by Edie Claire
Bridget returned with a glass within seconds, and Lucille snatched it from her hands. “You wouldn’t need to run if you’d kept my glass full in the first place!” she berated.
“Sorry, Ms. Busby,” Bridget said in a low voice, fading into the background again.
“Oh, just look everyone!” Olympia said, sweeping her hands over the living room. “Take a moment and look at what we’ve accomplished, will you?”
Leigh glanced at her mother and smiled. Frances was beaming. Despite the chaos and the drama, their little house did look amazing. She couldn’t say it looked exactly like it had when she was a child — there were far too many decorations for that. Frances had never strung garlands because they were “impossible to dust,” extra lights “wasted too much electricity,” and real greenery of any kind “dropped those nasty needles everywhere.” But today the Koslow home sported all of the above and then some, and it looked magnificent — like a vintage seventies snapshot or a scene from an old Christmas movie. But one thing still seemed to be missing…
“Oh, no!” Leigh exclaimed. “I forgot the icicles!” She rushed back to the ornament box and began to dig.
“Good heavens!” Frances agreed. “We can’t have that!”
“We’re opening in five minutes!” Olympia announced.
“Found them!” Leigh said triumphantly. The cheap tinsel usually tangled into massive clumps when stored, which is why most people threw it out every year. And why, when it fell out of fashion, it also disappeared. But since Frances had always slavishly packed away each individual strand, the Koslow family supply was still intact.
“Everyone come by and take a handful,” Frances ordered as she moved to the tree. “We can make it a group project!”
The mood turned festive as everyone — with the exception of Anna Marie — filed by Leigh and then draped their quota of shiny silver icicles over the branches of the artificial tree. Leigh loved icicles. When she was a child, she used to pull them off the tree and tie them around the wise men to make electric fences for the sheep in her nativity set. She would hold a strand in her hand, walk across the carpet in her fuzzy slippers, and then charge the fence with a zap of static electricity.
When everyone had finished hanging their tinsel, Frances did what she always did. She said “let me just fix this one little clump…” and then proceeded to rearrange every strand. But by that time, everyone else was too busy to notice. Final cleanup was underway, and then it was off to the battle stations. Leigh took her place by the turntable and cued up the top album on her stack of vintage vinyl records, courtesy of the Flying Maples.
“It looks beautiful, Mom,” Leigh praised when Frances finally stepped back to admire her artwork. “The whole house looks absolutely perfect. You should be proud.”
Frances smiled back, her dark eyes sparkling as strains of Osmond Family Christmas carried through the air.
“I see our first guests!” Olympia called excitedly from the front window.
“Here we go!” Frances said gleefully, bouncing in her practical low-heeled shoes. “I do hope nothing goes terribly wrong.”
She threw out her chest and strode purposefully toward the door.
Leigh’s jaws clenched. She did not, and never had, considered herself a superstitious person.
But she really wished her mother wouldn’t say that.
Chapter 8
“Seven o’clock,” Olympia whispered to the workers gathered in the kitchen. There were no guests within earshot at the moment, although Leigh could hear several people walking up the stairs. “The first house is shutting down now, so we’ve less than an hour to go. And so far everything has gone perfectly!” Olympia gave a little clap and smiled her gummy smile.
Leigh wondered if it were possible to tempt fate with a claim that was patently untrue. She decided to be optimistic and say no. Not that the previous five hours had been a disaster; the Koslows’ 1970s-styled 1930s house was being quite pleasantly received. The guests seemed delighted with its “everyman” authenticity and true Pittsburgh feel, and comments to the regionals were uniformly positive. But “absolutely perfect” was pushing it. One woman had tripped down the stairs and sprained an ankle, a little girl had thrown up her lunch on the porch, and Leigh had been called to plunge the powder room toilet twice. Not to mention that Virginia’s husband Harry seemed to think he had been billed as entertainment. He wandered around like a game show host giving nonsensical speeches, scoping out attractive women, and making a nuisance of himself under the mistletoe. He had even tacked up a sprig of it in a corner above a trash can, only to get himself slapped by an unsuspecting millennial he attempted to ambush underneath it.
