How the Finch Stole Christmas

by J. R. Ripley

  We’d had a slight hiccough in our relationship before the holidays. I thought he had been keeping things from me. The truth was he had only been doing his job. He’d had a client whom I thought might be involved in a murder. When I found out later that this person had been Derek’s client and was innocent of any crime, I felt Derek should have told me up front.

  Of course, I was wrong.

  And I might have gotten mad. And I might have stormed off. But I prefer to rewrite history and remember it as nothing more than a bump in the road, the growing pains of any relationship.

  I had to get used to the fact that Derek, as an attorney, was sometimes privy to information that wasn’t for public consumption—even if that public was me and I really, really wanted the dirt.

  I took a look at the lunch menu and ordered the portabello melt and a diet lime soda. Behind me, a couple of men were throwing darts.

  Halfway through my melt, a manicured hand gripped my shoulder from behind and squeezed. “Hey, hey, hey. Look who’s here!”

  I turned and spat out a mouthful of mushroom, lettuce and brioche bun. “Craig?”

  “Hi, Amy.”

  I jumped to my feet and took a step back to be sure I wasn’t hallucinating. “Craig, what are you doing here?”

  In front of me stood Public Enemy Number One. Well, Amy Simms Enemy Number One—with a bullet.

  Craig Bigelow was my ex-boyfriend. He and his cheating ways had played a big part in my decision to return to Ruby Lake.

  It was bad enough that he and his partner, Paul Anderson, had opened Brewer’s Biergarten not only in my hometown, but right next door to me, now Craig was standing right in front of me.

  As was his custom, he was wearing black designer jeans and a black t-shirt, neatly tucked, of course, and a black leather belt with a silver buckle. Up close, I caught a whiff of his cologne: eau de lying scum.

  A member of the biergarten’s cleanup crew scooted between the two of us with a dustpan and broom and swept up my mess.

  “Sorry,” I muttered to the industrious young man.

  “Paul’s on vacation. Didn’t he tell you?” Craig was smirking in a major way. He took a step in my direction as if threatening me with a one-armed hug. His right hand held a foaming beer mug.

  I pulled back further, almost getting clipped in the cheek by a passing dart that flew by like a missile or some exotic insect far from its Amazon rain forest home.

  “Sorry, lady!” its thrower called.

  “Yes, he told me.” I planted my hands on my hips. I was even watching his black and tan hound dog, Princess, for him while he was away. “He also told me that he had somebody coming in to manage the business while he was gone.”

  Gone being a three week trip to the Bahamas. And, no, I wasn’t jealous, I merely hated him for his good fortune.

  “That’s me.” Craig thumped his chest with his thumb.

  “Whatever.” There was nothing I could do about it anyway. Except kill Paul for not warning me about Craig’s arrival. The big chicken.

  “Don’t think for a minute that you are going to be staying in Paul’s apartment though.” Like, I said, Paul rented an apartment on the second floor of my house. A few months back, I’d allowed Craig to share that space for a day or two, against my better judgment.

  I wasn’t about to repeat the mistake.

  “Don’t think for a minute that I intend to,” Craig replied. “We rented a house.”

  “We?” I furrowed my brow.

  “Hi!” A perky woman with perky breasts appeared from the doorway leading to the restrooms and oozed up alongside my ex-boyfriend. Dark jeans clung to perfect legs and a white cashmere sweater laid across her chest like snow atop the peaks of the Alps.

  I began to frown. It was the bimbo blonde, the latest long-legged, curvy cutie with whom Craig had cheated on me last before I caught him and dumped him.

  Okay, so she was a redhead and had a master’s degree in psychology. She was still a bimbo in my book. I mean, anybody with a master’s in psychology ought to know better than to get involved with a lying, two-timing, two-faced, cheating bit of scum like Craig “the gigolo” Bigelow.

  Her name was Candy something.

  Craig snaked his arm around her impossibly narrow waist. “You remember Cindy.”

