Patricia was standing next to a table full of pink and orange coffee cups. Her usually perfect ponytail had come loose and strands of hair hung around her face.
"Thanks," I said, accepting the bag. "I don't suppose there's anything I could get for you. A book, or—"
I stopped and looked down at the many coffee cups on the table.
"Do you need help?" I asked, realizing that Patricia was likely overwhelmed.
"Oh, I just need to deliver these," Patricia said. "They're Secret Santa presents, so, of course, the buyers can't deliver them themselves. I volunteered to deliver them when they were purchased, but I didn't realize there would be so many." She closed her eyes and sighed.
"I can take some of them."
Patricia shook her head. "Oh, no, I couldn't—"
"I don't have to open the shop for another hour," I explained, glancing down to read the names on the cups. "And I have to go to PRoVE anyway."
"You do?" Patricia asked, eyes wide with relief.
"Yes," I said, grabbing the carrier with the cups. "I have to ask Thomas a question."
That wasn't a lie. I still wondered how the holiday cards had gotten into the box. I could swing by PRoVE, deliver the coffees, and interrogate Thomas about it, and still get back in time to open up the store.
"Thank you," Patricia said. "As I said before, you're a life saver."
"It's not a problem at all," I assured her, putting the library book under the carrier for additional stability. It was not the most stable arrangement, what with the croissant bag, the book, and the coffee carrier, but it would have to do. Luckily, the PRoVE building wasn't too far.
Then I glanced around the room. "I don't suppose you need some holiday magic around this place, do you?"
Patricia frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"
"Um, like maybe a candle or something?"
"A candle?" Patricia stared at me, baffled.
"Never mind," I said, opening the door. "Bye."
So much for that idea.
Chapter Five
"HOLIDAY CARDS?" Thomas asked, smiling as he accepted the coffee. "No, we don't keep haunted holiday cards."
We were in the foyer of PRoVE headquarters, a lavishly decorated space with burnished wood floors, Gothic wallpaper, and Houdini memorabilia on the walls. The table displayed brochures for the organization's various ghost tours, one of which announced a 20 percent discount for large groups.
The decor matched the Second Empire exterior of the large house perfectly, down to the green and purple paint job, and the building looked exactly like you would expect the headquarters of a paranormal investigations group to look—spooky, but friendly and eccentric.
And, yet, I always had the feeling that PRoVE was much more than just a group of kooky ghost hunters.
Thomas, in particular, seemed to know—or maybe intuit—more than a regular mortal, and I'd always wondered what lay behind the all-too-mundane facade.
But the act was pretty convincing right now. He was dressed in black jeans and a PRoVE t-shirt, just like the rest of the PRoVE staffers walking through the foyer, waiting to pick up their cups of coffee.
"Hey, this one has artificial sweetener," Thomas said, handing a cup to Gus.
"Perfect," the burly cameraman replied gratefully. "We're in the middle of what is shaping up to be a twenty-four-hour video editing session, and this has restored my will to live."
Well, that explained the Secret Santa coffee run.
The PRoVE members moved on, leaving Thomas holding a single coffee cup. Apparently, the cards did not belong to PRoVE and Thomas did not inadvertently leave them in the cupcake box.
I should have left to go start work.
But I didn't.
"Are you sure?" I asked, trying to extend the conversation.
He laughed. "We donated all our Sergeant Atwell materials to the library. So, no, they aren't ours. What do they look like?"
"A winter landscape with a tree and a star," I replied.
"Sounds appropriate to the genre," Thomas said. "The Victorians were not known for their creativity. Did the cards look old?"
"They looked appropriately aged," I responded, recalling the yellowing paper and worn edges. "Why?"
"I wonder if the cards are fake," Thomas said. "The dates are all wrong."
"Dates?"
"The first Victorian holiday card was made in London in 1845. They were mass produced in England while the Civil War raged in the United States, but the first American holiday card wasn't printed until long after the war ended in 1875. However, Sergeant Atwell died in 1864 after incurring grievous battle wounds."
"So, those can't be his cards?"
"They could be," he said with a shrug. "He was a wealthy, well-traveled man. He could have traveled to England before the war and obtained the cards there."
"Oh, good," I said, relieved that I hadn't given Holly a bunch of fake cards. She'd said she would have them authenticated. Hopefully, that would confirm that they were the real deal.
Thomas scratched his head. "But that would make them the first Christmas cards in the United States, which would be quite a find. Maybe we should claim them as ours. They would fill out our budget nicely."
I raised a brow. "They're worth significant money?"
"The first American Christmas cards, sent out by a famous Civil War soldier right before he died? I'd say they're worth a fortune. They only thing that could make them more valuable is if they were addressed to Abigail."
"Who's Abigail?" I asked, wishing I'd checked the name on top of the cards. Unfortunately, I'd been too focused on the signature.
"The girl he had just married," Thomas said. "He died right before his son was born, and she mourned him for the rest of her life. The tragic love story is part of what makes him such a popular ghost."
"I see," I said, even though I didn't, not really. Tragic love stories were not that appealing to me. The Magical Curiosity Shoppe had too many of those.
