Twelve Slays of Christmas Read online

  Also available from Jacqueline Frost

  Kitty Couture Mysteries (writing as Julie Chase)

  Cat Got Your Secrets

  Cat Got Your Cash

  Cat Got Your Diamonds

  Twelve Slays of Christmas

  A CHRISTMAS TREE FARM MYSTERY

  Jacqueline Frost

  NEW YORK

  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.

  ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-68331-317-5

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-68331-318-2

  ISBN (ePDF): 978-1-68331-320-5

  Cover illustration by Richard Grote

  www.crookedlanebooks.com

  Crooked Lane Books

  34 West 27th St., 10th Floor

  New York, NY 10001

  First Edition: October 2017

  To my parents for providing me with a lifetime of magical holidays

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  “I have two cups of Santa’s cinnamon tea, one spicy apple cider, and a peppermint twist hot cocoa,” I said, setting the mugs on the table surrounded by rosy-cheeked women wearing matching holiday sweaters. They leaned forward at the sight of my mother’s specialty drinks. I slipped cinnamon sticks into the tea and cider, then popped a candy cane into the cocoa.

  The women smacked their lips. Soft sugary scents wafted into the air as they sipped and stirred.

  I tucked the empty tray under my arm and placed a basket of warm cookies at the table’s center. “Three saint snickerdoodles and one Christmas chocolate chip, all fresh from the oven.”

  “Ohh,” they sang.

  “This place really is magical,” the redhead said. “Is that necklace for sale in the craft shop?”

  I lifted my fingertips to the faux gumdrop on my collarbone. “Oh, no. This is something I made.”

  “I see.” Steam crawled up her glasses as she savored her hot cider. “That’s too bad. It’s lovely. Whimsical.” She seemed to search for a better word. “Enchanted.” She smiled, satisfied. “Your brochures aren’t lying. Reindeer Games Tree Farm is a holiday paradise. And you really have games! We’re coming back tomorrow to play Bling That Gingerbread, and I also want to try Build a Big Frosty. I was always a whiz at snowmen.”

  “We love the activities,” her seatmate agreed. She smoothed a wrinkled flyer on the tabletop. “Twelve Days of Reindeer Games. It’s brilliant. Maybe we’ll extend our stay and play all twelve games. We’re retired. We can do that.”

  I pressed my palms to the table and smiled conspiratorially. “If you’re here on Christmas Eve, don’t miss the Snowball Roll. Everyone in town shows up to line the big sled run on both sides and cheer as players race to the bottom with their snowballs. The little sucker is small at the top of the hill and big enough to bowl you over at the bottom.”

  The lady with the cocoa fluttered her eyelids and moaned as whipped cream and sprinkles clung to her upper lip. “I can’t believe we’ve been missing this our whole lives. This might be our first trip to Reindeer Games, but it won’t be our last.”

  “No,” one woman in the group vowed. “Certainly not,” another said.

  I smiled brighter. “Wonderful. I look forward to seeing you at the games this week and maybe again next Christmas.” The reality of my statement brought a wave of pain that stole my breath. How do I know where I’ll be in a year? I didn’t plan on being here now.

  I should’ve been in Portland, Maine, counting the days until my Christmas Eve wedding, but my ex-fiancé had broken it off three nights ago. He claimed he’d met someone more “Zen” at the gym. I had a feeling that was guy slang for younger and hotter, but I didn’t ask. I rented a moving van and drove home to Mistletoe, Maine, where no one said dumb things like “Zen.”

  The front door swung open, smacking me with an icy burst of wind and snow. Patrons tugged their frocks a little tighter without missing a beat of conversation or a bite of their warm desserts.

  A woman I recognized as Paula Beech from the maple farm next door stomped snow off her boots and scanned the room. We’d never met officially. She was older than my parents, but I’d seen her around while I was growing up. She waved at a group of locals sharing a table. “Well, she fined me. Can you believe it?” she asked them. She shook snow from her shoulders and shoved the door closed with a little effort. “She fined me fifty-seven dollars for painting the gift shop a shade of pink that wasn’t listed in her goofy historical code book.”

  Her friends scoffed appropriately. One pushed a communal tray of reindeer gingerbread cookies in her direction and asked, “What on earth has gotten into her?”

  “She’s gone ’round the bend. That’s what’s happened.” Paula loosened her scarf and shook more snow onto the floor. “Here’s what I’ve got to say: I’m not paying.” She fell into the empty seat between her friends.

  I went to take her order. “Hello, I’m Holly. Can I get you something from the Hearth tonight?” The Hearth was the name of the tree farm’s café, but I couldn’t resist a good play on words. A surprising number of people didn’t get it.

  “Coffee,” the newcomer grumped. “Black. I need to stay up all night plotting my revenge.”

  “Is there anything I can help with?” I smiled, hoping to diffuse the sour mood before it spread to our other customers.

  “Yeah. If you see Margaret Fenwick in here, charge her double, or add fifty-seven dollars to her bill and tell her it’s for wearing the wrong color hat.”

