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SOUTHGATE PULLED UP to his house in the exclusive neighborhood, grateful the snow had abated. Bright lights streamed from the windows and tasteful white sparkle lights in the shrubs and front trees created a holiday picture worthy of Hallmark.
He drove past his in-laws’ sedan parked to one side on the massive driveway. Southgate punched the opener and the garage door rolled upwards, revealing his wife’s car on one side. His son’s sporty coupe fit neatly into the third slot, right next to the small sailboat temporarily in storage for the winter. He sat for a long quiet moment behind the wheel, listening to the tick-tick-tick of the engine cooling and the grating as the garage door closed. Already over an hour late, he’d need a good story.
“You can do this.” He looked in the mirror, smoothed his hair and tested a couple of smiles. Roxanne would expect him to be pleasant, at the very least. Her parents wouldn’t care, their mutual dislike set aside only for holiday appearances, but he couldn’t disappoint Paul. He’d never seen his son in a bad mood. The young man’s mere presence made others smile in delight. Southgate loved his daughter Sharon dearly, but Paul held his heart.
Now, as his world crumbled around him, Southgate struggled how to salvage the situation. He’d risked everything to keep his secrets hidden. He’d been careful, dammit! No matter what the voice on the phone insinuated, nothing but speculation and circumstantial evidence linked him to Angela’s death. Southgate straightened his shoulders, unlatched the seatbelt, and climbed out of the car. He knew the law. And if worst came to worst, he had the resources to fund a legal battle, and the backing of respected people of power. He’d be fine. Hell, a little scandal these days gave one’s reputation a certain patina.
Southgate limped through the garage door into the kitchen, still angry about his encounter with September’s dog, and called with forced cheerfulness to announce his arrival. “Something smells marvelous, Roxanne! Hey Paul, what’s new with you?” He congratulated himself on his jovial tone as he shrugged off his soaked overcoat and wiped his shoes on the mat.
His cell announced a text and he quickly scanned the message from Sharon.
>Running late with the storm.
The drive from Chicago could be treacherous. He quickly texted back, encouraging his daughter to find a hotel rather than risk driving.
>No, I’m already past the worst. C U in 20 min.
Argumentative. Always had to have the last word. Just like a lawyer. Yep, his daughter, all right.
The white floor tile and pale yellow walls shined in the overhead lights. Roxanne liked bright colors, and the matching yellow counter-top, edged with blue paisley tiles, could have been the cover of a high-dollar home decorating magazine. A number of liquor bottles, including Roxanne’s favorite wine and Southgate’s preferred sipping Haitian rum, shone on the kitchen island. He filled a squat glass with ice and poured a generous serving of Barbencourt, downing half the amber drink before topping it off once more.
A keening trill echoed in the room. An enormous black and white longhaired cat sidled into the kitchen, fur a-bristle and eyes dilated. She hissed and growled.
Southgate froze. What was wrong with the beast?
“Paul, come get your cat. Kahlua’s gone nuts.” The animal, usually quite friendly, would sometimes ignore everyone but Paul. Maybe the cat smelled the dog on him. “Paul? Something’s wrong with your cat.”
Paul didn’t answer. For the first time, Southgate noticed the oppressive quiet of the house, not even the clink of cutlery breaking the silence. “Roxanne? Where is everyone?”
He edged around the room, pressing his back to the wall. Southgate clutched his drink like a talisman, but kept his focus on the Maine Coon cat that continued her low ululating whine. She rubbed against the yellow wall and her fur painted a red smear.
“Paul? Roxanne!” He ran from the kitchen into the adjoining formal dining room. And skidded to a stop.
The celebratory dinner still cooled on holiday serving platters. Southgate’s family—Roxanne, her parents, a girl he didn’t recognize, and Paul—oh dear God in heaven, Paul!—sat vacant-eyed and slack-jawed around the table, as if awaiting the guest of honor to take the last empty seat at the head of the table. None moved. Not a breath stirred the pine-scented candles burning in the centerpiece.
“Took you long enough. Take your seat. Yes, right there, next to your daughter.” The stranger entered from the living room. Tall, nondescript. Red inflamed skin covered half his face. He wore a black knit watch cap that hid his hair, and large aviator sunglasses that covered most of his expression. A gun in one gloved hand leveled at George.
