by Hillary Avis
Born in a Barn
A Clucks and Clues Cozy Mystery
Book 4
Hillary Avis
Published by Hilyard Press, Eugene, OR
©2020 Hillary Avis www.hillaryavis.com
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people, places, events, or organizations is purely coincidental, and all are the creation of the author.
Cover by Mariah Sinclair www.mariahsinclair.com
For permissions contact: [email protected]
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Author’s Note
About the Author
Chapter 1
December 20
“One sec, I’m almost ready!” I swiped a broken sugar cookie from the cooling rack in the kitchen and used it to coax my house hen, Boots, into the bathroom. She followed me eagerly, pecking up every sweet crumb with little chirrups of delight.
After ensuring she had fresh water in her dish, I flipped open the lid of the laundry hamper, in case she decided to lay her daily egg while we were at the Honeytree Holidays kickoff event, then closed the bathroom door to keep her out of trouble while we were gone.
I rejoined my daughter, Andrea, by the front door, where she was waiting with her twins. My sweet grandbabies. They’d flown out yesterday from Chicago to visit for Christmas, and their presence made my cozy little farmstead feel complete. I had everything I wanted, all in one place.
Andrea leaned over to zip up John-William’s red fleece coat, and I grimaced as the huge tray she balanced on one arm teetered dangerously toward the floor, sending the cookies on it sliding to one side. She’d painstakingly decorated the gingerbread snowmen this morning to donate to the bake sale fundraiser, and I hated to see them ruined.
“Let me get it!” I said. Andrea straightened and shot me a grateful smile as I kneeled in front of the kids and zipped their matching jackets. Two pairs of serious brown eyes stared back at me.
“It’s not that cold, Nana,” Izzy—short for Isabella-Sophia, a real mouthful of a name for a four-year-old—said. She swished her little bob, a cute cap of straight brown hair that she’d inherited from her dad. She and her brother might be used to much colder weather where they lived in the Midwest, but the temperature outside was still pretty cold for Honeytree, Oregon.
My farm had been blessed with the perfect dusting of snow for their visit—a rarity before Christmas. It had collected on the bare branches of the apple orchard and lay like a crystalline quilt on the roofs of my ancient barn, cute cottage, and extravagant chicken coop, and added the extra bit of seasonal magic.
“We’re going to be late,” Andrea said impatiently. She stepped aside so I could grab my coat from the hook behind her and pick up the fir-bough garland that lay on the table by the door. I hurriedly shrugged my coat onto one arm and opened the front door with the other. To my surprise, I very nearly ran into the fist of the man standing on my porch, whose hand was raised and poised to knock.
I recognized him immediately.
The dyed-brown coif of hair, held with more hairspray than should be legal. The round face with skin so unnaturally smooth that it made him look like a five-foot-ten-inch baby. The single, ice-blue eye that blinked at me like a judgmental owl.
My ex-husband, Peterson Davis. The last person on earth I wanted to see standing on my doormat. I’d played doormat to him for thirty years of marriage, and now he was ancient history—the kind that should stay buried. He had a large, leather rolling suitcase parked beside his burgundy driving loafers.
I would have thought he was a hallucination, some ghost of Christmas past sent to teach me a lesson, except that his other eye was swollen shut and seemed to be developing one heck of a black eye. There was no way I was imagining that.
I slammed the door and leaned my back against it, trying to decide what to do about the unwelcome visitor on the other side. Andrea eyed me warily, guilt creeping into her expression.
“Did you know he was coming?” I demanded.
She cringed, and the snowman cookies slid two inches to the right on their tray. “I maybe invited him?”
“Well, uninvite him.”
She pursed her lips, which she’d tinted with a very festive cranberry gloss. “It’ll be nice to have a family Christmas, won’t it? I can’t ping-pong the kids around the country every holiday, and it’s been two years since the divorce. You should be over it by now.”
“Eighteen months,” I corrected. That wasn’t nearly enough Peterson-free time to fully heal from our messy marriage. I needed at least three, four decades more.
“It’s plenty of time for two adults to figure out how to be in the same room.” Andrea nudged me aside and opened the door. Peterson flashed us a blinding-white smile, which made the darkening bruise under his left eye look even worse. “Daddy! I’d hug you but I worked too hard on these cookies to risk dropping them.”
“That’s my Anda-panda. Always a perfectionist.” Peterson chuckled, like it was totally normal for him to show up at my house after not speaking a word to me since the day I moved out of the Beverly Hills mansion we shared. He ruffled John-William’s hair affectionately. John-William stared up at him, silent. At least it wasn’t just me. I’d worried that J.W.—his name was as unwieldy as his sister’s—didn’t like me because he hadn’t said a full sentence aloud to me in the last twenty-four hours since they arrived. But maybe he was just shy.
“What happened to your eye, Gamp?” Izzy squinted up at Peterson. “Did someone bonk you with their head?”
