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  “It was impressive, watching you question Isabel. You’re so good at your job.”

  His mind was elsewhere, but he said, “Thanks,” with a quick smile.

  “It’s sexy, Parker. How focused you are.”

  Now I had his attention. He darted a glance my way. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought you said I had a rod in my spine.”

  “Well, you do, sometimes, but it’s mainly very alluring. All the cop stuff.”

  Now he was grinning. “That’s good to know. I will tuck it away for future reference.”

  “Meanwhile, it is very satisfying to know that you’re going to read all the Donatos the riot act. I don’t trust those people.”

  “And you will no longer interact with those people. Not on the phone, not in person. If I find out that you did, without consulting me, I’ll be upset, Lilah. The rod will be back in place.”

  “Got it.” We were approaching my street. I said, “Thanks for letting me tag along, Parker. I felt like a real cop there for a minute.”

  “Like I said, you could do anything.”

  I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He was about to say something, but as we turned into my driveway, Wendy came running up and pounded on the door. Apparently she hadn’t gone home for dinner after all. “We’ve got trouble,” she said.

  * * *

  She led us up the driveway, where my landlords Terry and Britt stood on the walkway that led to my porch, looking grim. Mick sat at their feet, but he ran to greet me when he saw me. “We let him out because he was so upset in there,” Terry said.

  Parker was on his phone, but now he clicked off and said, “What happened?”

  Terry scratched his shaggy blond head. Even now, under stress, he looked sort of relaxed and casual, like a handsome surfer who had been teleported to Illinois from the Malibu coast. “We happened to see Lilah leave earlier, so when a guy appeared in her front yard, we were kind of watching to see who it was. Then this man pulled out a gun—”

  “Recognize him?” Parker asked.

  “No, not at all. He was tall and dark—that’s all I noticed. Dark hair.”

  “Go on.”

  “Britt practically tackled me to keep me inside; I wanted to go confront him.” Britt snorted behind him, still indignant. Her dark bob of hair, silky and elegant, swung forward, briefly concealing the fear and anger on her face.

  “What did he do?”

  Terry pointed at my beautiful picture window, which was now a ruin of broken shards. “He shot a hole in that window, dropped the gun, and took off.”

  “He could have hurt Mick!” I yelled. Mick leaned against me, pleased to have been mentioned. I scratched his big head.

  Parker studied the ground as he processed details. “You call it in?”

  “Yeah. And I tried to chase him. But by the time Britt let me get out of the house, he had already disappeared into the backyard. I did chase him then, but he had gone through Lilah’s back gate into the alley. There was no sign of him out there.”

  “Someone waiting for him, maybe,” Britt offered.

  “Where’s the gun?” Parker asked.

  “We left it where he dropped it. Didn’t want to, like, disturb a crime scene.”

  Parker nodded. “I’ll be back,” he said. He moved gingerly around the area, taking some pictures on his phone and bending over the weapon, which still lay like an obscene thing in the snow.

  Britt moved to me and slung an arm around my shoulder. “We called a window guy Terry knows. He’ll have this fixed as soon as the police are done with it. But you might want to stay in our place tonight. It’s going to be freezing in yours.”

  I sighed. When would I be able to live in my own house again? In the last two months I’d had to stay with my parents, my brother, and now probably with Terry and Britt. It was good to have friends and family, but it was also good to have a home. “Thanks,” I said. “There are three of us, though. Mick, me, and my bodyguard, Wendy.”

  “Bodyguard?”

  “It’s a long story, which I shall tell to you and Terry tonight.”

  “We’ll have a nice dinner.” She looked at the broken window with some trepidation. “Is someone trying to kill you, Lilah?”

  I had an epiphany in that moment, standing in the quiet snow on my front yard. “No, I don’t think so. Give me a minute.”

  And I went to tell Parker my theory.

  * * *

  That night I introduced Wendy to the amazing experience that is Terry and Britt’s house. Terry is an Internet entrepreneur who officially calls himself a “broker” who helps rich people spend their money. His house is a whimsical collection of everything a rich guy with a lot of style might buy himself because he has no children and a lot of disposable cash.

