The Christmas Concierge, page 4
“Last week would be ideal.”
“Guess I better start making some calls. Tell you what, I’ll try to find you a time machine while I’m at it.”
“You’re the best sister ever.”
“Actual and factual.”
“See you Christmas morning.” Holiday huddled deeper into her jacket and started toward the entrance to the coffee shop.
Nora sighed. “Let’s focus on one miracle at a time, shall we?”
Holiday strode back into the Wily Whale with swagger to spare. Alex glanced up from his beer and, for the first time since she’d met him, looked a little unsure of himself.
As he should be. The gloves are coming off. Literally. She peeled off her fleece-lined mittens as she approached the table.
“Your coffee’s getting cold,” Paul said.
“Doesn’t matter. I won’t have time to finish it. I’ve got things to do and people to see.”
The two brothers exchanged a glance. “Do you have a lead?”
“All in good time, fellas.” She tossed some cash down on the table. “Drinks are on me. And Alex?”
He went a bit pale beneath that rugged stubble on his cheeks. “Yeah?”
“You better break out your cologne and start chilling champagne, because you’re going to be the dreamiest dream date this side of the Arctic Circle come Christmas Eve.”
*
Holiday cursed the rental car company as the sedan skidded on a patch of ice when she turned into the parking lot for the Alemos Island Inn. The old Victorian mansion was draped with twinkle lights and green garlands in honor of the Christmas season. When Holiday had visited the inn’s website, she’d discovered that the hotel hosted multiple gingerbread competitions. The inn itself resembled an ornate cookie construction, with spindly porch railings, steep gables, and copper rooftop finials. The white-and-green structure managed to look quaint and grand simultaneously.
I just hope they have central heating. She wrestled her suitcase out of the trunk and wheeled it across the salt-strewn path to the porch stairs. When she reached the reception desk, the air was still chilly enough to see her breath.
“Good afternoon, dear.” The grandmotherly innkeeper garbed in a white turtleneck and a chic red leather jacket greeted her from the registration desk. “Would you care for a piece of shortbread?”
“Always.” Holiday helped herself to a square. “Mmm, this is divine.”
“My husband bakes them from scratch every other day.”
Holiday closed her eyes and savored the buttery crumbles. “I need to find a husband like that.”
“Are you checking in?” The innkeeper hauled out a leather-bound ledger and flipped through the pages.
Holiday provided her name and reservation number.
The innkeeper ran her index finger down a column of handwritten names. “Ah yes, I have you down for the turret room. I hope you like pink chintz.”
“You know what I like? Heat.”
“We just replaced the heating system last year. I think you’ll be quite comfortable.”
“And is there a shower with lots of hot water?”
“Yes, there is. I’m Michelina and I’m going to make sure you have a lovely stay with us stay until you check out on the . . .” She peered at the ledger.
“Twenty-fourth,” Holiday supplied. “Going home for Christmas.”
“Wonderful. Do you need help with your bags?”
“No, thank you. But I do need the Wi-Fi password.”
“I’m afraid our Wi-Fi is down at the moment and cellular service is spotty all over the island. Hence, the handwritten reservations.” Michelina chuckled at Holiday’s horrified expression. “Not to worry, if you’re truly desperate, one of our guests managed to get cell service on the back porch a few days ago.”
“Like, outside?”
“Well, yes, technically, but there’s an overhang.”
Holiday hesitated for a moment, considering her options. Cell service was essential to her current quest, but moving to another hotel would be tricky, if not impossible, on such short notice. For one thing, most of the local hotels were already booked to capacity with seasonal guests. For another thing, changing hotels would mean going back outside, turning on her car and shivering while she waited for the heater to kick in, and fishtailing down the ice-slick roads.
“And, of course, you’re welcome to go to the public library or the little wine bar down the street for Wi-Fi.”
“Books and wine? I’ll make it work,” she assured Michelina.
“Here, take another piece of shortbread,” Michelina urged. “Tea time is four o’clock sharp.”
