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Chapter One

The holidays are tailor-made for getting to know your neighbors better.

—Muriel Sterling, Making the Holidays Bright: How to Have a Perfect Christmas

“Here’s an accident waiting to happen,” Tilda Mor­rison said grimly. Just what nobody wanted on the day before Thanksgiving.

“Not if we get to her in time,” said her partner, Jamal Lincoln.

“Why us?” Tilda grumbled to Cherie, the dispatcher. “This is a job for animal control.”

“Chief said you’d say that,” Cherie told her. “He also said to tell you that today it’s a job for you and to bring a rope and get to work before somebody ends up hurt.”

“I don’t believe this,” Tilda muttered as Jamal turned on the look-out-here-come-the-cops lights and shot their patrol car out of town toward the highway.

“We’re in Icicle Falls. Believe it,” Jamal said. “You still got that rope in the trunk?”

“Yes. It’s there from the last time.” Tilda frowned. “You know, this really isn’t the job of the Icicle Falls Police Force. I don’t care if Stumpy Hodgkins is best buds with the chief.”

“You gonna tell that to the chief?”

“Yeah, I am. As soon as we get back to the station.”

Jamal grinned. “That’s what I love about you, partner. You’re fearless. You should’ve been a man. I swear you’ve got more balls than most guys.”

“Thanks. I think.”

Tilda knew she was a tough cookie, and she liked being tough. She liked being a modern woman, able to stand up for herself and hold her own against any man. But she also had a feminine side and, secretly, she fan­tasized about some man tougher than her, pushing her up against a wall and having at it.

She’d thought she’d found that man, but it hadn’t worked out. He’d never bothered to look beneath her tough exterior and check out her sweet, soft side. Instead, he’d fallen for the kind of woman Tilda thought of as a cream puff. Maybe that was what all men really wanted, someone as sweet as honey and as elastic and bendable as warm taffy. Tilda wasn’t a bending kind of woman. Sadly, there were very few men who appreciated that.

Jamal did, but he was her partner. Then there was Devon Black, town bad boy, the king of speeding tick­ets and barroom brawls, who thought he was God’s gift to women. In fact, he thought he was God’s gift to her. Christmas might have been just a month away, but she had no intention of unwrapping Devon Black.

She frowned, thinking of their last encounter. “What the hell?” he’d said angrily when she’d pulled him over a week ago for a broken taillight. “I wasn’t speeding.”

“No, you have a taillight out.”

Instead of showing some respect and thanking her for letting him know, he’d flashed her a cocky grin and said, “You’re looking for excuses to see me.” As if she had nothing better to do than chase after wolves dressed in blue jeans.

“If I wanted to see you, I could just wait till the next bar fight,” she retorted. It was how she’d met him when he moved to town. Trouble followed Devon around like a lost puppy. “Now, do you want me to let you off with a warning or do you want to keep flapping that big mouth of yours and up the ante?”

That had shut him up—until she gave him his warn­ing and turned to leave. “I’m working the bar at the Man Cave. Come on by after you get off work and I’ll give you a beer on the house.” As if he owned the place. It was his brother’s. He just filled in on weekends.

“In your dreams,” she’d called back over her shoulder.

“And yours, too, I’ll bet. I can show you some new uses for those handcuffs.”

“Oh, there’s an original line,” she’d muttered. Fifty Shades of Devon Black. No way, even if he was ridicu­lously gorgeous. So was a hot-fudge sundae, but look what it did to your butt.

“There’s Stumpy,” Jamal said, bringing her back to the present.

Sure enough, the short, old guy was hobbling as fast as he could down the side of the snowbanked road in his jeans and cowboy boots and leather bomber jacket, his hunting cap mashed down over his ears, a lasso dangling from his right hand and Daisy’s halter from his left. And there, half a mile farther up the road, trotted his horse, the escape artist. Loose again. Not a good thing, consid­ering the fact that the old paint was deaf.

“You can turn off the lights now,” Tilda said, and Jamal obliged.

They pulled up beside Stumpy, and Tilda lowered the window. “Stumpy, this is the third time this month she’s gotten loose.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. Daisy!” he hollered at the horse. “Dang it all, come back.”

Sometimes Tilda wondered how deaf Daisy really was. Either she was faking it or she was psychic because the darned beast tossed her head as though she was saying, “No way.” Then she started across the road. Oh, great.

