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COZY CHRISTMAS SHORTS
cozy mystery holiday short story collection
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Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2014, 2015, 2016 by Gemma Halliday, Leslie Langtry, Anne Marie Stoddard, Anna Snow, Traci Andrighetti, Jennifer L. Hart, Kerri Nelson, Kelly Rey, Janel Gradowski, Gin Jones, Jennifer Fischetto
Gemma Halliday Publishing
http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Baby It's Cold Outside
by Gemma Halliday & T. Sue VerSteeg
Have Yourself a Deadly Little Christmas
by Leslie Langtry
Sleighed at Castle Rock
by Anne Marie Stoddard
The Blonde Before Christmas
by Anna Snow
Rosolio Red
by Traci Andrighetti
Christmas Al Dente
by Jennifer L. Hart
Ornamental Danger
by Kerri Nelson
Christmas Canapés & Sabotage
by Janel Gradowski
A (Gingerbread) Diorama of Death
by Gin Jones
Motion for Mistletoe
by Kelly Rey
Christmas, Spies & Dead Guys
by Jennifer Fischetto
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BABY IT'S COLD OUTSIDE
a Tahoe Tessie Mysteries short story
by
GEMMA HALLIDAY
&
T. SUE VERSTEEG
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This story is dedicated to Nichole Abel, the best daughter ever. Thanks for working your grammar magic for me. Way up in the sky, sweetheart. I love you.
~ T.Sue VerSteeg
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CHAPTER ONE
"Merry frickin' Christmas Eve," I muttered sarcastically as the elevator doors opened on the penthouse floor. My body ached, my patience had all but disappeared, and I was ready for about twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. Unfortunately, a quick nap would have to suffice.
It was my first holiday season since I had reluctantly transitioned from art curator to head of the Royal Palace Casino and Resort, and it was just my luck that we'd been hit with a string of storms, causing the snowiest, coldest winter in the Lake Tahoe region in over a decade. Top the mess off with ice, and the road crews were working overtime to clear the highways. Several major arteries into town had been temporarily shut down due to avalanche danger, too. The less than stellar traveling conditions meant that the cheery, vacationing Christmas crowd was conspicuously absent from the Royal Palace casino this year. Instead, our gaming floors were filled with those who had no close family to be with and nowhere more homey than a smoke-filled casino to spend their holiday. On a good day, working in a casino brought you into contact with an eclectic mix of people. On a frigid, slush and sleet filled Christmas Eve, I knew I was destined to be stuck with the Grinchiest of clientele.
I tried not to let that not get me down as I dropped my purse onto the table outside the penthouse double doors to dig for my key.
It was also the first Christmas Eve I'd be spending without any family. And, despite subtle hints of romantic interest from the men in my life, I was currently without a sweetheart to spend the holidays with. While I could have sworn that FBI Agent Devin Ryder had developed warm, fuzzy feelings toward me during his investigation into my father's death, I hadn't seen or heard from him since. Not even a text message acknowledging me, let alone the lone kiss we'd shared. My fingers mindlessly strayed to my lips for a moment. I shoved my hands back into my bag. Traitors.
And the other man in my life, my teenage crush and professional snowboarder, Rafe Lorenzo, had been so busy on promotional tours this winter that I'd scarcely seen him either. Which made for a very mistletoe-less holiday for yours truly. I just needed to toss in a root canal or gynecologist appointment and make it a trifecta of blah.
I heaved a disgruntled sigh as I shook my bag from side to side. Leaning against the door, I rested my head on the cool surface and flashed back to Christmases gone by, while scooping my hand through different hiding spots and pockets. (I really needed to downsize.) I felt the familiar stab of regret at the missed holidays I could've spent with my father before he'd passed away. Not to mention, this was the only time of year everyone on my mom's side of the family behaved themselves. Well, Grandma Myrtle kept her voiced opinions to herself, but she was never able to contain the expressions or grunts of disapproval. You know, the scathing who-the-hell-told-you-that-ensemble-matched glare, or the infamous I-can't-wait-until-tomorrow-so-I-can-set-you-straight milky eye roll, and also the never to be outdone you-could-not-be-more-wrong snort of derision. If you got them all at once, you would be hunted down first thing the following morning and set straight, or perhaps even jabbed awake at one minute after midnight, if the situation called for it.
Shaking my purse in a last ditch effort to uncover my key, I exclaimed, "Son of a…"
The doors flew open, and I nearly plowed into Britton, my father's widow, as she squealed, "Surprise!" Bouncing up and down—some parts of her more than others—she waved her arms around the apartment, beaming with pride. At just a couple of years older than I, Britton hadn't been my favorite person when my father had introduced her as his fiancé. In fact the word that had immediately flashed through my mind was golddigger. But since my father's death, I'd come to realize how much Britton had actually loved him. Now, through a bizarre set of circumstances, Britton was not only my stepmother but also my roommate.
