The Proposal
After returning from her weekly beauty salon appointment, Vanessa Humboldt sorted through the pile of mail that had been delivered to her post office box. As usual, most of it was junk. However, one envelope brought a frown to her face. It contained a notice from her bank informing her that not only had she reached the limit on her credit card, but she had also neglected to send in a payment the past two months. With less than a thousand dollars in her checking account, there was little hope of her paying off the debt.
Careful not to mess her hair or chip her nails, she removed her Gucci coat and kicked off her Jimmy Choo heels.
Where did all the money go? she wondered.
Her late husband's life insurance alone had amounted to five hundred thousand dollars. Including the considerable sums in his individual retirement account and other investments, the estate had netted her over four million. So where did the money go? She had only to inventory the contents of her custom-built walk-in closet and the jewelry in her safe or look at the late-model Mercedes Cabriolet convertible in the garage to find the answer to her question.
Vanessa was what many people referred to as high maintenance. Despite being born with "champagne tastes and a beer pocketbook," using her mother's words, she had thankfully been blessed with the face and figure of a modern day Helen of Troy. Her appearance enabled her to attract a multitude of men, some of whom could afford to support her lavish lifestyle. Her late husband, Carter Humboldt, one of Boston's top criminal defense lawyers, had been one such man.
"But he's dead now," she sighed, looking at the three-carat diamond ring on her hand. "And the money's almost gone. It's obviously time for me to move on."
* * *
Kevin LeMay parked his Subaru Outback on Essex Street in front of The Quill and Dagger. Memories of all the hours he spent writing or reading at the bookstore's coffee bar flooded his mind and brought a smile to his lips. When he walked through the entrance, the bell above the door jingled.
"I'll be right with you," a voice called from the backroom.
A few moments later Rebecca Coffin, owner of the mystery-themed book and video store, came out of the stockroom carrying a box full of David Baldacci novels.
"Oh, my God!" she exclaimed when she saw him standing in front of the cash register. "Kevin!"
The shop owner put the box of books down on the counter and threw her arms around the young man. After an affectionate embrace and a kiss on the cheek, she held him at arm's length, marveling at his appearance.
"You look fantastic! What brings you to Puritan Falls? Don't tell me you're tired of living in New York."
"I came back home for a visit."
"How about a cup of mocha latte?" Rebecca offered, remembering his favorite drink.
"I'd love one. You don't know how much I missed your mocha. Starbucks could learn a thing or two from you."
"I see you're still a charmer."
"And you're still as charming as ever," Kevin countered, taking a seat at his old booth.
"I read your latest novel."
"Did you like it?"
"I loved it! You get better all the time."
Rebecca put two cups of mocha on the table and sat down opposite the bestselling author.
"So, anything new and exciting going on around here?" he asked.
"Are you kidding? This is Puritan Falls. Nothing ever changes."
"You can joke all you want, but that's what I like best about this village."
The sadness in the writer's eyes alerted the shop owner that all was not well in his life. Unhappiness had brought him back to his childhood home, a place where he had known only joy and security.
"Something's wrong," she declared. "And don't bother to deny it. I can always tell when someone is lying."
"It's Portia."
"The swimsuit model you were dating?"
"Yeah, were being the key word. She walked out on me and moved in with a minor league baseball player—one from the Yankees organization, no less. It wouldn't have hurt so badly if she'd left me for one of the Red Sox."
The young man's attempt at humor did not fool Rebecca. He was a true romantic at heart and was obviously heartbroken by the loss of the woman he had planned on marrying.
"I hate to resort to stale clichés, but there are other fish in the sea. And you're quite a catch. I bet you'll find a new girlfriend by Christmas."
"Let's see," Kevin joked, looking at his watch. "It's February now. That gives me ten months."
"Who knows?" Rebecca countered. "If you put a little effort into it, you may find someone by the Fourth of July."
* * *
After meeting with his editor in her office on the twenty-first floor of the Burgess Building, Kevin headed toward the elevator. As the door was about to close, a young woman rushed forward, asking him to hold it open. In response, he quickly pressed the appropriate button on the control panel.
