Murder in the Mix Boxed Set 28-30: Cozy Mystery Addison Moore (the reading strategies book .txt) 📖

“Wait a minute,” I snap, giving Carlotta the stink eye. “That is all your fault, Carlotta!”

One hundred percent gospel. If Carlotta would stop calling the dead her emotional support animals, Evie wouldn’t have been dragged into this supernatural mess to begin with.

“All right, fine.” Carlotta sticks her tongue out at me before shifting her cranky eyes to Evie. “That was me, kiddo. Kringle is just a big, fat figment of my imagination.”

Kringle’s aura turns red as a fire engine. “Who you calling fat, lady?”

Carlotta snaps her neck his way.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and I can’t help but roll my eyes.

“Carlotta,” Evie moans. “You mean this whole thing is nothing but a foray into your lively yet slightly demented imagination?”

I nod her way. “I knew you were insightful.”

Carlotta makes a face. “And heavily influenced by this one.” She hitches her thumb my way. “Now get, Evie. It’s late, and you’ve got your first day of Christmas break tomorrow. I want to see you sleeping in until noon and not rolling out of bed one minute earlier.”

“Fine.” Evie gives us both a hug. “Night, Pancake. Night, Waffles,” she says as she stomps toward the hall. “Night, Kringle—even though you’re just a figment of Carlotta’s crazy imagination.”

Kringle huffs. “You’re a figment of Carlotta’s crazy imagination,” he shouts right back while pumping a fist in the air. With his chunky cheeks and bowl full of jelly belly, he’s ridiculously adorable, and it completely counteracts his ability to look angry. He’s unstoppably cute in every way. “I’m real!” he riots, zipping through the air after her. “As real as that guy standing in the corner.” He points to the right of the door, and both Carlotta and I swing our heads in that direction.

No sooner does Evie slam her door than Carlotta pulls me to the floor in front of the fireplace.

“Quick, Lot, criss-cross applesauce.” She sinks a candle between us, and Kringle hops down and dances on the flame.

“So romantic,” Kringle coos.

“You bet your pudgy patootie,” Carlotta chimes. “Now get over here, my sweet, sexy Elm—you gorgeous ghost—you stately specter—you strong, virile, well-dressed spook. It’s time we had a little powwow with my baby girl Lot Lot. She’s a lean, mean supersensual machine. And I’m thinking maybe she might be able to help you with your problem.”

“Problem?” My eyes widen as I look to Carlotta. “Please tell me this little problem has nothing to do with what happened between the two of you in the bedroom.”

Carlotta swats me on the wrist. “Don’t you know better than to bring up the size of a man’s ego when he’s in the room? And calling it little? It’s the ultimate low blow.”

“What? I was not—”

Before I can finish, a blast of air hits us, and my hair blows back from the velocity of the wind.

And just like that, the man from the portrait is hovering over us—or more to the point, his ghost is. He’s tall, strapping, his face is glowing, and yet his eyes and nose are lost in strange shadows. He’s handsome in a wicked way, about Carlotta’s age, and if I’m not mistaken, he looks irrefutably angry.

He growls over at the two of us, and every hair on my head stands up.

Kringle whimpers, “He’s a monster!” He scampers off until he’s latched onto Pancake’s back and sends my sweet cats both running around the room in a tizzy, screeching at the top of their lungs.

“Carlotta?” I whisper as loud as I can over the noise of the cats. “What did you do to anger this man? Why do I get the feeling that little problem he has is you?”

“It’s not me, Lot Lot. And his problem isn’t little. The problem is that he doesn’t have use of his vocal cords. All he does is grunt and moan.”

“I don’t see the problem. He sounds exactly like your type.”

The surly specter roars with anger, and my hair blows back again from the sheer velocity of air he’s able to displace.

“What’s with the hurricane force gales?” I shout up at him without meaning to. I can’t help it. The cats are hissing and yowling at the top of their tiny lungs, and Kringle is screaming like a three-year-old girl.

The ghostly man’s eyes light up like a pair of white flames as he roars like a lion, and both Pancake and Waffles roar right along with him—in fright, as their fur stands on end. The wind picks up as vases, placemats, and throw pillows alike are getting sucked into the vortex and spinning toward the ceiling.

“Make it stop, Carlotta!” I shout once again.

“No can do, Lot Lot,” she shouts back. “That man wants something, and he wants it now.”

“Well, then take him into the bedroom and give it to him!” I shrill.

As if the rushing wind and the magnified grumbles and rumbles from this freak of ghostly nature himself wasn’t enough, the room explodes with flashes of lightning and peals of thunder as a bona fide storm system seems to be taking over my living room. A thick coat of dark clouds blooms across the ceiling, and my jaw roots to the floor as I witness the supernatural wonder.

“Okay, mister, you win,” I shout as he zooms in close, hovering over Carlotta and me as if he were floating in a swimming pool. “What do you want?”

The handsome man with the dark hair shakes his head. He opens his mouth, but the only thing that comes from it is an unearthly moan until he clutches at his throat.

“Told you so, Lot.” Carlotta bumps her knee to mine. “The man’s got no voice. How are we supposed to know what he wants to say?”

Kringle hops into Carlotta’s lap. “Who cares what this menace has to say? He certainly doesn’t care about keeping the peace. Get rid of him. Unless he’s here to help solve my poor Gloria’s case, he has no business