How the Witch Stole Christmas (Witchless In Seattle Book 5) Read online

  “Now, Matilda, don’t say such things.” Win clucked his fancy British admonishment. “Vern simply wants you to find peace. Forget about the Happy Housekeeper and play nice with us now, darling. Tell us what troubles you so.”

  I followed Win’s lead and asked, “Matilda? What’s stuck in the vacuum hose? Vern wants to know. Won’t you please share?”

  “Yessiree, he does,” Vern assured the room, his eyes squinting. “’Fore he has a heart attack.”

  “Ahhh,” Win whispered, his husky voice echoing in my ear. “I see. How lovely, Matilda. Won’t that be a brilliant gift? Something to always remember you by.”

  “What’s that, Matilda?” I encouraged Win to pass on what Matilda told him, cocking my ear to the room.

  “Matilda says it’s her wedding ring. She wants to be sure their granddaughter has it before her wedding to her beau in early spring. She meant to tell Vern if anything happened to her, to give it to her, but she passed in her sleep before she was able.”

  “Oh, Matilda, what a lovely thing to do,” I murmured, my throat tightening.

  “She also says to please apologize to Vern for the misunderstanding. She wasn’t angry about the gift at all. She quite adored the vacuum. In fact, it worked so well, she accidentally vacuumed up the ring by mistake. She’d forgotten to put it back on after applying some hand lotion and knocked it from their dresser. By appearing to him each night, she was only trying to ensure their granddaughter had the ring as promised.”

  Nodding, I smiled at Vern and explained the circumstances of the ring. “Matilda also says she loved the gift, but most of all she loves you, and can’t wait to see you again.”

  Vern’s shoulders shook a little beneath his suit jacket then, his eyes becoming watery discs of blue. “She’s okay, my girl? She’s happy?” he asked, his voice tremulous.

  “She is, Vern. So very happy,” I replied, biting the inside of my cheek to keep a small sob from escaping.

  Pulling a neat square of a handkerchief with reindeer on it from his inside shirt pocket, Vern mopped at his eyes. “I love you, gal. Love you bigger than the moon and stars. You go on now. I’ll meet ya there,” he said, his gruff voice cracking.

  The room stilled suddenly, as though all the air evaporated from the space. The lights flickered, casting long shadows on the walls of the room we called, in tribute to Madam Zoltar, my predecessor, Séance Command Central.

  And then, as though expelling a breath, a soft warmth whispered throughout, floating across the table where we sat, making the lights warmer, the candles flames jump higher and the scent of magnolias drift to my nose.

  I knew before Win said as much, but hearing his confirmation made me smile anyway. “She’s gone over, Dove. As easy as any crossing we’ve had.”

  Sighing in happiness as the room returned to normal, I gripped Vern’s hand and squeezed. “She’s gone, Vern. Safely on the other side.”

  He let his head hang low, his chin dropping to his chest. “Sure do miss her.”

  A tear escaped my eye, the way it always did when a spirit found eternal peace, as I nodded my understanding. “She loved you very much, Vern.”

  Fifty years was a long time to remain with one person, but their bond reminded me true love existed, across all kinds of boundaries—even death.

  Vern’s head snapped up as he straightened his jacket and clapped my hand in a final thump, his crooked fingers wrapping around mine before letting go. “When ya find yourself a good fellow, you hang on tight, ya hear, Stevie? There ain’t nothin’ like it. Have a merry Christmas, Toots.”

  Rising from his chair, he put on his hat, dropped some bills on the table we’d donate to our various causes, and was gone, the chilly wind from Puget Sound blowing into the door as he pulled it open and left.

  I folded my hands in front of me on the table and let my forehead rest against them, absorbing the last remainders of Matilda’s soul, allowing her passing a moment of respectful silence.

  “Every day, I’m thinking I like you more, Stevie,” Arkady whispered, his tone as gruff as Vern’s had been.

  “You know what I’m thinking, comrade?” I asked, pushing the chair away from the table.

  “What is this you are thinking, my little slice of lemon meringue pie?”

  I snickered. Arkady had a million nicknames for me, most of them having to do with food, which Win assured me was our Russian spy friend’s downfall. At one point on a mission in the Alps, Win declared Arkady had grown too out of shape to chase him properly.

