Just about to the midpoint and I'm alarmed to say, I've only just started my holiday shopping. 🫨 Usually, I'd be done by now, but this year...
THIS YEAR.
THIS.
YEAR.
But anyway, I'm determined to finish that up by the end of the weekend, so I can get going on some Christmas codas.
Where are you with the holiday shopping? Where are you with the holidays?
Today's offering is simply a lovely image. Because we can all use some pleasant pictures in our brains right now.
This particular offering is a crossover between one of my series and another author's work. I think it would be fun to let you all guess--well, it's not going to be hard to guess which of my series is involved, but who is the other author? And which series? THERE COULD BE A PRIZE FOR THE PERSON WHO FIGURES IT OUT FIRST!
“I’m sure it’s him, JH,” the tall
kid said as he glanced for about the hundredth time toward the front of the
store where two men were leaning against the garland-draped sales counter
drinking coffee. And, for about the hundredth time, the teen averted his eyes
the moment he made eye contact with the man wearing a police uniform.
“I don’t
know, bubs,” a handsome blond man replied, glancing from the phone in the
teen’s outstretched hand to the two men. “It’s been years since I’ve seen any
of those movies.”
“I know
it’s him. Ash’ll think this is so dope!” He scrunched up his brow for a few
moments before his eyes went wide and he gasped. “I bet North will know!” He
held his phone up to surreptitiously get a photo of the man in question.
“Oh
fiddlesticks,” a tall, well-built man with dark hair and amber eyes muttered.
Of course, he didn’t say fiddlesticks, and he probably said the word louder
than he intended, judging from the round of gasps coming from several aisles.
Or maybe not. He reached for the teen’s phone but the kid was quicker and
pulled it out of his reach. “Oh, for the love of Benji,” – not Benji – “why don’t
you just ask him, Colt?”
“I can’t,
Pops!”
“It is,
dearie,” a voice said out of nowhere.
“Holy
schnykies!” (again, not schnykies), the two older men yelped in unison, jumping
nearly a foot as a sales associate about the size of a garden gnome materialized,
seemingly out of thin air. She was dressed like she’d just hopped off of
Santa’s sleigh, so maybe an elf instead?
“It is?”
the teen – Colt – asked.
“It certainly
is. Elliott Parker in the flesh.”
“I knew it!”
He peered at the name tag the woman was wearing. “Thank you, Nora!”
She patted
his arm. “My pleasure, dearie.” She turned to the two older men. “Can I help
you find something?”
The
dark-haired man looked down at her. “You have a surprisingly adequate selection
of books for being on an island in the middle of nowhere. Although how you can
find anything is beyond me. You’d think that a small, independent bookstore such
as yours would focus on local community interests, historical browsing behavior,
and themed displays over strict commercial logic. For instance—“
“Do you
have any documentaries on video or DVD?” the blond man interrupted, smiling as
he put a hand on the other man’s bicep. “The drier and more esoteric the
better.”
“Esoteric?”
the dark-haired man said, one eyebrow raised. “I see you finally downloaded
that ‘Word of the Day’ app I recommended, John.” He turned to the older woman.
“I found one with a built-in pronunciation key. For somebody who went to the
University of—“
“Your fly’s
open, love,” the blond man, John, said, which caused the big man to pull up
short and check himself.
“Son of a
gun!” Only, not son of a gun.
“Language,
Ree.”
“Omigosh, he
falls for it every time,” the teen laughed, high fiving the handsome blond.
“I know,
it’s like Groundhog Day.”
The
dark-haired man, Ree, groused. “This from the man who strolled through Logan
International two days ago exposing himself to holiday-goers from far and wide—“
“Hush now.”
The tiny
sales associate took this as her cue to intervene. “We have a few copies of
‘When the Mountains Lost Their Names.’”
“I’ve been
waiting for that one,” the taller man said, his face lighting up brighter than
the Christmas tree in the front display window. “’A trek into a range where all
maps have become unreliable, prompting explorers to question whether the land
itself is erasing its identity to escape us,’” he recited, obviously from
memory. “Sounds fascinating. Lead on.”
