The Crux
of Christmas Investigation:
a cautionary tale
by Gilmore Tamny, December 2025
from The Casebook of Gilmore Tamny, detective, all rights reserved
There’s no good time to tell you that Gilmore Tamny, detective, once killed someone. This wasn’t the usual shootout, or rooftop chase, but something just as dangerous: the spirit of Christmas. On the plus side, she helped a family find a lost treasure of hidden gold.
It all started early December of 20__.
STAVE ONE
The sky was low and gray and dripping with cold rain. Faraday, Gilmore’s beautiful gray tabby, and Résolue, her adorable tiny dog, were watching Gilmore on the stepladder draping fake pine boughs across the doorjamb. A Yule log (video on YouTube) burned merrily (on her laptop). Bing Crosby moaned about White Christmases. Gilmore was preparing for her annual 1-Hour Holiday Party. She had discovered it can be fun to invite people over then demand they leave after an hour.
A text arrived.
Have a sec? At Logan. Could use yr help, if u r free to talk.
It was Doug, who’d hired her for The Strange Case of the Unexpectedly Terrible Person. Doug worked in IT at the same university Gilmore did, had recently married his beloved girlfriend Bibi, and had managed to assimilate the strange case’s terrible revelations with grace.
He called.
“What’s up?” Gilmore dimly remembered his family was from Kansas. “Are you heading to Wichita?”
“Near enough. Yeah. It’s my Great-Grandmameemee Dorothy-Susan.”
“O.K.”
“She’s been calling detectives.”
“Interesting.”
“Three last week alone,” he said. “Dad’s worried she’ll get fleeced. Her memory is glitchy these days. She’s old—really old. So, I told him, I know someone we can trust. He asked if you were a real—” Doug hurried on. “Sorry, I mean of course you’re a real detect—”
“Yeah, yeah. How old is she?” she said.
“A hundred and three. Almost four.”
“Reee-spect,” said Gilmore. “So, what’s the case?”
“She wants to find a little girl she knew a long time ago. Meryl. Meryl Valance. All I know is she was daughter of the town’s pastor and ten or fifteen years younger than Great-Grandmameemee Dorothy-Susan. And the Valance family moved away to Idaho.” He yawned. “Sorry, I’m wrecked. Got up at 3:30 a.m. then everything’s delayed for ten hours. Anyway. I don’t even think it’s finding Meryl that she wants. It’s Mary. From the Bible.”
“What do you mean?”
“I guess Meryl gave these legendary performances as Mary in the Christmas pageant.”
Gilmore laughed. “Wasn’t she just a kid?”
“I know. But it was a big deal. She was Mary for nine years running. A record.”
“Is your great-grandma pretty religious?”
“Oh, yeah. And big into Christmas. Obsessed. She’s got twenty-two creches. And the ‘Where Is the Christ in Christmas?’ stuff. She talks about it all the time.”
Gilmore had a flicker of memory. Somewhere in her 20’s, on a dismal grey Christmas morning, driving across Ohio to God knows where. Maybe nowhere at all. She had passed a billboard with WHERE IS THE CHRIST IN YOUR CHRISTMAS? emblazoned across it. While she had given it the finger at the time, not liking the gotcha tone of the question, and abhorring all of society’s institutions on principle, still, she had always grudgingly admired those willing to take the killjoy stance.
Doug continued. “That annoying pastor of hers had been giving the same ‘Where is Christian Christmas Today?’ or ‘How Can We Find Our Baby Jesus Again?’ sermon for years. It always ends with tiny baby Jesus crying alone and scared in the dark on Christmas Eve. And everyone has run off and is partying with Santa.”
“Wow,” said Gilmore. “That’s hardcore.”
“Yeah.” His voice became defensive. “She’s not some religious nut. Or a hick.”
“I don’t think that,” said Gilmore, taken aback.
“She didn’t just go to church. She helped a lot of people.”
“Walked the talk.”
