charlie, call the police."
"Nonsense, Mags, I'll just find out what kid got an air gun for his birthday, and have a word with his parents."
"Charlie. Come look at this. Unless I'm seeing things, isn't this hole too big for an air gun pellet?"
"Oh for heav..." Charlie pushed himself out of his recliner. "Mags, you are trouble. ... Shit!"
"Ah ha. That's what *I* thought. Call the police."
As her husband anxiously dialed 911, he couldn't quite pull his eyes from what obviously was a bullet hole.
****************
Harry looked up as Cassy and Tom entered his office. "I just got off the phone with the Chief of Police. He's not convinced, yet, but does admit that the coincidences are too many not to investigate. And we're to keep a tight lid on this. If we do have a serial killer, there's no telling *what* triggers him to kill."
"The song..."
"Just because he appears to be choosing his victims from the song, doesn't mean the song is triggering him to kill." Harry looked over his glasses at the paper in Cassy's hand. "The lyrics?"
"Not exactly." She replied sheepishly.
"Then what?"
"Well, we," Tom gave her a sideways glance as the 'we' exited through her lips, "found a whole bunch of entries, but this one has the 'gifts' at least listed on it."
Tom interjected quickly. "And before you ask, I love the song, so I can tell you for sure that the list in Cassy's hand provides both item and number in the song. For example, verse four is all about 'calling birds'"
"Let me see that." Harry snatched the list from Cassy's hand. "Partridge in a pear tree - one hundre...., good grief, have you looked at these prices."
Cassy responded sweetly, "Uh, Harry, I don't think anyone's gonna buy that stuff."
"Not at seventy dollars apiece for calling birds." The Captain frowned and looked at his two detectives. "What's a calling bird?"
"Don't know, Harry." Tom answered.
"Well, kids, I suggest you find out, preferably before we have death number four."
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part - 05 ↑
"Hope these people never need 911 service." Cassy peered through the passenger window, trying to find the street numbers that were skillfully hidden amid Christmas greenery. "What was that address again?"
"3207. If this is a *normal* street, then based on the other numbers, it'll be on the left."
"And if it's not a normal street?"
Tom gave her an odd look. "Then it's on the right."
"Oh. There! The pastel green house."
"Great. I hope they followed our instructions."
"Me too." Cassy shivered involuntarily. "If that song hadn't been playing in dispatch, and Todd Hendricks wasn't totally weird, we'd never have known about the shooting."
"Hendricks isn't weird. A little odd, maybe, but weird?"
"Trust me. Women know these things."
"Ah huh. How *did* he know this guy won a bird calling contest, anyway?"
"Because he enters those contests too. Apparently Mr. McMillan is something of a legend among bird callers."
"Great. Calling bird, bird callers. Has to be our guy." Tom sighed as he climbed out of the car. "Wonder where the four comes in?"
"Who knows. Maybe he called four birds."
"*Cass*"
Somehow she managed to look completely innocent as they walked toward the McMillan's door.
**********
"Crenshaw! Henning!" Harry's shout could be heard all the way into the hall.
Martin met Amanda at the door to the squad room. "What now?"
"I don't know, I was in the ladies room. Where'd you go?"
"To get a darn newspaper."
"*Crenshaw!* *Henning!*" Harry's bellow had picked up steam.
"Damn, he's going apoplectic." Martin mumbled as he picked up speed. Amanda giggled under her breath and quickly caught up with her partner. The pair slid to a stop in front of the Captain's desk. "Yes, Captain?"
Harry tilted his head, and glared at the two detectives over the top of his glasses. "You were both gone."
"Well, yes, Captain. I didn't know Amanda'd gone to the l.."
"Your phone rang."
"Uh, yes."
"*I* had to answer it."
"Oh."
"Yes. Oh." He looked back at his desk, studying a printout he'd placed on the desk pad in front of him.
The two detectives exchange puzzled looks, then Amanda got brave. "What did he want?"
"Who?"
"The caller."
"What do I look like, Detective, your answering service?"
"Uh ... no, sir, but, I thought..."
"Don't think, detectives, just make sure you've got your phone lines covered when you're on duty."
"Yes, Captain." Martin dared another glance at Amanda. "Uh, Captain, is that what you wanted?"
"No." Harry's expression was unreadable. "Gold's gym. Broadhurst Street. Dead gymnast."
"Rings?" Amanda asked weakly.
"No. Horse. Broke his neck trying to mount."
"Good Lord. But surely that was an accident?" Martin asked quickly.
"No. There was grease on the horse."
"Terrific. But I thought we were going to back up Tom and Cassy on the Days Murders? Why are we getting an unrelated assignment?"
"Who said it was unrelated?"
"But...but the gymnast wasn't killed on the rings. So, we, I t..thought." Amanda stuttered as she spoke.
Harry Lipschitz turned troubled eyes to the two detectives. "You know the symbol for the Olympic Games?"
"Yeah, the multi-colored rings? Sure. But..."
"Gold's gym uses the same ring pattern for their insignia. Five of them. All..."
"Gold." Amanda and Martin replied in unison.
**********
"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. McMillan. An officer will be on duty for a while, as a safety precaution." Tom hoped this assurance would be enough to satisfy the frightened man. Not that he didn't have the right to be frightened ... how many people could say they'd been attacked by a serial killer and lived to tell about it? Tom frowned as he followed Cassy back to the car. She stopped, tapping her foot impatiently as he mechanically opened the door for her. As she settled herself into the passenger seat, she glanced up at her partner. He was squinting, the warm hazel almost completely obscured by the lids, as if he were trying to see something in the distance.
"This is all just too weird. The four time National Bird Calling Champion almost gets knocked off. Four calling birds. Sheez! ... Tom, are you listening?" She watched as his head absently nodded, and he closed the door to the Mustang. "Thomas?"
"Hmmmm?" He turned his still unseeing eyes toward her, as he positioned himself behind the wheel. Cassy deftly secured his car keys as he aimed them for the starter, and missed. "Hey! Cass. What gives?"
"I think *I'd* better ask that question. Your body's here, but where did you leave your brain?"
"Funny. Let me have the keys."
"Not until you tell me what else you've got on your mind."
He frowned. "Three murders and one attempted murder. Isn't that enough?"
She uncrossed her arms, dangling the keys in front of him like bait.
"Fine. I'm worrying about number five."
Cassy lowered the keys. "You don't think he's coming back for Mr. McMillan, do you?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Just a ..."
"Hunch. Thomas, we've discussed those before."
"Well, suppose I'm right. We could be concentrating on setting up a trap around our bird caller, when all the time jerk-wad is hacking down some poor soul with five rings."
"Five golden rings."
"Right. Golden. God, Cass, how many girls on the beach do you think have five rings on their fingers?"
Cassy groaned and slapped her head in exasperation. "Tom, you're sooo old-fashioned, the rings don't have to be on their fingers and they aren't necessarily female."
He looked blankly at her.
"Thomas. Body-piercing? Rings in the tongue, nose, other places..."
His eyes widened. "Gross!"
"But true."
"You've just added a lot of people to the potential victim list."
"Sorry."
"*Now* can I have my keys back?"
"Certainly." She leaned over and pushed the key into the starter.
"Thank you." Tom started the car, and pulled away from the curb. "Cassy?"
"What now?"
"How long do you think we've got until the press picks up on this?"
"Not nearly long enough. They're gonna have a field day." She paused for a moment then asked. "Tom, what comes after five? In the song, I mean." She added the last quickly, in self-defense.
"Six. Six geese a-laying."
----------------------------------------------------------------------
part - 06 ↑
"Oh oh." Tom spoke softly as he steered his car around the corner near the Palm Beach Police Department.
"What?" Cassy looked up, and her eyes bulged. "Oh. ... Blast."
"Yeah. Do we go in?"
"Well, I'm betting they've got the back doors blocked too. Besides they may not know yet that we're the officers in charge." Cassy stared with dismay at the plethora of media in the parking lot. "Oh Gad!"
"What?"
"There's a van from Orlando."
"Terrific, wanta bet we'll be national by tonight?" Tom groused as he dodged pedestrians, cables, and vans to ease the Mustang into a parking place.
