HAPPY HOMICIDES:

Thirteen Cozy Holiday Mysteries

Volume 1

 

 

Joanna Campbell Slan

Neil Plakcy

Lois Winston

Annie Adams

Jenna Bennett

Nancy Warren

Sara Rosett

Camille Minichino

Nancy Jill Thames

Linda Gordon Hengerer

Joyce and Jim Lavene

Teresa Trent

~*~

~ Our Gift to You ~

 

We appreciate your interest in our work, and so we have a special gift for you. If you send us an email at HappyHomicidesHolidayBonus@JoannaSlan.com,

we’ll automatically send you a pdf with recipes and craft tutorials that go along with the stories in this book. In addition, we’ll add you to our mailing lists at no charge so you can keep up with future offerings, such as free books and short stories.

 

If you have any trouble accessing the free bonus, contact our assistant, Sally Lippert, at salfl27@att.net

 

All best from your friends,

 

Happy Homicides

Table of Contents

 

Happy Homicides: Thirteen Cozy Holiday Mysteries

 

Lost and Found Holiday Gifts: A Cara Mia Delgatto Novella by Joanna Campbell Slan—Santa isn’t the only one who delivers presents during the holidays. Cara Mia Delgatto sets out to do a few small favors and quickly learns how a thoughtful gift can change a life.

 

Dog Forbid by Neil Plakcy—A Thanksgiving trip with friends takes reformed hacker Steve Levitan and his crime-solving golden retriever, Rochester, to Pennsylvania Dutch Country. When Steve’s friend’s golden goes missing in an area notorious for local puppy mills, can Rochester nose out the missing puppy and save the holiday?

 

Elementary, My Dear Gertie by Lois Winston—Much to the dismay of her conservative parents, Nori Stedworth and her boyfriend Mackenzie Randolph are living together. Mom and Dad cope as best they can when Nori and Mac arrive in Ten Commandments, Iowa for the holidays. Mac is all for exchanging “I do’s,” but before he can pop the question, an explosion hurls him and Nori into the midst of a murder investigation. Can they uncover which of the town’s not-so-pious residents is the killer in time to catch their flight back to New York City?

 

Flowers, Food and Felonies at the New Year’s Jubilee Cook-Off by Annie Adams—Busy florist Quincy McKay thought that judging the annual Jubilee food contest would be as easy as picking daisies. Will the event turn deadly when someone cooks up a scheme to slice and dice the competition?

 

Contingent on Approval: A Savannah Martin Christmas Novella by Jenna Bennett—On Christmas morning Savannah Martin finds herself looking at Rafe Collier, a pair of fuzzy handcuffs, an economy-sized box of condoms, and the rest of her life. But before her happily-ever-after can begin, she needs to get through a holiday dinner with her mother. Savannah has plenty to worry about, not the least of which is whether her new boyfriend will still want to stick around after the meal.

 

A Diamond Choker for Christmas by Nancy Warren—In order to borrow an extremely expensive diamond and sapphire necklace to wear at a Christmas party, Toni Diamond's mother Linda offers her home as collateral. But the necklace is stolen right off her neck, and Toni has to solve the crime or her mother will be homeless for the holidays!

 

Menace at the Christmas Market by Sara Rosett—With the holidays nearing, Kate has time off, a rare occurrence for a location scout. She plans to spend her time shopping for Christmas gifts, but when she goes to the local Regency-themed Christmas Market, a new acquaintance is poisoned and Kate gets drawn into the investigation.

 

The Neon Ornaments by Camille Minichino—Physicist Gloria Lamerino meets her friend Rose in Boston for what she thinks is a girls’ getaway weekend. But Rose has other plans. She volunteers Gloria to help solve a murder. Will the chemistry between Gloria and the homicide detective get in the way of catching a killer?

 

Teddy Saves Christmas by Nancy Jill Thames—When Jillian Bradley finds herself alone for the holidays, her dog Teddy latches onto a homeless woman with a dangerous secret. Jillian is forced to get involved. Can she find a way to save her new friend in time for a Merry Christmas?

 

Dying for Holiday Tea: A Beach Tea Shop Novella by Linda Gordon Hengerer—Sisters Danielle, Chelsea, and Alexandra Powell rejoice when Alex finds their grandmother’s old recipe book—and plan to bake her gingerbread for their upcoming holiday tea. But someone else wants the recipes and is willing to kill for them. Can the Powell sisters cook up a way to catch a murderer?

 

The Dog Who Came for Christmas by Joyce and Jim Lavene—A woman running from her deadly past finds hope, a dog, and possibly a new love, at Christmas.

 

The Deadliest Christmas Pageant Ever by Teresa Trent—It's Christmas time in Texas. Betsy Livingston and her boys are caught up in the Pecan Bayou Christmas Pageant to raise funds for needy children. Betsy gets tricked into replacing the absent director and quickly learns that show biz can be brutal—and this Christmas pageant is downright deadly.

 

The Rowan Tree Twig: A Kiki Lowenstein Novella by Joanna Campbell Slan—The holidays offer Kiki the perfect chance to keep a promise to her late friend, Dodie Goldfader. But this sweet thought hits a sour note when Dodie’s husband is wrongly accused of murder.

About the authors and their books

 

Joanna Campbell Slan is the national bestselling and award-winning author of thirty books, as well as being a contributor to many of the Chicken Soup for the Soul books. When she isn’t walking the beach with her Havanese pup, Jax, she’s writing books for one of her three mysteries series. Joanna lives on Jupiter Island, Florida, where she was almost run over by her neighbor Celine Dion. Visit her at http://www.JoannaSlan.com.

 

Neil Plakcy is a native of Bucks County, PA, where the Golden Retriever Mysteries are set. He is the author of more than two dozen novels and short story collections. Neil is the proud papa of two rambunctious goldens, Brody and Griffin. More information on his books can be found at his website, http://www.goldenretrievermysteries.com.

 

Lois Winston is a USA Today bestselling and award-winning author who writes mystery, romance, romantic suspense, chick lit, women’s fiction, children’s chapter books, and non-fiction under her own name and her Emma Carlyle pen name. In addition, she is an award-winning craft and needlework designer who often draws much of her source material for her books from her experiences in the craft industry. Visit Lois at http://www.loiswinston.com.

 

Annie Adams is the author of The Flower Shop Mystery series. She lives with her husband, two giant dogs, and two giant cats in Northern Utah at the foot of the Wasatch Mountains. When not writing, she can be found arranging flowers or delivering them in her own Zombie Delivery Van. She's a member of Romance Writers of America, the Utah chapter of RWA (URWA) and the Kiss of Death chapter of RWA (KOD) Please visit Annie at her website www.AnnieAdamstheAuthor.com.

 

Jenna Bennett (Jennie Bentley) is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author who writes the Do It Yourself home renovation mysteries for Berkley Prime Crime and the Savannah Martin real estate mysteries for her own gratification. She also writes a variety of other books and genres for a change of pace. For more information, please visit her website, http://www.jennabennett.com.

 

Nancy Warren is the USA Today bestselling author of more than 70 romance and mystery novels including the Toni Diamond mystery series. She's originally from Vancouver, Canada, but currently calls Oxford, England, home. She loves to travel, hike, ski, and is currently attempting to learn how to drive on the ‘other’ side of the road in England. Fortunately, the British are a patient, polite people. Come visit her at http://www.nancywarren.net.

 

Sara Rosett writes cozy mysteries (the Ellie Avery series and the Murder on Location series) and a suspense series with a dash of romance (the On the Run series). Sara loves all things bookish, considers dark chocolate a daily requirement, and is on a quest for the best bruschetta. Publishers Weekly called Sara's books “satisfying,” “well-executed,” and “sparkling.” Connect with Sara at http://www.SaraRosett.com.

 

Camille Minichino has written more than 20 mystery novels in four series: The Periodic Table Mysteries, The Miniature Mysteries (as Margaret Grace), The Professor Sophie Knowles Mysteries (as Ada Madison), and The Postmistress Mysteries (as Jean Flowers), plus short stories and articles. Her latest releases include the novels Death Takes Priority (Berkley Prime Crime, November, 2015) and Manhattan in Miniature (Perseverance Press, April 2015). She teaches writing in the San Francisco Bay Area. Visit her at http://www.minichino.com.

 

Nancy Jill Thames writes the Jillian Bradley mystery series, beginning with Murder in Half Moon Bay, featuring a feisty garden columnist and her clue-sniffing Yorkie, and has been listed in the Amazon Author Watch Bestseller List. When Nancy isn't plotting Jillian’s next perilous adventure, she travels between Texas, California, and Georgia finding new ways to spoil her grandchildren, playing classical favorites on her baby grand, or having afternoon tea with friends. Learn more at http://www.nancyjillthames.com/.

 

Linda Gordon Hengerer is the author of the Beach Tea Shop mystery series, and several non-fiction books on football and wine pairings. A New Jersey native transplanted to Florida, she belongs to Mystery Writers of America-Florida Chapter. Many years of working in corporate America have made her grateful for her writing time. Visit her at http://www.LindaGordonHengerer.com.

 

Joyce and Jim Lavene write award-winning, bestselling mystery and urban fantasy fiction as themselves, J.J. Cook, and Ellie Grant. Their first mystery novel, Last Dance, won the Master’s Choice Award for best first mystery novel in 1999. Their romance, Flowers in the Night, was nominated for the Frankfurt Book Award in 2000. They have written and published more than 70 novels and hundreds of non-fiction articles. They live in Midland, North Carolina, with their family and their rescue pets—Rudi, Stan Lee, and Quincy. Visit them at http://www.joyceandjimlavene.com.

 

Teresa Trent writes the Pecan Bayou Mystery Series that takes place in a little town in Texas. The first of the series, A Dash of Murder, stars Betsy Livingston, a helpful hints writer, on a paranormal investigation with her beloved Aunt Maggie. The Pecan Bayou Series continues as Betsy solves mystery after mystery all the while providing helpful hints and recipes in the back of each book. Find out more about Teresa on her website http://TeresaTrent.com.

LOST AND FOUND

HOLIDAY GIFTS:

A Cara Mia Delgatto Novella

 

 

Joanna Campbell Slan

 

Editor’s Note: The Cara Mia Delgatto series is a spin off from Joanna’s popular Kiki Lowenstein mysteries. They’re set on the Treasure Coast of Florida, where Joanna lives. Because the author loves to walk the beach and recycle, so do Cara Mia and her crew. Even though the seasons don’t change (much) in Florida, residents still find ways to celebrate!

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

Three weeks before Christmas and my store was a total zoo. We had wall-to-wall customers, a line at the cash register, and two people holding on the phone. Adding to the general mayhem were my four-legged friends, Luna the cat, and Jack the dog. Once in a while, the chatter of happy shoppers was interrupted by a loud, curiously accented, “Ho, ho, ho!” when the spirit moved Kookie, the cockatoo.

Keeping up with the demands of our customers was almost more than my small staff could manage. I felt like the proverbial “one-armed paperhanger,” as I raced from one guest to another to answer questions.

But I’m not complaining! I’m thrilled that The Treasure Chest, Florida’s home for upcycled, recycled, and repurposed décor items is doing so well. Thrilled and grateful! I was just thanking a woman who’d just made a $523 purchase for her business, when my phone vibrated in my pocket. Nodding to MJ Austin, my only full-time employee, I excused myself and ducked into the back room.

“I know you have to be crazy busy, but I need your help,” began Jay Boehner, the man I’d been dating for several months. “Call me back when you get a chance.”

I assured him I would and put the matter out of my mind until eight that evening when I finally flipped the sign in the front door to CLOSED.

“Gee whiz.” My friend, renter, and part-time employee, Skye Blue, sank down into a chair she’d recently refinished. Slowly, she wiggled her feet out of her cowboy boots. “When the delivery truck goes out tomorrow, this place is going to look empty.”

“You can say that again.” MJ pulled up a stool and sat down, too. Kicking off her kitten heels, she began rubbing her feet. “We sold two armoires, every dresser, a table, that chair Skye is sitting in, and the shelf unit. Please tell me you have something up your sleeve, Cara, or we’ll be closing early for the holidays because there’s going to be nothing left to sell.”

I sank down on an ottoman made from a steamer trunk with casters attached on the bottom so it could roll. We’d added a cushion on top to make it a comfortable seat. “Want me to lie to you, MJ?”

She groaned. “Maybe. Yes. Do it. Lie to me. Tell me we’ve got furniture to sell.”

“We have furniture to sell.”

Skye let her forehead drop into her hands. Her loose dishwater blond curls tumbled over her fingers. “Why am I not convinced? Why am I visualizing an empty sales floor? A long vacay?”

“Don’t. You aren’t going on vacation. The floor won’t be empty. Believe it or not, I planned for this. Put on your shoes, girls.”

They stared at me while they kept rubbing their feet.

“On second thought, follow me. You can come barefoot. We aren’t going far.” With that, I stood and reached into the pocket of my skirt for a set of keys. After unlocking our front door and re-locking it behind us, I led my friends to the newly vacant store next door and unlocked that front door. With a swipe of my hand, I turned on the lights. The overhead florescent bulbs hummed as they came to life, illuminating a room piled high with used furniture.

“You have to be kidding me,” muttered MJ.

“Cara, how on earth did you manage this?” asked Skye.

We stood staring at the sort of goods that were the raw materials for the unique one-of-a-kind décor items we’re known for.

“I made a deal with a few estate agents. Told them what we wanted and needed and asked them to snag things as they spotted them.”

Skye’s big blue eyes widened. “Can you afford this?”

“I drove a hard bargain. The deal included me making them all huge pans of lasagna.” I tried not to grin, but I couldn’t help it. I had worked out a pretty good trade, all things considered. My family had once run a restaurant, so I’d used the skills I’d learned there to my advantage.

“I have to admit that most people would sell their souls for your lasagna. Pretty smart of you to sweeten the deal with homemade pasta,” said MJ.

Skye walked around the new, but used, merchandise. “They did you proud, Cara. Nice stuff. We can turn this for a pretty penny. After we get through with it.”

Sure, there was a lot of work yet to be done. The transformation process was more than waving a magic wand over the pieces, but we’d gotten pretty fast at turning around used furniture. Last year we were in “learning” mode, figuring out who our customers were and what they might like. This year we had built on what we learned. Our customers loved hearing how we turned trash into treasure, so a large portion of our work was involved with storytelling, explaining our process.

“Don’t forget, my grandfather is now capable of pitching in. We’ve taught him enough about what we want that he can start stripping, applying base coats, and doing the rudimentary painting for us. We also have two young women willing to pitch in at a moment’s notice. Tessa Weber will be glad to help because it’s Christmas break. She’ll be coming home with my son, Tommy, in two days, when he drives up from University of Miami. Jamie Hernandez will give us as much time as she can spare at the end of each school day until high school lets out for Christmas break.”

“She’s really good at putting together our sea trash jewelry pieces. If we can get your grandfather working on the base coats, I can take things from there while Jamie makes more sea trash pieces,” said Skye, as she ran an appreciative finger over one of the dressers. We’d created our own signature style by stenciling flourishes on solid backgrounds. Sure, people could imitate what we did, but most were happy to pay our reasonable prices and let us do the hard work.

The sea trash pieces are another example of our ingenuity. MJ, Skye, and I regularly walk the local beaches and pick up the trash that washes ashore. Since mankind dumps eight million tons of plastic into the ocean each year, there are literally tons of junk to be found on our shores. Not only does this garbage threaten ocean dwellers, it also threatens all humanity. After the tiny sea creatures munch on plastic, they are eaten by bigger creatures that are gobbled up by even bigger creatures, until finally the bits of plastic find their way into our food chain. We try to break that horrific sequence of events by taking what’s washed up, cleaning it, sorting it, combining it, and selling it as jewelry and collage art. The effort costs little, yields a high profit, and positions us exactly as who we are: People who care about the environment.

“Is this all there is?” MJ walked around a few of the pieces on the outer edge. “Furniture-wise? I don’t mean to be complaining. Just asking.”

“No. More’s coming. And there’s this.” I beckoned them to follow me around the margins of the room to a second door. Inside was a small room with a dozen cardboard boxes sealed shut.

“What’s inside?” MJ studied the boxes.

I smiled at the cardboard cubes and then at my friends. “I honestly don’t know.”

Chapter 2

 

It was nearly eleven when I got back to Jay, but I knew he kept long hours so I went ahead and gave him a call.

“She’s alive!” Jay’s voice was warm and rich as dark chocolate as he faked the dramatic accent of Bela Lugosi. “I thought maybe we should send out the Coast Guard to look for you. Busy day?”

“Very. Sorry it’s taken so long to call. What’s up? Other than your intense hankering to hear my dulcet tones?”

He chuckled. “You know me too well, Cara Mia. I called because I have a problem. Otherwise I would have never bothered you in the middle of your workday.”

I assured him that his calls weren’t a bother, because they weren’t. Over the past few months, I’ve grown increasingly fond of Jay. As MJ puts it, he’s major “eye candy,” with his chiseled features and graying hair. But more than his looks, there’s a solidness about the man, a dependability, that’s extremely appealing. You get the sense that once he commits, Jay will always be there for you.

He’s also a bit of a mystery, rarely talking about himself. I know, of course, that he runs the family business, the Boehner Group, a chain of what used to be called nursing homes. With twelve locations spread out over three states, he’s constantly on the go. As for his personal life, Jay’s a bit of a cipher. Tommy once asked me, “Have you Googled him?”

“No! I’d never do that.” I was shocked by my son’s suggestion.

“Maybe you should.”

That gave me pause. “Tommy, is there something you know that I don’t? Something I should know?”

My son cut me a sideways glance. “Nope. I’m being practical, Mom. Everybody Googles everyone else these days. It’s how you know what you’re getting.”

He stopped short of adding, “After all, you’re such a great judge of men,” but I knew that was what he was thinking—and he would have been right. At thirty-seven years of age, I have to admit my track record is nothing short of dismal. I sincerely hope I’ve picked up a few pointers along the way, but the fact that I hadn’t even considered Googling Jay Boehner is sad proof that I still have a lot to learn. The very idea of checking up on a man I’m dating sounds crass and demeaning to both of us. However, Tommy’s reasoning is sound. Why not go to Google and see what I could learn?

The answer?

I’m scared. I don’t want to have my dreams come crashing down on me. Not again. Not after finding out that my old boyfriend, the one who claimed to still love me, turned around and got engaged to marry my sister.

Exposing myself to that kind of heartache was not acceptable. I could still feel the tightening in my throat as I thought about Cooper Rivers and how much I still loved him. Even if he would never be mine, I couldn’t bring myself to forget about the gorgeous Native American architect. It was as if my heart was a piece of real estate, and Cooper owned a corner lot in perpetuity. There was a huge amount of unclaimed space, but that little triangle was definitely off-limits.

So instead of checking Jay out, I had chosen to take my chances and hope that he was exactly who he seemed to be. A single, forty-something-year-old businessman, who was (and had been) too involved in growing his company to slow down and get hitched. I told myself that we were moving along slowly in part because Jay was so focused, and I was too, as I struggled to get The Treasure Chest off the ground.

Jay’s sigh brought me back to the here and now. “I’ve got a problem at Martin Gardens that I think you might be able to help me with. Actually, the solution involves Honora, too, but I didn’t want to approach her without talking to you first.”

My cat, Luna, rubbed her whiskers against my face as I made myself comfortable on my sofa. After stroking her, I encouraged her to curl up next to me. In the run-up to Christmas, I get so tired that I go home and fall asleep on the couch, not even making it into my bed. Luna’s warmth added to my sense of drowsiness. On the back of the sofa, my white Chihuahua Jack snored happily. Outside, the restless ocean beat against the sand and palm fronds rustled in the wind. It occurred to me that I really should put Jay on speakerphone. That way I could change out of my vintage Lilly Pulitzer skirt and into my pajamas, but honestly, I couldn’t muster up the physical energy to move, much less the mental energy to sequence those events. In fact, I was having a great deal of difficulty following the conversation.

“Honora?” I repeated slowly. Honora is the oldest of my employees, a spry seventy-six-year-old woman who dresses like a matron right out of Driving Miss Daisy. Hiring her had proven to be a wise decision, although I’d balked at first, because adding the extra cost of her part-time salary had frightened me.

But MJ had assured me that Honora was extremely well-connected with the local community. That’s turned out to be true, and those connections have brought a plethora of opportunities to my business. In addition, Honora’s also a talented artist who works in a miniature scale, producing items that seem to fly off our shelves. That assumes, of course, that they even make it that far! Honora’s dollhouse-sized creations are eagerly sought-after by collectors, so a great number of them are commissioned works. That means they are sold even before they’re made.

In addition, Honora is a two-fer. Not only is she terrific, but she brings with her the skills of her daughter, EveLynn, a talented seamstress. Since EveLynn has Asperger’s Syndrome, she can be difficult to deal with. Honora runs interference for us, smoothing EveLynn’s rough edges and helping us get the best from our partnership, which is terrific because when it comes to crafting in fabric, EveLynn is a true artist.

“Honora,” repeated Jay.

Why was he interested in contacting Honora? More importantly, why did he feel the need to talk to me first?

I voiced my concern and waited for his answer, which took longer than I expected.

“Look, everything about my clients is confidential,” he said at last. “Telling you a client’s background feels unethical. On the other hand, if you don’t know what’s happening, you can’t help, and I really do need your help. But as I suggested, this will probably involve Honora, too.”

Blinking sleepily, I pulled the afghan I keep at the foot of my sofa up and over my feet. Luna moved beneath the crocheted coverlet, a shapeless lump with a cold, wet nose. I felt one of her teeth scrape my shin as she rubbed her muzzle against my leg. While I watched, the shape under the covers slowly oozed down toward my toes. When that rough tongue licked my big toe, the sensation was so odd that it totally woke me up. Jay’s words tumbled through space and clicked to form a pattern, one I could work with.

“I’ll keep my mouth shut, but any background you could share would be helpful,” I said, as I pulled the cat out from between my feet.

“How about if I tell you over dinner? Tomorrow?”

“It’s a date,” I said.

“Fine. I’ll come to the store at closing time. That’s five-thirty, yes?”

After a few more desultory comments, we ended our conversation. I picked up Luna and stroked her sleek fur.

“What do you suppose is on his mind?”

In response, she yawned. But I didn’t. I was wide awake. Jay honestly cared about all the elderly patients who resided under his roof. His compassion for his tenants was one of the many reasons I found myself drawn to him.

But there had been an underlying message in his words, one that worried me. I couldn’t put my finger on what was making him hesitant to ask for our help. I didn’t know why he was concerned.

However, it was clear that Jay Boehner was rattled. I had a hunch that he’d reached out to me only because he felt he had no other alternative. For the most part Jay was the model of self-assurance, a very self-contained man. But the guy who told me goodnight sounded frazzled.

What on earth was going on?

Chapter 3

 

The next day I called my grandfather and asked him to come help us prep the furniture I’d purchased from the estate sales agents. Poppy at best is grumpy, and at his worst, he’s a real pill. Fortunately I’d caught him on a good day.

“What’s in it for me?”

“Money?”

“Don’t need none.”

“Love?”

“Can’t be bought. I oughta know. I’ve tried.” His snicker was wicked.

Entirely too much information. I considered his response and gave it one more shot. “Food? How about if I take you to lunch at Pumpernickel’s Deli?”

“Shoot-fire, girl. I can take myself to lunch at Pumpernickel’s. Tell you what. I’ll get my scrawny backside over to your store and start sanding and fixing. You put on your thinking cap. Come up with something special. None of this namby-pamby nonsense.”

With that he hung up on me.

“Wasn’t that special?” I asked Luna and Jack. Neither of them seemed to care. They were watching my every move, hoping I’d dole out their breakfast without further ado.

After pouring each of them a bowl of kibble, adding a dollop of wet food on top, and refilling their water bowls, I got dressed. Then I took my maple and brown sugar flavored Instant Quaker Oatmeal and coffee upstairs to sit on the deck and watch the sun come up. Since coming to live on Jupiter Island, I’ve been treated to the most glorious sunrises imaginable. I never get tired of seeing the orange ball cleave the darkness and bring the world to life. My tiny little cottage is perfect for me and my fur-babies. My son is also pretty impressed by the place.

“You mean this is Poppy’s?” Tommy had swept his arms wide as he gazed out over the property shortly after I took possession.

“Yes, and he’s selling it to me on contract for a pittance. That means it’ll be yours one day.”

“That’ll only happen if global warming doesn’t destroy the beach. You do know that the sea level is predicted to rise another ten feet?”

I had tried to keep a smile on my face. “I’m praying that we’ll all work together to find a solution before that happens.”

Despite his dire prediction, I knew that Tommy was impressed. We both loved our beach house.

After doing a few chores, I took the animals out to my car. Luna is very good about staying in the passenger seat while Jack seems to think my driving needs his close personal supervision. Probably has something to do with the fact that I acquired Jack after he was tossed out the window of a truck. Come to think of it, if I’d been thrown from a moving vehicle, I’d get pretty nervous about going for rides, too.

Hauling both my pets to the store was a bit of a hassle. At first, I had planned to leave them at the house while I worked, but I quickly decided that I missed them too much. Furthermore, there’s always someone at the store who’s willing to take my dog outside for a potty break. Eight hours would be too long to leave Jack to his own devices. Luna’s presence seems to make the store seem more home-like. Since she’s joined our merry company, customers have come to expect her. When she’s not there, they ask about her.

All in all, we’ve become our own little tribe, my pets and I. So taking them to work with me makes sense, because it’s a family business after all.

Poppy was pulling up to the store as I turned off my engine. He took Luna, I carried Jack, and we walked into the shop together. Once I showed him the furniture being warehoused next door, he harrumphed. “A few of these pieces need a good gluing. I’ll get right on that. But I ain’t working for nothing. You figure out what you can do for me in return?”

“Yes. I can clean out your attic. Ever since you rented out that spare bedroom to Sid, you’ve been stowing junk from there up under the eaves. Goodness knows what you’ve squirreled away. I’ll come over after the holidays and help you go through everything.”

“I know ever’thing I got up there.”

“Really?” I raised an eyebrow at him.

“Most ever’thing. It might look disorganized to you, but I got ever’thing in inventory up here.” He tapped this side of his head.

“Are you saying you don’t need my help?”

“That ain’t what I’m saying. Not at all. I could use a little assistance, that’s true. Some of that there junk is just garbage, and it wouldn’t hurt none to give a lot of it away. But I need you to give it a look-see, because I was saving some of it in case it mattered to you.”

“To me?”

“Some of it belonged to your grandma.” He blushed and looked away. “I figured that someday you might want to know more about her.”

His thoughtfulness caught me off guard.

Because my maternal grandmother had died before I was born, I never got the chance to know Josephina. It had come as a pleasant surprise that Honora had actually known Poppy’s wife quite well. With a little prompting, my friend shared interesting tidbits about my mother’s mother. Until then, my grandmother had been a total enigma. All I’d known was that Poppy had loved her with all his heart. Oh, and that I took after Josephine in a myriad of ways that had often left my mother overcome with emotion.

“Yes, of course. I’d love to know more about my grandmother. Thank you for being so thoughtful,” I told him. “Well then, that’s what I’m offering. My help sorting through whatever’s accumulated up there over the years.”

A calloused hand reached out to shake mine. “Deal.”

Chapter 4

 

Before he got cracking on the new furniture, Poppy went back with me to the store and helped me rearrange the last of our inventory so the place didn’t look quite so empty. Skye had just finished stenciling a piece that morning, so we even dragged it out where customers could see it.

“Be sure to put a WET PAINT sign on it,” she said, “because it won’t be entirely dry for another couple of hours.”

“I bet it sells in less time than that.” MJ shook her head. “Too bad we can’t clone Skye and get more done.”

“Even if I worked here full time, we’d still be behind. We don’t have enough space for me to create additional inventory.”

This was a circuitous argument I’d heard a million times already. My response was to say, “Yes, I know, and I’m checking into what I can do. Renting the empty store next door is a good first step, isn’t it?”

“You need to be taking giant steps,” groused MJ. “Not baby steps.”

“Nothing succeeds like success.” My grandfather chuckled as my two pals walked away, fussing over my slow march toward progress. “Who’d a guessed you could take old junk, gussy it up, and sell it hand over fist? Girl, you’ve turned this dead stick of a store into a live wire.”

“The Treasure Chest wasn’t a dead stick when I bought it. The location was still good. The concept needed tweaking. That’s all. And the original owner, Essie Feldman, had run out of steam before she died. I just brought a fresh eye to the place.”

I was being somewhat modest, and I knew it. Thanks to an impulsive move entirely unlike me, I had purchased The Treasure Chest. Fate had intervened, bringing MJ and Skye into my life. The three of us had transformed the place into a going concern. But I had been the captain of this ship, steering us through rocky waters.

His big hand clapped my shoulder. “Say what you want. You done good. I’m proud of you, Granddaughter.”

That put a great, big smile on my face.

The rest of the day went by so fast I should have been wearing roller skates. MJ had been right; the newly stenciled piece—wet paint and all—sold within twenty minutes of our opening. So did a lot of our merchandise, especially the adorable driftwood Christmas trees that Skye had made. We were so busy that Sid Heckman, our computer guru and Poppy’s renter, had to come and work on the sales floor to help us. At one o’clock, Poppy was dispatched to bring all of us lunch. He did, and we fell on the food like we’d recently finished a forty-mile march.

In the back of my mind, I wondered what Jay wanted. Even though the hours flew by quickly, I was impatient to hear what favor he was asking of me and Honora.

True to his word, Jay showed up at half past five to take me to dinner. MJ volunteered to close the store for me. She would also put the animals in their respective crates to make it easier for me to grab them and leave when I got back.

Temporarily free of our responsibilities, Jay and I strolled a couple of blocks to the Riverwalk Café, one of my favorite places to eat. I had a hankering for a good steak, and they do beef right at the Riverwalk. Jay asked for a piece of triple-tail, a little known fish. While sipping the mango-flavored iced tea, I felt the day’s tension leave my body.

Waiting for the first course to arrive, I asked Jay how his interns were doing.

“Most of them are terrific. They signed up for the geriatric care course because they have a grandparent or an elderly person in their lives that they’re particularly fond of. That love translates into compassion for all my residents.”

“But not all of them feel that way?” I picked up the thread that was dangling from his remarks. “Is that what you’re saying?”

He frowned. Years of working in business have taught Jay to maintain a bland expression. It can be hard to read his emotions unless you know him well. However, this was a true grimace. Someone had gotten under his skin.

“One young lady has totally baffled me. Bethany Meinke. She goes through the motions, but she’s very distant. Cool. Under most circumstances, I’d praise her for being such a professional. However, even when working with our residents one-on-one, she’s almost aloof. Too removed to be effective.”

“You don’t like that? I would think you’d appreciate her ability to separate emotion from her job.”

“Of course, there are benefits. But overall, I find it worrisome. It makes me wonder why she’s even part of this program. I mean, if you don’t like working with the elderly, why choose this field?”

I decided to change the subject. “Tell me about this favor you’re asking.” I buttered a piece of warm, yeasty bread.

“Gladly. A little background first. Three weeks ago, we welcomed a new resident. Clarissa Gleason, age ninety. Clarissa did not come happily. She’s very independent. Lived alone. Did pretty well for herself until two of her dearest friends passed away in one month. The three of them had quite the safety net going. Called each other regularly. Stopped by. But without them, Clarissa didn’t have any mental stimulation. No reason to get up in the morning, and a neighbor noticed that she wasn’t moving around in her home any more. A social services worker was dispatched to check on Clarissa. She hadn’t been taking care of her personal hygiene, doing her laundry, or eating properly.”

“You think Honora can help?” I knew that Jay tended to get personally involved with each of his residents, or clients as he called them. He’d gone into this business because he’d watched his own grandmother’s decline, and he’d vowed to do better for seniors.

Skye liked to tease that Jay was as bad about “adopting” senior citizens as I was about “adopting” stray animals. That comparison didn’t hold up well when you considered that I only had a cat and a dog, for a total of two pets. Jay had literally hundreds of residents depending on him!

“Yes, I think Honora can help,” he said.

“She’s very busy at the store. You wouldn’t believe the number of custom orders she’s doing. In addition, she spends a lot of energy keeping EveLynn on an even keel. As you know, people with Asperger’s don’t like change. This time of year, with special orders flooding in, EveLynn gets a little stressed out.” I paused because our salads had come. The server hovered the pepper grinder over our plates, and I asked for a couple turns of fresh spice on my lettuce.

“I realize all that. There’s more to the story. When Clarissa came, she insisted on bringing one possession with her. Only one. A dollhouse. It’s totally empty. I thought that if Honora had any inexpensive pieces that I could buy, well, I could furnish the house for Clarissa. Or more accurately, I would buy things to wrap for her and let her do the furnishing of those empty rooms. That might help her overcome her depression.”

“I’m not sure that a couple of tiny beds and chairs can make up for losing two friends.” I crunched the fresh lettuce and speared a tomato wedge.

Jay’s smile was small. “Come on, Cara. I’m not naïve enough to think it would. I’m grasping for straws here. I hate seeing anyone so withdrawn. I’d like to make this woman a part of our community, and I can’t think of any other way. Obviously that dollhouse is precious to her.”

I heard him, and I wanted to help, but I certainly couldn’t obligate Honora. I opened my mouth to say I’d mention the situation to her, but Jay forged on ahead. “I know this is the busy season for you. It’s an imposition. But whenever Honora can squeeze us in would be fine. If she can’t come, and I can pick up the furniture, that would be fine, too.”

Suddenly I felt like a creep. In all the hustle and bustle and excitement of seeing my store finally start to turn a profit, I’d lost my way. The best entrepreneur I had ever known, my father, had always taught me that good works were an essential part of life. Dad used our restaurant as a way to help other people. Reflecting on his legacy, I felt really and truly ashamed of myself. I’m not usually so selfish. My only excuse was that I had been so worried about whether I could actually turn The Treasure Chest into a going concern that I’d lost sight of everything else I hold dear.

Here was my chance to rectify my mistake.

“That’s not necessary. I’ll call Honora after dinner and see what we can do.”

Chapter 5

 

After helping me move my animals from the store into my car, Jay told me goodnight and pecked me on the cheek. As always, his kiss left me wanting more.

His affection confused me.

On the one hand, he was the most solicitous man I’d ever dated, always pulling out my chair for me, standing when I entered a room, and opening doors. But he was also the most emotionally distant, which was really odd since this was the trait that worried him regarding his intern, Bethany. There were times when I thought I’d call him on it, like tonight. Instead, I thanked him for the dinner. He carefully closed the driver’s side door and bid me goodnight. I settled into my seat and turned over the key. As I watched him get in his car and pull away from the curb, I mentally kicked myself for not asking him, “Where exactly is this relationship going?”

It seemed ironic and yet apt that I guided my own vehicle in the opposite direction of his. My route home took me past Floridian-style holiday décor. Down here, we make up for our lack of snow by piling on the colored lights. Strands of them climbed the trunks of palm trees and dripped from the fronds. Houses wore gay necklaces in rainbow shades. Since plywood holds up pretty well in our climate, many homeowners had cut out holiday images, painted them, and displayed them. A jolly Santa waved from one yard, a red-nosed reindeer pulling a sleigh loomed from a housetop, and oversized presents were scattered the length of one city block.

The spectacle was a reminder that the holidays are what you make them. Every culture and climate puts its own spin on celebrating Christmas.

As my Camry hummed along, I shared my innermost secrets with my pets. “I’m a coward. I’m afraid to hear that Jay’s just not that into me. Instead, I’d rather date him and act like everything is okay. But he’s holding back. I can tell. I am, too, I guess. Maybe that’s why we aren’t moving ahead. Maybe he senses my hesitation. Could that be the case? On the other hand, maybe he’s just not the type to make a commitment.”

I wasn’t surprised that my animals couldn’t provide any answers, although they were excellent listeners.

Maybe I was making a big deal out of nothing. Maybe there weren’t any answers. No, that wasn’t an honest assessment. I knew in my heart that something wasn’t right between us, but I didn’t have the guts to confront Jay.

The ficus-lined allée leading to Jupiter Island never seemed so lonely.

It wasn’t that late when I got to the house, so I went ahead and called Honora after I had changed my clothes and fed my pets.

“Of course I have pieces that I’m willing to contribute. Jay doesn’t have to pay me anything. I’m happy to help out.”

“You’re terrific.” I could hear the hitch in my voice.

“Cara, darling, what’s wrong?”

I found myself spilling my fears to Honora. As I did, a few tears spilled, too.

“Oh, my. I wish I was there to give you a hug,” she said.

“Gosh, I’m sorry. You asked a simple question, and I’m babbling like a fool. Crazy, isn’t it? I really didn’t mean to dump on you, Honora.”

“Darling child, as you are well aware, I’ll never have a conversation like this with EveLynn, and it was one of the joys of parenthood I looked forward to. Being a mentor to a younger woman. So, this isn’t a burden. Not at all. What is it that you think you should do?”

I picked at a loose thread on my sofa slipcover. “Ask him. Come out and be perfectly frank. It’s not like I’m expecting a marriage proposal. It’s simply that he’s pretty reserved, so I’m not sure how much he cares. It might just be his personality. On the other hand, I was expecting a bit more…romance.”

“A physical relationship?” she asked.

Because she said it, and I didn’t have to, I felt relief. “Yes. Is that too much to ask?”

Her laugh was soft. “Not at all, darling girl. You’d be silly to settle for less. You’re too young not to care about such things. In fact, you’re young enough to have another child, if you want.”

There had been moments now and then when I keenly wanted another child. The urge to be a parent again wasn’t surprising. After all, I’d loved seeing Tommy grow up. Now that he was eighteen, I found myself missing his little boy ways. What I didn’t miss was changing diapers or staying up at night. When I remembered those portions of childrearing, I felt content to bide my time until I became a grandparent.

“I’m undecided about having another baby,” I said.

“You have plenty of time.” Her voice was warm and reassuring. “But I believe you’re saying that you want a physical relationship. You want someone who’s more committed to you—and who tells you as much. That’s fine, Cara. You aren’t wrong or bad or selfish to want those things! Once you admit to yourself exactly what you want and need—and whether or not you’re on the road to getting that—you’ll know the next steps to take.”

Chapter 6

 

As usual, Honora was as good as her word. When EveLynn dropped her off the next day, she handed me a large fabric tote bag. Inside were a number of tissue-paper wrapped items.

“MJ? I know the store has been busy, but could you hold down the fort long enough for Honora and me to run an errand?” I asked.

Raising one eyebrow at me, MJ considered my request. “Could your grandfather come help? Sid’s got to update the website. Skye is working all day at Pumpernickel’s. What if we get a flood of people like we did yesterday? It would be a big help having Dick over here.”

“Let me check on Poppy and see if he can come help out.”

I let myself into the empty storefront and called out to my grandfather. Poppy is five-ten, so I should have been able to spot him, but a scan of the furniture proved less than fruitful.

“Back here,” he called out, just as I spotted the top of his red Cardinals baseball hat bobbing up behind several bookshelves that needed painting.

Following his voice, I found him kneeling on the floor. Surrounding him were stacks of books, letters tied with a ribbon, and a variety of old magazines.

“Anything worth reading in there?” Skye’s voice startled me.

I whirled around to greet her. “I didn’t hear you come in. You must have been right behind me.”

“Quiet shoes.” She pointed to the rubbery soles of her black New Balance sneakers, part of the uniform she wears when she works at Pumpernickel’s. “I was looking out the front window of the café when I saw you heading here. Thought I’d drop by too, since I’m working all day, and we didn’t get a chance to talk yesterday because you had a date with Jay. Is there anything you need me to do at the store? Anything I can do for you, personally? Obviously I can’t be in two places at once, but I can run over with lunches if you want. Or bring you dinner tonight. We haven’t had much time together lately.”

Her thoughtfulness touched me. That was one of many endearing qualities Skye had. She’s also a creative genius who can turn any sort of trash into treasure in the blink of an eye. Truly, the woman is a wonder, and I’m lucky to have found her.

“I’ve got to run an errand with Honora, but I’ll let Sid and MJ know you offered to bring over food. As for tonight, can I take a raincheck? I miss you, too, but I’m behind on my paperwork. Maybe tomorrow night? Poppy? MJ wants you to come next door and help out while I’m gone. Can you do that?”

In his Dickey pants and knit shirt, my grandfather didn’t exactly portray the sort of stylish vibe I wanted for my store, but at least he could help out MJ in my absence. Lifting one caterpillar-sized eyebrow, he said. “Maybe. Okay. If you insist.”

While he was hesitating, Skye had dropped to a squat so she could more closely examine the books and papers on the floor. A book with a red cover took her fancy. “May I borrow this, Cara? I’m all out of reading materials.”

“Take as many as you want,” I told her. “It’s not like folks are lining up to buy them.”

“This here mess belonged to Sondra Steinmacher,” said Poppy, gesturing to encompass the sea of litter.

“How do you know?” I cocked my head at him.

“Her name’s on a lot of these here papers, and inside them book covers. I used to work on Sondra’s old car. She and her sister Wilma lived together, and when I’d drop that old Buick off, Wilma would invite me inside and make me a nice, tall, iced tea. She was the sweetheart of the two. Sondra would glare at me, like I was the hired help and shouldn’t be setting foot inside her house, but I didn’t care. How them two sisters could be so different is a puzzle I ain’t never been able to solve.”

Skye paused while piling books in the crook of her arm. “Sisters? Oh, that’s right. I remember them coming into Pumpernickel’s. Sondra died recently, didn’t she? I heard a rumor that she left her house to the church and all her money to charities. Nothing at all for her sister, or so I heard. Strange because Wilma had lived with her for years. Wilma helped Sondra out when her rheumatoid arthritis got so bad she couldn’t walk. Whatever happened to Wilma? Where’d she go after Sondra died? I haven’t seen her for months now.”

As we waited for Poppy to answer, Skye shifted her burden. I found her a plastic bag that had previously held sandpaper from the hardware store. While I held the bag open, she piled in the books.

Poppy watched us work together to solve the problem. Slowly, he started to speak. “Someone done told me that Wilma moved into a little bitty place. By herself.”

“That doesn’t exactly explain why she hasn’t come into Pumpernickel’s. She used to visit all the time, picking up food for her and her sister,” said Skye. “I heard that Sondra was the one with all the money. She bought her parents’ house from them. Is that true?”

“Yup. She had a good head for numbers. Helped their dad run his investments. He gave her a few shares and she got them to multiply. Later, she took care of all his business deals. She was tight as a too small shoe, but I was always told she had a lot of cash squirreled away.”

“Are you saying that the other sister, Wilma, is broke?” I asked.

“Yup. I been told that she lives in a rundown complex over near Port Salerno. Next to what used to be those holiday cottages. Those places couldn’t be more than bed-sitters. I meant to drop by to see her after her sis passed, but time got away from me.”

What he didn’t say, but Skye and I both knew, was that Poppy had had problems of his own. First with his diabetes. Then with the natural depression that came after he sold his gas station and bait shop. My grandfather was not a person who could sit idle. Initially, he had planned to go back to work as a mechanic when the new Fill Up and Go station opened, but the completion of the building was taking much, much longer than expected. I’d managed to help him after a fashion, by finding him a housemate. But Sid was only eighteen, and Poppy missed the company of someone his own age.

“What’d you say is the name of the estate agent who sold you this mess?” Poppy’s sweep of an arm took in the papers and furnishings.

I felt put on the spot, but I answered calmly, “I actually contacted three agents. Lorraine Walker, Nate Keener, and Andy Wannamaker. I don’t remember who sold me what. Why do you ask?” I crossed my arms over my chest. A niggle inside told me that Poppy had a beef with my purchase. That might be problematic. Poppy could get ideas in his head and make life tough for other people. Surely he didn’t think I was now the proud owner of ill-gotten gains! If so, he might object to helping me get them ready for resale. That was an attitude I needed to nip in the bud.

“Maybe one of them knows how Wilma is doing.”

“Poppy? If you really want to know, why not ask her yourself?” I phrased this in a voice that didn’t allow him to brush my question off. Even so, he didn’t answer. Not right away. Instead, he slowly stared at the piled up furniture and boxes that surrounded us.

“It ain’t right,” he muttered.

Was he blaming me? It sounded like he was.

“Look. I make my living and create jobs for my staff by buying second-hand furniture and goods that we can turn into more desirable objects. On occasion, given how small the local community is, you’ll probably know the prior owner. Do you have a problem with that?”

Skye shifted her weight while staring down at the floor. Instinctively, she was trying to disappear so she didn’t have to be a party to our quarrel.

A wave of raw anger swept through me. How dare my grandfather fault me for what I’d done? I’d made a business transaction, fair and square. I had no idea whose cast-offs I was buying—or whose pockets had been lined with my cash. For him to blame me was ridiculous!

A long silence followed. Poppy was closely examining his own feet. Then slowly, he turned back toward me. But his expression wasn’t at all what I thought I’d see. I’d expected a mulish scowl. Instead, he presented soft features that wrestled with a deep, haunting pain.

There was sadness in his eyes. Moisture, too.

“I got no call to quarrel with you, Granddaughter, over how you make two cents to rub together. I’m plenty ticked off at myself. Next to your late grandmother, I thought that Wilma Steinmacher was about as wonderful as any one woman could get. After that beau of hers up and left her as a young filly, she weren’t never the same, and it was a waste, pure and simple. And here I am, staring at the last of her sister Sondra’s worldly goods and I can’t even tell you for sure how my friend Wilma is doing. Not for certain. And she was always good to me. Life dealt with her harshly, but she never complained. I thought the world of her, but standing here today, I can’t rightly say how she is! Why, I deserve a good swift kick in the backside.”

To my shock, he used the back of his rough hand to flick away a tear.

One glance in Skye’s direction told me that she was surprised by his emotional outburst, too.

“Poppy,” I said, as I stepped over to hug him. “It’s not too late to check on Wilma. I’m sure it isn’t. Why don’t you lock up here and go visit your friend?”

Chapter 7

 

A short time later, I escorted Honora to my car. As spry as she is, I always worry over her. I’ve seen how a fall can be life-threatening for seniors.

Honora accepted my help with grace, but once she was buckled in, she was quiet. That’s not surprising. She isn’t one for idle chitchat. It’s one of her habits that makes her particularly appealing to me. Instead of babbling on and on just to hear her own voice, she speaks when she has something to say, and otherwise she keeps quiet. In general, I find her company to be particularly soothing.

However, on this particular day, I would have liked for her to share more of what she knew about Sondra and Wilma Steinmacher, the two sisters my grandfather had spoken of.

“What can you tell me about the Steinmacher girls?” I asked.

A soft sigh escaped her. Despite that, I knew she’d give me an honest background. Honora is my grandfather’s contemporary. She knows more locals than anyone else in my small circle of acquaintances. Although she isn’t a busybody, she’s very clued in socially. Her work in miniatures keeps her busy from nine to five, but on weekends she’s out and about visiting friends or talking to them on the phone. You might not be able to tell from looking at her, but she’s a real party animal who loves a good get-together. Her capacity for merriment is a contrast with her very traditional looks.

Take today’s ensemble for example. She was a blast from the past in a navy blue and white seersucker dress. Her navy patent leather purse matched her belt. On her feet were sturdy orthopedic shoes in black. From her earlobes dangled screw-on fake pearl bobs. A straw hat, a boater, was perched on her head in a jaunty sideways manner.

There was an anachronistic quality about Honora. It was as though she’d fallen through a rabbit hole in time and space. Often I imagined her sitting on the veranda of the Grand Hotel in Mackinaw Island, wearing white gloves and sipping tea from a bone china cup.

When she hesitated to talk about the Steinmacher girls, I added, “I’ve heard the two sisters were extreme opposites.”

“Nearly as much of a mismatch as you and your sister Jodi.”

I winced.

For the most part, my job and my lifestyle keep me so busy that I don’t have time to think about my older sister. I count that as a win. Even with other preoccupations, I can’t help but turn my relationship with my sibling over and over in my mind.

Jodi had been born before my parents got married. Bowing to pressure from their parents, my folks put their first child up for adoption. In a way, it had made sense, because they both were so young. No one realized their love would stand the test of time, and certainly no one could guess they’d go on to marry and rue the day they’d made that decision.

But if anyone thought that their actions meant Jodi was forgotten, and that they had moved on without giving their child a second thought, they were sadly mistaken. My missing sister haunted our lives in ways I couldn’t even begin to comprehend until the startling day I learned who Jodi Wireka really was—and her relationship to me. Looking back, I can see why my mother couldn’t trust that I wouldn’t disappear, too. She never totally let herself love me. Not entirely. Giving her heart to me seemed both disloyal and dangerous to her. I can also see how my father protected me, how my very presence was a constant reminder he hadn’t done enough for my older sister. That he’d failed his family.

And Jodi?

She grew up angry, mostly at me. To her, I was the very embodiment of rejection. In her mind, I was the reason our parents gave her up. To hear her tell it, it had nothing to do with them being so young or bowing to parental pressure.

While Jodi had grown up knowing about my existence, I’d only come to learn about her lately. In the meantime, she’d met my old boyfriend, and through a series of mistakes on his part, she’d come to blackmail Cooper Rivers into getting engaged.

Perhaps that’s how Jodi saw the world. A series of negotiations, all with win-lose endings. If so, who could blame her?

In my quiet hours of contemplation, I could imagine her as a small child. Angry, hurt, poisoned by those feelings. I could see her taking a vow that one day she’d make sure the people who loved her couldn’t possibly walk away and leave her behind. That she’d never be abandoned again. So she held certain information over Cooper Rivers’ head. I’d stumbled on his secret, or at least a portion of it, and I knew about the hold she had on him. The truth was that he couldn’t put an end their relationship even if he wanted to.

I almost had to respect her for her canny resilience.

But that respect was tinged with disgust.

Honora was now talking a mile a minute. “Wilma was always the sweet one. Sunshine and light. Kind-hearted, too. Sondra was always unhappy. Never satisfied. Didn’t have a nice word to say to anyone. Most would call Sondra the beauty, but once she opened her mouth, you shied away from her. Wilma’s features weren’t as nicely shaped, but her temperament shone through in all she did. Not surprisingly, a young man fell head over heels in love with Wilma. Godfrey Austin was his name. Came from one of the best families in Jacksonville. Moved here to look after his family’s business interests. Squired Wilma around, and we all thought they’d marry, but he signed up to fight in Korea. Wilma decided to wait to get married. She told me that his mother had her heart set on a big wedding for her son. Unusual in that day, when so many married quickly right about the time they enlisted, but I can understand it. Mrs. Austin had a lot of family, you see. Wilma wanted to start their married life off right, with Mrs. Austin’s blessing. So Godfrey went off for basic training and…”

She stopped. We were coming up to the turn that would take us to Martin Gardens. I eased to a stop at the light.

“Honora? What happened to Godfrey?” I glanced her way. She was staring out the window, so I could only see that gray knot of hair of hers under the brim of her hat. No hint of her expression.

“Friendly fire, they call it. I’m not sure how it can be friendly if it kills a person. That’s what happened. They said he was caught in friendly fire. Godfrey was killed in a training accident.”

Chapter 8

 

Martin Gardens.

The name always tickled me because I had many fond memories of playing Monopoly with my parents and landing on Marvin Gardens. Added to that, I also have good memories of how our community came together to plant the lush landscape that cradles this particular residential facility. It began as a way to cheer a woman dying of cancer and became a movement, a powerful effort predicated on our respect for our elders. In Florida, we are surrounded by the older generation. They come here to live out the rest of their lives, but all too often, they also come here to die all alone.

Jay does everything he can to make them comfortable and to make their last days joyful.

“Thanks again for getting together some furniture,” I told Honora. “Jay’s more than willing to pay you.”

“These pieces weren’t good enough to sell. They are prototypes. Most people won’t see their flaws, but I know they are there.”

After working with Honora for more than a year, I’ve learned that many miniaturists make several versions of a project before happening upon a method and materials that are satisfactory. It wasn’t unusual for her to make three, four, or even five runs at an idea. Her early efforts never looked bad to me. However, she was constantly struggling to fine-tune her results. When she did, I could see the difference between “nice” and “wonderful.” It was always astonishing.

Honora specialized in transforming castoff objects into smaller versions of real life items. As the alchemy happened, I’d been taught a new phrase, “a miniaturist’s eye.” It describes a way of seeing the world as a place full of potential. With that in mind, Honora taught me to look past the obvious uses of a thing while considering what it could (with the proper adjustments) become. In this manner, a bottle cap became a saucepan. A curtain ring became the frame for a mirror. A bit of plastic tubing from an aquarium was transformed into a series of clear jars. Each day the list of new uses for old objects grew, as I watched my friend work her magic.

“What all did you bring?” I held her car door open for her and helped her to her feet.

“A bed with a headboard made from half an oatmeal canister top. A small barstool that was once a beer bottle cap. A chest of drawers glued together from matchboxes. A refrigerator that started life as an iPhone box.”

“Where did you get an iPhone box?” I stared at her crooked smile, and then I threw back my head and laughed. “Honora, have you been rummaging around in my garbage again?”

Her wrinkled cheeks pinked up. “Guilty as charged. I’ve been volunteering to take out the trash because all of you toss out such useful objects. So wasteful!”

Extending my elbow toward her, I waited as she linked her arm inside mine. “Here I’m thinking that Skye, MJ, and I are such big time recyclers, but you put us all to shame.”

“I have had much more practice than the three of you. Two decades at least. Although I tend to think small. You three think big! It’s good to have variety, don’t you think? At least so far we haven’t had any fights over the trash.” To this she added a giggle.

I gave her a hug. Honora has been a precious gift to us all. When stuff goes wrong, she’s the first to offer a pat on the back and a cheery, “Is anybody dead? No? Then we’ll be fine. What do we need to make things right?”

We walked together through the automatic sliding doors. The front desk receptionist is always a changing face at Martin Gardens, because it’s an entry level position. From there, Jay promotes people to working at various other jobs. But I met his newest hire a few weeks ago, and I’m convinced this woman might be perfect for this particular position. As a greeter, she is superb. Her name is Marcella Kinsey, and I can’t possibly look at her without smiling. Marcella has this robust presence. Not only is she a large woman, but her personality is bigger than life.

“Miss Cara!” She hustled out from behind the desk to envelop me in a big hug.

Next she turned to Honora and embraced her gently.

“Mr. Boehner told me you both would be stopping in. It’s good to see you. Let me ring him. Can I offer you a peppermint?” With one surprisingly dainty chocolate-colored hand, she passed us a bowl of buttercream mints, a candy that always takes me back to my childhood. We always kept bowls of buttercream mints at the restaurant for departing diners to enjoy.

“Can’t resist these,” I said, as I scooped up a handful.

“Me either.” Honora helped herself.

Footfalls alerted us to Jay’s entrance. After thanking Marcella for taking care of us, he hurried us along the hallways. “You came in the nick of time. I was wondering what we should do next. It’s not often that we have a resident who’s so withdrawn. Usually they respond to music therapy. Or even to the service animals we have visit three times daily. But Clarissa Gleason seems beyond our outreach efforts.”

“Is she local?” Honora asked.

“No. She’s from the Coral Gables. However, there wasn’t space in any of the nearby facilities so she wound up here. As I understand it, she has very few living relatives. A brother in Switzerland. A few nieces scattered around the world. No one to come and visit.” He paused as we stood at the intersection of three hallways, an area the staff called The Triangle. Here his decorator had thoughtfully placed a trio of sofas and a handful of chairs to build a seating area. “I keep sending in our interns, hoping that one or the other of them will click with Clarissa, but none have. Bethany is on her way to meet with us. She’s the young lady I told you about, Cara.” His nod to me was full of meaning. He was telegraphing the fact that soon we would be meeting with two people who hadn’t found their niches, Clarissa and Bethany. I sent up a prayer that we could, indeed, help him.

“That reminds me. Honora? Did you bring me a bill?” He glanced at the bag she was carrying.

“You owe me nothing, Jay. I would hope that someone might do this for me.”

“But those are your pieces, right? I’m taking food off your table.”

“Prototypes. Things I didn’t deem good enough to sell.” With a brisk glance at her Timex wristwatch, Honora cut him short while reminding us that time was ticking. “Shall we?”

Chapter 9

 

All of the rooms at Martin Gardens face a large interior courtyard that’s been lovingly planted by members of the local community. This tropical paradise includes cages of large birds, a cage with rabbits, another cage with guinea pigs, and a small garden. Florida gets its name from the Spanish explorer Ponce de Leon, who called it “Pascua Florida” or “Flowering Easter” in honor of Spain’s “Feast of the Flowers” Easter celebration. At any given point on the calendar, we are surrounded by colors, blossoms, and greenery. The view onto the courtyard couldn’t help but lift your spirits, even if you were drawing your last breath.

However, when we arrived at the appointed room and looked through the open door, Clarissa sat in a wheelchair, not facing the garden, but turned toward a wall.

“Hello, Clarissa. How are you today? I’ve brought visitors.” Jay’s cheery greeting caused her to rotate slightly to stare at us. Her white hair, her pale skin, and the washed-out color of her irises combined to create a person who could double as a ghost. In fact, it occurred to me that I wasn’t looking at a real person, only the left over imprint of a woman who had once existed but now had left us.

This provoked an almost painful feeling inside me. Was that it? Were we all destined to end our lives by fading away into nothingness? If I didn’t remarry, if my son grew up and moved away, would I wind up alone like this woman?

To hold my emotions in check, I glanced around the room and noticed the shape of a dollhouse sitting in a corner on a side table. A white sheet covered the structure, but the slope of the roof made its identity unmistakable.

“Clarissa?” Jay walked over to touch her lightly on the shoulder as he repeated himself. “I’ve come to visit, and I’ve brought friends with me.”

The slumping figure in the wheelchair barely moved. In fact, it seemed as though she was looking right past us. Was it possible we were too late? Could she have suffered a stroke? Was she in a coma with her eyes open? Her total lack of response caused me to wonder if we ought to turn tail and run.

But even as my heart crowded my throat, I willed the woman to speak.

“Clarissa?” Jay spoke more urgently as he put a gentle palm on her shoulder. “My friends like dolls. A lot.”

Her head tilted slightly, as she stared up at Jay. In return, he handed her the gift bag that Honora had prepared. Clarissa stared at the sack.

“I’m Honora,” said my friend, moving closer to Jay so that Clarissa had to notice her presence. “I love dollhouses. Jay told me you have one of your own. May I see it?”

“All right.” The voice was soft as a cat’s whisker.

Jay wheeled the woman nearer to the draped white sheet. Honora followed.

“It’s there,” said Clarissa. “Under that.”

“May I remove the cover?” Honora asked.

“Please.”

“I’m Cara Mia Delgatto,” I said. “Honora? How about if I give you a hand with that?”

I took a corner of the sheet, the opposite of what Honora was gripping. In a smooth motion, we lifted the fabric straight up in the air, being careful not to drag it across the surface of the house in case it might snag on anything loose. Since I’m slightly taller than Honora, she leaned toward me with her side of the fabric outstretched. After folding it carefully over mine, I was finally able to get my first look at the miniature dwelling.

Roughly twenty-four inches high at the crest of the roof, the small white house had been cut from sheets of plywood and then nailed together. The unfinished edges betrayed its origins. The shingles had been formed from sandpaper, cut into smaller shapes and glued down. I knew enough about dollhouses from Honora’s work on them that this place would be classified as rudimentary. Loving touches included painted-on trim around holes that had been crudely cut for windows. The front door was actually a gaping hole with metal hinges that dangled awkwardly like empty fingers still gripping a lost object. A chimney poked up from the center. It, too, had been painted, although not expertly. The color was flat and one-dimensional.

The outside was a dingy white. Like most American dollhouses, the structure opened from the back. Honora had taught me that in the UK, dollhouses had hinged fronts for access. Thus, British dollhouses could be closed up when not being viewed. In the States, people tended to cover the open back with Plexiglass or real glass for protection from dust.

As Honora stepped out from behind the dollhouse, she was able to rotate the building toward us. I realized then that the structure was sitting on a microwave oven stand. I filed that clever idea away for future use.

“Goodness,” said my friend, admiring the empty rooms. “Did someone make this for you, Clarissa?”

“No,” she said, and then she hesitated, as if remembering. “Found it. On the curb. By the trash cans. Someone threw it away in our old neighborhood. Sad, eh? I figured someday the owner would show up. So I decided to take care of it for her.”

Jay and I exchanged looks. This sort of thinking was odd. Fanciful at the least, and unrealistic at best.

The wallpaper was crude and colorful, clearly indicating each space’s function. The kitchen was bright yellow with red accents. The living room a sedate deep green, and upstairs a small bathroom was blue. The master bedroom was a soft purple.

“Clarissa, you might want to open your gift.” Jay pointed to the sack she clenched in one hand.

Tentatively, our hostess settled the bag in her lap. It sat unevenly on her thighs, which were so boney they stuck out like two thin railroad ties. With trembling fingers, she withdrew the first wodge of tissue paper and began to unfurl it. Inside was a four-poster bed with a white spread and matching pillow. The edges were trimmed in lace. I knew that the posters had once been chopsticks, because I personally had donated several pairs to Honora’s box of found objects. The half-circle headboard bore no resemblance to its humble beginnings as the lid on a box of oatmeal. The tiny dresser made of matchboxes was a pure delight, in part because it was covered with colorful papers, but also because Honora had glued a small mirror to the backside.

“Nice.” Clarissa’s eyes glowed with approval. Stretching, she attempted to put the bed in the bedroom. When she couldn’t quite make it, Honora offered assistance.

Next Clarissa unwrapped the refrigerator, a small wooden table and two chairs. These went into the kitchen.

“It needs a stove and a sink,” observed Clarissa.

“Yes, dear, it does,” said Honora, as she watched Clarissa unwrap the barstool and set it in the kitchen.

“You can’t cook properly without a stove or a sink.” Clarissa muttered, as she opened tissue paper to find a tan sofa that had started life as a set of sponges. I knew this because I kept mysteriously running out of sponges until MJ tattled on our friend. This new piece fit perfectly in the living room. Honora had trimmed the sofa with green and brown plaid piping, a small touch that turned it from dull to adorable. This ability to add a smidgeon of color in exactly the right proportions was a particular magic of Honora’s, a talent that must have been genetic because she’d passed it on to EveLynn.

“Now that I know what your house still needs, I bet that Santa will have more ideas about what to bring you,” said Honora, while Clarissa discovered a tiny upright piano in the bag. This she placed in the living room.

I marveled at the musical instrument, remembering how Honora had printed copies of keyboards on our copier with high quality photo paper. The end result had been worth the change to more expensive stock.

“Music. I like music.”

“There is more,” said Honora, pointing at the bag.

Clarissa dug around and pulled up a blue vase that she positioned carefully on top of the piano. Another dive into the bag produced a lovely green palm in a pot (formerly a toothpaste cap) that was promptly placed next to the piano.

“May I take a photo?” I held up my cell phone. Clarissa smiled as Honora gave her a hug. I took another picture of the interior of the dollhouse, hoping my shot would provide a reference for Honora, since she’d clearly decided to bring more of her work to Clarissa.

While the two miniaturists discussed color schemes and styles, they scooted one piece after another around the house. Jay watched with an amused smile on his face. I could understand why, as Clarissa’s joy had become infectious.

When we left her room, Clarissa was humming to herself and fingering her new furnishings.

“Good call.” I tapped Jay on the shoulder in approval.

He sighed. “Once in a while, I get one right.”

Chapter 10

 

We didn’t get to meet Bethany. As we were leaving, Jay found out that she had the day off.

That disappointed me a little. In my mind, I’d conjured up a scenario where Bethany and I bonded. Acting as her mentor, I would encourage the girl to be more transparent to the residents. Jay would note my contribution, and our relationship would move to a deeper level.

But that was not the way it happened.

Instead, he walked us to my car, thanked us politely, and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek.

I felt embarrassed at his lack of attention.

But Honora didn’t mention it on the ride back to the store. Instead, she and I discussed Clarissa’s reaction. We agreed that Honora should take more of her merchandise out of stock and give it to Clarissa.

“Who knows? Perhaps there will be other people at Martin Gardens who’ll enjoy seeing the dollhouse,” said Honora.

“It was handmade, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Not very good, either.”

“No. Probably made by a father or grandfather who wanted to build something for a grandchild. Not a collector’s item, in that the level of craftsmanship doesn’t quite come up to snuff, even though the love shines through.” Honora talked to the passenger side window, almost as if she was talking to herself. “But I’m not sure that matters. I bet its original owner loved it anyway.”

“But it wound up on the curb. That doesn’t exactly sound like a cherished toy!”

“Perhaps the owner outgrew it. Or outlived it.” Honora reached over and squeezed my leg. “Maybe Clarissa is right. Maybe the original owner misses the house and someday she and the house will be reunited.”

I silently scoffed at that.

“I prefer to focus on the fact that Clarissa’s dollhouse has found a new home with someone who values it. So the initial effort by its maker wasn’t wasted, was it?”

“That’s not what I meant.” I sounded testy, so I kept talking in an attempt to modulate my remark. Outside, dark clouds with heavy bellies gathered in the direction we were headed. They mirrored my mood, and I said as much. “I’m just astonished that anyone would toss out a piece that had been handmade. Someone took the time to do the wallpaper. That looked like a woman’s hand was involved. Can you imagine how you would feel if you and your husband worked on a project like that? Only to have it wind up out on the street?”

Honora’s smile was faint. “Cara, darling, you’re letting your imagination run away with you. We don’t know how it came to be discarded, do we? Perhaps the real reason is something much less sinister. Let’s hope so, shall we?”

Business was brisk back at The Treasure Chest. So much so that a customer had taken my parking space. That caused me to grumble under my breath while I dropped off Honora at the front door. I made a mental note to have signs painted that would explain that the spots behind my store were reserved. Not that it would stop someone truly determined to take them, but at least it would offer fair warning.

I was still grumbling about the inconvenience when I finally found a space in the nearby municipal lot. By the time I was out of the car and past the rows of other vehicles, the rain had started. I ducked under as many store awnings as I could, but I still managed to get soaked by the time I arrived at my destination.

When I opened the front door and dripped on the floor, MJ came over and laughed at me. “Look what the cat dragged in. You’re drenched!”

“Thanks for telling me. I hadn’t noticed. Could you go get me a towel?”

While she did that, I shook myself out. After dabbing at myself with the towel MJ brought, I cautiously crossed the tile floor and went up the stairs, hoping that most of the customers wouldn’t recognize me as the store owner. Fortunately, I keep an extra set of clothes in the second floor apartment that used to be mine. My expectation was that on occasion I’d get dirty while looking at potential merchandise. I hadn’t counted on needing them because I’d gotten soggier than a wet sponge.

By the time I’d changed, I heard the heavy footsteps belonging to my grandfather.

“Poppy?” I called out. “I’m in the bedroom changing.”

When I moved to Jupiter Island, I left my apartment furnished exactly as it had been when I moved in. There were three items, a folding chair, a battered card table, and a bed on a metal frame. But Skye had an uncanny ability to see everything in a different light—and my apartment hadn’t escaped her supernatural vision. Six months ago, she proved her usefulness by turning that woebegone space into a new profit center, a party room.

Since the re-opening of The Treasure Chest, I’d fielded one request after another to hold get-togethers in the store. In the beginning, every festive event required that we move all our merchandise to the outer perimeters and set up tables in the center of the showroom floor. Because the party-goers were almost on top of our goods, we needed to keep a close eye on all the refreshments to make sure nothing got ruined. MJ had complained incessantly about the situation, as she tends to be a worrier. I liked the foot traffic and the additional sales, but I could see no solution to the situation until Skye proposed that we turn my vacant apartment into a party room. With only a teensy-tiny budget to work with, she’d done exactly that.

First she had painted the entire place a soft pastel gray, the color of driftwood.

“Looks fantastic,” I said. “Too bad that one wall still has all that yucky maple paneling. Spoils the cool vibe you’ve got going.”

“Not for long,” she said. “I’ve got stuff in the trunk of my car, but I need help getting it up here.”

For the next half hour, we carried shipping pallets up the stairs.

Wielding a claw-tipped hammer, Skye went to work, pulling nails out of wood pallets. Next she used finishing nails to tack these planks over the maple siding. Using a hacksaw she’d purchased online, she cut down to size any boards that were too long. The result was a rustic wall with fantastic texture, although a bit too splintery to be safe for guests. Borrowing Poppy’s sander, she worked over the rough-hewn boards until they were smooth. Last, but not least, she mixed up several gallons of “fake” wood stain. To several gallons of white vinegar purchased at the dollar store, she added steel wool pads and instant coffee. When the mix had cured for several days, she sponged it onto the walls to give it a suitably rustic appeal.

After she finished that portion of her remodeling project, she tore down the grungy plastic blinds covering the windows in my old apartment. This exposed the glorious views of downtown Stuart and the Intracoastal Waterway.

But she wasn’t done. She’d decided the windows shouldn’t be completely bare. Using cheap dowels as curtain rods, she hot-glued short plastic water bottles onto the ends of the dowels. Then she carefully wound twine around and around the water bottles to disguise their humble origins. When the string was secure, she spray-painted the new rods and their end pieces white. Once they were installed, she threw vintage tablecloths over her new rods, mounting the cloths on the diagonal.

You would never guess I’d given her exactly one hundred dollars to work her magic. Or that she returned to me twenty dollars in change.

While Skye did her decorating thing, MJ foraged for chairs and tables. Once in a while, she’d find a nice tabletop without legs. Other times, she located table legs missing the tops. When she had an appropriate mix of parts, she and Skye bolted pairs of legs to the tops of tables. Although none of the chairs that MJ found matched each other, Skye assured us that she could make them look fantastic—and she did by painting them a soft lemon-yellow.

“It’s like faded lemons. Very chic.” MJ gave the choice a nod of approval.

To harmonize the colors, Skye asked EveLynn to run up seat cushions in a yellow sprigged muslin, trimmed in gray. These were tied to the chairs. Meanwhile, Skye hemmed big pieces of gray cotton to create table skirts. Using more vintage tablecloths, she covered the tables and tacked up the edges of the fabric with small yellow and gray buttons. One of MJ’s old boyfriends cut sheets of glass to fit the top of each table. These protected the vintage tablecloths from getting ruined.

The whole room epitomized the word “adorable” in a suitably shabby chic way.

“Now we need plates and cutlery,” I said, as I marveled at the transformation. Over the next few weeks, I haunted the local Goodwill, consignment, and thrift shops. Bit by bit, I collected one place setting after another. Nothing matched, but it was glorious!

I also bought up every teapot, cup, and saucer that I could find. Some were absolutely darling.

“We should sell those sets. They will fly out of here,” said MJ. “But you need to display them properly.”

Taking a cue from a photo in a magazine, Skye sanded and painted boards from the pallets with a rich turquoise paint. “The glossy sheen makes the color pop,” she said, and she was right. Next she bolted the boards onto thick chunks of driftwood. Finally, she hung these on the newly re-paneled wall, staggering them so they formed floating shelves. When we added the cups and saucers, the formerly blank wall became a work of art. I was able to sell the cups and saucers for many times what I’d paid for them.

Since the apartment had a small kitchen and a bathroom, it quickly proved perfect as a party room. A cloak closet was available for light wraps and umbrellas, but we kept the door to my old bedroom locked. Inside that room, we all kept a change of clothes, hygiene products, and other items that might come in handy when we worked long hours in the run-up to Christmas.

After my run through the rain, I was particularly pleased about having set aside dry clothes and an emergency stash of makeup. I was repairing the damage the water had done to my mascara when Poppy started talking to me through the bathroom door.

“Granddaughter? I need your permission to give something away.”

“What is it?” After seeing the good that Honora’s gift had done, I was curious to hear his proposal. Were we on our way to rescuing another person from the depths of depression? This seemed to be a new trend for us.

“It might be easier to show you than to explain.”

Chapter 11

 

I finished my toilette and stepped out of the bathroom with the words, “Can it wait?” on the tip of my tongue. MJ wouldn’t be too thrilled about being left alone in the shop much longer. My expression must have displayed my concern because Poppy glanced at me and hurriedly added, “Sid is helping MJ. So’s that high school girl, Jamie? She only had a half-day of classes today. The floor is covered.”

“Then let’s hurry next door so I can see what you’ve got.” I left my wet clothes in the bathroom and followed him down the stairs, out the front door. Fortunately, the rain was blowing the other way, so I didn’t get very wet at all.

“It’s back here.” Poppy gestured for me to follow him.

My eyes adjusted to the dim interior. My grandfather had rigged a shop fixture to hang over his work. Gold glistened in the distance, as the shine from the lightbulb bounced off of Skye’s dishwater blond hair.

“Hiya, Cara.” She was sitting cross-legged on the dusty floor. Around her were items taken from the cardboard box.

“Rather’n decide what’s what all by myself, I asked Skye to come have a look-see. She had a lunch break coming. Figured she’d know if you could work your magic on any of this before I tossed out something valuable.” Poppy tilted his head toward the piles of paper. “To me, it all looked like rubbish.”

Skye nodded. “I found a couple of photos we might be able to frame and sell. And there’s something else, too. I showed it to Poppy. We agreed you should see it, too.” From a spot two feet away, she grabbed the backpack she usually hauls around. Reaching inside, she withdrew a book.

“Remember yesterday? When I hauled all these upstairs to start reading? Every good book is full of surprises, but this one really held a shocker.”

She flipped the volume open and I gasped.

The pages had been hollowed out to form a repository, an empty cavity in the book’s center. I’d seen this done before. In fact, I remembered making a “book safe” back in Girl Scouts. From inside the cavity formed by the glued pages, Skye pulled a silver chain. On the end dangled a heart-shaped charm.

“A locket,” she said. “I haven’t tried to open it. It seems, I dunno, kind of invasive? Like an intrusion on someone’s privacy? But there’s more.”

Using a fingernail, she pried up a small envelope that had been jammed into the bottom of the well. It was addressed to Miss Wilma Steinmacher.

“Ain’t sealed.” Poppy stared at the rectangular piece of paper.

“But should I?”

“You have to,” said Skye. “Or else you won’t know whether it’s important or not.”

“But it’s someone’s mail.” I felt slightly queasy.

“I already looked at it,” said Poppy, ignoring my shocked response. “You need to. There’s a world of hurt in that there envelope. You have to see it to believe it, Granddaughter. Remember what I told you about Wilma? And her young man? Go on. Open that. Read it and weep.”

I peeled open the flap and pulled out a thick notecard that read:

 

July 19, 1952

 

To whom it may concern:

I, Godfrey Austin, being of sound mind and body, do hereby bequeath my worldly belongings to Wilma Steinmacher Austin, my lawfully wedded wife. A copy of our marriage license is in my personal lockbox, #244, in the First National Bank of Palm Beach, Florida. We were married in secret on June 20, 1952.

 

Signed,

Godfrey Austin

Witness: E. N. Marshall

Witness: K. Klein

 

P.S.—Tell Wilma that I will love her until the end of time.

Chapter 12

 

“I don’t know what to say.” I stared at the yellowing paper in my hands. “What you expect me to do with this?”

“It’s your property.” My grandfather sounded brusque.

“Okay, well, first things first. Do we know for sure if Wilma is still alive?”

“She was as of yesterday. I done some calling around and asked.” Poppy rubbed a hand over his mouth, as if trying to remove a bad taste.

“What did you find out? I mean, obviously we need to get this to her, but maybe this isn’t a surprise. How’d it get in this box? Maybe she’s already seen it and tossed it away. Perhaps we’re all upset, for no good reason.” I blurted my thoughts and then paused as the deeper implication of what I was holding hit me. “Wait a minute. This is clearly a legal document. A will. All this stuff was from Sondra’s estate, or so it seems. Oh, golly. What’s going on here? Does this mean what I think it does? Poppy, you said the sisters didn’t get along. Are you suggesting that Sondra hid this from Wilma? For more than sixty years?”

My grandfather was staring at the note as if I were holding a rattlesnake in my hand. Slowly, I realized the full import of what we’d found. My next comments were more along the lines of thinking out loud than sharing a conclusion. “Sondra must have intercepted her sister’s mail and hidden this note. That’s what happened, isn’t it? You suggested yesterday that Wilma was nearly destitute. But this proves she was Godfrey Austin’s legal heir. She would have inherited from his estate, and she would have also received benefits as the wife of a veteran. Do I have all that right?”

But Poppy didn’t respond. Instead, Skye said, “We think so.”

I paused to rub my temples. I was confused and felt like a migraine was coming on. Thank goodness the place was dimly lit, or the pain would have been worse.

Skye noticed my gesture. “Your head?”

“Yes.”

“Have you had enough to drink today? I’ll go grab you a bottle of water. Want me to get you one of your headache pills?”

“Top drawer of my desk.”

“I’m on it,” she said, as she darted out of the room.

Poppy stared at me with sad eyes. “Your grandmother used to get them awful. She called them ‘thunder headaches.’ How about if you sit down? I’ll get a cold wet rag for you to put on your head.”

He didn’t have to ask me twice. I sank down and backed up so that my head was resting against the wall. When he returned, he handed me one of his white cotton handkerchiefs that he’d gotten wet and wrung out. When I put this over my eyes, it helped a little. Not much, but some.

“Tell me everything,” I said. “It’ll distract me while Skye brings me the water and my pills.”

I heard the scuffle of his shoes as he slid down the wall and sat next to me. As always, he smelled of Old Spice. Fortunately, he wasn’t one to dowse himself in it or the fragrance might have made me sicker.

“What’s to say? I believe you done figured it out. Nobody knew that Wilma and Godfrey went ahead and got married. I was told that they were holding out for that big church doohickey, so they kept it secret. Otherwise, his parents woulda never let them hear the end of it. Especially his mother, because she was full of herself.”

“Honora told me that he was killed in an accident at basic training.”

“That’s what they said. Some yayhoo got overly excited when he had live ammo in his gun, I reckon. It happened all the time.”

“Yayhoo.” I nodded even though I couldn’t see. I had my eyes closed. But I had to make sure I understood what he was saying, so I asked, “What exactly is a yayhoo?”

“A twit. An eejit. In this case, it’s a dope who commits murder.”

Chapter 13

 

Skye handed me a cold bottle of water and dumped a pill in my hand. “Are you too sick to take a drive?”

I gulped the water greedily. She’d been right. I hadn’t had enough to drink over the past few days. My always resourceful friend had done a lot of research about migraines. “Did you know there’s a link between dehydration and migraines?” she’d said one morning over breakfast.

“Nah. That’s too simple.” I’d laughed it off. However, over the next few days, I ran my own little experiment. By adding a checkmark in the Notes app on my iPhone, I charted out the amount of water I was actually consuming. Turns out, it wasn’t nearly enough. Not to be healthy.

Once I made a conscious effort to keep hydrated, most of my migraines went away.

“Give me five minutes,” I said, as I pressed the cold bottle to my forehead. “Then I should be good to go.” I opened one eye to stare at her. “You’re proposing a trip to deliver this purloined letter?”

She nodded. “I think it’s about time, don’t you?”

“Coming down like a carwash out there.” Poppy was now standing beside me. “Can’t you hear it on the roof?”

I could indeed. However, his truck was high off the ground. There didn’t seem to be any good reason to wait to deliver the note and the locket. As a side benefit, the rain was driving away customers. If we took off immediately, perhaps we could get back before traffic picked up again. The pill would kick in any minute. I’d caught the headache early, before it could pound me into the ground.

“How about if we go now? The store isn’t likely to be busy. Poppy, can you drive? The three of us can fit in your front seat,” I said.

And so we set out in the rain. Since Poppy had snagged a spot behind the buildings early this morning, we were able to duck into the truck quickly. Skye sat in the middle so I could look out the window, in aid of my headache. Because he’s been around cars so long, my grandfather is extremely careful about keeping his Toyota truck in great shape, particularly about checking the tread on his tires. That’s crucial here in Florida. The highway department grinds up oyster seashells and add them to the pavement, which Poppy contends adds to the wear and tear on your tires. He has also lectured me that when it rains here, it’s like the sky opened up. Such downpours add to the likelihood of hydroplaning. Good tread on your tires is essential.

I was glad that he drove slowly to avoid us sliding into a ditch. The rain couldn’t obscure the colorful Christmas lights that most residents had strung around their homes. Nor could it totally block out the lights blinking from trees inside people’s homes. As Poppy drove sensibly and smoothly, I enjoyed the chance to look at the decorations, even if the view was blurred by water streaming down the windshield.

Wilma’s rental was three or four miles away in nearby Port Salerno, an unincorporated district settled by immigrants from Italy, who named this town after their Italian hometown. The median income there is low, although one might argue that the quality of life is high because the place enjoys a spot along the inlet to the St. Lucie River. I’d noticed the houses seemed rather shabby. Indeed, Poppy guided his truck into an area where the street was little more than packed dirt.

“Lot of local fishermen live around here.” That passed for color commentary as he stopped beside a clutch of cabins that looked exactly like the ones in that movie Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. Even as impoverished as they were, most were decked out in rainbow strands of colored lights. But the one we were planning to visit was nearly dark. The only light was a utilitarian glow from a fixture inside.

Poppy pulled up next to the place and turned off his engine. “This must be the place. It’s the right address.”

The paint had peeled off the clapboard siding, while asphalt shingles held onto the roof for dear life. The cabin sported a broken front window, taped together with silver duct tape. The stoop had crumbled into dust and been replaced with two concrete blocks.

“Wow.” Skye shook her head as she stared past me. “Calling these places vacation cabins is sort of stretching the truth, isn’t it? Come on. How could you relax in a shack like this? A good strong wind would easily topple them. Imagine how that building must rattle around during hurricane season.”

In answer, Poppy grunted.

“What’s our plan?” I asked.

“You two sit here. I’ll go see what’s what.”

That was fine as far as I was concerned. When Poppy opened his door, water sprayed all over me, but Skye took the brunt of it. We brushed off as much as we could. Skye turned off the A/C and turned on the heater. I folded my hands in my lap and waited, taking solace from the steady pressure of her shoulder against mine.

“How’s your head?” Skye smiled at me.

“Better.”

“Then now’s a good time to tell you what I’m making for our last Christmas push,” she said, as my grandfather disappeared inside one of the cabins.

“Sure. Fire away.”

“I got your grandfather to drill holes in pieces of driftwood that we can use as candleholders. I’ve made another dozen shelves out of driftwood and pallet boards with his help. While you and Honora were gone the other day, MJ and I stenciled ocean creatures on the rest of our flat pieces of driftwood. They’re really cute. I still have to put wire on the backs so they can hang on the wall, but that shouldn’t take long. Jamie whipped up an amazing assortment of mermaids in tiny glass bottles. They can be worn as earrings or charms—.” She stopped and pointed. “Look! He’s waving to us.”

Chapter 14

 

Skye and I raced through the rain, helped each other up the concrete blocks, and ducked inside a dark space. As we shook off the water, I was tempted to hold my breath because the air reeked with a bad smell, like dead fish. Except for that one overhead fixture that I’d noticed when we were in the truck, the place was dim—and I decided that might be a point in its favor because it certainly wasn’t cheerful. Wallpaper was peeling off, and from the pounding sound of the rain overhead, I worried that the roof might cave in at any minute.

Our hostess greeted us with, “Mind the pots, please. I have my own gauntlet to run, don’t I?”

Wilma had set out four cooking pots to catch the steady waterfall of leaks coming from her ceiling.

“Come on in, girls,” said Poppy, encouraging us to move deeper into the dim space.

Skye and I wove our way around the containers as best we could. Actually, a glance around suggested that Wilma had done her best to make her one room truly functional by turning her bed into a daybed, so it could be used as a sofa. A ladder back chair offered the only other seating.

“Welcome. I’m Wilma Steinmacher.” The woman offered me a knotty hand with a surprisingly strong grip. Her nails were stained black. I pulled away in surprise.

“Sorry,” I said. I was embarrassed by my response.

“Oh, that!” She glanced down at her hands and laughed. “I’ve been doing gyotaku. My nails do look rather shocking, don’t they?”

“Guy-what?” I repeated.

“Gyotaku! Japanese fish prints!” Skye’s eyes were wide. “May I see? I’ve always wanted to try that.”

Wilma’s laugh changed everything. The musical sound blocked out the unsavory surroundings. The sparkle in her green eyes lit up the tiny room. When she walked over to a card table, I spied the origin of the strange smell in the cabin. A dead fish stared at me. His mouth gaped open. His silvery fins hung limply. He clearly wasn’t having a good day.

Skye bent closer to get a good look. “You’re getting ready to ink it?”

Wilma waved a brayer, an ink roller, at my friend. “That’s what I was doing when Dick knocked on my door. Once I roll this over the fish, I’ll be ready to make the print. In fact, if I wait any longer, the ink on the brayer will get too dry. Want to watch?”

Skye nodded eagerly.

Wilma reached into a cardboard portfolio and took out a large sheet of Japanese rice paper and set it next to her feet. After tilting the fish slightly, she said, “I want him on an angle. That suggests motion and makes the print more interesting.”

With great care, she ran the brayer over all parts of the fish. Then she carefully placed the rice paper on top of the body. Using delicate patting motions, Wilma pressed the paper against the carcass.

“The fins are the hardest part. To get a print of them, I need to reach under the paper and lift them, like so.” Wilma’s left hand disappeared while her right hand pressed down on the paper, even tucking it under the fin somewhat.

Before our eyes, the ink began to transfer to the paper. Once our hostess was sure she’d captured all the details, she lifted the paper straight up and off. With a flourish she held it up for our perusal.

“Ta-da!” Wilma grinned down at the detailed impression on the paper. “Of course, this is pretty bland. It won’t really come to life until I add watercolors and paint in details.”

“That’s a waste of a good dinner,” grumbled Poppy.

Wilma laughed again. “Doubtful. I found this fellow washed up on the beach. No way would I eat him without knowing how long he’d been lying there. I would have thought an old fisherman like you would have guessed that, Dick. Can’t you tell from the stink in the air? “

I decided I liked Wilma a lot. Here was a woman who understood how to turn trash into treasure on a whole new level. She also didn’t take my grandfather too seriously.

“What will you do with your finished art work?” My mind raced ahead.

“Put it with the other prints I’ve done.” Wilma carefully set down the fresh sheet. From the portfolio she pulled three other gyotaku with watercolor backgrounds. Her work was exquisite. Despite how badly her subject smelled, I was nearly salivating at the thought of selling her art. When framed these would be glorious. I could imagine my customers going nuts over them.

“I must have a pile of prints two inches thick in another portfolio.” Wilma paused, cocked her head, and asked, “Are you Dick’s granddaughter? You look so much like Josephina. Here, have a seat, all of you, while I wash my hands.”

“Yes, ma’am,” explained Poppy. “This here’s Thomas and Jolene’s girl. That there’s our friend Skye Blue.”

I took the ladder back chair, Skye took the daybed, and Poppy leaned against a wall.

“Jolene’s little girl.” Wilma scrubbed at her skin while the water ran over her hands. “Of course you are. Who else could you be? My, but time flies. Seems only yesterday that you were little. I remember seeing you in a pretty sundress walking alongside your mother at the grocery store. Are you back to stay?”

While she dried her hands, I gave her a quick summary of my life, including the purchase of The Treasure Chest. Since Poppy didn’t interrupt, I carried on with, “To stock my store, I buy from estate agents. Often I don’t know what I’m getting until I go through it. That’s one reason we’re here today. We found something that belongs to you.”

Skye handed me the book, and I handed it to Wilma.

“This isn’t mine.” Her smile was polite but troubled.

“I believe it belonged to your sister,” I said. “Please open it up.”

“Sondra? Yes, that title looks like something she might read, but if you bought it from an estate agent, then—” Wilma stopped talking when she opened the cover. Slowly she pulled out the necklace. Her eyes went wide as she turned it over and over in her hand. With a gentle poke of her thumbnail, she sprang open the latch. A mist came over her eyes.

“Godfrey. Darling, darling boy.” Raising it to her lips, she kissed the locket.

“So it is yours?” I hated to intrude, but I wanted to be sure.

“Yes, of course it is. It’s been missing since…” Then she paused, and her face went through a series of contortions, shock, sadness, and anger. “Sondra must have stolen my necklace! That’s the only explanation, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it’s possible that someone stole that book from her,” I said. “The same person who took your necklace.”

“You said you found that book where?” Wilma blinked and peered at me with a new intensity.

“I have an agreement with several estate agents. Often I haven’t even seen what I’ve bought in advance of the delivery. This particular group of items came in a cardboard box. Poppy and Skye were going through it when they discovered that book. The one in your hands. There were several others, too. All had your sister’s signature.”

“Was Nate Keener the agent?”

“Yes. That’s the guy.”

“Then he bought it from me. I let him pack up everything in Sondra’s house and take it. I was hoping there’d be enough money for me to live on for a while. That’s all she left me, the contents.” Her lower lip trembled as she flipped the book open to the front cover. With a finger, she traced her sister’s name. “I remember seeing a book like it on Sondra’s bookshelves. But I never dreamed! What else did you find?”

“A few office supply type trinkets. You’re welcome to look them over.” I wouldn’t usually be so forthcoming. After all, she’d relinquished her ownership, and I’d taken possession. But my father was a big believer in being fair. I’d been inculcated with that quality at an early age. It was too late to change now. Not that I wanted to.

Wilma shook her head vigorously. “No need. Those are yours now.”

She turned the book over in her hands. “That’s right. Sondra kept this particular title right next to her desk, between a pair of bookends. I assumed she had a sentimental reason for keeping it where she could see it, but I never, ever suspected her of…this! When I think of how I mourned this necklace. You see, it was all I had left of Godfrey. What a comfort it would have been to me.”

Suddenly she realized the full import of what her sister had done. “All these years, I missed it and she had it. Worse yet, she knew what it meant to me. I used to wear it all the time!”

“Then how did it wind up in the book?” I asked.

“I don’t know! The clasp had broken. I put it aside to take it to a jeweler. I wanted it fixed properly, and then we were robbed back in 1972.” She stopped, and her face hardened. “I even saw a copy of the police report. The burglar broke in while we were both out of the house, but it was Sondra who discovered the theft. Earlier that week, I’d gotten a notice in the mail that I’d won two tickets to the art museum in Boca. I couldn’t even remember entering that particular contest, but Sondra insisted that I had. She knew because she’d posted the entry for me. I liked to enter contests for fun. Once in a while, I’d get lucky and win something silly, but this was a rather nice prize. My friend said she’d drive us down to Boca since I was supplying the ticket. That very afternoon, Sondra went to buy groceries and came home to discover we’d been robbed.”

She blinked and swallowed, fighting emotions. “That’s what she said, at least. That she came home and discovered we’d been robbed.”

“But there wasn’t any actual proof?” asked Skye. “Was anything else missing?”

Wilma continued, “A few odds and ends. A piece or two of silver. Nothing of real value. At least not monetary value. But this…this was precious to me! Sondra knew that! I couldn’t believe it had been taken, or that the thief knew where to look. I had put it in a small bag and tucked it inside my pillow.”

“But your sister knew where it was?” I was thinking out loud.

“Well, yes, I suppose she did.” Wilma frowned. “I had discussed it with her. Trying to decide whether a jeweler in Boca could fix it. But she suggested that I wait, so I could spend all my time at the museum rather than traipsing around town.”

The reality of what happened hung in the air, like the lingering ring of a tolling bell.

“Maybe,” and Wilma’s face brightened, “maybe someone returned it to her, and she forgot to give it to me.”

“That don’t make no sense.” Poppy’s voice suggested that any other explanation was a pile of hooey. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but Wilma, you and I both know Sondra weren’t no saint. If you didn’t get that necklace back, it’s because she didn’t want you to have it.”

Wilma nodded, slowly. “You’re right, of course.”

“There’s more for you to look at.” Skye’s face wore an expression of infinite sadness as she offered Wilma the letter. “Here’s a notecard that was jammed into the bottom of that empty space.”

The old woman’s hands shook as she slowly opened the envelope.

A part of me thought I should turn away. Another part had to watch, because I wanted to see her reaction. Would the note be a good surprise? Was it possible that Wilma had already read it? Would the message matter to her?

“Oh!” She clamped a hand over her mouth. “Godfrey! He didn’t desert me! He didn’t leave me high and dry! Oh, oh, oh, darling man. I love you so.”

Wilma burst into tears.

Chapter 15

 

“All those years.” MJ frowned, as she set her napkin next to her empty paper plate.

“You have a bit of tomato sauce right there. No, it’s beside your mouth. Here, I’ll get it.” Skye grabbed a fresh napkin and dabbed at MJ’s face.

Instead of acting annoyed, MJ thanked her. That made me smile inwardly. Slowly the three of us had become fast friends, accepting of each other’s kindness.

I bit into my second piece of Anthony’s Coal Fired Pizza. “This eggplant is divine.”

“Sure is,” agreed Skye.

“The way I see it, Sondra must have planned the theft pretty carefully. First she had to get her sister out of town.”

“No, first she had to snag the note from Godfrey. Think about it,” said Skye. “She did that years before she took the necklace.”

“Right,” I said, and I nodded. “Sondra always picked up the mail because, after all, it was her house. She must have seen the postmark and realized it was from Godfrey.”

“That’s when she took it.” Skye made a disgusted grunt. “Can you imagine anyone being so cruel? Your own blood especially?”

MJ agreed. “Bad enough to make sure your sister lived in poverty. But then to take away something that kept her going? A love token? What a poor excuse for a human being that Sondra Steinmacher must have been.”

“It wasn’t enough to take her inheritance. Sondra wanted to take every bit of comfort away from her sister, and that necklace meant the world to Wilma,” said Skye.

“According to Poppy, when Godfrey asked Mr. Steinmacher for Wilma’s hand in marriage that really ticked Sondra off. She’d grown up hearing she was the prettiest. She just assumed she’d get married first.”

“But Sondra’s personality drove everyone away from her. Poppy told us that once you got to know her, you didn’t want any part of her. She was a nasty human being. Every man who showed an interest in her for her looks quickly ran the other way once he discovered what a shrew she was.” Skye began to wrap the extra pieces of pizza in foil.

“That was the problem, wasn’t it?” MJ wondered out loud. “Sondra had a love-hate thing going with her sister. She didn’t want to be all alone in life. Her goal was also to make sure Wilma never left her side. So she needed Wilma to be financially dependent on her. She made sure that happened by waylaying Godfrey’s letter. Wilma never knew her sweetheart had taken care of her financially.”

“Right,” I said. “As Poppy explains it, Sondra was the bookkeeper for their father, Ezekiel Steinmacher. She understood money, so she knew what that note really meant.”

“I remember old Mr. Steinmacher. He used to come into Pumpernickel’s,” said Skye. “I think that’s where Sondra got her grouchy disposition. I didn’t like waiting on him. Never tipped more than a quarter.”

“On our way back from Wilma’s, Poppy told us that Ezekiel Steinmacher gradually lost his ability to think clearly. He became physically and mentally feeble. He sold Sondra the family home for a pittance. It was easy for Sondra to convince him that he should leave everything else to her. She promised him that she’d take good care of her sister, Wilma.”

“Except that wasn’t her goal, was it?” Skye opened the refrigerator door and slid the excess food inside.

MJ stood to pick up the paper plates and toss them. “Sondra must have been really pleased with herself, thinking how she pulled a fast one on her sister.”

Skye had moved to the sink and began washing her hands. The fragrance of the soap, a combination of lavender and geranium, spiced the air. “Maybe not.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Picking up a towel, Skye dried her hands slowly. Her face was scrunched in concentration. “I have a hunch that it ate away at Sondra. Wouldn’t it? Knowing how badly you’d hurt somebody? That you’d taken everything dear from her? Seems to me that would be a lot like pouring acid on your soul. Slowly it would corrode you from the inside out. When your grandfather asked Wilma what Sondra died from, she said the doctors couldn’t diagnose it. Couldn’t pin it down.”

“Are you seriously suggesting that karma killed her?” MJ lifted an eyebrow.

“Can you come up with a better idea?”

Chapter 16

 

The day before Christmas Eve…

 

“I can’t believe I’m taking time away from the store,” I muttered to myself, as I walked around my car.

Honora watched me climb in from her spot in the passenger seat. On her lap was another gift bag. Inside were more items for Clarissa’s house.

“Bad mood, dear?”

I forced myself to take a slow, cleansing breath like my friend Kiki Lowenstein had taught me. The store would be fine for one evening. MJ, Skye, Sid, and Jamie were taking care of last minute shoppers. Sales had been fantastic. They’d be closing in an hour and a half, so I wasn’t missing out on much.

In truth, I wasn’t as concerned about the store as I was angry at Jay. I considered him my boyfriend, even though he hadn’t asked me to date him exclusively. Boyfriends were supposed to do extra-special things for their sweethearts during the holidays. He hadn’t even called me recently. Instead, I’d been the one to pick up the phone to ask if Honora and I could come and drop off more presents for Clarissa.

“Yes. I am in a bad mood.”

“Hmmm.” Honora watched out the window as we passed by colorful displays of lights.

“What are you and EveLynn doing for Christmas?” I asked.

“We have our own little ritual. On Christmas Eve we watch It’s a Wonderful Life. We drink eggnog and eat sandwiches. Christmas morning I make blueberry pancakes and pop a turkey into the oven. We open our gifts at noon. There’s a list of movies we have to watch or EveLynn gets upset.”

In truth, her routine sounded heavenly. Honora’s husband was dead. EveLynn was her only child. They’d managed to make the most of their situation. Just the two of them.

I would be spending Christmas Eve alone. At the last minute, my son, Tommy, had been invited by his father to go on a cruise. My ex had even invited Tommy to bring Tessa Weber along. This was calculated to put me at a disadvantage, and it did. If I complained, I was being a jerk. So I’d kept a smile in my voice and told my kid, “That sounds wonderful! You’ll have so much fun. I’ll see you when you get back. We’ll celebrate then. Give Tessa a hug for me.”

Poppy was going to come over for brunch on Christmas Day. Since Sid, MJ, and Skye were also solo for the big event, they’d join us at my house. That did give me something to look forward to, but I’d hoped that Jay would want to get together. The fact he hadn’t even mentioned coming over or seeing each other upset me.

Face it, Cara. He’s just not that into you.

Squaring my shoulders, I decided that I wouldn’t let Jay’s boorish behavior ruin my outing with Honora. She was very pleased that she’d managed to round up a few more pieces for Clarissa. I was sure the dollhouse owner would be thrilled.

Marcella greeted us with her usual enthusiasm before reaching behind her desk to grab two presents.

“You shouldn’t have.” I couldn’t believe she’d gotten us gifts.

“Open it!” she squealed.

Inside were boxes of peanut brittle.

“I make it myself.” She beamed with pride.

After thanking her, we headed down the hall to Clarissa’s room, where Jay was waiting for us. The door was slightly ajar, so I started to close it behind me, but Jay signaled for me to stop. “Bethany is on her way. I had wanted you to meet her before. She’s here now.”

He came closer and gave me a peck on the cheek. As I swallowed back anger, he left an arm around my shoulders. Instead of giving in to my temper, I focused on Honora and Clarissa.

“A stove! It’s an AGA. I love it!” Clarissa was holding the tiny piece and gazing on it with wonder.

“Don’t you think we should uncover your house?” asked Honora. “So you can see how it fits?”

Taking that as a cue, I slipped out from under Jay’s arm and went to help Honora. We had the sheet lifted when footsteps diverted my attention. A young woman stood in the doorway. Her hair was pulled back into a French braid that rested on her neck. The large glasses she wore were the height of style, as was her simple navy dress. In fact, at first glance I would have guessed her to be closer to my age than nearly the same age as my son. But that couldn’t be right. She was a college student, so she was younger than she looked.

“Bethany? Come on in. Honora and Cara have just arrived.” Jay stepped to one side.

The girl’s gaze moved from him, to Clarissa, to us, and then fell on the dollhouse.

“My house!” she said. “That’s my dollhouse! Where did it come from?”

Chapter 17

 

“Let me get this right.” Skye sipped Prosecco from a fluted goblet. She leaned back on my sofa, making herself at home. Luna crawled into her lap. “Bethany’s grandmother made that dollhouse for her, what? Fifteen years ago? But her mother tossed it out?”

“That’s right. They lived in Coral Gables. Clarissa was actually their neighbor from around the block. The two families didn’t know each other.”

MJ picked up another fig stuffed with cheese. “Clarissa drove by. Saw the dollhouse on the curb and took it home with her?”

“Yes.” I poured myself more of the bubbly.

“Bethany’s mother got rid of the dollhouse because it wasn’t elegant enough,” continued Skye.

“That’s right. I guess that Mrs. Meinke was a bit of a snob. Her mother actually handmade that house. It was her first effort, and not a collector’s piece, so Mrs. Meinke didn’t want Bethany to have it. She didn’t think it ‘worthy.’ That’s the word that Bethany used. That action caused an estrangement between Mrs. Meinke and her mother.”

“Didn’t do much for Bethany’s relationship with her mother either,” said Skye with a bit of a snicker.

“You think?” MJ smirked.

“How did Clarissa react? Learning what happened?” Skye asked.

“She was thrilled. She’d told us she was just the caretaker for the house. There was a dedication under the eaves. ‘From Grandma Sylvia to Bethany.’ Clarissa pointed it out.”

“And when you left them?” MJ raised an eyebrow.

“They were both playing with that dollhouse. I get a lump in my throat thinking about it. You can’t imagine how sweet it was.”

Chapter 18

 

Jay had given me a small wrapped package as Honora and I were leaving Martin Gardens. After MJ and Skye fell asleep on the furniture in my living room, I went into my bedroom and ripped off the paper. Inside was a box of Godiva chocolate. The note said, “To the sweetest woman I know.”

I sat down on the bed and stared at the rows of sweets.

My dog hopped onto my lap.

“Not for you, buddy. This would make you sick. Do you have to go outside?”

I clipped on his leash and stepped out of the side door. A full moon illuminated my yard. The sound of the ocean beckoned me to the dunes. Once there, I could see the sand, the white of the breaking waves, and the silver strand of moonlight on the water.

After Jack did his thing, I found a spot on the sand and sat down.

Wilma’s love for Godfrey had sustained her for nearly fifty years.

Godfrey’s love for Wilma had extended beyond the grave.

That was the sort of love I wanted. Lasting. Strong. True.

I decided not to settle for anything less.

 

 

—The End—

DOG FORBID:

A Golden Retriever Mystery

 

 

Neil Plakcy

Editor’s Note: Neil Plakcy writes romance and mystery, although he often varies the proportions of each. Like a lot of authors, he spends a great deal of time with his dog, so it was natural for him to pen a series featuring a golden retriever just like Samwise, his golden who has since crossed the Rainbow Bridge. In this story, Neil’s love for dogs shines as brightly as the coat of his favorite breed, and a savvy pooch proves an excellent amateur detective.

 

 

 

 

Squirming and struggling to escape my grip, my eighty-pound golden retriever indicated he’d had enough of beauty treatments. “Hold on, Rochester,” I said to him. “I’m not finished brushing you.”

His toenails scratched against the tile floor of my kitchen, and his long plumy tail whapped against the refrigerator with a staccato beat. But I was determined to hold onto him, using the refrain of Star Trek geeks everywhere. “Resistance is futile, puppy. You will be groomed.”

From the living room, I heard my girlfriend, Lili, snort. “That dog has you wrapped around his little paw, and he knows it,” she called.

“And there’s something wrong with that?” I asked.

She didn’t answer, just snorted again.

It took a lot of work to keep Rochester healthy and handsome. I used a special comb to pull loose hair from his undercoat, and after a session I often had enough fine strands to spin into wool and make a sweater. I brushed his teeth, trimmed his nails, and cleaned out his ears. Goldens are high-maintenance dogs, but they more than make up for the work with their beauty, brains, and loving disposition.

I finished combing the curly hairs behind his ears and let him up, and he scrambled away, leaving a trail of fine golden hairs in his wake. I got the vacuum cleaner out and picked up the hair, and as I was wrapping the cord back around the machine, Lili asked, “Have you seen this article in the Wall Street Journal online? Van is in Lancaster doing an exposé on Amish puppy mills.”

I looked over at Lili. She was three years older than I was, in her mid-forties, with a heart-shaped face, a very kissable mouth, and red-framed glasses. She was a couple of inches shorter than my six-foot-one, and we both had brown hair, though hers shaded more toward auburn and mine was flecked with gray.

We discovered, soon after we met, that we’d both lived in New York at the same time, in the early 1990s, when she was working as a photographer and I was in graduate school at Columbia, but we hadn’t met until she’d come to Eastern to chair the fine arts department.

We’d been living together for almost a year by now, and I was still marveling at how lucky I was to have her in my life.

“Van Dryver?” I asked. “Your ex-boyfriend?”

“Steve.”

“I know, I know,” I said. “He was never your boyfriend. Just a fling. But you keep in touch with him.” I put the vacuum back in the hall closet and joined Lili on the sofa.

“I read his articles,” Lili said. “He’s a good writer. And I think you’d be interested in this piece. I’ll email you the link.”

I opened my iPad and got the message from Lili, and then read the article, the first of a series about dog breeding operations in the Amish country of Pennsylvania. The opening paragraph was a real heart-breaker.

 

Hidden behind manicured fields and hand-built barns decorated with folk art is a heart-wrenching story of animal cruelty. Sad puppies live behind bars in row after row of cages. They never have the chance to run or play, to feel solid ground beneath their feet or sprawl happily in front of a fireplace. They never experience an owner’s love.

 

“This is so sad,” I said to Lili.

“And horrifying.”

I read on.

 

At one notorious breeding operation, dozens of cages attached to the sides of a barn are raised a few feet about the ground. They have wire floors so the urine and excrement fall to the ground and can be hosed away. Some of the dogs howl in agony, while others cower against the back of their cages in fear. The smell is appalling.

 

I shook my head. “I can’t believe we’re supposed to go out to Pennsylvania Dutch country tomorrow. Maybe we should cancel.”

A few weeks before, I’d stopped by my friend Mark Figueroa’s antique store in the center of Stewart’s Crossing, my hometown, looking for Hanukkah presents for Lili.

“I’m glad you came by,” he said, as I browsed his eclectic collection of Bakelite jewelry, Fiestaware, and porcelain knickknacks. “I’ve been thinking about Thanksgiving. Do you guys have plans?”

I shook my head. “Neither of us have family in the area so I figure we’ll just have a small turkey on our own. You going to Joey’s parents’ house?”

Mark’s boyfriend, Joey Capodilupo, worked with me at the Friar Lake conference center, where I ran programs and he managed the property. He came from a big Italian-American family with deep roots in the area.

“I know I can’t get out of spending Christmas with them,” he said. “But I want to have at least one holiday without all of his aunts and uncles and cousins asking us if we’re going to get married, now that it’s legal.”

He leaned forward and rested his arms on his counter. He was freakishly tall, nearly six-foot-six, and skinny as a bamboo shoot. “I need to find some more stock for my store, and there are a bunch of big flea markets over Thanksgiving weekend out in Lancaster. I want to go out there for the holiday. You think you and Lili would want to come with us?”

“What about the dogs?” I asked. Joey had a year-old golden retriever puppy, and I knew he’d never agree to leave Brody in a kennel. I felt the same way about Rochester.

“I found a dog-friendly motel,” Mark said. “And a restaurant that serves Thanksgiving dinner on an outdoor patio with a glass roof and warmers. We could take the dogs out to dinner with us.”

I had checked with Lili, and she thought it would be fun. We’d arranged our schedules to leave the next afternoon, Wednesday, so we could do some sightseeing on the way. But now I wasn’t sure I wanted to go.

“We can’t cancel at the last minute,” Lili said. “And besides, you can’t let one bad apple tarnish a whole community. You of all people should know that.”

Lili was right. Once upon a time, I’d been married, living in Silicon Valley, with a career in technical writing and web development. Then my wife had suffered a second miscarriage, and to prevent her from ruining us with retail therapy, I’d hacked into the major credit bureaus and put red flags on her accounts.

It was a stupid move, and had resulted in a divorce, and a year spent as a guest of the California prison system. During that time, I’d gotten to know a lot of people I might never have met otherwise. I had become well aware of the way people judged others, both in and out of prison.

I’d worked hard to turn my life around, and Rochester and Lili had been a big part of that. Lili was right that I had to grant the same pass to others. Most of the people in Amish country probably found puppy mills as awful as I did.

I went back to Van’s article.

 

The Amish don’t have the sentimentality that most people associate with dogs; they treat these canines like livestock. Their argument is that if it’s all right to raise cows, pigs and sheep for human use, why treat dogs any differently?

 

The dogs they own are valuable commodities. The females are forced to have litter after litter until they can no longer breed. A few males are kept around for the express purpose of mating. When the dogs can no longer function as needed, they are sold as pets or disposed of humanely.

 

I shivered. The protestation of humane treatment reminded me of the evil ways humans had treated others in history, from slavery to gas chambers, as if those other tribes or races were less valuable than those in power.

According to Van, it was a lucrative business, selling the puppies en masse to unsuspecting pet stores. After a while, I couldn’t read any more. “Don’t send this link to Mark and Joey,” I said to Lili. “Joey will freak out.”

As I turned the pad off and put it on the bookshelf, Rochester came over to nuzzle me. Maybe he knew I was upset or maybe my putting away an electronic device was a signal that I was available to deliver some puppy love. Either way worked for me.

I got down on the floor beside him, and he rested his head in my lap while I scratched him behind the ears, then rubbed his belly. After a while it was time for his walk, and we strolled beneath a canopy of leafless trees, Rochester sniffing the brown grass and the occasional evergreen.

He tugged me forward, up onto one of my neighbor’s lawns, and started to hunch over. I hadn’t expected him to need to poop, so I hadn’t brought a bag with me. But he quickly changed his mind and pulled onward.

“Very funny, puppy,” I said. “You think you’re so clever, putting one over on me.”

He looked up at me with a doggy grin, then pulled ahead.

~*~

Lili had a class to teach the next morning, and I drove up to Friar Lake, a nineteenth century abbey and grounds that belonged to Eastern College, my nearby alma mater. The buildings of the abbey compound had been built of the same dark gray stone quarried for the Eastern campus, with the same slate-gray roofs. Discreet signs that matched those on campus had been placed in front of the buildings, with Eastern’s rising-sun logo and the building’s name and purpose.

The trees around us were primarily deciduous, already stripped of their leaves. They were stark sentinels and many of them had witnessed the abbey’s prime years as well as its long decline and eventual sale. I hoped that their spirits appreciated the work we had done to renovate and repurpose the property.

As soon as I let Rochester out of the car, he ran straight toward the abbey chapel, barking like mad. “Yo, Rochester!” I called, as I hurried after him. “What’s got into you?”

Normally he jumped down from the car, anointed a bush or two, then followed me into the renovated carriage house where my office was located. It was unusual for him to take off that way.

The double-height wooden door of the chapel was propped open and from inside I heard a series of answering barks. Then a white bundle of canine energy darted out of the chapel door and tackled Rochester.

I understood my dog’s behavior. Since it was a short day, Joey had brought Brody with him to work. Brody and Rochester both had the square head and sleek body characteristic of the breed, but Brody’s fur was white with a few streaks of gold. At seventy pounds, he was a real handful. He had just celebrated his first birthday and reached sexual maturity, which meant that he’d begun lifting his leg to pee and straining toward every female dog he saw.

He was a couple of inches shorter than Rochester and about ten pounds lighter. Apparently the cream line had a smaller stature, which helped them avoid congenital problems like hip dysplasia.

I loved watching the two of them play. Brody liked to grab Rochester’s collar and tow him along. They’d take turns trying to mount each other, or Brody would sprawl on his back with Rochester above him, a symphony in gold and white.

Joey stepped out of the chapel door. He was a good-looking guy in his early thirties, a couple of inches over six feet with broad shoulders. He was wearing a heavy cable knit sweater, jeans and short boots and he had work gloves on his hands. “Hey, Steve,” he said, as he pulled off the gloves. “Just doing a little work in the chapel. Brody was sleeping beside me until he heard your car and Rochester’s barks.”

The two dogs were racing around a couple of leafless trees. “I hope they can behave while we’re in Lancaster,” I said.

“I told Brody he’d better be good, or I’d send him to one of those Amish puppy mills,” Joey said.

“You know about them?”

“Sure. When I was researching breeders I read all these horror stories. Made me that much more determined to get a dog raised by someone responsible.”

I hoped Rochester had had a good upbringing. He’d been a rescue dog when he came to live with my next-door neighbor, Caroline Kelly, and after her death he had moved in with me. Since then we’d become bonded at the hip—almost literally, because the dog followed me everywhere, even when I just got up from my chair for a minute. I called him my Velcro dog. But that’s a Golden’s nature, and Brody was the same way with Joey.

In fact, as soon as Brody got tired he rushed back to his daddy’s feet and collapsed there. A minute later, though, he was up and running around again. We let the dogs play together for a while longer, and then Rochester accompanied me to my office.

At Friar Lake, my job was two-fold. I organized and ran programs sponsored by the College, usually featuring our faculty members. I also handled renting out the facility to other organizations for their events—everything from gala dinners to week-long seminars and executive education programs. The following week we would be hosting two dozen veterinarians from around the state for a workshop on the newest strain of canine influenza.

After confirming a few details for the upcoming program, Rochester and I said goodbye to Joey and Brody and drove back to the house, where Lili and I packed up the car for the trip to Lancaster. We had to drive down US 1, the road my father had called “Useless One,” to get to the Pennsylvania Turnpike entrance, and it was jammed with every kind of big box store, car dealer and fast food chain. If you couldn’t buy it along that stretch of road, then you probably didn’t need it.

And of course the roads were always under construction—I could even remember my father cursing about it as we drove to one of his favorite seafood restaurants, a hole in the wall called Under the Pier that surprisingly still existed.

“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you,” Lili said, with a kind of studied falseness in her voice that I twigged to right away. “I hope you don’t mind, but I emailed Van after I read his story yesterday. He’s in Lancaster, and he has no plans for Thanksgiving, so I invited him to join us.”

Lili had assured me many times that she had no interest in Van Dryver besides maintaining a professional friendship, so I knew I had nothing to be jealous of. But he was still a good-looking, globe-trotting investigative reporter, and I had to tamp down my own insecurity when it came to him. Though I thought he was a pompous twit, I had to be nice to him for Lili’s sake.

So I said, “Sure, no problem. The holidays are all about sharing.”

I had a feeling Lili knew I was being just as false as she’d been. But that’s life with someone else. You smile and smooth things over and move on, right?

~*~

It was a relief to leave behind the snarls of traffic and endless red lights for the faded greens and browns of the highway verges. Traffic flowed smoothly past bland sound-buffering walls that protected the neighboring areas from too much highway noise. We were isolated from any connection to the surrounding area, as if we’d driven into some kind of bubble that would eventually deliver us to our destination.

“Joey knows about the puppy mills,” I said, after I set the cruise control and sat back, my foot resting next to the brake pedal. “So we don’t have to keep them a secret.”

“I’m interested to hear what Van knows that hasn’t made it into his articles,” Lili said, as Rochester stuck his nose between the seats and sniffed. She scratched under his chin, and he yawned.

“He doesn’t seem like the type to hold back,” I said.

“You’d be surprised. I remember when we worked together there was always a ton of material that never made it into print. Photos that were either too shocking or didn’t move the story forward. Details that were too graphic, anecdotes from victims and survivors that didn’t fit the space he had.”

“You really loved photojournalism,” I said. Lili had spent nearly fifteen years traveling the globe taking photographs to accompany stories by reporters for a wide range of publications. “Do you ever miss it?”

“Of course,” she said. “I see a great story and I analyze the pictures that go with it and say, ‘I could do better than that.’ But I love teaching, and being rooted in one place. And of course I love you and Rochester and I don’t have that same wanderlust I had when I was younger.”

“You could still do some photojournalism if you want,” I said. “In the summer, for example. If someone offers you a good story.”

She shook her head. “I’m out of the loop. Though I wouldn’t mind taking some pictures if Van asks.”

Van again, I thought. But I just smiled and said, “Sounds good.”

We got off the turnpike at the exit for Route 222, then followed a series of signs showing the silhouette of a horse and buggy and the words “Share the Road.” We ended up behind a square black Amish buggy with a red-and-orange hazard triangle on the back and a bumper sticker that read “I’d rather be plowing.”

The buggy was being pulled by a proud-stepping roan horse with a black mane, and when they finally turned off onto a side road I saw the driver was a young-looking Amish guy with a long beard, and there were a half-dozen boys with round-brimmed straw hats packed in with him.

The dog-friendly inn Mark had found was called the Distelfink, named after a kind of stylized bird popular in Pennsylvania Dutch folk art. It was a low-slung roadside motel with a picture of a schnauzer on the sign, with the words “pet-friendly.”

I saw Joey’s truck in the parking lot. “The boys are already here,” I said. “Keep an eye on Rochester in case he wants to go find his friend before we check in.”

“Better yet, I’ll check us in, and you can manage the dog.”

I leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Works for me.”

My golden just woofed from the back seat. As soon as I let him out, holding tight to his leash, he sniffed around a stand of maples at the edge of the parking lot, and I imagined he was looking for Brody’s scent.

Rochester had a nose for detection; in several cases he had led me to clues that I had been able to pass on to my friend Rick, a homicide detective in our hometown of Stewart’s Crossing, nestled against the banks of the Delaware River, about forty-five minutes northeast of Philadelphia. I enjoyed the snooping; I was trying to channel my curiosity away from hacking and into more legal endeavors.

Rochester lifted his leg and peed copiously then romped around me, trying to wind his leash around my legs. Lili came back out of the office with our keys, and we walked down to our first-floor room. It was pretty generic, but it had a king-sized bed for Lili and me and a big cushion on the floor for Rochester. Add in a working bathroom and a television with HBO and cable, and that was about all we needed.

Mark and Joey’s room was a couple of doors down from ours. Mark lived in an apartment upstairs from his antique shop, but from what I understood he’d been staying most nights with Joey as their relationship solidified.

The dogs reunited, and we all said our hellos. Lili told the boys she’d invited another guest to join us for dinner the next day, and though Mark raised an eyebrow toward me, they both said that was fine with them.

“What are we going to do for dinner tonight, though?” Joey asked. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave both the dogs here until they’ve had a chance to get accustomed to being away from home.”

“Why don’t we get take-out?” Mark asked. Their room had a big round table, and he suggested we eat there. He found the website for House of Ho, a nearby Chinese restaurant that delivered, and we all looked at the menu together online. Their specials appeared to a melding of Amish and Chinese cuisine—and not in a good way.

“Egg Foo Yong with minced Lebanon Bologna?” I read. “Ho No? Both sound awful.”

“What about Scrapple Chow Mein?” Mark asked. “What is that?”

“Scrapple is a mush of pork trimmings with cornmeal and flour, molded into a gelatinous mass, then sliced and pan-fried,” I said. “My dad called it a heart attack on a plate. I wouldn’t eat it as a kid, and I’m not about to start as an adult.”

“Hold on,” Lili said. “They have ordinary Chinese food, too.”

We’d brought food for the dogs, and we fed them, and Mark and I took them for a walk, while we waited for the delivery

“I’m really glad you guys could come with us,” Mark said. “This is Joey’s and my first trip together, and it’s easier having friends around.”

“Come to think of it, this is my first vacation with Lili, too,” I said. I looked at Mark. “How are things going with you guys?”

“It’s a little rough sometimes,” Mark admitted. “I’ve lived on my own for years, and I’m kind of set in my ways. And you know Joey with Brody—that dog can do no wrong.” He smiled. “But I really do love the guy, and Brody too. So we make things work.”

“It’s the same with Lili and me,” I said. “This is her third time around the block, and my second, and we both have a lot of baggage.”

“She was married twice before?” Mark asked.

“Yeah, and she had other boyfriends along the way,” I said. “One of whom will be joining us for dinner tomorrow.”

“That reporter guy? Won’t that be weird for you?”

I shrugged. “It is what it is. Don’t you and Joey have exes who show up now and then?”

“Not on your life,” Mark said. “They’re exes for a reason. If one of Joey’s showed up, I’d probably claw his eyes out.” He laughed. “Or at least urge Brody to pee on him.”

“Let’s hope we don’t come to that tomorrow with Van,” I said.

After dinner, Lili and I went back to our room with Rochester. Since we expected most places would be closed on Thursday, we thought we’d relax in the morning, and to that end we’d brought a lot of reading material with us. Lili had a couple of months of photography magazines to catch up on, and I had several mystery novels loaded on my Kindle.

We read for a while, then I took Rochester for his before-bed walk. It was a completely different atmosphere from River Bend, our gated community. Traffic whizzed by on the main road beside us, semi-trailers applying their hydraulic brakes and motorcycles revving their engines. We stayed on the grassy verge, navigating past fast-food wrappers and shreds of newspaper as Rochester looked for something natural to pee on.

On the way back home, he grabbed a piece of paper in his mouth, and I didn’t see it until we’d gotten back into the parking lot, under the halogen street light. I tugged it from his mouth, where he’d already chewed half of it away. It looked like a flyer for a farm that sold puppies. “Not happening, buddy,” I said. “You can play with Brody but you’re not getting a puppy of your own.”

I crumpled the flyer and tossed in the trash, and we went inside. We had brought food with us for breakfast, and the room had a coffee maker that could boil water for tea and hot chocolate, so we were set for breakfast the next day. The boys ended up at a McDonald’s getting drive-through.

The dogs played together for a while in the morning. Then at two o’clock we left for the restaurant. There wasn’t enough room in my car or Joey’s truck for all of us and the dogs, so we caravanned. We took a country road out of Lancaster, past brown fields that had been laid down for winter and a red-planked covered bridge over a narrow creek, with stone abutments and a peaked black roof. It was only a single lane wide. As we passed, a horse and buggy came out of the bridge, this one carrying only a very young-looking husband and wife. I wondered if they were on their way to a big family Thanksgiving.

My parents both had siblings and were close with their own first cousins as well, so I grew up surrounded by family. My great-aunts and great-uncles lived just across the Delaware River from us in Trenton, and every Saturday my mother would stop by to visit at least one of them while she ran her errands. I remember sitting in my great-aunt’s kitchen, puzzling over the Yiddish language newspaper, The Forward, which was written in Hebrew characters.

That great-aunt hosted a family Passover Seder every year. One of my aunts had claimed Christmas and another Thanksgiving. We traveled all over New Jersey for birthday parties, bar mitzvahs, weddings and funerals. Though I was an only child, I never felt alone.

How had I ended up with no family around me, when my childhood had been so full? My grandparents, great-aunts, and great-uncles had all died by the time I was a teenager, and now most of my aunts and uncles were gone, too, or moved to retirement communities in Florida. My cousins had spread around the globe, from an NGO worker in Namibia to a translator in Paris to a computer geek in Seattle, with others interspersed all over the country.

Almost all of them had children of their own. I followed some of them on Facebook, where they bragged about the accomplishments of their kids, documented their vacations, and posed together at family reunions. I had lost touch with most of them as Mary and I tried and failed to have a family, and then faded off the radar when I went to prison.

I had a couple of cousins left in New Jersey, and perhaps it was time to begin mending relations and joining them for happy occasions. I’d see.

~*~

The sky was gray and overcast, and the leafless trees along the roadside contributed to a grim atmosphere. In the distance I saw a couple of black crows circling over a lone pine tree, and dozens of small birds like chickadees roosted on the power lines above us.

Fortunately, when we pulled up at the restaurant it was lit with tiny fairy lights over the doors and around the windows, and the glow from inside was welcoming. A blue jay darted past us toward a bird feeder by the side of the building, where a flock of fat mourning doves pecked the ground. A big banner hung over the front door, wishing us a blessed Thanksgiving.

I took Lili’s hand in mine and squeezed. She and Rochester were the chief blessings in my life, and I was grateful for both of them.

A hostess greeted us at the door. She was wearing a knee-length dark blue dress, her blond hair piled beneath a starched white cap. “Welcome to dinner,” she said. She leaned down to pet both dogs. “Welcome to you, too.”

She led us past the entrance to the main dining room to the outdoor patio at the rear of the building. It was pleasantly warm, thanks to a glass covering and tall warming stands near each table. Most of the dozen tables were occupied, several parties accompanied by dogs, and Brody strained to go visiting, but Joey kept him on a tight leash.

A small plate of rawhide dog chews sat in the center of our table, and once we’d been seated we kept the dogs occupied with them. “I thought you were having a friend join us,” Joey said to Lili.

“Van likes to make an entrance,” she said. “He’ll be here soon, I’m sure.”

We ordered a bottle of white wine and began nibbling on a platter of crudités. A few minutes later, I saw Van standing in the doorway of the patio, in a Burberry trench coat with a scarf in the matching plaid, and a deerstalker hat like Sherlock Holmes.

He posed there for a moment as if deciding to grace us with his presence. Lili waved at him and he nodded, then walked over to us. I could see people in the room looking at him like he was someone special. The two women at the table next to us were trying to figure out where they recognized him from—as if he was a movie star or something.

He made a big production of shedding all his layers and settling in with us. “Very quaint,” he said, as Lili scooted her chair aside so Van could sit next to her.

After introductions had been made, Joey asked him about his article. “I understand you’re researching puppy mills,” he said. “Do you think they can be stopped?”

“I can’t talk about an article while I’m working on it,” Van said, in what I thought was a pompous tone. “I need to save my words for the story.”

