“I didn’t say Alan has a dog,” The Raven said, slowly enunciating her words. “I said, it’s Alan’s.”
It took a moment for what she was saying to sink in. Once it did, Lussi started to laugh. It was probably the pot, but it felt good to let it out. The Raven joined in, and soon they were both laughing so hard that they were coughing (which might have also had something to do with the pot). By the time they settled down, there were tears streaming down Lussi’s face. And also, presumably, eyeliner. Good thing she had a compact mirror in her handbag.
The Raven’s makeup did not run. Her eyeliner appeared to be tattooed on. Same with her eyebrows and God knew what else.
“You’re kidding about Alan,” Lussi said. “Right?”
“See you at the party,” The Raven said with a thin-lipped smile, leaving Lussi with a contact high and about a million questions.
CHAPTER NINE
“No. Freaking. Way.”
Lussi was in the break room, staring into the fridge as if she were gazing into the abyss. The door was open, “letting all the cold air out,” as her mother would have put it. Her mother would have understood, though, because an even greater sin had been committed.
Somebody had stolen her stollen.
The Christmas party was scheduled to start in less than an hour. After running out of time to grab her fruitcake for the editorial meeting, Lussi had decided to save it for the office party. She hadn’t drawn anyone’s name for the exchange, but it felt wrong to go empty-handed—especially since there was a gift waiting for her under the tree. She’d peeked Monday afternoon. The red-and-green striped box with her name on it didn’t look threatening. The idea that it was a prank had slowly subsided as the week had worn on. But now…
Lussi couldn’t imagine someone taking her fruitcake by accident. Trouble was, there were too many suspects. Not even Robert Urich could solve this mystery.
“Mind if I grab my lunch there, chief?” Sloppy Joe said, lumbering into the break room.
She held the fridge door open for him. “You haven’t seen a fruitcake around here, have you?” she asked. “It seems to have gotten up and walked away.”
“Lose your lunch, eh? I’ll tell you what.”
“What?”
“Huh?”
“You said, ‘I’ll tell you—’ ”
He closed the fridge. “I shouldn’t say anything, but…” He glanced around nervously. “You know who loved fruitcake?”
She shook her head.
“Mr. Blackwood,” he whispered.
She raised an eyebrow. “You think your new boss is a food snatcher.”
“Not Digby,” he said. He lowered his voice. “Xavier.”
“Sorry, I don’t think you’re understanding me. I put it in the fridge Monday. Mr. Blackwood died last week.”
As the microwave hummed to life, Sloppy Joe turned to her. “May I inquire about your views on life after death? More to the point…do you believe in ghosts?”
She’d long since ruled out any malice in Sloppy Joe’s warnings about the basement. How had she suspected this man of orchestrating or participating in a prank of any kind? She felt silly even thinking about it. He was earnest to a fault. That didn’t mean she was about to get into a serious metaphysical discussion with him. Especially not in the ninety seconds it took him to heat up his lasagna.
“I’ve never heard of a ghost that eats fruitcake,” Lussi said, sidestepping his question. “In fact, I’ve never heard of a ghost that eats anything. They don’t need to eat. They’re dead.”
“Did you see Ghostbusters? I took my grandkids. There was this fat green fella in the movie, ate all the hot dogs.” The man snort-laughed, and his jowls wiggled. “Then again, maybe Mr. Blackwood’s ghost is just messing with you. I’m not an expert on these things. I thought you might be, because…” He let the sentence trail off and stared at her awkwardly.
The microwave dinged.
“You better get that,” Lussi said. She turned on her heel, leaving Sloppy Joe to his lunch. “And to whoever stole my fruitcake,” she added under her breath, “I hope you have fun choking on it.”
CHAPTER TEN
Lussi sipped her punch alone at a fold-out card table in the lobby. She was having flashbacks of family Christmases past, when she’d been exiled with her sister to the kids’ table in the den. She hadn’t moved up to the adult table until she was fifteen, by which point she already had a learner’s permit and her first kiss. Turned out there was more to being an adult than driving and kissing, though. A lot more.
