I woke early the next morning to have breakfast with Evan before he started his shift. The sun was yet to rise, and the inn was magically aglow from the lights of a dozen Christmas trees tucked into every nook and corner.
I made coffee. Evan made pancakes. Then we curled onto the padded red gingham bench rested against the far wall of the large kitchen, our meal plated before us. For a lengthy, silent while, we ate in companionable contemplation, both exhausted from an excruciatingly long night.
Evan’s deputies had stayed late, examining every inch and fiber of the inn, determined to find some indication of who had carved the threat into my floorboards. Their efforts were tedious and thorough.
Also, fruitless.
Mrs. Snow had been horribly shaken when I let her know what had happened. I wasn’t specific about the threat, but I felt obligated to explain the sudden and ongoing presence of lawmen onsite. She hadn’t come down for dinner after that. Caesar and Marcy had been out until the deputies were preparing to leave. The duo had seemed surprised but were otherwise undeterred by my news. I’d fed them cookies and cocoa while they’d regaled Evan and me with stories of local attempts at holiday records. Neither seemed to notice the strain in our smiles or fatigue in our eyes. Gertie and Jackie had only returned long enough to see the commotion and leave again. Shockingly, none of my guests wanted to check out. I was thankful for everyone involved. It would be nearly impossible to find another place in town for them to stay, so close to Christmas, and it would be nice for me to know I’d rarely be home alone.
I moved another pancake from the platter to my plate and smothered it in butter and syrup. Today was sure to be an all-sugar, double-the-caffeine kind of day. And I needed to prepare.
“What’s on your agenda?” Evan asked, fighting a yawn on the final word.
“I want to check in with my folks, hang out at the Hearth, and keep an eye on the inn,” I said. “The usual.”
He turned to look at me for a long, silent beat. “Maybe we should sell the house in town and try to find something closer to the farm. Then we aren’t choosing that house or the inn, but something literally in between.”
“What?” My sleep-deprived mind replayed his words, struggling to comprehend. We’d never even discussed the possibility of a new home. “Where’s this coming from?”
“I think part of the problem is how far away our other place is from your family. You want to be here when the inn is full, which is most of the year, and especially during the holidays. Commuting is inconvenient in the best of weather, and it can be dangerous in the winter. The private quarters here are cramped for two adults and not conducive to long-term living. Plus, we either have to buy two of everything or make continuous trips between houses to fetch the things we need.”
I was well aware of the complications our housing situation caused, but I was not in the right headspace to think about adding a third option to the conundrum. Available properties in Mistletoe were few and far between, as well as overpriced because demand consistently exceeded supply. “I do enjoy seeing my folks every day, but I still think this is a conversation for after Christmas. Meanwhile, we should stay put and figure out who’s leaving threats.”
“We should get a camera for the doorbell,” Evan said. He sipped his coffee, eyes fixed in the direction of the foyer. “And a number pad with a key code for the lock. Every guest should have their own code. Then there will be a digital log of everyone entering the premises, complete with time stamp.”
I pushed a bite of breakfast between my lips to stop myself from saying anything cranky. I didn’t disagree that his way would be safer, and I understood where he was coming from, but we’d had this talk at length, and more than once. A change like the one he described would drastically alter the inn and the inn experience. The thought saddened me for my parents’ sake and for all the future guests. It seemed unjust to give a criminal that kind of power.
My parents had dreamed of this place all my life, and the inn had been carefully crafted to replicate a historic home. Every detail was strategically chosen to accurately reflect other homes built the year the town was founded. From the octagon tiles on the bathroom floors, to the old-fashioned faucets and knobs, to the carpets and the paint palette; to the curation of custom trim work, handrails, and spindles on the stairs. My parents’ dreams were visible in every aspect of this place. So, how could I willingly add cameras, keypads, and alarms? A modern-day, technology-driven eyesore attached right to the front door? That felt like the real crime.
I let my head fall back in exasperation.
“Don’t forget, your office is a crime scene,” Evan said, still talking to the air.
I set my fork aside and turned to stare at him until he met my eye. “In what universe could I possibly forget?”
“I wasn’t suggesting you would. It’s just a gentle reminder,” he said. “People run on autopilot and habit all the time. You wouldn’t let me put the yellow tape across the threshold, so now there’s no visual reminder.”
My eyes narrowed. “I didn’t want to upset the guests.”
“Or ruin the aesthetic,” he added under his breath.
I twisted on the bench to look at him more directly. “What was that?”
“It would be easy to walk in there without thinking, that’s all.”
I turned back to my breakfast, my irritation growing. Logically, I knew none of this was Evan’s fault, and he was only doing his job, both as the sheriff and as my husband, but I wanted to scream.
