My annual wrapping party had been canceled when the toys went missing, but every person I called showed up for an all-hands-on-deck brainstorming event. The shindig was serious business, and no one hesitated when I told them what we were up to or that they needed to clear their entire evening schedule for the next two days. As it turned out, with only four days left until Christmas, and after evaluating the availability of costumes, livestock, and people, then coordinating those things with Caesar and Marcy’s flights home, tomorrow was determined to be the only possible day left to break a world record this year. Aside from timing, the local meteorologist was predicting a major strike against us. Tomorrow would be a cold and blustery day with high winds, falling temperatures, and drifting snow. On the bright side, we weren’t expecting any additional accumulation. So, we counted our wins where we could.
And tonight we planned.
Mom and her friends had made enough food for an army, and I set up an excessive coffee station with multiple pots to keep the caffeine flowing. Samantha brought an assortment of wines, and Cookie provided peppermint tea. I made a little sign to advise the tea also contained alcohol, and wondered belatedly if the warning should’ve stated, “Peppermint schnapps—also contains tea.”
Caesar and Marcy welcomed the group at promptly seven sharp and explained the gist of the evening itinerary. Libby and Ray helped Mom and Dad prep and deliver plates of roast, carrots, mashed potatoes, and rolls to everyone in attendance. Evan and I kept their glasses and mugs topped off.
When stomachs were full and hopes were high, thanks to the unbridled enthusiasm of Caesar and Marcy, Zane distributed a stack of fully prepped and bound handouts. Caroline powered up her pink portable projector and used a nearby wall as her screen. Then we settled into baked apple desserts and followed along as she presented. I had no doubt that by the time I went to bed tonight, Mistletoe would have an airtight plan for breaking that world record tomorrow.
Mrs. Snow sat on the staircase, looking as dejected and forlorn as ever. She wouldn’t leave town until the coroner released Elijah’s body, and not a single soul had come to stay with her. I hoped the sound of hope and merriment raised her spirits, even a little. Eventually Mom joined her, offering a cup of hot cider and silent companionship.
In addition to my usual crew, mom’s friends had come with their husbands; several members of the farm staff had brought their spouses; Cookie’s entire book club and the swingers showed up early and volunteered to help clean up afterward; Samantha and a number of Winers made an appearance; and several shop owners came by as well. I was especially stunned to see Mr. Weible and his daughter, Natalia, but I welcomed both with a warm hug and smile. After my last conversation with Natalia, I’d expected her to look away if we ever crossed paths again.
Caroline announced a break around ten PM and directed us to put all the things we’d learned to use, reaching out to our contacts by text and emails immediately, sharing the flyers Ray made for shop windows and doors, and spreading the word in any way possible. The sooner the better. Ray promised to get the call to action into the morning paper, and Caesar couldn’t have been happier.
Natalia approached during the break, her coat and hat back on. “Holly?”
“Hi,” I said, unsure what to expect. “Are you leaving?”
“Yeah. My husband is with Anna, but I’m exhausted. This is my bedtime.” She laughed. “I wanted to be here tonight to show you how sorry I am for my bad behavior the other day. I get defensive when it comes to my dad. He’s a good guy, you know?”
I looked for Mr. Weible but found my dad near the tree, speaking with friends. My heart swelled at the sight of him. I knew how I’d felt when Evan accused him of hurting someone once. “I get it,” I promised. “I’m sorry for even suggesting—”
She shook her head. “Friends?”
We shook hands, then shared a short hug.
“Natalia?” Mr. Weible called from the door.
“I should go,” she said, stepping away.
I waved to her dad, then to her. “Merry Christmas.”
The pair took their leave, and I leaned against the kitchen counter, lost in thought while I piled the dishwasher full.
The gentle ting of silverware against crystal drew my attention back to Caroline, calling the group to order once again. “Now we need to secure enough costumes for anyone who shows up and figure out transportation for livestock and the Santa’s Village booths.”
The chatter died down as guests took turns making suggestions and offers.
I watched Evan as he approached. “Hey,” I said softly, my heart incredibly full.
“Hey.” His voice was low and gravelly as he pulled me against him. “You want to see something?”
“Always,” I said.
He gave me his phone. “Look.”