“Right. And she’s not dumb. She’s smart. A ‘no-nonsense, Kansas farm girl,’ Dad says. A straight shooter. But she was an orphan by the time she was ten. And she had a miscarriage—” he stopped, and she sensed he felt he’d overshared her business. “She’s susceptible to that gd sermon.”
“Sure,” Gilmore said. “Hey. Dude. Life is pain.”
This seemed to reassure him.
“She has the T.V. on 24/7 and it’s all Christmas ads now. She couldn’t stop crying after an ad for roach spray— with Santa. We’re trying to get her on an anti-depressant.”
“Could she work with Saint Nick? A saint’s a little more God-adjacent…”
“Nah.”
“Think of him as a sort of capitalist mascot rather than…uh…?”
“No way.”
“Kris Kringle? That seems more like a person than a...uh…ideological usurper.” She tried it out. “‘This is Kris Kingle, my accountant…’”
“No, no.” His voice became resigned. “She’s not doing well. I mean we’re lucky her caregivers are so great. But she’s—old. Her memory’s starting to fade. She takes at least ten different pills. Her heart’s a mess. She can’t sleep. She has to wear diapers—she hates it. Worries she smells.” His voice grew sad. “I hate to think of her worrying about that. There’s no family nearby anymore and almost everyone she ever knew is dead. The neighbors make such a big deal out of how nice it is of them that they come by—"
“Euuuw. Who wants that.”
“And then this ‘Where Is Christ in Christmas?’ stuff hits and…she’s…sad. So sad. I don’t want her to die so sad.”
“Ah, Doug,” Gilmore said. “You’re a good egg.”
She heard a disembodied voice over a loudspeaker. “They’re starting to board,” he said.
“Got it. Doug, I’m on the case.”
“Good,” he gave a yawn that last for almost thirty seconds. “Sorry! I need more coffee. I’ll tell Great-Grandmameemee Dorothy-Susan as soon as I get there.”
“Do you always call her by her…full name and title?” she asked. “It’s kind of a mouthful.”
Doug sounded surprised. “Everyone calls her that.”
“No nickname?”
“Her husband called her Zazz.”
“Huh.”
“We’ll FaceTime tomorrow?”
“Sounds good.” Gilmore mused. “A hundred and three! Can you imagine? I wonder what Christ would have been like if he’d stayed human that long.”
“I wonder what I’d be like at a hundred and three,” Doug said.
“Oh, I’m going to be a total bitch. If I get there,” said Gilmore. “An unsolicited suggestion, Doug. Sometimes there’s a local organization that brings a dog by for people who can’t t get out. For a visit.”
“Huh. I’ll ask Dad what he thinks. That could be nice.”
“Dogs don’t pity,” Gilmore said. “And they don’t mind smells. The more the merrier, in fact.”
“Sold,” said Doug.
They hung up. Gilmore called over her beloved companions. “Faraday! ‘Lue! Our first Christmas case! Cherchez la femme.”
Bandying about French words and phrases was an affectation she enjoyed, especially as she spoke disquietingly bad French.
“Let’s get crackin’.”
Faraday and Résolue made it clear that this required treats to get off on the right foot.
STAVE TWO
The next day, Doug called on FaceTime. He gave her a tour of the modest one-bedroom ranch house, lingering on the stacks of books, Old Testament Crossword Puzzles, Sudoku for Christians, The NEW New Testament Crossword Puzzle Challenge, Kansas Covenant WordFind, and Bible Brainteasers. He panned the room so Gilmore could see the sheer volume of creches on tables, windowsills, desk, and bureaus.
“Wow,” Gilmore mouthed.
Gilmore’s new client was a tiny, wizened, nearly bald woman sitting in a wheelchair wearing thick glasses. She was unusually incurious about the detective part of Gilmore’s life but did ask about her relationship with the Lord. Gilmore was vague, wanting to avoid offense, and to get to business.
But this would not do.
“Gilbert, honey, you’re not saying anything. I need to know the state of your faith if we’re going to work together.”
