Not a Creature Was Purring

by Krista Davis

  Oma gave me a worried look. What was that about?

  “Funny, she was skinny, but she didn’t look like someone so desperate that she needed to hoard bread,” I said.

  When the waitress came for our orders, we all stopped gabbing and listened. “The breakfast specials today are gingerbread pancakes, brown sugar and apple oatmeal, and rib eye steak with eggs and hash browns.”

  Trixie gazed at me with hopeful eyes. “We should probably be good and have the oatmeal, but we’ll splurge and try the gingerbread pancakes,” I said. “We should know how they taste, right?” Trixie wagged her entire hind end in agreement.

  Shelley and Zelda opted for the rib eye steak. Oma and Gingersnap had already eaten.

  Oma smiled at us. “Our new doctor arrived in town last night. It is a big relief to have a doctor in Wagtail again.”

  “Is he single?” asked Zelda.

  Oma leaned toward her like she was going to say something confidential. “Very single. And handsome, too!”

  We all giggled like silly schoolgirls. And then I told Oma about Rupert and the Grinch.

  “He cannot do this,” she said in her distinctive German accent. She hated that it clung to her even though she had been an American since before my father was born. “I will go to see it for myself and have a talk with him.”

  I was about to warn Oma that Aunt Birdie had been very upset, when she showed up in the lobby. She stalked toward us in a chic burgundy and black plaid winter suit. If her eyes hadn’t blazed with anger and her expression hadn’t been so dour, she would have cut an attractive figure. The streak of white that rose from the middle of her forehead suggested that the rest of her hair might look that way if she didn’t regularly color it black.

  She paused for a split second, held up her right hand like a troop leader, turned, and shouted, “There she is!”

  And then she marched toward us, full of fury, followed by two other Wagtail residents.

  When she reached the table, Aunt Birdie looked so menacing that we all shrank back a little. All except for Oma. The two of them didn’t get along very well, probably because they both knew how to stand their ground.

  “Liesel,” she hissed, “we have come to insist that you do something about that hideous inflatable Grinch this minute. Do you understand me? Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not next Christmas. Right now.”

  A chubby fellow stood behind her. “Liesel, it’s inflated again. I wouldn’t mind it being up during reasonable hours, but listening to that song over and over again is driving me batty.”

  Another Wagtailite joined them. “I’m going to have to double my blood pressure medication if I hear it play ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer’ one more time. It’s . . . it’s—”

  “Grinch-like. That’s what it is. Just plain mean!” said the chubby guy. “Although I noticed that he changed the words this morning. He must have recorded it himself. Now it’s playing ‘Aunt Birdie Got Run Over by a Reindeer.’”

  I hoped the others weren’t having as much trouble hiding their laughter as I was.

  “No!” Oma wasn’t laughing. “What can he be thinking? I will not tolerate such behavior in Wagtail. Excuse me, please, ladies. I have work to do.”

  Oma headed toward her office with Aunt Birdie and friends trailing along behind her. Gingersnap moved to her favorite spot near the front door. She was always on alert for someone to kiss.

  After breakfast, Trixie and I took our shift at the Sugar Maple Inn’s Christkindl Market booth, conveniently located close to the inn. “Let It Snow” played on outdoor speakers, and I hummed along as I replenished the supply of Christmas ornaments.

  The glitter on a blown glass golden retriever caught rays of the sun as I slid it into place on a hook. From the location of our booth, I could see that Gingersnap had shifted to the porch, where she waited for people to fuss over her. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a quick movement as a fellow dodged around the end of the booths and stood motionlessly with his back against the wall. Thirtyish, I guessed. Hair the color of coffee grounds fluffed as though it was naturally curly, but he’d clearly tried to coax it into behaving by brushing it back. Although he was slender, there was a gentle roundness to his chin, and he had a distinctive prominent nose that I’d bet was a family trait.

  As furtive and potentially sinister as his actions were, I wasn’t terribly worried. After all, it was the season of shopping and secrets.

