2024 (and 2025) News from Debra H. Goldstein

 2024 (and 2025) News from Debra H. Goldstein

In 2024, my five book Sarah Blair series, about a woman who is more frightened of the kitchen than murder, ended. I was previously orphaned by two publishers. First, after writing 2012 IPPY winning Maze in Blue, a mystery set on the University of Michigan in the 1970’s. Then, following publication of Should Have Played Poker, a Mah Jongg related book about a young lawyer looking for the truth when her mother comes back into her life, gives her a mysterious note, and dies hours later. What I’d learned from being orphaned was that I had to write something new. 

So, I did. Unfortunately, the book I wrote didn’t sell – probably because it belongs in the bottom drawer of my dresser. At that point, finding myself somewhat depressed and needing to provide more caregiving attention to my husband, I concentrated on writing short stories.

Seven short stories appeared in 2024 and eight are already accepted for anthologies and periodicals that will be published in 2025. I’m proud of all my stories, but if you are going to Malice Domestic, I hope you’ll consider making one of your five short story nominations, “You Can’t Kill the Cat,” which appeared in First Comes Love, Then Comes Murder, edited by Teresa Inge and Heather Weidner. It is a perfect cozy story dealing with the impact a cartoon cat has on two marriages. Above and below are graphics the wonderful Gabriel Valjan designed for that story and one for possible Bouchercon Anthony nomination for “Just Four Minutes to Get Even” from Dark of the Day: Eclipse Stories edited by Kaye George.

What I’m most excited about will be available in February! Jay Hartman’s White City Press, a division of Misti Media, LLC, is releasing a collection of my early short stories. Many of them were finalists for awards, including Agatha, Anthony, and Derringers. Keep an eye out for the print and e-book, not to mention the cover reveal. If you like stories that take an indirect look at human nature through crime fiction, I’ll be happy dancing at the opportunity to share these literary crime tales with you.

 

AN OVERVIEW OF MY PUBLICATIONS THIS YEAR

by Paula Gail Benson

I felt privileged to have my stories featured in three anthologies and two online publications.

Dark of the Day: Eclipse Stories, was released on April 1 (in time for the April 8 total solar eclipse). Kay George edited the anthology, which was  published by Down and Out Books. Stories are by Eric Beckstrom, Michael Bracken, John Rogers Clark, IV, Bridges DelPonte, Cari Dublei, John M. Floyd, Kaye George, Debra H. Goldstein, Toni Goodyear, James A. Hearn, Laura Oles, Katherine Tomlinson, Joseph S. Walker, M.K. Waller, Carol L. Wright. My story, “Only Absent for a Time,” features a reunion of former child actors from a sci-fi series that filmed near the University of Vermont in Burlington.

In Smoking Guns Anthology, edited by Kaye George and sponsored by the Smoking Guns Chapter of Sisters in Crime in Tennessee. My story, “Balance,” is about an actor who doesn’t get the part he hoped to play< but all is well that ends well. The anthology has eleven other stories by the following authors: Sharon Marchisello, Patrick Connolly (two stories), Carmen Amato, Robert Mangeot, Ronald Demmans, Tom Wood (two stories),Kaye George (two stories),and  Jeffrey Philips

This past quarter, my “A Duty to Mrs. Doody,” was the featured story in the online publication Bethehem Writers Roundtable.

Season’s Readings: More Sweet, Funny, and Strange Holiday Tales (A Sweet, Funny, and Strange Anthology)

Edited by Marianne H. Donley and Carol L. Wright.

In this new addition to the “Sweet, Funny, and Strange”(R) series of anthologies, the multi-award-winning Bethlehem Writers Group, LLC, returns to its roots. As denizens in and around Bethlehem, Pennsylvania (also known as “Christmas City, USA”), we were happy to make our first anthology a collection of holiday tales. But one volume just wasn’t enough. Now, in our eighth anthology, we’re returning to the theme to bring you twenty-one new stories that span the holidays from Thanksgiving through New Year’s Eve.

Emwryn Murphy’s sweet tale tells about a chosen family’s “Friendsgiving,” crashed by a blood relative who might, or might not, be happy with what he sees in “As Simple as That.” Jerome W. McFadden once again reveals his humorous side in his story about a would-be Santa who gets into trouble in “Flue Shot.” A. E. Decker shares an intricate Christmas fantasy about “The Goblin King’s Music Box.” And Paula Gail Benson gives a new twist to a traditional symbol for the New Year in “Star of the Party.” Beyond these holidays, Diane Sismour writes about Krampusnacht, Debra H. Goldstein about Pearl Harbor Day, and Peter J Barbour about Hanukkah. Other favorite BWG authors, including Jeff Baird, Ralph Hieb, D.T. Krippene, Christopher D. Ochs, Dianna Sinovic, Kidd Wadsworth, and Carol L. Wright, also share their holiday musings.

In addition, this volume includes the 2023 and 2024 award-winning stories from the Bethlehem Writers Roundtable Short Story Awards. Sally Milliken, the 2023 first-place winner, presents “The First Thanksgiving.” From 2024, we have our top three winners with first-place winner Rhonda Zangwill’s “Oh! Christmas Tree,” second-place winner Bettie Nebergall’s “Just Ask Santa,” and third-place winner Mary Adler’s “Narragansett Nellie and the Transferware Platter.”

Loren Eaton hosted his annual Advent Ghosts 100-word stories beginning on Saturday, December 14 and connected through his blog I SAW LIGHTNING FALL. Here’s the link to my contribution, “Bar Story,” about an elf, a reindeer, and a snowman, who drown their sorrows with mugs of Artic Beer to complete their holiday tasks.

 

A Sweet (but Deadly) Valentine

By Heather Weidner

I hope you had a wonderful holiday season. I’m enjoying some downtime before 2025 gears up. It’s going to be a busy book year for me. I have three books launching next year, A Tisket a Tasket Not Another Casket (The Mermaid Bay Christmas Shoppe Mysteries in January), Murder Strikes a Chord (The Pearly Girls Mysteries in March), and Teddy Bears and Ghostly Lairs (The Jules Keene Mysteries in October).

Since Christmas is behind us, I’m going to be like the big box stores and hurry us right into the next holiday season with my Valentine-themed mystery.

