“Hey there.” A pair of strong arms wrapped around me from behind, along with the familiar, not-unpleasant scent of woodland sweat and damp wool.
I wriggled around for Adam’s kiss. “I was just thinking of you. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“With this crowd? You couldn’t hear Santa’s sleigh bells. Time to kick ’em out and go light that tree.”
We grabbed our coats and ushered the stragglers out, then I locked the door and slipped my gloved hand into Adam’s. He’s tall, with an outdoorsy lope to his stride, dark unruly curls, and a smile that lights a flame inside me. It might have taken me nearly fifteen years to notice him, but I was all in now—hook, line, and sinker.
Villagers streamed toward the north end of Front Street, and we merged into the flow. A few feet ahead, Candy Divine wore a Santa hat adorned with a pink polka dot bow and Minnie Mouse ears.
A young boy’s sing-song voice broke through the chatter. “Jingle bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg.”
Landon, my favorite nephew—okay, my only nephew—bounced into view, sporting reindeer antlers on his Santa hat. Chiara and my brother-in-law, Jason, trailed behind him. “Merry Christmas, Auntie Erin!”
“Merry Christmas, little guy,” I said. “Where’d you learn that song?”
“He knows all the words,” Chiara said, sounding as if she’d heard them one time too many. She and I are often mistaken for each other, though she’s got a couple of years on me and I’ve got her beat by a couple of inches and a few pounds. We’ve got the same heart-shaped faces and coloring, and both of us wear our straight, dark hair in collar-length bobs. Now, though, her belly distinguished us.
“There are more words?”
“Sure,” Adam said, and he and Landon sang—though it was more shout than tune—as we made our way up the street.
“Jingle bells, Batman smells. Robin laid an egg. The Batmobile lost a wheel, and the Joker got away. Hey!”
Chiara shook her head, but she was smiling.
We slowed in front of the antique shop to admire Father Christmas and the forest creatures. I crouched to peer at the artificial snow, letting the others drift ahead. Their snow looked so much more realistic than what we’d used.
Sally’s words broke my concentration. “I can’t believe that Thornton girl came downtown today. After all she put her parents through. Some nerve she’s got.”
She wasn’t talking to me. I kept my head down, not wanting to be seen. A poker face is not one of my talents. So much for the new and reformed Sally, I thought as I waited for her and her companion to pass. As Lou Mary had said, letting go of old hurts is tough, but necessary. Last winter, my family had finally learned who was responsible for my father’s death, and I had to admit, the thought of how long the killer had gone free still frosted me now and then.
I waited until Sally Sourpuss and her companion had gotten lost in the crowd, then I caught up with my family and we stood together as the villagers sang Christmas songs. Old Ned Redaway threw the switch and lit up the sixty-foot blue spruce that towered over the small square wedged between the Jewel Inn and Dragonfly Dry Goods. Kathy Jensen, the Dragonfly’s proprietor and a family friend, invited us in for a toddy, and we sipped and chatted happily.
Then Adam and I headed out. Had the night grown colder, or had the warmth dissipated with the crowds?
“Give me five minutes to make sure the shop’s tucked in,” I said as we neared the Merc. Inside, I locked away the change drawer and iPad we use as a cash register, and made sure everything was unplugged and secure. I handed Adam a basket filled with cocoa, chai mix, and Christmas napkins for the cookie exchange, and led the way down the hall.
“Pooh.” I pointed at the tiny snowdrift that had blown in the back door.
Adam wriggled the door open an inch or two, shut it, then opened it again. “You need new weather stripping.”
“What’s this?” I bent and picked up a brown paper sack, sand shifting inside. “Did someone leave us a luminaria that blew out?”
Along with an unlit candle, the bag held a bar of Luci’s lavender soap, a bottle of lotion, eight dollars in ones, and a note scribbled on the back of a grocery store receipt.
“‘I stole these during the Art Walk,’” I read out loud, “‘but I felt guilty, so I’m returning everything except the huckleberry jam for my mom. She deserves a Christmas treat.’”
I stared at the note, then looked up at Adam.
