Fa la la la la.
Dad and I stood side by side in the kitchen, assessed the manic energy level, and yawned in unison. For the record, we had stationed ourselves in front of the coffee pot, and were taking turns chug-a-lugging the contents.
“Yayla Eee—”
“Why, oh why, did you wake up so early this morning?” I asked.
“We Baxters are creatures of habit, girl.”
I turned slowly and stared at him. “We Baxters. Are nuts.”
“Christmas Eee—”
“Breakfast tiii-ime,” I called over. “Sit.”
Charlie obeyed, but Truman only switched from his Yayla-Eeeeve song to something more standard about jingle bells, and he and the cat continued racing around the living room.
I again glanced at my father. “Help me,” I begged, and he mustered the energy for one firm, I am your grandfather type, “Sit!”
Charlie thumped his tail from sitting position, and the child finally got the hint. He sat down in front of his scrambled eggs, but by the time Dad and I got to ours, he was almost finished eating.
I reminded him he’s supposed to wait until everyone is seated. “What’s the big hurry?”
“I’m going to Uncle Joe’s. We’re gonna be—going to be—real busy this morning.”
“Doing what?”
Truman blinked and bit his lip, and my father looked up from his plate. “Shopping!” Dad said. ‘“Tis the season for shopping.”
“Shopping for what?” I asked, and the kid smiled impishly.
“May I go brush my teeth now?”
***
I got up to pour more coffee, and added ridiculous amounts of milk to both cups, and plopped back onto my chair. “Call me brilliant, but Truman and Joe are not shopping today,” I told my father. “The little guy’s making me something really special, isn’t he?”
“Joe’s idea of course.” Dad waited to catch my eye and reminded me the Wylies and Maxine were all joining us for Christmas Eve dinner that night.
I nodded and yawned, and he again waited for me to look at him.
“You and Joe need to kiss and make up, Cassie. ’Tis the season for kissing and making up.”
“Nope. ’Tis the season for shopping,” I said firmly. “No more worrying about Joe, and no worrying about Mr. X.”
“Mr. X, X, X, X, X.” Truman, in case you aren’t quite sure, had returned. “We have to find his loved ones today,” he told me. “We won’t have time tomorrow. We’ll be opening presents.”
“But everyone’s busy today,” I said. “Grandpa Bobby is cooking, and you’ll be with Uncle Joe, and I’m—umm—”
“Ple-eease? You promised I could help.”
That, I had. Yeah. I ignored the look my father was giving me and promised we would do some loved-ones looking later that afternoon. “Let’s go snowshoeing all the way around the lake this time,” I suggested. “Maybe we’ll run into Mr. X’s loved ones on Elizabeth Circle.”
This made no sense whatsoever, but the kid bought it. “Can Charlie come this time?” he asked.
“Charlie, too,” I said, and the dog wagged his tail. Elizabeth Circle, plowed, was certainly within the dog’s ability. And my father agreed Charlie could use some exercise.
“Exercise!” Truman shouted and raced to the door.
“Truman, wait.” I told him he needed his coat, and got up to assist. He grabbed it from me, turned, thought of something, and turned again. I bent down, and he gave me a kiss, yelled an ear-piercing “Christmas Eee-eve!” in my ear, and left.
***
My father, what a shocker, was giving me that look when I sat back down. “What?” I asked as Notz hopped onto my lap.
“Loved-ones looking? Santa Claus needs to get a move on, Cassie. You need to be shopping today. You just said so yourself.”
That, I had. And I promised him Santa’s sleigh would be packed and ready to roll before I did any more sleuthing.
“You’ve been far too obsessed with Mr. X.”
“You’re absolutely right, Dad.”
Bobby scowled and spoke to his dog. “Me? Absolutely right?” He looked up. “Are you feeling well, girl?”
I smirked. “You’ve been right about my priorities, if you must know. I wasted all day yesterday worrying about cockamamie theories, when I could have been shopping.” I dug a hand into the fur at Notz’s neck and sighed. “All those stupid theories, all for naught.”