Lussi had a bad habit of arriving at parties too early, but at least she had the opportunity to “appreciate” the lobby’s complete transformation. Over the course of the week, a decorations committee had been decking the halls in multicolored garlands, tinsel, and Christmas lights recycled from previous years’ holiday displays. If the intention was to make everyone feel like they were suffocating to death with Christmas cheer, then the committee had succeeded.
The food wasn’t as substantial as Lussi had hoped for—crackers, cheese, peanut M&M’s—but food was never the point of a publishing party. It was all about the alcohol. Whoever had been in charge of making the punch this year had taken a light hand with the vodka. Still, it satisfied the basic requirements of hair of the dog. She took another sip. Her hangover was dissipating, soon to be traded for tomorrow’s.
One of her favorite Christmas records, Darlene Love’s “Baby Please Come Home,” played from a boom box in the corner of the room as the rest of the staff trickled in. You couldn’t even tell that the head of the company had just died. Maybe it was what Mr. Blackwood would have wanted? Lussi had a hard time believing that. It was the type of thing you tell yourself when your distant relative dies in a far, faraway land (Florida) but you have tickets to see David Bowie the day of the funeral. Hypothetically.
(Hey, it wasn’t like he toured the States that often.)
Lussi looked up hopefully, waiting for one of her colleagues to sit next to her, but everyone naturally gathered in their preset cliques. She had looked for Cal before coming downstairs so she’d have someone to talk to, but he was nowhere to be found. Maybe he had gone to lunch and gotten lost on his way back? Interns were unpredictable. They were either try-hards or total duds. She was worried Cal was the latter. He’d talked about Romancing the Stone for a solid hour while they sorted through manuscripts together.
“Some party,” Digby said, setting his Styrofoam plate down. The stubble was new. Was that a five o’clock shadow, or had he forgotten to shave this morning?
“It’s not too bad, as far as office parties go,” Lussi said.
He glanced around. “I used to work on Wall Street, you know. Before all this.”
“The book industry is, like, the total opposite of the financial industry, I’d bet.”
“No kidding. If this was a Wall Street party, there’d be a live DJ…an open bar…exotic dancers…”
“That doesn’t sound very Christmas-y.”
“It is if the dancers are wearing mistletoe pasties.”
She laughed. “Welcome to publishing.”
He raised his glass. “And welcome to the new kids’ table.”
* * *
—
Three cups of punch later, Lussi realized just how much vodka was really in it. Digby had gotten up to make the rounds, and she decided to do the same. She approached the friendliest-looking person in the room, an older woman with a hippie vibe.
“Delores in publicity and marketing,” the woman shouted over “Like a Virgin.” (Clearly whoever was manning the boom box had tired of Christmas music.) Delores was a longtime East Village resident who had been a theater major in college. She still acted when the bug bit her. “My partner just cast me as Death in his off-Broadway production of Death Takes a Drive in the Country. He’s half my age, a real artist. He’s got such a neat
aesthetic. Imagine Flannery O’Connor on cough medicine.” Lussi nodded, and said she’d like to see that sometime. She enjoyed a good train wreck.
Brian worked in production. He was also a fiddle player. He traveled to Virginia on the weekends to gig with an authentic Civil War–era band. Not a re-creation band, but a band that had been playing together since the Civil War. “There have been a few lineup changes since then,” he added.
“Like Kiss,” Lussi said.
He nodded. “Actually, we bring a similar energy. Except without all the fire and makeup and groupies.” He leaned close to her. She was afraid he was going to put her on the list for one of his shows, but instead he started to gush about Satan’s Lament. “A little birdie told me you worked on that. I can’t believe it. Did you meet Christopher Walken?”
“They don’t normally invite editors to film shoots.”
“Oh.” He shrugged. “Our books never get made into movies.”
