Advent Calendar Day 5 (Holiday Snippet Sagas - 1)

 I had a probably—no, definitely—nutty idea this year to get a little bit more fiction into the calendar, but also just to have some fun. I thought I would write a few “sneak peek” snippet installments of what some of your favorite characters are getting up to during the holidays—and then follow those adventures (still through snippets) over the coming weeks.

 Because these are literally snippets of on-going adventures, they might—probably—will make absolutely no sense.  Maybe it will be fun. Maybe it will be frustrating. We’ll find out together!

 

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 Holiday Snippet Sagas - 1

Adrien English and Jake Riordan

 

“Missing?” I repeated. “What do you mean missing?”

Mary Brannigan, Jake’s boss over at Brannigan Investigations, said carefully, “He missed last night’s check-in and he’s not answering his cell phone. “I don’t want to worry you. It might mean nothing. I just wondered when you last heard from him.”

“Yesterday morning. And it sure as hell means something. No way would Jake blow off his check-in.”

“No, he wouldn’t blow it off, but the fact that he wasn’t able to make the check-in doesn’t necessarily mean there’s a problem.”

Sure. I knew that. There were plenty of good—non-alarming—reasons for Jake to miss his nightly check-in. Just as there were plenty of good—non-alarming—reasons for him to miss touching base with me that morning. All the same, the knot in my stomach that had started when Jake didn’t phone, was getting bigger and tighter by the hour.

I’d been against him going undercover from the beginning. Sure, the job sounded benign enough: working as one of “Santa’s Helpers” at tech-millionaire Robin Pavel’s Winter Wonderland theme park. But two of Santa’s Helpers had died under mysterious circumstances the previous year.

Jake was a great investigator, but I just didn’t think undercover was in his wheelhouse. Although, I guess you could argue that he’d spent the greater portion of his life undercover. Still.

“If you should hear from him,” Mary was saying.

“Of course,” I replied, just as if I planned on sitting around patiently waiting to hear from my MIA better half.

 

 

Christopher Holmes and J.X. Moriarity

 

“It’s probably a joke, don’t you think?” J.X. sounded doubtful—and worried—as he studied the letter.

“I don’t think so. It looks genuine. It sounds genuine.”

“Does it?”

“Well, sure. The wax seal. The heavy weight stationery. it’s all part of the game, obviously. It’s a mystery weekend. And I guess we’re going to be two of the sleuths.”

“A mystery weekend set at Christmas?” J.X. shook his head. “That really doesn’t seem likely to me.”

I said kindly, because while I don’t share his obsessive attachment to his family—or even my own —nor eagerly anticipate any and all reunions with same, I’m not a monster, “I know. But not everyone has family to share the holidays with. Besides, conducting the game over the Christmas holiday is why I think this is the real deal. All the great classic British mysteries are set at Christmastime: Marsh’s Tied Up in Tinsel, Sayers’ The Necklace of Pearls, Blake’s The Corpse in the Snowman, Christie’s Hercule Poirot’s Christmas. An English Murder, Envious Casca, Mystery in White, Death Comes at Chris—”

“The Thin Man,” J.X. interrupted. “I know. I’ve read one or two mysteries myself.”

“Dashiell Hammett’s not English.”

“Neither are we.”

“What does that have to do with it? Sir Mordecai is and he’s inviting us to spend Christmas weekend in his castle in Monterey, which we both love. Monterey, I mean.”

“Kit, he’s claiming someone is trying to kill him. He’s asking you to prevent his murder.”

“That’s just part of the game,” I assured J.X. “If he was really in danger, he’d call the police.”

 

Taylor MacAllister and William Brandt

“Thanks for not saying I told you so,” Will muttered.

Taylor spared him a look—not that they could see each other in the gloom of wherever the hell it was they were being held. He made a dismissive sound.

“How far below ground do you think we are?” He was not claustrophobic, but dark confined spaces were very low on his list of acceptable accommodations. His heart was thumping in time to the blood pounding in his temples—though that was at least partly due to the knockout drops—and he had to concentrate to keep his breathing slow and steady. He was not feeling particularly steady at the moment.

Will probably knew that—knew more than Taylor wanted—because he said quickly, reassuringly, “Not that far. I can feel fresh air coming in from somewhere.”

“We must be in the prison cells beneath the fort.”

“That would be taking a chance.”

“Yeah, well, these guys are clearly not afraid to take chances.”

“True.” Will considered grimly. “I wonder how long we were out. How long we have until they come back. I don’t think they’re going to just leave us here.”

Taylor rose, ignoring the swimming sensation in his head as he felt his way along the rough stone wall he’d been leaning against. “I don’t know. I don’t plan on waiting to find out.”

 

 

 

 Elliot Mills and Tucker Lance

 

“Funny how getting snowed in for the holidays loses its charms when a possible serial killer is on the loose.” Ellery sipped his whisky-laced coffee, dropped his head back into the comfortable nest of pillows.

The canopy bed he and Tucker shared in Daneville’s historic Cathedral House Inn was small and creaky enough to be a genuine relic of the Civil War, but the cloud-like bedding and surplus of down-filled pillows made up for a lot—as did the company.

Tucker did a double-take. “One skiing accident and a couple of missing hikers doesn’t have to equal a serial killer on the loose.”

“It doesn’t have to, no.”

Tucker stared at him. “But you think in this case it does?”

“How many skiing accidents involve beheadings?”

“Beheading is a loaded word. Head injuries aren’t uncommon in skiing accidents. Until the County Coroner releases their findings—which we won’t be here to second guess because by then we’ll be long gone, safe and sound back home with our own serial killers to worry about—you’re just speculating.”

“Just because I’m speculating, doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

“It doesn’t mean you’re right either.” Tucker removed the coffee mug from Elliot’s hand, set it on the night stand next to his own. “Hey. If you’re really worried, we’ll put in a call to Sam Kennedy tomorrow. He probably hates Christmas and is looking for an excuse to work through the weekend. In the meantime, can we maybe focus on the reason for this trip?”

Elliot looked blank. “Treasure hunting for confederate gold?”

Tucker sighed. “The other—”

Elliot grinned, looped his arm around Tucker’s neck, cutting his words off with a kiss.