An SUV came over the rise, and Tilda sucked in her breath. The car skidded to a halt and waited while Daisy stood in the middle of the road, trying to decide what to do. The driver soon tired of waiting and honked. The noise didn’t faze Daisy. She stood there, watching Tilda, Jamal and Stumpy as if wondering what they were doing out here on a cold winter afternoon. Then she strolled back to her own side of the road and continued her jour­ney, probably looking for some other horses to spend Thanksgiving with.

“Give me the rope and get in,” Tilda commanded. With Stumpy safe inside and the rope in hand, they set off in hot pursuit. Well, semihot, not wanting to end up hitting the animal.

“I’d’a gotten her,” Stumpy insisted from the backseat. “I don’t know why Mildred keeps calling you guys.”

“Because she’s seen the way you drive,” Tilda said. They were lucky that Stumpy hadn’t taken the horse trailer. The week before, he’d attempted to rope Daisy from behind the wheel, skidding into Dan Masters’s truck and effectively blocking traffic for a good forty minutes while they sorted things out. Daisy, naturally, had gotten away and wound up at the llama farm.

They’d almost reached the horse. “Stop here,” Tilda told Jamal. “We don’t want to spook her.”

“Everything spooks her,” Stumpy grumbled.

The natural retort would be, “Then why do you keep the dumb critter?” But Tilda didn’t say it. She knew why. Daisy had been their granddaughter Willow’s horse. Willow had died two years earlier from a brain tumor. Stumpy could no more get rid of the horse than he could throw out the pictures of their only granddaughter that filled their living room.

Tilda got out of the car and shut the door as Daisy moved down the road a few paces.

“Go get ’er, cowgirl,” Jamal teased.

“Ha, ha,” Tilda muttered. Jamal was the size of Texas and could take down three men single-handed, but he was a city boy and no use whatsoever in capturing a deaf horse.

Tilda moved away from the patrol car. Daisy, sensing pursuit, trotted a few more feet, then stopped and looked around. Neener, neener, neener. You can’t catch me.

Oh, yes, I can. You may be big, but you’ve got a brain the size of an onion. Tilda squatted next to the freshly piled snow on the side of the road and waited. She’d done her share of ropin’ and ridin’. Gone to horse camp at the nearby guest ranch all through high school. She was not going to be outsmarted by a horse.

Daisy tossed her mane and then, to show that she wasn’t even remotely worried about Tilda and her rope, decided to enjoy a little roadside snack, pulling up a mouthful of snow-tipped grass.

Tilda slowly stood and sneaked forward a few feet. Daisy raised her head, and Tilda froze. This was like play­ing Red Light, Green Light when she was a kid. Daisy went back for seconds. Okay, green light. Tilda moved forward again.

Daisy lifted her head and checked to see where Tilda was.

Frozen in place, of course.

The next time the horse went for some grass, Tilda moved in, and this time when Daisy lifted her head, Tilda swung the rope and…missed.

Daisy shied away and trotted off down the road, and Tilda swore.

“You rope about as good as you shoot,” Jamal called from the patrol car.

Tilda gave him the finger and started the whole pro­cess again. Horses were such foodies. Tilda could have lured over any other equine simply by shaking a can of oats. Was there such a thing as horse hearing aids? If so, it would sure make catching Daisy a lot easier.

It took two more tries before she got the rope around Daisy’s neck, although the third try wasn’t exactly the charm. Daisy neighed and pulled away, and even though Tilda had planted her feet, the horse still managed to yank her over into the snow. “Oh, no, you don’t,” Tilda growled, struggling back to her feet. “Bring the halter,” she yelled.

Stumpy climbed out, holding it. “We got her now,” he said gleefully.

We. Yeah, right.

Finally Daisy was haltered and rewarded for cooper­ating with the police with a pat on the neck. “You’d bet­ter stop this escape-artist stuff or we’re gonna ship you off to become dog food,” Tilda threatened.

Daisy just tossed her head yet again. She knew Tilda was all talk and no action.

Tilda was equally stern with Stumpy. “You make sure your fence is well mended and you keep that barn door shut,” she told him as she handed over the escapee. “We can’t keep coming out to help you catch her.” She felt bad about being mean to the old guy. He was in his seventies and had arthritis in both hips, and maintaining the house and barn on their five-acre spread was getting to be too much for him. His wife was ready to downsize. Maybe being in trouble with the cops would motivate Stumpy to find a home for Daisy and move someplace smaller.

