Humbugged

by Pippa Grant

  I shred a napkin onto my plate while Cassie scans the ceiling nervously and reaches for another taco and Olivia closes her eyes, sending out psychic ghost vibrations.

  Or at least, that’s what I imagine she’s doing.

  She could just be tired.

  Olivia is still a bit of a mystery to me, one I look forward to solving as we become better friends.

  “So what do we do now?” Cassie asks. “Ghost bust him somehow? Check for bones in the basement and call a priest? Or just leave it be and assume he’ll scram as soon as the creep sabotaging Noelle is brought to justice?”

  “Bones in the basement might not be a bad idea,” Olivia says. “According to everything I’ve read, a good percentage of hauntings are associated with bodies that haven’t been properly put to rest.”

  I shudder. “You mean there’s a body in my basement?”

  “Maybe.”

  She smiles kindly as Cassie drops a taco and my jaw drops in horror.

  “But not necessarily,” she adds. “If this is where he was comfortable in life, this is where he’d return until his body—wherever it is—is properly buried.”

  “Um, thanks, but no thanks. The basement is a no-fly zone. When I first got the keys, I took one look down there, threw up my hands, locked the door, and decided to pretend it didn’t exist.”

  “Why?” Cassie asks, her eyes widening even more. “Is it dark and creepy?”

  “A little. But it’s the junk that’s the real problem. My dad would keel over and die at the sight of the basement, and I might have a touch of him in me. We lived relatively lean—you have to when you move every couple years—but we still gathered enough junk that we had to pare down every time. The previous owner here had a hoarding problem. I’m pretty sure there are magazines down there from the nineteen twenties. As well as roughly two thousand plastic vases, a mountain of fake moss, and an old Christmas float with an extremely creepy-looking reindeer.”

  Olivia brings a hand to press against her heart. “Yes, that’s it. The float. And the reindeer. It has something to do with this. When you mentioned it, I felt a little hitching sensation in my chest.”

  “Me too.” Cassie’s not just wide-eyed now, she’s also pale. “Though that could just be heartburn. Because I’ve eaten an obscene number of tacos and the baby is awake and kicking the crap out of me.” She covers her mouth with her hand, burping softly. “Sorry. I don’t think the baby likes jalapenos. Neither do I, normally. I also hate milk.” She sighs. “I don’t know who I’m becoming or why I thought talking about ghosts would be fun.”

  “Don’t be scared.” Olivia takes Cassie’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “I’m almost entirely certain the ghost means well.”

  “Too bad we can’t say the same about the human jerk who broke in here last night,” Cassie says. “Any word from the sheriff’s office? Do they have any leads so far?”

  I shake my head. “None that I know of. But I doubt my mostly victimless crime is at the top of their to-do list.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Cassie says. “Aside from the random alpaca-napping or the time Olivia was kidnapped, things are pretty dull around here crime-wise.”

  “Kidnapped?” My eyes go wide as I look back and forth between them, waiting for them to say they’re kidding. But they don’t. “You’re serious.”

  “We are,” Olivia says calmly. “And there was also that time Cassie was knocked unconscious in a burning building.”

  “There was,” Cassie says, nodding pleasantly. “I’d almost forgotten about that! I think I have mom brain already.”

  “Pregnancy brains can be tricky too.” Olivia smiles, a far-off look in her eyes. “When I was pregnant with Clover there were days when I’d forget my address. And my mother’s maiden name. And what time I was supposed to be at work.” Her gaze refocuses on the clock above the cash register. “Speaking of, I should probably start back. We’re doing taste tests on the spring lube flavors at the factory and I need to cleanse my palette with a crystal meditation first.”

  I barely resist the urge to make a gagging noise.

  Taste-testing lube sounds awful, even though I know all of Sunshine Toys’ lubricants are made of natural, edible, and organic ingredients.

  Cassie sighs. “Yeah, I should go too. Before I stay and eat more cupcakes.” She wrinkles her nose sympathetically. “Sorry we weren’t more help, Noelle. But we’ll keep our fingers crossed for you.”

  “And our auras open and filled with sympathetic vibrations,” Olivia says, pulling me in for a hug. “I have a feeling everything’s going to work out fine. Eventually.”

