"Where does Joseph live?"

"Somewhere in California, the last we knew. He moves around a lot. What with one failed hustle or another, he usually has a lot of people mad at him, and I know for a fact that he's stiffed more than one landlord for his rent."

"Sounds like a lovely fellow," I sympathized. "When was the last time you heard from Joseph before yesterday?"

Mary thought for a moment. "Not for more than a year. I'm sure of that, because I remember asking James last year around Christmas if he thought Joseph was likely to turn up and ruin the holiday."

"Do you think that might be what's going on now?"

"Because he called and wanted to see James? I don't know. I have no idea what he wanted. I just know from previous experience that it's never good news, no matter what tale he spins. That's why I was in no hurry to tell James about his call."

"So you're sure James didn't yet know about Joseph's call?"

"Not from me, so how else could he know? Unless Joseph did call James at the UCC," she answered her own question.

"That's possible, I suppose, but I really have no way of knowing. I'll ask Shirley if she remembers a call for James yesterday from a man she didn't recognize." I changed direction. "How has James been feeling lately? Has he been well? The fundraiser put a lot of stress on everyone, and I know there's a lot of extra reporting and paperwork that goes along with the end of the fiscal year in any organization."

"The fiscal year for most businesses coincides with the calendar year, but that's not the case with the UCC," Mary corrected me. "Their fiscal year runs from July first through June thirtieth, so that isn't an issue right now. James has been putting in quite a bit of overtime, though, because they're so short of staff. Having to lay off all those employees was just terrible for him." She grimaced.

"What layoffs? Sister Marguerite didn't mention anything about having to let people go." I didn't even try to conceal my surprise.

"About a month ago," Mary confirmed. "Nearly sixty people were laid off from facilities all over the state, more than ten percent of the employee base."

I was astounded. "The UCC employs six hundred people? I had no idea."

Mary smiled sadly. "Very few people realize the scope of the organization or the complexity of its programs. Some of the funding comes from the member churches, but most of it comes in the form of grants from State agencies and private foundations. When those funds dry up, as they did during this recession, the staff positions they support are lost, too. James and Sister did what they could to move people into other slots, but there was only so much they could do." She shrugged.

I chewed on this for a while. "Was there anyone who took the news especially badly? You know, went ballistic?"

She shook her head slowly. "Not that I was aware of. In fact, James said that most people took the news pretty philosophically. It's more or less a fact of life in the charity business that your job depends on continued funding for the program in which you work. As bad as this economy is, most folks weren't even surprised when they got the official word, let alone devastated."

I supposed that could be true. Margo, Strutter and I had seen disaster coming months before the bottom fell out of the stock market and had retrenched accordingly to wait it out. I looked Mary full in the eyes.

"What do you think is going on here?" I asked her. "What's your gut feeling?"

Her eyes were bleak. "I haven't the first idea. Yesterday morning, James was looking forward to playing Santa at the gala, and I was preparing for a cruise. This morning, you and I are sitting here trying to figure out what's happened to my missing husband." She turned her palms up and gazed unseeingly over my shoulder at the stained gla.s.s windows. "I just know that whatever it is, it must be very terrible for James to leave me like this."

Shortly after four-thirty, I stood for a moment in the parking lot, enjoying the crisp December air on my face. Behind me, the Cathedral parking lot was already filling with parents and children for some holiday festivity or other, and across the street the Congregational Church lot was similarly busy. I envied the churchgoers the joy they obviously found in this holiday. If I were a praying woman, this week would certainly have dropped me to my knees. That not being the case, however, I reached out to someone I knew I could count on for comfort and solace. I called Margo and smiled when she answered immediately.

"I thought you'd never get around to callin'. What's the latest on your runaway Santa? Oh, d.a.m.n. Sorry, Sugar, but I've got a twelve-year-old cop with a bug up who's flashin' his lights at me. I'll have to pull over here for a sec."

"Oh, no! Where are you? What did you do?"