"No takers." She frowned as she climbed out of the car and turned toward the building. "Rats. Incoming."
"Detective Ryan? Detective St. John?"
"No comment." Tom took Cassy's arm as they attempted to work their way through the oncoming throng.
"I haven't asked a question, yet." The young reporter shot back quickly.
"Then don't." Cassy was just as quick to respond.
"Any truth to the rumor that there've been five murders in less than a week in or around Palm Beach? And that they somehow involve Christmas music?"
Cassy muttered under her breath. 'So much for no questions.' as Tom responded truthfully. "*I'm* not aware of five murders. You, Cass?"
"Me either, now if you'll excuse us." The pair once more attempted to make it through the crowd.
"Or that the fifth murder was of a gymnast?" The last voice came from points unknown.
Tom answered quickly. "I don't know where you get your information, but I really can't comment on something I know nothing about."
"Translation, you wouldn't comment even if you knew something, right Ryan?"
Tom smiled. "Your words, not mine. So don't quote me. Now if you'll let us get into the building..."
"Fine, Ryan. We'll be here when you come out."
"I'll be looking forward to that. Coming Cassy?"
She managed to hide a smile. "Right behind you, Tom."
*********
"Yes, Commissioner. ... No, Commissioner. ... Yes, I under... Thank you, Commissioner." Harry's face was red as he attempted to speak into the phone.
Amanda and Martin were leaning on Tom's desk as the pair approached. Tom looked at the open door to Harry's office. "Commissioner?"
Martin grinned. "Who else?" He quickly sobered. "Press showed up after the last murder."
"Then it's true there've been five?" Cassy was horrified at the thought.
Amanda shook her head. "Only four, and that's four too many. I assume you found the 'victim' of the fourth verse?"
"Yeah. Four time Calling Bird Champion." Cassy responded.
"That's Bird Calling Champion, Cass." Tom interrupted.
"Whatever, it's the fourth verse."
"Terrific. Well, victim four probably was supposed to be number five." Martin looked dejected.
Tom sighed. "I know I'm gonna regret this, but who's been killed now?"
"A gymnast at Gold's gym."
Cassy was surprised. "The one with the golden Olympic rings as their logo?"
"That's the one. You know it?"
"Used to date an aerobics instructor from there." At the odd look from Tom, she added. "Just for a short time, he was more interested in his muscles, than in mine." Ignoring Tom completely, she turned to Amanda. "But how did the press..."
"A female reporter was on sight doing 'research' on stepping as exercise. She was a witness to what was thought to be an accidental death, until someone noticed the grease."
"Terrific." Tom looked up. "Harry's off the phone."
The other three detectives looked up to see the red-faced Captain motioning them into his office.
Cassy sighed. "Well, into the lion's den. After you, Tom."
"Why do I always have to go first?" Tom complained as he moved toward the door.
"Because you take the heat so well."
"Thank you."
"Anytime."
************
The local press watched with envy as the van from one of the National networks pulled into the parking lot. "Well, they're here awfully quick." Local TV anchor Marti Spencer frowned as she spoke, then brightened. She definitely didn't need any frown lines on *her* face.
"You knew they would be. It's too good of a story to pass up. Christmas, murders related to Christmas music." Her cameraman, Tod Matthews responded quietly.
"Yeah, but so fast? We haven't even put out a story on it."
"Didn't think of that. Well, pretty lady, why don't the locals interview the nationals? Kinda see what information we, uh, you can glean."
"Why Mr. Matthews sir. You really are a genius, but, uhm, don't let it go to your head."
*************
"Well, kids. *That* was the commissioner. He is *not* happy. Four murders, and one attempt in less than a week. Worse, there's less than a week until Christmas. He doesn't want a panic in Palm Springs. It'll hurt the tourist industry."
"Uh, Harry, this is Palm Beach." Tom spoke up quietly.
The Captain looked puzzled. "I know that Ryan, what's your point?"
"You said Palm Springs."
Harry looked surprised. "Did I?"
"Yes. You did. Slip of the tongue?"
"Probably, Franny wants to go there for New Years. Where was I?"
"Panic in the streets." Cassy responded quickly. "And didn't you warn the commissioner this might happen?
"Oy. Like *that* matters. All *he* knows is that the press is camped on his doorstep, and that the mayor is on his tail. So he's on mine. And..."
Tom grinned. "You're on ours."
"This isn't funny, Ryan."
"You're right, Harry, it's not. But unless the fourth murder based on the fifth verse yielded more clues than the first, second, and third murders based on the first three verses, or the first attempted murder based on the fourth verse, we're stone-walled."
The other four people in the room stared at Tom for a short moment as they tried to sort out his analysis of the situation. Harry recovered first. "Uh, right. Well, kids, I suggest you put your collective brain power to work and figure out who the next victims might be. Go a couple of verses ahead. Work on the six swans, seven geese, and the eight cows."
Tom managed to stifle a giggle. "That's six geese a-laying, seven swans a-swimming and eight maids-a-milking, Harry."
"Whatever. Just go. Figure out who's next. Somewhere, someone is running out of time."
----------------------------------------------------------------------
part - 07 ↑
"Damn it. I can't think of anything but farms." Martin flung a pencil across the room in frustration. It ringed a trash can and fell in with a loud plunk.
"Good shot." Amanda spoke up admiringly.
"Huh? ... Oh, thanks. Do you guys have *any* ideas?" He looked helplessly at the other three detectives.
"Pate de foie gras." Cassy smiled dreamily as she spoke.
"Goose liver? The next victim's gonna be a chef? Cassy..." Tom almost laughed, but catching sight of her eyes, decided against it.
"Well, it's as good as anything *you've* come up with. And it's the first thing I think of when I think of geese. It's sooo good on crackers. Tom, what's wrong?" Her partner was frantically thumbing through the phone book. "Tom?"
"I remember, a few years back, someone bought a farm to raise geese for their livers. Just where the heck..."
"Hey, I remember that. Didn't the animal rights activists sue to try to stop him?" Martin was now leaning closely over Tom's shoulder as he searched through the phone book.
"Way to go, Tom." Amanda sidled up on the other side of the young detective, leaving Cassy alone, annoyed and aggravated.
"Here. Shit. That's it! Damn! Seis Gansos Farms. Spanish for Six Geese. Good Lord. Amanda, call it in to the local sheriff. Cassy and I are on the way."
"Hey, we'll come with you." Martin leaped for the door.
"No," Cassy replied. "No need. For now, you two need to figure out what can be done with swans." She followed Tom out the door.
***********
Cassy jerked Tom to a halt just as they exited the elevators. "The press is still out there."
"So?"
"How do we keep them from following us?"
"Good point." Tom thought for a minute, then pushed the elevator button. The door quickly opened and he stepped inside. "Come on."
"Tom?"
"Come on, Cass, before one of the reporters sees you through the glass."
She followed him into the elevator, her face a puzzled mask of confusion. "Okay, now explain."
"Captain Smith drives a van."
"And?"
"As a Captain, he gets to park it in ..."
"The parking garage. Good thinking, Tom."
"I have my moments."
"Yeah, but two in one day are rare."
***********
"Yes, Sheriff Dexter, this is Detective Amanda Henning with the Palm Beach PD. Are you familiar with Seis Gansos Farms? ... Good. Sir, there's a very good possibility that someone at that location is in grave danger. ... No, sir. I don't know who. ... Yes, I understand that it makes no sense, but ... Sheriff, if you'll just let me explain. ... Supervisor? Certainly sir, just a moment." Angrily she punched the hold button and turned to Martin. "Moron. He wants to speak with my supervisor."
"Give me the phone."
"*You* are not my supervisor."
"*He* doesn't need to know that."
