Christmas Magic

by Andrea Edwards

  Casey stood up. “Well, have I been cleared?”

  “For now,” he said.

  “Uh-oh, that sounds ominous.” Those green eyes sparkled with laughter, drawing him closer in spirit if not body. “And—”

  The broken back door swung open as two Berrien Springs cops pushed it in. Oh lordy. Mike had forgotten all about his call for backup. And of course the cops had to be Ben Williams and Ed Kramer—guys he’d served with in the army. If they found out he’d thought Casey and her cats were part of a burglary ring, they’d never let him live this down.

  “What’s up, Mike?” Ed asked. “We got a call you had a break-in. Sure it wasn’t the ghost?”

  “Ghost? There really is a ghost?” Casey asked, looking from the cops to Mike.

  “No, there isn’t,” Mike snapped. “It’s just an old wives’ tale.”

  “I don’t know. Some old stories have a lot of truth in them,” Ben said. “And it is getting close to Christmas. Maybe old Simon’s out looking for Priscilla, like he always does this time of the year.” He turned back to examine the door. “Although I don’t think he did this. As I understand it, ghosts float through walls and stuff.”

  “Mike did that,” Casey explained. “Who’s old Simon?”

  “Just someone who lived here years back,” Mike told her quickly, hoping to get the two officers out before they got too curious.

  “Mike did that?” both cops chorused, bewilderment filling their faces.

  Damn. It was probably too late. “Look, the whole thing was a mistake. It was nothing. Get out of here and go back to serving and protecting.”

  “Mike just thought I was a burglar—me and my cats.”

  Ed smirked at Mike. “A ring of cat burglars, Mike?”

  “They do look purrty dangerous,” Ben said.

  “You guys are really funny,” Mike snapped. Yeah, it had been dumb, but did they have to make sure she realized just how dumb? He introduced Casey to the two officers. “I wasn’t expecting anyone and I saw Gus pinned down by these cats…”

  “Gus was pinned down?” Both cops graduated from smirk to loud laughter.

  Dammit, he didn’t need this, Mike thought. Not when he was falling asleep on his feet. “Gus hates cats,” he insisted.

  The cops only laughed more, while Casey turned to frown at Mike.

  “That’s nonsense,” she said. “He’s a great big fuzzy bundle of love. He wouldn’t hate anybody.” She blew a kiss at the dog.

  A flash of pure annoyance washed over Mike, taking him unawares and making him nauseated and sweaty. This was absolutely nuts. It was his cold. It was exhaustion. It was the pure-and-simple fact that this woman didn’t belong here. He and Gus lived alone, always did, always would. There had to be another way to protect her from whatever mysterious danger was threatening her.

  “Well, I guess we’d better get going,” Ed said, once he could stop laughing. “Be sure to call us if either you or Gus gets pinned down by your burglars again.” More hysterical laughter as they went to the door.

  Ben turned before he followed Ed out. A frown had replaced the humor on his face. “Uh, Susie wanted me to tell you—”

  Mike just waved him off. “I know about Darcy.”

  Ben’s expression cleared as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He glanced from Mike to Casey and back again. “Looks like it don’t matter anyhow. Later, man.”

  He left, though he didn’t close the door too solidly. It swung open and let in a blast of cold air seasoned with wet snow. Mike picked up a chair and, fighting the urge to throw it at the door, just wedged it under the knob to hold the door closed. At least the draft stopped. The knowledge that he’d acted like an idiot continued to eat at him, though.

  “You look awful,” Casey said. “Sit down and I’ll get you some dinner. We can talk about all this later.”

  He was exhausted and had a doozy of a cold, but her words lit a fast-burning fuse. He wasn’t some little kid who had to be coddled; he was a man, a cop, someone who did the taking care of. Someone his great-aunt had assigned to protect this intruder.

  “You don’t need to get me anything,” he said as he took his jacket off. “I called in a pizza order when I was just outside of town. It should be here any minute.”

  “Oops.” She looked worriedly at him. “I sent it away.”

