Tome To Tomb E-Book

ACF Bookens

• Herausgeber: ACF Bookens
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

A dead body in Santa's lap is not what Harvey Beckett wanted for Christmas. 

The streets of St. Marin’s are decorated for Christmas, and Harvey Beckett has decided that she’ll host Santa Claus at her bookstore, reviving the town’s long-standing tradition. But on the first day of the holiday season, a man stumbles into Santa’s lap and dies, threatening the holiday spirit . . . and bringing a slew of questions that Harvey can’t resist trying to answer. 

Will Harvey’s queries land her, her friends – and their dogs – in a load of trouble?  

Leseprobe

TOME TO TOMB

ST. MARIN’S COZY MYSTERY SERIES

BOOK 5

ACF BOOKENS

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Harvey and Marcus’s Book Recommendations

Great Reads and a FREE Novella

Also by ACF Bookens

About the Author

1

My memories of Santa Claus are scant. For a few years when I was little, extra toys appeared on Christmas morning, and a couple of times, the cookies got eaten, too. I expect Mom and Dad took me to the mall or some such place to sit on the lap of the guy in the red suit, too. But my most vivid memory associated with Santa was finding my presents from Santa in my grandfather’s car one December. The magic ended there . . . at least as far as Santa was concerned.

But I’ve always loved Christmas. As a kid, I loved the church Christmas pageants and the Midnight Candlelight Service on Christmas Eve. I adored driving around and looking at the lights on all the houses, and the Grinch always made an appearance on an evening when I got to stay up late with a big, marshmallow-laden cup of hot cocoa and watch TV in my pajamas. But by far, my favorite part of Christmas was the people. Mom always had charity parties at our house, and Dad made sure his firm had a kid-friendly holiday gathering. I loved them all, even though I often sat in the corner and dipped in and out of my current book while people swirled around me. I was introverted as a kid, but I was also a lover of people, at least people watching.

Which is why when I learned that St. Marin’s had been without its decades-long tradition of having Santa greet children on Main Street, I agreed to host. Santa had been absent last year, and while I hadn’t known why our little business district had felt a bit wan, it now was clear that Santa’s absence was the cause. Apparently, the Chamber of Commerce had always set up Santa’s cottage in the old gas station that was now my bookstore, but they’d felt awkward about asking me if they could use the space when I’d taken it over a little over a year back. And apparently, the town couldn’t quite figure out what to do instead, so no Santa.

This year, though, an entire front corner of the bookstore was going to be Santa’s workshop, and he would be on hand every weekend in December to greet our youngest (and our most fun-loving older) guests and hear their Christmas wishes.

The trouble was that my staff and I were in a stalemate over what we should call the space where Santa would be. My assistant manager, Marcus, wanted to call it the Santa Zone because, as he said, it would be a tip of the hat to Frozone, his favorite character from The Incredibles movies. I liked that idea, especially because our Santa was going to be black, like the character voiced by Samuel L. Jackson in the movies, but it also reminded me of some sort of sports/arcade/game complex, and I really didn’t want to send the wrong signal about the kind of experience people were going to have.

Rocky, Marcus’ girlfriend and the café manager, had suggested Santa’s Village, but Marcus had quashed that idea because it felt confusing to him to have a village within a village, which is basically what our town is. I wouldn’t have thought of that dilemma myself, but once he said it, I couldn’t help going all meta and imagining Santa in some sort of Escher-like reality where a series of ever-smaller villages sat inside of each other infinitely.

My idea was to go with the classic cottage motif the town had always used, but Rocky and Marcus both said that didn’t work because he wasn’t really going to have a cottage per se. I briefly wondered about having our friend Woody, the woodsmith, make us a cottage to put in the front of the store, but the logistics of moving around something that big in our small shop made that a no-go. So we were stuck.

And on the Monday before Thanksgiving, we had just five days to decide on a name, make the signs, advertise, and decorate before Santa came for his first evening in the shop on Friday. The three of us were staring into space at one of the café tables, trying to come up with a solution, and it was looking more and more futile. The shop was opening in fifteen minutes, and I felt like we had to decide something this morning. We had to pick something, and we’d put it off for as long as we could.

“What if the sign just said, ‘Come see Santa?’” Marcus suggested. “Utilitarian but clear.”

Rocky sighed. “I guess that would work.” She looked at me forlornly.

I echoed her sigh and glanced out the window just in time to see our friend Elle Heron drive by with a child’s sled strapped to the top of her minivan. That’s when it hit me.

“Santa’s Sleigh.” I almost whispered.