All in all, though, things were going about as well as Leigh could have expected.
“Hey, honey,” Olympia’s husband Melvin said upon his sudden reappearance in the kitchen. Unlike Harry, Melvin had removed himself from the premises right after serving lunch. “Are you all getting hungry yet?”
“Oh, no!” Olympia cried. “You’re early! Dinner shouldn’t arrive until the guests have stopped coming!” Her exasperation was obvious, but she attempted to smooth it over by turning to the women with a lighthearted smile. “Men! They do try, the poor dears.”
Dr. Pepper, as he was unfortunately named, was an unassuming, shrimpy-looking soul, but his calm, unflappable demeanor did suggest he would have an excellent bedside manner. He didn’t act in the least insulted. “Dinner will be delivered at the appropriate time,” he replied in a deep voice, his tone soothing. “I just wondered if you’d like something to tide you over.”
“No, thank you,” Olympia answered tightly. “I’m fine.”
Melvin, who had to look up at his wife by at least half a foot, nevertheless stepped up close to her, squared his shoulders and stared her down. “I’d like to make sure of that,” he said quietly.
Olympia glared back at him furiously for a moment, but then she blew out a frustrated breath, retreated to a corner of the kitchen, and rolled up a sleeve. “Just get it over with and get out of here, would you?” she snapped, whispering a little too loudly.
Melvin withdrew a blood pressure cuff and stethoscope from his jacket pocket, wrapped the cuff around his wife’s upper arm, and proceeded to take a reading.
Oh, dear, Leigh thought with foreboding. Not her and Mom, too!
Everyone else politely averted their eyes.
“How is the cider punch holding up?” Leigh asked. The liquid level in the glass bowl seemed to be getting low.
“It’ll be fine. I’ve got more in the fridge,” Lydie answered, turning around to fetch it.
“You want some, Aunt Leigh?” Lenna offered, picking up the ladle.
Leigh shook her head. She liked cider, but it was rough on her stomach, and she didn’t need any additional stress in that organ. “It’s getting rave reviews, I must say. And the cookies, too!” She looked over the now-dwindling array of 3D Christmas trees, gingerbread men, cookie-press treats decorated with colorful crystals and shiny metallic sugar balls, and strawberry-shaped date cookies with green-frosted leaves.
She couldn’t eat any of them, dammit. Not until the tour was over and all the guests had been served. She had sworn on her life, as had they all. If she was starving, there was always that ancient, squished-flat granola bar in her purse.
Sigh.
“What’s Allie doing?” Lenna asked, sounding slightly miffed. “She says she can’t help in here because she has another job, but she won’t tell me what it is!”
“She’s on a secret security detail,” Leigh answered in a whisper. “Your Grandma Frances doesn’t trust Mrs. Busby to keep a sharp enough eye on all the little stuff in the dining room, so she’s got Allison stationed in there for backup.”
“Oh,” Lenna muttered, seeming appeased. No doubt Allison’s job sounded even more boring than her own.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Olympia voice carried angrily from the corner. “I’m perfectly fine! I used to compete in
triathlons! I was a world class cyclist!” She threw her arms over her head, and without another word to the women she left the room, nearly colliding with Bridget in the process.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the personal assistant apologized. Olympia merely humphed and kept going, and Bridget slunk up to the table like a dog afraid of a beating. “I… um…” she said to Lenna in a small voice. “I wondered if I could have a small cup of punch?”
“Sure,” Lenna answered with enthusiasm, ladling out a large portion.
Melvin approached the table also. “I’d like a cup of that too, please,” he said grimly.
Leigh watched with surprise, but no small amount of amusement, as Bridget covertly swept several cookies off the table and into a napkin in her palm. “Oh, thank you,” she said, taking the cup Lenna offered. Then she turned and left, tasting a sip on her way. Lenna handed another brimming cup to Melvin and he also thanked her and left the room.
