A Happy Holiday

  A Happy Holiday

  A Nick Williams Mystery

  Book 17

  By Frank W. Butterfield

  Nick Williams Mysteries

  The Unexpected Heiress

  The Amorous Attorney

  The Sartorial Senator

  The Laconic Lumberjack

  The Perplexed Pumpkin

  The Savage Son

  The Mangled Mobster

  The Iniquitous Investigator

  The Voluptuous Vixen

  The Timid Traitor

  The Sodden Sailor

  The Excluded Exile

  The Paradoxical Parent

  The Pitiful Player

  The Childish Churl

  The Rotten Rancher

  A Happy Holiday

  Nick & Carter Stories

  An Enchanted Beginning

  Golden Gate Love Stories

  The One He Waited For

  Their Own Hidden Island

  © 2017 by Frank W. Butterfield. All rights reserved.

  No part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express written permission of the copyright holder.

  This book contains explicit language and suggestive situations.

  This is a work of fiction that refers to historical figures, locales, and events, along with many completely fictional ones. The primary characters are utterly fictional and do not resemble anyone that I have ever met or known of.

  Cover photo © 2017 by Drew Rozell. All rights reserved. Used with grateful permission.

  NW17-K-20180117

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  Acknowledgments

  Historical Notes

  More Information

  Happy

  ˈhapē

  1. Feeling or showing pleasure or contentment

  Holiday

  ˈhä-lə-ˌdā

  1. Holy day

  2. A day on which one is exempt from work; specifically: a day marked by a general suspension of work in commemoration of an event

  Chapter 1

  1198 Sacramento Street

  San Francisco, Cal.

  Monday, December 19, 1955

  Half past 4 in the morning

  "Do you have everything?"

  I looked up at Carter from my side of the bed. I was leaning over and lacing my boots. "Gustav took care of it all. The trunk is down in the car."

  Carter, my tall, muscled, ex-fireman of a husband was looking around the bedroom. "How cold do you think it will get?"

  "I have no idea." I sat up and looked over at him. He was obviously nervous about something. It might have been about spending the next eight days cooped up in the middle of Nowhere, Vermont for a big family Christmas. Or it might have been about leaving our home on Nob Hill in San Francisco for the unforeseeable future. Or it might have been something as simple as the fact that he was worried about how cold it could be in a place as foreign to us both as Vermont. It might have even been all three.

  While I was thinking about that he caught me watching him, so I grinned at him and said, "Carter Woodrow Wilson Jones, if you don't know what else to do, you could lace up these boots for me. I should have broken them in. The leather is stiff."

  He nodded and knelt down in front of me. He yanked on the laces of the boot on my left foot. As he did, I could feel that odd sort of comfort which came from having my ankle and calf held tightly in place.

  Over the previous week, we had spent a fair amount of time preparing for eight days in Vermont. We'd been buying clothes of all sorts that we didn't usually need in San Francisco: bulky sweaters, thick socks, heavy boots, mufflers, gloves, and warm overcoats. We'd finally decided to buy a couple of sets of flannel pajamas for sleeping in, along with robes to cover up with. Usually we slept in our BVDs or nothing. But with company coming and going, we thought it would be better to be covered up than not.

  Somehow, Gustav had got everything packed into a single trunk. The night before, he and Carter had hauled it down to the Roadmaster in the garage so we would be ready to leave the house in time to be in the air by half past 5.

  I owned a house in Vermont that I'd inherited from my mother. We'd only been there one time, and that was the previous March when I'd finally discovered that my mother didn't die in '29 as my father and I had long thought. After finding a cache of unopened letters that my mother, Alexandra, had written in the 30s, I had brought in some of our employees at Consolidated Security, our private investigation firm, to start digging into the past. What they found was that Zelda, the housekeeper my mother had hired in the late 20s, had been slowly poisoning her with arsenic. After a doctor mistakenly diagnosed her stomach problems as cancer, she had left by ship for Mexico to die overlooking the ocean. However, we discovered she had lived eighteen more years, including six in an old farmhouse in Grafton, Vermont, a small town in the south central part of the state.

  While living there, my mother had met and fallen in love with the local deputy sheriff, a man by the name of Ed Richardson. Once we'd met Ed, the older man had embraced the two of us as if we were his own sons. I thought of Ed as my stepfather, even though the man had never married my mother.

  In the previous July, and after knowing each other for only four months, Ed and Carter's mother, Louise, had announced their engagement. And, in October, the two had married at our house in San Francisco.

  Just before the wedding, Ed had asked about the family spending Christmas in Grafton. My father and Lettie, my stepmother, had enthusiastically embraced the idea. Several other family members had been invited. My mother's house only had two bedrooms. All of the needed accommodations in Grafton had been arranged by Ed. And, last I'd heard, everyone finally had a place to sleep. The big gatherings, of course, would be at my mother's house.

  So, on that third Monday in December, we were all getting up early in order to fly to Boston. There we would meet Ed's oldest son, Kenneth and his wife, Michelle. Ed's youngest son, Robert, was still not happy with his father's marriage and plainly didn't like Carter and me, so he was staying by himself at the small apartment he'd recently rented in Cambridge, just outside of Boston.

