Despite the terrifying threats and my thoroughly shaken family, Reindeer Games’ Christmas Tree Ball went on as planned. Mom called her usual crew of girlfriends to assist with crowd control and execution of the event. They divided the night into shifts and assigned themselves to the refreshment booths and raffle ticket sales. Dad rallied members of the local Moose Lodge and every spare farmhand to keep trash cans empty and the floor clear of snow. They were also prepared to load raffled trees into the winner’s vehicles or use a company truck for immediate delivery if needed. Sheriff Gray had his deputies on patrol outside the barn and throughout the property. I just had to show up looking less paranoid than I felt. So far, I was the only one failing at her duty.
It didn’t help that I’d spent half the night drafting suspect lists in an old notebook found in my high school backpack. I’d drawn hasty columns over the faded blue lines and scribbled the names of our neighbors and friends until three pages were full. I’d started with people who were on the property when the tree markers had arrived at the guesthouse. Then I listed anyone who could’ve navigated a storm strong enough to close the farm in an effort to freeze me to death. I ruled out the elderly and weak. The killer was capable of transporting a pile of three-foot wooden stakes quickly enough to go unnoticed. I counted out the short.
In the end, I didn’t have a suspect list as much as a general profile. Whoever threatened me was local and knew the farm well. He or she had probably visited on many occasions and was likely a man. Someone hearty and tall enough to maneuver those stakes without leaving drag marks on the ground. Once again, Paula and Mr. Fleece came to mind. If they’d worked together, they would have all the advantages, including alibis, access, and knowledge. Hopefully, whoever had planted the matchsticks wouldn’t make good on the threat tonight. With two hundred guests at the ball, setting fire to the barn would put innocent lives in danger, and even if no one was harmed, the soot left on Reindeer Games’ reputation would reach far into our business future.
My growing paranoia was powered by three hours of sleep and an astronomic amount of fear-fueled emotions. Inconceivably, no one seemed to notice.
The community had taken this year’s ball seriously and come dressed to impress. The costume contest was sure to be a hoot. There were angels and snowmen, elves and Sugar Plum Fairies. My parents were Santa and Mrs. Clause for the thirty-second year in a row, but there were plenty of doppelgängers afoot.
I ladled punch into plastic cups while I tallied the worst possible things that could happen.
A line of silver-haired women in matching jingle bell cardigans stopped at my table. The shortest of the four peered into one of my lidded Crock-Pots. “Is that cocoa?”
“It is,” I said. “It’s peppermint bliss, and there’s at least a metric ton of melted chocolate in there.” I lifted the lid to let the sweet sting of mint into the air. “This one”—I opened the second crock—“is called salted caramel Christmas.”
Their lips parted, and their eyelids fluttered.
“Would you like to try one?” I asked.
The four women pointed in two different directions. Half for salted caramel and half for peppermint mocha. I filled disposable cups and passed them to the women. “Have you had a chance to look at the sponsored trees yet?” I pointed to the red-carpet lineup along the far wall. “You can purchase raffle tickets for a chance to win.”
“Oh, yes,” they responded with unexpected enthusiasm.
The group’s spokeswoman snapped a lid onto her cup and inhaled the steam rising through the air hole. “I want the one with the pickle in it. It reminds me of home.”
I scrunched my nose. “A pickle?” Hadn’t Dad vetted the trees before setting them into the stands to be decorated?
One of the ladies wiped a chocolate mustache from her upper lip. “We all have favorites.”
“Which is your favorite?” I asked.
“Holly’s Jolly Jewelry is pretty good,” the woman said.
The short lady stretched her hand in the opposite direction of my tree. “I still like the one on the end. I’ve never been to Boston, but the trip is on my bucket list.”
I squinted in the direction she’d pointed. Did she say Boston? “Excuse me,” I said with a sugary smile. “I don’t mean to run off, but I’d love to get a look at that tree. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” I marched painfully forward on the tiny kitten heels of eighty-year-old black lace-up dress boots. The bustle on my backside shimmied with each purposeful stride.
Mom and I had hit the jackpot when we’d opened an old steamer crate in the attic. One of my female ancestors had kept fashionable pieces from a dozen different eras, and I’d chosen a Victorian gown to match Mom’s ball decor. I felt enchanting in the ensemble as long as I was standing still and ridiculous anytime I had to move. The pale-green dress was fitted in the sleeves, bust, and waist, then it puffed out behind me and bing-bonged along as I tried to stay upright on the most uncomfortable boots ever made. It was no wonder Victorian woman carried parasols. They probably used them for balance.