"G.o.d only knows, somewhere in Newington. I just fought my way out of Hartford with about three thousand commuters who were swervin' all over the place, cuttin' me off, and chattin' on the cell phones they were holding to their ears with complete impunity. Since I drive like a little old lady by comparison, I guess I'm the only one this youngster could catch. Give me a second."

There was a pause during which Margo presumably pulled over to the curb and prepared to charm the uniform pants off the young traffic cop approaching her car. A conversation between the two ensued, which was punctuated by Margo's flirtatious cooing and giggling. I strained to hear but couldn't make out the words. Perhaps two minutes pa.s.sed. Margo came back on the line.

"Sorry about that. Where were we?"

"Never mind about that. How much is the ticket?"

Margo chuckled. "As if."

"You mean, you beat the rap? I hardly dare ask how."

"Oh, please. These poor guys have people mad at them all day. Our non-hostile conversation probably was a pure relief. Anyway, I'm shocked at your suggestion. You know I'm an entirely respectable married woman these days. I have to behave more appropriately than I did in my single days. Besides," she giggled again, "he was just too young, Sugar. I had to throw him back. It was the right thing to do."

I laughed with her as I imagined what putty the young officer had been in Margo's hands. In her day, she had charmed more than a few officers of the law, her husband of the last year among them. "So now that you have escaped doing hard time, can I tell you my troubles, please?"

"You bet, Hon. Tell Mother."

I proceeded to do so, complete with the details and nuances one saved for one's best friends, and was rewarded with the horrified gasps and sympathetic chuckles that I so desperately needed. "So now what do I do?" I wailed in closing, confident that help was at hand. Despite her Southern Belle persona, Margo was the most level-headed person I had ever met. Through three years of personal and professional crises, not to mention a couple of murder investigations that would bring a lesser woman to her knees, I had never seen Margo anything but poised and competent.

She considered for a moment. "Well, Sugar, for openers, I think you'd better let Strutter cook that goose for you. She'll already be makin' dinner for that huge family of hers, so one goose more or less won't even faze her. And considerin' that you're doin' the whole Norman Rockwell bit for the benefit of Emma's young man, I should think she'd be more than willin' to help you out with the weddin'. That should free you up to hold Mary O'Halloran's hand. It's not John's jurisdiction, as head of homicide, but he can find out what's goin' on with the missin' persons investigation once it gets under way. I'll have him get in touch."

Her unhesitating advice led me to marvel, not for the first time, at her efficiency. The woman was a force of nature. Probably due to my weakened state, tears filled my eyes, and I began to sniffle. "Thank you," I managed to choke as I rifled through my purse for a tissue. "You and Strutter have already done so much. It's just that Armando is away, and Mary needs my support right now, and Jasmine is so sad without Simon."

"Pish tosh," she cut my grat.i.tude short. "Everyone will be glad to help out. It's Christmas, after all, and what are friends for? At least this time, you aren't draggin' us into a murder investigation."

Five.

By Sat.u.r.day morning, I was in the worst mood I could remember for quite some time. Nevertheless, it was the one day I had available to accomplish the many errands that had piled up during the work week, so I dragged myself into jeans and a jacket and sallied forth. By eight o'clock, I was fighting shopping cart gridlock at the Rocky Hill Stop 'n' Shop, and after quick stops at the gas station and drugstore, I hurried home to collect Jasmine for her ten o'clock appointment with Dr. DuPont at Catzablanca, our cat clinic. Jasmine had all but stopped eating, and I was at my wits' end.

The young women at the front desk made their usual fuss over my old girl, but she didn't break into her customary purr. "What's wrong with her?" I pleaded with Dr. Linda after she had given Jasmine a thorough going over. Linda had been our trusted veterinarian for nearly twenty years. She had pulled Jasmine back from the brink of death several years back. If anyone could put her right, it was Linda. Now she took her stethoscope out of her ears and looked thoughtful as she scritched Jasmine under the chin.

