One

 

A cold breeze swept along the main street in Queensville, Michigan. Jaymie Leighton Müller wrapped her jacket around her more tightly as she held the hand of her stepdaughter, Jocie. Though nine years old, Jocie was much smaller than other kids her age because a condition, achondroplasia dwarfism, had made her, as she put it, a little little person. They stood together opposite the triangle-shaped plot of land known to Queensvillians as the village green, and watched Bill Waterman, local handyman, at work. Preparations were under way for the holiday season, Jaymie’s favorite time of year. Other villagers were out in force, too, stringing white lights from pine tree to oak, hanging festive wreaths, and erecting wood cutout snowfolk and other displays on front lawns and porches.

Jocie pulled her hand out of Jaymie’s and buried both of them in her coat sleeves, her breath coming out in puffs of white. “Are you warm enough, sweetie?” Jaymie asked, looking down at Jocie. Her daughter’s pudgy cheeks were rosy from the cold, and with her blonde ringlets jammed down by a pink tuque and her powder-pink padded jacket, she looked adorable.

“I guess,” she said. Her big brown eyes were fixed on Bill and his namesake grandson, Billy, who was nine as well and in Jocie’s class at school. He was a handsome dark-skinned boy, his black hair cut close to his skull, and he helped Bill with quick, deft movements, a testament to years in the shop alongside his grandfather. He glanced over at Jocie, then ducked his head bashfully, like a silent hello.

Jocie started forward to join them, but Jaymie grasped her shoulder. “Not unless you’re invited. They’re working, and we don’t want to get in the way.”

“I wasn’t going to get in the way, I was going to help!”

“Unless you know what you’re doing, that’s also called getting in the way,” Jaymie said firmly. Jocie pouted, her lip starting to push out. Though she was generally sunny-tempered, she did have moments of stubbornness. “Jocie, we ask first, we don’t just assume we know what to do. It’s like in the kitchen, where you need to ask if you can use the cooking tools.”

“Your mom’s right,” Bill said with a kind smile. He was a tall man, into his seventies, but sturdy and strong. Dressed in overalls and a striped cap, he looked like a train engineer, appropriate since one of his hobbies was model train construction. “I’m swinging a hammer. Wouldn’t want you in the way of it, honey. Billy knows when to step back.”

She thought for a moment, then asked, “Can I stand with Billy?”

“Okay with you, Jaymie?”

She nodded. Jocie raced over and stood talking to Billy while his grandfather worked. The boy was pointing to things and explaining, and Jocie was paying close attention. Her father and grandfather often included her in their work, so she understood more than many kids her age would have.

It was the Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend. Dickens Days was scheduled to start on Friday, and Jaymie was excited! The village of Queensville would soon be decked in white lights and festive ornaments for the annual Christmas festival, one of the year’s two fund-raisers for the local historical society. Helped by a couple of volunteers from the heritage society, Bill had moved the adorable cider house into its position on the village green, and now he was hammering nails back into place that had come loose in the move. From it, volunteers would dole out steaming cups of warm cider to folks who would wander from shop to shop while Victorian-garbed carolers strolled the village streets, pausing by the Victorian-style light posts to sing of holiday cheer and joyful celebration.

Unless . . . the village Scrooge ruined it all. That was a fly in the ointment this year, that the house behind the village green was now occupied by Professor Evan Hollis Nezer, when in past years it had been rented out by various casual occupants who hadn’t cared what was happening on their doorstep. Jaymie hoped Nezer didn’t cause them any grief.

Bill tethered a rope to a hook at the peak of the booth’s roof and pulled it taut behind the booth to a spot in the middle of a line of tall pines. Billy followed and handed him his hammer as Jocie returned to Jaymie’s side. Bill raised the heavy mallet, ready to pound a wooden stake into the ground to anchor the line.

A man bolted from among the pines and confronted the handyman, grabbing the wooden stake and throwing it through the open booth toward the road. Jaymie let out her breath, holding Jocie to her side with one arm. Her wish hadn’t come true.

“You’ve got no right to infringe on my property!” Evan Hollis Nezer shrieked, literally hopping mad.

