How Heathcliff Stole Christmas: A Nevermore Bookshop Mysteries novella Read online

  How Heathcliff Stole Christmas

  Nevermore Bookshop Mysteries, book 3.5

  Steffanie Holmes

  Bacchanalia House

  Copyright © 2019 by Steffanie Holmes

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover design: Amanda Rose

  Steffanie Holmes VIP List

  Can’t get enough of Mina and her boys? Read a free alternative scene from Quoth’s point-of-view when you sign up for the Steffanie Holmes VIP list.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  From the Author

  Want more reverse harem from Steffanie Holmes

  Excerpt

  Other Books By Steffanie Holmes

  About the Author

  To all the book boyfriends

  who keep me up at night.

  “A lovely thing about Christmas is that it’s compulsory, like a thunderstorm, and we all go through it together.”

  – Garrison Keillor, Leaving Home

  Chapter One

  Ah, Christmas. The most wonderful time of the year. The village streets dusted with freshly fallen snow, the delicious scent of gingerbread and fruit mince pies wafting on the breeze, everyone coming together to rejoice and be kind to their fellow humans—

  “… I’m going to rip your arms off and shove them so far up your arse you’ll be able to tickle your own tonsils from the inside.”

  Well, almost everyone.

  “You’d better get in there.” Quoth rushed into the Children’s room, where I was lining the edges of the shelves with strings of tinsel and sparkly baubles, courtesy of my mother’s latest pyramid scheme – designer decorations that cost about as much as a small car. “He’s about to go full nuclear at Morrie.”

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to guess who Quoth meant by ‘he.’ As well as being the world’s most swoon-worthy literary anti-hero and a useful member of our amateur murder mystery-solving quartet, Heathcliff Earnshaw owned Nevermore Bookshop. He could also be a world-class grump. I recently learned his grouch-o-meter dialed up to eleven the minute the calendar flipped over to December 1st. What I hadn’t yet discovered was why. Heathcliff was a soft, cuddly kitten once I’d peeled back all the layers of wanker, but lately, he’d been snapping at me and shooting down all my ideas. It was as if he were putting up all the walls we’d worked so hard to tear down.

  I was determined that Heathcliff’s temper would be my next mystery to solve. Hopefully, I’d uncover the secret before he took his mounting rage out on an innocent customer.

  Not that Morrie was innocent in any way. Nevertheless, I dropped my roll of tinsel and ran into the main room. I paused at the doorway, allowing light from the numerous lamps to reveal the scene.

  Heathcliff stood over his desk, his hands balled into fists and his dark skin reddening with rage.

  Morrie – short for James Moriarty, the infamous nemesis of Sherlock Holmes – lounged in the velvet armchair in front of the poetry shelves, unconcerned with the rising volcano of Mt. Earnshaw. Beside Morrie sat an old-fashioned boombox pumping out a tinny Christmas carol at top volume.

  “No Christmas music in this shop!” Heathcliff boomed. “This is a Christmas-free zone.”

  “For a Christmas-free zone, things are looking pretty jolly in here. You let Mina put up decorations all over the place,” Morrie pointed out without looking up from his book. He didn’t have to – strings of tinsel and miniature books sparkled along the edge of Heathcliff’s desk, and the oak table sagged under the weight of a large nativity scene with a stable made from books. Morrie and I had been sneakily adding figurines to the display when Heathcliff’s back was turned, and it now included a robot Jesus and a wise man carrying a sign that read, JAMES MORIARTY FOR PRIME MINISTER. “And you agreed Quoth could erect the Christmas monolith.”

  To emphasize his point, Morrie reached up and tugged one of the looming branches of Quoth’s Christmas tree. Big mistake. Spruce needles rained down on his head, and a twinkling glass bauble beaned him in the forehead.

