Miz Scarlet and the Holiday Houseguests (A Scarlet Wilson Mystery #3) by Sara M. Barton
Chapter Three --
The next few hours passed as we engaged in a flurry of activities in the kitchen. From her conversation, I gathered that the last few years of her mother’s decline had taken a toll on the holidays.
“It must have been rather lonely for you and your mom,” I commented, as I put some dinner rolls into the oven to heat.
“It was. She couldn’t really raise her arms all that well, because of her mastectomy and all the scar tissue, the swelling. My mom was feeling really betrayed by her body. She had spent her whole life trying to live a healthy life, and then....” Jenny turned away, remembering. “She loved Christmas in New England. The snow, the lights, the decorations...I tried to put up the tree by myself, but it was a real failure. Mr. Torkelson, the neighbor, came over to help me. And his wife took me Christmas shopping, so I could buy presents.”
“What about your stepfather? Didn’t he help?”
“He kept telling me it was his ‘busy season’ at work.” She rolled her eyes and groaned. I took a stab at the work he was doing.
“Partying with his girlfriend?” I asked.
“He was. I never understood it, Miz Scarlet. My mother was such a beautiful person, with cancer or without. How could he not appreciate her? Why did he even bother to marry her? Oh,” she held up her hand. “I know it was all about my mom’s money. He just wanted a meal ticket. But I don’t understand how he could do that to someone who was so sick.”
“Some people are born predators, Jen. They never look at the rest of us as human beings. It’s too bad, really. They miss out on what really matters in life. Without relationships to keep us civilized, it’s a cold, cold world.”
“Is that why you rescued me in New Jersey?” For all the times we talked since the teenager came to live with us at the Four Acorns Inn, she had never posed this particular question.
“Of course it is,” I smiled. “I could tell you were a good kid. How could I possibly leave you behind with those creeps? People aren’t disposable. We don’t just use them and toss them away like they’re tissues.”
“You and my mom would have been friends,” she decided. “She’d have said you were both on the same wave length.”
“There’s your answer as to why I brought you home, Jenny. I saw in you what your mom did, what she worked so hard to nurture.”
After dinner, I sat in the dining room, lingering over coffee with the Googins girls, as we awaited the invitation to proceed to the living room for the official tree decorating. I could hear Bur directing Jenny as they toiled to get the twinkling lights to work. We had been warned not to peek.
“Which do you think it will be this year, white or colored lights?” Laurel asked. My brother had a thing about tree lights -- big bulbs, little bulbs, white or colored, flashing or steady, and everything in between.
“If it’s just Bur making the decision, it’s probably colored lights,” I decided, as I poured the ladies more decaf.
“This is Jenny’s first Christmas with us,” my mother pointed out. “He might let her choose.”
“Possibly,” Lacey answered. She added cream and Splenda to her cup, stirring her spoon around in a clockwise fashion. “In which case, who knows what we’ll get?”
“But technically, she won’t be celebrating with us,” I pointed out. “She’s off to California, to visit her grandparents. Bur might not let her choose.”
“Of course he will,” said the funky sweater lady.
“I concur,” said Laurel, agreeing amiably, “but I have no idea what she’ll pick.”
Well past the age of believing in Santa Claus, the two cousins grew more excited as we came closer to Christmas week. How else could you explain the carols my mother constantly hummed as she moved about the inn or her cousin’s blindingly bright reindeer sweater?
“Rumor has it we’re having Larry’s father stay with us for Christmas,” Lacey declared. “Who else is coming?”
“At the moment,” I looked up, “no other paying guests. I planned on taking some time off and....”
“Hmm....” said my mother, as she brought her cup to her lips and sipped from it.
“Hmm what?”
“I’m just surprised that Larry’s mother isn’t also staying with us,” was her reply.
“Edna doesn’t get along with Big Larry,” I explained. “Larry wants to avoid holiday heartbreak.”
“I’m surprised that Edna doesn’t mind him staying at the inn, while she’s stuck at Larry’s cramped condo,” Lacey shrugged.
“If it’s any consolation, I suggested she send her mother to us and let her father stay with her, but Larry insists Edna will claim she’s second fiddle to Big Larry.”
“That bad, eh?” My mother shook her head. “It sounds like Larry’s the family wishbone, yanked every which way but loose.”
“Apparently. She’s not looking forward to this holiday visit, especially because she’s been working overtime on a new homicide case. Bur thinks we should invite them all to Christmas dinner. His theory is that Edna and Big Larry still have the hots for each other.”
“It’s possible,” Lacey decided. “They might have gotten married too young. Or they split up without really trying to work out their differences.”
“More than possible,” Laurel agreed. “It must be hard on their daughter. For them to both come to Connecticut for a holiday visit and expect Larry to make them each happy...well, it’s hardly fair. Their daughter is a busy state police investigator and she’s already under a lot of stress. Call her back and tell her to send her mother to the inn, too. That way, she won’t have to worry about either parent. We can entertain the pair of them.”
“I don’t know, Mom. Larry says they don’t get alone. We might just make things worse for her if we interfere.”
“Scarlet Wilson, Larry’s your friend.” My mother pulled the guilt card out of the invisible pack and played it. Trump.
“But....” I tried to explain that I was leaving my calendar open for a visit from Kenny Tolliver. It would be our first Christmas Eve together as a couple. I had hoped to take the time off from my work as an innkeeper and concentrate on my love life for a change, but my mother wasn’t interested any of that.
“No ifs, ands, or buts, Scarlet Wilson. We will not hang Larry out to dry for Christmas. This family owes her a debt of gratitude for all she’s done to keep us alive. If you don’t make the call, I will.”
