“You know,” I said as the store came into view. “One of the key traits of any good sleuth is keeping secrets.”
“About Mr. X?”
“That’s right.” I parked in front of the Lake School, Lake Elizabeth’s one-room—yes, one-room—schoolhouse for our K through third-graders and shot another glance across the street. Oliver Earle was out at the huge woodpile between his store and Town Hall, and was balancing an armload as he staggered back inside. Hollis Klotz held the door.
I sighed and told the kid to try his best to keep our loved-ones looking a secret. “Although some of your classmates might have heard about the skull,” I warned.
He looked up from unbuckling himself from his booster seat. “How?” he asked. “Santa wouldn’t tell our secret.”
“Well no, but—”
But Prissy Ott saved me from further explanation. Truman’s best friend and fellow kindergartener came racing toward us, and I climbed out of my Honda to shake hands. And yes, Prissy shakes hands. She may be only four months older than my son, but I’m pretty sure Prissy is more mature than I am.
“Good morning, Dr. Baxter,” she said as she removed her mitten for a proper handshake. “It’s a fine day, isn’t it?”
“It is,” I agreed, and Truman looked up at the clear blue sky. For the record, he spends a lot of time staring upward with a puzzled expression on his face whenever Prissy and I chat.
“A bit on the chilly side,” she continued, and since it was expected to reach only twenty degrees that day, I agreed with that observation also.
I crossed my fingers. “Did you have a nice weekend?” I asked her. “Did anything, umm, unusual happen?”
“Oh, yes!”
Oh, no!
“Umm, what was unusual?” I asked.
“Why, the Winter Carnival, of course! We missed you, Dr. Baxter.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and asked about her visit with Santa, and Prissy told me she and Santa had spoken “for some time.” Then, before I even had to ask, she listed at least ten items she hoped Santa would bring her—mostly new clothes for her dolls and herself.
“I want a snowmobile,” Truman interjected.
“But Truman,” Prissy said. “You are far too little.”
I shook my head and sent them on their way, and kept my fingers crossed that if Prissy didn’t know about the skull, none of the other twenty or so children filing into the Lake School knew, either. Could this possibly mean Hollis Klotz, a.k.a. Santa Claus, hadn’t blabbed the news?
Only one way to find out.
***
“A skull?” Hollis asked the minute I stepped inside the store.
“How many people did you tell, Hollis?”
“Mr. X’s skull?” Chester Stewart asked.
“How many people did you tell, Chester?”
Oliver stood up from stoking the fire in the pot-bellied stove and gestured to the community coffee pot. “You want I should make a fresh pot?” he asked me, but I doubted caffeine would improve the situation.
But actually, the situation could have been worse. No one was in the condiments aisle, nor the cleaning supplies. I checked the bread aisle, the deli, and frozen foods. No one, no one, no one. The coast. Was clear.
I again spoke to Hollis. “Truman trusted Santa to keep his secret, you know.”
“I do know,” he said. “That’s why I only told a few people.”
I braced myself and asked what people, and of course Chester and Oliver both raised their hands. “Who else?” I asked, and good old Hollis mentioned about ten names. I sighed. “What exactly did you tell these people?”
“Just the facts.”
Yeah, right. Trust me, where Hollis Klotz is concerned, ‘facts’ could mean just about any—
“Facts about what?” a female voice asked.
I jumped and turned, and Clara Webster stepped farther inside. She waved to Oliver, swept past the coffee pot, and made a beeline for Hollis Klotz. “The Winter Carnival!” she squealed. “What’s the latest gossip, Santa?”
***
I simply couldn’t listen.
Instead, I escaped to the cash register, where Oliver had begun sorting lottery tickets. “Help me,” I begged.
“No can do,” he whispered and reminded me Clara is a cashier at Xavier’s department store.
“Perfect. So once Hollis tells Clara, she’ll tell everyone in Hilleville about the skull.”
