“Great.”
We slowed at the sight of Dad’s work truck speeding up the drive. The vehicle rocked to a stop outside their home, and he jumped out still moving full speed ahead.
“Bud?” Mom called.
He changed direction, rushing toward us instead. “Come on. Hurry up.” He grabbed Mom by the hand and towed her up the walk and into the house while I scurried behind.
“Lock the door,” he instructed.
“What’s wrong?” Mom and I asked in near unison.
He rubbed his forehead and swore.
“Bud?” Mom stroked his coat sleeve. “You’re scaring me.”
He patted his torso and checked his pockets. “I left my phone in the truck.”
I handed him mine. “Here.”
He stared at the screen, apparently confounded. My smartphone was a far cry from the ten-year-old flip phone he bought minutes for by the month.
I took the device back carefully. “Who do you want to call?”
Dad raised his panicked eyes to mine. He slid his hands beneath the back of his coat and extracted a large plastic bag from his rear pocket. He handed the bag to Mom. “I need to call the sheriff.”
A thousand matches in every length were stuffed into the wrinkled sack.
Mom gasped. “Where did you find these?”
He gripped the back of his neck until his face turned purple.
My hands shook. The little cell phone jiggled in my grip. “Dad?”
“They’re everywhere. Scattered through the trees. Around the stables and outbuildings. On the porch at the Hearth. On benches outside Holiday Mouse.” His voice was low and gravelly. He turned his gaze to Mom. “It might be time we consider closing up for the season.”
I dialed Sheriff Gray, deeply regretting my choice to ask so many questions about Caleb France yesterday.
“Holly?” The sheriff answered on the first ring. “Everything okay?”
“No,” I said. “No. Can you come over?”
A door slammed on the other end of the line. “I’m just leaving the pie shop. Where are you?”
“At my parents’ house.”
“Where are they?”
“Here.”
My mind raced with possible suspects and alternate meanings for the possibly spilled matches. Maybe a shopper had a box of matches with a hole in it and left a Hansel and Gretel trail everywhere they went. Maybe this had nothing to do with setting fire to my family’s farm.
Dad peeled the phone from my hand, which had gone limp and fallen to my side. He took the call in the kitchen.
Mom and I stared at the bag of matches.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, but the quavering voice didn’t seem like my own. “I did this,” I admitted. “I put you in danger.”
“No.” She dropped the bag on the coffee table and gave me her business face. “The person who did this is desperate to keep their secret. What they’ve done has nothing to do with you.” She pressed cold palms to my flaming cheeks. “Now sit. It sounds like the sheriff is on his way, and he’ll get this figured out.”
I flopped onto the couch and kept an eye on the front window for signs of a torch-wielding lunatic.
Mom went into hostess mode, and Dad loaded his shotgun.
The sheriff arrived shortly after I’d finished my first cup of tea. Mom was kind enough to use Cookie’s special ingredient liberally. As it turned out, peppermint schnapps was just as yummy in Christmas tea as a candy cane, but it made my face tingle.
“Refill?” Mom asked.
“No. Thank you,” I said, concentrating on the front window as Sheriff Gray loped up the front steps to our door. I rubbed sweaty palms over my leggings. The schnapps had also successfully loosened the pile of knots in my tummy and unclenched my aching jaw. “He’s here.”
Mom followed my gaze and opened the door before he could knock.
Sheriff Gray walked inside with a cell phone pressed to one ear. He grunted and nodded before disconnecting. He shook Mom’s hand and stowed the phone in his pocket. “I got here as fast as I could, Mrs. White. Your husband filled me in on the details. I’ve got deputies on the way. Can I see the matches?”
Mom handed the bag to him.
He slid it into the black shoulder bag I recognized from my last emergency call. “How are you?”
“Shaken,” Mom said. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
She kneaded her hands, growing steadily more anxious with no one to serve. “Do you think this is a real threat? Is it credible? Could it be another empty scare tactic? Should we sleep elsewhere tonight?”
