GINGERDEAD
“Time to open our gifts.” As Jake started to reach for the gift bag near his plate, he sneezed so hard that his Santa hat slipped down over his forehead. He pushed it back, grabbed the gift bag, and looked inside. “It’s a big cookie.”
He held up a gingerbread man with white icing outlining bones and a skeleton head.
“That’s called a gingerdead man,” Franetta said. “We had gingerdead men for the Halloween bake sale. I don’t know why anyone would bake them for Christmas.”
“A gingerdead man. That’s funny.” Jake’s belly shook when he laughed, as you might expect from a man in a Santa suit. “A cookie has only one porpoise—one purpose in life.”
He was mangling his words more now than he had earlier. He decapitated the gingerdead man. “Mmm. Best cookie ever.” He ate the limbs one by one and took a long drink from his flask.
Val had just brewed what she hoped was the final tea of the day. She picked up the pot and went around the table refilling everyone’s cup. When she asked Jake if he wanted more tea, he didn’t answer. His face contorted. She backed away, expecting him to emit another of his almighty sneezes.
Instead, he stood up, swayed, and landed on the floor with a thud . . .
Books by Maya Corrigan
BY COOK OR BY CROOK
SCAM CHOWDER
FINAL FONDUE
THE TELL-TALE TARTE
S’MORE MURDERS
CRYPT SUZETTE
GINGERDEAD MAN
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Gingerdead Man
Maya Corrigan
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
GINGERDEAD
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Acknowledgments
The Codger Cook’s Recipes
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2020 by Mary Ann Corrigan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
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ISBN: 978-1-4967-2244-7
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2245-4 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-2245-0 (ebook)
I have endeavored in this Ghostly little book, to raise the Ghost of an Idea, which shall not put my readers out of humor with themselves, with each other, with the season, or with me. May it haunt their houses pleasantly, and no one wish to lay it.
—Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol, Preface
The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached . . . In the very air through which this Spirit moved it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery. It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand.
—Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol, Stave Four
Chapter 1
Val Deniston paused at the top of the stairs in the house she shared with her grandfather. She usually dashed down the steps, but today she might trip over the long skirt she’d borrowed. Lifting the front of it, she descended at a pace suitable to her costume. She glanced at the red flyer on the hall table.
COME TO BAYPORT’S DICKENS OF A HOLIDAY FESTIVAL
WHEN 19TH-CENTURY LONDON COMES ALIVE
CAROLING, TEA PARTIES, STREET MARKETS, AND
PUB FARE
PRIZES FOR THE BEST-DRESSED VICTORIANS
Val lifted the cuff of her white blouse and glanced at her watch. Time to leave for London on the Chesapeake Bay. She knocked on the door to her grandfather’s bedroom down the hall. “It’s almost ten. I’ll go on ahead if you’re not ready yet.”
“Coming!”
She rolled up the waistband of her skirt so it wouldn’t sweep the sidewalk and donned the ghastly green cloak she’d found in the attic. She cringed at her reflection in the full-length mirror. The shapeless garment dwarfed her small frame. If anyone gave a prize for a tent look-alike, she would win it. She was tempted to ditch the cloak, but her parka would look out of place in Victorian London. On the plus side, the cloak’s dense wool would keep her warm, and she’d have to wear it only for a short time. Most of the day she’d be indoors, serving tea and sweets at Title Wave, Bayport’s new bookshop.
Granddad emerged from his room, struggling to knot a red scarf under his full white beard. In his black, high-collared coat and a top hat, he looked as if he could have stepped out of a hansom cab at Trafalgar Square.
He touched the brim of the hat he’d borrowed from a local theater group. “This is too small. But I wasn’t going to shell out good dough for a hat I’ll never wear again.” He checked himself in the hall mirror. “Do I look silly?”
No more than any other man wearing a top hat. “Distinguished is the word I’d use.” She slipped her arm under his and nudged him toward the front door. “You’ll fit in with all the other Victorian gentlemen today. And you’re the star attraction. Bayport couldn’t hold its first Dickens festival without Ebenezer Scrooge.”
“Humbug. Santa’s the big star in any holiday celebration.” He pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose.
He’d worn those same wire-framed bifocals as Santa last December. His arrival by barge at the marina had kicked off the town’s holiday festivities for the previous five years. This year a newcomer to town was playing Santa, and Granddad resented him for usurping that role.
As he and Val walked the three blocks to Main Street, he continued to stew over his demotion from Santa to Scrooge.
