The Christmas Cameo

  A Fiona Quinn Quick Mystery

  C.S. McDonald

  A frosty breeze stung Fiona’s cheek. The light flurry tumbling from the ashen December sky had started earlier this afternoon. Her kindergarten class rushed to the windows in pure awe of the first snowfall, as slight as it appeared to be. This was the first actual cold day the early winter season had offered up. Fiona had been tickled to be still walking to and from the elementary school where she taught. The fleece jacket she was sporting was barely doing the trick at keeping her warm, but it was a short jaunt to her home. Hiking her black leather backpack higher onto her right shoulder, she was well aware there were few, if any, days left before she’d be forced to make the drive instead of the walk to school. Christmas break was a mere two days away, Christmas Eve, three, and it looked as if the icy weather Pittsburghers’ were so accustomed to would soon show its snowy face.

  She had just started down the short set of cement stairs that ran along Guyland street to the corner, where the crossing guard saw the kids safely across Guyland and to the sidewalk parallel to Noblestown Road when she heard a man’s voice calling out to her from across the street.

  “Hello! Hello! Are you Fiona Quinn?”

  She turned to find a middle-aged man waving his hand over his head from the front porch of the darling bungalow her grandmother, Evelyn Burrell once lived in. Fiona remembered, as a small child, walking home from school and stopping to visit with her grandmother, sharing a cookie, then being sent along her way. When she became a teen, grandma moved in with Fiona’s family on Oxford Street. Soon after the move, she sold the small house to her older brother, Wilbur Stacy. Wilbur was one of Fiona’s favorite uncles. He was such a jolly man and he played the role of Santa every year at local malls. Two years ago, poor Wilbur was the victim of a costume mix-up. His Santa costume had drugs sewn into the seams, and the poor man was murdered in his own home for the costume. After Wilbur’s murder had been solved, the house was sold to a couple with young children. Fiona recognized the man waving her down as that new owner. She couldn’t recall his name, but she crossed the street to meet him at the edge of the yard beneath the oak trees that flanked the front porch. The grand old trees provided the house with cool inviting shade during the summer months, a shimmering snowy mantel during the winter, and always a generous helping of charm.

  “Yes, I’m Fiona, what can I do for you?”

  “I don’t know if you remember me, I’m Ted Welton. We met briefly when my wife and I bought Mr. Stacy’s house. Anyway, Mrs. Foreman from across the street told me you walk home this way most days, and I’ve been trying to catch you.” Ted was a thin man, on the short side, with dark curly hair and a mustache. His nose was red from the chilly bite, he hiked his jacket up around his throat, and zipped it tightly. “I’m sure you’ve noticed we put a new roof and siding on the house. We’ve finally started the remodeling project inside this past week. My wife’s not too thrilled with it being so close to the holidays, but ya gotta get the contractors when their schedule works, not yours.” He pulled a small green velvet bag from the pocket of his jacket. “Anyway, the contractor found this in that built-in China closet in the dining room. It doesn’t belong to me. I figured it belonged to Mr. Stacy. I was fairly sure that he was your uncle and thought you might want it.”

  The curl on his lips was kind and most anticipating as he held the pouch out. Fiona slipped it from his hand and opened the small, gold drawstring. She shook the sac gently to allow a lovely cameo brooch to spill into her hand. She gasped. “This is beautiful.” The profile of a Victorian woman gazing to her right, a demure smile on her full lips, and her hair swept up in a loose bun. Long errant spirals of curls dangled around her neck. The cameo was enclosed in a decorative gold rope design. “You found it in the China closet? I was certain it was completely empty when we cleared out the house after Uncle Wilbur’s death.”

  “They said it was wedged behind one of the shelves.” He lifted up to his tip-toes to point at the brooch. “It has an inscription on the back.”

  Fiona turned the cameo over. “Our first Christmas, my darling. Oh, there’s initials…D.A.S. Hm.”

  Ted jammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Do you know who D.A.S. could be? My wife’s dying to know.”

