Twelve Slays of Christmas

by Jacqueline Frost

  Suddenly Sheriff Gray was the second person I’d felt sorry for tonight. “That sounds lonely.”

  “It can be.” He turned back to me with a look of blatant curiosity. “What was it like growing up here?”

  I lifted and dropped one shoulder. “Magical.”

  “You grew up on a Christmas tree farm.”

  “Yeah.” I smiled at the wonder in his voice. “I loved it.”

  “I bet. Ever have any problems here before this week? Break-ins? Vandalism? Theft?”

  “No.” I admired the beautiful property. “I always felt safe here.”

  “What about now?” Shame ruined his handsome face. I’d become afraid for the first time on his watch, and he clearly hated it. So did I.

  “Honestly? I’ve never felt more protected.”

  The blaze of emotion I’d recognized earlier returned. His gaze fell briefly to my lips before pulling back. “I shouldn’t have given you a hard time earlier. I accepted your invitation because I had questions of my own.”

  “Ah, hypocrisy.”

  His mouth formed the lazy smile I loved. “Yeah.”

  “Well, what do you want to know?”

  He hesitated, obviously weighing what he would say next. A trait I was learning to hate. “I wondered if you were still asking questions about Mrs. Fenwick’s life or death.” The look on his face said that wasn’t what he’d planned to say, and whatever it was still lingered unspoken.

  “Not intentionally,” I said.

  He cocked a dark eyebrow.

  “I spoke with Paula before you got here, but she came to me. She says she has an alibi.”

  He snorted. “It’s not as if the killer is going to admit what he did. Or she,” he allowed. “Criminals will say anything.”

  “She was with Mr. Fleece.”

  “I know.”

  I fought the irrational irritation of having to share all my details with him when he clearly didn’t do the same. “I saw her sleigh heading home that night, and Mr. Fleece was outside with a bunch of kids and the reindeer, but are we sure neither of them had time to hit Mrs. Fenwick?” I lowered my voice to a whisper, trying to keep our sleigh driver from overhearing too much.

  Sheriff Gray leaned impossibly closer. “I’m handling this. Let it go.”

  I scowled.

  “Look,” he said, “I’ve got my fingers on a thread in this case that I think is going to unravel it. So no more asking questions, even if the suspects come to you. This is a small town, and you’re already on the killer’s radar. If he thinks you’re still pushing this . . .” The sheriff stopped to rub a leather glove over his forehead. “Just stop, okay?”

  I wiggled closer and tipped my face to his. “Who do you think is the killer?” Scents of cologne and aftershave wafted over me, and I shivered.

  “Are you cold?” He tugged our shared blanket higher on my waist.

  I shook my head and pressed my lips together. Whatever my body thought was happening, it was wrong. I couldn’t be attracted to this man. I still called him Sheriff Gray, for goodness’ sake.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking right now,” he said. “You can’t keep anymore secrets. It’s too dangerous.”

  I made an idiotic sound.

  “I mean it, Holly. What were you thinking just now? You should’ve seen your face.”

  “Nothing.” My voice hitched, caught in another lie. “Something personal. It had nothing to do with what you were saying, I swear.”

  He shot me a flat expression. “I’m giving you, possibly, the most important advice of your life, and you’re thinking of something unrelated. That’s terrific.” The sarcasm was thick. I didn’t like it.

  “That isn’t what I said.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “I don’t know.” I waved my mitten-covered hands. “I was thinking about Whiskers.”

  “You were thinking about a cat.”

  “She’s doing great,” I said, deftly changing the subject to what a good caregiver I was. “Cindy gives her a hard time, but Whiskers handles herself well.”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  A proverbial lightbulb slowly flickered to life. “You were there to feed her that day.” I recalled the sheriff at Mrs. Fenwick’s house, and an idea popped into mind. “Would you like to keep her?”

  “Me? Why? You just said she’s doing great with you.”

  “I know, but it’s good for a man to have a cat. They make great companions, and chicks love them.”

  He laughed.

