Back on the sidewalk, I headed for the last stop on my list, one I’d tried hard not to think about. I’d made as many wedding-related cancellations as possible via e-mail or late-night calls, but Sweet Treats Bakery didn’t have voice mail. How that was possible was beyond my comprehension, but it was still true.
I rolled my shoulders back and forced my feet in the right direction. With any luck, I could avoid talking to the owner. She’d trained in Paris and made the best cakes in our time zone, but she had little patience for anything else. A cancellation one week before the wedding was likely to upset her as much as it had upset me.
I stepped into Sweet Treats with my chin held high, fully prepared to state my name, cancel the cake, and run. Soft Parisian music circulated through a white-and-pink color scheme punctuated with black accent panels. Framed photos of the Eiffel Tower and embracing couples lined the walls, expertly sandwiched between colorful shots of the bakery’s work.
Behind the counter, Caroline West smiled brightly. Her fair skin and blue eyes were the perfect backdrop for her vintage red lips and reaching black lashes. “Hey, you! I wondered when you’d get here.” Caroline and I had grown up together, though we’d never had much in common. She’d been interested in popular things like fashion and boy bands, while I’d preferred to climb trees and draw. Based on my shapeless cable-knit top and her fitted black minidress, not much had changed.
“Hello.” I set the frames I’d pilfered from Mrs. Fenwick’s old office facedown on the counter. “It’s nice to see you. You look wonderful, like always.”
“Aww. Thanks. You too.” She tipped her head adorably over one shoulder.
I released an ugly breath. “I’m here about an order I placed several months ago. It was to be delivered next week. I need to cancel.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I heard yesterday. My cousin works at the consignment shop where you took your gown.”
I let my eyelids drift shut before pulling them back open. “Great.”
“It’s fine,” she continued. “These things happen. Imagine how much worse things would’ve been if you’d gone through with it.” She pulled a three-ring binder from beneath the counter and flipped through order sheets. “I need your signature right here to cancel the order. I’d planned to forge it if you didn’t show.”
I laughed. “Thanks, I think.” I borrowed a logoed pen from the mug on the counter and scratched my name across the paper with more roughness than necessary. “Is that it?”
Caroline made a sad face. “You should also know I’m really sorry. About the breakup, and about the fact we’re keeping your deposit. You’re canceling less than thirty days before the event, and she’s already got your order in the queue.”
“But she hasn’t started,” I said, knowing it didn’t matter but feeling agitated enough to point out the obvious. “No amount of time or supplies has been wasted.”
“That’s just how it works. We’ve already ordered all the ingredients and fondants. And you signed the agreement, so you’re liable.” She opened a circular display on top of the counter and selected a petal-pink cupcake drenched in iridescent white sugar crystals with a small white candy flower in the center. “For what it’s worth, when I open my cupcake shop one day, I’ll never punish a bride in your situation.” She placed it in a small box with a little window. “Take this. It’ll make you feel better.”
I slid the box onto my frames. “It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks,” she said. “You know, I don’t live far from your parents now. Maybe you and I can get together sometime for drinks or coffee. There aren’t a lot of single women our age around here. Men either, for that matter. We’ve got to stick together. Hang out. Shop. Whatever. It’d be fun.”
Why not? I wrote my cell phone number on a napkin and passed it to her. “That sounds perfect. Call me or stop by the farm anytime. We can put something on the calendar, but I have a feeling I won’t be getting too far from Reindeer Games for another ten days or so.”
She folded the napkin and tucked it into her apron pocket. “I’ll stop and see you then.”
I collected my things and waved good-bye. It might be fun to have a girlfriend in town. The handful of friends I’d had in high school were either married with kids by now or had left for college and not come back. I felt a little traitorous for having been one of the latter.
I crossed the street, making my way back to my truck. The crowd around the pie shop had steadily thickened in my absence. I pardoned my way to the driver’s side and deposited my things inside. The question now was whether or not to go home or see who else might know something useful about Margaret Fenwick. A twinge of guilt pinched my gut for lying to the sheriff about my intentions today. Given the pile of tree markers left on my porch yesterday, he was probably right for saying I should stay out of it, but I couldn’t help thinking I’d be safer if whoever threatened me was in handcuffs instead of on the loose. Since that person was likely to be Margaret’s killer, I decided to move forward with my questions.
I locked the frames and my cupcake inside the cab and turned back to the row of busy storefronts. Where should I go next?
A low wolf whistle pierced the noisy crowd, and Ray Griggs appeared. He moseyed in my direction, slowly parting the masses like a hometown rock star. His black leather jacket and high-top tennis shoes made an interesting contrast to the untucked flannel shirt and jeans he’d paired with them. “Well, good morning, Miss White.” He sidled up to me and smiled. “Lucky me, running into you like this.”
“You just happened to run into me again? In this crowd?” I gave him my most disbelieving look.
“What? Do you think I followed you?”
“I think you’re a reporter, and I’m investigating a possible story.” I pondered my word choice. What else could I call it now? Having lots of friendly conversations that happened to have the same agenda?
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Depends. How long have you been following me?”
He looked away. “Just since you got to the pie shop.”
“That was first thing this morning!” My eyes stretched wide enough to sting from the cold. “What’d you do? Set up camp outside my house last night?”
He laughed. “I wish.” The humor dropped from his face in a cloud of shock and embarrassment. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not a stalker, I swear. I meant that I heard about what happened yesterday, and I wish I’d have been there to stop the culprit or at least see who did it.”
“How’d you hear?”
