Holiday and Alex arrived at the Kilgorff house just before two in the afternoon. Well, “house” was a misnomer in this case—the white Colonial estate with black shutters was festooned with balsam garlands and featured wreaths on every door, including the carriage house, guesthouse, and what appeared to be a stable in the back. A long, brick-paved driveway curved around the house and continued down to the lakeshore.
Holiday squinted. “Is that a boathouse back there by the dock?”
“Looks like stained-glass artistry pays pretty well,” Alex said.
“Yeah, apparently, there’s a lot of generational wealth from Driscoll, but Crispin is no slouch himself. He made a killing in construction. Or real estate. Something like that,” Holiday replied.
“If this guy’s so loaded and living the good life out here on the lake, why is he willing to let you rifle through his family heirlooms?” Alex asked. “He doesn’t need the money, clearly.”
“I don’t know.” Holiday turned up both palms. “I asked as politely as I could, he seemed cool with it, and my negotiation policy is to stop talking when you get what you want. So I didn’t ask a lot of follow-up questions.”
Alex regarded the house suspiciously. “Maybe he’s got an ulterior motive.”
“Maybe he’s just a nice guy who’s sick of family feuds and is willing to help out a stranger out of the goodness of his heart at Christmas,” Holiday countered.
Alex opened the door and climbed out of the truck cab. “Guess we’ll find out.”
As he and Holiday climbed the stately stone steps leading up to the front door, Holiday pointed to a wooden for-sale sign lying on the porch. “Check it out—he’s putting the house on the market. We got here just in time.” She reached up and banged the weathered brass door knocker, which was no doubt a priceless antique.
“Welcome, welcome. You must be Miss Smith.” Crispin Kilgorff the Third, a portly, mustachioed old-world gentleman in a festive plaid sweater, threw open the front door and ushered Alex and Holiday into the high-ceiling foyer. “Come in.”
“Please call me Holly or Holiday.” She offered a handshake. “And this is Alex, my, um, assistant.”
Alex’s eyebrows shot up, but he played along and shook hands. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”
“Call me Cris,” the homeowner boomed. “Let me take your coats. Can I get you anything to drink? Tea? Coffee? Hot toddy?”
Holiday managed to avoid making eye contact with Alex at the mention of coffee, as they had spent the last hour listening to experts discuss the optimal soil acidity for growing Arabica plants in Brazil. “Water would be lovely, thank you.”
“Oh, come now, it’s chilly out there. Have something to warm you up. How about hot chocolate?”
“That sounds great,” she agreed. “And thank you again for letting me come rummage through your attic.”
“Happy to help.” Crispin shook his head. “You can’t imagine the strife all of my great-grandfather’s money and notoriety has caused. Not worth it, at any cost.”
“Good karma is coming your way,” she assured him. “And don’t worry, we’ll be quick about it. Out of your hair in an hour, max.”
“Oh, you’re here!” A petite older woman in a pink tweed suit and a white bouffant click-clacked into the foyer on towering high heels. “Your timing is impeccable.” She offered her hand. “I’m Lauren Havers, the real estate agent.”
Holiday and Alex’s bewilderment must have shown on their faces, because Lauren turned to Crispin with a puzzled expression of her own.
“Aren’t these the people you called to clean out the attic?” she asked.
“Indeed, they are.” He led the way up the staircase to a small door in the hallway of the second floor. “You two can get started, and I’ll send someone up with your cocoa when it’s ready.”
Alex shot an I told you so glance at Holiday, who summoned a smile and tried to decide how to word this delicately. “Mr. Kilgorff, we’ll certainly do our best, but I’m not sure we can clean out an entire attic in an hour. And we really need to get back on the road before dusk. But, if you’d like, I’d be happy to arrange for—”
“No need to worry. There’s hardly anything left up there.” He gave her a hearty clap on the back that nearly knocked her over. “You’ll be done in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. The packing crates are prepped, and I’ll see to it that you have plenty of tape.” He opened the door and pulled the chain that turned on a naked lightbulb. A narrow stairway led up into musty darkness.
