Praise for Christina Freeburn’s Mysteries
“A snappy, clever mystery that hooked me on page one and didn’t let go until the perfectly crafted and very satisfying end. Faith Hunter is a delightful amateur sleuth and the quirky characters that inhabit the town of Eden are the perfect complement to her overly inquisitive ways. A terrific read!”
– Jenn McKinlay,
New York Times Bestselling Author of Copy Cap Murder
“Christina’s characters shine, her knowledge of scrapbooking is spot on, and she weaves a mystery that simply cries out to be read in one delicious sitting!”
– Pam Hanson,
Author of Faith, Fireworks, and Fir
“A fast-paced crafting cozy that will keep you turning pages as you try to figure out which one of the attendees is an identity thief and which one is a murderer.”
— Lois Winston,
Author of the Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery Series
“A little town, a little romance, a little intrigue and a little murder. Join heroine Faith and find out exactly who is doing the embellishing—the kind that doesn’t involve scrapbooking.”
– Leann Sweeney,
Author of the Bestselling Cats in Trouble Mysteries
“Battling scrapbook divas, secrets, jealousy, murder, and lots of glitter make Designed to Death a charming and heartfelt mystery.”
–Ellen Byerrum,
Author of the Crime of Fashion Mysteries
“Freeburn’s second installment in her scrapbooking mystery series is full of small-town intrigue, twists and turns, and plenty of heart.”
– Mollie Cox Bryan,
Agatha Award Finalist, Scrapbook of Secrets
“A great read that had me reading non-stop from the moment I turned the first page…kept me in suspense with plenty of twists and turns and every time I thought I had it figured out, the author changed the direction in which the story was headed...and I liked the cast of characters in this charming whodunit!”
– Dru’s Book Musings
“Witty, entertaining and fun with a side of murder…When murder hits Eden, WV, Faith Hunter will stop at nothing to clear the name of her employee who has been accused of murder. Will she find the killer before it is too late? Read this sensational read to find out!”
– Shelley’s Book Case
“Has mystery and intrigue aplenty, with poor Faith being stuck in the middle of it all…When we finally come to the end of the book (too soon), it knits together seamlessly and comes as quite a surprise, which is always a good thing. A true pleasure to read.”
– Open Book Society
“A cozy mystery that exceeds expectations…Freeburn has crafted a mystery that does not feel clichéd…it’s her sense of humor that shows up in the book, helping the story flow, making the characters real and keeping the reader interested.”
— Scrapbooking is Heart Work
Mysteries by Christina Freeburn
The Merry & Bright Handcrafted Mystery Series
NOT A CREATURE WAS STIRRING (#1)
The Faith Hunter Scrap This Series
CROPPED TO DEATH (#1)
DESIGNED TO DEATH (#2)
EMBELLISHED TO DEATH (#3)
FRAMED TO DEATH (#4)
MASKED TO DEATH (#5)
ALTERED TO DEATH (#6)
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Copyright
NOT A CREATURE WAS STIRRING
A Merry & Bright Handcrafted Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition | January 2019
Henery Press
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2019 by Christina Freeburn
Cover artwork Ebenezer by Christina Rogers
Author photograph by Kristi Downey
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-434-8
Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-435-5
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-436-2
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-437-9
Printed in the United States of America
To my three amazing (adult) children who have enriched
my world and life so very much. While I miss your “younger” days,
I’m looking forward to watching you spread your wings,
achieve your dreams, and go out there in the world
and adult. I’m so proud of all of you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A huge thank you to my editor Maria and all the other wonderful members at Henery Press for helping me make this book awesome. It’s been a while since I was in the head of a new character and I’m thrilled that Henery Press was willing to give Merry a chance.
For all the women who have taken their love of crafting and turned it into businesses that support their family—keep crafting, ignore the naysayers.
Also want to give a shout out to one of my new favorite shows Making It. It’s so awesome to see crafting/hand crafts getting some respect.
One
A rancid smell washed over me. I flicked an admonishing glare toward my companion. “Are you kidding me?”
Talking was a mistake. The smell penetrated me. I gagged. Removing a hand from the steering wheel of my new-to-me RV, I quickly opened the window. I was managing to drive the mammoth beast, but not with so much confidence I wanted to do it one-handed. The fresh air, with a slight twinge of exhaust, smelled better than my furry companion.
“I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” flowed from the radio. The cold air complemented the Christmas music. I loved Christmas. All of it. Music. Movies. Decorating. Wrapping presents. Baking. Crafting. There was never too much Christmas for me. Thanksgiving was Thursday and my mind had bypassed it to focus on Christmas. For me, the Christmas season started in August and lasted until the first week of January.
