Paula snarled yet again. “How was I supposed to know Bobby Baxter’s daughter would end up being Ms. Super Sleuth?”
***
About then, Jason’s back-up arrived and took Paula Erikson and her axe away. Everyone else moved to depart, but Ms. Supposed Super Sleuth still had a few questions—namely why Joe and Jason had shown up in my office when they did. “Not that I’m complaining,” I added. I nodded to Joe. “You got here first,” I said. “How did you even know I was in trouble?”
“Bobby.”
“My father told Paula I was here, Joe. He didn’t know I was in danger.”
“No. But I did.” Evidently, my father had just gotten off the phone with Paula Erikson when the Wylies arrived for dinner.
“Bobby told me Paula’s been touch with you several times that week.” Joe shook his head. “Something didn’t feel right, Cassie. Especially since I knew, that Paula knew, that you were here alone.”
“Wylie’s smart,” Jason said.
“But I’m not a cop,” Joe added. “So I told my daughter to call you before I jumped in my car to get here.”
Bambi raised a hand. “Weren’t phones dead by then?”
“That’s right,” I agreed, because trust me, if phone lines and internet were down in Montpelier, they most definitely weren’t working in Lake Bess. I turned to Jason. “How did Paige get in touch with you?”
Joe scowled at Mr. State Trooper. “That is a good question.”
Jason grinned. “Take a wild guess, Wylie.”
Joe scowled again. Then a frown. Then a great big smile. “She worked?” he asked Jason.
“According to your daughter, it took six tries, but yes.”
Joe held up both fists in triumph. “She worked, Cassie!”
It took me a second. Then I raised my fists also. “She worked, Joe!”
“She?” Bambi was asking.
“The FN451z!” we shouted. “She worked!”
“Paige, too,” Joe said and proudly informed us his daughter had been playing with the FN since she was Truman’s age.
“Paige Wylie and that odd machine caught me just as I was leaving headquarters for the holiday,” Jason said. “So here I am.”
Bambi raised her hand again. “But what about you?” she asked me. “Why are you even here, on campus, on Christmas Eve? What’s this supposed emergency?”
Oh, for Pete’s sake! The emergency!
I flapped my arms and headed for the door. “Come on, you guys! Next stop—the biology department.”
“What?” Bambi asked. “Where?” Jason asked. “Why?” Joe asked.
“Because it’s Christmas Eve!” I hollered over my shoulder. “And Santa Claus needs to load her sleigh.”
***
The story Joe and I brought home that night wasn’t exactly soothing, even in its G-rated version, and I’m pretty sure getting Truman tucked in would have been a challenge, even for other mothers. I’m also sure most other mothers weren’t facing the questions my five year old kept asking me—at bedtime, on Christmas Eve.
“Mr. X’s own wife killed him?” Truman asked me, again.
“Yes,” I answered matter-of-factly, again.
“But wasn’t his wife his loved one?” he asked, again.
I again told the child it was complicated and played what other mothers would probably call the Santa Claus card. “It’s time to sleep,” I said. “Santa wants you to go to sleep now.”
The kid’s eyes literally snapped shut. No, really.
My father was not so easily placated. As I came down the stairs he scolded me, again. “I’ve a good mind to leave coal in your stocking after the stunt you pulled this evening, girl.”
“Yep, I think you’ve mentioned that,” I said, and fa la la la la, Dad again informed me he had been “worried sick.”
And yes. He had. I apologized for putting myself in danger and worrying him so much.
“Again.” Dad shook his head and pointed to Truman’s empty stocking hanging in its proverbial place on the mantel. “Does Santa Claus need an elf to help her tonight?”
Probably, but I noticed my volunteer elf yawning, and sent my exhausted father up to bed, and soon not a creature was stirring at the old Tumbleton place. Other than Notz and Santa Claus, that is.
I slipped outside to retrieve all the gifts from my sleigh, i.e. the trunk of my car, and Notz helped me wrap the skates, the snowmobile, et cetera. We placed everything under the tree, and also got the little guy’s stocking stuffed.
