The Mistletoe Secret

  “My pleasure. I have one question for you.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m assuming you’re going to come up with a list of possible residents to visit. So, when you visit these people, what are you going to say to them?”

  Dale’s dilemma. “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, you might find that you need to be a little sneaky. If you tell them that you’re trying to find someone from the Internet, they might close up. Especially if she’s the one. You know what I mean?”

  “What do you mean by ‘sneaky’?”

  “Well, maybe you tell them that you’re with the US Census.”

  “They’d believe that?”

  “I would think so. I would.”

  I thought a moment. “I don’t know. I think I’d rather be straightforward.”

  “I’m not telling you how to conduct your hunt,” he said, pushing back his chair, “just giving some advice. Good luck finding your woman. I’d better get on home to my own before she puts out a missing-persons report. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “There’s one thing,” I said. “Please don’t take this wrong, the food here is delicious but a bit . . .”

  “You would like a recommendation of somewhere to eat besides the inn.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t mind. We’ve got the usual fast food haunts, which I would not recommend. I would recommend the Mistletoe Diner. It’s just off Main Street, only a few blocks from the Midway community center, near the city offices. You probably drove past it this afternoon.”

  “Food’s good?”

  “Food’s excellent.”

  “Thanks. I’ll give it a try.”

  “Oh, and if Thelma makes pie, eat it.” Ray stood and walked out of the room.

  Just a minute after he left my waiter brought out my meal. “Here you are, sir. Bon appétit.”

  After dinner I carried the phone book up to my room. I sat on my bed and began thumbing through its pages. The first two-thirds of the book were yellow-paged business listings. I turned to the white pages and leafed through it until I found where H began. There were six pages of last names that began with the letter H.

  I took a pen from the nightstand and began going down the pages. There were two columns on each side, with about a hundred listings in each column. There were only a few names with the middle name or initial of B, but I didn’t want to rule out the rest.

  Many of the listings were men or residents of Park City, which disqualified them. By the time I was done, I was left with a list of eighteen names.

  Hall, Leslie B.

  Hanks, Linda

  Harding, Linda

  Harman, Lindsey

  Hardy, Liz

  Harkness, Lori

  Heger, Laurie

  Henrie, Lillian

  Heughs, Layla

  Hewitt, Lisa

  Hickman, Leah

  Higham, Louise

  Hill, Lorraine

  Hitesman, Laurel

  Holbrook, Lilly

  Howard, Lydia

  Howell, Lisa

  Hoyt, LaDawn

  I was making progress. At least I had a list. Tomorrow morning I would start my search at the top, with Leslie Hall.

  CHAPTER

  Sixteen

  Breakfast the next morning was eggs Blackstone. The difference between eggs Blackstone and eggs Benedict is the former is made with bacon instead of ham. It was delicious, as were the apple fritter pancakes. I expected to run into Ray in the dining room but he never came by.

  After breakfast I went for a brisk two-mile walk along the road next to the golf course, then came back to my room and showered. There was a text from Nate. As usual, he was succinct.

  How goes it?

  I texted back.

  The hunt has just begun. I’ve narrowed LBH down to 18 leads.

  He texted back.

  Seek and destroy.

  After I had dressed, I sat down and looked at my list again. I wasn’t sure how long it would take to visit eighteen people, but unless LBH was, coincidentally, the last name on my list, I wouldn’t need to visit them all.

  I grabbed Ray’s map and walked out to my car with the list. My windshield was iced over, so I brushed the snow off with my arm, then, using a credit card, attempted to scrape off the ice. A man in the parking lot next to me was also scraping the snow from his SUV. He watched me with amusement. After a moment he approached.

  “Don’t you have a scraper?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Stand aside.” He scraped, then brushed the snow off my windows. After he finished he said, “You’re going to need to pick up a scraper.”

  “Thanks. Do you know where I can find one?”

  “Anywhere. Grocery stores, gas stations.”

  I thanked him again and he walked back to his car. I got inside and started my car. As I waited for it to heat up, I looked at the first name on my list. Leslie B. Hall. 1219 Montreux Circle.

  “All right, Leslie. Let’s see if you’re the one.”

  I typed her address into my phone’s GPS. This time it came up with a location. The house was about a half mile from the Swiss Center, but if Swiss Days attracted thousands of people, it was conceivable that people would still be parking out that far. Leslie could be the one.

  Leslie Hall’s house was modest and set back from the street. The front walkway hadn’t yet been shoveled. There was a snow-covered refurbished John Deere tractor in the driveway with a For Sale sign taped to its engine.

  I had not prepared for the snow. Wearing just loafers, I trudged through shin-deep snow up the walk and cautiously climbed the stairs to a wooden porch, which creaked a bit beneath me. I pushed the doorbell but didn’t hear anything, so I knocked. Just seconds later a well-fed man holding a can of Budweiser opened the door.

  “What can I do you for?” the man asked.

