by T Lockhaven
The Coffee House Sleuths
Sleighed
Book 1
T. Lockhaven
Edited by: Emmy Ellis and Grace Lockhaven
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Chapter 1
“What’s a party without mistletoe?” Michael asked, arching his eyebrows. He took a sip of pumpkin spice coffee and gazed expectantly at his two best friends.
Ellie and Olivia shared a look that could only be interpreted as: Not this again.
“I see,” Michael deduced, “the silent treatment. When it came to discussing whether our Christmas tree lights should flicker, you couldn’t stop talking. But, I suggest a pristine piece of nature that just happens to be intertwined with a time-honored tradition, and suddenly you have nothing to say.”
Ellie took a sip of coffee and checked her watch.
Olivia licked creamy parfait from her spoon. “I love this song.” She smiled. “Silent Night, how poignant.”
Michael leaned in, his blue eyes sparkling mischievously. “Mistletoe has virtually ruined people’s lives. We have the ability to unleash—”
“Here we go,” Ellie complained.
“It’s funny, one little sprig hung over a doorway induces equal amounts of annoyance and awkwardness. It’s the epitome of…well, it’s just funny.” He sat back in his chair and clasped his hands.
“Are you done bloviating?” Ellie asked.
Michael glanced at her, held up a finger, and then wrinkled his forehead. “I’m not sure, I’ll need to consult with my thesaurus before answering that—or my lawyer,” he added.
“Mistletoe is not funny, Michael West,” Olivia blurted out, brandishing her well-licked spoon in his direction.
Ellie put her hand on Olivia’s. “Don’t, darling, stay strong.”
Olivia scanned the café, tightened her lips, and then leaned in, whispering furiously, “Do you remember Mary Stewart?”
“That sweet old lady? Wasn’t she the church secretary at Sacred Heart?” Ellie asked, gently blowing across her coffee.
“Yes, well, a branch of mistletoe made her pee behind the bushes at the Weston Country Club….”
“Well, you’re not supposed to eat it,” Michael exclaimed. “She’s lucky she didn’t die.”
“Shh,” Olivia hushed Michael, pointing at him. “She didn’t eat it, you moron. Father McKenzie thought it would be funny to hang a branch of mistletoe at the entrance to the bathrooms.” She took in a deep breath, recalling the memory. “He just stood there, a twisted smile on his face…waiting with his wintergreen Tic-Tacs. I can still hear the tap-tap, tap-tap, as he shook them into his hand…loitering for his next victim.”
“Okay.” Michael nodded. “That took a much darker turn than I expected.”
“I remember Father McKenzie said something horrible like, ‘Before you pee, you gotta kiss me.’”
“Ugh.” Ellie visibly shuddered. “That’s disgusting. He has old man lips.”
“Okay….” Michael held out his hands. “First, you guys have completely deviated from what I was talking about. Secondly, you basically vilified mistletoe by adding a sinister component. How much do you want to bet I can prove mistletoe is conditional?”
Ellie looked at Olivia and shrugged. “Sure, dazzle us with your intellect.”
“Thank you. In the spirit of fairness, what if I replaced Father McKenzie with someone like Chris Hemsworth or Ewan McGregor in this scenario. I’m sure things would be much different. You see? …Conditional….”
“Totally different,” Ellie insisted. “You can’t take a hypothetical and try to merge it with reality. This whole discussion is ridiculous. I mean, really, Michael, if you’re so desperate for a kiss from a woman, man up and ask for it.”
“Wait! Wait, I wasn’t saying that, I can get a kiss! I simply wanted to watch—”
“Michael West, that is much more disturbing on many levels,” Olivia muttered.
“You didn’t let me finish, that was completely out of context—”
“Listen,” Ellie interrupted, “I need to make a point, and after this,” she insisted, turning to each of her friends, “we are through discussing mistletoe, agreed? We are adults after all.”
Olivia and Michael nodded in unison.
“At least two of us,” Olivia sighed under her breath.
“I believe that the mistletoe tradition was created by a sad, sad man named either Lester or Morris,” Ellie began. “I’m going to go with Lester—an aficionado of skintight, forest-green, mock-turtleneck sweaters, pleated khakis accessorized with a reversible belt, argyle socks, and white patent-leather shoes with tassels.”
“Make sure you breathe, Ellie,” Michael interjected.
Ellie narrowed her eyes. “And before I slam my gavel down to end this inane discussion, I would like to add that it’s a pitifully sad, outdated tradition for lonely men who enjoy puzzles, the game Magic, and celibacy.”
“Hear! Hear! Well done, you,” Olivia declared and pounded her fist on the table. “Well done.”
“Indeed,” Michael said, scooting his chair outside of Ellie’s arm reach, “but just for clarity, for our holiday party, mistletoe in, or out? I’m asking for a friend.”
Michael was saved from almost certain death when a man’s voice erupted from the table behind them, cutting through the conversational noise at the Bitter Sweet Café.
“Turn up the volume on the television,” was directed at the thirty-something hipster running the cash register.
Ellie and Olivia twisted in their seats to see what the commotion was about.
