Peace on Earth Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Peace on Earth

  An Irma Saves Christmas Novella

  Maia Ross

  BECAUSE CRIME NEVER GOES ON HOLIDAY…

  Irma Abercrombie is an eccentric retiree with a mean right hook, a shadowy past, and a profound love of Christmas. Surrounded by seasonal joy—and way too many stuffed Yuletide beavers—at the island house her family has owned for generations, she's all set for the perfect holiday. But when a young friend asks for help with figuring out a financial snafu, her perfect day is in jeopardy. Can Irma—a woman with a yen for strong tea, cardio, and a well-oiled gun—find a thief before the festive season kicks off, or will Christmas be ruined?

  For John

  Chapter One

  In 1967, my mother made me promise not to kill anyone at Christmastime, and so far I’ve managed to keep my word, as long as you don’t count that unfortunate Iceland thing in ‘82. It was New Year’s Day, after all. In many time zones.

  Of course, she never asked me about my work. She was too much of a lady to pry, and it was all classified anyway. But she knew I’d followed our family’s military tradition…sort of. And she was happy for me, as long as I agreed that Christmas was the time of year to focus on family and peace on earth.

  The Christmas music piping through my hifi lingers in the air like the smell of good tea and I sigh happily. I do so love the holidays, the moratorium on death notwithstanding. Mother was a precise woman, one with the very best manners. I like to think I’m a little like her. My island house on Lake Ontario—where I grew up, practically—is now crammed to the rafters with decorations and a ten-foot balsam fir stands in the entrance, branches heavy with ornaments. After Mother and Father died, I carved the house up into apartments, which happily gives me the opportunity to have yet another tree in my flat. The top of that tree is only slightly too big this year, its tip bent over, a stuffed toy beaver wearing a Santa hat trapped between tree top and ceiling, its arms flung out like it’s airborne. Santa Beaver’s facial expression is suitably enthusiastic. Red is everywhere, my favourite colour. There is no way that this Christmas will not be absolutely perfect.

  But then my brow furrows, because either I’m about to receive some mail or someone’s trying to kill me. I’m sitting in my chair by the window, enjoying some mid-morning tea and watching the street, scanning for threats, as one does. That’s how I know there’s a figure trudging up the road, heading into my cul-de-sac. They’re wearing a postal uniform that passes muster from this distance; the hat, the pants, even the satchel are all regulation. There’s just one problem.

  That is not my mailman.

  My mailman is eighty-two, five eleven, and has a limp he picked up in a particularly mean-spirited three-legged race at a harvest festival in 1993. The individual headed my way is short and lean, maybe five one, and has a scarf wrapped around their face. And it isn’t even cold out.

  Adrenaline pulses through me.

  After carefully setting down my great-grandmother’s china cup in its gold-rimmed saucer, I survey my side table and pick up my latest toy, currently nestled on a snowflake doily: a sort of mini-Taser that looks like a pen and has a clip on it you can attach to your clothing. I’m testing it out for an old friend, who calls it a maitai. I slide it up my sleeve for easy access.

  The front door sensor clicks to life with a slightly hysterical beeping. The maybe-imposter is here. I spring to my feet–slower than I used to, but pretty good for seventy-one–and make my way to this once-grand house’s entrance. If no one is trying to kill me, hopefully I’ll be getting some more Christmas cards. So far this year, I’ve only received thirty-six, but it’s only December nineteenth. I should have my usual fifty by Christmas Eve. The thought makes a warm feeling take root inside me. I have to admit that I’m a sucker for sappy holiday correspondence filled with pictures of pets and fat babies in Santa suits, families in matching pyjamas, couples wearing ugly Christmas sweaters. I love it all.

  I open the bulletproof vestibule door and glance at the umbrella stand before opening the front door. There’s a red umbrella with a blade in the handle, but…perhaps the tactical baton would work better?

  The doorbell rings.