“Does your husband bake for that too?”
“He does. I believe he’s making cranberry scones today.”
“See you at four.” Dragging her suitcase up the series of narrow, carpeted stairs was enough to count as Holiday’s cardio and weight training of the day. “Save me a scone.”
*
Michelina had not been kidding about the pink chintz. The guest room in the turret looked as though it had been sponsored by Pepto Bismol and decorated by Barbie. A canopied four-poster bed draped in rose-patterned fabric backed up to pink damask wallpaper. The rug featured pink flowers woven into a mint-green background and the pink sofa in the corner was ruffled, tufted, and heaped with pastel throw pillows. Holiday felt certain that when she turned off the lights tonight, she would still be able to hear pink.
But no matter. The shower—tiled in a daring shade of salmon—featured hot water. Holiday turned the bathroom’s space heater up to full blast, then stood under the shower until her toes and fingertips no longer felt tingly and chilled. She allowed herself five minutes of indulgence, then turned off the shower, dried off in a huge fluffy towel—fuchsia—and pulled on wool socks, long underwear, fleece-lined jeans, and a cashmere sweater before donning boots and her parka. She paused to examine her reflection in the mirror on her way out the door. The ensemble was missing something . . . like a down-filled sleeping bag or a heating pad in each pocket.
But this would have to do for now. She navigated the stairs with care, her mobility significantly limited by all the layers, and decided that she was ready to brave the back porch. She slipped off her gloves, held up her cell phone, and braced herself for the arctic blast as she opened the inn’s back door.
Thirty seconds later, she abandoned the whole “arctic blast” plan and power walked down the street to the public library, thinking toasty warm thoughts all the way.
The Alemos Island library looked like a rustic little cabin nestled behind a copse of fir trees and a weathered bronze statue of a moose. Holiday noted the library’s hours as she opened the glass-paned door and figured she had thirty minutes—forty-five, tops—to make calls and browse the internet until the powers that be kicked her out. She paused on the threshold to close her eyes and inhale that distinct eau de bibliotechque—a mélange of yellowing pages, ballpoint pen ink, and graham cracker crumbs ground into the rug in the children’s section. But this heady perfume was cut with the sharp scent of dark-roast espresso.
Holiday glanced at the circulation desk, where the librarian on duty was sipping from a double-walled glass cup. The librarian nodded at Holiday, who nodded back and glanced at the clock above the “New Arrivals” shelf.
“I’ll only be a few minutes,” Holiday murmured. She headed for the computer carrels, peeled off the first few layers of outerwear, settled in behind the keyboard, and prepared to launch into a lightning-round search session for “Driscoll Davidson.”
And yet . . . somehow her fingers, entirely of their own accord, typed “Alexander Sappier” into the search engine. And then, instead of reading any of the articles that summarized his academic prowess and career achievements, she found herself clicking on “Images,” which produced dozens of photos of Francie Penewate’s future dream date. Behold, Alex in a board meeting. Alex giving a commencement speech. Alex wearing a tux at a fundraising event.
Wow. And she’d thought the man had looked good in a sweater.
“Is that Alex Sappier?” a voice behind her asked.
Holiday had a heart attack, died, and came back to life in the span of three seconds. Gasping, she whirled around in her chair to face the librarian from the front desk.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.” The woman nodded down at her high-top sneakers. “Ever since we installed the new carpeting, I keep sneaking up on people by accident.”
“That’s okay.” Holiday realized that she still had one hand pressed to her chest.
The librarian focused on the computer screen. “It’s ludicrous, right? That one guy gets to be that smart and that successful and that good-looking? In what world is that fair?”
Holiday felt heat seeping into her cheeks as she clicked the browser window closed. “Oh, I was just, um . . .”
“No need to explain. Your web searches are your business.” The librarian grinned and extended her right hand. “I’m Janine. Can I help you find anything?”
Holiday shook hands and turned back to the computer screen. “No, thank you. I’m staying at the inn down the street and the Wi-Fi’s out.”
