Holiday Fiction from Meg Perry!

 

Woohoo! Meg Perry to the rescue!

Dear Merrymakers, the talented and generous Meg Perry has once again contributed a delicious morsel of festive fiction to the Advent Calendar. This year her series regulars Jamie Brodie and Pete Ferguson decide to get away for the holiday, and guess where they decide to visit? ;-) 

Small World

 

“I want to go to New England.”

My husband, Pete Ferguson, and I were sitting on our front porch in New Mexico, adult beverages at hand, watching the sunset. A warm spring breeze was ruffling my hair; my feet were propped on the porch rail, and contentment was spreading through my veins along with the Glenfiddich.

I’d never felt less like going anywhere.

I said lazily, “Sure. We’ll go sometime.”

“I mean this December.”

I turned my head to look at him. He had a dreamy, pie-in-the-sky expression on his face that I recognized well. It usually meant trouble for me in the end.

“We’re going to be in North Carolina in December.” We were spending the holidays with my entire extended family. Even my German cousins were coming.

“We can go to New England the week before. It’ll be perfect timing. We’ll be on the East Coast anyway, and we can recover from jet lag before we join your family.”

“It’ll be cold.”

“No colder than it would be if we stayed here.”

I wasn’t too sure about that. “It might snow.”

“Yes!” Like that was a good thing. “Just picture it.” He spread his hands in front of him, panorama-style. “A quaint New England fishing village, decorated for Christmas.”

“We decorate for Christmas.”

“Twinkling lights, hot cocoa by a fireplace…”

“We can have cocoa by the fireplace here.”

“Strolling along the harbor, enjoying the ocean breeze…”

“More like a gale-force wind, that time of year.”

“Watching boats come and go, eating fresh lobster…”

He had me there. I couldn’t remember the last  time I’d eaten fresh lobster I. s it still in season in December?”

“I bet it is. What do you think?”

“I think you should stop sniffing the candles at the Hallmark store.” 

He laughed. “It’ll be romantic.”

I sighed deeply. “We’ll have to drive to LA first to leave Ammo with Ali and Mel.” At the sound of his name, our yellow Lab thumped his tail on the floor.

“So, we do that a week earlier than we’d planned to.”

There was clearly no point in arguing. I said, “Okay. I’ll look at flights. Tomorrow.”

He beamed. “It’ll be great!”

Uh huh.

 

One week before Christmas, we flew from LAX to Boston. I’d been shocked to locate accommodations in the off-season in a quaint seaside fishing village, a bed and breakfast in a place called Pirate’s Cove - seriously - on an island off the coast of Rhode Island. So, once in Boston, we picked up our rental SUV - with four-wheel drive in case of snow - and headed south.

Getting to the island required a ferry ride from Newport. The “ocean breeze” was frigid, and the ferry rocked in the whitecaps on the bay. By the time we disembarked at Pirate’s Cove, we were both tinged with green.

Our B&B was a place called the Seacrest Inn. It did look inviting as we drove up. A lit, fully decorated Christmas tree stood in one window; the other windows glowed with light à la Thomas Kinkade.

Ours was the only car in the parking area.

The door opened as we hauled our bags from the trunk, revealing a woman wearing an apron. She waved at us. “Welcome! You must be Pete and Jeremy.”

I said, “Yes, ma’am. I go by Jamie.”

“I’m Nan Sweeny. I’m so delighted that you’re here! Come in, get out of that cold wind.”

We trundled into a reception area with a crackling fire. Overstuffed chairs and sofas were scattered around the room; the decor was strictly nautical. Nan said, “You must have had a long day! Did you fly into Providence?”

Pete was raptly taking in the Christmas tree with its lighthouse ornaments and the jars of sand and seashells. I said, “No, Boston.”

“Oh! It’s a lovely drive through the country, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now, you have to call me Nan.”

“Yes, ma’am. Nan.”

She giggled. “Let me show you to your room.”

The room was up a flight of stairs and at the end of a cold hallway. She opened the door and waved us in. “Each room has its own thermostat, so you can set it however you like. I thought you might appreciate the warmth.”