The local news was showing video footage, obviously shot from someone’s cell phone. The crawler at the bottom of the screen read: Lana Cove Mall Mayhem.
“Oh no.” Michael sucked in his breath, frightened there had been a shooting.
From the expressions on Olivia’s and Ellie’s faces, they were thinking the same thing.
The video panned from the floor to Santa, seated on a large golden chair with red plush upholstery. Standing to his side was an angelic elf with blonde hair, a green top, red-and-white-striped stockings, and pointy green shoes. A long line of children queued in front of Santa, waiting for their turn.
The videographer was obviously enamored with the elf, because the camera zoomed in and remained there for some time. It wasn’t until she turned with a surprised expression, that the video swooped from her to another man dressed as Santa leaping out from behind the other Santa’s chair.
The entire café gasped when the rogue Santa ripped the beard off the seated Santa’s face. Then, as if it were a trophy, he thrust the beard into the air and screamed, “He’s a fake! He’s a fake!”
For a second, the de-bearded Santa didn’t seem to know what to do. He glanced around, bewildered. Then he jumped to his feet and chased the other Santa around the stage. The children scattered, screaming.
The rogue Santa, still clutching the fake beard, crashed through a candy cane barrier and sprinted toward the escalator.
“Is that George?” Ellie asked, horrified. “Please tell me that’s not George.”
“I’m not sure,” Michael said, unable to tear his eyes from the train wreck.
The beardless Santa dove for the rogue, grabbing him by the back of his pants, just as he’d stepped onto the escalator. As fate would have it, Santa’s pants dropped to his boots, revealing a pair of silk boxers tastefully decorated with candy canes.
“Thank God for
that,” Michael said. “It could have been worse—a lot worse.”
The rogue waddled and fell forward onto the escalator. Beardless Santa leaped onto his back. Horrified onlookers gawked and pointed as the literal Santa sandwich slowly ascended, still fighting over the beard.
The news anchor appeared on the screen, a headshot of the rogue behind her shoulder. “It saddens me to say,” the woman said in a crisp voice, “a spokesman from the Lana Cove Mall tells us that George Owens will be banned from the mall until further notice.”
The atmosphere inside the Bitter Sweet Café immediately shifted from festive to dismay. Whispered conversations filled the room. For many, George was a close, dear friend.
“I don’t understand…. Why would he do that?” Ellie asked, her heart breaking for George.
“He wouldn’t,” Olivia insisted. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
“Honestly,” Michael replied, “he looked like a man pushed to his limits.”
“Livs and I have known George for over thirty years. He’s never been in trouble, he’s just a sweet old man.”
“And who was that other Santa?” Michael asked. “Did either of you recognize him?”
“I don’t know,” Ellie said, thinking. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before. George has been the official Santa at the Lana Cove Mall since before I was born.”
“I can’t imagine.” Olivia frowned. “Why do they have to keep showing that video over and over again? It’s like they revel in other people’s misery.”
“Daryl,” Ellie called out to the hipster employee. “Change the channel. Put on anything, I don’t care if it’s golf.”
“I hear George has been tipping it back a little too much lately,” a man said a couple tables away.
“Great.” Ellie nodded toward the man. “That’s how rumors get started. Do you think we should reach out to George and make sure he’s okay? He’s bound to be devastated.”
“Maybe we could invite him to our Christmas party,” Olivia offered. “We could use a real Santa. No offense, Michael, you do make a great Santa.”
“None taken. I’m always willing to do what needs to be done for the greater good. Besides, I’m dying to try on my new holiday threads, so it’s a win-win.”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure George is booked up by now,” Ellie replied. “He’s usually busy from the beginning of December through Christmas.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” Michael stared at the television. “Take it from someone who’s done digital marketing his entire life…this is the type of story that goes viral. Trust me.” He shook his head. “There’s not a lot of people who are going to want an unhinged Santa.”
“I agree.” Ellie sighed. “I think we should invite him to the party. If he has a Santa gig, well, that’s great, but if not, I’m sure he could use the support of his friends right now.”
Chapter 2
Michael turned his face toward the sky and closed his eyes. Snowflakes fell lazily onto his cheeks, like tiny cold kisses. For a moment, he was back in Boston, his daughter’s delicate mittened hand in his, running through the snow, seeing who could catch a snowflake on their tongue—memories of Lexis dragging him to the ground to make snow angels. His heart soared at the sound of her laughter, and for that fleeting moment in time, everything was simple, everything was perfect in the world.
The sound of a car passing brought him back to the present.
He breathed in deeply. His daughter, now eighteen, was away in France this year, traveling with her best friend’s family for Christmas. This would be his first Christmas without her since his divorce and his new life in Lana Cove. A tear trekked slowly down his face. He stuck out his tongue, catching a snowflake. It melted, just like his heart.
A gentle tap, tap caught his attention. He glanced toward his house. Ellie stood at the picture window, her face aglow, lit from the candles she placed on the ledge. Michael waved and turned away, embarrassed to be caught in such a private moment.
He’d used the excuse of shoveling the sidewalk to go outside and be alone with his thoughts, but the truth was, it wasn’t necessary. A thin dusting of snow that reminded him of powdered sugar was all that blanketed the walkway and the porch. And with a few whisks from his push broom, he’d cleared the pavement and the porch.
