by Lotta Smith
“Jackie, you can go back to the chicken-eating Christmas party. Guess what? My situation is far worse. Now that Harry’s dead, the police will be involved and we’re likely to spend the rest of the evening answering their questions! Talk about a ruined Christmas!” I hissed, totally forgetting that the presence of the ghost was supposed to be a secret.
I saw Rick’s shoulders shaking. Perhaps he was angry at himself for not being able to save Harry from himself.
Then Harry cocked his head to the side and touched the temple he’d just shot, muttering, “What’s wrong? Why doesn’t it hurt at all? All I felt was a slight coldness.”
Harry took a whiff of his hand smeared in red and gasped, “Man, it’s ketchup!”
Rick was practically laughing his ass off. “Bravo! Thanks for the great entertainment.” He whistled, clapping his hands. “By the way, the gun’s not real. That’s a toy.”
I clutched Rick’s arm, coming out of hiding behind his back. “Did you know it was a toy?”
“Yup. The most thrilling part was wondering when Harry would realize he’s holding a toy gun,” he replied, still chuckling.
“Rick, you should have told us!” Jackie pouted. I nudged Rick, repeating what she said.
Rita stood still for a moment, like she was completely taken aback by Harry’s abrupt reaction. But it didn’t take long for her to regain her composure.
She let out a small sigh, then smirked. “Oh yes, Rick’s right. The gun was just a toy, but it did an excellent job drawing confessions from all of you. By the way, the entire conversation has been recorded, and I’ve kept my office preserved since the night of my attempted murder. It’s a crime scene with evidence. I’ll think about my next step, whether to file charges on you or not.
“Anyway, enjoy your lives dreading when you’ll be arrested. That’s about it for now. You can leave.” Snatching the toy gun from Harry’s hand, Rita indicated to the exit with the barrel.
With various expressions of fear, annoyance, and panic mixed all into one, the participants of the night’s reading hurried toward the stairs.
As the stomping footsteps lingered on, Rita, Kimmie, Rick, and I remained in the café.
No one said a word until the footsteps were no longer heard.
Rita was staring at the window with a sad expression. Despite being in full Carina Christien gear, she didn’t resemble the star author I’d seen in the media. After what seemed like forever, she muttered, “Gosh, I feel so empty. I finally had closure, but I still don’t know why I survived. It could have been easier if I—”
“Hey, people die when they die,” Rick interrupted. “You survived because you weren’t meant to die last Christmas.”
Rita’s eyes widened.
“You can spend the rest of your life pitying yourself for the terrible incident, but at the same time, you can work your magic, turning it into one of your great works of literature. It’s up to you. Still, if I’m to speak as your follower, I’m looking forward to reading more of your work.”
“My follower?” Rita frowned. “You heard that neither the characters nor the plotlines of my early work were mine.”
“So what? The plotlines and characters themselves can’t be presented to the public without the well-structured sentences that compel the readers to go on with the story. You know what? Everyone’s got an interesting story or two, but most people spend their lives without selling them. The biggest reason for that is because they don’t write them at all, and even if they started writing, the majority quit before finishing them. I found your writing style quite fascinating, the meticulous structure and the process of the mystery and tragedy settling beautifully.”
“Rick….” Rita took a sharp intake of air.
“Every bit of your life has the potential to become the motivation for your work as a creator—which is the phrase my acquaintance, who happens to be a screenwriter, keeps saying. And I have a hunch that this catastrophic, yet extraordinary, experience you’ve gone through will take you to a whole new level,” he went on, carefully observing Rita but offering a hint of a smile.
The expression on Rita’s face was still tight, but it somehow softened following his words.
After a brief pause, she pressed her hand to her heart and said, “You’re right, Rick. I’m no longer the same mousy girl called Rita Balman. I feel like I’ve finally become Carina Christien. And I promise to play God with my work and deliver my magic.”
When she raised her chin with a cocky grin, she transformed into the mysterious and confident Carina Christien.
