Кэти Дэйли - The Mystery Before Christmas [calibre]

“Everyone seems to have an opinion, but I haven’t heard that anyone has come up with any proof as to the identity of Secret Santa if that is what you are asking. The guys down at the lodge think it might be Fisher.”

I raised a brow. “Ford Fisher? Why do the guys think it’s him? As far as I know, the man isn’t rich.” Ford Fisher used to own one of the pubs in town before it sold, so I imagined he’d done okay in terms of saving for retirement, but I doubted he had tens of thousands of dollars to give away.

“I think Ford might have more stashed away than one might think. There is a lot of money in alcohol, and Ford has lived simply for much of his life. In my mind, he doesn’t have the right temperament to be Secret Santa, but he has been acting oddly lately, which is why I think the guys at the lodge suspect him.”

We headed back to the house with the second load of boxes. “Acting oddly, how?” I wondered.

“Secretive. Evasive. He hasn’t shown up at the lodge in weeks, and when some of the guys went by his place to see if he was okay, he told them he was fine but didn’t even invite them in. I’ve called him several times, even left messages, but he hasn’t called me back.”

“Sounds like he might be depressed. Do you know if he suffers from depression?” I set my box next to the others on the table.

“Not that I know of. Ford’s always been a real social sort. Other than those few times when he was too hungover to make it to the lodge, he’s pretty much been there every Wednesday and Friday since I’ve been going. Not that I go every week. Sometimes Gracie and I do something, but Ford is a real regular.”

“It sounds like you and your friends might be right to be worried about him. I’d continue to check on him if he doesn’t start coming around. Having said that, in my mind, his overall mood doesn’t seem to have a Secret Santa feel.”

Tom headed back out for the final box. I tagged along after him in spite of the fact there was just one box left to fetch.

“Yeah,” Tom agreed. “The idea of him being Secret Santa doesn’t sit quite right with me either. I hope he isn’t ill. He didn’t say he was feeling poorly, but that could explain his absences.”

“Wasn’t Ford friends with Buford?” I asked. “Maybe he is just missing the guy.”

“Maybe,” Tom agreed. “Ford and Buford went at it like two old junkyard dogs most of the time, but in the end, I guess you could say they were friends. Best friends even. I don’t suppose Cass has proven one way or another what happened to Buford.”

I shook my head. “On the one hand, Buford had been drinking on the night he died and could very well have wandered out into the blizzard, passed out, and froze to death. On the other hand, Buford had a bump on his head that looked as if it had been inflicted by someone hitting him with a heavy object.”

“Could he have hit his head when he passed out?” Tom asked.

“He could have, but the position his body was found in and the location of the bump doesn’t tend to support that theory. Of course, Buford could have bumped his head earlier in the day, and the fact that he had a knot the size of a jawbreaker doesn’t necessarily mean that injury was enough to cause him to fall to the ground in a state of unconsciousness. At this point, Cass is following the idea that Buford was hit on the head, blacked out, and then froze to death. I guess we’ll just have to wait to see where his investigation ends up. I’m sure if Buford simply passed out on account of all the alcohol he drank, that scenario will float to the surface at some point.” I looked up as the sound of a car approaching permeated the still air. “That must be Gracie. Paisley will be with her. Maybe we can talk about this some more over dinner.”

“That’d be fine. The truth as to what happened to Buford has been weighing on my mind. It’d be nice to know one way or the other.”

“Yes,” I agreed. It would be nice to know for certain what had caused a man who’d lived here for most of his life to simply perish in an early but not all that spectacular storm. I knew the mayor was pushing the idea that Buford’s death was nothing more than a terrible accident. I supposed I didn’t blame him. The town was just beginning to recover from the murder of twelve-year-old Tracy Porter. If it was determined that Buford had been murdered as well, it would most definitely bring back the fear and paranoia that had permeated the town after Tracy’s death. Cass wasn’t the sort to simply grasp onto the easy answer; he was the sort to want nothing short of the truth. Sometimes I wondered if his dogged commitment to following his instincts rather than the dictate of his boss was going to get him fired. I supposed that it was more important to Cass to be true to his convictions than it was to keep the job he seemed to do better than anyone else did. I supposed I really admired him for that. In fact, the more I got to know Deputy Cass Wylander, the more convinced I was that my childhood friend had grown into a man I could not only respect but grow to love if I was interested in that sort of thing, which I wasn’t.

Chapter 2

Tuesday

The Foxtail News was a small regional newspaper with only four employees in addition to the owner if you counted me, and given the fact that I only wrote one column a week at this point, I supposed it was generous to count me in the mix. A man named Garrett Heatherton, who’d partially retired and left the management of the business to his son, Dex, owned the newspaper. Garrett had run the place much the same for the thirty-some-odd years he’d been actively working in the business, but now that Dex had taken over the day-to-day operations, he was determined to put the Foxtail News on the map. A lofty goal I will admit given the limited circulation of the tiny rural area served by the newspaper, but a goal he worked hard for every day.

In addition to Dex, there was a full-time reporter named Brock Green. Garrett had hired Brock when Dex was still in college and felt more than just a bit slighted that he hadn’t been chosen to take over as managing editor when Garrett decided to take a step back. I could sense the tension between Dex and Brock at times, but the tension seemed to be rooted in competition, which made both men work harder, so I supposed it worked out okay in the end.

In addition to Garrett, who still oversaw things; Dex, who ran the ship; and Brock, who handled the heavy lifting; there was a woman named Gabby King, who answered the phone and handled the clerical stuff.

“Morning, Gabby,” I greeted the woman with short blond curls that framed her face.

“Morning, Callie.” Gabby hung a bright red bulb on the fir she’d been decorating. “Dex has been looking for you.”

I paused to take in the scent of fir mingled with the familiar scents of stale coffee, which was always present; tobacco, from Brock’s cigars; and ink, in spite of the fact that the old offset press hadn’t been used in years. “The place looks really nice. I love the big red bows.”

“I figured I spend more of my day here than I do at home, so I might as well create the Christmas spirit here too. I started with a wreath for the door, but it looked lonely, so I brought in the garland and bows. Once I got that far, the rest seemed inevitable.”

“Well, I think it looks fantastic.”

“Dex was hesitant at first. You know how he is about professionalism, but I think he is warming up to the idea now that I have things arranged.”

“I’m sure Dex will enjoy the decorations once he relaxes a bit. It has been a tense year for him taking over as managing editor. I think there is a lot of pressure on him to do well.”

“I know you’re right.”