I steadied myself against the back of the couch and sucked in a breath of shock more so than surprise. The penthouse looked like Christmas had thrown up. Designer vomit, mind you, but it was everywhere. Tinsel dangled from nearly everything. Lights entwined with garland framed the windows, wall hangings, and all of the crown molding and baseboards. It even glowed from the hall. Somehow, she'd gotten them all to blink to Christmas music that now blared from the stereo. The space over the top of the cabinets in the kitchen had a tiny village set up, complete with fake snow and, you guessed it, even more lights. There was a huge tree in the living room, painstakingly decorated with matching ornaments and spiral wrapped wit
h huge sparkly ribbon instead of garland. Had it not been competing with all of the other little decorated trees dotting the room and hall, it would've been beautiful. Even the rugs shimmered in the lights from tiny confetti sprinkled in the open areas.
"Well," Britton gushed, a smile consuming the un-Botoxed parts of her face. "What do you think?"
I forced a similar smile into place and slowly bobbed my head, unable to lie verbally. This was Britton's first Christmas without my dad, too. I had no desire to take any happiness away from her. The smile became real as I watched my very indifferent cat, Captain Jack, walk out of my bedroom, his black and white spotted coat glittering with confetti, too. He fluffed and shook, looking like a tiny fireworks display in the flashing lights.
"Yay!" She yanked me into a bear hug, still bouncing a bit, while rocking us from side to side. A high-pitched squeak wailing above the music pulled our attention to the hall.
There stood Tate, my best friend, loose garland draped over his shoulder, strings of lights dangling from the crook of one arm, and Captain Jack making a figure eight around his legs. Tate was comfortably round, though he regularly squeezed his ample frame into clothes at least one size too small. Due to his Hispanic heritage, his skin had a natural, year round tan, though he'd dyed his dark hair a shocking blond. Tate's mouth gaped open, puckering into a perfect O. His squeak turned into a full-fledged squeal to top the decibel chart, sending the cat on a dead run back into my room. He finally blubbered, "I missed the big reveal? How could you do this to me, Britton? I have busted my tight little booty on making this apartment fabulous." He waved his hand through the air, snapping his fingers in a curt punctuation to his gesture.
The decorations suddenly made more sense.
Britton darted to his side, patting the hand he now used to clutch the neck of his nutcracker Christmas sweater as he hyperventilated. "I heard her outside the doors," she cooed. "You must have been in the bathroom decorating. I had to let her in."
Wait. The bathrooms are like this, too? Goodie.
I walked over and yanked Tate into a hug to keep him from sulking even more. "Don't you just love this?" I gushed, using my best reverse psychology.
He pushed me back to arm's length, his hands gripping my elbows. Finally, he smiled. It never reached the corners of his eyes, though. At first, I thought maybe he was still disappointed. Then, it clicked into place. He'd gone with Britton to her esthetician. I narrowed my gaze and gave him my best knowing lopsided grin.
His rounded, guilty stare dropped to my feet. "Oh Em Gee, Tessie!" he bellowed, quickly changing the subject. "You got real Manolo Blahniks."
I wiggled my toes in the buttery soft leather and sighed. "Yeah, Britton finally convinced me to dress the part of a real casino owner. Besides, I found out my dad actually had a wardrobe allowance, and a hefty one at that. I'm rolling most of it back into the casino, but I figured I might as well have some fun, too."
Britton snorted. "She tried to return the shoes twice. I caught her both times with the boxed shoes in a bag, ready to walk out the door, and talked sense into her. She's too practical for her own good."
"No," I retorted. "I might be too practical for this place but not for my own good."
Waving a dismissive hand in my direction, she replied, "Same, same. Now that I have a good paying job as secretary to the new corporate attorney, next time I head to Los Angeles for a weekend of shopping, you're going with me. No excuses."
Jon Carlton was barely taller than I and probably weighed less. I was pretty sure I could take him out myself if need be. And, of course, his record as an attorney sparkled along with his long list of recommendations. The first time he'd met Britton, I'd known he was wrapped around her little finger by the way he beamed when she entered a room. I doubt he much cared she typed twelve words a minute or took four-hour lunch breaks. As long as she showed up each day, he was okay to write her a paycheck. This helped her keep up with her never-ending search for the fountain of youth, too.
Tate broke free from me, bouncing from foot to foot. "Me, too! Please?" he drawled out.
"Of course," Britton said. "Who else will tell me if my butt looks big in an outfit? Plus, we can always find that quaint little café and ogle the men walking by afterward, since, you know, you're single again."
