Twelve Slays of Christmas

by Jacqueline Frost

  Caroline squatted next to me. “You’ve got a lot on your mind. Maybe you just need to get out and clear your head.”

  She was right. I had plenty of stressful thoughts whirling through my cluttered mind, not the least of which was Sheriff Gray. I whipped my face in Cookie’s direction. “Did you plan that sleigh ride for me with Sheriff Gray?”

  “What?” Caroline jerked upright and hopped to Cookie’s side. Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows were raised halfway to her hairline.

  Cookie made wide owl eyes. “Who me?”

  “Yeah, you.” I pushed onto my feet and braced my hands over my hips. “What did you do that for?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I only said I’d cover for you if you wanted to go. You’re the ones who went scampering off into the night together.”

  “Oooh,” Caroline cooed.

  “I didn’t scamper,” I protested. “I was being polite because you put me on the spot. Then I realized that a sleigh was ready and waiting for us, even though One-Horse Open Sleigh wouldn’t officially begin for another hour, and the driver took his sweet time bringing us back.”

  “That’s nice,” Cookie said. “I don’t know what you’re so upset about. It sounds lovely and convenient to me.”

  “Too convenient.” I stared her down. “Don’t you think?”

  “Nope.”

  “You sure?”

  She scooped her bag off the floor and dug inside. “Nothing can be too convenient. Wait until you’re old. You’ll see what I mean.”

  Caroline bounced onto her toes. “You took a romantic evening sleigh ride with Sheriff Gray?” She bit her lip. “Tell me everything. Slowly.”

  “We. Were. Set. Up.” I dragged each word to comply with her request.

  She waved her hands. “No. I want details. Tell me about the ride. Did you have to sit close to keep warm?”

  “It’s a small sleigh.”

  “Was there a blanket?”

  “Yes.”

  Caroline did some silent clapping. “Did he kiss you?”

  “No! Of course not.” The dumb mistletoe over Mom’s front door flashed through my mind, and my cheeks flared up.

  “Liar!” She pointed at my face. “Look at her face,” she told Cookie. “Something happened.”

  Cookie smiled. “You can tell us. We’re excellent at keeping secrets.”

  I refocused on my tree. “There’s nothing to tell.” A pinch of emotion formed in my chest. Disappointment? Why? I rubbed a hand against the ache. Maybe it was the fruitcake I’d had with my morning coffee.

  The fruitcake memory ignited my muse. “Sweets!”

  Caroline had the right idea with her tree. The theme should be something I loved. “I’m going to make large versions of my jewelry to decorate with. I’ll call it ‘Holly’s Jolly Jewelry’!” A barrage of images burst into mind. Large mints and candy canes. Gingerbread men and their houses. Gumdrops as jewels in golden rings and lollipops swirled with rhinestones. My tree was going to be the favorite.

  “Mom,” I called into the air.

  She leaned over the railing of her retractable ladder. “Yeah?”

  “I’m going to make a run into town for supplies. Do you need anything?”

  “No, but Mr. Nettle left his hat when he came for coffee the other day. I put it on top of the refrigerator at home. Will you drop it off to him?”

  “Sure.” I looked to Caroline and Cookie. “Can I get either of you anything?”

  Caroline deflated. “I would’ve liked at least one juicy detail about that sleigh ride, but I guess a girl can’t have everything she wants.”

  A crazy smile slid over my face. “You want to know what I think of Sheriff Gray? I think he’s a nice guy. I think he’s a little distrusting and cranky sometimes, but he’s very nice and quite handsome. How’s that?”

  Caroline clutched both hands to her chest. “I’ll take it.”

  Cookie fought a broad grin. “Good. Now get going so you can come back and work. I want to see your finished tree before I have to go home and fix Theodore’s dinner.” She hung tiny hay bales on the branches of her squatty pine, beside miniature straw hats and figurines that looked a lot like her goat.

  I made a trip to Mom’s kitchen for Mr. Nettle’s hat, then took the first available Reindeer Games truck into town.

