by Hillary Avis
“We’re not going to catch up—she’s too far ahead,” I panted. Eli was so focused on the chase that he didn’t even turn to look at me.
“We have to try,” he said. He put his head down and sped up, leaving me in the dust.
My legs flagged, and I slowed to a stop. I literally couldn’t run any farther. I started to turn back to the basement when a flash of peacock blue caught my eye on the other side of the wall of straw bales. It had to be Joan, further along in the maze.
I stood on tiptoe to get a better look over the top of the bales. Sure enough, Joan was heading for the Three Wise Men and their camels. In the other direction, I saw Eli was still two or three turns of the maze behind.
“Rusty!” I hollered at the top of my lungs toward the Wise Men. “Stop her!”
At the sound of my voice, Rusty acted instinctively. He led his camel to the center of the path, blocking it completely. The other Wise Men followed suit. Staring down the huge creatures in her path, Joan slowed to a stop, turning to face Eli as he ran up behind her.
Eli retrieved a pair of handcuffs from the pouch on his belt. “Joan Packett, I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Homer Wilds.”
“You can’t prove anything,” she spat at him. “You have nothing on me.”
“You’re on camera, ma’am,” he said politely.
She made a disbelieving noise. “That drunk doesn’t have cameras.”
“But Ed across the street does,” I said. I drew on my farm girl upbringing and jammed the toe of my shoe between two of the straw bales, using it to boost myself to the top of the makeshift wall. Straddling it, I said, “You went to collect the Gifting Tree donations from Homer, but something went wrong, didn’t it?”
At the sound of my voice, she turned toward me, and her lip curled in disgust when she saw me perched on top of the straw. “Yes, something went wrong. The donations weren’t there. So I left.”
Eli crept closer to her, and her eyes drifted back toward him. Hoping to keep her distracted, I asked, “What happened to the donated toys?”
“That loser sold them on the internet to fund his little drinking problem,” Joan said bitterly. “He stole them out of the arms of children.”
I slid down from the top of the straw bales and moved toward her with my hands raised, drawing her attention to me so Eli could inch even closer. “So Homer answered the door when you knocked. He told you he didn’t have the toys anymore. And when you realized what had happened to the donations, you were understandably upset.”
Color crept up Joan’s neck. “I demanded he give me the money he made instead.”
“But he refused?”
Joan’s eyes flashed. “Oh, he tried. But all he had in the till was a two-dollar bill!”
Rusty’s money. He’d been telling the truth. Though I’d believed his story about buying Twinkies with his piggy bank money on its face, I still felt relief flood through my veins. “So then what?”
“He tried to kick me out,” she snarled. “No apology, no compensation. Just a ‘See you at the North Pole, Mrs. Claus.’ And I was supposed to play nicey-wifey to a drunken thief all afternoon?! I couldn’t do it. He disgusted me.”
I couldn’t blame her—I wouldn’t have been able to do it, either. But the next step she took? That was unimaginable to me. “So then what happened?”
“He was so drunk he could barely stand, but he popped open a bottle of mouthwash he had on his desk and took a swig. Swished it around and swallowed it. And that’s when I had the idea.”
Eli was so close now, just a few feet to the side of her.
“What idea?”
“Who would notice one more intoxicant in his bloodstream? I could get rid of him once and for all. No more vulgar language at Little League games. No more fistfights in front of the gas pump. No more drunken Santa stealing Christmas joy from innocent little children.” Joan was almost radiant with anger. Above her, the elevated Christmas star cast a bright glow around her, illuminating her even further. “So I pretended to leave and went out to my van. I emptied out the insulin I brought with me so I could enjoy the Honeytree Holidays bake sale treats and refilled the syringe with antifreeze from a jug in his back room. Then I stuck him with it.”
Joan jutted out her chin like she was daring me to criticize her choice, her eyes flashing dangerously. So I didn’t. “Did he fight back?”
She gave a harsh laugh. “Didn’t even notice. He was so sedated, I don’t think he felt a thing. It’s a shame, really. I would have liked it if he suffered as much as the children who won’t get their Christmas gifts will suffer.”
