Evan’s cruiser appeared twenty minutes later.
I hurried from my post at the front door, where I’d been peering through the window, impatiently awaiting his arrival. I’d been prepared to defend the crime scene, if needed. Thankfully no one had come to the door.
His green eyes found mine as he climbed the steps to the porch. Then he pulled me into a tight embrace. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just a little shaken,” I said. “I could be overreacting, but I thought you’d want to take a look to be sure.”
He kissed my head before releasing me. “Is it under the foil?”
I nodded, then crouched to gently remove the layers of aluminum foil I’d formed into a coverup. I’d used piles of snow from the porch railing to weigh down the ends. Luckily, the wind cooperated by not blowing the cover away. “I wanted to protect the cookie from anyone who might stop by.” Especially lookie-loos and podcasters.
“Good thinking.” Evan lowered into a squat at my side, then took a long look at the mangled dessert in question.
“I was in the kitchen with Gertie and Jackie when we heard a clatter,” I explained. “Mrs. Snow had just gone back to her room, and I rushed to the door. I’d suggest that someone threw the cookie at the door, but—” I pointed to the boot print smashed into the cookie’s head.
He raised his phone to snap a few photos, then pulled an evidence bag from his coat pocket and moved the broken pieces inside.
I stretched upright once more. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“That sounds good.”
Evan followed me into the inn, through the foyer, and past the staircase to the kitchen.
I fixed two cups of coffee and passed one to Evan. “What do you think about the dismembered gingerbread man?”
He frowned. “Hard to say. I suppose anyone wanting to cause some trouble might’ve left it there.”
“Podcasters?”
“Maybe.” He looked me over carefully. “Do I have any reason to think another killer is warning you to butt out?”
I sipped my coffee, shaking my head slightly and trying to look innocent. “I missed you last night,” I said instead, redirecting the conversation. If Evan didn’t think the cookie was a threat, then who was I to dwell?
He ran a hand over his hair and sighed. “I missed you too. I was up late running leads and just didn’t have it in me to make the trek back out here. It started to snow around midnight, and the roads were bad. The crews and salt trucks were out, but they concentrate on the roads in town first, so I just called it a night.”
“I understand,” I said. “I wouldn’t have wanted you driving longer than necessary when you’re that tired, especially when the roads are slick.”
Evan nodded. “How are things around here?” he asked. “Besides the cookie.”
I offered a sad smile. “Not great, but they also could’ve been worse.”
He raised his mug to his lips with a sigh. “True.”
“Will the farm be closed for long?” I asked. “I know that sounds insensitive …”
Evan waved me off. He knew me well enough to know my intentions weren’t heartless. He also knew the week-before-Christmas sales often determined whether or not my parents struggled throughout the next year.
“I’m working on that,” he said. “My deputies and I had time to do a thorough review of the crime scene yesterday, and it was far enough away from the Hearth, and other frequented stops on the grounds, to avoid a lot of traffic. I’d like to work with your dad and the farmhands to quarantine the area. If that pans out, I’ll post a man near the scene to keep watch, just in case anyone attempts to tamper with anything.”
I wet my lips, attention stuck to his use of the words crime scene. “What exactly was the crime?” I asked.
Evan froze, mug halfway to his lips. His sharp eyes narrowed. “Murder.”
“I mean how?” I asked. “Are you sure it wasn’t an accident? Could he have had one too many spiked eggnogs and fallen into the batter, then frozen to death?”
“I suppose, but it seems unlikely.”
“How can you be sure?” I leaned closer, eyes widening despite my best efforts to look casual and barely interested.
“That’s what I’m figuring out. Mr. Snow’s body showed evidence of head trauma, but ultimately, the coroner believes he froze to death.”
I grimaced. “If he fell and knocked himself out, why do you still suspect foul play?”
Evan sucked his teeth. “If I tell you, will you drop this and have coffee with me as if we’re a normal couple?”
I nodded quickly.
He rolled his eyes. “We’ve confirmed the pin found near the crime scene belongs to Henry Moore.”
My heart kicked painfully, and I pressed a palm to my chest. “That feels inconclusive. How can you be sure the pin belongs to Henry? There must’ve been hundreds of those pins created. Half the town and hundreds of visitors probably bought one.”
“And each one had a serial number,” he added. “Guess who purchased this one?”
I felt my eyelids shut. “Well then, who’s to say that pin didn’t change hands a dozen times in all these years?”
“A number of people who spoke with Henry at Santa’s Village on the day of Mr. Snow’s death recall the pin on his lapel. As you know, Mr. Moore no longer has that pin.”
I bit my tongue. Clearly there was a reasonable explanation for this. “Henry has a booth at Santa’s Village. Maybe he was walking the grounds, and the pin fell off his coat.”
