Sinister Lang Syne: A Short Holiday Novel (Wicks Hollow)

by Colleen Gleason

  What was I thinking?

  But pulling out now or changing venues would leave an ugly stain on her business and leave Callie looking like an irresponsible and unreliable wedding planner.

  She sighed and tuned in the radio to a satellite All Christmas All The Time station as she sped along the highway. Thank goodness the snow that had been promised wasn’t supposed to hit for at least another three hours. She might not get to Wicks Hollow and the Tremaine Tower until the sun was just setting, but at least she wouldn’t be driving in a lake effect snowstorm.

  It was Tuesday—the only night she really had free between now and December 27th—and it was the last chance she’d have to look at the Bergstrom/Nath venue before it was crunch time. Every other evening between now and then was busy with holiday parties and weddings—not to mention Christmas itself—and the days were filled with last-minute meetings, decoration finalizations, and food tastings.

  Fortunately, most of the parties she had going on were with regular vendors and venues, so even though CQEvents never took any party for granted, at least she knew the gigs and their settings very well and was comfortable with each of them.

  Except for the Bergstrom/Nath wedding. That was definitely a growing concern, potential curse notwithstanding.

  Callie had sent a list of requests to the caretaker related to getting lights fixed and checking on the stability of the stairs and balcony. The Tremaines had agreed she could replace the curtains in the anteroom, so Callie had put a rush on those. She’d also hired a cleaning crew to go in and clean out the antechamber and sweep up the spiral stairs, so at least that should be in better shape than last time.

  The mistletoe would surely be gone.

  But so would all the critters, she hoped.

  Callie still had the building key from before, so she didn’t expect to run into anyone, like the caretaker—even though she’d sent a last-minute email that she would be checking the venue tonight. There was no chance she’d run into Ben Tremaine.

  Which was good, because when she left to go home last week, she’d walked by the Roost on the way to her car. And she was pretty sure she’d seen him in there, sitting with a bunch of guys. They looked like they were playing Trivia, and whoever they were, they’d be lucky to have him on their team. The guy knew everything.

  But apparently he hadn’t been that busy after all.

  Callie had too much to do to spend any time feeling awkward or shy around him anyway. He’d be far too busy doing end of year numbers for—it seemed—half of the businesses in Wicks Hollow, to be checking up on her anyway.

  Callie parked on the street not far from Trib’s, which was packed to the gills even though it was a Tuesday night in the off-season. It looked like standing room only from her viewpoint as she climbed out of her car. No surprise. Her uncle’s restaurant was known throughout the county as the trendiest, most fabulous eatery, and it was booked for business dinners, client thank you dinners, and family dinners from the day after Thanksgiving through New Year’s Day. Despite being his niece—and Iva Bergstrom being his good friend—Callie considered herself lucky that Trib’s had actually agreed to cater the New Year’s Eve wedding.

  As she walked down the street toward the tower, whose illuminated clock face indicated it was after four-thirty, she passed a street-level door squashed between Gilda’s Goodies and Dek Home Designs. The sign on the door leaped out at her: Tremaine & Associates. Benjamin D. Tremaine, CPA.

  She glanced through the door’s window as she walked past and saw the flight of stairs that led to what must be his second-floor office space. And then she looked up to see that the lights were on. Being on the sidewalk below, she was too close to the side of the building to see much more than that, but for some reason, it made her smile knowing that Ben had done so well for himself.

  The air was crisp and cold, and she could smell the snow that was coming. She might have to crash at Uncle Trib’s instead of driving all the way back to Grand Rapids tonight, if the storm was as bad as the reports suggested. Even as she crossed the small square and strode past the towering pine decorated in silver and gold, large, puffy flakes began to drift down from an iron gray sky.

  The tower looked like a lonely gray stub beneath its glowing face, but as Callie drew near, she saw signs that progress had been made. The walkway was shoveled and a wreath had been hung on the door. And when she unlocked the exterior door and stepped inside, she immediately noticed the difference.

