Sugarplums and Scandal Read online

  Contents

  Lori Avocato - All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Dana Cameron - The Lords of Misrule

  Mary Daheim - The Ghost of Christmas Passed

  Cait London - Partners in Crime

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Suzanne Macpherson - Holly Go Lightly

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Kerrelyn Sparks - A Very Vampy Christmas

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Epilogue

  MIRACLES AND MAYHEM

  Lori Avocato

  When nurse-turned-investigator Pauline Sokol decides to bring a bit of Christmas cheer to a helpless old man, she unwittingly discovers misdeeds of a Scrooge-like local dentist.

  Dana Cameron

  Modern detection techniques are called for on Christmas Eve in an elegant eighteenth-century English manor when murder and grand theft get thrown in amidst the Christmas cheer.

  Mary Daheim

  All the wacky relatives are together for the holidays at Judith McMonigle Flynn’s bed-and-breakfast—but a murderous, uninvited “ghost” may dampen the Christmas spirit.

  Cait London

  When a well-meaning do-gooder lets a mysterious man into her life, she must discover if he’s protecting her—or stalking her.

  Suzanne Macpherson

  A handsome hero’s plucky late fiancée won’t leave him be until he completes her unfinished mission on Earth.

  Kerrelyn Sparks

  Coming home for the holidays takes on new meaning when a newly turned vampire discovers his own Christmas miracle.

  This is a collection of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  AVON BOOKS

  An Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers

  10 East 53rd Street

  New York, New York 10022-5299

  “All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth” copyright © 2006 by Lori Avocato

  “The Lords of Misrule” copyright © 2006 by Dana Cameron

  “The Ghost of Christmas Passed” copyright © 2006 by Mary Daheim

  “Partners in Crime” copyright © 2006 by Lois Kleinsasser

  “Holly Go Lightly” copyright © 2006 by Suzanne Macpherson

  “A Very Vampy Christmas” copyright © 2006 by Kerrelyn Sparks

  ISBN-13: 978-0-06-113695-5

  ISBN-10: 0-06-113695-6

  www.avonmystery.com

  HarperCollins is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  Chapter 1

  According to the druids, mistletoe was traditionally considered to be the semen of the gods.

  I looked at the Hope Valley Sentinel article and wondered if the editor of our local newspaper had gone nuts. “Semen of the gods”? They had the nerve to print such sexual innuendoes in this ethnic, moral, homespun, Wonder Bread suburban Connecticut town?

  With my jaw down to my chest (a very common occurrence when I am stunned), I read on that the liquid of the berries looked and had the texture of semen. Geez. They actually printed that in a newspaper where folks like Mrs. Kaminski, the local gossip, Mr. Gansecki, the local over-eighty stud, and Miss Nawrocki, the local moral majority would read it? Yikes.

  Slowly I looked up to see the ball of mistletoe hanging from my mother’s foyer ceiling. Then I scrunched up the newspaper (only the semen/berry article) and stuck it into the pocket of my jeans.

  Stella Sokol would rather die than hang those kinds of berries from her nineteen sixties ceiling.

  And to think I’d kissed Jagger, The Delicious, under it last Christmas Eve. He was my sometimes partner in solving crimes, my all-the-time fantasy man. Yum.

  I gulped.

  “Pauline? Pauline Sokol, what is taking so long?” my mother yelled from the kitchen.

  Even as a nurse, a thirty-something, and as her only single adult child, I couldn’t tell her the truth. “Just reading the paper, Mom.”

  “What is so darned, excuse my language, important that you can’t come help your mother make pierogies?”

  I blew out a breath. For one thing, I hate making the little pillows of Polish dough, and each year put in my vote to buy ready-made ones, much to Stella Sokol’s horror. And each year I end up taking time off from work to stuff the suckers with cabbage, mashed potatoes or cottage cheese, a process which takes about twenty hours since my married siblings have toys to buy for their kids and don’t have time to help.

  I shook my head and told myself that I had no life.

  Since I’d given up a thirteen-year nursing career to switch to medical insurance fraud investigating for Scarpello and Tonelli Insurance Company, things haven’t been going too well for me.

  “Pauline!” Mom’s voice was so loud I could swear she was—

  I swung around—”Oh! Hey, Mom”—then I knocked the rest of the paper onto the floor.

  She’d snatched the paper up as if I were some male teen who’d been reading Playboy (okay, nowadays all they had to do was boot up the Internet for peeping, but Stella wouldn’t know that).

  She looked down at the paper. “Toothless Holiday? Oh my.”

  I said a silent prayer to Saint Theresa for letting me have the foresight to pocket the berry article.

  “Pauline? Are you reading about this poor man who doesn’t have his front dentures yet?”

  Lying never came easily to me. Catholic school induced conscience and being raised by her, I guess was the reason. I looked at my mother waving the paper at me. “Yep. Very sad, huh?” and wondered why the hell the guy didn’t have his front teeth yet.

  She snatched my father’s reading glasses from the top of his head. Daddy had been napping within snatching range in his favorite La-Z-Boy recliner.

