by Robin Weaver
Table of Contents
Title Page
Praise for Robin Weaver
The Christmas Tree Wars
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
“Since you’re foolish enough to enter, Suze, please don’t embarrass the town with a lame entry. This is our contest, even though I’ll beat you, we local girls need to do well.”
Talk about your insults. Was Katrina suggesting she couldn’t even put together a decent tree? Well, elf her.
Katarina grabbed her designer bag and tossed a fluffy scarf around her neck. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for my lunch date with Spence.”
Suzette stared at Katarina’s departing back. “Spence?” She couldn’t have meant Spence James. He would have called if he was in town. Right?
Praise for Robin Weaver
Winner of the 2010 Daphne du Maurier Contest
for Excellence in Mystery/Suspense
~*~
Winner, Indiana Golden Opportunity Contest
~*~
Winner, Southern Heat Contest
~*~
“A hair-raising mystery packed with suspense, twists and turns, and enough red herrings to keep die-hard mystery buffs guessing. BLUE RIDGE FEAR kept me clinging white-knuckled to the edge of my seat, squinting at each character who showed up on the page, trying to see if a mass murderer lurked under his or her skin. Robin Weaver knows how to write a captivating story that won’t let you sleep until you reach The End—and then you’ll want to leave the lights on.”
~Ann Charles, author of The Deadwood Mystery Series
~*~
“Robin Weaver’s BLUE RIDGE FEAR is pure delight for romantic suspense fans. Just as the beauty of the Blue Ridge mountains can blind a hiker to perils, the novel’s warped but handsome serial killer hides his deadly intentions behind a beguiling veneer. With a plot boasting more switchbacks than a mountain trail, the resourceful heroine needs both brains and intuition to survive a wild ride that will keep readers turning pages into the wee hours.”
~Linda Lovely, author of The Marley Clark Mysteries
The
Christmas Tree Wars
by
Robin Weaver
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Christmas Tree Wars
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Robin Weaver
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2014
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-711-5
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To Christmas angels everywhere.
A special thanks to mine.
Chapter One
O Little Town of Bets
“Surprise!”
Confetti filled the air and trickled to the floor of the coffee shop. Suzette Forrester’s spirits plummeted with the falling bits of red and green paper. She appreciated the big gesture, but one thought kept pounding in her brain: No, no, and—one more time—no.
“Thanks, guys, but—” She glanced at her three best friends, wishing she could turn the clock back seventy-two hours and be completely honest with Kaley. If only she hadn’t used the entry fee as her excuse.
Too late. “You guys shouldn’t have done this. Really.”
Maybe if she appealed to the contest promoters they’d refund the five thousand dollars. Her friends couldn’t possibly afford to play Santa—not when the stocking needed stuffing with that much cash. Bob’s IT services might be in high demand, but the Brew Mistress had a serious setback after a plugged sink flooded the shop and Kaley’s insurance didn’t cover the damage. Poor Lydia might be in worse shape. Psychic Visions hadn’t turned a profit in two quarters—primarily because Lydia had a tendency to donate merchandise to charity.
“No big deal, Suze.” Kaley’s hug constricted Suzette’s air supply. “We all pitched in. You just kick Katarina’s butt.”
More likely, Katarina Snodgrass would chop her to shreds and use her for tinsel. She’d won every year in high school when they’d competed in the junior division. Suzette stared at her gang, feeling the love she didn’t deserve.
“You have to enter, Suze.” Lydia clasped her hands together, her eyes sparkling. “The winner gets to have dinner with Tripp Anthony. I can’t believe he agreed to come back and play the lead in A Christmas Carol. He’s sooooo dreamy.”
“Ditto.” Bob’s grin probably meant he was dittoing Tripp’s dreaminess, not her contest entry.
Still, didn’t matter what soap opera star wined and dined the winner. Or who covered the entry fee. She simply couldn’t stomach losing to Katarina again. The woman had probably been working on her tree design since she won the contest last year.
Besides, Suzette had finally made a decision. Her grandmother’s store generated a profit—the first time in the year since she’d taken ownership fourteen months ago—and she planned to sell Forrester Florals. Getting the business ready for the commercial real estate market required a lot of effort.
Time to fess up. Admit she couldn’t—make that wouldn’t—enter the Christmas Tree Contest. Taking a tiny sip of her latte for fortification, she groped for words.
The bell on the door of the Brew Mistress jingled and a blast of wintery air sent a new mass of chills running over her body. Gads, she missed Florida.
All yakking and noisemaker tooting stopped. You could hear a coffee bean drop. Wondering what could silence her rowdy friends, Suzette whirled. And stared directly into the face of her confidence-zapping nightmare.
Katarina Snodgrass.
“Suzette.” Katarina stashed her ginormous purse on the counter and crossed her arms over her perfect chest—her symmetry, no doubt, courtesy of Dr. Artful Boobs. “You lied to me?”