One more step and Eli was there. He clasped a handcuff around her wrist, and she let him pull her other arm around into the second cuff, seemingly as unaware as Homer had been when she’d injected him with poison.
“I did the right thing,” she insisted, her eyes still trained on me, as though she were looking for my approval.
I couldn’t agree with her, although I understood her deep rage at Homer’s callousness toward Honeytree’s children, the children he claimed to love when he sponsored their sports teams and attended their games.
“I hope you find some peace, Joan.” That was all I could muster. She and Eli walked away, following the Nativity maze the wrong way, back out onto the street.
“Phew,” Rusty said as he joined me, still leading his camel. “She’s a real piece of work. I thought I was ticked off at Homer, but she took it to another level.”
I nodded, still stunned by her confession. “Sorry about your two-dollar bill. I’m sure it meant a lot to you, coming from your grandpa.”
“Aw, that’s all right. I’ll figure something out and earn it back. Grandpa always said an honest day’s work is worth more than money—it earns you your soul, too. So I’ll just keep volunteering around town and eventually it’ll lead somewhere. Who knows, maybe I’ll end up being a full-time camel wrangler.” Rusty grinned at me and rubbed the side of his camel’s neck affectionately. The camel leaned its head over to scratch its chin on the points of Rusty’s crown.
“Oh my gourd, what’s going on?” Ruth asked, jogging toward us in the middle of the maze. She stopped short, slightly out of breath, her wild curls framing her face like a halo in the light of the Christmas star. “I saw you and Eli tear past me like you were being chased by wolves! Rusty’s not in trouble, is he?” She pursed her lips at her brother.
“No—he and his camel cop helped catch the real killer,” I said quickly, flashing Rusty a grateful smile. “Joan confessed to everything. She killed Homer because he sold all the Gifting Tree donations that people dropped off at the gas station.”
Ruth’s eyes widened in shock. “Joan? I never would have pegged her for a killer. Well, I’m glad she was caught, but what a blow for the Gifting Tree! Who’s going to deliver all the gifts tomorrow? I promised Gary I’d spend the day with him and his girls.”
Rusty and I shared a look, and he took one step forward. “I will.”
Chapter 21
Andrea turned the rental car into the driveway of Lucky Cluck Farm, where a thin layer of new snow had already blanketed the gravel, softening the hard edges of the stones. The twins murmured quietly in the back seat when the car slowed to make the turn, lulled by the warm cider in their bellies. The multicolored lights on the chicken coop reflected in the snow like jewels, and the gentle glow from the cottage windows melted out into the yard like butter on hot toast.
When I opened the front door, I was met with the scent of something delicious cooking in the kitchen. Herbs and spices mingled into a savory heaven. Peterson had made good on his promise to make dinner for us. Since he’d never lifted a finger in the kitchen as long as I’d known him, I’d tucked away a Plan B in the back of my mind—reheating the ham from yesterday—but I was pleasantly surprised that I might not need to fall back on leftovers.
But before I could get too comfortable, a crash met my ears and I rushed to the kitchen, where Christmas carols wer
e blasting from the radio by the stove. Though the table was nicely set, the rest of the room was completely destroyed. The counters were awash with vegetable peelings, jars of spices, dirty dishes, and empty cans. In the middle of it all stood Peterson, wearing a calico apron with zigzag trim, potholders on both hands, looking horrified. The oven door lay wide open, the handle resting on the kitchen floor.
I grimaced. “I forgot to mention that the hinge is a little fussy. Sometimes it doesn’t hold up the door.”
Peterson sighed with relief. “Oh, good, I was worried I broke your oven like I broke your—” He didn’t finish his sentence, but his eyes darted briefly to the contents of the oven. For the first time, I noticed what was inside. In my big blue roasting pan, a beautifully browned chicken surrounded by carrots and potatoes basked under the heat.
I gasped. “You didn’t.”
Peterson pulled it out and used his foot to close the faulty oven door, and turned to me, his eyes wide. “Oh, no—this isn’t your pet! I mean I didn’t—I wouldn’t—I couldn’t—” he fumbled.
