“You can’t do stuff like that anymore,” Dad said. “It’s not safe.” The ache in his voice broke my heart. “This isn’t the town we thought it was. You’re putting yourself in danger.” He wrapped me in a mammoth hug.
I angled my head against his chest so he could hear me. “It’s not like I went shop to shop asking for a show of hands if anyone had recently bludgeoned her. I just wanted Sheriff Gray to have someone to look into who didn’t work at Reindeer Games. This is our busy season. We have to get those gates open. You and Mom live off this one month’s income for half the year.”
Dad squeezed me tighter before letting go. “That’s right, we do. Your mom and me. You don’t have to worry about us. We’ve made it through harder times than this, and we’ll get through this too.” He fiddled with the collar on my coat. “Why don’t you let me worry about you instead?”
“Hey!” I smiled as a new idea formed in my head. “Sheriff Gray, my dad was with you earlier today, right?”
“That’s right.”
A jolt of enthusiasm pulsed through me. “If he was with you, then he wasn’t putting this on my porch.”
Dad looked at me like I’d sprouted another head.
“Not that you would ever do anything like this,” I backpedaled. “I think whoever killed Mrs. Fenwick did this. That’s the significance of the stakes. If I’m right, and Dad was with you, Sheriff, then this proves my dad isn’t the killer.”
Sheriff Gray seemed to mull my theory over. He rolled his shoulders. “I’m tempted to say your argument is circumstantial, but this isn’t a courtroom, and I don’t disagree.”
I stifled the urge to clap. “So Dad’s off the hook as a murder suspect?”
“Tell me this,” the sheriff said, swiftly changing the subject, “who have you talked to today that’s capable of this?” He tipped his head to the threat on my porch. “The police report didn’t include a description of the murder weapon and neither did the morning paper. The person who did this also had access to the farm’s other painted markers. Had to know where you keep them and how to get to them. Someone with a reason to think you’re on to them.”
I wet my frozen lips. No one had asked about the murder weapon, and I hadn’t offered that detail. “I don’t know.”
Mom hustled toward us through the snow, a lidded basket with holiday-print liner clutched in her grip. “I can’t believe this,” she lamented. Puffs of white steam lifted into the air with each word. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. You must be terrified.” She caught one of my hands in hers and pulled me up the steps toward my front door, careful to stay on the already trodden path. “Come inside and have a bite to eat. I’ll put the kettle on.”
I stopped on the porch. “You go ahead. I have to finish talking to Sheriff Gray.”
“Then you should both come inside where it’s safe.”
“Mom,” I huffed. “He’s the sheriff. I’m safe with him.”
“You’re my daughter,” she chided.
The sheriff cleared his throat, drawing Mom’s attention. “Why don’t you both go inside, and I’ll be in as soon as my deputy arrives to cover the crime scene.”
“Go on, Mom,” I urged. “I’ll be in soon.”
She batted emotion-filled eyes. “If you two won’t come with me, then I’ll bring the tea to you.” She swept over the threshold and shut the door.
Sheriff Gray’s lips curled into a half smile. “She’s not happy with me, but she’s still willing to bring me tea in the cold. People aren’t that nice in Boston. It’s different here. Like living in a Rockwell painting.”
“Not everyone’s that nice,” I muttered.
“Yeah? Who?”
The deputy arrived right then with a multitude of black shoulder bags crisscrossing his round belly. “Ready to get started, Sheriff.” He greeted Dad with a handshake and me with a nod, then went to work photographing the area. His serious black camera made the scene feel more criminal than I liked.
I squirmed under Sheriff Gray’s scrutiny.
“Who isn’t that nice?” he repeated.
“Can we talk inside now?” I asked, afraid of offending Mom if we remained outside longer than necessary.
Dad moved to block the steps like a newly hired bouncer. “Go on. I’ll keep watch.”
I went inside and beckoned the sheriff to follow.
The fire was going strong, heating the little space with ease. Cindy lounged on the couch where I’d left her.
