Candy Canes & Corpses

by Abby L. Vandiver

  “Why the rush?” said Char, her brow creased.

  “Because there’s something I need to show you.” Tess looked down at her dog laying by her friend’s feet and said, “Goober, come.”

  Goober immediately jumped up and trotted over to the Durango, and as soon as Tess opened the back door, he jumped in.

  Char tipped the mug back, finishing the last bit of her latte, and set it on the table. “Okay,” she said, standing up, “I’ll be right behind you.”

  Maybe it was just Tess’s imagination trying to make something out of nothing, but as she drove home, she just couldn’t get the pop-up book and all the similarities out of her mind.

  “It can’t just be coincidence, can it?” she muttered and pushed her foot down on the gas, causing the Durango to speed up as she sailed over the bridge leading out of town.

  Ten minutes later, Tess pulled into her circular driveway and parked. She let Goober out of the back and grabbed the briefcase from behind the driver’s seat just as Char pulled up behind her and parked. Without waiting for her friend, she scurried up the sidewalk and unlocked the front door, leaving it open after she entered.

  “What is going on?” said Char a moment later as she closed the front door behind her. “Tess? Where are you?”

  “I’m in the office,” came Tess’s muffled voice.

  By the time Char walked in there, Tess already had the book out of the briefcase and sitting on the desk next to the sack of sandwiches.

  “What’s that?” said Char, walked up to the desk. She leaned over and stared at the book.

  “It’s a book,” said Tess.

  “I can see that,” said Char with a hint of sarcasm. “Where’d you get it?”

  “I found it in the attic last night when I was putting away some boxes.”

  “It looks old,” said Char.

  “It is,” said Tess. “Printed in 1898 by some publishing company called Heavenly Press.” She carefully opened the book to the first page and pointed to the company name printed along the bottom of the page. “I looked online last night, and I couldn’t find anything anywhere about this publisher. No other books printed by them, no information about other authors who might have had a book published by them . . . No nothing.” She took in a breath. “It’s like it never existed.”

  Char looked at the book. “Well, clearly it existed at some point in time, right?”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Tess mysteriously as she turned the page to the first poem.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Just read that,” said Tess.

  Char cleared her throat and read, ‘“Tis the season for holiday cheer, a time to spend with those so dear. A tree, some lights, where carolers sing, and messages arrive on an angel’s wing. So believe in what you cannot see. Trust that what will be will be. Just turn the page and know ‘tis true, a Christmas Miracle a-waits for you.” She looked at Tess and shrugged her shoulders. “So?”

  “So . . .” Tess pulled the newspaper from her briefcase and opened it to the front page with the photograph of the missing woman holding her painting. She turned the page of the book to the first 3-D image.

  Char squealed. “It’s an old pop-up book! I remember having a couple of those when I was a little girl.”

  Tess put the paper side-by-side to the book and said, “Now read the poem underneath it, and tell me what you see.”

  Char looked down at the poem underneath the pop-up and read, “‘On the first day of Christmas, a tree with painted bristles. On its branches, a partridge dances. It sings and chirps and whistles.” She looked up at Tess with a confused expression on her face. “I don’t understand; what am I supposed to see?”

  Tess jabbed the newspaper with her finger and said, “That’s Rachael Warren . . .”

  “Yes, I know who it is.”

  “Look at the painting she’s holding and then look at the one in the book.” Char’s brow creased and when she didn’t respond, Tess blurted out, “They look almost identical!”

  “So?” said Char, shrugging her shoulders.

  Tess turned the page to the next pop-up of the two birds and read the poem out loud. ‘“On the second day of Christmas, a pair of turtle doves. In fields of wheat, the two did meet. Betrothed to the one he loves.” She looked at Char. “Max Dovelin and Rachael Warren met at Wheaton’s deli under that big painting of the wheat field.” She looked back at the book. ‘“In fields of wheat, the two did meet.”’