By this
time the man in the police uniform and the storekeeper had finished their
coffee. They kissed briefly and the officer whispered something to the other
man before slipping out the front door. Smiling, the shopkeeper turned to his
customers and moved to join them, just as a small dog came bounding out from
behind the sales counter.
Arf! Arf! Arf!
We've done this before during the Advent Calendar--check out Haldis's contribution on Dec 19 and 26 waaaaay back in 2019.
It's actually pretty simple (and very funny). First, fill out the word list (no peeking at the section below the list) and then plug your answers into the fragment of story (from The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks) below.
Finally, post your finished Christmas masterpiece in the comment section!
Create your List First (no peeking!)
Adjective
Holiday greeting
Small gift
Emotion
Verb (past tense)
Another emotion
Random household item
Place someone might spend the holidays
Short, vague excuse
Mild exclamation
Slightly awkward physical action
Something a parent might say
IT'S THE 10TH OF DECEMBER!!! WHAT THE WHAT???!!
The days, weeks, years are going faster and faster, right? It's not just me, surely?
Anyway, today's holiday offering is a VERY early version of A Christmas Carol. My favorite versions are the Reginald Owen and Alastair Sims versions. In fact, I'd never seen this one, starring the one and only Seymour Hicks (who, admittedly, I'd never heard of).
According to the vid notes there are some interesting, possibly questionable creative choices, but I was scouring YouTube for Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol, so who am I to judge?
Anyway, for your possible viewing pleasure? You may wish to refer back to Sunday's blog post and cocktail recipe.
I'm in the process of redoing a lot of my book covers. I know readers have mixed feelings about this. And it's not that I don't still love a lot of those early covers, but there's a reason mainstream publishers change out wrappers multiple times through the years, and that reason is that eventually, no matter how good the cover is, it becomes wall paper to prospective buyers.
Anyway, I've redone the art on The Dickens with Love, which is probably my favorite Christmas story (of my own, that is). Or rather, my favorite novella. Well, Snowball in Hell might actually be my favorite, but that's not specifically a Christmas story although it's set at Christmas. And I really love The Boy Next Door, but that's a short story, which is a whole different thing, really.
NOT THAT YOU ASKED.
So. I'm giving away 10 eBook copies of The Dickens with Love as well as one 15 oz mug featuring the new art and a quote from the book, and a charming accent cushion featuring Oscar the Ocelot.
It's an older book, so most of you probably already have it, but if you don't, I think you might enjoy it. And the mug... It's cute and Christmassy. If I do say so myself.
I have a question on this topic though. Although I enjoy writing little Christmas romances--my gosh, look at all these holiday codas I've written!--I don't read them. I've probably never bothered to read a non-mystery Christmas story that wasn't part of a collection I contributed to. Which... Is that odd? It suddenly seems odd to me.
Christmas mysteries? A whole different thing. Vintage Christmas mystery is one of my all time favorite things. And yet, I've not written nearly enough Christmas mysteries! That seems odd too.
But I digress. To be eligible for these drawings, you can offer your thoughts on Christmas stories in general--do you read a lot of them during the holidays? Do you read any of them? WHAT ABOUT THOSE HALLMARK CHRISTMAS MOVIES? What's your preferred holiday reading? What's your preferred holiday viewing?
As in previous years, the winners will be announced a day or so after the calendar ends.
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We have a coda--well, not exactly a coda. More like an AU take on When Adrien Met Jake. ☺️ This is from a reader-writer-friend Christine Danse!
Christmas Shadows
Cops before the breakfast rolls were out. Before I’d started the coffeemaker, even. As if Mondays weren’t bad enough.
I let them into the café. Two
plainclothes detectives.
“If you’re looking for drip coffee,
the machine will take time to warm up. Espresso drinks only right now.”
I threw the words over my shoulder
as I walked toward the counter, which I wanted to put between me and them as
quickly as possible. A solid surface to brace myself against as they delivered
whatever bad news they had for me. It had to be bad news, if it was coming
before I’d even turned the brewer on.
