Mistletoe and Murder: Three Cozy Christmas Mysteries

Wreath Between the Lines

Wreath Between the Lines

The holidays are Jenna Hart’s favorite time of year, but just as she’s decorating the Cookbook Nook for all the festive events, her imperious older sister makes a surprise visit, anxious that her husband’s been more naughty than nice. To make matters worse, her father’s good friend Jake shows up on her doorstep with a frantic report that his friend has been murdered—trussed with Christmas lights and impaled with a tree star.

Worried that Jake was the intended victim, Jenna makes a list of suspects and checks it twice. Swapping her Santa’s hat for a sleuthing cap, she gets busy investigating Jake’s long-lost sister, his Grinch of a neighbor, and a stamp collector who covets Jake’s most treasured piece. When Jake himself is poisoned and nearly dies, Jenna knows she’ll have to do whatever it takes to corner the culprit before it’s lights out for Jake . . .

Acknowledgments

Nothing can dim the light which shines from within. ~ Maya Angelou

No book comes together without the help and support of so many. Thank you to my family and friends for all your encouragement. Thank you to my talented author friends, Krista Davis and Hannah Dennison, for your words of wisdom. Thank you to my Plothatcher pals: Krista Davis, Janet (Ginger Bolton), Kaye George, Marilyn Levinson (Allison Brook), Peg Cochran, and Janet Koch (Laura Alden). It’s hard to keep all your aliases straight, but you are a wonderful pool of talent and a terrific wealth of ideas, jokes, stories, and fun! I adore you. Thanks to my blog mates on Mystery Lovers Kitchen: Cleo Coyle, Krista Davis, Leslie Budewitz, Roberta Isleib (Lucy Burdette), Peg Cochran, Linda Wiken (Erika Chase), Denise Swanson, and Sheila Connolly. I love your passion for food as well as for books.

Thank you to my online groups, Cake and Daggers as well as Delicious Mysteries. You keep me on my toes. I love how willing you are to read ARCs, post reviews, and help me promote whenever possible. Authors need fans like you.

Thanks to those who have helped make this seventh book in the Cookbook Nook Mystery series come to fruition: my publisher, Bill Harris, at Beyond the Page; my agent, John Talbot; and my biggest supporter, Kimberley Greene. Without you all, I’d go haywire.

Last but not least, thank you librarians, teachers, and readers for sharing the delicious world of a cookbook nook owner in a fictional coastal town in California with your friends. I hope you enjoy this story.

Dedication

Thank you to my Plothatcher pals.

You make writing and chatting about life fun!

Chapter 1

Tigger, look! I shouted and then whispered, Scary. I pointed out the driver’s window of my VW Beetle at the supersized blow-up Santa that towered in front of Jake Chapman’s white Victorian beach house. I loved its dormer windows and wraparound porch. It was situated at the north end of the strand and had a beautiful view of the ocean.

My ginger cat, not frightened in the least, stood in my lap on his hind feet, his front paws propped on the driver’s window and nose sniffing the air. For over an hour, we had been cruising the streets of Crystal Cove while listening to a variety of Christmas music on the radio. Currently, Johnny Mathis was singing one of my favorites, It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas. After touring five neighborhoods, Tigger and I had finally made it back to our own.

The rest of his decorations are pretty, too, aren’t they, Tig-Tig?

Old Jake—as many in town call him—had affixed twinkling lights along the eaves and around every window, as well as along all of the branches of his leafless crape myrtles. A pair of gigantic candy canes flanked the end of his walkway. Wreaths hung on every door. It might be the prettiest we’ve seen.

Tigger meowed then yawned.

Ready to call it a night, pal?

He purred his assent.

I made a U-turn to head toward home. Most of our neighbors do Christmas up right, don’t you think? I’d set battery-operated candles in all of my windows and hung a beautiful berry and celosia wreath on my cottage door. "Not a lot of bah humbug types around here," I said. Of course, a few hadn’t decorated for religious reasons.

At the undecorated house across the street, I caught sight of Jake’s neighbor, Emmett Atwater, peeking furtively between a break in the drapes. He reminded me of a weasel with his needle nose and beady eyes. The tip of his cigarette glowed as he inhaled. I didn’t think he was gawking at me in particular. I wasn’t the only one driving with headlights off to take in the festive décor. Catching me staring, he snapped the drapes closed.

Can’t please everyone, I murmured, recalling a time a few years ago when I’d worked at Taylor & Squibb Advertising and had championed a campaign for Laser Luminescence. The product was a type of lighting system that could be set up anywhere on the property. It would project moving holiday images on a house or garage door or even a tree: elves, snowflakes, sugar plum fairies, you name it. The owner of Laser Luminescence had a rollicking sense of humor. He thought it would be fun to make one of the actor neighbors carp about how bright and garish the lights were, so the actor home owner, purely to irk the neighbor, put out hot chocolate for all who came to admire his lights. Needless to say, the foot traffic drove the cranky neighbor nuts.

Poor Mr. Atwater. I nuzzled Tigger under the chin. Maybe Jake should give him a few shares of his Apple stock to appease him. Jake could afford the gesture. He was a self-made millionaire.

Tigger meowed.

I nodded. You’re right. Time for bed. No more dawdling. We have a big day ahead.

• • •

Tuesday morning, after taking a brisk walk on the beach and eating an English muffin slathered with cream cheese and homemade cranberry sauce, I donned my favorite Kelly green sweater, a pair of jeans, glittery holiday earrings, and flip-flops—yes, even in December I liked to wear sandals—and drove to the Cookbook Nook, the culinary bookstore I now owned with my aunt.

Tuesday was typically my day off, but I couldn’t afford to take it this week. The Crystal Cove Christmas Festival would get under way tomorrow and run until Sunday evening. Every day shoppers would be out in droves because Christmas was two weeks away. Tick-tock. We were almost ready. We’d set out numerous Christmas-themed cookbooks as well as a few mysteries featuring the holiday, like A Cajun Christmas Killing by Ellen Byron, The Diva Wraps it Up by Krista Davis, and Read and Gone: A Haunted Library Mystery by Allison Brook. The latter didn’t offer any recipes, but I adored ghost stories.

Get a move on, Jenna Hart, I urged. I needed to tweak our window display and unpack dozens of boxes of new cookbooks and gift items.