  Char shook her head. “I still don’t see what you’re getting at.”

  Tess flipped to the third pop-up.

  “Aww, how cute,” said Char. “They’re chickens.”

  Tess read the poem out loud. “On the third day of Christmas, three chickens en francais. A place for fare, beyond compare. And the ambiance, c’est parfait!” She looked at her friend, her eyes wide. “Max was going to ask Rachael to marry him at Trois Poules!”

  “You mean the French restaurant?”

  “Yes!” said Tess her voice elevated. “In English, Trois Poules means three chickens.”

  Char shrugged her shoulders. “So?”

  “So . . .” said Tess and took in a breath, “Rachael’s painting looks exactly like the first pop-up. They met at Wheaton’s Deli while sitting underneath that large painting of a wheat field, which is just like the second pop-up. And Max had planned on asking her to marry him at Trois Poules, which is like the third pop-up.”

  “Call me dense,” said Char, letting out a sigh, “but I still don’t see what you’re getting at.”

  “Three chickens,” said Tess, sounding a little more frustrated, “a place for fare, beyond compare. Fare is another word for food.” She thought about what Skye had said to her. “And they’re famous for their fruit parfait.” She paused. “C’est parfait!” When Char didn’t respond, Tess threw her hands in the air. “Don’t you see the similarities?”

  “I suppose so, but . . .”

  “They can’t all be coincidental,” said Tess.

  “What exactly are you saying?” said Char.

  Tess flipped back to the first poem. “A Christmas miracle a-waits for you.” She looked back at her friend and said, “What if these are clues?”

  “Clues to what?” said Char.

  “The missing woman,” said Tess.

  “Oh, come on . . . You’re not serious, are you?”

  “Yes, I am,” insisted Tess. “I think there might be something to this.”

  “Well, if you really think that, then I would say you’re being ridiculous, and that you probably need to see a shrink,” said Char.

  “I don’t need a shrink!” Tess slapped her hands down to her sides. “What I need is for my best friend to have an open mind and . . .”

  “I’m going to stop you right there,” said her friend, holding up her hand. “I’m as open-minded as the next person. But I’m telling you, there’s nothing mysterious going on here. It’s just an old book, that’s all.”

  “But what if it’s not,” said Tess. She told her about how the book mysteriously showed up in the kitchen last night and how it ended up in her briefcase this morning. “I never put it in there.”

  “You must have and then forgot that you did,” said Char. “You were probably tired from unpacking, and you did it without even thinking about it. It’s the only explanation.”

  “No,” said Tess, shaking her head vigorously, “I didn’t! And I know it wasn’t there this morning when I put my tax files in there, otherwise I would have seen it.”

  “It probably was and you just missed it,” said Char. “It didn’t just magically appear inside that old briefcase of yours.”

  “Well, what about the pop-ups, then?”

  “What about them?” said Char, sounding as though she was beginning to lose her patience.

  “Think about it,” said Tess, “Rachael’s painting, fields of wheat, Wheaton’s, Dove, Dovelin, betrothed to the one he loves, three chickens, Trois Poules . . . Don’t you see,
Char? There are too many similarities to be coincidental.” She picked up the book and held it up. “What if this thing really is magical, and it’s trying to tell us something?”

  Char took the book out of Tess’s hand and held it, turning it over a couple of times as if studying it. Finally, she said, “Granted, it’s a very nice book, maybe even valuable . . .” She set it back on the desk and looked at Tess. “But magical?” She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t know that for sure,” said Tess. She snatched the book off of the desk and clutched it protectively to her chest.

  “Tess,” said Char, her voice softening, as though talking to a child, “I know how much you miss Howard. It’s been tough on you since he passed. Buying this old house and all . . .” She let out a breath. “I get that you’re trying to find some sort of meaning in your life now that he’s gone. But come on, be realistic . . .”

  “This has nothing to do with Howard,” said Tess, her words curt. “There is something to this. I feel it. And you would, too, if you would just stop being a Negative Nelly for one second and be open to what it could be!”