“Oh, shoot!” Lydie exclaimed. One of the pitchers of cider had slipped from her hands and splashed drops of liquid across the shining orange countertop and floor. “Is anyone coming?”
“Not yet,” Leigh assured as she grabbed a mushroom dishtowel from a drawer and helped to sop up the spots.
“I’ll do that,” Lydie insisted, handing Leigh the pitcher of fresh punch instead. “Here, you go ahead and pour this.”
Leigh took the pitcher and moved to the table. The first stream of liquid had just trickled into the existing punch when a strange sight caught her eye. She lifted the pitcher again and set it down. “Aunt Lydie?”
“Yes?”
“What fruit is in here besides cranberries?”
“You mean juices?”
Leigh stared at the translucent white berry that bobbed up and down on the still-rippling surface of the amber-colored punch. The berry was round, with a yellowish spot on one end and tiny white veins running along its sides. She’d never seen a fruit quite like it before. “No, I mean fruit. What is this thing?”
Lydie’s head appeared over her shoulder. “Oh, good Lord!” Lydie cried, plunging her fingers straight into the bowl and extracting the fruit. She stared upward, and her face colored purple. She said something very uncomplimentary about someone. “I can’t believe he did that!” she fumed. “Right smack over the serving table!”
Leigh’s eyes followed her aunt’s. Tacked up on the ceiling with a piece of scotch tape, directly over the punch bowl, was a cluster of fresh mistletoe.
Lenna giggled.
“What was he thinking?” Lydie fumed. She climbed on a chair to pull the offending plant down, then carried the punch bowl to the sink. “Is the man insane?”
“Harry strikes again,” Leigh said with resignation.
“That odious man has been in here pestering us all day!” Lydie exclaimed as she tilted the punch bowl and poured the rest of the liquid down the sink. “Holding that mistletoe over Cara’s head and mine both, begging us for kisses… that SOB’s got the busiest hands north of Pittsburgh. I never have been able to stand him!”
“But when could he have put mistletoe up there?” Lenna asked. “I didn’t see him!”
Lydie sighed as she began to wash out the bowl. “I didn’t either, but we’ve had plenty of distractions, and he’s tall enough to stick a sprig up there with one hand. Probably he did it the last time he was in here a few minutes ago, and he’s planning to come back in and catch some unsuspecting woman in the next group while she’s leaning in to take a cup.”
“But,” Leigh interjected, feeling slightly queasy as she watched her aunt vigorously scrub the sides of the bowl. “Isn’t mistletoe… poisonous?”
Lydie looked at her oddly. “Well, I suppose it is, if you eat it. But no one’s going to do that!”
“Then why are you scouring that bowl?”
“Because I don’t like anything falling off the ceiling into my beverages!” she replied. She finished scrubbing, gave the bowl a good rinse, and set it back on the table. “Now, let’s refill it.”
Leigh’s uneasy feeling was not so easily assuaged. “But… we already served people from the bowl when it had the berry in it,” she pointed out.
“No, I didn’t!” Lenna defended. “The berry only just fell in, Aunt Leigh. Otherwise I would have noticed it.”
Lydie threw Leigh a meaningful look. “Of course she would have. Now pour the punch. Everything’s fine.”
Translation: You sound like your mother.
Leigh searched for her inner rational side. Everything they were saying made perfect sense. She was only borrowing trouble. “You’re right, I’m sure,” she agreed, although her voice sounded unconvincing, even to her own ears. Loud squeaking noises indicated that the group of guests she’d heard earlier was coming back down from the bedrooms, and she excused herself. The usual flow of traffic was for people to enter through the front door, see the living and dining rooms, make a loop upstairs, then finish off with a treat in the kitchen and exit out the back. Leigh slipped through the kitchen doorway just ahead of the people entering. Then she walked to the turntable, switched out Johnny Mathis for Nat King Cole, and wandered into the dining room.
All afternoon, Lucille had been parked in an armchair in the corner, and Bridget had been hovering nearby. Leigh stepped to where she could see Lucille’s lap, and was not at all surprised to see a crumpled napkin resting there. Allison was leaning against the side of the china cabinet, half hidden by a large dieffenbachia. “So,” Leigh whispered as more new guests filed in the front door. “How long till Lucille broke the oath?”
