“What did he say?”
“Just that you were still pushing your own agenda and that you needed to stop. I told him I’d talk to you.”
“Did you mention that you encouraged me to keep asking questions?”
She made a droll face. “I told him I’d talk to you, and now I have.”
Caroline stilled her tapping fingers. “How often do you see the sheriff?”
“Every day, I guess.”
“What’s he like?”
“Honestly,” I said, choosing my words carefully in case she liked him more than I did, “he’s a little abrupt.”
“But handsome,” she said.
“Maybe, but I think he’s been manipulating me, and I don’t like it.”
“I’d let him manipulate me.” Caroline wiggled her perfect eyebrows. “But he doesn’t give any regular ladies the time of day.”
“I’m irregular?” I laughed. “That would explain so much about my life.”
Cookie wagged a finger. “You found a dead body. That put you in his path and not the other way around.”
“Oh.” I had no idea what that meant. “I ran into him today at the Pine Creek Bridge. I think Mrs. Fenwick was trying to raise money to restore it before she was killed. Have you guys heard anything new about it? Did someone buy it recently?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Caroline said, “but I’m an indoor cat. I don’t get a lot of local information beyond retail sales and community events.”
Cookie shook her head. “Theodore’s not much for sightseeing. He loves to climb, but he’s a real pain to transport. Pees in the car. So we mostly stay home.”
Mom choked on her cocoa. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she ran to the kitchen.
I pushed Cookie’s disturbing imagery out of my mind and pressed on. “It can’t be a coincidence that Mrs. Fenwick was killed while trying to clean up the town and restore the bridge. Right?”
Caroline’s blue eyes sharpened. “You think she was killed over something that had to do with the bridge?”
“It’s possible.” A swell of hope rose in my chest. Maybe I was finally on to something and we could put this mess to rest. Get justice for Mrs. Fenwick and put the shameless, speculating news crews in their places. “I need to prove I’m right about the reason she’s dead. With evidence, I should be able to figure out who had motive to do it.”
“What do you need to find out first?” Caroline asked.
I rubbed my chin. “I’m not sure. I guess I need to know who wouldn’t have wanted the bridge repaired and why.”
Mom returned, wiping a cloth over her sweater. “Pardon me for that awful exit,” she said. “I was listening though. Your father said the bridge is right beside Paula’s property line. Maybe she didn’t want a bunch of workers and equipment damaging her maple trees?”
I didn’t know why a repair crew for the bridge would disturb Paula’s trees, but anything was possible. It was worth taking another shot at Paula. “I’ll stop by the maple farm and see what she thought about the restoration,” I said. “Who else?”
Caroline shrugged. “Everyone was mad at Margaret this week.”
“I know,” I said, “but I think the bridge was really important to her, and she was in a pinch trying to secure the help she needed to save it. I almost can’t blame her for being so pushy, but I wish she’d have told people what she was up to. I’d like to think the locals here understand that kind of thing.” I slumped on my stool. If my theory was right, then I was wrong about at least one person. “Or maybe it had nothing to do with the bridge. Maybe someone was just tired of being pushed around and they overreacted.”
Cookie hopped to her feet and shrugged a heavy cape over her shoulders. “I don’t know what happened, but the whole thing’s got me exhausted.” She flipped the hood over her silver hair and gave me an apologetic frown. “I hate to disagree with you when you’re working so hard, but I doubt her death was a crime of passion.”
“Why?” I asked, hungry for any tidbit that could put me on the right path to naming the killer.
She lifted a palm between us in exasperation. “Well, for one thing, Margaret Fenwick’s gotten on people’s nerves for forty years, but no one’s ever killed her before.”
The woman had a point.
Chapter Fourteen
As luck would have it, Reindeer Games was forced to close the next morning due to weather. A late-night storm had frozen our world into a skating rink, bowing power lines with ice and leaving half the town without electricity. At least there wouldn’t be a horde of people outside the gates being turned away by a deputy this time, and hopefully poor road conditions would be enough to stop the nosy news crew from seeking a scandalous story where there wasn’t one.