“Come to the kitchen,” Mom called.
Hot tea and baked goods sweetened the air.
Sheriff Gray stopped at Mom’s side. “Any chance you know who had a sled out this way?”
“No.” She shook her head. “No one marked the log book because we’re closed. It’s a way to keep track when the sleds are in demand, but today . . .” She sighed. “I don’t know.”
She’d set the kitchen table with an array of muffins, pastries, and tea trimmings from her basket. Each type of treat had its own woven container and matching linen liner.
“What happened to the cute little baskets made from recycled paper that you love so much?” I asked. The paper baskets came in an assortment of holiday prints and made cleanup simple. Real baskets seemed impractical. Come to think of it, she’d switched to ceramic mugs in the Hearth too.
Mom waved a dismissive hand. “Throwaways seem so impersonal. These give folks the feeling of permanency, like they’ve just sat down to a snack at a friend’s home.”
I mulled that over, and it didn’t mesh. Throughout my childhood, she’d touted the practicality of disposable cups and the freedom they gave guests to leave the booths and enjoy our farm at their leisure.
“Help yourself.” She kissed my head. “I’m going to check on your father.”
I leaned against the counter until I heard the front door close. A lot had changed while I was away.
I turned my attention to Sheriff Gray. “Paula from the maple tree farm next door was borderline hostile when I asked her about Margaret. The two women were apparently enemies for decades, but I think it’s odd that Paula’s just as mad at Margaret today as she was before.”
“Anyone else?”
I frowned. “This isn’t easy for me, you know? I’m talking about people behind their backs. I don’t know who’s a killer and who’s just cranky. The cranky ones don’t deserve to be gossiped about.”
He circled a wrist between us, the universal sign to move it along.
“Don’t you have any follow-up questions on Paula?” I asked.
“Nope.”
I rubbed my forehead. “Fine. You might also want to talk to Mr. Fleece, the reindeer keeper.”
Sheriff Gray pulled his chin back and tented his eyebrows. “Fleece works here. I thought the whole point of your little espionage mission was to steer me away.”
“My mission was to make you cast a wider net. You’re too focused on my family and the farm workers. You aren’t even looking at the other people who hated her.” I bit my lip, wishing I hadn’t said “hate.” “Maybe the killer didn’t hate her. Maybe they were just two people having a run-of-the-mill disagreement and things escalated unexpectedly.”
“Do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
He helped himself to a mug of hot tea and stirred slowly, forcing me to wait for his answer. “Always give everyone the benefit of the doubt.”
“I try.”
“You think it’s a nice thing to do, but you’re giving the killer an excuse.” He blew across the steamy surface of his tea and took up a spot on the wall across from me in the narrow room.
I wrapped my arms around my middle. “You don’t know what it’s like to grow up in a small town. I’ve known most of these people all my life. I hate thinking one of them is capable of murder.”
Something flitted over his expression, there and gone before it could be named. “Everyone’s capable of something they never thought they could be.”
I searched his eyes
for the story behind those words, but whatever it was, he kept it to himself.
“Who, on this property, knew you were going into town?”
“Everyone. I was probably hard to miss in the rental truck.”
“Did they all know you had an ulterior motive?”
“No. I didn’t tell anyone.”
He ambled back to the spread on my table. “Could someone have seen or heard you in town, become frustrated, and followed you home?” He bit into one of Mom’s chocolate chip cookies and moaned. It wasn’t an uncommon response.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
He stopped chewing. “I didn’t see the truck outside.”
“I returned it.”
“How’d you get home?”
“Ray Griggs.”
He stuffed the remaining cookie between his lips with a chuckle. “You know him?”
“Kind of. We went to school together,” I said, hoping it was true.
“Did he tell you he’s a reporter now?”
“Yes.” After I’d discovered his press badge.
The front door opened and closed with a thump. “Sheriff?” His deputy marched inside, dusting snow from his gloves. “All set out there. I’ve collected the stakes and photographed the scene.” He tipped his hat when he noticed me staring, and a mass of salt-and-pepper hair burst free.
