Gingerdead Man

Four

Chapter 1

Val Deniston paused at the top of the stairs in the house she shared with her grandfather. She usually dashed down the steps, but today she might trip over the long skirt she’d borrowed. Lifting the front of it, she descended at a pace suitable to her costume. She glanced at the red flyer on the hall table.

C

OME TO

B

AYPORT’S

D

ICKENS OF A HOLIDAY

F

ESTIVAL

W

HEN

19

TH-CENTURY

L

ONDON

C

OMES

A

LIVE

CAROLING, TEA PARTIES, STREET MARKETS, AND

P

UB

F

ARE

P

RIZES FOR THE

B

EST

-D

RESSED

V

ICTORIANS

Val lifted the cuff of her white blouse and glanced at her watch. Time to leave for London on the Chesapeake Bay. She knocked on the door to her grandfather’s bedroom down the hall. It’s almost ten. I’ll go on ahead if you’re not ready yet.

Coming!

She rolled up the waistband of her skirt so it wouldn’t sweep the sidewalk and donned the ghastly green cloak she’d found in the attic. She cringed at her reflection in the full-length mirror. The shapeless garment dwarfed her small frame. If anyone gave a prize for a tent look-alike, she would win it. She was tempted to ditch the cloak, but her parka would look out of place in Victorian London. On the plus side, the cloak’s dense wool would keep her warm, and she’d have to wear it only for a short time. Most of the day she’d be indoors, serving tea and sweets at Title Wave, Bayport’s new bookshop.

Granddad emerged from his room, struggling to knot a red scarf under his full white beard. In his black, high-collared coat and a top hat, he looked as if he could have stepped out of a hansom cab at Trafalgar Square.

He touched the brim of the hat he’d borrowed from a local theater group. This is too small. But I wasn’t going to shell out good dough for a hat I’ll never wear again. He checked himself in the hall mirror. Do I look silly?

No more than any other man wearing a top hat. "Distinguished is the word I’d use. She slipped her arm under his and nudged him toward the front door. You’ll fit in with all the other Victorian gentlemen today. And you’re the star attraction. Bayport couldn’t hold its first Dickens festival without Ebenezer Scrooge."

Humbug. Santa’s the big star in any holiday celebration. He pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose.

He’d worn those same wire-framed bifocals as Santa last December. His arrival by barge at the marina had kicked off the town’s holiday festivities for the previous five years. This year a newcomer to town was playing Santa, and Granddad resented him for usurping that role.

As he and Val walked the three blocks to Main Street, he continued to stew over his demotion from Santa to Scrooge.

Granddad, remember that Scrooge turned into a happy man after visits from three ghosts.

I don’t get to be a happy man until the festival winds down. Until then, it’s bah humbug all the way.

As they approached Main Street, Val was struck by how quiet the tourist town was. Traffic had been diverted for the weekend celebration. Without the hum of car motors, I can almost imagine I’m in Dickens’s London.

It didn’t look anything like this. Granddad gestured with an open palm toward the vendors’ booths with their attractive displays of merchandise. I’ve been reading up on Dickens. The London he knew was thick with smog and coal dust. The streets were full of horse manure and mud.

Val preferred the twenty-first-century Eastern Shore version of merry old England in Maryland, where she could walk on a brick sidewalk instead of a dirt road. The wood buildings along Main Street, formerly the homes of nineteenth-century merchants, now housed shops and restaurants decorated to the hilt for the holidays. Red poinsettias flanked the store entrances. Wreaths and swags adorned lampposts, windows, and doors.

The vendors were dressed in Victorian garb, as were some early-bird visitors. Men sauntered in black jackets or overcoats, bowlers or stovepipe hats on their heads, and women in long skirts and short capes stepped gingerly, some balancing large, elaborate hats. The majority of festival visitors wore blue jeans. Regardless of clothing, most of them carried a huge shopping bag with What the Dickens? printed on it.

The shopping bags reminded Val to look for the gifts she still hadn’t bought, including Granddad’s. Maybe she’d find some gifts at the festival. Managing the Cool Down Café at the athletic club and catering holiday parties left her little time to shop between now and Christmas.

Val scanned the crowd and saw a white-bearded, rotund man in a red suit coming toward them. This Santa carried a lot more weight than Granddad, especially now that he’d slimmed down. Val had made healthy meals for her grandfather ever since she moved in with him two winters ago. He’d grumbled at first, but eventually he gave up the junk food he’d subsisted on since Grandma died.

