Not a Creature Was Purring

by Krista Davis

  As they filed out the door, he placed a hand on my shoulder. “You’re coming with us, aren’t you? Oma and Rose are going to be there.”

  Having dinner with Holmes’s future wife and her family was the last thing in the world I wanted to do. “Thanks, but I need to take care of a few things around here.”

  He looked at me with those kind blue eyes and nodded without saying anything. I had a bad feeling that he could see right into my head.

  Smiling cheerfully, I whispered, “I’m baking a stollen for Oma. Shh. It’s a surprise.”

  He blinked a couple of times. “Do you know how to do that?”

  “How hard could it be?”

  His serious expression vanished, replaced by a genuine grin. He didn’t think I could do it!

  “Save me a slice to try.”

  I would. I would do exactly that! I watched them file out with Rose, Oma, and Gingersnap. I dashed to the desk and retrieved the envelopes in case there was money or plane tickets to Bali or some other valuable item in them. I carried them into Oma’s private kitchen. Not the one in her apartment, but the big, cozy room on the main floor that was reserved for family only. I lit a fire in the fireplace, pulled out the recipe for stollen, and read the instructions. Hmm. Didn’t sound too difficult. There was a lot of rising time, which would give me a chance to take care of some other things. I chopped dried apricots and cherries, then poured rum over them. I tossed them and, since they had to sit to soak up the rum, left them on the turquoise island. With Dale’s envelopes in hand, I sprinted up the hidden stairway that led directly to my quarters.

  Trixie ran up the stairs with me. To be on the safe side, I stashed the envelopes behind some books. Anyone entering my quarters wouldn’t even know they were there. I changed into soft, stretchy jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt, with the cuffs rolled back. I was ready to work.

  Back in the kitchen, I started the yeast and hit the refrigerator that Holmes claimed was magic. It wasn’t, of course, but part of the inn’s leftovers went into the fridge, which meant the refrigerator was always full of delicious food. The rest was shared with the less fortunate of Wagtail.

  Trixie peered into the refrigerator with me, her nose twitching high in the air. I pulled out something labeled Happy Howliday Feast for dogs and looked inside. Tiny bits of steak were mixed with barley, carrots, and green beans. Trixie jumped up as high as she could to see it, which I interpreted to mean she wanted it for dinner.

  Twinkletoes strolled in. She stretched and yawned before jumping up on the hearth and mewing very softly.

  “Time for dinner?” I asked.

  I opened a container marked Divine Chicken Breast and spooned some into a bowl. She ate it so fast that it must have lived up to its name.

  The door swung open and Officer Dave peeked in. “Hey Holly, your grandmother around?”

  “No. She went to dinner with Holmes and company.”

  “How’s that going?” he asked.

  I pretended to be cheerful about it. “Fine!”

  “Yeah, right. It’s me, Holly. I know it can’t be easy for you.”

  “I want Holmes to be happy,” I said, trying hard to sidestep his question.

  “I don’t think he’s very happy right now.” Dave held his hands close to the fire and rubbed them.

  “What do you mean?”

  “One of the shopkeepers overheard Norma Jeanne telling her cousin, the one who wears the weird clothes, that she would sooner die than live in Wagtail.”

  “That’s not terribly surprising, I guess. She’s used to big-city life. Remember how much my old boyfriend Ben hated it here in the beginning?”

  Even though I defended her, I knew that was trouble. It would break our hearts if we rarely saw Holmes. Was that the problem to which Holmes had alluded the last time I saw him? Norma Jeanne didn’t like Wagtail but Holmes longed to return?

  Dave studied me. “Most folks in town aren’t being quite so generous about Norma Jeanne. She’s fairly demanding. No one is going to snap your head off if you say what you think.”

  “If Holmes is in love with her, I think we should try to accept her.” I was slightly surprised that I managed to sound so convincing when part of me wanted to do exactly what Dave suggested and complain about her.