I don’t want to be disrespectful, Gilmore’s eyeballs said to Doug.
Straight shooter, his eyeballs reminded her.
“O.K. I love that Christ put the poor front and center. And washing other people’s feet—top-notch work. Really. Humility for miles. So, I’m aware of the baby. But there’s like oceans of bathwater to throw out, and a lot of that is toxic moral sludge.” Now for the hardest part. Gilmore took a deep breath. “And the Bible bored the sugar out of me.”
The wizened face became aghast. “Oh, honey. Don’t say that.”
Doug’s eyeballs seemed to be talking to themselves: well, I did tell her to be direct – but – still, maybe it’s for the best? - I guess we’ll see.
He took a breath and then put his hand on the frail shoulder. “She lives in Boston, Great-Grandmameemee Dorothy-Susan,” he reminded her. “It’s different.”
She looked up to Doug, considering, and after a moment, gave an acquiescing nod. She turned to Gilmore with a shy, warm, welcoming smile so beautiful even Gilmore’s steely heart melted.
But Gilmore was tough, and she hid it well. “All right. So, Dorothy-Susan—"
“Call me Great-Grandmameemee Dorothy-Susan, honey. Everyone does.”
“Great-Grandmameemee Dorothy-Susan—tell me about Meryl Valance. Do you know her married name? Birthday? Her Dad was the pastor at what church?”
It was a promising start to any case.
But they stalled out immediately. Doug was right. GGDS didn’t want to talk about Meryl Valance but Meryl as Mary.
“Doug, show Gilbert that photo,” she motioned towards a table.
A faded black and white photo appeared of a little girl of about six with an oval face and a serious expression. A scarf was draped was around her dark hair. She cradled a swaddled doll in her small arms. Her large gentle dark eyes were lifted to heaven.
“Wow! You weren’t kidding,” said Gilmore, who’d been about to say something about nepo babies. “That’s Mary, all right.”
“Oh, we all felt his Holy presence in the room. They put the lights just right—and, oh, she glowed, she just glowed, holding our sacred baby Jesus.” GGDS paused to direct Doug at the creche on a card table. “That archangel is cattywampus, honey. To the right—yes.” Her voice quavered. “Yesterday, I heard a Santa will be in the Our Christ Is Alive Church pageant this year. Another Santa. Where has the Christ in Christmas gone?”
Now, Gilmore had not said this to Doug at their initial conversation, as she’d been practicing deep listening, but she had the exact same question.
Gilmore had emerged from a bitter twenty-year embargo against Christmas to a self-directed program of aversion therapy including movies, TV, music, and ASMR. And in the interim, it seemed to her, things had shifted. Santa who used to have a big chunk of the pie now ate most of it. Not to mention romcoms (and baking competitions). Gilmore could understand how the merely magical could seem like a demotion from the divine.
“And have elves gotten a lot of traction,” Gilmore added. “Say, have you heard of Krampus? No?” Gilmore gave GGDS a quick sketch. “Does that appeal at all?”
GGDS’s expression was of someone who’d gotten a whiff of dead mouse. “Are you making this up, Gilbert honey? That’s awful.”
“I mean, yeah—but kinda cool, too, you gotta admit,” said Gilmore. “Listen, Great-Grandmameemee Dorothy-Susan, while I’m looking into Meryl, maybe you and I can tackle the whole Christ in Christmas thing. I’ll make a spreadsheet.” As soon as it was out of her mouth, Gilmore thought a spreadsheet? What am I talking about? But she plunged ahead. “We could work on it together. Could be uh…uh…clarifying. Like a…” she cast about. “A puzzle. A case. A brainteaser! Put in data. Info. Uh like—cherchez la Bebe Jes—no, no. Uh. Well, we’ll look at the main figures of Christmas. Christ, Santa, Kris Kringle. Krampus! All of it. Yeah. You know.”
“Honey, you know you sound addlepated.”
