Chapter 4

Camille glared at the partially finished piece on her workbench. “I hate to tell you this, but you are hideous.”

The metal horse stared back…well, with one eye, at least. The other, a repurposed bolt, wandered off in the other direction. It was just one of the things wrong about her latest attempt at sculpting—one of very, very many things. Its head was cocked in a way more reminiscent of a terrier than a draft horse, and its body twisted awkwardly to the side. She couldn’t even look at what was supposed to be the two children on its back. They looked like vicious elves from a twisted fairy tale, riding a lopsided beast.

The piece was the furthest thing she could imagine from the idyllic scene she had in her mind. Ever since she’d watched Buttercup carrying the two adorable kids through the snow, dragging a tree behind her, Camille had wanted to recreate that feeling of Christmassy goodness and wonder. This, though, was just scary and awful and monstrous and…no. Nope. Nope. Nope.

“I need a break.”

She charged out of the workshop and burst through the door, startling Lucy into bolting from the kitchen.

“Sorry, LuLu,” she called after the cat, knowing that Lucy was headed to her favorite hiding spot—the top shelf of the bookcase in Camille’s bedroom. Guilt eased her frustration, and she felt more mopey than angry by the time she plopped down on the couch with a container of peanut-butter blossoms in her lap. “I really shouldn’t be eating you for lunch.” She glanced at the clock and blinked, shocked at how much time she’d wasted. “Or dinner, I guess.”

After regarding the cookie in her hand thoughtfully for a moment, she took a bite and shrugged. Once she was finished with Christmas orders, she’d have time to do things like cook nutritious meals and grocery shop for more ingredients than a single bag of chocolate stars. She glanced around the kitchen and winced, mentally adding housecleaning to her post-Christmas to-do list.

A knock on the front door made her freeze, cookie halfway to her mouth. Her first instinct was to go perfectly still, like a deer faced with a hunter. Her next thought was to hide, but she knew it was too late. The couch—and Camille—was in the direct line of sight of anyone standing at the front door, and she could see Mrs. Lin peering through the window. Camille had already been spotted. Hiding was useless at this point. Swallowing a groan, she returned the cookie to the container and pushed to her feet. As she headed for the door, giving Mrs. Lin a wave and a forced smile, she vowed to stay in the kitchen next time, where she could hide from any well-meaning neighbors all day, if she had to.

“Mrs. Lin,” she said, opening the door. “Hi.”

“Camille. I brought an assortment of cookies.” Mrs. Lin stepped forward, using the tin of cookies in her hands like a battering ram, forcing Camille to step back before she got knocked over. A moment later, when Mrs. Lin was inside the house, looking around disapprovingly, Camille wished she’d held her ground.

“That was…nice of you,” she said lamely, closing the door. As much as she wished that Mrs. Lin would hand over the cookies and leave, she knew from bitter experience that wouldn’t be the case.

“Didn’t your grandmother teach you how to run a vacuum?” Mrs. Lin asked, tsking as she took in the state of the room.

“Yes, she did,” Camille said on a sigh. “This is my busy season, though, so I get a little…behind.” She swiped at the dust that had gathered on her stained-glass lamp. The clean streak left by her fingers just made the rest of the lampshade look dirtier.

“Busy season? People buy those things you make for Christmas? For gifts?” From her tone, it was obvious that Mrs. Lin couldn’t imagine who hated their friends and family enough to do that.

“They do, actually.” Be nice to the elderly lady, she reminded herself. Mrs. Lin and her grandma had been the very definition of frenemies. After her grandma’s death, Mrs. Lin had seemed lost, losing her sharp wit and even sharper tongue. It was just in the past few years that Mrs. Lin had seemed to rally, starting up a competitive rivalry with Mrs. Murphy, the owner of Borne Market. Camille still felt a sense of relief along with her irritation at Mrs. Lin’s trademark feistiness, since she’d been worried the woman would never recover.

Mrs. Lin tsked again. It was one of her favorite sounds, Camille had discovered, along with loud, martyred sighs. “People throw their money away on the craziest things. Did you know they have spas for dogs now? Spas.” She shook her head. “For dogs.”

“I suppose that’s good for my business,” Camille said, trying to joke. Working on the hell beast of a sculpture looked wonderful now, compared to a long chat with Mrs. Lin, who gave her a sharp look as she handed Camille her coat.

“You’re going to start a dog spa? Oh, no. That’s not happening. The zoning is all wrong. Who wants to live next to all that barking? You’re starting one of those dog spas over my dead body, missy!”

“No,” Camille said faintly. “I meant my art business…” When Mrs. Lin’s glare didn’t lighten, Camille let it go. “Would you like some tea?”

“I don’t know. Is the kitchen as much of a mess as this room?”

