Deadly Traditions, page 32
“Is there about to be a Christmas play?” I pointed to a group of people dressed like shepherds and wise men assembling next to the church.
“That’s the living nativity they do here on Christmas Eve.”
I zipped my coat all the way to my chin. “Isn’t it a bit cold to stay outdoors at this time of year?”
“They might have space heaters, but yeah, it would definitely be too cold for you!” She nudged me as we walked, clearly having a dig at my lack of acclimation to the frigid air.
As if in response, my nose decided to start running.
“Come on. The market will be open for another week. You can still have a nosey before you go home.” She grabbed my carry-on and it bump-bump-bumped along the cobbles.
“The cookies!” I called out for her stop so I could rescue my host-and-household gift.
“Please tell me you brought a big stash of gingerbread treats from Ginger Luxe.”
After rescuing the pale pink box trimmed in gold—deciding it was much safer to hand carry—I responded with a lip curl and an exaggerated French accent that always amused us. “Mmm, oui oui. But of course!” It warmed me on the inside that I had a friend to share an almost thirty-year-old inside joke with. To us, it was still as funny as the summer we met when we were eleven and I was visiting my British grandparents for the school break.
Char deftly navigated the cobbled streets away from the market square as I dragged myself along beside her. Between the cold air and jet lag, my eyes started streaming. Oh, how I hoped there’d be a chance for a nap before dinner, though knowing myself, I probably wouldn’t wake until morning. Just don’t think about the nine-hour time difference!
A gray and white cat darted across the street, then scampered in our direction.
“Oh, hello, D’Artagnan!” Char cooed in greeting.
“You know him?” I leaned down to scratch the sleek fur behind his ears and was rewarded with a soft purr and a rub of his cheek along my jeans.
“He’s one of the manor cats. He’ll escort us back now.”
Sure enough, D’Artagnan led the way, checking back every so often to make sure we were in tow.
“He’s so cute! How many cats does your great-uncle have?”
“I don’t know, but it feels like home.” She smiled at D’Artagnan’s fluffy little wiggle. “A whole bunch live on the grounds, but only a couple ever come inside.”
A little spark of Christmas joy mini-exploded in my heart. My parents used to joke that I’d grow up to be a cat lady, and I had zero problem with that. But with Mike’s allergies, my cat lady dreams had been dashed.
It was Char who ended up the cat lady. Back where she and my grandparents lived in Little Witherburne, she managed the village cat café, The Cat’s Meow. It sounded like heaven. As we followed our four-legged Pied Piper, I started having visions of sneaking barnyard kitties into my room at night and filling the bed with all sorts of snuggly feline friends.
Before long, the cobbles gave way to a flagstone path lined with Cypress trees and my carry-on traded its bump-bump-bumping for a smoother roll along the ground. Quaint lamp posts lit our way toward a large, ornately decorated iron gate that creaked just as I imagined it would when Char pushed it open for us. D’Artagnan nimbly scooted through the bars and disappeared.
“We’re here!” Char announced.
Here, was a steep hill flanked by more lamp posts and trees on either side of the path.
I gave her a sidelong glance as I huffed my way up. After several minutes, I managed to ask a short question between wheezes. “How much farther?”
“Not far,” Char replied, slightly out of breath herself. “I would’ve had Uncle Ralph’s butler, Carlo, pick us up from the gate, but he’s got to get to the church. Besides, exercise is good for the jet lag.”
I hmphed in her direction. But then I looked ahead as we made it to the top. And what to my wondering eyes did appear? The most stunning Renaissance villa standing at the end of a long gravel path. Roman columns shimmered in the flickering lamp light while at least a dozen arched windows gazed back at us.
“Wow!” was all I could manage as I stopped to take it all in.
“I know!”
I traded her the cookie box for my carry-on and whisked it over the gravel toward my much-better-than-expected home for the holidays. “And it’s just your great-uncle, his fiancée and the butler in this massive place full time?”
