'Twas the Knife Before Christmas Read online

  ’Twas the Knife Before Christmas

  A CHRISTMAS TREE FARM MYSTERY

  Jacqueline Frost

  To Noah, Andrew and Lily, my life’s greatest gifts

  Chapter One

  “Less than two weeks until Christmas—can you believe it?” I asked my friends Cookie and Caroline before sinking my teeth into another bite of creamy vanilla cupcake therapy. Their new cupcake shop had fast become my favorite place to unwind after a long day of work at Reindeer Games, my family’s Christmas tree farm, and tonight was no exception.

  “I can believe it,” Cookie said, her blue eyes twinkling behind the counter. “Our cupcakes are going like hotcakes. I think it’s because our product makes everyone happy. You can’t eat a cupcake and be mad about it.”

  I peeled back the edge of the blue and white striped liner, then sucked a spot of icing off my thumb. “That’s so true.”

  “In my day, egg creams were all the rage,” Cookie said, “but cupcakes are even better.”

  Cookie was somewhere between sixty-five and eighty, depending on the story she was telling and to whom, and she’d been in my life for as long as I could remember. She’d managed the Holiday Mouse craft shop at Reindeer Games for years before going into business with Caroline, and she’d taught me to love art the way she loved life: voraciously and with spirit. Her real name was Delores Cutter, but her late husband, Theodore, had given her the nickname Cookie because she loved to bake. I just loved the fact that her name was Cookie Cutter.

  Her new business partner, and my best friend, Caroline West, shot us a look. Caroline and I had gone to school together as children, but we’d never had much in common then. She’d been raised under a microscope, with a hefty list of rules, while I’d spent my adolescence among the trees, usually with a book. It wasn’t until my return to Mistletoe last Christmas that we’d really hit it off, and twelve months later I couldn’t imagine my life without her. Caroline had been unusually quiet since I’d arrived. In fact, she’d spent the last fifteen minutes silently unwrapping candy canes and stuffing them into a freezer bag while I polished off a pile of mini cupcakes.

  “How about you, Caroline?” I asked brightly. “Are you enjoying the entrepreneurial life as much as your partner?”

  Cookie and Caroline had made the decision to go into business together last Christmas, and Caroline’s Cupcakes was the blessed confectionary child of their union. The shop had only been open four weeks, but the place was already a town favorite, and even at five bucks a pop, their daily inventory often vanished well before closing time.

  “Oh yes,” she said, dropping the full bag of candy canes onto her counter and raising a marble rolling pin overhead. “I love making cupcakes. What I don’t care for is being forced to attend fancy benefit dinners with obnoxious dates just because my dad’s the mayor.” She brought the rolling pin down in a sharp arch, connecting solidly with the bag of candy.

  Whack!

  Cookie flinched.

  My jaw slipped open.

  Caroline tucked a swath of platinum waves behind one ear, wiped her hand on her apron, and raised the rolling pin again. “It’s my job to support my dad, though. I am his only child, after all, so I’d never complain. Even if I’ve had enough mandatory party attendance and forced merriment to last ten lifetimes, it’s important to be a team player.” Her sweet voice was at frightening odds with the beating she was giving the poor candy.

  “Caroline?” I asked.

  She gave the bag another heavy hit, then several more in double time, before stopping to drag a forearm over her perfectly manicured brow.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, fearfully eying the candy carnage.

  “Making peppermint sprinkles for my holiday icing.”

  “Don’t you normally use a food processor for that?”

  “Yep.” She smiled sweetly, repositioning the bag.

  “Is everything okay?”

  Caroline had told me once that her mother didn’t think anger was an appropriate emotion for a young lady. I was no psychologist, but it seemed to me that Caroline might need to talk about something.

  She nailed the bag again.

  I glanced at the empty holder on the counter, where she normally displayed the fancy marble pin. “Aren’t you afraid of breaking it?” The pin had been engraved with her initials and made custom by an Italian artisan she’d met in college. She’d had a matching set of knives created last year when she’d taken the leap to quit her job and open Caroline’s Cupcakes. I couldn’t imagine owning custom marble anything, but Caroline had amazing taste.

