The Night Before Christmas
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Joyce Sullivan
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22
Prologue
Nelson, British Columbia
“Come to Nana, Dorie. Your mom will be home soon—I hope.” Barbara Wilson couldn’t keep her disquietude from choking her voice as she hoisted her granddaughter onto her hip and glanced at the kitchen clock.
What was keeping her daughter-in-law? Laurel had been at the police station for three hours. What was happening? Had she been arrested for murder? Or would the results of this second polygraph test confirm that Laurel was telling the truth? That she wasn’t responsible for Steve’s death.
Barb paced the galley-style kitchen and crooned a singsong of soothing words that took the fearful chill out of the deathly still house as she watched the carport for Laurel’s red Tercel. There was a better view of the quiet street from the living room window, but the thought of entering the room where her stepson had died so violently on Christmas Eve was beyond her capabilities.... The pain was still too fresh. Too raw.
Dorie grew limp as a rag doll in her arms. Ah, asleep at last. They could both use a little peace. Barbara kissed Dorie’s sticky brow, and laid the toddler in her crib, tucking her special bunny blanket around her tiny body to ward off the dampness of the March rain. Dorie caught colds so easily....
Barbara hovered over the crib rail. “I may have lost Steve, but I still have you, child,” she whispered softly, her voice catching. Of course, she wasn’t Dorie’s nana by true blood relation. Steve’s mother had died when he was ten. But still, she deserved the title....
She’d been a good stepmother. None better! She’d been there when Steve needed a hug or a word of encouragement. She’d stood by him during the turbulent years of his adolescence and into adulthood, always smoothing things over when he had blowups with his dad. She’d slipped him money when he needed it. They’d both grieved when Steve lost his dad.... Barbara squeezed her eyes tight; her cheeks ached from the struggle of holding back her emotions. Thank God, Charlie never knew about the gambling, but what did it matter now, anyway? Steve was dead, too. And the innocent were taking the brunt of the blame.
Barbara’s hands fluttered onto her chest, trying to rub away the deep spasm of pain in her heart. Oh, the things people were saying in town about Laurel. Unfounded lies.... It was so unfair. Not that newspaper reports were any more accurate. It was none of their business anyway.
Her glasses misted over and Barbara removed them, dabbing at the thick lenses with the hem of her sweater. There was too much humidity in these old houses. In the distance she could hear the splashing of tires navigating the puddle on the driveway. Then an engine cutting out. Laurel’s home.
Barbara threaded her way through the house, avoiding Dorie’s push toys. She arrived in the kitchen just as Laurel entered by the back door. One look at Laurel told the tale: her brown eyes shone with a luster that had been missing for the past three months. A smile trembled on her lips.
“I’m free, Barb. The police believe I didn’t do it.” Her words carried the joyful ring of the vindicated.
Barb hugged her tightly. “I’m so glad. So very glad.” Laurel felt so thin and fragile beneath the thick folds of her coat. They clung to each other, shedding tears of sorrow and utter relief, until Barbara remembered that tearful displays of affection were not in her nature. She wiped her glasses again and put the teakettle on to boil. “Now, what do you say we put this behind us? I think you and Dorie could use a change of scenery. I have a friend in North Vancouver....”