  “Sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for Leslie Hall.”

  He looked at me narrowly then said, “Well, you found me.”

  “You’re Leslie?”

  “That’s what it says on my driver’s license. Who you expecting?”

  “Sorry. I must have the wrong address.”

  “You were expecting a woman, weren’t you? I know. I get it all the time.”

  “You’re right. My mistake.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You one of them bounty hunters?”

  “Me? No.”

  “Salesman?”

  “No. Well, I mean, I am, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m just looking for someone I met on the Internet.”

  The corners of his mouth rose in a knowing smile. “Ah, yeah. I get it. She blew you off, huh? Gave you a bad address, wrong name?”

  I nodded, deciding it would be easier to go with his theory than my real story. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “I know how you feel, buddy. Happens to me all the time. I meet a hot babe at a bar, she gives me her address, I drive to it, blammo, it’s a freakin’ landfill or a church parking lot, you know what I mean? Happens all the time. Women are ruthless.”

  “They can be. You have a good day.”

  “You too. I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Alex.”

  “Alex, Leslie. Guess you know that already.”

  “Yeah, thanks, Leslie. Sorry to bother you.”

  “No worries.”

  As I walked away he shouted after me, “Hey, there’s a Jazz game on tonight if you’re not busy. Playin’ the Trailblazers. Cold brew, game, could be fun.”

  I turned back. “Thank you. But I have work to do.”

  “She really broke your heart, didn’t she? I tell you, nothing eases woman pain like a little bromanship.”

  “Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

  “Gam
e starts at seven. I’ll put some brats on.”

  “I’ll think about it. Thanks.”

  I heard the home’s door shut behind me as I walked back to my car.

  Interesting people.

  CHAPTER

  Seventeen

  The next name on my list was Linda Hanks. Her house was only a few blocks from where the Swiss Days festivities were held, so it could potentially be the place. The real LBH. And I’d never met a man named Linda.

  The house, a one-level bungalow with a small front yard, was covered in olive-green wood paneling with an orange door and orange trim around the windows. Pink plastic flamingos stood breast-high in the snow. A white Subaru wagon was parked in the driveway.

  I parked in the street, near the mailbox, and walked up the concrete driveway to the shoveled sidewalk that led to the front door.

  I rang the doorbell and the door opened almost immediately, catching me off guard. An attractive blond woman stood in the threshold. “That was fast. I just barely hung up with your office. Come in, please. It’s in the kitchen.”

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “Hurry, it’s getting all over.”

  She turned her back to me and rushed toward the dining area. I hesitated for a moment, then followed. The kitchen’s linoleum floor was covered with water and I could hear running water over the sound of the grinding of a garbage disposal.

  “I don’t know what happened. I just turned on the disposal and just a few seconds later water started shooting all over. I shut the cupboard door but it keeps coming out.” She looked as distressed as she sounded, so much so that I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I wasn’t the plumber. At any rate, what better chance to discover LBH? She certainly fit the criteria.

  “Just a minute,” I said, crouching down in front of the sink. I took off my coat, then opened the cupboard door, catching a splash of water in my face. I saw the problem right away. The black plastic pipe connected to the disposal had slipped off.

  “Could you turn the disposal off, please?”

  “Yes, sorry.” She reached over the counter and turned off a switch. The grinding stopped.

  I lifted the pipe and slipped it back over the disposal and the water stopped spraying. I pushed it in as tight as I could but still needed to adjust the clamp. “Do you have a flathead screwdriver?”

  “I . . .” Her brow fell. “Didn’t you bring tools?”

  “I don’t want to let go of this. May I use yours?”

  “What kind of screwdriver?”

  “The kind with a flat end.”

  “Just a minute.” She returned with three different sizes of screwdrivers. I took the largest of the three, loosened the clamp, then slid the hose clamp over the outer pipe and tightened it until the pipe indented under its pressure. I climbed out from under the sink and handed her back the screwdriver. She had calmed, and I was finally able to get a good look at her. She was maybe a few years older than me, pretty, with thick blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore skinny jeans and a red sweater.

  “That should hold.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Now I just have to mop this up. You’d think that after being single for three years I’d know something about plumbing.”

  “I really don’t know that much myself,” I said. “Just enough to get by.”

  She gave me a peculiar look. “I thought you had to pass a test or something to be a plumber.”

  It took me a moment to process her confusion. “Right. Of course. You know what they say, the more you know, the more you know you don’t know.”

  She looked even more confused but said, “How much do I owe you?”

  The question caught me off guard. “I’ll send you a bill.”

  “Okay. How much was it? So I can plan on it.”

  “Ten dollars,” I said.

  “Just ten dollars? Your receptionist said the house call was a minimum fifty dollars.”

  “That’s the normal price, but I was driving by the neighborhood, so no problem. If you could just write down your name for me, I’ll have the office take care of this.”

  “Oh,” she said. “That explains why you didn’t have any tools.”

