Page 11 of The Mistletoe Mystery

“Your affairs are none of my business,” Mr. Rosso replies with a snort and a flick of his nose.

“Thank you, Mr. Rosso. I appreciate your discretion,” Juan says.

As I watch, Mr. Rosso offers a hand, and Juan shakes it. Or at least I think he shakes it, but then I see Juan slip something into his back pocket. Or is he just adjusting his tool belt? From this distance, I can’t quite tell. Either way, I don’t understand what I’m seeing. This exchange raises so many questions in my mind, I’m feeling dizzy. I click the door closed, and a few moments later, Juan opens it, nearly toppling me as he bursts in.

“Madre mía,Molly!” Juan exclaims. “What are you doing standing right by the door? I almost knocked you over.”

“Sorry,” I reply, “I didn’t mean to get in your way.” I step back to give Juan some space.

“Did you fix her pipes?” I ask.

“Fix whose pipes?” he replies.

“The beautiful blonde. Does her toilet work now?”

“Yes,” he says, removing his shoes and wiping off the bottoms before placing them in the closet. “All I did was yank the chain.”

“I see,” I reply. “I’m pleased that’s all she required.”

I cross my arms against my chest, suddenly feeling cold.

“Molly, are you all right?” Juan asks. His eyes are wrinkled and tight, the left one larger than the other, as usual.

I look right into his eyes. “Do you know that woman?” I ask. “I can’t make sense of why she showed up at our door out of the blue.”

“Do I know her?” he echoes. He begins to fidget with the tools on his tool belt, his fingers running over them as though trying to locate some implement they cannot find.

“Yes. Do you know her?” I ask again, but I get no answer. “Let me rephrase: have you visited her apartment before?”

His eyes shift away from mine. “I don’t really know her, Molly,” he says, after a pause. “She was in the laundry room yesterday. She said hi. And I said hi. She knows which apartment I live in, I guess. That explains it, doesn’t it?”

The truth reveals itself, the lie hides behind words.That’s what Gran used to say.

I stare at Juan, and it’s like his face is veiled. Usually, it’s wide open, as easy to read as a picture book, but not now. I search it for clues, but for the first time in a long while, his face is an impenetrable mask. Suddenly, it’s like I’m ten years old again, pleading for Gran’s help at the grocery store because I have no idea if the cashier means to insult me or be kind.

Some things can’t be explained. And some people are a mystery that can never be solved.

Chapter 5

After a long day of chores at home to prepare for the busy workweek ahead, my Sunday evening with Juan is over. I am past the odd incidents in the hallway with the strange woman and Mr. Rosso. As usual, I was probably overreacting and seeing things that weren’t really there.

Just when I think I’m getting better at reading cues, life has a way of teaching me otherwise. For most people, it’s easy to put two and two together, but not so in my case. I often get the sum wrong, adding the parts incorrectly or making more of the equation than it merits.

Juan and I went to bed hours ago. He’s sound asleep beside me, the day ending just as it began. His breath is gentle—waves lapping the shore. Meanwhile, I’m wide awake again, though I’m quite tired. My mind is racing, searching shadowy corners and long-forgotten memories. I’m picking them up likeboulders to see what lurks underneath, what answers will scuttle into the light.

The Sunday scaries. That’s what Gran used to call this feeling. I have a serious case of them tonight, maybe because tomorrow is a big day—back to work at the Regency Grand during the busiest time of year, and our staff holiday party to follow the day after tomorrow. I really need to rest, and yet, here I am, staring at my beloved’s face as he sleeps soundly on his pillow.

It takes me back to my teenage years. I used to lie like this, awake on a Sunday night, though no one slept beside me in those days. I dreaded Monday morning, which brought with it an unwelcome return to the classroom. Once there, I was either mercilessly scorned or ritualistically shunned by my classmates. Looking back, I’m not sure which was worse.

I do recall one day when I was genuinely excited to go back to school. It was right after the break for the holidays, and I vowed to start the New Year right—New Year, New You,just as the headlines proclaimed. Everything was going to be different that year—I was certain of it. I’d be the belle of the ball court, the queen of the classroom, the crown on the head of the entire student body.

That Christmas, Gran had given me a patchwork vest she’d sewn herself. It was brightly colored and hand-stitched, containing items of clothing that no longer fit me—my favorite blue jeans, a flowery blouse, even one of my old baby bibs with the slogan “Dinner’s on me,” a hilarious pun. In my youth, I found it hard to relinquish cherished clothing, even when Ioutgrew it, and this handmade vest was Gran’s way of helping me let go of all the me’s I used to be while preserving the cherished memories.

I wore that vest every day over the holiday break, and when the first back-to-school day of the new year rolled around, I couldn’t wait to show it off to my classmates.

Elizabeth, the most popular girl in junior high, pointed me out the moment I walked through the school’s front door. “That is seriously lame,” she said, putting one hand on her hip and pointing the other at my vest.

Her gaggle of minions soon gathered by her side, doe-eyed and subservient. All of these girls whispered and laughed behind hands held tight to their mouths.

---