“Hey, now . . . you shouldn’t be throwing that, especially not with kids around!” Bill stepped back and let go of the rope, gesturing toward his grandson nearby and Jocie with Jaymie.

Nezer’s property, on which his big Queen Anne historic home stood, abutted the Queensville village green. That greenspace had always been used as public land, central as it was in the village, within view of the Queensville Emporium and across from a small public parkette that was separated from other homes on the street by groves of trees. The Nezer property line was thought to be the line of pines in front of it, but there was no actual indication, no fence or barrier.

Red-faced, fists clenched, the property owner hopped up and down twice as he faced the Queensville handyman. “I don’t care who’s around, you can’t use my property. Get off!”

“Now, Mr. Nezer, it’s just a peg to tie a rope to, to keep the cider house stable. Nothing more. I promise.” Bill Waterman, calm and good-natured, loomed over the other fellow. His grandson had retrieved the stake and handed it back to his grandpa, who still held the mallet.

Nezer, who had longish silvery hair, a trim beard and mustache and brushed-silver-framed glasses, would have been distinguished-looking if not for the choleric expression on his face. “I don’t care. Cease and desist!” he demanded, his cheeks scarlet. “This moment!”

The villagers who had been decorating were attracted by the shouting. Dark-haired Cynthia Turbridge, owner of the Cottage Shoppe, and flame-haired Jewel Dandridge, proprietor of Jewel’s Junk, whispered together, joined by their shared employee, Petty Welch. Gracey Klausner stood in the Queensville Emporium window, arms folded across her chest, and gazed out. Others, who had been helping decorate, stood in groups chatting and watching the commotion.

Bill glanced around, passing one hand over his thin hair and beginning to look irritated. “It’s barely six inches on your property! You’ve lived here all your life and know it gets windy in our town in November and December. It comes off the river and sweeps through Queensville. Surely you don’t want the structure to blow over. It could hurt someone.” At six feet plus, Bill was a big guy, but despite the fact that he carried a rubber mallet and a long stake, which was incidentally pointed right at Nezer, he meant no harm. He stepped forward. “C’mon, Evan . . . let me—”

“Don’t you threaten me, Waterman!” the man screeched in alarm and backed away. He held one hand out in front of him. “I’ll sue you; I will!”

Billy’s eyes widened and he looked scared. Jaymie dropped Jocie’s hand and lurched forward. “Mr. Nezer, please, there are children present. Calm down!”

Belatedly it occurred to her that the worst thing to say to an excitable person was “calm down.” The man exploded in rage, his face turning even redder and puffing up alarmingly. “Don’t tell me what to do!”

Jocie watched in fascination. She moved forward and grabbed Jaymie’s hand.

“What, Jocie?”

“Why is he getting so red?” Jocie whispered.

“I’ll sue! I will sue, Waterman, I swear it!” Nezer shrieked, dancing like a marionette, arms flailing.

Jocie’s eyes lit up and she pulled away from Jaymie. She screeched with laughter, and began dancing around like Mr. Nezer. Billy turned and watched her, laughing out loud in glee. Some among the gathered crowd laughed too, and pointed at the man and the little girl, both dancing like maniacs.

Nezer stopped and shook his fists. “Waterman, and you, lady with that child . . . you’re both on notice. I’ll sue you for—”

“What, Mr. Nezer? What will you sue them for?” Valetta, her sweater wrapped around her and shivering, had come from the Queensville Emporium, where she ran the pharmacy. More folks had gathered to witness the spectacle. “For making fun of you? That’s not sue-able, I shouldn’t think.” She pushed her glasses up on her face. “Or you’d be suing everyone in town.”

Jaymie bit her lip, trying to keep from laughing at Valetta’s acerbic comment. A young woman about Jaymie’s age stood by Valetta and applauded, a grin on her face.

“Val, you’re not helping,” Jaymie muttered. “What are you doing at the pharmacy on a Sunday anyway?” she asked.

“Sick customer needed antibiotics.”

“Ah, I see. Jocie, please don’t antagonize the man anymore.” She grabbed her stepdaughter’s shoulder and pulled her close.

