Her name was Tennie Cloer, but I always called her Aunt Tennie. Did from the first day I met her. When she would go downtown, folks called her Mrs. Cloer. One of the first things I noticed about her was how short she was and how when she wasn’t around, people referred to her as the Widow Cloer.
Vivian Bunn frowned at the boxes and tissue paper strewn across the floor of Lady Barbara Finchley-fforde's sitting room. Decorating Finchley Hall for the holidays used to be more a matter of deciding than actually doing the work. But since Mr. Mugg had...er, resigned, there was no one left to do it. Except Francie Jewell, of course. Francie, Lady Barbara's cook and maid-of-all-work, would tackle anything except ironing. But if Francie were put in charge of Christmas decorations, they'd probably end up with a fake tree in the Great Hall and inflatable snowmen in the courtyard.
Not much happens here in Sheepsvale. It’s a small town, mostly farms and open space that holds little attraction for city folks. This is fine with me. Too many visitors means crime and big city trouble. As sheriff, I am perfectly satisfied to put my feet up on my desk, have a leisurely cup of coffee, and let the rest of the world go by. So when I got the call that there was trouble at the north edge of town I was a little surprised. There are only two farms in that neck of the woods: McGregor’s and Old MacDonald’s.
Gabby Newman crept through her backyard watching the lantern in the tent turn her brother Steven, and his friend Miles, into shadow puppets. Steven was telling the same old story of the headless ghost.
Bev trusted her instincts, always had. So far she figured that’s what had kept her out of harm’s way all these years. Her mother moaned and complained about all the crazy schemes that her daughter had come up with. Though this time her mother said that none of her other ideas sounded half as ridiculous as this one. “You’ll end up a pile of bones,” were her mother’s last words as Bev closed the door behind her and descended the steps of the front porch.
No one in the neighborhood put on a better Halloween display than Diana Hunter. Every year, she added new decorations to scare young children and delight older trick-or-treaters. Last year, she hung a two-foot black velveteen spider from a wispy net between the birch trees; the net’s threads were so fine, trespassers who cut across her grass became entangled in the creature’s web.
The five student nurses stood at the security desk, waiting. Outside the glass doors, a landscaped lawn gasped in the August heat.
“No answer,” the guard said, one hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. “He’s not in his office.”
One of the students, Nancy Hines, nodded. “We’re a little early—”
I wrote like a fiend the first few weeks of the pandemic. My own wedding and event flower business was shut down, and I was on my own. I have worked at home for years, but this was different. I couldn’t go get my favorite coffee, or enjoy happy hour with friends over chips and salsa. After two months, even I was going stir crazy, so I decided to revisit one of my favorite books, and branch out to read other mysteries. There was comfort in books.
“You should get rid of that damn cat,” Mark said for the umpteenth time.
I ignored him and continued wiping antiseptic on his arm, a task made more difficult by his squirming in anger and glaring at my beauteous kitty Lucy, who alternatively hissed at him and meowed at me for attention, even batting my arm as I tried to minister to Mark.
Half a dozen servers gathered around Vince’s table and sang a jazzed-up version of Happy Birthday to him. There was a lot of hand clapping and stomping of feet. He shot his wife an I-thought-we-agreed-to-not-do-this-kind-of-crap look, but smiled at the singers. He politely said, “Thank you,” when they finished.
