His second call was to the Albrittons, old friends from church who lived an hour away. Luther spilled his guts, and by the time he finished Riley Albritton was roaring with laughter. "It's Luther," Riley said to someone in the background, probably Doris. "Blair just called. She'll be home tonight." And with that, Doris or whoever it was broke into hysterics.
Luther wished he hadn't called. "Help me out here, Riley," he pleaded. "Can you guys stop by?"
"Sorry, bud. We're going to the MacIlvaines for dinner. They invited us a bit earlier, you know."
"All right," Luther said and hung up.
The phone rang immediately. It was Nora, her voice as edgy as Luther'd ever heard it. "Where are you?" she demanded.
"Well, I'm in the kitchen. Where are you?"
"I'm sitting in traffic on Broad, near the mall."
"Why are you going to the mall?"
"Because I couldn't park at the District, couldn't even get in off the street. I've bought nothing. Do you have a tree?"
"Yes, a real beauty."
"Are you decorating it?"
"Yes, I have Perry Como crooning 'Jingle Bells' in the background while I'm sipping eggnog and trimming our tree. Wish you were here?"
"Have you called anyone?"
"Yes, the Lairds and Albrittons, neither can make it."
"I've called the Pinkertons, Harts, Malones, and Burklands. They're all busy. Pete Hart laughed at me, the bore."
"I'll beat him up for you." Spike was knocking on the door. "I gotta get busy."
"I guess you'd better start calling the neighbors," she said, her hyper voice faltering.
"Why?"
"To invite them."
"Not in a million years, Nora. I'm hanging up now."
"No word from Blair."
"She's on an airplane, Nora. Call me later."
Spike's borrowed wagon was a red Radio Flyer that had seen its better years. With one look, Luther deemed it too small and too old, but they had no choice. "I'll go over first," he explained, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. "Wait five minutes, then bring the wagon over. Don't let anyone see you, okay?"
"Where's my forty bucks?"
Luther handed him a twenty. "Half now, half when the job is done."
He entered the Trogdon home through the side door of the garage, and felt like a burglar for the first time in memory. When he opened the door to the house, an alarm beeped for a few seconds, very long seconds in which Luther's heart froze and his entire life and career flashed before him. Caught, arrested, convicted, his license revoked, banished by Wiley & Beck, disgraced. Then it stopped, and he waited another few seconds before he could breathe. A panel by the rear door said things were Clear.
What a mess. The house was a landfill with debris strewn everywhere, clear evidence of another successful visit by Ole St. Nick. Trish Trogdon would choke her husband if she knew he'd given Luther the keys. In the living room, he stopped and stared at the tree.
It was well known on Hemlock that the Trogdons took little care in decorating their tree. They allowed their children to hang anything they could find. There were a million lights, strands of mismatched garlands, tacky ornaments by the boxload, red and green icicles, even strings of popcorn.
Nora will kill me, Luther thought, but he had no choice. The plan was so simple it had to work. He and Spike would remove the breakable ornaments, and the garlands, and for sure the popcorn, lay them all on the sofa and chairs, ease the tree out of the house with lights intact, haul it over to Luther's, and dress it with real decorations. Then, at some point in the near future, Luther and perhaps Spike would strip it again, haul it across the street, put the Trogdon junk back on it, and everybody would be happy.
He dropped the first ornament and it shattered into a dozen pieces. Spike showed up. "Don't break anything," Luther said, as he cleaned up the ornament.
"Are we getting in trouble for this?" Spike asked. "Of course not. Now get to work. And fast."
Twenty minutes later the tree was stripped of anything breakable. Luther found a dirty towel in the laundry, and lying flat on his stomach, under the tree, he managed to work the metal tree stand onto the towel. Spike leaned in above him, gently shoving the tree to one side, then the other. On hands and knees, Luther managed to slide the tree toward Spike, across the wood floor, across the tile of the kitchen, down the narrow hall to the laundry, where the branches scraped the walls and dead spruce needles trailed behind
"You're making a mess," Spike said, helpfully.
"I'll clean it later," said Luther, who was sweating like a sprinter.
The tree, of course, was wider than the door to the garage, as all trees are. Spike pulled the wagon close. Luther grabbed the trunk of the tree, lifted it with a strain, swung, the bottom through the door and pulled the whole thing through. When it was sitting safely in the garage, Luther caught his breath, hit the garage door opener, and managed a smile at Spike.
"Why are you so brown?" the kid asked.
The smile vanished as Luther was reminded of the cruise he wouldn't be taking. He looked at his watch-twelve-forty. Twelve-forty and not a single guest for the party, no food, no Frosty, no lights strung anywhere, no tree, as yet, but one on the way. It seemed hopeless at that moment.
You can't quit, old boy.
Luther strained again and lifted the tree up. Spike shoved the wagon under, and of course the metal tree stand was wider than the Radio Flyer. Luther got it balanced, though, and watched it for a moment. "You sit here," he said, pointing to a tiny spot in the wagon and under the tree. "Keep it from tipping over. I'll push."
"You think this'll work?" Spike said, with great suspicion.
Across the street, Ned Becker had been minding his own business when he saw the tree disappear from the Trogdons' front window. Five minutes passed, and the tree reappeared in the open garage, where a man and a kid were wrestling with it. He looked harder, and recognized Luther Krank. Watching every move, he called Walt Scheel on a portable phone.
"Hey, Walt, Ned here."
"Merry Christmas, Ned."
"M............