“Gamp just had a little accident. I’ll be just fine, don’t worry.” Peterson pinched her cheek gently, earning himself a disgruntled pout.
Andrea leaned toward him to get a closer look at his eye. “Ouch, that looks terrible. You should get him an ice pack, Mom.”
I pulled on the other arm of my coat and zipped it up, then scraped my hand along the porch rail, gathering a handful of snow. I squeezed it into a ball and handed it to him. “There you go.”
“Thanks so much,” he muttered sarcastically. He inspected the snow to ensure it was clean and then pressed it to his eye area. Over the kids’ heads, he added, “When I stopped to gas up the Rolls, the redneck working at the pump scratched the paint. We had a few words.”
“Must have been some seriously harsh words to mess your face up like that,” I said. I had zero sympathy for Peterson’s face or his car. Both of them could turn around and go back where they came from.
Andrea made a face at me and then turned back to her dad. “We were just heading out to the Honeytree Holidays thing so the kids can visit with Santa. Why don’t you ride with Mom, and I’ll follow you?”
“Where should I put my suitcase?” Peterson yelled from the porch.
“Leave it there,” I called back. Not like anyone was going to come up my long, gravel driveway to steal a suitcase full of Brooks Brothers khakis and pastel cashmere sweaters. I slammed the car door and started the engine, revving it to help the Porsche warm up faster.
Peterson looked back and forth between me and his suitcase before sliding up the handle and bumping it down the porch stairs. He locked it in the trunk of his gold Rolls Royce and then walked around my car to let himself into the passenger side, settling noisily into the leather seat. “Still driving this ancient thing, huh?”
I took a deep breath before I said something I regretted. The Porsche had been a fiftieth birthday present to myself, and I loved it more than life itself. Driving it was the one thing that’d kept me sane when my relationship with Peterson had gotten so clucked up. “It’s only seven years old. That’s hardly ancient.”
Shifting the car into reverse, I pulled out and then crept down the driveway, killing time while I waited for Andrea to stow the cookies and kids and catch up.
“We’ll have to get you a new one,” Peterson said pleasantly. He flipped down the visor to check his eye in the mirror, pressing the puffy area gingerly with the tips of his pale, delicate surgeon’s fingers, then flipped it back up.
I bristled at the word “we.” We weren’t going to do anything.
In my rearview mirror, I saw Andrea’s rental car pull up behind me in the driveway, so I put my blinker on and turned onto the highway, picking up speed as I headed toward Honeytree.
Normally, the drive into town made me feel powerful and alive, as it calmed my nerves and reset my brain. But with Peterson sitting next to me, I felt like a wadded-up paper napkin. Used and wrinkled, fragile and easily discarded.
“You can’t stay at the house,” I said abruptly.
“Aw, Leona.” He sighed. “I warned Andrea you’d be unhappy. Don’t worry about it; I’ll get a hotel.”
A laugh escaped my lips before I could stifle it. “There aren’t any hotels in Honeytree, sorry. We’re not exactly a tourist destination.”
“A town close by then.”
I knew the quaint Victorian B&B in Duma was already full; guests often booked it years in advance. That only left one place to stay within thirty miles, a seedy motel next to the truck stop on the freeway. No way would Peterson stay there; he was more of the Four Seasons type. “I don’t think the local accommodations will be up to your standards.”
We hit the Curves, the winding section of the highway that led to the Honeytree city limits, and Peterson zipped up his leather bomber jacket to his chin, his teeth chattering as the chill breeze flowed over the windshield and whipped my blonde-and-silver ponytail into a cloud.
“I’ll make do,” he finally said. “Can you?”
I gripped the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles went as white as the snow that dusted the canopy of the trees that lined the road. “Can I what?”
“Can you keep it together? For the twins, at least, so they don’t see Gamp and Nana duking it out over the fruitcake?” In my peripheral vision, I could see him watching my face with his good eye, gauging my reaction.
I gave a curt nod. “I’ll play nice for the visit with Santa. After that, you need to go.”
Chapter 2
I pulled the Porsche around to the back of the library, motioning to Andrea to find a space in the lot while I eased the convertible onto the grass between a blue Pontiac GTO with a wreath on the front grille and a white Volkswagen bus that had blinking Christmas lights wound around the roof rack. A wooden sleigh nearly as large as the vehicle itself decorated the roof, and a glowing red nose was mounted between the headlights.
My best friend, Ruth Chapman, popped her head out of the passenger window. Honeytree’s only hairdresser, she often experimented on her own locks. Today, I noticed she’d dyed the white strands in her dark curly hair a seasonal red and green. Silver bells dangled from her ears and made a cheerful jingling sound.
“What do you think?” She motioned to a deer antler that was zip-tied to the side mirror of the VW bus. “Pretty cute, huh? It was my idea.”
I knew the bus belonged to Gary Edison, who owned the auto repair shop in Duma. Now that she and Gary were dating, Ruth had recruited him to organize the car show as part of the Honeytree Holidays, a weeklong celebration that the Chamber of Commerce organized every year.