"Thank you," she said, breathless from her run. "At this hour of the day, the elevators are so busy. And they're so old, they move at a snail's pace. Who knows how long I would have had to wait for another one."
"No problem."
He thought it odd that if the elevators were normally busy he and she were the only two people in the car.
During the sluggish descent, the woman looked up at him with a puzzled expression on her face.
"I don't mean to be rude, but I know I've seen you somewhere before. Do you work for Abner Crowley?" she asked, referring to the former editor and current president of Burgess Communications.
"Not exactly, but Burgess Press is my publisher," Kevin replied, as the elevator car finally approached the ground floor.
"You're a writer? What a coincidence! So am I, or rather I'm trying to be. In fact, I was here to discuss my manuscript."
The car came to a stop, and the two stepped out into the lobby where the attractive woman offered to buy the author a cup of coffee. Kevin assumed her gesture was a self-serving one, prompted by the hope of receiving his advice or possibly his influence with the publisher, but he accepted it nonetheless.
"By the way, my name is Vanessa Humboldt," she announced after ordering a cup of coffee at the first-floor Starbucks. "And you are?"
"Kevin LeMay."
"Oh! You're the one who wrote that historical novel on the House of Medici."
"That's right. That was my first bestseller."
"I read somewhere they wanted to make a television series out of it."
"Right now I'm considering the offer. I haven't made up my mind yet. What about you? What type of book are you working on?"
"A courtroom drama loosely based on an actual murder trial. You see, my late husband was a criminal defense attorney, and I followed all his cases."
"Vanessa Humboldt? Was your husband Carter Humboldt?"
"Yes. You've heard of him?"
"He was probably the most famous lawyer in Boston next to Alan Dershowitz. His name alone ought to get you published."
"I'm writing the book under my maiden name. I don't want to appear to be cashing in on my husband's death. Also, I don't want to be accused of disclosing confidential information. I prefer the public to think the case and the characters are purely fictional."
Kevin knew that Abner Crowley would have offered the widow of Carter Humboldt a contract without reading a word of what she had written. If necessary, he would have hired an experienced writer to help her polish the manuscript before publication. The fact that she did not want to use her late husband's name as a means to an end made him admire and respect her.
"So what case did you use as inspiration ...?"
"Do you mind if I don't talk about my manuscript?" she asked, dabbing the corners of her eyes with a tissue.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you," he quickly apologized.
"I'm not upset—not really. Carter has been gone for more than four years already, but every once in a while, those feelings come back to me."
Kevin fought the strong urge to take her in his arms and comfort her, but then he had always had a soft spot for vulnerable women. All too often he saw himself as the gallant white knight eager to defend a helpless damsel in distress. Since he had met her less than an hour earlier, such behavior would hardly be appropriate.
Three hours and two cups of coffee later, Kevin looked out the lobby window, surprised to see that it was already dark outside. He had been so engrossed in conversation with Vanessa that he completely lost track of time.
"I can't believe it's after six already," he said, after glancing at his watch.
"Is it? I'm sorry I took up so much of your time. I hope I haven't kept you from anything important."
"No, nothing at all," he assured her. "I planned on going back to my hotel and reading a book."
As Vanessa rose from her seat and put on her jacket, Kevin realized he might never see her again, and the idea saddened him.
"It's been nice meeting ...," she began.
"Look, it's almost dinner time," he said quickly. "If you don't have any plans, maybe we could go grab something to eat."
"I'd love to."
The accompanying smile lit up her beautiful face, which, in turn, caused Kevin's pulse to race.
* * *
After dating for a mere three months, Kevin invited Vanessa to move into his Manhattan high-rise apartment with him, and the widow readily accepted. Although he was delighted by her decision, he could not help wondering if he was rushing into the relationship. It was not that long ago he believed he was in love with Portia. Was he subconsciously using Vanessa to ease his broken heart over the loss of the swimsuit model?
