by J. R. Ripley
“Actually, it’s someone special,” I explained. “I’m here to see Mr. Finch.”
Her smile faded and her finger pointed toward the ceiling. “He’s in his office. You can go on up—if you dare.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing, dear. Never mind me.” She turned away.
I thanked her and headed for the narrow stairs. The old steps sagged under my weight as I climbed with trepidation to the second floor. Small windows to the outside had been cut into the stairwell. There was a short hallway to the right along which several doors were spaced. Each door was closed and held a sign clearly stating that the offices were private.
Unlike the rest of this house and every other house in the village, the second floor was unadorned and the contrast with the heavily decorated rooms below was jarring.
A smaller, steeper stairway along the left wall led upward to what must have been the living quarters.
I approached the nearest door. As I was about to knock, I heard voices. One was yelling, the other placating. I couldn’t understand a word but I understood the tone.
Somebody was mad.
This was probably not the best time to talk to Franklin Finch, but I was here now, so there was really nothing to do but get it over with. Besides, this was business, and he would be glad to hear that our order would be ready for him on time. I was also determined to try and play peacemaker. There had to be some way to work things out between Mr. Finch and the townspeople.
“He can’t be as bad as people make him out,” I softly assured myself.
I took a deep breath to settle my nerves, played over again in my mind what I wanted to say, and knocked.
A security guard opened the door and peered at me. His thick brows pulled together over his forehead. His dark brown eyes examined me from head to toe. This was the guard I’d seen at Mr. Finch’s side the morning of the first demonstration.
I squirmed uncomfortably.
“Can I help you, ma’am? This floor is off limits to shoppers.”
“Yes, uh, Max,” I said, reading his nametag. “I’m Amy Simms. I came to see Mr. Finch.”
Max scratched the side of his nose. “What about?” He had short black hair and tiny silver studs in each earlobe. The green and red tattoo of a snake of some sort started at the back of his right hand and disappeared up his sleeve.
“Let the woman in, Max. Let her tell me herself why she’s here.” It sounded like the odd security guard had two strikes against him on Mr. Finch’s scorecard already.
Max pushed the door open and stepped silently aside.
I poked my head through the open door. Franklin Finch sat behind a massive oak desk stacked high with papers and Christmas ornaments. “Mr. Finch?”
Finch made a face meant to indicate that I was wasting his valuable time. “Yes, yes. Come in. Come in.”
The new owner sat in a high-back wooden chair. His three-piece suit was black wool and his tie black silk.
Two intricately carved antique oak accent chairs, upholstered in shiny yellow-and-gold-striped fabric, faced the desk. The chair on the left had been laden down with stacks of paper-filled folders atop which a black overcoat had been tossed.
“You say your name is Simms?”
“Yes.” Up close, his brown eyes appeared even darker and his complexion more sallow, almost green. His hair was as black as a lump of coal. And was it my imagination, or did his nose look remarkably like the beak of one of his namesakes, the warbler finch, long, thin, and pointy? “You see, I—”
Mr. Finch held up a hand to stop me. “You can go, Max. Check on Leo.” He scanned a report in front of him. “Make sure he’s doing his job. I’ve had enough of all this mischief,” he added rather angrily.
“Yessir.” Max departed, leaving the door ajar.
Finch turned his attention back to me. “You’ll have to excuse Max. He’s young and he’s new.”
His lips curled as he eyed me curiously. “Are you here for a job? Have you ever worked sales?” Mr. Finch splayed his fingers out atop an olive-green blotter. “We’re taking applications. It’s the busy season, of course. Experience is preferred but not a requirement.”
“Yes, I mean, no.” Was he going to let me get a word in edgewise?
His lips turned down with annoyance. “Which is it?”
“I own Birds and Bees.”
Finch frowned. “I don’t understand. You own birds and bees? What does that mean? Are you trying to say you own pets?” He turned his attention to the hodgepodge of papers spread across his desk. “If you are not here for a job, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m really quite busy, miss.”
“No, Birds and Bees. It’s a store. It’s at the end of Lake Shore Drive near the marina. You must have seen it.”
He gave me a blank look.
“We don’t sell pets; we sell bird-feeding and bird-watching supplies, plus some items for butterflies, bees . . .” I cleared my throat. “And other wildlife.”
Mr. Finch looked across his desk at me, and he did not look impressed. “I fail to understand what that has to do with me. I’m selling Christmas.”
My hand was shaking as I fumbled with my purse. The man was making me nervous. “I have a contract with Christmas House Village. We’re providing birdseed Christmas ornaments for you. Eve Dunnellon and I worked out the arrangement this past summer.”
The new owner frowned. “Birdseed? Why on earth would I want to sell birdseed?”
My mouth went dry. “I have a copy of the contract.” I carefully removed the folded document from my purse and showed it to him.
Mr. Finch pulled a pair of reading glasses from his inside coat pocket and slipped them over his long nose. He took the contract from my trembling hand.
I watched his lips move as he silently read. After a moment, he removed his glasses and slipped them back in his pocket. He pushed the contract back toward me with his finger. “That is a contract with Kinley’s Christmas House Village,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Yes, I know,” I said, unsure where he was going with that statement.