“What?” Rocky said as she placed her light brown hand over mine. “What did you say?”

I looked from her to Marcus and back. “Santa’s Sleigh. What if we set Santa up in a sleigh instead of a chair? That way children could sit next to him if they didn’t want to sit on his lap.”

Rocky nodded. “Oh, I like that. We want to be sure to keep kids comfortable, and I’ve always wondered what telling children to sit on a strange man’s lap teaches them about their right to say no when it comes to their bodies.”

“I agree,” and felt my enthusiasm rising as I imagined a bright red sleigh and some Christmas trees around it with that fake snow that had glitter in it. I was just to the point of thinking about how we could string simple white lights around the sleigh to make it light up the store window at night when I caught the expression on Marcus’s face. “Oh no. You don’t like it?”

He met my gaze. “No, I love it, but I’m remembering this Hallmark movie where—”

“Did you say Hallmark Movie?” I smirked.

“Seriously, there’s nothing better to put you in the holiday spirit,” he said without a hint of irony. “Great décor, a guaranteed happy ending, and just enough drama to keep you interested.”

Rocky winked at me. “He’s the only black man I know who watches more of them than I do.”

“Forget the fact that he’s black. He’s the only man I know who watches them at all,” I laughed as Marcus rolled his eyes. “But you were saying something about a Hallmark movie?” I stuck my tongue out at him.

“I was saying that there’s this one movie where they have to find a sleigh for some event at an inn, I think, and they can’t find one. Those movies aren’t very realistic, but well, that part seems to me as true to life. Where are we going to get a sleigh?”

I felt my excitement deflate. “Good question.” I stood up. “Visit Santa it is,” I said as I headed toward the front of the store, flicked on the open sign, and turned the lock on the door. I tried to counter my disappointment with the excitement I felt about hosting Santa, period. But I was still thinking about the sleigh.

Just then, the bell over the front door rang, and Galen – my favorite customer – came in with his English bulldog, Mack. My hound, Mayhem, quickly jogged over, gave Mack the sniff of greeting, and promptly led him to the new couch-shaped dog bed in the fiction section. Galen was always getting doggy goodies because of his Instagram account that featured books and dogs. Apparently, he got so much that he couldn’t fit everything in his house, so he gave a lot of it away. For a while, I’d been a grateful beneficiary, but a couple of weeks ago, I’d had to tell him that we now had enough luxury dog beds to sleep a hundred dogs and that we had to keep some room for books.

“I was wondering when you’d hit saturation,” Galen said with a smile. “Good thing I already lined up my next recipients. Did you know that Cate is now allowing dogs at the co-op?”

My good friend Cate was a photographer and the owner of the amazing art co-op at the other end of Main Street. Her dog, Sasquatch, was another of Mayhem’s buds. “I didn’t know that. I thought she was worried about fur in the clay and the paint and such.”

“She was, but then Sasquatch was feeling sick one day and had to come to work with her. She put his doggy bed in the window, and their traffic doubled. So she polled the artists. Turns out, everyone was in favor.” Galen grinned as he looked over at Mayhem and Mack, who were butt to butt on their couch.

“I told her, but I guess she had to see for herself.” A good portion of our foot traffic came in because the dogs especially loved the sunshine in the front windows in the afternoon. “I’m glad you can pass along your goodies to someone else. You have a lot of space there, too.”

“Yep, one bed per artist and a few for the lobby, I figure.” Galen was staring over at Mack with such gentle adoration. Dog people were special, and not all of us carried our dogs in purses . . . although I couldn’t really resist those teacup chihuahuas that customers brought in from time to time.

“So what’s new around here? Anything you want me to Insta for the holidays?”

I groaned audibly and Galen raised his eyebrows. “We were just talking about that. Santa is going to be here for the weekends starting this Friday, but we haven’t figured out what to call his, well, place.” I sighed. “Cottage doesn’t work, and village feels weird. We talked about a sleigh, but then we couldn’t figure out how to get a sleigh—”

“I have a sleigh you can use.”

“So we’re going with a sign that says – wait, what?!” It took my brain a few seconds to stop my mouth. “Did you say you have a sleigh?”

“Yep. I put it in the front yard with a bunch of life-sized stuffed dogs to pull it, but I’m kind of tired of hauling the thing out, and last year, a squirrel made a nest in the Great Pyrenees belly. So I wasn’t planning on using it this year. It’s yours if you want it.”

