Sleigh Bell Tower (Braxton Campus Mysteries Book 8)

Book summary

In "Sleigh Bell Tower," the quiet town of Wharton County is thrown into turmoil when the prestigious Bell Towers hotel chain plans to construct a new boutique hotel on disputed land. Tensions rise as a shocking murder occurs during a campus holiday party, and Sheriff Montague is faced with a growing list of suspects. Even Kellan, a close friend, must grapple with suspicions about those he knows. Amidst the holiday celebrations, secrets and unexpected drama unfold, all while Kellan is drawn into a mysterious quest set by the enigmatic psychic, Constance Garibaldi.

Excerpt from Sleigh Bell Tower (Braxton Campus Mysteries Book 8)

“What a lush! Code blue, we’ve located a live one in need of a personality transplant. Preferably not a boozy Debbie Downer next time. Should I hire Triple A (AAA) to tidy up another of your infamous disasters, Kellan?” hollered a shrill voice behind me, a voice I knew all too well—one that stiffened my spine like reinforced steel and jabbed my brain with an ice pick.

“Is this the kind of maniacal hullabaloo you moaned about last week when suggesting our family intentionally embarrassed you?” After removing my glasses, I buried my face in both hands and sighed melodramatically, ill-equipped for the imminent torture. A cascade of my dark blond hair splayed across the table, reminding me that a trip to the barber was desperately in order. I should’ve prepared for my grandmother’s onslaught, given today was Friday the thirteenth. At least Nat King Cole’s treasured Yuletide classics crooning through the surround-sound speakers and the pristine evergreen wreaths hanging from the restaurant’s ceiling promised an upbeat and jolly afternoon.

“Yep. Usually it’s your parents, but they’re off gallivanting in London. Who knows if they’ll ever return home!” The boisterous septuagenarian whacked the back of my noggin with her gargantuan straw handbag and plopped her five-foot, less than one-hundred-pound body in the chair opposite me. A myriad of scents—Chanel Number 5, spiced peppermint tea, and freshly baked gingerbread cookies—suddenly enveloped me in a coma-like haze. Nana D proudly wore her favorite power suit, a green wool throwback to the forties, and shiny white pumps bedazzled with festive red bows. Between the outfit and her comical henna-rinsed hair, she resembled a child’s walking, talking Christmas present that unfortunately lacked an accessible off button.

I stared, uncertain what magical words prevented another head-rearranging smack, praying she was merely a grotesque figment of my imagination. Upon summoning the strength to respond, I barely blurted out a reluctant greeting before another disturbance entered our wackadoodle fighting ring.

With impressive timing, Karen Stoddard, the charming yet high-maintenance proprietress of Simply Stoddard, one of Braxton’s elegant eateries on the banks of the Finnulia River, strolled past our table and hummed vociferously to the jaunty tunes. “Good tidings, Mayor. You look positively dashing in your classic, and might I add… holiday appropriate… couture. Why has Kellan sadly forgotten to lean into the jubilant spirit?”

“I’m not wearing that ugly Christmas sweater she sent me. There’s nothing wrong with khakis and a black button-down shirt. Are you saying my outfit doesn’t meet your criteria for unrestrained merriment? How utterly inconsiderate and offensive,” I teased in a mocking tone à la an uptight society matron. “Besides, Christmas colors do zip for my pale complexion, so I stuck with a traditional wardrobe.”

Several picks of red and white flowers adorned Karen’s head and ears, and her satiny elf-like costume sparkled so brightly it caused temporary blindness. Nana D snagged her arm, scrutinizing the woman’s severe bob, which practically glowed with an unnatural shade of green. “Oh, dear… be a love and bring me one of whatever he’s having, please. Cute hairdo. It’s ultra-chic. Youthful. And tell your lovable husband that the Christmas lunch he catered for my office party was scrumptious. Doug is a genius with pastry dough!”

Before I could object to Nana D’s hypocrisy about day-drinking, weigh in on either diva’s striking hair color, or explain why I was imbibing a cocktail at one o’clock on a Friday afternoon, Karen swiveled her body to study my near-empty glass with an additional round of punitive judgment. “Kellan, your waitress just dropped off that Peppy Schnappy Blast. You need another already? Yeesh!”

I groaned. Loud enough that a bickering couple near our table intermittently stopped their baleful argument and cocked their necks in our direction. Given a neighboring column’s angle and several strategically placed oversized decorations, I couldn’t make out their expressions. “First, what I drink—”

“Pish! I blame myself, Karen. He was such a whiny baby. I rubbed too much whiskey on his gums. Got a taste for the hard candy early on.” Nana D snatched my glass and sucked the remnants of my only remaining salvation through a disintegrating straw. Within seconds, she soured her lips, clutched her forehead, and squealed like a cranky child. “One, I despise paper straws even though I want to support the environment. Two, that’s a girly drink for weaklings with no chutzpah. Three, I’ve got brain freeze. And four… well, never mind… I’ve already forgotten my most crucial point. I’ll take a proper Old Fashioned with two cherries. Put it on his tab too. Teach the baby a lesson to grow a pair of—”

“Now, now… Mayor Danby,” Karen interrupted, curling her arm around my tensed shoulders. “Kellan can’t help himself. Who are we to mock his taste in afternoon tipples? It’s been a mega-popular menu item lately.” She explained that the Peppy Schnappy Blast, a signature cocktail her daughter had created for the month of December, was earning rave reviews from local critics.