I stopped in front of a busted pine that only a cartoon boy could love. The sign beside it had the large outline of a police shield with the words “Boston Blue, Through and Through” typed on it. I couldn’t imagine Sheriff Gray decorating a raffle tree, but who else would have chosen this theme? Tiny replica handcuffs hung from the limbs while blue-and-white lights performed a peppy chase through the sparse and ragged branches. I poked a plastic police badge with my fingertip and smiled. Felt police hats dangled beside little nightsticks to finish off the manly display.
“What do you think?” a man’s voice asked.
I jumped back as Mr. Nettle moved into view. “It’s one of a kind,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “The tree skirt even has an American flag on it. I’ve never seen that before.”
“These all look pretty good to me,” he said. “My tree is only about yay big.” He mimed a couple feet of space with his hands. “It comes out of the box fully decorated and goes back in one piece when I’m done with it.”
“Clever.” And a little sad, I thought. Bachelorhood at Christmas must be odd, or at least like nothing I could relate to. The concept brought Sheriff Gray back to mind. Who would he spend the day with on Christmas? His family and friends were in Boston, and he couldn’t leave here until the potential pyromaniac was found.
“How are you holding up?” Mr. Nettle asked. “Tomorrow was supposed to be the big day, yeah?”
“Yeah.” The day I was supposed to be married.
The barn door opened, and a group of people in fancy duds lined up to exchange tickets for passage into the formally dressed barn. Thick white tufts of snow floated gently to the ground behind them. Mr. Fleece led his reindeer through the snow toward their stables. Time for dinner, brushing, and bed, I supposed. Mr. Fleece turned his face toward the barn’s interior, and his eyes caught mine. He kept me in his line of sight until the barn door was pulled shut between us.
Ice slid into my pointy black boots.
“Are you feeling okay?” Mr. Nettle asked. “You look peaked.”
I forced a tight smile. How could I be feeling okay when I was surrounded by murder suspects? “I’m fine. I was wondering, though—do you know if Mr. France has returned to work? I stopped at the Historical Society while I was in the building to return your hat, but the lights were out. I’d hoped to talk to him soon.”
“I don’t recall seeing him in the office today, but I was in and out all afternoon, so we may have missed one another. This week is always chaos for me, running errands and gearing up for the extended closing. We won’t be open from Christmas until New Year’s.” He suddenly looked alarmed. “Not that I’m unreachable during that time. I’m always available by phone or e-mail. I just close the office because we never have any appointments at that time and it saves on overhead.”
“Of course,” I said.
He wiggled his mustache. “I thought you didn’t care for Mr. France. You said he was grouchy when you met before.”
I forced my mouth shut. This wasn’t the time or place for another inquisition, and Sheriff Gray was bound to hear about it and kill me himself. “He was. You know what? It’s nothing. Forget I asked.”
“I don’t mind passing along word that you’re looking for him. I’m sure he’s just busy. There’s so much going on this time of year.”
“No. Really. Don’t worry about it.” I averted my eyes and bopped my head to the tune of a lively string band.
Mr. Nettle turned his body until we were shoulder to shoulder. “Your event has drawn a good crowd tonight. It’s a testimony. The farm has done very well considering the blow it took last week. This place loves to persevere.”
I inched away from him, haunted by my list of possible killers. “It’s a dash of luck and a truckload of determination from the family, I think. The Whites are hardheaded that way.”
“Don’t I know it.” He clapped me on the shoulder and walked away.
I watched with rapt curiosity as he moseyed into the crowd. Was it paranoia, or was there a dual meaning behind his words?
Mr. Nettle stopped several yards away, near the woman from his office. She smiled, and he hugged her.
This round goes to paranoia.
I went back to my drink station.
Ray Griggs stood behind my table looking like a GQ ad in tan dress slacks and a white formal shirt. He was ladling punch for a little ballerina. “There you are,” he said to me. “I thought I missed you.”
“Here I am,” I said, making goofy jazz hands.
He handed the cup to the little girl. “Merry Christmas, young one.”
I eased into the space beside him. “Thanks for stepping in. You didn’t have to, but it’s nice.”
“It’s no problem.” He rearranged the array of waiting cups. “Your mom told me you were here, so when you weren’t, I figured you’d be back. Where’d you go?”