  “She’d be a lot of company for you. Cindy’s a brat, but sometimes she’s the only person I can talk to.”

  “You can always talk to me,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  “I have to ask,” he said, “why do you read The Count of Monte Cristo? I’ve told you why I do, but I have no idea why it appeals to you, and I’d like to.”

  I released a slow breath, hoping not to sound silly as I confessed the truth. “I liked the strategy and restraint. He was smart. He planned. I admired that the first time I read it, so I read it again. I get something else out of it every time. People think it’s only about revenge, but I barely think of it that way. I think it’s about a man who set an outrageous goal and nailed it.”

  Sheriff Gray smiled. “You like smart guys.”

  “I do.”

  The barn came back into view, and I worked my coat sleeve up to check my watch. The sleigh ride was typically thirty minutes. It was hard to believe we’d been talking that long already. According to my watch, it had been closer to an hour. The driver must’ve kept us moving after the usual route was finished. I folded the blanket into squares as we eased to a stop.

  Sheriff Gray climbed out and offered me his hand.

  I thanked the driver, and he winked. I had a feeling Cookie was behind my impromptu sleigh ride somehow. She’d never offered to cover the Hearth for me before, and she practically jumped behind the counter tonight. She must’ve known the sheriff was here before he came in to ask about the pickle in his tree.

  Sheriff Gray rocked back on his heels. “I’m up for taking Whiskers, but maybe we should ask her what she wants to do.”

  I smiled. “I guess you’ll have to walk me home for that.”

  We turned up the long path to my parents’ house in companionable silence, taking measured strides and dragging the trip out.

  “So you knew Ray Griggs in high school?” the sheriff finally asked.

  “No.” I shook my head and laughed, baffled. “He remembers me, but I swear I’ve never seen him before this week. His family’s hilarious, though. I wish I’d known him then.”

  “Really?” He looked confused. “He made it sound like you’d been good friends, maybe even dated. He seems to know a lot about you.”

  “No. Nothing like that. He had a crush, maybe? I don’t know. I was a senior. He was a freshman.”

  “What do you think of him now?”

  “As what? A suspect?” Alarm raised the hair on the back of my neck. “Is Ray the lead you’re closing in on?” I’d spent too much time with Ray this week for that possibility to make me comfortable.

  Sheriff Gray set his jaw. “No. Never mind.”

  I watched the side of his face as he concentrated on anything other than me. “Are you trying to ask me if I like him?” I guessed, half-joking, half-thankful Ray wasn’t the sheriff’s suspect as a murderer.

  He let his gaze bounce off me. “I was just asking.”

  I curled my arm beneath his on a whim and tugged him against my side. “If he asks me out and we start dating, will you run a background check for me?”

  “I already have,” he said dryly.

  I laughed because I believed him. “Always looking out for me. I like it.” I also liked the feel of his arm twined with mine, so I held onto it as we walked. Another interesting idea came to mind. “Did you run a background check on me?”

  He shot me an impish grin. “You found the town’s first murder victim in forty year
s. What do you think?”

  “I didn’t find her!” I protested. “I responded to a screaming woman’s plea for help.”

  The motion light outside my parents’ home snapped on, and Dad strode into view. His attention locked immediately on our arms, and Sheriff Gray dropped mine like a hot potato.

  “Holly?” Dad asked. “What are you doing?”

  “We came to get Whiskers. Sheriff Gray is going to take her home.”

  Dad gave the sheriff a pointed look before dragging his attention back to me. “Your mother sent me to put the slow cooker on low. Help yourselves if you’re hungry. I’m needed at the stables, so lock up when you leave.”

  “I won’t be long,” I said. “I promised Mom I’d help with the sleighs tonight.”

  “I’ll let her know.” He headed for his truck.

  I used my key to let my guest inside.

  He watched Dad’s truck through the front window until its taillights vanished in the darkness. “I get the feeling he didn’t enjoy your dating years.”

  I tugged my mittens off and turned the lock behind us. “You assume anyone in Mistletoe was brave enough to ask me out.”

