by Etta Faire
Immediately after opening the door to the bed and breakfast, I was reminded why I was never going to get around to finishing my Christmas decorating.
From ceiling to floor, the house was decorated in deep red and gold accents. I was guessing this was Paula’s attempt at a “traditional Victorian Christmas.”
She’d spent all of last month advertising her bed and breakfast in the paper as a “Victorian getaway,” but it looked more like the kind of getaway unsuspecting couples did not return from.
Huge, potted poinsettias partially hid the standing Santa lurking behind them by the door who, at first glance, seemed more like a bearded, taxidermied toddler than anything merry and bright.
But the scariest part was the red runner rug that went from the door, across the foyer, and over to the living room, forming a gigantic tongue that ended at a four-foot, furry, goat-man Krampus with his own long tongue protruding out.
I turned from Justin to Rosalie and back again, but neither of them seemed the slightest bit fazed by the macabre decorations.
Paula, the owner, hustled over to us from the back room wearing a long, shiny, pale green gown with white lace trim that looked to be from the late 1800s. Her spiky short, bleach blonde hair was an odd contrast to her outfit.
“Welcome to my abode,” she said. “A Traditional Victorian Christmas getaway.”
I looked the woman over suspiciously. “You are really selling it, huh? Gonna churn us some butter?” I said, because we both knew this was merely a commercialized tactic to whet everyone’s whistle about staying in her Victorian. She definitely had the cutest Victorian in Landover.
But then, hers was probably made by actual architects and contractors, and not by her ex-husband’s great grandfather who apparently just wanted to prove that people will build anything if you pay them enough.
She held onto her skirt and moved it theatrically as she spoke. “Please look around. I hired a dance instructor to teach the foxtrot in the study if you’re interested. First lesson is free.” She pointed to a man in a top hat, coat, and tails who was talking in a thick Old English accent, encouraging people to join him “for a jolly-good jig, if you’re feeling bricky.”
A group of two men and two women dressed in old-fashioned costumes swished in from the back room. The women were in long, stiff Victorian dresses with their wigs in dangling curls, and the men had long jackets and top hats. One of the women pulled a pitch pipe from her muff and they all broke into a very enthusiastic version of We Wish You a Merry Christmas with voices so loud they echoed off the walls. A crowd quickly formed around them.
“We’ll all go caroling in about an hour with the professional carolers I hired and then we’ll come back for some figgy pudding because I know carolers won’t leave until they get some of that.” She chuckled. “This is all just a taste of the getaway package I’m offering locals. If you’re interested, sign up for more information right here,” Paula yelled over the lively song going on in the background. She pointed to a clipboard on the wall that Mrs. Nebitt was scribbling her name and email address into, on the second page because the first sheet was already full. No wonder the tickets were so cheap.
“But in the meantime, please enjoy some traditional Victorian-era treats,” Paula said while the carolers smiled and waved to guests.
“That might be the only thing we enjoy,” Rosalie said, just loud enough for me to hear as she headed toward the tables in the dining room where a buffet had been set up. “I am not singing in the cold, and I don’t want to sign up for more information about it.” She grinned from ear to ear as she strutted away, without even a limp.
I could tell this was not her kind of a party, which was probably why she was so amazingly happy about it. She could officially consider it a disaster. I would never admit it to Jackson, but I was actually okay with this. In fact, I loved it. It was different. Not so modern or commercial. Okay, it was still very commercial.
“Let’s learn the foxtrot,” I said to my boyfriend. “First lesson’s free.”
Justin squeezed my hand, and for a moment, I thought he was into it too, but no such luck.
“I’m going to check out the food first,” he said, following my boss, offering to get me a plate of anything that looked like it might have shrimp in it, or bacon, or both.
I gulped, my throat already tingling remembering the night with Agnes. A part of me no longer trusted potluck-looking dishes anymore. I wondered briefly if I could ask Justin to be my food taster without it seeming selfish this time of year.
Paula moved on to greet more guests in her outfit that looked straight out of the pages of Twas a Night Before Dignity and I looked around, picturing how things must’ve looked at my own house way back when.
“Oh my,” Jackson said, appearing as soon as they all left. He looked around at the decorations and the singers and curled his lip. “All is certainly scary and bright around here.”
I put my hands on my hips. “See?” I yelled over the carolers, then remembered to lower my voice so normal people would think I was one of them. “And you wanted a Victorian holiday. Victorian decorations are way too much like Halloween ones to be appropriate for Christmas.”
“Well, we do have a haunted house.” He shrugged. “I hate to admit it, but I guess you were right. You can commercialize anything, even traditional Victorian.”
“And you were also right,” I conceded. “Traditional isn’t as bad as I thought it would be, but mostly when it’s being commercialized and fun.”