“Got it. Well, I’m here if you need me. And if you’d like some book recommendations, there are some great historical romances over there.” Janine pointed to the next room. “Some of the cover models kind of look like Alex, actually.”
Holiday’s voice rose an octave. “Great, thanks, bye.” Suffused in self-consciousness, she retreated to the farthest corner of the children’s area, where she found a window seat adorned with a stuffed Eeyore and Winnie the Pooh. She dialed her sister’s number and asked Nora if she’d discovered anything new about Driscoll Davidson pieces.
“No, I have not” was Nora’s crisp response. “It’s only been an hour since the last time you asked me and everyone is out of the office for Christmas.”
“But it’s an art history emergency,” Holiday said.
“For you. Everyone else is panicking about how to cook a turkey and where to buy a last-minute gift for their uncle.”
“Slackers,” Holidays murmured.
“We don’t all focus on Christmas twelve months year,” Nora said. “Everyone deserves a vacation.” She paused. “Even the Christmas concierge.”
“I said I’ll be home,” Holiday rage-whispered.
“And I said I’ll believe it when I see it,” Nora rage-whispered right back. “I’d help you with Driscoll Davidson if I could, but honestly? I’d be surprised if anyone called me back before January.”
“But—”
“Holiday, I love you, but you need to know when to quit.”
“The Wish Granter never quits.” Holiday picked up Eeyore in solidarity.
“And, at a certain point, you might want to ask yourself, ‘Is that really a good thing?’”
“It’s neither good nor bad. It just is.” She clicked off her phone, stood up from the window seat, and nearly ran into Janine. “Whoa. Hi again.”
“Hi.” Janine still had her espresso mug in hand. “I couldn’t help overhearing that you’re looking for information about Driscoll Davidson.”
Holiday glanced down at her phone. “Am I that loud?”
“No, this time I was just blatantly eavesdropping.” Janine repositioned a displayed copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar. “But the good news is, I might be able to help you.”
“No offense, but I doubt it.”
“Try me. In addition to being very nosy, I’m also very knowledgeable.”
“Long story short, I’m looking for a vintage stained-glass Christmas tree topper from Driscoll Davidson’s studio and there’s nothing available online, and all the art people and auctioneers who might be able to track something down are on vacation.” Holiday was starting to relate to Eeyore on multiple levels. “It’s time-sensitive.”
Janine put down her espresso cup. “Have you talked to his family members?”
“Driscoll Davidson’s? No.”
“You do know that he used to spend his summers on the coast of Maine, right? And that he had a bunch of kids, some of whom inherited and ran his studio after he died?” Janine motioned her in. “And that there were some big family feuds, and that many of the grandchildren and great-grandchildren are rumored to have made off with early, valuable pieces and have them stashed away in undisclosed locations? And that it’s all very dramatic and scandalous, like a stained-glass soap opera?”
“I did not know that.” Holiday stood up and squared her shoulders. “But I’m guessing that I don’t need to, because you miraculously know the names, addresses, and social security numbers of all his descendants?”
Janine laughed. “Even I’m not that nosy. But you don’t need a miracle. All you need is a good genealogy chart, and we do have that.” She turned and headed back toward the circulation desk. “Follow me.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to keep you past closing time.”
“Closing time is when I say it is,” Janine assured her. “Hang on, let me find the keys to the basement. That’s where we keep all the rare documents and town history artifacts.”
“If I’m going with you to a creepy storage room in a basement, I should probably introduce myself. I’m Holiday Smith and I’m a Christmas concierge.”
Janine accepted both the name and the job title without missing a beat. “Pleased to meet you. And don’t worry, the basement is one hundred percent well-lit and noncreepy.”
Indeed, the storage room turned out to be a moisture-controlled vault with overhead fluorescent lighting so bright, Holiday felt like she should have sunscreen. While her pupils were still adjusting, Janine was already opening drawers and unrolling scrolls.