“Now for the best gift of all,” I whispered and arranged that inspired gift from Bambi’s biology department as best I could on the rocking chair nearest the tree. And as I was haphazardly covering it with wrapping paper, I actually had one more idea.
“Inspired!” I whispered to Notz. We crept upstairs to my bedroom, and as quietly as humanly possible, I shoved my dresser aside and fished a spare picture frame from the cubby behind. Then I found the picture I wanted to frame.
“This one will be from me,” I said, and the cat meowed approval.
Epilogue
In case you’re not quite sure, Christmas morning at the old Tumbleton place was a huge success. Maxine arrived first thing with a huge platter of homemade cinnamon rolls, and the Wylies arrived with a huge box, which they set before me.
“It’s from me!” Truman squealed. “Open it!”
He didn’t have to ask twice. I unwrapped all the paper, opened the lid, and gasped. Then I gasped again as Truman and Joe helped me remove it from the box.
“It’s a rocking chair, Momma Cass. I painted it for you!”
The chair was white, but in case you’ve forgotten, we Baxters like bright colors. With that in mind, Truman had stamped his hand prints, in all the colors of the rainbow, all over the thing.
He must have noticed my tears. “Don’t you like it?”
In case you’re not quite sure, I loved it.
“Sit!” he ordered. Charlie sat, and so did I, and the little guy reached out to help me rock. “I wasn’t making cookies with Grandpa Bobby all week,” he told me. “Uncle Joe and me were painting this.”
I smiled at Mr. Mad Scientist.
The box from Truman was huge, but the gift my father gave me needed no box at all—Dad promised to let me sleep in every morning for the duration of my vacation.
Let’s just say, I was skeptical. “That’s over two weeks,” I said, and Truman also wondered how Chance and Evadeen would manage without me.
“Momma Cass helps them solve their pickles every morning,” he reminded my father, but Dad insisted Chance and Evadeen would be pickle-less for the duration of their Faylian vacation.
“Pickle-less?” Truman and I asked, and Maxine and Joe also seemed mighty skeptical.
Mr. Sci Fi Author shrugged. “Well,” he sang. “In light of her heroic stunt at the Gala, Mayla Jonesayla and some other Faylians have asked Evadeen for swimming lessons.”
“She’s a good swimmer,” Truman said.
“These swimming lessons have potential pickles written all over them,” I said.
Dad grinned. “You never know!”
My gift to my father? He loved it, and literally hugged the Ray Bradbury book to his chest. “Thank you for finding it, Cassie. I can’t wait to tell—” He stopped abruptly.
I rocked forward. “Can’t wait to tell who?”
“Whom,” he corrected, but before I could badger him further, Truman was opening the cow-print quilt from Maxine.
A huge hit, as were the cow-print sheets from Paige. The techno-gadget from Uncle Joe was also a huge, and noisy, hit.
And the gifts from Santa? Hits also. “This wasn’t even on my list!” Truman kept saying as he gleefully dived into one after another of the presents Santa had left him.
But the gift on the blue rocking chair was the biggest hit of all. Charlie barked, Notz meowed, and everyone else gasped as Truman unveiled the thing. He stared wide-eyed. “Is it real?”
Umm. No. It is, howe
ver, a life-sized replica of a human skeleton which can be taken apart and put back together again. Humpty Dumpty never had it so good.
Eventually Truman reached the last gift under the tree. “That one’s from me,” I said. “It’s breakable,” I added, and the sweet kid unwrapped it in slow motion. But instead of gasping or squealing, that time he cried.
All the adults looked at me. “Judy Tripp,” I said and nodded to my son. “Your first mother colored that picture for you, and I framed it for you. Do you like it?”
“Yes!” He gave me a big smile and asked if we could hang it over his bed. “Like the picture your momma made for you,” he said. “The one over your bed.”
I told him that was exactly what I had in mind.
***
Fa la la la la. The rest of the day went off without a hitch, but I did have a couple of interesting conversations that evening. After I put Truman to bed, I marched down the stairs and planted my new rocking chair directly in front of my father.
