I took the empty stool beside Cookie and deflated. “Thanks for watching Cindy for me.”
“Psh.” Mom poured a coffee and pushed it my way. “She was no trouble. Now why don’t you tell us where you went and why you came home with a cat?”
I balked. “How do you know that?”
“A mother knows.”
Cookie cracked another gingerbread man in half and dunked him headfirst into her mug. She pointed his dripping body toward the window across the room.
“Ah.” I sipped the coffee. “Spies.”
Mom smiled.
“That was Mrs. Fenwick’s cat,” I said slowly. “I offered to care for Whiskers until someone came to claim her, but Sheriff Gray isn’t sure anyone will come. You don’t mind, do you?”
Mom looked worried. “What will Cindy think?”
“She’ll get over it,” I said. “Whiskers lost her whole family.”
Cookie finished her drink and dusted crumbs from her fingertips. “I’d take her home if Theodore would allow it, but he’s never been a fan of pets.”
“Theodore, your goat?” I asked.
“Mm-hmm. He’s not a big animal guy.”
Mom swiveled at the waist and turned back to us with trays of supplies. “You two ladies might as well get started on your gingerbread scene before the place is shoulder to shoulder again. I’ve got tables to clear.”
Cookie wiggled her fingers over the materials. “Which movie should we re-create this year? Home Alone? Throw Momma From the Train?”
I chewed my lip. “I was thinking more along the lines of Titanic.”
She frowned. “That piece of wood was big enough for both of those young lovers. Shame she hogged it to herself like that.”
I lifted the little cutout figures and placed them on my tray in different orders, hoping for inspiration. “How about before they hit the ice?”
Cookie bobbed her head. “Okay. I’ll build the boat.”
She and I could have each made our own, but the games were more fun together, and we’d been partners off and on for most of my life. I arranged blue gumdrops as waves along the tray’s edge.
“Can I get you some food for thought?” Mom asked. “Maybe a lemon bar or an apple crisp?”
“No, thank you.” I wasn’t sure either of those counted as food for anything, and I was certain the lack of those kinds of suggestions had been why I’d lost twelve pounds instead of gaining the “freshman fifteen” when I’d started college. While everyone else was eating whatever they wanted, I was turning my nose up at food from drive-through windows and vending machines. After a lifetime with my mother, food had to work hard to impress me.
“Oh!” I dropped my last gumdrop into place and smiled. “Do you remember Caroline West from high school? She works at the bakery now.”
“Of course,” Mom answered. “She’s the sweetest thing. Drops by every few weeks to see how we’re doing.”
“Have you tried her cupcakes?” I asked. The sweet memory nearly made my mouth water.
“Yep,” Cookie answered. “I love Caroline’s cupcakes!”
“Me too,” I said. “She wants to open her own bakery. I thought we could help her get the word out by selling some of her products here.”
Mom cast her gaze around the countertop, heavy laden with all her hard work. “I don’t know.”
I spread a line of frosting down the edge of another graham cracker and passed it to Cookie. “You don’t make cupcakes, so it wouldn’t interfere with the Hearth sales, and it’d be a great way to support a neighbor. She’s trying to get a small-business loan, but that could take a while.”
Cookie sucked icing off her thumb. “Her parents aren’t helping? You’d think a doctor and the mayor would have plenty of dough for a bakery.” She stopped short, then beamed. “See what I did there?”
I dipped the tip of my knife back into the frosting. “I don’t think her parents approve of the venture.”
“Shame.” Cookie put the finishing touches on the ship. “What do you think? Is the bow too pointy?”
“Nope.”
“Maybe I’ll ask to see her business plan.”
“Really?” I smiled brightly.
“Sure, I’ve got plenty of money, and I’m told I can’t take it with me.”
“That’s true,” I said. “You’ll have to let me know what you think.”
I moved the pile of icing we’d been using as glue in front of the ship. “Here’s the iceberg. Now all we need is a hero and heroine.”