  It appeared Ted was dying to know the identity of D.A.S. far more than his wife. After all, the man’s wife was not standing out in the cold to return the brooch, nor was she watching their exchange from the living room window. Turning the pin over and over in her hands, Fiona couldn’t imagine who this D.A.S. could possibly be. To her knowledge, Uncle Wilbur had never been married, and yet, the message suggested a first holiday as a married couple. How strange. Then again, she was making an assumption. Did the brooch belong to Wilbur or someone else? “No, I have absolutely no idea who D.A.S could be, but I will be doing some serious research on the matter.” Meeting his inquiring gaze, she smiled. “Thank you so much for giving this to me. I truly appreciate it.”

  Ted chuckled. “Looks like you’ve got a Christmas mystery on your hands, Ms. Quinn.”

  “It certainly does, doesn’t it?”

  Fiona hurried through the front door. Her white Maltese, Harriet, danced in circles while barking her impatience from the confines of her kennel just inside. Quickly, Fiona opened the gate to the kennel and let the little dog outside to do her thing in the yard.

  She flung her backpack over a hook on the rack stationed to the right of the door, then eddied out of her jacket and hung it up as well while waiting for Harriet’s return. Finally, the little dog was scratching at the door and Fiona welcomed her back by scooping her up to hug her tightly. “C’mon, Harriet, we’ve got some business with Grandma Ev.” She set Harriet to the floor then trotted up the stairs with the Maltese close on her heels.

  The old drafty house on Oxford Street had been Fiona’s childhood home. When her parents retired from their teaching positions in the Pittsburgh School District, and decided to move to Daytona Beach, Florida, Fiona purchased the house. Her grandmother’s spirit resided in the third-floor apartment where she’d lived while Fiona was a teenager and through most of her college years. After Grandma’s death she remained in the house to look after her family, and now she looked after Fiona.

  The relationship between Fiona and her ghostly grandmother was not a visual one. While Grandma wasn’t one to float about the house or walk through walls, she was known to help out in little ways such as turning on the porch light if Fiona was out and about later than expected, and there was always coffee brewing when Fiona got up in the morning. Grandma also enjoyed playing tricks on Fiona’s boyfriend, Detective Nathan Landry. She enjoyed moving candy dishes out of his reach or turning a light off after he’d just turned it on. Her presence was always felt but never seen. Although, Fiona was fairly certain Harriet was able to see grandma. She would bark and wag her tail merrily at seemingly nothing, and sometimes she would lay, belly-up, leg shaking madly, as if someone were tickling her tummy.

  Even though grandma could not be seen or heard, sometimes communication was achieved in subtle exchanges such as dreams or meditation. As Fiona crossed the second-floor foyer to open the door that led to the attic apartment, she was hoping for such a communique. She opened the door where the stair-lift that carried Gram to her apartment still clung to the stairwell wall. She climbed the stairs, Harriet passing her up to wait impatiently at the top. Fiona’s footfalls echoed in the stale, dank staircase. The air grew hotter the closer she came to the top and flipped on the light.

  Grandma’s apartment seemed to be suspended in time. Her full-sized bed sat against the far wall flanked by two long windows that looked out over her neighbor, Charlie Dingle’s house. A green chenille couch and yellow wing-back chair served as a living room suite along with an old analog TV and VCR upon a small stand. Fiona lifted the white sheet that covered the couch. She opened the pouch and let the cameo slip into her hand, then eased down onto the couch. Harriet leapt up to sidle close to her mistress, resting her chin in Fiona’s lap. Hoping grandma could shed some light on Uncle Wilbur and the mysterious D.A.S., she held the cameo close to her chest, closed her eyes, shut out all sounds, breathed in through her nostrils, then blew out the air slowly through her lips. She waited, continuing her meditative breathing exercises while concentrating on the brooch for several minutes, waiting for some kind of reaction from Grandma Ev.

  Nothing.

  She was getting nothing.

  In fact, she didn’t feel her grandmother’s presence anywhere near her.

  Could it be her grandmother was just as stymied by the brooch as she was?

  Could it be her grandmother didn’t know about Wilbur’s relationship with D.A.S.?