The room was toasty. It would be too warm to sleep, but I said, “We do. Thank you.”

Pete was peering out the window. “There’s a lighthouse out there!”

“Yes, that’s the North Point lighthouse. You’ll have a wonderful view of it in the daytime. Are you early or late risers?”

I said, “Tomorrow, probably late.”

“How does breakfast at eight sound?”

“That sounds perfect. Thank you. Where’s the best place to get supper tonight?”

“Oh, that’ll be the Salty Dog pub. It’s on Main Street in town.”

 

The stiff wind off the harbor was bitterly cold, but the interior of the Salty Dog was warm and inviting. There weren’t a lot of patrons. The man behind the bar waved at us. “Welcome! Sit anywhere you like.”

“Thanks.” We chose a table near the fireplace. A college-aged girl appeared at our elbows as soon as we were seated. “Hi! I’m Libby. What can I get you to drink? We have hot mulled cider.”

I said, “Ooh. That.”

She laughed. “I’ll be right back.”

Pete perused the menu while I scanned the room. A few clumps of people who had to be locals were scattered about. Another male couple was seated to my left. I shared a glance with the guy facing me - then he did a double take and stared.

I narrowed my eyes at him. He looked away.

Libby reappeared with our cider and took our orders. Once she was out of earshot I said, “There’s a guy to your right who’s staring at me.”

To his credit, Pete didn’t immediately look over. “Which one? The dark-haired one?”

“No, the other one.” The guy had light brown hair. He was wearing jeans and an Aran sweater, but his demeanor screamed cop. “I think he’s law enforcement.”

Pete grinned. “Well, you do look suspicious.”

I sipped my cider. “Here he comes.”

The guy stopped a couple of feet away from our table so that he wasn’t looming over us. Considerate. He asked me, “What’s your last name?”

I crossed my arms and scowled at him. “Who wants to know?”

Recognition dawned on his face. “Brodie.”

Whaaaat? “Who the hell are you?”

“Sorry. Jack Carson. I’m the police chief in Pirate’s Cove, but I started my career with LAPD. I knew a guy, a homicide detective at West LA Division, who looks a lot like you.”

Pete was chuckling. I said, “Kevin.”

“Yes. Kevin Brodie. You must be brothers.”

“We are. I’m Jamie. This is my husband, Pete Ferguson.”

Pete said, “I was ten years on the street with LAPD. Kevin was my partner for a while.”

Carson shook his head in disbelief. “What are the odds? Is he still at West LA?”

I said, “No. He’s a social worker with the DA’s Victim Services now.”

Carson looked like he thought that was crazy. “Has anyone broken his marksmanship record at the academy?”

“Nope. Would Kevin remember you?”

“He might. I was homicide, too, but at Wilshire. We’d see each other at West Bureau meetings.”

“I’ll tell him we ran into you.”

Pete asked, “How’d you end up here?”

Something flickered in Carson’s eyes. “Long story.” He turned to his dinner companion, who’d come up behind him. “Turns out, our New Mexico visitors are actually from Los Angeles.”

“No kidding.” The dark-haired man was incredibly good-looking. “I’m Ellery Page. How on earth did you stumble across Pirate’s Cove?”

I said, “You have the only seaside B&B in all of New England that’s open in December.”

Page laughed. “I’m sure. Several of our other businesses stay open all year, too. I own a bookstore just down the street. You’ll have to stop by.”

I was sure that my face had lit up like - well, a Christmas tree. “What kind of bookstore?”

“A mystery bookstore. It’s called the Crow’s Nest.”

Of course, it had to be a mystery bookstore. I hoped I didn’t sound snarky. “This place has all the ingredients for a cozy mystery series.”

Page and Carson shared a look. Carson said, “Yeah, well. Tell Kevin I said hello.”

“I will.”

Page said, “I’ll see you at the shop tomorrow.”

“Absolutely.”

The two men pulled on coats and left, wishing a good night to everyone in the room. Our lobster rolls arrived, and we dug in. I said, “Mm. This is good.”

“Yep. Are you glad we came yet?”

