Death Comes For Christmas

Chapter 1

The End

December 24-25

The dark stain of night spread over the city as lights winked on. Any lingering twilight was snuffed out by an Alberta Clipper, a rolling wave of cloud and snow pushed along at 50 miles an hour ahead of the jet stream. The barometer dropped. Windows whistled and moaned. Doors whined and thumped. Animals burrowed and huddled. The flatlands from eastern Alberta to Manitoba were in thrall to the storm, a tsunami of ice crystals blasting everything in its path.

This was no winter wonderland.

Freda Swenson had lived through eighty-five Saskatchewan winters. Some small part of her could tell by the keening wind it was going to be a wicked blizzard, but she had more serious worries. Death was coming, riding hard on a frost-rimed steed, setting a course for Freda, hungry for what was left of her life.

Through a foggy shimmer of consciousness, Freda looked up into a face so like her own.

Mama?

She felt a warm breath against her cheek as a voice softly murmured, “I’m here, just like I promised. Are you ready to go home?”

Freda realized she was ready. Despite Arthur, because of Arthur. She couldn’t put him through this. She blinked slowly, twice, tears blurring her vision.

Death’s cool fingers had been grasping at her ankles for years, or so she imagined, but tonight his chill crept into her bed. His cold breath wrapped around her, growing inside her like frost covering a window. Death lay next to her in the dark, a palpable entity, whispering a sweet invitation.

This time, Freda didn’t pull away.

There came a cold grip on her yet-beating heart.

Then, a little gasp of surprise and a deep sigh of instant knowing as Freda’s last breath rushed out, chasing her spirit into the night.

As the bitterly cold, gray dawn of Christmas approached, Freda lay lifeless, her wavy hair radiating on the pillow like a frosty silver halo. Her skin was a macabre hue of purplish-blue—her lips and fingernails an even deeper shade—making her appear frozen.

***

Dr. James Frederick Fitzgerald shook his head and clicked his pen open and closed, repeatedly, for what seemed like an eternity. Strains of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite filtered in from the hallway.

She looks like the queen of the sugar plum fairies.

He made a simple entry on the death certificate in his best scrawl.

Natural Causes.

What else could he do? It was Freda Swenson for god’s sake.

Chapter 2

Wish List

December 18

It was another painfully bright winter morning in Phoenix and the intense sunshine bouncing off the desk only made Camelia Belmont’s hangover dig in its heels. She flinched against the light ricocheting off the high-rises and got up to lower the blinds. The vista to the east—dusty pink Camelback Mountain against a flawless turquoise sky—was breathtaking. Wasn’t this what she had worked so hard to get? And yet, she wasn’t content.

Despite the envious view, Camelia was relieved it was her last day in the office for two whole glorious weeks. She craved a change of scenery, a white Christmas back in Canada, away from Arizona’s relentlessly cheerful weather, and far away from her demanding, irate clients. Her mind slipped into the daydream, stepping off the plane into a Narnia-like wonderland, crunching around Wascana Lake in her new boots, hugging a mug of cocoa at Willow Bistro, watching the sun set across the frozen lake.

Crisp, cozy, idyllic.

Surely, reconnecting with her roots would help put her work woes in perspective.

Camelia paused to remind herself that while her clients might nip at her like hungry coyotes most days, they weren’t all bad. But even on a good day—and those were increasingly rare—the divorce work didn’t satisfy her inner justice warrior. If she could just convince Byron to promote her … but advancing to partner was only the first step. And it wasn’t nearly enough if she was just going to be heading up the firm’s family law department. Laughable, really, since the so-called department was just her, a paralegal, and a shared junior associate with an attitude problem.

No, Camelia wanted more.

Like her name on the law firm letterhead and a lot more money.

You listening, Santa?