“Little miracles everywhere,” he said and kissed my forehead.
Three
Making a house your own is always a challenge—especially when it’s the house your grandparents built, the house where your parents made their life together, and the house where you lost your first tooth, whiled away long summer afternoons beneath the cherry trees, and mourned your father.
But I love a challenge.
And as I tied a red ribbon around the last bag of almond bianchi, my favorite Christmas cookies, and placed them in a basket on the oak library table Adam and I had scavenged from the barn at my sister’s place, I breathed a sigh of relief. I ran my hand over the timeworn wood. We’d refinished the table and chairs ourselves. Set with red and white flowers and my grandmother’s pressed glass bowls and candleholders, it was perfect.
Everything was perfect.
“YOO-hoo!”
Including my timing. I rushed to the front door, where my guests stomped snow off their boots and called out greetings. Behind Heidi came my childhood BFF, Kim Caldwell, a deputy sheriff newly promoted to chief detective. A gang of Murphys plowed through the snow, including my cousin Molly and her mother, my mother, and Chiara. And April Ng, the newest member of Chiara’s gallery. Everyone carried a basket, bag, or box of holiday goodies.
I stood on the stone walkway and welcomed them, grateful to Adam for shoveling this morning’s snow. After the last woman crossed the threshold, I stretched up on tip-toes, peering down the hill and the long, curving road to the highway. No sign of Merrily Thornton.
Maybe she was feeling bashful, the newcomer in her hometown, already the subject of uncomfortable talk and now the star of yesterday’s Front Street shout fest.
Inside, my friends and relatives had shed their coats and begun poking around.
“Hey, sis, looking good.” Chiara nodded her approval of the reconfigured living and dining rooms and our Christmas decorations. “Is that Cowboy Roast I smell?”
“The heck with coffee,” Heidi said. “Where’s the champagne?”
We sipped and chatted, and shared remodel stories. I’d made quiche and a fruit salad, and bought mini pain au chocolate from Wendy at Le Panier. On a trip to the kitchen for another bottle of champagne, I checked my phone, but Merrily hadn’t called.
“Where’s Adam this afternoon?” someone asked.
“At the Athletic Club. They’re putting on a kids’ swim-and-sweat day, then opening the North Pole Shop, where the kids can buy presents. Everything is under three dollars.”
“Wish they’d had that when mine were small,” my aunt said.
“Landon could hardly wait,” Chiara said. “He loves having secrets from us.”
“And those are the kinds of secrets you don’t mind him keeping,” my aunt added.
Pumpkin the cat wandered in and put a paw on the coffee table, pulling herself up to sniff the treats. “Not for cats,” I said and tapped her sweet white foot. She lowered it and turned her sights on Heidi, who lifted her plate out of the way.
“Plumpkin, behave,” Heidi said.
“Have you had her checked for diabetes?” my aunt asked. “That old cat of ours got real sick, and Dr. Muir—Holly—put her on insulin.”
“Dr. Muir, the vet. That always cracks me up,” my cousin Molly said.
“Actually, Pumpkin’s lost quite a bit of weight since I got her,” I said. “The dust-ups with Sandburg are good exercise.”
Pumpkin had come to live with me last February after a tragedy left her ownerless and homeless. Even witho
ut the extra weight, the orange tabby was quite a bit bigger than Sandburg, the sable Burmese I’d brought home from Seattle. They’d started out wary and gradually became good friends, but friends with claws.
I picked up plates and suggested we refill our coffee and libations before divvying up the treats everyone had brought. My mother followed me to the kitchen with a stack of dishes and set them in the sink. The new sink, next to the new dishwasher, across from the new fridge, surrounded by the new cabinets.
“I should have redone this kitchen years ago,” she said.
“And spare me the fun?” The project had gone smoothly, all things considered, but I was glad we’d been able to remodel before the big move.
“Well, it turned out beautifully. And you’ve done a lovely job decorating. But don’t you think the tree should go in the living room corner?”
Where it had always been. I tamped down the teensy bit of irritation welling in my throat. After nearly forty years in this house, my mother was bound to have mixed feelings at seeing the changes, despite her delight that Adam and I had bought it. She’d been happier moving into Bill’s place on the river knowing the homestead would stay in the family.
