I’d only been ice-skating once before. Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t a common pastime in the sweltering heat of South Australia where I grew up, the driest state of the driest inhabited continent in the world. Not that California had ice that was any more natural, but LA was home of the entertainment biz—why let nature get in the way of a good show?
The outdoor rink with its synthetic ice was one of many that had cropped up around the city in honor of the season. A kid in a neon-pink tutu wobbled out onto the slippery surface and went down in a scrambling heap of tulle as soon as she let go of the rail. While my ice-skating experience was minimal, I’d roller-skated plenty of times in my youth and was hoping it wouldn’t be too different. All the same, I was glad my outfit wasn’t as eye-catching as that tutu.
I looked down at Etta’s skates in my lap and their sharp, dangerous-looking blades. I wasn’t sure why my septuagenarian neighbor owned a pair since I doubted it was a safe activity for bones that old, but then Etta never prioritized safety. A bit like LA, why let common sense get in the way of a good time?
A glance at my phone told me Connor was late. Connor was rarely late. As if on cue, my phone rang.
“Isobel.” Even hearing my name on his lips sent a wave of warmth to my extremities. “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to be able to make our date. Something’s come up with one of my security clients. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
The laughter and screeching suddenly seemed less merry. “Okay,” I said.
He disconnected.
I sat huddled on the bench some more, trying to resurrect my Christmas spirit.
Stuff it.
I didn’t need Connor to have fun. I’d go ice-skating without him.
My alarm wailed. Who set an alarm on Christmas morning? People who had two hours of travel and just as many hours of agonizing over what to wear ahead of them, that’s who.
Meow blinked her sleepy golden-green eyes at me in disapproval. My British housemate Oliver had left yesterday to fly home to see his family, so she’d slept in my room. I petted her dark, striped fur until she closed her eyes again and then swung my legs over the side of the bed. Ouch.
It turned out ice-skating was different to roller-skating, and I had the bruises to prove it. Maybe it was good Connor hadn’t shown up to witness my humiliation. Except I’d really been looking forward to having some “us time” together, our first as a couple, before the both enthralling and terrifying proposition of meeting his family. On Christmas. No pressure at all.
Briefly I wished I’d stuck to my original plan of spending the day curled up with Meow and a good book, interrupted only by walking Etta’s greyhound and Skyping my family back home. Connor’s handsome face flashed before me, and my wish dissipated as fast as it had emerged.
What the hell was I going to wear?
Unable to brave such an immense decision without caffeine, I shuffled to the kitchen and made myself a strong cup of tea, wishing as always that it was an espresso coffee instead. Then I shuffled outside onto the stair landing for a few minutes of calm before the day began.
I tripped over a gift basket. After finding a gift-wrapped, severed thumb by my front door just a few days before, I was grateful for the clear cellophane so I could see what was inside. Cookies. My favorite. There was a note attached.
I’m sorry. Fresh start?
I smiled. Connor. He could be sweet under the impassive mask he wore so well. Or maybe Maria, his maid and indispensable assistant, had bossed him into it. I thought about eating one, but I’d baked so many batches of cookies in the past few days (which meant I’d had to sample so many cookies the past few days) that even I was nearing my cookie limit. Plus if I ate any more sugar, I wouldn’t fit into half my clothes, and I had enough wardrobe troubles ahead of me.
Of course, clothing didn’t play a big part in my evening plans with Connor, but I had to get through the day first.
2
I surveyed myself in the mirror and sighed. Why had I said yes?
Okay, I’d been mooning over Connor ever since I found out he had a soul under the hard-ass exterior, and I would’ve paid to meet his family. If I wasn’t so broke, that is.
It was human nature: plunk a box in front of me and tell me I’m not allowed to open it—all I can think about is opening it. So when the man of mystery had invited me in, I would’ve been hard-pressed to decline even without his sweet, steadfast, and stupidly sexy qualities. But who thought having Christmas with someone’s family was a good idea as a first date? It’s the thing comedy shows are made of, and I was envisaging disaster upon disaster like Meet the Parents.
