Advent Calendar - Day 21

 You're going to think I'm a total goof--and I am!--but remember when I referenced searching for the Mr. Magoo version of a Christmas Carol?! Well, it suddenly popped up in my YouTube feed! AFTER YEARS OF SEARCHING, LO, MY QUEST IS COMPLETE.

This might be a sign that this is the final year of the Advent Calendar.

But, be that as it may--and this probably feels like cheating because it's two cartoons/animations in a row, but we have to have this in the calendar! Right? It's FATE. It's synchronicity. It's a weird coincidence at the very least. 

Fear not, I do plan on doing a couple of codas for the calendar this year, and I'm doing my darnedest to finish a short story before the end of the month. But for your YMMV viewing entertainment...

Advent Calendar - Day 20 Fiction from Natasha Chesterbrook

 It's always so fascinating to see which of my characters, which character dynamic, is going to inspire another writer. I'm endlessly surprised by choices like Bat and Cowboy from Out of the Blue or, in this case, Archer and Rake from the Irregulars anthology.

I'm so happy Natasha Chesterbrook found the time to contribute once again to the advent calendar!

Green Glass Beads Coda

 

Archer blamed the whole thing on Great-Aunt Esmeralda’s Cloisonne clock. Yes, he had a hand in it too, but it started with that damned clock.

He’d featured the antique timepiece as part of a seasonal display in the Saint-Malo shop window. Its intricately enameled decoration provided an interesting focal point that caught the eye of many a holiday shopper luring them in.

From the moment Timmy Twinkle – only one of the Fae would imagine that moniker for the earthly realm – walked into his shop, Archer was enchanted. Maybe it was the fact that Archer hadn’t seen much less spoken to a single Fae in years or because Timmy asked so politely about the Cloisonne clock or just because he was so darn cute, but Archer fell hook, line and sinker for his charm.

Petite in a way the Fae usually were, Timmy Twinkle possessed a head of shiny red ringlets that silhouetted a cherubic face, along with a pair of bright blue eyes that sparkled – okay, twinkled! – even in the meagerest of light. He moved with the agility of a dancer, so lithe and graceful which was also common to the Fae, flitting about the store like a butterfly dancing a waltz. And he seemed just as enchanted with Archer as Archer was with him.

“If I’d known about this shop before, I’d have stopped in sooner if only to meet you, darling.” He practically purred the word ‘dahling’ in a way that should have been too precious but sounded perfect to Archer’s enhanced hearing.

Within an hour of Timmy’s entry into Archer’s shop with an inquiry about purchasing an antique clock Archer felt like they’d become fast friends. Timmy’s promise to return in the next few days while Archer researched new auction lots for him felt less like a business transaction and more like a vow.

Timmy’s visits to the shop asking about upcoming estate sales and appraisals, and to discuss his esoteric finds became the highlight of Archer’s day. He appreciated the attention and solicitude but more than that it felt like kinship, family. As if Timmy had unlocked Archer’s long abandoned desire to reconnect with his people.

Archer was particularly excited about a recent item that was up for auction in the coming week. A fine and rare Queen Anne period phase 3 ebony striking and quarter-repeating bracket clock of beautiful proportions and with great provenance from Tompion & Banger.

“The auction site won’t disclose the seller’s reserve price, but I think we can expect no less than 150, 000.”

Timmy nodded, his blue eyes wide and fathomless, “$150, 000 is a great deal of money. “

“Euros, not dollars.” Archer hesitated, “Of course, there are other lots we could look at.”

“Euros, you say. And the auction house?”

“Spenser and Collins. Very reputable. “

“Of course, nothing but the best! Oh, thank you so much, Archer, you are a dear. Kiss, kiss.” And Timmy was gone with a wink and a twirl. Archer couldn’t resist the smile on his face.

So naturally Archer wanted to introduce Timmy to Rake. Rake who had enthusiastically adopted French culture as if he were born to it or at least born for it. He appreciated the food, the wine, the couture, the whole sense of being French and of course the art. The man was a work of art himself with his size and commanding presence. Definitely something the French appreciated…often. Much to Archer’s annoyance and Rake’s amusement.

But almost from the start Timmy dismissed Rake as unimportant and appeared to time his visits with almost Swiss precision to avoid any chance of running into the detective.

More startling was Rake’s response. He accepted Timmy’s brush off with consideration and understanding. This bothered Archer who wanted to take some umbrage for Rake’s sake. But despite the snub Rake wanted to hear about Timmy’s comings and goings.

“Will he be attending the auction? “Rake asked.

“If he’s interested in bidding, he’ll have to. Spenser & Collins does not allow participation by phone or internet. Of course, he could send a proxy.”

“And where would he get such funds? I thought the Fae never brought large sums of wealth to the earthly realm.”

Archer wasn’t sure why Rake cared. “Family money I assume. Why?”

Enigmatic as ever, Rake murmured, “Just curious.”

 

When Timmy mentioned travelling home for the Winter Solstice, Archer thought nothing beyond wishing him Bon Voyage and hoping he could facilitate the bracket clock sale before said voyage.

Then Timmy posed a question Archer hadn’t thought to ask himself in years. “Why don’t you come for a visit, Archer?”

