Naughty Nine Tales of Christmas Crime by Steve Hockensmith Page B

in a bit of blind-man's bluff," the man panted. "Now, what's this about news for me?"
    "Mr. Merriweather, I am Inspector Bucket of the Detective Police, and it is my unfortunate duty to inform you that Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge was this evening killed."
    For the first time, Bucket saw someone react to Scrooge's demise with what appeared to be actual sadness.
    "My uncle? Dead?" Merriweather swayed so severely he had to clutch the door to steady himself. "How?"
    "Run over in the street, Mr. Merriweather. By a wagon. I am sorry."
    Merriweather gave a nod almost as weak as one of Dimm's, then slowly pulled himself up straight.
    "You've brought the body, then?" he said, managing a stronger nod at the ambulance.
    "That's right."
    Merriweather smiled grimly.
    "And it was such a lovely party, too," he said. "I'll send someone out to help your man move the b-body . . . ."
    The last word seemed to catch in Merriweather's throat, and he had to hack out a cough before he could continue.
    "...move my uncle into the house. In the meantime, why don't you come in and warm yourself, Inspector?"
    Bucket offered his thanks, stepping inside and watching from the foyer while Merriweather went to break the news to the dozen or so guests filling his parlor. There were sympathetic groans and somber condolences from all around, yet it seemed to Bucket as if Merriweather's friends were grieving less for old Scrooge than they were for a splendid party cut down in the prime of life. In fact, one young lady wasn't shy about saying as much.
    "That's just like your uncle, isn't it? He had to find one last way to spoil your Christmas cheer."
    Of course, Bucket knew only one person who could take the liberty of speaking so bluntly: The lady had to be Merriweather's wife. She was gaunt and sunken-eyed, yet exceptionally pretty all the same, with long blonde hair pinned up with a square-ish, gold brooch.
    "Margaret, please," Merriweather said with reluctant reproach.
    "Yes, I know," Mrs. Merriweather replied. "We must show respect for the dead . . . though why the act of dying suddenly makes one respectable is beyond me."
    The once-gay revelers took to staring down mutely, as if admiring each other's shoes or searching for a lost earring.
    "In Scrooge's case, however, perhaps I can understand it," Mrs. Merriweather continued. "Death could only be an improvement to him."
    "Margaret, please ," Merriweather said again. "Let us see to our guests—" His gaze darted in Bucket's direction. "—before we discuss this further."
    Mrs. Merriweather glanced at Bucket, then smiled stiffly.
    "Of course, you're right, Fred." She turned to address her friends, who were still busying themselves with silent inspections of the carpet. "I'm sorry our evening must end on such a note. I hope we haven't robbed you all of a very merry Christmas."
    The parlor emptied quickly, with an almost frenzied hurry to don overcoats and hats before the guest of dishonor could be brought inside. Dimm and a servant appeared bearing a lumpy load on a blanket-covered stretcher just as the last guest made his escape.
    "Must you bring that in here?" Merriweather's wife snapped.
    "I'm afraid so, Mrs. Merriweather," Bucket said. "Your husband is the only relation the gentleman had in town, I gather."
    "Or in all the world," Merriweather said with a sigh. "Well . . . wherever shall we put him?"
    "The dust bin, perhaps?" Mrs. Merriweather suggested.
    Merriweather ignored her.
    "There's room in the nursery," he mused. "Perhaps we should leave him there until we can arrange for the undertaker to—"
    Mrs. Merriweather took a step toward her husband, her eyes suddenly alight with white-hot fury.
    "How dare you?" she spat. She whirled to face Dimm and her servant. "You will take the body to the parlor. Have Lucy clear off the table and . . . and . . . ."
    Mrs. Merriweather spun again and fled down the narrow hallway toward the back of the house, the dainty hands pressed over her face unable to smother the sound of