“Mostly, but other family members come around from England on and off. My great-uncle Bob, whom you’ll meet in a minute, has been spending more and more time here since he retired. Uncle Ralph jokes that he might as well move in, he’s here so often.”
“Sounds like he’s wearing out his welcome,” I said.
“Oh, no! It’s all in good fun.”
When we arrived at the villa’s front entrance, D’Artagnan was waiting on the top step, licking one of his front paws. He meowed in greeting, zigzagging back and forth, his quivering tail aloft.
“Uncle Ralph’s Jackie always puts a little something from dinner down for him in the kitchen,” Char said as she opened the door. The cat became a furry gray streak as he flew inside.
“Hello!” Char called out.
“In here!” a woman responded amidst the clang of pots and running water.
Char told me to leave my bag by the door and beckoned me to follow her toward the noise. On the way down the hall, we passed a gorgeous reception room with Christmas stockings hung in a neat row on the mantelpiece. There was even one for me, although whoever made it spelled my name with an i instead of a y.
We entered a large farmhouse-style kitchen where an attractive woman I guessed to be around fifty was bustling between several workstations while a tall-dark-and-handsome, dressed in a medieval shepherd’s costume was so busy pulling out chairs and bending to look under the large rustic table that he never noticed us.
Char introduced me to the woman—Jackie.
“Hello, loves!” She beamed at us and wiped an elegant hand on her apron before shaking mine in greeting. It was hard not to stare at the gigantic diamond on her left ring finger. “Welcome to La Casetta, Holly.”
“La Casetta? Doesn’t that mean, The Little House?” I laughed. “This place is anything but!”
Jackie laughed with me. “Oh, that would be Ralph. Loves his little jokes, our Ralph.” She put a few bits of meat down on a plate for D’Artagnan. “All your friends keeping warm in the barn, hmm? Just means more for you, darling.”
“Thank you for including me in the stocking hanging,” I said to Jackie. No need to mention my name being misspelled, though I did wish she’d gotten it right.
“Oh, it’s a pleasure! We’re so happy to have you. The more the merrier and all that!”
“Wasn’t Carlo supposed to be at the church by now?” Char asked in a lowered voice to Jackie, tilting her head toward the man in tights.
Jackie gave a dramatic eye roll and pulled a felt hat from the top of the refrigerator. “Oh, Carloooo!” she sang out, waving the hat in his direction.
Carlo ceased his frantic searching and heaved a great sigh of relief as he crossed the room to her. Lifting lids to investigate the dishes bubbling away on the stove, Char didn’t notice Jackie wearing a cheeky expression as her gaze locked on Carlo’s and as their hands, barely touching, lingered a fraction too long during the hat exchange.
But I did. And I know chemistry.
Suddenly aware of me, Jackie cleared her throat and went back to stirring.
Carlo turned his attention to me and took my hand. “Holly, like the beautiful Christmas plant.”
“Holly Sharpe,” I said, as he gazed dreamily at me. Did the kitchen just get really warm all of a sudden? Maybe I was wrong about the chemistry I thought I detected, and Carlo was just being… Italian.
“Holly Sharpe,” he repeated and put his other hand on his heart. “Just so.”
“Go on, now!” Jackie chided him. “The other bagpiping shepherds’ll be waiting.”
With an effusion of quick, Latin-esque phrases I didn’t understand, Carlo raced off shouting finally, “Arrivederci!”
“Jackie, Holly brought us some of her luxury biscuits all the way from L.A.” Char opened the lid to reveal dark golden gingerbread creations shaped as ornaments, snowmen, Santas, reindeer and candy canes, all decorated with delicate details of white icing. My bakers truly were artists. I would miss them when the business sold to pay Mike off.
“How stunning!” Jackie exclaimed. “They’ll be perfect for tea before Mass.”
I shot a look at Char. “Mass?”
“Christmas Eve Mass after dinner,” she explained.
“Eeet’s tradeetion!” Char and Jackie said in unison with put-on Italian accents and a giggle.
