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Mystic Mistletoe Murder
by Sally J. Smith & Jean Steffens
Mystic Mistletoe Murder will be $0.99 during the tour.
Purchase Links: Amazon
‘Tis the season at The Mansion on Mystic Isle, and Melanie Hamilton, resident tattoo artist at the resort renown for its supernatural atmosphere, can feel the holiday spirit everywhere in the Louisiana bayou. The festive mood runs deeper than just the tinsel, mistletoe, and twinkling lights, as the milk of human kindness is flowing with gift giving, good cheer, and donations. But when Papa Noël turns up as dead as the Ghost of Christmas Past, and all the bounty from a recent charity drive is stolen, Melanie turns to Jack Stockton, the handsome resort’s general manager, to help her find the killer and get it all back.
Who wanted Papa Noël dead and why? Was it the bag of loot they were after, and Papa just got in the way? Or was it a more personal attack on the jolly man in the red suit? Not only does Mel find herself in a fight to prove one of her co-workers innocent, but she’s also in a race against a ticking clock to save the life of a sick child. Before long, she closes in on the killer—or maybe it’s the killer closing in on Mel!
Jack offered me the crook of his arm, and we entered the Ghostly Christmas Gala.
…The room was alive with charm. Old Marley, the Ghost of Christmas Past, née Lurch, dragged this chains around the salon, dust, née Johnson’s Baby Powder from the scent of it, floating off his shredded garb as he moved. His deep and miserable moan was pretty scary and would have frightened children if there had been any in attendance.
Odeo, the Ghost of Christmas Yet-to-Come, lumbered the room as the grim reaper, sickle and all. His face and dark skin sunken back into the cowl made the place where his features should have been look eerily like a black hole.
…And Melvin, the little person who’d performed Lurch’s Christmas elf counterpart made a fine Tiny Tim, crutch under one arm, knickers, and knee socks.
He hobbled over when we walked in and glared up at Jack. “I go out to the levee with you and knock a few heads together on your behalf, and this is the thanks I get? What the heck? Tiny Tim? I mean, could we be any more cliché here?”
Jack looked truly repentant. “Hey, Melvin, believe me.” He ran one hand from his own head downward. “None of this was my idea. Tonight, we play the roles we’re assigned.”
Melvin snorted. “Still. I mean, really?” and hobbled away.
“Not a happy Tiny Tim, is he?” I said.”
“Hm-mm.” Jack said. “Man, I hope he doesn’t hit anybody with that crutch.”