The firm’s monthly billing requirements were a painful reminder of her status as a senior associate. No power, no control, no clout. And yet, she was subsidizing her mother’s independent living rental, funding her husband’s new startup, and paying cash for therapy. On top of that, she was spending precious billable time on pro bono refugee cases. The work was urgent and compelling, so it was easy to rationalize, but it was killing her bottom line. She had to make partner—and a bigger paycheck—or give up on someone, but who? Her mother? Her husband? Herself? Desperate Central American refugees?

Camelia shook her head to dislodge the fog of alcohol clawing its way out of her system and swallowed another ibuprofen. These workday hangovers were torture and coming too often, lately. Her eyes burned, her insides were shaky and uncontained, and the misty bits of the evening she couldn’t quite remember made her feel vaguely ashamed. She tinkered with the thought of just a nip of vodka, some hair of the dog. Instead, she emptied the carafe of coffee into her cup and reviewed the list her paralegal, Cate Sanchez, had prepared.

I’ll be working overtime. Again.

Not that there was any such thing as overtime pay in a law practice. She didn’t dare do the math on hours versus income because she was pretty sure she was earning about the same as Cate when it came right down to it, and for what? There was no justice or moral high ground in divorce work. She couldn’t stomach the greed, the sense of entitlement, outright lies, rage attacks, and petty retributions that landed on her desk daily. It was exhausting to referee round after round of petty bickering between adults acting like toddlers. Most days, she was just aiding and abetting rich people in extracting their pound of flesh. And all her clients were rich, because ordinary people couldn’t afford the fees.

Hell, I can’t even afford me.

Camelia didn’t want to think about all these … issues, especially through the haze of a hangover. Besides, the pile of pleadings Cate had stacked neatly in order of priority wasn’t going away. As soon as she finished up—it wouldn’t take that long—Camelia could slip out for a little lunch. And a big glass of wine. A reward for diligence. A prize for not running into the street screaming.

She grabbed the first sheaf of pleadings and began to read, pen in hand.

Chapter 3

Framily

December 18

Camelia had barely begun working when her mobile phone buzzed: Rita Becker. Despite the weight of work, her face broke into a smile for her second cousin and lifelong friend.

“Rita! How’s my favorite cuz?”

“Hey Cam, is now a good time?”

Camelia assessed the stack of work in front of her.

“Absolutely.” She wished it were true. “Now is perfect. Way better than this stack of pleadings.”

“Sorry, you’re at work? I thought you’d be home packing. Don’t you guys leave tomorrow?” Rita asked.

“No, Sunday.”

“Okay, well, I’m just calling to nail down some time together before the entire holiday gets sucked into the Swenson vortex …” Rita said.

“And the Belmont vortex, too. Leon’s mother is over-scheduling, as usual.”

“Okay, let’s be real. I just want to make as many plans as possible so I can avoid being one-on-one with Mum and Kenna for more than an hour at a time,” Rita giggled.

“I do love my feisty Freda, but then she’s not my mother,” Camelia said. “As for your baby sister? Yeah, count me out. I can’t take the drama.”

“Speaking of drama, have you talked to Mum? She called this morning, going on about what to wear, and the Boxing Day menu. Again.”

“No, I haven’t talked to her. And if I’m gonna get out of here any time soon, I need to get my butt in gear,” Camelia said. “I’m way behind thanks to a huge shit show I had to deal with on Monday,” Camelia said.

“Ooooh. Details, please!”

“Okay, the short version. I represented the wife at a hearing, kind of a high profile case. Lawyer husband is a big swinging dick in litigator circles, represented by Spencer Ashcroft the third, and you know how I feel about Numeral Men,” Camelia said.

“Oh yeah, I remember a certain Jeremy the Fourth,” Rita said, laughing.

“Ashcroft is no better. Anyway, Wife is a scorned socialite. But, to be fair, I like her. She’s not your typical sucked and tucked Scottsdale bobble head. So, the case is barely a minute old, and I stepped in for a routine scheduling hearing,” Camelia said, relishing the retelling. “Just before the hearing kicks off, Ashcroft pulls me into the hall to make some bullshit settlement offer. And before I can even respond, here comes the wife, freaking out, saying the husband is having a heart attack,” Camelia said.