  “I’m not a negative-”

  “Aah,” said Tess, holding up her hand and stopping her. “Don’t even try to deny it, Char. You know as well as I do that you tend to gravitate toward a worst-case scenario.” She paused. “Just like you did when I bought this house. You only saw the negative in it, that it needed work, that it was too big for me and too scary, and that it could be a money pit. You never once saw the potential in it.” She gently set the book back down on the desk and dropped her hands to her side. “Just once I wish you would try to see the positive in something.” She gestured to the book. “Like that. Maybe there really is something to it. Maybe there really is a Christmas miracle just waiting for us.”

  Char grew quiet and stared at her friend for several moments. Finally, she pulled in a breath through her nose, let it out and said, “Well, I guess there’s only one way to find out then, right?”

  She slowly turned the page to the next pop-up.

  Chapter Seven

  They both stared at a 3-D cardboard image of four black birds sitting side-by-side on a branch. Over their heads, a canopy of leaves varying in shape, size, and shades of green seemed to be sheltering them. Beneath the tree with the perched birds, a rabbit, a fox, and a deer seemed to be resting quietly in the lush grass.

  Below the pop-up was another poem:

  On the fourth day of Christmas,

  Four birds, their feather’s colly.

  No hunters nigh, now free to fly,

  Among the spruce and holly.

  Char looked at Tess and said, “What does colly mean?”

  Tess opened up her laptop and typed in the word ‘colly.’ A moment later, she said, “According to Wikipedia, it’s a regional English expression used in the late 1800’s to mean ‘black.’” She perused the site and then looked up from the computer. “Apparently, ‘colly’ was originally used in the Twelve Days of Christmas verse back in 1780. It went through several variations of the word until it was changed to ‘calling birds’ in 1909.”

  “So, since the book was published in 1898, it may not be referring to the Christmas verse at all, right?” said Char, looking at Tess.

  “I’m not sure . . .” said Tess, staring at the pop-up. She read the second line again. ‘“No hunters nigh, now free to fly.’ What do you suppose that means?”

  Char shrugged. “Well, if you take it literally, it means that blackbirds are free to fly among the spruce and holly because there aren’t any hunters nearby to shoot them down.”

  “But only blackbirds?” Tess wrinkled her brow. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  Char shrugged. “Maybe it’s like the field of wheat. The two didn’t actually meet in a field of wheat. They met under that painting of the wheat. Maybe the black birds in the pop-up don’t literally mean blackbirds.” She looked over at Tess. “Maybe they mean something else.”

  “If the poem isn’t referring to actual blackbirds, then what do you think it means?”

  “I don’t know,” said Char, looking closer at the little cardboard animals sitting under the tree, “but it appears that these guys feel pretty safe, too.”

  “That’s true,” said Tess, peering down at them. “And where might an animal feel safe and be free from hunters?”

  “At a zoo, maybe? Or some kind of wildlife sanctuary?” said Char, looking at her.

  Tess stared at her friend for a moment and then her eyes widened as though a light bulb had just gone off in her brain. “I just finished a trail map for the Wild Wood Forest and Nature Preserve, you know, the one off of Partridgeville Road. That can’t be just a coincidence.”

  “Is it among the spruce and holly?” said Char with a laugh.

  “Char,” said Tess, “this is serious.”

  “Hey, I think I’m handling this pretty well, considering . . .” Char tilted her head. “So what types of trees are at the preserve?”

  “I don’t know,” said Tess. “When I draw a map, I label the specific trails, rivers, and other landmarks on it, but when it comes to the trees, I just use a generic symbol.” She pulled up a new Google search on her computer and typed in Wild Wood Forest and Nature Preserve. She clicked on the first site and a moment later sucked in her breath. “No way . . .”

  “What?” said Char.

  “I honestly didn’t know this,” said Tess.