Don't be ridiculous! he told himself as he watched the widow unpack her things. She's an intelligent, beautiful woman with a great personality. Why wouldn't I love her?
Living under the same roof, the two soon fell into a comfortable routine. Like Kevin, Vanessa spent the bulk of her day writing. She claimed his presence was too distracting for her to concentrate; so while he remained at his desk in the study, she would tote her laptop to the library and work there. At least that was what she led him to believe. The fact that she often came home with her nails or hair done or with packages from 5th Avenue stores did not cause him to doubt her.
As Kevin neared completion of his novel on Aaron Burr, he casually asked Vanessa about her manuscript.
"I'm afraid I haven't made much progress," she admitted.
"No? You've been working every day, the same as me. What's wrong?" he asked in an earnest desire to assist her in her writing career.
"I appear to be suffering from a mild case of writer's block."
"Why don't I take a look at what you've written so far? Maybe I can offer a few suggestions to help you out."
"Oh, no! I'm far too self-conscious to let anyone read my writing. After all, it's still a rough draft—little more than a detailed outline actually."
"I'm not just anyone," he objected.
"No. You're a professional writer, a bestselling author. I don't want to put you in the position of having to lie to me when you discover my work is subpar."
"And what if I think it's good?"
"We'll never know because until I complete it, you're not getting your hands on my manuscript."
Kevin did not press the matter. Perhaps she had lost interest in her subject. She would not be the first fledgling author to have a change of heart midway through a book. He would not think any less of her for giving up on what he well knew could be a daunting task.
The truth of the matter was there never was a manuscript. Vanessa had not put one word on paper, nor had she ever intended to do so. The laptop computer was a prop, one she did not even know how to operate. She had read about Kevin in a magazine article and carefully planned their "accidental" meeting in the elevator of the Burgess Building.
What does it matter if she's given up the idea of writing for now? her unsuspecting lover thought, falling into his gallant knight persona. I make more than enough money to support the both of us quite comfortably.
From that day on, he never again questioned her about her work. Eventually, she tossed her computer on the top shelf of the hall closet and gave up all pretense of writing.
At the end of August, the book on Aaron Burr was completed, and Kevin took Vanessa on a four-week trip to England, mainly as a "between books" vacation but also as a fact-finding trip in preparation for his next novel on Henry VI and Margaret of Anjou. It was, in his mind, a perfect vacation with all the romance of a honeymoon. For the first time in his life, Kevin was in love. By comparison, what he had felt for Portia was nothing more than a schoolboy's infatuation. Not even the fact that while in London Vanessa maxed out the credit card he had generously given her marred his happiness. It was only money, after all, and he made plenty of it.
* * *
As he circled around Boston on I-95, Kevin glanced at Vanessa sitting quietly in the passenger seat beside him.
"While we're up here in New England, is there anyone you want to visit?" he asked.
"No."
"You know, honey, you needn't think I'll be uncomfortable if you want to say hello to your former in-laws or stop at the cemetery and put flowers on your husband's grave."
"I appreciate your offering, but I want to spend this long weekend with you. I want to see this wonderful town you're always talking about."
"There's one thing you should know about Puritan Falls," Kevin said with an amused smile. "We prefer to think of it as a village, not a town."
"What's the difference?" Vanessa laughed.
"In terms of population and business development, a village is smaller than a town and larger than a hamlet, although some older villagers occasionally refer to Puritan Falls as a hamlet."
"It's your hometown; call it whatever you want. I just want to get there already."
Vanessa was not eager to reach their destination. She was merely tired of riding in a car. She wanted to get out and stretch her long, shapely legs.
A half hour later, Kevin turned off the interstate onto Route 692, affectionately known as the Old Salem Turnpike by the locals, and announced, "Here we are. Welcome to Puritan Falls."
Although the village looked like a postcard of an idyllic New England autumn scene, the widow—who now considered herself a New Yorker—was not impressed. She was not a fan of cozy and quaint settings; she preferred the opulent and ostentatious.
