Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 29000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
And I don’t want to try.
I just want to get my hands on that stupid peg leg and hurl it into the closest fire. If I can make this ridiculous town even a fraction less ridiculous before I leave, then my time here won’t have been in vain.
“I’ll see you later this evening,” I say softly. “If the chauffeur doesn’t feel safe making the drive, don’t worry about the car. I’ll take care of myself. I always do.”
I turn and walk away, ignoring the sound of Elliot calling my name behind me. Soon, I’m crossing the bridge, where the water rushing over the wheels of the old mill drowns out all other sound. The river is frozen at the edges but flowing freely elsewhere. Old Man Winter is still playing his cards close to his vest.
As I make my way through the shadowy cemetery—the stones barely visible in the soft glow of the holiday lights from the building atop of the hill—there are only a few inches of snow on the ground, and the sleet hasn’t yet had a chance to accumulate.
I have plenty of time to get up to the town hall, climb in through an unlocked window, confiscate the captain’s termite-infested leg from the display case, and burn it in the lobby fireplace.
I have no doubt I’ll find an open window.
That’s the thing about small towns like Jingle Bell Junction—they’re full of trusting people who don’t see trouble coming until it’s too late.
Just like the Whos down in Who-ville…
I realize I’m making Elliot’s Grinch joke a reality, but that doesn’t stop me. After all, I’m not stealing children’s presents. I’m ridding this town of an obscene eyesore. If the people of Jingle Hell had a single functional brain cell between them, they’d thank me for my service.
I won’t hold my breath on that, of course…
Not from people happy to worship at the altar of Kathy’s Kountry Store.
I circle the historic building, pushing at the bottom of each window until one slides up with a soft groan. I’m about to pull myself up on the ledge and climb in, when on impulse I mount the steps leading to the rear entrance and reach for the doorknob.
It turns easily in my hand, swinging open without so much as a squeak of protest, let alone the blare of an alarm.
With a jaded grunt and a sliver of pity for the poor trusting country bumpkins running this town, I step inside, closing the door behind me.
I start down the hallway toward the “museum” in the front room, where the leg is on display the eleven months of the year it isn’t giving the middle finger to the town square. There’s enough illumination streaming through the windows from the outdoor lights to find my way, and I don’t want to risk attracting attention by lighting up town hall after hours.
Plus, it’s kind of enjoyable, skulking through the shadows…
I’m a hard no on “frolicking,” but skulking?
I could get into this.
I creep down the hall and slip into the museum space, weaving my way through display cases containing the scintillating artifacts of Jingle Bell Junction’s history, including Captain Herbert’s taxidermied parrot, Susie Pie’s 1961 National Spelling Bee Grand Champion photo, and a newspaper article chronicling that one time an escaped convict from the state prison holed up in Old Man Jenkins’ cellar for three weeks.
Then there it is—the peg leg.
Ole’ Stiffy.
Opening the case, I grimace as I reach in and grab the piece of wood. Maybe I haven’t consumed enough eggnog for this little life detour into memorabilia theft because I’m starting to doubt this plan.
But I’ve never backed down from a goal, and this is a big one: Destroy bizarre and unfortunate Christmas tree topper ASAP.
I just hope it doesn’t smell…
I lift it to my nose, catching a whiff of old wood and the mothballs used to keep the stuffed parrot safe from infestation.
Not too bad really. And it smells dry.
Flammable…
Firm grip on the prize peg, I’m about to retreat to the lobby fireplace when a light beam bounces off the window in front of me. Without thinking, I spin, clutching the wooden leg like a club, prepared to defend myself from a violent intruder or a busybody neighbor—both equally frightening propositions.
It’s neither.
It’s a pint-sized woman in a reindeer costume, complete with giant antlers and a fake red nose.
As she runs her flashlight over me, I lower the leg and wrack my brain for a plausible explanation for what I’m doing.
She speaks before I can, asking in an amused voice. “Is that Captain Herbert’s peg leg or are you just happy to see me?”
I glance down at the giant piece of wood in my hands, currently positioned in front of my crotch.
I glance back up at her, jerking the leg to my side with a grunt.