I cracked up laughing and let him off the hook. “I know it’s not Boots, don’t worry. She’s a skinny little layer, so she wouldn’t make a good roast. Your chicken looks beautiful, Peterson. You did a really great job.”
I pushed down the pang I felt at the thought of Boots, still missing. I’d hoped to spend Christmas morning with her on my lap, stealing the raisins off my cinnamon roll while I drank my coffee. But farm life meant sometimes saying unpleasant goodbyes to the animals I loved. I knew that, but the knowledge didn’t make it hurt less.
He grabbed his phone from underneath a dishtowel on the counter and checked the recipe he had pulled up on the browser. “Now it says ‘rest.’ What does that mean?”
I pulled a sheet of foil from the pantry and returned, handing it to him. “It means what it says. Tuck it in like a child at bedtime and let it have a few minutes to get cozy.” I called to Andrea and the twins in the living room, letting them know it was time to eat. J.W. and Izzy popped right into the kitchen and found their seats, but Andrea didn’t make her appearance.
“Where’s your mom?” I asked them as they settled in at the table, spreading their napkins across their laps. Before they could answer, I heard a screech, a clatter, and the sound of the bathroom door slamming shut. A second later, Andrea appeared, her hair slightly mussed, straightening her clothes.
“You try to have a minute to yourself, but no,” she muttered under her breath. Lifting her eyes to meet mine, she added, “I think I found your chicken, Mom.”
Hope suffused my body. Fingers tingling, I ran through the house to the bathroom. The lid was askew on the hamper, the one I hadn’t had the heart to check after the first few days without eggs. I held my breath and peeked under the lid. Under the top layer of clothes, I spied a telltale ruddy feather poking out.
I gently lifted the fabric and was met with a beady, accusing stare. Boots puffed up into a ball, letting me know that she was not interested in my attention.
Motherclucker. That’s why she’d attacked Peterson. It wasn’t some kind of pet chicken intuition. She didn’t sense an unwelcome guest. No, the girl was full-on broody, protecting her clutch. I ignored her protests and stuck a hand underneath her, counting six eggs by feel. Who knew how long she’d been setting on them—a week, at least. Maybe longer, I reflected, given how busy I’d been lately, preparing for Andrea’s visit.
I dodged Boots’s beak and stole one of the eggs, using my phone’s flashlight to candle it for development. I had no idea if her eggs were even fertilized, given that her contact with the flock was sporadic. But even in the relatively weak beam of light, it was obvious the egg held a chick. I tucked it back underneath her, chuckling to myself, and left the lid open on the hamper in case she wanted a break to eat and drink.
“Is that the one you were looking for?” Andrea asked.
“That’s her—she’s setting on eggs. I never would have guessed it; her breed doesn’t usually go broody.”
“She’s having babies?!” Izzy asked. “Can we see?”
“They’re just eggs for now,” I said. “And she’s very protective, but if you want to peek at them, I can show you.”
While Peterson and Andrea got dinner on the table, I took the twins to the bathroom. I held Boots, clamping her wings to her sides and turning her so she couldn’t derail their investigation of her nest, enabling them to see the eggs she had hidden underneath her.
J.W. felt the surface of the eggs with a gentle finger. “They’re hot!” he said, delight spreading across his face.
I nodded. “She keeps them warm until they’re ready to hatch, and she almost never leaves the nest.”
“She doesn’t want them to be lonely,” Izzy said thoughtfully. “Kids belong with their parents.”
J.W. stared solemnly at the eggs. Then, apropos of nothing, he said, “I miss Daddy.”
I set Boots gently back in the hamper, tucking my old T-shirt around her as she clucked at the indignity of it all. Then I ruffled J.W.’s silky hair. “He misses you, too, sweetheart. Why don’t you run and see if Gamp made a plate for you yet?”
As full as my heart was, I knew something was still missing from our Christmas. In the quiet of the bathroom after the twins left, I messaged Steven. “Our family isn’t complete without you here. Any chance you can catch a red-eye? I know a couple of kids who will be really happy to see their dad on Christmas morning.”