Which is why Archer had no ready answer. Of course, Timmy jumped into that stunned silence with “Surely the high court can’t hold a grudge after all this time. We can celebrate the Solstice together!” This pronouncement was of course accompanied by a twirl and furious batting of eyelashes.

Archer wanted to scoff because the Seely High Court could indeed hold a grudge for a millennium if they so decided and his re-acquisition of the beads did not necessarily change that. Instead, he said, “Well, I have the shop, and I don’t know if Rake could find the time and…”

“Oh, just close the shop like all the Parisians do. As for your detective, well, I’m sure that’s not a very good idea. You know how the Fae feel about demons and then there’s the problem of getting him a visa. Could take months if not years.”

Tommy sounded almost gleeful.

 

That night as Archer nestled against Rake’s chest, embraced by his powerful arms, he dreamed.

He dreamed of midnight celebrations on marsh flats surrounded by the aroma of peat fires and the lilt of haunting tunes, of shooting stars through the darkened sky, of the Fae gathered in packs imbibing mulled wine and strong ale, feasting on honey-laden tarts. The gathering was imbued by a brotherhood Archer had once longed for. The faces lit by hundreds of burning candles all seemed familiar, like he should know each one.

And yet none were Rake.

Archer woke with a start and no small amount of relief to find himself still lying next to Rake. Hearing that booming eight-chambered heart was a balm to his soul.

 

That week was as busy as Archer expected in the lead up to Christmas. Saint-Malo attracted a high number of tourists and featured festive markets with local crafts, food and drink and seasonal light displays. Along with guided tours down the historic city ramparts, many folks wandered the streets looking for unique finds which Archer was only too happy to provide. But by the end of it he just wanted a quiet evening at home. Preferably with good food, good wine and a good time courtesy of Monsieur Rake.

The next day was Christmas and as Archer happily lolled in bed wanting to be nowhere else, Rake returned from his morning walk with news.

“Your little friend Timmy was arrested at Dinard two days ago,” Rake announced referring to the Brittany airport. “Attempting to smuggle stolen goods out of the country.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a stone with a leather cord threaded through a hole in its center.

Archer frowned, “What, he tried to smuggle that?”

“No, it was that clock you were so enamored with.”

“But how did he-“

“He burglarized the auction house. And if you can believe, he said he used this stone to give him protection from their security spells.” Rake scoffed, “Turns out security cameras work just as well.”

Archer looked at the trinket, “They sell ones just like this in the tourist shop over on the high street.”

“He’s known to Interpol and wanted in several countries for illegal exportation.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Rake gave a very French shrug of his broad shoulders, “Until he made his move, what was there to say?” Rake’s face softened, “Sweeting, you were so happy.”

Archer sighed. “And to think I considered going with him.” He supposed any friendship with a Fae would always be difficult, trust being in short supply amongst them.

Archer held out the stone to Rake. “Do you know what they call these?”

Rake shook his head. Archer continued, “A naturally occurring stone with a hole through it is known as a hag stone or a witch stone but more commonly called an Adder Stone. Folklore says these stones have protective or magical powers.”

“Ah, but it is magical.”

“How do you mean?”

Rake lifted the Adder Stone and peered at Archer through the hole in its center.

“I can see faeries with it,” he smirked.

Archer smiled and reached for Rake. “I’ll show you some real magic.”

And like the tales of Saint Nicholas’ yuletide generosity, Archer shared with Rake his own form of gift giving.

 

Advent Calendar - Day 19

 Today's little offering is a 1936 Max Fleischer Cartoon "Christmas Comes Once a Year." I'm assuming (hoping) it's not a historically accurate depiction of life in an orphanage. Child safety concerns aside, Professor Grampy had his heart in the right place. 

 

Advent Calendar - Day 18 - PROMOTION (but also a pretty sweet deal)

 

There's always a lot of chatter about the changing nature of publishing, and in fairness, the publishing industry is always in flux. Which is why successful authors keep their eyes (and minds) open. Successful longtime writers know when they have to adapt. They're fast on their feet. 

I always knew I was going to be a writer. My teachers, starting in third grade, told me I would be a writer. I believed them. I started my professional writing career when I was sixteen and sold a poem to Seventeen magazine. I sold my first novel, a Harlequin romance, right out of college. I've been a fulltime professional writer for nearly thirty years. Like Robert Parker, I plan to die at my desk.

(Well, wait. I'm not saying Parker planned to die at his desk--nor am I planning to literally die at my desk. Although...)

 In 2018 I began to worry about the fact that we (writers) were/are all so dependent on Amazon. Yes, I was--and plan to remain wide--but Amazon has always been a big chunk of my earnings. Discoverability has been an issue for well over a decade. Long before AI arrived to further clog the arteries. 

Anyway, in 2018 I decided to create a Patreon community. If you don't know, Patreon is a membership platform that lets readers directly support authors and other creators they enjoy. Instead of buying a single book or product, patrons choose a monthly membership level and get access to exclusive content—things like bonus scenes, early chapters, behind-the-scenes posts, and occasional extras created just for members. It’s a way for readers to be part of an ongoing creative community and help make future work possible.