I stepped out of my car with Tigger tucked under my arm and drew in a deep breath. How I loved the crisp air in winter. I found it invigorating and hopeful, like good things were in store. Singing Fa-la-la-la-la, I pushed open the door to the shop, weaved through the bookshelves to the children’s corner, and plunked Tigger on the kitty condo my father had built for him.

After stowing my purse and turning on a music loop of Christmas instrumental music—the first in the queue was a bright version of The First Noel—I moved to the display window and examined what I’d created yesterday. Wreaths were the theme the mayor had designated for the festival this year. She wanted a wreath hanging on every shop door. A few days before Christmas, a panel of judges would choose a winner. All of the shops in Fisherman’s Village, the charming white, two-story complex abutting the ocean where the Cookbook Nook and the Nook Café were located, had gotten on board. Beaders of Paradise, a beading and craft store, had fashioned a beautiful wreath using broaches, rhinestones, and pearls. It glistened in the morning sunlight. The surf shop had made a wreath with toy-sized surfboards. The retro movie theater on the second floor had cleverly decorated an old film reel with ribbon. Vines, the wine bar above the café, had adorned artificial vines with frosted grapes and twinkling lights.

For ours, I had commissioned a local artist to create a wreath using miniature cookbooks, tiny salt and pepper shakers, aprons, and cookie jars. A huge red bow trimmed the top. Perfect!

The window display, on the other hand, needed work. Yesterday I’d set out a white picket fence and a fake blanket of snow. Atop that, I’d positioned a number of cookbooks, including Jamie Oliver’s Christmas Cookbook: For the Best Christmas Ever. Women were our primary customers, and over the course of the last year and a half, after leaving my advertising job to join my aunt in this venture, I’d learned that Jamie Oliver’s handsome face was an instant lure to women. The recipes in the cookbook were a lure, too. I had my eye on trying either the roast goose or the turkey wellington. Granted, I was not a gourmet cook—yet. My mother had done all the cooking when I was growing up; I hadn’t needed to learn until I’d moved home to Crystal Cove. I was still challenged by ten-ingredient recipes, but I was becoming bolder by the day.

Cookies, I said aloud. We need a plate of wreath-shaped cookies. And a set of cookie cutters. And a gingerbread house with wreaths on all its doors.

Talking to yourself is a sign of dementia, my aunt crooned as she came into the shop, the folds of her silver caftan rustling with every step. She was carrying the matching turban.

Hogwash. I talk to myself all the time.

I rest my case.

LOL, I said, using the abbreviated form for laughing out loud.

She strode to me and peeked at the display. Hmm. She tapped her chin. You need glitter. And twinkling lights. And a north star.

A star. Of course. I kissed her cheek. You’re brilliant.

Tosh.

My aunt was truly brilliant and she was wicked smart when it came to finance. She was top of her class and valedictorian in college. Like Jake, she had invested well over the years. In addition, she had a refined sixth sense. She enjoyed telling fortunes—hence, the caftan and turban—and she could read auras. I adored her and was thrilled she had convinced me to give up advertising and move home to Crystal Cove. I’d lost my smile. It felt good to have it back.

I hurried to the storage room, put the items my aunt had recommended into a box, and set the box on the sales counter by the antique register. Next, I raced through the breezeway that connected the shop to the Nook Café to put in an order for wreath-shaped cookies and a gingerbread house. Chef Katie Casey, one of my childhood friends, assured me she was up to the task. She would have my goodies ready in less than two hours.

Back at the shop, I plugged in my glue gun to warm it up. By that time, Aunt Vera had donned her turban and had settled onto a chair by the vintage kitchen table near the entry. She was straightening a jigsaw puzzle that featured a wintry Dickensian Christmas, complete with vendors hawking food and gifts.

She glanced up. Where’s Bailey?

Bailey was one of my best friends and the lead salesperson at the shop.

She asked for the day off. She and her hubby are house hunting. Bailey and Tito Martinez recently married. So far, they were doing swimmingly. His small apartment, however, wasn’t going to be big enough for them in the long run. They were talking about starting a family. Yep, Bailey, who months ago had balked at the idea of kids, had been won over by her husband’s zeal. To get a jump on motherhood, she was reading every book she could find on the subject. I reminded her that her mother was one of the best role models in the world. Even so, she wanted to bone up so she wouldn’t screw up.

And Tina? Aunt Vera rose to her feet, righted her turban, and grabbed a feather duster, which she began swishing back and forth across the bookshelves.

I’m here! Tina Gump, a svelte young woman who was working for us while she took culinary classes at night—she hoped to become a chef—waltzed in. Merry almost Christmas.

Why are you here? I asked. It’s your day off.

In December? Are you nuts? I’ll take a few extra days in January when we’re slow. She lifted a candy cane apron off a hook, pressed it to her chest, and twirled like she was dancing with an imaginary partner. Tendrils from her casual updo wafted in the breeze.

Aren’t you chipper? I said. What’s up?

I had a date.

With the poetry guy?

Yes.

During the Renaissance Festival a few months ago, she’d fallen for a young man who delivered scrolls of poetry. His real day job was teaching at the junior college.

He’s so dreamy. Did I tell you his specialty is marine biology? He owns dozens of fish. He has a huge aquarium at his place.

You’ve visited his apartment? I waggled my eyebrows at her.

"No, not yet. Pfft." Tina flicked a tendril of hair off her face. We’re taking it slow. But I’ve seen pictures. He has dozens of pictures. By the way . . . She didn’t continue. She rehung the apron, fixed the sales tag, flung her purse on a shelf beneath the cash register, and started in on sorting money into the register drawers.

Go on. You said, ‘By the way.’ I returned to the display case with my box of decorations and trusty glue gun.

Right. Sorry. I got distracted. Anyway, when I was at Latte Luck Café this morning, I saw Jake with a guy who looks just like him. He was really tan and scrawny. But he wasn’t dressed very nicely. I think Jake was treating him to coffee.

And . . . I asked leadingly.

They were talking in muffled voices, like they had a secret.

Okay.

A bad secret. She gazed earnestly at me. The other guy seemed frightened.

• • •

Ever since Tina told me about seeing Jake and his friend, a worrisome knot had taken up residence in my stomach. No amount of Christmas music was easing it. Decorating my three-foot-high Douglas fir wasn’t helping, either. So when someone began frantically knocking on my cottage door, my sensors went on high alert.

Heart racing, I called, Who’s there? I knew it wasn’t my boyfriend, Rhett, or my aunt. Rhett was in Napa Valley visiting his family. My aunt was having dinner with Deputy Appleby.