Nezer calmed and blinked, his face still red. He was a tidy man, dapper in his clothes—he wore a stylish gray wool trench coat with a red silk scarf under the collar—and with that silky mane of thinning gray hair. He had owned the house, a family inheritance, for a long time. Over the years he had rented it out as office space and a vacation rental. Most recently it had been rented to an accounting firm. But he had sued the accounting company, and they had vacated the property rather than settle. Then he had been about to sell it in October. However, according to Brock Nibley, a local real estate agent, Valetta’s older brother, and the source of all of Jaymie’s information on the house, Nezer had tanked a sure sale by demanding more money, nitpicking contract details, refusing to do required work, and otherwise being a jerk. He eyed the gathered crowd, perhaps looking for supporters and finding none.

Jaymie set Jocie behind her and moved forward. “Mr. Nezer, honestly, Bill was doing what has always been done for the Dickens Days celebra—”

“Confound your Dickens Days! Humbug on it,” he said, his eyes a frigid blue. He stuck his thumbs in his lapels and strutted forward. “Why should your silly festival infringe on my property? I have rights, don’t I? And that includes the right not to be bothered by chanting and cider-swilling idiots traipsing over my property. And stakes being pounded in, damaging my turf! What about my rights? If you all don’t leave me and my property alone I’ll sue every solitary person in this town. Starting with you, Bill Waterman!” he said, jabbing a finger in the handyman’s direction. “I’ll end it all, or my name isn’t Evan Nezer!” He whirled and strode away.

Most of the crowd dispersed, knowing the show was over and feeling the icy chill of a late November day in Michigan seeping through their coats. It was time for home, and hot soup and hotter tea. Jaymie shivered, a presentiment of trouble chilling her as much as the cold wind.

“You go on home, Jaymie,” Bill said, an exasperated and weary expression on his face. He clapped his grandson on the shoulder. “Billy and I will head on home. That Nezer . . . he’s a bunch of hot air. I’ll continue tomorrow. Maybe I can rig something that doesn’t anchor it on his property.”

She examined her old friend. He didn’t seem completely well, and she was worried. “You let me know if you need any backup though, Bill. Honestly.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m done for the day. Moving it into place was enough of a chore for a Sunday. Billy and I will probably head on out for cocoa.”

One person clapped. Jaymie turned to see the young woman, dressed in a long coat, who had been standing by Valetta. “Well met, Ms. Leighton Müller,” she said, her voice melodious.

Jaymie nodded and smiled, then grabbed Jocie’s hand and turned to leave the scene.

“Oh, don’t go! I had hoped to speak with you about joining your heritage society.”

Jaymie turned back to her. “Come to our next meeting, Miss . . . uh—”

“Jacklyn Marley,” she said, thrusting her hand out and taking Jaymie’s, shaking it vigorously. “I will indeed attend the next meeting. Is this your daughter?”

“Yes. Jocie, this is Ms. Marley. Jacklyn, this is Jocie.” Jaymie examined her. She was smooth and self-assured, a woman about Jaymie’s age, but with dark brown hair in a chignon, and dressed chicly in a gray tweed skirt, black boots, and a gray plaid cape. Who was she, though, and what did she want of Jaymie?

“You may be wondering why I’m approaching you. I’ve read your column, ‘Vintage Eats.’ I’m a writer and wondered if you had ever considered gathering your columns into a cookbook.”

“Mama is writing a cookbook,” Jocie said, tugging on Jaymie’s hand. “Aren’t you?”

“Hush, Jocie.”

“Are you indeed?” Ms. Marley said with a smooth smile.

“You’re a writer?”

“I am. Or rather . . . have you ever heard of a ghostwriter?”

“Sure.”

“A ghostwriter?” Jocie stared up at the woman, her blue eyes large and round. “Mama says there are no such things as ghosts. At least not in my room, at night.”

“I’m not that kind of ghost,” the woman said, crouching down. “I’m the kind of professional ghost who quietly goes about my business, writing, writing, writing for other people and never getting paid or getting any of the attention. Also known as . . . a ghostwriter.”

There was an edge of bitterness to her words.