I clarified its ingredients for my grandmother. “Two parts vodka, two parts peppermint schnapps, and one part vanilla-flavored almond milk. It’s served in a chilled martini glass, then topped with a tower of whipped cream, bits of crumbled candy canes, shaved dark chocolate, and a frozen cherry.”

After boasting to Nana D that her daughter, Sierra, would sit for the bar exam upon returning from London next spring, Karen refocused on me. With more of her trademark sass, she inquired, “So, that’s an affirmative on the chick drink, right, professor?” Hastily, she exited as I grimaced and bobbed my head in slow motion. Even her pointy elfin shoes had jingle bells fastened to them.

“If I hadn’t needed it before the Grim Reaper arrived, I definitely do now.” While one hand massaged my right temple, the other scooped a fistful of salted almonds from a snowman-shaped bowl in the middle of the table. “To clarify, Triple A (AAA) services cars. You meant AA, which stands for Alcoholics Anonymous. Of which I am not a member because I do not have a drinking problem. I’m celebrating. What’s. Wrong. With. That?”

Nana D snorted and sank further into her chair, tenderly patting my hand. “I know the difference, you foolish ninny. I meant Triple A because if you consume another froufrou drink, you’ll wrap your car around a tree and need someone to rescue you from embodying the role of stupid and helpless victim number one in the horror film that is your life. What are you commemorating? Who did something positive for a change? And why didn’t you invite me?”

I debated a range of responses, ultimately rationalizing the benefits of defending myself. “The fall semester just finished. I turned in all my students’ grades and drafted a final report for the Dragon Lady. Now, I’m on a break for three-and-a-half weeks. Anything else, Grand Inquisitor?”

“Must be nice only working part time. No wonder Myriam Castle is always riding your rump. And you call yourself a sensible role model for today’s youth?” Nana D sheeshed me, then gleefully switched her cell phone to silent mode. “If the public needs me, they can send out smoke signals. I’m borrowing a leaf from your tree and getting rip-roaring sloshed this afternoon.”

Arguing with the woman was futile, as were her strange idioms. She knew I spent more hours working as a professor each semester than most people regularly put in over the course of a year. On top of that, I still retained a consulting role where I advised a television network on the Dark Reality true-crime series. After returning to Wharton County, Pennsylvania two years ago, I’d relinquished my primary job as the show’s director and passed the baton to a good friend, Lara Bouvier. My grandmother, on the other hand, continued to run a profitable organic farm, serve as the mayor of our fine county, and make it her business to know everyone else’s business. Where she found the energy baffled us all.

“True. I am uber lazy.” I rolled my baby blue eyes with unbridled enthusiasm and scratched at my squared chin. Apparently, my face was urgently in need of a shave too. “I ordered a drink because some snafu delayed April for thirty minutes. We intended to eat lunch together, but now she might not make it, period. Or she might be ticked off because I arranged ski plans for tomorrow without asking if she were free.” April Montague, my headstrong and industrious girlfriend, proudly functioned as Wharton County’s esteemed sheriff. She was late because a police cruiser had reported a burglary in progress in Lakeview, one of four towns in her jurisdiction.

“Ah! Troubles with your precious pretty princess, huh? My poor grandson… you cohabitated too quickly. I know the ways of the world have changed, but in my day living together before marriage was a mortal sin.” Nana D spelled out the word mortal and shook her head unremittingly, adding in a few tsk tsk sounds for dramatic effect. “And you’re not even engaged. Much, much worse. I’ll have to donate your Christmas gifts to the church.” As the waitress dropped off my grandmother’s Old Fashioned and my infamous girly drink, Nana D chortled again. “I’m messing with you, brilliant one. You know you’re my favorite person in the entire world.”

“And you are mine.” I sincerely meant the words too, despite how she drove anyone with a pulse to commit acts of insanity. Nana D and I unarguably shared a special relationship. Although I loved my parents and siblings, she was the one family member I always turned to, no matter the situation. She understood me at my core, and no matter how much grief my grandmother thrust in my direction, she would give up her own life to protect me from anything and anyone. I raised my glass to hers, their raucous clink shivering the skins of my teeth, and offered a toast. “To Christmas, which is less than two weeks away. Longer than Hanukkah, another holiday I’m celebrating these days. That’s a lot of gaiety to deal with in one month.”

