The winding county road into town was lovely as always, even from my temporary perch behind the wheel of a rented moving truck. The forest fell away as I trundled forward, quickly exchanged for rolling hills and valleys, then the familiar smattering of homes. The little boxes popped onto the horizon, puffing smoke from their chimneys and drawing closer by the second.
I cracked the driver’s side window and tilted my nose toward the crisp winter air. The truck I’d rented in Portland smelled like cheap air freshener and motor oil. A combination I’d forever associate with the tears I’d shed while loading it. Outside the cab, however, Mistletoe smelled like fresh pine and new fallen snow. It was impossible to lack clarity at those oxygen levels. Which was probably why, shocked as I was by the broken engagement, there was no doubt that things could’ve been worse—I could’ve married the guy.
My truck rumbled to a stop beneath the twisty, wrought-iron “Welcome to Mistletoe” sign, hindered by tour buses dropping riders at the square. The public benches had all been repainted a bright Santa red, and pine green wrapped the lampposts. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it all. Even the traditional mistletoe hanging from our Main Street lanterns looked like home. Hundreds of people stood beneath them each year for selfies. I’d stolen my share of kisses on those corners.
Traffic began to move, and I took a right to circumvent the mass congestion. I drove the last few blocks to Merry Movers and parked outside.
An exiting guest held the front door for me. “Merry Christmas.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Merry Christmas.”
A young woman met me at the counter with a smile. “Welcome to Merry Movers. Where can we move ya?”
I slid the keys and my rental paperwork onto the counter. “Actually, I just moved back.”
“Oh.” She perked. “Well, welcome back. I’m Annie.” Her blonde ponytail bobbed behind her in a corkscrew curl.
“Holly.” I did a little wave across the counter.
She processed the paper work, rubbing a thick line of freckles beneath her glasses. “You live at Reindeer Games?”
“Yep. Are you thinking of coming out?”
Her smile wilted. “Oh, um, no thanks.”
My tummy tightened with the realization that she’d heard about Margaret’s death and didn’t want to visit a murder site. I forced a small smile. “Well, if you change your mind, I hope you’ll look me up while you’re there. We have a lot of fun planned this week, and I make a mean snickerdoodle.”
“Okay.” She didn’t look convinced. “Merry Christmas.” She handed me a candy cane and stepped away from the counter.
I stuffed my receipt into the pocket of my puffy white coat and saw myself out.
A parade of tourists laden with shopping bags ambled past, apparently deciding which way to go next. I stepped onto the sidewalk behind them with renewed purpose. I had to clear the farm’s association with Margaret’s murder before the whole town looked at Reindeer Games the way that young girl had.
Main Street was alive with holiday cheer. Banners billowed from light posts announcing the Twelve Days of Christmas, a retail celebration supported by all the local shops and enjoyed by thousands of visitors every season. A flutter of pride lifted my spirits at the sight of so many happy faces.
I bought a bag of candied pecans from a vendor’s cart and surveyed my targets. There were plenty of shops in town, lots of workers and proprietors who likely saw or spoke with Margaret in the last few days. I’d never have time to visit everyone today, but I could certainly start with some coffee. I ducked inside the Busy Bean and landed in a line twelve people deep. Busy Bean was outfitted in shades of brown with punches of pink and white for pizazz. A smiling cartoon bean with arms, legs, and a boat-shaped hat graced the windows, menus, and counter.
The line inched forward while I teetered between two of my favorite drinks. The vanilla noel reminded me of after-school laughs and coffees with my high school art club, but the cinnamon vanilla dolce reminded me of Christmas shopping with Mom.
“Welcome to Busy Bean. What can I brew for you?” An excited woman in a logoed sweat shirt perked from behind the register. “Oh, hey, Holly!”
“Hi!” I dusted sugar crumbs from my lips and rolled the half-eaten bag of nuts into my pocket. “Wendy, right?” Wendy had kept the little library on Liberty Street all through my adolescence. I’d frequented the adorable take-one, leave-one book depot regularly until I got my driver’s license. After that, I traded quick trips to the little library for afternoons lost in a big-box book franchise one town over.
“What can I make you?” Wendy wrote my name on a white disposable cup and increased her smile.
“I’ll have a cinnamon vanilla dolce.”
“Good choice!” She went to work pumping bottles and shooting espresso into my cup. “Anything else?”
“Yeah.” I leaned my elbows on the counter. “Have you heard about what happened to Margaret Fenwick?”
She stopped midpump and turned wide eyes on me. “Yes. It’s awful.”
“I’ve heard she was fighting with everyone this week, but I just got home a couple days ago so I missed what was going on.” I left the implication fill me in hanging.