I rolled my eyes at him. “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

Advent Calendar Day 11

 

Good morning! Today the wonderful Meg Perry has been generous enough to gift us with a little bit of fiction featuring Elliot Mills, Tucker Lance and a couple of guest stars I'm sure you will recognize from previous appearances on this channel (and elsewhere!). ;-D  

“Mawage: that bwessed awwaingement…”
--The Impressive Clergyman, The Princess Bride

 

Elliott Mills accepted the bottle of beer that Tucker Lance handed him with a sigh. He’d gotten the cast off his arm only a couple of days ago, and his hand was still too weak to perform a lot of stupidly simple activities. Like screwing the cap off a beer bottle.

He settled onto a barstool from which he could watch Tucker work in the kitchen. “Who are these people coming to stay at Tom and Jane’s?”

When Steven Roche, Elliott’s next-door neighbor, was killed by Andrew Corian, he died without a will or heirs. The bank that ended up owning his house was anxious to unload it. Tom Beach and Jane Devereaux, a sixty-something couple from Yakima, had snapped it up at a ridiculously low price. They’d eventually retire to the house; until then, they and their relatives were using it as a vacation home.

Tucker picked up the pad of paper on which he’d written the information. “Pete Ferguson and Jamie Brodie. From New Mexico. They’re in-laws of Tom and Jane’s daughter.”

“I suppose Jamie is a woman.”

“Jane didn’t say. But usually, yeah, that’s a female name.”

“New Mexico? I hope they like humidity.”

Tucker shrugged. “Maybe that’s why they’re coming.”

 

When the doorbell rang a half-hour later, Tucker was stirring spaghetti sauce. Elliott slid off his barstool. “I’ll get it.”

He opened the door and tried to keep his expression neutral. Whichever one of these two masked men was Jamie, he definitely was not a woman. One was tall, broad-shouldered, and blond; the other was even taller and dark-haired. Both were a few years older than Elliott and Tucker. The blond said, “Hey, I’m Jamie Brodie. We’re staying next door. Jane said y’all had the keys.”

Y’all? “We do. I’d invite you in, but…”

“Understood.”

“I’ll get the keys.” Elliott turned but left the door open. “Tucker? The neighbors are here.”

Tucker stepped out of the kitchen, failing to conceal the surprise on his face. “Oh. Hi. I’m Tucker Lance.”

Elliott added, “And I’m Elliott Mills.”

The dark-haired one said, “I’m Pete Ferguson. Glad to meet you.”

“You too.”

Jamie said, “Y’all are some brand of law enforcement, huh?”

Elliott stared at him. “Tom and Jane told you?”

“Nah. You both have the look.”

Elliott wasn’t sure what to think about that. Pete said, “I was a cop for ten years. LAPD.”

Tucker said, “We’re FBI.”

The corner of Jamie’s eyes crinkled. Under the mask, he was grinning. “Feds! Cool.”

Tucker gave Elliott a bemused look. Elliott took the keys from a hook by the door and handed them to Jamie. “We have a fire pit on the back deck. Once you’re settled, why don’t you join us for a socially distanced beer?”

Pete frowned. Jamie said, “We’re supposed to quarantine for fourteen days, coming from out of state.”

Tucker waved a hand. “We’ll be outside and sit on opposite sides of the fire. It’ll be fine.”

Pete said, “That sounds great. About an hour?”

“Perfect.”

“Okay, we’ll see you then.”

Jamie said, “Thanks for the keys.”

“No problem.” Elliott saw them out then returned to his beer. “Damn. They made us as cops in about thirty seconds.”

“They probably know lots of cops.”

“Do they say y’all in New Mexico?”

Tucker barked a laugh. “Apparently.” 

 

An hour later, Tucker had built a roaring fire in the pit. Elliott could hear the wind in the tops of the pine trees, but on the ground, there was just enough breeze to dispel their exhalations.

He heard Jamie and Pete coming, talking and laughing about something. Completely at ease with each other. After they were seated and the full introductions were over—turned out they were here to soak up the humidity—Elliott asked, “How long have you two been together?”

Jamie answered. “Friends for fourteen years, together for eight, married for five. What about you?”