Deadlines and Valentines is the fourth book in the Jules Keene Glamping Mysteries. Jules and her team refurbish and upscale vintage campers for the glamorous camping experience in Fern Valley, Virginia. This season, her resort, nestled in the heart of the Blue Ridge Mountains, is ground zero for all things romance. The town has pulled out all the stops for the first Valentine’s Day “Love is in the Air” Book Festival with events like Death by Chocolate, author speed-dating, a character masquerade, and a male cover model fashion show.

Everything is candy and roses until the sparks start to fly with a few of the temperamental and diva-like authors. Jules Keene and her team spend their time trying to tamp down the fiery tempers because opposites may not always attract, and sabotage and slander seem to be the name of the game with this bunch.

When a popular author with a heart of gold is found murdered in the barn at the resort, Jules uncovers some secrets someone wants to keep buried, and she quickly realizes that there is a fine line between love and hate.   

 Book Links:

Amazon | Barnes and Noble | BookBub | Bookshop.org | Walmart

Through the years, Heather Weidner has been a cop’s kid, technical writer, editor, college professor, software tester, and IT manager. She writes the Pearly Girls Mysteries, the Delanie Fitzgerald Mysteries, The Jules Keene Glamping Mysteries, and The Mermaid Bay Christmas Shoppe Mysteries.

Originally from Virginia Beach, Heather has been a mystery fan since Scooby-Doo and Nancy Drew. She lives in Central Virginia with her husband and a pair of Jack Russell terriers. 

Looking Ahead to My Books and Yours

 by Korina Moss

I’m closing out 2024 with my latest release in the Cheese Shop Mystery series, Fondue or Die. This fifth book in the series takes place at the annual Dairy Days, a weekend festival hosted by Yarrow Glen’s neighboring town of Lockwood. Cheese Shop owner Willa Bauer and her Curds & Whey crew (who are also her Team Cheese sleuthing friends), Archie and Mrs. Schultz along with her best friend Baz, will be working at the festival. Willa’s thrilled to celebrate her favorite thing―she is a cheesemonger after all―and this festival goes all out: butter sculptures, goat races, cheese wheel relays, even a Miss Dairy pageant. Too bad the pageant runner, Nadine, is treating Dairy Days prep like it’s fondue or die and is putting everyone around her on edge. When Willa finds Nadine’s dead body under years’ worth of ceramic milk jugs, the police aren’t sure whether the death was an accident. Willa is convinced it’s murder, but fingers are pointing at Mrs. Schultz, who stepped in to help the pageant after Nadine’s death. Team Cheese needs Yarrow Glen’s Detective Heath on their side, but this crime is outside his jurisdiction. Even though their relationship is rocky, Willa asks the by-the-book detective to team up with her to investigate on the sly. Someone wanted Nadine out of the whey, and Willa is determined to find out who. Fondue or Die is available now everywhere books are sold. 

While you’re catching up on Fondue or Die, get ready for Cheese Shop Mystery #6, Bait and Swiss. It releases April 29, 2025. In Bait and Swiss, Yarrow Glen’s newest business gives one unlucky resident the swiss of death. 

It’s been almost two years since Willa Bauer opened Curds & Whey in Yarrow Glen, and both cheesemonger and cheese shop are thriving in the Sonoma Valley. While Willa doesn’t eat chocolate, it’s true that life is like a box of chocolates. Unfortunately, life’s latest curveball is that Willa’s ex-fiancé and ex-best friend―the reason for her chocolate aversion―are opening a chocolate pop-up shop across the street. By the end of the shop’s first day, the town’s newest reporter is the victim of death by chocolate. Now Willa’s ex wants her to be Swiss Congeniality, solve the case, and save the day. As much as Willa wants to hit him with the nearest cheese wheel, she can’t stop herself from saying yes. There’s more at stake than her ex’s reputation—customers have decided to stay clear of Yarrow Glen’s shops until the killer is caught, and a cryptic note sends Willa to the top of the suspect list. To save herself and her town, Willa enlists her Team Cheese sleuthing friends to help her solve the case before anyone else falls victim to a bitter chocolate ending. You can preorder Bait and Swiss now. 

Are you a cozy mystery writer? Make 2025 the year your writing and publishing dreams come true! As well as writing the Cheese Shop Mystery series, I also offer developmental editing for your manuscript, specializing in cozy and traditional mysteries. With my experience writing a cozy mystery series for a Big 5 publisher (St. Martin’s Press, an imprint of Macmillan Publishing), I have the inside track on what editors, agents, and readers are looking for in a cozy mystery.  Whether you're a new writer hoping to be traditionally or independently published, or you're an established writer wanting some guidance with a manuscript, I can help you strengthen your book. 

Having written six books in my series, I know the expectations of a Big 5 editor. One of my strong suits for cozy mystery writers is making sure your manuscript has the cozy elements needed, while still delivering an exciting and well-plotted mystery. As an Agatha Award winner and an Agatha Award finalist, I can help level up your manuscript, so your theme, characters, and setting stand out. I focus on the balance between an exciting murder mystery and the cozy essentials that keep readers loyal to a series and make agents and editors take notice.

For further details and fees, email me at korinamossauthor@gmail.com. 

Readers: Have you ever dreamt of becoming an author? Writers: When did you know you wanted to be a writer? 

KORINA MOSS is the author of the Cheese Shop Mystery series set in the Sonoma Valley, including the Agatha Award winner for Best First Novel, Cheddar Off Dead, and the Agatha Award finalist for Best Contemporary Novel, Case of the Bleus. Her books have been featured in USA Today, PARADE Magazine, Woman’s World, and Writer's Digest. To learn more or subscribe to her free monthly #teamcheese newsletter, visit her website korinamossauthor.com.

  

2024: Mysteries Abound by Susan Van Kirk

 

This year marked the end of a mystery series and the beginning of a project that falls in the middle of another series. If that seems confusing, believe me, I’m confused too.

 

Level Best Books published The Art Center Mysteries, a trilogy of novels about Jill Madison, an oil painter who returns to her hometown of Apple Grove and begins a new job as the executive director of an art center named after her mother. The first two books in the series are Death in a Pale Hue and Death in a Bygone Hue.

