Whiskers, Wreaths & Murder (A Dickens & Christie Mystery Book 3) by Kathy Manos Penn

Author:Kathy Manos Penn [Penn, Kathy Manos]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781734322651
Publisher: Manos Penn & Ink
Published: 2020-09-01T16:00:00+00:00

Not as good as a hug, but hearing Dave’s voice helped. I spent the remainder of the afternoon fiddling with Christmas decorations for the mantel. When I stepped back to look at the effect I’d created with the garland, I was pleased, but I knew myself well enough to know I’d keep shifting and adding items, at least until my party Saturday night.

I turned my attention to setting the table for two and preparing the sides to go with the turkey. I’d pop the sweet potatoes in the oven around 6:30, and everything would be ready for dinner at 7:30 after appetizers at seven. The only thing left to do was change clothes. Another red sweater and a touch of red lipstick would brighten my mood.

I’d cranked up the Christmas music and was lighting candles around the cottage when Gemma knocked on the door. Seeing her dressed casually with her blonde hair down on her shoulders, I could almost forget she was a Detective Sergeant. “Look at you,” I said. “You’d never guess you’d worked an accident scene and been back and forth between the family and the SOCOs all day.”

Gemma hugged me, and I thought, Wow, she’s never done that before. “Ah well, it’s a wonder what a shower can do. And, look at this place,” she said as she wandered to the mantel. “This carved reindeer, the miniature Christmas tree . . . Did you ship all this over from the States?”

“Everything but the tree and the garland. Check it out while I get the wine and an appetizer. Is white okay?”

She nodded yes and smiled as she picked up the Richie Bear. When I returned with two glasses of wine and some hummus and pita chips, I found her admiring the child-size black wooden rocking chair I’d placed by the Christmas tree. I had no idea who had given it to me, but I had a photo of me sitting in it dressed in footie pajamas. I still had long hair, so it must have been before Sophia was born. My mother had cut my hair short when she had Sophie—as a way to simplify her life, I supposed.

I told Gemma that story as we made ourselves comfortable on the couch. Dickens looked from me to the food on the coffee table, and I knew he was debating whether an attempt to snag a chip would be worth it. “Don’t even think about it,” I said as I leaned forward. He retreated to his bed near the fireplace and stretched out, but I knew he hadn’t given up.

I couldn’t recall Gemma and I often—if ever—chatting by ourselves about inconsequential topics. Heretofore, our one-on-one conversations had been about murder investigations. This interlude was a pleasant change.

Gemma sighed and set her glass down. “I’m not sure how to broach this topic, but . . . I need your help. With the case.” She clenched and unclenched her hands and then spread them on her thighs. “You know I’m leaving in the morning, but you may not have considered what that means for this case.

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