Stumpy hung his head. “I know, Tilda. You guys have better things to do.”

“In Icicle Falls?” Jamal cracked as they drove off, leaving Stumpy and Daisy to make their own way home. “Right.”

“Hey, you want action? Go to New York or LA,” Tilda said, and turned up the heat. They’d have to swing by her place so she could get some dry pants.

“No, thanks,” he said with a grin. “No horses to chase in LA. Anyway, I’d probably get stuck riding with some clown who farts all the time. Besides, where am I gonna find a lady cop as cool as you?”

That made her smile. “If you’re trying to flatter me…”

He snorted. “Like that would get me anywhere.” He shook his head. “It sucks when the best woman in town also happens to be your partner.”

“Okay, now it’s getting really thick in here.” She had a pretty good face, and her body was in mint condition, but, sadly, there were too many good-looking women and not enough men in this town. She glanced out the window at the snowy firs and pines. “Sometimes I think I should’ve moved to Seattle.” Except that Icicle Falls was her home, and her roots ran too deep. Hmm. Maybe she was root-bound.

Jamal grunted. “You should’ve thought of that be­fore you bought a house. Hey, we still on for Saturday?”

“Yep. When are you coming back from your mom’s?”

“Friday morning.”

“Good. You can help me finish packing.”

“You know, some of us have to fill in for you and work that day. Who takes vacation on Thanksgiving week­end, anyway?”

Somebody who had a lot of vacation days piled up and more seniority than half the guys on the force. Tilda grinned at him and played the world’s smallest violin on her fingers.

“All I gotta say is you better feed me.”

“’Cause you’re a growing boy?”

“Order something from the deli. I don’t wanna get poisoned,” he joked. “Where’d you not learn to cook?”

“From my mom.”

“Come on, your mom owns Pancake Haus. She can’t be that bad a cook.”

“She hires people to do stuff in the kitchen, you dope.” Tilda sighed. “The turkey will probably be dry, and we’ll have stuffing out of a box. But I like stuffing out of a box. And Mom’s great with pickles and olives. And at least Aunt Joyce and the cousins will be bring­ing the candied yams and casseroles.”

“What are you bringing?”

“Pumpkin pie.”

“From?”

“What do you mean ‘from’?”

“I know you ain’t bakin’ it.”

Busted. Tilda shrugged. “Gingerbread Haus.”

“Yep, you’re gonna make some lucky guy a great husband someday.”

“Oh, ha, ha.”

He shook his head. “Somehow, I just can’t picture you in a house.”

“What should I be living in, a yurt?”

“More like an army barracks.”

“I do have a feminine side, you know.”

“Sure you do.”

She did, and she could hardly wait to get everything all squared away in her new house on Candy Cane Lane. She’d have dried flowers on the dining table, and she was going to give that quilted wall hanging her cousin Geor­gie had made for her a place of honor on the living room wall. The house had three bedrooms, two baths, a big living room with a fireplace and a den, which she was going to turn into a kick-ass party room where her pals from the force could come over and play Call of Duty and World of Warcraft. The kitchen was bigger than the one she’d had in her condo. Once she put in new floor­ing, it would be great. Lots of room to…heat frozen dinners. Or make cookies. She made a mean chocolate chip cookie. Maybe, with her fancy new kitchen, she’d graduate to cake or pie or something.

Expanding her cooking skills would have to wait, though. The house needed some serious work. It had been a bank repo, and the previous owners had done a fair amount of damage. Walls would have to be repainted, gutters replaced and, of course, the kitchen set to rights. And she’d have to replace the carpeting, which was badly stained and a little on the smelly side. Well, okay, a lot. She hoped she could afford to give herself new carpet­ing for Christmas, at least in the living room and den.

“I don’t know, Tillie girl,” her mom had said when they’d first gone to see the place. “Sure looks like a lot of work. You really want to mess with that?”

“Yes,” Tilda had replied. “It’s in a great neighborhood. It’ll be a good investment.”

“It’ll be a pain in the patootie,” Mom had corrected her.

