She led me to the sheriff’s booth, casting congenial glances over her shoulder along the way. “Today’s pie is holiday apple. It’s baked with brown sugar and locally grown apples. The flaky cinnamon sugar crust is enough to make you cry.”
I slid into the sheriff’s booth. “I’ll just take coffee for now.”
He smiled. “Well, hello. What are you doing here?”
“I came for coffee. Mind if I join you?”
The waitress slid my placemat and napkin-wrapped silverware onto the table before me.
He straightened. “Of course.” He turned to the waitress. “Please get this lady whatever she wants. It’s on me.”
“Very generous,” I said, arranging my discarded coat and purse on the red vinyl bench.
The waitress hovered another moment. “You look so familiar. Have we met?”
I rocked my head side to side. “You probably know my mother, Carol. Some people think we look alike. I’m Holly.” I extended a hand her way.
Sun-spotted skin gathered across her forehead and at the corners of her eyes and mouth. “Holly White?”
“Guilty.”
“Congratulations!”
Heat rose to my cheeks.
“You’re getting married Christmas Eve! Everyone in town’s been talking about it all month. I’ve overheard your mom and her ladies in here planning the details every Sunday afternoon since Easter.” She patted the table. “You know what? Pie’s on the house. Be right back.” She spun on her white sneakers and vanished through swinging kitchen doors.
I suppressed the urge to drop my forehead onto the sparkly white tabletop.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” the sheriff asked. “Not that I mind a surprise coffee date, but I must admit I’m curious.”
“I came to see how much longer the farm has to be closed. There’s only ten days until Christmas, and the Twelve Days of Reindeer Games brings in a lot of business, not to mention morale’s down.”
He twisted his cup on a napkin. “Believe it or not, I was headed out there next. My sweep’s complete—I planned to tell your parents they could reopen anytime. I have a couple more staff interviews to do this afternoon, and I’d prefer to conduct them on the property where we can walk the grounds as we talk, but that shouldn’t stop the fun.”
“Thank you,” I sighed in relief. The waitress reappeared with my pie and a mug of coffee. “One big ole slice of holiday apple for the bride-to-be.” She placed it all on the table and sprayed a cone of whipped cream on the cinnamon crust. “Can I get you anything else?” She tucked the can back into her apron.
I puffed out my cheeks. “Actually, I can’t accept this. My wedding was called off earlier this week, which is why I’m home, probably to stay.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Canceled? Are you sure?”
“It’s not really something you can get wrong.”
“Was it your doing?”
“Nope.”
She blanched. “Oh, honey. I’ll be right back with some ice cream.”
I cast a warning look at the sheriff and commanded my stinging eyes to give it a rest. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
He raised his palms.
The waitress returned a moment later with two scoops of vanilla for my pie. She left with a sad smile.
I plunged the tines of my fork into flaky, sweet, creamy heaven. “You know, you can’t get away with eating dessert for breakfast in some places.”
The sheriff chuckled. “This is my favorite restaurant in town. They make great coffee, excellent pies, and a mean pancake. I also like the atmosphere. It’s like visiting a fifties soda shop, complete with checkered floors and vintage signs. The simple menus are a relief, and I’m partial to the uniforms.”
I rolled my eyes. “Wow.”
“What? They’re classic.”
“They’re short and tight.”
He feigned offense. “My mother was a waitress.”
“Don’t try looking innocent over there, Boston.” I stuffed another bite into my mouth and savored the collision of textures.
“I am innocent,” he said. “I think you’re just trying to put me in the ‘all men are pigs’ box after that breakup.”
“We aren’t talking about that,” I muttered around a mouthful of pie.
“Okay, then what are we talking about?” He leaned over the table, a glimmer of mischief in his eye. “You came here for more than coffee, and I was already on my way to your parents’ farm, so it wasn’t that either.”
“I didn’t know you were on your way to the farm,” I said. “And if we’re going to talk, you might as well help me eat my pity pie.”
He lifted his fork. “Got any specific plans while you’re in town today?” He took a chunk off the opposite side from where I was working.
I chewed intently, recalling Mom’s recent observation about my lying prowess. “I can’t stop thinking about Mrs. Fenwick. Everyone says something was going on with her lately. What do you think it was?”
He pushed a bite of pie between his lips and settled back in his seat. “I think she was a lonely old woman who’d outlived her husband and her son. Holidays are the worst time to be alone. The loneliness compounds when your home is empty and everywhere you look, there are endless lines of happy families. I can’t imagine what that’d be like in a town like this. She might not have been as sugary sweet as the town wanted, but I liked her.”
I set my fork aside. “How well did you know her?”
“Not well. I helped her get her cat off the roof when I first came to Mistletoe. She made me hot chocolate afterward.”
“Was she upset about the colors of buildings and livestock without permits back then?”
“I don’t think she was upset; I think she was extradedicated. Keeping the town’s historical status up to snuff had been important to her husband, and she probably felt she was honoring him by carrying on the torch.”
The waitress returned with a worried expression. “How was the pie?”
“Good,” I said.
“Excellent,” the sheriff agreed.