  “Right. And that’s also why I don’t have an invoice. My apologies.”

  “No problem.”

  She retrieved a pad and pen, then wrote in a distinctly feminine scrawl:

  Linda Hanks

  “Is that your full legal name?” I asked.

  “No, sorry.” I watched as she wrote her name again.

  Linda Wells Hanks

  I looked at it with disappointment. “Is that your maiden name? Wells?”

  “Yes. I still use my ex’s last name. Actually, my middle name is Michelle.”

  I folded up the paper. “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you. I feel guilty only paying you ten dollars. I really should pay you back somehow. Would it be inappropriate for me to invite you to dinner?” I noticed that she furtively glanced at my bare ring finger. “I mean, if you’re available.”

  I hesitated for a moment, then said, “Of course. That would be nice.”

  “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

  “I should be free.”

  “Wonderful. Seven o’clock?”

  “I’ll have to check my schedule, but I’ll give you a call.”

  “Sure.” She wrote down her phone number and followed me to the door. She watched me walk to my car, then waved as I drove away.

  Just halfway down the block I passed a truck wrapped with a picture of a drain and the words Linton Plumbing written on the side. I thought of driving back and intercepting him, but I wasn’t sure what I’d say, so I just kept on. Dinner plans with Linda probably weren’t going to work out.

  CHAPTER

  Eighteen

  Two down, sixteen to go. I looked at my list. The next name was also a Linda. Linda Harding. I glanced down at my phone to check the time. It was a little past two and I had a text message from my boss. There had been a problem with my client in Oakland, and even though the next home on my list was just three blocks away, I decided to go back to the inn to take care of it.

  It was past four before I went back out. I drove directly to the house, a small, white brick rambler. The roof was covered in snow and icicles, some reaching all the way to the ground to form columns. The only color was from the pale-blue front door and the red alarm-system signs poking up through the snow like crocuses.

  There was an opened bag of ice melt next to the front door and blue pebbles of snowmelt (I now knew what it was) were scattered about, crunching beneath my feet.

  I rang the doorbell and a chime went off inside. A moment later I heard the scuffle of something across the floor, then there was the slide of a chain lock followed by a dead bolt. The door slowly opened.

  The woman in the doorway looked to be at least in her late eighties, with gray-white hair. She was leaning against a walker. “May I help you?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I must have the wrong address.”

  “What address were you looking for?”

  I wasn’t sure how to reply. “Actually, this one.”

  “Well, who are you looking for? I know about everyone in this city. I’ve been here my whole life.”

  “Linda Harding?”

  “That’s me. I’m Linda.”

  “Yes,” I said, still not sure where to go with this. “Actually, the Linda I was looking for was supposed to be a bit . . . younger.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t oblige you there. I would if I could. I am the only Linda Harding in Midway. Perhaps I could be of assistance. You can tell me more over some hot cocoa. Please come inside.”

  “No, I’ve taken enough of your time.”

  “Time is all I have,” she said. “At least what’s left of it. An
d, truthfully, I’m a bit lonely today. I’m sure a fine-looking man like you doesn’t know what that feels like, but please, come in. I insist.”

  She looked at me with such eagerness that I couldn’t refuse. Especially someone lonely. “Sure, I have a few minutes,” I finally said.

  She clapped her hands with delight. “Wonderful.”

  I stepped inside. The home’s interior was outdated but immaculate and smelled of menthol and lavender. The floor was carpeted in vibrant blue shag and the walls were baby-blue with bright white gold leaf on the wainscoting.

  All around the house were pictures—framed photographs of families and youth, presumably her children and grandchildren.

  “When you rang I was about to put some popovers in the oven. I love a good popover, don’t you? Especially with a little marmalade. Now I have someone to share them with. Just shut the door behind you.” She lightly waddled as she pushed her walker to her kitchen. “Have a seat at the table while I make us some cocoa. I like mine extra chocolaty—how about you?”

  “However you make it is fine,” I said.

  “Fine, fine.” She was gone for nearly ten minutes while I sat there looking over her dining room. There were more photographs—some, I presumed, of my hostess in her youth.

  She came back without her walker, hunched over and carrying two steaming mugs. “It’s a little hot.” She set them both down on the table and sat down across from me. “I haven’t seen you before. Are you new to Midway?”

  “I’m not from here. I’m from Florida.”

  “Oh, yes. I went to Florida once. My parents took me when I was a little girl. I saw the Okefenokee swamp. Never forgot that. Those alligators were something. They were feeding them chickens. No alligators in Utah. Maybe in the Hogle Zoo, but not running around. It’s too cold. I guess the cold’s good for something.”

  “It’s definitely cold.”

  “Don’t let that be a deterrent to moving here, if that’s your inclination. The weather may be cold but the people are warm. Most of them, anyway. Here in Midway, we like to look after each other. The boy across the street comes and shovels and salts my driveway whenever it snows . . .”