Merry Christmas! Santa waved to everyone he passed as he walked toward the intersection where Val and Granddad stood.

Granddad frowned. ‘Every idiot who goes about with Merry Christmas on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart.’

For the last week Val had heard him practice that line and others from A Christmas Carol, but he put more feeling into it today as the claimant to the Santa throne approached. He looked at least a decade younger than Granddad.

The big man smirked. Well, if it isn’t last year’s Santa, he said as if dismissing an outmoded flip phone. He gave Val the once-over and thrust out his hand to her. I’m Jake Smith.

Val knew his name and had heard nothing good of him. Val Deniston. She shook his hand.

He turned to Granddad. Bet you’re glad I took over as Bayport’s Santa. You gotta leave strenuous jobs to younger men.

What’s strenuous about picking up little ones and sitting ’em on your lap? On second thought, it might be strenuous for you. Granddad looked pointedly at Santa’s belly. Hard for you to bend down.

You’re behind the times. Seated Santas and posed shots are out of fashion. Strolling Santas and candid shots are in. Parents take pictures of their kids interacting with Santa. Even adults take selfies—or should I say elfies?—with Santa. Jake laughed at his own joke. You would know about Santa trends if you belonged to the IBRBS.

Granddad eyed him with suspicion. The what BS?

The IBRBS. The International Brotherhood of Real Bearded Santas. Jake patted his chin. You have to admit I have a better beard than you.

Val wondered if Jake had made up the organization. She studied his facial hair. By tradition the Bayport Santa sported a real beard, and his wasn’t fake, though its color was. Like the hair not hidden by his red cap, his beard had dark roots.

Granddad stroked his fluffy beard with one hand and pointed toward Santa’s with the other. Your beard is longer, but mine is thicker.

The one-upmanship could have been banter between old friends, but the tone and body language suggested otherwise. Val focused on the part of Santa’s face not covered by a beard. He had no deep furrows between his brows or creases at the corners of his eyes. His nose and cheeks were deep pink to light red. He was younger than she’d assumed at first, probably in his late fifties. Not many men in that age group dyed their hair white. Either he really wanted to play Santa or he had another reason for making himself look older.

Santa’s face puckered up, his eyes closed, and his mouth opened wide. "Ahh-choo!"

His sneeze sounded like a wild animal’s distress cry. Santa hadn’t covered his mouth, but at least he’d turned his head and spewed his germs to the side rather than at Val and Granddad. As Jake’s eyes and his mouth widened again, Val buried her head in her cloak, Granddad pulled his scarf over his face, and they both backed away. Santa’s second sneeze broke the volume record set by his first one. He pulled out a big red handkerchief, covered his nose, and honked into it.

Granddad glared at him. With that cold, you shouldn’t be near kids.

Santa flicked his wrist. I’ll keep them at arm’s length, and I have cough syrup. He reached into his pocket and took out a flask.

Jake! a woman called from down the street. She sounded like a mother summoning a wayward child.

Santa hastily tucked away his flask. Here comes Mrs. Claus. His tone suggested a man resigned to his fate.

Val looked around for a plump, motherly woman in granny glasses, white hair under a bonnet, and a red sack dress. Instead, a svelte woman with a pointed nose and prominent cheekbones approached them. Her straight, black hair grazed the white fur collar of her short red coat dress. The chunky heels of her thigh-high, black suede boots clicked on the brick sidewalk.

You can’t hide from me, Santa honey, she said with a drawl. I could hear that sneeze miles away. She turned to Val and Granddad. Hi, y’all. I’m Jewel Smith, Jake’s wife.

Val and Granddad introduced themselves to her.

Red velvet was the only thing Santa and his wife had in common. She looked ten years younger. He was round and soft. She was angular and sharp. His hair was fake white and hers fake black. As she finger-combed it, Val stared at Jewel’s crimson claws. Each had a tiny bow on it painted in green nail polish. If her fingernails had been cut blunt, they would have resembled miniature holiday boxes, but filed into points, they looked like sharp weapons, ten little lethal gifts.

You can tell by her drawl, Santa said, that she’s originally from the South Pole. He chortled.

Val wondered how many times he’d tell that lame joke today.

His wife reached for his hand, her clawed fingers wrapping around it. I just love living in the North Pole with you. I want to show you some tiny toys I’m putting on my Christmas list. See y’all later.

