by Sarah Hualde
Another Cliché Christmas
A Honey Pot Mystery
By Sarah Hualde
Another Cliche Christmas
Copyright © 2018 by Sarah Hualde
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations em- bodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Big Car Books
Cover design by Angie @ pro_ebookcovers
ISBN 13: 978-1-7325062-0-6
First Edition: July 2018
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my mom,
She raised me on mysteries, music,
& a whole lot of faith!
CHAPTER 1
Holidays aren’t happy for everyone. For many a can of spam and a bottle of spray cheese, eaten in peace, is more scrumptious than a fried turkey and homemade green bean casserole. Ivy Hooper would have settled for old baloney on a crowded bus rather than the Thanksgiving weekend she was enduring.
Stunned on the front lawn of her grandmother’s house, she hid behind the red tractor mailbox as her stepfather launched projectiles at her head. She hunkered low, scrambling to scavenge her own belongings, as she sobbed on the dry, dead grass. She kept her secret close, almost, long enough to escape. Discovered four weeks too soon, she was paying the price.
Ms. Lana, who lived next door, allowed Ivy to borrow her beat up Beetle to drive to tutoring. In exchange, Ivy deep cleaned the woman’s house once a week. Now, Ms. Lana watched Ivy from the corner of her kitchen window, as Mr. Hooper cussed and cursed at the sixteen-year-old girl. The eyes of her friend upon her, she could not bear to look into them and wouldn’t dare a risky plea for aid.
She waited out the tirade. This wasn’t the first time Hurricane Don had landed in her presence. She prayed it would be the last. There wasn’t much left of her home and what remained wasn’t worth the effort to rebuild.
She longed for one of her Grandmother’s photo albums, one containing snapshots of Ivy’s mother. She thought of sneaking into the house once Don passed out. On Thanksgiving it would be sooner than usual, but she couldn’t take the chance. Not even for one of her Mema’s hand sewn quilts.
As Don withdrew, leaving the porch ravaged and rattling, Ivy spotted Ms. Lana squeeze her keys through the mail slot on her turquoise front door. “Take it, honey.” She whispered, slipping a twenty into the offering. “Take it and get out of here.” Ivy rubbed her cheeks with shaking fists and snatched the keys and the money. She strained to show her gratitude with her eyes. Speech was impossible. “I know, you’ll bring it back when you can. Now, go before he comes back out.”
The blue-haired girl curled into a crouch and duck walked the sidewalk. Her laptop was in two pieces, but her cell phone seemed uninjured. Don wasn't thoughtful enough to toss out clothing or blankets or shoes. That would have been helpful to his disgraceful mess of a stepdaughter. This exiling was a punishment, and he wanted the girl to experience every lashing. He could’ve done worse. Thank you, Jesus.
Ivy slid into the driver’s seat of the hot pink VW and turned the key. The motor sparked to life, and the engine sputtered, shaking off the cold of November. She put the car in gear and pulled from the curb, right as Don reappeared on the front steps for round two. He tossed a beer can and a lit cigarette at the retreating car and then flipped off his next-door neighbor before returning to his couch.
The VW’s gas tank only showed a quarter full. Being a bug, this could get Ivy some distance from Lewiston and her angry relative. She doubted it could get her to Ashton and Ashton was where she needed to go. Thankfully in between Lewiston and Ashton laid a respite for travelers, the tiny town of Pottersville. Nicknamed Honey Pot, due to its circular shape and surrounding bee sanctuary, it was quaint and quiet.
Ivy had a few friends in the town, none of which had the power or money to offer Ivy true help. Still, there was one lady who might comfort Ivy as she determined her next steps. It was a possibility, a dicey one. If your own stepfather can’t tolerate your presence, what makes you think a near stranger will want to help you? Ivy choked on her own thoughts of self-hatred and washed it down with the small scrap of courage she still contained. She risked the rejection and headed west toward Honey Pot.
