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  “Oh, Sarah!” I got all gooey. “That’s so thoughtful. Truman will love that.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You making any progress, Santa?”

  I smiled again. “I am,” I said. “I got him some jeans, and a couple new sweaters, and pajamas.”

  “For Truman? You bought him clothes?”

  “He’s outgrowing everything,” I said as I slipped into my jacket. “And once I leave here, I’m headed to Xavier’s to buy him some sheets.”

  “Sheets of what?”

  I stopped zipping and looked up. “Bed sheets, of course. He loves his cow print sheets from Xavier’s, but ‘tis the season for flannel. Cross your fingers they have—”

  “Babe! I’ll cross my fingers you get the kid something other than clothes and sheets.”

  I blinked. “What’s wrong with clothes and sheets?”

  “Duh! He’s a boy!”

  “So?”

  “So, take it from a mother of three sons. Santa doesn’t give boys clothes for Christmas. Boys do not want clothes.”

  I smirked. “You yourself are giving the little guy an ice hockey jersey.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “Ice. Hockey. Ice. Hockey. Ice—”

  Okay, okay. Somewhere in there I finally caught on. Santa Claus, in case you haven’t caught on, was back to square one.

  Chapter 24

  “You want to scold me some more?” Oliver asked.

  Well, yes. But I told him I was back at the Lake Store for another reason and mentioned the Fox Cove. “I need to ask you about someone,” I said. “Someone from the bordello days.”

  “I’m busy, here, Cassie.”

  No. He wasn’t. Which was kind of surprising, considering the hour. Many Elizabethans stop by the general store on their way home from work, but the only people hanging around that afternoon were the ubiquitous Hollis Klotz and Chester Stewart. And not so surprising, those two stepped forward from the wood stove to hang on my every word.

  “Glad I have your attention,” I told them. “Olivia DeMuir,” I said loud and clear, and all three men jumped.

  Oliver was the first to speak. “Never heard of her,” he tried.

  “Yeah, right.” I pointed to the moth-eaten moose head above the cash register. “You just jumped so high, you almost hit him in the chin.” I turned to Hollis and Chester. “What about you two? What can you tell me about Olivia DeMuir?”

  “Never heard of her,” they said in chorus.

  Yeah right, again. “Then why does everyone keep flinching when I say her name?” I asked. “I have it from a reliable source this woman, Olivia DeMuir, worked at the Fox Cove circa the 1960’s.” I tilted my head towards Oliver. “He can claim he’s too young to remember, but not you guys.”

  “Are you saying we’re old?” Chester asked.

  “I am saying you’re both older than Oliver. And you both know everything about everyone, right?”

  Wrong. At least that time. All I could get out of them were blank stares. What was happening here? Was I actually begging—begging—Chester and Hollis for information?

  I stared at the miniature Christmas tree at the deli counter and did some vague arithmetic. “You guys would have been children,” I said. “Teenagers maybe, when Ms. DeMuir lived here.”

  “Here where?” Oliver asked.

  Oh, for Pete’s sake. I turned to Mr. Lake Elizabeth, and as patiently as humanly possible, repeated the basic fact. “Oliva DeMuir lived and worked at Fox Cove during its bordello days.”

  “Never heard of her,” Hollis and Chester repeated.

  I was busy rolling my eyes when Oliver told me to go home. “Now,” he said firmly.

  Say what? What was happening here? Was Oliver Earle actually throwing me out of his store? Let’s just say, I was incredulous.

  But at least he was smiling. He pointed to the clock hanging near the wine rack. “Don’t you need to get home for dinner before Bingo tonight, Cassie?”

  Well. Yeah.

  “A local celebrity’s work is never done,” Chester said, and Hollis reminded me I’m the Lake Bess Bingo caller.

  Well yeah, again. I had somehow ended up with that volunteer position after the dead redhead-pajama incident the previous summer.

  “You don’t want to be late for Bingo,” Oliver said. Hollis pointed me toward the door, and for the second time that day—for the second time in my life—I got the distinct impression I had overstayed my welcome at the Lake Store.

