Twelve Slays of Christmas Page 4

  I glanced at a trio of women who’d stopped beside us to stare. They wore lanyards with a bus line logo and munched popcorn, apparently waiting for my answer. “Yes.”

  “I’d love to include some of your work in my holiday collection.” She handed me a business card. “Think about it.”

  “Thank you.” I smiled through my befuddlement. She went into the gallery. I tucked her card into my pocket and hustled toward the syrup booth.

  “Fresh syrup!” Paula’s hair was cut shorter than mine and barely visible thanks to the hoodie pulled over her head. Space heaters were pointed at her feet and the folding chair by her display. Tiers of syrup in three bottle sizes lined her table. Pamphlets, pens, magnets, and other giveaways were piled near a sign that encouraged passersby to stop and browse.

  “Paula?” I stopped at the booth and rested my bulging bags on the table.

  “Yeah?” She looked up with a curious smile. “How can I help you?” She arranged samples of syrup-soaked pancakes into a covered warming tray.

  I chose a jumbo bottle of syrup and set it between us. “I’d like to buy this.”

  She dusted her palms and shut the warming tray lid. “All righty. Anything else?”

  “Yes, actually. I wanted to talk to you about Margaret Fenwick.”

  She stuffed my syrup into a little bag with a grunt. “What about her?”

  “I’m Holly White,” I backpedaled. “My family owns the tree farm beside yours. I’m sure you know my folks, but I’ve been gone a few years. College and such.”

  My parents made a point of knowing everyone. I did what I could, but I hadn’t had much reason to interact with her when I was growing up. She didn’t have children, and I rarely saw her at local events. I probably would’ve gotten to know her as an adult, but once I’d moved to Portland, my visits home became shorter and further between.

  “Anyway”—I waved a mitten between us—“last night at the Hearth, I heard you say that Margaret fined you for something.”

  Her chin snapped up, and her blue eyes narrowed. Wrinkles gathered in the pale skin on her brow. “Nine dollars.”

  I handed her a ten. “You knew her well, didn’t you?”

  “I knew Margie all my life.” She pushed my bag across the table. “She was the same self-righteous, self-important blowhard every minute of her sixty-five years.”

  Heat rose in my cheeks. I checked to see who else had heard the spite-filled words, but no one seemed to be paying any attention. “If you don’t mind me asking,” I said, “where did you go when you left the Hearth last night?” Paula had left along with a group of other patrons right after Mrs. Fenwick, but I hadn’t seen her when I walked outside with Cookie moments later.

  “I got in my sleigh and went home. If I’d had to watch Margie ruin one more person’s night, I would’ve popped her in the nose.”

  I’d seen a sleigh heading away in the distance. That must’ve been her. Hopefully it wasn’t a getaway sleigh. I took the package and offered a gentle smile. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry the two of you had a fight last night. That must be hard for you.”

  She stiffened visibly. “I’d tell her where to stick that fine all over again if I could. I’d had enough of her nonsense years ago, and she crossed the line this week.” She gripped the table’s edge until her fingers turned white. “It was only a matter of time until she pushed someone too far.”

  I gathered my packages and backed away from the booth before I pushed Paula too far. “Thank you.” I wiggled the syrup bag between us. “Happy holidays.”

  If Sheriff Gray needed a suspect who didn’t work at Reindeer Games, I had a great suggestion. Maybe it was time he visited Mistletoe Maples and had a talk with the angry tree tapper.

  Chapter Four

  I stopped at the corner to rearrange my bundles and bags. According to my little plastic fitness bracelet, I’d put in ten thousand steps for the day. My frozen feet and aching back would’ve guessed higher. Fumbling through my pockets for my cell, I hoped someone from the farm would be willing to come and get me.

  I settled cross-legged on the nearest bench and plucked my gloves off.

  A ragged green pickup slid against the curb before I could dial. The driver’s side window rolled down. “Holly White?” a congenial male voice called. “Is that you?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. The driver hopped onto the curb and headed my way with a wide, warm smile.