Give me a penthouse on the Upper West Side of Manhattan with a view of Central Park any day! she thought as Kevin drove toward his family home.
Vanessa stared up at the three-story residence as Kevin got the suitcases out of the Subaru's cargo area. She was secretly disappointed with what she saw. Although it was a large home by modern standards, it fell short of being a mansion. She could not understand his refusal to sell the house, preferring to keep it empty for those sentimental pilgrimages he routinely made back home.
"How old is this place?" she asked.
Mistaking her question for a sign of appreciation, he proudly replied, "It was built in 1805, but it's been renovated several times over the years. Although it has all the modern conveniences, including central air and heat, it retains its Early American charm inside and out. Both my mother and grandmother decorated the place with a mixture of antiques and reproductions of period furniture."
When Kevin opened the door and Vanessa stepped across the threshold, she felt as though she were entering a museum. It looked like one of those many historic homes that proclaimed "George Washington slept here." She instantly hated it!
"What a lovely place!" she lied, a false smile pasted on her face.
"I knew you'd love it. I'll take our bags upstairs and let you get settled in. Then we'll go to the Sons of Liberty Tavern for dinner."
"I thought you wanted to go to a carnival."
"No. We're going to attend the annual Harvest Fair. That starts tomorrow morning on the Common."
Vanessa turned her head and rolled her eyes.
It's going to be a long weekend! she thought glumly.
* * *
Before driving to the Common the next morning, Kevin decided to give Vanessa a brief tour of his hometown. He drove down Essex Street, pointing out the landmarks of his early life including The Quill and Dagger.
"That's an odd name for a bookstore," she opined.
"Rebecca doesn't just sell books. She also sells magazines, DVDs, video and board games—anything that deals with mystery, suspense and thrillers. I understand she's even thinking of putting an escape room in the basement."
"I can't imagine why anyone would pay money to be locked up in a room."
"Because it's fun to follow the clues and try to find your way out. I've never been to one myself—yet—but I imagine it's similar to a murder mystery dinner."
"That's another pastime I don't understand. Why ruin a perfectly good meal talking about fictional homicides?"
"Anyway," he said, wanting to change the subject. "That's The Quill and Dagger. It's where I first got the idea to be a writer."
Vanessa pretended to be interested, hoping she could keep up the act the entire weekend.
As Kevin drove along Atlantic Avenue toward Puritan Falls Lighthouse, his attention was drawn to the old Victorian house that was once an object of intense curiosity to the local adolescents.
"Well, I'll be damned!" he exclaimed. He then slowed his car to read the sign on the front lawn. "Victoria's English Tea Shoppe. Why didn't Rebecca tell me about this place?"
"I thought you were a coffee drinker. Why the sudden interest in tea?"
"I don't care one way or the other about tea, but this house was a big deal to me and my friends when we were kids. It was owned by an old woman named Adeline something-or-other, but we called her Poison Ivy."
"Why such a weird name?"
"The rumor was that she poisoned her rich husband."
"Did she?"
"Looking back now, I doubt it. I can't believe it's now a tea shop. I guess some things do change in Puritan Falls."
On impulse, he turned into the parking lot at the rear of the house.
"What are you doing?" Vanessa asked.
"Feel like having breakfast?"
"We already ate."
"No. We had coffee, not food. Let's go see what's on the menu."
"But I'm not hungry."
"Oh, come on. I always wanted to see what this old place looked like inside."
"I'm sure it's nothing like it was when the old lady lived here."
"Please."
The thought of fishing for another potential husband when she was so close to reeling Kevin in made the widow put on her false smile and get out of the car.
Once inside, a woman with white hair and an incredibly young looking face with a flawless complexion showed them to a table for two.
"This isn't anything like I'd imagined it," the writer said, his eyes taking in the details of the predominately white and pink interior. "It's so feminine and Victorian. You're right. It must have been completely redone."
When Victoria Broadbent returned with a complimentary pot of tea and a plate of scones, she eyed the young man inquisitively.
"Aren't you Kevin LeMay?"
