Candy Cane Murder (Hannah Swensen #9.5)(115)

he called.

Lucy dashed around the kitchen, unplugging appliances, and scurried into the living room to turn off the TV.

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“Ready,” she called back and in a moment the lights were on and the Christmas tree was radiant with glowing colors.

“Well, isn’t that a beautiful sight?” said Wilf, who had emerged from the cellar and was standing in the doorway.

Toby, excited by the sight of the tree, was bouncing in her arms. “Now it feels like Christmas,” said Lucy, setting him down and keeping a watchful eye as he toddled toward the tree. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“It was nothing,” said Wilf. “Just being neighborly, that’s all.”

“Well, I really appreciate it,” continued Lucy, who was terrified of the old-fashioned root cellar beneath the pantry and the spiders and mice and snakes she imagined lurked there. “I mean, you went down into the cellar … and you brought that package, too, when you didn’t have to. It was really awfully nice of you … can I give you a cup of coffee or something before you go back out in the cold?”

“I wouldn’t mind a cup,” said Wilf, amused by Lucy’s extreme expressions of gratitude.

“The pot’s still hot,” sang Lucy, pouring a cup for him and one for herself, too, and setting some of her precious Christmas cookies on a plate. Toby had followed them into the kitchen and she hoisted him into his high chair, pouring a glass of apple juice for him.

“Very good,” said Wilf, approvingly, chewing on a cookie.

“Looks like you’ve got company,” he observed, glancing out the window.

“Probably Bill,” said Lucy, going to the door. But it wasn’t Bill, it was Miss Tilley she saw walking carefully along the path.

“Come in, come in,” said Lucy, opening the door and shivering in the cold blast. “Come out of the cold.”

“I was just making my rounds, oh, hi there, Wilf,” began Miss Tilley. “And I thought you might like some of my eggnog. It’s an old family recipe.”

CANDY CANES OF CHRISTMAS PAST

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“That’s so kind,” said Lucy, accepting two old-fashioned glass milk bottles filled with creamy liquid.

“I wouldn’t mind trying some of that,” said Wilf.

“You know, I didn’t get a chance to taste it myself,” said Miss Tilley. “I wanted to make my deliveries and get home before the snow starts.”

“Well, let’s all have some,” said Lucy, popping into the pantry to get the punch cups she received as a wedding present but had never used.

“If you’re getting cups, you’ll need some more,” called Miss Tilley. “The Miller sisters have just pulled into the driveway.”

“Really?” asked Lucy, staggering out with the heavy crystal punch bowl filled with a dozen cups. “What brings them here?”

“Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” chorused the sisters, entering the kitchen which was becoming a bit crowded.

“We brought you some cookies,” announced Emily, or was it Ellie?

“That’s right. We made them ourselves,” added the other, holding out an enormous tin with a jolly Santa design. “Sand tarts.”

“I haven’t had those in years,” said Wilf.

“My mother used to make them,” said Miss Tilley.

“Well, let’s all have some eggnog and cookies,” invited Lucy. “Can I take your coats?”

She was just hanging the ladies’ matching red coats on the hooks by the door when there was another knock on the door. Lucy was beginning to wonder if this was some sort of planned invasion, or perhaps it was just what people in small towns did at Christmas. Whatever was going on, the table was filling up with people and the house was filled with chatter and laughter. She opened the door, hoping whoever it was had brought food, and found Sherman Cobb holding a foilcovered pan that looked like it contained a turkey. A turkey!

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And behind him she recognized Rachel Goodman and Richie, along with a man she assumed was Bob, Rachel’s husband.

They were all holding foilcovered dishes, except Richie, who had a can of cranberry sauce.

“What is all this?” she asked.

“We heard your oven was broken,” began Sherman, smiling in Miss Tilley’s direction. “So we brought you Christmas dinner. Are you going to let us in?”

“Oh, please, please do come in,” said Lucy.

“By the way, we haven’t met, but I’m Rachel’s husband,”

said Bob. “Do you have a stereo?”

“In the living room,” said Lucy.

“Great. I brought some Christmas cassettes,” he said, handing off a bowl of stuffing and heading down the hall with a shopping bag slung over his arm. Moments later the house was filled with Bing Crosby’s mellow voice.

Lucy was standing there, holding a bowl of stuffing and trying to decide what to do with the turkey when there was yet another knock on the door and Fred Rumford stuck his head in.

“Hi, everybody,” he called, marching in and setting a jug of wine and a case of beer on the table. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas!” they all cried back.