*****
I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. Kat’s conscience thrummed in time with the throbbing of her right foot. She knew Black Friday in the city wasn’t for the weak. Still, she relented to the siren of savings and braved the grueling midnight drive. What was the object of her quest? Not a new plasma TV. Not a laptop computer. Not a bike or a scooter. Not the latest must-have stocking item for her children. No.
Kat Miller surged headstrong into the crowds for 20 yards of brilliant white organza. There were tiny angel costumes to create. She exited the craft supply store with one swollen bottom lip, a twisted ankle, and three broken toes.
Behind a sterile gray curtain, she shifted her ice pack and fought to silence her inner voice. The Norco procrastinated, lazy to take effect, as Holly Jolly Christmas echoed from the nurse’s station.
Flora had Kat’s children. Praise God, she had made a deal with her before Thanksgiving. Flora would tackle Black Friday babysitting for a date night weekend in January. Meanwhile the Miller munchkins, snugly tucked in tennis shoe sleeping bags with hay fever mouths ajar, had tiny rivers of drool seeping onto their pillows.
Thad was already buttoning up his coat and heading off to work. He didn't realize his wife was sitting in an after-hours care clinic, 30 miles from home. Kat decided not to bother him with her troubles. He’d only repeat what her broken bones kept singing.
“I snagged us some coffee from the diner down the street. The coffee from the cart is vile.” Happy teal and brown paper cups steamed in front of Lydia’s chocolate brown eyes.
She arrived coiffed and polished, wearing her huge pea coat over her flannel pajamas an hour after Kat’s phone call. “Your assailant seems to have vanished. The clerk from the craft store said she’d work with a sketch artist if you’d like.” Kat shot tired eyes up at her friend’s sarcastic smirk. “The doctor says I can drive you home in a while.” She chuckled and chugged her coffee. “I’ll come back later with Thad to pick up your car.” Kat reclined further onto her paper covered pillow. Lydia Everette always seemed one step ahead.
Lydia listened to an audiobook as Kat faded and fell fast asleep to the sound of tires hitting road reflectors, not a single car on the road and daylight at least two hours away. Kat dreamed of the precious children of Honey Pot dressed in flowing white organza robes, fluffy angel’s wings, and glittering halos. They sang carols and hymns in unity, bringing all three churches of their town together to celebrate Baby Jesus. As they crescendoed in chorus, each turned hateful eyes upon her pew and scowled her way. She shrunk under their gaze. Their gorgeous attire morphed and changed. They were now frumpy and frowning in tinged bathrobes and last Halloween’s fairy wings, still yellow despite the fresh bleaching of each. Fellow believers slammed their programs to the floor, trampling over her work and stormed from the school auditorium.
What have I gotten myself into? Even in sleep, Kat bemoaned her December to come. She spent the rest of Black Friday balled up on the couch nursing her self-pity and angry ankle.
The annual Miller cookie party was Saturday night. Through a drugged haze she watched Lydia drag out the Miller’s plastic t
ree. Jess and Sam arrived home, Kat didn’t know when and helped Lydia and Flora quick clean the living room. Unable to stand or imagine standing, pain meds always knocked her silly, Kat was helpless. She let her friends take over. A mixture of thankfulness and fretfulness overwhelmed her lucid moments.
Less than 48 hours later, Thad smiled and greeted each guest with a mug of cocoa or coffee. Sam and Jess swirled in-between adults, chasing their friends. Kat propped herself atop a bar stool in the breakfast nook, watched her company and tried not to pout. This was not the way she’d envisioned the Cookie Party.
“It could’ve been worse.” Flora smoothed her long skirt, flicking shortbread crumbs onto the rug. Lulu, the Miller’s Jack Russell, swept the morsels up with her snout before a broom could claim them. Flora was a pessimistic optimist, always seasoning her encouragement with a dash of realism.
“Not by much,” Kat growled before sipping her cinnamon coffee.
“What happened to your attacker?”
“I don’t think you can call a blue-haired 70-year-old quilting addict, an attacker.”
In fact, in this situation, Kat was probably the one at fault. If Kat hadn’t been the only one mangled, the police may have arrested her. Lydia’s eyes twinkled imagining the mischievous geriatric crafter.