  . . .

  Carter took me by the hand. "You ready?"

  I swallowed and nodded. I put my hand on the post of the big bed my grandfather had carved after the '06 earthquake and fire. I felt its solidity and, not for the first time, was grateful to my grandfather and the carpenters who built it. Thanks to them, it was solid enough to let Carter and me play around as much as we wanted without any fear that it would collapse.

  I looked around the room, taking in the fireplace, the big Chesterfield, and glancing up at the hand-carved wood ceiling. I wondered if we would ever see any of them again.

  Carter put his hand on my neck. He gently pushed me towards and through the bedroom door. As we moved down the hallway, I stopped next to the door to my childhood bedroom. It was ajar and, after switching on the light, I walked in. My eyes were immediately drawn to the table Carter had set up a few days earlier. I walked over and squatted down on my haunches to get a better look.

  The table was covered with a set of wooden Prussian soldiers my father had once brought me from Germany. They were each six inches tall. The set came from an antiques store in Berlin. My father had bought the set in '32 while on a work trip.

  I looked at the captain, handsome in his uniform, and gave him a mock salute. "You're in charge of the house now."

  Carter walked over and squatted next to me. "They're so lifelike."

  I sighed. "Yeah. That colonel from the Presidio told me that the officers are based on real people who fought during the Napoleonic wars."

  Carter picked up one of the lieutenants and closely examined the carved face. "He's my favorite."

  I smiled and said, "Better watch out, Chief. That other lieutenant is his lover."

  Carter gingerly put the soldier back and, in a very serious voice, said, "My apologies, Lieutenant."

  . . .

  "Coffee, Mr. Nick?" That was Mrs. Kopek, our housekeeper. She and Mrs. Strakova, our cook, were both waiting for us in the kitchen. They were both bundled up in thick wool robes against the morning chill.

  I nodded as she poured a cup and added two sugar cubes. After stirring slowly, she handed me the cup and asked, "When do you return from France?"

  I took a sip and shrugged. "We don't know."

  "I am glad you leaving. No good for you be in jail like my Ivan was." That was her son. We called him Ike. He'd just been released from Soledad State Prison down south of Salinas after doing time for distribution of pornography.

  I nodded in agreement. "But you'll come visit us, won't you?"

  She wiped the counter with a towel and quietly replied, "Yes."

  The way she answered made me realize she had no interest in going
back to Europe. She was from Czechoslovakia and had left back in the 30s, before Germany annexed the country. Except for her accent, she was as American as anyone I knew.

  I looked over at Mrs. Strakova, who was yawning while packing up a huge hamper of food for us. "What about you, Mrs. Strakova?"

  She shook her head. "I cannot go back to Paris. Too many bad memories."

  I sighed and took a sip of my coffee.

  . . .

  "Was everyone up and waiting to see you off?" That was John Parker, Carter's cousin. We'd stopped at his apartment to pick up him and Roger Johnson, his lover, on the way to the airport.

  Carter turned around in his seat and replied, "No. Only Mrs. Kopek and Mrs. Strakova were up. That's where the hamper came from."

  In the big backseat, John sat on one side of the hamper while Roger sat on the other. We were only three blocks down Van Ness and he was already zonked out and leaning against the window.

  Carter continued, "Last night, we told Gustav and Ferdinand to sleep in, along with Nora and Ida. We'll see them next week in Boston."

  John sighed. "I still can't believe you're leaving. And I'm amazed that no one has said anything. Every morning, I open up the Examiner and expect to read something about Notorious Nick leaving the country. So far, so good."

  In the rear-view mirror, I could see Roger stretch out his arms. He yawned and said, "So they all agreed to go?"

  Carter nodded. "Yep. And, to be honest, I'm glad. Ferdinand's aunt lives in Paris."

  John asked, "But I thought that lawyer kid was going with you too? He and his boyfriend. Isn't the boyfriend a frog?"

  I laughed. "Jake is the lawyer. Did you ever meet Antoine?"

  John shook his head and looked at me in the rear-view mirror. "No, why?"

  Carter said, "He's my height and not quite as broad, but he's solid. More than you are. I've spent some time at the gym with him."

  John grinned. "So, you're sayin' I should mind my Ps and Qs when Roger and I come visit you in April?"

  Carter nodded. "Yeah. That would be smart. He's hard to read at first, but he's a real sweetheart. He's very good to Jake."

  Roger asked, "How do they feel about going back so soon? Didn't they just get here? Didn't it take a long time for the boyfriend to get a visa?"

  I replied, "I think they were relieved, to be honest. I was raised to believe that San Francisco is the center of the world, but it's nothing like Paris."

  No one disagreed.

  . . .

