Never Mess with Mistletoe

  NEVER MESS WITH MISTLETOE

  Copyright © 2016 by Edie Claire

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  Dedication

  In loving memory of Thomas W. Moore, DVM (1937–2016), longtime owner of the Avalon Veterinary Hospital and my first boss. Dr. Moore and his wonderful wife Nancy were always unfailingly supportive of me, first as a newly graduated clinician and then as a budding novelist — and trust me, the first part wasn’t easy! For decades, Dr. Moore provided skilled, compassionate, and affordable care to any creature brought to him, whether it be feathered, furred, or scaled. More rare still, he provided that care to all of his patients, with a smile of kindly good humor, whether their owners be rich or poor, famous or homeless. Thank you, Dr. Moore. You are greatly missed.

  Cast of Characters

  The Family

  Leigh Koslow Harmon: Our hapless heroine

  Warren Harmon: Leigh’s husband

  Allison & Ethan Harmon: Leigh & Warren’s children

  Frances & Randall Koslow: Leigh’s parents

  Lydie Dublin: Leigh’s aunt, Frances’s twin sister

  Cara Dublin March: Leigh’s cousin, Lydie & Mason’s daughter

  Lenna & Mathias March: Cara’s children

  Mason Dublin: Lydie’s ex-husband, Cara’s father

  Bess Cogley: Leigh’s aunt, Frances & Lydie’s older sister

  The Floribundas

  Olympia: Chapter president, married to Melvin

  Lucille: Has assistant Bridget and son Bobby

  Virginia: Married to Harry

  Anna Marie: Married to Eugene

  Delores & Jennie Ruth: Housemates

  Sue: Stayed at home sick

  Chapter 1

  Leigh Koslow Harmon did not believe that her future could be determined by a fortune cookie.

  She hesitated anyway. Two cookies were left on the break room table, a red one and a green one. She’d never seen brightly colored fortune cookies before this Christmas, but some marketing team somewhere must be having a toast, because the plastic-wrapped treats were currently being thrown in every bag of Chinese takeout in Pittsburgh. The employees of Hook, Inc., the advertising firm of which Leigh was a principal, had to admire the brilliance of the scheme. The leftover cookies might all be thrown out in January, but as far as the manufacturer was concerned, that was a plus. In the meantime, countless people like Leigh were wasting inordinate amounts of time staring at the product while contemplating an otherwise unnecessary decision.

  Red or green?

  Her time was up. She’d been leaning toward the green, but in the last second, the red cookie called to her. She made a grab for it.

  “Are you sure?” her co-worker Alice said mockingly as she speared a bite of moo goo gai pan. “You could be making a terrible mistake, you know.”

  Leigh smirked. She and Alice had been good-naturedly sparring with each other for a very long time now, ever since they’d shared a cubicle together as twenty-somethings at another communications firm that had dumped them both. Now in their mid-forties and making a comfortable living at Hook, both women spent much of their time working from home. But the dynamic between them remained unchanged.

  “You can’t have the red one,” Leigh argued. “I don’t care what you say, you’re not getting it.”

  Alice sighed dramatically as she reached for the green cookie. “Fine.”

  Both women tore apart the plastic wrappings. “I really wanted the green one the whole time, you know,” Alice insisted.

  “You wish.” Leigh broke her cookie in two, popped half of it into her mouth with a flourish, and unrolled the slip of paper inside.

  The blaxe you brew for your adversary often burns you more than him.

  Leigh rolled her eyes and tossed it.

  Alice cracked up laughing. “What? You know you have to share!”

  Leigh groaned, retrieved the paper, and read the message out loud.

  “No way!” Alice chuckled. “Let me see.” She took the paper from Leigh and read it herself. “What the hell is blaxe?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Maybe it’s an ancient Chinese herb that tastes great unless you cook it a certain way — and then it turns into a deadly poison!”

  Leigh scowled. “Read yours.”

