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Mistletoe and Murder
Lauryn Christopher
December 21
The first snowflakes of the season glittered in the crisp, cold air before settling delicately on the precisely-trimmed boxwood hedges surrounding Richard Fenton Tulley’s grand, Berkshire estate. It had been an unusually dry winter thus far, but with only four days left before Christmas, it was clear that not even Jack Frost dared face Fenton Tulley’s wrath, should the snow fail to materialize in time for the obligatory holiday photos, and the weather had complied at last.
Elizabeth Brewer, who had managed the Tulley estate for as long as anyone could remember, noticed the snowflakes fluttering on the breeze as she oversaw the unloading of crates of wine and other spirits which had been ordered in advance of the family’s annual holiday gathering.
There would be eight guests in attendance this year, not counting the grandchildren, and Elizabeth had spent the previous month ensuring that the necessary preparations for the holiday week had been attended to – a task she had shared with each of the previous Mrs. Tulleys, but which the current Mrs. Tulley, a former pro-football cheerleader, had shown no aptitude for. After making the entirely inappropriate suggestion that bunches of mistletoe be hung in every archway throughout the mansion and how much she ‘absolutely adored the kissing tradition’ it encouraged, her hummingbird-brain’s interest in the affair predictably turned to her wardrobe.
Elizabeth hrmmphed at the recollection, pulling her sweater tighter around her thin frame as she followed the deliveryman into the house. She had said nothing – it was not her place – but she had her own opinions, of course, and her opinion was that Mrs. Jocelyn had much to learn about being the wife of a man like Mr. Fenton, who bought and sold businesses over breakfast and received foreign dignitaries in his home on a regular basis.
And while it was true that Mrs. Jocelyn was a pretty little bit of arm-candy – especially after pouring herself into one of her tight skirts and fluffing her bottle-blonde hair into a cloud around her perfectly painted face – being a proper hostess required much more than the ability to simper and coo and flutter her lashes at her rich and powerful husband and flirt with his friends.
Well, she would learn. Or she would join the list of former Mrs. Tulleys, each younger than the last, all scheming in vain to find a loophole in their pre-nuptial agreements – as though Mr. Fenton would have been careless enough to leave himself exposed in any way – and good riddance to her.
As far as Elizabeth was concerned, there was only one true Mrs. Tulley, and that was Mrs. Claire. Nearly fifteen years younger than Mr. Fenton, his first wife had married him shortly after graduating college, and given him thirty years and three children – Richard, Jr., Margot, and Kyle – before walking away with her head held high after discovering that while she had been battling with breast cancer, her devoted husband had been dallying with one of her nurses.
Mrs. Claire was a lady of the old school, refined and polite, who seldom raised her voice, but had a way of letting you know just what she thought of you without ever saying a word. It had been seven years and six wives since Mrs. Claire had joined the family for the holidays, but Miss Margot had phoned this morning to tell Elizabeth that she had invited her mother up for the holiday, and while she hadn’t agreed, she hadn’t declined, either. So Elizabeth had had the blue bedroom made up just in case. The blue bedroom was a very pleasant suite at the opposite end of the mansion from the master suite, and it seemed prudent to put as much distance between the Mrs. Tulleys as possible, while keeping the entire party under one roof. It wouldn’t do to put Mrs. Claire out in the guesthouse, like some stranger, forcing her to tromp back and forth through the snow to the main house.
The deliveries continued throughout the day – small game hens for the Christmas Eve dinner, both a turkey and a ham for the Christmas Day feast, the leftovers of which would be sliced and shredded and served up for Boxing Day sandwiches, baked into casseroles, and used in a variety of other ways during the week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve. There were potatoes for mashing, eggs for deviling, ingredients for baking the endless supply of cookies and other pastries that would grace the sideboards, and on and on, until every item on Elizabeth’s extensive grocery list had been received, checked off, and stored. Much of the baking had already begun, and the aromas of pies and breads wafted through the mansion like a holiday potpourri.
# # #
December 22
The guests began to arrive the following morning, snow flurries swirling around the cars as they ambled up the long, sweeping drive, passed under the broad portico that separated the main house from the garage, and found shelter from the coming storm. Kyle was first, ducking into the kitchen in search of something to fuel his long, lean frame. Just twenty-six, Elizabeth noted that the youngest of Mr. Fenton’s offspring was finally settling into his adult body, though his face still sported the boyish grin and dusting of freckles that had endeared him to countless sweethearts.
“I thought you were bringing a date,” Elizabeth said, looking beyond him as the kitchen door swung closed.
“So did I,” Kyle said with a shrug. “Alas, it was not meant to be.”
“Am I sorry?”
“Nah. She chose Maui – Christmas on the beach – with her family over snowy mountains. I would have done the same, if for no other reason than to avoid the old man and his child-bride, but I’d already promised Margot I’d be here. Besides, I couldn’t get a plane ticket.” He popped a cookie in his mouth. “So here I am,” he said around the mouthful.
Richard, Jr., and his wife Denise were the next to arrive, trundling in enough bags and baggage for a month’s stay – or so it seemed to Elizabeth, as they loaded in suitcases and diaper bags and baby carriers and playsets and all the other paraphernalia required for a week’s travel with twin toddlers. They had an au pair in tow, as well, a pale, slim girl of no more than twenty, with long, mousy-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and wide brown eyes that seemed to be trying to take in everything all at once.
While Denise and the au pair got the small family settled in their rooms, Richard piled gifts under the large Christmas tree in the library, then availed himself of the glass decanters on the sideboard, pouring himself a liberal helping of the fine Kentucky bourbon that was Mr. Fenton’s preferred drink, and which Elizabeth always made sure was in plentiful supply. Richard was tossing back a swallow as she arrived at the library door, then reached for the bottle to pour himself another, and for a moment she was struck by just how much he looked like his father had in his mid-thirties, with his broad shoulders and dark hair and square jaw set in a hard expression, relieved only slightly by the softening effects of the alcohol.
“Where is your girl from?” Elizabeth asked, coming into the room.
Richard never flinched, pouring the whiskey and replacing the decanter before turning to face her. “Who, Gina?” he said. “She’s from Topeka. Kansas. She’s working her way through college.”
“Oh, really? I thought she was foreign. She looks like she’s afraid of being deported at any minute.”
Richard laughed. “No, she’s just very quiet – and I think the estate intimidates her a little. But she’s great with the twins. Denise says she couldn’t get along without her.”
Elizabeth looked at him closely. “And you?”