  Fact was, Wilbur was considerably older than Grandma Ev. He was eighteen years her senior.

  It was quite possible his relationship or possible marriage to D.A.S. took place while grandma was a very young girl or even a toddler. Maybe like Lucille, Wilbur and Gram’s sister, Fiona’s great aunt, who died inside the confines of a mental institution, the subject of this marriage was never discussed in the family.

  Okay, both grandma and Wilbur were deceased. Fiona was sure they both were in Heaven. So, did they not communicate? Or had this relationship with D.A.S. happened so long ago that Wilbur didn’t feel the need to mention it? Death and the afterworld w

ere such complicated things to understand.

  After a half-hour, Fiona opened her eyes. It was futile. Grandma simply was not responding to her meditation or to the cameo. Hm. It was beginning to look as if her research into Wilbur’s mysterious rapport with D.A.S. would have to go beyond the spirit who lived in the attic apartment.

  So, what were her intentions if she found out who D.A.S. was? After all, Uncle Wilbur would be in his mid-nineties if he were still alive. It was a reasonable assumption that the mystery woman was just as old, if she were alive at all. And what if she did discover this woman’s identity, what then? She hadn’t really thought that far ahead, but she was most intrigued by the cameo, the inscription, and Uncle Wilbur’s long-ago love affair.

  First, find D.A.S.

  Make decisions later.

  “I can ask Tavia to look him up,” Nathan said right before he took a bite of chicken-noodle casserole. Tavia Andrews was a fellow police officer who performed intel tasks for Nathan during murder investigations. Over the years, she had become a good friend and confidant.

  “This isn’t police business, Nathan. This is personal business. I don’t think I should be taking up her valuable time on my stuff.”

  Nathan snorted. “Are you kidding? Tavia loves this kind of investigating. She’s all into that ancestry stuff. She knows who her great-great-great-great grandfather was and what his rank was in the Revolutionary War.” He cocked his head to one side as if he were counting in his mind. “Mm, I’m not sure if that was enough greats or too many, but you get the idea. When I tell her about the cameo, the inscription, and the initials, she’ll be all over this little mystery like bird doo on a shiny car. Besides, she was part of your uncle’s murder investigation, so, she probably has a file with his information on her computer. We’ll see what she can find out.”

  “Well, I suppose it’ll be okay.”

  After swallowing a mouthful of noodles, Nathan reached his hand out. “Can I take the cameo with me? It doesn’t seem right to ask her this favor without showing her the pin.”

  Fiona’s reluctance was showing. She lifted the brooch from the pocket of her sweater to give it another once-over, then looked at Nathan through narrowed eyes. “You won’t let anything happen to it?”

  “What could possibly happen to it? You don’t honestly think Tavia would let anything happen to it, do you?”

  “I wasn’t all that concerned about Tavia.”

  “I promise, you will have the cameo in your hot little hands after my shift tomorrow.” On a braced breath, Fiona tucked the cameo into the pouch, then surrendered it. Smiling brightly, Nathan deposited the sac into his shirt pocket. “And with any luck, you’ll have the identity of D.A.S. too.”

  Huddling deeper into his Columbia jacket, Detective Nathan Landry braced against the stinging wind and flurry. He was making his way quickly along the sidewalk toward the entrance to the police station when a man bumped into him. The detective reached out to steady the man realizing he was a petty thief who was in and out of the jail several times per year usually on pickpocket charges. While the homicide detective had no real dealings with the bandit, he’d seen him around enough to know who he was. Freddie Crampton was a short, fat, balding, middle-aged man. Freddie was a thief, but never a threat to anyone. The officers from the precinct claimed he never made attempts to outrun the police when caught at a shopping mall or a street festival stealing things from people’s purses, pockets, or directly from a display. Fact was, Freddie was much too tubby to outrun anyone. When a woman would cry out, thief! He would make a plucky effort to disappear into the crowd, but soon he’d be out of breath, throw his hands in the air, relinquish the stolen property, and accept a ride to whatever precinct in whatever zone he was being arrested. Freddie was quite acquainted with most, if not all, of the precincts in and around the city of Pittsburgh.

