She folded the napkin and tucked it into her apron pocket. “I’ll stop and see you then.”
I collected my things and waved good-bye. It might be fun to have a girlfriend in town. The handful of friends I’d had in high school were either married with kids by now or had left for college and not come back. I felt a little traitorous for having been one of the latter.
I crossed the street, making my way back to my truck. The crowd around the pie shop had steadily thickened in my absence. I pardoned my way to the driver’s side and deposited my things inside. The question now was whether or not to go home or see who else might know something useful about Margaret Fenwick. A twinge of guilt pinched my gut for lying to the sheriff about my intentions today. Given the pile of tree markers left on my porch yesterday, he was probably right for saying I should stay out of it, but I couldn’t help thinking I’d be safer if whoever threatened me was in handcuffs instead of on the loose. Since that person was likely to be Margaret’s killer, I decided to move forward with my questions.
I locked the frames and my cupcake inside the cab and turned back to the row of busy storefronts. Where should I go next?
A low wolf whistle pierced the noisy crowd, and Ray Griggs appeared. He moseyed in my direction, slowly parting the masses like a hometown rock star. His black leather jacket and high-top tennis shoes made an interesting contrast to the untucked flannel shirt and jeans he’d paired with them. “Well, good morning, Miss White.” He sidled up to me and smiled. “Lucky me, running into you like this.”
“You just happened to run into me again? In this crowd?” I gave him my most disbelieving look.
“What? Do you think I followed you?”
“I think you’re a reporter, and I’m investigating a possible story.” I pondered my word choice. What else could I call it now? Having lots of friendly conversations that happened to have the same agenda?
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Depends. How long have you been following me?”
He looked away. “Just since you got to the pie shop.”
“That was first thing this morning!” My eyes stretched wide enough to sting from the cold. “What’d you do? Set up camp outside my house last night?”
He laughed. “I wish.” The humor dropped from his face in a cloud of shock and embarrassment. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not a stalker, I swear. I meant that I heard about what happened yesterday, and I wish I’d have been there to stop the culprit or at least see who did it.”
“How’d you hear?”
Sheriff Gray had been adamant about keeping the incident a secret. He thought making a public statement would put people on edge, cause panic, or fertilize a crop of unpredictable gossip that would be hard to undo.
“Police scanner. Tool of the trade,” he said. “Any idea who did it?”
“Yeah, Margaret’s killer. Before you ask, no, I don’t have any idea who that could be. Yet.”
“Yet?” He smiled. “I like your style, White. Always have. I bet if we put our heads together, we can name the killer before Sheriff Gray.”
“It’s not a contest.”
“But it is a race,” he pointed out.
I pressed my lips together. I’d learned a few small things yesterday, but maybe a partner would speed things up. Ray knew the town, and as a reporter, he probably had inside access to things I didn’t. “Maybe.”
He rubbed his palms together. “Atta girl.” He slung an arm across my shoulders. “Now that we’re partners, what’s our next move?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did the sheriff want?” He leveled me with clear-blue eyes. “He wouldn’t have called you away from the farm unless he had something significant to tell you.”
“Oh.” I smiled. “He didn’t ask me to meet him. I tracked him down so I could find out how much longer Reindeer Games had to stay closed.”
“Nice. What’d he say?”
“He was on his way to give my parents the green light to open, which means I should probably get back there and make myself useful.”
“Excellent. I’ll stop over later.”
I gave him a long look, recalling he was the one who’d dropped me off before the threat was left on my porch. “Where did you go after you took me home yesterday?”
“Why?”
“Curious.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You think I might’ve seen something.”
“Did you?”
“No. I went to talk to the deputy at the gates, then headed back to town.”
I made a mental note to check with the deputy for good measure. “Who do you think could have done it?”
“I honestly have no idea. This week is . . .” He mimed his head exploding.
I knew what he meant.