“I was checking out the tree competition.”
Ray gave the line of decorated trees a weird look. “I thought it was a raffle.”
“Sure, for the people buying raffle tickets, but the people who decorated the trees probably want theirs to be the favorite.”
He smiled. “Did you decorate a tree?”
I waved to a baby in a passing stroller. “Merry Christmas.”
Ray chuckled. “You did. And you want to be the favorite.”
I shot him a goofy smile. “It’s so stupid, right?”
“No way. Which one is yours?”
“There.” I pointed. “It’s covered in giant candy rings and necklaces.”
“Cute.”
I turned narrowed eyes on him. “You think it’s cute?”
“Sexy?” he guessed.
“No!” I laughed. “Whimsical. Fantastical. A sheer delight.”
“Wow.” He whistled the sound of a falling missile. “You’re humbler than I remembered from high school. I don’t think fantastical is a word.”
I pushed his arm. “It is a word, Mr. Reporter. You’re going to have to expand your vocabulary.”
“Words are hard.”
I laughed again. “I just told my mom the same thing.” I reached under the table and grabbed my thermos.
“Liquor?” he guessed.
“No. It’s coffee. I love the hot chocolate, but if I keep drinking it, I’m going to start looking like the Pillsbury Doughboy. How’s your article coming along? Find an angle that will get you a byline?”
“Not yet, but I’ve got a new strategy.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
He dipped his head and moved in closer to keep whatever he was about to say between us. “I’m going to follow the sheriff. He’s chasing leads. Pulling reports. Talking to everyone. I’ll stay close to him, and when he makes the arrest on Fenwick’s killer, I’ll be on the scene. The first reporter with the scoop. The paper will have to run my story.”
I suspected Sheriff Gray would spot him and threaten him with obstruction long before his plan unfolded, but at least he had a plan. I unscrewed the lid and poured a cup.
Ray tapped my bustle. “What is this thing?” He hit it again like a bongo drum.
“Hey!” I spun around, swinging it out of his reach. “Stop that.”
He circled me, reaching for it. “My word. What do you keep in there?”
I swung away. “Stop.” I swatted his hand and tried not to choke on my coffee. “It’s a bustle, and it’s none of your business what’s in there.”
He craned his neck. “It’s fascinating. Can you sit on it?”
“No, you don’t sit on it.”
“Is it like one of those cushions that sports fans take to football games so their bottoms won’t get cold or fall asleep on the bleachers?”
“No!” I laughed. “Bustles were a fashion trend during the eighteen hundreds. I wanted to coordinate my costume with all these Victorian decorations.”
Ray examined me from head to toe, lingering his gaze in a few key places and making me mildly uncomfortable. “It looks new.” He swept a finger across the snow-white fur outlining my cuffs. Cookie had sewn the accents along my neckline and hem as well.
“The trim is new. The dress is old. I’m not sure how old. I think it was a costume for someone else. There’s no way it lasted over a hundred years in our attic without falling apart.”
“What I’m taking away from this is that you want to win the costume contest and have the favorite tree.”
“I never said either of those things.” Though who wouldn’t want them?
“Greedy.” He pinched the end of his Rudolph-themed tie, and a little red light blinked on the reindeer’s nose. “Does this count as a costume?”
“No.” I finished my coffee and refilled the cup. “Are your mom and aunts here tonight?”
“Yeah. They’re talking with your mom.”
I scanned the crowded wonderland with a fresh dose of nerves. She’d specifically mentioned thinking I looked happy at bingo with Ray. “I should go say hello.”
“Sure. I’ll handle the hot and cold libation operation,” he said, filling and setting another cup among the selection already waiting to be chosen.
“You don’t have to,” I said. “You can come with me.”
He pulled his phone from his pocket and looked at the screen. “Hang on.”
I hadn’t heard the device make a sound. Not even the little buzz created by a cell phone set to vibrate. Was the incoming call strangely coincidental? Was there really a call at all? Did he have a reason to avoid chatting with me and his mom again?
He pressed the phone to his chest. “Looks like I might get that byline after all, White.” He hastened toward the exit at a jog, one thumb raised overhead.
He was the second man to leave me without a good-bye tonight. I was tempted to check my antiperspirant.
