Christmas at Snowflake Lodge

by CP Ward

  Christmas at Snowflake Lodge

  CP Ward

  Contents

  By CP Ward

  Christmas at Snowflake Lodge

  1. The Funeral

  2. Fugitive

  3. Second Thoughts

  4. Ideas

  5. Investigations Pending

  6. Over the Edge

  7. Loose Ends

  8. Wheels

  9. Road Hogs

  10. Road Troubles

  11. James

  12. Breakfast

  13. Snowflake Lodge

  14. Grandpa

  15. Team Meeting

  16. Life Advice

  17. Games in the Snow

  18. An old jacket

  19. The Bet

  20. Snowboarding

  21. Railway Line

  22. Stringing Lights

  23. Thief

  24. Investigation

  25. The End of the Line

  26. Questions without Answers

  27. Rescue

  28. The Ring

  29. Captured

  30. Justice and Revelations

  31. Merry Christmas

  I’m Glad I Found You This Christmas

  We’ll Have a Wonderful Cornish Christmas

  Coming Home to Me this Christmas

  CP Ward’s debut summer novel is now available!

  Contact

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  “Christmas at Snowflake Lodge”

  Copyright © CP Ward 2021

  * * *

  The right of CP Ward to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the Author.

  * * *

  This story is a work of fiction and is a product of the Author’s imagination. All resemblances to actual locations or to persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  By CP Ward

  I’m Glad I Found You This Christmas

  We’ll have a Wonderful Cornish Christmas

  Coming Home to Me This Christmas

  Christmas at the Marshmallow Cafe

  Christmas at Snowflake Lodge

  * * *

  Summer at Blue Sands Cove

  Christmas at Snowflake Lodge

  1

  The Funeral

  It felt kind of strange to be sharing a joke at a funeral, but Mavis Johns had not registered high on the affection meter of many of the people who had known her. In fact, even her sister, Delores, was having a chuckle with one of the waiters manning the heavily loaded drinks table.

  Jessica Lemond started as her father, Benjamin, came up behind her, tapping her on the shoulder. ‘Do you think we should get him home soon?’

  ‘Who?’

  Benjamin poked a finger back over his shoulder. ‘Dad. Your grandpa. He’s over there trying to pick up the undertaker.’

  ‘Literally pick up?’

  Benjamin winced as though the thought of saying the words out loud left a funny taste in his mouth. ‘No … he’s single again, now, isn’t he? He’s on the pull.’

  ‘Dad, he’s ninety-two.’

  ‘Exactly. Not much time left. And with Mavis out of the way, he’s got the keys to the cheque book back again hasn’t he?’

  ‘You don’t really think…?’

  Benjamin patted her gently on the shoulder again, as he might have once done when she was five, shortly before a piano recital or a school play. She considered reminding him she was twenty-nine, and the owner of her own business, albeit one of which he’d never approved, nor shown any interest.

  ‘Be a love and go play gooseberry, won’t you? We’ll either end up with another funeral or another marriage on our hands, and to be honest, it really is about time he put his feet up.’

  ‘Can’t we just let him go out with a bang?’

  ‘What?’

  Jessica slapped a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean literally with a … oh, Jesus.’

  ‘Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain, dear,’ said her mother, Emelia, swanning over and putting an arm around Jessica’s shoulders. Wearing a floral dress which might have been more appropriate at a summer fair, Emelia Lemond had never bothered to hide her dislike for her father-in-law’s third wife. ‘Great party, isn’t it? I can’t wait for the karaoke.’

  ‘I’ll be long gone by then, I hope,’ Jessica said. ‘I have a booking.’

  ‘Oh, God, he’s slipping her his number,’ Benjamin said.

  ‘At least that’s all he’s slipping her,’ Emelia said. ‘The dirty old sod. And you can pack it in with the Gods and Jesuses as well.’

  ‘What?’ Benjamin frowned, then let out a huff. He gave Jessica a little shove in the back. ‘Go on, love, quick. Save that poor woman from my letch of a father. Or at the very least, save us from having to hear all about his conquest at Sunday lunch next week.’

  Jessica found herself hobbling on uncomfortable heels across the dancefloor, leaving her parents to swing into a jive as the music continued its inappropriate joviality. Grandpa, propped up on a walking frame, was leaning over the undertaker, a stern, masculine woman in her early fifties who wore a man’s suit over a black frilled blouse.

  ‘You have YouTube, don’t you?’ he was saying, his voice containing a fluttery waver that sounded as though he could pass out at any moment. ‘All my best gags are on there. Why did my brother lose his job in a lemon factory? Because he couldn’t concentrate.’

  The undertaker laughed with such sudden ferocity that Jessica stumbled, catching the heel of her shoe in a crack in the floor tiles at the same moment. She twisted, back-ending the trestle table just at the moment the undertaker thumped the tabletop hard enough to make a large bowl of trifle shudder. Jessica’s bum caught the lip, and while she didn’t see the sudden cascade of sponge, jelly, and whipped cream, she felt it soaking the back of her dress, gunk running down over her hips and thighs.