“Yeah,” Gilmore sighed. “I know.”
“But all right. If you want. I do like a puzzle. I do hope you’ll reconsider letting the Lord in your life. Now what’s your address?”
Two days later two envelopes appeared, both from GGDS. One was a Christmas card, the other, a check for ten dollars in wobbling cursive. Gilmore found this as poignant a testament to the human spirit as anything she’d seen.
Gilmore sent Doug a photo of the check and texted:
I can’t cash this.
U think? Gilbert is v close to Gilmore
No not taking her $
You have to she’ll notice she’s proud
Ok fine. But u kno even if Meryl 10 or 15 yrs younger she prob dead
I told u
What
She’s dead
What? M dead?
Doug paused then texted:
I thought I told u
No!
Oh sorry. I was so out of it
U said the job was to find M but you already found her?
I meant we worried about Great-Grandmameemee Dorothy-Susan was going to get ripped off or hire too many people to find M
Gilmore made an exasperated noise and texted:
But if u kno M dead why did we 3 meet
To make it seem we were looking. Make her feel better. And so she stops calling detectives. And to hang out.
But why haven’t u told GGDS yet?
Doug’s texted paused then continued.
GGDS? What do u mean?
What do u mean what do I mean
It took a second, but Doug texted again.
Ggds?
R u serious w me here GGDS
?
GREAT GRANDMAMEEMEE DOROTHY SUSAN
Oh right sure
🙄 So why haven’t u told her about M yet?
I did tell her. Her memory comes and goes. But I think she just doesn’t want to admit M’s dead. And wants to have a reason to talk about her Mary.
Gilmore called.
“Dude! What am I doing? There’s no case!”
“There kind of is…”
“This is misuse of my skills, Doug. I’m a detective.”
“Sorry, Gilmore. Really!” He paused letting Gilmore get her huffs and puffs out. He continued. “But is there any way could you just—keep on the cas—the investigation? Bibi and Dad will be down here soon, but she could use someone else to talk to besides me. And she likes you.”
“Well, I like her too,” Gilmore was mollified. “O.K. Fine.”
“And hey, wanted to send you this.”
A photo appeared.
It was a different sort of creche, but, to Gilmore at least, quite touching. Two pitbulls, who had the appearance of giant baby hamsters and the expressions of sleepy angels, lay swirled on either side of GGDS on her hospital bed. GGDS looked down at them, a gnarled hand resting on each of their heads, with that same smile that had melted Gilmore’s heart. A caretaker in scrubs, and a woman wearing a NorthEast Kansas Pitbull Rescue Rousers Squad hoodie watched from either side, with expressions of fond amusement and rapt joy respectively.
Well, Gilmore thought, that’s something at least.
But there was more to be done. And to do it, she needed atmosphere. She typed in “Christmas yule log fireplace blizzard library window cat dog.” She could never quite find her platonic ideal of Christmas ASMR. Really, she should just design her own. But this would do.
Once it the digital fire was roaring, she opened Excel. It might take a few days to organize her thoughts, but she would put together this spreadsheet no matter what. She cracked her knuckles. And started.
GGDS and Gilmore met on FaceTime every other day, nominally in the quest to find Meryl Valance. But GGDS never remembered Meryl was dead or asked for updates. It was the same lament in the same progression: Meryl as Mary, nativity plays she’d known, creches, baby Jesus, and ending with Christ getting the heave-ho from the misguided masses.
Hoping it would give her comfort, Gilmore reminded GGDS she wasn’t alone in her distress. She had Doug show her articles on his laptop of the many people who were plenty dismayed. But it gave her no succor. Gilmore suspected GGDS wanted to be with people who’d seen what she’d seen and lived how she’d lived and would be sad more like how she was sad. And they were not thick on the ground anymore. In fact, they were becoming forgotten.
One morning, Gilmore, whose filter was not quite in place yet, had said, yawning, “I doubt anyone will remember me too far down the pike. Maybe a generation? Two?”