“What about me?”
From the strained sound of his voice, Elizabeth knew she had overstepped. “Is there anything I can get for you?” she asked, her voice calm and professional and not the least bit intrusive.
“I saw my brother’s car in the garage. Is anyone else here? And when is my father expected to arrive?”
“Mr. Kyle arrived this morning; I believe he is in the billiard room. I am expecting Mr. and Mrs. Tulley tomorrow afternoon, along with Miss Margot, and Mr. Moreland.”
“Moreland’s coming? Whatever for? This is a family holiday.”
“Miss Margot told me he was coming,” Elizabeth said. “She did not elaborate.”
“Whatever,” Richard said. He crossed the room and dropped into one of the large leather chairs, the whiskey sloshing in its tumbler, but not splashing out of the glass.
“If there is nothing else, sir, I will take my leave. Dinner will be at seven.”
“Yes, yes,” Richard said.
As Elizabeth left the room, she thought Mr. Richard seemed agitated, distracted. Like father, like son, regardless of their differences. She hoped she had ordered enough bourbon.
# # #
December 23
Elizabeth peered through the blinds of the large dining room window as Daniel, the estate’s groundskeeper drove past the house on the small, growling, ATV, clearing away what looked to be a hand’s depth of snow that had accumulated during the night, and was still falling in thick, heavy flakes. Snow was part of winter in the Berkshires, and while the county was reasonably efficient at maintaining the public roads, the individual homeowners were on their own when it came to snow removal.
Elizabeth turned away from the window and began to gather up the breakfast dishes, making note of the spills on the floor surrounding the toddler’s high chairs. She would have to ask Denise if she planned to have the children out at every meal – in which case, she would have to put down drop-cloths – or if they would be spending the majority of their time in the suite with the au pair, Gina. She hoped the latter. While much could be forgiven of small children, Mr. Fenton was not a patient man, and would not well tolerate either the chaos or the mess his young grandsons were sure to contribute to the holiday.
Daniel and the ATV had rumbled past the house twice more, and the groundskeeper was busily clearing the area in front of the garage when Margot rolled up the drive, snow crunching beneath the tires of her Jeep Cherokee. She left the truck in front of the house, and burst in through the front door, stomping her feet and shaking the snow from her head and shoulders in a wet flurry.
“I’m here! The party can now begin!” she called out, laughing and dropping a backpack onto the floor while she shed her outerwear, piling vest, coat, scarf, gloves, and hat on Elizabeth’s outstretched arms. When the layers were finally removed, Margot was revealed as a petite brunette with blue streaks in her hair.
“Father isn’t far behind me,” she said, kicking her wet boots toward the grate. “I passed them on the freeway. But the local roads are crap, so it could be another half-hour before they get here. Thought you’d appreciate the warning. Who—”
But before she could finish her question, Kyle appeared in the gallery at the top of the stairs, a broad grin on his face. Though nearly ten years separated the two, they had always been close. As children, Margot and her little brother had developed a tight bond, which had only strengthened as they had become adults. Elizabeth smiled as they greeted each other.
“Well, well, look what the abominable snowman dragged in,” he said, heading down the stairs to greet her.
“Seen yourself in a mirror lately?” she replied, laughing. And then she darted toward the stairs, meeting Kyle near the mid-point. After a moment’s awkward repositioning, so that Margot was on a higher step and Kyle on a lower, putting them at a more compatible height, the siblings laughingly hugged each other.
“Richard’s here, too—”
“Denise and the twins?”
“–with the family, yes. Your luggage?”
“Just my pack,” Margot said, darting back down the stairs and scooping up the discarded backpack. “I’ve got more than enough clothes in my room.”
“Elizabeth, is there any of that spiced cider in the house?” Kyle asked. “Nothing like a hot drink after a cold drive.”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Kyle. I’ll send some up.”
And then they ran up the stairs in search of their older brother, leaving Elizabeth to manage Margot’s outerwear, send a maid upstairs with a plate of gingerbread, several mugs, and a heated carafe of mulled cider for the Tulley siblings, and prepare for the imminent arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Tulley.
# # #
Mr. Fenton crossed the library toward the crystal decanters on the sideboard and poured himself half a tumbler-full of bourbon, all the while peppering Elizabeth with questions about the holiday preparations, which she answered with her usual, calm efficiency. She was accustomed to this sort of barrage from him, and did not take it personally – like so many men in his position, who were forced to delegate tasks to subordinates, Mr. Fenton was firmly of the belief that no matter how capable those subordinates might be, nothing was truly to his satisfaction without his direct input and oversight, and it irked him to have to rely on anyone else.
Age was forcing that reliance on him more and more each year, though, and Elizabeth’s sharp eyes noticed that while his step was still sure, it had grown slower in the last several months, and his precisely tailored suit did not hide his gaunt frame, bony wrists, or shoulders that seemed to have shrunk with age.
As Mr. Fenton alternately barked out orders and sipped at his drink, Elizabeth watched his gaze slide past her, note the large, lighted Christmas tree in the corner of the room, and then stop at the library door. “Where’s the mistletoe?” he asked.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“The mistletoe? Jocelyn was going on and on about how there would be mistletoe hung from the archways. Some fool notion of hers about ‘how romantic’ it is. Makes no difference to me, but this is our first Christmas together, so if she wants mistletoe, she gets mistletoe.”
Elizabeth prided herself on never backing down, even in the face of Mr. Fenton’s criticisms. “I was given to understand that Mrs. Jocelyn would be bringing the bundles of mistletoe with her,” she said smoothly.
“And so I did,” said a bright, perky voice behind her.
Elizabeth turned to see Jocelyn coming into the room. With her hair pulled back in a high ponytail, she looked barely out of high school, much less her twenty-four years. And the fuzzy, pale-pink sweater over tight, fuchsia leggings and matching open-toed stiletto heels were more suited to the runway, not a holiday in the country.
In her hands, Mrs. Jocelyn held a clear plastic box, like the kind long-stemmed roses are delivered in. But instead of tasteful flowers, the box held six large clusters of mistletoe and holly, each bound with a length of red ribbon, suitable for hanging.
Elizabeth accepted the box from her employer’s overgrown cheerleader-wife. “I’ll see that these are hung,” she said, taking pride in the fact that no evidence of her disdain for either the idea or its source crept into her voice.
She had just cleared the doorway, but was not yet out of earshot when Mrs. Jocelyn began to whine. Elizabeth did not stop to listen – actively eavesdropping was beneath her – but she did allow her step to slow.