  We were flying to Boston on our Lockheed Super Constellation, dubbed The Laconic Lumberjack. The front of the main cabin held twelve oversized seats. Leather benches lined both sides of the cabin just behind. Small tables bolted to the floor in front of the benches provided space to eat or work. A full galley sat in the center of the plane. In the rear of the ship were two smaller cabins, one with a set of Pullman-style lower and upper sleeping berths, the other with a full-sized bed and large bathroom, including a shower.

  When we'd arrived at the small private terminal at the south end of the international airport, we'd found my father and Lettie already on board along with Carter's Aunt Velma, Marnie, and Alex.

  Marnie was my secretary, the best a guy could ever have, as well as being my stepsister, Lettie being her mother. Marnie and Alex had been married for a year or so. I knew him from prep school and, now that we were all older, he was turning out to be a really good guy and a great husband to Marnie.

  Once we were in the air, our pilot, Captain John Morris, emerged from the cockpit and walked up to me. Carter and I were sitting in the front row. He knelt down next to me and asked, "If you'd like, I can go over our flight path with everyone."

  I nodded. "Sounds good."

  He stood. "I'll get Christine"—she was our stewardess and his wife—"to gather everyone together in about thirty minutes. How do you like that big table in the back that Robert had put in?" Robert Evans managed all of my properties, including the airplanes. Since we were leaving the country, I'd handed that part of my business over to him. His first decision had been to install a big work table behind the galley. It was similar to the one in our—now his—smaller Constellation. There were five planes in the stable I'd handed over to Robert, including a Comet jet that was sitting in Ireland, being updated and retrofitted.

  I smiled. "Looks good."

  He nodded and stood. "I'll ask Christine to get everyone back there."

  . . .

  As we all gathered around the table, sipping coffee in the light of the pre-dawn twilight, Captain Morris rolled out a big map. He pointed to where we were right then, approaching Las Vegas from the northwest, and said, "There's a big storm over Wyoming, Colorado, and northern New Mexico,"—using his finger, he drew a big line through those states—"so we're headed down towards El Paso. We have to scoot around some of the Air Force bases in the area, so we'll fly parallel to the Mexico border from around Tucson until we pass over El Paso. From there, we'll angle north." He stopped and drew a line to Dallas. "Once we're there, we'll head towards a line that's a hundred miles south of St. Louis and then turn due east towards Cincinnati. We want to avoid the Great Lakes where they're socked in from Cleveland to Buffalo. After Cincinnati, we head towards Philadelphia. Then we turn northeast, flying over New York. We should land in Boston at around half past 6 in the evening, local time."

  I said, "Thank you, Captain. It's always—"

  Right then, I heard a strange metallic sound from the port side wing. Captain Morris quickly made his way over to the window just past the galley and looked out for a moment. Without saying anything, he ran forward to the cockpit.

  Always calm, Christine said, "Let's all get seated quickly and fasten seat belts."

  Following her instructions, we did just that. As soon as we were buckled in, the captain made an announcement over the loudspeaker.

  "Sorry about that, folks. We had a misfire in the number two engine. But Captain Obregon just cycled her through and now she's back up and running. Let's stay seated for a few more minutes, just to be sure. I'll let you know when you can get back up again. Thanks."

  . . .

  By noon, Pacific time, we were all sitting around the big table behind the galley and enjoying what Mrs. Strakova had packed in the hamper along with what Christine had obtained from the local kitchen at the airport. We hadn't had any more trouble from the number two engine and Captain Morris had assured us we'd be arriving in Boston right on time.

  My father, who was seated at the aft end of the table next to Lettie, picked up his glass of red wine, stood, and said, "I'd like to go ahead and get this out of the way." Everyone stopped eating and listened as he spoke. "My sons are leaving us in a few days and we don't know when they will return." He stopped for a moment, swallowed hard, and then continued. "I will miss them both very much while they are away. I need not say that, of course, Leticia and I will be going over to visit soon." He winked at me and said, "I promise we won't make our stays too long so you'll be glad to see us when we arrive and not too sad to see us go."

  Everyone laughed.

  He paused for a moment again. "I won't be tiresome and say the things I've been saying since Leticia brought me back to the land of the living, but I will repeat what I have often said to my dear Leticia many, many times." He lifted his glass a little higher and said, "Thank God for the gifts that are Nicholas and Carter." He nodded around the table as everyone else lifted their glasses. "To my dear boys, Nicholas and Carter. May they live long and happy lives." He took a drink from his glass.

  Everyone else followed suit as John said, "Hear, hear," which everyone then repeated.

  As my father sat, Carter took his own glass in hand, stood, and looked around the table. "When I first arrived in San Francisco in 1939—"

  John interrupted. "In a broke-down old Ford that barely made it across the desert. We've heard this story before, son."

  Lettie looked across the table and said, "John Parker, please don't interrupt your cousin." Looking over at Carter, she said, "Go on, Carter."

  He nodded at Lettie and said, "Thank you, ma'am. As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted, when I first came to the City, I would never have expected that a day like this would happen. Never mind that we're going away for a while. I mean that, here we are, flying across the country and on our way to a big family Christmas, the likes of which I doubt any of us will forget." He sighed and looked down at me. "There is so much love in our lives and from the people—"