Yeah, but it would be her pain in the patootie, and she was ready for it. For the past five years she’d been envi­sioning herself in a house with a great guy and a couple of kids and a big, friendly dog. The guy thing hadn’t hap­pened, and she’d decided there was no point in waiting around. She was going to get her house and the dog, too. Heck, maybe even a kid. These days you didn’t need a man to have kids. These days, it seemed you didn’t need a man for much of anything.

Tilda wanted one, anyway. There were still some things nobody did better than men, and she was darned tired of being the only one who ever saw the lacy bras and matching thongs she wore under her uniform.

A man with a handsome, swarthy face and an admi­rable set of pecs suddenly appeared at the back of her mind. Oh, no. Devon Black was not in the running for that cozy life with the house, the kids and the dog. Devon Black did not deserve to see her in her bra and panties. Or out of them.

Someday she’d find the right man. New people moved to Icicle Falls all the time. Maybe Santa would bring her the perfect man for Christmas next year. This year it was a house. And that was enough to ask for. After all, there was only so much the jolly old guy in red could fit in his sack. Tilda brushed at her wet uniform trousers. “We need to swing by my condo. I need some dry pants.”

“Aw, you’ll dry out. What we need is a good bar fight to distract you.”

“I’ll give you a good fight if you don’t go by my place,” she threatened, which made him chuckle.

Dusk was falling, and they’d hit the edge of the main drag through town when they saw a car coming from the direction of Currier’s Tree Farm. Well, maybe it was a car. It looked more like a holiday float—a giant tree with wheels under it. The windshield was barely visible under all that green fir. How could the driver even see? Okay, so much for going to get dry pants.

“There’s another accident waiting to happen,” Jamal said as he flipped on the whirling lights that always made drivers so happy. “Is that a Mini-Cooper under there?”

“That’s got to be Ivy Bohn,” Tilda said in disgust. Who else would buy the biggest tree on the planet but Miss Christmas of Icicle Falls?

The tree pulled over, and they stopped behind it.

“Wanna do the honors?” Jamal asked. “Have some girlfriend time?”

“Yeah, right,” Tilda said, but she got out of the cruiser.

Having both grown up in this small town, she and Ivy knew each other. Sort of. But they’d never be buds. Ivy was a spoiled, entitled brat. She was always running late and seemed to think that speed limits were simply suggestions. The few encounters they’d had as adults hadn’t been good ones. Usually, Ivy claimed she hadn’t been speeding, and when Tilda ignored that and gave her a ticket, she demanded Tilda’s badge number (as if she couldn’t just call the station and use Tilda’s name). Her family had been in Icicle Falls for three generations, and she now ran Christmas Haus, one of the most popu­lar shops in town. They had plenty of money, and if you asked Tilda, Ivy had always been spoiled and conceited. Tilda hadn’t been even slightly surprised when her hus­band had finally had enough and left her.

Tilda approached the tree car and heard the whir of the window being lowered. There was Ivy in all her per­fect makeup and blond highlighted glory, peeping out between the boughs like a pissed-off Christmas angel.

“I wasn’t speeding,” she greeted Tilda.

“We’re not stopping you for speeding.”

“Then what?”

Ivy suddenly looked on the verge of tears, and for a moment Tilda felt sorry for her. It had to suck, being left by your man.

Tilda sighed. “Ivy, you’re a menace. You can’t see where you’re going under that tree.”

“Yes, I can,” Ivy insisted, pointing to a two-inch gap between boughs.

“Why didn’t you get Kirk to deliver it?”

“Because he’s out of town and couldn’t do it until next week, and I wanted the tree today so I could put it up this Saturday. Besides, Jinx told me it would fit on the roof of the car just fine.”

Of a Mini-Cooper? Really? Tilda was going to have a talk with Kirk’s son. And his uncle Al, who ran Santa’s tree lot. Al would happily pull the same kind of stunt if it meant a sale.

“Well, you can’t drive with that on your roof,” she said. “You’ll run someone over.”

“Okay, fine,” Ivy snapped. “I’ll take it off.”

And dump it by the side of the road? Leaving some­ one else to clean up her mess… Tilda scowled. “Stay where you are.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t give me a ticket. For heaven’s sake, it’s Thanksgiving. Have a heart.”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Tilda said, barely holding on to her patience. “I’m not going to.” She marched back to the patrol car. Who the heck bought a Christmas tree the day before Thanksgiving? Oh, yeah. Someone who was probably going to be very busy sell­ing Christmas ornaments for the next month.