 

The final book, which came out this year, is Death in a Ghostly Hue. The senior group at Jill’s art center is doing a reader’s theater of Oscar Wilde’s The Canterville Ghost. In the meantime, Quinn Parsons, the young man who killed Jill’s parents in a head-on collision years earlier returns from prison hoping to live in Apple Grove once again. Parsons left multiple angry people with reasons to kill him, including Jill’s hot-tempered brother, Andy. When his body turns up, Andy is arrested by a mean sheriff’s deputy who has a history with him that isn’t pleasant. Can Jill and her other brother, Detective Tom Madison, keep Andy safe while finding out the identity of the killer?

 

During her investigation, a charming ghost shows up at the art center with quite a history, and new facts come out about the “accident” that killed her parents years earlier.

Now that the series is complete, what’s my next project? I am writing a new Endurance mystery (my first series), with a fifth book called Fabric of Lies. The previous book, The Witch’s Child, ended with (spoiler) Jeff Maitlin asking Grace Kimball to marry him. When Fabric of Lies begins, the couple have been married a year, and they’re living in Lockwood House, a bed-and-breakfast. A long-ago tragedy returns in the form of a young man, Anthony Blackburn, whose parents completely disappeared from Endurance back in 1983. The family were next-door neighbors of Grace Kimball. They were never heard from again. Their two-year-old baby was in the hospital in 1983, and the police took him away. That baby, now a young man, has found his way back to Endurance and wants to discover what happened to his family. Grace has spent years wondering what happened the night they disappeared.

 

Unfortunately, there are people in Endurance who would prefer the puzzle stay buried.

 

Late spring of 2025 will see the launch of Fabric of Lies. A journey of a thousand steps…

 

Susan Van Kirk is the author of the Endurance Mysteries and the Art Center Mysteries. You can read about her novels at https://susanvankirk.com or follow her on Facebook, Instagram, or Threads.

Best Laid Plans by Annette Dashofy

This post was supposed to celebrate the upcoming release of my new book. Alas, that release won’t be happening for a while now. My publisher decided the week after Christmas wasn’t the best time for a launch. I agree. Most of us are a tad low on funds at this point. But I suspect there were more internal considerations to the change in plans. 

For instance, while I have galley proofs, beautifully formatted, I do not yet have a title or a cover. Those things are kind of important. I know my publisher has had some staff turnover in recent months. I totally understand how that interferes with schedules. 

Besides, there isn’t anything I can do about it. 

Here’s the thing about publishing. Unless you self-publish, which I have done twice now, you’re at the whims of your traditional publisher. My late agent, Dawn Dowdle, always told me, “There is no perfect publisher.” If you’re a writer aspiring to get a trad publisher, print those words of wisdom on a sign and hang it above your desk. 

I see the appeal of indie-publishing. I do. I completely understand the allure of being in complete control. You choose the title, the cover, the font, the release date, the promotion…not to mention keeping the bulk of your sales earnings for yourself. You are the publishing house, the publishing house executive, the head of sales and marketing. Oh, and the author. 

For me, though, I prefer being part of a team. I really suck at sales and marketing. I dread battling with the mighty Amazon to get my work uploaded. I want someone who knows what they’re doing to handle that part. 

My first ten books were released by a small press. I could jump on the phone or send an email or text, and my publisher/editor would get right back to me. My royalty rates were lower than indie-publishing, but the publisher did a good job of promoting my books. At least at first. But the rest is a topic for a private conversation that includes adult beverages. 

Then I indie-pubbed a novel and a short-story collection mostly for the experience of having done it. Next, I signed with a mid-sized press for three books. And then I signed with a smaller imprint of a Big Five publisher. 

The Big Five provided all the sales and marketing support I’d longed for. They had a team to design beautiful covers and come up with titles meant to hook anyone shopping for a new read. But unlike the small press, getting to talk to my editor is more of a task. I also get a smaller percentage of my sales. (Sales are higher, though, so it does balance out.) 

The one thing I’ve been lacking throughout it all, however, is distribution. Sure, all of my books are available online. Brick-and-mortar stores can order most (not all) of them. But the only way I can find one of my books on the shelf of a random Barnes & Noble store is if I’ve talked to the manager and arranged for them to carry it. 

My new agent has programmed me to focus on that one word going forward: Distribution. So while I wait on the small imprint of the Big Five to determine a new release date and come up with a title and cover, I’m working on something new. Something geared toward a bigger publisher that will put my book on real shelves. It’s an exciting prospect. And a terrifying one. 

Here’s the takeaway: I have no control over any of it. I hear you indie-pubbed authors luring me back to your world (maybe someday), but you still don’t have control over whether the book will sell, whether readers will like it, whether they’ll come back and buy more if they do… No matter what, the only thing you have control over is your writing. Write the next book. Write the best book you can. And after you send it out into the world, type Chapter One and write the next one. 

Everything else is just our best-laid plans.

 

  

The Elf's Shoes

by Paula Gail Benson

From: https://pixabay.com/users/b0red-4473488/

I’ll never forget the joy of that Christmas morning—racing down the steps to my grandparents’ living room, hearing the crackle of wood burning in the fireplace, and seeing the beautifully decorated tree surrounded by presents. I was only five, but I could read my name—TEDDY, written in large, capitalized letters—on the tags and see that a pile of those gifts was meant for me, hopefully filled with Hot Wheels and Legos. I plopped down, legs cris-crossed, not minding that I could feel the chill permeating from the wooden floor through the rag rug and my thin Dr. Denton pjs.

As I reached for the first package, I noticed the green shoes with the curving toes at the edge of the fireplace’s hearth. They looked like they had been kicked off carelessly—as if the wearer had decided to take a nap on the nearby sofa, without marking it with—what were those black lines? Soot?

I became so fascinated by the shoes I didn’t realize my family had begun to enter the room, my twelve-year old sister, Suzanne, yawning and stretching, and my grandmother, Nan, with a tray of mugs. Grandpa—just Pa to us—sipped at his cup, quickly pulling away and blowing at the steamy coffee inside.

Our parents were in the military and had been assigned to posts without family housing. Suzanne and I were staying with my mother’s parents until we got back together.

