Trouble Under the Mistletoe Page 2

  The double doors to the kitchen swing open as Billie Dean and I admire the dining room table with its lacy white cloth and sterling serving pieces. Her mother, Martha, enters bearing a large chafing dish.

  “Billie Dean. Thank goodness you’re here.” Martha places the heavy silver piece on one end of the table. “Tessa Tizzington has been underfoot for nearly half an hour and I’m running behind.” She steps back to observe the table with a critical eye. “She brought her ‘special’ compote, God love her.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Yes, well, I leave it up to you to discreetly slip it away from the table after she and Izzy have seen it on display tonight. We can’t have the whole town tipsy from fruit salad.”

  “Do we have to serve it?”

  “We don’t want to hurt their feelings. They mean well, in their own way. At least we haven’t had to play sleight-of-hand with their ‘heavenly brownies’ for the last decade.”

  “What was so heavenly about their brownies?”

  “The ingredient that made them heavenly, as in cloud high.”

  “Pot, you mean?”

  Hello. I pitch my ears forward and lean in. I do believe Billie Dean’s mum is about to tell what for on the Tizzington sisters.

  “That was another lifetime, darling. The Tizzingtons never quite got over the seventies. Although,” Martha Bailey allows a shadow of a smile to touch her lips, “I do believe all that nature’s child, free spirit crap has given way to vanity.”

  “Oh?”

  Martha glances toward the door to the kitchen and lowers her voice to a whisper. “I think that vacation she took a couple of months back was a cover for plastic surgery.”

  “A face lift?”

  “Tight as a drum.”

  “But she has to be in her fifties!”

  “Don’t look so shocked. The Tizzington triplets have always been a little fast. Only one of them ever married. The other two preferred to live ‘free’ and in tune with the cosmos or some such nonsense.”

  “But they’re old ladies.”

  Martha laughs. “Not that old, Billie Dean. I went to school with them. There was a time when John Highsmith would have jumped off a cliff if Izzy asked him to. Scooter was equally smitten. The two of them used to vie for her attention. The truth is their lifestyle or their genes has kept them looking far fresher than the rest of my schoolmates.”

  “You’re beautiful, Mama.”

  Martha kisses her on the cheek. “And you’re a dutiful daughter. Now come on, help me get everything laid out so all Agnes has to do is bring in the food when it’s time, including that horrid compote.”

  “Maybe we could dilute it with some additional fruit.”

  “Already did that. Most everyone knows to steer clear of it so I’m not too worried.” She frowns. “Still, your father is bringing home a guest and I want everything to be perfect.”

  “A guest? Who?”

  Martha is silent for a moment then she turns her troubled gaze to Billie Dean, sighs, and shakes her head. “He didn’t say.”

  I enjoy a bit of gossip as much as the next cat but that lightheartedness between mother and daughter has given way to a somber attitude. This new sense of worry on the part of the women of the Bailey household is disconcerting. I daresay Billie Dean could be comforted by Teddy. His appearance at the auto sales show room lit up her eyes and, I suspect, her heart.

  Who is this stranger coming to the party tonight? Why does this trouble the ladies? From what I gather, their home has always been an open house to friends and neighbors, especially on this night.

  The siren song of fresh baked bread is calling to me but I am duty bound to resist. Though my stomach grumbles with anticipation of a splendid repast, I must take myself off to the study where Bubba keeps a most untidy desk. Perhaps there are clues there to the source of this sense of gloom hanging over the family.

  Billie Dean pinned an errant curl into place and gave her appearance a last once over. She couldn’t deny that thoughts of Teddy’s reaction had been the guiding force in her decision of what to wear. The dress wasn’t new but the cut fit her well and made her feel less like a small town girl and more like a woman. She bit at her lower lip at the thought before turning for the stairs that lead down to the foyer. She had not experienced such nerves since the first time she took to the football field with the Dixie Darlings. The thought that her mastery with the baton would be on display before thousands of Golden Eagle fans had left her lightheaded. She had been a mere freshman then. It seemed so long ago now.

  The house was silent in that quiet that descends just before the floodgates of merriment open on a special event. Billie Dean loved this moment. She walked through each room checking its readiness. Agnes, the weekly help, and her two daughters were in the kitchen putting the final touches on the food. The fireplace was filled with logs that her father would light when he got home, never mind that it would require the air conditioner be cranked down. In the study she found Trouble sitting on top of her father’s desk, papers strewn all around him.

  “Trouble! Get down from there. Look at this mess.”

  Trouble looked over his shoulder at her and blinked three times but made no move to obey her command.

  She crossed the room and lifted him to the floor. “Did you do this?” She knew her father’s untidy habits but surely he had not left his desk in such disarray on the eve of the Christmas party.

  Trouble began to twine between her legs. Billie Dean ignored him as she sorted the various bits and pieces of paper into neat piles. As she worked, she scanned the items, grouping them according to importance. Her hands began to tremble. Bills, bills, and more bills.