Elliott glanced at Tucker, who didn’t hesitate. “Almost two years, but on and off. Now absolutely on. We’re talking about getting married next summer.”

Jamie lifted his bottle as if toasting them. Pete said, “Congratulations.”

Elliott said, “Thanks. I’m curious—how does it change...everything?”

Jamie and Pete exchanged a wordless glance. Jamie said, “There are stages, I think. At first, it’s getting used to merging your finances.”

Pete said, “Having to consult someone else before you make a major purchase.”

Jamie said, “Your relationships with each other’s families change.”

“Before, you were just the boyfriend. Now, you’re related to these people.”

“Gaining nieces and nephews overnight.”

“Negotiating holidays.”

Jamie said, “Then you get comfortable with ogling other guys together.”

Elliott and Tucker laughed. Pete said, “It’s true. It’s the security that comes with knowing you’re both just looking.”

Jamie drained his bottle. “Then you get a dog and learn to read each other’s minds.”

Pete added, “Although those two things are not necessarily related.”

Tucker asked, “What’s the downside? Of marriage, not reading each other’s minds. Although that might be a downside.”

Jamie nudged Pete. “You can tell ‘em about life with an obsessive neat freak.”

“There is that.” Pete opened another bottle. “The first year we lived together, I could never find anything because he’d already put it away.”

Jamie grinned. “I’ve got him trained to put stuff away himself now. For me, the downside is not being able to spend every holiday with my family. But you’ve just gotta compromise on that.”

Elliott looked at Tucker, who said, “Neither of us has much family. So that’s not a huge issue.”

Pete said, “For us, I think, the most difficult adjustment has been learning to deal with each other’s different moods and energy levels. But you can either see that as a stumbling block or as an opportunity to complement each other.”

Jamie added, “We were in couples counseling for over a year before we got married. I highly recommend it.”

Elliott couldn’t hide his skepticism. Pete noted it and said, “I know. It’s not a comfortable concept for law enforcement. I fought it for a long time. But we wouldn’t be here without it.”

 

They talked for another hour about a variety of topics—dogs, profiling, teaching, living in a pandemic. Finally, Jamie said, “I’m so cold I can’t feel my toes. Thanks for having us over.”

Elliott asked, “How long are you staying?”

“Just a week.”

Tucker said, “We’ll do it again in the daytime. If it doesn’t rain.”

Pete said, “Deal.”

They said goodnight and left. Tucker gathered bottles while Elliott doused the fire. Once they were inside and settled on the sofa, Tucker said, “What possessed you to ask about marriage?”

“I didn’t plan to. It sort of popped out. But we don’t have any married gay friends, so… It’s like I said. I was curious.”

“They seem to have it figured out.”

Elliott grimaced. “Partly thanks to counseling, though.”

“Yeah, I don’t know about that.”

“Me either.”

Tucker grinned and wrapped an arm around Elliott. “They didn’t talk you out of getting married, did they?”

Elliott grinned back. “Hell. no. I’m holding you to that, Lance.”

Tucker leaned in for a kiss. “You’d better, Mills.”

Advent Calendar Day 6

Brrrrr. It's very chilly this morning here in the high desert, but we have some fiction from Meg Perry herself to warm the cockles of your heart. Also make you chuckle. ;-)

Rum Balls

Meg Perry 

Bunche Hall, UCLA

Historians are a strange lot. I, Jamie Brodie, am allowed to state that, since I’m one of them. (Technically I’m a history librarian, but still.) We are only truly interested in our own area of study and will yammer on for hours about it with minimal prompting. I’ve even witnessed a couple of fistfights over matters as trivial as the purpose of Hadrian’s Wall. Did he build it to keep the Picts out, or his own soldiers in?

(Totally to keep the Picts out. The Romans were vastly outnumbered, and Hadrian knew it. The Picts were determined…)

Ahem. I digress.

UCLA’s history department is a proud bastion of oddity. My friend, Reuben Wolfe, will launch into a detailed discourse on the distinction between Pharisees and Sadducees with the least bit of encouragement. The department chair, Oscar Medeiros, loves to expound upon the political history of Nicaragua to anyone who will stand still. My least favorite professor, Marc Ballou, has a detailed mental map of every historic rancho in California, and will be pleased to inform you as to whom the land on which your house sits once belonged.