Nan tried to explain it to me once. “Your parents went to college, learned different languages, and got special training so they could represent the United States in other countries.”

“Yes,” Pa had agreed with her. “They work to make our world a safer place. So, we need to support them by waiting patiently.”

Some days were easier than others. 

“Whose shoes are those?” I asked pointing at the green pair on the hearth. Even though dirty, they had something of a magical quality about them. Maybe that was just the curled toes.

Pa frowned. “I haven’t seen them before. Have you, Nan?”

“No.” She put the tray down on the coffee table. “I don’t think they belong to us.”

Suzanne came forward to give them a closer look. “They look like what an elf might wear, only the size seems too big. Maybe a goblin’s shoes?”

I remembered seeing goblins in the Harry Potter movies. They had sharp noses, pointed ears, and worked in banks with other people’s money and possessions. “What would a goblin be doing in our house at Christmas?” I asked.

Suzanne stuck out her chin. “Could be he wants to propose a trade. Like swapping a goblin baby for a human one. We read a story about that at school. The substitute is called a changeling. The supernatural creature leaves one of its own or an item to symbolize the exchange.”

It sounded like the weird kind of story Suzanne would read and remember.

“Perhaps you could be right,” Pa said. He put down his cup and picked up the shoes. “These are finely made.” He ran his finger along the outside stitching, then glanced at the presents beneath the tree. “Santa sure has left a lot of gifts for us this year. Maybe his elf force is ready to make a change—to be on the receiving end for a while.”

“But when would the change take place?” Nan asked as she sat down on the sofa and drew her robe tightly around her.

“Hard to say, without some clear message,” Pa said. “My guess is that the swap would occur when someone in our house fits into these shoes.”

We all looked at each other, then at the shoes Pa held. We had completely forgotten about opening presents.

Pa looked at his feet, then at Nan’s. “Our feet are already too big. We’re going to have to check the children’s. Suzanne, you’re the one who had the idea. Come try them on first.”

Suzanne balked. “What if they have something poisoned inside?”

Pa shook the shoes, inside down, against the hearth. No contents emerged. “Nothing. Just the soot on the outside. Besides, poison wouldn’t be wise if they wanted to make a trade.”

“I don’t want to be a changeling for an elf or goblin,” Suzanne said. I could tell she was near crying.

“There, there, my dear.” Pa put his arm around her shoulders. “With this being Christmas Day, it’s more likely one of Santa’s elves than a goblin. Besides, for someone to leave behind this fine pair of shoes, they seem to be trying to make a good offer for the exchange. They wouldn’t want to hurt the person being substituted. And, if they do want to make a trade, maybe we can negotiate with them and offer them something so we could keep you.”

“Not Jinx or Patti.” I worried about losing our dog and parakeet.

Pa was less protective of our pets. He grumbled a lot about having to feed them.

“I’m guessing they would rather have a worker than another eater to add to their numbers,” Pa said. “Take off your slipper, Suzanne, and hold your foot up against the sole of this shoe.”

With a grimace, Suzanne did as she was told. As she looked at the comparison, I heard her sigh in relief. “My feet are already too big,” she said.

Slapping them against the court as she raced back and forth between the hoops playing basketball, I figured. That had to have flattened and lengthened her feet out.

“Your turn, Teddy,” Pa said.

“It wasn’t my idea.”

“No, but you saw the shoes and brought them to our attention. Come on. Let’s see if they fit you.”

I stood, the cold from the floor penetrating my bare feet. “Wouldn’t Santa have to fill out some special forms for me to live with him—like you did when we came to live with you?”

Pa gave my question some thought. Finally, he said, “I don’t know. I guess we’ll have to face that situation when we reach it. If we do. Come on now. You’re not going to let a pair of pointy toed shoes scare you, are you?” He shook the shoes at me, and I noticed each had a bell on the end of the curve. They jingled. I wondered if searchers would follow that sound if you got lost at the North Pole.

Reluctantly, I approached Pa. He set the right shoe down. I eased my foot inside. It was lined with something like fleece, that seemed to surround the coldness and banish it away. My sole thumped against the bottom and my toes stretched forward. The words, “don’t let it fit, don’t let it fit,” kept echoing through my brain. Suddenly, I realized my heel had inched into the middle and room remained at both the front and back.

“They’re too big.” I practically shouted.

“Well, then.” Pa helped me pull my foot out. “This must not be the year for an exchange.”

Suzanne gave me some fluffy socks she had in the pocket of her robe. “Maybe next year Mom and Dad will be home and Santa’s elf will have to look elsewhere to make the switch.”

That sounded like a good plan to me.

A year passed quickly. I moved up from kindergarten to the first grade. Suzanne and I had weekly Facetime parental chats. We settled in with Pa and Nan, but hoped we’d soon be back with our parents.

More swiftly than it seemed possible, we were seeing Christmas decorations and listening to Christmas music on the radio again. I had forgotten all the gifts I’d received last year and had a new, longer list for Santa. When we decorated our tree, I saw Pa place the green toe-curled shoes on the hearth.

“Why did you keep those?” I asked.

“They are perfectly good shoes,” he replied. “Just a little sooty on the outside.”

“But what if they mean I have to go live with Santa?”

Pa sat on the sofa and stared at the shoes. “He must be a nice enough man to bring presents to all the children of the world.”

“I belong here with you, Nan, and Suzanne. And, then with my parents when they come home.”

 “Huh, is that so? I don’t think I saw that on your list for Santa.”

“I didn’t think I needed to write it out.”

“You know, Teddy, Santa and his elves work hard for us, getting ready all year so we can enjoy celebrating Christmas. Sort of like what your parents do—work real diligently to make sure our country is safe and protected. Maybe this year, we can show them how much we appreciate all they do.”

“How?”

“I read at the mall they are filling a bus with toys to distribute to children in need. We could go get a few things from the store to donate. Things you think someone like you would like.”

“When do I have to try on the shoes?”

“Hasn’t been a year yet since last Christmas. If they are still here Christmas morning, we’ll check then. Meanwhile, let’s try to make a nice holiday for some other people.”

What he didn’t say made me wonder—was he getting me used to collecting Christmas toys in case my feet fit the curvy toed shoes and I would have to go to work at the North Pole? Would Santa leave a baby elf in my place? What would my parents say about taking in an elf changeling when they returned?

