Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 127, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 775 & 776, March/April 2006

Yankee Swap by Maurissa Guibord

A member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators, Maurissa Guibord has sold three children’s mystery stories, to Highlights for Children and Children’s Writer. The following is her first published work of adult fiction. Ms. Guibord hails from Scarborough, Maine; she’s set her story at a holiday party, where a gift exchange turns nasty.

I am not a lonely widow. Contrary to what most of this town seems to think, I am not (a) sitting around looking for ways to while away the hours, (b) impoverished and requiring endless noodle casseroles to sustain my body weight, or (c) pining after male companionship, i.e. sex-starved. Don’t get me wrong, the day that Jack died was the worst day I’ll ever live. I go over that day in my head so much that it seems like a groove carved into my brain, a track that my thoughts slip into whenever there’s dead air time.

That’s why I stay busy. That’s why I don’t care that Peter Drewgall (or “Boss Hogg,” as we like to call him) won’t hire another staff writer to take up the slack at the Witka Leader. And that’s why I said okay when my neighbor Alison talked me into going to the Women’s League potluck at St. Joe’s. The Women’s League? I told Alison I don’t like the idea of belonging to a “Women’s League.” It sounds like something you need a hidden super power to join. Either that or your own bowling shoes.

But Alison has been a good friend to me. And hey, when it’s Witka, Maine, and it’s twelve degrees outside on a Sunday night, what are you gonna do?

“It’s a little nasty out there,” muttered Alison. She stomped clumps of snow off her fur-trimmed boots and shook her parka onto my kitchen floor. “You ready?”

“Not quite.” I peered out the window and saw the swirling snow caught in the lamplight on the porch. “You sure they won’t call this off because of the weather?”

“Nah.” She yanked off her beret to reveal her spiky hair, which had taken a drastic turn for the red. Unfortunately, the roots still had the remains of the strawberry blond that she had been trying on for the last couple of months, which gave her an odd, two-toned effect. “You like?”

“Wow.”

“I know, I know,” she moaned. “I look like a friggin’ candycorn.”

“Hmm,” I stalled. “Does Billy like it?”

“Who can ever tell with that man?” Alison fumed. “Everything’s ‘nice.’ Everything’s ‘fine.’” She frowned and picked at her fingernails, which, beneath the French-manicure glue-ons, I knew were bitten to the quick. “Where’s your Yankee-swap thingy?” she asked.

“I got this.” I pulled out the little day-calendar book I had picked up. It was lovely — fat and wire-bound with reproductions of watery Impressionist paintings on the pages. It was the kind of thing that I would never dream of marring with my pencil-scrabble life. I put it back in its little nest of tissue paper. “You’ve got to explain this ‘Yankee swap,’ though; I still don’t get it.”

“Oh, you’ll see how it works. It’s hysterical.” She hefted the Crockpot of chili off the stove. “C’mon.”

The lights in the church hall were dim, and there was a portable CD player wafting out some instrumental Christmas music. A number of round tables had been set out, decorated with red paper tablecloths and centerpieces of candles ringed with evergreens and plastic poinsettia flowers. Alison brought our gifts over to a table decorated with a miniature Christmas tree while I unloaded my chili and my winter layers.

I had to admit, looking around, that it was actually quite nice, cheerful looking, after coming in from the slick snowy roads. But as it turned out, most people seemed to have followed my instincts and stayed, sensibly, at home. There were only five women in the church hall when we got there, most of whom I recognized in my capacity as the town’s chief (only) newshound. These early arrivals were all sitting at one table and made room for Alison and me.

I sat down next to Flora Doucette and her daughter, Monique. Flora Doucette is the widow of one of the town’s richest men, Judge Herbert Doucette. She’s probably in her early seventies, but looks a lot older thanks to time and osteoporosis, which have collapsed Flora’s spine into the shape of a crooked Bo-peep shank. Her neck angles forward from her humped shoulders and her head hangs down so that her chin rests on her chest. Flora has to peer up at you when she speaks, which looks so uncomfortable to me I can’t even tell you.