I stared at Galen for a long moment, picturing the sleigh with a dog team pulling it and then the squirrel climbing out of a fake Great Pyr belly before I finally registered that he had just solved our problem. “Really?! That would be amazing. Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Maybe Daniel can come by and get it?” Galen said.

“Sure. I mean I’ll ask, but I expect he’d be happy to. Will it fit in my truck?” I drove an old model Chevy, and I loved it. But it wasn’t one of these honking things that can carry two round bales of hay that some folks around here drove.

Galen smiled. “It’s actually on a trailer already. I keep it on there to make it easier to move in and out of the garage, and it’s not very heavy. So I think your girl could tow it over just fine.”

I shook my hips in a little happy dance. “You just saved Christmas, Galen.”

He blushed and said, “No, no . . . I’m just glad the sleigh is going to get used.”

I hugged him tightly, and his blush got deeper against his steel-gray hair. “Want to be an elf?” I asked with a wink.

He held one leg out suggestively and said, “I do look good in tights. But no thanks.” He winked back. “I will come by and take a few pics, though, if that’s okay.”

“More than okay. And your next stack of books is on me. Call it a rental fee.”

“Deal,” he said and held out his hand to shake. “Come by whenever for the sleigh. I’ll text you the address.”

“Perfect. Thank you again,” I said and squealed. “Santa’s Sleigh Ride is a go!”

By Wednesday night, Galen’s Instagram promotion, the really amazing window display that Marcus had created, and the sleigh itself had drummed up some big interest in Santa’s first night. Fortunately, my parents had offered to host Thanksgiving. Otherwise, Mart, Daniel, and I would probably have had a bag of Bugles, a can of spray cheese, and a bottle of wine for our meal. We were all slammed with holiday prep – Mart at the winery where she worked and Daniel with me at the store, where he was recruited to hang lights and help stock the shelves with the year’s hottest titles. Books had always been big sellers during the December holidays, and I wanted to be prepared for even more sales this year.

We had been closed for Thanksgiving, but we opened early on Friday morning with our Black Friday discount of buy three books in one genre get one free. The sale only lasted until ten a.m., and then we went to a straight ten percent off everything until Santa arrived at four p.m.

I’d taken a little inspiration from Galen and arranged an entourage of dogs to “pull” his sleigh for the first customers who arrived, and when a tiny girl with braids and beads in her hair came in the door, she screamed with delight as did her mother. “Doggies!” she said. “Black Santa!” was her mother’s joyful sentiment. We were off to a great start.

Soon, the line of folks with their kiddos was out the door, and I realized that I was going to have to serve as the elf and keep the line moving. If I could have, I would have let every child sit for as long – or as short – a time as they wanted, but it soon became clear I was going to have to set a time limit or plan to be here well past midnight. I enlisted Marcus’s help, and he drew a quick sign that said, “Santa’s legs get tired. Please limit your visits to two requests and three minutes each.” That helped some, but of course, some folks also needed to be ushered along with a gentle hand under the elbow.

Mayhem and Mac, our lead “rein-dogs” were holding steady at the front of the lines, but behind them, most of the other pooches, including Cate’s restless Schnauzer, Sasquatch, and Mack, were getting restless. So at six, I sent the pups on their way with bags of treats and my hearty thanks, and the sleigh went dogless for the rest of the evening.

Just before nine, we were getting ready to close up, and I was about to fall over from fatigue. Supervising a line of children was exhausting, but it was the persnickety attitudes of some of the parents that were really draining. I simply could not with the mother who insisted that her child go back to Santa because she has not requested the right American Girl doll, and the father who felt like his son shouldn’t ask for a teddy bear because it was too much of a sissy gift got a stern glare from me and a free copy of When The Bees Fly Home to help him and his gorgeous son explore those awful gender stereotypes.

The event had been great, but I was making a little list of things we needed – bottles of water for staff and people in line, a chair for the resident elf, more resident elves – when I saw that the last person in line was a grown man without any children. I kept an eye out, wondering if maybe the child in question was in the restroom, but when he finally made it to Santa, he was still alone. Alone and swaying on his feet.

I gave Marcus a quick wave, and he came over, seeing immediately the issue at hand, and helped me steady our final guest as he reached Santa. I looked at Damien, our Santa, with the obvious question in my eyes, and he took a deep breath before nodding. Then, this thin but very tall white man slumped down into Santa’s lap.

“What can Santa do for you this year, er, young man?” Damien boomed in his best Santa voice.