I wanted to ask how he could interview people if he couldn’t talk about what he was writing, but I restrained myself. He was Lili’s friend, and I had to be polite.

He didn’t mind talking about his past stories, though. “You’ll be interested in this, though,” he said to Joey and Mark. “I was in California reporting on the legalization of same-sex marriage, and I met some fascinating people.”

As we nibbled fresh rolls with hand-churned butter, he told us about the colorful characters he’d interviewed. I had to admit he was a good storyteller, even though the point of every story seemed to be what an excellent investigative journalist he was.

He told more stories as we dug into the farm-grown turkey, chestnut stuffing, and spinach raised right there on the farm and creamed together with butter from local cows. Van segued into a story about the farm-to-table movement in restaurants, and by the time the homemade pumpkin pie with fresh whipped cream arrived, I was annoyed that no one else had much of a chance to talk. After all, we’d come on this vacation with Joey and Mark, our friends, and I wanted to hear from them now and then.

The dogs ate specially prepared platters of ground turkey mixed with sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, and gravy. These Amish were very kind, and their attention to our canine companions made me question the idea that the Amish treated their dogs like livestock. I wondered if Van had exaggerated anything in his story. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d seen him carefully choose his words to create a particular picture.

Rochester and Brody were on their best behavior, and by the time they’d been fed they were happy to collapse beside us and sleep. I felt the same way by the time dinner was over.

In the parking lot after the meal, Lili asked, “Would you mind if I went over to Van’s hotel to have a nightcap with him? We have a lot to catch up on, and that’s about the only place that’s going to be serving tonight.”

“No problem,” I said. “Rochester and I can squeeze in with Brody and the boys. Just drive carefully.” I kissed her cheek, and she walked off with Van.

“You’re a nice guy, Steve,” Joey said, as we walked to our truck. “You really don’t mind Lili going off with her ex like that?”

“I know Lili, and I know Van, though of course not as well. Sure, I wouldn’t put it past him to make a move on Lili. But she’s much more likely to slap him than kiss him. Wouldn’t you trust Mark with one of his exes?”

“Are you kidding?” Joey said. “There’s only one reason a gay man spends time alone with an ex. And I’d slap Mark silly if I caught him messing around.”

“Back at you, sweetheart,” Mark said, and he smiled and gripped Joey’s hand.

Maybe it was just that Lili and I were ten or more years older than Joey and Mark, or that we’d been together a bit longer than they had, but I was glad Lili and I trusted each other and could avoid some drama.

Then I squeezed into the rear of Joey’s truck, and my big dog jumped up on me. I realized that the real source of drama in my life was still right there with me. “Yes, Rochester,” I said. “I’m right here, and I love you.” I snuggled my nose into the soft fur along his neck. “But you’re still not getting a puppy of your own.”

~*~

Lili was back at the motel about an hour later.

“I thought Van told some interesting stories at dinner,” I said, as she prepared to join me in bed.

“All of them about himself in the end,” she said. “But once I got him away from an audience, we had a good conversation. He wants to get a dog, which is good emotional progress for him. He’ll have to care about something other than himself.”

“Doesn’t he travel too much to take care of a dog?”

“He thinks there might be a book in this puppy mill situation,” she said. “He’s tired of traveling and wants to settle down somewhere and work on one project for a long time. He’s going to be fifty soon, and being an investigative reporter is a hard life.”

She slid into bed beside me. “I’m glad about the choices I made. I wish him the best.”

“And am I one of those choices you made?” I asked. I turned to her and smiled.

“One of my better ones,” she said, and kissed me. Then Rochester jumped up on the bed between us.

The next morning Lili and I ate breakfast in our room. We were surprised by a banging on the door. I opened it to Mark, who looked stressed.

“Thank goodness you guys are here. Have you seen Brody?”

“What do you mean? Wasn’t he with you?”

“We went out for breakfast this morning,” Mark said. “We left Brody in the room. When we got back, the door had been jimmied open, and both of our iPads were gone, along with Brody.”

For a moment I thought he was implying that the dog had absconded with the electronics. He was a smart puppy, but not that smart. “Have you called the police?”

“Yeah, there’s an officer on the way. But we have to look for Brody in case he slipped out of the room while the burglars were inside.”

“They advertise this as a dog-friendly motel, right? Maybe Brody got too friendly with someone else’s dog. Right, Rochester? Hope the female doesn’t sue for puppy support.”

“I can only hope that’s so,” Mark said. “But Joey is beside himself.”

I knew how Joey felt; if anything had happened to Rochester, I’d have been the same way. Dog forbid that should ever come to pass.

The three of us went down to Mark and Joey’s room. Joey was sitting on the bed. He was such a happy-go-lucky guy that it was odd to see him so distressed. “I know he’s not lost,” he insisted. “Somebody must have stolen him.” Rochester went up to Joey and nuzzled his hand. Joey looked down at him and began to cry.

Mark sat beside Joey and put his arm around Joey’s shoulder. “We’re going to get him back.”

I sat on a chair across from them. “What makes you think Brody was stolen?” I asked.

“After we got back, we went outside and I called for Brody. He always comes when I call him,” Joey said, sniffling. “That’s the first thing I taught him. We walked all around the motel, and then up and down the highway in each direction for at least half a mile. I’m sure he’d have come back by now if he’d just gotten out. Whoever stole our iPads must have stolen him, too.”

“Let’s back up,” I said. “What time did you go to breakfast?”

Mark looked at Joey. “Like eight o’clock? We couldn’t stand another drive-through meal so we saw one of the guys who works here and asked him to recommend a place for breakfast. We went to this Amish restaurant he told us about, and when we got back around nine we saw that the door had been jimmied.”

“You said one of the employees recommended the restaurant, right?” I asked. “That means he knew you were leaving your room. You should tell the cops to talk to him.”

Two uniformed officers, a man and a woman, showed up a few minutes later. Lili, Rochester, and I stayed in the background as Joey and Mark explained what had happened.

“Unfortunately, we’ve seen a lot of thefts from these old motels,” the female officer said. Her name tag read Stoltzfus—a solid Amish name. “The door locks are easy to pick, and the thieves use gloves and get in and out fast.”

The male officer’s name was Hagen. “Usually these guys are after electronics,” he said. “Your dog probably slipped away while the door was open. Have you called the Lancaster County SPCA? Someone could have picked him up already and taken him there.”

Officer Stoltzfus added, “You should have some posters printed up with your dog’s picture, put them up along the road. Maybe he got into somebody’s yard. Has he been neutered?”

Joey shook his head. “They’d have to neuter me before I let them neuter Brody.”

“There you go,” she said. “He could have sniffed some female dog in heat and taken off.”

“You’ll talk to the guy who told Joey and Mark where to go for breakfast?” I asked. “If he knew they were going out to eat, he could have broken in or tipped off whoever did.”

Joey and Mark described the guy, and the two officers left.

“Is Brody micro-chipped?” I asked. “Because if he shows up at the shelter they’ll read the chip and contact you.”

“When I took him in to the vet’s after I got him, she was out of chips so she said to bring him back. I just haven’t gotten around to it. I was going to do it when I take him in for his one-year checkup next week.” He started to cry again. “This is all my fault. I should have had him chipped right away. And I never should have brought him out here.”

“It’s not your fault,” I said. “Stuff happens in the world. All we can do is clean it up. And a microchip wouldn’t matter if he was stolen, only if he ended up at a shelter.”

Joey shivered. Mark tried to hug him but Joey pushed him away.

“Do you have a picture of Brody?” Lili asked Joey.

“He has a hundred of them on his phone,” Mark said.

“I’ll get my laptop, and Joey and I can put together a poster,” Lili said.

I turned to Mark. “You said you know some people around here, right?” I asked.

“A couple of antique dealers.”

“Call them and tell them Brody’s missing, and ask them to be on the lookout. And ask if they know anybody who might deal in stolen dogs. Any rumors they’ve heard, people they know who got a cheap deal on a dog?”

“And you said Brody hasn’t been neutered, so maybe somebody took him to use in breeding,” Lili said. “He’s a purebred golden retriever, right? He’d be worth a lot of money as a stud. Somebody could create fake papers for him and sell the puppies.”

“We should check for golden breeders in the area,” I said. “I can go online and do that. Maybe there’s even a golden rescue group in the area. We can notify them and see if they have any information on sketchy breeders. Since there’s no Wi-Fi here, I can go to that coffee shop down the road.”

Mark started making calls, and Lili and Joey got to work on a poster. I left Rochester there to keep Joey company and drove down the street to the coffee shop, ordered a drink for myself, and set up my laptop.

A purebred golden like Brody, even without his papers, could bring top dollar for resale or breeding. I knew that Brody had been a pricy puppy—over two grand plus shipping. Someone who didn’t want to pay that much might be able to overlook the dog’s provenance.

As soon as I had online access, I found a couple of websites that advertised golden retriever puppies and wrote down their phone numbers. Then I looked for information on how to find lost dogs. There was nothing there I hadn’t figured out already, and the news wasn’t encouraging; with every minute that passed the chances of Brody getting hit by a car or suffering some other mishap grew greater and greater.

Though I hated the idea, I called Lili. “Can you speak to Van and see if he has any leads we can use? Any puppy mills that sell Goldens?”

“One step ahead of you,” she said. “I made the call, and he’s on the case.”

I went back to Van’s article, then kept on looking at other sites. A TV news program had done an expose on puppy mills, and I watched the whole broadcast, even though it turned my stomach.

I shuddered at the thought that Brody might have been dognapped by one of those operations, or that whoever had broken into Joey and Mark’s room to steal their electronics had noticed the dog and scooped him up to be quickly sold.

After a while, I couldn’t read any more. It was clear that Lancaster was the puppy mill capital of the United States, and that the sooner we could find Brody and get out of there the better we’d be.

By the time I got back to the motel, Lili and Joey had returned from the copy center with fifty copies of poster and a staple gun. They were ready to go out and paper the town.

Mark pulled me aside. “Did the people you talked to know anything?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “But that guy we thought worked here? Turns out we were mistaken. There’s nobody who works here who fits his description, and the police think you may have been right when you said he was watching us.”

“But that doesn’t mean he or his accomplices stole Brody,” I said. “You guys should go out and put those posters up anyway.”

“It’s a waste of time,” Joey said. “The best I can hope for is that Brody will get a good home with someone else.”

“Come on, sweetie,” Mark said. “It’ll give us something to do.”

“I think we need to put Rochester on the case,” I said. “He knows Brody’s scent. Maybe he can help us find him.”

I began to think about how we could use Rochester to help us find Brody, and I remembered that people who were looking for a companion puppy often took their dog with them to breeders. “You guys go put up those posters. Lili and I are going to take Rochester and look for breeders, pretending we’re shopping for a dog.”

Rochester sniffed and peed again outside the motel, and then jumped into the back seat. We headed toward Lititz along narrow country roads with more “Share the Road” signs and more buggies.

I rolled down the back windows so Rochester could stick his head out, his golden fur flying like Tibetan prayer flags from his head. I was happy to get in line behind a buggy, because it let us drive slowly, looking for signs that might lead us to this puppy mill.

Suddenly Rochester started barking. “What’s the matter, boy?” I asked.

“He must smell something,” Lili said, peering forward. “See, up there on the right? There’s a little sign that says Puppies for Sale.”

“You are such a smart dog,” I said, reaching behind me to ruffle Rochester’s fur.

~*~

I turned down the narrow dirt road and climbed a hill, then we dropped down to where a big white clapboard farmhouse nestled in a dell, flanked by a couple of tall oaks. The farmhouse was three stories tall, with dormer windows and a big front porch, and looked like it could be on a postcard.

We parked behind an open buggy. Several horses grazed in a field beside us, but the smell that rose on the air was more redolent of dog than horse.

I kept a close hold on Rochester’s leash as a boy of about ten came out of the front door. He wore a round-brimmed black hat, a white shirt and suspenders holding up dark pants. “Help you?” he asked.

“We’re looking for a dog,” I said. “Another golden retriever. You have any for sale?”

“I’ll get my pa,” he said, and he hurried around the corner.

“You think Brody could be here?” Lili whispered.

“If he is, Rochester will find him,” I said.

The boy returned a couple of minutes later with a man about my age, wearing the same black hat as his son but also sporting a bushy black beard. “You looking for a dog?” he asked.

I nodded. “Another golden. Hope you don’t mind that we brought ours with us. We want to make sure both dogs can get along.”

“I have one litter of Goldens,” he said. “Follow me.”

We walked behind him. Rochester was easy on his leash, which made me think that perhaps we were on the wrong trail, and that Brody wasn’t there. But we had to follow through on the lead.

“This is state of the art,” the man said, as he opened the door. The smell was almost overpowering of dogs and feces, and the noise of all that barking and whimpering was crazy, but he seemed oblivious to it all. Cages lined both walls of the building, about three feet above ground. “My dogs live on plastic sheets, and their waste falls right through to the ground and gets swept away. I make sure they get to exercise on real floors, too. Some of these breeders, the dogs can barely walk when you get ‘em home.”

We both smiled politely, though I was horrified at the conditions. Three or four puppies shared each cage, all kinds of breeds from Pomeranians to labs to tiny teacup puppies barely bigger than your hand. “Goldens are over here in the whelping bins,” the man said.

Eight tiny puppies, looking more like piglets than dogs, clustered around an exhausted-looking female. They were all a gorgeous shade of gold, and I could see that they’d garner big money from a pet store. “We were hoping for one of the cream-colored ones,” I said. “You have any in that shade? They’re supposed to be healthier than the gold.”

I leaned down and chucked Rochester under the chin. “No offense to you, puppy.”

He shook his head. “My gold puppies are very healthy. Got both parents checked for hip and elbow dysplasia and eye problems. They’re the healthiest puppies you’ll find.”

Rochester was strangely quiet, as if the presence of so many of his kind had overwhelmed him. I told the farmer we’d think about another gold puppy, and he led us outside.

It was such a relief to be back out in the fresh air. Rochester strained at his leash, and I figured that being around so many other dogs made him need to pee. My grip on the leash must have slackened, because suddenly Rochester pulled away from me and was bounding across the grass. “Rochester!” I called. “Come back!”

My beautiful dog was poetry in motion as he galloped away, his legs moving in sync, his fur flying. Four legs move a lot faster than two, and though I raced after him, calling his name, he disappeared into a hedgerow at the end of the field.

~*~

I stopped short, panting for breath. Rochester had disappeared from sight, and I had no idea where he was going.

Lili caught up to me. “What got into him?”

I shook my head. “No idea. He’s never done anything like that before.”

Her cell phone rang. “It’s Van,” she said. “I should take this.”

She walked off a few feet as I looked around. Where was my dog? Ahead of me was a cornfield, the brown stalks cut and lying on the ground in haphazard piles. The fields were lined by hedgerows of mature trees, both conifers and deciduous, and they looked impenetrable. Once Rochester got into one of those stands of trees, he could have turned right or left, or gone straight ahead, and I had no way of knowing which way.

Lili came back to me. “Van got a tip that one of the breeders on the road to Lititz just got a new white golden puppy this morning. It’s a place called Teacup Farm. He texted me the address, and he’s going to meet us there.”

“I should stay here,” I said. “What if Rochester comes back?”

Lili looked around. “This is the road to Lititz, right? Maybe he’s on his way to that farm where Brody is. Or maybe we’ll see him on the road. We can’t just stay here.”

I was paralyzed. I didn’t know what I should do—keep running through these fields looking for my dog or head out with Lili to find Brody.

Lili put her arm in mine and tugged gently. “Rochester is a smart boy. He’ll either find his way back to the motel, or he’ll be with Brody somewhere, or we’ll find him some other way.”

“What if he gets hit by a car? You know him. He’s not afraid of anything.”

“Fear is different from intelligence,” Lili said.

I took a deep breath. In prison, I had learned to let go of things I couldn’t control, and this was certainly one of those. “Let’s go, then,” I said.

I hated to walk away, but I knew my dog and like me, once he was on the trail of a scent he couldn’t be persuaded otherwise. Lili and I hurried back to the car, where I made a K-turn my driver’s ed teacher would have been proud of. Then we rocketed down the dirt driveway back toward the street.

“Which way should we turn, do you think?” I asked Lili, as we approached the road.

“Van said this farm is on the road to Lititz, and Lititz is to the right,” she said. I followed her hunch, and we climbed a hill. From the top I saw a line of Amish buggies moving slowly ahead of us, and a stream of oncoming traffic so I couldn’t pass them.

My fingers were clenched around the steering wheel. “Take it easy, Steve,” Lili said. “Rochester’s a smart dog. He’ll be all right until we get there.”

“But what if we’re wrong? If we went in the wrong direction? Or if whoever stole Brody gets hold of Rochester. I couldn’t stand to have him end up like those poor dogs we saw.”

A piece of paper came flying out of the buggy in front of us, and the driver ground to a halt. A boy in his early teens jumped out and went chasing the paper across a field. We couldn’t move forward until the buggy did, and there was no shoulder to go around. Cars full of tourists gawking at the buggies crept past us, occasionally someone holding a phone out the window to snap a picture.

I drummed my fingers on the wheel. “Come on,” I said. I blew the horn, and the driver stuck his left hand out and waved us around, which wasn’t going to do me any good until the traffic eased.

Finally the teenager loped back to the buggy with the paper in his hand, and we began moving again. By then there was a line of cars behind us.

“Do me a favor?” I asked. “Can you use your phone to find out how fast a golden retriever can run?”

“Absolutely.” She hit a couple of keys and waited for a page to load. “Wow. I had no idea he could be so fast. Twenty to thirty miles an hour.”

“And it’s been what? Twenty minutes since he took off? So he could be ten miles away by now.”

“He’ll be all right, Steve.” She squeezed my hand.

My car was too old to have a built-in electronic compass, but it wasn’t hard to figure out that the road we were on wasn’t following a straight line. We curved around hills and past fields, and within a half mile I was completely turned around. What if we weren’t going the way we hoped at all? Suppose we kept driving aimlessly around Amish country as something terrible happened to Rochester?

“Take a deep breath, Steve,” Lili said. “We’ll find the farm.”

I did as she said, and around the next corner we saw a big sign for Teacup Farm. At the top was a photo of a tiny Yorkie inside an oversized coffee cup. The pink ribbon in her hair matched the pink spangles on the cup. We turned in at the driveway and parked in front of a low-slung building called the Adoption Center, in a row with three other cars. Van Dryver was standing beside one of the cars.

“You go into the building, and I’ll walk around calling for Rochester,” I said.

Lili shook her head. “We’ll go inside together, see what the place looks like. If it’s like the last farm, they’ll take us out to where the dogs are. And that’s where Rochester will be, if he’s here.”

We met Van at his rental car. “I’ve been talking to the guy who cleans up after the dogs. He’s fed up with this place. He’s the one who told me about the white puppy.”

“Thanks, Van,” Lili said. She kissed his cheek, and I shook his hand.

“Don’t thank me until you find the dog,” he said. “I’m going to wander around, see if I can find my guy.”

We went inside. The place was a showroom for dogs; a dozen compartments built into the walls, with some kind of wood chips for flooring. Each case was devoted to a different breed: Chihuahuas, Maltese, Pomeranians, Poodles, Yorkies, and Shih-Tzus were the purebreds. There were also Malti-Poos, Morkies, Mal-Shis, and Taco Terriers.

I wondered what the breeder was doing with a dog like Brody. He was way too big to be bred with any of these dogs. Was he just holding him for resale? Or were we on the wrong track?

The air smelled like lemon air freshener, and the glass windows muted the sound of puppies yipping and barking. Each case held at least two or three puppies who either played together or napped. Around us we could see two other couples, one looking at dogs on their own, another talking with a young Amish woman in a white cap and long blue dress, like the hostess at the restaurant.

Another young woman in a similar outfit approached us. “Welcome to the adoption center. Is there a particular type of dog you’re interested in?”

“I’m really partial to the Morkies, but my husband wants a pure bred,” Lili said. “Do you raise all the dogs here?”

She nodded. “My father has converted two barns to breeding areas,” she said. “I can give you a tour if you’d like.”

“That would be great,” I said.

It was clear this was a much more professional operation than the first farm; we followed a flagstone path behind the Adoption Center to a big red barn with open doors.

“That’s a beautiful image,” Lili said, pointing to the colorful hex sign on the front of the barn, a pair of dancing stallions. “Does it mean something?”

In elementary school we’d studied those decorative signs as part of a unit on Amish culture, and the one thing I remembered was that most Amish didn’t use them.

The girl reinforced that impression. “It’s a decoration,” she said. “The English expect them when they come out here.”

“English?” Lili asked.

“Non-Amish people,” she said. “Now here’s the barn where the puppies are raised once they’ve been whelped. The whelping pens are in another barn farther back, but we don’t take visitors there.”

The interior of the barn was a lot like the shed we’d seen at the first farm, and I tuned out while the girl explained the way the puppies were fed and cleaned. I kept looking around for Rochester or Brody. “I’m feeling a little nauseous,” I said to the girl. “I’m going out to get some fresh air. Sweetie, you stay here and learn everything, all right?”

Lili nodded, and she and the girl walked farther back into the barn. I stepped outside and scanned the grounds. For once in my life I was looking forward to seeing Van Dryver. I heard some voices in the distance but didn’t see anyone. I slipped around the side of the barn and headed toward the whelping building. Had Rochester run all this way? Could he be around somewhere?

An Amish man and a young boy came out of the whelping barn talking. I hid behind a big pine tree until they passed. Rochester must not have been in there, or they’d have seen him.

I couldn’t risk calling his name because I didn’t want to attract attention to myself. But how could I find him or Brody? I made a big circuit behind the buildings, alert for any stray Amish who would challenge my presence. I finally found myself approaching a big three-story farmhouse like the one at the farm we’d just visited.

I cautiously walked around the corner of the building. Then I saw Rochester on the ground, curled in front of a window. “Rochester!” I called. “What are you doing here?”

A woman stepped out onto the porch. She was in her forties, wearing the same outfit as the girls at the Adoption Center. “This is private property back here,” the woman said. “You need to go back.”

“Do you have a white golden retriever puppy here?” I asked. “About a year old, with a gold stripe down his back and gold tips on his ears?”

The woman turned her back on me abruptly and walked inside, the door slamming behind her. Rochester’s leash was still trailing behind him, and I grabbed hold of it and waited.

The farmer I’d seen coming out of the whelping barn appeared on the porch. “What do you want here?” he demanded.

“I want my friend’s golden retriever puppy,” I said. “He’s a year old, and his name is Brody.” I repeated the description I’d given his wife. “He was stolen this morning from the Distelfink Motel in Lancaster.”

“Don’t have any dog like that here,” the man said. “Now you need to git.”

Rochester barked and strained toward the porch.

“That’s not what my dog says,” I said. I let him go, and he hurried back over to the window where I’d first seen him. He put his paws up on the sill and barked again. From inside, I heard an answering bark.

“I told you to git,” the farmer said. He opened the door to the farmhouse and pulled out a shotgun, which he racked, the noise extra loud in the quiet air.

I ignored him.

“Is that Brody?” I called to Rochester, and he woofed and nodded his head.

I turned back to the farmer, who had raised his shotgun to his shoulder and had it aimed at me. “I have reason to believe that you have a stolen dog on your premises,” I said.

I’d stood my ground to tougher-looking men in prison, and I knew there was no chance the farmer was going to shoot me. I held up my cell phone.

“The police already have a report of Brody’s theft. Now, if that dog inside isn’t Brody, you just have to show him to me, and I’ll leave. But if you won’t, then I’m calling the cops.”

The farmer kept his gun trained on me. He had pushed his flat-brimmed straw hat back on his head so I could see his eyes. They were hard and angry. “I paid three hundred dollars for that dog!”

“Then turn over whoever sold him to you to the cops,” I said.

The dog inside the house kept barking. Then Van stepped from around the corner of the house. “And I’ve got a phone with a video camera, and I’m recording this whole encounter,” he said. “I’m a reporter for the Wall Street Journal, and I know you have a stolen dog inside your house.”

“You look like you’re running a good operation here,” I said to the farmer, lying through my teeth. “It would be a shame to have the cops shut you down. And you know that they will, if they catch you with a stolen dog on your premises.”

The door opened behind him and his wife stepped outside, with a white dog on a piece of rope. “Take your dog and git off our property,” she said.

She dropped the rope, and the dog rushed across to me—or maybe it was to Rochester, who ran back to me.

Even without his collar or tags, I recognized Brody by his distinctive markings, and the way he lunged at me and put his paws up on my waist. “Hello, Brody,” I said, ruffling behind his ears. “Your daddy will be glad to get you back.”

Brody tried to bite Rochester’s ear, and my dog barked sharply at him.

The farmer put his rifle down. “I’m gonna get that Amos Zook,” he said. “You can take the dog. You can send the cops if you want, but the deputy is my wife’s brother-in-law. He’ll believe me over a pair of city men even if you do have a fancy telephone.”

“All I want is my friend’s dog,” I said, though I’d registered the name Amos Zook in my brain. Rochester grabbed Brody’s rope leash in his mouth and took off, Brody romping along beside him. Van and I hurried after them before the farmer could change his mind. As we rounded the corner of the Adoption Center, I saw Lili standing by the car, and we all raced toward her.

I opened the back door, and Rochester jumped in. Brody hesitated, but Rochester barked, and I helped the puppy with a boost to his hindquarters. After I got in, I handed Lili my phone, which had Joey’s cell number in it.

She called him as I drove back out toward the street, with Van following in his rental. “We have your baby,” Lili said. “Safe and sound. We’re on our way back to the motel.”

I heard Joey whoop with joy through the phone’s speaker.

“Tell the cop to look for a guy named Amos Zook,” I called out to him.

After Lili hung up, I asked her to phone Van and see if he knew the way back to the motel. He did, and when we came to a lay-by, I pulled in and let him take the lead. While we drove, I told Lili about how he’d confronted the farmer with his camera, but I didn’t mention the farmer was holding a rifle. Aimed at me.

“Van was great,” I said. “I take back everything bad I ever said about him.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Lili said. “I’m sure this will be great material for Van’s article, or his book.”

It was late afternoon by the time we got back to the motel. As we pulled up in the parking lot, Joey burst out of the door to his and Mark’s room, and Brody went into paroxysms of barking. I got the back door opened just as Joey reached us, and Brody leapt into his daddy’s arms.

“How’s my Brody boy?” he said into the dog’s fur. “Daddy missed you so much.” He looked up at us. “I can’t thank you guys enough.”

“I told you Rochester would come through,” Mark said to him. He told us that he’d called the police and given them Amos Zook’s name. “They know who he is, and they’ve had their eye on him for a while.”

Van got out of his car and joined us. “I appreciate what you did,” I said, reaching out to shake his hand. “You were pretty awesome.”

“To get the best story a reporter has to be fearless,” he said, and I forgave him the bluster, though if he kept it up I might have to say something.

“Officer Stoltzfus said she might need us to come by the station tomorrow to see if we can identify Amos Zook as the man who had told us about that restaurant,” Mark said.

“I hope they give him the electric chair,” Joey said.

I thought the chances that the guy would serve any time at all were slim, but I didn’t say that. Instead I asked, “Did he still have your iPads?”

“Yup. Officer Stoltzfus says we can pick them up tomorrow,” Mark said. “And she told me that there’s a café a couple of miles away that lets dogs in. I say we all go get some dinner.” He turned to Van. “You’re welcome to join us, too.”

He begged off, something about meeting a source. Mark led the way to the restaurant, where we had a great, celebratory meal, sharing table scraps with both dogs.

The next morning, Mark and Joey identified Amos Zook, and the police said they were well on their way to putting a case together against him. Our friends got their electronics back, and we enjoyed the rest of the weekend, driving around to antique stores, alternating who stayed with the dogs and who got to shop. Lili found a quilt she liked, a white one with an applique pattern of flowers surrounding a square house—with a gold-colored dog lying by the front door.

I thought it was the perfect souvenir for a vacation that had taken a bad turn, but ended well. We caravanned back to Stewart’s Crossing Sunday afternoon. Mark, Joey, and Brody took the lead, and I followed, with Lili on the front seat and Rochester sticking his nose between us. It was just the way I liked to ride.

 

 

—The End—

ELEMENTARY, MY DEAR GERTIE

 

 

Lois Winston

Editor’s Note: This novella is the sequel to Lois Winston’s award-winning Talk Gertie To Me. Lois is a USA Today bestselling and award-winning author who writes mystery, romance, romantic suspense, chick lit, women’s fiction, children’s chapter books, and non-fiction under her own name and her Emma Carlyle pen name.

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Nori pushing a baby carriage. As I stared at the words stitched on the needlepoint pillow, my cheeks burned. Leave it to my mother to transform Christmas morning into an Embarrass-Nori-Fest. Since arriving back in Ten Commandments, Iowa, two days ago, I’d put up with non-stop innuendos, commentary, and sermons about my living-in-sin lifestyle and ticking biological clock. However, with the gift I’d just opened, Mom had gone too far. Way too far.

“Smile and say ‘thank you,’” advised Gertie, my childhood imaginary friend who’d come back to haunt me nearly two years ago.

“Haunt you? Hmmph! If it weren’t for me, you’d be pulling espresso shots at Starbucks or asking, ‘Do you want fries with that?’ Who’s responsible for you becoming the hottest talk-radio personality in all of New York?”

I glanced across the room to where Mac, my boss and significant other, sat wedged between my father and an overabundance of handmade throw pillows, Mom’s latest craft du mois on her cable TV show. Mac wore a patient expression on his face and a hand-knit red and green striped tie draped around his neck.

Ties were September’s craft du mois. Thanks to Connie Stedworth, America’s craft maven and my mother—not necessarily in that order—males all over America opened gifts of knit, crocheted, painted, appliquéd, cross stitched, hand-woven, or patchwork quilted ties this morning. Unless they were Jewish, in which case they’d received their handmade neckwear ten days ago on the first night of Hanukkah.

Gertie interrupted my necktie digression with a shrill question. “Sure Mackenzie Randolph hired you, but who’s responsible for you meeting him? If it weren’t for yours truly, you’d have walked right past him and kept on walking.”

Highly unlikely, given the only available seat in Bean Around the Block that day was the empty one across the table from Mac, but Gertie’s a credit hog.

“I take credit where credit’s due. You’d have a hard time surviving without me, Honora Stedworth. Besides, who came crying to whom for help? I was doing just fine, thank-you-very-much, enjoying my hard-earned and richly deserved retirement after dealing with your childhood and adolescence. Not an easy job by any stretch of the imagination, I might add.”

So what type of 401K plans are available to imaginary friends?

“Save the snarkiness for your listeners. It’s Christmas. Suck up your pride, and thank your mother. You’ve only got five days to go before you fly back to New York.”

I stole a peek at the anniversary clock fighting for space among a multitude of Christmas cards covering the mantle. Five days, three hours, and forty-seven minutes if our flight departed on time, but who’s counting?

“Earth to Nori. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed that everyone is staring at you, waiting for you to hold up the gift and say something?”

Pushy, isn’t she? I gritted my teeth, plastered a smile on my face, and said, “How sweet. Thank you, Mom.” But I kept the pillow firmly planted in the cardboard box on my lap. No need to expand the Embarrass-Nori-Fest into an Embarrass-Nori-and-Mac-Fest. So far, Mom had behaved herself in front of Mac, reserving her innuendos, commentary, and sermons to times when he was out of earshot. I hoped to maintain the status quo.

“The pastel colors will work for either a boy or a girl,” said Mom.

Not that there was even the hint of a boy or a girl bun in the oven. And none planned. I folded the red and green tissue paper back over the pillow and reached for the cardboard lid.

Mom jumped to her feet. “What are you doing, Nori? Hold it up. Show everyone.”

By everyone Mom meant the two other people in the living room—my father and Mac—but I’m sure Dad had already seen Mom’s less-than-subtle needlepoint missive. Her message was aimed directly at me and my partner-in-sin.

However, in Ten Commandments, Iowa, we were more like partners-in-absentia. Or maybe that should be partners-in-abstaintia. Mac and I had been sharing both an apartment and a bed in New York for more than a year and a half, but this was our first trip as a couple to visit my parents. We’d avoided a Christmas trek to the Midwest last year by booking a trip to Europe. I’d been dealing with the fallout ever since.

So here we were. And although my parents were aware of our living arrangement in New York, they chose to ignore it, refusing to set foot in our apartment whenever Mom’s burgeoning empire brought them east.

Share a room with Mac under their roof? Never going to happen. Not until we’d exchanged I do’s in front of my uncle, the Reverend Zechariah Stedworth. And my mother had no qualms about employing every available means of communication to hammer that fact into me—including needlepoint. Frankly, I was surprised not to see a billboard directed toward me as we pulled into town.

“For heaven’s sake!” Mom strode through a floor of discarded wrapping paper and ribbons, grabbed the box off my lap, and headed toward Mac. “I spent hours stitching this for you. The least you can do is share it with your...your—.” She frowned at Mac.

Dad cleared his throat. “Significant other, dear.”

Mom glared at Dad, then shot a hostile nod in Mac’s direction. Identical round, red spots surfaced on each of her cheeks. “If he’s so significant, why aren’t they married? Or at least engaged?” She dumped the box on Mac’s lap and marched toward the kitchen.

So much for maintaining the status quo.

“Connie,” called Dad, “come back.”

Mom muttered under her breath, “If I don’t get that bird in the oven...and then there’s the cranberry relish...and the yams...”

Dad shook his head at both Mac and me before he hauled himself off the sofa and followed Mom into the kitchen.

I sighed.

Mac sighed.

Then he took a look at the needlepoint pillow and sighed again, this time more forcefully before he read the embroidered phrase aloud. “First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Nori pushing a baby carriage.”

When God was passing out the subtle genes, my mother was probably off faux finishing something.

A sheepish grin spread across Mac’s face. “And you were worried I’d be bored in your little hometown?”

“Bored and embarrassed. So which is worse?”

He laughed. “I’m definitely not bored.” Then he motioned toward the front door. “Think we can duck out of here for a while?”

Since Mom’s crafting talents didn’t extend to chastity belts (yet,) she wasn’t satisfied with placing Mac and me in separate bedrooms at either end of the second floor. When we arrived, I was assigned my childhood bedroom, and Mac was relegated to a room at the Ten Commandments Inn, the only motel in town.

Mom couldn’t control what went on in New York, but she was determined a mile would separate me from temptation as long as Mac and I were on her turf. And given that the establishment was owned and operated by Mom’s second cousin Maude-Ann Krissendorf, I suspected an additional pair of eyes had been pressed into service to deter any possible hanky-panky.

“I’d better go make nice first,” I said.

“Good idea. Fill a thermos with coffee while you’re in there.”

“What for?”

“Knowing your mother, if we take the car, she’ll come after us with a shotgun. We’d better hoof it.”

I glanced out the window. Anyone who wished for a white Christmas had never lived in Iowa in December. An inch of fresh snow had accumulated since the plow had come down the street a few hours ago. More continued to fall, lightly but steadily. White windblown whorls danced in gusts down the empty street.

A perfect morning to curl up in bed, but the bed in question was a mile away, and Mac was right. Taking the car would set off Mom’s internal radar. My embarrassment over the needlepoint pillow would pale in comparison to having her barge in on us after she’d cajoled Maude-Ann out of a passkey. Or maybe she already had one stashed away for just such an emergency.

I headed for the kitchen while Mac grabbed our coats and boots. “We’re going for a walk,” I said, coming up behind Mom and pecking her cheek.

She stiffened at my touch, her hands freezing in mid-stuff of the turkey. Then her shoulders sagged, and the stiffness drained from her spine. She withdrew her hands from inside old Tom, gave them a quick rinse at the sink, then grabbed a dish towel. Finally, her hands still damp, she turned to face me and offered a weak smile as she tucked a few strands of my always unmanageable riot of strawberry blond curls behind my ear. “Nori, I only want what’s best for you, dear.”

“I know, Mom.” I saw no purpose in pointing out that at twenty-eight years of age, I should be the one to determine what was best for me. We’d had this particular argument too many times. “We’ll be back in plenty of time for me to help you with the side dishes.”

“Isn’t it too cold for a walk?” asked my father, pausing in his yam-peeling duties.

I glanced over at him as I filled the thermos from the coffee pot Mom always kept simmering with fresh brew. Did he suspect we’d tramp a mile through snow and slush for a quickie? Would he spill the beans?

I never knew how to read Dad lately. He’d always been the more conservative of the two, but several scandals involving members of his family, along with Mom’s foray into the world of celebrity, had changed him. When Dad was forced to confront the fact that not everyone marches to the tune of his particular drummer, he abdicated his role as mayor and moral arbiter of Ten Commandments, not to mention the world.

Still, I knew it was difficult for him to accept that his only daughter was no longer as pure as that white stuff falling from the heavens.

I crossed over to the kitchen table and kissed the top of his balding head. “We’ll bundle up.” He eyed me as if he saw right through me but went back to yam peeling without saying another word.

“Wear your boots,” said Mom. “And don’t forget a scarf and gloves.”

“Of course.” Pushing twenty-nine by the calendar, still nine in my mother’s eyes. Some things would never change.

I met Mac in the front hallway. He slipped the thermos into a backpack while I shrugged into my parka.

“Desperate, aren’t we?” asked Gertie as Mac and I crunched our way down the road, being careful to dodge black ice and mounds of frozen slush.

Desperate didn’t begin to describe the jumble of emotions inside me. I loved my parents, but I loved them a lot more when they were in Iowa and I was in New York. After two days in Ten Commandments, I had a lot of pent-up frustration to burn off. I figured I had two choices: sex or matricide. I opted for the more pleasurable and less sinful of the two.

~*~

Twenty minutes later, after scoping out the grounds to make certain Maude-Ann was nowhere in sight, Mac and I skulked half-frozen into his motel room. “I hate snow,” I said, yanking the scarf from around my neck and tossing it onto the dresser. “I hate Iowa!” I continued, removing my coat and dumping it on top of the scarf. “And I really hate manipulative mothers!”

“PMSing, are we?” asked Gertie. “Maybe you need some chocolate.”

I’m not PMSing, and I don’t need chocolate. Mom’s actions, not to mention her gift, were ample justification to unleash my inner Terrible Two self.

And speaking of that gift, I turned in time to see Mac removing the offensive needlepoint from his backpack. “Why did you bring that?” I grabbed the pillow and hurled it across the room, missing by less than a millimeter the peeling finish on the faux brass desk lamp with its scuffed faux leather shade. The pillow ricocheted off the wall and skittered under the bed.

“For her next trick, Nori will drop to the floor, pound her fists, and kick her feet, while simultaneously wailing at the top of her lungs.”

I just might. “How could my mother humiliate me like this?”

“Could be worse,” said Mac. “At least she didn’t wait until later this afternoon when you’ll have a house full of company.”

He had a point. There were many degrees of humiliation. Keeping mine within the immediate family was benign compared to the same scene playing out in front of dozens of cousins, aunts, and uncles.

“So that’s why you brought the pillow with you? To leave it here?”

His face lit up in one of his Dennis-the-Menace grins as he bent into a sweeping bow, and that one stubborn lock of chestnut hair that was notorious for not staying in place, fell across his right eye. “Your knight in shining armor to the rescue, m’lady.”

I curtsied. “Thank you, m’lord. Definitely one of your finer Sir Walter Raleigh moments. I will be forever in your debt.”

“I’m counting on it.” Mac dropped to his knees and sprawled across the god-awful orange shag carpet. I’d never had cause to enter one of the Inn’s rooms prior to this visit back to Ten Commandments. Apparently, Maude-Ann hadn’t upgraded the motel’s décor since she inherited the place from her parents back in the last century. With a grunt, Mac reached under the bed to retrieve the pillow. When he stood up, both the left arm of his sweater and the needlepoint were covered in gray dust bunnies.

Looked like sometime in the last century was also the last time anyone had bothered to run a vacuum under the bed. “So much for cleanliness being next to godliness,” I said. “I guess Maude-Ann missed that sermon.”

Mac swatted the dust off the pillow. “You’ve got to give her props, Nori.”

“Maude-Ann? For what?”

“Not Maude-Ann. Your mother. For chutzpah.” Mac isn’t Jewish, but like most native New Yorkers, certain ethnic words and phrases are a common part of his vocabulary. I lived in Manhattan all of a week before I learned that chutzpah means extreme nerve. Having lived his entire life within the five boroughs, Mac is practically fluent in Yiddish, Spanish, and Ebonics. After living in the city since graduating from college, I’m not that far behind him.

Mac held the pillow inches from his face and squinted in the dim light cast by the low-watt bulb of the only working lamp in the room, the same lamp I’d nearly killed with my off-target pitch. I’d been aiming for the trash can. In a sing-song voice he reread the message stitched within a border of pastel colored hearts. “First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Nori pushing a baby carriage.”

I groaned. “Sorry about that.” As much of a nightmare being back in Ten Commandments was for me, it had to be a gazillion times worse for Mac. “At least there’s normally over a thousand miles separating us. Imagine if Mom had decided to establish her business in New York.”

Nearly two years ago, my mother suffered a menopausal meltdown, left my father, and showed up, with suitcases and craft supplies in tow, at my Greenwich Village apartment door. Within hours, Connie Stedworth, the pickled beets and decoupage queen of Ten Commandments, Iowa, had charmed the ultra-sophisticated New York veneer off Hyman Perth, my upstairs neighbor. Quicker than a glissando bibbity-bobbity-boo, Perth, an entrepreneurial Svengali of sorts, transformed Mom into the next Martha Stewart.

In the course of a few hours, the assistance of the Bergdorf Goodman spa and personal shopper, and my purloined American Express card, the woman who used to sport an Eisenhower-era graying pageboy and wear dresses left over from the set of Little House on the Prairie, discovered John Barrett, Donna Karan, and Manolo Blahnik. Life hasn’t been the same since.

The former country bumpkin now heads a multi-million dollar enterprise that includes a line of home décor products, a monthly magazine, the aforementioned cable TV show, and her own army of groupies known as Connie’s Crafters. Luckily for me, she reconciled with Dad and moved back to Ten Commandments to establish her empire.

As busy as Mom is, she hasn’t given up on her quest for grandchildren. My future progeny are her Holy Grail, and as far as she’s concerned, I’d better get busy conceiving them because she’s already behind Leona Shakelmeyer seven to zip. Leona has been Mom’s arch enemy ever since high school, and she loves nothing more than flaunting her grandchildren in Mom’s face. That means Mac and I have to marry. Yesterday wouldn’t be too soon. Hence, the Christmas present from Hades.

“You can’t throw it out,” said Mac. “She’s going to expect to see it the next time she comes to New York.”

“How? She refuses to set foot in our apartment.”

“That could change.”

“Expect the Sahara to freeze over first.” I rubbed my palms up and down my arms. Even the heat of my anger couldn’t ward off the chill that permeated my body. I glanced around the room until I spied the thermostat. “Mind turning that a few degrees above sub-zero?”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have the key.”

“Maude-Ann locks the thermostat?” This I had to see for myself. I crossed the room. Sure enough, a locked mesh housing surrounded the thermostat which was set at fifty-eight degrees. “Unbelievable!”

Mac tossed the pillow onto the bed and opened his arms. “Come here. I’ll warm you.”

BOOM!

The next moment I was in his arms, but neither the frigid temperature nor my raging hormones had propelled me. And instead of being sprawled across a yucky gold paisley bedspread, we lay in a heap, covered in chunks of drywall, plaster dust, and what used to be a cheap pine dresser.

Mac shoved to his feet, pulling me with him. I heard the crackling sound of flames, felt the heat of fire, but the air was too thick with settling debris and dark, acrid smoke to see more than a strange orangey glow. We stumbled outside through a gaping hole where the front window had been just minutes before, broken glass crunching under our feet.

“Are you okay?” asked Mac once we’d put a parking lot’s distance between ourselves and what was quickly becoming the former site of the Ten Commandments Inn.

Even with the fire department right down the road, the old clapboard structure would be nothing but smoldering ashes before the volunteers made their way to the station. Luckily, Mac was Maude-Ann’s only occupant. Ten Commandments had never been a tourist mecca by any stretch of the imagination. Most people who came to town were relatives who stayed with family. The occasional outsider and those passing through on their way elsewhere usually opted for the Motel 6 ten miles down the road in Badger Bluffs. At the Ten Commandments Inn, the No was never lit on the vacancy sign.

I gulped in fresh air and coughed out a cloud of smoke. “I think so.”

Flames, fanned by the wind whipping across the snow-covered fields surrounding the Inn, quickly consumed the structure. A moment later, the roof above the room we’d run from collapsed inward. Bright orange embers shot skyward like Fourth of July rockets. I shuddered, not just from the frigid temperatures but from the realization that we could have been killed.

“I’m no fire expert,” said Mac, “but I don’t think this was an accident.” He pulled his phone from his pocket. “Can I just call 911?”

I took the phone from him and punched in the number for the fire house, but I could already hear sirens coming from down the street. Word travels fast in Ten Commandments; explosions travel even faster. This one had probably been heard clear across the county.

“Are you saying someone deliberately set the fire?”

“Unless it was a gas explosion, but I didn’t smell any gas.”

“Neither did I. But why would someone want to burn down the Ten Commandments Inn?”

Mac shrugged. “Maybe Maude-Ann is tired of taking care of the Bates Motel and wants the insurance money so she can retire to Florida.”

I thought about that for a moment. Then I remembered something. “No. Dad’s cousin Josiah has a construction company, and he’s been after Maude-Ann to sell to him for years. Maude-Ann has some strange attachment to this place. Even if she weren’t such a tightwad, I don’t think she’d change anything from when her parents owned the Inn. It would be like erasing their existence or desecrating their memory.”

“Nori, it’s a motel, not a shrine.”

“Not to Maude-Ann. This is…was the only thing she had left of her parents. According to my mother, Maude-Ann was a late-in-life, only child. Her parents doted on her, but she was barely out of her teens when they died. She never married. This motel is her life.” Not that it was much of a life. How could Maude-Ann make a profit on a motel that stood ninety percent empty most of the year?

A moment later the first of the fire trucks pulled into the parking lot. The idea of arson seemed absurd to me. There had to be a logical explanation for the explosion and subsequent fire. Besides, I had a more personal problem about to transpire. I groaned at the realization. “This place is about to be overrun with townspeople, most of whom are my relatives.”

“Tongues will be a-wagging,” said Gertie.

Tell me something I don’t know.

“Want to make a run for it?” asked Mac.

“A tempting idea. Think anyone would believe we were just out for a Christmas morning stroll?”

“Soot covered and coatless? Even the good citizens of Ten Commandments aren’t that naïve, but that’s the least of our problems,” he said.

“The least?”

“Absolutely. How are you going to explain the missing needlepoint pillow to your mother?”

“This should be good,” said Gertie.

Only if you’re a Torquemada groupie. The pillow was toast. I groaned again, this time loud enough to be heard all the way to Badger Bluffs.

~*~

The best part of growing up in a small town is that everyone knows everyone else. This comes in handy during times of crisis and disasters. The worst part of growing up in a small town is that everyone knows everyone else’s business, whether you want them to or not. Within minutes the parking lot was jammed with half the residents of Ten Commandments. Some came to help; others came to gawk.

A swarm of town busybodies encircled Mac and me. Someone tossed warm but itchy woolen blankets across our shoulders, even though the heat from the fire kept us plenty warm. Someone else thrust steaming cups of coffee into our hands.

Then the inquisition began—rapid-fire questions, most having little to do with the fire and everything to do with innate nosiness. The Prodigal Daughter of Ten Commandments had returned to the fold, a man by her side, and the two of them were standing coatless outside a burning motel.

“What are you doing at the Inn, Nori?”

“Who’s this man with you, Nori?”

“Did you start the fire, Nori? Did he?”

“What happened to your coats?”

I huddled next to Mac, sipped the coffee, and ignored all the questions flying at me. You’d think the ballsy biddies of Ten Commandments would have better things to do Christmas morning than play paparazzi.

“Apparently not,” said Gertie. “And if you don’t speak to them, they’ll just let their imaginations go to work.”

Do I care? Let the rumors fly.

I stood on tiptoe and craned my neck to scan the ever-growing crowd. “If Mom and Dad aren’t here yet,” I whispered to Mac, “they will be soon. Someone is bound to call them. Life will be a lot simpler if we slip into the house while they’re on their way here.”

“Until we have to explain what happened to our coats,” said Mac. “And the needlepoint pillow.”

“One crisis at a time, please.”

I was about to suggest we inch our way to the back of the crowd, then cut a mad dash through Ralph Shakelmeyer’s field (even though the snow was probably knee high and we risked frostbite,) when one of the firemen yelled, “There’s a body in here!”

Chapter 2

 

A collective gasp sprang from the mouths of my inquisitors. They eyed Mac as if they were memorizing his every feature in case they had to pick him out of a lineup at some later date. We don’t get many strangers in Ten Commandments, so it stood to reason whatever had happened, he was the most likely suspect, even though Ten Commandments, contrary to its name, was a veritable Peyton Place of scandal, much of which involved my god-fearing relatives.

The next thing I knew Uncle Jonah Stedworth had pushed his way through the biddy throng and ushered Mac and me inside his police chief’s cruiser.

“We didn’t do anything,” I told him.

He eyed us skeptically, focusing on the blankets wrapped around our bodies. “Right,” he muttered, but he didn’t make eye contact, and he didn’t dare pass judgment. How could he, given his own recent fall from grace? Nearly two years ago Dad had walked in on Uncle Jonah diddling Aunt Florrie. FYI, Aunt Florrie is married to Dad’s other brother, the Reverend Zechariah Stedworth. And that’s only one of the many scandals to hit Ten Commandments in the years since I left home.

“Stay here,” said Uncle Jonah.

Once we were settled into the back seat, he jacked up the heat before leaving. “Maybe he just wanted to get us away from the gossipmongers,” said Mac.

“If you believe that, there’s this bridge in Brooklyn…”

I ignored Gertie, my attention riveted on the body bag being carried out of what was left of the room next to the one Mac had occupied. “I thought Maude-Ann said you were her only guest.”

“She did,” said Mac.

“Then who’s in the body bag?”

~*~

As it turned out, Uncle Jonah was less interested in gossips and more interested in taking statements from Mac and me. Once it became clear there were no other victims and no possibility of saving the Inn, he put a deputy in charge of the scene and drove us to the police station. On the way we passed Dad’s dark green Chevy Tahoe heading toward the Inn.

“I don’t even want to think about the earful they’re going to get from the gossip brigade,” I whispered to Mac.

Instead of an interrogation room, we were ushered into Uncle Jonah’s office. “Sit,” he said, indicating two battered wooden chairs across from his equally battered desk. He closed his office door, shrugged out of his parka and tossed it and his hat onto pegs attached to the back of the door. As he lowered himself into his chair, he expelled a deep sigh of weariness that shuddered through his entire body. “Okay, Nori. What the heck happened back there?”

“How should I know? One minute Mac and I are standing in his room talking; the next minute the Inn is exploding around us.”

“You didn’t see or hear anything unusual?”

“Nothing.”

Uncle Jonah turned to Mac. “What about you, son?”

Mac shook his head. “Like Nori said, nothing. No sounds of other people. No smell of gas or smoke that might have warned us something was wrong. Everything was quite normal until it wasn’t. After the explosion, the room immediately filled with this dense, gritty black smoke. We managed to escape only because the window blew out. I grabbed Nori and headed in the direction of the cold air.”

“Maude-Ann said Mac was the only guest,” I added. “Who died?”

“I won’t know that until Phineas takes a closer look at the body,” said Uncle Jonah. “It sure as heck wasn’t a pretty sight. Totally beyond recognition. I’ve got one of my deputies trying to track down Maude-Ann to see who was staying in that room. Could be the person checked in late last night or early this morning.”

Phineas was Phineas Draymore, the county coroner. He was also the owner of the Draymore Funeral Home and the husband of Mom’s best friend Marjorie. How he was supposed to identify a stranger was beyond me. The county coroner was an elected position. Phineas’s expertise was more in formaldehyde than forensics.

“There were no cars in the parking lot,” I said. “And we didn’t hear anyone next door.” Given the motel’s cheap construction, chances were good Mac would have heard something last night, even if it was only a toilet flushing or the squeak of bedsprings.

“Doesn’t mean no one was there,” said Uncle Jonah. “Could be a couple and one of them left to run an errand before you showed up. The other one might’ve still been asleep.”

His speculation made no sense to me. “What kind of errand would a stranger be running on Christmas morning in Ten Commandments? It’s not like anything is open around here today.”

“There could be any number of possibilities,” said Uncle Jonah. “How ’bout you leave the police work to the pros, Nori?”

I half expected the old chauvinist to walk over and pat me on the head the way he used to when I was a kid.

“Welcome back to Ten Commandments,” said Gertie. “To him, you are still a kid.”

Too true. When I’m pushing fifty, my relatives will still be calling me Little Nori Stedworth.

I bit back the caustic retort perched on the tip of my tongue. After all, it was Christmas. “Of course, Uncle Jonah, but since you have the aftermath of this fire and the death of an unidentified stranger on your hands—”

“Murder,” said Phineas Draymore as he rushed into the room. He tossed a Ziploc bag on top of the papers scattered across Uncle Jonah’s desk. Mac, Uncle Jonah, and I leaned over and stared at the single blood-stained bullet inside the sandwich bag. “Someone shot Maude-Ann Krissendorf right through the heart. I’m guessing the killer probably started the fire to cover up the murder.”

Chapter 3

 

“Maude-Ann? Murdered?” Uncle Jonah picked up the evidence bag and stared at the bullet. “I suppose you don’t need much skill as a coroner when you find a bullet lodged in someone’s chest, Phineas. But how the heck do you know it’s Maude-Ann? The body was pretty much toast.”

Phineas cleared his throat and nodded toward where Mac and I still sat. “Show a little respect for the deceased, Jonah. Nori here was related to Maude-Ann.”

Uncle Jonah pulled his attention from the bullet and looked at Mac and me as if he’d forgotten we were sitting right across from him. He indicated the open door with a wave of his pudgy hand. “You two can go.”

I wasn’t going anywhere. If there was a killer loose in Ten Commandments, I wanted as much information as possible, and that included how Phineas Draymore knew the dead woman was Maude-Ann. “How can you be sure it’s Maude-Ann?” I asked him.

Phineas ignored me, instead directing his answer to Uncle Jonah. “You know any other woman in these parts who’s got an extra pinkie finger on her left hand?”

“Well, no,” said Uncle Jonah, “but that’s hardly conclusive evidence.”

“I’ve got conclusive evidence, Jonah. As soon as I noticed the extra finger, I called Doc Petterschmidt and had him walk over Maude-Ann’s dental records. They’re a match. Right down to her last filling. And one other thing,” continued Phineas. “Based on the postmortem lividity of the corpse, Maude-Ann wasn’t killed where your boys found her. She was moved at some point after she was shot.”

Hmm . . . apparently Phineas knew something about forensics, after all.

“Any idea when she was killed?” asked Uncle Jonah.

“Hard to tell,” said Phineas, “given that lividity can set in anywhere from around twenty minutes or so to a few hours, and we’ve got the fire messing with the postmortem.”

“Why would anyone want to kill Maude-Ann?” I asked.

Phineas shot a sideways glance at Uncle Jonah. Uncle Jonah screwed up his mouth and shook his head. “This here’s an official murder investigation now. All information’s on a need-to-know basis.” He pointed at the open office door. “And you two don’t qualify as needing to know.”

“So I guess this means we’re dismissed?” That came out a bit snarkier than I intended, but I really didn’t care. Something was up with Uncle Jonah and Phineas. They knew something. Something that had to do with Maude-Ann. And maybe her murder.

“For now. But don’t leave town.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Honora. Right now you two are the only leads I have. Consider yourselves material witnesses until you hear otherwise.”

“We didn’t witness anything!”

“Don’t make me get a court order,” said Uncle Jonah. “And tell your mother I’m probably going to be late for dinner.”

I didn’t bother acknowledging him. Mac and I gathered our scratchy blankets around our shoulders and stood to leave. However, before we made it to the doorway, Mom rushed in, Dad close enough behind her that when she stopped short to keep from barreling into me, he barreled into her.

“Tell her yourself,” I said over my shoulder.

“Tell me what?” Mom first scrutinized me in all my coatless, disheveled, smoke and soot-covered glory, then turned her wrath on Uncle Jonah. “Jonah Stedworth, you’re not arresting your niece, are you?” Then without taking a breath or waiting for an answer, she turned her attention to Mac and me. “And just what were the two of you doing in that motel room?”

“Not what you’re insinuating,” I said. “And by the way, Mom, we’re fine, thanks to Mac who saved our lives.”

That was when my mother lost it. Right there in Uncle Jonah’s office, the adrenaline that must have propelled her from the moment she learned we were in the motel at the time of the fire, gave way to the fear it had masked. A torrent of diluvian proportion sprang from her eyes as she grabbed me in her arms and blubbered huge sobs of relief. I’m sure she never would have forgiven herself, had something happened to me, thanks to her antiquated attitudes. Lucky for both of us, we’d never find out.

~*~

An hour later, we were back at the house, cleaned up, and helping Mom get ready for the company she expected. Poor Mac had lost all his clothes in the fire, except those he’d been wearing, and was forced to borrow clothes from Dad. At least he and Dad were only a few inches apart in height, so the borrowed pants weren’t too short. But weight-wise? Let’s just say Mac would have plenty of room for expansion when we sat down for Christmas dinner.

Fashion-wise? I didn’t care how dorky Mac looked in Dad’s less-than-designer duds. Dorky and alive trumped cool-looking and dead any day.

However, I was still steaming over Uncle Jonah’s demand that Mac and I remain in Ten Commandments until he said otherwise. “He could keep us here until he solves this murder,” I whispered as Mac helped me place the leaves in Mom’s dining room table.

She and Dad were in the kitchen, and I didn’t want them knowing that Uncle Jonah had threatened us with a court order. Knowing Mom, she’d offer to run down to the county courthouse for him if it meant keeping me from going back to New York. “He’s just the sort to do it, too. I don’t think he’s forgiven Dad for walking in on him and Aunt Florrie. And he probably blames Dad for blabbing all over town about it, but my father would never do anything of the sort.”

“So because your uncle cheated on his wife and your father caught him at it, we have to suffer? That kind of reasoning defies logic.”

I set the final leaf in place. “I know,” I said with a whoosh as I pushed the table from one end and he pushed from the other. “But what can we do? Solve the murder ourselves?”

Mac placed and locked the table pads while I hunted through the sideboard for Mom’s Christmas linens. “If we’re stuck here for the duration,” he said, “we may as well do whatever we can to speed things up. How confident are you that your uncle can handle a murder investigation?”

“Let’s put it this way,” I said, pulling out the poinsettia decorated damask I’d been searching for, “I don’t think my uncle is capable of investigating anything more than a lost dog, but he’s got way too much pride to ask for help.”

Mac grabbed one end of the tablecloth and together we settled it evenly onto the table. “That’s what I was afraid of. So which one of us is Watson and which one is Holmes?”

“I did play the violin for a few years.”

“Really? And here I thought I knew everything there was to know about you.”

“Hey, a girl has to have some secrets to keep the romance fresh.”

“So, were you in the high school orchestra?”

“Elementary school, my dear Watson.”

~*~

Since my relatives had never learned the fine art of minding their own business, I had prepped Mac ahead of time for a typical Ten Commandments Christmas Inquisition. “Expect a nonstop barrage of questions from my aunts and female cousins.”

“About?”

“What do you think? About why we’re not married yet and what are we waiting for?”

Mac lowered his head and kissed the tip of my nose. “Hey, you think I can’t handle a few gossipy middle-aged Iowa housewives and their equally gossipy daughters?”

“All as rabid as my mother? These women live for weddings and babies, neither of which I’ve produced so far. I’m giving the sisterhood a bad name.”

Today was no typical Christmas, though. Maude Ann’s murder had knocked the return of the Prodigal Daughter out of contention as Topic Number One on the gossip hit parade.

“Leave it to Maude-Ann to get herself murdered on Christmas,” said my less-than-charitable Aunt Florrie. She scowled at the empty chair and place setting Mom had insisted upon in honor of a woman who would never again enjoy a Christmas dinner with us. Or anyone else, for that matter. “She always was an odd bird.”

“People who live in glass parsonages...” I muttered from behind my napkin, loud enough that my mother shot me one of her looks. I shot one right back at her. Adulterous reverend’s wives have no business bad-mouthing anyone, least of all poor dead Maude-Ann, even if she was one of the tightest tightwads in all of Iowa. I still couldn’t get over how she kept the room thermostats locked.

“First murder ever in Ten Commandments,” said Uncle Zechariah. “This town is going to heck in a hand basket.” He directed that last comment across the table at Uncle Jonah. I guess the good Reverend hadn’t yet found total forgiveness in his heart with regard to his wife and brother.

“I don’t care how odd she was,” Mom said. “Maude-Ann certainly didn’t deserve to die the way she did. And whoever killed her nearly killed Nori.”

“And Mac,” I added.

“Just what were the two of you doing over there this morning?” asked Aunt Florrie.

I offered her a saccharine smile. “Nothing you haven’t done.”

“Nori!” Mom’s face flushed the color of her prize-winning pickled beets. “The children!”

She referred to my cousins’ kids, a half dozen pre-pubescent rug rats sitting at a separate table in the living room and totally oblivious to the nearby adults. “Not paying any attention to us, Mom.”

No one knows how everyone found out about Aunt Florrie and Uncle Jonah. Dad swears he told no one, and I believe him. Dad’s not the gossipmonger type, and I don’t believe he’s ever told a lie in his entire life. Besides, he would have been too embarrassed by the X-rated scene he stumbled upon that day. Just one more Ten Commandments mystery that may never be solved. But Maude-Ann’s murder had pushed Ten Commandment’s most recent scandal from everyone’s mind.

“Until you just reminded them,” said Gertie.

Florrie deserved it. And to think she used to be one of my favorite relatives. Every Christmas we’d bake gingerbread boys and girls together, and she’d let me decorate them with way too many M&M’s. Now I can’t even look at a gingerbread man, let alone an M&M, without conjuring up an image of her and Uncle Jonah, their naked, flabby, fat butts ...well, you get the picture.

“Ewww!”

You’ve got that right, I told Gertie. No matter how liberated and liberal-minded I am, there are some things that definitely fall into the TMI category. At the top of the list is any of my relatives having sex, especially adulterous sex. Still, the image had branded itself in my brain, and I’d only heard about it. Can you imagine my poor father?

The man in question turned the topic of conversation back to Maude-Ann’s murder. “Any suspects?” he asked his brother.

“You know I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation,” said Uncle Jonah.

“You’re investigating?” Aunt Pauline turned to her husband and in a voice that left no question she, too, hadn’t yet forgiven him for cheating on her, said, “The closest you’ve ever come to investigating a murder was that time LeRoy drove his pickup through the Shakelmeyer’s pig pen and killed Ralph’s Blue Ribbon hog.”

“I did graduate from the police academy,” said Uncle Jonah.

“Thirty years ago,” countered Aunt Pauline. “You should call in the Department of Criminal Investigations before you botch this up, too.”

“Definitely hasn’t forgiven him,” said Gertie.

Not that there was any doubt. If Aunt Pauline and Uncle Jonah were seated any farther from each other, they’d be in separate counties. Rumor had it, Uncle Jonah now slept in the storm cellar. Rumor also had it that Aunt Florrie wasn’t Uncle Jonah’s first and only dalliance, nor was he hers. Did I mention Ten Commandments didn’t exactly live up to its holy name?

“Your cousin Josiah’s the only one with a motive,” my cousin Gideon said to Dad. “Everyone knows he’s been after Maude-Ann to buy her out for years.”

“That makes no sense,” said Mac, who had remained silent up to this point. “How would he benefit from her death?”

All of my relatives turned to stare at him. “What do you mean?” asked Gideon.

“Unless Maude-Ann left the motel to Josiah in her will, how would killing her get him the property?”

“Why would Maude-Ann leave so much as a nickel to Josiah?” said Aunt Pauline. “They weren’t even related.”

“Exactly the point,” said Mac.

“Maybe he thought he’d have better luck with whoever inherits the place,” said Gideon’s wife Jeanie.

“Who’s that?” asked Uncle Zechariah.

Mom cleared her throat. “I’m Maude-Ann’s only living relative.”

“And where were you this morning?” asked Aunt Florrie.

Mom jumped up so quickly, her chair pitched backwards and rammed into the sideboard. “You of all people, Florrie Stedworth, should think before hurling accusations.”

I’d never seen my mother so angry. I’m not sure Dad had, either. He righted her chair and placed his hand on her arm to ease her back into her seat. “Connie—”

“Don’t Connie me, Earnest! Who does that holier-than-thou slut think she is insulting me in my own home?” And then my mother did something so un-Connie-like that generations from now people living in Ten Commandments will still be talking about it. She grabbed Aunt Florrie’s plate off the table and pointed to the front door. “Leave. Immediately. You are no longer welcome in my home, Florrie Stedworth.”

A collective gasp rose from around the dining room table, followed by total silence. Even the kids stopped chattering and turned to see what was going on at the grown-up table where the grown-ups were acting far from grown-up.

I stole a glance at Mac and saw that he was fighting to keep from laughing his head off. “Anything but boring,” he mouthed.

“Welcome to Ten Commandments,” I said.

Chapter 4

 

Mom was still seething an hour after all the other guests had gone home, and she was taking her temper out on various inanimate objects as Dad, Mac, and I helped her clean up. I did notice, though, that she reined in her anger while washing her grandmother’s china and crystal, only grumbling and muttering under her breath. She saved her outbursts for the unbreakable cookware that littered the kitchen table and counters.

“How dare she insinuate that I had something to do with Maude-Ann’s death?” Mom asked no one in particular. “I was the only person in this town who cared about that poor woman! Didn’t I give her a job? She was the first person I hired to help with the show. I made her my assistant because I knew she was barely getting by with what she made from that flea trap. And what would be my motive?”

“Which brings us back to Dad’s cousin Josiah,” I said. “You’d be happy to sell the place to him, wouldn’t you?”

Mom thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I suppose. It’s not like I have any desire to run a motel.”

“Josiah may have a perfectly legitimate alibi,” said Dad. “Jonah doesn’t even know when Maude-Ann died, and if he doesn’t call in the state, like he’s supposed to, he may never know. As soon as this case went from a fire investigation to a murder, he should have placed a call to the Department of Criminal Investigations. Besides, I wouldn’t put too much stock in Phineas Draymore’s ability to pinpoint time of death.” He turned to Mac. “When was the last time you saw Maude-Ann?”

“I didn’t. Not after I checked in.”

“Which means Maude-Ann could have been killed up to two days ago,” I said.

“We would have noticed the stench of rotting corpse,” said Mac.

“Would we? Maude-Ann kept the thermostat in your room locked at fifty-eight degrees. She probably kept the heat off entirely in unoccupied rooms.”

“The pipes would freeze,” said Dad.

“If she kept the thermostat around thirty-five degrees, the pipes wouldn’t freeze, and the body would stay refrigerated,” said Mom, “slowing decomposition.”

We all stared at her. “When did you become a forensics expert?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Law & Order reruns. I used to watch them when your father was mayor and never home in the evenings.”

Ouch! I hope this conversation wasn’t veering into that territory. Murder was a much safer topic.

“I thought that’s when you worked on your crafts projects,” Dad said.

“Ever hear of multitasking, Earnest?”

Once upon a time my mother was the quintessential Nick at Night housewife—June Cleaver, Harriet Nelson, and Donna Reed all wrapped up into one Connie Stedworth. Over the past couple of years Mom hit menopause, discovered her inner entrepreneur, and become the poster child for women’s lib. But because she entered the movement forty years too late, she’s making up for it with a vengeance, breathing down Martha Stewart’s neck as her ratings soar and her ever-increasing product line outsells Martha’s. Needless to say, life in the Stedworth domicile has been very different ever since Mom’s first trip to New York.

“There is no way Joe would kill anyone,” said Dad, moving the subject back to the original topic. “Besides, given the economic slowdown and how construction is at a standstill, I doubt he’s even still interested in Maude-Ann’s property.”

“True,” said Mom. “Maude-Ann hadn’t mentioned him in months, and she used to complain to me every time he tried to buy her out.”

“Who else would want her dead?” I asked.

“Beats me,” said Mom. “Maude-Ann pretty much kept to herself.”

“What about a disgruntled employee?” asked Mac.

Mom shook her head. “No staff. She had such little business that she cleaned the rooms herself.”

That explained the decades of dust bunnies under the bed.

“Maybe the killer is someone who stayed at the inn and got pissed because he couldn’t turn up the thermostat,” I said. “Or maybe he gave Maude-Ann a bogus credit card, and when she confronted him, he shot her.”

“If the killer was someone just passing through, we’ll probably never learn the truth,” said Dad.

But something about that look exchanged between Uncle Jonah and Phineas Draymore had me thinking Maude-Ann’s murderer was no stranger to Ten Commandments. Besides, the sooner Mac and I figured out who the killer was, the sooner we’d be on a plane headed back to the safety and sanity of Manhattan.

“Let the sleuthing begin,” said Gertie.

~*~

The next day Mac and I bundled up and headed back to the scene of the crime. Little was left of the Ten Commandments Inn. However, since the explosion and subsequent fire occurred in a room at the far end of the long, one-story structure, the fire fighters had managed to douse the flames before they totally consumed the opposite end of the building. The lobby and Maude-Ann’s living quarters, situated directly behind the lobby, remained relatively unscathed except for being slightly singed, waterlogged, and sooty, not to mention partially blanketed with several inches of snow blown in through the broken windows.

“I’m willing to bet no one searched Maude-Ann’s apartment,” I said. “Maybe we’ll find some clues inside.”

Mac grabbed my arm as I started to step through the glass-less plate glass window. “This is a crime scene. If we’re caught, your uncle could toss us in jail.”

“So we don’t get caught. Besides, the crime scene is over there.” I waved my mittened hand toward the other end of the parking lot. “This area isn’t cordoned off.”

Either Uncle Jonah had A) run out of yellow crime scene tape, B) gotten lazy and didn’t bother to wrap the entire structure, or C) the tape around the lobby and apartment had fallen victim to last night’s blizzard-strength winds and was now whipping around somewhere over Indiana. Knowing my uncle, my money was on B.

I bolstered my argument by adding, “We’re only breaking the law if we cross over crime scene tape. No tape, no lawbreaking.”

Mac gave me one of those I-wasn’t-born-yesterday looks. “I didn’t know you had a degree in criminal law.”

I countered with a not-so-innocent grin. “Mom isn’t the only Stedworth who watches Law & Order reruns.” Or at least I did in my pre-Mac days. Now I’m usually engaged in another form of entertainment most evenings.

We made our way around the lobby counter to an open doorway that led into Maude-Ann’s living quarters. “What a mess!” I said, as I scanned a room that had evidently served as a combination living room, dining room, and kitchen. “The wind didn’t do this.” The place had been ransacked—drawers upended, cabinets and shelves emptied, cushions slashed, breakables smashed.

“Someone was definitely looking for something,” said Mac.

“You think?” asked Gertie.

I ignored her snark and concentrated on the mess. “This makes no sense. What could Maude-Ann possibly have that someone would kill for? According to my mother, she lived only inches above the poverty line.”

“Maybe the killer didn’t know that,” said Mac. “Or maybe what Maude-Ann had wasn’t worth anything except to the killer.”

I thought about that for a moment, not sure where Mac was going with it. Then it hit me. “You mean like something she was using to blackmail someone?”

He shrugged. “Possibly.”

“I hardly think Maude-Ann was the blackmailing type. Then again, there was that odd exchange I caught between my uncle and Phineas. What was up with that?”

“Who knows?” said Mac. “Blackmail does seem a bit odd, though, from what you’ve told me about Maude-Ann. More likely, she owned something that she didn’t realize was valuable.”

“That makes more sense. But what?”

“The family jewels?”

I shook my head as I sidestepped a toppled china hutch on my way to the bedroom. “I don’t think there were any, but we should ask my mother. She’d know.” Then I thought of something else, and it sent a shiver up my spine. “Whatever the killer was looking for, we have no idea whether or not he found it.”

“And if not, he’s probably still lurking around Ten Commandments,” added Mac.

If that were the case, he’d be easy to spot. Strangers stick out in Ten Commandments like a Size Zero at a Weight Watchers meeting. The more troubling scenario was that the killer wasn’t a stranger but a member of the community. Someone everyone knew and trusted. And if that were the case, it was imperative that we find him before we returned to New York. I wasn’t about to leave my parents to the mercy of some local gone bad.

I stood in the middle of Maude-Ann’s bedroom, surveying another mess. The killer had ransacked this room as thoroughly as the living room, leaving no nook or cranny unsearched, no bric-a-brac unsmashed. He’d even rifled through a box of tissues, scattering the now soggy wads of tissue across the floor. “Our first clue,” I said, pointing to the empty box. “Whatever he was looking for, it’s small enough to fit inside a tissue box.”

“Unless he was just ticked at not finding what he was looking for and decided to trash the place for spite,” said Mac.

“So much for my ah-ha moment.” I sighed in frustration. “What would Nancy Drew do?”

“Beats me,” said Mac. “No adolescent boy would ever be caught dead reading Nancy Drew.”

I decided to ignore his sexist comment. I learned a long time ago you have to cut guys some slack, given their Y chromosome handicap. You can’t blame someone for a defect they’re born with. “Fine. What would Encyclopedia Brown do?”

Mac shrugged. “Sorry. Never read any.”

“Hardy Boys?”

“Nope.”

“What did you read as a kid?”

Mac thought for a minute. “Mostly books about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. And Tolkien. I devoured Tolkien.”

“So what would Frodo do?”

“Kick your behinds the heck out of here and right into lockup.”

Mac and I spun around to find Uncle Jonah standing in the doorway, the nastiest of scowls planted across his face.

Chapter 5

 

“You’re in deep caca now,” said Gertie, always the master of understatement.

“What are you two doing messing around my crime scene?”

“Looking for clues to Maude-Ann’s murder,” I said.

“And I told you to keep your nose out of this investigation, Honora. What’s gotten into you? You used to listen to and respect your elders.”

“That was back when I believed they were worthy of respect.”

“Ouch!” Gertie winced. So did Mac. Okay, maybe that was going a tad too far. Honesty isn’t always the best policy, especially when that honesty is directed toward a man with a gun. Even if he is your uncle.

“Your father had no business blabbing about that. All he did was cause everyone a lot of hurt and trouble.”

“You know Dad better than that, Uncle Jonah. He didn’t spill the beans about you and Aunt Florrie. Besides, you’ve got no right deflecting blame for your actions onto him or anyone else.”

Uncle Jonah threw his hands up in the air, sank down on Maude-Ann’s slashed mattress, and released a huge sigh. “You get to be my age, Nori, and haven’t made a few mistakes, then you can throw stones.”

“I’d rather spend time figuring out who killed Maude-Ann. You said we can’t leave town until you find the killer. We can’t hang around here waiting for you to figure things out, Uncle Jonah. We have jobs back in New York. And no offense, but when was the last time you investigated anything more serious than some stolen hubcaps or graffiti sprayed on the cannon in the town square?”

Uncle Jonah sprang to his feet, his already ruddy cheeks reddening several shades toward purple at the aspersion cast upon his record. “I’m a trained officer of the law, young lady. You want me to call in the state? They’ll come down a whole lot harder on you, especially when they learn you’ve been tampering with evidence.”

“We didn’t touch anything!”

“Just being here compromises the investigation. Anyone finds out you were snooping around, the case gets tossed out of court by some sleazebag defense lawyer.”

I hadn’t thought of that. I should have. Like I told Mac, Mom isn’t the only Stedworth who watched Law & Order reruns. I mumbled an apology.

“Now go home,” he said, then turned to Mac. “Son, you’ll be doing all of us a huge favor if you make her stay put.”

“How dare—”

Mac grabbed my arm. “Don’t,” he warned. He nodded to Uncle Jonah. “You don’t have to worry, sir.”

~*~

“How could you?” I demanded after Mac and I were back in the parking lot. “That philandering chauvinist pig had no right—”

Mac pulled me into his arms and shut me up with a kiss. “No fair,” I groused after he pulled away.

“Choose your battles, Nori. You were pushing his buttons. If you kept it up, I really think he might have tossed you into the slammer just to show you who wields the real power around here.”

I huffed out an icy cloud of exasperation. “You’re right, of course. He just made me so mad.”

“And he was right about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“We don’t want to be the reason a murder conviction gets tossed.”

I kicked at a chunk of frozen snow. “I know, but this is so frustrating. We could be stuck here for weeks. Months, even! We’ll lose our jobs! Our apartment!”

“Believe me, I’m not happy about that, either. We still have four days before our flight. Maybe something will turn up. For now, let’s find out more about Maude-Ann from your mother.”

~*~

When Mac and I returned to my parents’ house, the four of us gathered around the kitchen table. Mom was torn up with guilt over Maude-Ann’s death. She’d always thought of Maude-Ann as a slightly backward little sister who needed protection. Especially after Maude-Ann lost her parents years ago. For that reason, she was more than happy to discuss her deceased cousin with us.

“At least I won’t feel like I failed her if I can help find her killer,” she said. “Maybe if we all brainstorm, we’ll come up with some answers. Lord knows, that sorry excuse for a sheriff won’t make much progress toward solving the case.”

Dad didn’t seem at all upset about the disparaging remark directed toward his brother. Once upon a time, not too long ago, he would have defended Uncle Jonah from now until the Guernseys and Herefords came home. That was back when he admired and respected his brother. Before he’d caught him with his pants down—literally. Or maybe they were completely off. The particulars of that event definitely fell into the TMI category for me. I wasn’t asking, and I didn’t want anyone telling. As for now, I swear I heard him mutter something under his breath about how you could choose your friends, but you couldn’t choose your blood relatives.

“Why don’t we start by making a list of everyone who had dealings with Maude-Ann,” offered Mac. “Then we go down the list, eliminating the people with an alibi for the two days prior to Christmas morning. Those without alibis, we speculate on possible motives.”

It was as good a plan as any. I grabbed a pencil and pad from Mom’s catch-all drawer, settled back into my chair, and drew a vertical line down the center of the top page. One column I labeled SUSPECTS and the other MOTIVE. Josiah Stedworth came in as Suspect Number One, his motive, that he coveted Maude-Ann’s property.

“Forget it,” said Dad. “I called Joe last night after everyone went home. He and Ellie took the kids to Florida to spend Christmas with her parents. They left the day before you and Mac arrived. Not that I ever suspected him, mind you, but Maude-Ann was still alive the day after Joe left the state.”

I ran a line through Suspect Number One. “Who else?” The room grew silent. I tapped the pencil eraser on the pad as the kitchen clock ticked away the seconds.

“The poor woman was shot through the heart,” said Mac finally. “Someone must have had a beef with her.”

Mom shook her head. “Maude-Ann was practically invisible. She pretty much kept to herself when she wasn’t helping me.”

“What about someone connected with your show?” I asked. “Was anyone ticked off at her for some reason?”

Mom leaned back in her chair and gazed upward. Her features tightened in thought, as if she hoped to find answers hidden within the various spider vein cracks that peppered the plaster ceiling. After another long moment passed, she said, “I can’t imagine anything that would escalate to murder, either at the show or anywhere else. I’m stymied.”

“What was her daily routine like?” asked Mac.

“Maude-Ann spent a few hours a day doing paperwork and making calls for me, usually never leaving my office. She attended church on Sundays but never got involved in any committees, and she didn’t sing in the choir. Other than those things and doing her weekly marketing and errands, as far as I know, she rarely left the motel grounds.”

“She was pretty much a loner for as long as I knew her,” added Dad. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but she was the kind of woman who easily faded into the background. She reminded me of a skittish little mouse. Looked like one, too. Mousy hair. Mousy features. Your mother was the only person who paid any attention to her.”

“If no one wanted Maude-Ann dead for any reason,” said Mac. “Maybe it was just a burglary gone bad. Someone passing through and long gone by now.”

“Except no one just passes through Ten Commandments,” I said. “It’s not like the town is on a major highway.”

“True,” said Dad. “The only people who come to Ten Commandments are people who want to be here for some reason.”

“And sometimes even they can’t find us,” added Mom. “I can’t begin to tell you how many times people connected with my show have wound up lost trying to get here. You can barely find us on a map.”

“So much for the brainstorming session,” said Gertie.

“This is so frustrating!” I smacked the pencil down onto the pad. “How do you solve a murder when you have no suspects or motives?”

“There has to be a motive,” said Mac. “Someone was definitely looking for something in her apartment. The place was ransacked.”

“I can’t imagine what he hoped to find,” said Mom. “Maude-Ann had nothing of value other than the motel and the land it sat on. Maybe the burglar trashed the place out of frustration at not finding anything worth stealing.”

“Why bother when he planned to set the place on fire to cover up the murder?” asked Mac.

“Unless the fire was an afterthought,” I said. “Maybe he tore the place apart, hoping to find something. Then Maude-Ann walks in on him, and he shoots her. He drags her to one of the rooms, then torches the place to cover up the murder.”

“Why not just set the fire where he killed her?” asked Mac. “Why drag the body all the way down to the other end of the motel when he risked being seen by someone?”

“Nothing about this murder makes any sense,” said Mom. “Why should that? Maybe the killer was on drugs and was too hopped up for logic.”

“Anyone in Ten Commandments cooking meth lately?” I asked Dad. “What’s Cousin LeRoy up to these days?” Cousin LeRoy used to be the only black sheep in the Stedworth family and the only one to serve time. That was back before Uncle Ezra, one of Dad’s other brothers and the former bank president, was sentenced to twenty years in the state pen for embezzlement.

“LeRoy moved to Nashville after his drive-thru combination porn shop and go-go bar went bust,” said Dad. “He decided to become a country Western singer.”

“I didn’t know he could sing.”

“He can’t.”

I sighed. “We need more clues.”

“Jonah will lock you up and toss away the key if he catches you back at the motel,” warned Mac.

Mom and Dad both stared at me. “Long story,” I said. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

Dad started muttering again, something about how I wasn’t like this before I moved to New York. I was tempted to ask him like what but thought better of it, especially when I caught the warning look Mac shot me, along with an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

“You’re becoming a real party-pooping wuss,” said Gertie.

Find your entertainment elsewhere, I told her.

“Like I have the power to become someone else’s imaginary friend? Why don’t you all head over to your mother’s TV studio and snoop around for clues there?”

What good would that do us? Maude-Ann wasn’t killed at the studio.

“You never know, but I’m not buying into this whole anonymous drugged-out burglar theory you’ve all got going.”

Me neither. Besides, I kept coming back to that look exchanged between Phineas and Uncle Jonah yesterday.

If Maude-Ann spent several hours a day alone in Mom’s office, maybe she left something behind that would point us in the direction of the killer. If nothing else, it would at least get us all out of the house. We certainly weren’t accomplishing much sitting at the kitchen table, talking the situation around in circles.

Chapter 6

 

Mom’s TV studio was a converted barn, known for decades as The Big Red Barn. Years ago it housed a flea market and country store run by a couple of long-deceased spinsters. I’m not sure how they were related to us, but Mom inherited the place back when I was six or seven. From time to time as I was growing up, Mom talked about turning The Big Red Barn into a combination antiques store/tea room, but she either never found the time or the money or both. Back then her life revolved around Dad and me and left little time for much else besides her various crafting projects and canning her blue-ribbon pickled beets. So The Big Red Barn, which was located just down the road from the Ten Commandments Inn, remained boarded up for years.

Besides, everyone in Ten Commandments already owned a houseful of antiques, because no one ever threw anything out. And who would pay for tea they could brew themselves in their own kitchen?

Within a matter of days after returning from her life-altering trip to New York, Mom found both the time and the money to transform The Big Red Barn into a television studio and headquarters for Connie Stedworth Enterprises. It’s amazing what instant fame and the backing of an entrepreneurial Svengali can accomplish.

We all bundled up in mittens, mufflers, parkas, and boots, then piled into Dad’s Tahoe for the short ride to The Big Red Barn.

Someone had beaten us to it.

The show was on hiatus over the holidays, production closed down until after New Year’s. Yet the snow showed evidence of someone having traipsed around the perimeter of the place. The intermittent snowfalls, as well as the gusting winds, of the last few days made it difficult to tell just how many someones, but it was obvious that at least one person had been skulking around The Big Red Barn fairly recently.

“Maybe one of the Shakelmeyer hogs got loose,” I said. The Shakelmeyer hogs always made for convenient scapegoats. Or maybe that should be scapepigs.

“Not unless Porky wielded a crow bar,” said Mac. “It looks like someone tried to break in.” He pointed to gouges on the exterior façade around the doorframe.

“Wonderful,” said Mom. She clapped her mittened hands together. “We’ve just been handed our first break in the case.”

Mac swung his attention from the gouges to Mom. “How?”

Mom keyed in the code to release the lock on the state-of-the-art door that was far from a typical barn door. It swung open, and she stepped inside. “Come see.”

She deactivated the alarm, then flipped on some lights and ushered us toward her office, one of three sectioned off directly to the left of the entry and situated behind a counter that served as a reception area. Mom’s name was decoratively stenciled on the first door, Dad’s on the second, and Mom’s guru and partner, Hyman Perth, the man responsible for all things Connie Stedworth, on the third door. Three guesses who did the stenciling.

Mom opened her office door and headed to one of two desks in the room. She removed her mittens and booted up the computer. While the computer ran through the start-up sequence, she stripped off the rest of her outerwear and switched on the zoned heating in the room before settling down behind her desk.

“With all the expensive equipment we use for taping the show,” she said, directing her comments to me, “your father and Hy both insisted on state-of-the-art security to protect our investment.”

“This might look like an old barn from the outside,” said Dad, “but it’s as secure as Fort Knox. We have twenty-four hour digital surveillance that feeds to a remote monitoring station accessible from any computer with an Internet connection.”

The rest of us shed our outer layers and positioned ourselves behind Mom as she double-clicked on an icon that brought up a window requesting Username and Password. She entered both, typing so quickly that it was impossible to make out either before she hit the Enter key. Then she sat back and folded her arms across her chest as we all stared at a series of six screens, one for each camera positioned on The Big Red Barn.

“No one gets within a hundred yards of this place without being recorded,” said Dad.

I noted the pride in his voice and stared in awe as my mother manipulated the computer keys. And to think at one time I believed my parents would have to be yanked kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century. Ever since Mom showed up unannounced on my Greenwich Village doorstep nearly two years ago, my parents had been surprising the dickens out of me.

Mom reversed the recording to where one of the screens showed us first pulling up in the Tahoe. We watched ourselves exit the SUV, check out the disrupted snow and the building, then enter through the main door.

“So let’s see who was nosing around the last few days,” said Dad. “Start with when everyone left for the holidays, Connie.”

Mom made a few clicks of the mouse and we watched in triple-time as people streamed out of the building, made their way to various cars in the parking lot, and drove off. Mom, Dad, and Maude-Ann were the last to leave. After the three of them drove away, the parking lot was empty.

“When was this?” I asked.

“December twenty-second,” said Mom. “The day before you and Mac arrived. I finished editing the last show we taped, then threw a Christmas party for the staff and crew.”

“You do the editing?” I still couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that my mother now had a staff and crew, let alone that she knew how to edit video.

“I work with an editor, but I have the final say,” said Mom. “It is my show.”

Right. Her show. One day my mother is pickling beets and stenciling cows above the kitchen chair rail; the next day she’s CEO of a multi-million dollar media empire with a cable show, a bi-monthly magazine, craft and decorating books, and a line of assorted gift products. I felt like a slacker in comparison.

“Had everyone else already gone for the day?” asked Mac, getting us back to the reason we were all here.

Dad nodded. “We were the last to leave. No one else knows the security codes to lock up.”

“What about Maude-Ann?” I asked.

“No, just your mother and me. And the security company, of course.”

“And Hy,” added Mom. “But he hasn’t been here in over a month.” She fast-forwarded the recording until the camera captured a patrol car pulling into the parking lot.

“Is that the sheriff?” asked Mac.

“Jonah,” said Dad. “What’s he doing there?”

We watched as Uncle Jonah checked the doors and windows around The Big Red Barn before getting back in his patrol car and driving off. “That was odd,” I said. “What day was that?”

Mom checked the time stamp. “Yesterday. Right before he arrived for Christmas dinner. He didn’t mention he’d been out checking the place.”

“He also didn’t mention that someone had ransacked Maude-Ann’s apartment. Mac and I discovered that for ourselves this morning.”

“Not so odd when you think about it,” said Mac. “He already knew that someone tossed the place. If the killer didn’t find what he was looking for, he may have figured Maude-Ann hid it somewhere else—like where she worked.”

“So Jonah went to check on The Big Red Barn,” said Dad. “Makes perfect sense.”

Dad sounded relieved. I think we’d all been holding our collective breaths, waiting to see if Uncle Jonah took a crow bar to the door.

Mom continued to fast forward. No Shakelmeyer hogs popped up on the surveillance tapes, but as Christmas Day waned and grew dark, a shadowy figure skulked into view. And he was definitely carrying a crow bar.

Mom froze the picture. “Who is that?”

We all squinted at the screen, but we couldn’t even tell if the person was a man or a woman, let alone identify the would-be burglar. He looked more like the Michelin man the way he was bundled head to toe. A ski mask covered his face; a furry hood covered his head. We watched for several minutes as he tried to pry the door open, then left when his efforts proved in vain.

“Someone sure wants something he thinks Maude-Ann had,” I said.

“Enough to kill for,” added Mac.

“But what?” asked Mom. “Trust me. I knew the woman her entire life. She didn’t own anything of value. No jewelry. No silver. Nothing.”

“She must have had something,” said Dad. “At least of value to the killer. We should start searching this place. Maybe she did hide something here.”

I glanced around the room. Mom’s office was a study in organized chaos, reminiscent of what our house used to look like whenever she was in one of her crafting frenzies. To the uninitiated it appeared to be a giant mess, but Mom always knew exactly where to find whatever she needed, down to the tiniest pompom or most miniscule google eye.

Whatever we were looking for could be hiding in plain sight and we’d never find it. And that was just the office. “The object of the killer’s desire might be hidden anywhere in The Big Red Barn,” I said. “And since we don’t know what we’re looking for, how do we go about finding it?”

“Maude-Ann kept to the office mostly,” said Mom. She pointed across the room to the other desk. “She sat there.”

“Then that’s where we start.” I crossed the room, pulled open the top desk drawer, and started rifling through it. “Assorted office stuff. Paper clips. Post-It notes. Pens. Pencils. A flash drive. A roll of masking tape.” I slammed the drawer shut. The other drawers proved equally bland. God forbid it should be that easy.

“It looks like we’re going to be here for a while,” said Mom.

~*~

We spent the next hour searching every nook and cranny of Mom’s office but found nothing that didn’t belong. “Maude-Ann never went anywhere else in the building?” I asked. “Maybe to get you something from the supply room? A cup of coffee from the break room? She at least went to the bathroom occasionally, right?”

Mom agreed that those were all possibilities. So we searched the supply room, the break room, and even the ladies’ restroom. For three hours we poked in, around, under, and over anything that might contain Maude-Ann’s mysterious Maltese Falcon. We turned up zip.

~*~

After three frustrating hours, I sank into one of the semi-comfy chairs across from the reception counter and declared defeat. “Maybe the killer was after something that never existed,” I said.

“Like what?” asked Mom.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. But let’s look at this from a different angle. Suppose he was some trucker who took a wrong turn off the Interstate last week and wound up at a bar in Badger Bluffs. He’s sitting nursing a beer and overhears a drunken conversation about this crazy old lady who owns the motel in Ten Commandments. He figures she’s a rich recluse and easy pickings. So he waits until most people won’t be out and about, then poses as a traveler needing a room for the night.”

“But somehow things go terribly wrong,” said Mom.

“Right. And Maude-Ann winds up dead instead of just robbed.”

“You’re both forgetting a few things,” said Mac. He dropped down into the chair next to me, and we all turned to him. “Aside from the fact that the killer would have no reason to move the body to one of the motel rooms, whoever we saw on the surveillance tape came by foot. He didn’t drive up in a truck or anything else. And how would this phantom trucker know anything about The Big Red Barn?”

“So much for that theory, Sherlock.”

I don’t hear any brilliant ideas coming from you, I told Gertie.

I wasn’t giving up so easily. “What if the people in the bar were some of Mom’s employees? They may have been talking about work and somehow the conversation drifted into discussing Maude-Ann.”

“Seems like a long leap,” said Mac.

“Not at all,” I said. “She’s always been a source of speculation, even back when I was a kid. Everyone used to talk about Maude-Ann like she was Miss Havisham or something.”

“That still doesn’t explain why the body was moved,” said Dad.

I had an explanation for that, as well. “Maybe he decided to spend the night, and Maude-Ann’s apartment was more comfortable than one of the guest rooms. She had food in the fridge and a better TV. He didn’t want to share the place with a dead body, so he moved it to one of the motel rooms.”

“Why so far, though?” asked Mom.

I threw my arms up in frustration. “I don’t know! Maybe dead people give him the willies, and he wanted her as far away from him as possible. Maybe he believes in ghosts and figured she’d haunt the closest person, which would have been Mac.”

“And the guy with the crow bar and no vehicle?” asked Mac.

I shrugged. “Someone else? We never did finish watching the tapes. How do we know there weren’t other people lurking around The Big Red Barn the last few days? Maybe there’s no connection between Maude-Ann’s murder and the attempted break-in.”

So we all headed back into Mom’s office to scan through the remainder of the surveillance tape. This time we did see one of the Shakelmeyer hogs heading toward The Big Red Barn in the wee hours of this morning. The beast was followed a few frames later by Leona Shakelmeyer. Only Leona didn’t appear to be chasing after a runaway porker.

“It looks like she’s herding the hog right toward the barn,” said Mac. “Why would she do that?”

Mom paused the recording. “Leona’s always snooping around. The woman’s been competing against me and coming up short her entire life. She even tried to steal Earnest from me back in high school. Asked him to the Sadie Hawkins Day dance when I was laid up with chicken pox. She knew Earnest and I were practically engaged, but that didn’t stop her.”

Dad put his arm around Mom’s shoulders and kissed her cheek. “You know I’d never look twice at Leona Shakelmeyer or anyone else, dear.”

“Now,” said Mom. “Back then I was younger and insecure.”

I glanced up at Mac. Would we still be that much in love when we were in our fifties? He laced his fingers through mine and gave my hand a squeeze, as if assuring me I had nothing to worry about.

“I don’t know what Leona could possibly expect to find skulking around here,” said Dad. “The place was locked tight.”

“Leona is too filled with bitterness to think straight half the time,” said Mom. “I gave up a long time ago trying to understand that woman. Even when she gets what she wants, she’s not satisfied. Like when she orchestrated that campaign to have Ralph replace you as mayor.”

Mom clicked the mouse to advance the screen. The four of us watched as Leona looked around, apparently to make sure no one saw her. Then she pulled off her glove, removed a scrap of paper from her coat pocket, and proceeded to fiddle with the keypad.

“She’s trying to break in!” cried Mom.

We continued watching as Leona grew more and more frustrated. Finally she shoved the paper back in her pocket and gave the door a swift kick of her boot. Then she stormed off, leaving the hog to find his own way home.

“What do you think she was after?” I asked.

“Knowing Leona, probably nothing,” said Dad. “She most likely only wanted to snoop around.”

“That woman is too curious for her own good,” said Mom. “I should have her arrested for attempting to break in. We’ve got her red-handed.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” said Gertie.

But not Maude-Ann, I told her. What possible motive would Leona Shakelmeyer have to kill Maude-Ann Krissendorf?

“Who knows what evil lurks in the minds of the Shakelmeyers?”

Although…”Maybe the guy with the crow bar wasn’t a guy,” I said. “Maybe he was a she.”

“And maybe she thought she could just pry open the door,” said Mac. “When that failed, she came back with what she thought were the most likely codes you’d use. Birthdays. Anniversary. That sort of thing.”

Mom snorted. “How stupid does she think we are?”

No one had time to comment, though, because just then we heard a car pull up outside. A moment later, the door swung open.

Chapter 7

 

“Earnest, you here?” yelled Uncle Jonah.

Dad moved to the door, pulling it behind him as he stepped out of the office. “What’s up, Jonah?”

Mom quickly exited out of the surveillance program. “Not that I don’t trust him,” she muttered under her breath.

Mac and I shared a meaningful look. I don’t think any of us trusted Uncle Jonah much anymore, but was he capable of murder? And if so, what reason could he have for killing Maude-Ann?

The three of us crept across the room and hovered near the door, listening as Uncle Jonah answered Dad. “I was wondering if you’d mind me taking a look at Maude-Ann’s computer, Earnest.”

“The one she used here at work?” asked Dad. “What on earth for?”

Uncle Jonah cleared his throat. “I know it’s probably a long shot, but maybe I can find a lead by seeing where she’d been and what she’d been up to online.”

“Hmm…I suppose you have to be careful about those crafting chat rooms she monitored for Connie. You never know about those scrapbooking enthusiasts and die-hard decoupagers.”

“So that’s where you get your sarcasm gene,” said Gertie.

Who would have guessed? Sometimes I wondered if my parents were abducted by aliens at some point, because they sure weren’t the same people I’d known before I left Ten Commandments for Manhattan.

Uncle Jonah’s voice grew testy. “Don’t be dense, Earnest. The woman was a loner, and loners tend to get themselves mixed up with cyberspace creeps. For all we know, she could have pretended she was a twenty-year-old blonde and spent her nights having cybersex with a host of losers from California to Calcutta.”

“Don’t you need a warrant or something?” asked Dad. “You know, to make it legal in court.”

“Not if you willingly give me the computer,” said Uncle Jonah. “I can get one if I have to. I just thought maybe you’d be willing to save us all a lot of time and trouble by handing over the computer.”

Mom tiptoed back to her desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. She lifted out a laptop and headed back toward us.

“What about not trusting Uncle Jonah?” I whispered as she was about to open the office door.

She shushed me and whispered back, “I don’t.” Then she opened the door and stepped out into the reception area. “What a great idea, Jonah. Here. Let us know if we can be of further assistance.”

“Why, thank you, Connie. I’ll definitely do that.”

Just as quickly as he came, Uncle Jonah was out the door and starting up the engine of his police cruiser.

“Why’d you give him the computer?” I asked Mom as she and Dad returned to the office.

“Trust me,” she said. “He won’t find anything of interest on that laptop. Just old files of craft designs and show schedules. I was only holding on to it for spare parts. Maude-Ann didn’t even know it was here.” She stepped over to Maude-Ann’s desk and scooped up the laptop sitting on it. “We’re taking this baby home with us to see what Jonah’s so eager to find.”

“And the plot thickens,” said Gertie.

We donned our winter gear and were about to leave when something occurred to me. “Wait,” I said, dashing back into Mom’s office. I opened Maude-Ann’s desk drawer and pocketed the flash drive I’d seen earlier. Whatever Uncle Jonah was looking for might be stored on the drive and not the laptop.

~*~

After we ate a quick lunch of Christmas leftovers, we gathered around Maude-Ann’s work laptop and began searching through the files for anything that might be a motive for murder. But after an hour of clicking on one file after another, we’d exhausted all of the folders on the desktop and come up with zilch.

“Maybe we’ll have better luck with the flash drive,” I said. I pulled off the cap and was about to insert it into one of the ports when Mac placed his hand over mine.

“Hold off on that for a minute. Let’s see if there are any additional files not on the desktop.”

That’s when we found them.

“Whoa!” said Mac, accessing the first of several dozen videos.

“Oh. My.” I stared at the moving images on the screen, not believing what my eyes were seeing. “Another day, another sex scandal in good old Ten Commandments.”

“That’s enough!” Mom slammed the laptop lid so fast and so hard that she nearly guillotined Mac’s fingers.

Dad lifted the lid back up, clicked out of the first video, and opened the next. “We have to search through all the files, Connie. This is most likely the reason someone killed Maude-Ann.”

“Then you do it. Just do it without me.” Mom stormed out of the kitchen. I’m not sure whether she was angry, hurt, or embarrassed by what she’d seen. Maybe a combination of all three.

Maude-Ann apparently led a secret life that she kept from the cousin who had always cared about her, yet not from many townspeople who had never shown her much in the way of kindness or respect. Then again, maybe what we were viewing was the reason they didn’t show her any kindness or respect in public. They were certainly showing her all sorts of other things in private. And to think, I’d assumed Maude-Ann was a dried-up virgin.

“Just goes to show you how looks can be deceiving,” said Gertie.

And how!

I glanced to my left, then my right, and took some comfort in the realization that I wasn’t the only one embarrassed by the homemade porn. Mac looked more than slightly uncomfortable, and Dad looked positively mortified. I’m willing to bet this was Dad’s first experience with porn of any kind. After all, my father was Jim Anderson, Ward Cleaver, and Ozzie Nelson all rolled up into one. I doubt he’d ever even flipped through a copy of Playboy or Penthouse—just for the articles, mind you—not to mention Hustler. And what we were viewing definitely out-hustled Hustler.

With mounting displeasure Dad, Mac, and I continued to search through the files one by one. We had no choice if we were going to figure out who killed Maude-Ann.

Each file was labeled by date and the initials of Maude-Ann’s co-star. The dates went back several years. This was no mid-life crisis, no manifestation of a life altering epiphany that struck with the onset of menopause and caused Maude-Ann to experience life before it was too late. Maude-Ann was ten years younger than Mom. That made her only forty-two when she died and only thirty-seven at the time the first escapade on the computer was recorded. There was no way of knowing if her kinky life pre-dated the first recording, and if so, by how long.

Living in New York had opened my mind to many alternative lifestyles. I never passed judgment. I believed in a creed of live-and-let-live. But this was Ten Commandments, Iowa, and some of these dudes getting it on in very weird ways were my former school teachers, not to mention church elders and other bastions of the god-fearing, law-abiding community where I was born and raised.

I clicked out of a video that featured my old high school principal—definitely a TMI moment if ever there was one—and was about to click on the next file when I noticed the initials in the file name. I hesitated, afraid to click. “Dad?”

“Nori!” His already crimson face darkened several shades deeper. I hoped he’d taken his blood pressure meds this morning. But instead of anger, I heard disappointment in his voice. “How could you even think such a thing?”

“Sorry, Dad, but when even Phineas Draymore—”

“Let’s keep that particular piece of knowledge to ourselves. Your mother doesn’t need to know her best friend’s husband committed adultery with her cousin. As for me…” Dad reached across the keyboard and clicked the mouse. Up popped Elias Sunderson in his birthday suit, an image I could have lived the rest of my life without seeing. I should have known not to worry about Dad. He’d be the last upstanding guy standing in Ten Commandments come Judgment Day.

“All this proves is that Maude-Ann had a very active and…uhm…imaginative sex life,” said Mac.

“Imaginative?” said Gertie. “Interesting euphemism. Try kinky.”

Try extremely kinky. Who knew there were so many fetishists living in Ten Commandments, Iowa?

“But why record herself having sex with all these guys?” I asked. “What happens in the bedroom should stay in the bedroom. Especially this kind of stuff. Memories can’t wind up on YouTube.”

“Maybe that’s it,” said Mac. “Let’s take a look at that flash drive now. I’m willing to bet I know what’s on it, and it goes back to something you suggested earlier, Nori.”

I slipped the flash drive into one of the ports on the side of the computer. It contained one file, a spreadsheet. The left column contained the video file names. Then there were a series of additional columns filled with numbers. “It looks like a page from an accounting ledger,” I said.

“Blackmail records?” asked Dad.

“I think so,” said Mac. “The first column would indicate the guy and the date of the video. The other columns appear to be progressive dates, all within a few days of each other but quite some time after the videos were made, often a few years. They could be the date she first contacted the guy, the date he responded to her demand, and the date he made the initial payment.”

“And the other columns indicate the dates and amounts paid,” I said. “Looks like Maude-Ann had them all on a once-a-month payment schedule.”

“Talk about a lucrative revenue stream,” said Dad. “All of these men would pay through the nose to keep those videos away from their wives.”

“Until someone got fed up with paying and found a permanent solution to his problem,” I said.

“Well, we’ve certainly increased our list of potential suspects,” said Mac.

“And discovered what Uncle Jonah wanted to keep secret,” I added. “No wonder he got all bent out of shape when anyone suggested calling in the state to investigate the murder. These videos are both marriage killers and career killers.”

“Don’t forget Maude-Ann killers,” said Gertie.

Not that anyone could after what we’d viewed.

~*~

In all, there were twelve Ten Commandments perverts being blackmailed by Maude-Ann. We compiled a list of names before shutting down the computer. Then we called Mom back into the kitchen and explained what we’d discovered, minus any mention of Phineas Draymore.

“What is it with men?” she asked, directing her question to Dad and Mac.

Mac held his hands up. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. There’s already been too much gunfire in this town.”

Dad looked offended. “I don’t understand this any more than you do, dear.”

“I can assure you the entire male population doesn’t engage in deviant behavior,” added Mac.

“Besides,” I said. “We need to concentrate on what’s important right now—outing the killer. We now have a motive, but we still don’t know who pulled the trigger.”

“One thing I’ll say about Maude-Ann,” said Dad. “She certainly wasn’t Madoff greedy, demanding only three grand a year from each man.”

“Just enough to feather a little tax-free retirement nest egg,” said Mom. “It just never occurred to me that she was feathering it on her back.”

I tried to suppress a giggle and failed miserably.

Mom glared. “I don’t see the humor in this, Nori.”

I did. “From what we saw, Mom, Maude-Ann was rarely on her back.”

Mom covered her ears with her hands, closed her eyes, and shook her head. “Enough! I don’t want details.”

“What doesn’t make sense to me,” said Dad, “is that anyone would kill over three thousand dollars a year. I know these men. They blow more than that each year on the riverboat casinos.”

“All of them?” I asked.

Dad scanned the list of names again. “Well, almost all.”

That’s when I knew who killed Maude-Ann. And it wasn’t Uncle Jonah.

Chapter 8

 

“Now all we have to do is trick the murderer into confessing,” I told Mom, Dad, and Mac.

“I hope you’ve got that figured out, as well,” said Mac.

“Without putting us in any danger,” added Mom.

But how?

“Do I have to do everything around here?” asked Gertie. “With the old con-the-con routine, of course.”

Hey, an actual suggestion! And with minimal snark. Was my imaginary friend finally beginning to lose her ‘tude?

“Never. I’m just getting bored with all this Sherlock Holmes wannabe routine. Let’s wrap it up already.”

Ah, now that’s the Gertie I know and love.

Still, I had to admit her suggestion was brilliant. No matter how often the cops execute that particular sting in New York, greedy deadbeat dads, tax scofflaws, and other assorted pond scum continue to fall for it. Why shouldn’t it work in Ten Commandments?

I laid out the bare bones of my plan, hoping a little brainstorming would flesh out the details. “First we need a reason to bring all these men together at the same place and at the same time. The best way to do that is to offer them something they want.”

Mac smiled at me. “Genius! I see exactly where you’re going.”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” said Mom.

“I’m beginning to,” said Dad. He gave Mom’s hand a squeeze. “It will become clear to you in a minute, dear.”

“When the cops pull this scam in the city,” said Mac, “they often use the lure of a sweepstakes win. I’m not sure that’s going to work in Ten Commandments, though.”

“I know. If any of these guys entered a sweepstakes, they’d remember. We need something they’ll fall for without question.” I turned to Dad. “Can you think of anything? Something they all have in common—other than the obvious, of course—.”

“Why not the obvious?” asked Mac. “They’re all into kinky sex, and they were all being blackmailed by Maude-Ann. How did they find out about her little enterprise?”

“Well, she certainly wasn’t advertising in the church bulletin,” said Mom.

“No, but she had to be advertising somewhere,” said Dad. “Someplace where she could keep her identity secret.”

“There’s only one place to do that,” said Mac. “The Internet.” He flipped open the laptop and started searching through the browser history.

I read down the list that popped up. “DMC-USA dot com, DecoArt dot com, Coats and Clark dot com—”

“Craft companies,” said Mom. “Most of Maude-Ann’s job was to act as a liaison between the show and the companies whose products we featured, so we didn’t get nasty letters from frustrated consumers when they couldn’t find products they needed to make a particular project. We package kits they can purchase directly from us.”

More than anyone needed to know. I nodded at Mom and continued to read. “Kreinik dot com, Sudberry dot com, Fantasy Craft dot com, Amos Craft dot com—”

“Wait!” said Mom.

“Amos Craft?” I asked.

“No, the one before that. Fantasy Craft. There’s no such company. At least not that I know of.”

And if anyone would know every craft company in the country, it was Connie Stedworth, the Queen of Crafts. Mac clicked on the URL for Fantasy Craft.

“Bingo!” he said as soon as the site loaded. Fantasy Craft was definitely no manufacturer of pompoms or embroidery floss. Mac did a Whois search, and the address for the Ten Commandments Inn popped up.

“Maude-Ann probably advertised the website on sites that catered to a certain segment of society,” said Dad. “Once she connected with someone on the ‘net, she made arrangements to connect in person.”

“But don’t you think it’s odd that only men in Ten Commandments got in touch with her?” asked Mom.

“We don’t know that,” I said. “Unless we can dig up other records, we may never know how many guys she…uhm…er—” I knew the word I wanted to use, but I wasn’t going to use it in front of my parents. They’d had enough shocks for one day.

“Serviced?” supplied Mac.

“That’ll do,” I said, offering him a grateful smile. “Serviced. Anyway, it doesn’t mean she didn’t…uhm…service others and charge them an hourly rate. Once a trucker or two booked a room, the word probably spread. She may only have been blackmailing men she knew. Men she felt safe would pay up and not harm her or go to the police.”

“Until one of them did harm her,” said Mom. “You think you know someone…” Her voice trailed off, and she got this really perplexed look on her face. “But why would she use the office computer and not her personal one? This side business of hers started long before Connie Stedworth Enterprises existed.”

“She probably did at first,” said Mac. “But once you hired her, it was safer for her to keep everything on one of the company computers. She knew the chance of you or Earnest finding the videos was highly unlikely. So The Big Red Barn became a giant safety deposit box of sorts. As long as none of her marks worked here, there was little chance of any of them getting hold of the videos.”

“I suppose it all makes sense,” said Mom. “But how are we going to trap the killer?”

“Simple,” I said. “We invite all twelve men to a party.”

~*~

Coming up with something that would guarantee these twelve men showed up took a bit of brainstorming. We needed something exclusive, something where they wouldn’t bring friends or spouses, nor talk about the event to anyone else. Each man had to believe he was singled out for something special, something that didn’t raise any suspicions and was as far removed from blackmail and murder as possible.

“I’ll bet these guys are going nuts, wondering if those videos were destroyed in the fire or if they’ll show up somewhere,” I said.

“I wonder if they know about each other,” said Mac. “What’s the likelihood of that?” he asked, directing his question to Dad.

“What? That they discussed their predilection for…for…”

Poor Dad. His face reddened. He couldn’t even say it.

“Alternative recreation?” I supplied.

He nodded his thanks to me and continued, “It’s certainly not a topic that ever came up at the Grange Hall or anywhere else when I was present.”

Not that this helped at all. As I’ve previously mentioned, Dad was the personification of the nineteen-fifties sit-com father come to life. I’ll bet half the town thought my parents slept in twin beds. Talk about sex—even non-adulterous, mission style-only sex—in front of my Dad? I guarantee that’s the day there’d be blizzards in Hades.

“At least two of them know about each other,” I said. One particular video explained the worried exchange between Uncle Jonah and Phineas Draymore the day of the fire.

“I have an idea,” said Mom. “We invite them all to a special event at The Big Red Barn.”

“Mom, I don’t see any of these guys picking up knitting needles or decoupage brushes any time soon.”

“They won’t be knitting or decoupaging,” she said. “They’ll be invited to a special dinner for the purpose of market research.”

“And why will they bother to show up?” asked Mac.

“Because we’ll entice them with lots of freebies.”

“Again, Mom, free craft supplies for perverts?”

Mom sighed one of her why-are-you-so-dense-sometimes? Sighs. “No, Nori, not craft supplies. Free stuff all men want.”

“Like?”

She thought for a moment. “How about an all-expense paid trip for two to Chicago with tickets to a football game or some other sporting event? You know, Bears, Bulls, Cubs, Sox—whatever. But that might not be enough.” She grew silent for another moment, then added, “And a chance to win a brand new truck. That will really bring them running. But they have to be present to win. Of course, they really won’t be receiving anything other than the shock of their lives. Although I suppose I will need to cook something so the place is filled with drool-worthy aromas.”

“Free food. Free trip. Free wheels. That should guarantee they’ll all show,” said Dad.

“Throw in free booze,” suggested Gertie.

Good one. “Plus an open bar,” I said.

“But what about Jonah?” asked Dad. “Do we tell him what’s really going on?”

“No, we can’t do that,” I said. “There’s still the chance I’m wrong about this, and he’s our killer.”

“Jonah is obviously capable of all sorts of unsavory things,” said Dad, “but I don’t believe he’d ever kill anyone.”

“You’re probably right, Dad, but he’s still got to remain as clueless as the rest of the men since he’s on the videos.”

“We have to contact some authority, though,” said Mac. “Someone who can make an arrest.”

“Earnest, you should give Cliff Tuttle a call,” said Mom.

“Of course,” said Dad. “I should have thought to call him the moment Jonah refused to contact the Department of Criminal Investigations.”

“Who’s Cliff Tuttle?” I asked.

“He’s the county district attorney,” said Mom, “but more importantly, he’s your father’s old college roommate.”

~*~

Cliff Tuttle came running. According to Dad, the county D.A. had grand plans for himself. Having his name linked with orchestrating a sting that caught a murderer would go a long way in his bid to become the next junior congressman from the great state of Iowa. The guy actually thanked us for calling him!

A couple of hours later, the five of us were well on our way toward creating a sting operation, the first in the county’s history. Our initial order of business was designing an appropriate invitation to entice our twelve suspects. With input from Mom, Mac and I came up with the perfect lure.

 

Connie Stedworth Enterprises cordially invites you to a

Guys’ Night Out

Tomorrow evening, 6pm at The Big Red Barn

 

This is an invitation-only event to a select group

of men whose opinions we value.

In exchange for a few minutes of market research you’ll receive:

 

A five-course prime rib dinner with open bar

An all-expense paid trip for two to Chicago

Two tickets to the Chicago sporting event of your choice

The chance to win a brand new Chevy Silverado

 

Once we printed out the invitations, Mac and I left to hand-deliver them while Mom, Dad, and Cliff took care of all the other details. Operation CAMP (Catch a Murdering Pervert) was officially underway.

~*~

By five forty the following evening, all twelve men had arrived. I guess they wanted to get an early start on sampling the wares of the open bar. Mac and I ushered them inside one by one, taking their coats, and showing them to the conference room, a section of The Big Red Barn directly across the main entryway from the reception area and offices. No one acted the least bit suspicious from what we could tell, just lots of backslapping and congratulating of each other for being singled out to receive some fine “swag”—my word, not theirs.

“These bozos wouldn’t know swag from a Venetian blind,” said Gertie.

True. But the sentiment remained the same. As they downed beer after beer, they bragged to each other about how much Mom valued their opinions and how vital they were to the success of Connie Stedworth Enterprises. It took Herculean willpower on my part to bite my tongue, smile, and keep my eyes from rolling as I refilled beer steins from the keg Mom and Dad had purchased for the occasion.

At six-ten Mac and I had the men take their seats. “Before we serve dinner,” I said, “we’re going to show you a series of videos. Please direct your attention to the television monitor at the far end of the room.”

“Can’t we watch while we eat?” asked Phineas Draymore.

“Afraid not,” I said.

“What are you making us watch, Nori? Ain’t no infomercials on making little do-dads, is it?” asked Elias Sunderson.

“No, I think you’ll find this much more interesting than an infomercial.”

“Good,” he said. “Cause I’m not interested in no do-dads. Maybe our wives are but not us, right fellas?”

They all voiced agreement.

“The sooner we get started,” said Mac, “the sooner we can serve dinner. I’m sure you can all smell that prime rib Connie cooked up for you.”

At that, the twelve men shifted their chairs so their backs faced me. “Everyone ready?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Uncle Jonah. “Let’s get the show on the road so we can dig into that prime rib dinner you promised us.”

“And find out who wins the Silverado,” added Ralph Shakelmeyer.

Mac switched off the lights, plunging the room into total darkness. I reached behind me and turned the doorknob, the signal for Cliff Tuttle and several officers from the state Department of Criminal Investigations to slip unseen into the room.

“Enjoy the show, gentlemen.” I pressed the remote, and the first images filled the fifty-four inch flat screen mounted on the wall.

Mac had spliced together a montage from the various videos on Maude-Ann’s computer. Each man appeared with Maude-Ann for only ten seconds. But ten seconds of naked, overweight middle-aged men doing what these guys were doing was more than enough.

I wasn’t sure what to expect the moment our neighborhood pervs were confronted with the proof of their deviant deeds, but absolute you-could-hear-a-pin-drop silence hadn’t even made my Top Ten List. I wasn’t even sure they were all still breathing. No one uttered a syllable, let alone a groan or gasp or angry stream of four-letter words.

“Maybe they all dropped dead,” said Gertie.

No, as I positioned myself at the side of the room and my eyes adjusted to the dim light of the television screen, I saw that every single one of them sat rigid, hands grasping chair arms to the point their white knuckles stood out in the darkness. Their mouths open, jaws dropped, eyes bulging, one by one they recognized not only themselves but each other, and the implications sunk in.

At the end of the two-minute show, Cliff flipped the lights back on. Slowly, the men turned to face the front of the room. When they saw Cliff and his officers, guns drawn, barring the door, holy heck broke loose.

“I didn’t kill her!”

“I have an alibi!”

“You’re not pinning this on me!”

“I want a lawyer!”

“I didn’t do nothing to her!”

Voices rose to be heard over each other, purple veins throbbing along the sides of red-faced men, growing angrier and angrier. Except for one. One man still sat at the table, his hands folded in front of him, his head bowed, his lips moving. He finished praying and raised his head. His face had turned a sickly yellow-green, and sweat glistened along his brow. Ralph Shakelmeyer turned toward Cliff Tuttle and said, “I didn’t do it, but I know who did. I want a deal.”

Chapter 9

 

Cliff Tuttle joined us for a prime rib dinner back at the house later that evening. As we ate, he filled us in on what had transpired after all twelve men were carted off for questioning and Mom, Dad, Mac, and I had gone home. “Would you believe some of them actually complained about not getting those goodies they were promised?” he said.

“What’s going to happen to them?” I asked.

“Nothing as far as the state is concerned. The sex was consensual, and the blackmailer’s dead. Stupidity isn’t a crime, not even in Iowa.” He shook his head and chuckled. “I sure as heck wouldn’t want to be in their shoes when the story hits the news wires, though.”

Mac chuckled right along with him. “Everyone loves to read about a good sex scandal,” he said.

“And in an upstanding Midwest town called Ten Commandments?” added Cliff. “Brace yourselves for the paparazzi.”

Dad groaned.

“Could be worse,” I said. “At least you’re no longer the mayor, and Uncle Jonah didn’t have anything to do with Maude-Ann’s murder.”

From the expression on his face, I don’t think he took much comfort from either fact. Ten Commandments would never be the same. Deep down inside, I believe Dad would like nothing better than to have life go back to the way it was long before Mom’s visit to New York changed the world as he knew it. Now it had once again shifted on its axis, and poor Dad was having trouble keeping up.

“You can’t always get what you want,” sing-songed Gertie.

But then there’s karma, I told her.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “And in this case, it’s a real bitch.”

I had figured Ralph Shakelmeyer for the killer, because I knew the Shakelmeyers were even bigger tightwads than Maude-Ann. No way would Ralph ever spend an evening on a floating casino. I’d been wrong, though. Dead wrong. Not about the riverboat gambling but about Ralph killing Maude-Ann.

“Ralph Shakelmeyer sang like the proverbial canary,” said Cliff. “Once he was promised a suspended sentence for his part in the cover-up.”

“But I thought spouses couldn’t testify against each other,” I said.

“They can’t be forced to testify against each other,” said Mom, once again trumping me as the Law & Order expert of the family. “They can testify if they want to.”

Cliff concurred. “And Ralph certainly wanted to testify to save his own hide.”

Yes, Leona Shakelmeyer, the nastiest woman in all of Ten Commandments and the bane of my mother’s existence for most of her life, had killed Maude-Ann Krissendorf. Her grandchildren would be having grandchildren before she ever saw them again—if she lived that long.

“According to Ralph,” explained Cliff. “Leona was the kind of woman who could account for every pig farming penny she and Ralph had ever made.”

“No secret there,” said Mom. “Anyone in Ten Commandments could have told you that.”

“I suppose so,” said Cliff. “Anyway, things weren’t adding up to her satisfaction. Money was missing, and she couldn’t figure out where it was going.

“Leona began snooping around and eventually discovered that Ralph was siphoning money to pay Maude-Ann every month. When she confronted Ralph, he broke down and confessed to having an affair with Maude-Ann a few years ago, and that she’d been blackmailing him ever since. Leona was only interested in getting back the money. So she confronted Maude-Ann and demanded the return of everything Ralph had paid her over the years—with interest.”

“Typical,” said Mom.

“Maybe Maude-Ann would have paid to keep Leona quiet, but Leona was too greedy,” continued Cliff.

“Unlikely,” I said. “Maude-Ann was so cheap, she locked the guest room thermostats. I can’t see her paying Leona anything.”

“And Leona being Leona, I’ll bet she tried to bleed Maude-Ann,” said Mom.

“Exactly,” said Cliff. “According to Ralph, Leona tried to turn the tables on Maude-Ann, blackmailing the blackmailer.”

“But why did she shoot her?” I asked. “She wouldn’t get any money from a dead body, and you said the money was all she cared about.”

“Things got ugly,” said Cliff. “You had a battle going between two tightwads. Neither was willing to give up a penny. Leona pulled a gun. There was a struggle, and the gun went off.”

Cliff took a deep breath, then finished, “Leona claims it was an accident. We’ll leave that for the jury to decide.”

“And Ralph?” asked Mom. “What was his role in Maude-Ann’s murder?”

“Leona panicked when she realized Maude-Ann was dead. She ran home and told Ralph what had happened. He told her he’d help, but he wanted the video. So while he moved the body, hoping to make it look like Maude-Ann was killed by some drifter who’d rented a room for the night, Leona tore apart Maude-Ann’s apartment.”

“Looking for the blackmail video.”

“Right.”

“But what about the explosion and fire?” asked Mac.

“That was Leona’s doing,” said Cliff. “According to Ralph, she couldn’t stop worrying that they might have left incriminating evidence behind, especially if the video was hidden somewhere else around the motel. So she concocted an explosive device from some fertilizer, gasoline, and an alarm clock and slipped it into the room Christmas morning. The fire chief confirmed the fire was set by a rudimentary explosive device.”

“Where in the world did Leona learn how to build a bomb?” asked Dad.

“Ralph said she found a ‘recipe’ on the Internet.” Cliff turned to me and Mac. “You two must have just missed her when you arrived at the motel.”

“She nearly killed us,” I said.

“Attempted murder is one of the many crimes she’s being charged with,” said Cliff.

“But Ralph still didn’t have the video,” said Mom. “So that’s why she tried to break into The Big Red Barn, figuring it might be there if it wasn’t destroyed in the fire?”

“Exactly,” said Cliff. “If someone else found that video, she and Ralph would be prime suspects. But she thought there was only one video—the one of Maude-Ann with Ralph. She still has no idea about the other men, the extent of the blackmail, or the kinky nature of the sex. If she doesn’t plead out, it’s going to be one very salacious trial.”

Dad groaned again.

~*~

That night after Mom and Dad went to bed, Mac and I toasted marshmallows in front of the fireplace and pigged out on s’mores. “This certainly hasn’t been the boring Christmas you warned me about,” he said.

“Definitely not.” I fashioned another s’more and fed it to him. “You know, I kind of liked playing Sherlock Holmes and outing the bad guys. If you ever fire me from my radio gig, I could become a P.I.”

“I guess that means I’m never firing you.”

“Besides, you didn’t exactly solve anything,” said my snarky imaginary friend. “Ralph confessed and ratted out Leona.”

But who came up with the idea that set everything in motion?

Gertie mumbled a reluctant, “You.”

Elementary, my dear Gertie.

 

 

—The End—

FLOWERS, FOOD, AND FELONIES AT THE NEW YEAR’S JUBILEE

 

 

Annie Adams

Editor’s Note: Annie Adams is the bestselling author of The Flower Shop Mystery Series. She lives in Northern Utah at the foot of the Wasatch with her husband, two dogs, and two cats. Here we get a glimpse into the holidays as celebrated by a delightful Mormon community—with a little poetic license from Annie!

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

Rare and wonderful silence. That’s what I was celebrating. Sparse snow fell in the silence outside my fiancé’s living room window on Christmas Eve. After the month I’d just had at my flower shop, I would have paid any amount just to be able to sit and listen to the silence for a few minutes more.

My name is Quincy McKay, and I own Rosie's Posies, started by my Aunt Rosie, of course. My life had recently turned upside down when I met my boyfriend, hired my now good friend as a delivery driver, and oh yeah, was accused of murder.