The website for the Dead and Berried podcast centered the screen, along with a candy cane graphic and the words “Help Mistletoe have a merry Christmas.” A rolling number beside it kept track of the dollar amount collected and the first names of everyone donating, along with their city and state.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
Evan scrolled, revealing a paragraph with details about our desire to break a world record, and quotes from all the people who’d heard the plea and wanted to help. “They’re encouraging their listeners to help however they can. Some will drive here to be a part of the Victorian town tomorrow. Some are donating Victorian costumery, others are giving money to support the cause. The goal was a thousand dollars for props and costumes.”
I touched his phone screen, pulling the candy cane back into view. “That says fifty-two hundred, and it’s growing.”
“Yep.”
I turned wide eyes on him. “How did you find out about this?”
He smirked. “I became a faithful listener the minute I realized these guys were talking to everyone in town about my case. Tate didn’t know, so he called to tell me about the donations. They’ve set up an account in town and added me to it.”
“Not the mayor?” I asked. “Or someone from the Historical Society?”
He shook his head. “Tate said they’ve spoken to hundreds of people this week, and there is a small group of individuals everyone trusts. Neither the mayor nor anyone from the Historical Society made the list.”
“You did,” I said, a wealth of pride growing in my chest.
He nodded. “As did you and your parents.” He nodded in their direction. “Cookie, Caroline, Ray, and Libby.”
I pressed a palm to my heart. “All my people.”
“Our people,” he corrected.
I hugged him. “Our people,” I agreed.
Evan and I met the podcasters for pie the next day so we could thank them properly for the shoutout on their show. I grumbled as they approached, and my husband pinched me under the table. “Be nice,” he whispered. “This was your idea, remember?”
I refreshed my smile but narrowed my eyes a moment at him for the assault.
“Hey,” Tate said, smoothly sliding onto the bench across from us.
“Morning,” Harvey added, falling into the space beside his cohost. “I’m incredibly glad to see you both.”
“Thanks,” Evan said, cordially. His mouth opened again, but the words stalled as Tate passed Harvey a ten-dollar bill.
“Sorry,” Tate chuckled. “We place bets on all kinds of things to keep the job interesting. Keeps things light, you know?”
I sucked my teeth and hiked my brows. Then I pinched Evan, because I’d told him these two were the worst. “You showcase murders paired with recipes,” I said.
“The food keeps things light,” he said.
I forced myself to remember the time I’d spent exploring their podcast’s website with Evan, and the fact they’d been live from eleven PM until dawn on the night of Elijah’s death. Apparently, the duo who irked me to no end wasn’t all bad. They’d hosted an event they called Money at Midnight as part of a charity fundraiser where they regaled listeners with unsolved mysteries all night in exchange for donations. “Thank you for coming,” I said. “We wanted to thank you in person for helping us spread the word about today’s event.”
Tate folded his hands on the table and fixed his attention on me. “Yeah?”
I nodded, lips tight. “Yep.”
“Really?”
I nodded again.
“How thankful are you on a scale of ‘not really’ to ‘I will finally agree to that interview’?” he pressed.
I looked at Evan. Would he arrest me if I hurt Tate the Great? Or look the other way?
“Holly?” Evan nudged, clearly enjoying my frustration. “Feel like an interview? A chance to speak for your town?”
I dragged my attention back to the waiting podcasters. “Call me after Christmas?”
“Awesome.” Tate elbowed his partner, and Harvey returned the ten-dollar bill. “Told you she’d cave,” Tate gloated. “We should go before she changes her mind.”
The men quickly exited the booth.
“Talk to you soon,” Tate called.
The waitress appeared in their absence, and my eye began to twitch. “Merry Christmas! Can I take your order?” she asked.
Evan and I stayed for nearly an hour, enjoying the pie and the time together. The wind was cold when we finally headed outside. As promised, there hadn’t been any additional precipitation, but the falling temps were freezing every drop of melted snow from yesterday’s warm sun.
Dad and a large group of men worked on the corner, backlit in rays of crimson and gold. The last of the booths from Santa’s Village had been moved from Reindeer Games to the square. Mom would bring him dinner and something Victorian to change into soon, before it was time to count heads.
“It’s looking good,” Evan said. “It’s really starting to feel as if we’re back in time. At least on this one block anyway.”
I heartily agreed.