“Mony,” Flora said, swiveling her head in her daughter’s direction. “Make room, dear.”

Mony Doucette is a pretty ash-blond woman who is as straight as her mother is bent. Mony nodded, nudged her chair over, and went on talking to the woman beside her animatedly, her hands fluttering like trapped, gold-laden moths. It sounded like she was going over the details of her divorce settlement again. So far from being broken up about it, Mony seems to treat her divorce as the pivotal achievement of her life. She takes any opportunity to relate the whole grisly tale of Kurt’s cheating, their tearful make-ups, and her own final, courageous quest for fiscal retribution.

Listening to Mony with a patient expression was Joan Sampson, the church secretary. Joan knows every detail about St. Joe’s and its parishioners. She’s the one who calls the paper with the seniors’ lunch menu, the dates for craft fairs, bean suppers, and so on. Joan always seems to know who in Witka is sick, whose kid just got into an Ivy League school, and whose car got towed by AAA. Yet as far as I can tell, nobody knows squat about Joan. Except that she’s married to the church deacon, Ralph Sampson. Joan is the kind of medium-sized, brown-haired, pleasant-looking woman whom you would have difficulty describing afterward if she ever robbed a bank. I should tell her that.

I was glad to see the person sitting next to me.

“Hi, Roxanne,” I said.

Roxanne Charms turned around. “Phoebe,” she said with a smile, “I’m glad Alison talked you into coming.” Roxanne’s curly hair was clamped down on one side with a clip in the shape of a pink rhinestone Cadillac. She was wearing a nubby brown cardigan, jeans, and a violently green silk scarf. Despite her scattered, frowsy look, Roxanne is one of the smartest women I know. She’s got a master’s in social work and she works at Brookside, a private school for troubled adolescents.

“Why, was it your idea to invite me?” I said.

Roxanne shrugged. “You do need to get out more, Phoebe. Roger and I were talking about it. Winter’s a very hard time in Maine. You know, being stuck inside all the time, no sunlight.”

Roxanne’s husband Roger is a psychiatrist. Needless to say, it makes one feel a little testy to know that you’ve become conversation material in a house like that.

“Listen, I don’t have seasonal affective disorder or dysthymia or delayed grief reaction or any of that crap, Roxanne,” I huffed. “So could you just punch out on the psycho clock for one evening?” Of course I felt rotten after saying this, but Roxanne didn’t look ruffled. She was probably used to ingrates with poor insight.

“Of course, I’m sorry, Phoebe. I am glad to see you, though.”

“Likewise. Is that coffee?”

“I’m being good,” said Roxanne with a nod, and raised her cup. “Decaf.”

The last woman at the table, I didn’t know. “I’m Phoebe,” I said, and extended my hand across the table to her. She was a sleek, athletic-looking woman with blond bobbed hair, in her early forties, maybe. She was dressed in a silk blouse and cream-colored wool trousers, which as far as I could see had not a trace of the parking-lot salt or slush that my paisley skirt had soaked up on the way in.

“Donna Pellegrini,” she said with a smile and a cool, brisk handshake.

“I’ve invited Donna to join our little women’s group,” said Flora, peering up at us from her chest. “She’s a lawyer. She just recently joined Herbert’s firm in Portland.” There were scattered murmurs of approval from around the table and two pink spots of pleasure bloomed in the dust of Flora Doucette’s powdered cheeks. Of course, no one would mention the fact that Herbert Doucette had been dead for six years and it was a lot longer than that since he was in practice. To Flora, the law office of Schein and Doucette was still and ever would be “Herbert’s firm.”

Donna the lawyer looked kind of embarrassed, and I felt a bit sorry for her. Flora had introduced her as if she were a show-and-tell at school.