  “No high school sweethearts?”

  “I went to prom and met guys at parties, but Dad made it as complicated as possible by hating everyone.”

  “I can’t say I blame him,” he said with a smile.

  I crossed my arms. “Did you date in high school?”

  He barked a hearty laugh. “Oh, yeah.”

  “Kitty,” I called, finished with that conversation. I flipped lights on as I moved through the room.

  Cindy lumbered into view outside the kitchen. She looked us over, then walked away.

  I grabbed a red tote bag filled with Mom’s old copies of Mistletoe Magazine and emptied the contents onto her coffee table. “That reminds me—I was reading the holiday edition of that the other night.” I pointed to the magazines. “It looks like a lot of people fund their own renovation projects. Do you know who owns the Pine Creek Bridge? We know Mrs. Fenwick wanted it repaired, but I wonder why she didn’t insist the owners handle it.”

  “That bridge is owned by the county,” he said. “It became part of the road system in 1955.”

  I stopped short. “You’ve been looking into it too.” So I was on to something.

  He tapped the sheriff emblem on his coat.

  I made a face and went to gather kibble and the bowls Mom had assigned to Whiskers when she moved in.

  Whiskers was in the kitchen standing sentinel before her dinner. Cindy’s dishes were upside down, and she was watching Whiskers from the windowsill.

  I plucked Whiskers off the floor and dropped her things into my bag. “You’re moving again, pretty lady. Looks like you get to be the woman of Sheriff Gray’s house.” I kissed her head. “Keep an eye on him for me, would ya?”

  The sheriff leaned against the doorjamb. “Worried about me?”

  I handed him the cat. “Give me a minute to grab her bed. It’s just an old pillow I made in high school home ec, but she seems to like it.” I darted up the steps and grabbed the lopsided corduroy oval off my bed.

  Sheriff Gray was at the front door when I got back. Whiskers was tucked against his chest in one arm and the bag of cat things hung from his free hand.

  I stuffed the pillow into the bag.

  “Anything else?” He backed up a step and bumped his hat against the ring of mistletoe hanging from our doorframe. “What the . . .” His blank cop expression turned mischievous. “You make a habit of kissing everyone who comes through the door?”

  “No. Mom hung that for Dad. It’s not for you.”

  Sheriff Gray leaned forward until his breath warmed my ear. “I definitely shouldn’t be kissing your mom.” He straightened with a grin “You’ve got a lot of land here. If your dad caught me, I doubt anyone would find my body.”

  I made a completely incoherent noise, trying not to swallow my tongue.

  Sheriff Gray pushed the front door open and held it for me to pass. He gave the little greenery with a pretty red bow another look. “You might want to take that down before Ray Griggs stops by again.”

  I turned my key in the lock. “Why would I want to do that?”

  His eyes stretched briefly before falling into a squint.

  “I’m joking.”

  “Hysterical,” he deadpanned.

  I led the way off the porch.

  He unzipped his coat and tucked Whiskers inside until only her fluffy face peeked out at his neck. At the Hearth, he went to his truck, and I went to help at the stables and tried not to think about that blasted mistletoe any longer than absolutely necessary.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Christmas Tree Ball was just three days away, and preparations to turn the renovated barn into a winter wonderland were well under way. I stared at the freshly cut blue spruce in front of me, waiting for inspiration to strike. Mom strung lights around the rafters, supported by a motorized ladder contraption not unlike the ones used by utility workers when repairing telephone and cable lines. Dad manned the base, keeping an eye on Mom and guiding the machine as she worked cheerfully overhead. Tough as Dad looked, he feared heights like I feared ducks, and neither of us liked to talk about it.

  I circled my spruce, utterly perplexed. Outfitting a few trees for the raffle had always been fun—I’d never lacked ideas in the past. Mom had a brilliant plan to dress her tree with products sold at the Holiday Mouse in an effort to boost sales. I, on the other hand, only had terrible ideas that were guaranteed to lose the unspoken competition. Yes, the raffle was luck of the draw, but there was always one tree everyone wanted most. Ball guests would linger at its side, whispering about how it surpassed the others in creativity and execution. I liked it best when that tree was mine.

