“And they have double blades,” I said. “But Prissy’s skates have single blades.” I looked up. “Do you think he’s ready for single blades?”
The woman shrugged. “If he’s a boy, he’ll think he’s ready.”
I scanned the items in her cart. “Are you a mother?”
“Yes, but you flatter me.” She waved a hand at the hodgepodge of toys in her cart and told me they were for her grandchildren. “Three year old twin boys.”
“No clothes, then,” I said.
“Perish the thought. I want these kids to like me.”
I pointed to the ice skates in my cart. “I hope these aren’t considered shoes,” I said. “Shoes are like clothes, and Santa doesn’t give boys clothes.”
She stared at the box and considered the dilemma.
“So?” I asked. “Ice skates are toys, right?”
“Wrong.”
“Wrong!?” I whined. “Oh, come on!”
She looked up and smiled. “Skates are even better than toys,” she told me. “Skates are sporting goods.”
Sporting goods.
I raised my fists in triumph. Sporting goods!
***
While Truman was busy eating his PB and J sandwich I held up three fingers to my father. “Success!” I mouthed. “Three gifts.”
Truman looked up. “Whatcha talking about?”
“Oh, umm. Snowshoeing, of course.” I pointed to the kitchen clock. “It’s after one, and we should be moving along. But why don’t you go upstairs for a few minutes beforehand.”
“Upsta-aaairs? Again?”
The poor kid. I admitted he had been sent upstairs way too much in the past few days, but asked for his patience one more time. “I really do need to talk to Grandpa Bobby. Just for a minute.”
“About Mr. X?”
“Yes, that,” I lied. I held my palms together. “Ple-eease?”
Truman narrowed his eyes, but he hopped down from his chair and tromped up the stairs. Dad waited until we heard footsteps overhead, then leaned in. “What did you get him?”
I whispered a list of things I had hidden in the trunk of my car, and Bobby congratulated Santa Claus. “Although Prissy’s gonna cream him at ice-hockey,” he said.
“Going to,” I corrected.
“She’s going to, and she’s gonna.” Dad shrugged. “But Truman’s a good sport. And that snowmobile sounds perfect. I hope you thanked Oliver.”
I smiled broadly. “I told him, Dad.”
He blinked. “About Nate Wylie? And? And, and, and?”
“And.” I kept smiling. “He thinks I’m right. He’s really happy about it.”
“Good!” Bobby smiled also. “So now you need to tell Joe.”
I said something about ‘eventually,’ and my father said something about ‘sooner rather than later.’
“Speaking of which.” His eyes darted overhead, and he again leaned in to whisper. “You need to finish your Christmas shopping, or is Santa Claus satisfied with what she already has?”
In all honesty, not really. I admitted I would have liked to come up with something truly inspired for Truman’s first Christmas with us. “Maybe something will come to me while we’re snowshoeing,” I said, and my father told me I had better hope so.
He pointed to the clock. “Most Santas have their sleighs fully loaded by now.”
Chapter 39
“Let’s race!” Truman shouted the second his snowshoes hit the snow. Charlie was game, but stupid me had to stop at the stupid “For Sale” sign.
The little guy and the dog ran back to get me. “Don’t be sad, Momma Cass.” Truman reached for my mitten. “Santa Claus is coming tonight.”
I squeezed his little mitten. “I hope he remembers everything on your list.”
“He will. He’s Santa.”
I swallowed a sigh, and as we jogged up Leftside Lane and onto Elizabeth Circle, Truman told me he knew what I wanted from Santa.
“What’s that?”
“You want Uncle Joe to be our neighbor forever. That’s what I told him this morning.”
I slowed us down. “What did Uncle Joe say to that?”
“He said we should talk about something else.”
“Uncle Joe has good ideas,” I mumbled. I called to Charlie, who was digging into the snowbanks along the edges of Elizabeth Circle, and Truman began zig-zagging across the road, to the right, to the left, and then back again. I had little concern about any actual traffic, but still. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“Looking for Mr. X’s loved ones.”