  The craft store’s shelves were as picked over as the toilet paper aisle before a nor’easter. I bought everything I thought might be useful and made plans to locate the remaining items at Reindeer Games somehow. Hopefully a craft closet somewhere on the property had the final few ingredients for a fabulous holiday-jewelry-themed tree.

  I paid at the register and loaded bags of ribbon, felt, tacky glue, and foam balls into the truck cab. A powerful electric charge of inspiration ran through my veins. I couldn’t wait to get home and get started.

  I grabbed Mr. Nettle’s fancy gray fedora and locked the truck. I spun the hat on one finger as I moved toward his office building. A little black-and-tan feather fluttered in the wind, anchored in place by the silky hatband. I liked it. It was exactly the sort of hat an olden-time accountant would wear and the polar opposite of anything I’d ever find on Dad’s head. Dad wore ball caps from spring until late fall when the weather turned his ears red, then he switched to knitted beanies.

  The lights were off at the Historical Society building and Mr. Nettle’s office. It was especially dark on the Historical Society’s side. I let myself into the foyer and peeped through the windows on the office doors. Security lighting cast an eerie glow on a pile of letters and envelopes inside the door, likely fed through the mail slot in Mrs. Fenwick and Mr. France’s absence.

  I couldn’t help wondering if I’d seen Caleb France moving into Mrs. Fenwick’s office the other day or ransacking it. The place had been in substantial disarray. Maybe he’d been looking for something. What? I wished I knew where he was now and why he hadn’t called me back. Surely he checked voice mail, wherever he was. Unless I hadn’t caught him in the act of changing offices or even ransacking. Maybe he’d been packing his things to leave town after committing murder. Had he fled because I’d confronted him about Mrs. Fenwick? If so, he hadn’t gone far because someone continued to harass me in his absence.

  Frustrated by more unanswered questions, I turned for the accounting offices across the way, ready to deliver Mr. Nettle’s hat and be on my way.

  The small waiting room was cheerfully lit but empty. A radio played softly in another room.

  I crept to the desk in search of a bell or other means of announcing my arrival. “Hello?” I said aloud. I leaned into the hallway beyond the reception area and rapped my knuckles on the wall. “Mr. Nettle?”

  “Coming!” a woman’s voice answered.

  I took a seat in the waiting area.

  Several moments later, a redhead in a wrinkled blouse and skirt arrived. She smoothed a palm over her hair and twisted her clothes until the shirt buttons aligned with her belt buckle. “May I help you?”

  I tried not to think of the reason she was a mess but couldn’t help myself. I looked away. “I’m just here to drop off Mr. Nettle’s hat. He accidentally left it with my parents, and they asked me to return it.”

  She shuffled in my direction and collected the fedora. “Thank you. I’ll see that he gets it.”

  I chewed my lip. “Thanks. Um . . .” I mentally rearranged the words aching to be free of my mouth. Do you think Caleb France could be a cold-blooded killer? I settled for, “Do you know when the Historical Society offices will open again?” Or where Mr. France may have fled to avoid prosecution?

  “Mr. France should be back before the holiday. Have you met Caleb?” she asked. “He’s the one who took over for Margaret after . . . well, you know.”

  I knew. “Yes. We met once, but I have some follow-up questions about a project I’m working on, and I was hoping to run into him again while I was here. Has he been out of the office long?”

  She looked longingly
toward the hall where she’d emerged.

  “I left him a voice mail,” I pushed. “I haven’t heard back.”

  “Caleb visits his family in New York this time of year. They rent a cabin in the Catskills and ski, I think.” Her words picked up speed. “It’s like a big family reunion every winter at Hunter Mountain, then they go back to their lives in progress and celebrate Christmas with their immediate families. You should try back next week.”

  “Did Caleb have a family in Mistletoe?”

  She turned the fedora over in her hands. “I don’t think so. He’s not married, if that’s what you want to know.”

  “Oh? Do you know him well?” I asked. “Did you know Margaret too?”

  Her enthusiasm waned to impatience. I was keeping her from Mr. Nettle, or whomever she’d been canoodling with down the hall. “Sure. You don’t work this closely to people and not get to know them. I could probably tell you how they take their coffee.”

