Never Mess with Mistletoe

by Edie Claire

“I have some good news and some bad news,” the chief continued. “The good news is, most of you can go home now. We’ve finished our interviews and gotten what we need.”

  “Well, hallelujah!” Anna Marie said sarcastically, grabbing up the coat that was already waiting on the arm of the couch beside her.

  “The bad news,” the chief went on, “is that as much as I’d like to assure everyone that Mrs. Busby died of natural causes and that there won’t be any need for more questioning, we have had some concerns raised that are going to require us to bring in additional law enforcement. So some of you may be contacted again. For now, though, the following people can leave…” He rattled off a list of names, then stopped abruptly. His chin lifted. “Leigh Harmon?”

  Leigh made a faint waving gesture, and he met her eyes.

  “Leigh Koslow Harmon,” he confirmed.

  Crap. She was afraid the chief would recognize her name. She’d gotten lucky only dealing with the two newbies so far. But after the nightmare at that empty church building down the road last spring…

  “I know you,” he said soberly.

  Leigh favored him with a small, self-conscious smile.

  The chief gave his head a shake and finished his list. “Everyone whose name I mentioned can leave.”

  The reminder was unnecessary. The people mentioned first were long gone, and even those at the end were half out the door already.

  The chief turned to Frances and Randall. “Mr. and Mrs. Koslow, I’m afraid we’re not quite done here. We do have some additional personnel on their way over to take a quick look around your house.”

  “That’s perfectly all right, officer,” Frances said blandly, not meaning it.

  Remembering the missing notebook, Leigh looked down at her daughter. Allison’s small face had changed from distraught to furious. “Allie, honey,” Leigh attempted to soothe. “I’m sorry about the notebook. But short of demanding that everyone open up their purses and—”

  “They’re not going to interview me?” Allison said with disbelief. “Or Lenna, either? Did no one even tell them I was in the room when Lucille died?”

  Leigh sucked in a breath. Mother that she was, she’d never even thought of Allison or Lenna being interviewed. The idea was as horrifying as it was preposterous. The girls were minors. They were merely innocent bystanders. Right?

  “He must not know. I’ll have to tell him,” Allison said with determination.

  “Allie, honey, I don’t think—”

  Allison marched up to the police chief and waited patiently to get his attention while he spoke with the other officers. After being ignored for a solid minute, she boldly tapped on the man’s arm. “Excuse me, Chief Graham?”

  Leigh held her breath.

  “I’m Allison Harmon, Frances Koslow’s granddaughter. I was in the dining room with Lucille Busby the whole time, and I took notes about what happened. I was wondering when you were going to interview me? I have some information that I—”

  “Oh, that’s all right, sugar plum!” the chief said affably, giving Allison a pat on the head. “I think we’ve got all we need for tonight. We won’t have to bother you or your little friend either one.” He looked up at Leigh, then dropped his hand behind Allison’s shoulders and gave the girl a push toward her mother. “You can take the girls on home now, Mrs. Harmon. Have a good night!”

  Dismissed.

  Allison’s petite body stiffened, and her face reddened. Not with embarrassment, but with rage.

  Contrary thoughts warred in Leigh’s brain. The overprotective mother in her was delighted. The new mother who had sat by an incubator in the NICU for weeks, praying that the tiny, struggling preemie inside would someday be strong enough to go home and play with her strapping twin brother — that woman was so happy she could do somersaults. Yes! The chief said go home! Now she could feed her daughter some warm noodle soup and put her to bed in her pretty pink room with her puppy dog!

  But the other Leigh had problems. The Leigh that had, ever since she was Allison’s age, bitterly resented the very same patronizing, paternalistic, sexist treatment that her daughter was experiencing now. The chief genuinely might not believe that either of the girls had any useful information to impart. He might also not want to unnecessarily stress a minor. But there was no question in Leigh’s mind that if Allison were a male of the same age, and therefore a foot taller, her assertion that she been present when Lucille died and would like to talk about it would not have earned her a pat on the head and the designation “sugar plum.”