"Oh." She handed him the phone and released the call from hold. Martin smiled at her. "This is Harry Lipschitz. ..." Amanda's eyes widened as Martin spoke. He suddenly jerked the handset from his ear and winced. Replacing the device, he shouted. "SHERIFF DEXTER! ... Now that I have your attention, I strongly suggest that you get a car out to Seis Gansos Farms. ... I'm *not* through yet. Two of my people are heading there from Palm Beach, but it will be at least thirty to forty-five minutes before they can arrive. ... Yes, I know it's out of my jurisdiction, but frankly Sheriff, I don't give a damn. ... You heard me. We believe a killer is stalking someone at the farm, and it probably doesn't even matter to the killer who that someone is. Now, get a car out there!" Martin hung up the phone with a satisfied grin. "You know, Amanda, that Sheriff really is a mo... Oh, hi Captain." His eyes reached for Amanda's, whose own remained conspicuously glued to the floor.
"Where are Tom and Cassy?"
"Gone to Seis Gansos Farms to check out a possible connection to the crimes, sir."
"Seis, Six ... Good grief. Sounds plausible. Good work. Come up with anything on the seven swans or the eight milkers?"
"Uh, no."
"Then hop to it people. Time's a-wasting." The Captain wandered away.
Martin looked after him in amazement, then turned to see Amanda wiping tears from her eyes. "He didn't hear..."
She simply shook her head, then doubled back over into laughter as Martin flung a notepad in her direction.
************
Tom turned down the driveway beside the large Seis Gansos sign, and slowed dramatically as Captain Smith's van hit the first pothole. The commanding officer of the burglary unit had been reluctant to loan them his vehicle, but a quick explanation of the events, and the crowds outside, had turned the tide. That and the keys to Cassy's Porsche.
Cassy kept a close watch out for the house. "Tom, do you think Amanda got the local authorities out here in time?"
"I hope so. So far this nut-case has been way ahead of us. No real clues, except the damn song."
"I thought you liked the song."
"I used to. Now all I see are bodies when it's playing. Damn! Flashing lights ahead."
He sped the van up a little only to be stopped by a very wide town deputy, positioned stupidly in the middle of the road. "Sorry, folks, Seis Gansos is closed today."
Tom pulled out his badge. "Palm Beach PD. I think we're expected."
"Oh yeah, you guys." The deputy caught sight of Cassy. "Uh, no offense meant, Ma'am."
"None taken." She replied frostily. "What happened?"
"Someone got off a round at one of the livestock guys."
"Anyone hurt?" Tom held his breath as he awaited the answer.
"Nah. Unless you want to count dead geese."
**************
"Seven swans? Swan Lake wouldn't be playing anywhere, would it?" Martin asked.
"I'm sure it's playing somewhere, but not around here, at least not right now. But that's better than anything I've thought of."
"Dammit. The eight maids a-milking would be easier. Why couldn't we be on *that* part?"
"Martin! That would mean maybe two more bodies!"
He looked at her sheepishly. "Sorry, wasn't thinking." He nervously drummed his fingers on his desk. "So now what. I'm thought out."
"I guess... Captain Lipschitz? Is something wrong?"
"Some idiot Sheriff thinks I spent a good while screaming at him over the phone and has filed a complaint with personnel. Of all the stupid, idiotic things to have happen..." Harry was still muttering as he left the squad room.
"Oh God. Should we tell him?" Amanda was horrified.
Martin, on the other hand, took a more pragmatic view. "I'd say no, if you plan on retiring as a cop, that is."
***************
"Geese? Dead geese?" Cassy was stunned.
"Yep. Six of them."
"Six." Tom's voice was low.
The deputy looked at them in confusion. "Yes, six geese just a laying dead over there in the grass." He looked perturbed from Cassy to Tom and back to Cassy. "Uh, folks, if you don't mind me saying so, you don't look so good."
----------------------------------------------------------------------
part - 08 ↑
The silence in the borrowed van was deafening as the Palm Beach detectives pulled away from the goose farm. Both were unable to believe that the six dead geese were all this madman had planned, but the crime *did* go with the song. Thoughts in a whirl, Cassy leaned over and clicked on the radio. "On the eighth day of..." The children's chorus disappeared as Cassy rapidly depressed a different button on the radio. The next radio station was in the middle of a very loud used car ad, so she flipped to yet another station. The soothing tones of 'Oh Holy Night' floated easily out of the van's elaborate stereo system.
"Thank you."
She shuddered. "You're welcome. I don't know what's worse, *that* song or Uncle Marv's Used Car sales. Eeck!"
"Well, unless Uncle Marv's hiding some bodies, I'd have to vote with *Days*. ... Cass, I don't think the local cops have found everything back there."
"Neither do I." She admitted quietly. "Go back?"
He thought for a moment, then replied reluctantly. "Noooo. They asked us to leave, said they had everything under control. And remember, they'll still be there if we go back now."
"Okay, but there's probably a body in the number six building."
"What?" Tom almost ran off the road turning to look at her.
"Watch it, Tom. There's a ditch over here."
"What about the buildings?"
"You didn't notice? They were all numbered."
"There weren't any numbers on those buildings."
Cassy smiled knowingly at her partner. "No, there weren't."
"Then how...?"
"The symbols. On the walls. You know, one, two, three... Couldn't quite figure out what they were... *THOMAS!*" Cassy shrieked as Tom hit the brakes.
"The geese. The damned geese. Good Lord!" Tom did an extremely fast three-point turn on the narrow road, causing Cassy to reach hastily for the handgrip on the ceiling.
As the van sped back toward the farm, Cassy gave a faint laugh. "Tom, what on earth?"
"There probably *is* a body in building six."
"I was just kidding, Tom."
"Geese, Cassy, the symbols on the walls were geese."
"Oh my God. Can this thing go any faster?"
**************
Martin hastily swallowed an overly large chunk of pizza, as Harry returned to the squad room. The Captain's eyes squinted through his glasses as he honed in on Amanda and Martin. The two detectives waited for his wrath to fall. "Did you two really *think* I wouldn't find out?"
"Well, uh, ..." Martin wasn't quite sure *what* to say.
"Anchovies. You ordered pizza with anchovies. Bless you. *Tom* won't let me get them." Sliding three slices onto a paper towel, Harry started back toward his office. He stopped in the doorway, then returned to the table. Sighing heavily, he placed the smallest slice of pizza back in the box. Patting his stomach, he explained. "Gotta watch those calories." The older man then hurried away to catch his phone.
The detectives watched him leave in amazement. Amanda gulped. "He knows."
Martin stared in the direction of the Captain's office. "I really *hope* not."
**************
"What I'd like to know is how *you* knew there'd be a body in this particular out building?" The Sheriff was *not* in a good mood as he backed Tom up against a stall door.
Tom felt the ground squish under his shoes, and prayed he'd not found anything nasty. "Well, actually, Cassy figured it out."
The pretty blond detective's eyes narrowed slightly as she hastily stuck her tongue out at her partner, but she managed to be all innocence and charm as the Sheriff whirled on her. "Well, Ma'am?"
"Why, your deputy pointed out the six geese, Sheriff."
"Oh. I, uh, see. Well, don't touch anything while I go see where the hell the coroner is." The tall, skinny figure took long strides as he left the building.
Tom looked at Cassy. "The geese were in the grass."
"I know that, but there *were* six of them." She glanced down at his shoes. "Uh, Captain Smith isn't gonna be happy if you wear those in his van."
The handsome detective closed his eyes. "*What* am I standing in?"
Cassy grinned. "Well, we only had cows on the ranch, but the color's the same."
"Shit!"
"That's right."
**************
"Henning! Crenshaw! My Office, *now!*" Harry's voice held an impatient ring.
"Oh, God. He knows." Amanda's voice shook as she voiced her fears.
Martin gulped. "Just follow my lead."
"Following your lead is what got us into this *mess*."
"You don't know that..."
"HENNING! CRENSHAW!"
The two detectives leaped to their feet and almost ran across the open expanse between their desks and his door. Standing just outside his door, Martin took a deep breath. "Yes, Captain?"
"Tom and Cassy have the fifth or should I say the sixth victim. I need you to pick up the court order for the body transfer from Judge Helmes, and then escort Morton to the scene of the crime. That Sheriff is in *no* way qualified to handle this."
The two detectives stared in disbelief, then Martin responded. "Oh, sure. Right, Captain. No, problem."
As the two left the squad room, Amanda moaned. "He knows!"