As Jewel led him toward a jewelry vendor, a family with two preschoolers crossed their path. Santa interacted with them, to use his word, and his wife handed them candy canes from her festival shopping bag. Their parents took a family elfie with Santa.

Val was glad for their sake that he’d turned into jolly Jake, though she was sure she’d met the genuine Jake.

She took Granddad’s arm as they continued along Main Street. I understand why you dislike this year’s Santa, and you’re not the only one. Irene Pritchard can’t stand him either. Val’s assistant manager at the café had a major gripe with Jake.

What does she have against him?

He bought the house next door, cut down her prized azaleas along the lot line, and spoiled her view. Now she has to keep her curtains closed because he can look in her windows. Val glanced in the shop windows they passed, hoping for gift inspirations. What do you think Santa had in that flask?

Not cough syrup. I’ll keep an eye on him. If he starts acting tipsy—

Don’t confront him. Call Chief Yardley. The police chief was the right person to deal with a smashed Santa.

I’d enjoy putting the police onto Jake. Granddad pointed at a stack of holiday packages covered with foil wrapping paper and tied with perfect bows. When you were a little girl and saw a pile of presents like that in a shop, you picked them up and shook each one.

I remember. At home I always shook wrapped gifts and tried to guess what was in them. At the store I was angry when nothing rattled inside them. I demanded to know why the boxes were empty. The clerk told me the pretty boxes would put people in the Christmas spirit so they’d buy more.

That wasn’t Val’s idea of the Christmas spirit. Even now, in her early thirties, she loathed empty wrapped boxes. They reminded her of the hollow core of a season that had become commercialized. At least the festival’s profits would go to a food bank, and Dickens would approve. Dickens was right about Christmas. It’s not about hoarding money and accumulating more stuff. What matters is family and food.

"Family, food, and friends."

And friends, she echoed him to signal that she wouldn’t mind if he asked a special friend to the family holiday dinner when her parents would visit. Granddad’s friend, Dorothy Muir, had returned to Bayport two months ago to open the bookshop Title Wave. Inviting the widow meant including her son Bram. Val foresaw her parents’ reactions. They’d have questions about her relationship with him, and she had no answers for them.

As she and Granddad stepped off the curb to cross Main Street, a middle-aged woman in an ivory fleece jacket and sweat pants bumped into him and knocked off his hat.

Sorry. She picked up his hat and handed it to him.

Val recognized her. Hi, Elaine.

The woman’s salt-and-pepper hair looked windblown though there was no wind. She frowned in confusion. Hi. Nice to see you. Then she rushed off like the white rabbit on a mission.

I don’t think she recognized you, Granddad said.

We only met once. She hired me to cater tomorrow night, a birthday dinner for her father, Oliver Naiman, over on Belleview Avenue. You know him?

Not well. He didn’t grow up here. His parents used the house as a summer home. So did he after he inherited it. He only moved here for good when he retired a few years ago. I didn’t know he had a daughter in Bayport.

She lives halfway between Annapolis and Washington. She visits him every weekend.

That’s good. His late wife was sick for a couple of years, and I’ve heard he’s not too well himself. Granddad put on his hat. Time for me to go bah humbug everyone. He straightened up, as if steeling himself for an ordeal, and plunged into the growing crowd on Main Street.

Stop by the Title Wave if you need a tea break during the day. And you’ll come to the volunteers’ tea this evening, won’t you?

He nodded and went off.

Val hoped he wouldn’t get depressed from playing a dispiriting role. He had a way of becoming what he pretended to be. Shortly after she moved in with him, he wangled a job as the newspaper’s recipe columnist without knowing how to cook. He succeeded by using her recipes and cutting them down to five ingredients for his Codger Cook column. Since then, he’d learned to cook, largely through his mistakes. But he wasn’t content with acquiring one new skill in his seventies. After taking an online course in private investigation, he’d touted his sleuthing skills. His reputation as a detective had soared after his illegal snooping helped to catch a killer.

Would he now take on the personality of Scrooge? He already shared at least one trait with Dickens’s character. Granddad was a tightwad, reluctant to spend money on the house where he’d lived most of his life. Val had coaxed him into repairing the termite damage and remodeling a leaky bathroom, but she couldn’t get him to buy new furniture.

Even if Granddad adopted other Scrooge traits, Val was sure it wouldn’t last long. When Val’s brother’s family came from California for the holidays, Granddad would play Santa for his great-grandsons, ten and seven. And he was always generous to them.

