by Bree Baker
“Maybe no one,” she said, lips curling into a taunting grin. “Maybe you should take a closer look at your weirdo family.”
I balked. Mary Grace knew how much I hated jokes about my family’s unusual beliefs and the rumors that occasionally sprouted from them. She’d known when we were children, and she’d used that knowledge to ruin my elementary school life. Twenty years later, she was resorting to the same ammunition, and I refused to let her see how much it still bothered me.
“He’d just come from your creepy haunted house,” she sneered. “Maybe one of your family curses killed him.”
My chest puffed with rage, and I bit the insides of my cheeks until I thought I might taste blood.
“Mommy!” a set of angry voices called through the door. The voices screamed heated accusations of cookie theft, and the third child began to cry.
Mary Grace slid her eyes shut a moment, then pinched the bridge of her nose, all pretense of superiority gone. The dogs began to howl in the background, and I smiled.
I took a minute to center myself and absorb the fact that the mean little girl who’d once bullied me was now living with three small versions of herself. “Sounds like my time’s up,” I said brightly, letting myself out of the office and heading back to the front door the way I’d come.
Mary Grace followed on my heels. “So, you admit your family is cursed,” she called after me, her voice barely registering above the cacophony of small cries, dogs’ howls and general complaints.
“Merry Christmas,” I told the child in diapers seated on the kitchen table, covered in icing and polishing off the last of the cookies.
So much for only having two apiece, I thought, bouncing happily down the walk to Blue. Hopefully, her children wouldn’t be sick from eating all those sweets in under five minutes.
But if they did get sick, a little part of me hoped it would be on their mother.
Chapter Thirteen
The Giving Tree was as beautiful as ever. The stately evergreen towered over all the other trees at the nature center. It had likely been growing there since my ancestors arrived to settle the town, and if it wasn’t for Charm’s lighthouses, the tree might’ve been the tallest thing on our island. Each year, volunteers draped the pine in white lights and topped her with a star that had the word HOPE written across it. The message was powerful in a number of ways. Literally, folks who hung their names on the tree hoped to have a need fulfilled, graciously and without judgment. Figuratively, those four letters, HOPE, challenged the members of our community to be better than we were, kinder, more compassionate, and unified. With an election coming next fall and the murder looming over us now, I hoped the tree would remind Charmers that regardless of politics, grief, or strife, Charm was and always would be family first.
I took my time approaching the tree, wanting to admire its beauty and sorry I hadn’t come sooner. The small white cards attached to the branches looked a lot like snow. The sheer volume was both heartbreaking and remarkable. It was a massive visual reminder that everyone needed something, and it was an encouragement to know my neighbors trusted one another to help.
The nature center kept sponsored supplies in a receptacle beside the tree: stacks of carefully cut cardstock squares from the stationery store, small plastic sleeves and precut string from Crafty Corner, and a mound of little pencils from the miniature golf course. It was everything we needed to attach a request to the tree.
I surveyed the branches. Some folks used the opportunity to ask for warm thoughts or a prayer over something that couldn’t be fixed with a purchase. Others wanted something for a friend or neighbor who’d been too timid to ask, but most of the cards asked for tangible things the author needed to fill immediate personal needs. Meals. Warm coats for their kids or gas money for a spouse traveling to the mainland for work. Winters were tough in fishing and tourist communities like ours, and everyone understood the fear of running out of supplies or savings before spring. I wanted all the people whose names hung from the tree to get a happy holiday ending, just like the characters in the novels from Amelia’s book club. But there were so many names, and Christmas was almost here.
How could I select one need over the others?
How could I leave so many behind?
I closed my eyes and focused on the reason for the tree, the reason for the season, as so many liked to say, and I lifted my hands to the branches. I closed each mitten around a card before reopening my eyes. I rubbed my thumbs across the familiar names as a lump of emotion wedged in my throat. There were so many more. So many unchosen. And only a week until Christmas.