“I don’t think she likes me.”
“Nonsense. You’re just tired. Come here, my pet.”
Heels clicked across the hardwood floor, silencing as Mrs. Jocelyn stepped onto the carpet surrounding the seating area.
“Why did we have to come to the mountains, Fenton? I have nothing to wear here. My feet are so cold. Just look at my toes…”
Elizabeth had heard enough. She resumed her pace, and quickly put the library, and her employer’s petulant, simpering wife, behind her.
# # #
Mr. Fenton’s business partner, Kenneth Moreland, arrived just in time for supper. Mr. Moreland had always seemed like a pleasant enough man to Elizabeth, but she didn’t know him as well as she knew the members of the Tulley family. But she’d overheard Mr. Richard telling his wife that he hoped Mr. Moreland got stuck in a snowbank somewhere, so she knew that there were other stories in play here.
Nevertheless, she took his coat and showed him to the library, where the family was gathering for pre-dinner appetizers. Mr. Fenton greeted him warmly, Mr. Richard raised his glass in salute – though Elizabeth noted his thin-lipped smile – and Mrs. Jocelyn looped her arm in his, guided him back to the entryway, pointed to the mistletoe hanging above their heads, and planted a kiss squarely on his lips.
Elizabeth thought that was clearly not the first under-the-mistletoe-kiss she had delivered, as Denise glared at Mr. Richard while everyone else laughed at Mr. Moreland’s discomfiture.
“Dinner will be served in ten minutes,” she announced when the laughter had subsided.
“Looks like you’re just in time for a drink, Kenneth,” Mr. Fenton said, moving toward the sideboard.
Mr. Moreland nodded, extricating himself from Jocelyn’s grasp. “Thank you, Fenton,” he said. “I could use one. The roads are miserable. I nearly ended up spending the holiday in a snowbank.”
Elizabeth couldn’t help but glance over at Mr. Richard, and thought that his expression seemed almost smug.
# # #
Elizabeth had learned long ago that the best way to ensure the Tulleys and their guests enjoyed a pleasant stay in the big house was to pay attention. Years of practice had honed her skills at being present, yet unnoticed, in all but the most intimate of family interactions – and she was usually aware of those goings-on as well.
So she was observant, but said nothing, when Mr. Moreland paused to speak with Mr. Kyle as the two passed in the short hallway between the dining room and kitchen on their respective paths to and from the washroom.
“I wasn’t sure you were going to make it,” Kyle said, his voice low, but still audible where Elizabeth had paused, just out of sight, when he started speaking.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” replied Kenneth. “It took some doing to keep things off his radar until now, but it will be a pleasure to stab the old man in the back – return the favor, as it were. There’s a symmetry here, you know. He took the company away from me at a Fourth of July picnic. Seems only right for us to wrest control back on a holiday. I do wish your mother was here, though. It would be just like old times.”
“Margot tried to persuade her to come. She was noncommittal, but apparently sounded like she was at least considering it.”
“Is that so? Well, she’ll never make it now, not in this weather. More’s the pity.”
As the men parted, Elizabeth thought briefly of the empty blue bedroom, and wondered what momentous event Mrs. Claire would be missing.
Elizabeth was also witness to – although, to be honest, less surprised by – Mrs. Jocelyn’s hand, snaking out to rest on Mr. Richard’s upper thigh while the pot roast was being placed on the large dining room table. The blonde’s head was turned to the right, toward her husband, her eyes following his every gesture, as though she was fully captivated by what he was saying; but it was clear from the activity beneath the snowy white linen tablecloth that her attention was elsewhere.
As though a mirror had been placed between the two, Mr. Richard’s head was turned away from Mrs. Jocelyn and toward his own wife, seated at his left, and who was relating an amusing anecdote about the antics of one of their twin boys. And though he smiled and nodded in all the right places, his right hand, fingers sliding across the fuchsia leggings covering his father’s wife’s leg, was definitely not in the right place.
Elizabeth kept her observations to herself, as it was not her place to call attention to the indiscretions of her employers, regardless of her opinion of their behavior. Things would not go well for Mr. Richard if either his wife or his father found out, it was true, but if bidding a final farewell to Mrs. Jocelyn was among the results, well, at least some good might come of the affair.
# # #
December 24
It was two o’clock in the morning when the ringing of her cell phone awakened Elizabeth from a sound sleep. She reached for it, nearly upsetting the empty teacup that sat near it on her bedside table, and squinted at the number, unable to fully make it out without her glasses, which she had knocked to the floor. Reluctantly she pressed the button to accept the call.
“Hello?”
“Elizabeth, it’s Claire,” said the caller, the familiar voice sounding nearly as tired as her own. “I’m sorry to wake you, but I’ve just arrived and I don’t have a key. Can you let me in? I’m parked just under the portico, near the kitchen door.”
“Mrs. Claire? Of course,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll be right there.”
She quickly found her glasses, pulled on a robe, slid her feet into a pair of warm, fleece-lined slippers, and headed toward the kitchen. She made her way in the dark, lights being made unnecessary by the glow of the exterior lights reflected on the falling snow, which cast pale, bluish shadows through the mansion’s many windows.
Elizabeth did switch on a light when she reached the kitchen, but only the dim, service light – just enough to orient Mrs. Claire, who was no longer familiar with the house, to her surroundings, but not so bright as to render both of them temporarily blind.
“Oh, Elizabeth!” Mrs. Claire said after Elizabeth opened the door bid her come into the house. “It is so good to see you. Wait just one moment while I fetch my bags, and then I’ll greet you properly.”
She had, indeed, parked only a few steps from the kitchen door, the portico providing enough shelter that she was able to retrieve her bags from the back of her small SUV and bring them into the kitchen without the thick, wet snow, which was already beginning to erase her tire tracks, ever touching her.
“I was not at all sure I would make it through,” Mrs. Claire said, wrapping both hands around the steaming mug of tea Elizabeth had prepared for her. Though thin wisps of gray now touched her honey-blonde hair, and fine lines framed her eyes, Elizabeth thought Mrs. Claire had only grown more elegant with age, wearing her fifty-eight years with her customary grace. They sat, the two of them, on stools at the kitchen island, for the better part of an hour, chatting like long-lost friends while Mrs. Claire thawed out and unwound from a harrowing drive over dark, winding, snow-filled roads.