“All right, Michael,” he whispered, “get ahold of yourself.” He clomped up the porch steps, leaned the broom against the house, kicked the snow off his boots, and stepped inside.
“Welcome back.” Ellie smiled. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Her face was pressed to the window, her hands on either side of her head.
“It is,” Michael said, talking about Ellie, just as much as he was the snow.
He removed his jacket and scarf and hung them in the closet, and then with the grace of an Olympic skater, he slid sock-footed across the floor and grabbed Ellie’s hand. Drawing her in close, he slow danced with her. He spun her like a ballerina and pulled her in. She leaned her head on his shoulder for a moment, her dark silken hair spilling across his chest, then she turned her head and looked into his eyes.
“Michael,” she whispered softly, her eyes wide, filled with wonderment.
His heart jumped. “Yes?” He was intoxicated by her beauty.
“The Christmas tree isn’t going to make itself.” She smiled, playfully pushing him away.
Michael’s heart skipped a beat, and his brain had gone to mush. “Wait, what did you say?” This didn’t feel at all like the magical moment he’d just envisioned in his mind.
“I said the Christmas tree needs to be set up.”
“You ruin a beautiful moment because of a tree?”
“Beautiful moment? All I see is an empty corner, and not a lot of time before our guests arrive. Tick-tock,” Ellie prompted, tapping an imaginary watch.
“How long could it possibly take to put up a Christmas tree?”
“I’ll take this question.” Olivia walked into the room with three glasses of wine. She handed a glass each to Ellie and Michael. “Do you remember last year?”
“Which part?” Michael asked curiously. “I already apologized for saying your dad looked like a tall Napoleon. I believe I even used the word doppelganger to impress him.”
Ellie gave him a you’re-walking-on-thin-ice glare.
“What?” Michael defended himself. “He always had his arm across his chest, with his hand hidden, just like Napoleon.”
“His arm was in a sling, you idiot,” Olivia retorted. “Remember he shattered it trying to teach you how to water ski?”
“Oh yeah, I remember some of that,” Michael replied sheepishly. “So wait, you’re still angry about that?”
“No! We’re talking about the Christmas tree. I was asking if you remembered last year and what happened regarding your assembly of the tree.”
“Hmm.” Michael tapped his finger on his chin. “Not really. I seem to remember something about you constantly asking us to test the punch, test the eggnog…and after that it gets a little hazy. I feel like you may have taken advantage of me.”
“Hah, don’t flatter yourself. Let’s just say we found you asleep on the floor, curled around the base of a half-finished tree.”
“Oh yeah…,” Michael nodded. “I recall some pictures on Facebook. I was wrapped up in silver tinsel with a star attached to my head.”
“Good times.” Olivia laughed.
“Tell you what,” Ellie said, “why don’t you set up the tables and put out the dishes. Olivia and I will assemble this beautiful plastic Douglas fir.”
“Are you sure?” Michael shrugged. “I mean, aren’t men better at assembling things like furniture? Something about spatial awareness.”
Ellie narrowed her eyes. “Michael, we’re going to pretend like you didn’t just say that, and maybe, we’ll let you live.”
Michael opened his mouth to object but decided against it. “Got it,” he mumbled. “Table, dishes, silverware, DJ.”
“What
was that last part?” Ellie demanded.
“Nothing,” Michael called back. He patted his iPhone and smiled, disappearing into the kitchen.
“Ellie, you’ve checked the clock a dozen times. He’ll be here.”
“I’m worried about him.” Ellie stared out the window. “The party starts in thirty minutes, and I really want to talk with George before the guests arrive.”
“I’m sure he’ll—” Olivia nearly jumped out of her skin when the doorbell rang. “That’s probably him now.”
Ellie rushed across the room and threw open the door. “George!” She beamed.
“Hi, Ellie.” George smiled kindly, brushing the snow from his coat and hat. His eyes appeared tired and sad, his large, bulbous nose and cheeks red from the cold.
“Come in, come in,” Ellie gushed. “Did you walk here?” She leaned through the doorway, peering outside for George’s bright-red Chrysler Lebaron with wood paneling, made to resemble Santa’s sled. “Where’s your car? I would have certainly—” She caught herself. “I’m sorry, George, too many questions.”
“It’s okay, Ellie, I understand.”
She moved to the side to give him room. He stomped his boots on the welcome mat and then stepped inside.
She stared at him. If anyone looks like Santa, it’s George.
“The decorations are beautiful.” His voice sounded rough and weary. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
“The decorations are Olivia’s handiwork. She’s unbelievably talented.”
“Hi, George!” Olivia chirped. She wrapped her arms around him. “It’s so good to see you. Can I get you a coffee? Punch? Eggnog?”
“Coffee would be nice, thank you, Olivia.”
“You got it. I’ll add a dash of cinnamon to spice things up a bit.” She winked.
Michael appeared in the living room in a pink apron with red piping, the word Sweet-buns elegantly embroidered across the front. He followed George’s eyes from his face, down to his apron. “It was a gift,” he offered. “And,” he said defensively, “it’s the truth.”