  She’d sent it away? Mike put his jacket on the table and slowly sat down, hoping against hope that he’d misunderstood what she’d just said. “You sent my large cheese, sausage, hamburger, green peppers and onion pizza away?”

  “How was I supposed to know you’d ordered it?” she asked, hanging his jacket over a chair. “Besides, soup will be better for you. It’ll give you a good dose of liquids and it’s full of vegetables.”

  He just stared at her, the scent of the soup penetrating his cold. “It smells like herbal tea,” he muttered darkly. The day was going from bad to worse to disaster.

  Casey sniffed the air for a moment and then turned back, smiling. “You’re right. It does.”

  And herbal tea smelled like boiled sweat socks, he wanted to scream. But he didn’t. His mother had raised a gentleman, so he just looked grimly down at the noxious mess Casey was putting before him. She set a plate of warm bread on the table, and then another bowl of soup, before sitting down herself.

  Mike transferred his frustration to Gus, who still had that stupid grin on his face, as if the two cats were his long-lost siblings.

  “Damn it,” Mike snapped. “He really does hate cats. He always has. What did you do to him?”

  Casey just laughed. “Nothing. I think it’s the cats. They have that effect on everybody. They carry an aura of harmony with them wherever they go.”

  Mike sipped at his soup. It didn’t taste nearly as bad he’d expected. With the fresh bread, it was almost good. “So where do you find cats that ooze harmony into the atmosphere?” he asked. “This some special kind of breed?”

  “I got Snowflake from the shelter I worked at,” Casey said. “And I found Midnight out in a parking lot one night a couple of years ago.”

  “Oh.” Mike looked back down at his dog. “I found Gus running loose on I-94 about a year and a half ago. I think somebody just dumped him there.”

  Casey was suddenly reaching across the worn table to take his hand. “We’re both old softies. I knew you were a kindred spirit.”

  The touch of her fingers on his felt too soft, too warm, too wonderful. He pulled his hand away abruptly and got back to the business of eating. He wished his great-aunt had given him some specifics about the danger Casey was in. He had the feeling he wasn’t supposed to talk about it, but in most of these cases, it was a husband or boyfriend—ex or current—that was the threat. Maybe Mike could get a hint from her.

  “So tell me about yourself,” he said. “What are you studying?”

  “I’d much rather talk about the ghost,” she said. “Have you ever seen him?”

  “There is no ghost. It’s just a stupid old story that’s been around forever.”

  “But all stories, especially old ones, have some foundation in fact”

  “From people who want an explanation for a house that creaks and groans and has doors that pop open by themselves. Anyway, how are you going to go about writing this family history?”

  “There has to be more to the ghost than that,” she said. “Hasn’t someone seen him?”

  Mike grimaced. He thought this ghost rumor was idiotic. Why was everyone so drawn to it? “There’s no ghost,” he said. “Cold drafts aren’t all that rare, even in the summer. Lights reflect off mirrors and windows and end up in odd places. And so can sounds.”

  “You’re a pragmatist.”

  “I’m a realist,” he corrected. “Give me cold hard facts and I’ll believe.”

  “You only believe in what you can see?” she asked. “What about stuff like truth and beauty and love?”

  How had they gotten on this road? And how was he going to get the conve
rsation back to the danger she was in? “Truth is fact. Beauty is totally dependent on a subjective standard,” he said. “And love is nothing more than a hormonal reaction.”

  She looked as if she’d picked up a live electrical wire. “Does your girlfriend know you define love that way?”

  “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “But I suppose your boyfriend has a better definition.”

  “He wouldn’t be my boyfriend if he didn’t.” She went back to her soup, not volunteering any more information.

  Mike ate for a few minutes, stewing silently—but over her lack of information, not over the fact that she had a boyfriend. And he could just picture him…

  “Let me guess what he’s like,” he said suddenly. “Big, hulking guy. Ex-football player with a smooth line and a fast car. And a quick temper.”