  What was happening here?

  ***

  What was happening back at the old Tumbleton place? My father had dinner on the table, and scolded me for being late. “It’s Bingo night,” he said.

  “So I hear.” I took off my coat, and stepped over Notz to put the latest gift under the tree.

  “For Truman?” Dad asked from the kitchen. “Who’s it from?”

  I made the mistake of telling him the truth, and of course he gave me one of his I am your father looks. “That’s where you went off to in such a tizzy this afternoon,” he said. “You always get in trouble with Sarah.”

  “Maybe,” I mumbled.

  “What did you need Sarah for?”

  “Things,” I kept mumbling.

  Dad continued with that look and pointed to the table. “Sit!” he ordered.

  Charlie sat and stared at the empty seat across from me.

  I did the same. “I hope he’s having a good time,” I said quietly.

  “He always has fun with Joe.” For the record, Bobby was also staring at Truman’s empty chair, and we agreed that things didn’t seem quite right without him.

  Dad looked up. “It also doesn’t seem right without Joe. We’ve gotten used to having both of them around, haven’t we, girl.”

  The old man had switched from his I am your father look to a more generic stare, but I refused to catch his eye and instead tilted my head toward Joe’s house. Or more specifically, toward the stupid “For Sale” sign at Joe’s house. “Well, we better get un-used to having Joe around,” I said. “And can we please change the subject?”

  “As you wish. Tell me what you and Sarah discussed.”

  “Maxine’s column.”

  “The sheriff’s office has gotten a few phone calls?”

  “Make that, lots of phone calls,” I said. “And Jason also called while I was there.”

  “Of course he did.”

  I ignored whatever that implied and reported the latest, and my father agreed the new timeline for Mr. X was indeed intriguing.

  “Twenty years tops?” he repeated after me. “Somehow this makes that gruesome skull even more gruesome.”

  “And even more puzzling.” I got up to get myself seconds of the leftover meatloaf. “Considering all the legends and lore regarding the Fox Cove, it’s hard to imagine Mr. X isn’t connected somehow.”

  “You do realize this news makes what you’re doing more dangerous, Cassie.”

  I rolled my eyes at Charlie. “Here we go again.”

  “Yes, here we do go again,” Dad agreed, and fa la la la la, started in with his it’s far too dangerous routine. “If Mr. X has only been dead for twenty years, it’s likely his killer is still alive and kicking, Cassie.”

  “No worries. I’ve already been warned about this supposed danger. Jason’s way ahead of you.”

  “Then yes, worries!” Dad said. “You should listen to the state trooper, even if you won’t listen to your old man. Jason Sterling’s an expert on these things.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but neither of you are taking this supposed danger argument one step further. Look at the bright side.” I nodded. “If Mr. X is fairly recent history, then my loved-ones looking has a way better chance of success.”

  “Success!? Are you listening to yourself? The killer might still be alive, and you’re off traipsing around—”

  Fa. La la. La la. I got up and traipsed over to the kitchen drawer that held our phone book. And yes, Hanahan County still puts out an annual paperback phone book. Due to
the cell phone problems, everyone hereabouts still keeps a land line. But that ‘everyone’ constitutes a pretty small number of people, so our phone book is only about a half inch think. This includes both white and yellow pages, for anyone who might actually remember old-fashioned paperback phone books.

  “Who are you looking for?” Bobby asked.

  “Alive people.”

  He jumped. “The killer!?”

  “Da-aad! Would you think a minute? We don’t know who the killer is, so how the heck could I look him up in the phone book?”

  What a shocker, he had no answer to that stellar piece of logic, but continued to sputter and nag while I tried to recollect how Cornelius Souter had spelled DeMuir. I checked under the D’s. If my math was correct, Olivia DeMuir was long dead. But maybe she had descendants?

  “No one,” I mumbled.

  “Who? What?”

  “Nothing.” I put the book away.

  Dad shook his head. “As you would say, yeah, right. Listen to me, Cassie, and stop sleuthing. You have other priorities this week.”

  Okay, so he did have a point. And as I began clearing the table, I reported that Santa Claus had actually gotten some shopping done that day.

