Unexpected Christmas

By Annie Reed

From a detective called by an old friend to investigate a decidedly odd crime to a couple whose lives are irrevocably changed by the power of a wish…

From private investigator Dee and her hunky partner Diz as they try to track down her sister's missing outdoor Christmas display to an elderly woman trying to regain her holiday spirit to a moveable holiday feast that no one in the neighborhood will ever forget.

The stories in this Christmas collection showcase Annie Reed's writing at its best. See why she's called a master of short fiction that packs an emotional punch.

 

"One of the best writers I've come across in years."

Kristine Kathryn Rusch

 

"Annie Reed writes stories that span genres and are always fun and powerful."

Dean Wesley Smith, editor of Pulphouse Fiction Magazine

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thunder Valley Ink
• Release date: Dec 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201776541

Annie Reed

Award-winning author and editor Kristine Kathryn Rusch calls Annie Reed “one of the best writers I’ve come across in years.”Annie’s won recognition for her stellar writing across multiple genres. Her story “The Color of Guilt” originally published in Fiction River: Hidden in Crime, was selected as one of The Best Crime and Mystery Stories 2016. Her story “One Sun, No Waiting” was one of the first science fiction stories honored with a literary fellowship award by the Nevada Arts Foundation, and her novel PRETTY LITTLE HORSES was among the finalists in the Best First Private Eye Novel sponsored by St. Martin’s Press and the Private Eye Writers of America.A frequent contributor to the Fiction River anthologies and Pulphouse Fiction Magazine, Annie’s recent work includes the superhero origin novel FASTER, the near-future science fiction short novel IN DREAMS, and UNBROKEN FAMILIAR, a gritty urban fantasy mystery short novel. Annie’s also one of the founding members of the innovative Uncollected Anthology, a quarterly series of themed urban fantasy stories written by some of the best writers working today.Annie’s mystery novels include the Abby Maxon private investigator novels PRETTY LITTLE HORSES and PAPER BULLETS, the Jill Jordan mystery A DEATH IN CUMBERLAND, and the suspense novel SHADOW LIFE, written under the name Kris Sparks, as well as numerous other projects she can’t wait to get to. For more information about Annie, including news about upcoming bundles and publications, go to www.annie-reed.com.

Book preview

From a detective called by an old friend to investigate a decidedly odd crime to a couple whose lives are irrevocably changed by the power of a wish…

From private investigator Dee and her hunky partner Diz as they try to track down her sister’s missing outdoor Christmas display to an elderly woman trying to regain her holiday spirit to a moveable holiday feast that no one in the neighborhood will ever forget.

The stories in this Christmas collection showcase Annie Reed’s writing at its best. See why she’s called a master of short fiction that packs an emotional punch.

One of the best writers I’ve come across in years.

Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Annie Reed writes stories that span genres and are always fun and powerful.

Dean Wesley Smith, editor of Pulphouse Fiction Magazine

Introduction

The Magi of St. Michael’s

Holiday Spirit

The Case of the Disappearing Decorations

A Killer Party

A Wish to Build a Life On

Copyright Information

About the Author

Introduction

I love the Christmas season. As I’m writing this, I have White Christmas on in the background, and I’ve been listening to Christmas music on my phone and in the car since the day after Thanksgiving.

Yes, I’m one of those people.

Give me holiday stories chock full of real, honest emotion and I’m a happy camper. That’s why the movie Single All the Way is my favorite new movie this holiday season. An added bonus is the fact that it’s a romance movie in which no one’s a jerk. Amazing.

I also really enjoyed Hawkeye on Disney+, and yes, as far as I’m concerned, it’s a holiday show.

An unconventional holiday show.

That pretty much describes the stories in this collection. Unconventional. Unexpected.

You’ll find a couple of mystery stories here as well as a crime story side by side with stories about people dealing with the changes in their lives during the holiday season. A little fantasy mixed in with reality, but always tempered with real, honest emotions. That’s the type of fiction I’m drawn to write, even during the holiday season.

I’m going to keep this introduction short because if you’re like me, you have way too many things to do during the holidays and not enough time to do them. Even though I start listening to Christmas music early, the day itself always seems to sneak up on me. Which is why I’m writing this introduction on Christmas Eve.

I wish you and yours the best of holiday seasons, dear reader, along with the hope that the coming New Year will be far better and happier than the last.

—Annie Reed

December, 2021

The Magi of St. Michael’s

Russell stood in front of the nativity scene in a little alcove near the altar at Saint Michael’s staring at a neat stack of boxes each bearing a familiar smile logo.

