The Christmas Tree Ball was just three days away, and preparations to turn the renovated barn into a winter wonderland were well under way. I stared at the freshly cut blue spruce in front of me, waiting for inspiration to strike. Mom strung lights around the rafters, supported by a motorized ladder contraption not unlike the ones used by utility workers when repairing telephone and cable lines. Dad manned the base, keeping an eye on Mom and guiding the machine as she worked cheerfully overhead. Tough as Dad looked, he feared heights like I feared ducks, and neither of us liked to talk about it.
I circled my spruce, utterly perplexed. Outfitting a few trees for the raffle had always been fun—I’d never lacked ideas in the past. Mom had a brilliant plan to dress her tree with products sold at the Holiday Mouse in an effort to boost sales. I, on the other hand, only had terrible ideas that were guaranteed to lose the unspoken competition. Yes, the raffle was luck of the draw, but there was always one tree everyone wanted most. Ball guests would linger at its side, whispering about how it surpassed the others in creativity and execution. I liked it best when that tree was mine.
I circled the thing again, begging my muse to hit.
“Hello!” Cookie called. She and Caroline strode in my direction, laden with shopping bags and looks of eager anticipation. They split up before reaching me and faced off with the trees on either side of mine. Caroline was on my right and Cookie on my left.
I gave up and sat cross-legged between them as they unpacked and organized their trimmings. “You two look happy.”
Caroline beamed. “We just had our first business meeting.”
Cookie lined boxes of tinsel and metallic garland on the floor. “She wants to pay me back for the investment, but I don’t want her money. If she tries to force it on me, I’m going to have my lawyer make her the sole heir to my estate.”
I looked at Caroline.
She puffed air into neat sideswept bangs. “She keeps saying that.”
“What do your parents think?” I asked. “They must be glad to see you reaching your goals.”
“My parents pretend this isn’t happening because it doesn’t fit into their plan for my life.”
Cookie flung a pinch of tinsel at her tree and shot me a pointed look. “What’re you doing to your tree this year, Holly?” An obvious change of subject. “A tribute to American literature? Maine’s wildlife? Traditions abroad?”
“No.” I huffed. Those were themes I’d already done. “I want to do something new.”
“How about mustaches?” she suggested.
Caroline slid a premade sign into the metal stand beside her tree: “Caroline’s Christmas Cupcakes.” Her fitted Tiffany blue dress was a near-perfect match for her eyes and enhanced the porcelain-doll look she had going on. Her pale-blonde hair hung in ringlets over both shoulders, held back from her face by a wide matching headband. The overall effect was stunning. “Maybe you could do a variation on mustaches,” she suggested, “like an American artist in Paris?”
I stuck out my tongue. “Why are people obsessed with Paris?”
Caroline looked as if she’d sucked a lemon. “Because it’s Paris.”
“I don’t get it,” I said, turning back to Cookie. “I have a creativity deficit.”
Cookie strung white lights around her tree like a professional, hiding the wires among the branches and making the beautiful pine sparkle. “Don’t worry. It’ll come to you.”
I leaned back on my elbows and kicked my feet out in front of me. My jeans were soft and threadbare at the knees from years of wash and wear. My navy-and-brown duck boots were scuffed from the countless cold and wet adventures of a quiet country life.
Caroline’s knee-high boots ghosted over the broad wooden floor beams. How she stayed upright in those heels all day, especially in the winter weather, was nothing short of magic. The fact she did it with such grace made me want to clap. She worked methodically from top to bottom, arranging small cupcake ornaments on the higher branches first. The average-sized ornaments went around the center, and giant ones covered the bottom. Every faux cupcake was pale pink or muted white and shimmery as if it had been dusted in sugar before hanging. She strategically attached her business cards to multiple limbs with the help of coordinating clothespins.
“Last but not least,” she said, crouching for another reach into her bag, “the perfect finishing touch.” She fanned an accordion-pleated tree skirt around the base of her tree. The polka-dotted material was the equivalent of a massive cupcake liner. “What do you think?”
“It’s gorgeous,” I said.
“I want to eat it,” Cookie said.
Caroline uncapped a can of fake snow and shook it. “Why haven’t you started yet?” she asked.
“I’m waiting for my muse.”
“Well, that’ll never happen,” she said confidently. “You have to make things happen, not wait around hoping something might happen to you.”
I tilted my head back to see all the way to the top of the nine-foot spruce I’d chosen.
Cookie hummed beside me, tossing handfuls of tinsel everywhere. She and Caroline had chosen shorter, fuller trees. Mine looked like an arrow in comparison.
Caroline sashayed closer, stretching a row of wet boot prints in my direction. “Do you need help with the lights?”
