by Wendy Loggia
Victoria checks her buzzing phone. “Oh, she’s here!” She smooths down her black gingham tunic and dashes off to the front of the store.
I go over to the large rectangular table where we’ve stacked copies of The Vermont Victim and do some unnecessary straightening. We also had set up a table with bottles of water, glasses of wine, cubes of cheddar cheese with crackers, and green-iced cookies that are in the shape of Vermont, with tiny little splatters of fake blood on them.
“Do you like the cookies?” Tim asks, joining me. He walks with a slight limp—I don’t know why and it isn’t my business to ask.
“They’re brilliant,” I tell him, meaning it. “Your idea?”
He puffs out his skinny chest. “I wanted to do ice picks but didn’t want to give away too much of the plot.” He looks around to make sure no one is watching him, then picks up a cookie and gobbles it in three bites. “So are you a fan of Cressy White?” he asks, swallowing.
I pick up a copy of The Vermont Victim. The cover shows a woman obscured by shadows, opening a gated door. The title is embossed in gold script. “I haven’t read any of her stuff,” I admit, running my fingers over the title. “But this looks like a cool book.”
Tim nods. “We sold a ton of her last one, The Kansas Killer. And considering that Vermont’s a lot closer to us than Kansas is, and that she got a great review in the Times, this should do pretty well.” He sighs. “I keep trying to convince Victoria to bring in more speculative fiction authors to do events. One day.”
Customers who are here for the event begin filtering in, the brass shopkeeper’s bell tinkling nonstop. There is excited chatter as people take their seats. A group of four women look especially enthusiastic. They all have glasses of wine. In the crowd I recognize one of the English teachers from Bedford High, and a couple who go to my church. You can almost feel the ripple of anticipation in the air as everyone waits for Cressida White to take the podium.
I hear Victoria’s voice and the murmur of other voices. I carefully put the book back on the table and walk around the worn wooden bookshelves that block my view. A tall woman in a long white coat and stiletto boots is following Victoria through the shop, along with a younger woman in an oversized puffy jacket, white top, and black pants.
Victoria spots me lurking and motions me over. “Cressida, this is Bailey Briggs, one of your biggest fans.”
I smile. “That’s me!” I say cheerily. “I just can’t get enough of murder mysteries.” That’s a bit of a fib, but I want to make Cressida feel good. We’re all about author care at Winslow’s.
Cressida and the younger woman, who I assume is her publicist, smile back at me. “Lovely to meet you,” Cressida says, blinking her heavily mascaraed blue eyes. She smells like ripe bananas and coconut. “Love your top. And thanks for being a fan!”
The three of them head into the back. I hear Victoria ask if they’re hungry and Cressida saying something about Whole30.
Back at the signing area, all the chairs are now filled.
Bill has pushed up some of the store’s cushioned armchairs for extra seating. A few people stand on the sides but they seem content to stand.
“Did you read this one?” I ask him.
He rolls up his shirtsleeves and adjusts the pencil behind his ear. “Saw the ending coming a mile away.” He holds up his finger to his lips. “Mum’s the word, Bailey.”
I laugh. “I’d hate to watch a true crime show with you.”
Now Bill laughs. “I don’t think you’re the true crime type.”
“I’m not.” Sam has tried to get me to binge this show that Karl had told her about called Homicide for the Holidays—true crime cases that are holiday-themed.
Hard, hard pass.
When Cressida comes out, everyone applauds and she launches into a ten-minute reading of her book, followed by a Q&A. It was interesting, but six questions in, I wander up to the front of the store to check on Sam. It’s pretty quiet at the wrap station—it seems that everyone in the store, even those people who haven’t come specifically for the signing, are at the back listening to Cressida talk.
Sam points to the giant poster of Cressida’s author photo we have on display at the front of the store. “Do you think anyone would notice if I give her a mustache?”
I giggle. “Victoria would probably have a heart attack right in front of us.”
“I’m just a little bored up here. I’m glad this is our last night,” she says, dropping into one of the folding chairs behind the table. I sit down at the other one. “I’ve been studying for APUSH but it’s hard to concentrate with that.” She motions toward where Cressida is speaking. Her miked voice carries throughout the store.