  The place smelled fresh, and the debris that had been there last week had been swept away.

  Progress.

  Callie climbed up the steps, feeling better about things already. Maybe whatever weirdness she’d experienced the other day had been swept away, cleaned out, or otherwise banished as well.

  The key worked more easily in the lock this time—it had probably been oiled.

  When she stepped inside the room, the first thing she noticed was that it was completely empty. The old chairs, table, dusty and broken bottles—and, yes, the mistletoe—were all gone. The floor was clean and she could smell the faint hint of whatever wood polish had been used there and on the mahogany wainscoting around the room.

  The portrait of Brenda Tremaine had been replaced on the wall. Callie eyed it a little nervously as she felt around for the light switch that, at her request, had been fixed and should now be working.

  She pushed the old-fashioned light switch button and soft yellow light from six century-old sconces filled the room. The floor had the dull sheen of having recently been cleaned, and even the windows sparkled.

  All at once she felt more optimistic than she’d been in a while. The wedding itself would take place out on the balcony at midnight, and the guests would be on the ground below, watching as the happy couple exchanged vows just before the clock struck twelve.

  The bells would ring and the ball would light up. There would be beautiful photo ops for the glowing couple—she hoped for just a little bit of wafting snow—and then they’d all come inside the small anteroom for hors d’oeuvres and celebration. A string trio would provide suitable background music.

  “Well,” Callie said aloud, “I hope you don’t mind your—uh—new digs. So to speak.” For some reason, she didn’t feel weird talking to the portrait of the ill-fated Brenda Tremaine. “Maybe it’ll make you more…”

  She didn’t finish the sentence because the air had started to swirl again. The curtains, which had already been replaced from the moth-eaten ones by dark green velvet, were too heavy to buffet in the air, but the fringe on the tie-backs shimmied.

  The environment became frigid so quickly she actually gasped, drawing in a knife-sharp cold into her nostrils. Then she huffed out a breath that literally turned into ice crystals the minute the droplets hit the air. Her nose felt as if it would break off if she rubbed it, and though she thrust her hands deep in her pockets and curled them inside their gloves, it felt as though her fingers were submerged in ice water. It was painful to breathe the arctic air.

  “Oh, come on…” Callie said, turning in a slow circle as she looked around the room. “No one’s trying to—to disrespect you, Brenda. It’s been nearly a century…couldn’t you just—”

  Whoosh!

  The gust of wind came from nowhere and began to whip at the hem of her coat with startling violence. Her hat went flying and suddenly the air was filled with dust or dirt or something that obstructed her view so that she was in a tornado of darkness.

  “Noooooooo.”

  Callie didn’t know where the voice came from, but it filled her ears as if it were being pumped through great speakers all around the room.

  “Nooooooo.

  “Nooooooo!”

  The cry was something not quite human, not quite real, and it filled her, reverberating through her body in a violent shudder.

  Callie was paralyzed with shock and terror. She felt wetness on her face and realized she was sobbing as the wind and some tiny hard things pelted her unforgivingly. She stumb
led around, trying to find her way out of the storm, and finally her hand brushed the wall. Using it for stability, she felt her way along, seeking the door, as she was battered and buffeted by Brenda Tremaine’s wrath.

  Then from somewhere, she heard bells ringing—a deep tolling that cut through the wild maelstrom around her. And suddenly, the tornado winds ceased and the pelting stopped…and Callie was once again standing in the soft glow of yellow light.

  All was quiet and still except for the last toll of bells striking the hour of five.

  Shaking, still sobbing a little, Callie dragged a hand across her face to wipe away the tears.

  Brenda Tremaine had definitely made her opinion clear.

  Now what was Callie going to do?

  Five

  Ben was just locking the street-level door to his office when he heard a sound like a frustrated cry, followed by a dull thud-like clunk—like someone had kicked something metal. Possibly the side of a car.