"Amanda, will you just shut up!"
***************
Tom's shoes sat on newspaper in the back seat. He'd rinsed them off and most of the smell was gone, but Cassy refused to let the soiled leather touch Captain Smith's floorboard. The man, after all, did still have the keys to her Porsche. She clicked the radio back on and leaned back, praying that the next song would *not* have geese in it. To her relief the national business news was on. Oh, great. Her favorite store was going out of business. She loved those clothes. Maybe the local store would have a good sale. She felt, rather than saw Tom stiffen in his seat as the broadcaster began the local business news. 'And last but not least, there will be a special ceremony at Palm Lake tonight, as the mayor christens the seventh swan boat, the latest addition to the city's Swan fleet.'
----------------------------------------------------------------------
part - 09 ↑
"Thank you, Bob. The joy that's usually so prevalent this time of year is quickly being overshadowed by fear. Palm Beach has been plagued with a series of gruesome homicides. Five to date. So far there's been no corroboration from the Palm Beach Police spokesman that the homicides are connected, but Channel 3 inside sources say that the string of deaths are directly related to everyone's favorite Christmas carol, 'The Twelve Days of Christmas'. Our sources have revealed that one potential victim has survived the attempt on his life. If this is correct, then it is Channel 3's contention that persons by the name of 'Swan' or having any connection with 'Swans' should exercise extreme caution in the days ahead. This is Marti Spencer, Channel 3 news repor..."
The set went dark as Harry Lipschitz angrily hit the remote. Turning, with hands on hips, he scanned the watchers in his squad room. "What? Don't you people have anything better to do?" Immediately the room was bustling with activity. Harry turned back to the set and glared for a moment at the darkened screen. 'Well, the commissioner should be calling at any moment.' The phone in his office started to ring, and Harry sighed, bracing for a *long* conversation as he moved reluctantly to answer it.
**********
Tom simply shook his head, and Cassy burst into giggles in spite of herself as they climbed out of the Mustang. The park surrounding Palm Lake had been 'decorated' for Christmas. At least Tom assumed it had been *deliberately* done this way. Musical notes were tied in bunches by red and green ribbons, and hung from the tops of palm trees. 'Imitation coconuts?' ran through Tom's head as he perused the grounds. And on the ground, scattered at random throughout the park were images from *their* song. *Everything* was there, from the partridge in the pear tree to the twelve drummers, but, and Tom thanked his lucky stars for this, all the images were wooden cutouts. Not a live actor in the bunch. "I do *not* believe this."
He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until Cassy responded. "Believe it." Her giggles had subsided and she now wore a concerned expression on her face. "Do you happen to notice *which* verse isn't a wooden cutout?"
Tom looked around. "Great. The seven swans."
"Right. I'm guessing it's because of those Swan boats in the water."
"They look more like geese."
"Whatever, but they look really stupid with those wreaths around their scrawny little necks."
"Cass. There're only six of them. Where's boat seven?" Tom looked frantically around.
Cassy pointed toward a dock. "Over there. It hasn't been christened yet. For that matter it hasn't been lowered into the water yet. Wonder why?"
Tom's eyes widened as what could *only* be the captain of the little vessel sauntered onto the dock ... directly underneath the keel of the swan-shaped boat. The old English robes made the young detective think of 'Good King Wenceslas' not 'Days'. Glancing around he saw that the kid in the robes had been part of the 'ten lords' display. Okay, maybe *one* live actor. Stupid idea. Shaking his head at the sight, he suddenly found he was looking at ...
Whatever Cassy had been about to say was lost on Tom's back as he ran toward the dock. She watched, stunned, as he shoved watchers to one side. Her mouth opened to call his name, *then* she saw what he had seen, and followed in his wake. A portly gentleman staggered away from Tom and hurled unflattering ancestral comments at his heels. Caught unprepared for Cassy's onslaught, the robust man stumbled into a wooden cutout of a 'milkmaid'. The resultant domino effect sent the eight two dimensional milkmaids into the arms of eight of the remaining leaping lords. The falling lumber clattered to the ground, taking with it the dancing ladies, the pipers and the drummers. Soon, only the ninth wooden lord remained standing as the event organizers moved dazedly among over-sized toothpicks.
The startled tenth Lord, the human one, barely had time to focus on the man running insanely down the ramp when he was tackled, quite professionally. The flying human bodies slid down the dock and out from under the shadows of the swan boat, just as the length of chain holding the boat aloft gave way. The resultant crash sent crowds screaming away from the lake front. Cassy barely managed to stay on her feet as she dodged running forms. Arriving at the edge of the ramp, she breathed a sigh of relief as she saw Tom rise shakily to his feet, pulling the frightened youngster with him.
The approaching emergency sirens drowned out Cassy's warning cry as Tom took a single step backward to get a better look at the broken links. As he fell into the chilly water, she realized that the 'Oh' on his lips had nothing to do with 'Holy Night'.
***********
"Hey, Mary?"
"What?"
"Seen the news reports on the 'Days' murders?"
"I do *not* watch the news."
"Oh. Why not?"
"Don't believe in violence on television. ... At least *not* in prime time."
"Okay. Uh, anyhow, seems some nut is killing off people having something to do with the 'Twelve Days of Christmas' song."
"So?"
"Well, according to the radio, he's up to verse eight."
"Judy, will you just *spit it out*."
The young woman sighed in exasperation. "I thought it'd be obvious. You own a cleaning service."
"Lotsa people do, or haven't you noticed the competition for contracts lately?"
"Yeah, well, how many are called 'Mary's Maids'?"
***********
"The scene at Palm Lake was nothing short of chaotic this afternoon as tragedy was narrowly averted. Detective Tom Ryan, seen here in the Santa Claus beach towel, and, uh, Rudolph socks, successfully pulled Kevin Riley out from under the latest addition to the Swan boat fleet. Swan boat seven was awaiting its much publicized christening when the chains holding it aloft gave way. Detective Ryan was *not* available for comment. This is Marti Spencer, Channel 3 news reporting."
----------------------------------------------------------------------
part - 10 ↑
The ride back into the parking garage had not been nearly as successful as the exodus. The van had been id'd at the park, and from the crowds gathered near the police department, Tom figured that every media person south of Jacksonville was laying in wait outside the station. Between the photos taken at the lake, and those snapped as he steered the van into the building, he knew *his* photo would grace papers up and down the coast. As another flash temporarily blinded him, he thought once more that he really should have taken Cassy up on her offer to drive. Sighing with relief, he slid from the seat, and silently fell into step beside Cassy as they walked toward the elevator. Cassy watched him out of the corner of her eye as his head turned nervously from side to side. "Tom, what *are* you doing?"
"Waiting for the ambush."
"I *doubt* there are reporters in the garage, Tom."
"They're everywhere else. I do *not* want any more pictures taken."
Cassy grinned. "I thought the socks were cute. They went with the towel."
"Thank you very much." Tom paused. "How many of *those* pictures do you think are out there."
"Oh, just a few ... thousand."
"God!"
********
Amanda used every ounce of her feminine charms, combined with the court order, to secure the cooperation of the Sheriff. As Morton took charge of the crime scene, dodging frantically honking geese, Martin waved Amanda back to the car. Motioning to Morton that she was leaving him, she carefully worked her way back to where Martin was talking rapidly on his cell phone. She waited impatiently for him to hang up, every fiber of her being screaming *what?*.
"Verse seven happened." Martin's voice was grim.
"What! Where?"
"Damn swan boat at Palm Lake."
"H..How many hurt?"
"No one, thank God. Tom and Cassy got there first. We're to head back to the station, though. The commissioner is really pissed. The mayor is pissed. And apparently even the governor is pissed."
"Great. That leaves the President. And maybe our Congressman or Senators."
Martin sighed. "Everyone *else* has called the Captain. One or all of them are probably next."
**********
Tom entered the squad room to a round of applause. As he moved to his desk, several uniformed officers *begged* for his autograph, while others wanted to know where they could get socks just like his. Blushing a deep shade of red, he looked for help from Cassy, but none was forthcoming. His blond partner had gone in search of Captain Smith and the keys to *her* Porsche. Bracing himself, he pushed through the crowds, focusing only on Harry's door. Breathing a sigh of relief, he reached the haven of Harry's office, and knocked. His relief was short-lived as a snarled "ENTER!" reached his ears.
