As we drove through the gates onto Lakeside Drive, I looked at the houses ahead of us. Large, prosperous, well looked after. “The neighbors have got to be overjoyed, having that eyesore cleaned up.”

  Vicky chuckled. “They will be. Dad says there’ve been attempts to have the property condemned or to get Emmeline Cole to sell, but as long as the place was maintained to some degree, there was nothing anyone could do. It was her house and if she chose not to live there, that was up to her.”

  “I wonder what the story is there,” I said. “I bet there is one. She lived in Rochester—not exactly the other side of the continent—but she never came back?”

  “Bad memories, maybe,” Vicky said. “She had two sisters who died young.”

  “That’s probably it.” We drove down Jingle Bell Lane, past the lakeside park.

  Mattie stuck his big head between the seats and dripped drool down my left shoulder. Fortunately, I’m always prepared for that, and I keep a spare sweater in the store office.

  Vicky pulled into a parking space in front of Mrs. Claus’s Treasures. Margie Thatcher, owner of Rudolph Gift Nook, the store next door, was standing on the sidewalk, watching the traffic pass, and she gave us a wave.

  “Never thought I’d live to see the day,” Vicky said.

  “The power of Christmas,” I said. Margie, Rudolph’s very own Grinch, had been so overcome by the message of last season’s amateur theatrical production of A Christmas Carol that, although she didn’t exactly have a complete Scrooge-type conversion, she’d mellowed considerably. Witnessed by the fact that Vicky and I got a wave and not a scowl today.

  “Before I go, one thing,” I said. “This is none of my business, but that’s never stopped us before, has it?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Okay. I will. You said you and Mark have bought the house. I hope that means you are co-owners, and you’re not just paying him rent. Is your name on the papers, Vicky?”

  “It is.”

  “That’s good. And, if I may say, things would be easier in case … of unanticipated events if you two are legally married.

  “As usual, I’m way ahead of you.”

  “That’s good. I think. How are you way ahead of me?”

  “I hope you’ve got nothing on for Easter Saturday.”

  “What?”

  “My dad agrees with you. He’s been pretty insistent that Mark and I marry before I make any substantial contributions to the house, financially or otherwise. There needs to be no uncertainties, Dad said, or things can get complicated in case something happened to one of us. With work on the house to do and all the cost involved, Mark and I’ve decided to just go ahead and have a low-key wedding soon as possible. No fuss. No bother.”

  “You’ve sure had a busy couple of days. Is your mom okay with a no-fuss, no-bother, sudden wedding? I hope you remembered to tell your parents.”

  “Yes, Merry, I remembered. They’re totally okay with what we want. You know my family, Merry. I’ve got second and third cousins, and second and third cousins once removed, coming out of the woodwork, all of them having big, splashy weddings. Aunts and uncles getting remarried and having another round of big, splashy weddings. Scarcely a month goes by there’s not a Casey wedding in Rudolph and environs.”

  That, I knew, was true enough.

  “Sometimes I get invited to a wedding of people I don’t even know how I’m related to. I can usually beg off on the grounds of work, but I always feel I have to send a gift.” Her face twisted in thought. “Maybe that’s why I get invited to weddings of people I don’t know. Because they expect a gift. I’ll have to think about that. My mom’s got three younger sisters, and she was the head bridesmaid at their weddings, so she got that out of her system. She’s fine with me having a super low-key wedding.” She studied my face. “I hope you are too. I won’t have a pack of bridesmaids and the like, but I want you to be there with me. We’re having the service at Uncle Roy’s church. He’ll officiate, and then we’ll gather with a small group for dinner at the Yuletide.”

  “I’d love to,” I said. “Is Alan invited?”

  “Natch.”

  “What about Mark?”

  “He’s invited.”

  “Yes, Vicky. I got that. I mean, are his parents okay with this plan?”

