“He wouldn’t approve funds to buy coats for kids,” Helen said softly.
Elaine’s eyes flashed, and for a moment, the careful composure cracked. “He said he needed receipts. As if children come with barcodes.” Her voice was sharp, bitter. “As if a six-year-old should have to prove they’re cold before we help them.”
Ruth’s iPad pinged with a notification. She ignored it, keeping her focus on Elaine.
Nans stepped closer. “Where were you this morning?”
Elaine hesitated, her hand tightening on the edge of the door. “At the church. I was in the kitchen at six, prepping dough. Pastor Wilkins can confirm. So can half the volunteer committee—we had a team working on the cookie walk setup.”
“And did you have access to town hall?” Ida asked, tilting her head.
Elaine snorted, a sound that was half laugh, half scoff. “Stanley would never give me a key. He acted like the storage room was Fort Knox. Like I’d steal the Christmas lights if he turned his back.”
Ida leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Do you think anyone would want to stage an accident?”
Elaine’s gaze sharpened, her eyes narrowing as she looked at each of them in turn. “I think Stanley made enough enemies to fill the pews. Twice over.”
Nans let the silence settle for a moment, then asked quietly, “Did Stanley ever mention missing money from the toy drive?”
Elaine’s face went still. She looked down at her flour-dusted hands, then back up. “He mentioned lots of things.”
“Elaine,” Nans said, her voice firm but not unkind.
Elaine exhaled slowly, her shoulders sagging. “He said the numbers didn’t match last year. He implied I was sloppy. That I’d lost track of donations or miscounted cash.”
“Were you?” Ruth asked, her pen poised over her iPad.
Elaine’s mouth tightened into a hard line. “No. I am not sloppy. I kept records. Everything was logged—every dollar, every donation, every receipt. I’ve been doing this for ten years, and I’ve never once come up short.”
Helen’s voice was gentle. “But Stanley didn’t believe you?”
“Stanley didn’t believe anyone,” Elaine said bitterly. “He kept all the financial records in a lockbox in the storage room. Said he didn’t trust anyone else to handle them. Said I didn’t know how to manage money properly.”
Nans nodded slowly. “If you find those records, keep them handy.”
Elaine frowned. “Why?”
“Because if money is missing, somebody took it,” Nans said. “And if somebody took it, Stanley might have figured out who.”
Elaine swallowed hard, her hand moving to her throat. From inside the house, a timer went off—a shrill beeping that made her flinch.
“I need to check my ovens,” she said quickly.
“Of course,” Helen said.
Elaine stepped back and closed the door firmly, the lock clicking into place.
As they walked back to the car, the church bells chimed in the distance—a slow, mournful sound that echoed across the snowy hills.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Noah Hensley’s Christmas tree lot sat just outside town, a little sea of evergreens decorated with twinkling lights. The air smelled like pine and wood smoke from the barrel fire burning near the checkout shed. Handmade signs advertised wreaths, garland, and “Free Hot Cider - While It Lasts.” Christmas music played from a speaker somewhere, competing with the sound of traffic on the county road.
He was tying a tree to the roof of a minivan when the ladies arrived, his breath visible in the cold air. The family inside the van—two kids with their faces pressed against the windows—watched him work.
“Noah,” Nans called.
Noah glanced over, finishing the knot with practiced efficiency. “Ladies.” He gave the rope one final tug, then stepped back and waved to the driver. “You’re all set. Drive safe.”