  However, if he didn’t want to be noticed, he’d have been well-advised not to wear harlequin pants with a diamond pattern in bright colors. He peered around the corner and ambled over to our booth. He frowned as he gazed at our selection. “Don’t you have anything tropical? A palm tree or a pink flamingo, maybe?”

  Close up, I realized that he sported an amazing tan for the time of the year.

  Wagtail was located in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. Snow covered the ground, and it was a brisk forty degrees outside. I responded as sweetly as I could. “We don’t get a lot of call for tropical items.”

  His nose wrinkled, and he heaved a huge sigh. His gaze skimmed our wares. “Pinecones are so banal.”

  I thought they were pretty. In fact, I had used them rather liberally on the Christmas trees in the inn. Besides, we had a huge selection of blown glass ornaments in the shapes of dogs and cats.

  While he perused our selection, I spotted a young woman watching him from a distance. She pretended to be interested in the wares of another booth, but I could tell she was actually observing my customer.

  His expression brightened. “A German shepherd! That would be perfect.”

  He handed me cash with long fingers. His hands spoke volumes about him. Those manicured nails screamed city slicker. Metrosexuals, I thought they were called. His soft hands had never done a lick of hard work.

  “Squee! It is the Blakester!” Two young women approached him from behind.

  “We knew it was you!”

  “And look at his pants!”

  “Selfie!” they sang in unison.

  The Blakester greeted them with enthusiasm. “You caught me. What’s up, ladies?”

  One of the girls produced a phone and held it out to me. “Would you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  The Blakester swung an arm around each of them and smiled as though he was used to posing with complete strangers. The girls kissed him, one on each cheek. The photos would definitely be cute.

  I handed the camera back to them.

  “Instagram!” they chimed.

  “We are so cool, running into the Blakester.”

  Repeating thank you over and over, they ran off giggling and peering at the phone.

  The Blakester shrugged. “Fans. Thanks for taking the pics.”

  “My pleasure.” He was reaching for his purchase when Mr. Thackleberry, the round man from the dining room, sneaked up behind him and said, “Gotcha!”

  The younger fellow’s eyes opened in fear, but he soon smiled. “Gramps!”

  “What are you doing here already, young rascal?”

  “I’ve been traveling for two days. Flew in just this morning from the islands.”

  His grandfather’s smile waned, and he stared at the younger man for a long moment. I had a bad feeling the young guy had been caught in a lie.

  But Gramps recovered quickly. “How’d you like to be Santa’s helper this afternoon?”

  The younger fellow groaned. “I don’t think so. In fact, I’m pretty sure I promised Mom that I would help her.”

  Gramps laughed and pointed his forefinger at his grandson. “You can’t fool me, young Blake.” And then he turned to me with the same winning smile. “Are you Holly Miller?”

  “I am.”

  He held a pudgy hand out to me. “Dale Thackleberry. Thank you for making the arrangements for me. And there’s Trixie!” H
e smiled and whistled to her. “I had a Jack Russell. For a long time he was known as the Thackleberry dog because he was in all our ads. I still miss that little guy.”

  I had been receiving packages for him all week. He was bringing his entire family to the inn for the holidays. No wonder Oma didn’t want to insult him by scolding a member of his party for stealing a tip.

  Oma had put me in charge of arranging for a sleigh at his request. Boxes upon boxes of toys had arrived at the inn for him to hand out to local children, dogs, and cats. “I’m so glad to meet you! The whole town is looking forward to your visit, Santa!”

  His grandson shuddered. “No, Gramps, please. Not again. Does Vivi know about this?”

  Dale Thackleberry studied his grandson. He placed his hand on Blake’s shoulder. “Someday you will understand that the purest reward in life stems from bringing joy to others.”

  Blake grumbled, “Who said that?”

  “Me.” Dale chuckled with delight. “Now don’t either one of you breathe a word about this to Vivi. You understand?”

  I nodded along with Blake, even though I didn’t know who Vivi was. I hoped she wasn’t the woman who stole the tip he had left for the waitress.

