Mystic Mistletoe Murder

by Sally J. Smith

  Cheers and applause broke out. I looked around the table at my friends: Cat, Quincy, Fabrizio, Stella, and Valentine. From across the table, Cat gave me a thumbs up, but Valentine seemed lost in thought.

  I reached over and took hold of her hand. "A penny for 'em," I said.

  "For my thoughts?" she asked.

  She smiled a little. Melancholy was what I would have called her mood. And why not? None of this had turned out all that great for her. The tragic death of her husband had basically been revealed to be the cause of a friend dying, another friend going to prison, and the recovery of Papa's loot had turned out to result in the defunding of her son's musical education. She had good reason to be quiet and reflective.

  I nodded.

  She began. "I was just wondering if maybe I'd been wrong to try and help poor Slim with his stressful issues. I mean, it was the start of the bad times, after all. Slim's gone. Aaron, as wrong as he was, is going to spend the rest of his life behind bars when all he was doing was trying to live up to some sad notion he owed it to Tyrell to watch over me."

  I shook my head. "No, Valentine. It wasn't you. None of it. It was all Aaron." I couldn't help asking about the other reason I figured she was sad that night. "And now Benjy can't go to the academy either."

  "Oh, no, child." It always sort of bothered me when Valentine called me that. As wise and motherly as she was, she was only eight years older than I was. "Benjy, he'll be going to Childress all right. When the money Aaron sent in was confiscated by the sheriff"—she glanced over at Quincy—"or rather the sheriff's chief deputy"—Quincy had the grace for once to duck his head—"the dean of Childress went to the board and arranged a full scholarship for my boy." She smiled, and it was genuine. "You better ask for that child's autograph now, while his head's not all swollen up."

  I laughed.

  Her expression sobered. "Mel, have you heard anything about that Connor woman?"

  "She spent a couple of nights in the hospital." Quincy joined the conversation. "Temporary psychosis. Dat's what they saying. If she agrees to treatment, the judge, he tell her he's maybe going to commute her sentence from kidnapping to child endangerment."

  I looked at Valentine to see how she felt about that. "Poor, sad woman," was all she said.

  "Poor, sad woman? I don't think so," Quincy said. "She a nut job."

  I pretty much agreed with him.

  All the ceremonies were over with by now, and my Cap'n Jack, who'd turned out to be a truly awesome Papa Noël, was headed to our table.

  He leaned over, pulled down his beard, and surprised me with a warm, lustful kiss on the lips.

  "Well, now," Stella said. "You got one for an old flower child too, Papa?"

  Jack's belly laugh was so long and deep all his padding seemed to shift sideways a little. "Why, no, Madam Stella, I don't." He circled around the table to Cat and Quincy. "But I do have a little something else I was asked to bring with me tonight."

  He set a small Christmas gift bag in front of Quincy, leaned over, and said softly, "Good luck, bro," before looking up at me, winking, and then leaving the room with another loud, "Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night, y'all."

  I just loved that man.

  Every eye at the table was locked onto that pretty little red Christmas bag in front of Quincy.

  "What's that?" Cat asked.

  Quincy leaned in and draped his arm across her shoulders. "Now, now, chère, don't you be knowing what curiosity did to the Cat?"

  We all turned around as Harry's voice, slow and slightly lazy from all the holiday spirits, came over the mic. "We're going to have a little Zydeco Christmas music from The Ragtime Players, featuring the man with that special touch, Mr. Desi Lopez de Monterra. So by all means, friends, let's dance the night away."

  Harry moved off the dais as several men hustled around setting up the instruments for the band.

  There was going to be music. Dancing.

  I wanted to dance and wished Jack was here, and then he was, looking just like a Hollywood hunk on Oscar night in his tux. He was suddenly behind my chair. Just magical, but then wasn't magic the norm at The Mansion on Mystic Isle?

  "Didn't expect to see you for a little while yet," I looked up at him.

  He grinned down at me. "I wouldn't have missed this for the world."

  I frowned. "Missed what?"

  Jack looked across the table, so I did too.