  “No,” she said. “It won’t break.”

  Cookie played with the screen on their new smart refrigerator, and the music to “White Christmas” lifted from the little speakers, followed closely by Frank Sinatra’s iconic voice. “I love this refrigerator,” Cookie said. “It can do anything. Your mom should get one for the Hearth.”

  Caroline shook her bag of decimated candy canes and looked my way. “How’s the kitchen remodel going?”

  I stifled a groan. “Not great.” The Hearth was our tree farm’s café, and Mom’s second home this time of year. She spent most of her waking hours from Halloween until New Year’s Day baking coveted treats and serving up heaping helpings of hospitality. She’d been downright giddy about updating the kitchen to make her efforts more efficient, but in reality the remodel had been a total nightmare, and it was over schedule by more than five weeks so far. It was a topic I’d heard enough about today. And most days. So I changed the subject. “Is it possible all this candy abuse is really about the fight you had with your date last night?” I wiped my cupcake crumbs into a tidy pile, smashing them together with my fingertip so I could eat them.

  Caroline turned back to the helpless bag and beat it again, her fair skin pinking from the effort. “Has everyone heard about that?”

  I suddenly wished I hadn’t worn my red and white striped sweater. I pulled my chin back and tried to look less like a candy cane. “Not everyone,” I said, and it was true. Anyone who hadn’t been present for the argument she’d had with her date or who hadn’t watched this morning’s news had surely missed it.

  She rested the pin on her shoulder like a baseball bat. Her vintage-red lips pursed in determination.

  I shot Cookie a pleading look, but she was already moving away.

  “Ugh!” Caroline dropped the rolling pin back into its holder. She straightened her cashmere shift dress and untied the apron at her back. “My dad made me go to that benefit dinner with Derek,” she said. “I told him that Derek was notoriously smug, pompous, and handsy. Dad told me I was overreacting and that it was just dinner. What really mattered was Derek’s father, Judge Waggoner, one of only two judges in Mistletoe, whose favor will carry a lot of weight for my dad’s reelection campaign next year. Derek got handsy. I opened my mouth and, lucky me, the whole thing was recorded for the world to see. I’ve probably ruined Dad’s reelection campaign.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think. Things rarely are.”

  Cookie inched back in our direction. “Shame the cameraman didn’t catch Derek being handsy,” she said. “That would’ve fixed it.” She climbed onto the fancy high-backed stool beside mine and let her short legs dangle. “I saw that clip of you telling him off on the news.”

  I gave Cookie my best cut-it-out look, then smiled at Caroline. “The clip really wasn’t that bad.”

  “No,” Cookie agreed, “it was fantastic. I especially loved the part where you said, ‘Paw at me like that again and you’re going to regret it.’ ” Cookie giggled. “Theodore was hoping you’d pour a drink in Derek’s lap or throw one in his
face like they do on television, but I told him that stuff is always staged.”

  Theodore was a black and gray pygmy goat that Cookie had named after her most recent dead husband and treated like family. She said the resemblance between her goat and her husband had been uncanny, specifically the way they both wore a nice salt and pepper beard.

  Caroline hung her head.

  “He wasn’t judging,” Cookie promised. “He’s not that kind of goat.”

  * * *

  Caroline stared at the massive whitewashed grandfather clock in the corner of their adorable shop. “We’re late.” She turned on her high-heeled leather boots and went to hit the light switch. “Let’s just go,” she said. “I don’t want to talk about my dad or Derek anymore, and I don’t want to miss the tree lighting ceremony. Plus, I think I could use some fresh air.” She threaded thin arms into a pearl-white pea coat and settled a black beret on her head. “Is Sheriff Gray meeting us, Holly?”

  I froze momentarily, then took my time tying the belt on my shapeless but warm, puffy coat. Sheriff Evan Gray had saved my life last year when a psychopath had tried to kill me. Then he’d kissed me in front of half the town on Christmas morning. It was all very grand and romantic, but the relationship had gone downhill from there—or if not downhill, then at least out to pasture.

