CHAPTER ONE
Snow had dusted Brooke Ridge Falls just enough to make Main Street look like a postcard—white on the awnings of the antique shops and bookstores, white on the waterfall rocks across from The Cup and Cake, and white on the evergreen wreaths hanging from every lamppost. The morning light was soft and gray, the kind that made the whole town look like it had been wrapped in tissue paper.
Inside the bakery, it was warm and smelled like cinnamon, butter, and peppermint—the scent so rich it almost had weight. The display case was full of festive treats, red and green frosting catching the light. A small Christmas tree sat in the corner, decorated with cookie ornaments and twinkling white lights. Bing Crosby crooned softly from the speakers.
Nans sat at her usual table near the window with Ruth, Ida, and Helen. The table was the good one—the one with the view of Main Street and the waterfall, the one they’d claimed as theirs years ago and defended with the quiet ruthlessness of elderly women who knew what they wanted.
Nans wore a red cardigan with a brooch shaped like a Christmas tree, the little gems catching the light whenever she moved. Ruth had on a vintage plaid skirt and cream blouse with pearl buttons—perfectly pressed, as always, not a wrinkle in sight. Her hair was styled in soft waves, and she wore small pearl earrings.
Helen’s snowflake sweater looked hand-knitted, possibly by Helen herself, the stitches uneven in a way that suggested love rather than skill.
Ida wore a regular sweatshirt—navy blue, slightly faded—but had compensated with jingle-bell earrings that clinked softly whenever she moved her head and a candy cane pin the size of a small weapon pinned prominently to her chest. Knowing ida she probably intended to actually use it as a weapon.
“Lexy,” Nans called across the bakery, tapping the glass display case with a fingernail like she was summoning a waiter at a five-star restaurant, “tell me you made the peppermint pinwheels.”
Lexy looked up from behind the counter, where she was piping icing in tidy little swirls onto a tray of sugar cookies. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she had the slightly frazzled look of someone who’d been up since four in the morning.
“I did,” Lexy called back. “And gingerbread men. And snowflake sugar cookies. And?—“
“And the cranberry orange scones?” Ida interrupted, even though she was already halfway through a cinnamon one, crumbs scattered on the plate in front of her.
Helen gave her the look—the one with the raised eyebrow that said really, Ida? without needing words.
Ida shrugged and took another bite.
Ruth pulled out her iPad, setting it on the table with the precise care of someone who treated technology like a holy relic. She opened it, tapped the screen a few times, then looked up. “Before we order anything else, can we acknowledge that the tree lighting is tonight and I’m not missing Wheel of Fortune for any reason. Any. Reason.”
Nans leaned back in her chair, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “You say that now,” she replied, “but you’ve also said you ‘don’t get involved,’ and yet here you are looking up what time it starts.”
Ruth sniffed, adjusting her pearl earring. “I can be involved and still be home by seven. It’s called time management.”
“It’s called optimism,” Helen murmured.
Ida reached into her purse—a large patent leather bag that seemed to contain everything short of a camping tent—and produced an entire roll of peppermints, still wrapped in cellophane. She shook it at the table like a prize. “Emergency sugar.”
“Why do you have emergency sugar?” Helen asked.
“Because emergencies happen,” Ida said reasonably. “And they’re always better with sugar.”
Lexy walked over with a plate piled high with cookies and scones—enough to qualify as a meal, possibly two. She set it down in the center of the table with a knowing smile. “On the house. Because I love you, but also because if I don’t feed you, you’ll start ‘investigating’ and scare my customers.”
Nans picked up a peppermint pinwheel cookie and examined it approvingly. “Smart girl.”
“I learned from the best,” Lexy said, and there was affection in her voice, the kind that came from knowing these women for years and having given up trying to control them.
That was the moment Harriet Granger burst through the bakery door.
The little bell above the door jangled violently. Cold air rushed in, making the Christmas tree lights flicker. Harriet stood in the doorway, her coat unbuttoned, her scarf askew. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and her eyes were wide—the kind of wide that meant she had news and couldn’t wait to share it.
“Have you heard?” Harriet announced, breathless, not even bothering to close the door behind her.
Ida straightened in her chair, jingle bells clinking. “If this is about the mayor’s wife wearing white after Labor Day?—“
“No!” Harriet finally closed the door and rushed toward their table. “It’s Stanley Hooper. He’s dead!”
The plate of cookies went very still.
The whole bakery went still, actually. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Someone set down their coffee cup a little too hard. Bing Crosby kept singing, oblivious.