And then there’s Guy Snowden.

Snowden teaches occult studies, whatever the hell that means, which IMHO would fit better into sociology, or anthropology, or psychology...somewhere, anywhere other than history. But no. We’re stuck with him.

A few years ago he became entangled in a bit of police business, and was temporarily suspended when a handful of his former students was ritually murdered by a different handful of his former students. I kid you not. This was major news at UCLA, naturally, not to mention being incredibly bad publicity for the history department. Everyone in the department had dissected every detail of the crime, wondering aloud if they should have known…

At the time I asked my brother Kevin, an LAPD homicide detective, about it; he’d rolled his eyes. LAPD had assigned a couple of high-profile investigators to a task force which, quoting Kevin, was “a fucking waste of time.” As it turned out, Snowden himself solved the crimes, thereby achieving his reinstatement to the university. I didn’t know anything else about it.

Snowden wasn’t bad looking for an older guy. I guessed that he was in his mid-fifties. He was a few inches shorter than me and appeared to be in decent shape. He had long silvery hair and favored loose shirts, velvet vests, and Birkenstocks. Faintly ridiculous, to say the least. My husband Pete spotted him once at a gathering of Oxford University alumni and chuckled for the rest of the evening.

At that meeting, to my chagrin, I’d learned that Snowden was a fellow Rhodes Scholar. To my mind, he was the worst kind of Rhodes Scholar: he’d returned from his time in England - no more than three or four years, mind you - with a fake British accent. At the alumni meeting, he and I had exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes; when he’d walked away, Pete had muttered, “You’re fucking kidding me. Does he think he’s fooling anyone with that accent?” 

I neither knew nor cared. But the experience cemented my opinion of Snowden as a total poser.

Snowden was also gay. I knew this because I’d run into him once - figuratively speaking - at Cloak and Dagger Books, my favorite mystery bookstore. Turned out he was involved with Adrien English, the owner. I didn’t know Adrien well, but Snowden sure didn’t fit my idea of Adrien’s type. Apparently he didn’t fit Adrien’s idea, either; Snowden had since been replaced with a tall, blond ex-cop.

Snowden never consulted me for research assistance, which suited me just fine. That way I only had to encounter him when, as the library liaison to the history department, I attended department meetings. Or when, as was the case today, I was invited to the department holiday party.

The party was scheduled for 3:30 pm. At 3:20, Avery Roth appeared at my office door. Avery was a former librarian, now a doctoral student in history. Avery’s topic of study was notorious Roman emperor Caligula; Reuben Wolfe was her faculty adviser.

Avery was balancing a party platter covered in aluminum foil and a glass bowl which looked like it might contain spinach dip. I said, “Need some help?”

“Yes, please.” She handed me the bowl. “Now it won’t look as if you’re coming empty-handed.”

“You said I didn’t have to bring anything!”

“You didn’t.” She grinned. “But this way no one will make snide comments. Not that they would anyway.”

“Not if they want their research requests answered speedily, they won’t.”

She laughed. “You have a fast lane and a slow lane?”

“Of course I do. Rule number one for university faculty: Don’t piss off the librarians.”

“Words to live by. Come on.”

We left the library and crossed the plaza to Bunche Hall, where we rode the elevator to the proper floor. I could hear the merriment already leaking out of the conference room down the hall. When we appeared at the door, Oscar Medeiros raised a Solo cup of punch in our direction. “Jamie! Avery! You’re just in time.”

We returned greetings and carried Avery’s veggies and dip to the table. I left her to unwrap the goodies and “excuse me”-d to the stack of plastic plates at the end, delighted to see that the plates were dinner-sized. Occasionally at such functions, the plates were only big enough to hold three meatballs and a celery stick.

I loaded up with meatballs in three flavors, plenty of Avery’s baby carrots and spinach dip, and a mound of Reuben Wolfe’s 100-proof rum balls. Reuben’s rum balls were rightfully famous among the faculty, and they always disappeared fast. I didn’t want to miss out.