  He never even stirred.

  Guess that’s what over forty-four years of being married did to a couple. Me, I wouldn’t know.

  The paper crinkled and crackled in her grip. She stuck on the glasses and read for a bit.

  “Oh, my. How sad. How awful indeed. This poor man’s dentist is holding his dentures hostage. Do something about this. Be a Good Samaritan for the holiday season. Or, you could, of course, go back to nursing. I’m sure they have those fill-in kinds of jobs at all the hospitals. Go back to Saint Gregory’s where you used to make a decent living.”

  She never failed to remind me about the gigantic, nationwide nursing shortage. “Actually,” she continued, “since you are not snooping around for the next week, go help this man so he can eat his Christmas dinner.” With that she shoved the newspaper at my chest and gave me one of her “motherly” looks. “Seems right up your alley.”

  Now, none of us five kids could ever duck fast enough to avoid one of those looks. If “When E.F. Hutton talks, people listen,” then when “Stella Sokol tells her kids something, they better damn well do what she says.”

  I grabbed the paper, held it in one hand, and knew that my Christmas vacation plans of R&R, overdosing on chocolate, and maybe dating a few hot guys had come to a screeching
halt.

  Seemed, for me anyway, the “you know what” of the gods was going to stay in the little white mistletoe berries this year—yet again.

  As I stared way too long at the now-fascinating mistletoe, the doorbell rang.

  Mother yelled from the kitchen, “Come in, Mr. Jagger,” My heart did a one eighty in my chest. She’d once again invited him over without my knowledge. And he’d never corrected her when she called him “mister” either.

  And how the hell did she know his phone number?

  The door opened, Jagger nodded at me, and then came forward.

  Oh… my… god.

  His kiss landed on my right cheek. Cheek? Cheeeeeeeek?

  Semen schmemen.

  My hands ached from stuffing a gazillion pierogies with Lord knows what. My mother would stick a bowl in front of me, and I’d spoon it into the dough robotically. I looked up to see Jagger sitting across from me as if nothing on his body pained him—even though he’d been the official dough roller. Mother’d had her wooden rolling pin since the dawn of light, so it didn’t exactly roll like Teflon; but with the strength in those arms (I took a deep breath for a Jagger moment), rolling a gazillion pillows of dough didn’t seem to bother him in the least.

  “I need some Tylenol, Mom. Do you have some?”

  She eyed me as she waited for the batch of dough pillows to float to the top of the boiling water to signal they’d had enough. “What’s wrong? Menstrual cramps?”

  Cramps gripped my insides at that very moment. Talk about the power of suggestion. Of course Stella Sokol’s power came from me nearly dying of embarrassment in front of Jagger.

  “No,” I said with a sigh. “My hands hurt.”

  Now she shook her head. Mother and Jagger, at times, were like two peas in a pod. Both had a way with their eyes that I didn’t even want to ponder. “Daddy’s baby aspirin are in my medicine cabinet. Someone your size should take two.”

  “Two? I’ll need about six,” I mumbled as I stood, brushed flour from my jeans, and turned to go.

  Was that a snicker from my buddy?

  ———

  Once the seven baby aspirin kicked in, and I didn’t bleed out, I felt much better, so I decided to sit next to sleeping daddy and read the tooth article. At first I thought it was a joke. I mean they had printed about semen. Why not fake missing teeth? But the more I read the more credible the article became.

  Jagger strolled in and sat next to me on the couch. He leaned over to read what I was holding. “What’s so interesting?”

  At first I wanted to say, “You can bloody well see for yourself,” but, thinking that would be rude so close to Christmas, I said, “Sounds like dental fraud.”

  Did his expression change?

  Jagger had this “thing” for medical insurance fraud, yet to this day I had no idea what it was. All I knew was that he was the Robin Hood of catching medical insurance fraud criminals. I mentally shrugged and said, “One Mr. Leonard Niski doesn’t have his front dentures from a Dr. Elfin Santana, and his insurance has already paid for them.”

  I looked up. “What?”

  Jagger grinned. “You’re kidding. Right?”

  I reread the last part of the article. “Nope. All paid for and no choppers.”

  Jagger shook his head, which was, I’d learned by now, his rather obvious way of showing annoyance at me. Two shakes and I was in big trouble. Three and I had to hightail it out of his sight. Not sure if I’ve ever suffered a three yet, though. At least not unless it was behind my back.

  Which would not surprise me.

  “Pauline, Elfin? Santana?”

  “I’m guessing he’s Mexican. You know, like Carlos Santana? I—” The look continued. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I asked.

  Perfect timing.

  “Pauline!” Mother chastised me as she came into the room. This from a woman who thought “darned” was cursing.

  “Jagger is annoying me, Mother.”

  Now he really did smirk.

  He got up and helped my mother get seated. Geez.

  They’d become real buddies. No wonder she invited him and always took his side. I gasped inside when I realized—she must have invited him for Christmas Eve again too! That was more important to our family than Christmas Day (a day of rest and prayer), being the Polish celebration of Wigilia, which meant the Christmas Eve meal.

