Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

Noelle

Wednesday

I 'm so engrossed in the climax of the new mystery that I don't hear the footsteps approaching. Just as the sleuth is about to reveal how she unmasked the killer, my chair whirls around in a circle, and I gasp.

I jerk my head up to see Farah, the high school student working with me this summer, grinning. "You're going to be late for your appointment."

I stick a quitter strip between the pages to mark my place and glance at my watch. "Shoot. I am."

"Isn't tea supposed to be in the afternoon?"

As I grab my purse and shove my book and phone into it, I explain."You're thinking of afternoon tea. We're actually having elevenses," I tell her .

"Like the hobbits?"

I laugh. "Well, yes, but also like the British. It's a late morning snack. It's not as fancy as afternoon tea, which, in turn, is not as fancy as high tea."

Farah gives me a look. "The Brits really like their tea, huh?"

"They really do," I agree. "Are you sure you'll be okay handling the desk alone and maybe helping set up the puppet theater if you get a chance?"

"Piece of cake," she assures me. "Ooh, if there's cake, will you bring me back a slice?"

"Definitely," I promise before hurrying out of the building.

I slip my sunglasses on as I speed-walk the block and a half to the Inn at Mistletoe Mountain. I break into a jog as the bell in the old courthouse building chimes the hour. On the ninth chime, I race up the stairs and jab at the doorbell. While I wait for someone to answer it, I try to decide whether I'm hoping to run into Nick or not.

I'm jittery and off-balance. Our college romance burned bright and hot, as such things tend to do. But it flared out fast, and once he and Carol got together, I placed our brief romance firmly in the past and Nick even more firmly in the friend zone. Of course he fell in love with Carol. Who wouldn't?

They were one of those couples who just glowed. They belonged together. But last night, when he brought up the way we met in London, a wave of memories that I've been holding back for more than a quarter century crashed over me. And I haven't been able to catch my breath since.

Ivy opens the grand wooden doors and waves me inside with a bright grin .

"Right on time." She leans over and gives me a soft hug. "I hope tea in the kitchen is okay."

"It's perfect. Elevenses isn't very formal," I remind her.

Her grin broadens. "That's right, you're the one who turned Mom on to elevenses in the first place."

"She was pregnant with Holly." I laugh at the memory.

Carol was ravenous during her second trimester, and the hours between breakfast and lunch seemed interminable. So we made it a habit to meet up for an eleven o'clock snack and a cup of tea. Herbal for her, and Lady Grey for me.

As Ivy leads me to the kitchen, I notice that the parlor and dining room aren't yet decorated for Christmas in July and suppress a frown. The girls have tons to do in the next few days. Nick really ought to stick around and help them.

"Did your dad already leave for the fishing cabin?" I ask.

"Yeah, you just missed him."

I ignore the flash of disappointment that runs through me.

"Listen, if you need another pair of hands?—"

She waves me off. "I know we're a little behind, but there are six of us. It'll be a breeze."

"I'm here. You might as well put me to work."

She relents. "We're going to go up to the attic after tea to bring down the decorations, if you want to help with that."

"I'd love to." I need to do something to help, seeing I'm the one who tattled on Nick to his daughters.

We traipse into the light-filled kitchen, and I'm greeted by a chorus of voices.

I dig into my purse, pull out a small woolen bag, and place it on the counter. "To have a proper elevenses, we need some authentic English tea. "

Ivy, Holly, and Merry dart over to the box, oohing over the assortment of sachets.

As they paw through the teas, I explain to their cousins, "I lived in England for a while in my early twenties. I got hooked on the good stuff."

Sage gasps and points to the corner of the book peeking out from the top of my bag. "Is that the new Maisy Farley mystery?"

"It sure is."

Her face falls. "I'm on the holds list for a copy at my library back home. But it's going to be a while. I'm number forty-four."

"Noelle can hook you up," Holly tells her.

She should know. I've been feeding her books since before she could tie her own shoes.

"Really?"

I flash a mischievous grin and pull the book out of my bag. "I have maybe fifteen pages left to read. If you ladies don't mind if I read them now, I'll leave this book with you."

Sage's eyes widen. "Isn't there a holds list?"

"I haven't actually shelved it yet," I confess. "It's one of the perks of being a librarian. Growing up, I told my mom librarians had the best job because they could read all the books for free. She worriedly asked me if I understood how libraries worked."

I pause while they giggle, then go on, "But, it turns out, my position does have some privileges. I'll be happy to let you read it before I put it into circulation. You just have to promise not to lose it—or I'll have to fine myself. "

This isn't strictly true. I don't assess fines for overdue or lost materials. But that's my little secret.

She claps her hands like a little girl. "I promise."

"Okay, I'll pop into the parlor and zip through this last chapter."