That's a very different thing from a Kickstarter, although Patreon and Kickstarter both support creators. Patreon is ongoing—it’s designed for readers who want regular extras and a continuing relationship with an author, with monthly support and steady behind-the-scenes content. Kickstarter is project-based—it’s best for funding a specific, one-time goal (like launching a special edition or a new project) with a clear beginning and end. Patreon is ideal for long-term community and continuity; Kickstarter is great for big, splashy launches and special events.. 

Not everyone can afford to contribute to either platform, and that's fine!The first and most important line of support remains buying and recommending the books! Buying and recommending the books is first and foremost. Buying and recommending the books is always appreciated.

But if you've been considering joining my Patreon, I'm running a month-long holiday promotion. If you subscribe annually at the $20, $50 or $100 tier, you'll receive 50% off that first year. The promotion starts today and ends (meaning, you have to sign up ) before noon on January 16th.

What types of things might you have access to at the (for example) $20.00 tier? 

• First Look at Works-in-Progress.

• Monday Man Art - select art published each Monday morning

• Audiobook Rough Water (Secret at Skull House Jack's POV) following your one month anniversary

• What LIes Beneath AUDIO book following your second month anniversary

• Print book - Your choice of one of the following signed print titles: Seance on a Summer's Night, Hide and Seek, Puzzle for Two, Ghosted, or Kill Your Darlings following your one-month anniversary.

• The digital version of the collector's edition of Fatal Shadows with over 100 pages of bonus materials following your second month anniversary.

•  Audio downloads of books produced specifically for Patreon (post 12-2025)

• ALL ebook short stories, novellas and novels published during your subscription. 

• Every three months your choice of any SINGLE TITLE print book from my existing backlist.**

• Every two months your choice of any ebook from my existing digital backlist.

• 
  

(Obviously, if you've subscribed annually you don't have to wait to collect rewards.)

Anyway, if you're interested, you can check it out by clicking this link

Advent Calendar - Day 17 Fiction from Byron Beach

 

YAY! Byron Beach is back this year with a holiday coda for Out of the Blue. Byron's coda picks up after Coda 61 (written in 2020). I love, love, love the photos and the attention to historical detail (among other things)!

The Return Voyage

December 1927

First class on the RMS Majestic

They were singing carols again.

Cowboy heard them drifting down the passageway before he saw a single tinsel-covered soul. “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen,” sung in accents from half the ports the RMS Majestic had ever touched, and all of them just a shade too cheerful thanks to the legal booze now that they’d cleared American waters. The beloved Magic Stik was rocking easy in the winter swell, and the brass rails under his hand were cold enough to remind him he was very far from Texas.

Up ahead, Bat stood frozen by the porthole, staring out at the dark Atlantic like he meant to take a running jump.

Bat had tells, little ones. This was his biggest.

“You’re doin’ it again,” Cowboy said.

Bat didn’t turn. “Doing what?”

“Starin’ like you’re fixin’ to swim back to New York.”

Bat’s shoulders went stiff, the way they always did when he felt caught. In the glass he looked every inch the English gentleman: clipped blonde hair parted just so, Kings College tie in a perfect double windsor, cheekbones sharp enough to cut tin cans. Handsome, yes. But wound tighter than a fresh lasso.

“If I were to jump, Cowboy,” he said coolly, “it wouldn’t be into the North Atlantic.”

“That’s not a denial, darlin’.”

The way he flinched at the endearment twisted something in Cowboy’s chest. In Texas or New York, “darlin’” had made Bat light up like dawn. Here, surrounded by bankers, duchesses, and stewards trained to hear scandal through steel bulkheads, the word yelled danger.

“Come inside,” Bat muttered. “Before Mrs. Vanderbloodybilt expires unexpectedly.”

Cowboy followed him into the stateroom—Bat’s, though the adjoining door between theirs was propped open, same as always. Bat never shut Cowboy out, not really. Not even now, when he thought he should.

The room was all gleaming wood and polished brass. Only the Heiß and Kalt on the bathroom taps 

 betrayed the ship’s German birth as the S.S. Bismarck. A tiny Christmas tree stood on the writing desk, brave little baubles shining as the ship rolled. Cowboy smiled at it. Bat had lit up when the steward brought it.

“Fittin’ they’re singin’ that hymn,” Cowboy drawled, leaning in the doorway. “Faithful as they come, that’s you.”

“To what?” Bat snapped. “Family duty? Creditors? A crumbling estate?”

“Your family,” Cowboy said evenly. “Your departed brothers. Archie.”
He hesitated, then added, “Me.”

Bat didn’t like hearing that last truth spoken plain. Cowboy could tell—Bat’s shoulders rose just a fraction, like he was bracing for shellfire.

Bat fiddled with a Christmas bauble, voice tight. “I’m dragging you back. From Texas. From New York. From being yourself. And now you’re to play estate manager and… fairy godmother, sprinkling your inheritance over Denforth Castle so the tenants can eat goose at Christmas.”

Cowboy snorted. “Pretty sure you callin’ me a fairy godmother won’t go down well at your club.”

“Be serious.”

“I am.” Cowboy stepped forward, letting the door swing shut behind him. “You’re the one treating my choices like they’re the blessed gifts of the Magi.”