She cast a curious glance between us, then ripped a page from her little green order pad. “My nephew is about your age, if you’re not seeing anyone.” She slid the page my way. “He ain’t the sharpest stick, but he’s good looking and well meaning. He could be a great distraction.” She winked.
My jaw dropped.
She mimed a phone near her ear as she walked away.
I turned the paper over to find a name and phone number. “Good grief.”
Sheriff Gray smiled widely from his side of the booth. “What do you think she meant by that wink?”
“Shut up.”
“See, I know you’re out of practice, but that wasn’t nice. Here in Mistletoe, people don’t tell the sheriff to shut up.”
“Would you like me to tell you something else instead?” I lifted an eyebrow.
He chuckled. “I like you. You’re like the pepper on this people stew.”
I laughed. “You’re truly awful at metaphors.”
“You don’t want to be pepper?”
I laughed louder. “I don’t want to be in a people stew. Jeez.” I hid my goofy smile behind the rim of my coffee cup. “You’re in a good mood this morning.”
“I try to smile every once in a while. Believe it or not, I smile a lot more here than I ever have.”
“Good.”
“Old instincts die hard, though. I’ve gotta ask—any more problems at the guesthouse?”
“No.”
“How’d you sleep?”
Not a wink. “Fine.”
“Would you do me a favor? Consider staying with your parents in the big house until I get this thing figured out.” He lifted a palm to stop the protest on my lips. “Humor me? I couldn’t sleep last night. I nearly came over to check on you a dozen times.”
“You could have.” I glanced up at him sheepishly. “I was probably awake.”
He rested his hands i
n his lap. “Well, at least I know you understand this is serious.”
“I do.”
The room buzzed with sounds of a dozen conversations, and I recalled two other things he’d told me about himself. First, he loved this place, and second, he had no social life. “Still looking for where you fit in?”
“Yep.”
“Try making one new friend. The rest will follow.”
He raised sincere green eyes to mine, a look of determination on his brow. “Can I start with you?”
“As your first friend?” I blushed senselessly and refocused on my drink. “Maybe.”
“Maybe? Is this more blackmail?” he teased.
“No, but how about another coffee?”
Twenty minutes later, we finally extracted ourselves from the booth and headed into the day. When his cruiser was nothing but taillights, I drove to the Historical Society for another conversation.
* * *
The building’s exterior was exquisitely crafted and meticulously maintained; it was easily the town centerpiece, architecturally speaking. The goliath Queen Anne structure had been part of a single-family estate near the turn of the last century, surrounded by elaborate gardens and hedge mazes. Unfortunately, the Great Depression stripped the family of its wealth and forced them to divide and sell their land in parcels. The home had changed hands many times since then, posing as a museum, an all-girls school, and a boarding house and eventually housing several small businesses like the Historical Society.
I approached the majestic front door with deep appreciation for its beauty and let myself inside. The interior smelled like dust and old paper, not uncommon for a home of its age, but shockingly pungent, as if it had been recently stirred. I trailed a fingertip over the directory on the wall, searching for the Historical Society’s suite number.
The crash behind me nearly stopped my heart. I turned around, one palm pressed to my collarbone.
A man stood in an open doorway staring forlornly at a pile of fallen books.
“Hello,” I said, moving quickly in his direction. “Can I help?”
“The bottom fell out,” he answered without meeting my gaze.
“Oh.” I crouched beside the books and pulled the busted box free. I’d officially located the source of the odor circulating through the building. “How old are these?”
The man dropped into a squat opposite me. Gray dress slacks clung to his thighs and lifted above his navy argyle socks. “Old. That’s the job.” He stacked the ancient tomes into a pile.
I followed his example.
“You don’t have to do that. I can get it.”
“I don’t mind.” I stood when the work was done, arms loaded.
He creaked upright with the lion’s share of books nestled against a tan Mr. Rogers cardigan. His blue eyes widened slightly when he finally seemed to notice me. “Pardon me, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Caleb France.” He stretched his fingers from beneath a stack of newly organized tomes.
“Holly White.” I touched my fingertips to his and mimicked a handshake while keeping a careful hold on his books. “You work at the Historical Society?”
“Yes. The books and I are headed to the rear corner office.”
I followed him down a narrow hall into a stately room with grand window furnishings and elaborate crown molding.
“You can set those anywhere,” he said. “I’m still moving in. It’ll take weeks to get organized.”
“You’re new?” I asked, unloading my achy arms.
“No. I’m on my fourth year now. I’m just changing offices. My old one was a closet in comparison.”
I scanned the room, finally catching on. “This was Margaret Fenwick’s office.”
“Yes.” He arranged the books on crowded built-ins.
Haphazard piles of dilapidated boxes lined the rear wall. A framed certificate with “Fenwick” written in calligraphy protruded from one stack. “Was this hers?” I asked, moving nosily toward the castoffs.
“I think that was her husband’s.”
“But all these boxes were hers?”
“Yeah. I tried to schedule a dumpster, but local companies are booked until after Christmas.”
“Did you contact her family? Maybe someone wants these things.” I tucked the frame under one arm and helped myself to one that had her name. Both awards were from national programs in acknowledgement of the Fenwicks’ efforts in maintaining history.