"She's lonely," she finally p.r.o.nounced. "Jasmine has never been an only cat. She's always been one of a herd, or at least she's had one feline companion. She's a feisty old cat, and she had her issues with Simon and Oliver and Lucy and who else came before that?"

I smiled sadly. It was true that Jasmine had outlived a number of former housemates.

"I'm just not ready for a new cat. Simon was my special boy, my loving shadow, for fifteen years. He slept with me every night and woke me up every morning. I'm still mourning him. Besides, I thought Jasmine might enjoy having the place to herself for a while."

"Obviously, she doesn't," Linda pointed out briskly. "There's nothing wrong with her physically, aside from being nearly twenty years old, but she's clearly pining. I have a kennel full of cats and kittens in the back who need good homes. Shall we go take a look?"

I knew she was right, but with everything else I had on my plate, today was not the day to adopt a new cat.

"The week after next," I promised Linda and Jasmine. "We'll do it right after Christmas. I just have to get through the holiday first."

Ten minutes later, I dumped Jasmine out of her carrier on the floor of my kitchen. As usual, she ran for the safety of the bedroom. I put a dollop of chicken baby food into her dish in case she got hungry later, then headed back to the car for my second round of errands.

The next stop was the bank, where the flu had decimated the employee ranks. Only two tellers were open, and the line stretched out the door. I don't wait well when I'm in the best of moods, and today didn't qualify. By the time I finally made it to the head of the line, the teller and I matched each other snarl for snarl. Ho ho ho.

In that gloomy state of mind, I idled at the end of the bank's driveway, waiting for an opportunity to make a left onto Old Main Street. None presented itself, but what did I expect on the Sat.u.r.day before Christmas? The charming shops and eating establishments of the historic district made attractive destinations for locals and tourists alike, not to mention the always popular museums. At this time of year, the exterior lights and decorations alone were sufficient to draw crowds. I was glad for the shopkeepers who were struggling in this economy but not for those of us who had to negotiate the resulting traffic.

A large Hart Seed truck lumbered by en route to its home base a mile or so down Old Main Street. I darted into the s.p.a.ce right behind it. Almost immediately, the truck driver jammed on his brakes, and I practically had to stand on mine. "What the?" I said out loud, and then I saw what.

The truck's hazard lights began flashing, and the burly, middle-aged driver leaped out of his cab. His eyes were fixed on a pair of geese, still slim with youth. They hesitated on the far side of the road, which they clearly intended to cross. Recklessly, the driver ran to stand between them and the traffic coming out of Old Wethersfield. Time seemed to stop as I held my breath.

Traffic stopped for crossing waterfowl was a common occurrence during the warm months of the year. Extended marshland ran about a block behind and parallel to the Silas Deane Highway, and residents were accustomed to keeping a sharp eye out for the ducks, geese and swans that unaccountably felt compelled to risk their lives to cross the roads. At this time of year, though, we expected the birds to have moved south for the winter.

After long seconds of silent consideration, the pair reached a goosey consensus and made their way across the pavement. They crossed from my left to my right and disappeared in front of the truck. The crossing safely accomplished, the driver waved briefly to acknowledge the stopped drivers and clambered back into his cab. We all went about our business.

I found myself grinning, my former pique dispersed. It had been such a small incident, but it encompa.s.sed all of the compa.s.sion and decency necessary to restore my good humor. The truck driver had stopped. n.o.body had honked or screamed obscenities at him. The geese were safe in the marsh. As far as I was concerned, it was Christmas in a nutsh.e.l.l.

I trailed after the truck through the heart of Old Wethersfield. Without consciously intending to, I followed when it turned right into the Hart Seed Company driveway and wallowed down to the loading dock. I pulled up next to the cab and put down my window. The driver also put down his window, no doubt expecting a request for directions. "Ma'am?" he prompted.

"I just wanted you to know that was a very decent thing you did for those geese," I said.

He looked puzzled for a moment, then, "Oh! Well, sure. I mean, I couldn't just plow over them." His seamed, weathered face reddened.

"My son is probably the only other trucker I know who would stop for an animal crossing the road."