  I circled the thing again, begging my muse to hit.

  “Hello!” Cookie called. She and Caroline strode in my direction, laden with shopping bags and looks of eager anticipation. They split up before reaching me and faced off with the trees on either side of mine. Caroline was on my right and Cookie on my left.

  I gave up and sat cross-legged between them as they unpacked and organized their trimmings. “You two look happy.”

  Caroline beamed. “We just had our first business meeting.”

  Cookie lined boxes of tinsel and metallic garland on the floor. “She wants to pay me back for the investment, but I don’t want her money. If she tries to force it on me, I’m going to have my lawyer make her the sole heir to my estate.”

  I looked at Caroline.

  She puffed air into neat sideswept bangs. “She keeps saying that.”

  “What do your parents think?” I asked. “They must be glad to see you reaching your goals.”

  “My parents pretend this isn’t happening because it doesn’t fit into their plan for my life.”

  Cookie flung a pinch of tinsel at her tree and shot me a pointed look. “What’re you doing to your tree this year, Holly?” An obvious change of subject. “A tribute to American literature? Maine’s wildlife? Traditions abroad?”

  “No.” I huffed. Those were themes I’d already done. “I want to do something new.”

  “How about mustaches?” she suggested.

  Caroline slid a premade sign into the metal stand beside her tree: “Caroline’s Christmas Cupcakes.” Her fitted Tiffany blue dress was a near-perfect match for her eyes and enhanced the porcelain-doll look she had going on. Her pale-blonde hair hung in ringlets over both shoulders, held back from her face by a wide matching headband. The overall effect was stunning. “Maybe you could do a variation on mustaches,” she suggested, “like an American artist in Paris?”

  I stuck out my tongue. “Why are people obsessed with Paris?”

  Caroline looked as if she’d sucked a lemon. “Because it’s Paris.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said, turning back to Cookie. “I have a creativity deficit.”

  Cookie strung white lights around her
tree like a professional, hiding the wires among the branches and making the beautiful pine sparkle. “Don’t worry. It’ll come to you.”

  I leaned back on my elbows and kicked my feet out in front of me. My jeans were soft and threadbare at the knees from years of wash and wear. My navy-and-brown duck boots were scuffed from the countless cold and wet adventures of a quiet country life.

  Caroline’s knee-high boots ghosted over the broad wooden floor beams. How she stayed upright in those heels all day, especially in the winter weather, was nothing short of magic. The fact she did it with such grace made me want to clap. She worked methodically from top to bottom, arranging small cupcake ornaments on the higher branches first. The average-sized ornaments went around the center, and giant ones covered the bottom. Every faux cupcake was pale pink or muted white and shimmery as if it had been dusted in sugar before hanging. She strategically attached her business cards to multiple limbs with the help of coordinating clothespins.

  “Last but not least,” she said, crouching for another reach into her bag, “the perfect finishing touch.” She fanned an accordion-pleated tree skirt around the base of her tree. The polka-dotted material was the equivalent of a massive cupcake liner. “What do you think?”

  “It’s gorgeous,” I said.

  “I want to eat it,” Cookie said.

  Caroline uncapped a can of fake snow and shook it. “Why haven’t you started yet?” she asked.

  “I’m waiting for my muse.”

  “Well, that’ll never happen,” she said confidently. “You have to make things happen, not wait around hoping something might happen to you.”

  I tilted my head back to see all the way to the top of the nine-foot spruce I’d chosen.

  Cookie hummed beside me, tossing handfuls of tinsel everywhere. She and Caroline had chosen shorter, fuller trees. Mine looked like an arrow in comparison.

  Caroline sashayed closer, stretching a row of wet boot prints in my direction. “Do you need help with the lights?”

  “No. I did that much. I just haven’t plugged them in. I forgot.”

  Cookie stopped humming. “She also forgot about the ball until I reminded her last night. She’s making me look good.”