The guy in his lap was now leaning against Damien’s chest, and even when Damien jostled around, he didn’t move. I groaned, and Marcus and I each took one of the man’s arms and pulled him upright off of Damien’s lap. But the guy didn’t even attempt to hold his own weight. He went right past vertical and slammed into the table in front of him.

For a split second, I continued to think he was drunk until I realized that he hadn’t made even a grunt when his nose had smacked into the table top nor when his shoulder had slammed into the floor. “Oh no,” I said with horror.

Damien knelt down and put his fingers to the guy’s neck. When he wasn’t moonlighting as Santa, Damien was a volunteer firefighter and had some medical training. “No pulse,” he said. “Call 911.” Then, Damien flipped the guy onto his back and started chest compressions as Marcus moved to the man’s head, presumably to give him mouth-to-mouth.

For a second, I just stood there, staring, but then I jarred myself into action and dialed.

By the time the ambulance arrived, it was clear this guy wasn’t waking up. Someone had died, in Santa’s lap, in my bookstore, on the first day of the Christmas season.

2

Given that it was so late on a Friday night during the holidays, the sheriff, my friend Tucker Mason, didn’t keep us long after he arrived to assess the scene. A quick statement from everyone there and we were on our way with a promise to give more information the next morning.

Daniel responded to my SOS text immediately, so he’d arrived at the same time Tuck had. He came right to me, put his arm around my waist, and said, “Good Lord, Harvey. You okay?”

I nodded, unable to speak for fear I would cry. Crying is my emotional response for all sorts of things including terror and rage. So tonight’s combo platter of exhaustion, sadness, and confusion was sure to open the floodgates if I opened my mouth. Daniel pulled me close, but he didn’t ask me to speak again. He knew.

Normally, I’d walk home. I loved the time to decompress, and the cold air actually helped me relax – I’d always been far more of a winter person than a summer one – but tonight, Daniel insisted on driving me home in my truck, which he drove most of the time, after Marcus, Rocky, and I locked the store. I was glad that Rocky and Marcus had each other, and I was immensely grateful Daniel was there for me, and not just because of the ride. This wasn’t the first death in my store.

As we got home, Mart, my roommate and best friend, slammed on her brakes after squealing into the driveway. “Again, Harvey?” she said.

Not her most compassionate greeting, but I couldn’t help but echo her question. “Yes, again. This time, though, it wasn’t murder.” At least I hoped it wasn’t.

“That’s good then,” she said as she unlocked the door and held it open for Daniel and the dogs, who had been in the homemade crates Daniel had crafted for them. “What happened?”

I recounted the scene – the drunk man, the collapse, Marcus doing CPR – as I collapsed onto the couch and gratefully took the glass of wine she handed me. Daniel poured the dogs some food and refreshed their water before sitting down next to me. I leaned my head on his shoulder and wished I could just go to sleep and wake up to find this was all the plot of some book I was reading.

Mart put on the kettle behind us and said, “Wine to calm you. Tea to help you sleep.”

I smiled. My friends were good people, which is why I wasn’t surprised when the door opened a few minutes later to a steady stream of people I loved, including my friends from San Francisco, Stephen and Walter; Cate and Lucas, Bear and Henri, friends from here; and even my parents. My parents were learning, finally, to take things a little easier here in our sleepy, quiet town. But tonight, they were not exactly exhibiting the calm, relaxed attitudes they’d been cultivating.

“Harvey, what happened?” Mom’s voice was just this side of a shriek, and I winced.

This time, Daniel did the honors of telling the story, looking at me carefully to be sure he was getting it right. He told an excellent, brief version of events, and I tried to look like I was sipping, not gulping my wine.

“Sounds like an aneurism,” our friend Henri said as she moved her dreadlocks over her shoulder. Henri was a weaver who made these beautiful wall hangings, like the one over our fireplace, and her ever-present artistic look – draping sweaters, wide-legged pants, and adorable tennis shoes – was effortless. Even her dark-brown skin practically glowed, even though I knew – because I’d asked – that her skin-care regimen consisted of Ivory soap morning and night.

Mart nodded. “That’s what I was thinking too, or a stroke.”

Bear, Henri’s husband, rolled his eyes. “The two of you get your medical degrees since I last heard?” Bear was an emergency room doctor, so I was eager to hear what he’d have to say. “I can’t even begin to speculate,” he said as I gave him my most pointed look.

I sighed.

Cate slid onto the couch next to me and pulled my feet onto her lap and began to massage them. I don’t know where she’d picked up this skill or the knowledge that this was the best way in the entire world to relax me, but tonight, I didn’t care. I needed a foot massage almost as badly as I needed sleep.

