I headed into town when Evan and the deputies wrapped up for the night. The inn guests were in their rooms, and I’d set out a spread of snacks and drinks before leaving. Cindy Lou Who was snoozing in my private quarters, tucked safely away from the countertop treats.
Despite the piles of work awaiting me in my office, and my husband’s requests, I couldn’t stay away from Mr. Moore tonight. He didn’t have any family, and I wasn’t sure who knew he was at the hospital. If he had called anyone to sit with him, I wondered if they’d be apprehensive, given the situation. News of Elijah’s death had surely spread through the locals by now, and Moore’s family feud with the Snows was common knowledge.
I’d felt the same apprehension five years ago. These days, however, I was significantly more resilient and less concerned about spending time in jail for meddling. Hopefully Evan would understand that I couldn’t live with myself if poor Mr. Moore was sick, scared, and alone after his earlier trauma.
If Cookie or one of my parents were in the same situation, I’d hope someone would be there for them too.
The hospital parking lot was quiet as I parked my truck beneath security lighting and climbed out. My breath floated in steamy puffs as I made my way to the sliding glass doors outside the emergency room. A bevy of locals filled blue plastic chairs along the walls inside. A short line had formed at the check-in desk. Pink-cheeked children gazed listlessly at a television anchored in the corner while a cartoon grinch rode a sled into Whoville. Other kids played chase around a ratty-looking plastic tree with paper ornaments hung on pipe cleaners. More than one of the adults looked as if they wouldn’t mind being admitted too, if it meant getting a little sleep.
“I told him not to sled at night,” a woman explained to the intake nurse while a pint-sized boy cried at her side. “Even with our motion lights, it’s just too difficult to see.”
A second child, not much bigger than the first, looked frantically from the woman to the nurse. “I couldn’t help it,” he pleaded. “The path was clear until Marvin tried to stop me!”
The first kid wailed. His nose and mouth were smeared with blood, and he held an ice pack to his forehead. “It was my turn, and you knocked out my front teefs!”
I pressed my lips together and hurried past.
A doctor carrying an X-ray through the waiting room spoke quickly with a nurse in holiday-themed scrubs. “Looks like another ankle fracture,” he said. “Everyone thinks ice skating is great until they realize they don’t know what they’re doing.”
“Or the ice breaks,” the nurse said. “Let’s be glad it’s just an ankle. Those heal.”
A group of carolers in Victorian garb roared in behind me, falling against one another in laughter. A scent I associated with Cookie and her peppermint schnapps arrived with the group.
“He stuck his tongue to a light post,” one of the group members called.
I slipped into the wide hallway beyond the waiting area while everyone was distracted. HIPPA laws would stop anyone on staff from helping me find Mr. Moore, so I’d have to do that on my own. Thankfully, I had a plan.
I checked my watch before climbing into the elevator and pressing the button for the third floor. Holiday tunes played softly as I climbed.
A moment later, the silver doors parted, and I hustled into the cafeteria, hoping I hadn’t missed Mom’s friend, Mona.
Like everything in Mistletoe, the large dining space was decorated for the holidays. Another sad plastic tree stood in the corner. Shiny red and green garlands outlined the windows, and Christmas cards taped to the wall formed the shape of a big star.
“Holly White!” Mona cried the moment I turned the corner. “What are you doing here?”
“Hey, Mona,” I said. Though my name was legally Holly Gray now.
I’d considered hyphenating my last name with Evan’s, but Holly Gray-White and Holly White-Gray sounded equally silly, so I’d stuck with tradition. My left thumb traced the wedding band Evan had given me the year before, and I smiled.
Mona tipped her head curiously. She wore her dark hair in big curls, teased to within an inch of their life, a look left over from her days as a pageant queen, no doubt. She’d been a cafeteria worker at the hospital for years, and her name tag had a worn Santa sticker in the corner. “Everything okay?” she asked. “Your parents? Cookie?”
“Oh yes, we’re all fine.”
Mona visibly relaxed. “Thank heavens. I heard about what happened at the farm today. I planned to call when I finished my shift.”
