Spirit of the Season

by Cate Dean

  Spirit of the Season

  Maggie Mulgrew Mysteries Book 3

  Cate Dean

  Copyright, 2017

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except for use in any review. This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, locales, and events are either pure invention or used fictitiously, and all incidents come from the author’s imagination alone.

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  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Excerpt from Dancing on her Grave

  List of British Slang

  Spirit of the Season

  About The Author

  One

  The Ash Leaf was packed to the rafters with tourists, and Maggie Mulgrew couldn’t have been happier, or more exhausted.

  With Pembroke Martin, her live-in help and love of her life, out on a last-minute dig, Maggie had to deal with the unexpected onslaught alone. She herded the people into groups, based on interest, and darted back and forth, stopping only long enough to ring up sales. She kept the tags, stuffing them in the drawer under the computer. Dealing with inventory would have to wait.

  She loved the challenge, laughed at the enthusiasm of fellow collectors­, and ran her feet off answering questions, taking purchases, and offering alternatives when their wanted item was snatched up by another tourist.

  This was her first Christmas in Holmestead, the picture postcard English village she called home. Her oldest and best friend, Spencer Knight, was going to get an earful for not warning her about the yearly festival up at the castle—and the crowds it drew.

  “Need help?”

  She halted halfway to her next group, and ran at Spencer, hugging him hard and fast. “You go help the modern Sherlock fans,” she said, after she let go. “And we’re having words, Spencer Knight. As soon as I have enough room to breathe.”

  He flashed her a grin and sauntered over to the large group of American women. Maggie bit back a smile as his blonde good looks and easy way instantly charmed them. She did miss having him in the shop, but she was so proud of how well he was doing at the museum.

  “Excuse me!” An older man waved at her from what she called the Victorian tchotchkes section. “I have a question about these here glass ball things.”

  Maggie waved back. “Be right there.” She stopped long enough to make sure the couple drooling over the 17th century rosewood secretaire she’d rescued from the garbage bin were all right, then moved to the man, smiling at his description of the paper weights.

  She loved her life.

  Two

  Pembroke Martin wiped sweat and dirt off his forehead, surveying the progress.

  “Not bad,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “But not nearly enough.” Not if he wanted to return to Maggie by his personal deadline.

  The farmer who owned the land, and had stumbled over the horde of Anglo Saxon artifacts, was a constant source of irritation. If Martin had been in charge of the dig, the man would be gently, but firmly escorted off the site whenever he showed his face.

  Instead, Geoffrey Drummond-Doddington, the archaeologist in charge of the dig, fawned over him, to the point where Martin had to walk away before he made some remark he could not take back. Martin had decided from the first day that he would direct his focus on the students working the dig.

  He caught the edge of the pit and hopped in, moving to the first two girls. They both stared at him, with a familiar look; one Martin had spent years ignoring when he was a professor at Oxford. He picked up the old habit quickly, smiling at the girls.

  “What are we working on?”

  “A small box, Professor.” Tina, the youngest of the girls, probably in her first year, sounded breathless when she spoke. “It looks like a seal box.”

  Excitement overrode any discomfort, and he crouched next to them, picked up one of the brushes and started to gently, slowly push away the rich soil. The box was larger than any he had ever seen, and his excitement grew as he started to uncover the enamel decoration on the top.

  Martin should call over Geoffrey, but he knew the man would shoo the girls away, and take all the credit for himself. He was beyond tired of the man’s ego.

  “Help me with the rest of it,” he said, keeping his voice low. “And look bored.”

  Both girls nodded, adopting an air of such tedium, they looked like they were on the verge of falling asleep. Martin almost laughed, but he ducked his head and joined them, his gaze focused on the box.

  It took the better part of an hour before they finally brushed away the last of the stubborn soil. Martin’s hand stilled when he saw the symbol on the top of the box.

  It can’t be...

  He turned to Kate, the older girl. “I want you to go and fetch some water for us, and my bag. It’s in the small tent on the end.”

  Tina stared at him. “You found something, didn’t you, Professor?”

  “I want to check before I make any determination. Hurry, Kate, but don’t look as if you’re in a hurry.”

  She grinned at his contrary statement, and did exactly as he asked. To Geoffrey, she came across as another faceless student, there only because the university was funding a good portion of the dig.

  Martin turned his attention back to the box, carefully picking it up. He already knew the answer; he had seen this symbol countless times in his career.

  He set it down when Kate brought his bag and an armful of bottled water, accepting one of the bottles. He drank half of it in one go. Despite the cold breeze, digging in the pits was warm work. The girls drank as greedily, taking the time to wipe sweat off, and redo ponytails. Then they looked at him, obviously eager to keep going.

  “Give me one minute, ladies.” Martin pulled out his notebook.

  Years of research, references, cross references, and notes filled the worn, leather-covered book. He flipped through until he found his notes on Yorkshire. There, in the middle of the third page, was a drawing of the same symbol, in faded enamel, on the lid of the box.

