Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

deserted. Funny, I thought, that was probably one of two safe places left in town—the other being Pier 39. I guess I was too quiet, because Jeff offered me a penny for my meager mental processes.
    “I was thinking about the Trapper.”
    “Kind of a depressing topic, isn’t it?”
    “Jeff, I know you can’t really tell, since you don’t live here, but the city just isn’t itself.”
    “It does seem a little gloomy out.”
    “I was trying to think what he might do next—I think he’ll go for something different every time. So the Castro’s probably safe, and Pier 39, wouldn’t you think?”
    “You certainly think about funny things on a date.”
    “It doesn’t interest you?”
    He shrugged. “Not really. I don’t go in much for mass murder.”
    I started to get nervous because it was time to look for a parking place, then realized I could have my pick. That gave me a
frisson.
    Jeff put a not entirely unwelcome arm around my shoulders. “What is it, Rebecca?”
    “The town’s so weird, that’s all.”
    “Hey, look—aren’t those Chicanos?”
    “Mm-hmm. Why?”
    “Are you sure this neighborhood’s okay?”
    “Pretty sure. It’s not a tourist area.”
    “That’s not what I meant.”
    I laughed, even tousled his hair. I was beginning to get a kick out of his big-city naiveté. “You’re hopeless, you know that?”
    He looked back at me in a puzzled way, as if I’d spoken in Venusian.
    Not only was there no wait for a table at Little Italy, the place was less than half full. It’s usually so noisy you have to shout, but that night it was unfamiliarly subdued. The atmosphere reminded me of something from my childhood, the year I was in fifth grade. Mom and Dad had strongly opposed the intrusion of Christmas into our Jewish lives, breaking the hearts of their two usually indulged daughters by absolutely declining to have a Christmas tree. This particular year a new family had moved in next door—the Walkers, whose three sons, in the most coltish high spirits, spent nearly the whole month of December bringing home trees and large evergreen branches and giant shopping bags; helping their parents make wreaths and cookies and fruitcakes; playing Christmas carols on their various musical instruments; and wrapping things. Mickey and I were driven mad with jealousy. Never did two children whine and beg and pout and plead more in a single month. And yet, we were not allowed to have a tree or to get in on the fun in any way. True, Mom went to special pains for Hanukkah that year, but our celebration seemed like thin gruel next to that overflowing feast of Christmas goodies.
    On Christmas Eve, we were invited to the Walkers’ for eggnog, along with all the other neighbors, and I didn’t think I’d ever seen anything so splendid as the Walker Christmas tree or been a part of anything so magical. But when the next day came, and the celebration began in earnest, we had to watch wistfully as Mr. Walker carted loads of paper wrappings to the garbage, and the Walker boys spilled all over the street with their new bikes and games and toy trucks, eating cookies, eating fruitcake, eating candy from their stockings. We could smell their dinner cooking, and see all their relatives coming over with more presents, and hear Mrs. Walker calling the kids to dinner. Mom and Dad heard it, too, and, unable to bear the sight of their pitifully envious offspring a moment longer, they got the bright idea of taking us out to dinner. They said it would be an un-Christmas dinner, like the Mad Hatter’s un-birthday party. Cheered and delighted, we ran to get our coats.
    We went to our favorite restaurant, also an Italian one, in downtown San Rafael, and no one else was there except an older woman eating alone. After a while, a man came in with two children dressed to the nines—the girl all got up in a dress and pink socks and the boy in a new red T-shirt. The boy was younger, was obviously trying to keep from crying. Instinctively, I knew their mother had died and their dad hadn’t known how to cook Christmas dinner or hadn’t had the heart.
    Mom and Dad let us order anything we wanted, all our favorites, even found new things for us, special tidbits we weren’t normally allowed to have—side orders and appetizers and dessert, absolutely everything we wanted. They made a big to-do of re-creating the Mad Hatter’s party. But no amount of forced good cheer could penetrate the gloom of the place; it made the House