He pretended to keep reading his Ray Bradbury book.
“Lucille Saxby,” I said loud and clear, and he fumbled the book.
“Who? What?”
“You heard me, old man. I thought about it all day. Who, I asked myself, would Bobby Baxter want to share this with?” I handed him back the sci fi book. “Lucille Saxby, that’s who. She’s the woman you’re interested in.”
“You think you’re so smart.”
“Because I am.”
And trust me, I was. Lucille Saxby, whom I probably haven’t even mentioned, is another of Dad’s favorite sci fi authors. But unlike Mr. Bradbury, Ms. Saxby is alive and kicking, and also happens to be a very attractive sixty-something female. My father had met her in person at a sci fi convention the previous summer.
“You took her out to dinner,” I said.
“So?”
“So she asked you to call her LuLu. I bet only her good friends call her LuLu.”
“So?”
“So LuLu Saxby helps you write your sex scenes!”
Dad gave me his most stern I am your father looks. “My sex scenes are none of your business, girl.”
No. Kidding. And I probably haven’t mentioned this particular facet of the Chance Dooley stories, but they do indeed include sex scenes. Sex scenes, I am exceedingly happy to report, that I know absolutely nothing about.
“I can’t believe I haven’t thought of LuLu before today,” I said, and Bobby rolled his eyes.
“You’ve been too busy trying to set me up with a killer all week.”
Well. That. “You should call LuLu,” I said firmly. I stood up to find the phone and tried handing it to him, but he refused to take it.
“The lines are dead.”
“That was last night.” I tossed the phone, and by reflex, he caught it. “Call her and wish her a Merry Christmas,” I ordered.
“LuLu lives in California, and I do not believe in long distance relationships.”
“Call her.”
My father took an exasperated breath. “What about you?” he said. “Isn’t there someone you should be talking to right now? Other than your old man?”
I grinned and headed for the door.
***
“Dad’s upstairs.” Paige Wylie pointed ceiling-ward, where the FN451z was in full beeping-burping-chirping mode. She pointed again. “What are you doing with that?”
“Burning it.”
She hopped forward and opened the fireplace screen, I tossed in the “For Sale” sign, and together we watched the stupid thing go up in smoke.
“Is there someplace else you could be right now?” I asked, and I swear Paige had her coat on before I finished the sentence. She grabbed her father’s car keys, mentioned her friend Devon, and disappeared.
I tiptoed upstairs and watched them from the doorway.
“I know, I know.” Joe spoke without looking up. “It’s Christmas, and I shouldn’t be working, but the FN helped us so much yesterda—”
I cleared my throat, and he jumped and turned. “Oh! I thought you were Paige.”
“She went out.” I took a step forward and glanced around. “I haven’t been up here in a while.”
“I didn’t want you up here.”
I took the same step backward, but he reached out to stop me and pointed to his spare room across the hall. “That’s where we worked on your rocking chair. I didn’t want you to see it.”
“It’s really special, Joe. Thank you.”
“But I didn’t get you anything. I had an idea, but—”
“But let’s wait a while on your idea,” I said, “and go with my idea of what you can give me.”
“Anything.”
“Stop being jealous of Jason Sterling.”
“Done. Didn’t yesterday prove that?”
I shrugged. “You did shake his hand.”
“And thank him,” Joe added. “Not every state trooper would have helped us steal that skeleton.”
I rolled my eyes and reminded the guy the Crabtree College biology department was going to invoice me. “But enough about Jason Sterling,” I said. “Let’s talk about my gift to you.”
He glanced down. “You’re empty-handed, Cassie.”
“It’s not that kind of gift.” I suggested we take seats, and then I told Joe Wylie about Nate Wylie, Olivia DeMuir, Oliver Earle Senior, and most importantly, about Oliver Earle Junior.
Dead silence.
Even the FN took a break.
“Are you okay?” I asked eventually.