  We sat eating a sumptuous feast (ordered from Elderberry, a wonderful restaurant just outside Pine Haven) at Terry’s conversation piece of a dining room table. It was an American antique walnut table with a split pedestal base and lovely carved medallions on the legs. Terry said he had gotten it for a steal, which probably meant thousands of dollars. Whenever I sat at it I felt as though I were dining in a castle.

  “So Parker is inclined to agree with your theory about the shooting?” Terry asked, handing Wendy a plate full of roast beef. She grinned at me; she joked that she was going to gain ten pounds being my bodyguard because everyone kept feeding us. Mick, too, was benefitting from Terry’s largesse. He sat in the corner with a gargantuan dog bone that Terry had produced from somewhere; if hosting guests were a profession, Terry could have made millions.

  I poked my fork into a lovely new potato. “About this shooting, yes. The way you describe it, Terry, he was purposely doing everything out in the open. He shot into the front of the house, not bothering to hide himself. He was clearly not aiming at anyone, since no one was inside. He left the weapon behind on purpose, and then he ran off. He wanted someone to find the gun. Parker thinks so, too. The question is why.”

  “Not to mention who the hell is he?” Britt said indignantly. She turned to me, her hair swishing on her shoulders. “But we have three gunmen here, right? The one who shot this poor Santa, the one that shot at you and Cam, and now this one.”

  “Which might all be the same gun. Or not. Who knows? This gets more confusing as it goes along.” I put the potato in my mouth and said, “Mmm.”

  Wendy finished her last bite and smiled down at her plate. Then her brows creased. “So let’s see . . . who have we encountered with dark hair? You said this man was young, Terry?”

  “Well, youngish. I didn’t get a great look at his face. He wasn’t old. He was trim, and he moved fast.”

  Wendy held up her hand and counted on her fingers. “So who has dark hair? Tony Donato, the son. Dylan Marsh has brown hair, if that meets the dark criterion—and he is suspicious for a few other reasons. Your friend Mark, Lilah—who was also Whitefield’s friend. And there was the other young man at the party—the one from the school. His name was Reese?”

  “Ross,” I said. “But he didn’t have anything—I mean, I assume he knew Whitefield, but he’s not involved in this. He’s just a friend of my friend Jenny.” Even as I said it, though, I realized I couldn’t vouch for Ross. Anyone could have known Brad or held a grudge against him—hadn’t Mark said that Brad had hundreds of friends? What if one of them had become an enemy? Could Ross have come out the front of the school and driven around the back? It wasn’t likely.

  Wendy was still listing. “And then there was the guy with Cleo Donato. She said he was her brother, right?”

  “Right. Another Donato. What was his name?” I asked. “Did she say?”

  Wendy closed her eyes. “It was Ed. Wasn’t it Ed?”

  “Yes! Ed. That doesn’t sound very Italian.”

  “Probably Eduardo,” said Br
itt.

  I sighed. “Is that it? Did we mention all the dark-haired men?”

  “Don’t forget Frank,” Wendy said, and we frowned at each other. Frank continued to be an unknown element, despite what Enrico Donato said.

  Terry must have seen something in my face, because he pounded the table with his hand like a judge with a gavel. “Okay—enough worrying over this. That’s the job of your cop friend.”

  “Yeah, what’s the story on him?” Britt asked, flipping some silky dark hair behind her left ear. “He was here at Halloween, and this time you pulled up in the car with him!” Her eyes were shining. “Is he your boyfriend, Lilah?”

  All three of them looked at me expectantly, and I shrugged. “More to come on that. We’re in a limbo stage right now.”

  Terry nodded. “Anyway, as I was saying—Lilah, why don’t you take Wendy over to your favorite room? I have a surprise in there.”