“Phoebe’s new to our group, too,” Alison piped up. “I talked her into coming to the potluck.”

Everyone was looking at me expectantly. “Oh, I just came for the pot,” I said with a big smile. Nobody laughed, and Donna the lawyer raised her eyebrow at me. I had the sudden urge to sink beneath the table.

“What did she say?” muttered Flora.

“Maybe we’ll be in the paper, Mother,” said Mony, smiling brightly.

“That would be nice,” agreed Flora. “I’m sick of all those reports about town-council squabbles and zoning and people arguing about walking their dogs on the beaches.” She sniffed. “Nasty things, leaving piles of poop everywhere.”

“Joan, did you make that blueberry-streusel thingy?” asked Alison. “I love that.”

We had dinner, which for me included lasagna, chili, three-bean salad, spinach salad, garlic bread, blueberry pie, and two glasses of merlot (I choose to be blissfully ignorant of the difference between a carbohydrate and a velociraptor). Alison talked about the latest self-help book she had been reading and asked Roxanne for her opinion about her hair. We chatted about Donna’s practice — she was in real-estate law and doing very well, it sounded. Everyone joked about kids, husbands, and reality TV shows. All, unfortunately, things on which I have not much to say.

Finally Joan announced that it was time for the gifts.

“Oh, my favorite part,” said Roxanne. “Just wait till you see what I brought.”

“Okay. For those of you who don’t know how a Yankee swap works,” said Alison, rolling her eyes in my direction, “we make out strips of paper, each with a number, from one to seven, since there are seven of us tonight.” Alison proceeded to do this and then neatly folded each paper into a little square. She placed these in the bottom of a Christmas stocking. “Okay. Now we each pick a number. Why don’t we start with Flora and go around.”

Flora Doucette reached a knotted hand into the stocking and pulled out a paper.

“No peeking now, Mother,” said Mony.

“I didn’t peek,” snapped Flora.

One by one, each of the women picked a slip of paper until it came around the table to Alison, who was next to me. “Let’s see — not much left,” she said, feeling around in the stocking. She pulled out her paper and handed the stocking to me.

I reached in and took the remaining number.

“Okay, ladies,” said Joan, “everybody can look at her number now.”

I looked down. There in red marker was the number one. I leaned over to Alison and showed her. “Is this good?”

“Phoebe got number one!” shouted Alison. “That means you can have any present you want.” Her eyes were bright, just like a kid’s. It was the most excited I had seen Alison in a long time.

“Remember last year?” said Mony. “I had number one. I got the most wonderful draft stopper. Balsam-filled. I had to steal it away from you, Joan, didn’t I?”

“I really don’t remember,” said Joan with a stiff smile back at Mony. She turned to me. “You pick a present first, Phoebe.”

I went over and picked a small box wrapped in blue foil paper and decorated with a burst of green ribbon. Inside was a tree ornament — a jolly-looking Santa Claus with a lobster trap, wearing fisherman’s gear.

“How cute,” I said, turning it over in my hands. It really was, and I could picture just where we would put it on our Christmas tree. Me, I meant, giving myself a mental shake. I would put it on the tree.

“Don’t get too attached.”

“What?” I turned to Alison.

She pointed to the ornament. “Someone with a higher number can take it away from you when it’s their turn.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Uh-uh,” said Alison. She shook her cropped head, which sent her silver hoop earrings jangling. She leaned over. “It’s pretty funny how hepped-up some of these gals get over a ten-dollar gift.” She looked around. “There’s not many of us this year, though. So it might be kind of boring.”

“This is a church,” I said with a laugh. “Whatever happened to ‘Do not covet thy neighbor’s...’” I paused, trying to think of what it was you aren’t supposed to covet.

“Chia pet,” Roxanne finished for me, joining our conversation. “That’s what I ended up with last year. And excuse me, but have you read the Old Testament lately? There’s more greed and lust and vengeful acts in there than you can shake a stick at.”

