Mother had volunteered to decorate the interior as well as the exterior. She’d had her crew doing the decorations all morning, and we’d both been too busy to check the results. Mother’s taste and mine didn’t always agree, so I braced myself as we stepped out into the front hall.
“Oh, my,” Michael said. “She’s done a fabulous job.”
I had to agree. Mother had continued the evergreen and red velvet bow motif from outside into the hall. Garlands ran up and down the banisters and around the door and window frames, with sparkly gold bells here and there as accents. Nests of candles surrounded by sprigs of holly decorated every horizontal surface, and an intricately woven ivy globe with a sprig of mistletoe inside hung from the central light fixture.
Evidently she’d rejected our eight-foot artificial tree as highly unsuitable, and substituted a twelve-foot real spruce. She’d probably raided every chic Christmas boutique in the state to find enough glittering baubles to cover it, but I was touched to see a few familiar favorite ornaments that usually graced the family tree tucked in between the sparkly glass balls, gilded cherubs, feathered birds, and other brand-new finery.
The evergreen boughs draping the living room walls were festooned with the holiday cards we’d received from friends and family. I tried not to think how many. I was using the parade as my excuse to send out holiday cards after Christmas. After all, that’s why I called them holiday cards. New Year’s was also a holiday. So was Valentine’s Day. Maybe even St. Patrick’s Day.
Michael flipped our stockings up onto the mantel and lit the fire before we checked the dining room. Mother had done it up in a food motif, accessorizing the ubiquitous evergreen boughs with gold-painted carved apples, pineapples, pomegranates, grapes, strawberries, and bananas. More gilded fruit formed a centerpiece on the table, surrounded the candles in the windows, and nested between the dishes and glasses in the built-in china cupboard. King Midas would feel right at home.
She had also dug out all our wedding present silver and arranged the serving pieces in a nest of holly and ivy on the sideboard, giving the impression that if you lifted the covers you’d find an elegant feast.
My stomach growled at the thought.
“It’s fabulous,” Michael said. “We’ll thank her tomorrow. Let’s grill.”
He went out to the kitchen to find the steaks. I started to set the table—with the good china. Mother’s décor deserved it. I was opening the silverware drawer when I heard an odd sound, and went to the living room to look outside.
“Is that what I think it is?” Michael asked, sticking his head out of the kitchen.
“If you think it’s sirens, then yes.”
A police car raced by with its lights flashing. As they passed our house, they cut the sirens. How odd.
“Where do you suppose it’s going?” Michael mused.
A second police car passed, followed by a car that could have been the chief’s. It was hard to tell through the tall hedge that separated us from the road, not to mention the fact that they were all going so fast. Dangerously fast, considering the condition of the roads.
“They’re going down to the Pines,” I said.
“You don’t know for sure.”
“Where else?” I asked. The road meandered past half a dozen farms, then deadended at Caerphilly Creek, where Ralph Dole-son had transformed an abandoned textile factory into the Spare Attic and a run-down motel into the Whispering Pines. “And I bet it’s something about the murder.”
“I suppose we’ll find out in the morning,” Michael said, looking wistfully at the fire.
“Or we can follow them, and find out now,” I said, heading for the hall closet.
“That’s crazy,” he said. “What if we get stuck in the snow?”
“It would take a lot to stop the truck. And it’s only a few miles. We could walk home if worst came to worst. ‘Walking in a Winter Wonderland,’ like in the carol.”
Michael didn’t argue that hard for staying in, which meant his curiosity was as bad as mine. We threw on all our warm clothes, climbed into the truck, and set off down the road at a considerably slower pace than the police cars had gone.
Chapter 18
We had to pull over twice on the way to let faster-moving vehicles pass. One was another police car, and the other was a car with D.C. license plates.
“Could that be what’s-his-name?” Michael asked. “The reporter?”
“Werzel,” I said. “More than likely. I bet he’s got a police scanner and overheard whatever’s going on.”
When we reached the end of the road, we found that the police cars were all clustered in the parking lot of the Spare Attic. All the Pines residents were out in force, watching—some of them with coats thrown hastily over pajamas.