“It’s fun to have an event on our last volunteer night, though,” I point out. “Wonder how many people will want their books wrapped?”
“She’s probably going to talk for another hour and everyone is going to be so tired they’ll just take their books and go home,” Sam says. She makes a silly face and sends someone a Snapchat, then turns her phone camera on me. “Here, for Winslow’s Instagram.”
“If you hurry, you can still meet Cressida White tonight,” I chirp, shimmying for the phone.
Sam turns the lens around toward her. “Come be a victim,” she says in a dramatic voice, drawing a line across her throat. “A Vermont Victim.”
“There’s going to be a mad rush now,” I say after we post the video to the store’s Instagram account.
We spend some time scrolling Sam’s Instagram account and watching videos. Then, when it sounds like Cressida might be finishing up, she puts her phone away.
“I almost forgot. You inspired me. I read a book.” She held up a shelftalker she had written in purple Sharpie.
Title: THE WILD
This book about a girl who gets sent to wilderness camp by her parents is, well, WILD. All sorts of things happen to her that she is NOT expecting—and neither will you!
I read this book in one day—you won’t be able to put it down! —SAM
“I’m so proud of you! And that sounds so good,” I tell her, even though thrillers give me nightmares. I haven’t done any shelftalkers for a while, but I’m working on one for this book I borrowed from the store last week. It’s kind of a choose-your-own-adventure romance—it is really funny. I considered doing one for a Dark Romantic from my English class just for kicks, but somehow trying to get someone to buy a dark story about someone trying and failing to make their lives better doesn’t quite say “holiday spirit.”
“So, I was at the mall over the weekend with my cousins and there was a seriously cute guy at the North Pole,” Sam says. “Not that I’m interested.” Ever since Joe Shiffley’s party, she and Karl have been texting each other and sharing playlists. So far so good.
“Did he have a bushy white beard and a round belly?” I ask, resting my chin in my hands. “Do tell.”
Sam ignores me. “Tall, blond hair that’s long in the front—kind of like Leonardo DiCaprio before he got old and puffy. British accent.”
I gasp, sitting back so hard in my chair I almost topple over backward. “Was his name Charlie?”
She’s giving me a strange look as she shrugs. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask him. Why, do you know him or something?”
“I mean, I don’t know if it’s the same guy, but…” I trail off. “Wait—you didn’t say what he was doing. Please tell me he wasn’t Santa.” The image that pops into my head is ludicrous.
“Nope. One of the elves.” She chips off a piece of her blue nail polish. “My great-uncle used to work as a Santa during the holidays and he made decent money, something like twenty bucks an hour. He had to rent his own Santa suit, though.”
Okay, Elf Charlie is even more ridiculous than him being Santa. “Like with tights and everything?”
Sam nods. “Full-on A
Christmas Story Higbee’s department store scene. Red tights, green top, floppy green hat with a jingle bell.” She lets out a pained sigh. “If only I had a picture of him.”
“Why don’t you?” I screech, sounding a bit unhinged. All this time Charlie—my Charlie—worked at the mall as an elf? This would help explain why he isn’t on social media—I am sure he doesn’t want photos of himself in an elf outfit out in the world. When we were leaving Allen Park, he had been about to tell me something. This was probably it.
Sam gives me the universal “calm down” gesture with her hands. “I would have but my battery died.”
Part of me doesn’t want to believe it. The other part of me knows there aren’t too many tall British guys who are good with kids in this town.
“Well, if it’s the same person I’m thinking of, his name is Charlie Travers. We met at the ice rink a week ago, and then he helped me when my car got stuck on Big Tree Road,” I tell her. “He just happened to be driving by at the right time.”
“That’s some coincidence,” Sam says, sucking air through her teeth.
“Yeah,” I say, thinking for a moment. “And last week he came in here.”
“Here here?” Sam asks, her mouth forming a surprised O.
I nod. “We went sledding together with the kids I babysit for.”
“That’s so cute!” Sam cries, punching my arm. “But wait a minute. I thought you and Jacob Marley had a thing.”