  Quincy shoved back his chair, slipped out of it, and dropped to one knee. I thought I saw his hand shaking as he reached for the bag, took out a small velvet box, and flipped it open. The light hit the diamond, and all of us took in a breath that sounded like a collective sigh.

  "Catalina Gabor, love of my life, goddess divine, will you grant me the extreme honor of becoming my wife?"

  There was a long pause. Too long for us to all be sure what the answer was going to be, and as thrilled as I was, a moment of doubt waffled through me.

  But then, the answer came, and just as I'd known she would, my friend threw her arms around her handsome, crazy Cajun man, nearly knocking him over, and said, "Well, it's about darn time, Chief Deputy. Now put that big sparkler on my finger and kiss me."

  What a sweet, beautiful moment. Sentimental tears moistened my eyes.

  I looked back up at Jack. He was looking back at me, his gaze intense, riveting, and I couldn't look away. His beautiful, cinnamon-colored eyes never leaving mine, he leaned down and whispered in my ear, "Give you any ideas, Miss Hamilton?"

  Caught by surprise, I had nothing to say except, "Oh, Cap'n Jack."

  And from somewhere out in the cosmos, I was pretty sure there was laughter—laughter that sounded an awful lot like Granddaddy Joe.

  In case you're thinking of having your own holiday party, why not mix up a few of these potent babies. Of course, if you follow the recipe, your guests will be less likely to fall off their stools than Mel's were.

  Hurricane, New Orleans Style Recipe

  1 oz white rum

  1 oz Jamaican dark rum

  1 oz Bacardi 151 rum

  3 oz orange juice

  3 oz unsweetened pineapple juice

  1/2 oz grenadine syrup

  crushed ice

  Combine all ingredients, mix well (shake or stir). Pour over crushed ice in hurricane glass. Best enjoyed through a small straw and in a beautiful hurricane glass while listening to Dixieland jazz (in New Orleans if at all possible). Garnish with fruit wedge (or two or three) if desired. Sit back with your hurricane, and wait till it all blows over.

  * * * * *

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  * * * * *

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  USA Today bestselling authors Sally J. Smith and Jean Steffens are partners in crime—crime writing, that is. They live in Scottsdale, Arizona, awesome for eight months out of the year, an inferno the other four. They write bloody murder, flirty romance, and wicked humor all in one package. When their heads aren't together over a manuscript, you'll probably find them at a movie or play, a hockey game or the mall, or at one of the hundreds of places to find a great meal in the Valley of the Sun.

  To learn more about Sally J. Smith and Jean Steffens, visit them online at: www.smithandsteffens.com

  * * * * *

  BOOKS BY SALLY J. SMITH & JEAN STEFFENS

  Mystic Isle Mysteries:

  Mystic Mayhem

  Mystic Mojo (short story in the Killer Beach Reads collection)

  Mystic Mistletoe Murder

  Danger Cove Pet Sitter Mysteries:

  Passion, Poison & Puppy Dogs

  Aloha Lagoon Mysteries:

  Murder on the Aloha Express

  * * * * *

  SNEAK PEEK

  If you enjoyed this Mystic Isle Mystery, check out this sneak peek of another exciting novel f
rom Gemma Halliday Publishing:

  PASSION, POISON & PUPPY DOGS

  A DANGER COVE

  PET SITTER MYSTERY

  by

  ELIZABETH ASHBY, SALLY J. SMITH

  & JEAN STEFFENS

  CHAPTER ONE

  "Hey, little girl, need a ride?" The stubbly-faced older man leaned over and peered up at me out of the pickup truck window.

  But I wasn't worried—pervs were few and far between in my hometown of Danger Cove, and besides, it was just my grandfather giving me a hard time. He'd always been pretty good at teasing me, and I at teasing him back—part of the reason we'd never had the kind of problems a lot of young people and their guardians dealt with. I'd gone to live with him eleven years ago at the age of sixteen, and my parents had sold everything and moved to the Himalayas to start a school for Sherpas. I hadn't wanted to go. They hadn't wanted to stay. So my granddad had taken me in.

