Slay Bells Ring (A Christmas Cozy Mystery Series Book 2)

by Mona Marple

  “August!” I exclaimed as I answered.

  “Hey there, big sis. Happy New Year!”

  “Happy New Year’s Eve! Do you guys have plans?” I asked. My sister had her life all sorted. She lived in a beautiful cottage with her handsome husband Tom and adorable baby, Jeb.

  “We’re having a quiet one at home. I have a dozen or so friends coming over and I’m making a roast beef dinner with all the trimmings. We have some champers chilling ready for the big countdown because, well, it is NYE! Are you sure you don’t want to come across and join us? We’d love to see you.”

  “I actually have plans,” I admitted.

  “You dark horse! Tell me everything!”

  “Well, I met this guy,” I said. I could feel myself blushing as I spoke.

  “Shut the front door! Are you kidding me right now? Why am I only just hearing about this?”

  “Well, you guys just had Jeb’s first Christmas. I didn’t want to bore you…”

  “Enough. This could never be boring. I demand that you tell me absolutely everything right now,” August said. She was definitely the bossy sister.

  “His name is Nick, and he’s really nice,” I said. I was doing a totally lame job of putting Nick Claus into words.

  “And where is he taking you tonight? Please say somewhere terribly glamorous and sophisticated so I can live through you!”

  “Your own plans sound pretty glamorous and sophisticated to me. A dozen or so friends, a dinner and champagne in your lovely cottage!”

  “Don’t change the subject,” August told me.

  “He’s asked me to be his date at a New Year’s Eve Ball,” I said.

  “Oh-em-gee. Did you hear that bang? That was me just fainting with envy. A Ball? I am so excited for you, Holly! This one sounds like a keeper!”

  “Steady on, I haven’t known him long,” I said, although everything in my body told me that Nick Claus was indeed a keeper.

  “What are you wearing?”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “You have sorted your outfit, right?”

  “Yes, I just don’t know how to explain it to you. It’s a dress, and it’s long, and it’s red.”

  “Please tell me it shows off your shoulders? They really are one of your best features,” August said.

  “It does indeed show my shoulders,” I said.

  “You’re wearing your hair up, right? Maybe a couple of tendrils tumbling down? Man, I wish I could come over and help you get ready but we have this photoshoot for Jeb and…”

  “A photoshoot?” I asked.

  “All of the mums are doing it, a New Year’s Eve photoshoot. It’s Jeb with these props that kind of sum of what this year has been about, to us as a family and to the world. It’s pretty intense, we had to buy like sixteen outfit changes for him,” August breathed.

  “Wow. You’ll have to send a photo,” I said, although in reality I preferred the occasional photo that she sent me where Jeb looked like a baby, not a professional model.

  My favourite had been one she’d sent where he had yoghurt smeared across the whole of his face and even in his hair. She’d asked me to delete it an hour later, but I hadn’t.

  “Sure, I’ll send you the link and you can choose which package to order!”

  “Great!” I said.

  “Ugh, I have to go. It’s almost the witching hour. If Jeb naps any longer he won’t be in bed on time tonight.”

  “You’re not letting him stay up to see in his first New Year?” I asked.

  “Absolutely not. The first rule of sleep training is consistency, Holly. If we make an exception for New Year’s Eve, all of a sudden we’ll be making them for weekends and then every night that Tom gets home from work late. It’s a slippery slope.”

  “It sounds it,” I agreed.

  “I’ll ring you tomorrow and I want you to tell me every last detail. Okay?” August asked, but she ended the call before I could reply.

  I spread out on the sofa and then, perhaps inspired by baby Jeb, fell fast asleep.

  3

  I might have had no words to describe my dress other than long and red, but I was pleased to see that whatever the style was, it suited me.

  August was right, my shoulders were a good feature of mine. I’d been a little insulted by that for many years, the fact that while other women seemed to have amazing hair or beautiful faces, my bodily strength was an area that was usually covered and hardly seemed deserving of any headlines.

