Spirit of the Season

by Cate Dean

  “Martin—it’s—too much. That ring is too much.”

  “A family heirloom.” He took the ring out of the box, then cradled her hand. “I used one of your other rings as a guide for the jeweler to resize it. What is your answer, Maggie?”

  “Yes—oh, Martin.” She watched him slip the ring on her finger, then touched the teardrop sapphire, surrounded by diamonds. That she had chosen a sapphire for him without seeing her own ring told him that they were a match. “It’s perfect,” she whispered. She sank to her knees and framed his face. “I love you so much.”

  “I love you back, my beautiful Maggie.”

  He kissed her, his heart finally at peace.

  She was his now, and he was hers.

  Whatever happened in their lives, whatever challenges were thrown in their path, they would face them. Together.

  ***

  The shop phone rang just as Maggie reached the bottom of the stairs.

  She ran through the shop, cursing every ache, and grabbed the phone on the fourth ring.

  “The Ash Leaf.”

  “Maggie?”

  “Hello, Ian.” She already knew why he was calling, and braced herself.

  “I found the body Martin reported this morning. His ID and a cross check confirms that he was Doug Norman, late of London. I will need all three of you at the station, as soon as you can get here.”

  She glanced out the window. The weather was holding, for now. “I don’t want to keep Martin or Ashton out long. They’re still recovering from the last storm.”

  “So I heard. That was a brave thing you did, Maggie.” She was waiting for him to tell her it was stupid, but he surprised her. “You saved Martin’s life, and Enid’s as well, I understand.”

  “I couldn’t sit and do nothing.”

  “One of the qualities I admire about you. When can I expect you?”

  “Within the hour.”

  “Good. I will wait for you in the front area.”

  He ended the call, and Maggie set the phone on the counter, already dreading the conversation she was about to have. She headed for the staircase, and found Martin halfway down, already dressed.

  “Was it Ian?”

  She nodded, climbing the stairs to meet him. He looked tired; even his glasses couldn’t camouflage the circles under his eyes, and nothing could hide the pallor.

  “Martin, maybe you should—”

  “I am fit enough to walk up the street, Maggie.”

  “It’s not you I’m worried about, it’s the weather. What if—”

  “It starts snowing again? I’m certain Ian will allow us to stay until it passes.”

  Maggie let out a sigh. She knew she wasn’t going to win this argument, so she let it go. “Let’s go while the weather is still somewhat clear. Is Ashton still up there?”

  Martin frowned. “No. I thought he was downstairs with you.”

  “He’s not.”

  She ran down the stairs and into the back room. The alarm had been disabled. She closed her eyes briefly as she remembered that she hadn’t reset it after letting Enid out earlier. When she got closer to the door, she saw that the deadbolt was unlocked. Dread made her heart pound as she yanked the door open.

  Ashton’s car was gone.

  She turned to Martin, and saw the shock she felt in his eyes.

  “He ran.”

  Eleven

  Ian wasn’t happy to hear that his prime suspect was in the wind.

  “You do realize I can’t go after him, not with the next storm less than an hour away?”

  Maggie crossed her arms. “I didn’t let him walk out of the shop, Ian. He snuck out. I know he was terrified that you were going to arrest him for murder.”

  “Do you blame me? With his history, I should have locked him up after the first death.” Ian pushed to his feet and paced the interrogation room. It was Maggie’s first time in the small, dingy room. No wonder Martin and Ashton had been relieved to walk out. “Do you have any idea where he might go?”

  Maggie shook her head. “I’m sorry, Ian. I know you don’t want to hear this, but I don’t blame him for running. He’s already been through one ordeal, forced to go through a trial, accused of a murder he didn’t commit.”

  Ian braced his hands on the table, his gaze fierce. “And how do you know he wasn’t guilty, Maggie?”

  “Instinct,” she snapped. “Are we done here? I want to get back to the shop before the next storm.”