The smugness in her nemesis’s expression negated both Suzette’s Master’s degree and her carefully crafted sophistication. She took a quick sip of the coffee, wincing when the too-hot liquid scorched her throat. What she wouldn’t give for a cup of ice.
“I—” She morphed into a high school Junior, hovering on the edge and afraid of the tall redhead. She gave her crazy curls a quick pat to ensure her hair wasn’t sticking out and straightened her shoulders. “When we talked, I hadn’t planned on entering the contest.”
Katarina’s sneer made her feel like the ghost of Christmas Past. She really didn’t want to enter t
he contest, but maybe she would. She couldn’t let the woman banish her to Scroogeville.
Kaley wiped her hands on her Brew Mistress apron. Her BFF glared at Katarina—a Wild West showdown, diva style. “You want to order, Katarina? Because if you’re here just to give Suze a hard time, I have customers waiting.”
Suzette expected transformers to blow.
“So that’s why you entered.” Katarina propped her hands on her hips, no newcomer to diva standoffs. “You let Kaley pressure you?”
“What difference does it make?” Kaley mimicked Katrina’s hands-on-hips stance. “Are you scared?”
“Of course I’m not scared.” Katarina snorted. “I just don’t want to be responsible.”
Suzette willed Kaley to remain silent. She’d have better luck un-burning her tongue.
“Responsible for what?” her friend barked.
“Mamie Forrester’s legacy. Forrester Floral has never once lost the Christmas Tree Contest. You really want to risk spoiling your grandmother’s streak, Suzette?”
Suzette gave her head a little shake. Nana had won the contest five years in a row, then the cancer came. Her grandmother managed to keep the store open during the five years she’d battled the disease, but Forrester Florals hadn’t participated in the Christmas Tree contest again.
Kaley snorted. “If you care that much, why don’t you just drop out? You should be worried about your winning streak.”
Katarina seemed to grow even taller. “My streak is not in jeopardy.”
“Want to put your money where your collagen-overloaded lips are?”
Please, Kaley, just shut up. Suzette took a deep breath. Bad enough she’d be kicked in the Christmas ornaments, she didn’t want her best friend to throw bad money after a wasted entrance fee.
“Sure.” Katarina smiled, a cat purring over a saucer of milk. Deadly claws were only a scratch away. The redhead waved a limp wrist, sending her floral scent swirling through the store. “Shall we say five hundred bucks? For charity, of course.”
Suzette tried to laugh. “She doesn’t really want to make a bet, Katarina. Kaley’s just pulling your Christmas stocking.”
“No I’m not. You’re on, Snodgrass.”
Sugarplums. Suzette wished her friend didn’t have such huge girl balls. Kaley couldn’t afford another five hundred dollars. Somehow, she’d make it up to her friend. Probably a sign she really should sell her grandmother’s flower shop.
Katarina whirled to face her. “Just remember, you brought this on yourself, short-stuff. Don’t blame me for your tears when Forrester Florals loses for the first time. Ever.”
“Suze won’t cry,” Kaley shot back. “Because she won’t lose. Now that the bet’s settled, what can I get you, Katarina?”
Suzette’s head wouldn’t stop spinning. She’d have to enter the contest now. Her world tilted but the diva shot-slingers acted as if the little bet had never happened.
Katarina turned toward the pastry case. “I’ll have a latte and two of those yummy cinnamon rolls.”
“Skinny latte?” Kaley asked.
“Heavens no.” The titian-haired beauty touched her hand to her chest. “Give me the works. Whipped cream too.”
Suzette’s mouth dropped open. Two cinnamon buns? She gained weight just thinking about them. Even at five-foot-ten, Katarina could probably fit into a size zero on her bloated days. Maybe the redhead ordered for someone else—her man of the week? Although with Katarina, could be man of the day.
No need to be catty.
The svelte socialite grabbed the bit of confectionary heaven and took a large bite. Suzette could hate her—for being able to eat like that and stay skinny if for no other reason.
“Since you’re foolish enough to enter, Suze, please don’t embarrass the town with a lame entry. This is our contest, even though I’ll beat you, we local girls need to do well.”
Talk about your insults. Was Katrina suggesting she couldn’t even put together a decent tree? Well, elf her.
Katarina grabbed her designer bag and tossed a fluffy scarf around her neck. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for my lunch date with Spence.”
Suzette stared at Katarina’s departing back. “Spence?” She couldn’t have meant Spence James. He would have called if he was in town. Right?
Chapter Two
It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like No Decorations
“Great. Just great.”
Spence James glared at the glass door. Surely there hadn’t been enough customers for that many fingerprints. His old man insisted he’d be busy with orders for the Christmas Tree Contest, but the event had been opened for over two weeks—a couple days before he’d gotten back into town—and he’d yet to sell a single ornament.
