by Meera Lester
Sinclair splayed his fingers on the table. He leaned forward and looked directly at Abby. “Gary Lynch followed you and Paola Varela to your place, with the intent to burn the house down with you both in it. Of course, Lynch was high on drugs, so he torched everything around the house first. Drug use was what Lynch and Scott Thompson had in common. Scott depended on drugs that he got from Lynch and didn’t want Chef Emilio Varela to expose that. Through his criminal connections, Lynch facilitated Thompson getting the drugs he needed to support his addiction.”
Chief Bob Allen stood up. He faced Abby. “The important thing to take away from all this is that Lynch underestimated your courage, Mackenzie.” Stroking the sparse mustache he’d grown, the police chief exchanged a look with Sinclair and then again addressed Abby. “So you know how these citizen merit awards work, don’t you? Sinclair, here, thinks we ought to give you one.”
Abby sat stunned. Her hands, covered in adhesive bandages, remained folded in her lap. “Seriously?” She shot a surprised look at her former boss. Dumbfounded, she glanced at Kat, who was clearly trying not to smile. Then at Otto, who’d leaned over to pick something up off the floor.
Turning to leave, Chief Bob Allen said, “Don’t hold your breath, Mackenzie.”
Abby struggled to sort through conflicting feelings. “Well . . . thanks,” she called out, but the chief had already stepped through the door into the hallway.
Lieutenant Sinclair pushed back from the chair and stood. “We’re done here.” He stretched out his hand. “Thanks for coming in.”
Abby extended her bandaged hands. Her thoughts flashed on Lieutenant Sinclair’s stolen service revolver. Abby had seen Gary Lynch casing cars in the hospital parking lot. Should she tell Sinclair or not? Most assuredly, he’d search Gary Lynch’s great-aunt’s house and the local pawn shops for his missing service revolver. A thought intruded. When a cop thinks you are trying to tell him how to do his job, the prudent thing to do is keep your mouth shut. Abby decided this was one of those times. She waited until Otto had left behind Sinclair, and then she and Kat tarried a moment longer.
“Your leads and theories helped us put this all together, Abby. But it was Chief Bob Allen’s idea to give you the award. He has his reasons, I guess, for putting it on Sinclair, but that’ll be our little secret. So . . . the holiday tree lighting happens just after dark today. Then the whole downtown flips the switch on the streetlights and decorations. Otto and I are going for a slice of pizza over at the Black Witch. Join us?”
Abby checked the wall clock for the time and thought about Kat’s proposition. “Well, that’s just an hour or so from now. I guess I could stick around.” Mentally, she thought of things to do to kill a little time. “I suppose I could fetch my business mail from the post office box and stop in at the Pantry Hut to look around at their holiday offerings.”
“Wait until I sign out,” said Kat. “I’ll go with you. The walking will do us good.”
Abby’s expression brightened. “Deal.”
* * *
At five o’clock, Abby and Kat, already in a holiday mood thanks to a couple of glasses of champagne they’d had at Kat’s house after hitting the post office, stood admiring the hand-painted dinner plates featuring nostalgic holiday images in shades of green and red and gold that the Pantry Hut had on display.
“Oh, how lovely,” Abby said, drawing Kat to her side. “Wouldn’t these look stunning on a buffet table, especially under candlelight or by a blazing fireplace?”
“Hello, Abby. Fancy meeting you here,” a female voice called out.
Abby spun around to face Olivia. Standing next to her was Lucas. Gripped by giddiness, Abby reminded herself to breathe. Under Lucas’s steady gaze, she was relieved to be dressed in the professional attire that she’d worn for her meeting with Sinclair, instead of her usual flannel and jeans. Then, realizing Kat and Olivia had never met, Abby introduced them.
“And, of course, Lucas and Kat already know each other,” said Abby, secretly pleased that her gorgeous girlfriend hadn’t claimed Lucas as one of her conquests.
“Our civic leaders always light a holiday tree on the first weekend after Thanksgiving. We’re just heading over to the downtown park to meet a friend of ours and watch the festivities,” said Kat. “Why don’t you all join us?”
“Oh, I’m just here to pick up a trifle bowl I ordered,” said Olivia. “And then I’ve got a little gathering to attend. Maybe Lucas will.”
Abby watched as Lucas eyed Olivia before he looked at Kat. Then he turned his attention to Abby, gazing intently at her. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he said.
“We’d better get going, or Otto will think we’ve bailed on him,” said Kat.
Moments later, after walking to the police station, where Otto was waiting, the foursome joined the crowd that had gathered in the nearby park, under the decorated blue spruce. It towered forty-five feet into the night sky, under a sliver of the moon, which shined a pale light over the town. The crowd listened as a choral group from the Church of the Holy Names sang in four-part harmony “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.”
Kat’s waiter friend from the Root Cellar also showed up. He found them near the edge of the park, next to the street where several horses and buggies waited with drivers at the ready. Everyone awaited the flip of the switch that would mark the start of the holiday shopping season in their small town. With the anticipation of a good season before them, the downtown merchants would welcome all comers into their shops this night with markdowns that they served up along with cups of spiced cider and cookies, candy canes, and hot pretzels.
Abby felt Lucas’s hand slip around hers. “Shall we take a ride, Abby?”
Her impulse was to hold back, protest that the lights would be turned on in a moment, that the festivities would soon start. But then again, why was she hesitating? What was she afraid of? When had Lucas ever asked her to do something so spontaneous and romantic? She heard herself say, “Why not?”