Bat’s laugh cracked. “Aren’t they? ‘Welcome home, Aubrey, and who is this mysterious American who has singlehandedly saved your estate?’”

“You introduced me as a mysterious American long before I earned the title,” Cowboy reminded him gently. “And in England, I’m just your war chum who needed a job. No one’s gonna think twice about us. Anyone who could is dead—may they rest, so none of them are gonna be writin’ to The Times.”

Cowboy saw Bat’s jaw work. That hit somewhere deep.

“In New York,” Bat said softly, “that first night – Tony at El Fay—”

“Which Tony?” Cowboy grinned. “Texas Guinan’s Tony? Bartender Tony? Cole-Porter’s best “friend” Tony?”

The ghost of a smile tugged at Bat’s mouth. Cowboy treasured that flicker; it felt like seeing a wild bird settle on an open palm.

“That night,” Bat continued, “no one stared. No one whispered. You put your hand on my knee and I didn’t think once about my family or… the law. I just breathed.”

Cowboy’s voice went soft. “Hell of a thing, breathin.’”

“And now we’re going back to a ninety-four-room mausoleum where everyone watches and whispers and the vicar suggests suitable girls—”

Bat stopped himself. Cowboy stepped forward and set his hands on Bat’s shoulders, steadying him as the ship rolled.

“Look at me.”

Bat tried not to. But he knew the exact moment he lost that battle—those blue eyes of Cowboy’s never blinked, and the whole world narrowed into understanding.

“I like New York,” Cowboy said. “I like not watching every touch. I like Broadway. And I like that waiter Tony who gave you free drinks ‘cause he liked your smile.”

Bat murmured, “He liked yours.”

“Hell, he liked both of us.” Cowboy chuckled. “But New York will keep. We’ll go back. Right now, we’re goin’ to Kent. To that cold pew your great-whatever built. And we’ll pretend to sing hymns while hummin’ ‘Noël, Noël’ from Sixth Avenue.”

Bat choked out a small laugh. “You’ll scandalize the verger.”

“Only if I get to sit next to you. M’ Lord”

The tree ornaments chimed as the ship rocked.

“It isn’t fair,” Bat whispered. “Your inheritance could build you a ranch or a mansion in Dallas or buy you every car in Texas. Instead you’re… wasting it on Denforth Castle.”

That hurt Cowboy more than Bat knew.

“First off,” Cowboy said quietly, “most of that money came from a forgotten ranch my mama,  owned out in Wortham that turned out to be sittin’ on an ocean of oil. My daddy, God rest him, ain’t got a vote anymore. Unless you want me staying in Dallas?”

“Aloysius—”

“And second,” Cowboy went on, “I ain’t marryin’ your estate.”

Bat startled like he’d been struck.

Cowboy softened his voice but kept it honest. “When I wired that money to Coutts & Co., I was telling the Bank of England, the good Lord, and whoever else was listening that Lord Aubrey Bryant, Denforth Castle, and young Archie, Earl in the making, were standin’ steady. And I was tellin’ you: I’m yours. For good.”

Bat’s breath trembled.

“You think Texas is easy?” Cowboy asked quietly. “Two bachelors running a ranch together? Neighbours smilin’ but never askin’? Me making excuses every time you visited? Bat, nowhere’s easy for men like us. Home is where you are. Always has been.”

That broke something loose in Bat. Cowboy heard it in the breath Bat let out—long, shaky, like he’d been holding it since France.

“You’ll have to call me ‘my Lord’ in public,” Bat murmured. “And we can’t touch at dinner.”

“I’ll still be waking up next to you most mornings,” Cowboy replied. “Ridin’ your fields. Learning the names of your tenants. Hearing that woman in the village tell the story of how you rescued her cat—”

“It was a very large tree,” Bat muttered.

“Tallest damn tree in Kent.” Cowboy grinned. “And at night, I’ll walk that long draughty corridor and into your room, and you’ll give me that look that says ‘this is mad,’ and kiss me anyway.”

Bat turned, opened his leather case, and pulled out something small and ornate.

Cowboy recognized it immediately—an old iron key, worn smooth by a century of Bryants.

“This is the key to the west door,” Bat said. “Only the family uses it.”

Cowboy’s throat clenched. No outsider had ever been given such a thing.

Before he could embarrass himself with tears, Cowboy dug into his pocket and produced a shiny brass key.

“And this one’s to the apartment in New York the lawyer’s fixin’ up for us,” he said. “Top floor, big

windows, real ugly wallpaper you’re gonna hate. I wired him yesterday from the wireless room to say we’d take it after Easter.”

Two keys. Two homes.

One life.

They stepped close, hands closing together, the keys chiming between them. Cowboy kissed him—slow, sure, nothing held back.

“Fear’s easy,” he murmured. “We take it together. I wasn’t in that club in New York for any of the Tonys. I was there ’cause you were. Same goes for your drafty old pile. I’d rather be freezin’ with you than warm anywhere else.”

Bat swallowed a sob. “You ridiculous man.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

They stood that way, two men in a warm cabin on a cold ocean, holding on while the Magic Stik carried them toward Christmas.

Finally Cowboy pulled back. “Come on. They’re stringin’ lights on deck. I wanna see you pretend you don’t like ’em.”