  Casey burst into laughter. He might have enjoyed the sweet, soft sound of it if he wasn’t so sure she was laughing at him. “Hardly,” she said after a minute, once she could talk again. “Melvin’s only a little taller than me and very thin. He doesn’t drive and I have never seen him impatient, let alone angry.”

  Mike just stared at her. At the fiery color of her hair and the dancing light in her eyes. At the soft curves her sweatshirt enhanced. And he felt his blood boil.

  “That’s what you like in a man?” he scoffed. “Although that may be stretching the definition of man a bit.”

  Her laughter fled. “You have no right to say that! Melvin’s sweet.”

  “Sweet?” Mike spat the word out. “A real man’s not sweet.”

  “Have you asked Darcy about that?” She looked stricken even as the words echoed in the air around them, and she reached over to cover his hand with hers. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  He snatched his hand back as if her touch burned. “It’s all right,” he said, and went back to his soup. “As I said before, Darcy’s not anybody that matters.”

  “I still shouldn’t have said it. I do that all the time—say stuff without thinking, I mean. Then I end up apologizing all over the place. I can’t believe how often I’ve hurt Melvin’s feelings accidentally.”

  “Melvin’s a jerk,” Mike snapped.

  “Boy, have you got your jeans in a knot,” Casey said, sitting back with a frown. “I’m glad that I’m staying in the apartment over the garage.”

  “You’re what?”

  “Your aunt said there was a nice little apartment over the garage where I could stay.”

  He sighed and for a brief moment considered letting her stay there, along with whatever other critters had taken up residence in the apartment. It would be better for him in the long run. But he couldn’t do that. She needed his protection, and that meant she needed to be here.

  “No one’s lived there for ages,” Mike said. “It’s in horrible shape. As in unfit for human habitation.”

  “I’ve probably slept in worse.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “So I’ll just unroll my sleeping bag in a spare bedroom for tonight,” she said. “Tomorrow we’ll look at the garage apartment.”

  “Tomorrow you’ll see that I’m right.”

  “I’m beginning to get a clue why you’re girlfriendless.”

  “I’m alone because I like it that way,” he said. “Now would you make your cats release my dog?”

  “Maybe old Simon has him in a trance.” But Casey bent over the cats. “Snowflake, Midnight. Come on, let the puppy up.”

  “He’s not a puppy,” Mike said wearily. “He’s a big…dog.” He wanted to say “big, mean dog,” but what was the use? Nothing was what it was supposed to be tonight. Gus was suddenly a pussycat; Mike was turning into one himself.

  “Want another bowl of soup?” Casey asked.

  “No, thank you,” he said firmly. “I’ve had a long day and I’m going to hit the sack.”

  Aunt Myrna wanted him to protect this woman and he would. He’d even protect her cats. He’d protect Gus. In fact, he’d protect the whole damn world. But he had to get away from her so he could think.

  “So what do you think, Snowflake? Feel any ghostly vibes?”

  Casey and the cats were in the spare bedroom, down the hall from Mike’s room. The white cat was stretched across the foot of the sleeping bag, watching Casey, while Midnight was curled up asleep on her lap. “I’d be willing to bet there is one. I’ve never felt a house with so much unhappiness in it.”

  Of course, that could be due to the present occupant, not a former one who’d hung around for a few extra decades.

  “I don’t think Mike would have been pleased if he’d known I met his aunt at a lecture I was giving,” she told the white cat. “Or that it was about family ghosts. I suspect he’s a firm nonbeliever.”

  Midnight sat up suddenly, staring off toward the closed door. Casey took advantage of the chance to stretch her legs under her flannel nightgown. This was her fourth family history, and like the others, it included rumors of a ghost. She’d taken on the first project as something to do over a summer after she’d broken up with yet another boyfriend, preferring the stories of people long gone over the messiness of present relationships.

  Maybe it was that newspaper clipping in her wallet, the one she’d found back in her high-school days while researching a report. One of these days she was going to have the sense to throw it out, or the courage to see it through. If she could dig into other people’s families, why her reluctance to dig into her own? Dad had always been open about her adoption; he wouldn’t mind if she looked for her birth mother.