  He was referring to his big front hall, which held a spectacular old Wurlitzer jukebox. Of all Terry and Britt’s amazing possessions, this was the one I coveted the most. I had whiled away many an hour visiting my friendly landlords and enjoying the wonderful music of their jukebox.

  I led Wendy from the dining room to the front door; this allowed us to pass through a large main hall that made me think of castles—or of Mark’s Kingdoms game—and past a living room with a splendid, fragrant Christmas tree. Then I brought Wendy into the foyer, where she practically dove on the jukebox. “Oh my gosh! This thing is awesome. Does it work?”

  Terry was right behind us, smiling and proud. “Not only does it work, but I just had a guy I know add some special selections.”

  “A guy you know? You know every guy,” I said, half resentful of Terry’s amazing connections.

  “Yeah. Anyway. Name your favorite Christmas song.”

  Wendy was enthralled. “Oh, that’s easy. ‘White Christmas.’”

  Terry nodded. “Great choice. Have a seat.” He pointed to two armchairs that faced the jukebox. Its lights, glowing in primary colors, comforted me and made me feel festive. “Tell me if you’ve ever heard this version before.”

  He pushed a couple of buttons, and we heard an opening, then a woman’s voice singing the introduction that Bing Crosby’s version never included. It was a big, familiar, lovely voice. “Is that—Linda Ronstadt?” I asked.

  “Yeah. But wait—it’s a duet.” We listened some more, and a new voice took the solo.

  “I know that voice,” said Wendy. “That’s Rosemary Clooney!”

  “Got it!” Terry yelled. “It’s a great version. Enjoy—I’m going to get some hot chocolate going.”

  Wendy turned to me; I could swear there were tears in her eyes. “Your friends are always feeding us. I’m getting so spoiled I might never return home.”

  I laughed. “Poor Betsy. That reminds me—I’m supposed to make Christmas cookies with my mom tomorrow. I guess you have to be there, right? Unless Parker does something amazing in the meantime? So I wonder if Betsy would come and join us.”

  Wendy looked almost mournful. “More food,” she said.

  “Yeah—and it’s fattening.”

  Then she brightened. “Bets will love it. I’ll text her.” She took out her phone and began typing, and I looked out Terry’s hall window, from which I could see his shoveled driveway and a glimpse of my own little house, sitting forlornly at the end of the drive, its front window boarded. I hoped the men would come back to repair it before Christmas. Much as I liked Terry and Britt, and thrilled as I was that I would now get a chance to see their alluring second floor, I longed to be in my space on Christmas, baking food in my oven and watching Mick sleep in his basket by the fireplace.

  As if he sensed my thoughts, Mick came padding in to show me the large bone Terry had given him. He set it down briefly, and I said, “Wow.” Then he picked it up and started to gnaw, contented as could be.

  The song had ended, Wendy’s text had been sent, and Terry was back at the jukebox. “Get a load of this. I found all these rare covers of other great songs. Listen.”

  This time he played us Judy Garland singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” No one sang it the way Judy did—sweet and sad—and the melancholy lingered in me long after Terry stopped the music and Britt led us up their grand staircase to a carpeted hallway and to the adjacent rooms that Wendy and I would borrow for the night. It truly looked like the floor of a castle—there was even a full-size suit of armor in one corner.

  In my room, which had hardwood floors and a giant maroon rug with thick gold tassels, the large bed dominated the space and faced a stone fireplace that housed not flames but a basket of pine branches. The heater was modern and functional, and the room was warm as toast. “Let me know if you need anything, sweetie. Terry and I are at the end of the hall,” Britt said, patting my hair.

  As I pulled back the feather bed and climbed between soft sheets, I could still hear Judy singing in my ear, telling me we’d have to muddle through somehow, because next year it would all be better. Next year, I realized, was only a couple of weeks away. Poor Brad Whitefield hadn’t made it out of this one.

