“The bride is Miss Havisham. She comes from a different book by Dickens, Great Expectations. Her fiancé jilted her on their wedding day. She wears her bridal finery for the rest of her life.”
Jewel frowned. “Why? Was she too poor to afford new clothes?”
Holly shook her head. “Miss Havisham is rich. She wears her wedding gown as a reminder never to trust men. She trains her adopted daughter to break men’s hearts, as her heart was broken.”
Jewel looked aghast. “Why didn’t she just get over it?”
“Because the story wouldn’t have been as good,” Holly said. “In the real world, though, getting over it would make for a happier life.”
An African American woman in her forties had come quietly into the room while Holly was talking. She approached the table.
Jake eyed the newcomer, who wore a plain, long dress of coarse material. “And who are you supposed to be?”
Val was startled by his sneering tone. Did he have racial prejudices, on top of his other faults?
“My name is Shantell Defoe. I’ve just moved here. I’m Bayport’s new head librarian.” She sat down next to Jewel. After the others introduced themselves to her, Shantell said, “My Dickens name is Madame Defarge, from A Tale of Two Cities.”
The title of the book apparently meant nothing to the Smiths, who looked blankly at her.
Holly spoke up. “It takes place during the French Revolution. Madame Defarge is a revolutionary.”
Shantell reached into her festival shopping bag and pulled out knitting needles, yarn, and a piece of knitting that looked like the start of a scarf. “She vows to take revenge on a man whose noble family is responsible for the deaths of her relatives. She codes the names of the aristocrats she wants guillotined into her knitting.”
Jake said, “Sounds like Dickens knew some mean women, bent on revenge.” He glanced at his wife.
The black cat meowed, waiting at the door to go outside. Val crossed the room, opened it, and kept it open while the cat, with two paws out and two paws in, decided whether to visit the cold, dark graveyard after all.
At the other end of the room, the curtain between the CAT Corner and the shop floor parted. Someone stood there in a bizarre costume—a long, black garment like a monk’s habit, hands encased in black gloves with 3D latex skeleton bones, and head covered with an upside-down holiday gift bag. The bag had two sets of eyeholes, one set positioned three inches lower than the other. The figure hobbled toward the table, carrying a festival shopping bag.
Val assumed this was a festival volunteer playing one of Dickens’s ghosts. The ghost reached into the shopping bag for small red gift bags. Jake had a coughing fit as the ghost put a gift at each of the six places at the table.
Irene didn’t like anyone messing with her tea party. “Who the Dickens are you?”
Without answering, the ghost limped toward the door Val was still holding open. She stepped aside, the cat crept out, and the ghost followed. Unable to tell if a woman or a man was in the costume, Val checked the shoes for a clue. She caught only a glimpse of white below the black robe before the figure disappeared into the darkness.
“Who was that?” Holly said.
Jake laughed heartily. “You can’t guess? The gifts on the table, the gift bag on the head. That’s the Ghost of Christmas Presents.”
Val smiled. She suspected Bram of concocting the costume. He had a playful sense of humor.
Shantell pursed her lips. “The Ghost of Christmas Present who visits Scrooge in the Dickens story is a jolly giant in a green robe with a wreath on his head.”
“Who cares? The Ghost of Christmas Presents”—Jake emphasized the s on the end—“made a joke, and a good one.” His loud belly laugh ended in an even louder sneeze.
“Did you lose your hankie?” Jewel took a pack of tissues from her bag and pushed it toward him. “Cover your mouth so we don’t all get sick.”
Sitting across from her on Jake’s other side, Holly slid her plate, her teacup, and even the ghost’s gift to the left, moving them out of Jake’s sneezing range.
Val wondered how to quarantine him for public health reasons.
Irene whispered to her, “This is one tea we can’t serve family style. That man will spread his germs by passing the trays and breathing on the food. We have to prepare plates for each of them.”
“Good idea.” Easier than quarantine. “We’ll put the food on the spare plates we have here and exchange them for the ones he’s contaminated.”
“After we take those germy plates away, we’d better scrub them and our hands.” Irene picked up the teapot.
She went around the table, pouring tea, while Val plated the food. She’d just finished filling plates for the four volunteers when Granddad came in. He sat down at the other end of the rectangular table from Jake. Irene made up a plate for him. Then the festival’s coordinator of volunteers, Franetta Frost, arrived and took the last seat at the table. She wore a white caftan and a pointed hat with a candle-shaped LED light atop it, like Dickens’s Ghost of Christmas Past.
Irene sighed. “If more people keep showing up, we’ll be here all night.”
Remembering that Irene detested being around Jake, Val said, “I’ll make up Franetta’s plate while you take the ones we’ve already prepared to the table. Feel free to leave after that. I can handle the cleanup without you. I’ll pack up your china and drop it off at your house later.”
Irene lost no time making her getaway. Good thing she left before Jake started complaining.
“S’lot of food here.” He slurred his words. “With tea you have bitty bites, not a whole plateful.”