“Whaaaat?”

“Right? Then here come the deputies and the medics, clearing the area. Meanwhile, husband is down for the count …”

“Wait, he died right there?” Rita said.

“No, he lived, but he collapsed in the courtroom. And get this,” Camelia took a sip of coffee. “When the medics wheeled him out, I saw a Narcan box on the gurney, and he was purple. Looked like they just pulled him out of a snowbank …”

“Cyanosis …” Rita said.

“You’d know better than me. But, Narcan. He obviously OD’ed on something. And the wife is a nurse, or she used to be, so I expected her to be doing CPR or something instead of freaking out. It was a mess.”

“Jeez. Sounds like it. Did she slip him a little something to speed up the divorce?” Rita laughed. “Even compared to hospice—I mean, people die at my work every day—this sounds pretty crazy.”

“Well yeah, people go to your office to die, not mine! And these two are high rollers, at least by Phoenix standards. By the time I got back to the office, the media were all over us, so on top of having my hearing blow up, dealing with the cops, and managing my client, I gave my first press conference. All this on a Monday, for god’s sake,” Camelia said.

“Wow, look at you! Where can I watch it?” Rita asked.

“I’ll text you the link,” Camelia said. “Anyway, the husband lived and they’re saying it was a heart attack, but that open Narcan box makes me wonder.”

“Hmmm,” Rita paused. “My first guess would be cardiac arrest secondary to opioid overdose.”

She delivered the information so nonchalantly, Camelia thought she was kidding.

“Oh yeah, right. Mr. Litigator snorting oxy before a hearing? I kinda doubt it,” Camelia said, laughing.

“Or fentanyl. If he was purple, had a heart attack, and there was a Narcan box on the gurney …” Rita said.

“Really? I mean, he’s super successful, so why would he risk it all for something like that?” Camelia said.

“Did you just say that out loud?” Rita laughed. “Ever hear of addiction? Opioid crisis ring a bell? You’d be surprised who’s using. It’s everywhere.”

Camelia scribbled on a fresh legal pad: Anders / Fentanyl / opioid overdose?

It seemed so unlikely, so farfetched. But if Aaron Anders was using opioids, she could credibly argue he wasn’t competent to be running a law firm with access to millions of dollars of client money. With the new state rules about law firm ownership, Suzanne could end up running the firm.

“Yeah, I suppose, huh?” Camelia made a note to subpoena Anders’ medical records. “Anyway, enough about me, what’s going on with you?”

“Oh, you know, I see dead people,” Rita laughed. “It’s a one-eighty from working in Emerg, where you’re fighting tooth and nail to save everyone who walks in the door. Now I’m not saving … anyone.”

“It sounds like you kinda miss the ER.”

“I miss the comradery and the hustle, but I do not miss 12 hour shifts on my feet with no pee breaks and having drunk people vomit on me. Palliative care is just so different. I mean, we call it palliative but really I do MAID service.” Rita half laughed, but Camelia could hear a pang of sorrow in her friend’s voice.

“Huh?”

“It’s a joke. M-A-I-D. Medical Assistance in Dying. Maid service, get it? I know, I’m going straight to hell,” Rita said.

Camelia snorted. “Got it. Very clever. And you’re not going to hell, just a mild purgatory. It’s where all the best people are,” Camelia joked. “I always forget you guys legalized the act of dying. Very civilized.”

“That’s exactly what Mum says. When I talked to her this morning she told me for the 47th time that we are not to let her linger. Like that would happen,” Rita laughed. “Ben would unplug her if she had a hangnail!”

“Yeah, your brother’s not exactly the sentimental type. God, I hope she’s not sick? She would tell you, wouldn’t she?”