I closed my eyes again, remembering a lesson Grandma had taught me. When you feel lost or like giving up, it’s time to stop and give thanks. This time I sent thoughts of gratitude into the ether. I was thankful my grandma had brought me to this tree every Christmas. I was thankful she’d used the experiences to teach me that everyone could make a difference to someone. That even the smallest of children had power. We could all give joy. Grandma took me to read to folks whose sight had faded. She made meals with me for local shut-ins and stayed with me while we visited them. She’d invited children to play at our house when their parents both had to work, and she’d helped me collect mail or pull weeds for neighbors who were sick or in the hospital. I was thankful for a town that cared for its own, and I was elated that I had the means to help.
Hot tears of gratitude rolled over my cheeks as I opened my eyes. I gathered supplies from the receptacle at my side, and I wrote my name on the outside in large block letters. Inside, I made a request of my own.
I left the tree with my eyes turned skyward, my smile bright, and a fantastic plan brewing.
* * *
The sun had burned its way through the clouds by the time I reached the town hall, making the world brighter and the air warmer. I squinted against the blinding gleam of sunlight on snow as I slid Blue into an excellent parking space.
The mammoth mud-soaked Jeep Wrangler to my right cast a comfortable shadow over Blue, allowing my eyes a moment to readjust. I ogled the vehicle before I got out. It wasn’t uncommon to see off-roading vehicles outside of town, near the maritime forest and unsettled portions of the island where hikers escaped for solitude. Parked outside the town hall, however, snow or no snow, the Jeep seemed like overkill. I grabbed my bag of cookies and hurried onto the sidewalk, heavily sprinkled with sand to help with the ice and reduce slipping. I gave the Jeep another look as I passed before the massive, filthy grille. Seven letters on the personalized license plate spelled VANDERS.
I let myself into the front office at the town hall, triggering the manufactured ding-dong of an electronic bell. A blast of hot air tossed my hair into my eyes, and I danced away from the assault with a shocked squeak. I peered up at a blower positioned above the door and smiled, laughing silently at myself for being startled.
“May I help you?” a woman’s voice asked.
I swept hair off my face and turned to locate the speaker.
A narrow woman in a long-sleeved blouse and a pleated, ankle-length wool skirt stood beside the reception desk, a load of files in her arms. Her silver hair had been twisted into a painful-looking bun at the top of her head and serious soda-bottle glasses emphasized her wide green eyes.
“Hello,” I said, still working to smooth my hair as I approached.
The woman’s mouth fell open. The folders slid and shifted in her grip.
I slowed my pace, unsure what had caused the strange reaction. The room was empty aside from us, and I didn’t see any cause for alarm. The nameplate on her desk identified her as Maven Winkles. “Ms. Winkles,” I began again, letting my local drawl drip over the words, hoping to put her at ease. “I’m Everly Swan,” I continued. “I believe we spoke this morning.” I set a logoed bakery box on her desk in reminder.
“Of course.” She dragged her gaze from me to the box. “Everly Swan,�
�� she said, carefully emphasizing my first name.
“That’s me.” I worked up a confident smile. “I can’t thank you enough for your generosity. I realize my request to see Chairman Vanders was very last minute, and I truly appreciate the favor.”
“You look so much like your mother,” she said, ignoring my thanks. She stared openly now. “For a moment I thought…” She set the stack of files on her desk and offered me her hand. “I don’t believe we’ve ever met, officially. Not since you were in diapers anyway. Please, call me Maven.”
I chewed my bottom lip, never sure what to say when anyone told me they knew my mother. It meant she knew how my mother had died as well, of a broken heart, as my grandma and great-aunts liked to say, or maybe as part of the ridiculous Swan curse, like Mary Grace would claim. Either way, I squirmed, partly worried about what this woman thought of my family and partly elated to hear that I looked like the woman I loved so much but couldn’t remember.