Jenna, open up! a woman with a low-pitched voice shouted. Not Bailey. Her voice was higher in tone, plus she and Tito were making candy cane cookies to donate to the homeless shelter.

Jenna! More knocking.

I rose to my feet. The woman knew my name. It wasn’t posted on my mailbox or the door of my cottage. Wiping my hands on my jeans, I stole to the door. Who is it?

Me, the woman replied.

And me! a girl trilled, giving me a hint as to who might be assaulting my door.

Tigger scampered to my side and batted my leg with his tail.

Don’t worry, buddy. I peeked through the peephole and confirmed my guess. This is friend, not foe. But not someone I was expecting. Whitney. Winsome, willful Whitney. My older sister. Light to my dark and curvier all over. And her eldest daughter, Lacy.

I finger-combed my hair, shook out my shoulders to loosen any kinks—I hated looking tense around my sister—and whipped open the door. The pretty wreath I’d hung on the door swung to and fro. What a surprise.

My sister hugged me briefly, the top of her head barely reaching my chin, after which she breezed into my cottage. The tails of her mohair cardigan flapped backward like wings. New and homemade, I supposed. Whitney was a whiz with knitting needles.

Nice wreath, Whitney said. Did you make it?

I bought it. I was an artist, and in my spare time I painted, but during the holiday season I barely had time to breathe.

Lacy, a fourteen-year-old who roamed the earth under a dark cloud, slogged inside after her. She matched her mother in skin tone and hair color, but she was taller than Whitney by at least four inches and apparently didn’t like her mother’s neutral color palette. Her attire consisted of black leggings, black army-style boots, black tank top, and black scarf knotted at the neck. A silver ring adorned her nose. Black orchid tattoos graced her shoulders. Wasn’t she cold? She offered me a slim smile—no hug—and instantly scooped up Tigger. Hey, kitty, kitty.

Tigger, I said. His name is Tigger.

Tigger, Lacy cooed. You are so cute.

I peered outside searching for more of Whitney’s family. I didn’t see a car. The merry Christmas lights illuminating the roof on my aunt’s house would have revealed one. Where’s Spencer? Her husband.

He’s dropping our stuff at Dad’s house and then has an errand to run.

Dad’s house?

That’s where we’re staying while he’s on the cruise. Didn’t he tell you?

My father and his significant other, Lola, Bailey’s mother, were on a river cruise along the Danube. I was so excited for them. He and my mother, rest her soul, hadn’t traveled as much as they would have liked. Lola had renewed his spirit to explore. They would be back on Christmas Eve.

Why are you here? I asked.

Geez! Whitney huffed. I told Dad to tell you. Lacy is competing in the Christmas a cappella event at the festival in Azure Park. Twenty groups from up and down California have qualified for it.

Congratulations, Lacy.

She grunted.

Of course, Lacy’s group isn’t like typical a cappella groups, my sister went on. It’s very edgy. They do a lot of hard rock. Her disdain was evident.

Lacy threw her mother a vile look. We’re good.

Where’s Lily? I asked, referring to my other niece, a twelve-year-old tomboy who resembled me more than she did her mother. Dark shoulder-length hair. Cute turned-up nose. No curves.

She begged to stay with her friend in Los Angeles. She hates going to competitions with her sister. She wants to practice her pitching. Lily was an ace softball player. You know kids.

Actually, I didn’t. Other than the ones that frequented the Cookbook Nook, I was at a loss. Oh, sure, I’d done a little babysitting growing up, but I’d never spent lengths of time with children. Did I want them? Rhett and I hadn’t broached the subject yet. We’d recently started talking about tying the knot. After my husband’s death, I’d been gun shy about committing to a relationship.

Whitney shrugged out of her sweater, revealing a pretty cream blouse tucked into coffee-colored trousers. She always dressed picture perfect. She fluffed her honey blonde tresses and eyed my place. It was the first time she’d visited since I’d moved home to Crystal Cove. It’s tiny.

It’s perfect, I countered.

Small tree.

In scale with the cottage, I said in singsong fashion, one of my coping mechanisms with my sister. Over the years, I had learned to deflect her dismissals. I turned to Lacy. Are you excited about the competition?

Sure. Her single word lacked conviction.

I tilted my head. Was she singing for her enjoyment or for her mother’s?

Got anything to eat? Whitney asked, making a beeline for my refrigerator.

I was getting ready to make Mom’s meat loaf. Want to join me?

Why don’t I throw it together? she offered.

I can handle it. I’ve been practicing.

Whitney wrinkled her nose. I scrunched mine in response. Sisters.

Should you let Spencer know you’re staying for dinner? I asked.

He’ll figure it out.

I grabbed her arm. Hold it. What’s with the attitude? What’s going on? My sister liked to have tabs on her family at all times.

Whitney glanced at Lacy, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace taunting Tigger with a piece of string, and then hooked her index finger at me to follow her to the front porch.

I did and closed the door. Spill.

Whitney blinked back tears. I think Spencer is having an affair.

Chapter 2

Over the course of the next half hour, as I made turkey meat loaf and Whitney sipped wine—Lacy had retreated to my bedroom, earbuds in place, so she could vocalize and warm up her voice—I learned why Whitney felt her husband was straying.

He goes out almost every night and offers feeble explanations. An errand here. An errand there.

He’s a contractor. Maybe he has to pick up supplies.

Whenever he’s away, he doesn’t answer his cell phone.

My mouth formed an O. I didn’t let the word escape my lips.

Whenever I confront him—

You’ve confronted him?

Not directly. Sort of. She pressed a hand to her chest. He assures me he loves me and only me, but I don’t believe it. I think . . . She drew in a deep breath. I think he might be jealous of how my home business is thriving. I told you he’s been in and out of work. It’s not steady.

Is it possible he’s taking on other jobs to boost his income and is embarrassed to tell you?

Why would he be embarrassed?

Because he’s a man.

No, that’s not what’s going on. She flipped her hair over her shoulder. Besides, he always comes home teeming with energy. Another job would sap him of get-up-and-go.

Not necessarily. Perhaps the job is creative. Painting was an outlet for me that brought me emotional comfort and restored my energy.

He’s not creative, she murmured.

The timer on the stove chimed. We tabled the discussion.

Over dinner, I tried to get Lacy to talk. She didn’t.

Around ten, as they were waiting for an Uber driver to pick them up, Whitney pulled me aside again and asked me to take Lacy shopping for a dress tomorrow so she could have it out with Spencer.