Throngs of shoppers swarmed around us, whacking my legs with heavy bags and occasionally ramming the backs of my feet with stroller wheels. I couldn’t help overhearing bits of conversations as they passed. The farm was a popular topic, but not in a good way. Many had traveled to Mistletoe specifically to participate in the Twelve Days of Reindeer Games only to be denied entrance. Their day trips were ruined, and they’d not soon forget it. With any luck, they’d drive by one more time before heading home. Assuming the sheriff had kept his word, my folks and the staff were already working double time to make things right for our patrons.
Ray yanked a cell phone from his coat pocket and stared expectantly at the screen. “This is my editor. Give me a minute?”
“Sure.” I leaned against the fender of Dad’s pickup and thought about the day I’d had and the fact that it was barely noon. The strangest part was that this day was no more bizarre than the other days since I’d gotten home. Had I brought a malady with me? Maybe I’m the malady.
Across the street, Mr. Nettle, my dad’s longtime friend and current accountant, walked out of the shoe shop.
Ray had wandered several feet away to take his call.
I tried and failed to get his attention over the crush of people between us.
Mr. Nettle beetled toward a white sedan, flipping through a ring of keys.
“I’ll be back,” I called in Ray’s direction, but he didn’t look up.
I jogged toward Mr. Nettle, threading myself around families and couples chatting animatedly about the charm of our town.
“Mr. Nettle!” I waved a hand overhead as he dropped behind the wheel of his car.
He startled, then slowly levered himself back onto his feet with a frown. “Sorry. I didn’t see you there, Holly. How are you?”
“Not bad,” I said, stepping carefully out of the street. “I won’t keep you. I just wanted to say hello.”
“Well, at least tell me how you liked Portland.”
“It was a nice place, but nothing like home. I didn’t realize how much I missed Mistletoe until I got here.”
“Good.” He pushed thick-lensed glasses up the ridge of his nose. He was broad across the chest and at least six feet tall, but the years had given him a layer or two of natural padding. “Does that mean you’ll be staying?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” I hadn’t really thought about moving home permanently, but I couldn’t imagine moving to another town on my own either. I didn’t have a job. Or much savings. What I had plenty of were student loans and wedding debt. My tummy knotted. What was I doing with my life, and who got the honeymoon Ben and I paid for? I certainly wasn’t making the trip with him no matter how sorry he was or how poorly his life was going.
“How are your parents doing?” Mr. Nettle lowered his voice. “I heard about what happened at the farm. It’s a shame, isn’t it?”
“Awful,” I agreed, setting my own problems aside. At least I was alive and well. Given the circumstances, I certainly wouldn’t want to trade places with Margaret Fenwick. “I don’t suppose you have any guesses as to who would do something like that?”
“None. Thank goodness.”
“Did you know Mrs. Fenwick?”
>
“As well as anyone could, I suppose. She kept to herself when she wasn’t terrorizing the town. Of course, I don’t keep a house in Mistletoe, so I can’t be sure what she did in her free time. Our offices are in the same building; otherwise, we might not have met at all.”
“Did she give you any citations?”
He chuckled. “Heavens no. It’s hard to break the rules with her in the next room. She kept everything in order. I only had to show up and pay the lease.”
“You had an office beside hers?”
“Across the way, but yes. Do you know the one? It’s a grand old estate on Holiday Lane.” He dragged a dimpled hand over his shiny domed head, mashing several strands of dark hair to an expanse of pink scalp.
“I was there today.” I pulled my attention back to his face. “I met Caleb France.”
Mr. Nettle furrowed his brow.
“What do you think of him?” I asked.
Mr. Nettle looked over my shoulder, avoiding my gaze. “France is an odd fellow. Not someone I’d intentionally spend much time with, but maybe that’s just me.”
“Yeah?”
He harrumphed. “The man’s pretentious, high strung, argumentative, and rude.”
“Ah.” A rude representative at the Mistletoe Historical Society. Maybe that was a requirement of the job.