***********
Traffic slowed to a crawl on the coast highway, and Martin was beginning to wish he'd taken a different route. Frowning, he cut on the police band radio to get the status of the wreck he could see ahead of them. The radio reported a single vehicle crash, with injuries, ambulance en route. "Great. We'll *never* get through this."
"Of course we will, just not anytime soon." Amanda replied soothingly. Her eyes widened as she stared down the road "Martin, what's number eight?"
"The cows."
"What?"
"Well, technically, it's the eight milking maids, but I always think of cows. Why?"
"Can you see the license plate on the wrecked car?" Amanda's voice was strained.
Martin gave her an odd look. "No, not from this side of the car. The truck in front is blocking my view." He paused, then added, "I can see the roof, though."
Amanda sighed. "Martin, pull the car onto the shoulder, we need to get down there."
"They've got plenty of help, Amanda. The last thing they need is a couple of homicide detect... Amanda, you're not saying..."
She nodded grimly. "The license tag is 8MLKMD."
He groaned. "Eight MiLK MaiD. Oh, SHIT!"
************
Cassy knocked on Harry's door. His 'Enter' was only slightly more welcoming than it had been for Tom. She bounced into the office, wearing a huge grin on her face. The grin and the bounce faded as she caught sight of her boss' face. "Harry, what's the matter?"
"Try five murders and three attempts, Cassy." It was Tom that answered the question.
Harry quickly swallowed his antacid. "The press is rabid, calling for action. The commissioner and the mayor are after my hide. And the Sheriff where the goose victim was found has filed a grievance against me."
"Well, he's a moron. He actually ... did you say *three* attempts?"
"Very perceptive, Detective St. John. Henning and Crenshaw just called in a wreck on the coast highway."
"Involving a maid service van?" Cassy asked quickly.
"No, why?" Harry asked.
"Well, Tom and I were talking on the way back from the lake. About getting a couple of units assigned to Mary's Maids. Didn't he tell you?"
Tom smiled grimly. "Wasn't necessary. Harry had just hung up with Martin when I got here."
"Then who ... what?"
"An out-of-state tag, 8MLKMD."
Cassy gasped. "You did say 'attempt'?"
"Yes."
"Thank God. How badly was he hurt?"
"He is a she, and broken ribs, and concussion but she should recover completely."
"That's good. Damn, what's number nine again?"
The phone rang, and Harry glared at it for a short moment, then answered. "Lipschitz. ... I'm sure ... Yes, Ma'am. ... Thank you for your call." He stared at the handset for a moment, then dropped it into the cradle as if it had a disease.
"Harry? What's wrong?"
"As if my life wasn't screwed up enough right now. Oy! *That* was the mayor's office, again. It seems a group calling themselves 'Santa's Height Challenged Helpers' are picketing city hall, claiming Santa is officially on strike because of this serial killer."
"Oh great!" Tom moaned.
"*That's* not the bad part." Harry nervously pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "*Now* the mayor's got panicked parents calling because their children think Santa isn't coming."
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part - 11 ↑
Cassandra St. John collapsed onto a chair, moaning softly. "Please tell me that none of this is happening. It's almost Christmas."
"I wish to hell it wasn't. This is really scary. He's already done eight verses. That only leaves four to go."
"What do you think he'll do if he finishes all twelve? Go into hiding? Start over? What?"
"No idea. For all I know, he could start in on some other Christmas song. But probably not. He'll probably switch to something totally non-holiday but with this kind of silliness. 'Old MacDonald Had a Farm', who knows."
Cassy started to giggle. "Old Mac... Good Lord,... all I ... can think ... of is dead ... farm ... animals."
Tom stared at her for a moment, then felt his own face break into a smile. "Cass ... this isn't ... funny."
"I ... know. I just ... can't stop ... laughing."
"Well, I suggest you find a way." Harry practically snarled as he stormed back into his office.
"Press conference go badly, Harry?" Cassy managed to keep her facial expression serious as she asked the loaded question.
Harry glared at her for a full minute before plopping, exhausted, down into his chair. "*That* is an understatement. If the Mayor herself hadn't deman..." He cleared his throat, then continued. "We're looking at a full scale panic in Palm Beach. Sales are down. Tourism is down. The only thing up is the media presence."
Cassy and Tom quickly regained their composure, then Cassy asked. "Amanda and Martin?"
"Still on site at crime scene eight. Tom, what's verse nine?"
"Nine ladies dancing."
"Terrific. That could be anything from musicals to private parties."
"Well, if it's any consolation, Harry, the same scenarios could apply to the eleven pipers, and the twelve drummers."
"Eleven pipers, twelve drummers?" Harry's voice tensed. "I know I'm gonna regret this, but what's ten?"
"Lords a-leaping." Tom sighed. "At least that one should cause the jerk some problems. Not too many honest-to-God lords in the USA."
Cassy gave him a startled look. "Tom, then musicals cover that one too."
"I don't see how."
"The 'Lord of the Dance' show is in town for the holidays."
***********
"You're sure she'll be okay?" Amanda asked.
Martin nodded. "The paramedics seem to think so. I've radioed in and asked for an officer to guard her hospital room."
"Sensible. What about next of kin?"
"She's visiting her folks. The Captain's gonna have someone notify them in person."
"Good. Where are Tom and Cassy?"
"Back at the station. That reminds me, I want to hear the news reports. According to Benson in dispatch, the number of reporters have increased back at the station. And Benson was positively giggling when he told me to ask about Tom's socks."
***********
The incessant ringing of her alarm clock caused Cassy to groan and bury her head beneath her pillow. Harry had finally relented and ordered all four detectives home to bed for a few hours, knowing full well that a tired mind would not solve this case. It was really *too* cruel. She felt as if she'd only just gotten to sleep. Surely the proffered six hours hadn't passed already. The ringing stopped abruptly, and Cassy sat up with a jolt as she realized that the alarm would not have stopped of its own accord. "Oh, great. The phone. I missed the damn phone. P..lease!" Swinging her feet onto the floor, she searched in vain for the other bedroom slipper. Unable to locate the missing shoe, she kicked the first one off her foot, enjoying the sound of it impacting the wall on the other side of the bedroom. Missing the fact that *both* her slippers were now together again, she headed for the living room and her answering machine, hoping against hope that the caller had left a message.
The phone began to ring again, and Cassy kicked a footstool in her haste to get to it. Cursing and limping she stumbled to her side table, and pulled the handset to her ear. She turned to sit and succeeded in dragging the phone's base off the table. It hit the floor with a loud plastic thud just as she managed an annoyed, "Damn, St. John!"
Her partner's concerned voice only increased her agitation. "Cass, are you okay?"
Frosty tones drifted back to his ears. "Why wouldn't I be okay, Tom? A bad case with lotsa victims and *no*, count them, *no* suspects, only six hours sleep, I can't find my slippers and I think I broke my toe. But I'm fine. Definitely fine."
"Ah ha." Tom's reply was skeptical. "Aren't we grumpy?"
"I am *not* grumpy." Her eyes caught sight of her living room clock. Three AM. "*What* do you want?"
"I'm en route to number nine."
Her mood went from lousy to despairing in a matter of seconds. "Oh, God! Dare I ask who, how?"
"Reverend Martin Dansing. He..."
"Dansing? Dancing - close enough."
"Cass..."
"I mean it's a bit of a stretch..."
"Cass..."
"But what about the 'nine'?"
"Are you through?"
"I suppose, why?"
"I mean, if you'd like to offer some more theories without the facts, that's fine with me."
"*Now* who's grumpy?"
"Sorry, Cass. The good Reverend was giving a series of sermons on the Seven Deadly Sins at Our Lady of the Hills. He was on the last night, the seventh sin..."
"What's seven got to do with nine?"
"*CASS!*"
"Sorry. You were saying?"
"The seventh sin is lust. To give his sermon extra zing, Reverend Dansing hired some ladies of the night to, uh, entertain his audience."
