The Mystery Megapack

Bells” and feeling quite merry indeed.
    * * * *
    On Sunday, the first flurries of the season came. I watched them happily through the window at a cute café near my townhouse where I was having lunch with Aunt Lynn, Dad’s sister. I waited for her to mention Becca, and when she finally did, I said, “Mom’s being so hard on Becca since she put on those ten pounds.”
    “What ten pounds? The girl’s a stick.”
    “I know. You certainly can’t tell by looking at her. But you know Mom.”
    Aunt Lynn did know Mom, very well. (It’s why she made plans with other relatives every Thanksgiving.) She shook her head, the tiny diamonds on the Jewish star around her neck sparkling in the light. “That woman. One day someone’s going to put her in her place.”
    “I’m surprised Becca didn’t tell Mom off herself. I guess she’s too embarrassed about the weight gain. I don’t think she’s confided in anyone but the two of us. So don’t say anything.”
    Aunt Lynn crossed her heart. I knew I could count on her keeping her word. Well, at least until the police came asking.
    * * * *
    Finally, Christmas Eve day came. I headed over to Becca’s shortly after breakfast. I knew she and Joe planned to take Charlie to the mall for a final chance to see Santa before the line got too long. They’d actually given their nanny a couple days off.
    I also knew that this afternoon Becca would make lemon torte, Mom’s favorite, for dessert. Wearing gloves, I opened the pantry, and into each of the ingredients, I mixed some of the stolen pills and OxyContin. I didn’t know what the pills would do, but I figured the OxyContin would kill Mom, and if she suffered from the other ground-up medicines, all the better.
    And—the topper—Becca would be blamed. Her inevitable refusal to eat the high-calorie dessert, coupled with the OxyContin billed to her credit card, would guarantee it, just in case the police had any doubt.
    I spent the afternoon watching It’s a Wonderful Life . As it ended, I became melancholy. Was I being too hard on Mom and Becca? Heading to the kitchen for brownies to help me think, I stubbed my toe on the damn treadmill. All the anger and memories flooded back. No, I wasn’t being too hard on them. Not by a long shot. They had brought this on themselves.
    I arrived a little later at Becca’s, armed with presents, and happily learned Joe had to work tonight in order to get Christmas day off. It would be much better without a doctor in the house. Becca had already fed Charlie and put him to bed. So it was just Mom, Dad, Becca, and me for dinner. Our small, happy family.
    The first two courses went swimmingly for Becca. Mom fawned over her shrimp puff appetizer and declared her main course of leg of lamb with roasted potatoes and steamed asparagus “simply divine.” I was so excited, I helped myself to a couple extra rolls, along with a second helping of potatoes.
    Finally it was time for dessert. Becca emerged from the kitchen with a small lemon torte. Mom narrowed her eyes. “Becca, why is this dish so small? There’s hardly enough for two here, let alone four.”
    “I’m on a diet,” she said. Shocking. “And Dad never eats lemon torte. I figured you and Gwen could share it. Dad and I can have cranberry yogurt.”
    Mom turned to me. “Well, Gwen. I know you never pass up dessert. Hand me your plate.”
    Oh, she so deserved what was coming. “Actually, I’m on a diet, too. You’ll have to enjoy the lemon torte by yourself.”
    “A diet? I had no idea,” Becca said. “And here I baked you a special, extra dessert to make up for that striped monstrosity I gave you for your birthday.” She scurried into the kitchen and reappeared moments later with cranberry yogurt for her and Dad, and a large slice of fudge cake for me. My favorite.
    “You made that?” I asked.
    “Okay, you got me. It took a long time to bake the lemon torte, so I picked this up from that gourmet bakery down on Bedford Street. It’s still good.”
    It looked better than good. “Well, since you went to all that trouble.” I smiled and dug in. Then I leaned back in my chair while I watched Mom eat her dessert with her typical small, dainty bites.
    “Becca, this is wonderful,” Mom said, her face a bit flushed. “But it tastes different than it usually does. Did you change your recipe?”
    “That’s weird,” she said. “I didn’t change a thing. Gwen, how’s your dessert?”
    Now it was my turn to think things were