I said hello to Reuben and was chatting with him and Avery about Caligula when I spotted Guy Snowden across the room - and did a double take when I saw who was with him, nearly dropping my plate.

Peter Verlane.

A couple of years ago I’d taught as an adjunct in the history department for extra income. Verlane had been in my medieval history class. He’d been a lazy student, who turned in sloppily researched papers but would waste precious minutes of class time arguing with me about the most mundane facts. He’d been an insolent little prick. So when he was arrested halfway through the quarter in conjunction with the ritual murders of Snowden’s students, I thought, Good riddance. He never formally dropped the class, so I was forced to give him an F at the end of the quarter, since he’d only finished half the coursework.

Why the fuck wasn’t he still in jail?

I would have ignored both of them, but unfortunately Verlane spotted me as soon as I noticed him. His face reddened, and he said something to Snowden, who glanced my way and lifted his Solo cup. I nodded in return. Verlane said something else, and they headed my way.

I murmured to Avery, “Incoming.”

“Who, Ballou?” She turned, saw Snowden, and said, “Oh. Shit.”

Reuben said, “Gee whiz. Places to go, people to see.”

I muttered, “Coward.”

He grinned and vamoosed. Avery, who feared nothing and no one, stuck by me. She whispered, “Who’s that with him? Is that the kid…”

“Yup.”

Snowden and Verlane arranged themselves so that Avery and I were trapped between them and a wall. Purposely? I wasn’t sure. Snowden said, “Jeremy. What a pleasant surprise.”

Another thing about Snowden: he insisted on using my full first name. Just another of his bizarre affectations. I said, “Hey, Guy, good to see you, too. Peter, are you on work-release or something?”

Snowden tut-tutted. Verlane scowled. “I served my time.”

Snowden added, “Peter is on parole. He’s paid his debt to society.”

I seriously doubted that. Verlane practically spit out, “I couldn’t come back to school here, thanks to you.”

I had to laugh. “Whoa, there. How is it my fault that you committed three counts of conspiracy to murder?”

“You gave me an F in your class.”

Avery snorted. I sighed. “Well, Peter, you didn’t drop the course, and you’d only completed half the work. I didn’t have another choice.”

“You could have given me an incomplete.”

“You would have had to request an incomplete. We don’t just hand them out like raffle tickets. Guy should have told you that.”

Snowden said, “I have explained our grading system, yes. Fortunately, Peter is continuing his education at CSU-Northridge.”

“Outstanding. Good luck, Peter. If I find any pentagrams painted on my sidewalk, I’ll point the cops in your direction.”

Verlane snarled. Snowden sighed. “That won’t be necessary.”

I didn’t get the impression that Verlane agreed.

Snowden chose to change the subject. He arched an eyebrow in my direction. “Jeremy, that’s an impressive collection of balls on your plate.”

Hoo boy. Sounded like Snowden had already been enjoying the rum balls. Avery burst out laughing. I said, “I don’t share my balls, Guy. Sorry.”

“No?” Snowden was smiling suggestively. He was an attractive guy...but hell to the no.

“Nope.” I popped a meatball into my mouth. “Only with my husband.”

“What a shame. You do realize that monogamy is not a realistic expectation for healthy adult males, don’t you?”

“That depends on the healthy adult male, doesn’t it?” I speared another meatball with a toothpick and pointed it in Verlane’s direction. “What’s your position on monogamy, Peter?”

Verlane clamped his lips together. He was frowning so deeply that his eyebrows met.

Snowden sighed. “Ah, Jeremy. Let’s not be combative in this holiday season. Have you visited Cloak and Dagger recently?”

“Yep, a couple of weeks ago. I understand that Adrien is engaged.”

Snowden made a sound of disdain. “Indeed. What a rum do that’s been. I cannot fathom Adrien’s attraction to that asshole Riordan.”

Verlane was still snarling. “Asshole cop.”

Avery said, “Watch it, Peter. Jamie’s married to an ex-cop and my dad is a cop. You’re surrounded.”

Verlane paled. Snowden shook his head sadly. “Et tu, Jeremy?”

I grinned at him. “Uh huh.”