Mom wiped a rag over the counter in big wet circles. “Tell Caroline to bring a dozen cupcakes over in the morning, and we’ll see how it goes. She should also have a sign with her name and company logo so people are clear that I didn’t bake them. And ask her for some business cards so shoppers know where they can get more.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I iced our tragedy-bound gingerbread couple and stuck them atop the ship. “I’m king of the world,” I said in my best Leonardo DiCaprio imitation.
Mom squinted at the stiff-legged couple. “Oh, that’s clever. I loved Overboard with Kurt Russel and that Goldie Hawn.”
Cookie snickered.
I hung my head and scribbled “Titanic” on the front of our board. “I’m going to go check on my cats.”
* * *
I collected Cindy from the barn and carried her to the guesthouse to meet Whiskers. I had no intentions of staying the night, but I needed to pick up a few things before heading back to my parents’ home.
Cindy glared as I stroked Whiskers’s head. “Cindy,” I said sweetly, “this is your new friend Whiskers. Whiskers needs a nice place to spend the night. She might need to stay forever. We don’t really know.” I lowered the chubby tuxedo cat to the floor. “Why don’t you show her around while I get some things together?”
The cats circled one another in a slow sharklike dance. Cindy growled. Whiskers meowed.
“How about a little kibble?”
I went to the kitchen and righted Cindy’s overturned bowls. “Kitty kitty kitty,” I called, shaking food into both bowls. I grabbed a third container for water and settled it between the kibble dishes. “Sometimes it’s easier to get to know someone over dinner.”
My tummy groaned. I checked the fridge and instantly regretted turning down Mom’s offer of apple crisp. The guesthouse fridge had the makings of a hearty salad with fruit and yogurt sides.
I closed the door. “Maybe a little hot chocolate instead.”
I set a kettle on the stove and poured a packet of instant cocoa into the cup. Hot water over chocolate powder seemed incredibly unimpressive after ladling creamy chocolate heaven into mugs at the Hearth all week, but I definitely didn’t want a salad.
I settled on the couch to wait for the water to boil. I patted my knees and tapped my feet. Sitting still had never been my best event. I grabbed my laptop and typed “HPS” into a search engine to pass the time. The logo had appeared so many times on letters in Mrs. Fenwick’s home office, it must’ve been important. Hundreds of pages of possible matches came back. I did a long whistle. I needed to narrow things down. “HPS Mistletoe, Maine,” I said as I typed the adjusted query. My new batch of results began with the Historical Preservation Society in California.
I clicked the top link and scanned the About Us section of the organization’s website looking for a link to Mistletoe. HPS was a national organization that evaluated needs and allocated federal grant monies to historical towns like ours. Next, I took a visual stroll through their digital photo gallery. Surprisingly, a snapshot of our old flour mill was among the images. “Huh.” I clicked to enlarge the picture. It looked exactly as it had when I’d driven past it earlier. I could only assume our mill was in the gallery because the preservation society had donated money to its restoration. I liked that idea. The mill was a wonderful place to learn about history. Renovations probably wouldn’t begin until the spring, given Maine’s unpredictable ice and snow patterns from December through March.
&nbs
p; The kettle whistled, and I set my laptop aside. I checked the front door before leaving the living room. No new porch threats. The snow twinkled with the last spears of light from a setting sun. Streaks of gold and apricot painted the bellies of narrow clouds as heavenly shades of twilight spread across the sky. I needed to get my things packed up as soon as I finished my drink.
I dashed into the kitchen for a steaming mug of subpar cocoa and stirred the thin liquid all the way back to my seat before the fire. I pulled my feet onto the couch and tucked them beneath me. The sun was setting in Maine, but in California, it was much earlier. I traded my cocoa for a cell phone and dialed the number on the HPS website.
“Thank you for calling the Historical Preservation Society,” a perky female voice answered. “How can I direct your call?”
I tapped a finger against my chin. “Hello,” I stalled. “How are you today?”
“Quite well, thank you. How can I help you?”
