“A politician in a flight suit?”
O.J. laughed out loud, like that was the plan all along. Chomp, chomp, chomp. “Mr. Zigarowski, despite what you think, I’m not the enemy.”
“I know you hired me,” Zig blurted. “For Mint’s funeral. You’re the one who pulled me into this.”
“Our office only hires the best morticians.”
“You could’ve called any local mortician. You brought me in because you knew my connection to her—you thought it would help you keep Nola off balance.”
“And if I did?”
“You could’ve just asked me!”
“That’s good advice, Mr. Zigarowski. I think I’ll take you up on that,” the colonel said matter-of-factly, his hands now resting on top of his desk, still holding the staple remover.
Zig shifted in his chair, glancing up at the Hawaii photo glowing in the ceiling. “I don’t understand.”
“Do you really think I just want to talk about your old job, Mr. Zigarowski? What I really need is a favor.”
48
Keenley, Pennsylvania
Fifteen years ago
This was Nola when she was thirteen.
It was four days before Christmas, which, for Nola, didn’t mean much. Since he first took her in, Royall had told her that good Catholics knew Christmas wasn’t about decorating or gift giving, which just promoted excess. Yet for some reason, in this small house that they’d moved to, where there was a plastic bucket on top of the refrigerator to catch the two leaks whenever it rained, Royall was suddenly pointing out cobwebs in the ceiling corners and having Nola vacuum with Carpet Fresh （or rather, with some knockoff called CarpetRenew）。 Most important, he was buying stuff. Real stuff.
For years, Royall hadn’t purchased stockings, a tree, or even presents, except for that year he got her a cinnamon candle because he said she was starting to smell.
First thing this morning, though, Royall went full Christmas Spirit. Stockings. Lights. An actual gingerbread house. Even a big fake silver tinsel tree that most people bought for kitsch value, but Royall bought because he thought it looked expensive—plus he didn’t want craploads of pine needles all over his CarpetRenewed carpet.
“Who’s coming?” Nola asked. Had to be a client.
It was. Elias Avery Jr., who ran a chain of motels from Pennsylvania to New Jersey, was a potential buyer for the two hundred odd-lot fax machines that Royall bought at auction last week. Most important, he loved Christmas nearly as much as Jesus himself.
“Make it look good, girl,” Royall warned on his way out.
That was two hours ago. So when the house phone rang twice, then went silent, Nola knew the signal. Royall and Mr. Avery were on their way home from their fancy seafood dinner. Make sure the house is perfect.
Scrambling and rearranging the last few ornaments, she brought as much as she could to the front, thinking it didn’t look perfect, but definitely better than before. It reminded her of her last （and only） Christmas with her old family, the LaPointes, and how all the kids were encouraged to decorate, but as they did, Mrs. LaPointe would circle the tree behind them, subtly redoing everyone’s work, moving tinsel and ornaments higher and lower, none of the other kids noticing that they had nearly nothing to do with the breathtaking final product. Nola tried to remember what she got that Christmas, but all she remembered was that Roddy kept asking for one of those magic tricks where you pretend to cut off your finger.
Hearing a car in the driveway, Nola scooped up the packaging for the ornaments, darted for the kitchen, and stuffed it all under the sink—so Royall could return everything when this was done.
Ding-dong.