“Oliver’s my nephew?” Joe asked the floor. He looked up. “Oliver Earle is my nephew?”
“Truman’s been right all along,” I said. “I think you really are Uncle Joe.” However I also mentioned my cockamamie theory habit. “I could be wrong,” I said. “But Oliver’s willing to get a DNA test, and if you’re willing—”
Joe stood up and waved for me to follow. “I’ll get the DNA test,” he said over his shoulder. “But it’s not necessary.”
“You’re a scientist,” I argued as we hastened down the hallway. “Don’t you want proof?”
By then we were in his room, and Joe was rummaging around in his closet.
“What’s in there?” I asked.
“The skeleton in my closet.” He turned around with a box, lowered it onto the bed, and pulled out an old photo album. “My mother got rid of all his pictures but one.” He flipped to the back, and I stepped over to take a peek.
I stared aghast.
“My father holding me the day I was born,” Joe said.
“It’s Oliver,” I hissed.
“No. It’s my father. That’s Nate.”
I tore my eyes from the photo. “But it could be Oliver. Look at it, Joe!”
“I am looking.” He shook his head. “How have I never noticed the family resemblance?”
Probably because he wasn’t looking for one. “And you were so young when your father died.” I pointed to the photograph. “And clearly this picture of Nate doesn’t see the light of day very often.”
“No, but Oliver needs to see it.” Joe set the photo album on his nightstand. “You’ve given me a nephew, Cassie.” He smiled. “That’s an incredible gift.”
I took a deep breath. “I have another gift.”
“Your hands are still empty.”
“It’s still not that kind of gift.” I stepped forward and put my arms around his neck.
He pulled me closer. “No mistletoe,” he whispered.
“We don’t need mistletoe. I’ve decided something.”
“Hmmm. What’s that?”
“You’re not listening.”
He pulled away, just slightly. “I’m listening.”
I took another deep breath. “I’ve decided,” I said, “that Lake Bess is a good place to fall in love.”
The End
Why, yes! There is more. Thanks for asking!
Curious about how Cassie earned that Looney Tunes label? Or maybe you’re wondering how she cam
e to live with her father in the first place. Or when and how Truman joined them at Lake Bess. Never fear! Just follow this link to Cindy Blackburn’s Amazon Author Page and learn all about the other books in the Cassie Baxter series. While you’re there, why not check out Cindy’s other popular series, the Cue Ball Mysteries.
In the meantime, here are sneak peeks of Unbelievable and Unexpected, Books One and Two of the Cassie Baxter Mysteries. Small sleuth, tiny town, unfailing fun!
Unbelievable – Sneak Peek
Prologue
Do yourself a favor. Never agree to move in with your father. Even if he retires and moves to Vermont to be closer to his only child. And even if he invites you to live with him rent-free. And even if the lease on your apartment runs out, and the owner decides to convert the building into condos, which you couldn’t afford, even if your teaching salary were doubled. And even if your father moves into a rambling old house with plenty of room, and offers you the entire third floor with a turret on top. And even if you adore turrets. And even if this old house is in a lovely lakeside town only twenty miles from where you work. And even if you’ve always dreamed of living on a lake. And even if your father promises to respect your privacy because he knows you’re an adult woman capable of conducting her own life.
Don’t do it. Even then. Because this is what will happen if you move in with your father. He will: Drive. You. Nuts.
Chapter 1
I poked my right foot out from under the sheets and kicked at the rocking chair next to my bed. “Go away.”
“But I can’t sleep, Cassie.”
I kept kicking.
“Would you stop doing that?”
“When you stop waking me up at the crack of dawn.” I sat up and tore back the covers. “Move!”
My father rocked the chair backwards, and I skirted past his feet.
I pulled open the curtains and took a look outside.
“The sun’s almost up,” he informed me. “It’s a beautiful day.”
“It’s 4:42 a.m., old man. There’s nothing beautiful about it.”
“Let’s have breakfast, shall we? How about waffles?”
I turned from the window. “How about you letting me sleep past five at least one day this summer? Move!”
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