  “You know Mark’s been married before, right?”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “To his high school sweetheart. It didn’t last a year. Turns out she wanted to be a movie star more than she wanted to be married to a guy from her hometown. They had no kids, and she’s totally out of his life now, so that’s all okay. Anyway, his first wedding was a huge, over-the-top thing at which he was completely and totally uncomfortable, as were his own parents. The bride wanted to be the star of the day, and having a groom tagging along was sort of a necessary afterthought.”

  “She sounds lovely. Not. You said she’s an actor. Might I have seen her in anything?”

  “Her acting career was as successful as her first marriage. Mark’s mom tells him she soon came back home and got married again. Her parents refused to fund another big wedding, and I gather she had a major hissy fit about that. Now she has two kids and works in a hardware store. Anyway, beside the point. After that experience, Mark’s mom does not want him to have a big wedding. She thinks it’s a curse. Mark and I visited them last month. He told me his parents liked me. I hope that’s true.”

  “How could it not be? Do you want me to come shopping with you?”

  “Shopping for what?”

  “A wedding dress, you ninny. You might want a low-key wedding, but you can’t be married in the jeans you wear to work.”

  She winked at me. “Oh, right. Let’s talk later, set up a day and time. My mom will want to come with us. Is that okay?”

  “As long as you don’t keep putting it off.”

  “Would I do that?”

  “Yes, Vicky, you would.”

  * * *

  The next day, Mark arranged for a junk removal company to come to the house. They carted away the most obviously ruined things, including carpets and beds, chewed books, and stuff he and Vicky didn’t want, such as fifty-year-old kitchen appliances and tools. The next day, Alan and I, along with our dogs, Russ, and a couple of guys who worked with Mark at the Yuletide Inn, helped the happy couple move. While Ranger, Alan’s Jack Russell, cavorted around the property thrilled at all the new scents, Mattie sniffed at everything before resting in the shade of a stately oak, and Sandbanks promptly fell asleep on the porch, we carried boxes and electronics and furniture up the steps and into the house. Vicky and Mark were initially only occupying three rooms, so Vicky’d arranged for some of her many young cousins to help out on Sunday by taking some of her and Mark’s bigger possessions, such as excess furniture and winter clothes, into storage, to be retrieved as the house was gradually renovated. We were finished not long after lunchtime. Before we gathered in the kitchen to dig into the sandwiches and beer Mark provided for the hard-working gang, Alan examined the major pieces of furniture—the bookcases, the dining room table, and sideboard—and said they were in surprisingly good condition. “The mice have gotten into the cushions of the chairs, but they’re easy enough to replace. Some sanding and polishing to the other stuff, and it’ll be as good as new. Better than new. Not a lot of that sort of handcrafted furniture is made anymore.”

  “I never thought I’d want a house full of antique furniture,” Vicky said, “but it suits this place, doesn’t it?”

  I pulled a cobweb out of my hair and said nothing. Sandbanks had followed us and was enjoying another snooze under the kitchen table. Ranger was upstairs, running from one room to another, and Mattie sat next to me, hoping for some lunchtime tidbit to drop. It never does, but he never gives up hope. A lesson for us all, perhaps.

  I was still not entirely comfortable here. The kitchen was clean and welcoming. One of Vicky’s staff had given her a housewarming gift of a six-foot-long metal fork to hang on the wall next to a row of cabinets. Vicky and Mark had made the morning room into a cheerful bedroom and sitting room with colorful cushions piled in the window seat overlooking the back garden, sparkling mirrors, and brightly colored art. Plywood had been ripped off some of the downstairs windows, and the windows cleaned so light once again streamed into the rooms, but the house still gave me that creepy feeling.

  Mark was like a kid in a candy store. He loved absolutely everything about this house. He shouted with glee when he found a wicker basket of apples so wrinkled and desiccated, they were almost unrecognizable in what had once been the pantry. “From our own apple trees, I bet. I can’t wait to get them producing again.”

  As for Vicky, she was obviously happy as long as Mark was happy, but I caught something in her expression as she walked down the long, dim hallway and glanced into the library before hurrying past or turned quickly from the bedroom window.

