Hysteria at the Historical Society

Book 3: Halloween Bookshop Mystery

by Emmeline Duncan

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Mystery

Synopsis

Celebrating spookiness is a year-round affair in the Halloween-themed town of Elyan Hollow, Oregon, but Christmas is a close second, and for Bailey Briggs’ Lazy Bones Bookshop, it’s extra hectic—especially when holiday festivities turn fatal . . .

When it comes to adding a touch of Halloween to Christmas, Elyan Hollow is in peak form. Downtown sports Nightmare Before Christmas decorations, and activities include a “Santa Claws” sasquatch game. And this year, there’s something else to celebrate: The Elyan Hollow Historical Society has just received a Historical Preservation grant to map out the town’s tunnel systems. Jude, their director, is thrilled. But Graham, the leader of the competing historical society, not so much . . .

At the Society’s winter holiday reception, Jude argues loudly with Graham and Graham’s second in command, Walter, a local attorney. As the pair is “escorted” out, Walter threatens ruinous revenge. Their arguing continues a few days later at a party in an escape room. But this time, there’s no escape for Walter, who collapses . . . dead.

Jude is the obvious suspect, but Bailey soon realizes that despite his lawyerly good deeds, there were others on the outs with Walter—and there are other targets as well. Fortunately, Bailey can use several upcoming Christmas parties as fact-finding missions. Because she’ll have to map a trail to a killer—before she’s history . . .

Release date: August 25, 2026

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 224

Sample

I sang quietly to myself as I entered the taproom. “Deck the halls with Sasquatch Santas.” Jack, sauntering beside me in his best plaid bandana, ignored my questionable attempt at caroling.

Jack is more intelligent than most, which might be due to his Great Pyrenees genes.

I spend my free time running and, in the summer at least, paddleboarding, with some weight lifting, swimming, and yoga mixed in, not to mention multiple daily dog walks. But I’m not training for anything specific. Although I occasionally sign up for a race or triathlon, even I don’t enjoy competing. But maybe I’ve been looking at this from the wrong angle. Because all of the workouts I’ve banked in the past year will hopefully get me through the upcoming holiday season. Anyone who has ever worked retail during the holiday seasons knows it’s a mix of energy fluctuating between panic and chaos, pockets of heartwarming holiday cheer, and sometimes the occasional moment of wondering how your life choices led you to this exact, awkward moment in time. Usually, when a customer asks for something I can’t provide or demands an answer to a question outside my knowledge base. Like, which book should they buy their daughter-in-law? And no, they don’t like my first ten suggestions. Don’t I have something better?

There’s a proverb about retail that is always misquoted. It’s usually truncated to “the customer is always right,” omitting the key second half of the sentence: “when it comes to matters of taste.” This is my key belief as a bookseller, and the standard I hopefully set as the owner of the Lazy Bones Bookshop: people should read whatever they love, regardless of anyone else’s opinion.

Black Friday was exactly one week away, which meant that Thanksgiving was six days away. The Elyan Mortuary & Deli Bottle Shop taproom was already decked out for the holiday season, with strands of twinkle lights, dozens of handmade garlands of beer caps, and two wreaths made with traditional greenery. But my eyes searched for the hidden Sasquatch, which was peeking out from behind a locally grown pine tree with beer-themed ornaments. The Sasquatch wore a Santa hat and an ugly Christmas sweater. This was one of the Santa Paws, but not the elusive Santa Paw everyone was hunting for. I knew this because I’d been on the committee that had set up this year’s Santa Paws hunt, and we’d mapped out the locations for all of the Sasquatches.

But finding this Santa Paw was still a coup. Participants in the game could take a photo with this Santa, upload it online to enter a raffle. If they found the Santa Paw, they could be entered into yet another giveaway, and if they found all the festive Sasquatches, they could be entered in yet another raffle. There were different contests for adults, teens, and children, all with prizes donated by local businesses. I love seeing my bookshop tagged in Santa Paws social media posts. My shop didn’t have the most elusive Sasquatch, either.

After picking up a can of sparkling water from the bartender on duty, I slid into a seat at a table in the corner, with Jack alongside me. He sat on the floor, eyeing the half-full room.