I’d padded into my parents’ living room in time to say good-bye to Dad just after dawn. He’d built a roaring fire and kissed my head before going to feed the animals. I stayed behind helping Mom mix dry ingredients for cookie dough. We sealed and labeled the bowls for quick preparation when the power returned. She’d only needed to add the butter, cream, and other liquid parts before getting them into the oven when the time came. It was nice working with her in the kitchen again, but she left me too when boredom and snickerdoodle addiction drove a few hearty locals to the Hearth for lunch.
My parents’ six-bedroom farmhouse was lonely without them. It was easy to imagine my great-grandfather’s family of thirteen bounding through the halls. He’d built the place with the help of his sons and began the tradition of passing the property along to each new generation. At the moment, the cavernous space was unforgivably eerie with silence.
I went in search of a good book and a warmer top. Pictures of my ancestors climbed the wall beside the staircase—all faces of the men and women who’d treaded these same steps long before me. Similar photos covered the library walls like personalized paper. In a way, the White family was just like our town: long suffering, proud, and in the habit of documenting its history.
I bundled up around three and went to the guesthouse. I liked the idea of being that much closer to the Hearth and the stables where my mom and dad were working. The snow was deep, but the storm had passed, and the sun glowed warmly overhead. I toted the cats in my giant quilted overnight bag. They weren’t thrilled about sharing the space, but so far they hadn’t killed each other.
I stomped excess snow from my boots and let myself inside. No sooner had I set the bag on the floor than a pair of complaining kitties zoomed out. Whiskers hid behind the couch. Cindy stared up at me in silent complaint.
“Be glad you didn’t have to walk,” I told them.
I made a fire and checked the sink to be sure the pipes hadn’t frozen. “We have water,” I told the cats. “Who wants a fresh bowl of H2O?”
I didn’t get any takers, so I put on a kettle for tea.
Half an hour later, the little house was toasty warm, and the cats rolled on the floor beside the hearth, stretching and enjoying the lazy afternoon. I’d finished half a kettle’s worth of tea, and for the first time in days, I felt at ease. I had nowhere to go and nothing was expected of me. I hadn’t realized how much I needed a break until I got it.
I kept my mind mostly off Mrs. Fenwick’s murder by beading necklaces and reading four chapters in The Count of Monte Cristo before sunset. I’d been less successful, however, at keeping my mind off the sheriff. I couldn’t help wondering if he’d read the book before, if this was his first time, or if it had been on his seat that night by chance. Was it even his? I tossed my copy aside. For all I knew, it was another ploy of some sort. Maybe another suspect of his was a librarian.
I gave the cats a long look. “What should we do now, girls?” I asked. “I’ve finished enough necklaces to open a franchise, and I’m not ready to head back to the farmhouse alone. Maybe we should wait until we’re sure Mom’s at home making dinner.”
Cindy’s chipped ear rotated at the sound of her favorite word: dinner. She pawed my castoff paperback and chewed the
curled corner.
“Fine.” I shoved myself upright and headed to the kitchen. “I’ll feed you, but you have to promise not to dump the bowl.”
Cindy followed me into the next room, observing silently as I prepared her kibble. “I mean it,” I warned. “No spilling.” I placed the bowl in front of her.
Whiskers arrived a moment later and wound around my feet. “Hello, sweetie.” I stroked her soft fur and poured a second bowl.
The familiar crash of crunchy tuna triangles bouncing over hardwood floors turned me around.
Cindy made eye contact before walking away from her overturned bowl and scattered dinner.
“Don’t be like her,” I told Whiskers. “Stay just the way you are.” I delivered her bowl to the floor and went to clean up Cindy’s mess.
I took a pile of junk mail back to the couch and covered my legs with an afghan. An ad from a local baby store caught my eye. They had a sale on plastic bowls with suction cups on the bottoms. I gave Cindy a warm smile and pulled out the coupon.