“I guess I’m next,” said Mony, and walked over to the table. She picked up a large gift bag and came back to the table. “It’s light,” she said, jiggling the bag. After wading through a lot of tissue paper she finally emerged with a small black object. “Oh, it’s a pedometer.”

“It tells you how many steps you’ve taken, or the miles. It plays music, too, while you walk,” said Roxanne, beaming.

“That’s cute,” said Mony. She gave a little smile to Roxanne that said she wouldn’t be caught dead doing something so desperate as counting her steps, for heaven’s sakes. She probably has a personal trainer do it for her, I thought.

Next was Alison. “Three’s my lucky number,” she said, surveying the packages beneath the twinkling lights of the tree. She came back and held the package out to me, with her other hand out. “Okay, lady,” she said, shrugging her shoulders up around her ears and turning her voice into New Jersey gravel. “Hand over da Santa and der won’t be no trouble.” Everyone laughed.

“This is barbaric,” I muttered, reluctantly handing over my gift. I opened up the package that Alison had picked. It was a set of kitchen towels and oven mitts decorated in a muddy brown “Currier and Ives” theme.

“Ooh. Pretty,” I said, holding them up for everyone to see. They weren’t, really, and I couldn’t picture doing anything at all with them.

“I guess I’m next,” said Donna, “number four.” She picked up a small gift bag decorated with little elves scampering around a toy shop. She laughed as she looked inside the bag. “Oh, a movie,” she said. “That’s great.” She lifted it out. It was just a black VHS cassette with no jacket. Donna looked around a little uncertainly. “There’s no cover to it.”

“Isn’t there a label or something?” said Joan, but even as she spoke we all saw Donna turn the tape over. There was a plain white label on the cassette. Someone had written on it in big, crude, block letters. I couldn’t make out what it said, but I could see the blotchy flush of color rise up over Donna’s neck as she read it.

“Well, what does it say?” said Alison.

“It says...” Donna smiled nervously and let out an uncertain cough of laughter. “It says, ‘You and My Husband.’” Donna looked around at everyone and then again at the squat black rectangle of the cassette. The smile faded from her face as she put it down on the table in front of her and sat.

You and my husband? There was a silence around the table as everyone stared at the tape, lying in the midst of discarded ribbons and crumpled tissue paper. The writing on the label was odd: The letters looked as if they had been written with a black magic marker in a coarse, almost childish style. As if someone had deliberately tried to mask their writing (or maybe was so upset their hands were shaky as they wrote?).

In the flickering light from the candle in the center of the table, the women’s faces looked uneasy. Celtic harp music was playing in the background now, and to me the plinking notes suddenly sounded mawkish and sickly sweet.

Alison finally broke the quiet at the table with a nervous haw of laughter. “It’s a gag gift.” She craned her head to look at the label. “Somebody must have peeled the label from a dirty movie and put that one on.”

Donna looked at her with disgust. “What kind of sick person would—” Her voice broke off suddenly and she closed her mouth so abruptly that I thought I heard her teeth snap together.

“That was not in very good taste, Alison,” said Flora in a voice as frosty as her hair.

“I didn’t mean to say that I brought it,” said Alison with a shocked expression. “It’s not mine.”

“Well, who did bring it?” I asked. “It shouldn’t be too hard to figure out. There’s only seven of us.”

“We’re not supposed to tell who brought what,” said Joan quietly, toying with the remains of her pie with a fork.

“Oh, c’mon, Joan. That’s silly,” said Mony. “Whoever brought the tape just tell. We’re all friends. Right?”

“Well, obviously two of us aren’t,” said Roxanne, looking around.

No one spoke. I tugged my sweater around myself; it felt drafty in here. The candle in the center of the table flickered light and shadow over the faces of the other six women. The room lights in the hall were down so low that it was dark all around us, giving the eerie impression that the table we sat at was drifting in a pool of blackness.