Chapter Nine
I waved good-bye to Ray, who was still on the phone, and climbed into my truck. He knew where to find me if he wanted to talk, and I was looking forward to seeing if the sheriff had kept his promise to reopen Reindeer Games.
The drive passed quickly as I mulled over the things I’d learned today. How the sheriff had liked Margaret, for example, but her colleague didn’t have enough respect to call her family before the dumpster company, and how Mr. Nettle didn’t like Caleb France either.
Traffic on the county road slowed as Reindeer Games came into view, then crawled to a halt outside the open gates where one of the seasonal helpers directed vehicles into a large grassy parking area. People in every shape and size of brightly colored winter wear traded green cash for a red handstamp. A banner announcing the Twelve Days of Reindeer Games billowed above them, and my heart swelled with thankfulness. The sheriff had kept his word.
I took the back way into the farm and left the truck where I’d found it.
The Holiday Mouse Christmas Craft Shop was surrounded with shoppers on benches, admiring their new purchases and sipping concessions carried away from the Hearth. I ducked inside to check on Cookie.
The former one-room log cabin was small but inviting, overstuffed with the typical waist-high aisles and cluttered shelves of a country craft store. There were plenty of spinning racks, and all four walls were covered in cutesy signs and paintings. Everything was winter themed, and the whole place smelled of Christmas. As a kid, I’d imagined the shop was made from giant cinnamon sticks instead of logs.
Cookie stood at the register in a red velvet dress with black buttons and a matching cape tied at her neck. Her black leggings and boots were equally adorable, but the thing that pulled it together was her natural crown of silver hair.
I wrapped her in a hug between sales. “You look like Mrs. Claus.”
“Thank you.” She welcomed the next guest and tapped the buttons on her machine with a shiver. “Every time that door opens, I get a blast of ice right up my skirt.”
The customer giggled and slid her items onto the counter.
Cookie pulled her cape over her shoulders with another exaggerated wiggle. She rang up two boxes of hand-painted mistletoe bulbs and scooted them in my direction. “I always wanted to be a Rockette. They wear capes like mine sometimes. Lucky for me, I was too short to audition. I’d have frozen to death in New York City wearing a bodysuit and a cape.”
I opened a handled shopping bag and slid the merchandise inside, then tucked a few plumes of colored tissue paper on top. “What do you mean you were too short?”
She cocked a hip and planted one palm on it. “I’m five foot two on my tiptoes. Those ladies kick higher than me. Of course, it would’ve been nice to know that before I drove across the country from Vegas only to be turned away. The sign on the door said you had to be five foot six! Can you believe that?”
“You’ve had such an interesting life,” I said, passing the package to our customer when Cookie gave her the receipt.
“That’s true,” she said. “My mama taught me life was for living, so I had at it.”
I scanned the happy crowd. “Looks like we won’t have any trouble making up for lost sales yesterday.”
“Darn tootin’.” Cookie greeted the next guest with a hearty smile.
I kissed her cheek and slipped out from behind the counter. “I’ll see you soon. I just stopped in to see how you were doing.”
“That’s all the help I get? One bag?”
“Sorry.” I sidestepped a pair of men toting giant purses as they trailed a pair of women holding piles of holiday-print aprons, clearly lost in the clutches of indecision. “I’m going to see if Mom needs anything. If she’s covered, I’ll be back.”
I held the door for an ambitious woman pushing a double stroller and towing a toddler. “Merry Christmas,” I told them as they passed.
Inside the Hearth, Mom was spinning in circles, filling cups and plates, then lining them up on the counter.
I stripped off my coat and grabbed a tray. “Which way?” I asked.
Mom’s eyes widened. “Oh, thank goodness! Table eight.”
I shuttled the tray to table eight, careful not to slip in puddles of melted snow or trip over the hastily scattered “Caution: Wet Floor” signs.