His wife rolled her eyes. “He usually grumbles because there’s not enough food. Now there’s too much. Can’t make that man happy.”
He took a bite of one sandwich, put it down, and bit into a different one. “None of it tastes good.”
The food’s lack of flavor didn’t keep him from stuffing it in his mouth. He washed it down with whatever was in his flask.
Franetta took off her Ghost of Christmas Past hat and assumed the role of a woman who never did only one thing at a time. While eating, she led a discussion about the festival and took notes on her phone. What had gone well? What could they have done better? What activities should they add to next year’s festival? Her note-taking lasted until she finished her food.
Granddad asked where the gift bags on the table had come from, and Val described the black-robed ghost who’d crashed the tea party and left the gifts.
Franetta’s brow wrinkled. “That wasn’t an official costume for the Dickens festival. The last ghost Scrooge sees is shrouded in black with a spectral hand, but the festival committee decided against anyone dressing like that. Too scary for the children.” She brightened. “I think the person who left the gift bags didn’t want to be recognized, an anonymous donor thanking us all for being festival volunteers.”
“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 five-inch-tall 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 con
torted. 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.
Chapter 3
Val assumed Jake had lost his balance or fallen down drunk.
His wife jumped out of her chair and peered at him. “Are you okay?” He didn’t answer. Looking dazed, he started to roll sideways but gave up, falling back.
Val set down the teapot. Maybe he’d hit his head when he fell.
Holly crouched down next to Jake. “I think he’s passed out!” She smacked his face. “Wake up!” That smack would have stung if he’d been conscious, but it didn’t rouse him.
Val was amazed that the woman who’d tried so hard to avoid his sneeze eruptions was checking his pulse, her face inches from his.
“It could be an allergic reaction to something he ate.” Franetta poked at her phone. “I’m calling 911.”
“He doesn’t have any allergies,” Jewel said.
“People can develop allergies at any time.” Holly slapped his cheeks and then shook his shoulders. “Come on, Jack. Wake up!”
Jack? With the man in obvious distress, no one corrected Holly when she called him by the wrong name, not even his wife.
Jewel kept her distance, peering at him from above. “Does he need mouth-to-mouth resuscita—”
“No.” Holly took her fingers from his neck. “He has a pulse, and he’s breathing.”
“If it’s a heart attack or a stroke,” Shantell said, “getting medical help fast can make a big difference.”
“The first responders are coming,” Franetta announced. She pointed at the door to the outside. “I told the dispatcher to send them to the back door rather than go through the shop. I’ll let Dorothy know what’s going on.” She left the room through the curtained doorway.
Everyone hovered around Jake except Granddad. He beckoned Val to the far end of the room and spoke quietly, “Except for sneezing and sniffling, Jake looked fine until he ate that cookie. Then he keeled over. Something in it made him sick.”
She shook her head. “Just because he fell after eating the cookie doesn’t mean that it—or any other food he ate—caused him to collapse.”
“It wasn’t just any cookie. It was a gingerdead man, left by someone who didn’t want to be recognized.”
At first, Val had assumed that Bram had left it, but she’d changed her mind after seeing the gingerdead man. He wouldn’t have handed out a creepy cookie in his mother’s shop. He might, however, have seen who did. The Ghost of Christmas Presents had come through the shop on the way to the CAT Corner. “I want to ask Bram something. I’ll be right back, Granddad.”
She zipped across the room and pushed the curtain aside. Bram was talking to a pair of teenagers in a nearby aisle. He was still in his Victorian clothes, but his hair was no longer neatly parted on the side. Instead, it had reverted to its usual unruly state, wavy strands falling over his forehead.
He glanced at Val, said something to the teens, and then joined her.
He pointed to the CAT Corner. “What’s going on in there? Franetta charged out, looking for my mother. And you look tense and pale, like—”
“Like I’ve seen a ghost?” The question was whether he’d seen one. She told him about Jake’s sudden collapse. “Franetta called 911. She came out to let your mom know the emergency responders would arrive soon and go in the back door. Franetta doesn’t want anyone in the shop or on Main Street to see Santa carried out on a stretcher.”
“Especially kids. What can I do to help?”
“Stop your customers from poking their noses into the CAT Corner.”
“Okay. I’ll hang around the aisles toward the back and keep everyone out.” He pointed to a sign at the CAT Corner entrance that said it was reserved for a private party. “That sign gives me an excuse to shoo them away.”
Sirens wailed. Val breathed more easily. Jake would soon get emergency care. Now for the other matter Bram could help with. “Did you see anyone in the shop wearing a long, black robe and—”
“An upside-down gift bag for a mask. I couldn’t miss him. He walked straight back to the CAT Corner. I figured him for a festival volunteer going to the tea.”
“Why did you say he and him? I couldn’t tell if a man or a woman was under that robe.”