I forgot about my worries as I looked over the action figures to buy for the toy drive. Suzanne selected some games. After we gave them to the people in charge of the bus, Suzanne suggested that we go get a photo with the mall Santa.

“We could send it to our parents,” she said.

I was leery about encountering Santa, even a mall version. I’d heard he wasn’t the one from the North Pole, but a representative, like our parents representing our country. Even so, I figured the mall Santa had a direct line to the man himself, and I didn’t want confirmation that I was being considered for an elf swap.

Pa and Nan escorted us to the Santa’s mini wonderland at the shopping area’s center court. I hesitated to join the line until Nan said, “It would give your mother a nice remembrance of home. We used to bring her here to visit Santa.”

“C’mon, Squirt,” Suzanne challenged me. “It’s just a photo op.”

We inched our way forward until one of the tall elf guides—a female with long dark hair, and pointed ears shaped from cloth and attached to her hat—led us forward toward Santa’s throne. I noticed her pointy toed shoes had no jingle bells. Before taking her place on his right, Suzanne told Santa we wanted to get a picture for our parents and talked with him about them being in the military.

Santa scrutinized me. “Maybe this young man would like a consultation.” He patted his lap for me to take a seat.

“That’s okay,” I said. “I sent my list in already.”

He wrinkled his nose, making his wire-rimmed glasses move up and down. “Somehow, I sense you have a question for me.”

I looked straight into Santa’s eyes and felt like they saw more than I wanted him to see. He might just be a representative, but I think he exercised some of the real Santa’s powers.

“You’re wondering about seeing your parents again,” Santa said. “You miss them a lot.”

I nodded.

He watched me for a moment. “They miss you, too.”

I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to know so badly. “When will they be home?”

He smiled. “You mean, when will you all be back together?”

I nodded again.

“Things have a way of working out.”

Our elf guide called out it was time for the photo. I looked forward as our grandparents snapped some shots with their cell phones. In the next minute, we were whisked along to rejoin them.

 I didn’t like the way my talk with the mall Santa ended. I would have preferred reassurance I would not become an elf substitute.

 That night, after everyone went to bed, I snuck downstairs and placed a bare foot inside one of the elven shoes. My heel stayed firm against the back and my toes reached the place where the point started.

 A perfect fit. I was doomed to be an elf substitute.

 With Christmas Day approaching, I withdrew from more activities, fearing that I might enjoy them too much and be even more miserable if I couldn’t participate next year. Did the elves have time for caroling or eating cookies and hot chocolate? While Santa might be kind to people he brought gifts to, he must be a taskmaster to keep the elves working to make the presents.

 Suzanne’s sports and school schedule kept getting busier. Pa and Nan had a hard time keeping up with all her events. Maybe things would be better for them if I was out of the way.

 When we spoke with our parents, we heard their tours had been extended. Mom sounded worried and asked to talk to Pa and Nan. Suzanne and I left the room but listened at the door.

 Mom apologized about the uncertainty. “I know it’s meant a tremendous change in your lifestyles,” she said.

 “The ability to adjust is what makes us human,” Pa told her.

 I figured I had done a decent job adapting to human conditions. I wondered if I would do as well as an elf substitute.

 Could that be why Santa was looking for a human changeling? To make elves more human-like?

In a way, I’d be like an explorer, infiltrating a different culture and learning to live by its rules. Kind of like what my parents had to do with their military assignments.

Also, like the mall Santa representing the real Santa Claus.

It took me a while to work it all out, but I knew what I had to do.

After everyone had gone to sleep on Christmas Eve, I snuck downstairs. Santa would be coming for me this year. I had determined to go quietly, to do my duty, leaving a note behind for my family so they would understand. Here’s what I wrote:

Dear Pa, Nan, Mom, Dad, and Suz,

Don’t worry. I am with Santa. I love you.

                                                Teddy

I wrapped myself in a blanket and waited behind the Christmas tree, where I would be out of sight. I didn’t want to make my grandparents or Santa mad about me being awake and waiting up for Santa’s arrival. Even facing changeling-hood, I didn’t want to risk getting on a bad list.

As the hour neared midnight, I found myself huddling within the blanket’s folds and dozing off. Finally, I gave up fighting sleep and let the dreaming overtake me. I heard a sound and realized I wasn’t alone in the room. But I couldn’t open my eyes, and I wasn’t able to move.

I saw the room, as if it was part of my dream. The lights of the Christmas tree twinkled brightly. A small figure dressed all in green—must have been an elf—stood on the hearth and reached for the elven shoes. Beside him was the man in red I’d been waiting to see.

Santa watched the elf before saying, “The family kept your shoes. I had a feeling they might.”

The elf hung his head briefly, then turned to look at Santa. “We had been so busy preparing for Christmas. I thought I had time for a short nap. Before I realized it, you were pulling me up the chimney and I had left my magic shoes behind. What a year it’s been having to learn to get along without them.”

“Yes, but you adapted. That’s what we creatures of the earth must do to keep surviving.” Santa walked over to me and picked up the letter I had written. “Interesting. This young man feared he might have to take your place when I returned.”

The elf groaned. “Oh, dear. Now I’ve made things worse by scaring a child.”

“As I’ve learned over the years, children can be very resilient, particularly if they are well taught. This child has adapted to his circumstances, but he’s also learned something important.”

“What’s that?”

“That you can manage almost anything if you act out of love.”

Nodding, the elf said, “That’s an important lesson.”

“For all of us. Come now, we must get back to our journey and Teddy must return to his slumber until he wakes to see his Christmas gifts.”

After that, I fell into a deep sleep, so restful and quiet that I don’t remember dreaming. The next morning, I heard a door close and voices through the house. There was laughing, and crying, and several people were calling my name.

“Where’s Teddy?”

“He’s not in his room.”

“Teddy, where are you?”

I struggled to get up. Even with the blanket, I felt frozen to the bone. Moving was a challenge, and speaking seemed impossible. Finally, I croaked out, “Here!”

A mad rush invaded the living room. Arms surrounded me and I was pelted with human kisses. Not just licks from Jinx.