  “Ah.” Fenwick. The conversation suddenly made more sense. There was an endless battle in Mistletoe between shop owners and the Historical Society. Local proprietors enjoyed leasing property in our picturesque town, but they didn’t like all the rules and regulations that came with it. So they pushed the limits, and the Historical Society pushed back. A member of the Fenwick family had been president of that society for as long as I could remember.

  I went to the counter for Paula’s coffee.

  Delores Cutter climbed onto a stool and greeted me with a smile. “Holly White! Look at you. Beautiful as always. You cut your hair.”

  “Hi, Cookie.” I wrapped her in a big hug. Delores’s late husband, Theodore Cutter, gave her the nickname because she loved to bake. I’d called her Cookie Cutter for at least ten years before I got the joke. “Thank you. It�
��s nice to be home.”

  “Is that your moving truck outside the guesthouse?”

  “Yep. I got in last night.”

  “How was the trip?”

  “Good.” Though it was mildly unsettling to know everything I owned fit into a truck small enough for me to drive from Portland to Mistletoe on one tank of gas. Cindy Lou Who, my rescue cat, had ridden shotgun.

  “I’m so glad you’re here. Did I say that?” Cookie asked. Her curly white hair formed a cloud on her head, and her big blue eyes seemed trapped in a state of enthusiasm. Cookie had seen and done things I couldn’t imagine. She’d been a cigarette girl in Vegas, met Frank Sinatra, and outlived two husbands. The year after I’d left for college, she’d won the state lottery. Cookie had reasons to be excited.

  “No.” I smiled. “You said you liked my hair.” I curled a swath of poker-straight locks behind one ear. I’d always worn it just below my shoulder blades, but by the time I hit Mistletoe, it was six inches shorter. I’d spotted a roadside beauty parlor near Westbrook and pulled in on a lark. I needed a change, so I left thirty dollars and half my hair behind.

  “What’s new?” I asked, enjoying the twinkle in her eyes and warm, easy smile on her lips.

  “Oh, not much. I saw Margaret Fenwick out front arguing with the reindeer keeper. She says your tree farm needs a livestock permit for those guys. I tried to stick up for them, but she threatened my Theodore with the same citation.”

  I rocked back on my heels. “Your late husband?”

  “My goat.” She deposited her hat and gloves on the counter. “I named him after my husband. He’s a pygmy, and he wears a nice beard just like Theodore the first did. He’s not livestock, for goodness’ sake. He’s family.”

  I smiled. “Shame on her.”

  “Darn tootin’.” Cookie hummed along to “Jingle Bell Rock” and tapped her fingers against the countertop. “How about you fix me a peppermint tea with a shot of Schnapps?”

  An unexpected laugh bubbled through me. “How about just the tea?”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” Cookie said. “You know I was only kidding.” She pulled her giant quilted handbag into her lap and cracked it open. “I brought my own Schnapps.”

  “Ho ho ho!” My dad’s booming voice from the opposite direction had me turning. “Merry Christmas!” He patted his belly and arched his back. An enormous burlap sack hung over one shoulder.

  I rushed Paula’s black coffee to the table by the door.

  “How’s my little girl?” Dad asked. He dropped the bag and wrapped me in his icy coat sleeves. Snow toppled from his hat onto my hair.

  “I’m wonderful, thank you for asking.”

  Dad was my personal Paul Bunyan. The very definition of a woodsman. A lumberjack by trade, nature, and birthright. After fifty years of rolling logs and cutting timber, Dad was the size of a barn and just as hard to knock around. But he gave the best hugs. He released me with a kiss on the head.

  I might’ve gotten my face and creative aptitudes from Mom, but my height and outgoing personality were all Dad. I wasn’t six one like him, but at five eight, I had almost six inches on Mom. The brown eyes and hair came from both.

  “Hi, Daddy. What can I get you?”

  “I’d love a little renewed feeling in my fingers,” he teased. “Maybe also in my toes.”

  “How about a coffee?”

  He peeled his heavy gloves off with a groan. “I accept.”

  “Excellent.” I went to get a mug. “What’s in the bag? That thing’s as big as me.”

  “Row markers.” He wiggled the drawstring open and dragged out a piece of wood three feet long. It had been painted like a candy cane and sharpened at one end. He turned it over in his hands to reveal three letters stenciled onto the front: FIR. “I’ve got pines and spruces too. Your mom says these will make it easier for folks to find what they’re looking for. She painted them up nice, and now I’m matching them with the right trees and pounding them into the ground at the ends of the rows.”

  “Smart. And adorable.”

  “I was making good time until Jack Frost insisted I come inside and warm up.” He rubbed his palms together and huffed against them. “Do I smell whoopie pies?”

  “Probably.” Mom normally didn’t stop baking from Halloween until the New Year, and those little chocolate delights were a White family tradition.

  “I might call it a night if there’re whoopie pies,” he said. “I’ll toss this sack in the barn and finish up tomorrow.”

  “Do it,” Cookie urged. “Let me know if you want a cup of tea.”

