Mischief and Mayhem

By L.E. Rico

Welcome to Mayhem, Minnesota, home of the Knitty Kitty, The Little Slice of Heaven Pie Shop, and O’Halloran’s Pub—owned by the four young women known as the Whiskey Sisters.

In the wake of her divorce, Jameson O’Halloran has gone man-vegan. And this is one diet she’s determined to stick with. Even when her long-lost ex-brother-in-law shows up looking like two scoops of double dutch dipped in chocolate… She’s not giving in. Been there and still wearing the messy T-shirt.

It’s been a decade since Scott Clarke left his family and his hometown, never to return. But when tragedy strikes, he finds himself dragged back to the land of gossip, judgment, and the one woman he absolutely, positively, without a doubt can never have. His brother’s ex is off-limits. He just needs to keep repeating that to himself until it sinks in.

Each book in the Whiskey Sisters series is STANDALONE:
* Blame it on the Bet
* Mischief and Mayhem
* Mistletoe in Mayhem Boxed Set

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Jul 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781640635906

Book preview

For Raymond—for all the laughs, and the tears, and the love. For all the years I was blessed to have you in my life. What I wouldn’t give for a little more time. Thank you, my dearest friend. I miss you more than there are words to express.

Prologue

The three girls peered down at the baby bundled in their mother’s arms. She looked up at them with huge blue eyes, yawned, and fell back to sleep, as if her older sisters were too dull to bother with.

Go on now, their mother shooed them. Little Bailey’s had a big day, what with her christening and all. Why don’t you go play with the other children? Your father has some games set up over by the jukebox.

The girls drifted away and into the chattering crowd of partygoers. The pub was closed for this private family occasion, though most of the town seemed to be there anyway.

Henny grabbed Walker’s little hand and pulled the toddler along. Come on, James, she said over her shoulder.

They made a point of circling the giant cake in the middle of the room that read God Bless You, Bailey! in pink icing atop the fluffy white peaks of whipped cream. They knew already that it would be a yellow cake with lemon filling. Mama loved lemon.

But I don’t wanna play, Jameson complained as her older sister led them away toward the Twister tournament already in progress. I’ll get my new dress dirty!

Jameson was extremely proud of her new dress. It was a pale green color that hung down past her knees in a flowing skirt that billowed whenever she spun around. She’d wanted a pink dress, like Henny had, but her mother was adamant that redheads should never wear pink.

Suit yourself, her older sister said with a shrug before disappearing into the sea of adult legs.

She heard it then. Someone had put Mama’s favorite song on the jukebox. The one that she sang along to on the radio all the time. The one that the Achy Breaky Heart guy sang.

Elaine, my love! her father called out across the pub floor. Come dance with your husband!

Mama handed the baby to Mrs. Clarke and made her way to where their father stood. And then he took her in his arms—as he often did—and gave her a gentle spin that made her throw her head back with laughter. Then he pulled her close, held her tight, and whispered into her ear as they danced to the song.

I could offer you a warm embrace…to make you feel my love.

I’m going to the Grand Canyon. Jameson looked up to find the Clarke boy standing next to her. My parents are taking us next week, before school starts. Have you ever been?

She shook her head. She’d never been anywhere farther than Duluth, and that suited her just fine. She loved Mayhem. Loved living on Main Street above the pub.

There are eighty-eight different species of mammals there, he was saying. And fifty-eight kinds of reptiles.

What’s a reptile? she asked.

Like snakes and frogs.

The little girl wrinkled her nose in disgust. Ewwww. I don’t like repfiles, she declared.

"Reptiles, silly," he corrected her. But he wasn’t a teaser like his brother, Win. Scott smiled at her, and she saw he was missing one of his front teeth.

Rep-tiles, she repeated slowly, and he grinned his approval. At seven, Jameson didn’t really like boys much. They tended to be mean and gross. Henny once told her that all boys carried cooties. But Scotty was different.

Her parents danced on, oblivious to the dozens of people milling around them.

I like your hair, Scotty commented. It’s like the color of pennies.

She hated her hair, praying each night that she’d awaken the next morning with a head of golden curls like Henny or the black/brown waves that framed Walker’s tiny face.

Thank you, she said shyly. She’d never had a boy pay this much attention to her.

I’m going to go all over the world one day, he proclaimed proudly. Do you want to come? I need someone to read the maps while I steer the ship or fly the plane.