  Dale checked his watch. “I’ll meet you in the lobby at four o’clock, Holly.” He shot a glance at Blake. “And you, young sir—if you won’t come with me, at least you could help load the sleigh.”

  They turned to walk away but not before I heard Blake say, “Gramps, they have people to do things like that. Besides, I may need to distract Vivi.”

  Three children squealed as they ran past with their dogs, dodging around shoppers. A woman who must have been their mother chased after them yelling, “Santa Claus is going to hear about this!”

  I couldn’t help smiling. It was one of those rare times in life when everything was going my way. Holmes, my childhood friend who had grown up to be the man of my dreams, would be here anytime now. There was one teensy problem, though. Holmes was engaged. Try as I might, I hadn’t been able to get the story from him, but there was some kind of complication. Maybe this time I could get him to tell me about it. I wasn’t inclined to try to sway him, of course. Tempting as it might be, the last thing I wanted was to interfere in their relationship. I just kept hoping it would implode on its own. After all, Holmes had hinted that he would like to move from Chicago back to Wagtail. A plan I wholeheartedly endorsed.

  It was going to be a wonderful holiday, and I brimmed with Christmas spirit. Trixie napped on a bed in the back of the booth. Her red collar adorned with frolicking elves suited my little girl, with her white fur, black ears, and a black spot on her rump. She had been my constant companion since I’d rescued her a little over a year ago. Unfortunately, she had a nose for trouble. More specifically, she had a habit of finding corpses.

  A bald man strolled up and examined our wares. “I gather you are associated with the Sugar Maple Inn?”

  “I guess our T-shirts for sale gave us away?”

  His cheeks were ruddy, probably from the cold. “May I see the green velvet dog coat?”

  I handed it to him. “Is it the right size?”

  He examined the label. “Thackleberry,” he said with disdain, his nostrils flaring. He handed it back to me. “I don’t buy Thackleberry products.”

  “Oh.” I forced a smile, wondering what was wrong with them. The coat was adorable.

  He leaned toward me and spoke confidentially. “Haven’t you heard? There’s something in their fabrics that’s causing dog allergies. Makes them itchy and they lose patches of fur.”

  I frowned at him. We had quite a few of the products. In fact, Trixie’s elf outfit was made by Thackleberry. She didn’t appear itchy to me.

  “Don’t believe me? Look up Thackleberry allergy online.” He gave a little wave and strolled away.

  I knelt to Trixie and ran my hand over her fur. “Do you feel itchy?” I didn’t see any patches of missing fur.

  She gazed at me with bright eyes. Her ears pricked for a moment before she jumped to her feet and issued one yap.

  I stood up, wondering if the man had returned, but it was Mr. Huckle who shuffled in our direction, bundled in an elegant navy blue wool coat. Oma had hired the gnarled gentleman when he lost his position as the butler to the wealthiest man in town. He had endeared himself to everyone who worked or stayed at the inn. Guests raved about him. He was always ready to walk dogs, brush cats, and make appointments for our guests and their pets.

  “Miss Holly!” he cried as he approached. “Your grandmother should like to speak with you. I am to fill in until Miss Zelda takes over.”

  A nice-looking guy with brown eyes and dimples approached the booth. He smiled at me as I left and headed across the plaza toward the inn.

  Trixie ran along in front of me as though she knew where we were going. Built as a mansion for a family in the 1800s, the stone-covered inn had been expanded and renovated by its many owners. We trotted up the stairs to the porch that ran the length of the original building. In spite of the frosty temperature, people occupied the rocking chairs, most with steaming mugs in their hands and dogs lounging at their feet.

  We entered the main lobby, turned right, and walked along the hallway toward the reception lobby, where the inn office was located. I shed my plush sweater as I walked. My hair crackled with static electricity as I tugged it over my head.

  Trixie barked.