“Oh, just let’s finish the swap,” said Alison. “I’ve got to get home pretty soon.”

“Right, number five, that’s me.” Roxanne went over to the table and held back her froth of hair to peer at the gifts remaining. “I like purple.” She picked up a tall bag and carried it back. “Uh-oh,” she said, feeling the sides of the bag. “I think I know what this is.” She turned to Donna. “Sorry, I’ve got to trade with somebody, and yours has got me curious.”

She stood in front of Donna, who picked up the tape uncertainly and handed it to her in slow motion, as though she was reluctant to let go of it.

Donna then reached into the purple bag that Roxanne had chosen. “A bottle of wine,” she said, looking around. She looked as though she was going to cry with relief.

“Yeah,” said Roxanne with a little grimace, “I could tell by the feel of it. That would have gone over great at my next AA meeting.” Roxanne has been sober for three years now. But I was a little puzzled. I could have told her that that bag had a bottle of booze in it. I had seen Alison bring it, and I mean, you could tell just by the shape of it.

“Good for you, dear,” said Flora to Roxanne with an approving bobble of her head.

Joan went up next and got the gift that I had brought. She walked straight over to Roxanne and set the bag in front of her. “I’m curious, too,” said Joan, and looking around at the rest of us with a defiant air, she picked up the tape and walked back to her seat.

“Oh well,” said Roxanne, with mock drama. “Now I guess I’ll never know somebody’s deep dark secret.”

Flora rose up from her seat and went to the table last. I suddenly realized that I couldn’t wait for this to be over with. Driving home with Alison I could joke about the evening, that would be fun. We could have a little gossip fest about who was cheating on whom. But right now I just wanted to get out of this room. “Something is wrong here,” said Flora from over at the gift table.

“What’s wrong, Mother?” said Mony, turning.

“There are too many gifts here. I’m the last one. I’m number seven. There should only be one gift left.” She was right. I could see there were two packages left on the table. “Well, I just don’t know what to think,” Flora said in a fretful voice.

“Who brought two gifts?” she demanded. No one spoke.

“What do we do now?” said Joan with a frown.

I looked at Joan and almost laughed. She acted as if this was an actual, serious problem. Hoo boy, I really needed to go. I could feel all my social graces getting rubbed off.

“I guess you get both of them, Flora,” I called over.

Flora Doucette came back to the table clutching two gift bags in her hands. She shuffled over to where Joan was sitting. With her stooped posture, the poor thing looked just like a little granny vulture swooping down with her captive prey in her claws.

“I’m going to give you this one, Joan,” she said, placing a beribboned plaid bag in front of Joan, “and we’re going to throw away this nasty tape.” She literally pulled the tape out of Joan’s hands. Joan’s lips pressed together into a tight little line and she glared at Flora. But she didn’t say a word.

“You can’t do that, Mother,” said Mony uncertainly. “Can you?”

But Flora ignored her daughter and settled into her chair, tucking the tape under her napkin. She then opened her gift, which turned out to be a box of chocolates with caramel and nuts — “Turtles,” she said with an instructive glance at all of us. “Now that’s a nice gift.”

Joan opened the last gift with a look of grim resignation. It was one of those big pillar candles decorated with peppermint-colored bits and sprigs of greenery inside the wax. I’ve always wondered what happened to that stuff when you actually burned one of those things. But maybe nobody ever does. Joan didn’t even bother to comment on it.

“Well, that’s that,” said Roxanne, letting out a deep breath.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Don’t I get to choose last?” Sure, I know, I wanted to leave, but I wasn’t about to forgo all my swapping rights. I held up my slip of paper and gave it a little wave. “Numero uno. Remember?”

“She’s right,” said Alison with a sigh. “Let me guess. You want your Santa Claus back.”

