The House that Christmas Made: Harbor Hills, #4

Prologue

The heady smell of seasoned turkey, brined and roasting to a sizzle, could not quell the woman’s unease. She swayed in her grandfather’s doorway as the other two faces within blurred together until they became one.

It took a moment for the woman to orient herself.

Here she was, standing on the front porch of 696 Apple Hill Lane, just as she had for the past several holidays now, ever since her grandmother had died.

She was supposed to go in and roast Thanksgiving dinner with her grandfather before dozing on the sofa. After, she’d tidy up. Then, she’d return home to Heirloom Island. To teaching and to her otherwise bland and lonely life.

That was the normal flow of things. But on this particular Thanksgiving Thursday, she’d arrived to find a second woman. A competitor. Although what was the competition? Was there any?

Most logically, this strange-but-beautiful lady was a relative. Yes. A relative.

Rifling through her memory, the woman conjured up her grandfather’s full name to the best of her knowledge. Bernard Carlson. Middle name—to the woman—unknown. Nickname: Bernie. Or, in her case, Grandad.

Carl—that’s what the strange lady inside had called Grandad upon opening the door.

Carl. A diminutive for his surname, Carlson? Odd.

Was there a sister? Grandad had several, yes. Sisters and brothers. But—they were shadows to her. Rumors.

The woman eyed both of the older people with great confusion before stowing the question of names away, deep in her brain.

Kid, Grandad choked over the word, coughing and spewing for a dramatic moment. I figured you weren’t coming around.

I always come around, she replied. For the past several years now, she’d arrived on every single significant holiday. Even some of the insignificant ones. Had dementia finally hit the wheezing old man?

No.

His already-ruddy cheeks flushed deeper, their pores darkening like sinkholes among the red blood-vessel spiderwebs on his cheeks. He groped for his walker and scootched to the side, offering the woman a better view of the other person.

The woman didn’t step in and instead awaited a proper introduction.

Grandad cleared his throat awkwardly. This is my granddaughter. He indicated her to his friend with a half-hearted sweep of his hand.

The woman tried for a smile, but all that came out was a grimace. Hi, she grunted.

The other woman nodded, perhaps equally nervous. Hello.

Without the exchange of names, a threatening silence had settled, forming a Bermuda Triangle between the trio.

The other woman licked her lips and took a tentative step forward. I’ve heard so much about you, she said, her words sinking into the abyss of their uncomfortable meeting ground. Then, that unfamiliar, strange woman—who was probably ten years younger than Grandad and twice as beautiful as Nana—jutted out a delicate hand. I’m Temperance. Temperance Temper. You can call me Tippy.

Chapter 1—Jude

The world outside of Jude’s parlor window was frozen in a perfect late-autumn tableau. Birches and oak trees reached for the frigid, white-blue morning sky like skeleton fingers toward Heaven.

In a stark contrast to those tall and lanky trees, vivid green still clung to the front lawn. Green that may or may not last. Oftentimes in Michigan, a warm spell followed by a jolting cold snap would damage the grass badly enough that, in years prior, Gene would spend a lazy Saturday reseeding, mulching, and accepting late-spring lemonades from Jude. Ever the perfect housewife.

That was Jude.

Back then.

But now, this year, the grass might well die, and Jude wasn’t quite sure if she’d have the oomph to fix it come the following summer. Of course, winter hadn’t even hit yet. It was much too early to tell if Jude would even survive the winter herself, much less whether her front lawn would.

Presently, she took a long, slow pull of her coffee—a sweet holiday-flavored blend she’d dug out of the closet where she kept gifts to regift.

Dean Jericho sat no farther than eighteen inches away from Jude on her very own love seat. Together, they faced her front porch and the street, sipping their respective coffees. A generous spread of breakfast foods ornamented the square, wooden table that abutted their knees. Jude had put out two of each: croissants, blueberry muffins, sticky buns—all homemade. She’d added two bowls of cut-up fruit and two glasses of orange juice. Silverware and cloth napkins framed each of their appetizer plates. It had taken her, in all, just over three hours to prepare.

Dean set his coffee mug down and reached for a sticky bun. After taking a bite but before swallowing, he announced, You’re divorced. The statement bounced from his mouth like a flat basketball. Like he was pointing out the weather, dully. Lamely. Boringly.

