by Etta Faire
A large stuffed Santa with an odd plastic head and a faraway “I-might-stab-you” stare sat on the microfilm cabinet next to a nutcracker with a very similar look, both half-wobbling on their glitter cotton snow like they were daring you to look away from them. Mrs. Nebitt held onto the wobbly Charles-Manson one and pulled open the cabinet.
I had to admit, my librarian friend was a wealth of knowledge. Most cases I came to her with, she already knew a thing or two about, having lived her entire 80-plus years here in Potter Grove. And in most cases, she was eager to chime in about them too, with notable, sketchy exceptions like the boater’s cover-up that I tried not to bring up anymore.
My mother always said, “Water under the bridge isn’t the kind you swim in.”
Mrs. Nebitt grabbed a box from the microfilm drawer and headed to the machine with it. “If I remember right, Miss Dundle had a bit of a dilemma in her life at the time of her death. Much like someone else I know, she was in love with two men. A divorcee to boot.”
Agnes appeared by my side, hands on her hips, eyebrow raised. Her dark red dress seemed to fade into the glittery snow around me, giving most of the decorations a blood-tinged look that none of them benefited from.
“Well, how do you like that?” Agnes said. “And I thought we girls stuck together.”
I didn’t let on to Mrs. Nebitt that the ghost was there. Instead, I coughed. “Thank you, Mrs. Nebitt, for setting up the microfilm for me. So you say Agnes was poisoned? Did the police ever figure out who did it?”
She paused to look up at the paper snowflakes dangling from the ceiling like she was thinking about things. “Horrific death, if I remember right. Poor thing was basically cooked from the inside out.”
Mrs. Nebitt could talk about murder like she was describing a good cheesecake. “Mmmm. I don’t think anyone was charged, even though the police suspected both of her boyfriends. But then, you know what they say about playing with fire in life.”
She waddled off and I thought the ghost beside me might chuck the killer-looking nutcracker at her.
“Sometimes I’m glad I died before I got bitter,” Agnes said as I brought up the article about her death.
I whispered under my breath, well aware I was the only one who could see Agnes right now. “Mrs. Nebitt’s just set in her ways. She was actually talking about me more than you. I had a similar dilemma twelve years ago. And Mrs. Nebitt was one of the people who tried to steer me in the right direction. I still crashed and burned.”
“Then you’re perfect to help me figure this out. One of these men deserves my haunting, you know?”
I wasn’t sure which one she was talking about.
But one thing we did know. Both her murderer and her soulmate had likely moved on with their lives and probably wouldn’t want a ghost from 1993 showing up all of the sudden.
Still, I refrained from telling her this (ghosts can be very delusional) and instead looked over the article on the screen in front of me.
Office Party Death Baffles Police
A Christmas celebration turned tragic when Agnes Dundle, 32, of Potter Grove, complained of stomach pains and diarrhea during the annual Christmas party at Dreamstreet Marketing. Coworkers later found her in the women’s bathroom unconscious.
A source close to the investigation said Dundle was in the middle of a “love triangle” at work, and was seen kissing both men during the course of the evening.
Early toxicology reports indicate Dundle had been poisoned by a “corrosive substance.” All known food and beverages at the party were examined and cleared, and office workers are cooperating with authorities.
The names of the men Dundle was involved with have been withheld and police have not indicated a suspect in the case.
Dundle died on route to the hospital and could not be resuscitated. She is survived by her mother and sister.
“She is survived by her mother and sister,” she repeated like that was a bad thing. “Even in death, I’m pathetic as hell. She didn’t have a husband or kids, but don’t worry, she’s survived by her mother, a cat, and a couple of plants she never watered enough. They made it; she didn’t.” Agnes paused to roll her eyes. “And diarrhea? Why’d they have to go and mention that?”
“You deserve to know what happened,” I said. “We’ll do a channeling tonight if you’re up for it.”
“Lady, I’ve been up for it since 1993.”
Chapter 3
And an Arthur in a Freak Tree
Later that evening, when I was just about to sit down on my couch and get comfy for my channeling, Justin called.
“Got two tickets to something called a Traditional Victorian Christmas at the B and B. I have no idea what that means. You interested? It’s this Saturday.”
I bit my lip. I wanted to go. I still had my best black dress that I caught on clearance with an extra 30 percent off coupon sitting lonely in the closet, begging for me to break it out already before it went out of fashion and died a lonely death, from embarrassing diarrhea or something.
But I could only think about my boss.
“Probably,” I said in almost a question. “That was nice of Paula to give you complimentary tickets.”
I was already suspicious of that woman, though. She didn’t give out too much for free in life.
“Regular tickets are only ten dollars, and I heard seventy-five percent of them are complimentary,” he replied.
“Oh dear Lord, we’re walking into a timeshare presentation,” I said. “She’s selling something.”
“Do you still want to go?”
“I’ve got nothing better to do this Saturday. So I guess.”
“Great. It starts at seven, so I should pick you up at… six thirty-ish. What do you think?”
“Let me check with Rosalie to see if she wants to go too.”