“We’d best get you up to your room before you fall asleep right here,” Elizabeth said finally, after shared yawns reminded both of the lateness of the hour. “I’ve put you up in the blue room—”
“I’ve always loved that room,” Claire said. “Does it still have the daisy comforter?”
“Yes, indeed. And as we’ve only the family and Mr. Moreland in the house, it will be quiet enough for you to get a good rest.”
“What you mean to say is that I’ll be far enough away from Fenton that my latest replacement won’t fly into a rage until at least midmorning,” Claire corrected her, chuckling as she reached out and patted Elizabeth on the arm. “It’s fine. I would have arranged things the same way myself.”
“I have missed you,” Elizabeth said.
# # #
The Tulley mansion library was a two-story affair, arranged with a comfortable gathering area on the lower level, and a book-lined balcony wrapping around three of the four upper walls, the fourth being a double-height window that looked out across the expansive, snow-covered grounds toward the surrounding forest. The Christmas tree occupied a place of honor in one corner of the lower level, with piles of gifts surrounding it, to which the various family members had been adding as they arrived.
Elizabeth was just passing by the open upper-level door when she heard voices in the lower part of the library. After determining that it was Mr. Richard and his wife, Denise, she stepped onto the balcony, pulling the door nearly closed behind her. She then picked up a book, quietly sat in an easy chair that offered her a partial view of the lower level, and pretended to read, though anyone passing by would have questioned her selection of reading material, the study of economic structures during the Victorian era not being her usual fare.
“Have you asked him yet?” Denise was saying.
“No,” Richard said, looking up from the book he was holding. “He’s been in a foul mood all morning, ever since he found out that Mother was here. Why on earth did she come anyway?”
“You have to ask him. It’s the only reason I agreed to come.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. What would you have done alone in the city?”
“Not hauled diaper bags all over creation, for one thing,” Denise grabbed the book from his hands and tossed it on a table. “Or listened to that vapid cheerleader go on about her nails. For god’s sakes, what does he see in her?”
“I don’t think he’s looking at her nails.”
“Neither are you,” Denise said, the ice in her voice making it clear that she had noticed, at least to some extent, the dalliance between Mr. Richard and Mrs. Jocelyn.
“What difference does it make to you?” Richard asked. He rose and crossed to the sideboard, where he poured himself a bourbon. “I’m done with you, Father’s done with you…” he paused to take a sip of his drink before continuing. “Have you set your sights on Moreland? His wife’s been gone long enough that he’s probably back on the market. He’s second-tier to Father, of course, but at least he’s not losing his hair yet.” He might have been discussing a business venture for all the emotion in his voice. “At the very least,” he continued, “his portfolio should be powerful enough to appeal to you.”
“You’re horrible.” Denise was standing there, visibly shaking, her fists clenched at her sides.
“And you’re a slut. Just stay away from Kyle. He deserves better than you’ll give him.”
“You just don’t want him to find out that the twins are his brothers—”
Richard threw the tumbler at Denise, catching her on the shoulder. “Never say that again,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Ever. No one can ever know.”
“Your father knows.”
“And he’ll pay for that knowledge, believe me.”
“So you’ll talk to him?”
“When the time is right.”
“If you won’t talk to him, I will,” Denise said. “He won’t ignore me.”
“Yes he will,” Richard said with a dry laugh. He crossed the room to her, and paused, standing very close, but not touching. “He’s very good at ignoring people. And deflecting both blame and responsibility. I know my father better than you do, Denise. I’ll handle him – and maybe then we’ll both get what we want.”
Richard left the library. Denise stood there for a moment, then sank to the arm of the sofa, where she sat, shaking, arms wrapped tightly around her midsection.
Elizabeth was shaking a little herself as she slipped out of the upper library and pressed her back against the wall. Mr. Fenton was the father of Denise’s twin boys? It was unthinkable, yet clearly it was the truth.
She did the mental math, thinking back past two Christmases, to the autumn before, when Mr. Richard and his wife had spent so many lazy weekends in the mansion, along with Mr. Fenton and his then-wife, Mrs. Marie. There had been late nights and laughing and drinking and lazy afternoons and quiet picnics and plenty of opportunities for Mr. Fenton to find his interest in his young French model waning as his pretty daughter-in-law caught his eye.
How had she not seen it? And how many other secrets had the great house seen that she had missed?
# # #
Elizabeth showed Mrs. Claire to Mr. Fenton’s study, then slipped quietly into the small powder room that served both the study and the hallway, locked the doors on both sides, and pressed her ear to the wall. She’d learned from Mr. Kyle, when he was but a young boy, that it was possible to hear everything that was said if you listened at exactly the right spot – but, the inquisitive lad had informed her solemnly, if you so much as sniffled, they could hear you on the other side just as clearly.
“Why are you here, Claire?” Mr. Fenton asked.
Mrs. Claire’s voice was lighthearted, the volume rising and falling as though she was moving around the room as she spoke. “Margot invited me. I wasn’t going to come at first, but the prospect of spending Christmas alone, watching a recorded fire on the television, held little appeal. So I decided to make the trip.”
“You must realize how awkward this is for everyone.”
“Only for you, dear,” Claire said with a laugh. “The children seem to be quite pleased that I’m here.” There was a pause, then she continued. “Even the house knows me – frankly, I’ve been pleasantly surprised at how little it has changed.”
“You set it up well,” Fenton said, his tone that of a compliment grudgingly given. “There was little that needed changing.”
An awkward silence fell, and for a moment Elizabeth thought they might have left the room. The powder room did not offer even the slightest view into the study, and she chafed at her inability to see what was going on.
“I was miserable to you,” Mr. Fenton said finally.
“An apology, Fenton? My, you are getting old, if you’ve begun contemplating your sins and regretting them.”
“How did you ever put up with me?”
“I didn’t,” Claire said. The lightness had left her voice. “You forget,” she continued. “I divorced you. For good reason, I might add.”
“I didn’t know how to handle your illness—”
“We’re beyond excuses, Fenton,” Claire said, cutting him off. “You’d been a cheating bastard for years, and when I was sick you defaulted to your usual behavior. So I left you.”
“It would have been easier if you’d died,” he said. “I would have known how to handle that.”
“Thinking of yourself again, and only of yourself,” she said, her voice now tired, but still strong “Why am I not surprised? Yes, it would have been easier for you if I had died. It would have been easier for the rest of us if you had.”
# # #
As nearly as Elizabeth could tell, only the au pair, Gina, who had spent nearly the entire time in Mr. Richard’s suite tending to the twins – thank heavens Denise had the good sense not to parade them around too much! – was not embroiled in one or more of the schemes, arguments, or grievances she had been privy to throughout the day.
