I Messed Up Christmas (A Ghost & Abby Mystery Book 2)

by Jo-Ann Carson

  5

  Do You Hear What I Hear

  An hour later I sat in my office in the attic of the teahouse. My kids were busy playing at my cousin Jill’s place. My incomplete Christmas to-do list sat simmering on my kitchen table, and I was free to concentrate on my new assignment.

  I looked at the mayor’s crumpled piece of paper. It read: “The angel is gone.” And it was signed “concerned citizen.” No clue there. At least none I could see.

  When I Googled the Sunset Cove angel I found lots of interesting details. She stood sixteen and a half inches tall and wore a white-and-silver dress with a lace design. Her wings were made of white feathers, and in her hands she held a silver heart. Carved from yellow cedar a century ago, she was the original angel for the town. The angel. No store bought glossy job could replace her.

  So the thief wasn’t after the angel to cash in on her monetary value. Hang on a minute. Maybe he or she would ransom it?

  How long would an extortionist take to contact his victim? My guess was three hours at most, but Mayor Madison hadn’t mentioned any call. But then he might not want to.

  I used the personal number he gave me and called him on my cell.

  “You found it already?”

  “I’m not that good. I’m good, but not that good. No, sir, I have another question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Have you had any phone calls about the angel?”

  I got dead, and I mean dead, silence, the kind you can feel in your nerve endings.

  “Just one.”

  “And you didn’t think to tell me about it.” Sheesh this was just like in the movies. My client hadn’t told me the whole story. While I guess I should feel as if I really was a detective, I just felt aggravated, and when I feel aggravated my voice slides out of professional mode into mommy-mad mode. “Spill it.”

  “I hadn’t noticed the angel was missing until the call. The man said in a muffled voice as if he talked through a sock, that he wanted fifty thousand dollars by sunset Christmas Eve or he would throw it in the ocean.”

  “And you said?”

  “No.”

  “That’s it? Just, no?”

  “Our town doesn’t deal with terrorists, Ms. Jenkins.”

  Terrorists? Okay. “Did he say anything else?”

  “He threatened to tell the town, said no one would vote for me again if they knew I didn’t do everything I could to save our angel.”

  “And you said?” Talking to him was like pulling nails out of a vampire’s coffin.

  “No. What else could I say? I won’t be bullied or terrorized. If worse comes to worse, I figured we would buy a new angel. But . . .”

  “But?”

  “When I told my wife what happened she cried and I can’t handle her tears. She’s a born and bred Sunset Cover and the angel means more to her than I realized. She said Christmas would not be the same in the cove without it. We need the angel back. I’m counting on you Ms. Jenkins.”

  “Abby.”

  “Abby, the town needs your help.”

  “Why not pay the angel-napper?”

  “It goes against everything I believe in.”

  “Just so I know, what are you telling people who notice it’s missing?”

  “My office released a statement on the town website saying the angel has been removed for cleaning.”

  I nodded, but of course he couldn’t see me. “So the tree-top-taker hasn’t phoned back.”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’d be prepared for another call. As we near his deadline, I bet he’ll up the stakes.”

  “I agree, but I won’t change my mind. Even if I put my ethical concerns aside, the town doesn’t have that kind of money. I suppose we could borrow it, but I’m not sure any bank would lend it to us to pay an extortionist.”

  “If you were to squeeze your budget—just saying—if you were to knock a few dollars out of this column and that column, what would the town lose?”

  “I see where you’re going with this and I have thought about it. The first group that came to mind were the ones protesting the development of on our waterfront, the Shores Properties. There are people who oppose it because they oppose all development and others who don’t want to see our prime waterfront land sold to individuals. They call themselves the ‘Save our Cove’ group, the SoCs. I have other names for them. They spam my office with letters and emails daily, but they’re not a violent group. They are NIMBYs. You know, the not-in-my-back-yard types. I’ll get my secretary to send you a list of names of people who have sent us protests.”

  “I think they have a Facebook page too.”

  “Yes, there is that. They’re organized but, like I said, not criminal types.”

  “I’ll check them out. Is there anyone else you think I should investigate?”

  “Yes, the dock project would have to be delayed if we lost money.”

  “Dock-dissenters?”

  “Everyone agrees the docks need upgrading. We’re a coastal community and our link with the water is important to the town. That being said, many disagree about how it should be done.”

  “Can you think of anyone in town you know who needs that kind of money?”

  “Not off hand, but I can work on a list.”

  “How about grudges? Do you know anyone who has a grudge against you personally or the town?”

  “I tried to think of that but I can’t say that I know anyone. We’re a pretty friendly town.”

  “It could be a stranger then.”

  “I’d like to think it is.”

  “Or a supernatural?”

  “That would be even better.”

  “Okay, I’m on it.”

  After he clicked off, I went into Facebook and joined the SoCs group. My request needed to be considered, so I had time to look for other suspects.

  If I went all bigot-headed and considered the supernaturals, who would my usual suspects be?

  First there were the teahouse ghosts, who were like family to me. They enjoyed haunting people now and then, particularly tourists, but they would never angel-nap. They had no interest in money, or who ran the town. It wouldn’t be any of them.

