Advent Calendar Day 10 (Holiday Snippet Sagas - 2)

 

Holiday Snippet Sagas - 2

 

OUR STORIES CONTINUE…

 

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Adrien English and Jake Riordan

 

“Mr. Knight, Mr. Knight!” Mrs. Andrews sounded genuinely alarmed, which made two of us. “What are you doing here?” She was out of breath as she reached me—which she did in record time, given her age, weight, lady-like pumps, and the uneven terrain she had to cover.

That answered one question. The security cameras mounted in the surrounding trees were indeed operational. Operational and closely monitored.

I gave her what I hoped was a disarming smile. “Oops. You caught me. I’m sorry, Mrs. A. I just wanted to sneak a peek. I used to come here every year with my family when I was a kid.”

Yeah. No. Once and only once did Lisa allow me to drag her down the muddy paths and through the pine forests of Upper Ojai’s North Pole Village. Her idea of a magical holiday destination was Jolly Olde London Town. I think we did Paris a couple of times and maybe Braunschweig once, as well, though I was too young to remember. Still, I did remember my eight-year-old self being mightily impressed by fifteen acres of life-sized gingerbread houses and chalets, singing elves, a miniature train, and a reindeer petting zoo.

Mrs. Andrews continued to look worried and distressed. As worried and distressed as someone who looks like a stylishly updated Mrs. Santa Claus can look.

“But…But how did you get in here?”

I said blithely, “Oh, I scaled the fence.”

“You…”

We both gazed at the twelve-foot-tall chain length fence for a moment.

She said in that same troubled tone, “It’s clearly posted: No Trespassing.”

“It is. I know.”

“Trespassers will be prosecuted. That’s what the signs say. Very clearly.”

 “Does this mean I’m fired?” I didn’t have to fake it. I was truly hoping not to be fired. I’d only been working in the Christmas Castle’s business center for the past two days, and though it was clear to me that all was not kosher in tech-millionaire Robin Pavel’s Winter Wonderland theme park, I had only suspicions, nothing concrete.

And zero idea as to what had happened to Jake.

“Well… I don’t want to fire you,” Mrs. Andrews said. “You’re such a helpful, conscientious young man. It’s difficult to find people like you these days. But this kind of thing is really not okay.”

“It won’t happen again. I promise. My curiosity got the better of me.” My gaze went automatically to the ruins of what had once been Ginger Goodwitch’s Christmas Kitchen.

After a moment she said, “Perhaps, I can… Perhaps we can keep this between ourselves. But really, this kind of thing can’t ever happen again. Mr. Pavel is very…unforgiving about employees who don’t follow the park rules.”

“I understand.”

She made a little shooing motion, and I preceded her back down the trail to the gate.

Mrs. Andrews continued to scold—kindly but firmly, “The rules exist to keep you safe. This area is particularly hazardous. All those old buildings should have been razed years ago.”

 I was nodding, but I wasn’t listening to her. My ears strained the crystalline air for something beyond the sound of our footfalls, the wind rushing through the pines, and the occasional song of a distant wren.

   

 

 

Christopher Holmes and J.X. Moriarity

 

“Happy?” J.X. asked.

“Happy?” I echoed. “Happy our host has been murdered? No. I can safely say I’m not happy! What a thing to say to me!”

“Okay, okay.” J.X. took a prudent step back as I snapped up straight from my slumped position on the side of the old-fashioned bathtub. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

The Band-Aid he still held was now positioned at the end of my nose—he was probably tempted to paste it across my mouth.

I glared past the Band-Aid to my apologetic-looking ministering angel.

“You know I tried to get Morty to go to the police!”

“You did, yeah. At least twice.”

“But?” I winced as he very gently taped the Band-Aid over the cut above my eyebrow.

J.X. said at last, reluctantly, “But we stayed. You—we—kept sleuthing. If we’d left, if we’d refused to have any part of his crazy catch-a-killer-for-Christmas plan, he’d have had to—maybe—go to the police.”

“So it’s my fault Sir Mordecai is dead?” I couldn’t help it, my voice cracked on dead. But, in fairness, it’s kind of-of…lowering to think you’re to blame for getting someone killed. And also, I was still pretty shaken from nearly being crushed to death under the opera house-sized chandelier that had taken out our host. I was not crying. I never cry.

