10 Never Mess with Mistletoe Page 12

  Harry looked up at his wife with sad, bloodshot eyes. He looked like a hound dog that had gotten caught raiding the garbage can. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” he mumbled. “It was just a bit of fun.”

  “What did you do?” Virginia demanded in a harsh whisper. “Tell me!”

  Harry’s hang-dog head hung down farther. Leigh could barely hear his mumbled answer. “I kind of… well… juiced up the punch a little.”

  Virginia put a hand to her mouth to stifle her own shriek. “You what? Oh, you old fool! When? And with what?”

  Harry lifted his head and gave her a look.

  “The cognac?” Virginia mouthed, her eyes wide with horror. This time, she stuck her entire fist in her mouth. She looked around the room to see who was paying attention and seemed relieved that only Leigh, Lydie, Allison, and Lenna were close enough to hear. Everyone else was clustered around the front of the room, where Olympia was telling some ridiculous story about a role she’d played as an extra in a Bollywood flick.

  “It was just a little dribble,” Harry defended miserably. Gone was the cocky flirt of earlier in the afternoon. The man Leigh saw before her now was regretful, scared witless, and could have passed for about ten years old. “And it was late. We were about to shut down anyway.”

  Leigh became suddenly aware that her aunt, standing on her left, was giving off a significant amount of radiant heat.

  “Harry Delvecchio,” Lydie growled, “you tell me, and you tell me right now, exactly what you put in my punch bowl and when!”

  Leigh fought a strong urge to shrink in her shoes. Her mild-mannered aunt didn’t use her mama-bear voice very often, but when she did, someone was in serious, serious trouble. In her peripheral vision, Leigh could just see Allison and Lenna slink quietly out of range.

  Harry looked like he was about to cry.

  “Answer me!” Lydie demanded.

  “It was just a couple gurgles!” Harry moaned. “There was enough punch left in the bowl that it couldn’t possibly have given anyone so much as a buzz, I swear! I thought you’d taste it and it would be funny, that’s all!”

  Virginia swore and gave her already subdued husband a swat on the head. “What were you thinking? You know people have medical conditions! Some people can’t handle any alcohol!”

  “Oh, now, that’s nonsense,” Harry protested, bucking up a little. “A little spirits never hurt anybody. Besides, it’s Christmas!”

  Lydie quickly deflated him again. “When, Harry? When exactly did you cause this organization to start illegally serving alcohol to the general public?”

  “Um…” he mumbled miserably, “Sometime around seven, maybe? I swear, Lydie, I don’t remember. You were fussing with something in the cabinet and your pretty little granddaughter wasn’t looking. I tipped the bottle and tacked up the mistletoe. I was going to wait a minute and then come get some punch myself and pretend—” He broke off suddenly and shot a glance at his wife, whose presence he seemed momentarily to have forgotten. He cleared his throat. “Well, but then a bunch of people came up and I suppose I forgot about it.”

  Lydie’s face was steaming with heat and she was breathing heavily. Leigh found herself glad the police were present. Lydie had never been a violent person, but for an obnoxious married playboy to pester her all day begging for kisses and then commit the ultimate indignity of contaminating her cooking? Oh, my. Harry was lucky to be in one piece.

  “You,” Lydie said acidly, “are going up those stairs right this minute. And you are going to tell that officer every single thing you did, in detail. And believe me, if you don’t, I will! Do you understand me?”

  Harry rose to his feet with a nod. He sniffed once, like a sulky child, and headed off up the stairs.

  “Was that really necessary?” Virginia said to Lydie, striking a confrontational tone.

  Lydie whirled on her. “Yes!”

  Virginia shriveled, then pursed her lips into a pout. “This is all because of those Flying Maples, I’m telling you. They called in that anthrax threat just to upset us. Even if they didn’t actually have any of the powder, they figured the fear of it alone might be enough to put one of us over the edge — and look what happened! At the very least, they wanted to shut us down and bring shame on our chapter in front of the whole regional organization… the whole city! I wouldn’t be half surprised if they poisoned that cognac while they were at it, just out of spite. Why, anyone who drank that punch in the last hour could get violently ill at any moment!”