“Cowboy—”

“And after,” Cowboy added, low and wicked, “you can inspect the adjoining accommodations.”

Bat straightened, dignity returning. “Cowboy, the White Star Line has no idea what’s about to happen in their first-class Georgian suite.”

Cowboy grinned. “Merry Christmas.”

Bat slipped both keys into his waistcoat, right over his heart.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispered. “Let’s go home.”

 

Advent Calendar - Day 16

 I admit it. I'm cheating a little today and referring you back to a tongue-in-cheek post in the Advent Calendar of 2022 (which feels like 1922 about now, right?!). 

It's a little essay on the Hallmark Channel's Christmas programming.

In fairness, I do actually sort of enjoy those Hallmark holiday marathons. Admittedly, I mostly use them as background, but now and again one of the movies will actually capture my attention and I'll watch it all the way through. And, confession number 2, I have been known to get a little bit misty watching some of those movies. I mean, it's the holidays and I can't help feeling nostalgic, even while the rational part of my brain is spinning at the idea of trying to store all the Xmas ornaments and decorations the average Hallmark home seems to have on display. 

Do all these people rent storage units? 

Are all those Christmas trees supposed to be live/real?

Anyway, why can't Hallmark come up with some decent Christmas mysteries? WHY, HALLMARK? Okay, there was Mystery at Mistletoe Manor, which was cute. The closest thing I've seen to an actual mystery (because, yes, like almost every other mystery lover in the world, I like AT LEAST one murder per story) is the Mistletoe Murders, which...I mean, at least they tried! Extra credit for trying!!! ⭐⭐⭐. It's an "audible original," which I had to look up because I had no clue what that meant. 

Anyway. Hallmark, you're all about the granting of Christmas wishes, so please, please come up with some entertaining Christmas mysteries for 2026! 

Advent Calendar - Day 15 A GIVEAWAY

Today's giveaway is a special one. 

Well, they're all special, I hope, but this one is especially special. A cozy throw blanket with gorgeous original art featuring Sam Kennedy and Jason West in a rare moment of tranquility. The art was commissioned from Yooichi Kadono, the talented artist who does the illustrations in the Japanese translation of the Art of Murder series.

Unbelievably fluffy and warm - this high quality cozy fleece blanket is impossible to leave behind wherever you're off to. It's the perfect size for snuggling on the couch, by the fireplace or at outdoor events.

.: Made with 100% polyester that's 1/8'' (3mm) thick for extra warmth and a feel that is supremely soft to the touch.

.: 60" x 80" 

To be elegible for the drawing just leave your favorite quote from the series in the comment section below. 

Advent Calendar - Day 14

 It's the holidays, so I'm trying to stay upbeat and positive, but I'm truly tired of Jesus being appropriated by people who call themselves "Christians," but actually would not approve of most of what Jesus said and did. 

People who believe that "The Lord helps those who help themselves," is an excuse to forget about taking care of the poor, the sick, the weak; forget about welcoming the "stranger;" forget about not judging others lest ye be judged. 

Well, I could go on and on (and did--but deleted it out). I'll just settle for sharing one of my favorite Christmas songs. I may have shared it before. Or maybe not. But it's an especially good year for it.

  

Advent Calendar - Day 13

 Just about to the midpoint and I'm alarmed to say, I've only just started my holiday shopping. 🫨 Usually, I'd be done by now, but this year... 

THIS YEAR.

THIS. 

YEAR.

But anyway, I'm determined to finish that up by the end of the weekend, so I can get going on some Christmas codas. 

Where are you with the holiday shopping? Where are you with the holidays? 

Today's offering is simply a lovely image. Because we can all use some pleasant pictures in our brains right now. 

Advent Calendar - Day 12 Fiction from Steve Leonard

Welcome back to Steve Leonard who is making a highly anticipated return to the Advent Calendar! BUT NO PRESSURE, STEVE!

This particular offering is a crossover between one of my series and another author's work. I think it would be fun to let you all guess--well, it's not going to be hard to guess which of my series is involved, but who is the other author? And which series? THERE COULD BE A PRIZE FOR THE PERSON WHO FIGURES IT OUT FIRST! 

Bull in a Book Shop

 

“I’m sure it’s him, JH,” the tall kid said as he glanced for about the hundredth time toward the front of the store where two men were leaning against the garland-draped sales counter drinking coffee. And, for about the hundredth time, the teen averted his eyes the moment he made eye contact with the man wearing a police uniform.

            “I don’t know, bubs,” a handsome blond man replied, glancing from the phone in the teen’s outstretched hand to the two men. “It’s been years since I’ve seen any of those movies.”

            “I know it’s him. Ash’ll think this is so dope!” He scrunched up his brow for a few moments before his eyes went wide and he gasped. “I bet North will know!” He held his phone up to surreptitiously get a photo of the man in question.

            “Oh fiddlesticks,” a tall, well-built man with dark hair and amber eyes muttered. Of course, he didn’t say fiddlesticks, and he probably said the word louder than he intended, judging from the round of gasps coming from several aisles. Or maybe not. He reached for the teen’s phone but the kid was quicker and pulled it out of his reach. “Oh, for the love of Benji,” – not Benji – “why don’t you just ask him, Colt?”