“Mom and Dad are home,” Suzanne sang out.

“How?” I asked, looking up into their smiling faces.

“A new set of orders,” Mom said.

I had forgotten how sweet her voice sounded. “You’re home for good?”

“Home for good, Teddy.” Dad’s hands lifted me high off the floor.

From above the group, I looked at my sister, parents, and grandparents, all gathered in a circle. But, maybe best of all, when I glanced at the hearth, I saw the green pointy toed shoes were gone.

 

THE END

’Tis the Season – A Glenmyre Girls Story by Sarah E. Burr

A Note from Sarah: Season's Greetings, everyone! I'm delighted to share a special short story featuring the two main sleuths from my Glenmyre Whim Mysteries, Hazel Wickbury and her aunt/bestie, Poppy Glenmyre. The award-winning Glenmyre Whim Mysteries is a paranormal cozy mystery series set in the world of Crucible, New York. I hope you enjoy taking a trip down memory lane with the Glenmyre Girls!

“Hazel? Dinner’s almost ready.” Poppy’s voice was muffled by the door between us.

I pressed my face deeper into the pillow. “I’m not hungry.”

My twenty-five-year-old aunt—who was more like my sister and best friend—sighed so heavily, I’m surprised she didn’t blow down the door to her guest room. “Ruthie will be here soon. I know she really wants to see you.”

I cringed at the word “see.” I hated seeing things these days. “I’m not in the mood for visitors.”

“You can’t stay holed up in there forever.” The kind sympathy that laced Poppy’s response was marred by slight irritation. She was growing tired of my dramatics, I could tell. “I know you’re dealing with a lot of pain and uncertainty right now, but you’re strong. You can’t let this defeat you, Hazel. You’ve got to figure out how to live your life.”

I heard her unspoken words, like so many Glenmyres have done before, loud and clear. And deep down, I knew she was right. I couldn’t stay hidden away in her guest bedroom forever. I had to figure out how to deal with my whim, my morbid new ability. But that was easier said than done.

“How, Pops?” Tears returned to my eyes for the fifteenth time that day. “How am I supposed to live like this?” Most members of the Glenmyre clan considered their whims—our family’s term for the unique, supernatural powers we were “gifted” with—a blessing. Mine felt more like a curse.

I heard a click, followed by the sounds of a door hinge squeaking. Scrunching my eyes closed as tightly as I could, I rolled over on the bed to face the direction of the doorway.

“You don’t have to do that, silly,” Poppy reminded me.

“What if my whim starts behaving like yours?” I countered, my eyes still screwed shut. “You can see my aura, right?” Poppy’s ability allowed her to see colorful, glowing hues around people that indicated their emotions. “What’s to say I won’t suddenly start seeing the lifeclocks of our family?”

Soft footsteps approached, and the bed shifted under the weight of Poppy’s slender frame as she perched beside me. Her fingers soon began stroking my long, dark hair. Just like Mom used to do when I was little. “Our abilities don’t evolve like that. I’ve always seen Glenmyre clan auras. Right from the moment my whim awakened.” She paused to let her words sink in. “You’re safe with me, little niece.”

At twenty-three, I was hardly little, but I still snuggled up against her, calmed by her comforting words.

“And you’re safe with Ruthie.” Poppy’s palm rested on my shoulder. “She can help you figure this all out, Hazel. If anyone can, she will.”

Reluctantly, I inched open my eyelids, and Poppy’s pretty features swam into focus. Seeing her supportive smile, my entire body relaxed. There was nothing hovering above her head. No glaring, bizarre digital clock countdown that revealed how much time she had left on this earth.

Her rosy lips widened into a toothy grin. “There, see? We’re gonna get through this. Together. Now, come help me set the table.” With a firm grip, she began to drag me out of bed. This wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order.

My aunt had given me weeks to mourn over my misfortune, for which I was grateful. Yet, her attitude today suggested that her coddling had finally reached its limits. I could have fought against her, but I honestly didn’t have the willpower to combat Poppy’s vibrant personality. When she wanted something, she made it happen. So, feeling I had no choice, I obediently shuffled in her wake and followed her downstairs.

“Holy hexes!” I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the sight that awaited me in the foyer of the old Victorian Poppy had inherited from her parents. Lush, green garland snaked across every surface imaginable, peppered with glowing white lights and red bows. Sprigs of holly and mistletoe dangled from the ceiling, and the scent of pine overwhelmed my already fragile senses.

Poppy must have seen the surprise in my gaze. “I thought a decorated home might brighten things up for us. Besides,” she added, her eyes growing misty, “Iris loved Christmas.”

My throat tightened at her mention of Mom, and a wave of grief threatened to drown me. “She did,” I managed to croak out.

We made our way into the kitchen, which was also decked out for the holidays. “You look like you raided an entire aisle at HomeGoods,” I murmured as I toyed with a snowman-themed tea towel.

Poppy dashed over to the stove, where a large pot bubbled. “Retail therapy at its finest.”

Her comment was light and joking, yet I couldn’t help but feel a shadow of guilt pulse through me. Poppy had lost her sister. A sister who had also been like a mother to her after their parents died. I wasn’t the only one grieving here, and I needed to do a better job of remembering that. Poppy deserved to have someone looking after her, too. I’d all but abandoned her to wallow in my own heartache. Not anymore, Hazel Wickbury. Get it together. It’s time to be there for Poppy like she’s been there for you.

With a renewed sense of purpose, one I hadn’t felt in weeks, I moseyed over to her side to peer into the pot. “So, whatcha brewing?”

She chuckled at my witchy phrasing. “Butternut squash bisque.” She nodded toward the far corner of her large kitchen. “Could you take the salad into the dining room for me?”

I hurried over to a blue ceramic bowl painted with white snowflakes and scooped it up. The dining room, adjacent to the kitchen, had been given the same Christmas treatment as the rest of the house. Once the salad bowl was on the table, I took the initiative to grab the holiday-themed plates, bowls, and silverware atop the antique buffet and organized our place settings. Poppy had bought ’Tis the Season mats that sparkled in the overhead light. I frowned as I read the looping script, unable to keep out the darkness clawing its way back into my mind. ’Tis the season for what? Misery? Grief? Despair?