  It seemed obvious to Leigh that if the cognac had been poisoned, the man who had drunk the majority of the bottle straight up had a hell of a lot more to worry about than anyone who had sipped the liquid diluted in punch. But she refrained from pointing that out. Given the look of horror on little Lenna’s face, there had been more than enough talk of poisoning already.

  “Oh, honey,” Lydie said gently, turning to her trembling granddaughter. “Don’t feel bad. It’s not your fault. If Mr. Delvecchio was bound and determined to play childish games in the kitchen, there was nothing you could do to stop him.”

  “But,” Lenna stammered, tears glistening on the lids of her cornflower-blue eyes. “He said I wasn’t paying attention!”

  “Well, clearly I wasn’t either,” Lydie rebutted, hugging the girl to her side. “And it was my responsibility, not yours. Neither of us had any idea we were watching a hen house with a fox about.”

  “The cognac wasn’t poisoned, Lenna,” Leigh added. “I’m sure of it.”

  Virginia humphed.

  All of the women startled to attention as Frances emerged from the dining room. Although she walked with her usual perfect posture, Leigh could see that her mother was still badly shaken.

  “Ms. Virginia Delvecchio?” the young policeman behind Frances called. “Can I speak with you a moment?”

  Virginia threw back her bony shoulders. “You most certainly may, young man, and I do hope you have a good deal of time!”

  The police officer’s own shoulders sagged. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Frances joined her family. “Oh, my, but that was unpleasant,” she said, attempting a fake smile as she looked at her granddaughters.

  “Everything is going to be fine,” Lydie said firmly. “Like I said before, if there’s any fault to be had in the kitchen, it’s mine.” To Leigh’s surprise, Lydie then told her sister all about Harry’s confession. The tale did have the effect of turning part of Frances’s guilt into good old-fashioned rage, but only for a minute. Then Lenna asked an unfortunate question.

  “Grandma Lydie, could Lucille drink alcohol? Or was it bad for her?”

  The women all went silent and stared at each other. Leigh tried to remember what Bridget had babbled about Lucille’s medical condition, but her input wasn’t required. Allison was already on the case. The girl flipped through a few pages of her notebook, then cleared her throat.

  “Lucille had congestive heart failure and kidney failure,” Allison read, “according to Virginia. Bridget also mentioned that she had trouble with anemia. They both said she was on a lot of different meds, although they didn’t say what.” She looked up at Leigh. “Isn’t alcohol a contraindication for a lot of meds, Mom?”

  Leigh’s heart started to pound again. Aside from the fact that most normal, happy twelve-year-olds did not throw around words like “contraindication,” she did not care for where her daughter’s mind was going. “It can be,” she answered vaguely. “Do we know that Lucille had punch?”

  Even as Leigh asked the question — which she had hoped would put the unpleasant line of thought to bed — a memory of Lucille coughing popped into her head. She had needed something to clear her throat…

  “I saw her drink it,” Allison answered confidently. “Bridget always kept a glass of water nearby, but Lucille had punch, too. She had at least two cups that I saw, one not long before she died.”

  Lenna started to tear up again, and the women let out a heavy, collective sigh. Allison’s stark view
of logic and reality could be painfully inconvenient.

  “Allie, honey,” Leigh reasoned, “I suppose it’s possible Lucille got a little bit of alcohol. But it’s extremely unlikely she got a significant enough amount to matter. She had much more serious problems going on, any of which could have ended her life. Unless the medical experts tell us otherwise, there’s no reason to chase down other possibilities.”

  Allison’s dark eyes studied her mother critically. “Okay,” she agreed, unconvinced.

  “Is anyone else hungry?” Anna Marie appealed, bestirring herself from the couch for the first time in over an hour. “It’s ridiculous that we’re all sitting in here starving to death when there’s a mountain of cold pizza out on the porch!”

  “But we don’t—” Olympia began.

  “Oh, get over yourself!” Anna Marie said rudely, practically knocking Olympia out of the way as she opened the front door. “The Flying Maples couldn’t possibly have done anything to this pizza and I’m going to eat it!” She flung open the door, reached down, picked up all five boxes, and wrestled them inside. Then, visibly panting, she peered over the top box and searched across the room until she found Frances. “They’re cold. How about warming them up a bit for us?”