“The backing is still on the pin,” Evan said. “Both Snow’s and Moore’s prints were found on the enamel. And let’s not forget someone covered the batter after Snow fell in. He wasn’t alone out there.”
I felt my shoulders sag.
“What else is new?” Evan asked, blatantly changing the subject.
I locked my gaze with his, temporarily stumped. It was hard to think of much else when a man had drowned in the batter of a twenty-two-foot cookie only a day before. “Not much. Have you finished your holiday shopping?”
Something wicked flashed in Evan’s eyes, there and gone before I could consider the reason. He schooled his features and nodded. “I have. How about you?”
“I’m almost finished for Christmas,” I said. “I’m still struggling to find the perfect anniversary present for you.”
He grinned. “Are you looking for ideas?”
“Not that idea,” I said, laughing. “Be serious.”
“Oh, I am very serious.”
I looked away, mentally fanning my heated face. “You always find the perfect gift, and I give you something perfectly pedestrian.” Birthdays, Valentine’s Day, Easter—whatever the occasion—my gift never measured up. “I want to be the most thoughtful giver this time.”
Evan worked his brows, and I cracked up.
“Stop it. This is important to me.”
He lifted his palms in surrender, then rested one against my back and rubbed gently. “Okay. I hear what you’re saying, but you should know I love all your gifts, and it’s not a competition.”
I pulled away for a better look at him. “You love getting puzzles of kittens in Boston Red Sox jerseys?” I asked. “You love all the boring flannel button-down shirts? The socks with goofy sayings on the soles?”
He snorted lightly. “‘Feet up for football,’” he said, quoting one pair of socks.
I set my mug aside, deeply thankful our friend group had decided to draw names for a Secret Santa this year. I’d only underwhelm one person instead of six or seven. And I’d save a lot of money.
“Please tell me what you want,” I said. “You can’t imagine how badly I want to do a good job.”
He kissed my head. “I have everything I’ve ever wanted,” he said. “And a goofy little holiday town I never knew I needed.”
“That makes me happy, but it’s not very helpful.”
Evan’s phone buzzed, and he set his coffee aside to check the screen. He was on his feet in the next heartbeat. “Duty calls,” he said. “Thank you for the coffee.”
“Hang on.” I hurried along at his side, determined to walk him to the door. “Will you let me know what you learn about the broken cookie?”
“Absolutely.” He scanned the door and frame. “We really need to get one of those doorbell cameras for this porch.”
“That’s a no-go,” I said. “Inauthentic.” In a historic town like Mistletoe, maintaining appearances was mandatory. Doorbell cameras and keypad locks were forbidden by the Historical Society. Anyone daring to go against the rules was promptly fined. “You know the rules.”
He rolled his eyes, then kissed my lips. “Then a nanny cam in a teddy bear that we position in the front window. No one will ever know, and I’ll rest easier.”
I nodded in approval. “Not bad.”
“I know,” he said, tapping a finger to his temple. “Be safe, Gray.”
A smile popped onto my face at the sound of our last name. “Back at ya.”
I closed the door and turned for my office.
Cindy Lou Who was asleep on my chair.
“Hey you,” I said. “Scootch.”
She cracked one eye open, then closed it.
“Come on,” I said. “I know you’re awake.”
She craned her neck and twisted her body until her feet were in the air.
I ruffled the fluffy fur on her stomach. When that didn’t work, I angled my arms beneath her and attempted to raise her to my chest.
“Meow!” She spun, claws extended and thrust away from me, parkour style.
“Ow!”
She hit the ground running and exited the room with a screech of complaint.
I fell onto my chair. “You get coal,” I called after her.
I checked myself for bloody scratches or puncture wounds and determined I’d survive. Then I booted up my laptop.
Dozens of new jewelry orders had been placed through the night. Too many to fill before Christmas, and almost all were for tiny replica gingerbread men earrings, or charms for bracelets. Thankfully, the pieces I’d advertised didn’t mention Mom’s attempt at the world record, but I couldn’t help wondering if all the new orders were a result of what had happened yesterday. If so, I needed to take the item off my website.
I dropped my head against the chair back and turned to look through the window. I considered visiting the gallery that sold some of my jewelry, to see if they needed more. While I was there, I could ask about Mr. Weible, then maybe knock on his door. I could ask him about the business meeting with Elijah that Mrs. Snow had mentioned. Very few people in town knew Elijah, so it only seemed reasonable that one of those who did was the one who wanted him dead.
My suspect list was short and sweet. It had to be Weible, Hunter, or one of the creepy podcasters always looking for a story. Maybe they’d go to any length for a hit show.
As if on cue, four figures came into view outside my office window. Small from the distance, Caesar and Marcy were easy to identify with their drastic height differences and Caesar’s bright red scarf. The podcasters, Harvey and Tate, strolled along at their sides.