It was the curse of a life of service, Elizabeth thought. One spent years seeing to their employer’s wishes, listening to their grievances, and anticipating their needs, for which the only reward was the opportunity of cleaning up the mess when conflicting interests in a household of headstrong individuals boiled over like an unattended soup.
But the current escalation of tensions felt different somehow, in a way Elizabeth could not quite put her finger on, but not unlike the sensations she imagined animals experienced which caused them to flee in anticipation of an earthquake. She glanced at the window. There would be no fleeing from this cataclysm. The snow had only gotten thicker as the day had progressed, the weight of it causing even the sturdy branches of the pines to droop, turning them into a ghostly line of soldiers at the edge of the white expanse blanketing the lawn. Of the boxwood hedge bordering the drive and walkway, there was no sign, only a slight rounding where the snow Daniel had pushed to the edges had buried them.
Even the sturdy ATV had finally retreated in the face of the heavy snowfall – for surely it could not have been the redoubtable Daniel who had been the one to admit defeat. Regardless of on which side the decision had been made, after he had seen that all of the expected visitors had arrived, and their vehicles safely sheltered in the garage, he parked the ATV, hung up his hat and coat, and announced to the staff that it was his intention to wait out the storm in front of a cozy fire with a good book.
Elizabeth made a mental note to ask him to make sure the generator was ready to be switched on at a moment’s notice, in the event of a power outage, but beyond that minor task, found herself in complete agreement with the groundskeeper’s decision.
# # #
The Christmas Eve dinner of game hens, roasted to crispy perfection, served with a savory wild rice stuffing and steamed asparagus was well-received, but it was clear to Elizabeth that tensions in the great house were too high for anyone to truly enjoy the meal. Sidelong glances were met with hastily averted eyes, witty comments were as sharp as the knives used to cut the hens, and awkward silences piled on top of each other as thickly as the snow falling in drifts outside.
“I spoke with James Harward the other day,” Mrs. Claire said, buttering a roll as casually as she spoke.
“Did you now?” said Mr. Fenton, the words practically dripping off his tongue. “So did I. I wonder if we were both there on the same day. That would have been awkward.” They were seated at opposite ends of the large table, as in the old days, a slight that had not been lost on Mrs. Jocelyn.
Whatever Mrs. Claire had been about to say was lost in the sudden burst of chatter, as Jocelyn, Richard, and Denise – the three seated all in a row to his left – all began speculating on the likely changes Mr. Fenton had made to his will during his visit with the attorney, there being no other good reason to meet with him, in their opinion.
Mr. Fenton would neither confirm nor deny any such changes, but sat there looking over the chaos like a cat deciding which of the many sparrows milling about before him he should pounce on next. He turned from the chattering trio to the less vocal trio at his right – Kyle, Margot, and Moreland – and said, “So, are none of you interested in the contents of my will?”
“Are you planning on dying any time soon?” Kyle asked in return. “If not, I see no point in worrying about it. You’re likely to change it many times over before it has any lasting impact on me.”
“Wise boy,” Fenton said, raising his wineglass toward his youngest son. “You must take after your mother.”
Mrs. Jocelyn took renewed offense to the mere mention of Mrs. Claire in a positive manner, and launched into another round of whining complaints against the former Mrs. Tulley’s presence, to which Mrs. Claire paid no attention, instead leaning forward to hear what Mr. Moreland, who was seated to her left, was saying to her. But though Elizabeth saw that the pair had clasped hands beneath the corner of the table, their words were lost in the general hubbub, over which only Mr. Fenton’s stentorian voice could be heard.
“So, Moreland, what do you think of our little family gathering?”
Mr. Moreland gave Mrs. Claire’s hand a squeeze, then turned to look at Mr. Fenton. “Not substantially different from some of our board meetings,” he said, which generated a ripple of laughter. As the table quieted, he continued. “Though I seldom have the honor of having my fiancée present at those meetings – a situation I trust will change in the very near future.”
Brief confusion followed by sudden clarity washed over the table like a wave, as everyone looked from Moreland to Mrs. Claire, both of whom were grinning like teenagers. It wasn’t until Mr. Fenton tapped his spoon on his glass several times to call for their attention that the excited outbursts of surprise and congratulations finally subsided.
Mr. Fenton stood, his glass raised. “Congratulations, Moreland, Claire. I must admit, I never saw it coming.”
Amid a round of “cheers,” the happy couple graciously nodded their thanks.
As Mr. Fenton sat, he said, “But I don’t see how you’re being married will result in Claire gracing our board meetings with her presence.”
“Unrelated, but coincidentally timed,” Claire said. “As I started to say before, I met with James Harward the other day – actually, several times in the last weeks – and, to make a long story short, the current value of my stocks, which I have been accumulating over the last six years, have resulted in my once again having one-third interest in the company, the same as both you and Kenneth. The board has already granted me a seat—”
Whatever else she was going to say was lost to an enormous roar as Mr. Fenton jumped up like a furious beast, knocking his chair over in the process, and stormed toward Mrs. Claire. Kyle twisted in his chair, reaching for his father, but the older man shook him off, his jacket slipping through his son’s grasp. It was Margot, putting a foot out to trip him and sending him sprawling on the carpet where Moreland then subdued him, that prevented him from physically attacking his first wife.
No one was paying quite as much attention to Mrs. Jocelyn, however, and the former cheerleader sprang from her own chair and fairly flew at Claire, screeching like a banshee, and wielding her long, manicured fingernails like bright pink knives.
Her wineglass still in her hand, Mrs. Claire flung the contents into Jocelyn’s face, buying for herself a moment’s breath to raise a hand in her own defense, but otherwise having much the same result as pouring gasoline onto a fire.
Jocelyn pounced, tipping Claire’s chair backwards and sending them both over, shrieking, in a tangle of flailing limbs and broken glass. By the time Richard and Kyle succeeded in pulling them apart, both were stained with spilled wine, and sported a number of cuts and scratches.
“You’ve been out to get me all along!” hissed Jocelyn, struggling to free herself from Richard’s grasp and practically spitting at Claire.
“My dear, I haven’t given you a moment’s thought,” Claire said, smoothing back her hair. “My actions were entirely directed at Fenton—” she graced him with an icy smile. “—and why not? After all, he is the one who not only cheated on me while I was ill – oh, I’ve long since forgiven you for that, my dear – but also took advantage of my weakened condition to swindle me out of my shares of the company.”