“Help yourself to cookies and tea,” I said. “Take your time warming up. There’s a fire in the living room if you’d be more comfortable there.”
He grabbed a napkin and loaded the sweets into a precarious pile. “Thank you kindly. Don’t mind if I do.”
I refocused on the sheriff. “What’s next?”
“For starters, stop asking people about Margaret Fenwick.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t give out any information either. If someone doesn’t know something, it’s because they don’t need to. Got it?”
“Sure.”
He turned to his deputy. “We need a list of all the people on these grounds today. I want to talk to anyone who was here and unaccounted for at the time when those stakes could’ve been delivered.”
The deputy wrote something in a little flip notebook. “Yes, sir.”
I headed for the door. “We might as well start at the Hearth. There was quite a crowd at breakfast.”
Mom met us on the porch. “How’s everything going? Can I get you anything else?”
“He wants a list of everyone who was here today,” I said.
“Oh, dear,” Mom answered. Her eyes rolled skyward as she disappeared in thought. “There have been quite a few. I can take a stab at it, if you’d like.”
Sheriff Gray braced wide palms over narrow hips. Frustration colored his face. “I don’t understand why this is so difficult. Who are all these people?”
“Townies,” I said.
“What are they doing here? I ordered Reindeer Games to be closed today.”
Mom smiled sweetly and patted his sleeve. “We are closed, dear. No one’s buying anything. They’re just visiting.”
Sheriff Gray turned a droll expression on me.
I locked my arm in his and towed him toward the Hearth. “Welcome to Mistletoe.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose as we moved. “When we get to the Hearth, I’ll do the talking. You’re done asking people about Margaret Fenwick.”
I smiled sweetly. That’s what he thought.
Chapter Seven
Sheriff Gray did the talking, but we didn’t learn anything new. An hour later, he went back to searching hay bales and horse troughs for clues to the killer’s identity. I went home to make lollipop lapel pins and binge-eat Mom’s cookies.
The Hearth was dark when I arrived the next morning in need of breakfast. I knew Mom was inside before I opened the door. The sweet scents of her fresh-baked muffins and breads seeped into my nose and hastened my step.
“Good morning,” I called, announcing my arrival.
Mom bebopped behind the counter to an acoustic version of “Jingle Bell Rock.” Her dark curls bounced in time with a pair of silver bells pinned to her signature red sweater. “Good morning, angel.” She stopped to address me with a notoriously bright smile. “How’d you sleep?”
“Great.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” she said, smiling wider still. “Don’t frown. It’s not a bad thing. People should tell the truth more often,” she mused. “It’s so much easier.”
“Too bad the person who hurt Mrs. Fenwick doesn’t live by your code of ethics and honesty.”
“Well”—she spritzed the display case with cleanser—“Sheriff Gray will find whoever did that. I’m sure of it. Are you hungry?”
“Whatever you’re baking smells amazing.”
“Cinnamon swirl muffins with a little brown sugar drizzle.”
“Sold.” I caught sight of the mouth-watering treats on a cooling tray and plucked one for myself. “Where is everyone?”
“Home, I suppose. Sheriff Gray hasn’t given us the okay to open yet. Though I suspect some of the regulars will show up soon anyway. It’s too bad I have to give the food away. Not that I mind being hospitable.”
“He doesn’t care about sales,” I said. “He doesn’t want people here at all. Did you see his face yesterday when it was time to make a list of visitors?”
Mom shrugged. “What am I supposed to do when they come? Turn them away?”
I laughed. “I don’t know. I don’t envy you right now, that’s for sure.” My mother hated conflict. She could no sooner send a guest home than hit them with a rock. She was raised at a boarding house for migrant workers. It was in her very fiber to bring people in, not turn them away. “Maybe we’ll be open for lunch. Did he say?”
“No.”