"Let me guess. They danced for the crowd."
"Uh, you *could* say that. More like they *stripped* for the crowd."
"And there were..."
"Nine of them."
Cassy sighed deeply. "I'll be there in twenty ..." She glanced at her nightgown, "Make that forty minutes."
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part - 12 ↑
Cassy pulled up to the scene of what amounted to a full-scale riot. The officer directing traffic recognized her Porsche and waved her on through the barricade. It may have been only four in the morning, but it looked like half of Palm Beach, or at least its press, was on site. Looking around for the coroner's wagon, she frowned as she realized it was already gone. 'Thomas Ryan. I'm only ten minutes late. You should have waited for me. Just wait until I find you.'
As if on cue, Tom appeared and opened the car door for her. "Welcome to the zoo."
"What's the big idea letting Morton leave without me?" Cassy slammed the driver's door in frustration, effectively yanking it out of Tom's hand.
"Excuse me?"
"Morton? Coroner's wagon? Corpse? What's the matter, has all this insanity warped your brain?"
"Okay. I think I followed that. Let's take it in order. Morton - presumably home, asleep in bed. Coroner's wagon - it better be at the morgue or there'll be hell to pay. Corpse - isn't one. And *my* brain's just fine thank you, but I'm starting to wonder about yours."
"No body?"
"Not a single one."
"But, you said..."
"I said the ninth crime had occurred. I *didn't* say anyone had been killed. But I admit, it was a minor miracle that no one was."
"W..What happened?"
"Come on. You've got to see this." Tom headed for the church, Cassy close on his heels.
Her eyes widened as they entered the front doors of the building. A group of scantily clad women hovered unconcerned near the stairway to the balcony. And in the doorway separating the entrance from the sanctuary stood two irate men. She whispered a query at Tom. "Who?"
He grinned, then quickly erased the smile from his features. In a low voice he replied. "The short guy on the right is Reverend Martin Dansing. The other man is Nicholas Jolly."
"You *are* kidding." Cassy stared stunned at her partner.
"Nope. Mr. Jolly is the deacon of this particular church."
"And this is bad, good, whatever ... why?"
Tom sighed. "Well, seems Mr. Jolly didn't know Mr. Dansing had hired the, uh, ladies over there," he nodded with his head, "for tonight's service."
"I wanted to ask you about that. Shouldn't we have been called earlier?"
Her partner looked puzzled. "Oh ... No, uh uh. The good Reverend scheduled the last of his 'Seven Deadly Sins' sermons for midnight. He figured that the ladies would be more comfortable in church during their normal business hours."
Cassy looked in the direction of the 'ladies'. "I don't think *they'd* be uncomfortable anywhere."
"Probably not. Anyhow, they'd just started the first chorus and had shed about half their clothes when Mr. Jolly arrived. ... And all hell broke loose. He order the ones down front to put their clothes back on and got the other two *very* lightly clad ladies off of the swings."
"Swings? Thomas, you didn't mention swings."
"Oh, sorry, Cass. And this is the *good* news. The rope swings were made of red and green hemp and hung from the two large chandeliers in the center of the room."
"Same red and green rope from crimes, what, one and three?"
"*I* think so. We'll know more when forensics finishes. Well, to make a long story short, the ushers started lowering the swings, and about three-quarters of the way down, the ropes broke. The 'ladies' took quite a tumble, but nowhere near as bad as it could have been. If they'd fallen from the highest point in their swinging, I'm certain at least one of the 'ladies' would have been killed."
**********
The sun was barely showing above the palm trees when Amanda met Martin in the parking lot. They walked in depressed silence for a short distance then darted for the parking garage, successfully dodging the drowsing media personnel. Amanda stopped short and placed a hand on her partner's arm. "M..Martin. Isn't that Cassy's Porsche?"
He glanced quickly at the car. "Yeah, and Tom's Mustang is over there."
"Oh, no, no, no, no! Martin, do you suppose that..."
"I'd put money on it. Dammit to hell." Both detectives put on a burst of speed and headed for the elevators.
*********
Tom was on his fourth cup of coffee, and even Cassy had opted for caffeinated tea when Martin and Amanda burst through the door. The bleary eyed detectives watched with something akin to awe as their frantic colleagues skidded to a halt by their desks. " Who died? What happened? When did it happen? Why didn't you call us?" The questions were hurled at Tom and Cassy in almost perfect synchronization, as if the junior detectives had rehearsed them in the elevator.
Cassy and Tom exchanged a short glance, then Tom asked. "What about 'where'?"
"What?"
"You hit all the other *W's*. Thought you might want 'where' as well."
"Whatever. *What* happened?"
Before Tom could respond, Harry stormed from his office. "Ryan, St. Jo.. Oh, Crenshaw, Henning, you're here. Good. I think." He ran his fingers through already mussed hair, a sure sign the Captain was greatly disturbed.
Cassy gulped. "What Harry? Don't tell me..."
"I'm not sure. Tom, wasn't verse ten something about lords and jumping?"
"Leaping, not jumping, but yes, it was. Why?"
"Amanda, Martin, head over to 1010 Royal Street. William Lord just jumped, uh, leaped from the 10th floor."
As the junior detectives hurriedly left the room, Cassy moaned. "Please, God, let this be a suicide. I can't handle another senseless crime, particularly since we don't have any clues but the dratted rope."
Tom sank wearily into his chair, but his reply to Cassy was cut off by the appearance of a very short 'elf' in the doorway. His widened eyes caused Cassy to turn around. Recovering more quickly than her partner, she approached the visitor. "Uh, can I help you?"
A surprisingly deep voice came from beneath a very floppy red hat, complete with a white fur-ball at its crown. The elf's suit was green, with a broad black belt. And his 'shoes' looked more like modernistic black snow shoes than anything else. "I'm looking for Detective Tom Ryan."
Tom started to rise, then decided his height would put the little man at a definite disadvantage. "I'm Tom Ryan."
"Excellent. Detective Ryan. My name is Theodore Snow. I represent 'Santa's Height Challenged Helpers'."
"Okay?"
"Detective Ryan, I am formally notifying you that you are being sued by the 'Santa's Height Challenged Helpers' Union, Chapter 8."
"WHAT! For what?" Once again twin voices filled the squad room.
"Lost wages, Detective Ryan. Your failure to stop this 'Days' crime spree has resulted in no Christmas employment for most of our members. We'll see you in court. Have a nice day."
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part - 13 ↑
The elf left the squad room as quickly as he'd arrived. Tom stared at the summons in shock. "I'm being sued ... by an elf."
"He's not really an elf, Tom."
"He's *dressed* like an elf."
"That doesn't make him one."
"Oh, terrific. *Now* you're an elf expert."
Harry appeared suddenly at Tom's side. "What'd the elf want?"
Cassy sighed in exasperation. "He wasn't an elf, Harry."
"He was *dressed* like one. So what did he want?"
Tom immediately gave Cassy one of his best 'told you so' looks. "I'm being sued, Harry."
Harry stared at the younger man over the top of his glasses. "By the elf?"
"Well, yes. How'd you know?"
"It just went with the week. And no, Tom, the department lawyers are *not* there for this sort of thing."
"Harry..."
"Forget it, Ryan. Get your own attorney." Harry turned to leave, then thought better of it. "Oh, lab reports came back on the ropes. The fibers match. So does the dye."
Tom grabbed for the folder Harry was holding. "Any clue in those ... rare fibers, rare dye, anything?"
The Captain relinquished control of the manila folder to Tom. "Sorry, no. Just plain old rope, dyed red and green with food coloring." Leaving his two detectives to review the lab results, he slowly walked toward his ringing phone.
Cassy gasped. "Food coloring? Someone dyed an entire rope with food coloring?"
Tom eyed her curiously. "People do *still* use food coloring, Cass."
"Oh, I know, it's just that my mother used to use it to dye everything in the house."
"Explains the hair color."
"*Tom!*"
"Sorry." He replied halfheartedly, then brought the conversation back to the murders. "It still doesn't help us. The rope's our only damn clue, and it's leading nowhere."