  Alice returned Leigh’s fortune and unrolled the paper inside her own cookie. She smiled. “Unexpected romantic and financial gifts surprise and delight you.”

  “You are such a liar!” Leigh protested. She snatched the paper from Alice’s fingers.

  The words were printed exactly as read.

  “Merry Christmas to me!” Alice said in a sing-song, grinning from ear to ear as she snatched the fortune back.

  “Better watch out for me and my blaxe,” Leigh warned.

  Alice stuffed the whole cookie in her mouth and responded with an enthusiastic double thumbs-up.

  Leigh ate the second half of her cookie and reread her own “fortune.” It still made no sense. Whatever the original meaning, it had obviously been butchered in translation. There was no reason for something so silly to leave such a bad taste in her mouth, over and above the bitter tang of the cheap red dye. Yet the words bothered her. They left her feeling… unsettled.

  The blaxe you brew for your adversary often burns you more than him.

  She fought back a shiver. She should forget it. Why all this talk of brewing and burning at Christmas, anyway? There was no need to be unpleasant. Besides which, the language was sexist. With so many tidbits of ancient proverbial wisdom floating around the internet, putting that quote in such an otherwise innocent-looking holiday treat was practically criminal.

  She knew she should have taken the green one.

  The cell phone in her pocket began to play soothing, melodic notes of harp music, and Leigh tensed. She had set up the ringtone as an antidote to that reaction, but the attempt failed. Her nervous system could not be fooled. She knew who was calling. Again. Worse still, the caller knew that Leigh was working at her office today. And interruptions at work by said caller never boded well.

  She put the phone to her ear and forced a cheerful greeting. “Hi, Mom. What’s up?”

  “The regionals are coming!!!”

  Leigh held the phone away from her head and took a deep breath. Her mother was hysterical, yes, but at least she wasn’t hysterical-horrified. She was hysterical-excited, which was better. Although both states generally resulted in Leigh’s having to drive somewhere, clean something, rescue some family member, or atone for some sin, the happy lilt in Frances’s voice did seem to preclude a mad dash to the local hospital, police station, or jail.

  “Mom,” Leigh soothed. “Take it easy. You know I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course you do!” Frances shrieked. “I explained all this yesterday! Olympia made the submission but she didn’t think anything would come of it because it was so last minute and everything has already been printed and she was sure they’d just cancel but after all the two were so close together and all that needs to be done is a simple map guiding people from one to the other and they must have agreed with her because they told her they wanted to see the house and she just called me and told me and I should have asked for more time but I was so surprised I couldn’t think quickly enough and now it’s too late, and oh — Leigh, what
ever will we do?”

  While Frances paused long enough to breathe, Leigh’s brain struggled to filter key words from the gibberish. Submission? Map? Nope. No sense there. Last night her mother had rambled on for half an hour over speakerphone while Leigh folded laundry, but Leigh hadn’t paid much attention. Doing so for every conversation simply wasn’t possible anymore. Ever since her Aunt Lydie, Frances’s twin sister, had become engaged, the sisters’ normal volume of chatter had been curtailed. Leigh had been elected to pick up the slack, and the closer Lydie’s wedding approached, the more frequent and long-winded Frances’s calls became.

  The calls were never about Lydie or her wedding, however. They were about random nonsense. Like whether Leigh’s father was due for a new coat this winter. Or what line item from what committee threatened to ruin the church budget. Or who was causing the latest drama at the garden club.

  The garden club!

  “Wait!” Leigh cried triumphantly, remembering. “Are you talking about the Holiday House Tour?”

  “The regionals are coming!” Frances repeated an octave higher.

  Leigh pulled the phone away from her ear again. Ouch. “You mean the regional garden club people? The ones who make the final decisions about which houses go on the Christmas tour?” She paused in disbelief. “They’re coming to see your house?”