Allison giggled. “She made Bridget sneak them to her. And she won’t let her have a single bite!”
Leigh shook her head. While the rest of the Floribundas had at least some charm to counterbalance their psychoses, Lucille’s positive attributes were more elusive.
“We’re on pace for a record crowd!” Olympia reported, popping in. “Oh, but it’s been marvelous, hasn’t it?”
Leigh looked over as Lucille began to cough again. Bridget tapped absently on her back, but Lucille pointed to a glass of water that sat on the floor beside her chair. “Oh, of course,” Bridget replied, flustered. She reached down, but misjudged the location of the glass and accidentally knocked it over onto the carpet. “Oh, dear! Don’t worry. I’ll get you another one!”
Lucille continued to hack as Bridget fled from the room, and Olympia quickly stepped over and extended her own cup of punch. “Here, dear,” she said.
Lucille reached for the cup and took a sip. Her coughing began to ease.
“Did something spill?” Frances demanded, her voice rising in pitch as she rushed up. “It wasn’t punch was it? It will stain the carpet!”
Leigh thought she heard a tapping noise at the front door.
“Here’s more water,” Bridget cried, practically knocking over everyone else to get back to her employer. “You’re not choking to death, are you?”
Lucille stared daggers at her assistant, making no move to take the glass. She made no move to give Olympia the rest of her punch back, either. “No thanks to you,” she said acidly. “I swear you’ll be the death of me yet, girl. Just put that down!”
Bridget set the glass down on the floor next to the spilled one and slunk back to her position by the wall.
“Was it punch that spilled?” Frances repeated, unable to see for herself.
“No, just water. I’m sorry. I’ll go get a towel,” Bridget apologized, sounding near tears as she took off again.
Leigh looked toward the front of the house. She couldn’t figure out who would be tapping at the door. It was a mild day for December, and two of the regionals had been stationed at a card table on the porch all afternoon, greeting the public and punching tickets. Once the guests were verified, they were invited to walk straight inside, no knocking necessary.
Leigh stepped out around her mother, went to the door, and opened it. One of the regionals was standing just outside, smiling with one of the most obviously faked smile
s Leigh had ever seen. Next to her stood a fully uniformed West View Borough police officer.
He wasn’t smiling at all.
Chapter 9
“Can I… help you?” Leigh found herself saying uncertainly. She was at a loss. For all the feelings of impending doom she’d suffered this weekend, this particular development seemed out of order. The police were supposed to show up after a disaster. Had she missed something?
“Are you the owner of the house, ma’am?” the officer asked.
“No,” Leigh replied. “My parents are the owners. My mother is just inside. Why?”
“Could you ask her to come out here, please?” he asked.
Leigh would really prefer not to do that. But she had no excuse for refusing. She exchanged a glance with the two thoroughly panicked, broadly smiling regionals, then pushed the door closed again and whirled around. Her mother and Olympia were standing right behind her. Their newest guests had moved into the dining room and were exclaiming over the glass grapes just a few feet away. “Mom,” she whispered. “A policeman wants to talk to you. I think it might be better if you went outside.”
Frances’s eyes bugged. She went stock still. Olympia reached out and clutched Frances’s arm with her long, bony fingers, clenching tight. “What’s all this about?”
The unexpected assault seemed to jolt Frances out of her stupor. She looked down at the claws that had latched onto her, then brushed Olympia off as if she were a fly. “I have no idea,” Frances replied loftily. “But I certainly intend to find out. How dare they send an officer here, interrupting our event and frightening away the guests! The very idea!”
Frances pushed past Leigh and swung open the door. She introduced herself to the officer out on the porch and he asked to speak to her in relative privacy. They walked down the steps and around to the side of the house, and Leigh and Olympia followed.
“Please do tell me what this is about, Officer Wright,” Frances demanded as soon as the four of them were out of earshot of any wandering guests.
