Three Lumps of Coal

Chapter 1

One

“Holly.” I clear my throat and take a sip from a paper cup. “Holly Lo.”

Detective Frost leans back in his seat, balancing a legal pad on his lap. Flipping to a fresh page, he uncaps his ballpoint pen. “Whenever you’re ready, Ms. Lo.”

“I don’t know where to begin.”

“Tell me why you came here today.”

This feels unreal. My first deposition…

At least, I think it’s a deposition.

This is my first time hiring a private investigator and my first time dealing with crime.

We have little experience with crime in Mapledale. Unless you count the occasional littering from tourists swarming our picturesque pumpkin patches and Christmas tree farms.

A statistic for you:

There hasn’t been a burglary in Mapledale since 1987. The last murder that happened in this cozy corner of New Hampshire happened during the founding days of 1797.

Rumor on the street is (and by street, I mean the quaint two hundred-year-old cobblestone roundabout in the town center), Detective Elliot Frost worked homicide in New York City before chucking his badge and retiring to Mapledale to open up a P.I. firm.

Rumor has it he’s seen some truly nasty cases…

The kind of cases you see on CSI.

The kind of cases that leaves you twitchy with PTSD and a lifelong drinking problem.

And judging by his surly demeanor, I believe I’ve hired the right P.I. for the job.

Granted, he’s the only private investigator in town, so it’s not like I had many options.

He just looks tough. He’s the kind of guy with a perpetual five o’clock shadow and a steely, cynical stare.

I could see him scowling his way through a dark alley in a battered trench coat, squatting over a chalk body outline, disgusted by mankind.

I fidget in my seat, sliding my jade bracelet up and down my wrist.

Detective Frost notices the movement. In fact, he notices my every nervous tick and is bothered by it. When my right leg shakes, as it tends to do under stressful circumstances, he mutters, “You’re shaking my desk, Miss Lo.”

And in that moment, I knew that every little thing I do from this point forward will be mentally noted, cataloged, and judged. I bothered him. Heck, humanity bothered him.

His eyes are mysterious and unreadable, shadowed beneath the brim of an unassuming black baseball cap. That’s how I know he’s the real deal. Who wears a baseball cap in a dank office one hour before sunset?

“Any time now, Ms. Lo.” His voice is gruff, almost a bark.

A word cloud of his twenty 1-star Yelp reviews echoes in my head:

Rude.

Curt.

A real jerk.

The last part sounds a bit harsh.

I wipe my sweaty palms on my velvet skirt. “Can you catch the perp before Christmas?”

He blinks. “The perp?”

“That’s what I’m calling him… or her.” I think for a moment. “‘Perp’ is all-encompassing.”

He scrubs a hand across his bristled jaw. “Why Christmas? I wasn’t aware we were on a deadline.”

“We need a deadline! I’m imposing a deadline. Since our phone call last night, I haven’t slept a wink. I can’t eat. I can’t even look at t-t-the…” my hands flutter in the air “… the spot. The crime scene. And you know what, Detective?”

His eyes swing toward the ceiling for a second too long. “What?” Elliot asks at last.

“I have a bad feeling that the perp will strike again,” I say. “On Christmas Day.”

I lean forward, frantically searching his stoic face for signs of empathy.

Nothing.

This guy is cold.

Stone cold.

You know when someone doesn’t like you? They’ll never say it outright, but you can sense it like a prickling of gooseflesh on your skin.

Not that I need Detective Frost to like me.

Not everyone has to like me.

But it would be helpful if he at least liked me a little, as we’re going to be working together to crack the case.

Then it came to me. Maybe I’m over-analyzing his stonewall demeanor as ‘cold.’ Maybe he’s just a stoic in the face of adversity.

He was a homicide detective, after all. He’s probably desensitized to all manners of unspeakable horrors, which is exactly what I need in a P.I.

because I’ve got one hell of an unspeakable horror in my house as we speak.

Or maybe, just maybe, he didn’t hear the distress in my voice when I said “Christmas Day.”

“The perp will strike again,” I repeat, making sure every syllable trembles with urgency. “On Christmas Day.”

The detective stares at me for a spell, then scribbles on his legal pad.

“What’s that? What are you writing?” I cock my head to the side. His penmanship is pure chicken scratch, but I think I read “neurotic.”

Wait…

Is he calling me neurotic? The next line he scratches reads suspiciously like ‘suspect??’

I frown. “Did you just write–?”

“Miss Lo…” He checks the clock above the door. “Let’s begin.”

A drooping Christmas tree sits in the corner, loaded with dollar store ornaments. No presents.

The merry glow of Christmas lights streams through battered Venetian blinds, slashing harsh light across his unsmiling face.

I have never felt more like I stumbled onto the set of a film noir. Sam Spade before me, taking no bull and dripping with cynicism.