Traffic had been blocked from most of downtown all month, but the Victorian Christmas village we were creating for the World Record Book was tightly focused on the square. Caesar felt the scope should remain small and densely packed with all things fitting our theme. We were aiming for authenticity and number of participants over square footage.
The results so far were outstanding.
My phone rang, and I checked the screen. “It’s Mom,” I told him before raising the phone to my ear. “Merry Christmas,” I said.
“Holly, are you with Evan?”
I tensed at the urgency in her tone, then pressed “Speaker” before answering. “Yes. He’s right here. What’s going on?”
“I’m with Violet Snow,” she said. “She’s concerned about Henry Moore. She hasn’t seen him since he left the inn a couple of days ago.”
“He hasn’t called,” Violet added, her voice smaller and distant. “And he hasn’t returned my messages.”
Evan caught my eye. Concern drew lines across his brow. “Mrs. Snow? This is Sheriff Evan Gray. I’m going to check on Mr. Moore now. I’ll come to see you at the farm when I finish. Sit tight, and I’ll have news for you soon. Carol? Stay with her, okay?”
“Of course,” Mom agreed.
“Thank you,” Violet said.
I disconnected the call, and Evan kissed my cheek.
“Meet me at the farm in an hour,” he said. “Drive safely—the roads are slick.”
“Back at you,” I said, and he broke into a jog away from the square.
I bought some candied pecans on the way back to my truck and forced worried thoughts from my mind. Evan would find Mr. Moore and handle anything that was wrong. My job was to enjoy the day. I’d promised Evan that much over coffee and pie.
All around me, the Victorian town square took new, more authentic shape by the moment. I couldn’t wait to see it after sunset, filled with hundreds, maybe thousands, of participants.
Cookie and a group I recognized as her choir friends arranged themselves on the corner across the street, hooded cloaks on their heads and fur muffs over their hands. Their voices rose over the chatter and bustle of shoppers. The chorus was angelic, and I fought the urge to stay until the end. The sights and sounds, and the scent of rich hot chocolate on the wind were enticing, but the bite in the air kept me moving.
I smiled at babies bundled inside strollers and parents with pink cheeks and noses. I waved to friends and locals. And I counted my many, many blessings with each careful step. I turned onto the empty side street at the next corner, thankful for the no-motor-vehicle rule on this block, then made the first available turn into the alley where I’d left my truck.
I started the engine remotely as soon as the pickup’s tailgate came into view. I pulled the receipt off my windshield, then used my phone’s flashlight to peek under the vehicle and into the space behind my seat before climbing aboard and promptly locking my doors. I’d had enough bad experiences during perfectly lovely holiday moments to understand that even the most blissful times could quickly turn dangerous.
Seat belt buckled, and truck heater pumping, I eased away from my spot beside the dumpster and headed for the steady stream of cross traffic at the alley’s opposite end.
Vehicles plugged along in the distance, routed toward the high school and away from the square, occasionally slipping on patches of newly frozen ice in the ever-increasing wind. I pointed the heater vents at my frozen fingers and wiggled the digits to keep my blood flowing.
Up ahead, a set of headlights turned into the alley.
The alley was narrow, barely accommodating my truck and the dumpster between buildings. Another vehicle would never fit.
When the incoming vehicle crept forward, I shifted into reverse, backing up to make room.
The headlights moved confidently forward, matching my speed and angle instead of passing as I’d intended.
“What are you doing?” I asked, confusion becoming mild panic in my chest.
I bounced my gaze from the rearview mirror to the encroaching set of lights, making sure not to hit anything as I reversed, and keeping an eye on the vehicle before me as well. I imagined this was what being herded felt like.
Eventually, I reached the cross street I’d used to access the alley on foot, and I turned my wheel, reversing out of the alley completely. The strict no-motor-vehicle policy meant the road was clear, and now the intersection was as well. The other vehicle could carry on, and I could go home to keep Mom and Mrs. Snow company until Evan arrived.
I shifted into drive and waited for the other vehicle to pass. From my new vantage I could see more than the headlights.
A blue SUV crept to the alley’s edge, then idled a dozen yards away. The vehicle looked a lot like the one that had drawn a frown on Mr. Moore’s face at the farm, and the one parked outside his home.
