Vivian shook her head quickly. “I didn’t talk to him. He’d already been found when I got here. There were police cars and ambulances and...” She trailed off, her hands shaking slightly. “I walked in and saw all the emergency vehicles. I didn’t even make it past the lobby.”
Ruth’s pen hovered over her iPad. “Can anyone confirm you were home before six?”
Vivian’s laugh was short and bitter. “No. I live alone. Unless you want to interview my cat.”
Nans tilted her head. “What’s your cat’s name?”
Vivian blinked at the sudden shift in tone. “Spruce.”
Ida’s face lit up. “That is adorable.”
Vivian’s expression softened just a fraction, the tension in her shoulders easing. “Spruce is a menace. He knocked over my coffee this morning and tried to eat my Christmas cactus.”
Helen smiled gently. “Cats have their own schedules.”
“He certainly does.” Vivian picked up her clipboard again, her professional mask sliding back into place. “Is there anything else? I have seventeen vendors arriving in four hours and half the tables aren’t set up.”
“Thank you, Vivian,” Nans said.
Vivian’s eyes widened. “That’s it? You’re not going to accuse me of something?”
Nans smiled. “For now.”
Vivian stared at them for a moment, then turned back to her volunteers, shouting something about the hot cocoa station being in the wrong corner.
As the ladies walked back toward the lobby, Helen whispered, “She’s stressed.”
“She’s terrified,” Ruth corrected quietly.
Ida adjusted her purse. “And her glitter bag is missing.”
CHAPTER SIX
Elaine Wilkins lived in the white farmhouse near the church, the kind with a porch swing and a wreath so perfectly fluffed it looked professionally styled. The house sat on a small hill, its windows glowing warm against the gray afternoon. Smoke curled from the chimney, and the scent of cinnamon and sugar hung in the cold air.
Christmas lights outlined the porch railings—white and tasteful, nothing flashing or garish. A hand-painted sign near the front door read “Bless This Home.”
Nans climbed the porch steps and knocked.
Elaine answered the door wearing an apron dusted with flour, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and there was a smudge of powdered sugar on her cheek. Behind her, the house smelled like vanilla, butter, and something spiced—gingerbread, maybe, or snickerdoodles.
She looked at the four women on her porch and her expression went carefully neutral. “Oh.”
“Nice to see you too, Elaine,” Ida said cheerfully.
Elaine’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m just in the middle of baking for the church cookie walk. We’re doing six dozen varieties this year.”
Helen smiled gently. “That’s ambitious.”
“It’s necessary.” Elaine didn’t step aside to let them in, but she didn’t close the door either. She stood in the doorway like a sentry. “What can I do for you?”
Nans folded her hands. “Elaine, we’re sorry about Stanley.”
Elaine’s eyes flicked away, focusing somewhere over Nans’ shoulder. “It’s tragic.”
“We heard you and Stanley argued recently,” Ruth said, her iPad tucked under her arm but ready.
Elaine’s chin lifted, and her gaze snapped back to meet Ruth’s. “We disagreed. There’s a difference.”
