I found him sipping the last of his martini and putting the steaks back in the freezer.
“‘Scrooge took his melancholy dinner,’” he quoted. “And so forth.”
“Does that mean you’ve already eaten?” I asked. I’d grown used to Michael’s habit of speaking in scraps of dialogue when he was directing or acting in plays, but tonight I was too tired to puzzle out his meaning.
He cocked his head for a moment, as if hunting for a bit of Dickens that fit the occasion, and then shrugged.
“Sorry,” he said. “I know it’s an annoying habit, all this quoting.”
“It’s interesting,” I said. “And this is much nicer than when you were quoting Who’s Afraid ofVirginia Woolf? ”
“I’m also too tired to eat now, and I’m even too tired to think of a Dickens quote to say so.”
“ ‘And being much in need of repose,’ ” I quoted—though not, I suspect, with complete accuracy—“ ‘Scrooge went straight to bed, without undressing, and fell asleep upon the instant.’ ”
“Oh, well done!” he said. “Though I think I can manage the undressing part. And since I expect to be in much more congenial company than Scrooge was, maybe we should rethink that falling asleep upon the instant part, too.”
“You’re on,” I said. “We’ll see if you’re too tired to remember anything from Romeo and Juliet.”
I peered into the living room on the way upstairs. The fire was dying down. Everyone was asleep, or at least huddled motionless in a sleeping bag, except for Ainsley Werzel. He was standing in a corner, muttering curses as he waved his cell phone around in what I could have told him was a fruitless quest for a signal.
Chapter 23
December 24, 7:50 A.M.
Ding-dong merrily on high
In heaven the bells are ringing
Ding-dong verily the sky
Is riv’n with angels singing.
Glo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ria
Hosannah in excelsis!
Glo-o-o-o-o—
“Arg,” I muttered, from under the covers. “Don’t those angels know what time it is?”
“It’s almost eight,” Michael said, with a yawn. “I expect most angels get up at dawn for choir practice, and think we’re pretty lazy, not being already awake to hear them carol.”
I stuck my nose out from under the covers and realized that if I kept it out I’d risk frostbite. The odd gray color of the light peeping in through the break in the curtains meant we had not only plenty of snow covering the ground but also more snow lurking in the clouds overhead, waiting to fall.
“Inconsiderate angels,” I said. “You’d think there might be at least one seraph thoughtful enough to say, ‘Hey, between the parade and the murder and having a dozen houseguests dumped on them in the middle of the night, they had a hard day yesterday. Let’s let them sleep in.’ Are there no night owls in heaven?”
“In heaven, certainly.” Michael slid out of bed and went over to peer out one of the front windows. “But not, apparently, in the Baptist section. It’s Minerva with the New Life choir.”
“Someone must have found a chainsaw and cleared the road, then.”
“Thank goodness,” Michael said. “I was beginning to worry about my show tonight.”
I opened my mouth to point out that the predicted second round of snow was a much bigger threat to Michael’s one-man Dickens show than even the most enormous fallen tree. But I thought better of it. For all I knew, the meteorologists might have changed their forecasts again. And Michael was already showing subtle signs of pre-performance jitters. Why remind him that he might be getting worked up over a show destined to be snowed out?
I put a pillow over my face. The choir boomed one final, glorious, five-part “Hosannah in excelsis!” into the skies and then, after a brief pause, launched into “We wish you a merry Christmas.”
“You don’t suppose they’re really expecting figgy pudding and a cup of good cheer,” I muttered. “I thought your history professor friend said that historically accurate wassail would be mulled beer.”
“I’ll put on the coffee,” Michael said, heading downstairs. “I rather think that would be the suitable Southern Baptist equivalent. Especially before noon.”
“Before noon? Try before dawn.”
I pulled on my robe and stumbled over to the window. The singers were standing in a circle around our doorstep, their maroon robes brilliant against the snowy yard. Every syllable they sang came out as a separate little white puff, so when the whole choir got going, it looked as if they were sending up smoke signals. It was easy to tell that a couple of the choir members were just mouthing the words.