“Mom will appreciate that,” I said. “She’s pretty shaken. We all are, but I’m here looking for Henry Moore.” I pulled a lidded container of pastries from my bag. “I heard he was admitted for observation.”
Mona looked at the wall clock. “Visiting hours aren’t over just yet, but you’d better get moving.”
I wrinkled my nose and leaned in her direction. “If you had to guess, where do you think I’d find him?”
She considered me for a moment. “What brought him in?”
“Shock, maybe. He was at the farm today.”
She nodded. “I’d start with the fourth floor.”
“Thank you.” I fished a commemorative gingerbread man from my pocket and passed it to her. “Merry Christmas!”
She beamed at the cookie, and I hurried away.
I took the elevator up one floor and hoped Evan hadn’t posted images of my face behind the nurses’ station, with instructions to send me away.
Mistletoe Memorial Hospital was big, and I wasn’t sure which way to turn after stepping onto the new floor. I read the signs and quickly ruled out Labor and Delivery as well as the wing designated as Urology. That left one hallway to explore.
Men and women in festive scrubs moved in double time, dodging families and other visitors toting balloons and gift bags.
I tried to blend in. I peeked through every open doorway until Mr. Moore’s balding head came into view. He was on his side in bed, staring forlornly through the window at the night sky.
I rapped my knuckles against the door frame. “Knock knock.”
He looked over his shoulder in my direction, then rolled onto his back. “Holly?”
“Hi.” I slipped inside and closed the door. The room smelled faintly of coffee and antiseptic. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay. I brought treats from the Hearth.” I extracted a pastry bag of cookies from my pocket and extended the offering in his direction.
Emotion swam in his eyes. “That’s very kind. Thank you.”
“It’s no problem.” I set the container on the nightstand when he didn’t reach for it. Then I took a seat in the chair at his bedside. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired,” he said.
“I won’t stay long,” I promised. “I just needed to know you were okay, and I wanted you to know my family is thinking of you.”
He sighed deeply, looking significantly older than his years.
“How long are they keeping you here?” I wondered, hoping he’d be home for Christmas next week. “Have you let anyone know you’re here?”
“No need. They’re sending me home tonight. I’m just waiting for the paperwork.”
I blinked, initially surprised by the news. Then I noticed he wasn’t in a hospital gown. He’d stretched the blanket over himself, but the collar of his sweater was visible at his neck. His coat hung on a hook near the door, and his shoes were lined up beneath it.
He was waiting to leave.
“Do you need a ride home,” I asked. “I can drive you if you don’t have another plan.”
“I’d appreciate it,” he said. “An ambulance brought me. I’ve been trying to decide who to bother.”
“It’s no bother,” I promised. “I’ll stay and wait with you, if that’s okay.”
His eyes were glossy with emotion when he nodded. “Did you know mistletoe is poisonous?” he asked quietly. “And it’s invasive.”
“You mentioned,” I said.
I hoped for Mr. Moore’s sake Elijah’s cause of death wouldn’t be poison.
“Once mistletoe infests a tree, it’s really hard to get rid of,” he said. “But it’s not all bad.” A measure of hope crossed his wrinkled face. “It’s medicinal too.”
I wondered if he was trying to tell me something, perhaps drawing an analogy? If so, I couldn’t guess the true meaning.
“Alternative healers use mistletoe for treating headaches, arthritis, seizures—”
The door opened, interrupting his words.
I saw my life flash before my eyes, afraid Evan had returned to speak with his only suspect, and caught me snooping.
Instead, a young nurse appeared. “Oh, hello,” she said, visibly startled to see me. “I wondered who had closed the door.”
I wiggled my fingers at her. “Hello. I’m Holly.”
Mr. Moore creaked upright, pushing away the blanket and turning his legs over the bed’s edge. “May I go home now?”
“Yes.” The nurse passed him a tablet. “Take a minute to review the release, then initial and sign, please. It says you agree to set a follow-up visit with your primary care physician within seven days and that you should rest. I know that’s hard to do this time of year, but you need to try. Return to the ER if you experience chest pain, dizziness, or shortness of breath. I’ll get a wheelchair for your discharge and be right back.”
