Shirlee McCoy - Deadly Christmas Secrets

“Logan was out in the woods for over an hour. He probably does need rescuing,” she responded.

“You’re ignoring my point.”

“Which is?” Harper asked even though she knew exactly what Stella was implying.

“Next time, ask questions so you can have enough information to make a good decision.”

“Going to get someone who’s nearly frozen is a good decision.”

“Not if you’re going to die while you’re doing it.”

“Whoever killed that man is long gone.”

“Says the woman who knows nothing about any of this,” Stella muttered.

“I know that I’m not going to sit around waiting for other people to fight my battles for me,” she replied.

“Great. Good. Wonderful. I just hope that philosophy doesn’t get you killed.”

“Why would it? No one has any reason to want me dead.”

“And yet, people keep trying to kill you.”

Truer than Harper wanted to admit.

She needed to find out what was going on. The only way to do that was to talk to Gabe. He had to know more than she did. Why else would he send someone to find her?

He still hadn’t called.

She’d have to go see him, visit his house in DC with all its fancy furniture and girlie decorations. Lydia had had a field day buying things for the house. She’d had her hand in every room except for Gabe’s office, and it had showed—gaudy and funky and a little over-the-top.

Just like Lydia.

The thought made her eyes burn and her throat tighten.

She and Lydia had been as different as any two sisters could be, but they’d loved each other.

She sniffed back tears that she wasn’t going to let fall, pinched the bridge of her nose, tried hard to think of something other than her sister.

“Things could be worse,” Stella said, speaking into the sudden silence, her voice softer than it had been.

“What?”

“They could be worse, Harper. Always, so we just have to make the best of whatever situation we find ourselves in. Like this one.” She waved toward the snowy road and the flakes still drifting through the darkness. “We’re on the road, probably making ourselves bait for a murderer—”

“That’s comforting.”

“If you wanted comfort, you should have fired up that wood-burning stove of yours, huddled under one of those nice quilts you have and read a good book,” she responded.

“That probably would have been a better plan,” she admitted.

“Too late now,” Stella responded cheerfully. “You wanted this. You got it, so we’ll just enjoy the snow and hope for the best.”

Right. Sounded perfect to Harper.

Up ahead, she could see the entrance to the Dillon property—the old gateposts still sticking out of the ground. No gate. Not anymore. It had come down decades ago. At least, that was what she’d heard from people at church. People in Snowy Vista had long memories, and they remembered the way Arthur Dillon had worked the land, sold his produce at local markets, made a good living for himself and his family.

Then he’d died, and his son Matthew had taken over, run the farm into the ground and then left it for greener pastures. No one knew where he’d gone. The old farmhouse had stood empty for two decades, and then a for-sale sign had appeared in the overgrown yard, jutting up from the corner of the crumbling driveway.

That had been two years ago.

As far as Harper knew, the place hadn’t even had one showing.

She turned onto the driveway, the truck bumping over deep ruts. She got about a tenth of a mile from the house before she had to stop, a police cruiser blocking her from driving farther. Not from the local sheriff’s department. This cruiser was a state police car. Jeb must have called them in. Snowy Vista had a very small police force, and murder wasn’t something Harper thought they’d had to deal with much during the history of the town.

She eased the truck off the driveway and parked it in tangled weeds, waiting as a police officer approached. He motioned for her to roll down the window, his face shadowed by the brim of his hat.

“Ma’am, you’re going to have to turn around,” he said.

“I’m here for a friend of mine,” she responded. “Logan Fitzgerald?”

“You’re going to have to turn around,” he repeated. “No entry to the property by anyone. It’s a crime scene.”

“I know, but—”

“That’s fine, officer,” Stella cut in. “Mind if we wait at the mouth of the driveway? Logan was being questioned by Sheriff Hunter, but he’s finished now, and we’d like to get him home.”

The officer eyed Stella for a moment, then nodded. “Fine by me, but if I catch either of you out of the vehicle, I’ll arrest you.”

“No worries. I’m in no mood to spend the night in jail,” Stella responded.

That seemed to satisfy the officer.

He walked back to his car, climbed into the vehicle.

“I’m thinking you’d better do what he said,” Stella said. “My boss gets any inkling that we’re bothering the local PD, and he won’t be happy.”

“I wouldn’t want you to lose your job because of my actions,” Harper replied as she backed toward the end of the driveway.

Stella laughed. “Please. Chance wouldn’t fire me. He’s not that kind of guy. He would lecture me and assign me to desk duty for a month. A fate way worse than being fired, if you ask me.” She pulled out her cell phone and texted something. “That should get Logan moving. He’s not going to like that we’re just sitting here waiting for trouble to find us.”

“There are police everywhere,” Harper pointed out. She could see them—flashlights moving along the ground, shadowy forms bobbing through the lingering snow.

“And?”

“Whoever killed that guy would be a fool to try something this close to all these officers.”

“I’d say most criminals are fools. Smart, but fools nonetheless. They think they’re too intelligent to be caught, too savvy to ever be found out. So they make mistakes. Stupid ones. Like trying to kill a woman who’s sitting a few hundred yards from a police cruiser.”

“You’re assuming whoever did it is still around.”

“Statistically speaking, the likelihood that the perp is hanging around watching all the action is pretty high.”

Not a pleasant thought.

Harper tried to tell herself that Stella was wrong, that the likelihood was slim to none, but Stella had been at this kind of work for a lot longer than Harper had been shaping clay. It was obvious from the way she moved, the way she spoke, her gritty rough edge that had just a bit of softness beneath it.

Stella knew what she was talking about, and maybe the criminal wasn’t the only one who was a fool. Harper had been on her own for a long time. She wasn’t used to taking other people’s advice. She wasn’t really used to being around other people.

She’d been social before, but not eager to have the kind of close and intimate relationships most people longed for. She’d tried it with Daniel, because it had seemed like the thing to do, and because he’d been charming and funny and made her feel like a million bucks.

When that hadn’t worked out, she’d been more upset with herself than heartbroken.

She knew how bad her family was at relationships.

She knew how easily fooled they were, how easily taken advantage of, and so she’d made it her goal to be dependent on no one but herself. She hadn’t wanted to end up like her mother—wandering from one bad relationship to another. She hadn’t wanted to be like Lydia—settling for someone because she was afraid of having no one, of having to do it all alone, provide for everything herself.

She’d wanted something different from that, and she’d gotten it.