  "So what do you think?" I kidded. "Just because you were a big deal back in the day? The famous Jimmy John Jones—international network field correspondent—that you can just pick up girls off the street?"

  He grinned and ran a hand across his bristly jaw.

  "Now you listen to me, Lizzie Jones. Your old granddad's retired now. Show an old man some respect, would you? And anyway, I seem to remember some young lady calling me up and begging me to come pick her up because her silly little scooter crapped out on her."

  "Crapped out? What a way with words. You're a regular Dan Rather."

  "Yep," he said. "That's me all right."

  I began to push Jasper, my 1990 fire-engine-red Vespa that I'd bought secondhand (or maybe even third or fourth hand) my first year of college, toward the back of his truck. The poor thing was old and not as reliable as it used to be. Also poor Jasper was slow. Really, really slow.

  Jimmy John got out of the truck, let down the tailgate, and pulled a two-by-eight board from the bed. "Heck, my thirty-year-old Craftsman power mower's got more get-up-and-go these days than that motorized roller skate. When are you planning on getting yourself some real transportation?"

  "That would be when I win the lottery, unless you have it in mind to spot me the price of a new car."

  "Hmm, wonder if I have anything in my Rulebook to cover that one?" he said.

  "You can take a look while I put poor old Jasper up in the truck."

  Jimmy John—which was what he'd insisted I call him from the time I could speak. Not Grandpa or Granddad or even Grandfather, not for this macho dude—lived by his own set of rules that he periodically had quoted to me as part of his "Rulebook." It had been a way for him to present values, life lessons, and moral codes to me while I was growing up. It always seemed like an excellent way to keep track of such things, so I began a so-called tome of my own and adopted it as Lizzie's Rulebook for a virtual place to store my philosophies.

  I rolled Jasper up into the bed. Jimmy John hopped up—agile for a guy in his seventies—strapped it down, and we both got into the cab.

  I glanced at my watch. "Seriously," I said, "thank you so much for coming to my rescue. I'm already late meeting Caroline." It really wasn't much of a big deal. My best friend was nothing if not patient.

  "You know me," he said, "at your beck and call, m'lady."

  "Right. Not."

  He just laughed.

  From the pictures and footage I'd seen of Jimmy John in action back in the seventies, he'd cut quite the figure reporting from the jungles in Nam—young and virile, down and dirty with the troops, camera slung around his neck, bent over and running for cover while never missing a word of his report.

  That was years ago. But that needle-sharp brain of his still worked just fine, and every once in a while he'd get bored and scratch the itch that made him want to jump back into the thick of it all and do some research or legwork for his friends at the Cove Chronicles.

  He turned the engine over and shifted into gear, but before he took his foot off the brake, he turned and asked, "You sign up for school yet?"

  My grandfather was even more anxious than I for me to achieve my doctorate in veterinary sciences. I'd been picking away at it for what seemed like an eternity. My first four years had been financed by scholarship funds, which went the way of the dodo after my BS (that was the degree, not my attitude), and even though he offered to pay my ticket in full, I couldn't in good conscience let Jimmy John cash in his IRA to fund what was left of my education.

  "I haven't gotten around to it yet," I said. "But I will. And yes, I know other twenty-seven-year-old veterinary students are finishing up and getting ready to make their contribution to the animal world. But I want to do this on my own, and taking off time between semesters to earn enough money to pay my way is what I have to do."

  "I know," he said. "I get it."

  "According to Lizzie's Rulebook—It's a pity to enter a career weighed down with over a hundred thousand dollars in college loans." I reminded him of a philosophy I'd adopted early on in my college years.

  He grimaced, and I figured he was going to offer to pay my way again, since my absentee parents couldn't afford it and I certainly couldn't just write out a check, but instead he just said, "Well, girl, you come from a long list of diehards. Our family motto's always been the same as Gloria Gaynor's: 'I Will Survive.'"

  "I know." I reached across the cab and took hold of his wrist. "It'll be worth it."

  "Sure it will." He hesitated a moment before adding, "But you know there's already a darn good vet in Danger Cove, and my guess is Doc Whitaker isn't in the market for a partner."