“Are there any lights up there?” Holiday asked.
“Lots of dormer windows and plenty of daylight left. I’ll send up some flashlights and candles, if you like.”
The Realtor clapped her hands together. “Splendid! So it’s settled.” She ushered Alex and Holiday toward the staircase. “Happy hunting!”
The door slammed and Holiday put one foot on the first step, which creaked so loudly that she worried it might snap in two. Her breath stirred up little clouds of dust. “All right,” she said to Alex. “Go ahead. Say you told me so.”
“Later.” He darted around her and sprinted up the stairs. “Right now, we have work to do.”
“Sorry.” She followed him up, clutching the banister. “This isn’t what you signed up for.”
“Eh, it’s cleaning out an attic. How hard could it be?”
Holiday mounted the top of the stairs and surveyed the vast, shadowed landscape of boxes and furniture draped in sheets. She planted her feet and put her hands on her hips. “You’re right. We can do this.”
“We’ll make a plan and execute,” he said. “Start at one side and work through section by section. Come on.” He grabbed her hand. “Let’s start at this wall.”
She squeezed his hand back, whereupon both of them immediately pulled away. “The first thing we need is adequate lighting. Here.” She turned on her phone’s flashlight and balanced it atop a pile of wooden crates.
He pulled a pocketknife out of his coat and started slicing into cardboard containers. “Extraneous packing material can go over here.” He yanked out some tissue paper and tossed it in the corner. “And we’ll need something inspiring to listen to. What’s your poison?”
“It’s December twenty-third. Christmas music all the way.” Holiday sliced open the box next to his and pulled out a mystery object wrapped in an old towel.
“Modern or traditional?” he asked.
“Mix it up.”
With a few swipes on his phone screen, Nat King Cole started crooning about chestnuts roasting and what could have been drudgery turned into the ultimate scavenger hunt.
Twenty minutes later, they’d unearthed antique books, two weather-warped cellos, a passel of broken skis, an old-timey spinning wheel, a dozen pairs of ladies’ shoes from the 1950s, and a roll-top desk that, as Alex put, “was probably where Edgar Allan Poe wrote ‘The Raven.’” They had huge mugs of cocoa, and they had Mariah Carey and Brenda Lee on the playlist. What they didn’t have—at least not yet—was any sign of stained glass.
Holiday nibbled her lower lip. “I hope there’s something good in the next stack of boxes. He said that his grandfather used this attic as a studio for drawing and design. I mean, there has to be something, right?”
“There’s stained glass up here.” Alex sounded one hundred percent confident.
“How can you be so sure?” she asked.
“Because I refuse to accept the alternative.” He gave her a wry smile, and she recognized a stubborn spark of determination in his eyes. It was the same spark she experienced whenever someone told her a deadline was too tight or a challenge was too insurmountable.
“Pass the knife, please.” She knelt down and held out her palm. “I feel lucky.”
“Roll us some sevens.” He pressed the handle of the pocketknife into her palm. “Daddy needs a new—I mean an old—stained-glass star.”
Holiday sucked in her breath, cut through the packing tape, and unwound a yard of yellowed muslin from . . . “What is this?” She held the object up to the light. “A hammer?” Her excitement gave way to disappointment.
He examined the small, double-edged tool. “A miniature pickaxe?”
And then her research came flooding back. “Wait, I know! This is a cutting tool for stained glass.” She reached into the box and pulled out another metal tool. “And this is a cutting wheel. Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve reached the stained-glass portion of this afternoon’s entertainment.”
As the scent of cinnamon and vanilla drifted up from the kitchen, they ripped through the next box in the pile. In a matter of minutes, they amassed rusty cans labeled “potash,” “lime,” and “sand,” as well as long strips of lead and wooden laths.