“With the smaller table, we thought we’d try it in the dining room.” I picked up the coffeepot. “I love it in front of the new windows.”
“It’s perfect. Don’t mind me.”
The slight tremble in her voice caught me by surprise, as did the tear she quickly wiped away. I kissed her cheek. She slid her arm around my waist, and we ambled into the living room.
Where the talk had turned to Merrily Thornton.
“You saw it all, didn’t you, Erin?” Molly held out her cup. “We’d already finished decorating the real estate office, so I went up the street to help decorate the Inn. But Sally Grimes said it was awful, Merrily and Taya screaming at each other.”
“Poor Walt,” my aunt said.
I filled Molly’s cup. “Sally’s exaggerating. Merrily barely let out a peep. I’d hoped she’d join us this afternoon. She could use a few friends in town.”
“Probably too embarrassed,” Chiara said. “Even though she wasn’t the one behaving badly.”
Logical explanation, I knew, but I couldn’t shake my worry. Merrily had been too excited by the invitation to blow it off. Besides, this was my first party in the new-old-new-again house. I’d felt a strong connection to her, and I wanted her to see the place.
“How’s the new job?” someone asked Kim.
“Great,” she said. “The detective roster is filled now, and we’ve got two new patrol officers starting the first of the year. Being fully staffed will make a big difference.”
Amen to that. No matter what the job, hiring is a perennial pain in the patootie.
In the dining room, we oohed and ahhed over the offerings. Date pinwheels, spritz cookies, bourbon balls. Candy cane cookies studded with crushed peppermint. Big, soft coconut macaroons dipped in chocolate. Jam thumbprints. Fudge ecstasies—crackle-topped cookies that make me ecstatic.
“No biscotti?” Heidi said. “Isn’t it a law that every Italian must make biscotti?”
“Everyone makes biscotti,” I said, “Italian or not. So what’s the point?”
“You brought peanut butter cookies?” Chiara asked Molly, who is not half Italian.
“They’re my favorite,” Molly answered. “Everyone loves peanut butter cookies. These are simple—six ingredients.”
“But they’re not Christmas cookies.”
When it comes to cookies, my sister and I were on the same page. Certain traditions must be followed.
“Lou Mary made the bourbon balls, and Tracy sent double-chocolate truffles. They’re sorry to miss the fun, but someone had to run the shop today.” Each woman had packed her contributions differently—gaily decorated bags, goldfish boxes, holiday-themed paper plates—and I packed up one of each for my staff.
Later, as my friends and relatives tugged on their boots and buttoned their coats, I glanced out the window. Giant flakes had begun falling, the kind that look so pretty and add up so fast.
I pulled Kim aside and held her cookie basket while she zipped her jacket.
“I wonder what happened to Merrily,” I said.
Physical opposites though we are—Kim tall and slender, with piercing blue eyes, her blond hair in a no-nonsense cut; me shorter, curvier, with olive skin and dark eyes—we rarely had trouble following each other’s train of thought. She was about to tell me not to worry, not to see bugaboos around every corner.
“Erin, don’t worry. I’m sure she decided she’d rather stay home than chit-chat with people who know the worst about her.”
“Does anyone ever know the worst about us?” I handed her the basket. “It felt like we clicked. Like she wanted to be friends.”
“Coming home is complicated,” Kim replied. “We both know that.”
After what I’d witnessed the day before, I could only agree.
∞
When it comes to home maintenance, Greg Taylor is no fool.
He and his staff had stocked the front of the Building Supply with bags of sand and ice melt, snow shovels, and roof rakes. A nearby display held packs of wire hooks for ornaments, spare light bulbs, packing tape, and other holiday miscellany.
But where was the weather stripping I needed for the Merc’s back door?
I’d started my Monday morning at the Merc, shoveling the sidewalk, then setting up the till and getting our weekly deposit together. Lou Mary arrived at nine thirty on the dot, and we polished the place to a shine. Once the door opened at ten, I’d dashed out on an errand run.