“More like everyone in Hanahan County.” Oliver reminded me Christmas was fast approaching. “And Xavier’s is the only decent store around.”
“Other than yours,” I said, and as I pointed to the miniature Christmas tree on top of the deli counter, I noticed the threesome at the pot-bellied stove staring in my direction.
Ho hum. But ever the optimist, I told Oliver spreading the news about the skull might be a good thing. “Joe thinks so.”
Oliver scowled. “I’ve known Joe Wylie my whole life, Cassie. He hates gossip.”
“But the skull and Mr. X aren’t gossip. They’re facts,” I said. “And who knows? Maybe someone around here knows something to help me find his loved ones.”
“Whose loved ones?”
“Mr. X’s. I promised Truman I’d try.”
Oliver’s face dropped. “That’s ridiculous. Pru Pearson found that headless skeleton over a decade ago, Cassie. Mr. X died a long time ago.”
“He has to be one of the ghost-guys,” Chester said as the threesome at the pot-bellied stove joined us near the cash register.
Oh, what the heck? I tried out Joe’s strategy, again explained my promise to Truman, and asked if anyone knew anything about the skull, Mr. X, or Mr. X’s loved ones.
All I got were headshakes.
“Come on, Oliver,” I persisted. “You’re Mr. Lake Elizabeth himself. You have to know something.”
“Nope.”
“But you sold my father the house. You were Sally Tumbleton’s realtor.”
“And?”
“And! And that skull was undisclosed at the time of sale.”
He took a step back and almost knocked over that stack of lottery tickets. “This isn’t my fault, Cassie.”
“I know that, but—”
“But what? You should talk to Bobby’s realtor, not me.”
I promised I would. “But wouldn’t you, the seller’s agent, know more?”
“What are you implying?”
I rolled my eyes and insisted I wasn’t implying anything, and turned to Hollis. “One more question,” I said. “What does Truman want for Christmas?”
“No idea.”
“Oh, come on, Santa Claus! You just talked to him yesterday. What did he say?”
“I never remember what the kids ask for,” Hollis informed me, all jolly-like.
“Only the gossip,” Clara added cheerfully.
I sighed. “Can you at least tell me who has the mailbox to the North Pole?”
Hollis claimed not to know that, either. “I’m Santa Claus, not an elf.”
I sighed again, thanked everyone for their time, and headed for the door.
“Cassie, wait,” Hollis said.
I turned. “You do remember something? What? What, what, what?”
“He wants a snowmobile.”
“He’s too little,” Oliver, Chester, and Clara said in unison.
Hollis nodded. “That’s what Santa told him.”
Chapter 9
“You found a what?” Bambi asked me.
“A skull,” I answered. “And I keep telling you, I didn’t find it. Truman did.”
You would think my best friend, a biology professor of all things, would catch on a little more quickly. But like me, Dr. Bambi Lovely-Vixen had spent the entire morning grading final exams. The woman was a little befuddled, and complained that she had ventured across campus to my office in the history department to get a break from human anatomy.
“I take it this skull didn’t come with a name tag?” she asked.
&n
bsp; “The headless skeleton Pru Pearson found had no nametag, either,” I said. “But he’s called Mr. X.” I cringed. “And it gets worse. Guess who wants to put him back together again.”
Bambi groaned.
“Truman thinks it’s like Humpty Dumpty.”
Another groan. “What is it with you Baxters finding dead bodies?”
“It was just the head this time,” I said, and she raised an eyebrow.
“Is your hunky-boo cop involved this time?”
“Jason Sterling is not my hunky-boo cop. And can we please stop using that stupid phrase?”
“Why?” she asked. “He’s as hunky-boo as they get, unless you compare him to Joe Wylie.”
I smirked.
“Sooo?” she persisted. “Is Jason Sterling involved?”
“What do you think?
“How does Joe feel about that?”
“What do you think?” I twirled my desk chair to face the window. With the students gone, the parking lot below was nearly deserted. “Joe once again insisted he loves me,” I mumbled.