She reached out to Moreland. He gave Fenton a grim look, then moved to her side.
“It was just the three of us in the beginning, old man,” he said. “We’re just bringing things back full-circle—”
“Making things right,” said Margot.
Fenton whirled on his daughter. “You knew about this?”
“Pfft. Of course. We all knew. You’re the one who’s too busy playing with children—” she glanced meaningfully toward Jocelyn, who glared back at her, “—to be paying any attention to what’s really going on around here.”
Mr. Fenton looked from Margot to Kyle to Richard, his expression shifting from shock to hard fury. When his gaze reached Denise, his expression shifted again to one of cool calculation. “I guess it’s just as well you weren’t interested in the content of my will,” he said, glancing only briefly at Kyle as he spoke. “Because it seems I need to make some revisions to it after all. Yes, indeed.” He straightened his now-rumpled dinner jacket and adjusted his tie. He then pushed his way past Mrs. Claire and Mr. Moreland and headed toward the dining room door, reaching up to rip away the clump of mistletoe that brushed the top of his head.
“I hope you’ve all suitably ingratiated yourselves to your mother, as you’ll get nothing more from me,” he said, favoring them with a smile that was almost feral in nature. “In the meantime, I must make proper allowances for those children of mine who have not betrayed me. Denise?”
At this last, he held out his hand toward Mr. Richard’s wife, who was the only one who had not risen from the table in all the excitement. She now quietly folded her napkin, rose, and without a word to the others crossed to the door, and took Mr. Fenton’s hand.
As Jocelyn sputtered in fury and everyone else – except Mr. Richard, Elizabeth noticed – murmured in confusion, Mr. Fenton and Denise left the dining room, leaving the crushed clump of mistletoe on the floor behind them.
# # #
So it was that the night before Christmas drew to its close, with Mrs. Jocelyn and Mr. Richard slipping off to one of the unoccupied guest bedrooms, Mrs. Claire, Miss Margot, Mr. Kyle, and Mr. Moreland engaged in a game of cards during which it seemed their entire conversation alternated between wedding plans and corporate takeovers, and Mr. Fenton and Mrs. Denise arguing heatedly in the study.
With all of the household’s guest thus accounted for, Elizabeth made herself a cup of tea. The fracas at dinner had been no more than a preliminary tremor, of that she was sure. Tensions still rode high among the various factions in the household, and with no way of escaping each other’s company, it was only a matter of time before things boiled over once again.
Settling herself in a comfortable chair in the upper library with her tea and a good book, Elizabeth waited to see what gifts the coming night would deliver.
# # #
Among the many services Elizabeth performed for Mr. Fenton was that of notary, for those times when business required official documents to be signed while he was away from his office in the city. As a result, she was only slightly surprised when a maid interrupted her reading to inform her that Mr. Fenton required her in his study, and that she was to bring her official seal.
Mr. Richard had joined his siblings in the library a half-hour before, drinking bourbon and offering less-than-helpful suggestions to the various players as he strolled around and observed their hands, until they had finally put him to better use as the dealer. Mrs. Jocelyn had not made an appearance, and as Elizabeth headed to her room to retrieve her official seal, she asked the maid if she had seen her.
“Oh yes, she was in her room,” the maid replied, then looked around as though making sure that no one else could hear her before continuing. “Mr. Fenton asked for her as well. She was in something of a state when I found her – her hair all mussed, and only wearing one of her fancy nightgowns. I think she’d been drinking. A lot. She said if he wanted to talk to her, he’d have to come upstairs, but I told her that he insisted she come down.”
“What did she say?”
“She yelled at me. I didn’t want to be in trouble, so I left and closed the door. I’d given the message. I couldn’t drag her downstairs…”
“You did fine,” Elizabeth said, consoling the girl. She had only been with the household for a couple of months, and had come from a much quieter position, so was unused to the variable tides that ruled the Tulley family gatherings.
When Elizabeth reached the study, Mrs. Jocelyn was indeed there and properly dressed, her hair twisted up in that ‘messy look’ that girls her age seemed to find so fashionable. Mrs. Denise was there as well. Both women were seated in the pair of comfortable visitor chairs that faced Mr. Fenton’s large desk, each sipping at a tumbler of the house bourbon.
He was behind the desk, of course, a single sheet of paper on the blotter in front of him.
“Ah, Elizabeth,” he said, his voice as smooth as though the earlier unpleasantness had never occurred. “I have drafted a codicil to my will, which I would like to sign immediately, and have you validate. Jocelyn and Denise will serve as witnesses.”
The signing was a simple matter, after which Elizabeth affixed her seal, quickly skimming the content of the codicil as she did so. In it, Mr. Fenton revoked all prior bequests to his adult children, transferring their portions of his estate to Mrs. Jocelyn and his infant sons by Mrs. Denise. It was all Elizabeth could do to keep her hand from shaking as she signed the document and stepped away from the desk.
“Is there anything else, Mr. Fenton?” she asked, unsure if the tremors she felt were evident in her voice.
“That will be all, Elizabeth,” he said, not bothering to look up as he opened the desk drawer and slid the page inside it, then locked the drawer, turning the key over and over in his hand.
As she left the room, she heard laughter and the clinking of glasses as the three of them wished each other a Merry Christmas.
# # #
Elizabeth was conflicted as she had never been in all her years of service to the Tulleys. Certainly, once his anger cooled, Mr. Fenton would recant the terms of the new codicil. He would surely recognize that disinheriting his legitimate children in favor of Denise’s bastards was a mean, childish act, done in anger. And giving an equal portion to Mrs. Jocelyn? Why that was simply unthinkable.
But what if he didn’t change it?
Worse, what if he suffered an accident on the icy roads as they returned to the city after New Year’s Day, and the codicil took effect before he had a chance to correct his error?
She had seen the drawer where he had put the codicil, knew where he kept the key. She could sneak back into the study during the night and destroy the document.
And he would simply write it again the next morning, possibly with even worse terms.
Elizabeth paced back and forth in her room, trying to decide what, if anything, she should do, reminding herself repeatedly that it was not her place to have an opinion; it was not her place to interfere. Unable to sleep, she wandered through the darkening house as the members of the family retired for the night.
Unnoticed and silent in her dark velour robe, the soft soles of her slippers making no sound, she observed the shifting of rooms and relationships as Mr. Richard quietly closed the door to his own suite and crossed the hall to meet Mrs. Jocelyn in the green bedroom. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Mr. Moreland carrying his suitcase down the hall toward the blue room and Mrs. Claire.
