Stalking Around the Christmas Tree, page 1
Stalking Around the Christmas Tree
A CHRISTMAS TREE FARM MYSTERY
Jacqueline Frost
To Tiffany, it’s been lovely killing you
Chapter One
“Hold that pose, Mrs. White,” my best friend, Caroline, called. She rose onto her tiptoes, phone poised before her, sizing up my mother for another photo. Caroline’s long blond hair hung over her shoulders in loose waves, and her pale brows furrowed over bright blue eyes as she snapped the dozenth picture since her arrival.
Mom paused, frosting bag frozen above a tray of cutout reindeer cookies, where she’d been piping patterns onto the little blankets over the reindeers’ backs. “Cheers,” she said, beaming for the camera.
“Got it!” Caroline lowered her phone, and Mom’s bright smile fell into a more natural one.
“I still can’t believe you asked me to be on your show this week.” She set the frosting aside and rubbed her hands into the folds of her apron. “I hope you won’t regret it.”
“I won’t,” Caroline assured.
“You’ll be there, right Holly?” Mom asked me.
“Try to stop me,” I said, stealing a cookie from her tray. “You’ll knock them dead for sure.”
Mom tucked a swath of thick brown hair behind one ear and grinned. I looked like my mom. She was twenty years older than me, a few inches shorter, and a couple dozen pounds heavier, but that didn’t diminish the effect. Our dark hair and eyes, fair skin, and pointy noses left no room for mistaking our relationship. I imagined looking at her was a lot like looking into a mirror that showed my future, and I was okay with what I saw. Mom was beautiful, happy, and kind. As in love with Dad as the day she’d married him, and over the moon about her life in historic Mistletoe, Maine.
I hoped all that joy and contentment came with the looks, because our personalities were quite different. I’d inherited Dad’s big mouth, for example, and much to Mom’s eternal dismay. I’d also recently come to realize I was a bit of a busybody. I suspected I should work on the latter, but that particular personality trait often helped me get things done. I usually knew who to ask for what, and where to quickly find anyone or thing I needed. With little more than a week left before Christmas in a holiday-themed town, and my wedding scheduled for Christmas Eve night, I needed all the help I could get.
I sipped my cinnamon-flavored coffee, then slipped another stick of ammo into my hot glue gun. The morning was getting away, and Caroline would soon have to leave and open her cupcake shop on Main Street. Then Mom would flip the sign on the large wooden doors behind us, opening the Hearth, our family’s tree farm café.
Reindeer Games was the only tree farm in Mistletoe, which made it, by default, the most frequented. My family and I made it the most fun by intent. Mom was the baker. Dad was the lumberjack. I was the innkeeper. Collectively, we were living our best lives.
The Hearth was Mom’s domain, essentially a life-sized gingerbread house where she baked and sold her cookies and cakes, along with a variety of hot drinks and occasionally soups, to guests. Red and white candy-striped booths lined the dining area under gumdrop-shaped chandeliers. Eyelet curtains adorned the windows, and hand-carved chocolate-bar tables with licorice-legged chairs sprinkled the floor. The furniture had all been made from trees grown on our property. Scents of warm vanilla and spun sugar had long ago permeated everything in sight. It would’ve been the perfect venue for Caroline’s feature on Mom, but this was the busiest week for Reindeer Games, and Caroline had likely sold more seats than the fire code would permit inside our little café.
“I still can’t believe I’m going to be on television,” Mom said, setting a hand against her throat, mystified.
“It’s not television,” Caroline said, returning to her lollipop-shaped stool at the counter. “It’s a web show on my YouTube channel.”
I grinned as Mom frowned, trying to make sense of the answer.
Caroline had opened her shop a couple of years back with a little help from our friend Cookie, and Caroline’s Cupcakes had become an instant hit. They rarely made it to closing time without selling out, even at five bucks a pop! Earlier this year, she’d started a weekly livestream, called Merry in Mistletoe, as a favor to her father, the mayor. He’d hoped to generate positive press for our little holiday hamlet following a string of annual Christmas murders. Three in as many years, to be exact.
The most recent murder had earned us some negative national attention, and a lot of locals had feared tourism would suffer this season as a result. So Caroline had been doing her part to showcase the merrier aspects of Mistletoe by featuring locals and their lives. This month had been all about the shops, trades, and destinations. Mom was the featured baker, ready to talk about a day in the life at Reindeer Games and more specifically, the Hearth Café. Like most things Caroline touched, Merry in Mistletoe had grown into yet another wonderful success.
“I don’t understand,” Mom said, wide brow furrowed. “It’s a show on your channel.”
“Right, and folks can watch live or replay it later. We’ll also have a studio audience for the recording.”
“But your channel isn’t on television,” Mom said.
“Correct.”
I went back to hot-gluing twisty metal spirals into the tops of pine cones with flat bases. I didn’t have the vocabulary or wherewithal to help Mom make sense of livestreams or online channels. Honestly, I had no idea how it all worked. I was just glad it did.
Mom looked to me for help, then caught sight of my craft. “What are you working on, hon?”
I lifted a finished product for her inspection. “Do you like it?”