  She picked up a last crumpled sheet of paper and sat hard in her father’s chair, tears forming in her eyes. The dealership wasn’t just in trouble, it was in serious trouble. No wonder her father had grasped onto Evan Russell. This last bit of bad news told the depth of their woes. It was a foreclosure notice from the bank, but not for the business. Their home, the home that had been in her mother’s family for generations, was set to go on the auction block. No wonder her father hadn’t been able to tell her.

  The sound of a car pulling into the back yard brought Billie Dean out of her shock. She plucked a Kleenex from the tissue box and dabbed at the corners of her eyes, cleared her throat, and went to the window. Scooter’s car stood, with the trunk open, near the back porch. He was unloading bags of ice for the party in the gloaming light of the day.

  Billie Dean squared her shoulders and turned toward the door. She would have to put a brave face on things for the moment. Maybe, in the aftermath of the holidays, something would occur to her. For now, she needed to keep up the charade for her father’s sake as well as her mother’s.

  In the hallway outside the kitchen Scooter suddenly appeared. “Billie Dean, I need to see your father.”

  “He’s not home. Can I help?”

  Scooter ran his hand through his sparse hair. “Will he be home before the party?”

  “I don’t know. Is it that important?”

  He hesitated then shook his head. “It’ll keep, I reckon.”

  His expression suggested otherwise but Billie Dean’s thoughts were on her own woes. Whatever Scooter needed would have to wait. The doorbell rang and she went to welcome the first of their guests.

  She was exchanging air kisses with their next door neighbor when a sleek sports car drew up and her father emerged from the passenger seat. The driver was none other than the sharply dressed stranger she had seen with her father and the president of The Bank of Turnout.

  “Well,” her mother said softly as she came to stand at Billie Dean’s side, “that one’s as crooked as a barrel of snakes.”

  Billie Dean looked at her mother. “Why do you say that?”

  “It’s there in every line of him. Deception.” Her mother gave her a fleeting smile before returning her attention to the approaching men. “Don’t worry, this one is no Sherman. Smile, darling.�
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  Billie Dean smiled, introductions were made, Roger Moore was slapped on the back by her father and escorted into the depths of the house in the direction of the bar manned by Scooter. Martha Bailey continued to greet their guests without the slightest hint of anything but delight in the occasion.

  With her cheeks aching from smiling, Billie Dean looked up and down the street but there was no sign of Teddy and his mother. She sighed and slipped into the house, made a circuit of the den where Scooter was dispensing libations, collected napkins for Tessa and Izzy Tizzington to protect the chintz covered sofa as much as their skirts, turned the air conditioner down a couple of notches, helped Agnes refill the chafing dish with crab claws, and finally stepped through the French doors onto the side porch to catch a breath of air.

  Where was Teddy?

  As if in answer to her silent question, he spoke her name.

  Billie Dean turned her gaze from the night view of Christmas decorations that ran from lawn to lawn and up over the small rise down the street. Teddy stood in the faint glow of the lights strung through the garland of pine boughs trimming the porch.

  He held out his hand. “Come over here.”

  She smiled, extended her hand toward him and closed the space between them. “Hello, Teddy.”

  “You look beautiful.”

  “You look pretty good yourself.”

  He smiled, gave her hand a gentle squeeze, raised his eyes toward the ceiling, and said, “You remember?”

  Billie Dean followed his gaze to the ball of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling fan. She swallowed and whispered, “Yes.”

  Teddy’s arms slipped around her and she felt a little lightheaded. She stared up at him and he smiled. “May I?”

  She blinked, swallowed, and said, “Yes.”

  His lips were a mere breath from hers when the French doors opened. Martha Bailey stood there, a momentary loss of words having taken possession of her. Billie Dean pulled back from Teddy.

  Martha’s composure returned in an instant. “Do forgive me.”

  “Mrs. Bailey.” Teddy stepped forward and shook her hand. “Thanks for inviting us to the party.”

  “I’m always delighted to have you here Teddy. Your mother’s with you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, I hope you’ll enjoy yourself. I’m afraid I must borrow Billie Dean for a moment. Tessa Tizzington has been plying Scooter with compote. I think the bowl needs seeing to.” She arched her brows in her daughter’s direction. “Billie Dean?”

  “Of course, Mama.”

  Teddy was very aware of Martha Bailey’s scrutiny as Billie Dean disappeared into the house. He knew she’d been disappointed in him, that his past behavior hadn’t been what it should have, but he wasn’t a hurt teenager anymore. He squared his shoulders and felt in his pocket for the reassuring presence of the small package nestled there.

  “Well,” Martha said. “I guess you finally made up your mind.”

  “I made up my mind a long time ago.”

  She nodded. “Rather sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “No. I’m sure of Billie Dean.”

  Martha was silent for a moment. “Even after all this time?”

  “Especially after all this time.”

  “Then you’d better get to it. I want to see her married from this house and I can’t say that’ll be an option much longer.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She hesitated. “Life.” Martha turned and followed her daughter’s path into the house.

  Teddy frowned and went in search of the party. He found his mother in deep conversation with Martha Bailey. Mr. Highsmith leaned in to hear whatever Izzy Tizzington was confiding in hushed tones. The other Tizzington sister had Bubba’s number one salesman trapped on the sofa in the den as she earnestly expounded about something. Evan looked miserable and simply nodded his head in response to whatever Tessa was saying as his eyes tracked the activities of the room, a full bowl of compote in his hands.