  “You probably don’t remember me,” he said, combing long dark hair off his forehead. “I’m Ray Griggs. We went to high school together. I was on the yearbook staff. Student journalism staff. Photography Club.”

  I smiled back, having no idea who he was. “Right. Of course. How are you?”

  “I’m great. You?” He took a seat on the other side of my pile of shopping bags and hooked his elbows over the bench’s back. His navy-blue ski coat fell open, revealing a gray thermal shirt beneath.

  “Good. Glad to be home.” I reorganized my bags, filing smaller ones into larger ones and attempting to even out the weight. I sneaked peeks in Ray’s direction as I worked, trying to connect his voice or face to something in my memory. Mistletoe High School wasn’t very big, but nothing about him felt familiar. “You said you were on our yearbook staff?”

  “Yep.” His blue eyes twinkled in the midday light. “You were a senior when I was a freshman. You didn’t know I existed.” He laughed.

  “I was a reclusive art student. When I wasn’t brooding, I was dreaming of Renoir.”

  “Lucky guy.”

  A nonsensical blush crept hotly over my cheeks. “Are you out shopping?”

  “Nah.” He cast his attention back to me and the pile of packages between us. “I’m not sure there’s anything left.”

  “Funny.”

  “Where are you headed now? Can I buy you a coffee?”

  “I’m on my way home, actually.” I wiggled my phone. “I was calling for a ride when you pulled up. I drove a truck back to Merry Movers and figured someone from the farm would come get me.”

  “You moved back?” Ray’s smiled expanded, revealing a row of straight white teeth. “This isn’t a holiday visit?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, in that case”—he stood and opened his arms like a game show host—“welcome back, Holly White.” He strode to the pickup and opened the passenger door. “Let me drive you home.”

  I chewed the inside of my lip.

  “Aw, come on. I’m not a lunatic.” He came back to my side and collected my bags. “Would a lunatic carry your bags and hold the door?” He tossed my bags onto the bench seat of his bulbous old Ford.

  I nodded. “If he wanted to get me into his truck so he could kill me? Yes.”

  Ray went around and climbed onto the driver’s seat while I stared at the open passenger door. “Hey.” He leaned across the seat until his face came into view through the open door. A deep crease had formed between his brows. “Weren’t you getting married?”

  My tummy knotted as I climbed inside. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Fair enough.” He pulled the green beast into traffic with a rumble.

  I buckled up and kept 9-1-1 on my phone screen just in case this really was an abduction.

  “I get up to Reindeer Games at least once a week for breakfast,” he said casually. “Your mom’s the best cook in town next to mine. My mom’s got a thing for the Hearth’s snickerdoodles, so I try to get out your way and bring a dozen home with me when I can.”

  “You live with your mom?” I asked. Ray couldn’t have been more than twenty-three if he was a freshman when I was a senior. I guessed lots of kids moved home after college or an ugly breakup.

  “We lost Dad a couple years back,” he said. “They had too much land for her to manage, and I didn’t have time to keep up with it for her, so she moved in with me when the estate settled. Farming’s a full-time job. I guess I don’t have to tell you that.”

  I cleared my phone and stow
ed it in my pocket. “I’m sorry about your dad.”

  He flicked his gaze in my direction. “Thanks.” His soft, youthful features turned hard for a long moment.

  I’d scratched a wound. I needed a new subject. “So how about you? Not married?”

  He gave me a goofy look. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  He smiled at the windshield. “No comment. What happened to your engagement?”

  “I was dumped for a yoga instructor.”

  He chuckled. “So you blame yourself?”

  “No!”

  “You should. You agreed to marry a moron.”

  I laughed. “I guess you’re right.”

  “We all make mistakes. At least you were lucky enough to dodge yours. I’d call that a win.”

  I got comfortable in the warm truck, suddenly enjoying the view, the conversation, and the company. “You make it sound like I had a choice.”

  He cast a curious glance my way. “Would you take him back?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then, you made a choice. A smart one, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “Not at all.” I hummed along with the radio as the bustle of downtown slipped away outside my window. An abundance of snow-dusted trees appeared in the town’s absence.