He finished eating before me, then carried his things to the sink. “I’m going to head out. I want to stop by our house before work.”
I forced myself upright and met him at the counter with my mug, plate, and fork.
Evan took everything from my hands and set the items aside. His arms were around my waist in a second, towing me close before I could protest. “I love you,” he said. The sincerity and concern in his tone melted the steel from my mood, and I leaned into the embrace.
“I love you too,” I said. “I can’t believe this is happening again. I hate that I’ve brought madness and chaos to the inn. That my behavior has inadvertently ruined my parents’ beautiful floor and possibly their vision for how the inn will look in days and years to come.” I imagined the keypad on the door again and gagged silently.
Evan stroked messy hair away from my face and kissed my forehead. He kissed my cheeks and nose, then looked into my eyes. “You didn’t do this. A criminal did this. If you played any part, it was only that you let that big, justice-seeking heart of yours drag you around once in a while. And on occasion, sure, you might follow it willingly,” he amended.
I laughed softly and tightened my arms around his middle.
“Even then, this isn’t your fault,” he said. “I know it, and your adoring parents also know it. No one blames you, and I’m confident Christopher can replace the scarred boards without any trouble. Things happen. It’s fine. Also, I plan to remove the damaged boards and take them in as evidence so the lab can get an idea of what was used to make the cuts. They don’t match any of the knives in the house.”
I suppressed a dramatic sigh and walked Evan to the door. I flipped the dead bolt for good measure after saying goodbye.
All my guests were safely in their beds. Anyone else wanting inside would have to ring the bell.
“Meow.” Cindy Lou Who rubbed against my ankles, purring and vocalizing as I returned to the kitchen and loaded the dishwasher.
“You’ve already had breakfast,” I told her. Evan had fed her before making pancakes, so she’d be less interested in harassing us while we ate. Apparently, my time was up.
“Meow,” she retorted. “Meow. Meow. Meow.”
The complaints were distorted by the volume of her purrs, causing each to shake and rattle in her furry chest and throat.
“Aww.” I bent to scratch behind her ears, enchanted by the happy sound.
She bit me.
“Hey.” I straightened with a frown. “Mean.”
Realizing I wasn’t getting her treats, Cindy turned and marched away.
“Merry Christmas,” I told her backside as she bounded up the steps.
Alone again, I scanned the room, then hit the nearest light switch, thankful for the instant illumination and absence of shadows. A ne’er-do-well had been inside the inn yesterday. Had been inside my office. And they’d carved a threat deep into my floor. There’d been nothing tentative about those marks, each drag of the weapon had splintered the polished wood, creating a mass of angry, jagged gashes. I could only assume Elijah Snow’s killer was the culprit, and I tried not to wonder if that person had imagined me in place of my floorboards as they’d worked.
A shiver rocked down my spine, and I pushed the thought away.
The crowds on the farm had been thick last night while I’d sat inside the warm Hearth, having a lovely time with friends. Anyone could’ve let themselves in and out of the inn during that time, and they could do it again if I wasn’t more vigilant. I’d have to start locking all the doors and asking guests to do so as well.
I hated the necessary change. Our town had never been like this before. Never in my childhood. Never in my teen years. People had been trustworthy. Not homicidal. But I wouldn’t be a victim for nostalgia’s sake or put anyone unnecessarily in danger on my watch. So, the doors would stay locked, and guests would need to take their keys when they went out.
I checked the back door and turned that lock as well.
Footfalls on the staircase spun me in that direction.
Caesar froze. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought I was the only one up.”
“Wrong,” Marcy said, her legs appearing on the steps behind him. A moment later, the rest of her came into view. “I’ve been up for an hour, reviewing the photographs and videos we took yesterday. I even drafted an article to go with the images. I love this town.”
Caesar chuckled and finished his descent, with her close behind.
I zipped back to the kitchen island, turning on the remaining overhead lights as I moved. “Let me get you something to drink and snack on.”
“Just coffee,” Caesar said. “We have plans for breakfast at the pie shop. Since Marcy’s up and ready to go, we probably shouldn’t wait long.”
She climbed onto a barstool. “That pie is the reason I woke before dawn,” she said. “It smells like heaven every time we walk past, but there’s always a line around the block.”
I smiled. “It’s a very popular place.” Evan loved the pie shop. It was where he spent much of his time on duty. The little bakery and café was Mistletoe’s gossip central. People went in for pie and coffee, then got all jazzed up on caffeine and sugar and said way too much. As a new sheriff in town, Evan had gotten a lot of his information via this channel. As a local teen, I’d gotten in a lot of trouble via that channel.