  “Will wonder never cease.”

  “And will wonders never cease, I screwed up. I bought him clothes.”

  “For Truman?” Dad asked. “Why on earth did you do that?”

  “Hello. Because I didn’t know any better.” I started loading the dishwasher. “But never fear, Sarah has already enlightened me boys do not want clothes from Santa.”

  “I could have told you that.”

  “Well then, why didn’t you?” I shook my head. “Santa Claus is right back at square one, Dad. Give me some ideas. Ple-eease?”

  My annoying father insisted he had no ideas. “But don’t worry,” he told me. “The child is with Joe all day today. Joe will come up with an idea for you. He always has such good ideas.”

  I closed the dishwasher and stood up. “Yeah, right. Like selling his house?”

  My annoying father took Joe’s side and insisted there must be a logical explanation for the stupid “For Sale” sign. “You just need to talk to him, Cassie. I’m sure you two kids can work it out with a simple little heart to heart.”

  I blinked, and smiled.

  Bobby squinted. “Don’t tell me you think I’m right?”

  “Oh, heck no. But I have been thinking about this hearts idea. And, umm. I think we should invite Paula for Christmas dinner.”

  Dad shook his head. “Who?”

  “You heard me, old man. Paula Erickson.”

  “The realtor? What in the world brought her up?” He gasped. “You’ve talked to her?”

  “I have.”

  “Cassie! Stop sleuthing!”

  “No.”

  He sighed loudly. “One can’t imagine the woman even remembers selling me this house.”

  “Well then, one is seriously mistaken,” I said. “She remembers you alright.” I wiggled my eyebrows. “She thinks you’re cute as a button.”

  “She what?”

  “You heard me, and you are,” I said. “Short, but cute. We Baxters are all short, but—”

  “You’re nuts.”

  Well, yeah. “But Paula really likes you, Dad.”

  He frowned. “You’re making this up.”

  “Am not.” I walked back to the table and sat down, and told my father Paula had a lot of free time on her hands. “She’s newly retired, and she’s divorced,” I said. “I bet she’s lonely.”

  Dad rolled his eyes. “Earth to Cassie Baxter. Paula was divorced long before she sold me this house. I’m fairly certain she’s gotten used to being alone.”

  “Ah-ha!” I nodded. “So you two spoke about this kind of thing. That’s great, Dad. And? And, and, and?”

  “And nothing,” he insisted on insisting. “The woman carted me all over northern Vermont when I was house-hunting, Cassie. We discussed all kinds of things.”

  I winked at the animals. “All kinds of things,” I sang.

  “Drop it!” Dad tried his I am your father voice, which didn’t faze me in the least.

  “Speaking of women who think you’re cute.”

  “We are not speaking of women who think I’m cute.”

  “Speaking of women who think you’re cute.” I jerked a thumb towards the Tibbitts residence. “What’s all this about Maxine reading your Chance Dooley stories?”

  “Is there any reason she shouldn’t read my stories?”

  I winked at the pets again. “Well, there are those steamy scenes between Chance and Evadeen. You know, the ones you don’t discuss with me and Truman.”

  Dad rolled his eyes. “Maxine and I are both of age.”

  “Of age for what?” I played dumb.

  “And we’re both writers. We writers have a natural bond.”

  “A natural bond!” I exclaimed to the pets and winked again. Charlie wagged his tail, and Notz meowed, and my father asked if I had something in my eye.

  “Listen to me,” he begged, and the pets and I made a feeble attempt to try. “I appreciate your new-found interest in my love life, girl, but I am not interested in Paula or Maxine.” He nodded. “Do you understand?”

  “Nope! Come on, Dad, seriously.” I tried looking all-serious. “Who are you interested in?”

  No answer.

  “Who, who, who?”

  “We’ve already had this conversation, Cassie.”

  “Who, who, who?”

  He groaned and spoke to the pets. “Take my advice and never have children.”

  “They’re neutered. Who?”

  The old man stood up. “We will be late for Bingo,” he announced in his sternest I am your father voice.

