“No,” Ruth said.
“Maybe,” Helen said.
“Definitely not,” Nans said. “Lexy would never forgive him.”
They walked down the hallway toward the front entrance, their footsteps echoing on the tile floor. Through the windows, they could see that the snow had started falling again, soft and steady, covering the town in fresh white.
Behind them, they heard Jack’s voice, professional and patient, beginning to take Vivian’s statement.
“All right, Vivian. Let’s start from the beginning. What time did Stanley call you last night?”
The door to his office closed with a soft click.
“Well,” Ida said, pulling her coat tighter as they stepped outside into the cold. “That went better than expected.”
“Eddie’s lucky Jack is reasonable,” Helen said.
“And that the evidence cleared him,” Ruth added.
Nans paused on the station steps, looking out at Main Street, where the Christmas lights were beginning to twinkle in the gathering dusk. “Stanley spent so much time accusing everyone else that he never considered his own guilt would be the thing that killed him.”
“Tragic,” Helen murmured.
“And ironic,” Ida said.
“And solved,” Ruth said, checking her watch. “And it’s only five-thirty. I might actually make it home in time for Wheel of Fortune.”
Nans smiled. “Miracles do happen at Christmas.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Outside, the town square was packed with people bundled in coats and scarves, their breath visible in the cold air. Main Street had been closed off for the evening, and the crowd spilled across the asphalt, families with children on shoulders, elderly couples holding hands, teenagers clustered in groups pretending not to care while secretly caring very much.
The tree stood in the center of the square—a massive blue spruce, easily twenty feet tall, decorated with hundreds of ornaments donated by local families. Each one told a story: handmade felt stars from the elementary school, glass baubles passed down through generations, photo ornaments of babies and pets and wedding days. At the very top, a silver star caught the streetlight, waiting for its moment.
Lexy had set up a table near the hot chocolate station, her bakery logo on a bright red banner. Trays of cookies and cupcakes covered every inch of the table—gingerbread men with candy button eyes, sugar cookies frosted like snowflakes, chocolate cupcakes topped with peppermint buttercream and crushed candy canes. She was handing them out with the kind of efficient cheer that came from years of running a bakery during the holidays.
“Cookies!” she called out. “Fresh from The Cup and Cake! Get them while they’re still warm!”
A line of children formed immediately, their parents following with the resigned patience of people who knew their kids would be sugared up until midnight.
Nans, Ruth, Ida, and Helen stood near the edge of the crowd, close enough to see but far enough to avoid being jostled.
The mayor stepped up to a microphone set up near the tree. He tapped it twice, and the feedback squealed across the square.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the mayor said, his voice amplified and echoing slightly. “Thank you all for coming to our annual tree lighting. I know today has been... difficult. We lost someone who was a big part of our community. But Stanley would have wanted us to carry on with this tradition.”
There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd, though a few faces looked skeptical.
“So without further delay,” the mayor continued, “let’s light this tree!”
He gestured dramatically, and someone threw a switch.
The tree lit up.
White lights rippled over the branches in waves, starting from the bottom and cascading upward like water flowing in reverse. The silver star at the top blazed to life, and the crowd cheered—a sound that started small and built until it filled the square, echoing off the brick buildings and rising into the night sky.
Children squealed and pointed. Camera phones went up. Someone’s dog barked enthusiastically.