***********
Amanda and Martin took a cursory look at the unfortunate Mr. Lord. A dive from a tenth floor window did not leave much to the imagination. Nodding at Morton to take the body away, they studied the chalked outline on the pavement. Amanda took a deep breath then stepped directly into the middle of the outline. Martin frowned deeply at her action. "What?"
She was looking straight up. "This is crime ten, Martin."
"He didn't jump?" Martin was still holding out hope for a suicide.
Amanda shook her head. "Uh uh, no way. There's a ledge jutting out on the ... fourth floor, I think. Mr. Lord couldn't have just stepped out of the tenth floor window. He really had to have some momentum going to get far enough away from the building not to land on the ledge."
"So, he got a running start and leaped through the window."
Amanda shook her head. "Afraid not, Martin. Didn't you *look* at Mr. Lord?"
"Uh, yes?" Martin replied weakly, wondering just what he'd missed.
"Well, next time look more closely. Mr. Lord had leg braces, on *both* legs. He wasn't running anywhere."
*************
"Tom, are you *sure* we should be here?"
"I told you Cassy, I want to check *all* the crime scenes that we didn't see. What better place to start than crime two."
"Crime eight was closer."
"Yeah, but with the turtledove crime, Amanda and Martin thought they were dealing with an ordinary murder, not a serial killer. They might have missed something."
"Fine. Have it your way." She stared at the little house as Tom brought the Mustang to a stop. "Are you sure this is it?"
"Yep. Two Tortoise Crossing." Tom grumbled under his breath as the key stuck in the starter.
"It's green." Cassy's voice was unusually quiet.
"So? Lotsa people in Florida have pastel ... Oh, my God. Green."
"Tom, does the color *remind* you of anything?"
Her partner studied the color for a moment. "The rope?"
"I agree. It looks like the same color as the green rope from, what, crime four. You know the hens."
"Crime three. Calling birds is four."
"Oh, yeah. Right, but the same green."
Tom climbed out of the car, studying the brightly colored home. "Cass, wasn't the Partridge house trimmed in red?"
Cassy was halfway up the walk. She turned in response to his question. "Now that you mention it, I think so. Does it mean anything?"
He shrugged. "I don't know, but it's the closest thing we've had yet to a pattern. Other than the *song*, I mean."
***************
"Yes, Commissioner. I real... But .... Sir, please. ... My people need more time... Yes, I know there've been nine crimes. Twenty-four hours. That's all I'm asking before you bring in the Feds. ... Thank you, sir." Harry hung up the phone and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. The Feds. Just what *his* department didn't need. The Feds, combined with the national press, the Elves Union or whatever that was, and the Mayor screaming for his blood, were enough to give anyone a headache. He popped three aspirin, then reluctantly answered his phone.
***************
"Well, that was a bust." Cassy muttered as they walked back toward the car.
"Except for the color of the house."
"What good is that if we can't make it make sense?"
"Well, I ..." Tom glanced down as his cell phone began to ring from deep inside his coat pocket.
"Oh. I see you charged it."
"Funny, Cass, real funny. ... Ryan. Whoa. Calm down, Harry. ... What? What's the address? ... Got it. Thanks, Harry."
"What? What'd he want? Come on. Gimme, Ryan."
Tom held his notes high above her head. "We might have a witness. Key word - might."
"Witness? To which crime?"
Tom suddenly frowned. "I don't know, Harry didn't say."
"Well, who?"
"Angus Smoaks. He's a musician. Just moved down from New York City."
"You know where he lives?"
"I've got the address, yes."
"Are you *sure* you know how to get there?"
"Yes, Cassy. Get in the car."
"Ok, Tom, but I still ... Tom, what instrument does Mr. Smoaks play?"
"Bag pipes ... Oh, shit!" The handsome detective reached for his cell phone.
Cassy grabbed the phone from his hand. "You drive. *I'll* call it in."
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part - 14 ↑
A patrol car was already there by the time the two detectives arrived. Tom, somehow, managed to leap from the car first, and rushed toward a young patrolwoman who was hurriedly exiting the one story Spanish style home. "Officer? What do we have?"
The young woman looked positively green. "D..Dead man, sir." She pointed toward the door.
Tom paused beside her and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "First time?"
"Y..yes, sir. S..sorry, sir." She gulped air heavily in an attempt to quell the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.
"Don't be sorry, Officer..," he took a quick look at her nametag, "Benning. Still gets to me."
Her eyes widened. "I..it does?"
"Yes. Go direct traffic. Make sure the coroner's wagon gets through and the press doesn't."
"Yes, sir." Her color was beginning to return as she headed for the street, where a curious array of onlookers was already gathering.
Cassy had watched from a discreet distance. Moving quickly to Tom's side, she grinned. "My partner, the shrink."
"Cass..."
Her smile faded as she recalled the reason they were there. "Might as well get this over with, Tom. It's probably gonna get worse." Leaving him standing on the driveway, she quickstepped toward the house.
Tom stared after her for a moment. "Gonna get worse? Cass, it's *already* worse!"
**********
To their surprise, Martin and Amanda were able to enter the Palm Beach Police Department without media interruption. They were still shaking their heads in disbelief as they approached Harry's office. Once again, the embattled police captain was on the phone. Martin whispered in Amanda's ear. "Looks like he needs a headset."
The phone slammed down, and Harry glared at the two detectives. "I *heard* that. Are *they* still out there?"
Martin took a chance. "The elves?"
"Yeah."
"Yes, sir. Why are they picketing the department?"
Harry rubbed his eyes tiredly. "That's a long story. It started ... wait. Don't you have something to report?"
"Yes, sir."
Harry waited impatiently for a short moment. "Well?"
"Oh, sorry, sir." Martin kept his report concise. "Not really much to tell, Captain. William Lord was definitely our tenth crime. And he was thrown out of the tenth floor window."
"Thrown? Not pushed?"
Amanda shook her head. "No, sir. He definitely had to be thrown. And he wasn't a small man, so we've at least narrowed it to a very strong killer."
"A very strong male, eh?"
"I didn't say that." Amanda objected.
"Well, serial killers are usually male, and the strong definitely implies..." Martin's words died in his throat as Harry wisely crossed his arms, leaned back and said ... nothing.
"Oh, right, Mr. Chauvinist. Why not a woman?"
"Give me a break, Amanda. They're not strong enough. I mean, look at you."
"I beg your pardon? What did *that* mean?"
"Oh for Pete's sake, don't be so sensitive. I didn't mean you were weak or anything, but face facts, *you* couldn't have thrown that guy through the window."
"No, but I'm sure there's a woman somewhere that could have."
Harry decided to chance an interruption. "Don't you two have some paperwork to do?"
"Uh, yes, Captain."
"Right, Captain."
As the pair headed for the door, Harry shook his head as the argument intensified.
"What about a female wrestler?" Amanda's voice dripped contempt.
"What?"
"Female wrestler. Some of them are really *strong*. You know. Intercontinental titles, European titles, belts, that sort of thing."
"Oh, yeah, sure." Martin was eyeing his partner strangely.
"Yeah, mash 'em, bash 'em. One of them could have done it."
"So you're saying we're looking for a female wrestler?"
"Well, no, most serial killers are male, Martin. You know that."
Martin just stared in shock at the younger woman. Shaking his head, he stopped in his tracks. "Amanda, you watch *wrestling*?"
************
The ringing phone on Harry's desk was being watched ... by the Captain himself. Five rings, then a hang-up. Another five ... another hang-up. On the third series of five, he could stand it no longer. "Lipschitz!"
"Harry, it's Tom."
"*Where* are you? The television report showed the scene locked down twenty minutes ago."
"Sorry, Harry. It's, well ... uh ... Harry, I've driven by the building five times in the last thirty minutes. Between the wall of press corps and the elves' picket line, I can't even get to the garage, much less the front door. What about the Lord suicide?"
Harry groaned. "I'm surprised you haven't heard on the radio reports. It's officially a homicide."
"Damn. I was hoping ..."
"I know. Anything helpful at your site?"
"Actually, yes. It looks like death by strangulation, or maybe suffocation."