Immediately, I could see the three dots, indicating that he was typing back. I held my breath, waiting for his response.
“Mom? Dinner’s ready,” Andrea called from the kitchen. I stood up and started back to the kitchen, my phone still in my hand. A vibration told me that Steven had texted back.
“I don’t want to step on Andrea’s toes. Things are complicated.”
“Don’t be dumb. They’re simple.” I typed as quickly as I could with both thumbs. “You love her, she loves you, and you have two amazing kids together. Get your butt to Oregon already.”
Chapter 22
December 25
It was still dark out when my alarm went off on Christmas morning. I’d set it early because I wanted to get the cinnamon rolls, which had been rising all night, into the oven as early as possible so they’d be ready to eat when everyone else got up. I balanced the oven door carefully as I slid the pan in to bake so it wouldn’t crash to the floor and wake up the twins. J.W. and Izzy were often up at this hour, but last night, they’d stayed up late playing Candyland with Gamp, so I took care not to disturb them with noise from the kitchen.
The coffee pot beeped softly, indicating the carafe was full, and I poured myself a steaming cup. I doctored it with milk and sugar and was just about to sit down when Andrea shuffled into the kitchen, wearing one of my flannel robes. Her hair stuck out like dandelion fluff and she squinted at the light from the vintage fixture overhead.
“Morning, Mom,” she mumbled, heading for the coffee pot.
“You might want to get dressed first,” I said, sipping the hot coffee. It was just the right temperature—hot enough that I could feel it all the way down, but not hot enough to burn my tongue.
“What? Why?” She filled a mug and sat down with it, hunched over to breathe in the steam. A crackle in the driveway signaled a car had pulled up, but Andrea didn’t seem to notice. I stood to peek out the window over the sink and saw Steven step out of a mid-size sedan that he’d parked behind Peterson’s Rolls. Between my car, Peterson’s car, and the two airport rentals, my driveway had officially reached maximum parking capacity.
“Be right back,” I said to her and slipped out of the kitchen. I opened the door just as Steven reached the top step, shaking snowflakes out of his dark hair. He looked so much like Izzy and J.W. that it took my breath away.
“Surprise,” he said, spreading his arms out. He carried a small overnight bag in one hand and a dozen red roses in the other. I couldn’t help it—my Grinchy little heart explod
ed. I planted a fierce peck on his cheek and then dragged him into the house.
“Merry Christmas! I got you a Steve,” I called ahead to Andrea, who rose to her feet when she saw us, her hand fluttering to her mouth in shock. I giggled at her stunned expression and then ducked out of the kitchen, letting them have a minute together. As I left the room, I couldn’t help overhearing their first words to each other.
“You came all this way?” Andrea asked breathlessly. “I thought you were going to stay home.”
“I missed you too much,” he said. “Anyway, my home is wherever you and J.W. and Izzy are.”
I missed the rest of their conversation because the twins tore down the stairs in their pajamas, their feet pounding on the risers. I caught them in my arms when they reached the bottom, squeezing them close. “Merry Christmas, you two.”
Izzy wriggled free. “It smells like cookies in here. Is that breakfast?”
I let J.W. go, too. “Cinnamon rolls, actually, and they’re almost ready. But I have another surprise for you in the kitchen. Go see what it is.”
I shooed them off and sat there on the floor, listening to the sounds of the kids squeal in the other room when they saw their dad waiting for them next to the kitchen table. Messy hair, PJs, hot coffee, and the whole family together—though the presents had already been opened and the stockings thoroughly rifled though, the ham already eaten and the tree already lit, this felt more like Christmas than any other moment this week.
I heard the timer go off and pried myself off the floor to take the cinnamon rolls out of the oven, texting Eli on my way to the kitchen. “Merry Christmas. Breakfast is ready.”
He and Peterson turned up a little while later with a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice, and I made a big pan of scrambled eggs to balance out the kids’ sugar intake. After we all enjoyed breakfast, Eli and Peterson recruited Steve into their fraternity. They clapped him on the back and convinced him to add a shot of whisky to his coffee, which they drank on the porch in their shirtsleeves.
