We’d all settled in at the table with the food steaming in front of us when the doorbell rang.
I looked at Dad. “Quint?”
He frowned toward the front door. “He doesn’t usually ring the bell, but maybe his arms are full.” He started to get up, but I beat him to the punch.
“I’m closer. I’ll get it.” I jogged to the door, my heart pounding with excitement at seeing my brother again.
“It’s about time,” I said as I opened the door.
It wasn’t Quint.
A short, round man with a walrus mustache and one of those furry Russian winter hats was waiting on the porch.
“Uh … can I help you?”
He stared at me for a second, inspecting me from top to bottom. “I’m looking for Violet Parker.” His voice reminded me of Burl Ives’s when he narrated Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.
“I’m Violet.”
“Great!” His mustache curved upward at the corners. “You’re a hard woman to find.”
“I am?”
He held out an envelope for me to take.
After a moment’s hesitation, I grabbed it. My name was written on the front. “What’s this?”
“A letter from your attorney.”
“My attorney?” What attorney?
“That’s what I was told when I was hired to find you and deliver it in person.”
I tried to process his words, but I hit a wall. “Why were you hired to find me?”
His mustache dipped into an upside-down horseshoe. “I’m afraid I have bad news.”
“You do?”
His expression grew somber. “Your husband is dead.”
Chapter Sixteen
“My husband?”
The guy pointed a pudgy finger at the envelope in my hand. “I was told it’s all explained in there for you.”
The gears in my brain ground on his words. In particular, it was still trying to make sense of the word husband. Was this something to do with Rex and his attempt to blackmail me into playing “family” with him so he could land that stupid job promotion? But why would he play dead?
“You’re a widow,” he added, as if that cleared up everything for me.
It didn’t. Not even a teeny-tiny bit.
I stuffed the envelope inside the front of his coat.
“Nope.” I rejected him and his envelope.
“What? Wait!” he said as I shut the door in his face.
“Violet?” Dad called from the other room.
I looked toward the dining room. My left eye started twitching.
I had a husband.
A dead husband.
How had I managed that? Shouldn’t I remember getting married? Had there been tequila involved?
I turned back to the front door. Was I dreaming?
I opened the door again.
The round man with the furry Russian hat still stood there. He smiled, his walrus moustache curving with his cheeks. “Hi again.” He held up the envelope. “You want this back?”
Not really, but I took the envelope anyway. “Who are you again?”
“A private investigator hired to find Violet Parker.”
Nope, this wasn’t Rex. He knew where I lived.
I looked down at the envelope with my name on it. “I think you have the wrong Violet Parker.”
He flipped open a notepad and held it up for me to see. “Is that your Social Security number?”
“Yes.”
“Then I have the right Violet Parker.” His gaze measured me up and down. “Although I thought you’d be taller from the description I was given. And brunette.”
Tall and brunette?
An inferno erupted in my chest.
Susan!
What had the two-bit trollop done now?
The flames spread to my fingers and toes with wildfire speed. I could almost feel the smoke billowing from my ears as the blaze moved north.
“Violet?” Mom called this time. “Who’s at the door?”
On the verge of spontaneous combustion, I tried to find something positive to focus on to cool my core before I hit nuclear meltdown mode. What was that old Elvis quote Aunt Zoe liked to say? Something about when things went wrong in life, find the bitch responsible and bury her six foot under in the backyard?
No, that wasn’t it.
Ah, screw it. I was going to have to improvise.
“Have you had Christmas dinner?” I asked the short version of Magnum, P.I.
“Uh, no. Are you okay?” He pointed at my face. “Your left eye looks a little buggered up.”
“It’s quite possible I’m having a stroke.” I grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him inside the foyer. “Why don’t you join us at the table? We’re getting ready to eat.”
“I … well … I don’t think … I mean …” He wiped his boots on the doormat.
“Great. Let’s get this off of you.” I tossed his furry hat over my shoulder. “We’ll be right there,” I hollered to my parents.
“Listen, lady. I really don’t think—”
“Neither does my sister,” I said in a terse whisper. “She acts on her emotions.” I unbuttoned his coat. “My mom explained it all to me at the minimart earlier.”
“She did?” He frowned behind his big mustache as I tugged his coat off his shoulders.
“And while I’d like to fill my sister’s head with cannon balls and powder her behind,” I continued, echoing Johnny Horton’s line from “The Battle of New Orleans,” “Mom says Susan needs our love and support.” I wadded his coat into a ball and stuffed it under the shoe bench, kicking it once for good measure.
He shot a worried glance at his coat and then back at me. “Love and support are always good things.”
“You’d think so, but here you are with that envelope.” I smiled extra wide, stretching my whole face to fit it all in.
He cringed. “You could scare children with that face.”
“Wonderful. Let’s go eat.” I grabbed his wrist and dragged him into the dining room.
Upon arrival, all eyes focused on me and my new guest.
“Hello, everyone. I’d like you to meet Mr. …” I turned to him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?”
“Peabody. Norman D. Peabody.”
“Norman D. Peabody it is. He’s a private investigator who’s come bearing sad news on this joyous day.”
“Violet,” Mom said, half-rising, her expression lined with concern. “You’re frightening me with that face. Please stop smiling.”
“I’m just trying to remain positive, Mother. Nobody likes a Negative Nelly, especially on Christmas.”
Dad caught