  He stared at the box again, shaking his head. He had never heard of a seal box being used by Constantine—

  “What do we have here, Pembroke?”

  Martin flinched at his first name. He knew that Geoffrey delighted in using it—and had since they were at Eton together.

  “These girls found an artifact, and I was assisting—”

  “Without informing me?” He jumped down into the pit, and made his way to Martin. For all his pompous airs, he was a careful and respectful digger. “Show me.”

  “They will show you,” Martin said. “The girls found it, and I want them given credit.”

  “Of course.” Geoffrey waved him off, and crouched next to the girls. “Let us see what it is you’ve...” His voice faded, and Martin knew he had recognized the symbol. “This isn’t possible.”

  “I thought the same.”

  He looked up at Martin. “We need to keep this under wraps, until I can investigate further, see if this is an aberration, or more likely, a fake.”

  “Of course. I want to be part of the investigation.” He raised his hand when Geoffrey started to argue. “My expertise will help, and I will only ask to be part of the process to the end. The credit will be all yours.” Martin wanted nothing to do with the inevitable chaos if
the box proved to be authentic.

  “Jolly good.” Geoffrey saluted him, and Martin fought the smile threatening. “Shall we get on?”

  “I need to take care of one thing, and I will join you.” He was talking to the back of Geoffrey’s head, but he had witnesses who could confirm that he had spoken before he left.

  He needed to talk to Maggie.

  That last thought stopped him in his tracks. He had never needed to talk, or see, or connect with anyone, not the way he did with his sassy, redheaded Yank.

  I am madly, irrevocably in love with you, Maggie Mulgrew.

  Martin allowed that to fill him, and it washed away the tension, the aches from too many days bent over, and the deeper ache in his heart. An ache, he now understood, that had nothing to do with the sometimes dodgy food, and everything to do with Maggie.

  He moved faster, almost running by the time he reached his tent. His mobile was buried under papers, and several chunks of rock. By the time he finally unearthed it, his hands were shaking.

  “Fatigue, mate,” he muttered. “Add sleep to the to-do list.”

  He tapped out the antique shop’s number, knowing Maggie would be there this time of day. When a male voice answered, he almost dropped his phone.

  “The Ash Leaf, how can I help?”

  It took a moment, but Martin recognized the voice. “Spencer?”

  “Martin—is that you? Mags is with about eight customers right now, if you want to hang on.”

  Martin wanted to smack his forehead. He had forgotten about the Christmas festival. They must be waist deep in tourists.

  “Have her ring me when she has a moment. I just wanted to update—”

  “Hold on, she’s about to yank the phone out of my hand.”

  “Martin?” Maggie’s low voice filled his ear. “How are you? Have you found anything earth-shaking? I miss you,” she whispered. “When are you coming home?”

  Home. He closed his eyes, his heart pounding. She was home, and heaven help him, he wanted to be there right now, looking into her crystal blue eyes, always on the edge of amusement. He missed her laughter, her scent, her presence.

  “Maggie—I’m afraid I will be staying longer. We discovered something that may change the history of this area.”

  “Whoa—that’s huge. Of course you have to stay, even if I want you here. An extra pair of hands would be helpful.” He could almost see her smiling, and winking at him. “I want every detail when you get home.” She paused, and he heard the noise in the background, of what must have been a heaving crowd. “Stay safe, Martin. Let me know when you’ll be back.”

  Tonight, he wanted to say. Just hearing her voice intensified the ache in his heart.

  “You will be the first, love. I miss you, Maggie Mulgrew.”

  “Oh, Martin.” He heard the tears in her voice. “I wish I could be there with you.”

  “Next time. I will enjoy digging through the past with you.”

  She let out a watery laugh. “You do know how to romance a girl.”

  “I try.” He cleared his throat, and took off his glasses. “I do want to have supper with you, Maggie. Not a nip down to the pub, but a proper supper, with suit and tie on my end.”

  “A tie? Do you own one?”

  He burst out laughing. “I believe I still have one from my uni days. Please, clear one night just for us, love.”

  “I will. Come home soon, Martin.”

  “As soon as I can.” He was already counting the minutes. “Go, Maggie. I can hear people clamoring for you.”

  “Being popular does have its drawbacks.” She let out another laugh. “Spencer came in to help, and three hours later, he’s still here. I will nip down to the pub with him, as a thank you.”

  “You’ve a good heart, Maggie Mulgrew.” Martin cleared his throat, and lightened his voice. “I will ring you again in the next couple of days. I should have a better timetable by then.”

  “Okay.” She paused, and he barely heard her next words. “I love you, Martin.”

  He stilled. “Maggie—”

  “You don’t have to say anything.” She rushed to speak over him. “I just wanted to let you know, in case—I wanted to say it, out loud. I’ve been thinking it every time we’re together, and I don’t expect you to feel the same, but I needed—”

  “I love you, Maggie.” He smiled at her sharp intake. “I wanted to tell you first.”

  “So, I win.”