A sharp knock echoed through the stately Victorian, and a familiar sing-song voice rang out. “Helloooo! Where are my darling nieces?”

My heart hammered against my chest as I hurried into the foyer to greet our new arrival. Relief spiked through me when I caught sight of the spry older woman hanging her bright red poncho on the coat rack. The space above her head was blissfully empty. “Hey, Aunt Ruthie.”

She whirled at the sound of my voice, her green eyes wide. “Hazel! You’ve left your lair.” She rushed toward me, wrapping me in a bone-crushing embrace despite her thin arms. “I’m so happy. I wasn’t sure you’d be joining us.”

A shy smile curled on my lips. It was nice to see her. “When did you get glasses?” I hadn’t exactly been present these last few weeks, but I didn’t remember Ruthie having problems with her eyesight—other than her whim, that is.

“Yesterday.” She modeled the loud pink-and-teal frames. “What do you think?”

Her giddy antics turned my smile into a giggle. The weightless feeling in my chest surprised me, and I treasured it. “They are very you.”

“What was that noise?” Poppy came rushing into the foyer, waving Santa potholders in her hands. “Did Hazel just laugh?”

Her joking incredulity coaxed even more laughter from me. It felt…amazing.

Ruthie nodded, her stylish salt-and-pepper bob swishing across her enviable cheekbones. “’Tis the season to be merry.” She pulled me in for a one-armed hug. “Your mom’s favorite saying this time of year.”

The tightness returned to my chest. No wonder Poppy had scooped up those new placemats. How could I forget? A silly memory of Mom yelling the merry phrase at our ornery mailman wafted through my mind. “You’re right. She wielded it like a weapon against the Scrooges of the world.”

Poppy herded us into the dining room and instructed us to take our usual Saturday family dinner seats. As I claimed my spot, I did my best to ignore the empty chair where Mom always sat.

“Nice glasses, Ruthie.” Poppy collected the soup bowls I’d arranged around the table. “I didn’t realize you needed them,” she called over her shoulder as she floated into the kitchen to ladle out her bisque.

With a flourish, Ruthie laid a red-and-green plaid napkin across her lap. “I’ve needed them for the longest time, but nothing ever seemed to work until now.”

I studied my great-aunt, noting how her lips had twisted into a satisfied grin. Despite the challenges she faced regarding her whim, Ruthie had always been a bright, bubbly soul, but tonight, she practically radiated happiness.

Considering how I was still processing my grief over Mom’s death and the awakening of my own morbid ability, Ruthie’s outlook seemed foreign and a bit out of place for this particular family dinner.

Poppy returned with a tray of soup bowls, which Ruthie and I eagerly accepted. Once she was seated at the head of the table, we thanked her for the delicious-looking meal and dug in with our spoons. Appreciative murmurs made up our conversation for several minutes before Ruthie cleared her throat.

“Girls, I’d like to host Christmas at my house this year.”

“W-what?” Poppy’s silverware clattered against her bowl. “Really?”

Ruthie dabbed her lips with her napkin. “Yes. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do but…couldn’t.”

Poppy and I shared a suspicious look. “Ruthie,” my bestie began hesitantly, “if you’re worried I won’t be able to host the annual Glenmyre Christmas party for the town, you don’t need to. I’ll be fine. I can handle it.”

For as long as I could remember, our clan—one of Crucible, New York’s founding families—had hosted a grand holiday party to which everyone in Crucible was invited. While it had started as a way for my great-grandparents to open their home to people spending the holidays alone or who perhaps didn’t have the resources for a festive Christmas dinner, it was my mom who’d changed the invitation to include the whole town.

“My dear,” Ruthie tutted, reaching across the table and patting Poppy’s hand, “I know you’ve taken on the mantle as Glenmyre matriarch, and for that, I am grateful. My…condition hasn’t always allowed me to be out in public much.”

The soup sliding down my throat turned into a hardened lump. Ruthie had spent her entire life shuttered away in her beautiful manor for fear of seeing lifeclocks above the heads of everyone around her. Each rare journey out into the world had always been filled with pain and jarring realizations for her. Mom, Poppy, and I were the only people—the last of the Glenmyres—whom she could be around without having the glaring lifeclock blinking in her face. Before Mom’s death, I’d always held deep sympathy and compassion for Ruthie’s situation. Now… I was besieged by fear. Her condition was also my condition. Was I really destined to spend my life alone, as Ruthie had?

Poppy’s cerulean eyes pinched with anxiety as she examined our aunt. “Why the sudden desire to host the party, then? There’s always a lot of people, Ruth. And they all won’t have long lifeclocks like Cynth.” For the past several years, Hyacinth Hartwick had worked as Ruthie’s personal assistant, often serving as her public stand-in when the need arose. Cynth, at twenty-seven, had a good ninety-some years left on her lifeclock. Readings like that were easier to deal with when it came to our whim.

Ruthie’s wrinkles multiplied as she broke into a grin. “I know. But I thought it might be a nice way to reintroduce myself to Crucible and to give you girls a reprieve.”

Reintroduce herself? “Why do you need to reintroduce yourself?” A light bulb suddenly went off inside my head. “You’re not doing this for me, are you? To prove I can somehow still have a normal life with this whim or something?”

Ruthie chuckled. “I wish I could say I was being altruistic, my love, but I’m not. I’m doing this for me. To make up for all the years I’ve missed being a part of this world.” She twiddled absently with the frames of her new glasses.

Poppy’s forehead furrowed with confusion. “What exactly brought about this sudden change in perspective?” Her right eye twitched, and I knew she was using her aura-reading whim to see if she could decode Ruthie’s strange behavior.

Her shrug was coy. “’Tis the season.”

My gaze dropped to my soup bowl, tears clouding my vision. What was going on here? I thought I had an ally in Ruthie, that perhaps we could commiserate over our whims together. While I was happy to see her ready to face the world after decades of being a shut-in, I knew I wasn’t prepared for the challenges such a lifestyle would bring. No. I was planning to hide away in Poppy’s guest room for as long as she’d let me.

Poppy’s hand found my knee under the table, and she gave me a reassuring pat. It was good to know she had my back.

