Nick turned back to the tree. It looked like it had been out drinking. The ornaments that had managed to stay on hung crazily, while others littered the florr. Bedraggled garland swayed from the tips of branches. Entire lengths of it sagged to the floor. With a sigh, Nick set about putting it to rights, redoing the work of the past two hours. Noelle came in as he leaned out from the ladder to secure the heavy crystal star to the top.
“It’s crooked,” she said. It took fully ten minutes of “A little more to the left–no, that’s too far. Just a smidge to the right,” to achieve perfection. Nick held his breath as he climbed down the ladder, afraid that the least bump or jar would knock it a fraction of an inch out of place and she’d make him start all over again.
“Poor Baby,” Noelle said as she stood back to admire the seventeenth tree. “He was still trembling even after his treat. I had to give him another one to get him into the laundry room. I can’t think how he got out.”
“Maybe he’s figured out how to open the door,” Nick said as an idea began to take vague shape in his mind.
Noelle pursed her lips in that little moue of hers that had charmed him when he’d been falling in love with her, the adorable pucker that had made him want to make all her dreams come true.
“I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s such a smart kitty.”
Not clever Nick for thinking of how Baby could have gotten out of the laundry room. The vague idea began to congeal, still wobbly like Jello. He caught his breath as he wondered if he dared pursue this line of thought.
Long into the chilly November night, Nick lay awake thinking. He knew that it could work. The Tree of Death, as he had started calling it in his mind, had nearly killed him. It if had, everyone would have bemoaned it as a horrible accident, nobody’s fault, really. You couldn’t really blame a cat, after all. What if it happened to Noelle instead? That tree, perched precariously at the edge of that top step, was an accident waiting to happen. In fact, it was a miracle that the tree hadn’t flattened anyone before.
Had Noelle ever thought about the risks he took for her Christmas extravaganza? He’d climbed extension ladders to put up Christmas lights. He’d crawled all over the roof to secure Santa and his sleigh, complete with eight not-so-tiny reindeer to the ridgeline, willing himself not to look down. He’d had to stand on the very top of the stepladder to pin a ball of mistletoe to the arch in the entryway. Did she ever stand at the bottom of the ladder and call, “Ooh, Nicky, please be careful!” or thank him for risking life and limb when he got back down, safe and sound? Did she ever pull him under the mistletoe for a smooch? Nick barked a bitter laugh that made Noelle stir and turn over, taking the covers with her. No, she simply took his holiday heroics for granted.
“I could die if I held my breath waiting for her to appreciate what I go through for her,” he muttered under his breath as he yanked back his share of the covers. “It’s time to take matters into my own hands.”
And so that night, as the light of the full moon streamed across the bed, Nick Sinclair began to plot his wife’s untimely, “accidental” demise.

“I’m glad you’ve finally gotten into the Christmas spirit,” Noelle said the following Saturday. Nick tackled her holiday to-do list with gusto, singing “Deck the Halls” as he ticked off each item. How it cheered him to know that this time next year, he would be sitting in his den with his feet up, instead of wrestling trees Number Nineteen and Twenty into place and decking them out beyond all reason. Every now and then, he would step down into the living room to gaze at Number Seventeen and revel in his plan.
Timing and placement were, of course, key. Noelle had to be in the sunken living room, in front of the tree at the exact moment that Baby scrambled up the trunk, tipping the whole mess over. He needed witnesses as well, people who would be able to attest to this crazy, freak accident. Otherwise, he might be accused of simply pushing the tree over on her, with no proof that the cat had done it.
Noelle herself was providing the perfect opportunity, The driving force behind the decorating frenzy was the Sinclair’s annual Christmas party. On December 19th, their house would be full of guests, nibbling catered canapes and sipping his Scotch. The highlight of the evening for Noelle was what she called “The Grand Tour.” She would lead her guests from room to room to show off her decorating. After everyone oohed and ahhed, she would pose in front of each tree so they could take pictures on their phones.
Baby, of course, would be shut up in the laundry room during the party until, that is, Nick let him out at precisely the right moment. He realized that there was no guarantee that Baby would scale the tree again. The cat was just as likely to simply saunter into the living room and wind himself charmingly around Noelle’s ankles to ask for more caviar (his special Christmas treat). Nick decided to use one of Baby’s weaknesses against him. In addition to caviar and cat snacks, Baby was also hooked on catnip. Nick planned to raid the stash of catnip mice Noelle kept in a plastic Ziploc bag on a high shelf in the kitchen. On the fateful night, He would place a catnip mouse in the upper branches of Number Seventeen under the pretext of getting the tree just right prior to the photo op. Then he would slip out, muttering something about the bathroom, but really heading to the laundry room. Once he opened the door, nature would take its course and it would be all over by the time he emerged from the bathroom, the commode still flushing behind him. In the general confusion following the “accident,” he would retrieve the mouse, dump the cat back in the laundry room ( to be taken to the animal shelter the next day, at long last), and return the cat enticement to the bag in the cabinet.
“Fall-la-la-la-la–la-la-la-la-la,” Nick sang under his breath.
Every now and then, Nick felt uncomfortable about his plan. He was pretty sure it would work, but sometimes he wondered if he should go through with it. The word “murder” would cross his mind. On these occasions, he reminded himself that the situation was an accident that had been waiting to happen every since Number Seventeen’s debut at the entrance to the living room. It was bound to happen sooner or later. He was simply increasing the odds that it would happen sooner rather than later, to someone who was not him. It was actually self-defense when you got right down to it. He was protecting himself from “death by Christmas tree.”