“We’re not here for coffee, Mr.
English.”
“No? Donuts are down the street.”
An aborted throaty noise. Not a
laugh. It came from the taller cop.
It was an asinine thing for me to
have said. My mouth had moved on its own. Nerves.
“We’re here about your employee.
Robert Hersey.”
My heart, already pounding, gave a
sickening thud. I pressed my hand against the cool glass of the countertop and
sat on the padded stool behind it. Usually, I didn’t care about the lack of
back support. Right now, I could have used it. I could have used any support.
“What about Robert?” I asked.
The shorter, older of the two cops
watched me with intent black eyes. Next to him, the big blond detective was
taking a long look around the café, gaze raking over the tinsel garland and
hand-painted wooden ornaments—tiny books, magnifying glasses, and fedoras—like
he’d never seen Christmas decorations before. Or as if he was a Christmas
decoration judge who had never been more unimpressed.
“He’s deceased.”
At these words from Detective Chan,
the big cop—Riordan—swung his gaze to me. Tawny eyes studied my reaction. I
realized I’d been fooled. He hadn’t been writing mental citations over the
Santa bootprint decals on the wall. He’d been observing me.
“I…what?”
Riordan said, “He was found stabbed
to death last night.”
My heart gave another sickening
thump, a reindeer falling onto its side and giving a kick. I reached for the
drawer beneath the sales counter, aware of both sets of eyes watching me. I
panicked a moment when I couldn’t find what I was looking for, then exhaled as
my fingers closed around the cool plastic container of Toprol. I downed one of
the tablets, turned to the mini-fridge beneath the espresso machine, and pulled
out the first cup that came to hand.
I was expecting my leftover ginger
tea, so I grimaced at the bite of peppermint mocha. A wrong order I’d shoved in
there yesterday evening. Hell. With my surprise came a burst of dismay. I
wasn’t supposed to drink caffeine at the best of times, and it was the last
thing I needed now.
A café owner and small-batch coffee
roaster who couldn’t drink coffee. That just about summed up my life.
I only took one gulp, enough to
swallow the pill. When I was done compounding my heart problems, I pushed the
cup to the back of the fridge and nudged the door shut with my foot.
“Are you all right, Mr. English?”
Detective Chan asked, but when I looked up, it was Detective Riordan’s whiskey
gaze I met.
“What—” My voice was hoarse. I
cleared my throat. “What happened?”
They told me. They told me Robert
had been stabbed 14 times outside his apartment, and then they asked me a
series of questions. When had I last seen him? What kind of employee was he? As
a mystery author, I’d dreamed of having the opportunity to witness L.A.’s
Finest do their thing—but not like this. This was surreal. Nauseating.
“Mr. English?”
I realized I’d missed a question.
“What?”
Chan repeated, “Were you and Mr.
Hersey involved?”
“Involved?”
“Were you having sex?” Detective
Riordan enunciated.
My face warmed, my mouth went dry.
“No.”
A rainbow ornament hung just over
the cash register. Riordan reached up to flick it with one big finger, sending
it spinning.
“But you are a homosexual.”
I felt a flare of anger. Stared
Detective Riordan in the eye. “Yeah. What of it?”
I was standing outside when Riordan
arrived. Blue and red flashing lights had transformed the nighttime parking lot
into a crime scene. Police voices rose and fell, occasionally drowned by the
crackle of radios.
A door slammed. A figure that was
becoming too familiar strode toward me, briefly silhouetted by blinding
headlights.
“What’s going on?” Riordan asked. He
stepped out of the direct path of the high beams. His face resolved into
something recognizable, but it was still difficult to read him. The light threw
his features into hard relief.
“Someone put a dead cat in my
walk-in fridge.”
“You want to tell me what happened
from the beginning?”
“Not particularly.”
He scoffed. “From the top.”
I tucked my hands under my folded
arms. I told him the whole sordid tale, from Angus, the new barista, going into
the walk-in for whipped cream and coming out white-faced to the arrival of
Riordan’s brother law enforcement and the Public Health Department. Animal
Control had come for the party, too.