  Last year was my first Jagger-kiss under the… mistletoe.

  “Pauline?… Pauline? Jagger asked you a question.”

  I looked up from my daydreaming. “Hmm? What?”

  “What are you planning to do about Mr. Niski?” Jagger repeated.

  I wanted to say, “You interrupted my mistletoe-kissing daydream for that?” But I kept quiet—mostly because it had been about him. Business always came first with Jagger.

  Learning to think quickly on my feet, I said, “Well, for starters, since I don’t have a case for Fabio, I’m going to visit the old man and offer my assistance.”

  Fabio was my greasy, very unlikable boss—although he hadn’t fired me yet, so there was at least one positive about him.

  ———

  I knew I should have come alone, I thought as I rang the doorbell at the Twilight Hills Apartment complex, all the while ignoring Jagger with the hopes that he’d disappear like some magical Santa’s elf. Twilight Hills? I still couldn’t get over that name for senior citizen’s housing. Someone had a sick sense of humor.

  I looked at my buddy Jagger, and thought, he’s got no sense of humor.

  Earlier he’d made fun of the dentist’s “Santa Claus” name, but there wasn’t anything funny about a guy who would take advantage of the elderly as Santana’d obviously done. I loved the elderly. My favorite person in the world was my Uncle Walt, who was pushing eighty-five. We watched Steelers games together, read about cars in his magazines, and shared a laugh or two when he wasn’t napping. Seniors had so many wonderful life experiences to share.

  Early on I’d decided I needed to keep fit so I would age gracefully and more importantly—slowly.

  “Yeah?” a scratchy kind of voice asked through the intercom.

  “Oh, hi, Mr. Niski?”

  “None other.”

  I smiled even though he couldn’t see me. “You don’t know me—”

  “Then beat it. Fixed income here. I can’t buy what you are selling.”

  Of course, selling sounded more like “shelling” because of the no denture fiasco. I winced. “I’m not selling anything, Mr. Niski. I’m here to help you with your teeth.”

  I could feel Jagger behind me shaking his head.

  “You got my tweeth?”

  “Um. No. I will try to get… please let me in. It is cold out here. I’m a private investigator who specializes in medical insurance fraud.”

  No way was I going to turn around and see Jagger’s reaction to “specialize.”

  After a few minutes, the door started to open—and a thin, very short (I’m guessing below five feet) elderly man appeared dressed in brown pants, way too big for him, a white button down shirt, way too big for him, and fuzzy black slippers, also way too big.

  My first reaction was—I want to hug him.

  Instead I held out my hand and introduced Jagger and myself. Mr. Niski’s handshake was weak to say the least, and suddenly I felt sorry for him and very glad my mother had “suggested” that I help him.

  We followed him into a tiny studio apartment with brown plaid furniture, a kitchen table that would only fit two, and a radio playing “White Christmas” by Bing Crosby. The place smelled very much like my Uncle Walt’s bedroom. Not an unpleasant scent, merely an elderly scent. I was thinking Old Spice.

  I explained to Mr. Niski, who now wanted me to call him Lenny, about how I’d read the article. He’d told us that he’d worked in a factory all his life, making rubber tires. Never married, but had two sisters and five nieces and two nephews. I felt as if I’d known Lenny all my life because I knew hundreds of older Polis
h men exactly like Leonard Niski.

  I noticed there was no Christmas tree in Lenny’s apartment, but he assured me there was a huge one in the dining room of the complex, where he went to eat each night if he didn’t want to cook for himself.

  “Mostly can only eat swoup anyway.”

  I winced again and looked at Jagger who’d remained silent the entire time.

  Lenny must have noticed too. “You with her?” he asked, as if Jagger had come in off the street by himself. “Wife?”

  I choked on nothing. “Um. No. We… sometimes we—”

  Jagger interrupted with “Work together” as if he was afraid I was going to say, “Sometimes we have hot, wild unforgettable sex.” With that he started to question Lenny and before I knew it, we had a case to work on. Lenny, being a very organized bachelor, had found all the bills and paperwork for his denture work and now had a sparkle in his eyes.

  He was going to get his teeth.

  On the way out, Lenny gave me a hug, shook hands with Jagger, and said, “All I want for Christmas is—”

  I laughed. “I know, Len, your two front teeth.”

  He gave me an odd look. “I was going to say to eat my sister Helen’s baked ham without having to stick it in the bwender.”

  I nodded and smiled, or at least pretended to smile.

  Once in the SUV, I heard Jagger mutter, “Your two front teeth?”

  Choosing to ignore him to save some dignity on my part, I said, “Drop me by my place. I feel a toothache coming on and need a dentist appointment.”

  From the corner of my eye I could see a slight grin on Jagger’s face, and knew—I’d done good.

  “Oh. my God, Suga’! What’s the matter with your tooth?” my roommate Goldie Perlman asked. Goldie was a six-foot-tall, darling guy who bought his Armani in the best of men’s departments—and the most fashionable of women’s departments. He put me to shame when he dressed female. Don’t even get me started on his flair for putting on makeup.