Capter Five: Revisionist History
Mark's nose was itching. Over the last 15 minutes it had become a chronic condition that was turning him cross-eyed and, as he leaned towards the recipe book, his nose twitched with the rabid intensity of a rabbit scenting a fresh lettuce patch, but it proved an unavailing attempt to relieve his craving, and with a huff of frustration, he stood back to consider his options.
His arms were once more buried to the elbows in a greasy mixture of onions, butter, chestnuts and herbs, thanks to the inability of his friends and family to reach a consensus as to one type of stuffing, obligating him to provide an alternate choice. He could satisfy the urge to scratch regardless of the slime covering his fingers or he could wash his hands, scratch, re-immerse himself in the stuffing and hope the sequence of events didn't repeat.
Another possibility would be to enlist the aid of a second party. As the thought crossed his mind, Mark threw a scowl at the window in the general direction of his oblivious son. Steve had made a hasty exit earlier when confronted with the possibility of culinary chores and was now, leisurely Mark was sure, stringing up the holiday lights outside. The fact that his son always always headed for the garage to retrieve the ladder and the fairy lights when the oven mitts and aprons came out at Christmas time had led Mark to have serious doubts about Steve's claims of acrophobia in recent years. Left to his own resources, Mark twisted his body in a maneuver worthy of a contortionist to scratch his nose, somewhat inadequately, on his shoulder but, in an unintended side-effect, his glasses were dislodged from his nose and fell with a soft splat in the appetizing mixture. They sank slightly, listing like a sunken ship and splattered liberally with oily goo, and Mark regarded them with resignation before surrendering to the inevitable and reaching up a greasy finger for a satisfying scratch while fishing the soiled glasses out of the dressing with his other hand.
Several piles of vegetables lay unattended next to the sink, and Mark cast a jaundiced eye over them as he washed his face and hands, his holiday spirit ebbing at the realization of how much work still lay ahead. It would be nice if he received just a little help, or at least some company, from the hordes who would demolish the food in short order the next day. He hastily swallowed back the unfestive thought; after all, he had volunteered.
"Grinch Sloan," he muttered. "Roast beast is a feast I can't stand in the least," he cried in his best Dr Seuss impersonation. "Hmmm, needs some work."
With a sigh, he picked up a potato peeler and aimed it at the large heap of potatoes. "En garde."
He was only on his second potato when his attempts to recapture the appropriate festive spirit were derailed by a decidedly unseasonable shout, accompanied by the sounds of scrabbling out on the deck, followed immediately by a loud thud and the tinkling sound of glass on glass. Abandoning his culinary endeavors, Mark dashed outside, automatically scanning the area where Steve was supposed to be hanging the lights, finding only an extended string of lights dangling from the lower edge of the deck. The nightmarish image of Fred Morganstern hanging lifelessly from the eaves of the neighboring house flashed through Mark's mind with terrifying vividness, as he lurched to the edge of the deck. His gaze followed the trail of lights down to where they ended in a pool of color beside the toppled ladder. So clear was the image from that previous tragedy that it was a moment before he realized that the line was unbroken; the only movement was the slight sway of the decorative strands.
The absence of movement threatened other terrors, however, as Mark caught sight of the motionless figure lying beneath ladder. Dashing down the stairs with a speed that would have done justice to a much younger man, he dropped to his knees in the sand beside the prone form of his son, carefully shoving the ladder aside.
"Steve?" he queried urgently, as he ran a rapidly appraising eye over his son, reaching automatically for the carotid artery, observing the angle of the head and limbs, mentally assessing the probability of broken bones or neck injury. He let out his breath in a small huff of relief as Steve stirred and opened his eyes, but kept a hand on his son's shoulders, restraining him from movement.
"Lie still and let me check you out," he ordered. "Can you move your arms and legs okay?"
The slightly glazed look in Steve's eyes cleared quickly as he met his father's anxious gaze.
"I'm alright, Dad," he asserted, his voice reassuringly strong and steady. "I just got the wind knocked out of me." Gently pulling away from Mark's grasp, he sat up, stretching carefully as he did so. He smiled ruefully into his father's concerned blue eyes. "Nothing like sand for making a nice, soft landing."
As the specter of serious injury faded, Mark felt his muscles relaxing with the release of the acute tension.
"You sure you're okay?" he asked, keeping a critical eye on his son.
"I'm fine," Steve assured him, rolling his head in a neck stretch to remove any kinks and illustrate the lack of damage. He moved to get up, grasping the hand his father helpfully extended, wincing slightly as his body made known its displeasure with its forceful impact with the beach. "Just a bit bruised," he admitted, seeing that his father hadn't missed the flinch or the automatic movement of his hand to his back. "And aggravated," he added, gazing in disgust at the lights dangling from the edge of the deck, hoping to divert his father's attention from his physical condition. "The whole damn set seems to have come down with me."
Having concluded that his son had indeed escaped any serious injury, Mark accepted the diversion.
"It presents an unusual effect," he suggested, a faint twinkle lightening his eyes, as he surveyed the partially outlined deck line. "Maybe we can go for a shooting star effect down to the beach?"