Only six days ago, life was on the way back to right side up, when it was knocked off its axis. In fact it was spun around like sitting in the Tilt-and-Spin at the amusement park in an egg shaped pod of death, rotating one way, while the floor rotates the other direction. All the while you’re just trying not to lose your cookies.

Six days ago, with the help of many wonderful friends, we pulled off a fantastic community event complete with free food, fun, gifts and a visit from Santa Claus. Before it was over, I nearly fell off a roof in front of my future mother and father-in-law, while wearing an elf costume. I’d been wearing that same costume just days before, when said future mother-in-law called me a hooker.

Also, I inherited a wonderful little puppy that immediately changed my life in countless ways and...I got engaged. I just have to wait for the paperwork to go through to make sure I'm not married to my ex-husband anymore. After all that, I managed to keep my cookies down.

So, as one might understand, the profound beauty inherent in the silence of falling snow is something that I was rather appreciative of as I sat with my family, friends, and fiancé, sipping a warm beverage with my even warmer dog, Jerome, splayed across my lap as he slept. Life was good.

My almost too handsome fiancé, Alex, had invited my parents, delivery driver, K.C., and her husband, Fred, to come over on Christmas Eve for one last get-together with his parents before they traveled home to California. The time spent with them had been—interesting. I was my usual self with them. How else can a person be? It’s just that my usual self can make what we’ll politely call, blunders. On a regular basis. But I came to the conclusion they should learn the truth about me up front, the whole enchilada.

What they got was the smothered, grande, extra beans on the side, lesson of what it’s like to know me.

There we all sat in Alex’s living room enjoying soup and breadsticks, a tradition started by my dad. He was the head chef and party planner for all things Christmas. When Alex suggested we come over to his place for the get-together, he and my dad took a visit to Mantown and planned their party. Alex’s father, Jack Cooper, got to visit Mantown, too, and he fit right in, according to Alex.

Mantown is the place where men go to grunt and use non-verbal communication with each other. There's not much—if any—speaking involved, and no one else understands what's being said there. Mantown is both here and not here. It's everywhere if you're a member, and if you're not, you're probably a woman rolling her eyes.

“Quincy,” Eleanor Cooper, otherwise known as Alex's mother said, “this French onion soup is divine. Where did you buy it?”

I left out one of the topsy-turvy details of my upside-down life. I made stuffing for a holiday family gathering and used Eleanor's recipe. I did so upon the ill-advised suggestion of my boyfriend. At the time, I thought it would be a great idea, something to endear me to his mother. I thought he wouldn't have suggested it, had it not been something she would have appreciated. My assumption was horribly wrong.

“Actually, Eleanor,” my mother chimed in, “Quincy made this. Herself. It’s delicious, dear.”

Normally, it would be my mother asking me where I bought the dish, having assumed that's what I had done, because that's what I always did. But when another woman, especially her future son-in-law's mother accused me of not having domestic skills—those were considered fightin’ words.

Someone had cast my mother’s own flesh and blood in a bad light. She would defend her antithesis of a domestic goddess daughter to the death, if her homemaking skills were challenged by another mother.

“Thank you both,” I said diplomatically. “We actually have Julia Child to thank for the recipe.”

“Oh?” They both sat up in their seats at the dropping of Her Majesty’s name.

“Alex and I both contributed.” The recipe had actually been challenging for a couple of reasons. First, it called for two different kinds of alcohol. As in beverages. For someone unfamiliar with the place I come from, this might not sound like any kind of problem at all. But for someone living in a town like Hillside, Utah, in the heart of Mormon country, a trip to the liquor store was no small errand.

Having no experience with buying such items, I was a little nervous. Primarily because my mother’s vast spy network would have located me and sent word to her before I even stuck the keys in the ignition to go home. The Mormon Ladies Mafia or MLM as I liked to call them was all-knowing, all-seeing, and all about sharing what they knew with each other. And yes, I was an adult, but I was an adult who had grown up as a Mormon kid, who still needed to get along with my mother, who had certain opinions about such things.

The other challenge with the recipe is that it takes hours to prepare. Unbeknownst to me, Alex had come home early from work. I showed up at his house to find he’d already done the prep work. All that was left to do was bring things to a boil and then a long slow simmer. The soup cooked on the stove while all this went on.

With the rare absence of his parents, who had gone out shopping, we’d had to take advantage of the time alone.

“Yeah, we cooked it up together,” Alex said, as he squeezed my hand. He couldn’t take the gleam out of his voice, and I felt myself blushing. “It takes hours to make. Quincy took time off at the shop just to make it for us.”

“He exaggerates,” I said. “Alex did all the work. I just came over and stirred the pot.”

“I’ll say,” Eleanor said, not really under her breath.

I looked at Alex, who shook his head. “I think she got into the leftover brandy,” he whispered.

“You should enter this in the Jubilee cook-off,” my mother said.

“Oh, well, I’d love to, but like I said, it’s Julia Child’s recipe. Straight from her book.” And I didn’t want to add yet another project to my list.

“Too bad,” Mom said, sounding crestfallen. “I’d like to at least have a hand in the winning entry just once in my lifetime. Once is all I ask. Even if it’s not my own.”

“What’s the Jubilee?” Alex’s mother said.

“You’re gonna love this, Ellie,” K.C. chimed in. She was the only person who could use a nickname with Alex’s mother. “Tell us about the Jubilee, Annette.”

Right there and then, in the middle of the living room, it seemed a spotlight switched on. My mother’s countenance gleamed. The contest at the Jubilee was custom made for someone like her. Her eyes lit up, and she sat on the edge of her chair, perched as if she might take flight, describing the very essence of what made the homemaking competition so vital for our community.

“The Jubilee has been called that since its inception. It was during Pioneer times when the people of Hillside decided to have a gathering just before the end of the year. A kind of celebration of the coming New Year, hoping to inspire prosperity and a better life. It was also a chance for people who’d been holed up in their homes against the winter to get out and socialize.”

Unfortunately, my mother had entered the Jubilee cook-off every year since she was a young woman, but she had never won the grand prize, always just an honorable mention or second or third place. And always behind Vanessa Brown, her arch nemesis. I often wondered if the contest was rigged. My mom is a fantastic cook. The things she can do with a bag of pasta and some cheese—sheer magic.

“Where does the contest enter in?” Alex’s dad asked.

“It’s kind of developed along the way,” Mom explained. “Those original people didn’t have all the fresh produce that we have now at the grocery stores, so they made dishes to share using the preserves they’d put up after the fall harvest.”

“That’s why the contest is so unique,” K.C. said, pushing up on the bridge of her hot pink, cat-eye glasses.

“Yes.” My mother jumped back into the spotlight like a junior high drama student vying for the lead in a musical. “The contest came later. The rules are, whatever dish you make, it has to contain at least one preserved item. They’ve become lax over the years in that rule. You can use canned items from the grocery store now. Used to be it had to be something you put up by yourself. But they couldn’t exactly police that very well, and sometimes people don’t seal things properly...” My mother would never name names, but one year in particular, we’ll just say there was a botulism scare.

“The contest is during the day on New Year’s Eve. You’ll be here then, won’t you Ellie?” K.C. said.

Mrs. Cooper looked at her husband, hope in her expression. “We’re scheduled to leave sooner, but we don’t really have anything to get back to…”

Jack looked at Alex. “I don’t want to put you out any more than we already have, son.”

“Not at all,” Alex said. “You’re welcome here any time, for as long as you want to stay.” He squeezed my hand, or was it me squeezing his? I think it was a mutual death grip. Not that I didn’t love his parents...

“I can see about changing our flights, if you really want to, dear,” Mr. Cooper said.

“Perfect!” Mom shouted and clapped her hands with glee.

“Yay,” quietly slipped out of my mouth.

Mom continued. “The categories are casseroles, main dishes, salads, soups, and stews and desserts. And Quincy, as long as you give proper credit, you can still enter your French onion soup. You’re the one doing the work and adding your own methods. Just do whatever you did to get this one the way it is.”

I bit my lip in order to hold back the giggle welling up inside. Alex had rested his hand on my knee as my mother spoke and gave it a tweak when she mentioned doing the same thing over again. “We must explore your methods,” he whispered. “Like she said, just do the same thing you did before.”

I mouthed the word “stop,” while I grinned at him, trying not to laugh.

The thought of our “soup making” had me flustered. I stood to clear the dishes and take them to the kitchen. I filled the dishwasher and put the leftovers in containers. When I returned, the conversation continued, although the men seemed to have congregated together to talk about—anything other than what the women were talking about.

“I have a Jell-O salad recipe that’ll knock their socks off,” K.C. said. “And Ellie, I would love to taste your version of that stuffing.”

“Oh no, my stuffing calls for only fresh ingredients.” I pretended not to notice her shot over the bow. I’d committed mortal sin and used canned water chestnuts in place of fresh in Eleanor’s recipe. “I don’t think I’ll enter the contest, but I would like to help out somehow,” she said.

“Maybe you could help Quincy with her entry,” K.C. said.

Maybe I could find a new delivery driver...

“That’s a great idea, K.C.,” I said with false enthusiasm. “Unfortunately, I think that would be a conflict of interest. One of the judges of the dessert category dropped out, and they asked me to be the replacement. So…”

“It’s a completely different category, you’d be within the rules,” K.C. said.

Shut up, K.C.

“You know, with all the weddings we have this week, there’s just no time.” I turned my head so that only K.C. would see my death stare, and then turned back to Alex’s mom. “I’m so sorry, Eleanor.”

“That’s quite alright, dear. I’m just happy to get to see it.”

Aside from the bringing up of the earth-shattering chestnut disaster, this had been a happy meeting of family and friends. It gave me an all-over settled feeling that I hadn’t felt in weeks. I figured I’d better enjoy it while I could, because nothing ever stayed this calm for long, in the life of Quincy McKay.

Chapter 2

 

Christmas morning used to be the day when you woke up ready to burst, if you'd even slept at all, to see what Santa had left for you the night before. There was a time after that when Christmas Day was a time to dread, because the ex-husband would be home all day directing his inner anger toward me.

Now, the joy and wide-eyed excitement had returned. I couldn't wait to jump out of bed and head over to my parents’ home where we would eat and open a present or two.

I knew Jerome could sense my excitement. He didn't know why it was exciting, he just knew that it was. And he was perfectly happy to join me in it no matter what the reason. We took a quick potty break outside and then hurried inside to get dressed.

Christmas breakfast was only a few minutes’ drive from my house. Dad would be cooking waffles, bacon, eggs, and oatmeal like my grandmother used to make, only she called it porridge. Mom would be flitting about making sure every ribbon was tied just so, and every box was set in the perfect place. Jerome and I jumped into my flower delivery van. Her name was Zombie Sue, named so because she was the undead delivery van that never failed me. After a quick, but careful drive on empty, icy streets, we arrived at my parent's house just before eight in the morning.

After Jerome had a chance to sniff the entire perimeter of the yard, he was ready to go inside. Oh wait, he had to roll around in the fresh snow from the night before doing doggy snow angels. Being a Newfoundland, he’d been bred to thrive in the colder climate, and so far he’d been true to his breed.

We went inside to the cozy interior of the living room. Mom had the Mormon Tabernacle choir playing in the background, in her opinion the only Christmas music one plays on the 25th of December. Dad was in the kitchen humming and whistling to himself as the pots and pans clanged together to provide the percussion in his symphony.

My oldest sibling, Sandy, was there with her husband, Rick. She was pregnant with their first child, and they constantly looked at each other with goofy expressions, talking in cute little voices about Christmas being different with the baby coming and goo-goo ga-ga. My younger sister, Allie, was in California taping a television show. We especially missed her on this holiday but were very happy for her. She'd had a rough year, and this was the beginning of her comeback.

The sound of a car door shutting signaled the arrival of the Coopers. I glanced out the window and caught myself feeling a little less enthused once I saw that it was all three of them. I know it was selfish of me, but I wanted Alex all to myself for just a few minutes. Now that his mother's competitive fires had been ignited by my equally competitive mother, she’d be staying through New Year's Eve. And that was just fine. We would have a wonderful time together despite the occasional narrowed eye of disapproval from Eleanor. I knew she was making an effort though, and the amount of time she and her husband were spending with my family showed she didn't think we were all bad...I supposed.

When Alex walked in, I could feel my heart beat faster. I took their coats up to my old bedroom, the designated spot to dump guests' winter wear. I turned to leave but was startled by the sight of him standing in the doorway, grinning.

“Merry Christmas, Q.”

“Merry Christmas,” I said through an insuppressible grin. He walked over and gathered me into his arms. We kissed for a delightfully long time. “We better go back downstairs. Remember the last time we did this at my parent's house?”

The last time we'd made out like that at my parent's house, the entire party of guests had walked in on us, including the Coopers. It was the first time his parents had ever seen me.

“I remember what happened the last time. That’s what I’m looking forward to,” he said, as he nuzzled next to my ear. His stubble rubbed against my cheek, sending my inner butterflies loose. “How's my fiancée this fine Christmas morning?” he asked.

That word, fiancée—so strange to have someone place a ring on your finger, and then all of a sudden you have a new classification. Kind of like a new job title, but the interview process was a lot more fun.

I’d slid my hands up Alex’s chest and over his shoulders when he put his arms around me. At the thought of the beautiful engagement ring he’d given, I reached over to touch it, to prove that it wasn’t a surreal dream. I froze. It wasn’t there. My finger was as naked as Alex wished the both of us were right then.

“What’s up?” He pulled back and looked at me.

“I…” I had no idea where that ring was. “My ring—is not—gone…” I cringed.

“Quincy,” Alex smiled and closed his eyes. I could tell he was trying to keep his cool. “Tell me you’re talking about your mood ring.”

I chewed on my lip and shook my head. “I’m sure I just left it on my night stand.” I wasn’t sure at all. “You know—Christmas morning—Santa—I just left the house in a hurry.”

His right eyebrow shot up.

“No, no, no, not the eyebrow thing,” I said.

“Huh?”

“You did the thing, where you lift your eyebrow,” I said. “It usually means—well in this case it probably means you’re not too happy with me.”

“Listen, babe,” he said tenderly, “I’m so happy with you. And you don’t have to wear the ring. You’re not required to, it was a gift. I don’t want you to ever feel like you have to do anything for me. It’s just—I’m pretty sure it was real—they charged me like it was. You haven’t—you know—lost it, have you?”

“Of course not! Really, in the rush to get here, so I could see your handsome, smiling face, I didn’t take the time to put it on. I’m really sorry. I love that ring, almost as much as I love you. I wear it all the time. Except when I take it off at work, so that I don’t lose it. Which I haven’t.”

He kissed my forehead. “I love you, Q. As far as I’m concerned, you never have to wear it again. My mother might have a different opinion, though. You’re on your own with her.”

We smelled the delicious aromas curling up from the kitchen as we walked downstairs. Everyone sat around my parents’ large oval dining table, had far too much to eat, talked about our different family traditions, and generally had a good time. I kept my hand under the table and only dished up things that didn’t require a knife.

Once the breakfast was finished, Alex volunteered to clean up and wouldn't let anyone help. My father put his meaty hands together in a startling, thunderous clap. “Now, for the good stuff. Would you all follow me into the living room at the foot of the beautiful Christmas tree, so excellently trimmed by my wife? It's time to open presents!” He sounded like a ten year old, up at the crack of dawn on Christmas Day. We followed him in to the living room. There were gifts for everyone, including Jerome.

After the dust and curling ribbon had settled, we sat and talked while dad played his new old banjo—a gift from my mother. A light snow dusted the shoveled sidewalks, but not enough to accumulate and make it dangerous. Just enough to make a picture perfect Christmas card photo. It was also just enough to make us hopeful the freezing streak in the weather had snapped. The snow stopped after a few minutes. Still cold.

Jerome lay in the middle of the floor, chewing on his new rubber dog toys. He could’ve done so for hours if left alone.

“Looks like Jerome loves his Christmas present, Angus,” Alex said.

Jack Cooper sat down on the couch next to his wife. “Such a unique name for a dog.”

“I think it’s a stupid name for a dog,” Eleanor said, in a not so quiet whisper.

“Well, like it or not, that’s what he answers to,” I said. “Don’t you Jerome?”

Jerome let out a bark, which made everyone laugh. I hadn’t trained him that well, it was just coincidence. But then, he jerked his head up, sniffed the air and paused. Then he barked in a sharp warning tone. I’d never heard him do that particular bark before. It definitely wasn’t playful.

“Is someone at the door?” Mom asked.

“He doesn't usually bark when someone knocks,” I said.

“I didn't hear anyone knock,” Jack said.

My father went to the door. As he opened it, a woosh of cold air came into the living room. “Well, isn't this nice?” he said, as he stooped to pick something up. “Seems you're not the only one with a secret Santa, Quincy. We have our own.”

Dad held a fresh pine arrangement with red carnations, white cushion chrysanthemums, and festive gold and cream-colored ribbon. A large greeting card sized envelope was tucked in.

“Did this come from your shop?” Dad asked.

I shook my head. It looked like it had been purchased at a grocery store. “It's not mine. It sure was thoughtful of someone, though. They would’ve had to buy it yesterday. All the stores are closed today.”

Dad took it over to my mother. “It's addressed to you, Annette.”

“Oh my goodness, how nice,” mom said. She smiled as she opened the envelope and slipped out the card. Her smile slowly deteriorated as she read.

“Who's it from, Mom?” Sandy asked. “Is something wrong?”

My mother did something so uncharacteristic then, that it was unsettling. She crumpled the envelope in her fist and threw it down.

“Mom, what does it say?” I asked.

My mother wasn’t able to read the card. She passed it over to my sister.

“Quit while you're ahead. We all know who the champion will be. I can feel the smooth satin fabric of that blue ribbon against my fingers already. Go ahead and enter if you dare,” Sandy read.

There was a collective gasp.

“What? Who sent it?” My dad said, obviously upset.

“Who would say something so terrible? Is this about the cooking competition?” Eleanor asked.

“I suppose so,” Mom said.

“Alex,” his mother said, “you should do something about this. It’s awful.”

“Oh no, Eleanor. Thank you so much, but I'm sure it's just intended as a joke. Not funny at all, but harmless. It's so thoughtful of you to worry.” My mother, ever the polite hostess.

My dad stood up. “I'm looking forward to someone winning this competition and showing whoever this loud mouth is, they don't know what they're talking about.”

The mood in the house stayed down after the floral delivery, and despite my mother's attempts to brush it off, I knew she was upset. My sister kept shooting worried glances my way as she spoke with Mom on the couch. My dad made jokes and told a funny anecdote or two, but the Christmas spirit had vacated the building.

Eventually everyone said their goodbyes, and I decided to take Jerome home. Alex said he would stop over after he dropped his parents at his place and got ready for work. He worked as an officer of the Utah State Police.

Recently, he’d been able to work at a desk job some of the time. Although he won’t admit it, I think he took the job for my sake. It would eventually mean less undercover work, where he could be gone for weeks at a time. He also worked shifts as a highway patrolman. I hated that he had to work a patrol shift on the night of a holiday. It made me sick with worry that some reveler would drink too much and get behind the wheel. But Alex loved his job and wouldn’t trade it for anything.

~*~

At home, I changed into sweatpants and pulled on a pair of new tube socks—a gift from my thoughtful fiancé. Alex’s mother had questioned her son’s judgment when I opened the gift the night before, but she just didn’t understand.

Alex knocked on my back door before letting himself in. I pulled up my pant leg to give him a better view.

“You like them?” he said.

“The best present ever.” I caught a glance of my naked finger as I reached my arms up around his neck. “I mean, second only to my engagement ring, which is on my nightstand right now.” I was sure it was. Not really. It had to be there, though. I was almost positively sure.

“Oh yeah, I guess I did give you that. You still planning on marrying me?”

“I'm still thinking about it.” I shrugged nonchalantly.

“Ouch.” He pulled me to him and planted a steamy kiss. “Is that your final answer?”

I looked pensively toward the ceiling. “Still not sure.”

He backed me against the wall, and I grabbed the front of his shirt. He pressed his mouth against mine again.

“Okay, I’m sure,” I said when I came up for air.

“I've missed you,” he said.

I laughed. “We saw each other an hour ago. For us, that's like being joined at the hip.”

“I still miss you. I miss this.”

Bam, bam, bam, sounded on the back door only feet away from us. We both jumped, startled by the pounding.

“Ho, ho, ho,” K.C.'s voice blasted out from behind the door.

Alex bowed his head and shook it slowly. This wasn't the first time we'd been interrupted this very way in the kitchen, by the very same person. He cringed before opening the door. “Hello, K.C., Fred. How's your Christmas been?”

“Oh, it's been swell,” K.C. said, as she swept by both of us, arms full of packages and gift bags. “Where's our little pumpkin?” she said in baby talk.

“I'm right here,” Alex said, with a wink.

K.C. wore her Santa cap, and her cat-eye glasses hung from a chain around her neck. Her Christmas sweater with genuine, tiny bulb-lights, twinkled in multi-color splendor. Fred wore a Santa cap too and followed behind carrying packages of his own.

“What's all this?” I asked.

“It's Christmas, don't you know?” K.C. said.

I looked at Fred inquisitively, and he just shrugged.

K.C. plopped all the packages down in the living room, then picked up Jerome, who had followed close at her heels as soon as she walked in.

I did happen to have a little present for her and for Fred, but nothing close to the overkill she’d brought in. But, that was what we loved about K.C. Over the top could’ve been printed on her business cards.

The majority of the gifts were for Jerome. A new, bigger bed, and a gate to keep him from greeting a customer at the front door in case they weren't partial to dogs; although we hadn't run into that person yet. Lots of toys, a new collar, a seatbelt, and all manner of treats and chew toys.

“K.C.,” I said, “are you sure you didn't break the bank with all this?”

“Now, don't you worry about it, Boss. It's a pleasure. And who else am I going to spend it on?”

“How about your grandkids or your children, or Fred here?” I said.

Fred smiled and gently waived his hand in a humble gesture. “Don't worry about me,” he said.

“Boss, I am so excited about the Jubilee. This is gonna be my year, I can feel it. My Jell-O salad is going to guarantee my claim to victory and that blue ribbon. Those other ladies and or gentlemen better just give up now because I've got this one in the bag.”

“She sounds a lot like the secret Santa from this morning,” Alex said.

“What?” K.C. shouted. “Are you telling me that boy is at it again? What did he leave this time, a new car?”

I’d found Jerome on my front porch one morning. He’d been a misguided secret Santa gift for my sister Allie.

“I wish,” I said. We told her all about the flower arrangement that showed up on my parents' door step earlier that day.

“What nerve! On Christmas Day, no less. They should be arrested. Alex, why didn't you arrest them?”

“Unfortunately we can’t arrest people just for being jerks,” he said.

K.C. stood and placed her hands on her hips. “Well, all I have to say is this thing is on. It is on like Donkey Kong.”

Fred glanced between Alex and me, confused.

“Where’d she learn that?” Alex muttered.

“Who knows,” I said.

“You know, Boss, I think we should find out who left that nasty door prize on your parents’ doorstep.”

“No!” Fred and Alex shouted simultaneously.

“For Pete’s sake, why not? We don’t want any ne’er do wells at the Jubilee. Besides, my creepy-crawly senses are telling me this was more malicious than we suspect. I don’t want any of that criminal element at my victory party.”

“But sweetheart, then you wouldn’t be able to attend,” Fred quipped.

“Hardy har, har, Freddie my darling.” She looked at me. “He’s just getting back at me after I told him about the time I was arrested for public indecency.”

“That was months ago,” I said, thinking about the time we took a ride in her convertible in nothing but our unmentionables. “I could see where you might still be unhappy about that, Fred.”

“Oh, I’m not upset about anything,” he replied. “I was just teasing my dear wife. But I think K.C. is referring to another time. Aren’t you, my sweet?”

“Yes, I’m referring to the time my late husband and I belonged to a nudist colony.”

“Of course she did,” I said under my breath. Alex’s shoulders bounced as he kept his laugh to himself.

“I guess we went out of bounds, or so said the local Sheriff. But I think they just had a slow day down at the lock up.”

“Did they put you in the car and everything?” I asked.

“They sure did,” she said.

“Please tell me they let you get dressed first,” Alex said.

“No—they—did—not. It was not something I could easily forget.”

“Probably not the arresting officer, either,” Alex said.

After Fred and K.C. said their goodbyes, Alex and I said ours. His shift would begin soon. My heart tugged as I looked out my kitchen window and watched him get into his car.

I heard a little squeak as a paw gently nudged my pant leg. I looked down and smiled at Jerome. “What’s up little one? You miss him too, huh?”

He looked up at me then took a few steps, looking back to make sure I followed him. He led me to the door. “You need to go out?” I held the door open so he could go to his “potty place.” He just stood there and looked at me while the freezing air blasted into the house. I shut the door, and he led me to the living room where we’d opened presents. I picked up one of the many paraphernalia Auntie K.C. had brought. “How’s about we go for a little walk and try out your new reindeer leash?” He wagged his tail and hopped up and down. Apparently we’d communicated.

I went to my bedroom to change clothes. My ring. See, I mentally patted myself on the back, I remembered it. There was nothing wrong. I wasn’t subconsciously leaving the ring lying around to avoid the feeling of symbolic branding or of being owned that came with wearing it. I didn’t even know who’d put that psychobabble in my head in the first place. Well, it was probably me, but I’d just conjured those thoughts in the middle of the night. I’d just been in a hurry that morning, that’s all, I assured myself.

I walked over to the nightstand, relieved I had my brain turned back on. Amazing what a little down time will do for the old memory bank. Small problem, though. The ring wasn’t there. A burning began deep in my stomach. I looked all over, on the floors, in the drawers. Nothing.

I kept a flashlight in the nightstand. I got on all fours and searched the surface of the wooden floor, then did the same under the braided rug and on top of it. The ring was not there. Jerome ducked under my arm and whined. He must’ve needed to go to the bathroom.

Breathe, I reminded myself. I’d take Jerome on a walk. The cold air would help me calm down. I could mentally retrace my steps to the night before, when I knew I had it on. I bundled up and latched the leash onto Jerome, who practically had a meltdown before I could get him outside.

The light dusting of snow that had fallen earlier was just that, a mere dusting. Jerome and I had no trouble navigating the sidewalks around the neighborhood. The air felt thick and cold. I pulled on the hood of my parka and tugged the drawstrings to fit it more snugly around my face. Jerome seemed perfectly content with his thick fur suited for this type of weather.

We walked past neighbors’ houses with Christmas trees in nearly every front window. As we came to the corner where we usually went straight and crossed the road, Jerome stuck his nose in the air as if catching a scent. He pulled very uncharacteristically on his leash, insisting we turn left. He led us toward Henrietta Bowser’s house, a red brick Colonial style home with a large front porch. Jerome continued on as if he wanted to march right up to her front door. “No, buddy, leave these poor people alone,” I said. I didn’t want anyone to think that I would let my dog up on to their lawn to leave a deposit, so to speak.

Again, very uncharacteristically, Jerome tugged against the leash, almost choking himself. He crossed the lawn, up the hill toward the porch. The front door came into view at the crest of her snow covered lawn. “Oh my gosh,” I said. Henrietta sat on the cement, holding her ankle.

I hurried up to her; Jerome was already at her side.

“Careful, Quincy,” she said. “This porch is covered with ice.”

I approached with caution, glad she’d warned me. The entire porch was covered with an even and glistening sheet.

“Can I take a look?” I asked. I’d taken a first aid course earlier in the year and hoped I could be helpful.

“Please do. It’s my ankle. Oh, I hope it’s not broken. On Christmas Day, of all days. I don’t want to go to the emergency room.”

I pushed down her sock and took a look. There was swelling, but her skin seemed to be a normal color, and nothing was sticking out at an odd angle. “I’m going to squeeze your toes through your slipper. Can you feel that?”

She nodded, “Yes, I can feel it. It doesn’t hurt there.”

“Can you move your toes?”

Yes, she could.

“I hate to ask, but can you move your ankle at all?”

“Oooh,” her eyes squinted, and her mouth pursed in response to the obvious pain, but she moved her foot up and down. “It hurts, but not as bad as I thought it would. Maybe I can get up.”

I kneeled next to her and held her elbow as a support. Both of us started to slide as soon as she put any weight against me. “I can’t stay steady enough to pull you up, Hen. Do you think you could crawl into the house?”

“I’ll try,” she said.

Once inside, I helped her to the couch and propped up her foot with pillows. Jerome whimpered and licked her hand.

“What a little sweetheart,” Henrietta said.

“He sure is,” I said, pride welling in my chest. “I’ll get some ice in a baggie for you. Do you have an Ace bandage?” She described how to find the bandage in her linen closet and directed me to the drawer where I could find a sandwich bag for the ice. When I returned, she told me what happened as I placed a towel on her ankle then wrapped the ice bag on top with the bandage.

“I’m glad I waited until this afternoon to go out and get today’s paper, or you may not have found me. I like to look at the after-Christmas ads. It’s become a tradition for me and my sister to go shopping on the 26th to pick up some items to donate at the Jubilee. I can’t believe I got stuck outside of my own house. So embarrassing.”

Jerome made another squeak, and she reached down to pull him onto the couch with her.

“I’m just glad you weren’t hurt more severely,” I said.

“I’m glad you were here, Quincy. Kent is driving truck in North Dakota, and I planned to spend the day alone. I might have been outside for quite a long time.”

“I’m glad we came too. It was all due to this little guy. He decided to go this way on our walk.” Jerome lay next to Henrietta on the couch, his eyes contentedly closed.

“He’s a rescue dog for sure,” Henrietta said. Jerome’s tail thumped on the couch, his eyes remaining closed.

“Will we still see you at the Jubilee? You always win a ribbon no matter what category you enter.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to stand up long enough. I was hoping for the big prize this year. I’ve got a fruitcake recipe from years back that I wanted to try.”

“I have an idea,” I said. “My future mother-in-law is still in town, and she wanted to participate in the Jubilee somehow. I bet she’d be thrilled to come and act as your assistant chef. What do you think?”

“Hmm. That sounds kind of fun. Why don’t you give me her number, and I’ll give her a call?”

Perfect. I’d done my good deed for the day and helped my future mother-in-law get involved with the Jubilee, thus helping myself.

On the walk home, I tried to remember what I’d done with my engagement ring. It was no use. When we got back to my house, I would search every nook and cranny. If that didn’t work, I’d sit down and have a long cry, and then decide how I would tell Alex that even though I loved him more than anything and wanted to spend the rest of my life with him, I couldn’t even manage to take care of my engagement ring for more than two weeks.

Chapter 3

 

The day after Christmas meant back to work for me. New Year’s Eve is a popular day for couples who have pre-planned their weddings, and for those who decide to make “Be Married” one of their spur of the moment New Year’s resolutions.

I left Jerome to eat breakfast in his new, snowdog-themed food bowl (thank you, Auntie K.C.) while I showered then dressed. I sat on my bed to check email on my phone. The sight of the first email in the queue made me glad I hadn’t had any breakfast yet, as I would have lost it. Elizabeth Downing, a bride who’d called me to plan her wedding the week before, was emailing yet again. Elizabeth was a nice young woman who was just a little—maybe a lot—of a scatterbrain, who was also getting married on New Year’s Eve.

I cringed as I clicked open the email, wondering what change or addition sweet Elizabeth was going to request today. Another bridesmaid, as it turned out. I’d have to wait until I got to work to see if there would be enough extra blooms in our shipment, or if I’d have to try to find more somewhere else. I slipped on my cute winter boots, shrugged into my parka, and latched Jerome into his harness. We piled into Zombie Sue, the undead mini-van who’d never missed a start.

Until today.

It was cold enough to see our breath in frosty puffs. I had a driveway at my little house, but not a garage for keeping Sue. I turned the key, and she hesitated. “Oh no. C’mon girl, what’s wrong?” I asked my most dependable ally and partner in crime. Jerome whined, and I tried not to panic and think about all the things that could be wrong and how much it would cost to fix her.

I tried not to panic but failed. Jerome whined again, and I told him not to worry. I patted Sue on the dashboard and reassured her that no matter what was wrong, I knew she’d always been there for me, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed. I crossed my fingers with my left hand and turned the key with my right. Sue roared to life with as strong a start as any before. Relief.

Festive garland and ornaments from the busy Christmas holiday still adorned the inside of my shop. After his usual sniff inspection of the store, Jerome returned to the doorway between back and front design rooms, found the exact epicenter, and plopped down for his first morning nap.

Daphne, our assistant floral designer, came through the back door soon after we arrived.

“Good morning, Quincy,” she said in her perky manner.

“You know, if I didn’t like you so much, I’d have to hate you for being so cheerful and awake in the mornings,” I teased.

“Don’t hate me because I’m an early riser.” She winked then lifted Jerome, who’d interrupted his nap to go over and greet her by sniffing her shoes. “Oooff, you’re getting heavier by the day. I bet he’s gained a couple of pounds since I worked last. That was only three or four days ago.”

“I understand he could get up to a hundred fifty pounds,” I said.

“Well, I’m glad I can still pick him up now. Aren’t I? Aren’t I glad, puppy?” She couldn’t help but take on the puppy talk voice, I knew. I hadn’t met a person yet who didn’t change to baby talk when they spoke to my dog. And he seemed to love every second of the attention. “So how come all the cabinet doors are all open back here?”

“It’s so the pipes don’t freeze. This building is so old that there are lots of places where the cold leaks in. If you open the doors under the sinks, it allows the heat from the rest of the room to warm the pipes.”

“We sure didn’t have to worry about this in Florida.”

“No, but you had to worry about a crocodile biting off your leg,” K.C. said from behind us. We hadn’t heard her come in the back door, which was unusual. One almost always knew when Karma Clackerton was within a mile.

“You mean alligators,” Daphne said with a laugh.

“I’d worry equally about either one,” K.C. said. “Boy, oh, boy. It’s colder than a witch’s…kneecap out there. How was your Christmas, kiddo?”

We were interrupted by the freight delivery service at the front door. The first of our flower shipments had arrived. We caught up on our holiday experiences while we unpacked boxes and processed flowers into buckets.

“Uh oh,” K.C. said. “I’m no expert, but I believe these aren’t supposed to look like this.” She held up a bunch of white larkspur. The foliage was completely black, and the tips of the long stems were curled over.

“Looks like they froze,” I said.

“Feel this bunch,” Daphne said. “The stems are like ice cubes.”

“Great,” I said, and not in the good way. These were the perils of special ordering wedding flowers, or any flowers for that matter. Flowers are shipped by air and by truck, and Mother Nature doesn’t always cooperate with perfect weather.

The rest of the morning was spent contacting suppliers, not only to get credit for the damaged product, but also to try and find new white spider mums, larkspur, button chrysanthemums, and green roses in quantities to fill my orders.

As I was hanging up with the last supplier, the other line rang. “Thank you for calling Rosie’s P—”

“Don’t bother with the rest, dear. I’m in a hurry.”

“Oh. Hi, Mom.” I stopped to let her share her news, since she was in such a hurry.

“Well, aren’t you going to ask me anything?”

I sighed to myself and rolled my eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Your father is already over at Deborah Green’s place. I’m headed over there now.”

My interest was piqued. Why would my dad be over at one of the MLM’s houses? “I thought Deborah was out of town for Christmas,” I said.

“She is. That’s the problem. She isn’t due back until this afternoon. She was visiting her daughter in Albuquerque, and her flight doesn’t come in until later today.”

“What’s happened?” I asked, now the impatient one.

“Grace Bynum went over to check on the cat. Grace lives next door, and she has a key to Deborah’s house. Every time one of them goes out of town…” My mother knew that I knew where Grace and Deborah lived. She had to know that I knew they watched each other’s places when one of them would travel. She had to know, because she outlaid the entire history for every one of her cohorts, or anyone for that matter, every time she would talk about one of them. “…she walked in, and she was ankle-deep in water. It was gushing out of a wall in the laundry room. The cat was hiding in the top of Deborah’s closet.”

I stood up and perhaps instinctively walked into the back design room, finding myself checking on the pipes under the sink.

“Grace called me, and I’ve sent your father over to fix the leak. I’m going over there to help clean things up.”

“Does anyone know what caused the pipe to burst?”

“Your dad said he got there, and the door to her cold storage room was wide open. She’s got a dug out room in the back of the house. It’s just a dirt floor. That open door let all the freezing air in, and they think it froze the pipe leading to the laundry room. It’s horrible. Grace says she was over there last night, and she swears she didn’t notice that door being open.” Mom sighed. “I’ve offered to let Deborah and her husband stay at our house when they get home from the airport, so I was wondering if you could bring some flowers over so they’ll be there when the Greens arrive.”

“Sure, I’d be happy to.”

Mom made a noise that sounded a lot like she’d just cursed under her breath. Although, she would never admit to swearing. “Deborah was so looking forward to the Jubilee. She told me she was coming home today just so she could prepare for the contest. By the way Grace tells it, Deborah won’t be able to use that kitchen for a while. And poor Grace, she feels terrible.”

The jingle bells hanging against the front door alerted us to someone coming in. It was Vanessa Brown, Queen of the Jubilee, accompanied by her daughter, Belinda, who’d gone to the same junior high as I had. She was a bully and a mean girl then, and from all accounts she still was. She taught Life Skills courses, formerly known as Home Economics, at Hillside High School now.

“Hello, Mrs. Brown. Hi, Belinda. What can I help you with today?”

“We just came by to see your cute little store. We’d never even heard of it before,” Vanessa said.

They had, actually, heard of my store before. It was the time when I was standing in front of them at a Chamber of Commerce get together—telling them about my shop.

“Oh, well um thanks for stopping in. That’s nice of you,” I said, not believing a word I was saying.

“We thought we’d buy a little something for the other contestants in our category at the Jubilee. Just a little good luck gift for each of them,” Vanessa said. “We’ve already made Brownie’s Fudge Brownies for everyone, but we thought it would be cute to add a small bunch of flowers with each plate.”

“Mom’s entering the dessert category this year,” Belinda announced out of nowhere.

So that’s why they were here. They’d somehow found out I was going to be a judge, and they thought they would butter me up by buying something from me.

It’d been a mistake when I revealed I would be a judge at the Christmas Eve party, in order to get K.C. off my back. But K.C., my mom, and Eleanor were the only people I’d told. They’d all been sworn to secrecy. So that didn’t explain how Vanessa and Belinda found out. Had they somehow bribed someone on the Jubilee committee? Or maybe they’d somehow stolen some files. Would they go as far as to tap a phone or hack a computer? They’d already hinted at what dish I was supposed to give the most points to. If I tasted anything close to a Fudge Brownie at the judging, I would have to recuse myself.

I was letting my imagination run wild. Nevertheless, I didn’t want to spend one more minute in their presence if I didn’t have to. That way, any slips of information wouldn’t come from me.

“I’m so sorry, ladies, but I’m late for a telephone appointment with an out-of-town bride. Daphne here can help you finish up your order. I hope you’ll excuse me, and thank you so much for coming in.” I motioned to Daphne, who to her credit, jumped in without having a clue what was going on, and I made my escape.

I hid in the back design room where K.C. was putting together delivery boxes for use later in the week.

“Did you hear what just happened out there?” I asked, keeping my voice down.

“Didn’t hear a thing,” she practically shouted.

“Shhh! I’m supposed to be back here on the phone.”

“You’re gonna have to speak up, I can’t understand a word you’re saying, Boss.”

I pulled her into the rear alcove where we staged our deliveries so that our voices wouldn’t carry. I relayed my recent conversation.

K.C.’s mouth gaped open. “She’s getting flowers for her fellow competitors? Sounds a lot like what happened to your mother yesterday. What nerve! Just flaunting it right in our faces. Is she still here? I’m gonna go out there and—”

“Hold on.” I pushed against her shoulders to keep her from leaving. “We don’t know it was her that sent those flowers. First of all, they came from the grocery store. And second, I don’t think she would be so brazen as to come in here and admit that she sent them. She could probably get disqualified, don’t you think?”

“I think you are très naïve, that’s what I think.”

“I’m not going to go out there and accuse her of anything, even if I do suspect her of delivering those flowers. Besides, they pretty much came right out and told me they know I’m a dessert judge. And now they’re shopping in my store. That’s an obvious attempt at influencing me. I should just call the head of the judging committee and tell them what’s going on.”

“Hey, Quincy?” Daphne called from the doorway. “Can we deliver their brownies with the flower arrangements?”

I looked over wide-eyed at K.C.

“What the…” K.C. seemed to be as dumbfounded as I was.

“They want us to deliver arrangements to all the people in the dessert category?” I said.

“I guess so,” Daphne said. “I don’t know who everyone is; I just want to know if you’re okay with us delivering their homemade food to everyone.”

There was no way anyone could be that stupid. There mustn’t have been a connection between Vanessa Brown, as overly-confident as she was about winning, and the flowers my mom received on Christmas morning.

“Tell them yes, we can deliver, as long as the food is sealed in some kind of packaging when they drop it all off.”

Daphne left, and I turned back to K.C.

K.C. placed her palms to either side of her face. “I thought I had seen everything. I was just going to suggest we follow them around and see where they deliver those flowers and treats. Now we don’t even have to do that. They’re paying us to spy on them.”

“It’s not them. Nobody would be that dumb. Besides, we can read the enclosure card messages before they’re delivered. And if they seal the envelopes before we can read them, you can wait while the recipient opens the envelope and then ask them what it says.”

She tilted her head and put her hands on her hips. “Don’t you think it’s a little nosy?”

“Yes. That’s why you’re perfect for the job,” I said with a wink.

“You’re absolutely right, Boss. Karma Clackerton is on the case.”

Even though Vanessa was probably innocent, it gave K.C. a mystery to work on. She could occupy her busy self with it until it came time for her to compete at the Jubilee. It would keep her, and by extension me, from getting into any trouble otherwise.

And in trouble is a place we found ourselves all too often.

Chapter 4

 

The next day at work, we received a replacement shipment of flowers. The temperatures had warmed just slightly, and those few degrees Fahrenheit made everyone’s lives much easier. It wasn’t swimsuit weather by any means, but it was just above freezing. And that meant all of my flowers arrived healthy and happy.

Vanessa Brown had dropped off her brownies in cute metal tins printed with Christmas trees and ornaments. We made small bouquets in colors matching each tin, and K.C. happily set out to deliver them. Once the orders for the day were complete, Daphne and I started work on wedding centerpieces.

That afternoon, K.C. returned. Daphne and I waited eagerly to hear what awful things had been written on the cards for the dessert contestants.

“Well?” I asked.

K.C. took her time taking off her coat, her white, fluffy scarf and the matching knit hat with the fluffy, white faux fur edge and drawstring pompoms.

“C’mon, K.C.,” Daphne said, “what did those cards say?”

“Hmm?” She pretended not to know we were waiting on her response. “Oh, are you talking to me?”

“Very funny,” I said. “All right already, what did those cards say?”

“Nothing,” she said straight-faced.

“No, really,” Daphne said.

“That’s the truth. Nothing but boring old well wishes for the competition.” She pulled a chair up to the design table and sat down. She placed her elbows on the table and rested her chin in one hand. “Not a nasty word for any one of them. All my hopes were dashed.”

“I’m sorry, K.C.” Daphne said, while placing a hand on her shoulder.

“You know what?” I said. “We should’ve known not to get our hopes up. It was just too obvious. Maybe Vanessa is a bad winner who likes to brag about her winnings, but she did a nice thing for her fellow competitors. We should learn from her example.”

K.C. rolled her eyes.

“What?” I asked.

“Something—is—up.” K.C. popped the last “p” like she was smacking her gum. “Can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something going on.”

I grabbed a towel and wiped some leaves off the design table. “Let’s say something is up. Whatever it is, we can’t worry about it anymore. We’ve got weddings to prepare, and you’ve got a killer Jell-O salad to get ready for competition. I’m sure I’ll be running errands for my mom so she can get her entry just right. And then there’s Alex’s mom to contend with. We’re too busy to worry about what Vanessa is up to.”

K.C. exhaled a loud sigh. “As usual, I suppose you’re right. Hey, you missed a spot over here.” She pointed to a sparkling clean area on the table. I threw the towel at her.

“Quincy, where’s your ring?” Daphne said.

There was that sinking feeling again. I told both of them how I couldn’t find it.

“I’m sure it’ll turn up somewhere,” Daphne said reassuringly. “Have you looked all around here for it?”

“I have, but I think I remember wearing it on Christmas Eve, after I left the shop. I’ve tried to think back so many times. Now I don’t know what I remember.”

“Does our Ellie know you can’t find it?” K.C. said.

“No. And we’ve got to keep it that way. Alex knows I forgot to put it on the other day. I’ve got to remember soon. I don’t want him to feel like it’s not important to me.”

“Let’s look around here, just in case,” Daphne said.

We retraced every action and step I may have made in the previous four days. We searched the floor under the cabinets, on top of the cabinets and inside of them. Any area where I might have placed my hands. We looked inside the box of newspaper for recycling, and the box of catalogs. We found nothing after searching over every square inch of the shop including my desk and the messy stacks of paper that covered it.

Nothing.

“Why don’t you take off early and try looking around your house again?” K.C. said.

“Yeah, and K.C. could go with you,” Daphne said. She volunteered to stay and close up the shop by herself.

K.C., Jerome, and I walked to the parking lot, and Jerome took a stroll around the perimeter while we humans searched the interior of Zombie Sue.

“Oh, my gosh!” K.C. exclaimed, as she thunked her cotton-swab-looking head. “I bet I know where it is. Did you wear gloves when you drove to work?”

A gleam of excitement sparked in my chest. “Yes,” I exclaimed hopefully, as I pulled the gloves out of the pockets of my parka. I jammed my fingers inside and felt nothing. I even turned them inside out. They were empty.

“Darn. Don’t worry, we’ll find it. Chin up. Tally-ho.” She climbed into her new Jeep Wrangler, a Christmas present from her husband.

Once at my place, we got right into the search. We retraced my steps in the morning from the bedroom to the kitchen to the bathroom, trying to think of all the places I might have been and all the times when the ring might have slipped off my hand.

“You don’t think it could have gone down the drain?” K.C. asked, as we stood in the bathroom.

“No. I don’t trust myself—with good reason. I take it off and put it in my pocket or on the nightstand if I’m about to use the sink or tub.”

“I guess that means we’ve got to search all your pockets next.” We looked through every piece of clothing I had and came up with nothing.

Jerome waddled into the bedroom and sat at my feet, looking up at me expectantly.

“Do you wear it while you sleep?” K.C. asked.

“No, I tried that but scratched up my face. I keep it here on the nightstand when I sleep.” Although I’d already done it, I got on my hands and knees and raked my fingers across the rug around the base of the nightstand and under the bed.

“Um, Boss, look what your little buddy is doing.”

I glanced to my left and saw two hind legs extended. Jerome was standing up on his back legs, his front paws reaching up to the top of the night stand as if in search of something.

“I have an idea,” K.C. said. “Carry on what you were doing and ignore him.”

“Okay,” I said with a note of suspicion. I stole a glance and saw her place her wedding ring on the nightstand, then walk away.

“Let’s see what he does,” she whispered.

After a moment, Jerome resumed his standing position at the nightstand, batted the ring onto the floor, picked it up with his teeth, and left the room.

“I’ll be jiggered,” K.C. said.

We found him on his bed, the ring tucked under his paw. He didn’t resist K.C. taking the jewelry away from him.

“I think you’re going to have to consider all the possibilities, Boss.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Jerome here may have gulped down your engagement ring. He hadn’t got to mine yet, and maybe he wouldn’t have, but it’s possible.”

“What do I do?” I said.

“You’re gonna have to go through his business.”

“You mean…?”

“Yes, I do. I mean, his doodoo.” She slapped her knee. “Ha! I crack myself up. Where does he do his ah—business?”

Jerome followed us outside, excitedly wagging his tail, ready for the next adventure.

“I don’t believe I’m doing this. We’re actually doing this?” I said.

“After you.” K.C. gestured for me to go ahead with a sweeping of both hands. We’d donned rubber gloves and found some left over chopsticks from the last time Alex and I got Chinese takeout.

I kept an area in the backyard shoveled out so that Jerome could get there without sinking into the snow, and so that it was easier for me to clean up.

“How do we even know it’s here?” I said.

“We don’t. It could be anywhere the little tike has gone.”

I felt my jaw drop open while I thought of the ramifications. My ring could be encased at my parents, at Alex’s house, or at the shop. Each time Jerome would go, I would scoop it up with a bag and put it in the outdoor trashcan.

“If it’s not—here—I’m going to have to go digging through dumpsters and trashcans in search of bags of…”

“Looks like it,” K.C. said, without a hint of sympathy in her voice.

“I don’t believe we’re even talking about this, let alone standing out here.”

“Facts of life, Boss. I once had a beagle who was partial to pearls. You can imagine how great-grandma’s necklace looked—”

“I’m gonna stop you right there. Let’s just get this over with.” And as sick as it sounds, I said a little prayer that we would find my ring in this dissection, because I didn’t think I could handle looking for more elsewhere.

“This is the last one, K.C. If it’s not in here I’ll have to cry.”

The latch on the back gate rattled. Both K.C. and I startled and looked up. Alex and his mother stood in the opening.

“Hello, ladies…” Alex said, his voice thick with suspicion.

“What’s going on over there?” Eleanor said. “Did I hear you say you were going to cry, Quincy?”

“Alex, Eleanor…what are you up to?” I said weakly.

“Probably not the same thing as you,” Alex said. He’d busted us. He’d probably never guess what for, but he was a cop. He knew when people were up to something.

“Well if it isn’t my pal, Ellie, and my future third husband,” K.C. said. Eleanor gave her a funny look. “We’re just taking a gander here at the business end of Quincy’s dog.”

Eleanor shot a disgusted look in my direction. “Why on earth would you—”

“Worms,” K.C. blurted out like a gunshot.

“Worms?” Eleanor said in horror.

Jerome whined, having been deeply offended.

“He’s been acting funny lately, so Quincy asked my advice. I told her about my beagle named Buster. He had a problem with—”

“He had a similar problem,” I interrupted.

Alex fixed his gaze on me. “Have you found any results?”

I was so busted.

“Looks like we were wrong,” I said. “We didn’t find anything.”

“Let’s go inside, it’s freezing out here.” K.C, said. After giving me her gloves, she went in with Eleanor.

Using the supplies we’d brought outside with us, I bundled up the toxic waste and took it to the trash bin, gloves included. Alex followed me.

“Are you ready to give in?”

“Yes, it’s freezing out here,” I said.

“Nice try. I didn’t say go in, I said give in, which is what you should do.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I smiled and walked toward the house.

“I still love you, even though you’ve lost your engagement ring.”

“It isn’t lost. It’s just—not where I remember putting it.”

“You’re stubborn, Q.”

“It’s what you find so endearing about me.”

“Yeah, that’s what it is,” he said, as he gave me a little pat on the behind. I turned and gave him a goofy look. We climbed the back steps into the welcoming heat of the house. “So, Mom and I just stopped by after meeting Henrietta.”

“She decided to help her out, that’s great!” I said.

“Mom’s really excited.”

Eleanor came into the kitchen. “I’m excited about what, Leaky?”

K.C. had followed in, after Eleanor. “Leaky! How in the heck did you get that nickname?”

Alex’s face glowed with embarrassment. “Mom, did you have to?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” Eleanor said. “I don’t know why you get so upset about it. Now what was it I’m excited about? I heard you telling Quincy.”

“Helping Henrietta with the contest. Q., where’s your tool box? I need to take a look at something under the sink.”

I directed him to the basement for the tools. “Coward,” I whispered, as he passed me.

“I know when to take my exit,” he said. “I hate that nickname.”

“I had no idea something was wrong with my sink. What are you looking for?”

“Oh nothing.” He grinned at me and winked.

Eleanor recounted their meeting with Henrietta, whom she was happy to assist for the contest. Hen’s ankle was still swollen and painful, but it was doing a little better than when I found her. Eleanor said Henrietta had warned them to come around to the side door in the carport to avoid the ice.

“You know, it seemed really odd to me that the ice covered the entire porch,” I said.

“Why is that?” K.C. asked. “It’s so cold out there, if there was any kind of drip it would freeze on the cement almost instantly.”

“That’s exactly it. If there were a drip, it would pool in a certain area, freezing right where it landed. There would be patches of ice. What I saw was an even sheet, like water had been spread equally over the whole surface. And I didn’t see anywhere that the water might have come from. It’s been too cold for snow to melt off the roof.”

“You think someone did it on purpose?” Eleanor said.

“I don’t know, but it seems a strange coincidence that Henrietta always places in the top contestants at the Jubilee. I wonder if someone was trying to prevent her from entering.”

“The same someone who left that nasty surprise on your parents’ doorstep?” K.C. said.

“I don’t know. I’m probably just letting my imagination run wild. Just, be careful over there, Eleanor.”

“Thank you, Quincy. I will.”

Alex came into the living room where we’d congregated.

“Did you find any leaks, Leaky?” K.C. asked through her giggles.

“And here I was going to give you a big kiss,” he said. “Too bad.”

K.C. snapped her fingers. “Damn.”

“I guess we’ll be on our way,” Eleanor said.

“Did you find anything—under the sink?” I asked him.

“No. And still, I love you. Remember that.”

“Oh, I will.”

Chapter 5

 

The phone call to my parents asking them if their trash had been picked up wasn’t awkward at all. Until they asked why I wanted to know. The next thing that happened wasn’t exactly a Christmas miracle, but it was close. My dear dad volunteered to take a look for me.

Sadly, he didn’t find anything. He also looked all around the house and opened the pipes under the bathroom and kitchen sink with no luck. I was ready to admit defeat, but I had enough distractions coming up with the weddings and the Jubilee, and with Alex’s work schedule, that I could put off talking to him about it until after New Year’s Eve.

Distractions were good. Not having to think about how I lost something so precious was good for the moment. I wasn’t proud to say it, but I was all about denial.

My mother was being very tight-lipped about her contest entry. I thought by now she would’ve had me running to the grocery store picking up an extra item or two, just in case she didn’t get her recipe right the first time. Maybe she’d enlisted my older sister to help her, which was perfectly fine with me.

My mother hadn’t called me to help her with her contest entry for the Jubilee, but that didn’t stop her from calling me at work and asking me to do favors for her cohorts. And really, it was only fair. She would usually enlist my father to run around for her, but since he had done the dumpster diving for me, it was the least I could do to go and pick up clothing donations from Sherry Auerbach.

“Hey, Boss, now that Daphne’s here, I was thinking of grabbing a bite at Skinny’s.”

“Didn’t Elma ban you from eating there, K.C.?” Daphne asked.

“I really don’t care if she did. I want a scone with honey butter, and I’m going to have one.” She walked to the back design room with her nose in the air.

Daphne looked at me, her brows knitted together. “Quincy, maybe you better go with her. I don’t want her to get all of us banned just because she works here. You know how Elma is.”

I did know. Elma was the big-boned waitress at her father’s café. Her father was nicknamed Skinny, and that’s what he’d named his eatery. The scones were really deep fried yeast dough and not English tea scones. Nobody knows why we call them scones in Utah, and frankly, none of us really care. A scone to us is piece of heaven that you slather with honey butter and eat too much of. Elma was cantankerous, opinionated, and plain old grouchy. She was the gatekeeper between the people and their scones. And she loved every minute of that job.

It would come as a surprise to absolutely no one that K.C. didn’t take too kindly to being told she couldn’t have or do something. And no one would be surprised to learn that Elma was up for the challenge when it came to K.C.

All of us just worked as hard as we could to prevent the day when we had to take sides. Because given the choice between friendship and Skinny’s food—well I hate to even think of that scenario. Needless to say, K.C. would need an Elma buffer.

“Mind if I come along, K.C.?”

“Not at all, the more the merrier.”

“Would you mind if we stopped at someone’s house to pick up a clothing donation?”

“No problem, let’s go.”

I had my own history with Elma. We’d had more than a few conflicts, many of them stemming from Elma’s crush on Alex. At first I thought her attraction to him was natural. He’s good-looking, smart, polite, and nice. What’s not to love? But Elma doesn’t know where to draw the line, especially when it comes to keeping her hands to herself when he’s in her general vicinity.

We walked into Skinny’s and seated ourselves at a booth. Elma strolled over, chomping on her gum. She’d pinned a festive silk poinsettia into her beehive hairdo, which matched the fiery red lipstick, rouge, and nail polish she’d applied in thick, glistening coats.

“Quincy,” Elma said, which was the extent of her greeting.

“We won’t waste any of your time, Elma,” K.C. said. “I’d like a Joe’s breakfast with a scone instead of toast.” The food at Skinny’s was named for the favorite dishes of regular patrons.

“I’ll have an Ernie with a scone and a hot chocolate, please,” I said.

“How’s your mother,” Elma asked.

“Oh, she’s good, excited for the Jubilee.”

“Heard you got engaged,” she said, in time between chomps of her gum.

“Yes, I did.”

“Where’s your ring?” she said as she gave me the stink-eye. “I can’t imagine a class act like Alex wouldn’t give you a ring.” She looked down at the order pad in her hand. “Not that you deserve one,” she muttered.

K.C. slammed her hand down on the table. I shot her a look.

“I take my ring off to work, so I don’t lose it.” Was I a hypocrite or what? “Thanks for asking. I’ll make sure and tell Alex.”

Elma stared at me for an awkwardly long time. “You know, I’m competing in the Jubilee this year.”

“Oh really? That’s great.”

“I’m entering the desserts category.”

“That’s—great—Elma,” I said, with a little less enthusiasm than before.

Elma said nothing else and left to bark out our orders to the kitchen.

“Do you believe the nerve of that woman?” K.C. said. “She’s buttering you up for a vote too. Did you misunderstand the rules? Maybe there’s a list circulating with your name on it. Maybe everyone but me knows who the judges are.”

“I don’t think so, but don’t you see? This proves that it’s just a coincidence that Belinda blurted out her mother was competing in desserts. She probably just couldn’t think of anything nice to say, so she does what she always does—brag about her mother.”

“How do you figure this proves any of that?” K.C. asked.

“Because Elma wouldn’t butter up to me if I was the last—thing to butter up to—on earth. Elma doesn’t like me. She doesn’t like anyone, except Alex. I think that announcing she was going to be in the contest was just her way of trying to one up me or anyone in my family. This just proves what I’ve been thinking.”

“And what is that?” K.C. said, her tone laced with disbelief.

“That Vanessa Brown, sore winner she may be, wasn’t trying to influence me as a judge.”

“What about the arrangement on your parents’ porch? You still don’t think she delivered it?”

“No.”

“Well then, who did?” K.C. said, loud enough for other restaurant patrons to look over at us.

“I don’t know. Maybe it was Elma.”

“The woman does have brass you-know-whats,” K.C. said. She scowled. “That’s a heck of a display of one-upmanship. I wouldn’t peg her as an anonymous sender though.”

“Maybe she forgot to sign her name,” I said.

“Maybe.”

“I do know one thing,” I said.

“What’s that, Boss?”

“I’m not going to risk a lifetime ban by asking her.”

“You got that right, sister,” K.C. said.

Chapter 6

 

Another part of the Jubilee each year was the clothing donation drive. Contestants and attendees could bring clothing and get a reduced entry fee. The donations would be taken to the nearest homeless shelter. K.C. and I drove to Sherry Auerbach’s place to pick up her donation. My mother hadn’t said why I needed to, and I hadn’t asked.

I rang the doorbell, and no one came to the door, so I knocked. After several minutes we turned to leave, when the door slowly came open.

“Hi Sherry, my mom said you have some clothes for me to pick up for the donation drive.”

“Hello, girls. Come on in. I’ve got them in a box in my dining room. Thank you so much for coming, I just feel terrible I won’t be able to participate.”

“Oh my, how come?” K.C. asked.

“I started to feel under the weather yesterday and thought it would pass. But this morning it’s gotten worse. Like I’ve got some kind of flu.”

I saw K.C. lean away from Sherry ever so slightly. “That’s a shame. You don’t think you’ll pull through in time for tomorrow?”

Sherry shook her head. “No.” She grimaced and clutched her stomach. “It just seems to be getting worse by the minute. Please excuse me.” She turned and nearly sprinted down the hall into what I assumed might be the bathroom.

“Poor thing,” K.C. whispered.

We waited for what seemed like a long time without hearing anything. Finally, I went over to the door Sherry had closed. “Sherry, are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m okay,” a weak, tired voice said. “I’m so sorry, I think I’m going to be in here for a while.”

Poor lady. “Tell you what,” I said to the bathroom door, “we’ll just get the clothes out of the dining room and take them with us. Call if you need anything else, okay?”

“Thank you, Quincy. And thank your mother for me too.”

Politeness above all else. We went to the dining room, having to pass through the kitchen first. There were Mason jars of preserved pie cherries, bags of shelled walnuts, powdered sugar, and chocolate chips on the counter.

“Looks like she was going to enter the desserts category,” K.C. said. “Darn, I would have liked to taste whatever she was making over there.”

“You might be right,” I said. “Look.” I pointed to the opened decorative tin sitting on the dining room table.

We grabbed the box of clothing in the corner and said goodbye to Sherry, who had just come out of the bathroom. She said she was terribly embarrassed, but we assured her we were happy to help out and that we were available if she needed anything else.

As we drove away K.C. said, “I never delivered any flowers to Sherry, or that tin of brownies. I wonder why they left her out.”

“That was the same tin as all the others. It had been opened, I saw the brownies inside.”

“Maybe they realized they left her off the list and delivered it themselves.”

“Maybe.” I said. “But we’ve got other things to worry about. I haven’t finished two of the bride’s bouquets being picked up tomorrow morning. Speaking of tomorrow, we’ve got the three wedding deliveries and two pick-ups. Are you going to have enough time to get your entry done?”

“Oh yes, don’t worry about me. I’ll finish most of it this evening. The Jell-O has to set up overnight. Don’t ever believe what the package directions tell you.”

I laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind. Just let me know if you need to leave early today to get started on your entry.”

“I believe I will.”

Once back at the shop, Daphne handed me a fist full of phone messages. “You might want to call your mom first,” she said wearily. For Daphne to have been worn down enough to be annoyed, there must have been several calls.

“I’m so sorry, Daphne. I don’t know why she didn’t call my cell phone.”

“Oh, she did. It’s sitting on your desk.”

“Oops,” I cringed. “Sorry.” It’d probably been a subconscious premonition that led me to forget my phone. I always tried to carry it with me, in case Alex called. Whenever he was at work, I worried. It was comforting to at least have the phone with me, so that if there ever was bad news, I would hear it first.

One of the phone messages was from our favorite bride. I decided to call her first, since her request would likely have the most serious effects on our time schedule. Turns out she’d called to ask about our refund policy. She and her long-time fiancé—two weeks if I remember correctly—had had a falling out the night before, and she just didn’t know if she could go through with it—but she wasn’t sure. I told her I sympathized with her situation and felt for her. Really, I did. I also reminded her that she’d signed a contract with me and that she had verbally indicated to me she understood, all the money was non-refundable.

“Oh,” she said through her sobs. “Well, in that case, I need to order an extra corsage for his mom.” Sobs gone, sweet, happy voice had returned.

I told her we could do that and reminded her that it too would be non-refundable.

I hung up the phone while shaking my head. “What was that all about?” K.C. said.

My cell phone rang. I looked at the display and saw my parents’ home phone number. “I’ll tell you after I answer this. Daphne, can you make another corsage for Elizabeth Downing’s wedding?”

Daphne rolled her eyes. “Another one? Sure, I’ll start it now.”

I sat down, bracing myself in case this turned out to be a marathon call, based on how many urgent messages my mother had left with Daphne.

“Hi Mom,” I kept my voice cheerful to try and lead the conversation in that direction.

“Quincy, where have you been?”

“On deliveries. Is everything okay?”

“No, everything is not, okay. Your sister has a doctor’s appointment, and your father is sick. I don’t have anyone to run to the store.”

“What do you need? I can run and grab it for you.”

“I don’t need anything now, I just worry in case something goes wrong.”

I couldn’t help letting out a sigh. “So you don’t need anything, you’re just worried that you might?”

“All right, I know it sounds silly. I just really want to win this year. I’ve come in second and third so many times. And it doesn’t help that Vanessa Brown, who somehow wins every single year has to rub my nose in the fact that I don’t.”

“What did Vanessa do? Did she admit to sending those flowers?”

“No, she left a tin full of brownies on my front porch. There was a little card on it that said, ‘Good Luck, from Vanessa.’”

I mentally thunked my forehead. A light bulb had switched on. “Did you say Dad was sick?”

Chapter 7

 

“He’s terribly sick to his stomach. He’s had to run to the bathroom all day.”

“Did he eat any of those brownies that Vanessa left on the porch?”

“Hold on.” A thump came through the phone as she set it down. “Angus,” I heard her call. After a long pause she got back on the line, her breathing heavy. “Sorry, I had to go upstairs to find him. He says yes, he ate some for lunch, since I was busy in the kitchen. Silly man, he could have asked me to fix him something. Oh, my goodness,” she exclaimed.

“What?”

“He’s eaten half the tin. Ooh, when he gets over this flu, he’s gonna be in so much trouble. He can’t binge on sweets like that. We’re going to have a talk.”

Before I hung up with her, I offered to run any errands she might need. I was careful not to sound upset about the brownies. I made up an excuse for having asked about them. And I told my mom she was sure to win this year. She didn’t need to worry about how Vanessa Brown was poisoning people to drop them from the competition.

But I was going to do something about it.

I made sure Daphne was okay with me leaving. She said she was almost finished with the extra corsage, and that she could finish the remaining bridal bouquets before closing time. I tried to remain calm and not reveal my plans, but K.C. knew something was up. She was always on the alert for action. We took Jerome with us and jumped into Zombie Sue.

“You think she was handing out bad brownies?” K.C. said.

“Possibly.”

“I know this is going to sound strange coming from me,” she said, “but don’t you think we should call the police?”

“I’m not absolutely sure that she put something in the brownies. It could be that everyone has the flu.”

“Then why are we driving over to Vanessa Brown’s place to rough her up?

“K.C.! We are not going to rough anyone up. We’re merely—going to—fling some nasty allegations.”

“That’s my girl,” K.C. said.

In the back of my mind, something suggested this might be a bad idea. But, whether intentional or not, this woman had caused harm to my family. And call it intuition or stupidity, I was going to sort things out.

We pulled up and parked on the street in front of the house.

“We’ll just go to the door and knock. When she answers, we’ll ask her if anyone has complained about her brownies,” I said. “Make sure to watch her face and her body language. We should be able to tell if she’s lying.”

“Okay, let’s do this,” K.C. said.

Jerome, who was latched by his harness to a handle in back of the van, jumped up and barked. Then he started pawing at my back seat.

“You stay here,” I told him. “He doesn’t usually bark like that,” I said.

“Maybe he has to tinkle,” K.C. said.

“Not now, Jerome. Really?”

“You go up to the door, I’ll stand by while he goes outside and then let him back in the van. You call me over if there’s a problem,” K.C. said.

We got out, I unlatched Jerome’s harness and opened the side door. He leapt past me and ran directly to Vanessa’s front door.

“Jerome!” I shouted. It did nothing to stop the dog; it just helped to vent my frustration with him.

I ran up to the porch, where I found him whining and scratching the door. Then he barked that sharp warning bark he’d used at my parents’ house.

“Jerome, no. Stop it.”

K.C. ran up to us and leaned over to catch her breath. “What’s he doing?”

“He’s scratching up her front door.”

“I’ll take him back to the car. C’mon tough guy.” She latched his leash onto the harness and walked the other direction. He wouldn’t budge. “Now, Jerome. Don’t be naughty, come on.”

He whined and sat on my foot.

I gave up dealing with the dog and rang the doorbell. No one came. Jerome barked again, an eardrum-piercing, impossible to ignore, bark.

“Quiet!” I said. I knocked on the door and we waited.

“It looks like her car is here,” K.C. said.

“I can see the blue light cast from her TV in the front window. I think she’s home.”

Jerome commenced whining and scratching the door again.

“Boss, I think he’s trying to tell us something.”

I looked down at my puppy. “What is it Jerome? What are you trying to tell us?”

He got up and walked toward the side of the house and stopped in front of the side door.

“I think something is wrong, and he senses it.” K.C. said. She pounded on the metal screen door and called out, “Vanessa? Are you in there?”

Jerome stood on hind legs and scratched at the screen door.

“I think we should look inside,” I said. “If she’s in there and gets mad, we’ll make something up about a burglar in the area or something.”

I opened the screen door, and luckily it wasn’t locked. I knocked one final time on the inner door and called out to Vanessa again. There was no response. I tried the knob, and it turned. I peered in slowly. Jerome slid past my legs and ran into the house.

“We are in so much trouble if she’s not home. Or if she is.” I said.

I followed the direction in which Jerome had gone. I heard him bark and found him standing over Vanessa Brown flat on her back in a small powder room. I squeezed through the doorway and wedged myself between her and the toilet so I could kneel down.

“She’s unconscious,” I said. “Call 911. Tell them she’s breathing.” There was a pungent, sewer kind of smell in the air. It was enough to burn my eyes and my throat. I reached up and flipped the switch for the bathroom fan, but nothing came on. The smell was starting to get to me. My eyes watered, and I gagged. I pulled my shirt collar up over my nose.

K.C. came over with her cell phone to her ear. “Oh, golly, there’s a nasty smell in here,” she said into the phone. “Quincy, she says to ventilate the room if possible.”

“The fan doesn’t work,” I said. “I think we need to move her. But I’m afraid to.”

Just then, I heard sirens. One of the perks of living in a small town, it doesn’t take long for the authorities to reach you.

K.C. led the fireman and EMTs to us. I gladly stepped out of the way. We watched them take Vanessa in the ambulance. We gave our statement to the police and went back to the shop so that K.C. could take her car and go home, and I could help finish up any wedding work.

We stood in the parking lot behind our building while Jerome sniffed around. “Make sure you watch where it lands if he goes you-know-what.”

I assured her that I would continue to monitor the situation, but I thought enough time had passed that my engagement ring probably wasn’t inside of Jerome.

“Okay, then. I’m off to create my masterpiece. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck!”

She looked up at the sky, as if pondering something deep. “Do you think it makes me a bad person to be glad Vanessa won’t be able to compete now?”

I curtailed a grin. “I know you don’t wish her any harm, so I think it’s okay to be glad that you have a better chance of winning.” I sniffled at the cold air. It was going to dip way below freezing tonight, and the thermostat was already on the way down. “I hope I’m not a bad person for thinking she poisoned my dad and Sherry Auerbach.”

“We still don’t know that she didn’t.”

“True,” I said. “Do you think I’d be a bad person if I went to her hospital bed and accused her of trying to poison my friends and family?”

“It wouldn’t make you a bad person, but I’d advise against it. Toodle-loo.”

I’ll admit it. It felt good to have helped Vanessa. Actually it was Jerome who’d been the good guy. To reward him and myself, we stopped at the Bulgy Burger drive-through for dinner. I got the Bulgy Burger combo, and Jerome got a hamburger patty cooked without any seasoning.

I’d left a message on Alex’s cell phone after I talked to the police. He had friends in our local police department from when he had worked undercover there. I didn’t want to him to hear my name, and the words “police report,” linked together in the same sentence from anyone but me, due to previous experiences.

When Jerome and I got home, I kicked off my boots. We ate our dinner and relaxed. My house phone rang. The caller ID read Hillside Hospital. I had a moment of panic wondering if Alex or my parents or my sister were there. I was relieved to hear Vanessa Brown on the other line.

“Quincy, I just had to call and thank you for all that you did today. You and your delivery driver might have saved my life.”

“I’m so glad we were there. Are you doing alright?”

“I’m just fine. They’ve got me here overnight for observation, so I’ll most likely go home tomorrow. I asked if it would be in time for the Jubilee, but they’re doubtful.”

Jerome came over to the couch and put his head on my knee.

“Do you know what happened?” I asked.

“I don’t remember much, but apparently there was a high concentration of sewer gas in that powder room. Since it’s just off the kitchen, I always keep the door closed. I smelled a strange smell coming out of there so I took my cleaner in and started scrubbing the toilet. Next thing I knew, I was being wheeled into an ambulance.”

“That must have been so scary.”

“It really was. That’s why I had to call and thank you again for coming in and finding me. For some reason, the gas got into my house. It had a high concentration of some kind of chemical that reacted with the ammonia in my cleaner. It was toxic gas that made me pass out. I could have had brain damage if I’d stayed in there longer.”

“I’m just happy it all worked out.”

“You know…” There was a long pause.

“Are you okay Vanessa?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I just wasn’t sure how to ask you this, because I don’t want to sound ungrateful. How come you were there, at my house?”

I felt the heat rush to my face. “I—was trying to figure out a mix up with—the brownies you had us deliver.”

“Oh? What mix up?”

“Um—the brownies that my parents received weren’t delivered by my shop. So I was worried we missed a delivery or messed up your order. I came to your house to ask you about it.”

“We didn’t order a delivery for your parents. I’m sorry we didn’t, but I just sent flowers to the competitors in my category.”

“Oh.” I didn’t want to go into the matching tins and the amazingly strong coincidence that they happened to be brownies, just like the others they sent. And oh yeah, the fact that her name was written as the sender on the attached card. “Well, I guess it turned out to be a lucky mistake, didn’t it?”

She laughed and agreed.

I hated the feeling I had after lying to her about the reason I’d gone to her house. If I was honest with myself, I’d gone because I was reacting in anger. I could have just told her the truth. I could’ve given her a call and asked if she’d left the brownies. Of course, she seemed to be lying to me, her name was on the physical evidence, but I could have been the bigger person. I was just glad it had ended well.

I let Jerome outside for one last time, then got in the shower and changed into my usual sleepwear which consisted of a t-shirt, cut-off sweatpants and tube socks. My cell phone rang.

“Hi there, gorgeous.”

“Hey, I was just thinking about you. Did I tell you I love my tube socks?”

“You might have mentioned it.” He laughed his musical laugh. “I got your message. You’re okay?”

“I’m doing great, and I just heard from Vanessa, the woman we found. She says she’ll be fine.”

I recounted everything that happened and told him that I had to call to make sure he didn’t hear about me talking to the police and assume I’d been arrested.

“Here’s the thing,” I told him. “I talked to Vanessa about the brownies that were left at my parents’ house. They had her name on them, they were in the same container that she’d had us deliver to other people, and they were brownies, just like she had us deliver.”

“If you think something criminal is going on, you should talk to Hillside PD.”

“I don’t know, I think she’s telling the truth.”

“Maybe someone is trying to make her look guilty. You say she wins all the time. It doesn’t sound like she’s a discreet kind of person. Maybe it’s a copycat.”

“You’re probably right.”

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear what you just said. Could you repeat that?”

“I said you’re probably—very funny. “

“I love you, Q.”

“Love you too.”

Chapter 8

 

Wedding days are always such a blur. So much work and preparation goes into the culmination, which lasts only a few hours. New Year’s Eve happened to be that culmination day for a lot of reasons. We had the wedding work at the flower shop, the Jubilee competitions, and then there was having to admit, after all the searching, that I had lost the engagement ring. I looked forward to that moment the least.

We started out early at the shop, double checking that everything had been finished and still looked pristine. The walk-in cooler was packed. When it came time for deliveries, Daphne stayed at the shop with Jerome, while K.C. and I took different vehicles to deliver to different locations. Elizabeth Downing—bless her heart—only called twice to make sure we got there on time.

After work, I thanked Daphne for working so hard on a holiday that we usually might have been able to take off from work, and I wished K.C. good luck. Jerome and I went home, where I gave one last look around the house to see if my ring had magically fallen from the sky. It hadn’t. I called my parents’ house, and my dad answered the phone.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite daughter.” He said that to each of his daughters—we’d compared notes as children. “How are you, lass?”

“I think the question should be how are you? Heard you were pretty sick yesterday.”

“I’m much better today, but your mother has banned me from the kitchen in case I might still be contagious. I think it was just one of those 24-hour bugs.”

I debated whether or not to tell him about my suspicions regarding the tainted brownies.

“Your mother tells me that her friend Sherry had the same bug as me.”

“Dad, I don’t think it was the flu. I think there was something in those brownies.”

“There was something in them, all right. They were delicious.”

“Dad!”

“All right, I’m just teasing. Your mother said you called her worried that the brownies might be the cause. She called some of her other friends, and they all got the same gift from Vanessa Brown, but none of them got sick.”

I hadn’t expected that. My dad listed several names of woman in Mom’s MLM who had received a tin of treats with a note from Vanessa. My theory had been proven wrong. Vanessa Brown must have lied or been mistaken. Maybe breathing in all those toxic fumes had affected her memory.

“Speaking of Vanessa Brown, I heard about what happened at her house yesterday. It’s a good thing you were there. Why didn’t you tell us about it?”

I knew my mother would find out eventually through her network, and I didn’t want to bother her while she was working on her contest entry.

“It was no big deal. How did you find out?” Heaven help me if my father had his own spy network to watch out for.

“I ran into Hal Rigby this morning when I went out for coffee—don’t tell your mother.” My mother was a strict Mormon, and being so, did not drink coffee and almost considered it a sin. My father was a Jack Mormon as they say, and in his eyes, coffee was just another beverage. “Hal’s a plumber they called in to take a look at Vanessa Brown’s place.”

“Did he find out what was wrong?”

“Yes, he said it was easy to diagnose once he got there. The trouble was he had to climb on the roof in this freezing weather. I don’t feel too sorry for him though, that’s why he gets paid the big bucks. I should’ve been a plumber.”

I looked at the clock and realized I had to get going. “So, did he tell you what was wrong?”

“Well, yes he did. Have you suddenly developed an interest in plumbing?”

“Sorry, I don’t mean to rush you, I was just curious as to what caused that awful smell. Vanessa said the fumes in her bathroom mixed with the cleaner she was using, and that’s what made her pass out.”

“The smell was caused by a clogged vent stack. Your plumbing system only works if you’ve got that pipe that sticks out the top of your roof. It provides the right air flow to keep things moving. Vanessa’s vent stack was filled with ice, so the sewer gases weren’t moving out like they should. He said he’s never seen anything like that in all of his years. It looked almost as if someone shoved a big snowball in there.”

“Could someone have thrown a snowball into it?”

“It would be a one in a million shot if they did. That pipe is only three or four inches around. Hal figures there must be some kind of crack under the roof line, so when the snowfall got in there, it froze up. He doesn’t know for sure yet, it was just a guess. He’ll have to get up there later and investigate. You sound very interested; I could give you his phone number.”

“No thanks,” I said and laughed. “I guess I just have an extra interest because I was there to find Vanessa. Tell Mom I’ll see her later and good luck.”

~*~

I know it was just our little town celebration, but I was excited about participating in the Jubilee. And I was nervous about my judging responsibilities.

After dropping Jerome at my neighbor’s house, I drove to the city recreation center. A judge’s entrance had been prepared in the back of the building. Contest entries had been dropped off earlier, and the Jubilee committee had arranged for each entry to be spooned into a bowl. Each bowl and set of utensils looked exactly the same.

I was given a score sheet and a pencil and was led to a table with ten different bowls and a glass of water to clear the palate between each tasting.

I savored every bite and embarked on the difficult task of marking my scorecard. Once finished, I handed it to the proctor and went into the front of the building. The tempting aromas of chili, cornbread, and spiced cider came from the refreshment stand. Proceeds from the food sales as well as money from the sales of donated clothes would go to the homeless shelter.

K.C. was holding court at one of the round dining tables near the stage.

“Hello, over here,” K.C. called out and waved me over. She sat next to Barbara Colgate and Louise Cheney, both foot soldiers in the MLM, and Henrietta Bowser and Eleanor Cooper.

“Hello, Quincy. Have you seen your mother yet?” Louise asked.

“No, I just came in. She should be here any time.” I looked around as I spoke and noticed Belinda Brown at another table. She looked happier than I had ever seen her and that included when she was teasing me about still wearing a training bra in the locker room of 7th grade gym class.

“Louise here tells me that you walk away with a ribbon of some kind almost every year, Barbara. Is that true?” K.C. asked.

Barbara looked up demurely, “Oh, I do all right. It’s just for fun. And I love donating food for the treat table each year.”

“Did you make the pumpkin chiffon pie this year?” Henrietta asked Louise. Louise nodded that she had. “You absolutely have to try that pie. But you’ve got to do it quick. They always sell out in the first hour.”

My mother came over and sat down next to me. “Are you talking about my favorite pie?” Mom said.

“There you are. Annette, are you feeling okay? You look a little down,” Barbara said.

“I’m fine, Barbara. Thank you for asking. I think I just stayed up too late last night, and then didn’t eat anything but little nibbles of sweets this morning. I’ll be glad once this contest is over.”

“Oh my goodness,” Barbara nearly shrieked. “Did you get the flowers I sent?”

My mother’s jaw dropped, and she jerked her head over to look at Barbara. “You mean the ones on Christmas?”

“Yeah, wasn’t it a scream? Tammy Westerley did the same thing to me last year. I thought you’d love it.”

“I—I did—love it. I’ll have to pass along the joke next year.” Given my mother’s sense of humor, I was impressed by her acting skills.

Someone tapped the microphone at the front of the room, as a prelude to announcing that the scores had been tallied, and the results would be shared shortly. Belinda stood up and came toward our table.

“Hey, Quincy,” Belinda said, in a bubbly, friendly voice. She must have borrowed it from someone. “I just wanted to say thank you for helping out with my mom. It’s so scary to think what might’ve happened if you weren’t there.”

“K.C. was there, too,” I said.

“And don’t forget Jerome,” K.C. said. “He’s the one who insisted we go in.”

“Jerome?”

“My dog,” I said.

Belinda chuckled. “I’ll have to bring him a treat, too.”

“Come, sit,” mom said to Belinda. “So glad you made it. So sorry about your mom.”

Belinda looked over at Eleanor and Henrietta.

“Where are my manners?” Mom said. “Karma Clackerton as you may have guessed works for Quincy.”

“How do?” K.C. said.

“And I’m Eleanor Cooper.” She extended her hand, gracefully. “Quincy is engaged to my son.” She immediately looked at my left hand. I resisted the urge to jerk it off the table and instead, reached for a napkin and pretended to wipe my hands.

“You know Hen and Louise and Barbara don’t you?” Mom said.

“Um, I know who you are,” Belinda said awkwardly.

“I hear Henrietta also walks away with a ribbon each year,” K.C. said.

Hen smiled sweetly.

“Speaking of walking,” Barbara said, “how’s your ankle?”

“It’s much better. Although I couldn’t have entered without the help of Eleanor. She’s been my legs this week.”

“We had to come to the awards ceremony,” Eleanor said. “After all of Hen’s hard work, we had to see if she won a prize.”

I caught Belinda staring at Henrietta longer than would be considered polite.

K.C. asked Belinda if they knew what caused her mother to lose consciousness, and while they chatted, Barbara stood up.

“I’m going to buy back the brownies I donated at the treat table,” she said.

“Why would you do that? Didn’t you get your fill after you made them?” Louise asked.

“Actually,” she leaned down to answer, “it’s a little embarrassing. I didn’t have time to make what I committed to, so I brought some brownies that Belinda’s mother left at the house. They were packaged in a darling tin container, and I knew that if Vanessa made them, they would be safe to eat in case someone bought them before I could.”

Belinda glanced over as she heard her name, but she kept talking to K.C. She was giving a detailed description of the construction project that her advanced students were doing. Each year our local high school students build a new house from scratch and sell it at a low cost to a deserving family. Belinda was one of the teachers who participated.

I half-listened to Belinda rattle on about electrical and plumbing codes and half-listened to the other ladies talking about their favorite recipes. I heard a gurgling sound come from my mother’s direction. She moved her hand to her abdomen, and I saw her wince. Then I heard another gurgle.

Just then, Barbara sat down with a decorative tin. “Why, that looks like the one that I got,” Mom said.

I tried to get K.C.’s attention, so she could look at the brownie tin and see if it was the same as the ones she delivered. She was the one talking now, and once the K.C. conversation train is going down the tracks there’s not much that can stop it.

“All right everyone, we’re ready to announce the winners for this year’s Jubilee cook-off,” a woman said at the microphone. “First, we’ll start with the soups and stews category…”

I leaned forward, over the table. “Belinda,” I said in a quiet voice.

She watched the woman at the microphone with rapt attention.

“Belinda,” I repeated.

She looked back at me, obviously annoyed. “What?” she whispered.

“Where did your mom buy these tins for the brownies?”

She looked at me, and then glanced back at the MC. She looked back at me, her brow furrowed. “She didn’t buy them. I did, online. Now, I want to hear the winners.” She turned back around in her chair.

So, Vanessa said she hadn’t sent brownies to anyone else, and the tins they were in couldn’t be found anywhere locally.

I heard my mother’s stomach gurgle again. She motioned for me to come closer. “I’m not feeling well. As soon as they announce my category, I’ve got to leave.”

“I’m sorry. What did you say you ate today?”

“It was dumb. All I had were those brownies that Vanessa left for us.” She cringed again and rested her hand against her abdomen.

Belinda looked back at us, annoyed at our whispering, but it seemed her face changed when she looked at my mom and saw her discomfort. It wasn’t a look of curiosity or sympathy. It was more like recognition. She expected my mother to feel sick.

“And the first place winner of the salads division is…Karma Clackerton.”

K.C. erupted from her seat and ran up to receive her ribbon. “What was your secret preserved ingredient, Karma?” the MC asked.

“Pimentos!” she said, which caused many a surprised look, due to the fact she’d entered a Jell-O salad.

“Oh my gosh, Quincy,” Mom said, “I don’t feel well at all.”

My mom’s forehead was glistening. I wished she would just run to the bathroom, but she’d put so much into the contest, I don’t think she could bear to leave until she heard the final results.

The MC announced the winner of the casserole category, and it wasn’t my mother. I thought then that she might leave, but the grand prize was still available. If you won your category, you weren’t eligible for the overall. There was still a glimmer of hope for my mother.

“And for the desserts category…” Belinda sat up straight in her seat, I could see her fingers were crossed as they rested on her lap.

“She only eliminated the real competition,” I said out loud, but not loud enough that anyone could make out what I’d said.

“…Henrietta Bowser.” Henrietta looked at Eleanor, overjoyed. They hugged each other, then Eleanor helped Hen walk up to get her ribbon. Belinda’s expression read absolute incredulity. Was it because she’d iced up Hen’s porch, hoping to take her out of commission? Would she have looked the same way at Deborah Green with the frozen pipes?

“You did it, Belinda,” I said.

“What?” she said.

“You iced Hen’s porch. You opened Deborah’s storage room door. You delivered poisoned brownies.”

“Poisoned brownies!” my mother shouted. She stood up, making the universal movements of someone searching for the nearest bathroom to throw up. “Those brownies are poison.” She pointed to the treat table on her way out to the restroom.

“And you almost poisoned your mom with toxic fumes. What is wrong with you?”

There were three lines of people in front of the treat table who’d stayed standing during the announcement of winners. Upon hearing my mother, K.C., who was standing up front with all the other winners, stepped up to the treat table and turned it over, yelling, “Poisoned food! Poisoned food!”

Belinda stood up slowly, seemingly stunned. She looked at me, then glanced from side to side and took off toward the exit near the treat table. Eleanor, who’d made it up front with Henrietta, stuck her foot out, tripping Belinda, who stumbled into K.C. Their feet slipped out from under them, presumably on the pumpkin chiffon pie, and they rolled around in a sea of desserts until K.C. managed to pin Belinda down.

Meanwhile, a stream of women holding their mouths and stomachs made a veritable Conga line toward the exit my mother had used to get to the restrooms. Barbara’s brownie donation had been selling for at least two hours, which was approximately the time it took for Belinda’s Bad-girl Brownies to take effect.

While people scrambled and ran and the police were called, the MC soldiered on and announced that Annette McKay was the winner of the overall, grand prize, blue ribbon. I accepted on her behalf and made sure to deliver it to her as soon as she felt safe leaving the restroom.

Chapter 9

 

I’d witnessed all the fireworks and excitement that I needed for a New Year’s Eve, and it was only six o’clock at night.

Alex’s parents were going to the big First Night party in downtown Salt Lake, and they’d be flying home the next day. Jerome and I went to Alex’s house to say our goodbyes. I thought after that, we might just drive to Bulgy Burger and get our regular, then go home and watch the ball drop on Times Square, and call it a night. Alex had to work again. I tried not to think about all the drunks out on the roads on this most dangerous night of the year.

I turned Zombie Sue up the long driveway and saw his car parked out front. My heart pounded, and I tried to remain calm.

I tapped on the front door, and his father opened it.

“Well, if it isn’t the hero of the day,” Jack said. “C’mon in. We were just about to leave.”

We stepped inside. Eleanor was looking in the hall mirror fussing with her hair.

“You look fine, dear,” Jack said. “Look who’s here.”

“Quincy! I have to thank you again for pairing me up with Hen. This was such a fun trip. And you were terrific at the Jubilee today.”

“So were you,” I laughed. “Your Ninja skills kept Belinda from escaping.”

“What’s this?” I heard my favorite voice from around the corner. Alex came from the kitchen. “I guess your secret’s out, Mom.” He came over and stood next to me.

“Eleanor, what are they talking about?” Jack said.

“You didn’t tell them how you took Belinda down?” I said.

She waved it off, but I gave my accounting of events to give her the credit she deserved.

“So this woman poisoned people, injured them, destroyed property, and almost killed her mother for what—a blue ribbon?” Jack said.

“While K.C. was wrestling her, she was going on about her overbearing mother. She wanted the spotlight for once in her life. I remember from Girl Scouts and Young Women’s group at church, Vanessa Brown was always in charge and showing how anything was done. Belinda never participated in craft night or cooking badges. And here she is a Life Skills teacher at the school. She wanted to show off for once, and she snapped.”

“That’s just crazy,” Jack said.

“She said she didn’t mean to hurt anyone. She just wanted to prevent them from winning. She tried to make everything look like accidents or the flu, in the case of the brownies. I guess she figured if she used different methods to keep people out of the competition, and if only certain people were targeted, nobody would connect the dots.”

“But you connected them,” Eleanor said. “You seem to be very good at that, from what I’ve seen.”

I waved her off this time.

“Sign her up, Alex,” Jack said. “Detective McKay is on the case.”

“She’ll be Detective Cooper,” Eleanor said. “In a few months—or—what date have you set for the wedding?”

“Shouldn’t you be going now?” Alex said. “You’ll be late for the party.”

His mother gave him the look. “Oh, all right.”

We said our goodbyes, and I promised to come and visit soon, so I could meet Alex’s sister and her family in person.

As soon as Alex shut the door behind them, he rushed over and wrapped his arms around me.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Turns out all the overtime shifts were filled, so I didn’t have to work. I don’t want to spoil your plans, though.”

“Hmm, Bulgy Burger and falling asleep on the couch before I see the ball drop or—ringing in the New Year with you. Tough decision.”

He trailed kisses up my neck, stopping just before my mouth.

“Hey, no fair. That’s undue influence on the judge. What do you think, Jerome?”

Jerome went over and plopped down on the dog bed in Alex’s living room.

“Decision made. I guess we’re staying.”

“Good.” He took me by the hand. “Close your eyes. And come with me.”

“Okay.” I giggled as he led me a few feet.

“Keep them closed.” We paused, then I felt a ring slide onto my finger.

I opened my eyes. We were in the kitchen. Alex was down on one knee. My engagement ring was on my finger.

“Will you marry me?” he said.

“Of course,” I said. And just like the last time he put that ring on my finger, I cried happy tears. “Where did you find it?”

“In my dinner, last night at work. I took leftovers from our Christmas Eve party. I spooned it up out of the French Onion soup.”

I closed my eyes again. “I’m so sorry.”

“It all worked out, didn’t it?” He cupped my face in his hands. “I love you, Q., with or without the ring.” He kissed me softly, and then hugged me to him. He broke our embrace and looked down at me. “How should we start out the New Year?”

“I think we should make some more soup,” I said.

He broke out in a grin. “Fantastic idea.” He scooped me up, carried me into the bedroom, and closed the door.

 

 

—The End—

CONTINGENT ON APPROVAL:

A Savannah Martin Christmas Novella

 

 

Jenna Bennett

Editor’s Note: New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Jenna Bennett (Jennie Bentley) writes the Do It Yourself home renovation mysteries for Berkley Prime Crime and the Savannah Martin real estate mysteries for her own gratification. She also writes a variety of romance for a change of pace. Originally from Norway, she has spent more than twenty-five years in the US, and still hasn’t been able to kick her native accent.

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

I woke up on Christmas morning with the same kind of anticipation I used to feel as a little girl, when I knew that Santa had come during the night and downstairs in the parlor were a whole lot of presents with my name on them.

The only difference was that this year Santa came early, and my present was lying next to me, one muscular arm thrown across my waist and his steady breathing ruffling the hair at the back of my neck.

He’d shown up last night, in the middle of the shindig my mother always hosts at my ancestral home, the Martin mansion in Sweetwater, every Christmas Eve. Everyone had been there: my brother and sister, their kids, my brother-in-law, my aunt and uncle. Mother’s best friend. Mother’s boyfriend, the sheriff. His son, my brother’s best friend: the man my mother wanted me to marry. The man who wanted to marry me.

In the middle of it all, the doorbell rang.

There was nothing unusual about that: the citizens of Sweetwater—a small town in Middle Tennessee, an hour and a little more south of Nashville—had been coming and going all evening, stopping in for a glass of eggnog and to pay their respects to the lady of the manor. My mother’s a Martin—by marriage, true, but a Martin nonetheless—and there have been Martins in Sweetwater since the early 1800s. The mansion itself was built in 1839, but the family has been here longer than that. I know it can’t be true, but sometimes I feel like there have always been Martins in Sweetwater.

Anyway, the doorbell had rung. My brother had gone to answer it and had come back with presents for his girls, five-year-old Abigail and three-year-old Hannah.

When I saw the contents of the colorful gift bags—Police Barbie dolls—I knew that the new arrival had to be Tamara Grimaldi, my friend from the Nashville Police Department. She and Dix had met during the investigation into my sister-in-law’s murder a month or three before, and they had stayed in touch. I think she liked him. It was much too soon for him to consider dating again, of course, but I knew they spoke regularly, and I hadn’t questioned the fact that she’d driven all the way to Sweetwater on Christmas Eve to give his daughters Christmas gifts.

When he said there was something for me in the foyer, I didn’t think anything of it. I’d put down my glass of wine and walked out of the parlor, only to come face to face, not with Tamara Grimaldi, but with the man now lying in my bed. A man I loved with all my heart, in ways I didn’t realize I could love anyone, and a man I’d almost lost numerous times, to death and to my own stupidity.

Now he was here, he was mine, and I wasn’t letting him go again. Ever.

Carefully, without disturbing the arm holding me close, I rotated so I could look at him. And as usual my heart lurched and my breath went. Not just because he’s beautiful, although he is, but because I love him, and I almost lost him, and I didn’t think I’d ever get him back, and now that I had, the feelings were so big I couldn’t breathe.

But he’s beautiful, too.

For the past couple of months, whenever I’d seen him, he’d had longer hair, perfectly gelled, and a little goatee he’d cultivated to pretend to be someone he isn’t. Literally. It’s a long story.

When he showed up last night, he was back to looking like himself again. His hair was shorn into the barely-there crop he’s been wearing since he grew out of the cornrows he had in high school, and his face was smooth-shaven. The only thing remaining was the small stud in his ear. He hadn’t had a pierced ear before. Jorge Pena, the man he’d been pretending to be, did. And since that particular likeness had been easy to emulate, Rafe had pierced his ear too.

The dragon tattoo Jorge had had on his back was a different matter. It would have taken too long to have that done, and it would have looked too new, so Rafe’s had been a fake. It was gone now, or mostly gone. There was still a faint outline, but it would fade over time. The only tattoo of his own that he has, is a viper wrapped around one bicep. It was looking at me, sticking out its little forked tongue.

I stuck mine out in return and was rewarded with a low chuckle. “Morning, darlin’.”

“Good morning.” I blushed. Not exactly the sultry, seductive image I wanted to present, that one.

“Is it?” His eyes were only half-open, deep and dark under long, sooty lashes.

“Of course it is,” I said. “You’re here.”

He stretched, hard muscles sliding against my body. “Did you think I’d sneak out in the middle of the night?”

I hadn’t. Now I wondered if I should have. “Would you?”

He settled back down into the pillows, his arm still snug around my waist. “I usually do. Avoids that awkward morning after.”

We’d had a few awkward mornings after, he and I. He’d never snuck out on me, though. Then again, we’d always been in his bed the next morning. But aside from that, it had usually been me who couldn’t wait to leave, shocked and appalled all over again once daylight came that I’d succumbed to temptation and slept with him.

There’d be none of that today. “This isn’t awkward.”

He smiled. “It’s a little awkward.”

“What’s awkward about it?”

He did a quick eyeroll, indicating the room. My childhood room, on the second floor of the Martin Mansion. Virginal white sheets, antique four-poster bed, drippy canopies, and everything nice. It hasn’t changed much in the time since I left it to go off to finishing school, and to be honest, it didn’t change much in the hundred years before that either.

“I’m in your mother’s house,” Rafe said. “Me. Your mother’s house. And not just that, but there’s a couple hundred years of history at work here.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said.

“I ain’t being silly, darlin’. A hundred and fifty years ago, they’d lynch me for this.”

“No, they wouldn’t. My great-great-great-grandmother Caroline slept with the groom. They didn’t lynch him.”

“What?” Rafe said.

“It’s true. My aunt told me yesterday. It happened just after the War Between the States. If I remember correctly, my great-great-great-grandfather went off to fight the Yankees, leaving great-great-great-grandma Caroline at home to hold down the fort. With the slaves. I’ve always known that. It’s a source of great family pride.”

“Of course it is,” Rafe said.

“Sorry. But when you’re from an old Southern family, it’s important to be able to prove you were on the right side in the conflict.”

“People still care about that?”

“Some people do. My ex-husband’s family did.”

A corner of his mouth curled up. “Thought I’d made you forget about Bradley.”

“You have,” I said. “Totally. I don’t think about him at all anymore. Anyway, Caroline had an affair with the groom, either before or after her husband was killed in action. She got pregnant.”

“You serious?”

I nodded. “Haven’t you ever wondered why my sister, Catherine, looks different from Dix and me? We’re blond and blue-eyed, but she has darker hair and brown eyes?”

“Yeah,” Rafe said, “so?”

“Dix and I take after mother’s family, the Georgia Calverts. Catherine looks like the Martins. And great-great-grandfather William was part black.”

I had no idea how big a part. I’d looked at his picture my whole life, and I’d never once thought he looked African-American. But he was definitely dark. Hair, eyes, skin tone. Chances were that a male Martin—or a friend—in an even earlier generation had also dabbled in the pool, and the groom might have been part white. That would make William only about a quarter black, maybe even less. Enough to pass as white, at least to someone who didn’t know the story.

Rafe was quiet for a minute. “Your mother know about this?”

“My aunt doesn’t think so. She had it from her father, who told Aunt Regina and my dad. But Aunt Regina doesn’t think Dad ever told Mother.”

“I can see why,” Rafe said. “She’d prob’ly leave him.”

“Surely not.” Although she wouldn’t be thrilled.

“You planning to tell her?”

“If I have to,” I said. “It depends.”

“On?”

“How she treats you later today.”

“What happens later today?”

“Christmas dinner,” I said. “At my sister’s house.”

He stared at me. “You’re taking me to Christmas dinner at your sister’s house?”

I stared back. “You mean you don’t want to go?”

He did a sort of squirm, one I’d never seen him do before. “It ain’t that I don’t wanna go, darlin’...”

I didn’t answer, just looked at him, and he added, “OK, so it is that I don’t wanna go.”

“They’ll be nice to you. Most of them.” All except Mother. She’d be excruciatingly polite.

“I ain’t afraid of what they’ll do to me,” Rafe said. “I’ve been in more uncomfortable spots than your sister’s house for Christmas dinner.”

No question about that. “What is it you’re afraid of, then?”

“I ain’t afraid,” Rafe said. “I just don’t wanna upset your family on Christmas. That’s why I wasn’t gonna stay last night, either.”

“I told you. You couldn’t drive all the way here to tell me I could have you, and then leave before I could actually have you.”

“You’ve had me,” Rafe said. “Couple of times.”

Yes, I had. But that was last night. “I haven’t had you this morning.”

“You can have me this morning. If you still want me.”

“I always want you,” I said. “But first I want to finish talking about this.”

He shook his head. “Ain’t nothing to talk about, darlin’. Me being around at all is gonna be a big enough deal for your family to swallow. Don’t have to shove it down their throats on Christmas.”

“I’m not shoving you down anyone’s throat. But I don’t want to hide, either. And that means they’ll have to get used to seeing you.”

He didn’t answer, but he looked mutinous.

“Did you have other plans?” He didn’t have any family left in Sweetwater, and I certainly didn’t want him to sit alone on Christmas.

And then it hit me and I felt guilty. “Were you planning to spend the day with your grandmother?” His paternal grandmother, the grandmother he’d only met a few months ago. Mrs. Tondalia Jenkins, in Nashville.

His lips curved, but the smile was bittersweet. “She don’t know it’s Christmas, darlin’. It’s just like any other day to her. Half the time she don’t know me when I walk in.”

“I’m sorry.” He’d found his grandmother—his father’s mother—at thirty, only to have her not recognize him half the time. I reached out and touched his cheek. “We can go visit her if you want. Together. Later.”

He tilted his head to kiss my palm. “Uh-huh.” I didn’t get the impression that he was paying much attention to what I was saying, but I soldiered on.

“Dinner’s at one. It’ll be over by three or four.” We could be back in Nashville by five, maybe five thirty. We could go see Mrs. J. then.

“Sounds good.” His lips had left my palm to skim down to the pulse beating in my wrist. He kissed me there too, and then moved on. The next stop was the crook of my elbow, where the thin skin tingled at the touch of his lips. For good measure he gave the spot a little lick before moving on. By the time he got to my shoulder, I had forgotten about Mrs. Jenkins and Christmas dinner and all the rest of it. And that’s when he pushed me over on my back and grinned down at me. “Merry Christmas, darlin’.”

“Merry Christmas,” I said, breathlessly. And that’s the last thing I said for a while.

Chapter 2

 

By the time we made it out of bed and down to the kitchen, it was going on eleven o’clock. We’d both had showers, and Rafe had dressed in yesterday’s clothes since he hadn’t brought an overnight bag with him when he drove down. He’d actually been serious about not spending the night. Initially, that is. I’d convinced him otherwise. This morning I’d suggested trying to hunt up a pair of clean underwear for him—some of my dad’s clothes were still sitting around, and I didn’t doubt that some of Bob Satterfield’s might be as well—but he told me he didn’t mind going commando.

“Ain’t the first time. And it’ll give you something to think about when we’re at your sister’s house, having dinner. Maybe give you some added incentive to get outta there quickly.”

He winked.

I resisted the temptation to fan myself.

~*~

By eleven o’clock we were in the kitchen. I had shown Rafe all around the upstairs, including the old daguerreotype of great-great-grandpa William hanging on the wall in the hallway. In light of what I now knew about him—William—I could kind of see that he might have had some mixed blood in him, but to be honest, he looked enough like Caroline’s other children that nobody may have thought much of it back then.

Or maybe that kind of thing was a lot more common and widely known and accepted than we’re led to believe these days.

I fully expected to find my mother downstairs, preparing something to bring to Catherine’s house later, but just like the upstairs, the kitchen was empty. I raised my voice.

“Mother?”

There was no answer.

“Guess she went out,” Rafe said.

I nodded. Maybe she’d gone to Catherine’s house early, to help with the cooking. Or maybe she and the sheriff had breakfast plans.

Or maybe she was being polite—or evasive—and wanted to make sure she didn’t run into Rafe this morning.

“Are you hungry?” I headed for the refrigerator.

“I can eat.” He took a seat at the counter. The kitchen is the only room in the whole mansion that’s been updated for the twenty-first century. (Except the bathrooms, of course.) Everything else dates from 1839. Not the plumbing and electrical systems, obviously, nor the central heat and air, but the walls are plaster, ditto the fifteen foot ceilings, and there are wide plank floors everywhere. Including here. Everything else has been redone, though. There’s granite and tile and stainless steel and all other sorts of conveniences we’ve come to take for granted in our day and age. Including an overlarge refrigerator stuffed full of leftovers from the party yesterday. Food neither Rafe nor I had tasted, because we’d been in too much of a hurry to get upstairs to be alone.

“There’s plenty of party-food.” I dug through containers full of dips and veggies, cold-cuts and bacon-wrapped sausages. “Or do you want me to make you something hot? Eggs or pancakes? Something breakfast-like?”

“I ain’t difficult,” Rafe said. “Just give me what you’ve got.”

“No problem.” I’d cook for him some other time. We had the rest of our lives for that, at least if I had anything to say about it.

I pulled out bread and cold-cuts, sausage-stuffed mushroom caps and deviled eggs, and lined them up in front of him. Rafe’s eyebrows lifted higher and higher as the containers mounted. “All this from the party yesterday?”

“My mother goes all out,” I said. “We eat off it for days. Maybe weeks. What do you want to drink? Beer?”

“Your mother stocks beer?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “Not at eleven in the morning, darlin’.”

“I think the sheriff probably drinks it,” I said, and pulled out a gallon of milk instead. “Coffee?”

He shook his head. “Milk’s fine.”

I grinned as I pulled two glasses out of the cabinet and put them on the counter. “The big bad criminal eats leftover cocktail wieners and drinks milk for breakfast?”

He grinned back. “The big bad criminal eats little girls like you for breakfast. This is dessert.”

“That reminds me.” I hiked my bottom up on the stool next to him and reached for the container of cold-cuts. “You said you’re finished. No more undercover work.”

He nodded, mouth full.

“Any idea what you’ll be doing now?”

He swallowed. “We’ll have to talk about it.”

Sure. “That wasn’t really what I wanted to know, anyway. I don’t care what you do, as long as you do it with me.”

“Naturally.” He grinned. “So what was it you wanted to know?”

“Did they give you your identity back? Or do I have to call you something else now? Rudolph? Rolf? Ralph?”

“God forbid.” He shook his head. “No, darlin’. You’re stuck with just plain old me.”

“Good. I like your name.”

“Glad to hear it. Makes things simpler.”

Indeed.

We ate in silence for a few minutes, and then he pushed his stool back from the counter.

“Finished?” I asked.

He nodded. “There are prob’ly some presents for you around here somewhere, dontcha think?”

Probably. However...

“I’m not worried about it.” I busied myself by putting the lids back on the various containers and slotting them into the refrigerator while Rafe watched.

“What’s wrong, darlin’?” he asked when I turned around again.

“Nothing’s wrong.” I reached for the empty milk glasses. “I just don’t care about the presents. I got the only present I wanted last night.”

It was the truth. A couple of weeks ago, Todd Satterfield had asked me what I wanted for Christmas. The first—the only—thing that had come to my mind was Rafe.

Of course I hadn’t told Todd so. But I’d gotten Rafe. My life was—currently—complete. Why would I care about the packages in the other room? They couldn’t possibly compare.

And then there was the side-issue of it not being much fun to open presents with someone else when they have nothing of their own to open.

“C’mon, darlin’.” He smiled. “Tammy sent you a present. You gotta unwrap it.”

“I already did,” I said, closing the door of the dishwasher. “She sent you.”

“She sent me with a gift. You only unwrapped me. The gift’s under the tree.”

Fine. He seemed bound and determined to get me out there, so I may as well go. And now I was curious about what Tamara Grimaldi might think was a suitable present to send along with Rafe.

The kitchen is at the back of the house. From the back door to the front door runs a long hallway with doors opening to either side. Eventually, the hallway ends in the foyer: two stories tall with a staircase on either side. We’d gone up one of those stairs last night, although this morning we’d come down the servant’s stairs in the back of the house, leading directly into the kitchen.

The foyer looked the same as it had last night, when I’d come out of the parlor and had seen Rafe standing there, with snow darkening the shoulders of his leather jacket. The sight had blown any coherent thought out of my head. I’d been vaguely aware of the Christmas tree, the snow falling outside the double doors, and the fact that my entire family was inside the parlor behind me, but I hadn’t cared about any of it. The only thought on my mind had been him.

Now I noticed the small pile of presents under the tree.

Correction: the two small piles of presents under the tree.

One was for me: a present from my brother, a present from my sister and brother-in-law, and a present from my mother. There was also a gift from Tamara Grimaldi. I glanced at Rafe.

“Told you,” he said.

I looked at the other stack and swallowed a lump in my throat. “Looks like my brother and sister went shopping for you.”

They must have been quick about it, to have gotten the gifts here between last night and this morning.

Or...

My brother might have been in on this all along. He and Grimaldi could have cooked it up between them. Maybe he’d known all along that Rafe would be here on Christmas Eve. He’d certainly known before I had. Might have been nice if he’d told me.

“I didn’t bring your gift,” I said wretchedly. “I have one.” A sweater I had knitted with my own two hands, no less, during all those long, long nights when I sat at home alone missing him. “But I left it at home. In Nashville. I didn’t think I’d see you while I was here.”

He smiled. “Darlin’, you’re my present. And at any rate, I’m more worried about that one.”

He indicated a tasteful gold gift bag sitting off to the side. It had his name on it in a graceful, curling script. I looked more closely at it and paled. “It isn’t ticking, is it?”

“Not that I can tell.” Although he eyed it as if it might start at any moment.

“It’s from my mother.”

He glanced at me. “Uh-huh.”

“To you.”

He nodded.

“I wonder what it is.”

He didn’t answer.

“Open it,” I said.

He shot me another glance. “You sure it’s safe?”

“I don’t think she’d risk my life just to get rid of you. And she’d have to assume we’re here together.”

“You’d think.” But he didn’t make any move to reach for the bag.

“At least open one of the others,” I said. “My brother’s. Open Dix’s gift. Dix likes you.”

“Where’d you get that idea?” But he reached for the bag. “He’s Satterfield’s best friend, ain’t he?”

“He is. But he was my brother first. He wants to me to be happy. And he knows—” I broke off, blushing.

Rafe looked up in the middle of taking the colorful paper off the gift. “Knows what?”

“That you’ll make me happy. And that Todd won’t.”

He nodded. We both busied ourselves opening Dix’s presents.

Rafe finished first, and chuckled.

“What?” I said.

He held up a pair of brown flannel slippers and an old-fashioned carved ivory pipe. “You been talking to your brother about me, darlin’?”

“I talk to my brother about you a lot,” I said. “So yes, I guess I must have mentioned the pipe and slippers at some point.”

“Guess he’s telling me to take you up on the offer.”

The offer I’d made, to meet him at the door every day at five o’clock with a pipe and slippers when he quit doing undercover work and had a normal life again.

“Do you smoke?” I asked.

He’d never smoked when we’d been together, but the truth was, we hadn’t ever spent all that much time in the same vicinity. We’d collide, cling for a bit, and bounce off again into our separate orbits. The most time I’d ever spent with him at a stretch was in bed, and some of that had been spent sleeping. But he didn’t smell like smoke. Especially not pipe smoke. My grandfather used to smoke a pipe, so I’m familiar with the scent.

He shook his head. “Used to, a long time ago. Quit when I went to prison.”

“Too hard to get cigarettes?”

“You could get’em. I just decided I didn’t want nothing having that much control over me.”

I wondered whether he was referring to the cigarettes themselves, or the people he’d have to deal with to get them, and decided not to ask. “You were a smart kid.”

“Not so much that you’d notice,” Rafe said. “But at least the slippers fit.” He wiggled his feet inside the brown flannel. “So what did your brother give you?”

“Apron.” I grimaced. “Frilly, embroidered, circa 1955. The kind with a bib and a big bow in the back, like Donna Reed wore. He must have found it in an antique store. Along with the pipe, I guess.”

“Maybe he figures you’ll meet me at the door wearing that and nothing else.”

The idea had a certain appeal. Enough that we were both silent for a few seconds.

“You ready for Catherine’s gift?” I asked.

“Sure.” He opened it while I watched.

“Awww,” I said, touched. “My sister gave you a shirt.”

And not just any shirt, but a lovely, crisp, white one that would look wonderful against his dusky skin and dark hair and eyes. He could wear it when he went to her house for dinner later. That way he wouldn’t have to wear the same shirt he’d worn yesterday. To tell the truth, the corduroy shirt and jeans weren’t really appropriate for dinner with my mother. Not that I care what he wears—I prefer it when he wears nothing at all, and at the moment, my mother’s feelings of propriety were the last thing I was worried about—but I certainly didn’t want to give her cause for complaint if I could avoid it. She had plenty to complain about already; anything more would be overkill.

“What about you?” He was already unbuttoning the corduroy.

“What?”

He stopped with the shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest and quirked a brow at Catherine’s gift, half-opened in my lap. I blushed. “Oh. This.” I showed him. A box of 365 condoms, one for each day of the year. Some were colored, some were flavored, and some were ribbed or otherwise adorned. One, according to the outside of the box, played music. Christmas music.

Rafe stared for a moment, his hands idle, before he chuckled. “Remind me to thank her later.”

I nodded, too embarrassed to respond.

Rafe shrugged out of the corduroy, and I swallowed, my mouth dry. He grinned at me, as if he knew exactly what I was thinking, and took his time pulling the new shirt on. “What d’you think?”

“I like you better without clothes,” I said honestly. “But if you have to wear a shirt, you could do worse.”

“I don’t think your sister would appreciate it if I came to Christmas dinner with no shirt on, darlin’.”

Au contraire. I was pretty sure Catherine would approve wholeheartedly. Any normal, halfway red-blooded woman would. Her husband might not.

“It’s my mother you have to worry about. My sister’s human.”

“Right,” Rafe said, “and speaking of your mother...”

The gifts. I nodded. “Let’s just get it over with.”

He reached for his. I reached for mine.

My gift from my mother turned out to be no big deal. She has excellent taste, and usually ends up buying me something expensive, beautiful, and appropriate; usually something she picks up at her best friend Audrey’s boutique on the Sweetwater town square.

This year was no different. It was a cardigan, off-white cashmere, with pearl embroidery around the neckline and down the front. Tasteful, elegant, and ladylike. Demure.

I held it up.

“Pretty,” Rafe said.

I nodded. “You?”

He grimaced. And held up a sweater of his own.

Chapter 3

 

There was nothing even remotely tasteful or elegant about this one. Nor was it beautiful, or appropriate for anything but a circus.

It was a bright, eye-searing green, with red and white striped candy-cane piping along the V-neck. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, it also had a row of appliquéd gingerbread men and women around the bottom. Line-dancing.

“My mother gave you that?” I said.

He nodded.

“It’s ugly.”

“No kidding.”

I tilted my head. “It’s a test, you know.”

He glanced at me. “I ain’t stupid, darlin’.”

Of course not. So he’d already known that.

“If you wear it,” I said, “she wins. If you don’t, you lose.”

“Case of ‘damned if I do, damned if I don’t.’ I hate decisions like that.”

I smiled. “Maybe she just wants to see how far you’re willing to go to impress her. When Jonathan started dating Catherine, Mother and Dad gave him a pretty hard time. Damn Yankee, you know? I don’t remember anything as humiliating as this, though.”

He slanted a look my way. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” I said. “I didn’t think there was anything I could say that would make you feel better.”

“You got that right.”

“For what it’s worth, if anyone can pull off a sweater like that, you can.”

He turned to look at me. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re gorgeous,” I said. “Even an ugly sweater can’t change that. What did you think it meant?”

“You don’t wanna know,” Rafe muttered. “Your mother’s brutal.”

“In her own ladylike way. Put it on. Let me see.”

He grimaced, but pulled the sweater over his head. It looked just as bad on as it had when he’d held it up. I flinched. “It’s very bright.”

“Thank you, darlin’. That makes me feel better.”

“Sorry. But it’s just a sweater.”

“Easy for you to say.” But he didn’t take it off. Instead he bent and grabbed another package from under the tree and tossed it to me. “Here. This is from Tammy. Tell me what you think.”

“You too.” I waited for him to pick up his own package from Tamara Grimaldi before I opened mine.

It took only a few seconds to remove the paper, and I stared at the contents, my cheeks flaming. Rafe, meanwhile, had taken the wrapping off Tamara’s gift to him, and chuckled.

“What?” I said.

He didn’t answer, just held it up. Lingerie dripped from his fingers: slinky red satin with white fur trim and little black bows. Women’s lingerie. Christmas appropriate, like something Santa’s naughty helper might wear.

“She must have made a mistake,” I muttered, unsuccessfully trying to wrap the paper back around the things in my lap. “Put the wrong name on the wrong package.”

Rafe shook his head. “I don’t think so, darlin’. What did she get you?”

I held it up. A Santa hat and a pair of satin boxer shorts decorated with red lipstick kisses, along with a pair of handcuffs with fur lining. They matched the lingerie he’d received.

Rafe started laughing. “No, she did it right. That’s definitely for you.”

“And that’s for you?” I indicated the Santa-lingerie.

He grinned. “Sure is.”

“How do you figure that? No offense, but while you may be able to carry off the sweater—” and the boxer shorts, “—a satin bra and matching panties is too much, even for you.”

He shook his head. “Ain’t for me to wear, darlin’. But it’s still my gift. Tammy ain’t stupid. She knows no woman wears something like this for herself, she wears it for a man. The only way you’ll put it on, is if I ask you to.”

He was right about that. I glanced down at my lap. “I suppose you’ll put these on if I ask you to?”

“Course. We’ve been talking about handcuffs for a while now, ain’t we?”

We had. More as a joke than anything else. Although he had once told me that if I wanted to tie him to something, he’d be happy to oblige.

“I was talking about the hat and shorts,” I said, blushing.

“That’s a shame,” Rafe answered and changed the subject. “Think we’ll have time to stop by the cemetery on Oak on the way to dinner, darlin’? I didn’t go last night.”

“Of course.” It’s a local tradition to decorate the graves of your loved ones on Christmas Eve. There’d been no love lost between Rafe and his grandfather, Big Jim, but his mother LaDonna had passed away last summer, and it made sense that he’d want to visit her grave. I had made my own stop at the Oak Street Cemetery yesterday, on my way into town, but I didn’t tell him that.

“You ready to go?”

“You have to put on the boxers first.” And I had to put on my mother’s gift over the blouse I was wearing. It’s also tradition.

He stared at me. “You want me to go to your sister’s house wearing those?”

“Under your pants. I’m not expecting you to wear only the boxers.”

“I’d rather wear them than the sweater,” Rafe said but capitulated. “Fine. I’ll go put’em on. While I’m gone, you better make sure you haven’t missed anything.”

“Like what?”

But he didn’t answer; he was already on his way down the hallway to the nearest bathroom. “Third door on the left,” I called after him, and heard the door open and close.

I folded his shirt neatly and put it into the bag where the new shirt had been. And I put the lingerie and handcuffs into the bag with the condoms, since they seemed to belong together. And that’s when I saw it.

Another present.

It was small and hung from one of the lower branches of the tree. A tiny box in blue paper with small silver stars, tied in a loop with a blue ribbon. I removed it carefully, apprehension making my hands unsteady.

There was no tag on the box. No indication who it was from, and no indication that it was intended for me, really. Not apart from the fact that it had hung there above my other gifts.

My heart was beating hard as I unwrapped it. And lest you misunderstand, it was beating with dread, not anticipation. The box was just the right size for jewelry, and if there’s one thing I’ve come to fear, it’s jewelry boxes. It had been just a few weeks since Todd had asked me whether I wanted diamonds for Christmas. I’d told him no, since I’d been afraid he planned to spring another engagement ring on me, a ring I’d have to turn down in front of my entire family on Christmas Eve.

Christmas Eve was over, so at least I didn’t have to worry about that. But I still wasn’t looking forward to giving it back. If I could have handed it back to him unopened, I would have.

It was a jewelry box. Small, black, velvet-covered. And when I opened it, there was a ring inside. A slim band with a small blue stone. Not a diamond this time. It looked like a sapphire, maybe. Just a few shades darker than the paper used to wrap it.

There was a small slip of paper in the box too, like a fortune from a fortune cookie. I pulled it out and peered at it.

Contingent on approval, it said. A message from the jeweler, letting Todd know that the ring was returnable if the intended recipient—me—didn’t like it?

Or a message from Todd, telling me he expected another refusal, but he was going to keep trying anyway?

The bathroom door opened down the hall, and I snapped the box shut and hid the flashing sapphire. I fumbled the paper back around it again, and shoved the whole thing into my purse before he could catch sight of it.

“Something wrong, darlin’?”

He stopped beside me. I looked up and managed a smile. “Nothing.”

He nodded. “Ready to go?”

“Sure.” I took the hand he extended and let him lift me to my feet. And then I went ahead of him toward the front door, with the small package tucked away in my purse.

~*~

Oak Street Cemetery is—you guessed it—on Oak Street. It’s been there a long time, more than a hundred years. A few generations of Martins are buried there, while the generations before them are buried in the private cemetery behind the mansion. That’s the way they did it in the old days: the big plantations had their own private cemeteries. Once in a while, Mother will get a call from some archaeologist or other, asking for permission to dig up some of the graves. So far, they’ve always been interested in the ones belonging to the plantation slaves; the callers are rarely so uncouth as to ask to dig up our ancestors. Not that it matters. Mother’s answer has always been no, no matter who they want to dig up. As far as I’m concerned, it always will be.

I’d been at Oak Street the day before, to put a wreath on my daddy’s grave. He died a few years ago of a heart attack. And my sister-in-law Sheila was buried nearby, as well. Dix and the girls had covered her plot with flowers and candles and drawings, and I’d had a hard time finding room to place my own small offering.

I’d made a few other stops too, while I was there. Marquita Johnson’s grave was just fine; her husband and kids, along with her family, had made sure it was taken care of. And Elspeth Caulfield had specified cremation in her will, so she was tucked away in a vault in the town of Damascus, where she’d lived, twenty minutes or so from Sweetwater. (I felt guilty about Elspeth.) But Rafe was the last Collier, and I hadn’t wanted his family plot to look bare on Christmas. So I’d brought a couple extra candles and an evergreen wreath and had put them on LaDonna’s grave. I hadn’t known Wanda, Rafe’s maternal grandmother, and Old Jim had died while I was just a little girl. I had a vague memory of a mean old coot in a rusty pickup truck, but that was as far as our relationship had extended. I’d heard a lot about him, though, none of it good. So I didn’t bother with his grave, or with Wanda’s, or for that matter with Bubba’s, their son. But I had lit a couple of candles and laid the wreath on LaDonna’s grave, up against the headstone. Of course, the candles had burned out by now, but the wreath was still there. And that’s what made Rafe stop a few feet away, to stare.

After a few seconds he turned to me, the question clear in his eyes. I shrugged.

“Why?”

I blinked. “Are you upset?”

He shook his head. “No, darlin’. Course not. Just... why? You didn’t know her.”

“She was your mother,” I said.

“Yeah?”

“I love you. So... your mother is sort of my mother.” Or would have become my mother. Maybe. At some point. If she’d still been alive. And if things didn’t change.

He didn’t answer. Just reached out and gathered me in his arms. And held me there a while. Just breathing into my hair. I don’t think he was crying, although his voice was a little uneven when he finally said, “Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure.” I said it again: “I love you.”

“I love you too.” But he didn’t let me go, just tightened his arms around my waist and held on. We had some time yet before we had to be at Catherine’s house, and since he seemed perfectly content to stand there, with the bright winter sun shining down at us through the bare branches of the trees, I settled in too, with my cheek against his shoulder and his nose buried in my hair.

Until a cough sounded a few feet away.

Chapter 4

 

It’s in situations like this that I most notice the differences between us. I’m a nice Southern girl: I went to finishing school, and a good university, and I married—and divorced—a lawyer, and at the moment I’m making my living—what there is of it—as a real estate agent.

My boyfriend grew up in a doublewide trailer in the Bog, Sweetwater’s mobile home park. He went to prison at eighteen, for assault and battery, and he’s spent the past ten years—since he got out—deep undercover, crawling through the underbelly of the Southeast, sleeping with dogs and waking up with fleas.

When I heard the cough, my first instinct was to lift my head from Rafe’s shoulder, open my eyes, and smile at whichever old friend or acquaintance had come up the hill to greet us.

Rafe’s was to tense up like a piano wire and to push me behind him with one hand while the other reached for the gun he no longer carried.

“Relax,” I said, “it’s the sheriff.”

Rafe dropped out of the defensive posture, but his body was still tense. Not surprisingly. He’d spent most of his life leery of law enforcement in general and Sheriff Satterfield in particular, since the Sweetwater sheriff has always been inclined to blame Rafe for anything that goes wrong in town. Add to that that Bob Satterfield is Todd’s daddy as well as my mother’s gentleman-friend, and we had a pretty kettle of fish.

I smiled at Bob Satterfield around Rafe’s shoulder. “Afternoon, Sheriff.”

The sheriff nodded. “You two all right up here?”

“We’re fine,” I said. “Just laying down a wreath and some candles.”

The sheriff moved his attention to Rafe. “Afternoon, boy.”

“Sheriff.” Rafe’s voice was calm and non-committal, but I could feel tension strumming through his body.

“Didn’t think we’d see you back in town.”

“I didn’t think you would, either,” Rafe answered. “Things changed.”