  Every year, the village of Argleton ran a charity tree for the local animal shelter. A different shop hosted the tree each holiday season, decorating it how they wished and erecting it prominently on their premises. Villagers would drop off donations of cat and dog food, guinea pig cages, toys, pet beds, envelopes of money, and other supplies. They could also leave their names on a list if they were interested in adopting a shelter animal. It was an amazing community project and really helped the animal shelter get through the busy holiday months.

  When he wasn't preening, hiding in the attic, or defecating on customers who quoted his titular poem, Quoth volunteered at the animal shelter. Touched by the plight of sick and unwanted animals at Christmas, Quoth offered Nevermore Bookshop to host the charity tree. After much bitching, Heathcliff agreed, provided the tree was ‘minuscule and not a bloody nuisance.’ Our instructions in hand, Quoth and I went to the King’s Copse Wood Christmas Tree lot to pick out our tree, and he fell absolutely in love with a twelve-foot spruce of needly magnificence. What could I say? Clearly not ‘no,’ since that same tree now dominated the main room of the shop. We’d had to move the Science Fiction bookcase and our leather sofa just to make room in the bay window, and even then branches touched all four walls of the room, obscuring much of the shelving and drooping a needly canopy over Heathcliff’s desk. Since the ceiling was only ten feet high, the top branches scraped across the plaster like jolly Lovecraftian tentacles devouring everything in their path.

  Heathcliff went postal when he saw it… perhaps with good reason. But he’d promised Quoth and me, so he’d endured the tree’s presence in festering silence. The tree wasn’t the only thing getting the silent treatment from Heathcliff – he’d barely spoken a word to me in two days, and it was kind of breaking my heart. Now I faced him across the room as he fought to control the urge to clobber Morrie, and I’d never felt more distant from him.

  Why is he so upset over a Christmas song? I wish he’d talk to me instead of lashing out. Morrie can handle him, but Quoth…

  “My tree is for charity.” Quoth stiffened, a note of vexation creeping into his voice. Quoth rarely got angry, preferring to direct his feelings inward. Heathcliff and Morrie walked a dangerous line by picking on Quoth’s big, beautiful heart.

  “Exactly. Quoth’s tree is for the animals. And Mina gets her bloody tinsel and her poxy nativity because she’s annoyingly persistent,” Heathcliff shot back at Morrie. “And she has lovely breasts. You do not have lovely breasts.”

  “But I can be very annoying.” Morrie reached over and turned up the volume knob.

  Heathcliff’s face glowed even redder. “Get rid of that boombox or it’s joining the rest of your limbs up your anus—”

  “No can do.” Morrie shook needles out of his book and turned the page. “It’s my Christmas p
resent for Mina. I got it at the village Christmas market with a whole trunk of old punk cassettes. She’s going to love it. I’m just testing it to make sure it works. You wouldn’t want me to give Mina a useless gift, would you?”

  My heart fluttered at Morrie’s words. A vintage boombox and old punk cassettes? That was an awesome present.

  Which was a big problem. Morrie found me the perfect present. I knew Quoth was making me something, because there was a square of canvas in his room with a sheet over it, and he refused to let me peek underneath. Since he was an amazing artist, I knew whatever he’d created would be beautiful. Heathcliff adamantly claimed he didn’t believe in Christmas gifts, but he was acting so strange that I didn’t know if he was fibbing. If he was, that meant that all three of my boyfriends put a ton of thought into my Christmas presents.

  And I had no idea what to do for them. They were so different that three of the same generic gift wouldn’t cut it. Whenever I thought of something that would work for one of them, I struggled with an equivalent idea for the other two. I didn’t want one to feel as though he was less favored than the others. This was turning out to be the most stressful Christmas gift-buying experience since I was seven, when my mother joined a cult and declared everything we owned now had to be made of hemp.

  Who knew having three boyfriends at Christmastime was so bloody complicated? I can’t just…

  Oh, no. I tuned back into the scene in front of me. I’d let my thoughts distract me, and now—

  Heathcliff had that look in his eyes.

  The stabby look.