  A glimmer of a grin crossed Dave’s lips. “You’re a good actress, Holly Miller. I better get back out there. Tell your grandmother that we’ve had a little rash of burglaries. Ho ho ho, and ’tis the season, I guess. They’ve stolen an expensive down-filled dog bed, a hiking staff, four boxes of chocolates, and a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle.”

  “Gifts for the dog, himself, his wife, the in-laws, and his kid?”

  Dave smiled. “Could be. But Jed Kaine has been spotted in town. It’s just like him to steal petty stuff. Let me know if you see him, okay?”

  “Sure.” Jed was a lowlife of the worst sort. When he wasn’t peddling drugs, he was stealing. I knew of three stores in town that had posted his picture in a back room so employees could be on the lookout. He lived in Snowball, but once in a while something brought him to Wagtail. “Want some dinner?”

  “Thanks, but I really need to get back to the stores and keep an eye out for this creep.”

  “Could be more than one person.”

  “And they could be long gone by now. See you later.” Dave walked out the door.

  I found leftover chicken breast in the fridge and whipped up a sandwich with mayonnaise, cranberry sauce, and heaps of lettuce on a batard.

  When I was through eating, I mixed together all the ingredients for the stollen, kneaded the dough, and pushed the fruit into it. I was mighty proud of myself when I covered it with a kitchen towel and set it on the dining table near the fire to rise.

  Addressing Trixie, who had watched me carefully, I said, “Now we’d better find a spot for that Christmas village.” When we left the kitchen, I turned right and ventured into the inn library. It was a cozy room with a window seat and a fireplace. Shelley and I had decorated a rustic woodland tree with a red and black buffalo check ribbon, pinecones, hand-carved deer ornaments, sleds, fluffy white owls with big eyes, bright cardinals, bluebirds, and ornaments of woodland creatures of all kinds. The library wasn’t large, though, and people passed through it to get to rooms in the cat wing, so maybe that wasn’t a great choice for a village. Tiffany was the only member of her family who had requested a room in the inn’s cats only wing, even though she hadn’t brought a cat with her. I had to guess that she liked cats, or maybe she liked the idea of the screened porches that those rooms featured.

  We returned to the main lobby, and as I gazed around, I spotted the corner on the right side of the lobby. We had debated what could go there and ended up leaving it fairly plain.

  I walked down the hallway and stepped into the elevator. Trixie balked and backed up. She had been afraid of small, confined spaces since the day I found her. Even now, the poor baby feared the elevator. I waved bye-bye as the doors closed.

  In the basement, I half dragged, half carried a long folding table onto the elevator, then looked around for something sturdy but a bit shorter. A trio of long stacking tables seemed just right. I loaded them and took the elevator back to the first floor. Trixie sat in the hallway, waiting and whining.

  She danced in circles when I stepped out and ran ahead of me when I brought the tables to the corner of the lobby. I set them in place, and when I turned, I realized that they were exactly opposite the huge Christmas tree in the Dogwood Room. Perfect.

  I dusted myself off and returned to the kitchen where I washed my hands and put on an apron. When I uncovered the yeast dough, I was thrilled to find it had doubled in size. My love life might stink, but I appeared to have a knack for baking. Following the directions precisely, I punched down the dough, divided it in two, and left it on the table to rise for ten minutes while I washed bow
ls at the kitchen sink. Through the window above the sink, I could see solar Christmas lights aglow on the trees.

  When I looked around for more items to wash, I discovered Trixie on the table, licking her chops, and part of the dough had disappeared.

  “No! Oh, Trixie!” I screamed in panic. I was no veterinarian, but I knew raw yeast dough could swell in her tummy.

  Nine

  “Trixie!” I ran to her. “No, no, no!”

  She scrambled to jump off the table in haste.

  I reached for the phone and called the vet, who confirmed that eating unbaked yeast dough was an emergency, and told me to bring Trixie in immediately.

  My next call was to Mr. Huckle. I kept it very brief. “I have an emergency, Mr. Huckle—”

  He interrupted me. “I’m on my way.”