I suppose that makes me the femme fatale.

Trouble in high heels. In my case, my black Mary Janes comes with a sensible chunky heel.

In preparation for this meeting, I’d picked out my most festive red velvet dress.

‘Vixen red’ to be specific. The bust is two sizes too small, so my 34Bs look like 34Cs.

I’ve doused myself in vanilla perfume, so I smell like a cupcake.

I’ve even curled my hair and added a poinsettia barrette.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not here to seduce Detective Frost. I’m here on business. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to make a good second first impression after completely tanking my actual first impression. I was rather frazzled (see neurotic) during our phone conversation.

You see, I’ve harbored a teeny school girl crush for the detective since he moved in three doors down from my shop.

One glance at that scowling expression and chiseled jawline, and I was a goner.

Pride and Prejudice ruined me and cursed me with a weakness for unfriendly men with regal profiles.

What can I say? It’s a sickness. I personally blame Jane Austen for my many failed relationships, but when I discovered the grumpy newcomer’s last name was ‘Frost,’ I began making plans to melt his frozen heart.

So far, my plans have backfired in the face of a tall, dark, and handsome nuclear winter. Except for a few curt hellos, this is the second time I’ve had a full conversation with him.

I only wish it was under better circumstances.

Maybe when this ordeal blows over and the perp is apprehended, we can grab a cup of coffee or dinner or… something.

Sadly, Detective Frost is immune to my charms. He taps his wristwatch. “Twenty-fifth of November. 4:26 pm. Dash the delay from the record and begin again. This is the interrogation of–”

I nearly jump out of my seat. “Did you just say ‘interrogation?’”

“That is what I said.”

“But Elliot!”

“Detective,” he corrects me. “When we’re on the clock, I’m Detective. This is strictly a matter of protocol.”

“I thought I was supposed to tell my story!”

He holds up his palms, shrugs. “Just checking the boxes, eliminating all potential suspects.”

I blink, stunned by what I’m hearing. “I’m a suspect? But I’m your client! I hired you.”

“Nine times out of ten, he who reported the crime committed the crime. Boy cries wolf. Husband kills wife. She who smelt it…” He pauses, his lips twitching in the first hint of a smile I’ve seen tonight. “Dealt it.”

“Well!” I cross my arms over my chest. “That’s very insulting.”

“I can’t rule you out of the suspect pool just yet.”

“By the book, are you?”

“Just doing my job, Miss.”

At least he’s thorough. “Whatever happened to ‘innocent until proven guilty.’?”

Elliot arches an eyebrow. “Are you taking the perp to court?”

“I don’t know yet,” I grumble.

“‘Innocent until proven guilty’ only applies in a court of law. We are not in a court of law. You’ve hired me to suspect everyone.” He lets that sit for a moment. “Including you.”

“Hmph!”

His gaze travels over my festive dress to my crossed legs and settles on my anxiously shaking foot. “Twitchy for a reason?”

Sheepishly, I try to recross my legs without pulling a Sharon Stone. I am wearing underwear, by the way. Full coverage period underwear. The most granny of granny panties and the last thing I want is to flash him.

“Let’s get back to your interrogation.” He pushes his cap back, nods at his phone. Dark brown eyes lock onto mine. “Name?”

I snort. “You know my name.”

“Speak into the recorder.”

“Holly Lo.” I clear my throat. “Hi! I’m Holly Lo,” I say, as if I’m the guest on a true crime podcast. “I’m the victim of the crime in question.”

He arches a brow. “When did the crime take place, Ms. Lo?”

“Yesterday evening. Thanksgiving. It happened during Thanksgiving.”

“And that was when you called my personal number.” He shoots me a chiding glance. “For the record, you called at 11:35 pm.”

“Sorry.” I sink back in my seat. “Did I wake you?”

“How did you get my personal number, Ms. Lo?” He glowers at me.

“From Paige.”

“P-A-G-E,” he jots down in his legal pad.

“It’s Paige with an i.”

“Paige with an unnecessary letter to her name,” he mutters, adding a crooked ‘i.’

Remember what I said about my passing schoolgirl crush on this guy? Strike that from the record.

I can’t harbor a crush on anyone who thinks I’m capable of such a despicable crime. No longer concerned about showing off my figure to its best advantage, I slump in my seat, soured by his attitude.

“Who’s Paige?” he asks.

“You know who Paige is. You visit her coffee shop every morning. You order a large cup of Americano. Black. No Sugar.”

“For the record, Ms. Lo,” he says, gesturing to his phone. “Who is Paige?”

He really is by the book.

“Paige Westbrook. She owns the Honey Latte Lounge on the corner of 1st street and Main.”

“What’s her relationship to you?”

“She’s my best friend.”