  He looked around, and to his shock and amazement saw Callie Quigley standing on the sidewalk glowering at a car parked on the street. Presumably hers.

  The wind had begun to pick up and the sleety, thick snow that had been forecast was falling with a vengeance—hence the reason he was heading home at just after five o’clock. He could work there in front of the fireplace with a glass of wine and not have to worry about digging out his car to drive home at eight or nine.

  “Callie? Is that you? Everything okay?” he asked, tugging the hat down over his head and huddling against the blizzard.

  “Oh, Ben,” she said, and when she turned her face to look at him he gasped.

  “What happened to you?” He didn’t even think about what he was doing when he took her by the chin to look at her face. “Are you all right?”

  She looked at him funny, then pulled her chin away—not like she was mad he’d touched her, thank goodness, but because she seemed confused. “Well, no, I’m not, but—”

  “What’s all over your face?”

  “My face?” She reached up with a gloved hand to touch her cheek, which was pink with cold but also speckled with dark red streaks.

  “It looks like—like blood or something. Are you hurt?” He was shaken, just looking at her with all those ugly streaks on her face.

  “I—oh my God, really?” Horrified, she put her hands to her face and began to scrub at it. Her eyes were wide and terrorized. “It was her. Oh my God, it had to be her! That’s what all the wetness was!”

  “Her who?” Every one of Ben’s instincts screamed at him to pull her close and hold her—or to bundle her into his car and drive her to the emergency room. He did neither—though it was supremely difficult—and instead simply reached over to brush away some of the wild snowflakes that had fallen onto her cheeks.

  “Brenda Tremaine.” She dropped her hands from her face and looked up at him.

  Under the streetlamp, her eyes were wide and impossibly, beautifully blue. The bluster of snow swirled around, landing on the tips of her coppery eyelashes and nose, scattering among the splash of girlish freckles that still brushed her cheeks and forehead at the age of thirty-two. Despite the horrifying splatters of blood—or whatever it was—on her nose and chin, Callie looked simply beautiful: glowing and soft and just so feminine. Her lips were full and puffy and pink, and when a cluster of snowflakes landed on the upper one, it was all he could do to keep from kissing it away.

  Then her words sunk in. “Brenda Tremaine?” he repeated, then stopped. “Let’s back up. First, are you hurt?”

  “No. I’m—”

  “Just…one thing at a time, all right?” he said, holding up his hands to slow her down. “There’s a lot going on here…like, why are you kicking your car?”

  “I can’t find my keys. I think—I think they’re back there.” She thumbed toward the village square, and he realized she meant the Clock Tower. “I think they must have fallen out of my pocket during…during…” Her voice suddenly seemed to stop working and she looked up at him wordlessly.

  Now he could see tears filling her eyes and that the tip of her nose was turning even darker pink.

  “All right. All right. It’s all right. You’re okay now, right?”

  She nodded, and he put an arm around her. He allowed himself to give her a brief squeeze, then prudently let go. “How about…what do you think about getting out of this blizzard and settling down for a—a drink or something, and you can tell me about what happened. But first…how about if I go over and see if I can find your keys? If you dropped them in the snow—”

  “I didn’t drop them outside. I’m s-sure it was in the room up there, when Brenda kind of went ballistic at me. Like what h-happened before, you know?”

  He understood that she meant what happened sixteen years ago, not last week. “All right. I’ll go over and see if I can find them—you think you dropped them in the room?”

  “I didn’t drop them—I think they must have fallen out of my pocket. But I’m going with you! I was just about to go back over there when you came out. I was just so mad that I got all the way here and realized I didn’t have my keys. I’m not afraid to go back there,” she added defensively.

  “No, of course not,” he said, wondering if he would be saying the same if it had happened to him. “Come on, I’ll go with you. We’ll find your keys, and then you can be on your way back home.”

  To your fiancé.