“I assumed her family would’ve called if they wanted any of it.” Caleb marched in my direction, looking significantly less friendly than before I’d asked about Mrs. Fenwick. “I’m not sure you’ve explained why you’re here. Can I help you with something?”
“Maybe. Can you tell me what had Margaret so upset in her last days? Did something at work set her off?”
“How should I know?”
“Because you worked together. I assumed you’d have some idea as to why the town thinks she was on a sudden rampage.”
After several long moments, Caleb finally answered: “I think Mrs. Fenwick’s efforts were simply misunderstood. It’s our job here at the Historical Society to help the town put its best foot forward during our busiest season. I suppose she was doing just that.”
I waited for a laugh track or delayed punchline that didn’t come.
Instead, he ushered me to the door. “If there’s anything I can do to help you keep your property in accordance with the guidelines and bylaws of Mistletoe, don’t hesitate to reach out.” He pressed a business card into my hand, then promptly shut the door to his new office.
I stood in the hallway wondering what had just happened. Caleb France had undergone a personality switch before my eyes, and I’d never heard a more canned statement outside of Friday-night sitcoms. I examined the pair of framed certificates I still held onto. At least I got something out of the bizarre exchange. Mr. and Mrs. Fenwick wouldn’t be spending Christmas with their family this year, but maybe I could at least get these mementos into the right hands.
I didn’t like the idea that Mr. France stood to gain a nice promotion and a better office in Mrs. Fenwick’s absence. Hopefully he didn’t want either badly enough to kill for it.
For good measure, I added his name to my mental list of suspects, right behind the hotheads, Paula and Mr. Fleece.
Chapter Eight
Back on the sidewalk, I headed for the last stop on my list, one I’d tried hard not to think about. I’d made as many wedding-related cancellations as possible via e-mail or late-night calls, but Sweet Treats Bakery didn’t have voice mail. How that was possible was beyond my comprehension, but it was still true.
I rolled my shoulders back and forced my feet in the right direction. With any luck, I could avoid talking to the owner. She’d trained in Paris and made the best cakes in our time zone, but she had little patience for anything else. A cancellation one week before the wedding was likely to upset her as much as it had upset me.
I stepped into Sweet Treats with my chin held high, fully prepared to state my name, cancel the cake, and run. Soft Parisian music circulated through a white-and-pink color scheme punctuated with black accent panels. Framed photos of the Eiffel Tower and embracing couples lined the walls, expertly sandwiched between colorful shots of the bakery’s work.
Behind the counter, Caroline West smiled brightly. Her fair skin and blue eyes were the perfect backdrop for her vintage red lips and reaching black lashes. “Hey, you! I wondered when you’d get here.” Caroline and I had grown up together, though we’d never had much in common. She’d been interested in popular things like fashion and boy bands, while I’d preferred to climb trees and draw. Based on my shapeless cable-knit top and her fitted black minidress, not much had changed.
“Hello.” I set the frames I’d pilfered from Mrs. Fenwick’s old office facedown on the counter. “It’s nice to see you. You look wonderful, like always.”
“Aww. Thanks. You too.” She tipped her head adorably over one shoulder.
; I released an ugly breath. “I’m here about an order I placed several months ago. It was to be delivered next week. I need to cancel.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I heard yesterday. My cousin works at the consignment shop where you took your gown.”
I let my eyelids drift shut before pulling them back open. “Great.”
“It’s fine,” she continued. “These things happen. Imagine how much worse things would’ve been if you’d gone through with it.” She pulled a three-ring binder from beneath the counter and flipped through order sheets. “I need your signature right here to cancel the order. I’d planned to forge it if you didn’t show.”
I laughed. “Thanks, I think.” I borrowed a logoed pen from the mug on the counter and scratched my name across the paper with more roughness than necessary. “Is that it?”
Caroline made a sad face. “You should also know I’m really sorry. About the breakup, and about the fact we’re keeping your deposit. You’re canceling less than thirty days before the event, and she’s already got your order in the queue.”
“But she hasn’t started,” I said, knowing it didn’t matter but feeling agitated enough to point out the obvious. “No amount of time or supplies has been wasted.”
“That’s just how it works. We’ve already ordered all the ingredients and fondants. And you signed the agreement, so you’re liable.” She opened a circular display on top of the counter and selected a petal-pink cupcake drenched in iridescent white sugar crystals with a small white candy flower in the center. “For what it’s worth, when I open my cupcake shop one day, I’ll never punish a bride in your situation.” She placed it in a small box with a little window. “Take this. It’ll make you feel better.”
I slid the box onto my frames. “It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks,” she said. “You know, I don’t live far from your parents now. Maybe you and I can get together sometime for drinks or coffee. There aren’t a lot of single women our age around here. Men either, for that matter. We’ve got to stick together. Hang out. Shop. Whatever. It’d be fun.”
Why not? I wrote my cell phone number on a napkin and passed it to her. “That sounds perfect. Call me or stop by the farm anytime. We can put something on the calendar, but I have a feeling I won’t be getting too far from Reindeer Games for another ten days or so.”
Twelve Slays of Christmas Page 7