The boxes had been left at the foot of the empty manger in between kneeling figures of Joseph and Mary. He knew from long experience that a figure of the baby Jesus would be placed in the manger at Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. When he’d been a kid, he’d gone to more Midnight Masses at Saint Michael’s with his mother than he could count. He’d kept going to Midnight Mass even after he’d joined the police force whenever his schedule allowed, but more out of habit than faith. He’d finally stopped going to church at all after his wife died.

These days he only found himself inside a house of worship when there’d been a crime that involved a dead body. Russell had been promoted to detective more than a decade ago, and his current assignment didn’t include stolen property. But Father Gustoff was old school. Once a Catholic, always a Catholic as far as the priest was concerned.

Father Gustoff was one of the rare number of priests who’d been assigned to a single parish for decades. He’d known Russell’s mother well, and he remembered that Russell was a cop. He’d called the precinct and somehow wrangled, or mostly likely guilted, the dispatcher into patching him through to Russell. He’d certainly guilted Russell into coming down to the church on a snowy Saturday morning, one of Russell’s rare Saturdays off, to see the stack of gifts someone had left sometime the night before for a baby who wasn’t scheduled to arrive for another week.

Father Gustoff stood next to Russell with his arms crossed over his considerable belly. The man had to be pushing seventy by now, but his hair was still thick and steel gray, and his jowly face had remarkably few wrinkles. He’d been trim and energetic back when Russell’s mother had still been alive. The years had taken a toll on him. Then again, the years took a toll on everyone, priests and cops alike.

You know anyone who’d do something like this? Russell asked.

The priest grunted. If I did, I wouldn’t have called you.

He probably would have called them instead and suggested—or guilted—them into returning the boxes where they’d found them. As sins went, coveting thy neighbor’s goods was a biggie.

You still leave the church open at night? Russell asked. These days most churches locked their doors when no one was inside to monitor who came and went. Saint Michael’s had a long-standing open-door policy, even with all the homelessness in the city.

Father Gustoff nodded. And before you ask, when I left last night at nine, taking the day’s donations with me— He paused to give Russell an arch look that clearly said I’m no idiot. —no one else was here.

Russell snorted. The old guy hadn’t lost any of his tricks. So did you open any of the boxes? he asked.

Just one, the priest said. Out of curiosity.

Human nature. Priests were as human as everyone else.

Where’s the one you opened? Russell asked.

The priest gestured toward the door to the little room off to the side of the altar. I didn’t want to leave it out here opened.

Everything still inside? Russell asked.

Packaging and everything, Father Gustoff said. No shipping information.

There wouldn’t be shipping information in any of the boxes. Russell had ordered things from this particular internet shopping giant before. In recent years, none of his shipments had included a slip with his order information inside the box or padded envelope. Even if there’d been a shipping invoice inside at one time, it looked like all of these boxes had been opened at one time and then carefully taped shut again.

While Father Gustoff went to retrieve the open package, Russell crouched down to get a better look at the stack of boxes. There had to be more than forty of the things here, none of them more than a foot in length and half a foot high. From what he could see, the shipping labels had all be torn off the outside along with any other routing labels put on the packages by the post office or UPS. In place of the shipping label, someone had written For Baby Jesus on the boxes with a black permanent ink marker. Russell could smell the distinctive odor even over the residual scent of incense that seemed to permeate every Catholic church he’d ever been in. Next to the handwritten words, the sender had drawn a crude crown—just a circle on its side with a few triangle spikes on top.

Gifts for the future king of men.

He took pictures of the stack of boxes with his cell phone, noting the position of each box, then slipped on latex gloves so he could dismantle the stack and take pictures of each individual box. The guys who worked burglary might be interested and he wanted to document what he could. There was an outside chance the boxes hadn’t been stolen and the person who’d left them at the nativity scene simply wanted to remain anonymous, but Russell doubted it.

He’d hadn’t started photographing the individual boxes yet when Father Gustoff brought out the open box. It was the same size as some of smaller boxes and almost as light as a feather when the priest handed it over. The shipping label had been torn off and the new delivery instructions written in its place. The crown on this box was rougher than most. Russell couldn’t smell the odor of the marker on this one. Could be one of the first boxes that had been stolen.

Like the priest had said, there was no shipping information inside the box, just a couple of those air-filled packing pillows cushioning the goods inside, which consisted of a brightly colored cardboard box with a clear plastic window. Russell recognized the figure behind the plastic—a big-headed, expressionless caricature of the star from one of the recent superhero movies. If Russell and his wife had ever had children, his apartment would probably be stuffed with these things.

This wasn’t a gift for the future king of men.

This one was a toy for the baby.

Russell finally got through on his cell to an overworked detective in burglary. He only knew Detective Jessica Raoul by name. She had a reputation as a hard-working cop who’d worked patrol more years than most before she’d been promoted. Rumor had it the delay in promotion wasn’t due to lack of skill on her part.

"We’ve had a rash of porch