“Not for naught.”
“Yes, for naught. It’s been almost a week, and we still don’t even know Mr. X’s real identity, Dad. Nothing has led anywhere useful.”
The old man shrugged. “I will admit most of your theories did seem to be pulling at straws,” he said. “But think about your Theory B.”
“Are you actually encouraging me to think about theories?” I tilted my head. “Are you feeling well?”
“Theory B,” he repeated, and I tried to remember Cockamamie Theory B.
“The Nate Wylie’s family tree theory,” I said eventually. “That Joe and Oliver are related.”
“That one isn’t cockamamie.” Dad scowled. “Well, it is cockamamie. But it also has merit.”
“Maybe.”
“Not maybe. Definitely.” He reached over and tapped my hand. “You need to tell them, Cassie. Both men will be thrilled with this news.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Like Joe was so thrilled with me last night?”
“That was different and you know it.” Dad sat back. “It was all I could do not to tell him this news about Oliver myself. But we were both too busy worrying about you.” He nodded to me. “And this is your news to tell, girl.”
“Maybe,” I mumbled to my coffee cup.
“What does Bambi say?”
I looked up and glared. “Of course you know I called her last night. Because of course you were listening in from below.”
Bobby insisted it was a wild guess. “But I do know you were on the phone until you went traipsing off to the Fox Cove.” He shrugged. “Who else would you be talking to?”
I perked right up and smiled. “Well, since you asked.”
***
“Paula Erickson!” Dad exclaimed as I handed him yet another refill on his coffee. “Why?”
“Supposedly she called about Mr. X, but that was just an excuse to ask about Mr. Baxter.” I sat down and wiggled my eyebrows.
My father scowled. “What is that look on your face?”
“It’s my Paula likes Bobby look.” I wiggled my eyebrows some more, and he groaned.
“We’ve already had this conversation, Cassie.”
“Then you already know she thinks you’re cute as a button.”
“And you already know I’m not interested.”
I got up to load the dishwasher. “You could take her to a Patriots game, Dad. She’s a big fan.”
“And you know I am not a big fan of football. And I am not—not, not—interested in Paula Erickson.”
I winked at Charlie. “Me thinks he doth protest too much.”
“Don’t go quoting Shakespeare to me, girl. I am the one who taught high school English for forty years.”
“Okay, so if it’s not Paula, who doth you like?” I thought for a second. “I know! What about Sally Tumbleton?”
“What about Sally Tumbleton?”
“Da-aad. Would you please follow along here? Do you like Sally?”
He shook his head. “Where on Earth did that come from?”
“Yesterday,” I said. “Yesterday you told Jason that Sally Tumbleton was glad to sell you this house. You said she thinks you’re a nice person.”
“I am nice person.”
“And?” I closed the dishwasher. “Do you think Sally’s a nice person?”
The old guy rolled his eyes, and in his exasperated father voice, told me he had only met Sally the one time at the house closing. “Oh, and by the way, thank you for getting Truman in on this game.”
“What game?”
“Th
e who does Grandpa Bobby want as a girlfriend game,” Dad said. “You and your son can both rest assured that the woman I’m interested in—” He stopped. “The woman I might be interested in—is not Sally Tumbleton. She lives way out in San Diego, for Pete’s sake.”
“I hear the weather’s nice.”
Another groan, and Dad spoke to his dog. “Do yourself a favor and never have children.”
“Charlie’s neutered.” I sat down and wiggled my eyebrows again.
“Would you stop doing that?”
“You could go visit Sally,” I persisted.
Bobby sighed. “I am not a believer in long distance relationships.”
“Ah-ha!” I slapped the table, and Notz skittered away. “That. Is a clue.”
The old man sighed, and sighed again. “A clue to what?”