“I’m sorry. I’m being rude,” Maven said, finally taking a seat at the desk between us. “I’m glad to help,” she said. “Did you know your mother was an art student of mine? Four years in high school. I’ve been retired nearly twenty now, but she will always hold a special place in my heart. Talent like hers doesn’t come along very often.”
“My mother was an artist?” I asked, instantly rapt and a little ashamed that this stranger knew more about her than I did. “Was she good?” Grandma and my aunts had mentioned how much my mother loved to draw, but they’d never elaborated. I liked to draw, but I wasn’t an artist. Artist made her seem professional. Incredible. More real and full of potential. My heart sank a bit at that.
“Oh, yes,” Maven said. “I still have one of her pieces at home. It hangs in my sunroom. I hear you’re quite an artist as well. You just use a different medium.”
I tried to smile, but my mouth only wiggled, not quite finding the right position. “I bake. It’s not the same thing, but thank you.”
Maven untied the bow on my cookie box and opened the lid. She tilted the box until the contents were visible to me. A rainbow of sugar sprinkles shimmered under the fluorescent lights. The soft scents of vanilla and cinnamon wafted up to greet me from cutouts and gingerbreads, snowballs and shortcakes. “This is art,” she said. “Trust me. I know.”
I inclined my head slightly in agreement. I supposed the finished products were quite beautiful, and they were absolutely delicious. I smiled. “Thank you.”
A door opened nearby and two men exited in our direction. I recognized one as a local reporter, his identification lanyard bouncing against the curve of his protruding belly. “Merry Christmas,” he called on his way out.
Maven and I responded in kind.
The remaining man was new to me, overdressed in a full suit and tie, shiny black shoes, and a smug grin. “Well, hello there,” he said, heading quickly in my direction.
“Chairman Vanders,” Maven said, “this is Everly Swan. She owns the iced tea shop on the beach.”
He nodded in recognition. “Of course. You caused quite a stir with that one. The council hated the notion of adding a business to a home, but you found the loophole.” He rocked back on his feet with a broad smile.
I tried not to scowl. Until three days ago, he had been on that council, and the loophole he mentioned was actually straight fact. My home had been registered as a commercial property since the Great Depression when it changed hands many times, trying to stay afloat. Before my iced tea shop, the property had been a number of things from a boardinghouse to a prep school. I’d done nothing besides point that out. He was right, though. The town council hadn’t liked it.
“What can I do for you today, Miss Swan?” he asked, rubbing his big hands together and slinking to my side.
I stepped back to look up at him and smiled, realizing his commanding presence was a perfect match for his attention-grabbing Jeep. “Do you have a minute to talk?” I asked sweetly, hoping his ego might work in my favor. Suspicious people always saw me coming at times like these, but I had a feeling Chairman Vanders was the kind of man who’d assume I came to admire him.
He snaked a long arm in my direction and set a palm against the small of my back. The heat from his hand seeped through my coat as he steered me toward his office.
I cast a backward glance at Maven, who frowned as she selected a cookie.
Chairman Vanders open the door still marked Mayor Dunfree. Piles of clutter lined the wall outside the door. Boxes and books were stacked waist high on, under, and all around a traditional metal desk with a faux-wood top. Inside, the office was stunning, hyper-organized and possibly decorated by a professional. The only thing that seemed out of place was an eight-foot painting of Charm, complete with street signs and local landmarks.
Vanders closed the door softly behind us.
I considered cracking it open so I could call for help if I’d accidentally scheduled a private meeting with a killer, but I decided to play it cool. Vanders couldn’t kill me in his office. Maven had seen him walk me in.
He directed me to a short leather chair opposite a massive mahogany desk and motioned for me to sit. “Water?”
Before I could answer, he poured a glass from the fancy fruit infusion pitcher on a little silver cart near the window.
“Thank you,” I said accepting the glass gingerly.
Vanders unbuttoned his suit jacket, then took a seat in the impressive leather executive chair on the other side of his desk. “What brings you in to see me this morning, Everly?”