Oh, right. That was the plan. I caught up and jogged along, and the kid led the way. “Do you think he was from Lake Bess?” he asked me as we zig-zagged back and forth. “Was Mr. X an Elizabethan, like us?”
Somehow I doubted it. “We live in such a tiny town,” I explained. “Anyone who died here would be missed,” I added as we headed toward our tiny town center.
“What’s gonna happen to him?” Truman stopped and pointed across Elizabeth Circle toward his school. “Will Mr. X get buried there?”
Oh. He wasn’t pointing to the school, but to the cemetery beside the church. I glanced down at the pom-pommed toque. “Would you like him to be buried here?” I asked.
“It would be respectful.”
Yes, it would. I promised Mr. X would receive a proper burial when the time came and tried to turn us toward the Lake Store and the eastern side of the lake, but the child remained fixated on the cemetery.
Oh.
I reached down to take his mitten again. Not to put a damper on Christmas Eve and Santa Claus and all, but Truman’s biological parents are both dead and buried. Judy and Michael Tripp are in a cemetery down in Hilleville, and Truman and I do visit on occasion.
I squeezed the little mitten and suggested we make a trip to the Hilleville cemetery the day after Christmas. “Would you like that?” I asked.
He nodded, and took off. “Let’s race!” he called over his shoulder.
“Truman, wait!” I took off also. “What are we doing now?”
“Racing,” he hollered as he tromped up the hill toward the cemetery. Okay, so it did look downright beautiful buried in the snow. I called to Charlie, and we followed.
***
The snowdrifts through the graveyard slowed the poor dog down considerably, but not the kid. Truman was again doing the zig-zagging thing, running along the hill and brushing away snow from random gravestones.
“Who are we looking for?” I called over.
“Mr. X’s loved ones,” he answered, as if that made any sense.
Actually, I did have some ideas, and by the time Charlie caught up with us, we had located a few stones of interest. Joe’s mother was there, along with some other Wylies.
And Nate was there—
“Whatcha thinking about?”
I jumped. “What? Who?” I shook myself and turned to wave at the frozen Lake Elizabeth and to the snow-covered Elizabeth Mountain behind it. “I’m thinking, isn’t it beautiful?”
“We need more snow,” Truman said matter-of-factly. He ran in circles around the Wylie family plot, and his snowdance seemed to work. It began to flurry as the kid ran even farther up the hill.
“Good exercise,” I told Charlie. The dog rolled his eyes and wandered off to dig at a snowdrift to the left. I followed the little guy.
We found more gravestones at the top of the hill, and as I helped Truman sound out a few of the names—Ott, Stewart, Osgood, and Poquette—I realized I had never before explored the Lake Bess cemetery, even in snow-free conditions.
Truman pointed to the next stone. “What’s that one say?”
It said Oliver Earle, and I suppose I shouldn’t have helped him sound that one out. “Mr. Oliver isn’t dead!” he screamed.
“No!” I replied quickly. I explained the idea of Senior and Junior, but Truman still scowled.
“Are they skeletons?” he asked.
“Sweetie?”
“Un
der the snow.” He waved a mitten at the Oliver Earle Senior’s gravesite. “Under the ground,” he said. “Are they all skeletons like Mr. X?”
Wow. Truly macabre. Especially for Christmas Eve. I answered that yes, as a matter of fact, they were all skeletons, and we started back downhill just as poor Charlie finally caught up with us.
“Skeletons are interesting,” Truman told the dog, and Charlie offered one of his rare barks.
I stopped short.
Skeletons. Are interesting.
“We need to go home now.” I started moving. “Let’s race!” I called over my shoulder.
***
I dropped our snowshoes, raced inside, and pointed Truman to the stairs.
“But my coat’s still on!” he protested.
“Okay, okay! So take off your coat.”
He did this. Slowly.
“Truman!”
“You’re awful bossy lately,” he mumbled, and my father looked up from the stove.
“You are, girl.”
I took a deep breath and knelt down to the child. “Just this one last time?” I begged. “Be patient with me?”