"Which one?"
"Morton won't know for sure until he finishes the autopsy. Anyhow, the victim had red and green ribbon tied around his throat. Very expensive red and green ribbon."
"How do you know it's expensive?"
"Well, to be honest, I didn't. Cassy recognized it. Comes from an exclusive series of shops in Miami. Seems Evelyn uses it."
"Oh. Okay, expensive. Go to Miami."
"Harry, I was kinda hoping Martin and Amanda could do that. I need to find a lawyer."
"Tom, they can't get out of the building without being followed by the press or the elves. Hell, even our receptionist was followed when she went to get lunch. Personal problems will have to wait."
"Harry!" Tom's strangled cry was cut off as the phone line went dead.
**********
Tom stared at the phone in disbelief. "We have to go to Miami."
"Told you we'd get to go."
"Not get to go. Have to go. Seems Amanda and Martin are trapped in the office building."
"Trapped?"
"Yeah, by the press and the ... elves." His voice was numb with disbelief as he finally replaced his cell phone in its holder.
"Well, I'm not surprised we're going to Miami, but I am surprised that he didn't ask why this was crime eleven."
"Cass, I don't think the connection matters anymore."
"Sure it does. Maybe there's a clue."
"A clue?"
"Yeah. The poor man was the eleventh bag piper hired and to top it off he was a member of IMPAC for heaven's sake."
"Okay, at the risk of sounding stupid, what the heck is IMPAC?"
"Thomas, please. Oh that's right. You don't smoke a pipe. Let's see. If memory serves me correctly it's the International Meerschaum Pipe Aficionado's Club and I believe his membership card was for the eleventh chapter."
----------------------------------------------------------------------
part - 15 ↑
"Cass?"
"Hmmm."
"Could you turn the radio off?"
"Tom, I can't take the drive to Miami without *some* noise, and you sure aren't talking."
"I..I just can't take any more Christmas music. And, besides, I want to review the case."
"Fine." She reached over and hit the power button. "What about it?"
"Have you got all the notes?"
"Ah ha." She thumbed through a rather large notebook.
"I think we're missing something. How about reading them out loud?"
"Okay. One - A. Partridge hung in his pear tree..."
Tom interrupted. "Red rope or green?"
"Uh, Red."
"Right. Red. Got it. Next?"
"Uh, two - M. Smith, killed in his dove cote at 2 Tortoise Crossing."
"The color of the house was green, but no rope, right?"
"Yep. Three. The Frenchman killed, yes, Tom, with a green rope, in his hen house."
"And four was that bird calling guy. Thank God, he wasn't killed."
Cassy frowned. "I wonder if that was an accident or if the killer meant to leave him alive?"
"Why?"
"How the heck should I know? We are talking a total nut case here."
"Are we?"
"Thomas, please. This guy's doing in people based on the words in a Christmas song, for heaven's sake."
"But what if only *one* of the victims is real. I mean, what if he only wanted one of them dead."
"So he's tried to kill eleven people to only kill one? Pretty far-fetched."
"Is it? He took a lot of time with the first three crimes, then missed with crime four. Five was another death ... the dude in the gym ..., six was another death, you know at the goose farm thingie. Then he missed again with number seven..."
"*Only* because you saved the day, Tom."
"Okay, that was a fluke, but even number eight survived. That was what, the girl with the license plate?"
Cassy checked her notes. "Right. You don't really need me to read these, do you?"
Tom ignored her as he continued. "And in the ninth crime, none of the ladies were killed either."
"But Tom, crime ten and eleven *both* had deaths."
"Yeah, but what if Morton was right?"
"About the accidental suffocation?"
"Yeah, he won't be sure until the autopsy, but if Angus Smoaks really did die accidentally, then that leaves us six deaths and five of those may be a ruse."
Cassy frowned. "Hell of a ruse."
"It's worked before."
They sat in silence for a moment. Cassy finally sighed. "Okay, it's possible, but which one?"
"One of the first three."
"Why?"
"They were the most carefully executed of the crimes. The rest have been, well, rushed."
"I'll say. Turn right."
Tom immediately turned right into a large mall parking lot. "Uh, Cassy..."
"Park near the north entrance, Tom. I believe the shop we're looking for is on the second floor."
"But isn't this the mall we were at when we got the first call?"
"Ah ha. Why?"
"It's just that's kinda spooky, don't ya think?"
*********
"This is a really big mall." Tom moaned as Cassy led him through the crowds of shoppers. "I cannot believe we parked at the wrong end."
"Look, I said I was sorry. I *didn't* know that Vixen's Buttons and Bows had been moved."
"Isn't Vixen a reindeer?"
"What?"
"You know, 'Night Before Christmas', Santa's sleigh, reindeer?"
"I thought that was Prancer."
"He's one too. OH, BLAST!"
"What?"
"*Elves!*"
"What?"
"Over there, by the escalator. Elves."
"Tom, that's the Santa setup for the kiddies. Of course they'll have elves."
"Do we have to go by there?"
"Tom, I'm sure these are *nice* elves. And besides, the only other way is to go back *outside* the mall, and around the building."
"Fine. Let's just hur... Damn!"
"*Now* what?"
"My beeper's going off." He checked the number. "It's Harry, and he's put a 911 extension." Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, he started to dial. "Dammit, battery's gone. Yours?"
"In the car."
"Where are the pay phones I wonder?"
Cassy looked around, then grinned. "Over by the escalator, behind the elves."
"Oh, isn't that just grand." He sighed. "Look, you find the store. I'll see what Harry wants, then catch up with you."
"Okay." Cassy disappeared into the crowd as Tom braced to walk past the elves. To his relief, the pair of brightly dressed elves ignored his presence as he looked for a phone.
A strong feeling of de-ja-vu settled in on the young man as he bypassed the broken phone, and waited for someone to hang up. Spotting a nearby bench, he dropped heavily down onto the hard wood, thinking he might just as well sit down while waiting, and get out of the way of the 'Christmas shoppers on parade'. Fortunately for Tom's highly stressed nervous system, a very large man soon hung up, and Tom slipped in to take possession of the phone, cutting off a tiny old woman. The glare she bestowed upon him reminded him of his long-deceased grandmother, *until* she cut loose with a string of expletives that would have made a sailor blush. He watched in awe as she marched angrily away, and missed Harry's irate 'Lipschitz!'.
"W..What?" Tom stammered into the phone.
"Thomas, is that you?"
"Oh, yeah, Harry."
"Where are you?"
Tom's eyes widened as he watched a set of twin elves take up positions at the phones on either side of him. "Uh, M..Miami, Harry. The ribbon stores. Remember?"
"Well, the local drum and bugle corps has had a fatality. Amanda and Martin..."
Tom's head shot up as the loud speaker proudly proclaimed "On the first day of Christmas..."
Harry's irate voice could be heard through the phone. "Tom? TOM! THOMAS! THOMAS PAT..."
***********
"...RICK RYAN. Wake *up*! People are starting to stare." Cassy stared with astonishment as her partner leaped off the bench, scattering his packages across the mall floor.
"NOT ANOTHER ONE!" His shout caused heads to turn as Cassy raced forward to stop him in his tracks.
"TOM! What on earth?"
He blinked, glancing around as panicked eyes turned confused. "Cass? What... I thought you'd gone to the ribbon shop."
"Ribbons? No, try music. You know, that CD I was looki... Tom, why are you looking at me so strangely?"
"A partridge."
"In a pear tree. Yeah, I know. That's the first verse of the 'Twelve Days of Christmas'. It's playing now on the sound system."
"NO, A. Partridge, the first victim."
Cassy put a cool hand on his forehead. "No fever, but you were sleeping very soundly."
"S..Sleeping? I was sleeping?" He started to laugh, then turned beet-red, quickly retrieved his packages and headed for the nearest exit.
Cassy raced to catch up. "Tom, what?"
"Bad dream. Just a bad dream."
"Oh. Okay. If you say so." Spying a donation bucket, manned by Santa's helpers, she reached for her wallet.
Tom grabbed her elbow and propelled her forward. "I do say so. And *never*, *ever* donate anything to elves."
*fin*