Judging from the parking lot, I’d missed the Monday-morning contractor rush. And judging from the lack of a sales clerk at the front counter, they weren’t expecting much business this time of day.
I poked my head around the end of an aisle leading to the back offices.
The older redhead who works up front stood in Greg’s doorway, one hand cradling her other elbow, one knuckle in her mouth. I’d been in and out of here oodles of times since we started the remodel, when every project took twice as long as planned and required multiple trips to the hardware store. But despite my great memory for names, I could never remember hers. I needed a rhyme—Jeannie-beanie? Joni-joni pony tail?
“Thanks,” I heard Greg say. “I’m sure there’s a simple explanation. I’ll look into it and get back to you.” Then he hung up and charged into view.
“I called her house and cell, but no answer,” the redhead said. “Car trouble, maybe?”
“Let’s hope so.” In his late thirties, Greg stood a shade under six feet, his thick, nearly black hair shot with streaks of gray. “Oh, Erin. Hi.”
“Hi. Is something wrong? Family okay?” In the interests of fitting into my wedding dress in three weeks, I’d skipped my usual morning stop at Le Panier. Greg’s sister, Wendy Taylor Fontaine, had been a childhood chum and occasional nemesis of my sister. Since I’ve been working next door to her, she’s transformed from an irritatingly quiet but sharp-eyed observer to a good friend. Brother and sister were normally unflappable.
But something had shaken Greg.
“What? No, they’re fine.” He rubbed a hand over his forehead. I’d thought him super-cute when I was a kid, and time had been good to him. The cashier slipped past me, heading to her post. “It’s Merrily Thornton. She didn’t show up for work this morning. And now, I’ve gotten a call from the bank manager.”
Oh, no. Merrily hadn’t done something stupid, had she, proving her mother right?
“Greg. You need to see this.” I recognized the balding, fifty-ish man sticking his head out of the adjacent office as Cary Lenhardt, the long-time bookkeeper. I hesitated, then followed Greg, stopping on the threshold. Inside, a pair of desks stood back to back, one littered with sticky notes, pens, and paper clips. Clustered on a small shelf above it were pictures of kids on sports teams, a family photo with an RV, and a white football emblazoned with the
Seahawks logo, next to a Seahawks coffee cup crammed with pens and pencils. Cary’s, I presumed. A computer screen glowed, and a paper coffee cup appeared to be in use.
The other desk was its exact opposite, as neat and orderly as a furniture store display.
Except for every open drawer.
“There, in her bottom drawer,” Cary said, gesturing to the tidy desk. Merrily’s desk, I presumed. “In the cigar box.”
Greg leaned down and pulled out the box. Set it on the spotless surface and shot Cary a nervous glance before lifting the lid.
The box was stuffed with cash.
Greg sank into the nearest chair and buried his head in his hands. I could only imagine the pain and betrayal. I felt it, too, and I wasn’t the one who’d hired her.
“Is that why the bank manager called?” I asked from the doorway.
Greg raised his head, eyes not quite focusing, as if just remembering who I was. “She and Cary finished up the deposit Saturday morning, and she took it to the night drop. The deposit slip listed several hundred in cash, not counting the checks, but there was no cash in the bag. The manager assumed it was an oversight. But Merrily is always here by eight a.m.”
Except today. And with her history, it was too much of a coincidence.
I wasn’t surprised by the amount of cash in the deposit, given the nature of their business. At the Merc, eighty percent of our sales are by credit or debit card, and the balance skews higher in summer. The one item that regularly sells for cash is our truffles, at seventy-five cents apiece. Although I supposed that a careful thief could squirrel away a little at a time, and before long, fill a box.
“How much is in there?” Cary said at the same time as Greg said, “We need to call the sheriff.”
“I’ll do it,” Cary said. As he reached for the phone, his hand brushed his coffee cup and it wobbled, then righted itself without spilling.
Greg lifted the cash out of the box, his hands trembling, and began counting. Stopped, started over. Turned to me. “Would you check my count?”
As the Christmas Cookie Crumbles (A Food Lovers' Village Mystery) Page 3