I made a face at my laptop. How can she help me? I needed to start making plans before I did things. “Um, yes, I’m with the Mistletoe Historical Society,” I lied horribly. My traitorous voice hitched and wobbled on every word.
“Of course.” The clear click-clack of fingers on a keyboard ticked through the line.
She was five seconds away from calling my bluff, I could feel it. The sheriff had had time to sort through Mrs. Fenwick’s desk, and he’d probably already been in touch with this organization. If the woman on the other end of the line mentioned my call to him, he’d be furious.
“Ah. Here you are.”
“I am?” I chewed the edge of my thumb and winced at the sting.
“Mrs. Fenwick, correct?”
“Yes?”
“It looks like we have a team prepared to visit your town before the holiday.”
“A team?”
“Yes, but, off the record, I feel you should know it would be highly unlikely for the HPS to fund a second project in one year’s time. I’m not really supposed to say things like that, but it’s Christmas, you know? I don’t want to see you too disappointed.”
I nodded at the cats who’d taken a sudden interest in my discomfort. “Right. Thank you.” So Mrs. Fenwick had been angling for more funds? Why? I opened my mouth to ask, but the lady cut me off.
“That said, if our team determines everything in Mistletoe to be as it’s described in your letters, I’m sure a grant to save the covered bridge won’t be a problem.”
The covered bridge. That made sense. The Fenwick family had taken a photo there every year. The bridge had been special to them, and the sheriff pointed out how difficult holidays can be for the grieving. No wonder Mrs. Fenwick had been acting crazy lately. She was on a time clock. A team was coming to evaluate the state of our historic town before Christmas, and she was down to the wire, battling residents and shop owners who probably didn’t want to be bothered with extra work until after the holiday. If the town didn’t comply, she risked losing funds to save the bridge.
“Is there anything else I can help you with, Mrs. Fenwick?” the woman asked.
“No. Thank you. It’s wonderful to know your team is coming. It would mean a lot to her—I mean me—to see the bridge restored.” I knocked a fist against my forehead.
I also appreciated the dump of information I’d gotten by simply dialing my phone. No trekking into town and questioning everyone in sight. I toyed with the idea of saying good-bye and not pushing my luck, but I couldn’t stop myself. “I also want to thank you for all the help you’ve provided in the restoration of our flour mill.”
“You’re very welcome.”
So I was right again. The mill was the other reason the HPS had sent money this year. The new question was why Mrs. Fenwick had been pushing for more money so soon. Work hadn’t even started at the mill. What was the hurry?
“Anything else?” the woman pressed.
“No, but thank you very much. You’ve been extremely helpful.”
I disconnected and dropped the phone onto my lap.
Was Mrs. Fenwick’s push to save the bridge the reason someone had killed her? Could someone have wanted to stop the restoration from happening? Who? Why?
More important, how was it that every time I found a new answer, ten more questions arose?
Chapter Twelve
I woke to an empty house the next morning. According to the note on their kitchen table, my parents had already left for work on the farm and breakfast awaited me at the Hearth. I showered and dressed in worn jeans and a soft cowl-neck sweater that might’ve been on upside down for all I knew. I needed a caffeine IV to snap me out of my fog. I hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep since finding Mrs. Fenwick in the sleigh, and I’d found it even harder to close my eyes since the invisible man chased me home. I’d already exhausted Mom’s entire stash of old glass bottles and milk jugs, converting them into candy-themed jewelry as an alternative to staring at the ceiling. I hadn’t left Dad’s basement workshop the last couple nights until dawn.
I dropped the cats off at the guesthouse where I could check on them more easily during the day, then hurried to the Hearth. It was long after nine, and the breakfast crowd had thinned to loitering coffee sippers.
“Good morning, sleepy head,” Mom said when she saw me. “You look miserable. Get over here and let me feed you. What’ll it be? Breakfast? Brunch?”
Dad smiled behind a steaming mug.
“Coffee.” I patted the counter with my eyes closed. “Must have coffee.”