He grabbed some spray and swiped at the offending smudges. He’d clearly angered some divine being. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be stuck in Merryvale, a.k.a. Po-dunkville, posing as the cleaning crew because people were too dense to use the door handle. An architect should be designing amazing buildings, not playing clerk in the lamest excuse for an antiques store known to free enterprise.
Hard to believe he’d once loved Merryvale. He might still be able to garner some enthusiasm for the location, but he’d always hated his dad’s antique business—even before Tripp Anthony called him the “Furniture Fairy.” The ribbing had been good-natured but the label stuck.
Maybe he should have looked up some of his old friends, but after his disaster of a lunch with Katarina Snodgrass, he hadn’t dared reconnect with anyone else. Besides, the only other person he wanted to see had moved to Florida—or so he’d heard
He headed to the storeroom to stow the cleaning supplies. Only five more hours until closing time. With any luck, only five more days and he’d be back in New York.
The bell hanging over the entrance gave a merry jingle, making Spence feel even more Scrooge-ish. He should be happy about a customer, if there were such a thing. Although with his luck, he’d have to answer endless questions about hundred-year-old crap no one intended to buy. He hadn’t sold anything in two days. How in the name of all things holy did his dad manage to pay the light bill?
He’d probably end up covering most of his old man’s hospital bills. And he’d end up hiding the expenditure from Darlene. So much for his vow of a “more-open” relationship than his parents had.
Not exactly his fault. He hadn’t even proposed—and he didn’t intend to pop the question anytime soon—but Darlene acted like his checkbook belonged to her.
In the main showroom, a woman wiped her shiny boots on the rug—on his just-swept rug—and unbuttoned her big fluffy coat. He called the garment fluffy, because on no planet could the blinding pink-and-leopard fuzz be called fur.
Then the blasted woman pressed her hand against the door so she could shift her packages. All five of her smudgy little fingers pressed against his clean glass.
“Lady.” He stifled his reprimand. Couldn’t alienate one of Pop’s potential customers, no matter how grimy her fingers.
The woman stopped unbuttoning her monstrosity of a coat and stared at him. “Oh…Hi.”
Spence stopped altogether, trying not to look at her black sweater or the curves the garment highlighted. The woman might be a window smudging demoness, but she was damn hot. If he hadn’t just moved in with Darlene—or at least he’d planned to cohabit with his girlfriend before he got the call from his dad—he might even consider asking leopard lady out for a drink.
The potential customer-slash-browser leaned against the counter. Vanilla and spice invaded his nostrils. She didn’t smell grimy. “Where’s Arnie?”
Arnie? Only his dad’s friends called him by that nickname. If this long cool woman in leopard print knew his dad, why didn’t she know about his old man’s heart attack?
“He’s not here.”
“Well that’s rather obvious.” Leopard Lady took off her sunglasses and pierced him with her gaze, her eyes the most remarkable shade of green—the same color as h
olly. “O.M.G. Spence James. I didn’t believe Katarina when she—Never mind.” The woman’s smile disappeared. “Would have been nice if you’d called me when you got back into town.”
If he’d had any idea he knew anyone like her in town, he certainly would have called. How did she know him? “Eh, things have been pretty hectic since Dad’s ticker decided to skip a few beats.” A gross misstatement, but better than admitting he’d forgotten a spicy number like her.
“Oh, no.” The woman sounded genuinely concerned. “Did he have a setback? He was fine last Thursday.”
“Thursday?” Spence frowned. “Don’t think so. Dad’s been pretty much bedridden since he got out of the hospital.” Ten long days ago. With any luck, another ten and he could return to his life in New York. Just in time for Thanksgiving.
“Nu-uh. I talked to him at Green Eggs and Ham. He promised he’d make sure the Dresden paper ornaments I ordered two weeks ago would be here in time for the contest.”
The woman probably was a friend of his dad’s. Like his old man, she probably had a few disconnected wires in her brain. She did look familiar.
“Don’t think so. Dad’s still convalescing.”
“Convalescing?” The woman laughed. “Still using those fifteen dollar words, Spence? If you’re so smart, why don’t you remember me?”
Ah, crap. Bad enough he’d been forced by circumstances to play chifferobe clerk in Podunkville. Now he was supposed to play “remember the townspeople” too? “I’m sorry.”
“Maybe this will help.” The woman took off her black sparkly hat and shook her head. The most amazing mane of chestnut curls tumbled down her shoulders. Something about the move made him think of bedrooms and lingerie. If Darlene had a move half as sexy, he might get off his stone wall and actually propose.
“Well?” She propped a hand on her hip—or rather where he imagined her hip might be beneath all that fuzz.
Wait. He knew only one person with curls like that.
But Suzette’s hair had been all queen-of-the night black. And had streaks of pink and green and all sorts of weird colors.