“I’m sure she’s fine. You know how she is when she gets an idea in her head, and Mum’s always been terrified of being bedridden, like her mother was at the end. And even though I do this for a living, it’s still weird to discuss end of life arrangements with her,” Rita said. “Plus, she doesn’t understand how strict and convoluted the rules are, and honestly, I don’t think she cares. I mean, it’s hard enough explaining it to my patients, never mind getting the point across to my mother. But, it’s my job now, right?” Her voice sagged into the phone.

“If it helps, I can talk to her about it. You know, as the lawyer in the family,” Camelia said.

“Well, she’s always listened to you more than the rest of us.”

“Isn’t that always the way?” Camelia asked, with a laugh.

“Yeah, pretty much. We can talk about it next week. What time do you guys land in Regina?”

Rita and Camelia compared calendars.

“We’re still on for New Year’s Eve, right?” Camelia asked.

“Yep. Do you guys want to go out, or stay in?”

“We’re gonna do a little of both.” Camelia paused. “Okay, I can’t keep this secret another minute. We have a little surprise Christmas gift for you and Dave.”

“Oh? I thought we weren’t doing that …”

“I know. No gifts. But this is different. We got tickets to the Colin James New Year’s concert at the old Trianon Ballroom. Can you believe it?” Camelia said.

Rita squealed. “Oh my god. Are you kidding? Dave will be over the moon! But how on earth did you get tickets? I thought they sold out ages ago!”

“They did, and I’m as shocked as you that I managed to get such great seats. So, Merry Christmas!” Camelia said.

“That’s a helluva Christmas present! I can’t wait to tell Dave,” Rita said. “Can we get together on the 27th, too? Just the four of us? We’ll come to you for a break from the family. We’ll no doubt need it after the Boxing Day party,” Rita said, laughing.

“Hey, I’m family too,” Camelia laughed.

“No, hon, you’re framily, and that’s completely different,” Rita said. “And promise me, next year, we go lay on a beach somewhere, okay? Now, get back to work and I’ll see you next week.”

Camelia’s mood had lightened with something tangible to look forward to: enjoying time with Rita and Dave, people she could relax with, away from the rest of the family. Almost like a real vacation.

But first, this godawful pile of paperwork.

Chapter 4

Thirsty

December 18

It was barely 11 o’clock but Camelia already needed a drink.

It’s coming earlier every day.

She rolled her shoulders to dislodge the thought, took a long drink of water, and bent to the tasks her assistant had organized for her. She was reviewing a financial affidavit when Cate walked in.

“Nina Garry is on line three. She wants to buy you lunch, so she must have another pro bono case,” she said. “And here’s the asset list on the Forman case. You’ll see there are a couple of account numbers missing, but I’m following up on it.”

“Forman? That’s not our case.”

“Hate to break it to you, but it will be. Byron wants to see you as soon as you have a minute,” Cate said, peering over her shoulder through the open doorway. She stepped into Camelia’s office and pushed the door shut. “Brace yourself. He seems really pissed off.”

“About what? Wait, hang on,” Camelia said, holding up her index finger.

Camelia really wanted to slip away and meet Nina at the Biltmore, drain a bottle of pinot noir, and call it a day, but an angry Byron coupled with the stack of files on her desk were like ominous clouds, warning her away.

“Hey Nina, can I get a rain check?”

“On lunch, yes. On this emergency hearing? No. Can you take it? The hearing is Tuesday,” Nina said.

Camelia paused. “Is it telephonic?”

“It can be, if you think you can cover it. Mom and two kids are about to be deported back to Nicaragua if we don’t get an extension,” Nina said.

Camelia looked up. Cate was shaking her head, pointing at the stack of files on her desk. She stage whispered, “No way. Don’t do it.”

“I just ... dammit Nina. I really wish I could, but I’m under the gun. I’m so sorry,” she said.

“I get it. You weren’t my first call and you won’t be my last and hey, have a good Christmas. Let’s catch up after the holidays,” Nina said.