Wine, Dine and Christmas Crimes by Maria Swan (brene brown rising strong .txt) 📕

van was outside the garage by the service entrance. I’ll meet you at the other end of the complex by the movie theater. At least it’s well-lit and no cops or reporters, I hope. Hurry, will you?”

I rushed across the driveway to my place, grabbed a sweater and my purse, and headed to my Fiat. I could hear Dior barking. He didn’t like my sudden exit, not one bit. By the time I turned on the ignition, the car clock read 11:15 p.m.

This is going to be good, I’ll get the gossip first-hand. Brenda tended to share more when she was upset, and I didn’t feel bad at all about taking advantage of the situation. After all, I was the good Samaritan or good soul—okay, good person. There.

Brenda paced under the main marquee. I pulled up, and she got into the Fiat without speaking. When we reached the ramp to the 51 North, she seemed to relax, stretched her legs a little, and rested her head. We still hadn’t exchanged a word. A first in my case. Maybe she needed a smoke. I kept my eyes on the road—two miles to the Shea exit.

“So, what happened? I caught a glimpse of Leta talking to a reporter during the news, and...”

“Damn. I hope she didn’t mention B&B Catering.”

“Uh-uh... the good news is, she didn’t. The bad news...” I paused, but she didn’t say a word. “The bad news is, she wore the company polo, and the logo was quite at center stage through the whole thing.”

I couldn’t tell what Brenda was thinking. So I pushed on. “What happened to your ‘any publicity is good publicity theory?’”

Brenda sighed. “It seems that lately B&B Catering is always mentioned along with some nefarious news. Even if we aren’t directly involved, the public will remember the connection, and that’s not good publicity.”

I had to agree to that. Time to change subject. I would ask about Kay and Double Wide later, maybe after she’d had her cigarette, a glass of wine, and a chance to put her feet up.

“Just before your phone call, the widow from across the street paid us a visit. I mean she knocked at your door.”

“Oh?”

“She said that the reindeer that ‘nice man who often visits you’ installed, is falling off the roof.”

“It is?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t stop to look—jumped in my car and came to get you. The point I was making is that I think she has a crush on Officer Clarke.”

Even in the dark I could tell Brenda wasn’t impressed or concerned. All she did was shrug.

“Who do you think the drowning victim is?” I still couldn’t get myself to bring up the Kay/Dale Wolfe brokerage connection.

“I don’t know, Monica. I assume some drunken fool who fell in the pool. I mean, it’s December, for God’s sake, a dark and cold winter night. Who in their right mind would voluntarily jump in the pool on the rooftop of a twenty-eight-floor high-rise? If it was a child in a backyard pool I’d probably feel differently. I don’t know. I find myself resenting the poor soul for the inconvenience. Is that pitiful or what? What ever happened to my sense of compassion?”

Wow, just wow! That was the most confusing sort of confession I’d heard from Brenda in probably forever, and chances were pretty good she was being sincere.

“I’m sure the pool is heated.” I volunteered.

She shrugged and rummaged through her ample bag. Looking for her cigarettes? As if changing her mind she snapped the bag shut. We were minutes from home where she likely had an extra pack of smokes waiting. We turned onto our usually quiet street, and it was like a carnival. What the hell?

The porch lights were lit on most of the homes on both sides of the street on top of the brightness from the usual Christmas decorations. And the neighbors, our neighbors, were in the middle of the street blocking my Fiat from getting through. I turned to look at Brenda who seemed as stunned as I was. We rolled down our windows simultaneously.

“What the hell is going on?” Brenda hollered.

“No clue, it was all nice and quiet when I left,” I said.

Neighbor Bob, who was a retired National Guard and seemed to own a gun for every occasion, appeared to be in charge of the whatever-this-was. He spread his arms wide and then stepped aside, exposing to our sight this poor colorful upside down reindeer, his inflated legs pointing to the sky. Damn, Brenda’s rooftop reindeer.

By now she had stepped out of my car and was acting more pissed off than before but was still holding her tongue, which probably wasn’t easy for my aunt. I turned off the radio hoping to catch every word that might be exchanged. This ought to be good.

Barking could be heard here and there, while neighbor Bob, keeping a straight face, explained that the escape artist had come rolling down the block causing loud reactions from just about all the dogs on our street as well as the next one over. The ruckus had wakened the sleeping neighbors and set off alarms. Pure chaos. The widow from across the street, huddled in an animal print robe that made her look like a character from The Lion King, walked over to my car and shook her finger at me, saying, “I warned you, young lady.”

Just then the cute Chihuahua who had the loudest bark got away from the owner and leapt onto the exposed belly of the defenseless reindeer and between yapping and growling, tore at it with his sharp teeth. The powerful phhff of air escaping from the ripped tummy sent the Chihuahua airborne.

I put my Fiat in drive and hit the gas, leaving the neighbors to clean up the scene of the crime. I pretended not to see the disgusted look Brenda darted my way as I drove by.

I had no idea how long the nonsense about a deflated reindeer would last, and whatever happened at Kay’s