Mistletoe Magazine was buried under a dozen letters addressed to “Owner or Current Resident.” I tossed those aside in favor of our town’s quarterly edition. Photographs of the town square in twinkle lights graced the magical holiday cover. I turned the page and scanned the table of contents.
Mom’s ringtone poured from my cell phone speaker.
“Hello?”
“Where are you?” she asked a bit breathlessly, the distinct note of fear in her tone.
Goose bumps rose over my arms and twisted my tummy into instantaneous knots. “I’m at the guesthouse with Whiskers and Cindy. Is something wrong? Your voice is weird.”
She gave an uneasy chuckle. “You weren’t here, and the trucks are all parked in the lot, so I panicked.”
“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Given the week we’re having, I guess I should’ve called or left a note.”
“I’m just glad you’re okay. When are you coming home?”
I smiled against the receiver. I could see her home from mine. “Whenever you want. Now?”
“Anytime. Your father and I are having coffee with Mr. Nettle at the Hearth in an hour so we can touch base about the financial impact from this week’s happenings. We’ll be right home after that.”
“Is everything okay?” She’d mentioned tree sales were low. “Are you worried?” Were things worse than she’d let on when the subject had come up yesterday?
“No, no, nothing like that. We always make enough to keep going, but there never seems to be any extra, and it’d be nice to put a little something away for retirement. Hopefully the last seven days of Reindeer Games will pack a punch.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No. Nothing for you to worry about. Are you hungry?”
“A little.”
“I put a roast in the oven. Help yourself if you beat us home and the scent is too much to bear. We’ll understand.”
“Very kind, but I’ll wait for you. Will you call me when you get home? Then I’ll run right over.”
“Sure thing. Another storm’s coming, so we’ll be quick. We don’t want Mr. Nettle stuck in it. How does dinner at seven sound?”
I checked the time. Five fifteen. “Seven sounds great.” We disconnected, and I put the phone back on the coffee table. My refrigerator chugged to life, and the microwave beeped. Power was back. Thank goodness. Sitting alone by candlelight after sunset wasn’t something I’d been looking forward to. I turned a few more pages in my magazine before a two-page spread with the words “Magnificent Mistletoe” drew me in. The article showcased local families repairing historic homes, barns, and businesses.
The old flour mill and covered bridge came back to mind. What if the Historical Preservation Society was a hoax? Maybe Mrs. Fenwick never got the money they promised for the flour mill and that was why the renovation hadn’t begun. I skimmed the page for some indication that the smiling owners in the photograph had gotten help from a third party, but the source of the money wasn’t noted.
My usual carousel of thoughts came full circle, as it always seemed to do. Right back to Mrs. Fenwick and the covered bridge. Had she gotten those funds for the flour mill or not? If so, what was the rush to get more for another project? Why did she put herself under so much pressure to get the HPS people out here before Christmas? Even if money for the bridge was approved, work couldn’t begin in weather like this. Her project would’ve had to wait just like the flour mill. I raked a hand in frustration through my already messy hair. If she’d gotten a grant for the mill this year, why not finish that job before planning another? Or if the bridge was more important than the mill, why didn’t they pursue that grant first?
I grabbed my phone and dialed the number for the Mistletoe Historical Society printed along the bottom of the article. It was high time I presented my questions to the cranky Mr. France. We might not have hit it off as best friends forever, but he certainly shouldn’t mind answering a few straightforward questions about his work and our town. If he did, then maybe Sheriff Gray should talk to him next.
Wind whistled around the door and window frames as I waited for him to pick up. I pulled both feet under me and tipped my head onto the arm of the couch, curling into a tiny ball beneath a blanket that smelled like my childhood. Mr. France’s voice mail picked up, and I left a lengthy, overly friendly message with a list of my questions and a number to return my call.
I set the phone aside, and Cindy came to sit on my head. A surefire way to know I looked comfy. Whiskers climbed into my lap.
