Christmas Stalkings by Charlotte MacLeod

wax dummy. “You’re bluffing,” he snarled. “You can’t prove—”
    “I never bluff,” I told him, brushing a lock of shining auburn hair away from my forehead. “The truck will be clean, but you had to package the garbage somewhere. Your own apartment probably.
    I’d try the kitchen first, Bludger. There’ll be traces left. Men don’t know how to clean a kitchen properly.
    And, as I have reason to know, neither does Jaz’s cousin.
    I didn’t expect him to break so fast. He got to his feet and started toward me. Rick moved to intercept him, but I shook my head. “Don’t dirty your hands, Rick. Come any closer, Jaz, and you get this cigarette right in the face.”
    “You don’t understand,” he groaned. “It was her idea. She made me do it.”
    “Sure,” I said bitterly. “Blame the dame. You and that MCP Adam.”
    “Adam?” He looked like a dead fish, eyes bulging, mouth ajar. “How many guys do you have dropping by for some—”
    “Never mind.” It was all clear to me now. I felt a little sick. Men, I thought bitterly. You try to be nice, offer a guy some milk and cookies, listen to his troubles, and he starts getting ideas.
    I lit a cigarette. “He’s all yours, boys. You’ll have to figure out who has jurisdiction.”
    “I’m sheriff of this county,” Bludger blustered.
    “I wouldn’t be surprised if a state line got crossed,” Rick drawled. “And the DEA has jurisdiction—”
    “Fight it out between yourselves,” I told them. “Frankly, I don’t give a darn.”
    Jaz dropped back onto his chair, face hidden in his hands. A lock of thick black hair curled over his fingers. I headed, fast, for the door.
    Rick followed me out. “What say I drop by later for some—”
    “You’re all alike,” I said bitterly. “Wave a chocolate-chip cookie in front of you and you’ll do anything, say anything.”
    He captured my hand. “For one of your chocolate-chip cookies I would. They’re special, Liz. Like you.”
    “Sorry, Rick.” I freed my hand so I could light . another cigarette. “I’ve got a chapter to finish. That’s what it’s all about, you know. The real world. Putting words on paper, spelling them right . . . All the rest of it is just fun and games. Just . . .”
    The words stuck in my throat. Rick leaned over to look into my face. “You’re not crying, are you?”
    “Who, me? Pis don’t cry.” I tossed the cigarette away. It spun in a glowing arc through the curtain of softly falling snow. Snow. Big fat flakes like fragments of foam rubber. They clung to my long lashes. I blinked. “Rick. Isn’t there a reward for breaking this case?”
    Rick blinked. He has long thick lashes too. (I like long thick lashes in a man.) “Yeah. Some guy whose kid died of an overdose offered it. It’s yours, I guess. Enough to buy a lot of cigarettes and chocolate chips.”
    I took his arm. “You’ll get your chocolate chip cookies, Rick. But first we’re going shopping. Toys ‘R’ Us, and then a breeder I know whose golden retriever has just had a litter. A tree, a great big one, with all the trimmings, the fattest turkey Safeway has left . . . Pick up your feet, Rick. We’ve got a lot to do. It’s Christmas Eve—and it’s snowing!”
    I lit a cigarette. What the heck, you only live once.

MEDORA SALE - ANGELS

    Naturally we expect somebody who’s specialized in Medieval Studies to be well-informed on the subject of Angels. But Medora Sale’s not just another pretty Canadian M.A., Ph.D. How many aspiring writers have fathers who filled their infant ears with bedtime stories about the quiddities of criminal courts, and even, as a special treat, used to take them, on school holidays when court was sitting, to watch actual trials?
    With this highly specialized background, is it any wonder that Medora, after having tried free-lance writing, social work, and advertising, took to a life of crime herself? She won the coveted Arthur Ellis Award for first novel with Murder on