"What kind of tea do you want?" Holly calls after me.

Ivy answers for me. "She wants Lady Earl Grey with steamed oat milk and a dash of vanilla."

I pause in the doorway and turn to blink at her in surprise.

"Lady London Fog. It's your favorite," she declares.

She's right, and the fact she knows this makes my heart swell in my chest. Since when am I this sentimental? I shake my head at myself, smile back at her, and hurry out of the kitchen with a lump in my throat.

I perch in the window seat, balance the book on my knees, and zip through the denouement and epilogue. I close the book with a satisfied flourish and head back into the kitchen.

I place the book on the table in front of Sage and whisper, "She's all yours."

"Perfect timing," Merry chirps, handing me a porcelain teacup.

I take a seat at the big oak table and settle against one of the striped cushions Carol made the year she taught herself how to use the old sewing machine in the parlor. I cup my hands around the tea and inhale the fragrant steam. Mixed with the scents of bergamot, citrus, and lavender that I expect, I smell strong roasted coffee. I wrinkle my forehead and turn to my right.

"Are you drinking coffee?" I say to Holly.

"Guilty as charged," she admits, "but I'm not the only one. "

Rosemary raises a hand. "I just can't with the tea. I'm a coffee girl."

"I understand," I tell her. "After England, I entered a master's program at the University of Bologna in Ravenna and, let me tell you, there's nothing like a good Italian espresso."

Rosemary's eyes light up and she starts gushing about an authentic Italian coffee bar near her home.

"Do you go there with your homicide detective?" I ask as I reach for a cucumber and olive sandwich.

Merry laughs. "Smooth segue, Noelle."

I shrug unapologetically. "I really am a mystery and true crime junkie. Does your husband talk about his work a lot?"

"Not often," Rosemary says. "He doesn't like to bring that home with him."

"Oh." I feel my shoulders droop.

"But … we met because I was the prime suspect in a murder investigation."

My eyes widen. "Really?"

"Yep. I was working as a private chef for a truly nasty movie star. Someone offed her, and I had to find the real killer before the cops pinned it on me."

" You found the real murderer?"

"Sure did." She pops a mini-quiche into her mouth.

Thyme clears her throat noisily.

Rosemary shoots her a look and amends, "Fine. Technically, the police did. But I helped."

"You did help," Sage allows before leaning across the table to say, "I also caught a murderer."

"You didn't. "

"I did. And so did Thyme."

Thyme shakes her head. "Not exactly. I stopped a murder."

"Details, details." Sage waves a hand.

"And don't even ask about our weddings," Rosemary says.

"Tell me everything," I demand.

They talk over one another in a rush. One wild story after another spills from their lips while I sip my tea and nibble on the goodies.

Listening to the cousins' stories is like binge watching an entire season of a detective series. Before I know it, the grandfather clock in the parlor is chiming the hour again.

At exactly noon, Holly pushes back her chair and brushes the crumbs from her fingers. "All right, are we ready to tackle the attic?"

The rest of us rise more slowly, reluctant to leave the easy camaraderie of the table.

"I'll walk you out," Merry offers, turning to me.

"No, no. I'll help you bring the decorations down. I used to help your mom with this every year, you know."

Sadness falls over the room like a heavy blanket at the mention of Carol. Anger flares in my chest at Nick. He shouldn't have left his daughters to do this without him—cousins or no cousins.

But Holly lifts her chin, sets her mouth in a thin, determined line and says, "That'd be great. You probably know where things go even better than we do."

I probably do, I think, as we file through the grand parlor and sitting room to the sweeping spiral staircase and then down the long second floor hall, past eight bedroom doors that will all be decorated with wreaths. At the end of the hall, a second, slightly less grand staircase leads to the attic.

We mount the stairs and I push the door open. Stuffy, hot air hits me in the face. Beads of sweat pop out on my forehead as Holly beelines toward the row of shelves along the wall that holds the summer Christmas decorations.

The Jollys fan out and start grabbing boxes, passing them assembly-line style toward their cousins near the stairs. Merry hands me a box and I scan the label. Carol's distinctive handwriting is like a blow to my heart.

"Your nutcrackers are in here."

Merry gives me a sad smile. "Some of them."

Carol adored nutcrackers. Her delight turned out to be her downfall once everyone in town realized her obsession. After a few years, she had dozens and dozens of nutcrackers—enough to take on any Rat King and his army. She graciously displayed every single one during the Christmas in July open house. But she held back a handful of especially meaningful ones to put out in the family's private living quarters. This is the box I clutch. It's labeled ‘ Family Nutcrackers.'

"This one goes to your family room," I tell them. "Should I take it down?"

"Might as well," Holly says over her shoulder. "Just plop it in the family room. We'll decorate in there once the guest areas are done."