Jackie’s smile faded as she shut the burners off. “But now you’re both here, I hope you can help me with something.” She pulled a piece of paper out of her apron pocket and handed it to me. It was a note written in block letters.
LEAVE OR ELSE, JACKI. FINAL WARNING.
“Left the e off, you see. Didn’t even have the decency...”
Just then voices could be heard coming toward the kitchen. Jackie snatched the note from me and returned it to her pocket with a brief shake of her head at us as a woman around her age entered with two men in their eighties.
They greeted me with big smiles, kisses on both cheeks, warm hugs and exclamations over my beauty and how exquisite my gift of luxury gingerbread cookies were. Then Bob and Ralph, transformed into mischievous little boys wrangling for a treat before dinner, broke a Santa cookie in half between them before gobbling him up.
“You’ll spoil your appetite!” Jackie chided them.
Ralph embraced her from behind and peered over her shoulder. “Nothing could spoil my appetite for your cooking, cara mia!”
Bob snorted and exchanged glances with the middle-aged woman, who I assumed was his daughter.
“Barbs, would you mind putting out the plates?” Jackie asked her.
“Certainly, Jacks,” Barbie replied overly sweetly, grabbing a stack of plates from under the kitchen island.
I raised my eyebrows meaningfully at Char. It was frostier between the two women than a pair of gingerbread snowmen. It had me wondering whether Barbie wrote Jackie’s threatening note. And even more worrisome—what did “or else” mean?
Chapter 2
I raised my voice above the din of cutlery on plates as everyone was digging in. “So Jackie, how did you and Ralph meet?”
She was about to speak when Ralph cut in. “She picked me up in a bar, the cheeky minx!”
“Oh, Ralph.” Jackie giggled, and then turned to me. “I was here on a solo holiday, having a drink at La Rosa Rosa—”
“When I opened the door and beheld the most beautiful woman in all the land. So I leaned over to Carlo, handed him my walking stick and told him not to wait up.” Ralph winked at me as Jackie shook her head at him, her eyes sparkling. “Just the sight of her made me feel young again.”
Bob shot a grimace over to Barbie, who rolled her eyes. Both were clearly unimpressed.
“Yes, yes, very romantic,” Barbie said, sarcasm lacing her tone. She leaned over to Char and me. “What he won’t tell you, though, is how he sold my grandparents’ antique clock that was supposed to go to me so he could buy her that hunk of diamond on her finger.”
“Now, Barbie, you know I did no such thing!” Ralph protested.
“Then why is it missing?” She folded her arms and glared at him.
“Is it?” His smile faltered. “I’m sure I saw it just the other day.” He looked around him, confused.
“Maybe it was moved for cleaning or some such,” Bob suggested. “I’m sure it’s around here somewhere.”
I did not want to get in the middle of a domestic dispute, especially on Christmas Eve. “So, what time is Mass again?”
Jackie smiled gratefully. “It’s at seven.”
I glanced at the clock above her head. “Then we only have about five minutes to leave.”
“Oh, no!” Jackie cried. “I wanted to bring your darling biscuits out for dessert.”
“Later, later.” Ralph shooed everyone from the table.
The next few minutes were a whirlwind of coats, hats, scarves and shoes as we all bustled around to leave the house. Finally, we made our way out into the bracing mid-winter air. But then Barbie said something about wanting to change her scarf to match her handbag, and we waited another minute for her to reappear before we set off.
“Wait, where’s Ralph?” Bob asked.
“Oh, he said he didn’t want to slow us down,” Jackie answered. “Said we were all to go and he’d catch us up.”
“And you’re going to just leave him to walk all alone?” Barbie said. She muttered, “Typical,” and shook her head. “I’ll walk with him,” she announced, then turned back toward the house.
Jackie stopped her. “To be honest, I think he might be planning some sort of Christmas surprise.” She directed her attention to Char and me. “He has a certain way about him when he wants to get rid of me for some scheme of his.”
“That’s very sweet,” I smiled, stomping my feet against the cold.
“It is,” Char agreed. “But are we sure he’s going to be okay walking alone in the dark? Barbie might have a point.”