"Very funny," Steve grumbled. He lifted the strand of lights, checking to see if many of the bulbs had broken. "Now I'll have to reattach the damn things."
"Maybe you should take a break first," Mark suggested, concern reasserting itself. "What happened anyway?"
"I was alternating colors, and had to reach over to straighten out a twisted strand," Steve replied, "and I must have leaned too far over."
"You need to be more careful," Mark adjured him, the mental vision of Fred Morganstern briefly reasserting itself once more. "You're lucky you didn't get tangled up in those lights."
"Nah," Steve replied easily, brushing sand off himself. "The lights went one way and I went the other."
The casual assertion sparked a sudden redirection of Mark's mental processes. Surveying the evidence of the mishap, a slight frown creased his brow as he contemplated the sequence of events. "How were you holding the lights?" he asked, trying to picture the possibilities.
Steve looked up at him, surprised at the question.
"I had the bunch of strings resting on the top of the ladder. I just pulled them up as I attached them to the deck."
"And when you fell…?" Mark prompted.
"I leaned too far to the left; the ladder and I fell that way, and the lights slid off and fell straight down," Steve replied. "Why?" he asked, observing that the look of paternal concern had been replaced by the one that usually indicated that Mark was working out a mental puzzle.
"I was just wondering how Fred Morganstern managed to get himself tangled up in those lights when he fell," Mark mused ruminatively, glancing over to the neighboring house.
Startled, Steve's thoughts flitted briefly through the regretful realization that Mark had been afraid that that tragedy had been replayed with himself as the victim, and then fastened on the dilemma that his father had raised. He frowned thoughtfully as he considered his experience.
"The ladder was between me and the lights," he said slowly, trying to work out if there were alternative possibilities.
"What if you'd fallen the other way, away from where the lights were already strung?" Mark queried, obviously already mentally playing out that scenario in his mind.
"The ladder would still be between me and the lights," Steve confirmed. He met his father's eyes in mutual realization.
"Fred would have had to have fallen around the ladder in order to fall into the lights," Mark declared.
"Or have wrapped the lights around his own neck," Steve agreed. "Not a very likely scenario unless it really was suicide."
"But to manage that with his brother right there? How would he have done it?" Mark wondered.
"Well, Bert said he was busy with the Santa," Steve reminded him, but his tone expressed considerable doubt that Bert, even with his head up Santa's backside, could have continued happily on with his chores without hearing or seeing anything suspicious. He had said he'd heard his brother yell once and ignored it because he was busy, but Steve couldn't shake the idea that a man, slowly dying as he hung from a light cord around his neck, would quickly have second thoughts and call desperately for help until it came.
Father and son gazed across the sand to the scene of the tragedy, mentally replaying the memory of that evening, seeing again Fred's blue-tinged face as he swung sickeningly from the strand of lights wrapped around his neck, his brother Bert distraught and incoherent with shock and grief at the discovery. They had been unable to get a clear picture of exactly what had happened, as Bert had been on the other side of the roof at the time, making adjustments to a lighted figure of Santa in his sleigh, his view blocked by the chimney. No one else had apparently been nearby at the time, and despite Mark's feeling that something about the situation wasn't quite right, there had been nothing to indicate that Fred's death had been anything other than a terrible accident – no real evidence that things were not as they seemed. But the revelation today seemed to cast a significant shadow of doubt across the previously accepted view of the incident.
"Maybe we should take another look at the file for that case," Mark suggested.
"I doubt that the DA's going to want to reopen a five-year-old accident case based on my experiences with falling off a ladder," Steve replied wryly.
"No," agreed Mark, with a slight smile, "but that doesn't mean we can't look into it."
Years of experience had taught Steve the truth of that statement; once Mark had hold of an intriguing discrepancy in a case, the lack of official sanction wasn't going to prevent him from investigating further. Which meant that, notwithstanding the Christmas season and his own currently over-full caseload, Steve was going to have one more investigation to add to his list.
"Right," he sighed, with slightly rueful acquiescence. "But it might be a good idea if I finished putting up these lights first. We did want to have them up before the kids come over tomorrow."
"Good idea," Mark agreed, adding provocatively, as Steve bent over to right the ladder, "Of course, if you hadn't left it so late . . . !"
"Hey, I could have left it for tomorrow morning!" his son retorted. "At least this year I'm doing it the day before we have everybody over!"
"It's a good thing we're having everybody over before Christmas, or you'd probably be putting them up on Christmas Eve," the elder Sloan laughed. His grin faded as his words sparked a new train of thought. Casting a contemplative scrutiny over the decorations adorning the Morganstern house, he queried thoughtfully, "Why were Bert and Fred putting up their decorations on Christmas Eve anyway? Bert usually had them up well before then."
Steve considered this new point, adding it to the accumulation of new evidence to be pondered. Before he could respond, however, his attention was diverted by an unmistakable odor wafted by a passing breeze.
"Uh, Dad…" he uttered, a note of minor alarm underlying his tone. "Do you smell something burning?"
Sniffing curiously, Mark's eyes widened in alarm. "My stuffing!" He turned and dashed back to the stairs leading up to the deck. Steve grinned, shaking his head as he steadied the ladder against the house once more.