“Granddad, remember that Scrooge turned into a happy man after visits from three ghosts.”
“I don’t get to be a happy man until the festival winds down. Until then, it’s bah humbug all the way.”
As they approached Main Street, Val was struck by how quiet the tourist town was. Traffic had been diverted for the weekend celebration. “Without the hum of car motors, I can almost imagine I’m in Dickens’s London.”
“It didn’t look anything like this.” Granddad gestured with an open palm toward the vendors’ booths with
their attractive displays of merchandise. “I’ve been reading up on Dickens. The London he knew was thick with smog and coal dust. The streets were full of horse manure and mud.”
Val preferred the twenty-first-century Eastern Shore version of merry old England in Maryland, where she could walk on a brick sidewalk instead of a dirt road. The wood buildings along Main Street, formerly the homes of nineteenth-century merchants, now housed shops and restaurants decorated to the hilt for the holidays. Red poinsettias flanked the store entrances. Wreaths and swags adorned lampposts, windows, and doors.
The vendors were dressed in Victorian garb, as were some early-bird visitors. Men sauntered in black jackets or overcoats, bowlers or stovepipe hats on their heads, and women in long skirts and short capes stepped gingerly, some balancing large, elaborate hats. The majority of festival visitors wore blue jeans. Regardless of clothing, most of them carried a huge shopping bag with What the Dickens? printed on it.
The shopping bags reminded Val to look for the gifts she still hadn’t bought, including Granddad’s. Maybe she’d find some gifts at the festival. Managing the Cool Down Café at the athletic club and catering holiday parties left her little time to shop between now and Christmas.
Val scanned the crowd and saw a white-bearded, rotund man in a red suit coming toward them. This Santa carried a lot more weight than Granddad, especially now that he’d slimmed down. Val had made healthy meals for her grandfather ever since she moved in with him two winters ago. He’d grumbled at first, but eventually he gave up the junk food he’d subsisted on since Grandma died.
“Merry Christmas!” Santa waved to everyone he passed as he walked toward the intersection where Val and Granddad stood.
Granddad frowned. “ ‘Every idiot who goes about with Merry Christmas on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart.’ ”
For the last week Val had heard him practice that line and others from A Christmas Carol, but he put more feeling into it today as the claimant to the Santa throne approached. He looked at least a decade younger than Granddad.
The big man smirked. “Well, if it isn’t last year’s Santa,” he said as if dismissing an outmoded flip phone. He gave Val the once-over and thrust out his hand to her. “I’m Jake Smith.”
Val knew his name and had heard nothing good of him. “Val Deniston.” She shook his hand.
He turned to Granddad. “Bet you’re glad I took over as Bayport’s Santa. You gotta leave strenuous jobs to younger men.”
“What’s strenuous about picking up little ones and sitting ’em on your lap? On second thought, it might be strenuous for you.” Granddad looked pointedly at Santa’s belly. “Hard for you to bend down.”
“You’re behind the times. Seated Santas and posed shots are out of fashion. Strolling Santas and candid shots are in. Parents take pictures of their kids interacting with Santa. Even adults take selfies—or should I say elfies?—with Santa.” Jake laughed at his own joke. “You would know about Santa trends if you belonged to the IBRBS.”
Granddad eyed him with suspicion. “The what BS?”
“The IBRBS. The International Brotherhood of Real Bearded Santas.” Jake patted his chin. “You have to admit I have a better beard than you.”
Val wondered if Jake had made up the organization. She studied his facial hair. By tradition the Bayport Santa sported a real beard, and his wasn’t fake, though its color was. Like the hair not hidden by his red cap, his beard had dark roots.
Granddad stroked his fluffy beard with one hand and pointed toward Santa’s with the other. “Your beard is longer, but mine is thicker.”
The one-upmanship could have been banter between old friends, but the tone and body language suggested otherwise. Val focused on the part of Santa’s face not covered by a beard. He had no deep furrows between his brows or creases at the corners of his eyes. His nose and cheeks were deep pink to light red. He was younger than she’d assumed at first, probably in his late fifties. Not many men in that age group dyed their hair white. Either he really wanted to play Santa or he had another reason for making himself look older.
Santa’s face puckered up, his eyes closed, and his mouth opened wide. “Ahh-choo!”
His sneeze sounded like a wild animal’s distress cry. Santa hadn’t covered his mouth, but at least he’d turned his head and spewed his germs to the side rather than at Val and Granddad. As Jake’s eyes and his mouth widened again, Val buried her head in her cloak, Granddad pulled his scarf over his face, and they both backed away. Santa’s second sneeze broke the volume record set by his first one. He pulled out a big red handkerchief, covered his nose, and honked into it.