I have a shop to run, was my response.

But my sister was relentless. She wore me down with her pretty pleases, and after she cajoled me into admitting that I’d completed the window display, shelved all the new books, and set out plenty of gift items—she was a shark when it came to grilling me—she said Bailey, Tina, and Aunt Vera could manage the shop for a few hours. At ten in the morning, I would pick up Lacy.

I agreed, but only if she consented to lead a wreath-making clinic on Thursday. Tit for tat, right?

• • •

At noon on Wednesday, I stood in the dressing room at the Gossip Parlor waiting for the typical teen rant from Lacy about being too fat or too tall as she adjusted the halter strap of the dark red dress that she was trying on, but it didn’t come.

For five long minutes, she assessed herself in the body-length oval mirror, turning this way and that. And then, to my surprise, she said, Aunt Jenna, is it terrible to wish a truly evil person dead?

I gulped. Um, wishing and doing are two entirely different things.

How different?

She shot me a wicked glance, and something flipped in the pit of my stomach. I remembered the day she was born. Whitney had expected a perfect child with perfect manners and perfect brains; what she had gotten was entirely different. By the age of five, Lacy had shown signs of being a handful. Time, my father had told Whitney, would soften the edges. Right about now, I wasn’t so sure.

I tugged the hem of my snow-white sweater over my hunter green corduroys and tried to lighten the mood with a fake conspiratorial smile. Who’s your target? Veronica Devereaux? Veronica was the hottest girl in Lacy’s school and a fellow singer. The one time I’d seen a photograph of Veronica, she was wearing an exercise outfit only a sausage could appreciate.

Not her. My mom!

I gulped again. Harder.

Crocodile tears pooled in the corners of Lacy’s Dutch blue eyes. Seconds later they spilled down her pale cheeks. She’s so . . . mean! ‘Be home by ten. Call when you get there.’ Lacy pitched her voice to match my sister’s. Not a bad imitation. ‘Do your homework. Cover your tattoos.’

Ah, yes, I mused. A mother’s work is never done.

And now she’s making me get a dress? I might as well shrivel up and die. I can wear black jeans and sing, can’t I? The others in the group are wearing black. We want to look like a team.

Oh my. I braced myself for an even longer-than-expected day. Whitney had said to find a dress that would make Lacy look feminine and well mannered, no small feat with her ragged hair—did she cut it herself?—and chewed-to-the-nub fingernails. I’m sure your mom means well, I said.

No, she doesn’t. She never does.

Up until now, Lacy and I had had a fairly good time, the teenaged version of a Las Vegas moment. What happens in Crystal Cove stays in Crystal Cove. Over the course of a few hours, she hadn’t had any meltdowns, and we’d shared a few secrets, like where she stashed her candy at home—she adored Milky Way bars—and which rock stars she liked. Her favorite was Dilettante, of course. At the first dress shop we’d visited, Lacy had insisted on trying on some dreadful dresses that included a slinky leopard-print sheath and a mini black velvet number that barely reached her you-know-what, all of which, to my horror, she had gushed over. Afterward, I’d steered her to our present location, a new boutique located in Artiste Arcade, the cluster of high-end shops across the street from Fisherman’s Village. The Gossip Parlor catered to the arty and youthful, but it didn’t have quite the edge of the first shop. Its primary-color décor reminded me of a Mondrian painting.

Mom says if I wear a dress to this competition, everyone will think I’m normal. Her voice rose in typical teenaged hysteria. I don’t want to be normal!

I leaped off the blue velvet dressing room bench and threw an arm around her. The gesture felt a little awkward. We hadn’t hugged since she was little.

She wriggled free and riveted me with her overly made-up eyes, now raccoon-like, thanks to the tears. You’ve got to help me.

All my senses went on alert as I flashed on her initial question. Did she wish her mother dead? What did she want me to do, knock off my sister? Definitely not included on today’s agenda.

I stayed cool and jutted a finger. Hold on, young lady. I’m merely helping you shop for a dress, not abetting you in murder, got me?

"As if." Her mouth twisted up on one side, an indication that she had a personality worth salvaging, and I breathed easier.

Back to the task at hand. I clipped her chin with my knuckles. This dress. What do you think? I like you in red.

It’s blood-red.

I stand corrected.

She twirled in front of the mirror. The knee-length skirt fluted around her thighs. She gazed at her backside.

You look beautiful. I wasn’t lying. She had a cute little figure, and red—blood-red—suited her pale coloring. If only I could get her to rethink the fake nose ring.

It’s okay.

Good enough for me. I pulled my to-do list from my purse and crossed off the first item. One of the things I’d learned when I was at Taylor & Squibb was that I should never go anywhere without a pen, a pad, and a to-do list. Owning a special set of tools, like a gold pen and gilt-edged paper, made the list making that much easier.

And the shoes? I asked.

The saleslady had handed Lacy a pair of rhinestone-studded silver sandals.

I can’t stomp in these.

Stomp?

We stomp in our routine. But I like these shoes.

Lacy needed a pedicure, but I’d tackle that issue later. Maybe if the rest of the day went well, I’d offer her a shopping spree in San Francisco during the summer. I’d fly her up.

In addition to the sandals, we picked out a pair of sensible heels that she could stomp in. Afterward, I paid for our purchases and we walked back to the Nook Café for a snack.

I loved our intimate café with its white tablecloths and view of the ocean. And the food? Excellent, if I did say so myself.

As a waitress ushered us to a table by the window, Lacy said, Hey, did I tell you about my boyfriend? He’s a musician. She snickered, as if musician said it all.

I could only imagine. More tattoos than Lacy? Shaggier hair? Maybe he was a sensitive kid who lived beneath an equally dark cloud.

Mom says—

My cell phone chirped, and I scanned the caller ID. Speak of the devil.

It’s her, isn’t it? Lacy started to gnaw on the cuticle around her thumb.

My heart wrenched at the sight. Most girls didn’t show such overt dread of their mother. Whitney and I needed to talk. How critical was she of her daughter? Would she listen to me since I’d never been a mother?

Later. I let the call roll into voice mail.

Before I sat, Lacy threw herself at me and squeezed hard. Aunt Jenna, thank you. I know I’m a pain in the neck, but . . . well, I couldn’t have done this without you. Listen, if Mom goes ballistic about the tattoos on my shoulders showing—

She won’t. I promise. I held her at arms’ length. The dress we bought is exactly what your mother wants to see you in. Seeing the black orchid tattoos were the least of her worries. As for your boyfriend—

Oh, he’s not my boyfriend. Not technically.