But J.X. must have thought I was crying, because he groaned, “Kit, honey. Hell, no, you’re not to blame! Of course, I’m not saying that. You know I’m not saying that.”

It did help quite a bit that he hauled me into his arms, crushing me to his manly chest, and nuzzling my eyes—dry, for the record—mouth and even ears. Why the ears? In the hopes I might eventually start listening to him? Who knows. Anyway, it was comforting. All of it.

“There’s only one person to blame for this tragedy and that’s the person who killed Sir Mordecai.” J.X. was still going full throttle. Murder really does offend his sensibilities.

I nodded, sighed.

“I’m sorry if it sounded like I thought this was your fault. It’s just the shock of that thing headed straight for you. I thought for sure—” J.X. shook his head as though words had finally failed him.

 

 

 

Taylor MacAllister and William Brandt

 

“We barely made it out. You want to go back?” Not much surprised Will these days. But this? This was not what he had expected.

“I sure as hell do. Don’t you?”

“Want to go back to the home of the notorious Mexican drug lord who tried to disappear us less than forty-eight hours ago? No, MacAllister, at the risk of disappointing you for Christmas, I don’t.”

Taylor had that infuriatingly blank look he got sometimes when he was pretending to give Will his complete and undivided attention but, in fact, already had his mind made up and was planning accordingly.

“We signed up for this job,” Taylor said. “No one twisted our arm. Arms.”

Will gave a disbelieving laugh. “Except our client turns out to be as big a crook as the guy he sent us after!”

“True. Moving forward, we definitely need a better grade of client. In the meantime…”

Will swore quietly. “In the meantime, you want to attend this Christmas Ball?”

Taylor nodded.

“You’re serious.”

Taylor nodded again.

“You’re one hundred-thousand percent serious about this?”

Taylor said calmly, “Keep ‘em guessing, Brandt. Isn’t that what you always say?”

“Since when do you listen to what I say?” Will studied Taylor, shook his head. “It’s a Christmas Ball, MacAllister. You caught that, right? It means fancy dress. You know, black tie. Maybe even white tie. I mean, look at us.”

Taylor cocked his head, studied Will, still damp from the shower and clad only in Levis, sitting on the motel bed across from him. He grinned that little sideways grin that always got to Will, even…how many years was it now? There were never going to be enough, that was for sure.

“You look okay to me, amigo.”

“Gracias,” Will said sourly.

Taylor’s grin widened. He covered Will’s bare foot with his own. “Don’t fret, Cinderella. We’ll find you something to wear to the ball.”

 

 Elliot Mills and Tucker Lance

 

“Are you hit?” Elliot demanded.

Tucker shook his head, wiped the snow off his face. “You?”

“Not for lack of trying.” Elliot’s heart was thundering in his chest. That had been way too close for comfort.

They were hunkered down behind a low stone wall, breath steaming in the bitter cold—and that final crack of the rifle still hanging in the air.

As the sounded faded into the twilight, they exchanged looks. Tucker’s lip curled.

“These people have no sense of humor,” Elliot complained.

“They do seem a little touchy.”

The seconds ticked by. The ground grew a little colder. The twilight grew a little darker.

Elliot considered. “I think we can assume we’re asking the right questions.”

“But are we asking the right people?”

“Hm.”

Tucker said, “I’m starting to think everyone in this fucking valley has something to hide.”

No arguing with that. Elliot reached for a dead branch, pulled his knitted ski cap off and hung it on the end of the stick. He raised the cap slightly above the top of the wall.

Nothing happened.

He raised it a little higher.

Nothing.

He met Tucker’s gaze. Tucker moved his head in negation.

“We wait till it’s dark. No way can you go dashing through the snow with that knee.”

Elliot shrugged. “It’s holding up okay.” He lowered the stick, pulled his wool cap over his ears, which were already starting to tingle with the cold.

Tucker said, “We can wait half an hour.”

Elliot grimaced, but didn’t waste his energy arguing beyond pointing out, “Those were warning shots.”

“Maybe. Or whoever is out there has lousy aim.”