            “I can’t, Pops!”

            “It is, dearie,” a voice said out of nowhere.

            “Holy schnykies!” (again, not schnykies), the two older men yelped in unison, jumping nearly a foot as a sales associate about the size of a garden gnome materialized, seemingly out of thin air. She was dressed like she’d just hopped off of Santa’s sleigh, so maybe an elf instead?

            “It is?” the teen – Colt – asked.

            “It certainly is. Elliott Parker in the flesh.”

            “I knew it!” He peered at the name tag the woman was wearing. “Thank you, Nora!”

            She patted his arm. “My pleasure, dearie.” She turned to the two older men. “Can I help you find something?”

            The dark-haired man looked down at her. “You have a surprisingly adequate selection of books for being on an island in the middle of nowhere. Although how you can find anything is beyond me. You’d think that a small, independent bookstore such as yours would focus on local community interests, historical browsing behavior, and themed displays over strict commercial logic. For instance—“

            “Do you have any documentaries on video or DVD?” the blond man interrupted, smiling as he put a hand on the other man’s bicep. “The drier and more esoteric the better.”

            “Esoteric?” the dark-haired man said, one eyebrow raised. “I see you finally downloaded that ‘Word of the Day’ app I recommended, John.” He turned to the older woman. “I found one with a built-in pronunciation key. For somebody who went to the University of—“

            “Your fly’s open, love,” the blond man, John, said, which caused the big man to pull up short and check himself.

            “Son of a gun!” Only, not son of a gun.

            “Language, Ree.”

            “Omigosh, he falls for it every time,” the teen laughed, high fiving the handsome blond.

            “I know, it’s like Groundhog Day.”

            The dark-haired man, Ree, groused. “This from the man who strolled through Logan International two days ago exposing himself to holiday-goers from far and wide—“

            “Hush now.”

            The tiny sales associate took this as her cue to intervene. “We have a few copies of ‘When the Mountains Lost Their Names.’”

            “I’ve been waiting for that one,” the taller man said, his face lighting up brighter than the Christmas tree in the front display window. “’A trek into a range where all maps have become unreliable, prompting explorers to question whether the land itself is erasing its identity to escape us,’” he recited, obviously from memory. “Sounds fascinating. Lead on.”

            By this time the man in the police uniform and the storekeeper had finished their coffee. They kissed briefly and the officer whispered something to the other man before slipping out the front door. Smiling, the shopkeeper turned to his customers and moved to join them, just as a small dog came bounding out from behind the sales counter.

            Arf! Arf! Arf!

Advent Calendar - Day 11

 

Today’s treat is a Mad Lib—a fill-in-the-blanks story where chaos and unintentional comedy are guaranteed.

We've done this before during the Advent Calendar--check out Haldis's contribution on Dec 19 and 26 waaaaay back in 2019.

It's actually pretty simple (and very funny). First, fill out the word list (no peeking at the section below the list) and then plug your answers into the fragment of story (from The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks) below.

Finally, post your finished Christmas masterpiece in the comment section!

⭐ The List

Create your List First (no peeking!)

1. Adjective

2. Holiday greeting

3. Small gift

4. Emotion

5. Verb (past tense)

6. Another emotion

7. Random household item

8. Place someone might spend the holidays

9. Short, vague excuse

10. Mild exclamation

11. Slightly awkward physical action

12. Something a parent might say

⭐ The Excerpt 

Fill In the blanks from the list above

He opened the door, and Perry stood there. He was wearing a (1) _______ leather jacket over his shoulders—beneath the jacket, his arm was in a cast. He looked very thin and too pale—and there was something about his expression…

He looked older.

“(2) _______,” he said, and awkwardly one-handed Nick a (3) _______.

Nick took the (3)_______ without glancing at it. “What are you doing here? Are you supposed to be out of the hospital? Your folks came to see you, right?” Sudden (4) _______ gripped him at the thought of Perry being let down yet again.

Perry (5) _______. “Yeah. Can I come in?”

Nick fell back automatically, and Perry came inside saying, “They’ve been here all week. They came to see me every day—unlike you.”

Nick had bent to set the wrapped package on the floor, but at that he straightened. “We said good-bye,” he said. There was absolutely no reason to feel guilty, but somehow the words got away from him. “Anyway, I thought you’d be on your way (6) _______.”

“This is my (7) _______,” Perry said. “Or did you change your mind about letting me stay at (8) _______ after you leave?”

And now Nick’s worry bloomed into genuine alarm. “Why would you need to stay here? Everything’s fine with your folks, isn’t it?”

(9)“____________________.”

Nick couldn’t quite read him. (10) “______________”

“On their way back to Rutland.”

“Why aren’t you with them?”

(11) _____________________. “Why would I be? I’m an adult and I have my own life. (12) _____________________.”

⭐ Finis!

Now post your except in the comment section.

I'll come up with some sort of prize TBD ornament for the "winner."

Advent Calendar - Day 10

 IT'S THE 10TH OF DECEMBER!!! WHAT THE WHAT???!! 

The days, weeks, years are going faster and faster, right? It's not just me, surely? 