  My panic was spreading to Trixie who watched me with fearful eyes. I stashed the remaining dough in the fridge so no other dogs could reach it, picked Trixie up, and ran through the hallway to the reception lobby, where I picked up a golf cart key. Clutching Trixie, I ran the best I could to the golf carts parked outside. I placed her on the front bench with me, backed out, and gunned the golf cart.

  If I hadn’t been so panicked, I might have enjoyed the Christmas lights as I drove. But Trixie no longer sat up. She lay on her side and whined.

  I couldn’t remember having been so afraid. By the time we arrived at the animal hospital, Trixie was wheezing as though she couldn’t breathe properly.

  The veterinarian waited for us outside. She took Trixie into her arms and walked into the hospital very calmly, asking me detailed questions about what had happened.

  My heart raced as I spewed the story to her. She disappeared into the back with Trixie, but a veterinary technician arrived and, in the same calm manner, asked me more questions. I repeated the tale, quivering inside.

  She promised the doctor would be out to talk with me shortly.

  Lights on a tree in the corner of the waiting room and little statuettes of dogs and cats in Santa hats did nothing to cheer me up. It was dark outside the windows. I stood in front of one, looking out at nothing and thinking about the day I had rescued Trixie. Someone had abandoned her at a gas station, and the sweet little girl had waited there in hope that the despicable person would come back to pick her up. A wet and muddy mess, she had jumped into my boyfriend’s car, spilled coffee, and made a wreck of the carpet by tearing open a bag of cheesy chips.

  The truth was that she had rescued me. If it hadn’t been for Trixie and Twinkletoes, I might not have moved to Wagtail. I loved my life now in a way that I hadn’t imagined possible.

  How could I have been so stupid? I knew she was always ravenous. It was my fault. All my fault. Trixie was such a sweet little girl. She’d been through a terrible time early in her life. She deserved to have a good long life.

  “Holly?”

  I turned around, a lump of fear in my throat.

  The veterinarian smiled at me and held out a plastic sheet with a pile of dough on it. “Does this look like what she ate? We gave her something to make her throw up.”

  Bits of cherries and apricots dotted the dough. “That’s a lot!”

  “It’s a good thing you brought her in right away.”

  “I was worried about it expanding in her stomach.”

  She nodded. “Unbaked yeast dough can be deadly. Not only does it rise from the heat in their bodies, but it causes bloat. Plus, as the yeast ferments, it produces alcohol, which can poison the dog.”

  It was worse than I had thought. A chill ran through me.

  She smiled at me reassuringly. “I think she’ll be okay. But I’d like to keep her overnight so we can monitor her for alcohol poisoning.”

  “Thank you so much. Do you have someone here all night?”

  “We’re an emergency center and hospital, open around the clock. You don’t have to look so worried, Holly. Some of the top specialists in the country work here. Trixie won’t be alone. We have a few other dogs and cats whom we’re monitoring. You go on home and relax. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  I thanked her again and walked toward the door. I paused and turned around.

  “Go home!” said the doctor. “I promise we’ll do our best for Trixie.”

  She hadn’t come right out and said there was nothing I could do for Trixie, but I got the message. Still, part of me wanted to camp out in the waiting room, just in case. I dragged myself out the door and into the golf cart. It seemed oddly empty without Trixie by my side.

  On the way back, I noticed that someone had decorated a small pine tree with lights in the middle of nowhere. It stood alone in a field. I stopped the golf cart and said some fervent prayers for Trixie.

  Feeling glum and lower than low, I headed home. When I walked into the lobby, Mr. Huckle jumped up from his seat in front of the fire in the Dogwood Room. “Miss Holly! What happened? Is it your grandmother?”

  I told him the story.

  “What a scamp that Trixie is! Don’t worry, I’m certain that she will be fine. The veterinarians in Wagtail are excellent. Besides, ’tis the season of miracles, you know.”

  Miracles? I hoped Trixie wouldn’t need a miracle!

  “Now then, I should like to try this fabulous stollen that your grandmother loves so much. May I help you make it?”

  “That’s very sweet of you, but I think I’ll pass on it this year. I don’t really have the heart to make it now.”

