Oh what fun, p.1
Oh What Fun, page 1
OH WHAT FUN
Emily Slate Mystery Thriller Holiday Special
ALEX SIGMORE
Dark Woods Press
OH WHAT FUN: EMILY SLATE MYSTERY THRILLER HOLIDAY SPECIAL
Copyright © 2023 by Alex Sigmore
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
1st Edition
ebook ISBN 978-1-957536-43-9
Print ISBN 978-1-957536-44-6
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Emily Slate Series
A Note from Alex
Chapter One
“Ugh, this is the worst.”
My best friend and fellow FBI Agent Zara Foley turns to me, her eyes wide and accusing, as if I’ve just slaughtered a baby lamb. “Are you kidding? This is the best!”
All around us are smiling faces, people happily going about their day. Festive music plays over the sound system while everything in the mall is decorated in some variation of red, gold, or green. It’s an onslaught to the senses and there are just so. Many. People.
“Why did I let you drag me here?” I ask as a child going to town on some kind of sucker passes us, holding the hand of their parent. She looks up at me and I can’t help but shy away. Damn, I thought I was getting better about that.
“Because you need something for your new boyfriend and given your taste in gifts, you need my help not to scare him off before this thing has even gotten off the ground,” she says, scanning the storefronts.
I’ve been an FBI agent for almost five years now, been through more harrowing situations than I enjoy thinking about. Despite facing some of the darkest and most twisted sickos out there, here I am, in a normal American mall in the middle of December, freaking out about being stuck in the holiday season.
I’m not a Christmas person. Never have been. I used to be, back when it was me and Mom and Dad. But after Mom died it seemed like the holiday died with her. Dad tried his best to make things fun, but without her it took the wind out of my sails, and for a long time I didn’t even want to acknowledge the holiday. It was only after I met Matt that I finally opened up a little and started celebrating again.
“C’mon, you have to admit this is just a little bit fun,” Zara says, practically skipping along as we make our way through the mall. “Look at everyone, they’re all full of holiday spirit and joy. Just think about the families going back home to bake cookies and watch movies and stay up all night drinking egg nog.”
I eye her suspiciously. “Did you sniff something from the evidence locker before we got here? That stuff doesn’t happen in real life, it’s reserved for crappy holiday movies on greeting card channels.”
“Fine, be a grump,” she replies. “I’ll refrain from calling you the other “G” word just because I’m afraid you might try to pistol whip me.” She grins then breaks out into a laugh as she says it. Man, she is wired. Usually Zara is a lot more upbeat and bubbly than I am, but this is another level. Before Matt died, she and I were friends, but we never spent as much time together as we do now. So I never really saw her around the holidays—at least, not like this.
“Let’s just find something and get out of here as fast as humanly possible, please?” I suggest.
“If you keep complaining, I’m going to sit you down and make you watch the animatronic bear show at the end of the mall,” she chides.
“Animatronic bear show?” I ask.
“Sure, it’s a mall staple. They’ve had it for years. I remember seeing it when I was a kid,” she says.
“What the hell is it?”
“Just what it sounds like. About twenty animatronic bears, all dressed to the nines, and all playing different instruments in a classical orchestra setting. You know, violins, trumpets, flutes…there’s even one on a piano.”
“And they…play the instruments?”
“Well, I mean they move choreographed to a soundtrack so it looks like they’re playing the instruments,” she says. “But really, they’re just moving along to the music. Though little kids can’t tell.”
“That sounds like the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” I say.
Her eyes go wide. “Oh, then we have to see it.” She grabs the lapel of my jacket, attempting to pull me along.
“How are you so energized? Didn’t your legs get torn up like two weeks ago?” I ask, referring to the injury she sustained when we were both up in Vermont. She’d been tangled up in some barbed wire as we’d been chasing a suspect. And while the injuries hadn’t been serious, they’d drawn a lot of blood.
“It’s the human body, Em, it heals,” she says, deadpan. “What, are you saying I don’t have the strength to get you there? I’m not afraid of a little sparring session right here in the middle of the mall. People would love it.”
I know she’s just screwing with me, but I can’t help but chuckle. “Yeah, that’d go down real well with security.”
“Ah, we can take them too,” she says, waving me off. “Come on. Bears. Now.”
“Can’t we at least get a present for Liam first?” I ask, allowing myself to be dragged, though not without making her work for it.
“If you’ll hurry up and make up your mind about what you want to get for him,” she replies.
“I dunno,” I admit. “Matt was so easy to shop for. You could literally buy the man anything and he’d be happy. But Liam…” Not to mention my relationship with Liam is still very…new. We only got together a few months ago, after I almost died when a group called the Organization made it their mission to hunt me down. And not long after that, I received a strange letter written in my mother’s handwriting. Through it all, Liam and I have tried to deny our attraction for each other, but it reached a point after I almost died that we both realized pretending our feelings didn’t exist was too difficult.