  “Go.” Ian looked at Martin, and his sharp tone gentled. “Take care of yourself, Professor. If I have any more questions, I’ll come to you.”

  “Thank you, Ian.” Martin stood, using the table for leverage. Maggie knew better than to help him, but Ian obviously had no qualms.

  He moved around the table and grabbed Martin’s arm, ignoring any protests as he led Martin out of the room. Maggie followed them, still angry at Ian’s comment—and half afraid he may be right.

  ***

  Martin was stumbling by the time they reached her shop, shaking against her.

  Maggie unlocked the door and led him inside, settling him in the closest chair.

  “Stay,” she said. “No argument.”

  The fact that he didn’t try scared her.

  She ran upstairs, pulled the pot of soup out of the fridge, and set it on the stove to heat up. Then she added more blankets to their bed, turning back the covers before she laid out Martin’s warmest pajamas. She’d wait to start the fire until she got him fed, and into a warm bed.

  When she headed downstairs, she found him in the chair, half asleep.

  “Martin.” She waited until he opened his eyes before she touched his shoulder, not wanting to startled him. He blinked up at her. “Ready to go upstairs? I’ve got soup heating, and the bed ready for you.”

  “Sorry, love.” He started to push himself up, and groaned, easing back to the chair. “I believe I might be—feeling the aftereffects of my experience.”

  “You mean you’re stiff?” She bit back a smile when he nodded, looking so miserable she wanted to hug him. “Let’s get you up, then we’ll conquer the stairs together.”

  He let out a raw laugh. “I adore you, Maggie.”

  “Good thing, since I’m about to pamper you like a prince.”

  “Not a king?”

  Maggie wrapped her arm around his waist and helped him stand. “I would have said king, but I didn’t want to rhyme.”

  He draped his arm over her shoulders and smiled down at her. “Marry me.”

  “Right now? I’m not really dressed for it. Besides, you already asked me, remember?”

  “I do.” He smiled at his own joke, and leaned against her. “I meant to say, marry me for Christmas. No,” he shook his head, and almost knocked both of them forward. Maggie grabbed the nearest piece of furniture to steady them. “Sorry. Marry me on Christmas.”

  “Martin—as romantic as that sounds, Christmas is in about a week. I’ll barely have time to breathe, never mind plan a wedding...” Her voice faded when he looked at her. “You don’t mean a wedding. You want to elope.”

  “Will it be terrible for you?” He swallowed. “If we have a formal wedding, I will be forced to invite my family. I do not want them in the same part of the country with you, much less the same building. If a wedding is important to you, I will do what needs to be—”

  “Martin.” She was so close to laughing it choked her voice. With an effort, she swallowed her laughter and stopped at the base of the stairs. “All I want to do is marry you. I don’t care if it’s in a church, or a field, as long as we’re husband and wife at the end of it.”

  He let out a relieved sigh, and relaxed against her. “Thank you.”

  “Let’s get up these stairs, and have some soup. Once you’ve slept, we can talk about this. Okay?”

  “Okay.” His voice was slurred, his eyes drooping. “Stairs, soup, sleep.”

  “My own Shakespeare,” she muttered, and wrapped her other arm around his waist.
/>   It took quite a while—and constant encouragement—to get Martin up to the flat. By the time she pulled him up the last step, she was ready for a nap herself. Instead of taking him to the small dining table, like she planned, she headed for the bedroom. He could eat after he slept.

  She helped him change, set his glasses on the bedside table, where he would see him when he woke, and tucked him into bed.

  “Goodnight, Professor.” She kissed his forehead, surprised when he gripped her hand. “I’ll be in the next room.”

  “Stay,” he whispered. “While I fall asleep.”

  “Of course.” She settled next to him, on top of the duvet, so she wouldn’t be tempted to cuddle up next to him and fall asleep herself. “Now, go to sleep.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He gave her a sleepy smile, then closed his eyes. It took less than five minutes for him to fall asleep, his breathing deep and even.