At the carriage, Abby realized there was no dignified way to step up into it in a pencil skirt. Without a word, Lucas lifted her up into the seat. He then mounted the step to take his place beside her. The driver, dressed in a top hat and tails and looking as though he’d stepped from the cover of a Currier and Ives holiday card, spread a blanket over them. After taking his position in the driver’s seat, he soon gave a shake to the reins. The horse pulled forward into an easy clip-clop, clip-clop.
They had just passed Cineflicks, the Black Witch, and Edna Mae’s quilt and antique shop when Lucas whispered, “You’re shivering. Come close.” He slid his arm around her and scooted her closer. “Not hurting you, am I?”
“No.” Abby’s pulse quickened. Butterflies stirred in her stomach. Breathing in the scent of his body, perfumed by a woodsy spice and leather cologne, Abby felt her senses reeling. She leaned into his body’s warmth and grasped the blanket trim.
Putting his hand over hers, Lucas said, “I’ve thought about this for a long time. . . .” His voice trailed off, as though he needed time to collect his thoughts. Filling the silence were the jingling bells on the horse’s harness and the clip-clop of its hooves. Then, in a gentle tone barely above a whisper, he said, “We’ve let too many seasons pass, you and I. And not a word between us about how we feel.”
Abby took in a ragged breath. A warm glow of anticipation spread through her. Such a serious tone. Where was he going with this?
“I’ve got a confession. Since my wife died, I’ve filled the void with ranch work. But these places we love—well, a house . . . a barn . . . a field—there’s a certain longing inside that they can’t fill. Agree?” He impaled her with his eyes.
“Yes, I know what you mean, Lucas,” said Abby. “I feel the same.” Excitement mounted within her. Something told her if she made a move right now, he’d kiss her. Heart skipping wildly, Abby squeezed his hand. Lucas gathered her into his arms. His lips caressed her forehead, and then he moved his mouth over hers. The touch of his lips was slow an
d gentle, until it was smoldering. He held her close to his heart. Abby savored the dreamy, intimate silence until the horse jostled them slightly apart when it made a turn to head back up Main Street.
Lucas pointed out the tree in the park. It shimmered in holiday splendor. High above the tree in the night sky, Abby saw a shooting star, a predictor her grandmother Rose would have said of a seasonal shift and good things to come. She and Lucas were on the threshold of something new and exciting and unknown. This was new ground to furrow, new seeds to plant for the seasons to come. And for what it was worth, her Scots-Irish grandmother was almost always right.
“Come for breakfast,” she blurted out.
“Thought you’d never ask,” he said with a grin.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, I must thank my fantastic agent, Paula Munier, without whom my Henny Penny Farmette series would not have found its wonderful home at Kensington Publishing. To my brilliant editor Michaela Hamilton, whose unwavering enthusiasm and insights in shaping the books are always spot on, I will forever be grateful. Thanks also to Rosemary Silva and Robin Cook for the excellent copyediting work and incredible attention to detail on the manuscript and galleys. Thanks also to the hardworking publicity team: Karen Auerbach, Morgan Elwell, Lauren Jernigan, and everyone else at Kensington who has contributed to making my Henny Penny Farmette mystery series a success.
I’m blessed to have a phenomenal group of professional writers in my critique group. Writing a novel a year means that for many months at a time, I face the blank page alone. But I know that there is an invisible cord connecting me to my Scribe Tribe, and I have only to tug on it for help. For your tremendous support, insights, and feedback, I owe huge thanks to Mardeene Burr Mitchell, Paula Munier, Susan Reynolds, John Waters, and Indi Zeleny.
Thanks to Katerina Lorenzatos Makris for a lifelong friendship, as well as valuable tips and insights about dogs. I don’t know anyone who knows more about rescuing our four-legged, furry friends.
I am deeply grateful to Thomas O’Neill, a forensic anthropologist and (ret.) San Francisco Police Department captain, who helped me understand the world of bullets and bones. A big hug and thanks to Sergeant Aaron Pomeroy, who continues to provide me with an invaluable lens for viewing law enforcement issues in my stories. You answered my every text as fast as I could send it. To both Tom and Aaron, know that I sincerely appreciate your help, and if, inadvertently, I have made any mistakes involving the workings of a small-town police department, procedural elements, or other law enforcement aspects, they are all mine.
Thanks to my daughter, Heather Pomeroy, for sharing stories about her life as a paramedic and evidence technician in a small-town police department. As always, these stories provide a plethora of ideas. Thanks also to Madison and Savannah for their suggestions, story ideas, and infectious laughter, which kept me going in times of fatigue. I’m thrilled you both are such avid readers.
A big thanks to my beekeeper neighbors Botros (Peter) Kemel and Wajiha (Jill) Nasrallah. Your encyclopedic knowledge about honeybees is what provided me with the impetus and confidence to start my own apiary. And your praise and promotion of my homemade jams is opening doors to new opportunities, for which I am grateful.
A hug of appreciation goes to my son Joshua for all the tech support needed for maintenance of my Web sites and social media platforms.
A big hug to my Dominican-born architect husband, Carlos J. Carvajal, for aspects of my stories that involve buildings and for the Spanish language translations. You deserve credit also for being one of my recipe taste testers.
For her wonderful ideas and support for recycling, gardening, jam making, fine wine, world travel, and all things home crafted, I offer my heartfelt thanks to Jeanne Lederer, heir and owner of the property behind the real Henny Penny Farmette.
A huge thank-you goes to talented writer, editor, and friend A. Bronwyn Llewellyn, who gifted me her mother’s collection of mysteries and an unfinished quilt in an orange box (a mystery in itself), which started me down the path into this story.