Twelve Slays of Christmas Read online

  “Yeah,” Cookie agreed. “Those horses probably needed a speeding ticket.”

  I moved farther into the night, examining each smiling face. “Maybe Dad never caught up with her because she didn’t stick around.” I turned toward the long gravel drive leading off the property. “Maybe she’s heading home. What does she drive?”

  Cookie shrugged. “A broomstick?”

  I gave her a gentle shove. “Everybody has a job to do. She’s just doing hers.” Though I had to admit, a little honey would’ve done more for her than all that vinegar.

  Cookie shivered. “I might need another cup of my special tea. It’s for my arthritis.”

  I giggled. “Are you making a gingerbread house tomorrow?”

  She curved her lips into a mischievous smile. “I’m doing all the games this year. I’ve been practicing my icing skills and taking step aerobics for seniors at the church. I’m ready for anything.”

  My smile widened. “You want to be partners?”

  “You know it!” She lifted a mitten for a high five.

  Cookie was always my favorite. She told great stories and ran the Holiday Mouse Christmas Craft Shop. She’d let me watch her create the most amazing things while I was growing up. My parents had assumed she’d quit after her big lottery win, but I knew better. Cookie liked her life the way it was, and nothing could change that. Though I’d always wondered why she didn’t start her own business. She was a creative genius. Thanks to her, I was an expert in making everything from applesauce ornaments to replica gumdrop jewelry. I still made the jewelry when I was homesick, and based on the few dozen pieces I’d packed into my jewelry box, I was homesick more than I’d realized.

  “I’m going back inside before I turn into an icicle,” she said.

  “Okay. I think I’ll take a look at the fence that’s causing all the fuss.” I moved slow and steady across the grounds, stretching my legs and enjoying the fresh winter air. The fence looked great to me, tall and short pieces alike.

  I braced my hands against my hips and turned in place, searching the area for signs of Margaret or my dad.

  A sharp scream pierced the night. I jumped, spinning and peering into the darkness for the screamer. A shadowy figure near the county road waved its arms. “Help!”

  The peal of the woman’s voice set my feet into motion down the drive.

  I closed the distance between us at a clip, crossing under the hand-carved “Welcome to Reindeer Games” sign and landing on the road where she stood. “What’s wrong?” I panted. Aside from her terror-filled expression, she appeared to be fine. “Are you hurt? Did you see something?” I pressed. “Was it a bobcat? A coyote?”

  The woman pressed one set of gloved fingers against her mouth and pointed the other toward a retired sleigh on display at our property’s entrance.

  I followed her gaze, hoping it wasn’t a bear. “Oh, no.” I darted onto the sleigh’s cracked leather seat, scrambling toward a familiar red tweed jacket. “Call nine-one-one!” I yelled. “Mrs. Fenwick? Can you hear me?” Did she have a heart attack? A stroke? “Mrs. Fenwick!” I turned Margaret’s face toward mine. Pale, unseeing eyes stared back. Dark sticky liquid coated the material behind her head. “No,” I whispered. I shook one mitten onto the sleigh floor and searched my coat pockets with bare fingers. I swiped my cell phone to life and dialed, but I didn’t need 9-1-1 to confirm what I already knew—Margaret Fenwick was dead.

  Chapter Two

  I sat in the sheriff’s cruiser, wiping tears and working through a load of overwhelming emotions. How was it possible that a woman who’d welcomed me home tonight was being loaded into the coroner’s van outside my window? It was nonsense. My mind couldn’t right it, and my body was failing to process the flood of adrenaline that hit out of nowhere. I took another deep, shuddered breath, and my head grew light.

  The door at my side popped open, and I screamed. Sheriff Evan Gray stuck his head inside. He’d apparently taken over for the older, wider Sheriff Dunn while I’d lived in Portland for eight years.

  “Sorry. I should’ve knocked first.”

  I probably still would’ve screamed.

  “We’re about done here,” he said with a faint Boston accent. “Farm’s closed for the evening, and your folks said we can talk in the café. They thought you’d be more comfortable there than at the station.”

  I wobbled my head in what I hoped looked like agreement and not a seizure.