  And yet, the dress I’d selected for the Ball was beautiful. It clung in the right places and then didn’t cling in the, erm, other places.

  I gave my reflection a nod of satisfaction and opened the door of the bedroom I was staying in.

  I squealed as I almost ran straight in to Gilbert.

  “What the heck? You scared me!” I exclaimed.

  The elf gave me a cheeky grin and then pulled a funny face, as if hoping to scare me again.

  “What are you doing creeping around?”

  “Creeping? I just dragged the vacuum cleaner upstairs. You’d have heard me coming a mile away if you hadn’t been so busy talking to yourself,” Gilbert said with a giggle.

  “I was not talking to myself.”

  “Oh, yes you were,” he insisted.

  “Saying what?” I crossed my arms and looked at him with a challenge on my face.

  “Oh, Holly, you got it going on girl!”

  “You’re kidding me?” I asked.

  Gilbert snickered and walked past me, the vacuum cleaner clunking along after him.

  I was sure I’d said no such thing. But I decided not to continue the conversation. Even if I had said something like that, it was only to boost my confidence. It had been a long time since I’d had a date with a gorgeous, dimpled man.

  I walked downstairs carefully, wary of the length of my dress, and found Mrs Claus waiting for me in the hall.

  “Oh, Holly,” she breathed as she saw me.

  “Are you crying?” I asked with concern.

  “I certainly am, dear. You’re a vision in red. How beautiful and festive you look!”

  “Really? Thank you!”

  Mrs Claus looked incredible herself, in a deep red dress and a white fur shrug around her shoulders.

  We grabbed our shoes and headed out to an ornate sleigh, complete with chauffeur waiting.

  “Now, you know I can handle this thing myself, dear,” Mrs Claus addressed the man as he held his hand out to help her climb in.

  “I don’t doubt it for a moment, but I’m under strict orders to look after you the way you look after everyone else,” the man said with a chuckle.

  He offered me his hand and I allowed him to help me up into the sleigh. He draped a thick blanket across our laps and then we were off, dashing through the snow.

  We arrived at the venue within minutes and as soon as Mrs Claus and I entered, all eyes were on us. That was the Mrs Claus magic, it happened everywhere she went and I felt lucky to be by her side.

  Tables were spread around the outside of a large dance floor, and an enormous glitter ball rotated from the ceiling.

  “You like?” Nick appeared by my side and handed me a glass of Champagne.

  “It’s surreal, being here with you and your family. This place looks incredible,” I gushed. I didn’t say that Nick looked incredible, even though the thought had entered my head. He was wearing a tuxedo and he looked like a chiseled, dark-haired 007.

  “Lila! You’ve outdone yourself, dear!” Mrs Claus addressed a small woman who looked incredibly serious.

  “That’s very kind, thank you. I really must go and check on the sound, though. Excuse me,” the woman gave us each a quick smile, then moved off into the crowd.

  “Lila’s in charge of organising the Ball. She does an excellent job every year,” Mrs Claus explained.

  “No wonder she looked a little stressed. There must be a lot of work involved in an event like this,” I said.

  “Oh, yes, I’m sure ther
e is!” Mrs Claus agreed.

  The song changed and Nick raised his eyebrows at me.

  “What?” I asked with a laugh.

  “May I have this dance?”

  I gave him a shy nod and allowed him to lead me out onto the dance floor. We were the first people on there and a whoop erupted from the crowd, who gathered around to watch. I was aware of the flash of several cameras going off as we moved in sync.

  Yes, Nick Claus could dance. Of course he could. I was beginning to wonder if there was anything the man couldn’t do.

  Being so close to Nick made it hard for me to concentrate on anything else, but he led me through the dance as if it was the most natural thing in the world. When I got carried away thinking about the scent of his aftershave, he realised I was about to stumble before I did and turned it into a choreographed dip.

  As he pulled me upright again, I met Mrs Claus’ gaze and cringed as she gave a thumbs up.

  “Is this the best first date you’ve ever had?” Nick asked.