“This,” he said, spreading his hands proudly, “as you may have noticed by the new signage, is Finch’s Christmas House Village.”
“I don’t understand . . .”
He smiled, revealing a row of uneven lower teeth. “Your contract is not valid, Ms. Simms. Now, if you will excuse me, I have other business to attend to.” He rose, crossed from behind his desk, and turned to leave.
I reached a hand out and held his arm. “But we had a deal.”
Finch shook his head. “No, we did not and we do not have a deal. Your deal was with Eve Dunnellon. Ms. Dunnellon is no longer with us.” He waved me out the office door. “And Kinley’s Christmas House Village no longer exists.”
I gathered my things and crossed to the door. I spotted Max, whom I thought long gone, leaning against the wall in the hallway. I stopped and turned resolutely. “Mr. Finch, I really wish you would reconsider—”
“I’ve made up my mind, Ms. Simms.” Mr. Finch fluttered his hand at me.
“Not about the ornaments, about Christmas House Village.”
He furled his brow. “What about Christmas House Village?”
“Don’t you think it would be nice to keep the original name, Kinley’s, and to keep all the loyal employees who have been working here?”
“Max!” shouted Mr. Finch. “I know you’re lurking out there!”
Max blushed and stuck his head in the doorway. “Sir?”
“Ms. Simms seems to be having some trouble leaving. Please see that she finds her way off the premises.” Mr. Finch looked at me rather pointedly as he added, “My premises.”
“It’s nearly Christmas, surely that means something to you!” I insisted.
The corners of Mr. Finch’s mouth turned down sharply. “I
t means profits, Ms. Simms. It means money in the bank. I invested heavily in Finch’s Christmas House Village and I intend to see a return on that investment.”
“Even at the expense of the people who helped make it what it is?”
His brow went up and he grinned an evil grin. “What it is, is mine. Mine to do with as I like.” He folded his hands atop his desk. “Which is precisely what I intend to do.”
Mr. Finch drilled the security guard with his eyes. Max tugged at his collar and stepped toward me.
I moved away. “Can I see your feet, Mr. Finch?” I snapped angrily.
“My feet? What do you want to see my feet for? What are you blathering about?” He pointed to his security guard. “Get her out of here, Max. I am losing my patience.”
“Because I’m just wondering if your shoes are too tight!”
Max stuck out his hand and I brushed it away. “Keep your hands to yourself, buster.”
The security guard shot Finch an odd look, then turned to me. “You heard the boss.”
I frowned. “I heard him, all right.” I stuffed the now useless contract in my purse and left.
6
“He really said that?” Derek removed a second slice of mushroom and artichoke pizza from the box and set it on his plate. I was still working on my first slice.
“Yes. Do you think I should sue?” It had been two days since Franklin Finch had practically thrown me out of his office, refusing to acknowledge our business arrangement. And I was still fuming.
“I don’t think that would be in your own best interests, Amy.” Derek grabbed the neck of his beer bottle and lifted it to his lips. “And lawyers can be expensive.”
I scooted nearer him on the sofa. “What? I don’t get the girlfriend discount?”
We were in Derek’s apartment sharing a pizza I’d brought over for dinner. I’d picked it up at Brewer’s Biergarten, which was located next door to Birds & Bees. The beer was an American blond ale called Bottled Blondie that had been created by Paul Anderson, one of the biergarten’s owners.
Derek didn’t have a kitchen table in his tiny apartment, so we ate our dinner on the sofa, using the coffee table to hold our food and drink.
Derek ran his hand along my thigh. “Of course you do. I just think the whole thing isn’t going to be worth the trouble. Let it go. Get on with your life.”
“I suppose,” I answered, frowning as I said it.
“Trust me,” he said, after taking a healthy bite of pizza. “You’ll feel better if you just let it go.”
“I suppose you’re right. My bump-free future’s getting bumpier by the minute.” I looked toward the window overlooking the street. It was dark outside and the lights of Finch’s Christmas House Village twinkled like magic fireflies. Unfortunately, something darker lurked beneath those lights.
“I only wish everybody in Ruby Lake could take your advice when it comes to Franklin Finch and Christmas House Village. The entire town would be better off forgetting all about Franklin Finch—as much as I dislike the rat—and getting on with their lives. Especially with Christmas just around the corner.” I frowned. “I haven’t seen any signs of tensions easing yet, though.”
Derek chuckled. “Give it time, Amy. Folks will come around.”
“I don’t know. Some of them are pretty mad. Kim told me that some of the old employees have accepted Finch’s offer and agreed to stay on for the thirty days to train their replacements, as much as they hated to, because they needed the money.”
“I agree. That’s low. But it’s not illegal.”
“It ought to be.” I bit into my now-cold slice and chewed thoughtfully. “I feel bad for them, training their own replacements. I don’t know what I would do in their places.”
A sidewalk Santa near the entrance to Christmas House Village moved his arm up and down, slowly ringing his silver bell. A large basket sat at his feet. As people dropped in donations, he handed out candy canes.
“Be thankful you own your own business.” Derek handed me a warm slice and I held out my plate.