I gingerly carry the carton downstairs and through the kitchen to the wing at the back of the house where the Jolly family has a space apart from their paying guests. The girls have enough on their plate with all the decorating in the front of the building, so I decide to at least get started in here by setting up the nutcrackers. I remove the lid and gently dig through the box.

The very first nutcracker I see is the Nancy Drew nutcracker I got for Carol the year Merry was born. The girl detective wears a festive holiday dress and peers through a magnifying glass. I place it on top of the bookcase and pull out the next box. An Old World Saint Nicholas with a merry smile goes on the shelf next to Nancy Drew.

I'm reaching for a classic toy soldier when my eye snags on a thick linen envelope nestled between a pair of clear boxes. I draw it out from the storage container and blink down at my name. Please deliver to Noelle Winters is typed on the front of the envelope. And it does appear to be typed. With a typewriter. The letters are raised. I rub my thumb over them and frown.

Holly appears in the doorway. "Hey, thanks for getting started setting these up."

I glance up at her. "Of course."

"What's that?" She gestures toward the envelope.

"I don't know. It was in the box."

I pass it to her. She draws her eyebrows together. "How'd this get in there? Who's it from?"

"Your mom?" I suggest.

She shakes her head. "I don't think so. Mom was in the hospital in Burlington when we packed up this room. Dad called and asked us to take care of it before he brought her home. We had to take down the Christmas tree and put away the decorations to make room for the … hospital bed." She clears her throat.

I choke back tears. When Carol realized she only had weeks left, she insisted on having hospice care at home. She wanted to die in the place she loved surrounded by the people she loved.

Holly's right. I remember. This room wasn't decorated when Carol came home. The last time I saw her—the day she asked me if I still had feelings for her husband—I was perched on the edge of a narrow bed in this very room, pressing a cold cloth against her fevered forehead.

"Noelle, do you still care for him?" Carol's voice was thin and raspy.

I was confused. "Who?"

"Nick."

She no sooner got his name out than her frail frame was wracked by a fit of violent, shuddering coughs. When she collapsed back against the pillow, I picked up her water glass with shaking hands and guided the straw to her lips.

"Here, take a sip."

She tried to bat it away. "Noelle? Did you hear me?"

I waited until she drank, then I set the glass aside and stared into her tired blue eyes. "I heard you. Of course not. That was decades ago. Water under the bridge. Ancient history."

She grabbed my wrist with surprising strength, cutting off my steady stream of lies. "Stop."

"Nick loves you , Carol."

She gave me a sad smile. "I know. And I love him. But he's not going to be okay when I'm gone. He's going to need someone to help him through it."

"You're not going anywhere. You're going to beat this," I told her fiercely.

My best friend held my gaze as she shook her head slowly. "No, Noelle. I'm not. I'm dying. I'm dying, and I love you, and I love Nick. So if you can be there for each other after I'm gone, you should. It's what I want."

I had to clear my throat several times to choke the words out. "I'll be there for Nick and your girls because I love you, and because I love them. All of them. As a friend. Okay? That's all I am. A friend."

She held my gaze for a moment longer and something like disappointment filled her eyes. Then a shadow crossed her face as her eyelids fluttered closed. Once she was soundly sleeping, I covered her with a thin blanket and fled the house like I was being chased.

I figured I'd give her a few days, let the awkwardness of that conversation fade, and then things would be back to normal between us. Or as close to normal as they could be given the situation. But I misjudged how much time we had. The next time I stepped foot inside the inn was for the celebration of life after her burial service.

"Earth to Noelle!"

The sickening memory fades as I jerk myself back to the present. Holly's waving a paper an inch in front of my nose.

"Sorry." I manage shakily. "Lost in thought."

"Clearly." She thrusts the paper into my hands. "Look! It's a map. And a riddle. Someone put together a scavenger hunt for you! "

My heartache over the memory of that last conversation with Carol doesn't go away. It doesn't even fade. But it does slide over to make room for the excitement that stirs in me as I stare down at the map of Mistletoe Mountain and a small envelope marked Clue No. 1.

Holly yells for the others to get in here, and they all crowd around, urging me to open the clue. I slit the envelope open with my fingernail, remove a folded note card, and scan the typed note.

"Well? What's it say?" Rosemary demands.

I read it aloud: ‘Your first clue isn't difficult. The land of the sweets has many treats. Go to the place where you'll find a strong one.'

Merry claps her hands. "How fun! Noelle, you have your very own holiday mystery!"

I'm still staring down at the clue, wheels turning. When I look up, I can't hide my grin. "Looks that way. I wish you girls could solve it with me, but?—"

Sage groans. "But we have our hands full with the open house prep."

"We'll live vicariously through you," Ivy assures me. "Be sure to report back."

I tuck the envelope away in my purse and promise to do exactly that.