Peril and a Peppermint Pig

  A Tinsel Pine Cozy Mystery - 1

  Wendy Meadows

  Copyright © 2021 by Wendy Meadows

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Majestic Owl Publishing LLC

  P.O. Box 997

  Newport, NH 03773

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Untitled

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  About Wendy Meadows

  Chapter One

  "A formal probationary period?" I ask, gaping at the form he slid in front of me seconds before. "You can't be serious, Brogan."

  Police Chief Brogan Peterson sits across from me at one of the cozy corner booths at Tinsel Pine's only coffee shop, the Golden Caff. I sit up straighter against the tufted green back of the booth as my one-time boss/possible boyfriend stares me down with steely, uncompromising certainty.

  "I'm dead serious, Carol. I'd like to have it signed and notarized by next week, if you're amenable."

  And I'm about five seconds away from wadding it up and using it to make an improbable shot into the wastepaper basket perched at the edge of the counter. I don't, but more out of respect for the barista working the early evening shift than anything else. It's New Year's Eve, and the shop is ill-equipped to handle the crowds as it is. No need to give the staff extra work on top of dealing with rush hour. But this piece of paper is absolutely trash-worthy, and I'm prepared to tell him so.

  "Brogan, I am not going to sign a formal relationship agreement. This isn't some wacky sitcom. Normal, well-adjusted people don't do this."

  "Maybe they should," he argues stubbornly.

  I bite back a frosty retort. Brogan isn't like any other man I've dated, for many reasons. The foremost of those being that he's a soon-to-be divorcee still wrapped up in the sticky web of legal proceedings and hurt feelings. His wife has dragged the experience out for six months, trying to gain custody of their Golden Retriever, Columbo. As if she hadn't already taken enough from him.

  My own divorce had been fairly simple by comparison. Danny and I grew apart in the absence of our daughter, Mary, who'd been taken from us by her paternal grandparents in a vicious custody battle years before. Danny had chosen to return home to his parents to raise Mary, and I could never fault him for it. I've only just begun to reconnect with my now-adult daughter after moving to the town of Tinsel Pine, Connecticut. My divorce with Danny had been sad, but by the time the split inevitably occurred, we were both ready to let go. I still send him cards on occasion.

  But Brogan's wife scandalized everyone by having a torrid extramarital affair right beneath his nose, eventually running off with the town's resident handyman, Seth Gibson. So, I understand where this...insanity of Brogan’s wells from. But that doesn't mean I have to put up with it.

  "Brogan, can't we just enjoy a coffee before I have to go to work?" I wheedle, reaching across the table to take his hand. It's big, blunt-fingered, and calloused from hard labor and an active lifestyle. I give it a gentle squeeze, offering him my sweetest smile.

  My smile thaws some of his anger, but the stubborn set of his jaw doesn't ease. "Say you'll sign it at some point and I'll let the subject rest."

  Drat. My hope was that being sweet would distract him enough to realize I'd not given him a direct answer. But I should have known that the chief was too clever for that sort of ploy. How would I get out of this tight spot? If I said no, we'd have a fight. But if I said yes, it meant at some point, I'd need to sign the darn thing. I pride myself on being a woman of my word.

  "This is just silly," I mutter. "I just turned fifty, and you're not far behind me. People our age don't do this."

  He raises one brow at me. "So that's a no, I take it?"

  I lift my cup and drain the dregs of the caramel macchiato so he won't see the gears spinning furiously in my head. I don't have the energy for this fight tonight. I haven't slept well in weeks, and I keep having recurring nightmares about the man who was killed in my house over a month ago now. Poor Gourdy. He hadn't deserved what happened to him.

  "I'll think about it," I say finally, setting my cup down on the table, rubbing at the ring it's left on the table rather than meet his eyes. "I'll go ahead and pay now. I need to check in on Mary before I pick up Ms. Adams for the party tonight."

  I stand up, slinging the strap of my tote bag over one shoulder, trying my best to ignore the look of disappointment that plays out over Brogan's features. I allow him a few seconds to marshal his expression, letting him think I haven't seen how much my refusal is hurting him. When I glance down hopefully at him thirty seconds later, he's picking irritably at his koozie, expression as bitter as the black coffee in the cup.

  I lift the second macchiato I ordered and cram it into the crook of my elbow, covering it with my coat to keep too much steam from leaking out. I don't want to deliver a cup of lukewarm coffee to my daughter. Not after the day she's had.

  "Will I see you at the party?" I ask meekly.

  His gaze flicks up to my face for just a second before he turns it to glower out the window. "I'll think about it."

  And that's my cue to leave. I take it as gracefully as I can, resisting the urge to crane my neck. The curt dismissal will only hurt more if I find he's not watching me go.

  The snow is swirling to earth in dizzy spirals, coating the city in a blanket of white. The snow had already been thick on the ground at Christmastime and has worked itself into a proper deluge in the days since. The roads around town have piles of ice and dirty slush built up three or four feet high so the residents of Tinsel Pine can get around in semi-safety. But there is still the ice to contend with, even when the snow is pushed out of the way.

