“But . . .” I squinted at my reflection in the little oval mirror. “I saw photos of the mill on the HPS website.”
“Photos were part of the application process.”
“Why would they post pictures of a project they weren’t backing?” To make it look like they’d completed all those projects? If so, how many of the pictures in their digital gallery had actually gotten funds?
“I can’t say. I wasn’t in contact with HPS.”
I had been, and they’d given me another story completely. “An HPS representative told me the grant was awarded. Why would she lie?”
There was a long pause before he answered. “I don’t know, and that’s a really interesting question. Maybe there’s something in it for them? I’ll see if I can get more information on this next week.”
“Thank you.” This was the kind of cooperation I’d been hoping for. “Will you let me know what you find out?”
“I suppose. Give me at least a week. I don’t expect a company that’s up to something to have the answers I’m looking for right away.”
“Okay. Thank you.” I smiled against the receiver. “Merry Christmas, Mr. France.”
“Ms. White?” he said before I could disconnect the call.
“Yes?”
“I want you to know you were right about something.”
“I was?”
“I shouldn’t have piled Fenwick’s things up like trash. You’d probably like to know that a member of her extended family stopped by yesterday and caught me checking the messages. I told him he was welcome to anything of hers he wanted. All he took were the photos, but he seemed glad for them.”
“That was very nice of you.” I tapped one finger against my knee, still hung up on why the HPS granted money to the mill but Caleb France didn’t know about it. What happened if the HPS board granted the money but the check was sniped? Who was accountable? How would anyone know?
A slow tremor played over my hands. Poor Mrs. Fenwick might’ve had these same questions. Could that be the reason she was dead? Did someone on the other end of the equation keep the funds? Had Mrs. Fenwick discovered the crime? Had a member of the HPS team made an early trip to Mistletoe to shut her up? No. I backpedaled. HPS accounting would know if the grant check was cashed. That could be traced.
“Like I said”—Mr. France’s voice registered through my racing thoughts—“stop into the office at the end of next week, and I’ll let you know what I hear. If I hear anything.”
“Thank you.”
We ended the call, and I stuffed the phone into my back pocket. I liked an HPS affiliate for the crime, but why would they still be in Mistletoe haunting me? It seemed like a visiting murderer would’ve taken the next ride out of town, especially at Christmas. Also, how did I know Caleb France was telling me the truth?
I tugged my favorite boots on and let the smell of bacon pull me down the steps. I parked my backside in a kitchen chair and stole a slice of bacon from the pile on the table.
Mom was alone and happy as could be.
“Good morning,” I said when she came bebopping past.
“Morning, hon.” She hummed her way through the kitchen flipping pancakes and pulling crispy bacon from a bubbling pan. “Merry Christmas.” She tossed a wink in my direction. “I know someone tried to cast another shadow over our holiday last night, but I can’t help myself. It’s Christmas Eve, and I swear I can feel the joy in my bones. There’s so much to be thankful for. Our baby girl has come home. We’re together again, all happy and healthy and well. It’s going to take a lot to bring me down today.”
“I think you cooked happiness right into the bacon,” I said, biting into another slice.
“I added maple syrup to the pan.”
I stifled a satisfied moan.
She set a short stack of pancakes in front of me. “Don’t forget the pancakes.” She pushed a decorative basket in my direction. “I’ve got three kinds of syrup if you aren’t in the mood for maple.”
The basket held a shaker of chocolate chips and two small bowls, one with fresh diced apples and another with brown sugar and a spoon. “Can you think of anything else?”
I ladled the brown sugar over my short stack. “Not unless you can tell me why I ever left home.”
“Hormones. A search for yourself. Rite of passage. That sort of thing.” Mom snapped her fingers. “Whipped cream.” She tugged the refrigerator door open and shook a can with gusto. “There.” She made a fluffy white funnel on top of my breakfast. “Now that looks good.”
“Truth.” I pressed the tines of my fork into the soft, buttery layers and lifted them in her direction. “Have some.”