“So I see.” The sheriff’s lips twitched. “Nice sweater.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, just turned to me. “You two on your way to your sister’s house?”

I nodded.

“Tell your mama I’m sorry to miss it.”

I said I would, and added, “I guess someone has to hold down the fort on Christmas Day. It’s nice of you to let your deputies have the day off, Sheriff.”

The sheriff didn’t answer, just nodded, and it wasn’t until he walked away that I realized he wasn’t in uniform, but was dressed in jeans and a parka.

“I don’t think he’s on duty,” Rafe said, echoing my thoughts.

I glanced up at him. “Why isn’t he going to Catherine’s for Christmas dinner? He and Mother have been an item for months. Maybe longer. Surely Catherine would have invited him.”

“I imagine he don’t wanna spend any more time with me than he has to,” Rafe said calmly. “And it’s prob’ly best if Satterfield and I don’t spend time in the same room right now, either. Don’t want another incident like last time. Specially on Christmas.”

He was right about that. The last time the two of them met, in the hospital after my miscarriage, Todd said something to Rafe that made Rafe knock Todd to the floor. I still don’t know exactly what it was—everyone refuses to repeat it, including Dix—but I know Todd blamed Rafe for what had happened to me, and I figure the verbiage must have been pretty bad to garner that reaction. And there’s been bad blood between them a lot longer than that. Todd was suspicious of my feelings for Rafe long before there were any feelings to speak of.

Rafe nodded when I said as much. “Goes all the way back to that night in high school.”

“What night in high school?”

He glanced at me as he took my arm to escort me down the hill toward the Volvo. “You and Satterfield and your brother and that little girlfriend of yours, the snooty brunette—”

“Charlotte,” I said.

He nodded. “You were on a date. In Columbia. In Satterfield’s new car.”

“Of course.” I remembered. I just didn’t realize that he did.

It was the one and only time I’d had any interaction at all with Rafe during the one year we’d been in high school together. We didn’t exactly travel in the same circles, and other than an occasional brush up against each other in the hallway—which ended with him winking and saying something lewd and me recoiling in horror—we’d never spoken. Except for this one night.

Dix, Charlotte, Todd, and I had been on our way back home from the movies. It had been the night of high school graduation, but not for any of us. Charlotte and I were fifteen and at the end of our junior year, while Dix and Todd were seventeen, with their senior year still ahead of them. Rafe, on the other hand, was a year older and had graduated that day. And to celebrate, I guess he’d gotten stinking drunk and into a fight. Not the fight that ended up putting him in prison for two years—that happened later in the summer—but some kind of fight with someone. We’d come across him sitting on the sidewalk outside the movie theatre in Columbia, bruised and bloody and looking like a prime candidate for getting scooped up by the local police and stuck in the drunk tank overnight to sober up.

The others had wanted to cross the street and move past him without getting involved. I’d put my foot down. We were a twenty-minute drive from Sweetwater, and he was in no condition to get there on his own. It is the duty of every well-brought-up Southern Belle to help those less fortunate, and Rafe was clearly less fortunate.

So I’d insisted on dragging him to his feet and bringing him with us, stumbling and swearing. I’d crowded into the back seat of Todd’s brand new sports car with Dix and Charlotte—who had probably planned to spend the drive home necking, a plan I inadvertently ruined—and Todd drove the entire way back to Sweetwater with one eye on the road and one on Rafe, who looked like he was about to hurl all over Todd’s brand new leather upholstery.

“That was a long time ago,” I said.

He nodded. “Lifetime or so.”

“I had no idea that bothered Todd. He never brought it up again.”

Rafe shrugged.

I glanced up at him. “You never brought it up again either.” And he’d been pretty out of it that night. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he woke up the next morning with no idea how he got home.

He looked down at me. “Not like I’d forget, is it? You were nice to me. First time that’d ever happened. Usually you just tilted your nose up and pretended I was invisible when I spoke to you.”

“Sorry.”

He grinned. “No worries. That night made up for it. They all wanted to leave me there. And you refused.”

I nodded. For a second I was back on that hot and dirty sidewalk, looking down at him, much younger than he was now: dirty, drunk, and bleeding. I could hear my own voice in my head. “Fine. Go home. But I’m not leaving him here like this. If you won’t help me get him back to Sweetwater, I’ll do it by myself. I’m sure I can find a cab.”

He’d looked at me, I remembered. From my shoes to the top of my head and back. And then he’d told me he’d go wherever I wanted him to go. Todd had growled and stepped forward, his fists clenched, and I’d told him to back off, that Rafe was drunk and had no idea what he was saying. Todd had done it, albeit reluctantly, and Rafe had kept quiet on the way back to Sweetwater. But now, looking back on it, I could see why that encounter may have sowed a seed of doubt in Todd’s mind. I had gone out of my way to help Rafe. I had interrupted my date with Todd to do it. By the time Rafe showed up in my life again, Todd was predisposed to seeing him as an interloper, someone who’d stand firmly in the middle of our relationship.

And he’d been right. Which made me wonder just what he’d picked up on back then, that I hadn’t noticed myself. Maybe I’d been attracted to Rafe already, just unaware or too afraid to admit it, even to myself.

“I love you,” I said.

He grinned. “I know.”

“I like saying it.”

“I like hearing it.” He opened the car door for me and helped me in. I waited until he’d walked around and had gotten behind the wheel before I continued the conversation.

“Do you suppose Sheriff Satterfield helped my mother pick out the sweater you’re wearing? He complimented you on it.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Rafe said.

I watched as he put the key in the ignition and cranked it over. “Are you worried?”

He glanced at me. “What’s to worry about?”

“Dinner. Meeting my family. Facing my mother over the Christmas goose.”

“There’s gonna be a goose?” He put the car in reverse

“Probably not,” I admitted. “My sister usually makes ham.”

“Ham’s good. Are you worried?”

I shrugged. Maybe a little.

“Don’t be. I’ve been practicing. I know which fork to use. And if there’s beer, I’ll make sure to use a glass.” He grinned.

“I don’t care how you drink the beer. Or which fork you use. You can use any fork you want. Just don’t stab my mother with it. I know you’ll be tempted, but please don’t. I want her to like you.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” Rafe said.

“Because every woman likes you?”

He glanced at me. “Most women like me. Though I think your mother’s prob’ly an exception. I was thinking that it won’t matter what I do, cause there ain’t nothing in the world will make that woman like me.”

He had a point.

“Just do your best to keep a good attitude,” I said.

“Sure.”

“If my mother needs stabbing, let me do it.”

He nodded.

“And keep your mind on the important thing.”

“What’s that?”

“That I love you. No matter which fork you use. And that we have a pair of fur-lined handcuffs and 365 condoms for later.”

Rafe grinned. “Now you’re talking.”

Chapter 5

 

My sister and brother-in-law live in one of the new developments that have cropped up on the outskirts of Sweetwater over the past couple of years. Subdivisions with names like Copper Creek, Devon Highlands, and Summer Pointe, home to row upon row of cookie-cutter McMansions.

I hate them. As a real estate agent I probably shouldn’t admit that, but give me a rundown Victorian or Craftsman in a real neighborhood any day. I’d go crazy living in the Stepford of my sister and brother-in-law, and for that matter of my brother and his late wife.

I know why they choose to live there, of course. Those subdivisions are magnets for young, upwardly mobile families with children, and since Catherine and Jonathan have three, they’ve chosen to live in a place where little Robert, Annie, and Cole can be surrounded by friends. Dix and Sheila had the same reason for buying a house in Copper Creek. The streets are safe, there’s very little traffic, and everyone knows everyone else. A lot like the way small towns used to be.

The McCall home is an overlarge brick pseudo-Tudor on a postage-stamp sized lot surrounded by other pseudo-Tudors, pseudo-Italian villas, and pseudo-French chateaux. The houses are so close together that you can stand in the living room of one and look right into the living room of the one next door, and perhaps borrow a cup of sugar without ever leaving your own kitchen. Rafe got out of the car and came around to my side and opened my door, an expression of mingled amusement and consternation on his face. “What did you say your brother-in-law does, again?”

“Lawyer,” I said. “My brother, my sister, her husband, my father, my grandfather, my great-grandfather...”

“Right. You were supposed to marry a lawyer.”

“I did marry a lawyer. And then I divorced him. Why?”

“No reason.” He extended a hand and helped me to my feet. It wasn’t for the benefit of anyone watching from inside the house. He always does it. I think he likes to touch me. Although I did hope my mother was watching, since she’d approve.

She wouldn’t approve of the next thing that happened. I did, though. When I was standing in front of him, he stepped in closer, so we were just a deep breath away from touching, and then he put both hands on my cheeks, in a gesture as gentle as it was possessive, and proceeded to kiss me.

I melted, of course. I always do. My knees turned to water, my stomach liquefied, and all I could do was hang on to his shoulders until he lifted his head. “There.” His voice was thick with satisfaction and probably with a bit of something else, too. “That oughta do it.”

“Do what?” I had a hard time getting the words out, with the way I turn breathless every time he’s nearby. “Show them that I’m crazy enough about you to let you kiss me senseless in the middle of the afternoon on a public street?” In my hometown, where perfect Savannah Martin was supposed to know better.

He grinned. “Something like that.”

“Yes,” I said, “if that’s what you were trying to prove, you did it.”

“Or maybe I was just reminding you what it is you like about me.”

“That isn’t what I like about you.”

“It ain’t?”

“It isn’t the only thing I like about you.” But if it made him feel calm to remind himself—not me; himself—that he had this effect on me, who was I to deny him? Especially when it came with such benefits for me too. I smiled up at him. “Although as demonstrations go, it packs a punch.”

He smiled back. “Glad to hear it.”

“Can we go inside now? And get this over with? So that we can be alone and you can do it again?”

He nodded. “Let’s.”

We turned toward the stairs and took a collective breath.

~*~

I have a pretty good relationship with both my siblings. My brother Dix and I are a little closer than my sister Catherine and I, just because we’re closer in age. Catherine was born first, and was named after mother’s mother, Catherine Calvert. Two and a half years later, Dix came along, and was christened Dixon Calvert Martin. And then, about a year and a half after Dix, I was born, and was named for mother’s hometown in Georgia. It could have been worse: I’m just grateful she wasn’t born in Augusta or Alma or Hortense.

It was Dix who opened the door and stepped aside so we could come in. “You’re just in time,” he informed me. “Any later, and Mother would have marked you down for punctuality.”

I glanced at my watch. Precisely one minute to one. “We spent a minute or two outside.”

“Believe me,” Dix said, taking my coat to hang it in the closet, “we noticed.”

I blushed and tried to pretend I didn’t. “Let me guess. Mother was sitting by the window with one eye on the road and one on the clock in case we were late.”

“Something like that. And got an eyeful of the two of you instead.” My brother turned to Rafe, and there was a beat of silence while they looked at one another. “Jacket?” Dix said.

“Oh.” Rafe shrugged out of the black leather, a hint of color on his cheekbones.

“Nice sweater.” Dix’s lips twitched.

Rafe glanced down—maybe he had forgotten the Christmas monstrosity he was wearing—and up again. “Gift from your mother.”

“You get points for wearing it.” Dix turned away to hang the coats in the closet. “Maybe they’ll make up for the points you lost by kissing my sister in broad daylight in front of the house.”

“Kissing your sister was worth the points,” Rafe said and grinned at me. I smiled back and moved a step closer to reach for his hand. More because I needed the togetherness than because I thought he did. His hand was warm and hard, and he squeezed my fingers reassuringly.

Dix turned back around and looked from one to the other of us for a moment before he said, “Jonathan will be taking Mother in to dinner. He’s the host and she’s the senior guest. That means you’ll have to escort Catherine.”

“OK,” Rafe said.

“She’ll make sure nothing happens to you.” I gave his arm a comforting pat. “Talk to her unless someone else talks to you. Then you can answer.”

Rafe nodded.

“Under no circumstances talk to Savannah or Mother,” Dix said. “Not unless they talk to you first. Mother is looking for any excuse to dislike you. Don’t give her one.”

“Don’t have to,” Rafe said. “She don’t like me already.”

Since he was right, neither of us bothered to deny it.

“The kids are eating in the kitchen,” Dix added, “so it’ll be just the adults at table. That means there’ll be nothing to distract us.”

“Means she can focus all her attention on you,” I explained to Rafe.

He looked conflicted, as if he wasn’t sure we were serious. I couldn’t blame him. My mother doesn’t look that dangerous. But like most Southern Belles, she can cut a man to ribbons in no time flat, using her tongue. She doesn’t even have to raise her voice.

I gave him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. You’ve been through worse. She’ll only have a butter knife, and she won’t try to kill you with it. The only thing that’ll take a beating is your ego.” And his ego is pretty healthy, so perhaps I shouldn’t worry.

“After this you won’t have to see her again for a long time,” Dix added. “The next big family occasion is Easter. At least three months from now.”

“You’re forgetting the birthdays,” I said. With the way the family is growing, with five grandkids and counting, we have birthdays all the time now.

“You can make excuses for those if you don’t want to come,” Dix said. “It’s harder to get out of the holiday dinners.”

True.

I glanced at the door. “We should probably go in. If we stay out here much longer, she’ll think it’s because we’re afraid to face her.”

“Ain’t we?” Rafe said.

Of course we were. But... “We don’t want her to know that. She’ll feed on the power.”

“I’m pretty sure she knows already,” Rafe said. “C’mon, darlin’. Time to face the music.”

He turned me toward the doorway. I could feel my heart slamming against my ribs as we stepped forward into Catherine and Jonathan’s living room.

~*~

Like my mother, my sister has lovely taste and enough money to indulge it. Unlike my mother, Catherine’s tastes run to modern furniture and Scotchgard® fabrics.

The living room is off-white, with a brown fake-suede couch—the spilled chocolate milk doesn’t show up well against the fabric—and a fuzzy multicolored rug—ditto. There are also a couple of chairs in a nubby red fabric—the fruit punch stains blend well—and a coffee table made out of steel or some other virtually indestructible material.

It’s rather lovely, everything considered, and works well for a household with three children under eight.

They were out of sight, but I could hear high pitched squeals and laughter coming down the stairs, so I guessed they were in the bonus room above the garage. It’s toy-heaven up there, and after losing their mother just a month ago, Dix’s girls have spent a lot of time upstairs with Robert, Annie, and Cole.

Mother was sitting on the sofa facing the door, her beady eye bent on us. And when I say that, I’m being a little unfair.

The thing is, my mother is lovely. She’s in her late fifties, and looks at least ten years younger. Her hair is tinted a nice, natural champagne color, her skin is smooth and practically wrinkle-free, and she has a nice figure she’s kept ruthlessly maintained. She dresses in expensive skirts and raw silk blouses. In this case, the pencil skirt was a tasteful oatmeal, the blouse was a bright—but not too bright—coral, and the cardigan was taupe, belted around her waist with an oatmeal-colored belt, hand-tooled. On her feet were oatmeal shoes over oatmeal stockings; the better to look longer and leaner.

She appears soft and ladylike. You wouldn’t think, to look at her, that she can be such a dragon.

She looked me up and down, of course, searching for something to criticize.

There was nothing. I was wearing her present; it would have been rude not to. I was wearing a skirt, since pants are unladylike and emphasize my posterior. I was wearing stockings, since naked legs are also unladylike. My stockings were not black, which would make me look cheap (even if matching them to my shoes would make my legs look longer and leaner). My shoes were not white (no white before Easter or after Labor Day), the heels neither too high (trampy) nor too low (dowdy). My hair was done. I was wearing makeup and jewelry. There was, in short, no cause for complaint—at least not apart from the man next to me.

The only thing she might have mentioned was the fact that I looked tired, but commenting, even obliquely, on my nighttime activities would also have been unladylike—hah!—so she didn’t.

“Hello, Mother,” I said, throwing down the gauntlet. “Thank you for the lovely sweater.”

“Cardigan, darling,” Mother said, her lips tight.

Of course.

“I brought Rafe.” Might as well point him out, since no one—except Dix—had acknowledged his presence yet. Not that I was under any illusions about them not realizing he was there. He’s noticeable under most circumstances; in the sweater from hell he was damned near blinding. Mother was just very carefully not looking at him. Until she had no choice.

“So I see,” she said, nostrils quivering. “Good afternoon, Rafe.”

“Afternoon, Miz Martin.” His nostrils didn’t quiver, but his lips did. Good. He didn’t take her tone of voice—like he were something stuck to the bottom of her shoe—personally. “Thanks for the sweater.”

He grinned. Mother turned her nose up.

“This is my brother-in-law, Jonathan McCall.” I indicated the man sitting opposite from Mother. “Jonathan’s married to Catherine. You remember Catherine from school, I’m sure.”

“Sure.” Rafe nodded to Jonathan. “Nice to meet you.”

Jonathan blinked. I guess maybe Catherine hadn’t prepared him for my boyfriend. Hard to imagine that she wouldn’t, but he looked surprised. Or maybe it was just the effect of the sweater from hell, again.

My brother-in-law is Boston Brahmin, a breed almost as uptight as its Southern counterpart. I hadn’t considered that he might have a problem with Rafe. I’d assumed that, with Dix and Catherine on my side, Jonathan would just fall in line. But maybe he, like Dix’s late wife Sheila, felt he had to align himself with Mother lest she turn on him too.

“Thanks for having us to dinner,” I added, in an effort to snap him out of it.

Jonathan flushed and got to his feet. “Of course. Welcome. Nice to meet you, Rafe.” He extended a hand. Rafe took it and they shook. I let out a breath I hadn’t been aware I’d been holding.

Aside from the two of them, and us now, the living room was empty. Even Dix had disappeared. I looked around. “Where’s Catherine?”

“Kitchen,” Jonathan said. “She sent me out here to keep your mother company until dinner is ready.”

Of course. Better than having Mother underfoot in there.

“We’ll go say hi.” I had Rafe by the hand, and pulled him after me.

“Miz Martin.” He nodded to Mother on his way past, like he had last night. She acknowledged the good manners, since she didn’t have a choice, with a nod of her own.

Chapter 6

 

“That went better than I thought,” I told Rafe when we were out of earshot in the formal dining room, set with Catherine’s holiday dishes and tapered candles in silver holders and cloth napkins in engraved rings.

He shrugged. “Guess nobody told your brother-in-law about me.”

“Of course someone told Jonathan about you. Don’t be silly.” The fact that I was carrying on with him had been the number one topic of conversation in the family for the past several weeks. I knew that because Dix had told me.

“So why’d he look surprised?” Rafe wanted to know.

“I have no idea. Maybe it was the sweater.” I thought for a second and added, “Although if he’s been listening to Mother, he might have expected you to look different.”

He slanted me a look. “Like how?”

“You know. Cornrows, pants around your knees, baseball jersey, gold teeth with diamond chips.” My mother’s worst nightmare. Between you and me, it isn’t a look that appeals to me a whole lot, either.

Rafe grinned, showing off a set of nice teeth with no gold fillings or other adornment. “Been a while since I rocked the gangsta look. Turns out it’s a lot harder to outrun the law when your pants are down around your knees.”

I smiled as I pushed open the swinging butler door.

Catherine’s kitchen is just as beautiful as the rest of her house. Sleek and modern, with granite counters, maple cabinets, and stainless steel appliances. At the moment it was hot and steamy, redolent of flavors. Ham, butter, green bean casserole, fresh bread. My sister was in the middle of it all, with an apron wrapped around her middle and her hair frizzing in the humidity.

When she heard the door open, she snapped over her shoulder, “Dinner will be ready in five minutes.”

“It’s us,” I said.

My sister isn’t an effusive person. None of us are, really. Excessive emotion is all right for the unwashed masses, but the Martins are above such unbecoming displays. I didn’t expect her to look overly excited to see me, or us. However, I also didn’t expect her to look surprised. “What are you doing here?” she said.

I blinked. “Weren’t you expecting us?” The table was set for six, wasn’t it?

“I thought,” my sister said, “you might be spending the day in bed, making up for lost time.”

So that’s what she’d intended the 365 condoms for.

I blushed. Rafe, on the other hand, laughed. “Thank you for that.”

Catherine smiled back. “You’re welcome. I owe you an apology.”

The last time the two of them had seen each other had been in the hospital the night of my miscarriage. I’d been despondent, Rafe had been upset, and the family had been worried. And because I hadn’t told them about him, or him about the fact that he’d knocked me up, a lot of people thought it was Todd’s baby. Todd knew better, of course, but Rafe didn’t. Nor did Catherine. So after he knocked Todd flat on his butt in the hallway, he’d left, and I’d sent Catherine after him. And Catherine, bless her heart, had done her best to make him feel better about the fact that I’d been sleeping with Todd.

“Three hundred sixty-five condoms go a long way toward making me feel better,” Rafe agreed. “Specially the ones that play music.”

My perfectly proper sister grinned at him. “I thought you’d enjoy that.”

I looked from one to the other of them. “Do you two know each other? And I just didn’t realize it?”

Rafe smiled. “No,” my sister said, “although we did go to school together for three years.”

Two years longer than I’d gone to school with him. I guess they must have had more interactions than he and I had had, back then.

For a second I felt a crazy stab of jealousy—had he flirted with her too?—and then I shook it off. “Thanks for the shirt. He put it on. You just can’t see it right now.”

“No,” Catherine agreed, looking him up and down, “it’s hard to get past that awful sweater.”

“Your mother gave it to me,” Rafe said.

“Of course she did. And of course you had to wear it.” She turned to the stove to give something a last stir with a wooden spoon before turning off the burner.

“Think it’d be OK if I took it off when we sit down to eat? I’m kinda hot.”

I thought about taking the bait but declined. Instead I just smiled. “You walked in wearing it. It counts. I think it’s OK to take it off now.”

“I can spill something on it if you want,” Catherine offered, lifting her wooden spoon. Brown gravy dripped from it.

“Thanks, but that’s not necessary.” He was peeling out of the sweater even as he spoke. I took it out of his hands and folded it carefully, watching as he adjusted the white shirt. He looked so much better in that. And yes, definitely hot.

I turned away, with just a bit of difficulty, to address Catherine. “If you weren’t expecting us, why are there six places at the table?”

“I was expecting the sheriff and his son,” Catherine said. “Guess I’d better set two more places.”

“They’re not coming.”

She looked at me, and I added, “We met the sheriff at the cemetery earlier. He said to tell Mother he was sorry he had to miss it.”

“That won’t make her happy,” Catherine predicted. She reached behind her to untie her apron. “Would you tell Jonathan he can take her in? I just have to put the food on the table.”

“Do you want help?”

She shook her head. “Go find Dix. Your boyfriend can help me with the food.”

“Take care of him,” I said. “Don’t let Mother bite him before I get back.”

Catherine promised she wouldn’t. I left them there and went off in search of my brother. On the way, I explained to Mother that Rafe had taken the sweater off because he didn’t want to run the risk of spilling something on it—she sniffed, probably at the suggestion that he might be so uncouth as to actually spill—and that the sheriff and Todd wouldn’t be coming.

My mother didn’t say a word, but the look she gave me was ripe with guilt and accusation.

“Rafe and I can leave again,” I said. “I guess it depends on whether you’d rather see your daughter or your boyfriend on Christmas Day.”

She didn’t say anything to that, either, of course, and I told Jonathan that dinner was on its way onto the table even as we spoke. “I’m going to look for Dix,” I finished.

Jonathan nodded and turned to Mother. “Are you ready, Margaret Anne?”

Mother nodded, her lips so tight they were practically non-existent.

~*~

I found Dix in the office at the back of the house. He was on the phone, and when I came through the door, he looked up at me with a guilty expression.

“Dinner’s ready.”

He nodded and held up a finger. “I have to go,” he told the phone, which quacked back at him. “Yes, I will. I’ll do my best.” He smiled. “I know you do. I’ll call you later to let you know how it went. You too.”

He stopped short of making kissing noises at the phone, but it seemed a near thing.

“Tamara Grimaldi?” I asked when he’d disconnected, my eyebrows inching up my forehead.

“What makes you think so?”

“The fact that you won’t tell me it wasn’t.” I didn’t bother to wait for him to answer. “It’s time for dinner.”

“Good.” He got to his feet, a little more quickly than necessary. It was almost as if he wanted to get away from me. “I’m starving.”

“Not so fast.” I stopped him before he could leave the room. “I want a word. In private.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “C’mon, Sis. We’ve had this conversation before. It’s too soon for me to start dating anyone.”

“That’s not it,” I said. Because, yes, he was right. The fact that he and Detective Grimaldi seemed to like one another had come as a huge surprise to me, and I’m sure to him too—Tamara Grimaldi is about as different from Sheila as it’s possible for one woman to be from another—but he’d been a widower for less than two months, and it would take a lot more time than that for him to get back into the dating game. “This is about something else.”

“What?” He glanced past me to the door. “We have to go. Or Mother will suspect that something’s going on.”

“It won’t take long.” I pushed the door shut before digging into my bag. “Here. Take this.”

“This” was the jewelry box with the sapphire ring I had found hanging from the tree. Dix eyed it as I held it out, but made no move to take it from me. “Why?”

“I need you to give it back.”

“What?”

I huffed, exasperated. “I can’t accept it, Dix. Take it. Please.”

There was a pause while Dix plucked the small box from my hand, reluctantly. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to do it yourself?”

“Positive,” I said.

He looked from the box up to me. “I thought this was what you wanted.”

Another proposal from Todd on Christmas morning? Of course not. How could he possibly think I wanted that? I’d been telling Todd for months I couldn’t marry him. I’d been telling Dix for months I couldn’t marry Todd. Why would I change my mind now, when I finally had the man I wanted?

“Just... give it back to him, please. I don’t want to.” I’d done enough, frankly. And facing Todd now, when things were finally settled with Rafe, would be beyond awkward.

“I don’t blame you,” Dix said, with a glance over his shoulder at the door, “but after everything that’s happened, don’t you think you owe it to him to say no in person?”

“I’ve tried. Maybe he’ll believe it if it comes from you.”

“I don’t see why,” Dix said. “The man can’t help it that he’s in love with you, Sis.”

“Of course not. I just... I can’t marry him. Please, Dix. Help me out here.”

Dix sighed and pocketed the box. “Fine. After dinner, OK? May as well let us all have a pleasant meal first.”

“As pleasant as it can be, with Mother carving Rafe to ribbons while Jonathan carves the ham.” I reached for him. “Your arm, please.”

“Of course,” Dix said and offered it.

Chapter 7

 

We’ve always done seating à l’anglaise, meaning that the host and hostess—in this case Catherine and Jonathan—sit at the two ends of the table facing one another. Jonathan had Mother, as the most honored female guest, on his right, while Catherine had the most honored male guest, her escort, on her left. That left Mother and Rafe side by side on one side of the table, while Dix and I ended up on the other. And because proper seating is always staggered male-female, I sat between Dix and Jonathan, directly opposite from Mother, instead of across from Rafe, where I wanted to be.

“Holy Father,” Jonathan intoned from the head of the table, “bless this food...”

“Amen,” we all said, and the meal started.

I won’t bore you with a blow by blow. Everyone was on their best behavior, even Mother. Rafe was perfect. He spoke only when spoken to, used all the right utensils, didn’t once clink his silverware against his flatware by accident, and neither slurped nor smacked his lips. Not that I’d expected him to. I’ve eaten with him enough to know that he has passable table manners. But there’s a big difference between passable and acceptable in the book of Margaret Anne Martin, so I was pleased to note he gave her no cause for complaint.

Every once in a while he’d catch my eye across the table, and then his lips would curve and he’d wink. I’d smile and duck my head, and Mother would press her lips together until they disappeared.

The traditional Christmas dessert in the Martin household is Bûche de Noël, a Christmas log dense with chocolate and chocolate cream, a kind of flourless cake that sits like a brick in your stomach after you’ve eaten it. It has roughly two thousand calories per slice, and I eat it only once a year, because I can almost feel the calories adhering themselves directly to my posterior as I swallow. As Catherine put it in the middle of the table, my mouth watered.

Mother got served first, of course, as guest of honor: a tiny sliver of cake so thin it was almost transparent. Not that Bûche de Noël could ever be transparent, but you know what I mean. The slice was so thin I could practically see daylight through it.

Rafe was next, and accepted a manly piece, an inch or so thick. Then it was my turn. Catherine made to cut me a piece—Jonathan carves the ham, but Catherine’s in charge of dessert—and Mother cleared her throat delicately.

Catherine froze.

“It’s Christmas,” I said. “If I want a piece of cake, Mother, I can have one.”

“A lady can never be too rich or too thin, darling,” my mother informed me.

Quoting Wallis Simpson, no less.

I was about to tell her I disagreed—it is so possible to be too thin, although I’m in absolutely no danger of it—when Rafe reached across the table and put his dessert plate in front of me. “I’m the one oughta worry about my figure,” he told me. “Now that I’m retired, I’ll be fat and lazy in no time.”

I snorted, since he’s built like an underwear model, all smooth skin and hard muscles, and it would take rather a lot more than a career change—at thirty—to make him either fat or lazy. But before I could say anything, Mother had spoken up. “Retired?”

The single word sounded like she’d squeezed it out between two rocks.

Uh-oh.

“He stopped working undercover for the TBI,” I explained.

Mother ignored me. “You mean you’re unemployed?”

She was talking directly to him, which seemed like a good thing, or at least preferable to talking to me about him while he was sitting right there. I might have wished she didn’t look like she’d bitten into a lemon wedge, though.

Rafe glanced at me, his mouth curving. “I guess so.”

“Temporarily,” I added. “Only until he finds another job.”

Mother’s lips compressed. “And when do you suppose that’ll be?”

Rafe looked pensive. “Could be a while,” he offered after a moment. “Most folks ain’t too happy to have a retired ex-con and informer join the company, you know what I mean?”

Zing.

My sister choked and my brother looked bland to the point of expressionlessness, although I thought I could see a gleam of amusement in his eyes. Mother looked like she was chewing on her tongue instead of the cake, but she didn’t say anything else. Wise choice, in my opinion.

The party broke up shortly after that. Jonathan squired Mother to the living room, to be entertained by the grandchildren for a while. Catherine and I began clearing the table, while Dix spirited Rafe off somewhere.

“What do you suppose they’re talking about?” I asked my sister on a trip into the kitchen with a bowl of—I think—green beans. (I was honestly too concerned about what was going on in the other room to pay much attention to what I was doing.)

“I’m sure Dix is quizzing your boyfriend about his intentions,” Catherine said, scraping leftovers into the garbage can.

I stared at her. “You’re kidding.”

She glanced up. “What? With Daddy gone, he’s the man of the family, isn’t he?”

“It isn’t his job to ask Rafe about his intentions!” Especially now, when my boyfriend’s intentions undoubtedly were to get as far away from the Martins as he possibly could.

“Relax,” Catherine said. “I’d back your boyfriend against our brother any day. The way he took Mother down was a thing of beauty.”

True. He can take care of himself, and I wasn’t worried that he and Dix would come to fisticuffs in the office. Contrary to what Rafe thought, Dix did like him. Yes, my brother was Todd Satterfield’s best friend, and I’m sure he would have been happy to see me decently married to Todd, but I was his sister before Todd was his friend, and blood really is thicker than water. Besides, he wants what’s best for both of us, and he’s not stupid, so he realizes that for me to marry Todd when I’m in love with Rafe wouldn’t make anyone happy in the long run.

They came out a few minutes later, looking none the worse for wear, and Catherine told me, “Why don’t the two of you run along? I’m sure neither of you wants to go in the living room and make small-talk with Mother.”

She was right about that. I was so angry with my mother right then I could spit—a very common thing to do—and putting her and Rafe in the same room at the moment didn’t seem wise. So I glanced at Rafe. “What do you think?”

He shrugged. “I’ll sit with your mother if you want.”

No. God, no. “That’s not necessary. She’s been rude enough to you already.”

“I was ruder to her, don’t you think?”

“No,” I said. Nobody is ruder than my mother, in her quiet, ladylike way. “You stood up to her. And you weren’t rude.” Precisely.

“I can be not rude again.”

“There’s no need. We’ll just go home.”

He shrugged and turned to my sister. “Thank you for having me in your home.”

“You’re Savannah’s boyfriend,” Catherine said. “Was I going to refuse?”

She shook her head at his outstretched hand, and stepped closer to give him a hug instead. “Mother will come around,” she said over his shoulder, patting him. “And even if she doesn’t, we’re happy for you both.”

“Thank you.” He stepped back, and my sister, who had taken the opportunity to check out his muscles under the white shirt, gave me a wink and thumbs up.

“Hands off,” I told her when I moved in for my own hug. “Mine.”

She smiled. “No worries. I have my own hunk of burning love.”

Not exactly how I’d describe my brother-in-law, but to each their own, I guess. I turned to Dix, to give him a hug too. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Dix asked and gave me a squeeze. “I just want you to be happy, Sis.”

Right. “You should come up to Nashville sometime, and we could do a double date.”

Dix opened his mouth to tell me it was too soon for him to start dating, and I added, “To have dinner with your sister and her boyfriend. We’ll invite our friend Tamara to come along, so you won’t feel like a fifth wheel. Maybe we can play a game of bridge.”

Dix closed his mouth again. Catherine looked curious, but she didn’t ask what we were talking about, so maybe she knew. “Enjoy your Christmas gift,” she told me instead.

I blushed, of course. “Thank you. I will.” Although to be honest, I’d rather do without it. I’d told Rafe I’d like another shot at a baby, and several months had passed since the miscarriage. So it might be time to try again. Catherine’s Christmas gift wouldn’t be a help there, even if it did play Santa, Baby.

Then again, with our relationship—the committed part of it—as new as it was, maybe it’d be better to wait a while. Rafe hadn’t ever actually told me how he felt about the fact that I’d been pregnant. He hadn’t known about it until it was over, and I’d never thought to ask whether it had made him happy or not, once he got over the anger because I hadn’t told him, and the grief or disappointment—or maybe relief—that it hadn’t worked out.

“You’ll have to say goodbye to Mother,” Dix said.

Of course. Sneaking out without facing her again would be cowardly, and I had done nothing to be ashamed of. Nor had Rafe. So I took his hand, and we walked into the living room together. “We’re leaving,” I informed my mother, who was sitting on the sofa watching the kids crawl all over the floor with a train-set and some other things.

She looked up, from me to him and back, and a tiny wrinkle appeared between her perfect brows. “Already?”

What, had she expected us to stick around for a while so she could jab at my boyfriend some more?

“It’s getting dark,” I said with a glance out the window. It wasn’t really, although in mid-winter, even in Nashville, dusk starts to settle around three or four in the afternoon. “And we have a bit of a drive before we get home.”

Mother nodded and turned to Rafe. “It was nice to see you.”

She made it sound almost believable, when we both knew she thought no such thing.

Rafe, of course, rose to the challenge. He smiled. “The pleasure was all mine.”

It sounded like he meant it. Which he may have, considering that he’d gotten the last word in both their exchanges.

We got our coats from the hall closet—Rafe helped me into mine before donning his own leather jacket. “Don’t forget this,” Catherine told him, handing over the ugly Christmas sweater Mother had bought.

He grinned. “You’re right. Wouldn’t wanna forget that.”

“You can wear it again next year.”

If he was still around next year. Rafe didn’t answer, so maybe he was thinking the same thing. We walked out the door and down the steps to the car.

Chapter 8

 

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Rafe had gotten behind the wheel after opening the door for me and handing me into the passenger seat. He had started the car and driven it out of the subdivision without saying a word. At the moment, we were on our way back to the mansion at a pretty good clip, and the silence had become deafening.

He glanced at me. “Why?”

“My mother was rude to you.”

“Not like I didn’t expect it, darlin’.”

Maybe so. But— “That doesn’t make it OK.”

He shrugged. “I told her.”

“Yes,” I said, “you did.”

He shot me another glance. It really was getting darker outside, and sort of gray and gloomy, with the overcast sky and the empty road—nobody was out and about in the afternoon on Christmas Day—and with the bare branches of the trees stretching toward the car like dark skeletal fingers. “You upset about that?”

“With you? Of course not!”

The tension around his eyes and mouth lessened a little, and I realized that he’d been afraid he’d been out of line.

“I love you,” I said.

“I know.”

“My mother was horrible.”

He shook his head. “Nah. She’s just looking out for you.”

“I can look out for myself.”

“Sure. But if things had been the other way around—if you were still married to Bradley and your sister brought her new boyfriend to Christmas dinner...”

My eyes narrowed. “You and Catherine seemed to get along quite well. Is there something I should know about that?”

He stared at me. For long enough that I had to remind him that he was driving and the road was narrow. Finally he turned his attention back to the windshield. “No, darlin’. I went to school with your sister for a couple years. Same as I did with you and your brother. I knew who she was, and she knew who I was. Beyond that, not a blessed thing.”

“Oh,” I said. “Good.”

“Didn’t I tell you I noticed you in high school?”

“That doesn’t mean you couldn’t have noticed Catherine too.”

“No offense,” Rafe said, “I like your sister, but she ain’t my type.”

“But I am?”

He slanted a look my way, not at my face this time, but lower. His lips curved. “Definitely.”

“You like chubby blondes?”

“I like you,” Rafe said and turned back to the road. “And you’re not chubby.”

“I had cake for dessert.” A big piece. Looking down at my lap, I could almost see how my stomach bulged.

“You deserve cake,” Rafe said. “And lots and lots of brown sugar.”

He waited for my reaction, and when it didn’t come—because I didn’t pick up on the innuendo—he turned to me, his mouth quirking.

“Oh,” I said, blushing. “Right.” Brown sugar. Him.

He smiled, but he didn’t say anything else. After another few minutes, we pulled into the driveway outside the mansion, and he stopped the car and got out. “I’ll see you in Nashville.”

“Wait a second.” I opened my door too.

“I have to ride the bike back,” Rafe said. “Don’t think it’ll fit in the trunk.”

It wouldn’t. Even without our assorted Christmas gifts inside: handcuffs and lingerie and condoms, oh my.

“I know. I just...” I was worried. He seemed all right, like Mother hadn’t upset him, and like he wasn’t having second thoughts about me—or about us. But I was still loath to let him out of my sight. Every time he drove away, I was afraid that he wouldn’t come back.

He knew, of course. “I ain’t running away from you, darlin’.”

I nodded.

“I’ll be behind you the whole way there.”

That was quite a declaration of love, considering. He usually drives a lot less defensively than me, let’s just say. Promising to stay behind me for more than an hour, at a sedate seventy miles an hour, was an enormous sacrifice. “The whole way where?”

“That depends on where you wanna go,” Rafe said.

“To see your grandmother?”

He arched a brow. “You sure you wouldn’t rather go home and put those handcuffs to good use?”

Of course I’d rather go home and put the handcuffs to use. However— “I think we should go see your grandmother first.”

“I saw my grandma yesterday,” Rafe said, and I squinted at him.

“Really? You didn’t mention that earlier.”

“I was busy,” Rafe said.

“You’re not just saying it now so you can get me home and to bed?”

He grinned. “No, darlin’. I really saw her yesterday. Dropped off a gift and stayed with her awhile before I came down here.”

“Did she know who you were?”

A shadow crossed his face and he shook his head.

“Did she think you were Tyrell? I imagine you let her think so, didn’t you?”

“Seemed the least I could do,” Rafe said, “it being Christmas and all.”

A gift to his grandmother in his own way: letting her believe she had her son back for a while. With no benefit to him, since she didn’t recognize or appreciate him for himself. “Home and to bed, then.”

That made him smile, and the fact that he smiled made me happy. “Your bed or mine?” I added.

“Yours.”

“You sure you wouldn’t prefer yours? We’ve had some good times in your bed.” And a few not so good ones in mine. Nothing to do with the sex, which has always been great, but with the other things that happened there.

“No power at the house,” Rafe said. “No sense in paying for lights and water when nobody’s living there.”

Ah. Well, that made a difference. I’m all for snuggling up and staying warm, but at the end of December, it takes a little more than a warm body under the blankets. You still have to get up and take a shower the next morning, after all, and warm water helps.

“That’s fine. I can give you your Christmas present.” 

He nodded. “I’ve got something for you too. We’ll have to talk about it, though.”

That didn’t sound good. But since I didn’t want to have the conversation standing in the cold outside the mansion, I didn’t ask him to elaborate, just took his place in the driver’s seat of the Volvo and watched him walk to the Harley-Davidson parked beside the stairs and get on. When I headed down the driveway to the road, he was right behind me.

He stayed there the whole way to Nashville, as promised. Traffic was slight, and we made good time. I may have gone just a bit above the speed limit too, since I was motivated to get home as soon as possible. But he stayed behind me the whole way, and whenever I glanced in the mirror, there was the single light of the Harley following right behind.

I live in a rented apartment just across the river from downtown, in what’s known as East Nashville. It’s a historic area, gentrified to more or less of a degree depending on which neighborhood you happen to live in. The apartment and condo complex I call home is just on the edge of one of the more expensive areas, but edgy enough that Todd gets nervous every time he drops me off. I’m not nervous; it’s perfectly safe, and I haven’t ever had any problems not of my own making.

Rafe found a spot for the Harley at the curb, while I took the Volvo into the parking garage under the building. When I came upstairs, he was waiting outside the apartment door.

“You could have let yourself in,” I told him, juggling Christmas bags while fishing in my purse.

He held out empty hands. “No key.”

“That’s never stopped you before.” I found my own key and inserted it into the lock.

He grabbed me around the waist as the door opened and maneuvered me inside the hallway. “But I wouldn’t get to do this.”

He flipped me around, back against the wall, and proceeded to kiss me senseless. He tasted of chocolate cake and coffee, and I dropped both purse and bags where I stood, and held on with all I had. In no time at all, I was unbuttoning my sister’s Christmas gift to him and shoving my hands underneath, finding soft, hot skin. His muscles quivered under my hands. Until I realized— “Wait!”

Rafe lifted his mouth from the crook of my neck, his eyes liquid and his voice husky. “What?”

“What about the lingerie?”

“Screw the lingerie. I’d just have to take it off you again anyway.”

He reached down and picked me up. I squeaked and clutched his shoulders. “Wait!”

“What?”

“I’m too heavy!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Rafe said and kept walking.

I thought he was headed for the bed, but he’d only gone a couple of steps when he took an abrupt left, into my small kitchenette, and put me down on the counter.

“I told you I was too heavy,” I said. It was that big piece of cake, no doubt.

He cut his eyes to me. “I didn’t put you down because I couldn’t carry you, darlin’.”

“Why did you put me down, then?”

He quirked a brow. “Don’t you remember? I promised you next time we’d do it on the kitchen counter.”

The kitchen counter?

Sheesh.

I looked around. My kitchen is a tiny galley style, with barely enough room to turn around between the fridge and the stove. “If you wanted sex in the kitchen, why didn’t you suggest it this morning?”

Rafe stopped in the middle of pushing my skirt up so he could step between my thighs, to stare into my eyes, his own wide. “Have you lost your mind?”

“There was a lot more room in the kitchen in Sweetwater than there is here.” We could have been quite athletic on my mother’s kitchen counter. Here, I’d probably bang my head against the cabinet door once he got going. Either that, or I’d end up hanging halfway into the sink.

“I ain’t having sex in your mother’s kitchen!” Rafe said.

“You had sex in my mother’s bedroom,” I answered reasonably.

“You told me it was your bedroom!”

“It was. When I was a girl. Now it’s my mother’s. The whole house is hers. I don’t live there anymore.”

He stared at me, his hands arrested halfway up my thighs and his eyes a little wild, albeit not with the passion I like to see there when we’re two minutes away from consummation.

“Does that make a difference?” I asked carefully.

He shook himself, like a dog coming out of the water. “I don’t guess so. I mean, we’re here now.”

“Right.”

Only, he wasn’t carrying on.

“Would a musical condom put you back in the mood?” I ventured.

He tilted his head to look at me. “Would it put you back in the mood?”

“I never really lost the mood.” Sex on the kitchen counter in Sweetwater wouldn’t have bothered me.

“Well, d’you want one?”

A musical condom? “Not particularly. I thought maybe you did.”

He shook his head. “Ain’t a man born who wants to use a condom when he doesn’t have to, darlin’.”

“Is it better without?”

“Yeah,” Rafe said, “it is.”

He added, “But I’ll put one on if you want me to.”

“Not for my sake.” Especially not a musical one. His equipment is fine just the way it is, thank you very much; I don’t need it to sing to me. “Although... what if I get pregnant again?”

This wasn’t how I had imagined this conversation, frankly. Not sitting on my kitchen counter, halfway to undressed, with his hands under my skirt, while I tried to ascertain whether he would be upset or happy about another pregnancy.

He watched me silently for a moment. “Don’t you wanna get pregnant again?”

“Of course I want to get pregnant again,” I said. “I told you weeks ago that I wanted another shot at that baby.”

“Are you afraid you’re gonna lose it again?”

I guess I couldn’t deny that the thought had crossed my mind. November’s miscarriage was my second: I’d also lost a blueberry-sized baby some three years ago, while I was married to Bradley. It was probably inevitable that I should worry about my ability to carry a baby to term. But that fear wasn’t enough to dissuade me from trying again. “No. I mean... I am, but that’s not it.”

He tilted his head. “So what’s the problem?”

“I don’t know how you feel about it. You never said.”

“You never told me,” Rafe said.

Until it was too late. Right. I didn’t want to have that conversation either, half-dressed on my kitchen counter.

He made no move to step away, though, and since he was wedged securely between my thighs, there wasn’t much I could do. Pushing him wouldn’t do any good, since he’s many times stronger than me and would only move when he wanted to.

Of course, if I told him to move, he probably would... but I didn’t. He had the right to put me on the spot after what I’d done to him, I figured.

“I’d tell you this time,” I said. “If you want a baby. With me.”

He just looked at me for a moment. A long moment. “You sure you want a baby with me?”

“Positive,” I said. “I told you. I was scared and overwhelmed and worried, but there wasn’t a single minute I didn’t want that baby. Your baby. Our baby. But I want you to want it too. And not just because I do.”

He leaned forward, to where he could put his forehead against mine, and he removed his hands from under my skirt and wrapped them around my back instead. From heat and desire to tenderness and warmth. I returned the favor and slipped mine around his waist, under the now-unbuttoned shirt. There’s no rule that says I can’t enjoy myself while I give—and receive—comfort, is there?

We stood—and sat—in silence for a few seconds before he began to speak. Softly, and without looking at me.

“Elspeth never told me about David. I had no idea she was pregnant back then. No idea I had a kid. He’s twelve, and I didn’t know about him until just a few months ago.”

“She was wrong for that,” I said. “Although she was underage. Her parents probably told her she couldn’t tell you.”

“You could have told me, though. And you didn’t.”

“You were gone,” I said. “And when you came back, David was missing. And then we got busy...”

Doing what we were doing now, or what we’d been doing until a minute ago.

But they were excuses, and we both knew it. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have told you immediately. As soon as you got back to town. Or I should have told Grimaldi to find you and tell you. I just didn’t know...”

“I was starting to get a complex,” Rafe confessed, still with his forehead against mine and his breath warm and sweet against my face. His hands against my bare back were hot under the cardigan and blouse. “Knocking women up, and none of ‘em telling me I’m about to become a daddy...”

I hadn’t even thought about that, how the realization that I had kept the pregnancy from him, on the heels of the realization that Elspeth had done the same all those years ago, must have made him feel.

Stupid, Savannah!

“It wasn’t because I didn’t want your baby,” I said. “Or because I didn’t want you to be a part of the baby’s life. I wanted both of you. I just didn’t know if you did. We never talked about it.”

“You never made me think I was anything but a quick lay before you said yes to Satterfield.”

I flushed. He knows that kind of language embarrasses me, but I guess he wasn’t thinking straight right then. Which told me something about his state of mind, I guess. “I know. I should have told you sooner. I just didn’t want to admit it. Because if I admitted that it was more than that, and that I was in love with you...”

He lifted his head to look into my face. “Your mama might disown you?”

That too. But— “I was more afraid you’d tell me that you didn’t feel the same. That you got Savannah Martin to bed, and scratched that itch, and you could move on. I wasn’t sure you’d want me or the baby.” 

“I want you. Both of you. All of you.” He leaned in to kiss me, very lightly; just a lingering brush of his lips before he continued. “Dunno what kind of daddy I’ll make, though, darlin’. Never had one of my own, and Big Jim weren’t much of a role model...”

Indeed not.

“You’ll be fine,” I said, lifting my hands to frame his cheeks. “We’ll be fine. Together.”

He nodded. “One more thing before we get busy baby-making.”

“What’s that?”

He dug in his jeans pocket. “This.” When he pulled his hand out, the small velvet box was sitting on it.

Todd’s engagement ring?

“What about it?” I asked, my heart in my throat. He wasn’t upset, was he? It wasn’t my fault that Todd wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“We need to talk about it.”

“I don’t know what good it’ll do. It’s not like I’m encouraging him, you know. I’ve told him I don’t want to marry him. He knows I’m in love with you. I can’t help it that he keeps asking.”

And then I realized something. “How did you get that, anyway?”

“Your brother gave it to me,” Rafe said.

Well, duh. I’d figured that. But it wasn’t like my boyfriend looked anything like Todd Satterfield, so why had Dix given it to him instead?

“Cause you asked him to,” Rafe said when I asked.

I shook my head. “No, I didn’t. I told him to return it, because I couldn’t accept it, and he said he would.”

Rafe didn’t say anything, just looked at me, and slowly, very slowly, realization dawned.

“Oh.” I blushed. “You mean... That’s not from Todd?”

Rafe shook his head.

“It’s from you?”

He nodded.

A ring? From Rafe?

“Why didn’t you say something? Surely by this morning you weren’t worried that I’d say no.”

“I ain’t proposing,” Rafe said. “And besides, it was fun watching you try to hide the box from me.”

“That’s not very nice.”

He grinned. “Now, where d’you get the idea I was nice, darlin’?”

Nowhere, I guess. “What do you mean, you aren’t proposing?”

I reached for the box, but he moved it out of my reach. “We need some time to figure out what we wanna do first.”

“I know what I want to do,” I said. “Give it to me.”

“Not so fast. I don’t want you putting it on unless we’re on the same page about what it means.”

What it meant? Surely there was no question about that. He was giving me a ring, whether he planned to follow it up with a proposal—now—or not. A man doesn’t give a woman a ring unless he’s serious about her.

Does he?

“I’d have married you today if you’d wanted,” I told him. “I’ll marry you whenever you get around to asking. I want to spend the rest of my life with you and have children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren...”

“You say that now,” Rafe said, “but after a couple months together...”

“I’ll still love you in a couple of months. And by then I’ll probably be pregnant, too.”

“If you get pregnant,” Rafe said, handing me the box, “I’ll propose.”

“If I get pregnant, you won’t have to.” I opened it. “Mother will drag you to the altar by your ear.”

He watched me take the ring and slip it on my finger. It was a perfect fit. As I turned my hand back and forth, admiring the flash of blue, he said, “Guess I’d better get busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Knocking you up. If that’s all it takes to get your mother’s blessing.”

I wouldn’t call it my mother’s blessing, exactly—more my mother’s fear of scandal, making her think that having me marry Rafe Collier at least would be better than having me give birth to Rafe Collier’s baby out of wedlock—but in the end it came to the same thing. If I were pregnant and wanted to get married, even to Rafe, she’d be less difficult than if I told her we were getting married without being pregnant.

But— “I guess you’d better,” I said.

“Let’s go.” He scooped me up again.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist and held on. “What happened to sex on the kitchen counter?”

“Baby-making’s serious business, darlin’.” He glanced at me as he stepped into the living room. “We’ll need the bed for that.”

He skirted the dining room table and nudged open the door to the bedroom with my derriere. Two seconds later my back hit the bed, and he braced himself above me.

“Handcuffs?” I inquired breathlessly as I slid my palms up his chest. He had ix-nayed the lingerie and the musical condoms—or I had—but he might still want the handcuffs.

“I ain’t going nowhere,” Rafe answered, grinning down at me. “No need to tie me down.”

“I thought maybe—” I trailed off, flushing.

“I don’t need handcuffs to keep you here, darlin’.”

True. I wasn’t planning to go anywhere, and handcuffs had nothing to do with it.

I slipped my hands around his neck and felt the ring snag on the barely-there crop of hair he had left after getting it cut. “I love you.”

He smiled. “I love you too.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you too.”

“Give me a baby.”

“My pleasure,” Rafe said, and went to work.

 

 

—The End—

A DIAMOND CHOKER FOR CHRISTMAS:

A Toni Diamond Mystery Novella

 

 

Nancy Warren

 

Editor’s Note: Nancy Warren is known for her funny, sexy, and suspenseful tales. She’s an avid hiker, animal lover, wine drinker, and chocolate fiend, and loves to wander the North American West coast. Here she takes us to a trailer park in a suburb of Texas, where we meet a mother-daughter team with big dreams. These two won’t let a jewelry heist spoil their holiday!

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

Toni Diamond heard the ping signaling a text message. As though the signal had an echo, her daughter, Tiffany, received a text at the same time.

They glanced at each other across the kitchen. Toni was in the midst of pouring her second cup of Monday morning coffee. Tiff was munching granola at the breakfast bar. They both checked their phones. No surprise, both texts were from Linda, Toni’s mother: Remember my beautiful girls, what we imagine happens! Imagine success today!

“She went to her positive thinking meet-up group last night, didn’t she?” Tiffany asked.

At seventeen, Tiff was growing into a real beauty, though she still didn’t embrace Lady Bianca cosmetics the way Toni hoped she would. Since Toni and her mom made their living as independent consultants for Lady Bianca Cosmetics, she’d hoped to bring Tiffany into the family business. So far, her daughter would barely use a swipe of lip-gloss, but she was young yet.

“Probably.”

“She’s addicted,” Tiffany said. She flipped back through the string of texts she and Toni received several times a day. “She’s addicted to positive thinking.”

“Well, it’s harmless,” Toni replied.

“It’s the crack of self-help,” Tiffany maintained.

Another text alert rang out for both of them.

Girls, fantastic idea for Christmas Party. I’m going to manifest diamonds. We create our reality.

“Seriously, Mom, Grandma’s lost the program.”

Linda Plotnik hosted a Christmas party every year at her mobile home park and invited all her neighbors, customers, potential customers, and of course her daughter and granddaughter. Her party was this Saturday, four days away.

“What did she mean about manifesting diamonds?” Toni asked, feeling the first qualm of uneasiness about her mother for the day. And she’d been up all of thirty-five minutes.

“With Grandma? Who knows?” Tiffany went back to munching her fair-trade granola, and Toni took another fortifying sip of coffee. “By the way, I can’t go to Grandma’s Christmas party this year. I’ve got to work on my college entrance papers. After all, you’re the one who wants me to go to college.”

“Nice try, Sweet Pea. You’d no more break Grandma’s heart than I’d go out of the house without lipstick.”

Tiffany took her now empty bowl to the dishwasher. “Thursday is the holiday party for the kids at the hospital.”

“And you’re volunteering?” Tiffany helped out a couple of times a week. She said it was to strengthen her college applications, but Toni could see how much she enjoyed helping out with sick kids.

“Yes. Then Becca wants me to sleep over at her place Thursday night. We’ll be studying late.”

Tiffany was one of the few kids who, if she told her mother she was going to a sleepover in order to study, she was going to a sleepover in order to study. Coming from the Diamond/Plotnik gene pool, this girl was a miracle.

Half an hour later, Tiff had left for school, and Toni was showered, dressed, and putting the final touches on her makeup. After years of practice, she had her full-day face routine down to fifteen minutes, not including cleansing and moisturizing. It was while she was darkening her brows with Lady Bianca’s Cocoa Bean eyebrow pencil that she saw her own eyes widen in the mirror.

What was her mom always saying? Manifest what you want to appear. How was she planning to manifest real diamonds? That was the part of the text that had Toni blinking at her own startled reflection. Did her mother think she could mine gems through positive thinking?

The following afternoon, she had her answer when Linda showed up at their door.

“Well, girls, what do you think?”

Toni could not find the words. Linda had one of her most opulent hairpieces on, and she looked like a cross between Marie Antoinette and a Vegas showgirl. Her false eyelashes glittered, her makeup was on the brighter side of flashy and her figure-hugging white and silver pantsuit bared a lot of cleavage. But what had Toni’s eyes bugging out of her head was the flash and sparkle that encircled her neck. The necklace was diamond and sapphire; big, gorgeously cut stones that glittered with suppressed fire. Toni might not be a gemologist, but she could tell fake from real when it came to diamonds.

Those were not fake.

Her answer to the question came suddenly as she pulled her mother inside the house. “That should be locked up.”

“Locked up?” Linda asked, looking bewildered.

“She means the necklace should be locked up, Grandma, not you,” Tiffany said from behind Toni, though, in fact, she wasn’t so sure that was what she’d meant.

“Where did you get the bling, Grandma? Did you knock over the jeweler’s at the mall?”

Instead of looking appalled that her granddaughter considered her capable of a jewel heist, Linda appeared delighted at the idea. “Wouldn’t it be exciting? To have all that gorgeous jewelry and all you had to do was reach in and grab it and stuff it in a velvet bag? Not even to consider your credit card limit for a second?”

“And then do five to ten in jail once you got caught,” Toni put in.

“Oh, you’re such a spoil sport. It was fun to imagine for a moment. I always thought being a cat burglar would be so exciting. If I wasn’t so bad at climbing ropes.” She glanced down at her impressive chest. “I think it’s being so well endowed. Throws off the center of gravity.”

“Where did you get the necklace, Mom?”

“I borrowed it.”

“Borrowed it?”

“Yes. For my Christmas party. You know how at the Oscars Harry Winston always loans out the most fabulous pieces for the Hollywood stars to wear? That’s where I got the idea.”

“You went to Harry Winston?” Toni felt faint.

“Of course not. I went to a local jeweler. Lone Star Gems and Jewels.”

However, Linda wasn’t a Hollywood star, and their local jeweler wasn’t going to get a lot of business from a Christmas party in a mobile home park populated mainly by seniors.

“And they let you borrow it?”

“Of course. Bert Green, he’s the owner of Lone Star Jewels, he’s in my Circle of Success meet-up group.” Linda walked to the hall mirror and turned to one side and then the other. “Just look at the fire in those stones. You simply can’t duplicate the look of a real diamond.”

“What’s it worth, Grandma?”

“This piece retails for more than a hundred thousand dollars, but Bert’s promised me a very nice discount when I buy it.”

“A nice discount.” Toni rarely drank alcohol during the week, but she was starting to feel the need for a stiff drink.

“That’s right.” Linda turned to Tiffany. “You noticed I said when. Very important for success that we speak of our dreams and, even more vital, believe in them as though they’ve already happened. I said I wanted a fabulous diamond-and-jewel necklace to wear at my party, and here I am wearing it. Positive thinking is amazingly powerful.”

“How did you pull it off, Mom?” Toni was a big believer in the power of positive thinking, too, but Linda seemed to be taking the concept a little far.

“They put a lien on my home.”

“A lien?” Tiffany asked.

“Yes, it means I signed a paper saying that if anything happens to the necklace, they can take my mobile home. Of course, nothing’s going to happen. It was just a formality.”

“You put up your house as collateral for a diamond necklace?”

“I’m only borrowing it, honey.”

“But what if something happens. You lose it, or it accidentally gets caught in the garbage disposal unit.”

“My garbage disposal is broken, so that’s never going to happen. Besides, if anything awful happened, I’d move in here. You’ve got plenty of room. Gosh, I can’t believe we’ve never thought of that before. It would be like a girls’ slumber party every night.”

Scotch. There must be a bottle of Scotch somewhere in the house.

“Anyway, we’re all friends at the group, and we all believe in each other. At first, Bert wasn’t sure about lending the necklace at all because it’s so valuable, but Henry Castillo, he’s the lawyer in our success circle, he stepped up and said he’d take on the risk. He’s the one who drew up the paperwork. So then everyone was happy.”

“The party’s not for four more days. Where are you going to keep the necklace?”

Linda ran her fingers over the gems. “In a very secret hiding place.”

Toni groaned. “Mo-ther, if it’s at the bottom of the trash can in the bathroom, please just don’t.”

Linda’s eyes opened so wide one of the sparkle tips snapped off her fake eyelashes. “How did you know? I read that idea years ago and always thought it was the perfect place to hide something important because no thief would ever look there.”

“I know, because you hid the grocery money there when I was a kid and then threw it out with the trash.”

Linda’s hand flew to her open mouth. “Oh, my gosh, I did. But we got it back.”

“Only because you remembered before the trash got collected. We spent hours going through the household garbage before we unearthed it.”

“Well, I’ll find a better hiding place this time.”

“Why don’t you get the store to hang onto it until the day of the party? They have a safe and a security system.”

“Sweetie, I think it’s important for my self development to wear this fabulous necklace. It’s a constant reminder to myself that I am worth it!”

When her mom got stubborn, she pursed her lips so that with her red lipstick the shape was very much like a stop sign. Toni knew there was no point arguing any longer. All she could do at this point was hope that nothing happened to that expensive bit of bling. And maybe talk to an architect about building a mother-in-law cottage in her back yard.

“Anyway, I want to wear it to my Circle of Success meeting tonight.”

Chapter 2

 

Tiffany and her mother exchanged glances. Toni could not find words to adequately express her feelings. And for Toni that was not a normal state of affairs. She’d discovered in herself a talent for sales that was remarkable enough that she was one of the top representatives for Lady Bianca cosmetics in all of the country. But she knew when she was facing a prospect who was a dud. There was a time to stop selling since she was wasting her time. Trying to sell her mother on the idea that the fabulous necklace should be locked up safely until her party was hopeless.

“Tell me more about this success group, Mama.”

“Well, honey, I’d ask you to join it but we only allow one person from any industry. That way, there’s no competition. The idea is that we all use each other’s services as well as motivating and encouraging each other. But, let’s see, we talk about sales techniques, and each week we start out by sharing our biggest success of the week. We all applaud and cheer each other on. William Young, he’s a real estate investor and you would not believe how successful he’s been. He started after the crash picking up foreclosures and now he’s a multi-millionaire. I should introduce you to him. It would be good for you to diversify your portfolio.”

Since her portfolio consisted of paying off her house and saving up for Tiffany’s college fees, she didn’t think Mr. Young would find her very interesting.

“I don’t want you to think that we’re all only interested in money; we absolutely make sure we give back. Katie Lewis, she’s the caterer in the group, she volunteers for the Girl Guides. Henry Castillo is an amateur magician. He goes to hospitals and old folks’ homes and entertains them with magic tricks. And I’m teaching step dancing to the other residents of Pecan Heights.”

“You’ve been busy.”

The jewels sparkled as she admired them once more in the hall mirror. “I’m having the time of my life.”

“You want some coffee, Mama?” Linda glanced at her glittery watch and shook her head. “I have to run. I’ve got to get to my Zumba class.” Since discovering Zumba on board a cruise the three women had taken, Linda had become a firm devotee of the aerobics and dance fusion classes.

When Linda left, Toni turned to her daughter. “What are we going to do?”

“She should have a bodyguard. Somebody big and armed and dangerous.”

“I don’t know anyone like that. But I do know a cop.”

There were moments when having a friendly relationship with a Dallas detective was a real benefit. Toni felt that this was one of those times. She called Luke Marciano on his cellphone.

“Marciano,” he snarled the name. Since he obviously knew it was her calling, he was snarling because he was busy, because one of his colleagues could overhear him, or because he was in a bad mood.

“Hi, honey. Bad day?” she asked.

“No worse than usual. Busy.”

Okay, she could take a broad hint. “Why don’t you call me back when you’re not so busy.”

“Will it be good news?”

“Call me back and find out.” They saw each other when they could, but between his work schedule, her work schedule and Tiffany’s schedule, they didn’t connect as often as they’d like. She thought the arrangement suited both of them. For now.

“No, it’s okay, I’ve got five.”

“Well, it’s kind of a good news, bad news situation.”

“Good news first.” As a detective, he worked with bad news all day. She understood that his relationship with her was one of the bright spots in his life, even if she did have an unfortunate habit of finding trouble.

“Tiffany’s sleeping over at her friend’s on Thursday.”

“Does that mean her mom’s available for a sleepover too?” When he wasn’t snarling, he had the sexiest voice.

“It does.”

“I’ll pencil you in.” There was a moment’s silence and then he said. “Okay, what’s the bad news?”

“It’s my mother.”

“What’s she done this time?”

“Luke, she’s borrowed a fabulously expensive necklace to wear to her Christmas party this Saturday.”

“Who’d she borrow it from?”

“A jewelry store. They put a lien on her house before they’d lend it to her.”

Luke was smart and intuitive, which made him a great detective. Also, he knew Linda so she didn’t have to explain all the ways this was a terrible idea. “Where is it now?”

“Around her neck. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s wearing it to Zumba class, the grocery store, her sales calls, all around her mobile home park.”

“What’s it worth?”

“A hundred grand.”

In his silence she could hear the curse words he didn’t voice.

“Want me to talk to her?”

“It won’t do any good. She’s determined that wearing real jewels will manifest success in her life.”

“More likely to get her robbed.”

“That’s my biggest fear. If she loses her home, you know where she’s going, don’t you.”

He chuckled. “Better start cleaning up your spare room.”

She did not join in his amusement. “You can come as my date if you want. It’s her annual Christmas open house.”

“I know. I got the e-vite.”

“How did she get your email address?” Linda hadn’t mentioned that she was inviting Luke to her party. Toni wasn’t surprised. Linda made no secret of the fact that she thought Luke would make an excellent son-in-law.

“Maybe she manifested it,” he said drily.

She didn’t figure either of them needed detective skills to work out that Linda had snuck up to Toni’s office and taken Luke’s email from her computer. “Sorry. Please don’t feel like you have to come.”

“I’ll try and drop by.” She knew he was busy on the weekends. If he wasn’t working, he restored antique cars and trucks as a hobby, played sports, and caught up on his household chores.

If Linda insisted on wearing a valuable necklace she thought having a cop around would be as good as hiring a security guard. “I’d appreciate it.”

~*~

Toni had just finished her weekly sales report and, to her satisfaction, her team’s sales were rocking, when her mother called. “Honey, I need your help with the lights.” Something about the tone behind those words filled Toni with dread.

“What lights, Mama?”

“Why the Christmas lights, of course.”

“I thought the caretaker put up the lights. He's done it every other year.” Jim Tucker had been the caretaker of Pecan Heights Mobile Home Park for as long as Toni could remember. He was long and lean, with pale blue eyes in a darkly tanned face. He didn't say much, and she could never recall him either cracking a joke or laughing at one. But Jim kept the grounds clean, made sure the trash was always picked up on time, and if a resident needed their windows cleaned or some extra chores done around the house, Jim was always available if the person paid him in cash.

One of his responsibilities was the decorating of the park grounds for the holidays. He strung the clubhouse with white twinkle lights, and in the main square of the mobile home park he put up the same wooden Santa waving from a wooden sleigh and surrounded by wooden reindeer that had decorated the park for the last dozen or so holidays.

On top of that, residents were invited to decorate their own homes in whichever way they pleased. Somewhere along the way a competitive spirit overtook the residents of Pecan Heights and every year the holiday splendor exploded with so many colorful lights, dazzling displays and neon candy canes that Toni always made sure she had her sunglasses in her bag if she went to visit her mother during the last part of December. Linda had put up most of her decorations, with Jim Tucker’s help, at the beginning of December.

“I bought a few more strands of lights. I learned so much from my master sales techniques group. I even want my holiday decorations to help celebrate my success. I was just up on the roof but it’s a bit windy and I don't think I can manage to put up all the lights by myself.”

“Roof?” Toni was already reaching for her car keys. “Mama, I'll be right there. Don't even think about going up on that roof again without me.”

Naturally, Toni had a lot of work to do, and naturally, she had not scheduled in time to travel out to her mom's place and climb up on the roof.

Swiftly, she changed her cream wool skirt and cranberry silk blouse for a pair of jeans, sneakers, and an old shirt she wore for doing dirty chores. She reminded herself as she drove that she was practicing prevention. She’d lose a lot more time from work if her mom ended up in hospital with a broken leg from falling off her own roof.

When she pulled up in front of her mother’s home, she blinked. Toni loved sparkle, glitter, and pizazz, but it looked as though her mother had snuck into Vegas and stolen every light bulb and scrap of neon in the city and stuck it all on her property.

Her mother was currently stringing white and green and red lights around the neck of the Virgin Mary.

She wore tight jeans, a pair of blue and silver cowboy boots, enough platinum curls for three showgirls, and a denim shirt with diamond snaps. The shirt was tight enough to reveal that even in her late fifties, Linda Plotnik had kept her trim waist and curvy figure. It was also open at the neck to display the diamond and sapphire necklace in all its glory.

She waved. “Honey, you're just in time. You can put the ruby and diamond belt on the first wise man.”

Toni stepped forward across the white pebbles, her sneakers scrunching as she grew closer. “Do you really think the Virgin Mary would be decked out in all those jewels? I mean, if she had all that bling, wouldn't she have pawned something so she could give birth maybe in a nice hotel or a house instead of a manger?”

Her mother laughed. “Of course she would, silly. The wise men brought her jewels as gifts. Think about it. They brought gold and frankincense and myrrh for the baby, I like to think they also had some gifts for the new mother. And nobody bothered to write it down.”

“I guess it's possible.”

“In my version it is. So I need you to help me haul the manger scene up onto the roof.”

Toni would have suggested leaving the scene somewhere in the yard, but it was crammed full of snowmen, life-sized jolly-looking Santas with sparkling gifts and dazzling reindeer. Icicles hung from all around the roof of the mobile home and lights twinkled from every window and doorframe, every inch of railing and the roofline.

It was clear from the number of electrical leads that every one of those reindeer, Santas, and candy canes lit up when plugged in. She had her suspicions that at least some of them flashed on and off, probably to a sprightly Christmas tune.

“The diamond halos are a nice touch,” she said.

She eyed the roof. She did not relish the thought of climbing up there with the nativity scene. “Did you think of asking Jim Tucker to put the nativity scene up on the roof?” she asked, shading her eyes and gazing up and down the street hopefully. Her eye was snagged by the neighbor’s house, across the street, where the front yard was filled by a giant teddy bear wearing an actual Christmas sweater.

“Did Mrs. Schwartz knit that sweater herself?” It was dark green with giant red stars patterned on it.

“She did. She’s so sly, she never mentioned a word about it to anyone. She said it took her all year to knit it.”

At Teddy’s feet were wrapped gifts, most of them huge, and decorated with elaborate bows. While the two women watched, a tiny man who looked more elf than human came out of the house. He was carrying a bundle of red and green wool.

“Hi, Mr. Schwartz,” Toni called out.

“Ah, Toni, how are you? Linda, your decorations look very nice.”

While they watched, he retrieved a stepladder from behind his mobile home, set it up and then climbed the steps. He leaned out precariously to wrap a scarf around Teddy’s neck. The scarf must have been fifty feet long and flapped roguishly in the breeze, slapping tiny Mr. Schwartz as he attempted to lasso the bear’s head.

Mrs. Schwartz came bustling out. She waved to Toni and Linda, then stood at the foot of the ladder supervising her husband. She was as large as he was tiny and she waved her arms like a conductor as she directed him. “No, no, Archie, I want the scarf looped more in the front.”

“Phyllis, I’m gonna fall off the ladder if I lean any more.”

“I spent every evening for a year working on that sweater and the hat and the scarf. Don’t tell me you can’t spend five minutes on a ladder.”

Mr. Schwartz grumbled back, “In five minutes I could fall off this ladder and break my neck.”

As Mrs. Schwartz was about to reply, a porch door banged from the mobile home right next door to Linda. A plus-sized woman wearing a purple velour tracksuit stomped down the three steps covered with artificial grass and plastic daisies to where a yellow muscle car sat in the driveway.

“Morning, Esther!” Linda called, waving to her neighbor.

The woman nodded her head though her sour expression didn’t change. She had a bad perm and the brassy blond curls did not suit her reddened complexion. She started up the car with a roar and then reversed out of her driveway and raced down Pecan Lane, slamming her brakes just before she hit the speed bump with the ease of long practice.

“Why did you wave to her?” Toni asked. “Isn't she the woman who tried to sue you?”

“She sued the Moores on the other side over a fence. She tried to get me thrown out of Pecan Heights for running a business out of my home.” Linda shrugged. “What am I going to do? She's my neighbor. Anyway, I feel kinda sorry for her. No one in the park likes her very much because she’s so mean and she's always trying to make a buck suing people. And,” another charming shrug, “everyone likes me. It is technically against our bylaws for anyone to run a business out of their home here in Pecan Heights, but when our board met, I simply explained that I run most of my business elsewhere. I mean, I go to my clients’ houses for makeup parties and to give them makeovers. I only keep my stock in my spare bedroom. Naturally, the board agreed with me and adjusted the bylaws. Esther Kilpatrick was furious.”

“Why would she even care? It's not like you have a lot of people coming over and parking all over the street and making noise or anything.” Well, except for the party she had every year at Christmas time.

Mrs. Schwartz, who had crossed the street in order to supervise the correct jaunty angle for the knitted cap that her husband was placing on Teddy's head, said, “It's because she wants that her daughter should move into the park. That son-in-law is no good, and she wants to keep an eye on him if you ask me. But our park is full. If she could get Linda thrown out, she could have her daughter living next door. Trouble is, nobody likes her daughter either and that son-in-law is a hooligan. Esther’s daughter is exactly like her mother. They sue people to make money. One in the park is bad enough, who wants two of them?”

“Oh, well,” Linda said, “I always say, let bygones be bygones.”

“What about when you have your party? Will she make trouble?”

Linda shook her head. “I always invite her to the party. I figure that way she has nothing to complain about.”

Mrs. Schwartz took her eyes off her husband for a moment and said, “If you ask me, Esther’s plain jealous of you.” She turned to Toni. “Your mother is a very attractive woman, and if she ever wanted to get married there are plenty of older gentleman in the park who would be happy to have her.” Then she glanced back and raised her voice. “No, Archie, the pom-pom is falling over his nose. I don't want Teddy’s pom-pom hanging over his face. It’s supposed to rest against his ear.”

Mr. Schwartz fought the scarf that was smacking him and pushed the pom-pom toward the ear, but the breeze knocked it back over the bear’s nose. “If I'm doing such a terrible job, maybe you'd like to come over here and get on this ladder and do it yourself.”

Mrs. Schwartz threw her hands in the air. “I don't know why I bother.” She stomped back across the road and began a spirited argument with her husband while the pom-pom bobbed gently up and down.

Chapter 3

 

Toni managed to get the nativity scene on top of her mother’s roof with the help of Mr. Schwartz who, she thought, was glad to get away from Mrs. Schwartz for a few minutes. He brought his ladder and a willing pair of hands. He and Toni hauled the nativity scene onto the top of the roof where he secured it. “It's not going to fall down is it?” Toni asked. “That Esther Kilpatrick will probably sue my mother if it falls.”

“No promises, but I don't think so.”

Toni broke a nail but other than that climbed back off the roof unharmed.

Mr. Schwartz declined an offer of iced tea and headed back to his own home on the other side of the street. As he left, Linda called, “Don't forget to come to my party on Saturday.”

“Wouldn't miss it,” he yelled back.

When Toni entered her mother's mobile home, she discovered that Linda had been busy decorating inside as well as out. A particularly glitzy Madonna and Child held pride of place on top of the mantle of Linda's electric fireplace. “I don't remember seeing this before.”

“My friend Maria Lopez gave it to me. She lives in the park too, but she's going home to Mexico for Christmas, and when she saw how much I love glitter and glamour she brought over her own Madonna. It's funny how the Latino culture shares my belief that Mother Mary was a very glamorous woman.” She glanced at her daughter, “Do you think I could be part Mexican?”

“Anything's possible.”

Naturally, Linda had draped the glamorous Madonna with even more crystals and beads and diamonds. In fact, she’d draped lights and sparkles everywhere. One corner of the living/dining area held a white flocked Christmas tree, and instead of her usual ornaments she had decorated the tree entirely with Lady Bianca Holiday Glitter sample packs. Toni was duly impressed. “Mom, that's a great idea. What a fun way to market our products.”

Linda beamed with pride. “I knew you’d like it. I was saving the tree as a surprise. What I'm going to do on Saturday is give every lady and every gentleman who might know a lady one of the sample packs with an offer for a free makeover and my contact information.” She patted her neck where the diamond and sapphire necklace settled as though it belonged there. “Every sample, every makeover, every referral, is one step closer to me manifesting this necklace.”

Toni might worry about her mother wearing such an expensive piece of jewelry everywhere she went, but she couldn’t fault her mother’s logic. “Absolutely! You’re closer to owning that necklace with every minute you put into your business. I'll bring some of my extra stock, too, in case you need extras.”

“Aww, honey, that is so sweet of you.”

Linda had strung her Christmas cards on lines of glittery twine. While her mother was in the kitchen pouring the drinks, Toni idly began to go through them. Then she came to one and smiled. “Mom, you got a Christmas card from Roy, the guy you met on the cruise.”

When Linda came in carrying two glasses of iced tea, she was blushing a little. “I know. We've been emailing, almost every day.”

“Wow. Really? Doesn't he live in the Midwest somewhere?”

“He does. He sells car parts in Omaha. I think he was having a rough patch at work, and I was able to send him some motivational quotes and ideas of books on positive thinking. It's amazing how you can change your life just by changing your thoughts.”

“It sure is, Mama. Also how well you can get to know someone on email. And how strange it is that you didn’t tell me or Tiffany.”

They settled on the couch, and Toni noticed a photograph of herself and Tiffany and Linda that had been taken while on board the cruise ship. Beside it was a second photograph that she didn't recall seeing before. It showed Linda and Roy standing together and smiling at the camera.

He might be a little younger than her mom, but it was clear that he was quite smitten with her. “Oh, well,” Linda said, following her gaze. “He is a few years younger than me, and so far we’re just pen pals.”

Since she was here anyway, and her mother was one of her sales associates, Toni decided to make lemonade out of lemons and have a business discussion with her mom. She pulled out her notebook computer and opened a file. “How are you doing with your Christmas bookings?”

Linda beamed. “I'm doing great, honey. I can't believe how much a clear and visible target, like this necklace, helps a girl to focus on her goals. I booked six home parties, and I'll be doing four home makeovers this week. I think one of the party hostesses would be a really good candidate to become a Lady Bianca rep.” The goal of every rep was to sign up new reps and broaden her network. Lady Bianca sales associates earned money from their own product sales but also earned a percentage of every sale of every consultant they recruited. Toni’s network was big enough that she made more of her income from her sales team than from her own sales, though she had a large customer base of her own.

“That's fantastic, Mom.” There was a reason she rarely had one-on-one business meetings with her mother. There was no need. Linda was enthusiastic and a real go-getter.

“So, what time do you want Tiffany and me to arrive on Saturday? And what can we bring.” Normally, she helped Linda load up at Costco with cheese and crackers and snack foods and so on and helped set up the bar. But Linda shook her head. “I don't want you to do a thing. You and Tiffany are here as guests. I hired a caterer,” she said with pride.

“You did?”

“I did. I'm a hard-working businesswoman and if I act successful, I will be successful.”

“It's the caterer from your success circle isn’t it?”

“It sure is. Katie. I’m hiring her for my party, and she's hosting one of the Christmas glitter parties at her house. That's how the success circle works.”

“Okay. Makes sense.”

“She's taking care of everything. She's renting the glasses, bringing all the beverages and the food. It's going to be so easy. I'll get to relax and mingle with my guests. I can't wait. I just love holiday parties.”

As Toni was leaving, her daughter called. “Mom, I’m finished with my work at the hospital. It was fun. We had a party for the kids with pizza and a juggler and a magician. Everyone had a great time. But I’m wondering if you can pick me up?”

“Aren’t you going to Becca’s tonight for a sleepover?”

“Yeah, but I want to change and pick up a book I forgot. Also, can I borrow the car? I’ll bring it back in the morning.”

“You going cruising for guys?”

Her daughter made a rude noise. “When are you going to realize I am nothing like you?”

“A mother has her dreams.”

She didn’t think Luke would mind coming to her place later if she was car-less so she agreed. As she pulled into the hospital lot later, she noticed a yellow muscle car. Since her ex-husband Dwayne had been car crazy, she knew the model. It was a 1970 Plymouth Roadrunner. Strange to see two in one day, as that was the same car her mom’s next door neighbor had been driving. While she watched idly, the passenger door opened and a tall, distinguished looking man got out. She caught a glimpse of silver hair. He wore jeans and a polo shirt, but something about the way he carried himself suggested he was more at home in a suit.

Tiffany ran out of the side door a few minutes later and jumped into Toni’s car. “Thanks, Mom. You’re the best.”

“Do you want dinner before you go, Tiff?”

Her daughter threw her a teasing glance. “I don’t want to spoil your appetite for lover boy.”

She refused to blush. She was a grown woman, and if she carried on a discreet relationship with a cop who was also single, that was her business. Her one rule was that Luke was never allowed to sleep over when Tiffany was in the house, and she never slept at his place if her daughter was around. However, Tiff was perfectly well aware that Luke was the man in her mom’s life.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she replied. “I plan to spend the evening knitting you a sweater exactly like the one that Mrs. Schwartz knit for a gigantic teddy bear in her front yard.”

“Seriously?” her daughter laughed. “I can’t wait to see it.”

“Did I mention the bear lights up?”

“I should get my environmental club to do an intervention. I swear, the way those residents in Pecan Heights try to outdo each other, one of these days they’ll blow the electric grid.”

Chapter 4

 

It was a typical December day in the Dallas suburbs the day of Linda’s party, around sixty degrees and sunny. Since her mother had hired a caterer for the festivities, Toni was free to spend the morning doing anything she liked. She fixed her broken nail as best she could but still made an appointment with her manicurist to replace the nail. When her daughter rolled out of bed, she said, “I tell you what, Tiff. Why don't you and I go shopping this morning, and I’ll treat you to a manicure?”

Her daughter, unlike every other seventeen-year-old girl Toni could think of, did not jump up and down with excitement. She glanced at her fingernails, which she had painted herself with black polish. “I'm not having little diamonds on my hands.”

“Of course not. That's my signature look.”

Toni loved the tiny fake diamonds that she had embedded in the tips of all of her nails. She’d been doing it for years. It was part of her brand. She had diamonds on everything from her sunglasses to her handbags to her shoes. Of course, very few of them were real diamonds, but one of the ways Lady Bianca rewarded her top sales people was with diamond jewelry, and she’d managed to win enough bling that her fingers sparkled in a gratifying way.

“And no snowflakes or reindeer or anything embarrassing.”

“Honey, it's your manicure. You can have anything you want.”

“Black? All I want is black.”

Toni tried to be the kind of mother who never got into fights with her kid over stupid things. But there were limits to her patience. “No, not black. A color!”

Tiffany heaved a long sigh as though she had been asked to plow the family turnip field with her bare hands. “Fine.”

In fact, they ended up having a lot of fun. She always liked to get her sales associates small gifts for the holiday season and being in a busy mall with Christmas carols playing and everybody bustling around buying each other presents made her happy. She even managed to strike up conversations with about half a dozen women and pass out her free makeover cards before Tiffany told her that if she did that one more time she would leave the mall and get the bus home. Since Toni knew her daughter was perfectly capable of doing just that, she tucked her cards away. “I can't help it. Something your grandmother said really got me excited again. You know, she's loving this positive thinking, and I really think it's making a difference to her business.”

While Toni had her broken nail repaired properly, Tiffany condescended to have a manicure. Toni realized she’d been conned when her daughter chose a pretty Christmas red for her nails and chatted away to the manicurist all during the procedure.

With their fresh smooth nails and pampered hands, mother and daughter treated themselves to lunch out before heading home to get ready for the party. Tiffany wore a blue dress and heels without being begged. While she refused to let her mother do her makeup, she did at least improve on her usual routine of a swipe of lip-gloss. When she came out of her bedroom, Toni could see that she had applied eyeliner and blue eye shadow that brought out the pretty color in her eyes. Her lipstick was a muted pink. She might pretend to have zero interest in makeup, but she’d either been listening to her mother, or she’d picked up one of the Lady Bianca instruction cards on how to apply cosmetics. Naturally, Toni didn't mention any of this, she merely said, “You look so pretty, honey.”

“Thanks, Mom. So do you.”

Toni had chosen a red cocktail dress, which she wore with matching red heels that had just a delicate spray of diamonds across the toe.

The party was to start at four, but Toni and Tiffany had decided to arrive at three in order to help Linda with any last-minute details.

When they arrived, a strange van was parked in the driveway. Katie's Catering lettered the side so Toni's mild fear that the caterer might flake on them disappeared.

Even though it was still full daylight, Linda had all the lights on, and it was quite a show. From the nativity scene still thankfully attached to the roof, to the icicles blinking on and off as they played Here Comes Santa Claus, to the snowmen and reindeer in the front yard, every bit of decoration lit up.

Mrs. Schwartz might have cornered the gigantic Christmas sweater market, but Linda was holding her own in the over-the-top lighting department.

Tiffany stared from one house to the other and shook her head. “Have these people not heard of global warming?”

Linda opened the door before they could open it themselves. She was a sight to behold. She wore a blue satin dress exactly the color of the sapphires in her necklace, high-heeled silver shoes even more sparkly than Toni's, and she’d piled her hair on top of her head. Naturally, she’d also done her makeup using the Holiday Glitter Palette from Lady Bianca.

“Mama, you look as glamorous as a movie star.”

“Why thank you, sweetheart. And don't you both look lovely.” Toni stepped into the house and smelled delicious smells coming from the oven. Two women bustled about, one setting up the bar and the other at the oven. Linda said, “Girls, this is Katie. We had the best time at her place the other night. Her friends all bought Lady Bianca products, and Katie’s very interested in becoming a sales consultant for us.”

Katie was in her thirties, with dark hair pulled into a ponytail. She had soft, pretty features and wore square eyeglasses with red frames. Toni could tell that she’d used the glitter pack to do her makeup today. It seemed like a good omen. She wore a red apron that said Katie’s Catering over a black blouse and slacks, and she sent them a big smile when Linda introduced them both. “And that’s my assistant, Theresa. She’s also my little sister.” Theresa looked to be about Tiffany’s age and blushed with shyness when she was introduced. Tiffany walked over and asked if she could help and was soon chatting to her new acquaintance while she helped set up glasses and sliced lemons and limes.

Toni sent her mom a thumbs-up. Katie looked like she’d be a definite asset to the Lady Bianca team.

Katie was putting tiny sausage rolls on a large Christmas platter. Dolly Parton was singing about the holidays on the sound system, and every inch of the mobile home glistened, sparkled, twinkled, or glowed.

There wasn't much to do with the catering staff, but she and Tiff kept busy getting the furniture out of the way and putting some of the more breakable ornaments in cupboards.

“How many people are you expecting, Mama?”

Linda shrugged looking vague. “There were about fifty on my e-vite list but not all of them will come. I hand-delivered invitations to all the residents of Pecan Heights, of course, and there were people at the parties I’ve been giving who I thought might enjoy coming.”

Tiffany stared at her. “So, basically, you have no idea how many people are coming today?”

“No. Isn’t it exciting?”

The weather wasn't warm, but it was fair enough that people could congregate outside if they needed to, if they could find room among all the lit up Christmas decorations.

Soon Linda’s guests began to arrive. The Schwartzes from across the street arrived first. Mrs. Schwartz had hand-knit a jolly-looking Santa to hang on the Christmas tree. Linda was delighted with it and removed one of the Lady Bianca glitter packs from the tree and replaced it with the Santa and then handed the glitter pack to Mrs. Schwartz. “I know you always say you don't want to host a Lady Bianca cosmetics party, but wait until you see these colors. Or, if you just want a nice treat for yourself you can have a Christmas makeover and you know it's complimentary.”

As her guests continued to arrive, Linda received small gifts of jam, chocolates, homemade brownies, and pralines. In turn, she pressed on each of her guests a Lady Bianca Christmas glitter pack, each containing a card offering the recipient a free makeover. Soon the sounds of chatter and merriment drowned out the country Christmas music.

Linda loved parties, and her eyes glowed like the sapphires around her neck as she mingled among her guests, often stopping to introduce her daughter and granddaughter to people they didn't already know. The miserable woman from next door arrived with her daughter in tow in spite of the fact that the daughter had not been invited. In honor of the season, Esther Kilpatrick wore a green velour jogging suit. Her green velour-covered behind was so massive that it looked like a putting green.

Linda, gracious as always, gave her unwelcome guests the glitter packs. “It’s so nice to see you, Esther. And it’s Cindy, isn’t it?” she asked the daughter, who was growing to look more like her mother every day.

When Linda turned to greet her next guests, Esther made an expression of disgust before tossing the glitter pack into her capacious bag. Her daughter ran her gaze greedily around the mobile home as though imagining her own furniture inside and her own curtains on the windows. Toni tried to think well of everybody, but it was hard to like these two. It didn't seem like anyone else in the mobile home much cared for them either, so they stood in a corner drinking eggnog and talking to each other.

Linda squealed with excitement when a balding man with a big belly and a big smile arrived and pulled her into a hearty embrace. He wore designer jeans and a buttery soft leather jacket. With him was a tall man in his fifties with silver hair and a well-trimmed moustache. He wore a gray suit and shiny loafers. Linda grabbed Toni's hand and pulled her forward. “I'm so happy to see you both. Toni’s my daughter, I’ve told you all about her, and this is William Young and Henry Castillo. They’re both in my success circle. William’s a very wealthy real estate investor, and Henry is an extremely successful lawyer. Toni is the top sales director for Lady Bianca in all of Texas and one of the top sales people in the country,” her mother said proudly.

Henry Castillo shook her hand politely, but William Young pulled her into a bear hug. He said, with a twinkle in his blue eyes, “I think you’d better watch out, young lady. The way your mother is going she’ll be taking that number one spot right from under your pretty feet.”

They all laughed, but she could see how proud her mother was to be part of a group of successful people. It hadn’t been easy, but she and Linda had come a long way from the trailer park where she’d grown up.

Linda loved people, and she never worried whether they were rich or poor, important or nobody. Toni watched as Jim Tucker, the handyman, chatted with the wealthy real estate investor, as Linda had termed him, in the corner. As she walked by, it sounded like they were talking about termites.

Linda’s clients ranged from her hairdresser to rich housewives to a budding country and western singer. They mingled with the mostly senior residents of Pecan Heights and munched coconut shrimp and pork sliders while sipping margaritas or glasses of wine.

The success circle’s jeweler, Bert Green, arrived wearing a cowboy hat and a gorgeous pair of snakeskin boots with well-worn jeans and a denim shirt with a bolo tie. He wore his brown hair a little on the shaggy side, and when he shook Toni's hand, she noticed several rings studded with some pretty impressive stones.

When Linda greeted him, he gave her a broad smile that showed even white teeth. “I've never seen one of my jewelry pieces look so perfect on anybody.”

Linda's fingers fluttered up to touch the sapphire and diamond necklace. “Well, get used to it, you'll be seeing it around my neck quite a lot in the future.”

He chuckled. “I believe it with all my heart,” he said.

When Linda stepped away to greet more guests, Toni said, “I guess you'll be taking that necklace back home with you, when you leave.” She felt nervous every second that expensive piece of jewelry was hanging around her mother's neck. But he didn't seem to share her concern.

“Oh, there's no hurry. She can keep it for a few more days if she wants to.”

“I’ll just feel so much better when that jewelry is safely locked away.”

He stared at her in surprise. “Toni, you can’t think negative thoughts, or you’ll bring negative consequences.” He patted her shoulder. “Remember: what you think, you manifest.”

The mobile home was bursting at the seams with laughing, chatting people who didn't seem to mind that they had about as much personal space as passengers at rush hour on the New York subway. Toni walked over to rescue Tiffany from an older man who'd had too much to drink and seemed to be getting a little too affectionate. “Mr. Beasley. How are your grandchildren?” she asked in a loud voice.

“A real disappointment,” he bellowed back. “Not like your pretty little girl here.”

“I need to borrow Tiffany for a second so she can help in the kitchen,” she said.

“Thanks, Mom,” her daughter said. “I’ve never been hit on by anyone that old before. I didn’t know what to do.”

She was trying to think of a good answer when suddenly all the lights went out.

The living room was plunged not into pitch darkness but into a kind of dusk. With the sudden glitter of thousands and thousands of twinkling lights gone, her eyes were so dazzled that it took a moment for them to clear. In that moment when conversation suddenly stopped, she heard the awful sound of a choking scream. She knew that voice.

“Mama? Mama!” She rushed forward, pushing people out of her way to the source of that scream. The lights went back on as suddenly as they’d gone off. She found her mother pale and wide-eyed with her hand against her throat.

The necklace was gone.

Chapter 5

 

In seconds the cry of, “The necklace is gone!” made its way through the crowded room and outside to where some of the guests had gone for a breath of fresh air or a cigarette. In the general chaos, one voice boomed out. It was the lawyer, Henry Castillo. His presence was commanding, his voice booming. He stepped into the center of the room and said, “Nobody leave!”

“Mama, what happened?”

Linda blinked in shock. “I honestly don't know. I was standing talking to Cheryl, you remember Cheryl, don’t you? She’s my hairdresser, and one of my best clients. We were talking about hair extensions. When the lights went out. I felt the tiniest tickle, hardly anything at all, and when I put a hand to my chest the necklace was gone!” Her voice was rising.

Toni hastened to calm her down. “It's okay, Mama. We’ll find it. Were you standing exactly here?”

“Yes, I think so.”

Linda was standing near the wall, halfway between the impromptu bar and the electric fireplace, now merrily flashing fake flames again with the power back on.

Cheryl, whose long blond hair probably owed a lot of its fullness to hair extensions, glanced down at the floor.

“Maybe the catch was faulty, and the necklace slipped to the ground?”

She dropped to her knees, and several other guests followed suit until half a dozen people crawled on the floor searching for a heap of glittery stones.

Meanwhile, a frozen sense of shock seemed to have afflicted the guests at Toni's mother's party. They were so quiet she could actually hear the plaintive melody of a country and western Christmas song. Somebody was begging their daddy not to get drunk this Christmas.

Then the shock began to wear off. She heard voices. One said, “I don't understand, what happened?” This voice was answered by another voice. “Linda lost her necklace. It's worth like a million bucks.”

“Not a million,” another voice chimed in. “More like a hundred grand.”

“Well, she lost it!”

Suddenly, Linda spoke in a clear loud voice. “I did not lose that necklace. Somebody stole it.”

The jeweler stood in the middle of the room and looked as stunned as Linda. Rapidly, Toni tried to re-create the scene as she had witnessed it moments before the lights went out. She headed back to Tiffany, who not only had youthful eyes but a fantastic visual memory. She took her daughter’s arm. “Who was standing near Grandma right before the lights went out?”

Tiffany closed her eyes, and Toni could see her pulling the scene into her mind the way she’d pull a computer file up on her desktop.

Bert Green said, in a firm tone, “I'm sorry to do this, but everybody's going to have to empty their pockets, purses, briefcases, shopping bags. Every person here will have to be searched before they head out.” Now that his initial shock had worn off, he seemed like a man accustomed to command.

“Excellent plan, Bert,” Henry Castillo said.

“But that's ridiculous!” The complaining voice rose. Toni recognized it as belonging to Esther Kilpatrick, the next-door neighbor. “You can't treat us like a bunch of common criminals. I came here for a nice visit with my neighbors. I am not going to be searched.” She was red in the face and seemed even bigger in her anger. As she headed for the sliding door, the jeweler stepped in front of her. “I'm sorry, ma'am. We can search you now, and I'm sure we can get a couple of ladies to volunteer to help. Or, you can wait for the police to get here.”

“Tiffany?”

Her daughter tried to ignore the confusion and focus. “I turned away from Mr. Beasley. Ugh. And looked over toward the kitchen.” She blew out a breath. “I don’t know, Mom. It was so crowded.”

“Did you see Grandma?”

“I could see her hair and a bit of her dress. She was talking to Cheryl, her hairdresser. I could see Cheryl’s back.”

“Think about it. Who was behind Grandma?”

“A bunch of people.”

“Okay, let’s try this. Where was Bert Green, the jeweler in the cowboy hat?”

Tiff closed her eyes. “Cowboy hat. Over by the window. Beside a woman I didn’t know.”

“Jim Tucker? He’s tall, did you see him?”

Tiffany’s eyes were still closed. She took a moment. “No. I didn’t see him.”

“What about the rest of the success circle? Where were they?”

“I saw the investor guy go out with a cigar a couple minutes ago. I think the lawyer was at the bar getting a drink. Katie’s too short. I couldn't see her at all.”

The whole time she and Tiffany had been talking, Esther Kilpatrick and Bert Green had continued their argument. Esther sputtered with annoyance. “Just because that no-good tramp chose to wear a priceless necklace to a Christmas party in a mobile home park, you expect me to subject myself to a strip search? What is this, a budget airline flying to Cancun?”

“Somebody call the cops,” Bert said, his voice rising too.

At that moment, Luke Marciano stepped in through the sliding doors. His cop’s gaze rapidly scanned the crowd, and then he walked forward to where Toni was standing. “Did I just hear somebody say call the cops?” he asked.

“Luke, I have never been so glad to see you in all my life. Linda just got robbed. Somebody knocked out the power for a couple of minutes and stole that necklace right off her neck.”

He nodded grimly. “I should have got here earlier.”

Just then, she saw a sudden movement through the sliding door. Somebody was striding away from Linda’s mobile home, from the direction of the kitchen door. Luke’s gaze connected with hers briefly and without a word being spoken, he pushed back through the crowd and out into the night.

“Well, I've got nothing to hide,” Mr. Beasley said. “Anybody can go ahead and search me. Just watch out for my colostomy bag.”

“Lord have mercy,” Toni murmured under her breath.

Linda put her arms around Tiffany. “One minute that necklace was on my neck, and the next minute it was just gone.”

Tiffany patted her back. “Try not to get too upset, Grandma. We'll figure this out.”

“All I wanted to do was manifest success, and I think I've manifested disaster.”

By this time, Luke had his man. He dragged Jim Tucker the handyman back through the door. The man looked both defiant and sheepish. “What the hell? I was heading home to get my supper.”

Luke glanced at Toni. “You know this guy?”

In the background Christmas music played. Henry Young, who’d come in behind Luke said, “Can somebody turn the music off?”

Theresa, the caterer’s sister, found the music dock and switched off the music. It was suddenly amazingly silent in the room considering there must have been sixty people crammed in there. Toni answered Luke’s question. “Yes. I know this man. He's Jim Tucker. He's the resident caretaker. Why would you run away, Jim?”

“I didn’t run anywhere. I told you, I was going home to get some supper.” She was good at reading people, and while his words sounded plausible, he shifted and wouldn’t meet her gaze.

“My mother just had an expensive piece of jewelry stolen. You left from the kitchen door and in a big hurry. The main breaker is in the utility room behind the kitchen, but you know that. You’ve been in here a hundred times doing chores and fixing things. You could have knocked the power out and put it back on easily.”

He raised his head and glared at her. “I didn’t steal nothin’. Go ahead and search me.”

Luke could be intimidating when he wanted to, and he turned so he was right in Jim's face. “I think I prefer to interrogate you at the police station. We’ve got all our resources and records there. We can see what kind of background you have. If you've ever been arrested before. Any secrets you have, I'll know them within a couple of hours.”

Jim Tucker's face grew dark red, and his gaze dropped to the ground. She knew Luke had only been fishing, but it looked like he’d caught something. Jim Tucker glared then dropped his gaze once more. “It was just a prank. Knocking out the power. Stupid prank.”

Luke asked, “Who hired you?”

“A guy in the bar. Gave me a hundred bucks to do it. It was a Christmas prank. He said it would be funny to see the best lit house in the park go dark right in the middle of her party.”

Linda was vibrating with fury. “Jim Tucker. I have always trusted you. I let you wash my windows, inside as well as out, and this is the thanks I get? I've always given you a nice tip for Christmas and remembered your birthday.”

The man kept his gaze stubbornly on the floor. “Like I said, I thought it was just a prank.”

Luke continued in that same maddeningly calm voice. Toni knew his interrogating voice well, from when they first met, when she had been the suspect in a murder case. He could be very unnerving. “This guy who hired you, is he here today?”

Jim Tucker shook his head.

“Pick your head up and have a good look at everybody here. Let’s make absolutely sure. If I find you lied to me, there's going to be trouble.”

Jim Tucker did as he was told and gazed around the room. Then he shook his head. “Guy's not here.”

“Which bar was it?”

He named a seedy bar a couple of miles down the road.

“What did this person who hired you look like?”

Jim shrugged. “It was pretty dark. I’d had a couple beers. He was maybe forty something. Big fella in a plaid shirt. Smelled like sweat.”

“How tall?”

Another shrug. “Shorter than me.”

“Hair color? Eye color?”

“Like I said, it was dark. I don’t know. Maybe dark hair.”

Toni spoke. “Did the guy tell you what time to cut the power?”

“Yeah. At five-thirty, exactly.”

Because an open house that went from four until eight was going to be at its most crowded right in the middle hours.

“I think I know who hired Jim.”

She was suddenly and completely the center of attention as though a spotlight had been shone on her. She squeezed her mom's shoulder in support and stepped forward. “Esther? Do you happen to have a photograph of your son-in-law?”

The woman's jaw dropped and her face turned red with fury. “My son-in-law? How dare you.”

“You don’t want a picture of him,” Mr. Schwartz said. “He’s a hooligan. Everybody says so.”

She turned, to Cindy, Esther’s daughter. “You’ve been sizing up this place since you got here like you were measuring for curtains. Do you have a picture of your husband that you could show Jim Tucker?”

She spluttered like her mother and echoed, “How dare you?”

Esther Kilpatrick, her arms quivering with rage, suddenly grabbed her purse and pushed the Christmas goodies off the serving table so a chafing dish and two trays tumbled to the floor. Shortbread cookies and Swedish meatballs went bouncing and jumbling. As they watched, Esther turned her capacious bag upside down and shook it. Out of her bag fell her wallet, breath mints, eyeglasses, three of Linda's glitter packs, a cell phone, a couple of bingo chips, and so much spare change that it sounded like she’d just won on a slot machine. She pointed dramatically to the pile. “There. Go through my things.” She threw her arms in the air with great drama. “Search me. You won't find a diamond and sapphire necklace.”

“No. I know I won't,” Toni continued.

She turned to Bert Green, the jeweler. “I'm guessing all your jewelry’s insured. Isn't it?”

He nodded. “Of course it is. I've had two break-ins in my career. Be stupid not to have insurance.”

“So, if this necklace disappears, you could just put in a claim.”

It was his turn to glare at her with anger. “Are you suggesting I stole my own necklace? Why would I do that? Your mom's a nice lady. And I want her to succeed in her life and her business.”

“So, if you think so highly of my mother, and you were already insured, why did you need to put a lien on her mobile home?”

He pulled his hat off and put it on again. “If I make another claim, I won’t be able to afford the insurance premiums anymore.”

“You weren’t going to lend my mother this necklace were you?”

He shook his head. “Sorry, Linda. It was never personal.”

Linda looked completely confused and smaller somehow without the necklace. She asked, “Did you steal the necklace so you could claim the insurance?” The betrayal in her eyes was heartrending.

Bert stepped forward and put his hands out. “No. I would never do that.”

Toni spoke up, “No, you didn't. You passed on the risk to one of your good friends in the success circle.”

She turned to the lawyer who was standing beside the tree with his hands in his pockets. He nodded. “That's right,” he said. “We all believe in Linda.” He smiled at her as though he were a beloved uncle. “When Bert couldn't bring himself to lend her the necklace, I said I’d take on the risk.”

“So, if the necklace doesn't turn up, you'll legally be entitled to this mobile home.”

He made a sound of derision. “Young lady, I own an executive five-bedroom house. What would I want with a mobile home?” He glanced around at the assembled party guests, many of whom lived in similar mobile homes. “No offense intended.”

“You don't want the home. Esther Kilpatrick does. She tried to get Linda out of here twice. First, she claimed Linda was contravening the bylaws by running a business out of her home. But that didn't fly.” She turned to the woman. “You want your daughter living next door to you. And you want your son-in-law close so you can keep an eye on him. But the problem is, Linda had no intention of moving. You had to find a way to force her out.”

“This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. I am leaving.” The woman began angrily to shove her belongings back into her bag. When she turned to leave, she found that Luke was blocking her path. “I don't think so. Let's hear what Toni has to say.”

“This is police brutality. I am going to be suing you.” She jabbed a blunt fingertip at him and continued, “Suing the police department and suing Pecan Heights Mobile Home Park.”

Toni said, “You like suing people, don't you? You’ve been suing people for years. I knew I'd seen the lawyer before but I couldn't place him. He got out of your car at the hospital parking lot. Your car is very recognizable.” She turned to Luke, whose hobby was restoring old cars and trucks. “It’s a 1970 Plymouth Roadrunner.”

“Nice,” he said.

“I only caught a glimpse of Henry Castillo, getting out of your car, but I'd be willing to bet that if we did some digging, we’d find out that he's the lawyer who’s been taking on all your bogus lawsuits.”

“I don’t know where you dreamed all this up,” Henry Castillo said. He drew himself up to his full height, which was impressive. “Why would I take part in an underhanded scheme to snatch a mobile home?”

“Is this woman a client of yours?” Luke asked.

He rocked back and forth on his heels as though he were getting ready to address a judge. “There is such a thing as attorney-client privilege. Whether this woman is a client of mine or not—and I have so many clients I cannot keep track of them all—is immaterial. It is inconceivable that a man of my stature in the community would belittle himself to steal a mobile home—and from a member of my own success circle.”

There was silence, and then of all people, the next one to speak was Tiffany. She said, “I was at the hospital that day. For the children’s party. I saw you perform.” She turned to Toni. “I knew I’d seen him before, too, but he wore a costume and makeup. I didn’t make the connection until you said you’d seen him at the hospital. It was when you were picking me up after the party, right?”

“That’s right.”

Henry Castillo gazed down at Tiffany as though she were stupid, which made Toni’s blood start to boil. She was used to people thinking she wasn’t very bright, but nobody treated her daughter that way. He said, “I'm not a performer. If you’d been listening, you’d know I’m a lawyer.”

“You're also an amateur magician.”

Linda spoke for the first time. “That’s right, he is an amateur magician. Everyone in my success circle volunteers. It’s our way of giving back. Why would you lie about that, Henry?”

“This is ridiculous,” he said.

Tiffany spoke to Luke. “I was volunteering at the hospital. I do it to get extra credit for my college applications. I was helping at the holiday party for the sick kids and as part of the entertainment, he did a magic show.”

Her tone changed, hardened. She spoke directly to Henry Castillo. “You were really good. So light-fingered. You kept making things disappear and reappear.” She glanced around. “The kids loved it.”

He nodded. “Thank you for speaking up in my defense. As you can see, I'm a pillar of the community. Hardly a petty thief.”

Toni glanced at Tiffany and winked. “I don't think she was speaking in your defense. I think she was pointing out that you have lots of practice making things disappear.”

Chapter 6

 

“Ms. Diamond, there's quite a difference between causing a paper flower to appear behind a young girl's ear or finding a coin mysteriously behind a young boy’s kneecap and spiriting away a valuable necklace.”

She caught Luke watching her and could tell he was enjoying himself. They shared an intimate glance before she turned back to the lawyer, currently on trial for his reputation. “I think it’s exactly the same. It's all sleight-of-hand. A man who can do those kind of tricks could probably have the clasp undone and the necklace off my mother's neck in moments.”

“Again, I must ask what you think my motive could be?”

“Let me ask you a question, sir. Why are you in the success circle? If your business is doing so well, why do you need positive thinking? Why would you ever work for a client like Esther Kilpatrick? I'm guessing you’re not as successful as you try to appear. It’s expensive keeping up a five-bedroom executive home and a fancy lifestyle.

“Maybe Esther Kilpatrick had something on you or maybe you just needed the money. But, if that necklace disappears, and you get my mother's mobile home, you'll sell it to Esther and her daughter. And, you’ll also end up with a nice necklace. Also worth a lot of money.”

“You’re too stupid for words. Have you forgotten that I took on the risk of that necklace? I’m the one who has to pay Bert Green if it goes missing.”

“I’m perfectly aware of that. You’ll give him what he paid. Which is the wholesale price.” She turned to the jeweler. “Am I right?”

“You are.”

“I'm guessing a guy like you has contacts, maybe a fence. I bet you’ll still come out ahead on the deal. Maybe you’ll have it broken up into the stones and made into a gift for your wife.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

He held his arms out wide. “I hate to be dramatic, but go ahead and search me. If you think I stole that necklace, you go ahead and find it.”

She said, “Oh, I know exactly where it is.”

A murmur arose in the room. All eyes turned to her. She exchanged a glance with Luke and he nodded and stepped a little closer to the lawyer.

She walked over to the fireplace. She said, “As every good magician knows, always hide things in plain sight.”

Toni turned to the Latina Madonna who smiled down at her from the mantel. She reached around the neck and among the layers of sparkly jewels she picked up the sapphire and diamond necklace.

“You were standing by the drink table when the lights went out. Exactly at the moment you’d paid Jim Tucker to cut the power. You were two steps behind my mother. All you had to do was slip behind her and remove the necklace. In the surprise of the power outage, everyone was startled. You had all the time you needed to slip it off and slip it over the Madonna’s head. By the time the lights came back on, you were on the other side of the room standing by the Christmas tree.”

She tried to hand the necklace to her mother, but Linda put her hands up as though warding away an evil spirit. “No. I don't want it.”

Relieved to the bottom of her shoes, Toni turned to Bert Green and passed him the necklace. “I'm giving this back to you. Please go and put it in a safe somewhere.”

He accepted the jewelry but with an apologetic shrug pulled out a jeweler's loupe. “I hope you don’t mind, but with all the shenanigans, I need to make sure this is the right necklace.” He fitted the loupe to his eye. He took a moment to study the stones and then nodded, satisfied. “This is my necklace. Linda, I'm sorry it turned out this way. Please believe me I had nothing to do with stealing your necklace.” He smiled at her. “And it is yours. Believe in it. Your positive thinking will manifest your dreams.

“Thanks, Bert.” But she didn’t look convinced.

“Well,” Bert said. Then he didn't seem quite sure how to finish the sentence so he said, “Well,” again and then finally, “It's been a real interesting evening.” His gaze hardened as he turned to the lawyer and he said, “Henry, I don't suppose we'll be seeing you back at the Circle of Success.”

William Young shook his head. “Absolutely not. Consider yourself fired, Henry.”

Bert said, “I've got another lawyer in mind who I think would be a better fit with our group.” He walked over to Linda and to everyone's surprise pulled her in for a hug. “Linda, you are exactly the kind of person we want in our success circle. You’re positive, hard-working, and I know you're going to be a very successful woman. Don't let a little hiccup like this throw you off your stride.” He raised his head, nodded generally to everyone and headed out the door, the diamond and sapphire necklace clutched tight in his hand.

William, the wealthy investor, followed him. “Bert, I’ll grab a ride with you, if you don’t mind. I came with Henry.”

With a wave and a quick, “Thanks,” he rushed out the door after his friend.

Luke walked over to Linda. He said, “Linda, you throw a hell of a party. I think I'll take Henry Castillo, and your neighbor Esther, and Jim the handyman down to the station. We’ll get all the pieces of this crazy plot put together.”

The lawyer blustered, “You can’t arrest me. You've got no proof.”

Luke glanced at him in surprise. “Who said anything about arrest? I'm taking you down to the station for questioning. On suspicion of, well, I've got a few suspicions. We’ll talk about them when we get downtown.”

Suddenly, Esther, whose complexion had been fluctuating between icy white and bright red, banged her fist against the wall so hard that the icicles outside waved and shimmered and Here Comes Santa Claus missed a beat. Her face was diffused with red as she turned to Henry Castillo and yelled, “You had to be so fancy. I told you I was going to get Charlie to bang her over the head and steal the necklace. You had to be Mr. Clever-Fingers and show off that you can slide a necklace off a lady’s neck without her even noticing. Last time I ever listen to you. You’re just like my ex-husband. You’re a loser.”

Henry Castillo’s face grew gray, and his voice was icy as he said, “Shut up, Esther.”

“Or what? They got nothing on me. All I want is to buy this house for my daughter and my son-in-law. There's no crime against that. You're the one that got all fancy playing your tricks, stealing jewelry in broad daylight. You're an idiot. And you're fired. I'll be finding myself a new lawyer. In fact, I’m going to find a lawyer to sue you.”

“You think the detective here isn’t going to be interested in some of the stories I know about you? And your precious son-in-law?”

“You gotta love the holiday spirit,” Luke said, sounding as cheerful as though he had just been handed a Christmas present, which, come to think of it, he had. He looked around. “How many witnesses heard that exchange and would be willing to go on record?”

Two dozen hands went up. “Okay, folks. I appreciate your community spirit. Toni, I'll see you later.” He leaned over and gave her a big smacking kiss on the mouth. He so rarely showed her affection in front of other people that she took a moment before smiling and kissing him back. He leaned in and said in a low voice, “My life is never dull when you three women are around.”

“Are you complaining?”

He chuckled softly. “Not even for a second.” He ran his hand down her back. “By the way, you look hot. I'll call you later.”

As Luke left with the still protesting lawyer and the furious neighbor, as well as the silent handyman, the party suddenly hit that moment when staying would be an anticlimax. There was a flurry of exclamations: “Linda, are you okay?” And, “I think we should get the board together to see if we can get rid of Esther Kilpatrick. We don't want her in our park.”

Mr. Schwartz looked around and said, “And I don't know about you people, but I'm thinking we need to hire a new handyman, too.”

Mr. Beasley kissed Linda on the cheek. “I never had so much fun at a Christmas party in all my life.”

Linda, who was beginning to get her color back, said brightly, “And look on the bright side. You're all entitled to a free makeover. There's me, my daughter Toni, and we've got plenty of wonderful Lady Bianca Associates who would be more than happy to come on over and make sure every lady in this park, and every daughter, sister, cousin, and friend is looking her absolute best for the holidays.”

“I think it would be good for my knitting club to have makeovers,” Mrs. Schwartz suddenly announced. “It would do us all good. You’re a wonderful neighbor, Linda. Don’t ever change.”

When the caterers had packed up and gone, and only Linda, Toni, and Tiffany were left, crashed out on the couch munching leftover shortbread, Toni said, “Mama, that was brilliant catching them all just at that moment. Even Mrs. Schwartz finally cracked. I think we can be doing makeovers and parties nonstop through the end of the year.”

Linda smiled and touched her neck as though her necklace was still there. Her eyes dimmed for a moment before her natural cheerfulness reasserted itself. “I realized that since everybody in Pecan Heights has become so competitive with the Christmas decorations that I should encourage that same spirit with personal appearance. Can you imagine, if every woman in Pecan Heights tried to look prettier than her neighbors? I'll be swimming in diamonds.”

Tiffany nibbled the head off a shortbread snowman. “Are you going to keep going to that Circle of Success, Grandma? Now that the guy turned out to be a crook?”

Linda patted her bare neck once more, as though it was a favorite pet. “I don't know, honey. I was so sure that if I believed in diamonds and really focused on them that they would appear in my life. Maybe I was just fooling myself.”

Toni thought this might be the moment to tell Linda that all her hard work and her confident belief in herself over the past months had, in fact, pushed her sales at a level that she’d won her choice of diamond earrings or a modest diamond ring. “Mama,” she began. She stopped when a soft knock sounded on the patio door.

They all looked at each other.

“Maybe it’s Luke come back,” Linda said.

Toni shook her head. “He'll be interviewing those guys at the station for quite a while. Anyway, I don't think he’d knock.”

“Well, I hope it’s not another partygoer. All the food and drinks have been packed away, and I don't have any more party spirit in me.” Linda rose and went to the door, and when she opened it made a funny sound like a squawk. Then she cried, “Roy!”

Roy?

She and Tiffany stared at each other. Tiffany said, “Really? Grandma’s boyfriend from the cruise? That Roy?”

They waited in suspense, but sure enough, it was Roy from the cruise. He and Linda had met over bingo in the Caribbean.

He blushed when he saw them all. “I'm sorry I'm late for your party. My plane was delayed. I was hoping to surprise you.”

“Oh, Roy, you did surprise me. Did you fly all the way from Omaha? For my little Christmas party?”

He looked a little bashful. “That and I just wanted to see you again.”

There was a flutter of romance in the air, and it was exactly what Linda needed to take her mind off the unfortunate incident of the Christmas party. Toni grabbed Tiffany's hand and said, “We should go.”

“No,” Roy said. “Please don't.”

Linda said, “Let’s all sit down.” She and Roy sat side-by-side on the couch, and he took her hand.

“I was struggling a little in my business. At first, I emailed Linda just because I had enjoyed her company so much on the boat. I thought we could maintain a friendship. Then she started talking to me about these books she was reading on positive thinking and how you can change your reality by changing your thoughts, and I began to see that she was right. When I started implementing some of her ideas, I noticed changes. Well, I don't want to boast, but I got the biggest Christmas bonus I've ever had this year. And I was worried I was going to lose my job altogether. Anyway, I had to come and see you again, Linda.”

“I am so happy all that positive thinking worked for you. I'm not so sure it worked for me.”

He shook his head. “If you start talking negative to me, I'm just going to have to repeat some of those excellent pieces of advice you gave me.”

He blushed deeper, and then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small box wrapped in Christmas paper and tied with a gold bow. “Merry Christmas, Linda.”

“Oh, Roy, you shouldn't have got me a present.”

“Honestly, you changed my life. And I wanted to show my appreciation for how special you are.”

Linda looked delighted as she pulled off the bow and tore off the wrapping. Under the wrapping was a jewelry box. “Oh my gosh.” She opened the box and let out a cry of joy. Then she eased out the necklace. It consisted of a delicate gold chain and suspended from the chain was a tiny sapphire surrounded by tiny diamonds so the piece resembled a flower.

Roy looked thrilled at her response. “I can't believe that necklace is exactly the right color for your dress,” he said.

Linda laughed shakily. “Would you be kind enough to put it on for me?”

Toni and Tiffany watched as Roy carefully fastened the delicate necklace around Linda's neck.

She jumped up and checked out her reflection in the mirror. “It's perfect.”

Her eyes were shining as she said, “You see, girls, positive thinking really does work. I believed I'd have a diamond necklace for Christmas, and here it is.”

She threw her arms around Roy and hugged him. “You don't know what this means to me. Thank you.”

Toni and Tiffany stood as one. Toni said, “I hope we’ll be seeing more of you, Roy?”

“You sure will. If it's okay with your mama, I thought I’d stay for the holidays.”

Linda touched the necklace the way she’d been touching the much larger one earlier. “We'd be delighted if you joined us for Christmas.”

As they walked out the front door and headed for their car Tiffany said, “Do you think he’s kissing her right now?”

“I don't know. Would it be rude to peek?”

“Yeah, totally rude.”

They both turned and looked back. Through the window they saw Linda wrapped in Roy's arms.

As they got in the car, Tiffany said, “So, this positive thinking thing. Maybe it works after all?”

“I think if we’ve learned anything, it’s that sometimes what you think you want brings something entirely different, but so much better.”

“You know what, Mom?”

“What?”

“I have a positive feeling that we’re going to have a good Christmas this year.”

 

 

—The End—

MENACE AT THE CHRISTMAS MARKET:

A Murder on Location Novella

 

 

Sara Rosett

Editor’s Note: From a trailer park in Texas, we move to Nether Woodsmoor, a quaint English village. Sara Rosett manages to combine the charm of Jane Austen with the perils of a modern career woman in her Murder on Location series. Of course, crime never seems to go out of style, or to take a break for the holidays.

 

 

 

 

“I sincerely hope your Christmas…may abound in the gaieties which that season generally brings…”

—Pride and Prejudice

 

 

Chapter 1

 

Nether Woodsmoor

 

“And how are the Canary Islands?” I asked, as I looked out the kitchen window into the sodden garden behind my cottage.

“As advertised, it is a mellow sixty-seven degrees, and there isn’t a cloud in the sky.” Alex’s voice came through the phone clearly, sounding as if he were in the next room, not off the coast of Africa. “What is it like there?”

“Rather dreary, actually.”

“Raining again?”

“Yes, but I meant the lack of company.”

Alex’s laugh sounded in my ear, then he dropped the volume of his voice. “Believe me, I wish I was there, too. Sun or no sun.”

“So it’s not going…well?” Alex didn’t talk about his parents much, so my knowledge about his family was sketchy, but I did know his parents were divorced and interactions with his mother were the one thing that made his easy-going nature vanish and put him on edge. As far as I could tell, his mother didn’t have a fixed address. She seemed to go wherever the sun was shining. It sounded as if she was more interested in her tan than her children—thus the Christmas visit to Gran Canaria, the largest island of the chain.

Yes, I’d looked it up on Wikipedia when Alex announced he was heading there for the holiday. Had I felt a smidgen of envy, gazing at pictures of sandy beaches and palm trees? No, of course not. Alex and I had only been dating a few months, and I certainly wasn’t anxious to introduce the complication of extended families into our relationship equation. No, simply finding an appropriate Christmas gift for Alex was driving me batty, so I doubted we could handle the complexities of parental expectations and demands.

Our mothers seemed to be complete opposites. His mother disappeared off the radar for months, then suddenly demanded things of Alex, like this command visit during the holiday, while my mother had only one demand of me. She wanted me married—about five years ago. According to her calendar, she should have two grandchildren at this point.

So I hadn’t felt the least bit slighted when Alex announced he had to go to the Canary Islands for a family Christmas celebration and hadn’t invited me. Truthfully, I was relieved. However, looking at the beautiful tropical island did stir a twinge of homesickness for Southern California, where I had lived until last spring when I took a job as a location scout for a documentary series about Jane Austen’s life. The dusty, parched hills covered with scrub were such a contrast to the lush countryside of Derbyshire that it almost seemed the two places could be on different planets.

I’d wanted a change from the congested, fast-paced lifestyle of L.A. I’d certainly gotten it. There was a reason it was so green in Nether Woodsmoor. Rain was a constant. At first, the showers had been refreshing, but after several months, I caught myself complaining a few times, just like the locals, about the irritating rain that never seemed to stop. In all fairness, it had been a wet summer. My friend Louise, the owner of the local pub, told me, “Don’t worry, luv. Soon it will change to snow.”

Alex said, “The atmosphere is tense, conversations are constantly misinterpreted, and everyone is mentally counting the days until we can pack our bags.”

“That sounds…terrible, actually.”

“It’s about normal for the Norcutt family. Typical Christmas holiday.”

Alex’s tone was breezy, but I detected some genuine strain in his voice. “So no good holiday memories, at all?” I asked.

Alex paused, then said, “Well, the time in Malta wasn’t bad.”

Alex’s dad worked in the U.S. diplomatic corps, and Alex had moved all over the world as he grew up.

He continued, “Sophia was our nanny, and she let us bake these green sugar cookies. She called them holly cookies. We put those tiny red candies on them for the berries. That was a good time. Dad was always busy, even on holidays. He always took on extra work so his staff could have time off. I understand that now. At the time it made for a really long day of waiting around for him to come back. What about you?”

“I never thought my holidays were especially jolly, but compared to yours, mine are practically a Hallmark movie. After my dad left, it was just me and my mom, but she loves to cook and entertain, so she always went way overboard and cooked too much food. Every January, I vow I’m not ever eating turkey and dressing again. She always tries to get someone to come over, too, so we usually had company.” I left out the fact that my mom’s invitations were usually extended to friends who had eligible bachelors for sons. My mother’s matchmaking never took a holiday.

I wondered whom she had lined up for next week when I flew back to Southern California. Despite telling her about Alex, she refused to believe I had a real live boyfriend. If she hadn’t met him, he didn’t exist. I knew she’d have someone there at the table with us for our delayed Christmas dinner. The price of airline tickets dropped during the week after Christmas, so that’s when I was traveling. Alex would return from his tropical Christmas, and we’d have one day to exchange gifts and celebrate Christmas before I left on my trans-Atlantic flight.

Well, we could exchange presents, if I found something to give him. I’d spent quite a few hours pondering what to buy for him. So far, I had zero options.

A faint female voice sounded through the phone line. Alex said, “Got to go. I’ll call you later.” We set a time to talk later, and I told myself there was no reason to feel down. Surely I wasn’t one of those clingy women who couldn’t enjoy themselves without a man on their arm. No, I’d never been like that. More often than not, I’d been alone and just fine with that. Missing someone was a new sensation, one that made me slightly uncomfortable. I wasn’t at all sure that I wanted my happiness to be so dependent on another person’s presence. With Alex living in the cottage just down the lane from mine, and with both of us working on the same documentary series, we had slipped into an easy routine during the last few months, riding to work together, and often having dinner or stopping to pick up groceries on the way home. It was all very domestic and cozy and…nice. To have him suddenly gone left me feeling off-kilter. It was as if the last step on the stairs had suddenly disappeared. The expected was gone, and I was stumbling around as if I’d missed a step, trying to find my footing.

The last thing I wanted to do was mope around, contemplating the benefits and pitfalls of relationships, so I slipped on my black peacoat, wound my scarf around my neck, and took my temporary house guest, Alex’s greyhound, Slink, for a swift walk. Slink would have preferred a run, but I’m more of a walker than a runner. She had a long leash and spent the time surging ahead, then loping back to me as if to say, what’s taking you so long? I figured she covered twice the territory I did. Back at my cottage, she settled in for a long nap on her cushion, and I set out for the pub. Even though it was afternoon, I wanted a good cup of coffee.

