"No new precinct. We had several detectives and higher ups retire this year. They always leave just before the holidays. So I'm stuck doing double and triple duty." He motioned to the corn in my hand. "Is the corn good?"
"Hmm, not sure. I can't taste it underneath the slabs of parmesan butter. But I'm sure it's good and sweet and nutritious beneath all the fat."
"You've talked me into it." He approached the booth. Instantly, the two young girls taking orders had a tussle for space at the counter to help their newest customer. In the end, they compromised and one took the order while the other took the money. While he was busy ordering his corn, I took a few more bites of mine, certain that there was no way to make nibbling a greasy cob of corn look appealing or ladylike.
Jackson opted for a spicy chili powder mix over layers of butter. He took a bite and swallowed. "You're right. It's hard to tell there's corn underneath all the toppings."
"I really consider it more the serving vessel for the butter and cheese."
We decided to walk through the festivities with our mobile lunches. We caught plenty of stares and curious glances as we strolled through. Jackson was always seemingly oblivious to the amount of attention he attracted. I, on the other hand, was acutely aware of it.
"Working on anything exciting for the paper?" he asked.
"Yes, well, the Junction Times will be covering the arms deal in the Middle East and the terrible flu epidemic in Asia."
He glanced over at me with a skeptical brow.
"Yes, I'm kidding. Those are the topics I see when I'm deep asleep and having journalistic dreams. This week, I'm covering the local production of A Christmas Carol."
He shook his head. "What a waste of your talent."
"Thank you. What about you? If you're covering for a lot of other people, you must be brow high in interesting cases. Anything you might need assistance with? I happen to know a nosy reporter and amateur sleuth that would love to be pulled from her current assignment."
"You'd be way more helpful than some of the rookies I'm working with, Bluebird. But I'm afraid you'll have to hang out with Ebenezer Scrooge this week."
"That's depressing. But I suppose it's for the best. My mom is in town for the holidays."
"Really? Mom Taylor is here. Cool."
"Yeah, cool," I repeated with far less enthusiasm.
We stopped at a cart selling hot cider. Jackson bought us each a cup. I dropped my mostly chiseled ear of corn into the trash can and took hold of the cider. I took a sip. The warm, comforting aroma of clove and cinnamon curled through the steam evaporating off the cup.
I blew on the drink for it too cool. It would be tragic to burn my taste buds before sitting down to one of Emily's delicious dinners.
"What's wrong with the mom visit? Too much unwanted advice? I know that half the time I spend with my mom, she's doling out advice on every aspect of my life." He took a sip of cider. "Even what kind of toothpaste I should be using."
"Yes, there's never any shortage of mom advice when she's around, but that's not it. She showed up with—get this—a new boyfriend."
"Cool," he said again.
"Is that going to be your default response for this conversation because, as you can tell, I'm not finding it all that cool." I sipped some cider. It was tangy and spicy.
"Why are you upset? Don't you want her to be happy?"
I looked up at him. He instantly read my expression. He was just a little too good at knowing what I was thinking. I brushed it off as a skill learned from being a detective and not from him knowing me too well already.
"You're mad because you think this guy is trying to replace your dad."
"Hello, Detective Jackson," two women said in sing-song voices as they strolled past in their Victorian dresses and bonnets.
"Ladies," he bowed his head and returned to our conversation. "Did I nail it?" he asked cockily.
"Fine. Yes. You nailed it. But don't let it go to your head. What's worse is I feel so childish about it all." For the first time since I'd learned about the boyfriend my throat tightened and I was blinking back tears. Jackson noticed. Naturally.
"Bluebird," he said quietly and in a tone that melted my heart a bit. It also made a tear break free. I wiped it quickly away.
"I was really close with my dad. My brother and my two sisters weren't into sports like me. Dad took me to all the practices. He came to every one of my softball and soccer games. Afterward, he'd take me out for pizza and he'd go over all the things I did right and wrong. We spent a lot of time together. I even helped him with his plumbing business every summer."