Riordan asked all the questions that
had already been asked, plus a few more.
He interrupted himself to say, “Are
you cold or something?”
I was, in fact. There were no Santa
Ana winds to warm things up tonight, and the temperature had dropped in the
last couple of hours. My chills were also at least partially due to nerves, but
I wasn’t about to admit that to Detective Rimmed in Ice.
“I left my jacket inside,” I said.
Once the police had taken pictures and removed the remains, I could have gone
back inside for it, but I hadn’t been able to bring myself. Not with the image
of the dead cat fresh—or, not so fresh, as it were—in my mind.
It was difficult to tell in the
harsh half-light, but it seemed like Riordan narrowed his eyes at me. No doubt:
yet another way in which the fruity café owner didn’t pass inspection.
“Detective Riordan.”
One of the younger cops pulled him
away. While they stood aside, speaking in low tones, I looked at the building’s
facade. The painted Christmas scene in the window—an elf in a fedora and
scarf—appeared lurid in the light of the police vehicles, red and blue clashing
with red and green. It hit me that it was two nights till Christmas Eve. Two
nights before Christmas Eve, and I didn’t know if I’d be open again before
then. Even if I were, I’d have to buy all new stock. No way I’d be keeping what
was in the fridge, even if the DPH didn’t have anything to say about it. Which
they would.
I was only vaguely aware of the cop
going back inside. Riordan had turned to someone else. I’d been forgotten.
Despite all the bright lights and surrounding activity, I was getting colder.
But I hadn’t been officially dismissed, and I was loath to go inside, even to
my apartment upstairs.
I was still staring at the
shopfront, thinking about how I’d handle the orders for Christmas baked
goods—it was easier than dwelling on the growing certainty that I was being
stalked—when someone said, “Mr. English?”
It was the young cop who’d been
talking to Riordan a few minutes before. She held up a black drape of fabric.
“Your jacket?”
“I— Yeah. It is. Thanks.”
Her mouth pressed into not quite a
smile. I pulled the jacket on. As I did, I happened to turn my head. Across the
lot, Riordan looked up, and our gazes caught. Held.
for
Riordan—Jake—embarrassingly grateful he’d come in with me. We hadn’t said much
since his “This won’t be an easy thing.” We were both wrecked. The adrenaline
had drained from my system, and the sun had just risen on Boxing Day, chill and
wan.
Riordan—Jake—stood in the
center of the café, looking around like he’d never seen it before. Never seen
any café before. In fact, why had he come in? It’d seemed like the right thing
when we were getting out of the Bronco, but now…
He looked like he didn’t know,
himself. I was too tired to think, but I knew there was no way he’d be staying.
He’d have Internal Affairs. Meetings. Paperwork to file. His day would just be
starting.
He finally looked my way, and his
mouth made a rueful twist. Like his thoughts were following the same track.
I found myself smiling back.
“Let me make you a cup of coffee,” I
said.
“Espresso only?” he asked, wryly.
“Yeah. That’s the good stuff,
anyway.”
He came to watch as I tamped the
puck and steamed the milk. For the first time, I perceived he hadn’t only ever
been observing me because I was a homicide suspect. His intense regard warmed
me from my cheeks to my toes. I found I didn’t dislike it.
I didn’t dislike it at all.
A while later, as we sat watching
the world wake, me with my eggnog and Jake with his latte, he murmured, “Yeah.
That’s the good stuff.”
So to be honest, this is not technically a "Christmas" cocktail. In fact, I came up with it for Kill Your Darlings. So let's consider this more of a Christmas mystery cocktail, and I'll include a classic--well, let's not exaggerate! A VINTAGE Christmas mystery reading list!
✨ Smoke and Mirrors — Signature Cocktail ✨
A
brooding, seductive sip with just enough sweetness to lure you in… and enough
shadow to keep you guessing.