  “I think,” I said finally. Honestly, I had no idea what Evan was doing tonight. His last text had been cryptic at best. In other words, his usual. “It’s just us girls tonight.”

  Cookie perked at the sound of that. “Oh, I love girls’ nights! I don’t get nearly enough of them anymore.” She packed a jar of hot cocoa mix and a can of whipped cream into her giant quilted handbag. “I’ll just take these home for later. I promised Theodore a nightcap, and I don’t want to share my special tea.”

  Probably wise. Cookie’s special tea was ten percent Earl Grey and ninety percent schnapps.

  “Watching Theodore lick the whipped cream off his nose is a hoot,” she went on. “It’s what gave me the idea to make the calendars.”

  “What calendars?” I asked.

  Cookie pulled the purse higher on her shoulder and gave a toothy smile. “Twelve Months of Theodore.” She swung her arm in a wide arch overhead, as if revealing the grandest idea of all. “What do you think?”

  “Cute,” I said, though I wasn’t sure how she could make one goat interesting for twelve months.

  “I saw a woman admiring one of those firemen calendars last month, and the idea just came to me.”

  Caroline led the way outside with a smile.

  The sun had set despite the fact that it was barely dinnertime. A full array of stars twinkled in the cloudless night sky. Around us, downtown Mistletoe bustled with the excitement of another Christmas season underway. Strings of lights lined every rooftop, and pine green wrapped every lamppost. The benches were painted bright Santa red, and crowds had formed along the sidewalks around the square.

  Caroline held the door until we passed, then flipped the window sign from “Open” to “Closed,” and locked up behind us. “How’s the jewelry business going?” she asked.

  I puffed a little with pride. My hobby of melting old glass bottles into tiny replica holiday items and sweets, then turning those creations into custom jewelry had grown into a solid second income in the year since I’d come home. “I’m overrun with orders, and I love it.” I’d come home last Christmas to recover from a broken heart and help my folks through the busy season, not knowing what I’d do afterward. As it turned out, I’d never been happier, so when they’d invited me to stay for as long as I liked, I’d taken them up on it. Now, I lived in the guesthouse, helped Mom at the Hearth, and made jewelry on the side. Overall, I was having a hard time understanding why I’d ever left.

  She smiled proudly in my direction. “Do you need any help catching up? I’m not very crafty, but I can stuff and address envelopes like a champ. Maybe even swing by and pick up the completed orders for you and drop them off at the post office.”

  “I accept,” I said, thankful for the offer. I had plenty of supplies and fun ideas to share. What I didn’t have enough of lately was time.

  “I’ll help too,” Cookie said. “It’ll be fun.”

  The big tree ahead of us was surrounded with people, and a red velvet sheet covered a giant glass bowl at its side.

  “Oh jeez,” Cookie grumbled as we slowed near the back of the thickening crowd. “I’ll never be able to see what’s going on.” She lifted onto her toes, then thumped back to earth. Cookie was reaching for five two on a good day, and tonight she had on flats. “Rip-off,” she muttered. “I knew I should’ve come out here and marked my territory after breakfast. I could’ve gotten us seats right in front of that big fish tank.”

  I snorted. “It’s supposed to be a candy dish.”

  The bulbous glass structure had been positioned on the marble basin where a historic fountain spouted water all spring and summer long and then supported a stage and various town centerpieces from October to May. “According to the local historical society, ‘Guess How Many Mints’ is a fun new twist on an old-fashioned game,” I explained.

  “What?” Caroline asked.

  I made a crazy face. “The bowl is full of candy under that sheet.”

  “That’s dumb,” she said. “It was probably my dad’s idea.”

  Cookie pulled a knit cap from the pocket of her bright red coat and tugged it over a cloud of white hair. “I wish they hadn’t covered the whole thing with that big blanket. I could start counting now and get a head start.”