"Sunni, that's why he's irreplaceable. Your mom having a new friend has nothing to do with replacing your dad. It's just helping her live the rest of her life."
I stared up at him. "Why do you have to sound so reasonable? It makes me feel even more silly about this minor selfish breakdown."
He turned and dropped his arm around my shoulder. "Minor breakdowns are no big deal. Everyone needs one now and then." His phone beeped and he glanced at it. "I've got to head back to the station. Are you interested in going to the play tomorrow night?"
"You mean us? Together?"
"No, I thought we could each bring dates and meet up. Yes, you and me, together. Preferably sitting next to each other if that's all right."
I knuckled him lightly on the side. It was rock hard, of course. "I'd like that. My family will probably be around too, so be warned you may have to meet my mom."
"Looking forward to it. Where are you off to now?"
"Like you," I said. "Back to work. I've got a date with Ebenezer Scrooge."
"I'll pick you up at your place tomorrow at six," he said as he walked away.
It seemed my day was looking up.
Chapter 7
There was just enough constructive chaos under the theater tent to make me stay out of the way and observe. Sometimes I gathered more information just by watching from the sidelines. Scottie had pointed out a few of the key players and mentioned they'd have time for interviews shortly before she hurried off to take care of a technical problem with the sound system.
I sat on one of the folding chairs set up for tomorrow night's performance. I pulled out my notebook, planning to write out some questions, but found my thoughts drifting right along toward Jackson. It would be our first proper public outing together. In fact, most of the town would be sitting under the same tent. There were sure to be scrutinizing looks and secret gossipy texts, but I could handle it. Hopefully.
"What on earth took you so long, Tim?" The snippy forty-something man had a sharp, arrogant chin with a deep cleft. His auburn hair was parted to the side and combed with some kind of gel product. He looked a little too clean shaven and not quite grizzled enough to play the part of Scrooge, but Scottie had pointed him out as the leading man, Evan Weezer.
The tall, thin thirty-something man he'd called Tim had a thin mouth that disappeared completely as Mr. Weezer berated him for taking so long to deliver a bottle of water.
Weezer held out his hand. "Where's my change?"
Tim dug into the pocket of his coat and fished out what appeared to be a quarter. He placed it on Weezer's palm. With the way he inspected the coin before sticking it into his own pocket, I half expected Weezer to bite down on it to make sure it was real. It seemed the man might have been appropriately cast into the role of Scrooge. The similarities between the actor and infamous character continued when Tim, an apparent employee of Weezer's, hesitantly asked for a favor.
"Mr. Weezer," Tim said rubbing his hands together, only not from the cold weather. "Tim Junior is playing his first game today on the traveling soccer team. I promised him I'd be there to watch. If I could leave the office two hours early today—"
"Two hours!" Weezer barked as if the man had asked him for a month long vacation. "You haven't finished the flyers for the open house, and I need you to make some cold calls to prospective clients. Two hours is out of the question. You can leave twenty
minutes early, and I consider that to be generous." Weezer straightened his collar with an imperious chin lift.
Tim's face grew stiff. I couldn't tell if it was anger or more fear. "But I'll miss the game."
"It's a silly soccer game. How will you pay for Timmy's soccer uniform if you're out of a job?" With that, he turned sharply on his heels to let Tim know the conversation had ended. Weezer's skewering gaze landed on me. I glanced quickly away pretending to be interested in the set decorations on stage.
"You're the reporter," Weezer said with some degree of civility. "I'm ready for my interview. But I don't have much time. I'm the lead actor."
It took me a second to gather myself. I got up from the chair. "Fine, yes, that's great. Should we talk here or do you prefer somewhere else?"
"I have my own trailer behind the tent, of course," he added. Apparently, the man considered himself to be a mega movie star. "But to save time, we can just talk here."
I put out my hand. "Sunni Taylor from the Junction Times. Thank you for taking the time to talk with me."