  I said nothing, and she didn’t tell me if something was bothering her.

  Chapter Four

  Like all business owners in any seasonal tourist town, competition for good staff can be intense. I don’t need extra help in the off season, but I do when we’re busy. I was disappointed, but not at all surprised, when my reliable part-timer, Chrystal Wong, informed me she would not be returning this year. Chrystal had started working for me when she was in high school, and kept on during vacations once she’d begun her studies at the School of Visual Arts in New York City. As well as working in the shop, she made much of the jewelry we sold. Her stuff was so popular, she was now able to devote herself full time to her jewelry business while she finished her education.

  Jackie had told me Kyle Lambert, her boyfriend, was looking for a job. I had a difficult time keeping the horror off my face at the very idea of Kyle being around not only my delicate ornaments, but my customers. “He’s not planning to go back to the ice-cream parlor this summer?”

  “Nah. He didn’t like the way the owner yelled at him all the time. I mean, it wasn’t Kyle’s fault that kid dropped her cone. Although, I suppose Kyle shouldn’t have laughed the way he did. And then the kid’s dad got mad, and Kyle threw the ice-cream scoop at him. It wasn’t Kyle’s fault the metal scoop hit him in the eye, and the guy had to go to the hospital. I mean, the eye was saved, okay? No harm done.”

  Not a ringing endorsement for Kyle’s customer relationship skills. If the incident hadn’t been Kyle’s fault, I couldn’t imagine whose it had been. “How about the hotdog stand outside the butcher shop?”

  “He hasn’t worked there since the cart exploded that time.”

  “Oh yes. I remember that.”

  I eventually hired a young woman named Melissa Grantham. She was newly married, new to town, and over-the-top excited about the whole Year-Round-Christmas thing. Melissa would start by filling in for Jackie and me a few hours a week, working up to full-time starting in June.

  Vicky, I knew, was also having trouble finding good seasonal staff.

  I dropped into the bakery one afternoon shortly before closing. It was a cool and rainy Monday, and business had been slow at Mrs. Claus’s all day. It was Jackie’s day off, so I put a “Back soon” sign in the window, grabbed my umbrella, and dashed through the puddles forming on the sidewalk of Jingle Bell Lane.

  I shook my umbrella off, furled it, and walked into the warm, scented bakery. Marjorie waved to me from behind the counter. “We’re closing in a minute, Merry.”

  “Any sandwiches left?”

  “I’ve got ham and Swiss on rye, hummus with pita, or tuna salad.”

  “Tuna please. And a nonfat latte to go. Vicky in?”

  “She’s interviewing.”

  Marjorie handed me my order, and I passed her the money. A young woman came out of the back. Early twenties, late teens maybe, of average height, slim without being skinny, gently curving in all the right places. She was strikingly pretty, with clear pale skin, large brown eyes lined by thick lashes, red lips, and a pert chin. A river of heavy black hair cascaded down her back. All that was wrong with her looks was the expression on her face. She was, to put it mildly, not pleased. She ignored me, threw Marjorie a poisonous look, and stormed out of the bakery. The door slammed shut behind her.

  “That was a prospective employee?” I said to Marjorie.

  “I’m guessing the interview didn’t go as well as she might have hoped.”

  Vicky came out of the back, shaking her head. “Talk about entitlement.”

  “What happened?” Marjorie and I chorused.

  “She answered my ad for a waitress and barista. Didn’t take long to find out she doesn’t want to be a waitress and a barista; she wants to be a pastry chef. I told her I’m the pastry chef here, and I already have an assistant. That’s Janelle.”

  “She got mad at that?” Marjorie said. “Weird.”

  “She didn’t get mad right away. She launched into her job experience, which consists of—and I kid you not—making cakes and pies at the Muddle Harbor Café.”

  I laughed heartily. I caught the look on Vicky’s face and said, “Oh. You’re not kidding.”

