by Kathi Daley
I shook my head. “On the one hand, Buford had been drinking on the night he died and could very well have wandered out into the blizzard, passed out, and froze to death. On the other hand, Buford had a bump on his head that looked as if it had been inflicted by someone hitting him with a heavy object.”
“Could he have hit his head when he passed out?” Tom asked.
“He could have, but the position his body was found in and the location of the bump doesn’t tend to support that theory. Of course, Buford could have bumped his head earlier in the day, and the fact that he had a knot the size of a jawbreaker doesn’t necessarily mean that injury was enough to cause him to fall to the ground in a state of unconsciousness. At this point, Cass is following the idea that Buford was hit on the head, blacked out, and then froze to death. I guess we’ll just have to wait to see where his investigation ends up. I’m sure if Buford simply passed out on account of all the alcohol he drank, that scenario will float to the surface at some point.” I looked up as the sound of a car approaching permeated the still air. “That must be Gracie. Paisley will be with her. Maybe we can talk about this some more over dinner.”
“That’d be fine. The truth as to what happened to Buford has been weighing on my mind. It’d be nice to know one way or the other.”
“Yes,” I agreed. It would be nice to know for certain what had caused a man who’d lived here for most of his life to simply perish in an early but not all that spectacular storm. I knew the mayor was pushing the idea that Buford’s death was nothing more than a terrible accident. I supposed I didn’t blame him. The town was just beginning to recover from the murder of twelve-year-old Tracy Porter. If it was determined that Buford had been murdered as well, it would most definitely bring back the fear and paranoia that had permeated the town after Tracy’s death. Cass wasn’t the sort to simply grasp onto the easy answer; he was the sort to want nothing short of the truth. Sometimes I wondered if his dogged commitment to following his instincts rather than the dictate of his boss was going to get him fired. I supposed that it was more important to Cass to be true to his convictions than it was to keep the job he seemed to do better than anyone else did. I supposed I really admired him for that. In fact, the more I got to know Deputy Cass Wylander, the more convinced I was that my childhood friend had grown into a man I could not only respect but grow to love if I was interested in that sort of thing, which I wasn’t.
Chapter 2
Tuesday
The Foxtail News was a small regional newspaper with only four employees in addition to the owner if you counted me, and given the fact that I only wrote one column a week at this point, I supposed it was generous to count me in the mix. A man named Garrett Heatherton, who’d partially retired and left the management of the business to his son, Dex, owned the newspaper. Garrett had run the place much the same for the thirty-some-odd years he’d been actively working in the business, but now that Dex had taken over the day-to-day operations, he was determined to put the Foxtail News on the map. A lofty goal I will admit given the limited circulation of the tiny rural area served by the newspaper, but a goal he worked hard for every day.
In addition to Dex, there was a full-time reporter named Brock Green. Garrett had hired Brock when Dex was still in college and felt more than just a bit slighted that he hadn’t been chosen to take over as managing editor when Garrett decided to take a step back. I could sense the tension between Dex and Brock at times, but the tension seemed to be rooted in competition, which made both men work harder, so I supposed it worked out okay in the end.
In addition to Garrett, who still oversaw things; Dex, who ran the ship; and Brock, who handled the heavy lifting; there was a woman named Gabby King, who answered the phone and handled the clerical stuff.
“Morning, Gabby,” I greeted the woman with short blond curls that framed her face.
“Morning, Callie.” Gabby hung a bright red bulb on the fir she’d been decorating. “Dex has been looking for you.”
I paused to take in the scent of fir mingled with the familiar scents of stale coffee, which was always present; tobacco, from Brock’s cigars; and ink, in spite of the fact that the old offset press hadn’t been used in years. “The place looks really nice. I love the big red bows.”
“I figured I spend more of my day here than I do at home, so I might as well create the Christmas spirit here too. I started with a wreath for the door, but it looked lonely, so I brought in the garland and bows. Once I got that far, the rest seemed inevitable.”
“Well, I think it looks fantastic.”
“Dex was hesitant at first. You know how he is about professionalism, but I think he is warming up to the idea now that I have things arranged.”
“I’m sure Dex will enjoy the decorations once he relaxes a bit. It has been a tense year for him taking over as managing editor. I think there is a lot of pressure on him to do well.”
“I know you’re right.”
“I suppose I should go and see what he wants. Is he in his office?” I asked.
“He is.” Gabby glanced at the paper bag I still held in my hands. “I don’t suppose those are Aunt Gracie’s muffins?”
“They are.” I set the bag on Gabby’s desk. “There are plenty to share.” I turned and headed down the hallway. It was a long, dark, narrow passage that led to an employee breakroom and several offices. There was the old pressroom at the end of the hallway, where the offset press that had been used for years to print the newspaper still sat.
“Good, I’m glad you’re here,” Dex greeted as soon as I poked my head in the doorway to his office. “How is the Secret Santa feature going?”