  My hands raised to protect myself from the overhanging branches, I stepped forward to place myself between the two of them before Heathcliff unleashed a hail of Victorian gothic fury. “Hey guys, it’s Christmas. Rule number one on Mina’s new Christmas shop rules is no fighting during the holiday season. Morrie, your gift sounds very sweet, but I think you should probably turn it down—”

  “No fair. Now you know what I’m getting you.” Morrie stuck out his lower lip. “I’m going to have to find something else so it’s a surprise.”

  “That’s fine! You don’t have to—”

  “You heard the woman. I’m turning it off.” Heathcliff strode across the room.

  “You can’t,” Morrie piped up.

  “Why not?”

  “I glued the button down,” Morrie grinned, pointing to the top of the box. “This thing is gonna blast Snoopy’s Christmas all day and night. You’re welcome.”

  “You’re dog meat.” Heathcliff’s huge hands wrapped around Morrie’s throat. Morrie’s eyes bugged out of his head in a spot-on imitation of Homer Simpson throttling his son.

  The problem was, Morrie wasn’t a cartoon character, and he needed air to breathe and kiss me and be his usual annoying self. I grabbed Heathcliff’s hands and tried to pry them off. “Heathcliff, let him go. You’re hurting him—”

  “Oh, how lovely. It’s nice to hear Nevermore getting into the spirit of Christmas this year!”

  I jumped as Mrs. Ellis shuffled into the room, ushering a sullen-looking girl of about twelve toward the display of young adult books I’d arranged on the room’s one unobstructed shelf. Mrs. Ellis admired the snogging wise men in the nativity scene and beamed at us, seemingly not noticing the murder unfolding before her.

  Heathcliff dropped Morrie, who slumped forward in relief, clutching his throat. “You saved my life, Mrs. Ellis,” he gasped.

  “Don’t be so bloody dramatic.” Heathcliff shuffled back to his chair and slumped down. The sudden movement dislodged a hail of needles on top of him. He glared at the large tote bag slung over Mrs. Ellis’ shoulder. “Please tell me you have a flask in there? I’m in desperate need of Christmas cheer.”

  “Not today, I’m afraid. I’m playing Santa Claus, delivering presents to all my favorite people around the village. The Banned Book Club. The Knobbly Knitters. My Bondage and Discipline for Pensioners circle…” Mrs. Ellis fished around in her bag and drew out a large box wrapped in bright paper, which she handed to the girl. “I brought my granddaughter Jonie around to put a gift under the tree. She’s staying with me over the Christmas holidays while my daughter Deirdre is in Paris with her new boyfriend. Jonie loves all kinds of animals. Deirdre doesn’t care for them, so Jonie’s not allowed a pet of her own, but she’s happy to help the animals of Argleton find their forever homes this Christmas.”

  Jonie didn’t look happy to help. In fact, she and Heathcliff could’ve been twins with their scowling faces and stormy eyes. A pair of brown braids trailed over a sweatshirt, accentuating her long face and gloomy expression. Oblivious to her granddaughter’s mood (as she was to many things), Mrs. Ellis shoved Jonie toward me. “Go on, dear. Mina will show you where the tree is.”

  “You can’t bloody miss it, you blind old bint,” Heathcliff muttered as I pointed Jonie to the pile of presents dwarfed by the gargantuan conifer.

  “Hey!” I slapped his arm. “Don’t mock the blind.”

  Despite his rotten mood, Heathcliff had the decency to look abashed. Even though I was doing a lot better since I learned that I had a rare condition called retinitis pigmentosa, I was still not quite ready to joke about my degrading eyesight.

  However, Heathcliff did have a point. The tree was hard to miss. I patted a branch, sending a shower of needles across the floor. “You can put the present anywhere you like. We’ve just started the collection today, but already we’ve had a few people make their donations.” I didn’t want to mention in Heathcliff’s presence that most of the presents there were from Quoth and me.

  Jonie grunted as she bent down and slid her parcel under the tree. She stood up, rubbing her arms. “It’s freezing in here.”

