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  I led him to the kitchen counter and hit the number for Sheriff Hawthorn. And yes, highly irregular or not, I have the Hanahan County sheriff’s home number on speed dial. Let’s just say, it’s another one of those long stories.

  Jason tried to make the story short, but had to repeat everything at least twice. “A skull,” he told the sheriff for the third time. “But Cassie didn’t find it, the kid did.” Pause. “That’s right, Truman.” Another pause, and Mr. State Trooper stared at me. “Yes, it does run in the family,” he said and hung up.

  “What runs in the family?” I asked.

  “The Looney Tunes gene.”

  I smirked and reminded the man that Truman and I are not genetically related. But yes, I am known hereabouts as Miss Looney Tunes. The dead redhead-pajama incident. Long story.

  I found a flashlight in a kitchen drawer and pointed to my mother’s painting near the stove. “We think that one’s supposed to be sunflowers,” I said before climbing onto the counter. I removed the painting, and handed it down. “Be forewarned,” I said as I hoisted myself up and in. “If I find any more human remains, I will scream.”

  “Use the flashlight,” Jason suggested.

  Chapter 5

  I’m happy to report no screaming was necessary. Other than at Notz, that is. Charlie knows the meaning of the word “sit,” but Notz? Not so much.

  Despite the cat’s help, I found nothing more notable in the kitchen cubbies than two grubby old spatulas. I tossed them in the trash, and we moved to living room where the cubby inside the coat closet yielded one mitten and a straw hat I didn’t recognize.

  “Sally Tumbleton must have left these,” I said, and used the same explanation for a hammer in the cupboard nearest the Christmas tree. “But I’ve been looking for this!” I told Jason when I found the brush attachment to my vacuum cleaner.

  He seemed surprised by my excitement, but I explained the deal—my father does all the cooking, and I do the cleaning. And with the old guy, the little guy, and two furry pets, I vacuum a lot.

  Next, I tackled the cupboard under the stairs, which held several boxes of old toys. FYI, Truman came equipped with lots of toys when he moved in with us. He had since outgrown everything in that cupboard, but I was reluctant to discard any of it. The child lost so much so suddenly when his biological mother was killed. And we had this extra cubby—

  “I’ll talk to him,” I said as I scooted out. “It’s a good time of year to donate things.”

  Jason reached forward, and I jumped back. “I was just getting a cobweb,” he told me. “You could use a vacuuming yourself.”

  Well, that was new. I’m almost always a little unkempt since I like old clothes. But at least they’re usually clean clothes. Jason brushed off my shoulders, I took care of the knees of my jeans, and we headed upstairs.

  “My father’s domain,” I said when we reached the second floor landing. I explained that Dad had use of the second floor with no interference from me, and I had the third floor and turret with no interference from him. “But that’s in a perfect world,” I said. “And trust me, my world isn’t perfect.”

  “You have problems living with your father?”

  I told him privacy is a word Bobby Baxter does not comprehend, but had to admit our living arrangements work pretty well. “Truman loves it here,” I said, “and you can’t beat rent-free, although I do pay the food bills, taxes, and utilities.”

  “Heating bills can add up.” Jason glanced around my father’s study—particularly at the wall completely lined with my mother’s paintings. “How many cubby holes does this place have?”

  I counted in my head. “Thirteen.”

  “Thirteen!?” He scowled at the crown molding overhead. “Victorian, huh?”

  “Wannabe Victorian.” I waved to the slightly askew built-in bookcases lining another wall. “In case it isn’t obvious, old Mr. Tumbleton was an amateur architect, but Maxine calls our house an architectural marvel.”

  I turned to remove the painting Dad and I think is supposed to be hydrangeas. “Books,” I announced from inside the crawl space. “My father has way more books than bookshelves.” I dropped a stray dictionary into the nearest box and scooted out. Jason was still scowling—that time at the green rocking chair.

  “Bobby’s favorite color,” I said.

  He looked up. “The decorating sure is—”

  “Amateur?”

  “I was going to say bright.”