“I’m not patient.” He stomped his foot. “I’m like you.”
Yes, but even so. I again pointed upwards, and he continued stomp—up the stairs. Charlie gave me a disapproving look before following, and my father and Notz were offering the same look from the kitchen. I ignored everyone and grabbed the phone.
“You’re cooking already?” I asked Bobby as I punched in Bambi’s number.
Dad told me a nice Christmas Eve dinner takes time. “Our guests arrive at five, and we’re having roast beef,” he said. “Who are you calling?”
“Bambi,” I said. “I need to get to campus.”
“Campus!?” He stepped away from the stove. “It is Christmas Eve,” he informed me, and began listing all the reasons I shouldn’t “traipse off” to Crabtree College at that moment.
I ignored him and listened to the Bambi’s phone ring. “Come on,” I demanded. I began pacing the length of the kitchen counter. “Answer, answer, answ—Pete!” I stopped short.
“Merry Christmas to you, too, Cassie. What’s up?”
“I need your wife. Like, now.”
“You need to be thinking about Christmas Eve,” my father said from behind me. “You should be spending the evening with Trum—”
I waved for him to be quiet and spoke into the receiver. “I need Bambi,” I repeated. “It’s an emergency, Pete.”
“She’s out.”
“Out!?” I flapped my free arm. “Out where?”
“Shopping.”
“Shopping!? At a time like this?”
“Santa Claus is coming to town,” my father sang from the peanut gallery.
I informed the old man he drives me nuts, and Pete Vixen informed me plenty of people shop on Christmas Eve. He lowered his voice. “I hear it’s a great way to avoid houseguest—”
“I’ll call her cell,” I said and almost hung up—
“Cassie, wait!”
I put the phone back to my ear. “What?”
“She doesn’t have her cell phone with her,” Pete said. “She left it with me.”
“She what!?” I jumped. “Why in the world did she do that?”
“Because her cell phone doesn’t usually work, anyway. And if it did work, someone from my family might try to call her.”
Oh, for Pete’s sake!
I sighed loudly, and as calmly as humanly possible, told Pete Vixen to please have Bambi call me the second she got home. “No!” I changed my mind. “Tell her to meet me at my office.”
“Your office!? Today?” Okay, so Bambi’s husband seemed kind of confused. And for the record, my father was asking pretty much the same questions from his vantage point. “Does this have anything to do with all those theories you have?” Pete asked me. “What letter are you up to?”
“G,” I told him. “And no.” I scowled. “Although this new idea is pretty darn cockamamie.”
“It’s cockamamie you want to meet at the college. Even my wife isn’t desperate enough to hide from my family there.”
I snapped my fingers. “Oh, and that reminds me. Tell her to bring her keys.”
“Keys?”
“Earth to Pete Vixen!” I again flapped my free arm. “Keys to the biology department. To the labs, the supply closets, everything.”
Pete muttered something I didn’t quite catch, and when I hung up, my father was frowning.
I pointed to the phone. “If she calls here, tell her to meet me at my office,” I said and headed to the door.
“Cassandra Elizabeth Baxter. It is Christmas. Eve.”
Yes, it was. And patience is a virtue, right? I took the time to stop, and promised the old man I would be home in time for dinner. “Meanwhile, cross your fingers Bambi gets my message,” I said.
“You always get in trouble with Bambi.”
I took the time to roll my eyes. “I think you’ve mentioned that.”
He pointed his wooden spoon at me. “This better not have anything to do with Mr. X.”
“Nope.” I made sure to lower my voice. “This is Santa Claus related, Dad. I just thought of the most inspired gift!”
“For Truman?” he whispered.
I nodded. “I thought of it in the cemetery.”
“The cemetery!?”
“The cemetery,” I repeated and headed out.
Chapter 40
Call it a Christmas miracle, but I remembered the code to disarm the alarm at the Humanities building. I turned on the lights and made my way upstairs to my office, where I turned on some more lights. I also turned up the heat, and even thought to call campus security to let them know I was there.