  Which is why I am considering calling Ms. Adams to see if she might be able to find an alternate means of transportation to the evening festivities. My two prized horses, Holly and Mistletoe, probably shouldn't be out in this mess. It's just my sort of luck that one of them will fall and be seriously injured. I've just started my sleigh ride business in December and I don't want to hang up my shingle just yet.

  I'll just have to see what the weather looks like closer to when I’d planned to pick her up. If nothing else, I can pick her up in my worn but reliable cargo van and refund her the amount for the sleigh ride, excluding gas money.

  But right now, I have a daughter to find and console.

  * * *

  Tinsel Pine is a small town, and after a month of running routes through its narrow, homey streets, I know the place by heart. The small strip mall I'll find Mary loitering in is located six blocks from the Golden Caff and a stone's throw away from Tinsel Pine High School.

  I spend more time than I care to admit finding a place to secure Holly and Mistletoe, the roan red and magnificent white former racehorses I bought during my first day in Tinsel Pine over a month ago. I finally settle on a bike rack that is dutifully parked outside the flea market and exit the sleigh, smoothing out the folds in my red velvet dress, grimacing at the pronounced curve of my muffin top. Between glazed ham, pecan pies, and a healthy measure of eggnog, I've recently put on more pounds than I like.

  The Mrs. Claus costume might be a bit on the nose, I'll admit, but it fits perfectly with the aesthetic of the town. Tinsel Pine, Connecticut celebrates most holidays with equal fervor, with shifting décor and celebrations to adhere to whatever's going on during any given month. But the primary decorations are always Christmas, and with snow still thick on the ground, I'm not doffing the costume yet.

  James Nelson, the owner of the flea market and a heavy-set man of below-average height and above-average facial hair, throws me a wink and a wolf-whistle as I pass. Heat flushes into my face, and I tuck a lock of my graying hair behind one ear sheepishly, trying to hide a pleased smile.

  I'm not used to the level of male attention I've been getting since arriving in Tinsel Pine. William Gourd, the man whose house I now own, had been the first to press his suit. After he'd passed, I became close to Brogan Peterson, the gruff but charming chief of police. Now James. Where had all these men been during the last twenty years of my life?

  Maybe they'd been there, and I was just too busy jet-setting to notice. I spent the better part of those decades behind the wheel of a cargo van, quenching my wanderlust.

  I give James a half-hearted wave and a sheepish smile before ducking under the awning of Skye High Jewelry. The awning’s teal cloth keeps the worst of the flurries off me as I shoulder the door open.


  Skye High Jewelry is a small square that's hardly bigger than the average walk-in closet. Despite this, it makes use of every square inch of the diminutive space, lining the walls with glass cases filled with shining gemstones. They're arranged prettily in settings, but what half of them are called, I can't tell you. Well-educated I might be, but a sophisticate I am not.

  Mary has her face pressed against one of the floor-to-ceiling display cases, morosely eyeing a white-gold charm bracelet. I restrain a smile, knowing she won't appreciate the humor I find in the situation. My poor baby has had a day and a half. A little credit card therapy has always been her preferred method of tackling her troubles, a habit she learned from her wealthy and conservative grandmother, Irene.

  "I thought I might find you here," I say, sidling up beside her.

  Mary jumps a little when my reflection appears in the glass beside hers. Side by side, I can see myself in her, but only just. Mary looks like Danny, built long and gawky, never seeming to gain an ounce no matter how much she eats. Her hair is the same blond I sported until age thirty, when it edged closer and closer to brown. She and I share the same upturned nose and weak chin. Her strong European bone structure is all Danny, though.

  "Geez, Mom, don't do that," she says, clutching her chest.

  "Do what?"

  "Sneak up on me. You're like a cat sometimes. Wear a bell or something."

  I ignore the bite of anger in her voice. I know it's not aimed at me, and I've made it a New Year's resolution to get a handle on my temper. Though I suppose I can get away with it for a few hours more. We're not due to watch the ball drop on the community center television until later tonight.

  But I offer her a kindly smile and offer her the caramel macchiato I ordered for her. Her irritation seeps away as she snatches it from me and downs half of it in one long pull.

  "I thought you could use a pick-me-up," I tell her with a small smile. "I thought I'd try to bolster your nerves before you made an impulse buy."

  "Probably wise," she acknowledges with a nod.

  "What exactly happened?" I ask, propping my elbow on one cream-colored wall. "I only caught every third word of the voicemail you left. You said something about a mastiff?"

  "Rose Fletcher's mastiff, Bruno," Mary growls. "She brought that monster dog into the pet shop today, and she wanted him groomed. He's supposed to be entering some sort of competition soon. Does she warn me he's a runner? No. He just bowls me over the instant she's gone, seizing one of the hamster cages and taking off down Main Street with it!"