  “I hope you’re right.” I return her embrace before walking the girls to the door and sliding my Open sign back into place.

  I’m not sure what’s going to happen with the bakery, but as the day wears on, I find myself increasingly unable to fret about bean flour or ghosts or anything but how long it’s going to be until I see Clint again.

  I’m ready to give him my answer, so ready that I find myself doodling a sketch of his divine ding dong on top of a sugar cookie in pink icing and have to hurry to get creative with the green and blue to turn the peen into a bouquet of flowers.

  I might come to regret giving in to temptation sooner or later, but right now I can’t wait for tonight.

  Can.

  Not.

  Wait.

  Fifteen

  Noelle

  After all the holiday cheer and goodwill spread my way this morning, by the time I report for duty at Hope’s makeshift petting zoo in the square just after sunset, I’m pumped to bring happiness and joy to others. I don’t even mind the mandatory elf costume—though the wooden heels on my bright green clogs are going to make it hard to give chase if any of the critters escape the fencing.

  I’ll just have to keep a close eye on my furry friends.

  As soon as I can stop staring at the four studly Santas stationed around the petting zoo, handing out presents to the children of Happy Cat…

  There’s the tallest Santa with a raccoon Santa “helping” him. A Santa with baby Clover in one arm. A Santa with a reindeer.

  And the real Santa. The Clint Santa.

  He has the broadest shoulders. The most polished boots. The thickest, plushest fake beard. And the twinkliest eyes.

  He’s everything a Santa should be—dependable, strong, and jolly.

  I wait for the cringe. For the flashback to Derrick. For that feeling that Christmas is a fraud, or for people who are better at holiday cheer than yours truly, but it doesn’t come. Instead, I feel hope.

  A belief in the spirit of the season, and that this will be a good Christmas.

  Not just for me, but for all of Happy Cat.

  For my home.

  Clint catches my eye from under his thick velvet Santa hat, and he winks at me. There’s so much promise in that wink that I have to fan my face.

  The other places I need to fan myself, however, aren’t places I should fan in public.

  “Oh, no! You’re not getting that bug that’s going around, are you?” Hope asks beside me. “Feeling feverish?”

  “I—no. It’s—I have a thing for men in Santa suits.” I shrug sheepishly. I have a track record. Let’s be honest here.

  She nudges me knowingly. “Well, one of those men in red is single.”

  Don’t I know it. “We’re just friends,” I demure. “And we’re keeping it that way.”

  I don’t know if she believes me, but she drops the subject in favor of showing me to my post in the goat pen. “Don’t let George Cooney anywhere near the fencing,” she emphasizes. “Especially once the children start feeding them carrots. That raccoon… He’s not as hangry as he was this summer, but I still don’t trust him. We just got permission to have the goats back in the square, so I don’t want to screw it up.”

  I laugh, remembering the Great Baby Goat Incident. And then I realize I’ve been here long enough to know the backstory, and my eyes get hot.

 
I belong here. Happy Cat’s becoming my home, these people, my family, and it’s so amazing to belong somewhere again.

  Belonging isn’t something I take for granted.

  I slip into the goat pen with the young goats, and Vinnie Van Goat immediately tries to eat one of the bells hanging off my elf sweater. I laugh again as I guide him toward a sweet little boy who’s shyly approaching with a carrot. I stay close, making sure Vincent doesn’t get too aggressive, while sneaking peeks at my sexy Santa.

  The Christmas tree at the corner glows behind him, the soft greens and yellows and reds making him look even more magical.

  And hot.

  So hot.

  Maybe it’s just that I haven’t had sex in months to blame for the fact that I can’t stop thinking about what he’s hiding under his Santa pants. But I don’t think so. If I were just feeling frisky, the Santa suit would probably turn me off.

  But it’s Clint. He could be dressed as an overgrown baby Jesus in a fleece diaper and I’d still be hot under my elf hat for him.

  I’m so distracted by the delightful shiver racing through my happy places that I’m not paying close enough attention to the goats, but the kids aren’t the problem.