Thomas chuckled. "I know. I don't understand it either. However, I do get tons of questions about it during our February ghost tours, so there must be some interest."
Our eyes met and we both laughed.
"And the romance is still popular," Thomas said, still smiling. "So the library lucked out with those cards. Although I doubt Holly would ever sell them. She's very protective of the library's ghostly patrimony."
No, Holly would never part with the cards. They were safe in the library, no matter what supernatural weirdness afflicted them.
"And there's the library spell too," Thomas said.
"The what?" I asked.
"The library has protective charms that keep the collection safe," Thomas said. "It's impossible to steal an item. The books and magazines always return, and even the pens come back. Oh, and the promotional flyers don't get picked up. That's very frustrating for us." He paused. "I guess I should have said that it's rumored to have protective charms. Some people don't believe in them."
But his tone indicated that he wasn't in that camp.
I wasn't either. The library's charms sounded very much like the magic in my shop. But if that was the case, how had the cards gotten into the cupcake box? Had the Magical Curiosity Shoppe trumped the library charms?
I'd hoped Thomas would be able to help me figure that out. What did the vision mean? How could the cards possibly hurt Archie?
I felt a sudden urge to confide my worries to Thomas, but wouldn't that sound crazy? Hey, I don't mean to accuse the Christmas Cards unfairly, but I think they're planning to murder someone. How do you think they might do that?
It really did sound insane.
Which was why I hadn't confided in anyone in millennia. I kept to myself, and I should probably keep it that way.
"Well, it's time for me to go," I said. "I have to get to work."
"And I should get back to the editing." He raised the remaining cup of coffee. "Don't forget this."
"Oh, it's not—"
; But he just turned the cup around, and, sure enough, my name was written on it, followed by the drink contained: Frozen Frankenccino.
I accepted the cup, frowning. "But you need it more than I do."
"Nah," he said. "I'm not into the sugary drinks. Enjoy it."
Then he headed back to the PRoVE studios.
I walked out of the building carrying the book, my croissant, and my coffee cup. Balancing everything was a little tricky, but my shop wasn't that far away. I was sure I could make it.
At least I knew who my Secret Santa was, and he had provided me with breakfast. It was very sweet, and I was thrilled that he had remembered my favorite coffee drink. Holly was right. It was the thoughtfulness that mattered.
Which again raised the question of what I would get for Patricia.
Thomas had been lucky. He had been able to obtain his present from Patricia. I, on the other hand—
That train of thought was derailed as I tripped and lost my grip on the various items I'd been carrying. The book fell first, followed by the croissant bag. I managed to keep my grip on the precious coffee cup with only a slight spill, but everything else tumbled to the ground.
I sighed. The shop was only a few feet away. I'd almost made it.
I cursed under my breath as I bent down to pick up the croissant bag. Once I ascertained that my breakfast was still edible, I turned to get the library book, which had fallen on the sidewalk, wide open.
The pages fluttered in the early morning breeze, revealing the antique holiday cards stuck inside.
My litany of curses encompassed several dead languages, but it was all in vain. Of course the cards were back. I, more than anyone, knew the power of the Magical Curiosity Shoppe. If an item belonged in the shop, it would end up there, no matter what I, or any library ghost, tried to stop it.
And then it would leave, carried away by some unlucky soul.
There was no way to stop it.
Was there?
Chapter Six
"NOT THAT I care, but are you okay?" Bubo asked.
"Medium," I said as I opened the box that held the Eye of Agathor. "Why do you ask if you don't care?"
"You just gave me an exceedingly yummy cheese croissant," the cat said, eyes narrowed. "This is very unlike you. You don't like to share the human food. I want to know how your mood can be recreated."
"I'm feeling generous today," I said, taking the Eye out of the box.
"I hope you are also feeling skeptical," Bubo added, giving the stone a scathing look. "You know that pebble isn't reliable. It's whimsical, doesn't even try to be honest. And it shows a future, not necessarily the future."
"That's what I'm hoping," I replied, examining the jewel in my hand.
The stone was still dull and dark, and would likely be uncooperative. No matter, anything would help at this point.
I closed my hand over the stone and concentrated.
And nothing happened.
Oh, the Eye was being stubborn now. It wasn't above holding grudges.
"C'mon," I muttered. "You can't just show me a corpse and leave it at that. There has to be more."
Bubo snorted. "Of course it can leave it at that. That's its specialty."
I started to reply, but then the dark lifted and an image appeared. It was Archie, the young man in the candy cane sweater. He was in a hospital, lying on a bed with tubes everywhere. I wasn't too familiar with the medical practices of this time period, but the image looked encouraging. There were beeping machines around him and lots of lights flashing. That, presumably, meant he was still alive. If he were dead, everything would be quiet. I smiled; surely this was good news.
But my heart sank as I realized that this was a much younger Archie. The boy on the bed was, at best, in his late teens.
I sighed and put the stone back in the box.
"Let me guess," Bubo said. "Completely useless, as usual."
I put the box in the drawer and slammed it shut. "You are not wrong."