Sheriff Gray had been adamant about keeping the incident a secret. He thought making a public statement would put people on edge, cause panic, or fertilize a crop of unpredictable gossip that would be hard to undo.
“Police scanner. Tool of the trade,” he said. “Any idea who did it?”
“Yeah, Margaret’s killer. Before you ask, no, I don’t have any idea who that could be. Yet.”
“Yet?” He smiled. “I like your style, White. Always have. I bet if we put our heads together, we can name the killer before Sheriff Gray.”
“It’s not a contest.”
“But it is a race,” he pointed out.
I pressed my lips together. I’d learned a few small things yesterday, but maybe a partner would speed things up. Ray knew the town, and as a reporter, he probably had inside access to things I didn’t. “Maybe.”
He rubbed his palms together. “Atta girl.” He slung an arm across my shoulders. “Now that we’re partners, what’s our next move?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did the sheriff want?” He leveled me with clear-blue eyes. “He wouldn’t have called you away from the farm unless he had something significant to tell you.”
“Oh.” I smiled. “He didn’t ask me to meet him. I tracked him down so I could find out how much longer Reindeer Games had to stay closed.”
“Nice. What’d he say?”
“He was on his way to give my parents the green light to open, which means I should probably get back there and make myself useful.”
“Excellent. I’ll stop over later.”
I gave him a long look, recalling he was the one who’d dropped me off before the threat was left on my porch. “Where did you go after you took me home yesterday?”
“Why?”
“Curious.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You think I might’ve seen something.”
“Did you?”
“No. I went to talk to the deputy at the gates, then headed back to town.”
I made a mental note to check with the deputy for good measure. “Who do you think could have done it?”
“I honestly have no idea. This week is . . .” He mimed his head exploding.
I knew what he meant.
Throngs of shoppers swarmed around us, whacking my legs with heavy bags and occasionally ramming the backs of my feet with stroller wheels. I couldn’t help overhearing bits of conversations as they passed. The farm was a popular topic, but not in a good way. Many had traveled to Mistletoe specifically to participate in the Twelve Days of Reindeer Games only to be denied entrance. Their day trips were ruined, and they’d not soon forget it. With any luck, they’d drive by one more time before heading home. Assuming the sheriff had kept his word, my folks and the staff were already working double time to make things right for our patrons.
Ray yanked a cell phone from his coat pocket and stared expectantly at the screen. “This is my editor. Give me a minute?”
“Sure.” I leaned against the fender of Dad’s pickup and thought about the day I’d had and the fact that it was barely noon. The strangest part was that this day was no more bizarre than the other days since I’d gotten home. Had I brought a malady with me? Maybe I’m the malady.
Across the street, Mr. Nettle, my dad’s longtime friend and current accountant, walked out of the shoe shop.
Ray had wandered several feet away to take his call.
I tried and failed to get his attention over the crush of people between us.
Mr. Nettle beetled toward a white sedan, flipping through a ring of keys.
“I’ll be back,” I called in Ray’s direction, but he didn’t look up.
I jogged toward Mr. Nettle, threading myself around families and couples chatting animatedly about the charm of our town.
“Mr. Nettle!” I waved a hand overhead as he dropped behind the wheel of his car.
He startled, then slowly levered himself back onto his feet with a frown. “Sorry. I didn’t see you there, Holly. How are you?”
“Not bad,” I said, stepping carefully out of the street. “I won’t keep you. I just wanted to say hello.”
“Well, at least tell me how you liked Portland.”
“It was a nice place, but nothing like home. I didn’t realize how much I missed Mistletoe until I got here.”
“Good.” He pushed thick-lensed glasses up the ridge of his nose. He was broad across the chest and at least six feet tall, but the years had given him a layer or two of natural padding. “Does that mean you’ll be staying?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” I hadn’t really thought about moving home permanently, but I couldn’t imagine moving to another town on my own either. I didn’t have a job. Or much savings. What I had plenty of were student loans and wedding debt. My tummy knotted. What was I doing with my life, and who got the honeymoon Ben and I paid for? I certainly wasn’t making the trip with him no matter how sorry he was or how poorly his life was going.
“How are your parents doing?” Mr. Nettle lowered his voice. “I heard about what happened at the farm. It’s a shame, isn’t it?”
“Awful,” I agreed, setting my own problems aside. At least I was alive and well. Given the circumstances, I certainly wouldn’t want to trade places with Margaret Fenwick. “I don’t suppose you have any guesses as to who would do something like that?”
“None. Thank goodness.”
“Did you know Mrs. Fenwick?”
“As well as anyone could, I suppose. She kept to herself when she wasn’t terrorizing the town. Of course, I don’t keep a house in Mistletoe, so I can’t be sure what she did in her free time. Our offices are in the same building; otherwise, we might not have met at all.”
“Did she give you any citations?”
He chuckled. “Heavens no. It’s hard to break the rules with her in the next room. She kept everything in order. I only had to show up and pay the lease.”
“You had an office beside hers?”
“Across the way, but yes. Do you know the one? It’s a grand old estate on Holiday Lane.” He dragged a dimpled hand over his shiny domed head, mashing several strands of dark hair to an expanse of pink scalp.
“I was there today.” I pulled my attention back to his face. “I met Caleb France.”
Mr. Nettle furrowed his brow.
“What do you think of him?” I asked.
Mr. Nettle looked over my shoulder, avoiding my gaze. “France is an odd fellow. Not someone I’d intentionally spend much time with, but maybe that’s just me.”
He harrumphed. “The man’s pretentious, high strung, argumentative, and rude.”
“Ah.” A rude representative at the Mistletoe Historical Society. Maybe that was a requirement of the job.