  No, the problem is that I’ve attracted the attention of a certain high-maintenance, always-costumed goose.

  Nutquacker…

  I meet his coal dark gaze over the heads of the frolicking children and young goats and shiver.

  He was a perfect goose gentleman at Hope’s place for the photo shoot, but the look in his eyes tonight suggests he was only playing nice because he knew his mama was watching.

  And that he might still want a piece of me.

  Of my face. Or my throat.

  Or my tender, juicy calves, made easily accessible by my green tights and green elf skirt.

  My gaze flies to Hope, but she’s preoccupied, guiding a toddler on a pony ride around the square.

  Nutquacker circles around the temporary pen, nipping at the fencing with his beak before letting out a menacing hiss.

  “Dada!” a little voice calls. I look up to see Clover, in Olivia’s arms on the other side of the pen, pointing at the goose as she cries, “Dadadadadada!”

  “Is Nutquacker family too?” Olivia asks, smiling down at her daughter.

  Clover grins and sticks two fingers in her drooly mouth. Her blond curls are covered with the cutest red hat, and her baby coat has twinkling lights on it. “Dadada,” she says around her fingers.

  “You might not want to let her too close,” I warn Olivia as Nutquacker lets out a mighty honk.

  “He’s just saying hi.” Olivia, as usual, seems perfectly chill and at peace with the world. “Hope’s animals only want to be friends. They know they’re loved, and they want to share it.”

  The goose’s next honk sounds more like a cackle to me, but Olivia beams at him. “Exactly, Nutquacker. When we all get what we need, it’s easy to live in harmony.”

  Maybe she’s right.

  Maybe Nutquacker just wants to be friends. Maybe I had a bad experience with a goose when I was little and I’m projecting fears I don’t even remember acquiring.

  Maybe Nutquacker and I are destined to be good friends—another miracle of this holiday season.

  I nod his way. “Okay, buddy. Let’s be friends. That sounds great. But can you please leave the netting alone? Hope will get in trouble if the goats get out again.”

  “HONK!” He flaps his wings and jerks harder on the makeshift fence.

  “Nutquacker, that wasn’t very polite,” Olivia chides gently. “Noelle’s trying to be your friend.”

  He hisses at both of us.

  A small wrinkle forms between Olivia’s brows. “Hm. I should do his star chart. Maybe there’s something troubling him that we should be aware of. Nutquacker, when’s your birthday?”

  Before the goose can answer—or not answer, because he’s a goose and they don’t talk, no matter how hard the adorable people of Happy Cat are working to convince me otherwise—another familiar furry beast dashes over, black-and-gray striped tail swishing as his potbelly sways gently from side to side.

  He chitters, lobs a gold Christmas ornament at Nutquacker, and dives under the fence.

  “George! No!” I cry as the goats begin to bleat and dash about, running away from George and knocking over two kiddos in the process. Parents shriek and lunge for their children, my assistant—a teenaged boy with an anxious-looking Adam’s apple—drops the bucket of carrots, and George leaps.

  Biscuit, one of the bigger goats, bleats angrily, leaping in front of the spilled carrots to glare at the masked bandit while four other goats dash behind him.

  “George!” The tall Santa—Ryan—bellows from across the square. “Stop it! Right now!”

  “Shoo! Shoo! Be good, George!” I point a stern finger at the trash panda, who looks back at me, goes wide-eyed, and then turns tail, weaving through the goat pandemonium to dash out the other side of the pen.

  I blink.

  Did that really just work?

  “Whoa, Ankle Biter! Down, Biscuit. It’s okay. He’s gone. Ooh! Mickey! Stay!” I manage to keep the goats contained, while my rattled assistant gathers up the spilled goat treats. We pass out carrots for all of the kids, and soon parents are approaching the gate again.

  “Sorry, George,” I call to the raccoon peeking out from behind the nearest tree. “We can still be friends. You just can’t scare the goats!”

  Santa Ryan calls out from his post, “She’s right, George. And good work, Noelle! Thanks for the help.”

  I grin over my shoulder and wave. “No problem.”

