Blame It on the Fruitcake Read Online Free PDF

Everything was in its place.
    I microwaved some bacon, scrambled some eggs, and didn’t look at my phone. I drank some OJ from the bottle, brewed some coffee, and refused to look at my phone. All was right with the world.
    Until I heard the knocking at my door.
    “Who is it?” I bellowed.
    I’d finished my breakfast, done the dishes, and was making big plans for the day. Big plans that included whatever TV had to offer.
    No answer, but more knocking. I sighed. Gonna be like that, is it?
    I went to the door and peeked out. An older heavyset woman stood there dressed in a light-blue Henley knit T-shirt, jeans, and colorful shoes. I didn’t know her, but she didn’t look hostile even though she had a heavy-looking purse slung over her shoulder and was carrying a plastic bag with what looked like something equally heavy in it.
    I unlocked the door and opened it about halfway.
    “Can I help you?” I didn’t really want to deal with her crap right now, but manners win every time.
    “Are you Sam McGuire?” She was studying me as if I had the answer to some problem that bothered her.
    “Yeah. What can I do for you?” Was she maybe my next-door neighbor, the elusive Ms. Watkins? The woman with the mailbox next to mine for five years, but who I’d never seen? Oh Lord, what crisis had arisen at her place that she wanted me to fix?
    “Can I come in? I need to talk to you.”
    Okay, I don’t usually let strangers into my place, but looking her over, I figured I had six or seven inches and maybe a hundred pounds, give or take, on her. Unless she was packing or had a bomb or something, I should be able to stop her if she got rough. Then I smiled. She didn’t look like the rough type. Plus she was wearing a wedding ring. If she meant me harm, she would’ve sent her husband, right?
    “What’s this about?” On the other hand, I wasn’t in the mood for some religious zealot’s come-to-Jesus speech. It was the Sunday before Christmas. Whatever she was selling, I wasn’t buying.
    “I can see this will be harder than I thought,” she muttered. She opened the plastic bag and took out a loaf-size something wrapped in tin foil. “This is for you.” She shoved it at me.
    I let her stand there holding it out. She was some kind of delusional wacko. I started to step back and close the door.
    She sighed, dropped the foil thing into the bag, pushed me aside, and walked into my loft. As I watched, openmouthed, she made a beeline for the kitchen. She looked around and dropped the plastic bag on the counter.
    “I could use some water,” she said. “I’m winded after walking up all those stairs. You might want to refrigerate this.” She was pointing to the bag and its mysterious contents. “I’m Joyce, by the way.”
    I just nodded. Who the hell was Joyce? Was I supposed to recognize her name? I shut the door, walked to the kitchen, and got her the glass of water.
    “Do I know you? Am I supposed to know you?” I asked as I handed it to her.
    She crooked her head to the side. Just like Brian, I realized.
    “Are you related to a guy named Brian?”
    She took a drink of water, let out a sigh, and nodded. “I’m his grandmother.”
    Oh shit. That meant she was Jay’s grandmother too. What in the hell was she doing here in my loft? As questions bloomed in my mind, my manners rose to the top of the chaos.
    “Oh, uh, hello. I really enjoy eating your fruitcake.”
    She smiled softly and muttered, “I know.” Then she turned and looked at the loft. “Can we sit down? I’m a little tired after all the stairs.”
    I gestured toward the central area where my recliner, sofa, and TV were. “Have a seat.” I was really freaked now. What the hell did she want with me?
    She sat in the recliner, wiggled around a little, and let out a sigh. “This is nice,” she said, stroking the arms.
    “So what do you need from me?” Rude, I know, but I couldn’t figure this out.
    “Sam, we have a problem. I thought it would be better to