Mom rubbed her hands in the fabric of her apron, then cranked the burners on the stove off. She joined me at the table with another plate of bacon. “Don’t mind if I do.”
“Where are Dad and Sheriff Gray?” I asked. The house was strangely empty without them.
“Gone to set up at the Snowball Roll. Don’t worry, they left a deputy on the porch, and I fed them all while you were in the shower.” She eyeballed my boat-neck sweater. “Cute top.”
“Thanks.” I stuffed another bite between my lips and smiled as I chewed. “Either your happiness is contagious or you really did fry it into this bacon.”
“Nonsense. You’re a White. This is Christmas. Of course you feel the thrill of it. How could you not?”
I hadn’t for years. I set my bacon aside and rested one hand on Mom’s arm. “Thank you for always taking care of me no matter what.”
Mom tipped her head and pursed her lips. “Aw, sweetie.” She stroked a stray hair off my cheek with soft dimpled hands. “That’s what mothers do.”
We cleaned up after breakfast and walked to Spruce Knob together. The tree-barren hillside was used for many things over the years, but the Snowball Roll was my favorite. I used to race my friends down the hill on plastic sleds as a kid. We’d even had a few community sled challenges over the years, but nothing got Mistletoe excited like the Snowball Roll. I think the tradition behind it was the biggest draw. People in historic towns loved to be part of history, and locals had been chasing their balls down our hill since the early twentieth century.
My great-grandfather held the first event nearly seven decades back when Reindeer Games was still a small and floundering tree farm. The enthusiasm it drew today was a direct result of his dedication to local outreach all those years ago. Grandpa White grew the business to a thriving success when it was bequeathed to him years later, but it was his father who’d made Reindeer Games a real part of our community.
I smiled brightly as we walked, refusing to give my secret tormentor the satisfaction of knowing how much he was getting to me. I also didn’t want anyone oblivious to my recent threats to think I was upset about my canceled wedding, so I put my chin up and my shoulders back.
Unfortunately, my best efforts were under attack by the elements. Cold December winds stung my cheeks and knocked curls into my face. I peeled freshly styled locks from my lips with woolen mittens that seemed to deliver more hair than they removed. My semifashionable outfit was hidden beneath a puffy, knee-length down coat. A thick knitted scarf buried half my face, and a matching hat pressed bouncy brown locks to my ears. Hard to feel cute when I looked like the kid from A Christmas Story.
A few more steps and the low roar of a crowd arrived on the heels of extraloud Christmas tunes piped through massive outdoor speakers. Mom and I exited the narrow treelined path from her house to the site a moment later.
“Holy hotcakes,” I gasped as the scene took shape. People in brightly colored snow gear lined the broad hill on both sides. Food vendors and crowded tables filled the space at the bottom. Two winding lines extended from the area marked as registration. “It looks like the winter Olympics.”
Mom smiled sweetly at the controlled chaos before us. “This has become a town favorite the last few years. More popular than all our other games combined.”
“Do the people kn
ow they’re freezing their bottoms off on Christmas Eve to see a bunch of silly tradition-loving yo-yos roll a snowball two hundred yards?”
“Yep.”
I moseyed along at her side in awe of the spectacle my favorite event had become.
We found Dad in the thick of the food congestion, where he’d nestled a circle of logoed camping chairs between the funnel cake trailer and a steak on a stick vendor. It was a brilliant strategy, really. The trucks were excellent food choices and doubled as barriers against the frigid wind. As an added bonus, we were engulfed in the mouth-watering scents being expelled from both as they cooked.
I only lasted a few minutes in my assigned seat beside Dad. The crowd had me too pumped up to sit around and watch. “I’m going to register.” I kissed his cheek and got in line behind a man dressed like an Olympic bobsledder. I hadn’t been part of the Snowball Roll in years, but it was high time I changed that.
“Next!” The middle-aged woman seated at the registration table gave me a waiver of liability. Her black-and-white coat and hat were sparkly. Her personality was not. “Read it carefully and sign at the X,” she directed in a monotone. I complied, and she drew a check mark in the corner. “You’re in lane one. Stay in lane one.” She peeled the back off a three-by-five-inch sticker with a large number one on it. “Lane one,” she repeated, rubbing the sticker securely onto my sleeve.