Caesar took a seat on the stool beside Marcy. “Folks in Mistletoe are incredibly creative. We could spend every day for a month listening to their pitches for world records. It’s been a lot of fun.”
“Oh yeah?” I asked, knowing the part about our citizens’ exceptional creativity, but curious if anyone else had won. I was torn between hating that Mom didn’t reach her goal with the cookie, and excitement for others to reach theirs. Not to mention, Mistletoe could use the extra positive vibes.
I passed each of my guests a mug of coffee.
Caesar shook his head solemnly. “Most world records involving groups require a greater headcount than Mistletoe’s entire population, but y’all have heart. There’s no doubt about that.”
“And spirit,” Marcy said. “My favorite efforts so far were the not-quite-largest collection of Mrs. Claus memorabilia, and the goat lady’s mass of straw ornaments.”
“Cookie?” I asked.
“No, thank you,” Marcy said. “I’m holding out for pie.”
I blinked, taken aback by the strange response. I laughed when the misunderstanding registered. “No, the goat lady,” I said. “Was her name Cookie? Her goat is Theodore. She’s a good friend of mine.”
Marcy shook her head. “No, this lady’s name is Alice. She’s from Sweden and had about three hundred straw ornaments at her café. Unfortunately, there’s a man in Sweden with four thousand.”
“Yeesh,” I said. Where did anyone store that many of anything? I barely had enough room in my closet for all my puffy coats and winter boots. Then I recalled Alice’s kind smile when we’d met, and my mouth watered a little as I recalled her delicious sweets. “I just met her at the Cup of Cheer. She’s lovely.”
“Cookie must be the one with the calendars,” Caesar said.
I grinned. “A Goat for All Seasons.”
Marcy returned my smile. “That’s the one. I liked her too. Everyone is so nice here.” Her body stiffened slightly. “I mean other than the murderer and whoever did that to your floor.”
“The floor issue was unfortunate,” I said. I took a beat, considering how best to redirect the conversation. “But someone also wrapped hundreds of donated toys for local children and didn’t even take credit for it.”
She nodded, and the tension in the room dissipated by a fraction.
Evan and his deputies had tediously examined gift after gift, making sure no unsuspecting child would get a dangerous surprise on Christmas morning. They’d taken the packages they hadn’t had time to check to the station. Evan would bring them back if they were all safe as well, but we still had no idea who’d taken them and wrapped them in the first place. The same person who had carved my floor? Surely not.
And if there were two people in my office last night, had the gift wrapper seen the killer?
“I enjoyed the hand-crafted mitten collection,” Caesar said, gamely changing the subject. “And the mass of Christmas-themed jigsaw puzzles.”
Marcy’s focus was steady on me. “Should we feel guilty for enjoying ourselves so much when a man died here this week?”
Caesar and I exchanged awkward looks. “I don’t think so,” he said, running a palm across the smooth granite expanse between them. “Making the most of our trip while remembering a fellow houseguest is grieving, it’s a fine line, but we’re doing okay. Sadly, lives end every day. Perhaps that’s the best reason for the rest of us to keep appreciating every day we can.”
Marcy listened intently, then added, “I hear her crying at night.”
My heart ached, but I wasn’t sure what to do. “I can move you to a new room,” I offered. “We have one more—” I stopped, recalling why we had an open room.
Elijah Snow no longer needed it.
“No, thank you,” Marcy said. “That would definitely be worse.”
“Right.” I poured myself a cup of coffee and willed my brain to work faster before I stuck my foot in my mouth again.
“Good morning.” A thin voice turned us in the direction of the stairs.
Mrs. Snow stood silent as a kitten on the bottom step.
I nearly dropped my mug.
Her slippered feet on the thick carpet runner had masked her approach.
“Good morning,” I said. “Come on in. Let me pour you some coffee.”
Caesar tipped his mug back, finishing the last of his drink. Marcy pushed hers aside. “We’re on our way to the pie shop,” he said. “Can we bring you back anything?”
Mrs. Snow looked blankly at him and then Marcy for a moment. “Pie,” she said.
Marcy frowned. “What kind—”
Caesar set his hands on her shoulders and steered her away. “Will do.”
Mrs. Snow took a seat at the island, accepting the coffee when I set it before her. “I didn’t mean to scare them off.”
“Not at all,” I fibbed. “They’re just really excited about the pie.”
Her lips twitched in a failed smile. “Well, I suppose this is best. I owe you an apology and an explanation for what you saw the other day when you barged into my room unannounced and uninvited.”
I pressed my lips into a flat line as heat rose up my neck to my cheeks, scalding the tips of my ears. “I am profoundly sorry,” I said. “I heard a commotion. I thought there was an intruder and you needed help.”
“I did not.”
I dropped my gaze to the floor as a gamut of unwanted images returned to my mind. “I got that.”