  Eh, I have the blade, the maitai, and the ability to kill someone with my thumb. My odds of still being alive an hour from now are excellent.

  I open the door, my face arranged in a pleasant expression, my weight on the balls of my feet in case I need to move quickly.

  “Hello, Mrs. Abercrombie!”

  Oh, goodie. Christmas cards!

  “Good morning, Janie,” I say, all smiles.

  Our relief mailman—mailwoman—stands in my doorway, a fresh dusting of snow on the stairs. I try not to frown. I do so despise not having a clean front step for visitors. Well, no worry, I’ll shovel again. Excellent for the cardiovascular system.

  Janie’s face is flushed from the cold and her smile dimples her cheeks. I feel bad for forgetting about her, for mistaking her for an assassin. She’s new, just been hired, and has never delivered to me before, but I recognize her from the last town newsletter. As far as I’m aware, she has no plans to kill me, which is lovely.

  “Call me Irma, please, dear, you—”

  “Irma,” she whispers, her smile widening. She’s new to the town. A bit like a mouse. Or she might just be afraid of me. I do get that sometimes.

  She hands me the mail and my heart surges. More red envelopes! I smile and she smiles back even wider, her café au lait complexion rosy, her hazel eyes twinkling. Her grin takes up most of her face now; it’s a good sturdy smile for such a petite girl.

  “Thank you.” I take the bulky package, so much mail there’s a rubber band holding it all together. “I’m terribly sorry about the snow, I’ll shovel it immediately. Won’t be here tomorrow.”

  She laughs. It’s nice to hear a young person laugh like that. These days I worry they’re too focused on things that happen on tiny screens; everyone knows that it’s impossible to maintain situational awareness if you’re looking down all the time.

  “It’s no problem, Mrs… Irma. Barely any snow at all.”

  I eye my doorstep skeptically.

  “You should have someone come and take care of it for you. Aren’t you retired now?”

  It’s my turn to laugh. Someone else to do it. My goodness, what a thought.

  She looks emboldened by my laughter. “You know, I can’t quite place your accent.”

  “England.” Along with a few other places.

  “And what are you retired from?” she asks, in that certain way. Somebody from town has been talking about me.

  I tilt my head in the manner I’ve seen other women my age do. I make my lips form a smile. “Government work, dear.” Which is the truth, after all. After seven seconds of tilting I return my head to its normal upright position. “Just like you. Cookie?” I hold out the tray that I keep at the door, nestled on the outstretched arms of a stuffed toy beaver named Mr. Butler. The holiday season is the only time I let sugar invade the house.

  She grins and grabs two shortbreads with royal icing. “Thanks, Irma.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  She looks around the vestibule. “You have a lot of beavers.”

  She’s not wrong. “Can you blame me, dear? This is Beaver Islan
d after all, and beavers are industrious, no-nonsense little critters. They’re also the island’s official mascots. Did you know that?”

  “No,” she says, giggling. “But they’re very nice. And I just love your diorama.” She motions at the boxy sculpture on the table beside Mr. Butler. It’s a recreation of Santa’s workshop, with stuffed beavers instead of elves. And strapped to the undercarriage of the table is my very favourite tactical baton.

  “I can never resist a good diorama,” I say conspiratorially.

  She smiles with her mouth full of cookie and skips down the walkway. I reach for a coat. Time to murder that snow.

  An hour later the walkway has been cleared and I’ve shovelled one of my two cul-de-sac neighbours’ driveways, the slightly crazy one with all the animals. But not the other, who should feel lucky I haven’t buried her in my backyard.

  My nice neighbour’s six cats watched me from inside the house, her geriatric tabby, Frederick, perched on Mr. Pugglesworth’s head, Mr. Pugglesworth being my neighbour’s eternally harassed fawn pug. The neighbourhood is blanketed in snow, crisp and white, and Mrs. Sepp—Estonian expat and cat aficionado—has draped her house in decorations, a huge inflated Santa bobbling in the yard, a menorah in her window. I love it when people are festively prepared. Now I feel invigorated, the blood is pumping through me like clockwork, and I’m just a tiny bit cold.