  “I’m thinking the hour is late and we need to get home to Bel and see how the setup for the neighborhood open house and Christmas Lights Display Contest is going. I haven’t heard from him in over three hours, but I promised I wouldn’t micromanage this whole thing. Yet, I worry I haven’t timed the lights to blink in tune with ‘All I Want for Christmas’ just right. It needs tweaking. Not to mention, ‘Christmas Time Is Here’ has to play at the exact moment the judges enter the house. I want them to see the amazing spread of food I’ve planned, and be filled with the peace and joy of the season.”

  “Heaven forbid they aren’t at peace as they dine on authentic French pastries that stuffy sod, Chef Foo-Foo Wahoo’s concocted. Wasn’t it he who said, ‘I am ze best chef in ze world! Ask anyone and he will tell you, Chef Foo-Foo Wahoo makes pastries lighter zan ze air itself!’”

  I snorted my endless amusement with the fact that Win wasn’t a fan of our local caterer, Petula’s, new pastry chef and boyfriend. “His name is Chef Pascal Le June, Spy Guy, and it’s important the judges enjoy their moment with us—feast on the goodies we’ve had prepared as they rest in the lull of the amazing Christmas storm I’ve whipped up. We want to stand out, don’t we?”

  “Hah! If the judges’ souls aren’t in complete harmony with the universe because of Chef Foo-Foo’s ‘lighter than air itself’ pastries, surely Norman Reedus himself will scream in, covered in Georgia sweat and filth, crossbow at his shoulder, dead squirrel on a stick to tell us the apocalypse has arrived.”

  My giggle filled the store at Win’s disgust for Chef Le June. I thought he’d be pleased as a Brit in the Queen’s service to see I’d actually hired someone with so much experience and world-renowned praise. My Spy Guy was a bit of a snob when it came to food and his luxuries. So his distaste for Chef Le June left me confounded.

  One of my eyebrows rose in mock disdain. “This from a man who hired Cirque du Soleil acrobats and mimes to perform at our housewarming party? Quit poo-pooing my chef, pal, and remind yourself where I learned to hire only the best. From the best. That would be you. I learned from you. Now we need to make haste, boys. We have less than an hour before the judges arrive.”

  Setting my turban on the table, I began blowing out candles and looking for my purse, spurred on by the fact I hadn’t heard from Bel, and all the little details I’d planned so carefully had to be checked and double-checked.

  Vern’s séance had been the last of the season for us. Madam Zoltar 2.0 was officially going on a two-week holiday break because she had big Christmas plans.

  Have I mentioned it’s almost Christmas here in Eb Falls? Have I also mentioned it’s, without a doubt, my absolute favorite holiday of all time?

  Well, it is, and this year, much like Clark Griswold from Christmas Vacation, with not just Win, Whiskey and Arkady, but both my parents in the picture, I was determined to make it the best Christmas ever, with all the trimmings.

  I know, I know. I’m an ex-witch. You’re probably wondering why Halloween isn’t my favorite holiday. Swear, I’m not holding a grudge or anything like that. I mean, over the loss of my witch powers and being booted from my coven. I can only say, even before I was shunned, the thrill of ghosts and goblins and spooky cemeteries dries up a little when you deal with them on a daily basis.

  Either way, today was the beginning of my hiatus from the store until after the New Year.

  And I was starting with the Eb Falls Christmas Lights Display Contest. I was
going to win that bad boy and nab that trophy if it took feeding stray souls to puppies.

  I kid. Mostly, anyway. I really do want to win. I don’t know why the contest had become my eye of the tiger. I’m not normally overly competitive, but no one is better at creating magic with a set of Christmas lights than I am. Ask anyone in my old hometown of Paris, Texas, just how good I am at hanging lights and turning old barns into winter wonderlands.

  I’d been planning, and Pinteresting, and making flow charts, and drawing diagrams for months since I’d heard about this contest at the Eb Falls potluck dinner I’d gone to with Forrest at the church back in September. I’d paid close attention to the rules designed to keep things fair amongst neighbors.

