Mr. Nettle stopped several yards away, near the woman from his office. She smiled, and he hugged her.
This round goes to paranoia.
I went back to my drink station.
Ray Griggs stood behind my table looking like a GQ ad in tan dress slacks and a white formal shirt. He was ladling punch for a little ballerina. “There you are,” he said to me. “I thought I missed you.”
“Here I am,” I said, making goofy jazz hands.
He handed the cup to the little girl. “Merry Christmas, young one.”
I eased into the space beside him. “Thanks for stepping in. You didn’t have to, but it’s nice.”
“It’s no problem.” He rearranged the array of waiting cups. “Your mom told me you were here, so when you weren’t, I figured you’d be back. Where’d you go?”
“I was checking out the tree competition.”
Ray gave the line of decorated trees a weird look. “I thought it was a raffle.”
“Sure, for the people buying raffle tickets, but the people who decorated the trees probably want theirs to be the favorite.”
He smiled. “Did you decorate a tree?”
I waved to a baby in a passing stroller. “Merry Christmas.”
Ray chuckled. “You did. And you want to be the favorite.”
I shot him a goofy smile. “It’s so stupid, right?”
“No way. Which one is yours?”
“There.” I pointed. “It’s covered in giant candy rings and necklaces.”
“Cute.”
I turned narrowed eyes on him. “You think it’s cute?”
“Sexy?” he guessed.
“No!” I laughed. “Whimsical. Fantastical. A sheer delight.”
“Wow.” He whistled the sound of a falling missile. “You’re humbler than I remembered from high school. I don’t think fantastical is a word.”
I pushed his arm. “It is a word, Mr. Reporter. You’re going to have to expand your vocabulary.”
“Words are hard.”
I laughed again. “I just told my mom the same thing.” I reached under the table and grabbed my thermos.
“Liquor?” he guessed.
“No. It’s coffee. I love the hot chocolate, but if I keep drinking it, I’m going to start looking like the Pillsbury Doughboy. How’s your article coming along? Find an angle that will get you a byline?”
“Not yet, but I’ve got a new strategy.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
He dipped his head and moved in closer to keep whatever he was about to say between us. “I’m going to follow the sheriff. He’s chasing leads. Pulling reports. Talking to everyone. I’ll stay close to him, and when he makes the arrest on Fenwick’s killer, I’ll be on the scene. The first reporter with the scoop. The paper will have to run my story.”
I suspected Sheriff Gray would spot him and threaten him with obstruction long before his plan unfolded, but at least he had a plan. I unscrewed the lid and poured a cup.
Ray tapped my bustle. “What is this thing?” He hit it again like a bongo drum.
“Hey!” I spun around, swinging it out of his reach. “Stop that.”
He circled me, reaching for it. “My word. What do you keep in there?”
I swung away. “Stop.” I swatted his hand and tried not to choke on my coffee. “It’s a bustle, and it’s none of your business what’s in there.”
He craned his neck. “It’s fascinating. Can you sit on it?”
“No, you don’t sit on it.”
“Is it like one of those cushions that sports fans take to football games so their bottoms won’t get cold or fall asleep on the bleachers?”
“No!” I laughed. “Bustles were a fashion trend during the eighteen hundreds. I wanted to coordinate my costume with all these Victorian decorations.”
Ray examined me from head to toe, lingering his gaze in a few key places and making me mildly uncomfortable. “It looks new.” He swept a finger across the snow-white fur outlining my cuffs. Cookie had sewn the accents along my neckline and hem as well.
“The trim is new. The dress is old. I’m not sure how old. I think it was a costume for someone else. There’s no way it lasted over a hundred years in our attic without falling apart.”
“What I’m taking away from this is that you want to win the costume contest and have the favorite tree.”
“I never said either of those things.” Though who wouldn’t want them?
“Greedy.” He pinched the end of his Rudolph-themed tie, and a little red light blinked on the reindeer’s nose. “Does this count as a costume?”
“No.” I finished my coffee and refilled the cup. “Are your mom and aunts here tonight?”