“The deputies and I will assess the situation together and let you know.” His cool gaze slid to me. “Sleeping elsewhere would be my suggestion. Though ultimately that’s up to you.”
Dad marched into view with two steaming mugs and extended one to the sheriff. “Coffee?”
He accepted the offering.
Mom frowned.
The sheriff lowered himself onto the edge of the couch beside me. “Mr. White, I need you to write down everything you told me on the phone.”
Dad nodded.
“Have you given anymore thought to closing the farm until this is settled?”
Dad dragged a heavy hand through his hair. “I did, and I can’t. Call it pride or stupidity, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Reindeer Games has been open through Christmas Eve since my grandpa hung the sign. I’m going to stay here and keep an eye on things. Maybe rent a couple night patrolmen. But I can’t close.” He turned an apologetic face toward Mom. “You and Holly should probably get a hotel room in town for a few nights.”
She moved to his side. “Don’t you dare think for one second I’d leave you at a time like this. My wedding vows said ‘for better or worse,’ not ‘until things get tough.’”
I chewed my shredded thumbnail. “There won’t be any available rooms in Mistletoe until after New Year’s Day.”
The sheriff seemed to mull that over. Thanks to the tour bus business, all inns were full, and he knew it. “You’re welcome to stay at my place, if you’d like.”
My jaw went slack. I slid my gaze to Dad’s darkening face.
Sheriff Gray set his coffee on the side table and clasped his hands in front of him. “I only have one bed, but it’s big enough for two ladies.” He looked from my face to my dad’s. “I could stay here. They could stay there. I can take up one of those night shifts you’re hiring out.”
Dad’s face slowly returned to a normal color.
I would’ve found the mistake funny if I wasn’t in the middle of a stroke. “I think we’re all going to stay here.” I pinned Dad with my sincerest stare. “No one thinks you’re stupid or prideful. This place is family, and families protect one another. I’ll take a night shift too.”
Mom smiled. “It’s settled. I’ll put on a fresh pot of coffee.”
“Tea.” I lifted a finger over my head. “Cookie’s recipe.”
She winked. “I think I’ll make that two. I could use some tea myself.”
Dad watched her disappear into the kitchen. “I’ll call down to the Moose Lodge and see if anyone wants to earn a little extra holiday cash in exchange for security duty.”
“Good.” Sheriff Gray moved to the front window and looked out. “You’ve got a lot of ground, and the plan’s not perfect, but it’s something. I’ll focus my deputies on the buildings and homes. It’d take some effort and a small miracle to get a good tree fire going with all the ice and snow. Plus, another storm’s coming tonight.”
He moved back to my side and picked up his coffee. He lingered in my personal space, apparently waiting for me to look up. He smiled when I finally did. “You made it one whole day without an emergency. Yesterday was quiet. Peaceful. I got a lot done. You?”
“Yep. Have you had a chance to talk to Mr. Fleece or Paula?” Of all the people I’d spoken with this week, Fleece and Paula were the only two still angry with a dead woman. T
he fact they used one another as their alibi only made me wonder further about both of them.
He dropped into a squat and caught me in his keen gaze. “I have. Like I told you before, the case is progressing well—solidly and in good time. You need to let me take it from here.”
“Sure thing. Think you can finish up before the lunatic burns down my parents’ farm?”
His eyes crinkled at the corner for a moment. “Want to fill me in on what you were up to while I was enjoying the quiet yesterday?”
I bit my lip. “I might have peeked in Caleb France’s office window and told the secretary next door I had some questions for him.”
Sheriff Gray sucked his teeth and glared. “Start from the beginning.”
I cast a look over my shoulder, willing Mom to move a little faster. If I was going to unload everything I’d learned from my trip to return Mr. Nettle’s fedora and the follow-up phone calls I’d made—after promising to let him handle this—I was going to need her to supersize that special tea.