My heart sped up at the sound of someone knocking on the door. Connor. I hadn’t seen him since he’d asked me out two days ago, and my whole body trembled with nerves and anticipation. I braced my knees to hide their shaking, reminding me of the first time we’d met, and opened the door.
His tall, athletic form was backlit by the morning sun, which didn’t help my nerves as his gaze swept over me. “Merry Christmas, Isobel.”
He would have said, “I found a dead fish, Isobel,” in almost the exact same tone.
I stared at his perfect, composed face: the stern dark eyebrows, strong jaw, and warmer-than-usual eyes that offered the only hint he was pleased to see me. Okay, his nose was bruised green from its recent encounter with a walking stick, so he wasn’t quite perfect.
I realized I hadn’t replied. “Merry—”
The rest of the sentence and everything else fled from my brain as he leaned down, cupped my head in both hands, and kissed me thoroughly. “I’ve been looking forward to that,” he murmured, voice and breath soft against my cheek.
I didn’t say anything since my brain was malfunctioning. Maybe if I’d had that coffee…
“Are you ready?” he asked. “Or should I bring your coffee up from the car?”
Once again, I had let the silence drag out for too long. I’d been imagining dragging him into my bedroom—in spite of my secondhand duvet cover, which looked like a rainbow with a nasty stomach bug—and arriving at his family lunch late, but decidedly more merry.
I blinked and snapped out of my fantasy. “Ah, sure I am. Let me grab my things.”
Connor had banned me from buying any gifts, so I’d made a traditional Australian dessert, pavlova, and a plate of gingerbread man cookies to contribute. However, when I’d gone to pack the gingerbread men, I’d discovered my thieving weasel of a housemate Oliver had stolen them for his plane trip. Either that or they’d used their little legs to run, run away as fast as they could. So now I was bringing a plate of the cookies Connor had gifted me this morning instead.
I gave Meow a last cuddle for courage, grabbed the desserts and my bag, and walked with my hot date to his SUV.
I stared at the passing desert landscape and reflected that today might just turn out to be my worst Christmas ever.
“Are we there yet?” I asked.
Not even the suggestion of a smile brushed Connor’s lips. “No.”
The familiar hum of the engine was the only sound. The only sound for most of the past hour I’d spent in the car with my new romantic partner.
It wasn’t very romantic. It was more like driving with the Grinch.
We couldn’t agree on music. He liked classical, I liked indie rock. I’d suggested Christmas carols since it was, after all, Christmas morning, but he’d declined those too. “Some of them are classics,” I’d argued. He’d driven on without bothering to answer. The relentless noise of the engine seemed to rise in volume as I wondered again whether I’d made a terrible mistake.
“That was a joke,” I pointed out. “About whether we’re there yet.”
He didn’t say anything, but I could guess what went through his head. Not a very good one.
It was true. I couldn’t even win an argument in my imaginary conversation with Connor.
I looked at his profile again. Drop-dead gorgeous. But this car trip was turning out to be drop-dead boring.
And eerily similar to the one to Porterville three and a half months ago. We had just found out that Albert Alstrom, a celebrity chef and our primary lead in a poisoning case, was a dead end and had desperately needed new information on the case. Hence the road trip to talk to a potential witness. But at the time, I’d been certain Connor could barely tolerate me. It hadn’t been a fun drive.
This time was different though, I reminded myself. My fingers drummed the section of the door panel that served as an armrest. He’d told me he admired me. That he found me refreshing. Called me warm and genuine. Sure, he’d called me impossible and hardheaded as well, but he said he wanted to see me more often. It was his idea to bring me to his family Christmas. So why the heck was he stonewalling me?
Was it my choice of clothing? I looked down at the T-shirt Oliver had gifted me for Christmas. It featured two cartoon gingerbread men, one with a bite taken out of his leg, saying, “I can’t feel my leg,” and the other with a bite out of his head saying, “What?”