She scanned the room before leaning conspiratorially over the counter. “She was on some kind of mission to clean up this place before Christmas. Some people were less accommodating than others.”
“Like who?”
She snapped a lid on my cup. “Four seventy-five.”
“What?”
She opened her palm and curled her fingers a few times. “I’ve got to keep the line moving,” she whispered. “Management gets snippy when I chitchat too long.”
“Oh!” I dug in my pocket for some money. “Sorry.” I handed her a wad of ones.
“Thank you.” She poked the register until it opened. “I believe her nemesis’s name is Paula Beech.”
I believed she was right. I took my coffee and left the change. “Thank you, Wendy. Merry Christmas!”
Margaret Fenwick had been on a mission to clean up Mistletoe. Why?
A woman in pointy-toed shoes and striped leggings jammed a flyer into my line of sight as I exited the coffee shop. “Two-for-one candles.” Her nose and cheeks were red from the cold. She gave my coffee a wistful look and did a little foot-to-foot shuffle. “It’s warm inside,” she said. “You can buy candles and sample the refreshments.”
“Can I bring you something?” I asked. “You look half frozen.”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
I pointed my cup at the sign on the door. “No outside food or drinks allowed. Would you be willing to trade me your flyer for my coffee? It’s cinnamon vanilla dolce. I haven’t tried it yet, but I know from experience these are amazing.”
Her chest expanded, and her mouth fell open. “Yes!”
I inhaled the delicious steam as the woman took it away. “Merry Christmas.”
She tucked the stack of flyers under one arm and curled her hands around the cup, lifting it to her mouth with a sigh. “Bless you.”
I opened the candle shop door and went to check out the refreshments. Sweet Scents Candle Company was an assault to my senses. I rubbed my watery eyes and pinched my nose to reset my system.
A row of narrow tables covered in red linens were set at the back of the store, coaxing potential buyers past all the shop had to offer before arriving at the refreshments. White doilies shaped like snowflakes dotted the tables. Upon each doily sat a tray of goodies.
“Hello.” I greeted a pair of women in matching blouses and pearls. “I think I recognize you from the fudge shop.”
The taller one handed me a little plastic plate. “Millie,” she said, tipping her head toward her friend, “and I’m Jean. We own Oh! Fudge. We’re here making a delivery.”
“I’m Holly White. My mom and I were regulars at Oh! Fudge when I was younger.” I filled my plate with cheese chunks, crackers, and grapes while my last name settled in.
“Of course. From the tree farm,” Jean whispered. “We were just talking about what’s going on up there.” She scooped a sampling of their fudge from a newly delivered tray and set it on my plate. “How did you get here? Did you escape?” She stroked sleek silver hair as she awaited my response.
I tried not to make a face. “We aren’t in quarantine. The sheriff’s just following procedure, checking to see if whoever did this left any evidence of his identity behind.”
The women exchanged a long look.
“You say ‘he,’ but I heard Paula was there.” Jean curled a lock of hair behind one ear.
“She was,” I agreed. “Does that matter?”
“Yes!” The notion seemed to spark Millie to life. She elbowed her way between Jean and the table. “Of course it matters. Paula and Margaret have been feuding for fifty years—since we were kids.” Apricot-colored hair sprouted from the hem of her silver knitted beanie. “Ask her yourself,” she said, sporting a grin to make the Cheshire Cat jealous. “She’s selling syrup on the corner of Maple and Vine.”
“Thanks, I will.” I tossed a bit of salted caramel fudge between my lips and moaned. “So good.”
“Give our best to your mother,” they called from behind me.
At the register, I chose two roasted-marshmallow-scented candles and set them on the counter with my coupon flyer and little tray of snacks. Unfortunately, the candle clerk, a former classmate of mine, had never heard of Margaret Fenwick until her death was announced in the paper this morning, but she did offer to box up my snacks for me.
Outside, I headed for the corner of Maple and Vine in search of Paula and her maple syrup stand. I stopped at the florist, shoe shop, and bridal salon on my way. Much as I hated to think of my canceled wedding plans, the dress was ready for pickup, and there were no returns. I draped the garment bag over one arm and carried it as far as the Second Look resale shop where I hawked it on consignment. They’d call me if anyone was interested. Meanwhile, I made my way through several blocks of shops and accumulated a ton of stuff, from candles and nuts to the grapevine wreath dangling around my right arm and a number of other local treasures in two heavy shopping bags. It didn’t seem right to prod businesses for details about Margaret and then leave without a purchase. Besides, who didn’t need another wreath or candle this time of year?