"Yes, I am."
"I heard you came from Puritan Falls. I'm delighted to have the chance to meet you. I love your books. In fact, I'm currently reading your latest one. Would you mind signing it for me?"
"Not at all."
"I've got it in the back. I'll go get it now."
Vanessa wondered if this was what it was going to be like being married to a famous author. Then she reminded herself that he had yet to pop the question.
Several minutes later, Victoria returned with the book. While Kevin was writing a friendly note on the bottom of the title page, the snowy-haired woman in the pink dress and white apron looked down at Vanessa. Her cornflower blue eyes squinted with the intensity of a scientist studying a strain of bacteria beneath a microscope.
"Thank you so much!" she said, taking the signed book from the author. "I'll always treasure this."
After a delightful breakfast—at least as far as Kevin was concerned—the two left the tea shop and drove to the Common where Vanessa was forced to endure the tediously long Harvest Festival with its pumpkin competition, craft fair, flea market and small-town entertainment and meet a seemingly never-ending parade of boring villagers, all eager to meet Kevin's latest love interest. She found every one of them unbearable except for Dr. Lionel Penn, whom she found incredibly sexy.
Too bad he's not rich, she thought eyeing up the ruggedly handsome psychiatrist. I'd leave Kevin for him in a heartbeat.
As for the rest of Puritan Falls, Vanessa firmly vowed that when she and the author were married—she never once considered he would slip from her fingers—she would never return to the bucolic seaside village again.
* * *
It was nearly two months before Kevin mentioned returning to his hometown. Vanessa cringed when he brought up the subject.
"What could be going on the first weekend of December?" she laughed. "A Christmas bake sale? Brunch with Santa at the Sons of Liberty Tavern?"
Since he believed her sarcastic remarks were only a manifestation of her sense of humor, he took no offense at her comments.
"No. I always go up there around the holidays to do a book signing for Rebecca."
"I thought her store specialized in mysteries and thrillers, not historical fiction."
"It does, but every year in December she invites all the local writers and artists to participate in a charity event at The Quill and Dagger. She raises a lot of money for underprivileged children and senior citizens."
"I'd really like to go with you," Vanessa lied convincingly, "but I have so much to do before the holidays. Would you mind if I stayed here in New York this time?"
"No. I won't stay there long. I'll go up on Friday and come back Sunday night."
That Friday afternoon Kevin met Rebecca at the bookstore.
"I didn't expect you until tomorrow," she said when he walked through the door.
"I came up a day early. I thought you might want to have lunch with me. How about the Green Man Pub?"
"I'm not really that hungry. I already had a salad for lunch. But I could go for a cup of tea and a scone at Victoria's."
Later, as she was spreading clotted cream and strawberry jam on her scone, Rebecca brought up the subject that had been on her mind since Kevin walked into The Quill and Dagger.
"I'm surprised to see you here alone. How are things going with you and Vanessa?"
"Great. She wanted to come with me this weekend, but she's got so much to do right now—what with Christmas only three weeks away."
Rebecca smiled, relieved that the attractive widow had not walked out on him like Portia had done. Although she personally did not care for Vanessa, she knew Kevin was crazy about her, and his opinion was what mattered.
"See. I told you you'd find someone by Christmas; didn't I?"
"You were right. In fact, I've decided to ask her to marry me."
Rebecca wanted to caution her friend about moving too quickly, but at that moment Victoria emerged from the kitchen with Kevin's plate of fish and chips.
"Have you ever seen that reality show How I Popped the Question?" he asked as he sprinkled malt vinegar over his food.
It was Victoria, not Rebecca, who answered him.
"That's the one where men come up with unusual ways of proposing to their sweethearts, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is."
"It's a bit like the old Candid Camera," Victoria continued in her melodic British accent. "There's a hidden camera filming the man as he proposes. The poor woman is taken completely by surprise."
"It's one of Vanessa's favorite programs."
Rebecca found it hard to believe that Mrs. Humboldt was interested in anything except spending money, but she wisely held her tongue.