Not technically. I grinned. How many times had I said that when I was Lacy’s age? My father was an FBI man and technically mattered to him. No lying. No obfuscating the truth. I’d toed the line—barely.

I tweaked Lacy’s cheek. "Let’s forge a plan for how to get your not technically boyfriend approved by your mom. Now, how about some iced tea?"

We ordered two mint teas and a plate of peppermint cookies.

As we waited for our order to be served, Lacy peered out the window. Ew, who’s that? And what’s he doing? She was pointing toward the beach below.

That’s Old Jake, a friend of your grandfather’s, and he’s cleaning the sand with his sandboni.

His what?

"It’s like the machine they use to clean ice rinks—you know, a Zamboni—but this is for sand. That big fork thing at the back sifts through the sand and collects all the litter. He does it out of the goodness of his heart."

It’s not his job?

Nope. He doesn’t need to work. He’s a millionaire.

Lacy’s eyes widened. What did he do to make a million bucks?

He invested in the stock market.

If he’s that rich, why is he dressed in tattered clothes and that ratty old hat?

Because you don’t wear your Sunday finest when you’re dealing with trash and sand. I laughed. Sometime this week, I’ll take you to see the Christmas lights, and we’ll drive by Jake’s house. His are the most elaborate in town.

A waitress returned with our cookies and a pair of crystal flutes filled to the rim with tea and fresh mint. She set the drinks on cocktail napkins and asked if we needed anything else. We didn’t.

Lacy dove into the cookies. I bit into one and hummed my appreciation. If only I could bake as well as our illustrious chef. I was getting pretty good at making candy—not the difficult kind that required using a candy thermometer, but I could throw together a pan of fudge that made Rhett swoon.

Between bites, Lacy told me everything about her not technically boyfriend. When she’d exhausted every synonym for fabulous, she sighed and said, Isn’t it a beautiful day?

The weather did seem to be mirroring her good mood. The sky was an exquisite blue with orange sherbet–swirled clouds.

After wiping her mouth with a napkin, Lacy said, How’s your life? as if we were now best friends.

Good, thanks for asking.

She leaned forward on both elbows. So why aren’t you married?

I nearly spurted my tea.

My mother says you and your boyfriend are perfect for each other.

She does? I’d never said a word to my sister about Rhett. Maybe our father had talked to her. He adored Rhett. They fished together and swapped stories.

Is it because Uncle David died?

No. My heart wrenched as I remembered what my husband and I once had, but all the lies and sadness he’d caused had tainted the good memories.

If you got married, I’m sure your boyfriend would let you work.

"Let me? I chortled. In today’s day and age, men don’t have a say in what women do. At least, they shouldn’t. Women should do what they want."

If you say so. Lacy tugged at her ragged hair.

I reached for her hand. How about we swing by the hair salon and have my hairdresser tweak your hair?

Do I have a say? she jibed.

I grinned. Of course.

Okay. Let’s go.

The hour at the salon was well worth it. Lacy loved her new hairdo so much that she’d even allowed the makeup artist to apply fresh eye makeup. On the way back to the Cookbook Nook, she kept checking herself out in store windows. She seemed happy until we reached the edge of Fisherman’s Village parking lot.

She halted and glanced right and left before saying, Mom and Dad aren’t happy.

What makes you say that?

Mom cries a lot. Dad’s got a secret. I asked him to tell me what it is, but he said I didn’t need to worry my little head. Talk about dismissive. She blew a raspberry. I can handle whatever he has to say.

I’m sure you could, but parents rarely tell their kids what’s bothering them. My mother hadn’t mentioned anything when she got sick, and we were all adults. I stroked Lacy’s shoulder. Relax. I’m sure they’ll work out whatever it is. She didn’t seem convinced. Hey, want to do one errand with me? I want to buy a star for my display window.

Crystal Cove was set on the coast of California, south of Santa Cruz and north of Monterey. To the west lay the ocean. To the east rose the Santa Cruz Mountains. The main street, Buena Vista Boulevard, boasted most of the shops and restaurants.

We strolled down the block and stepped inside Home Sweet Home, a delightful store filled with everything from scented candles to comforters to collectibles. Thanks to the town’s wreath theme, the shop was filled with them. Flora Fairchild, the owner, didn’t have to do much additional decorating during the holidays. Year round, the shop featured a Christmas tree filled with Crystal Cove–themed ornaments. Michael Bublé singing White Christmas played softly through speakers. The aroma of hot apple cider hung in the air.

The place was packed with people I didn’t recognize. The Christmas festival was attracting a ton of tourists.

Flora, who looked fetching in a green knit dress, was helping a dapper elderly gentleman select a doll from the holiday-clothed collection. Spotting a basket filled with sparkling stars just past them, I steered Lacy in that direction.

Is there a smudge, Adam? Flora asked worriedly.

Using his silk tie, the man buffed the chin of a curly-haired blonde doll in a red velvet coat trimmed with fur. Not anymore. He grinned.

Flora released the breath she’d been holding. She prided herself on making everything in the shop pristine.

I selected a glittery silver star and showed it to Lacy. She chose a gold-filigree one. We held them side by side, trying to decide.

How old is your granddaughter, Adam? Flora asked.

Amy? She’s eight.

Amy. What a sweet name, Flora said in a coquettish voice that surprised me. Her twin sister was a notorious flirt; Flora was more subdued. Not to mention, the man—Adam—was a good thirty years older than she was. She’ll love this doll.

I’d like to buy all of them.

Lacy elbowed me and mouthed: All?

Flora’s apple cheeks turned rosy with excitement. Honestly?

Yes. She’s my only granddaughter. I like to spoil her rotten.

Lacy mouthed: Rotten.

I knuckled her arm and bit back a laugh.

Adam said, I’m buying a vacation home in town and want to decorate a room for her.

Ooh, I have all the items you’ll need. Bedding, lamps, wall hangings. Flora toyed with the plait of hair she invariably wore in front of her shoulder. Which house are you buying?

Adam shook his head. I’m keeping mum until the deal is done.

Who’s your realtor?

Zoey Zeller.

Zoey? Really? Flora tapped my arm to get my attention. Is it true, Jenna? Zoey’s a realtor now?