  Time for tea.

  Mother always believed in good tea, even when I was little. Today I whip up a light chai I found when I was in Sri Lanka in the 70’s, steeping the tea as long as I can stand it. Diesel, that’s what strong tea is called in prison, an island friend who spent sixteen years up the river tells me. Of course, weak tea never did anyone any good, so those jailbirds are on to something.

  I pour myself a huge cup, settle myself in my chair, and pull the rubber band off my bundle with a smile. There are seven new Christmas cards, and I rip them all open with relish. Four are from family back in England, the others from all over. One is from Cousin Sandy, who’s bringing her two teenaged daughters here for Christmas. The last time they came they snuck out the back door after setting the drapes on fire and stayed out all night in the woods at a bush party.

  Lovely girls. Very spirited.

  I finish looking at the rest of the cards. There are updates and newsletters about children, promotions, travels. I work through a pot of tea as I read. Then I shuffle through a few bills, and spy a letter for Bailey Marshall, one of my young friends who lives in the village.

  I sigh.

  Poor thing, her stepmother, Jaydyn, is a monster, a Bentley-driving, designer-wearing parasite with a terrible tennis swing and an overbite. Bailey came to me a year ago, asking if she could have some of her mail delivered to my address because Jaydyn had taken to opening her mail. Bailey is a student at the University of Toronto, and Jaydyn wants her to go to work in the family business instead of going to school. The family business is in shipping labels, but Bailey wants to be a doctor, do some good for the planet.

  With all I’ve seen, protecting those who want to help others is a calling, and now that I’m retired, I keep an eye on things here on the island my family used to spend our holidays and summers on. We have a year-round population of two thousand which swells in the summer with tourists from all over, including Toronto, just two hours away.

  The letter is from a bank. Well, how interesting. I’d almost forgotten Bailey wanted to send her mail here, because up until today, she’s never actually received any, which makes this letter somewhat of a mystery.

  It’s a federal offense to open someone else’s mail, Irma.

  All my life, there have been two Irmas—the good Irma and the bad Irma. Not that I don’t like the bad Irma, she’s my favourite, actually.

  Yes, but information saves lives, one of my mentors used to say.

  That’s certainly true, isn’t it? And I’m not just saying that because I was born with an insatiable curiosity. Which has been a bit of a problem at times, I have to admit.

  The bad Irma rules most of the year, but Christmastime is generally good Irma’s domain. She and I do things this time of year I never normally do, like bake cookies (so much sugar!), have a few good lie-ins, and cook huge breakfasts, the only meal I’ve ever mastered. I skip my usual five-mile ski session, too. Well, sometimes.

  I definitely don’t look at Bailey’s letter. Really, I should put on some skis and head into town anyway. I have some last-minute errands to help get ready for my annual solstice party in two days. And how lucky that Bailey works at the café on Main Street during the holidays and on weekends when she’s back from school. I’ll deliver it.

  But what if it’s bad news? If I knew beforehand, I could soften the blow.

  Nonsense, Good Irma whispers in my ear and I for one am glad she’s finally shown up. She asked you to help her by sending her mail here. That’s it.

  It’s settled then. I finish my last sip and set the cup carefully in its saucer. I’ll drop the letter off and then go for a nice session around the golf course before running the errands I need to take care of. It’s sunny and not too cold, a perfect day for some refreshing exercise. And so I put the cup in the sink and find my very favourite ski outfit.

  Chapter Two

  The countryside is particularly beautiful today and my ski trip into town is delightful. Naturally, I take the long way in. Better for the lungs. Snow is settled over the fields like a blanket, shimmering in the sun. It’s a perfect, almost-Christmas moment. A sense of peace settles over me as my skis shush against the snow.

  I turn onto Main Street, which has been expertly plowed, all the excess snow dumped in the parking lot in the back of the grocery store, away from prying eyes.