  Maggie watched him for endless minutes, relieved to see more color in his face. He still sounded like he had been strangled—­and wasn’t that a cheerful thought­—but he didn’t look as desperately exhausted as he had when she dragged him out of the storm.

  Cold air washed over her skin; she looked at the end of the bed, and found her ghost, Anthea, floating next to the wrought iron footboard.

  “Anthea?” She eased off the bed, and moved quietly until she stood in front of the ghost. “What are you doing here?” The ghost had never appeared in the flat before now.

  With a frown, Anthea pointed at the closed bedroom door.

  “Is the soup burning?” When the ghost raised both eyebrows, Maggie shrugged. “Sorry.” She felt odd apologizing to someone who had been dead for almost two hundred years, but Anthea was her ancestor. It was reflex, like apologizing to her Aunt Irene for breaking something, or coming home after curfew. “I haven’t had time to start researching your murder...” Anthea shook her head again. “What is it?”

  “Maggie.”

  She almost jumped out of her shoes at Ashton’s voice. Anthea disappeared, slapping Maggie with a blast of cold air.

  After giving her heart a few seconds to settle back in her chest, she turned to find him in the doorway of the bedroom. She waved at him to move into the living room, and followed him, closing the bedroom door before she spoke.

  “Ashton—where have you been? What’s wrong?” He looked whiter than Anthea, his hands shaking so badly the keys he held jangled against each other. “Come and sit down.”

  “I have to—” He swallowed, and closed his eyes briefly. “I have to speak with DI Reynolds,” he whispered.

  Her heart pounded, and she kept her distance, even as she wanted to soothe him. He looked so scared. “Why?”

  Endless seconds passed before he finally looked at her.

  “I have to confess.”

  ***

  Maggie led Ashton to the sofa and pushed on his shoulder until he sat.

  He stood again. “Maggie—I have to go, now, before—”

  “What? You lose your nerve?” She let him go, but she followed him, in case he decided to run again. “Why the change of heart?”

  “I—can’t live with myself.” He turned away from her, and spoke to the wall. “I got away with murder once. My conscience will not leave me alone this time.”

  “Why did you kill them?”

  He stiffened, and Maggie didn’t expect him to answer her. He surprised her.

  “Because they knew the truth.” He let out a ragged sigh, his shoulders relaxing. “I never thought I’d be found here. I thought I’d be safe. I was wrong.”

  “Now that’s the first thing you’ve said since you showed up that I actually believe.”

  He whirled. “I’m telling you the truth! You must believe me, Maggie.” Desperation edged his voice. “Please—you must believe me.”

  She moved to him and took his hand. “What I believe is that you’re throwing yourself on a sword for someone else.” Instinct told her that he wasn’t the killing type, and Aunt Irene had taught her to always trust her instinct. “If you want to go to Ian and confess, I won’t stop you, but I want you to tell me why.”

  Ashton shook his head, pulling his hand free. “Will you go with me, stay with me, when I talk to him?”

  “Yes.”

  Relief eased some of the desperation on his face. “Thank you.”

  “I need to leave a note for Martin—and turn the heat off under the soup. Did you want to eat before we leave?”

  Ashton moved closer to the front door. “I want to be done with it.”

  “Okay. I’ll just be a minute.” She grabbed a notepad and pen out of the small secretary against the wall, and scribbled a note to Martin, leaving it on the table where he would see it first thing. Then she turned off the stove, and moved the soup to the back burner. If he didn’t sleep too long, it would stay warm for him. “Last chance, Ashton.”

  He responded by opening the door. With a sigh, Maggie followed him out, locking the door behind her. With all the strangers in the village, and two murders, she felt better knowing that at least two locked doors would stand between Martin and any possible danger.

  She grabbed her coat off the rack behind the counter, glancing through the window as she put it on. The sky looked dark, but the snow was holding, for now. She decided to bring a scarf and a hat, just in case.

  Ashton fidgeted near the front door of the shop, clearly anxious to throw his life away. If only she could get him to tell her the truth.

