Chapter 1

The morning I found out Santa Claus was dead, I was untangling Christmas lights in Jensen Harbor's town hall and thinking about murder. Not real murder, mind you – I was plotting the fictional demise of a character in my next mystery novel. But in small towns like ours, where everyone's life is wrapped around everyone else's like stubborn strands of tinsel, sometimes fiction has a way of bleeding into reality. I only had a month before I had to leave on a book signing tour to promote my newest murder mystery.

The hall was packed with citizens, most of who came to listen and to offer their ideas on how this year’s festival should be conducted. Jensen Harbor’s Christmas festival had started small but as the years passed, the festival became more ambitious, as did those who ran it.

 It lasted the entire week before Christmas ending on Christmas Eve night. and had become known as one of Alaska’s biggest winter tourist attractions. People come from all over to see and be a part of what’s been called the most traditional Christmas celebration ever. Many prominent residents reveled in the town’s statewide reputation as a Christmas celebration, where tradition reigns. Regardless, the festival seemed to get grander every year and most of our residents got caught up in the excitement of the holiday and were enthusiastic participants as well. 

Dr. Sam Harris, my good friend and the town’s only veterinarian, who sat at the table with me, leaned close to my ear and said, “Where is Logan James? Isn’t he supposed to be here to get fitted for that Santa costume, Tilly?” 

I looked at him, and said, “Yes but he’s late again, and that’s not like him.”

 “I wonder what’s keeping him this time.” 

"Has anyone heard from Logan?" I asked, checking my watch for the third time. Our mayor had never missed a Christmas festival planning meeting in twenty years of playing Santa. The red suit hung expectantly on its brass hook by the door, waiting for its annual fitting. This year it needed extra padding – Logan had lost weight recently, something Ellie had been oddly quiet about at last week's Ladies' Aid meeting.

A pile of urgent issues sat before me: the structural engineer's report on the harbor pavilion (apparently, it couldn't support our planned light display), the email from our longtime glass ornament vendor announcing bankruptcy, and a tearful message from the choir director about half her sopranos being down with flu. But most pressing was the Santa situation – even if Logan showed up now, the suit would need major alterations. He'd missed last week's preliminary fitting, too, something that had never happened before.

 Carrie  Higgins  set a tray of peppermint hot chocolate on the conference table, steam rising from the cups like winter ghosts.

 "He wasn't at the café this morning," she said, frowning. "First time he's missed his Monday morning cinnamon roll in... well, forever."

"Probably too busy counting his money," Harry Evans muttered from his corner chair. His rancher's hands were clasped too tight around his cup, knuckles white with tension. I'd known Harry since high school, back when he was the star quarterback, and I was the school newspaper's mystery columnist. These days, he looked more haunted than heroic.

Brad Thompson, our hardware store owner, shuffled through his papers. "We need his signature on the parade permits today, or we can't close Main Street for the light display. And speaking of lights..." 

He glanced at Harry. "Your order still hasn't come through. Without those extra strings, we're short for the harbor pavilion."

I added that to my mental list of festival crises, right below 'half the children's choir down with flu' and 'reindeer handler demanding double his usual fee.' Fifteen  published mysteries had taught me about plot complications, but somehow coordinating Jensen Harbor's Christmas festival made my fictional murders seem simple.

I turned to Sam. “Where could he be?” I asked. Sam leaned forward and scanned faces at the long table on the other side of the room. 

“You’re right, Tilly ,” Eddy said. “The mayor hasn’t ever missed a Christmas festival planning meeting for as long as I can remember.”

“Nor I.” Sam agreed.

 Logan James was a prosperous businessman in real estate  who’d enjoyed playing Santa Claus at our holiday festival for the past twenty odd years. Logan was a big, friendly man with a merry laugh. I guessed him to be around two hundred and fifty pounds,  at least he used to be. 

“Is he sick, do you think?” I asked. 

“No, I saw him yesterday,” Sam said. “At Carrie  Higgins’ Bakery. He looked okay to me.” 

“Maybe some emergency.”

“Maybe,” Sam muttered. A few minutes later, the door opened, bringing a swirl of snow and Sheriff Eddy Brown. My heart did that ridiculous flutter it had been doing lately whenever he entered a room. Since we had been spending more time together, there had been... moments. Glances that lasted a beat too long. Casual touches that felt anything but casual. The kind of subtle courtship that only happens in small towns where everyone is watching but pretending not to.