Her green eyes grew large in her excitement, but she stopped short, feeling the swell of disappointment in her belly.

I don’t know how to read a map, she confessed sadly.

Scotty waved a hand at her. Ah, that’s okay. I’ll teach ya. My dad taught me and my brother.

Is he coming, too? she asked, suddenly alarmed at the possibility that nasty Win Clarke, Jr. might join them on this new adventure they were planning.

"Who, my brother? No. He’s a pain. I’m not taking him anywhere."

She breathed a sigh of relief.

O-okay, she agreed in a whisper.

He was beaming now. Good. That’s really good. And maybe we can get married sometime, too.

A triumphant cry went up in the corner as the entire Twister team collapsed into a writhing pile of squealing children. But Jameson didn’t notice them. Nor did she notice when her father rested his chin atop her mother’s head as he rocked her gently in his embrace. She was much too happy about this new development.

But let’s keep it a secret for now, okay? Scotty asked.

She nodded and felt his hand reach out for hers. His touch sparked warm tingles the likes of which she’d never experienced. She clung tight and hummed Mama’s favorite song, making a silent vow to never tell another soul about her secret engagement.

To make you feel my love.

Chapter One

Jameson

My first clue that something is wrong—very, very wrong—is the way that Jackson is howling. It’s gone way beyond his usual whiney, grumpy hungry cries. This is terror. Desperation. And it sends my heart beating in a frenzied rhythm in my chest as I race through my father-in-law’s house searching for my child. When I find him, I stop in my tracks, blood running cold by the sight in front of me.

Jackson is holding onto the rail of his playpen, jumping up and down. Now that he’s laid eyes on me, he’s screeching for me.

Maaaamaaaaa! Maaaaammaaaaa! Goppppppa, Maaaamaaaa!

It’s okay, baby! It’s okay, I yell over his hysterics as I’m jolted back into action. In an instant, I’m on my knees on the carpet, trying to roll my father-in-law over onto his back. Big Win isn’t called Big Win for nothing. It takes a substantial effort, but I’m finally able to flip him. I put my ear to his chest and hear the faintest trace of a beat. Hang on, Jackson. Goppa is going to be okay, I coo to my toddler at the same time I fish into my pocket for the cell phone.

Siri, call nine-one-one on speaker, I command and set it on the floor next to me as I loosen Win’s collar, form a fist with my right hand, and lay my left hand over it.

Nine-one-one. What is the nature of your emergency? A tinny male voice spits up at me from the floor. I lean over Win’s chest, finding his heart and placing my hands directly above it.

My father-in-law is non-responsive on the floor of his home. His pulse is faint and thready. My name is Jameson Clarke. I’m an RN, and I’m beginning CPR. We’re at two-twenty-two Masthead Drive in Mayhem.

One, two, three, four, five…

An ambulance is on the way, Miss Clarke. I’m going to stay on the line…

Fine, I rasp, but don’t expect me to talk to you. I’m counting…

Eight, nine, ten, eleven…

That’s all right. EMTs are about four minutes out.

Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…

Ms. Clarke? I hear the baby crying. Is the baby all right? Should we be prepared to treat the baby on site?

No, he’s just scared…

Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one…

I count in my head. I pray.

Twenty-nine, thirty…

I breathe for him.

One, two, three, four, five…

I count again.

This process repeats three more times before I hear the wail of the sirens. They just barely outdo the wails of my child. The wails that rip through my head and my heart, even as I count.

By the time I calm my hysterical son and drop him off with my sister, Hennessy, they’ve already got Big Win in the ICU.

When I arrive, I see my ex-husband, Win, standing there at his father’s bedside, looking confused and overwhelmed. But I’m not surprised—it’s a terrible thing, the first time you realize your father isn’t the indestructible hero you always believed him to be. When you look into his face—once so sure—only to see a tired old man looking back at you. For me, that terrible day was earlier this year when my father collapsed in his pub and never regained consciousness, even as my three sisters and I stood vigil at his hospital bed. For my ex-husband, that day is today.

As I approach, the doctor is saying that it might take a while for my former father-in-law to wake up. Or he might not wake up at all. Either way, everything is about to change—for our entire family. But it’s hard to concentrate on what the doctor is saying as the two of us stand there awkwardly, our eyes glued to Big Win’s large chest as it rises and falls under the blanket with each gentle whoosh of the ventilator.