My shoulders slump. “I’m not sure if we do or not. He hasn’t called what we have a thing, so—”
Sam cuts me off. “You should go to the North Pole and see if the elf is your Charlie.”
My mom had offered to take me to the mall to shop for the Secret Santa gifts. I’d just have to make a small detour to visit the North Pole.
Tomorrow night can’t come soon enough.
Most of the time my family shops locally in downtown Bedford. We like to support small businesses, and the center of town is just a short drive from our house. Tonight, however, we decide to go to the mall, mostly because it is too cold to be walking around outside. And when we pull into the parking lot of the Shoppes at Bedford, we realize everyone else has the same idea. The place is packed.
The Shoppes is a high-end shopping mall—there’s valet parking and even a valet car wash. My mom refuses to use valet—“I’d have to be pretty desperate to pay fifteen dollars to park at a mall on a Tuesday!”—so we drove around for fifteen minutes before finally getting a parking spot.
Now we are walking down the expansive mall corridor. It’s designed to look like a quaint outdoor street, complete with paved cobblestone floors and black iron streetlamps. Oversized jewel-toned ornaments are suspended from the ceiling, and the seating areas are festooned with cheery red poinsettias. There is an a cappella group singing outside a sporting goods store, and most of the display windows are lavishly decorated for the season. It’s all very merry. On the news they are always talking about how malls are closing, but somehow, this one has managed to stay open. I notice a bunch of new stores since I was here last summer, and the food court has been remodeled to look like a chic urban space, with exposed pipes and reclaimed wood, which doesn’t really go with the “Shoppes” vibe, but whatever—it’s nice.
“What about lip gloss?” Mom says now as we approach Sephora. Inside the store, customers are spritzing on sweet-smelling perfumes and trying eye shadow colors on their arms. “Everyone likes lip gloss.”
“Eh, I’m not sure. It feels…uninspired.” Phoebe is one of my closest friends. I want to get her something really nice. As nice as a fifteen-dollar gift can be. Lip gloss feels generic, like a candle. It’s the kind of gift you get someone when you can’t think of anything else. And while I’m here to get a gift, I’m also here to see if I can learn a little more about the mysterious Charlie. So I’m a bit distracted. I glance around just in case he’s in the vicinity, but I don’t see him. If Sam was right, he is working at the North Pole. I can’t really picture him as one of Santa’s helpers, but I suppose anything is possible. Maybe they pay really well.
“Hmmmm, okay,” Mom says, her neck swiveling from side to side as she studies the stores we are near. “Cute socks? A bracelet? Books? Think of what you’d like to get as a gift—and get Phoebe that.”
She means well, but the more she suggests things, the more confused I grow. “No offense, Mom, but you’re kind of stressing me out right now,” I tell her as we wander into a giant cookware store, lured by the smell of hot mulled apple cider. “Just let me look around and I’ll come up with something on my own.”
Mom reaches over for a free sample of cider. “Just trying to help,” she says, taking a sip from the small paper cup. “Delish. I wanted to look at the tablecloths here. Do you mind? I’ll only be a minute.”
I know Mom better than that—this place is dangerous for anyone her age. But I wave her off. “Sure, take your time,” I say generously, glancing around at the shiny pots and pans and complicated-looking espresso machines. “Maybe I’ll find something here for Phoebs.”
“Okeydoke!” She meanders off, and I wander over to a festively decorated table covered in a green tablecloth. Each place setting has a charger, a dinner plate, a salad plate, a bread plate, a dessert plate, a soup bowl, three glasses, a teacup, nine utensils, and a reindeer napkin in a shiny silver ring. There is a gigantic pine cone centerpiece in the table’s center.
“So bougie,” I mumble, examining a gold-plated fork. Then I put it back and make my way over to a table with holiday treats. Maybe Phoebe would like a bag of gummies formed into snowmen. I pick up a bag that has a cute ribbon tied around it. The little sticker on the back says eighteen dollars. What a rip-off! I quickly put it back. This is just a waste of time. I glance toward the back of the store. Mom is having an animated conversation with an apron-wearing sales clerk, holding up a tartan place mat.