Gilmore found this idea painful, indescribably scary, sad, horrifying, and, in
flashes, mysteriously exhilarating.
But GGDS didn’t seem to have heard. Which may have been just as well.
“Switch out the wise men, Doug, honey,” GGDS was saying, pointing to what Gilmore thought of as the dueling creches on the side table. “They got mixed up.”
The next day, Gilmore finished the spreadsheet. She sent it as an attachment to Doug, asking if he could print it out for GGDS.
Twenty minutes later he called. “I don’t know if I can give this to her.”
“I was hoping we could really drill down on the situation.” A silence greeted this. “Or at least have a good discussion…?”
“Yeah. I don’t know.”
“Look, every day she’s more stuck in this feedback loop, Doug. Maybe it could help.”
“I know, but Gilmore this is too…”
“Too what?”
The spoke at the same time.
“Too weird,” he said
“Dispassionate?” she said.
“‘Dispassionate?’ Oh, I don’t know. I guess it’s O.K. Maybe she’ll see this like a crossword. Worth a try.”
The next day, before GGDS’s conversation could collapse into forgotten Christ despair, Gilmore directed them to the spreadsheet.
“Gilbert, this makes no sense,” said GGDS. “All this about robes and horns and…” she peered down with her magnifying glass. “Slapping.”
But Gilmore persisted. For fifteen minutes the second day, ten on the third.
On the fourth day Gilmore was still trying said. “Just write whatever comes into your mind. First thought, best thought.”
They were quiet. GGDS wrote, more vigor to her movements than usual.
“Can I see?” Gilmore asked, trying not to sound too eager.
GGDS lifted her spreadsheet. Across it was written CHRIST WAS BORN IN A MANGER.
“Fair,” said Gilmore.
“It’s just the Lord’s truth.”
Gilmore put aside her spreadsheet. “Ah, boy. I thought maybe we could find a new take. Or make it seem less awful.” She felt that queasy prickle that signals self-reflection. “But this was more for me than you. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful, Great-Grandmameemee Dorothy-Susan. Sorry. I got carried away.”
“Bless your heart. I know you mean well,” GGDS sighed. “But I do worry about your soul, honey.”
“You’re not the first to say it,” Gilmore said.
STAVE THREE
A few days later Gilmore texted Doug.
Any better?
🙏 but no
🫀 still?
Yes hard time breathing
Sorry to hear 🐀s hoped she be better 💔
She says hi
Hi back
She’s so pale. Dr comes back today. She’s even stopped talking about Meryl.
She’s really not feeling gud then
Yeah 😟
That Meryl.
Gilmore took a sip of coffee, mused, then continued texting:
Why r PKs always the worst?
PKs?
Preacher’s kids
Right. But worst what? M was the best
Yeah but when PKs go bad they go REALLY bad like what is his name that guy the creepy wizard guy
??? lost
Aleister Crowley ultimate PK “wickedest man in world”
Doug’s texting paused as if he were absorbing this, then began again:
What r u talking about
Gilmore sent him a wiki link. He texted:
But what got to do w M
M was PK
I know!!! 🙄 So what?
Now Gilmore she was confused. She texted:
The bank robbing.
What r u talking about?
Robbed banks.
Ha ha 👎
Not joke
Her cell rang.
“What?!” Doug said.
“I thought you knew,” Gilmore said.
“No!”
“Sorry—but how do you not know?” Gilmore said, surprised.
‘I only heard she was DEAD! No one said anything about banks!” Doug struggled. “She really was a—a—”
“Yeah. Died in hail of bullets in ‘64. Boise Bank and Loan.”
“Oh my god!”
“Yep.”
“Jesus. How do you know this?”
“I’m a detective,” Gilmore sniffed.
“This is terrible.”
“Mmmm-hmmm. You know, I bet Meryl’s family did everything they could to keep it quiet. Can you imagine?”
Gilmore heard an interrogative noise in the background—Bibi, Doug’s wife.