Anyway, today's holiday offering is a VERY early version of A Christmas Carol. My favorite versions are the Reginald Owen and Alastair Sims versions. In fact, I'd never seen this one, starring the one and only Seymour Hicks (who, admittedly, I'd never heard of). 

According to the vid notes there are some interesting, possibly questionable creative choices, but I was scouring YouTube for Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol, so who am I to judge? 

Anyway, for your possible viewing pleasure? You may wish to refer back to Sunday's blog post and cocktail recipe.

Advent Calendar - Day 9 (GIVEAWAY)

 How about a little giveaway today? 

I'm in the process of redoing a lot of my book covers. I know readers have mixed feelings about this. And it's not that I don't still love a lot of those early covers, but there's a reason mainstream publishers change out wrappers multiple times through the years, and that reason is that eventually, no matter how good the cover is, it becomes wall paper to prospective buyers. 

Anyway, I've redone the art on The Dickens with Love, which is probably my favorite Christmas story (of my own, that is). Or rather, my favorite novella. Well, Snowball in Hell might actually be my favorite, but that's not specifically a Christmas story although it's set at Christmas. And I really love The Boy Next Door, but that's a short story, which is a whole different thing, really. 

NOT THAT YOU ASKED.

So. I'm giving away 10 eBook copies of The Dickens with Love as well as one 15 oz mug featuring the new art and a quote from the book, and a charming accent cushion featuring Oscar the Ocelot. 

It's an older book, so most of you probably already have it, but if you don't, I think you might enjoy it. And the mug... It's cute and Christmassy. If I do say so myself.

I have a question on this topic though. Although I enjoy writing little Christmas romances--my gosh, look at all these holiday codas I've written!--I don't read them. I've probably never bothered to read a non-mystery Christmas story that wasn't part of a collection I contributed to. Which... Is that odd?  It suddenly seems odd to me.

Christmas mysteries? A whole different thing. Vintage Christmas mystery is one of my all time favorite things. And yet, I've not written nearly enough Christmas mysteries! That seems odd too.

But I digress. To be eligible for these drawings, you can offer your thoughts on Christmas stories in general--do you read a lot of them during the holidays? Do you read any of them? WHAT ABOUT THOSE HALLMARK CHRISTMAS MOVIES? What's your preferred holiday reading? What's your preferred holiday viewing? 

As in previous years, the winners will be announced a day or so after the calendar ends. 

Advent Calendar - Day 8 - Fiction from Christine Danse

 

Yes, it's Monday. I know. I KNOW. But I have something for you that might ease the pain a little.

We have a coda--well, not exactly a coda. More like an AU take on When Adrien Met Jake. ☺️ This is from a reader-writer-friend Christine Danse! 

Christmas Shadows

 

Cops before the breakfast rolls were out. Before I’d started the coffeemaker, even. As if Mondays weren’t bad enough.

I let them into the café. Two plainclothes detectives.

“If you’re looking for drip coffee, the machine will take time to warm up. Espresso drinks only right now.”

I threw the words over my shoulder as I walked toward the counter, which I wanted to put between me and them as quickly as possible. A solid surface to brace myself against as they delivered whatever bad news they had for me. It had to be bad news, if it was coming before I’d even turned the brewer on.

“We’re not here for coffee, Mr. English.”

“No? Donuts are down the street.”

An aborted throaty noise. Not a laugh. It came from the taller cop.

It was an asinine thing for me to have said. My mouth had moved on its own. Nerves.

“We’re here about your employee. Robert Hersey.”

My heart, already pounding, gave a sickening thud. I pressed my hand against the cool glass of the countertop and sat on the padded stool behind it. Usually, I didn’t care about the lack of back support. Right now, I could have used it. I could have used any support.

“What about Robert?” I asked.

The shorter, older of the two cops watched me with intent black eyes. Next to him, the big blond detective was taking a long look around the café, gaze raking over the tinsel garland and hand-painted wooden ornaments—tiny books, magnifying glasses, and fedoras—like he’d never seen Christmas decorations before. Or as if he was a Christmas decoration judge who had never been more unimpressed.

“He’s deceased.”

At these words from Detective Chan, the big cop—Riordan—swung his gaze to me. Tawny eyes studied my reaction. I realized I’d been fooled. He hadn’t been writing mental citations over the Santa bootprint decals on the wall. He’d been observing me.

“I…what?”

Riordan said, “He was found stabbed to death last night.”

My heart gave another sickening thump, a reindeer falling onto its side and giving a kick. I reached for the drawer beneath the sales counter, aware of both sets of eyes watching me. I panicked a moment when I couldn’t find what I was looking for, then exhaled as my fingers closed around the cool plastic container of Toprol. I downed one of the tablets, turned to the mini-fridge beneath the espresso machine, and pulled out the first cup that came to hand.

I was expecting my leftover ginger tea, so I grimaced at the bite of peppermint mocha. A wrong order I’d shoved in there yesterday evening. Hell. With my surprise came a burst of dismay. I wasn’t supposed to drink caffeine at the best of times, and it was the last thing I needed now.

A café owner and small-batch coffee roaster who couldn’t drink coffee. That just about summed up my life.

I only took one gulp, enough to swallow the pill. When I was done compounding my heart problems, I pushed the cup to the back of the fridge and nudged the door shut with my foot.