The rain had stopped for the moment, but dark gray clouds seemed to hover only feet above the barren tree branches, darkening the afternoon so that it felt more like twilight. The little copse where the lane dead-ended was fuzzy and indistinct with mist. I tucked the umbrella under my arm and headed away from the copse toward the village, nodding as I passed a woman with short black hair who was emerging from a gray hatchback parked a few cottages down the lane. She looked startled and touched her black rectangular-framed glasses as if to see me better. She looked a bit familiar, but I couldn’t place where I’d seen her. Probably somewhere around the village. Nether Woodsmoor was small enough that I saw the same people frequently, although it wasn’t so small that I knew everyone’s name.

The aptly named Cottage Lane was positioned on a rise slightly above the village of Nether Woodsmoor. And with no houses on the other side of the lane, I had an unimpeded view of the village, which was made up of cottages and shops constructed of mellow golden stone clustered around the village green and the sturdy church with its pointy spire, which today was shrouded in mist. The wide swiftly moving river cut through the village, reflecting the dark sky. Tiny white lights had been strung across the main thoroughfare, and the shops were decked out in lights, garlands, and bows. Even the streetlights had been wrapped in greenery. I cut down to the main road and joined the people on the sidewalk. With three days until Christmas, the shopping rush was on, even in tiny Nether Woodsmoor. I hurried on, the chilly damp air plenty of motivation to get to the pub quickly.

I stepped into the warmth of the White Duck Pub and made my way to the bar because all the tables around the crackling fire were filled. As I unwound my scarf and settled on a barstool, I caught sight of Louise’s ponytail. Her black hair was often tinted a black-cherry color, but today her hair was an even more festive candy apple red. With her plump figure and protective manner, she had a motherly air, especially when she dealt with her employees, but her bright, ever-changing hair color seemed to hint that she was a bit of a risk-taker. For some reason, I thought if she lived in the States, she’d own a Harley.

“Is it the usual today? Takeaway?” she asked.

“No, I’m off today.”

She leaned back and blinked at me. “Off? You?”

“Oh, come on. I don’t work that much…do I?”

Louise filled several pints and placed them on her tray. “Let’s just say, when you stop in here you’re either on your way to or from work.” It was the sort of statement my mom had made frequently, which always set me on the defensive immediately, but I didn’t have the same reaction to Louise. Her tone wasn’t accusatory, merely factual. She was one of those people who had a knack for making you feel comfortable. With her unhurried manner, I felt as if she had all day to listen, a pretty good characteristic for a pub owner.

“I suppose that’s true,” I allowed. Being a location scout did fill most of the hours of my day. Maybe that’s why I was a little blue. Going from a million miles an hour to…well…full stop was a bit disconcerting. Hours of uninterrupted peace and quiet to do whatever I wanted sounded lovely in the abstract. In reality, I felt adrift. “The production is shut down until after the New Year. Shopping is the only thing on my agenda. So I will have lunch, but not to-go.”

Louise took my order for fish and chips as she lifted the tray. I pulled out my Moleskine notebook and studied the list of gifts I needed to purchase. I’d lined through every name on the list except for Alex’s. I took out a pen and prepared to jot down a few ideas.

Louise returned with my food. “You’ve been frowning at that paper for a long while.”

“I’m stumped. I have no idea what to get Alex for Christmas. He isn’t into possessions, you know? I can’t think of a single thing he really wants.”

“What’s that thing he used to do? Not skiing…” she asked.

“Snowboarding,” I supplied, as I picked up a chip, or what I thought of as a French fry. “But he’s got all the gear for that, and he doesn’t do it much now, anyway.”

She nodded and rang up a check, then returned later to ask, “What about something for his camera?”

“I could get him a new lens or even a new camera, but that would be work-related. That seems…I don’t know, not personal enough.” I wiped my mouth with a napkin. “I want to get him something that strikes the right balance. Not anything too extravagant, but nothing too frivolous either. Nothing that puts the pressure on, but on the other hand, I want to show him how much I…appreciate him.”

Louise’s eyebrows, which were normally hidden behind her long bangs, lowered into view as she frowned. “That’s a lot for one present to do, luv.”

“I know. I’ve thought and thought and can’t come up with anything. The days are ticking away. I have to get him something. At this point, I’ll have to buy him a tie.” I sighed. A tie would be the worst gift for Alex, who was laid-back and relaxed. His idea of dressing up was wearing khakis instead of jeans. “Or maybe a wallet.”

Louise looked at me sympathetically, then tossed the dishrag she’d been holding into a bucket. “You should come with me,” she said, decisively.

“Where?”

“To the Christmas Market in Upper Benning. Ella is here for the rest of the day. I have to finish my Christmas shopping. The market is huge. It’s Regency-themed, too, so you can call it research.”

“That could be interesting.” At our last production meeting before we broke for the holiday, the producer of the documentary series, Elise DuPont, had said that when we reconvened in January, she wanted us to pitch her ideas for future episodes. “Dazzle me, people,” she’d said.

The relationship between Elise and me had recently moved to a more solid footing after a shaky start, and a good pitch would keep everything positive between us. I wanted things to stay positive. I did not want to be on her naughty list again. A possible future Christmas-themed episode might be worth exploring. “And you think there will be a gift there that Alex would like? He’s not that into the Regency stuff.” He had read a few Austen novels because I recommended them, but he was far from a fanboy when it came to Jane Austen.

“The vendors dress in Regency costumes, but there are all sorts of stalls: food, crafts, artisan beer and wine, collectables. They have entertainment, the whole bit. And Harriet Hayden has a booth,” she said in a tone that conveyed this fact should be the clincher for me.

“Who?”

“Harriet Hayden, the author. Surely, you’ve heard of her?”

“No.”

“Oh, I can’t believe you didn’t know. And you, being such a big Jane Austen fan. In fact…” Louise bent and looked under the bar. “Yes, I thought Patricia said she’d finished it.” Louise stood and held out a paperback book. The cover showed a woman in a Regency walking dress and bonnet, looking shyly up at a gentleman with an elaborate cravat, high collar points, and a well-fitted coat. A stately home filled the hazy distance in one corner of the cover while the title, Lasting Impressions, in an elaborate cursive font, dominated the bottom third of the cover. I took the book from her and read the subtitle aloud, “A Pride and Prejudice Variation. What’s that?”

“It means it takes place in the same world as Austen’s P & P, but the story goes in a different direction than in Austen’s book. It’s a ‘what if’ scenario. You know, what if Elizabeth hadn’t refused Darcy’s first proposal, or what if her mother somehow forced her to become engaged to Mr. Collins? How would the story play out?”

“Oh, I get it. It’s fan fiction.” I flipped the book over and skimmed the list of titles by the author, which was quite long. “Your Harriet Hayden is prolific.”

“We’ve read them all. The book club, I mean. My personal favorite is Miss Bingley Suspects. It’s a spin-off, really, and starts a completely new series that has a lot of mystery in it as well as romance. Miss Bingley has to solve a murder at a house party and becomes quite a bit less stuffy in the process. Great fun.” Louise pointed out the title, the first of six in the series then tapped another title. “If you like a sweet romance, you should read To Ardently Love and Admire. It’s Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s backstory. That’s one of her best. The Page Turners loved it.”

“Page Turners? Your book club?”

“Yes. You should come. We meet once a month and read something Austen-related, either one of Jane’s books or something based on her work.”

“I’ve never read any Jane Austen fan fiction,” I said, thinking of Elise’s demand that we amaze her with our pitches.

Louise had been leaning, elbows on the bar, but she straightened. “Anyway, Harriet Hayden is the main reason I’m going to the Christmas market. She’s had a booth there the last few years. It’s the only place to get an autographed copy of her latest book.”

“She doesn’t do book signings?”

“No.” Louise frowned and shook her head. “I don’t understand it. The chap at Slightly Foxed acts like he’s never heard of her,” Louise said, naming the only bookstore for miles around, which was located in Upper Benning. “The owner says he doesn’t carry her books because she publishes them herself instead of through a big company.” Louise shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense to me. Harriet Hayden’s new books are always bestsellers. At least, online.”

Nether Woodsmoor had plenty of tea shops, restaurants, and stores carrying quaint items that appealed to the weekend tourists who arrived in the area to bike and hike, but purchasing anything from books to housewares required either a trip to the next larger town, Upper Benning, or an online order.

Louise shrugged. “So, if I want an autographed copy of Georgiana’s Intrigue it will have to be at the Christmas market. That’s her latest. I already read it on my e-reader, but I like to have the autographed paper copy, too. Are you coming with me? It’s just what you need to take your mind off this,” she said, with a nod at my Christmas list. “Come on, who knows what you’ll find.”

I closed the Moleskine notebook. “Sounds great. I’ll run home and get Alex’s car. He’s letting me borrow it while he’s gone.”

Louise waved the idea away with an easy flick of her wrist. “Ride with me. My car’s right here.” She removed her green apron and greeted Ella, the teenager with long red hair who had stepped behind the bar.

I bundled up and followed Louise out of the pub. As we circled around to the back where her royal blue Ford Fiesta was parked, a movement along the street caught my eye. The road was busy with pedestrians toting shopping bags and compact cars zipping along, but my attention focused on one woman across the street, probably because she was staring at me. It was as if I could feel her gaze on me, which drew mine. It was the same woman I’d seen on Cottage Lane. She took a hesitant step forward, and then stopped as a car tooted its horn at her. She stepped back on the curb as the car whisked by.

“Kate, are you coming?” Louise called from a few feet farther down the narrow alley that ran between the pub and another shop. “If you changed your mind and want to get your car, I’ll wait. You can follow me.”

I took a couple of steps down the alley. “No, that’s fine.” As I turned away, I got a last glimpse of the woman. She stood, her face ambivalent as she watched me. Then she turned and got into the gray hatchback. I picked up my pace and joined Louise at her car. It almost seemed as if the woman was following me. But that was crazy. Why would anyone follow me?

Chapter 2

 

“What’s wrong, luv?” Louise asked, as she signaled to turn into the parking area reserved for the Christmas market.

I pulled my attention away from the side mirror. I couldn’t think of a single reason anyone in the world would follow me, and I would have written off the two sightings of the woman as coincidence, except that she had been staring at me.

Both times.

I had watched the road behind us as Louise pulled out of her parking space behind the pub. A small gray hatchback had fallen in behind Louise’s car before we crossed the bridge and left Nether Woodsmoor. The gloomy day made it hard to see the driver, but the hatchback never passed us or closed the distance. A few times, another car slipped in between us and the gray car, but eventually the other cars passed or turned off, revealing the headlights of the gray car still shining in the side view mirror.

“I saw a woman as we left the pub. She was outside my cottage earlier. Both times, she was watching me.”

Louise gave me a worried look as she swung into a parking place.

“And I think she followed us here.” I twisted around and looked out the back window, but no gray car cruised by. I opened my door and stepped out, scanning the parking area.

“It could have been just one of those things,” Louise said. “Plenty of people out shopping today. Lots of gray cars, too.”

“I suppose you’re right.” I picked up my purse. “On to the market,” I said, trying to put some enthusiasm into my voice, but I continued to look at the cars as we walked to the green with its towering Christmas tree.

A petting zoo with several reindeer dominated one open area while a couple of stages ringed the tree. A country dance was in progress on one stage, the men and women lined up on opposite sides, stepping forward and back, and weaving through the lines in elaborate patterns as music played over loudspeakers. We paused to watch the dancers, who were in Regency dress. I thought some of the women looked a bit cold.

Bundled up children swarmed around a puppet show on another stage. Booths decorated with evergreen, twinkling lights, holly, and mistletoe ran around the perimeter of the green and spilled into some of the side streets, selling everything from evergreen wreaths to refrigerator magnets. The aroma of roasted chestnuts drifted our way from the food area, where I also spotted a tent serving hot chocolate and snacks. Most of the vendors were in traditional dress, the women’s long skirts swishing as they moved, and the men repeatedly lifting their chins as they tugged at their fancy cravats.

We browsed through the stalls, Louise picking up gifts for some of her employees, until I came to a stop in front of a booth selling antique prints. I saw one with a vintage car and flicked through the stack, stopping at a print ad with a red MG Midget convertible. The MG symbol floated in the background behind the images of the car. The text at the bottom of the ad touted the slogan, “Safety Fast!” It wasn’t the same year model as Alex owned, but I knew he’d like it. I pulled it out and showed Louise. “I think Alex would like this.”

“See, I knew you’d find something.”

The owner stepped forward. “Sorry, but that one is sold.” He pointed to a tiny sticker near the price tag. “I may have another one at my shop. Should I check for you?”

“Yes, please do,” I said with a sigh. Of course the only potential gift I’d found was sold.

“I’ll have to take your name and call you tomorrow.” He reached for a pen and paper.

I gave him my phone number and found Louise outside the booth, consulting the free map of the booths that we’d picked up on our way in. “Where to now?” I asked. “Should we find your author?”

“Yes, she should be down this way, near the food.” Louise strode briskly across the green. She stopped short outside a booth and read a sign aloud, “Harriet Hayden regrets that she is not able to be here.” Louise’s voice rose questioningly on the last words. “That can’t be right.”

Inside the booth, we stepped up to a table beside a haggard-looking woman with a half-grown out blond dye job that contrasted sharply with her own dark brown roots. I probably wouldn’t have noticed her, except that once you entered the area around her, it was obvious that she hadn’t showered in a few days. I shot a sideways glance at her and noticed she wasn’t wearing a coat, only jeans and a worn brown sweatshirt that was fraying at the cuffs and neckline. She seemed quite different from most of the other attendees, who were bundled in thick coats and seemed to be mostly families with young kids or women shoppers intently working their way through the market. I wondered if the woman was homeless.

She stepped aside, making room for us at the table, which was set up with stacks of books, bookmarks, and an eight-by-ten photograph of a woman who looked to be in her mid-fifties with a round face, a generous smile, rosy cheeks, and shoulder-length pale brown hair parted on the side that hung straight to her shoulders. She exuded an air of quiet confidence as she smiled out from the photo.

Louise bent to read the smaller print on the sign. “See All Things Jane for purchases.” An arrow pointed to the right.

“But she never misses a Christmas market,” Louise said. “Never. She’s one of the original organizers.”

“Exactly,” said a voice directly behind me. Louise and I both turned. The scruffy woman was gone, but the woman I’d seen outside my cottage and the pub stood in front of me.

I stepped back instinctively. My legs bumped into the edge of the table and the photo toppled. The woman didn’t look threatening, but I still wanted some distance between us. The way she’d quietly appeared directly behind me unnerved me. Up close, I could see that she was small-framed and petite. Her glasses were too heavy and clunky and overwhelmed her delicate bone structure.

“That’s what I thought, too—” she broke off then smiled. “Louise! I didn’t recognize you with your new hair color. I like it, very flattering with your porcelain skin. Here, let me fix this picture.” She moved to the table.

“You know her?” I asked quietly to Louise while the woman’s back was turned to us. “It’s her, the woman who has been following me.”

“Gina?” Louise said. “Gina has been following you? Why on earth?”

The woman adjusted the picture and turned back to us, looking embarrassed. “I do apologize, but I thought you might be able to help…about Harriet, you know. Louise told us at the book club all about how you helped the police, and I thought, well, since the police don’t seem to care, maybe you could look into it.” Her hand fluttered up to her glasses. She repositioned them and said, “I’m sorry. I’m going about this completely the wrong way.” She put out her hand. “I’m Gina Brill. I should have introduced myself this morning.”

I shook her hand. “Kate Sharp. Nice to meet you.” Now that she was talking in a soft, hesitant way, I didn’t feel threatened.

“That’s why I was outside your cottage,” she continued, “but it seemed rather forward—walking straight up to you on your doorstep.” She looked at Louise. “I should have had you ask her, Louise, but you’re always so busy. I thought I’d do it myself, but…well,” she turned back to me. “Once I saw you, it was as if everything I’d prepared to say just disappeared from my brain. I couldn’t think of one word. So I followed you to the pub. I had just screwed up my courage to go in and talk to you when you left. So I followed you here.”

“But why? I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

“Because of Harriet. Something is wrong. Very wrong. As Louise said, Harriet would never miss a Christmas market. I think,” she faltered and repositioned her glasses before continuing, “I think something bad has happened to her. She wouldn’t miss the Christmas market,” Gina repeated, then turned to Louise, as she said, “And she was working on that Valentine novella, which she promised to let the book club read before she released it. She was very specific about the dates. She said she’d have it to us by December first and that she’d need it back from us by the New Year with feedback. She wouldn’t forget something like that.”

The draping that separated the booths was swept back on one side and a tall woman in a Regency bonnet and green velvet pelisse stepped into the booth. In contrast to her clothes, her narrow face was heavily made-up with thick eyeliner, false lashes, and pink lipstick. Her thick golden-brown hair hung down her back and heavy bangs stuck out from under the brim of the bonnet. “I thought I heard voices. Louise and Gina. Lovely to see you both. Stopping by for the latest Harriet Hayden book, are you? It’s wonderful, as always.” Despite her words, her dislike of the two women came across, even to me.

“Of course,” Louise said, picking up a book off the top of a stack. “I never miss one.”

“I know. You’re lucky to get it. That’s the last of the batch she signed before she left.”

“Left for where?” Louise asked, with a look out of the corner of her eye at Gina.

“The Canary Islands. She hadn’t planned to be there over the holiday, but she called me and said it was so lovely that she just couldn’t leave yet. Do you want to pick up anything else before I ring this up for you?” she asked.

“No, I have the rest,” Louise said succinctly, and I realized that the dislike was mutual.

“Well, I want one.” I reached for a copy of Miss Bingley Suspects. “I’ve heard this one is really good.”  I smiled at Louise.

Gina said, “Oh, yes. One of my favorites. She’s at the top of her game in that one.”

The woman cut her glance toward Gina sharply. “Harriet Hayden is always at the top of her game.” Then she turned to me and extended her hand. “Always a pleasure to meet another Janeite. I’m Carrie Webbington. Maybe you’d like to take a look around my booth before I ring this up?”

“Um…sure. I’m Kate,” I said, as we followed her through the gap in the draping. Every square inch in Carrie’s booth was filled with tables and portable shelves displaying anything and everything with either a Jane Austen quote or an Austen profile, including mugs and tea sets, shawls and jewelry, keychains and phone covers, tote bags and note cards, even boy short panties with Austen quotes. It was overwhelming. She had to be going for festive and Christmassy, but all of it together added up to claustrophobic. “No, just the book for now. I may be back later.”

“Excellent,” Carrie said, as she handed Louise a bag with the words All Things Jane printed on it in a hyper-curly font over a silhouette of Austen.

Louise moved outside the booth to wait with Gina for me. Inside the booth, a tense silence descended as Carrie rang up my book.

To break the atmosphere, I said, “You mentioned the author is in the Canary Islands. My boyfriend is there.”

“What a coincidence,” Carrie said, seizing the topic. “It is a wonderful place, I hear, so I guess it’s not that surprising. It’s a very popular destination, particularly at this time of year with the cold weather here. Harriet says it’s absolutely amazing. We’re neighbors, you know, Harriet and I. We’re very close. Harriet says it’s like a tropical dream there.” She handed me a plastic bag and wiggled her fingers at Louise and Gina.

“Tropical dream, my foot,” Gina said as soon as I’d joined them, and we’d walked a few steps away. The music for another dance began. A vendor called out to us, trying to get us to try his fish and chips. Gina glanced back over her shoulder at the booth, then lowered her voice, despite the racket going on around us. “Harriet loves Christmas and this market. She’d never choose to spend her Christmas anywhere but in England.”

“So you think she’s what? In trouble?” I asked.

“Worse. I think…” Gina’s voice trailed off. She looked over to the Christmas tree, her face sad. She drew in a steadying breath and fixed her glasses firmly on her nose. “I think she’s dead.”

Chapter 3

 

I exchanged a glance with Louise. Gina’s words were stunning, but she looked so distraught that I thought she really meant them.

Louise looked at her friend with concern. “Let’s get a cup of cocoa and sit down.”

I offered to get the drinks and went to turn in our order, hot chocolate for me and Louise—it seemed like a hot chocolate kind of day—and peppermint tea for Gina. “We’ll have it out in a moment,” said a young girl in a Santa hat.

I turned around and nearly bumped into the person in line behind me. I apologized and stepped around her, realizing it was the rather smelly woman from Harriet Hayden’s booth. I found Louise and Gina seated at one end of a deserted table and slid into the long bench opposite them.

Louise nodded at Gina and said, “Tell us all about it, why don’t you?”

Gina blew out a breath. “It sounds so…absurd when I say it aloud. That’s why I hesitated to approach you, Kate. But I really do think that something awful has happened to Harriet.” Gina shifted so that she faced me directly. “I work at the grocery, you see. That’s how I met Harriet. She came in at least once a week to do her shopping. I always chat with the customers, and I got to know her a little bit. Then I found out she was the Harriet Hayden. I should have made the connection on my own, of course. I saw her name when she used her card, but it never even crossed my mind that she could be one of my favorite authors. Her picture isn’t in the back of her book, you see. And you don’t expect to meet people like that in your everyday life, do you? One of the librarians pointed her out to me at a library event. I was never so surprised.” Gina paused as the server arrived, the same teen girl in the Santa hat. She handed out steaming mugs.

Gina took a sip of her tea before continuing, “Now you might think that I didn’t know Harriet Hayden that well, but you’d be surprised at what you learn about someone while working at the grocery.” Gina shot a glance at Louise, who nodded.

“I believe you,” Louise said. “I know all kinds of things that people don’t want to broadcast, and I’m not even seeing what they have in their trolleys.”

Gina sipped and nodded. “Yes. I know who bought a pregnancy test last week and which gentleman is suddenly not living at home, from the amount of ready meals he’s suddenly picking up.

I got that weird feeling that someone was watching me. I glanced around and made eye contact with the haggard woman with the bad dye job. She was seated behind us at another table and had both red-chapped hands wrapped around her mug. When our gaze met, she looked away and took a sip from her mug.

Gina leaned toward me, drawing me back into the conversation. “It’s not that I want to know these things, but there they are. I can’t help seeing them or that I have a good memory.”

“So did Harriet Hayden have some sort of secret that you discovered?” I asked.

“Oh, no,” Gina said, her tone scandalized that I’d even suggest it. “No, it was nothing like that. I just want you to know that even though she wasn’t my close friend, I knew her. She came in regular as clockwork, Tuesdays, three-thirty. Her break time, she called it. She wrote every weekday and weekends when she was on a deadline. She does go on holiday, but only for a week or two at a time, to visit friends or, a few times, on longer trips. She went to Portugal once and Italy another time, but she always came home after a week or so. She never stayed gone months at a time. Christmas was her favorite time of year. That’s one of the reasons she put so much effort into getting this market off the ground. She knew it would be a success. I know she wouldn’t miss it. She wouldn’t. She’s been gone since November,” Gina said, touching the table with her forefinger to emphasize the point. “She would not willingly miss the Christmas market.”

“I’m sorry that you’re worried about your friend, and it does sound rather…odd.” I picked my words carefully because I didn’t want to hurt Gina’s feelings. “But why would you want to talk to me about this? If you’re worried about her, you should talk to the police.”

She jerked her head in an impatient gesture. “The police. I’ve talked to them, and they won’t listen.”

“Why not?”

“Because they contacted someone in the Canary Islands and got back word that Harriet is fine,” she said, her tone scornful. “Just because the hotel manager says she’s there, doesn’t mean she is. People can be bribed, you know. If she’s there, why won’t she answer her calls?”

From the little I’d seen of her, Gina seemed to be a mostly reserved person with a soft voice and a hesitant manner. She didn’t seem to be the type who got worked up often, but she was agitated now. She took a breath, then sipped her tea, taking a moment, and then she continued in a more reasonable tone. “That’s why I need you. Louise told me all about your work with the police. You can find out what happened to Harriet. You can catch her killer.”

I blinked. It took me a few moments to actually form a sentence. “Saying that I worked with the police is stretching it. I’m flattered you think I could help, but I’m afraid I’d be useless to you. I was only able to help those other times because I knew the people involved and had sort of an inside track. Special knowledge of the situation, I guess you’d say. I’m not connected to anyone you’ve mentioned. I’d be completely clueless here.”

“Oh, but I already know who did it. I just need you to help me figure out how to prove it. Louise says you’re very clever.”

I’d been about to take a drink of my watery hot chocolate, but put the mug down. “You know that Harriet is dead and who killed her?” I asked as I looked toward Louise. Was Gina really a stable person? She appeared to be, but normally people didn’t go around talking about knowing a killer’s identity so blithely.

“It was Carrie Webbington, of course,” Gina said.

“The woman whose shop we were just in?” I asked, checking Louise’s reaction to Gina’s announcement.

Louise set down her hot chocolate, then raised her hands and leaned back in a don’t-ask-me posture. “I don’t like the woman, myself, so I’m not a good judge. She certainly seems like someone who could bump off another human being without a second thought.”

“She thought long and hard about it, I’m sure,” Gina said. “She had motive and opportunity.” Gina ticked each item off on her fingers. “She lives in the semi beside Harriet. So she was right there with her. Plenty of opportunity.”

“Semi? I don’t know what that is,” I said.

Louise said, “Semi-detached. Two houses that are joined with a common wall.”

“Oh, like a duplex,” I said, nodding.

“And Carrie has always been greedy.” Gina paused to pat Louise’s arm. “I’m sorry to bring it up, but it’s true. And it’s pertinent.”

Louise made a face. “No worries. I got over Randy a long time ago.” Louise looked at me. “Carrie and I go way back. Before I moved to Nether Woodsmoor, she and I worked at the same restaurant in Manchester. She stole my guy.” Louise shrugged. “Water under the bridge.”

“But still, it’s a pattern,” Gina said firmly. “She wants more than she has—that’s motive. She’s not a true Janeite either. She only sells those things because they’re profitable. I saw her online store when she first opened. She had all sorts of tacky things. Only the Jane Austen merchandise sold, so she stuck with that. You saw how she’s taken over Harriet’s booth and is selling her books. You can’t tell me that the royalties off Harriet’s books wouldn’t be worth killing for. Her books are best sellers.”

“Only online though,” Louise cautioned.

Gina took another sip of her tea, grimaced, and put it down. “I did some research over the last few days. Her books may sell mostly online, but she’s made the New York Times list three separate times as well as several other lists. Her books sell. She has to be making good money, and Carrie is transferring it into her account, I’m sure, or simply withdrawing it in cash.”

“That should be easy enough to check. You’ve told all this to the police?” I asked.

“No, they won’t talk to me.” She took another sip of her tea, then set it aside with a shudder. “That’s awful. I don’t know what they put in it. I should have had the cocoa,” she murmured, then looked down at her folded hands. “I’m afraid I’ve been banned from my local constabulary,” she said primly.

“Surely not,” Louise said.

“Well, not officially, but Constable Petrie won’t speak to me on the subject any more. He holds up his hand and shakes his head when I try to talk to him now. He says they checked, and Harriet is fine, so I have to leave it alone. But I can’t. Not when I know something terrible has happened.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think—”

She reached across the table and took my hand. Her hand was very cold. “Please,” she said with a beseeching gaze that rivaled the pitiful look Slink sent me when she wanted a walk. “At least let me tell you what I’ve found out before you say no.”  

I sighed. I couldn’t resist her sad gaze. And she was so insistent. “All right,” I said, “but I don’t think I’ll be able to help you.”

“That’s fine, just talking through it may jog my memory, or you might notice something I missed.” She shifted around on the bench and reached for her handbag, but stopped abruptly and put her hand to her forehead. “Oh, a bit of a head rush there.” She carefully moved so that she wasn’t twisted around. “Sorry. I’m okay now.” She put a pocketsize spiral notebook with a red cover on the table and flipped to a page that was folded down at the corner.

She blinked and held the notebook at arm’s length, seeming to struggle to focus on the page. After a second, she handed it to me with a shake of her head. “My eyes are tired. It’s all there. I don’t need to read it. I’ve looked at it so many times I have it memorized. The last time I saw Harriet at the grocery was in November. It was a Tuesday, her usual shopping time. She didn’t buy as much as she normally did because she was leaving for a trip to the Canary Islands, the day after she came to Page Turners. That’s our book club,” Gina explained.

“Yes. Louise told me. Was Harriet a member, too?”

“Oh, no,” Gina said. “We invited her to talk about her books. We were thrilled that she could do it. So nice of her to make time, right before her trip, but that was Harriet all over. Thoughtful, you know, despite being so busy. It was such a fun night. We met at the White Duck, of course, and had a wonderful time. So interesting to hear about her process. She writes a twenty-page outline in longhand, then when she’s writing, she saves all her work to one of those small memory devices. What did she call it? Oh yes, a flash drive. Keeps it with her all the time,” Gina said.

Louise nodded. “She doesn’t like ‘the cloud.’ She said she lost power and her Internet connection once when she was on a tight deadline and couldn’t get to her book.”

“Anyway, the last time I spoke to her was the third Friday in November, after the book club,” Gina said.

Louise wrapped both hands around her mug of hot chocolate. “Yes, we all walked out together that night. Gina and Harriet stayed while I closed up.” 

“She said she was leaving the next day for her trip, and she would return a week later on Saturday, November twenty-eighth. We talked about the Christmas market and how much she was looking forward to it.”

Gina paused, her gaze focused on the green and white tablecloth. “I’m sorry to say that I didn’t realize she wasn’t back until December. It was the change of the month, you know, that jogged my memory. I thought, oh, I will ask Harriet about her trip when she comes in this week. But she didn’t. I thought I’d missed her. But when the second week of December went by, and no one had seen her at the grocery, I went by her house. It was shut up tight. Blinds closed, and the little step covered with dead leaves. Carrie came up the walk at that moment, a key in her hand, as bold as brass. She said she was bringing in the mail for Harriet, that Harriet had called and said she extended her trip, and would Carrie get the mail for her? I didn’t believe her for a moment.” Gina put her hand on her stomach and swallowed determinedly.

“Are you okay?” I asked. Gina’s skin had a washed out look to it, and I noticed her forehead was suddenly shiny. If talking about her friend brought on this physical reaction, she really was worried about Harriet.

Gina gripped the edge of the table, wrinkling the paper cloth as she drew in an unsteady breath. “No, I’m afraid I’m going to be ill.” She turned and half-crawled along the long bench, then stumbled away, weaving along the side of the tented dining area. Louise shifted along the bench, following her. I stood and stepped over the bench then hurried around the end of the table to Gina. She’d stopped and was doubled over in pain, her hands clutched at her midsection.

“Someone call for help,” I said, as I put a hand on her back.

“No—need…air.” She pushed herself upright and with her hands braced on one of the tables she took a few steps, faltered, and fell, her head cracking against the edge of the table as she collapsed.

Chapter 4

 

A white-coated man with thinning hair and round glasses opened the door to the waiting room and consulted a file. “Louise Clement?”

The attention of the people scattered around the brightly lit room dropped away as they shifted back into the vinyl chairs. Louise and I stood as the man walked over.

“I’m Doctor Hardy. You’re a friend of…” He paused to check the file again. “Mrs. Brill?”

“Ms. Brill,” Louise corrected. “She’s not married.”

“Any children or other family?” the man asked.

“As I told them at admission, no. Her nearest relative is a cousin in Canada.” Louise’s voice was impatient. “How is she?”

He made a note in the file, then put his pen away as he looked at Louise over the rims of his glasses, which had slipped down his nose. He sighed. “I really shouldn’t—”

“Dr. Hardy,” Louise said, in a firm tone that I’d never heard her use. “Even if I could get in touch with Gina’s cousin, it would take her at least a day or more to get here. I am one of Gina’s closest friends. How is she? What happened?”

“That’s my question for you. You said she fell, then complained of nausea?”

“No, that’s completely wrong.” Louise pushed her red bangs out of her eyes with an impatient gesture. “She said she was going to be sick then wrapped her arms around her stomach. She was clearly in pain. Then she fell and hit her head. We couldn’t wake her.”

The doctor’s attitude changed from briskly businesslike to intensely interested. “She didn’t fall first?”

“No, that’s what I just said—what we’ve told everyone from the emergency people who arrived at the market to the admissions people,” Louise said, her voice testy.

“She said she felt dizzy, too,” I added, “and she looked very pale.”

Dr. Hardy ignored Louise’s irate tone. “And she had ingested tea?” he asked.

“Yes, peppermint tea, at the Christmas market. Again, how is she? I’d like to see her.”

Dr. Hardy had already moved backwards a few steps as Louise asked her question. “We’re doing everything we can,” he said. “I’ll update you soon.” He turned and jogged away, disappearing through the doors.

Louise sagged into the nearest chair. “Really. Doesn’t anyone listen? I told them—all of them—exactly what happened.”

I did my best to soothe Louise, but the doctor’s quick exit worried me. I settled in to wait, expecting it to be a long time before anyone came with more news, but less than twenty minutes later Dr. Hardy pushed through the doors again. Louise had been trying to find someone who could get in touch with Gina’s Canadian cousin, and I had been paging through Gina’s notebook. She’d left it with me when she left the table. In the commotion after she fell, I’d tucked it in my coat pocket. I had been skimming over her notes, but it was hard to concentrate with the activity in the waiting room—people moving through the chairs, making calls, and one baby who wasn’t at all happy.

“No, don’t get up.” Dr. Hardy sat down beside Louise. “Your friend is still in critical condition and unconscious. You can’t see her now, but it may be possible tomorrow. I expect her to improve, now that the poison is out of her system.”

“Poison?” Louise said. “What are you talking about?”

“Ms. Brill ingested between ten and fifteen mistletoe berries.”

“But she didn’t have anything but the tea…” Louise’s voice trailed off, and I felt a little nauseous myself.

Dr. Hardy asked, “Did anyone save her cup?”

Louise seemed to be lost in her own thoughts and didn’t answer, so I said, “No. We didn’t know…I mean, I could tell she was sick, but it never occurred to me to think it might have something to do with the tea.”

Louise put out a hand and touched my arm. “She said it tasted funny, remember? When she was almost done with it.”

“Yes, she did,” I said. “But she’ll be okay now?”

“I’m actually more worried about the blow to the head than the poison. She has a concussion and some swelling. Medically speaking, mistletoe poisoning is the lesser of the two worries. Every holiday season the warnings about mistletoe are made, but overall, very few cases of mistletoe poisoning are fatal. Most people recover after some gastric distress. The head wound is what we’ll keep an eye on. We should know more tomorrow. But, of course the poison does matter to the police,” Dr. Hardy continued. “We’ve contacted them. Standard procedure. They’ll sort it out. I’m sure they’ll want to speak to you. Ah, there he is now. If you’ll excuse me?”

Dr. Hardy left to meet a uniformed police officer who had entered the waiting room.

Louise looked down at Gina’s notebook, which I had dropped into my lap. “Do you think…”

“It must be,” I said. “Gina must be right. Why else would someone try to poison her?”

~*~

Constable Petrie didn’t share our opinion.

At the mention of Gina’s name, he quirked his mouth into a disapproving line. “At it again, is she?”

Dr. Hardy, who had just brought the constable over to Louise and me, said, “You can get in touch with me here, if you need additional information,” and strode rapidly away.

Constable Petrie was probably in his late twenties, I guessed. He had a prominent brow with thick eyebrows that nearly met over close-set eyes and a pointed chin, which gave his face a triangular shape.

He took Louise and me around a corner into another waiting room and printed all our contact details into his notebook, then listened to us recount what happened, but there was an air of barely-suppressed impatience about him. Louise still seemed stunned by the news about the poison, so I’d taken the lead in detailing what had happened at the Christmas market and finished by saying, “Neither one of us had any idea. We didn’t realize until Dr. Hardy told us about the mistletoe.”

“And was anyone else with you at the table?” Petrie rubbed his hand along his pointy chin.

“No, just the three of us,” I said. “Gina is worried about a friend of hers.” I paused, trying to think of how to phrase things so that he’d listen. It seemed a bit extreme to mention the word murder at this point, especially since Gina had said the police had been dismissive of her worries about Harriet. “Gina’s worried that her friend is hurt or possibly in trouble—”

“Harriet Hayden,” Petrie said, cutting me off. “Right. Know all about it.”

I held out Gina’s notebook. “These are her notes.”

Petrie flipped through the first pages, then handed it back. “I don’t need this.” He closed his own notebook and stood, obviously preparing to leave.

“You don’t want her notes? Someone tried to poison her,” I said, still holding the notebook out toward him.

“I have all that. Ms. Brill sends me weekly updates.” He made air quotes around the last two words. “As if she’s running some sort of investigation. She’s a woman with too much time on her hands, who has become a little too fixated on a semi-famous person.”

“You don’t think there’s anything suspicious about Harriet Hayden’s extended absence?” I asked.

“What absence? She’s in a hotel in the Canary Islands. She extended her holiday. No crime in that.”

Louise, who had been very quiet, leaned forward suddenly. “You’re not taking Gina’s poisoning seriously.”

Petrie tapped his notebook. “I took down everything you said. We’ll look into it, but I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Ms. Brill did it to herself. I’m sure the doctor gave you the same news he gave me. Mistletoe doesn’t kill people, only makes them sick. This whole thing,” he circled his notebook indicating the hospital walls, “could be an attempt to get us to check into the Hayden thing again.”

“But what if Gina’s right? What if someone did murder Harriet Hayden?” Louise asked. “If Gina figured it out, then she’d be a target, too.”

Petrie sighed and repeated his words slowly, as if he were talking to a small child. “Hayden hasn’t been murdered. She’s on holiday.” He stood and said, “Thank you for your time. We’ll be in touch if we need more information.”

We watched him until he turned the corner of the hallway. “Someone poisoned Gina, and the police don’t care one bit,” Louise said, amazement in her tone. “He’s not going to do anything.”

I blew out a long breath. I hadn’t pictured spending the days before Christmas this way, but when I thought of Gina’s horrible pale face and the pain that had wracked her body I knew there was only one thing to say. “But we can.”

“I’m in,” Louise said as we exited the hospital, and the cold air engulfed us. “Of course, I’ll do whatever I can to help. Someone has to do something, but I have no idea what it is that we should do.”

I turned up the collar of my coat against the stiff wind that had sprung up. It had swept the clouds away, revealing a starry sky. “I suppose we have to do two things. First, we need to find out if Harriet really is in the Canary Islands. If she’s there—and happy—well, then that eliminates Gina’s suspicions about Carrie Webbington. Second, we need to find out if there is a reason someone other than Carrie would try to hurt Gina.”

Louise unlocked the car doors. We had followed the ambulance from the market to the hospital. “But who would want to do that? I know Gina scared you today, skulking around after you, but that’s only because she’s rather timid. She doesn’t have any enemies.”

“It sounds as if she’s well on the way to making an enemy out of Carrie Webbington.”

Louise waved her hand. “No one likes Carrie. She’s one of those personalities…what do they call them on the telly? Caustic? No, toxic. That’s it. She contaminates and damages everyone she comes in contact with. She’s the exception that proves the rule. Everyone else loves Gina.”

“But Gina did say that she knew a lot of secrets from her job. Maybe someone felt threatened by her.”

Louise slammed her door with more force than was necessary and sent me a disappointed look. “You don’t know Gina the way I do. She wouldn’t…I don’t know…hold anything over someone’s head.”

“I’m not saying that she did. But maybe someone thought she was a threat. Maybe Gina knew something that could be very damaging to someone, either their reputation or their livelihood or…I don’t know, something else?”

Louise started the car, her face set. “No, you heard her today. Being pregnant or having marriage problems is no reason to try to poison someone.”

“Not normally, but someone did put poison in her tea. We should check it out, just to be thorough. We don’t want to be like Constable Petrie, someone who already has his mind made up.”

Louise’s posture relaxed a bit. She looked at me out of the corner of her eye and cracked a small smile. “Comparing me to Petrie, eh? That’s low. But effective. He’s like a horse with blinders, and I don’t want to be like that. Right. So I guess I’m talking to Gina’s friends at work.”

“Do you know anyone there?”

“Yes. Shondra Rashid works with her and is part of the book club. I’ll start with her.” Louise checked the dashboard clock. “Ella opens the pub tomorrow, so I can go back to Upper Benning in the morning.”

“Okay,” I said, flipping through the pages of Gina’s notebook, which I had put in my pocket when Constable Petrie refused it. “Let’s see if Gina knew where Harriet was staying. Here it is. The Royal Palm Resort. I’ll ask Alex if he can check there for Harriet.”

~*~

“Harriet Hayden wasn’t at the Royal Palm Resort today,” Alex said when he called me the next afternoon.

“Really?” I’d filled Alex in on what had happened last night as soon as I arrived back at my cottage. He had agreed to drop by the Royal Palm Resort. “Any excuse for a break from the family togetherness is a good excuse,” he’d said.

I’d spent the morning on the Internet, looking for evidence that Harriet had been online recently. She had active accounts on all the big social media sites, which featured her and her books, but none of the accounts had been updated within the last few weeks. I checked the feeds, browsing backward in time, and discovered that the gaps in posts weren’t that unusual for Harriet. She often went several weeks, sometimes a month or more without posting. Then she would put up a message, something along the lines of, “Out of the writing cave. Book is done!” In mid-November, she had posted a flurry of updates about looking forward to her upcoming trip, then nothing.

Alex continued, “The front desk wouldn’t confirm that she’s a guest, but the bartender knew her. He said Harriet mentioned returning home to England soon, but she also wanted to visit La Gomera before she left. That’s another one of the islands.”

I smiled, knowing that if the front desk wouldn’t answer his questions, Alex would have used some of his location scouting techniques, which often involved an end run around red tape, to get answers. “So the bartender has seen her?”

“Yes, said she’d been in for drinks almost every night for the last three or four weeks. I figure she’s either island hopping for the day, or she’s checked out, and the resort doesn’t want to give out info on their guests.” 

“Well, that’s a relief. So the police were right.” I told him about my morning online. “I was beginning to think that Gina might be right about Harriet because she certainly hasn’t been posting updates about her trip on her Facebook newsfeed.”

“Maybe she’s been writing,” Alex said.

“I hope so.”

“I’m heading back to the resort to see if I can spot Harriet myself. Happy hour is only a few hours away.”

“Do you have time for that?”

“Sure,” he said easily. “Any word from Louise?”

“She called me earlier today. Gina is still in the hospital. No change in her condition. Louise spoke to Gina’s coworker at the market. She says that the only customer Gina was especially interested in was Harriet. In fact, Gina was so serious about her search that she missed work a couple of times. Her friend covered for her.”

“How, um, stable is this Gina?” Alex asked.

“I’ve been asking myself that question since yesterday. When she wasn’t sneaking around following me, she seemed fine. I got the impression that she’s usually pretty timid, but this thing with Harriet, well, she’s very adamant about it.”

“Sounds a bit…obsessive.”

“I know.” I sighed. “But she’s in the hospital after being poisoned.” 

Alex said, “Hopefully, I’ll run Harriet to ground tonight. If she’s still here, I’ll try to convince her to get in touch with Gina.”

“Thank you for doing this, Alex. I appreciate you taking time out of your holiday for it.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m taking my camera. I don’t have to look very hard to find some views that demand a commercial or print ad be shot in them.”

“It would be just awful if we had to return there for work.”

“Terrible.” I could hear the smile in his tone. “What are you doing now?”

“Sitting in your car on the street outside Harriet’s house. I’d hoped to talk to some of the neighbors, see if anyone had seen her, but no one was home. I figured I could stick around a few hours, that someone might come home for lunch, but no luck.” While location scouting, I’d spent many hours waiting for homeowners so that I could make my pitch in person. Sitting for a few hours in a car with Miss Bingley Suspects propped up on the steering wheel was no hardship. “I brought my camera, too, but this street won’t work for anything historical. Too many light poles and wires.” I carried my camera with me almost everywhere. It was second nature to pick it up on my way out the door along with my purse. It was something that my first boss in the location scouting business had drummed into me: Always bring your camera.

“Tropics, it is then. Glad that’s settled. I should go. The cell phone service isn’t good at the resort. It may be tonight before I can let you know what happened.”

“That’s fine. Talk to you then.”

His voice softened. “Hey, avoid peppermint tea for a few days, okay?”

“Of course. You know me. Coffee or nothing. Well, most of the time. I did have hot chocolate the other day, but coffee is usually my first choice,” I said, thinking how glad I was that when I decided to deviate from my usual drink choice that I’d picked hot chocolate and not tea.

I hung up and saw I had a voicemail. I listened to it as I tucked a bookmark into my book. It was the owner of the booth with the prints. “I didn’t have another of the MG prints myself,” he said, and my heart sank. That meant the search for a gift was back on. “But,” he continued, “I have found one that I can order for you.” He reeled off his phone number. I called him back and told him yes, I wanted it.

“Righto,” he said. “I’ll see if I can get it delivered. You do want it before Christmas?”

“Yes, definitely,” I said, then hung up and gave the neighborhood a final scan as I reached for the ignition. A flutter of movement at one of the windows on Harriet’s side of the house caught my eye. I released the ignition and watched the house. A few seconds later, I again saw a shadow move through one of the front rooms.

Perhaps Harriet had returned home? Maybe Alex had just missed her. If she’d left the resort yesterday or even this morning, she could be home by now. And even though I hadn’t seen anyone approach the house, she might have a back entrance like the one at my cottage. If I was returning home from certain parts of the village, I often took the shorter path that ran behind my cottage and entered that way. Perhaps Harriet had done that. Or maybe she’d been home for hours. Small garages bracketed each side of the larger home. The garage on Harriet’s side of the house was closed, but her car might already be in there.

I pocketed the car keys and climbed out of the car, kicking myself for skipping Harriet’s house when I knocked on all the doors in the neighborhood. Instead of a small yard or garden, the area in front of both her house and Carrie’s was covered with brick pavers. It was a newer home than most of the ones in Nether Woodsmoor, which were built of stone. This one was made of stucco, but it had a completely different look than the Mediterranean-style stucco homes that I was so familiar with in Southern California. These were designed in the cottage style, but this area had a definite suburban feel to it. The doors of both houses were set side-by-side in the center of the building. I reached out to ring the bell of the door on the left, but before I could push the button, the door swung open.

A woman stopped short in the doorway. Clearly, she was leaving and hadn’t expected to find me on the doorstep. It wasn’t Harriet. “I’m sorry,” I began, thinking I must have mixed up the address that Louise had given me. I took a step back then stopped. “Wait. You’re the woman from the Christmas market,” I said, recognizing dark roots at the crown of her head and the blond ends of her hair that brushed her gaunt cheekbones. Behind her, on the wall of the narrow hallway, I saw several framed book covers with curly fonts and images of women in Regency clothes. “This is Harriet’s house. Is she home?”

The woman scanned the street behind me, then she gripped my wrist and yanked me over the threshold. I jerked my arm away, but she was quicker than I was and had the door closed before I could get back outside. With her bony hand splayed on the door to keep it firmly closed, she said, “What do you know about Harriet? Where is she?”

“I don’t know where Harriet is.” My heart raced, but I tried to make my voice calm. The scruffy woman looked nervous enough for both of us. Her gaze skittered around the room, and her breathing was shallow and fast. The sweaty, unwashed smell was still strong. “That’s what I asked you,” I said. “Do you know where she is?”

“No. She should be here. She’s always here.”

“Are you a friend of hers?” I glanced around, looking for a way out through the back of the house.

The woman made a little noise that was halfway between a laugh and a snort. “No, I’m her sister.” She removed her hand from the door and extended it. “Bridgette Hayden, black sheep of the family.”

“Kate Sharp.” Her hand was bony, all jutting knuckles, but the strength of her grip surprised me. Despite the woman’s thin face, I could see a bit of resemblance to the photo I’d seen of Harriet. They both had the same generous mouth and natural flush in their cheeks, but Harriet had looked happy and confident. This woman was skittish and worried.

“I’ve never met Harriet,” I said. “A friend of mine is worried about her, though.”

“The mousey one with the dark hair that they took away in the ambulance last night?” Bridgette asked.

“Yes.”

Bridgette pushed her stringy hair off her face. “I’m worried about Harriet, too. I heard your group mention Harriet’s name in her booth, so I tagged along, hoping to hear more. Kitchen’s this way. Should be some tea.” She turned and walked away.

The anxious look on her face was the reason I didn’t leave at that moment. I’d been in plenty of uncomfortable situations in stranger’s homes when I scouted for locations. If I got a weird feeling, or felt scared, I got out right away, but I wasn’t getting those vibes here. “None for me,” I said quickly. Then added, “Thanks, though.” I wasn’t about to accept tea from anyone, least of all a stranger who had been near us at the time Gina was poisoned.

“American, right?” Bridgette said as I followed her through a sparsely-furnished living area to a kitchen with white cabinets and sleek stainless appliances. A sunroom, which was used as an office, extended into the back garden. A desk with a laptop and printer were positioned facing the back garden. Book-lined shelves filled the area under the expanse of windows, and a deep leather chair and ottoman were set off to the side, the perfect reading nook.

Bridgette had been opening cabinet doors while I looked around. She held up a teapot. “You sure? I’m having some.”

“Thanks, but no.”

“Suit yourself.”

I wrapped my arms around my waist. It was very cool in the house. Harriet had probably turned down the heat when she left for her trip. Bridgette, who was still in the same threadbare sweatshirt and jeans from yesterday, didn’t seem to notice.

She rummaged around in the cabinets some more as she said, “This isn’t like Harriet at all. To do a bunk. That’s more my line.” Bridgette put a box of crackers on the bar that separated the kitchen from the sunroom and gestured for me to sit at one of the barstools.

I took a seat but waved off the crackers. “Harriet told Gina that she was going to the Canary Islands back in November.”

Standing on the other side of the counter, Bridgette had already consumed three of the thin crackers, but she paused. “That’s what? Three, four weeks ago?” She shook her head. “Harriet wouldn’t be gone that long, not without telling me. We don’t get along, but she keeps in touch.” She ate a few more crackers, then went to get the teapot, which had begun to whistle

“She doesn’t agree with some of my ‘lifestyle choices,’ as she calls them.” Bridgette closed her eyes briefly. “Harriet sounds just like Mum when she says that.”

Bridgette sat down beside me and heaved a massive sigh, making me think of Slink when she settled down into her cushion after a long sprint. “But Harriet is right.” Bridgette pulled a face. “She always is. Very annoying. Makes being her baby sister quite a challenge. Too much to live up to. That’s what my shrink at the center told me, anyway.” She chewed a moment. “I think it’s true.

“Harriet always told me that when I was ready to get my life straightened out, she’d help me.” She plucked at her sweatshirt and waved a hand at her greasy hair. “So here I am, looking like a war refugee, ready to admit that she’s right. I lost my flat, but I’m twenty-two days clean.” She pushed the cracker crumbs into a pile. “I can’t do it. Not on my own. She’s right. I need some help.” Her gaze went glassy. “I need Harriet.”

A pounding at the front door made both of us jump. “Police, open up.”

Bridgette, eyes wide, stood and knocked over her barstool as she bolted out the back door. The last I saw of her was her skinny legs as they slithered over a wooden fence that enclosed the back garden.

~*~

It took about an hour to convince the police I hadn’t broken into Harriet’s house.

I shifted on Harriet’s oatmeal-colored sofa and said, “I don’t know where Bridgette went. We only talked for a few minutes.”

The policeman scratched his forehead, pushing his cap up a bit. “Odd, that you’d come inside and chat with a woman you didn’t know.”

“She said she was Harriet’s sister. I hoped she knew where Harriet was.”

The officer looked down at his notes. “You said you saw this woman earlier?”

He wasn’t interested in Harriet. I’d tried to tell him about her, but he only wanted to talk about Bridgette. The front door opened, and another officer said, “We got the runner. Found her three blocks over at a bus shelter.”

I breathed a little easier as the first officer left to talk to his colleague. Bridgette could confirm what I told them. At least, I hoped she would back up my story.

“But they are there illegally. I insist you arrest them.” The officer had left the front door partly open, but I was sure I would have been able to hear the shrill voice through a closed door. I could see Carrie Webbington out the front window. She stood on the sweep of brick pavers in front of her house and jabbed her finger at Harriet’s front door. “I heard them. The walls are very thin. I always knew when Harriet was home,” she said loudly. “And she’s not home. They’re intruders.”

My phone, which was in my coat pocket, rang. Alex’s name was on the display.

“So glad you called,” I said. “You’ll come home and bail me out, right? You do have bail in the U.K., don’t you?”

“What?”

I told him what had happened then said, “So right now, I’m waiting for the officer to come back. I hope, I really hope, that Bridgette backs up what I said. Oh, wait, here he comes. I’ll call you back.” I slipped the phone into my pocket.

“You can leave as long as you’re returning to Nether Woodsmoor. We’ll be in touch, Ms. Sharp. We may need to follow up with you.”

So Bridgette had come through for me. The officer disappeared back into the kitchen, before I could ask any more questions. I didn’t linger. I slipped out the front door, and avoided looking Carrie’s way. She was turned slightly away from me, and I scooted across the brick paved area, skirting around two officers who were talking to Bridgette.

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” Bridgette said. “My sister gave me a key. She didn’t mind if I dropped by. Here, look at my keys. That one is Harriet’s. She gave it to me.”

I wasn’t sure about that statement about dropping in. It sounded as if the relationship between Harriet and Bridgette was complex and possibly strained, but the two officers exchanged a relenting look.

I slipped into the car and locked the doors before I called Alex.

“Kate?” he asked, his voice strained. “Are you—” “I’m free to go,” I said quickly.

“Good. Okay. That’s good.” He breathed deeply, then said, “Listen, let’s have a few rules in this relationship. Never request to be bailed out then hang up. It’s not good for my heart.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tick off the policeman by talking on my phone while he was waiting.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to talk to him again tonight,” Alex.

“Why? What happened?”

“I went back to the Royal Palms Resort bar and met the woman who is calling herself Harriet Hayden.”

“The woman who is calling herself Harriet?” I repeated slowly. “You mean she isn’t Harriet?”

“No. It took quite a few drinks to get the whole story, but she’s definitely not Harriet.” 

I didn’t love the idea of Alex plying another woman with drinks under a tropical night sky, but I pushed that thought aside for now. “But how can you be sure?”

“I saw her passport. Her real one, as well as the fake.”

“She had two passports? You’d better start at the beginning.”  

“Right. Well, she certainly resembles Harriet, and she has a passport in Harriet’s name. But she also has what she said was her own passport with the name of Nina Boydett. She’s an actress. I looked her up online, and she has several stage credits and a few commercials. A few months ago, she got an email offering her a part, the part of Harriet vacationing in the islands. It was pitched as an elaborate reality show. She made it through ‘the final cut’ for the show. Then she received a package in the mail with the passport and credit cards in Harriet’s name as well as instructions on what days to travel and information on her reservation at the Royal Palm Resort. Nina was convinced that hidden cameras were filming her and other guests at the resort.”

“So who hired her?” I asked as I watched one of the officers wave Bridgette into the house. She and Carrie exchanged a long look as Bridgette walked into Harriet’s house.

“Nina doesn’t know. She has never spoken to a person about this. It was all handled through email. She was told that it was all very hush-hush. That it had to be that way to maintain the integrity of the filming.”

“Alex, this isn’t good. Harriet may have never left England after all.”

Chapter 5

 

The next morning, as I returned from walking Slink, I saw a police car parked in the village in front of the pub. Slink slurped water, then collapsed contentedly on her cushion while I found my gloves in the little storage space under the stairs. The day was even colder than yesterday, and a few snowflakes were drifting down from a dense layer of gray clouds. I had spent a restless night, thinking about poor Harriet. How awful to be missing for months and not have anyone notice, except a grocery store clerk. Of course, it seemed Harriet led a fairly isolated life, retreating into her writing and emerging occasionally to interact with fans and friends. But still, it was extremely sad.

By the time I reached the White Duck, the police car was gone. I half hoped there was some news, but I also dreaded what I might hear. I knocked on the door. Even though it was early, I knew Louise would be in, preparing for the day. She wasn’t closing for the holidays until tomorrow, Christmas Eve.

She peered out through the diamond panes of glass and relief flooded her face when she saw me. She had a cell phone pressed to her ear and tucked it up next to her shoulder as she unlocked the door and let me in. She was speaking and waved me inside, then locked the door behind me. “Right. Yes, I know it’s Christmas,” she said sharply, and I gave her a long look. Her face was pale and her hand gripped the phone so tightly that her knuckles showed white. “I wouldn’t call if I didn’t need him. I understand it’s not his area. Just have him call me please. Today. This morning.”

She punched a button to end the call and rubbed her hand over her forehead. “Solicitors. Be careful what you wish for, Kate,” she said in a weary voice. “I should know that by now, but I never seem to remember things like that until it’s too late.”

“What happened? Is it Gina?” I asked.  

“No. There’s been no change in her condition. I checked this morning, first thing.” Louise pulled a chair out and collapsed into it. “We wanted the police to look into Harriet, take her possible disappearance seriously. They certainly are now.”

“So Alex must have gotten through to the right people,” I said. After I’d talked to Alex yesterday, I’d spent quite a while trying to convince the police at Harriet’s house that they needed to talk to him. He had already spoken to the police on the island, but they were reluctant to get involved until requested to do so by the U.K. authorities.

“I’ll say. They’ve searched Harriet’s house. No sign of her…or of a struggle or anything like that.”

“Yeah, when I was there, everything was neat and exact,” I said, thinking of the cleared desktop and the spotless kitchen.

“But they’ve found her will, the inspector informed me this morning. The case has been bumped up to an inspector,” she said, with a roll of her eyes. “And not that nice young man who investigated those last incidents. This is an older man with very cold, accusing eyes.” 

“Surely, he’s not looking at you as a suspect?”

“But he is. It was quite plain.”

“Why? You have no reason to hurt Harriet.”

“It’s because of her will. He said there was a copy of it in her files. Gina is to receive three hundred thousand pounds.” 

I blinked. “That’s quite a bit of money.” With the current exchange rate, that was nearly half a million dollars. “Wow. I had no idea Harriet made so much money.”

“I told you her books sold well,” Louise said, her voice impatient.

“But that doesn’t mean you have a motive.”

“The book club meeting is the last trace he’s found of Harriet. Gina and I were the last people to see Harriet alive. The inspector thinks Gina knew about the will, and that Gina and I killed her, planning to split the money.”

“But that’s absurd. Anyone who knows you, would know you would never—”

“Well, the inspector doesn’t know me, and I have the feeling he’s moving as quickly as possible on this thing to make up for lost time. It can’t look good for them, that they ignored Gina when she told them Harriet might be missing. No, he wants to tidy up this case and get it off the books.”

“But if you and Gina…did away with Harriet, why would Gina try to convince them to look for Harriet?”

“According to the inspector, Gina must have had a guilty conscience and wanted the truth to come out. I poisoned her to keep her quiet. At least, that’s what the inspector insinuated. It’s the only thing that explains both Harriet’s disappearance and Gina’s poisoning, he said.”

I sat there, trying to think through the convoluted scenario. It could have been possible, just barely, but it was all wrong. “That’s just…crazy.”

Louise shrugged and stood, replacing the chair. She gave the table a swipe with a cloth that she pulled from her pocket. “Well, that’s the way it is, at least until I can get through to the solicitor.” She turned and walked toward the bar, her shoulders sagging. “I have invoices I need to pay.”

I trotted along behind her, thinking furiously. “Is Gina the only beneficiary? And why did Harriet leave money to Gina in the first place?”

“I don’t know. He said there was some statement in the will about how kind Gina was and her love of books and reading, but honestly, I zoned out there for a moment. All I know is she stands to inherit a lot of money.”

“What about the house? Does Harriet own it?”

“I don’t know.”

“And the rights to her books? Who gets those?”

“I have no idea.” Louise rearranged some glasses behind the bar.

“But it could be important.”

Louise drifted to the chalkboard and erased the day’s specials as I spoke. She picked up the chalk but stood there staring at the board.

“It could mean more motives,” I said. “I bet the rights to Harriet’s books are worth way more than three hundred thousand pounds. We’re talking continuous income as long as the books sell. We need to see that will and—”

Louise’s phone rang. She answered quickly. After listening for a moment, she said, “Of course. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” She ended the call. “Gina is awake and asking for me.”

~*~

I stayed in the waiting room while Louise went to see Gina. Louise had called Ella to cover the pub again, and because Louise was so flustered and nervous, I’d driven her to the hospital. I needed to go to Upper Benning anyway. The shop owner had called that morning with the news that Alex’s print was in.

At the hospital, the nurse informed us that only one person could see Gina, so I’d left Louise and driven the short distance to the Christmas market. The festive atmosphere was exactly the same, but I felt disconnected from it and couldn’t enjoy it. The print was in good shape and beautifully framed, so the owner wrapped it up for me and, after gulping at the overnight shipping charge, I paid him then hurried through the cheerful crowds. I managed to wedge the print into the MG, but I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to get both the print and Louise in the car for the return trip to Nether Woodsmoor.

When I got back to the hospital, I was too antsy to stay in the uncomfortable chairs. I paced around the waiting room for a few moments, but it was so stuffy that I went outside and took a brisk walk through the rows of cars to the far edge of the parking area. The air was crisp, and snowflakes spun lazily in the air. Through a gap in the buildings, I could see a bit of the rolling countryside. The edges of the fields near the dry stone walls that crisscrossed the land were already white with snow.

I retrieved my camera from the car and snapped a few photos as my thoughts spooled. During the drive to the hospital that morning, Louise and I had talked through the possibilities of why someone would want Harriet out of the way. Since she didn’t seem to have any sort of close relationship—no boyfriend or lover—that seemed to rule out a crime of passion or jealousy. And the police seemed to agree with their close focus on Louise and Gina. So that left money…or an inheritance. We needed to find out who else would benefit from Harriet’s death.

I returned to the close atmosphere of the waiting room and found Louise emerging from the elevator, her face strained. “That inspector had already been in to see Gina.” She gripped my arm. “He tried to get her to admit to murdering Harriet. He’d checked up on Gina and found out she has missed her last two house payments. I had no idea. She never said a word to me until today, but they cut back on her hours at the grocery, and there are rumors of a reduction in staff.”

“Which explains why the police are looking at her as a suspect. Financial troubles combined with the fact that she was one of the last people to see Harriet alive…well, that’s not good.”

Louise gripped my arm. “She’s so weak. She looked just awful, and now she’s terrified she’ll be arrested.” Louise checked her phone. “Why doesn’t the solicitor call? He doesn’t know it, but he has two clients now.” She ran a trembling hand over her forehead, pushing up her bright bangs. “At least I have a little money saved. I won’t be able to update the pub’s kitchen, but, well, if I’m not in prison, I guess it will be money well spent.”

The thought of Louise spending money to defend herself from these ridiculous insinuations made me fume. “Louise, I know you didn’t do anything to harm Harriet. Do you think there’s even the remotest chance that Gina had something to do with Harriet’s disappearance?”

Louise instantly shook her head. “No. Gina is a gentle person. I know you saw her get agitated over Harriet’s disappearance, but no matter how difficult her life is, she would never, ever do anything like that.”

“Okay, then let’s find another suspect for the inspector.”

Chapter 6

 

I rang the doorbell at Harriet’s house and stepped back. Louise waited a few steps behind me. I’d often been in this situation as a location scout, cold calling, asking for something from someone who had no reason to even speak to me. I felt that same frisson of nervousness that I always did, but I forced myself to ignore it. A lot more was riding on this conversation than a filming location.

The door cracked open, and Bridgette peered out. I hoped she’d be there. She didn’t have anywhere else to go.

“Hi, Bridgette. I’m sure you’re not really in the mood to talk to anyone today with the news about your sister, but I think you might be able to help us figure out what happened.”

“The police know what happened. They told me this morning that they think some clerk at the grocery did it, for money.”

“And the police never get anything wrong, do they? They never have the wrong idea about anyone.”

After a long pause, Bridgette opened the door wider. “What do you want?”

“Do you have a copy of Harriet’s will? That would help.”

She looked at Louise. “Who’s this?”

“I’m Louise, a friend of Harriet’s.”

“I remember you from the market. Okay, come in.” Bridgette walked to the kitchen where she motioned for us to take the two seats at the counter.

She’d showered and had on fresh clothes. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, which only emphasized her puffy, red eyes. She picked up a folded stack of papers from the desk and tossed it on the counter. “That’s her will.”

“I thought the police had it.” I smoothed out the creases as I opened it.

“Harriet had another copy. Of course she did. That’s Harriet all over. Always prepared. I mean, she even has a list of her passwords, right there stuck to her laptop keyboard.

“Alphabetized, too. Go on, read it if you want, but all the legalese boils down to two things. This Gina person gets some money. I get everything else—the house, the contents, and rights to her books—but only after I go through rehab.” Bridgette looked away, her eyes glistening. “Typical Harriet. Bossy, even in her will.”  

“But that’s what you wanted,” I said.

“Yes. I’m going to do it as soon as…well, as soon as all this is sorted.” She gestured at the papers in my hand. The doorbell rang. “I’d better get that. Might be the police again,” she said, with a small smile in my direction.

I had put the will down, but Louise picked it up and scanned the print. “She’s right. She gets everything else.” Louise gave me a significant look. “That sounds like motive to me.”

“Yes, although she said she just arrived here,” I said, as the murmur of two female voices floated back to us.

“You told me yourself she said she was an addict.” Louise kept her voice low.

I’d filled Louise in on what Bridgette had told me. I hadn’t kept anything from Louise. I knew she could keep a secret, and she was the one being questioned by the police. It only seemed fair that she have all the information.

“To get their next high, addicts will do whatever they have to,” Louise said, in an urgent whisper.

“Where was she a few weeks ago? If she knew about the will, she could have killed Harriet, knowing she’d have a steady income from her books for years and years.”

“Then where’s the body?” I asked. “It would be much easier to inherit if Harriet’s body was found.”

“Something must have happened. Maybe she put it somewhere where she thought it would be found, but it hasn’t been, and that’s why she’s here now.”

The volume of voices increased. Something else was bothering me about what Louise said. “A steady income,” I murmured. “Someone else has been profiting from Harriet’s disappearance.”

“What do you mean?”

“Who is selling Harriet’s autographed books at the market?”

“Carrie,” Louise breathed. “Yes, you’re right.” She lowered her voice another notch. “Speak of the devil.”

Carrie swept into the kitchen. Dressed in yoga pants and a hooded sweatshirt, she looked quite different than she had in her Regency outfit. “I’ll just pop these in here for you. I don’t cook,” she said with pride, “but these takeaway dinners are absolutely delicious.”

She entered the kitchen. Her steps faltered when she saw Louise and me. “Oh, I didn’t know you had company. Louise.” She sent a minuscule smile in our direction, then spotted the papers on the counter. She had a difficult time looking away from them as she placed several white containers in the refrigerator.

“I won’t keep you,” she said to Bridgette. “If you need anything, anything at all, just pop over. Harriet and I were very close. I can’t tell you how sad I am to hear the news. So tragic.”

A crazy thought came into my head, and I missed Bridgette’s reply as I debated if I should do it. It was a risk. But when would there be another chance? And the police seemed to be so focused on Louise and Gina…

“Yes, it really is sad,” I said, a little too loudly.

Everyone looked toward me. I cleared my throat. “I know it’s a personal loss for all of you, but there are her readers, too. They’ll be devastated to hear the news.” I turned to Louise. “No more books from their favorite author. And the book club will never get to read that last book she was working on. Or any of the others she had planned, those she told the book club about.” Louise opened her mouth, but I kicked her lightly in the shin. “You know, the ones on the flash drive that she always kept with her.”

Under her bright bangs, Louise’s forehead wrinkled. “I don’t think that’s what matters right now—” she began.

I cut her off. “Not to you or Bridgette, of course. You’ll miss Harriet herself. And that’s what’s important, but later…her readers will want to know what happened in the series.” I said to Bridgette, “Later, when you go through her things, you’ll have to look for a flash drive with her last story and her novel outlines. She told the book club all about it, didn’t she, Louise? How she didn’t like online backups…that she preferred to keep it with her.”

“Yes, she mentioned that,” Louise said slowly.

“Maybe the flash drive is here.” I glanced toward the desk.

Bridgette shook her head. “No, the police didn’t find anything like that. I saw the list of items they took.” 

“Anyway, something to think about,” I said. “We really should go. We’ve stayed long enough. Thank you for talking to us, Bridgette.”

I hurried Louise along the hall and had us across the brick pavers before Bridgette or Carrie could catch us. Louise opened the passenger door. “What was all that about? Her readers are the last thing we need to be thinking about now.”

“No, I think that’s really the main thing.” I slid into the car seat and motioned for her to do the same. Once she was inside the car and wedged up against Alex’s print, I said, “Or, her books, to be specific. Of all of her estate, her literary works are the most valuable. And what happens to artists’ work when they die? Often, the demand goes up. Limited supply, you know. Imagine if in a year or so, the last of Harriet’s books came out? The demand would be high. But if she had outlines for future books…well, a ghostwriter could complete them.”

“And that would mean more income on top of what is already coming in from her books now,” Louise said. “But she never said anything about outlines of future books.”

“Yes, I made that up.” I started the car and pulled away from the curb. “Just a little added incentive. I hope it wasn’t too over-the-top, but I guess we’ll find out.” 

~*~

“It seems like we’ve been sitting here forever,” Louise said.

Only her head showed above the framed print, which we’d managed to angle into the car between the seats with most of it on her side of the car so that I could operate the gearshift.

“I know,” I agreed, “but it’s only been fully dark for about a couple of hours. If I were going to dig up a body, I’d wait until it was pitch dark.”

“Thank goodness the days are short this time of year,” Louise said. It was only six, but it felt much later. The sun tended to go down around three thirty.

After we left Bridgette and Carrie, we cruised Harriet’s neighborhood until we found a good vantage point at the end of the road, a block north of Harriet’s street. Alex’s red MG Midget was cute, but definitely too memorable to park on Harriet’s street. The street we decided on was at a slightly higher elevation, and we could see into the back gardens of both homes as well as enough of the street in front of her house, so that if either Bridgette or Carrie left, we’d be able to see them.

“I need the loo,” Louise said, four hours later.

“I know. Me, too.” Earlier in the day we’d taken turns walking down the residential street to the nearby row of shops for food and bathroom breaks, but now I doubted anything adjacent to the quiet residential area would be open. The lights had gone out on Harriet’s side of the building around nine-thirty, but Carrie’s windows were still bright.

“Sorry again about the print,” I said. “Now I wish I’d bought Alex that wallet. I think he’ll like the print, but it’s not really that personal, is it? Maybe I should get him something else as well.”

Louise turned toward me with an exasperated sigh. “Alex is crazy about you. It doesn’t matter what you get him. You said so yourself, possessions don’t matter to him. If you just kiss him under the mistletoe, he’d be happy with that.”

“So you’re saying I’m blowing this present thing way out of proportion?” I sighed. “You’re probably right. I have a tendency to do that—”

“Did you see that?” Louise asked.

“No.”

“I thought—yes, there it is again. Someone is moving around in Harriet’s back garden.”

“Okay. Here we go.” I handed the keys to Louise and checked the settings on my camera one more time so that they let in as much light as possible. “Your phone is on, right?” I asked.

“And fully charged. Don’t worry, luv. I’ll call that snotty inspector the moment it looks as if she’s trying to move…Harriet.”

“Okay, here goes.” I drew in a deep breath and slipped out of the car. After hours of sitting in one position, my legs felt stiff. The cold didn’t help, but I managed to move to the front of the car and get in position without making any noise. I settled the camera on the hood of the car so I’d have a steady shot, then zoomed in on Harriet’s garden. A little ambient light from several streetlights filtered into the yard, but it was still very dark. The snow had tapered off, and a couple of little piles in the corners of the garden helped reflect a bit more light. The person wasn’t facing me and wore a hooded coat or sweatshirt, so I couldn’t see the person’s face.

Faintly, I heard the sound of a shovel slicing through earth. It sent a chill through me. It had worked. Someone had taken the bait. With the camera sounds muted, I took several photos, but I was afraid I didn’t have anything distinctive.

I removed the camera from the car’s hood and crept back to the car door. Louise had lowered the window a few inches. I whispered, “I can’t see who it is. You call that inspector. I’ll try to get closer.”

Louise’s reply was barely audible. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I’m not going down there, just to the edge of the little embankment over to the right that drops off above the garden. That should give me an angle that will let me get the person’s face.” Louise made a protesting noise, but I slipped away from the car and moved as noiselessly as possible.

Homes were under construction here, and the little cul-de-sac would be filled with homes later, but for now, most were cleared lots. I carefully picked my way through the dirt, pausing every few beats to listen. The sound of the shovel shearing through the earth continued.

I got close to the edge, where the land dropped a few feet down to the back garden below. I squatted down and peered through the viewfinder. This angle was better, and a patch of snow reflected on the figure. I snapped a few pictures, then my heart thumped faster as a swath of pale hair fell out of the hood.

The figure made an impatient movement, pushing the hair away and the hood fell partially back. I held the camera steady, snapping off silent shots as Carrie looked up from the little mound of dirt and surveyed the rise of land above her. I bit my lip and forced myself to hold the camera perfectly still in front of my face. After a second, the shoveling resumed, and I let out a shaky breath.

I slowly crept backward. It felt like it took forever to cross the empty lots. As I stepped from the dirt to the asphalt of the road, I realized that the steady, rhythmic sound of the shovel moving through dirt had stopped. I hesitated. Should I go back? No, I had enough on film, and the police should be on their way.

I was almost back to the car when a shadow seemed to move at the edge of my vision. I turned toward it and couldn’t help letting out a shriek. Even in the dim light, I could see her. Carrie stood there, chest heaving, a spray of dirt on her face, and the shovel gripped like a baseball bat.

I held up a hand. “Wait, Carrie. Let’s, um…”

She didn’t hesitate. She tensed her arms as if getting ready to swing at a ball, but she was aiming for my head.

I fumbled for my camera, managing to click on the flash and aim it at her, snapping a series of blinding shots as a shadow shifted beside Carrie. Something big and dark came down on her upper back, thrusting her forward. She lurched and fell, hitting her head hard on the asphalt as pieces of broken wood and shards of glass rained down around her.

“Oh, Kate. I’m so sorry about the print,” Louise said. “It was the only thing I had.”

“No, that’s okay.” I reached for the bumper of the MG and lowered myself onto it

“Small trade-off for not being hit in the face with a shovel.”

Chapter 7

 

“And you got it all on film,” Gina said. “Louise rescuing you.”

“Yes, she certainly stopped Carrie in her tracks.” Gina was propped up against a pile of pillows on the hospital bed. She still looked pale and fragile, but her eyes were lively and alert.

Louise said, “The flash distracted Carrie while I got out of the car. If you hadn’t done that,” Louise broke off and cleared her throat. “She would have come after me with the shovel, too. And the print was no match for the shovel, even if the print was framed.” Louise grimaced. “I still feel bad about that.”

“Don’t worry about it. The frame protected the print pretty well. It’s just a little crumpled on one side. And sort of folded. But it will be fine, I’m sure.”

“So what happened with Carrie? Did she wake up?” Gina asked.

“Not at that moment, thank goodness,” I said.

“She’d hit her head pretty hard on the way down.” Louise lowered her head and gave Gina a look. “Like someone else I know.”

Gina gingerly touched her head. “Yes, I don’t recommend it.”

“Anyway, she was coming around when the police arrived,” Louise continued. “But we explained what she’d been doing. They didn’t seem convinced at first, even with Kate’s photos to back us up, but after one look in Harriet’s garden, they took Carrie away in the back of a police car.”

“She’ll face murder charges,” I said, and Gina’s animated face saddened.

“I hate it that I was right about Harriet. I didn’t want to be, but deep down, I knew it. I knew she was dead.” She shivered. “I can’t believe Carrie buried Harriet in the garden. She was there, the whole time, and no one missed her.”

“You did,” Louise said. “You must have rattled Carrie with your questions. The mistletoe had to be her, didn’t it? She poisoned you?”

Gina nodded. “Yes, the inspector came this morning. His manner was very different from last time. He was quite willing to answer all my questions. I have a lot of questions, you know.” She smiled faintly. “They found traces of mistletoe on her Regency pelisse. The mistletoe was there at the market, a decoration. She must have crushed some berries and managed to slip them into my tea before the server brought it to us. They found the girl who delivered the drinks, and she remembered a woman who looked like Carrie bumping into her, but she couldn’t remember exactly when it happened, or who she was serving at the time.” Gina’s gaze dropped to her hands. “I don’t understand it, at all, but I suppose since Carrie had killed Harriet, she probably didn’t have a second thought about dropping those berries into my tea.” She smoothed the edge of the blanket over her lap. “The inspector said they believe she drugged Harriet and then suffocated her.”

“Oh, that’s awful,” Louise said.

“They’re doing tests and won’t know for certain until the results are back, but the inspector said that Harriet didn’t have any visible wounds, except for some bruising on her face around her nose and mouth.” Gina shook her head. “Why would Carrie do that? What drives someone to be so cruel?”

“Greed,” I said. “You said it yourself when you told me about Carrie. You said nothing was ever enough. She must have realized that Harriet was making a good income with her books. A look at Harriet’s Facebook account would have told her about the upcoming trip. Carrie saw it as an opportunity to get rid of Harriet.”

“They had traded keys,” Gina said. “I know that.”

“Right,” I said, “so Carrie hired an actress to play the part of Harriet to extend the fiction that Harriet was still alive. My friend Alex found out all about that. He also found out from the police in the Canary Islands that Carrie was removing cash from Harriet’s accounts, just as you thought.”

Gina nodded, her face sad. “I wish I had been wrong.”

“She had Harriet’s purse and all her bank cards,” I continued. “Bridgette said Harriet had a list with all her passwords in her desk. Carrie’d gotten into Harriet’s computer and redirected the funds. I think the only reason she stayed so long was to create an alibi for herself and keep an eye on Harriet’s garden to make sure the body wasn’t discovered. If the body was found, the process to shift all of Harriet’s accounts to the beneficiaries would begin, cutting off Carrie’s cash flow.”

“So as long as Harriet was on holiday, Carrie was safe,” Gina said.

“The police in the Canary Islands have already found several emails between Carrie and the impostor she hired,” I said. “I suppose Carrie planned to have the woman playing the part of Harriet mention her intention of touring some of the other Canary Islands. If ‘Harriet’ sent word back that she had extended her vacation again, then it would be easy for the fake Harriet to drop out of sight and make it much more difficult to track her down.”

“And Carrie could go on collecting the earnings from Harriet’s royalties,” Gina said.

“Which is why Kate’s mention of the flash drive with outlines of future books was so brilliant,” Louise said. “Of course Carrie would want something like that.”

“I wish that part of the story were true,” Gina said. “I’d love to read another of Harriet’s books.”

“Well, it was partly true,” Louise said. “Bridgette called me this morning. She’d looked through Harriet’s computer before the police arrived this morning.” Louise handed Gina a stack of papers. “She found a file labeled Valentine Novella. She sent it to me, and I printed it out for you.”

Gina grinned. “Oh, Harriet did keep her promise. We will get one more Harriet Hayden story. I’m so glad. And, this sister, Bridgette, the police made her sound quite the shady character, but it seems she’s trying to do the right thing.”

I exchanged a look with Louise as I said, “She’s had a rough time, but I think she’d already determined to change her ways before all of this.”

Louise nodded. “She leaves tomorrow for rehab.”

We chatted a bit more, but Gina’s gaze kept straying to the printed pages, so when the nurse arrived, Louise and I said goodbye. Gina was already halfway through the first page before we were out the door, despite the nurse taking her vitals.

Outside the hospital, Louise said, “I still have Christmas shopping to do. Fancy another trip to the market?” The snow had begun to flutter down again but with more intensity than yesterday’s snow. It was quickly coating everything in sight.

“No, my shopping is finished. I think I need to do some baking, then curl up with a good book.”

Louise said, “If I don’t see you before Christmas, thank you,” and she gave me a quick, fiercely tight hug. “It goes without saying, doesn’t it, that everything will always be on the house for you at the pub?”

“There’s no need for that—”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “There is. It’s not much, but it’s what I can do, and I don’t want to hear any argument from you. It’s Christmas, and it’s not polite to refuse gifts.”

I swallowed my arguments. “You’re right. Thank you,” I said sincerely.

“Right. Well. That’s sorted then. Happy Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Louise,” I said, and handed her an envelope.

“What’s this?” Her tone was suspicious as she pulled back the flap and extracted a card. “A spa day?”

“A little something—that you must accept,” I said quickly, sensing that she was about to try to refuse it. “It’s a gift. Must be polite and all. I think you’ll love it. Massage included.”

“A massage does sound heavenly,” she said with a slow smile.

We said goodbye, and I managed to get back to my cottage in Nether Woodsmoor, only frightening myself a few times as the car drifted on the slick roads, seeming to have a mind of its own. I put the car in park with a sense of relief, returned Slink’s energetic greeting, and then whipped up a batch of sugar cookies.

I managed to get a fire going in the fireplace. Then I settled into the couch near the blaze, a plate of cookies balanced on the arm of the couch, and Miss Bingley Suspects propped up on my knee.

The doorbell rang, and Slink went from horizontally sprawled on her cushion to vertical in milliseconds. I opened the door to see Alex standing there, snow rapidly building up on his hair. “Merry Christmas.” 

“What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to arrive until the day after tomorrow.”

Alex reached down to rub Slink’s ears as she danced around us. “I wanted to give you this in person.” He handed me a small wrapped package.

I could tell from the feel of it that it was a book.

“And I was worried about you,” he continued. “Missing authors, impostors, poisoned tea. You know, not the typical Christmas.”

“It all worked out…the whole thing. I called you yesterday, but I had to leave you a voicemail.”

“That’s because I was flying back. So, can I come in?”

“Yes, of course.” I stepped back. “Sorry, I’m just so surprised to see you, but really glad, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” I put my arms around his neck. “Let me show you.” 

Eventually, we decided we should close the door. I was still holding the package, and as I shut the door, Alex brushed the snow from his hair as he said, “Go on. Open it.”

“Now? It’s not even Christmas Eve.”

“I won’t tell.”

I carefully pulled at the tape, trying to dislodge it without messing up the wrapping paper.

“I knew it. I knew you’d be one of those careful unwrappers,” he said with a smile and crossed his arms as he made a show of leaning against the wall to wait for me. “Tick-tock. I could have opened all my presents in the time it’s taken you to break that piece of tape open.”

I punched his arm. “I’m not that bad.” I pried the paper back and caught my breath as I recognized the peacock feathers. “A first edition of Pride and Prejudice.” I ran my fingers over the embossed surface.

“Not a particularly good one, I’m afraid. It’s worn. The technical term is ‘foxed,’ I learned, but I thought you’d like it.”

“I do.” I smiled wider. “Indeed I do,” I said, reaching to give him a kiss.

I leaned back, remembering I had a gift for him. “Your present isn’t wrapped.” I nodded to the print, which was propped up on the couch. The frame was a total loss, but the cardboard backing on the print had only cracked in one place near the bottom of the print. I’d flattened it out and taped it into place. The print itself wasn’t damaged that badly.

He crossed the room and picked it up, “This is…brilliant. I really like it.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I don’t have any proper art, so this is perfect.” He ran his hand over the crumpled edge that had connected with Carrie’s back. “What happened here?”

“It’s a long story. Come have some cookies while I tell you about it.”

 

 

—The End—

THE NEON ORNAMENTS

 

 

Camille Minichino

Editor’s Note: In this delightful prequel to her popular The Periodic Table Mystery series, Camille Minichino takes us back in time for a girls’ weekend in Boston. Two very different friends see eye-to-eye about one thing…justice must be done! (And chemistry between a man and a woman cannot be ignored.)

 

 

 

 

Boston, 1997

 

Rose started the argument when she claimed to have bought “a box of fabulous neon Christmas ornaments.”

“They're not really neon,” I rushed to explain. “They're bright, and they may have some phosphor in the paint, but—”

Rose grimaced. “Just look at the label.” She used her supremely manicured fingers to point to the red and green carton with twelve colorful balls, nestled like a dozen extra-large eggs in a form-fitting container. NE ORNAMENTS. “See? Didn't you tell me once that the abbreviations are always the first two letters of the element in the periodic table?”

“Not always. Sometimes it's not even close, like Au for gold.”

She frowned. “That's dumb. Why would they do that?”

“It might be that the name is from an old Greek or Latin word. In this case, I believe it's from the Latin aurum.”

“Well, anyway Ne is neon, right? So these are neon ornaments. Otherwise why would that be on the label?”

“They're using the word very loosely, to mean extra bright. While it's true that neon has a bright spectrum, the element itself is colorless and odorless. It's the tenth in the periodic table. It's—”

“Gloria, stop! Don't make me sorry I'll be spending the weekend with you. It's supposed to be about jingle bells and the lights on Boston Common and ho ho ho, and good food and shopping. Lots of shopping. Not science.”

“. . . also inert.” I had to finish my sentence. “If they say 'neon,' they should mean neon. Otherwise they should get another name for the color. Like peacock green, or something.”

“Peacocks aren't green,” she said.

“See what I mean?” I said.

Rose placed the box of ornaments on the hotel dresser, already overflowing with presents and garlands, and it was only Friday night. “When will I learn?” she asked. “There's no rest when your best friend is a physicist.”

Almost retired physicist, I thought, but that only brought up tough decisions I wasn't ready to make.

Rose Galigani and I had been friends for enough years to accommodate a little bickering. We couldn't be more different—one of us always in comfortable clothes that hid (I told myself) my extra lumps; the other a petite fashionista, meticulous in dress and grooming. Yet we'd been inseparable since junior high. Rose was one of the main reasons I was considering leaving my job on the West Coast to return to my roots in Massachusetts. I'd been away almost thirty years.

“Long enough,” Rose said often, and I tended to agree—sometimes, and other times not. This weekend was supposed to help me decide. Was I going to be the one to prove that you can go home again?

I'd fled town all those years ago for a good reason. My fiancé died in a car crash a few weeks before Christmas and I couldn't handle it. I might have been able to handle his death, but not the rumors and innuendo that followed. Was he or was he not “connected”? Did the whispers of “mob hit” have any basis? Did I want to know? My answer was to go as far from Boston as I could get. I'd never lost touch with Rose, however.

While I went to work at a lab three thousand miles away in Berkeley, California, Rose married our friend, Frank, and together they owned and operated the Galigani Mortuary in Revere, a town about eight miles from Boston, where we'd all grown up. Frank was the embalmer extraordinaire; Rose was the all-purpose manager and administrator. With one of their sons a reporter and the other an heir apparent embalmer, they had their fingers on the pulses of tens of thousands of citizens. Or the lack of pulses, as the case may be.

One of Rose's enticements to get me to move back to Revere was to offer me the apartment above their mortuary, fully furnished. Rose and Frank had lived there in the early days of their marriage so I knew it well. It was pleasant enough if you didn't mind doing your laundry across from the embalming room in the basement, and you were okay with walking past the clients' (as they called them) viewing parlor to climb the stairs leading to your comfy living room. There were also the sounds and smells of mourning to deal with, but none of these details would be the basis of my decision. The real question was, always, could I, should I come home?

This vacation was one of many Rose and I spent together, each of us taking turns crossing the country, sometimes for a week, often just for a weekend, like now. We'd decided this time on a Christmas shopping weekend in Boston, just far enough from Rose's family and my other East Coast friends. I'd slip in, enjoy Christmas cheer with Rose, and slip out.

We sat on our respective beds in one of Boston's great Copley Square hotels. We were in the heart of the city, with views of the majestic Boston Public Library, the country's first free library, across the street, and the grand Romanesque Trinity Church a block away. Even better, the hotel was connected to not one, but two major shopping areas that spread out on either side of the lobby, like the wings of a retail angel.

The hotel lobby was decked out with an enormous tree, sporting lights, garlands, and what some might label neon ornaments. We called it our high-class slumber party. We'd already stocked up on goodies from the many food kiosks and now sifted through the bag of snacks. We made our choices for bedtime noshes. A bran muffin for Rose, cannoli from the North End for me. It was no mystery why we wore the dress sizes we did.

“So, what's new?” Rose asked.

What was a reunion without a little gossip? I told her about a suspected romance between my boss and his new young secretary (How original, she responded); the possibility of another grant for my research (Is it portable to Boston? she asked); and the state of the many coworkers Rose had met during her visits to Berkeley (I'm glad you didn't get serious with that Paul guy; he'd never move to Boston). There was no question about Rose's agenda this weekend.

When it was Rose's turn, I heard about her three children and their careers, then stories about Revere, the hometown that she'd never left. I'd never been involved in politics as much as Rose and Frank were, whether I lived in Revere or Berkeley. I'd managed to live and work in Berkeley during tumultuous times and never break down and buy a tie-dye T-shirt. Staying hidden in a laboratory was the key to political neutrality. Tonight, I heard about the usual fights over bond issues in Revere, plus contention over what name to give the new basketball stadium. “Frank and I are against another stadium all together. No one has thought about traffic, parking, access to the facility, or the disruption of private homes. This is not your normal gridlock. We're talking about another four hundred cars a day.”

It always took Rose a while to notice that my eyes glazed over when political talk went on too long, especially when combined with sports talk. My third yawn did the trick and we agreed to call it a night, settling into our respective beds, a nightstand between us. If we needed additional proof of our different styles, our slippers provided it—fleece-lined moccasins next to my bed, baby pink boa high-heeled sandals next to Rose's bed.

“I almost forgot,” Rose said, swishing her silk nightgown under the covers. “I was going to ask a little favor.”

“Sure,” I said, hoping it didn't involve attending a council meeting.

“There's this friend of Frank's. His name is Matt Gennaro, and he's a homicide detective with the RPD.”

Uh-oh, the topic that supersedes politics and sports as my least favorite: dating. “I'm not interested, Rose.” I yawned loudly. “And I'm tired.”

“It's not about dating. It's about one of his cases that has to do with science.”

“What a coincidence.”

“I'm serious, Gloria. He has a murder case that involves tungsten—am I pronouncing it correctly?—and we told him you knew all about it.”

“I don't know all about tungsten. I had one small project with the heavy metals.”

“I'm guessing you don't mean music,” she said.

I shook my head and yawned again.

“Anyway, he wants to meet you. To talk about this homicide investigation.”

“What happened to ho ho ho and no science this weekend?”

“This is different. He's a cop, and you know we like to stay on the good side of cops. There are lots of times when our interests coincide. Anyway, he thinks you can help him.”

“I'll bet he does. Because Revere cops always depend on scientists passing through from California to help them.”

“Come on, Gloria. He'd pay you as a consultant.”

I shook my head. “I just got a raise.”

“What can it hurt?”

“It can waste my time. And his. I thought we were going to shop till we pop.”

“It's drop. Shop till you drop is the saying. You're hopeless.” She rubbed her hands together, gearing up for something special. “Anyway, we're meeting him for breakfast tomorrow.”

“What? You did that without asking me first?”

Rose's turn to yawn. Louder than I ever could. She must have been practicing. “I'm tired,” she said.

I growled and turned out the light between us. I heard a chuckle as I drifted off.

~*~

Detective Matt Gennaro was waiting for us at the restaurant in the hotel lobby. With tons of tinsel and holiday music filling the large open space, it was hard to maintain my grouchy attitude toward this meeting. He half stood when Rose and I arrived. Not sexist, but not rude either. We took our seats, introductions were made, and I wondered how long it would take for Rose to come up with an excuse to leave us alone.

Matt was my age, a widower for ten years according to Rose, and had the look of all my favorite Italian-American actors, including a shadowy beard and dark brown eyes that looked droopy and sad even when their owners were laughing. He was wearing more shades of brown than I knew existed. Dark brown suit, pale brown shirt, striped brown tie. I was surprised he'd passed the Rose Galigani fashion test. In Rose's briefing, I learned that he had no children, a sister in Rhode Island, and owned a house on Fernwood Avenue, close to the center of town, only a few blocks from the police department.

He got right to it. “I'm sure Rose told you, Dr. Lamerino, we have a case that could use your help. It has to do with physics and we can't get any help from the guys . . . uh, scientists, at the MU lab.”

“The Massachusetts University annex on Charger Street,” I added, to be sure we had the same facility in mind.

“Right. They just can't speak layman's English, for one thing, and also some of them are familiar with the victim and the suspect and therefore their testimony would be compromised. What we need is someone removed, like you, Doctor.”

“Call me Gloria, please,” I said. “And there are lots of physicists and chemists in Boston. I can put you in touch with a few.”

“We like to try to keep things in-house first. And, as a native of Revere, you fit the bill.”

“As you know, I'm just visiting for the weekend.”

“Right, but that might be all we need.”

I could tell that Rose was itching to chime in, but she kept sipping her coffee and water alternately to keep busy. When our waiter came for our orders, we all chose the buffet table and got in line in an adjoining room. Matt picked up his plate from the side opposite the one Rose and I took, to give us time to reconnoiter, I assumed. He was being very considerate. I wished he'd do or say something out of line soon, so I'd have an excuse to decline the work and take care of my Christmas present list.

As we scooped food from the various serving bowls onto our plates—choosing from three kinds of eggs, sausage, hash browns, and about a dozen salads—Rose leaned close to me and whispered, “I think he likes you.”

I added a small éclair to my plate and whispered back, “You think everyone wants to date me, and yet, here I am.”

“Because you don't even try.”

Ouch. I should have known better than to take on Rose in verbal repartee. Unless we were talking about the three laws of thermodynamics, she was usually right. But I was very happy and fulfilled in my lab work. I'd published in the best journals, received numerous grants and awards and had my choice of speaking engagements, all validating my professional expertise. That was enough. Wasn't it?

Back at the table, Matt had waited until we arrived before starting to eat. Not a jerk yet. “Tell me about your case,” I said, causing Rose's eyes to light up.

“Essentially, we have a murdered physicist and a physicist suspect.” He held his hand up, thumb and index finger nearly touching. “And we're this close to proving the suspect did it. If we had a motive, it would go a long way to helping us close the case. That's where you come in. Helping us figure out the motive.”

One more forkful into the meal, a loud ring sounded. Matt and I looked around. “It's my phone,” Rose said, pulling a black instrument from her purse. I'd forgotten that Frank had bought her a portable phone that had hit the market only a few months earlier, an impressive unit with about a one-inch-long antenna. “Frank insisted I have one of these when I'm away, even for just a weekend. I feel silly, like I'm a cop.” She looked at Matt and smiled. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Matt said, and we all laughed.

Rose talked on the phone to Frank, carrying on what I knew was a manufactured conversation. She said things like, “Yes, this is an okay time,” and “I'll be right there if you need me,” and “Yes, what a good thing that I have this phone, sweetie.” She clicked off and faced us with a pretend-sad expression, “Some emergency has come up and Frank needs me at the mortuary. I'm sooo sorry to have to leave.”

“I'll bet you are,” I mumbled.

“Have fun you two.”

Being left alone with a guy I'd just met wasn't as awkward as it could have been. Matt seemed very comfortable, treating me more like a potential consultant than a candidate for a date, which suited me fine.

“A few details,” he said, “to get you up to speed. I can tell you it was a gruesome murder. Stabbings always are. The killer usually goes overboard, if you know what I mean. You almost never find only one knife wound. I can show you crime scene photos or not, your choice.”

I waved my hand. “Probably not,” I said, but I'd already conjured up a repulsive, bloody scenario. I tried to shake away the image, at the same time feeling sorry for those whose job it was to study such images and make sense out of them. If I was revolted by the mere thought, I couldn't imagine what impact seeing the real thing or the real photo would have.

“As I said, the victim is a physicist who was working at the lab, experimenting with a tungsten alloy—and your first job would be to tell me what that is. Apparently, a colleague was seen fighting with him. The colleague, who's our suspect, claims it was over lab space, nothing more. He wasn't getting his fair share, but it was resolved quickly, he claims, and therefore he had no reason to kill the man. We think the conflict was over patent rights. The victim had filed for a patent on his own, not crediting the suspect, but our suspect claims he didn't know the victim had filed and—”

“Can you tell me their names? It might help me keep things straight.”

“Oh, right, sorry. Cops get caught up in jargon sometimes and don't even realize it.”

“So do physicists.”

Our first shared laugh, with no prompting from Rose. Matt had an appealing, lopsided grin. Rose would have been thrilled that I noticed. I thought how much Matt reminded me of Rose and Frank, living in Revere all his life, maintaining a pure (pu-ah, rhymes with shu-ah) Boston accent. He probably thought the world ended at the Charles River, as I once did.

“Dr. John Richardson is the victim,” Matt said. “He taught at MU and did his research at the annex lab in Revere, as I said. Richardson was found in his lab on a Monday morning a week ago. The ME says he probably bled out . . . “ He winced, apparently aware that I'd visibly shivered as another unwanted image came to my mind, this one with more detail. “. . . uh, he died sometime on Sunday. The suspected colleague, Dr. Roger Schott, a post doc, claims he did all the work on creating this tungsten alloy and got none of the credit.”

“Isn't that your motive?”

“It would be, except Schott claims he knew nothing about the patent application. He keeps to the story that the quarrel was only about getting his name as coauthor on a journal article, and about the lab space.” Matt reached down to his briefcase and pulled out a folder. I winced when he handed it to me, considerate enough to wait until I'd indicated to the waiter that I'd finished my breakfast. “There's nothing in there that's unfit for restaurant viewing. Just copies of his notes.”

As usual, Rose had piled desserts onto a small plate before she left us and, also as usual, she'd never intended to eat them. Matt reached over now and plucked a vanilla petit four from the selections. “Hate to see food go to waste.” I felt he was also trying to tell me that there was nothing to worry about in the folder.

I took a chocolate truffle from the plate, to show I wasn't worried about upsetting my digestive system, either. “Thanks, I appreciate that.”

“We have a feeling the answer is in these notes, but no one in the department can decipher them. If we can prove he knew Richardson had started the application for a patent for this certain chemical or alloy or whatever it's called, we'd have motive.”

“Can you convict someone on motive alone?”

“No, but it would go a long way in a trial. If you can show someone lied about one thing, the main thing, the jury will disbelieve everything he says. The prosecutors will make sure of that.”

I opened the folder, pleased to see only sheets of text, with a few scientific symbols. No photos from a horror film. The first term that stood out was the alloy Matt had mentioned. I saw that it was a combination of tungsten and copper.

“This is a very common alloy,” I said, then remembered he'd asked for a definition. “An alloy is just a mixture of metals, in this case . . .” I presented my open palm.

“Tungsten and copper,” Matt said.

“See how easy?”

“Then what's the patent about?”

“The mixture of the two metals can be accomplished in any number of ways, with different percentages of each one. In each case, the properties of the final alloy will be different.”

He nodded.

“Hypothetically, there are any number of ways this can be accomplished. Do you want the resulting metal to be able to withstand a higher temperature than either of the metals alone? Then you prepare it one way. Do you want it to be stronger—”

“Wow, I get it already.”

“Music to my ears,” I said. But it was better than the so-called real music we were being treated to, a Christmas song involving silver, another metal with many popular alloys. One of my life's goals was to make science accessible to laymen. Here was a cop saying he got it.

“So the patent would be like a recipe I'd want to protect,” Matt continued. “Like for my Aunt Celia's lasagna.”

“Exactly, and you'd file a composition-of-matter patent claim, a very common one for protecting materials-related inventions. As with a time-worn recipe, a particular alloy may be known, but there could be a new characteristic or property that emerges from a new combination, or a dash of something extra, to use your lasagna example. For instance, an amorphous microstructure may be patentable, where only the crystalline form of an alloy was known before.”

Matt held up his hand. “I think I heard the bell for end of class.”

“That's the hotel's version of Silver Bells, but I'll quit soon. One more point—whereas I might try to figure out the exact ingredients of your aunt's lasagna, it would be hard, going on taste alone, unless I raided her spice rack. With metal alloys, however, reverse engineering with a simple chemistry test could reveal the composition.”

“Thus, making a patent very important.”

“Very. And now I'll stop. I know I can go on and on.”

“I don't mean to cut you off,” he said, handing me another folder. “I just want to make sure I give you this. More reports and maybe a photo or two that may be tough to look at. We're hoping there's something in his personal notes that will give us a clue as to what he had in mind with regard to his partner and the whole patent issue.”

“I'll look through them,” I said, though I didn't remember specifically agreeing to work on the case. Matt was as good as Rose at duping me into decisions they had in mind for me. But it wasn't their fault if I was easily led. “I assume you've checked for the obvious references to the USPTO and PTRCs?”

“Uh, the first is the patent office, right? Somewhere in the DC area? I don't know what the second is.”

I bit my lip, wishing I could take it all back. There was nothing worse than making someone feel deficient because he didn't know an acronym that was completely out of his area of expertise. “I apologize. There are centers all over the country connected to the Patent and Trademark Office. They're called Patent and Trademark Resource Centers, where you can find everything from the forms you need for filing, to searching the status of an existing disclosure.”

“You've done this before? You have a patent.”

I waved my hand. “Only a very simple thing when I was in grad school. My professor and I were able to patent a new measurement technique.”

“You're scaring me.”

I laughed. “You're letting me talk way too much. Why don't I just get busy and look for signs that Schott knew that Richardson had taken the initial steps toward a patent.”  

“Perfect. I appreciate this,” he said.

“No promises,” I said. “I have a flight out on Monday morning and once I get back—”

“I know what happens when you get back to work after a few days off. Suddenly you're the head of some committee.”

“Or someone swooped in and used your account to buy a new oscilloscope.”

Matt laughed. “By the way, you can bill this as holiday pay. We have special rates for our expert consultants.”

I gave him a sideways look. “You know, this is really the realm of chemistry. The study of the elements is more about chemistry, once you get into atoms more complex than hydrogen. Are you sure Richardson and Schott are physicists and not chemists?”

“Aren't they about the same? Rose said they were interchangeable, and as your best friend, she's my go-to person for science.”

I put my head in my hands. Rose knew better. And I had a feeling Matt knew better also but needed help so badly and quickly that he'd take the first offer. “Sure,” I said, “the way firefighters and cops are interchangeable.”

Matt frowned, then grinned. “Or lasagna and eggplant parm.” More laughter.

I took it as a good sign that we'd had so much fun while discussing physics, chemistry, and murder.

~*~

We agreed to split for an hour while he checked in with the police station in Revere and I retreated to a quiet corner of the Boston Public Library's main McKim building, only a few steps from a side entrance to the hotel. The library had its own fair share of bells and tinsel for the holidays. A glassed-in display case at the entrance showcased its logo items—the usual caps, T's, mugs, totes, and notecards—with the added offerings of red-ribboned ornaments that featured interior and exterior architectural details of the building.

Before we parted, Matt had handed me two more folders of notes, and I'd stuffed them all into a tote I'd intended to use for shopping. I spread them out now on a beautifully polished table in the magnificent reading room with its barrel-vaulted ceilings and arched and grilled windows.

I knew that the library had a patent resource center in the building, but I doubted I'd need that much depth of inquiry to figure out what the two men were up to, together or separately.

In some ways, this little project was preferable to me than jostling the holiday crowds in the stores across the way. On the Saturday before Christmas, no less. I knew Rose was having a great time, assuming there was really no mortuary emergency. Rose enjoyed even the Filene's Basement tugs-of-war where she pulled on one leg of a pajama bottom and an equally determined shopaholic pulled on the other. I'd never been the big fan of retail that Rose was, but she had a lot of explaining to do—she'd brought someone into our special weekend, and part of me was annoyed at that. The other part wondered why she hadn't introduced me to Matt sooner.

I started in on the stacks of paper in front of me. A quick glance revealed one form after another, many filled in by hand, some typewritten, some signed by the reporting officer, a few transcripts of taped statements. I read the headings: ITEMS collected from the execution of a search warrant at suspect Schott's home; STATEMENTS FROM BYSTANDERS (“saw nothing” was a common phrase), CRIME SCENE TECHNICAL REPORT. I noted the times, expressed in military format and was impressed at the hours law enforcement put in. Stamps read 0605 hours, 2010 hours, and one even 2400 hours. A very brief CORONER INVESTIGATOR'S REPORT proclaimed that “this death is a homicide.”

I figured Matt had dumped all of this on me to give me a feel for the case as a whole. But it was time for me to stop browsing and take up the specific pages I was tasked to interpret. I found the sheet marked SUSPECT'S PERSONAL NOTES and the attached copies of handwritten pages. It looked like the police had copied a combination notebook and calendar, about six-by-nine inches, onto regular eight-and-a-half-by-eleven paper. Some of the images were askew and in some cases it was hard to read what had been written in the center, stapled part of the original calendar.

I remembered Matt telling me that Schott had shredded most of his technical notes, using the excuse that he didn't have enough storage space for all of them. What was left were memos to himself, like “birthday presents for twins” and odd lists like 1. tubes, 2. batteries, 3. sweat sox. Like most of us, Schott used a great deal of shorthand when writing for himself, not expecting others to ever see it. Or, perhaps, in case others did gain access to it.

I shifted my focus to the days leading up to Richardson's murder and wrote out a list for myself of what I couldn't easily decipher. GM brakes was obvious, as was Linda: CU soon. But Call library re: W was one cryptic entry I extracted for further study; W. @ library another.

My hour was almost up, and I felt I was just beginning. I walked back across Dartmouth Street, accosted by no fewer than three Santas on the way—two looking for donations, one handing out red and green lollipops. Matt waited at a coffee stand inside the mall. Just a few yards in the outside air was enough to give me a chill, and I accepted Matt's offer of an espresso in the café a few mall stores away. I gave him a report of my progress, such as it was, and agreed to spend time with the files in the afternoon, after I checked in with Rose.

“Maybe we can meet this evening,” he said.

“I'm afraid that won't work. Rose and I have tickets for The Nutcracker.”

He reached into his jacket pocket. “You mean these?”

“What?”

“She said she forgot she'd made other plans, and would I be interested in her ticket.” His smile said he'd been helpless in the face of her not-so-subtle ruse.

My feelings were torn. Should I be annoyed? Hurt that Rose didn't want to spend the weekend with me? It was supposed to be just us girls. She'd tried to set me up before, but not with this all-out campaign, and she'd never used the allure of science to draw me in. Science, and one very charming homicide detective.

“Do you like The Nutcracker?” I asked Matt.

“I'm sure it's wonderful. I know it's famous, one of those 'must see' things when you're in Boston at Christmas. Like seeing the Rockettes at Radio City in New York.”

“So, no, you've lived in Boston all your life and you've never seen it?”

“I never had tickets with you before.”

For no reason, I felt my face turn red, and the temperature in the café rose ten degrees.

I snuck a look at Matt's face. Not red, a slight smile, focused now on the notes I'd made for him on my observations so far. If he'd been joking, it didn't show. I had to admit the possibility that he meant what he said.

~*~

Since Rose was way ahead of me in the communications area, I had to resort to an old-fashioned means of finding her. I used a phone in the lobby to call up to our room. No answer, except from the voicemail lady. Plan B: Using my intimate knowledge of Rose's preferences, I headed to the high-end wing of shops and found her in a little salon tucked in a corner, “Nails by Nicole,” site of her favorite indulgence.

She waved her newly polished fingers at me (I'd thought they were already perfect) and wiggled her wet toes, causing her attendant to roll her chair back and make room for me. “I want to hear all about it,” she said.

“There's nothing to hear.”

She patted the chair next to her. “Come sit and let Ailee do your nails.”

I curled my fingers and looked at my nails—uneven, cracked, with telltale signs of lab dust that never completely went away from deep between my nails and fingertips. It was impossible to keep dust from accumulating around battery terminals, the meters in a power supply, and, clearly, my nails.

“They're a mess,” I said, meaning why bother?

“Exactly,” she said, meaning that's what Ailee is for. She patted the empty chair again and this time I sat.

It seemed if I wanted time with Rose at all this weekend, it was going to be shared with the world of beauty products. “I'm sorry you can't make The Nutcracker,” I said. “What came up?”

“Uh, Ailee, could you do another swipe with that wonderful new lotion. It smells divine.” She turned to me. “Oh, just something with Frank. How's the case coming? Are you going to have to extend your trip? You know, we can arrange it so you won't have to pay a fee.”

“I have no doubt. Of course, I'll have to lie in a casket and pretend to be dead, right?”

Rose grinned and patted my hand, without disturbing the coatings on hers. “Mortuary humor. I'm so glad you're catching on.”

“I learned from the best.”

“Now let's get you ready for tonight.” Rose leaned over to Ailee. “She needs the 'And More' package. She has a big date tonight.”

“It's not a date.”

“Is it at the Opera House?”

“Yes.”

“At night?”

“Yes.”

“Just the two of you.”

“Yes.”

“It's a date.”

The next “Yes” came from Ailee, who turned the chair into a recliner at the touch of a button. I would have disagreed with them, but there was a towel covering my face.

~*~

I toughed it out at Nicole's and came away hardly recognizing my hair, face, and hands. I was tempted to shower everything off, but I knew Rose would find a way to arrange a do-over that might be even worse. When I told her I had to spend some time with the police reports I'd received from Matt, she seemed genuinely sorry that I couldn't join her for a quick run through of the high-end shops—a paper goods store, a leather shop, and several specialty stores for the younger set.

I made myself comfortable in our room with a cup of coffee and the hotel's artisan plate of cheeses and breads, delivered to my door. I had a sweeping view east, toward Boston's Back Bay. Not a bad place to work.

Feeling adventuresome with my new hairdo, still with a generous sprinkling of gray, since I'd avoided the color step of my treatment with Ailee, I opened the folder marked PHOTOS.

The first few shots were innocuous enough, photographs of John Richardson and Roger Schott in what might be passport poses. Richardson, my vic, as I'd come to think of him, was round-faced, with a flat nose, not particularly handsome, but pleasant-looking. Schott, the suspect, had a more conventionally good-looking countenance, light hair, and piercing eyes. Whether piercing-good or piercing-bad, I couldn't tell from the grainy shot.

Photos of the two men in their lab were more interesting, though I wished I had more than pop psychology to figure out the relationship. Was the guy who assumed a standing position the one in charge? The guy with a lab coat more serious a worker than the one with the nice shirt and tie? (Admittedly, I had my suspicions about laboratory workers in Sunday clothes.)

The equipment behind the men looked vaguely like a gas gun I'd used once to look at the properties of tungsten. The setup seemed very far from the alloy work I'd been told that Richardson and Schott were doing, but probably where Rose got the idea that I was a tungsten expert. Not that she needed any prompting when it came to hyperbole.

I studied the photo again. One of these men was dead, I reminded myself, possibly at the hands of the other. I had a job to do.

Earlier, I'd tried to find patterns in Schott's notes. The only things that stood out were scheduled dates, for which he used the cool kids' notation of c u for “see you,” in either caps or lowercase letters; many meetings and scheduled phone calls with W. about J.R.; and a smattering of single notes, like W. is good today, with C U, followed by a phone number. I guessed J.R. was John Richardson, but so what?

Reading the police reports was a lot like reading lab journal entries. There was no embellishment to the prose, no attempt to make the narrative interesting. One officer at the scene of Richardson's murder reported that at approximately 2030 hours he had “examined a pair of black athletic shoes in a reasonably well-lit area and noticed a foreign material on the left shoe.” Then “at approximately 2045 hours, a presumptive blood analysis test was performed on the left shoe. The test resulted in a positive reading for blood.”

The report, typed out single-spaced, went on in great detail about the examination of every piece of clothing, describing a “reddish stain” here or a “rust-colored fragment” there, and spelled out how each piece of clothing had been laid on a clean surface, with no article of clothing touching any other article of clothing. Plutonium should be handled so carefully, I thought. But then, as a rule, no lawyers were involved in plutonium handling.

You couldn't get much more clinical about a stabbed, blood-smeared body. Cops would make good scientists, I decided.

I worked through three cups of coffee and all of the bread and cheese, standing to stretch now and then, each time wondering when lightning would strike and I would get an insight into the case.

I plowed through diagram after diagram of the lab space and even the parking lot adjacent to the building. I saw where the handicapped parking spots were and how many speed bumps there were in the entrance and the exit. If I needed to, I could contact the owner of every car parked in the lot during the hours before and after the murder.

I took a break around four, just after attacking a stack of papers with pre-drawn outlines of the body of an HM (human male, I learned). Someone had used the line drawing to indicate locations of the various wounds on the victim and make notes in strategic places. I was just as glad the handwriting was impossible to make out. And also that it wasn't in color.

Time had gotten away from me, and I realized I had to think about getting dressed for the ballet. I was surprised Rose hadn't come back to supervise. I opened the closet door to search for the one (sort of) dressy outfit I'd brought on the trip, which was one of two I owned—a plain black dress with long sleeves. The fabric was a soft knit that rejected wrinkles. I figured polyester wouldn't be very popular with the ballet-going crowd, but, never mind, the lights would be dim.

I couldn't find the dress. Had I not hung it up? I checked my luggage, which I'd stuffed in a corner next to my bed, by peering into the small opening and feeling around the lining. Nothing. I recognized that I was looking for a black dress in a black lined suitcase, so I lugged it to the top of my bed and opened it completely. Nothing. Back to the closet, this time examining Rose's side, which was full of lovely, flowing garments. Too bad they were too small for me by miles. I must have forgotten to pack my dress. Now what? I'd have to make do with my casual pants and hope the lights were even dimmer than usual.

I made a tiny sandwich of crunchy raisin toast and brie and went back to the work at hand, this time avoiding the endless police department forms.

I picked up Schott's journal. I found a section where he'd summarized some of the work that contributed to the final alloy. I wasn't sure why it belonged in his personal notebooks, unless he thought he needed backup in case his lab notebook was lost? It was hard to tell. I read through a chronology of significant dates in his journey toward a patent, one he apparently thought he was taking with his partner.

The list of dates seemed to mark times when he and Richardson each signed off on a particular step in the creation of the alloy. I couldn't find a date when they had filed formal disclosures, possibly because the prototype didn't work. Usually inventors serious about their work will inform someone, say, an in-house attorney, of even a questionable prototype, if only to show the uniqueness of one that eventually does work.

Apparently toward the middle of the project Richardson and Schott trusted each other enough and didn't bother to protect themselves from the partnership. I wondered when that trust had broken down, and if it had led to murder. I hated to think scientists were capable of such inhuman behavior. I regretted that this wouldn't be the first time I'd be proven wrong.

I wasn't looking forward to telling Matt I had nothing more than I'd reported on this afternoon. Just a few odd abbreviations, meetings with W, and dates on Schott's calendar.

I heard the key in the door and Rose's cheery voice. “I'm back, I'm back. Sorry to take so long, but there's a new shop on the second level. Oh, my, temptation. Wait till you see what I bought. But first I need a cup of coffee.”

I obliged by pouring out the last of the liquid in the great silver pot I'd ordered earlier. Once she had a few sips and caught her breath, she was ready to show me the spoils packed inside the shopping bags surrounding her. She reached for the black-and-white Saks bag first. “Take a look at this,” she said, pulling out a stunning evening dress in lapis blue silk with an overlay of lace. A scalloped neckline and an understated spray of gold sequins gave the dress a magical look.

“It's gorgeous, Rose. But it looks huge. Did you try it on?”

“It's not huge, but it is your size. I hope you like it.”

“Me? You bought me a dress?”

“Uh-huh.”

“This dress?”

“Don't you like it?”

“I do, and this is what's so strange. I forgot to pack my good dress and thought I would have to wear these.” I pinched the fabric of my best pants, a study in pilling.

Rose's face took on a sheepish look. “You didn't forget, Gloria.” She extracted my old dress from the bottom of the Saks bag.

“What's this?”

“I took it so I'd be able to match the size.”

“There's nothing wrong with this dress. It travels well; it never wrinkles.”

Rose sighed, deeply, as if she had a hopeless task in front of her. “That's the point, Gloria. Fine fabric is not wash and wear. Now try this on. The saleswoman was very helpful, writing down all sorts of dimensions I wouldn't have thought to take a measuring tape to.”

Rose. I didn't know whether to scold her or to kiss her. What I did was try on the dress. I'd never had one that fit so perfectly.

~*~

Matt seemed not to recognize me when I met him in the hotel lobby. No wonder. I didn't recognize myself.

“I thought we'd walk over,” he said. He indicated my outfit, in a strangely inoffensive way. “But now I guess I'll send for a limo.”

After a couple of yes’s and no's, back and forth, we took a cab the short distance to the Opera House. I wanted to get the apologies out of the way before we arrived for the performance. I told him about going through not only an entire journal of personal entries, but also a hearing transcript, a four-page crime scene photo report, and a twelve-page coroner's report, and still not coming up with anything useful, which was to say, incriminating. I had learned that controlled crystal grain size or orientation might represent patentable features in the case of some alloys, but I didn't think he'd be interested.

“There was one thing that kept coming up,” I said, in the interests of getting a conversation going that had to do with the investigation. “Is there someone named W in his life that he'd keep meeting?”

Matt pondered for a moment. “His ex-wife is named Waverley. She's a Scot. He met her when on his first post-doc. What are the references?”

“Just some innocuous ones, like 'meet with W' or 'See W soon'. It's probably nothing.”

“I know you're feeling pressured, and that wasn't my intent. If there's nothing there, there's nothing there,” Matt said.

“Thanks,” I said. But I knew there was something.

~*~

We took our seats in the beautiful Opera House, awash in red and gold. It had been years since I'd been here, and I took in the lavish fixtures and elegantly dressed patrons as if for the first time. As I expected, there were many family groups, even at an evening performance.

Two little girls in the row in front of us were dressed identically, like little ballerinas themselves, with white leggings and short red coats. I had a flashback to when I took Rose's daughter, my goddaughter, Mary Catherine, to see The Nutcracker for the first time. MC was now an engineer working in a small town in Texas. I decided to send her the program for tonight's performance with a long overdue note.

I opened my program and struggled to see in the dim light. “It's been many years since I've seen this. I forget the actual storyline,” I said.

“Would you like a summary?” Matt asked, his program unopened on his lap.

“I thought you'd never seen The Nutcracker.”

“I do my homework.”

I folded my hands on my lap. “I'm ready.”

“We start out with a huge ball on Christmas Eve. Clara is a teenage girl who's given a beautiful nutcracker as a gift. After the party is over, the Nutcracker comes to life.”

“Ah, yes, and so does the evil Mouse King, I remember now.”

Matt nodded. “The Nutcracker takes Clara on a magical journey where she meets the larger-than-life mice, toy soldiers, princesses and, of course, the Sugar Plum Fairy.” Here we hummed a few bars, very softly, but the children in front of us heard and turned around. It would have been embarrassing, except that they joined us, and soon a few people around us were joining in the fun. I'd never thought of Tchaikovsky's music as cut out for a sing-along.

I sat through one of the most enjoyable performances I'd seen in a long time. Everything was carried out perfectly—the Christmas tableau, the waltz of the snowflakes, the magic castle. The mood was sullied only by intrusions into my mind of coroner's terminology and the elusive Mr. W or Ms. W.

~*~

We waited with the crowd at the bank of elevators, many of us still humming one waltz or another, swaying a bit or swinging our arms. It took a while, with elevators coming and going, before it was our turn to approach the front of the throng. When the doors opened, a young man rushed out, bumping into an older gentleman next to us who was ready to board, as we were. There was a little commotion, the young man apologized profusely, and the gentleman entered through the elevator doors.

It was our turn to enter, but Matt put his arm on mine and held me back. “Wait here,” he said. Before I could ask what was going on, Matt took off after the young man. Told to wait, I followed, of course, staying a little behind.

Matt stopped the young man, not dramatically, but he kept his hand on the man's arm, and engaged him a conversation. The next thing I knew, the stranger walked away, and Matt returned to me, carrying a wallet. I raised my eyebrows in confusion.

“Let's get this to Lost and Found,” he said.

I got it. “The wallet belongs to the older gentleman.”

Matt nodded. “The oldest trick in the book. The bump-and-hold. The pickpocket bumps into a person in a crowd and loosens the guy's wallet from his back pocket, so the wallet sticks up a little. The pickpocket makes a fuss apologizing and so on, and holds onto the top of the wallet. The best time is when a crowd is entering or exiting a place.”

“Like an elevator.”

“Right. So the mark effectively detaches himself from his wallet when he says 'No problem' and walks one way while the pickpocket walks in the opposite direction.”

“Fascinating,” I said, still in a daze at how quickly it had all happened. “What did you say to the guy?”

“I identified myself as a cop and said I thought there had been a little accident back there, and someone else's wallet might have ended up in the wrong pocket, in his jacket.”

“Wow. Do you think he'll try that again?”

“Hard to say. I wasn't going to arrest him here. Not my jurisdiction, for one thing. And I wasn't going to spoil your evening, sitting somewhere in a Boston PD substation for hours, which is what it would be on a Saturday night. He was young enough that maybe he'll think twice. If he's that bad at it—”

“I'm astonished that something like that would happen here.” I indicated the opulent marble lobby, which we'd made our way to, and where we were told we'd see a sign for Lost and Found.

“What's he going to do? Pick a pocket at a homeless shelter?”

“I see your point. Are you always watching out for things like that? Even when you're not on duty?”

He shrugged. “It comes free.”

Lesson to Gloria: we all have our particular fields of expertise.

~*~

It was mild enough for us to walk back to the hotel, choosing the route that took us along Boylston Street and the southern edge of Boston Common. The decorations were a nice mix of elegant and tacky; one type to appeal to cultured taste, the other to nostalgia. The Common itself was ablaze with a magnificent lighted tree, with an enormous gold star on top, accompanied by reindeer prancing in place, here and there on the lawn. The capital building, with its twenty-three carat gold-gilded dome, stood out as always.

Although most shops along Boylston were closed, their lights were still aglow. I smiled at a pink neon Rudolph and wished I could point out to Rose that there was neon in that tube.

I was glad Matt felt no need to talk. It was as though we'd known each other a long time.

~*~

Back in the room, I had a hard time getting focused again on work, never mind that the stack of reports was where I'd left it, now staring me in the face. The conversation with Rose didn't help.

“I have only one more day to find something,” I told her, as she prepared her face for bed.

“Do you really think that's what I want to hear about?” A pencil-like object hovered perilously close to her eyes.

“But you set it up. Didn't you want me to help out?”

“Gloria, don't let your pride dictate your feelings.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“So what if nothing comes of your work; you gave it your best shot.” She put her equipment away in a satin drawstring bag and settled on her bed.

“But Matt—” I stammered.

“Matt is already crazy about you.”

Was that my heart fluttering? “What makes you say that?”

“What do you think was the emergency Frank called me about?”

The rest felt like junior high as we discussed a boy who told another boy about a girl he liked. But then, there was nothing wrong with junior high.

~*~

There was little hope of either sleep or concentrated work in my near future. While Rose slept, I chose to sit by the window and let my mind go where it wanted to. What Rose told me about Matt wasn't the shock it should have been. I'd felt drawn to Matt in a very comfortable way. He'd said goodnight with a simple “Ten o'clock okay?” and I'd answered with a nod and a smile. It was the most natural thing in the world. Did that mean I was coming home?

Being back in Boston, a stone's throw from Revere, always got me thinking about why I left in the first place. What had been so wrong with an oceanside town with easy public transportation to Beantown, Where It All Began, the Cradle of Liberty, the Hub of the Solar System according to Oliver Wendell Holmes—all those epithets for Boston. Now, spending time here with Matt, feeling like we were old friends, brought me back to the past, to a time before I knew him.

When my fiancé, Al Gravese, died, a brief inquiry had turned up nothing suspicious and the matter was put to rest. Officially. But that didn't stop the gossip that his father and uncles had been mixed up with an undesirable element—local bookies and small time criminals left over from the moonshine whiskey days—and that Al was part of the life also.

For thirty years, I'd been wracking my brain trying to figure out how I'd become engaged to Al in the first place. I was in college; he was older, nearly thirty years old to my twenty. Sophisticated, if a passion for expensive suits and cars was sophistication. Romantic, if going off to “meetings” that he couldn't talk about was romantic. He never seemed to want for money, though I saw no visible means of support. And why would I question a guy who'd bring me two dozen roses just because I'd passed a math test? Or a solid gold locket when I baked cookies. As I said, I was twenty.

~*~

Sunday morning. It was much too beautiful outside to stay indoors, working at a hotel desk, but that's where I could be found.

“I'll give it one more hour,” I told Rose, “then I'll hit the sales with you downstairs.”

“Okay, I'll do some recon for us and bring back some coffee.”

“Deal.”

I went through more pages, some legal size, some letter size. I read statements from Reporting Party One and Reporting Party Two, from Officer on Scene One and Officer on Scene Two. Single sheets listed bloodstain protein marker results and witness profiles. Nothing. Anywhere.

I went back through Schott's journal pages for about the tenth time and felt I now knew his chiropractor appointments, prescription medicine schedule, and trips to the library better than he did himself.

The door opened as I flipped through stapled pages from Schott's November calendar.

“Your breakfast is here,” Rose said, setting a bag and a cup on the edge of the dresser. “Coffee and a scone. It's not right. I had a delicious ham and cheese omelet in the new wing. I never intended that you'd be working so hard this weekend, Gloria.”

“You mean you thought it would take me ten minutes to solve a case that has the RPD stymied?” 