  “We Baxters like bright colors.” I stated the obvious, and Jason wondered about the exterior color.

  “It’s so—umm, really, green.”

  Umm, really, green. A perfect description. Although fluorescent might also work.

  “Legend has it, this house has always been this color,” I said. “Dad and I keep hoping it will melt snow.”

  “You mean it doesn’t?”

  ***

  “Oh wow!” I exclaimed from inside the cubby in my father’s bedroom.

  “Don’t tell me you found some human remains?” Jason asked.

  I’m happy to report I didn’t tell him that. I backed out and held up a book—a hardback, first edition of Ray Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles to be specific.

  “Sci fi,” Jason said. “Like what your father writes.”

  Like, in his wildest dreams. But since his retirement, Bobby has indeed taken up writing science fiction. “And look.” I flipped to the title page and Mr. Bradbury’s signature. “Dad’s been kicking himself,” I said. “He thought he lost this in the move to Vermont. I’ll wrap it up for Christmas.”

  “Won’t he realize it’s already his?”

  Yes, but I explained that my father and I always kept Christmas pretty low key. “Before Truman, that is. This year will be different,” I said, and we headed to the third floor.

  We stepped into Truman’s room. “The second floor was quieter,” Jason observed.

  Umm. No kidding. “It’s the FN451z,” I said, and we stood still and listened to Joe Wylie’s absurdly loud invention beep, burp and chirp from next door. I stated the obvious. “Even with all the windows and storm windows closed, Truman and I still get a regular serenading.”

  “How’s that going?”

  I shrugged. “Joe keeps insisting the FN really will improve everyone’s internet and cell phone service someday.”

  “I meant, between you and Wylie.”

  Oh. That.

  I cleared my throat, pointed to the boxes of Christmas decorations, and changed the subject. “Clearly Truman did a thorough job on the crawl space overhead,” I said, and before Jason could ask any other awkward questions, I escaped into the crawl space behind the toy box.

  “Nothing.” I scooted out of that cubby. “The last two are in my room,” I added and led the way across the hall. I pointed to the spiral staircase in the corner of my room. “You’ll be happy to know, no cubbies in the turret.”

  But Jason didn’t seem interested in looking up. Instead he was scanning my bedroom—in particular, the lace-trimmed comforter on the bed, and the lace curtains at the windows.

  I reminded him he had seen it all before. “When you were searching for a bomb.”

  “It’s still girlie,” he said.

  “I’m still a girl,” I said. We pulled my dresser from the wall, and I proceeded to find a few mismatched picture frames in cubby number twelve.

  I crawled out and pointed to the painting above my headboard. “Last but not least, we think that one’s supposed to be peonies. And last but not least, that’s also cubby hole thirteen.” I slipped off my loafers and stepped onto the bed, and wobbled my way over to the painting.

  There was no way I could climb into that crawlspace from there. We would need to move the bed and get a ladder, so instead I stood on tippy-toe and poked my head inside. “I can’t see anything,” I said as I flashed the flashlight. “But I purposely keep this one empty since it’s so hard to get to.”

  “Let me see.” Jason stepped up, and I grabbed
onto his arm to keep from tumbling. He hovered over me, since if he stood up, his head would hit the ceiling.

  I handed him the flashlight and took a wobbly step sideways, and the top half of his torso disappeared into the cubby.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “Told you so.”

  “Hello-o.”

  I jumped and fell off the bed, and heard a loud thump. Jason? Hitting his head?

  I’m not sure, since I was busy writhing around on the floor rubbing my left knee. Meanwhile, Mr. State Trooper had plopped himself cross-legged onto my bed, and was rubbing his forehead.

  “Charlie let me in,” Sarah Bliss said from the doorway. She shot me a glance. “Have I interrupted something?”

  I hobbled to my feet. “We’re done here.”

  “Gee, babe.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Looks to me like you were just getting started.”

  ***

  I offered a withering glare, slipped on my shoes, and started toward the stairs.

  Sarah followed. “What were you doing up there?” she asked me.