  I frowned. The confidence wasn’t like him and I wasn’t sure what to make of it.

  “You literally have my mother over there watching and applauding. It’s smooth, right? The kind of first date that beautiful women like you dream of?”

  I laughed, relieved that he was being modest rather than ultra-confident.

  “Beautiful… hold on, did you call me beautiful?” I asked.

  “I did,” he gazed right into my eyes as he spoke and I felt my heart race.

  “I don’t know how to deal with compliments,” I admitted.

  “Just say thank you. Or you can kiss me, if you prefer,” he winked.

  I leaned in and planted a kiss on his lips, and heard the crowd give a collective gasp. I was sure I caught a glimpse of Mrs Claus punching the air in celebration.

  I pushed all of that out of my mind and allowed myself to sink in closer as a slow song came on next. Other couples joined us on the dance floor and I lost myself in the music, in the rhythm, in the movement of my body linked with Nick’s.

  “Shall we get a drink?” I suggested after a few more tracks. My shoes weren’t completely practical and my feet were beginning to ache.

  “Sure thing,” Nick agreed. We returned to the Claus table, where Father Christmas shot Mrs Claus a warning glance.

  “What?” She exclaimed.

  “Don’t say a word,” Father Christmas said with a smile.

  “What are you worried I’d say, dear? I think they make a wonderful couple. The only things I want to say are nice and positive. We do have to make Holly feel welcome in our family.”

  “Based on a few dances and a kiss? Let them be young and have fun without asking them for a wedding date,” Father Christmas commanded.

  Mrs Claus quickly turned her head to me. “Did he say wedding date?”

  I laughed. “You’ll be the first to know!”

  “Well, dear, Nick should be the first to know really. I’ll be happy if I’m second.”

  “Very reasonable,” Father Christmas muttered.

  Nick returned to the table with drinks for everyone, and took the seat next to me.

  The music stopped and a snazzy dressed man took to the stage.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Michael Bauble and I’m here to entertain you fine folks for the next few hours. Now would be an excellent time to top up your drinks while my band and I get set up.”

  Nick reached for my hand. I allowed him to intertwine his fingers with mine.

  The dance floor cleared as everyone followed Michael Bauble’s suggestion and joined the lines for the bar.

  Just a couple of stragglers remained on the dance floor, and I realised that one of them was the chef from The Greasy Spoon. He staggered across the dance floor, clearly already drunk, although he looked pretty dapper in a suit and a pair of gold loafers.

  “Oh dear,” I murmured.

  “There’s always someone who goes crazy at the start of the night. Typically, they spend the evening curled up asleep in a corner of the room,” Nick said with a grin.

  “Sounds like every office party I’ve ever been to,” I said.

  “And have you ever been the drunk by 8pm kind of person?” Nick asked.

  “I’m afraid I’ve always been too sensible for that. Too worried about what other people might think. As a doctor, I’ve always felt a bit nervous that any escapades could get out and damage the reputation of the profession.”

  “I understand that feeling,” Nick confided.

  “Being Santa must feel like a huge responsibility,” I said.

  “Not just that, but following in my dad’s footsteps? I mean, that guy is Christmas personified.”

  “And you will be, too. You’ll be an excellent Santa, in your own way.”

  Nick looked at me and smiled, and that delicious dimple smiled at me too.

  There was a creak, a groan, and then what sounded like an explosion. Someone screamed, and before I knew what was happening, Nick was shoving me down to the ground and under the table.

  I cowered under there and saw that Father Christmas had done the exact same thing to Mrs Claus.

  “What’s happened?” I whispered.

  Mrs Claus placed a finger over her mouth.

  I realised that although the men had pushed us to the ground, they weren’t under the table with us. Whatever had happened, they were out there dealing with it.

  Before I could doubt myself, I emerged from under the table and surveyed the scene.

  Right in the middle of the dance floor was the enormous glitter ball. The whole thing had somehow collapsed from the ceiling.

  And sticking out from underneath it were a pair of legs. A pair of legs that ended with a pair of gold loafers.