“So what are we doing?” Jamal asked when she got back to the car.

“We’re taking the stupid tree over to Ivy’s place.”

Ivy’s place…which turned out to be right next door to Tilda’s new house. Why was she shocked? She’d run Ivy’s information often enough. She knew the address. It just hadn’t sunk in. The Mini-Cooper hadn’t been in sight when she’d come to look at the house, and neither had Ivy. Out of sight, out of mind. In any case, she’d been in the throes of house lust, so excited about her great find she hadn’t stopped to think about who her neighbors were. Oh, well, just because she lived next door didn’t mean they had to be best friends.

“Thank you so much,” Ivy gushed once the tree was unloaded and safely stowed alongside her pretty, per­fectly painted blue house, and Tilda and Jamal were cov­ered in pitch.

“We’re here to serve and protect,” he said cheerily, making Tilda want to gag.

“No problem,” Tilda added, then muttered, “That tree is ridiculous,” as they made their way back to the pa­trol car.

“Hey, it’s big. I’d think you’d like that.”

“It’s too over-the-top.” Like Miss Christmas there, who was about to become her next-door neighbor. And like all the houses on her street. She was moving to the epicenter of Christmas craziness. “Some people take their decorating too far.” She wouldn’t be one of them, though. There was such a thing as overkill.

“Yeah? We’ll see what you do once Candy Cane fever hits,” Jamal teased.

“I’m never going crazy like these people,” Tilda said with a snort. “They need to get a life.”

Sometimes, when it was just her and a plate of food from the Safeway deli, she told herself the same thing—get a life—but she sure wasn’t confessing that to Jamal. Or anyone else.

The next day was Thanksgiving, and talk around Dot Morrison’s table quickly turned to the subject of Tilda’s new house. “It sounds great,” said her cousin Georgie, who was there with her new husband, Jay. Georgie was a super-girlie-girl with perfectly highlighted hair and nails that never had chipped polish, but Tilda loved her, anyway. When they were kids, Georgie was the queen of Monopoly. Now she and her husband had invested in a duplex in one of the newer neighborhoods in town, and it looked like she was going to score in real life the way she always had in the game.

“It’s pretty cool,” Tilda said, always the master of un­derstatement. It was definitely an upgrade from a one-bedroom condo, or at least it would be once she’d fixed it up.

“Cool? It’s freakin’ adorable,” said her other cousin Caitlin. With her Julianne Moore hair and stylish clothes, Caitlin was almost as much of a girlie-girl as Georgie.

Unless she was on a baseball diamond with Tilda’s team, playing first base, then look out.

“Yeah, well, remember that the pictures you saw on­line didn’t show the stains on the carpets and the bunged-up kitchen floor and the nonworking stove. I’m going to have to redo the cabinets, too. But it’s all good. For the price I paid I’m willing to put in some labor.”

Some labor? There was another understatement. One of the bedrooms had a fist-size hole in the wall. The other walls were grimy and in need of paint. The gutters needed replacing, and the yard had been let go, too. But that was all cosmetic stuff. The house itself was sound. It just needed some TLC.

“I’m handy with a hammer,” Uncle Horace offered.

Actually, she’d seen some of her uncle’s handiwork. Good thing he’d gone into insurance. She thanked him, anyway.

“The place’ll be great once you get it fixed up,” Cait­lin said. Caitlin did love a project. Usually, though, her projects were of the human variety. She went through a lot of men who had what she called potential. Tilda could suggest another name for them—losers.

“You got a steal of a deal, but you couldn’t pay me to live on Candy Cane Lane,” Georgie said.

“I think it’s charming,” Aunt Joyce put in. “Remem­ber how we always used to drive over from Wenatchee to see it at Christmas when you kids were little?” she asked her daughters.

“And here I thought you were coming over to see me,” Mom cracked.

“Well, that, too,” Aunt Joyce said with a smile.

“It’s really cute, but they go overboard at Christmas,” said Caitlin, who had seven pairs of Christmas-themed earrings, wore enough green in December to put a lep­rechaun to shame and played Christmas songs 24/7 all month long. “I wouldn’t want all that pressure of trying to keep up with the neighbors.”

“No pressure,” Tilda said. “I can handle sticking some lights on the fir tree in the front yard.”