  "You're worried I'll move away." It seemed obvious.

  "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't."

  "Aw, Jimmy John, I'm racking up credits at a snail's pace. We won't have to worry about where I'm going to practice for a long, long time."

  * * *

  It was a gorgeous March day. Temps in the midsixties. A light breeze carried the outdoors with it—salty ocean and woody, earthy scents of surrounding ancient forest. Light-jacket weather. The fog had burned off earlier, leaving clear blue skies. My grandfather dropped me off, and I walked down the pier to meet Caroline.

  Ever since she got married and moved out of our shared apartment, Caroline and I had arranged to meet for lunch once a week at the Lobster Pot at the pier. Being married to one of Danger Cove's most famous residents, bodybuilder Brodie McDougal, better known as Mr. Jupiter, Caroline was always given the primo table by the deck railing.

  She sat there now, looking out over the water, and knowing her as well as I did, I could tell something was wrong.

  She looked up and stood as I approached the table, and we hugged before I sat down. "Sorry I'm late. Jasper…"

  I didn't need to say anything else.

  She nodded. "I get it. I haven't forgotten what it's like to have transportation issues."

  Caroline's big Mercedes Benz SUV had custom-made tethers in the backseat for her and Brodie's spoiled adolescent boxers, Gil and Fabio. It also had a huge engine and about the same pickup as a Formula One racecar. At least that was the way it seemed to me. But then my perspective might have been a little off, seeing as how Jasper was my one and only set of wheels.

  The waiter was cute, but so obsequious to Caroline, I half expected him to bow.

  Caroline smiled at the flustered guy. "I'll have a salmon salad, oh, and a spring water too."

  He nodded, endorsing her choice as perfect.

  "I'm going for a Paulaner Oktoberfest-Märzen and the spaghetti squash with marinara and garlic-cheese bread." I thought I'd better tell him, in case he thought I was just there to admire Caroline like he seemed to be.

  When the food came, she picked at the salad—probably one of the reasons she was a size two, and my size eight jeans were getting tight. You might have thought since I was the vegetarian, I'd be the slim one. Not necessarily. No meat in cheese pizza or doughnuts. And definitely none in beer.

  My parents were vegetarians, and I'd grown up that way. Even when they
left for the Far East and I moved in with Jimmy John, who was a carnivore from way back, I stuck with the vegetarian lifestyle.

  Caroline laid down her fork, folded her hands under her chin, and stared out over the cobalt water. If she didn't let up with the frowning, it wouldn't be long before the crease between her brows turned into a nasty wrinkle.

  I took a pull on my beer (Yum! The Paulaner was one of my favorites—light with a clean, dry finish, subtly sweet), then licked foam off my upper lip, and addressed my friend's melancholy. "What's up with you?"

  It was as if she'd been waiting for me to ask. She probably had been. "It's that sonofabitch I married."

  "Brodie?" Duh. Who else?

  "Yes. Brodie." Her lower lip quivered. Her eyes filled up, and suddenly, without even knowing why, I began to cry too. We'd been best friends since the third grade, and I knew her as well as anyone. If she was sad, so was I.

  "Caroline. Oh my gosh. What's wrong?"

  Ten months earlier Caroline had met Brodie McDougal—Mr. Jupiter for the last three years in a row, richer than anybody I knew about in our hometown, sexy as a romance cover model. He'd asked her to dance one night over at the Smugglers' Tavern while our local trio, Jazz du Jour, covered Roberta Flack's "Feel Like Makin' Love." Sexy music. Slow dancing. And seduction with a Scottish brogue. I swear he'd planned it.

  I hadn't been there that particular evening—not that he would have even noticed me with Caroline around. She was slim and leggy with bosoms like cantaloupes and the kind of flowing blonde mane they used in shampoo commercials. I liked to think I was kind of cute and all, but short and not particularly buxom with long brown locks that no matter how much I used the curling iron, always went back straight—not exactly sophisticated arm candy material for the reigning Mr. Jupiter. But that was okay with me. Mr. Jupiter and my girl Caroline were a golden couple.