I enjoyed the moment of almost solitude. Halloween is always the busiest in Elyan Hollow, and this past year had been even more hectic than usual for me, as my friend had gotten married in town during the Spooky Season. When November hit, I’d taken a brief break during the first week, but then started gearing up for the winter holiday season. I, or rather the Lazy Bones Bookshop, was launching our first Halloween-themed Advent calendar. I’d partnered with a local chocolatier who made book-themed truffles. Last spring, I spent a few days listening to holiday carols to get into the mood to draw Christmas images with a touch of Halloween flair each day, paired with bookish puns. If sales went well, we were going to make a similar calendar in the lead-up to Halloween next year and another for Christmas. The calendars were ready, and several of my booksellers and I had spent the day packing pre-orders of them to ship before Black Friday descended upon us. I’d dropped them off at the post office right before it closed, humming “Eye of the Tiger,” telling myself to appreciate this moment of triumph.

Hmm, I’d been singing an awful lot today.

I’d also worked with the artist to put together seasonal chocolates to sell at Lazy Bone Books during the holiday season. A book and truffles make the perfect gift, after all.

Ash, the owner of the taproom, which despite its name was neither a mortuary nor a deli, plopped down at my table. She carefully placed a stuffed decoration on the table.

“Is that Emmet Otter?” I asked.

“Yep, Lark made it for me. I might create an entire Emmet Otter’s Jug-Band Christmas display, although I’d prefer to feature the River-bottom Nightmare Band.”

“Isn’t the band just called The Nightmare?” I picked up the felted otter, which was dressed in a dark blue coat, with a red scarf holding his hat securely to his head. Lark, owner of the local yarn shop, was a world-class crafter.

“Whatever. They’re still mistakenly seen as the villains of the film.”

“Then who is the real villain?” I asked.

“The society that made the Otters so destitute that the only way they could fathom buying Christmas gifts for each other was to Gift of the Magi themselves into a potentially worse situation by destroying the tools of their livelihood to enter a singing contest.” Ash’s face had an uncharacteristic frown.

“I take it you’re not having a good day?”

Ash groaned. “I shouldn’t complain, I’m just annoyed with everything. I tapped a new beer, but the keg was off, and it tasted like Band-Aids—”

“You know what Band-Aids taste like?” I couldn’t resist the quip.

“—so the brewery probably used contaminated yeast. I called my distributor to complain, because I really don’t want to eat the cost of an undrinkable keg. And you know Dryer, one of my bartenders? They just quit with no notice, which wouldn’t be that big of a deal, ’cause they were my worst bartender, but the timing sucks.”

“I’m sorry.”

Colby, aka my best friend and youth librarian at our local library, walked up. But before she could say hi to me, she had to crouch to greet Jack. They held a whispered conversation. Meaning, Colby whispered something to Jack, and he looked back solemnly.

When their conversation was over, Colby looked at me. “I need a burrito, stat.”

“On it. You need any food, Ash?” I asked, since it was my turn to buy for Colby and me, and given Ash’s day, I was happy to buy her dinner. I scanned the QR code at the table and placed our order from Boorito, aka the food cart, that lived in the backyard patio of the taproom. “How are rehearsals?”

Colby shook her head. “I can’t believe I got roped into this year’s holiday play.”

The Elyan Hollow’s community theater, called That’s the Spirit, performed a holiday play each December. They’d broken away from their usual rotation of classic plays to perform a Sherlock Holmes adaptation of A Christmas Carol, called A Sherlock Carol.

“How many roles are you playing?” I asked.

“Too many. It’s the curse of being tall.”

“And not enough men auditioning,” I said. My friend is on the taller side, with a sturdy build. The director of the play had seen her, and her commanding presence, and assigned her multiple parts in the play. Which was how the play was normally presented, with multiple actors playing multiple parts.

“You should’ve auditioned. The role of the former Baker Street Irregular would’ve been perfect for you,” Colby said.

“Like I don’t have enough going on for the next six weeks.” The image of my December calendar flashed through my head. I might need to schedule time to breathe.

“You could’ve said no to the Christmas market,” Colby said.