“It’s going,” I hedged. I’d been playing with different ideas and concepts for days but still hadn’t settled on anything that really clicked. “I’ve been spending some time really trying to nail down the angle I should take,” I elaborated. “Initially, I was going to write about the members of the community who’ve received gifts, but now I’m thinking about writing about Secret Santa himself. Who is this guy? Why is he spending what has already amounted to a small fortune gifting members of our small town with the items they seem to need the most?”
Dex grinned, his dark brown eyes sparkling in delight. “I’m happy to hear you’ve been thinking along those lines because that is exactly what I was going to speak to you about. I received a call from my buddy at The Denver Post. He’s heard the stories relating to our Secret Santa and is interested in piggybacking on our feature. In fact, he wants us to expand on it and do a series of articles.”
“A series?”
“Three in all.” He ran a hand through his thick brown hair. “And, the best part is that he wants to run the series in the Post. This could be huge for us. Really huge.”
“Wow, that is big,” I admitted, settling a hip on the edge of the desk. “Did he say what he had in mind?” My mind was already racing with ideas to expand my story and create a series of articles, but I was still interested in what Dex had to say.
“As I mentioned, he wants three articles, the first of which will be due on Monday of next week. He suggested that the article next week focus on the recipients of the gifts. He wants a real in-depth look. Who are these people? Why might Secret Santa have chosen them to be recipients of his altruism? How will the gift they received enhance or change their lives?”
“Sounds doable.” I moved over to the chair across from the desk and sat down. My heart was racing and palms sweating, but I honestly didn’t know if I was excited or terrified. A series in the Post! This really was a huge opportunity.
“His idea for the first article seems pretty straight forward, so I am inclined to head in that direction. And then the following Monday, he wants to build momentum with an article relating to the hunt for Secret Santa. Really bring the mystery aspect into play by featuring interviews of those members of the community suspected of being Secret Santa. Who are these people? Why do the locals suspect them of being Secret Santa? What do they have t
o say about the rumors, and what sort of conclusions has the reporter come to based on those interviews?”
“Again, that seems manageable. I’ve already started a list. And for the final article?”
“The column due on December 23rd will be published in both the Foxtail News and the Post on December 24th. Basically, he is looking for the big reveal as to who Secret Santa actually is and why he or she has been gifting such high dollar items to the residents of Foxtail Lake.”
I sat back in my chair and really let this whole thing sink in. If I was totally honest, I’d begun to feel just a tiny bit of panic.
“I wanted to talk to you about the series first since it was your idea,” Dex continued, “but now that the Post is interested in reprinting the articles, the Secret Santa storyline has become a pretty big deal. I know you are new to journalism, and I am concerned that this might be too much for you. It’s not too late to turn this series over to Brock. He does have a lot more experience than you do, so I suspect he might be able to deal with the pressure of a tell-all feature better.”
I narrowed my gaze while nibbling gently on my bottom lip, a nervous habit I reverted to frequently.
“So, what do you think?” Dex asked.
What did I think? On the one hand, writing a series of articles that would be reprinted in the Post seemed intimidating. I’d only been a journalist for four weeks, and it wasn’t like I had any formal education to fall back on. On the other hand, I’d been hoping to find a way to work my way into more of a regular position with the paper, and this sounded like a fantastic opportunity. Of course, it was an opportunity predicated on my ability to figure out who Secret Santa really was and then get them to agree to an interview. In my mind, neither of these situations was a given.
“I’d like to run with it,” I finally said. “I know that I don’t have the experience Brock has, but the articles I’ve written in the past few weeks have been well received, and you liked the one I turned in yesterday about the missing money for the tree lighting. If I hadn’t tracked down the money, the town wouldn’t even be having a tree lighting this year. I really think I should be the one to do the Secret Santa series.”
Dex hesitated. I could see he might need additional convincing.
“Brock is a fine reporter, and I agree that he has a ton more experience than I do, but he is sort of analytical in his approach to his subject matter. Secret Santa is a human-interest story, and you need someone to get to the heart of the matter and bring the emotion behind the action into play. You need someone like me.”
He exhaled loudly. “Okay. I’ll let you run with the first story relating to the gift recipients, and then I’ll decide what to do after I see how things are progressing. But keep in mind that I basically promised my buddy from the Post that we would have no problem unmasking Secret Santa, which means we have less than three weeks to figure out who Secret Santa is.”
“I know.”
“It might not be easy to find the proof you’ll need to definitively identify the guy.”
“I know.”
“And if you do manage to finger the guy, you’ll still need to get him to agree to an interview. This is a real investigative piece. It is going to take all the sleuthing skills you can muster.”
“I know it won’t be easy, but I really think I can do this. I want to try. Give me this week and let me write the first article, and then we can talk about how to handle the second and third article at that point.”
Dex paused and let out a long, slow breath.
“I’ll keep you updated every step of the way,” I promised.
“Okay,” he said, although he still looked doubtful. “But don’t let me down. I have a lot riding on this.”
“I know, and I won’t.” Even as I said the words, I found myself hoping that I could do what I’d just promised I could do and find the man or woman who, to this point, hadn’t seemed to want to be found.
Chapter 3
“So did Gracie get her tree?” Cass asked me later that afternoon while we worked our volunteer shift at the Foxtail Lake Animal Shelter.