She is. Zoey Zeller, or Z.Z. as most of us called her, was Crystal Cove’s mayor. Her son decided to go back to college. She doesn’t want him to have to take out loans, so she’s trying to drum up extra income.

Doesn’t she— Flora placed a hand on her chest. I’m sorry. I’m being rude. Adam, this is Jenna Hart. Jenna, meet Adam Kittridge.

We both nodded a greeting.

As for Zoey, I had no idea. Flora liked to be current on all the gossip. Doesn’t she know it’s not good to make life too easy for children? She wasn’t speaking from experience. She had no children; she’d never been married. Children need to carve out their own paths. If a parent isn’t careful—

Watch out! a woman yelled.

Too late. A basket of fragile ornaments crashed to the floor. A mother restrained her freckle-faced child by the arm and admonished him.

Oh, my, oh, my. Flora darted to fix things.

Under her breath, Lacy said, At least I’m not the only bad seed in town.

Stop. I bit back a smile. Let’s go.

Quickly, I returned the star I’d been comparing to its basket, brushed the glitter off my hands, took hold of Lacy’s star, and headed to the checkout register. She trailed me, doing her best to stifle a case of the giggles. The sound was music to my ears.

Sadly, when we returned to Fisherman’s Village, my niece’s lightheartedness disappeared. Was she worried her mother would criticize her new hairdo?

As we neared the front door of the Cookbook Nook, I wrapped an arm around her and said, C’mon, young lady. Stand tall. Big smile. You look gorgeous.

Before we crossed the threshold, she pulled me back. Can I stay with you tonight, Aunt Jenna?

Don’t you have a rehearsal on the event stage?

Afterward. Please? Mom and Dad can work things out if I’m not around. Her eyes pooled with tears. Her lower lip quivered. Pretty please?

I cocked my head and gave her a wry look. How could I refuse? She had learned how to beg from the best.

Chapter 3

The remainder of the afternoon at the Cookbook Nook went off without a hitch. The star that Lacy had chosen for the display was perfect. After placing it in position, she asked if there was anything else she could do. Seeing as her mother was arriving at that exact moment to set out items for tomorrow’s wreath-making clinic, I said, Yes, indeed.

For two full hours, Lacy worked alongside Whitney. After covering the craft table with a pretty tablecloth, they set out tiny pinecones, colorful beads, and an assortment of petite Christmas ornaments, everything from miniature instruments to elves to Nutcracker Suite characters. Neither exchanged a harsh word. Whitney even complimented Lacy on her new hairdo. I didn’t see family counseling in my future, but I felt a small twinge of pride that I’d found a way to help them communicate. To my dismay, however, because business picked up in the shop, I couldn’t find time to pull my sister aside and ask how the heart-to-heart with Spencer had gone.

At six, as Bailey, Tina, and I were counting the day’s take and discussing the schedule for tomorrow, Whitney whisked past the sales counter.

My, how times flies, she said. Lacy, let’s go. You’ve got rehearsal in an hour. She tapped her watch and bustled toward the door.

Lacy jogged after her mother and grabbed her shoulder. Mom, wait. Um, I’ve been meaning to ask, can I spend the night at Aunt Jenna’s?

Bailey whispered in my ear, Aw, sweet. You’re having a sleepover? Are you going to paint each other’s fingernails? Remember the trouble we used to get into? She snickered.

I elbowed her to hush.

Please say yes, Lacy pleaded.

Whitney turned to me. I nodded.

That way, after rehearsal, you and Daddy can have a date night, Lacy added. Won’t that be fun?

Whitney winced but quickly covered the kneejerk reaction. Of course.

Lacy let out a chirp of glee.

After enduring a little more playful teasing from Bailey, I took Tigger home and assured him I wouldn’t be late. I donned my puffy ecru jacket and headed to the festival to catch the rehearsal.

Azure Park was the town’s largest park and featured live music monthly. As I arrived, an all-brass version of Joy to the World was playing through speakers. White tents circled the perimeter of the park, each outlined with tracer lights, many of them featuring handmade crafts, while others offered food and beverages. All the trees were lit, too. The park glistened like a fairyland.

At the north end of the park stood the event stage. A huge arced tent protected the stage, and gigantic klieg lights illuminated it. Dozens of teenagers were huddled near the apron. A few were stamping their feet to keep warm.

When I caught the aroma of hot cocoa and mulled spices, my stomach growled. Wanting something substantial, I sought out the Soup Meister and purchased a cup of puréed squash-apple soup topped with crispy bacon. Man, did it hit the spot. I downed every morsel in a matter of minutes.

Jenna, over here! Whitney yelled. She and Spencer were standing near a coffee vendor. She looked quite petite next to her husband, given his height and broad shoulders.

I tossed out my empty soup cup and joined them.

Spencer leaned in for a hug. Good to see you, Jenna. You look great, as always.

I couldn’t say the same for him. His jaw was ticking with tension, heavy bags marred his usually handsome face, and his eyes were red-rimmed, as if he hadn’t slept in days. His rumpled white shirt and chinos didn’t do much to help the impression. Had he and Whitney fought? Were they on the brink of divorce?

You look a tad tired, I said. Burning the midnight oil?

His face tinged red. He cut a look at my sister. She wasn’t listening to us. She was searching the venue.

Lacy! Whitney waved.

My niece bounded to us, the flaps of her bomber jacket flying open. As before, she was dressed in one color—black tube top, black fashionably torn jeans, and black Doc Martens. She clasped my hand. Come with me, Aunt Jenna. I want to show you my favorite vendor.

You’re not wearing your dress, I said.

Well, duh. This is rehearsal.

Lacy, that was rude, Whitney snapped.

Sorry.

Where are we off to? I asked, trying to diffuse the tension. Let me guess. One of the vendors sells Christmas-themed nose rings.

Ha-ha. Very funny. Lacy hooked her arm through mine.

I addressed my sister. Is it okay if we roam?

Whitney and Spencer exchanged a look. They both gave the go-ahead sign.

This way. Lacy tugged me. The place features all sorts of cool musical instruments. You know I play guitar, right? Well, I also want to learn to play a zither, and this place has zithers. You know what a zither is, right? Like a mini harp but better.

We passed a number of vendors hawking delicious-smelling goodies like cinnamon pretzels and build-your-own gingerbread bear cookies.

Inside Holly and Ivy, a floral vendor, I spotted one of our regular customers, a vivacious older woman named Gran, chatting with a gaunt redhead in a boxy gray sweater dress.