  Ben gritted his teeth and was glad he hadn’t indulged himself in more than a brief hug.

  They were nearly to the edge of the square when suddenly Callie stopped short. “Ohmigod,” she said. She sounded furious.

  All at once she was unzipping her coat—there in the middle of the blizzard—and moments later she produced a jangling keyring from deep inside. “I forgot that I put them in the inside pocket because I had to have my phone and my flashlight in my other pockets, and I didn’t want the keys to fall out when I took out my flash—never mind. Ugh. I never do that—put my keys or anything inside there. I have no idea why I decided to do it this time. Sorry, Ben. That’s what happens when you’ve got too many things on your mind and too many balls in the air and a freaking ghost is trying t-to ruin everything.” Her voice wavered, but she managed to get all the words out.

  “All right, then, that’s good that you found them,” Ben said. He guessed that meant she’d be climbing in her car and driving away in a few minutes.

  Which was just as well. Really.

  The less temptation the better.

  “So,” she said, having turned an about-face and was heading back toward where her car had been parked. “What were you saying about a drink?”

  She beamed up at him as they walked, and despite all the blood-red streaks on her face, she looked much happier than a moment ago.

  “Um…well, sure, of course. I don’t suppose we could get a table at Trib’s right now—”

  “Not a chance. Besides, I can’t really go in there looking like Carrie at the prom, you know,” she said, gesturing to herself. “That would give Uncle Trib a heart attack. Isn’t your office nearby?”

  “Oh, yeah, it is, but I don’t really have anything there to offer you—I mean, besides coffee or tea or bottled water. There might be a can of soda or some granola bars.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I’ve got some wine and beer at my house—it’s not far from here,” he said before he could stop himself. “You could get cleaned up there, you know, and—”

  “Do you have a printer there?” she jumped in.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Oh, that would be perfect. I’ve got to print off something and I was going to stop at Uncle Trib’s office and do it, but I don’t want to bother him. The restaurant looks like it’s bursting at the seams.”

  And that was how Callie ended up at Ben’s house.

  Which was really not a good idea.

  But at the same time, it was the best idea.

  She followed him in her car the half mile ou
t of the central area of town to the neat, white clapboard Cape Cod that was barely two blocks from the Lake Michigan shore.

  As Ben unlocked the front door and stepped back to let her in, he did a quick mental and visual inventory as to what condition he’d left the place this morning. To his relief, the only disarray was his coffee cup and cereal bowl in the sink, and a laundry basket with clean clothes that he’d neglected to take back to the bedroom.

  “Oh, Ben, that is so you,” Callie said as she dumped her coat, handbag, and what looked like a briefcase on the nearest sofa and headed straight for his six-foot-tall fresh pine Christmas tree.

  “What do you mean?”

  She turned back to him, still wearing her soft, fuzzy blue hat. Tilting her head, she gave him such a sweet, affectionate smile that he nearly melted right there. “Well, it’s all color-coordinated, and the bulbs are all matching and spaced perfectly. It’s very organized. It’s just so you. And I love the Avengers ornament.”

  She was beaming at him and although Ben didn’t know what was so funny, he didn’t mind because she was so darn pretty, and she was looking at him with those fathomless blue eyes—

  And he was going to be in deep trouble if he wasn’t careful.

  “Thanks. I really like having a real tree instead of a fake one, even though it starts to drop needles after a week,” he replied, trying to keep things casual. “So, uh, if you want to wash up, there’s the bathroom right down that hall.”

  She disappeared into the bathroom while he hung up his coat, and no sooner had she closed the door than she shrieked.

  “Callie? What is it?” He started down the hall, wondering if he was going to have to break into the bathroom.

  “Oh, sorry,” she called back. “Oh, it’s nothing. I just saw what I looked like. Um. Yikes.” Her voice sounded awkward from the other side of the door, and he heard the splash of water.

  “Okay. Uh, there are towels in the closet there.”