George looked around blindly, tears clouding his vision. His chin quivered. “Why?”
But he knew. He hadn’t been able to clean up the mess. Kaliko Wong sent this man to finish the job. Southgate recognized his own gun in the man’s grip and understood the story to be told—every murder–suicide demanded a narrative. This scalded-face puppet-master, the voice on his phone, forced his return to Angela’s house. Detective Steele would find concrete evidence of Southgate’s guilt. And that would be enough for the police, and the public, to buy into what came next.
“I said, sit down. Right there, by Sharon.” He motioned with the gun.
George fell into his chair, the drink clunking on the table beside his plate. His hands clutched the pristine holiday tablecloth in front of him. He eyed the sterling place settings, used only during holidays, leaving his right hand near the knife. He couldn’t catch his breath. The shock weighed his limbs, he moved through molasses.
“My son!” His voice broke. “He’s only nineteen.”
“Nothing personal. I don’t question the targets: you, the wife, both kids, any additional witnesses.” The man took a step closer. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. They felt nothing, never knew what happened.” He offered the words like a gift.
The man’s words finally pierced his brain fog: Both kids. But Sharon hadn’t arrived. Yet.
His wife and son were dead. But Sharon would live, by God!
Southgate stood, chair toppled backwards into the wall. With one hand, he splashed rum down the hit man’s front, and with the other tossed a lighted candle against the fabric. He never felt the bullet that ended his life.
SHARON SOUTHGATE PARKED in front of the big house, grateful the snow had abated. She’d managed to get past the worst of the weather before they closed major highways. Nothing new there. Regional snowstorms blew fast and furious, but the local road crews prepared in advance. When she and Paul were younger, they always crossed fingers any snowstorm lasted past midnight. If snow stopped earlier, the roads could be cleared in time for morning school buses.
She smiled at the memory. Hard to imagine Paul at Notre Dame. He’d skipped two grades in school, and had always worked hard, like he had limited time or something. Sharon looked forward to the annual Christmas dinner, one of the few times everyone could enjoy just hanging out. With her mother’s volunteer schedule, father’s workload, Paul’s classes, and her new job demands, coordinating schedules required weeks of planning. She’d put in extra hours just so she could take the rest of the week off and spend time with family.
Sharon swung out of the car, grabbed the overnight case, and trudged to the door. The sidewalk had been swept clean earlier in the day, but fresh powder caked the pathway. Her bag left twin roller marks as she dragged it behind.
Snow on the front steps, though, curdled with a mess of footprints. Sharon squinted, and wrinkled her nose. Someone lost footing and slalomed off the top. She stifled another grin, betting that Paul and his visiting girlfriend missed a step. Wouldn’t be the first time. She’d been surprised he had time to date. Sharon wondered if he’d warned Mom?
As a courtesy, she rang the doorbell before inserting her key. Her father’s job over the years made him the target of the occasional crazy, so they always kept the door locked. So her eyebrows climbed when the unlatched door swung open without benefit of the key.
“Hello? Merry Christmas—early! I finally made it...” She hesitated. A foul, burned-hair smell choked the air. “Where is everyone?”
Before she could step into the foyer, a twenty-pound flash of black and white fur leaped against her chest. Sharon reflexively caught the cat, the impact driving her two steps backwards onto the slick front steps. “Kahlua, what the hell?”
She struggled to keep her balance, but tumbled backwards, fall broken somewhat by one of the forsythia bushes beside the entry. Sharon scrambled upright, reaching to recapture Kahlua before she raced away. Paul would kill her if she lost his cat.
“Here kitty. Kahlua, don’t do this to me.” Sharon kept her voice soft, not wanting Paul to find out. With luck, she’d corral the intrepid feline, return her to the house, and Paul would never know. She sidled slowly toward the trembling feline, but as soon as she came close, Kahlua led her another half dozen steps away from the house.
The cat finally crouched in the snow and allowed Sharon to scoop her up. Sharon buried her face in Kahlua’s long coat, nuzzling the beautiful black and white fur, but wrinkled her nose—again, that nasty smell. “Let’s get you back inside.”
She turned, hugging the cat in her arms. Only then did she recognize the sticky copper smell, and blood that stained Kahlua’s fur. Before she’d taken two steps, the house exploded into a fireball.