Georgie cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah? If you think you can get away with just throwing up a string of lights, you’ve got another think coming. I’ve heard those guys are like the decorating police.”

“Well, as far as I know, they don’t have any covenants requiring you to go all Griswold Family Christmas, so I’m not stressing,” Tilda said.

“You should be,” Georgie told her.

“Why don’t we get you a big blow-up Santa for your front yard?” Caitlin suggested.

“Good idea,” Aunt Joyce agreed.

Tilda pointed a warning finger at her cousin. “Don’t even think about it. I hate those inflatable decorations.”

“I thought you’d appreciate getting a blow-up man for Christmas,” Caitlin teased.

“Is everyone in this family a smart mouth?” Tilda la­mented, and they all chorused, “Yes.”

“So what time do we start moving you on Saturday?” Jay asked her.

“Around ten.”

“Is Jamal helping you move?” Mom asked, trying to sound casual.

“Yeah, but don’t get excited. He’s not moving in or anything. We’re partners.”

Mom frowned. “Dumb if you ask me. What woman in her right mind would pass up a good-looking man who comes with his own handcuffs?” The women all guffawed, and Jay blushed. Uncle Hor­ace just shook his head.

Conversation drifted to other topics, and then, after dessert, the family settled in front of the TV to get in the Christmas spirit by watching National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. “There’s Tilda’s house,” Caitlin said as Clark Griswold set the night ablaze with his over-the-top outdoor decorations.

“That’ll be the day.”

“You’ll catch Candy Cane Lane fever,” Caitlin pre­dicted.

Tilda frowned. “I don’t have time for that.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see.” The movie ended, and that wrapped up another family Thanksgiving.

“Do you guys want to come our way for Christmas?” asked Aunt Joyce.

That worked for Tilda. Aunt Joyce was a good cook and she always sent Tilda home with leftovers.

She was just opening her mouth to say, “Great idea,” when Georgie said, “I know what, let’s do Christmas Eve at Tilda’s new place.”

“My place?” For Christmas dinner? What did she look like, freakin’ Martha Stewart?

“Oh, good idea,” said Aunt Joyce. “We can celebrate Christmas and have a housewarming.”

“You can come over and spend the night with me on Christmas Eve,” Mom offered to Aunt Joyce and Uncle Horace.

“This’ll be fun,” Caitlin said.

Getting her place pulled together by Christmas and putting on a Christmas dinner? Fun? Really? “Uh, guys. I don’t cook. Remember?”

“Well, it’s about time you learned,” Aunt Joyce said, showing no mercy. “Anyway, you can’t do any worse than your mother.”

“Thanks a lot,” Mom said.

Tilda echoed that thought. But, oh, well. There were only seven of them. How hard could it be to stick a tur­key in the oven? Even she could make dressing from a box and manage that green-bean casserole. Everyone else would bring rolls and dessert. They’d be fine. And maybe it would be fun to have the whole family over to celebrate the holidays at her new place.

“Okay,” she said, “but don’t expect everything to be perfect.”

“If we wanted perfect, we’d never come to your mother’s,” Aunt Joyce pointed out, and went off to fetch her coat.

“We’ll see you on Saturday,” Caitlin said. “I’ll bring the inflatable Santa. Maybe I’ll bring two. We can double-date.”

Fortunately, Caitlin didn’t make good on her threat. It had snowed again Friday night, but that didn’t stop the family moving crew from showing up at Tilda’s condo promptly at eight, along with Jamal and Enrico Abano, another of Icicle Falls’s finest. Within an hour her fur­niture and the boxes containing her household items had all been loaded into Jamal’s truck and the trunk of her and Georgie’s cars, and the caravan was on its way to Candy Cane Lane.

The neighborhood was a mix of old and new houses, all well-maintained and beautifully landscaped. Her place, toward the end of the street, stood out with its dirty white exterior and hanging gutters like an unloved ugly duckling. But an ugly duckling with potential, she reminded herself—unlike Caitlin’s loser boyfriends. A few repairs and touch-ups, a little TLC from Hank’s Landscaping, and it would be good as new.

As they drove down the street she noticed that practi­cally every resident was outside, bundled up in parkas, hats and gloves, hanging from ladders, stringing lights or setting up prancing reindeer and nativity sets on their snow-covered lawns. And, of course, candy canes were everywhere.