  Chapter 25

  “Not a word about this to Maxine,” Dad warned as we left the house. “I invited her to ride to Bingo with us.”

  “Oo-la-la,” I sang as we trudged along toward her house. “You invited Maxine.”

  “’Tis the season to be neighborly, girl.”

  “Neighborly,” I was singing when Maxine opened her door.

  “Come in, come in!” She waved us forward.

  Dad turned to me. “Not one word.” He gave me the standard I am your father look and called to Maxine. “We’re running a bit late I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, but this will only take a minute.” She again beckoned us inside and led us into the room she calls her parlor. “Ta-Daaa!” She held both arms wide and beamed, and I absolutely understood why. The quilt spread out and displayed over her couch was absolutely gorgeous. “I finished it last night,” she said. “Do you like it, Cassie honey?”

  “Like it?” I stepped forward and touched it gently. “It’s amazing.”

  And it really was. Maxine had sewn a quintessential Vermont scene into her latest creation—blue skies and green mountains in the background, and a red barn and several black and white Holstein cows in the foreground.

  “A true work of art,” my father told her.

  “Do you think Truman will like it?”

  Say what?

  I spun around. “No, Maxine,” I said firmly. “You cannot give something this special to Truman.”

  “Silly! Of course I can. That’s the point.”

  “The point?”

  She reminded me it would be “the little tyke’s” first Christmas on Leftside Lane. “We want to make it special, don’t we?” she asked. “He still likes cows, doesn’t he?”

  My father answered that he did, while I insisted my eyes were watering because it was so darn cold outside.

  ***

  I’m happy to report I had a grip on my emotions by the time we actually did get back outside. But then the stupid “For Sale” sign on Joe’s lawn did a number on me. Hello. It did a number on all three of us. My father, Maxine, and I stood at my car and stared.

  Maxine reached out and took my hand—a tight grip despite her gloves, and mine. “Is everything alright be
tween you and Joe?” She blinked her bulbous eyes at me, but I refused to take the bait.

  “Everything is fine,” I said casually, and casually pulled away from her grip.

  “But, Cassie honey, I couldn’t help but notice a bit of tension between you two while we were decorating your tree the other night.”

  “Time for Bingo,” I reminded her and turned to my car.

  Maxine followed, and my father held the door for her. “I’m sure you and Joe will work it out,” she said.

  “Work what out?” I asked.

  I refused to acknowledge the look my father was throwing at me and ordered everyone in the car, and as I steered us onto Leftside lane, I also steered the conversation away from—far, far away from—Josiah Wylie and his stupid, stupid “For Sale” sign. I thanked Maxine for her Lake Bess Lore column. “Truman loved seeing his name in print,” I told her.

  “Good! Everyone is very interested,” she said. “I received dozens of phone call at the library today, from every nook, cranny, and corner of the county. Everyone has a story about Mr. X.”

  “What about Santa Claus?” my father asked from the back seat.

  “Excuse me, Bobby?”

  The peanut gallery waited to catch my eye in the rearview mirror. “I said, my daughter needs to concentrate on her Santa Claus duties.”

  I smirked into the rearview mirror and mentioned the mailbox to the North Pole. “Did you ask people about that, Maxine?”

  She had, but supposedly no one knew anything about the mailbox.

  “How about Mr. X?” I asked. “What did you hear about him?”

  “Goodness gracious, what didn’t I hear? The Pearson ghosts, Nate Wylie. Legends, lore, innuendo—”

  I slowed down to avoid an icy patch. “Did you hear anything about Olivia DeMuir?” I asked, and Maxine jumped, despite her seatbelt.

  “Who?” Dad asked from the back seat.

  I ignored him and repeated my question, and Maxine told me no one had mentioned Olivia DeMuir.

  “Who?” Dad asked.

  “Well, that’s just weird,” I said. “No one who called the sheriff’s office mentioned her, either.”

  “Who’s Olivia DeMuir?” from the back seat. “Another ghost?”

  “Nope,” I answered. I kept my focus on our little town center ahead, but spoke to Maxine. “You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?”