  The door shut, and Sheriff Gray climbed behind the wheel. Dialing 9-1-1 had resulted in the whole kit and caboodle: an ambulance, a fire truck, and sheriff and deputy vehicles. The local press hadn’t been far behind, but they were exiled by authorities. The coroner’s van had come separately.

  The cruiser crawled over our long gravel drive, jostling and tipping me with each hump and bump. The interior was warm and smelled like gingerbread and cologne, a fitting combination for the sheriff of Mistletoe. A worn paperback lay on his passenger seat.

  We stopped outside the Hearth. He lifted the book above the seat’s edge and caught my gaze in the rearview mirror. “It’s The Count of Monte Cristo.”

  I sat back with a flop, not realizing how far I’d craned my neck in wonder.

  He climbed out and opened my door. “You doing okay?” he asked, guiding me into the building.

  “No.”

  Dad wrapped me in his arms before I made it across the threshold. Cookie and the rest of the Reindeer Games staff were seated inside, filling the brightly colored booths with sorrowful faces. It was hard to stay sad sitting on a candy-shaped stool, but I had a feeling tonight I’d have no problem.

  I sank onto a lollipop at the counter, and Dad kissed my head. “Sorry you had to see something like that, sweetie.”

  A low murmur of agreement echoed his words.

  Mom ferried tea and peppermints to the counter. Her eyes were glossed with tears. “This’ll help.”

  The sheriff cleared his throat and addressed my dad. “Is this your entire staff, Mr. White?”

  “Yeah.” Dad squeezed my shoulder, parental concern wrinkling his brow.

  “Is there anyone who was on duty tonight who’s unaccounted for now?” the sheriff continued.

  Dad gave the room a more careful sweep. “No, sir. Gang’s all here.”

  “All right.” The sheriff walked slowly through the room, hands in his coat pockets, sharp eyes examining each staffer. “The murder weapon was recovered in a dumpster not far from the body.”

  Dad groaned. “Not one of our dumpsters, I hope.”

  “Afraid so,” the sheriff said. “Want to take a guess at what it was?”

  I wrapped my palms around the warm cup of tea and wrinkled my nose. “Who would want to do that?”

  The sheriff turned his gaze on me. A muscle jumped and pulsed along his jaw. “I took a picture.” He spun his phone to face the room. “Who knows what this is?”

  Cookie put her glasses on. “I can’t see it.”

  I could, and it was no good.

  “Let me describe it to you,” the sheriff said. “It’s about three feet long, wooden, and painted like a candy cane. This one says, ‘FIR.’”

  Dad swore under his breath, then took a seat.

  Cookie jerked her gaze to Dad. “Uh-oh,” she said. She tucked her glasses back into her purse and brought out the Schnapps.

  Mom’s jaw hung open. “You can’t think . . .” A gasp interrupted her thought.

  I set my cup aside and gawked openly. “Are you suggesting my dad killed Margaret Fenwick?” Accusing a member of Dad’s staff was bad enough, but to accuse him was unthinkable. Madness. Hadn’t the sheriff ever met my father? He was a two-hundred-pound teddy bear.

  Sheriff Gray moved his gaze to Dad. “I’m just asking questions. Like, where were you at approximately six thirty tonight, Mr. White?”

  “I was looking for Margaret,” Dad said, hands extended in plea. “I wanted to apologize, but I couldn’t find her.”

  The sheriff slid a pen from
his shirt pocket and opened his notebook. “Apologize? Did the two of you have an argument?”

  “Whoa.” I opened my arms like an umpire at home plate. “You don’t have to answer that,” I told Dad. “You should get a lawyer.”

  Mom pressed a handkerchief to her nose. “Are you arresting my Bud?”

  The room was on its feet, closing in on Mom and Dad with words of encouragement.

  The sheriff watched wide eyed. “I’m not arresting anyone,” he said loudly. “I’m asking questions. That’s how this works. Everybody, please sit down.”

  The crowd slowly returned to their seats.

  “What happens now?” I asked. “Will you start looking for suspects?”

  Mom leaned near my ear. “Honey, I think that’s what we are.”