“Well,” Holiday said, “the good news is that we’ll probably be able to make a glass star ourselves by the time we’re done up here. All we need is the kiln and a few instructional YouTube videos.”
And then Alex discovered the lamp. Hidden under a dirty drop cloth, Holiday had assumed the dome-shaped item was a birdcage, but no. When the cloth was whisked away, she knew exactly what she was looking at.
“I can’t believe it,” she whispered, reaching out, but afraid to touch the intricate glass mosaic of red, blue, green, and gold. “It’s a Driscoll Davidson Nasturnium table lamp. Do you know how much these are going for at art house auctions?”
Alex studied the leaded glass shade, which depicted intricate blossoms and fern fronds. “How do you know it’s legit?”
“Hang on, bring the flashlight over.” Holiday turned the lamp over to examine the base. Upon lifting the cap, she could see a heavy metal ring that appeared to be made of lead. “So far, so good.”
Then she examined the slight greenish patina that had spread across the base of the lamp. Finally, she scrutinized the lamp knobs and the etchings carved into the base.
“I’d need to take this to a professional appraiser to be certain, but all signs point to this being the real thing. Not to mention, we found it in the actual glassmaker’s attic.”
They found two more lamps and a vase before they hit the Christmas stockpile.
“Red alert!” Holiday cried as she sifted through a cardboard box spotted with mildew. “We have an ornament!” She held up a delicate glass globe designed to look like bright-red peonies in bloom.
She handed it off the Alex and reached back into the box. “And another!” This one was a tableau featuring a white swan with a red scarf against a blue background.
“So close, but so far.” Alex grimaced in agony.
The attic door creaked open and Crispin’s voice drifted up from the hallway. “Do you two need anything up there?”
“No!” they yelled in unison.
Holiday cleared her throat. “I mean, no thank you, Mr. Kilgorff. How kind of you to check on us.”
“All right, then, I’ll leave you to it.” The door clicked closed.
She flattened one box and prepared to open the next. “Alex, would you care to do the honors?”
“I would, thank you.” He sliced through the twine and tape. She nestled into his shoulder to get a better view. He pulled out an item so distinctive that even wads of tissue paper couldn’t disguise it.
“It’s a star,” she murmured.
He unwrapped it with the care and caution one might afford to a ticking time bomb . . . and pulled out a gorgeous green glass star.
His whole body slumped in disappointment. “Right shape, right size, wrong color. My mom’s was red and gold.”
“Keep going,” she commanded.
He was staring at the green glass. “If I got truly desperate, maybe I could just take out the green glass and have a glassmaker fill in the frame with different colors.”
“No need.” She plunged both hands into the box and pulled out a blue-and-silver star.
“It’d be hard to replicate the swirl effect, though.” He was still studying the green piece. “I’m pretty sure all the lead they used in these is outlawed now.”
“Red and gold, you say?” Holiday spun around with a new piece in hand. “Like this one?”
Alex’s expression told her all she needed to know. His was the face of a man informed that he had received a last-moment pardon from death row . . . or from having to tell his mother that he’d broken her favorite Christmas keepsake.
“That’s it. That’s it!” His smile faded. “I think.”
“Okay, well, let’s cross-reference with our primary source.” Holiday’s tone was reassuring. “Show me the photo of the original.”
He went through his phone until he found it.
She took the phone and the star to the window and examined every centimeter of the tree topper, from the thickness of the lead and the etchings on the inside of the bottom to the ripples in the glass. “This is it,” she confirmed. “Or at least, it’s as close as we’re ever going to get.”
He peered over her shoulder. She could feel his breath on her neck and the warmth of his skin radiating into hers. “Where are the differences?”
“Well, look at the whorl of the red glass here.” She ran her index finger over the pattern on one pointed panel. “It’s the same color as the one in your picture, but the texture is different.”
He got even closer to get a better look. “She won’t notice that.” He paused. “Do you think she’ll notice that?”
“I’ve never met your mom, so I can’t say.” She tilted her head. “Ninety-nine percent of people could never tell the difference. Do you think your mother is part of that eagle-eyed one percent?”