  Dammit.

  The absolute last thing mother-Leigh wanted was for Allison to get embroiled in some ugly controversy over a life insurance settlement — which thanks to Bobby was clearly going to get ugly whether Lucille died of natural causes or not. But as she watched the small figure before her tremble with rage, it was middle-school-Leigh who grabbed her brain’s control panel.

  “Chief Graham,” she said, interrupting the men’s banter, which had moved on to Duquesne basketball. “I don’t think you heard what my daughter said.” We both know you did, but I’m repeating it so you can save face. Appreciate it. “She was actually present in the dining room, with both Lucille and Bridget, for the entire afternoon and evening. Her job was to watch the dining room in case anything was stolen. She got the job because she’s very observant. So if you’re wondering about anything that happened between Bridget and Lucille around the time of her death, you would be wise to ask Allison what she saw. Not only does she have an excellent memory, but she has a convenient habit of writing things down.”

  The officers went quiet. They looked down at Allison, then at each other. The chief seemed mildly confused. “Uh… well, thank you, Mrs. Harmon. But the thing is—”

  Leigh smelled blood. It was one thing to dismiss her when she was standing up for herself. Dissing her when she was trying to set an example for her daughter was like waving bacon in front of a corgi.

  “What you should also know,” Leigh interjected, “is that after Lucille died, when everyone was gathered around in little clusters bemoaning and speculating, Allison was listening in and taking notes. And someone evidently found that threatening, because someone watched where she hid her notebook and then removed it. So if one of the people you interviewed thought that Allison had jotted down information important enough to steal, don’t you think maybe that information is important enough for you to listen to?”

  The police chief’s jaw went slack. Leigh’s tone was perfectly polite, of course. She’d spent more than enough of her life accidentally getting on the bad side of law enforcement, and she preferred not to go there again.

  “Uh…” he began again, removing his hat and scratching over his ear. “Well, I suppose that could be useful information, yes. And I’ll be sure to pass that along. But you see—”

  Leigh couldn’t believe she could not get through to this man. Pass along to whom? The West View police could handle most minor crimes, but major criminal investigations got kicked up to the county level. Had Bobby pushed the insurance angle so far they were already calling in the county to investigate fraud? Or worse yet, had they actually believed his claims of negligence by Bridget? What reason did the police have to think that the death of a terminally ill woman with a standing do-not-resuscitate order was anything other than a naturally occurring event?

  “Why can’t you—” Leigh began, but didn’t finish. A much calmer looking Allison was tapping on her arm.

  “It’s okay, Mom,” Allison said, her voice oddly hopeful.

  Leigh followed her daughter’s gaze toward the kitchen, where a newcomer had entered through the back. Standing in the doorway, obscuring most of it with her large frame — and wearing a thoroughly disgruntled expression on her face — was Detective Maura Polanski, Allegheny County Police Department.

  Homicide Division.

  Chapter 14

  Leigh sat at the Koslows’ kitchen table with her parents and her Aunt Lydie, sipping at a cup of candy
-cane flavored herbal tea. The house was quiet now, and they were alone. At least temporarily.

  As soon as the police chief had confirmed that Detective Maura Polanski and the county homicide squad would indeed be taking over the investigation, Leigh had managed to convince Allison that she could go home and go to bed in good conscience. Allison not only had the utmost respect for the abilities of her “Aunt Mo,” but she knew that the detective would take Allison’s own input seriously. So while Detective Polanski proceeded to debrief the West View officers, survey the area, and interview the still-distraught Bridget, Allison had found another blank notebook and set herself to the task of recreating as much as she could remember of the one that was lost. She had still been writing furiously when Leigh walked her and Lenna out to Cara’s car and waved them all goodnight.

  Maura was outside now, helping Bridget secure a ride home after the kindly Bobby had stranded his mother’s employee by removing Lucille’s car from the premises. Maura was expected to come back inside and speak briefly with Randall and Frances before they turned in for the night. Leigh’s mother was still far from herself.