“Well, that doesn’t seem fair. He has to have an idea of when he’ll have things wrapped up here.” I went to the window for a look at the locked gates. The deputy’s cruiser was parked at the end of the drive. He paced the area outside the perimeter, apparently redirecting buses and visitors as they arrived. Meanwhile, my mom was up at dawn preparing for guests she wouldn’t charge because the investigation was still open.
“Have you seen the sheriff this morning?” I asked. “I’ll go and ask him directly.”
Mom filled a travel mug with coffee and slid it over the counter to me. “Just the deputy’s here today. And your father says I shouldn’t encourage you to ask any more questions.”
I pulled the cup to my chest. “No one said I couldn’t talk to the sheriff.” I checked my watch. “Speaking of questions, I was up half the night wondering who was closest to Margaret these days.” I’d spent the other half checking my doors and windows for signs of a new threat. “She seemed pretty gung ho about her work. Maybe someone there can shed some light. Do you know what time the Historical Society opens?”
“Nine, but do not go there and ask about her.” Mom’s mouth said no, but her head nodded yes.
“Gotcha.” I smiled. “Can I borrow a truck?”
“You betcha.” Mom snagged a key from the rack on the wall. “Be sure to fill me in when you come back.”
I tipped my drink in her direction and pocketed the key. “Love you!”
Dad kept a trio of red pickups with the Reindeer Games logo on their sides and brown reindeer antlers rising from the window frames. A big red nose was tied to each broad silver grill. I’d learned to drive in one of those trucks. It was the same one Mom and Dad had brought me home from the hospital in sixteen years before I took the driver’s test. Surprisingly, when I squeezed the key in my pocket, lights flashed on a newer model. I climbed inside and tuned the radio to my favorite station, then took the back way around the property and down my parents’ drive to avoid the closed gates. I wondered where the sheriff was this morning and what he was up to. I told myself the interest was purely based on my desire to get Reindeer Games back to business as usual, but I wasn’t completely sure that was the whole story. I was positive, however, that I didn’t want to think too long
or hard about what else it could mean.
I cruised past familiar homes with the same trusty lawn decor from my childhood: inflatable Grinches on rooftops and twelve-foot snowmen near garages. This time, however, I couldn’t help wondering if someone inside one of those cozy country houses had killed poor Mrs. Fenwick, then gone home as if nothing had changed. Surely someone had noticed something. Some change in their loved one, a difference that began on the night of a murder.
Strange how a town can be exactly the same and completely different at the same time. I took the next right on a whim, choosing a less-traveled route instead of the direct one. I forced the negative thoughts aside and let nostalgia warm me from the inside out.
A tenacious sun had peeled back the snow, revealing a slightly greener world. The crop of evergreens behind the old flour mill looked like something off a post card. I slowed at the crossroads to watch ghosts of my childhood skip through annual school field trips and multiple family picnics outside the building. Sadly, a “Closed” sign hung at an angle over the front window beside a banner thanking Mistletoe for one hundred years of business and support. It was easy to imagine the profound disappointment for the family who’d had to close those doors. I wished there was something I could do to revitalize the place, but first I needed to make sure Reindeer Games didn’t end up in the same condition—shut down—after four proud generations of Whites had put their hearts and souls into it. A tug of emotion tightened my chest. I wouldn’t let that happen.
* * *
The town was overrun with tourists, having absorbed the added busloads of shoppers who were unable to visit Reindeer Games as planned. Despite it all, Sheriff Gray was shockingly easy to locate. His cruiser had a front-and-center spot along the curb at the pie shop.
I breezed inside and smiled at the hostess dressed in a pink-and-white retro waitress ensemble, complete with ruffled apron. “Good morning! I’m with him,” I said, pointing to the back of Sheriff Gray’s head.
“Well, then, right this way.” She gathered a menu and set of silverware from the hostess stand. “You’ve picked a good time to stop in. This is the second day of the Twelve Pies of Christmas.”
Twelve Slays of Christmas Page 6