“This is nice.” I stroked Whiskers’s downy fur and concentrated on relaxing each of my bunched-up muscles. Soon, I’d be home eating roast with my folks and climbing into my cozy bed for a long night’s sleep. Tonight, I’d rest. I was certain of it.
I closed my stinging eyes, and a cloudy dreamscape crept over my consciousness. My cheeks stung, and I blinked against icy blasts of snow and wind. I was out in the storm, barely able to keep going without losing one of my precious felines to the fast-moving snow. “We can do it,” I told them. “We can’t give up.” I leaned into the next blustery gale and pushed on through knee-deep drifts, teeth chattering and skin burning.
A crash sent me scurrying upright on the couch, jerked immediately back to reality. My heart rate raced, and my mind scrambled to grasp reality. I wasn’t outside in a storm. The storm had come inside.
I struggled to free myself from the blanket, now wrapped around my legs, and two lamenting felines. “What happened? What time is it?” I asked them. According to my watch, I’d been out for almost an hour, but I’d only closed my eyes a moment ago—didn’t I?
The front door banged loudly against the wall once more, and I shrieked. “Oh, my gosh!” I stumbled into action on half-frozen legs and pressed my back against the door until it shut. My teeth rattled against one another, determined, it seemed, to break themselves. The fire was out, and tiny snowdrifts had formed on the carpet and windowsills.
Fear tightened my chest. Someone had opened every window and door while I slept.
It only took a fraction of a second to know who would do such a thing. The same person who warned me to stop looking into Margaret’s death. The same one who killed her. A powerful round of shivers rocked my body and gnashed my teeth. I worked my frozen fingers, bending and stretching them, breathing heavily against the bluish skin and kneading them against one another. I couldn’t feel my fingertips as I tapped the sheriff’s number against my screen and waited.
“Holly?” He skipped the normal hello. “Everything okay?”
“N-n-n-n-o.” I grimaced, unable to stop the brutal tremors. “S-someone.” I closed my eyes to steady myself and realized my eyes were as cold as the rest of me.
An engine roared to life on his end of the line. “I’m on my way. Stay on the line.”
“’K-kay.” I shut and locked the windows one by one.
Someone tried to kill me—I could’ve frozen to death!
I co
uld’ve frozen to death!
“Can you tell me what happened?” the sheriff asked.
I dragged the dial on the thermostat to eighty, then wobbled to the fireplace. I lowered myself onto the hearth and searched for the box of matches I normally kept on the mantle. They were probably knocked down by the wind. “S-someone broke into my house w-while I s-slept.” My teeth knocked louder each time I tried to talk.
“I’m five minutes out. Are your parents with you?”
“N-no.”
He cursed under his breath, and the sound of his cruiser’s engine grew louder.
“G-guesth-house.” The box of matches came into view from my new perspective, fallen, as I’d suspected, and spilled across the hearth. I reached for a handful of the little sticks, and a gasp broke free from my lips. A fresh jolt of fear sent me onto my backside.
A festive new box of matches was positioned on the cooled logs in my fireplace. A little sign dangled from a satin ribbon around its middle.
No more warnings. The farm will be next.
Chapter Fifteen
I pulled piles of outdoor gear from the coat closet and layered them over my clothes. I couldn’t start a new fire until the sheriff arrived, and I couldn’t shake the chill in my bones. I didn’t want to disturb the note or the matches. I made another pass through the little house, dressed like I was headed into the arctic. I checked the windows and door locks and peered through each icy pane of glass in search of the sheriff who’d promised to be here in five minutes seven minutes ago.
Unable to sit or relax, I dialed my mom’s cell phone.
“Hello?” Her voice was pert and jovial.
“Hi. How’s it going?”
“Holly? What’s wrong?” A chair scraped heavily over the floor on her end of the line, and the hum of white noise grew soft. “Have you been crying? Do you need me?”
A wedge of emotion clogged my throat. The mere fact she knew I was upset made it harder to pull myself together. “I’m okay. Just checking to see if dinner is still at seven.”
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