“Cool. I’m looking forward to your upcoming books.” Rick nodded encouragingly, took my arm, and we left.
EPILOGUE
After parting from Carina and Kimmie, Rick and I went to the room Dan had booked for us. Technically, a suite was the more accurate term. We were in the spacious living and dining room embellished with a large, gorgeous Christmas tree, spectacular furniture, and a ton of mistletoe.
The moment we arrived at the suite, dinner was served by the butler. The food should have been superb, except my palate seemed to be taking a temporary leave. I could see only one door that would lead to a bedroom, and my heart was flip-flopping with anticipation and excitement topped with a hefty amount of panic.
Following the dessert, Rick let the butler leave. Then we were alone, sitting side by side on the sofa, enjoying a companionable silence; not even Jackie was there to disturb us. On our way from the cottage to the hotel’s main building, Rick specifically asked the ghost to give us alone time for the night.
“Enjoy the night! Have a very merry and possibly superkinky Christmas!” was Jackie’s reply. Then she disappeared into the night, waving with a drumstick and saying, “It’s about time for the cake to be served.”
Being an adult, I could imagine what was going to happen between Rick and me, and I was growing nervous, bordering on panicky. Not that I was unhappy about the prospects of sleeping with him, but….
“By the way, Rick, I didn’t know you had a screenwriter friend,” I said, partly to ease my nerves.
“That’s because I don’t have such a friend.” He shrugged. Unlike me, he seemed to be at ease.
“But… what you told Carina, about utilizing every bit of her experience to create her next great work, that was so impressive and empowering.”
“Good.” The corner of his lips quirked into a grin. “I just made that part up. She seemed in need of a serious boost in her confidence.”
“That’s so sweet of you, though a tad bit uncharacteristic,” I said playfully.
“Come on, I’m always sweet and nice.”
I noticed Rick was looking ridiculously handsome, dressed in a dark suit, his brown hair styled in a conservatively messy ’do, and his face lit up.
“Speaking of sweet and nice, I’ve got a little something for you.” He took out a small jewelry box from his jacket pocket. “Though we have a few hours left until twelve o’clock, here’s an early Christmas gift for you. I’d say having no crazy aunts fussing about the time is one of the perks of being a grown-up.”
“Right. I’ve brought my Christmas gift for you, too.” I stood up, scurried to my rolling suitcase, and took out the bag full of assorted gifts for him. It was difficult to choose gifts for him, considering that Rick could buy most things in the world that money can buy, but still I tried. “Not that I’m complaining, but I was expecting a teddy bear,” I said as I came back to the sofa.
“That was a decoy for a surprise.” He smiled. “Are you ready? Okay, let’s open our gifts on the count of three. One, two, three!”
Then we opened the gifts, and—
“Wow! The world’s smallest walkie-talkie set? If I put on these shades, I can start a new career with the CIA anytime,” Rick joked lightheartedly while he examined the assorted gifts. “And I love the cufflinks. Thanks.”
When I took a glance at the item in the little box, my jaw dropped. It was the ring with pink sapphires in a four-leaf clove
r—the one I lost the bidding on at the charity auction. My heart stopped beating for a moment.
“Mandy?” He looked into my face as I froze in shock.
After a long pause, I opened my mouth. “Look, Rick, this is beautiful… but—”
“But what?” He furrowed his eyebrows.
“I… I… I don’t know…. You know this is expensive. Too expensive to give to your assistant as a Christmas gift.”
“Come on, forget about the price. The money was spent for a good cause.” He shrugged.
“Excuse me? Did you outbid me at the auction?” I gasped. “That’s why you left the seat during the bidding? How did you know that I made a bid in the first place?”
“I knew you wanted this when I saw your face sink during the auction. So, I started bidding until I won. Hey, Mandy, I can’t just go back to them to return this ring,” he replied casually and wiggled his fingers.
“Come on, Mandy! Stop grumbling and just accept the ring! All you need to do is thank him!” Jackie, who had previously promised to give us privacy, demanded, popping by my side from out of nowhere.