“No. I did that much. I just haven’t plugged them in. I forgot.”
Cookie stopped humming. “She also forgot about the ball until I reminded her last night. She’s making me look good.”
Caroline squatted next to me. “You’ve got a lot on your mind. Maybe you just need to get out and clear your head.”
She was right. I had plenty of stressful thoughts whirling through my cluttered mind, not the least of which was Sheriff Gray. I whipped my face in Cookie’s direction. “Did you plan that sleigh ride for me with Sheriff Gray?”
“What?” Caroline jerked upright and hopped to Cookie’s side. Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows were raised halfway to her hairline.
Cookie made wide owl eyes. “Who me?”
“Yeah, you.” I pushed onto my feet and braced my hands over my hips. “What did you do that for?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I only said I’d cover for you if you wanted to go. You’re the ones who went scampering off into the night together.”
“Oooh,” Caroline cooed.
“I didn’t scamper,” I protested. “I was being polite because you put me on the spot. Then I realized that a sleigh was ready and waiting for us, even though One-Horse Open Sleigh wouldn’t officially begin for another hour, and the driver took his sweet time bringing us back.”
“That’s nice,” Cookie said. “I don’t know what you’re so upset about. It sounds lovely and convenient to me.”
“Too convenient.” I stared her down. “Don’t you think?”
“Nope.”
“You sure?”
She scooped her bag off the floor and dug inside. “Nothing can be too convenient. Wait until you’re old. You’ll see what I mean.”
Caroline bounced onto her toes. “You took a romantic evening sleigh ride with Sheriff Gray?” She bit her lip. “Tell me everything. Slowly.”
“We. Were. Set. Up.” I dragged each word to comply with her request.
She waved her hands. “No. I want details. Tell me about the ride. Did you have to sit close to keep warm?”
“It’s a small sleigh.”
“Was there a blanket?”
“Yes.”
Caroline did some silent clapping. “Did he kiss you?”
“No! Of course not.” The dumb mistletoe over Mom’s front door flashed through my mind, and my cheeks flared up.
“Liar!” She pointed at my face. “Look at her face,” she told Cookie. “Something happened.”
Cookie smiled. “You can tell us. We’re excellent at keeping secrets.”
I refocused on my tree. “There’s nothing to tell.” A pinch of emotion formed in my chest. Disappointment? Why? I rubbed a hand against the ache. Maybe it was the fruitcake I’d had with my morning coffee.
The fruitcake memory ignited my muse. “Sweets!”
Caroline had the right idea with her tree. The theme should be something I loved. “I’m going to make large versions of my jewelry to decorate with. I’ll call it ‘Holly’s Jolly Jewelry’!” A barrage of images burst into mind. Large mints and candy canes. Gingerbread men and their houses. Gumdrops as jewels in golden rings and lollipops swirled with rhinestones. My tree was going to be the favorite.
“Mom,” I called into the air.
She leaned over the railing of her retractable ladder. “Yeah?”
“I’m going to make a run into town for supplies. Do you need anything?”
“No, but Mr. Nettle left his hat when he came for coffee the other day. I put it on top of the refrigerator at home. Will you drop it off to him?”
“Sure.” I looked to Caroline and Cookie. “Can I get either of you anything?”
Caroline deflated. “I would’ve liked at least one juicy detail about that sleigh ride, but I guess a girl can’t have everything she wants.”
A crazy smile slid over my face. “You want to know what I think of Sheriff Gray? I think he’s a nice guy. I think he’s a little distrusting and cranky sometimes, but he’s very nice and quite handsome. How’s that?”
Caroline clutched both hands to her chest. “I’ll take it.”
Cookie fought a broad grin. “Good. Now get going so you can come back and work. I want to see your finished tree before I have to go home and fix Theodore’s dinner.” She hung tiny hay bales on the branches of her squatty pine, beside miniature straw hats and figurines that looked a lot like her goat.
I made a trip to Mom’s kitchen for Mr. Nettle’s hat, then took the first available Reindeer Games truck into town.
The craft store’s shelves were as picked over as the toilet paper aisle before a nor’easter. I bought everything I thought might be useful and made plans to locate the remaining items at Reindeer Games somehow. Hopefully a craft closet somewhere on the property had the final few ingredients for a fabulous holiday-jewelry-themed tree.
I paid at the register and loaded bags of ribbon, felt, tacky glue, and foam balls into the truck cab. A powerful electric charge of inspiration ran through my veins. I couldn’t wait to get home and get started.