  “Agreed.” I shivered as a cold gust of wind whipped past me. Ever since the weather had turned, we’ve been experiencing random cold drafts in the shop. I’d added draft stoppers to all the windows, but it hadn’t helped, and we had no idea where the cold came from. Even spending a small fortune on wood to light fires on both floors hadn’t helped warm the place up. “Mrs, Ellis, you should introduce Jonie to Grimalkin and Quoth. I bet she’d love—”

  “Mina, dear!” The shop bell tinkled as a familiar voice trilled through the shop. “I’ve got something amazing to show you.”

  A moment later, my mother strolled through the door, swinging an enormous tote bag and juggling an armful of colorful wrapping paper rolls. Every inch of her was covered in Christmas bling – from the sparkly elf hat placed at a jaunty angle atop her head to the Christmas fairy pins stuck all over her blouse and the jingle-bell beaded bracelets on her wrists. She looked like a Christmas tree.

  “My new range arrived, and it’s divine—Oh, Mina, how could you?” Mum’s voice trembled with hurt as she flung down her supplies, sending wrapping paper and needles flying in all directions. My mouth dropped open as Mum whipped Jonie’s present from her hands and started tearing off the paper. “I told you I was sponsoring the charity tree. All the presents are supposed to be wrapped in my special Bedazzled Bethlehem papers!”

  Bedazzled Bethlehem was the name of Mum’s new ‘business.’ My mother had recently lost her job as a tarot reader at the local New Age shop after one of her DIY soap kits exploded. Luckily, Helen Wilde never let setbacks or cold, hard reality get her down. She’d thrown herself into her latest get-rich-quick scheme – selling overpriced designer Christmas wrapping paper, baubles, and decorations. Unlike many of her other schemes, the products were actually quite nice, but they were ridiculously overpriced and I knew when January rolled around she wouldn’t be able to sell a string of tinsel to an elf.

  I never should have accepted two boxes of decorations from her to decorate the shop and tree in exchange for leaving a stack of her business cards on the counter. I thought that was what she’d meant by sponsorship. Apparently, she had much more dramatic plans.

  “What are you doing to my present?” Jonie demanded, thrusting her hands on her hips.

  I grabbe
d the box from Mum and tried to stick the tape back down. “Mum, you can’t expect everyone to use your products. Sponsorship means you donate the wrapping paper. If that’s what you’re doing, then—”

  “Heavens no, I can’t afford that!” Mum started to pull more rolls of fancy foil paper and sparkly ribbons from her tote. “I know! I’ll set up a gift-wrapping table. Customers can pay me to wrap their gifts for them, and peruse my stock at the same time!”

  Inwardly, I groaned. Maybe Heathcliff was onto something with that stiff drink. “It’s a lovely idea, Mum, but I’m afraid we don’t have room for a gift-wrapping table—”

  “Nonsense. It won’t be in your way at all.” Mum swept a stack of books off the corner of Heathcliff’s desk. “I’ll set up right here, so the customers can see me as soon as they come in.”

  Heathcliff boomed. “Now, just a minute there, Mrs. Wilde. No one touches my desk—”

  “I’ve even got a present to wrap to show them how it’s done.” Ignoring Heathcliff’s protests, Mum whipped out a glass bottle with a spray top. “This is a catnip extract. Sylvia Blume makes it. You simply spritz it around and it helps your cat feel calm and playful.”

  She started to spray the rug in front of the desk. A foul smell – like damp newspaper and petrol fumes – assailed my nostrils. Mrs. Ellis pinched her nose. Jonie made a face.

  “Meeeeeow!” Grimalkin somersaulted through the air, landing on the rug and rolling around in the spray like a drug addict relishing the first hit.

  “See?” Mum beamed. She set the bottle on the counter and rolled out a paper covered in foil reindeer. “Now, to wrap an unusually-shaped present like this, you want to fold this edge down and crimp it—”