“Crystal is eleven. Eleven is cute, not ‘stunning.’” Liv bites off the word.
“I had to get her something. It’s a lava lamp. Silver and purple, with glitter inside. She’ll love it. It’s the gaudiest thing, but she loves anything sparkly, little magpie that she is. I ought to make an inventory of my jewelry drawer at some point,” Deborah says.
“So what did you get Carl?” Liv asks sharply.
Deborah looks at Liv with an icy glare, hands holding ribbon above the gift. “I believe you meant to say Father Carl. I got him a Lenox figurine of two hands joined in prayer. It’s lovely; someone was selling it at a steep discount on eBay. That’s why it’s not in its original packaging,” she says to me, as though I was wondering. “White bisque porcelain. I just think a little luxury in his life can’t be a sin, not if the gift goes beyond the recipient. He can place it on his mantle in the rectory lobby, where everyone can enjoy it.”
“That sounds nice,” I say.
Liv grunts softly.
“I might as well reveal what I got you, Olivia. You’re not a little girl who needs surprises. It’s an SPF long-sleeve shirt and pants. It will help protect your skin from the sun on our vacation,” Deborah says.
I force myself to listen.
“Once the sun damages your derma, there’s no turning back. More than one esthetician has told me that my skin is in such great shape because I wore foundation for so many years and it shielded my skin from the sun. You know, most girls would start acting excited right about now if their mother was whisking them away from miserable, gray New England,” Deborah says, adding as an afterthought: “Oh, and I got you those colored pencils. The Swiss ones from the Dick Blick art store.”
Liv’s hands freeze, a curlicue of tape dangling off one finger. “The Caran D’Ache Supracolor Soft Aquarelle Pencils? In the hinge-lid wooden box?”
“I asked the guy. I suppose so.” Deborah sniffs. “This place smells like a hospital. The cleaners must have used their own supplies. Cheap and harsh.” She bustles away in search of one of Leland’s candles.
“So tell me about your vacation.” I try hard to say it casually, but it comes out sounding pointed.
The childlike smile that formed when Deborah mentioned the pencils fades. “It’s what Deborah wants,” Liv says.
It sounds simple. A simple vacation to someplace warm, for a month. What’s the big deal? I smile, too. “So what did you get Shane?”
“A new knife.”
I drop Father’s Carl’s present on the table. It lands hard and rattles, like those two hands might no longer be joined. Liv carries Shane’s gift—Shane’s knife—with its incongruous, gorgeous fat bow into the dark parlor, setting it under the lopped-off top quarter of a skinny Christmas tree. I set the broken gift aside and follow.
The tree takes up too much room in a space already jammed with three chairs and a coffee table, on which sits a crèche stuffed with straw and porcelain figurines. I can’t imagine where Deborah and Liv will sit on Christmas morning to open presents without their knees bonking. Then I remember: they won’t be in this country. Two very old stockings are hung from weighted pewter angels that could be weapons in your standard murder mystery. The stockings are unnamed, which makes sense if there are only two people in the house, but makes my job harder if I’m going to give Liv the present I plan to surprise her with. Yvonne’s sketch is rolled and tied with ribbon in the inside pocket of the puffy vest I will not take off, and my note, telling Liv everything I know—
You used him.
You used me.
You sacrificed me.
Merry Early Christmas.
—is under the ribbon too. But I need to make sure it lands in the right stocking.
The doorbell rings.
Liv kneels in front of the crèche and lifts ceramic Baby Jesus from his cradle. Winking Christmas tree bulbs cast her in a wash of light, then shadow.
“Do you think it was a good idea to get Shane a knife?” I ask, one eye on the hall. Deborah throws open the door and steps back to let Father Carl enter. He hands Deborah the door handle.
“You heard Deborah’s theory on presents. It was an excellent idea to give Shane a knife.”
“How is a knife enjoyed by all? Liv, he’s not”—how do I say this without admitting I’ve overheard things?—“the most stable person. You used to know this.”
“Are we going to discuss questions of judgment? Good then.” She turns Baby Jesus over in her hand. “Then let’s start with sitting down for an interview with Paula Papademetriou.”
I drop my head.
“I didn’t think so,” Liv says, setting Baby Jesus down with a ceramic tick. “I can’t believe she got me those colored pencils. They’re perfectly hexagonal. Presharpened. Most unbelievably, I actually wanted them.”