  Cindy, Candy, the whole scene was as sickeningly sweet as the girl ten years younger than Craig and attached to him now at the hip.

  “Hello, Cindy.” I shook the hand she offered. It was younger, healthier, and better manicured than my own. While her nails were shiny and pink, mine had birdseed crud under them from rooting around in the seed bins earlier and the nails themselves looked like my manicure had been performed by a one-eyed grackle. “I hear you’ll be staying in Ruby Lake a while.”

  Candy, or Cindy, bobbed her head excitedly. I noticed that the middle two fingers of each of her hands held shiny rings. If I wasn’t mistaken, that one on the left with the big diamond was an engagement ring. Was Craig getting married?

  “Isn’t it great?” Cindy rubbed up against Craig. What was she, part cat?

  Cindy’s layered locks were parted down the middle. Her eyes were blue with a hint of silver-gray. Her nose was so pert that I’m sure a lesser ex-girlfriend than I would have wanted to take a poke at it.

  Unlike Craig, her skin was fair; where he was of the tall, dark and, yes I admit it, handsome variety. Craig has deep brown hair, cut short and he has dimples, too, most evident when he smiles, which he likes to do. A lot.

  “We rented a house and everything,” Cindy explained. “It’s up in the mountains and looks straight down on the town.”

  “Wow.” I was impressed that Craig was willing to spend a few bucks for one of the higher end vacation rentals. A house with a view like that could not have come cheap.

  Then again, this was winter. It could have come dirt cheap. “What house is it?”

  “It’s called the Usher house.” Craig squeezed his main squeeze’s hand.

  I began to smile. “The Usher house?”

  “That’s right, Amy.” Cindy drew a lock of long red hair across her face. “You should come visit sometime. Hey!” Her face brightened and I squinted in the glare of all those big white teeth. “You could be our first dinner guest!” She turned to Craig. “Right, honey bear?”

  “Sure.” Craig cracked a smile. “We’d love to have you. Bring Kim, too.”

  “I’m sure she’d love that,” I said with a soupçon of sarcasm. I’d caught him ogling Kim on more than one occasion the last time he’d slithered into town.

  “Who is Kim?” Cindy asked.

  “Amy’s best friend,” explained Craig. “In fact, bring that other guy. What was his name?” He snapped his fingers thrice. “Dirk?”

  “His name is Derek, Craig. Derek Harlan.”

  “Right, him.” He planted a kiss of Cindy’s cheek. “I’ll call you and we’ll set something up.”

  “I’ll be looking forward to it,” I said with a pasted on grin. “Honey Bear.”

  Not.

  “My lunch hour’s up.” It really wasn’t but my appetite was shot and I’d spit half my lunch on the floor. “I need to head next door.”

  Craig turned to Cindy. “Amy’s got a little bird store.”

  “Ooh,” Cindy exclaimed. “I love birds.”

  “That would explain your attraction to birdbrains,” I replied.

  “Excuse me?” Cindy blinked.

  Craig squeezed Cindy’s hand. “It was a joke, honey.”

  “Oh.” Cindy grinned.

  I threw some money on the table and left.

  The joke was on Craig. Two jokes, actually. Because, number one, I was never in this lifetime going to accept that offer. And, number two, everybody in town knew that the Usher house was haunted.

  About the Author

>   In addition to writing the Bird Lover’s mystery series, J.R. Ripley is the critically acclaimed author of the Maggie Miller mysteries and the Kitty Karlyle mysteries (written as Marie Celine) among other works. J.R. is a member of the American Birding Association, the American Bird Conservancy, and is an Audubon Ambassador with the National Audubon Society. Before becoming a full-time author, J.R. worked at a multitude of jobs including: archaeologist, cook, factory worker, copywriter, technical writer, editor, musician, entrepreneur and window washer. You may visit jrripley.net. for more information or visit J.R. on Facebook at facebook.com/jrripley.