My livelihood was built around the season: Merry and Bright Handcrafted Christmas, an Etsy store I started with my best friend Brighton Lane. Today, I was traveling to Morgantown, West Virginia for a huge holiday craft bazaar at the Armory. The living quarter space and the underneath storage compartments of the Class A RV were packed with handcrafted Christmas decorations and gift options. The first couple of craft shows of the season netted me a nice profit, and if the one at the Armory made as much as last year, I was halfway to my dream of no longer preparing taxes and working in the pro shop at the local golf course, allowing me to focus on crafting.
The smell wafted toward me again. “You smell like the dead.”
Was he? I glanced at the cage belted in the passenger seat. The guinea pig looked like a melted multi-colored furry blob with feet. I had aimed the air vents on Ebenezer. Was the sun shining through the window too much for the critter?
“Ebenezer?”
“I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas” played. I had intended to take it off my playlist, but Ebenezer loved it. The first time Ebenezer heard it, he moved around in a circle until it ended. He remained a blob. My heart beat faster. If only I could safely rattle his cage while I drove.
Tears pricked my eyes. I kept two children alive and relatively happy, for twenty-one and twenty-three years respectfully, and yet I couldn’t keep a guinea pig alive for more than a week. My first pet and I killed him. My traveling companion. Since my children moved out and I was now divorced—again—Ebenezer was the most significant other in my life.
He rolled over and gazed at me.
So, it wasn’t death causing the stench. It was his natural odor. I had thought the adoption people were cruel, placing him far away from the cats and dogs. Now I knew they just hadn’t wanted to chase off any potential adopters with his smell. “It’s a good thing you’re cute, Ebenezer.”
I had named my new pet after the main character in The Christmas Carol, who later in his life “...knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge.” I, like Ebenezer Scrooge, found joy and a purpose in keeping Christmas well.
Christmas changed everything for Scrooge, as it had for my parents forty-five years ago when they found me on Christmas Eve—a sickly infant placed in a large stocking on the church steps. They adopted me and named me Merry because “We knew we’d have a Merry Christmas because of you.”
A mix of love and pain crowded my heart. My parents were in their early forties when they adopted me, and aging wasn’t kind to them. My father suffered from arthritis before cancer took him eight years ago. My mom now resided in an assisted living facility. Some days she remembered me and her grandchildren, other days she didn’t.
A car zoomed past, bringing my full attention back to the road. I reached the crest of the hill. This was the part of the drive I dreaded. Gripping the steering wheel tighter, I leaned back as if the movement would help slow the momentum. “As the saying goes, what goes up must come down.”
Ebenezer whistled. I wasn’t sure if the sound was giddiness or fear. Or neither, because he was a guinea pig and had no feelings whatsoever on this predicament.
The impulsive buy of the RV might very well be the death of me. Maybe that was why my former stepdaughter brought the motorhome to my house and offered it at a rock-bottom price. She hoped I’d crash. Two weeks ago, I divorced her father, and Cassie was having a hard time with my decision, and with her dad’s quick remarriage to Bonnie, the person Cassie blamed for our divorce.
My glasses slipped down my nose and I locked my arms to stop the instinct to push them up. I had hoped the Christmas music would calm me, but my go-to cure for anxiousness wasn’t helping. On the way home, I might have to go with one of the Christmas CDs I stored in the glove compartment as the play list on my phone lacked the calming effect.
I reached my favorite part of the drive: crossing the bridge over Cheat Lake. Ripples of waves bounced across the water. The sun gleamed off the surface casting a pinkish hue as it set. It was a spectacular and tranquil sight, and I envisioned one day being able to move there—near the beauty and peace of that view—and closer to my children who now lived in Morgantown.
If they stayed, I reminded myself. So far, neither my son or daughter had committed to living in West Virginia or moving from the state that I had planned to become our home. I knew one day I’d need to help take care of my parents and living in the low-cost area they had chosen for their golden years allowed me to fulfill all my financial needs: children, parents, me. Plus, with my love of Christmas, how could I not move to a place called Season’s Greetings, West Virginia?
The music lowered, and a ping came through the speakers. A text. I kept my eyes on the road and hoped it wasn’t from my neighbor. A neighbor promised to notify me if my garage door opened. It was a little off the tracks, making it hard to secure. I should’ve made time to fix it rather than adding it to the after-the-craft-show to-do list.
I merged off the interstate and made my way to the Armory. A large banner directing people to the fifteenth annual Christmas Holiday Bazaar waved in the distance. Excitement jingled through me. This year, I was at the craft fair in my RV, my mobile craft studio and home away from home. I was ready to take on the weekend—and my new life.