Chapter Twenty-One
Despite the terrifying threats and my thoroughly shaken family, Reindeer Games’ Christmas Tree Ball went on as planned. Mom called her usual crew of girlfriends to assist with crowd control and execution of the event. They divided the night into shifts and assigned themselves to the refreshment booths and raffle ticket sales. Dad rallied members of the local Moose Lodge and every spare farmhand to keep trash cans empty and the floor clear of snow. They were also prepared to load raffled trees into the winner’s vehicles or use a company truck for immediate delivery if needed. Sheriff Gray had his deputies on patrol outside the barn and throughout the property. I just had to show up looking less paranoid than I felt. So far, I was the only one failing at her duty.
It didn’t help that I’d spent half the night drafting suspect lists in an old notebook found in my high school backpack. I’d drawn hasty columns over the faded blue lines and scribbled the names of our neighbors and friends until three pages were full. I’d started with people who were on the property when the tree markers had arrived at the guesthouse. Then I listed anyone who could’ve navigated a storm strong enough to close the farm in an effort to freeze me to death. I ruled out the elderly and weak. The killer was capable of transporting a pile of three-foot wooden stakes quickly enough to go unnoticed. I counted out the short.
In the end, I didn’t have a suspect list as much as a general profile. Whoever threatened me was local and knew the farm well. He or she had probably visited on many occasions and was likely a man. Someone hearty and tall enough to maneuver those stakes without leaving drag marks on the ground. Once again, Paula and Mr. Fleece came to mind. If they’d worked together, they would have all the advantages, including alibis, access, and knowledge. Hopefully, whoever had planted the matchsticks wouldn’t make good on the threat tonight. With two hundred guests at the ball, setting fire to the barn would put innocent lives in danger, and even if no one was harmed, the soot left on Reindeer Games’ reputation would reach far into our business future.
My growing paranoia was powered by three hours of sleep and an astronomic amount of fear-fueled emotions. Inconceivably, no one seemed to notice.
The community had taken this year’s ball seriously and come dressed to impress. The costume contest was sure to be a hoot. There were angels and snowmen, elves and Sugar Plum Fairies. My parents were Santa and Mrs. Clause for the thirty-second year in a row, but there were plenty of doppelgängers afoot.
I ladled punch into plastic cups while I tallied the worst possible things that could happen.
A line of silver-haired women in matching jingle bell cardigans stopped at my table. The shortest of the four peered into one of my lidded Crock-Pots. “Is that cocoa?”
“It is,” I said. “It’s peppermint bliss, and there’s at least a metric ton of melted chocolate in there.” I lifted the lid to let the sweet sting of mint into the air. “This one”—I opened the second crock—“is called salted caramel Christmas.”
Their lips parted, and their eyelids fluttered.
“Would you like to try one?” I asked.
The four women pointed in two different directions. Half for salted caramel and half for peppermint mocha. I filled disposable cups and passed them to the women. “Have you had a chance to look at the sponsored trees yet?” I pointed to the red-carpet lineup along the far wall. “You can purchase raffle tickets for a chance to win.”
“Oh, yes,” they responded with unexpected enthusiasm.
The group’s spokeswoman snapped a lid onto her cup and inhaled the steam rising through the air hole. “I want the one with the pickle in it. It reminds me of home.”
I scrunched my nose. “A pickle?” Hadn’t Dad vetted the trees before setting them into the stands to be decorated?
One of the ladies wiped a chocolate mustache from her upper lip. “We all have favorites.”
“Which is your favorite?” I asked.
“Holly’s Jolly Jewelry is pretty good,” the woman said.
The short lady stretched her hand in the opposite direction of my tree. “I still like the one on the end. I’ve never been to Boston, but the trip is on my bucket list.”
I squinted in the direction she’d pointed. Did she say Boston? “Excuse me,” I said with a sugary smile. “I don’t mean to run off, but I’d love to get a look at that tree. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” I marched painfully forward on the tiny kitten heels of eighty-year-old black lace-up dress boots. The bustle on my backside shimmied with each purposeful stride.