I grabbed Mr. Nettle’s fancy gray fedora and locked the truck. I spun the hat on one finger as I moved toward his office building. A little black-and-tan feather fluttered in the wind, anchored in place by the silky hatband. I liked it. It was exactly the sort of hat an olden-time accountant would wear and the polar opposite of anything I’d ever find on Dad’s head. Dad wore ball caps from spring until late fall when the weather turned his ears red, then he switched to knitted beanies.
The lights were off at the Historical Society building and Mr. Nettle’s office. It was especially dark on the Historical Society’s side. I let myself into the foyer and peeped through the windows on the office doors. Security lighting cast an eerie glow on a pile of letters and envelopes inside the door, likely fed through the mail slot in Mrs. Fenwick and Mr. France’s absence.
I couldn’t help wondering if I’d seen Caleb France moving into Mrs. Fenwick’s office the other day or ransacking it. The place had been in substantial disarray. Maybe he’d been looking for something. What? I wished I knew where he was now and why he hadn’t called me back. Surely he checked voice mail, wherever he was. Unless I hadn’t caught him in the act of changing offices or even ransacking. Maybe he’d been packing his things to leave town after committing murder. Had he fled because I’d confronted him about Mrs. Fenwick? If so, he hadn’t gone far because someone continued to harass me in his absence.
Frustrated by more unanswered questions, I turned for the accounting offices across the way, ready to deliver Mr. Nettle’s hat and be on my way.
The small waiting room was cheerfully lit but empty. A radio played softly in another room.
I crept to the desk in search of a bell or other means of announcing my arrival. “Hello?” I said aloud. I leaned into the hallway beyond the reception area and rapped my knuckles on the wall. “Mr. Nettle?”
“Coming!” a woman’s voice answered.
I took a seat in the waiting area.
Several moments later, a redhead in a wrinkled blouse and skirt arrived. She smoothed a palm over her hair and twisted her clothes until the shirt buttons aligned with her belt buckle. “May I help you?”
I tried not to think of the reason she was a mess but couldn’t help myself. I looked away. “I’m just here to drop off Mr. Nettle’s hat. He accidentally left it with my parents, and they asked me to return it.”
She shuffled in my direction and collected the fedora. “Thank you. I’ll see that he gets it.”
I chewed my lip. “Thanks. Um . . .” I mentally rearranged the words aching to be free of my mouth. Do you think Caleb France could be a cold-blooded killer? I settled for, “Do you know when the Historical Society offices will open again?” Or where Mr. France may have fled to avoid prosecution?
“Mr. France should be back before the holiday. Have you met Caleb?” she asked. “He’s the one who took over for Margaret after . . . well, you know.”
I knew. “Yes. We met once, but I have some follow-up questions about a project I’m working on, and I was hoping to run into him again while I was here. Has he been out of the office long?”
She looked longingly toward the hall where she’d emerged.
“I left him a voice mail,” I pushed. “I haven’t heard back.”
“Caleb visits his family in New York this time of year. They rent a cabin in the Catskills and ski, I think.” Her words picked up speed. “It’s like a big family reunion every winter at Hunter Mountain, then they go back to their lives in progress and celebrate Christmas with their immediate families. You should try back next week.”
“Did Caleb have a family in Mistletoe?”
She turned the fedora over in her hands. “I don’t think so. He’s not married, if that’s what you want to know.”
“Oh? Do you know him well?” I asked. “Did you know Margaret too?”
Her enthusiasm waned to impatience. I was keeping her from Mr. Nettle, or whomever she’d been canoodling with down the hall. “Sure. You don’t work this closely to people and not get to know them. I could probably tell you how they take their coffee.”
“Did they get along?”
She hoisted her shoulders. “I think so. They were both highly irritable, if you ask me, but I didn’t hear them fight much. I really need to get back to work, if there’s nothing else.”
“You didn’t hear them fight much? But they fought? Did they fight on the day she died?”
“Yeah,” she said breathlessly. “I think that’s why he took her loss so hard. It messed with him, you know? He even left a little earlier than usual for his ski trip.”
Interesting. “Do you know what they were arguing about that day?”
“Money, I suppose. Isn’t that why everyone fights?”
Sometimes it was about a yoga instructor.
Sheriff Gray’s voice grouched in my head, warning me to knock it off and go home.
“Hello?” Mr. Nettle’s voice carried down the hallway. “Sylvia.” He dragged the word into several singsong syllables.
The woman’s face turned crimson. “I have to go.”
I held a finger to my lips, then pointed to the front door with my free hand, indicating I would see myself out. “Thank you,” I whispered.
She lifted his hat in her hands. “I’ll see that he gets it.”
I hurried out the door with no doubt that she would. What I had serious doubts about was whether or not Caleb France was really skiing with his family. I needed to make a few phone calls and confirm he wasn’t lurking in Mistletoe to torment me while using his annual family getaway as a cover.