“She’s right. Mandy. You should accept it,” Giselle McCambridge, the ghost of an elderly socialite I’d met on a case, agreed, apparently tagging along with Jackie. As she pointed her finger at me, the ghost of an elderly gentleman in a black tux—Giselle’s husband, I presumed—appeared by her side, smiling and patting her shoulder.
“Or else we’ll bother you all night!” Jackie and Giselle threatened me in unison.
“Mandy, please don’t ruin my night,” Jackie said. “Like I said, I’ve got a hot date.” As she snapped her fingers, another ghost—a cute guy in a leather jumpsuit—popped up from out of nowhere, linking his fingers with hers.
I was compelled to roll my eyes, but I put on a smile instead and said, “Okay. Thank you so much for your thoughts and, of course, the ring. This is the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen. I love, love, love it!”
Rick exhaled slowly, like he was genuinely relieved. “I’m glad you like it.” He took the ring out of the box and slipped it onto my left ring finger.
“Wow, the fitting’s perfect,” I murmured.
“That’s because I measured your finger while you were asleep and had a jeweler adjust its size,” he said.
“Really?” I chuckled.
“Really.” He smiled widely, showing off his pearly whites. “And here’s one more thing… I love you,” he said, holding my hands in his.
My heart stopped beating for a second, but the next thing I knew, I was replying, “I love you, too.” As I said that, I couldn’t believe that it came out of me so easily. After months of pondering with no success, I was starting to suspect that I’d need some kind of life-or-death situation to actually say the big L-word.
“Sweet. I like that.” He pulled me close to him. “Good thing I asked housekeeping to decorate this room with a ton of mistletoe.” And then he kissed me.
I saw the quartet of ghosts cheering me on from the corner of the room. They had the audacity to snoop on my privacy, but at the same time the decency to keep their distance from me.
I shut my eyes and accepted Rick’s kiss—because the tradition says a woman can’t say no to a kiss when she’s under the mistletoe.
About the author
Hi! My name is Lotta Smith. I’m the author of Paranormal in Manhattan Mysteries and Kelly Kinki Mysteries. I love everything comedy, from novels, TVs, to movies. In my teenage days, I was addicted to mysteries that involves amateur sleuth duo of a hot male professor and a quirky female student—with a light touch of romance sprinkled on top. So I went to medical school, partly because I wanted to see real dead bodies, and mostly because I was determined to meet sexy professors (specializing forensic pathology, perhaps) and go a-sleuthin’.
I got to see dead bodies and learn about the danger of petting zoos (sometimes, kids have their lips bitten off by…say, a pony!) but unfortunately, sexy professors were absolutely nonexistent. Recently, I realized that I’m a hopeless unromantic.
I’m hard at work writing new books.
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Books by Lotta Smith
Paranormal in Manhattan Mysteries:
Book 1: Wicked for Hire: http://amzn.to/25IHH6X
Sometimes, the opportunity of a lifetime busts your door instead of gently knocking at it...
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Medical student Amanda Meyer thought she had her life all planned out until people started dying the moment they touched her. Being cleared of any wrongdoing didn't stop the medical school from expelling her, and it didn't rid her of the unfortunate nickname Grim Reaper.
Luckily, having a rep as the harbinger of death isn't a total resume killer. Rick Rowling, Special Agent for the FBI's Paranormal Cases Division recruits her to work for the Bureau. But the sexy, brilliant, outrageous loose cannon proves to be just as untouchable as the mysterious creature or creatures that may be responsible for the seemingly unsolvable murder that becomes their first case together.
Instead of treating patients, Amanda's life becomes a test of her patience and a wild ride into the wicked paranormal world where her new boss runs the show. Together they face a ghoulish force that could destroy the entire city and a grueling family dinner that could leave Amanda contemplating harakiri.
It's a battle of life and debt [student debt, that is] and saving the world has never been so funny.