  I looked around. “What? Why?”

  The sheriff gave me a disbelieving look. “A woman was murdered tonight, on Reindeer Games’ property with Reindeer Games’ property, so I’m starting with the obvious.”

  I pressed two fingertips to one temple and attempted to control my tone. “What’s obvious to me is that these people are as shocked and confused as I am. None of them would intentionally hurt anyone, and they certainly wouldn’t hit an old lady over the head with a tree marker.” I hoped to sound more exasperated than aggravated.

  He turned to face me head on. “Everyone here had access to the murder weapon and the victim. I have witnesses who saw two of your staffers fighting with her tonight, on the property where she was killed.”

  I narrowed my eyes, not liking where this was going. “There were dozens of people on the grounds tonight. Everyone had access to those markers, and Margaret argued with more than just Reindeer Games’ staff. The way I hear it, she’s been harassing everyone.”

  Cookie raised her hand. “It’s true. She’s been picking fights all over town. Handing out those awful Historical Society citations. She even threatened my Theodore.”

  “Theodore?” Sheriff Gray asked.

  I jumped in before Cookie could answer. “I heard Paula from the maple farm next door complaining about a fine Margaret gave her for painting her gift shop the wrong color.”

  The sheriff rubbed his brow. “I’m going to need written statements.” He spun a legal pad on the counter and started tearing out pages. “I’d like everyone to write down anything you heard, saw, or believe might help me figure out what happened to Margaret Fenwick tonight.”

  Cookie raised her hand again. “What if there’s someone who didn’t see anything?”

  “Then write that,” he said.

  “Well, that seems silly.”

  “Maybe you can write about the fine for Theodore,” I suggested.

  The sheriff moved to stand between us. “This isn’t an open-book test, Miss White, nor is it meant to be teamwork.”

  I turned around, prepared to draw mean faces, but the only thing that came to mind was poor Margaret being loaded onto a gurney. I needed a lot more tea and a little of Cookie’s magic ingredient to write an account of tonight’s events.

  The sheriff collected our papers as we finished and excused us individually with instructions to call if we thought of anything else. I slogged toward the guesthouse, exhausted. I needed my favorite pajamas, a nice warm bed, and some cuddles from Cindy Lou Who.

  * * *

  The next morning, tension pinched the muscles in my neck and shoulders as I dragged myself out of bed and stuffed my body into soft jeans and an ugly Christmas sweater. My boots were beside the front door, standing in a puddle.

  Cindy Lou Who was in the kitchen beside her overturned bowls giving me the stink eye. Her chipped ear twitched when she saw me. “Oops. Sorry, Cindy.” She hated when they were empty. I rubbed her bushy calico-colored head and righted her bowls, then added a little kibble. “I had a rough night. Forgive me?”

  She turned her back to me and chowed down on her breakfast.

  I selected candy cane earrings from my jewelry box, the ones with the tiny gingerbread men dangling by one hand. I’d sat up half the night beading and contemplating Mrs. Fenwick’s death. I hadn’t come up with any answers, but I made some lovely bracelets. “Wish I could stay and make pretty things today, Cindy, but that gingerbread’s not going to bling itself.”

  I locked up and made a path through the snow on my way to the Hearth.

  I entered with a slap of déjà vu. It was as if the entire Reindeer Games staff had slept over—everyone was in the same place he or she had been last night.

  Mom met me with a large disposable cup of black coffee.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. “What’s everyone still doing in here?”

  “Sheriff Gray closed the farm. Can I get you some breakfast?”

  “What?” I looked at the dozen or so expectant faces. “Why?”

  “He says he needs to sweep the grounds for additional evidence. It was too dark to do it last night, though he certainly tried. Your father was up until after midnight following him around and providing access to every shed and barn stall. How did you sleep?”

  I did an exaggerated blink. “How long is the farm closed? It’s only twelve days until Christmas. The Reindeer Games start today.”

  Cookie shook her head. “Not this year.”