  “Know what?” said Char, her voice elevating.

  Tess looked over at her friend. “You’ll never guess what the name of the road is leading into the preserve.”

  “It’s not Partridgeville Road? Which that in itself is a rather peculiar name, considering . . .” she muttered.

  “No. You turn off of Partridegville Road onto—get this—Blackbird Lane.”

  “No way!” said Char.

  “Now do you believe me?” said Tess. She looked back down at the pop-up of the birds. “I’m telling you, there is something special about this book.”

  Char stared down at it. “Okay, I’ll admit, there does seem to be too many similarities to be random. She shrugged her shoulders and looked back at Tess. “But what does it all mean? The painting, Wheaton’s deli, the French restaurant, the nature preserve . . .”

  “I don’t know yet,” said Tess, “but if it really does have to do with Rachael’s disappearance, then I think we need to go check these places out, maybe ask some questions.” She took in a breath. “We’ve already been to Wheaton’s deli, so we know that the second verse has to do with Rachael and Max meeting . . .”

  “We suspect it has to do with them,” corrected Char. “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “Okay, suspect,” said Tess. “And we know that Max and Rachael got engaged at . . .”

  “We suspect they got engaged,” said Char. “Again, we don’t know that for sure. Did the barista at Wheaton’s confirm that?”

  “Well, no. She didn’t.”

  “Then you can’t say that any of it is for certain.”

  “Fine!” Tess was beginning to get exasperated. “We suspect they got engaged at the French restaurant, and we suspect she went missing sometime after that.”

  “Rachael’s been missing for what, about twenty-four hours?” said Char.

  “That we know of,” said Tess. “The news said that Max reported her missing yesterday sometime in the evening. But that doesn’t mean she went missing then.”

  “That’s right,” said Char. “According to the news, the boyfriend told the police that he had taken her to the French restaurant on Friday night then dropped her off at her home, waited all day Saturday, and all day yesterday, and when he didn’t hear from her last night, he called the police.” She paused and then wrinkled her brow. “Hmm . . .”

  “Hmm what?” said Tess.

  “I was just thinking . . .”

  “Thinking what?” said Tess.

  “Don’t you find it a little odd that a man who
had planned on proposing to a woman would wait two whole days to go to her house when he couldn’t get in touch with her?”

  “Yes, I suppose that does seem odd,” said Tess. She paused. “Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?” said Char.

  Tess looked over at her friend. “Unless she said ‘No.’”

  The two women stared at each other for a moment until Char said, “I think we need to take a drive out to Trois Poules and to the Wild Wood Forest and Nature Preserve.”

  “I think so, too.” Tess closed the lid on her computer and yelled out, “Goober! Let’s go for a ride.”

  Immediately, they heard the clicking of toenails against the hard wood floor as Goober, coming from some other part of the house, trotted into the office and sat at Tess’s feet, allowing her to clip his leash onto his collar.

  “We should probably take this,” said Char, closing the book and cradling it in her arms. “Just in case.”

  Chapter Eight

  Trois Poules, once a chicken farm back in the 1950’s—hence the name—was situated just on the outskirts of town. This charming red and white farmhouse-turned-restaurant was known for its high-end, French country, farm-to-table cuisine at affordable prices. It was one of the few places in Whispering River that drew people in from all of the surrounding counties.

  Tess drove into the parking lot and pulled right up to the front door. With only a couple of cars there, it appeared they had arrived in between the lunch and dinner crowd.

  The two women got out of the car, leaving Goober in the back with his nose sticking out of the partially opened window, and walked up the sidewalk to the front door.

  “Do we actually know what we’re doing here?” asked Char, looking over at Tess.

  “I guess we’re here to ask questions,” said Tess.

  “Like what?”

  Tess shrugged. “I don’t have it scripted out, if that’s what you’re asking. I figured that since the book led us here, the right questions would, I don’t know, just come to us.”

  “Let’s hope it works that way,” mumbled Char.