  Other local non-breathers? There were two draugrs I accidentally released from hell a few months ago. They’re ancient vampiric beasts from Viking times you don’t want to meet even in the daylight. But I didn’t think it would be them. No one had seen them since the night they rose from the underworld, and we figured they had left for other towns where no one hunted them. Money and mayors didn’t interest them either.

  Other non-breathers? I couldn’t think of any in town at the moment. Besides, the whole idea that a supernat was responsible was ludicrous. They would have nothing to gain.

  I thumped my pencil on the desk as if that would help me find the culprit, but it wasn’t working. I checked Facebook and I had been accepted by the SoC group. “Welcome, Abby. Glad to have you one of us,” said the message from a woman named Lou.

  “Glad to be here,” I wrote. “I love the cove.”

  “And we need to save it . . .” she responded.

  By not allowing others to live here. I ignored her rant, which I could tell would be long, and started scrolling through the recent posts in the group.

  It looked like a three-cups-of-coffee job. The conversation was predictable and boring, but I had to check it all out and get names. Between two mini-rants about saving the waterfront, a guy named Theo asked for help making protest signs for the next town council meeting, and a lady named Ginger talked about raising money for their campaign by selling tee-shirts with their logo on it: a tree in a circle with a mountain behind it and a bold red x through it all. Yawn.

  The group banner reminded me of Tupper-ware parties my mother used to host. A little yada here and a little yada there, a sense of belonging, a unifying desire to do-good and a heaping side of human hog-wash. I bet most of them were trust-fund babies, or had money supporting them from somewhere.

  It to
ok me an hour to read through all the posts for the last month and I ended up with a list of five names. Lou, the Facebook group manager, because that’s such a suspicious activity; Theo the sign guy; Ginger the tee-shirt lady; and two others who just yacked a lot.

  I needed a break. If I drank another cup of coffee, I’d start floating, so I decided to take a walk.

  The fact that I could walk right past an angel-napper and not know it bothered me. I liked to think my neighbours were honest and trustworthy. But someone out there had it in for the town. As I walked down to the docks, I checked out everyone I passed.

  6

  Blue Christmas

  Eric hadn’t been himself since he walked in on Abby and found her in the arms of that asshole witch with the girly name. Dante the Italian! They always get the women.

  He should have stayed to hear whatever excuse Abby came up with, but he couldn’t. An unforgiving anger coursed through his ghostly heart and he lost control of his ability to shimmer. If he had his way, he would simply kill the gigolo, but instead he found himself locked out of the earthly plane with only his thoughts for company. Although he had been mad many times since his death, he had never found himself in this limbo-like state.

  Could he summon his shrink, Brunhilde? Possibly, but did he want to do that? The thought of her shrieking voice, let alone her sour advice, made his ghostly specter cringe. She had been against his relationship with Abby from the beginning, claiming that love relationships between ghosts and humans never worked. He hated the word never. He would not ask for her help.

  There had to be a way for him to be with Abby. Never had he loved a woman more. He would give anything, well almost anything, to be with her. That’s what hurt him the most. There was one way to do it.

  If he agreed to be the great sorcerer Guiden’s assassin, he would give Eric a beating heart. He could live forever, if he chose to. But the deal was repugnant to him. It wasn’t the killing part that bothered him. He had killed many in his lifetime and knew how to end a life quickly, with little pain to the victim; with mercy. But he had only killed to protect his people. To be handed a kill list went against every fiber of his essence. He would not be anyone’s killing machine.

  But he wanted Abby.

  Even if he ignored his conscience and agreed to Guiden’s terms, Abby would never forgive him. She would not accept him as an assassin.

  So he brooded and brooded and brooded.

  To get back to the teahouse on the earthly plane he needed to calm down. Otherwise the portal and the house would keep him out. He hoped all was well with Abby and the children who he had adopted in his heart, but he wouldn’t know until he saw them again. His situation infuriated him, but the only person he could really blame was himself. His temper and possessiveness had gotten the better of him.

  There had to be a reasonable explanation for why Abby was in Dante’s arms. There had to be, but every time he thought about it, he became angrier. Maybe he needed to think about the Christmas present he planned for Abby.

  Calm down, he said to himself over and over again as if it were a magic mantra, calm down. But being calm was not in his Viking nature.

  7

  I Wonder as I Wander

  As I wandered down to the docks I studied my surroundings. Silly really. I’d walked through Sunset Cove a million times and never looked at it so closely. Did I expect to see the angel sitting on a neighbor’s porch, or on a street light or tree?

  A soft snow fell, gracing the landscape with its beauty. A layer of pure white lay on the limbs of the green trees, as if they were iced by God. The salty air held an invigorating, crisp coldness. Winter sunlight shimmered over the scene, giving it a loving-warmth. Christmas lights decorated most of the houses, and their colors reflected in icicles hanging from the roofs. It didn’t just look perfect; it felt perfect, deeply perfect.

  Solemn, quiet, serene perfect. Soulful . . .

  Gosh, my thoughts were getting the better of me. I must have listened to too many Christmas carols. I shrugged off my seasonal joy and tried to focus on my job.