The memory clouded with pain medication and anti-inflammatories, Kat recalled her crafting misadventure. She reasoned fighting anyone over a numbered ticket was ridiculous. Even if her nemesis had been “accidentally” knocking into any customer she could find, who held a smaller number in line. Kat glimpsed the older woman as she plowed into number 53, with an armload of fabric, causing her ticket to fall. The con-lady had then acted the Samaritan and bent to collect the lost article, only to swap it with hers. When the number wasn’t any better than her original ticket, she set her gray eyes on Kat.
Kat stood outside for three hours, in November frost, to get her place in line. Number 7 out of 98 numbers was ideal. There was enough time to grab her bolts and hustle to the cutting tables before being called. Seeing the assault plan align in the elderly woman’s gaze, Kat set her body straight and solid. She had underestimated her opponent’s determination.
The fragile female had backed her cart to the other side of the store and when opportunity knocked plowed full force over Kat’s foot. Kat fell, mouth first, into the nearest stand of notions. Then, as she lay, unable to re-center, her molester had the gall to swipe the fabric bolt out of Kat’s arms and snatch her ticket off of the floor. Victimized, Kat lamented on the dirty tile as Burl Ives sang over the speakers. It took thirty minutes before an employee noticed the wreckage and came to help her.
Kat winced. Lulu, sensing her owner’s distress, pawed at the bandaged foot. Lydia shooed the dog away and perched on the stool beside her friends.
“Hobo Joe should be here soon.” She announced. “I spotted him locking up 3 Alarm Coffee, on the drive over.”
“Yum, I hope he brings peanut butter fudge!”
“I thought you’d sworn off sugar?”
Flora shrugged. “Only during the busy season,” she reaffirmed, “it messes with my sleep schedule. I don’t have another baby due until March.” Flora Brandes ran Baby Belly Boot camp. She taught birthing and breastfeeding classes, new mother nutrition seminars, essential oil parties, and was the resident Doula of Honey Pot. The tiny town hosted only two doctors. The closest birthing center was in Ashton, thirty miles away. Honey Pot babies were born at home with Dr. Lawrence and Flora present. Those with a pre-existing need of surgical services stayed in the home of Bellamy Mott, the preacher of Ashton’s Church of Christ.
Most of Flora’s customers came full turn from July 20th until November’s end. Winters in Pottersville lacked out-of-doors entertainment. The city roads were too long and icy to travel in frivolity. With the Davis baby born one week early, Flora’s nights were free and uninterrupted.
“March? Who’s due in March?” Lydia scanned the party. She delighted in pregnant tummies and newborn baby smell. Her only daughter wasn’t interested in marriage, yet. In fact, she had sworn off dating in exchange for growing into a missionary.
Joan had graduated two Junes ago and then flown off to Africa in September. Mama Lydia had been brimming with pride but was now busting with boredom. Her baby love had grown more obvious in the last two months. Since Joan’s departure, Lydia, over eagerly, squeezed and sniffed all the new babies autumn brought to the B.F.F. Christian church.
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
“Hm, must be a first timer. Or else she’d be showing already.” Their eyes scanned every nearby female abdomen.
“Why don’t you have another baby?” Flora questioned.
“I’m too old for that.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot. You’re ancient.” Kat nudged Lydia’s elbow. “You’re only a year older than me. Smart woman, you had your babies young.”
"Lots of women are having their first babies into their 40s,"
“Well, not this one. I’ve already graduated my girl. Loved every minute. But, I don’t think I’ll be starting all over again.”
“When are you leaving to see Joan?”
“I pick up my passport on Monday. And we take off that Friday. One more week of tutoring, and I’m off for two months. Ethan doesn’t start vacation until the Thursday before.” Her face shining with excitement and delight, Lydia looked over at her husband. “It’s the best present, ever. I was so worried when Joan told us she didn’t feel free enough to leave the orphanage for Christmas. I’m so proud of her but I miss her. And I can’t stand the thought of having an empty house on Christmas morning.”
“Ethan would be there.”