“Let’s see . . . I think the original documents would be from the 1940s.” Janine crouched down to rummage through the lowest drawer of a battered metal cabinet. She hummed a little tune while rifling through yellowing documents with dizzying speed. After a few minutes, she extracted a large rectangle of paper from the drawers. “Here we go.” She placed the wafer-thin document on the table in the middle of the room and ran her index finger over the fading black ink.
“Okay, we start up here with Anne and Calvin Davidson, who were Driscoll’s parents.” Janine stepped to one side so that Holiday could follow along as she traced the lineages. “Here’s Driscoll and his wife, Rose.”
“This is amazing.” Holiday ran her fingertips over the smooth, fragile paper. “I feel like I’m in a PBS documentary.”
Janine’s indulgent smile morphed into a creased brow. “Uh-oh.”
“What?” Holiday strained to see the source of the librarian’s distress.
“So apparently, the family feud got even feud-ier than I thought.” Janine pointed out a series of angry black scratch marks under Driscoll’s branch of the family tree. “Some philistine defaced this.”
Holiday’s hope deflated as the ramifications of this registered. “And now we can’t read the names of the relatives who probably have the lost stash of glass?”
“I can’t believe this.” Janine staggered back as if she’d been physically wounded. “These are irreplaceable historical documents. To just take a Sharpie to them . . .”
“Someone was serious about erasing half of the family tree.”
“Then they should have sued each other or fought it out bare-knuckled in the street! Don’t bring your petty nonsense into the library.” Janine looked to be on the verge of tears.
“We’ll find the culprits,” Holiday vowed.
“But how? Someone heartless and deviant enough to do this probably crossed out their own name in addition to everyone else’s. And now we’re missing information going back at least two generations . . .”
Holiday clapped her hands together. “That’s it! That’s how we find them.”
“Who?”
“The missing relatives, the missing glass pieces, everything.” She started pacing around the vault in her excitement. “We look for them the same way the cops look for serial killers.”
Janine scoffed. “Listen, I have a lot of pull in this town, but there’s no way the police department is going to put a task force together to track down a genealogy vandal from twenty years ago.”
“We can do it ourselves. All we need is some spit in a cup.” Holiday laughed at Janine’s expression. “An at-home DNA testing kit. That’s how they solve a lot of cold cases now. All we need is the name and address of one of the relatives whose name is still legible.”
“And then what? Show up on their doorstep and ask if we can swab their cheek?” Janine sounded doubtful.
“I’ll take care of that part,” Holiday assured her. “You’re very knowledgeable. I’m very persuasive.”
Janine shook her head. “Yeah, but even if you lucked out and got a hit for a bunch of Davidson relatives, you’d never get the results back before Christmas.”
“You’re right,” Holiday allowed. “I wouldn’t. But I know a guy with connections in the biotech world.”
Chapter Seven
“Congratulations, you reeled me in with your cryptic text. I’m here.” Alex strode into the sitting room of the Alemos Island Inn looking like a chisel-jawed J. Crew model in a marled gray sweater and faded jeans.
Holiday—along with several other female guests milling around the fireplace—turned to admire the view. “Oh, good. I wasn’t sure if you replied, given the tragic lack of cell service here.”
“I didn’t reply. There’s no appropriate response to a text like that.” He glanced down at his cell phone to read her own words back to her: “SOS. Stained-glass summit meeting urgently requested. Meet at the inn at 4 p.m. sharp.”
“Sit down.” Holiday gestured to a red-and-white-striped sofa by the ten-foot-tall Christmas tree. “Have a scone . . . they’re perfection. And then, prepare to be dazzled by my brilliance.”
“Stained-glass summit first, scones second.”
“Have it your way.” Holiday sat down and clasped her hands in her lap. “I’m trying to track down some estranged relatives of Driscoll Davidson. Rumor has it that they may have a secret stash of stained-glass pieces that have never gone out on the market due to squabbling and spite.”