“I’m thinkin’ you’d better let me get you one of those inflatable Santas, after all,” Caitlin said as they parked in the driveway. “Otherwise, they’re gonna have you ar­rested for the house version of indecent exposure. This place looks bare naked compared to what’s going on everywhere else.”

“Not everyone overdoes it,” Tilda said. The other Victorian beside hers didn’t have more than a wreath on the door and a couple of candy canes on the front porch steps.

Even Ivy didn’t have her outside lights up yet, but inside Tilda could see the tree that had taken over the world standing by the picture window. And there was Ivy herself, busy stringing it with a silver tinsel garland. She shouldn’t be putting the thing up so early, even if it was freshly cut. It would dry out and turn into a fire hazard. If Ivy’s house caught fire and it jumped to Tilda’s place, Tilda was going to throw her in jail for the next million years.

Of all the people in all of Icicle Falls, I have to end up living next to you. Well, she’d mind her own busi­ness, and Ivy could mind hers, and they’d get along just fine. As long as Ivy didn’t burn down the neighborhood.

Georgie and Jay parked at the curb, and Jamal and Enrico pulled up behind them in Jamal’s truck, which was loaded with furniture and covered with blue tarp.

Georgie took several plastic grocery bags with food from the backseat and followed Tilda and Caitlin to the front door. “This place has so much potential. I can hardly wait to see the inside,” she said to Tilda.

“Remember, it needs some work,” Tilda cautioned as she balanced a box of video games on her hip and opened the door. They were greeted by a blast of eau de litter box.

Georgie wrinkled her nose. “Gross.”

“It won’t smell so bad once I replace the carpets,” Tilda said, as much to herself as her cousin.

Georgie made a face as they stepped into the living room with its stained carpet. “Tell me you’re going to do that before Christmas.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who volunteered me to have everybody over.”

“Maybe it’ll be better once it’s aired out,” Caitlin said, walking to a window. She unlocked it and tried to open it. “It’s stuck.”

“You are such a weenie,” Tilda said in disgust. She marched over to the window and quickly discovered it was, indeed, stuck shut.

“Well, every house has its problems,” Georgie said. She gestured to the counters. “I think we need to clean these before we put out any food. In fact, I’m afraid to even set the grocery bags down.”

“The counter’s probably safer than anywhere else,” Caitlin said, eyeing the scuzzy vinyl. “Wow, were these guys trying to get into the Guinness Book of World Records for the most cigarette burns on a floor?”

Jamal was at the front door now, along with Enrico and Jay. “What do you want to bring in first?” he asked. “The boxes or the furniture?” He pulled a face. “What’s that stink?”

“The place has been closed up for a long time,” Tilda said as she opened the kitchen door. At least that wasn’t stuck shut.

“What’s been closed up in it?” Jamal retorted. “A dead body?”

Tilda shot him a look that would’ve made lesser men quake in their boots. “Bring in the boxes.”

“Start with the one with the cleaning stuff,” added Georgie.

“Forget the cleaning stuff. We need a hazmat team,” Caitlin said.

Tilda studied the gross living room carpet. “On sec­ond thought, don’t bring in anything yet. We’re going to yank up this carpet and get it gone.”

“You’ll be down to plywood,” Jay protested.

“I’d rather have that than peed-on carpet,” Tilda said.

Jamal conceded with a shrug. “Come on, guys. We need to hit the hardware store and buy some tools.”

“Bring the cleaner and disinfectant first,” Georgie called after him.

“There isn’t enough in all of Icicle Falls to de-stink this place,” he called back over his shoulder.

“Hey, while you’re there, get her an inflatable Santa,” Caitlin said with a smirk.

“Do it, and you’ll get dog shit for Christmas,” Tilda hollered.

“I have something better than an inflatable Santa,” Georgie said. “Be right back.”

“What could be better than an inflatable Santa?” Cait­lin joked as her sister dashed out to her car.

Maybe it was a quilt for her bed, Tilda thought hope­fully. But when Georgie returned carrying a red gift bag with red-and-white-striped tissue sticking out of it, Tilda knew it wasn’t a quilt. Too small. Her cousin was also toting her pink plastic toolbox, which meant this was something to hang. It would no doubt feature some corny saying like Home Is Where the Heart Is, but that was okay. Tilda rather liked those homey sayings—in small doses.

“I figured this would be perfect for Christmas,” Geor­gie said.