“Meryl became a bank robber,” he said to her, his voice toneless.
Gilmore heard an exclamation, laughter, and then apologetic noises.
“I guess Meryl really was a good actor,” said Gilmore. “Or maybe she just got bored.”
“You can never tell Great-Grandmameemee Dorothy-Susan,” Doug said.
She sensed Doug curling into himself, imagining what a blow this would be for GGDS.
“I won’t, Doug. I promise. Listen—I have an idea.”
STAVE FOUR
The Christmas lights strung across her sneaker collection twinkled merrily as Gilmore scrolled through the 23,457 photos on her phone. She didn’t need the photo for the task at hand. But she wanted to remember the moment she’d come across the most trenchant, powerful piece of persuasive ideology—mass-produced or otherwise—she had ever seen. Finally, she found it.
The photo had been taken a few Decembers ago in the gathering dusk in front of a nearby house. At first, the glowing figure in the snow looked like the any other molded plastic Christmas lawn decoration. But in this one, Santa had removed his pompom cap and held it in his clasped hands. His bald head was bowed, eyes closed, expression reverent as plastic-injection molding could manage. He kneeled in front of a cradle where a baby Jesus lay swaddled with a little crown over his head.
It didn’t take long to find “Santa Claus at Worship - lighted lawn figurine” at Amazama, a company that Gilmore wasn’t sure Christ would entirely approve of as it was perpetrating so many evils. But her last two detective cases had paid in Amazama gift cards, so…oh, who was she kidding, she bought stuff from there all the time.
She took a screen shot of “Santa Claus at Worship” and sent it to Doug, texting:
It’ll b there tmrw – but open first see if u think gud idea before u give to her
🙏 that nice of u G
👁️ what u think before u 🙏
👍 just about to text u. Great news! Dr. adjusted meds. There’s new heart one. Already SO MUCH better. Color back. Had extra Ensure this morning
Gilmore was very glad to hear it. She texted:
🎉❤️🫀!👍
Asked to see Tank and PittyPatty.
The 🐕s?
Yes. And she’s been humming all day
❤️
Bibi, Dad, and stepmom flying in today, she’s so excited
Awesome.
Gotta go. She says tell Gilbert to cash the check
👍
A few days later Gilmore received a photo of “Santa Claus at Worship” dead center on the small lawn outside the window. Doug had texted:
SHE LOVES IT
Phew. Really?
💯
🎄💥🎉🎶🤘
Cried. Talks about it all the time. Bibi says u worked a miracle
❤️ah geez
Dad wants to reimburse you.
No no
He says do you take Amazama gift cards?
It was a gift
He’ll insist - he’s like her
Ok fine
So Amazama?
Fine sure gift card 🙏 That’s nice
Really u did good thing
😊
Also she thinks maybe u will accept Lord after all someday
🥾🥪⚜️🥗💈🧠🧳🐩💣
What
Complicated
OK. Really thanks 🙏 G
U welcome. Gotta go. 1-hour party starts in 1 hour
Have fun
STAVE FIVE
Gilmore texted Doug Christmas Eve around 11:00 a.m.
Is she up?
Doug called.
He paused so long to speak she prompted him.
“Doug…? Are you there?”
He cleared his throat. “Gilmore…”
“What’s up?”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you. She’s gone,” he said.
“What?”
“She’s gone. Great-Grandmameemee Dorothy-Susan passed,” he said. “Sometime late last night.”
“Oh, Doug—I’m so sorry. Tell Bibi and your Dad too.”
“Yeah.”
“God,” Gilmore said. “Wow.”
“I know.”
“Dad’s out at the funeral home. Bibi’s here, though, I have you on speaker,” he sounded dazed. “Poor Dad. Of course, we knew it was coming, but…”
“Still, it’s hard. Of course, of course,” Gilmore hesitated. “I’m a little confused—I thought the doctor said she was much better.”