As he shook my hand, he used his free hand to pull out a stack of fancy gold leaf business cards. "Here you go. And extras to give family and friends. I'm the top selling agent in the state, and I'd be happy to list your home. Are you interested in selling?" No wonder he was the top seller. He'd managed to flip the interview right into a realty sales pitch before I got out one question.
"I'm not looking to sell anytime soon." I thought about the inn in all its unfinished, crumbling glory as the subject of an open house flyer. It made me smile. I placed the cards in my pocket. "Thank you, though. If I know someone looking to sell, I now have a recommendation." I patted my pocket.
He rubbed his clean shaven chin. A cleft was normally appealing in a chin, but his made him look mean. It might have been because his chin was exceptionally pointed. Or perhaps it was my early assessment of his character after watching him with Tim.
"Sunni Taylor?" he said as a question. "Are you the woman who is trying to bring back that old wreck, the Cider Ridge Inn?" His snide tone and words left no room for misinterpretation. He thought the renovation was a waste of time but then he would. He only saw dollar signs when he looked at properties.
"Why yes," I said with forced politeness. "I am that Sunni Taylor."
He clucked his tongue loudly. "Such a shame. That stretch of land where the inn and those old farmhouses sit are a developers' dream purchase."
I was alarmed at how quickly I could wholly and utterly dislike someone. How did such an arrogant man make so many real estate deals? No doubt his ruthless character had more to do with his success than being a good salesperson.
"Those old farmhouses belong to my sisters. The property belonged to my mother's family. Maybe that's a good thing. I can't think of anything more horrible than having that picturesque piece of land crowded with cookie cutter tract homes."
His mouth tightened. It seemed Mr. Weezer wasn't used to being contradicted. I worried briefly that I'd just lost a key interview for my article. If I had, it was worth it.
"Anyhow," he huffed, "ask your questions, then I'll tell you the information I want listed in the article."
I stared down at my notebook. He had information for the article. Could it be that the information would be all about his business and nothing about the play, I thought wryly. Well, Parker warned me that it was basically free advertising space for future marketing opportunities.
"Let's get started then. I want to make sure I've spelled your name correctly."
"It's on my card. Evan with an A and two Es in Weezer. Evan Weezer," he said succinctly.
"Right, Evan Weezer," I said as I wrote it. A laugh spurted from my mouth. I smiled up at him. "You're Evan Weezer and you're playing the part of Ebenezer." I chuckled again. He didn't seem to catch the irony. It seemed he wasn't a fan of humor.
"Yes, that's right," he said sternly.
I cleared my throat. "Right, well then. Is theater acting a hobby of yours? How much experience do you have on stage?"
"I run a very busy realty company. I hardly have time for a hobby. I did occasionally play parts in high school. In fact, the drama teacher said I was a natural."
I wrote down his comment, which helped me hide the smile that was working to break free. I collected myself and peered up at him. "Are you a fan of Dickens?"
His face contorted for a second. "Why would I be a fan of Dickens Realty? They do shoddy contract work. They consider themselves to be one of my fiercest competitors, but I assure you, they aren't."
"Actually," I said quietly. "I meant Charles Dickens. The author of the original A Christmas Carol."
"Of course I know who Charles Dickens is." He'd turned it around to make me feel like the foolish person even though he was clearly in the silly seat for his response.
He pulled out his phone, checked it and quickly dashed off a text. "I'm short on time. Please make note of this." He waved imperiously at my notebook. "Weezer Realty is number one in the county and the state. On average, we sell houses in less than two weeks time and at asking price. I have been voted top real estate agent three times in a row. Then use my card to make sure my contact information is prominent in the article."
I nodded. "I'll do that. Thank you for your time, Mr. Weezer." He walked off in a self-important manner.
Chapter 8
While I waited for my next interview, the rhythmic clip-clop of horse hooves pulled my attention to the street outside the tent. A shiny black open carriage rolled past behind two coffee brown horses. The horses' bridles were decorated with holly and red bows and the carriage offered riders lush velvet seating. I immediately recognized the driver of the carriage as Aurora, the woman who had sparked the morning's Disney princess debate.