  Teddy veered away from that social trap and headed to the bar in the corner of the room.

  Scooter grinned and slapped him on the arm. “Teddy! Welcome home. Whatcha drinkin’?” He swayed slightly.

  “Maybe later, Scooter. Merry Christmas.”

  “Aw, come on, Teddy.” Scooter leaned forward over the card table serving as the bar. “I got something better than this Kool Aid.” From beneath the linen table cloth he retrieved a bottle of Scotch. “My Christmas present.” He grinned. “I’m happy to share.”

  Teddy grinned in return. “Thanks. I’ve got something to take care of first.”

  Scooter’s expression changed from gaiety to one of caution as he looked left and right. He leaned closer to Teddy. “I’m glad you’re here. We’ve got trouble.” He stumbled and looked down. “Damn cat!”

  Teddy reached out and steadied Scooter. “You might want to take it easy on the compote.”

  “S’my favorite.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He gave Scooter a pat on the arm and watched as Trouble sniffed at a half eaten bowl of compote sitting on the seat of a chair behind the bar. The cat turned up his nose and wandered off. Teddy didn’t blame him. He had experienced the Tizzington sisters’ concoction more than once in his lifetime and except for his early teen years when all the kids thought it was cool to pretend to get tipsy, he had studiously avoided it.

  He looked around the room for Billie Dean and when he didn’t find her, went through to the foyer. He stopped in the archway when he saw the stranger in their midst. Immediately he recognized the subtle vigilance in the man, the way he sized up everyone who came and went without being obvious about it. What was he up to and why was he in Bubba’s home on Christmas Eve?

  The black cat sauntered across the foyer and sniffed at the stranger’s shoes. He then wove his way through the guests and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

  Teddy followed suit. To his disappointment Billie Dean wasn’t in the kitchen either. He accepted a hug from Agnes and exchanged news with one of her daughters who had gone to Turnout High School with him before continuing his search.

  He checked the side porch in the hope that Billie Dean had returned there but found no one. It had been too much to think he could recreate that Christmas Eve of their senior year. With a wistful glance at the mistletoe dangling from the overhead fan, he closed the doors and returned to the living room. The black cat rubbed against his leg before setting off across the room. Teddy watched him until he came to a stop in front of a pair of pretty pink heels where he sat and looked up with a low throated, “Yeow.”

  It was uncanny that the cat had found the one person he wanted to see. Smart cat, he thought.

  Teddy smiled as Billie Dean picked up Trouble and cuddled him close to her face. Pretty in pink, he thought, as he moved from the archway toward her. Just as she looked up and smiled at him, a high-pitched shriek silenced the chatter of happy party goers. Into that brief bubble of quiet another piercing scream seemed to stir everyone into action.

  “The side porch,” Billie Dean said.

  Teddy rushed through the guests and opened the French doors onto the side porch. The Tizzington sisters stood, their arms around each other, just inside the doorway. He sidestepped around them.

  Scooter lay beneath the mistletoe, curled on his side, a spray of vomit on the floor beside him. Teddy turned to Billie Dean, blocking her view. “Call 9-1-1.”

  She tried to look past him but he took her by the arm and shook his head. “Please, Billie Dean. Just call for help.”

  She hesitated then accepted his assessment of the situation. With a nod she shouldered her way back through the gathering of people in the open doorway.

  Izzy caught Teddy’s arm. Tears stood in her eyes. “I told her not to use the Maraschino cherries.”

  “What?” Teddy said as he crouched on one knee and felt for a pulse in Scooter’s throat. There was none. He glanced up at the sisters and that’s when he saw a red Maraschino ch
erry just inches from Tessa’s black party shoe, the cherry the exact color of the shoe’s sole. “What?”

  “From the Quik Pik.” Tessa sniffed and dabbed the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief.

  “They were out at the Piggly Wiggly,” said Izzy.

  “What?” Teddy gently but firmly herded the crowd of guests who had followed on his heels back through the French doors. He closed them before turning to the sisters once more.

  “What about the cherries?”

  “The Piggly Wiggly,” Izzy said. “They were out of Maraschino cherries so Tessa went to the Quik Pik.”

  “Why is that an issue?” he asked.

  “They’re old. Everyone knows that. Everything at the Quik Pik is seconds, left overs, out of date.” Tessa sniffed again. “Poor Scooter. Will he be all right?”

  “No,” Teddy said. “I’m afraid he’s dead.”

  Before Teddy could say anything else, the French doors sprung open just as Izzy’s knees gave way. The stranger in their midst caught her and eased her onto the chaise lounge in the corner of the porch.

  Teddy sat Tessa in the chair beside her sister and turned to the newcomer. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait in the house with the other guests.”

  The man fished a leather wallet from his inside coat pocket. He opened it to reveal a DEA badge. “Roger Moore,” he said. “What have we got here?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “The mechanic.”

  “Right.”

  Moore took out his cell phone and placed a call. The conversation on his end was cryptic but Teddy got the gist of it.

  Moore looked at Teddy. “And you are?”