It was all for a good cause. The car show, bake sale, and photos with Santa—along with other events during the week leading up to December twenty-fifth—raised funds for the Gifting Tree, a local tradition that provided Christmas gifts to the community’s neediest children.
“Looks great!” I gave her a thumbs up and, ignoring Peterson, got out and scooped the green garland from the back seat. I draped it around the perimeter of the Porsche’s rear seat, clicked on the star-shaped battery lights that I’d woven into the fir branches, and stood back to admire the effect.
Ruth squealed and clapped. “So pretty, Leona!”
“I agree. She’s looking good,” a voice rumbled behind me. I felt a pair of familiar, strong hands on my waist and turned my head just in time for a peck on the cheek from Eli Ramirez.
Once high school sweethearts, Eli and I reconnected when I moved back to town, but I was still getting used to the feeling of being one half of a couple. I’d figured I was done with committed relationships after my marriage went belly-up. But things with Eli were different than they’d been with Peterson.
Eli appreciated everything about me—even my sometimes-abrasive exterior—whereas my husband had always wanted to change me. He’d tried for years to mold me into the perfect, high-class housewife. This Cinderella never could quite squeeze her foot into that glass slipper, though.
Peterson stepped out of the car and cleared his throat, jogging my attention back to the present. “Introductions, please, Leona?”
Recognition dawned on Ruth’s face. Despite our lifelong friendship, she’d never met my husband in person, but the video of him humiliating me on national television had gone viral, and Peterson, thanks to his regimen of spa treatments and plastic surgery “maintenance,” still looked exactly the same as he had during the TV appearance. Well, except for the one eye that was puffed completely shut.
“I know who you are!” she exclaimed, pointing at him.
“Peterson, this is my friend Ruth Chapman. Ruth, Peterson Davis.” I motioned awkwardly between them. He stuck out his hand and she shook it, grinning like a fool.
“You’re the one who—”
“And this is Eli Ramirez,” I interrupted before she could dredge up more of the bad memory. I stepped to the side so Peterson could get a better look at Eli. Peterson’s good eye bugged out slightly as he took in Eli’s full height, broad shoulders, and sheriff’s uniform. Then he swallowed hard and extended his hand.
“Nice to meet you, Sheriff. I’m Leona’s husband.”
“Ex,” I snapped. “Ex-husband.”
“I knew what he meant.” Eli shook Peterson’s hand and clapped him on the arm like he was an old football buddy. “Welcome to Honeytree. I’ve got to make the rounds, but holler at me later and we can grab a beer or something.”
Peterson gave a sickly nod—he was more of a white wine spritzer kind of guy—and, seemingly at a loss for words, watched Eli head off into the crowd of people who were gathered to admire the row of festive vehicles and vote on their favorite decorations.
“Where should I put the cookies, Mom?” Andrea asked, joining us. She lifted the tray she carried slightly to keep them out of reach of
the kids. The twins tagged along beside her, each grasping a belt loop of her jeans so she could keep track of them in the parking lot even though her hands were full. One of those twin-mom tricks I’d never had to master.
“I’ll take those!” Ruth said warmly, reaching her hands out for the tray. “It’s good to see you again, Andrea! I can’t believe how much J.W. and Izzy have grown since last year. Oh my word, did you make these? They look straight out of a Martha Stewart magazine.”
“Mom baked, I decorated.”
“Can I have one now?” Izzy begged.
“You know what, these are for the bake sale, but if you come on in, I will show you where Santa is.” Ruth’s eyes sparkled. “He might even have a candy cane for you. Do you like candy canes?”
Izzy bounced in her patent-leather Mary Janes. She let go of Andrea’s belt loop and reached around the back of her mom’s knees to poke her brother. “We love them, don’t we?” J.W. nodded gravely in agreement.
“Well, then come on inside!” Ruth led us away from the car show and into the large community center attached to the back of the library. The expansive, well-lit room was teeming with holiday activity. Christmas carols played boisterously over speakers set into the ceiling, and as folks milled around the room, they hummed snatches of the familiar strains. On the stage at the far end of the room, a huge, green-and-gold throne and a sign reading “North Pole” were surrounded by fluffy, quilt-batting snow.
Though the throne’s seat was currently empty, a line had formed to one side of the stage, and an elf in curled-toe boots and a plump Mrs. Claus were making their way down the row of families, handing out striped candy canes to keep the kids happy while they waited their turn to sit on Santa’s lap. At the same time, they collected the ten-dollar photo fee from the parents.
Tables set up along the back wall, manned by members of the Friends of the Library, groaned under the weight of hundreds of delectable baked goods for sale, all donated by people in the community. Loaves of pumpkin bread rubbed shoulders with fruitcakes, pumpkin pies nestled up to Swiss rolls, and cookies of every stripe and type stretched out for what seemed like acres.