  He burst out laughing. “There’s my girl. Go and sell an expensive antique to every person in your shop, and I will talk to you soon.”

  “Bye, Martin.”

  He ended the call, and stared at the mobile.

  She loved him.

  Martin wanted to dance around the site, shouting it to everyone. That would guarantee a speedy removal. Instead, he made a decision; one that would change both of their lives.

  He was going to ask Maggie to marry him.

  Three

  Maggie pushed the end button and set the phone on the shelf under the counter, feeling numb.

  She actually said it out loud.

  “What was I thinking?” she whispered. It could have been a huge disaster, embarrassing both of them, screwing up their still fragile relationship.

  Instead, he said it back—and even better, wanted to be the one to say it first. She smiled, knowing she would tease him about that. Just for a little while, but enough to poke at him.

  “Stop woolgathering over there, Mags.” Spencer’s voice jerked her out of a daydream. “I’m drowning.”

  “Oh, no.” He wasn’t exaggerating; at some point during her call with Martin, what looked like an entire busload of tourists had stormed the shop.

  “On my way.”

  She grabbed a bunch of brochures off the counter, to distract people while she and Spencer worked their way through the crowd.

  They advertised the holiday festival up at the castle—an event Maggie was so excited about, she could hardly stand it. She planned to ask Martin to go with her, and spin an evening of romance around them. Now that he had said he loved her out loud, it would be the most romantic she could manage—

  “Maggie.” Spencer snapped her out of her daydream. He sounded desperate.

  “Sorry.” She ran across the shop, stopping next to a couple at the back of the crowd. “Welcome to The Ash Leaf. I’m so sorry about the wait—we’re a bit short-staffed today.”

  The woman smiled at her. “You’re American.”

  “Yes.” Maggie returned the smile. “My great aunt lived in Holmestead, and I spent almost every summer here. Are you looking for something in particular?”

  “I collect Victorian portrait miniatures. I was hoping you might have one or two.”

  “Follow me.” Maggie led them to the sideboard that took up most of the wall. “I think you’ll find a few here.”

  She walked away, grinning at the gasp of delight behind her. Then she dove into the crowd, passing out brochures and directing people to different parts of the shop. By the time she reached Spencer, he had one customer. One fussy, determined customer.

  “I will have this, young man, whether you want to sell it or not.”

  “I am sorry, ma’am, but as I told you, this belongs to the owner, and is not for sale.”

  Maggie knew that tone. It was Spencer’s “get me away from this person before I strangle them” tone.

  “Can I help?” Maggie stepped to Spencer’s side and faced the woman.

  “I want that desk.” She pointed to Aunt Irene’s old roll top desk, one that Maggie, remembered playing treasure hunt in as a girl. It no longer fit in her new design at home, so she had it hauled here, where she could enjoy it on a daily basis. Apparently, the huge “Not For Sale” signs didn’t keep the woman from pestering Spencer about buying it. “Tell me how much.”

  “I’m afraid the desk is not available.” Maggie moved over to it, and ran her hand down the front edge. “This is a family piece, and it will stay in this family. Is t
here something else I can interest you in? I have a beautiful—”

  “I want that one.” She jabbed her finger at the desk.

  This woman was a forceful reminder of why Maggie didn’t miss her life in the States.

  With a sigh, she stepped in front of the desk. “It’s not for sale. Not at any price.”

  The woman pouted, crossing her arms. “I want to see the manager.”

  “I am the owner of this shop.” Maggie put just enough emphasis on the word to make sure the woman heard her. “Which means you just heard the final say on the matter.”

  “You—I—how rude!” The woman tried to get at the desk one last time, but Spencer blocked her, his lean, six foot frame keeping her away from Maggie and the desk. “I’m going to report you! No one will ever shop here again!”

  She spun—and halted, when she realized that everyone else in the shop was staring at her.

  Spencer leaned in and muttered under his breath. “Who is she going to report us to, the rude police?”

  Maggie clapped one hand over her mouth before her laugh escaped. Relief spread through her when the woman stomped over to the door and yanked it open, slamming it so hard Maggie was surprised that the glass didn’t crack.

  “I’m so sorry.” A pretty, young woman, wearing a badge with the name of one of the local tour companies, rushed over to Maggie. “She has been my personal nightmare for the last three days.”

  “I’ve had worse,” Maggie said. “Haven’t I?” She looked over at Spencer when he didn’t answer, and bit back a smile when she saw his face. He looked like he had been smacked, staring at the tour guide with more surprise than she’d seen in a long time. She took pity on him and led the guide away, so he could recover without her watching. “Can I suggest a stop at The Anchor, the café down at the end of the street? They serve incredible wine.”

  The woman grinned. “For me, or for her?”

  “Both?”

  She burst out laughing, and held out her hand once she had recovered. “Grace Nightingale. No relation to Florence.”

  Maggie smiled, and shook her hand. “Maggie Mulgrew, horribly mean shop owner. I haven’t seen you before. Did you just join the tour company?”