“Well, yes, in a way.”

“And then you and I would shop till we popped together?”

“Drop. Shop till we dropped. Yes, exactly.”

“You'll get your wish this afternoon. I'm giving up. I'll see Matt at ten and confess that I have nothing. Zip. It's a good thing I already told him I wouldn't take any money, either way.”

“They'll figure it out eventually. Meanwhile, look what's happened, I got my wish.” Rose sighed. “You and Matt.”

“You're getting ahead of yourself,” I said, harboring the same wish.

Rose kicked off her shoes and sat on the one free chair. “I have to tell you about my scouting for the best sales. I know you're looking for something for MC and I saw the cutest purses in Lord & Taylor. You might find one for your cousin Mary Ann in Worcester, too.”

“I'd never be able to choose a purse for Mary Ann. I don't think she's had a change of wardrobe in twenty years.”

“Look who's talking,” Rose mumbled. “You can always go with a scarf. Neiman's has an amazing collection this year. Everyone can use an extra scarf.” She stood and walked to the dresser and began moving articles around. “Where are those lotions I bought?” she asked, shifting the box of ornaments to her bed. “I thought they were right here.”

I followed her movements, my eyes settling on the ornaments and the label on the box. NE ORNAMENTS. The red, green, gold, and blue balls all caught the morning light coming in the window, becoming brighter and brighter as I had a thought. Not about neon but about tungsten.

I knew who W was. Rather, what W was. The chemical symbol for tungsten. How could I not have seen it immediately?

I picked up the box of ornaments.

“You're warming up to those neon balls, are you?” Rose said.

“This is it, Rose. This is the answer.” I gave her a hug. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“I'm sure you're welcome. If I only knew why?”

“The symbol for tungsten is W. Its other name is Wolfram, but it got changed at some point to tung sten, meaning 'heavy stone'. From the Swedish, I think. I'll have to look it up.” I felt an exhilaration that matched my best research day. I'd now be able to give a homicide detective the break he needed. “I'm thrilled,” I said.

“I'm thrilled, too, Gloria, especially if this means we can go shopping.”

I assured her it did.

~*~

Probably Matt could tell from the smile on my face that I'd cracked Schott's code. We met in what I'd come to think of as “our café.” The Christmas music was much jollier today than yesterday. Or else, I was.

I explained the nature of the symbol W and showed him where it appeared throughout Schott's notebook. “It's almost as if he was anticipating that someone would be going through his notes. He put a period after the W, which, of course, you never do when naming an element.”

“Of course not.”

I took a pen from my purse and a napkin from a pile on the table. “So what I thought might be someone's initial”—I wrote W., making the period as bold as I could—”was really just the symbol for tungsten. And what I thought was ‘see you’ when he wrote C. U. was really the symbol for copper, but not properly notated.” I wrote Cu. “See?” I took a breath. “Sorry, it's just very exciting.”

“That it is.”

“Also, in many places there was a reference to J. R., which I took to be John Richardson, our victim, and I'm assuming you could get him to admit that?”

Matt nodded. “I'm not a lawyer, but I'm pretty sure there's a difference between 'Please explain all these letters, Dr. Schott,' in which case he can simply say it's shorthand, and he doesn't remember, as opposed to 'Does W mean tungsten, Dr. Schott?' where he'd have to lie if he said he didn't know.”  

“Then all we have to do is go back through the notes and use this to interpret what it says every time he uses those initials. I haven't finished doing that yet, but I've already found one place where he mentions the WCu alloy in terms of talking to someone at a library, followed by a telephone number. I checked it out and it belongs to a library with a PTRC, as we discussed. It's where he'd be able to find out the status of a patent.”

Matt shook his head, all smiles, clearly pleased. “How did you come up with this finally?”

“What do you mean 'finally'?” I nudged him. Our first frivolous physical contact. Had the Christmas bells gotten louder?

“Are you going to tell me how you figured it out?”

“Well, you're right that I should have seen it right away. Tungsten is certainly a popular metal, so to speak, with uses in everyday things like light bulbs, automobile parts, golf clubs. And probably every high school chemistry student would recognize W as its symbol sooner than I did. I simply wasn't looking for it, and I missed it.”

“But you got it.”

I shrugged. “It happens to me sometimes. I'll struggle over something, be ready to give up, and some light goes on. There's a favorite saying in my lab. To some extent it applies here.”

“Go for it.”

“Theory is when you know how it works, but it still doesn't. Practice is when it works, but you don't know why. In physics, theory and practice are joined together: nothing works and no one knows why.”

“Works for me,” Matt said. He packed up his notes and mine, and we left the café. “When are you heading back?” he asked.

“Tomorrow morning on an early flight.”

“Would you like a ride to the airport? It's the least I can do since you won't take payment for this.”

“I'd love one.”

“And will you need a ride when you return?”  

Until that moment, I hadn't realized I'd made my decision. “Most definitely.”

~*~

Rose and I spent the rest of Sunday at her favorite pastime, improving the economy of Boston tenfold. Not even elevator music, a poor excuse for holiday songs, could dampen our spirits.

“You know,” she said. “I looked up those elements in one of Frank's old chemistry textbooks. There are a lot of them. I thought, wouldn't it be fun if you got to help Matt again, like with the next element. What do you think?”

“Na,” I said.

 

 

—The End—

TEDDY SAVES CHRISTMAS

 

 

Nancy Jill Thames

 

Editor’s Note: Nancy Jill Thames is a devout Christian whose childhood as an Air Force brat led her to live in no less than fourteen different places. Here she takes us to the Bay Area to meet amateur sleuth Jillian Bradley and her canine sidekick, Teddy. Together they form a formidable case-cracking duo!

 

 

 

 

If Teddy hadn’t bolted from the vet’s office that day, we would never have met Rose. Maybe it was the clinical smell that caused my Yorkie companion to fight his leash and yank free as I fumbled to open the door. Whatever made him tear away, I found myself on a slippery sidewalk chasing after him. I almost up-ended Bill, our Salvation Army Santa.

It was a cold day in December, even for the Bay Area. Temperatures had dropped to the mid-forties followed by a drizzling rain. How Teddy’s annual checkup wound up scheduled late in the afternoon at one of the busiest times of year is still a mystery to me. I must have been out of my mind.

“Teddy, stop!” I could see him running through the crowd of shoppers, his red leash bouncing behind a brown bundle of wet fur. He was headed for the intersection. My heart pounded as I watched the light change from red to green.

He ignored me and kept running through the intersection and down the next block.

“Help!” I was desperate. “Someone, catch him!”

Teddy raced past the Toys for Tots box in front of the Duvall Art Gallery. I tried not to think about my late husband, who had passed it on to his sons.

It was if no one heard me. My heart was racing. I had to stop and catch my breath.

When I heard Teddy bark, I vowed to keep going. He was so little, only four and a half pounds, and he’d disappeared into the crowd.

As the shoppers thinned, a bus stop shelter on the left caught my attention. Inside, there was Teddy sitting in the lap of a shabbily dressed woman.

Our eyes met. “Hold him!” I waved to her and walked as fast as I could to reach them.

“Bad dog!” I scolded my tiny companion.

Teddy lowered his head and flexed his ears.

“No treats tonight!” I was angry he’d run from me, but grateful he was safe.

“Thank you, Lord,” I whispered.

Teddy’s rescuer was a thin woman, homeless, judging from her appearance. When she handed my precious, shaking companion to me, I heard a deep rugged cough racking from her chest.

She wore no coat, only layers of mismatched shirts, an old pair of jeans, and a faded green cardigan sweater. Next to her, I noticed a large green shopping bag stuffed with what must have been her belongings.

Her eyes remained transfixed on Teddy until she coughed again.

It was raining in earnest now. I struggled to open an umbrella from my purse. “Thank you for stopping him,” I said. “He could’ve been killed in traffic.”

She sat quietly, as if she didn’t want to get involved, then clutched her chest, gripped by another coughing spell.

The wind whipped my umbrella as the sky grew dark, and the storm grew worse.

“Woof! Woof!” Teddy barked. Having enough experience with this intelligent little creature, I understood what he was trying to say. “We can’t leave her here.”

It was the same message coming from my heart.

“You’re coming with us.” I spoke with authority as I set Teddy on the ground, holding tightly to his leash this time. I reached over to help her up. “I’m Jillian Bradley, by the way. My dog’s name is Teddy.”

The woman still said nothing as she grabbed the handles of her shopping bag, and stood.

Was she deaf, I wondered?

Soaking wet, the three of us made it to my car, parked two blocks away in rear of the vet’s office. Living in the older section of Clover Hills has its good points. All the shops and medical offices I use are close to where I live.

Holding the umbrella over the woman and Teddy, even though it didn’t do much good, I unlocked the car with my remote. “I’ll put you in front, close to the heater. We can put your things in the backseat, and you can hold Teddy for me, if you don’t mind. It will be difficult enough driving in this storm.”

I hoped asking her to help would make her feel at ease.

She nodded, coughed again, and exchanged her bag for Teddy, but still did not smile. Before letting go of her belongings, she took out an old towel and wrapped it around my soaking wet dog.

My heart went out to both unfortunate creatures, looking pitiful and forlorn.

Once inside the car, I tried to engage the woman in conversation. “I don’t live too far,” I said.

Silence. I tried again.

“Clover Hills is a small town.” After I glanced in the rear view mirror, I pulled out of the lot into traffic.

From the corner of my eye, I watched the woman pat Teddy, holding him close. Her color didn’t look good. It was a ghastly shade of gray.

“Once we’re home, and we get you settled, I’m going to take a hot bath. I’m dripping wet!”

Finally, a flicker of a smile crossed the woman’s pale face.

Unlike in the past when I’d helped someone in trouble, this time I faced a dilemma. The large Victorian, where I used to live, had several guestrooms. But, recently I’d given it over to a young family who needed the room, and I downsized by renovating a cottage on my property.

Oh, dear, I thought. Where am I going to put you?

When we reached the house decorated with twinkling white lights along the rooftop and a festive snowman wreath on the door, tears welled in the woman’s eyes. Did she have a home at one time? Children perhaps?

I pulled into the driveway, parked in the garage, and sent a text to Cecilia, my former personal assistant, who I had come to love as my own daughter: We have company. She’ll need to use the guestroom. Sorry for the intrusion. I’ll explain later.

Cecilia responded immediately. She was still competent with details even after becoming a new mother two years ago with my godson D.J. They had named him after her father, Douglas, and me, Jillian.

She texted back: I’ll put on fresh sheets and put out fresh towels. No problem. Where are you?

I answered: In the garage.

I turned to the woman. “It’s all set. Let’s go inside.”

I helped her, still holding Teddy, out of the car and into the kitchen. The fragrant aroma of something baking in the oven filled the air.

Teddy sniffed the air with his tiny black nose.

“Cecilia must be making banana bread,” I said, helping the woman find a chair at the table.

“How about a cup of tea? I always make one around this time.” I waited for her answer.

A nod was her only response. She kept looking at the door leading to the garage. Did she sense someone was coming for her? Then it dawned on me. Maybe she was worried about her shopping bag.

“Good.” I went to the sink, washed my hands, and filled a kettle with water. After setting it on to boil, I said, “Why don’t you wash up while I get your things from the car?”

The woman rose, went to the sink, and washed her hands.

Now, being the fastidious woman I am, and wanting to avoid contamination from whatever this woman suffered with, I opened a drawer next to the sink and handed her a fresh dishtowel.

“Here, you go.” I smiled. “I’ll be right back.”

When I returned with the shopping bag, I set it near the table.

As she dried her hands, she feebly smiled.

Cecilia entered the kitchen and gave me a hug. “Hi, Jillian.” Her cheeks were flushed. She brushed a lock of dark brown hair from her face, and looked at the woman standing at the sink. “Hello,” Cecilia said. “I’m Cecilia Montoya. Welcome to our home.”

The woman coughed and grabbed the sink to support herself.

“Cecilia,” I said. “We need to get her upstairs.”

“The room’s all set. I’ll help carry her things.”

I supported the woman with my arm around her waist. “She needs a hot bath. I’ll put her in the robe you use for guests until I find her a nightie.”

Cecilia nodded. “If you throw down her clothes, I’ll run them through the laundry.”

“Thanks.” I turned to the woman and smiled. “Shall we go upstairs?”

After I ran a hot bubble bath, I gave the sick woman a robe and time to undress and bathe. “Is it okay if we wash your things?”

Again, a nod was her only response. I threw the threadbare clothes over the railing close to the laundry room. Cecilia scooped them up and started a load. The kettle whistled as I made my way downstairs to the kitchen.

Cecilia rinsed a white ceramic teapot with boiling water, as I’d taught her, plopped three teabags inside, and covered them with the rest of the steaming water. She gestured for me to sit at the table. Still unsure what she thought about having a homeless houseguest, I picked Teddy up and set him in my lap.

“Where’re Walter and D.J.?” I asked.

Using two red potholders, Cecilia took the banana bread from the oven, and set it on the counter to cool. “He took D.J. to see Santa at the mall. Jillian, what’s this all about?”

I shrugged and told her about Teddy’s escape and capture. “It wouldn’t have been right to leave her in the bus shelter to catch pneumonia! If she doesn’t have it already. Besides, Teddy refused to leave her behind,” I rationalized.

Cecilia patted him on the head. “You’re a sweet dog, Teddy.”

He wagged his tail at the attention.

“If she hadn’t caught him,” I said, “he could have been run over from darting into the intersection.”

Teddy jumped off my lap and waited while Cecilia found him a treat.

“He doesn’t deserve one,” I said, “running away from me.”

After washing her hands, Cecilia turned the banana bread out on a wire rack, and proceeded to get a bed tray ready for our guest.

“It will work out fine having her here. You can stay in our room while we’re in Half Moon Bay with my parents for the holidays. We leave in the morning.”

One problem solved.

Teddy pawed my leg, wanting me to hold him again. He must have known I was still angry. “Okay, boy.” I scooped him up and followed Cecilia upstairs, carrying the tray.

After gently knocking on the door, hearing no answer, Cecilia pushed it slightly open and looked into the room. “I think our guest is ready, Jillian.”

The bath and robe created a transformation! No longer disheveled, the woman looked normal. Her cropped hair was clean, but her skin still held a grayish cast. Sunken eyes looked out beneath a high brow on her lovely oval face.

When Cecilia set the tray on a nearby table, close enough for our guest to reach it, the woman took the bread first and ate hungrily.

“Cecilia,” I said, “our guest may need another slice.”

Without a word, Cecilia returned to the kitchen. After a few moments of allowing the woman to drink her tea, I spoke. “Your cough sounds serious. I’d better take you to the doctor.”

Fear rose in her eyes. “No, it’s okay.” I patted her gently. “Dr. Peters is a wonderful man. I’ve gone to him for years. He’ll be able to prescribe what you need.”

Lord, please calm this woman’s fears.

She lowered her head and began weeping.

My heart ached for her. I hugged the frail little thing. She couldn’t have weighed more than 100 pounds.

“Everything will be all right. I'm praying for you,” I said.

“Woof,” Teddy barked.

She finally quit crying and smiled.

“I’m texting Dr. Peters right now for an appointment in the morning.” I patted her hand.

Cecilia brought in more banana bread. “Here we go.”

After our guest finished two more slices, Cecilia and I were ready to leave the room.

“Try and get a little rest before dinner,” I said to the woman. “I’ll check in a little while to see if there’s anything you need.”

She laid her head on the pillow, pulled the covers close, and closed her eyes.

The sound of the automatic garage door being raised could only mean one thing. Walter and D.J. were home.

I reflected on the first time I’d met this fine young detective. It was in Half Moon Bay at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel where I was a guest reviewer for a garden conference. At the time, he was the valet who handled my luggage.

After helping to exonerate his father who was accused of a crime and solving a few homicides in Half Moon Bay, I stayed in touch with Walter through Cecilia. She’d also worked at the hotel. Since he had also helped me with pertinent information in the investigation, Walter often shared that meeting me was the catalyst for him becoming a detective.

As Cecilia and I entered the kitchen, little D.J. rushed to greet me. “Gigi!” I bent to hug him and kiss his chubby face.

Teddy pranced around in circles, wagging his tail, waiting for attention from his favorite toddler friend.

“Did you see Santa Claus?” I asked?

D.J.’s eyes glowed with excitement. He smiled and nodded as he hugged Teddy.

Walter took Cecilia in his arms and kissed her, then gave me a peck on the cheek.

“Hi, Jillian. What’s up?” Wearing a heavy gray top coat, he reminded me of one of my favorite TV show detectives.

Cecilia raised her eyebrows. “We have company, sweetheart. She’s in the upstairs guestroom. Wash your hands, and we’ll have tea.”

“The banana bread smells good. You made quite a dent in it already, I see.” He eyed me.

“Well, our guest was hungry. I’m taking her to Dr. Peters in the morning.”

Cecilia handed Walter a mug of tea and set a plate of bread on the table.

“I’ll pour a glass of milk for D.J.” I said, going to the fridge.

The four of us ate and drank in silence until Walter spoke.

“I sense something wrong here, ladies. Who’s upstairs?”

I shifted in my chair and took another sip of tea. “We don’t know her name. She helped rescue Teddy when he ran away this afternoon. Since she was sick, and it was cold and rainy outside, I brought her home with me.”

He lowered his eyes. “This isn’t a stray cat, Jillian.”

“I know, I know. But Teddy wouldn’t let me leave her.”

Teddy flexed his ears and licked D.J. on the cheek making him giggle.

Walter regarded the furry brown dog. “Well, he’s been right before. Guess I’ll have to listen to her case.”

“Come upstairs and I’ll introduce you,” I said. “I need to check on her anyway.”

He finished his tea, ate the last bite of banana bread, and pushed away from the table. “Cecilia, you keep D.J. downstairs. I’ll go up with Jillian and meet this mystery woman.”

Cecilia found a clean washcloth and cleaned the crumbs off her toddler. “I’ll keep Teddy, too.”

When we reached the top of the stairs, the door to the guestroom was partially open. I thought I had closed it. Hopefully, the woman was still in her room.

I knocked softly and entered. She lay in bed, still sleeping. As Walter and I approached, she opened her eyes.

“I’m Detective Walter Montoya.”

The same look of fear flashed in her eyes when Walter spoke. The woman tightened her lips and drew the robe close around her neck.

He sat on a chair near the bed. “We want to help you, but you have to help us first. Can you tell us your name?”

After she looked at me, she sighed. “Rose.” Her voice was soft.

“That’s a lovely name,” I said. “How are you feeling?”

“Weak.” She closed her eyes as if it would make us disappear.

“Thank you for cooperating, Rose,” Walter said. “Is there someone we can contact to let them know you’re all right?”

Rose shook her head.

“I see.” Walter nodded. “Can you tell us your last name?”

“No,” Rose said turning toward the wall.

Walter and I exchanged glances.

“Jillian, can we talk a moment, outside?”

I followed him into the hall.

“If we’re going to help this ‘Rose,’” he whispered, “I’ll need fingerprints. And we were going to leave early in the morning.”

I peered into the room where Rose continued to look at the wall.

“Let me try later after dinner. Maybe a good meal will help get her to talk and you won’t have to.”

“Okay. I need to pack. Do your best, but be careful. You don’t know anything about who she is or why she’s on the street. Where did you find her anyway?”

I explained about the bus shelter.

“Huh,” he said. “I didn’t know we had any homeless downtown. Guess I was wrong.”

It was true. Clover Hills was an upscale bedroom community of the Bay Area. How Rose wound up in a bus shelter was a mystery I wanted to solve. After all, it was Christmas, and no one should be alone during this time.

Yet, here I was, alone for Christmas for the first time in my life. Walter and Cecilia were going to Half Moon Bay, my extended family were at their outlaws for the holidays, and I was left to house sit with Teddy.

Walter and Cecilia had invited me, of course, but I believed the little family needed one on one with her parents. Besides, D.J. needed to bond with his Grandma Daisy and Grandpa Douglas.

After Walter and I had our little chat in the hall, we walked downstairs and found Cecilia buzzing around the kitchen preparing dinner. I scooted to my cottage and found a nightie and a pair of warm socks for Rose.

“It’s almost ready,” Cecilia said, as I came back inside. “Spaghetti and meatballs, garlic bread, and salad for tonight’s menu.”

“Yum,” I said. “One of my favorites. I bet Rose will enjoy it, too.”

“Everyone help yourself,” Cecilia said, as she stirred the spaghetti into the sauce and added the meatballs. “Don’t worry. I’ve fed Teddy a little hamburger and leftover veggies.”

Cecilia was the most considerate person I knew. How fortunate I was to be able to depend on her since I had no children.

I prepared a tray for two and carried it up the stairs along with the nightie over my arm and the socks stuffed in my pants pocket.

“Dinner,” I announced pushing the door open with my hip. “Can you sit up to eat?” I asked.

Rose reshuffled her pillows until she sat supported, and smoothed a place on the covers for the tray.

“Here we go,” I said, setting the tray on her lap. I took my plate and silverware, set them on the table, and put the glasses of water on coasters within our reach.

Rose had a hungry-eyed look as she took her fork and stabbed a meatball.

I left her alone until she was half way finished with her meal.

“Rose,” I said, “Walter will have to take you downtown to the station and fingerprint you tomorrow if we can’t find out your last name.”

She set her fork on her plate. “I’m afraid,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. There’s no one I can trust.”

She was shaking now.

“That’s not true.” I tried to imagine what horrific situation she could have come from. There were no marks of abuse I could see. She was thin but not emaciated.

“You can trust us,” I said. “Walter is a detective sworn to aid and protect citizens of Clover Hills. You must tell me your last name, otherwise it will be unpleasant to be treated as a common criminal if we need to take further steps.”

She took her fork and ate the rest of the spaghetti. “Okay, except I’m scared what I tell you may put all of you in danger, and I don’t want any harm to come to any of you. You’re nice people.”

“Thank you. Let’s take it one step at a time. What’s your last name?”

“Gamble. Rose Gamble.”

I sipped my water. “Thank you. That wasn’t too hard, was it? My last name is Bradley. I write a garden column for the San Francisco Enterprise. Do you have family, Rose?”

She lowered her eyes. “Yes. But they mustn’t find out where I am.”

I squinted. Was she disturbed? “Surely they’re worried about you,” I said. “And it’s Christmas.”

After eating every bite of her dinner, she pushed the tray away. “I’m awfully tired.”

I took it and set my dishes on top of hers. “We’ll talk more in the morning when we take you to Dr. Peters. I made an appointment for ten o’clock. Meanwhile, I brought a nightie and socks to keep you warm while you sleep.”

“Thank you.” Rose swung her legs out of bed and took the night clothes.

“Do you need help putting them on?” I asked.

“Thank you, but I believe I can manage.”

I nodded, gathered the tray, and walked toward the door.

“Jillian,” she said, “I appreciate all you’re doing for me.”

“We’ll talk more in the morning. Goodnight, Rose.”

When I did one last check for the night, she was sound asleep.

After Walter and Cecilia were packed for the trip to Half Moon Bay, they waited for me in the living room. A warm fire crackled in the fireplace next to the tall Christmas tree decorated with brightly colored ornaments and an angel topper. The scene brought back memories of Christmases past, especially one where I hosted my entire extended family and a power outage had occurred on Christmas Eve.

“Have a seat, Jillian,” Walter said, motioning to the comfortable rocker recliner I used to sit in all the time.

“Why don’t I make a pot of decaf?” Cecilia headed for the kitchen. “It sounds good for the trip.”

“Thanks, I could use a cup, too,” I said. D. J. crawled into my lap and rubbed his sleepy eyes. I held him close and rocked him.

Outside, the rain beat heavier against the house, and the wind blew hard.

Walter got up from his seat and went to look outside the front window. “Rose is lucky you brought her home with you. I’d hate to think what would have happened to her stuck outside in this storm.”

“Exactly what Teddy and I thought.” My little companion hopped up in the chair next to me, a little jealous at the attention I was giving to my godson.

“A little tight, don’t you think, Teddy?” I whispered, not wanting to wake D.J.

Cecilia returned with cups of steaming black coffee. “Here you go, Jillian.” She set the mug on the table beside me and took D. J. from my arms.

“Thanks,” I said. “You spoil me.”

She smiled. “I believe this little guy is ready for bed.”

Walter cleared his throat. “Well, did she tell you her last name?”

I nodded. “Gamble—Rose Gamble.”

Walter rubbed his chin. “Her last name sounds vaguely familiar.”

“Any way to check it out?” I asked, taking a sip of the reviving brew.

“I’ll see what I can come up with, but I may have heard it recently.” He took out his phone and typed in the name. “Well, would you look at this? There is a man with the last name of Gamble over in the next county who is on a watch list for illegal associations with persons of interest.

“In other words, Mr. Gamble may be a criminal.”

Walter nodded. “If it’s the same one as Rose’s husband.”

Cecilia had rejoined us and taken a seat. She shivered when she heard that Rose’s husband might be a criminal. “This makes me uncomfortable, Jillian. How can we leave you here alone with someone associated with a criminal?”

“Now, now. Rose’s husband may be a criminal, but I don’t believe she is. In fact, she told me she was afraid of letting her family know where she is. It could be the reason.”

After I finished my coffee, I took Teddy in my arms and said goodnight. “If you don’t mind, I’ll sleep in my cottage tonight and move into your room tomorrow.”

Walter nodded. “We’ll keep an eye on her. I doubt she’s well enough to go anywhere, especially in this bad weather.”

“Thanks for being Good Samaritans, you guys.” I hugged them goodnight and walked quickly to my cottage, trying to stay as dry as possible beneath my umbrella.

The next morning was clear and calm, although still chilly. I got up early to get ready for Rose’s appointment. Since Walter and Cecilia were planning to leave early for Half Moon Bay, it would be my responsibility to make breakfast.

After I had dressed, put on makeup, and given my hair a good brushing, I let Teddy out in the backyard to greet the morning. He scratched the grass, sniffed the air, and chased a bird out of the gazebo.

“Come on, little one. Let’s go make breakfast.”

At the mention of “breakfast,” Teddy barked.

He got excited whenever he heard any words associated with food or walks. I had to be careful what I said. I opened the back door quietly and entered the kitchen. Everything was quiet. When I peered into the garage, Walter’s car was gone, indicating they’d left.

After making a nice pot of coffee, I went upstairs to check on Rose.

I could hear water running in the bathroom and took it as a good sign she was up. I knocked gently.

“Good morning, Rose. It’s Jillian.”

The water stopped, and I heard footsteps approach.

Rose opened the door and stepped into the hall. She wore the clean clothes Cecilia had laundered for her.

“All set to go downstairs for breakfast?” I asked. “I’m making coffee.”

Rose sniffed the air, closing her eyes. “Wish I could smell it, but I can’t. Coffee sounds good, anyway.”

I didn’t force her to talk, since she wasn’t well.

“How do pancakes sound?” I asked.

“Anything is fine.”

“Good. They won’t take a minute,” I said, motioning to the table. “Have a seat while I whip them up. I’ll get your coffee. Do you take cream and sugar?”

Rose pulled out a chair and took a seat. “Black is fine.”

Soon I had slices of bacon frying, glasses of orange juice poured, and butter and syrup on the table. The batter sizzled as I ladled out four rounds on the hot greased griddle. When the cakes bubbled, I flipped them over allowing a minute or two to finish.

She ate heartily and sat back. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Hope it makes you feel better.”

She nodded but turned her head and coughed, the same racking coming from her lungs as before.

Once I’d tidied the kitchen and fed Teddy, we were ready to go see Dr. Peters. I held the passenger door open for her and helped her inside the car.

Rose eyed Teddy. “I can hold him for you.”

“Thanks.” I scooped him up, set him in her lap, and tucked his carrier in the back seat, along with the shopping bag Rose insisted on taking. “Hold tight to his leash until I get him ready to go inside. I don’t want him to escape again.”

~*~

A look of apprehension crossed Rose’s face as we walked inside the doctor’s office.

I patted her shoulder. “Everything is going to be all right. Have a seat and stay with Teddy while I check in.”

Rose found a chair and held his carrier close, as if afraid. I hoped she wasn’t a criminal. Would I have helped her if I knew she was? Yes, I would have. I’d done the right thing.

A nurse stepped into the waiting room and called, “Rose?”

My new friend raised her head.

The nurse smiled at the ailing woman. “Dr. Peters will see you now. Please follow me. Since your dog is in a carrier, we’ll let him come with you.”

Down the hall to the scales, the nurse did the preliminary checks and ushered us into an examination room. After Rose donned a dressing gown, I helped her onto the examining table, and took a seat in the corner.

It was uncomfortable, but since I was focused on Rose, it didn’t matter.

Dr. Peters knocked and entered. “Good morning, Jillian.” He bent to acknowledge Teddy. “Hi, guy.”

Extending his hand to Rose, he introduced himself. “I’m Doctor Peters.” He studied the chart. “What seems to be the trouble?”

Rose coughed, holding her chest with one hand and covering her mouth with the other.

He raised his eyebrows, pulled a stool to the examining table, and said, “Let’s take a look at you.”

Rose complied without hesitation as Dr. Peters gave her a physical, starting from the top of her head and ending with a reflex test.

“I want to take x-rays of your chest, if you’ll permit me.”

Rose nodded and coughed again.

A few minutes later, the images appeared. Dr. Peters studied them carefully. “There doesn’t appear to be excess fluid on your lungs, which is a good thing. We won’t need blood work.”

I was relieved to hear Rose didn’t have pneumonia.

Making a few notes on Rose’s chart, he stood. “With rest and good nutrition, you should make a full recovery in a few weeks.”

“I’ll take good care of her,” I said. “If you want to stop by for biscuits and gravy, I’ll be whipping up a batch in the morning.”

“Deal, thanks.” He smiled and gave Rose a final look. “Jillian will make a good nurse. She’s an excellent caregiver. I know from experience.”

“Now I’ll have to explain,” I said. “See you tomorrow morning. Thanks for seeing Rose.”

“No problem. Good morning, ladies.”

On the way out, Rose and I stopped at the check-out desk to settle the bill. Before I opened my purse, Rose touched my arm.

“I’ll pay for the visit.” She set her bag in the floor, reached inside a pant pocket, and withdrew cash clipped in a money clip. “How much?”

The receptionist handed her a bill, and Rose paid with cash.

I didn’t say a word, but I was curious about her having those large bills.

Due to the holiday shoppers, traffic was heavy on the way home. I pondered what Dr. Peters said about Rose’s recovery taking a few weeks. Would Walter and Cecilia be willing to house her?

I couldn’t impose.

As if reading my thoughts, Rose looked at me. “It’s okay. I’ll be all right. You can drop me off where you found me.”

“Now listen,” I said. “Walter and Cecilia won’t return until after Christmas. You’re welcome to stay while they’re gone.”

She nodded as if relieved. “Thank you,” she whispered, and coughed again. “I’m sorry to be troubling you. I don’t know if I would have taken someone like me into my home.”

“Where is your home, Rose?” I asked, without judging if I was being nosy.

“Not far from Clover Hills. But I can’t go back yet.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“I may be, if he finds me.”

“You mean your husband?”

She nodded and looked out the window. “You’re fortunate to have people.”

I nodded. “Yes, I know. I don’t mean to pry, but if you’re in an abusive relationship—” I wasn’t allowed to finish my sentence.

“No, it’s not the reason I had to leave.” She coughed again.

“I have cold medicine at home to help you sleep,” I said.

“Good.” Rose fiddled with her hands. “Do you mind a personal question?”

“Not at all. You can ask me anything.”

“What did the doctor mean by your personal experience as a caregiver?”

I turned a corner and watched for my street. “It did sound funny, didn’t it?”

Rose tried to smile.

“A few years ago, Teddy and I rescued a young man from a car accident. He had amnesia, no identification, and needed a place to recuperate.”

“And you took him in, the same as me?”

“Yes. It turned out to be a good thing I did. As it turned out, he was being raised in a criminal environment.”

I waited for her reaction.

“Sounds as if you’ve had experience, as Dr. Peters said.”

We’d reached the house.

“Woof!” Teddy barked when he heard the garage door open.

Rose got out on her own. She opened the back of the car and took out her bag. It may have held all her worldly possessions.

“You need to get to bed,” I said. “Let me help carry your bag upstairs. I’ll go find the cold medicine and bring it to you.”

“Thank you.”

Once Rose was settled, I popped into the kitchen, searched around for the sandwich meat, and made lunch. Funny being in my old kitchen again. Cecilia hadn’t changed where I’d kept dishes and utensils, making it easy to find what I needed.

With a tray laden with ham sandwiches, a dill pickle, and a cup of hot tea, I made my way upstairs to Rose’s room. Teddy followed, knowing I had food. She was in bed when I arrived.

“Lunch.” I carried in the tray and set it on the table next to her bed.

She sat up for me to hand it to her.

“Thank you.” Rose took the napkin and placed it across her lap. Whoever she was, she had manners.

Teddy pawed the bed, wanting up.

“It’s okay,” Rose said. “He can stay on the bed with me. I enjoy having the company.”

I lifted him onto the foot of her bed. “Now, don’t beg. Be a good dog.”

Teddy flexed his ears as if he understood my commands.

As Rose leaned over her plate to take a bite of sandwich, a tiny gold key attached to a chain dangled from her neck. When it caught my attention, she quickly tucked it back inside.

“You eat your lunch, and I’ll get the medicine,” I said. “I forgot. It may be in my cottage.” Teddy didn’t budge.

“He likes you,” I said. Usually, when Teddy liked someone, it meant they were okay. Hopefully, Rose fell into that category.

“He may be waiting for you to give him a bite of your sandwich,” I said.

She pulled a tiny piece of bread with ham off one end, and handed it to him. “I’ll gladly share.”

“Now you have a friend for life.” I smiled. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

My curious nature wouldn’t let go of the key I’d seen. Did Rose carry something locked in her shopping bag? It wasn’t likely. But how was I going to ask without being a busybody?

Lord, if that key will help unlock a way to help get Rose home, please show me a way.

I found the cold medicine in my bathroom cabinet. Inside the foil packet, a few caplets remained. With them in hand, I took a quick look around my cozy cottage. How fortunate I was to have a home.

When I brought in the medication, Teddy snoozed next to Rose. How content he looked. I handed her a pill and a glass of water, lowering my eyes to the chain around her neck. “What an unusual necklace.”

As if caught doing wrong, Rose put a hand over the key. “I keep it close.”

I took the glass and set it on the nightstand. “I’m a good listener.”

As she sighed, her shoulders relaxed. “I might as well tell you everything. You’ve been terribly kind, Jillian.”

Teddy slept on, while I took a seat in the overstuffed rocker, tucked into the corner beside Rose’s bed.

“The key goes to a box in my house.” She clutched her covers. “It’s the only thing I could think of to do when….” Her voice trailed off. She closed her eyes.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Whatever happened, I sense it must have been painful. Maybe by telling me what happened, you can move past it.”

Rose opened her eyes. “I wonder. My whole life has been moving past one situation to another.” She sat up straight. “Jillian, have you always been as happy as you are?”

I thought a moment. “Honestly, no. There was a time when I was all alone and terribly homesick. I was miserable for the first three weeks of college my freshman year.”

Rose smiled. “Same for me. My father sent me to Chapman University to prepare for a law degree.”

I raised my brow. “Really? Did you get your law degree?”

She shook her head. “No. I got my degree in liberal arts, and even went to grad school until I got married. It was my father who wanted me to be a lawyer.”

Rose looked visibly relaxed now. I was glad she was comfortable enough to talk.

“One couldn’t tell you were educated by living in a bus shelter.”

“I know. After what happened, I had to get away. I decided to disguise myself as being homeless. It would be the last place he would look.”

“By ‘he,’ you mean your husband?”

Rose nodded. “Inside the box back at my house, I hid my cell phone with the video of what happened.”

“What did happen?”

She took a deep breath. “I’m a little tired.”

“No worries. We can talk after you rest. I’ll take your tray down and tidy up the kitchen. I also need to check my Christmas list.”

Rose snuggled beneath the covers and closed her eyes. Teddy stretched out his paws and sat erect.

“Do you need to go outside?” I asked.

He wagged his tail, indicating he did.

“Come here, sweet doggie.” I hugged him and kissed him on top of his little brown head.

The rain had cleared leaving clean brisk air. I let Teddy outside in the backyard to sniff around. Overlooking the gate to the front yard, I saw a service van parked across the street from the house.

I shrugged at first, until I noticed someone sitting in the driver’s seat, looking my way.

“How odd,” I said. A closer look at the faded logo revealed the van must have been a dry cleaning delivery vehicle at one time.

When the driver met my glance, he started the engine and pulled slowly away from the curb. This was not good. Could someone be watching our house? Watching Rose, perhaps?

It was time to get serious, especially if she was in danger. “Teddy,” I said, “Let’s go inside and wait for Rose to wake up.”

“Woof! Woof!” he barked. What an intelligent little fella. He followed me inside and waited for a treat.

“You were a good dog.” I tossed a treat across the floor, knowing he loved to chase it.

After spotting the suspicious-looking van across the street, I tiptoed upstairs hoping to find Rose awake. Teddy followed close behind.

Putting a finger to my lips, cautioning him not to bark, I slowly opened the door.

Rose lay looking at the ceiling. I thought I detected tears.

“Are you awake?” I asked.

“Come in, Jillian,” she said.

Teddy pushed the door open, and we stepped inside. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I thought you should know there was a strange van parked across the street, which looked suspicious.”

“We need to talk.” She patted the bed for Teddy to join her.

I picked him up and set him next to her. After taking a seat in the rocker, I folded my hands and listened.

Rose pushed back the covers, coughed, and sat on the side of the bed.

“Your cough sounds better,” I said.

“I feel better, thanks to your hospitality.” She took a deep breath and looked at the floor. “This is difficult. I haven’t told a soul what happened because I’ve been terribly afraid of what they would do to me.”

I nodded and continued to listen.

“Two weeks ago, about eight in the evening, the doorbell rang. I was upstairs getting ready to go to bed and read, so I waited for my husband to answer the door. I heard a man’s voice I didn’t recognize, which wasn’t unusual. My husband conducts all sorts of business I’d rather not know about anyway.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

“I was curious as to who the man was, whether or not he was friend or foe. Alex, my husband, has shared a few stories about run-ins with unsavory characters.”

“I see. You were looking out for Alex.”

She nodded. “Yes. I took my iPhone, slipped downstairs, and tiptoed to the library where I heard voices. The door was ajar, and I peered in. The visitor was making threats to Alex.”

“Could you hear what he said?” I asked, shifting in my seat.

“The only thing I heard him say was, ‘I don’t think you want us to have to go that far.”’

“Go on.”

“I grew nervous. What if this man was threatening Alex? I clicked on my phone camera, slid it to video, and began recording. I thought it may come in handy if anything bad were to happen.”

“And it did, didn’t it?”

Rose nodded. “Alex walked behind the desk. I heard him say, ‘If you insist.’ He opened a drawer where I know he keeps money and took out a thick bundle.”

“What did the man do?”

“When he saw the cash, he smiled, took out his phone, and turned his back on Alex. Alex reached back inside the drawer, took out a gun, and shot the man.”

“And you caught it all on video?” I was amazed at what she had done.

“The whole thing was surreal. The man went down, and Alex rushed over to him and took his pulse. I was in shock, not knowing what I should do!”

So you ran.” I said. “What happened to the phone?”

“I hid it in a locked box at the house.” Rose stood. “If you saw someone watching your property, it means I’m putting you in danger. I need to go.”

“Rose, stop.” I said. “You can’t keep running away. There has to be a way to get into your house and get the evidence on your phone.”

“Don’t you understand? If I go home, he’d be waiting. I believe he’d shoot me, too.”

“How much did you record?” I asked, trying to stall long enough to think of a plan to help get her out of this horrendous situation.

“I couldn’t move after Alex shot him. But when he started toward the door, I had to hide. He hadn’t heard me, I was quite convinced. I hid in the entryway closet where I could still watch him with the door slightly open.”

Teddy panted as if he sensed the stress emanating from Rose’s story. I stroked him gently.

“Alex went upstairs, calling for me. Of course, I didn’t answer him. When he came down, he had a bedsheet with him.”

“Were you running the video?”

“Yes, I filmed him wrapping the body and dragging it out of the room.”

“You were brave. And smart. I’m not positive your video would be admissible evidence, but it would certainly get the police’s attention. Do you still have the phone?”

“No. I need to get it back.” Rose tried to stand but stumbled, still too weak.

“Promise you won’t leave,” I said. “I’ll help you except you must work with me. Running away won’t do anyone any good.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“The first thing is getting you well. While you’re mending, I’ll create a plan. Now, you need to get into bed and rest.”

Rose complied. “I want this to end. Even if it means I’ll lose my husband.”

“I know how hard it must be. I’ve lost two husbands. Anyway, we can talk about them another time.”

Rose crawled into bed, pulled the covers close, and closed her eyes.

After I took her tray to the kitchen, I went to the living room and peeked through the front window where I’d seen the van.

Nothing. But as I let the drape fall, a silver grey car approached and parked a few spaces away. I memorized the plate number and called Walter.

~*~

How I hated to call and ask for help when Walter was on holiday. But he was a detective and I knew he’d help me. After all, I’m the one he blames for getting him started solving homicides.

He answered after the first ring. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Everything’s fine…except…oh, I hate bothering you,” I said.

“Tell me what you need. You know I’ll help if I can. Does this have to do with Rose by any chance?” He asked.

“Ah, yes. She says she witnessed a murder. It’s the reason she’s hiding from her husband.”

“Jillian, are you sure she’s not crazy? Homeless people sometimes are.”

I paused. “I agree they can be, but I believe her. Why don’t we see if she’s telling the truth by checking on any homicides or missing persons in the last two weeks?”

“Okay,” Walter said. “I’ll run a report and see what I can find. I may do a cross reference with, what was her husband’s last name again?”

“Gamble. Rose said her husband’s first name was Alex.”

“Good, got it. How’s her cough?”

“Better. If we can settle this she’ll be able to go home. If not, she’ll be back on the street.”

“I’ll get right on it and text you the results.”

“Thanks, Walter. Kiss D.J. for me, give Cecilia a hug, and tell her parents hello for me.”

“Will do,” he said.

After the call, I looked outside the window for the grey car again. It was gone. To be on the safe side, I checked all the doors making certain they were locked before making myself a cup of tea.

A shadowy figure caught my eye in the hall. Upon a closer look, I realized Rose had come downstairs. I smiled as she came into the kitchen.

“How are you feeling?” I asked, getting out another mug from the cupboard. “How about a cup of tea?”

“I’m better, thank you. Tea sounds good.” Rose sat at the table, reached for Teddy sprawled on the floor, and set him on her lap. “This is a sweet dog you have, Jillian.”

“Yes, he is. And smart, too.”

“I used to have a cat named Mr. Jingles.” Her eyes narrowed. “One day I came home from shopping, and Alex had taken him off. My husband said he was jealous.”

I poured out another cup for Rose and set it in front of her. “I’m sorry about your pet, but I’m glad you’re better.”

“Jillian,” she said, after taking a careful sip of the steaming brew, “Have you thought any more of how to get my phone?”

“Walter is checking for homicide victims in the area. He said he’d let me know if he found anything.”

Rose nodded. “I don’t know if the police will find the body. From the little I overheard, the man was with some terrible crime organization. He was cocky and profane.”

“And from what you told me, stupid to turn his back on your husband.”

Rose sipped her tea. “I’m afraid I’m hungry again. I bet I’ve lost 20 pounds these past two weeks.”

“Good. We’ll take it as a sign you’re getting well.” I walked to the fridge and opened the freezer. “Let’s see what we can find.” Poking around, I pulled out a bag of buffalo chicken strips and frozen French fries. “I’ve found something.”

Rose smiled when I showed her the frozen bags of food. Within the next 30 minutes, I had made a complete meal including frozen green peas.

“You have no idea what it means living on the streets the way I have. It makes me angry to have married a thoroughly weak and dishonest man.”

“What made you marry him?” I asked, plating the food.

She shook her head. “I did it to please my father. How stupid I was!”

Before I could say anything, Rose started to cry. I set the food on the table and patted her shoulder. “Now, don’t cry. Eat. We’ll chat after we get a little nourishment.”

I fed Teddy his supper and put out fresh water for him. After he’d finished and I’d cleaned up the kitchen, he followed Rose and me into the living room and lay by the fire.

Rose studied the Christmas tree. “It’s beautiful. But there aren’t any presents.”

“No,” I said. “At my age, I don’t need anything I can’t buy for myself. I told the kids to spend the money on D.J.”

“A selfless thing to do. There’s nothing you want?” Rose looked surprised.

“Hmm. There is one thing. I want you to be able to return to your home, safely. Are you up to going out tomorrow?”

Rose took a deep breath. “My lungs are clearer, and I’m not coughing as much. It may not be a good idea to go in daylight. We might be seen.”

“Good point. What about right now? Are you strong enough?”

She shrugged. “I’ll get better after I’m home again. Are you sure you’re up to going out now?”

I walked to the front window and pulled back the drape. No cars or vans were parked on the street. “We have the darkness on our side. Teddy can come in his airline crate. He’s been trained not to bark whenever we fly.”

Hearing his name, Teddy stood on all four paws, ready and alert.

“Don’t you ever leave him at home?” Rose asked as he came toward her, pawing to be picked up.

“Not since his predecessor was kidnapped. It took me a long time to forgive myself.”

Rose furrowed her brow. “Did you get him back?”

I nodded. “It was a miracle, and the reason Cecilia and I became friends. She saw the guy with my dog in the hall as she was cleaning a room at the Ritz-Carlton. Long story short, her keen memory helped the authorities find my first Teddy.”

“I can see why you don’t want to leave him.” Rose put Teddy on the floor. “We’d better grab our coats.”

“Do you want me to bring your bag from upstairs?” I asked.

“Yes, thanks. What can I do to help get ready?”

“You can let Teddy out in the back yard a minute. He’s finished his dinner.”

I quickly raced up the stairs for Rose’s shopping bag, turned off the lights on the second floor, and returned to the kitchen. Rose was watching Teddy out the window.

“Here are your things.” I handed the well-worn shopping bag to her. “Will you be warm enough?” I worried not seeing a jacket among her things.

“If you have an extra jacket, I would appreciate your lending it to me.”

“Won’t take me a minute to get one from the cottage. I’ll be right back. I need to lock up anyway before we leave.”

~*~

With the streets still clear of any suspicious vehicles watching the house, Rose and I backed out of the garage and headed on the freeway to the next town, where she said she lived.

“It’s about twenty minutes away. The house belonged to my father. I inherited the winery where it’s located. At least this time of night no one should be around.”

Rose lay back in the front seat and closed her eyes a moment. “Let me know when you get to the turnoff for Gamble Vineyards. There’ll be a huge sign on the right. You can’t miss it.”

A catnap would be good for her. Teddy slept in his airline crate on the back seat, content. At least for the moment.

Lord, please keep Teddy quiet tonight to keep us from drawing attention.

The sign for Gamble Vineyards was up ahead. I turned on my signal and exited the freeway. “We’ve turned off,” I said to Rose.

She opened her eyes and sat straight. “Drive slowly until you see the house. I’ll show you a place to park where we won’t be conspicuous.”

I did as she said, until I saw a large white farmhouse trimmed with black shutters loom ahead. “I see the house,” I said. “It looks as if it’s surrounded by an iron fence and gate.”

“Pull behind the first building to our left.” Rose pointed to where I should park. “We keep the equipment inside.”

Once we’d parked, I took Teddy in his crate and joined Rose, standing in back of the car. She stared at the house, which had only one light burning upstairs.

“He’s in our bedroom,” she said.

“Is anyone else at home?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Unless Alex has someone with him.”

“Don’t assume the worst…unless you have reason to,” I said.

“You’re right. Anyway, if he does have someone up there, it will be a good distraction.”“

“That’s the way to think. Are you ready?” I asked.

She nodded. “He never locks the gate. I hope it doesn’t creak.”

A shiver ran up my spine. I looked around to see if anyone was there. Nothing. The bad thing about Teddy being in his crate was him not barking to warn us of danger.

Slowly, Rose and I walked to the gate. “Let me open it. I’ll be careful,” I whispered. “If something happens, you can hide, and I’ll claim to be lost.”

“Okay,” she whispered. “Once we reach the front of the house, I’ll show you where the library is. If we’re lucky, we can see through the window, and I’ll point out the box where I put the phone.”

I nodded, handed Teddy to her, and slowly lifted the latch. “Let’s pray it doesn’t creak.” I closed my eyes. We made it!

Rose led the way walking on the grass. She nodded to the left of the house, and pointed to an unlit window, which must be the library.

We crept quietly forward until we reached the edge of the front porch. The library window drapes were open.

Thank you, Lord!

I set Teddy on the ground and put a finger to my lips. “Stay quiet,” I commanded.

Rose pointed to a bank of shelves along the left wall of the library. “Third shelf.” She mouthed the words and searched my face.

The box rested between two sets of what appeared to be reference books. I nodded to let her know I’d seen it.

Rose’s eyes grew wide. She patted her chest, which could only mean one thing—she was going to start coughing.

I jerked my head toward the car, grabbed Teddy’s crate, and walked as fast as I could. Rose followed with one hand covering her mouth.

We were past the gate and almost to the car, when Teddy growled a warning. A car came out of the shadows from the house. When I looked up to the bedroom window, the light had been turned off.

Rose’s suspicions may have been confirmed.

We hid behind our car until the other one passed by, trying to see if the driver was a man or a woman. From what I could see, it was the latter. What surprised me was it was identical to the same silver grey car I’d seen parked on my street.

Once the vehicle disappeared from the long driveway, Rose and I got in our car, took deep breaths, and exhaled.

I put Teddy in the backseat, started the engine, and turned the car around. Getting home without incident was foremost on my mind. “That was close! Did you recognize the car?” I asked.

Rose shook her head, coughed several times covering her mouth, and held her chest. Even in the darkness, I could see tears. What could be worse than seeing a woman leave your house when you weren’t home…and your husband was?

“Now, Rose,” I said, “We don’t have all the facts. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

She slowly turned to me and shook her head. “What other conclusion could there be, Jillian?”

I thought a moment. “Well, here’s one: What would the same person be doing in front of my house and coming out of yours unless there’s more to it?”

Rose looked straight ahead into the dark night. “A good question.” She sighed. “I hope you’re right. Alex may be a criminal, but I have no reason to believe he’s ever been unfaithful.”

She cried. “I’m sorry,” she said between sobs. “I don’t know how much more I can bear. All my life, I never thought I was good enough, or pretty enough, or worthy enough. I’ve been homeless for two weeks, my husband shot a man, and now I’ve seen a woman coming from my house.”

I patted her shoulder. “And you’re sick. I know, I know. But the sooner we get your phone and get Alex into custody, the better off you’ll be.”

Rose looked at me. “Do you really think we can do this? I don’t know if I wouldn’t be better off on the streets. At least most people have been kind.”

For the rest of the trip, we were silent.

We had finally reached home. I drove past the house, perusing the street in case the van or grey car was in the vicinity. “Good, the street is clear. No spies.”

Rose cracked a smile but started another coughing fit.

“We’ve done enough for a while,” I said. “I invited Dr. Peters over for biscuits in the morning to check how you’re doing.”

I helped her out of the car, and grabbed Teddy from the back, letting him out of his crate. Our little band went inside, through the kitchen, and up the stairs.

“I’ll see you in the morning, Rose,” I said. “Good night. I hope you sleep well, and please don’t worry about what’s going to happen. Things have a way of working out for the best.”

“Thanks, Jillian. I wish I could be as confident.”

After she was tucked comfortably in bed, I turned off her light, and Teddy followed me down the hall to the master bedroom.

I placed him on a towel I’d put at the foot of the bed, and he fell asleep. “You’re all tuckered out, aren’t you, little man? Me, too.”

What I needed was a nice hot bubble bath in the oversized tub I had installed years ago. The claw foot one I’d put in the cottage was perfectly fine for me to enjoy my nightly ritual. However, it would be nice to stretch out in the larger one.

Before getting into bed, I turned off the light, and walked to the window. Would someone be watching the house? As I looked out, the same van I’d seen before drove slowly by. I had to talk to Walter in the morning. If organized crime was involved, I didn’t want to take chances.

~*~

Sunlight poked through the shutters the next morning. It was eight already! Was Rose awake, I wondered?

Teddy yawned and stretched, and made his way toward me, wagging his little tail.

“Good morning, love,” I said. “It’s late. Time to get ready for the day.”

Lord, please guide us in getting Rose’s phone. Amen.

I couldn’t help praying all the time, about everything. Things went smoother whenever I did. People who get frustrated over the simplest challenges miss out on an incredible resource.

After I threw on the clothes I’d laid out the night before, as I always do, I took Teddy outside for his morning time with nature.

How he loved to sniff the bushes and grass to determine if anyone or any critter had trespassed on his territory.

He stopped near the gate and froze. Then he growled.

When I stepped closer, on the ground was a pen. I reached to pick it up, but hesitated in case there might be fingerprints. The imprint read ‘Bic,’ hardly a clue. Still, it hadn’t been there the day before or Teddy, would have noticed.

“Take a good smell, Teddy.” I nodded to the pen. Perhaps later the scent would come in handy.

I shivered at the thought someone may have been in my back yard last night. They must have been extremely quiet for Teddy not to have heard them. What if they had been searching for Rose?

It was time to call Walter before I made breakfast. The gazebo would be a good place to talk in case Rose was up. I didn’t want to worry her any more than necessary.

He answered immediately. “Morning.” Walter sounded sleepy. “Everything okay?”

“I’m not sure. Teddy found an ink pen by the gate. Someone may have dropped it last night.”

“That doesn’t sound good, Jillian. You didn’t touch it, did you?”

“I almost did. I’ll put it in a plastic bag for you to analyze. Oh, wait. You’re in Half Moon Bay.”

“It’s not a problem. Take it to the station. I’ll call ahead and arrange to have a fingerprint check.”

“Did you find anything on recent homicides or Alex Gamble?”

“No male homicides yet, but I’ll keep checking. Alex Gamble doesn’t have a record, which means either he’s clean or careful.”

“Exactly what I’m afraid of. I suppose it’s not uncommon for criminals to pay others to do their dirty work.”

“I’ve got to go. Daisy’s calling breakfast. Stay in touch, and don’t take chances. I mean it!”

After the call, I thought of Daisy, Cecilia’s new mom. What a great friend she was, helping me solve the case of finding Cecilia’s father, Douglas, and coming to my aid in London after a bad fall.

“Quit daydreaming, Jillian,” I told myself. A pity party was forming as I mulled over those I wouldn’t be spending Christmas with this year.

Teddy was pawing on the back door, telling me he wanted breakfast.

“Let’s go inside,” I told him. “I promised to bake biscuits for Dr. Peters this morning, but first I need to secure the pen you found.”

At the word “biscuits,” Teddy wagged his tail. He understood commands I’d taught him. Nonetheless, his favorite words described food.

Coffee was first on the list. After I put on my favorite apple orchard apron, I made a large pot in anticipation of having two guests for breakfast. While it brewed, I set the table for three, putting out butter and two kinds of jam, and made the biscuits.

Rose came into the kitchen. “Something smells good.”

“If you can smell coffee, it’s a good sign you’re getting well.” I took a mug from the cupboard and filled it. Seeing the pen in the plastic bag I’d laid on the counter, I deftly put it in my apron pocket.

“What’s that?” Rose asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

Since she was feeling better this morning, I decided to tell her.

As I explained, Rose sipped her coffee. “Do you think we were seen last night?”

I shook my head, took the biscuits out of the oven, and popped them in a cloth lined basket.

The doorbell rang.

“I’ll answer it,” I said. “It’s probably Dr. Peters coming to check on you this morning.”

“And to eat a few of your biscuits.” Rose smiled.

I ushered him into the kitchen and offered him a seat at the table.

“Well, Rose, you look much better than the other day. How’re you feeling?”

“Much better, thank you,” she said. “Don’t the biscuits look delicious?”

He chuckled. “They are delicious. I speak from experience.”

“Dr. Peters,” I said, “would you do a favor and stay with Rose and Teddy? I need to run a quick errand.”

“Of course,” he said. “It will give me more time to enjoy my coffee.”

Before long, I’d delivered the evidence to the station. Walter had called ahead to make certain the forensics person was waiting. As I got inside my car, a van two spaces away started its engine, the same van I’d seen parked outside my house. I pretended not to notice, but kept a close watch in the rear view mirror. With my phone in my lap, using the microphone, I called Walter and gave him the information.

“Okay, listen, Jillian,” he said. “Keep your phone on, and I’ll do a location search. Head for anywhere, except don’t go home. The person following you could be dangerous.”

The only safe place I could think of was Trader Joe’s. The parking lot was always busy, full of shoppers. “Heading to Trader Joe’s, if it helps.”

“I’ll send backup.” Walter hung up.

As the van continued to follow, fear mounted, I prayed for a calm spirit. A parking spot opened up on the second row in front of the store. I pulled in, took a brief look around as if noting where I’d parked, and walked toward the entrance. The van found a space at the other end of the strip shopping center, as an unmarked car pulled slowly into the lot. I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank you, Lord!

Once inside the store, I looked out a front window and watched the unmarked car drive slowly by the van, and out the lot.

I phoned Dr. Peters on his emergency number and let him know I would be late. He may have been missing appointments. To be safe, I waited until the van left before reentering my car.

A text notification from Walter appeared on my phone: The van is registered to an offender. We’ll take care of it.

What a relief to hear. I returned a text: Thanks, Walter. On my way home.

Before pulling into my driveway, I circled the block looking for the silver grey car. Not finding it, I finally drove home. Dr. Peter’s car was still parked in front. At least Rose and Teddy were safe, I thought.

“I apologize for being later than I thought,” I said, coming in the kitchen door.

Rose and Dr. Peters were not where I’d left them. “Teddy?” I called, as my stomach wrenched.

There was an eerie silence.

I ran upstairs, calling their names but the house was empty.

Maybe they left a note somewhere, I thought, running quickly downstairs to the kitchen.

On the table, still holding breakfast dishes, I found a scrap of paper with a message: Safe—

What was I to believe? Obviously someone had taken my friends and my precious companion. Until I talked to Walter, I chose to believe the note. And if for any reason they weren’t safe, I hoped Teddy bit whoever took them.

I called right away.

“Jillian, everything is fine. Your friends are in protective custody until we can sort this out.”

“Even Teddy?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, he’s safe. I’m in Clover Hills at the station. They’re with me.”

I was sorry for Walter having to interrupt his holiday on my account. “Walter, I appreciate your support, especially at this time when you should be with your family.”

“No worries, Jillian. They understand, at least Daisy and Douglas do. They’re happy to have D.J. to keep them entertained. Cecilia, however….”

“She’s probably not happy,” I said, “but what could I do?”

“Let me take care of Cecilia. She understands your passion for solving mysteries. You’ve helped solve enough. Besides, we’re helping a woman in need.”

“And it is Christmas,” I said. “Let me lock the house, and I’ll join you downtown. By the way, has forensics made any conclusions about the pen we found?”

“They did find fingerprints, and they’re working on it. Teddy never ceases to amaze me.”

No one followed me to the station, at least not anyone I could see. I parked directly in front and went inside to find my friends. Dr. Peters had been released and was on the way to my house to get his car. Rose and Teddy waited in Walter’s office.

“Rose!” I said. “Are you all right? I was worried not finding you when I got home.”

“Woof! Woof!” barked Teddy as he jumped from her lap and into my arms. I hugged him and kissed his sweet head, overjoyed at finding him safe.

Down the hall, we could see two officers bringing in a man, hands cuffed behind his back.

Rose gasped. “I don’t believe it.” She pointed at the man they’d brought in. “I’ve seen him at the house before.”

“It wasn’t the one Alex shot, was it?” I was beginning to wonder whether or not she was a little insane.

“No, except I’m positive Alex knows him.” She moved to where the man wouldn’t be able to see her.

“I’ll let Walter know. Maybe he can make a connection.”

Rose wrung her hands. “He’s going to find me, I know it.”

What if Rose was right? If she was, I’d be putting myself and Teddy in harm’s way, which was evident by the people following me and staking out my house.

Then I remembered I wasn’t powerless.

“Rose, listen to me. Maybe now is a good time for me to get hold of the iPhone. It would be too dangerous for you to try and retrieve it, but Alex has never seen me.”

Rose stopped fiddling with her hands. “But maybe someone he works with has. Can’t we ask the police to get it for us? Wouldn’t it be safer?”

“I’m coming up with a plan.”

It was true, perhaps, friends of Alex knew who I was. But if Rose could bring off a disguise, I could, too.

Walter arranged to have the house watched to be on the safe side, while I devised a way to get inside Rose’s library. I conferred with the police, getting a plan for backup in case my plan didn’t succeed.

Early the next morning, with Teddy in his tote slung over my shoulder, I made a trip into town. There were a few gifts I wanted to buy for my garden club friends for when we met for our monthly afternoon tea get-together.

As I shopped, I kept an eye out for anyone tailing me. The only person I saw was a plain clothes officer I recognized from the station. What a comfort he was.

After making my gift purchases, ceramic candle warmers with wax sachets, I found a brunette wig and low cut dress to create my disguise. With one final trip to the pet store to find a loud dog sweater for Teddy, and a quick stop to the ATM, I was set to put my plan into action.

All I needed was a copy of a certain magazine from which I could make a phony business card.

The time had come to act. Rose was to stay at the station for her own safety while I went to the winery. She told me Alex had a standing lunch appointment every week. It would be easier to gain access to her house with him away. According to Rose, their housekeeper, Mrs. Frakes, could be bought.

With a wad of cash ranging from a hundred dollar bill for a possible bribe, to smaller denominations for the cab, I slipped into a restroom and dressed as differently from Jillian Bradley as possible. A brunette instead of a blonde, a low cut dress instead of modest attire, and Teddy gloriously attired in a loud red and green plaid Christmas sweater made the two of us as different as night and day from the real us.

I appeared in the doorway where Rose waited. At first, she looked shocked but took the key from around her neck and handed it to me. “Good luck, Jillian. God be with you.”

Lord, help me to carry this off.

The cab took the same exit as I had a few nights ago and drove up the long road leading to the winery. A few trucks loaded with cardboard boxes passed as we made our way to the mansion. I assumed they were filled with bottles of wine.

We pulled in front of the iron gate. I got out with Teddy snuggled tightly in his tote.

“Wait here,” I said to the driver.

“Yes, ma’am.” He shut off the engine, pulled out his iPhone, and gave it his full attention.

At least I had an emergency exit plan. Up the steps of the porch, I took a deep breath and knocked. “Remember, Teddy,” I said, “not a sound.”

The door was opened by a plain looking woman with scraggly grey hair, wearing a large white apron over her dress.

“Mrs. Frakes? “ I asked.

“Yes,” she said, looking at me warily. “Can I help you?”

“Amanda Treadwell.” I handed her the business card I’d made on my computer. “I called for an appointment with Alex to set up the photo shoot preliminary.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said. “Mr. Gamble is not here. You’ll have to come at another time.”

I tried to look shocked, as I stepped boldly inside and stroked Teddy. “Simply not possible. My flight leaves this afternoon, and this is the only opportunity I have while I’m on the West Coast.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t think….”

I didn’t allow her to finish, reaching into my purse and drawing out the hundred dollar bill. “I’m certain it won’t hurt a thing to take a few photos to set up for the article I’m doing on his home for Interiors.”

“Ma’am?” She took the bill and stuck it in her apron pocket.

“Surely you’ve heard of Interiors Magazine. Out of New York?” I looked around studying different angles for my imaginary photo shoot. “Here. “ I reached inside Teddy’s tote, and handed her the copy of the magazine I’d bought.

Mrs. Frakes looked decidedly confused, but then studied the cover and shrugged. “Take your photos, but be quick about it. I still have things to do, you understand.”

“Of course, it won’t take long at all, I promise.”

“Very well. I’ll be upstairs if you have any questions, and keep that dog in his carrier.”

After I set Teddy and his carrier on the floor in the entryway, ordering him to stay, I strolled into the living room, took out my iPhone, and snapped a few shots of the fireplace and window treatments. I moved into the dining room and did the same.

A few shots of the entryway, and I was at the library doors.

I stepped inside, shut the double doors, and snapped two photos, one of the desk, and one of the sitting area. Before I could complete my task, the doors opened. There stood the watchful Mrs. Frakes. My heart skipped a beat as I turned to her and tried to think of what to say. I decided not to be intimidated. “Yes? What is it?”

“Are you finding everything you need?” she asked. Her tone was unfriendly and accusatory.

“As a matter of fact, there is. Would you please get me a couple of bottles of the house wines and a silver tray to set them on, if you can find one? I’m surprised there isn’t a bar in here.”

Without a word, the housekeeper closed the doors and left. I wondered how much time I had before she tried to call her employer, if she hadn’t already.

Carefully, I took the box from the shelf and opened it with Rose’s key. There was the iPhone, exactly as Rose had told me. With a hanky I’d brought along, I took it out, and placed it in my purse. After locking the box, I returned it to its place and left the room.

“Thanks again for staying out of my way,” I whispered out of earshot to the housekeeper as I grabbed Teddy’s carrier, and raced out the door, down the steps, and stepped safely inside the waiting cab.

“Take me home, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I’d done it!

Almost.

A cloud of dust rose on the road in front of us. A silver grey car sped our way, blocking our path. I swallowed hard and prayed.

Teddy whined.

“It’s okay, boy. If you need to bark, go ahead. It probably won’t matter at this point.”

The cab driver turned to me. “What do you want me to do?”

“Can you get around them?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Not unless you want me to drive into the vineyards.”

We were doomed. The oncoming car came to a screeching halt, nose to nose with the cab. A man and woman I hadn’t seen before got out of their car and walked toward us.

I didn’t move, but I held Teddy tight.

As the woman opened my door, the man opened the cabbie’s side. “Get out,” said the man.

“You, too, Mrs. Bradley,” the woman said. How did they know who I was?

Teddy barked with all his might. “Woof! Woof! Woof!”

The woman pulled a gun and aimed it at the man she was with. “Put your hands on top of the cab where I can see them, Mr. Gamble.”

I assumed this was Rose’s husband, Alex.

The woman held the gun in one hand, and with the other pulled out a badge from her suit pocket. “Federal Agent Mary Davis, ma’am.”

The woman in the silver grey car. She was one of the good guys!

Another vehicle barreled up the road. Getting out of the car, I could see Walter and two of his officers. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was over.

Walter crunched toward the cab. “Jillian, are you okay?”

I pulled off the wig. “Now I am. Thanks for the rescue.”

“Thanks for wearing the bug.”

I smiled. “Like old times, right?”

“Right,” he said. “Good job, Agent Davis. She’s been keeping an eye on you ever since you brought Rose home a few days ago.”

“What about the guys in the van?” I asked.

“We arrested them. We traced fingerprints on the pen you found to one of them. No more worries.”

“Walter, I have something you’ll be interested in regarding Mr. Gamble here.” I handed him the iPhone wrapped in the hanky. “You’ll be interested in one of the videos in particular.”

He reached inside his coat pocket and took out a plastic bag. “Good job, Jillian. You’re pretty amazing, you know.”

I chuckled. “I’m either amazing or completely insane. Speaking of insane, I’d better get back to Rose. For a moment there I thought she could be crazy. It appears now I was wrong.”

“I’ll take you home. We can pick up Rose on the way. I had her give a statement while she waited on us.” Walter turned to his men. “Men, inside the house is a Mrs. Frakes. Please invite her to join you when you accompany Agent Davis and Mr. Gamble to the station. I’ll meet you in a few minutes.”

As we headed toward the station, I took Teddy from his tote and held him in my lap. The poor little thing panted from all the excitement, but I realized then that he was probably panting from wearing the sweater!

“Don’t worry, we’ll take this off right now.” I tossed it in the back seat along with the wig. “When we get home, I’ll get you a bowl of fresh water and a treat.”

“Woof!” he barked.

I hugged him.

I turned to Walter. “At least you’ll be getting home to your family before Christmas Eve,” I said.

“Which is a good thing to keep me in my wife’s good graces. Isn’t your garden club coming over? Cecilia made sure the house was spotless for the event.”

“Oh, dear. It’s tomorrow! I’ve been totally engrossed with Rose. I almost forgot. Well, I did buy their gifts.”

“If anyone can pull off afternoon tea at the drop of a hat, it’s you, Jillian.”

I smiled, realizing I had several dozen Christmas cookies and a batch of fudge prepared. All I needed to do was assemble the finger sandwiches, and I’d be ready for my friends.

Rose greeted me in the lobby at the station. “Did you get the phone?”

I nodded. “And the police got Alex and Mrs. Frakes. It’s over. You can go home, now.”

Tears streamed down her face. “Don’t worry. I’m crying because I’m relieved. Jillian, I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me.”

“It was my pleasure to help you. After all, you saved Teddy from getting run over the other day. Imagine how horrible it would have been, especially at this time of year.”

“I have an idea.” Rose smiled, and her face transformed from the ugliness of worry and fear to the beauty and radiance only a peaceful heart can bring.

“I insist you and Teddy be my guests for Christmas Eve. We used to entertain our relatives all the time. I think I can still do it. Won’t you please say yes?”

It was perfect. We both needed company for the holiday. “You must let me bring something, though. It will be more fun if you let me.”

Rose and I started out the door. “What did you have in mind?” she asked.

We got into the car, and I handed Teddy to her. “I make a wonderful fruit and caramel brie.”

“Brie sounds wonderful. Okay, you’re on. Shall we say seven o’clock?”

She looked out the window, then turned to me. “I wonder if my sister would come.”

“Why don’t you call her? She’d probably love to know you’re all right.”

She nodded. “I will.”

I pulled out into traffic and started driving toward home. “Rose, do you want to stop and pick up your things?”

She shook her head. “There’s nothing there I want. You’re welcome to put them in the trash.”

I nodded. “I understand, completely. We’ll head directly to your house.”

“My house.” She repeated the words. “My house. Jillian, do you know how wonderful those words are to me?”

“I think I do. Will you have help to manage?”

She nodded. “Not everyone was crooked. The general manager of the winery is a dear friend. He can help me find a new housekeeper, which is really all I need.”

I thought Rose would do fine having the winery and vineyards to look after. In fact, it would probably keep her mind off the way her husband had turned out. It would be interesting to see how long he’d be in prison for the murder he’d committed.

Rose waved goodbye to Teddy and me, stepped up onto the porch, and walked inside her house.

The next day, my garden club friends were all a-twitter during afternoon tea hearing about Rose.

Ann Fieldman said, “I still can’t believe you took in a homeless woman, Jillian. I don’t know if I could ever do what you did.” She took a sip of tea and a bite of fruitcake. “Really, you could have been murdered in your bed!”

I nodded. “Perhaps. But when Teddy refused to leave without her, there was no choice.”

Nicole King looked at Teddy, sitting close by, with his eyes on her finger sandwich. “Knowing him as well as we do, I agree you did the right thing.”

“She’s invited Teddy and me for Christmas Eve.” I selected a sand tart and popped it into my mouth, wiping my lips with a linen napkin afterward. “Her home is lovely. Have you ever heard of Gamble Vineyards?”

“Gamble is excellent wine. We drink it often.” Nicole smiled.

Ann looked alert. “That huge winery off the freeway? The one with the big billboard I see all the time?”

I nodded. “That’s the one.”

Satisfied my friends approved of my invitation for Christmas Eve, I finished my tea and replaced the cup in its saucer. “I was reminded of an important lesson from Rose. One must never judge someone from appearances alone.”

“What a true statement, Jillian,” Nicole said. “Well, are we ready for the gift exchange?”

The three of us gathered around the tree and laid our gifts at the base.

“Before we open our gifts, I want to say one thing.” I lowered my head a moment. “I’m extremely grateful for having you as my friends. I truly believe if I ever fell into a similar situation as Rose did, you’d be there for me.”

Ann and Nicole reached out and hugged me.

“Now let’s open our gifts!” I said, waiting to see their reactions to the candle warmers.

“I’ve always wanted one of these,” Nicole said. “Thanks, Jillian.”

“You’re welcome. What about you, Ann? Have you ever tried one?”

She laughed. “I’ve only seen them in stores, which means I’ll look forward to seeing how they work.”

I opened my gifts. Ann gave me a beautiful blue lace ornament written with “Friends, forever.” Nicole’s gift was an exquisite snow globe with a woman and her Yorkie sitting by a Christmas tree.”

“I love these.” I added the ornament to my tree, and shook the lovely orb. “Nicole, where did you get this? I want to get one for Rose.”

“The little shop next to the drive-through dairy. They had several. And they gift wrap.”

“Perfect!”

~*~

The rain cleared up by Christmas Eve leaving the air fresh and new. I stirred the ingredients together for the fruit and caramel topping, and took the brie from the fridge.

Using one of my colorful Christmas platters, I arranged the warmed cheese on it and added the topping, rich with dried apples, cranberries, and caramel, on one side.

“Ready, Teddy?” I asked.

“Woof!” he barked, focused on the appetizer I’d prepared.

“I’ll cover the brie with foil, grab the baguettes, and we’ll be off to see Rose.”

He followed me to the car. When I opened the door, he jumped into the front seat.

I set the tray and Rose’s gift on the backseat, and we were on our way.

It was good to be invited somewhere for Christmas Eve. How sad I would have been to have spent it alone. However, even if I was, Teddy would still have been with me. I looked at him comfortably laying on the seat.

“I love you, sweet dog. You may get into trouble once in a while but having you is worth everything.” I reached over to pet him.

When we’d reached the house, the iron gate was open and an unfamiliar car had parked in the driveway. Rose had mentioned inviting her sister. How wonderful if she had decided to come.

A gaily lit tree stood in the front window. I walked up the porch steps and knocked on the front door, now decorated with a gorgeous, welcoming evergreen wreath, ablaze with lights and a giant red bow.

The door opened, and a man I’d not seen before, smiled. “You must be Jillian. Please come in. I’m Jeff Haines, the manager of Gamble Winery. Rose has told me all about you.” He patted Teddy. “And your Yorkie, of course. She’s waiting for you.”

A new server obviously had taken Mrs. Frakes’ place. She accepted the appetizer I’d prepared.

Jeff offered his arm as I set Teddy on the floor, expecting him to follow. Instead, he raced into the living room, found Rose, and leaped into her arms.

“Jillian!” She hugged my dog and me.

I handed her the gift. “This is for you. Merry Christmas. Do you want me to put it under the tree?”

“I would be honored.”

A tall, well-dressed woman with an intelligent look approached. “Hello, Jillian. I’m Rose’s sister, Lily.” She chuckled. “I know what you must be thinking. It’s true. Our father named us after his favorite flowers.”

“I know how much it means to Rose for you to be here,” I said.

“I’ve been searching for her for weeks. It was a huge relief to find out she was safe when she called me. I want to personally thank you for taking her in.”

“Thank Teddy. If he hadn’t run into her arms, we probably would not have met. But I’m glad we did.”

“Woof! Woof!” Teddy barked.

“He’s adorable.” Lily bent and scooped him up. “I’ll bet you’d enjoy a treat, wouldn’t you? In a little while, when we open gifts, there’s something for you under the tree.”

Rose said, “Shall we go into the dining room and enjoy the refreshments?”

She and Jeff led the way.

Lily spoke softly. “That no good husband of Rose’s finally got what he deserved. I’d known all along he only married her for her money. If it hadn’t been for you, I might have lost my sister for good.”

When we were assembled, Rose asked me to offer a blessing.

“Lord,” I prayed, “thank you for guiding Rose home. Thank you for reuniting her with Lily, and for giving me new friends. Bless this food as we celebrate the birth of your son. Amen.”

“Amen,” said Rose, Lily, and Jeff.

“Jillian,” Rose motioned to the magnificent china Christmas plates, “please go first as our guest of honor.”

Lily set Teddy on the floor. “You can sit by me if you want,” she said to him. He perked up his ears and wagged his tail. What a charmer he was!

Into the living room, we carried our plates laden with giant prawns and cocktail sauce, savory meatballs, assorted cheeses and crackers, and the fruit and caramel brie with baguettes. It was a feast!

After we found places to sit, the server brought us crystal cups of eggnog topped with whipped cream and dusted with nutmeg, my favorite holiday drink.

While we enjoyed our food by the roaring fire, Rose took a moment to share. “As it turns out, Alex had been taking funds from the winery and using them illegally for several nefarious schemes. When one of them went into the red, he wound up owing a great deal of money.”

Jeff nodded. “He confessed to the police. When an enforcer came to collect a few weeks ago, Alex panicked, killed him, and hired a man to find Rose after she disappeared. “

Rose hung her head. “He told the police that Mrs. Frakes saw me leaving in disguise, and tipped him off. The man I recognized from the van was going to kill me once he had the opportunity to find me alone.”

Lily put her plate on a nearby table and went to her. “It’s all over now. Why don’t we open gifts?”

Rose smiled. “A wonderful idea.”

The server took our plates and refilled our glasses of eggnog.

Jeff used his iPad to play Christmas music, while Rose handed out gifts. “And Jillian, this is for Teddy.”

Hearing his name, he perked up his ears.

She placed the loosely wrapped gift before him. “Go ahead, you may tear it open.”

He looked at me. After I nodded permission, Teddy took the present in his teeth and tossed it around until the tissue paper fell off, revealing a brand new blue stuffed pig.

“Where did you find it?” I was amazed since I’d bought him an identical one a few years ago.

Rose smiled. “One can find almost anything on the Internet these days.”

We chuckled, as Teddy set the pig at her feet, indicating he wanted to play fetch. She was a good sport and tossed it across the room. Teddy raced after it, took it in his mouth, and returned to Rose for another toss.

“This could go on all night.” I laughed. I picked him up and sat him beside me on the sofa. “Don’t worry, boy. We’ll play tomorrow since it’s Christmas, and we’ll have all day.”

I took my cup of eggnog and stood. “If you’ll allow me, I want to raise a toast.”

Everyone took their cups and raised them in the air.

“A toast to Teddy, my dear companion, who through his special gift of discernment, encouraged…no, insisted we take Rose home with us the day he ran away. If it hadn’t been for him, I wouldn’t be celebrating this Christmas Eve with my lovely new friends.”

“To Teddy,” Jeff said, “for saving Christmas for all of us.”

“Cheers!” we said, clinking our cups. “To Teddy. Merry Christmas!”

“Woof! Woof!” he barked, as if he understood, exactly, every word we said.

 

 

—The End—

DYING FOR HOLIDAY TEA:

A Beach Tea Shop Novella

 

 

Linda Gordon Hengerer

 

Editor’s Note: Linda Gordon Hengerer combines her cooking talents and her love of crafts in this novella. Although the town is fictional, much of the lore within is fact. Pour yourself a cuppa and settle into a cozy read at the Beach Tea Shop. The first novel in the series, Dying for Tea Time, will be available in October.

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

A warm breeze blew Alexandra Powell's auburn hair around her face as she entered Beach Tea Shop, holding a dusty book. Tiny wind chimes on the door mixed with the sound of holiday music and people talking. Alex was looking forward to tonight’s expected cold front to make it feel more like Christmas. Drapes and tablecloths helped mute the chatter into a melodic noise. She breathed in the scents of pastries and tea, feeling at home. The Friday before Christmas always brought shoppers out in force, and many were taking a break at Beach Tea Shop.

“Glad you’re here, Alex. Grab an apron and get on the floor. We’re in the weeds.” Chelsea’s brisk tone was of a piece with her serving style, never missing a beat as she moved from table to table while depositing full plates or clearing off used ones. Her long brown ponytail swung back and forth with her movements.

“I found Nana Jean’s recipe book in one of the boxes from the attic,” Alex said, displaying her find. “I think this has her gingerbread recipe in it. Danielle wanted to make it for Tuesday’s Holiday Tea.”

“Dani can wait. Right now we’re swamped and I need you on the floor.” Chelsea smiled at Alex and said, “But I’m glad you found it. My mouth has been watering ever since Dani said she wanted to make gingerbread for the Holiday Tea. I’ve been trying to remember the last time Nana Jean made it.”

“It was before the hurricane flooded the old shop. Was it twenty years ago?” Alex moved through the tea shop, following Chelsea to the small back office. Alex placed the old book on the desk.

“Nineteen ninety-four. Hurricane Gordon. Time flies, doesn’t it? It feels like we’ve always been here. I can barely remember the old shop,” Chelsea said.

Stepping into the doorway of the kitchen, Alex said, “Dani, I found the old recipe book for you. I hope it has the gingerbread recipe.”

Dani moved with effortless grace, gliding from oven to cooling rack to refrigerator. “Excellent! I’ve been searching recipes on Pinterest in case we couldn’t find Nana Jean’s recipe.” Dani stepped back with her arms full of butter and eggs, a quart of cream held in the crook of her elbow. A black and white headband corralled her light brown bangs while her pixie cut grew out, and coordinated with the large black and white ticking striped chef’s apron. “I’m grateful for the holiday rush, but right now I am so looking forward to Wednesday when we’re closed. Alex, can you help Chelsea out in the dining room?”

“She already asked and I'm on it. I can’t believe we worried about whether anyone would take time for tea this week.” Alex slid an apron over her head and tied the apron strings behind her back. White eyelet lace edged the pockets on the bottom, and black piping set the white lace off from the black and white ticking apron. Slipping a covered elastic band off her wrist, she gathered her hair into a short ponytail. Picking up an order pad and several pens, she put them in one apron pocket before filling the other pocket with paper-wrapped straws. Taking a deep breath and exhaling, she headed out to the packed dining room.

Ruby Hayward and Phoebe Nolan sat in a protected corner, bags tucked under the table and placed along the walls. They looked like sisters, both with bobbed blond hair that looked fresh from the salon. They wore shift dresses with sweaters draped over their shoulders, Ruby in her favorite pink and white, Phoebe in red and green. Ruby wore her usual Youth Dew perfume, and Phoebe wore a lighter floral scent.

The small table was favored by shoppers because its location limited movement to two sides, creating a cozy nook. A window next to the table allowed sunlight to sparkle on the bead-draped chandelier above, sending rainbows dancing over the whitewashed walls.

Ruby called out, “Alex? Did I hear you say you found your grandmother’s gingerbread recipe? It was a favorite during the holidays.”

“Maybe we should have a gingerbread bake-off. Ruby’s won awards for hers, and I have a new recipe I’d like to try. May the best gingerbread win,” Phoebe said, but she didn’t look at Ruby, whose mouth dropped open.

“Since when do you bake gingerbread?” Ruby asked Phoebe. “You always said how delicious mine was.” Ruby brushed non-existent crumbs from the tablecloth in front of her and smoothed her skirt. Crossing her arms over her chest, she leaned back in her chair and waited for Phoebe to answer.

Phoebe shrugged. “I thought I’d try it. I’ve seen some of those Food Network chefs make it, and it doesn’t seem that complicated. Maybe I wanted to try something you’ve been doing.” She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, then folded it and placed it on the table.

Alex wondered at the unexpected tension between Ruby and Phoebe. They had been thick as thieves for as long as she could remember. “Yes, that's right. I just found Nana Jean’s old recipe book. I haven’t even had a chance to see if the recipe is in there yet. Do you ladies have everything you need?” Alex removed an empty three-tier stand from the table. Turning to take it to the kitchen, she bumped Chelsea. “Sorry, Sis. I don’t have my serving rhythm yet.”

Chelsea’s tray bobbled before she steadied it and set it down. “You’ll get it back. I’ll take that, and you can help the three women who just came in.”

Alex handed her sister the tiered stand and walked to the front of the tea shop. A cinnamon broom just inside the door welcomed guests with holiday fragrance that was amplified by fresh-baked pastries. Three women stood next to the empty hostess desk, smiling as they sniffed appreciatively.

Alex greeted the newcomers. “Good afternoon, ladies, welcome to Beach Tea Shop. My name is Alex, and I have a table available for you.” She led them to a table, and waited while they took their seats. “Would you like to see menus?”

“That would be lovely, dear. Thank you. We’re knackered from shopping and the heat. I didn’t expect this part of Florida to be so warm.” The woman’s British accent explained her comment about the heat. Temperatures in the high seventies weren’t hot to the locals, but it might feel that way to someone used to England’s winter cool.

Alex handed menus to each of the women. “You’ll be happy to hear we’re expecting a cold front to come through tonight. It’s going to get down into the forties. Tomorrow should be in the low sixties. Are you visiting friends in Citrus Beach for the holidays?”

“Yes, we are,” said one of the newcomers. “Our first trip.”

“Welcome,” said Alex, as she placed water glasses on the table and filled them from a pitcher on the buffet table near her. “I’ll give you a moment to look over the menu.” She gathered up three empty water pitchers that needed refilling.

“Thank you, Alex. It smells divine in here. There’s nothing quite like the smell of yeasty bread baking, is there?” She paused to take a sip of water. “You come highly recommended by a friend in Palm Beach. She suggested driving an hour north to Citrus Beach, where there was a delightful tea shop with marvelous baked goods that we shouldn’t miss.”

All three women glanced down at their menus and began deciding who would order what so they could share the treats. “Looking at this, I’m glad we made the drive up.”

Alex smiled. She and her sisters had debated whether re-opening Beach Tea Shop after their grandmother’s death was a good idea. However, it had been gratifying to see the community embrace Nana Jean’s legacy. An unexpected bonus was hearing how far their reputation had spread.

Whooping and hollering outside caught Alex’s attention, and she set down the three empty water pitchers and went outside onto the porch to see what the commotion was. Walking down three steps to the brick walkway that wound through the Victorian-style buildings in the Citrus Beach Shoppes, she saw five teenagers skateboarding through the strolling pedestrians and window shoppers, headed right for her.

“Stop! Skateboards aren’t allowed in here. You boys should know better. Go on home and don’t come back here.” Alex stood, hands fisted at her hips and glared at the boys. “Jacob Turner, I know your parents won’t want to hear about this.”

They were poking each other as if to say, what is she going to do about it? Realizing Alex knew one of them, their attitude shifted from defiance to polite attention.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jacob muttered. “Let’s go to my house, guys.”

They started to mount the skateboards but stopped and looked at Alex, as if trying to decide whether to obey her or not.

“Just pick them up and walk to the Turners' house. Jacob, I don’t want to see you boys around here again. I won’t mention this to your mother unless I have to. Understood? I know you’re on winter break from school, but the Citrus Beach Shoppes are not a playground. You could hit someone. Or get hurt trying to avoid a shopper.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The boys walked off, holding their skateboards and muttering to each other. They crossed the wide brick sidewalk, skirting the row of hibiscus bushes that separated the parking lot from the shopping area.

Alex couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she hoped they paid attention to her warning and didn’t come back on their skateboards. She went back into the tea shop, shivering as a sudden gust of wind raised goosebumps on her arms.

Ruby said, “Those boys are a menace. You should have called the police. We knew how to deal with boys like that, didn’t we, Phoebe? None of today’s spare the rod and spoil the child. Mark my words, they’ll be back.”

Phoebe nodded in agreement.

“They’re just excited to be done with school. Today was their last day until next year,” Alex said.

Ruby and Phoebe stood, gathering their bags and packages. Ruby looked out the window and rested a hand on the bottom pane. “The cold weather is moving in already. I need to get home and wrap my bushes so they don’t freeze.”

Phoebe snorted. “It’s not going to be that cold, Ruby. Your bushes will be just fine.”

Ruby distributed her packages between both hands and said, “Better safe than sorry, I say. And Alex, think about having a Gingerbread Bake-Off, so we can see who has the best recipe.”

Sure, Alex thought. In what spare time?

Chapter 2

 

Two hours later Dani, Chelsea, and Alex sat at the largest table in the empty restaurant. Brittle pages of Nana Jean’s old book held many recipes they would never make, but sprinkled throughout were some they remembered from their youth and could add to the menu.

“Look, here's Kaye Housel’s Gingerbread recipe. There’s a note on it: To Jean, With fond memories of our times together in Maine and Florida. Who was Kaye Housel?” Alex asked.

“She was a silhouette artist who had a studio in Rangeley, Maine. Nana Jean and Grandpa Hal met her when Kaye and her husband visited friends who lived in Citrus Beach. I didn’t realize the gingerbread recipe came from her.” Dani smiled. “The recipe says to use the Dromedary box mix and add two tablespoons of lemon curd to the batter before baking. For a gourmet touch, dust with powdered sugar. I wonder if that really was her recipe, or if it’s just what she gave anyone who asked for it.”

The sisters laughed.

Dani said, “I’ll make my own recipe. I’ve seen enough to give me some good ideas to try.”

“That's the spirit,” said Chelsea. “Nana Jean would be proud of you!”

Keeping Beach Tea Shop open after their grandmother’s death had been a labor of love. They had grown up in the original tea shop she started in 1987, waiting on customers and helping their grandmother in the kitchen. But after the damage the old shop sustained during Hurricane Gordon, Nana Jean had made the decision to move her business to the then-new Citrus Beach Shoppes, a set of five separate Queen Anne buildings that were unified in style and color palette. The developer was a California transplant inspired by the Carson Mansion in Eureka to build a Victorian village on the Atlantic coast of Florida. He used citrusy colors in lemon yellow, pink grapefruit, and sunny orange to paint the buildings, acknowledging the mainstay of the local economy. The turrets, porches, and gingerbread trim glimmered in the sun and brightened even gloomy days.

It had proven to be a wise choice on Nana Jean's part, because the Citrus Beach Shoppes had become a favorite for locals and tourists alike.

However, twenty-one years had passed and the building now housing Beach Tea Shop showed its age. So when they decided to keep the little restaurant going, it took all three sisters pitching in to update it. Their combined talents contributed to make Beach Tea Shop a strong business. They all knew how to cook and decorate, but each gravitated to different areas.

Dani was the baker. Her years in culinary school and experience with bakeries in New York made her a natural for the pastries, cookies, and tarts they were becoming known for.

Chelsea loved to decorate on a budget, and raided the dollar stores and thrift shops in town. She had enjoyed starting a new life in Los Angeles, but the end of a relationship and a downsizing at her job had brought her home to Citrus Beach.

Alex had stayed home, taking business and accounting classes at the local community college during its transition to a four-year state college. She enjoyed bookkeeping. She wasn’t a cook, although she assembled a mean tea sandwich.

“When you whip up your new recipe, will you make mini gingerbread cupcakes with it?” Chelsea asked Dani. “They’d look good on the top tier of the stands.”

Before Dani could answer, the doorway wind chimes sounded.

“I thought you locked the door,” all three girls said in chorus, looking at each other. Chelsea started to get up but sank back into her seat as BevAnne Wexler's laugh preceded her into the shop.

“It’s an ill wind that blows no good, girls,” said BevAnne with a twinkle in her eyes. BevAnne had been Nana Jean’s best friend since childhood, and she had known the girls all their lives. Since the passing of Grandpa Hal and their parents eleven years ago in a car accident, BevAnne had been a staple in the girls’ lives. She and Nana Jean raised the three sisters, teaching them how to sew and cook before sending them off to college. The bond between the girls and BevAnne was strong enough to withstand ugly accusations several months earlier that she killed their grandmother for money. In fact, the sisters looked to BevAnne as their only remaining parental figure.

Instinctively, BevAnne turned and locked the door behind her before accepting a group hug from the sisters. Her black heels raised her to Alex’s height, but Dani and Chelsea stood several inches taller. BevAnne seemed plumper than she really was compared to the slenderness of the younger women. She was dressed for the season in a green pantsuit and a red sweater, and accessorized with a green and red silk scarf tied around her neck. Green beads dangled from her ears and Taboo perfume enveloped the girls as she wrapped her arms around them all. When the embrace ended, BevAnne sniffed the air appreciatively.

“Oh, you’ve been baking cinnamon rolls! Are there any left, or did the smell of cinnamon and caramelized sugar entice your customers into eating them all up?” BevAnne asked as she placed her coat on a hook and joined them at the table. “I see you found Jean’s old recipe book! I haven’t thought about it in ages. Hmm, I remember Kaye Housel. She made those silhouettes of your grandparents when they were visiting friends up in Rangeley, Maine.”

BevAnne's comment caused them all to turn and stare at the wall where two black paper silhouettes were hung. The silhouettes of their grandparents were set against a white background, framed in ebony, and given a place of honor in the small shop.

“Alex, you favor Jean,” BevAnne said. “Got the same coloring and profile.”

All three sisters resembled their grandmother, but it was Alex who had dark brown eyes and auburn hair. Dani and Chelsea had inherited their father’s coloring, both having hazel eyes and light brown hair.

“I never thought about where those silhouettes came from. They’ve always been a part of the Beach Tea Shop decor,” Alex said.

“Even in black and white, they look just like Nana Jean and Grandpa Hal, don’t they?” Chelsea asked.

Dani agreed. “Just the way I remember them. Let’s finish cleaning up and get the side work ready for tomorrow. I’ve got bread dough and cookies to make.” She closed the recipe book and took it with her to the kitchen.

“I’ll go help with the prep work, while you two finish up out here,” said BevAnne, getting up to follow Dani. The smooth jazz holiday songs stopped, and the Foo Fighters started singing about sonic highways.

Alex and Chelsea finished cleaning the glass that rested over each of the tables. They rolled silverware into green napkins and threaded the package into silver napkin rings. Chairs were moved to one side of the dining room and the empty floor mopped, then all of the chairs were moved to the other side to mop the rest of the floor. Chairs were set around tables, places set for the next day, and quilted glass votives were set in the center of each table. Wicks were trimmed as needed and oil levels were topped off.

“What do you think about having a Gingerbread Bake-Off?” Alex asked. She finished her side first and helped Chelsea with her side. “It’s a crazy idea, isn’t it?”

“When would we do it? Tomorrow’s Saturday, we’re closed Sunday, and Tuesday is the Holiday Tea,” Chelsea said. “Is there enough time to tell people and get it organized?”

“I could send out an email to our customer list. We could do it Tuesday, before the Holiday Tea.”

“Who would judge it?” Chelsea asked.

Dani stuck her head out of the kitchen and said, “I’ll ask Mallory and Devon. They don’t open The Beach Grill until dinner and could pop out for an hour around lunchtime. Let me see how everything looks.” As was their habit, she joined her sisters to admire the results of their hard work. The three of them stood in the doorway and gazed out over the tea shop.

White walls created an even canvas for the different frames Chelsea had found at flea markets and yard sales. All the frames, no matter their original color, were spray-painted black. Smooth frames were then coated with a clear lacquer to give them shine. Frames with nooks and crevices were given yet another coat of black spray paint to even out the color. Once the frames were dry, she used textured pale pink mats to set off vintage advertisements for tea.

The broad front windows were bookended by black and white ticking stripe fabric panels, trimmed with black ball fringe. A two-foot cornice of the same fabric covered the drapery rod and created the illusion that the windows went all the way up to the ceiling. Black fleur de lis brackets swept back the drapes. All three girls had worked on the drapery panels, and then BevAnne had lovingly added the trim.

Chelsea had struck gold at a local thrift store with thirty chairs that only needed black paint to camouflage their nicked legs and stretchers. Black and white toile de jouy fabric covered the tufted seat cushions.

The six tables for patrons were also thrift store finds, and again black paint was used to give them a uniform look despite their different styles. Black and white toile de jouy remnants in different patterns served as tablecloths. Glass tops rested on the fabric to keep it clean.

Three chests were lined up against one wall of the tea shop. Chelsea had painted them light gray, and topped them with pink lacquered trays to hold water glasses and pitchers. Drawers were filled with extra placemats, napkins, and napkin rings. Her tendency to hoard linens and extra tableware was occasionally a bone of contention between the cost-conscious Alex and her sister.

In anticipation of the holidays, the tables had been set with red placemats and green linens. Glass vases held pine branches and white flowers. Green metallic chargers cradled white plates.

“It certainly looks festive, doesn’t it?” Dani said.

Alex and Chelsea agreed.

“Back to work, girls,” BevAnne said, sticking her head out from the kitchen.

“Duty calls,” said Dani, as she started toward the back of the shop.

Chelsea turned to Alex. “Why don’t you round up the garbage, and I’ll see how I can help Dani and BevAnne? Deal?”

“Absolutely, then I’ll work on the books and post today’s receipts and make up the bank deposit.” Alex took her apron off and hung it on a peg. “I don’t need this to do bookwork.”

“All right, Dani! Here I come! I'm ready to punch some dough!” said Chelsea, as she headed toward the kitchen. Alex smiled, knowing Chelsea would do whatever Dani and BevAnne needed her to do.

It took several minutes for Alex to gather up the garbage and open the back door to take the bags to the dumpsters that were shared by all the shopping center businesses. To that end, it had been centrally located. The five buildings ran in a staggered pattern. Two buildings were close to the parking lot, and three buildings were close to the dunes overlooking the ocean, with the dumpster smack in the middle. The height of the dunes separated shoppers from beach-goers, but a boardwalk on the southern end of the parking lot allowed beach access. Beach Tea Shop was the center building close to the dunes, closest to the trash container, but still convenient to the parking lot.

Alex enjoyed the tang of sea air as she walked between the buildings to the northern-most part of the parking lot. The day’s heat had warmed the vegetation, an unkempt tangle of bushes and scrub trees. But the fresh scent of leaves was overlaid with the smell of unwashed skin and dirty clothes. Alex slowed her steps and looked around warily. The bushes were sheltered by an embankment, and on occasion, homeless people were known to sleep there.

A noise startled Alex. The back of a head popped up from behind the dumpster. Alex froze where she stood and watched an elderly man rummage through the trash and pull out a lumpy bread bag. His tattered brown overcoat covered layers of clothes, and he wore an old shearling-lined hat with ear flaps pulled down low on his head.

He looked harmless enough, and the way he stared into the bread wrapper suggested he was merely hungry.

“Hello!” Alex called.

“Huh?” The man whirled to face her.

“Can I help you?” she asked. The setting sun threw her long shadow towards him.

“Jean?” He put a trembling hand to his head and squinted at her. The last rays of the sun were in his eyes. “That you?”

“No, I'm Alex.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You look like someone I used to know. Way back when.” After shoving the bread in his pocket, he shuffled his feet and avoided Alex's gaze. “I, er, I was just looking for something that was thrown away…by mistake.”

“I’m Alexandra Powell,” Alex said. “My grandmother was Jean Powell. Is that the Jean you meant? She opened the Beach Tea Shop that’s right here in the Shoppes.”

“That's right. I remember it from the other location.” He nodded and extended a hand, “Ronald Dawson. Pleased to meet you. I knew your grandparents.”

“Really?” Alex set down the bags to return the offered shake.

“You look just like your grandmother, young lady.”

“Everybody says that. So you knew both my grandparents? That’s terrific! My sisters would like to meet you, Mr. Dawson.” Alex picked up the garbage bags and tossed them into the dumpster. “If you aren’t too busy, why don’t you come back with me and say hi? We were just going to sit down and have some tea. There'll be more than enough. We’d love for you to join us.”

“Well, now.” He smiled, smoothed the front of his shirt, took off his cap, and made an attempt to tidy his hair. For a homeless man, Alex noticed that Ronald Dawson was pretty clean. He was also very polite. “That would be nice. Very nice. Ladies first.”

Alex laughed. “We’ll walk together, how’s that?”

They walked to the back door, and Alex pulled it open. She called out, “I have a surprise. Wait until you meet our new guest!”

BevAnne came around the corner. “For heaven’s sake! Is that Ronald Dawson?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, with a courtly bow. “At your service.”

“I thought I recognized you! I’m Beverly Anne Wexler. I knew your wife. Call me BevAnne.” She patted his arm lightly. “How are you, Ronald?”

“Times have been rough since I lost my sweet wife and our son, but I’m getting back on my feet.” Mr. Dawson straightened his shoulders as he spoke. “This young lady saw me outside and invited me in. I don’t want to be in the way if y’all are busy.”

“I explained we were getting ready to take a break for tea,” Alex hurried to say.

BevAnne gave Ronald a once over. “Tea, well, yes. Yes. That's right. Ronald, why don't you come into the dining room, and we can get caught up?” Offering Ronald her arm, BevAnne led him through to the front room and settled him at a table, while Alex ducked into the kitchen. She came back quickly with a pot of fragrant tea. After setting out cups for Mr. Dawson and BevAnne, she added three more for her sisters and herself. “Dani and Chelsea will be right out with sandwiches.”

Alex listened as Ronald and BevAnne sipped tea and talked about people they knew during their younger years. Soon enough, Chelsea and Dani came out carrying two trays of sandwiches and pastries. While their guest eyed the food hungrily, BevAnne did the introductions. “Girls, this is Ronald Dawson. He was friends with your Grandpa Hal when they were growing up. He was also in the service with my Benjamin for a time, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, ma’am. They were good men,” Mr. Dawson said. “I told Miss Alex that I knew your grandparents. They were a good match for each other. I lost touch with Hal when I was in the service. I was sorry to hear he died the way he did, and your parents with him.”

Although Mr. Dawson held his tea cup in both hands, cradling it to capture every bit of warmth, he didn’t make a move to serve himself the food. He seemed to be waiting for permission to dig in.

“Please,” said Dani, pushing one of the trays closer to him. “These are a couple of new recipes I’m trying. I’d love to have your opinion.”

With that encouragement, Ronald Dawson filled his plate. The girls made desultory chatter while the man nearly inhaled two sandwiches. By his third helping, he’d slowed down enough to talk. “Your grandpa Hal was a fishing buddy of mine. I remember one time when we were going fishing in his boat and didn’t get too far out before he got us turned around. We came back to the dock, and he stomped out and up to the house. A minute later he comes stomping back to the boat, and he’s muttering. When he got closer, I hear him saying, ‘Forgot my reel. How in blue blazes can you fish without a reel?’ We laughed about that for years.”

The girls and BevAnne laughed about it, too.

BevAnne wiped her eyes and said, “I can picture him doing that. Isn’t this when you miss those who are gone the most, when you’re sitting around telling stories?”

“It sure is,” said Alex. “We always miss them, but this time of year it’s always difficult. Christmas hasn’t ever been the same because the anniversary of the accident is two days later. So it feels good to laugh and remember the good times. Thank you so much, Mr. Dawson. Your presence is a real gift to us.”

Everyone was silent for a moment, all remembering loved ones who were gone too soon.

Chelsea pushed back her chair and asked, “Do you have a place to stay tonight, Mr. Dawson?”

“No, but I’ll be fine.” He folded his napkin and placed it alongside his empty plate. “That was delicious. Those recipes, they’re topnotch. Get my seal of approval. Thank you kindly for your hospitality.”

“You’re most welcome,” Dani said. “Would you like to take what’s left for later? I’ll get a container to wrap these up.”

“That’s generous of you all. I have a little friend I’ll share it with.” Mr. Dawson pushed his chair back from the table. “I’d best be going now, and let you ladies get back to your business.”

“Is your friend outside? Why don’t you bring him in, and we’ll get more food,” Dani said.

“It’s not a he, it’s a she. A kitten, actually. I don’t believe you allow animals in here,” he said. “Or I would have brought her along.”

The girls oohed at the mention of the kitten. Chelsea said, “Please bring her in. We’ll set her up with a dish of shredded tuna and some water.”

“If you’re sure?” Mr. Dawson asked. He seemed pleased with their reaction to the news of his friend. “She’d enjoy that. She’s nothing but a baby.”

Dani looked at her sisters. Seeing their silent agreement, she said, “Look, Mr. Dawson. It’s going to get cold out there tonight. The temperature will dip into the forties. You don’t need to be out there—and your kitten shouldn’t be either. We have a daybed in the office upstairs where you could sleep tonight. It’s not much, but you’ll at least have a roof over your heads.”

“I couldn’t impose on you. Just let me get my kitten…” Mr. Dawson stood up and swayed. BevAnne got one elbow and Chelsea held the other, as they lowered him into the chair, exchanging glances over his head.

“It’s no imposition. You’re a friend of our family! Besides, when we were working on this place, we crashed on that daybed many times,” Dani said. “There’s no reason for it to go unused. The kitten will be safer inside, too. Why don’t you tell Alex where you keep your belongings, and she’ll bring them in?”

Ronald Dawson touched his head as though it hurt him.

The girls stayed silent, waiting for him to respond to their invitation.

“I think…I’ll take you up on your offer,” said Mr. Dawson. Moisture gathered in his eyes but no tears fell. “For the sake of my little friend. I’m much obliged.”

He told Alex where she could find the kitten and described his bags.

Chelsea went with Alex to retrieve his belongings from under the bush where he’d hidden them from casual view. Ronald Dawson had only a duffel bag that looked like it was from his Army days, and a garbage bag straining at its seams. A kitten was sleeping on a tarp between the bags.

“Look who I’ve got,” Alex said, entering the back door carrying the snow-white kitten.

“What a sweetie,” BevAnne said. “What is her name, Ronald?” She rubbed the soft white fur on the kitten’s belly, and the kitten purred.

“I’ve named her Mistletoe. ‘Tis the season, and it fits her,” Ronald said.

“Oh, she’s a honey,” Dani said. “I’ve put food and water for her upstairs. Chelsea, why don’t you fix up a box and some old towels for her to sleep in? Put it in the upstairs bathroom. Alex, can you empty the paper shredder into a box lid for a makeshift litter pan?”

BevAnne and Dani helped Mr. Dawson upstairs, and brought his bags up to him. After setting out the “litter box,” Alex gave their guest a quick tour. “Our main office is up here, along with a bathroom you’re welcome to use. I’ve set out towels and soap and such. There’s the daybed in this room. It’s got a great view of the parking lot,” and she laughed.

Ronald said, “This’ll do me just fine.”

“We serve breakfast starting at 9 o’clock, but I’ll be here at 7 o’clock to start the baking,” said Dani.

“I think you’ll have everything you need up here. There’s a small refrigerator in the office with water and cold drinks, and there are snacks in the cabinet. Help yourself to whatever you need,” Alex said.

After Chelsea introduced Mistletoe to her new litterbox, the kitten ate the tuna greedily, then jumped into the towel-lined box like she slept there every night.

“We have an alarm, but you’ll be fine as long as you don’t go outside,” Alex said. “Our phone numbers are on the pad next to the phone.”

“Thank you again,” he said, turning to all three of the sisters. “I am grateful for what you’ve done.”

Alex smiled, “You’re welcome, Mr. Dawson. We’re grateful for your service, and for giving us a funny story about our grandfather to remember.”

Chapter 3

 

“You did a good deed today,” said BevAnne, later that night when they were all back at the house they shared. A recent fire had damaged the home that Nana Jean had left to all three girls, and it was still being renovated so BevAnne had offered her extra rooms for their use. The girls had eagerly accepted, thinking it was just like old times. The icing on the cake was the fact that BevAnne made it clear that she loved having the girls around.

“I hope Mr. Dawson is all right,” said Chelsea. “He seemed a little dizzy when he first stood up.”

“I bet he was just hungry,” said Dani. “He ate like he was. And he hadn’t had a chance to digest his food when his legs went wobbly.”

Alex turned away from her computer where she’d been sending out notices about the Gingerbread Bake-Off. She sighed. “I only wish we could have done more for him.”

BevAnne shook her head. “You did enough. All three of you. I’m proud of you. Now I’m going to get some sleep. Tomorrow is sure to be another busy day.”

~*~

Dani was awakened by the ringing telephone. Rolling over and looking at the clock, she saw it was five in the morning. This couldn’t be good news. “Hello?” she said, still drowsy.

“Is this Danielle Powell, owner of the Beach Tea Shop?”

Dani was instantly wide awake. “Yes,” she said.

“Ms. Powell, this is Detective Troy Collins with the Citrus Beach Police Department.”

“What’s happened?” Dani sat up against the headboard and turned her bedside lamp on.

“The alarm at the business went off, and a patrol officer responded. There’s been a break-in at your shop. We need you to come down and see if anything is missing.” His voice was rough, as if he hadn’t gotten enough sleep.

“Break-in? Oh. Do you mean Mr. Dawson?”

Silence followed. Then the detective said, “Who is Mr. Dawson?”

“Our guest. An old friend of the family. He didn’t break into the shop. We let him stay there. Overnight. On the daybed. He must have set the alarm off by accident.”

“We still need you to come down and check out the shop,” said the detective.

“I’m on my way.” Dani ended the call. She threw back the covers and shivered as her warm blankets were replaced by cool air. The cold front had arrived as promised. After a quick stop in the bathroom, she dressed in the clothes she’d laid out the night before, pulling on a black cotton long-sleeved T-shirt, cream-colored cable knit sweater, and jeans. Thick socks and her chef’s clogs warmed her chilly feet, and a red scarf warmed her neck. A green car coat completed her outfit, and she walked down the hall to her sisters’ rooms.

After knocking on Alex and Chelsea’s doors, she walked into each room and woke up a sleeping sister. One by one, she told them about the call from Detective Collins and explained that she was headed to the shop.

“You can’t go alone,” said Alex. “It’s pitch black out there! One of us needs to go with you.” She was already out of bed and throwing clothes on as she talked.

“I’m coming. Honest, I am.” Chelsea called in a low whisper. She was slower at waking up and coming to her senses, so it was decided she would follow along later in a separate car.

“It’s not convenient to only have one car there,” Chelsea said, and her sisters agreed. “I’ll leave a note for BevAnne before I go so she knows what’s going on, and then I’ll drive over to the shop.”

Sunrise was still an hour away as Dani and Alex drove to the Citrus Beach Shoppes. The dark sky seemed a match to the cold morning. When they arrived at the Beach Tea Shop, they saw yellow crime scene had been draped across the front door.

A policeman waved them to a stop. Dani showed her drivers’ license to the uniformed officer. He’d been expecting her and directed them to a space in the parking lot after radioing the detective that they had arrived. Despite how warmly they were dressed, the cool air made both Dani and Alex shiver. They shook even more as they watched the activity swirling around them.

A police car’s flashing blue and red lights threw crazy patterns on the trees that separated the parking lot from Ocean Avenue. Walkie-talkies crackled. A crime scene van sat nearby with its rear doors open, and people in Tyvek jumpsuits moved briskly to and from the vehicle.

Alex clutched Dani’s arm.

“What happened here?” Dani murmured. “All this because Ronald Dawson set off an alarm?”

Alex shook her head. “I have a bad feeling about this. This isn’t the first time that alarm has gone off, but I don’t remember there being so much hubbub. Do you?”

“No.” Dani shivered.

The policeman who’d waved them into the parking lot trotted over. “The detective says he will meet you around front.”

The girls held onto each other as they walked around the building. Despite the pre-dawn darkness, there was ample illumination to guide them, thanks to the security lights of the Citrus Beach Shoppes and the tea shop’s porch lights.

As they rounded the corner, a man standing on the porch turned to face them. Ducking under the yellow caution tape, he jogged down the three steps to the walkway. “Danielle Powell?” His voice was still husky, as if he hadn’t talked much since he’d spoken to her thirty minutes earlier.

“Yes, and this is my sister, Alex.” Dani noted his blond hair looked like he’d been running his fingers through it. His brown leather bomber jacket showed off broad shoulders and a slim waist, while dark khakis highlighted long legs.

“Detective Troy Collins,” he said, offering his hand to both women in a businesslike manner.

“Our sister Chelsea is on her way,” said Dani. “Have you seen Mr. Dawson? Is he all right? Can we go inside?”

“I can’t let you go inside yet. Let’s sit on the porch and talk.” Detective Collins led the way up the steps to one of the tables set outside for those guests who preferred dining al fresco.

“But Mr. Dawson,” said Alex. “Where is he?”

“Please sit down,” said the detective, as he gestured toward a table. “Can you describe Mr. Dawson for me? What was he wearing when you last saw him?”

“A tattered overcoat. Brown. Layers. A dingy white shirt.” Alex squinched her eyes shut as she tried to recollect their guest.

“Oh, and he had this cap,” said Dani. “Fur-lined with ear flaps. He must be in his early seventies or so. Gray hair. Needed a shave. Why are you asking us? Did he leave? Already?”

Detective Collins pulled a pad out of his jacket pocket. Flipping it open, he scanned his notes and said, “When the alarm at Beach Tea Shop went off at 2 o’clock this morning, a patrol car responded. The officer observed an older white male lying on the ground in the parking lot. The man was unconscious. It looked like he had been the victim of a hit and run.”

“What?” Alex half-rose out of her chair. Dani grabbed at her.

“I’m sorry to tell you that the description of the male on the ground matches what you’ve told me that Mr. Dawson was wearing.”

“Is he okay?” Dani blurted out. “We need to go see him!”

Slowly Detective Collins shook his head. His voice was gentle. “I’m sorry. That won’t be possible. He didn’t make it.”

“Oh, oh, oh!” Alex burst into noisy sobs. Dani put her arms around her sister and rocked her, patting her back and making soothing noises. When Alex had quieted, Dani turned to the detective and said, “Tell us everything. Everything.”

Detective Collins nodded solemnly. “The responding officer called for an ambulance and back up. He administered first aid until the medics arrived. They took the victim to the hospital, while the responding officer secured the scene. A second squad car arrived. Those officers toured the area to see if anyone else needed help and to determine the cause of the alarm being triggered. One officer spotted an open window at the Beach Tea Shop. Crime scene officers were dispatched to process both the scene where Mr. Dawson was found and the break-in.”

He paused, licked a finger, and turned a page. Taking a pen out of his jacket, he looked at Dani and Alex. “You were contacted after the area was secured.”

“Are you sure that man in the parking lot was Mr. Dawson?” Alex asked. Her hand was at her throat, as if warding off a blow she knew was coming.

“We haven’t an official identification; however, the man matches your description. And no one else is here in your shop.” Detective Collins looked down at his pad and then at the sisters. In a gentle tone, he asked, “Would you mind explaining to me why would you let a homeless man sleep inside your restaurant?”

“We have a daybed up there.” Alex’s voice trembled. “He is—was—an old friend of our family. And of BevAnne Wexler. She’s sort of our grandmother. We live with her. She knows—knew—Mr. Dawson.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Detective Collins’s voice was gentle.

Silence was broken by one of the crime scene techs coming out the front door and onto the porch. “We’re finished,” he said, with a big sweep of his arm. “You can go in now.”

Detective Collins stood up and motioned for Dani and Alex to follow him. As they got to their feet, Chelsea came running up the front steps. “BevAnne will be here in a bit. She told me not to wait for her.”

“Chelsea! You won’t believe it! They found Mr. Dawson, and he’s dead!” Alex wailed.

“What?” Chelsea nearly staggered under the weight of this new information. “Wait. Are you sure?”

Dani proceeded to introduce Detective Clinton and to explain what they’d learned. Chelsea stood at the top of the steps, holding onto the bannister in shock. “I don’t understand.” She lifted her hand to wipe tears from her eyes. “He seemed to be okay. He was hungry, sure, but dead? That’s impossible! How?”

“We’re not sure yet,” said Detective Collins. “We think he was the victim of a hit and run in the parking lot. Look, why don’t we go inside? I need for you to take a look around and tell me if anything is missing.”

He held the door open for them, and they crossed the threshold. Shocked gasps from the three women was a suitable reaction to the mess inside. Tables were knocked askew, their glass tops had been broken into pieces. Three chairs were lying on their sides. The legs of one of the chairs had been snapped off. Vases had been smashed to the floor. Flowers were strewn everywhere, lying in puddles of water and glass. An open window blew in frigid air. Something in the chaos reminded Dani of Nana Jean, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. Was it the sight of the destruction? Was this a flashback to the hurricane? She couldn’t tell.

Chelsea and Alex stared at the damaged and disordered furnishings. “What a mess! Why would someone break in here? We don’t have anything valuable,” Chelsea said. “We take our deposit to the bank at the end of each business day. There isn’t any money lying around.”

“Mistletoe,” said Alex. “Where’s Mistletoe?”

“That’s Mr. Dawson’s cat,” Dani hurriedly explained to the detective. “Kitten, really. She’s pure white. If he went outside, maybe it was because she wouldn’t use the litter box.”

“But she did,” said Chelsea. “I watched her.”

“But maybe he didn’t realize she did,” continued Dani. “And if he took her outside, that could have been what set off the alarm.”

Detective Collins said, “As far as I know, there wasn’t a kitten with him or in the area. But then, no one knew to look for one. And if it’s small—”

“She is,” said Alex.

“Then it might be hiding,” said Detective Collins. “Animals do that when they feel threatened. I’ll call animal control.”

While he was on the phone, Chelsea and Alex hugged each other as tears slid down their faces. They’d only met Mr. Dawson yesterday, but the time they’d spent together and his connection to their grandparents made them feel the loss of a gentle man.

Meanwhile, Dani ran to the back stairs, opened the door, and hurried up to the office. She dropped to her hands and knees and crawled around on the floor. Finally, she found Mistletoe cowering under the daybed. Dani picked her up and examined her. Nothing on the kitten seemed amiss except for a bit of red on the tip of her claws on one paw. “That’s odd,” Dani said. “I don’t see anything wrong with your paw. Where did that red stuff come from, huh? Is it blood? Are you hurt? Okay, let’s take you downstairs. My sisters are going to be so glad to see you.”

Coming downstairs, she cradled Mistletoe in her arms.

“Detective? Mistletoe has something red on her claw. It could be blood, but she doesn’t seem hurt. Maybe she scratched whoever broke in.”

“Did Mr. Dawson try to stop the intruder? Is that what happened? I bet he chased the person out into the parking lot,” Alex said and then she hesitated. “Did he die because he was here?”

“We don’t know,” Detective Collins replied. “It’s possible. At first, we thought that he might have tripped the alarm, if he had been your intruder, but from what you’ve told me, that’s not right. So, you’re right; he might have fought with the intruder. He could have stopped the intruder from stealing whatever he came for. Perhaps, as you suggested, he even chased the intruder outside into the parking lot, and then was hit by a car.”

“So you’re saying that he’d still be alive if we hadn’t tried to help him.” Chelsea’s voice had fallen to a whisper.

Dani and Alex murmured agreement.

“You tried to help him, but I’m the one who actually invited him to stay here,” said Dani. “So it’s my fault if he died because he was in our tea shop last night. My fault.”

“We don’t know that,” Detective Collins said. His face reflected deep concern, especially when he looked at Dani. “But here’s what we do know: This is not your fault. Feeding a homeless man and making sure he’s got a warm, safe place to sleep isn’t a crime. Breaking into a business is. Hitting someone with a car and leaving him to die is definitely a crime. What you did was a kindness. You aren’t responsible for what happened next.”

Dani agreed in spirit, but guilt lingered under sorrow. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she said. “Not only is it the anniversary of the deaths of our parents and Grandpa Hal, but it’s also our first Christmas without Nana Jean. I don’t know about you two, but keeping myself busy has been the only thing that kept me from really feeling the grief. Now this! Not only is Mr. Dawson dead, but our tea shop has been trashed!” As she spoke, she cuddled Mistletoe to her chest, letting her falling tears dampen the soft fur. But Mistletoe felt the moisture trickling down onto her head. She squirmed in Dani’s arms and turned until she could lick the tears off the girl’s chin. The unexpected sandpapery rasp caused Dani to smile.

The tense atmosphere eased a bit.

“I know it’s hard, but I still need you to look around and see if anything has been taken,” said Detective Collins. “It’s possible Ronald Dawson frightened off the intruder before he took anything.”

Dani, Chelsea, and Alex moved around the shop, looking at the damage, making notes about what needed replacing or repairing, and checking to see if anything was missing. The office was not disturbed, but the kitchen showed definite signs of having been searched.

It was Dani who noticed that Nana Jean’s recipe book was gone. “I left it here on the counter last night, because I planned to make one of her coffee cake recipes this morning for breakfast.”

Detective Collins looked at Dani and said, “Was it a valuable book?”

She smiled. “Only to us. It has sentimental value because it belonged to our grandmother. She handwrote some recipes in it, and some were taped inside, if they came from friends or the box or package for an ingredient. It was a scrapbook as much as a recipe book.”

Detective Collins closed his notebook and said, “You’ll be able to get the police report after Tuesday. You’ll need it for the insurance.” He handed a business card to Dani. “This has my contact information on it. Call if you find anything else is missing. The case number is at the bottom. You’ll need it to access the report. My personal cell phone number is there, too, on the back. In case you need it.” And he colored slightly.

Just then, BevAnne burst through the front door. Her white coat was unbuttoned to show her red pantsuit and white cashmere sweater. She had tossed a red and white scarf around her throat. Black low-heeled pumps completed her ensemble. Despite the early hour, her hair and makeup were impeccable as always. “Girls, are you okay? I woke up early and found your note. Oh! Oh, my!” She paused as she took in the damage.

Spotting the detective, she said, “Are you in charge?”

Detective Collins answered with a smile, “Yes. I’m Detective Troy Collins. Pleasure to meet you.”

BevAnne looked him up and down before giving him a nod of approval. “I’m Beverly Anne Wexler, and the pleasure is all mine.”

Dani interrupted with, “It wasn’t just a break-in, BevAnne. Mr. Dawson is dead. They found him unconscious in the parking lot. He’d been hit by a car, and then he died!”

“Oh, no,” BevAnne said. Tears sprang to her eyes. She dabbed them with a tissue and said, “He was a dear man. Detective, do you think you’ll find the person who did this?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Detective Collins said. “I believe we will.”

BevAnne said, “Thank you for that small comfort.”

“You’re welcome. Ladies? I think I have everything I need for now. Please call if you have any new information,” he said. Goodbyes were exchanged, and he left.

BevAnne stood in the middle of their dining room floor. As she took off her coat, she looked around at the mess and said, “All right, girls. We’ve got work to do. It’s sad about Ronald. But if he’s anything like my Benjamin, he wouldn’t want whoever did this to feel like they won. And they will have won, if you don’t open for business. Let’s put on our game faces and get busy.”

It took two hours for the four women to put the tea shop to rights. They cleaned up the broken vases, flowers, and water. They righted the chairs, straightened the tables, threw out broken items, and made a list of what needed to be replaced.

Fortunately, BevAnne had been working on new red and white toile de jouy tablecloths she’d finished the day before. Taking Mistletoe home with her, BevAnne raced back to her house and picked up the new soft goods. Working together, the women replaced the wet or damaged tablecloths with the new ones.

Their large stock of extra linens came in handy as they replaced white placemats with red ones. They unwrapped the silverware and rewrapped it in white napkins. Red beads strung on wire encircled the silverware packets and provided holiday color. To replace the broken vases, they used shallow glass bowls. Rolled greenery was set inside. When it unfurled, it pressed against the sides, leaving room for three battery-operated tea lights set on upside-down red saucers in the center. Chelsea retrieved two bags of cranberries from the cooler and scattered them over the greenery. Silver chargers replaced the green ones, and red and white transferware plates completed the table settings.

Alex said, “I’ll never question your purchases of plates and silverware again, Chelsea. I thought we had too many, but you never know when you’ll need to have stock in reserve.”

“Nana Jean always said to buy it when you found it, if the price was right. Things might not match, but if you have a similar color scheme and similar shapes, you can mix and match what you have.” Chelsea tweaked the last place setting, making a minor adjustment, and said, “We’re ready if Dani is.”

Dani had already been busy in the kitchen. But now, Alex, Chelsea, and BevAnne pitched in to help with the breakfast prep. The scent of baking bread and breakfast dishes soon infused the tea shop with mouth-watering aromas.

“Between last-minute shoppers and lookie-lous, I think today’s going to be a busy one,” said Dani, as she paused to catch her breath.

“Gracious, girls, it’s only 9 o’clock and I’m exhausted! I’ll pick up some things for Mistletoe and go home and put my feet up for a while,” BevAnne said. A chorus of See you later and Come back if you’re hungry followed her out the door.

Alex turned the “Open” sign on, and the girls greeted their first curious customers.

Chapter 4

 

Saturday afternoon’s rush had ended, but three tables still had seated diners. As Alex cleared another table, the wind chimes hanging on the door heralded new arrivals. Ruby Hayward and Phoebe Nolan came in. Both had windblown hair and were wearing wool pants and cashmere sweaters under light coats.

“Welcome, ladies. You look like you need a nice pot of tea to warm you up,” Alex said.

“I must say, I’m glad I had warm clothes to wear. It’s just that cold. I told myself, Ruby, you’re a fool if you think a dress will be warm enough in this weather.” Ruby settled herself in her favorite spot in the corner, and Phoebe sat next to her.

“Did I hear correctly that you had a break-in last night?” Ruby asked. She looked around, and said, “That must be wrong. Everything looks just as right as rain.”

“We did have a break-in last night. Fortunately, Nana Jean’s recipe book was the only thing taken, and there wasn’t much damage,” Alex said. She didn’t mention Mr. Dawson. She still held out hope that his death was unrelated to the break-in. Furthermore, Alex couldn’t bear to have his situation dissected and gossiped over by these two women. No, she thought, Mr. Dawson deserves better.

“I’m sorry to hear that someone broke in. You girls are troupers to be open now. I believe I’d be home in bed if something like that happened to me,” Phoebe said. Then she and Ruby read the specials card on the table and placed their orders.

Alex and Chelsea served the customers who came and went, chatting with anyone who had a moment to catch up on news. Many had heard about the break-in and wanted to get more details. But Alex and Chelsea diverted prodding questions with a smile and offers of more hot tea to ward off the chill.

It helped that customers had received the emails Alex had sent about the Gingerbread Bake-Off. People were talking about whose recipe would win. Ruby Hayward was favored by many who were familiar with her prize-winning gingerbread.