"Logan's not answering his phone," Eddy said, his deep voice carrying that hint of concern that only I seemed to notice. "Wally say’s Logan’s car's in the driveway, but..." He caught my eye, and twenty years of friendship let me read the worry in his face.

“Maybe somebody ought to take a ride out to the house and check on him,” Sam suggested. 

Eddy stood, pulling on his jacket

"I'll come with you," I said, gathering my festival binder. "We need his signature on the permits anyway." That was only partly true. What I didn't say was that after writing fifteen bestselling murder mysteries, I'd developed a sixth sense about these things. Something felt off.

"Tilly..." Lou Willis, my best friend had arrived just behind Eddy. She now reached out and touched my arm. "Don't forget you have that call with your editor at eleven."

"This won't take long," I assured her, though my writer's instincts were already spinning possibilities. 

  Sam Harris caught my eye from across the room. As Jensen Harbor's only veterinarian and my longtime partner in crime-solving, he knew that look on my face. He gave me a slight nod – he'd cover the meeting while I was gone.

The drive to Logan's house was quiet, but not uncomfortable. That's the thing about small towns – you develop a language of silence with people you've known forever. I'd known Eddy since he was the shy boy who helped my father at the hardware store, before selling it to Brad’s father fifteen years ago. Now he was our sheriff, and I was Jensen Harbor's claim to fame, our only regular on the New York Times bestseller list.

"You're doing that thing again," Eddy said, his eyes on the snowy road.

"What thing?"

"That look you get when you're plotting a murder." His mouth twitched with the hint of a smile. "Literary murder," he added quickly.

I had to laugh. "Force of habit. Writing books with the subjects of murder and dying tends to warp a person's thinking." I gestured to the grand house appearing through the snow. "Though I have to admit, Logan's place would make a perfect setting for a mystery. All those windows looking out over the harbor, that isolated beach access..."

The laughter died in my throat as we pulled up to Logan's house. His car was in the driveway, covered in a thick blanket of snow. More telling were the Christmas decorations: half-finished, as if he'd stopped in the middle of hanging lights. A ladder still leaned against the house, extension cords snaked across the snow like frozen tenacles. 

"Logan?" Eddy called out, knocking firmly. When no answer came, he tried the handle. It turned easily in his hand.

That's when I knew. In Jensen Harbor, nobody leaves their door unlocked in winter. The wind off the harbor gets nasty enough to blow them open.

"Stay here, Tilly," Eddy said, his hand moving to his hip where his gun rested.

"Not a chance." I'd written enough crime scenes to know what we might find, but I'd also known Logan James since he was a teenager sneaking extra cookies from my mother's bakery. If something had happened to him, I needed to see it for myself.

Christmas music played softly from hidden speakers – "Silent Night," of all things. Holiday cards lay half-addressed on the coffee table. A shopping list for festival supplies sat abandoned by the phone.

The study doors were open, we found Logan in his home office and the scene before me stopped me cold. Logan James sat at his massive mahogany desk, head tilted back, looking for all the world like he'd dozed off while doing paperwork. Except Logan hadn't fallen asleep. The festival permits lay unsigned beneath his still hand, and he wore a bright red Santa suit and tall black riding boots -on a Sunday night. There was something oddly striking about his body’s position and  the lividity of his skin and the strange blue tinge to his lips and fingernails. Death had a particular quality—a stillness that no living pose could ever truly mimic

Chapter 2

Eddy, his face ashen, bent down to examine Logan James' body. His hands hovered uncertainly above the lifeless form. "He's gone," he said softly, each word whispered and laced with disbelief.

"Don't touch anything," Eddy said softly, pulling out his phone. But he didn't need to warn me. I'd researched enough crime scenes to know better.

What struck me wasn't the violence of the scene – it was surprisingly peaceful, all things considered – but the wrongness of his clothes. Logan was wearing a red Santa suit, but not the one now hanging on the hook back at the community center. But why? On a Sunday night?

As Eddy called for backup, I stood in the doorway, my writer's mind already cataloging details: the half-empty coffee cup next to a completely full cup, the way his computer screen still glowed, the unusual angle of his desk chair. But mostly, I thought about Ellie, his wife, in Anchorage on a business trip. About Harry Evans, who'd threatened to "blow Logan's brains out" just last week over some private argument. About Alli Evans, who always got a strange look in her eyes whenever Logan was mentioned.