Yes, Camille thought but figured it was wiser to keep her mouth shut. Besides, Mrs. Lin was marching toward the kitchen, so she’d soon see for herself anyway.

“Oh my heavens, this is terrible!”

With another deep sigh, Camille hung Mrs. Lin’s coat in the hall closet, debating whether it would be smart to hide in there with it. She decided to be brave and join Mrs. Lin in the kitchen, where she was huffing and puffing so much that Camille wanted to make a Three Little Pigs joke.

“Your grandmother must be rolling over in her grave when she looks down from heaven and sees what you’ve done to her house.” Despite her complaints, Mrs. Lin settled at the table, not protesting when Camille filled the kettle with water to make tea. Apparently, the kitchen was not enough of a disaster to make Mrs. Lin want to leave. As she retrieved two teacups, Camille made a mental note to work on that. Perhaps if it was really messy, Mrs. Lin would run screaming and never visit again. Camille ducked her head to hide her smile at that thought.

“How’s Xavier?” she asked, knowing that mentioning Mrs. Lin’s grandson was her best chance of turning the conversation away from ways that Camille was a disappointment to her departed grandma.

“He’s excellent and made the varsity basketball team this year, but I’m not here to talk about him.”

“You’re not?” Camille asked, handing Mrs. Lin a cup of tea. She was curious in spite of herself, unable to remember a time when mentioning Xavier didn’t bring an hour-long recitation of his accomplishments.

“Of course not.” She took a sip of tea as Camille waited to hear what was more urgent than Mrs. Lin’s grandson. “Where did you put those cookies I brought for you?”

Camille went to retrieve both Mrs. Lin’s tin and the peanut-butter blossoms from the living room, hurrying to stuff in her mouth the remains of the cookie she’d been eating when Mrs. Lin arrived. Chewing quickly, she slowly made her way back into the kitchen, swallowing the evidence before she returned to place both containers on the table in front of Mrs. Lin. From the suspicious glance the woman sent her, Camille wondered if she knew about the half-eaten cookie anyway. Mrs. Lin always seemed to know everything.

“What I wanted to discuss with you,” the older woman said after selecting a cookie, “are the bad habits I’m seeing you fall into.”

Camille’s hand stopped in midair, hovering over the cookies. Bad habits? The only bad habits she could think of were eating too much sugar and hiding—or trying to hide, in Mrs. Lin’s case—from visitors. Neither seemed worthy of an intervention. Even if it did have something to do with her love for sweets, she defiantly picked up a cookie anyway. She was well aware that tiny Mrs. Lin could put away a whole tin of them, and she wanted to snag a mini pecan pie before they were gone.

“Bad habits?” Camille asked before shoving the entire thing into her mouth. Mrs. Lin’s bitterness was in no way reflected in her baking, and Camille felt like she should get at least one good thing out of this sure-to-be-unpleasant visit.

Mrs. Lin pinned her with a sharp gaze over her teacup. “Don’t play innocent with me, missy.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Lin.” Camille took another mini pecan pie. “I have no idea what bad habits you’re talking about. These tiny pies are excellent, by the way.”

“Don’t eat too many. That shirt is awfully tight as it is.”

Glancing down at her front, Camille saw that her mostly unbuttoned flannel overshirt was gaping open, showing the one beneath. “It’s long underwear,” she said, not too concerned by Mrs. Lin’s critique. After all, the only people who’d see it were the two of them. “It’s supposed to be tight.”

Mrs. Lin let out a small huff that managed to convey all her disdain in one wordless sound. “Well, your revealing attire is not helping with your situation.”

“My situation?” She reached for a third mini pie, but Mrs. Lin slapped her hand away, so Camille settled back to drink her tea. She was starting to feel a little queasy from all the sugar anyway.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed all the men hanging out around here lately.”

Camille blinked. That was not what she’d expected Mrs. Lin to say. Not at all. “I’m sorry… What?”

“All of your men.” Mrs. Lin raised her voice and enunciated each word carefully.

“I heard you the first time.” Camille wondered if this was a sign that her elderly neighbor was suffering from dementia. There hadn’t been any other indications, though. “I’m just confused. What men are you talking about?”

“Gladys Murphy said you’d deny it.” She tsked yet again, and Camille resisted the urge to throw a cookie. This was one of the most frustrating conversations she’d ever had with Mrs. Lin, and that was saying a lot. “As Dr. Beacon always says on his show, the first step toward getting better is admitting you have a problem.”

“A…man problem?” Dementia was seeming more and more likely. “And since when are you and Mrs. Murphy agreeing on anything?”

“Since you’ve turned your grandmother’s lovely home into a brothel.”