Granddad glared at him. “With that cold, you shouldn’t be near kids.”
Santa flicked his wrist. “I’ll keep them at arm’s length, and I have cough syrup.” He reached into his pocket and took out a flask.
“Jake!” a woman called from down the street. She sounded like a mother summoning a wayward child.
Santa hastily tucked away his flask. “Here comes Mrs. Claus.” His tone suggested a man resigned to his fate.
Val looked around for a plump, motherly woman in granny glasses, white hair under a bonnet, and a red sack dress. Instead, a svelte woman with a pointed nose and prominent cheekbones approached them. Her straight, black hair grazed the white fur collar of her short red coat dress. The chunky heels of her thigh-high, black suede boots clicked on the brick sidewalk.
“You can’t hide from me, Santa honey,” she said with a drawl. “I could hear that sneeze miles away.” She turned to Val and Granddad. “Hi, y’all. I’m Jewel Smith, Jake’s wife.”
Val and Granddad introduced themselves to her.
Red velvet was the only thing Santa and his wife had in common. She looked ten years younger. He was round and soft. She was angular and sharp. His hair was fake white and hers fake black. As she finger-combed it, Val stared at Jewel’s crimson claws. Each had a tiny bow on it painted in green nail polish. If her fingernails had been cut blunt, they would have resembled miniature holiday boxes, but filed into points, they looked like sharp weapons, ten little lethal gifts.
“You can tell by her drawl,” Santa said, “that she’s originally from the South Pole.” He chortled.
Val wondered how many times he’d tell that lame joke today.
His wife reached for his hand, her clawed fingers wrapping around it. “I just love living in the North Pole with you. I want to show you some tiny toys I’m putting on my Christmas list. See y’all later.”
As Jewel led him toward a jewelry vendor, a family with two preschoolers crossed their path. Santa interacted with them, to use his word, and his wife handed them candy canes from her festival shopping bag. Their parents took a family “elfie” with Santa.
Val was glad for their sake that he’d turned into jolly Jake, though she was sure she’d met the genuine Jake.
She took Granddad’s arm as they continued along Main Street. “I understand why you dislike this year’s Santa, and you’re not the only one. Irene Pritchard can’t stand him either.” Val’s assistant manager at the café had a major gripe with Jake.
“What does she have against him?”
“He bought the house next door, cut down her prized azaleas along the lot line, and spoiled her view. Now she has to keep her curtains closed because he can look in her windows.” Val glanced in the shop windows they passed, hoping for gift inspirations. “What do you think Santa had in that flask?”
“Not cough syrup. I’ll keep an eye on him. If he starts acting tipsy—”
“Don’t confront him. Call Chief Yardley.” The police chief was the right person to deal with a smashed Santa.
“I’d enjoy putting the police onto Jake.” Granddad pointed at a stack of holiday packages covered with foil wrapping paper and tied with perfect bows. “When you were a little girl and saw a pile of presents like that in a shop, you picked them up and shook each one.”
/> “I remember. At home I always shook wrapped gifts and tried to guess what was in them. At the store I was angry when nothing rattled inside them. I demanded to know why the boxes were empty. The clerk told me the pretty boxes would put people in the Christmas spirit so they’d buy more.”
That wasn’t Val’s idea of the Christmas spirit. Even now, in her early thirties, she loathed empty wrapped boxes. They reminded her of the hollow core of a season that had become commercialized. At least the festival’s profits would go to a food bank, and Dickens would approve. “Dickens was right about Christmas. It’s not about hoarding money and accumulating more stuff. What matters is family and food.”
“Family, food, and friends.”
“And friends,” she echoed him to signal that she wouldn’t mind if he asked a special friend to the family holiday dinner when her parents would visit. Granddad’s friend, Dorothy Muir, had returned to Bayport two months ago to open the bookshop Title Wave. Inviting the widow meant including her son Bram. Val foresaw her parents’ reactions. They’d have questions about her relationship with him, and she had no answers for them.
As she and Granddad stepped off the curb to cross Main Street, a middle-aged woman in an ivory fleece jacket and sweat pants bumped into him and knocked off his hat.
“Sorry.” She picked up his hat and handed it to him.
Val recognized her. “Hi, Elaine.”
The woman’s salt-and-pepper hair looked windblown though there was no wind. She frowned in confusion. “Hi. Nice to see you.” Then she rushed off like the white rabbit on a mission.
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