And about our Christmas festival, now short one Santa Claus.

"I know that look, Tilly," Eddy said, coming to stand beside me. His shoulder brushed mine, and despite everything, I felt that flutter again. "You're already solving this in your head, aren't you?"

"Maybe," I admitted. "But real life is messier than fiction, Eddy. In my books, the clues all add up neatly. In real life..." I gestured to the office, where Logan's Christmas card list still sat unfinished on his desk. "In real life, people are complicated."

"That's why I could use your help on this one." He touched my arm gently. "You know everyone in town, their secrets, their stories. I know, I do too, but you know how to piece things together."

I looked up at him, seeing the worry in his eyes – not just about the case, but about me. About us. Whatever this thing was growing between us.

"Well," I said, straightening my shoulders, "I suppose Jensen Harbor will be getting a different kind of Christmas story this year."

I pulled out my phone and sent two quick texts. The first to Sam Harris, who'd been my partner in crime-solving since high school, when we'd tracked down who was stealing the cafeteria's famous maple cookies (turned out it was Eddy Brown himself, too shy to ask the lunch lady for extras). These days, Sam split his time between treating Jensen Harbor's pets and helping me research the forensic details for novels. As our town's only veterinarian, he knew almost as many secrets as I did – animals have a way of bringing out people's true nature.

The second text went to Lou Willis, my best friend and confidante, who was probably showing another overpriced harbor-view property to out-of-towners. She'd recently started her own real estate company, determined to reinvent herself after her divorce. Between her new career path and my writing deadlines, we still managed to meet every Wednesday for coffee and town gossip at The Salty Dog Café. And I told them to both meet me there in an hour.

My writer's mind was already cataloging details: the Santa Claus Christmas cup on the desk, its contents half-empty; the scattered papers that suggested interrupted work; the slightly askew reading glasses that seemed to have slipped from Logan's face in his final moments. Eddy began to look through the hundreds of receipts and papers that lay scattered across the desk.

A few minutes later, flashing lights were seen in the wide driveway of Rockham House, and we were joined by two of Eddy’s uniformed deputies, one with a camera hanging around his neck and carrying a heavy black box, the other was holding a small black bag from which he pulled several rolls of yellow crime scene tape. They were followed in by the county’s medical examiner who was also the town doctor, and the EMS technicians carrying a narrow stretcher. I looked up to find Dr. Simmons in the doorway, his silver hair slightly disheveled and sparkling with snow. In a town as small as Jensen Harbor, everyone knew everyone, and John  Simmons had been our family doctor for over twenty years.

I followed Eddy as he approached Doctor Simmons. He leaned over the body, with a small whistle. 

Deputy Wally, his young face was unusually pale. Fresh out of the police academy, he looked like he'd barely begun to shave, let alone witnessed a potential murder scene, making a strangled sound as he looked at the body.

Eddy ignored Wally and faced Doctor Simmons, who remained standing next to the body.

 Eddy walked over to his side. “Well, doc, what do you think?” he asked loudly, making sure I could hear. “What killed him?” Eddy asked.

“Hard to say,” Simmons replied, continuing to scrutinize Logan. “Sheriff, I can’t be certain exactly what kind until we get a toxicology report, but it was a pretty strong poison, something like digitalis.”

“Somebody gave him a strong dose of poison,” The doctor said, looking down at Louie. “See the cyanotic blue of his lips and finger nails? Classic signs.” He pointed to the bloodied matted hair at the back of Logan’s head. Someone struck him pretty hard in the head after he was dead- or in his death throes. With this.” He pointed to a blood smeared iron statue of a wild stallion that lay on it’s side on the floor.

“Foxglove.” I went to the wide mahogany bookcase and pointed to the crystal vase filled with a dried flower arrangement. “Here.”

Eddy moved to where I stood. “Those pretty purple flowers killed him?” He waved his hand at the flowers. Disbelief evident in his voice. “You’re sure that is digitalis?”

“Homeopathically speaking, it is used for heart patients. Back in the 1800’s women used it as eyedrops to enlarge the pupils for beauty.”

“You’re kidding, right? Why would anyone put poison in their eyes to look beautiful? And what does big pupils have to do with beauty?!” disgust grew in Eddy’s voice.

“Never mind, Tilly. It’s exhausting to explain this to the sheriff. It will drive you insane.” Doctor Simmons looked up from his examination of Logan’s head. “Believe me, I know.”