  “Did they get along?”

  She hoisted her shoulders. “I think so. They were both highly irritable, if you ask me, but I didn’t hear them fight much. I really need to get back to work, if there’s nothing else.”

  “You didn’t hear them fight much? But they fought? Did they fight on the day she died?”

  “Yeah,” she said breathlessly. “I think that’s why he took her loss so hard. It messed with him, you know? He even left a little earlier than usual for his ski trip.”

  Interesting. “Do you know what they were arguing about that day?”

  “Money, I suppose. Isn’t that why everyone fights?”

  Sometimes it was about a yoga instructor.

  Sheriff Gray’s voice grouched in my head, warning me to knock it off and go home.

  “Hello?” Mr. Nettle’s voice carried down the hallway. “Sylvia.” He dragged the word into several singsong syllables.

  The woman’s face turned crimson. “I have to go.”

  I held a finger to my lips, then pointed to the front door with my free hand, indicating I would see myself out. “Thank you,” I whispered.

  She lifted his hat in her hands. “I’ll see that he gets it.”

  I hurried out the door with no doubt that she would. What I had serious doubts about was whether or not Caleb France was really skiing with his family. I needed to make a few phone calls and confirm he wasn’t lurking in Mistletoe to torment me while using his annual family getaway as a cover.

  Chapter Twenty

  I dropped, half-asleep, onto my bed at crazy o’clock and dragged a pillow over my head. I’d called every lodge in the Catskills looking for Caleb France or his family and come up empty. After that, I’d thrown myself into crafting ornaments and decorating my tree. For hours, I’d thought of nothing but fashioning enormous candy-themed jewelry. It was a welcomed mental break that resulted in dreams of literal sugarplums.

  Eventually, my alarm clock forced me out of bed. I dressed in navy leggings and a teal tunic, poured a caffeine breakfast into my travel mug, then went to admire my work. The barn was fully decorated for the ball when I got there. Mom had apparently been up with the sun, finalizing the details. Icicle lights hung from the rafters and lined the displays and tables. Victorian-era Santa statues and vintage-looking village pieces set the stage where a local musician would entertain tonight.

  Scarlet carpet ran along the skirts of soon-to-be-raffled trees. The sponsors had come and gone through the evening, adorning their trees before rushing home for dinner or bed. Some had done a great job in a short time; others had repeated their usual boring spiel, creating bland results no wanted to win. But someone would take home the award anyway in the spirit of good sportsmanship.

  I approached my finished product with a smile. The previously empty metal sign holder now announced my tree in delightful curlicue script. “Holly’s Jolly Jewelry.” What had begun as a simple idea at dinnertime had morphed into something fit for a storybook by midnight. I couldn’t stop working. Painted Styrofoam balls had become the jewel toppers to enormous rings. Plastic nuggets on fishing line formed royal necklaces fit for a giant princess. Everything I touched seemed to become something more than I’d imagined. I’d ridden the creative high until nearly dawn, and the result was straight out of my childhood dreams, an enchantment belonging somewhere between the North Pole and Candy Land.

  Mom approached in my periphery. “It’s lovely.”

  I pressed a palm to my collarbone. “Thank you.”

  She arched her back and shifted from one socked foot to the other. “I swear this gets harder instead of easier every year. I abandoned my shoes two hours ago.”

  “Yet you continue to outdo yourself.” I dragged my gaze around the gorgeous room. “Everything looks amazing. It feels like we’ve traveled back in time or maybe into another land. I’m not sure which, but it’s breathtaking.”

  She curtsied. “Exactly the feel I was going for. Your tree is fantastic. I knew you were up late working, but I had no idea you’d manage all this. I should’ve known you’d come up with something that was over-the-top fun. Your art always made me smile.” She approached the spruce with one outstretched arm and ran her fingers over my work. “Beautiful.”

  Where others had sprayed faux snow, I’d applied glue and a dusting of glitter for an added bit of magic when the twinkle lights went on.

  “Your imagination is a true gift,” she said. “I always thought you should write children’s books.”