  “Better question.” That was Jason, who from the sound of things, was following us in his stocking feet. “What are you doing here, Ms. Bliss?”

  We reached the living room, and as he sat down to put his shoes back on, Sarah explained herself. She claimed Sheriff Hawthorn had sent her over.

  “Not buying it.” Jason tied his right shoelace and put his foot down. “You’re not a deputy, Ms. Bliss. You’re an admin.”

  Maybe, but Sarah Bliss, administrative assistant, pretty much runs the show at the Hilleville sheriff’s office. And if it’s not quite clear, Sarah and I know each other quite well—part of all those long stories I keep mentioning. We’re not exactly friends, but.

  “Why aren’t you at that Winter Carnival?” I asked her.

  She had been, and that’s where she heard about the skull. “Sheriff Hawthorn stopped by to tell P.T. and me,” she said. P.T. Dent, by the way, really is the deputy sheriff.

  “I hope the sheriff whispered you the news,” I said, and Sarah insisted even her sons hadn’t heard the conversation. Evidently, the Hilleville High School ice hockey team was collecting used toys for the needy, and she had been helping her boys man the booth.

  “And Deputy Dent?” Jason asked.

  “Is still there giving snowmobile safety demonstrations to anyone willing to listen,” she answered.

  “Truman will listen,” I said, and Sarah pointed to the skull.

  “What’s Truman think about that?” she asked.

  “He thinks it’s a toy.”

  She shook her head. “Your life gets more looney by the minute,” she informed me, and everyone, including the pets, stared at the bagged and tagged you know what.

  “We’re assuming it’s Mr. X,” Jason said eventually. He turned to Sarah. “You know that story?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “I didn’t,” I said.

  “And I don’t know the details,” Jason added. He told us he had transferred from the New Hampshire state police to Vermont only eight years earlier, and Sarah reported that Pru Pearson had found the headless skeleton at least ten or fifteen years earlier.

  She stared at the fire I had gotten going again. “Which means Sheriff Hawthorn and Deputy Dent don’t know the story, either.” She turned to Jason. “They’re even newer at their jobs than you.”

  “Why did the skull end up here?” I asked her. “In my house?”

  “Maybe because it’s your house. You’re like a craziness magnet, babe.”

  I smirked, and Jason waved to get our attention. “Who in local law enforcement would know the details on Mr. X?” he asked. “I want the facts, Ms. Bliss. Who should I talk to?”

  “Cornelius Suitor,” Sarah answered without hesitation. “He’s retired now, but he was on the Hilleville police force for decades. Cornelius loves facts.”

  Cornelius Suitor.

  Where did I know that name?

  Chapter 6

  Truman dropped his jacket and headed straight to the coffee table. “He took it!” He spun around. “Momma Cass! You let him take it.”

  “I told you I would, Truman.”

  “Why-yyyy?”

  “I already told you why,” I said, but my father looked up from putting the jackets away to inform me I had not.

  “Joe did your dirty work for you,” he said. He nodded to Truman. “Remember what Uncle Joe told you in the car?”

  “About Mr. X?”

  I blinked. “You know about Mr. X?” I asked the kid.

  “Ms. Pearson found the rest of him.”

  “And?” my father prompted, and Truman informed me that, according to Uncle Joe, policemen had also taken away what Pru Pearson found.

  “I bet she didn’t want to give her bones away, either,” he said, and believe it or not, that was entirely possible. Let’s just say, the Pearson sisters aren’t known for their cooperative spirits.

  “Uncle Joe says forsics is putting him back to together again.”

  I scowled at my father.

  “Forensics,” Dad said.

  “Like Humpty Dumpty,” Truman continued. “But I wanted first turn.”

  Okay, so here’s a shocker. I suggested we talk about something else.

  “Did you and Captain Jason get lucky?”

  “Say what?”

  “Momma Cass!” he said impatiently. “Did you find more bones?”

  “Oh! Umm. No.” I shook my head and again suggested we change the subject.

  He stomped his foot. “But what about the skeleton?”