Stifling a laugh, I lightly brushed Eddy’s hand with my fingertips and smiled up at him before turning back towards the Doctor. With one last look at the flowers, Eddy followed me.

Eddy leaned down and whispered in my ear in dead seriousness “You made that up, didn’t you?” Before I could respond, a commotion in the hallway interrupted us. Greg James, the eighteen-year-old son of Logan James, burst in, his face flushed with either exertion or emotion. His young face was pale, almost sickly as his eyes swept the chaos of the crime scene.

"Is it true?" he demanded, his voice a mixture of shock and something else—was it fear? "Dad is dead? But the Festival... mom--" he stopped abruptly, seeing the body. All color drained from his face, leaving him looking stark and frightened.

"Greg?" Brown dropped his hand from my shoulder and stepped toward him, his movements deliberate. "When was the last time you saw your father?"

"I... no. Last night. Before I left to pick up my friend Ruben Anderson at the airport. He was here, doing his paper work as always." But his voice shook, and his eyes never left the body. A bead of sweat formed at his temples, despite the room's cool temperature. “Why is he wearing a Santa suit?”

“We wondered that as well, Greg.” I said, putting a comforting hand on his arm. He leaned into me, seeking comfort.

“What time was that?” Eddy asked. And did you see your father when you returned home?”

Greg looked at me. “I left at eight thirty to pick up Ruben at nine o’clock. I came home at ten thirty last night. Dad’s light was still on in the office, so I left him alone- he doesn’t like being disturbed. I should have checked...”

“Where is your mother, Ellie, right now?” Eddy asked, his voice gentle.

“Mom’s in Anchorage right now, she left Friday morning on the milk run.” Greg stopped his green eyes widening with sudden realization. “You don’t think my mom had anything to do with-?”

Eddy opened his mouth only to close it as the boy’s voice began to rise hysterically.

"I should go. Have to...call my mom… have to tell everyone..." He fled before either of us could stop him. Eddy and I exchanged looks—a wordless communication that suggested we both knew something was profoundly wrong.

"That was interesting," I said.

"Indeed." Eddy sighed, the sound heavy with years of accumulated tragedies and secrets.

“Where’s Josh?” Eddy asked one of the deputies.

“I got hold of him, Sheriff, and filled him in. He will be here soon.”

“Did you call the state guys, Mark? We’re gonna need their crime scene personnel.”

“Called them, too. Should be a couple of cars here soon.”

Mark set down the box of battery packs and lights. He set up the lights and flipped the switch, as a brilliant white light instantly flooded the room, blinding us and casting deep shadows where it failed to reach. 

Squinting against the sudden brightness, Eddy started ordering Deputy Mark to speed up. “ Mark, hurry up and take the photos so these guys can do their job,” he said, pointing to the EMS crew who stood waiting just inside the study door.

“Right, Sheriff.”

“Mark, I want photos of the entire study. Did you get photos of the body and all around here?” 

“I did, Sheriff, just finished.” 

Eddy nodded and began to gather all the papers on the desk and floor with his gloved hands, putting them in a paper-lined box, before moving to the desk drawers and removing the contents. “Make sure to get photos of those ugly purple flowers over there on the bookcase.” Eddy said as he stepped away from the desk towards the filing cabinets, and the EMS crew took over. A technician  confirmed that Logan was dead,  then placed plastic bags over his hands, secured with rubber bands.

Eddy began to check Logan’s pockets. His mouth  pressed into a thin, grim line, as he removed items and dropped them into separate plastic baggies, which he handed to Wally. Directed by the medical examiner, the EMS crew laid out a black body bag alongside the corpse then lifted Logan’s body into the rubber bag. The sound of the zipper as they closed the bag shivered through me. Poor, poor Logan. 

“Wally, take Tilly back to the Salty Dog. I’ll be there as soon as Mark and I finish up here.”

Wally hesitated, a look of disappointment on his face. He obviously wanted to stay at the crime scene.

“Go on, Wally.” Eddy said while helping Mark unroll a long tape of yellow plastic with Crime Scene—Do Not Cross -repeated along its length.

Wally turned to me, motioning me to follow him out the patrol car.

Eddy waited as another of his deputies, Josh Jenkins, came down the hall in our direction. 

Crime scene techs arrived and began working. Eddy stepped back out of their way, watching their meticulous work as they slowly went over the crime scene with a fine-tooth comb.