Jenna, dear, Gran called. Join us. What perfect timing. Were your ears burning?

I said to Lacy, Do you mind? Just for a second. Her name is Gran. Actually it’s Gracie, but she hates that. She’s a hoot. She has an extensive selection of cookbooks and comes into the shop at least once a week to add to it.

"Sure, okay, but no long conversation, got me? Mom would talk the woman’s ear off. Like for hours." Lacy rolled her eyes.

Two shakes of a lamb’s tail, I promised.

We weaved through the beautiful displays of wreaths to reach Gran.

She nudged her companion. Olivia, this is the friend I was telling you about, the one who owns the Cookbook Nook. Jenna Hart.

Nice to meet you. Olivia had a gravelly voice, as if she’d spent decades smoking. She fidgeted with the strap of her cross-body purse. I didn’t know her, but she reminded me of someone. With my luck, I’d remember who at two in the morning. I was a light, often restless sleeper.

This is my niece Lacy, I said.

What a pleasure. Gran smiled. You’ve got the prettiest eyes.

I got them from my grandmother.

As did I. Gran chuckled. Jenna, Olivia is quite good with a barbecue, so she tells me. Do you have any cookbooks with a barbecue theme?

We have loads, I said. Stop in, Olivia, and I’ll give you a tour.

I don’t use recipes, she admitted. I wing it.

O-oh, I stammered, a bit flummoxed. Why had she and Gran been talking about cookbooks then?

Gran gestured like a display model. Olivia and I were admiring all the beautiful wreaths. She likes the live green ones with red bows. I happen to adore this fake one. She picked up a black wreath made of lace and beads. Isn’t it handsome?

Lacy whispered into my ear, It looks perfect for a funeral.

Handsome, I said, echoing Gran, and bit back a smile. Well, ladies, it’s been lovely chatting, but my niece and I have a couple of vendors to visit before she rehearses for the songfest, so we’ll say good night. Olivia, nice to meet you.

And you.

Hold on, Jenna. Gran clasped my hand. A little birdie told me wedding bells might be in your future.

Well, that birdie doesn’t know squat. I laughed. Rhett and I are talking. We’ve made no decisions yet.

Don’t let him slip away, she warned. He’s a keeper.

I guided Lacy out of the tent.

When she got her bearings, she pointed. There’s the zither place. See it? It’s called A Christmas Note.

She released me and raced ahead. When I caught up with her, I paused in the entryway to appreciate the vendor’s cleverness. Instruments stood on musical note- and clef-shaped stands. Overhead, instruments hung by wires from the tent’s supporting bar.

Lacy strode to a table loaded with instruments and ran her finger along the strings of a rosewood harp zither. The sound was melodious. Isn’t this beautiful?

I eyeballed the price tag. It’s quite expensive.

I’m saving up. Look at this one. She gestured to a black one that was painted with colorful flowers. Isn’t it pretty?

I loved her enthusiasm. How I wished her mother could see this side of her.

We browsed for another few minutes, Lacy pointing out bongo drums and bells and tambourines.

As we left, I peeked inside the tent next door called Forget Me Not, named after the rare collectibles shop situated at the north end of town. I tapped Lacy on the shoulder. Hold on. My turn to make a short stop.

Again?

Yes, again. I want you to meet someone.

She groaned as only a teenager could.

The owner of the shop, Raquel Adagio, a plump, cherub-cheeked woman in her late forties, visited the Cookbook Nook with regularity on the hunt for cookbooks with easy recipes to give her youngest sister. The last time she’d ventured in, she admitted she wasn’t sure her sister had even opened one of them. Lazy, she’d muttered. I’d countered that perhaps her sister wasn’t lazy but, rather, intimidated, and suggested enrolling her in a cooking class to help her overcome her fear. I confided how lengthy recipes had overwhelmed me for a very long time. Raquel had loved the idea.

Follow me, I said.

Raquel didn’t look up as we stepped inside. She was standing at the checkout counter holding a loupe in one hand and examining a stamp affixed to an envelope for two gentlemen with their backs to us.

On either side of the checkout counter stood glass display cases, each rimmed with twinkling lights and containing stamps and other curios. A freestanding bookshelf holding leather-bound books and a few statues stood along the far wall of the tent. A foot-high blinking Christmas tree perched on top of one. A woman who I assumed was one of Raquel’s older sisters—she had the telltale Adagio cherub cheeks, although she was leaner and dressed in an all-black, form-fitting outfit that a cat burglar would crave—was standing beside an antique clerk’s desk flipping through an album.

It’s definitely a Blue Mauritius, Raquel said to her customers, her voice breathless with awe. I’ve never seen one up close.

"You want me to meet her?" Lacy asked.

No, not Raquel. I squeezed my niece’s arm. One of the men she’s helping. I signaled Raquel that I was sneaking up and thumped the shoulder of the man on the left.

Jake Chapman swung around. Hey, Jenna. What a nice surprise. His pale green eyes were bright. His silver hair gleamed in the overhead light. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt, blue jeans, and a casual but very expensive suede jacket. He swung back to Raquel, removed the envelope from her hand, and gathered a pane of stamps off the counter. Jake slipped the pane into the envelope, slotted two other items into it, and deposited the envelope into his jacket pocket.

His friend, who was as lean and old as Jake, mirrored the moves, stowing a pane of stamps and loose papers into an envelope and slotting the envelope into his jacket pocket. I sensed Raquel wanted to say something more to the men, but she held back.

Jake offered a rakish grin and reached out to me. I took hold of his hands. You’re looking well, he said. He didn’t lean in for a kiss. That wasn’t his style. He rubbed his thumbs gently across my knuckles, a paternal gesture my father often made.

I released him and said, Jake, this is my niece Lacy. She saw you riding your sandboni earlier.

"This is that guy? she gawped. But he’s . . ."

Handsome in a gnarly old cowboy way? I joked.

Well, yeah.

Jake, I’m afraid she thought you were pretty ratty-looking in your work clothes, I confided.

Balderdash. I’m sure I was the epitome of handsome. He smirked, which highlighted his strong jaw. I hope you have wonderful things planned for yourself, young lady, Jake said to Lacy. He uttered the same line to everyone new he met.

I do. Lacy eyeballed the guy standing next to Jake. What’s your name?

The man didn’t answer.

Geoffrey, don’t gawk at the ladies, Jake said. Say hello.

Geoffrey said, Hiya.