  “I heard about Margaret Fenwick,” Ray said. “Were you there when it happened?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sorry.”

  I gave Ray a long look. “I found her.”

  “You’re kidding.” He jerked his gaze from the road to my face and back. “Seriously?”

  “I tried to resuscitate her, but the paramedics said she was probably gone when I found her. That it wasn’t my fault.” I pressed a mitten to my mouth. “Sorry. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  He watched me silently, dragging his attention back to the road only as needed to stay between the lines. “Did you kill her?”

  “No!” I scoffed, twisting on the seat until my back was pressed to the door. “Why would you ask something like that?”

  “Well, if you didn’t kill her, how can it be your fault?”

  “I don’t know. I keep thinking I should’ve done something else. Something more.” I studied the puddle forming around my boots on the floor mat. “I stayed with her until help arrived so she wouldn’t be alone.” Stubborn tears blurred my vision. “It wasn’t enough. If I’d left the Hearth a few minutes sooner, she might be alive. My family farm wouldn’t be under town-wide scrutiny. I’d be pouring hot chocolates and taking cookie orders instead of spending all my money in town trying to find out what people knew about Margaret.”

  “Hey . . .” Ray slowed to a crawl on the berm of our quiet county road. “This wasn’t your fault.”

  I caught a rebellious tear with the pad of my thumb. “I know.” I sniffled. “Logically, I know. It just seems like there should’ve been something someone could’ve done.”

  He slowly added pressure to the gas pedal, steering us back into our lane. “Yeah, the killer could’ve not murdered a harmless old lady, but you did all you could.”

  I fished a crumpled tissue from my purse and blotted my eyes. “Did you know this is the first murder Mistletoe’s had in forty years?”

  His eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. “Where’d you dig up that information?”

  “Sheriff Gray.”

  “Ah.” He bobbed his head. “Does the good sheriff have any suspects?”

  “Yeah, right.” I barked a humorless laugh. “You mean besides my family and every worker on the farm? Not that I’m aware of, which is why I was in town talking to everyone.”

  “Private investigation. I like it.” Ray tapped his thumbs against the steering wheel. “Learn anything?”

  “Not really.” I shoved the ruined tissue into my pocket and sighed. “Do you have any tissues in here?”

  “Glove box.”

  I leaned forward and pinched the little door open. A travel pack of tissues that’d had been jammed in haphazardly with countless receipts, pens, and notebooks fell out. A lanyard with a laminated nametag landed beside my boots. “Sorry.” I scooped the fallen object into my hand and pulled it onto my lap. I liberated a tissue before replacing the items into Ray’s glove box. A tiny photo of Ray smiled back at me from the nametag. “Ray Griggs, Mistletoe Gazette.” I read aloud. “You’re a reporter?” My tummy clenched.

  “I’m trying. Mostly, I take pictures.”

  Nausea set my world on edge. “All your questions,” I groaned. “Was this some kind of interview?”

  “No. Of course not.” He slowed the truck at my parents’ driveway.

  A few hundred feet away, the sheriff’s cruiser blocked the closed entrance to Reindeer Games.

  “Right.” I gathered my packages. “Reporters always insist on driving women home immediately after their family has undergone a trauma, expecting nothing in return.”

  “I thought you’d want to talk about it.”

  I scoffed in his direction and released my seat belt. “Did you even go to my high school?”

  He jammed the truck into park and swiveled to face me. “You seriously don’t remember me at all?”

  “No.” I gripped my bags with unnecessary roughness. “But I won’t forget you now.” I popped the door open and jumped out. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “Holly.” The sincerity in his voice stopped me short.

  I turned for one last look at him.

  “I take photos for the paper, and sometimes I submit articles, but I wasn’t prodding you for an inside scoop. I was just being friendly. Sometimes my curiosity gets the best of me.”

  “If I see any part of our conversation in an article, the next time your name’s printed, it’ll be in your obituary.” I regretted the rant immediately. “I’m sorry. That was a joke. A terrible, horribly timed, not funny joke.”