Jude pitched her reply right back like the crack of a bat on a baseball. Technically, my marriage was annulled.

Their get-together was meant to be another casual attempt at a date, although Jude refused to acknowledge such a label for any sort of meeting. And she had only agreed at all because of how things were going in the rest of her social life. Her friends were entrenched in some hideous mystery. Even the school was wrapped up in the age-old local missing woman case. Jude had no interest in any of that. She wasn’t one to involve herself in gossip. And Dean seemed to be of the same temperament. Not once had he mentioned the body that the Bests had found or Temperance Temper, the missing woman. So, for now at least, Jude and Dean fit together well.

Dean pulled a suspicious frown. Annulled? A chuckle followed. Do people really get annulments in this day and age?

Jude recoiled with her coffee mug. Catholics do. She knit her eyebrows together. Wasn’t he devout? And if he wasn’t…then what?

I’m just plain old divorced, he replied, answering a question she hadn’t wanted to ask aloud.

Oh. Jude took another sip. How long ago was that? No, Jude wasn’t up for gossip, but she was a red-blooded woman. It wouldn’t hurt her to know a little about this Dean fellow’s history.

Peg and I quit each other twenty years ago. Just about one year after our wedding.

Oh. Jude pressed a hand to her chest. One year? That’s…

Telling? he finished her sentence for her. Yeah. Never should have done it in the first place. Weren’t a good couple.

And it scared you off of marriage? Jude slid her gaze back out the window, beyond which a light gust rustled loose pine needles free from their branches. Late droppers, Jude called them—the pine needles that ought to have fallen back in September and October but hung around until winter.

Dean gave her a funny look. Scared off of marriage? Not to sound too macho, but there isn’t much that scares me.

She lifted an eyebrow. That might be the most macho thing I’ve heard. A little smile danced on her lips. Then again, I don’t consider myself one to scare easily, either.

Then you won’t be scared if I ask you something straight up. Dean put his plate and mug down and turned to her, his expression falling serious.

Jude tucked a strand of her silver hair behind an ear, willing herself to tolerate whatever it was he was about to say. Maybe he’d ask her why she got an annulment. Maybe he’d ask her about Gene. Maybe he’d ask her on a real date.

But Dean Jericho seemed entirely disinterested in Jude’s romantic history…or future. Because instead, he simply scratched the back of his head and asked, How did you know the Carlsons?

Chapter 2—Annette

Annette’s husband had been acting strangely for at least a week now, and it was bad timing. Christmas was upon them, and they were in full rebrand mode with the business. New marketing campaigns. New clients. And a cramped house that doubled as an office.

Not only that, but then there was the active police investigation splayed across property lines.

Life was a mess, but it was their mess, so Annette figured she’d put up with Roman and his oddness. In the meantime, she had things to do.

And today, the main thing to do was her fourth interview with the police.

No, Detective Grange assured her as they sat across from each other in the Harbor Hills Police Department interview room, you’re not a suspect.

Then why are you interviewing me separately from Roman? she put back to him. And Elijah?

Because we have to do this thing right. Bill Grange was a Harbor Hills old-timer, having served on the force since he was fresh out of the police academy.

Annette took a long drink from her Styrofoam cup of coffee. Fine. But I have a meeting at ten with a new client.

You’ll be out by then, he assured her, flipping pages in his notebook. Okay, so the kids came to you and explained what they found. You assessed it and decided to keep it mum.

Initially, Annette allowed. But the next day I realized it might not be what I thought.

He gave her a hard look. What do you mean?

I mean, I figured at first it was one of these backyard graves. There’s a string of them in my new backyard on Dogwood, you know.

He nodded but stayed quiet.

Well, I realized maybe it was something else. Then I remembered… She hovered over the rest of her sentence, pondering whether to come out with it. Annette had a rule about honesty—if the truth could hurt someone, then shut up. She’d learned this from her older sister, and when they were younger, it felt good and moral. A righteous way to live, even. But now, sitting at a metal table with stale coffee in hand, she wondered if the truth could set her free.

But then, was Annette not free?

She was too far out of her element to even know.

What? Bill pressed. What did you remember?

I remembered when we bought the house— A thought seized her midsentence and she interrupted herself. Bill, have they ID’d the body yet?

He shook his head. "The labs in Saginaw and Detroit are backed up