I pull out my phone from my back pocket and send my mom a text. I’ll meet you by the fountain in fifteen minutes. Gonna walk around for a bit. Then I squeeze my way past some shoppers and make my way back into the mall. If I can find something soon, then maybe I can do a quick surveillance trip to the North Pole.
I walk past an eyeglass shop, a men’s shirt store, an Italian bistro, and a trendy athletic wear shop. I can see some cute patterned leggings and bright-colored sports bras inside, and there is a giant sign that says HOLIDAY SALE BUY ONE GET ONE 50% OFF. I hesitate. Phoebe does like to work out. Most of the merchandise is probably out of my price range, but maybe I can find a cute tank top on sale. I’m heading into the store when I hear it.
“Oh my God, stooooop!” A girl’s loud voice comes crashing down on my eardrums. My eyes follow the source of the piercing sound. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. A few stores away from me is Jacob, along with Kaylee Zimmer and his ex, Jessica Dolecki. They’re walking toward the athletic wear store, but they stop to check out a fancy-looking car on display in the center of mall. The girls are holding pink smoothies in clear plastic cups and laughing like they’re in a comedy club and Jacob is the comedian.
An uncomfortable churning starts in my stomach. When I was in middle school, our social studies teacher assigned us to work in groups. I was unlucky enough to be put in a group with Kaylee and Jessica. We were supposed to come up with names for our groups. Jessica took one look at me and turned to Kaylee and said, “Let’s call our group ‘Two Pretty Girls and Bailey.’ ” Kaylee laughed super hard—exactly the way she’s laughing now.
So I have valid reasons to pretty much despise them.
Jessica is twirling her long wavy hair around her finger, and Kaylee is holding on tight to Jacob’s bicep. Jacob is laughing, too, but not quite as hard.
My eyes widen, and then narrow into tiny slits. Laughing is the furthest thing from my mind. Why on earth is Jacob at the mall with Kaylee and Jessica? Did he run into them? Or did they all
come here together?
I move back out into the mall corridor to get a better view.
Jacob must have said something, because Kaylee laughs her annoying loud laugh again, miming spitting out her smoothie. “Stop, stop, oh my gosh,” she shrieks, flipping her blowout from side to side. Her head turns in my direction and I duck behind a life-sized nutcracker statue. I can only imagine what will happen if they see me. Either the girls would blow me off like they don’t know who I am (never mind that we’ve been in classes together since second grade) or they’d make a big show of saying hi and then whispering to each other and laughing afterward to try to make me feel insecure. And this would all play out in front of Jacob—and as for what he would do, I don’t really want to find out.
I peek out from behind the nutcracker. I don’t see Kaylee and Jessica, which is both a relief and a bit disappointing, because Jacob has vanished as well. Knowing them, the girls have probably gone into Starbucks to order single venti iced mochas, no whip, light ice, and 2 percent milk before yelling at the baristas that they made their drinks wrong.
But where is Jacob? He had mentioned something about needing a new band for his Apple watch. Is he in the Apple store? Even from this far away, I can tell it’s crowded.
A text from my mom pops up. Sorry I’m taking so long. They’re trying to find a 90-inch round tablecloth for me down in their stockroom. Do you want to still meet at the fountain? Say 30 minutes?
Sounds good! I type back. As much as I don’t like seeing Jacob hanging out with those mean girls, I know I shouldn’t devote any time to worrying about it. Whether he came here alone and ran into them or planned to meet up with them isn’t really my business anyway. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
I have to focus. I need to get Phoebe’s gift. And I need to see if Charlie is in an elf costume.
After finding the perfect gift at a kiosk—a set of firefly string lights that I know Phoebe will love—I head for the North Pole. You’d think there wouldn’t be a line because it’s a weeknight, but it is also just a few days before Christmas, which means a decent-sized crowd is waiting to go in. There’s an open area with benches and large candy cane decorations, and a path cordoned off by red velvet ropes that lead past a small kiosk. Past the kiosk is the North Pole and, I’m assuming, Santa.