  “So you aren’t planning to kill me?” he asked. A teasing smile played on his lips.

  I leveled a palm between us and tilted it side to side to indicate the jury was still out.

  Ray flipped his visor down and retrieved a business card. “Here.” He pushed it in my direction. “If you just want to talk.”

  I snagged the little paper rectangle. “I hope you’re a nice guy,” I said. “I like to think the best of people—don’t prove me wrong.”

  He did a weird salute. “It was nice talking with you, Holly White.”

  I wasn’t sure I shared the sentiment, but I returned his salute anyway.

  The rusty pickup reversed out of the drive and spun onto the road in a slow, steady fashion.

  What could I do if he wrote an article about our conversation? Nothing. Absolutely nothing—once it was printed, I’d be too late. The damage would already be done.

  Chapter Five

  I headed toward the small guesthouse where I’d unloaded my things from the moving truck. The building had once been the tree farm’s offices, but for the last fifteen years, it had housed guests. There was something sad about the fact that after a lifetime in Mistletoe, I was the visitor.

  I slogged through the snow with my bags until Mr. Fleece and the reindeer came into view. He combed the animals with great care, dragging a nearly invisible brush over their fluffy manes and backs.

  According to Cookie, Mr. Fleece had argued with Margaret last night. Much as I hated to think anyone in Reindeer Games’ employ was capable of murder, I had to be fair. I couldn’t discount anyone based on my love for the farm.

  I changed direction when he looked up. “Hi, Mr. Fleece.”

  “Hello, Holly. Been shopping, I see.” He wiggled his bushy eyebrows as I approached. Mr. Fleece and the reindeer were one of the newer additions to Reindeer Games. We’d gotten to know each other two days ago when he was kind enough to offer his assistance unloading my earthly belongings from the moving truck. Thanks to the added set of hands, plus Mom and Dad, it had only taken about an hour.

  “It’s good to be home.” I smiled. “Thanks again for your
help with the boxes. How are things going for you and the reindeer?”

  He brushed the animal’s back. “Not bad.” Gentle as he was with the animals, it was hard to imagine him wielding a three-foot stake at an old woman. Though my recent breakup suggested I might not be the keenest judge of people.

  I adjusted the shopping bags over the crook of one arm so I could get my hands on the soft reindeer before me. “Hello, you.” I ran my mittens down his back and fluffed his pretty mane. “What’s your name?” I asked, lifting his chin and making kissy faces at his nose.

  “That’s Kevin,” Mr. Fleece said, “or as I like to call him, Mr. Personality. He’s the team showboat.” He pointed to the other two. “The one on the right is Chrissy, short for Christmas. The other is Noel. They’re my babies.”

  Chrissy and Noel wore matching red bridles, a festive contrast to Kevin’s green one.

  I stroked Kevin’s side. “No fun holiday name for this guy?”

  “Wasn’t up to me,” Mr. Fleece said. “He was almost three years old when I rescued him, too old to change the name.”

  “He’s a rescue?” My heart went out to Kevin, and I warmed immediately to Mr. Fleece. Cindy Lou Who was nearly feral when I’d taken her in.

  “You betcha. They were with an abusive owner up north. Chrissy and Noel were just calves then. I took the lot of them and gave the girls their names. I didn’t ask what they were called before, and they were too young to remember.” He heaved a sigh. “Not that the old coot paid them a lick of attention. He probably didn’t call them anything I could say in front of my mother.”

  “Sad.”

  “It was awful.” He pulled a carrot from his coat pocket and offered it to Kevin, who greedily munched it down. “I never fancied myself a reindeer keeper, but it’s been good for me. These guys have taught me a lot about healing.” Emotion swelled in his deep-brown eyes. I’d guessed Mr. Fleece to be my dad’s age, though time had worn on him in ways that Dad seemed to have escaped.

  “I’m glad,” I whispered, concentrating on each stroke of the reindeer’s fur. “I’m sorry about what happened to Margaret. I heard you argued with her last night. That stinks, huh?”