“She really was,” his voice grew momentarily cheerful. “I hadn’t heard her sing in a long time. She finished a crossword in like ten minutes.”
“Gosh. So.” She wasn’t sure if she should ask, but this was death, so why pretend? “Do they know what happened?”
“They’re not sure. Her heart probably,” he said, not particularly interested. “But listen, I wanted to tell you how much she loved the ‘Santa at Worship.’ She said it was the best— “his voice caught, “Christmas present she ever had. Dad was saying it even made up for the spreadsheet. I mean, not that—” Doug hurried on. “Dad’s a kidder—you know. Anyway. She loved it.”
“That’s great.”
“She had us move her hospital bed so she could look out the window, and see it on the lawn. In fact, she was looking at it when she died.”
“Wow,” said Gilmore. “She—was?”
“It almost seemed like she was…pointing at it,” he sounded dreamy as if envisioning the peaceful tableau.
“But—she really was better though? Before that? After they got the right meds?”
“Oh, yeah! She hadn’t used the walker in a year. She managed to take a lap around her bedroom before Tank and PittyPatty came over.”
“Huh.”
“Asked to put on her Christmas sweater and slippers.”
“Wow.”
“But once that lawn ornament arrived, Gilmore—she didn’t want to do much but look at it. She got quiet. But, peaceful. Good quiet.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And last night about 9:00 p.m. we got snow. Very light. We got her settled into her bed by the window. And she had us to put on ‘Silent Night.’ On repeat, actually. Dad had to leave the room it was driving him crazy. And when Bibi and I went to bed…she was still looking out… and…well. Somewhere in the night. That’s when she passed.”
“Huh.” Gilmore just said it. “Doug, do you think ‘Santa Claus at Worship’ killed her? Or that I did?”
“Maybe.” Doug who may not have been practicing deep listening.
“Doug!” Gilmore heard Bibi exclaim.
He sighed, repeating. “She just looked so peaceful.”
“Oh,” said Gilmore. “That’s a good thing I guess.”
“Yes, oh, I mean in a good way,” he said, his voice warm, still in a reverie. “She wasn’t sad, anymore, Gilmore. It made her so happy. It fixed something in her. So, if you—or it—did it was a good thing.”
There was murmuring in the background. Bibi’s voice was closer to the phone.
“Gilmore, Doug had like two hours of sleep. And he and his dad were drinking bad scotch half the night. He doesn’t realize what he’s saying.”
Doug seemed to snap out of it. “Oh. Sorry—of course I didn’t mean kill-kill exactly—”
“It’s O.K.,” Gilmore said.
There was a pause and Gilmore wondered if Bibi had nudged Doug as he said, more forcefully.
“No. Sorry. Really! You didn’t kill her! No way! Don’t worry!”
This wasn’t as comforting as it may sound, but Gilmore had lived long enough to know when it was time to press for reassurance and when it was time to silently spin out.
Doug began talking about the arrangements for the funeral.
STAVE SIX
Christmas morning dawned. The delicious smell of air frying prepackaged cinnamon rolls wafted through the kitchen. The sound of crunching kibble—UTI-prevention cat food, Turkey Champion Chow for Small Dogs, and Cheerios respectively—could be heard over Burl Ives enthusing about the Holly and the Jolly.
Gilmore was O.K. She knew if she had killed GGDS she’d have to live with it, but to be fair, Time would too. She’d carry it. Gilmore had done, or left undone, something in the bad old days of the 90’s that she’d carried for years. To a stranger who had trusted her with something precious.
But that story is for another day.
Gilmore snapped a photo of Faraday and Résolue intent on their food bowls and sent it to Doug texting:
Merry Christmas from Boston. Hope u/everyone doing O.K.
Doug sent a selfie of himself and Bibi on the couch in matching Christmas pajamas and robes. Gilmore smiled and texted.
Kno u r sad today but u two r adorable
He texted her about some funeral logistics. Then added:
I just hope we can find the gold
It was Christmas morning and a day of grief, and a real intrusion, but this was too tantalizing for any detective.