Shadows cast from buildings streaked the windshield, making it difficult to get a clear view of the driver. A dark knit cap covered the person’s head to their eyebrows. A thick scarf wrapped their neck and chin.
I motioned the other driver to leave the alley. Turn out in front of me or cross the empty street where I now waited. I didn’t care as long as they stopped forcing me to back up.
The SUV flashed its headlights, signaling that I should go instead of them.
This felt a lot like the sort of trouble I’d worried about while walking to the truck. At least, I was safely inside and out of danger. I raised a tentative palm to the other driver in thanks, then set my foot on the gas pedal and opted to leave while I could.
The SUV jolted forward, colliding with my door when I tried to roll past the alley. My body jerked and swayed against the seat belt. My head yanked one way, then the other. Pain raced up my spine to my neck.
The other driver backed up.
I blinked at the little blue SUV, confusion setting in. Was this a supremely strange accident? A misunderstanding? Or did the driver really think his SUV could hurt my farm truck?
I jammed my foot against the gas pedal when the other vehicle started toward me once more. My tires spun on black ice for a long moment before finding purchase. Then my truck shot forward.
“Call Evan!” I ordered, praying my phone would hear me and do as I asked.
The little device skidded along the bench at my side, then crashed onto the floor. I wheeled onto the next available street, searching for traffic, or at least a few witnesses on foot.
Crunch!
My truck jolted forward as the SUV pushed against my rear bumper, setting me on an icy collision course with a slow-moving tour bus.
“Ahh!” I screamed and pulled the wheel, maneuvering away from the giant vehicle. “Call Evan!” I ordered. “Please, please, please!” I couldn’t reach my phone or take my hands off the wheel to access my dashboard features.
The SUV hit my rear bumper once more, and I skirted onto a side road heading away from town. “Shoot!”
I couldn’t believe I was under attack again.
Exactly what my parents, friends, and husband had warned me would happen.
And I’d promised would not.
The sound of a ringing phone echoed through my truck’s speakers, and I nearly sobbed at the realization my call had connected.
“Hey,” Evan said. “I can’t talk. The roads are awful, and we’ve got fender benders everywhere. We might have to call off the—”
“Evan!” I blurted. Tears of relief clogged my throat, but I forced out one more word. “Help!”
“Whoa. Where are you?” His voice changed in the space of a heartbeat. The easygoing sheriff had become my protector. There were few men more formidable when he was in that mode. Thank my lucky stars.
“I’m on County Route Seven,” I said, wiping a trembling hand across my brow. My fingers encountered a smear of fresh blood. Had I hit my head on the initial impact? I glanced at my window and saw a scarlet stain there too.
“Holly, I’m on my way, but I need more information.”
A car door slammed in the distance and soft engine sounds rose through the speakers.
“Holly,” he repeated. “Details.”
Heavy winds whooped and howled, jostling light posts and street signs, causing the boughs of ancient trees to whip and bend. My big, non-aerodynamic truck headed toward the double yellow lines. I strained against the gust, forcing my ride back into its lane. A mass of drifting snow rose suddenly from the ground, then covered my windshield with a slap. I fumbled for the wipers, my jostled mind working overtime to manage the most important things. “I’m in my truck,” I said, projecting my voice above the wind. “Someone is chasing me—”
The SUV rammed my bumper once again, and my wheels lost traction on the frozen road. I screamed and my eyes blurred, probably with tears, maybe with blood from my head wound. “I’m on Route Seven,” I said, my voice quieter than expected.
“You already said that.” Evan growled. “Are you hurt?”
My teeth chattered, and my grip tightened painfully on the steering wheel as another gust of wind pushed my truck toward the center lines. “I’m scared.”
“Can you pull over?” Evan asked. “Are you still driving?”
“No.”
“You aren’t driving?”
“I can’t pull over.” I needed to keep moving until Evan or one of his deputies found us. More importantly, I needed to stay on the road. “Come get me!”
A colossal thud shoved me against the steering wheel, and my arms flew out to my sides.
The tailspin was so sharp and sudden, my pickup and I left the road. My head flopped uncontrollably with the force of the turn, and for one excruciating moment, the pickup tipped partially off the ground. I prayed it wouldn’t begin to roll.
The truck smacked hard onto its tires a moment later.
My head connected with the steering wheel. And things went dark.