“Yeah. They’re talking with your mom.”
I scanned the crowded wonderland with a fresh dose of nerves. She’d specifically mentioned thinking I looked happy at bingo with Ray. “I should go say hello.”
“Sure. I’ll handle the hot and cold libation operation,” he said, filling and setting another cup among the selection already waiting to be chosen.
“You don’t have to,” I said. “You can come with me.”
He pulled his phone from his pocket and looked at the screen. “Hang on.”
I hadn’t heard the device make a sound. Not even the little buzz created by a cell phone set to vibrate. Was the incoming call strangely coincidental? Was there really a call at all? Did he have a reason to avoid chatting with me and his mom again?
He pressed the phone to his chest. “Looks like I might get that byline after all, White.” He hastened toward the exit at a jog, one thumb raised overhead.
He was the second man to leave me without a good-bye tonight. I was tempted to check my antiperspirant.
I set a fresh pile of disposal cups between the Crock-Pots and erected my handmade “Be Back Soon. Please Help Yourself” sign. I needed to catch Mom before she said something that might be misconstrued by Ray’s mother as encouragement for her son’s flirting and passed on to Ray. I didn’t have time for that. My head was boggled enough without a mother-driven romance.
I crossed the room at a clip, bustle bobbing at my back.
Mom lit up when she noticed me. “Holly! We were just talking about you.” Her bright-red dress and rosy cheeks made her look more like Mrs. Clause than any drawing or photograph I’d ever seen in a book. Her sweet, selfless disposition made it hard to believe she wasn’t something more than a mother to one grown child. In a way, I supposed the whole town was in her care. She cooked for everyone who was sick or injured, was newly married, or had just had a baby. She led a book club, ran the Hearth, and stayed at the ready in case anyone she knew needed help.
I waved to the trio of Ray’s family members. “Nice to see you all again.” I flinched as a strange sensation crawled over my skin. Someone was watching me. I turned in every direction but found no one. The wave of paranoia was strong enough to knock me off my aching feet. Mr. Nettle had left me abruptly. Ray had jogged off. Mr. Fleece had stared me down from thirty yards away. Was I imagining it, or were all the men I knew behaving squirrely tonight?
“Hon?” Mom set her fingers on my wrist. “You look flushed. Maybe you should sit down for a while.”
I pressed my hands to my ribs. The corset, which hadn’t given me much trouble up to that point, suddenly seemed to squeeze the air from my lungs. “I could probably use something cold to drink. Ice water. Maybe punch.” I ran the back of one hand over my forehead. “Have you spoken to anyone working outside?” I asked Mom, using a perkier voice than I’d thought I could muster. “No one found wandering, I hope?”
She glanced at Ray’s family. “Nope.”
Ray’s mom made a strained smiled. “Your dress is lovely, Holly.”
“Thank you.” I fanned my face as another blast of anxiety and heat blew over me. “Maybe I should sit down.”
Mom led me to an open bench near a stone planter of plastic poinsettias. “Do you want me to get you anything or w
alk you home?” she asked.
I pulled in deep lungfuls of air, concentrating on the sounds of my breath and trying desperately to block the barrage of scary thoughts swarming my mind. “I’m okay,” I told Mom. The barn will not explode into flames. I won’t be the reason for two hundred deaths. Mr. Nettle, Mr. Fleece, and Ray are the same people they were a week ago. They are not out to kill me. I rolled my shoulders back and pulled myself together. There was plenty of time for a proper breakdown later. For now, I had a cocoa stand to manage.
Mom lingered, clearly unsure if she should leave me.
I was safe inside the barn. Whoever wanted to kill me was probably planning a sneak attack when I was alone and at my most vulnerable.
I wiggled my phone from the pouch attached to my gown and dialed. “I’m going to check in with Sheriff Gray,” I said. “I’ll feel better once I get an update that things are quiet out there.”
Mom squeezed my hand. “If you’re sure.” She headed back into the mix of guests.
“Holly?” The sheriff’s voice boomed in my ear.