  Each participating homeowner had a budget we had to adhere to (I think that rule was made up especially for me. My fellow Eb Fall-ers worried out loud I’d have more to spend on decorations—due to my much-speculated millionaire status—and I’d go overboard. Hah! I can decorate on a budget like nobody’s business). We couldn’t bring in any professional designers, we had to do the work ourselves, and we weren’t allowed any live animal nativities.

  According to Forrest—my occasional date, and grandson to my favorite senior Ebenezer Falls resident, Chester Sherwood—one year, in desperation, Alma Sandford had stolen Lars McKinnon’s old cow Bessie-Lou, after her own cow had the audacity to up and die two days before the contest.

  Anyway, I’d orchestrated music timed with lights, snowmen, reindeer, bells, Santa on my rooftop, and even fireworks. That was my pista resistance (yes, I know it’s pièce de résistance. But this sounds funnier, yes? At least Bel and I think so), my ace in the hole. The fireworks display with Santa throwing glitter from his bag of booty. I tingled all over just thinking about it.

  Each contestant participating also hosted an open house for the judges, complete with all sorts of yummy holiday goodies they could snack on to keep their energy levels high as they handled the exhausting chore of their judging duties. Hence Chef Le June.

  I think I rolled my eyes when Mrs. Vanderhelm, the head of the Eb Falls Christmas parade and planning board, fed us that line, but I didn’t care. I’d hired someone to handle the tempting tasties so I could focus on my real mission, making this holiday the best one ever.

  Or maybe it was the best first real Christmas with all the trimmings ever, like family and friends and decorations and platter after platter of delicious food.

  Most Christmases, it was just Bel, me, The Hallmark Channel, and the occasional invite to a friend’s house. I’d never had the opportunity to spend it with my father because he hadn’t come into the picture until just this year. And my mother?

  Well, let’s just say, before Dita began to make this miraculous change in her life this past spring, she hadn’t been around much in my adult life, and when I was a child, she’d never made much ado about Christmas.

  So, if I’m honest, this year was about making up for all the Christmases past. The ones where I watched holiday shows about families who decorated trees together, went on sleigh rides, drank hot coco, and gathered ’round a big table full of smiling faces on Christmas Day…but had none of those things.

  This year, I had a family, and I wanted them all, living and dead, to know how much I loved them. How proud I was of their accomplishments. How much I treasured the chance to spend the holiday with them.

  “You know,” Win remarked casually as I hopped into my new replacement Fiat (see: total disaster last spring, when my first Fiat ended up in the drink). “Speaking of my old chap Belfry. I haven’t heard from him since we arrived at the store either. Quite unusual, don’t you think, Dove?”

  “Bah!” Arkady barked as we sped away. “I bet my old heat-seeking missile days he is taking nap. I know my little comrade, and how much he likes to make with the Z’s.”

  I chuckled as we headed out of town, admiring each small store’s light display as we drove toward what I fondly called Mayhem Manor, our amazing, freshly renovated house set high on a cliff facing Puget Sound.

  I loved our house, with its sprawling front porch, wide steps, all sorts of peaks and turrets, room after room of soft, muted colors and vintage furniture and, most of all, the incredible view. Decorating the house had been a dream come true for this Christmas lover, and I’d been working on it for over a month.

  Everything should be in place by now. Every light display, every Santa and snowman, should all twinkle. The group of carolers I’d hired should be humming Nat King Cole along the front porch steps. And one of Petula’s staff should have delivered Chef Le June’s pastries, and the scent of hazelnut and chicory coffee, along with rich white hot chocolate with plump marshmallows and peppermint sticks, should be filling the air in our kitchen.

  As we came around the bend of the road along my house, I waited to catch my breath and be astounded by the magnificent beauty of the Christmas I’d created in my imagination. Belfry had promised he’d have the lights on when I came home so I could preview all our hard work before the judges arrived and tweak any last-minute problems, should they arise.

  “My daffodil of love?”

  “Yeah, Arkady?”

  “Why are you Americans all so strange?”

  I frowned as an oncoming car’s headlights temporarily blinded me. “What do you mean?”

  “Look on the roof, my pumpkin seed. Arkady Bagrov wants to know, is this some new American Christmas tradition?”