I could see that my mother’s dander was up, and that meant there was little chance of changing her mind, short of smoothing those ruffled feathers. Why was she so determined to invite the Rivera clan for Christmas? Was it because Jenny would be gone? My mother had grown attached to the young woman, acting as a surrogate grandmother. Or maybe it was because this was the first Christmas in a long time that my siblings weren’t going to be with us on the twenty-fifth. Who knows? As I sat there, I recognized the unwinnable battle. Her expression made it clear that she was not about to concede anything to the likes of me, not now that she had made her decision.
“Fine, I will call her, but don’t get your hopes up.” Excusing myself, I headed to the library for a private conversation. With each step, I considered what I might say. How was I supposed to convince my friend to send her parents to the inn for the holidays? Did I soft-pedal the idea or hammer it home? I dialed Larry’s cell phone and waited for her to pick up.
“Rivera,” said a rather cranky voice in my ear.
“Hey, it’s Scarlet, Larry.”
“Oh, Lord!” the very exasperated investigator groaned. “Do you have any idea what I have been going through here? Hold on.”
Distant disembodied voices came through my earpiece as I waited. Larry was issuing commands to a junior state trooper, and from what she said, I surmised he had royally screwed up a witness interview. I should have waited until later in the evening. I just assumed she was at home by now, kicking back in her living room and watching television.
“And I want it on my desk pronto, Mo
“Did you really just call that guy a moron?” I was honestly surprised, given that Larry often lectured incoming recruits on the appropriate behavior code for state troopers.
“What? No! Morin. M-o-r-i-n. Good heavens, I’m not that far over the edge! What did you call about?”
“Sorry to bother you,” I hurried through the conversation. This could wait until tomorrow. “I know you’re working your case. Call me back when you have a chance.”
“Working a case? Who the heck has time to do that when the Rivera family is in the middle of a crisis? Do you have any idea what my mother has pulled? I’m thinking of changing her royal title to ‘Queen of Mean’, because she’s got a really snarky side that just got ugly.”
“What did she do?”
“She has informed me that she is canceling her plane ticket because I don’t think enough of her to put her up at the Four Acorns Inn. In other words, if I want to see her for Christmas, I am supposed to get my sorry ass on a jet to Atlanta, with my kid in tow.”
“Ouch. I was calling to tell you that the Googins girls insist on having both your parents stay here for Christmas. They’ve already decided it’s a done deal.”
“Are they nuts? Do you have any idea what a disaster that would be?”
“I know, but I was outvoted. And if you say no, I should warn you to expect to hear personally from Laurel on the matter.”
“Wow, your mother and her cousin have guts. How, pray tell, are you people supposed to keep my parents from killing each other?”
“We’re going to put your father in the library downstairs and your mother in the Black Oak Room upstairs. Laurel and Lacey have promised to entertain them while they’re our guests. It might just work,” I told her. “At least you’ll still have some peace and quiet at home.”
“I don’t know, Miz Scarlet. It’s a mighty tempting offer.”
“Give it some thought and let me know. In the meantime, I’ll let you get back to your corpse.”
“That poor guy’s not going to go anywhere. Geez, Miz Scarlet, I hate having to notify families at this time of year. It’s heartbreaking.”
“I’m sure it is, Larry,” I empathized, imagining how tough it must be to knock on some stranger’s door with the bad news that a relative wasn’t ever coming home.
“What am I supposed to say to his mama? ‘Happy holidays, and oh, by the way, your boy is dead.’ Does that sound right to you?” The experienced homicide investigator’s voice was close to breaking. I could hear sadness permeate every word she spoke.
“This case is getting to you, isn’t it?” I announced lamely. Don’t worry Oprah. Your job is safe. I won’t be getting my own talk show any time soon. Then again, sometimes rubbing salt in the wound can have a positive effect, even when the immediate results aren’t pretty.
“Of course it is! I’ve got a nineteen-year-old murder victim found in the woods little more than a week before Christmas, no suspects, and half my team is off on vacation. We’re short-handed here and if we don’t get a break in the first forty eight hours, it’s possible the killer will get away with his crime. The only thing that brings the families any comfort, especially at this time of year, is if we know who the killer is, and in this case, I’ve got nothing to go on, nothing at all. Sometimes I hate this job!”
I couldn’t really blame her. It must be frustrating for the homicide investigator to work with dead people all the time, to never rush in just in the nick of time and save a life. Maybe that’s why we bonded as friends. Larry had saved the Wilson family more than once and we were truly grateful to her.
“If it’s any consolation, I’d much rather have someone like you tell me the bad news. At least I’d be sure you care about catching the killer.”
“Sometimes I think I care too much, Miz Scarlet,” she admitted, slowly exhaling. The anger seemed to leave her voice, only to be replaced by sorrow “There’s nothing I can do to make a killer confess when he’s feeling cocky, especially if he’s an experience liar. It’s never really like those TV shows, where the bad guy suddenly has an attack of conscience. People kill because they believe they can get away with it. If I’m lucky, this killer is sloppy and he left me some clues that will lead to evidence I can hand over to the prosecutor.”
“It sounds like you’re expecting this case to be impossible to solve.” It was true. Larry seemed to be held down by a bad case of dread; foot-dragging dread, the kind that makes you do what you have to do with great trepidation and a sense of futility for the outcome. “What’s different about this case?”
“I can’t put my finger on it, Scarlet. I wish I could. I smell trouble coming this way and I keep feeling like I should run as fast as I can in the opposite direction.”
“Is that instinct talking or just the impending visit from the folks?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s a bit of both. I just feel like I just don’t have my eye on the ball in the batting cage and that automatic ball machine is going to send one out that smacks me in the temple.”
“That can be painful.”
“Tell me about it. What if I miss a critical clue? What if I don’t recognize evidence as being evidence? It’s more than just letting the bad guy get away. He could kill again.”