I started. I’d almost forgotten I’d sent the call. “Hi. I’m just checking in.”
His breath rattled the speaker. “Thank goodness. I thought something might’ve happened.”
“No.” I pushed onto my feet and pointed myself toward the drink station. “Things are good in here. Everything okay out there?”
“Quiet as a mouse,” he said. “I’ve got a deputy circling the barn every few minutes and two others keeping watch on your house and the stores. I’m making rounds to check on them. We’ve got it covered, so you can relax.”
“Good.” I slowed at the drink table and sucked down a glass of punch. “I was feeling a little panicky. I think I just needed to hear that things are okay.”
“Feeling better now?”
“Yeah. Sorry to bother you.” I dropped my empty cup in the trash. “You know, if you get cold or hungry out there, we have an assortment of hot drinks and cookies in here.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” There was a smile in his voice that spread to my face.
The little ballerina Ray had helped earlier ran back to the table. She lifted the thermos cup.
“Oh.” I waved to her. “That’s mine. You don’t want that.”
She looked into the little cup and made a disgusted face. “Ew. Gross.” She tossed the drink onto the table and ran away.
I jumped back to avoid the splash. “Whoa!”
“What happened?” Sheriff Gray’s voice snapped in my ear.
I lifted a finger to the filthy puddle of coffee racing toward a village of prepoured punch cups. Four coffee-soaked matches rode the ugly brown current in my direction.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Christmas Eve came in, appropriately, with a storm. Wind whistled around the old farmhouse windows all night long, adding to the edge I was already feeling. By dawn we had another four inches of precipitation, but the weatherman predicted a high of twenty. The late-night blizzard and early morning rush to clear roads would have been a nightmare for my wedding, but it was perfect for the final Reindeer Game of the season. The annual Christmas Eve Snowball Roll.
I peeled my eyes open, unsure I could muster an emotion anywhere near enthusiasm, but I was determined to give it the old White try. I swung my legs off the couch, careful not to wake Mom. We’d slept in her living room, fully dressed and curled against the armrests in either direction. Dad had kept watch in the recliner until his eyelids gave up their duty. Sheriff Gray stayed in the kitchen, serving coffee to deputies as they arrived, checked in, or completed their shifts. I rubbed my surely puffy face and shuffled in the general direction of my morning brew, eyes squinted, mind scrambled. I huffed against one palm to test my breath. Not good.
The sheriff poured a mug of liquid pep and extended it in my direction. His hat was on the counter and his hair was mussed. He’d removed his heavy sheriff jacket and button-down uniform shirt since I’d seen him last and hung both over the back of a kitchen chair. “How’d you sleep?”
I dragged my gaze away from the dark-gray T-shirt stretched over his broad chest and accepted the coffee. “Good.” I tried not to think about my own ensemble. I’d had the sweat pants since college, and the cat on my long-sleeve T-shirt wore a Santa hat and chased a ball of twinkle lights. The caption beneath him was “Meow-y Christmas!”
Sheriff Gray pulled out a chair and motioned for me to have a seat before sitting across from me. “It was quiet through the night. Nothing to report beyond the matches in your coffee.”
I gave my cup a long look. “If everything’s quiet, then what’s wrong?” I asked. “Please don’t say ‘nothing’; just tell me the truth.”
“Truth is I’ve been sitting here all night thinking about this case. I haven’t had to give many things this much thought since I came to your town.” He tapped his finger against the worn wooden tabletop. “I almost miss it.”
“And?” I prompted. Surely that wasn’t the end of his answer.
He kicked back in his chair and hooked one elbow over the rungs of the backrest. “We didn’t see or hear anything unusual during the ball, not even when someone was dropping those matches into your coffee. The whole thing was very stealthy. Very undercover. Contrived. I can’t help thinking this is sheer psychological terrorism and not a valid threat.” He lifted a palm off his lap. “We’re still treating it as a threat. I just can’t stop thinking that we’ve seen a lot of warnings and no action. Seems like the culprit is attempting to keep you quiet without getting his hands dirty again. That could be a good thing.”