A few more trips and we were caught up. I mopped up the snow and cleared tables for incoming patrons as I had a thousand times before. The process felt marvelous and freeing. It helped that the tourists were patient and kind. There was plenty to look at inside a life-sized gingerbread house.
“How are you doing?” I asked Mom at my first opportunity.
She dragged the back of her hand across her brow. “It’s wonderful that the people came. I was worried.” She fished a pile of cookies from a jar with red tongs.
“I know. Me too.”
* * *
At three o’clock, the farm had gone still. Everyone seemed to have crammed into the Hearth to watch the first Reindeer Game of the year, Bling That Gingerbread. We’d filled every seat and added a dozen folding chairs in the aisles. Those who couldn’t fit inside stood in the doorway or watched through the windows. With any luck, the fire marshal wouldn’t stop by before the game ended.
Mom fluffed her hair and turned on the microphone. Every contestant had the same supplies and a total of three minutes to decorate their gingerbread house. When time was up, the homes would be put on display, and voting would be open for thirty minutes afterward.
Cookie and I sat at the chocolate bar table with a pair of women from Poughkeepsie.
“This is going to be wonderful,” the brunette said. “I can’t believe we’re cutting loose like this, Donna.”
Donna munched a gumdrop and nodded. “I haven’t eaten this much sugar since the Reagan administration. I’m getting fat this week, Birdie, and I don’t even care. You know it. It’s true.” She sampled a pinch of mini–chocolate chips from Birdie’s tray.
Birdie gave her friend a stern face that didn’t last. “If we don’t start soon, we might not have any more decorations.” She stole a string of licorice off Donna’s tray and broke into crazy laughter.
“Stop it.” Donna slapped Birdie’s fingers away.
“We’re gonna win,” Cookie whispered.
The women stopped laughing. Birdie stuck her finger into Cookie’s cup of icing.
I burst into laughter.
Mom gave our table a warning look. “Ribbons and cocoas will be awarded to the person who uses the most supplies and to the top three most appealing results. Also, I’d like to add that we at Reindeer Games are extremely sorry for the unexpected closur
e yesterday. We hope we didn’t cause anyone too much trouble, and in the spirit of the Reindeer Games, we’re having today’s scheduled game immediately following this one. Build a Big Frosty will begin in the field outside this building as soon as the winners are announced here. The Build a Big Frosty competition is exactly what it sounds like—create your own snowman. You can begin anytime following this game, and you’ll have until dusk to complete your work. We’ll give a ten-minute warning at ten till five and begin measuring the snowmen promptly at five. Tallest frosty wins a warm pecan pie, your picture in the paper, and bragging rights for a year.”
A round of applause went up with a few whistles and random hoots.
“I’ve never had my picture in the paper,” Donna said.
“Everyone ready?” Mom’s voice quieted the excited crowd. “Please put on your blindfolds.” She lifted a stopwatch into the air. “Your three minutes start now!” She switched off her mic, and holiday music danced through the room.
I did my best to concentrate while the women across from me cackled, and Cookie said a few unladylike things to her uncooperative gumdrops, which apparently didn’t want to stick to the blessed shanty roof. Distractions aside, I didn’t like the blindfold this year. What had previously added a welcomed level of complexity and challenge only made me anxious this time around.
I pulled the cloth away from my eyes and used it to blot the sheen of sweat on my neck and forehead.
“Time’s up!” Mom called. “Blindfolds off. Please bring your houses to the front. We’ll line them up for judging. Don’t forget to grab a pen and cast your vote.”
My gingerbread house was smeared in white icing and little more. I stuck a gumdrop into my mouth and settled my breathing before carrying my masterpiece to the front. The other houses were hilarious, clever, and magnificent, but there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room to laugh. My chest felt constricted, and my mouth was dry.
When the room cleared, Mom walked the line of gingerbread homes, judging the entries. She scratched a pencil against her head. “This one used all the trimmings, but I don’t see any on the house.”
Twelve Slays of Christmas Page 8