“Let’s see if we can change that,” she said. She downed the last of her punch. “If you’ll excuse me…”
She refilled her drink. It was nice to know not everyone was a literary snob around here. It wouldn’t hurt her to let her guard down a little. Her coworkers had probably been standoffish all week since those were the vibes they’d been picking up from her.
A woman with a dozen bracelets on each wrist sidled up next to her at the punch bowl. “Rachael Van Way,” the woman said. “Designer.” She lived at the Dakota, the building where John Lennon was shot. The gothic apartment complex was where one of Lussi’s favorite movies, Rosemary’s Baby, was filmed. “You should come over sometime!” Rachael shouted over Prince’s “Little Red Corvette.” “I know the woman who lives in the Rosemary apartment. I can totally give you a tour.”
“I’ll bring my kitchen knife,” Lussi said, and Rachael snort-laughed, spilling red punch on the white tablecloth.
Lussi couldn’t keep track of every face and name, but one thing was for sure: her new coworkers were quirkier than she’d given them credit for. They weren’t just a bunch of stuffed shirts. She was even starting to like them a little bit. She’d let go of her anger over the missing fruitcake. Someone got hungry. That was all. Forgive and forget. Oma’s words. Lussi settled into a pleasant buzz. For the first time all week, she felt like she was starting to fit in. Everything looked like it might come together after all. And then The Raven had to go and ruin it all.
“Turn down the music and take a seat, everyone,” The Raven shouted. “It’s time for Secret Santa.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Lussi’s stomach clenched as she returned to the new kids’ table. Digby was already seated. She’d almost forgotten about the gift exchange.
“As you know, everyone was assigned a colleague to buy a gift for and told not to spend more than twenty-five dollars. We’ll open gifts one at a time, and each person will guess who bought their gift for them. There’s no extra reward for guessing correctly, but as we know, bragging rights are everything in publishing.” Everyone chuckled appreciatively—even Lussi.
Dracula’s Brides—whom Lussi still couldn’t identify by name—gathered the gifts from under the tree and began to hand them out. Bride #1 set a small box wrapped in bright red paper in front of Digby. It looked like somebody had used an entire roll of Scotch tape on it. Digby turned his gift over, then held it to his ear. He gave it a quick shake.
“Stop that,” Lussi said, reaching for the box before she realized what she was doing.
“Is there something breakable in here?” Digby asked, holding it out of Lussi’s reach. “If it’s from you, just tell me.”
“It’s supposed to be anonymous,” Lussi said.
“So is AA, but the first thing you do there is introduce yourself.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” she said. “But, no, it’s not from me. I just think it’s bad luck to shake presents. My mother told me that if you shook a present, it would change from something you wanted into a sweater. I never believed her, of course. But I never shook a present after that, either.”
“I wouldn’t mind a sweater,” Digby said, gleefully shaking the package with both hands. The box wasn’t large enough for a sweater. Maybe a sweater for a tiny dog, like the kind she saw the women near Grammercy Park carrying in their handbags.
Bride #2 dropped Lussi’s gift on the card table, the same box that had been sitting under the tree all week. Since the cardboard was printed with a striped holiday pattern, her Secret Santa hadn’t bothered wrapping it. The lid was held in place with a ribbon. The handwriting on the tag was finely printed. FOR: LUSSI. On the flipside, FROM: SANTA.
“Does everyone have a gift?” The Raven asked. Lussi scanned the room nervously, on the off chance that her Secret Santa had left someone else out on her account. Everyone had a gift, though.
“As is customary, we’ll start with our most tenured members and work our way to the virgins.” The Raven cast a cold look at Digby, as if to say, That would be you, you worthless corporate suit, and then let her glance travel to Lussi. And you, the editor who’s on a mission to destroy the legacy of this illustrious company.
* * *
—
Though the company was fairly small, it took about an hour to get to Lussi between all the oohing and ahhing and the guessing, which seemed to be the real fun for most people. Most of the presents were gag gifts that obviously spoke to some inside joke between the gifter and giftee. Delores cried when she unwrapped her rubber chicken, which was met with delighted applause. Brian was clearly touched by a sock full of $25 in quarters. Rachael couldn’t stop laughing at the can of Campbell’s tomato soup and the potato she received.