“Because he does.”
“He keeps insisting Lake Bess is a good place to fall in love.”
“Because it is.”
I turned back around. “No. It isn’t. How many times do I have to tell you, Lake Bess is way too small a place. I need my privacy, I need my space, I need—”
“You need Joe Wylie.”
“Oh really?” I shook my head. “And what’s the likely outcome of this supposed love affair? Joe and I are next door neighbors, Bambi. What will happen when it doesn’t work out?”
“Got a better question,” she said. “What will happen when it does?”
***
What a shocker, I changed the subject. “I’m glad you stopped by,” I told her. “I have a favor to ask.”
“No,” she said.
“Come on, Bambi. I haven’t even asked yet.”
“You don’t have to. I know you, Cassie, and I am not helping you find the murderer this time. I’m all sleuthed-out from last time.”
“Who says I’m looking for a murderer?”
She studied me. “He was murdered, wasn’t he?”
“Well, yes. But finding the killer isn’t my job.”
“Like that’s ever stopped you?”
Well. No. “But I swear I’m not looking for the murderer this time,” I said. “This time I’m looking for the loved ones.”
“Excuse me?”
I explained my promise to Truman. “Sooo,” I said. “We’ll leave finding the murderer to Jason, and you can help me with the loved-ones looking. It’ll be fun,” I lied. “We’ll start with the realtors.”
“Correction.” Bambi pointed. “You’ll start with the realtors.”
“Truman’s counting on us. ’Tis the season for this kind of stuff.”
She shook her head. “What kind of stuff?”
“’Tis the season for doing good deeds, of course.”
My supposed best friend insisted she was “good-deeded out” that week. “And loved-ones out also,” she added and reminded me she had a houseful of in-laws visiting for the holidays.
“How is Pete’s family?” I asked.
“Various Vixens everywhere,” Bambi said. “Vixens in every room, every bathroom, hanging from the rafters.” She snarled. “When is this holiday? When can I send these people packing?”
I told her Christmas was Saturday. “Which brings us to another pressing issue.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Bambi nodded and offered an encouraging smile. “You’re doing the Santa Claus thing for the first time. How’s that going?”
“It isn’t going.” I slumped and sighed. “I have no clue what Truman wants, and missed my opportunity to find out because I missed the Winter Carnival. I was with Jason.”
And about then, Jason called. Bambi leaned over, read the name displayed on my office phone, and tapped at the time. “As you would say. What a shocker.”
***
Okay, so what if it wasn’t such a shocker? What if Jason calls me almost every day around lunchtime? What if we have lunch together most days? So what? Oh, and for the record? That day, I said no thanks.
“No?” Bambi mouthed, and Jason spoke.
“I’m busy.” I told them both I had gobs of grading to finish and waved at the stack of exams where Bambi had settled her feet. “Any news?” I asked Jason. “Has forensics put Humpty back together again?”
“Excuse me?”
“Does the skull belong to Mr. X?” I said. “Has forensics finished their tests?”
They hadn’t. “But I can tell you the skull and the skeleton are a definite match,” Jason said.
I nodded to Bambi. “It’s Mr. X,” I told her. “And?” I asked Jason. “What else? What other details? Tell me, tell me, tell me.”
“I’ll tell you patience is a virtue.”
“So I hear. What else?”
He insisted forensics needed a few more days. “But we do know Mr. X was Caucasian, and in his mid-forties when he died.”
“When was that?” I demanded. “When did he die?”
“No idea,” Jason answered. I sighed impatiently, but at least he could tell me the case had been re-opened. “I’m getting myself up to speed on Pru Pearson’s discovery all those years ago,” he said. “But this cold case is colder than winter in Vermont, Cassie. We may never know what really happened.”
I stared at the bottom of Bambi’s boots. “It must be a good time to work on a cold case,” I said, and he agreed the week before Christmas is usually pretty quiet.