“Thank you!” Barbie smirked at Jackie.
“I don’t believe he’s actually coming, Barbara.” Jackie hurled back at her and then moved on ahead of the group.
“That woman!” Barbie panted as we hurried along down the hill. To me, she offered, “I’m sorry. This must… be so… uncomfortable… for you…”
“Let’s just not be late,” Bob said.
When we arrived in the village, the bagpiping shepherds were in full swing, and it was even more crowded than when the markets were open. The church bells rang what I assumed was a last call to come inside.
I scanned the square. “Maybe Jackie’s already inside saving seats?”
“Probably,” Char said, leaning in close. “Though I doubt those two would want to sit next to her. I’m so glad you’re here, Hols. I’d really struggle with all the tension if I was on my own.”
I squeezed her arm. I must’ve gotten my second wind because I didn’t feel as tired as I had earlier. Maybe it was the drama or the chilly night that had my blood pumping. As we filed into the church like cattle, I whispered, “The shepherds sound really good.”
“Oh, that Carlo!” Barbie grimaced. “Easy on the eyes, but not so easy on the ears. He’s spent the last week practicing and practicing, but always just sounded like he was strangling cats, bless him.”
She and Bob shared a slightly-too-loud laugh.
“Sounds fine now.” Char shrugged.
My gaze traveled around the vaulted room, and I was agape at the stunning frescos of Bible stories adorning the ceiling. The living nativity had moved inside to stand behind the altar, creating a touching element of pageantry. After tearing my attention from the ornate splendor of the church, I inspected the crowd. No sign of Jackie.
“Shall we just find our own seats?” I asked everyone.
“I see some space in the fourth row,” Bob said, leading the way up the aisle.
The music began shortly thereafter, and a hush fell across the congregation. Though not Catholic, I’d always felt a sense of awe in a Catholic church. My nose tingled, and I started welling up. I told myself it was just travel fatigue, but I think I knew that this moment of stillness had made way for my undealt-with grief to surface. The life I’d known was about to be gone forever. I looked up at the ceiling again and willed my tears back into their ducts. Nevertheless, they spilled down my temples. Char put a comforting arm around my shoulders as the congregation sang Silent Night in Italian.
When the singing finished and we all sat, I turned around and saw Jackie several rows back. Though I tried to get her attention to join us, she didn’t notice me. How did we manage to miss her when we came in?
“Cara mio!” Jackie called out as she unlocked the door to let us into the house. “It’s Mary and the three wise men!” Over her shoulder, she said to us, “Don’t want to interrupt his surprise.”
I gave her an obligatory smile. The burning eyes were back with a vengeance, and even though part of my bedtime ritual was to read at least a few pages of fiction before the lights went out, I probably couldn’t manage a sentence. It was a shame, too, because I had almost finished the first book in M.C. Beaton’s Poor Relation series on the plane and only had another chapter or so to go.
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to head off to bed,” I said to the group. “Enjoy the cookies… I mean biscuits. And merry Christmas!”
They all wished me a good night and happy Christmas.
“I’ll say good night to Uncle Ralph and then walk up with you,” Char said.
I had just taken my shoes off when a horrible shriek came from the kitchen area. D’Artagnan tore out of there, tail high and puffy, before scampering up the stairs.
Bob, Barbie, Char and I raced toward the screaming. Maybe D’Artagnan had made a massive mess in the kitchen? But gravy paw prints and overturned milk bottles was not the sight that met us. Instead, it was Char’s Uncle Ralph slumped over in his chair, head resting on the table. A garland of shiny silver tinsel was draped around his neck and shoulders. Before him lay an open box of gingerbread cookies. My gingerbread cookies.
Jackie clutched a Christmas stocking to her chest. “I found this on his head!” she cried, nodding to the stocking.
Barbie shoved her way over to him. She put two fingers on his neck while we held our breath. “He’s alive,” she announced with relief. We all exhaled as one, watching her pat his cheek and shout his name.
But he didn’t come to.
