“I’m not so sure about that,” John replied. “I played hooky a lot back in Jersey when I was supposed to be in Sunday school catechism.”

“Lucky bastard.” Everett grinned and knowingly clinked glasses with Grant.

“What my brother’s referring to is that our father used to sit in the car outside the church for the first half hour making sure we didn’t slip out a window.”

The conversation turned to the case as her father and John filled Everett in on the afternoon’s futility once they had all departed Southwark. Sensing their frustration and dark mood returning, Rachel jumped in.

“Enough.”

She said it with a smile but enough forcefulness to grab all their attention.

“It’s Christmas Eve and we’re done with shoptalk. I’m going to enjoy my drink and embrace the holiday spirit with three of my favorite men in the world.”

This was met with “hear, hear”s and glass clinks by the aforementioned trio, giving Rachel hope there was still time to salvage a bit of Christmas.

Everett had worked his holiday magic with dinner.

A splendid Christmas goose was the meal’s centerpiece, replete with homemade stuffing, cranberry sauce, vegetables, and hefty servings of Yorkshire pudding. Grant and John finished every bite, as did Rachel, who went back for seconds before the men. They toasted Everett for the perfect feast. He claimed no credit save for choosing the menu from a gourmet shop and sending his housekeeper to pick it up. Mrs. Bishop (a blue-gray-haired septuagenarian, who had been coming twice a week to Everett for years) served it on his best china, but politely declined joining them as she was dining with her own family later on.

Upon hearing this, Everett told Mrs. Bishop that he could handle dessert, coffee, and digestifs, and insisted that the “good woman” depart immediately, but not without a sizeable Christmas bonus and leftovers in hand.

Once the woman had gone home, Everett brought a browned-exactly-right pie in from the kitchen. Rachel was the first to notice the twinkle in her uncle’s eye.

“You didn’t . . .”

“I just might have,” admitted Everett.

He sliced the pie open and a rich black-and-red filling seeped out—along with a delicious, mouth-watering aroma.

“Razzleberry pie!” exclaimed Rachel.

“Excuse me?” asked John.

Grant offered up a bittersweet smile. “It was Allison’s specialty, made with blackberries and raspberries. She trotted one out every Christmas.”

“It’s from this cartoon I watched when I was a little girl,” explained Rachel. “Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol. It’s what Tiny Tim wanted more than anything—‘a jar of razzleberry dressing.’ I kept begging Mom for one each year and she’d say I’d get sick eating a whole jar of something so sweet, so she went and made a pie.”

Everett doled out pieces for each of them. John took one bite and his face practically erupted into rhapsodic ecstasy. “I can see why,” he said.