She poured a mug full and set it in front of me.
I sipped from my glorious cup of wake-me-up. “Ah. It’s as if I can feel my brain cells awakening.”
“Good. What can I feed you?”
“Apple crisp?” I couldn’t help myself. It’d been on my mind since I’d turned it down the day before.
“You’ve got it. What’s on your agenda today?” she asked. Her soft brown eyes locked on me.
I curved my palms around the broad, bowl-shaped cup. “I don’t know. Maybe if I had some apple crisp . . .”
She laughed. A moment later, a pastry appeared, and the sweet scent of apples and cinnamon danced around my head. “Talk.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to get into today. Do you need me here?”
She waved as the last table of customers wandered out the door. “Thank you! Come back tomorrow. I’m making crepes!”
The door sucked shut behind them, leaving my little family in silence.
Mom tilted her head like a puppy. “How are you holding up?”
“Fine.” I chewed more slowly, trying to figure out her question. “Why?”
“One week till Christmas Eve,” she said.
Dad folded his hands on the counter. “It’s not every day a person breaks an engagement; this week isn’t exactly going the way you’d imagined.”
“It’s fine.” I stuffed another hunk of baked apples into my mouth. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You have to,” Mom said. “Talking is what will help you get through it.”
“Being here with you will get me through it.” I sipped my coffee and searched for a way to change the subject. “What do you guys know about the covered bridge in Pine Creek?”
“It’s pretty,” Mom said. “You had your senior pictures taken there.”
Dad groaned. “Those photos cost a fortune. Do you know I found a box of them in the attic? What’d we buy them for?”
“Tradition,” Mom said.
I lifted a finger in the air. “Have you been to the bridge lately? Is it in bad condition? Has it been damaged or is it in need of repair?”
“I haven’t been there in years,” Mom said, “and I haven’t heard anything about its condition. Have you, Bud?”
Dad shook his head. “I don’t get out that way much. You could talk to Paula. I believe Pine Creek runs along the far east end of her maple trees.”
I swiveled to face him. “You’re kidding.” Well, that was interesting in a mi
ldly disturbing way. Paula and Mrs. Fenwick fought about everything else, why not about the bridge that lined her farm? I needed to get out there and take a look at the situation. I worked on my coffee a bit longer. Another question came to mind. “How well do you know Mr. Fleece?” I asked. “He seems to be great with the reindeer, but he has a bit of a temper.”
Dad blanched. “Has someone complained?”
“No.” I waved a hand between us. “Nothing like that. It’s just that when I asked him about his fight with Mrs. Fenwick on the night she died, he got pretty angry just retelling the story.”
Dad’s brow furrowed. “Did he yell at you?”
“No. Not at me. About her.” Though it had certainly felt as if he was yelling at me.
The muscles in his shoulders relaxed by a fraction. “Holly, what are you doing?”
“Nothing.” I stretched my eyes wide. “What? We’re talking. I’m a naturally curious person.”
“You are, and your mother and I love that about you, but with things the way they are now, it seems your natural curiosity is taking a dangerous path. There’s a killer in Mistletoe,” he said as if I could’ve forgotten. “If this is about Margaret Fenwick, Sheriff Gray told you to stop poking into that. I’ve told you to stop that. For goodness’ sake, you were chased home the other night!”
“Yeah, by the wind,” I muttered. “I’m only wondering if you’ve ever seen Mr. Fleece angry. It’s a little scary.”
Dad’s cheeks reddened. “You’re still pushing. Why?” He turned to my mom. “Did you know she was still doing this?”
Mom jerked her shoulders up and shook her head.
“You’re both terrible liars.” He climbed off the stool and poured his coffee into a disposable cup. “I’m supposed to be the head of this household. You’re supposed to take my advice.”
Mom and I gawked, then burst into laughter.
“I’m leaving.” He marched toward the door. “You’re both lucky to have such a tough guy to protect you.”
Twelve Slays of Christmas Page 11