I thought I heard him take one of his dramatic inhales like he always did when he was disappointed with my answer. “Rosalie? What does your boss have to do with us going to a party?”
“She’s lonely this time of year, and she’ll hate it if we go to a party at Paula Henkel’s without her. Because she hates Paula Henkel.”
“That makes no sense.”
I knew it wasn’t going to, not to my practical boyfriend. But I couldn’t go to a party at a person’s house that I was supposed to hate as much as my friend without giving my friend the opportunity to go there and hate the party along with me.
I told Justin we’d likely be taking Rosalie too, then hung up. Laying back against the throw pillows on my couch, I looked up. I could only see gigantic branches spreading out over my ceiling like they were trying to suffocate the house, or worse, grab my hair again.
That freak tree needed to go. It took up a good part of my living room and I didn’t have nearly the patience or the decorations to make it work.
Plus, I hated to admit it, but my Scooby Doo plastic ornaments did look strange in a house that was otherwise done in its exact decor from 1901. I reminded myself that times had changed. And the crimson accents and patterned wallpaper that were modern back then now seemed to say, “Welcome to my funeral home” a little bit more than most people would be comfortable with this side of Halloween. And Scooby-Doo was a refreshing change.
I wondered briefly what I would solve first: Agnes’s murder or my Christmas decorating dilemma. I was in no hurry to do either because both meant extra work.
Jackson appeared by the tree, looking it over from top to bottom. “Interesting,” he said. “When do you start decorating?”
“It’s a little sparse still but I’m working on it.”
“If by sparse you mean tacky. You should just get the boxes of my family’s decorations from the basement. This will be the first year without them if you don’t.”
I smiled at the ghost. “So, you are sentimental. I thought you said Christmas should be devoid of laughter and sappy things like happiness.”
Jackson motioned toward the middle of the tree where I’d placed a
grinning Shaggy with a bag of Scooby snacks. “I merely said modern Christmases were tacky because they commercialized and manufactured joy.”
“At least none of my commercialized ornaments look like they might behead each other.”
“I wonder what Mrs. Harpton would say about it. There has to be something in the house agreement that requires Christmas trees to have proper ornaments. I should ask her. Maybe write her a little note…” His voice rose at the end like that was some sort of a threat.
“You wouldn’t,” I said.
His smile said it all.
When I first inherited Gate House, Jackson’s lawyer had me sign and initial every page of a house agreement that was a little bit thicker than the Bible. It basically said I couldn’t change a thing in the house. I couldn’t redecorate or sell even one antique to pay off an electric bill or two.
But the agreement was even worse than that. If I didn’t follow the rules, down to the timing of putting away dishes and feeding Rex, the house would sometimes “punish me.” It was just an all-night shaking, but it was still very annoying, and something I tried to avoid.
And somehow, the housekeeper monitored it all when she came in on Thursdays and Sundays to inspect the place and clean it. With her thick, black dress and severely parted hair, Mrs. Harpton looked like she’d clawed her way out of a Victorian casket, except without the sparkling “I made it” personality you’d expect from a casket survivor.
And now my ex was threatening to tattle on me about the decorations to that woman.
“I don’t care,” I said, even though we both knew I did. Instead, I decided to concentrate on my channeling. I relaxed into the couch cushions, and tried to get ready to be cooked from the inside out.
When I did channelings, I didn’t like to go into them with any preconceived notions, but this wasn’t going to be my first poisoning so I kind of had an idea of what to expect. Not too many people can say they’ve lived through a few deaths, but when you channel with ghosts, death comes with the territory.
Agnes appeared next to me. Her coloring was vivid, probably a good indication she was strong enough to channel with. I could tell her dress was made from a soft, red velvet, kind of like the outfit you’d expect a “Mrs. Claus” to wear in a 90s porno. It hugged every curve of her body and ended with a plunging neckline that showed off her cleavage. Her blonde hair seemed to accentuate it even further, framing her neckline with frizzed-out soft curls.
“Ready?” she asked.
“For explosive diarrhea? Who isn’t?”
Chapter 4
Single Bells
Closing my eyes, I thought about nothing, a blank wall, blank white space, the soft clicking of my clock.
I smelled her entering first, which was strange. Her perfume was overpowering and I swallowed the urge to sneeze more than once as our energies merged into one.
It wasn’t long before I noticed the ticking of my clock had morphed into Jingle Bell Rock along with light laughter. A gruff, kind of slurry, male voice belted out sales figures. A toast to sales, of all things.
“And at just under seven figures for 1993, a special thanks to Agnes Dundle, once again this year’s top sales rep. Also notable, Donovan Schumer for having the best marketing team known to mankind, and Kelly Loren for her winning design on the kayak promotion. But bonus checks to all and to all a good night. Merry Christmas.”
“You can open your eyes now,” she said to me in our now-combined conscience.
A group of about twenty people raised their red plastic cups around what looked like a large, beige office area.
“Here, here,” a few people said.
“I’ll drink to that.”
“You’ll drink to anything.”
