Yuletide Yowl: A Nine Lives Magic Mystery by Danielle Garrett

Author:Danielle Garrett [Garrett, Danielle]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-11-27T16:00:00+00:00

FROSTY ACRES FARM

A winter wonderland for all ages

Car after car slowly rumbled up the driveway, crunching over the gravel, as the majority of them veered to the left following the ice sculptures and glitzy blue lights hanging from a low fence lining the driveway, with only one or two cars diverting to the right, toward Pinkerton’s tree farm.

“Frosty Acres? Is this new?” I asked, frowning as we finally broke free of the gridlock and headed up the slight incline to Granny Pinkerton’s.

“It’s Jayne Emberfall’s place,” a muffled voice said from the back seat, from within the folds of the electric blanket. “I swear, Cora, for someone who religiously attends the town hall meetings, you miss a lot.”

“Oh.” I blinked. “I guess the ice makes sense then.”

“It’s all a little showy for my taste,” Selene added, poking her nose out long enough to glance at the sign as we drove past it.

“So, you’ve been there already? When?”

Selene shifted her blue eyes toward me. “I have a life, you know. You should try it sometime.”

Then she was gone again, back to her fleece-lined cave of solitude.

“Do you think they sell trees, too, then? I mean, it says farm, I guess.”

“They do, but they’re made of—wait for it … ice,” Selene interjected.

“What? A whole Christmas tree made of ice? Sounds messy.”

Selene scoffed. “Honestly, Cora, you have got to start paying attention. The ice is enchanted. It doesn’t melt.”

I rolled my eyes. “I do pay attention. But I also have this pesky little thing called a job.”

“Yeah, yeah, a job, we get it. Somebody will get you an award someday. You just hang in there, champ.”

“You know what—”

Clint cleared his throat before I could land on which particular threats I wanted to employ at the moment. I ran a hand over the strands of hair peeking out from my knit cap, smoothing them to one side as I forced an exhale and sat back against my seat.

“Well, in any case, the Pinkertons don’t appear to be hurting for customers. Looks like we’ll be lucky to even get a tree this year,” Clint said, his expression grim as we followed a soft curve up to the Pinkertons’ historic farmhouse.

The normally stuffed fields and pastures nearest the house were practically decimated, with only a handful of trees grouped in sporadic formations.

“Either that, or we’ll have to hoof it out to one of the further fields. I think they rotate through every few years.” Though, as I exited the car, I shielded my eyes from the early afternoon sun, and scanned the farther fields, only to find them looking just as sparse. We were a little later in the season than when I normally go tree shopping, but it was hard to imagine nearly all of the available trees already having been snapped up.

A Bavarian-themed outbuilding sat adjacent to the farmhouse’s wide wraparound porch, little more than a large tool shed, with just enough space for a checkout counter, and a few rows of shelves to display handmade Christmas gifts and decorations.

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