“Hmm,” I said, drawing out the suspense a little. “Nope.” I pointed to the napkin in front of Flora, where the corner of the tape just showed. It looked like a black snake, peeking out from its little dark cave of a hiding place. “I’ll take the tape, Flora,” I said. I stood up and held out my hand.

“We are going to throw it away, Phoebe.” Mony Doucette spoke to me as if I were a slow-witted child. “Mother just said so.” Her outraged expression as she watched Flora give me the tape said that I had clearly overstepped my bounds as a newcomer.

“You know, I think you should throw it out, Phoebe,” said Roxanne with a worried frown. She twisted a curl of her hair in her finger, winding it around and around. “Even though I’m sure it’s a perfectly harmless little... joke.”

“Maybe whoever brought it should just fess up and tell what’s on the stupid thingy so we could all go home,” said Alison, looking around expectantly.

No one answered, of course. Whoever brought the tape, if they intended it as a joke, would be too embarrassed to admit to it now. And what about if it wasn’t meant as a joke? Somehow I just didn’t want to think about that.

“Well, there were eight gifts, right?” I reasoned aloud. “And only seven of us.” I looked around. “That bag probably wasn’t even meant for one of us. Anyone could have left it there. Earlier. Before the dinner.”

“Joan, you were here in the office all day,” said Mony. “Did you notice it?”

“I really can’t be sure,” she said. “Everything was all set up. I mean, I decorated the tabletop tree and did the centerpieces on Wednesday for the seniors’ lunch.” She looked over at the table. “But now that I think about it, I’m sure there weren’t any packages under that tree when I put mine there. No,” she added emphatically. “Mine was the first.”

“Isn’t there a TV with a VCR in the library?” offered Mony. “We could just watch it. Then we’d know.”

Yes, I thought, looking around the table. Then we would all know.

“Sounds good to me,” said Roxanne, looking at her watch pointedly.

“No!” the word was spat from Donna Pellegrini’s mouth so violently that everyone turned to look at her.

“Just stop it! Stop it, all of you.” Donna’s voice caught in her throat and she was blinking hard. “What’s the matter with you?” She took a sip of her coffee with shaking hands.

“What is it?” said Alison, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“She knows,” said Donna, and she lifted her red-rimmed eyes and pointed across the table. She pointed at Flora Doucette.

“Whatever are you talking about, dear?” asked Flora, staring back across the table. But she was holding herself very still as she spoke, and her voice was slow and wary.

“I’m talking about the reason why you invited me here, Mrs. Doucette.” Donna’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “To embarrass me, maybe? Maybe even drive me out of town?” Her voice kept on rising as she spoke, until it broke at the end and she took a ragged breath.

Mony Doucette looked at Donna Pellegrini, then at her mother. “Stop,” she said in a plaintive little whisper.

“No,” said Flora, never taking her eyes from Donna’s face, as if she was mesmerized. “Go on.”

“Well, I don’t need to tell you what a perverted old creep you were married to. Do I?” cried Donna. She seemed to be gaining her composure, but her breath was coming in short, hard gasps. “But for God’s sake, Mrs. Doucette,” she went on, “it was almost twenty years ago.”

Donna clutched her napkin in her hand and held it near her mouth as if it were going to soften what she had to say. She stared down at the table. “I was doing a college practicum in the law office. He—” she swallowed, then cast a quick glance around the table before going on. “Herbert said he could get me into law school. But only if I... did things for him. Herbert liked to watch. And he would take videos while I—”

“Shut up!” screamed Flora, as if she only just realized that everyone was hearing this. She suddenly snapped into action and we all just sat there, stunned and staring, as Flora, well, unfolded. Because that’s exactly what Flora did. She heaved herself up and pitching forward, leaned over the table. Her knobbled hands began to rake the tablecloth, clawing at glasses, spilling her purse, and knocking silverware to the floor as if she was trying to gain a purchase, trying to actually climb over the table. “How dare you,” she sputtered. “You little slut. That’s a lie. Herbert was a judge.”