Bram tilted his head from side to side, as if weighing evidence. “Men take longer strides than women, but that person didn’t. He—or she—walked unevenly, almost limping. Franetta was in charge of the volunteers. She must know who wore that costume and what character it represented.”
“She didn’t. The person left gift bags for everyone at the table, so Santa named him the Ghost of Christmas Presents.”
Bram brushed back a curl from his forehead. “First, you tell me about Santa’s medical emergency, and then you quiz me about an incognito ghost. Is there a connection between the two?”
“Granddad thinks so. Santa hit the floor a little after eating the gingerbread cookie from his gift bag. If there’s any news on Santa, I’ll let you know.”
Val walked back to the CAT Corner, pushed the curtain aside, and saw the emergency medical responders, a man and a woman, kneeling beside Jake. She couldn’t see him or what they were doing to him.
Jewel, Holly, Shantell, and Granddad clustered near the bookshelves along the wall. Franetta stood sentry at the back door.
Granddad moved next to Val. “The emergency crew asked us to back away so they could work on Jake. He had a seizure, and when it stopped, they gave him oxygen.”
A burly man at the back door wheeled in a gurney. With his help, the other two responders got Jake on it and wheeled him toward the door.
“I’m his wife,” Jewel said. “Can I go with him?”
The woman on the team shook her head. “I’m sorry. No one’s allowed in the ambulance except the patient. We’re transporting your husband to Treadwell Hospital. Drive there and check in at the emergency room. They’ll tell you where your husband is.”
Holly volunteered to drive Jewel to the hospital. The others offered their sympathy and support.
Once Jewel and Holly were out the door, Shantell said, “I have a ticket for the holiday concert in the community center and I need to get out of this costume before then. I’m roasting in it. Val, I want to thank you and Irene for the tea party.” She reached for her gift bag.
“Don’t touch that!” Granddad said. “No one should handle those gifts except the police.”
Franetta whipped her head toward him. “Bite your tongue! Jake had a bad cold and was exhausted after a long day. He’ll be fine.”
Shantell looked at Granddad and then at Franetta. “I hope you’re right.” She slung her festival shopping bag over her shoulder and left the gift on the table.
Franetta pursed her lips. “Don’t go around hinting that something he ate brought on what’s ailing him.”
“I won’t. His wife might,” Shantell said. “You did a terrific job organizing the festival, Franetta, but some things are beyond your control.”
Val agreed. Not even Franetta, with all her superpowers, could contain rumors in a small town. News of Santa becoming ill at the tea would reflect badly on the festival as well as on Val and Irene.
Shantell exited through the curtain.
A moment later Dorothy entered. Usually unflappable, the shop owner had creases Val had never noticed in her forehead and around her eyes. The tension made her look all of her sixty-some years. “Thank goodness it’s almost closing time. The customers in the shop earlier knew someone back here needed emergency help, but I didn’t say who. Hearing that Santa Claus is sick would upset children. How is he?”
Franetta shrugged. “They took him to the hospital. That’s all we know. But from now on, we should refer to him as Jake Smith, not Santa.”
Dorothy approached the table and frowned. Frozen in time, the table looked exactly as it had when Jake fell down and everyone else stood up, leaving uneaten food. Jak
e’s plate was the only empty one. All the others had at least one untouched sweet.
“I’ll help you clean up, Val,” Dorothy said.
If Granddad was right about the reason for Santa’s illness, the police wouldn’t want anything touched. Val said, “Thank you, Dorothy, I’ll take care of it. It’s my job.”
Granddad nudged Dorothy back toward the shop floor. “You’ve been on your feet all day. Val and I will handle this.”
Franetta studied the screen on her phone. “Now there’s a mix-up about the concert tickets. I’ve got to go there and untangle the mess.” She donned the pointed hat with the light on top, turning herself from a woman in a white caftan into the Ghost of Christmas Past. “In a few more hours the Bayport Dickens Festival will be history. We shouldn’t let anything dampen our spirits or keep us from putting on a better festival next year.” She marched to the back door.
Left alone with Granddad, Val eyed the unopened gifts on the table. A chill ran through her. “Maybe every gift is a gingerdead man like the one Jake ate. If he hadn’t gobbled it down first—”
“I could be lying on the floor too.” Granddad shuddered.
“Six people could be on the floor.” No one would know what felled them. Everything they ate would come under suspicion, probably ending Val’s sideline in catering. Who’d hire a caterer with even one food poisoning incident in her past? Her café at the athletic club might also lose business. “Once he’s at the hospital, they can pump his stomach, and he could recover fast.”
“Sometimes that works. I called Earl and told him what happened here. He said he’d stop by.”
A family friend, Bayport police chief Earl Yardley would take Granddad’s concerns seriously. Though the chief hadn’t always welcomed Granddad’s amateur sleuthing—or Val’s—he tolerated it.
Granddad answered his cell phone. “Yup. We’re still here. Come in the back door.”
A minute later there was a knock at the door, and he opened it for Chief Yardley.
Gingerdead Man Page 3