Prologue
966 Park Avenue Tower
11:48 AM, November 10…
With a weird moan, her whole body shivering, she collapses onto the sofa.
I think she’s lucky that she’s already sitting on the sofa as she crumples. If she was standing, she might have cracked her head on the marble floor like Humpty Dumpty—which won’t be pretty.
She’s lying there, totally motionless. One elbow’s stiffly bent at a right angle, as if she’s turned into stone as the result of looking Medusa in the eye.
I gasp—fearing she’s dead.
Rick Rowling, the head of the FBI’s New York Paranormal Division and my boss for the past two days, approaches and touches her neck. Looking totally blasé, he confirms that she’s still alive.
I let out a sigh of relief.
On the other hand, Rowling announces that we leave the place because “It’s boring.”
My eyes widen with a total disbelief.
Of course, I disagree with him, but he brushes off my objection, stating that he doesn’t care about all the crap of making arrests, prosecuting, and taking cases to trial. Again, he says that it’s just a minor issue and he’s way too busy for that. “You know what? I have better things to do,” Rowling declares, turning on his heels to leave the condo.
“Excuse me, Rick,” I call to his back.
“What?” he asks, without turning around.
“We can’t just leave,” I say. Then it suddenly occurs to me that offending my boss isn’t in my best interest, so I add, “I’m afraid.”
“Why not?” He cocks his head. “Mandy, don’t be such a killjoy. The NYPD can work on the boring stuff, such as deciphering the social pathology of crimes and so on, because they have time to kill. On the other hand, I have no time to waste.”
“Okay, so we don’t need to decipher the social pathology of crimes, but we do need to figure out the whereabouts of the human-eating monster, don’t we?” I point out.
I’m not joking or exaggerating.
I’m talking about a practically imperishable ghoul which could eat up the entire population of New York State, if not the whole world.
* * *
At precisely 2:13 in the morning, John Sangenis was standing in front of a shabby five-story apartment in Washington Heights. Fortunately, he didn’t live there. He was just visiting Ivan Flynn, the insufferable asshole.
Usual
ly, he had better things to do than visiting his worst enemy before the crack of dawn, such as sleeping like a log. Or making love with Ruth, which was even better than sleeping on his own. Ruth MacMahon was his girlfriend, who was unbelievably beautiful, dazzling, and had a truly big heart. Also, it didn’t hurt that she was rich. What was more wonderful about her was she appreciated John’s talent as an actor. It was a rare trait to come across in society, and it was why she happily provided him both moral and financial support.
If there were any shortcomings about her, it was that she was two-timing him with Ivan.
He thought about her taste in men, or lack thereof, and shrugged.
John wasn’t the sharpest knife in the kitchen, so he didn’t realize describing Ruth’s taste in men as horrible was the same as admitting that he was a total loser.
A cold, wet late-autumn breeze was blowing from the East River. A sprinkle of rain hit him in the face. The metal stairs were slippery, occasionally letting out squeaks and squawks, as if the steel structure itself were threatening to fall into pieces any minute, which made John nervous. The building’s elevator hadn’t functioned since God knows when, so he had no choice but to climb up the damned stairs. Getting smashed with the lousy staircase like a piece of garbage wasn’t high on his to-do list, so he ran up the stairs.
As an actor, he went to the gym to do occasional workouts and training, but that didn’t mean he was a big fan of vigorous exercise. On normal days, he would have shied away from walking up the rusty metal stairs of a sad-looking apartment. Actually, he wouldn’t have set a foot in this neighborhood unless he was starring in a gangster movie or TV show, hopefully as the lead role. After all, it wasn’t the area where any of the characters of Sex and the City lived. It almost felt comical that this neighborhood was still included in Manhattan.
While he mentally dissed Washington Heights, he completely forgot about his own social status as one of the least important actors in off-Broadway theater scenes. He also conveniently forgot the fact that, if it weren’t for the tiny apartment in Brooklyn, which he inherited from a late great-aunt, and financial assistance provided by Ruth, he couldn’t even keep a roof over his head.