Speculation about the break-in was rampant, with people adding bits of gossip overheard at other stores in the Citrus Beach Shoppes. Alex was amused to hear how wrong most of the information was.

Ruby said, “Those skateboarding boys are trouble, if you ask me. I wouldn’t be surprised one bit to hear they’re behind the vandalism. I heard on good authority that they were here last night, just to defy you, Alex.”

“I hadn’t heard that. I’ll be sure to pass that along to the detective,” Alex said.

“Is Detective Riordan in charge?” Ruby asked. “He’s been here forever, and just knows everything that is going on. He’ll get to the bottom of that business with the homeless man, too.”

“No, Detective Troy Collins is working the case.” Alex held a tea pot in one hand, a pitcher of water in the other. “Top off your tea or water, ladies?”

She wondered if it was small of her to think they had come more for the gossip than for the tea, and decided that it was. She sighed and got back to work.

Chapter 5

 

Alex called Detective Collins to report the rumors. “The new one I heard is that skateboarders might have been here last night. I had a run-in with a few boys yesterday, and it’s possible there might be some truth to it.”

“I’ll check it out, but I don’t think this was the work of teenagers. Do you have any names?” Troy asked.

“Jacob Turner is one of them. I’m sure his parents will know the names of the other boys,” Alex said.

~*~

After they ended their call, Troy Collins added the name to his notes and phoned Mr. and Mrs. Turner. They were at home. He explained to them that he was interested in what Jacob might know about last night’s crime. If the boy had been skateboarding last night out by the Citrus Beach Shoppes, perhaps he had seen what happened to Ronald Dawson. Any leads would be helpful.

It took some convincing on his part, but eventually Troy persuaded the Turners to let him interview Jacob in their home. After all, it was either that or talk to their son at the police department.

Driving down Ocean Avenue on a sunny day to the gated community where the Turners lived was a welcome change for Troy. He’d grown up in New York, gladly trading its winter snow and freezing temperatures for Florida’s blazing hot summers.

Arriving at the Turners’ home, he walked to the front door and noted the lush landscaping, marveling at the contrast to the snowy land he’d left. He rang the doorbell, and moments later the door opened. Mr. Turner was a tall man in good shape, wearing dress pants and a white shirt. His collar was unbuttoned, but he carried a tie in his left hand. He used his body to fill the doorway, blocking Troy’s entrance.

“Mr. Turner? I’m Detective Troy Collins. Thank you for taking the time to see me today. A man died last night in the parking lot of the Citrus Beach Shoppes. If your son saw anything last night, anything at all, we need to know. He could be in danger.”

Emotions went to war on Mr. Turner’s face, but after a second, he stood aside and invited Troy into the house.

“Honey, the detective is here,” Mr. Turner called out. Pausing before they walked too deeply inside the home, he said, “My son Jacob is out by the pool. There’s a lot of privacy. It’s not too cold right now, unless you’d rather talk to him inside.”

“No, outside is fine.” The house was fragrant from something baking in the oven. A woman Troy took to be Mrs. Turner was in the kitchen, studying a recipe book. She wore a black dress and gleaming white pearls around her neck. Troy was struck by her 1950’s housewife vibe.

“I’m Betsy Turner, Detective,” she said as she looked up from her book. “Would you like something to drink, or some gingerbread to eat?”

“I’m not holding up your dinner, am I?” Troy asked.

“No, we have dinner reservations at eight. I’m actually baking gingerbread to take for lunch after church tomorrow. It’s a new recipe I want to try before the Bake-Off on Tuesday.”

“It smells delicious,” Troy said. Noting the anxious expression on Mrs. Turner’s face, he added, “This shouldn’t take long. I just need to find out if Jacob saw anything.”

“This way,” said Mr. Turner, as he opened one side of a set of French doors. The men stepped out into the weak sunlight. “Jacob, this is Detective Collins.”

The son mirrored his father’s preppy good looks, and Troy thought when Jacob filled out in a few years he would be taller than Mr. Turner.

“Hello, sir,” Jacob said. He stood and shook hands with Troy. Jacob’s palm was damp with nerves. Troy noted Jacob’s nervousness. Maybe the rumor about the boy’s involvement wasn’t as farfetched as he’d initially thought.

“Hello, Jacob. I heard you were skateboarding yesterday at the Citrus Beach Shoppes yesterday afternoon, is that correct?” Troy asked.

“Yes, sir.” Jacob looked down as he replied.

Mr. Turner stared at his son but remained quiet. His lips tightened, and Troy thought Jacob might be in trouble with his parents.

“Miss Alexandra Powell stated that you and four other boys were together, and she sent you home. The Beach Tea Shop was broken into last night, and someone said they’d heard skateboarders were there. Is there anything you want to tell me?”

“No, sir. She did tell us not to skateboard there, and we left. We didn’t go back last night.” Jacob fidgeted, shifting his weight from one foot to another.

Troy thought he was being less than totally truthful.

“A man died last night, Jacob. If you were there and had anything to do with it, it’s better if you tell me now. If it comes out later, you’ll be in trouble. A lot of trouble. And you could be in danger, too.” Troy watched Jacob carefully for his reaction to this news.

“He died? Seriously? We didn’t do anything,” Jacob said. “I swear it! We didn’t go back to her shop. We were just hanging around the general area, that’s all. Then we heard people arguing and so we left. We were just messing around. Honest! We passed a car with its engine running in the parking lot. Maybe they heard something.”

Mr. Turner said, “Geez, Jacob, what were you thinking? You know you aren’t supposed to be out skateboarding in the shops. How many times do we have to go over this? I suppose the other boys were Nicholas, Andrew, Ryan, and Austin?”

“Yes, sir,” Jacob said. He kept his eyes focused on his knees not looking at either of the adults.

“Detective, I can give you their names and their parents’ phone numbers,” said Mr. Turner, with a gesture of impatience. “Look, they’re not usually troublemakers. I’m sure you aren’t suggesting that they killed a man! That’s just not possible.”

Troy sidestepped the question. “Thank you. Your help is very much appreciated, Mr. Turner. I’ll give the other boys a call to confirm what Jacob has told me. Jacob, what did the car look like? Were you able to see who was inside?” Troy wondered if there really had been a car or if Jacob was making this up, creating a red herring to throw the detective off the track.

“I couldn’t see inside. Not much at least. There were two people in the car. The windows were fogged up, and we thought they were making out. People usually hang out on the beach, but it was too cold last night. When we saw them, we decided we should just get away from there. So we did.”

“Is there anything, anything else you can tell me? Something that might help me identify the car?” Troy pressed.

Jacob thought for a minute and then said, “It had a parking sticker for Citrus Beach State College with the number 1218 on it.”

“Are you sure?” Troy asked.

“Yes. It’s kind of this game I play. Memorizing numbers by association. See, yesterday was December 18, and it was our last day of school. So it was twelve eighteen, right? I remember the number on the parking sticker, because it was the same as the date.”

Troy felt his spirits lift. This was not only a lead, but a solid one. “Thank you, Jacob, you’ve been very helpful. Mr. Turner, I’ll get the information for the other boys now if you have it. I’ll be in touch if I have any more questions.”

Chapter 6

 

Sunday morning Troy contacted the security officer at Citrus Beach State College and told him what information he needed. The security officer provided it, and Troy hung up. He updated his notes and made a phone call to the owner of the car.

“This is Detective Troy Collins. I’m calling for Rebecca Nolan, is she available?”

“No, I’m sorry. This is her mother, Phoebe, can I help you?” The woman’s voice was tight with nerves.

“Ma’am, I’m following up about a crime that occurred two nights ago,” said Troy. He listened intently for any sounds from the other end of the receiver.

A soft gasp and then, a quivering voice said, “Rebecca isn’t home. She’s on a cruise with her brother and their father. Is there something I can help you with?”

“I think it’s best for me to talk to you in person. When are you available?” Troy asked.

“I’ve got an appointment in an hour, but you can come now if you’d like,” Phoebe said.

He drove to Phoebe Nolan’s home, his interest piqued by her answer. If Rebecca wasn’t home, who had used her car on Friday night?

He pulled into a driveway with weeds growing along the sides. Bushes were overgrown, and the grass needed cutting. The house looked to be in decent shape, but Troy wondered at the yard’s neglect.

He knocked on the door. The woman who peered out from behind the door looked as if she was sheltering herself from a blow. She was dressed in wool pants and a soft sweater, with a holiday scarf tossed around her shoulders.

“Mrs. Nolan? I’m Detective Troy Collins. May I come in?” Troy offered his hand to shake, and she grasped the tips of his fingers with cold hands. Troy wondered if nerves had made her hands cold.

She hesitated and then said, “Yes.”

After Troy followed her into her living room, she said, “Can I offer you something to drink? I have gingerbread if you’re hungry.”

“No, ma’am, but thank you. I just have a few questions.” Troy stayed on his feet and looked around. The house was immaculate, and again he wondered about the neglected yard. It seemed like a wrong note, a jarring out of sync sound. “Your daughter Rebecca’s car was seen Friday night in the parking lot at the Citrus Beach Shoppes. There was a break-in that same night, and a man was found dead nearby. I’m trying to locate whoever was in the car. Do you or your husband know who that might be?”

“I can’t speak for my husband. You see, I’m divorced from Rebecca’s father, and as I said, he’s on a cruise. My car is in the shop, and I was using my daughter’s car Friday night.” Phoebe twisted a ring on her finger. She avoided looking at Troy and studied her shoes. “I’m sorry, I don’t have anything to tell you. I didn’t see anyone breaking into the Tea Shop.”

“Were you with someone?” Troy had confirmed Jacob’s story with the four other boys, and all had agreed there were two people in the car. “Is there anyone who can vouch for you?”

“Yes.” Phoebe sighed. “I was with someone, a friend. I’m sorry about the homeless man who died, but I really don’t have anything more to tell you.”

Troy’s interest sharpened at the mention of a homeless man. That was not general knowledge, and Ronald Dawson’s identity hadn’t been released yet.

“How did you know the man was homeless?” he asked.

Phoebe looked puzzled. “Everyone’s talking about it. It’s all that the people at the tea shop were buzzing about yesterday. That, and the Gingerbread Bake-Off. Ruby and I stopped in for a bite to eat and some tea. She must have mentioned that the man was homeless.”

“Ruby who? And what is your friend’s name?”

“Ruby Hayward. We’ve been friends forever, at least we were.” Phoebe looked up with shining eyes. Squaring her shoulders, she said, “I was with Rob Hayward last night. Ruby’s husband.”

Chapter 7

 

Sunday afternoon, and Troy settled in with a beer in his hand and football on the TV. It was the one break he’d allowed himself during the investigation, a chance to clear his head before starting back in. Troy had scheduled an interview with Rob and Ruby Hayward for Monday morning. They were out of town until then and wouldn’t be home until late Sunday evening.

Troy mulled over what he’d learned while he watched the game. His New York Giants were at home against the Carolina Panthers, but this game didn’t impact the Giants’ playoff chances.

He felt good about the progress he’d made on this case and thought he’d be able to make an arrest on Monday or Tuesday. Funny that he’d barely been aware of gingerbread’s existence, and now it seemed that was all people were baking. Maybe he should talk to Danielle Powell and get some information about the relationships between his suspects. Or learn more about the Gingerbread Bake-Off. Find out about the recipes. Maybe one of them was special.

Sure, Troy, that’s why you want to talk to her, he thought, as he felt his face redden.

~*~

“Hurry, girls, the game is starting. You’ll miss the opening kickoff,” BevAnne said. Dani, Chelsea, and Alex made nachos and poured wine. BevAnne was already watching their Miami Dolphins football team play the San Diego Chargers. BevAnne was a die-hard Dol-Fan, and she taught the girls to cheer for the Dolphins as soon as they could talk. She insisted they watch each game from the beginning to the sometimes bitter end.

Watching football together on Sunday was part of their routine since they’d come to live with BevAnne. It was a welcome break from the tea shop and gave them all a chance to catch up with each other. As a consequence, BevAnne often said she was in no hurry for the builders to finish the renovations to Nana Jean’s house. “I love having you girls here. Especially with Christmas coming!”

The real tree she’d purchased was fresh enough to suffuse the family room with piney scent. Fairy lights sparkled in the branches. Fancy glass ornaments mingled with rustic handmade ornaments the girls had given BevAnne over the years. Presents sat on the red, white, and green tree skirt. Each time she looked at it, BevAnne’s spirits felt a lift…despite the bad news about Ronald Dawson’s death.

“I talked to Detective Collins yesterday about a rumor that the skateboarders came back Friday night after we closed,” Alex said.

“What did he find out?” Chelsea asked. “Has he figured out what the intruder was looking for?”

“I haven’t heard anything. What could someone be looking for? We don’t keep money there, except a few dollars to make change. Nothing in the shop is really valuable,” Alex said. “If someone wanted food, we’d help them out, just like we did with Mr. Dawson.”

They stopped talking for a moment, until Mistletoe raced out from under the sofa and pounced on Dani’s shin, and they laughed.

Dani carefully unhooked the kitten’s claws from her jeans. “I’ve been thinking and thinking. What could have happened Friday afternoon to precipitate a break-in? I was in the kitchen. Chelsea was serving tables. The shop was busy. We had lots of customers. Alex showed up. She announced she’d found Nana Jean’s recipe book. We started talking about the gingerbread recipe. Could that be it? Everyone used to go on and on about Nana Jean’s gingerbread.”

Alex shook her head. “Who besides us would want that particular recipe? Ruby Hayward has won awards with her own recipe. Phoebe Nolan suggested having a Gingerbread Bake-Off. You should have seen Ruby, she looked like someone hit her between the eyes when Phoebe made that suggestion.”

“That couldn’t be it. Who would steal Nana Jean’s recipe?” Chelsea asked.

“You’d be surprised,” said Dani. “People get so invested in winning awards. What if Ruby felt threatened that Nana Jean’s recipe had been found?” She tickled Mistletoe’s belly, and the kitten purred.

“Ruby worked for Jean,” BevAnne said. “She helped out at the old shop for a couple of years before Hurricane Gordon damaged it, and Jean moved to the Citrus Beach Shoppes. I seem to remember that Ruby helped Jean clean up and move after the storm, but I don’t remember if she worked at the new shop. And the next year is when she started winning awards. Maybe Jean gave her the recipe as a thank-you gift. It would explain why Jean never made her gingerbread after that, and why Ruby started winning.” BevAnne paused for a moment to check the football game, and the Dolphins scored a touchdown.

The four women’s cheers startled Mistletoe, who ran to the bed BevAnne had set up in the corner. Toys scattered as she streaked under a blanket, and soon her nose and eyes were all anyone could see.

“Poor thing, we scared her,” Dani said.

“She’ll be fine. She knows she’s safe,” BevAnne said. “She just doesn’t like loud noises.”

“Let’s go back to the gingerbread,” Alex said. “Could Nana Jean have given Ruby a copy of her recipe? We were talking about finding the recipe book Friday afternoon, and Ruby saw me take it to the office. Should we tell Detective Collins about this?”

“Do you honestly think Ruby was the intruder? How could she have gotten into the shop?” asked Chelsea.

Alexa’s mouth formed a big O. “I just remembered! She did something weird before she left on Friday. She stood up and looked out the window, but then she put her arm on the top of the window and sort of rested against it. It was weird. I remember thinking at the time that I’d need to come back and clean off her fingerprints. Don’t you see? She could have opened the latch then. I didn’t check the window locks Friday night. Did anyone else?”

“We didn’t have any windows open,” said Chelsea. “So I didn’t check window latches either. There was no reason to.”

“I never do, unless I open a window. Then I check the latch to make sure it’s locked,” said Dani.

“So none of you checked to see that the window was locked, and Ruby put herself in a position that makes sense only if she was trying to unlock a window, right? That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?” BevAnne asked the sisters. When they nodded, she continued, “Let’s give Detective Collins a call tomorrow. That’ll be soon enough. If Ruby is the culprit, she’s not going anywhere.”

Dani’s phone rang. She looked at the display and said, “Speak of the devil.” Answering with “Detective Collins, we were just talking about you,” she listened for a moment, and said, “We’re home. Come on over, and we’ll talk about it.” Hanging up the phone, she said, “He’s on his way. He has some ideas he wants to run by us.”

Chapter 8

 

Alex answered the door, welcomed Detective Collins into their home, and brought him back to the family room.

An assembly line to make candy cane reindeer for the Holiday Tea was underway when he arrived. Dozens of candy canes in various stages of assembly were sitting on the coffee table.

“Am I interrupting, ladies?” he asked.

“Not at all,” BevAnne said. “We can talk and do this at the same time. Help yourself to food if you’re hungry, there are nachos on the big table. Can we get you a beer?”

“No, thank you,” he said. He watched as BevAnne worked with the plastic wrapped canes.

She placed a dot of glue on the short end of one candy cane and set a brown pompom in the glue to make a nose. Next, she handed the candy cane to Alex, who put two glue dots an inch above the nose and added a pair of googly eyes.

Alex passed the candy cane to Chelsea, who picked up a brown pipe cleaner. This she twisted around the top of the curve before bending the loose ends to make antlers.

Chelsea passed the candy cane to Dani. Dani tied ribbon around the neck and set it on the table for the glue to dry. Troy watched the procedure quietly, trying to make out what the women were doing.

“How can we help, Detective?” asked Alex. “We’ve been talking about the break-in and comparing notes. We think Ruby Hayward might have unlocked a window earlier in the afternoon. If she did, she’s the culprit.”

“Why do you think that?” he asked. “And call me Troy.”

Alex said, “We saw that one of the windows was open when we arrived at the shop after the break-in. I remembered that Ruby had her arm up on the window, resting like so, when she visited earlier that day. That weird position would have put her palm in contact with the latch. None of us checked to see if the window was locked, because none of us opened the window earlier. Of course, that’s not our only reason. Ruby’s also the one with the most to lose if someone else wins the Gingerbread Bake-Off.”

“Interesting,” he said. “Exactly what is it that are you making?”

Dani answered, “Reindeer for the centerpieces at the Holiday Tea Party.”

“Cute,” he said. He had to admit that the steps produced a credible, if cartoon-like, version of Santa’s four-legged helpers. “Here’s how you can help me out. I want to get a feel for the relationships. I haven’t lived here long enough to know who are friends and who are frenemies.”  He looked at the women in turn, lingering on Dani.

“Frenemies?” Chelsea laughed. “I haven’t heard that term since I left New York. What we don’t know, BevAnne will. She knows where the bodies are buried. Who did you have in mind?”

Troy said, “Mrs. Hayward and Mrs. Nolan.”

“They’re two peas in a pod,” said BevAnne. “Ruby is the leader, and Phoebe follows along. Lately though, Phoebe seems to be chafing under Ruby’s thumb. I wouldn’t be surprised if Phoebe broke ranks with Ruby one of these days and struck out on her own. When Phoebe’s husband left her, everyone thought it was because he’d found someone else.” She finished putting the nose on the last candy cane and handed it to Alex. “But since then, I think Phoebe might have found someone of her own. I’ve noticed that she’s been taking better care of herself lately. Doing up her hair and putting on makeup. That’s usually a telltale sign.”

“Hmm. That’s helpful to know,” Troy said. “By the way, I did talk to Jacob Turner, but I don’t think he’s behind the vandalism. He was there that night in the general area, but he and the other boys left when they heard arguing from a car parked in the parking lot.”

“That little stinker,” Alex said, with a disgusted snort. “I told him Friday afternoon that the Shoppes weren’t for skateboarding—and not to come back. Ruby said no good would come from being soft on him and not telling his parents. She was right.”

“Maybe. Now that his parents know I don’t think you’ll see him skateboarding again. I think he and his buddies just wanted to prove to themselves that you weren’t the boss of them, even if you weren’t around.” Troy smiled. “This has been enlightening. I need to get going, but I’ll talk to you this week.”

BevAnne walked him to the door and came back to the family room with a smile on her face. “I think Troy likes one of you girls.”

Dani, Chelsea, and Alex looked at one another. Then Chelsea and Alex pointed at Dani.

“Bingo!” said BevAnne.

Chapter 9

 

Monday morning, Troy pulled into Rob and Ruby Hayward’s driveway. A boat on a trailer sat alongside the garage on a cement pad that looked as if it had been built expressly to store the boat. The garage door was down, and Troy saw the curtain next to the front door twitch. Someone was watching for him. Well, good.

He walked to the front door. It opened before he rang the bell.

“Good morning, Detective Collins. Rob said you were stopping by this morning. I’m Ruby, Rob’s wife,” she said. “Please do come in. We’re in the kitchen. I’ve just baked some gingerbread, would you like some?” She was dressed for the cool weather in white tailored slacks and a peppermint striped sweater. Red boots matched red earrings, bracelet, and necklace.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hayward, it’s kind of you to offer.” Troy followed her back to the kitchen. Rob Hayward sat with the sports section in his hands. Newspapers were spread over the table, and plates with remnants of breakfast had been pushed to the center. The corner of an old book peeked out from under the newspaper. Rob stood to greet Troy before resuming his seat.

The Hayward kitchen was an ode to gingerbread. Awards, plaques, and ribbons were displayed on the wall, on shelves, and even on a bulletin board. The pantry door was ajar, and Troy saw glass containers full of flour, sugar, and the spices he presumed were used for gingerbread. Muffin tins, baking sheets, cooling racks, and mixing bowls were in cubbies. Boxes were lined up and organized alphabetically.

“Oh, let me clear the table. You must think I’m just the worst housekeeper ever,” Ruby said. She gathered up the newspapers, book, and breakfast dishes, took them to the recycling bin and counter, set them down, and closed the pantry door. “Let me get you a cup of coffee, Detective. You’re new in town, aren’t you?” She poured coffee into a mug the same spicy brown shade as the curtains. “Milk and sugar are on the table, just help yourself. Rob? Pass them over to the detective, would you? Now how is Detective Riordan? He’s just the best, getting criminals off the street and making them safe for law-abiding citizens such as ourselves.”

“Ruby, take a breath before you hyperventilate,” Rob said. He was casually dressed in dark khakis and a yellow button-down shirt. Loafers with socks were on his feet, and the leather of his belt matched the loafers, which also matched the curtains.

Troy thought someone had a gingerbread obsession, and wondered how far Mrs. Hayward would go to protect it.

Ruby placed a square of gingerbread on a plate and dusted powdered sugar over the top. She put a placemat in front of Troy, set down the plate, and added a napkin and a fork.

Troy thanked her and said, “I have a few questions. I’m investigating the break-in at the Beach Tea Shop Friday night. A man died in the parking lot that same night. We’re trying to find out if the two crimes are related.”

“Oh, my,” Ruby said, putting a hand to her throat and sinking down into a chair. “Is there a killer loose in Citrus Beach? I would just hate to stop patronizing those girls at the Beach Tea Shop, but if they’re going to let unsavory elements into their shop, I might have to. I worked for their dear grandmother years ago, didn’t I, honey?” Ruby’s hands fluttered around before coming to rest on her lap.

“Yes, Ruby. Let the detective ask his questions.” Rob leaned forward so that he was looking out into the backyard. As he did, his thumbs twirled ceaselessly around each other. Troy thought that Mr. Hayward was more interested in the questions to come than his relaxed posture was meant to suggest.

“Were both of you home Friday night?” Troy knew Rob hadn’t been and wondered if Phoebe had contacted Rob to let him know she’d confessed their affair.

“Oh, yes. We watched the news and went to sleep, just like always,” Ruby said, pushing the plate toward him. “Detective, eat your gingerbread while it’s still warm.”

Troy took a bite, watching as Rob glanced over at his wife. He had a covert expression on his face that only lasted a split second. Of course, Rob hadn’t been home. Troy had Phoebe’s word on that. But now it seemed to dawn on Rob that maybe Ruby hadn’t been home as well! Troy mentally shook his head. Did this couple live such separate lives that they didn’t know what the other was up to? Who was covering for whom?

The tension in the little kitchen seemed to have ratcheted up a notch. Troy suddenly got a bright idea. Maybe if he left them, now, they would hash out what had happened. Then one or both of them would be more willing to rat the other person out.

“Please call me if you think of anything.” Troy stood abruptly and handed two cards to Rob and Ruby. “Any little thing might help, you never know. I’ll see myself out. Thank you for your time, and for the delicious gingerbread.”

A stunned silence followed him to the door.

Once he was back in his car, reviewing what he’d learned so far, Troy thought about going to the Tea Shop. He was eager to confirm something he suspected. At the very least, he’d talk to Dani again and get to know her a little better.

Chapter 10

 

Four more shopping days until Christmas, and the Beach Tea Shop was busy with weary shoppers refueling before heading back into the trenches. Alex arched her aching back and was glad she’d started buying and wrapping her presents in September, so she didn’t have to deal with the crush of shoppers now.

Meanwhile, the store’s retail stock was flying off the shelves, and their gift cards were a bestseller. The tea cup sets were almost gone, and their stock wouldn’t be replenished until after Christmas. All in all, it was a good problem to have.

Chelsea was helping Dani in the kitchen, filling two-tier stands with scones and sandwiches, and three-tier stands with scones, sandwiches, and sweets. No sooner did Alex clear a table and put down fresh place settings than the spot was occupied again.

Alex checked the calendar on the wall leading to the kitchen. She would be glad when Brittany, their part-time hostess, was back from New York. That would give them an extra set of hands. She hoped the girl wouldn’t come back too tired to work. Alex knew how magical New York could look when it was decked out in its holiday finest. Nothing compared to seeing Rockefeller Center or the Rockettes in the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Show in person. Or walking the city streets and gazing at the decked out holiday windows.

Ducking into the kitchen, Alex came out with two trays, while Chelsea went back for two more. They smiled at each other, happy that this Christmas they would be together. The past years had been hit or miss, dependent on work schedules and airline flights. They never seemed to be all together for more than a day or two.

Tinkling wind chimes sounded. Alex looked up to see if someone was leaving or entering. “Welcome to Beach Tea Shop, Detective Collins,” she said. “Are you here for lunch, or did you want to talk to us?”

“Both, if there’s room for me to sit.” He looked around and said, “I’ll come back later. I thought if I waited until one, you wouldn’t be so busy.”

“Don’t be silly. You can stay if you don’t mind sitting in the back. You can talk to Dani and have lunch, and by then it should be quiet enough for Chelsea and me to talk to you.” Alex led him to the office and the small table they used for a quick snack.

Then she poked her head into the kitchen, and said, “Dani, Detective Collins is here.” Seeing her sister’s nod of recognition, Chelsea returned to the detective’s table and poured him a glass of water. “Have you caught the killer?” she asked.

“Not yet, but I’ve got some promising leads. I wanted to get some more information from you,” he said as he sniffed the air. “Something smells delicious.” Alex handed him the menu with the day’s specials listed.

“I’ll be back in a minute to take your order, or you can let Dani know,” she said. “We’re out of the tomato basil soup.”

Alex took care of two other tables, before going back and taking Troy’s order. Then she handed the request to Dani. With that done, she busied herself in the dining room, refilling water glasses and freshening the hot water in tea pots. As she worked, she wondered if there were really sparks between Troy and Dani. If so, she was glad.

Last night Dani had brushed off BevAnne’s observation, but Chelsea and Alex thought it was a good sign that she protested. Ignoring the comment was more Dani’s style if she heard something she didn’t care about. So maybe her sister was interested in the long-legged detective. The thought caused Alex’s face to break into a broad grin.

~*~

The pace had slowed down enough for Dani to carry Troy’s order directly to his table.

“I think I’ve got everyone’s order taken care of,” she said as she took the seat across from him. “My sisters are on the way, too.”

Minutes later, Chelsea and Alex joined them. The dining room was mostly empty, only two tables were left, and those diners were occupied with their meals.

Troy put down his sandwich long enough to ask, “Was anyone in the dining room when Ronald Dawson was here?”

Alex answered, “No. We had already closed, and I was taking the garbage out when I bumped into him. It was just the three of us and BevAnne.”

“That’s all I needed to know. Are you still having the Gingerbread Bake-Off tomorrow?” he asked, as he brushed a crumb off his chin.

“Yes. We ended up with six entries, including Ruby, Phoebe, and me,” Dani said. “The judges are our friends who own The Beach Grill. They’ll come at one, and we’ll do it before the Holiday Tea starts at two. Will you be here?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Troy said, tossing his money on the table. “Ladies, thank you for lunch, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Chapter 11

 

After Troy left, Dani took his dishes into the kitchen while her sisters finished up with the last of the other customers. Dani went back to work in the kitchen, finishing up everything she could prep ahead of time for the Holiday Tea. The girls chatted about nothing in particular, but after a few minutes, the conversation turned to comparing notes about the break-in.

“Wasn’t it nice of Troy to come by instead of calling?” Alex said. She looked at Dani, who didn’t take the bait.

“But we still don’t know who broke in and why,” said Chelsea. “I’ve been thinking about something. Ruby mentioned a homeless man being in here. How would she know unless she was here? No one else was around except the four of us.”

“Maybe someone else mentioned it. Or maybe someone in the police department spilled the beans. Why would she break into the shop and steal Nana Jean’s recipe if she already has it?” Dani asked. She was beating cream cheese to soften it and would add minced green olives to make one of the fillings for the Holiday Tea menu. The red pimento and green olive was a natural for a Christmas tea sandwich.

“Ruby has won all kinds of awards. What would happen if it came out that it wasn’t her recipe to begin with? Does that matter to anyone except Ruby?” Alex said.

“I can’t think of anyone else who would care as much as she would,” said Chelsea. “Ruby is known for her gingerbread, and I think she’d be devastated if people knew it came from Nana Jean. Here’s a bigger question: How do we get the recipe book back if Ruby has it? We can’t go to her house and ask for it. She’d just deny it!”

Tearing off peppery pieces of watercress set Dani’s mind to wandering. Suddenly, her subconscious retrieved a memory from Saturday morning. “Youth Dew!” Dani blurted. “I smelled Youth Dew when we first came in after the break-in, but it was really faint because of the open window. I think you’re right about Ruby being the thief. That’s the fragrance she always wears!”

“Hmm. If that’s the case, we could look at her car to see if it’s damaged. If she hit Mr. Dawson, there must be some evidence of an impact, right?” Alex said.

“Right!” Chelsea agreed.

“Oh, no, you don’t. You can’t just rush off to look at her car. Not now. We need to finish getting ready for tomorrow. The sandwiches aren’t going to make themselves,” Dani said. “We can send BevAnne out to do it tomorrow when Ruby comes here for the Bake-Off. She can take a peek and see if it looks damaged. If it is, we can tell Troy right away, since he’s planning to be here. That way, he’ll be able to get the rest of the evidence he needs to arrest her and prove she’s guilty.”

“Okay,” said Alex, nodding her head and looking at Chelsea, who bobbed her head up and down. “Sounds like a plan.”

As she went back to working on sandwiches, Dani privately agreed with Alex that it had been considerate of Troy to stop by. With a smile, she admitted to herself that she was looking forward to seeing him again.

Chapter 12

 

Tuesday morning dawned clear and bright. Dani, Chelsea, and Alex arrived together at Beach Tea Shop to do the morning’s baking and breakfast prep. Over one arm, Alex carried a basket full of green and red plaid placemats she’d made for the Holiday Tea. Her plan was to wait and replace the white ones right before the Tea began. That would signal how special the event truly was.

Dani went to work baking cranberry scones that would be served with orange marmalade and ginger scones to be served with peach jam. Both would be served with clotted cream.

Chelsea was assembling three types of tea sandwiches. Rounds of focaccia were stuffed with mozzarella, basil, and tomato. These would be pressed into paninis and grilled before being cut into smaller rounds with a fluted biscuit cutter. The circles would make a nice visual complement to triangles of cream cheese and olives on wheat bread. The third sandwich on the special Holiday Tea menu was turkey with cranberry sauce and Havarti cheese. These ingredients would go on dark rye bread, which would then be cut into squares. All three shapes of sandwiches were laid on sheet trays, covered with damp paper towels, and wrapped in plastic wrap.

While Alex helped Chelsea put together the sandwiches, Dani got out the ingredients she needed for shortbread cookies. Once baked and cooled, the shortbread fingers would be dipped into dark chocolate and topped with chopped pistachios.

Other desserts were chilling in the refrigerator. Stained glass tarts, with their jewel-like colors mixed into pineapple-flavored cream, looked like their namesake windows. Cranberry and pistachio fudge had been wrapped in parchment paper, ready to be cut into small squares.

“Dani, are we ready to frost those gingerbread cupcakes you made yesterday?” Alex asked. “I can make the frosting if you haven’t.” She saw Dani smile, and knew her timing was good—Dani had already made the luscious topping.

“It’s in the refrigerator. I wanted it to set up a bit because the lemon curd can make the frosting soft,” Dani said. “You can help me pipe it on soon.”

The rest of Tuesday morning passed in a busy blur as they served customers. Soon it was time for the eagerly awaited Gingerbread Bake-Off.

Six entries stood on a table in front of Mallory and Devon Fox. Nervous contestants milled around, staring at the entries and the judges. Ruby and Phoebe stood apart from each other and the other contestants. Both women seemed nervous. Dani got a little worried when she didn’t see BevAnne, but the older woman showed up just in time for the announcements to start.

Although it seemed natural that she would have stopped by to learn who won the contest, the truth was that she also had a secret mission.

Alex rubbed her own ankle where Mistletoe had attacked her in a fit of playfulness. As she did, she noticed that although the weather had warmed up, Ruby was still wearing pants. Her choice of clothing seemed unusual for her and set Alex to wondering if she, too, was concealing a scratch from Mistletoe. That would explain the blood they’d found on Mistletoe’s claw.

The crowd assembled around the judges’ tables, and Dani tapped a knife against a glass to get everyone’s attention. As Alex watched, Troy walked up from the back of the tea shop and took a seat near Mallory and Devon. His brisk manner precluded anyone from stopping him to chat.

Out of the corner of her eye, Alex saw BevAnne slip out the front door. She crossed her fingers. With any luck, they would have an answer soon. Either Ruby’s car had some damage, or it didn’t. If she did, odds were good that she had hit and killed Mr. Dawson. If not, they would have to start all over again from ground zero with their speculation.

While Dani thanked everyone for coming and talked about their grandmother, Nana Jean, BevAnne came back in. She bent her dark head and whispered in Troy’s ear.

Dani went on about the founding of the Beach Tea Shoppe, explaining that a hurricane had forced their grandmother to move to this location. Although the crowd listened attentively, Alex knew that they wouldn’t stand for much more of this random speechmaking.

Troy and BevAnne suddenly pivoted and headed out the front door together. Ruby’s gaze followed them. She wore an almost pathetic look on her face, and Alex felt momentary pity for the woman. How awful it must be, to have her self-esteem wrapped up in only one thing, to need validation so desperately from awards.

Dani introduced the judges, and the tasting began. Mallory and Devon sampled each entry and scribbled notes on legal pads. So that the crowd could see how their own personal favorites stacked up against the judges’ choices, Dani and her sisters passed out plates with six small gingerbread bites on them. Toothpicks topped with letters from A-F were stuck into each bite to make it easy for people to vote for their favorite.

BevAnne and Troy slipped back inside the shop. Their absence had taken less than ten minutes. Although most of the attention was focused on the judges, several people glanced over as they came back in. Ruby was one of them, and she looked very, very apprehensive.

“We have a winner,” Mallory said. “Devon and I agree that Sample C is the best gingerbread!”

Ruby sagged as the winner’s name was revealed: Danielle Powell.

“This gingerbread is moist and spicy, with a little hint of lemon. It’s delicious,” said Devon, consulting his notes. “We enjoyed every bite of it and wanted more.”

“There is plenty for anyone who wants it,” Dani said, as she led the applause. “We’ll add it to our holiday menu every year. It’s not Nana Jean’s recipe, but it was made in her honor.”

As the applause continued, Troy stepped over to Ruby and whispered in her ear. As the three sisters watched, Ruby and Troy walked out of the Tea Shop. The girls stayed to mingle with the crowd and to thank the rest of the Gingerbread Bake-Off participants.

The ceremony broke up soon after. “Did you see Troy leave with Ruby?” Alex asked as she and Chelsea cleared dirty dishes and started putting out placemats for the Holiday Tea.

“I can’t believe that BevAnne took off. I wanted to know what she saw!” Chelsea complained.

“Me, too,” said Dani. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough. Okay, girls, it’s showtime!” The wind chimes rattled as guests for the tea party came in, talking excitedly about the Holiday Tea Menu. Without BevAnne to help, the girls were busier than ever. For Chelsea and Alex, the rest of the afternoon passed by as fast as the morning had. But to Dani the Holiday Tea seemed to drag on forever while she wondered what was happening with Troy and Ruby.

Chapter 13

 

Troy arrived in time to hold the door open for the last of the Holiday Tea stragglers. When he locked the door behind him, there came a chorus of “What happened after you left?”

He smiled and set a package down on a nearby table. “Let’s wait for BevAnne, okay?”

She came striding in through the back door. A mischievous grin caused the corners of her lips to twitch.

“Where have you been?” asked Dani.

“At the police station,” said BevAnne, with a smug look on her face.

“Ladies? I have something for you,” said Troy, as he pushed the package toward them. Chelsea, and Alex sat down at the table, while Dani slowly took the chair that Troy had pulled out for her. He slid back another chair so that BevAnne could join them.

“Is it Nana Jean’s recipe book?” asked Alex, staring at the brown paper wrapped object. “Did Ruby take it?”

“Why don’t you open it and see?” Troy suggested.

“You do it,” said Dani, pushing it toward Alex. “You’re the one who dug it back up.”

Alex carefully ripped off the brown paper to expose Nana Jean’s old recipe book.

“Now,” said Dani. “I can’t stand it. Tell us everything!”

“BevAnne did a great job of examining Ruby Hayward’s car. She discovered a dent in the front quarter panel on the driver’s side, and a few threads caught in the molding, just the sort of evidence we needed. When she came back inside, she told me what she’d seen, and I sent a text-message to our crime scene crew. That’s when I walked over to Ruby and asked her to accompany me outside. She confirmed which car was hers. As soon as our crime scene guys arrived, I suggested that she and I go down to the police station. Once we were there, I asked her to tell me what happened, and she confirmed that she unlocked the window to your shop that Friday afternoon, as you’d suspected. She explained that she had wanted the recipe book because she was afraid of losing the status she’d gained from winning all those awards. According to her, they were the only part of her life that proved she had any value.”

“Do you think that’s really the reason?” asked Dani. “I can’t imagine killing someone for a recipe!”

“You have to understand,” said Troy gently, “she never planned to commit a murder. She didn’t know Ronald Dawson was here. She thought she could slip in, get the book, and get out. She hadn’t expected to see anyone. When he startled her while she was trashing the shop, she panicked. Ruby took the recipe book and ran. Ronald followed her. She had tunnel vision from the adrenaline and didn’t see him in the parking lot. She knew she hit something, but she didn’t realize she’d run into a person. She was shocked when she heard that Ronald had died.”

“But that’s ridiculous. Who cares about a couple of dumb awards,” said Chelsea. “Who would be so silly as to break into a shop just to be sure she kept winning trophies for what? A piece of gingerbread?”

“She cares,” said BevAnne with a sigh. “Her husband is leaving her.”

“BevAnne!” said Dani. “How did you know that?”

“I bumped into him at the grocery store,” said BevAnne, “and he spilled the beans. Rob is an old friend of my Benjamin’s. He swore me to silence, so I’ve kept my mouth shut.”

“You see,” said Troy, “all she had left was the status as an award-winning baker. She said if she didn’t have that, she had nothing.” Troy reached over and picked up the recipe book. His hand brushed Dani’s as he did, and the two of them both blushed furiously. “The recipe book looks undamaged. She took it without even planning what she would do with it.”

Dani took it from him and said, “It looks fine to me. It’s old and the pages are brittle, but it doesn’t look more shabby than it did on Friday. Thank you, Troy, for getting this back to us.”

“I’m so glad you girls have Jean’s book back,” said BevAnne, reaching out to take Chelsea’s hand. Chelsea took Alex’s, and Alex then grasped BevAnne’s to complete the circle. “That recipe book will comfort you when you miss her most, reading her handwriting and remembering what brought her pleasure. She loved you girls more than anything, and would want you to remember the happy times.”

BevAnne paused to clear her throat and added, “We’ll celebrate the lives of those we loved who are no longer with us, but who live on in spirit whenever we share their love.”

She held out her arms and the girls joined her for a group hug. Over the tops of their heads, BevAnne looked at Troy. “What are you doing just standing there? Come over here and get a hug! After getting Jean’s book back, you’re part of the family, too.”

And no one was surprised when he took his place right next to Dani.

 

 

—The End—

THE DOG WHO CAME FOR CHRISTMAS

 

 

Joyce and Jim Lavene

Editor’s Note: Joyce and Jim Lavene are a husband and wife team who write award-winning, bestselling mystery and urban fantasy fiction as themselves, J.J. Cook, and Ellie Grant. They have penned more than 70 novels. In this exciting story, romance and danger both seem to arrive in time for a special Christmas in small town Virginia.

 

 

 

 

“There you go, Sparkles.” Veterinarian Carrie Shaw smoothed her hand down the cat’s ruffled gray fur. “You did very well.”

She’d only given the animal a rabies shot, but she could tell it was harrowing for both the small cat and the quivering, gray-haired woman.

“Will she be all right now, Doctor?” Jean Mabry’s eyes were fearful.

“She’ll be fine,” Carrie assured her. “Hasn’t she had a rabies shot before?”

“No, ma’am.” Jean bobbed her curly gray head. “The old doctor—Doc Barbee—said there was no need. She never goes out of the house. Then the city said she needed one for a license. Whoever heard of such a thing?”

Carrie smiled as she handed the cat back to her owner. Before she moved away, Sparkles was already purring and snuggling into Jean’s arm.

“I know. I’m sorry. At least now, you won’t have to worry about her accidentally getting out of the house. She’s protected, and she’ll have a tag for her collar to keep her from being picked up by the pound.”

Jean looked into Sparkles’ face. “You hear that? You’re gonna have a tag for your collar. I guess first we’ll have to get you a collar!”

Carrie handed Jean the tag that went with the shot. “Put the tag on her collar—when you get her one. Keep the rest of the paperwork somewhere safe with her records.”

“I will.” Jean shook the vet’s hand with gusto. Her bright blue eyes studied her face. “You’re mighty young and pretty to be holed up here at the clinic, Dr. Shaw. You should come out to the Christmas dance at the church tonight. You won’t be young forever, you know.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your invitation, but I have so much work to do.”

“On a Friday night?” Jean eyed her suspiciously. “I think you’re hiding. That’s what I think. If I looked like you—all that pretty blond hair, blue eyes, and slim hips—I’d be dancing. You need to find some nice young man to take you out for supper!”

Jean’s words hit a chord of dread in Carrie’s chest. She was trying to fit into the Grover’s Corners community. It wasn’t easy since she also wanted to keep to herself. On the other hand, she didn’t want anyone to think that she was hiding. She’d done enough of that to last a lifetime.

She couldn’t quite make herself embrace the idea of going to a dance—not this week. There was always plenty going on in town with quilting bees, dances, Bingo, and various other events. The Christmas season had made it even busier.

Maybe next week she could find something to do that wasn’t as intimate as dancing.

She’d catch up and make herself known to everyone. She had to get over the last few years of heartache she’d lived through. After that, she’d be ready for some nice man to take her out to supper, as Jean had said.

“I can’t make it tonight.” Carrie smiled, as she opened the office door for Jean and Sparkles. “Thanks anyway.”

“All right.” Jean patted her arm as she walked by. “Don’t let it pass you by. You’re only young for a while.”

Carrie retreated behind the office door. Her heart was pounding as she massaged her throbbing hand.

How long was it going to be before the mere mention of a man in her life wasn’t going to cause a panic attack? It was ridiculous. Yet she couldn’t seem to put it behind her.

She’d only been in Grover’s Corners for a year. The small mountain town outside Charlottesville, Virginia, was exactly what she’d been looking for. She had to get out of her hometown, Chicago, even if it meant leaving everything, and everyone behind.

Too much pain was back there. She had to believe that something good was before her.

By the time her assistant, Monica Wright, had opened the office door, Carrie was behind her desk doing paperwork. “You know, Jean is right. There’s nothing wrong with going to the Christmas dance and getting into the holiday spirit. Look around in here—not an ounce of Christmas. We could at least put up some garland or a little fake tree.”

“I’m in the holiday spirit,” Carrie defended. “I finished my shopping and sent my cards. I just forgot about decorating the office.”

Monica was about twenty years older than Carrie. Her dark hair was streaked with gray. She’d long ago given up maintaining her ‘youthful’ figure. She was a grandmother now—and proud of it. She wore her laugh lines with dignity and compassion.

She had a big, loving family that all lived in the area. Christmas to her meant visiting her children’s homes as well as her father’s house. She reciprocated with dinners and parties for her family and friends.

“Nobody forgets Christmas, Carrie. Not unless they have a reason to want to forget.” Monica smiled at her friend. “Come to the dance. I know you left something bad behind you in Chicago. Make some new friends who can help you forget it. Christmas isn’t just about cards and presents. It’s about new beginnings too.”

Carrie swallowed hard before she looked up into Monica’s warm eyes. She’d liked her right away and had hired her on the spot. It was a decision she hadn’t regretted.

Except that Monica was always trying to fix her up with one single friend or another.

“I really have a lot of paperwork for the state. But if I can get away early enough, I’ll come by the dance,” she promised.

“Okay. And I’ll bring a few Christmas decorations from my house tomorrow. Maybe a pound cake wouldn’t go amiss either. People around here like to feel welcome. Nothing says welcome like a pound cake and a little tinsel.” Monica smiled. “I’ll see you later at the dance. Don’t forget.”

Carrie said goodnight and promptly forgot about the dance. She knew she wasn’t going. It was too soon. Her husband, John, had only been dead three years. They had been three of the hardest years of her life.

She and John had met in college. They weren’t perfect for each other right away. It wasn’t a love-at-first-sight relationship. But the more time they’d spent together, the more she liked him. At some point, liking him had turned into loving him.

The day he’d proposed, admitting that he felt the same way, was amazing. Their wedding had been a whirlwind affair, with both of them finishing school within weeks of their wedding.

They’d found a nice little apartment to share and set up their lives together. John was starting out with his uncle’s law firm. Carrie had gone to work with an established veterinarian, hoping to become a partner. Both of them had careers in mind that would take them to the tops of their professions. There were dreams of a family as well, and a wonderful house in the suburbs.

All of their dreams and hopes had come to an end one night as they’d walked out of their favorite restaurant.

It was a week until Christmas. The evening was mild, so they’d decided not to call a taxi. John had a little too much to drink. He was flirting with her like they’d just met. Carrie was laughing and kissing him.

A man in a dark jogging suit suddenly appeared. He demanded their cash and jewelry as he waved a gun in their faces.

Carrie stripped off her wedding band and gave him her handbag. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a brown dog lurking. It was odd, but he looked as though he was waiting for the thief. He had an old collar around his neck and a tattered leash.

John gave up his wallet but refused to give the gunman his grandfather’s ring.

“It doesn’t matter.” Carrie was watching the edgy mugger. He was shaking, and agitated—maybe high. “Just give it to him, John. Please.”

“Yeah, John,” the man had taunted him. “Hand it over.”

“Okay. Here it is.” John slammed his briefcase into the mugger’s face. He followed with a quick punch to the man’s gut.

Carrie’s heart was pounding. She prayed that they’d get through this. They had so much to live for.

The gun went off. It was so loud on the dark street. Cars went by as though nothing was happening. Time stood still.

John crumpled to the sidewalk. The mugger held her bag as he ran into the dark alley. The dog had barked and whined but ran after him.

Carrie called to her husband. “Wake up, John. You have to stay awake. Come on. Open your eyes.”

There was no response.

She sank down beside him, trying to stop the bleeding with her sweater. She called 911 on her cell phone. It didn’t take long for the police and an ambulance to arrive.

Carrie knew she’d never forget the frantic ambulance drive, sitting at John’s side as the paramedics tried to revive him. Once or twice, they managed to get his heart beating again. His pulse came and went. The paramedics shook their heads.

John Shaw was pronounced dead at the hospital.

It wasn’t until she’d tried to step out of the ambulance that she realized that she’d been shot too. The bullet had ricocheted off John’s chest and gone through her arm. She collapsed on the ground and was rushed inside.

Carrie put a hand to her throbbing forehead as she pulled herself away from the memories of that terrible night. She flexed her fingers where the tendon had been injured. It was difficult for her to make a fist anymore. For a while, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to work again.

Deciding to call it a night, she turned off the light in her office and went to the front door to lock up.

She paused as she looked out on the snow-covered streets. There were people in beautiful Victorian costumes singing carols. People with wrapped gifts hurried to their cars. Lights had been strung at each intersection, and a huge blue spruce had been decorated since the day after Thanksgiving. With the mountains in the background, it was a picture-perfect Christmas scene.

The church across the square was one of the old-fashioned ones—white clapboard with a soaring spire. A bell in the tower rang every day at noon.

She could see the green wreaths tied with red ribbons on the front doors of the church. Dozens of cars were parked there as people went inside. There was a nativity scene out front. The beautiful, jewel-toned stained glass windows glowed as the lights came on inside.

Carrie put on her coat before closing and locking the front door to her clinic. She turned off the lights and went out the back door where her SUV was parked. In the distance, she could hear the singing of carolers and music welcoming people to the church.

Since John’s death and her own injury, she’d learned to look carefully around herself when she was in public. No amount of meetings with a psychologist had made her feel safe again. She didn’t jump at every noise anymore, but she was terrified until she got into her vehicle or reached her destination.

It was one of the biggest reasons she had to leave the city. There was too much noise, too much going on. Her nerves were fractured with it, and her hand always hurt. She needed peace from that terrible fear that it would happen again.

After she’d closed and locked the back door, she heard a sound near the trash cans. She was torn between running back inside and trying to reach her vehicle. Heart pounding, hands shaking—she tried to re-open the back door. She dropped her keys in the snow and had to feel around for them in the fading light. Her gaze fell on something she thought she’d never see again, prayed she’d never see again.

“You! How is that even possible? You can’t have followed me here!” Startled, she tripped on a trash can lid and fell. She dropped the keys and groped for them. “If you’re here . . . then so is he!”

Calm down. It can’t possibly be the same dog. He’s a thousand miles away. It’s only a stray. John’s killer isn’t here. Get a grip, Carrie.

Icy hands groping now and teeth chattering, she tried to get away by crawling on the freezing concrete, scraping her knuckles as she tried to locate the keys.

The dog licked her and sat down close enough to touch. He was large—maybe part boxer with a black muzzle and long legs. His fur was short and tan with some black worked into the mix. Large red welts crisscrossed his body. They had crusted over. He wore the same blue collar with the sheared end of a blue leash dangling from it. Just like that night in Chicago.

But this had to be a stray. It couldn’t be the same dog!

“Go away!” she said, in a voice she didn’t recognize as her own. How unlike her it was to shoo away an animal that needed her help!

Carrie was the most compassionate person in the world when it came to dogs and cats. She’d seen too many animals thrown away by their owners. The clinic she’d worked at in Chicago took dozens of strays in and adopted most of them out to their customers.

It was terrible that they had to turn some of them over for disposal, but the sad truth was, they couldn’t care for all of the strays. If they were lucky, they could find homes for one or two pets every week. Christmas was especially hard on pets, but usually they weren’t abandoned until after the holiday. After Christmas, the clinic would be flooded with dozens of abandoned animals when their new owners realized they didn’t really want to care for a pet.

The dog whined and stared at her, cocking his head to the right. His brown eyes never left her face.

“Shoo!” She didn’t make a move toward him. “Shoo! Go home!”

The dog still didn’t move.

Carrie found her keys and slowly backed toward her van. Her eyes locked with the dog’s, but hers were probably more fearful. He whined again and came toward her. She screamed and dropped her handbag onto the ground as she grabbed the door, opened it and scrambled inside the vehicle.

Her cell phone was still in her pocket. She took it out and dialed 911 with shaking hands. Then she reconsidered what she was doing and hung up before anyone answered.

What could she say? A dog that seemed calm and non-offensive had followed her all the way from Chicago to Virginia? That the same stray had been there when her husband had been murdered?

That sounded crazy even to her ears.

She looked the boxer mix over from the safety of the interior of the vehicle. His coat was dirty and crusted with sores. He was very thin. But his teeth seemed to be in good condition, and his eyes were clear. He seemed healthy enough.

“There’s no way he followed you here from Chicago,” she reminded herself. “It’s gotta be another dog!”

The dog still came closer and sniffed at her handbag. He glanced up at her in the window and whined again. Then he picked up her bag strap in his mouth, turned away from the SUV, and started running in the opposite direction.

That got Carrie out of the SUV and sent her sprinting after him. Whatever had possessed her into thinking he was the same dog she’d seen when John was killed vanished quickly in the surge of adrenaline that came from knowing her driver’s license and credit cards were all in her bag. She couldn’t let that animal just run off with it.

But he was too fast for her to keep up with, and he had a head start. She kept running behind him, trying to make him stop. She dodged in and out of the traffic in the busy street, staying right behind him. They ran past a jolly Santa ringing a bell and a horse-drawn sleigh full of bundled up carolers.

Without knowing what to call the dog, Carrie tried every name she could think of from Arthur to David. She finally had to stop calling out because she was too winded from running. The painful stitch in her side forced her to slow down. She wasn’t in good enough condition to keep going at that breakneck speed.

The dog skirted around the square—and the startled carolers who laughed at him. He wove in and out of cars as they honked their horns and yelled at them.

Carrie was beginning to regret that she hadn’t followed in the SUV instead of on foot. She’d never catch up with the dog. She was about to go back to her car when the pooch ran right inside the open door of the church.

What now?

She caught her breath and thought about what she could say to the startled people attending the dance inside the church. Monica was supposed to be there. She could ask her assistant for her help. She wouldn’t have to say anything about the dog having appeared before when she was in Chicago. No one had to know that but her. She could just say he was a stray that had grabbed her bag.

After working it all out in her head, Carrie smoothed back her hair and calmed her racing heart before she went inside. Everything was going to be fine, she reassured herself.

The music was loud, and people were dancing. No one seemed to notice when the dog ran by them and ducked under food-laden tables. He darted in and out, glancing at her from behind white tablecloths as though trying to decide if she was still following him.

“I’m coming,” she muttered beneath her breath as she headed toward him single-mindedly. Keeping the dog’s face in focus made her weave around dancing couples and between tables like a drunkard.

“Something wrong, ma’am?” A deep voice asked as a hand gently caught her elbow. “You lookin’ for something . . . or someone?”

Carrie stared straight up into kind brown eyes and a sweet smile. His face was lean and had deep dimples. The speaker had a square chin like some old-time cowboy hero. He was dressed in a western-style shirt that had Sam embroidered on the pocket.

“No,” she lied. “I was-uh-well. Yes. I am looking for someone. She works for me. Monica—”

“Carrie! You decided to come after all!” Monica hugged her tightly and grinned. “I knew you’d change your mind.”

“Uh-thanks.” Carrie kept her eyes on the dog. He was moving toward the back door that was standing open beyond the tables. She could see an alley beyond in the darkness with streetlights shining down.

“I see you’ve met the sheriff.” Monica smiled expectantly at both of them. “Sam, this is the new vet at the clinic, Carrie Shaw. She took over after Doc Barbee retired.”

“Yeah.” He smiled. “Of course. Pleased to meet you.”

“And Carrie, this is our sheriff, Sam Reynolds. I guess you two never had a reason to cross paths until now.”

It was easy to see that Monica had matchmaking on her mind again. Carrie didn’t have to wonder if the sheriff was single.

“I’m so sorry.” Carrie saw the dog scoot under the table closest to the back door. She might never catch him if he kept going that way. “There was a dog at the clinic who ran off. I have to catch him. He might get hurt otherwise. Nice to meet you.”

“Hey wait!” the sheriff called out. “I’ll help you.”

Carrie ran to the back of the hall, hoping the sheriff would just think she was weird and run the other way as fast as he could. But there he was, right beside her as she carefully lifted tablecloths searching for the dog.

“Funny I haven’t met you,” he said. “I’ve heard plenty about you from Monica and everyone else in town. Everyone seems to love you.” He paused and reconsidered his words. “As a vet, I mean. I’m sure I’d love you too.” His face turned pink. “As a vet, of course. I have a Great Dane and a Border collie.”

“I’m sure we’ll meet again,” she said. “It’s a small town. Don’t let me drag you away from the party. I’ll just get the dog and take him back to the clinic.”

The dog’s progress under the table was slowed down because he had her bag still in his mouth. He took one glance at Carrie and started to take off the other way, but she went around the other side of the long table and put her hand on his disreputable collar.

“Gotcha!”

The sheriff got his hand on the dog at the same time. “There you are!”

While Sam held the collar, Carrie grabbed her handbag from the dog. The clasp hadn’t even opened in their crazy run across the square to the church.

“Easy boy.” Sam tried to stroke the dog’s ears. “You’ve seen some hard times, haven’t you?”

Her initial assessment of the dog had been correct. He was incredibly skinny. The poor thing was probably starving. And those welts were red and deep. They had to be painful.

“Do you know this dog, Sheriff Reynolds?” Despite herself she was glad she wasn’t alone to face this part of the nightmare from her past. She hoped that the lawman would recognize the dog, and she’d be assured that the animal hadn’t followed her here from Chicago.

“Call me Sam, Doc. Everybody does.” He grinned. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen him around town. This is a small place. We don’t get many strays. But once in a while someone new comes through and drops off a cat or dog. That might be what happened here. I’ll have to take him to the shelter until we find out where he came from.”

That information didn’t make her feel any better. “Do you have to?”

“Not my rules, ma’am. It’s the county. Someone has to take him in and make sure he’s not a hazard to the community.”

She swallowed hard and reminded herself that this was not the same dog she’d seen before, but he was an injured animal who needed her help. Wasn’t that why she’d become a vet? To help animals?

“He needs medical care. I’ll keep him until you can find a home for him,” she said. “That way I can make sure he’s okay.”

Sam smiled. “That’s nice of you. I’ll keep you company if you want to take him to your clinic.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t. But that way I can keep him from running off with your valuables again. They say once a thief, always a thief, you know.”

“Thanks. I appreciate your help.”

Sam ran to his pickup, grabbed a leash, and secured the dog. They talked as they crossed the street—mostly Carrie answered questions he asked about her.

“I think taking care of animals is a noble occupation,” he said, as they reached the front of her office.

“Thanks.” She smiled. “I guess taking care of people is too.”

“Sometimes,” he agreed.

“We’re here.” She glanced at the clinic sign Carrie Shaw, Veterinarian.

“Yep.” He rocked back on his heels, his eyes focused on her face. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Carrie.”

“You too, Sam.” She put her cool hand in his warm one. “I should get him inside and check him out.”

“I guess I should go on back to the party too.” Sam gave her a smile and a nod and headed toward the church.

Carrie tugged on the leash. “Come on now,” she urged the dog. “You’ve been fine all this time. Or do you only like men?”

Finally, the dog started moving again. She walked him around the back corner of the clinic, but then he started barking, growling, and showing his teeth.

Carrie soon realized why he was acting so strangely. The area behind the building had been tossed as though someone had been looking for something, spreading trash everywhere. The back door of the clinic had been kicked in, and the windows of her SUV had been shattered.

With the dog close on her heels, Carrie ran to the front of her building. “Sam!” she called to the sheriff’s retreating figure. Her heart was freezing in her chest as she yelled and waved to him, “Sam! Something’s happened!”

While Sam called his deputies, Carrie waited in her office. Once the others arrived, Sam worked with them to go over the clinic and the SUV. Yet another group arrived to dust everything for fingerprints.

The whole time they labored, Carrie kept the dog beside her. As afraid as she’d been to see him again, she now felt as though he might have saved her life. If she’d been here at the clinic, who knew what might have happened?

Had John’s killer come here with the dog? Had he been right out there when she’d dropped her keys and chased the dog to the church? Had he been laughing, gloating, waiting until she came back to kill her, too?

How had the killer found her? She’d left no forwarding address at the clinic in Chicago. Only her family knew where she was. She hadn’t told the police she was leaving, since they’d apologized but admitted they might never find John’s killer. What was the point?

And yet he was right here, in Grover’s Corners. He had to be. Somehow he’d found her.

Her blood congealed in her veins as she thought about facing him again.

While the authorities processed the crime scene, word spread quickly back to the people at the dance, just as Carrie had known it would. The small town had a huge grapevine that picked up gossip faster than dogs picked up fleas. Monica and a few of Carrie’s clients dropped in to see if she was all right. Speaking in muted tones, they brought coffee and donuts with them as they checked on her.

Meanwhile, the dog whined and tried to lick the side of her face. She rubbed his flea-bitten ears with icy hands, her injured digits throbbing. Her brain was on fire, trying to imagine how the gunman had found her, going over everything she’d said and done since she’d left Chicago.

Her parents wouldn’t have given out any information about her new location. There was no one else who knew where Carrie was.

So how had he known where to find her?

While sitting restlessly at her desk, her gaze happened upon an article recently published by the local Chamber of Commerce. The headline read, “New vet from Chicago has her own style.” On the cover of the magazine was a picture of her and a dog on her exam table. Carrie was smiling into the camera.

How had he seen it? This was such a small town in Virginia. But when she turned to her computer, she realized her mistake. A quick search of her name brought up the article and the name of the new place she called home. Because the killer had run away with her purse, he knew her name. After that, it had been easy for him to keep tabs on Carrie’s whereabouts.

He had come to Grover’s Corners to find her, because she could ID him as John’s killer.

She was beyond scared, beyond all rational thought.

When Sam softly rapped at the door, she jumped in surprise. He took the chair opposite her. One look into his handsome face and Carrie knew he’d learned the truth. She hadn’t told another soul about John’s death since she’d come to Grover’s Corners. She’d hoped she would never have to speak of it again. Now she had no choice.

“You look like you could use some coffee,” he said.

“I had some. Thanks.” Every nerve was raw waiting for him to say it.

“I’m sorry about your husband.”

The words felt like bombs dropping on her.

“Chicago PD tells me that the man who killed him was never caught.”

She swallowed hard on the bile in her throat. “That’s right.”

“Maybe you should have mentioned that when you moved here, Carrie. I could’ve been keeping an eye on you.”

“It’s almost two thousand miles away,” she said stiffly. “I didn’t think—it didn’t occur to me.” She showed him how the Chamber of Commerce article had appeared on the Internet.

“We don’t know for sure he saw this. We don’t know what happened yet. But I’m talking to CPD homicide. Let’s just take it real slow and careful, okay?”

“Do you think it’s him?”

“Look, I’m not the FBI or even a Chicago police detective. The last murder we had here was twenty-two years ago. That was way before I became sheriff. So I’m not an expert. Let’s start with someone else who might be angry—someone who thought you charged too much for dog care or something. Any ideas?”

“No.” She shivered and held the dog tightly. What would he say if she told him the dog meant John’s killer was here? Crazy. He’d say you’re crazy.

“Any threats? Warnings? Just someone who pays too much attention to you?”

“No. Nothing.” She blinked. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.” He put his hand over hers where it rested on the dog’s neck. “I’m just trying to make sense of it, that’s all.”

“I know.”

“The detective I spoke to in Chicago—”

Madison, she thought, Charlie Madison.

“He said you didn’t feel safe in Chicago, because you’d seen the killer’s face. He also told me there had been some threats against you,” Sam continued.

“Yes.” She’d tried to get away from it. She just wanted to lead a normal life again.

“Well, you look like you’re about to fall over. You should go on home.” Sam helped her to her feet. “We’ll finish here and straighten up as best we can. I sent someone to your place to check things out and make sure you’ll be safe. I’ll have a deputy drive you home.”

“Thanks.” Her face felt made of porcelain that might crack at any time.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like this was your fault.” He nodded. “If I’d known, well, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. But who knows?”

Her eyes met his. “I was hoping no one would ever know. I didn’t want to bring that with me. I wanted to leave it there in the past.”

“I understand.” He scratched the dog’s neck. “Good thing this mutt took your pocketbook and ran off. I guess he warned you that it wasn’t safe to go in the clinic too, huh?”

“I guess he did.” She was beginning to see the dog in a new light. Maybe he was on her side. “We’ll go now. Thanks for the ride.”

“Taking him with you?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Sounds like a good idea. Let me give you my cell number. Call me if anything else happens that doesn’t feel right. Okay?”

“Yes. Thanks, Sam.”

“And don’t worry,” he told her. “We’ll take care of you, Carrie.”

She believed him. At least she believed that he meant what he said. He seemed to be a good man. She knew he’d do his best.

But would that be enough?

The dog went with her willingly, sitting close to her in the deputy’s car and walking to the house without a whimper. He sniffed carefully as if he was trying to make sure it was safe. She followed his lead even though the deputy escorted her to the door before he said goodnight.

Another deputy met them there. “We’ll be out here all night if you need anything, ma’am. Just call.”

“That worries me,” she said to the dog when they were inside. “What if helping me gets them hurt or killed? How would I live with that?”

He sniffed his way through the house with her right behind him. Once they’d made a tour, they came back to the kitchen. She called her mother, whose advice was to come home right away.

“You don’t know if those people down there can protect you, Carrie. Chicago PD knows what they’re doing. You should come home.”

“I don’t think that’s the answer, Mom,” Carrie disagreed. “This might not have anything to do with the man who killed John.”

“I know, honey, but we miss you. Come home. You don’t belong there.”

She might be right, Carrie acknowledged, but she didn’t want to leave Grover’s Corners. If things got too bad here, she would leave but not go back to Chicago. She didn’t think she could ever live there again.

In the end, they reached a compromise, and Carrie’s mother agreed to come and visit her in the summer. Carrie hung up and went to give the dog a bath.

After she’d taken off his collar and what little was left of his leash, he hopped complaisantly into the tub. Wary of the welts on him, she poured tepid water over his body and lathered him up gently. He stared at her with bubbles on his head, his dark eyes patient, although his panting told her he was in pain.

“You couldn’t stay in my house without a bath,” she told him, “and we needed to get those wounds clean. I’m not sure how long you’re going to be here, but we might as well get you fixed up and give you a few good meals while you’re my guest.”

Wagging his tail, he licked her face. She smiled and carefully rinsed the soap off him. After gently patting him dry, Carrie tended to his wounds, some of which were horrible cigarette burns. An oral antibiotic would help them heal faster. She could mix it into his food.

Carrie looked at his collar before she threw it away. Inside was a name written in Magic Marker®. The scrawl was almost illegible, but she was finally able to make it out.

Property of Tony Lowder.

Tony Lowder? Was he the man who’d killed John? Did this dog belong to him? Was this poor dog waiting for Tony in the alley when he ran away and left her husband to die? Had Tony Lowder traveled from Chicago to Grover’s Corners in order to silence the only witness to his crime? The only person who could send him to jail?

Was something like that even possible—that she could find John’s killer on a stray dog’s collar eight hundred miles away from Chicago?

Maybe it was a long shot but she immediately called Detective Charlie Madison. He’d been kind to her when questioning her dozens of times after the murder, and he was kind to her now.

“I know you’re probably nervous about this.” He admitted that he spoken with Sam. “But the chances are that this man is long gone. He wouldn’t hang around looking you up on the Internet to kill you. He sure wouldn’t bring his dog with him to find you, Carrie. It’s unrealistic to think a stray dog came down there to find you and give you his owner’s name, which happens to be the name of the killer. I don’t mean to give you grief, Carrie. But there it is. Stay safe.”

She thanked him and put the phone down. The dog’s fur was dry. Popping an antibiotic into a spoonful of canned food, she mixed it with kibble and fed him. She fixed a bowl of fresh water for the dog before sitting at her kitchen table with a cup of tea.

No doubt Detective Madison was right. What were the odds that something like that could happen? They would have to be astronomical.

And yet she felt like it was true. This dog belonged to John’s killer—a man named Tony Lowder. At least she’d given the detective the name. Maybe he’d look into it. In the meantime, she could call Sam and tell him what she’d found.

But as she picked up the phone again, the lights went out.

The dog growled.

Swallowing hard, Carrie stayed right where she was and called Sam. It went immediately to voicemail. She left him a jumbled message and put the phone in her pocket.

The dog pointed his face toward the kitchen door. His teeth showed as he continued to growl low in his throat with his hackles rising. Every muscle in his body was tense, bunched up, as though he might spring at any moment.

What should she do?

Where could she hide?

She couldn’t depend on Sam arriving in time.

He had told her he’d have men watching her house. But even so, she couldn’t risk going outside the door that the dog was watching so carefully. What if the killer had already overpowered them? What if Carrie couldn’t reach help in time? John had died so quickly.

She rubbed her hand and arm that had been injured. It ached in the cold. Her doctor had advised her to move to Arizona for the hot, dry weather. The climate would be therapeutic.

But she loved the cold. She loved the mountains here, and the fir trees rising toward the blue sky. She had moved here to find a new life. She didn’t want to be afraid forever.

The sound of a footstep on the outside stair at the kitchen door brought the dog to his feet, still only growling, not barking. Carrie got to her feet, too, and grabbed a large kitchen knife from the counter.

It wouldn’t mean anything against a gun. The gun that had killed John had never been found. Tony Lowder might still have it with him. But the knife was the only possible weapon she saw.

She wanted to run and hide, but she was afraid that would give the killer the advantage. Instead, she stood behind the kitchen door and waited, cautioning the dog to be quiet.

The door handle moved back and forth. It was loud in the quiet of the house.

Carrie was poised with the knife in her hand, ready to pounce on her would-be assailant. She hoped the dog would join in, but she was also afraid he might get hurt even worse than he already had been. This Tony Lowder was a despicable man, who not only murdered her husband but also tortured his own dog.

He stuck something in the lock and wiggled it around. The door opened slowly.

New locks. When this is over, I’m getting new locks. The kind with a deadbolt. It would take more than a wiggle to open those.

She was never going to have a better chance than this. If she didn’t act right away, he would kill her. He hadn’t come all this way just to get his dog.

The dog seemed ready, too. He sniffed at the door and then growled but stayed at Carrie’s side.

Barely breathing, she waited. But when the move came, it still stunned her. The killer must have seen her behind the door. He jerked it open hard and fast, knocking her off her feet, pushing her head into the wall. Her neck snapped back, and she dropped the knife in surprise, scrambling to grab it.

The dog rushed at her attacker.

“Easy boy,” the man’s voice shushed him. “Thanks for leading me right to her. Good boy.”

But the dog wasn’t having it. He grabbed the man’s hand in his mouth, and the human howled. He smacked the dog away from him with a quick curse. The animal fell against the wall and didn’t move.

Carrie still had the advantage. Without meaning to, she’d managed to come up in front of him just as he started to look around the door. He tripped over her and fell to the tile floor. She got the knife in her hand and brought it down hard on his leg.

“Arhh!” He caught at it with his hand, blood spurting everywhere. “You witch! I should’a done this sooner. No reason to worry about you anymore.”

He grabbed her arm and tried to pull her to him. She plunged the knife into his side and crawled away as he lay back, gasping for air. She stood and picked up one of the kitchen chairs in her hands, ready to bring it down on him. He covered his head with his hands to ward her off.

Someone else burst into the kitchen, and the lights came on. Sam got the man down on the floor and cuffed him while a deputy tried to get her out of the kitchen.

“No!” She wouldn’t go. “The dog. I have to see if the dog is okay.”

He let her go with a shrug that said something about her state of mind and watched as she ran to the dog that still hadn’t moved.

“No!” She crooned to him, crying. She checked his heart and made sure he was breathing. “You have to live. Come on, boy. You have to survive.”

Sam dragged Tony Lowder to his feet and gave him to the deputy. “Is he okay, Carrie?” he asked. “What do you need?”

“I think one of his ribs might be broken. He’s having a hard time breathing.” She tried to clear her mind. “Help me put him on the table.”

Together they got the dog on the kitchen table, pushing everything aside that was in the way. Crockery and napkins dropped to the floor.

While Sam grabbed the medical kit she kept in her closet for emergencies, Carrie listened again. There was no sucking sound to indicate that the rib had breached a lung. “We can wrap it and get him to the hospital,” she told Sam. “It’s broken, but he’s fine for now.”

The dog took a quick breath and whined.

“You’re gonna be okay now,” she told him, kissing his face, and stroking his fur. “We’re gonna be okay.”

~*~

Snow began falling on Christmas morning, covering the mountains, trees, and streets in glistening white powder.

Carrie gave her new dog a drink of water and checked him carefully. He seemed to be healing well.

Sam rapped at the clinic door and entered the room. “I thought you’d like to know that Tony Lowder was picked up by Chicago PD late last night. He confessed to everything—not just your husband’s death but several robberies and other crimes. He won’t be bothering anyone else for a long time.”

“Great. Thank you.” She stroked the dog’s face as he licked her. “We’re doing good here, too.”

Sam held his hat in his hands as he watched her take care of the dog. “Got a name for him yet?”

“I’m thinking of Chris for Christmas.”

He arched a brow. “That’s kind of girly for a boy dog, isn’t it?”

“Considering we met at Christmas, and he saved my life at Christmas, I think it’s appropriate.”

“Now that it’s over—and you’re safe—will you be going back home?”

She looked around at the clinic and shook her head. “I kind of think I am home. I’m not running anymore.”

Sam came up close. “How ‘bout some chestnuts on the open fire tonight at my place?”

“Chestnuts?”

“It’s a Christmas tradition in my family,” he improvised. “What do you say?”

Chris barked and his ears moved back and forth at the idea as he wagged his tail.

“I think he likes it,” she replied. “Count us in.”

 

 

—The End—

THE DEADLIEST CHRISTMAS

PAGEANT EVER

 

 

Teresa Trent

Editor’s Note: Teresa Trent writes the Pecan Bayou Mystery Series that takes place in a little town in Texas. The first of the series, A Dash of Murder, stars Betsy Livingston, a helpful hints writer, on a paranormal investigation with her beloved Aunt Maggie. Five more books follow in this cozy series full of Texas-sized heart and sharply etched characters.

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

“Oh Betsy, I used to love this time of year when your Uncle Jeeter was alive. He and Danny would go out and cut down the Christmas tree over behind Libby's ranch. Danny was so little back then. Just him and his dad.”

Maggie sorted through a box of Christmas decorations as she spoke. We had been up in her attic for only a few minutes, and my nose was already starting to itch from the dust. Coco, my three-month-old daughter, was sleeping downstairs, no doubt exhausted from keeping me up all night.

“Used to enjoy this time of year?” I eyed her.

She held up a Christmas stocking with Danny's name on it and grinned sheepishly. “Oh, you know what I mean...” I continued to watch her. Aunt Maggie is one of the people I rely on to keep my own spirits up when things get overwhelming. The thought of her being less than excited for the holidays was just not good. She couldn't be down; I needed her too much.

Our giant Weimaraner, Butch, sat at the edge of the attic opening, his head on his paws. Usually he was a pretty rambunctious guy, but today he seemed to be picking up on Maggie's mood.

“I just miss having Jeeter here. I see you and your kids and how happy you are, and then I turn on those stupid Christmas movies...I miss the family we used to be, that's all. This time of year it's the worst.”

My uncle had been a barrel-chested man who loved to stretch the truth. I remember one Christmas Eve, when Danny and I crawled out on the roof to watch for reindeer. We sat up there for hours until my dad and Maggie, nearly hysterical, found us.

“What in heaven’s name were you doing out there?” Maggie asked, wrapping a blanket around Danny's shoulders. “I’m not surprised at Danny doing something like this, but you Betsy? I depend on you to make sure he stays off the roof.”

“We were looking for reindeer,” I explained. “You can tell they're close when a star twinkles.”

“Yeah,” Danny agreed. “A star.”

“Uncle Jeeter told us the whole red nose thing is a myth,” I informed them.

“That means it's a story somebody made up,” Danny explained to my father, who had been pacing the floor of Danny's room, our entry way to the roof. He stopped, crossed his arms, and sneered. “I say it's bull...”

“Judd!” Maggie snapped, cutting him off before he said the word Danny and I both already knew.

“Wait till I get my hands on that man,” Maggie grumbled.

Uncle Jeeter had been conveniently absent that night and even though Maggie was angry with him, her mood was gone by Christmas morning. That's the way she was, resilient. Even after my uncle died ten years ago, she bounced back. After all, she had their Danny to take care of—a job she would now shoulder alone.

Today, in the dusty attic, she seemed less of that strong woman I had always admired. She was sad, like the bedraggled garland that fell out of the boxes.

Our roof-sitting, reindeer-watching adventure had been over twenty years ago, and that story had been retold at Christmas more times than I cared to remember.

“Do you recall that silver star he loved so much? He told Danny it was an exact duplicate of Rudolph's nose. That old fool.”

I vaguely remembered it, but hadn't seen it in years. Not since Uncle Jeeter had been around to put it up over the garage that stood next to their neat, red brick house.

“Where has that gotten to, I wonder?”

Maggie stepped up on an old chair and leaned her small frame against the boxes that were stacked to the ceiling. Just as her hand touched the top box her foot shot through the seat of the chair and she plunged to the floor. She screamed, I screamed, and below us I heard Coco scream, now awake. Butch jumped to his feet and howled, filling the attic with his deep roar. I pivoted both ways as I tried to decide which crisis to handle first—the woman who raised me or the baby I was trying to raise.

Chapter 2

 

“Her hip is broken and frankly, we’re lucky that's all it is,” The doctor told us. “An older woman like Maggie has no business climbing up on chairs.”

I held Coco tightly as I cast my eyes downward. He was right. I never should have let Maggie get up on that chair. My husband, Leo, came running down the antiseptic hallway of the hospital trailed closely by Danny. Leo had left the weather bureau the moment I called him and swung by to pick up Danny at the facility for people with disabilities.

“Is my Mama okay?” Danny asked in his guttural speech.

“She's fine, Danny. She fell off a chair and broke her hip,” I told my cousin.

“Her hip?”

“Here,” Leo said, putting his hand to his side.

“Oh. Will she be okay? Can she go home?”

I put my arm around Danny. “No, I'm afraid she's going to be here for a few days, and then she's coming to our house.”

“Where will I be?” he asked, his brown eyes widening.

“With us, of course,” Leo assured him.

“Of course,” Danny repeated. “That's good, because I'm not allowed to turn on the oven by myself, and I'm hungry.”

We laughed, and then looked to Maggie, who was still sleeping. It was taking her a while to fully recover from the anesthesia. Lying in the hospital bed, she looked so small. I never should have let her step up on that darn chair.

Danny and Leo stayed until the grumbling of Danny's stomach became overwhelming, and then Leo took Danny and Coco home to make dinner. Leo’s mother had arrived from Galveston for the holidays, and was waiting at the house. Nothing like the holidays for packing in the relatives. Our family was already a blending of two. I had a son, Leo had a son, and together we had a daughter.

Twenty minutes later, as I sat with Maggie, she began to wake up from the surgery. Her blue eyes, now rimmed with red, looked past me.

My father, Judd Kelsey—always the master of timing—stood in the doorway. “Well now, there's my big sister.” Having come straight from work he still wore the blue uniform of the Pecan Bayou Police Department. “I knew nothing like a little anesthesia would keep you down for long.”

Maggie licked her lips and looked around the room, her eyes first landing on me and then my father.

“He's gone?” she asked, looking towards the doorway.

“Who's gone?” I asked.

“Jeeter. He left?”

My father's lips thinned as he walked over to the side of Maggie’s bed and picked up her hand, careful of the IV so rudely poking out of her skin.

“You think you saw Jeeter? That old rascal, leave it to him to sneak in a visit and keep you all to himself.”

Maggie gave a trembling smile. My father shook his head. “He always did love you more than anything.”

She bit her lower lip and sighed as the anesthesia was clearing from her brain. Slowly she lifted her lids and stared forward.

“It was a dream, wasn't it, Judd? He wasn't really here.”

“Seems like it.”  

I reached over and stroked the hair from her forehead, a gesture I usually reserved for my children.

“No, Aunt Maggie, he wasn't here. You dreamed him.”

“But it was so real. It was as if I could touch him. He had on that blue plaid shirt he always loved to wear. I could feel him.” She looked at us again, as if she hoped we would suddenly remember seeing him.

“I'm so sorry I didn't get to see him too,” I said.

“I just think you're the victim of good drugs, Maggie. That's all,” my father said.

I spent another hour with her that evening until Leo called in a panic, unable to find the baby wipes. As I drove home, my heart ached for my dear aunt. The one thing she wanted for Christmas was not in my power to give.

~*~

Before visiting the hospital the next morning, I decided I needed to knock out some of my Christmas shopping. I walked along Main Street with Danny next to me and Coco in her stroller. Our sons had emailed me detailed wish lists—complete with hyperlinks—on Thanksgiving night. My shopping for them had been done by the first of December. Coco was so little we knew she'd like anything, and truthfully, we were still working our way through the many shower gifts we had received before her birth. Still though, the difficult people to shop for were always Leo, my dad, and Aunt Maggie.

“That's nice,” Danny said, pointing to a Texas A&M University umbrella. “We should get Mama one of these.”

An umbrella seemed so impersonal and way too practical to me.

“Doesn't your mom already have an umbrella?”

He thought for a moment. “Yes.”

I nodded. “I want to get her something that makes her happy.”

Danny looked down at his hands. “Mama is sad.”

“She is, and I think it makes us all sad when your mom is sad.” I put my arm around my cousin. We rounded the corner to the florist shop. The window was outlined in white twinkling lights that framed a display of Christmas wreaths, each one personalized in some unique way. One wreath was covered with golf tees and balls while another was embellished with tiny stiletto heels and handbags.

“Wow! Look at this one,” Danny said, his nose against the window. “It has puppy dogs. That one must be for Dr. Springer at the vet clinic.”

There was a handwritten sign below the display.

Custom-Made Christmas Wreaths

“Let's go in,” I said, pushing Coco's stroller into the warmth of the store.

“Excuse me,” I said to the girl behind the counter. She held a phone between her fingers and managed to pull her eyes from the tiny illuminated screen when I spoke to her.

“Can I help you?” she said, although she didn’t sound terribly enthused about the opportunity.

“We'd like to order a wreath.”

She pushed a piece of paper across the counter toward me.

“Fill this out and leave your deposit. I'll give it to the designer.”

Her eyes returned to the phone. She began tapping out a text while I did the paperwork.

“Are you buying a wreath?” Danny asked. “Get the one with the puppies, Betsy.”

“Nope. We are getting one specially made for your mom. One that will make her happy.”

“Yeah! We're going to make Mama happy!” Danny started jumping up and down, his weight rocking the many vases in the shop. The clerk stopped texting as her heavily-lined eyes darted to me and then Danny.

“Hey, dude, there's glass stuff in here, you know.”

Danny stopped and put his hand over his mouth. “Sorry...dude,” he apologized.

“I have something special I'll need you to add to the wreath,” I said.

“Sure. No problem. She does it all the time,” the clerk mumbled.

“Danny,” I said, as I pulled some cash from my wallet, “this has to be a secret. You can't tell your mom, okay?”

He put a finger to his lip. “A secret. It's a Christmas secret.” He giggled and started to jump again until the clerk gave him an icy stare. He stopped and leaned on the counter toward her, “Sorry, dude.”

Chapter 3

 

With the town Christmas pageant only a week away, Leo and I took our sons, Zach and Tyler, to the community center for rehearsal. They were both students at Nolan Ryan Middle School, Tyler being the football and basketball star and Zach—well, he was still finding his way. Tyler was already several inches taller than Zach, and even though the boys were only a year apart, Tyler looked like he was almost ready for high school. Zach was leaning more toward the new sixth grader side.

Since Leo's mom, Gwen, was visiting for Christmas, we were fortunate to have a built-in babysitter until after the holidays. She had offered to watch Coco, and we decided to sneak off for a romantic dinner, just the two of us. Between the extracurricular activities of two middle-school-aged boys and a new baby, finding time alone had become difficult. Coming back to the Leo and Betsy we once were was proving even more difficult. When I first met Leo, it had been years since I had a baby. I'll admit it, I looked good the first time around. Now I felt much less attractive carrying around those post-baby pounds that were taking forever to come off. Leo was ready to re-kindle the romance, as if he saw me as that skinny woman he met before the baby, but I wasn't so sure.

Every inch of Pecan Bayou was decked out in some form of Christmas finery. It being Texas, fake snow was sprayed abundantly on windows and nestled as cotton under pine trees. Twinkling lights were strung across the town’s main entrance, and even our statue of Charlie Loper, famous cowboy star, was now covered in garland and holly. His fine steed Ol' Bess wore bells around her neck and stars on her saddle. Pecan Bayou was a beautiful place, even in an artificial “looks like Christmas” kind of way.

“Mom, do we have to do this? It's so lame,” Zach said from the back seat of our SUV.

“Now boys, just because you were cast as happy snowmen...,” Leo said.

“Dancing happy snowmen, Dad,” Tyler added.

“Dancing snowmen then,” Leo replied.

Tyler held up the white fleece costume he had been issued. “Look at this! This looks like something Coco would wear.” He rolled his eyes in disgust. “They can make me dance, but they sure can't make me be happy,” he snorted.

We rolled into the parking lot of the community center and I leaned over the seat and patted Tyler on the knee. “Just remember why we're doing this. Every year we raise funds for the needy families in the area. People who have lost their jobs, people trying to pay medical bills...”

“Yeah, yeah. We get it. Make a fool of yourself for money,” Tyler said.

“I thought that was what YouTube was for,” Zach added dryly.

We stepped through the doors to the building and were overwhelmed with the sound of Christmas carols being pounded out on a piano, children running back and forth, and a father having a screaming match with this year's director, Debbie Freeman. The man’s daughter, a few years younger than Zach, sat next to them, head down and elbows on her knees.

I felt Leo's hand go around my waist. “Why don't I help the grumpy snowmen get into their costumes?” He gave me a quick squeeze, making me happy thinking of our evening alone. He turned back to our children. “Come on guys—let's fleece up.”  The boys groaned.

“Mr. Duran, I'm sorry, but I cast the part of the snow princess already,” the director said. Mr. Duran was a tall man dressed in a crisp trench coat over a business suit.

“But you didn't really give her a chance. She just needs to warm up...”

“Again, I'm sorry, but the part has been assigned. End of discussion,” Miss Debbie snapped, and turned away, leaving Duran standing with his daughter, who was clearly embarrassed.

“Miss Debbie sure told him.” I turned to see Beth Anne Connors behind me. She was sitting in one of the chairs set out for parents, knitting a Christmas stocking out of bright red yarn. With five children, Beth Anne was a staple at this kind of function. One of the things I liked about her was that she had a blended family just like me. She had two children from a previous marriage and her husband, the president of the Pecan Bayou National Bank, had three. In high school, she had been the homecoming queen almost every year and went on to marry the quarterback, her first husband. I sat in the empty folding chair next to her.

“That's the third one she's set straight today. Too bad that not everyone can be the snow princess,” she said, her hands skillfully looping yarn around a needle.

“You're kidding. She's tackled three parents? That's a job I would never want.”  

My eyes were still on the director. Debbie Freeman had taken on the task of directing the pageant this year after successfully coordinating the NUTV Talent Show, complete with a group number no one saw coming. She taught sixth grade geography over at Nolan Ryan Middle School and was also the faculty advisor for the cheer squad. She was a busy lady, and both Zach and Tyler could testify that she didn't take guff off of anyone. She was also young and beautiful, which was most likely the real reason the boys had consented to dressing up as overheated snowmen.

Debbie had her blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail—standard cheerleader protocol—and as she marched over to a group of dancing elves, her ponytail swished back and forth in rhythm with her steps.

“So just who did get the part of the snow princess?” I asked. Beth Anne gestured over to Melissa Cartwright. Why had I even asked? Melissa got the lead in everything, along with various awards like Bluebonnet Queen and Little Miss Pecan.

“Of course,” I said.

“Doesn't it just kill you?” Beth Anne said, her words racing with the speed of her clicking needles. “I mean, this town could spread out the honors once in a while.”

I nodded in agreement but inside knew that's just the way these things happen in small towns. Beth Anne knew it too, because when we went to school, she was the favorite of directors, teachers and coaches.

I was pulled from thought when Beth Anne's needles stopped. She let out a guffaw as a line of headless snowmen exited from the bathroom. I say headless, but that wasn't completely true. They each carried their heads, complete with cheesy smiles, under their arms.

“Oh, my gosh, is that Tyler and Zach?” she asked, putting her knitting down.

I covered my mouth with my hand, trying to hide my smile.

“Why, yes, it is,” I answered. The two of them were misery personified. If Miss Debbie hadn't been so pretty, they would never have gone near those sparkly get-ups. Behind them was most of the Nolan Ryan Middle School football team. Maybe we could get a game going between them and Santa's elves.

Leo made his way through the disgruntled snow people and sat next to us in the folding chairs.

“Hello, Beth Anne,” Leo said. “Where are your kids?”

She gestured over to a couple of snow angels, an elf and two reindeer.

“Man, what would Miss Debbie do without your family? They fill out the...”

Before Leo could finish, Mr. Duran came striding by, holding his daughter's arm in a tight grip. He was headed for the door. “Yeah, well, we will never take part in anything you direct. Mark my words, Miss Freeman. Before this is over, I'll have your job! Do you hear me? You're going to wish you never set eyes on this town!” He stomped out, kicking a chair over on the way, and slamming the door behind him.

“Another snow princess bites the dust,” Beth Anne said, as she picked up her needles.

Chapter 4

 

The next day after school, Danny and I sat in the folding chairs at the community center watching Zach and Tyler trip over their feet in the dancing snowman number. Coco was sleeping next to me, nestled in her carrier seat. She had been up twice in the night, so today she was either asleep or letting me know she wasn't. Leo and his mother had chosen this time to do some last-minute Christmas shopping.

“Betsy, they don't dance good,” Danny said. He was right, and everyone else knew it too.

Coco began to fuss in her carrier, so I unbuckled her and pulled her up to my shoulder. Her cries activated the mommy magnet, prompting several ladies in the room to look over and smile. So sweet, they were thinking, all the while ecstatic they didn't have to get up in the night with a little one. As Coco stretched and opened her brown eyes, Beth Anne and another mother came over to see her.

“She's so cute,” Beth Anne said, speaking in that peculiar version of baby talk mothers produce upon seeing an infant.

“Hi, I'm Shelley,” the other mother said with a little wave. “I just love your Happy Hinter column in the paper. So many helpful hints to use around the house.”

“Thanks.” I shifted Coco slightly. “I’m sorry. I think she's getting hungry.” At this point we were likely only moments away from full-fuss mode, which would outdo the community center's sound system. I just hoped she could hold out until play practice was over.

“Let me hold her. I'll keep her happy.” Beth Anne extended her hands toward Coco. I debated for a moment because if she wasn't happy with me, chances were, a stranger wasn't going to make her happy either. Still though, I passed her on to Beth Anne's anxious hands.

As Beth Anne took Coco, she leaned closer and said under her breath, “So did you see Diane Duran?”

“No.”

“She's right over there. She brought Sarah back even though that husband of hers said she couldn't be in the play.” Beth Anne nodded toward the corner where a woman wearing dark glasses sat quietly.

“Dollars to donuts she has a black eye under those shades,” Beth Anne said, her eyes narrowing.

“No!” Shelley said, now focusing on Diane Duran.

“Oh, yes. Bob, that husband of hers, has quite the temper. Not the first time either. Tell me Betsy, does your dad get called out to the Duran house for domestic disturbances?”

If my dad was getting those kinds of calls, he wasn't sharing that sort of information with me. I wouldn't think much of him if he did.

“No, he's never mentioned it,” I said, as Coco began to twist away from Beth Anne. She patted my baby's back absent-mindedly.

“Oh, even worse,” Shelley said. “She's too afraid to call.”

“Such a pity,” Beth Anne agreed. Coco's head jerked slightly and she let out a terrific yowl.

“Uh-oh. Back to Mommy you go.” Beth Anne shuffled Coco back to me. I grabbed the baby bag and Danny to escape to the hall. Debbie turned from her perch in front of the stage and shot us a dirty look. If looks could kill, we would have been dodging machine gun spray.

~*~

With only a few days left until Christmas I was finishing off my final Christmas column to submit to my editor, Rocky, down at the Pecan Bayou Gazette. It would be in time for the Christmas Eve edition. Leo’s mother had been kind enough to share her cookie collection, and I knew it would be perfect for my column, The Happy Hinter.

“Betsy, you work too hard,” Gwen said, as she came from the kitchen. Danny was right behind her, sampling her latest batch of cookies. I had been worried how I would entertain her over the holiday, but she was turning out to be my favorite house guest. Between volunteering to watch the baby and her incredible baking skills, she was a delight to have in the house. Because she was a biology teacher who worked in Galveston, she had the same holiday break as the boys. Nothing like having an extra adult in the house, who can also bake, during Christmas.

“I just need to finish this article, and then all I have to concentrate on is the holidays,” I said, scouring the article one last time for grammatical errors.

“Oh, you mean shopping, cooking, cleaning, and all the extra Christmas activities we all seem to be swirling around in?”

I laughed. She was so right.

“Is your shopping finished?” Gwen asked.

“That is one thing I can be proud of. Thanks to the wonders of the Internet, I finished my shopping for the kids pretty early.”

The doorbell rang, and Tyler rushed to see what goody the UPS man might be holding today. “That's convenient,” Gwen said, smiling at her grandson. “You have the world's fastest door opener.”

“They're looking for potential Christmas presents.” I frowned slightly, hoping all the stomping to the door hadn't stirred the baby.

“It's for you, Betsy,” Tyler said, plunking a box down on the kitchen table. Zach and Danny had pulled themselves away from a video game to follow Tyler.

“I think this is Maggie's wreath.” I ran a fingernail along the tape and then lifted the lid.

“Oh, my gosh,” Danny said, his eyes bugging out. It was a wreath, but clearly not my wreath. It was a masterpiece of pom-poms, and little silver balls with the Nolan Ryan Middle School logo printed on them.

“I didn't know Maggie was such a supporter of the kid's school,” Gwen said, trying to be polite.

I touched one of the little pom-poms. “This is not what I ordered.”

Tyler pulled out the invoice. “This is for Miss Debbie.”  He handed me the receipt. She must be receiving our wreath right about now. I glanced at the address the wreath was supposed to be delivered to, and thankfully it was just a few blocks from here.

“I'm going to go try and catch the delivery guy to switch wreaths with him. Maybe he's on his way to Miss Debbie's. Gwen, can you keep an eye on the kids for a while?”

“My pleasure,” Gwen said.

“Hey, Grandma Gwen, let's bake those chocolate cookies,” Danny chimed in. “You know, the ones with the cherries in them?” Danny placed a hand on Gwen's shoulder and gave her his most persuasive smile.

Ten minutes later I lifted and dropped the globe-shaped brass knocker on Miss Debbie's door, making a loud clunk. As my hand came down, the door pushed open beneath it. I timidly stepped over the threshold into her tiled front entryway. Along the left wall was a small table that held a lamp and a small bowl. The lamp was lit, even though it was the middle of the day.

“Miss Debbie?” I called out. The only answer I received was the ticking of a grandfather clock in the dining room.

“Miss Debbie? Are you here?” I stepped into the empty dining room and made my way into a small living room. Debbie Freeman was lying on the couch under a fleece stadium blanket, a celebrity gossip magazine still open on her lap. Had she nodded off in the middle of reading tantalizing news about some over-publicized celebrity? But why was her front door open?

“Debbie?” I whispered, not wanting to jar her awake. She remained still, her head turned toward the couch. I touched her gently on the shoulder, and her head rocked forward, her blond ponytail making one last bounce. Her eyes were glazed dull and the remains of something white had dried on the corner of her mouth down to the collar of her black T-shirt with the word CHEER bedazzled on it.

I jumped back, falling over the coffee table, knocking over gift bags and boxes full of cookies, as well as some pieces of candy. It looked as if Debbie had been having a perfect evening of bingeing on sweets and gossip, right up until she died. How could a girl that skinny eat junk like that and get away with it, I wondered?

Hands shaking, I called the Pecan Bayou police department. Such a shame. She was so young, and one of the few people who actually volunteered to direct the annual Christmas pageant.

~*~

“So no one else was here when you entered?” my dad asked, functioning now in his official capacity as police lieutenant.

“No. At least I don't think so.”

Elaina, who was a good friend and my dad's partner, bent down to take a picture of the unfortunate Miss Debbie, still stretched out on the couch. “If I had to guess,” Elaina said, “Miss Debbie was poisoned, Judd.”

My dad turned as his eyes scanned the cluttered coffee table. “Bag the whole table and pull everything out of her refrigerator—and don't forget to check the trash.”

“Yes, sir,” she answered, now snapping a picture of the contents of the coffee table. Dad picked up a gift bag with the words “For my favorite teacher” written on it. “So this gal’s a teacher?”

“Yes, and she is also the director of the Christmas pageant.”

“Right. I remember someone mentioning that to me. So what exactly were you doing here at her house? Did it have something to do with the pageant?”

“No. I came here to see if she got my wreath.”

“Your wreath?” My dad looked confused.

“I ordered a custom-made wreath for Aunt Maggie as a special Christmas gift. Apparently Miss Debbie ordered one too, but the delivery service got our orders mixed up. Hers came to my house, so I assumed mine got delivered here.”

“I see.” My dad ran his fingers over his mustache. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill her?”

My mind raced back to all of the disgruntled wanna-be snow princess parents and suddenly Bob Duran's angry face came to mind.

“Uh, you might want to sharpen your pencil. She wasn't exactly a people pleaser. You might want to start with Mr. Duran.”

Chapter 5

 

After answering my father's questions, I left the crime scene to him. I couldn't get my last sight of Miss Debbie out of my head—eyes open and white drool dried on her face. She had probably been having a pretty good time right up until she died. No parents to bother her, no snow princesses. In a way I envied her—before she died, anyway—being able to go home and curl up on the couch with a mountain of sugar and a magazine. In my house the couch was never quiet for long, and a stockpile of cookies and candy would only last about fifteen minutes with two adolescent boys.

I checked in with Gwen and the kids, and after making sure everyone was doing okay, I drove over to the hospital to visit Maggie. I had planned to deliver her wreath, but now that it was part of a crime scene, there would be no wreath anytime soon. Besides a tree in the lobby, the hospital seemed business as usual with its antiseptic smells and employees walking up and down the halls dressed in blue scrubs. The door to the elevator was about to close when a low voice on the other side yelled to hold the door. I halted the door and Bob Duran came rushing in, wearing a freshly-ironed white shirt, tie and black slacks. He had a hospital identification badge around his neck indicating he was a staff anesthesiologist.

“Thanks,” he said, slightly breathless as he pushed the number four on the button panel.

“No problem,” I smiled. Yes, who wouldn't want to be in an elevator with the number one suspect in the murder of Debbie Freeman? No problem at all. We both stared up at the digital display on the inside of the elevator. Maggie was on the third floor, so I was stuck with him until the cold gray box delivered me there. Looking at him from the side, he seemed harmless enough. Is this a man who could have smacked his wife in the eye causing her to wear dark glasses? The elevator moaned as we began to move. We ascended a few feet, getting close to the second floor, and then stopped with a thud. Before my panic could fully materialize, the elevator starting working again, sounding a light ding as we passed the second floor. Then suddenly, the moaning resumed, and with another thud the elevator stopped, knocking us both backward.

“Seems to be having some sort of trouble,” Duran said, as he walked over to the button panel. He hit his floor button again but the elevator did not move. I walked over and hit the number three button, perhaps thinking that somehow I could make a button work where he could not. Still nothing. I rubbed my eyes in exhaustion and looked closely at the silver panel bolted to the wall, hoping there was a big old phone hanging off of it somewhere that I had missed.

“We're stuck,” I said, stating the obvious.

“Ya think?” Duran's friendly hospital employee demeanor vanished, replaced by Bad Dad from the Christmas pageant. Goodbye nice anesthesiologist, hello wife-beating, pageant-director-killing hothead.

He reached over and hit the little yellow square with a bell next to it—our only way to sound the alert. Instead of tapping it once he punched at the poor little plastic square repeatedly. I feared if he kept it up he could jam the alarm mechanism, making it another casualty in the elevator.

An automated voice responded. “You have activated an emergency call to our switchboard.” Within seconds, the sound of a phone ringing could be heard through the speaker.

“Finally,” Duran said. He glanced at his watch. “I'm due in surgery in ten minutes.”

“This is the switchboard. What is your emergency?”

“We're stuck in the elevator,” Duran shouted.

“Which elevator, sir?” the operator asked.

“The one by the gift shop.”

“Thank you. I'll get some assistance to you right away.”

“How long will this take?”

“I can't tell you, sir. That will depend on the repair needed to the elevator.”

Duran groaned. I slid down the wall and sat down on the floor.

“Unbelievable they still have these piece-of-garbage elevators anyway.” He ran a hand through his shiny black hair.

“Yes, well, at least I'm not going to be late for surgery,” I said.

He walked over and extended his hand. “I'm Bob Duran. I know I've seen you somewhere, but I meet so many people here.” With a firm grip, his fingers easily enclosed my hand.

“You probably saw me at the Christmas pageant practice. I'm Betsy. Zach and Tyler's mom.”

He blew out an exasperated breath. “Pageant practice. Now that's a joke.”

“I should be honest with you. I saw your...argument with Debbie Freeman the other day.”  

His face grew red. I once again congratulated my infallible logic in bringing up Miss Debbie.

“That woman. She's a piece of work. All I wanted her to do was listen to me. I've never been so mad at someone who was working with my child. She should have given Sarah a second chance to try out, that's all I'm saying.”

“I think a lot of people wanted their daughters to be the snow princess. I was told you were the third parent she argued with since the auditions.”

“Really? I can believe that.” He slammed his fist against the wall, making me jump.

“It's just that Sarah is really quite talented, but when it comes to auditions, well, she...doesn't read well the first time. She needs to read it over and over, and then she gets it.”

“You mean like she's dyslexic?”

“Yes!” he said, his eyes bright. “That was all Miss Debbie had to say. Right there, but she wouldn't let me get it out. You would have made a better director than her.”

God forbid, I thought.

“I could have killed her for the way she treated me.”

I bit my lower lip. “Funny you should mention that.”

“What?” he said.

“Someone did kill her. She was found dead this morning.”

“Seriously? She's dead?”

“They think it might have been poisoning.”

“Someone drugged her? That's amazing. I had no idea.” His brown eyes locked in on mine as his tone became quiet. “Do they know who might have done it?”

“Well, like I said, you were one of three parents she argued with over the pageant. But I suppose it had to be somebody who would know how to poison a person.”

He absently placed his hand over his ID tag. Was he hoping I hadn't read his occupation? I could see the wheels turning in his head. “But the police don't know yet who she was arguing with, right?”

I scratched my head and winced. “Not exactly. They do know about one argument.”

“Who?”

“You.”

“Me? How did they find out so quickly?” he asked, eyes flashing.

“Someone might have told them,” I said, biting my lip.

“Who?”

“Did you know my father is on the police force?”

“What's that got to do with...” His eyes widened. “You? You told the police I killed that Freeman woman?” He drew closer and was now standing over me. I began to theorize how he would escape if they found me dead in the elevator, beaten to death.

I flinched and put my arms up to shield my face. “You had better not lay a hand on me. You'll have the whole Pecan Bayou Police Department down on you, and then my husband, and don't be deceived—those weather guys are a feisty bunch. I'm not your wife. I never said you killed Debbie Freeman, just that you had argued with her.”  

He turned and slammed his hand against the wall again. “Why would you do that to me? You don't even know me, and you go and tell your cop father I'm some kind of a killer.”

He pulled me up by the arm. “You have to call him. You have to tell your father you made a mistake.” He squeezed my bicep, sending streams of pain to my shoulder. “Do you understand me?” He drew closer, now just inches from my face.

“Do you understand me?” he repeated, turning his head to the side and ending his statement with a growl.

The doors to the elevator opened, revealing the third floor at waist level. The hospital maintenance man stood on the floor looking down at Duran holding me by the arm.

“Thank goodness, I was just helping this nice lady up. You saved us.” Duran loosened his grip and gently assisted me up onto the third floor. Once the maintenance man pulled him up, Duran glanced at his watch again.

“Have to run, I'm only a little late. Remember what we talked about, Betsy. And about my wife? You really have quite the imagination, don’t you, little lady?”

“You're right, I should have asked. But there's something you might want to think about,” I said, straightening up in response to his rude actions. “Your way of handling people...it's getting around, and now I have one more story to add.”

Chapter 6

 

After a short visit with Maggie, I returned back home to take my brood to play practice. It would be so interesting to see how the crew would handle a production this big without a director. As we entered the community center, Stephanie Gallegos, the manager, stood up front with a clipboard.

“Parents, children. If you could please all take your seats.”

Tyler, Zach and I sat near the front because all the seats farther back had already been taken. The penalty for running late. I craned my neck and scanned the crowd. Maybe the murderer was sitting somewhere behind me. I started checking for anyone with nervous body language. I was surprised to see Bob Duran sitting there with his little girl. He curled his lip at me. Like I was afraid, now that I wasn't locked in a falling metal box with him. I glared back, daring him to try something, then my eyes fell on little Sarah who was looking frightened. I flashed her a smile, making me look like the biggest head case in the room.

“So, we have some exceptionally bad news for everybody today. Our dear Miss Debbie...passed away this morning.” A few parents behind me gasped. “Yes, we are all saddened by the situation. She was loved by everyone. In light of this tragedy, we feel that we should probably cancel the Christmas production and just try to take a goodwill offering for our less fortunate families.”

“You mean you're canceling the show?” came a voice from the back.

“Yes. I'm afraid we have no choice, losing our director so close to the production.”

“But we paid for costumes and built sets,” another parent yelled out.

“Yeah, and we could never raise enough for these families doing some kind of namby-pamby offering...”

This crowd of loving, nurturing parents was about to turn on Stephanie as the tension rose in the room.

Rocky Whitson, my editor at the Pecan Bayou Gazette, crept into a chair next to me.

“Hey, Bets. I hear you've had quite a day. Why didn't you call me?”

“Shh,” I responded.

“Seriously, you couldn't pick up a phone?”

“Everything that happens to me doesn't have to go into the paper.”

“It does when it involves finding a dead teacher. I'm going to need a statement.”

“Be quiet. The parents don't know how she died yet,” I whispered, hoping to avoid an onslaught of questions from the people around me. “What are you, the police?”

“Just good friends with 'em. Could we step into the hall and you tell me all about it?” Rocky whispered.

The crowd continued arguing with the head of the community center. “So why can't we just do the show without a director?” one parent voiced. “She was too bossy anyway...”

“I can't just leave my boys here, Rocky,” I said. I also didn't want my story all over Pecan Bayou. It was bad enough I already had a reputation with the police department for finding bodies, and this wouldn't help.

“...well, if anyone would care to volunteer...” I heard in the background.

“Come on, Betsy. Just give me a crumb to go on. Maybe you can give me some information that would lead me to the killer.” Rocky persisted. I knew he wouldn't stop until I went out to the hall with him to set him straight.

“Okay,” I said, rising from my chair.

“That's terrific,” Stephanie Gallegos said, her face a deep red. “Betsy Livingston has volunteered to take over as director of the Christmas pageant. Oh, Betsy, we can't tell you how much we appreciate this. You are simply wonderful.”

“Uh, no...I wasn't....” The crowd behind me started applauding while Stephanie handed me Miss Debbie's clipboard.

“You know,” Rocky said. “Maybe I'll call you later.” He rose and slithered out of the room.

A young woman with black square glasses walked up to me. She was holding a script. “Miss Betsy?” she asked, “do you want me to call places?”

Another girl appeared, pushing my script girl aside. “Miss Betsy, I can't find my costume. Where did Miss Debbie keep them?”

A gangly kid in a black T-shirt interrupted, “Miss Betsy, we need to do a sound check.”

It was official. I had just landed in a Christmas nightmare.

~*~

“Rocky!” I yelled, as I swung through the half door that separated the lobby of the Pecan Bayou Gazette from the desks, which were littered with newspapers and computers. On the front counter stood a wiry Christmas tree that leaned slightly to the left.

Rocky came out from the back room. “Why, Betsy, come in to do that interview? Let me just get a fresh legal pad.”

“You had better run. Do you know what you just got me into?” I bellowed. Rocky’s son, Nicholas, sat at the desk next to his at the back of the long room. The space that housed the Pecan Bayou Gazette was originally meant to be a retail store, but Rocky and Nicholas had converted it to a newspaper office.

“Dad, you'd better come out here and face the jingle bells,” Nicholas said, leaning back in his chair to get a look at his father. Rocky poked his head out the door again.

“Where are the kids? Boy that little Coco is growing every day. Such a cute kid.”

“Cut the kid baloney. You've never liked kids and you know it.”

“She's got you there, Dad. I had to wait until I was grown up to meet you,” Nicholas agreed. He had found his father last year after his mother died. Rocky had never known about his existence, but now it seemed like Nicholas had always been here.

Rocky slunk into the room and pulled out a chair for me. “I didn't know they'd stick you with the director's job. Sorry about that, kid. But think of it this way. It will give you some great insights into Debbie Freeman's last days.”

“Yeah, well, after this afternoon I'm surprised we didn't find her with her wrists slashed.”

“That bad, huh?”

“You wouldn't believe it. There are so many details. Questions people need answered, and every kid in the show is unhappy about something.” I put my aching feet up on the desk. “I just don't know how I'm going to manage everything. No wonder Miss Debbie was so hated.”

“She was hated because she made all the decisions. One thing I've found helps in situations like this is to make sure there's someone else to blame. Why, the armed services are totally built on that model.”

I laughed. “Someone else to blame, huh? And who would that be? Blame it all on Debbie?”

“Nah, blaming a tragically murdered woman might be seen as bad taste.”

“Then who?”

“You know all those whining, bossy parents? Give them a taste of their own medicine. Put them to work.”

“Okay. I can try that.” Made sense to me.

“And any other jobs that are left, find friends to help you. I'll bet Miss Ruby would be glad to help with hair and makeup.”

“That's a good idea,” I said, sitting up and grabbing Rocky's pad of paper.

My brain was storming now. “And Libby can help with last-minute costume problems. She's had a lifetime of repairing cowboy costumes for the Charlie Loper Museum.”

Rocky nodded. “Sure.”

“And you could handle publicity,” I continued.

Rocky held up his hand. “Now don't go crazy, darlin'. I'm a busy man.”

“You said it yourself—find someone else to take the blame. Besides, we're so close to the performance there probably isn't a thing to do that you weren't doing already.”

“I’ll tell you what. I'll come in and take a picture at the dress rehearsal,” Rocky offered.

“That would be great,” I said, knowing Debbie had already set up the appointment with Rocky.

“So you're not mad at me anymore?” he asked.

“I'm not happy with you, but at least I no longer want to strangle you.”

“Good!” he said, grabbing the legal pad back from me. “Now tell me about Debbie Freeman. What did you see when you walked into the room?”

I heard the tune “O Christmas Tree” coming from my purse. My cell phone. I glanced down at it.

“Oh, that's Gwen. Coco has been really fussy today. We're wondering if it's her first tooth.” I leaned over close to Rocky’s ear as I rose to go. “I know how much you love to hear about the kids.”

Having successfully escaped the interview, I checked the number to see who it really was. A local number, but no one from my contacts.

“Betsy?”

“Yes?”

“This is Beth Anne. I thought I had your number somewhere,” she said, triumph in her voice. I sighed. Now the pageant parents were calling me on the phone with their demands. Christmas couldn't come soon enough for me.

“You found me,” I said, trying to hide the regret in my voice.

“That was crazy today, huh? Some of those parents are incredible. I just don't know how you did it.”

“Thanks. I don't either.” At least one person understood why I was feeling shell-shocked. I was still trying to erase the conversation about snow princess eye shadow from my mind. Plain? Glittery? Plain? Glittery?

“Well, at least you kept that Bob Duran in line. He actually seemed to be avoiding you. That was a miracle. Did you have it out with him some time? I think he's scared of you. Not a bad thing, considering he's now the number one suspect in Miss Debbie's murder.”

I thought about our little elevator ride and decided to keep it to myself. What she didn't know couldn't hurt me. “Really? I hadn't noticed,” I said, barely interrupting her flow of conversation. “Uh, listen, Beth Anne. I left Gwen with the kids and I don't want to impose on her too much...”

“So, I suppose you're wondering why I'm calling,” Beth Anne continued, finally getting to her long-awaited point.

“Okay. What can I do for you?”

“Well, it isn't me really. It's my friend Shelley. You know her daughter could have been an excellent snow princess—well, both of our daughters really, and now that Melissa is so upset that her mentor has been killed and all, we just thought it would be a good idea to have another audition for the part. You know, working on a just-in-case scenario. The girls really are exceptionally talented.”

“Melissa is thinking about dropping out?”

“Nothing official or anything, she's just had her world rocked, poor little thing.”

“I had no idea.” This was just what I didn't want to hear. We were only a few days away from performance. Had Debbie cast an understudy for Melissa?

“It's so sad,” Beth Anne said, her voice starting to break up.

“I'm going to have to go, but I'll call Melissa and ask her how she's feeling.”

“Oh...no need to do that and upset the child.”

“If she's thinking about dropping out, with forty kids and half the community involved, I think I need to know. I'll be gentle.”

“But...” I hung up. I just hoped Beth Anne would eventually notice there was no sound coming from the other end of her phone.

Chapter 7

 

After my conversation with Beth Anne, the first thing I did was call Melissa, the Snow Princess, at home.

“Oh, hi, Miss Betsy,” she said, as if she fielded calls from other people's parents all the time.

“Just checking to see how you were doing.” I didn't want my desperation to sound too obvious.

“Me? I'm fine, I guess.”

“I'm sure it was a big shock for you, losing Miss Debbie.”

“Uh, yeah. What a downer. She worked so hard and all.”  

“You are so right. I'm just finding out all the responsibilities she had just with the Christmas pageant. Did Miss Debbie share anything with you about parents on her case, or anyone she felt threatened by?”

“Um, I don't know. Parents are a little insane about this stuff, you know.”

“Like who?”

“Oh, the regulars. Shelley's mom, Sarah's dad. I just don't get it.” Melissa wouldn't get it, I thought. She had the role all those people wanted.

“Were you there when people argued with her?”

“Sometimes. Some of the cheer moms didn't like her either.”  

“Do you have any names you can share?” I heard noise in the background.

“Uh, I'm going to have to hang up now, Miss Betsy. My mom needs me.”

“Oh. Wait. Before you go, will I see you at practice? I mean, are you able to be our snow princess after everything that's happened?”

“I guess so.” Her voice sounded a bit surprised by my question.

“Okay, because if you feel like dropping out, I need to know.”

“Sure. I'll be there,” she said. As the line clicked, I began to wonder if Beth Anne's concerns were based in fact or wishful thinking.

~*~

By the time I reported in for practice the next day, I was greeted by a line of people waiting to see me. There was also a table full of gift bags and plates of cookies waiting for me, which I interpreted as parents feeling guilty for letting me take the Christmas director fall.

Rather than letting the line of complainants eat up rehearsal time, in true Happy Hinter fashion I put a clipboard on the table and told everyone to write down what they needed and I would get to them one at a time. You don't write a helpful hints column without knowing the Golden Rule of organization. Eliminate the chaos, whether it's your home, your job, your kids, or the entire population of Winter Wonderland.

“Put your name, where you'll be, and whatever problem you need me to solve.” Beth Anne immediately raised her hand and began to speak. Others, following suit, shot up their hands, and a shouting match ensued.

“No!” I shouted. “Either you write down your question, or keep it to yourself. That's the deal.” Properly shushed, they lined up in front of the clipboard.

I yelled “places” and waited for the line at the clipboard to dwindle.

I pushed play on the boom box, and the musical stylings of “Let it Snow” filled the air. The dancing snowflakes came on stage followed closely by the artificially happy snowmen. They lacked precision, but the kids were making their way through their lines and steps. I figured once somebody bought a ticket, it wouldn't matter if the snowmen were tripping over the snowflakes. This directing thing? Piece of cake.

Once things were rolling, I picked up the clipboard and found every line filled.

I walked over to Beth Anne who sat with arms crossed, tapping her toe.

“Well, what are we going to do about the snow princess part?” she asked.

“I spoke to Melissa yesterday, and she's fine. She's stronger than you think.”

“She's fine? Well, that's so good to hear. I don't know if you noticed yet, but she isn't here,” she said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “Just in case she should be unable to fulfill her role, I think you would be wise to have an understudy. We'd hate to have to cancel at the last minute.”

I nodded. “Probably a good idea. Why don't you get the potential princesses together for me, and I'll look at them in about a half hour.”

“Yes ma'am!” She saluted and jumped up making me feel like the colonel of Christmas. “First problem knocked off,” I said, drawing a line through Beth Anne's name.

I continued to work my way down the list, finding most of the problems easy to resolve, and what I couldn't figure out, I reassigned to someone else. Rocky had been so right.

Finally, after doing triage on the list, I sat in a folding chair and put my feet up on a table. “Yep. It's all about delegation,” I said to myself.

That was when I noticed the children on stage were all looking off to the side.

“What's the matter?” I asked, sitting upright.

“It's Melissa. We can't find her,” Zach said, his snow head now under his arm.

“She never got here?”

“Nope. What should we do?”

“Uh, everybody take a break for a minute. Let me see if I can call her.” I pulled out my cell. “Does anybody know her mom's cell phone number?”

“I have her mom in my contacts,” Shelley said. She handed me her phone, and I dialed the number.

“Yes?” said the person on the other end.

“Hi, this is Betsy, the new director of the Christmas pageant. Is Melissa coming to practice today?”

Melissa's mother let out an exasperated sigh. “We're trying. We have had a flat tire. Actually we've had three. Someone stuck something in them to cause a slow leak. I have a spare but not three. We're waiting for the tow truck, so I don't know if we'll make it to practice in time today.”

“That's awful. Okay, we'll try to get through without Melissa.”

I hung up the phone. “Melissa can't make it today.”

“That's okay. We have the group of understudies ready,” Beth Anne said, leading the group of little princesses to a back room. Bob Duran rose from his chair, obviously left out by Beth Anne.

“Why didn't you tell me you were auditioning an understudy?” he said, his breath hot on my neck.

“It was very last minute,” I said, and then looked down at his daughter, Sarah. Her expectant eyes met mine, and she smiled.

“I would like to try,” she said.

“I think that would be great. Let's go back and join the others,” I said, taking her hand. As the little girl walked with me, her father's eyes softened.

“Thank you.”

“Of course. Your daughter has as much of a right to audition as all the others.”

I turned back to the children who were on break. “Zach, restart the music and go through your dance number again. Put the best dancer in the front and the rest of you watch that person's feet. Keep practicing until I get back.”

Zach jumped off the stage and restarted the song.

“A five, six, seven, eight,” he yelled out, sounding like a junior Bob Fosse. Who knew, I thought.

The rest of the wanna-be princesses were now in a small room off the auditorium. When I walked in, all conversation stopped cold. The tension in the air was worse than a white-out in Wyoming.

“Listen, everyone. I hope you understand that I am deciding on an understudy and nothing else,” I said.

“Of course,” they all agreed.

“We took the liberty of bringing along the script so the girls could read and sing,” Beth Anne said.

“And I have all of the music on my phone,” Shelley added, plunking her phone on the table.

“Great. Let's have a look-see,” I said, settling into a chair.

Fifteen minutes later I was pretty sure I knew who I wanted to be the understudy, but didn't quite know how to break it to the other three parents.

“So? Who is it going to be?” Beth Anne asked.

Shelley hugged her daughter's shoulder, while Duran held his daughter's hand, as if to ready her—or himself—for the heartbreak that would inevitably follow.

“Gee,” I said, looking at my watch. “I had better get back to the rehearsal. Let me think about this a little, and I'll let you know before the end of practice today.”

“Really?” said one of the little princesses. “You can't just tell us now?” Children. So used to immediate gratification.

“Nope.” I left the room, not needing to sort out my snow princess decision, but figuring out how I would tell all the others.

Even without our snow princess the rest of the practice went without a hitch. There were too many things that needed polishing so the time was well spent.

“We've done a pretty good run through,” I said to Beth Anne, who had placed her chair next to mine.

“What about a curtain call?” she asked.

“A curtain call?”

“You know, where everybody bows?” She looked amazed I didn't know this.

“Uh, right.” I turned to the group, “Everyone. We're going to do a curtain call. Make a big line and bow.” The children looked confused and milled around, clearly unable to get organized and form a straight line.

“No.” Beth Anne was on her feet and making her way to the stage. “That's not how you do a curtain call.” She clapped her hands twice and the kids looked straight at her. “Elves to the right, snowflakes to the left. That's right. Now come out when I call your group and take a bow, then step back for the next group. When everyone is on stage make one big line and watch the person in the middle. Bow with that person. Now let's try it.”

With that, Beth Anne had the children moving like a bunch of synchronized swimmers at the Olympics. I was truly impressed.

A half hour later, as the elves were taking off their little pointy shoes, I made my announcement.

“Everybody, because we've had to practice today without our princess I've decided to assign an understudy...just in case something like this happens again, although I don't anticipate it.”

Eager faces stared back at me from the crowd. I braced myself and continued. “I've decided that our understudy will be Sarah Duran.” The little girl's eyes widened, and then a smile of gratitude lit up her face.

“That's all for today. We have just two more rehearsals and then it's all over...I mean then we get to perform!” Shouldn't have let that slip out.

Beth Anne and Shelley made their way through the crowd. “Really? That kid could barely read the script,” Beth Anne said.

“That's because she has a learning disability. After she read it a couple of times, I thought she was great, and if you hadn't noticed, she has a beautiful voice.”

Shelley leaned in. “Be honest with us. Did Mr. Duran threaten you?”

“No, he didn't threaten me.” I thought about our altercation in the elevator.

“Not even a little bit? You know, abusers can put bruises where other people won't see them,” Beth Anne said.

“You can do a full body check if it makes you feel better. There's nothing more to it than the fact that she was good.”

“If you say so,” Shelley nodded. I turned before she could dig the number of the woman's shelter out of her purse.

I made my way over to my sons who were flirting with a couple of snowflakes in the corner. “Boys, get your stuff, we're going home.”  

“Uh, Miss Betsy?” Bob Duran towered above me. “Sarah and I just wanted to say thank you. I know that I haven’t been the...nicest person. It's just that when you see your little girl struggle and no one seems to want to help her...”

I reached out and touched his little girl on the cheek. “Thank you for volunteering her. Now, I'm just hoping we don't have to use her. Being an understudy can be stressful, but if you keep practicing the script for the next couple of days along with the snow princess song, I think you'll do just fine.”

“You do?” Sarah said.

“Sure.”

“You know I read...slow.”

“I do, but you aren't just reading up there, you're playing a character. When you acted for me, once you learned the lines, you were really good.”

Sarah beamed at me, making me believe for a moment that taking on this crazy directing job might actually be worth it.

Chapter 8

 

After such a successful rehearsal and curtain call—thanks to Beth Anne—I decided it was time to tackle the other big problem in my life. Aunt Maggie. She had called me earlier to tell me she had been cleared to go home. We had decided she and Danny would spend the holidays at our house. Although the hospital had set up home health care for January, I had to make sure she was able to move around before sending her back to her own house.

Still, though, her mood was killing me. She had carried me through bad days so many times. I wanted to be able to do that for her. I needed the wreath. It wasn't my Uncle Jeeter, but I was hoping it would at least make her feel as if a little of my uncle was still with her.

As the boys piled into the car, I dialed my dad.

“Dad? Can I get you to meet me over at Miss Debbie's house? If it's possible I still want to look for the wreath I had made for Aunt Maggie.”

“You want to go back to the crime scene? Is this wreath really that important?”

“Yes Dad, it really is. It was a special gift for Aunt Maggie. She’s been so blue lately, and I think this will make her happy. I’m going to be really disappointed if I can’t give it to her.”

“Okay darlin’, if it means that much to you. Oh, and by the way, is there anything new on the parents from the play?”

“Maybe.” I didn't want to tell him that at this point everybody looked guilty, even the snow princess.

“I'll meet you there in ten minutes,” he said.

“How about a half hour? I need to run the boys home, and then I'll meet you there.”

“Sounds good,” my dad said. I clicked off the phone.

Looking in my rearview mirror, I could see the boys eyeing the bounty of gift bags and cookies I’d piled in the front seat.

“Cool, look at all the stuff you got,” Tyler said, reaching around to peek in one of the bags.

“Can we have some cookies, Mom?” Zach asked.

“I want fudge,” Tyler said.

I thought of the roast Gwen had put in the slow cooker earlier in the day. I couldn't let the boys eat before what would probably be a wonderful dinner.

“Not until after you finish Grandma Gwen's dinner. She's been cooking all day.”

“Ah, Mom.” Zach pulled out a cookie. “Just one. I'm starving. I think I sweated off a pound in that fleece get-up.” He groaned and rolled his eyes. In the throes of starvation or not, there was no way I was messing up Gwen's hard work.

“You'll live. Nothing until after dinner.”  