Then, as if by some signal, everyone stopped talking about the man’s death and started discussing their holiday plans. I was grateful. We weren’t going to bring the man back or erase the fact that he’d died in my store during Christmas by talking about it, and I really wanted to just wind down. I didn’t even really listen to what anyone said. I just let the voices of people I loved and who loved me fill the room as I tried not to groan audibly when Cate rubbed the pain out of my arches.

The next thing I knew, I was in bed in my pajamas with a black and white cat on the pillow next to me, and it was morning. I reached over and gave Aslan a scratch. She returned the kindness by deigning to open one eye a sliver and letting out a short purr before settling deeper into her queenly cushion. I looked at the clock: eight-thirty a.m. I stretched and then climbed out of bed with the intention of heading right to the shower and then sprinting to the store to open for our special early hours this holiday weekend. But when I got to the bathroom door, a note read, “I’m opening. Take your time. – Mart.”

I smiled and felt my shoulders drop. “Aslan, how does a cup of coffee sound?”

The cat didn’t even bother to open an eye this time.

I didn’t dawdle long at home, but I did let the hot water run a little longer than I might have just to sooth my aching body. I had slept so hard that I woke up with one of those stiff necks that come from lying in one position too long. The shower helped, but I still popped two ibuprofen and a Tylenol – the pain-med combo that my dentist had prescribed for toothache but had become my standard wonder cure for all pain – while I sipped my coffee and caught up on Galen’s Instagram feed.

I took one more minute to scroll the news and social media feeds, but somehow, maybe because of the late hour, the news of the man’s death hadn’t made it online yet. But I knew, given that this was St. Marin’s, it was only a matter of time.

I donned my navy-blue pea coat, wrapped a cashmere scarf that Mart had made around my neck, and leashed up Mayhem for the walk. She had gobbled down her food while I’d swallowed a cinnamon raisin English muffin with honey, and she was ready to go. That dog loved her walks almost as much as she loved her adoring fans at the store.

The walk was perfect and did wonders to limber me up and clear the cobwebs from my mind. The air was crisp and the sky the perfect blue of late autumn. By the time I neared the store, the only question I had was about who had gotten me into bed last night. I prayed it was Mart. Daniel and I were not moving fast physically, although we had gotten engaged a few weeks ago, and I hated the thought that the first glimpse he’d have of his fiancé in her underwear would include my Loony Toons granny panties.

I didn’t have long to wait to find out the great mystery because Mart texted and said, All set at the store. Marcus and Rocky are on it. BTW, Tweety always was my favorite.

I guffawed and startled a tiny woman just entering the store. Then, I let out a long sigh of relief. Mine, too, I texted back. Obviously.

I was glad Mart had clarified for me because when Daniel came in a few minutes later, I was glad to be able to look him in the face without blushing. Well, without blushing too much. He still made me a little weak in the knees.

“Saw Tuck on my way in this morning. He asked me to meet him here at ten. I think he wants to talk to all of you.” He looked from me to Marcus at the register and over to Rocky in the café. “I have a suspicion that I’m about to finally learn how to run your cash register.”

As if on cue, Tuck walked in the front door and, with a nod, signaled to Rocky, Marcus, and me that our presence was requested in the back room. Yet again, I was grateful for the table and the chairs I’d added to our make-shift break room, but my sincere appreciation of those items dulled to the enthusiasm that sparked in me when I saw that Rocky was bringing a full carafe of coffee and a plate of cinnamon scones.

I took the stack of recyclable cups from under her arm and took the opportunity to give her a quick squeeze of thanks before we pushed open the stockroom door and saw the dark circles under Tuck’s eyes. “Did you get any sleep?” I asked as I sat down.

He shook his head. “No, and Lu had me up at three yesterday morning to get to the big sales in Baltimore. After this, I am going home and not waking up until Monday.”

I poured him a huge cup of coffee and saw that Rocky had wisely brought the dark roast. I hesitated in my temptation to add a big dose from the sugar bottle on the table, but I knew Tuck preferred his coffee black. Even the thought made my lips pucker.

Everyone got their coffee prepped and a scone in hand, and then Tuck had us review the events of the night before – together – unlike last night when he’d interviewed each of us separately. We walked him through the evening, the dogs, the children we could remember, and then finally the last visitor for Santa. At this point, he slowed us down and asked us to describe the guy’s behavior very specifically.

All of us had seen him come in. At first, he had seemed tipsy, and I definitely had smelled beer on his breath. I realized that’s why I thought he sat with Damien, that he was drunk.