  Midnight walked over to where Snowflake lay and began to groom the other cat, so Casey leaned back against the wall. It was stupid to let the little piece of paper get in the way all the time. But every time someone wanted to get close, all she could think of was that clipping and what it said about her mother. And in turn, about herself. What if—

  Both cats stiffened suddenly, then shot over to the bedroom door just as Casey heard a shuffling in the hall, along with a low moan. She was right behind them, pulling the door open. The hallway was empty, except for Gus sitting in Mike’s open doorway. It was also dark, despite the light spilling out from her door.

  The cats moved off into the shadows, with Gus following them, as Casey glanced back at Mike’s door. It was open, and she could hear his steady, even breathing coming from it. She hurried back into her room for her thick woolly robe and slipped it on as she went over to Mike’s room.

  “Mike,” she whispered. He would know if it was the ghost.

  The even breathing stopped suddenly. “What? What’s the matter?” he asked quickly. “Is something wrong?”

  “It’s probably nothing,” she said. “But I heard this noise…”

  There was a muttered expletive and some rustling, then suddenly he was at the door. Sweatpants covered his lower half, leaving his muscled chest uncovered. And leaving no doubt in Casey’s mind as to why he was Mr. March. Hell, with those biceps, he should have been Mr. All Year, or Mr. Decade.

  “Stay here,” he said brusquely, and slipped silently toward the stairs.

  She forced her eyes away from his body to discover he had his gun in his hand. “What are you doing?” she asked, rushing after him. “The ghost was up here.”

  “There is no ghost,” he hissed, and paused at the top of the stairs to whisper his dog’s name. Gus was at his side in a second. “Now stay up here!” Mike ordered. He and Gus crept down the stairs.

  This was absolutely nuts. She hurried down after Mike, almost running into him in the dark on the landing. “But the noises were up here. A scuffing noise and then a kind of moan.”

  “Will you stay upstairs?” he hissed again.

  Light from the streetlights spilled in through the landing windows, showing a scarred patch on Mike’s right shoulder when he turned. Even in the dim light it looked angry and red—a smoldering fire amid the snow. Without thinking, Casey reached out and t
ouched it lightly.

  “What happened?” she whispered.

  He flinched away from her touch as if it was painful. “Nothing,” he snapped. “It came that way. Now, will you go back upstairs?”

  She hadn’t hurt him, not with her touch, she was sure of that. But she’d felt pain under her fingertips nonetheless. Not about to make matters worse, though, she turned and climbed back up to the second floor, where she sat on the top step. The stairway was open, with just an oak banister on her right, but she could see nothing on the first floor, only darkness.

  Snowflake came over and butted Casey’s hand with her head until she began to pet her. Midnight climbed into her lap, stretching up to place her head under Casey’s chin.

  “Why can’t I keep my big mouth shut?” she whispered into Midnight’s fur. From down below, she heard the sounds of Mike checking out the house. “I’m always saying the wrong thing.”

  Snowflake purred loudly enough to chase away any spirits, but not enough to make Casey’s gloom disappear. She was here to write a family history. She didn’t need to know anything about Mike’s scars or his life or who Darcy was.

  Mike was coming back upstairs. Gus raced ahead of him to sniff at the cats, then give Casey a big sloppy kiss on her cheek. By that time, Mike was standing in front of her. She didn’t need to see him to feel his frown.

  “Everything looks snug downstairs,” he said.

  “I told you the noise was up here,” she said. “I think it was Simon.”

  “The day Simon shows up is the day I win the lottery.”

  “Better check your numbers then,” she said, and got to her feet. “I think he’s here and so do my cats.”

  “Your cats see ghosts?” He was laughing at her.

  “So did Gus.”

  “Gus did not.” Mike wasn’t laughing anymore. “He doesn’t believe in such things.”

  “Oh, just because you don’t, he’s not allowed to?” Casey started back to her room. “Interesting.”

  “He doesn’t believe because he’s got some sense.”

  Casey spun around to face him at the doorway to the spare bedroom. “And believing in the possibility of ghosts means I don’t?”