Jocie spotted elderly Mrs. Klausner at the door of the Emporium, holding out a candy cane and beckoning Jocie. “Can I go see Mrs. K?” Jocie asked. The woman, who with her husband had run the Queensville Emporium grocery store for years, was renowned for her crabbiness, but she had a soft spot for Jocie.

“You can, but five minutes, no more.” Jaymie eyed Jacklyn Marley as she stood and straightened. “Who have you ghostwritten for?” she asked, glancing over to see Jocie skipping up the steps to Mrs. Klausner.

“Well, you’ve just met my most notorious client, Mr. Evan Nezer. That clutch-fisted old Scrooge with a corkscrew for a heart still owes me thousands of dollars in back royalties that he won’t let go of.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, really. I’d sue him, but he’d love that. Do you know, he has a double degree in economics and law and teaches at Wolverhampton College, but the joke on campus is he became a lawyer so he’d never have to pay one to represent him. He loves to sue!”

“That explains so much,” Jaymie said faintly, thinking that the heritage society and Dickens Days was likely in for some rocky times.

“Like his threatening to sue the handyman, yourself, the township and anyone else in his path. And he’ll do it.”

“I do know him,” Jaymie muttered. “Or at least of him.” Evan Nezer had lived for years in the newer section of town near Heidi’s ranch-style home and had sued many more folks in Queensville, including his annual lawsuit to keep the Dickens Days celebration from proceeding. It never went anywhere, but it was a nuisance. If she recalled correctly, he had sued neighbors, his ex-wife, and even fellow academics whom he claimed stole his work. It was annoying, and him moving to the center of town to the historic Nezer home meant the members of the historical society would likely have to deal with him much more often. They must prepare a strategy.

A young man pulled up and parked by the village green, eyeing the cider house with distaste. He got out of his silver sedan, checked his phone, then slipped it into his coat pocket. Catching sight of Jacklyn Marley, he strode over. “Jacklyn, my stepmother just called. She was taking a fit, screaming at me to get over here. Something about Dad getting beaten up by a handyman?”

Jacklyn laughed. “Benjamin Nezer, this is Jaymie Leighton Müller. Ben, here, is Evan’s son.” She turned to the tall young man. “I thought you two weren’t talking?” she said with a sly smile, her eyes wide. She paused, then added, “Or do you communicate through La Bel-la?” She glanced over at Jaymie. “The lovely Bella is Nezer’s second wife. He screwed every last drop of life out of Sarah, his ex, and now he’s working on number two.”

Jaymie eyed her uncertainly; there seemed to be some undercurrent to her words and phrasing, some digs at Mrs. Nezer that she didn’t understand, not knowing the parties involved.

“Jacklyn, that’s not fair!” Benjamin said, his eyes narrow. “My mom and dad had their differences for years before they split.”

“I thought you were on your mother’s side,” she said, jamming her hands into her pockets. Her tone was spiteful, but Ben didn’t respond. “Nice to see you’ve turned on her, too,” the young woman added, staring steadily at him, digging the spite in deeper.

Given what Jacklyn had already told Jaymie about Nezer’s unpaid bill for her ghostwriting, maybe she was taking her anger out on the whole family, but working on a book must have been a long process, certainly long enough to get to know and dislike the whole family.

Ben leveled a concentrated look at her. He looked like he wanted to say something, but his jaw tensed, his lips pursed into a hard line, and he turned to walk away.

“By the way, he wasn’t being beaten up by any handyman,” Jacklyn called out, cupping one hand around her mouth to increase the volume. “That’s Bill Waterman over there, working on the cider house for the Dickens Days festivities. Your father threatened to sue him, that’s all. Business as usual.”

Benjamin shoved his hands deep into his pockets and walked on, pausing to watch Bill winding up the rope he had intended to use, then striding past through the fringe of pines and across the lawn toward the Nezer home, flickers of his progress showing through gaps in the tree trunks.

Jaymie turned to Jacklyn Marley. “That felt personal. Do you know him well?”

She shrugged. “I worked for his father for the better part of a year, so . . . yeah. We know each other.”

“What does Ben do?”

“He’s a lawyer specializing in contracts.”