  She closed her eyes. When she opened them, Grandpa was staring at her with an incredulous look on his face. ‘Oh. What happened to you, love? A party for one, is it? Hang on, I’ll just get my spoon.’

  If there was a joke buried in his words somewhere, it was lost on Jessica. The undertaker, however, broke into another horrifying guffaw. Jessica closed her eyes, for once feeling envious of Mavis, now entirely reduced to dust.

  ‘You didn’t have to drink all of the punch, dear,’ Emilia said, taking a brief break from the dancefloor to check on her daughter, sitting on a sofa chair against the wall of the community centre, an empty plastic beaker lolling in her hand.

  ‘I didn’t,’ Jessica said, aware she was slurring. ‘I tried to, but Grandpa siphoned what was left into a flask to take home.’

  ‘Oh, he’s left, has he?’

  ‘With the undertaker, about half an hour ago. I saw them getting into a taxi.’

  Emilia laughed. ‘Well, at least she’s an appropriate person to be on hand if he overexerts himself.’

  ‘Mum, stop! That’s disgusting.’

  Emilia, however, was on a roll. ‘That randy old sod. At his wife’s funeral too. What a way to celebrate finally being rid of that witch, by banging the undertaker.’

  ‘Please, Mum,’ Jessica said, covering her ears. ‘I want this nightmare to end.’

  ‘Didn’t you have to go to work tonight? Cleaning someone’s pipes or something?’

  Jessica groaned. ‘I’m a plumber. Can you please quit the stupid jokes? This is supposed to be a funeral.’

 
‘Ah, but what a funeral. Who could possibly have expected that sow to fall off a ladder at her age? She was what, forty-five?’

  ‘Forty-seven.’

  ‘And a yoga instructor, a climbing teacher, and what else was it?’

  ‘A professional skydiver. She presented some documentary or other on cable.’

  ‘So unexpected, wasn’t it? And look at him … her ashes are still warm to the touch and he’s out reliving his youth.’ Emilia leaned close, a conspiratorial grin on her face. ‘Your father won’t hear a word of it, but between you and me, do you think he knocked her off?’

  As though on cue, a flashing blue light appeared outside the window. Jessica stood up and peered outside, just in time to see three police cars pulling into the community centre car park.

  Emelia was still grinning. ‘Told you, didn’t I?’

  2

  Fugitive

  ‘No work tonight, Lemons?’ Doreen said, appearing out of her bedroom with a crunched can of Worthington Bitter in her hand. She went to the sink, up-ended it to let a dribble of froth run out, then left it—unwashed—on the worktop before retrieving another from the fridge. ‘It’s Arsenal versus West Ham at seven-thirty. Are you likely to go out?’

  Jessica, sitting at their shared dining room table with a tradesman’s magazine open in front of her and a coffee close at hand, suppressed a sigh. ‘I wasn’t planning to, but I suppose I could pop down to the Coco Lounge for a bit.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  Jessica felt herself blushing. ‘Well, you don’t want me here, do you?’

  ‘Not unless you’re into the game. It kind of sucks to watch with someone who’s not up for it.’ Doreen, Jessica’s lodger, a hardcore lesbian and football fan, who worked as a hairdresser and also happened to be a casual bully, planted powerful fists on hips honed at combat-fit classes, and pouted. ‘But even so, the Coco Lounge? You’re going to go in there alone? You might as well just wear a green t-shirt and walk up and down the high street flashing your boobs at cars.’

  Jessica was at a loss for words. ‘Well, what would you suggest?’

  ‘Couldn’t you just stay in your room? Read a book or something?’

  ‘It’s my flat.’

  Doreen raised an eyebrow and Jessica knew she’d crossed the line. ‘So, you’re saying I’m not wanted? Would you like me to pack my bags?’

  Jessica flapped a hand, feeling backed into a corner. Whatever she said was likely to leave her trailing in one way or another. Either she ruined Doreen’s football night by staying in, or she ruined Doreen’s cred by going to a couples bar alone.

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry. Perhaps I’ll go to the supermarket or something.’

  Doreen’s eyes lit up. ‘Really? I know it’s a bit of a walk, but if you go down to the LIDL there’s a two-for-one on John Smiths. Mick and Phil are coming round in a bit so we wouldn’t mind if you dropped them off at half-time. We’ll probably be dry by then.’

  Jessica opened her mouth to say something, but all sense of confrontation was gone. ‘Sure. No problem.’

  Doreen grinned. ‘You know Mick’s single, don’t you? He dumped that Kathleen bird last month. Apparently he caught her watching Tottenham. I mean, come on. Gunners for life. She should have known better.’

  ‘He’s not really my type—’

  Doreen’s face hardened again. ‘Don’t you start with that fat-shaming rubbish. He’s well-built, that’s all. Nothing wrong with that. Unless you’re saying you don’t like bigger people?’ Doreen looked ready for a scrap. ‘Who else don’t you like?’