Her wanderings took her downstairs, and after passing through the dining room and the library, Elizabeth was not entirely surprised to find herself standing in the doorway of Mr. Fenton’s study. It was as though the codicil was calling to her, begging her to destroy it. Begging her to declare her loyalty to the family, and reject Mr. Fenton and his selfish demands. Years of overlooked meanness, cutting remarks, insensitivities to his wives and children flooded her memory.
She would destroy the codicil. He could dismiss her, he would likely write it again, but she had to do the right thing for once and not simply stand idly by.
Elizabeth pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and pressed the tiny latch to open the panel on the arm of his chair, revealing the small, secret compartment where he kept the desk key.
The compartment was empty.
No doubt, with both Jocelyn and Denise in the room, Mr. Fenton had not had an opportunity to return the key to its usual hiding place, dropping it into his pocket instead.
Elizabeth sighed. She had no skill at picking locks, and none of the many keys she possessed were small enough to attempt to use of them on the drawer. That only left her one option. If she truly wanted to destroy the codicil, she would have to find Mr. Fenton’s coat, take the key, steal the document, and then return the key.
Could she enter his room – twice – without waking him?
Did she dare risk it?
He was not a light sleeper, often boasting of his ability to sleep soundly. It was probably the bourbon, she thought. But whatever contributed to his lack of awareness would only be to her benefit.
# # #
Elizabeth opened Mr. Fenton’s bedroom door only enough to slip through it, carefully closing it behind her. She leaned her back against the door, fearing that the sound of her heart, thudding in her chest like a timpani and practically drowning out the sound of Mr. Fenton’s snoring, would wake the entire household, but no one came running, and her employer snored on, without even a restless movement.
The blinds were only partially closed, but even the reflected light from the outside raised the darkness of the room to little more than vague shadows. Elizabeth moved carefully, taking only a step or two at a time before making sure that the way ahead of her was clear.
Mr. Fenton was a creature of habit. And Elizabeth had cleaned his room often enough to know that the best place to look for his jacket was not in the closet, but on the wingback chair that stood next to the closet door. And so it was – the coat draped casually in its usual place on the wing nearest the closet and the slacks in a heap on the seat.
She did not find the key in any of the jacket’s many pockets, and moved to the slacks. She lifted them carefully, feeling the way they had been dropped on to the chair so she could return them in the same manner. As Mr. Fenton was right-handed, she tried the right pocket first, carefully sifting through the loose change and slips of paper for the edges of the small key until she finally felt the rough edge of the tiny metal teeth and pulled it out. It had to be the desk key – it was the right size, and it was the only key in his pocket.
At just that moment, Mr. Fenton shifted, his snoring rough as he turned. Elizabeth slowly lowered the slacks to the chair, but did not move, barely daring to breathe until his breathing again settled.
She pocketed the key, made her way back across the room, and out into the hall, relieved to see no activity in the hallway. Silently she went back down the stairs and to the office.
# # #
Removing the codicil from the desk drawer was simple enough. It was as she automatically started to put the page in the shredder that Elizabeth abruptly jerked her hand back. The noise! In the silent house, it was possible that someone might hear the shredder running, even for only the short moment it would take to dispose of a single page.
The fireplaces had all been banked for the night, so she doubted that burning the page would be a viable option. And while she could take it to the kitchen and run it down the garbage disposal – which was much quieter than the shredder – there was still the possibility that someone would notice the unusual sound in the night.
Then, as though in the distance, the brief whine of water running through the pipes after someone relieved themselves almost made her laugh. A flushing toilet was a sound that no one would remark upon in any way.
Folding the page and slipping it into her pocket, Elizabeth left the study.
# # #
The document disposed of, Elizabeth was almost giddy when she slipped back into Mr. Fenton’s room to return the key. She had done it! And no one, not even Mr. Fenton, would be able to trace the missing codicil back to her.
She crossed the darkened bedroom confidently, going directly to the chair and sliding the key back into the slacks pocket. It was only as she turned to leave that she realized that she did not hear Mr. Fenton’s slow, rhythmic breathing.
And then a toilet flushed, the water closet door opened, and a stream of light shone from the bathroom into the bedroom.
Elizabeth stepped away from the chair, moving just inside the shadow of the large, walk-in closet, and froze as her sleeve brushed against a dry-cleaning bag, the rustle barely louder than a breath, but sounding like a klaxon in her ears. She listened as Mr. Fenton washed his hands, heard the rattle of a pill bottle and a glass being filled then clinked onto the counter, watched as the light was extinguished, watched and listened as his shadowy form crossed the room and he threw himself onto the bed.
How long would it take him to fall back asleep? What would she do if he was unable to sleep and turned on a light? She was trapped, and had to fight down the rising sense of panic that threatened to overwhelm her. It had been a stupid idea to destroy the codicil, stupid to jeopardize her job, she told herself, stupid to do anything more than simply observe and serve as she had always done.
It had been stupid, yes, but it had been right.
Five minutes passed, then ten, and Elizabeth found her own breathing returning to normal as Mr. Fenton settled back into sleep.
She hated him.
The thought surprised her at first, but the longer she stood there listening to him breathe, peaceful in the knowledge of his perfidy toward his family, the less surprised she was at her realization. Mr. Fenton was an awful man. He hurt people and laughed about it. Bragged about it. And by standing there, silent, she was no better.
She couldn’t work for him any longer. When the snow cleared and the family left after the New Year, she would leave as well. Surely Mrs. Claire would give her a good recommendation, after all her years of service, even if Mr. Fenton would not.
She nodded her head, reaffirming her commitment, and the plastic of the dry-cleaning bag rustled again.
Mr. Fenton did not hear. Of course he didn’t. He didn’t hear anything – people talked to him all the time and he never heard anything that he didn’t want to. Elizabeth gently lifted the dry cleaning off the rod. It was heavy – Mr. Fenton must have brought several suits with him, fresh from the cleaner, for the holiday. All the better, she thought, as she carried the heavy bundle across the room. She paused for only a moment, looking down at him. He seemed so small, laying there in the large bed. Then she laid the bundle across his frail body, across his face, muffling the sound of his snores. Stretching herself over the bundle, she pressed the plastic into his nose, the weight of the clothing and her own body blocking his thin, flailing arms, his grasping, bony hands finding only plastic and dark velour the same deep blue as his blanket and tugging at them desperately, weakly, until his spindly legs ceased their kicking and his arms dropped to the blankets. Then, with one final, twitch he lay still.