  I deflated. He’d closed the whole farm to search for clues? Margaret had been killed at the property’s edge, outside the gates, along a county road. A sweep seemed like overkill. Not to mention Reindeer Games was my family’s sole source of income. Closing the doors made it look like we had something to hide, and that could ruin our reputation. “Where’s the sheriff now?”

  Half the room pointed outside.

  I snapped a lid on my cup.

  “Wait,” Mom said. She poured a second cup and tucked a gingersnap into a plastic sleeve. “Take him something to eat. And see if we can open for lunch,” Mom said.

  I pushed the door open with my hip and gave her a nod. With a little luck, the sheriff was already wrapping things up.

  A line of confused tourists wandered along the outside of our closed gates beside a tour bus. A deputy was speaking with the driver.

  “But we came all the way from Concord to play Bling That Gingerbread,” a woman insisted.

  I went in the other direction, hoping her wish would soon be granted.

  The farm looked strange without people milling around. It wasn’t meant to be silent or empty. In fact, after what the town had lost last night, it needed Reindeer Games to be open. Mistletoe needed to be together and do normal things. I moved a little faster through the snow, determined to make my case to the sheriff.

  He rounded a building as if on cue and stopped. “Morning, Miss White. How are you feeling?”

  “Not bad.” I lifted the coffees and plastered a sweet smile on my face. “I thought you could use a little something to keep you warm on your wild-goose chase.”

  He snorted. “You say what you think. I can appreciate that. Not everyone does.” Pale-green eyes searched mine as he relieved me of one coffee.

  He looked different in the light of day. Less intimidating and more casual in dark pants and a bulky flannel coat. The sheriff logo on his ball cap was the only indication he hadn’t come to play games or choose a tree.

  “Well? How’s it going?” I asked.

  “The goose chase?”

  A genuine smile formed on my lips. “Think you’ll be here much longer?”

  He tipped his head in the direction of the Hearth. “Let me ask you something, straight talker—how can you be so sure one of those people isn’t a killer?”

  “Because I know them. I know they love this town and all the people in it, even when they fight.”

  He grunted. “You have anything against Margaret Fenwick I should know about?”

  “No,” I balked. “Of course not.”

  “You don’t usually live here. You came in from Portland this week, right? Are you home for the holidays?”

  I squashed the tug of rejection in my chest. “Yep.” />
  He raised thick dark brows beneath the rim of his hat. “Aren’t you going to tell me about your breakup?”

  I made a crazy face. “Who blabbed?”

  “Pie shop.” He smiled. “I think I heard your story before you crossed the county line.”

  I groaned. “They should close that place. People get all sugared up and spill every secret they’ve ever heard. It’s a high school kid’s worst nightmare.” Or a small-town sheriff’s dream come true.

  He squinted into the sunlight, effectively dropping the lighter mood. “Everyone’s got secrets. Right now it’s up to me to figure out who’s hiding something I need to know. For example, does this place have any nooks and crannies your dad might’ve forgotten about? Old storm cellars? Empty cabins? Hidey-holes?”

  “Did you say ‘hidey-holes’?” I tried to knock the cuckoo off that question but couldn’t. “Let’s make a deal—I’ll give you an insider’s tour, and you’ll reopen the farm when we’re finished.”

  He walked away. “Should we start in this direction?”

  “Wait.” I perked. “Do we have a deal?” I hustled to catch up. “Let’s start at the farthest corner and work back toward the Hearth. We’ll cover the most ground with the least amount of backtracking.” I caught his sleeve and pulled him in a new direction. “Hope those boots were made for walking.”

  He gave my hand on his arm a long look but didn’t protest. “No promises on the farm reopening, but I appreciate the tour. And the coffee.”

  “I don’t like it, but I’ll take what I can get. These are the trees.” I swept one arm out dramatically as we passed the tidy rows. “They’re planted according to species. We have eight major tree types.” I missed a step as the bright candy cane markers took on a new and sinister look. My feet were heavy, and the trees looked a little melty.

  The sheriff’s face swam into view. “Hey. You still there?”

  “Sorry,” I whispered, forcing my eyes to focus.

  He pursed his lips. “It’s normal to struggle with what you saw last night. Don’t fight it. You’ve got to face it to get through it.”