So now, here I am, less than a week before Christmas, trying to find a present for the first man I’ve felt anything for since my husband died.
“What are you getting Raoul?” I ask, hoping Zara’s answer will spur my imagination.
“He likes fancy scents, so he gets a bottle of Dior Sauvage.” She says it with a French accent, exaggerating her enunciation.
“Maybe I should get that for Liam,” I say.
“What kind of cologne does he wear?” she asks.
I give her a sheepish look.
“You don’t know?”
“I never looked!” Okay. I’m not much of a perfume girl. I’ll spritz some on every once in a blue moon, but it’s not something I regularly go for. One, it’s not a great impression when heading to a crime scene to pull up smelling like a fifty-dollar hooker. Two, it aggravates my allergies when I wear potent stuff for too long. Deodorant is fine enough for me, as long as I shower regularly.
“What I am I going to do with you?” She shakes her head like I’ve just failed the ultimate chick test. “I think cologne is out. You don’t want to buy him something that clashes with his natural scents.”
“Right, because that would be a disaster,” I say, rolling my eyes as we continue walking down the middle of the mall.
“You joke, but you know how some guys just smell like ass? That’s bad scent matching. It’s like putting marinara sauce on sushi. It just isn’t going to come out right.”
“Or they’re just unkempt,” I reply.
“Okay, so what does he like? Any favorite movies? I’d say you could get him a tie but—”
“Liam hates ties,” I reply.
“—Liam hates ties,” she reiterates. He’s made it no secret he doesn’t enjoy wearing a tie around the office, though he pulls it off quite nicely. In fact, he can rock a suit better than a lot of guys. But on the occasions I’ve seen him as the day is ending, his tie is the first thing to come off.
“What about liquor?” I say. “Guys love liquor.”
“You love liquor,” she replies. “It’s bad form to buy a gift for someone that’s really just something you want yourself.”
I mean, she’s not wrong. I wouldn’t say no to a nice tequila or bourbon, but I’m digging at the bottom of the barrel here. “I’m out.”
“You’re not out. Think about what he likes to do. What is his favorite pastime? What—”
“Oh!” I yell, startling a young family passing by. “He loves soccer. Or…futbol, as he calls it. Loves it.”
“Great, what’s his favorite team?” When I give her a blank stare, Zara only narrows her gaze at me. “Emily. What is your boyfriend’s favorite sports team?”
I grimace. “The…Cutters? That’s a team, right?”
She starts swatting at me so much that I put my hands up to defend myself. If we weren’t making a scene before, we sure are now. “You are so bad at this!”
“I know!” I yell back. “I can’t help it!”
Finally, the swatting stops as she steps back, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You are absolutely hopeless.”
I give her a sheepish smile. “Maybe I should just give him a gift card or something.”
“On your first Christmas together? Is that the memory you want seared into your mind forever?” She straightens, adopting a slightly deeper voice that’s a bad impression of me. “Hey, Liam, here you go. I didn’t care enough to pay attention to what you liked, so I just figured you could buy yourself something nice.” She steps back, glaring at me.
“Very funny. I don’t sound like that.”
“You don’t not sound like that.”
“I’m reconsidering the sparring session,” I say.
“Seriously, Em, don’t you know anything about him?”
I shrug. “What can I say? We’ve only been formally dating…what, a month? Not even? And there’s been work, and we had to go to Vermont—”
“No excuse,” she replies. “What about his family? They would know, right?”
“I’ve never met his family.”
“No time like the present,” she says, turning and heading in the opposite direction. “I’ll pull his file at the Bureau, and do a reverse lookup. I’ll have names and phone numbers within an hour.”
I grab her by the arm. “Z, no. You’re not going to use federal resources to track down my boyfriend’s family. I get the sense there’s some tension between them. Which is I think something we have in common.”
“Fine,” she says, exasperated. “Well, you better figure out something. We’re six days and counting. You can’t put this off forever.”
“What if I could?” I ask. “I could just tell him that I don’t do Christmas and not to get me anything.”
“And ruin the amazing gift he’s already bought for you?” she asks, then realizing what she’s said, slaps a hand over her mouth.
“Wait, what do you know?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
“Nothing,” comes the muffled reply.
“No, you have to tell me,” I say, pulling her hand away from her mouth. “What did he get me?”
She gives me a pitiful look. “It’s really good.”
“Aw, dammit,” I say, turning away from her and pacing in a circle. “How good?”
She draws her features together, as serious as a funeral. “Amazing.”
I let out a long groan. “Why do we have to do this? Can’t human beings just get through December without being subjected to the insanity that surrounds this holiday?”
Zara puts her hand on my shoulder. “Sorry Em. Not in the twenty-first century. If I’d had to guess…I’d say you’re screwed.”