Mr. Moore looked vacantly at the tablet.
After the nurse had gone, I stood. “Do you need help with that?”
“I just want to go home.”
“I know,” I said softly. “Here.” I dragged a fingertip down the screen, scrolling to the line. “Use your finger like a pen. Initial there. Sign below.”
He scribbled illegibly, then set the tablet on the bed. He shuffled toward his coat and shoes.
“Are you sure you should be going home?” I asked. In my opinion, he looked as if a night or two of observation was in order.
“I’m okay,” he said. “They ran the tests, and I’m still kicking.”
I bit my tongue against asking for more information about his health. I presumed he had a heart issue, based on his age and the nurse’s instructions, but I didn’t know enough about health or medicine to think of anything more specific. I supposed it didn’t matter what ailed him. Only that he was okay.
As promised, the nurse returned to collect the tablet and deliver a wheelchair. I walked along beside her as she pushed him to the elevator.
When the doors opened on the first floor, a familiar pair of faces came into view. Tate and Harvey, the true crime podcasters leaned against a wall at the edge of the ER. They spotted me before I could get my hood over my head.
Tate smiled a wide grinchy grin as we approached the hospital’s exit. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Mistletoe’s infamous local sleuth.” He pushed off the wall and took a step in my direction. “I don’t make a habit of pairing desserts with encounters, but I’d say this one goes with some kind of fruit cobbler because it’s juicy.”
“Gross.” I said, wrinkling my nose before looking pointedly away.
“You know, Harvey,” Tate said casually to his partner, “I’d say I’m surprised to see Holly with the town’s number-one murder suspect, but we both know I’m not.”
The nurse gasped.
Harvey chuckled.
Moore made a strangled sound.
I forced a smile and turned pointedly away from him. “I’ll bring the truck around,” I told the nurse. Then I leaned into Moore’s view. “I’ll be right back. Please ignore these two awful people.” I hooked a thumb in the podcasters’ direction, then hurried to get my truck and return.
Two minutes later, I pulled my truck up to the automatic doors and shifted into park.
Tate and Harvey were speaking with the nurse when I reached them once more.
“Go away,” I told them when I climbed out. “Kick stones. Buzz off. Goodbye.”
The nurse’s eyes were wide and her grip on the wheelchair handles, white.
“This way,” I told her. I rounded the truck’s hood and opened the passenger door for her patient.
Thankfully, she complied, and Moore was quickly loaded into the cab.
“I-I didn’t—” he began, head shaking. His hands trembled as he reached for the seat belt.
“Ignore them,” I repeated. “They’re looking for a story, and they don’t care if it’s true.”
“You’re the story,” Tate called from behind me.
I wasn’t sure if he meant me or Mr. Moore. Either way, I didn’t care. I closed the passenger door and went back to the driver’s side.
“But I didn’t—” Moore tried again when I climbed behind the wheel.
“Don’t listen to them,” I said, shifting into drive.
Outside, Tate and Harvey stared at the soft blue glow of a phone screen, possibly videotaping or, worse, livestreaming our escape.
I turned onto the lane at the base of Moore’s property several minutes later. An old carved-wood sign announced “Mistletoe & Moore” in gilded letters, a play on words I’d always enjoyed. The stout driveway was lined with trees and shrouded in shadow as we crept forward. Multiple sets of tire tracks were visible in the snow. I shifted into park beside his little white pickup truck, outside a home straight from the pages of a storybook.
Beside me, Mr. Moore gazed through the windshield, looking distant and a little sad. “Birds and animals make mistletoe nests,” he said as the truck’s engine settled. “It makes wonderful homes for woodland families. Some of the nests are big. Up to fifty pounds.” He unfastened his safety belt and opened his door. “It kills the trees, but it redeems itself in that way by protecting other creatures. Don’t you think?”
He closed the door before I could answer.
I didn’t particularly love the direction this little trivia session had gone, and I had no idea what to say about it. So, I took my time joining him on his porch.