"Oh, there's a few of us, Ma'am," the driver a.s.sured me, breaking into a bashful smile.

"Anyway, Merry Christmas," I said and put my window back up. I gave him a little wave as I headed back out the driveway. I noticed he was still smiling.

I put my deep misgivings about James O'Halloran firmly in the back of my mind and returned home with a lighter heart. I had done what I could to help Mary cope, I reminded myself, and John Harkness would keep her informed. It was time I left these relative strangers to sort out their problems for themselves and stayed focused on my own.

I usually dreaded the early dusk at this time of year. By four o'clock, the light was fading, and by five, night had fallen in earnest. The number of hours of daylight we gained or lost between the summer and winter solstices never failed to amaze me. At the end of June, each twenty-four-hour cycle included nearly sixteen hours of daylight, but by Christmas, we were lucky to have nine. The good news was that by then, the shortest day had pa.s.sed, and we were once again on the upswing.

I had recruited Emma to help me decorate, and together we spent the afternoon toiling like crazed elves. We rooted through every box in the bas.e.m.e.nt and considered every garland and wreath. We even managed to drag the Christmas tree up the stairs, a task I had delegated to Armando in past years.

When the sky began to darken, I welcomed the evening as a backdrop to our handiwork. The tree stood in its corner by the door that led out to the back deck. It glittered with tiny white lights and hundreds of delicate red globes, which were generously interspersed with Joey's and Emma's favorite ornaments collected through the years. Crystal icicles competed for pride of place with an a.s.sortment of childish mementoes, most bearing a chip or a tear. In my opinion, it was perfect.

A gorgeous wreath with a fresh red ribbon adorned the front door, and a second graced the big windows in the living room. A miniature sleigh heaped with holly and pine cones made a cheerful centerpiece on the dining room table. Garland softened the mantle, which bore cl.u.s.ters of gleaming, scented candles, and firewood waited neatly below on the hearth. Harry Connick, Jr. , crooned in the background about chestnuts roasting and Old Saint Nick. Norman Rockwell, eat your heart out.

Emma and I sat side by side on the sofa, Jasmine curled between us, admiring the holiday ambience we had created. A pleasant la.s.situde had overtaken us, a.s.sisted by the excellent Riesling we were enjoying.

"Not bad at all, if I do say so myself," Emma declared. She clinked her gla.s.s against mine.

"Glad you approve. So tell me again about this Jared we're knocking ourselves out to impress."

"Oh, it's not that bad, is it?" Emma dodged my question. "You would have decorated anyway, at least a little bit, and I always come over and help you guys put up the tree."

"That you do, Dearie." I patted her cheek. "If Joey lived closer, I'd throw myself on his mercy, but now I have Armando. Well, usually I have Armando," I amended.

"Yeah, men have a way of disappearing at the most inconvenient moments," Emma muttered to herself, and I looked at her sharply. Before I could comment, she jumped to her feet. "What do you say we give Jasmine a treat and light this gorgeous fire?'

She busied herself with the firescreen and matches. I watched fondly while she restacked the logs in the fireplace to her satisfaction and set them ablaze. Clearly, she had changed the subject, and I knew better than to pursue the topic of Jared. When your children become adults, the most important thing you can do as a mother is learn to keep your mouth shut.

Not for the first time, I marveled at the genetic quirks that had produced two such different individuals as my son and daughter from the same gene pool. Each was a unique amalgamation of Michael's and my physical traits. Emma was a slightly shorter, st.u.r.dier version of me at the same age. Her hair was my precise shade of ash blonde, though she wore hers long and loose. Her light brown eyes, flecked with green, were mine exactly, but her other features and smile were all Michael.

Joey, on the other hand, was divided neatly in two, wearing my face on his father's torso. For a year now, he had been living in Ma.s.sachusetts with his girlfriend Justine. I was happy for them, but I missed seeing him as often as I had been accustomed to doing.

There had been some stormy years, but I was happy to be able to say now that I not only loved my children, I liked them.