“It’s Christmas Eve and starting to snow pretty hard.” The dispatcher stated the obvious. “Do you really need to be on campus, Professor Baxter?”
I told her I really did and mentioned I was also expecting Professor Lovely-Vixen. “We’ll be rummaging around in the Math and Sciences building once she gets here.”
The dispatcher mumbled something I didn’t quite catch, added a “Happy Holidays,” and hung up. And I stepped around my desk to the window to watch the snow falling onto my car below.
“Patience is a virtue,” I told myself. “Get here,” I added when Bambi’s car failed to appear.
Let’s face it, I needed to stay occupied. But by doing what, exactly? I spun around and stared at my desk—a stapler, my computer, and the phone. Call me nuts, but I almost wished I had a few exams to grade.
Instead, I began pacing back and forth along the short expanse of carpet at my window. “Get here,” I sputtered a few hundred times. But will wonders never cease? At some point I thought of something to do. I sat back down and powered up my computer.
***
I opened MS Word and poised my fingers above the keyboard. “Notes,” I said out loud and typed the word.
Oh, please.
I dropped my hands. Notes about what? Like I knew anything useful about Mr. X? All my diligent notes from the day before and what had I gotten? “Enough cockamamie theories to choke a reindeer,” I mumbled.
What I needed were facts. “F-A-C-T-S,” I typed in big, fat letters. And, what the heck, I put them in bold. Cornelius Suitor would have been proud.
I hit enter and typed, “1. Dental work proves Mr. X died within last twenty years.”
“2,” I typed on the next line. “Skull found at old Tumbleton place.” And, “3. Rest of skeleton found at Fox Cove.”
Three whole facts. Was I on a roll, or what?
“What,” I answered and stared at the stupid list.
What was the connection between fact 2 and fact 3? Was there a connection between fact 2 and fact 3?
Jason Sterling thought so. Mr. State Trooper himself had tried to establish some kind of connection. Maxine Tibbitts was also interested. Ms. Lake Bess Lore, Legends, Rumors, and Innuendo had been researching the two properties when
Paige and I interrupted her at the library the day before. Good old Maxine had jabbered on and on about architectural marvels before I distracted her with questions about Nate Wylie.
“Brilliant me.” I snarled at the computer screen and swiveled my chair to stare out the window.
No Bambi. More snow.
“Get here,” I ordered. My phone rang, and I lunged to answer. But not before noticing the caller. “Sarah?” I asked as I picked up. “Umm, hi.”
“Merry Christmas to you, too, babe. What are you doing at work?”
“How did you know I was here?”
“Duh. I called your house, and Bobby told me.” She again asked what I was up to, and I told her my brilliant idea for a Christmas gift for Truman. And here’s a shocker, Sarah told me I’m Looney Tunes.
“I think we’ve already established that fact,” I said. “What’s up?”
“I just told you. I’m wishing you a Merry Christmas.”
I smiled and wished my friend—my good friend—a very Merry Christmas back. “It was sweet of you to call.”
“Sweet? I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” she said. “You should be glad we’re friends.”
“I am glad.”
“You know how much time I’ve wasted on the phone because of you and Mr. X?”
“Quite a bit?” I asked all breezy-like, while Sarah used her least breezy voice to complain about every piece of legend, lore, and rumor she had heard during the course of her week.
“I kept begging people for facts,” she said, “but no-ooo.”
Fa la la la la. While she continued complaining about this, that, and the other Pearson ghost-guy, I stared at the paltry list of facts on my computer screen.
Oh, but—
I put her on speaker phone and typed in an amendment to fact number 3, “Skeleton found specifically in Honeymoon Cottage.”
“What are you doing? You’re not listening.”
“Hanging on every word,” I mumbled, and kept on typing. “4,” I typed. “Architectural Marvels—Fox Cove Inn and old Tumbleton place built by same person.”
“What are you doing?” Sarah demanded.
I pulled my fingers away from the keyboard. “Listing the facts.”
“Facts? Don’t you mean crazy theories?”
Undisclosed Page 22