  I looked at the bedroom window, illuminated by Terry’s subtle Christmas lights, and saw a light snowfall swirling in a winter wind. How many days in a row had it snowed? It was beautiful, but relentless. Judy Garland, Brad Whitefield, and an anonymous gunman twirled in my thoughts like the helpless snowflakes. Despite it all, I was asleep moments later.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  By the time Wendy and I left Terry’s house the next morning, still voicing our extravagant thanks, we saw that my window had already been repaired. That, it was clear, was another debt to Terry and his generosity; I was sure that he had secretly paid someone hefty overtime to get it done quickly. Wendy and I went to examine the new window, which was just as lovely as the old one, but seemed thicker.

  “He probably got bulletproof glass,” Wendy joked. She was holding Mick on a leash, and he sniffed the newly cleaned area with interest. When he looked up, there was snow on his nose. “He cracks me up,” Wendy said, grinning. Then she handed me Mick’s leash and opened the door with my key. Mick and I entered the warm foyer, but Wendy insisted on checking the place out first. She returned after five minutes. “It’s fine,” she said.

  Relieved, I went to my kitchen and saw my answering machine light blinking. My mother was one of the few people who still called my landline. “Looks like I need to call Mom. We’re baking cookies today.”

  Wendy groaned. “So much food,” she said.

  “Did you ever talk to Betsy? It would be fun—a girls’ day out. And then my mom will get to know you both before our Christmas dinner.”

  “That’s right! Let me call her and check in.” Wendy took out her cell and moved into the living room to talk.

  Meanwhile I returned my mother’s call. “Are we on for today?” she asked brightly.

  “Yes, we are. But you know I have this bodyguard, right? Wendy. She’s been great. Can I invite her and her roommate Bets?”

  “Of course! The more the merrier,” my mother chirped. She loved company, and she and my father had recently revamped their kitchen, which she liked to show off to visitors. “Try to be here by noon,” she said. “I have all kinds of ingredients.”

  I promised that I would, and hung up the phone, only to have it ring again. It was Parker.

  “How are you?” he asked. He sounded affectionate, but distracted. I imagined him at his desk, sorting through his notes.

  “I’m fine. Terry treated us like royalty, and he’s replaced my window.”

  “Great. And what are you doing today?”

  “We’re making cookies with my mom.”

  “Good, good.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  A pause. “I don’t know. And I’m probably stupid to bring it up, but i
t’s been nagging at me.”

  “What?”

  “You said, at the Christmas party, that you were angry with me, but you couldn’t remember why. I know I’m opening Pandora’s box, but . . . I need to know what it is. Especially because—things went so well with us the other night. I don’t suppose you remember it now?”

  With a muffled sigh I walked to my back door and looked out at my white yard. “I do.”

  “Okay.”

  “The thing is—the other day, your mom called me and told me she’d had a cancer scare. She said she hadn’t told me because she didn’t want me to worry unless I had to.”

  “Right,” Parker said.

  “But she called you, when we were at Cam and Fina’s, and she told you how worried she was. And I asked if it was your mother on the phone, and you said no.”

  “She asked me not to tell you.”

  “Exactly, Parker. The way Pet Grandy asked me not to tell you that I made the chili that ended up being poisoned. She didn’t want her secret to be revealed, and I was trying to respect her wishes.”

  “That’s not the same.” His voice was defensive.

  “Why?”

  “You lied to the police, Lilah! It’s against the law. The law that I respect.”

  I understood this about Parker. He loved his profession because he was an idealist, and he believed in rules and in justice, however flawed they might be. “Yes, I did. But only because I knew I was innocent, and so it didn’t matter to the case whether I was the chef or not.”

  Another pause. I knew that Parker was making his rumination face—the one where his eyes darted around like his darting thoughts. “I understand what you’re saying. But I still see a distinction between the two.”

  “Well, here’s my dilemma, Jay. You cut me out of your life, didn’t speak to me for two months because I failed to tell you the truth about something I cooked. Then you looked me in the eye and hid the truth from me about your mother, who happens to be my friend. But I understand: Ellie asked you to keep silent. If you hadn’t treated me so badly for similar behavior this wouldn’t be an issue at all.”