“I don’t make a habit of behaving in that manner,” she said. “Just so you know.”
“Please don’t explain. I was in the wrong. I know that now.”
Violet cupped pale hands around the steaming mug and stared into the dark liquid. “I’ve loved Henry all my life. I’m struggling right now, and he was a comforting place to land.”
I darted my gaze around the room, wishing there was some kind of work to busy my hands and train my focus. Anything but looking into her eyes while recalling her in Mr. Moore’s embrace.
“Henry is Elijah’s father.”
My eyes jerked to hers, all previous thoughts abandoned. “Pardon?”
Violet’s cheeks grew redder than the mug in her hands, but she sat tall, shoulders back and chin high. “My husband knew,” she said, apparently deciding not to repeat herself. “Matthew and I married quickly, before he was deployed, then pretended Elijah was a honeymoon baby and a preemie. Matthew never cared about Elijah’s paternity. He loved us with every ounce of himself. It didn’t matter whose DNA the boy carried; he was our son, and that was the only thing anyone needed to know. We even gave him Henry’s name as his middle name.”
I thought of the day I’d met Elijah, and the embroidered square of silk in his pocket. EHS. Elijah Henry Snow.
She relaxed a little, shoulders lowering, as if the weight had been lifted. “Henry always suspected. The timing of my pregnancy was a dead giveaway, but my marriage made him question himself. I pretended it wasn’t true when he asked, but I think he knew. We exchanged letters while Matthew was stationed overseas, but I kept my distance to make things easier for him. When Matthew returned, I stopped writing and responding to Henry. It seemed the only right thing to do. I could’ve come back to visit any time after my parents passed. I wanted to. Every day I wanted to. But I didn’t, out of respect for all the men I loved.”
My heart broke as I imagined the triangle she described: a soul mate, a husband, and a son. She was grieving Elijah now, but she’d been grieving the loss of Henry for forty-five years. From the look on her face, she’d grieved the life she’d been denied as well. A life where she wouldn’t have loved anyone other than her husband, but that was never meant to be.
“Henry sent condolence cards and flowers to the funeral home when I lost Matthew. That was when I knew it was time for me to come back to Mistletoe. Elijah was on board as soon as I mentioned the mayor’s invitation. He did his research and found a project to get involved in.” She smiled a little at that. “He was just like his father.” The smile faded abruptly, and I wondered if she was thinking of Matthew or Mr. Moore.
“I told myself I’d confess everything to Elijah and Henry when we arrived. Perhaps take them both to dinner, make proper introductions.” Her eyes misted, and her gaze went distant. “But we’d barely checked in before Henry confronted us outside. He didn’t give me a chance to explain. It was as if he knew the truth the moment he set eyes on Elijah. I could see it on his face and hear it in his tone. He asked if Elijah was his son. I didn’t know what to say. I was stunned. That wasn’t how I’d planned to tell them. Elijah was horrified. He didn’t understand why anyone would say something like that to me. I’m a well-respected woman. A pillar in our community. And I’d been with his father for a lifetime. With Matthew,” she clarified. “You saw what happened then. Elijah lost his temper, and Henry just stood there, stunned while Elijah said the meanest things. Your father had to tell him to settle down. It was awful. I can’t imagine what he must’ve thought.”
“For whatever it’s worth, I don’t think my dad knew what Elijah was upset about, and he’s not one to pass judgment,” I said. “And I don’t believe Mr. Moore hurt Elijah,” I said. “He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
She wiped a renegade tear from her cheek. “I agree.”
Henry Moore had waited more than forty years to meet Elijah, suspecting all the while that he was his father. No wonder he’d been so shocked when he’d seen Elijah in the cookie batter. He’d waited too long to confirm the truth, and now he’d never get to know the boy he’d fathered or the man he’d become.
“Mrs. Snow,” I said, drawing her eyes to mine. I hoped my tone conveyed the utmost respect as I carefully crafted my next question. “Did you know any of the men Elijah planned to meet in Mistletoe? Mr. Hunter, Mr. Lincoln, or Mr. Weible?”
“Not personally,” she said.
“Did you know this wasn’t Elijah’s first trip to Mistletoe?”
Her brows knitted. “No. Why do you say that?”
“I’ve been asking around, and the local gallery manager recalls meeting Elijah several months ago. He’d visited her building with two of those men.”
Violet’s surprise turned to disappointment. “I didn’t know. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that he kept it from me. He knew how much I wanted to introduce him to my hometown. But he was a planner, and he really wanted things to work out here. I guess it makes sense that he prepared as much as possible. I just wish he hadn’t involved Hamish Hunter. I’ve never heard a single good thing about that man.”