Val spotted the booth where a friend, Chatty Ridenour, was showing her beauty products to a middle-aged couple. She worked as a massage therapist at the Bayport Racket and Fitness Club, where Val managed the café. Though Chatty wore exercise clothes most of the time, today’s purple jacket and long black dress almost made her look like a Victorian matron. Her mauve lipstick and gel eyeliner spoiled that illusion.

Val stood to the side of the booth as Chatty described moisturizers, cleansing lotions, hand creams, and heel balms to a redheaded woman. I can give you a 30 percent discount on a gift pack of three items.

The redhead turned to her male companion. I haven’t bought a present for my sister yet. Do you think she’d like a gift pack of skin products?

The man’s smile was tight-lipped. "I think you’d like them. Elaine wouldn’t use anything like that."

The woman sighed. You’re right. She’s impossible to buy for, but now you know what you can get for me. She gave him a coquettish smile.

He chuckled. I’ll add it to your already long list.

Chatty spoke up, apparently fearing she’d lost a customer. An experiential gift is perfect for someone who’s hard to buy for. She pointed to a poster with photos showing her giving a variety of massages. Your sister might enjoy an aromatherapy or a Swedish massage. I’m a licensed massage therapist. Here’s my card.

The woman glanced at it. You work near here. My sister lives on the other side of Annapolis. Too far to drive for a massage.

It hit Val that this couple might be Elaine Naiman’s sister and brother-in-law. Elaine had mentioned they would be at the birthday dinner for their father tomorrow night, along with some neighbors.

She was about to introduce herself when Chatty said to them, Would you two like a picture with Santa as a festival souvenir? He’s right over there. Without waiting for a response, she waved Santa over to the booth.

He started toward it, stopped suddenly, and pointed down the street. I see some kids over there. Don’t want to keep them waiting for Santa. He hurried away.

The couple drifted toward the next vendor.

You did your best to turn that couple into customers, Val said, but it was hopeless.

Chatty sighed. Speaking of hopeless, that cloak you’re wearing . . .

It’s warm. I was going to lend it to you because you’ll be out here all day.

No, thanks. And you should ditch it if you see Bram coming. By the way, have you gotten him a Christmas gift yet?

No. Val had been seeing him for barely six weeks, not enough time to guess what he’d like or what he’d give her. Buying gifts was the most stressful part of Christmas. Maybe I’ll take your advice and go for something experiential.

I bet he’d like a massage, and I wouldn’t mind kneading his shoulder muscles. Chatty grinned. Or, even better, I can give the two of you a lesson in couples massage. Don’t look horrified. It’s not risqué. I just show you how to give each other a therapeutic back rub.

Val had a vision of Bram caressing her bare back. Her heart sped up. She willed it to decelerate. A massage would certainly send a message, but how would he receive it? Thanks for the suggestion, but I’m looking for the happy medium between a couples massage and a poinsettia.

As Chatty turned to help two young women at her booth, Val waved goodbye to her and browsed at other vendors’ booths without finding gifts for anyone on her list. She headed toward Title Wave, feeling guilty about leaving the tea party prep to Irene.

Granddad intercepted her.

You’ll never guess what I saw. He motioned for Val to turn the corner onto a side street, away from the crowd on the main drag. He glanced left and right as if checking if anyone was close enough to hear him. I know why Elaine Naiman crashed into me. She wasn’t paying attention to what was right in front of her because she was following someone.

Val shrugged. Someone she wanted to catch up with, I guess.

Nope. When the woman she was following browsed at a booth, Elaine pretended to shop until the woman walked on, and then continued to trail her. I saw that same routine three times, so wipe the doubt off your face, Val.

Her skepticism gave way to curiosity about her client. Where did Elaine and the woman she was following go?

Chapter 2

Granddad showered bah humbugs on several festival visitors before getting around to answering Val’s question. He always enjoyed keeping her in suspense. I don’t know where Elaine ended up. When she stopped to fiddle with her phone, I took my eye off her and lost her and the other woman in the crowd.

What did the woman she was following look like?

Shorter than you, with long, dark hair. I was too far away to see her face. He lowered his voice. Maybe Elaine’s husband is cheating on her with this woman.

Elaine isn’t married.

"Keep your eyes and ears open when you cater for her tomorrow night. You may pick up signs