But she didn't, because the aftermath would not be pleasant.
Luther nodded with jaws clenched, eyes unflinching, and Treen began a rather dramatic rerolling of the calendar that would now be hawked to someone else. Under the weight of his large paws it popped and crinkled as it became smaller and smaller. Finally, it was as narrow as a broomstick and Treen slid it back into its tube and stuck a cap on the end. Ceremony over, it was time for them to leave.
"Merry Christmas, Salino said.
"Do the police still sponsor that softball team for orphans?" Luther asked.
"We certainly do," Treen replied.
"Then come back in the spring and I'll give you a hundred bucks for uniforms."
This did nothing to appease the officers. They couldn't bring themselves to say, "Thanks." Instead, they nodded and looked at each other.
Things were stiff as Luther got them out the door, nothing said, just the irritating sound of Treen tapping the tube against his leg, like a bored cop with a nightstick looking for a head to bash.
"It was only a hundred dollars," Nora said sharply as she reentered the room. Luther was peeking around the curtains, making sure they were indeed leaving.
"No, dear, it was much more," he said smugly, as if the situation had been complex and only he had the full grasp of it. "How about some yogurt?"
To the starving, the prospect of food erased all other thoughts. Each night they rewarded themselves with a small container of bland, fat-free, imitation fruit yogurt, which they savored like a last meal. Luther was down seven pounds and Nora six.
They were touring the neighborhood in a pickup truck, looking for targets. Ten of them were in the back, resting on bales of hay, singing as they rolled along. Under the quilts hands were being held and thighs groped, but harmless fun, at least for the moment. They were, after all, from the Lutheran church. Their leader was behind the wheel, and next to her was the minister's wife, who also played the organ on Sunday mornings.
The truck turned onto Hemlock, and the target quickly became obvious. They slowed as they neared the unadorned home of the Kranks. Luckily, Walt Scheel was outside wrestling with an extension cord that lacked about eight feet in connecting the electricity from his garage to his boxwoods, around which he had carefully woven four hundred new green lights. Since Krank wasn't decorating, he, Scheel, had decided to do so with extra gusto.
"Are those folks home?" the driver asked Walt as the truck came to a stop. She was nodding at the Kranks' place.
"Yes. Why?"
"Oh, we're out caroling. We got a youth group here from the Lutheran church, St. Mark's."
Walt suddenly smiled and dropped the extension cord. How lovely, he thought. Krank just thinks he can run from Christmas.
"Are they Jewish?" she asked.
"No."
"Buddhist or anything like that?"
"No, not at all. Methodist actually. They're trying to avoid Christmas this year."
"Do what?"
"You heard me." Walt was standing next to the driver's door, all smiles. "He's kind of a weird one. Skipping Christmas so he can save his money for a cruise."
The driver and the minister's wife looked long and hard at the Krank home across the street. The kids in the back had stopped singing and were listening to every word. Wheels were turning.
"I think some Christmas carolers would do them good, Scheel added helpfully. "Go on."
The truck emptied as the choir rushed onto the sidewalk. They stopped near the Kranks' mailbox. "Closer, Scheel yelled. "They won't mind."
They lined up near the house, next to Luther's favorite flower bed. Scheel ran to his front door and told Bev to call Frohmeyer.
Luther was scraping the sides of his yogurt container when a racket commenced very close to him. The carolers struck quick and loud with the opening stanza of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen," and the Kranks ducked for cover. Then they darted from the kitchen, staying low, Luther in the lead with Nora on his back, into the living room and close to the front window, where, thankfully, the curtains were closed.
The choir waved excitedly when Luther was spotted peeking out.
"Christmas carolers," Luther hissed, taking a step back, "Right out there next to our junipers."
"How lovely," Nora said very quietly.
"Lovely? They're trespassing on our property. It's a setup."
"They're not trespassing."
"Of course they are. They're on our property without being invited. Someone told them to come, probably Frohmeyer or Scheel."
"Christmas carolers are not trespassers," Nora insisted, practically whispering.
"I know what I'm talking about."
"Then call your friends down at the police department."
"I might do that," Luther mused, peeking out again.
"Not too late to buy a calendar."
The entire Frohmeyer clan came running, Spike leading the pack on a skateboard, and by the time they fell in behind the carolers the Trogdons had heard the noise and were joining the commotion. Then the Beckers with the mother-in-law in tow and Rocky the dropout lagging behind her.
"Jingle Bells" was next, a lively and loud rendition, no doubt inspired by the excitement being created. The choir director motioned for the neighbors to join in, which they happily did, and by the time they began "Silent Night" their number had ballooned to at least thirty. The carolers hit most of their notes; the neighbors couldn't have cared less. They sang loudly so that old Luther in there would squirm.
After twenty minutes, Nora's nerves gave way, and she went to the shower. Luther pretended to read a magazine in his easy chair, but each carol was louder than the last. He fumed and cursed under his breath. The last time he peeked out there were people all over his front lawn, everyone smiling and shrieking at his house.
When they started with "Frosty the Snowman," he went to his office in the basement and found the cognac.
Chapter Eight
Luther's morning routine hadn't changed in the eighteen years he'd lived on Hemlock. Up at six, slippers and bathrobe, brew the coffee, out the garage door, down the driveway where Milton the paperboy had left the Gazette an hour earlier. Luther could count the steps from the coffeepot to the newspaper, knowing they wouldn't vary by two or three. Back inside, a cup with just a trace of cream, the Sports section, then Metro, Business, and always last, the national and international news. Halfway through the obituaries, he would take a cup of coffee, the same lavender cup every day, with two sugars, to his dear wife.
On the morning after the caroling party on his front lawn, Luther shuffled half-asleep down his drive and was about to pick up the Gazette when he saw a bright collection of colors out of the corner of his left eye. There was a sign in the center of his lawn. FREE FROSTY the damned thing proclaimed, in bold black letters. It was on white poster board, reds and greens around the borders, with a sketch of Frosty chained and shackled somewhere in a basement, no doubt the Kranks' basement. It was either a bad design by an adult with too much time to spare, or a rather good design by a kid with a mom looking over his shoulder.
Luther suddenly felt eyes watching him, lots of eyes, so he casually stuck the Gazette under his arm and strolled back into the house as if he'd seen nothing. He grumbled as he poured his coffee, cursed mildly as he took his chair. He couldn't enjoy Sports or Metro-even the obituaries couldn't hold his attention. Then he realized that Nora should not see the poster. She'd worry about it much more than he did.