  “That’d be perfect if I could write.” I locked my elbow with hers. “Illustrate, maybe, but I could never write.”

  “Why do you say that?” She craned her neck for a look at me. “You’re great with words.”

  “Well, you’ve obviously never heard me try to speak, because I’m definitely not great with words.”

  She wiggled free from my arm and fingered my still-damp hair. “I’m so proud of you.”

  The emotion in her voice raised goose bumps on my arms. “Thanks.”

  “I would want to be just like you when I grow up,” she said, “if it wasn’t already too late for me.”

  I searched her glossy brown eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean? Where’s this coming from?”

  She shrugged. “Nowhere new. I think those things all the time. I just get too busy to say them like I should. You’ve grown up to be the most marvelous woman I know. You’re a great daughter, a wonderful friend, and someone this community can believe in.”

  A sneaky tear slipped into the corner of my eye. “Jeez. Talk about an ambush,” I joked. Mom wasn’t the sort to get emotional, and neither was I. Maybe the lack of sleep and abundance of death threats were wearing on us. “I hope you realize that the parts of me you like so much are only that way because of you. It took a strong, patient, happy woman to show me those traits are important.”

  She hugged me. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.” I batted tear-blurred eyes. I had a few confessions of my own to make. “I’m sorry I never moved home after college and that I didn’t visit enough while I was away. It’s as if I chose Ben over you, which I never meant to do.”

  Mom pushed me back by my shoulders and did her best to look stern. “Your father and I have never begrudged you those life experiences. Not for one minute. Children are supposed to grow up and strike out on their own. We wanted that for you. Of course, we’d also hoped that life would lead you back to us one day too, but that’s what it’s like being a parent. Complicated. Mostly, we just wanted you to be happy.” She released me and clutched her hands over her heart. “And it makes me so sad that you aren’t.”

  “Whoa.” I pulled her hands apart. “I’m happy.”

  She wiped tears from her cheeks and laughed. “I meant I’m sorry about Ben.”

  “I know what you meant, and I’m sorry you spent a ton of money on a wedding that won’t happen. Your deposits are gone because I should’ve been smarter.”

  “You were in love. First love.” She sighed and shook her head. “First love is t
he worst. Blinding. All encompassing. The sort of thing people fight for long after it’s dead.”

  I laughed. “I guess that’s why everyone’s online trying to hunt down their high school sweetheart.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Not mine,” I said. Mine only called when he needed something.

  “Well, yours was an idiot.” She slapped a hand over her mouth, and her eyes went wide. “I’m so sorry,” she mumbled against her palm. “I shouldn’t say that out loud.”

  “It’s okay.” I laughed. “He kind of was.”

  Slowly she moved her hands to her sides. “We don’t want you to leave after Christmas. Will you stay awhile? Your father and I aren’t ready to let you go again just yet.”

  “Maybe.” I looked away. “I don’t know. I don’t have a job or any savings worth mentioning.” I didn’t want to be a financial burden on them. They’d already done so much. “I have a lot of things to figure out, but maybe.” It was the most I could promise for now.

  She dried her eyes and blew out a long breath. “I’ll take what I can get, and ‘maybe’ isn’t ‘no.’”

  She smiled. “Well, I suppose we should get started on the rest of our day. Have you thought about what you’re going to wear to the ball?”

  I hung my head. “No. I was supposed to figure that out and get in touch with Cookie. She said she’d embellish one of my old costumes for me.”

  Mom slid an arm across my back and directed me toward the house. “Then let’s see what we’ve got in the attic. Maybe we won’t need Cookie. I’m not terrible with a needle.”

  Unless something drastic had changed, she also wasn’t great with one. I’d been teased all through Girl Scouts for the loose threads hanging from my patches. I’d tried to convince the troop that hanging threads were in fashion and that they were the ones who looked silly with their boring perfect stitches. No one believed me. It just gave them something else to tease me about.

  “I know you’re thinking of the Girl Scouts,” Mom said. “I’ve gotten better since then.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah.” She squeezed me against her side as we walked. “I cut the extra threads off now.”