  4

  “Is that Greasy?” I called as I ran across Nick’s side.

  “You know him?” Nick asked with a frown.

  “Your mum and I went to The Greasy Spoon this morning. He’s the chef there.”

  “What do we do?” Nick asked.

  One thing I’d learned about being a medic was that you were never really off duty. All it took was any kind of medical situation and you were back at work.

  But a person crushed by a falling glitter ball? That was out of my skill set.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. I walked around the glitter ball and saw that it had crushed Greasy’s torso. His head hadn’t been hit and his eyes were still open, although it was clear he wasn’t alive. A stunned expression was etched onto his face.

  I took a deep breath and leaned in, then took his pulse.

  The first rule of medical school: never assume that a dead person is really dead. Come to think of it, that would be a good rule for a lot of films where they punch or shoot the bad guy once and the viewers all know that person isn’t dead.

  I looked up at Nick and gave a tiny shake of my head.

  Greasy had squirted his last ketchup.

  “Is he… oh my… Greasy?” Twisty was by my side, with his mouth covered.

  “If you’re going to be sick, can you move away first?” I asked. The last thing anyone needed was vomit compromising the scene.

  “I’ve called for an ambulance,” Father Christmas announced.

  I nodded. “Good. It needs to be declared officially.”

  “Declared? Are you saying he’s dead? A goner? He’s croaked?” Twisty asked. His face had turned a distinctly worrying shade of green and I ushered him away from the gruesome glitter ball scene.

  “I know this is an awful tragedy. I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “Are you kidding? Greasy got crushed by a glitter ball and I missed the whole thing. I was in the toilet, you see, popped to the little boys’ room, and I had no idea about anything.”

  “It’s a terrible accident. I know that you and Greasy didn’t always see eye to eye but this is…”

  “Eye to eye? We got on like presents in a stocking!”

  I frowned. “Well, this morning there was the
whole ketchup thing. It just seemed like you had pretty different opinions.”

  “Nonsense. Greasy was a fine cook and a darn good businessman. We had differences of opinion but nothing that constituted a fall out,” Twisty said with a sniffle.

  “Of course,” I agreed. Some people just couldn’t speak ill of the dead. If Twisty wanted to remember his relationship with Greasy through rose tinted glasses, that was no business of mine.

  “Now, if you’re mixing me up with anyone, it’s Drayton. In fact, just yesterday, he had a terrible argument with Greasy. Right in the middle of the High Street too! Bad for business, if you ask me.”

  “Drayton?” I asked. The name rang a jingle bell but I couldn’t quite place it.

  “So-called proprietor of Sleigh A While. You’d know him if you’d come across him. He has quite the eye for the ladies, and a lot of ladies have an eye for him for some reason.”

  “Sleigh A While, that’s another cafe, right?”

  “A bistro, he calls it, which is laughable. You can’t just call yourself a bistro because you’ve turned the lighting down low. You know why most eateries turn the lights down?”

  “Erm…”

  “It’s not for the atmosphere, let me tell you! It’s to hide how bad the food looks. Plus, deprived of your sense of sight, your taste is impaired too. So you can’t see how bad it looks and then you can’t really taste it properly, either.”

  “Is that right?” I asked. I had no idea how we had strayed onto a critique of Twisty’s business rival while his business partner lay dead on the dance floor.

  “One hundred percent.”

  The crowd hushed as the paramedics raced in. I made my apologies to Twisty and returned to the glitter ball.

  “Never mind crying, this is a case of Dying at the Discotheque,” the female paramedic muttered to her male counterpart, who spotted me and grimaced.

  “Sorry miss, gallows humour. It’s the only way to get through a shift sometimes. Not to mention, this one gets a little grumpy when she has to miss a night out for work,” he explained.

  “I’m a GP, I get it,” I said with a smile.

  “Ah, alrighty then. Have you checked for a pulse?”

  I nodded and crossed my arms. I suddenly felt cold and wished for sleeves.