“I know Christmas isn’t for another two weeks, but I’d like to give everyone their gifts tonight.” Ruthie clapped her hands in excitement, clearly not able to see the sour mood of the room with her new glasses. She darted away from the table with the agility of a ten-year-old and returned a moment later with a large gift bag, which she handed to Poppy.

Poppy accepted it with a strained smile, her eyes revealing the lingering confusion I still felt about Ruthie’s whole demeanor. Who was this person, and what had they done with our aunt?

My bestie gingerly tugged at the tissue paper and extracted a steel, futuristic-looking piece from the bag. “Wow. This is heavy duty.”

“It’s a research-grade desk lamp,” Ruthie explained. “Historians and book restoration specialists use them for their work. I thought it might be a nice tool for the Glenmyre opus.”

Poppy's smile turned genuine at the mention of our family’s ancient historical record containing centuries of Glenmyre secrets. “Thank you. This will definitely help me sort through all those pages. Someday,” she added with a sheepish wince. Since inheriting the house and the opus from her parents, Poppy had wanted to investigate every inch of the old tome but had yet to find the time.

“And now, for you, Hazel.” Ruthie scooted a small, wrapped rectangle across the table. “I hope you like the style.”

Curious about what she had gotten me, I tore off the decorative paper to find a sunglasses case covered in irises. Just the sight of the flowers made me picture Mom, which was why I suspected my great-aunt had given me such a practical gift. “Thanks, Ruthie.” I smiled gratefully. “I’ll put this to good use.” I planned to spend the summer staring out at Lake Glenmyre, enjoying what beauty I could in my now-sheltered life.

Ruthie batted away my thanks. “Oh, please, Hazel. The real gift is inside the case.” She tsked in joking offense.

Wondering what shades she had picked out, I cracked open the container. My bemusement turned to bafflement as I stared at the purple-and-gold frames resting within the case. These weren’t sunglasses, though. The lenses were clear.

   

 “Um, aren’t I a bit young for readers?” I joked awkwardly as I lifted the glasses and held them up to the light.

“Not these. At least, I hope.” Ruthie giggled. “Put them on.”

Doing as she instructed, I slid the frames onto the bridge of my nose and blinked a few times.

“How do they feel? Good? Comfy?” Ruthie peppered me.

I nodded, although the frames inched downward as my head moved.

“Ooo, let me fix that.” Ruthie whipped the glasses off my face and started manhandling the temple tips.

As she did so, Poppy shot me a worried look. “Is she all right, you think?” she mouthed.

I shrugged. “I have no clue.”

A knock echoed from the front hall, jolting us from our silent conversation. Poppy’s lips curled downward. “I wonder who that could be.” She hurriedly excused herself from the table and flitted toward the front of the house.

“There you go. Try now.” Barely acknowledging Poppy’s departure, Ruthie handed me back the glasses.

I followed her orders, the frames feeling comfortable yet secure as I slid them into place. “What are these for, Ruthie?” I already had great eyesight. The lenses didn’t change the way I saw the world.

She steepled her fingers together, looking quite smug. “Oh, you’ll see.”

“—I’m sorry, Poppy.” A familiar, muffled voice caught my attention out in the foyer. “I got a weird request from Ruthie that I said I’d help her with.” The voice was getting closer.

“Hey, Cynth.” Poppy sounded stressed as footsteps grew louder. “It’s probably not a good time—”

Before I could shut my eyes, Hyacinth Hartwick skidded into the room, her graceful pose akin to “Ta da!”

I stared at her, open-mouthed, wondering what in hexes was going on.

As quickly as she entered the room, Cynth dropped her hands on her hips and glared at Ruthie. “There. I did what you asked, you kooky old bat.” She tossed her wavy hair—dyed cherry red for the season—with a sniff.

Ruthie laughed at her personal assistant. “And you did it with such flair, sweetie.”

Puzzled by their little exchange, I glanced back and forth between the two women. Even though Cynth didn’t know about Ruthie’s “condition,” the twenty-seven-year-old had been my great-aunt’s personal assistant for years, landing the position while she was still in college. She was probably the closest confidante Ruthie had, outside of Poppy and me.

Wait…Ruthie’s condition. Curses, my condition! Where was Cynth’s lifeclock?

Ruthie must have seen the question in my bewildered expression, for she tapped knowingly at her new glasses and winked at me. “Merry Christmas, Hazel.”

 

∞

 

“You ladies having a good time?” Cynth popped up between Poppy and me, the jingle bells on her ugly sweater—her words, not mine—ringing out with twinkling cheer.

We clinked our champagne glasses with hers. “You threw together a fabulous party on short notice.” Poppy motioned to the glitzy banquet hall that looked like something from The Great Gatsby.

Cynth batted away her praise. “Ruth’s infectious holiday spirit made it easy. It also helped that my best friend is an event planner. She really came through with the catering and decorations.” Cynth motioned to the indoor winter wonderland that was Ruthie’s home. She then lowered her voice, despite the fact no one in the crowded room was paying us any attention at the moment. “I don’t know what’s gotten into your aunt lately, but she’s been a completely different woman these past few weeks. Totally new lease on life.” She studied Ruthie on the opposite side of the hall, where she talked animatedly with the Crucible mayor. “Who would’ve thought a new pair of glasses could do so much to boost her confidence?”

Poppy and I shared a joyful look. “Who would’ve thought, indeed.” Poppy took another sip of her champagne, her cheeks rosy with delight.

I gazed out at the room filled with festive Crucible partygoers. The simple act was something I never thought I’d be able to do again after my whim awakened. But Ruthie—bless her—had finally found a way to suppress our morbid power, to hide those dreadful lifeclocks that glowed above the heads of everyone around us. Apparently, it had been something she’d been working on in secret for years with little success. After learning I’d been beset by the same dreadful power, Ruthie had doubled down on her experiments and finally discovered a viable solution. By infusing the lenses of these purple-and-gold glasses with a special protection enchantment involving thyme, she’d saved me from the loneliness and suffering she’d long endured. It was the best gift imaginable.

“I’m tempted to call it a Christmas miracle.” Cynth wiggled her eyebrows playfully.

I took in Ruthie, who brimmed with happiness as she greeted her party guests, and chuckled. “’Tis the season for them, after all.”