“You’re not being much help,” I reply.
“I—” Before she can finish, there’s the high-pitched sound of breaking glass, followed by a scream.
Zara and I take one look at each other before we take off running.
Chapter Two
It’s not difficult to tell where the commotion is coming from; everyone else is running away from the noise. My first thought is mass shooter, which we’re not prepared for. I left my weapon locked up in my car and as far as I know Zara isn’t armed. The mall has security, but they’re not trained to deal with someone brandishing an automatic weapon. As Zara and I head toward the noise, I pray we’re not dealing with something on that scale.
But as I pass the panicked faces of the shoppers, I don’t see absolute terror, which is encouraging. Zara and I have to hop over some chairs in the middle of the mall to avoid most of the mob of people. I’d tell them to stay calm but I don’t know what we’re dealing with here, and I’m not about to not tell someone to run for their life if that’s what we’re facing.
“Em,” Zara says, having cleared the next row of chairs. Most of the people are running around the corner to our left and we hook around the outside, trying to squeeze by. People are already yelling and pushing and it becomes a struggle just to get through.
“Move!” I yell. “FBI, get out of the way!”
My announcement only seems to further panic the crowd. A child trips and falls, having lost the hand of their parent. Against my better judgment I bend down and help the little girl up before a woman in a white coat pushes out through the crowd. “Julie!”
“Is this your mom?” I ask the little girl, who nods emphatically. I make sure they’re connected before continuing to make my way through. I’m being smacked by bags, purses, and hard objects as people shove past me, and I’ve lost Zara somewhere in the crowd.
Finally, the people thin and I hear more glass breaking somewhere up ahead. I never leave my weapon in my car, unless I’m off-duty and am making my way into crowded spaces—for the very reason I don’t want to panic anyone if they happen to catch sight of it under my jacket. I figured, hey, I won’t need it in there. How much trouble could I get into shopping? Apparently the goddess of irony is having a field day today.
“Z!” I call out, spotting her emerging from the crowd on the other side. We both exchange a glance as someone in one of the stores across from us cries out. It’s a corner unit, a jewelry store. And inside are—I can’t believe it at first—three people dressed up like Santa Claus, wielding large clubs and black backpacks.
I take half a second to assess the situation. The Santas are on the taller side, probably men, but it’s impossible to tell underneath the bulky outfits. Each one’s face is also covered by a white mask that obscures any of their features, and they’re all wearing sunglasses and Santa hats. I can’t even see the color of their skin. They each stand in different positions in the store, filling their backpacks with jewelry from the broken display cases around them.
“Freeze! FBI!” I yell, but without my weapon or my badge, I don’t have much to brandish at them.
Two of the Santas look up, but I can’t see their eyes behind the dark glasses. They both take off running, zipping their backpacks and throwing them on their backs as they go. The third Santa is standing over one of the store associates, who is on the ground next to the broken glass from the cases, shielding her face, as if she’s afraid the Santa is going to beat her with the club.
“Get him!” I tell Zara, pointing at the man running closest to her. The other one has passed by me, but I’m more interested in his friend. How long will it take mall security to get here with that mob back there? The jewelry store had to have tripped the silent alarm, right?
Zara is off like a shot after the first Santa, though I see him duck into a side hallway that runs between the stores in the mall. However, I keep my focus on the Santa who is still in the store. The third one will just have to get away. But if I can get this one under control, I’m reasonably sure we can track down the third guy without a problem.
What I don’t like, however, is how the Santa is just standing there, black backpack in one hand, club in the other. He’s facing me directly and it’s like he’s waiting for me to make a move. “Put your hands up and drop your weapon,” I tell him, using my best command voice. “You are under arrest.”
He doesn’t move. Only the clerk on the ground glances in my direction. I notice some blood running down her face, maybe from a cut on her head, I can’t tell. Whoever these guys are, at least they aren’t using guns. But that doesn’t mean they’re not dangerous.
“Put your hands up!” I yell again. “I’m not going to tell you a third time.”
I’m only about ten feet from the Santa, though there is a broken jewelry case that separates us. If he goes right, he’ll have to swerve around another case to get out. If he goes left, he’s clear, but I’m closer to that side. Either way, I’m approaching slowly, and his options are dwindling by the second.
“Look, there’s nowhere to go,” I say. “Just put the club down and drop the bag.” Because I can’t see his features, I can’t read him, or anticipate what he might do. And as far as I can tell, I’m on my own here. Zara is chasing the other perp and mall security hasn’t arrived yet. More than likely they’re trying to clear the crowd to get here. There’s movement in my periphery, but it’s low to the ground. Probably from other retail associates who were attacked. The Santa, however, isn’t moving. “Look, I’m a federal officer, and I am placing you under arrest.”