“He was a filthy lech who abused his position,” Donna shouted back in a voice that echoed into the corners of the dark hall. “And if you want everyone to know about it, well, lady, everyone is gonna know.”

I can’t describe exactly how this next part happened with all of us just sitting there. I like to imagine myself as someone who would act in a time of crisis, who would jump up and knock the gun out of the terrorist’s hands, jump in front of the bus to save a child, and so on. I have even imagined different scenarios and the type of cool, preemptive actions I would take. But I found out that I’m not that kind of person. Because while I sat there watching, sweet little old Flora Doucette somehow stabbed Donna Pellegrini in the chest. Twice.

One second I saw something shiny glittering in Flora’s hand as she came scuttling around the table toward Donna, and then the next second I heard a gasping sound. It was Flora who was gasping for breath, looking in amazement at the blooming stain of blood she had just created on the taller woman’s white blouse. And then Flora was tugging at the pink handle of the shiny thing. Donna seemed frozen, too, until she moaned and put up a hand and helped Flora pull the nail file from her own chest. Only to have Flora sink it into her again with a dreadful little shrieking noise from deep in her throat.

Finally it was Mony who scrambled forward, gripped her mother by the shoulders, and pulled her away. “That’s enough, Mother,” she said, adding, “you’ll hurt yourself.” She took the bloody file away from her mother gently, as if it were a game at which Flora was getting overheated.

It was several hours later, after the ambulance had taken Donna (the EMTs told us that she had a collapsed lung but would probably be okay) and the police had finished interviewing all of us, that we finally got to go home. They had already taken Flora Doucette out on a stretcher, looking confused and clutching her daughter’s hand. I think she looked worse than her victim had. Her watery blue eyes were cloudy and her face was the color of cold dishwater. I thought about how crazy love could make you, even if it was for someone dead and buried.

I was exhausted, but refused the offer of a drive home in the police car. Alison would be with me, and she had called Billy to tell him she’d be home late.

“Some Women’s League,” I said to Alison. My shakiness and shock had worn off and it had stopped snowing, but I still drove at a crawl along the dark, empty road. “Pardon me if I never go to another of your Yankee Swaps.”

“I’ll understand,” Alison said with a laugh.

“Good.” I turned on the radio.

“No, I mean it,” she repeated slowly. “I’ll understand.”

Alison reached over and switched off the radio. “Tell me about you and Billy.”

Now there was something shiny in Alison’s hand. And it wasn’t a nail file.

“The police aren’t going to find anything on that tape, Phoebes,” she said quietly. “It’s empty. I had the extra gift bag hidden in my parka. I put it out when I put our other gifts on the table. How was I supposed to know that Donna would think it was of her?” Alison said irritably. “Or that Flora would go nuts? I just thought that it might encourage you to tell me the truth. You know, to open up a dialogue.”

My heart, which I didn’t think could beat any faster than it already had that night, was trying to sprint out of my chest. I could almost hear all those self-help books and personal-power tapes tumbling around in Alison’s head.

“I even kept the number one in my hand,” she said, “and put it back in when I picked my number so you would get it. Wasn’t that clever? You could have swapped for anything you wanted. And you picked the tape. You wanted to know if stupid little Alison had figured it out.”

I was gripping the steering wheel so tight that I couldn’t feel my fingers. My foot pressed down hard on the gas and we began to hurtle through the dark toward the curve in the road up ahead. I didn’t turn my head. I didn’t want to look over at Alison — I knew she was staring at me with the dark shadows flying past the window behind her. I was afraid that if I turned and saw her face, if I saw what was there, I wouldn’t be able to think.

“Just tell me the truth.” Alison’s voice slid next to me in the darkness and from the corner of my eye I could see the gleam on the barrel of the gun. “Then we can all have... What is that thingy?” she murmured. “Oh yeah. Closure.”