He motioned toward Agnes, who was hovering by Gerald and the sheriff.
“Awww. Her true love,” I said, seeing them together for the first time. She looked happy. Her coloring was near perfect even though she was still recovering from our last channeling. Her cheeks were rosy. Her eyes bright.
I shook my head. “There’s no way that’s going to work out for our stalker ghost.”
I could tell by the way Gerald motioned wildly as he talked, he was getting nowhere with the sheriff. Caleb was one of those people who didn’t like extra work, and Gerald’s confession about the poisoning probably seemed a little too old to be worth the effort of taking seriously around Christmas.
Gerald’s dark blue sweater raised up and his belly peeked out as he waved his arms around, probably trying to explain chemistry to the man.
Oddly, the police still looked baffled by Agnes’s case.
But Agnes looked mesmerized. She gave me the thumb’s up and a mouthed, “thank-you.”
“Do you think I should warn Gerald that there’s a love-sick ghost following him around?” I asked my ex.
“How should I know?” he replied. “You know I don’t believe in meddling in other people’s affairs.”
I didn’t even bother rolling my eyes at the lying sack of a ghost.
The carolers went off to another room and I could hear normally again, just as Rosalie came up behind me with a plate full of scones. “There’s only dessert, but don’t get your hopes up. That doesn’t mean there’s anything good.” She giggled like she’d won a competition. “Isn’t that wonderful? You have your choice of strange fruit-infested lumps that I think might be various types of puddings. Or, scones.”
Justin brought me a plate of fruit-infested lumps. And I thought about the pizza I had in my freezer.
“Anyone want to ditch this Traditional Victorian Christmas and head back to my place? We could see if there’s a made-for-TV Christmas movie on right now?”
Jackson’s voice dripped with sarcasm as he faded into the background. “Only if it involves puppies, true love, and a ton of commercializing our feelings. But then, what are the odds of that?”
I ignored him, and turned back toward my living friends. “I also need your help,” I said to my boyfriend. “There’s this box in the basement full of one-hundred-year-old, butt-ugly, probably-haunted decorations…”
“Actually, there are three boxes,” my ex chimed in by my side.
I continued, loudly, mostly fo
r his benefit. “They’re for the very back of my gigantic freak tree so that no human eyes will ever glance at them. And we will face them inward just in case someone does check back there. But we will still call it a traditional Victorian Christmas.”
I waved good-bye to Agnes on our way out. I could already hear my sappy ex-husband sobbing a little, wondering out loud whether we had enough tinsel or if we needed to stop by the store on our way home.
Hi. Etta Faire here. This novella is based in Landover, a small lakefront town in Wisconsin where things are only calm and cozy on the surface. Paranormal activity lurks underneath.
But every book features a new cold-case murder mystery that can only be solved by channeling with the victim’s ghost to relive their murder, and go deeper into the secrets of Landover.
Want a free novella in this series? Just sign up for my list. You’ll also be first to know about sales and new releases. You can do that by clicking here.
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Here’s a look at the books in this series so far:
(All in KU)
Book One: Over My Dead Husband’s Body
The book that started it all. Carly inherits her ex-husband’s house when he dies, and realizes there’s no going back even if she wanted to. Living with ghosts, while solving their cold cases, is her new life.
Book Two: After the Suffragette’s Suicide
Suffragette and women’s rights leader, Betsy Hind, shot herself in 1906 during her 35th birthday party after her fiancé broke up with her. The only problem? Her ghost doesn’t remember it that way, and she’d like Carly’s help to figure out what really happened, and get retractions on history, pronto.
Book Three: Behind the Boater’s Cover-Up
Legend has it, in 1957, drinking caused a tragic accident to occur on Landover Lake after a sock-hop at the country club got out of hand. Or was it an accident? One of the boaters would like Carly’s help to find out the truth behind the legend, and the cover-up.
Book Four: Under the Cheater’s Table
In 1923, someone slit Feldman Winehouse’s throat while he was snowed in at his speakeasy with a group of friends. He’d like to know which one of his “friends” did him in and why.
Book Five: Inside the Executive’s Pocket
In 1978, a group of young executives went to play a trick on some of their friends at the drive-in outside the Dead Forest. Only one person made it out alive. Rumor has it something paranormal did them in, and Carly’s determined to find out.
Book Six: Within the Basement Walls
Coming soon.
Bonus Novella: And All the Devils Are Here
Get this novella free when you sign up for my list.
In 1936, Tilly Garner held a dinner party in honor of her late husband that featured a treasure hunt designed by one of their friends. But, the clues seem to uncover everyone’s darkest secrets and, by the end of the night, Tilly is dead. It’s up to Carly to relive the party and figure out what happened.