  Jessica stood up quickly. ‘I’ll go and get your beer,’ she said. ‘And if I can’t think of anything else to do, I’ll just wander the streets for a bit until the game’s over. It’s not that cold.’

  Doreen grinned. ‘You’re the best, Lemons. I knew I was doing the right thing when I agreed to a flat share.’

  Agreed to rent a room in my flat, Jessica forced herself not to say. You’re my lodger. You rent one room, and you pay under the going rate for it. And in less than six months you’ve made me just about ready to pack a bag and run.

  As she headed for the door, taking her jacket off the back of a chair, she heard Doreen switching on the TV to the match buildup. Then, to Jessica’s utter revulsion, she heard the sound of the sofa springs stretching to their max.

  Doreen was jumping up and down.

  It was freezing outside, as might have been expected for mid-November. All the news programs were claiming a monster winter this year, a dump of snowfall unheard of in living memory. The very thought of it sent shivers down Jessica’s spine, and not just because she wasn’t a fan of the horribly cold and wet stuff. It meant a slew of cracked pipes which would keep her busy right over the holiday season. As a plumber who specialised in unsociable work hours for people who couldn’t arrange to be home during the day, she ought to be pleased, but she had been looking forward to over-eating, getting drunk, and doing all the things everyone else got to do. While crawling under a porch at midnight to inspect a burst pipe was fine during the summer months, the prospect was a lot bleaker during winter.

  And this Christmas season was a special one, too. Turning thirty in January, it was her last as a young woman. After January, she was officially middle-aged. ‘Washed-up,’ as Doreen—still only twenty-six—liked to put it. ‘Might as well start playing for the other team,’ her lodger was fond of saying. ‘I’m not saying we have lower standards, but you’re not likely to get much of a boyfriend now, are you?’

  She walked up the high street, past the Tesco where she preferred to shop, all the way down to the LIDL on the edge of the town centre, just before her Bristol suburb gave itself over to bland new housing estates. She looked up at the geometric rows of boring houses, most of which had perfect water systems which wouldn’t require her services until she was due to retire, and wondered whether they’d only added street signs to stop people getting lost.

  She picked up Doreen’s beer, grumbling under her breath for having forgotten to bring her own bag and having to buy one instead, then made her way back up the high street, past several small shops which already had Christmas decorations displayed in the windows, fairy lights glittering brightly against backdrops of snowy winter scenes, plastic Father Christmases, nodding wire-framed reindeer, and electric candles in the shape of elves—all of which appeared of the same tribe; a likely result of Pound Stretcher further up the street having a sale on last year’s stock.

  The little paper craft shop which had long been Jessica’s favourite—not because she ever bought any paper crafts, but because it was so quaint and unique—had a new sign up in the window.

  OUR LAST CHRISTMAS

  Get your paper crafts now

  Closing December 31st

  Thanks for 30 years of business!

  Something about it made Jessica sad, and she reached into her pocket for her phone, needing the comfort of social media, or perhaps even a call to someone she knew. Instead, there was a missed call from Dad. She picked it up to reply, just as her battery died.

  The thought of using a phone box made her grimace, but by now Doreen and her meathead mates would have taken over her flat to watch the game. Ignoring the one outside the Wetherspoon’s pub which no doubt doubled down as a urinal, she headed up the street, past her own road, to the small park at the end. A pair of phone boxes stood next to the park gates, so she squeezed into one and pulled a handful of change out of her pocket.

  ‘Jess, is that you?’ came Benjamin’s voice. ‘What happened? Are you in hospital or something? A car accident?’

  ‘My phone battery died. What’s up? Your message said to call you urgently. Have they found Grandpa yet?’

  She could almost hear Dad umming on the other end of the line, wondering what to say. With Grandpa having gone on the run from police and been missing for two weeks now, both Jessica and her mum were convinced Mavis’s death had been murder. Doreen was certain old Ernest Lemond, a f
amous TV comedian from the nineteen-fifties, was set to kill again. Dad, however, wouldn’t hear of it. While Mavis had been a tyrant, a fitness freak with a penchant for spending her elderly husband’s money, Grandpa, in his advanced years, had held her in something like affection, even if the rest of the family despised her. And in any case, Mavis had outweighed him by twenty kilograms. There was no way he could have pushed her off that ladder.

  ‘No … the police haven’t found him.’

  ‘Okay. Is that good or bad?’

  ‘It depends on how you look at it. However, a postcard arrived yesterday.’

  ‘A postcard?’

  ‘Yes. From Scotland.’

  Jessica lifted an eyebrow, her genetically inherited sense of humour unable to miss the opportunity for a bad joke. ‘Really?’ she said. ‘I didn’t know you and Scotland were such good friends.’

  ‘Jess … you’d put the old man into his grave with something as poor as that,’ Benjamin said, squeezing out a reluctant laugh. ‘From your grandfather in Scotland.’

  ‘What’s he doing there?’

  ‘Evading the police. And he told me he’s got a job over the Christmas season as the in-house comedian at a ski lodge.’