  Surely not. She must be misunderstanding. The Holiday House Tour was a big deal. It was sponsored by a cluster of garden clubs in both Pittsburgh proper and the surrounding suburbs, and every December five showplace homes were chosen to be decorated to the hilt and toured by throngs of gawking admirers. Leigh had attended once or twice and toured mansions in Shady Side, renovated Victorians on Mount Washington, and unique architectural wonders à la Frank Lloyd Wright. The houses weren’t always huge, but they were always interesting.

  The Koslow homestead, in contrast, was one of thousands of modest Foursquare houses that filled the working-class neighborhoods of Pittsburgh. It sat in the middle of the northern suburb of West View, a sturdy brick two-story with three small bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs and a kitchen, living room, dining room, and retrofitted half-bath downstairs. Leigh’s dad kept a workshop in the somewhat dingy basement. It had a wide concrete porch in front and a small yard in the back. There was absolutely nothing unusual or special about it. Her parents had owned it since the late sixties and had always kept it in immaculate condition. But still.

  Why?

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t give me an inquisition!” Frances chastised. “I’ll explain when you get here! But you’ve got to hurry! They’re coming in fifty-two minutes!”

  Leigh rubbed her free hand over her face. Across the table, she could hear Alice chuckling. Frances’s distinctive shrill tone carried well, even if her words did not, and Leigh’s facial expressions told the rest. This was hardly Alice’s first brush with a Koslow family “emergency.”

  “Shall I fetch your coat?” Alice offered in a whisper.

  Leigh ignored her. “Mom, I’m at work, remember? Why do you need me there when they come?”

  “I don’t need you then!” Frances protested. “I need you now!”

  At long last, Leigh’s charge became clear. It was the cleaning one. Crap. “Can’t Aunt—”

  “Your Aunt Lydie is out for the day, and I already called your Aunt Bess and she had the nerve to hang up on me! I even thought about calling your cousin Cara, but I know she’s working on a project this week,” Frances explained with no trace of irony. “There’s nobody else I can call right now — only family knows everything that has to be done to ensure the proper level of cleanliness! And it’s never been more important that this house be spotless! Never!”

  Leigh could take issue with that point. But reliving the various incidents that had spurred her clean-freak mother to strive for new heights in “spotlessness” was not her idea of a good time. She let out a breath slowly. There really was no hope for it. Frances knew that Leigh’s work hours were flexible. And although Bess could thumb her nose at her little sister with impunity, Leigh could never get away with hanging up on her mother.

  “Fine, Mom,” she said, defeated. “I’ll come over.”

  “Oh, wonderful!” Frances trilled. “I’ll be waiting!”

  “But I—” Leigh stopped herself in mid sentence. Her mother had just hung up on her.

  Twenty-two minutes later, Leigh pulled up in front of her parents’ house and made haste towards the front door. Any normal person wouldn’t expect her to arrive from her office on the North Side any faster than that, but she couldn’t be seen as shirking. Fifty-two minus twenty-two was thirty, and no matter what Frances thought needed to be done to the house, Leigh doubted it could be achieved in half an hour. Not that the state of the house truly mattered, of course. Leigh was here only to prevent a spontaneous combustion of Frances herself.

  Leigh knocked on the door, but then walked in without waiting for an answer. “I’m here!”

  “Oh!” Frances’s muffled voice drifted in from the kitchen. “Wait! Wait!”

  Leigh hung her purse and coat on the rack. A second later, Frances Koslow emerged from the kitchen doorway and pulled a respirator mask off her face. Dressed from head to toe in bright yellow hazmat-style garb, she looked more like a CDC investigator than a self-described “dedicated homemaker.”

  “Tell me you can’t smell the oven cleaner,” Frances demanded. “This grade can release toxic fumes, but it leaves less residue and there’s no lingering odor.”

  “I can’t smell anything,” Leigh said honestly. It was unacceptable, according to Frances, for a house to smell like cleaning products at any time. If a guest were to pick up the scent of lemons, for example, it would be obvious that you had just cleaned, which somehow indicated that your house was not clean before that. Never mind that Frances always cleaned immediately before guests arrived, and expected that everyone else ought to as well, just to be on the safe side. It was all in the perception.