  “Frances,” Lydie said calmly and tenderly, for about the fortieth time. “You have got to snap out of this. I know that everything that’s happened this evening has brought back… bad memories. But be sensible. No matter what nonsense has been said, you and I both know that Lucille simply passed. And that’s all that happened.”

  Frances sat staring blankly across the table. Her face was pale, and her eyes not only looked glassy but were growing increasingly bloodshot. She reached for her steaming mug of tea, lifted it, then set it down again.

  Lydie sighed. “I give up. Randall, you try.”

  Leigh’s father watched his wife with a concerned frown. Finally he leaned forward and took her hand. “What is it you’re not telling us?” he asked.

  Frances’s eyes reddened even more. Then they began to water. She expelled a heavy, shaky breath, then looked at her twin. “I’m not so sure Lucille did just pass. I’m not sure of that at all.”

  Leigh’s eyes met her Aunt Lydie’s. Frances wasn’t just “talking drama” about the Flying Maples anymore. They remained silent, watching while Frances gathered her nerve or came to a decision. Leigh wasn’t sure which.

  “You know that Lucille has always been obsessed with death, and by that I mean with death in general. It was simply her personality,” Frances began. “If she was a teenager now, she’d be one of those goth kids with black clothes and skull tattoos and a metal stud in her nose. But for the last year or so, all she talked about was her own death. Her husband’s passing made her rich, you know. At least for a while. The way she crowed over that insurance policy…” Frances pursed her lips, then shook herself with disgust. “Unseemly is what it was. She and her husband were never a love match, but you would have thought she won the lottery, not lost the father of her children. And practically in the prime of his life!”

  Frances stopped talking and took a sip of tea. Her dark eyes now looked annoyed, rather than vacant, and her color was returning. Leigh breathed a silent sigh of relief. She would take judgmental Frances over haunted Frances any day.

  “Lucille was healthy as a horse practically her whole life,” Frances continued. “But when she did start to have some serious problems, the things she was saying became truly disturbing.”

  “Virginia was saying that Lucille had a policy on herself,” Leigh said. “A policy she wanted her son to cash in on. It was an accidental death policy, but she thought Bobby would push the issue and try to collect no matter how Lucille died.”

  Frances raised an eyebrow. “Virginia said that? To whom?”

  Leigh tried to remember. “I think just to Allison and me. Why?”

  Frances didn’t answer for a moment. She seemed deep in thought. “Virginia has always been a gossip. But still, I’m surprised she would say that.”

  Now Leigh was confused. “Is it not true?”

  Her mother’s dark eyes bore into hers. “Oh, it’s true all right. That’s the problem. Don’t you understand?”

  Leigh looked across the table at her father, then at her aunt. She did not understand, and apparently neither did they.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Frances burst out. “Lucille has been plotting her own demise for months now!”

  Leigh coughed on the sip of tea she was about to swallow. Lydie dropped the cup she’d just picked up. And Randall, who had been tipping back in his chair, let its front feet crash down onto the ceramic tile with a thud.

  “Are you saying that this woman planned ahead of time to commit suicide in our house?” he asked, not sounding at all pleased. His voice was not raised, but for Randall, it qualified as a shout.

  “No,” Frances replied calmly. “No, that’s not what I mean. Not the way that you think, anyway. But… well, I can’t be sure.”

  Leigh was still confused.

  “Talk sense, Frances,” Lydie ordered.

  Frances dropped her hands on the table with a clunk. “Lucille was terminally ill, and she knew it. But she didn’t want to die the old fashioned way, which is to say naturally — and with dignity. She wanted to defraud the insurance company so her son could get some money out of her death, just like she did when her husband passed. She said so explicitly, on multiple occasions. All the Floribundas knew that.”