“She got her glasses prescription changed recently.” He sounded hopeful. “Maybe she’s not as detail-oriented as she used to be.”
“She’s got no reason to suspect a swap, right?” She resisted the urge to lean back against him. “Just put it up on top of the tree as quickly as possible and change the subject.”
“I’ll have Paul provide a distraction,” Alex said. “He can spill cheese dip all over her couch or something.”
“Genius.” Holiday allowed herself a moment to savor their triumph. This feeling never got old. She had finagled her way through black ice, Wi-Fi outages, sabotaged family trees, and crappy two-wheel drive to deliver exactly what she’d promised to Alex. Which meant that she could now deliver him to Alice and Francie Penewate. Which meant that she could deliver on her own promise to her family to finally join them for snowflake-patterned jammies and cinnamon rolls while they rummaged through their stockings.
Note to self: Buy stocking stuffers for parents and sister.
She detected a tinge of pink in the sky. “We better hurry. It’s getting late.”
They unpacked and sorted out the rest of the attic’s contents with ruthless speed and efficiency. All items were categorized into one of three designations: trash, donate, or priceless works of art. They hauled the trash down to the bins in the backyard and called out for Mr. Kilgorff.
“Done?” He marveled at the smudges of dirt on their hands, faces, and clothes as they returned to the foyer. “That must have been quite a mess up there. Did you find any good glass?”
“We found several,” she confirmed. “Vases, lamps, and ornaments. And even a few tree-toppers.” She pointed out the red-and-gold piece she’d placed carefully on the end table. “This one is exactly what we need.”
“I’m so pleased to hear it! Finally, something positive will come out of this nasty family rift.”
She made a point of shifting her weight and checking her watch. “And I noticed that it’s getting a bit late, so I was hoping we could settle up and be on our way.”
Alex nodded. “How much do you want for it?”
“That star?” The old man tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “I’m not sure it’s possible to put a price on that.”
“It is,” Holiday assured him. “I spent some time looking up auction house listings from the last two years.”
“I get it,” Alex added. “I’m in no position to negotiate. You tell me what you want, and I’ll send it your way right now. Do you take Venmo? Zelle? Or I can just pay cash.”
Crispin was stroking his white beard. “I think we can all agree that I have more than my fair share of filthy lucre.”
Holiday froze. Was he going to give them a Driscoll Davidson original? For free? Talk about Christmas miracles.
But Alex was having none of it. “Sir, you saved my hide by letting me clean out your attic. I’m happy to pay market price.”
Crispin continued to ponder his options. “As I said, I don’t need the money.”
“Fine.” A note of impatience crept into Alex’s voice. “I’ll make a donation to the charity of your choice.”
“That’s a splendid suggestion. I’m a big supporter of our local children’s service agency,” Crispin said. “I throw a party for them every December. In fact, I’m heading down to the county club to host the cocktail hour in just a bit.”
“Then I’ll write a check to them.” Alex pulled out his wallet. “Just tell me the name of the agency.”
“And have a great time at the party.” Holiday headed for the coat closet.
“Slow down, both of you. We have a bit of a situation here and I might need your help.” Crispin hurried back to the kitchen, where Holiday could hear a flurry of muffled voices.
Moments later, he burst back into the siting room.
“Smell that? My staff has been baking sugar cookies for hours. There must be hundreds of them!”
Alex had reached the end of his graciousness. “Sir, we have to leave, so I can either pay you now or have my accountant wire you money tomorrow. Whichever you prefer.”
“As it turns out, a few of the catering assistants can’t make it to the party tonight,” Crispin said. “They came down with a nasty cold and I can’t have anyone sneezing and coughing all over the cookies.”
Holiday and Alex exchanged glances and waited him out.
“We’re short-staffed now,” Crispin concluded. “And the decorate-your-own cookie station isn’t going to run itself. That’s where you come in.”