"I was going to contact the producers of the show," Kevin continued, "and arrange for Vanessa and me to be on it. The only problem is I can't think of a unique way to propose."
"Are you sure it's wise ...?"
Although normally a woman of impeccable manners, Victoria cut Rebecca off mid-sentence.
"Why not a Christmas Eve proposal?" she asked excitedly. "It's such a romantic time of the year. All the lights and magic of the holiday. You could put the engagement ring in a cosaque!"
"A what?" Kevin asked, exchanging a look of incomprehension with Rebecca.
"A cosaque, also known as a Christmas cracker," the elderly woman explained. "It's a cardboard tube wrapped in brightly colored paper, with a surprise inside. When it's opened there's usually a snapping sound similar to that of a pop gun. They're quite popular in England at the holidays."
"That's a great idea!" Kevin exclaimed, finding Victoria's excitement infectious. "Do you know where I can get one of these cosaques?"
"I think I have one or two of them in my attic, souvenirs from my Christmases in England. Come by the shop tomorrow after your book signing. I'll have one for you to use."
After Kevin dropped Rebecca off at The Quill and Dagger, he drove to his three-story Early American home on Danvers Street, eager to place a call to the producers of How I Popped the Question. Hopefully, three weeks would be enough time to plan his Christmas Eve proposal.
* * *
In Kevin's opinion, there was nothing like Christmastime in New York. There was ice skating in Wollman Rink in Central Park. The whimsical window displays along 5th and 7th Avenues. The Empire State Building lit up with red and green lights. The giant decorated tree in Rockefeller Center. Radio City Music Hall's Christmas Spectacular featuring the world-famous Rockettes and their iconic toy soldier dance routine.
The Hollywood producer agreed it was the perfect setting for a marriage proposal.
As Kevin rode with Vanessa in a horse-drawn carriage through Central Park on the twenty-fourth of December, he tried to act nonchalantly, not wanting to spoil the surprise.
"It's freezing outside," she complained, shivering despite the sable coat and hat she wore. "Why don't we go to a restaurant or someplace else where we can get warm?"
"We will. First, let's go see the tree at Rockefeller Center."
"You want to see the tree now? It's almost eleven o'clock on Christmas Eve."
"It's the perfect time to see it."
Kevin glanced at the pedicab that was following behind them, knowing a cameraman was secretly filming them in the open-air carriage.
"I'm cold! Forget the restaurant. I want to go home and take a hot bath."
"Five minutes to see the tree. That's all. I promise."
Vanessa closed her eyes and groaned. Of all the wealthy men in New York City, why did she pick him? Why couldn't he be more like her late husband? Had Carter Humboldt been from New York instead of Boston, he would never have wasted his time taking a carriage ride through Central Park or looking at the lighted tree in Rockefeller Center.
"You've seen one tree; you've seen them all," he would no doubt have said.
Reflecting on her current financial status, Vanessa gave in.
"Five minutes—that's all!"
A look of relief flooded over Kevin's face. He was confident that five minutes was all it would take to pop the question.
As the driver maneuvered the horse-drawn carriage through the vehicular traffic on 5th Avenue, Kevin silently counted the number of blocks to Rockefeller Center: West 54th Street, 53rd, 52nd. After passing West 50th Street, he saw the Channel Gardens on the right. They were almost there. The driver turned down West 49th Street and stopped in front of Rockefeller Plaza. Kevin got out of the carriage and helped Vanessa down.
"Five minutes," she reminded him. "The clock is ticking."
A dozen carolers dressed in Dickens-era costumes suddenly appeared singing "Here We Come A-Wassailing." Although the bestselling author was grinning ear-to-ear like a child on Christmas morning, the woman he hoped to marry had a scowl on her expensively made-up face. When the song came to an end, one of the carolers, a young woman with a flawless complexion and incredible cornflower blue eyes, walked up to him and handed him Victoria Broadbent's gold, red and green paper cosaque with the engagement ring inside.
