by Etta Faire
It’s a Wonderful Death
A Ghosts of Landover Christmas Novella
Etta Faire
Copyright © 2018 by Etta Faire
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Website: http://ettafaire.com/
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 1
All I Want For Christmas is A Ton of Extra Work
I tossed another handful of tinsel onto the humungous balsam fir my boyfriend brought as a surprise early Christmas gift, then proceeded to take into my living room like my stunned expression had said, “Go ahead and do that.”
The silver strands landed in a sparkly lump right in the middle of what had to be the largest Christmas tree I’d ever owned.
At well over ten feet, it scraped the ceiling every time I accidentally bumped a branch while decorating it. I could tell by the way Justin’s eyes crinkled when he showed it to me, he was pretty proud of his surprise gift. But to me, this smelly thing just represented a ton of work. Work to decorate. Work to maintain. Work to take down and dispose of after the season was over. Work. Work. Work.
I probably wouldn’t have been nearly as resentful about it if I hadn’t spent the afternoon helping my boss put up an equally awful Christmas tree at the hippie store I worked at.
So when I came home, exhausted and ready to call it a night, and saw my bear of a boyfriend smiling on the veranda next to a freakishly large tree, joy was pretty far from my first thought. It was a good thing Justin was gorgeous. It’s easy to forgive someone tall with rugged shoulders who brings you stuff, even when the stuff is extra work.
“Can’t stay long. But I’ll help you get it set up. This wouldn’t fit in my apartment,” he’d said, stomping the snow from his boots, preparing to bring the freak tree inside. “Merry early Christmas.”
I kissed his cheek and tried to muster up a joyful expression as I unlocked the door and began my second shift of Christmas decorating. I’d hinted for earrings. I got twelve-feet of extra work tonight.
Christmas music streamed from my phone while Justin tugged and twisted the matted lump of colorful lights my mother had included in the box of ornaments she’d shipped to me. I knew the only reason she sent them was because I’d been in charge of putting the lights away last year at her house. And, I’d taken my usual “just toss it in the box” approach to the job. Now, they were my lights.
Turning to grab another handful of tinsel, I caught my hair on one of the branches. I tugged it loose from the tree’s clutches, leaving a chunk of blondish brown curls behind.
“Your days are numbered,” I muttered to the tree, finally realizing why people did a countdown to Christmas.
Jackson, my ghost of an ex-husband, appeared next to the tree and curled his lip at it too. When I first inherited Gate House from him after he died, it had been pretty strange to discover I’d also inherited his annoying ghost, strong mediumship abilities, a weird curse, and a ton of mysteries.
I barely noticed any of them anymore.
“Oh goody,” Jackson said in that snotty tone he used a lot. “I see it’s that time of year again when we all pretend that giving is better than receiving by buying tacky, commercialized decorations.”
I ignored him. As a strong medium, I was the only one who could see the ghosts around me, so I made an extra effort not to acknowledge them when other humans were around, especially the jerk-ghosts.
Justin gave up on the lights and instead looked back in my one box of Christmas decorations to see what else my mother had sent. He pulled out a bubble-wrapped PBS Arthur and a couple of Rudolphs.
My heart skipped when I saw them, and I set the tinsel down on the couch and rushed over. “My old Christmas ornaments from when I was a kid. I hope my Cabbage Patch Kid ones are in there too.”
“Why are each of these plastic ornaments wrapped like they’re good China?” Justin asked.
“My mother has one way of doing things in life. Her way.”
Justin turned his attention back toward the tree that was still hanging kind of crooked and bare. “This might be a two-day job,” he finally admitted. “With unwrapping these ornaments being a full day in itself.”
“And we might need more decorations,” I said.
“I’ll see what I can find. I’ll definitely get new lights and maybe some more tinsel. You like the strand kind, right?”
“Oh yes. Get more tinsel,” my ex chimed in. “Because silver cobwebs dangling from branches shows we love each other.” His coloring was strong today. I could see every hair in the thin man’s neatly combed beard and every thread on the ridiculous tweed jacket he always wore.
Jackson was naturally snotty and obnoxious, but he seemed particularly snotty today.
After my boyfriend left, and the coast was clear, I confronted the ghost. “Okay, what’s the matter?”
He hovered just above the hardwood floors as he made his way over to the dining room to pull one of his family’s old creepy scrapbooks from off the shelf in there. I knew physically moving things in this realm took a lot out of a ghost, especially a newer one like my ex, so he must really have been peeved to be doing it. That didn’t mean I was going to care, though.
After scanning the pages, he finally stopped and pointed. “This,” he said.
In the black-and-white photo he was pointing to, his great grandparents and their children all stood stiffly around a Christmas tree filled with the kind of decorations that must’ve given those children nightmares. What appeared to be bodiless, ivory-white baby heads dangled from branches next to Santas with pipe cleaner legs and strange shifty eyes.
No human in the photo was smiling, for obvious reasons.
