Mystic Mistletoe Murder by Sally J. Smith

Author:Sally J. Smith [Steffens, Sally J. Smith & Jean]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gemma Halliday Publishing
Published: 2017-02-22T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I spent an hour cleaning and organizing Dungeons and Deities for the next day's busy schedule. I had a set of middle-aged triplets, men, lined up for the day and wanted to be prepared in case they decided the three separate Hear No Evil, See No Evil, Speak No Evil monkey tattoos I'd already designed for them weren't elaborate enough. I'd spent a lot of time on them, and they'd turned out so well I was thinking of offering the men a discounted price if they'd agree to let me incorporate the designs into my portfolio.

After that, I headed for the employee's locker room where The Mansion's social director had texted all costumes for the evening had been delivered. They had. The silly thing I had to wear made me cringe. It consisted of a Christmas plaid dress with a fitted bodice and enormous full-length bell skirt, over it, a furry white capelet, and then a bonnet worthy of a Jane Austen heroine. Grandmama Ida had a porcelain bell in her china cabinet handed down a couple of generations. It was a small woman whose torso was the handle with a clapper that moved freely inside the enormous skirt. When I looked in the mirror, I felt like its twin. Not exactly my style.

I was one of the few female employees, aside from serving staff, who'd agreed to attend tonight. I did it because of Jack, because he'd been worried that due to the A Christmas Carol theme, there wouldn't be enough costumed women at the event. I found myself doing lots of things because of Jack these days, and I liked it.

Jack was just crossing the lobby when I emerged from behind the grand staircase to the second floor. The swish of my silly skirt and jingle bells on the ties of the capelet made everyone in the lobby stop and turn, including Jack—who, BTW, looked adorable.

His Bob Cratchit outfit consisted of a threadbare brown wool jacket over a dull brown vest and slacks. The white high-collared shirt had ruffled cuffs that peeked out from the jacket sleeves and was anchored by a black string tie. His knee-high boots didn't look like poor old Bob Cratchit could have afforded them, but they hugged his calves and set off his muscular thighs just so. A fairly tattered top hat sat tilted back on his head.

Too cute.

"Why, Miss Hamilton." He was trying to sound like Bob Cratchit, too, but it came out more like Sir Paul McCartney than Sir Patrick Stewart. "You look more Christmassy than a plum pudding."

He offered me the crook of his arm, and we entered the Ghostly Christmas Gala.

The main salon had been made over into a Victorian era London street, complete with cardboard facades of quaint shops and buildings and fake polymer snow hauled in on order of Harry Villars.

The room was alive with charm. Old Marley, the Ghost of Christmas Past, née Lurch, dragged this chains around the salon, dust, née Johnson's Baby Powder from the scent of it, floating off his shredded garb as he moved.

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