  The main street’s façade never fails to put a smile on my face. Old fashioned storefronts in a range of pastels, hand-lettered signs, boutique stores. The street glows with Christmas splendour, and thick Yuletide planters—full of pine stalks, red ribbon, and the occasional fat Santa—line the sidewalks, which are shovelled and neat as a pin. Hallmark Channel-festive.

  I stop in front of the café, spotting a piece of litter some roustabout has dropped. Inside, I fume. I abhor litterers and I have a strong desire to track down whoever has done this and give them a piece of my mind.

  It takes a minute to rein myself in. I’m retired, living a simple island life. Every once in a while I lend a hand to people who have problems, that’s it. I am retired. I try to lean over to pick the litter up and end up with one ski facing one way, the other facing backwards. At some point I realize I look ridiculous, but it’s been my experience that once one enters the ridiculous, the only thing to do is carry on with as much dignity as one can muster.

  Eventually I wrangle the litter, my skis, and my sanity, stamp the snow off my feet, and open the door. The bell tinkles brightly and the smell of sugar washes over me. Bailey is behind the counter, serving cupcakes and Christmas cheer; the pastry she’s currently holding is bigger than Rhode Island. She smiles and waves with her free hand. I wave back and then inspect the wares. I’ve been trying to get Luna, the bakery owner, to stock some healthier options. So far, I have not been persuasive enough and I make a mental note to redouble my efforts after the holidays are over.

  Her customers—an older couple I haven’t seen before—move off and Bailey greets me with, “Hey Irma!”

  I turn my head around as subtly as possible and scan the couple from head to toe. No hidden weapons, no threat.

  “Hello, dear,” I say, turning back around.

  Luna emerges from the back with a tray. “Hi, Irma. I’ve got some blueberry muffins for you. Reduced sugar with whey protein. On the house.” She pulls a muffin out of the glass display case and sets it on a plate. “You can take your break now, Bailey.” Luna is a child of the island; her father was the town postmaster, deceased now. Her mother, Andrea, a good friend of mine, ran the café before suffering a massive stroke last year. Now she’s in a respite home and Luna has taken ov
er the business—at only eighteen, poor thing.

  Luna hands me the plate, her grin taking over most of her face. She’s pleasantly plump, just like Andrea, with pale blue eyes. She used to have long auburn-red hair, but got a pixie cut after her mother’s stroke, probably because she doesn’t have time to deal with it now, bless her heart.

  Bailey picks up the plate, grabs a donut for herself, and leads us to a table. “How are you doing, Irma? Did you break out the skis?”

  I redirect her to my favourite table; in the corner, where I can see all the exits. “I’m wonderful, thank you. Yes, I had a very nice ski over here. Excellent for preventing heart disease.” I thump my chest as daintily as a lady should. Mother always taught me to behave like a lady. Of course, the skills she thought a lady should know were a little unorthodox…

  “I’m honoured you came to visit me.” Bailey grins, her brown eyes flashing. She’s eighteen, like Luna, in the full blush of youth. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a neat ponytail, but when it’s loose, it falls in waves down to the middle of her back. She’s also an island child, but a different kind; her parents are summer people, although they make it a habit to celebrate the holidays here, just like my family always did.

  “It’s my pleasure, dear,” I say demurely. I scan the café and the street outside out of old habit. No current threats. The street is empty, the festive lights and wreaths hanging off the gas streetlights catching the sun perfectly. I sigh happily. “How’s the family doing?”

  Her face doesn’t change, but a muscle in her jaw jumps. “Well, dad is still nose-deep in grading term papers, and my stepmonster is decorating the house like a lunatic. And their spawn is—”

  I clear my throat delicately.

  She squares her shoulders and takes a huge bite of her donut. “I know she’s my half-sis—”

  “Sister. Family is family.”

  That muscle jumps again. “You’re right, I know, it’s just…my stepmother drives me nuts.”