"Did Evan Weezer Scrooge fill your head with all his delusions of grandeur?" the deep voice said from behind.
I turned to face a fifty-something man who was well over six feet tall and carried a great deal of weight around his middle. He hadn't spoken loudly, but his deep voice nearly billowed out the canvas walls of the tent. His giant hand shot forward and swallowed mine completely.
"Danny Danforth, a.k.a. Ghost of Christmas Present.” He pointed out his sweater and slacks. "I promise my costume will be more elaborate than this. This is my realty disguise."
"Sunni Taylor of the Junction Times. So, you're an agent too?"
He reached for his pocket. "Oops, I forgot my business cards in the car. Danforth Realty, formerly known as Danforth Realty, number one in the state."
He looked back toward where people were rehearsing lines on stage. Scottie was directing, all while handing out orders to the set crew. No one could do multitasking like a teacher, and Scottie was doing her profession proud this afternoon. Evan Weezer was nowhere in sight.
Danny turned back to me. I was already getting a crick in my neck from having to stare up at him.
"I suppose Weezer told you he was number one in the state." He laughed. "Of course he did. He'd have it tattooed on his forehead if he could. Well, don't let his bragging fool you. He didn't get there by any ethical means. Scammed and skimmed and stole my clients all the way to the top." Danny waved his large hand. "But that's not why you're here. What would you like to know and before you bother to ask, I'm six-foot-five and my feet are a size fifteen."
I dropped my gaze down to his shiny black loafers. They were big enough to sail a small family around a lake. "Wow, yes, they are big." I lifted my face up to him. "I suppose you need them to stay upright in the wind."
His thunderous laugh startled everyone in the tent, including me and I'd seen it coming. Just as the echo of his laughter subsided, screams filled the tent as a corner of the large structure broke free and fluttered wildly in the breeze. With one corner waving like a sail in a storm, the rest of the tent creaked and folded. The walls began to collapse around us. Danny and I both ran for the open corner. Frantic chaos followed. People inside and outside of the tent worked together t
o capture and control the loose corner.
Danny took command of the situation. "The corner stake is missing," he bellowed as his large fingers gripped the canvas. I stood between Evan's assistant Tim and the woman with puffy eyes I'd seen earlier setting up the Nativity manger. With six of us holding the canvas captive, we managed to keep the tent from collapsing in on itself as someone found an extra stake to pound into the corner. Danny and two other members of the crew got the rogue corner secured. A round of applause followed for those of us who'd kept a full on calamity from taking place. We added in our own round of high-fives for flawless teamwork before dispersing.
Evan came out from a white trailer looking baffled by the commotion. "What's going on?" he asked.
Danny blew a raspberry from his lips. "Never you mind, Weezer. Go back to your prince's trailer and take a beauty nap or something. The rest of us have it under control."
A flush of angry red appeared from beneath Evan's collar and spread over his face. "If you're in control, then we're all in trouble, you worthless—"
Scottie's sharp clap stopped him from finishing his insult. "Now that the excitement is over, we need to start our rehearsal. I need the tent cleared of anyone who is not involved with the play. No previews or early peeks." Scottie smiled at me. "I'm sorry but that includes reporters. I'm sure there'll be time for some interviews early tomorrow."
"No problem." I only had a little information, but something told me it wouldn't matter too much. I just needed to list all the important contact information for the cast members' businesses and the article would be considered a success. "I'll see you tomorrow." I headed back through the tent.
"Thanks for your help," Danny's baritone voice rumbled behind me.
I turned back and waved. "Glad I could help."
I headed through the front tent flaps just before they were sealed shut for rehearsal. The street had grown even more crowded. The festival was starting to really take off. I wasn't paying attention as I hopped off the sidewalk to cross to the other side and just missed a warm steamy pile of horse manure.
A Humbug Holiday Page 4