I’d agonized all morning over what to wear. To give the right impression. But the impression I wanted to give Connor: stupendously sexy, and the impression I wanted to give his family: intelligent and responsible, were at odds with each other. In the end, I’d given up and worn Oliver’s gift and a pair of jeans. Sometimes it’s better not to try too hard than to try hard and miss the mark. Besides, when else was I going to wear the T-shirt?
But the jeans were another mistake. Who’s dumb enough to wear too-tight jeans to an eating occasion like Christmas? Especially when eating might be a much-needed way of avoiding conversation and consoling myself.
“Is something wrong?” I asked Connor, trying to kick my mind out of its spiral of doom.
“No.” He glanced over at me. “Of course not.”
“Then why are we just sitting here in silence? Shouldn’t we be, I don’t know, deep in conversation, learning things about each other?”
I was the kind of girl who was usually comfortable with silence, but I’d been hoping for a little more feel-good conversation on my first date and first Christmas away from home.
Connor looked my way again, and I saw the slightest crease at the corners of his eyes, indicating he was amused. “I already know an awful lot about you, Isobel Matilda Avery. And besides, I like silence.”
My fingers abruptly ceased their drumming. I hated my middle name. I’d heard enough colorful renditions of the Australian ballad “Waltzing Matilda” to be scarred for life. No way had I ever used it around him.
Then I remembered: he’d read my file. “That’s not fair.” We both worked for the same company protecting high-end clients, which was how we met. But he was an investigator, and I was a highly specialized poison taster. “You should let me see your file to level the playing field,” I said, knowing it would never happen. Both our jobs were strictly classified, and our employer operated on a need-to-know basis.
“I’m afraid that’s against Taste Society policy.” His tone hadn’t changed, but my gut told me he was gleeful about the policy.
“Then at least tell me about your family.”
“You’ll meet them yourself in another hour.”
I restrained myself from throwing my hands in the air. I knew from experience he only got more uncommunicative in the face of emotion. This was not going well. And I was about to be introduced to his mom and his sister, two people I intuitively knew he valued above anyone else. What if they were just like him? It would be the most stilted Christmas ever. Maybe I’d leave having said nothing other than “nice to meet you” and “pass the wine.” I definitely chose the wrong outfit too. I needed to go to my happy place.
“Well, if we can’t talk and we can’t listen to music, can we get something to eat?”
This time, his lips twitched. “You realize we’re going there to have lunch, right?”
I refused to rise to the bait. My appetite was a constant source of amusement for him, but I’d skipped breakfast in a misguided attempt to fit into my jeans, and I couldn’t cope with any more of this on an empty stomach. “I’m sure I’ll be hungry again by then.”
His shoulders dropped a quarter inch, conceding the point. “Where do you want to go?”
“Whatever we come across next will be fine. But skip the drive-through and get a park.”
“Need to stretch your legs?” he asked.
I shot him a dirty look. “No. I’m just making sure you don’t put sleeping drugs in my food again.”
That was how he’d dealt with my unwanted attempts at conversation on our last road trip.
3
As I left the safety of the SUV and walked to Connor’s mother’s home, I thought perhaps I should’ve written a letter to Santa telling him all I wanted for Christmas was for this lunch to go okay. If I’d posted it express, it might have gotten there in time.
The home itself was a cute 1900s cottage with a generous A-frame roof, painted a chirpy white. It was set back from the road by a long driveway and nestled amongst a well-tended garden. Beyond the garden were towering oak trees on gently sloping, grassy land that seemed to typify this corner of San Bernardino County.
Despite the peace of the picturesque scene, adrenaline pumped through my veins for the second time today. What if they hated me? Connor hadn’t liked me at first. My mind flashed back to the destination of our last road trip, and I decided I’d rather be facing that gang of turkeys. And I really don’t like turkeys. Except dead, naked, and trussed on the dinner table anyway.
A woman in her fifties came out the front door and down the steps. I couldn’t see much of Connor in her, except for the stern nose and cleft chin. She was followed by an exuberant German shorthaired pointer who raced over and planted two paws on my stomach, giving me an excuse to postpone the moment of our official meeting.