Nana D sighed as she swallowed her first sip. “I know zippo about menorahs, bar mitzvahs, and sitting shiva, but since April is Jewish, it’s only fair you partake in each other’s traditions. Will you play an extra naughty game of spin the dreidel for eight straight nights?”

An entire mouthful of Peppy Schnappy Blast burst from my lips, some of it landing in the bowl of nuts and the rest on her rosy cheeks. Had she really asked me that question? “I will not answer you. Mind your own business, old woman! Tell me again, why are you here?”

After a recent close call with death, I’d realized how much I loved April and wanted to spend all my days and nights with her. Given we’d only been dating for a year, too soon to consider marriage, we opted to rent out her house through Airbnb. She and her younger brother, Augie, a freshman at Braxton College, now shared my place with my eight-year-old daughter, Emma, and sixteen-year-old cousin, Ulan. I’d become Ulan’s official guardian when his father, my Uncle Zach, was murdered last spring. Since school was currently on break for all three of the kids, we’d have a houseful for several weeks. As a result, spinning the dreidel would be a difficult activity to allocate time for!

Nana D wiped her cheeks and waggled her uncannily thin eyebrows in jest. “I don’t want to hear the dirty details about the nooky. I simply want to know it’s happening. Merely looking forward to more great-grandchildren soon.”

Although my two older siblings, Hampton and Penelope, each boasted several kids, I only had Emma. My two younger siblings, Gabriel and Eleanor, weren’t parents—yet. “First, April and I haven’t finished our discussions about future procreation. It’s not off the table, but we’re in our mid-thirties and not planning to marry soon. Second, you’re about to welcome a new great-grandchild in one month.”

“That was quite the shocker, eh?” Nana D gulped more of her Old Fashioned and curiously wiggled several fingers at someone behind me. “Who would’ve thought Eleanor could marry and pop out a baby all in the same year? That girl deserves every blessing and then some… she’s behaved herself, unlike most people I know.” Her beady eyes cast a brutal hint of scorn in my direction.

My sister had surprised us last May with a secret marriage to her fiancé, Manny Salvado. After several maddening conversations about the engagement and wedding details with our mother, Eleanor eloped one weekend. We adored Manny, an El Salvadoran immigrant who’d originally been her chef at the Pick-Me-Up Diner, and eagerly welcomed him into the family. At the reception we threw one month after learning about the clandestine nuptials, Eleanor announced she was pregnant and due in January. I’d teased her for weeks about the gunshot wedding, but she swore they’d waited until their marriage was official, citing bad karma and reputations to uphold. Apparently, April and I hadn’t cared enough about our own luck or community repute!

“Monumental year for her. Emma can’t wait to meet her new cousin,” I proclaimed as a debonair gray-haired man around my father’s age approached our table. I recognized his profile but couldn’t pinpoint the reason.

Nana D stood, grasping her cocktail like it held the elixir of life, and finally deigned to answer my previous question. “Ah, this clown is why I am here. A business meeting. I’ll call you later, brilliant one.”

Ignoring her blow-off, I turned to the man and introduced myself. “Greetings. I’m Kellan Ayrwick, her grandson. Are you from Braxton, sir? You look extraordinarily familiar.” Was Nana D secretly on a date? He was younger than her seventy-six years, but with all the age-defying procedures and Botox options available, I never knew anymore. My grandpop had passed away well over a decade ago, and Nana D had only gone on a few dates since then. Nothing serious from what I understood.

The man reached an overly suntanned hand in my direction, firmly shaking mine as he announced himself in an authoritarian and orotund voice. “No, camping in the town. I’m Porter Lynch. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ayrwick. Mayor Danby and I are discussing a business proposal over lunch.” Porter stood a few inches taller than my five-nine stature, donning a classic navy-blue business suit, light pink shirt, and heather gray tie. “You’ve undoubtedly heard of my hotel chain, Bell Towers? We’re constructing the pièce de résistance in Wharton County after the winter season.”

“That’s not a signed deal, Porter. At least not yet. We have much to discuss before the end-of-year deadline.” Nana D pretended to kiss my cheek, then whispered into my ear, “He wants tax breaks in exchange for generous donations. I’ll fill you in later. Come by for a proper tea at the office.”

“I’ll probably call instead. Lots going on tonight. Good luck with your negotiations.” As they meandered toward their table, I recalled where I’d previously seen him. Porter Lynch’s picture had appeared in the local paper, regaling his substantial bequests to Braxton College. He’d provided the final endowment that allowed us to convert the school into a university, which would happen in January with the new term. We’d originally hoped to complete the conversion during the semester that recently ended, but after the debacle with last spring’s art show and the subsequent murder investigation, we’d delayed the process. When reopening in January, we would offer three new graduate degrees, including a hospitality track in our MBA program. Porter’s upcoming two-day seminar on hotel chain management must’ve been the impetus for his descent upon our town.