“A clue to this mystery woman you’re interested in, of course. Whoever she is, she must live out of state, and that’s why you’re being so skittish.” I squinted at Charlie. “Which means it’s not Maxine, or Paula, or—” I squinted some more. “—or who else?”
Another sigh. “Have I mentioned I liked it better when you didn’t think about my love life?”
“I’m making up for lost time.”
The phone rang, and I told the old man he was saved by the bell. “For now,” I added ominously and got up answer.
***
“Cassie? Is this a good time? Is Truman there?”
“Oliver?” I asked. “You want to speak to Truman?”
“No! Just the opposite. Is he listening?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Good. You gotta get over here. And come alone. No Truman.”
Ooo-kay. I promised I would get to the Lake Store ASAP. “Is there a problem?”
“No Truman,” Oliver repeated. He hung up, and I headed for the stairs to brush my teeth.
“Cassie, wait.”
I spun around. “Oliver needs me, Dad.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
My father reminded me of my other priorities. “Santa Claus should be shopping today, girl.”
“But, Dad.” I smiled and raised an index finger. “The Lake Store is—a store!”
Chapter 38
I stared aghast into the box on the counter. I glanced up at Oliver, blinked, and then returned to staring into the box.
“It’s battery operated,” he told me.
“But Oliver sells the batteries,” Chester said.
“Right here,” Hollis added and dangled a package of AA batteries in front of me until I finally looked up.
“You guys!” I said. Hollis was the closest, so I hugged him first. Then Chester, then Oliver. Then Oliver again. “You guys!” I reached up and grabbed the batteries from Hollis. “You guys are the best elves ever!”
Oliver smiled. “So you like it? Do you think Truman will like it?”
“Like it! He’ll love it!” I danced a little jig down the snacks and candy aisle. “Yes, yes, yes, yes!” I danced a little jig back to the box and stared again. “Where in the world did you find this?”
Oliver told me it had arrived with the latest shipment of beer from a local microbrewery.
“Perfect! How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing.” He waved at the box. “It’s just a cheap promotional item, Cassie. It’ll probably break the first time Truman plays with it.”
“Nooo!” I stomped my size five foot and insisted it would not break. “It’s perfect!”
It, if you haven’t already guessed, was a remote-control toy snowmobile. I could just picture Christmas day. Truman could operate the thing from our shoreline and—
“And I bet he’ll get it to come all the way across the lake over here, and then back again.” I retraced my dance down the candy aisle. “He will love it!”
“So, we’re friends again?” Oliver asked me.
“Friends? Of course we’re frien—”
I stopped dancing.
Then I told Hollis to man the cash register and pulled Oliver into the storage room.
Then I suggested we take our seats on the nearest milk crates.
Then I took a deep breath and explained Cockamamie Theory B to Oliver Earle.
And then Oliver cried.
***
“Oliver?” I leaned forward to try to catch his eye. “You did know about your grandmother?”
He nodded to the canned tomatoes. “That’s why I’ve been so—”
“Snippety?” I asked.
He turned to me. “I’m sorry, Cassie.”
“And I’m sorry I’ve been so nosey,” I said. “My father gets mad at me all the time about my sleuthing.”
“No.” Oliver shook his head. “You tell Bobby to stop scolding you. You’re the best thing to happen to this town since—”
“—since you,” I said quietly, and he started crying again.
I got up in search of tissues, found a roll of paper towels instead, and handed him a few.
He wiped his eyes and blew his nose while I feigned interest in the canned veggies.
“You always get to the truth,” he said eventually. “Leave it to Cassie Baxter, super sleuth, to find the skeleton in my family closet.”
I sat back down, and Oliver told me what he had already known about his grandmother. “Her real name was Olivia Earle,” he said.
“What about your grandfather?” I asked. “Am I right? Was Nate Wylie your grandfather?”
Oh, yikes. The tears started flowing again. “I don’t know!” he almost wailed. “But I sure never heard that before. My father would never tell me who his father was.”