“But it’s going to be brilliant,” I said. For years, a weekend holiday bazaar had been held in the local grange hall, and it highlighted local artists and crafters. But the newish organizer had decided to aim higher and put together a Christmas market in the Pumpkin Plaza, aka the heart of Elyan Hollow’s downtown. We’d be open Friday nights and the weekends from Black Friday through Christmas Eve. It was going to be fantastic.

And it might be the item on my to-do list that shifted my schedule from doable to overloaded. But my booksellers were going to help out, and hey, I could sleep again after New Year’s.

“No Hayes tonight?” I asked. Colby’s husband was in town and would be around through the holiday season instead of traveling for work.

“He took the evening off from helping at the theater and headed into Portland for Hayes reasons. I suspect he’s meeting up with a few friends at the gaming brewpub.”

Hayes being home might have kept me from being drafted to build sets and help with the backstage tasks at That’s the Spirit. I clearly owed Hayes an extra good holiday gift this year.

Ash joined us when Olivia, co-owner of Boorito, brought out our burritos and a complimentary side of guacamole and chips. Score.

Moments like this would, hopefully, keep me grounded in the weeks to come.

Six days to Black Friday. After a quick morning run, I’d opened the bookshop, and we’d been on the quiet side, but busy enough for a Saturday before the holiday season descended upon us. The weeks before Thanksgiving are always slow.

Getting dressed up to go to a reception at the Elyan Hollow Historical Society wasn’t high on my list of things I wanted to do tonight. But I knew I’d enjoy myself once I’d shaken off the feelings that there were so many other things I should be doing to get ready for the intense weeks of retail chaos in front of me.

This historical society—one of Elyan Hollow’s two dueling historical societies—had been notified that they’d received a grant to map the town’s tunnel system. There was a debate over the creation of the tunnels. Some people claim the tunnels are just a series of interconnected basements that were extended during prohibition. But there were other theories, and the tunnels had always sparked my curiosity.

One of the tunnels connected to the bookshop’s mostly unused, slightly creepy basement, and I looked forward to seeing the finished maps and everything else the historical society’s team would discover as they explored the town’s underground. And I could appreciate why they’d turned their annual holiday event into a celebratory party, even if the change in focus was slightly last-minute.

Jack looked sadly at me as I left him behind, but giant white dogs and parties aren’t the best mix. Especially since Jack is tall enough to steal snacks off of regular height dining tables while keeping all four paws on the ground.

I’d invited Colby to join me, but she had other plans. I couldn’t blame her for preferring activities that didn’t involve navigating the fraught waters of the local historical society scene.

So I was going solo, although I’d been tempted to invite an old friend I’d recently reconnected with. Years ago, when I was eight, a boy temporarily staying with his grandparents had joined our swim team for the summer. We’d become fast friends, but we’d lost touch when the summer ended and he had left town. His mother had remarried, and it turned out, she’d also changed his name when her new husband adopted him. He now goes by Finn Thomas, versus his birth name of Séraphin Tremblay.

Finn had moved back to Elyan Hollow and had recognized me right away. But even though I knew he felt familiar, it had taken my brain a while to make the connection. Although, in retrospect, Séraphin turning into Finn was a logical nickname. I’d almost invited him tonight, but while I wanted to spend more time with him, I wasn’t sure if this was his scene. But I knew I’d see Finn tomorrow, as he’d invited me to the soft opening of his new escape room business, along with a handful of other locals, all arranged in groups. He’d given me a time to show up and find out who I was solving the escape room with then.

But maybe it would’ve been fun to talk to Finn tonight, even though I knew I’d be okay solo.

I glanced at my bag as I climbed down the front steps to the sidewalk. My phone, wallet, and keys were accounted for. Even though Portland, which is only about thirty miles from Elyan Hollow, has multiple ride-share services, they’ve yet to make their way here. Since driving the short distance to downtown felt excessive, I walked, thankful I’d worn my favorite pair of boots instead of heels. And it was dry, although we were due for a few days of torrential rain.

The bookstore lights were off as I passed by, but people were in downtown restaurants, though it looked like a slowish night. The siren song of the taproom called to me, but I marched on.

The Elyan Hollow Historical Society is a block off Main Street and is one of the town’s few brick buildings. Their competitors, the Historical Society of Elyan Hollow, reside yet another block away, in the attic of City Hall. This has always made me wonder whether part of their conflict is that one organization has a beautiful piece of historical real estate, while the other is tucked in an awkward attic three staircases up above various government offices.