My upper body shook with her efforts. “I’m sorry. Which lane?”
She shot me a droll expression and let go of my arm. “Go around the crowd to the top. Don’t climb through the race area to get to the starting line. We don’t want the snow being tromped through before the event begins. It ruins the pictures.”
“Gotcha. Any last advice?” I ventured. She clearly had no idea that I’d won this event six times.
“Yeah. Don’t fall.” She blinked stoic eyes. “You’ll start a pileup, and then we’ll have to call the volunteer EMTs again. It’s Christmas Eve. They deserve the day off, don’t you think?”
I laughed.
She didn’t.
“Sorry. Right. No falling.” I tucked that in my hat for later. Mom hadn’t told me anything about people pileups. I stepped aside to let the next contestant register.
“Sheriff Gray.” I perked. “What are you doing in this line?”
He frowned at the lady briskly sealing a nametag to his coat sleeve. “You made this sound like a big deal, and I’m trying to fit in here. I figured I’d go roll a snowball and make it happen.”
I snorted.
“Any advice?”
I glanced at the stone-faced lady checking his waiver. “Yeah. Don’t fall.” I hooked my arm in his and directed us toward the crowded hillside. We climbed the space behind the spectators slowly, careful not to bump into anyone or accidentally roll their stuff down the incline. Holiday music blared obnoxiously as we drew nearer to the top.
Sheriff Gray chuckled. “This is like a rock concert with really bad seating and music, or maybe the X Games intermission show.”
“It’s definitely something,” I agreed.
He’d swapped his sheriff gear for a black all-weather coat and dark-gray knitted cap. “What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I mumbled, caught staring once again. “It’s just that you look surprisingly at home in the snow. I had you pegged for a city boy.”
“We get plenty of snow in Boston.”
“Yeah, but that’s not what I mean.”
He looked away, dragging his focus over the crowd and the horizon. “So what do we do now?”
I tugged the material of his sleeve for a better look at the number on his sticker. “You’re in lane two. That’s good. I’m in lane one.”
“Yeah? You were hoping to watch me pass you from close range, then?”
“Ha ha.” I edged around the final cluster of onlookers and mounted the crest of the hill where a mass of contestants rolled snowballs behind a red line. Lanes and numbers were spray-painted on the snow but disappeared a few feet away from the starting line. We made our way to the back of the pack and surveyed the competition. People of every age, shape, and size chatted on the hilltop, ready to race to the bottom.
“You go over there,” I told Sheriff Gray. “There are twelve lanes, and the lines will get you started on the right path, but all that goes out the window when everyone’s snowball goes the wrong way fifty yards down the hill.”
He scooped up a wad of snow and pressed it into a hard ball. “How big of a ball do we start with?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “As long as you can hold it in your hands until the whistle.”
He gave me an odd look. “Are you telling me I can start out with any size ball I can carry?”
“Go for it.”
He made a deep throaty noise of superiority, then rolled the little nugget around his feet and watched it grow. “All I’ve got to do is be the first one to the bottom of the hill, right?”
I gathered snow in my mittens. “You have to have your snowball with you when you get there.”
He stopped to stare at the drop-off. “Don’t fall,” he repeated in a whisper. “This is where all the EMTs went last year, isn’t it?”
A bubble of laughter rose in my chest. “Yes. How’d you know?”
He hung his head. “I hear the guys talk about it sometimes, but I’ve never asked. I’m always on the outside looking in around here.”
I grinned. “Not anymore.”
He dropped his snowball onto the ground. “Only in Mistletoe are all the volunteer EMTs called out for a people pileup on Christmas Eve.”
“Any questions?” I asked.
“What happens if more than one person gets down there with their snowballs at the same time? There are a lot of people up here, and I don’t see any timers or judges to make the call.” He squinted in the direction of the food trucks and registration table, all tiny as toys in the distance.