Mom and I had hit the jackpot when we’d opened an old steamer crate in the attic. One of my female ancestors had kept fashionable pieces from a dozen different eras, and I’d chosen a Victorian gown to match Mom’s ball decor. I felt enchanting in the ensemble as long as I was standing still and ridiculous anytime I had to move. The pale-green dress was fitted in the sleeves, bust, and waist, then it puffed out behind me and bing-bonged along as I tried to stay upright on the most uncomfortable boots ever made. It was no wonder Victorian woman carried parasols. They probably used them for balance.
I stopped in front of a busted pine that only a cartoon boy could love. The sign beside it had the large outline of a police shield with the words “Boston Blue, Through and Through” typed on it. I couldn’t imagine Sheriff Gray decorating a raffle tree, but who else would have chosen this theme? Tiny replica handcuffs hung from the limbs while blue-and-white lights performed a peppy chase through the sparse and ragged branches. I poked a plastic police badge with my fingertip and smiled. Felt police hats dangled beside little nightsticks to finish off the manly display.
“What do you think?” a man’s voice asked.
I jumped back as Mr. Nettle moved into view. “It’s one of a kind,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “The tree skirt even has an American flag on it. I’ve never seen that before.”
“These all look pretty good to me,” he said. “My tree is only about yay big.” He mimed a couple feet of space with his hands. “It comes out of the box fully decorated and goes back in one piece when I’m done with it.”
“Clever.” And a little sad, I thought. Bachelorhood at Christmas must be odd, or at least like nothing I could relate to. The concept brought Sheriff Gray back to mind. Who would he spend the day with on Christmas? His family and friends were in Boston, and he couldn’t leave here until the potential pyromaniac was found.
“How are you holding up?” Mr. Nettle asked. “Tomorrow was supposed to be the big day, yeah?”
“Yeah.” The day I was supposed to be married.
The barn door opened, and a group of people in fancy duds lined up to exchange tickets for passage into the formally dressed barn. Thick white tufts of snow floated gently to the ground behind them. Mr. Fleece led his reindeer through the snow toward their stables. Time for dinner, brushing, and bed, I supposed. Mr. Fleece turned his face toward the barn’s interior, and his eyes caught mine. He kept me in his line of sight until
the barn door was pulled shut between us.
Ice slid into my pointy black boots.
“Are you feeling okay?” Mr. Nettle asked. “You look peaked.”
I forced a tight smile. How could I be feeling okay when I was surrounded by murder suspects? “I’m fine. I was wondering, though—do you know if Mr. France has returned to work? I stopped at the Historical Society while I was in the building to return your hat, but the lights were out. I’d hoped to talk to him soon.”
“I don’t recall seeing him in the office today, but I was in and out all afternoon, so we may have missed one another. This week is always chaos for me, running errands and gearing up for the extended closing. We won’t be open from Christmas until New Year’s.” He suddenly looked alarmed. “Not that I’m unreachable during that time. I’m always available by phone or e-mail. I just close the office because we never have any appointments at that time and it saves on overhead.”
“Of course,” I said.
He wiggled his mustache. “I thought you didn’t care for Mr. France. You said he was grouchy when you met before.”
I forced my mouth shut. This wasn’t the time or place for another inquisition, and Sheriff Gray was bound to hear about it and kill me himself. “He was. You know what? It’s nothing. Forget I asked.”
“I don’t mind passing along word that you’re looking for him. I’m sure he’s just busy. There’s so much going on this time of year.”
“No. Really. Don’t worry about it.” I averted my eyes and bopped my head to the tune of a lively string band.
Mr. Nettle turned his body until we were shoulder to shoulder. “Your event has drawn a good crowd tonight. It’s a testimony. The farm has done very well considering the blow it took last week. This place loves to persevere.”
I inched away from him, haunted by my list of possible killers. “It’s a dash of luck and a truckload of determination from the family, I think. The Whites are hardheaded that way.”
“Don’t I know it.” He clapped me on the shoulder and walked away.
I watched with rapt curiosity as he moseyed into the crowd. Was it paranoia, or was there a dual meaning behind his words?
Twelve Slays of Christmas Page 19