“I am.” I glanced at the television. Derek was indulging my love of musicals by watching White Christmas with me. Rosemary Clooney and Bing Crosby had launched into “Count Your Blessings (Instead of Sheep),” written by Irving Berlin. “You’re right,” I said.
“I am?”
“Not you,” I said with a smile. “Him.” I pointed to the flat-screen television. “I need to count my blessings.” I leaned over and kissed his warm cheek. “Like you.”
“I’ll take that,” Derek answered, pulling me closer.
“Mmm, you’re nice and warm.” I pressed my side into his and crossed my left foot over my right ankle.
“I’d light a fire, but without a fireplace that could cause some serious damage,” Derek quipped.
“Very funny.” I noticed his bottle was empty. “Can I get you another beer?”
Derek started to rise. “No, I can get it.”
“I offered. Stay. I’ll be right back.” I rose and crossed in my stockinged feet to the galley kitchen. It being pizza-and-beer night, I’d dressed casually for our very casual date: blue jeans and a blue sweater with snowflakes on the front and back.
In the refrigerator, I found a row of beer bottles on the second rack and pulled out two. The bottle opener was on the coffee table.
“Your purse is ringing,” Derek said. He lifted it by its strap and handed it to me. I handed him the beers in exchange.
“I wonder who could be calling.” Everybody that mattered knew I was on a date. I dug out my phone and looked at the screen. “It’s Kim.”
I stepped away from the TV so my conversation with her wouldn’t disturb Derek—not that I was sure he cared. “Hi, Kim. What’s up?” I raised a finger to let Derek know that I’d only be a minute.
“Amy,” Kim whispered. “Where are you?”
Derek picked up the remote off the coffee table and hit the mute button. Next, he helped himself to another slice of pizza.
“That’s why you called? To ask where I am? You know where I am. I’m on a date with Derek.” I twirled a finger next to my ear and mouthed, “She’s crazy,” for Derek’s benefit.
He grinned and settled back on the sofa.
“So you’re at Derek’s apartment?”
“Yes. I am. Why?”
“Good. That’s good.” Kim’s voice was a shaky whisper.
“Why?” I asked. “Where are you?”
“Are you alone?”
“What? No, I’m not alone. I just told you. I am at Derek’s apartment. With Derek.” I rolled my eyes.
“Shh!” Kim admonished me. “I don’t want Derek to hear. I mean, maybe we should just keep this to ourselves.” There was a long pause.
“Kim?” I looked at my phone to see if we were still connected or if I’d lost her. “Are you still there?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m here.” A short pause. “Oh, Amy,” she sighed mysteriously, “I just don’t know what to do.”
“Kim,” I said, my heart now pounding with worry. I moved to the kitchen. “Tell me where you are.”
“I’m across the street.”
“Across the street?”
“At Christmas House Village.”
“Christmas House Village? Now?” I looked at the clock built into the stove. “It’s nearly closing time.” Christmas House Village closes at nine o’clock.
“I know that,” Kim whispered.
“What are you doing there? Shopping?” I walked to the window with my mobile phone pressed to my ear. “I don’t see you.” Most of the shoppers had gone for the evening and only a few people moved along the sidewalks of the village. Even the car traffic on Lake Shore Drive was light.
“Amy, please, listen to me. I need you to come to Christmas House Village.”
“What for?”
“Just come.” I heard a small flutter, then she added, “Now. Please.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. “Derek and I will grab our coats and—”
“No.” Kim cut me off. “Maybe you should come alone. Don’t tell Derek anything—yet.”
“I have to tell him something. He’s right here!”
Derek and I exchanged a look. “What’s going on?” he mouthed.
I threw my free hand in the air and shook my head helplessly.
“Tell him anything, Amy. Tell him your best friend is having a nervous breakdown and needs you!” Kim wailed.
“You mean tell him the truth.”
“This is no time for jokes. Hurry up. This is really creeping me out.”
Creeping her out? “Okay, sorry. I’ll be right down. Bye.” I started to end the call. “Wait!”
“Yes?”
“Where exactly are you?”
“Last house on the left. Elf House.”
“On the porch?”
There was a short pause. “Upstairs.”
“In the office?”
“No. I’m in Mr. Kinley’s, I mean, Mr. Finch’s apartment.”
“You’re with Finch? What’s going on? He’s not bothering you, is he?” The man was a jerk, but was he a cad?
“No. It’s nothing like that.”
“Are you sure? You’re not in any danger? Is he listening? If he is, you tell him—”
“I’m not in any danger,” Kim interrupted. “At least, I don’t think so.”
Yet she sounded afraid.
I looked across the street once more at Christmas House Village. The landmark Fraser fir was lit for the night and stood like a shiny spaceship ready for takeoff. The flames flickered in the antique streetlamps running along the sidewalk of Christmas House Village.
Inside each house, various types of Christmas lights twinkled like stars. The exterior of each house was decorated and lit as well.
And now my best friend was calling me from the apartment of the new owner. And she sounded like she’d gone bonkers. What the devil was going on?
“I’ll be right there.” I hung up the phone and slid it into my back pocket.