  “Let’s talk about something else,” I said firmly. “When’s Uncle Joe getting here for dinner?”

  “Uncle Joe isn’t coming for dinner!” Truman said and stomped up the stairs.

  Ho hum.

  I pointed Charlie in the kid’s direction, and turned to my father. “I handled that well.”

  ***

  Dad told me to let the child pout. “It won’t hurt him,” he said and headed for the kitchen. He pulled the Bolognese sauce he had made that morning out of the fridge, and while he put water on the stove for the spaghetti, I poured the wine.

  “Why isn’t Joe joining us?” I asked, since Joe eats at our house almost every night. “Is he pouting, too?”

  “You need to talk to him, Cassie.”

  “He’s probably watching the end of the Patriots game,” I told Notz as I set the wine glasses on the table. As are lots of Vermonters, Joe’s a fan, but Dad told me his absence had nothing to do with football. “You need to talk to him, girl.”

  “So he really is pouting?” I poured Truman’s milk and began setting the rest of the table. “I take it, he won’t be here to help us decorate the tree tonight?”

  “He is trying to give you your space.”

  “Like that’s ever a priority around here.” I plopped into my chair and stared out the window at the lake. Actually, I stared at my own reflection from the light inside. It gets dark early in midwinter in northern Vermont. “My space is non-existent,” I told Notz, who had hopped into my lap.

  Dad cleared his throat, and we turned around. “What?” I asked.

  “Enjoy your space while you can,” he said ominously. “By tomorrow—” he stopped. “Never mind.”

  “Never mind, what? What’s happening tomorrow?”

  “Spaghetti’s almost ready!” he said and turned back to the stove.

  Have I mentioned my father drives me nuts? I petted Notz and pouted, but eventually Truman and Charlie gave up on pouting and tromped back downstairs.

  “Go wash your hands,” I told him.

  “Already did.” He took his seat, and as we watched my father dish up the spaghetti, I asked about Winter Carnival.

  “Did you tell Santa what you want for Christmas?”

  “Yes!” he shouted, and I reminded him we don’t shout at the table.

  “Sooo?” I encouraged. “What did you tell him? What do you want for Christmas?”
>
  “Toys.”

  “Yes, but what toys?” I asked, since I had no idea what toys.

  “Lots of toys!”

  I whimpered, and my father stopped eating to pull his cell phone from his pocket. “I can’t make calls with this gadget, but I can take pictures.” He handed me the phone. “Truman with Santa Claus.”

  In case you’re not quite sure, the pics were really, really cute. I faced the phone toward Truman. “What toy are you asking for there?”

  “All toys.”

  Oh, yeah. Really, really helpful.

  I kept scrolling. “What are you doing here?” I again turned the phone.

  “Mailing my letter to Santa.”

  I jumped. “But Truman! I was going to help you with that letter!” I’m sure I sounded desperate, but with Christmas less than a week away, that letter was crucial. That letter was my ticket to doing the Santa Claus thing for the first time ever. I was counting on that letter.

  But there was my son, dropping the crucial letter into a bright red mailbox with ‘North Pole’ stenciled in big gold letters on its side. “Who has the mailbox now?” I asked.

  “Silly! Santa Claus has it.”

  “Oh, right,” I mumbled, and my father explained the Winter Carnival tradition—students from the Hilleville High Honor Society set up a table with paper and pencils and crayons.

  “To help the little ones write their letters,” Dad said.

  I snarled. “How nice.”

  “I told Santa I was real good this year,” Truman informed me. “So I deserve lots of toys!” He threw his arms out, still holding his fork and almost poked my father. “Sorry, Grandpa Bobby.”

  Dad cleared his throat. “Tell Cassie what else you told Santa.”

  “I told him I was extra good today.”

  I blinked. “Today?” I squeaked.

  “I told him how I helped you find the Christmas tree decorations.”

  “Oh?” I squeaked again.

  “I told Santa about the skull, Momma Cass!”

  ***

  “Truman!” I shouted, even though we don’t do that at the table. “I thought we agreed that’s a secret.”