I reached for his hand. “Maybe he didn’t know.”
“Maybe.” Oliver frowned at the canned goods. “There were lots of secrets in my family, Cassie.”
I let go of his hand and tried putting my arm around him, but this was easier said than done. Oliver is about five times my size. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” I said. “I was kind of hoping you’d be happy. You and Joe are friends, right? Isn’t this good news?”
“Nope.”
“Nooo? You mean you’re not happy about this?” That time I was wailing, but then I noticed the smile.
“Nope,” he repeated. “This is great news.” He shook his head at the canned goods. “Although you are the first person to ever see me cry.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
Oliver wiped away any remnant of tears and jerked a thumb towards the storeroom door. “Don’t you dare tell anyone you saw me crying.”
Oh, brother. But clearly this was important to the guy, so I promised his secret was safe with me. “And don’t start crying again, but I could be completely off base.” I reminded him my idea about Nate Wylie’s family tree was just one in a long line of my many, many cockamamie theories. “Maybe you and Joe could get DNA tests to be sure,” I suggested, and Oliver thought that was a good idea.
“But only if that’s what Joe wants too.” He scowled. “What does he think of all this?”
“A brand-new nephew?” I smiled. “You’re like the little brother he never had. He’ll be thrilled.”
The big guy jumped. “You mean you haven’t told Joe?”
“I think you should tell him.”
“Me!? I’m not telling him. You tell him.”
“But you’re his nephew, Oliver.”
“But you’re his girlfriend, Cassie.”
Girlfriend.
I let out a breath and stared at the stupid canned tomatoes.
Oliver tapped my knee. “I know you guys are having a little disagreement,” he said. “But I also know it’s only temporary.”
“Oh, really?” I looked up. “And how exactly do you know that? Joe’s house is for sale. For sale, Oliver.” I shook my head. “As you well know.”
“Yep, and as you well know, it’s no big deal.” He held up his hands and stopped me before I could argue. “I told you already, no one’s interested in that house
right now. No one in their right mind thinks about real estate during the holidays.”
I admitted I hoped he was right. “Sooo?” I said. “If Joe isn’t moving anytime soon, you’ll have plenty of opportunity to talk to him about all this.”
Oliver again insisted I should be the one to tell Joe. “It’s your theory.”
I rolled my eyes. “Me and my stupid theories.”
“Nope. You and your brilliant theories.”
***
Brilliant. That’s me. That’s why I was in Xavier’s, the only department store in the entire county, on Christmas Eve.
I wandered around, aimlessly yet desperately, skirting, and occasionally bumping into, other equally desperate and aimless shoppers. A few people recognized me, but everyone was so distracted with their last-minute shopping, they didn’t even bother asking about Mr. X. And thus I managed to find a few completely uninspired doo-dads for Truman’s stocking.
Oh, but hark the herald! As I was passing the boys’ shoe department, I actually had an idea. I steered my cart with a clear destination in mind and found what I was looking for. Ho, ho, ho!
And hark the herald again. I actually thought of something else. A toy even! I found that item and headed to the cash registers, where I proceeded to wait in line with half the population of Hanahan county.
The woman ahead of me turned around to chat. “Any news on Mr. X?”
“You read Lake Bess Lore?” I asked.
“Who doesn’t?”
I mumbled something vague and uninformative, and luckily she seemed more interested in the items in my shopping cart than in Mr. X. In particular, she was looking at the toy ice hockey set. “For little Sherman?”
“Truman,” I corrected.
“Looks like fun.”
I told her I certainly did hope so. “However, I’m a little concerned his best friend will clobber him.”
The woman laughed. “Little boys with ice hockey sticks? You got that right.”
“No. His best friend is a girl,” I said. “And Prissy is a fantastic skater.”
“Well then, he’ll learn to skate better.” She pointed to the other substantial box in my cart, a pair of ice skates, and I told her Truman’s old pair had gotten way too small.
Undisclosed Page 21