INGREDIENTS
2 oz bourbon
½ oz smoked cherry syrup
½ oz Amaro
(Averna or Montenegro for smooth richness; Cynar if you want a darker, moodier edge)
2 dashes Angostura bitters
Optional: 1 dash chocolate or smoked bitters
Garnish: Orange peel + a Luxardo cherry
METHOD
Add all ingredients to a mixing glass filled with ice.
Stir until well-chilled and silky. OOOH. SILKY.
Strain into a rocks glass over a large cube.
Express the orange peel over the drink, then drop it in.
Add a single Luxardo cherry for a final touch of mystery.
(OR HAVE AS MANY AS YOU WANT IT'S CHRISTMAS FOR GOSH SAKE)
VINTAGE MYSTERY READING LIST
THE THIN MAN - Dashiell Hammet 1934
(everyone thinks they've read it because they've seen the movie--WHICH IS DELLIGHTFUL, I GIVE YOU THAT--but, if you're serious about your mystery cred, you have to read at least ONE Hammet, and it might as well be this one)
CRIME AT CHRISTMAS by C.H.B. Kitchin 1934
THE SANTA KLAUS MURDER by Mavis Doriel Hay (1936)
THE BLACK-HEADED PINS by Constance and Gwenyth Little (1938)
MURDER AFTER CHRISTMAS by Rupert Latimer 1944
WHO KILLED THE CURATE by Joan Coggin - 1944
ANOTHER LITTLE CHRISTMAS MURDER by Lorna Nicoll Morgan (1947)
MURDER FOR CHRISTMAS by Frances Duncan (1949)
THE BIG BOOK OF CHRISTMAS MYSTERIES edited by Otto Penzler 2013
I'm not sure this one qualifies. It's an anthology containing many modern authors writing in traditional Golden Age styles. "It’s a glorious mash of classic setups: country houses, snowstorms, stolen jewels, and holiday corpses." SAYS WHO?!
Happy Saturday! Something quick and lovely for you. If you've never seen The Snowman, you should make the effort this holiday season. It's magical. Even if you haven't seen the film, you've probably heard "Walking in the Air."
Today's offering is a poem. One of my favorites, though I don't think I've previously shared it in an Advent Calendar. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost, written in 1922. So very simple. So profound.
That said, I'm a girl who also wants to have a functioning liver when I eventually retire (is that even a possibility for a writer?!) so I've cut back a bit over the past couple of years, barring the occasional slip.THIS IS THE PROBLEM WITH HAVING FRIENDS.
Anyway, I have a particular fondness for complicated cocktails, and I've got a pretty sweet bar set up (right down to a box of tiny paper umbrellas) to indulge my fancy to fool around with bitters and aromatics and such like. But sometimes you just want something elegant and simple.
The solution is a nice soda, like Henry Weinhard's Black Cherry Cream, Hard Rootbeer or Cream Soda and a shot of Captain Morgan's Madagascar Vanilla Spiced Rum. OR if you're not a pirate or a rum drinker, try a shot of your favorite vanilla/cupcake/cream flavored vodka.
It's super simple and fast acting for those SOMEONE GET ME A COCKTAIL STAT moments. And if you put it in a nice glass with crushed ice, toss in some edible glitter, you'll look like you know what you're doing even if you've never mixed a drink in your life. (I'd avoid adding sugar rims, whip, fruit, etc. however, as this drink is already very sweet.)
OOOPS!!!!
Due to a flood of spam last summer, I set the blog to, er, NO COMMENTS. Which tends to have a dampening effect on social interaction. 😂🤣😅
SO THAT'S EMBARRASSING.
My apologies! Your comments are, of course, welcome!
Good morning! Happy Wednesday! Are you Christmas shopping this weekend? Or are you one of those highly organized peoples that have all the holiday tasks done and dusted?
Today's offering is the holiday classic "I'll be Home for Christmas," sung by Bing Crosby. This one is for my dad who I miss every day, but even more at the holidays.
I tried to make it a little harder than last year's--and more of a Christmas theme. You'll probably need to put a little time aside for this one, so grab a cup of cheer and make yourself comfy.
I've uploaded the correct image so you have a fighting chance.😉
You should be able to find the puzzle right here.