Every year, for the entire seven years I was married to Jackson, that creepy photo was how our tree looked. He spent a good part of a day recreating each branch. But, I owned Gate House now. And those decorations weren’t going anywhere near my PBS Arthur.
“I’m not bringing those awful decorations out,” I said. “For one thing, you know there’s no way I’m going in that basement to get them.”
The basement had a concealed door and a lock for a reason. It also had an old running fridge I was never going to open and a couple of rocking chairs that faced the walls for explanations I would never figure out.
Jackson furrowed his brow and gave me the “rational dad tone” that I hated. “You need ornaments and these are the traditional Victorian decorations that go with this house. Anyone would be proud to display them.”
I pointed to his grandmother’s expression who seemed to be eyeing the tree suspiciously. “Then why is everyone so unhappy to be standing next to them?”
“That was back when people didn’t have to pretend to be merry and bright the whole Christmas season. They could be their true selves. So refreshing.”
My golden Labrador scurried down the stairs over to me, looking around and sniffing, probably to make sure Justin was no longer there. Rex didn’t always like my boyfriend, something I still didn’t understand too much. But when it came to that dog, his finickiness was the least of my confusion. Rex, like the housekeeper and the family lawyer that also se
emed to live at my house without really living, didn’t appear to age. He’d been Jackson’s pet when I married my ex 11 years ago, and that dog wasn’t a puppy even then.
He stared at the Christmas tree and barked, his ears up and at attention, and I thought maybe the tree was teetering. I looked in its direction, prepared to push us both out of the way if that awful thing was crashing down.
That’s when I felt it. Another presence was in the room that I couldn’t see. Female maybe.
“Who’s there?” I asked, my gaze darting from my fleur-de-lis wallpaper in the living room to the dark mahogany credenza at the back of the dining area.
“Agnes,” the ghost replied, clear as day. “Agnes Dundle”
“Who’s Agnes Dundle?” I asked my ex.
He shrugged.
I shot him a look. Jackson was supposed to keep track of the ghosts that needed my help. It was his job to vet them and make sure they all had appointments and good intentions.
My job was to do channelings with the apparitions in an effort to solve their murders and figure out the curse on the town so we could end it. Like my practical mother always said, “Without goals, life becomes directionless.”
“She’s obviously someone who came here on her own, traveling on your boyfriend probably. Who knows?” Jackson looked around. “Agnes, since we know you’re here, you might as well show yourself.”
A gorgeous blonde around 30 appeared in a tight, short, bright red Christmas dress with dangling snowflake earrings.
“Not exactly what I was expecting an Agnes Dundle to look like,” Jackson said, raising an eyebrow.
“Keep your creepy-old-manhood in check, please,” I reminded him. “I’ve got sage in the drawer.”
“Now, now, Carly doll. No need to do anything rash. You know I only have eyes for you,” he said then turned slowly toward our new guest. “Others can rent my eyes for a while, though.”
Needless to say, living with the man who used to cheat on me with strippers was a little strained. However, burning sage seemed to hurt ghosts enough to get them to leave, if only momentarily, so I always kept some in the drawer. But didn’t use it nearly as often as was necessary.
“What brings you here, Agnes?” he asked.
“I want you to help me figure out my murder, of course.” She turned to me and smiled. “I’ve heard you’re the best medium around. Strongest. Fastest. I only want the best.”
Jackson hovered around the apparition. “You know we get paid in secrets that will help us rid the town of the curses placed on it. What do you have to offer?”
She raised a shoulder. “Nothing. I guess I was hopin’ you took charity cases every once in a while, like a lot of people do around Christmas. The nice ones, they do.”
“We don’t,” Jackson said. “Christmas shouldn’t mean being nice and extra work.”
I thought about the huge tree sitting in my living room right now, and a jolt of guilt went up my spine. I hadn’t really been thankful for it. “What’s your story,” I asked.
“You are not serious,” Jackson said, crossing his arms to reveal those stupid leather elbow patches he knew I hated.
I ignored him and motioned for our guest to continue.
“I died in 1993 at my office Christmas party. I’m pretty sure I was poisoned.” She sat down on the couch in front of the box of ornaments. The cream-colored cushions depressed under her weight. “I’m also pretty sure it was one of my boyfriends…”
“One of your boyfriends?” my ex said, suddenly interested. “How many boyfriends did you have?”
“Just two. I was in the middle of a midlife crisis, or what I thought was a midlife crisis. I guess it was an end-of-life crisis now that I think about it, cause my life ended during the crisis. Anyhoo, I was trying to figure out who I liked better, my boss or my coworker. You know, the stable rich guy or the sweet up-and-comer.”
I did know. Twelve years ago, I picked my rich ex over Justin. And I still consider it the dumbest mistake of my life.
She crossed her legs, which were long and covered in what appeared to be black fishnet stockings. But just like the rest of the apparitions I’d ever encountered, her legs seemed to fade out at the end. No feet. I briefly wondered what kind of shoes went with this outfit.