Dr. Douglas notices our distraction. Win? Jameson? Are you two getting what I’m saying?

I look to my ex, who doesn’t appear to have heard a thing, before answering for the two of us.

Yes, Doctor Douglas. I think so. You’re telling us to be prepared for the worst, I say quietly. On impulse, I reach over and grab Win’s hand, giving it a firm squeeze.

Listen to me, Win, the doctor commands. Your father is one of the most stubborn old mules I’ve ever laid eyes on. Do not, for one second, underestimate his ability to fight his way back from this. I’m just telling you all the possible outcomes because I don’t want you to be blindsided by any of them.

Now he turns in my direction with, if I’m not mistaken, a little apprehension. Jameson, I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but Big Win named you one of his healthcare proxies. That means it’s possible you may need to make some difficult decisions. I know it’s a lot—especially having lost your own Pops not so long ago—but I know you can do it.

My face furrows in confusion. Win apparently has the same reaction, though decidedly less tactful.

What? he demands, pulling his hand from mine. "I’m his son. I’m the next of kin. If there are any decisions to make, I’ll be the one to make them, thank you very much," he informs us flatly.

I clear my throat and put a reassuring hand on Win’s arm. Dr. Douglas probably hasn’t heard that we’re…that you and I are… I stop for a moment to collect myself before trying one last time to spit out a coherent sentence. The doctor doesn’t know that we’ve finalized our divorce. I’m sure he’s just assumed we’d make those decisions together. No one’s trying to usurp your authority here, okay?

My voice is soft and calm, as if I’m trying to coax a woodland creature to eat from my hand. Despite the fact that our quickie divorce was amicable, lately it seems as if Win’s temper has gone into overdrive. Now, he harrumphs, but at least he doesn’t shake my hand away. I take that as a sign that I can continue.

It’s going to be okay, Win. I’ll be here with you as long as you need me.

His pale gray eyes look down into mine, and he’s all ice.

I don’t want you here for me, Jameson. I want you to leave. And where is our son? Did you pawn him off on one of your sisters again? Win hisses at me.

So much for soft and calm. I think it might be time to pull out a crossbow and shoot this particular woodland creature right between the eyes.

"Winston, I grit out, you do not get to speak to me that way. Not now, not ever. I’m here for you because I love your father and, whether you believe it or not, because I care very much for you. So stop acting like a jerk. Right. Now."

For a moment, he looks as if he’s going to spew some more vitriol, but one challenging eyebrow raise from me puts him in his place.

I’m sorry, James, he mutters, his face coloring.

I grab his hand again and squeeze it. I know this man better than anyone, and right now he’s masking his fear with anger.

Together, I reassure him once more. We’re in this together—for Big Win and for our son. I turn my attention back to Dr. Douglas, who’s been watching our exchange with some interest. Go on, Doctor.

The kindly older gentleman nods and continues. Well, I admit I’d heard something about the two of you separating, but I didn’t realize you’d finalized everything already. Regardless, Win, Jameson does indeed have a say in your father’s care as his secondary healthcare proxy.

Secondary means there’s someone else, I point out before Win can do it for me. Surely that makes Win the primary decision maker…

I feel Win stiffen next to me as Dr. Douglas shakes his head.

Afraid not, he says.

That’s about all my ex can take. He drops my hand so he can gesticulate.

Then who? he demands loudly, sounding more like a petulant child than a concerned son. In fact, our own toddler regularly shows more restraint than his father is, right at this second. Who could possibly trump me, his son?

"His other son," Dr. Douglas says coolly.

What. Did you. Just say? Win says in a slow, shocked whisper.

I’m riveted by this bizarre turn of events. The doctor couldn’t possibly mean…

Scott, Dr. Douglas confirms.

Holy crap.

Scott? Win roars so loudly that a nurse sticks her head around the curtain to make sure everything is okay. The doctor gives her a nod of assurance, and she disappears again.

That’s right, Win. Your brother, Scott, is the primary healthcare proxy, and Jameson is the secondary. Until he arrives, nothing happens here that doesn’t go through Jameson first.

Oh. This is bad. Really, really bad. Why on earth would Big Win put me in this position? I glance over at him in the hospital bed, chest rising and falling, rising and falling. I sigh and turn back to Win.