“The crowd will know, but if there’s any doubt as to who got there first, they’ll measure the snowballs.”
He nudged his with his toe. It was already the size of a basketball.
I molded my snow into a smooth sphere, then packed it tighter and bigger until the music cut out and Cookie’s faux British accent echoed through the network of outdoor speakers.
“Merry Christmas Eve!” she said. “The White family and I would like to welcome you to the seventy-fifth annual Snowball Roll! For those of you who’ve been here before, cheerio and welcome back!”
The crowd erupted in applause.
“For those who are new, welcome!” She opened her arms dramatically. “Now I’d like to ask the contestants to lift their snowballs overhead and prepare for the whistle. First one to get their ball to the bottom in one piece is the winner. Everyone else is a loser!” She dragged the last word into two syllables.
A round of feedback and white noise erupted as Mom wrangled the mic away from her. “On your marks,” Mom said.
The whistle blew, and the horde of contestants started down the hill.
“What about ‘get set’ and ‘go’?” Sheriff Gray asked.
“Go!” I yelled. I launched forward with my ball at my feet, passing a number of slow starters and leaving the sheriff firmly in my dust. Players came and went in my periphery, catching up and falling back in intervals as they struggled with their snowball amid unexpected drifts and speedy competition.
The crowd chanted and hooted until I felt the cadence of their voices in my chest. Go! Go! Go! Go!
I leapt over challengers’ balls and rejoiced inwardly when mine missed racing-human obstacles, pulling me ahead of the pack in no time. The process was exhilarating, freeing, an incredible high. Until Sheriff Gray appeared at my side, guiding a ball the size of a boulder with his instep like a soccer pro instead of a small-town sheriff chasing half a snowman.
My squatty ball hadn’t grown that much. Every kick I gave the sucker seemed to send half of it scattering back into flakes. How was he doing it? More important, how
was he passing me? We were approaching the second dip in the gently rolling hill, a naturally formed halfway mark, and the hill only got steeper moving forward. If he didn’t slow down, then I couldn’t slow down, and the odds of losing control would grow. Snowball Roll wasn’t a game of speed like everyone thought. It was a game of strategy. When everyone else lost their snowball, footing, or both, I’d jog past and claim the victory with calm control.
A trio of contestants up ahead tangled their legs together and collapsed. I dashed right with my ball, deftly avoiding the mess, but Sheriff Gray’s megamonstrosity collided and burst against one fallen player’s head.
“Sorry!” he yelled, steering the remains of his lopsided chunk back down the hill. “Move it, White,” he called, coming up fast behind me. “Unless you want to be run down on your own hill.”
I stopped short to startle him.
He hollered and lost his footing. The hunk of snow he called a ball clunked to a stop, and Sheriff Gray sprawled belly first onto the ground, skidding slowly toward the finish line.
I laughed, unsure if I should help him up when I was so close to the end.
“Watch out!” a woman wailed behind me. I turned to judge the situation, and she plowed into me, sending me tail over teakettles down the hill. My ball was gone. The ear-splitting scream that streaked out of me was enough to drown out the obnoxious holiday music overhead.
A hush seemed to roll over the frozen crowd as I jetted past them, face down, arms wide, and flailing. My ball was gone. The woman who’d leveled me had collided with a local cameraman and thudded to a stop. Meanwhile, the more I wiggled and protested my predicament, the faster I went. There was no way to avoid the handful of players still upright and ahead of me. Snow sprayed my face as I clipped their feet and ankles with my outstretched arms. They landed on their backsides as I propelled ahead.
Cookie stood frozen in my path.
“Move!” I called, choking on ice and snow. There was less than a few seconds left until certain impact, and I was twice her size and moving at a ridiculous speed. My legs caught on a stalled or lost snowball, which spun me sideways. I covered my eyes and dug my toes into the ground, praying for purchase and hoping I didn’t kill her. The effort forced me into a clunky log roll. I immediately regretted all the breakfast bacon.
Twelve Slays of Christmas Page 21