I turned down the road leading to the Armory. The building loomed before me and workers had already placed signs directing people to the show. The gravel lot for shoppers was empty, waiting for tomorrow when people would rush for spaces or settle for a parking space near the overnight parking area which was quite a distance from the door.
The overnight/RV parking lot was starting to look like a small town with campers, trailers, and other Class A vehicles filling up the space. I spotted my friend Grace Turner’s trailer toward the front of the lot. Her son Abraham was outside hooking up the utilities. I waved. His eyes widened, and he waved back before hurrying into the camper. I maneuvered the RV to my borrowed spot in the far end corner of the overnight RV lot. My other part-time job that kept my financial teeter-totter from slamming down to the ground was at the local golf course, and a golfer, who had a standing reservation weekend from August until the beginning of December at this lot, loaned me the spot in exchange for personalized t-shirts and wooden signs for his wife’s scrapbook room. He was thrilled to finish Christmas shopping without venturing from the golf course.
After parking, I scooped Ebenezer out of his cage and grabbed my cell phone. “Let’s show you, and our new home, off to Auntie Bright.” It wasn’t unusual for me and Bright to go a week or two without contacting each other during our busy season except for noting in our project list on Google Docs which order was ours to complete.
Right around the time my father died, Brighton and I “met” on a Facebook group devoted to using electronic die cutting machines. Chatting through Messenger, Bright and I discovered we had similar tastes in crafting, TV shows, and a love of all things Christmas. Our friendship was built on Facebook messaging, emailing, and picture attachments. If anyone asked who knew me best, the answer was Bright, even though we’ve never met in person.
The phone pinged, a reminder I hadn’t read a text, and vibrated in my hand. Cassie. So, can I come get it?
She had left something in the RV. I shifted Ebenezer, making sure he was cradled securely then texted back. Can’t today. I’m in Morgantown. The craft show.
I can come to you. It’s important.
I’ll be back home Sunday night.
Ebenezer pawed at the small kitchen countertop, wanting down. I inched away from it.
I need it sooner.
The girl wasn’t the best driver and I didn’t want her zipping to Morgantown at night. The RV is packed. No way to find anything in here tonight. I’ll look tomorrow when I unload. What do you need?
Ticket. I’ll come tomorrow.
The RV had become the spot Cassie hid whatever she hadn’t wanted her father to find. Samuel was a good dad, it was his one redeeming quality, but he never saw a flaw in Cassie’s behavior, and she tried to stay on that pedestal. After she sold me the RV, she dug out two parking tickets, a racy note from her boyfriend, which I regret having set my eyes on, and a letter that she immediately tore up.
I’ll look for it. I typed. When do you need to pay it?
Not that kind of ticket. It’s for an event.
Where you going?
Not your business. There was a pause before another text popped up. You’re not my mother.
Ouch. She was right. I wasn’t her mom. It wasn’t my business where she went or with whom. If I find it, I’ll let you know. I’ll be back on Sunday. You can get it then.
I’ll find it. Don’t trouble yourself.
Don’t trouble yourself. Cassie’s way of ending a conversation. I weaved through the abundance of Christmas products I handcrafted and opened the door
to allow some extra light into the space. I took multiple pictures of the inside: kitchen area, dining area, and living room. I wanted proof of how it looked when I went to an event, better to determine what alterations I wanted to make to the RV to suit my needs.
I planned on converting some of the kitchen cabinets into supply storage and turning the dining area into a studio space that would hold two electronic cutting machines and my laptop. Right now, the upholstery and counters were dark blue and gray, not quite my liking. At the after-Christmas sales, I planned on buying upholstery fabric in creams to redo the benches and couches. I envisioned pillows with silver trim and gold accents. Silver and gold was my favorite color combination with a little bit of poinsettia red mixed in.
Positioning myself sideways, right shoulder facing toward the door leading into the living space rather than facing the camera head on, I pressed Ebenezer to my cheek. His fur tickled my chin. I tapped the camera icon on my cell and flipped the view. I held out my arm, squinting at the screen to make sure me, my companion, and part of the soon-to-be mobile craft studio was in the frame. Click. I examined the picture. Perfect.
Our new craft studio, I typed and hit send. I scurried back to the passenger seat and placed Ebenezer back inside his cage while I was out hooking up the electric and sewage systems. I wanted the task completed before dark.
What is that? Bright messaged back.
I typed back: Ebenezer. My traveling buddy. Isn’t he cute?
Not the ball of fur. The studio space. Did you buy a shed? Trailer? I thought new toy meant you upgraded your die cutter to the Cricut Maker.
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