Look, I don’t know what your dad was thinking when he set things up this way, but you know he always has his reasons. So let’s just have a seat and figure some of this out, okay? I suppose the first thing we’ll need to do is find Scott. Where was he last? Lima, maybe? Nicaragua? I suppose the Project Peace Headquarters should be able to track him down…

Win is shaking his head. There’s no ‘we’ here, Jameson. You’re the proxy. You find him, he says coolly, picking up his briefcase and heading for the door. And good luck with that, by the way. My brother’s a runner. You’ll need to turn over every rock in every third world country to figure out which one he’s hiding under.

Oh, come on, Win! Please don’t be like that…

But it’s too late. He raises a hand and waves it without so much as a glance backward.

Looks like I’m on my own, I mutter, more to myself than anyone.

Jameson, Doc Douglas begins, "if there’s anything I know about you O’Halloran girls, it’s that you’re never on your own."

Chapter Two

Scott

My first clue that something is wrong—very, very wrong—is the way that Marta is yelling for me. It’s more than a hundred degrees in the town of Pochotillo, Mexico, and every stitch of every inch of my clothing is plastered to my sweaty body. I drive my shovel into the soft earth so it will stand on its own and turn toward the source of the ruckus. I pull my work gloves off, wipe my brow with the back of my right hand, and then use it as a visor against the blinding sunshine of southern Mexico.

I can hear her even before I see her. When the pick-up truck finally reaches our worksite, her head is hanging out the window, long black hair billowing behind her. How she can drive like that and yell at the same time without killing herself is beyond me.

I hold up my arms, palms toward the sky in a What’s up? gesture as she brings the beat-up old Chevy to an abrupt stop, sending a cloud of dust around us. It’s so thick, I can’t even see her as she gets out of the truck and comes toward me. I splutter and cough, pulling up my T-shirt to cover my mouth in a makeshift dust mask. When it finally settles, the small, curvy dynamo is standing right in front of me. And she looks worried.

That’s more than a little disconcerting, because Marta never looks worried. In fact, she’s just about the toughest woman I’ve ever met in all these years with Project Peace. And that’s saying a lot. Spending time in underdeveloped regions around South and Central America tends to toughen up even the most genteel soul. In the last six months, I’ve seen Marta dig a ditch, put new brakes on the truck, and help deliver a baby.

Señor Scott, you have a message, she informs me now in her thick accent. I speak Spanish, but Marta refuses to converse in anything but English until she’s fully fluent.

A message? How is that even possible? No one knows where I am, let alone how to get in touch with me.

From who?

Emmm… She searches for the word in English. The doctor.

What doctor? I ask, racking my brains to think of the various medical personnel I’ve worked with. I come up short.

"The doctor en… She pauses the Spanglish thought and furrows her brow, trying to get her mouth around the strange word. En Meenahota."

Huh?

"Meenahota!" she repeats, more confidently this time.

Meena… And then it clicks. Minnesota?

"Sí! Yes, yes! Meenahota!" she says with a look of triumph.

I have a message from a doctor in Minnesota, I mutter to myself. What’s the message, Marta?

"Emm… You must to come home. To Meenahota. Por tú padre. He very much not well."

Oh crap.

My father is not well and I need to go to Minnesota? Do you mean he’s…sick?

Marta nods enthusiastically. Sick. Yes. Sick, she repeats.

An image of my dad’s face comes to mind, bringing with it the usual jumble of emotions—love, longing, frustration, anger—plus a new one, fear. I’ve spent nearly a third of my life avoiding going home to confront my father. But right here, right now, when faced with the prospect of never seeing him again…I realize just how much of a mess I’ve made. With this. With him. With everything. And if I don’t take action right now, I might never have the chance to make it right.

Okay, I say with a decisive nod. Okay, let’s go, Marta.

"Sí! Vamanos, Señor Scott."

…

I might be projecting here, but I’m pretty sure that’s reproach I see in the iguana’s eyes as it considers me from the middle seat. It’s as if it knows instinctively that I’m a bad son. Either that or he’s silently begging me to free him from his spikey collar and yellow support animal vest while his owner slumbers in the window seat. But I’m not too keen on the idea of this thing running around underfoot a la Snakes on a Plane, so he’s barking up the wrong tree. Or whatever it is that iguanas