After realizing I wasn't going to budge, both boys groaned and I congratulated myself for not giving in. Besides, it was helping me keep myself out of the cookies and candy. I still had ten pounds to go to get back to my pre-baby weight. Ten hard-to-lose pounds.

“Gwen, we're home,” I said, coming in the door of my delightfully homey abode. I held tightly to my gift bags, aware that the boys would be working on Gwen to let them have some the minute I was out the door.

“Wow, you must have been a good girl,” she said, coming into the foyer from the kitchen, holding my precious daughter.

“I couldn't believe it either. When do these parents get time to make gift bags for a one-day director?”

Gwen smiled. “I've taught for thirty years. Never look a gift-bag-parent in the mouth.”

“Will you do something with these until after the boys have their dinner?”

“Grandma Gwen is on the job.” Her grin widened.

I traded gift bags for the baby and Gwen put my edible gifts on a high shelf. I nuzzled my baby's neck. What was it about babies that made them smell so good? I wished I could stay and snuggle with Coco, but I knew I needed to get the wreath for Maggie. Coco reached up toward my face and then smiled.

“You're not going to make this easy on me are you?” Reluctantly I handed her back to Gwen.

“I hate to ask this of you, but I need to do just one more errand. It shouldn't take too long.”

“Not a problem. That's what I'm here for. We'll save you a plate.”

“You'd better. It smells wonderful.”

When I arrived at Debbie Freeman's house, yellow crime scene tape was stretched across the front door. The house was small, the kind of place you'd expect a young, single teacher to own. A Nolan Ryan Middle School Cheer flag was proudly displayed on the front lawn. I was just glad I wouldn’t be inheriting that job. Some other sucker would have to fill that position.

As I sat in the car waiting for my dad, I thought about all that had happened since Miss Debbie's demise. If she had been poisoned, had she ingested it accidentally? Had it been a foul fruitcake or a rancid cheese ball from a faculty Christmas party? Or worse, had someone tried to do her in? Even after seeing the parents from the play at a feverish pitch over the casting of the snow princess, I couldn't believe any of them would do such a thing. Still, though, Debbie was dead, and it didn't appear to be of natural causes.

Dad pulled up, and I stepped out of the comfort of my car. All I wanted to do was to grab the wreath and deliver it to Maggie. Just like Coco's smile, I needed to see Maggie happy.

“Let's make this quick. I have to get to the hospital to pick up your aunt and deliver her to your house.”

“Yes sir.” I saluted as he took down the police tape. Entering the house was eerie—I felt like I was thrown back to a few days ago when Debbie lay dead on her couch. I looked around a couple of times just to make sure she wasn't still there. It was crazy, but I could still feel her presence. The wreath box I had set down on the dining room table was still there, but surveying the room, I couldn't see Aunt Maggie's wreath anywhere.

“Don't touch anything. The scene has been cleared, but still, don't go digging,” Dad said.

Like I wanted to go digging around in Miss Debbie's belongings. This wasn't some kind of morbid yard sale. “Uh, did you find out what she ate that was poisoned?”

“Yes, it was some sort of sugary thing. White. We haven't found the source yet, but that was it.”

I walked through her kitchen, dining room, and laundry room but still no wreath. The only place left to look was the room where Miss Debbie had died on the couch. I took a deep breath and entered the room. As I walked to the couch, up against the wall, hidden by the well-stuffed arm, was another wreath box. Sure enough, it had my name on it.

“Found it,” I said.

“Good...let's go...” When I picked up the box, there was another package underneath it. It was a brightly colored gift box filled with divinity. The gift caught my eye because there was an identical box in the collection of parent gifts I’d received that day.

“Dad, did you see this box when you examined the crime scene?”

“What box?” He came over and stared down at the colorful container. “Did you touch it?” he asked.

Cop’s daughter, veteran of more than a few crime scenes and yet he still has to ask. “Of course not.”

“Good girl. I think you've just found our murder weapon.”

“Are you sure?”

“Not totally, but I would bet that's it.”

“How is your siren doing?” I dropped the wreath box and started digging in my purse for my phone.

“What do you mean?”

“I just left a box of that stuff at the house. It was a gift from a parent.”

“Which parent?”

“I don't know,” I snapped. I rang the house on my cell phone as my dad and I made our way to our cars. “Pick up!” I pleaded to anyone on the other side.

With sirens blazing in front of me, I sped home, tailing my father's squad car. I ran up the steps of our house to find the door open. I yelled out as I ran through the open door. “Zach? Tyler? Don't eat the candy!”

I found them all gathered around the table, and as Coco watched from her baby seat, everyone else was digging into the bags of goodies.

“Stop!” I yelled.

“But Mom! We finished our dinner.” Zach held a piece of divinity in his hand.

“No!”

Gwen shook her head. “Really, Betsy. The boys have been good.” Zach brought the divinity closer to his mouth.

“No!” I grabbed the divinity and threw it on the floor. Our dog, Butch, thinking it was time to play fetch, went for it.

“No!” I yelled, diving for the divinity and snatching it up.

“Man, your mama has a no-tolerance policy for sweets,” Gwen said.

“You're telling me,” Tyler agreed.

Leo stood up from the table and grabbed me by the shoulders.

“Betsy, what is the matter with you?”

“It's poison. Or it could be poison,” my dad said, from behind me. Danny dropped the big macadamia nut white chocolate cookie he had in his hand.

“Poison. Poison will kill you.”

“Poisoned parent gifts? That's messed up,” Tyler said, laying down his chocolate chip cookie like a bomb tech with an explosive device.

I walked over to the now-familiar box on the table. It was the only one with a card that wasn't signed and only read “For Our Director.” No signature, but there was something very familiar about the handwriting.

Chapter 9

 

I stood behind the curtains, ushering the kids on stage for their time in the spotlight. Melissa was smoothing out the glittery folds of her snow princess dress as Sarah Duran stood beside her.

“You know, I was watching you practice earlier and you're pretty good,” Melissa said to her younger counterpart.

“If I work at it, I am,” Sarah said.

“Yeah, well, work is what it's all about. Did you know Jennifer Aniston and Orlando Bloom are dyslexic?”

“Really?”

“I know, can you believe it?” She leaned closer to the little girl. “Listen, Sarah. I'm graduating next year, and there will be lots of projects like this one that will need a girl like you.” Melissa put her blue sparkly arm around Sarah. “Just hang in there and keep practicing, okay?” Melissa was passing the torch.

I smiled warmly at Melissa, but in typical teenage fashion she rolled her eyes at me as if to say, quit listening. Then a slight grin played on the corners of her lips as she turned to go on stage.

I had chosen to wear a red dress from my pre-baby wardrobe. I was pleased I was able to squeeze into it, but it was a little tight around the middle. When I thought nobody was looking, I tugged on the skirt to stop it from riding up.

“I can't believe you actually fit into that dress so soon after Coco,” Beth Anne whispered in my ear.

“Thanks, I've had to really watch my weight.”

“I wish I would have been that skinny after my last one.” She patted her ample middle. “I guess I'll never be a size six again.” She watched Melissa singing on stage. “Or a princess.”

“Ah, come on. The whole princess thing is highly overrated,” I whispered.

“So you say.”

“You know, I was really impressed by what you did yesterday with the curtain call. I think next year, when they go hunting up a director, I'm going to recommend you.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Why not you? You were great. You're a natural. Let me give you an example. In a few minutes I'm going to have to go out there and say something about this year's program and thank everyone for donating to the needy families in our area. Do I have any idea what to say? No. I know I'll mess it up.”

Beth Anne tilted her head to the side. “Come on. It's not all that hard. Just recognize the cast, recognize the princess and talk about the need to help our own in this community. Oh, and don't mention the thing with Miss Debbie.”

“Right. That would be a good thing to leave out.” I recounted the list in my mind, but I knew once I was on stage, and the whole town was looking at me, I would forget something.

“Could you write that down for me? It would really help.”

“Be glad to,” she said, pulling pen and paper out of her purse.

As she wrote, I watched Zach and Tyler, dancing away, their awkward teenage feet plunking down on the stage. They weren't good, but at least they were trying. Their clumsy efforts would raise enough money to keep some of our Pecan Bayou families solvent for another month. In the audience my dad was holding up Coco, who was captivated by the sparkling costumes on stage. Leo and Gwen were each filming on their phones, trying to record the event for Maggie who was at home resting. Danny had seen the show so many times in rehearsal, he was more than happy to have a quiet evening at home with his mom.

“Here you go.” Beth Anne handed me my list of people to thank, scrawled on the back of an envelope.

I gave her a quick hug. “Thanks.” The crowd clapped as the performance came to an end, and the children orchestrated their curtain call perfectly. After the final line had been formed, I pulled at the tight red dress one more time and stepped out, taking my place behind the microphone. I pushed a lock of my hair off my shoulder. At least I was having a good hair day.

“Thank you everyone for coming out tonight and thank you so much to…” I glanced down at Beth Anne's list, “the kids, Mrs. Jones for the costumes, Mr. Walters for the sound, and Forest Gunther for the lights.” As I read through the rest of the list, something clicked. I had seen that handwriting before.

After my part was finished, the lights came up, and the crowd dispersed, with parents scrambling to congratulate their children on a job well done. Dad, Gwen, and Leo climbed the stairs to the stage. Coco was beginning to fuss, and Dad handed her over.

“Did you get a good video?” I asked Leo.

“Sure did. We have your sons wearing white sparkling fleece, dancing their little hearts out.”

“Good one to save and play at their weddings one day,” I said.

Leo leaned forward and whispered into my ear. “Looking good in that red dress. I think it actually fits you better now.” I blushed slightly. Even after a year and a half of marriage, and childbirth, he could still do that to me. A smile played at his lips, because he knew it.

“Uh, Dad? Could I speak to you for a moment?”

Judd pulled himself away from his grandsons who were lamenting their stories of torture under the fleece.

“Sure.” Shifting Coco, I handed him the envelope Beth Anne had written my list on.

“Does the handwriting look familiar?” I asked.

His confused look changed as he examined the envelope. “Who gave this to you?”

I nodded my head in the corner to where Beth Anne stood with her kids and banker husband. She was helping her daughter out of her snowflake headpiece when she looked up and saw us both staring at her. It was there. In her eyes. A coldness that had been there all along, but before this moment, I had not recognized it. It had been hard for beautiful Beth Anne to leave that crown behind and be somebody's mom. The only way she had to return to that glory was through her own child. She calmly hugged her daughter and walked over to us.

“Great show,” she said.

“Did you write this list?” my father asked.

“Yes,” she answered, smiling and glancing back at her beautiful family.

“I'm going to need you to come down to the station and talk about it, Beth Anne.”

Her eyes filled, “It was just supposed to make her sick...that's all. I never thought it would kill her. I didn't expect her to eat so much of it. She was so skinny.”

“Nobody stays that way forever,” I said.

Chapter 10

 

Later that evening, I sat with my feet up, my red dress hung up, and my whole body warmed by a pink fuzzy robe. Leo had been a little disappointed seeing me in such a figure-swallowing garment, but he couldn't have known what I had hidden underneath. There were some presents you just couldn't put under a tree.

I sat in my living room, fire roaring, and the sounds of Christmas carols playing on the television as Maggie watched the video of the pageant.

“Look, Aunt Maggie, there I am!” Zach said, counting the snowmen. “Third from the end. See me?”

I had no idea how Maggie could tell one from the other but she uttered, “Oh yes, I recognize you. And Tyler, is that you right next to him?”

Tyler's face shone in the firelight. “I'm better at the dancing part. That's how you can tell which one I am.”

“Well, you are both so talented. Maybe your mama should have had you in dance class instead of football,” Maggie said.

Leo laughed. “Okay Tyler, we'll do dance instead of football next year, sound good?”

Tyler's eyes bulged a bit. He had been quarterback last fall. There was no way he was giving that up.

“You should know, professional football players in the NFL have been known to study dance to increase their agility,” Gwen added as she sipped a cup of eggnog.

The recording of the program ended, and Maggie smiled. She looked tired, but still so much better sitting on my couch than in the hospital. I knew she was anxious to go home to her own house, and it would be tough for her in the next few weeks.

The front door opened, and my dad stepped in, removing his Stetson. “Man, it's cold out there. I heard it might even snow.”

The boys and Danny jumped up to look out the window. “Snow!” Danny yelled.

“Not too loud. We don't want to wake the baby,” I said, hushing him.

“But Santa's sled will land better if there's snow, Betsy,” Danny informed me. Maggie chuckled. Danny might be nearing thirty, but he still believed in Santa and would for the rest of his life. Not a bad thing if you really thought about it.

“So, I got a full confession out of Beth Anne,” my dad said in a soft voice, as the boys pressed their faces against the window watching for a single snowflake.

“She poisoned the divinity I found behind Miss Debbie's couch?” I whispered.

“Yes.”

“What about the divinity Betsy brought home?” Leo asked.

“We're testing it now, but she assured me it was fine.” Judd said.

I breathed a sigh. Zach had been so close to eating a piece. I didn't know if I would ever eat divinity again.

“So why did she kill Debbie?” Gwen asked.

“She didn't intend to kill her. Just make her sick enough to cancel the show. Beth Anne was sorely disappointed that her daughter didn't get the part of the princess, so she wanted to crash the whole thing.”

“So she put poison in a box of candy? Why would she do that? How would she know to do that?” I asked. This wasn't exactly in a mother's toolkit, and in all of my volumes of helpful hints I had never found a recipe for poisoning candy.

“She didn't like her kids being almost good enough. She had to win at all costs. Homecoming queens don't just forget they were a queen once.”

“That still doesn't answer how she came up with the recipe. Did she do an Internet search or something?” I asked.

“That's the really interesting part. She did do an Internet search. Right before she poisoned her first husband, the quarterback who fizzled out after high school. Once again, she would always be number one no matter what. We'll have to exhume the body to prove it, but all indicators are she poisoned him so she could marry her second husband, the banker.”

A silence fell between us. I sat back and sipped on a glass of wine Leo had poured for me while I was changing out of the red dress.

Beth Anne had been there for me all along, helping with the kids, the pressure, the understudy auditions. It was hard to believe she could do something that cold-blooded.

“Snow!” Danny yelled.

“Shhh!” said Maggie. “Don't wake up Coco.”

Snow was rare in our part of Texas, and even more rare on Christmas Eve, so of course we all rose to look out the window, leaving Maggie back on the couch.

“Take a picture with your phone, Dad,” Tyler said. Leo fished his phone out of his pocket.

“Let's go outside,” he said. The boys yelled again and ran to the hall for their coats. Butch began barking in his low, bellowing voice. Coco began a hearty wail upstairs.

“I'll get her,” I said, scooting up the stairs. I had been so busy in the last few days I welcomed the chance to hold her, even if she was trying to break glass with her high-pitched cry. I picked up my baby in the darkened nursery, the snow now falling outside the window.

“Look out the window, baby girl. You got snow on your first Christmas.” Coco settled into the warm terry of my robe, and we stood silently by the window. I laughed as I watched the men of our family and one goofy dog attempting to catch snowflakes.

“They're silly, but we love them,” I whispered as I rested my chin on top of her silky head. “Come on, let's go see your Aunt Maggie.”

As we descended the stairs, Aunt Maggie was looking into the fire. I could tell she hadn't expected me back so soon and she swiped at a tear.

 ”Hey,” I said. “I think Coco was jealous she was missing all the excitement.”

Maggie reached for the baby and a sense of peace seemed to settle over both of them. “I know what you mean. I miss it too.”

Her tears fell on Coco as the firelight danced in her eyes.

“Mama! Mama! I caught a snowflake! Look!” Danny ran in, offering a glove with a tiny puddle in the middle. “Where did it go?”

“It melted, baby,” Maggie told him.

“We need the snow for Santa's sleigh.” He turned to me. “I been watching the sky, Betsy. I saw Rudolph's nose.” He pulled me to the window and pointed up. “I saw the twinkling light, just like Daddy told me.” Danny’s excitement reminded me of our childhood, sitting on the roof looking for the “real” Rudolph. Not the red-nosed one that the song would have us believe.

“Oh! Hold on. I have a present for you, Aunt Maggie.” I ran to the hall closet and pulled out the wreath box.

I set the box next to her and took Coco from her embrace.

Maggie's brow furrowed as she opened the box from the florist. Inside was the star she had been searching for in the attic, just before her fall. It was the star that my Uncle Jeeter had put up every year as he told the story of Rudolph's silver nose. Set behind it was a wreath filled with tiny reindeer flying through the greenery. Maggie's hand went to her mouth.

“Oh, the star,” Maggie whispered. “You found Jeeter's star.”

Danny clapped his hands in excitement. “Look Mama, the reindeer are there, just like daddy said. It's Santa's reindeer.”

She cried quietly. “They sure are.” She picked up the wreath and held it to her chest as if she were hugging the man she so missed on this night.

“Daddy's star. He's a shining star, like the one in the sky.” Danny's eyes widened. “Maybe he is the star! Maybe he's shining there for me. Is that him, Mama?”

Maggie put the wreath down and touched the star in the middle. “Don't know, but I hope so.”

My father came back in, stomping his boots on the front entry way rug. Gwen followed behind him, her cheeks bright with cold. “Gwen, I think we're going to get us a real snow tonight. Like the kind on the Christmas cards.”

“I'll go heat up some hot chocolate for the boys,” Gwen said.

“Sounds good,” my father said, “and if you want to put a little Christmas cheer in mine...” Gwen gave him a “you old dog” smile and headed for the kitchen.

“Is that Jeeter's star?” my father asked, as he came closer to the fire.

“Sure is. Where did you ever find it, Betsy?”

“Find it? You brought it down when you broke your hip.”

“No I didn't. I was trying to reach a box, but I didn't even know if the star was in it.”

This was curious because when I went up to the attic later to try and find the star to add to the wreath, it was propped up against the boxes Maggie had been trying to search.

Maggie waited for my answer, but I didn't have one to give her.

My father picked up the wreath. “Well, now,” he said quietly. “Looks like we've got ourselves a little Christmas magic.” As he held up the wreath, the firelight twinkled off the star. I hugged my baby as Leo and the boys came back in from outside. Maggie reached out and grabbed my hand and squeezed it. That was when I knew what she was trying to tell me. Being with your family on Christmas, going to church, seeing snow, singing carols, believing in Santa Claus, eating too much, and above all else, never forgetting the ones who had gone on before us....

That was the true magic of Christmas.

 

 

—The End—

THE ROWAN TREE TWIG:

A Kiki Lowenstein Novella

 

Joanna Campbell Slan

Editor’s Note: National bestselling and award-winning author Joanna Campbell Slan has written thirty books, including seven crafting technique books. She loves sharing interesting tidbits of history in her mysteries. Now we travel to St. Louis, where a spunky mom follows clues that help pin down a murderer. This novella falls between Handmade, Holiday Homicide (#10) and Shotgun, Wedding, Bells (#11).

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

Three weeks before Christmas

St. Louis, Missouri

 

Even though the leftover snow had turned gray and grubby, the outside air was frigid, and the cold made my nose run, I was in a good mood. A really, really good mood as I sat in the passenger seat of the white Crown Victoria being driven by my fiancé, Detective Chad Detweiler.

“At the risk of sounding insensitive, why are we taking a Jew to see Christmas lights?” Detweiler followed his question with a wink.

“Why do non-Catholics visit the Vatican? Or Germans celebrate St. Patrick’s Day? Or Italians eat Chinese food?” I delivered my response with a gentle punch to his bicep. We love teasing each other, so I knew he was enjoying the chance to give me a hard time.

“Ah,” he said. “Why do they? Inquiring minds want to know.”

We both laughed. But immediately, I added, “We’re taking Horace Goldfader to look at lights because it was a tradition that he and Dodie had for years. Now that she’s dead, well, I’m doing everything I can to make her passing easier for Horace.”

“And for their daughter, Rebekkah. I noticed you’ve added her to the schedule at your store.”

“She and I have had our ups and downs, but she’s a good worker, and I sure can use the help during the holidays. I know she misses her mother. I do, too. She was not only a good boss but a good friend.” My voice cracked, and I paused long enough to wipe my eyes. “I made Dodie three promises before she died. Promise #1 was to keep the store going.”

“And you have. Time in a Bottle has been doing just fine since you bought it,” said Detweiler.

I nodded. “Promise #2 was to pray that she went quickly and didn’t suffer much. Believe me, I said tons of prayers, and I guess they must have been heard because she left us pretty fast. But Promise #3 has been the hardest. I promised to look after Horace and Rebekkah. I thought I had it covered when she said she’d come work at the store.”

“You figured she’d be the one hardest hit by Dodie’s passing.” Detweiler squeezed my hand with his free one. He’s a careful driver, so he immediately returned to his two-handed grip on the steering wheel.

“I had no idea that Horace had fallen apart. None. He seemed fine when I went to their house to sit shiva.”

“Sitting shiva,” repeated Detweiler. “That’s when friends visit the mourners and pray with them, right? Goes on for seven days?”

“Right. He looked okay. He hit rock bottom shortly thereafter, and I’ve promised myself I’ll keep a closer eye on him so it doesn’t happen again. Tonight’s a part of that pledge. Sorry that we’re giving up our date night.”

“Don’t be. An adult-only evening going to dinner and looking at Christmas lights sounds like fun. I don’t mind one bit that Horace will be coming with us. I like him; he’s a good man. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose your spouse after raising two children together. If taking him out to dinner and driving him around town to look at the lights brightens his mood, I’m all for it.” Detweiler stopped at a red light and leaned over to kiss me.

“Hmmm.” I inhaled deeply, appreciating the scent of sandalwood and Safeguard soap that always lingered on my fiancé.

“In fact,” Detweiler continued, “I predict that driving Horace Goldfader around town to look at holiday displays will become a new annual tradition for us.”

“Amendment. I predict that driving Mr. Horace will become one of many new annual traditions for us,” I said, rubbing a mitten over my baby bump. Our son is due to make his appearance next month.

“Remind me which house is theirs,” said Detweiler, as he turned into the subdivision where Dodie and Horace had lived together for most of their married life.

“That one. The third one on the left. Just looking at it makes me sad. I sure miss Dodie. She hasn’t been gone that long. Seems like just yesterday when I walked into her scrapbook store.”

“Did she teach you how to scrapbook?” Detweiler smiled at me.

“Uh-huh. I was terrible at first, although she told me I was terrific.”

“I doubt that you were terrible. You tend to be hyper-critical of yourself.”

“There was so much I didn’t know,” I said with a sigh.

“But you persisted. You learned.”

“I did indeed. I love what I do. Helping people discover their creativity makes me happy.”

“I know it does.” He took my hand and squeezed my fingers gently.

I squeezed his back while I surveyed the parking situation. “Looks like those two moving vans are hogging the street. I could call Horace and tell him we’re out here. He could meet us outside. Except I think I should go inside, don’t you?”

“Absolutely. It can’t hurt for you to check on him. Sometimes the best indicator of someone’s mental health is his environment.”

Detweiler craned his neck, searching the narrow street for an empty place to pull in. But all the street side spots were either piled high with snow or already occupied.

“How about this? I’ll drop you off and swing around the block. Looks like someone did a fantastic job of cleaning Horace’s sidewalk. You should be able to get inside the house with no trouble. If I can’t find a parking space, I’ll keep circling the block. That way the car will be warm and toasty when you come back out.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said.

Detweiler turned on his hazard flashers, jumped out, opened the passenger door, and helped me from the car. With a quick kiss, he helped me step up and over the lumps of frozen, dirty snow pushed aside by plows. He didn’t leave my side until I was standing on the dry pavement leading to Horace’s front step.

After I rang the bell and the door swung open, I breathed the proverbial sigh of relief. One glance told me that our friend was, indeed, on the road to recovery. Horace had always been a natty dresser. The man who stood before me was turned out smartly in gray slacks topped with a soft blue cashmere sweater over a white button-down shirt. His thinning hair was neatly combed, and his face was clean-shaven.

“Come in, come in,” he urged me, as he stepped aside. “You just missed Rebekkah. She left ten minutes ago to see her young man.”

The house smelled of lemon-scented furniture polish with a slight undertone of bleach. All in all, a very good sign. The small foyer was neat as a pin. My feet were dry because his walk was clean, but I wiped my shoes on his welcome mat as a matter of habit. As I did, I glanced over at the boot tray where Dodie always kept her own green Wellington boots so proudly. She’d explained it was a habit she’d learned from an English customer.

Sure enough, her green rubber shoes sat there, as if their owner had merely stepped away. Next came Horace’s black pull-on boots, and a pair of Rebekkah’s UGGs. A lump formed in my throat, but I fought my emotions and smiled at Horace.

“So good to see you,” he said, beckoning me to follow him around the corner into his family room, I heard a woman’s voice trill imperiously. “Horace? I didn’t realize you were expecting company.”

Chapter 2

 

Standing in the middle of the area rug was a person I recognized, Eula Baldwin. She was bundled up from head to toe. A puddle of water had gathered around her feet. Snow was melting and sliding off her booties, causing blotches of dark on the light colored leather. A pink knit tam o’shanter with hearts on it had been jammed down over her ears. Her scarf was wrapped tightly around her neck, and she still wore the gloves that matched her hat, so I could surmise she hadn’t planned on visiting long.

“Oh, Kiki, it’s just you,” she said.

Not much of a friendly greeting, but I wasn’t going to let her put a damper on the day. “Hi, Eula. Nice to see you. Detweiler and I are here to take Horace out to eat. After that, we’re going to look at holiday lights.”

“How nice. People tend to go a little crazy around here, don’t they? That’s something we won’t miss about this neighborhood. Too many tacky decorations for my taste.” In books, they say that the character “sniffed.” That pretty well described what Eula did. She’s a very persnickety person who likes everything “just so.” My nana would call her “tightly wound.”

“That’s right,” I said. “You live next door, don’t you?”

“Two houses down,” she corrected me. “Those moving vans are here for us.”

“Wow. Moving is so…disruptive. We moved recently, and I’m still digging winter clothes out of boxes.” Eula was a paragon of organization and correctness. She never wore white after Labor Day. She always prided herself on having her nails and hair done. I couldn’t imagine how the disarray would bother someone like her.

“You are quite correct. I’ve been preparing for this for months, but despite all the effort I’ve spent on being organized, I’ve still found a few boxes that were tucked away and forgotten. From when the children were small.”

I’d forgotten she was a mother. I asked, “How old are your kids now?”

“Lisa is twenty-four, and Jeremy is twenty-two.”

“We’re putting up a mitten tree at the store, collecting gloves for the less fortunate. If you have any pieces of clothing that are gently worn, drop them off, and we’ll see that they get to the appropriate charities,” I said.

Eula gave me a speculative stare.

“I can’t believe your kids are that old now. Wow. I haven’t seen you in a while,” I added.

“I’ve been extremely busy, but I’ve been meaning to get caught up on my memory albums. Lisa recently finished law school. Jeremy’s wife is expecting their second baby. I see you’re expecting, too.” Her look turned sly.

“In January.” I tried to smile pleasantly, as I recalled how we had met. Years ago Eula and I had been students in one of Dodie’s classes. Back then paper dolls were all the rage on scrapbook pages. The style was to dress a cut-out human shape to match your topic. Most people relished the chance to add fun costumes to their dolls, but Eula had decked out hers in a boring business suit. I couldn’t imagine why she’d bothered! But that was Eula. She even filed her scraps of paper by color and size.

Horace cleared his throat, bringing me back to the here and now. “I’ll miss Eula and Jonesy. They’ve been good neighbors.” He worked up a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“The neighborhood isn’t like it used to be, is it, Horace? There used to be higher standards. Everyone decorated so tastefully. Now we have some who can’t even be bothered to clean their walks. Even so, Horace, you really have to put aside your differences with Orland,” said Eula, pursing her lips. “I know the two of you have been quarreling.”

Horace’s bushy eyebrows flew up. He opened his mouth, as if to protest, but Eula interrupted with, “Look, I know it’s none of my business, but we heard the shouting all the way over at our house. Sure, you’re angry. He’s being totally unreasonable. Especially given that Dodie just died. You’d think he’d let the hard feelings go, but you’re as much to blame as he is!”

“But—” Horace tried to stop her. He turned over his palms in a gesture of surrender.

However, Eula talked right over him. “This is the holiday season, Horace. Time to let bygones be bygones. Forget that he’s suing you. Put aside the fact he started the altercation. So what if he physically shoved you into that wall?”

“That’s not—” Horace tried again to interject his comments.

However, Eula was on a tear. “You’ve got to let things go. For the sake of your own sanity. You can’t rage at him like that! Jonesy and I saw how angry you were. You can’t let your temper get the best of you! Someone is bound to get hurt, and it could be you, not him!”

What had been an expression of surprise on Horace’s face now changed to bewilderment. He sputtered ineffectively. “Eula, that’s not—”

“Think about what I’ve said. I need to go now. Jonesy and I are starting a new chapter in our lives. It might be time for you to turn over a new leaf, too, Horace. Dodie would want you to move on. Harboring grudges is a waste of energy. And getting angry and making threats is an invitation to violence.”

Horace seemed too stunned to accompany Eula to the front door, so I took his place and acted like a good little hostess, escorting her out of the living room. As we walked, a clot of dirty snow fell off her boots. She leaned toward me and whispered, “Keep an eye on him, Kiki. He’s so angry with Orland there’s no telling what he might do. I’ve never seen him so furious. It’s like he’s lost his mind.”

With that, she opened the front door for herself. Once she stepped over the threshold, she turned and said, “I’m warning you, Kiki. If Horace doesn’t get a hold of himself, he’s liable to do something he’ll regret.” With that, she pulled the door shut behind her with a resounding thud.

I blinked at the solid wood, unsure what to do or say next, until my phone rang in my pocket. It was Detweiler. He couldn’t find a parking space. I hurried back to where Horace was standing, still as a frozen snowman in the center of his living room floor.

“Detweiler’s made two trips around the block already. We need to go outside and meet him.”

“I’ll get my things,” said Horace.

As he padded off, I noticed the melting snow that Eula had tracked into the house. The last thing we needed was for Horace to come back home and slip on the water and fall. I raced into the kitchen, grabbed paper towels, squatted awkwardly, and mopped it up.

It wasn’t much, but at least it was an effort to take care of Dodie’s sweetheart.

Chapter 3

 

I longed to tell Detweiler about the odd remarks that Eula had made, and the even stranger reaction they had provoked from Horace, but I didn’t want to ruin his festive mood.

Once Horace and I had climbed into the car, my sweetie proved to be a jovial host, pointing out the various light displays we passed on our way to our dinner reservations at Big Sky Café.

“Of course, everything will look even better when it gets dark,” Detweiler said. His enthusiasm was truly infectious.

Although I’d worried that we would be arriving too early, our plans proved providential, because the restaurant quickly became packed. All of our meals were absolutely delicious. I know because Horace and Detweiler both insisted that I have big bites of their Grilled Black Canyon Angus N. Y. Steak and Ancho Chile Glazed Salmon respectively, although I was quite happy to chow down on my Lobster Macaroni and Cheese. Generous as the portions were, we couldn’t pass up dessert and decaf coffee. Horace insisted on paying the bill, no matter how much we argued with him.

“No, you are kind to drive an old man around and to spend your evening with me,” he said, as he raised his coffee mug to us. “Speaking of kindness, I am sweetening you up, dear Kiki, to ask a favor.”

“What is it?” I toyed with a bite of my apple crisp. I love hot apple desserts, especially on cold winter nights.

“Dodie, upon her be peace, left behind a large box of scrapbooking supplies and whatever from her desk at work. Would you go through it for me please? I am not sure I’d recognize anything of value among the trinkets. Especially all those turtles. She was so fond of them, wasn’t she?”

“Yes,” I managed to say, and I would have said more, but I choked up. As much as I tried, I couldn’t swallow the lump in my throat, even after taking a large gulp of water. Our waitress noticed my distress and brought me a cup of decaf coffee to go. Horace promised to walk me to the foyer while Detweiler went to get the car.

While the two of us walked slowly to the front door, I thought about what Horace had said. He had been right. Dodie had not been one to gush over animals, but she did have a special soft spot for my Great Dane, Gracie—and she especially loved tortoises and turtles. She admired how self-contained they were.

“We should take a lesson from them. They create their own worlds,” she often said. “They rarely attack, except for snapping turtles. They withdraw and hold their peace. They live to a ripe old age. Did you know that the gopher tortoise is the Florida state turtle? Its habitat provides shelter for 360 other species. I like that idea, the thought that just by living my life, I might provide something of value for others. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

Horace and I didn’t converse, so lost in our thoughts were we. By the time that Detweiler pulled up, I was wiping my eyes. But fortunately, Detweiler had tuned the radio to a station playing cheery carols, a welcome distraction. We set out to view the lights in Tilles Park. Rather than ride in an open air, horse-drawn carriage, we opted to view the lights while staying in the warm Crown Vic, driving along the prescribed pathway. Next we toured Candy Cane Lane, a residential area not far from a Ted Drewes Frozen Custard stand. Candy Cane Lane is a neighborhood well known for its glorious light displays, and it didn’t disappoint. Last, but not least, we drove past the Anheuser-Busch Brewery. True, it’s not Anheuser-Busch anymore, but it will always be known as that to the locals, even though the Busch family has sold out to a foreign concern.

“Beautiful,” murmured Horace, staring out the passenger window of the back seat. “Truly magnificent. Of course, by the time we get back to my house, my block will be looking festive, too. Most of the homeowners are conservative with their decorating, but my next door neighbor goes all out. A bit over the top, to hear Eula tell it.”

“But decorating is fun,” I said, trying not to sound jealous. I loved getting my house dressed up for the holidays, but this year, I’d count myself fortunate to put up a tree and hang ornaments.

Earlier in the month, we’d swapped houses with our landlord, trading him the smaller remodeled garage for his grandiose family home. While I was thrilled to have the extra space, this had been exactly the wrong time of year to make a move. The store kept me too busy to oversee the unpacking of the boxes that our nanny, Brawny, had so carefully organized for us. I gave her permission to put away as much as possible, but that left me totally in the dark when it came to finding stuff. As a consequence, every day was an adventure, an exhausting game of hide and seek. Not that I had a lot of extra energy these days. My body had instinctively diverted most of my reserves to my growing baby.

So it wasn’t surprising that decorating for the holidays had sunk to last place on my list of priorities. The best I had managed so far was taping a string of fairy lights around our picture window. Any light at all is a blessing during these dark wintery days, but my strand looked almost pathetic, dangling as it did from a limp piece of Scotch tape.

“Don’t we have more lights?” My thirteen-year-old daughter, Anya, frowned at the tiny white stars stretched across the vast glass expanse of glass.

“Nope. Remember? We only had four strings to begin with, and those weren’t working right so I threw them out after last Christmas. I meant to go buy more.”

“Really? That’s all we have? It’s just plain sad,” she said, with the sort of teenage gravitas that an adult might save for the extinction of a species.

So I added “hit the after-Christmas sales for lights and decorations” to my mental “to do” list for January. Also on that list was “give birth to my second child,” but I’m pretty good at multi-tasking, especially since we added Erik, Detweiler’s son by a previous marriage, to our lives. Fortunately, Brawny came along with Erik, as sort of a package deal, or I’d never be able to keep up.

I’d been wool-gathering, but I snapped back as Horace continued to tell us about his neighborhood.

“When we first moved in, most people waited to put up their lights until two weeks before Christmas. Now their decorations go up right after Thanksgiving. Some right after Halloween! At first Eula and Jonesy were the trendsetters. They had these full-sized reindeer yard ornaments that were the envy of everyone on the block. But when the Kings moved in, things changed. Orland went all out. Each year his displays grew and grew. He even has to rent storage units to hold his lights the other eleven months. Jonesy and Eula finally gave up trying to compete. Especially when Orland kept adding new strands and gizmos up until Christmas Day. It must have been frustrating when we did not join in, eh? However, we did admire their efforts. Dodie and I would point out to each other all the new displays and the additions of color. My darling girl used to say that it was like watching flowers bloom on the snow.” Horace chuckled softly.

That sounded just like Dodie. She had an incredible enthusiasm for life. How I missed her!

Rather than fight my sadness, I leaned my head on my arm, which served as a pillow against the window. The motion of the car and the heaviness in my heart worked on me like a sedative. As my eyes drifted shut, I told myself a tiny nap was in order. Just a couple minutes of shut-eye was all I needed. I was half-asleep when we turned onto the Goldfaders’ street.

But a sound from Detweiler, a noise akin to a low growl, snapped me back to consciousness.

“W-w-what?” I sputtered and looked around. Rotating red lights blinded me.

“You two stay here,” commanded Detweiler. He hopped out, slamming the car door behind him.

“What on earth?” I wondered out loud and shaded my eyes, before turning toward Horace.

He was twisted so that all I could see was the back of his head. Muttering, he wondered, “Ambulance? Police cars? Is it a fire? What do you think it is, Kiki?”

“I can’t tell. Seems like a lot of lights, doesn’t it? Sometimes they send an ambulance or firetruck just in case. Even when it’s not a big deal. To cover their bases.”

He cupped hands around his face. “Whose house is it? Mine? Did I leave on an iron? Such an old man! Rebekkah is with her boyfriend, thank goodness.”

My eyes were adjusting. So was my hearing. I could make out the crackle of the walkie-talkies. I thought I knew where the activity was coming from, but I wasn’t entirely sure. “Um, I don’t think it’s yours. Looks like it’s two houses down.”

With a rumble, the fire truck cranked up its engine. After a harsh jerk to the right and a flash of headlights in our faces, the big emergency vehicle lumbered past us. Closely following was an ambulance, but neither bothered to put on their flashing lights. However, three police cars were parked on the street. One in front of Horace’s house, one in his neighbor’s driveway, and one perpendicular to that. A crime scene truck was in the space previously occupied by one of the moving vans.

“Maybe someone broke into your neighbor’s empty house. Thieves will watch for folks moving in or out. Sometimes they steal the copper pipes,” I said. I jabbered on and on, not believing a word I said. In my gut, I knew disaster had struck.

When I finally sputtered to a stop, Horace wondered out loud: “Three police cars?” The skepticism in his voice betrayed his disbelief.

I was shaking my head when a figure filled the front windshield. It was Detweiler. He’d returned.

He opened the driver’s side door and stuck his head in. “Horace? I’m afraid it’s bad news. Your neighbor Orland King fell off his ladder while fiddling with his Christmas lights. Hit a power line.”

“How is he?” Horace’s voice cracked.

“Bad. Really bad. He’s been electrocuted.”

Chapter 4

 

Sunday mornings are my mornings to sleep in. I especially needed the extra rest after an uncomfortable Saturday night filled with dreams of flashing emergency lights, deadly Christmas tree decorations, and tumbling ladders. When Brawny asked me how I’d enjoyed our evening with Horace, I emphasized the wondrous displays we’d seen and skipped over the tragedy that marred the conclusion of our time together. Getting the store ready for the holiday season kept my mind occupied the rest of the day. Sunday night, Detweiler and I played board games with thirteen-year-old Anya and five-year-old Erik, while Brawny watched and knit a pair of socks on two needles.

Monday rolled around too quickly. Anya and Erik were listless over breakfast.

“Teachers keep piling on homework just because they didn’t plan right for Christmas break,” said Anya. “You’re so lucky, Erik, not to have homework.”

As I sipped my cup of Earl Grey tea, I tried to memorize the adorable scene my children presented. Anya slumped over her oatmeal and frowned, her platinum blond hair shading her face. Next to her sat five-year-old Erik, in his booster seat. Even though he’d only joined our family a few months ago, he’d quickly become devoted to his older sister. Now he mimicked her posture by slouching over his own bowl of oatmeal and sighing deeply.

“It stinks,” Anya added.

“Stinks,” he repeated.

“I’m sick of it.” She pouted.

He stuck out his lower lip. Putting a gentle hand on his sister’s shoulder, Erik raised those Hershey chocolate eyes of his to her face and said, “Annie? I can do your homework. I’m a big boy.”

That proved her undoing. Anya couldn’t help but fight a smile. I did, too. His affection for her was deeply touching. Whatever Anya did, he wanted to do, too.

“Yes, that’s right. You are a big dude,” she said. “But it’s my responsibility to do my homework, not yours. That would be cheating if I let you do it. It’s okay to help, but not to do it for someone. Thank you anyway. You have a lot to do, too, don’t you? You have a big part in the holiday pageant.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you have your lines memorized?”

He shrugged.

“Okay,” said Anya, taking charge. “Tell you what. Tonight after school you can sit with me while I do my homework. When I get done, I’ll work with you, helping you memorize your lines.”

That caused him to nod solemnly. I hoped she’d be able to make some progress with him. We’d been rehearsing his part every night and making little headway. For some reason, Erik didn’t seem to understand or care that he was supposed to be able to repeat his four lines without prompting. In so many ways, he’d made the adjustment to living with us. But once in a while, I noticed a glitch. I wondered if his reluctance to memorize the phrases was a learning disability or an emotional hurdle we’d yet to overcome.

“Five minutes,” said Brawny, pointing to the large clock on the kitchen wall. She runs our household with a military-like precision, or at least what I imagine to be the sort of clockwork timing one might encounter among soldiers.

In short order, we were all bundled up and in the Toyota Highlander with Brawny behind the wheel. We dropped the kids off at school, and then Brawny headed for the store. After letting me off by the back door, she parked and carried in the box that Horace had given me, the one filled with Dodie’s odds and ends from her desk.

“Thanks for doing that,” I told her. “You won’t have to come and get me tonight. I’m sure someone can give me a ride home tonight after the crop.”

“Aye, but you canna carry in this box. Your arms aren’t long enough to get around your belly. I’m happy to help.”

We arrived to find Clancy struggling with an artificial Christmas tree. As usual, Clancy was channeling Jackie Kennedy, what with her beautifully styled auburn hair, her perfect make-up, and her tailored grey slacks and pink cashmere sweater set. While she didn’t look one bit like a woman who might get messy crafting, I knew that she was game to try anything, as long as she could put on an apron and give herself a spritz of Chanel No. 5 first.

“The directions are missing to this green piece of junk.” Fisting her hands on her hips, she glared at the tangled mess of branches. “I don’t know who put this away last year but they ought to be shot.”

“Might be a tad harsh,” observed Brawny in a dry tone.

“I did.”

A meek voice caused the three of us to turn around. Rebekkah had come through the front door, but we hadn’t heard the door minder chime. I let go of the sad excuse for a fir branch that I was holding and rushed over to give her a hug. “Hey, sweetheart, how are you?”

“I’m okay. I wanted to thank you for spending time with Dad. He was in pretty good spirits this morning. Considering.” Her troubled hazel eyes told me there was more to her visit than a simple courtesy gesture.

“How about if we go into my office?” I took the young woman by the hand.

“Sure and I bet the two of us can figure this out,” said Brawny, sending a knowing glance toward Clancy.

“Right.” Clancy’s no fool. She knew something was up.

I gently closed the office door and sank into the big black leather office chair that Dodie had been so proud of. Rebekkah took the chair across from me. She’d barely touched the seat with her coat when the words came spilling out of her.

“The police want to talk to Dad about Orland King. They think Dad might have something to do with his death.”

Chapter 5

 

“But that doesn’t make sense. Your neighbor fell and hit the power line. It was an accident! That’s what the police at the scene told Detweiler.” I struggled to keep my voice low so Clancy and Brawny wouldn’t overhear me.

Rebekkah rubbed swollen eyes with her balled up fists. “I know, I know! But that’s not what they’re saying now. They’ve asked Dad to come down and talk to them.”

“They must have changed their minds. Maybe they just want to be sure that they’ve covered all their bases. They do that sometimes. See, things could change. They need to be prepared in case someone suggests it was anything other than death by misadventure.”

Rebekkah scrubbed her face with both hands, as if she were holding a wash cloth and trying to wipe away thick makeup. “That’s the point, don’t you see? They’ve as good as decided it wasn’t an accident. Everyone in the neighborhood knows that Mr. King and Dad had gone to mediation to solve the problem.”

“Back it up. What problem?”

“The garage.”

“Rebekkah, I need more information. I don’t know what you’re referring to. What about the garage?”

“Didn’t Mom tell you?”

I bit the inside of my lip rather than react. Kids always think that adults know and share everything with each other. Of course, we don’t. It’s not like adults have membership in a secret club. We might seem omniscient, and we do our best to appear that way at times, but a lot slips past us. There was no reason for Dodie to talk to me about her husband’s problems with a neighbor. My old boss hated gossip, to the extent that she occasionally kept quiet when she should have shared information. Why Rebekkah thought I knew about a hassle with their garage baffled me, but instead of letting my impatience show, I willed myself to stay calm. “Um, my life can be pretty all-consuming. I might have missed it. How about if you start at the beginning and fill me in?”

Bless her heart, she didn’t roll her eyes, although I bet she wanted to. Instead, she sighed as if put-upon and said, “Remember? Two years ago? When Dad decided to enlarge our garage?”

No, as a matter of fact, I did not remember any such thing. So I simply said, “Go on.”

“Orland King, our neighbor who died, suggested that Dad use his brother to do the work. Dad got a price from Alfred King, but it was way out of line. Totally outrageous. Dad bid the job out to three other contractors, and all of them came back offering to do the work for less. But Mr. King got all snippy and said that we should use his brother because Alfred would do a good job and not disrupt the neighborhood’s harmony. Those were his words. So Dad waited until the Kings went on vacation and had another contractor do the work.”

That made perfect sense to me. Why rub Orland King’s nose in the fact that the Goldfaders weren’t using his brother? Why take a chance on causing a ruckus?

“When the Kings got back home, Mr. King saw the progress and went ballistic. Totally nuts. Turns out that our contractor poured our foundation two inches over the property line.”

I felt my mouth flop open. When I collected myself, I said, “You have to be kidding me.”

“No. He totally messed up. And it got worse. The Kings weren’t home six hours when their toilets backed up. Our contractor had crushed their sewage line. Boy, oh, boy, was Dad ever sick about it. He did everything he could to make it up to the Kings. Offered to have the foundation torn out. Got the sewage line fixed. Offered to pay for the clean-up of the mess in their house. But Mr. King refused to settle. He wanted to go to court.”

I sank back in the big, cushy chair and shook my head in amazement. How could something so innocent go so wrong? And what else could Horace and Dodie have done after the fact to try to fix the situation? “Was the contractor insured?” I asked.

“Turns out he falsified his paperwork. Dad and Mom initially had to come up with the money out of their own pockets. We took the contractor to court. He filed bankruptcy. And then the Kings took us to court.”

“Was all this still going on when your mother died?”

Rebekkah shook her head. “No. When they heard that Mom had cancer, they chilled out. Sent a note over saying that they would agree to go to a mediator. Dad had already been to two sessions when Mr. King died. From what Dad told me, they’d kissed and made up. Sort of. Not really kissing, of course, but I guess when they learned Mom was so sick, the Kings stopped and realized they were being jerks. Dad has paid for everything they’ve asked to have fixed. I think they just wanted to vent—and they finally got it out of their systems and were ready to move on. It’s all cool now between them.”

This didn’t make any sense. Eula had suggested that Horace had threatened Orland King—and she’d given me the impression that their disagreement was both recent and heated. Granted, from what I knew of Horace, getting so upset seemed totally out of character, but then Horace had been under an awful lot of pressure lately. What with his wife dying and his neighbor suing him.

I was chewing this over, trying to figure out what to say to comfort Rebekkah when my cell phone rang. Detweiler was calling.

“Sorry, Rebekkah, but I need to take this.” I rose and stepped out of my office. Once I had found a quiet corner of the sales floor, I answered the phone.

“Kiki?” Usually Detweiler waits for my response or greets me with a loving chuckle, but not this time. He barreled ahead with, “Grab your coat. I’m coming to get you. The homicide detective assigned to Orland King’s murder case wants to interview you.”

Chapter 6

 

One of the few side benefits of being pregnant is that the bitter cold doesn’t bother me as much as it usually did. Lately Detweiler has taken to teasing me that I’m his own personal blast furnace. But I still felt the sting of the freezing temps on my face as I took his arm and walked from the back door of the store to his car. Fortunately, the Crown Vic was still warm inside.

“Do you have any idea what this is about?” he asked, while executing a perfect three-point turn in my parking lot.

“I think so.”

“Could you clue me in? I can’t imagine what you might have seen that I didn’t.” Creeping toward the street, he waited for the traffic to open up before he pulled into the lane.

“It isn’t something I saw. It’s something I heard. But it’s hearsay! And I didn’t get to tell you about it Saturday night because you were busy trying to find a spot to park the car. After that, if you recall, we didn’t have a moment to ourselves. Once we took Horace back to his house the cops were already there.”

“And Sunday?”

“I was a little shook up by hearing about Orland King electrocuting himself. At that point, what I’d heard didn’t seem to make any difference.”

To his credit, he didn’t get upset. That’s one of the things I love about Detweiler. For the most part, he’s calm, cool, and collected. I’m the one who tends to tip from one emotional extreme to the other. This circumstance had me feeling seriously unbalanced. I did not want to get Horace in trouble by repeating what I’d heard.

“Look, I would have told you what I heard if I’d thought it was important, but it isn’t,” I said. “I mean, it didn’t seem important then. So if it’s okay with you, I’ll share it with you now. You aren’t part of the investigation, are you?” I turned to my fiancé, wishing we were married, so I’d have a better idea what our rights were to a private conversation.

“None of this happened in my jurisdiction,” he said. Because the metro St. Louis area is actually made up of 91 different municipalities, each with its own governing body, you can cross a street and be in a different police district. It’s totally confusing. Totally unnecessary and totally redundant. Oftentimes, the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing. Because no one wants to give up his or her own little fiefdom, every attempt at consolidation has met with failure. Communication is poor. A criminal can commit a crime in one municipality, get pulled over in another town, and walk away without being arrested.

But today, this worked in my favor. I quickly explained to Detweiler about the accusations that Eula Baldwin had hurled toward Horace two nights earlier.

“What did Horace say to all this?” Detweiler frowned.

“He kept trying to interrupt her, but she barreled on past him.” I paused and thought a second. “To top all that off, Rebekkah showed up in my office. She was there right when you called.”

I went on to explain what she’d told me about the feud over the poorly performed construction project.

“But you’re telling me that Horace and Orland made their peace? They weren’t angry with each other.”

“That’s right. I’ve now heard two conflicting stories. According to Rebekkah, who has no reason to lie to me, her father and Orland have come to an agreement. They’ve resolved their differences. And when you think about it, that makes sense. After all, Horace has already paid for the problems his contractor caused. The mediator worked his magic, and the two parties are getting along.”

“But you’re telling me that Eula Baldwin made it sound like there’d been another crisis. Something more recent.”

I shook my head. “That was her side of the conversation. Horace didn’t seem to agree with her. He kept trying to get a word in edgewise and couldn’t. She wouldn’t let him.”

He rubbed his chin. “Maybe Eula wasn’t up to speed. You said that was her moving van? Maybe she was a step or two behind, so she didn’t realize that everything was settled between Horace and the Kings. So perhaps she reported their falling out to the local police when they did their knock-door follow up. Or she might have called it in, thinking she was being a good citizen. How well do you know this woman?”

“Not very. I mean, I’ve known her for nearly a dozen years, but I don’t know her well, if that makes sense. She took some of the same classes with Dodie as I did when I got started. She stops in the store now and again, but we’ve never exchanged more than a few pleasantries.”

A muscle twitched in Detweiler’s jaw. I knew that tic. It was a sign that he felt stressed. I’d seen it happen before. I waited to see if he’d follow up on my comment, but he didn’t. After counting thirty Mississippi’s, I took matters into my own hands. “What is it? Why are you upset? What did I say wrong?”

“You didn’t say anything wrong.”

“No, but your jaw muscle is twitching. That only happens when you’re worried.”

His chuckle was soft and low. He reached over and took my hand. “Babe, you know me too well. You didn’t say anything wrong. You didn’t do anything wrong. But this Eula Baldwin person has me worried.”

“Why?”

“Because the way she talked about you to Detective Crosby, you’re her very dearest friend.”

Chapter 7

 

I told Detective Daniel Crosby everything I knew about Eula’s report of a disagreement between Horace and Orland King. As I spoke, I carefully emphasized that Horace had seemed shocked by Eula’s comments.

“He kept trying to interrupt her, but she wasn’t having any of it. You couldn’t really call it a conversation. There was no give-and-take. Eula prattled on and on. Horace stood there watching her, looking bemused and irked.”

“Irked?”

“Mildly provoked. Not the same as angry. Certainly not the same as ready to kill someone.”

Crosby was a man with a narrow, hatchet-shaped face. His close-set eyes gave him a speculative expression that might or might not have honestly reflected what he was thinking. As I spoke, he turned a mechanical pencil end-over-end, repeatedly.

“What else do you know about Horace Goldfader and Orland King?”

“What do you mean?” I stalled for time. Should I repeat what I’d learned from Rebekkah? That didn’t seem right. It was hearsay. Repeating what I’d heard Eula say was different. I’d witnessed that. But Rebekkah was telling me something that she was privy to as a child in the Goldfader family. What was it that a famous psychologist once said? Children are great observers but poor interpreters? What if Rebekkah got any part of that story wrong? It wasn’t my place to repeat gossip, even if I’d heard it from a reliable source.

“How about Horace Goldfader’s background? Ever known him to be violent? Belligerent?”

“Gosh, no.”

“But he did recently lose his wife.”

“Dodie,” I said. “Dodie was his wife. And yes, he lost her. He was very good to her, always.”

“So you never heard any scuttlebutt about him being trained in martial arts?”

“Horace?” I scoffed and tried not to laugh. Detective Crosby had offered me a cup of tea, and I’d gladly availed myself of it, because they had a nice herbal blend. Now I swirled the last of the brew in my paper cup. “I’d be more likely to believe our current pope trained as a boxer.”

“As a matter of fact, Pope Francis once worked as a nightclub bouncer.”

I choked on my tea.

“Care to amend your statement?” Crosby raised an eyebrow.

“Nope. I know nothing about Horace’s military background, if any. Nor do I know if he’s had any training in martial arts, self-defense, or any violent pastime.” I pushed my cup to one side and leaned across the tired Formica table top. “Look. Horace Goldfader is a mild man. At least as far as I know. He’s not the sort to pick a fight. Besides, why feud with a neighbor after the problem was solved? According to Rebekkah, Horace and Orland came to an agreement. Why fight with a neighbor when you don’t have a quarrel with each other? And why that night, of all nights? Horace was planning to go out with us, Detweiler and me. Most people don’t kill someone right before they rush out the front door to look at holiday lights.”

“Are you sure?” Crosby stared at me.

“Yes. No. I mean, I doubt that anyone’s taken a survey of what killers have done right before they go on a spree, but honestly, that doesn’t make sense, does it?”

Crosby shrugged.

“Look,” I said, leaning forward and speaking in a conspiratorial tone. “Horace wouldn’t have done such a thing. Really, he wouldn’t have. That’s not his style.”

“You sure about that?” Crosby stared at me.

I squirmed in my seat. “Uh, yeah. Pretty sure.”

Chapter 8

 

Detweiler helped me back into his car. “You going to be okay?”

I nodded, but I didn’t say much. Instead, I found myself wondering, how much do you really know someone when he’s the husband of your friend? What if Horace did have a history of violence? Would I know about it? Dodie wouldn’t have mentioned anything like that. Not to me, at least. She was incredibly loyal and intensely protective of Horace.

On the ride back to the store, Detweiler made a few calls. He wasn’t able to learn much, but he filled me in on the details as he learned them.

“You have to be very, very careful with this information. They aren’t releasing much to the public. In fact, they’re hoping it won’t get out that Orland King was the victim of foul play. They’re gambling on the fact that the killer will think he or she is safe. That should make it easier to close the case.”

I told him I understood, that I would keep my mouth shut, and then he spilled the vanilla coffee beans.

It seems that whoever killed Orland King had been pretty smart, all things considered. If the medical examiner hadn’t done the math, if he hadn’t figured out that Orland had traveled too far to the right to have simply lost his balance and hit the power line, no one would have guessed foul play had been involved in the man’s death.

After careful calculations exposed that the ladder had been moved, the examiner went over the aluminum frame inch by inch. Then he discovered a few stray red threads jammed under one of the points where the step met the frame. These didn’t match anything on Orland’s body, so it was easy to rule out him snagging his clothes. A thorough search of Debbie King’s clothes didn’t turn up any materials that matched the threads either. But they had appeared at a certain height, consistent with a place where a person might grip the ladder. So that was one clue the authorities were following up on.

There were also footprints in the snow.

However, Detweiler didn’t know whether those matched Horace Goldfader’s shoe size or not. All he could learn was that the tracks were small, definitely smaller than those of an average man.

“But the timing,” I said. “We were out driving around with Horace. How could they pinpoint exactly when Orland King died? Usually there’s a window.”

“His watch stopped. Those volts ran through his body ten minutes before you climbed out of my car.”

I mulled that over. “Horace would have had enough time to move the ladder with Orland on it. He could get back to the house. Change and open the door for me. But what about Eula? What time did she arrive?”

“She says Horace was pulling his sweater over his head as he answered the door for her. He was in his sock feet. According to her, he said he’d been out running errands right before she arrived.”

“Wow.” I shook my head. Things were sounding worse and worse. “But Rebekkah told me that Horace and Orland had patched up their quarrel. What does Debbie King say? Does she agree that Orland and Horace were on the outs again?”

Detweiler sighed. “She heard her husband making noise outside, but she explained that he liked to sing along to Christmas carols as he hung the lights. Debbie King says she was pretty sure that Orland and Horace had settled their differences, but she knew that both men were being stubborn about letting go of their anger. And they’d had another little tiff recently. One that didn’t involve the garage or Orland’s brother, the contractor. I guess that the Kings’ grandiose light display often made it hard for Horace to sleep at night. When Horace complained about them shining into his bedroom, Orland told him that he was a cheapskate. If he’d break down and buy nicer curtains, the light wouldn’t show through so much.”

“Terrific.”

“Peace on earth, goodwill to men was not in evidence,” said Detweiler.

“No, I guess not.”

Chapter 9

 

“Thought I’d drop by and see how you’re doing with the store. I haven’t been in since you officially took over.”

My head jerked up to see Eula Baldwin standing at my work table. She was wearing a sardonic smile that didn’t look entirely friendly. “Oh, hi,” I said.

I believe in being polite to everyone who comes to Time in a Bottle. My goal is for this store to be a special space, a sacred place almost, like churches once were. A sanctuary and a haven where people can park their troubles at the door. But thinking about how Eula had portrayed herself as my bestie, when she’s not, I wasn’t exactly feeling the love. However, a customer is a customer. After scolding myself, I flashed Eula my biggest grin. “Nice to have you here. Are you staying for the crop?”

She hadn’t signed up for this evening’s session, and I knew that because I held the list in my hands. We always make up extra kits, but tonight we’d already had four walk-in customers. Would we have enough supplies? Most stores just offer table space and access to their expensive equipment during a crop. But Time in a Bottle is different. I always teach a technique at our scrapbook events, offering a project that scrapbookers can make and take home. (Hence the name: “make-and-take.”) So our classes are extra-special, and our customers appreciate that.

“I might,” she said, as if issuing me a challenge.

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Instead, I cranked up my internal cheerleader. “We’d love to have you.”

“I’ve been unpacking all day, and I deserve a break.”

“Good deal! We’re stamping images on muslin to make bags for gifts or to use for sachets. Should be fun, don’t you think?”

She ran a fingertip along the counter and watched her own progress. After a brief pause, she said, “Maybe.”

“Did you see our mitten tree?” I pointed to the artificial tree. “I hope we can get it covered with gloves and mittens.”

“Hmm,” she said, tucking her own black leather gloves into her pocket and staring at the tree. For what seemed like an eternity, she stood there, with her back to me.

“Is something on your mind?” I asked. “Anything I can help you with?” Eula was keeping me from getting set up for the crop, and I wanted to move the conversation along. The last time I’d been pregnant, I’d been barely nineteen. When the test came back positive, George Lowenstein and I had hastily gotten married. A week later, I’d dropped out of college and become a homemaker. Fourteen years had passed since then. I’d underestimated the toll that pregnancy would take on my aging body. My feet complained about the extra weight I was carrying. My knees and legs ached from the long hours spent running my store. Even with Brawny’s help, I still had a lot to do each night when I got home. With the holidays right around the corner, my dance card was full. If Eula had something to say, I hoped she’d spit it out and get it over with. I was too tired to beat around the holly bush.

Turning slowly, she faced me. The cold had nipped at her nose, turning it red. Her cheeks were as pink as a girl’s who overindulged with rouge. “Now that you mention it, yes, there is something on my mind. I stopped by to talk with you because I’m upset. It makes me sick at heart to think that Jonesy and I lived two houses down from a murderer. The whole neighborhood is up in arms. I hope they hurry up and charge Horace Goldfader and get him off the streets. Who knows what violence might happen next?”

“Horace? A murderer?” When in doubt, repeat what the other person says. It buys you time, and keeps you from making a regrettable comment.

“Oh, I know you might have been fooled into thinking that he’s a nice man. Dodie had a habit of polishing his halo to a bright shine. But trust me, he has a vile temper. I tried to warn you, didn’t I? I told you he might get reckless. I was worried he’d hurt Orland, and that’s exactly what he did! You need to take responsibility for this, Kiki.”

“No way you can pin this on me. Orland was already dead when you warned me about Horace.” The words slipped out before I had the chance to stop myself. I shouldn’t have shared what Detweiler had learned about the time of death. Mentally, I kicked myself.

“Really?” Eula’s eyes widened considerably. “How could you possibly know that?”

“There are ways the authorities can pin down the time of death.”

The color drained from her face. “Impossible.”

I said nothing.

“If Orland was already dead…” Eula sputtered around, waving her hands in ineffective circles. “That means I was standing there in the home of a murderer.”

“Horace didn’t do anything to Orland.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

“You can’t possibly be sure of that. You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she sniffed. Her sniffing was a bad habit that was starting to get on my nerves. “And I bet the police can’t prove he’s innocent either.”

Irked by her insistence, I lost my patience. “Really? I know more than you think. I know they have all sorts of clues they are following up on. Ever heard of Locard’s Exchange Principle? When a crime is committed, the perpetrator picks up evidence and leaves evidence behind, either of which can be used to pin down the identity of the perpetrator.”

She actually snorted at me. The color was returning to her skin, but now her cheeks burned red with fury, not with the cold. “That’s ridiculous. You made that up.”

“I did not.”

Now Eula crossed her arms over her chest, mirroring my stance. “Give me an example.”

“Let’s say the perpetrator was wearing a baby blue mohair sweater. Maybe he rubs up against the victim. After the fact, the forensic scientist finds tiny bits of mohair on the body.”

She stared at me. “I’ve never heard such nonsense. Look, I’ve changed my mind. I’m not coming to your crop tonight. I have too much unpacking to do.”

“Suit yourself.”

But as she pulled on her gloves, she hesitated. “I see no reason to stick around where I’m not wanted.”

Terrific. Instead of brimming over with the holiday spirit, I’d just managed to run off a customer. Whatever was I thinking? I could have kicked myself. Instead, I tried to swallow a great big piece of humble pie. “Look, Eula, I’m sorry if I sounded short with you. I’m dog-tired, I miss Dodie dreadfully, and my feet hurt.”

Out of the side of her eyes, she gave me a glance of sympathy. “I remember being pregnant. It wasn’t much fun.”

“Nope, it sure isn’t. Especially when you are eight months along.”

Chapter 10

 

Fortunately, Eula and her negative cooties were out the door by the time most of our croppers started to arrive. Doing a little preventative maintenance, I lit a smudge stick and wafted the smoke into the four corners of our building.

“That bad?” Clancy Whitehead is both my employee and my best pal. She always notices tiny adjustments I make, whether it’s moving merchandise around on the shelves or adding a new scrapbook page display or lighting a candle. Her eyes zeroed in on the smudge stick.

“Kinda, sorta,” I said.

That’s all the time I had for chatter, because our croppers showed up bubbling over with ideas for holiday projects. For the next twenty minutes, I raced from one display rack to another to gather materials. Meanwhile, delicious fragrances filled the store, because wherever there are scrapbookers, there’s bound to be food, and tonight was no exception. My customers always tried to out-do each other bringing wonderful yummies to share. A steady stream of women carrying slow cookers, plates covered with aluminum foil, Tupperware containers, and bakery boxes set my mouth to watering.

“It’s six o’clock.” Clancy tapped the black disc face of her Movado watch. I nodded. She reached under a counter and pulled out a tiny crystal bell that she shook to mark the start of our crop. At the ringing sound, women fell silent and looked to me expectantly.

After a brief welcome, I introduced the make-and-take. Clancy had run up the muslin bags on her sewing machine. Rebekkah had threaded cotton twine through a channel to create a drawstring. Now all our customers had to do was to choose a rubber stamp image and add that to their bags.

Within minutes, croppers were happily inking their stamps and completing their projects. The trick was using Versacraft ink, a special ink that was perfect for adding images to fabric. Once it was heat-set, it was extremely durable.

From the happy “oooohhhs” and “aaaaahhhhs,” I counted the project as a real winner. Once the make-and-take was completed, scrapbookers were free to do their own work, which always meant a lot of desultory chatter. Not surprisingly, the subject of holiday lights came up. From there it was a short hop-skip-and-jump to Orland King’s untimely demise.

“He and Debbie always went all out on their light displays,” said Kari Brecon, a plump partridge of a woman whose twelve grandchildren are the center of her universe. “It seems so odd to drive past their house and have the place be dark.”

“Isn’t that that truth?” Cleo Owens nodded. “Too bad Eula has moved. She would have loved finally getting her wish granted.”

Hearing Eula’s name, I edged closer. It’s my custom to walk around the worktables and offer encouragement. But often I say nothing, so my eavesdropping this particular evening didn’t arouse Cleo or Kari’s suspicions.

Kari giggled. “Boy, oh, boy. She sure hated the Kings' light display, didn’t she? Remember how she went on and on about how tacky it was? How it brought down the look of the neighborhood?”

“Uh-huh. She was right. They went way overboard, and neither Orland nor Debbie have any semblance of good taste. But most of us didn’t mind. It was just once a year, for Pete’s sake. If they wanted to look like tasteless idiots, let them, is what my husband always said.”

I decided to see what I could learn by fishing around. “Are you talking about Orland King? What a tragedy! We had just come back from taking Horace Goldfader to dinner when we saw the emergency vehicles.”

“Wasn’t that something?” Kari turned so she could halfway face me. “I guess Debbie had dinner ready, and Orland didn’t answer his phone. So she went out to see what he was doing.”

“As if she didn’t know.” Cleo snickered. “She’s caught him in the act enough times.”

“Didn’t know what?” I leaned closer, because I had a hunch this wasn’t something that should be bandied about.

Kari and Cleo exchanged meaningful glances. Finally, Cleo said, “It doesn’t really matter now, does it? Orland was a serial flirt. He had one girlfriend after another. Debbie had given him an ultimatum. Stop it or I’m leaving you, buddy.”

“So he’d sneak out to the garage and make his phone calls,” explained Kari. “I suspect he was talking to one of his sweethearts on the phone when Debbie came out and caught him in the act.”

I frowned. I couldn’t divulge what I’d learned from Detweiler, but I could reasonably make an observation. “In other words, you’re thinking that Debbie killed her husband? But I thought he fell off the ladder and hit a power line?”

Kari smirked. “That’s exactly what happened. Only the power line was four feet to the left of his ladder. Orland was right-handed. He’d strung all the lights to his left, but after he fell, there were strands to the right that were dangling on the ground. Therefore, it’s logical to assume that he should have fallen to the right. But he didn’t. So maybe he had help, huh?”

“On the other hand,” said Cleo, “there was a rumor going around that Orland tried to molest Rebekkah Goldfader back when she was a teenager. Maybe Horace finally decided to get his revenge.”

Chapter 11

 

Because I’d worked so late Monday night, I took Tuesday off. The morning went by quickly enough, between getting the kids ready for school and doing online shopping for family presents. Because both my children attend CALA, the Charles and Anne Lindbergh Academy, I only have one school schedule to contend with. Around two forty-five, Brawny went to pick up Anya and Erik. After telling me about their days, they settled in to help our nanny bake cookies, while I took my harlequin Great Dane, Gracie, outside for a potty break. Typically, Gracie likes to sniff around and explore. This particular afternoon, the bone-deep frigid temps encouraged her to do her business quickly.

“No, girl. We aren’t going inside yet.” I tugged on the leash and pointed her toward our mailbox. With Christmas fast approaching and Hanukkah just around the corner, the container would more than likely be filled with holiday letters, cards, circulars, and packages. On this particular day, the mailman had left us with a handful of bills, a few handwritten notes, and a lightweight, brown paper package with an address tracing its origins to Edinburgh, Scotland. Tucking everything under my arm, I picked my way back toward the house.

“Unless this melts off, we’re going to have a White Christmas,” I told my dog. She pranced along beside me happily, her brown eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of the frisky squirrel that loves to tease her. The snow was mounded high on each side of our sidewalk, but a path to our kitchen door had been thoughtfully cleared by my sweetheart right after he had his coffee this morning.

The minute I opened the door, a wave of warmth engulfed me, bringing with it the fantastic fragrance of freshly baked Scottish shortbread cookies. Brawny was pulling a flat tray out of the oven. She’d volunteered to do all the baking for the various cookie exchanges being held by the kids’ schools and my store. Since I’ve never been much of a baker, I greeted her proposal with enthusiasm. The delightful smells in my kitchen reminded me why I’d been so happy that Brawny claimed the task for her own. I sniffed the air appreciatively as I set the slender parcel on the kitchen counter. “Package came for you.”

The sturdy woman ran a flat palm over the embossed image of purple thistles on the postal stamp. The prickly blossom was joined by a somber silhouette of a young Queen Elizabeth, who stared rigidly into the future from the upper right hand corner. In the center of the parcel, Bronwyn’s name had been printed in a spider-like script, strangely old-fashioned and elegant as it sprawled across what felt like a long narrow box.

“I think someone sent you a magic wand for Christmas,” I teased her.

“Me see!” Erik jumped to his feet. His precarious perch on top of a chair frightened the wits out of me, so I quickly grabbed him by an elbow.

“You could fall,” I said, giving him a hug as he eased down into his booster seat.

He responded by pouting, but not for long.

“Can I see?” Thirteen-year-old Anya rose to her feet. Her face was tilted toward Brawny.

The kids were helping Brawny by icing sugar cookies. However, judging by the crumbs on his sweet lips, I suspected that more of the pastries made it into Erik’s mouth than onto the plates destined for cookie exchanges.

“Of course you both can. Soon as I get it open.”

We’d grown accustomed to her heavy accent, so I had no trouble deciphering words that sounded like “ken” for “can” and “boat” for “both.” Brawny slipped a butter knife under one corner of the brown paper. A hearty rip told us she’d pulled the tape away from the paper, peeling it back just a bit to expose the top end of a box. She opened it and pulled out what looked to me like a twig.

“Careful. Your hot tea is about to slide into your lap,” I warned my daughter. The rolling of her eyes warned me I was dangerously close to earning my reputation as a “hover mother.” The teenage hormones in our house rose and fell like the rollicking seas. Today was shaping up to be real nor’easter.

“Me too!” Erik tucked his legs under his bottom in preparation to stand up again, but my hand on his shoulder kept him in place this time. Besides, he didn’t need to get to his feet to see the small stick that Brawny brandished in front of our faces.

“So is it a wand?” I’d been teasing before, but now I was genuinely curious.

“In a manner of speaking, it is exactly that,” said Brawny. “Me sister sent it to me. It’s a twig from a rowan tree. She knew I’d be wanting it for Christmas Day. Thought she’d send it along before she forgot.”

Anya shot me a glance of pure bewilderment. Clearly, she expected me to translate this cryptic statement. But all I could do was shrug. I had no idea what Brawny was talking about.

“You’ve lost me,” I said, directing my comment toward Brawny. “Did you call it a twig? From a rowan tree? What’s that and why would you want it for Christmas Day? I assume it has to do with some tradition?”

Brawny nodded vigorously. “Aye. We Scots throw a bit of rowan into the fireplace on Christmas Day. Stops resentment. Clears the air especially among family and neighbors. The tradition has been around for hundreds of years. Probably began because the fruit of the trees is a berry with a five-pointed star.”

“A pentagram,” said Anya. “That’s a symbol of protection.”

“Aye, my smart young missy. As is the color red. Me granny taught us this rhyme, ‘Rowan tree and red thread/make the witches tine their speed.’ But of course, ‘tine’ meant ‘to lose’ in the old language, so she was telling us that this tree and red thread would help us out run a witch if we had to.”

I took all that in. “You’re saying the rowan tree itself has protective properties.”

“That’s right.” Brawny regarded the twig thoughtfully. “Makes sense, does it not? Resentment chips away at us. It eats at us from within. By burning a branch of the rowan tree, we protect ourselves. I suppose ‘tis especially important during the holidays when some might get more gifts than others.”

“Can we watch you burn it?” Anya asked eagerly.

“Fire?” echoed Eric with a hopeful tone to his voice. Not for the first time did I marvel at how different boys are from girls. Anything having to do with fire was an ongoing source of fascination for Erik. At that age, Anya couldn’t have cared less about anything dangerous, but Erik seemed to be drawn to such things like a moth to a flame.

“Aye,” said Brawny, reaching out to ruffle the small boy’s curly red hair. “Of course you can. Me sis sent it to me, but it’s really for all of us. To share. That’s why she mailed it to me. So we can all clear the air of resentment and start the New Year with good feelings toward everyone we know. Especially our neighbors.”

“You can say that again.” Detweiler shook the snow off his boots and set his wet gloves on the kitchen counter. “Neighbors can be a danger to each other.”

Especially if a neighbor tried to molest your child. I couldn’t even imagine someone laying a hand on Anya. The thought made me physically ill. I also couldn’t imagine what Detweiler would do if anyone tried to hurt Anya. He was incredibly protective of the child who would soon become his step-daughter.

After Detweiler had a chance to say hi to the children, I went over and kissed him. As always, I breathed the proverbial sigh of relief that he was home safely from work. Being involved with a cop was new for me. My late husband, Anya’s father, had been a businessman. I’d never worried about him being safe at work.

Although in retrospect, I should have. His job got him murdered, after a fashion.

“I wonder why.” Anya was talking about how neighbors could be a danger to each other, and the very thought of violence had caused her to frown with disapproval. She’s decided that she wants to become a cop like Detweiler and her step-grandfather, Robbie Holmes, who is the Chief of Police for St. Louis County. Being so close to police work has been thrilling for Anya. Of course, I hope she’ll change her mind and choose a profession that’s less dangerous, but I know my daughter. Telling her of my concern would only make her more determined, not less. So I’m keeping my mouth shut, even though at times (like now) I have to pinch myself to stay quiet.

“I can’t tell you how many shootings happen because neighbors quarreled, and it got out of hand. When people live close to each other, there’s no chance for them to back off and cool down. What starts as a small disagreement festers. Eventually things come to a head and explode.” Detweiler smiled at Anya. He always answered her questions, no matter how tough they were. From the moment he met us, he’d treated my daughter with respect. That was one of the many reasons I’d fallen in love with him.

“Our custom with the rowan reminds us how important it is to wipe the slate clean,” said Brawny. “To forgive and forget and move on.”

Alas, some things are easier said than done.

Chapter 12

 

At the store on Wednesday morning, I waited impatiently for Rebekkah’s arrival. Ever since the Monday night crop, my conversation with Cleo and Kari had been playing over and over in my head, in an endless loop. Was it possible that Horace had yet another reason for hating Orland? Something besides the fact his contractor had goofed up? Or had it been Rebekkah who’d become unhinged? Perhaps I had totally underestimated how distraught the girl had been without her mother. While I had been congratulating myself on keeping my promise regarding Horace was it possible that I had been failing Rebekkah miserably?

Sitting in the big black leather office chair that Dodie had loved so much, I rested my forehead in my hands and leaned my elbows on the desktop. Closing my eyes, I reviewed what I knew. The night that Orland King had died, Horace had told me that I’d barely missed his daughter. He said that she’d just left to spend time with her boyfriend, Ben. But what if she’d been diverted on her way to Ben’s house? What if Rebekkah had been propositioned by Orland King? What if he taunted her? Coming so quickly after her mother’s death, perhaps she couldn’t handle his lascivious behavior. Maybe she lashed out at him. From there it would have been a short jump to quarreling with the man, losing her temper, grabbing the ladder, and watching in horror as he toppled down and hit a live power line.

But that didn’t sound like Rebekkah! She wasn’t an in-your-face type of person. Passive-aggressive, yes, she could be that way, but she was not someone who would come after you in a straightforward way. She’d gotten mad at me in the past, only to sneak around behind my back and pull mean stunts like forgetting to give me messages. When angered, she tended to act childishly, not violently. In fact, I didn’t think the girl had a violent bone in her body.

That line of reasoning led me back to Horace. Perhaps while Dodie was alive, she had kept him from attacking Orland when he tried to molest Rebekkah. Maybe without his wife’s mitigating influence, he’d finally given vent to his anger and struck out at his neighbor.

But why do such a thing immediately before going to look at holiday lights?

Why that night, of all nights?

When a crime is committed, the suffering isn’t limited to the victim. Here I was, mentally accusing the husband and daughter of one of my dearest friends. I hated how easily my mind jumped to consider them as suspects. And yet…that’s how you had to approach a crime. You had to examine everyone who might possibly be involved and work to exclude that person as a suspect.

Even so, it was a distasteful way to go through life, thinking the worst of the people you liked best.

But it couldn’t be helped. This crime and the murder charges weren’t going to vanish into thin air. Nor could the local authorities be counted on to solve it. No, they were impartial, and I was invested. In order to disqualify Horace and Rebekkah, I needed to first consider them as perpetrators, I needed to work through every eventuality, and only then could I exonerate them.

I ran my hands over the desk, trying to channel Dodie’s wisdom. She often played with a tiny toy turtle, so I opened the drawer, found the bobble-headed toy, and set him in the center of the wood surface. He nodded at me in encouragement, as if to ask, “What happened that night to set someone off?”

The answer felt like it was on the tip of my tongue. I knew something, something important, but I couldn’t put my finger on what that singular fact might be.

The sensation was akin to waking up and trying to remember a dream and only being able to recall an impression, not a solid image.

Time to try brainstorming.

Mentally, I listed what might have been different about that evening. The snow had finally been cleared enough to make getting around town relatively easy. It was a Saturday night. Horace had plans. Rebekkah had plans. Detweiler and I were coming to pick Horace up. Orland was stringing his lights. The Baldwins were moving. Moving vans were out on the street. The parking spaces were full. It wasn’t dark yet. Debbie King had been inside her house making dinner.

I couldn’t discern anything outstanding or unusual.

Means, motive, and opportunity. Timing. An inciting incident that caused someone to snap.

The turtle’s head quit moving. “Come on, buddy. I need help!” I whined, as I heard the back door slam shut.

Rebekkah had finally arrived.

Chapter 13

 

“Molest is too powerful of a word.” Rebekkah dumped four spoonfuls of sugar into a big mug of hazelnut coffee. Next she added two ounces of cream. By the time she finished, she was drinking a hot dessert from her cup, and I totally envied her. I really, really missed caffeine, but I didn’t think it was a good thing for my baby.

“What exactly did he do? And when?” I stirred my cup of decaf Earl Grey and tried to feel virtuous. Instead, I felt deprived.

“I went over to return a pair of pliers Dad had borrowed. Mr. King sort of backed me up against a wall of his garage. He’d just come back from making a run to Dunkin’ Donuts, so he offered me a donut. I took one. He said, ‘I like you, Rebekkah. You’ve got such pretty hair. You like me, too, don’t you?’ And I said that I thought he was okay. Then he leaned in to kiss me, and I shoved him. Hard. He tripped over an old tire. Fell on his butt. The donuts went flying up in the air and rolled all over the floor. He started yelling ‘Why did you do that?’ And I said, ‘Because you’re a creepy old man. Don’t ever try to touch me again.’”

Sounded to me like Rebekkah did a fine job of defending herself. I told her as much.

“Mom and Dad were pretty upset, but I was okay. Mainly. Dad threw around words like child-molester, but it wasn’t much different from a couple of dates I’d had where the boys got out of line, and I told him as much.”

“What did your mother say?”

“She called an attorney. Bonnie Gossage.”

Of course I knew Bonnie. She was a regular customer here at the store. I waited to hear what Bonnie had said. Rebekkah sighed, more a gesture of boredom than of disgust. “I had to tell Mrs. Gossage everything that happened. She had it notarized. Then she sent Mr. King a letter telling him that if he ever, ever tried to touch me again, we were prepared to prosecute him to the fullest extent of the law. Mom also marched over and told Debbie King what her husband had done. We could hear Debbie screaming at Orland all the way over at our house. In fact, I sort of think that is why Mr. King was such a jerk about when Dad’s contractor built our garage on their land. It was his way of getting back at us.”

That made sense to me.

I sniffed the bergamot in my tea. It smelled good, but golly, I’d rather have been drinking the hazelnut coffee and cream any day.

“Why are you asking me all of this?” Rebekkah’s eyes narrowed. Her expression was so keen, so shrewd, that she reminded me of her mother. Before I could formulate a good answer, she barreled ahead with, “Is it because the police think Dad had something to do with Mr. King’s death?”

“Yes. The very idea your father would do such a thing is ridiculous.” I stood up and rinsed out my mug.

“Of course it is. Debbie King killed her husband. I wasn’t the only girl he tried to get fresh with. She caught him putting the moves on her daughter.”

Chapter 14

 

That little tidbit caused me to drop my mug on the floor, breaking the handle.

“Don’t touch it. I’ll get it. You can’t bend over anyway, but I can. I’ll sweep it up,” said Rebekkah.

While she bustled around, I stood there with my mouth open, still stunned by her allegations. “Rebekkah, did you just say what I think you said? About Orland King?”

“Yes.” She squatted down, dustpan in one hand and whisk broom in the other. Once the broken handle was in the tray, she asked, “Want to try to glue this together?”

Typically I’m pretty thrifty, but I’ve always hated that particular mug. It had an ugly cartoon character of a dumpy woman on it. She was saying, “Because I’m the boss, that’s why!” Instead of telling Rebekkah to hang onto the handle, I said, “Dump it.”

“Good. I’ve always hated that cup.” Rebekkah marched the shards over to the trash bin.

“Me, too. At least that’s one good thing accomplished this morning, right?” I couldn’t help but laugh, because she’d echoed my sentiments about that ugly mug exactly.

Pouring herself a second cup of coffee, she began the process of doctoring her drink. “Orland was Debbie’s second husband. She had two daughters from her first husband, who’s a paramedic, and then they got divorced. The girls are both older than I am. When they lived with the Kings, Debbie used to work part-time at a drugstore, stocking shelves, stuff like that. One day she gets a call from the oldest daughter, and she’s hysterical. She tells her mother that Orland backed her up against the wall. Just like he did to me.”

“How old was this girl?”

“Seventeen.”

I sank back down into the chair I’d recently vacated. This was every mother’s nightmare. “What happened next?”

Rebekkah shrugged and took the chair next to mine. Her coffee smelled of hazelnut, and her hair smelled like strawberries. “It gets pretty complicated, but the upshot is that both of the girls were taken away from Debbie. They live with their father.”

“Wow.” That’s the only word I could muster. The very idea of losing my child terrified me. But this story sketched that fear in living color. Partially because I could imagine the victim. I’d seen photos of Debbie’s daughters on a scrapbook page that Dodie had done. The girls were adorable. Losing them must have crushed Debbie’s heart.

“Why didn’t she divorce him?” I couldn’t help but wonder. “Orland, I mean.”

“She told Mom she had nowhere to go and no real options. Her first husband had always wanted custody, so there wasn’t much of a chance of her getting the girls back. Orland wasn’t about to give her the money to hire an attorney. Her family didn’t want anything to do with her, especially after she lost the girls. She could only get a minimum wage job. Her boss at the pharmacy heard about what happened and fired her. Orland made good money. Her daughters were almost out of high school. Orland claimed that the oldest had been flirting with him, and he got mixed signals.”

“Mixed signals! But how could she live with a grown man who put the moves on her teenage daughter? The thought of it makes me sick!” So saying, I leaned over to reach into the cupboard and grab a bag of oyster crackers. I hoped they would quell my growing nausea. That’s why I kept them so handy.

Rebekkah shook her head. “Mom said Orland’s this typical sicko guy. He was able to control and manipulate Debbie. Convince her that what he did wasn’t that bad. Mom always said if you beat a person down so far, you’ll teach her that lifting up her head is foolish.”

Munching a cracker, I took all this in. This certainly put Orland King’s death in a new perspective for me. As long as the authorities didn’t blame Horace, who cared who murdered Orland? The killer should be given a medal. A trophy. A pot of gold. The keys to the city. Maybe even all four.

Sure, Debbie’s daughter was old enough to get married in some states, but that was beside the point. Her daughter was Orland’s step-daughter, and too young for him. He’d crossed a line.

“But all that’s neither here nor there.” Rebekkah lifted a strand of hair out of her eyes. “The point is, Dad didn’t kill Orland King. I bet his wife Debbie’s the one who did. Can you imagine living with a jerk like that? Losing custody of your daughters? I figure something happened that afternoon, and Debbie snapped. She’d finally had enough. After all, Orland had certainly given her plenty of reasons to wring his neck over the years.”

“What do you think might have happened? To cause her to snap?”

Rebekkah leaned forward, her face a study in earnestness. “Probably something to do with his big holiday display. Think about it, Kiki. Those lights? All that ‘Peace on Earth’ jazz? It was all so much baloney. A big show. I mean, here’s a guy who goes after teenage girls. And then he puts up figures of Santa and angels on his lawn? Can you see where I’m going with this? Those displays weren’t out there to celebrate the coming of the Messiah. They had nothing to do with Orland King’s way of showing off his holiday spirit.”

I didn’t get what she was driving at, and my face must have telegraphed my confusion. She continued with, “The lights were only part of the package. I guess you had to be there, or you couldn’t possibly know that Orland would dress up like Santa and personally greet people who came by to see his yard. Uh-huh. That’s right. He’d encourage them to get out of their vehicles and walk around his yard. And if they were young girls, teenagers, so much the better.”

A shiver swept up my spine. “But surely he didn’t try anything? Not in his own yard?”

She lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “Debbie tried to stick close to Orland and keep an eye on him. Okay, she never said that, but anyone who knew him could see what she was doing. She’d hang around as long as she could until she’d get cold and go inside. She even went to the city and got them to put up a ‘No Parking’ sign during the holidays to keep cars from stopping in front of their house. I can’t say for certain that Orland King tried to put the moves on anyone, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if he did. Or at least if he made an attempt or two. He was that kind of creep.”

I thought I was going to puke. Instead, I put my hand over my mouth and swallowed hard. “So the real goal of all those lawn ornaments was to lure unsuspecting young women into his yard.”

“That’s right,” said Rebekkah, settling back into her chair. “Gives a whole new meaning to ‘jolly old elf,’ doesn’t it? Is that gross or what?”

“Gross,” I agreed with her. “Totally gross. No wonder somebody got the bright idea of using his holiday displays as a way to get rid of Orland King.”

Chapter 15

 

It took a lot of coaxing to convince Rebekkah that she needed to talk to Detective Daniel Crosby about how Orland King had tried to molest her. “Won’t it make Dad look worse?”

“That’s one way to look at what you’ve told me, but your experience also suggests that Debbie King and a lot of other people had much, much stronger motives for killing Orland. As it stands, Detective Crosby only knows what Eula Baldwin has told him. Consequently, the detective is focused on your father and the problem with the garage.”

Rebekkah gave a mighty sigh. “Right. Like that’s enough to murder someone over. Especially since the two of them worked things out during mediation. You know my father. He would never, ever hurt a fly, except to protect me or Mom. I promised him that Mr. King backed off when I told him to get lost. Sure, Dad was angry, but he wasn’t furious, you know? Back then, our family gave that jerk the benefit of the doubt. Dad said maybe he just got carried away. Mom said men like that live in a fantasy world, and as long as I wasn’t too upset, we’d let it go. And I wasn’t that upset. More annoyed than freaked out.”

“How about this. How about if you talk to Detweiler? He can run interference for you with Crosby. Would that work?”

“I guess.” Rebekkah picked at a flake of hot pink nail polish on her thumbnail. “I’d rather talk to Detweiler than to anyone else, for sure.”

I put Detweiler on speaker phone and explained the situation. He had a few questions for Rebekkah. After hearing her out, he came up with a plan. He would go with her to talk to Detective Crosby, but before they did, he wanted to put in a call to the Sex Crimes Unit.

“That way when we go to Crosby, we might have evidence that Orland King tried to molest other young women,” Detweiler said.

“Do you really think that will help?” Rebekkah had now picked off all the polish on her thumb.

“Yes. It makes your claims more credible. They’ll have a record of Debbie King’s girls being taken away from her. Even if the charges were later dropped, they might have records of other complaints. At least we can start looking for more evidence against the man. It’ll bolster your position, and your father’s. But Rebekkah, be prepared. Detective Crosby is going to wonder why you didn’t bring up Orland King’s misbehavior up earlier.”

“I didn’t bring it up because it’s something I’ve worked hard to forget. Not exactly a pleasant memory. Look, he didn’t hurt me, but it was yucky. I avoided him after that.” She shrugged, but her body language told me this was harder for her than she was letting on.

When we concluded the conversation, I gave her a hug. “It’s going to be okay. You’re doing the right thing.”

“I hope so. I’m just scared that this could backfire and get Dad in more trouble.”

“How?” And I repeated myself, pointing out that a lot of other people had stronger reasons to want to see Orland King dead. “Namely his wife.”

“And his step-daughters. At least one of them. Can you imagine living in the same house with a monster like that?” She hugged herself. Taking a minute to gather her courage, she stood up, grabbed her coat, and hoisted her purse over one arm. “Okay, I’m off to meet Detweiler.”

She’d no sooner walked out the door than Clancy walked in. I didn’t want to betray Rebekkah’s confidence by telling Clancy about how Orland King had tried to molest our young friend. Instead, I told Clancy that Rebekkah was running an errand for me and that she’d be back soon. Switching subjects, I asked what had happened in the store on Tuesday, my day off.

“Not much. We sold more of the muslin bags, because people bragged about them to their friends. A couple of people came in to work on holiday cards. I sold several album kits. Sales were brisk. That reminds me. What do you have planned for the crop on Friday night? I know you’re running your Twelve Days of Christmas Crafting Spectacular, but is there anything else you’ve got planned?”

After we went over the events for the rest of the week, I asked about the Mitten Tree. “How’s that coming?”

“Not very well,” Clancy admitted. “Why don’t you go and look?”

She was right. The artificial pine tree with the multi-colored lights had only four sets of hand-warmers on it. Totally embarrassing. I walked around it twice, trying to formulate a plan to fill in the sparse pickings.

“Look, we all know that people are busy this time of year,” said Clancy. “But we want to get them to come into the store. This is a worthwhile charity.” 

“I hate the thought of the tree staying naked. That’s awful. It looks pitiful.” I stared at it. The tree had been one that Clancy had bought years ago, so the branches weren’t especially lush. The lack of mittens, scarves, and gloves made it all the more sad-looking.

“You just need to get them through the front door,” reasoned Clancy. “They might not be planning to spend money on themselves, but if you can get them in here, I’m sure you’ll ring up a few sales and fill up the tree.”

“What we need is an enticement.” To me, food was an ongoing enticement. As were crafts. I loved anything cute. That’s Cute with a capital C. After all, our bodies crave a healthy dose of Vitamin C! Especially in the winter.

“Not just an enticement, a reason. A very, very good reason.” Clancy tapped a fingernail against the side of a shelf unit.

“Discount coupon!” We said the words at the exact same time.

A few minutes later, we put our heads together and created a message to go to all our customers via email. I offered a 20% discount coupon that shoppers could use on any one item in exchange for bringing in a pair of gloves or mittens.

“Do the gloves have to be new?” Clancy wondered.

“As long as they are warm and clean, I doubt that it matters. Of course, we’d expect them to be in good shape. No holes. We can take scarves, too.” Even as I said this, I felt a niggling sense that I’d forgotten something. Something important. I hastened to add, “These can be for grown-ups or children, either one. Males or females.”

With a click of the button on the computer, I sent the e-blast winging its way to computers all over town.

Chapter 16

 

Question: What is the greatest labor saving device known to mankind? Answer: Live-in help.

Brawny had prepared a wonderful dinner; all I had to do was sit down to the table when I got home. Detweiler was working late, so he missed out on the fabulous feast of roast chicken, whipped potatoes, carrots in honey, and a salad. The wonderful food kept me busy for the first half of the meal. The second half I finally slowed down enough to ask the kids how their days had been.

Erik informed me he had learned all his lines, thanks to help from Anya and Brawny. He promised to recite them at bedtime.

Anya was positive she had aced her English exam. She planned to get back to studying for her math test after dinner. There was an air of self-satisfaction floating around my daughter like a halo. I thought, Good for you, Anya. It’s important to learn to give yourself well earned self-approval.

Brawny politely asked me how my day had gone. I would have loved to share how Rebekkah had opened Pandora’s Box, a treasure trove of complaints against Orland King. Many had been sealed because of the age of the victim. Although on paper he hadn’t gotten away with much, it had been abundantly clear it hadn’t been for lack of trying. Rebekkah’s report to Officer Crosby had sent the investigation off on an entirely new tangent that would keep the authorities busy for days to come. Compared to the motives that others had, Horace’s complaints about Orland looked trivial.

When Brawny served us butterscotch pudding and graham crackers for desert, Anya looked up from her dish and said, “Mom? What’s the difference between resentment and jealousy?”

This took me aback. “Why do you ask, sweetie?”

“Brawny said the rowan branch is supposed to get rid of resentment. Remember? How’s that different from jealousy? And where does envy fit in?”

“Hmmm.” I stared down at the golden-colored pudding and thought this over. “Envy is when we want something. It looks appealing to us. Jealousy is when we want something, someone else has it, and we think it should rightfully be ours, not theirs. And resentment is when we want something, someone else has it, and we hate them for having it. We think that if they would just vanish into thin air, we’d get what we want. So we see that person as keeping us from getting what we want out of life.”

“Gee.” She blinked at me. “Sounds pretty violent.”

“It can be.”

Brawny had been quietly eating her pudding. Her eyes flicked toward mine, waiting for me to finish. I appreciated the way she didn’t usurp my authority. She was very good about letting me be the parent. However, I was also curious about what she thought, so I asked, “Do you agree with my analysis, Brawny?”

“Couldn’t have said it better, meself. All three spring from comparisons. ‘Tis all about what I have, what you have, and what I think I ought to have. Comparisons are always shaming.”

Anya toyed with a piece of her graham cracker. “You said the rowan branch was to help neighbors get over their resentments.”

“Aye. No reason to nurse an old wound.”

“You would know.” Anya sighed.

I wasn’t sure that I liked the tone of that. “Anya? What do you mean?”

“For 400 years, it was against the law for the Scots to celebrate Christmas. If anyone should understand what resentment feels like, I’d think it’d be the people of Scotland. They didn’t even get Christmas Day off until the 1960s. But here comes our Brawny, waving her rowan branch and telling us we should put aside our resentment.” Anya’s smile was small. She added, “That’s pretty wild.”

I couldn’t tell whether my daughter was being flippant or serious or sarcastic. While I tried to sort through my feelings and decide what to say next, Brawny nodded at her. “Verra good, young miss. You are right. That’s exactly what happened. This was after the Reformation and the Kirk thought it too popish to celebrate Christ’s mass with frivolity. So you see, we Scots know a thing or two about letting go of anger. Whether it’s because someone has something ye want or because you’ve been hurt or because you’re told you canna celebrate on a day meant for rejoicing. ‘Tis like getting a good grasp on a nettle. Does ye no good to hold tight to a thistle. The prickles will keep stinging your fingers, over and over and over again, until ye come to your senses and let go.”

Chapter 17

 

The next day dawned face-slapping cold. Most of the snow had melted away, leaving the world gray and tired looking. What remained was a dirty pile here and there, tucked in the shadows, where the weak winter sun’s lemon-yellow rays hadn’t warmed the earth. The sky, however, held that particular moisture that promised a change in the air. I noticed all this when I took Gracie outside for her early morning piddle.

“Rebekkah’s information was really helpful,” said Detweiler, as he sipped a cup of coffee and leaned against the kitchen counter with his long legs crossed at the ankles. “Almost too helpful. Now Crosby has too many suspects. Turns out Orland was your typical predator. Except that he was smarter than most. Barely managed to stay out of jail. I don’t know how he did it, but he did.”

“Disgusting.”

“You can say that again. He stayed just this side of the law by preying on young women who were almost at the age of consent. And he also backed off when they told him to take a hike. Not that it makes a big difference, but at least it explains why he didn’t get his backside thrown in jail.” Detweiler paused to rub a fist into his eyes. He’d gotten in late. Really late. As always, he was up before dawn. Coffee kick-started his engine. He wasn’t fully human until he’d downed about a quart of the undiluted brew.

His serious case of bed-head made him look like a sleepy little boy. My fiancé looked so cute that despite the seriousness of the conversation, I couldn’t help but smile at him. “What happens next?”

“Crosby is going to explore all the complaints. See if any of those people were near the Kings’ house when Orland took his fatal fall off the ladder.”

“Horace?”

“I’d say he’s in the clear. At least, that’s how it looks right now.”

To change the subject, I told Detweiler about the conversation we’d had at the dinner table about envy, jealousy, and resentment.

He chuckled. “When I was growing up, we discussed football, grain prices, and car trends. I have to hand it to your daughter. She is a deep thinker.”

“But she’s still a child.” I shook my head. “I can’t even imagine having a neighbor try to put the moves on her. I think I would personally tear him apart from limb to limb.”

“Aye, if you dinna, I would,” said Brawny, pulling up a chair to join us. “I couldn’t help but overhear ye. ‘Tis awful. And his own wife lost her wee ones? Because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself?”

“I think she has the best motive of all,” said Detweiler. “She also has means and opportunity. After all, Debbie King is the person who found her husband. Perhaps she’s also the person who rocked his ladder until he took a tumble. Maybe he said something that set her off. Maybe she got a call from one of her girls. Here it is, almost the holidays, a time when most families get together. But Debbie King can’t be with her own daughters. She can only make supervised visits. That’s bound to rankle. Who knows what else could have precipitated a flare up of temper? She snaps, goes outside, confronts Orland, does the deed, and doesn’t look back. Once she calms down, she walks back outside, and only then does she realize he’s dead.”

“Aye, ‘tis certainly possible that’s what happened,” said Brawny.

I added, “And who could blame her?”

Chapter 18

 

The e-mail blast worked like a charm. I pulled into our parking lot ten minutes early to find two plastic bags hanging on the knob of our back door. Both held pairs of gloves.

Once inside, I’d no more than gotten the coffee started for Clancy and our co-worker Margit Eichen, when a knock on that same back door sent me running. There stood two more scrapbookers with bags. Inside were mittens, gloves, and a scarf. One of the women handed hers to me and said, “I think we got here right before the snow starts. It’s warming up. I’ve heard we’re going to get a doozy of a storm!”

An hour later, the tree was almost covered with a colorful patchwork of warm winter wear. In fact, we had such an embarrassment of riches that I grabbed an empty box from the back and put it next to the tree. Then I hand-lettered a sign to read: DEPOSIT GLOVES, MITTENS, AND SCARVES HERE.

By noon, that receptacle was nearly full to the brim. With the tree looking festive and a thick layer of snow covering our sidewalk, I could definitely feel the holiday spirit bubbling up inside me. I watched from inside the store as Clancy pushed the shovel along the concrete to clear the path before she sprinkled it with a mix of sand and salt. Once finished, she shook the flakes out of her hair and stepped back inside.

“Thanks,” I told her.

“Don’t mention it. I’m going to make myself a cup of coffee. How about if I get you a cup of tea?”

That sounded great, and I followed her to the back room.

“How much is this 20% off coupon costing us?” Margit adjusted the lavender cat-eye glasses on her nose. She’d come in before the snow had gotten started in earnest and had immediately begun working on our books.

“Our mark-up is typically 100%, so take 20% off. You know the rest.” I was puzzled by her question.

“But our profit!” she squeaked.

Seeing the look of horror on her face, I reminded her, “It’s good for only one item per customer per visit.”

“Ja,” she said, as she sank down into a wooden chair. “Das is good.”

There were days when I wondered if she was slipping a cog. More than likely, it was the stress of dealing with her aging mother who had Alzheimer’s. Margit occasionally slept all night in the recliner next to her mother’s bed when the older woman had a bad day. A more devoted daughter never walked the face of this earth. Like me, she badly missed Dodie, a woman who had been a good friend to both of us. Margit and Dodie had known each other for years. They lived not far from each other, and they’d often visited each other’s home.

While I would have loved to talk to Margit about the police’s concerns regarding Horace, especially so I could hear her reassurances that he could not possibly be behind his neighbor’s murder, I had to walk a careful line. Detweiler had warned me I couldn’t share what I knew about the investigation. I also couldn’t betray Rebekkah’s confidence by telling Margit about what happened when Orland King tried to molest the girl.

But there was something I could do. I could ask Margit about the Goldfaders’ neighbors. “Margit? Do you know Eula Baldwin? She lives two houses down from Dodie and Horace? Or did live two houses down. She recently moved.”

“Ja.” Margit’s mouth settled into a flat line. “Why do you ask me about her?”

“I saw her when Detweiler and I went to dinner with Horace. She stopped over to say hi to Horace.”

“Ja.” Margit’s face turned mulish and set my instincts tingling.

“What can you tell me about her? She used to be a good customer here, didn’t she? Years ago?”

Margit’s eyes moved from mine to her desktop. Whereas I’m always struggling to keep clutter at bay, she’s the very model of precision. She works on one project at a time, using one pen or pencil, and returning the writing instrument to where it belongs when she’s finished.

“Eula wants always to be the center of attention. The Queen Bee. When she is not, she acts like a little child. I have seen this, time and time again. You are right. She used to come to the store often. Dodie treated her well, but Eula wanted to be, how do you say it? The top of all the dogs. Pfft! I have no use for her.”

Chapter 19

 

Snow continued to come down in fat, feathery flakes. I sent Clancy home early because she lives in Illinois. For as long as I can remember, there’s been road construction on Interstate 64-40, the main east-west route from the Land of Lincoln to the Gateway to the West. I didn’t want her to be driving that road in hazardous weather.

Fewer and fewer customers came in as the snow continued to fall. Margit was taking inventory, and I was working on a new idea for a make-and-take when the front door minder alerted us to a visitor.

Eula Baldwin stood on the all-weather mat we’d put near the door so people wouldn’t slip. Pulling off a blue knit cap, she shook out her hair, letting snowflakes glide to the floor.

That’s when it struck me.

I knew exactly who killed Orland King and why.

“I’ve brought these for the mitten tree.” With a flourish, she presented a Schnucks grocery store bag.

I could guess what was inside.

“Tell you what. I’d like to take a photo of you making your donation. For our newsletter. And to make a scrapbook page. It’s incredibly kind of you, especially since you made the trip in bad weather.” With that preamble, I pointed the camera in my phone at her.

Emotions warred within Eula. Her eyes darted left, right, and left again. “Um. Well.”

“Eula, this is so incredibly kind of you.” I needed to be convincing. To do so, I had to use her own shortcomings against her. “You’ve always been a trendsetter. Dodie told me as much. When others see that you’ve made a donation, they’ll wish they’d been just as generous.”

Capitulation crossed her furrowed brow. “I guess. After all, it’s for charity, right?”

So saying, she reached inside the bag and pulled out her tam o’shanter, matching scarf, and knit gloves that completed the set.

“Smile while you add them to the tree,” I said. “Don’t forget to add the label. The one that identifies you as the donor.”

To the casual eye, my phone was snapping pictures. A closer inspection would have revealed I was actually videotaping Eula in action.

“I remember that set. You wore those the night we took Horace out to dinner,” I said.

Eula suddenly winced.

I needed to reassure her, so I added, “Dodie always said you had a wonderful sense of color. I love the way those red hearts look on that pink background.”

A self-satisfied grin settled over her face. With a little pat, she arranged the gloves and their tag on a tree branch. “Most people wouldn’t think to put those colors together, but they can look splendid if you know what you are doing. You noticed I chose the exact right shades of pink and red yarns.”

“I bet your house was beautifully decorated.” I wanted to egg her on.

“Yes.” She lifted her chin a little higher. “It was perfect. Absolutely perfect. So was our landscaping. Did you know our home was featured in the Style Section of the St. Louis Post Dispatch? It was. The editor said that I managed to keep the charm of our brick and stone bungalow while adding contemporary touches that elevated its humble roots without being pretentious. Classy and elegant. I chose everything in that house and in our yard myself. I worked years to get it just right.”

“And then the Kings moved in. They were tacky with a capital T,” I said.

She nodded. “That’s right. Do you know Orland sank a bathtub in their backyard, painted the inside blue, and added a plaster statue of the Virgin Mary? Not that Debbie was much better. She bought vinyl blinds for the house. Vinyl! As for landscaping? They had the nerve to add those stupid statues of gnomes to their hedges. All my work. My labor! My planning, sweat, effort, and taste went down the drain.”

“That light display was the last straw.”

“No.” She shook her head sadly. “The last straw was when Jonesy decided we had to move. He was tired of looking at that trashy dump.”

Fat tears streamed down her face. They ran off her chin and splashed on the blue muffler around her neck. “In the end, I gave up my wonderful home because that white trash moved in next door. Debbie was awful, but at least the damage she did was hidden behind closed doors. Orland, with his grandiose light display, could not be ignored any longer.”

Chapter 20

 

Of course, I called Detective Crosby and told him about my conversation with Eula. He promised to come right over, and he did, making the trip in record time. After offering him a cup of coffee, I handed him my cell phone. As he took it from me, he cocked his head, thoughtfully, and asked, “How’d you figure all this out?”

“A couple of details. See those red hearts? Eula was in a big hurry to get rid of her gloves. That’s odd. Most people hang onto things they’ve made by hand. Especially when they turn out as nicely as hers did.”

Crosby gave a little grunt that indicated he might or might not be following my logic. After all, the man wasn’t a crafter. He said, “The red threads will probably match those we found on the ladder.”

“That, and I bet there’s a snag in the gloves. It would be consistent with them catching on the ladder. Also, there’s the fact that Eula had tracked snow through Horace’s house. I remember because I mopped it up. See, the Kings hadn’t cleaned their walks. So I figured that Eula must have walked to the Kings' house first, tracking the snow with her when she walked to the Goldfaders' home.”

“And the motive?”

“Eula didn’t like being supplanted by the Kings. Until they came to the neighborhood, she was the trendsetter. What really frosted her cupcakes was the fact that the Kings were, in her estimation, tacky. She blamed Orland King for the fact that her husband decided they should move and leave behind the house she’d decorated so beautifully.”

“I wouldn’t have figured that one out. It’s just not in my wheelhouse. I’m sure with this,” and he waved my cell phone as he continued, “I can get a confession. But I have to warn you, there might not be enough to go on. We’ll see.”

“I sure hope there is.” The whole incident made me sad, but on reflection, at least Horace and Rebekkah were now out of danger.

~*~

After Crosby left, I sent Margit on her way, and I closed the store. I sat at my desk and did paperwork while I waited for Detweiler to come and give me a ride home.

In the corner of my office sat the box that Horace had asked me to go through.

“Might as well.” I didn’t want to sort the objects, but I was already feeling sad, thinking about how Eula Baldwin held such resentment for her neighbors. Sure, Orland King was a pervert, and his death seemed like no great loss to the world. But Eula’s rationale for her actions made me morose.

No wonder the Scots believed in the power of the rowan tree twig. When we resented the existence of another person, that anger could become a festering wound. Irritated over and over by repeated insults, it would refuse to heal. The result? In this case, it had spread to poison a woman’s soul.

Inside the box was a stack of scrapbook papers carefully placed inside an oversized plastic bag. A sticky note indicated that Dodie was saving these for a special layout. Time in a Bottle would be celebrating its tenth anniversary on April 15. I made a note of it on my personal calendar. I could see that Dodie had planned for a big celebration. The scrapbook papers were to be used to make a special album. I got teary-eyed, thinking of how she would have enjoyed the party I planned to have. In absentia, she would be my guest of honor.

Next came an assortment of old calendars. One for each year of the store’s history. I knew that Dodie had held onto these, using them as a sort of brief journal, a daybook detailing the “life” of her business. I set those aside to look at later. They would make a great addition to an anniversary album.

At the bottom of the box was a variety of trinkets. I assumed they had meaning to her, but I couldn’t discern any value to them. There was also a largish package clumsily wrapped in thin foam protective sheeting, the kind of Styrofoam that protects objects in transit.

Carefully putting the swaddled mass on the desk in front of me, I cut through the packing tape. On top was a sealed card. Beneath it, aqua tissue paper encased a lumpy form.

I opened the card.

 

Dear Kiki,

I’m sure Horace will ask you to sort through all this, so I know you’ll discover my gift to you. I always called you “Sunshine,” because that’s what you brought into my life. From the moment you walked through the doors of my store, you were a ray of sunlight. You brightened my days. May God continue to hold you and yours in the palm of His hand and give you Peace, especially this holiday season.

 

Your friend for all time,

Dodie

 

P.S. Merry Christmas!

 

Through tears I peeled away the tissue paper. The faint scent of Dodie’s perfume rose up to greet me as I opened the parcel.

She had bought me a mobile for my baby’s crib. The centerpiece was a smiling yellow sun. Beneath it dangled a small cluster of clouds and more importantly, a rainbow. When I turned the crank on the back of the sun’s face, the mobile played a merry song. The clouds danced, and the rainbow twirled.

And I cried and cried, missing my friend, but thankful that she’d been a part of my life.

 

 

—The End—

We hope you’ve enjoyed Happy Homicides: Thirteen Cozy Holiday Mysteries. If you did, we’d appreciate you sharing your thoughts in a review on your favorite readers’ site.

 

Our next Happy Homicides collection of cozy mysteries will explore love gone wrong. Happy Homicides: Thirteen Cozy Romantic Mysteries will be available for pre-order on January 14, 2016. The release date will be Feb. 14, 2016.

Here’s the link—

https://www.booklaunch.io/joannaslan/happyhomicidesromanticmysteries

 

 

 

<<<<<<<< < > >>>>>>>>

~ A Note from the Authors ~

 

If you enjoyed this book, we hope you’ll consider “liking” us on Facebook (and/or adding a review on Amazon.

We also hope you'll tell a friend! (Or two or three!)

 

Don’t forget our special gift!

 

We appreciate your interest in our work,

and so we have a special gift for you. If you send us an email at HappyHomicidesHolidayBonus@JoannaSlan.com, we’ll automatically send you a pdf with recipes and craft tutorials that go along with the stories in this book. In addition, we’ll add you to our mailing lists at no charge so you can keep up with future offerings,

such as free books and short stories.

 

If you have any trouble accessing the free bonus, contact our assistant, Sally Lippert, at salfl27@att.net

 

If you have any questions, or if you spot a mistake we’ve made, you can email our assistant, Sally, at salfl27@att.net

 

All best from your friends,

Happy Homicides

 

<<<<<<<<< >>>>>>>>>

About the Authors

 

Joanna Campbell Slan is an award-winning and national bestselling author of 30 books, and too many short stories to count. Her work has appeared in many of the Chicken Soup for the Soul Books, as well as on television. Currently, she is writing three mystery series: the Kiki Lowenstein Mysteries (set in St. Louis); the Cara Mia Delgatto Mystery Series (set on the Treasure Coast of Florida); and a historical romantic suspense series called The Jane Eyre Chronicles, which extends the life of Charlotte Brontë’s classic heroine.

 

You can read two of Joanna’s books absolutely FREE.

 

Ink, Red, Dead is a full-length book in the Kiki Lowenstein Mystery Series. You can get your free copy in a variety of e-reader platforms by going to https://booklaunch.io/JoannaSlan/inkreddead

 

Tear Down and Die is the first book in the Cara Mia Delgatto Mystery Series. It's available, free, in a variety of e-platforms. Go to https://booklaunch.io/JoannaSlan/teardownanddie

 

Catalog of Published Works: http://tinyurl.com/JoannaSlan

Website: www.JoannaSlan.com

Facebook: http://www.Facebook.com/JoannaCampbellSlan

Pinterest: http://www.Pinterest.com/JoannaSlan

~*~

Neil Plakcy has been recognized for his mystery and romance novels by the Lambda Literary Foundation and the Left Coast Crime mystery fan convention. The author of over thirty novels, he is also a prolific short story writer and editor. He’s the proud father of two rambunctious golden retrievers, Brody and Griffin, and their antics enliven the golden retriever mysteries. He also authors the Mahu Investigations police procedurals, about openly gay Honolulu homicide detective Kimo Kanapa’aka and the Have Body, Will Guard adventure/MM romance series as well as stand-alone mystery and romance novels.

 

Neil is a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, Columbia University, and Florida International University, as well as an associate professor of English at Broward College.

 

WEBSITES:

www.mahubooks.com www.goldenretrievermysteries.com

BLOG:  http://mahubooks.blogspot.com

AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE:

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JP4EL6

FACEBOOK:  https://www.facebook.com/neil.plakcy

GOODREADS:

http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/126217.Neil_Plakcy

PINTEREST:  http://pinterest.com/neilplakcy/boards/

TWITTER:  https://twitter.com/NeilPlakcy

~*~

USA Today bestselling and award-winning author Lois Winston writes mystery, romance, romantic suspense, chick lit, women’s fiction, children’s chapter books, and nonfiction under her own name and her Emma Carlyle pen name. Kirkus Reviews dubbed her critically acclaimed Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery series, “North Jersey’s more mature answer to Stephanie Plum.”

 

Website: http://www.loiswinston.com

Killer Crafts & Crafty Killers Blog:

http://www.anastasiapollack.blogspot.com

Tsu: http://www.tsu.co/loiswinston

Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/anasleuth

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Anasleuth

 

Books by Lois Winston

Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun

Death by Killer Mop Doll

Revenge of the Crafty Corpse

Decoupage Can Be Deadly

A Stitch to Die For

Crewel Intentions

Mosaic Mayhem

Patchwork Peril

Crafty Crimes

Definitely Dead

Love, Lies and a Double Shot of Deception

Lost in Manhattan (writing as Emma Carlyle)

Someone to Watch Over Me (writing as Emma Carlyle)

Talk Gertie to Me

Four Uncles and a Wedding (writing as Emma Carlyle)

Hooking Mr. Right (writing as Emma Carlyle)

Finding Hope (Writing as Emma Carlyle)

Elementary, My Dear Gertie

Once Upon a Romance

Finding Mr. Right

Romance Super Bundle

Romance Super Bundle II, Second Chances

Romance Super Bundle III, Always & Forever

Love, Valentine Style

The Magic Paintbrush

House Unauthorized

Bake, Love, Write

Top Ten Reasons Your Novel is Rejected

~*~

Annie Adams is the author of The Final Arrangement, Deadly Arrangements, A Christmas Arrangement, and Flowers Food, and Felonies at the New Year’s Jubilee. All part of The Flower Shop Mystery Series, a cozy mystery series with a kick! She lives with her husband, two giant dogs, and two, too giant cats in Northern Utah at the foot of the Wasatch Mountains. When not writing she can be found arranging flowers or delivering them in her own Zombie Delivery Van. She's a member of Romance Writers of America, the Utah chapter of RWA (URWA), the Kiss of Death chapter of RWA (KOD) and The League of Utah Writers.

Connect with Annie online:

 

Twitter/annieadamsauthr

Facebook/annieadamstheauthor

Pinterest/annieadamstheauthor

www.annieadamstheauthor.com

annie@annieadamstheauthor.com

 

Please send me an email! I love to hear from readers.

All the Best,

Annie

~*~

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Jenna Bennett/Jennie Bentley writes the Do It Yourself Home Renovation Mysteries for Berkley Prime Crime and the Savannah Martin Real Estate Mysteries for her own gratification. She also writes other mysteries and a variety of romance for a change of pace.

 

For more information, please visit her website, www.jennabennett.com, Like her on Facebook, www.facebook.com/pages/Jenna-Bennett-Jennie-Bentley/192400104127600, or follow her on

Twitter   www.twitter.com/bennett_jenna or on

Pinterest, www.pinterest.com/bennettjenna.

~*~

Nancy Warren is the USA Today Bestselling Author of more than seventy mystery and romance novels. She calls Vancouver, Canada home but tends to wander. Currently, she’s living in Oxford, England which is a bit like living inside a Harry Potter novel, magical and mysterious and full of fascinating characters. She’s the author of the bestselling Toni Diamond mystery series as well as the Take a Chance romance series among others. She’s a passionate hiker, a dog lover, and a bit of a chocolate fiend. To learn more, and to sign up for her newsletter, please visit http://www.nancywarren.net

~*~

Sara Rosett writes cozy mysteries (the Ellie Avery series and the Murder on Location series) and a suspense series with a dash of romance (the On the Run series).

 

Sara is a travel junkie, loves all things bookish, and considers dark chocolate a daily requirement. Her stories and essays have appeared in Chicken Soup for the Military Wife's Soul, Georgia Magazine, The Writer, and Romantic Times Book Review. Publishers Weekly called Sara's books, “satisfying,” “well-executed,” and “sparkling.”

 

Connect with Sara at www.SaraRosett.com. You can find her on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, Goodreads, or listen to her podcast, the Mystery Books Podcast.

 

This is Sara’s complete catalogue at the time of publication, but new books are in the works. To be the first to find out when Sara has a new book, sign up for her newsletter.

 

On the Run series

Elusive

Secretive

Deceptive

Suspicious

 

Murder on Location series

Death in the English Countryside

Death in an English Cottage

Death in a Stately Home (2015)

 

Ellie Avery series

Moving is Murder

Staying Home is a Killer

Getting Away is Deadly

Magnolias, Moonlight, and Murder

Mint Juleps, Mayhem, and Murder

Mimosas, Mischief, and Murder

Mistletoe, Merriment, and Murder

Milkshakes, Mermaids, and Murder

Marriage, Monsters-in-law, and Murder (2016)

~*~

Camille Minichino, retired physicist, has written more than 20 mystery novels in four series: The Periodic Table Mysteries, The Miniature Mysteries (as Margaret Grace), The Professor Sophie Knowles Mysteries (as Ada Madison), and The Postmistress Mysteries (as Jean Flowers), plus short stories and articles. Her latest releases include the novels Manhattan In Miniature (Perseverance Press, April 2015) and Death Takes Priority (Berkley Prime Crime, November 2015). Her recent short stories include “The Cyclone” and “Six Scattered Stories” (amazon.com, Summer 2015). She's a member and past president of NorCal Mystery Writers of America, NorCal Sisters in Crime, and the California Writers Club. She teaches writing around the San Francisco Bay Area.

 

“The Neon Ornaments” in this collection is a prequel to The Periodic Table Mysteries.

 

Website: http://www.minichino.com

Blog: http://www.minichino.com/wordpress

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/camille.minichino

 

Other publications:

Killer in the Cloister

How to Live with an Engineer

Last Rights

The Fluorine Murder

~*~

Nancy Jill Thames was born to write mysteries. From her early days as the neighborhood story-teller to being listed on Amazon Author Watch Bestseller List, she has always had a vivid imagination and loves to solve problems—perfect for plotting whodunits. In 2010, Nancy Jill published her first mystery, Murder in Half Moon Bay, introducing her well-loved protagonist Jillian Bradley and clue-sniffing Yorkie “Teddy.” When she isn’t plotting Jillian’s next perilous adventure, Nancy Jill travels between Texas, California, and Georgia finding new ways to spoil her grandchildren, playing classical favorites on her baby grand, or having afternoon tea with friends. She lives with her husband in Leander, Texas, where she is member of Leander Writers’ Guild, American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW CenTex Chapter), and Central Texas Authors.

 

Books available on Amazon * Barnes&Noble Online *Kobo and *Smashwords including iTunes.

 

Please visit Nancy Jill Thames’ website at nancyjillthames.com to learn more about her books, or contact her at jillthames@gmail.com.

 

She would also love to have you follow her on Twitter, Pinterest, Facebook and Goodreads.

~*~

Linda Gordon Hengerer writes fiction and non-fiction. She wrote American Football Basics because she thought more women would enjoy football if they understood it, and men generally don’t explain what just happened in the heat of the game. From one reader’s review: “If you're like me and just enjoy watching and cheering for your team, but don't want to spend time to ‘study’ the rules, this guide is a quick read and provides just enough details to get you going.” 

 

Linda is currently writing the Beach Tea Shop mystery series, which takes place on the Treasure Coast of Florida. Visit her website to find out more, and to see how you can get recipes from Beach Tea Shop sent directly to you!

 

Website: http://LindaGordonHengerer.com

Blog: http://www.fictionfoodandmore.blogspot.com

Amazon Author Page:

http://www.amazon.com/Linda-Gordon-Hengerer/e/B008ENHISC/

Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Linda-Gordon-Hengerer-Author-Page/620265928009857

Goodreads:

https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/6758419-linda-hengerer

Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/LindaHengerer

Twitter: http://twitter.com/VeroWriter

 

Books by Linda Gordon Hengerer

American Football Basics

New York Giants: 101 Must Know Figures, Facts, and Fun

Easy Food and Wine Pairings

Best Ever Chocolate Chip Cookies

 

Dying for Tea Time (coming October 2015)

Dying for High Tea (coming November 2015)

~*~

Joyce and Jim Lavene write award-winning, bestselling mystery and urban fantasy fiction as themselves, J.J. Cook, and Ellie Grant. Their first mystery novel, Last Dance, won the Master’s Choice Award for best first mystery novel in 1999. Their romance, Flowers in the Night, was nominated for the Frankfurt Book Award in 2000.

 

They have written and published more than 70 novels that are sold worldwide for Harlequin, Penguin, Amazon, and Simon and Schuster. They have also published hundreds of non-fiction articles for national and regional publications. They live in Midland, North Carolina with their family and their rescue pets—Rudi, Stan Lee, and Quincy.

 

Visit them at:

www.joyceandjimlavene.com

www.facebook.com/joyceandjimlavene

http://amazon.com/author/jlavene

https://twitter.com/AuthorJLavene

~*~

Teresa Trent writes the Pecan Bayou Mystery Series that takes place in a little town in Texas. The first of the series, A Dash of Murder, stars Betsy Livingston, a helpful hints writer, on a paranormal investigation with her beloved Aunt Maggie. The Pecan Bayou Series continues as Betsy solves mystery after mystery all the while providing helpful hints and recipes in the back of each book.

 

Like Aunt Maggie in the mystery series, Teresa is the mother of an adult with Down Syndrome. Even though her son, Andrew, is nothing like Danny in the books, he still inspires her to keep trying. With him, a hug and chocolate chip cookie pretty well solve everything. Sometimes the best lessons are easiest ones to understand. Teresa lives in Houston, Texas with her husband and children and is a member of Sisters in Crime, Texas Association of Authors, and the Houston Writer's Guild.

 

Website: http://www.teresatrent.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/teresatrentmysterywriter

Twitter: https://twitter.com/ttrent_cozymys

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/teresa_trent/the-happy-hinter/

 

Books by Teresa Trent

A Dash of Murder

Overdue for Murder

Doggone Dead

Buzzkill

Burnout

Murder for a Rainy Day

 

Holiday Short Stories

Secret Santa

The Christmas Find

 

Happy Homicides:

Thirteen Cozy Holiday Mysteries, Volume 1

 

 

Lost and Found Holiday Gifts: A Cara Mia Delgatto Novella * Copyright © 2015 by Joanna Campbell Slan, all rights reserved;

Dog Forbid * Copyright © 2015 by Neil Plakcy, all rights reserved;

Elementary, My Dear Gertie * Copyright © 2012 by Lois Winston, all rights reserved;

Flowers, Food and Felonies at the New Year’s Jubilee Cook-Off * Copyright © 2015 by Annie Whittaker, all rights reserved;

Contingent on Approval: A Savannah Martin Christmas Novella * Copyright © 2012 by Jenna Bennett, all rights reserved;

Teddy Saves Christmas * Copyright © 2015 by Nancy Jill Thames, all rights reserved;

Menace at the Christmas Market * Copyright © 2015 by Sara Rosett, all rights reserved;

The Neon Ornaments * Copyright © 2015 by Camille Minichino, all rights reserved;

A Diamond Choker for Christmas * Copyright © 2015 by Nancy Warren, all rights reserved;

Dying for Holiday Tea * Copyright © 2015 by Linda Gordon Hengerer, all rights reserved;

The Dog Who Came for Christmas * Copyright © 2015 by Joyce and Jim Lavene, all rights reserved;

The Deadliest Christmas Pageant Ever * Copyright © 2015 by Teresa Trent, all rights reserved;

The Rowan Tree Twig: A Kiki Lowenstein Novella * Copyright © 2015 by Joanna Campbell Slan, all rights reserved.

 

 

Cover art and the logo “Happy Homicides” are the property of Spot On Publishing, 9307 SE Olympus Street, Hobe Sound, FL 33455 USA

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from the authors, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

 

These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors vivid imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

Front Cover: Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs www.wickedsmartdesigns.com

 

Interior Format: The Killion Group | TheKillionGroupInc.com