“Agatha, down!” the woman reprimanded. “Connor, why didn’t you tell us you were bringing someone?”
My hands froze in rewarding Agatha for her naughty behavior, and I gaped at Connor incredulously.
He raised an eyebrow a fraction. “Don’t,” he said.
I snapped my jaw shut, thinking he was talking to me.
His mother shot me a smile. “Don’t worry, dear, I’m just teasing.” She pulled me into a hug, then stepped back to look at me. “I’ll have you know that Connor didn’t get his lack of humor from me. We’re delighted to have you. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since he brought a girl home to our little family?”
“Don’t,” Connor warned again.
Her dark eyes glinted with mischief. “Gosh. He must have still been in diapers.”
It took a moment for my brain to catch up. “Just how long did it take him to graduate from diapers?” I asked.
She clapped me on the shoulder and laughed. “Oh, thank goodness, I was worried you’d be a stickler like him.”
Connor looked at us both with resignation. “Isobel, meet my mother, Mae.”
Ten minutes later, I’d been introduced to his sister, Harper, as well, and we were all squeezed into the tiny cottage kitchen. Agatha had opted to lie in the middle of the tiles in everyone’s way.
I watched the man next to me do up the ties of his Rudolph the Reindeer apron and thought—not for the first time—that I’d known more about complete strangers after ten minutes of small talk than I did about my date. My eyes flicked to my own cartoon T-shirt. When I’d decided to wear it this morning, I would have never in my wildest dreams expected to match the oh-so-suave Connor. Of course, under the apron he was wearing his usual tailored shirt and jeans.
I smirked at him. “You look good in Christmas cartoons.”
“I always look good,” he said without missing a beat.
His sister pulled a face and smacked a rolling pin into his hands. “You’re always an idiot too. Don’t you know you’re supposed to return the compliment? Now get rolling.”
Harper’s apron depicted a plump Santa in a distressing state of undress. Beneath it, she was tall, lean,
and muscular, like her brother. As a mechanic, her muscles no doubt came in handy. Her hair was the same rich espresso brown as her brother’s too, but where his gray eyes were frequently cold and flinty, hers sparkled like the baubles on the Christmas tree. They lit on me now. “Are you sure you’ll be able to put up with him?” she asked.
“Absolutely not,” I said. “Do you have any tips?”
Connor had moved to the pizza dough Harper had just finished kneading. We were apparently having Christmas pizzas for lunch.
She flashed me a wicked grin. “It all comes down to finding creative ways to annoy him.”
Maybe this wouldn’t be such a disaster after all…
I surreptitiously unfastened the top button of my jeans and leaned to the left like the ancient Romans used to do after they’d overindulged. The position was supposed to relieve the pressure on your stomach. I was stuffed, and we hadn’t even started on dessert.
Once again, they insisted I serve myself first. In addition to the pavlova with berries and cream and the cookies that I’d contributed, there were peppermint chocolate brownies, a pumpkin pie, and a gingerbread cheesecake. I loaded up my plate with a tiny portion of each and tried to decide where to start. The cookie perhaps. I was curious about what flavor Connor would’ve chosen for me.
I sampled a piece, testing for poison out of habit. The decadent tones of butter and rum rolled over my tongue first, followed by cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and…
Crap.
Chloral hydrate. I spat the soggy crumbs into my napkin. What the hell had Connor been thinking? A prank probably, meant just for me who was trained to taste it. Chloral hydrate was a central nervous system depressant used as a sleeping aid or, in larger doses, unconsciousness and death. Maybe he’d thought I’d try a cookie before we drove here and be amused by the reminder of our last road trip. But how could he have allowed me to serve them to his family? On Christmas? Especially seeing as mixing chloral hydrate with alcohol made it a lot more dangerous. The rum alone might not be enough to do it, but we’d all been drinking wine as well. Was it possible Connor hadn’t known about the alcohol thing?
Eat, Pray, Die Mystery Box Set Page 44