Elizabeth lay there for a few minutes, relaxed, almost comfortable, stretched across the lumpy form that was Mr. Fenton, until her own breath caught and she abruptly pulled her face from the plastic beneath her.
Getting back up was a little awkward, but she carefully lifted the dry cleaning bag and carried it back to the closet. Then, tearing the plastic away from the suits, she hung them on the rod, crumpling the torn plastic and shoving it into the pocket of her robe, because it wouldn’t do to leave Mr. Fenton’s room untidy, and really, Mrs. Jocelyn should have seen to it that he’d unpacked properly.
Slipping out of the room, she made her way quietly down the hall and back to her own room. It would take a few trips to the bathroom, but if she tore the plastic into small enough pieces, she should be able to dispose of the bag without clogging the pipes.
# # #
December 25
Elizabeth woke bright and early on Christmas morning, feeling more refreshed and rested as she looked out over the glittering mountains of snow than she had in a long time. It had been a difficult night – her twisted blankets bore the evidence of much tossing and turning – but clearly she had finally managed to sleep well.
She saw to it that the breakfast was laid, buffet-style, with pastries both sweet and savory, and cut fruit, as well as carafes of coffee and eggnog. They would have a more substantial brunch later, but there were traditions that must be upheld, and Christmas breakfast was one of them.
Gradually, the members of the family began straggling in. Kyle, then Mrs. Claire and Mr. Moreland, Denise and young Gina with the twins in tow, all collecting their breakfasts and moving on to the library to officially inspect the packages beneath the enormous Christmas tree.
Richard came down a few minutes later, running his hand through still-damp hair. He was just pouring his coffee when Mrs. Jocelyn’s screams echoed throughout the house.
“He’s dead! Oh, god, oh god, oh god! Fenton! He’s dead!” she wailed, nearly falling down the stairs as she half-ran, half-slid down them, her face white with shock and terror.
While Mrs. Claire and Margot got her some water and tried to settle her, and Denise and Gina struggled to keep the toddlers under control in all the excitement, Mr. Moreland and Richard and Kyle went upstairs to check on Mr. Fenton, returning moments later, their faces grim.
“He’s gone,” Moreland said. “I don’t know, maybe a heart attack?”
“I thought he was just asleep,” said Mrs. Jocelyn, choking the words out through her tears. “But when I shook him, he didn’t move. That’s when I realized he wasn’t breathing.”
“I’ll call 911,” Elizabeth said. She was standing in the library doorway, attempting to ignore the clump of mistletoe hanging directly over her head even though it was practically begging her to shove it into Jocelyn’s mouth and shut her up.
“What can they do now?” Jocelyn wailed. “It’s too late.”
“Still, someone should be notified,” Mrs. Claire said. “Thank you, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth made the call, then assisted Mrs. Jocelyn with moving her personal belongings into the green bedroom so they could close the heating vents to the master suite and keep the room cold until the roads were clear and Mr. Fenton’s body could be taken away. She noted with grim satisfaction that while the members of the family were shocked, and the mood had grown understandably somber, no one – other than the cheerleader – seemed particularly distraught by his passing.
It was only later, after the family had reconvened in the library, that Kyle mentioned having a twinge of regret about his joke from the night before.
“When I said I wasn’t worried about the content of his will, since he wouldn’t be using it soon, I didn’t mean for him to call my bluff,” he said, the attempt at gallows humor receiving only the barest of chuckles.
At the mention of the will, Denise and Jocelyn exchanged a sudden glance, then sprang from their chairs, nearly colliding as they ran from the room. Denise raced down the hall, while Jocelyn nearly flew up the stairs.
“What’s with them?” Richard asked.
“Who knows,” said Margot.
A moment later, Jocelyn was back, not pausing as she ran past the library and toward the study. Curious, the rest of the family followed her, arriving just as she shoved the tiny key into the desk drawer lock.
“Where is it?” she said.
“I know he put it in here,” said Denise, pulling open other drawers and beginning to rifle through the papers.
“Hold on there, what are you doing?” said Richard, coming into the room and pulling both of them away from the desk. “He’s barely cold; you’ve got no right to go rummaging through his papers.”
“It’s the new will,” Denise said. “He made a new will last night – Jocelyn and I witnessed it—”
“He locked it in this drawer,” Jocelyn said, her voice rising to nearly a shriek. She turned to Elizabeth, who was standing just inside the study door. “You saw it. Tell them.”
Years of training allowed Elizabeth to remain perfectly calm as all eyes turned on her. Without even a fraction of a moment’s hesitation, she shook her head ever so slightly. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Jocelyn, but I really cannot be of any help. Yes, I notarized the signing of the codicil, and saw Mr. Fenton lock it in the desk drawer, but I was only in the study with the three of you for those few moments. What took place after I left the room…” she paused momentarily, as though reluctant to say what was on her mind. “Well, not to speak ill of the dead, but Mr. Fenton could be so disagreeable at times. It would have been just like him to have destroyed it as soon as your backs were turned.”
Once again, everyone began talking all at once, while Mrs. Jocelyn returned to the desk and began pulling papers from the drawers, scattering them on the floor as she searched for the missing codicil.
The scent of bacon drifting down the hall from the dining room told Elizabeth that the brunch was being set out. Making a mental note to send one – or perhaps two – of the maids to put the study back in order while the family was eating, Elizabeth announced the meal.
After the last of them had reluctantly left the study, Elizabeth decided she was particularly pleased with how the day was turning out. Colorful lights twinkled on the large tree in the library, convivial conversation flowed from the dining room, and even the clumps of mistletoe that remained in a few, select, archways lent a festive air. The tension of the past three days had ebbed, and she no longer felt the overwhelming need to find a new position – as though she would have ever actually left the Tulleys’ employ. They were her family, after all, and it was her duty to see to their every need.
Outside the window, the last flakes of snow drifted down, settling quietly on the mounds hiding the boxwood hedges; inside the great house, Elizabeth wandered quietly through the great house, a slight smile touching her lips.
Mistletoe and Murder
© 2017 by Lauryn Christopher
Cover design by Lyn Worthen and Lori Swapp
Mistletoe © Ron Davey (Dreamstime)
Sunny Snow © Dutchscenery (Dreamstime)
Dripping Blood and Puddles © Wektorygrafika (Dreamstime)
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