  Leigh looked at her mother, but Frances didn’t move. Her face had gone pale again, and she had the same distant, shocky expression that had been frightening Leigh ever since the police showed up.

  “Potato salad,” Frances murmured, her words barely discernable.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sakes!” Lydie tutted as she urged Frances into a chair. “If you’re capable of operating an oven, Anna Marie, go do it yourself!”

  Leigh blinked at her aunt with surprise, as did the girls. Lydie was never waspish. But then Frances also never stared into space with a haunted expression while babbling about deli products.

  Anna Marie stood still. She looked from the pizza boxes toward the kitchen and back with a puzzled expression on her face. Then she started to move back toward the couch again.

  “Oh, let me do it,” Leigh offered, stepping over and taking the boxes out of the helpless woman’s bejeweled hands. “It will take a couple minutes. But I agree there’s no reason we shouldn’t eat something while we’re waiting.”

  She’d taken two steps into the kitchen before remembering one reason: the police chief was conducting an interview inside. “I’m sorry,” she apologized quickly. “Would you mind if I put these in the oven to warm? Everyone’s getting pretty hungry out there.”

  The chief made a vague gesture with his hand that Leigh took as a yes. She set down the boxes and turned on the oven.

  “You don’t understand,” Bobby said with frustration. “I didn’t know anything about that when I hired her. She seemed all right, and my mother liked her.”

  The chief didn’t reply, and Leigh got the idea he was waiting for her to leave before resuming the interview. But Bobby was not so patient. Although she popped the pizzas in the oven and departed straightaway, she couldn’t help but overhear more.

  “When I found out she’d pretty much murdered the old guy, of course I wanted to fire her! But my mother thought it was an honest mistake, and they were getting on well enough, and she’s so damned hard to please… I tried to talk to her, but she just wouldn’t have it, I tell you!”

  Leigh walked out of the kitchen.

  He’s making it up, she told herself. Virginia was right. He’s making Bridget look as suspicious as humanly possible… because he wants the insurance money.

  She felt her legs wobbling beneath her. Her gaze moved involuntarily toward where Bridget now stood by the front window, fidgeting with the curtain pull. She was twisting it first one way, then the other, staring at it with a bug-eyed glare.

  Delores appeared at Leigh’s side. “She’s such an odd creature, isn’t she, poor thing?” the tiny woman said, following Leigh’s gaze to the personal assistant. “Lucille used to liken her to a hamster, you know. Said she was brainless and was always running about in circles. But I always thought of her more like a fox. A fretful, demented fox that’s been kept in a tiny, airless cage all her life…”

  Delores’s voice turned wistful as she finished, and the hair on the back of Leigh’s neck rose. How her mother could plant crocus bulbs beside these women for thirty years was beyond her. Twelve hours in the company of most of them was enough to do her in, and she’d had enough of Delores’s particular wacko syrup by noon. She would rather hear Jennie Ruth belch all day.

  “Yes, well…” Leigh said vaguely, by way of excusing herself. Lydie was trying to prop up both a pale Frances and a distressed Lenna while Allison — much to Leigh’s chagrin — was back in action eavesdropping.

  Leigh looked at her watch. It wasn’t nearly as late as she felt like it should be. “What can I do?” she asked her aunt as she approached. “Mom, are you okay? You want a glass of water or something?”

  “No, thank you, dear,” Frances replied dully, still seeming as if she were only half present in the room. “Is your father back yet?”

  Leigh and Lydie exchanged a glance. They both knew that any function at the Koslow house involving the word “Floribunda” would be enough to ensure Randall’s absence for the duration. He might have had appointments at the clinic during the day, but where he had gone afterwards was anyone’s guess.

  “No, he’s out still,” Leigh answered. “You want me to try and call him?”

  “Never mind. If he were home he’d just go hide in the basement, anyway.” Frances looked more like herself when she scowled.

  Leigh smiled. Maybe her mother would be all right after all.