Digby’s present turned out not to be a sweater but a plastic bendable Gumby from Maureen, an ancient production editor. Digby looked up, amazed. “It’s just like the one I used to play with in the office when I was a boy.”
“It’s not just like it—it is it. I nicked it from you because you kept throwing it at my face,” Maureen said. Everyone laughed as Digby stared wondrously at the toy.
“Last but not least, Ms. Meyer,” The Raven said, a chill in her tone.
Lussi felt a lump growing in her throat. She’d been keeping track of who gifted what to whom. Every “Santa” had been accounted for. Suddenly, all the worry about it being a prank returned.
She removed the fat red bow and then carefully undid the ribbon. She paused with her hand on the lid. The room was silent; the tape had reached the end of Side A long ago, and nobody had flipped it.
Lussi lifted the lid. She gasped audibly.
It was the Percht from Mr. Blackwood’s office. It wasn’t in the best shape. Antiques never are. The torso would need to be replaced, obviously, as the animal pelt was mottled and peeling away. The paint needed to be stripped and reapplied to the wooden head. This could be a fun repair project. She felt charged up, raring to go. A warm feeling flooded her every sense, and—
“What is that thing?” Digby whispered, leaning over to peek in the box. His face was scrunched up in confusion.
She snapped back to focus. She’d been lost there for a moment. Her coworkers, at first silent, were now whispering amongst themselves. They were waiting for her to take her gift out and show it off.
“You don’t recognize it?” she asked Digby. He was the only one who could have given it to her. The only one with access to his father’s things.
He shook his head.
Lussi was stumped. It wasn’t a gift from Xavier Blackwood. That much she knew. No matter what Sloppy Joe said, Mr. Blackwood’s ghost was not haunting the building for the sole purpose of making her life difficult. Or for passing on his earthly possessions. The alternatives, though, were equally unpleasant: either the Percht was stolen from Mr. Blackwood’s office, or someone had pilfered it from the trash after his office was cleaned out.
The chatter in t
he room had quieted down. People wanted answers. “Come on, get on with it,” someone said. “The booze ain’t gonna drink itself.”
Lussi’s jaw tightened. This was precisely what she’d been worried about when she’d heard she had a gift under the tree. One of her coworkers had thought the Percht looked weird and creepy. They thought she was weird and creepy. It was only an accident of fate that she even knew what it was. Well, you know what? she thought. I’m not giving whoever did this the satisfaction.
She set the lid back on the box. “It’s empty,” she said, ignoring Digby’s questioning look. “An empty box. So, thanks, Santa. Next year, how about some coal at least?”
A few awkward laughs. A lot of confusion. Commence the binge drinking.
High school all over again.
Now she just had to find the bully.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The party resumed. Digby sat in silence with her for a few minutes, and then made some strained excuse to leave their table. “The boss is expected to mingle,” he said with a laugh. He didn’t ask her why she’d lied about what was in the box. If he was even the least bit curious, he didn’t show it.
She watched him go straight to the men’s room.
And just like that, she was back to being an outsider.
Lussi slipped quietly upstairs with her gift box. In her office, she removed the doll. If there was any truth to Oma’s tales about the Perchten warding off evil, maybe this little guy would do her some good. Maybe it could do a number on whoever was making her life here difficult. “You’ll help me out, won’t you, Perky?” she said, picking him up. This wasn’t the Perky from her childhood, but she was one of those weirdos who recycled pet names.
She’d had seven gerbils, all named Harold.
“I guess we’re both a little strange,” she said, giving Perky’s fur-covered body a squeeze. The doll’s insides crunched underneath the animal pelt. Whatever it was filled with had gone rotten. Her mind conjured images of broken eggshells, fishbones. Dried beetles. A slideshow of gruesome images popped into her head.
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