  Frances paused, grabbed a paper napkin from the center of the table, and began to sweep up crumbs as she talked. “Surely you noticed how… well, how awkwardly the announcement of Lucille’s passing was received by everyone? It was hardly a normal grieving reaction. It’s upsetting to lose someone so suddenly when you’ve known them half your life… never mind whether you really liked them or not. But we all knew that Lucille wanted to die, which made us feel conflicted. And if that weren’t enough, I’m sure that every Floribunda in that room — well, except Olympia perhaps — was thinking the same, horrible thing that I was thinking!”

  Frances’s voice cracked, and her face started going pale again. She batted furiously at the crumbs.

  “Tell us what that was, Frances,” Lydie goaded gently. “What were all the Floribundas thinking?”

  Frances stopped fidgeting. She drew in a ragged, sniffling breath. “We were wondering who gave in!”

  Leigh leaned forward. “Gave in? Explain what you mean, Mom.”

  Frances’s eyes had taken on the glassy tone again. “Lucille couldn’t do it by herself. She needed help to set things up. A plan solid enough to fool the insurance company. And she… well, she asked for help. From the Floribundas.”

  Peppermint tea soured in Leigh’s stomach.

  “From the whole chapter?” Lydie asked with disbelief. “Are you joking? She brought this up as new business?”

  “No, no!” Frances protested. “Lucille is smarter than that. She asked people one by one, outside of the meetings. And one by one, they told her no. We were all horrified at the mere thought of it!”

  “She asked you, too?” Randall inquired.

  A queer mixture of both pride and annoyance distorted Frances’s face. “No. She did not ask me. I believe she knew in advance what my position would be.”

  “So she asked everyone else individually, but you all compared notes after?” Leigh asked.

  Frances waved a dismissive hand. “Essentially. Virginia finds these things out. We all knew what was happening. Lucille offered money. Her son was supposed to make compensation, although it couldn’t happen until well after the case was settled, to avoid suspicion. Lucille was adamant that the plan would be brilliant and that there was no way any Floribunda would ever be implicated.”

  Holy crap. Leigh definitely felt sick now. “Mom,” she said heavily. “Do you really think that what happened to Lucille here today could have been a setup? That one of the Floribundas could have helped her and Bobby to do it?”

  Frances looked truly miserable. “I don’t know. As much as I hate to think of it, I can’t say it’s impossible that one
of them changed her mind. I can’t imagine why, what could make any of them so desperate, but… Or maybe I’m completely wrong. Maybe Bobby found another way. Or maybe Lucille really did simply pass! I don’t know!” Frances covered her face with her hands, and Randall wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders.

  Leigh swallowed a lump in her throat. Her parents weren’t usually affectionate types.

  After a few seconds, Frances lifted her head. “I wish I could believe she passed on her own, but I can’t. I can’t make myself believe it because of the grand exit. Don’t you see? Her dying right at the end of the greatest, most glorious event ever in the history of the Floribunda chapter? In public view? With all the publicity and hoopla and wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth sure to follow — and with no regard at all to whatever effects such a tragedy might have on the rest of us? It’s so… Lucille!”

  Leigh digested the concept slowly. Then she thought a bad word.

  “I see what you’re saying,” Lydie offered. “But I still don’t think we should assume the worst. You said it yourself: the woman was terminally ill.”

  Randall cleared his throat. “Lydie’s right. A lot of people talk about ending their lives, but when it comes right down to it, most people can’t. It goes against basic human instinct.”

  No one said anything else for a moment. “Mom,” Leigh asked finally, her voice hesitant. “Did you tell the officer any of this during your interview?”

  Incredibly, the faintest of smiles spread across Frances’s lips. “Would you believe he didn’t ask?”

  Leigh believed it. “Yes, but Mom, you know Maura will. And you have to tell her the truth.”

  Frances’s lips pursed with blessedly normal disapproval. “Did I ever say I wouldn’t? I have the utmost confidence in Maura’s ability to handle this situation,” she defended. “But that doesn’t mean I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Of course not,” Randall said soothingly. “Tell her what you know, and you’ll be done with it. What happens after that won’t be your concern.”

  Frances harrumphed. “Easy for you to say. You won’t have to attend future meetings of the Floribundas!”