A Candy Cane Cat-astrophe, Page 2

  Tilly gasps. “You’ve got the bug, too, Lola?”

  I’m not sure why Tilly has been calling my ability to see beyond the present a bug as of late, but I’m not entirely opposed to it. More often than not, my powers seem to indeed bug me.

  The proper name of my abilities is transmundane—further classified as sibylline. There are other supernatural abilities that fall under the umbrella of transmundane—one of which is sibylline, the power to see into the future. Supersensual is another power, and it involves the ability to see the dead. And after Regina struck me in the head with a pumpkin back in October, my powers seem to have morphed in that ghostly direction as well, and now I have no problem seeing Hazel Newton’s ghost as she floats the halls of the manor. Lucky for me, she’s a friendly ghost or I’d have to throttle Regina for cursing me with a pest of a poltergeist.

  “What did you see?” I all but shake my sister.

  “Two hot Santas who looked mean, lean, and ready to be seen—alone with me.”

  I roll my eyes. “That sounds less like a vision and more like a desperate yearning. Besides, aren’t you seeing Mud?”

  Mud is the blond surly handyman at the manor who almost lost his life when he fell from a ladder last week trying to make the outside of that haunted mansion we work in look like a gingerbread house with all those twinkle lights he was hanging.

  Steph shrugs. “Mud and I have decided it’s best if we just fool around on Sundays. That way it gives us something to look forward to.”

  “Ooh,” Tilly squeals. “Part-time lovers. Take a cue from your little sis, Bowie, would you? Before Shep goes sniffing back to Regina.”

  A warm, spiced cologne wafts into the vicinity, and soon Shepherd Wexler himself strides up looking mean and lean with his hair slicked back and bundled in a navy coat. And about six different women just pulled off their scarves and sighed as he passed them.

  “Hey, Shep.” Stephanie pours him a cup of cocoa. “Is that a candy cane in your pocket, or are you just glad to see my sister?”

  His brows furrow. “Both?” He plucks a candy cane out of his pocket and dunks it into the drink she gives him.

  I waste no time heading his way and wrapping my arms around him. Shep juxtaposed against the fresh fallen snow is like a winter dream come true.

  “I’ll take a peppermint cocoa kiss, please,” I say, and Shep is quick to land a hot and steamy one right over my lips.

  Stephanie gasps from behind, and I look over to see two men in their twenties with Santa hats on.

  “My vision!” she shouts. “It just came true.”

  I wince and cower in Shep’s arms. Leave it to Stephanie to unleash a secret or two into the wild. When God doled my sister her sibylline powers, he was really rolling the dice with her on that whole keeping a lid on it deal.

  Shep gives me a light squeeze. “Did she say vision?”

  I’m about to deny, deny, deny when that warm, fuzzy feeling takes over my body, a serious bout of tunnel vision hits me, and a scene opens up in my mind’s eye.

  A body is facedown on the ground, while a tangle of colorful Christmas lights is strewn around its neck like a scarf.

  The world around me roars back to life, and I buck, nearly ejecting poor Pixie right out of her carrier.

  “Bowie?” Shep looks into my eyes with grave concern. “It happened again, didn’t it? Whatever it is, you have to tell me. There’s no reason for you to keep anything from me. You’ve already told me your darkest secret.” He nods as if prodding me to spill my supernatural guts right here and now.

  I glance out to the crowd around us.

  “It’s nothing.” I force a smile, but it dissipates as quickly as it came. “I just have a feeling that something very, very bad is about to take place.”

  And it just so happens that the very, very bad thing about to take place is murder.

  Chapter 2

  Okay, so my visions haven’t always been spot-on.

  For all I know, that body wrapped in lights could have been someone passed out drunk from comfort. The way Tilly has been loading those cups, you’d think it was comfort with a spot of hot cocoa and not the other way around.

  Shep lands another steamy kiss to my lips. Seriously, though? Steamy is the exact kind of kisses that Shep specializes in. But the unmistakable look of worry is rife on his face.