“Things pick up, meaning things go straight downhill, right after the holidays,” he said. “After extended families have been together for a few too many days—that’s when we see a bump in crime.”
“Don’t attack any Vixens,” I told Bambi.
“Excuse me?” she asked, but I waved for her to be quiet and suggested Jason get a pencil ready.
“Ready for what?” he asked, but let’s face it. He knew he would need that pencil. And sure enough, I heard one snap as I outlined my plan.
“Loved-ones looking?” he asked. “Is that your euphemism?”
“I promised Truman.”
“What about Truman, Cassie? Don’t most normal mothers spend this week Christmas shopping?”
“I’m not normal,” I answered, and Bambi sputtered something I didn’t quite catch.
I did, however, hear what Jason had to say, and he tried claiming the murderer and the loved ones might be one in the same. “This could be dangerous, Cassie.”
I rolled my eyes. “Earth to Jason Sterling. You just told me this is a cold case. Everyone involved is probably dead by now.”
No answer.
“Am I right?” I asked.
He skipped a beat. “There was a specific reason I wanted to see you for lunch,” he said. “How would you feel about—about—”
“About what?” I asked impatiently.
“About going public with the news on this skull you and Truman found.”
I cringed. “Going public? How public?”
Bambi removed her feet from my desk and sat forward. “Public?” she mouthed.
I waved again to keep her quiet and listened as Jason explained his plan—some nonsense about enlisting the media for help. “Just the local, Hanahan County, media,” he said.
I cringed some more, and Bambi shook her head.
“To see what memories we can stir up about the Fox Cove Inn,” Jason was saying. “The legends, lore, and rumors.” He hesitated. “Lore,” he repeated firmly.
“Oh, nooo!” I exclaimed. “You want Maxine to put this skull story in her Lake Bess Lore column.”
“Oh, nooo!” Bambi mouthed.
“I know how much you hate the attention,” Jason told me, “but it could help with the investigation. What do you say, Cassie?”
Let’s face it. Between Hollis Klotz and Clara Webster, I knew word about the skull was bound to spread anyway. I took
a deep breath and mentioned I would be seeing Maxine that evening. “I’ll ask her to put something in her column this Wednesday. How’s that?”
“That’s nuts!” Bambi mouthed.
“That works,” Jason said. “That gives me a couple days to catch some key people off guard. Then we’ll see what Ms. Tibbitts’ column unearths come Wednesday.”
I hung up and glanced at Bambi. “Insert colorful words… Here.”
Chapter 10
A young man looked up from the only occupied desk in the real estate office. “May I help you?”
I asked to speak to Paula Erikson and indicated the two empty desks. “Is she out to lunch?”
“Permanently. She’s retired.”
“Retired?” I whined. “Why?”
“Probably because she turned sixty-five last year.” The guy stood up and walked forward. “Lionel Nash,” he said. “I’m happy to help you, Ms.—”
“Cassie Baxter.” I held out my hand, but by then it dawned on him.
“Of course,” he said. “You’re the—”
“The dead redhead-pajama incident woman.”
“That’s right. Your picture was all over the news last summer. Not in your pajamas, of course, but—” He stopped himself. “Are you buying or selling?” he asked as he encouraged me to take a seat. “Nothing much moves this time of year, but we can start the process.”
I remained standing and told him I wasn’t interested in buying or selling anything. “I just need to speak to Paula Erikson,” I repeated. “Is she still local? Can you tell me where she lives?”
Lionel informed me it was against agency policy to give out home addresses, but at the same time he found a piece of paper and jotted something down.
“Paula’s address?” I asked as he handed it over.
He shrugged. “Everyone knows you’re on the up and up.”
Okay, so occasionally the local celebrity thing has its perks. I read the address, but the road was unfamiliar. “Should I even bother putting this into my GPS?” I asked, and the answer was a decided no. For the record, GPS is about as useless in mountain-laden Vermont as cell phone service.
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