I’d always loved Tudor-style houses like his, with their steeply pitched roofs, regal wooden beams, and gorgeous stonework. Set back among the trees, topped with snow and outlined in twinkle lights, Moore’s home looked downright enchanting.
He unlocked the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. A small lamp had been left on in the corner, illuminating the space.
“Come in,” he said. “Would you like some tea?”
My gaze traveled the tidy space, catching on the myriad of motionless animals on every flat surface. A set of squirrels on hind legs, arranged in a cluster and dressed in mauve Victorian garb, stopped me in place. Their little fingers were curved around tiny sheet music, their mouths open in song.
“That’s the Mistletoe Holiday Choir,” he said, moving back in my direction. “They sang at your engagement. Cookie is part of the group.” He pointed to a singer with a crown of white hair. “There she is.”
I dragged my gaze to him, but it jumped back to the pack of squirrels. “Are these real squirrels?”
“Taxidermy,” he said. “Look. All of Mistletoe is here.” He flipped a switch on the wall, and a buttery light bathed the room. “It helps to pass the time during our offseason. It’s a lost art. My grandfather was much better, but I try.”
My mouth dried as I processed the sights before me. Frogs with snowshoes and hiking sticks stood near the covered bridge where Evan had proposed. A blond chipmunk held a tray of cupcakes outside a wooden shop. Squirrels dressed as mail carriers and shopkeepers. A little town square with a blinking, decorated tree.
“I wasn’t sure where to put you,” he said. “I thought it made sense to leave you there.” He pointed to a brown squirrel in a white parka outside what I guessed to be the Reindeer Games Inn. Beside her, a black squirrel in a tiny sheriff’s jacket held a gift wrapped in red. “There’s a marble in the box.”
“What?” I hadn’t had any real expectations of what the inside of Mr. Moore’s home might look like these days, but taxidermied wildlife dressed as Evan and me wouldn’t have been on the list. The displays had not been present in years past when I’d visited with my dad.
“I thought about putting a ring in the box, but all I had was a marble.” He hung his coat on a hook and moved through a nearby archway. “I’ll make tea.”
He was gone before I could protest, and I was thankful for the moment alone.
Aside from the squirrels, his home was lovely. Neat and tidy, if sparsely furnished. A bookshelf near a rocking chair overflowed with well-worn novels and photos of people through the years. The Christmas tree in the corner was about my height, with white lights and an abundance of what I presumed was mistletoe. I thought about his warnings that the plant was poisonous and decided to keep my distance.
When I didn’t hear any movement in the house, I went in search of my host. “Mr. Moore?”
He looked up at me from a chair in the kitchen. The exhaustion on his face made me wonder again if the hospital had been right to send him home.
“Are you feeling okay?” I asked.
“Tired,” he said. “I don’t think I can make the tea.”
“It’s okay. Let me help you to your room. I’ll lock up behind me when I leave.”
He nodded, and I helped him stand.
I made a pot of tea while he changed for bed, but when I carried a steamy mug to him several minutes later, I was met with the sounds of gentle snores.
I traded the hot tea for a glass of water and left it on his bedside table. “I’ll be back to check on you when I can,” I whispered. “I’m sorry you fought with Elijah Snow yesterday. I know how bad that seems, and how terrible you feel about it, but this wasn’t your fault. I’ll do everything I can to help you. I know you’d never hurt anyone.”
I turned for the door, knowing Evan would be upset, but I couldn’t stay out of this. Not when a sick old man, and lifelong friend of my family, was the prime suspect.
“I loved her.”
My muscles tensed as I looked over my shoulder. Mr. Moore’s eyes were closed, his features soft. For a moment, I thought I’d imagined the words.
Unable to resist the intrigue, I took a step toward him once more. “Who?” I asked.
He’d never married, as far as I knew. At least not in my lifetime, and like the Snows, his family line had diminished, if not dissolved completely.
I rolled my eyes when he didn’t respond. Moore was asleep, and I’d read one too many mystery novels.
I stepped into the hallway, doorknob still in hand when the answer came.
“Violet.”