  “I almost feel sorry for her. Her name’s Brittany Pettigrew, and if she wants to get ahead in the baking world, good for her. I’d be more than happy to show her the ropes, and I started to say so. I told her we get powerful busy in here in the summer, and I need waitstaff who work hard, keep smiling, stay on their toes, and can switch tasks on the fly. This year the staff might be busier than usual if I need to take time to work on the cookbook, presuming I get any interest from a publisher. If so, she might get a chance to help in the kitchen, but that’s not guaranteed in the job I’m hiring for. She doesn’t want to learn the ropes; she wants to be my assistant pastry chef. Right now. Today.”

  “Obviously your well-intentioned advice wasn’t well received.”

  “If she’s prepared to cut that many corners building her career, I’m pretty sure she’ll cut corners with her time and the quality of her ingredients, so even if I had room in my kitchen for another full-time assistant, I wouldn’t want her. When I told her about my cookbook project, she hurried to tell me she’s working on a baking cookbook too, when she can find the time. Like I don’t have to carve out every second I can find to get done what I have to do. Never mind. I have a few other people to interview tomorrow. What brings you here, anyway?”

  I held up my sandwich bag. “Lunch. What else?”

  Chapter Five

  Two weeks passed and I didn’t see Vicky, although we texted regularly. She sounded upbeat, starting to get excited for her wedding, so I put my misgivings about her house aside. She’d hired some part-time staff for the busy season at the bakery and was trying to get work done on her cookbook. Although, she admitted reluctantly, with everything else going on in her life, the book wasn’t coming on as well as she’d planned.

  Hoping to give her a reason to get the book finished, I called some of my previous contacts in publishing. Most of the people I phoned remembered me, to my surprise, and told me they’d be more than happy to see my friend’s proposal when she had it ready. “Don’t wait too long,” everyone told me. “Baking’s superhot right now. Doesn’t mean that’s going to last.”

  I finally managed to get Vicky to set a date for us to go dress shopping, and the following Monday we met in the park outside the library on Jingle Bell Lane, as arranged.

  The first thing I said to her was “Are you okay?”

  “Me? I’m fine.” Circles the color of bruises lay under her eyes, and her eyes were dull, the whites tinged red. Lines of strain radiated from the edges of her mouth. She’d allowed the lock of pink hair to fade to a dull beige without recoloring it.

  “You don’t look too good. Are you coming down with something? We can postpone the shopping trip if you want to go home and rest.”

  She ran her fingers through the short hair at the back of her head. “I’m fine, Merry. Really, I am. You’re the one who keeps telling me not to put this off any longer.”

  “Buying your wedding dress shouldn’t be a chore, Vicky.”

  She gave me a bright smile that went some way, but not all the way, to taking the tiredness out of her eyes. “It’s not a chore. I’m excited about it. Let’s go.”

  I plonked myself down on a park bench. “Best friends’ time. Sit.”

  She sat.

  “If you’re not sick, then something’s bothering you. Are you having doubts about the wedding?”

  “No, not that. I’m not sleeping well, Merry. I don’t think I’ve had a good night’s sleep since I moved into that house. Not because I’m worrying about anything but …” She let out a choked laugh. “My imagination is running away with me. I imagine I hear things in the night. When I’m in the yard, I have the feeling someone … or something is watching me.”

  “What sort of things do you hear?”

  “Floorboards creaking. Knocking and scratching at the windows.”

  “That’s natural in an old house, particularly one that’s not been looked after. My parents’ house sounds like it’s possessed when the wind blows.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m being silly, right?”

  “No. Not silly. What does Mark have to say?”

  “Nothing. He sleeps like a baby, with a silly smile on his face all night long. And I know that because I’m awake. When I’m not hearing noises, I’m lying there wondering if I’m about to start hearing noises.”

  We watched the traffic moving on Jingle Bell Lane and pedestrians passing on the sidewalk. People walked in and out of the library, laden with books. The bakery was located next to the library, before the walkway leading to the town hall. As we watched, Marjorie stepped out, locked the door behind her, and headed in the other direction.