So, a holiday decoration. Tilda took the bag and dug out her treasure. Yes, indeed, it was a sign. But wait a minute. “What the heck?”

“You’re supposed to hang mistletoe at Christmas,” Georgie said.

It was pretty, Tilda would give her that. Faux mistle­toe berries were attached to a wooden plaque decorated with red ribbon; Kiss Me was painted on it in red script. “Thanks. It’s cute.” But what good did it do to hang mis­tletoe when she didn’t have anyone to kiss?

Georgie took it out of her hand. “We can put it right here.” She pointed to the archway between the hall and the living room.

“Now you have to find someone to stand under it,” Caitlin said as Georgie got out her hammer with the pink handle.

There was the challenge.

They’d just hung the mistletoe when someone knocked timidly on the open door.

“Looks like they’ve already sent out spies,” Caitlin said to Tilda.

Sure enough. There in the doorway stood a woman clad in a pink parka trimmed with faux fur, snug jeans and black boots with little pom-poms on them. A jaunty pink wool beret sat on her head, half covering chin-length blond hair. She had brown eyes, flawlessly made-up, and wore pink lip gloss. Between the outfit and the bottle of wine she was carrying, she looked like she might be ap­plying for some reality show about housewives.

“Hi,” she said. Tilda could tell the minute her visitor caught a whiff of the stinky carpet. Her eyebrows pinched and her lips pulled down at the corners. But she gamely recovered and put the smile back on her face. “I’m Maddy Donaldson. I saw the truck outside and thought I’d stop by and welcome you to the neighborhood.”

“Thanks,” Tilda said, taking the proffered bottle. “I’m Tilda Morrison.”

“Good to meet you.” Maddy cocked her head. “You look familiar. Have we met?”

“Only if you ran a red light or robbed a bank.”

Maddy blinked.

“I’m with the Icicle Falls Police Force.”

Maddy nodded, smiling now that she got the joke. “Ah. Well, a policeman, er, woman, er, person living on the street, er, in the neighborhood. That’ll be reassuring. And we’re all happy someone’s finally moving into the house. It was sad to see it standing empty for so long. It sure wasn’t doing anything for the rest of the street, ei­ther.” She shook her head. “The people who were here before—bad news. They never bothered to keep the place up. Which kind of brought down everyone’s property values, you know.”

“Yeah, I guess it would,” Tilda said, unsure how else to reply.

“They never quite fit in, never got in the spirit of what Candy Cane Lane is all about.” Now Maddy studied Tilda. “Your realtor did explain to you about the covenants.”

“Covenants?” What was this woman talking about? Tilda hadn’t seen any paperwork involving covenants.

“Well, nothing in writing, really. Just an unspoken agreement. We do have a reputation. I’m sure you’re aware of that.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“It’s a great neighborhood,” Maddy assured her. “And we do go all out this time of year. Everyone loves it. As you can see, this is the weekend we start decorating. People expect to see us all lit up for the holidays,” she finished with a little booyah hand motion.

“Well, I’m just moving in.” They couldn’t expect her to leave her boxes and furniture and run right outside and string lights. Could they?

“Oh, yes, of course. Don’t worry. You don’t need to do much this time around. It is your first year, after all. Some lights will be fine, so if you could manage that this week, we’d be thrilled… And candy canes, of course. My husband has them down at the hardware store. I’m sure he’d be happy to give you a discount, to welcome you to the neighborhood,” Maddy added with a neigh­borly smile that made Tilda want to arrest her simply for being irritating. “And I know he’d be happy to string your lights for you.” Tilda found herself frowning. Did she look like the kind of woman who couldn’t string some Christmas lights?

Maddy’s cheeks, which were pink from the cold, got pinker. “Anyway, I guess I should let you get back to work. If you need anything, we’re three houses down across the street,” she said, pointing to a mint-green two-story Craftsman already dripping with lights.

“Thanks.” Tilda held up the bottle. “And thanks for the wine.”

“You’re welcome.” Then with another cheery smile and a quick wave, Maddy vacated the front hall and went down the steps, the pom-poms on her boots swinging back and forth.

Tilda leaned against the doorjamb and watched her go. “What have I done?”

Behind her, Caitlin said, “You’d better stock up on a case of that wine. I have a feeling you’re gonna need it.”

 

Posted with permission of MIRA Books

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