I scanned the shop, trying to figure out where I could hide the cards. Archie would, no doubt, be dropping by soon. Customers always returned to the Magical Mystery Shoppe, coming back as many times as needed to complete their purchase. The drawers wouldn't work, as they weren't secure. The books on the back shelf were also bad choices, as the library book had amply proven. I could try hiding the cards behind the dolls, but those girls were frivolous. They'd throw the cards on the floor as a lark. The unicorn was out because Charlie kept inspecting it.
"Heads up," Bubo said, peering out the window. "He's coming back."
I hurriedly grabbed the library book and ducked behind the counter. I pulled on a drawer, desperately trying to find a hiding place, but the drawer was stuck. It was useless to fight the shop. As the door opened, I did the only think I could think of.
I put the book on my stool and sat on it.
Just in time too, because the door opened and Archie walked in.
He was still wearing the ill-fated candy cane sweater and khaki pants, and he looked just as intent as the day before.
"I found some samples," he said, waving a sheaf of papers.
"That's, er, great," I said, wondering what he was referring to. Samples of what? And what was he expecting me to do about it?
He took a booklet out of his messenger bag, opened it, and put it on the counter. It was the Haunted History of Banshee Creek pamphlet, complete with a foreword by Caine Magnusson, President and CEO of PRoVE. Archie opened the pamphlet to the chapter on the town library and its resident ghost, and he was pointing at a picture with some documents. They were forms and official correspondence, and looked very old.
"Those are military documents," Archie said, his voice rising with excitement. "You can see his signature here."
He pointed to some spidery writing at the bottom of the first paper. I noted glumly that it was identical to the writing on the holiday cards.
"If you see anything like this come in, please call me. It's very important," he said.
There was a sheaf of papers in the back of the book. He searched through them and took out a small card.
"Here's my number," he said. "I have to leave now because the Haunted Virginia Tours bus is waiting, but you can call me anytime."
I reluctantly took the card. "Sure, but I don't think—"
"I know," he said with a sad smile. "You don't think anyone will bring anything like that." He shrugged. "But I just have this feeling that someone will. I can't explain it, but first I thought I would find the cards in the library, but now I think they will show up in this store."
I winced at his words. It wasn't the first time I'd heard someone claim to have a "feeling" about an item.
"I'll keep an eye out," I said with profound insincerity.
"Thank you," he said, breaking out into a smile. "I know I'll find them. I just know it."
Then he put his booklet back in his messenger bag and exited the store.
I slumped in my seat, exhaling with relief.
"He'll be back," Bubo said, stretching on the counter.
"He can't return," I said, grinning as I placed the cards in a drawer. "He's leaving today."
I slammed the now-functioning drawer closed as I said the words and enjoyed the resulting thud. There, that was done.
"They always come back," Bubo said as he stretched in order to take a nap
I stood up and turned to examine the stool. Yep, the book was still there.
"Is it too hard to believe," I said as I grabbed the book, "that I may have outwitted the shop this time? Can we perhaps consider that I may have managed to save someone? You know, for once?"
"We can consider it," Bubo said, his eyes closed. "But that won't make it true. The shop always wins. Always."
"Maybe things are changing," I replied. "That mask that was taken on Halloween, for example. That was unusual."
The mask itself had been a fairly typical Magical Curiosity Shoppe piece of merchandise—a cursed mask worn by a long-dead wit
ch. The girl who had taken had, however, not been a typical customer and the resolution had been odd, to say the least.
"Halloween is always a strange time," Bubo said. "Particularly in this town. Remember a hundred years ago? Luckily it is now over. You cannot blame Halloween for this one."
"True," I said, walking toward the back room. "But the shop is behaving oddly, and this may be my chance."
"Hope springs eternal," Bubo said. "Are you going to try to hide the cards? It would be amusing to watch."
"I will definitely do that, so enjoy the show," I said, opening the plain wood door that led to my bedroom.
I was greeted by a flight of stairs. Like the shop, my bedroom changed with disturbing frequency. Sometimes it was a room in the back. Other times, it was a second story. For a distressingly long time, it was a basement nook.
That day, however, the room was upstairs. Good.
I climbed up. The steps were short and steep, which made reaching the bedroom rather tricky. The shop never made things easy.
Yet my bedroom was comfortable, with a quilt-covered bed, a small closet, a fireplace, and a window that looked out into the alley. A door led to a small bathroom with a porcelain tub, an antique mirror, and unreliable hot water service. The fireplace manifested flames whenever the temperature called for it, and, as it was a chilly night, I currently had a cheerful fire in my room. The closet generated clothes suitable to whatever season or culture I was dealing with, and there was a pair of red-and-green flannel pajamas on the bed.
I opened the door to the bathroom and checked. Yep, there was a matching flannel robe hanging on a hook. The shop was always prepared, two steps ahead of me, which made the recurring lack of hot water somewhat baffling.
I closed the bathroom door. It wasn't time for bed yet. I was there for a different purpose.
I walked over to the bed. It was an ordinary piece of furniture with a brass headboard and a red handmade quilt that I had recently learned was typical of the American mid-Atlantic region. A simple candlestick brass lamp, also a local design, sat on the side table.
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