Penelope and
The Christmas Spirit
By Ron D. Voigts
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Published by Ron D. Voigts on Smashwords
Penelope and
The Christmas Spirit
Copyright © 2011 by Ron D. Voigts
Smashwords Edition Notes
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-Book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover Credits
Image courtesy of Nicholas Allen Moore & iStockphoto, http://www.istockphoto.com.
Design by Joleene Naylor, http://www.JoleeneNaylor.com.
Other Books by Ron D. Voigts
PENELOPE AND THE BIRTHDAY CURSE, available in ebook and paperback at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and other book sellers on the Internet.
PENELOPE AND THE GHOST’S TREASURE, available in ebook and paperback at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and other book sellers on the Internet.
PENELOPE AND THE MOVIE STAR, due out in the spring of 2012. Watch for it!
For more information and to keep up with what’s happening to Penelope check out…
http://www.penelopemystery.com
http://rondvoigts.blogspot.com
http://www.facebook.com/penelopemystery
Dedication
To my friends who have supported me in bringing Penelope to the world.
Thanks to Joleene, Tony, Gary, Rick, Erin and Jeannine.
PENELOPE AND
THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT
By
Ron D. Voigts
Sometime in the past…
“Why people put such an effort into a ridiculous holiday is beyond me,” Mother said, punctuating her comment with a humph.
Penelope let the words slide through her brain like flat sole shoes on a patch of ice. To keep the discussion at a minimum she answered, “Absolutely absurd.”
Mother continued to bemoan the Christmas decorations on Main Street in downtown Dillwood, while Penelope watched with her face pressed against the glass of the car’s side window. Wreaths with bows and sprigs of holly hung from lampposts. A Santa Claus stood by a red bucket and rang a bell. A woman strutted down the sidewalk, carrying an armful of gaily-wrapped packages. In the twelve years of Penelope’s life, her family had never celebrated Christmas.
They parked in front of The Stationary Stop where Mother bought supplies for writing her books. She had written seven novels of the Old American West under the pen name of Buck Gist. While she shopped, Penelope lingered by a display of Christmas cards.
Some showed pictures of St. Nick making a list, working with elves, and having milk and cookies. Others displayed scenes of churches, villages and quaint houses covered in snow. One particular card caught her attention. A simple scene of a bird standing on a mailbox poking out of the snow with the words SEASONS GREETINGS.
Mother returned with a brown paper sack containing various writing supplies, such as pens, paper and chewing gum. Penelope stepped in front of her and held up the card with the bird. “We should send out some cards just to show our friends that the Amour family honors their pagan traditions.”
Mother sidestepped Penelope. “You have a droll sense of humor like your father.”
Penelope followed Mother out the store, remaining a few steps behind. “As part of my education, you and Father have taught me various cultural traditions. Saint Patrick’s Day. Valentine’s Day. The Summer Solstice. But Christmas we ignore.”
“I do not understand this strange fascination with a silly holiday wrought with fantasy and artificial gaiety.” Mother opened the car door. “Now let’s go.”
Silence gripped the trip home as Penelope contemplated what celebrating Christmas would be like and how she could sway Mother’s thinking. Penelope didn’t want much. Perhaps some festively decorated cookies in the shapes of stars and bells. Maybe sing a few carols that ended in fa-la-la-la-lah. And a gift on Christmas morning wrapped in green paper with a red bow was not asking for too much. She didn’t even care what was inside.
As they headed down Highway 72, Penelope spotted a white truck parked in front of the old Compton house about a half mile down the road from where Penelope and her parents lived. She had been friends with Melissa Compton until the family moved away a year ago, and since then the house had been empty.
“Stop the car,” Penelope said.
“What?” Mother replied without any noticeable reduction in speed.
Knowing she needed to do something dramatic to get Mother’s attention, she shrieked, “You’re going to hit it.”
Eeerrppp! The brakes squealed. Mother had both feet on the pedal as the car painted rubber streaks on the concrete pavement. When the car finally halted, Mother said, “What on earth is wrong?”
Penelope took a deep breath. “It’s gone now.”
Mother stared a moment at the road ahead and shook her head. “You really need to find ways to control your overactive imagination.”
With the car now stopped. Penelope looked out the side window. “Someone is moving into the old Compton house.”
Mother cleared her throat. “Yes, dear, that sometimes happens with empty houses that are for sale.”
“Can I go and look? Maybe they have someone about my age.”
Mother gave a deep sigh like air escaping a punctured tire. “Very well, but not too long. I will meet you back home.”
Penelope leaped out and hollered, “I won’t be long.”
“Remember, your father has a family meeting planned. So don’t dally,” Mother shouted.
+ + + +
A sign on the side of the truck read NORTH STAR MOVING COMPANY, WE MOVE ANYTHING. Two men had just opened the truck’s back doors and put out a ramp to the front porch.
“Is someone moving in?” Penelope asked, breathless.
The older man with a scruffy beard and a pipe poking from his lips laughed. “That’s why they call us a moving company.”
The short man with a bowler hat pulled tight to his ears nodded. “They move in and they move out. Better stand back, kid.”
Penelope stood her ground. “Are the people here yet? Do they have kids? Did they buy or rent?”
Scruffy beard man shook his head. “We move stuff, not people.”
Short man scratched his shoulder and stared at Penelope, eye-to-eye. “Best thing to do is stay out of the way.”
Penelope was short, under five feet tall, and the short man was at least an inch shorter than she was. She pulled her stocking cap snugger to her head. “I can watch if I want to.”
“Let her stay,” scruffy beard man said.
“Okay.” Short man shrugged and waved his finger in her face. “Just don’t bother us.”
She stepped back and watched. The men had a key and unlocked the front door. They returned to the truck and made booming noises inside. Soon they came out carrying a fully decorated Christmas tree with garland, red and blue ornaments, and a silver angel on top.
“You deliver Christmas trees?”
“We move anything, kid,” scruffy beard man said.
“Just let us do our job and quit jabbering,” short man said.
Next a floor lamp with a stained glass shade in red and blue and green came out. Penelope wanted to ask, but kept quiet. A plush armchair upholstered in red leather exited the truck next and disappeared inside.
The men came out, pushed the ramp back into the truck and closed the doors. Scruffy beard man locked the door to the house. Short man scratched his hip.
“Is that all?” Penelope asked. “No bed? No kitchen table? Nothing else?”
Scruffy beard man nodded. “That’s all.”
“Yeah, we only move what we’re told to move.” Short man rubbed his chin.
The men boarded the truck and drove off.
Penelope stepped onto the porch and peeked into the front windows. The Christmas tree stood in one corner of the room and the armchair and lamp in the other. Otherwise the place was as empty as it had been after the Compton family had moved out.
+ + + +
Father cleared his throat, while inspecting his pocket watch with the lid popped open. “I’m sure the President of the United States doesn’t have this much trouble getting his cabinet meetings underway.”
Her father, the inventor and renowned adventurer, kept his life systematic and rigid. Shoes shined. Three-piece suit pressed. His waxed handlebar mustache came to perfect curls at the ends.