  As I pulled up to our long driveway, looking upward to see what Arkady meant, I too, wondered the same thing.

  Because it definitely wasn’t an American Christmas tradition I saw.

  But the real question was, why—or better still, how—had a bright white light-up metal Easter bunny, with a big blue bow around his neck, ended up sitting on the roof of our house, spitting Easter eggs from his butt?

  Chapter 2

  I fell out of the car with a gasp, holding on to the door in a white-knuckled grip. I almost couldn’t speak, but somehow I managed to croak, “What the fudge?”

  “Bollocks!” Win yelped with surprise. “Are those pink flamingos?” He paused a moment, as though he, like me, couldn’t believe his eyes, and then he inhaled a sharp breath. “They bloody well are! Eleven of them, if I’m counting right.”

  Win had absolutely counted right. There were exactly eleven pink, plastic flamingos on my lawn, all displayed in a crooked circle, the wind lashing at them so they clacked together in a plastic song of unison.

  My eyes widened, almost glazing over as I took in the scene before me. “What…?”

  “Now, now, my precious pearl of the sea,” Arkady soothed, his voice like a gentle stroke to my back. “This is not so bad. Look at those beads the scantily clad women are throwing from the balcony upstairs. Like during Mardi Gras, da? Aren’t they colorful? I promise you, I have been to your New Orleans, and those beads are just as shiny.”

  Arkady was right. The beads the women were throwing from our upstairs balcony were very shiny—especially when they caught the glint of the hazy red-light district bulb glowing and revolving above their heads. Nine heads in total, if one were to calculate.

  But hold up. There were women throwing Mardi Gras beads from my guest-bedroom balcony.

  My breath shuddered in and out, the cold air pushing puffy clouds of condensation from my lips while I watched each woman twirl the beads around her fingers in saucy fashion, posing seductively and blowing kisses to an invisible audience.

  Yet, still I couldn’t summon words.

  Win’s warm presence surrounded me, attempting to invisibly hold me up. “Dove, gather yourself now. We must find Belfry and investigate what’s gone so awry.”

  “Awry?” I fumed as air finally pushed its way back into my lungs. “Do you see this, Win? Something hasn’t gone awry; it’s gone bananapants! Off the rails! Look at this, Win! Where are all my decorations? This is a disaster!”

  “In all fairness, I, like my old adversary Arkady, rather don’t mind the women in c
orsets throwing beads. But I will admit, the witch with a wildly sparking wand planted firmly in her bum might come off as a bit garish and tasteless to some. Especially to that judge Mrs. Vanderhelm, whom I think we all know can certainly identify with the witch and her bum.”

  That would be funny if, one, it weren’t true, and two, it weren’t happening on my front lawn. I doubled over, gripping my stomach as each new horror of this redecorating nightmare prank presented itself. I almost couldn’t take it all in. All the lights, the sound, the color.

  Who had stolen all my Christmas decorations and, in their place, hung from every possible corner of our house everything but Christmas decorations?

  Who?

  Where had my decorations gone?

  Where was the Santa, sliding down a hill on a sled, that I’d handcrafted myself from wire and lights after seeing a picture and directions on Pinterest? It had taken me a weekly class in welding in Seattle and nearly two days to position that darn thing on the roof so the judges would see it from the road.

  Who’d replaced that with an Easter bunny pooping Easter eggs?

  Where was the snowman family, playfully lobbing snowballs at each other in an arc of colored snowballs? Who had taken my daggone mechanical, life-size, Victorian-era Santa from the front porch and put a cackling, almost demonic-looking, equally life-size Uncle Sam with an out-of-control red sparkler in its place?

  Why, instead of a softly glowing sign reading Merry Christmas To All on the second-floor balcony overhang, was there now a cheap, half-lit sign reading Eat At Bo-Bo’s?

  Where were the standing lanterns with festive greenery and shimmering gold and red ribbons lining the pathway to my front steps? Who had swapped them out for a single skinny scarecrow with a moth-eaten burlap shirt and a pile of rotted pumpkins?

  It was then I made the mistake of looking to my left, where, in my hydrangea garden, should have resided the nativity.