  “Oh, sorry, Detective,” Freddie said, his eyes smiling up at the detective like an innocent child.

  Detective Landry grabbed his sleeve before he could continue past. “Hold up a minute, Freddie.” He patted his pocket to make sure his wallet was still in position and his badge was affixed to his belt. “Okay, we seem to be good.”

  Freddie nodded. “Merry Christmas, Detective Landry.”

  “Yeah, Merry Christmas, Freddie,” Detective Landry mumbled over his shoulder as he pressed through the door into the precinct. Pulling a bite-size Snickers from the pocket of his coat, he strolled into the homicide unit scanning the large room while unwrapping the candy. Lines of metal desks with homicide investigators punching at their computers or talking on phones tucked between their ear and their shoulder filled the large space with a low hum of hustle. Tavia’s desk was empty. “Where’s Tavia?” Nathan asked the homicide detective at the nearest desk.

  The detective didn’t bother to look up from his computer. “She stepped over to the police department. They’re short-handed this morning. Sheila had her baby last night, two weeks early, I guess. Anyway, they were releasing Freddie Crampton and she went over to help with the paperwork.”

  Nathan tossed his coat over the back of his chair. “She should be back soon. I bumped into Freddie on my way in.”

  The detective’s eyes jerked up from his work. His studied Nathan for a moment. “You’ve still got all your clothes. He must be a changed man…again.” He let out a sardonic laugh, then returned to his task.

  Nathan chuckled, but reservation soon seeped into his confidence. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he said, “Yeah…wait…” He patted the front pockets of his slacks, the back pockets, then in a rising panic he rifled through the pockets of his coat dangling from his chair.

  “What’s the matter, Landry? You’re lookin’ a little pale,” the fellow detective remarked.

  “Something wrong?” Tavia asked approaching the detectives.

  “I think Landry’s been victimized,” the detective laughed.

  Nathan rushed past Tavia, amid the lines of desks, through the lobby, and out onto the street. Frantically he glanced up and down Western Avenue. Freddie was gone. Freddie had nabbed Fiona’s cameo, the cameo he’d promised nothing could possibly happen to, and now said cameo was in the possession of a professional pickpocket. God only knew where Freddie had gone.

  “What did he take?” Tavia inquired from behind.

  Frustrated with his own carelessness, Nathan turned. “A cameo brooch. It used to belong to Fiona’s Uncle Wilbur, the guy who was murdered about two years ago?” Tavia nodded her recollection. “I was bringing it in to show you. Seems Wilbur Stacy had been married at one time to someone with the initials D.A.S. Anyway, I told Fi I’d show the brooch to you, and maybe you’d be able to identify this woman.”

  “As much as I’d love to see the brooch, I don’t need it to do the research. Although, I don’t remember a wife on file for Mr. Stacy. Maybe she’s been deceased for a very long time and didn’t show up. That’s not normal. Usually, spouses, even if they’ve been gone for a long period of time will be on file, but I’ll look again. Fiona didn’t know his wife?”

  They made their way back toward the precinct. “To the family’s knowledge, he was never married.”

  Tavia’s eyebrows raised. “Isn’t that interesting. So, Mr. Stacy had a skeleton in his closet. I’m on it. There are only a few shopping days until Christmas. Crampton’s probably hanging around the malls. I’ll get Wyatt on the lookout for him, so we can lock him back up for the millionth time. By the way, the captain was looking for you.”

  Groaning, Nathan held the door open for Tavia. “Of course, he was.”

  As much as he had wanted to join Officer Wyatt Hayes in the search for Freddie Crampton, Nathan had several cases to follow up on. If Wyatt didn’t find Freddie, what was he going to tell Fiona? How was he supposed to tell her that he’d allowed himself to be pickpocketed by someone he knew was a pickpocket? It was almost one o’clock and he still hadn’t heard from Wyatt. Tossing a tiny Snickers into his mouth, he pitched the wrapper onto the growing mound on the passenger’s seat. His cell phone rang. He glanced at the Bluetooth screen on the dashboard announcing a call from, Fiona Quinn.

 

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