  Maybe Ian would be able to see through whatever lies Ashton told. Only the real killer would know the details Ian kept from Floyd, the nosy local reporter.

  Since Ashton wasn’t, he would slip up at some point.

  Twelve

  The weather stayed clear—but all the snow the last storm left behind had trapped every tourist in the village, and every delivery truck outside of it.

  Maggie was shocked by the number of people crowding the sidewalks, wandering along the cobbled pedestrian street. The local eateries would be hard pressed to keep up with the demand, especially without a delivery in their near future. She made a mental note to stop at her house and grab some food.

  At least she wouldn’t have to fight her way through the aisles of the local grocery; she had stocked up for the holidays after her first busy day at the shop. Now she was glad she’d taken the time.

  Ashton walked next to her, looking like a doomed man taking his last steps. Maggie wanted to help him, talk him out of this insane confession. But he was determined, so all she could do was stand beside him, like she promised.

  They reached the police station, and Ashton finally hesitated.

  “You can change your mind, Ashton.” Maggie kept her voice quiet, even.

  He stared at the tinted glass door, and shook his head. “I can’t.”

  “Okay, then.” She held out her hand. After a long hesitation, he took it, and let her lead the way into the station.

  Jackie stood behind the tall front counter, and smiled when he caught sight of her. “Good afternoon, Miss Mulgrew. How can I be helping you today?”

  “We’d like to speak to DI Reynolds, Jackie.”

  His smile faded at her formal tone. “Right away.”

  He disappeared down the hall, and Ian followed him out a minute later.

  “Maggie, Ashton.” He kept his gaze on her. “You wish to speak with me?”

  Ashton cleared his throat. “I do, Detective Inspector. Maggie is here as support.” He let out his breath, and met Ian’s sober gaze. “I would like to make a confession.”

  ***

  The noise jerked Martin out of his dream.

  He was happy for the interruption, since the dream had been an old, familiar one, involving his mother.

  “Maggie,” he muttered, and smiled.

  She must be puttering around the flat, impatiently waiting for him to wake. She had decided to close the shop for today, in case the weather turned without notice.

  He sat, carefully, and assess
ed. His muscles still ached, and a dull throb lingered where he had knocked his head into the corner of a building. He was also starving, and smelled soup. His stomach growled, anticipating a bowl, along with some of the crusty bread Maggie always kept stocked.

  Martin was one lucky man. Soon, he would be coming home to her every night, sharing a life with her. He could hardly wait to start—

  A figure appeared in front of him, just before cold air brushed his face.

  “Anthea.” He pressed one hand to his pounding heart. “You will have to stop that. I am not getting any younger...” His voice faded when she motioned to the lounge, what looked like panic on her face. “Is Maggie in trouble?”

  He pushed to his feet, ignoring his trembling legs as he stepped around the ghost and rushed to the door. She popped in front of him again, and he backpedaled, not wanting to walk through her. He had done that more than once as a boy, and the sensation was not pleasant.

  “Anthea—” He cut himself off when he heard another sound.

  This time, it wasn’t the sound of an impatient woman waiting on him. He recognized the slide of a blade leaving its scabbard. A knife, he guessed, and backed away from the door.

  He spotted the clothes he’d worn earlier, and stripped off his pajamas, changing so quickly he was breathless from the effort when he finished.

  As he watched, the latch on the door moved. Anthea gave him one last, despairing look and disappeared, just before the door swung open.

  “Professor Martin. We meet again.”

  Martin swallowed. He shouldn’t have been surprised; but he had been so focused on Ashton, he had pushed aside his unease. Now that misguided focus was going to cost him.

  ***

  “You don’t actually believe him?” Maggie whispered to Ian in the hall outside the interrogation room.

  Ian rubbed the bridge of his nose, his voice heavy. “He has details only the killer would know, Maggie. He also has no alibi for either of the murders, and a dodgy history I can’t ignore.”