  “You would disappoint your grandmother?”

  “It’s not as though she knows.”

  “I should very much like to bring her a slice with her morning coffee tomorrow.” He cocked his head at me.

  It wasn’t as though I had anything else to do. I agreed. He accompanied me to the kitchen, where Twinkletoes stretched out in front of the fire. Mr. Huckle made hot chocolate while I threw out the cursed batch and started all over again.

  He regaled me with tales of his childhood Christmases, including one just after World War II that was particularly sparse, but was made special because his father brought home a lost kitten he found on the street.

  As I placed two stollen loaves in the oven to bake, Mr. Huckle casually said, “This must be a difficult holiday for you what with Mr. Holmes bringing his fiancée to Wagtail.”

  I tried to keep my cool. “I’m very happy for Holmes,” I lied.

  “Umm-hmm. And how happy are you for his bride-to-be?”

  At exactly that moment, Holmes barged into the kitchen. “Smells great in here! Hey, do either of you know how I can join the elves?”

  “It’s a highly guarded secret,” teased Mr. Huckle.

  “Ask Oma,” I suggested, playing along.

  “She wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Really? I think half the town knows by now,” I said.

  “Not anyone I know.” Holmes turned his head just a little and watched me out of the corner of his eye.

  “If you want them to do something special for someone, just write it on a slip of paper and stick it in the box in the lobby.” I busied myself melting butter.

  “No, no. You don’t get it. I want to join them,” Holmes insisted. “I want to be an elf.”

  I thought I had been handling the whole Norma Jeanne thing so well, but more than anything else, that cut me to the core. That was the Holmes I knew and loved. I turned my back to him so he wouldn’t see my face and asked, “Where is Norma Jeanne?”

  “She went to bed. She’s a stickler about getting eight hours of sleep. Hey, did you ever find Mistletoe Cactus Dew for her?”

  I gasped and flung my hand over my mouth as I turned to face him. “I forgot all about it!”

  “Not to worry, Miss Holly.” Mr. Huckle poured hot chocolate into a mug and offered it to Holmes. “She asked me for it as well. I called around town today. No one had ever he
ard of it. I stocked her room with Wagtail Springs water.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Huckle. I’m so sorry that it slipped my mind. Sorry, Holmes, but if it’s that hard to find, maybe she should bring it with her when she travels.”

  “Aw, she’ll live. We all drink Wagtail water. I’m sure she’ll manage for a few days. Now about those elves . . .”

  “You’d better talk to Oma. She’s in charge.”

  “Argh,” Holmes groaned. “You Miller women are so difficult. I feel like I’m going in circles.”

  I heard the door swing behind him as he left.

  “It’s not too late, you know,” said Mr. Huckle.

  I knew exactly what he meant, and he wasn’t talking about elves. I pulled the stollen out of the oven and turned to face him. My eyes met his. “I respect your opinions, Mr. Huckle, but this time I fear you are wrong. It’s far, far too late.”

  • • •

  Just before midnight, dressed in my elf outfit, I tiptoed down the stairs. The Thackleberrys must have retired to their rooms. The Dogwood Room lay silent. But when I reached the bottom step, I heard murmuring voices.

  I peeked in the library and spied Tiffany and her step-grandfather Dale. They sat in comfy chairs before the fire, their backs to me.

  I hurried past them, left the inn, and walked through the snowy green to Rose’s garage to collect our sleigh. Lights twinkled on houses as I drove through the streets to the inn. The Grinch loomed like an ominous dark cloud. Rupert must have figured out a way to turn off the lights and the music. I parked outside the registration lobby and stepped out of the golf cart.

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t one of Wagtail’s secret elves.”

  I shrieked in momentary shock and peered into the darkness because I had recognized the voice. It came from behind bushes that glistened with lights.

  And now I heard chuckling. Holmes. “You sneak!”

  He stepped out into the light. “I knew it!”

  “You’re wearing elf clothes.” I looked closer. His shoes even had turned-up toes.