I let the words simmer a minute. “You think whoever is behind the threats would rather I just shut up. In other words, the killer’s unlikely to act unless I force his hand.” I liked that idea more than the one tumbling around my head. In my version, I was being stalked by a sadistic lunatic who delighted in my continued state of terror.
“I’m not saying this is someone to play with, only that whoever it is has been slow to act and quick to threaten. You should never underestimate the capacity of a killer. This person has a lot to lose.”
“And people generally prefer to get away with murder,” I said.
Sheriff Gray fought a small smile. “Yes. The good news is that I don’t think we’re dealing with a seasoned villain. Mrs. Fenwick’s death was most likely a crime of passion and opportunity. Now someone’s trying to put that night in their past, but you’re making it very difficult to reach their goal.”
“What about you?” I asked. “The town sheriff must be making the same trouble I am. More, probably. Any death threats coming your way?”
“No.” His smile spread, and he rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Seems all your shenanigans have kept the criminal’s attention. Aside from running to your newest crime scene every few days, I’ve had ample opportunity to pursue my leads.”
I finished my coffee and checked the bottom of my mug for matchsticks. Safe, I went back to waiting impatiently for him to expound, which he didn’t. “And?” I fussed. “Don’t people have conversations in Boston? Is the concept new to you, or do you intentionally leave me hanging at the worst possible moments?”
He slid away from the table and stretched to his full height with a yawn. “Usually the second one. Can I get you a refill?”
“No. I’ve got to get ready for the Snowball Roll.” And apparently, he had no intentions of expounding on all those leads he was allegedly chasing. “I saw you questioning Ray last night, but he didn’t do this.”
“He was alone at the booth with your thermos immediately before the incident. Plus, he’s been acting fishy. Lurking around everywhere I go.”
I made a show of rolling my eyes. “It wasn’t him. I saw Mr. Fleece outside the barn not too long before I found the matches. He stared at me. It was weird.”
“He was with the other farmhands. I spoke with all of them. Before you ask, Paula was at home.”
“Can she prove that?” I asked.
; “Maybe. She says she was on the phone. I’m working to verify that, but it will take a couple days.” He refilled his mug with a quizzical expression. “I saw the Snowball Roll advertised on the flyers. I assume it’s what it sounds like? A race to see who can roll a snowball the fastest?”
“Wrong.” I rested my elbows on the table and dropped my chin into waiting palms. “You’ve been in Mistletoe six months and you haven’t heard about the Snowball Roll? Do you ever talk to anyone besides the pie shop waitress?”
He didn’t answer.
“Well, you’re in for a treat. This is my event.” I cracked my knuckles and made a semidramatic exit from the kitchen, then slunk upstairs feeling the weight of a night on a couch shared with my mother. I stood under a hot shower until my knotted-up muscles stopped aching and my fingertips were wrinkled unrecognizably. Then I slowly turned the water temperature down until the shock woke my brain.
I slid into a warm, comfy sweater and pants fit for chasing a snowball. If I couldn’t feel human on too little sleep and too much stress, I could at least play the role. I curled my hair into something feminine and drove a gloss stick around my lips. For good measure, I even swiped mascara on my stumpy lashes. The reflection in my mirror looked nothing like I felt. Voilà. The miracle of makeup.
I flipped my ringing phone over and spun it around for a look at the caller ID. I didn’t recognize the number. “Merry Christmas,” I answered. “This is Holly.”
“Ms. White, this is Caleb France returning your call.”
I pushed back on my little cushioned seat at the vanity. “Mr. France! Thank you so much for getting back to me.”
“I wouldn’t have called on Christmas Eve, but your message seemed urgent, and I can make this short. I can’t help you. Your questions were all based on bad information.”
“What do you mean?”
“For starters, we didn’t get the mill grant. We didn’t start any work there because we weren’t awarded the money, and we didn’t submit a grant proposal for the covered bridge before the mill because the mill was in greater need.”
Twelve Slays of Christmas Page 20