“His father must be thrilled, given his litigious nature.”

“Not so much. He’s disappointed in Ben, actually. They didn’t speak for a long time because of that. Until recently, when Ben decided to start sucking up to his father again.” Jacklyn chewed her lip and looked off in the direction Ben had disappeared. “Evan wanted him to go into financial planning and estate management and was disappointed when Ben became a lawyer.”

“Sounds like a complicated family dynamic,” Jaymie commented.

Jacklyn snorted in laughter. “You said it! That Bella is a handful. She married Nezer thinking she was moving up in the world, only to find out how deadly dull a professor’s life is, and how a professor’s wife has to make nice to the whole board of governors and college leadership. No glamour in that. Add to that the Nezer family housekeeper who lives in, the much put-upon Erla Fancombe.” She cast a glance at Jaymie, a wry smile twisting her lips. “Erla’s son, Finn, was a student at WC until Nezer accused him of plagiarism and got him kicked out.”

Eye’s wide, Jaymie reflected that Nezer seemed to have made a second career of angering and alienating people. “You know the family doings very well.”

“I’ve made a study of the Nezers, I suppose,” she mused. “I’ve spent a lot of time with Evan as his ghostwriter, and much of that was in his home office. They’re an interesting tribe. Do you know he is actually an author of some note? Back in the eighties he published a couple of novels that made a big splash. I guess writing wasn’t lucrative enough. He was a professor of economics at that point but got a second degree in law and started suing people as a hobby.”

“Nice hobby; making people miserable for fun and profit. I did not know any of that. You’d think once a writer, always a writer.” At least that was Jaymie’s experience from knowing a writer who was obsessive, always in the middle of at least two novels, and often more than two, as well as publicizing the latest book and planning the next. “So . . . I’m puzzled. Why did he need a ghostwriter?”

Jacklyn shrugged. “It’s been years since he got those books published.” She twisted her lips and squinted. “He’s odd in some ways. Somewhere along the line he got . . . warped. The whole suing thing, for example, seems to have started in the nineties. He would sue you as soon as look at you.” She sighed. “He’s such a bitter Betty. Sarah, his ex-wife, he screwed out of every possession she ever had, even her heirlooms, and she’s not willing to fight it. I don’t know why not, since her husband moved on to Bella, wifey number two, even before they separated.”

“You know that for sure?” Jaymie said, always uneasy about gossip.

“I do. They didn’t always cohabit, from what I understand; she spent a lot of time . . . away. But they were married. Bella is younger, buxom and gorgeous, a virtual Nigella Lawson clone.” She glanced over at Jaymie. “You know who Nigella Lawson is, right?”

“Of course. British cooking celebrity. I love some of her food.”

“Well, Bella has the bod and the accent. Why she’s with an old geezer like Nezer, whose nads are probably shrunk up into his body, I’ll never know.”

“What about Ben? Is that whole career thing the only reason they were estranged?”

Jacklyn regarded Jaymie and grimaced. “I learned early, with Evan there’s always more. Originally, when the marital split first happened, Ben made the mistake of siding with his mother in the divorce proceedings.”

“It’s too bad kids seem forced to take sides.”

“I don’t think Sarah was forcing anything, it was all Evan.”

“You seem to dislike him. How did you work with him for so long?”

“I didn’t know him when I first started on the book. Ghostwriters need work. I got to know him, Bella and Ben over the year I worked with Evan. Anyway, it looks like maybe Ben has switched sides. I can’t imagine how hurt Sarah must be about her son sucking up to Evan now. But I suppose Ben has to think of his future,” she said with a nasty sneer.

Jaymie, taken aback by her tone, said, “What do you mean?”

“Papa holds the purse strings. Evan Nezer is quite possibly the Scroogiest fellow to ever stroll the bedizened streets of Queensville.”

“Maybe he’ll undergo a miraculous ghostly intervention and will embrace Christmas and the Dickens Days festival,” Jaymie said lightly.

“That would take more than visitation from four ghosts, it would take a heart and soul transplant. Not that he has a soul to begin with.” She paused, then with a dark look toward the Nezer property, she added, “Or a heart.”