  In my disheveled state, I spied a woman about my age with brunette hair stepping off the elevator. She glanced in both directions, pushed back a strand of hair that was designed to hang along the side of her face in the latest trend, and said, “Excuse me. Which way to the main lobby?”

  I smiled and pointed in the direction we had come. “It’s that way.”

  “Wonderful, thank you!”

  I admired her chic outfit. She looked so put together in her winter white trousers and matching sweater. Her nails were polished in a cheery Christmas red. I gazed down at my own nails, scrubby from handling pine and decorating. My jeans were okay for working at the Christkindl booth, but I couldn’t help wondering if I had gotten a bit sloppy in my attire.

  “Do you work here?” she asked.

  “Yes. Is there something I can do for you?”

  She pulled out a sheet of inn stationery. “I’m afraid my room is inadequate. I will need eight bottles of Mistletoe Cactus Dew and blackout curtains. I can’t sleep if there’s even a tiny hint of light in the room. And I need to be scheduled for a massage and a mani-pedi, and make reservations at some restaurants. I hope they’re not all booked.”

  I was still stuck on her first request. “Mistletoe Cactus Dew?”

  “Yes, they collect the rain that falls on the cacti in the rain forest. It’s the purest water one can obtain because it never even touches the earth. It’s the only water that passes my lips, and I use it for washing my face. You should try it.”

  We had some great stores in Wagtail, but I seriously doubted that any of them carried Mistletoe Cactus Dew. Maybe I could convert her for the length of her stay. “Wagtail is known for its spring water. People used to come here just because of the water. You might want to try it.”

  She gave me the sad but tolerant look of a teacher with a clueless student. “That touches the earth.”

  “I’ll do my best on the rainwater. You can schedule the massage and mani-pedi through Mr. Huckle in the lobby. He has stepped away from his desk, but he’ll be back a little later.”

  “You really should try Mistletoe Cactus Dew. You won’t believe what it will do for your complexion.”

  I nodded and faked a smile as she sauntered away. She looked terrific, but I never wanted to be that high maintenance. She wasn’t going to be happy if I couldn’t find rain forest water in Wagtail. Maybe I could melt some snow and bottle it. I tried not to snicker.

  But it wouldn’t
hurt me to schedule a manicure for myself. I walked on to the reception lobby, where Zelda greeted me with a worried look.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  She avoided my gaze. “Um, nothing.”

  Right. She couldn’t fool me. “Did Oma have problems with Rupert?”

  Zelda busied herself with papers.

  “Hey, Zelda, have you ever heard of Mistletoe Cactus Dew?”

  She stared at me, horrified. “I’ve heard of Mountain Dew. I am getting so old,” she whined. “Is Mistletoe Cactus Dew a new rock group?”

  I felt a little bit better about not having heard of it. “Apparently it’s water.” I stepped into the office.

  Oma and her best friend, Rose Richardson, Holmes’s grandmother, waited on the sofa.

  In spite of her fondness for gardening and hiking, Rose’s face showed precious few wrinkles for her age. She kept her hair blonde and had the same friendly blue eyes as her grandson, Holmes. But at the moment, she appeared as troubled as Oma.

  My favorite applesauce cupcakes with caramel frosting and a tray of gorgeous iced sugar cookies in the shapes of doghouses, dogs, and cats rested on the coffee table.

  Oma poured hot cider into a mug and handed it to me. “Sit down, liebling.”

  Trixie jumped up on the sofa between them and pawed at Oma, who promptly obliged her with a tiny dog treat in the shape of a Christmas tree.

  Neither Oma nor Rose smiled. My heart skipped a beat. I could sense their discomfort. Something was wrong.

  Five

  “Holly,” said Oma, “there is something we must tell you.”

  The button on her vest was going to fall off if she kept twisting it. I squirmed at her discomfort.

  Rose tilted her head like a sad puppy and spoke fast. “Honey, we wanted to tell you this sooner, but we just didn’t know how.”

  “You were so happy with your dreams of a Wagtail Christmas.” Oma gazed at me with forlorn eyes.