  “Another snowstorm is pushing through tonight.” He nods. I’m still safely wrapped in his arms as the Starry Falls tree lighting festival swirls around us. “Maybe that bad feeling has to do with the fact your cabin has faulty heating? I’ve already called a repairman and he’s coming out first thing. You and Lola can sleep at my place tonight.”

  Stephanie, aka Lola, pops up like an unwanted apparition. “Winner, winner, sleep over dinner! She’ll take it.” She slaps her hands together. “And I’ll have a slice of what you’re serving up myself with two hot Santas on the side.”

  A crowd moves in, and thankfully Stephanie gets right back to pushing her cookies.

  “We’re fine at the cabin,” I tell him. Lord knows I don’t want my far too eager to please sister anywhere nearby the first time things get heated between Shep and me. “I kept the fireplace going all night, and I had Pixie right there next to me to keep me warm. We were fine.” I pull the cute pink kitty out of the carrier strapped to my chest so she can get a better look at the festivities for herself.

  The carolers are busy belting out “Frosty the Snowman,” and there’s a line a city block long that leads right to the fat man in the red suit. The golden throne is situated at the base of that overgrown evergreen we’re all here to adulate, and Santa looks regal with his white curly beard and red velvet pantsuit.

  “Hey?” I take a moment to warm myself against Shep’s chest. “Who’s the poor soul brave enough to play the part of the head elf?”

  “That’s Mayor Wright. Come on over. I’ll introduce you.”

  Before I know it, we’re at gift ground zero just as one of the elves in charge announces Santa will be taking a ten-minute break.

  The moans and groans of those tiny tots in line echo all up and down Main Street.

  A woman dressed as Mrs. Claus, with a long red velvet dress, a matching velvet hat that looks more or less like a shower cap, and white curly wig heads over to the jolly old elf himself and straightens his beard then irons out the front of his suit with her hands. I can’t help but note it looks intimate, and my guess is that Mr. and Mrs. Claus are a true-blue couple.

  “Mayor Wright,” Shep calls out and Santa looks this way, the curls in his beard bouncing like springs. “I’d like for you to meet someone.”

  We head his way and Shep holds a hand out my way.

  “This is my”—his mouth opens and closes as if he wasn’t sure what direction to run with it. Truthfully, neither do I.

  “Lady friend.” I shrug as I hold a hand toward the man. “Bowie Binx. I run the Manor Café. Come in anytime for a cup of our famed peppermint cocoa.”

  “Ho, ho, ho,” he belts it out like a seasoned pro. “Nice to meet you, Bowie.” He shakes my hand before giving Pixie a quick pat. “And your little cat, too. Any friend of Shepherd’s is a friend of mine. I’m a huge fan of his work.”

  The sound of shouting ensues from behind, and we turn to find a woman dressed in a skimpy green dress that allows for bare shoulders, a bona fide shower cap sits crooked on her head, and her long dark hair looks as if it hasn’t been brushed in a week. She’s slipping and sliding in the snow while having it out with the man in the dark coat that I saw Shep speaking with earlier. And the man in the coat looks as if he’s trying to contain her.

  “Aargh,” Santa bellows it out as if he were about to morph into a pirate. “Holly,” he riots. “That’s enough.” He glances back to Mrs. Claus traipsing up next to him. “I’m sorry, Kaila, but you’re going to have to close down shop until I can contain this fire.”

  Kaila, aka Mrs. Claus, takes off to break the news to the weary masses just as the woman
in the short green dress staggers over. Her burgundy lipstick is smeared over her lip line, giving her that insane look no woman is after. But, then again, it might just serve as a harbinger for things to come with this one.

  “I’m the only Mrs. Claus around here,” the ornery woman shouts.

  A murmur breaks out among the crowd just as Kaila makes the big announcement and the line disperses with a groan.

  “Hear that, Gus?” the woman in green crows. “You’re letting ’em down. But then again, that is your specialty.”

  The mayor pulls down his beard a notch as he looks my way. “I’d introduce you to my ex-wife, but she’s not nearly worth the time.”

  That woman straightens and sputters. “Your brother thought I was plenty worth the time!”

  A gasp circles the crowd as the man in the dark coat that Shep was speaking to earlier stalks his way over.