“Gold?” she said when Doug picked up.
GGDS’s husband, a sorghum farmer, had put a cache of his lifesavings into gold. He thought GGDS understood where it was hidden. She thought so too.
Unfortunately: no.
“We looked again a few years ago, when we thought her Medicaid was getting cut. No luck.”
“Huh,” said Gilmore. “That’s a puzzler. How could you not be clear to your partner where the gold was? Did they fight a lot?”
“No, no. They were good. Got along well.”
“Huh. Maybe they never got the hang of each other? How long were they married?”
“Seventy-two years.”
“Hmm.”
“I think it’s the opposite. They got the hang of each other so much they took it for granted that she’d know where he hid it.”
“I guess it’s a nice thing, then?” Gilmore hazarded, not wanting to sound toxically positive, but hoping to find a silver-lining.
“Maybe. Dad, Bibi, and I looked last night. Sugar bowl, linen cupboards, attic, coupon drawer—you name it. No luck.”
Gilmore poured more Cheerios into her bowl, topping off the remaining almond milk. Finding the perfect ratio is more art than science, as everyone knows, but she nailed it.
“Did you try the creches?” she asked.
There was a pause. “We must have.”
“You might look again.”
Exactly twelve hours later, Gilmore lay on the couch. All was calm and all was bright. Résolue slept on her back, all four paws up in the air like a dead bug, as per usual, oblivious to the teeny whistling tea-kettle snores emerging from sleek, sleeping swirl of Faraday beside her.
FaceTime rang.
“Hey, Doug, did you—”
Doug held up a shiny gold bar the size of a cell phone.
“You found it! Wow—it’s so pretty.”
Roused by this exclamation, Faraday and Résolue woke and came over to say hi to Doug or perhaps because any motion or sound Gilmore made just might herald treats.
Doug greeted Gilmore’s befurred friends.
“Look,” he said, then turned the gold bar over. A yellowed strip of masking tape dangled from it. The ink was faint but just legible. It read ZAZZ.
“Zazz?” Gilmore frowned. “Oh, Zazz! Her nickname.”
He nodded and pointed to a mark she couldn’t read. “Sixteen ounces. Bibi found it glued under the cradle. That creche by the door.”
“The big one. Her favorite. Right, yeah.” Gilmore stopped. “You can glue gold?”
“Yep.” He shifted it peering at a side. “Looks like plain old Elmer’s.”
“Jesus. Whattaya know.”
“Worth 47,000 bucks,” said Doug admiring the reflection in the light. “According to the internet. Just enough to pay for Dad’s medical debt.”
“Well, then, Merry Christmas,” she said.
A tacit agreement passed between them. The night’s tranquility would remain unbroken. They would not rail against the U.S. healthcare system.
“O.K.” Gilmore raised her Fresca. “To Great-Grandmameemee Dorothy-Susan.”
Doug raised his beer.
They toasted and drank.
“Thanks, Gilbert,” said Doug.
“I’m going to miss her calling me that.”
“I’m going to miss her. She was the best.” He put the gold down. “I didn’t get to tell you yet. I got the best present ever this year, too,” Doug said, with the same sweet smile as GGDS although Gilmore hadn’t quite noticed it before. “We’re pregnant! Bibi took the test this morning. She threw up a few times—we thought it was the Sugar Cookie Fudge—but when I didn’t get sick, well…” he paused and had to brush away a tear.
“Doug! Oh, I’m so happy for you two. Tell Bibi congrats.”
“Yeah,” he beamed.
They chatted a bit more about the funeral and the baby, but Doug had a big day tomorrow, and it was time to sleep.
And The Crux of Christmas Investigation case was closed.
“Merry Christmas, Doug,” said Gilmore.
“Merry Christmas, Gilmore,” said Doug.
She held up Faraday in the crook of one arm, and Résolue in the other saying:
“And God bless us all, everyone.”