“She did. Tom and I ganged up on her yesterday afternoon and talked her into just getting a tree from the lot. It’s fresh and well-shaped. I think it will be just fine for the living room, and Paisley and I selected one for the attic as well.”
“Have you decorated them yet?” He tossed a ball to a group of labs, who all took off after it.
“Not yet,” I smiled as the dogs playfully piled onto each other while trying to be the one to bring the ball Cass had tossed back to him. “Paisley and I are going to decorate the tree in the attic this week, but Gracie wants to wait and decorate the downstairs tree on Saturday. She really wants all of us to do it together, but I had my volunteer shifts today and Friday, and Tom has some sort of event going on over at the lodge tomorrow and Thursday, so we put the tree in the stand and filled it with water, but it is still totally bare. If you don’t mind getting bossed around by Gracie for a few hours, we could probably use some help on Saturday if you’re free. Gracie insisted on getting the tallest tree in the lot. Of course, I have no idea how we are going to decorate those top branches.”
He accepted the ball from a black lab and then tossed it again. “I’d love to come by and help. I am planning to work for a while on Saturday in the hope of getting caught up on my paperwork, but I can probably be done by one or two unless there is a break in Buford’s murder case.”
A sheltie had wandered over, and I bent over to scratch him behind the ears. “So, are you formally calling Buford’s death a murder?”
“Only between you and me. I don’t have enough evidence one way or the other to state as much conclusively, and the mayor doesn’t want me using the ‘M’ word unless I absolutely have to.”
Kneeling down on the tile floor, I picked up a small terrier that had wandered over for some attention and cuddled him to my chest. “But you think there is something to find?”
Cass nodded. “My gut tells me, yes. I spoke to the coroner. He said that it is likely that the blow to the head that Buford seems to have suffered before his death could have been enough to cause him to pass out. He didn’t think it was hard enough to kill him, and he has listed the official cause of death as hypothermia. We did discuss a scenario where Buford was rendered unconscious due to the blow and then froze to death, and the coroner thinks that scenario is very possible. Buford did have alcohol in his system as well, but in the coroner’s opinion, he hadn’t ingested enough to render him unconscious, although I suppose one could argue that it was the alcohol that impaired his judgment and caused him to be out in the storm in the first place. The mayor is really invested in the idea that the man simply wandered out into the storm while intoxicated, passed out, and froze to death, but I’m less certain of that.”
“So if someone did hit Buford, and if that blow to the head is what led to his death, any idea who might be responsible?”
Cass shook his head slowly. “No idea at all. I’ve been talking to folks who knew Buford, hoping that a motive will appear, but so far all I really know for certain is that a whole lot of people had a beef with the guy, but no one was mad enough to kill him.”
“Tom mentioned Ford Fisher. He said he has been acting oddly. Secretive. Evasive. He’s been staying home and not interacting with anyone.”
Cass narrowed his gaze. “A couple of the guys from over at the bar said something similar. I really can’t see Ford killing Buford, but I suppose I ought to stop by and check on him. He is getting on in years, and I worry about his health.”
I smiled. “Seems like you worry about everyone in this town for one reason or another.”
Cass shrugged. “It’s my job to serve and protect. Part of that service includes a healthy dose of worry. Speaking of which, I know that Paisley has been worrying about her grandmother since her mother died. Pamela Keller mentioned it when I stopped by the school to give my talk on winter safety.”
Pamela Keller was Pa
isley’s teacher.
“Paisley is understandably having a difficult time. She is sad that her mother didn’t get the miracle they hoped for and worried that her grandmother might be next. Gracie and I have been doing what we can to help out with rides and meals and whatnot. I’m not sure what will happen in the long run. Paisley’s grandmother is getting on in years, and unlike Gracie, who is as healthy as a horse, Ethel has been dealing with a few health issues of her own.”
Cass tossed several balls in quick succession, and the entire group of dogs went after them once again.
“I feel for both Paisley and her grandmother. If there is anything I can do, just let me know. Is someone taking care of her shoveling and plowing?”
I nodded. “A group from the church has been coming by and keeping the walks and drive clear. I think the community as a whole is doing what they can. Hopefully, it will be enough. According to Gracie, Paisley has an aunt who lives in New Jersey who is willing to take her if Ethel decides she can’t manage a ten-year-old on her own, but Gracie also said that Paisley doesn’t know this aunt and really wants to stay here in a familiar environment where she has friends she can lean on for support.”
“I suppose that if Paisley does have to move, she’ll make new friends.”
I bowed my head. “I guess, but the death of her mother has been hard enough to deal with. She needs time to grieve and to heal. She needs to be in a familiar environment where she feels safe. At least for now.”
“I agree.” Cass gathered up the balls that had been dropped at his feet and tossed them again. “And hopefully with everyone’s help, Ethel will feel she is able to manage.” Cass looked at his watch. “I guess we should begin to wrap this up. I promised Naomi I’d take care of the nighttime routine since Hancock is back in town, and the two had made plans.”