  “That’s enough, Holly,” he barks it out before strong-arming her toward the hot cocoa booth. Good move. A shot of comfort should set her straight—straight to worshipping a porcelain toilet god.

  Kaila, the original woman dressed as Mrs. Claus, makes her way over. “Gus, I’m going to take a quick stroll. I think I need to decompress after that nightmare.” Her face is pretty, and when she pulls off her hat and curly white wig, a waterfall of red hair cascades over her shoulders. “I’m Kaila Clark.” She bites down on a smile as she looks to the two of us before settling her gaze on Shep. “And I happen to know you’re S.J. Wexler.”

  A dry laugh bounces from him. “That would be my nom deplume.”

  Shep writes books about the mob—ironically, those books are heavily based on my own family—and that little tidbit of information actually predates our meeting. It’s almost as if Shep and I were meant to be together, our destiny as a couple written in the stars—or at least written in a bullet-riddled wall somewhere.

  “I’m addicted to your thrillers.” She glances to Mayor Wright. “We both are.” She looks back to Shep. “Hey? I work at the library and I know you’ve done a few signings there, but that was before my time. Any chance you can make it over at some point this month? We’d love to have you.”

  “You bet. In fact, I’ll swing by this week and we can work out the details.”

  “Perfect. I’ll tell my boss. She’s here, too.” She shoots a cold look in the direction the mayor’s ex just took off in. “And she’d better hope our paths don’t cross again tonight,” she says that last bit under her breath.

  Sounds to me like someone will be looking for new employment opportunities in the very near future. Life’s too short to spend under the tyranny of a vindictive boss. And seeing that my ex doubled as my superior back in Hastings, New Jersey, you can throw rotten boyfriends into that equation, too.

  She takes off, as does the mayor, and Shep takes Pixie from me.

  “So much for taking our picture with Santa.” He winks my way.

  An older woman in a ruby velvet coat and enough baubles to qualify as a jewelry store all on her own enters our midst, feline in hand.

  “Opal,” I say, giving the adorable cat she’s holding a pat to the nose. The cat in question is a tan striped and spotted Bengal cat named King. He’s quite literally the king of this kitty jungle, and even the humans around these parts give him the respect he deserves. “You look fabulous—as do you, King.” The cute little cat just so happens to have a bright red bow around his neck. I’ll have to get on the ball and pick one up for Pixie, too.

  “Bowie, dear”—Opal leans my way and her left eye comes shy of winking at me—“how is the comfort selling? Should we take our roadshow to the street?”

  “We are on the street,” I’m quick to inform her. “And we’re doing great, sister. In fact, our Christmas cookies are giving the comfort a run for its whiskey money.”

  She purrs like the feisty feline she is. “You keep this up, Bowie Binx, and you might just find yourself with that pizza oven on your hands.”

  “Really?” Now it’s me purring like a kitten. “In that case, I’ll triple production.” Just last October Opal gave me the thumbs-up to give the manor café a little facelift, and so far it looks pretty stellar, but we were shy a few thousand from purchasing the star attraction, a brick pizza oven.

  Since I’ve been in town, Opal and I have cooked up one scheme after another to drum up a little extra cash. The lion’s share goes to Opal, but we’ve agreed on a fifteen percent finder’s fee for me for coming up with the schemes to begin with. I’d be thrilled if that fifteen magically morphed into fifty.

  Stephanie pops up and I pull her in. “Guess what? Opal says that pizza oven is on its way. All we need to do is keep pumping out Nana Rose’s Christmas cookies and our top-of-the-line kitchen will be complete.”

  Stephanie nods to Opal. “If you think my cookies are great, you should come to Christmas dinner. Bowie and I are rolling out the culinary red carpet—and the red vino, too.”

  It’s true. Seeing that this will be the first Christmas we spend apart from our mother and brother, we’ve decided to host a culinary feast in their honor.

  “You’re invited, too,” I say to Shep.

  “I’m already excited.” He pats his belly as he holds Pixie close. “What’s on the menu?”

  Opal lifts a finger. “You must have charcuterie. I’ve been having a hankering ever since you served it up before Thanksgiving dinner.”