  I flinch. This is already shaping up to be quite a tale, and I know she's not finished.

  "What happened then?"

  "What didn't happen then?" she says, thunking her head against the glass, leaving a smudge. "Bruno decided to cut off a truck with a horse trailer. It almost jackknifed into the Tinsel Pine Hobby Store and swiped Tom Craft's mid-life-crisis mobile off the road. He was cursing me all the way down the street. Somehow Bruno managed to survive that, though he got slathered in horse hockey. Then he burst into the meeting between Skye Adams and her investors in town hall and shook it off all over her Mont Blancs. She was passing out those Peppermint Pigs that she's been selling for extra cash. Bruno snatched one and kept right on trucking. Skye is furious with me. That's why she's not here."

  She gestures helplessly to the empty register. Sure enough, Skye's perky blond self is conspicuously absent from the shop. The only other warm body occupying the shop belongs to Vaughn King, the co-owner of the business. He's got his dark head bent over an open ledger, frowning at the numbers printed inside. I let my eyes linger for a minute longer than I should.

  Vaughn is a man in his mid-to-late thirties with a head of thinning black hair and an open, welcoming face that escapes being plain by a margin of inches. He pushes his spectacles up his long, thin nose with a frown, muttering darkly to himself.

  I can't help but sidle a little closer to him as Mary continues to eye the charm bracelet. Maybe I should buy it for her as an additional and somewhat-belated birthday present. She does have the misfortune of being born on Christmas Day, and thus has the two days shoved together by well-meaning friends more often than not. Business has gone well, and I can afford the excess for once.

  "Something wrong?" I ask innocently. I don't want to pry, but he looks upset. I'd gone to Berkeley, pursuing a degree in behavioral therapy. Well-meaning snooping is a bad habit of mine.

  Vaughn glances up at me, thin lips quirking in a weary smile. "It's nothing, Miss Green. Just a few inconsistencies in our ledgers. I'm sure I'll get it sorted before the party tonight. Skye said you'd be picking her up. I'm a little relieved, if I'm honest. I'm her back-up ride, and I'm not in the mood for another furious rant."

  I let out an inaudible sigh. Well, there goes my plan to bail on Ms. Adams. I can't subject this poor man to an unpleasant evening. He already looks haggard. I'll just make the sleigh ride a leisurely one. Who knows? Skye might appreciate the scenic route.

  "I'll be there, eleven o'clock sharp," I promise him, hoisting a bright smile onto my face.

  And in the meantime, I have to figure out how to talk my stubborn bull of a boyfriend off the metaphorical ledge before he leaps into outright insanity. Well, I console myself. At least I'm manure-free.

  Sometimes, you have to find the silver lining where you can.

  Chapter Two

  "It's not as if I'm asking him to move in," I mutter to myself, breath puffing into little clouds in front of my face as I continue the one-sided conversation I've been having with myself for the last fifteen minutes.

  It won't be necessary for a while, and we practically live on top of each other anyway. Brogan's house is situated next to the stately yellow home I've bought off Marcy Gourd. We see each other every morning. He brings me my mail most days, for Pete's sake.

  I understand his reluctance to commit without boundaries. He's bound to be gun-shy after everything that's happened to him. But the fact that he can't trust me hurts more than I care to admit. We haven't known each other terribly long, so perhaps I'm getting prematurely attached. Know thyself. I can admit my faults—even to myself, on occasion. I've grown fond of the churlish policeman in the weeks since we met.

  We're a study in contrasts, really. I've lived a life without boundaries, every decision flying in the face of the establishment. A protester at Berkeley, a single divorcee for decades, jet-setting across the U.S. and across the pond for just as long. I'm the antithesis of everything Brogan values. Rules. Order. Rigid standards of right and wrong.

  Maybe I'm the problem. Because when I think of signing the document, it makes me feel claustrophobic; trapped in a cramped space with my insecurities and no escape. Maybe the stifling constraint of a relationship would split us apart, leaving us with nothing but crackling animosity. I don't think I can take that.

  My eyes drop to my wristwatch again as I rub my hands together. Even with the thick woolen gloves on, my hands are starting to stiffen in the cold. I'm looking forward to the cozy confines of the community center and the glass of mulled cider that awaits me there.

  Skye Adams is almost fifteen minutes late. When she fails to emerge straight away, it doesn't alarm me unduly. Punctuality has never been my strong suit, either, so I can't throw stones at Ms. Adams for it. But when five minutes morph into ten, and then fifteen, I begin to worry. Is she planning to emerge at all? At this rate, she's going to miss the party that she has a hand in orchestrating.

  I dig my phone out of my tote bag and check to make sure I've not missed a call. When I unlock the screen, I don't see any missed messages. Strange. Maybe my texts haven't gone through and she doesn't realize I'm here. Signal can be spotty when the weather is miserable, the way it is tonight. The midnight sky spits fat flurries into my face, numbing my cheeks and clinging tenaciously to my eyelashes. I blink them away furiously.