Dreamstreet was a larger business than I was expecting. The walled-off cubicle maze behind us seemed to span forever like a beige abyss. Green and red construction-paper-linked garlands decorated the outside walls of the maze, along with a couple of wreaths.
Folding tables with red plastic table cloths had been pushed up along the wall to create a party atmosphere. Punch bowls, champagne bottles, and casserole dishes sat where you’d expect computer monitors to be, along with a small Charlie Brown Christmas tree thrown in for good measure. There were only a couple chairs lined up along the wall, apparently too many chairs encouraged too much lounging.
The smell of some sort of taco meat wafted through the air, along with the smell of what was probably banana bread. I could tell Agnes wasn’t interested in food, though.
Most of Agnes’s coworkers were dressed differently than she was. Several women leaned against the wall sporting vests with colorful Christmas patterns over their white turtle necks and the men wore various holiday sweaters.
I suddenly felt the need to cover the short Santa dress we were wearing. But no such luck. Agnes didn’t feel the slightest breeze blowing up her hemline, and not even one of the daggers being thrown from the more conservatively dressed women in her office.
I talked to her. “Did I hear your boss just say you were the number one sales rep again this year?”
“Hank exaggerates. But yeah, I always got one of the best bonuses.”
And just like that, my suspect list widened. “You don’t think one of your coworkers was jealous of your success and did you in?”
I could tell by the silence she’d never thought of that. “I suppose they could have. They did think I was getting those checks because I was friendlier with Hank than they thought I should’ve been.”
“I wonder who was next in line for top sales, or who took over your clients.”
“That would probably have been Nancy. If I remember right, she helped me a little in the bathroom when I was sick.”
“I bet,” I said, already suspicious of the woman. I remembered back to the newspaper article about Agnes’s death. In it, it said coworkers hadn’t found Agnes until she was unconscious in the bathroom. And now, Agnes was telling me Nancy helped her in there long before that stage.
I was also suspicious about Nancy because the more channelings I did, the better I was getting at knowing human behavior and what made certain murderers tick. Quite a few of them seemed to relish watching their victims suffer. Nancy could have been helping in the bathroom because she wanted to see her poison in action.
I was going to keep an eye on everyone, though.
The man in the light blue suit who toasted sales, and that I was guessing was Agnes’s boss, strolled over to us. He swung an arm as he walked, with the kind of swagger that looked straight out of a Burt Reynolds movie, if Burt had ever played a drunk guy with a strange walk.
He smoothed down his bushy mustache as he made his way over, his eyes fixed on Agnes’s cleavage.
“Agnes,” he said when he finally reached our boobs. “Congratulations on another fine year of sales.” His breath smelled like straight alcohol as he took another swig of whatever was in his cup. He carried a bottle of champagne in the other hand and he added some to Agnes’s drink without asking.
He set his empty cup along the potluck table even though the trash was just below it. Placing his hand on the small of Agnes’s back, he whispered in her ear. “Got you a little something extra this year. I think you’ll like it. It’s shimmery and expensive. Meet me in my office in ten minutes and I’ll give it to you.” He winked at her. “You broke up with the dweeb from accounting, right?”
I felt Agnes’s facial muscles drop. “I didn’t even know you knew about the dweeb from accounting. I mean Michael.”
His eyes wandered around Agnes’s body while he talked. He straightened out his tie, smoothing it along his protruding belly. It was still crooked. “You can’t work in a small office and not expect the world to know your business. And we all agree. You should break up with that grungy dweeb.”
“Look, Hank,” she said, pulling away from his hand. “If you’re not serious, then I’m not either. We talked about this. Did you sign your divorce papers?”
“You
know I’m as serious as they get. It’s just Helen’s not stable around Christmas. We’ll be signing the paperwork right after the holidays. Promise. She made the pot roast if you want to try it.” He whispered even lower. “I had her make that disgusting plum garlic sauce you love so much. It’s in the Tupperware hidden behind the roast.”
She didn’t answer him and he shot her an annoyed look. “Honestly, babe. You’re one to talk. You told your friend in the VP department you were breaking up with Michael yesterday.”
“He’s unstable around Christmas,” she retorted. “And I don’t like you knowing my business. Stop talking about me behind my back. This isn’t middle school.”
Agnes talked to me in her head. “He and his wife were in the middle of a divorce. But I was starting to think they weren’t really.”
“I can see why,” I said. “Most women don’t make roasts for their soon-to-be ex-husbands to take to a potluck. Unless they’re planning to poison his girlfriend with a plum sauce.”
I was going to have to try to make a note of everything this woman ate and drank and who made it. Agnes was a little bit clueless about her murder, and so were the police. They may have had all the food tested after Agnes’s poisoning, but I didn’t trust those results. It was little wonder why the article in the newspaper said the police had been “baffled” by the case. It would’ve been more newsworthy if the police in Landover had confidently figured something out.
Hank pulled Agnes over to the mistletoe that was hanging along the doorway and pressed himself against her, spilling his drink a little. “They say it’s bad luck for an entire year if you don’t kiss when you’re under one of these,” he said, pointing up at the dangling greenery above our heads. Its white berries glimmered in the nearby florescent lights.