  Stephanie sheds a congratulatory smile. “You bet we will. Italians have been serving up charcuterie before it was cool—also known as antipasto.” She looks my way. “Remember Nana Rose’s feast of the seven fishes?” She nudges me and nods as if proposing it for the menu. “What do you think?”

  “Eh, it was good,” I say. “But that was back when we were Catholics. We’re Protestants now, so we can have whatever we want for Christmas Eve and Christmas dinner.”

  She tips her head as if considering this. “Like turkey and ham?”

  “I was thinking more like steak and lobster.”

  She gives a quick nod. “Protestants always think they know better.”

  “That’s because sometimes they do.”

  Shep nods. “I’m in for whatever. I’ll even offer my assistance in the kitchen for what it’s worth.”

  Opal wags a bejeweled finger my way. “I’m pitching for the lobster. It is Christmas, after all.” Opal draws out every word in that special socialite-inspired accent that one can only achieve once you hit the highest tax bracket. “I’d better find me some comfort before they light up that spectacle.” She moans. “Lord knows there aren’t enough curtains in my bedroom to shield me from the nuclear wonder.”

  Opal has already filled us in on the fact that every year she’s blinded by the light, quite literally. Her bedroom sits on the second story of the manor, and she’s got a bird’s eye view of all of Main Street—that includes that gloriously tall pine that seems as if it acts as a portal to Paul Bunyan himself.

  She takes off and Stephanie leans in.

  “Guess what?” My sister practically bites the air between us. “Those two hotties with the Santa hats? They came by the booth, and I invited them to Sunday dinner.”

  “What Sunday dinner?” I get the feeling I’m not going to like the direction this is heading in.

  She shrugs. “I thought we’d go back to our roots and start having people over for a big Sunday meal—starting with those naughty North Pole castoffs. And get this? They loved my cookies. It turns out, their ancestors hail straight from the old country.”

  Shep nods. “And who exactly would these castoffs be? Starry Falls is a small town, I bet I know them.”

  “Domenico Canelli and Enzo Lazzari.”

  “What?” Shep bucks as if Stephanie just shot him. “Lola, you can’t have those men over. They both just so happen to come from well-connected mob families down in Leeds.”

  My sister’s eyes light up like a slot machine spinning out to reveal twin angels—more like devils. Stephanie has always had a weakness f
or made men—same weakness I used to have before the feds scared it right out of me.

  “No way,” I tell her. “Sunday dinner is canceled until further notice. And that notice expires once they stop sniffing around. In fact, just to be safe, we should probably take up fasting.”

  Shep exhales hard as he looks to my sis. “I’m sorry, Lola. I have to agree with Bowie.”

  “Fine, Buzzkill Bowie. Have it your way,” she snips in my face as she stalks off toward the cocoa stand once again.

  “More like Bowie Jinx,” a female voice sounds off from behind, and I turn around to see Regina standing there with an older woman with blonde hair set in tight ringlets. She’s wearing a long navy velvet cape, and for a second I wonder if she’s one of the roving Dickens characters. “Shep, I’d like for you to meet my old boss at the distillery, Carol Bransford. Carol, this is the infamous Shepherd Wexler.”

  “Oh, Mr. Wexler.” The blonde is quick to shake his hand while her eyes spin like pinwheels. I’m sensing a theme here tonight. “I’ve been a huge fan of your work for many years. Any chance you’ll be doing a signing soon?”

  “Very soon,” Shep says. “In fact, I’ll be doing a signing here at the local library sometime this month.”

  She licks her lips seductively as she winks his way. “I’ll be looking forward to it, big boy.” She gives Pixie a quick pat before taking off, and Regina gives an indignant huff in her wake.

  I shrug over at her. “Don’t worry, Regina. I know exactly how it feels to have someone constantly plotting to steal your man.” Mostly because she’s the one constantly plotting to steal Shep.

  “Oh, it’s not plotting on my end, Bowie. It’s simply a waiting game.” She takes off and quickly gets lost in the crowd. Although she’s not nearly lost enough for my taste.