“You’re right. You’re right. But it’s not the same. Just one present in the hands of a kid, your kid, no matter their age, makes it all magic.”
Kat looked around the room. She counted all the families without children, in her mind. Did they have empty-nest Christmas syndrome? She thought it would be lovely to have the morning to her own routines. To celebrate in her own way. Thad and her cuddled on the couch, watching cheesy movies, drinking spicy coffee, napping and enjoying the day. No shrill shrieking morning wake ups. No fighting over the last candy cane on the tree. No counting presents and checking for fairness. Just being quiet at Christmas.
Flora searched the room, only to find her eldest, Eloise, sulking and sitting on the stairs. Her heart deflated at her daughter’s new emotional state. Her cheerful charitable girl was now sunken and snappy. Without noticing Flora teared up. Quick as caffeine, her friends covered her hands with theirs.
“She’s just growing up so quickly.” Kat’s eyes widened at the increasing waterworks.
Flora was not afraid of feelings but she rarely fell apart. Her head planted on Lydia’s shoulder and Lydia patted her. “Boobs and bras…” The blubbering began with no sign of stopping.
Kevin, Flora’s husband, eyed his wife’s distress from across the room. He asked for the scoop and Lydia replied with a subtle shrug and a thumbs-up. He shook his head and glanced toward Eloise. Something more was going on between Flora and her daughter.
“Hey ho! I’m here!” The door swung open letting in a loud disheveled man and the wind that spiked his gray hair. “And I brought fudge!” Flora snuffled and bolted into a pounce.
“Thank heaven for Hobo Joe!” She was up and serving a piece of fudge to her own face, first, then to the rest of the party.
“Well, that’s interesting.” Lydia snickered and helped Kat hobble after their manic friend and toward the new tray of goodies. It was Hobo Joe’s fudge. It would not last long.
*****
The first night was miserable. Beyond miserable. Almost intolerable. Ivy was too cold to sleep. She balled up into her sleeping bag, one of Ms. Lana’s emergency winter supplies. No amount of wrapping warmed her enough to rest. She drove around the town circle, blasting the heat and hoping the gas would last.
A cop car emerged from the station. Assuming he
was after her, Ivy drove toward the nearest public building, a church. Wasn’t the Lord’s house open at any time, she reasoned still shivering. The police car ignored her as she pulled into the parking lot and turned off the engine. She relaxed relieved, but not for long. The bug wouldn’t restart. It left her stranded outside the Bailey Family Fellowship church building, with no heat.
Panic fluxed through her young body. She couldn’t stay huddled in the car, she’d freeze. In her desperation, she circled the dark building and found entry in a small office window. She landed, hard, on the borrowed sleeping bag she’d squeezed through the window before shoving herself inside. The impact jarred her teeth and sent shock waves of nausea through her belly. She lay on the thin carpet, scared and alone, praying someone would come to her aid all while begging to stay hidden.
“Lord, what am I going to do?”
CHAPTER 2
Work was exhausting, Wonderfully exhausting, Rewardingly exhausting. Now with the bulk of her duties over, Flora had the time and energy to focus on her family. Instead, she spent most of her morning worrying. She hosted lactation classes for love offering payments. A gift she gave enthusiastically but a gift that didn’t pay many bills.
This was Christmas and bills were plentiful. Kevin’s work was going great but small-town living equaled small-town bank accounts. There wasn’t much wiggle room. Debts like health and car insurance always seem to come due right before the holidays. In an average year, at least one baby in town came full term between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve. Many a stuffed stocking depended on the birth of her Holiday Baby. Not this year. Mrs. McCoy wasn’t due until March. She had a habit of baking her babies for two weeks longer than everyone else. Her prenatal classes wouldn’t be bringing in much cash until February.
Flora flicked a pencil across the kitchen table. She hated thinking of her job in monetary terms. Her small hands welcomed life into the world. They gave mothers the opportunity and tools to create their own birth story. Flora delighted in her work. She felt compelled and called to it. Like the midwives of Exodus, she did her utmost to keep mothers and their babies safe. For the joy of service and the rush of witnessing a birth, Flora labored.