I set a fresh pile of disposable cups between the Crock-Pots and erected my handmade “Be Back Soon. Please Help Yourself” sign. I needed to catch Mom before she said something that might be misconstrued by Ray’s mother as encouragement for her son’s flirting and passed on to Ray. I didn’t have time for that. My head was boggled enough without a mother-driven romance.
I crossed the room at a clip, bustle bobbing at my back.
Mom lit up when she noticed me. “Holly! We were just talking about you.” Her bright-red dress and rosy cheeks made her look more like Mrs. Clause than any drawing or photograph I’d ever seen in a book. Her sweet, selfless disposition made it hard to believe she wasn’t something more than a mother to one grown child. In a way, I supposed the whole town was in her care. She cooked for everyone who was sick or injured, was newly married, or had just had a baby. She led a book club, ran the Hearth, and stayed at the ready in case anyone she knew needed help.
I waved to the trio of Ray’s family members. “Nice to see you all again.” I flinched as a strange sensation crawled over my skin. Someone was watching me. I turned in every direction but found no one. The wave of paranoia was strong enough to knock me off my aching feet. Mr. Nettle had left me abruptly. Ray had jogged off. Mr. Fleece had stared me down from thirty yards away. Was I imagining it, or were all the men I knew behaving squirrely tonight?
“Hon?” Mom set her fingers on my wrist. “You look flushed. Maybe you should sit down for a while.”
I pressed my hands to my ribs. The corset, which hadn’t given me much trouble up to that point, suddenly seemed to squeeze the air from my lungs. “I could probably use something cold to drink. Ice water. Maybe punch.” I ran the back of one hand over my forehead. “Have you spoken to anyone working outside?” I asked Mom, using a perkier voice than I’d thought I could muster. “No one found wandering, I hope?”
She glanced at Ray’s family. “Nope.”
Ray’s mom made a strained smile. “Your dress is lovely, Holly.”
“Thank you.” I fanned my face as another blast of anxiety and heat blew over me. “Maybe I should sit down.”
Mom led me to an open bench near a stone planter of plastic poinsettias. “Do you want me to get you anything or walk you home?” she asked.
I pulled in deep lungfuls of air, concentrating on the sounds of my breath and trying desperately to block the barrage of scary thoughts swarming my mind. “I’m okay,” I told Mom. The barn will not explode into flames. I won’t be the reason for two hundred deaths. Mr. Nettle, Mr. Fleece, and Ray are the same people they were a week ago. They are not out to kill me. I rolled my shoulders back and pulled myself together. There was plenty of time for a proper breakdown later. For now, I had a cocoa stand to manage.
Mom lingered, clearly unsure if she should leave me.
I was safe inside the barn. Whoever wanted to kill me was probably planning a sneak attack when I was alone and at my most vulnerable.
I wiggled my phone from the pouch attached to my gown and dialed. “I’m going to check in with Sheriff Gray,” I said. “I’ll feel better once I get an update that things are quiet out there.”
Mom squeezed my hand. “If you’re sure.” She headed back into the mix of guests.
“Holly?” The sheriff’s voice boomed in my ear.
I started. I’d almost forgotten I’d sent the call. “Hi. I’m just checking in.”
His breath rattled the speaker. “Thank goodness. I thought something might’ve happened.”
“No.” I pushed onto my feet and pointed myself toward the drink station. “Things are good in here. Everything okay out there?”
“Quiet as a mouse,” he said. “I’ve got a deputy circling the barn every few minutes and two others keeping watch on your house and the stores. I’m making rounds to check on them. We’ve got it covered, so you can relax.”
“Good.” I slowed at the drink table and sucked down a glass of punch. “I was feeling a little panicky. I think I just needed to hear that things are okay.”
“Feeling better now?”
“Yeah. Sorry to bother you.” I dropped my empty cup in the trash. “You know, if you get cold or hungry out there, we have an assortment of hot drinks and cookies in here.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” There was a smile in his voice that spread to my face.
The little ballerina Ray had helped earlier ran back to the table. She lifted the thermos cup.
“Oh.” I waved to her. “That’s mine. You don’t want that.”
She looked into the little cup and made a disgusted face. “Ew. Gross.” She tossed the drink onto the table and ran away.
I jumped back to avoid the splash. “Whoa!”
“What happened?” Sheriff Gray’s voice snapped in my ear.
I lifted a finger to the filthy puddle of coffee racing toward a village of prepoured punch cups. Four coffee-soaked matches rode the ugly brown current in my direction.