“A brothel? I’m not only having sex with a bunch of imaginary men, but I’m charging for it, too?” The total ridiculousness of the conversation hit her, and she fought the urge to laugh. “I promise you, Mrs. Lin, that this house has more in common with a convent than it does a brothel.” Unfortunately.

“Don’t lie to me, missy.” Mrs. Lin shook a piece of shortbread at Camille before taking an angry bite. There was a stiff silence until she finished chewing. “I’ve seen these men with my own eyes.”

“That’s impossible, because there are no men.”

Delicately brushing the crumbs off her fingers, Mrs. Lin reached into her handbag and pulled out her phone and a pair of reading glasses. “I have photographic evidence,” she said, setting the glasses on her nose and tapping at the screen.

Getting up, Camille moved around the table to look at the phone over Mrs. Lin’s shoulder. “Let’s see this parade of men, then.” She was honestly interested in seeing the photos.

“Here’s one,” Mrs. Lin said triumphantly, thrusting the phone toward Camille’s face. Pulling back a little so she didn’t get smacked in the nose, Camille peered at the screen. The picture was indeed a man, standing by her workshop door.

“That’s Ryan Springfield,” she said, taking her seat again, feeling a little disappointed in the anticlimax. For a second, Camille had almost thought that Mrs. Lin would have evidence proving that Camille’s life was just a touch more fascinating than it actually was. Ryan Springfield’s visit, however, was not the least bit interesting. “He sold me some barn wood.”

“Is that what you’re calling it?” Mrs. Lin said archly, her eyes on her phone as she flipped through pictures.

“Is that what I’m calling him selling me barn wood?” Camille was confused again.

Instead of answering, Mrs. Lin thrust the phone toward her, screen out. “You invited him in.”

Camille glanced at the picture of Ryan stepping into the shop, and she thought how strange it was that her neighbor had been taking pictures of this banal meeting. If Camille had known at the time that she and Ryan were being photographed, it might’ve made the whole affair more interesting. After considering that for a moment, she gave a small shake of her head. All knowing would’ve done was make her more self-conscious.

She realized that while she’d been silently lost in her thoughts, Mrs. Lin had been waiting for an answer. “Well?”

“Well, what?” Sitting back in her chair, Camille took a sip, making a face when she realized her tea was lukewarm. “Should I have made him stand in the open doorway while we talked? My workshop’s heated. That would’ve been a waste of energy.”

With another one of her expressive huffs, Mrs. Lin began swiping through the pictures on her phone again. “You’re being intentionally obtuse. It wouldn’t have taken thirty-seven minutes for Ryan Springfield to sell you some barn wood. That’s a ridiculous excuse, anyway. What would you even do with barn wood? You barely have a yard, much less room for a barn.”

Camille couldn’t decide which completely insane point to argue first. “You timed us? Why?”

Peering at her over the top of her reading glasses, Mrs. Lin said, “Well, someone needs to pay attention to what shenanigans go on in this neighborhood. I promised your grandmother that I’d watch out for you after she was gone, and she would not have approved of this at all.” She waved her phone at Camille as if exhibiting evidence. “What about this man?”

This time, Camille didn’t bother to get up and move behind Mrs. Lin to see the picture. Instead, she just leaned forward and squinted at the screen. As soon as she recognized the subject of the photo, she sat back to sip her now-cold tea. “That’s the mailman.”

“We don’t have a mailman,” Mrs. Lin said in a gotcha tone. “The very female Gloria Hunn delivers our mail.”

The urge to laugh built up inside Camille again. “Gloria has to have an occasional day off. He’s got to be her temporary replacement.” By the way Mrs. Lin’s mouth puckered, Camille got the impression that she didn’t like that very reasonable explanation, and an amused snort escaped. “He’s in uniform! Did you think I got a stripper-gram?”

From the judgmental look Mrs. Lin gave her, it seemed that a stripper-gram was more likely to her than a postal worker needing a vacation. “Well, you do seem to…enjoy a man in uniform,” Ms. Lin said, holding out her phone again.

Camille leaned across the table. “What is that? It’s too dark to see anything.”

“Come closer,” Mrs. Lin demanded. Repressing the urge to roll her eyes, Camille took up her earlier position behind her neighbor and peered at the phone. The picture had obviously been taken at night, but now she could make out the shape of a person standing by her front door. The brightest parts of the photo were what appeared to be reflective strips on the heavy coat.

“Who is that?” Camille asked, reaching to zoom in.

“A fireman, judging by what he’s wearing,” Mrs. Lin said. “Yet another man, standing on your porch.”

Although she racked her brain, Camille couldn’t recall anyone coming to her front door after dark, especially not a firefighter. She definitely would’ve remembered that. “When did you take this?”