Emma and I finished our wine and chatted companionably while Jasmine dozed on her pillow before the fireplace. When her cell phone rang, Emma leaped to retrieve it from her purse in the kitchen. Two minutes later, she was out the door.

"He's a jerk," said Joey later that evening. He had telephoned as I was trying to decide which of the unappealing leftovers in the refrigerator would const.i.tute my dinner. "He teaches math at some expensive sports academy in Bangor. He won some minor medal in a regional compet.i.tion a few years back, so the New England Sports Inst.i.tute hired him." Joey's disgust was evident, but I wasn't getting any information from Emma, so I pressed on.

"The New England Sports Inst.i.tute is ...?" I opened the lid of a plastic container and sniffed cautiously. Beef stew, I was pretty sure. How had I so completely lost the knack of cooking for just one person?

"It's a private school for the sons of the ridiculously rich and once famous. If your kid can't get out of the tenth grade, and you can afford the outrageous tuition, the Inst.i.tute will grease his way through the academics and teach him more than anybody needs to know about Foosball."

"Now you're really lost me. What's that?" I replaced the lid on the container and put it back in the refrigerator. Chinese take-out it is. Again.

"I don't know either. I just like the word. Bogey, get off the counter!"

I smiled as I imagined Joey's big, amiable tabby cat oozing guiltily off the forbidden surface.

"So Jared is in Maine most of the time, but Emma is so smitten that she hangs around waiting for his nightly telephone call. Is that what you're telling me?"

"Yep, except I doubt that it's nightly."

"This doesn't sound at all like your sister. Emma has burned through a couple of dozen boyfriends since high school, but I can't remember her playing this part. Oh, there were one or two who got to her when she was a teenager, but since then, she's always been the one who plays hard to get. If Mr. Wonderful of the Moment doesn't make the grade, he's shown the door. What's the major attraction, do you suppose?"

A rumbling purr reached my ear while Joey thought about it. I a.s.sumed that Bogey had been forgiven and was now in Joey's lap.

"Beats me, Ma. He's really good looking, for one thing."

"Really good looking," put in Justine from the background. Joey snorted.

"See what I mean? And he's got the sports star thing going for him."

"How did they even meet?"

"His parents live in West Hartford. They met when he was in Connecticut visiting them a couple of months ago. He looked up Emma the next time he was down there for the weekend, and she visited him in Maine once. I think she fell in love with the whole New England prep school mystique. She sees herself living on this picture-perfect campus surrounded by a bunch of rowdy kids who adore her and call her ma'am or something."

I could see how that might appeal to Emma. Her heart had always gone out to kids.

"Or maybe it's just s.e.x," Joey mused.

"Joey!" Justine and I protested simultaneously. "Please remember you're talking to your mother here," I begged. "Well, this promises to be an interesting Christmas Eve. I don't even know if Armando will make it home in time. How do you and Justine feel about roast goose?"

"Yuck."

Perfect.

Late Sunday morning, I met Strutter and Margo at the Town Line Diner for brunch. We had agreed that what used to be an occasional indulgence would become a regular date as we waited out the slump in the real estate market. We caught up on the few clients who were new to us and shared information on Vista Views, the retirement community that kept us on retainer in the wild hope that one of these days, we would sell a unit. Then we moved on to more interesting topics like family and food and men.

This morning, we shelved that last topic, since Margo's husband John was with us. The handsome Lieutenant Harkness was in charge of homicide and other major investigations for the Wethersfield Police Department. Our paths had crossed as a result of two situations in which we had been involved during the past two years, totally involuntarily. "The homicide biz certainly has picked up since the three of you came to town," John had been heard to comment a bit sarcastically. Watching how Old Hardnose, as he was called by his subordinates, blossomed under Margo's adoring attentions, I didn't think he had any serious complaints. The man practically purred with contentment.

"I don't know how you gals do this every week and keep your figures," he said now, patting his midsection. "Another one of those omelets, and I won't be able to buckle my belt."