“I just wanted to welcome you to your new position and bring you some cookies,” I said, producing another box from my bag and setting it on the desk between us. “I only make these at Christmas, so I wanted to be sure you got some before they were gone.”
He smiled wolfishly in response. “You know that old saying about the way to a man’s heart being through his stomach is true, and I can’t wait to dig in.”
I leaned back in my seat, slightly concerned with the way his voice had grown deeper as he spoke. “Great!” I cleared my throat. “Your office is so lovely,” I said, casting my gaze around the room. The furnishings were far too modern and minimalist to have been Mayor Dunfree’s. When I’d been to the office before, making arrangements for the tea shop at my home, the room had been strikingly opposite, stuffed with enough dusty books and memorabilia to rival my great-aunts’ attic. Now, things were streamlined. Black leather on brushed metals and glass-topped tables. I turned to stare at the closed door. “What’s all that stuff piled outside your office?”
He grimaced. “Donations. I’ve arranged a pickup as soon as the charity can get out here.”
“Cleaning house?” I guessed.
“You could say that. None of it is mine. Those things belonged to my predecessor. Let’s talk more about the gifts you’re offering,” he said, pinching one end of the crimson ribbon from my bakery box between his thumb and first finger. He flashed the wolfish grin again and began to pull painfully slowly on the soft satin material.
I ran a mental calculation. Mayor Dunfree had only been dead for three days, which meant Vanders couldn’t have been in the office more than two, assuming he’d come right in the morning after Dunfree’s death. Icky, pretentious, and slightly morbid, but possible, I thought, watching in horror as he continued the weird cookie box striptease. Vanders had wasted no time moving into Dunfree’s office or shoving the former mayor’s things out of his way. Not exactly signs of mourning for someone who’d served on the council for Mayor Dunfree several years.
“It must be different without him around,” I said, trying to sound solemn instead of accusatory.
The bow finally gave way under Chairman Vanders’s slow pull, and his grin widened. “The unwrapping has always been my favorite part,” he said, curling the satin around his finger and coaxing it free from beneath the box.
Alarm must’ve sh
own on my features because Vanders huffed a sigh and flipped open the box with zero ado. “Everything’s fine without him. Like I told the reporter, Charm is a tight ship. Anyone with a little backbone can step in and hold down the fort.”
“Really?” I asked, taken slightly aback. “He’d been mayor for so long, I’d assumed filling his shoes would be a challenge.”
Chairman Vanders’ eyes went cold. “It’s not a challenge,” he corrected, bristling, as if the mere suggestion had offended his manhood. “I’ve only been here two days, and I’ve already got this job locked down. In fact, I like it here so much I plan to run for the position permanently next fall. Meanwhile, I’ll be here upholding the rules, regulations, and bylaws that this town is based on with zero tolerance for dissent. That’s what keeps Charm chugging along like it always has, after all. People like to complain and say otherwise from time to time, but they know the truth, and I’ll make certain folks keep toeing the line.”
“Maybe that can be your campaign slogan,” I said smartly.
I snapped my mouth shut when I realized I’d said the words aloud.
The chairman frowned. “What?”
“It’s a great platform to run on,” I said brightly. “Personally, I love it, and I think most people like Charm just the way it is.” I pushed a smile back in place.
“Yeah.” He relaxed his shoulders a bit and eyed me skeptically.
“I can hardly believe we’ve never met before,” I said, selecting a powdered wedding cookie from inside the open box. “I must’ve missed you at my Christmas party the other night. Most of the town was there.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I was camping with friends.”
“In the snow?” I asked incredulously, a cookie poised before my lips.
“Polar Bear Club,” he said. “We swim, then we camp.”
I tried to imagine Chairman Vanders in board shorts, racing through the snow and into the ocean with a group of equally crazy friends and failed. “I didn’t realize we had a Polar Bear Club in Charm.” I smiled. “What time would you say you made it home?”