“Just a few days ago.” Mrs. Lin sounded triumphant that she’d managed to finally catch Camille’s attention.

“Huh.” For the last month, she’d been working in her shop until late, so maybe she’d missed the knock. Why would a fireman show up on her porch, though? Her brain immediately went to Steve Springfield, but she dismissed that option as wishful thinking. “Who is it?”

“There wasn’t enough light to make out his face,” Mrs. Lin said, disappointed. “With that bulky coat on, he could be any one of the Borne firefighters—except for Rose Marie Mackenzie, of course.” She tilted her phone to get a better look at the photo. “She’s just an itty-bitty thing. Stubborn as all get-out, though. I always said she only wanted to become a firefighter because someone told her she couldn’t.”

“Or she just wanted to be a firefighter, so she did that, despite what anyone else said,” Camille said absently, her eyes still on the photo. “You’re right, though. That’s not Rose Marie.” There was something eerie about the figure, the hulking form silhouetted against the familiar shape of her front door. It was dark enough that everything except the distinctive reflective strips was in shadow, making the figure look menacing. Camille repressed a shiver. “Maybe someone stopped by to sell tickets to their annual fund-raising dinner.” That had to be what it was…right?

“Ten months before the event?” Mrs. Lin responded doubtfully. “Don’t try to spin this, missy. Dr. Beacon always says—”

“—admitting I have a man problem is the first step. Right.” She knew she was going to get scolded for not taking Mrs. Lin seriously enough, but her attention was still focused on the photo. She wasn’t sure why it bothered her so much. As she’d told Mrs. Lin, he’d probably been fund-raising or checking to make sure she had batteries in her smoke alarms or to let her know about a meth lab in the area or something innocuous—well, as innocuous as a meth lab could be. For whatever reason, though, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from that dark picture.

“Don’t be flippant.” Mrs. Lin’s reprimand sounded half-hearted, and Camille wondered if her neighbor had felt the same shiver going down her spine.

“Did I answer the door?” Camille asked, knowing that she hadn’t, but needing to ask. After all, Mrs. Lin had a picture of some random firefighter standing on her porch at night. Maybe she also had a photo on that phone of Camille opening the door to him.

“No.” Mrs. Lin sounded disappointed, but Camille was hugely relieved. She’d started doubting reality for a moment. “Not that time.”

“Not that time?” The words jerked Camille out of her contemplation of the dark, eerie picture. “There was no other time.” Mrs. Lin raised one overplucked eyebrow, and Camille amended her statement. “Fine, I let Ryan in, but that was an energy-saving issue, and absolutely nothing scandalous happened.” When Mrs. Lin just pursed her lips again, Camille returned to her seat and rebelliously grabbed a sugar cookie from the tin. “Was that it? Any other men?”

Mrs. Lin brushed at invisible crumbs. “Not that I took pictures of,” she finally admitted.

“So, a substitute mailman, a barn-wood salesman, and a mysterious and kind of creepy firefighter, two of which I never saw or invited in.” And one she’d never, ever date, no matter what he seemed to think.

“You might twist things around with your excuses,” Mrs. Lin said, “and I might not have any definitive evidence yet, but mark my words…I’ll get those pictures eventually. Then you can try to explain away your behavior, but everyone will know the truth.” She smiled slightly—a small, satisfied grin. “Just wait. I asked my daughter-in-law for night-vision binoculars for Christmas. She’s still desperate to suck up to me after the potato salad incident, so you know she’s getting the most expensive, high-tech binoculars that she can find.” Mrs. Lin gave an evil, cackling laugh worthy of the most heinous super-villain, and Camille held back a nervous chuckle.

“If I turn this place into a brothel,” she said, “I promise that I will pose for any and all pictures you want to take with your phone or your night-vision binoculars.”

Mrs. Lin sat back, crossing her ankles delicately, and Camille noticed that only a few scattered crumbs were left in the cookie tins. She’d sat through an entire crazy conversation with Mrs. Lin and didn’t even have any leftover cookies to show for it.

“That does not sound like something I would wish to see,” Mrs. Lin said.

Camille sputtered. “You just said—”

“The binoculars will be purely for research purposes. I need to keep an eye on this neighborhood. It’s gone downhill ever since the Murphys moved in.” Before Camille could address the many things that were wrong with her neighbor’s statements—with her entire visit—Mrs. Lin gave her a thin, triumphant smile. “My tea has gone cold.”

Swallowing a resigned sigh, Camille stood to make more tea.

You’d better appreciate how nice I’m being to your friend, Grandma, she thought as she filled the kettle with water. I’ve only had about three homicidal thoughts the entire time.

“Do you have any more cookies? You’ve eaten all of the ones I brought.”

Okay, four homicidal thoughts.