  “Melvin, would you stop fussing!” Olympia shrieked from the other side of the room. “What has gotten into you?”

  Leigh looked up to see the diminutive proctologist slinking off to an empty chair. The rest of the room fell quiet.

  Jennie Ruth belched.

  Frances startled as if the grim reaper himself were chasing her.

  A brisk pounding on the front door was followed by its immediate opening. “EMS!” a chipper woman in white called out. “Who’s the patient?”

  Chapter 13

  The pizza was gone. All the cookies were gone, too. The Koslow house was more of a disheveled, crumb-laden wreck than it had been for forty years, and the fact that Frances wasn’t bustling about trying to vacuum under people’s feet worried Leigh as much as her mother’s ghostlike pallor. EMS had come and gone, diagnosing only a few mildly upset stomachs and other symptoms of anxiety. Everyone had been interviewed except the two girls; Bridget was in the kitchen with all three officers now. The Floribundas and their spouses camped in the living room near the door, half falling asleep as they waited for permission to leave. It had gotten so late Randall had even come home.

  Leigh slouched by the record player, musing over what response she might get for cuing up a rousing track from John Denver and the Muppets.

  “Mom!” Allison whispered urgently, tugging on Leigh’s sleeve.

  Leigh looked to find her daughter’s face fraught with distress. “What is it?”

  “My notebook!” Allison cried, her voice nearly cracking. “It’s missing!”

  Leigh’s adrenaline shot up. The words made no sense, but a mother knew her own child. Allison could have said “I want chocolate, not vanilla,” and the effect on Leigh would have been the same. Something was terribly, desperately wrong. “What do you mean?”

  Allison took a deep breath, obviously trying to calm herself. That action in itself upset Leigh further — the child had always been calm as a cucumber. Allison reached a hand in her back pocket and pulled out the miniature flip notebook she always carried. “I brought this one with me,” she began to explain. “You know I always keep it in my pocket. But it was mostly full when I got here. After Lucille died, I went and got one of Grandma’s. A bigger one.”

  Leigh nodded in understanding. She had seen the upgrade.

  “But it wouldn’t fit in my pocket,
” Allison continued. “And when Lenna got examined she wanted me to be with her, but I didn’t want to carry the bigger notebook with me because that would be weird, you know? So I hid it away. And now it’s gone!”

  Leigh’s tired brain struggled to process the information. Allison was very attached to her notebooks, but this reaction was over the top. “Honey, anyone could have picked it up. Moved it somewhere without thinking—”

  “Mom!” Allison stamped her small foot with frustration. “How stupid do you think I am? I didn’t just lay it down somewhere! I hid it! I opened up Grandma’s secretary, the third drawer down, and I slid it in underneath some of the family albums. And now it’s not there!”

  Leigh felt something cold and slithery wrap itself around her heart. Allison’s notebook. The girl had been wandering around all afternoon, eavesdropping, taking notes. Everyone in the house had seen her do it — or could have, if they’d bothered to pay attention. Anyone could have watched her put the book in the secretary. And if Allison was sure the book was gone now, its disappearance was no accident. Someone had indeed noticed what she was doing. And someone didn’t like it.

  “I see why you’re upset,” Leigh answered finally. She looked at the crowd by the door. All of the women had purses. Melvin had a small medical-type bag and even Harry had an overcoat with big pockets slung over his arm. Any one of them could easily be concealing a notebook the size of Allison’s.

  Bridget came running out of the kitchen bawling. “I didn’t do anything!” she cried out to everyone and no one at the same time. “I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t!” She raced around and into the powder room, slamming the door after herself, and the three police officers walked out of the kitchen behind her. The younger two stood solemnly, watching, while the chief addressed the crowd.

  “Well, everyone, I appreciate your patience,” he announced. “I know it’s been a long day for you and a long night, too, and it’s probably way past some of your bedtimes.”

  Jennie Ruth made a very loud, rude, harrumphing sound. Several people turned to look at her, but her expression was utterly impassive. She could be a partying night owl offended by his assumption about her bedtime, or she could have been randomly clearing her throat. With Jennie Ruth, it was impossible to tell.