“It was just a regular office party at Dreamstreet Marketing,” she began in a somewhat squeaky voice. “With secret Santas and mistletoe. Someone spiked the eggnog and there was also champagne. A couple of people got drunk. Like Hank. Handsy Hank, that’s what I called him, my boss. He wanted me to choose between him and Michael. I didn’t even know he knew about Michael. Then, Michael pulls me aside and tells me he wants me to choose too. Next thing I know, I’m being hauled away to the hospital. I guess I didn’t choose fast enough. I never recovered.”
“It does sound like a classic case of ‘if I can’t have her, no one can,’” I said.
She tugged on one of her permed, bleach blonde strands, twirling it around her pinkie as All I Want for Christmas is You played softly in the background. “I figure one of them’s my soulmate. The other one did me in. What do you think? Will you help me figure out who my soulmate is at Christmas?”
“What are you going to do when you find out?” I asked.
She shrugged. “It’d be nice to get a little justice,” she said. “Whoever killed me shouldn’t have gotten away with it, and I’m pretty sure that person did. But honestly, I really just want to know who I should’ve picked.”
Jackson faded into the wallpaper, allowing his voice to drift with him. “This sounds worse than one of those cheesy, made-for-TV, Christmas movies you used to make me watch when we were married where the kids played matchmaker by rescuing puppies, or something equally as sappy happened. Oh how I hated those things. Commercialized feelings.”
I shook my head at Agnes. “Don’t believe him. He’s lying. He always cried the loudest when the family got back together in time to throw silver cobwebs on their tree. Yes, I will take your case. I’m dying to know who you should have picked too.”
Chapter 2
Deck the halls with the bowels of horror
Mrs. Nebitt, the town librarian, handed me a long, flimsy box with the word “CHRISTMAS” scrawled across the front of it the next day before I even had a chance to say “good morning.” She pointed toward one of the tables in the periodicals section.
And reluctantly, I went, even though I could tell my day of escaping Christmas decorating by pretending I needed to do research at the library was not going to go as planned.
The box was long but light and whatever was in there seemed to scratch against the sides when I shifted my weight, like it was trying to claw its way to me.
The 80-year-old workaholic behind me could barely see over her own box as she waddled along, squinting in her coke bottle glasses. “Thank you so much for your help,” she said, like I’d offered.
I set my box down on the table and opened it. The smell of dust and 50-year-old cardboard took over my senses as sad, greenish brown tree limbs waved to me from their death bed.
“I lost the directions a long time ago,” Mrs. Nebitt said. “But just wing it. Longer branches on the bottom, shorter on the top. I’m quite certain you’ll figure it out.”
I pulled a limb from the box. Needles fell across the table with it.
“We’ll vacuum later,” she explained. I knew who she meant by we.
Because Christmas means work. And plenty of it. I tried to muster a joyful expression, but I think it came out more like I was smelling my own hardworking armpit sweat. “Have you heard of a woman named Agnes Dundle?” I asked. “I guess she was murdered in the early 90s at an office Christmas party.”
Mrs. Nebitt scrunched her pale wrinkles up and adjusted her glasses. “I think I remember something about that. Poison.”
She opened the box in front of her and pulled out a snow globe and some long fake garlands tied with the kind of faded bows you knew must’ve been red at some point in their l
ives.
“Why are you interested in a woman murdered in the 1990s?” she asked.
Everyone in Potter Grove knew I was a medium, but most people didn’t know I regularly hung out with ghosts or even helped them solve their cold cases. They just thought I liked to do seances for money every once in a while.
“I’m thinking about adding another chapter to the book I’m writing. The Ghosts of Landover.”
She gave me a skeptical once-over. “When we’re done here, I can help you with the microfilm.”
I separated the branches then began stabbing them into the holes of what looked like a long green chair leg while Mrs. Nebitt decked the rest of the library out.
“I was recently invited to a party at the bed and breakfast,” she said with a lilt in her voice that made me know she wanted me to be impressed. “Paula Henkel is selling tickets, but a few of us will be honored guests with complimentary ones. She’s calling it a Traditional Victorian Christmas. Now, doesn’t that sound lovely?”
I was just glad my ex wasn’t here to chime in on how lovely traditional Victorian Christmases were. “Congratulations on the freebie,” I said as I jabbed my green chair leg again. Needles fell across my boots. Paula Henkel was the owner of the bed and breakfast, and a natural enemy of my boss’s. We’d done some seances with her in the past, and none of them had gone well.
She went on. “I’m pretty sure as deputy of Potter Grove, Justin will receive a couple of complimentary tickets too. ”
I shrugged. “He hasn’t mentioned anything about it.”
When we were done, I took a step back to examine everything. The library kind of looked like a 1960s Christmas variety show had mated with a 80s horror flick.
Yellowing, spider-web-like “snow” had been spread across the smaller bookcases and cabinets with various faded elves and eerie-looking Santa villages. But the periodicals section was the eeriest.