  The cover was enormous, embroidered with golden thread, and the words “Mistletoe, Maine, Home of Holiday Cheer” stretched across the middle. Only the bottom few inches of the dish remained visible. Just enough to tease the crowd.

  The crowd quieted as a man I recognized as Caleb France, the historical society president, took the stage. “Hello!” he said. “Welcome to the annual tree lighting! We have lots of fun in store for you tonight. Our preschool choir will sing “Up on the Housetop.” Our high school band will join them for a medley of holiday favorites, and if we’re all very good, there might even be a visit from the big guy in red!”

  The crowd cheered. I smirked. From my vantage there were at least four men in the crowd dressed as Santa, and experience told me a dozen more were somewhere in town. Mistletoe was a Santa impersonator’s paradise this time of year. Many were on staff at local stores or hired to work the various December events, but others just came dressed up for fun.

  “But first,” he said, “let’s light this tree!” Caleb grabbed two giant and obviously fake electrical cords from the stage at his feet and lifted the cartoon-sized prong and outlet in front of him. “Ten!” he began.

  “Nine,” the crowd continued.

  Cookie bounced at my side, desperate for some added height.

  I inhaled the blessed scents of hot buttered popcorn and candied pecans from a passing street vendor. “Three,” I joined in, unable to fight the spirit. “Two. One!”

  The massive tree burst into light, and the crowd erupted in wild applause.

  I blinked against the sudden flare, and spots danced through my vision. As my eyes came back into focus, a strange smear of red appeared on the bottom of the massive candy dish, illuminated by the twinkle lights on the neighboring thirty-foot spruce.

  I leaned forward, curious. What was the smear?

  Were my eyes playing tricks on me? Was it an errant paint smudge from the newly erected stage?

  I squinted harder, willing my eyes to make sense of the odd stain. “Do you see that?” I asked no one in particular. I pushed forward without waiting for an answer, forcing my way through the fringe of the crowd, angling closer to the giant dish and its great crimson cover.

  Caleb yammered into the microphone as he made his way across the platform from the tree to the giant bowl, utterly oblivious to the spot I couldn’t stop staring at. “Everyone ready?” he asked.

  The crowd cheered a
gain.

  With one whip of his wrist, the cover was gone, and a truckload of red and white swirled peppermints was revealed.

  Along with a very dead Derek Waggoner, Caroline’s handsy date, partially buried inside.

  Chapter Two

  The continuous ebb and flow of ambulance lights added to the creepy ambience as Mistletoe’s coroner climbed a ladder and assessed Derek’s body.

  The crowd had been pushed back, exiled behind a line of flimsy crime scene tape. A few dedicated lookie-lous clung to the insides of shop windows, taking cell phone photos and noshing on treats from lingering street vendors, but most folks had simply dispersed when the sheriff and emergency personnel arrived.

  I couldn’t bring myself to leave, and thankfully, the sheriff hadn’t forced me. Instead, he’d ushered Cookie, Caroline, and me around the back of the stage and allowed us to stay as long as we didn’t get in anyone’s way. He said he wanted to talk to us when things settled, but I suspected Caroline was the one he was most interested in.

  The coroner removed Derek’s body with a little help from two men in head-to-toe white coveralls and miner’s hats. Then he went to talk with Evan.

  His comrades began the daunting process of extracting and examining the candy for evidence.

  It was officially the strangest thing I’d seen in Mistletoe, and in a town that celebrated Christmas on a mass scale twelve months a year, that was saying something. “Well?” I asked Evan as the coroner moved on to speak with other officials. “What happened to Derek Waggoner? How’d he get in there?”

  Evan lifted his gaze, looking past me to Caroline. “I’d like to talk to you about your date with Mr. Waggoner last night.”

  I slung a protective arm around Caroline’s shaking shoulders. “Why?”

  “She might have been the last person to see him alive,” Evan said.

  “Obviously not.” I narrowed my eyes. Surely, he wasn’t insinuating that Caroline had killed Derek, then dragged his big body up a ladder, and tossed him into the candy dish. Derek was easily six foot two and two hundred pounds. He probably had shoes that weighed more than Caroline.