  Mom manifested from the kitchen in a puff of sugar and cocoa powder. Her short brown hair was curled into loose waves and tucked behind her ears like mine. And her oven-mitted hands gripped a giant tray of fresh whoopie pies.

  The room went silent at the sight of her tray. Then people began to wave.

  “Coming.” I went to take the cookie orders before I ate them all myself. Being home at Christmas was exactly the medicine my broken heart needed. I’d missed my family and our town. I’d missed the Hearth, with its chocolate-bar tables on black-licorice legs—every piece carved by hand. The café’s interior looked like the inside of a gingerbread house, with gumdrop chandeliers hanging over candy cane–striped booths and white eyelet lace lining the windows. I’d brought all my biggest cares here as a child. Lost pets. Traitorous friends. Crushes unrequited. None of it had ever been too big for a hot chocolate cure.

  The front door opened again, and another lady slid inside. The table of women who’d been complaining about Margaret Fenwick went still. Standing in a red tweed coat, the newest guest dashed the toes of her boots against the welcome mat, leaving little tufts of snow to melt at the threshold. She scanned the room with a grimace and stopped on me. “Holly White.” She marched in my direction with a scowl. “It’s nice to see you. It must mean the world to your folks, having you here at Christmas.” Her voice was soft, creating a sharp contrast with her expression. She looked me over for a long beat before issuing a stiff nod and turning toward Dad. “I’ve got something here for you, Bud.”

  Dad smiled. “Great. Let me have a look at it, Margaret.”

  Margaret? I flipped my attention to Paula’s table. The women pressed their mugs to their lips and watched with rapt anticipation.

  This was definitely the Margaret they’d been complaining about.

  “Here.” She extended a piece of paper to Dad. “It’s an order to bring your fencing up to code.”

  Dad crossed his arms, rejecting the paper. “My fencing’s all brand new. It has to be up to code.”

  “No.” She jabbed his hand with the paper until he took it. “You’ve got historically inaccurate sections around your stables and petting zoo. They’re much too tall, which puts them in violation of the Historical Buildings and Operations Code. I’ve outlined the details in this letter and provided pictures and possible sales avenues for the purchase of replacement pieces.”

  Dad narrowed his eyes. “Do you know how much we paid for that amount of vinyl fencing? I can’t just toss out the pieces you don’t like. We paid extra for the ones at the stables and petting zoo. The added height is meant to protect the animals.”

  Margaret shook her head. “I’m sorry, Bud, but—”

  “I’m not taking it down,” Dad said.

  A gasp rolled through the café. Every face pointed in our direction. All pretenses of not eavesdropping had been wholly abandoned.

  I cringed. I hadn’t heard that tone since my teenage years, and when Dad used it, he meant business.

  Dad sighed. “Look. I understand your concerns, and I’m sorry you think the pieces are too tall, but I’ve got to do what’s best for my animals. I’m happy to pay the fine.”

  Margaret screwed her beet-red face into a knot and hitched up her chin. “You’re lucky I’m not asking you to remove the whole thing. Do you think they had vinyl fencing when this town was settled? No. And it’s too close to your property lines near
the road, but I’m willing to let that go as long as it meets a base level of visual expectations. I’m trying to be reasonable.”

  Dad wasn’t moved.

  Margaret pursed her lips. “You’ll take down the illegal sections of fencing or I will.”

  He chuckled. “That’ll never happen. My fencing was installed to last, and no offense, but I’ve got cats bigger than you.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Determination solidified in her milky blue eyes. “I never said I’d use my hands to take it down.” She turned on her heels and blew out the door, fists clenched at her sides.

  The tension was palpable in her wake, and a few guests made their way to the door. Paula followed suit, clearly done with the night’s drama.

  Dad deflated, dragging remorseful eyes to Mom. “I know. I have to apologize.”

  “You argued with a five-foot septuagenarian,” she said. “It makes you look like a bully.”

  “Fine.” He loaded his sack of tree markers onto his shoulder and went after Margaret.

  Mom nudged my shoulder. “You’d better go too. He’s not good with apologies, and she’s likely to get him going again.”

  Cookie pulled fuzzy mittens over her hands and tugged a knit cap onto her puffy white hair. “I’ll go with you.” She put a to-go cookie in her purse.

  I delivered the requested whoopie pies to several tables, then grabbed my coat.

  Night had fallen outside, catching me briefly off guard. Twinkle lights illuminated the seemingly endless rows of snow-dusted evergreens.

  Children huddled around the reindeer as the keeper, Mr. Fleece, told them stories about the magic needed to fly. Mr. Fleece didn’t look nearly as happy as his audience. I supposed that was a result of his earlier run-in with Margaret Fenwick.

  Cookie rubbed her mitten-cloaked hands against her coat sleeves. “Where are they? It’s freezing?”

  “I don’t know.” I peered into the distance, scanning every direction for signs of my dad, who normally stood head and shoulders above the crowd.

  A horse pranced away in the distance, pulling a great white sleigh in its wake. “Maybe she decided to take a sleigh ride,” I said.