  The face behind the elastic bands of the respirator crinkled into a smile. “Excellent.”

  Leigh surveyed her mother critically, then relaxed a little. The hysteria phase was over. Frances was well into the steamroller phase now, which was safer, at least for her blood pressure. To say that Frances was mellowing with age would be an overstatement, but in terms of her response to crises, the hysteria phase did seem to be shortening. In Leigh’s memory, the soundtrack for the sticky-hands and mud-pies part of her childhood consisted of one protracted scream. Now, Frances shifted from reaction into action much quicker. Of course, the steamroller phase had its own drawbacks.

  “Help me tidy up the supplies,” Frances ordered, losing the smile. “Then we’ll move to the second floor.”

  Leigh followed her mother to the kitchen, caught the “cleaning apron” that was tossed at her, and tied it around her neck and waist with a grimace. Protesting the garment was not worth the effort. Although she despised the decades-old burlap apron with the embroidered mushrooms and orange bric-a-brac trim with every fiber of her being, she was even more tired of throwing away good clothes with bleach spots. And there was no way anyone as clumsy as she was could clean anything with her mother’s powerful arsenal without splashing something on herself.

  “You have to tell me what’s going on, Mom,” Leigh insisted as she helped Frances gather up the various kitchen-cleaning supplies as if striking a surgical theater. “Is this house seriously being considered for the Holiday House Tour?”

  Frances’s cheeks flamed bright red, and her dark eyes shone with a feverish glint. “It’s conceivable,” she answered in a hushed tone, as if afraid that speaking too loudly would jinx her. “They had all the houses selected months ago, but as I mentioned last night when you clearly weren’t listening, the Marsh house up the street had to be dropped as of yesterday. They started drilling holes to put up the decorations and a section of wallboard disintegrated before their eyes! Apparently, the roof has been leaking for some time and ther
e was black mold all through one side of the house. The organization couldn’t expose the public to any part of that… just think of the liability!”

  Leigh nodded. She honestly couldn’t remember her mother telling her any of this. Maybe Frances’s memory was going. Then again, her own wasn’t the greatest these days. Ever since she turned forty, she’d noticed an alarming uptick in the number of times she walked into a room and had no idea why.

  “Well,” Frances continued as she carefully placed the bottles, brushes, and sponges Leigh handed her in their assigned spots in the cupboard. “That’s when Olympia got the idea. You know she’s been fuming ever since the Flying Maples got their house on the tour in the first place. The nerve of them!”

  Leigh searched her brain. She knew that Olympia was the newest president of Frances’s local garden club, which covered the suburb of West View as well as some of the neighboring communities. The Floribundas had been in existence since Noah beached the ark, Frances had been a member as long as Leigh had been alive, and most of the remaining members were older than Frances. “Who are the Flying Maples?”

  Frances rolled her eyes and gave her head a shake of irritation. She shut the cupboard door and made haste out of the doorway, gesturing for Leigh to follow her. “The Flying Maples are a bunch of upstart women who wouldn’t know a hydrangea from a rhododendron. As far as we can tell, they don’t do a blessed thing at their meetings but drink cheap wine from a box and plan their next fundraiser!”

  Frances began a determined march up the stairs, her feet slamming down with unnecessary force on each step.

  Leigh regretted asking the question. Clearly, her mother was sensitive on the topic. The Floribundas, she knew, had always considered themselves to be the garden club for the area. In their heyday, they’d had a thriving membership of close to a hundred, but in recent decades, like many women’s clubs of their ilk, they had struggled to attract the younger generations.

  “Our club has submitted a house to the regional committee every year since 1978,” Frances went on. “And we know, because our historian, Sue, looked it up. And not once has one of our own been chosen! But these Flying Maples,” she said derisively, “turn in their very first submission, and it is accepted! Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous? Until fourteen months ago, they weren’t even affiliated!”