  Margaret’s café sat on Main Street across the road from the entrance to the docks. If you wanted to know anything in town, this was where you went, after you talked with Joy. Not the library, the church or the hair-dresser. Everyone in town visited Margaret’s at least once a week, if not once a day, and the biggest group of regulars were the people who spent time on the docks: the fishermen, charter operators and live-aboards. As I entered the restaurant the screen door, which was never removed for winter, banged closed behind me.

  Most of the Formica tables, circa 1950, were filled. People turned to nod at me, as was the custom. While there were many friends I could have sat with, I walked over to the table with the people who lived aboard their boats. If anything happened on the docks, they knew about it.

  Six sat at the table, some with half-eaten meals in front of them, most with just a coffee mug.

  “Well looky here. We got the ghost-lover joining us,” said Gary, a thirty-something computer jerk who had been asking me out for the last six months.

  “Hey, the rumor is she prefers a dead guy to you. You should give it up, Gary,” said Susan, who sat opposite him.

  They all looked at me expectantly.

  “I just wondered if anything unusual had happened down here?”

  They shrugged in unison and most of them returned to their meals. “More unusual than your teahouse?” asked Susan.

  “Just anything that seems odd.”

  “On a case?” asked Gary.

  “Something like that.” The mayor didn’t want me to alarm anyone by talking about the missing angel, but how the heck would I find something if I didn’t ask about it. I stood there for a minute, trying to figure out what to say.

  “How are the dock renovations going?”

  Old Ivan, a sourpuss of an old geezer with an opinion on everything and an opinion on that, thumped the table with his hand. “Not fast enough, Abby. That damn council takes our taxes fast, but they’re slow to honor their promises.”

  “Ignore him,” said Susan with a smile. “He’s just pissed because there was no hot water in the showers this morning.”

  “Oh, that would make me angry too.”

  “Third time this week,” said the old man.

  “Well, if anyone wants a hot shower they can come to my place. You know, Graystone Manor on Witch’s Peak,” I said without hesitation, when I knew I should be thinking it through. “You’d better pace the showers, though, because the hot water tank isn’t that big.” I had just replaced the old enormous one with a smaller one to reduce my electric bill. I bit my lip at the thought of how much my generosity might end up costing me. But it was Christmas and these people were my neighbours.

  Ivan looked up at me, assessing my sincerity with narrowed eyes. “I’ll take you up on that. When will you be home?”

  I checked my cell for the time. I wanted to help them, but I also needed to be out looking for the angel. “I’ve got a lot of errands to run. You know. It’s Christmas and all.”

  “So you’re taking away your offer?” Ivan shrank—I swear he shrank—into himself.

  “No. Here . . .” I fumbled in my purse. “Here’s a key. The last one out should leave it under the mat for me.”

  Now I had all their attention. I handed the key to Ivan, who nodded and smiled, which is a rare and heart-warming sight.

  “Just tell me, has anything weird happened around here?”

  “Only you opening your home to all of us,” said Susan.

  “Would you join me in the shower?” said Gary.

  I rolled my eyes and moved on to the next table. Thirty-minutes later I left the café with no news. I sent a text to Mayor Madison: “I’ve ruled out the dock people. Did you know they have no hot water in their showers? It was five degrees below zero last night.”

  I got an incoming Facebook message from Theo, the sign-guy from the SoC group: “If you’re free, come help make p
osters.” He listed his address, a house right on the water not far from where I stood.

  “On my way,” I replied.

  No point in waiting for Mayor Madison, the nose (or was it butt?) in-the-air politician, to reply. I headed over to protest haven on my quest for our stolen celestial being.

  The bungalow didn’t appear to be a gangster hangout. Probably built in the 1970s, it had seascape-blue wooden siding, bleached by the salty wind, with a deeper-blue metal roof. It had lots of windows facing the water and a front cedar deck which stretched its entire length, large enough to fit my Mini Cooper on. It had that cool beach-house look.

  Five people, of the granola persuasion, huddled around tables on the deck, clad in jeans, flannel shirts and hiking boots. I didn’t know any of them by name, but I had seen them around.

  They were so absorbed in their artwork they didn’t hear me approach. “Hi,” I said.

  They turned and all said, “Hi.” Three women, two men.

  “I came to help make signs.”

  “I haven’t seen you at any of our meetings,” said the first woman, a slender blonde about five foot five with brown eyes and blue paint smeared on her right cheek. “My name’s Lou.”

  I shook her hand and smiled. “I try not to be political, but something has to be done,” I said. Not knowing what, but figuring that statement would cover my ass.

  “Wait. Aren’t you the ghost lady? I’m Chris.” The man stood the tallest and had the posture of a leader. I shook his hand.

  “Ghost lady?” Nailed. I laughed. What else could I do?

  “I heard you’re a private detective too. I’m Ginger,” said a petite redhead with a warm smile. I shook her hand.

  “Okay, you got me. I’m the night janitor in the teahouse and, like the other employees there, I do my best to spread rumors about ghosts and such. I started a detective agency a few months ago to help me pay my bills. I’ve got three kids and I love mysteries.” I took a dramatic breath. “Now, what can I do to help?”