“Adorable,” Mom cooed, ever supportive.
“What is it?” Caroline asked.
“I thought we could set these on the reception tables. If we slip a place card into the spiral, the pine cone becomes a seating marker.”
The results would double as a cute nod to our location. Not to mention, Evan and I were on a budget, and there were few things more abundant on a tree farm than pine cones.
Caroline took the finished product from my hand. “I love it. We can spray them with faux snow and a little silver glitter. They’ll sparkle under the twinkle lights and mirror ball.”
Mom gave a dramatic sigh. “My little girl’s getting married.”
Her little girl was twenty-nine, but I was, in fact, getting married. A smile spread over my face.
I’d met my fiancé, Sheriff Evan Gray three years ago, after finding a dead body on the farm. Evan had thought my dad was a reasonable suspect, and I’d worked hard to help the new sheriff see my father for what he really was, a six-foot teddy bear in a lumberjack’s clothing.
Time was a funny thing, because our first meeting felt both as if it had happened yesterday and as if it had occurred a millennium ago. And though we’d been planning for a year, it was hard to believe the big day was only a week away. We’d be married on Christmas Eve in the big barn on our property. Mom and her ladies had decorated the cavernous space for the annual Christmas Tree Ball last weekend, and it was still decked out in twinkle lights and set up for a party. What better, prettier, more perfect place for our ceremony and reception?
Pulling together a wedding at this time of year hadn’t been easy, but it’d been a group effort, with Caroline at the helm. After months of to-do lists, endless choices, decisions and dress fittings, Evan and I were in the home stretch.
“One week to go,” Caroline said with a dreamy sigh. “Are you ready?”
Physically? Emotionally? “One hundred percent.”
Did I understand how a zillion last-minute things were going to get done while we all simultaneously performed our full-time jobs in Mistletoe the week of Christmas? Not at all.
Mom stroked the backs of her fingertips across my cheek, sentimentality carving lines around her eyes and mouth.
I pressed her hand to my face, then kissed it before setting her free.
Caroline set the pine cone down. “Your big day will be perfect. I’m making sure of it. Just like your mom’s internet debut. Your dad has your ticket for the live recording, by the way. We sold out for this one, which is doubly great because all the proceeds from ticket sales will go directly to the Mistletoe foodbank.”
Mom looked ready to burst with pride. “That’s wonderful news.”
“I only wish we could’ve held the show here,” Caroline said. “You’d have been able to actually bake a batch of your whoopie pies, instead of just talking us through the steps and recipe. And look at this place.” She waved an arm around her in explanation. “Nothing says Merry in Mistletoe like this café.”
I added another finished pine cone to the basket and evaluated the number of place markers remaining. Then I performed some mental gymnastics in an attempt to determine if there was enough time to finish the entire project this morning. I hoped the correct answer was yes, if I worked fast enough.
Caroline sipped her cooling cocoa and sighed with contentment. “Thanks for being so patient while I got enough shots. I’ll add this morning’s pictures to the collage I’m using as promotional material on the website and social media.”
Mom waved her off and pulled a chocolate cake from the refrigerator. “I’m right here doing this every morning. Today I was just lucky enough to visit with you ladies while I worked. Tell me what you think of this,” she said, sliding the cake onto the counter. “The icing is a ganache with peppermint chips.”
Mom grabbed a knife and a plate, then glanced at me. “Holly?”
“No, thank you,” I said, distracted by my craft.
“You’re making great time on those,” Mom said. “How’s Evan doing with his list?”
“He’s nearly finished.”
I tried not to sound as jealous as I felt. I was too easily distracted. Evan, on the other hand, was single-minded where anything of importance was concerned.
He’d been involved with the wedding planning since the day he’d asked for my hand. Some grooms might not care about the details, but I hadn’t gotten one of these. Evan considered things like registering for gifts, tasting cakes, and selecting caterers fun little adventures and new life experiences. Not to mention excellent opportunities for two busy people to have a few extra dates. He held my hand, listened to my opinions, and made me laugh when I wanted to scream. He kept me grounded when I couldn’t decide between two nearly identical shades of white for tablecloths, and he insisted every DJ we interviewed play our song so we could dance. He’d also assigned himself a set of things to accomplish this week so I wouldn’t have to. He knew I had my hands full with tasks only I could perform, like a final gown fitting, a bridal luncheon, and an inn full of VIP guests for the next few days.
“He’s a good one,” Mom said. “A partner.”
I nodded. It was true.
Caroline grabbed a metal spiral from my stack and took the pine cone from my hands, assembling the product after I’d administered the dollop of glue.
“Thanks.”
She smiled, set the cone aside, and opened her hand for the next. “How’s it going at the inn?”
Caroline’s dad had spent a large portion of the town’s annual tourism budget on bringing the state conservatory of ballet to Mistletoe. The group would perform The Nutcracker, a holiday staple and emblem of Christmas since 1892, for several nights before returning to the capital for a final Christmas Eve performance. Mayor West and the local business owners thought the added ballet would secure this year’s seasonal success.
The mayor had made special arrangements for the choreographer and several key dancers to stay at the inn. The dancers weren’t my typical guests, but if it helped Mistletoe, and they cleared out on Christmas Eve morning, I was happy to help.