  I turn back to George to see a second raccoon waddling up to the tree, a sympathetic expression on her masked face. She plops down beside him, grabs two fistfuls of his fur, and pulls him in for a snuggle that George seems to enjoy—at least, if the way he gropes her ample backside is any indication. Must be Sticky Fingers, I decide. According to Ryan and Cassie, she and George are soul mates, with three or four teenage kits wandering around town, increasing the tame raccoon population.

  I also heard a rumor that George is getting fixed soon—before the domesticated trash panda situation gets out of hand—but I’m not going to be the one to break it to him.

  Lifting my eyes from the canoodling raccoons, I catch Clint’s gaze through the increasingly thick crowd. He winks and gives me a thumbs-up that makes me blush from my nose to my toes.

  I can practically hear him rumbling a Good job, Cupcake. I’ll reward your bravery later.

  And I’d like that.

  Soon.

  Very soon.

  I’m smiling to myself as I turn, and oh, no.

  “Nutquacker! You too?”

  The goose doesn’t answer.

  He just scuttles forward, sliding on his belly under the makeshift fence.

  Olivia backs toward the gate. The other parents retreat again. “Let’s go check out the llama pen,” a dad says.

  “Alpaca pen,” his wife corrects.

  “Nutquacker, I really don’t think you want to be fenced in here, buddy,” I say to the goose.

  He ignores me, waddling to his feet and stretching his intimidating neck.

  The goats prance nervously.

  Even Biscuit, who didn’t hesitate to take on George, seems spooked.

  “Olivia?” I ask. “Can you go get Hope?”

  “Of course,” she says quickly.

  While she dashes off, I try to calm the goats. But Dorito is practically tap dancing on my toes in a panic, and he’s not the only one. All of the young goats are stressed out, bleating in fear as Nutquacker rises to his full goose height, spreads his wings wide, and honks as if to declare himself the evil overlord of Happy Cat, and demand we surrender or suffer the consequences.

  “Nutquacker, please.” I lift my hands in supplication. “We all just want to be friends.”

  “HONK!”

  There’s no “Jingle Bells” happening tonight.

&
nbsp; But there is a jingling sound behind me…

  I turn, but all I catch is a streak of brown crossing the square before Don Juan leaps the fence with a single bound, and the goats go crazy all over again.

  I lunge for the closest kid. “Down! Down, goats!” I shriek.

  Meanwhile, the avenging reindeer has reared up on his back legs in the center of the chaos and grunted a warning.

  At Nutquacker.

  The goose spreads his wings and honk-hisses.

  It’s probably the most terrifying noise I’ve ever heard, but Don Juan doesn’t back down—probably because he’s ten times Nutquacker’s size and has an excellent self-defense system.

  No, the reindeer simply paws the ground and groans, lowering his antlers in this too-small-to-handle-a-reindeer-and-an-angry-goose pen.

  The two of them stand off, neither giving an inch, while the goats crowd tighter around me, bleating in panic.

  “Hey! Knock it off, or no Christmas presents,” a familiar voice rumbles from my right, sending tingles spreading through me.

  Clint leaps over the makeshift fence and strides between the two animals. “Don Juan. Back. It’s okay. Nutquacker, this is a fight you’re not going to win, friend.”

  Don Juan doesn’t budge.

  Neither does the goose.

  “Don Juan!” Blake yells.

  “Nutquacker!” Hope cries.

  Clint squats between the two animals. He holds a hand up to Don Juan while he glares at Nutquacker. “Bad. Goose.”

  “Honk!”

  “No. I don’t want to hear it. You’ve had your chance to play nice, and you chose chaos over happiness. If you want to make friends, you need to dial back the aggression, buddy. We’ll give you gingerbread cookies without bean flour, but not if you don’t meet us halfway. Understood?”

  The goose eyes him.

  Clint holds his gaze, unflinching.

  Don Juan paws the ground, looking ready to leap in and make dinner out of the goose if he so much as breathes wrong, but he’s clearly waiting for a sign from Clint.

  The Reindeer Whisperer.

  Dorito suddenly bolts out of the pack of goats and charges the goose, bleating like a mad man. Or a mad goat. Nutquacker flaps his wings and makes a break for the fence, startling Don Juan, who rears up, setting off the goats.