When he grinned, I flinched. I couldn’t help it. Every one of his front upper teeth were capped, and he was missing at least two of his lower teeth. What had happened? I recalled Tina saying Jake’s friend had seemed scared. Had he been in a fight? Other than his teeth issue, he didn’t appear to have any apparent bruises.

Geoffrey and I go way back. Jake hooked his thumb. Wa-a-ay back.

Had they known each other when Jake was a drifter, before he took the road less traveled and settled in Crystal Cove?

Jake and Geoffrey stepped outside. I waved goodbye to Raquel, and Lacy and I followed the men. A cool lick of breeze hit my face and neck and made me wish I’d worn a scarf.

What were you and Raquel discussing, Jake? I asked.

We were checking the value of a few stamps, he said. I collect them.

Do you collect them, too, Geoffrey? Lacy asked.

Not really. I—

A strident sound crackled through a loudspeaker. Some of the teenagers near the stage covered their ears.

Oh, that’s my cue, Lacy said.

Cue for what? Geoffrey asked.

I wrapped an arm around Lacy’s shoulder. My niece is competing in the a cappella Christmas competition.

Congratulations, Jake said. What song are you singing?

‘Same Old Lang Syne.’

I don’t know that one, I said, sorry I hadn’t thought to ask her before.

Sure you do. Jake hummed a few bars. It’s a Dan Fogelberg tune.

Not bad, Jake, Lacy teased.

I used to sing and play guitar. To me he said, The song tells the story of a performer who meets up with a former lover at a grocery store on a snowy Christmas Eve. They talk about their mess-ups and their current lives and realize they’ll never get together.

I gazed at Lacy. Why are you singing that? It sounds so sad. And so adult.

Because we don’t want to sing standards. We want to be unique. You’ll see. Bye. She gave me a squeeze and ran off.

Ah, me, Jake sighed. She reminds me of the one that got away.

Who was that? I asked. Obviously not your wife. You were married for forty years.

There was one before her. Before I came to Crystal Cove. Jake’s eyes grew misty.

What happened to her?

She dumped me.

Why?

He hesitated. I got in trouble with the law. She split before my sentence was determined.

Sentence? What did you do?

It doesn’t matter. I was acquitted, but I had to do three months public service.

I’m sorry she left you.

Life doesn’t always come wrapped up in a pretty bow. He shrugged. You of all people know that, Jenna.

Did I ever.

Jake, hold up! Mayor Zeller called from a distance. We need to talk. It’s urgent!

Chapter 4

Z.Z. chugged toward us, her red cape swirling about her. Whenever I saw her, I was reminded of a supersonic train, or like tonight, a whirling dervish. She never seemed to run out of energy.

Geoffrey said, Jake, I’m going in there. He pointed to a tent featuring handmade Christmas ornaments. Odd. Was he really interested in ornaments, or was he trying to duck the mayor? Maybe he had a police record of some sort and was worried the mayor might recognize him. I flashed on that silly scene in Romancing the Stone when Danny DeVito tried to grab his picture off the wall in the police station in Colombia and tumbled off the counter.

Hello, Jenna, Z.Z. said and graced my cheek with a kiss. Jake—

You aren’t here to ask me on a date, are you, Zoey? Jake jibed.

Z.Z. flushed three shades of pink. No. Heavens, whatever gave you that idea? Although she was more than twenty years younger than he was, everybody knew she had a crush on him. I was pretty sure he liked her, too. They had yet to date. This is business.

You can ask me out, you know. Jake winked. Women are allowed to do that nowadays.

Stop. She swatted his arm. You’re a tease, but if I did, would you say yes?

You’ll have to ask.

She scrunched up her mouth. After a moment, she said, To business. A client of mine wants to buy your house.

It’s not for sale.

I know that, but he’s determined to change your mind. He saw it and desperately wants to own it.

I said, Is he about yea high—I measured above my head—fairly attractive with salt-and-pepper hair and a hook nose?

Z.Z. nodded. How did you know?

I saw him at Home Sweet Home purchasing a passel of dolls for his granddaughter. He said he wanted to buy a vacation home here.

That’s him. Adam Kittridge. He’s a prominent businessman from San Francisco.

Well, you’ll have to find him another one, Jake said. I’m not selling. Where else can I step outside each morning to commune with the beach?

He’s offering ten million.

No way.

He’ll double that offer.

I don’t care if he quadruples it. Find him someplace else.

Aren’t you tired of living next to that crackpot Emmett Atwater? Z.Z. asked. He’s always filing complaints about you and your flagpole. Daily, Jake hoisted an enormous American flag on a fifty-foot flagpole. And now with the Christmas décor . . . She waved her hand.

Emmett is Emmett, Jake said. Some people feel the need to grouse. He’s got the right to free speech. I ignore him.

Hello, singers! a skinny woman with a ponytail on the stage blasted through a microphone. The noise reverberated in my ears. After an electrical adjustment, the woman said, In two minutes, the rehearsals will begin. Make your way up here.

"That’s my cue, Jake said. I want to hear your niece sing." He whistled to Geoffrey. The two of them headed off.

Well, I never, Z.Z. said.

His mind is made up. Time to move on with this Adam fellow. I squeezed her elbow affectionately. However, if I were you, I would ask Jake out on a date. He gave you every opportunity.

She beamed. He did, didn’t he?

Two groups rehearsed before Lacy’s. The first, an octet of young ladies dressed in matching red dresses and Santa hats, sang We Need a Little Christmas with cheery energy. The second, a blend of a dozen boys and girls that called themselves the Ransom Notes, all clad in red spandex, put on an exciting version of This Is My Wish, with coordinating dance and gymnastic moves.

When it was Lacy’s turn, she and her ensemble, Nothing but Treble, which consisted of eight teenaged girls, met center stage. Like Lacy, they were all wearing black tube tops, torn jeans, and Doc Martens. I spotted the curvy Veronica Devereaux in the group. What do you bet she had a say in the outfit?

As the ponytailed director had done for the two previous introductions, she tapped her microphone and said, Whenever you’re ready, team.

Lacy crooned a beat-box tempo. Within seconds, all the girls began strutting along the stage, using their heels to emphasize the downbeat, and I understood why Lacy had wanted shoes she could stomp in. After thirty seconds of rhythm, they began their soulful and haunting song. Before each chorus, they broke into a scatting sequence that Ella Fitzgerald would have approved. When they finished, I glimpsed the ponytailed director. Her mouth was agape. Apparently