“It’s been good so far,” I said. “They arrived after dinner last night and went to their rooms pretty quickly.” The bulk of my communication had been with their choreographer, George, and most of our exchanges were in the form of emails before their arrival. His messages mainly were lists of demands: specific foods and drinks to have on hand; the necessary number of blenders for post-workout protein shakes; and a transport vehicle large enough to accommodate the guests and their equipment to and from the theater.
Thankfully, he hadn’t requested a driver, because that would’ve been me, and I was already buried under an avalanche of tasks.
“I saw them this morning,” Mom said. “Not long before you both got here.”
“You did?” Caroline and I asked in near unison.
I’d taken a long shower after waking and setting out the fruit and blenders. Then I’d headed to the Hearth before the dancers got up. Or so I’d thought.
“Sure did,” Mom said. “They rolled in here just after six, looking so cute in their pink silk coats.”
“They were here at six AM?” I asked, still processing.
The inn had been still when I’d tiptoed around setting up the blenders. I’d assumed they were all asleep.
“Yep.” Mom covered the cake and slipped it back into the fridge. “They filed in here; collected their coffees, yogurts, granola, and fruit to go; then loaded up in the transport van and headed out. The coach said that will be the daily routine.”
Inn guests received complimentary breakfast and dinner at the Hearth. I kept a hearty assortment of drinks and snacks on hand for the moments in between.
“Ballet master,” Caroline said, leaning in Mom’s direction. “The one who teaches the dancers the choreography is the master, not a coach.”
Mom nodded. “That’s interesting, and …”
“Pretentious?” I guessed.
Mom pressed her lips together, fighting a smile.
“It’s what they’re called,” Caroline said on a dreamy sigh. “I love the ballet.”
I tented my brows. “Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah. Since I was small,” she said. “My parents took me to see The Nutcracker every Christmas, then to other shows as I got older. I always wanted to be a dancer.”
“Really.” I let the unexpected announcement settle, and I could see it. Not only did Caroline have the grace and work ethic for something as grueling as professional dance, but she also had an abundance of artistic flair.
Mom refreshed her hot chocolate. “He said they’ll practice at the theater every day, before and after the show begins.”
“Rehearse,” Caroline said. “Sorry.” She cringed.
“Rehearse,” Mom corrected. “Apparently they’ll be gone until after dinner every night. I asked about their preferences for tea and meal service, but they’re going to eat elsewhere, so I don’t have to worry about those, I guess.” She deflated a bit. “I was looking forward to feeding ballerinas.”
Caroline tucked a bite of cake into her mouth and let her eyelids flutter. “This is killer. Please tell me I can have the recipe.”
Mom produced a note card from her apron pocket and passed it to Caroline with a grin. “I hoped you’d say that.”
“Ah! Bless.” Caroline took it reverently, then checked her watch. “Are you guys going to the parade this morning?”
Mom shook her head. “I can’t. I have too much to do before I open. But I wish I could. I’d love to see the dancers perform.”
Caroline sucked chocolate ganache off her thumb. “It’s only the lead ballerina in the parade. We set her up in a snow globe with some promo. Dad gave me his ticket for opening night. And extras for my friends, if you’re interested.”
Mom waved her off. “I’ll be here from opening to closing all week, aside from taping your show.”
“Well, count me in,” I said. I loved outings with Caroline, and seeing her so excited about this particular show only made me look forward to it more. “But don’t envy the dancers too much,” I said. “From what I saw last night, they’re treated like children. One woman had to sneak out to ice skate. The choreographer shut her down, saying she could get hurt, and he couldn’t allow that. And they had a time for ‘lights out.’” I formed air quotes around the final two words.
Caroline didn’t seem offended enough, so I continued.
“They had a bedtime,” I clarified, hoping to make the words register. “Can you imagine that? Or being told you couldn’t do something you loved, like skating? Another dancer snuck out for a walk at midnight just to get a few minutes alone. I saw her leaving, and she reacted as if she’d been caught committing murder.”
Caroline finally frowned. “Do you think they’re all friends? Spending so much time together must make them close. Maybe there’s a deep camaraderie that overshadows all the rules. I follow the conservatory on social media, and I’ve always wondered about the interpersonal dynamics outside training and performing.”
Mom gave a humorless chuckle. “If their usual schedule is anything like the one they’re maintaining here, I can’t imagine they get much time outside training and performing.”
Caroline rested her chin in waiting hands, elbows planted on the countertop. “What do they talk about?”
I added dollops of hot glue to two more pine cones and passed one to Caroline, continuing our speedy little assembly line. We each pressed a wire spiral into place. “In the few minutes I saw them, they seemed fixated on the big Christmas Eve performance at the capitol after they leave here. Apparently there’s a one-night-only, sold-out event at the State Theater on Christmas Eve, and some scouts will be there. All the dancers want to be chosen for something bigger. They talked about possibly heading out after the matinee performance the day before, but they aren’t scheduled to leave until the next morning.”
“There are ballet scouts?” Mom asked, checking the time. “Like the ones who recruit for sports?”