I peered up and down the street before joining a throng of tourists in a jaywalk. I needed more time to go in every store, but with a mile of shops down each side of the street, it just wasn’t going to happen on my tired feet.
“Fresh maple syrup!” a woman’s voice called into the white noise of the busy street. “Samples here!”
I followed the call toward a green tent with “Mistletoe Maples” printed on the top, slowing slightly to window-shop at the art gallery on the corner. The sale on figurines and ministatues caught my eye.
“Anything I can help you with?” a woman in black slacks and a matching pea coat asked.
“I love figurines,” I admitted. “All of them. Blown glass. Marble. Ceramic. Lawn gnomes.” I laughed. “Doesn’t matter. I love them all, and these are beautiful.” I pointed to the shelves of black-and-white kittens frozen in play. Small red bows protruded from their collars. I wiggled a finger as if I could tickle them.
The woman cocked her head and folded her arms. “I like your earrings.”
“Thanks. I made them from old bottles and votive holders. It’s a hobby of mine.”
“They’re marvelous.” She extended her hand my way. “I’m Jenna Montclair. I own the gallery. What do you charge for a pair?”
I processed the strange words. “Oh, no. They aren’t for sale.” Though, she was the second person to ask me that question in less than twenty-four hours.
“That’s too bad; they’re fantastic. Do you have more?”
I glanced at a trio of women who’d stopped beside us to stare. They wore lanyards with a bus line logo and munched popcorn, apparently waiting for my answer. “Yes.”
“I’d love to include some of your work in my holiday collection.” She handed me a business card. “Think about it.”
“Thank you.” I smiled through my befuddlement. She went into the gallery. I tucked her card into my pocket and hustled toward the syrup booth.
“Fresh syrup!” Paula’s hair was cut shorter than mine and barely visible thanks to the hoodie pulled over her head. Space heaters were pointed at her feet and the folding chair by her display. Tiers of syrup in three bottle sizes lined her table. Pamphlets, pens, magnets, and other giveaways were piled near a sign that encouraged passersby to stop and browse.
“Paula?” I stopped at the booth and rested my bulging bags on the table.
“Yeah?” She looked up with a curious smile. “How can I help you?” She arranged samples of syrup-soaked pancakes into a covered warming tray.
I chose a jumbo bottle of syrup and set it between us. “I’d like to buy this.”
She dusted her palms and shut the warming tray lid. “All righty. Anything else?”
“Yes, actually. I wanted to talk to you about Margaret Fenwick.”
She stuffed my syrup into a little bag with a grunt. “What about her?”
“I’m Holly White,” I backpedaled. “My family owns the tree farm beside yours. I’m sure you know my folks, but I’ve been gone a few years. College and such.”
My parents made a point of knowing everyone. I did what I could, but I hadn’t had much reason to interact with her when I was growing up. She didn’t have children, and I rarely saw her at local events. I probably would’ve gotten to know her as an adult, but once I’d moved to Portland, my visits home became shorter and further between.
“Anyway”—I waved a mitten between us—“last night at the Hearth, I heard you say that Margaret fined you for something.”
Her chin snapped up, and her blue eyes narrowed. Wrinkles gathered in the pale skin on her brow. “Nine dollars.”
I handed her a ten. “You knew her well, didn’t you?”
“I knew Margie all my life.” She pushed my bag across the table. “She was the same self-righteous, self-important blowhard every minute of her sixty-five years.”
Heat rose in my cheeks. I checked to see who else had heard the spite-filled words, but no one seemed to be paying any attention. “If you don’t mind me asking,” I said, “where did you go when you left the Hearth last night?” Paula had left along with a group of other patrons right after Mrs. Fenwick, but I hadn’t seen her when I walked outside with Cookie moments later.
“I got in my sleigh and went home. If I’d had to watch Margie ruin one more person’s night, I would’ve popped her in the nose.”
I’d seen a sleigh heading away in the distance. That must’ve been her. Hopefully it wasn’t a getaway sleigh. I took the package and offered a gentle smile. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry the two of you had a fight last night. That must be hard for you.”
She stiffened visibly. “I’d tell her where to stick that fine all over again if I could. I’d had enough of her nonsense years ago, and she crossed the line this week.” She gripped the table’s edge until her fingers turned white. “It was only a matter of time until she pushed someone too far.”
I gathered my packages and backed away from the booth before I pushed Paula too far. “Thank you.” I wiggled the syrup bag between us. “Happy holidays.”
If Sheriff Gray needed a suspect who didn’t work at Reindeer Games, I had a great suggestion. Maybe it was time he visited Mistletoe Maples and had a talk with the angry tree tapper.