A true romantic at heart, Kevin turned to face Vanessa and theatrically got down on one knee.
"Despite the cold weather, I wanted to come here tonight," he explained, "because I think this is the perfect place to ask you a question."
He handed the cosaque to her. Guessing what it contained, she smiled and took it.
"Vanessa Humboldt, will you do me the honor or becoming my wife?"
I've seen one of these things before, she thought, eager to get her hands on the ring inside of the cracker. I have to pull it apart, but I must be careful. I wouldn't want to drop ....
The little "pop" Kevin had been expecting when the cosaque was opened was, in fact, a deafening explosion that knocked him to the ground.
* * *
"Where am I?" the writer asked when he opened his eyes.
Two people were in the room with him. One was a nurse. The other was a New York City police detective.
"You're in New York-Presbyterian Hospital," the nurse replied.
"What am I doing here? Where's Vanessa?"
The detective nodded to the nurse, a sign that he would answer any further questions the patient might ask.
"Just what, may I ask, is your connection with Mrs. Humboldt?" he inquired.
"We're going to be married. At least, I think we are. The last thing I remember was proposing to her in Rockefeller Center. I can't remember if she answered me or not. Why? Where is she? And what am I doing here?"
The detective explained that a faulty Christmas cracker had caused an explosion of sufficient strength to knock both Kevin and Vanessa off their feet. Whereas, since he was kneeling on the ground at the time, he suffered only a mild concussion, Vanessa's fall resulted in a fatal head injury.
"No! That's not possible! She can't be ...."
Devastated by grief, the writer could not bring himself to say the word.
"You got off lucky," the detective told him. "And I'm not referring just to your injury. For several months, at the request of the Boston Police Department, we've been keeping an eye on your Mrs. Humboldt. Although they didn't have enough proof to arrest her, the Boston police believed she murdered her husband, Carter Humboldt, the celebrity attorney. Of course, they didn't think she did it herself. More than likely she hired someone else to do her dirty work for her. They're also fairly certain she killed the two husbands before him."
"What two husbands? She never mentioned ...."
"You thought there was only the one, huh? No. She was married three times—that we know of. All her husbands were wealthy men, and all of them died under mysterious circumstances. If she hadn't died, you would have been husband number four. And my guess is that after a couple of years you would have been her next victim."
"The cosaque—the Christmas cracker—just how did it ...?"
"Explode? Who knows?" the detective answered, clearly not interested in pursuing an investigation into what he considered an accident. "Those things are made by young kids in China working for pennies an hour. One probably put too much silver fulminate inside and bang! If you're thinking of suing for damages, it will be a hard case to prove. There's nothing left of the evidence—nothing except an expensive diamond ring, that is."
"No. I don't intend to sue."
The detective looked at his watch.
"Well, I know it's Christmas Day," he said. "Why don't you stop by the police station tomorrow or the next day, and we'll take down your statement then."
After handing the injured man a card with his phone number, the detective left the hospital, eager to go home and spend the holiday with his wife and children.
"Lucky," Kevin mumbled to himself as he rested his head on the hospital bed pillow. "First Portia and now Vanessa. Lucky is the last thing I am."
* * *
In Puritan Falls, all the local businesses were closed on Christmas Day including the tea shop on Atlantic Avenue. Victoria Broadbent poured herself a cup of hot cocoa and sat on the settee in front of her fireplace. Carols were playing on her stereo, and the miniature lights twinkled on her tree.
As she sipped the chocolate drink through the dollop of whipped cream that floated on top of it, her eyes went to the hardcover book on her coffee table. She turned it over and looked at the photograph of Kevin LeMay on the back cover.
"Such a nice young man! And so good-looking, too. He deserved so much better than that gold-digging murderess. I'm sure by this time next year, he'll find the right girl to make him happy."
She put the book back on the coffee table and began to sing: Here we come a-wassailing among the leaves so green.
Salem likes to put on a Santa suit every Christmas Eve and visit the kids in the neighborhood. He doesn't bring them toys; he just drops in for the milk and cookies.
