Page 93

Emily’s step faltered again—this time for a completely different reason.

She was starting to think they might not make it through the meeting after all.

Mayor Bloomfield’s office was ready for the holidays.

A fresh garland of cedar and pine cones ran along the mantel of the decorative fireplace, fragrant enough that Emily caught the clean, woodsy scent the moment the mayor ushered them inside. A small Christmas tree stood in the corner beside a filing cabinet, its branches heavy with ornaments that appeared to have been collected from every Maple Falls holiday event of the past thirty years.

There was a painted wooden fish from Walleye Weekend.

A tiny pumpkin with Pumpkinfest 2004 written in gold marker.

And, near the top, a slightly crooked gingerbread man that Emily was almost certain she had decorated in elementary school.

Mayor Bloomfield received them with his usual warmth, wearing a festive red business suit that should have looked absurd and somehow didn’t, because everything suited Mayor Bloomfield. If anyone else had worn a cranberry-colored jacket, matching trousers, and a green tartan tie, they would have looked like a department store Santa who’d taken a corporate job.

“Come in, come in,” he said, gesturing them toward the two chairs across from his desk. “Mind the poinsettia there, Emily. Edith insists they brighten the room.”

“They do,” Emily said, carefully stepping around the largest one, which had been placed directly beside the guest chair.

“I should tell you upfront,” the mayor said, settling into his chair, “Douglas and I haven’t spoken in⁠—”

He paused, eyes lifting toward the ceiling as he calculated.

“Twelve years, give or take,” he finished. “It’s not a warm relationship.”

“Understood,” Cole said. “Whatever you can tell us would be useful.”

Mayor Bloomfield nodded, though his fingers lingered on the snowman mug without lifting it. “He’s my half-brother. My mother’s second marriage, after my father passed. We were never close. Different ages, different temperaments.”

Outside the window, snow drifted past the glass in soft white flakes, catching briefly against the poinsettias lined along the sill.

“Douglas was difficult,” Bloomfield continued. “I say that as someone who tried, for a number of years, to maintain the relationship.”

“Difficult how?” Emily asked, pen ready.

The mayor looked down at his desk.

For a moment, the office seemed to hold its breath around them, despite all the festive cheer Edith had stuffed into every available corner. The garland. The tree. The wreath. The little nativity. All of it bright and merry, and none of it quite able to soften the mayor’s expression.

“Competitive. Money-focused. He had a habit of—acquiring things that weren’t his,” the mayor said, trying to sound diplomatic. “When we were boys, things went missing. Small things, usually. Money from my mother’s purse. A watch of my father’s.” He paused. “I’m not saying he was a bad man. I’m saying he was a man with poor impulse control when something he wanted was within reach.”

The heating system clicked on somewhere in the wall, sending a low hum through the room. A ribbon tied around a bunch of mistletoe fluttered faintly in the movement of warm air.

“Did he ever mention anything about the cash prize from the contest?”

The mayor chuckled. “Did he ever. He felt that money was as good as his, or it should’ve been.”

“Because he was a good baker?” Cole pressed.

“Because he needed it the most. Douglas had significant unpaid taxes that year. The county was threatening to put a lien on the property he was renting. He needed money quite urgently.” He shook his head. “And he’d entered that competition six times and never won. Your grandmother beat him three times herself. He did not take that well.”

Emily looked at Cole. Cole looked at Emily.

There it is, she thought. He had motive. Access. A documented history of taking things. A desperate need for the cash prize. She thought of the women at the crafting club, of Douglas in and out of the bakery all morning, asking questions about Nana’s recipe. The picture was assembling itself with a satisfying, almost audible click.

She thought: Why had nobody ever looked at him before?

“Mayor,” she said, “this sounds like⁠—”