This historical society’s building is beautiful, starting with the historic Glendale House plaque by the dramatic double front door, which has carved panels and a brass doorknob that has aged to a warm patina. The ground floor has high box ceilings and a rotating mix of displays that cover Elyan Hollow’s history, from time immemorial to the ever-popular exhibits on the iconic movie filmed in town, The Haunted Hounds of Hamlet Bay, which is one of the biggest draws for tourists. Props from the film, like the actual trench coat the villain wore, are kept under glass.

I noted the front display had changed and now featured Christmas-themed animatronics from the now-defunct department store that used to be in the heart of downtown. These had been their annual window displays. A couple of volunteers were stationed around the museum, and a handful of elegantly dressed attendees were mingling, eyeing the exhibits.

A different volunteer offered to take my jacket, so I handed over my peacoat and received a coat check ticket in exchange, which I slipped into my clutch. My jacket disappeared into the small office serving as a coat check room for the party, and I headed to the stairs. I took a deep breath, preparing myself to be social, while wishing I had found someone to come with.

It’s times like these that I wish every place I visited were dog-friendly, since Jack’s steady presence is always an icebreaker. Plus, he is invaluable if I need to clean up dropped canapés.

Previous visits had taught me that the second floor has a ballroom, a few offices, and a kitchen. In the ballroom, a row of windows faced the Columbia River, although all I could see now was a glimpse of the night sky, and the skylights in the wall leading to the windows showed the starry sky. White twinkle lights had been wound around the exposed wooden beams, and the pine hardwood floor looked shinier than usual. Round bar tables were scattered around the room, some with stools, along with a handful of regular-height tables with chairs.

Jude Collins, the director of the Elyan Hollow Historical Society, was near the entrance of the ballroom, in full glad-handing mode. A flock of waiters in black moved around, holding trays of canapés. One of the bartenders from Wine Ghouls, Elyan Hollow Winery’s wine bar, was pouring a glass of red wine at the society’s makeshift bar along the wall. There was also a display of craft beer bottles behind her, along with a few zero-proof options.

One of the waiters paused by me, and I snagged a mini empanada and bit in. Based on the flaky texture of the pastry, Boorito was catering the party. The cart had developed a strong catering business, which made me happy, since I wanted them to be successful so they’d stay in town.

“Bailey.”

I knew that voice. I was smiling as I turned. “I didn’t know you’d be here, Rex.”

“You know me, can’t stay away from happening parties at the historical society.” Rex had gone for the oxford shirt under a forest-green cashmere sweater look, paired with a pair of gray trousers.

And, I smiled to see, a pair of freshly waxed Doc Martens.

I’d grown up with my grandparents serving as my true parents, making sure I had food to eat, that I’d done my homework, that I had plenty of books to read, and that I felt loved, while my mother had left me behind to go to college and then med school. I’d never known who my father was until I held the first Spooky Season Lit Festival and invited a hometown hero, Rex Abbot, to be our guest of honor.

Rex was a horror author whose books were always bestsellers, and a few films had been adapted from his novels. He’d been two years older than my mother, but they’d been high school classmates and members of the high school track team.

And they’d been closer than most people had realized, as they’d created me when my mother was just sixteen, and Rex was a senior.

Rex had left for college with no intention of returning to town, not knowing my mother was pregnant. He’d come back, once, for his mother’s funeral while he was still an undergraduate, and he saw me in the bookshop. He’d taken a photo of me, but he hadn’t stepped up. And not doing so had haunted him. It’d taken him until a little over a year ago, when my festival invitation arrived, for him to work up the courage to meet me in person. My mother had confirmed that Rex was, in fact, my father.

“So I heard a rumor that a streaming service picked up one of your books?” I asked. By “rumor,” I meant that one of the members on the regional bookseller distribution list had sent out a link to a Deadline article about it, complete with a ton of “!!!!!”

“Yes, it’s true. But just because I’ve signed the film rights doesn’t mean anything will actually happen,” Rex said. “Quite a few of my books have been optioned without them making it all the way to the big screen. Or small screen, as the case may be.”

“Fingers crossed.” I studied him for a moment. “Is it weird for you to . . .