Crocodile tears welled in Tate's eyes, glimmering in the blinking lights. I pulled him back in for another hug. "Remember your mantra?"
He inhaled a deep, snotty, staccato breath right in my ear. "I'm stronger than I know, braver than I think, cuter than a button, and Michael just plain stinks."
I squeezed him hard and placed a kiss on his cheek, tucking his hair behind his ears as I pulled away.
Britton offered a lopsided pity smile. "Sorry, Tate."
They blew kisses to one another.
Waving my hands between the BFF bonding moment, I walked toward my bedroom. It was glowing and blinking, just as I'd feared. "I need to sleep for an hour or so before the mega-happy, shut-in supper crowd descends. Can you pull the plug on the festivities for that long?"
"Sure," Britton said. "But, you need to be back up here by ten. We are ringing in Christmas with style." She clapped her hands giddily. "Everyone we know who is stuck here will be coming up for a party."
There it was—my trifecta. All I wanted to do was sleep the holiday away and pretend it wasn't happening. Instead, I'd get to play co-hostess to a bunch of cranky people who'd also rather be with their families.
I forced a toothy smile to my face again as I disappeared into my bedroom. I must have resembled something akin to a wild tiger ready to eat its prey by Tate's wide-eyed look of terror as I shut the door. Which was pretty much how I felt.
The blinking lights fell dark, the music stopped, and Jack pranced around on the bed, kneading the comforter in preparation of my arrival. I carefully removed my shoes, hung my blazer and purse on the back of the dressing chair, and melted onto my bed. Jack made several circles, finally curling on my belly, purring and kneading on me now. I heaved a sigh of contentment, finally able to decompress.
Until my phone rang.
I rolled over, dislodging Jack. He gave me the disproving look only a feline can manage then curled back into a ball between my pillows. I narrowed a hateful glare toward my chirping jacket pocket. "Dammit," I spat, as I slid back out of bed and grabbed my phone. "Someone had better be dead."
* * *
I tried yoga breathing. I tried to find my mental happy place on a secluded tropical beach. I tried to roll my shoulders and crack my neck. Nothing worked. As the service elevator doors opened to the noisy, bustling kitchen, I was still ready to fire everyone just for funsies.
Fists jammed firmly against my hips, I barked above the clanging plates and whirring machines, "What seems to be the issue, folks?"
Wide-eyed staff snapped to attention, whipping around to face me. None of them had ever heard me talk this way, so I was pretty sure they knew I wasn't playing games. Finally, a shift supervisor was brave enough to come forward.
"Is cold." He hugged his sides and shivered as though I didn't understand his heavily accented words.
I nodded. "I'm very aware of that."
"Too much hail. No take trash out." He waved his hand from the stinky, heaping trash cart to the back door.
I made the motion of writing on my palm. "I won't sign your paycheck, then."
His brow wrinkled, eyes narrowing. "Que?"
Afraid of saying or doing something I'd undoubtedly regret later, I stormed over to the trash cart, scattering the entire staff into any room but the one I was occupying. It would take all of five minutes to empty the damn thing myself. I pushed against the door leading into the alley, but the heavy onslaught of wind and hail pushed back. I flung my body against the door, and it gave a tiny bit. Taking a run at it, I smacked into it yet again, giving way, flinging me out into the icy night air. It scraped back against the ice-crusted ground, almost closing on me. I huffed a cloudy sigh of mild annoyance, re
aching for the door to prop it open just a tiny bit. It slid shut in front of me, the lock clicking into place from the other side.
Shock jolted through my body, my hands dropping to my sides, as I stared at the door. Surely it latched automatically. My visible breaths came quicker as adrenaline-fueled panic flooded my body, as I banged desperately on the door. Every inhalation burned, and I could feel my clothing quickly getting soaked by the pounding ice and snow. My exposed skin was drenched in seconds. Thankfully, I'd chosen pants that morning instead of my usual skirt, but they were quickly becoming drenched as well, clinging to my body like an icy second skin. Had I penciled in getting locked outside in a hailstorm, I'd have gone with sensible dress shoes instead of my Manolos.
And a parka. And gloves.
My hands and feet tingled, quickly becoming numb. I waved frantically in front of the camera that monitored the alley, hoping someone, anyone, was watching.
"Hello?!" I screamed at the top of my lungs while banging on the door again.
Nothing.
I reached my quivering hand into my blazer pocket…and realized that in my haste to get downstairs I'd left my phone in the penthouse. Fabulous. Trembling, I tucked my hands under my arms and screamed again. Nothing really recognizable, just shrieks in hopes of getting someone's attention.
Cozy Christmas Shorts Page 1