“Are you all right, Mr. English?” Detective Chan asked, but when I looked up, it was Detective Riordan’s whiskey gaze I met.

“What—” My voice was hoarse. I cleared my throat. “What happened?”

They told me. They told me Robert had been stabbed 14 times outside his apartment, and then they asked me a series of questions. When had I last seen him? What kind of employee was he? As a mystery author, I’d dreamed of having the opportunity to witness L.A.’s Finest do their thing—but not like this. This was surreal. Nauseating.

“Mr. English?”

I realized I’d missed a question. “What?”

Chan repeated, “Were you and Mr. Hersey involved?”

“Involved?”

“Were you having sex?” Detective Riordan enunciated.

My face warmed, my mouth went dry. “No.”

A rainbow ornament hung just over the cash register. Riordan reached up to flick it with one big finger, sending it spinning.

“But you are a homosexual.”

I felt a flare of anger. Stared Detective Riordan in the eye. “Yeah. What of it?”

 

I was standing outside when Riordan arrived. Blue and red flashing lights had transformed the nighttime parking lot into a crime scene. Police voices rose and fell, occasionally drowned by the crackle of radios.

A door slammed. A figure that was becoming too familiar strode toward me, briefly silhouetted by blinding headlights.

“What’s going on?” Riordan asked. He stepped out of the direct path of the high beams. His face resolved into something recognizable, but it was still difficult to read him. The light threw his features into hard relief.

“Someone put a dead cat in my walk-in fridge.”

“You want to tell me what happened from the beginning?”

“Not particularly.”

He scoffed. “From the top.”

I tucked my hands under my folded arms. I told him the whole sordid tale, from Angus, the new barista, going into the walk-in for whipped cream and coming out white-faced to the arrival of Riordan’s brother law enforcement and the Public Health Department. Animal Control had come for the party, too.

Riordan asked all the questions that had already been asked, plus a few more.

He interrupted himself to say, “Are you cold or something?”

I was, in fact. There were no Santa Ana winds to warm things up tonight, and the temperature had dropped in the last couple of hours. My chills were also at least partially due to nerves, but I wasn’t about to admit that to Detective Rimmed in Ice.

“I left my jacket inside,” I said. Once the police had taken pictures and removed the remains, I could have gone back inside for it, but I hadn’t been able to bring myself. Not with the image of the dead cat fresh—or, not so fresh, as it were—in my mind.

It was difficult to tell in the harsh half-light, but it seemed like Riordan narrowed his eyes at me. No doubt: yet another way in which the fruity café owner didn’t pass inspection.

“Detective Riordan.”

One of the younger cops pulled him away. While they stood aside, speaking in low tones, I looked at the building’s facade. The painted Christmas scene in the window—an elf in a fedora and scarf—appeared lurid in the light of the police vehicles, red and blue clashing with red and green. It hit me that it was two nights till Christmas Eve. Two nights before Christmas Eve, and I didn’t know if I’d be open again before then. Even if I were, I’d have to buy all new stock. No way I’d be keeping what was in the fridge, even if the DPH didn’t have anything to say about it. Which they would.

I was only vaguely aware of the cop going back inside. Riordan had turned to someone else. I’d been forgotten. Despite all the bright lights and surrounding activity, I was getting colder. But I hadn’t been officially dismissed, and I was loath to go inside, even to my apartment upstairs.

I was still staring at the shopfront, thinking about how I’d handle the orders for Christmas baked goods—it was easier than dwelling on the growing certainty that I was being stalked—when someone said, “Mr. English?”

It was the young cop who’d been talking to Riordan a few minutes before. She held up a black drape of fabric. “Your jacket?”

“I— Yeah. It is. Thanks.”

Her mouth pressed into not quite a smile. I pulled the jacket on. As I did, I happened to turn my head. Across the lot, Riordan looked up, and our gazes caught. Held.

 

 

After the chaos at Bruce’s house, the café was stunningly quiet. I held the door open

for Riordan—Jake—embarrassingly grateful he’d come in with me. We hadn’t said much since his “This won’t be an easy thing.” We were both wrecked. The adrenaline had drained from my system, and the sun had just risen on Boxing Day, chill and wan.

Riordan—Jake—stood in the center of the café, looking around like he’d never seen it before. Never seen any café before. In fact, why had he come in? It’d seemed like the right thing when we were getting out of the Bronco, but now…

He looked like he didn’t know, himself. I was too tired to think, but I knew there was no way he’d be staying. He’d have Internal Affairs. Meetings. Paperwork to file. His day would just be starting.

He finally looked my way, and his mouth made a rueful twist. Like his thoughts were following the same track.

I found myself smiling back.

“Let me make you a cup of coffee,” I said.

“Espresso only?” he asked, wryly.

“Yeah. That’s the good stuff, anyway.”

He came to watch as I tamped the puck and steamed the milk. For the first time, I perceived he hadn’t only ever been observing me because I was a homicide suspect. His intense regard warmed me from my cheeks to my toes. I found I didn’t dislike it.

I didn’t dislike it at all.

A while later, as we sat watching the world wake, me with my eggnog and Jake with his latte, he murmured, “Yeah. That’s the good stuff.”