Christmas Daisy

Christmas Daisy

A Daisy Bruce Cozy Novella

Smashwords Edition

© Patti Larsen 2023

Find out more about me at

http://www.pattilarsen.com/

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the vendor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Chapter One

You’re not welcome here, the short, round blonde snaps in my face, lips pinched tightly enough the lines around them make her pucker look like she’s aged at least two decades in a heartbeat. Leave, now. Or I’m calling the police!

Um, well now. Not so friendly sounding, is she? Sorry to drop you in the middle of things. I have a bad habit of doing that, as it turns out. Let’s take a step or two back, shall we, and see the rest of the story…

I set aside the last file in the pile with a contented sigh, pushing back from my desk and lifting the armload to my chest as a man’s tenor sings about being home for Christmas over the office sound system. The filing cabinets beckon me to the rear of the quiet office, past empty desks tidied for the holiday season. It’s weird not to see former FBI SSA Elizabeth Michaud with her endless coffee mugs piled around her or ex-Reading Sheriff Jill Wagner hunching across her laptop screen, refusing to accept the fact she really needs glasses. And without the chatter of our office receptionist, Beau Hampshire, coming from the front desk where the plush sofa and cushions wait for pending clients to fill the still air only punctuated by the soft strains of holiday music, I’m feeling a little like it’s the end of the world and I’m the only one left.

A silly sensibility to fall into, really, though it makes me even more excited by the prospect of finishing up the last of my tasks and heading home to load my suitcases into my car and hit the road before the snow arrives. It’s calling for a bit of a blizzard, and while it’s only the 22nd of December, I have no doubt there’s already sufficient fall at home in Reading that a white Christmas is assured. I can’t wait for my best friend, Fiona Fleming, to open the red and white onesies I bought for her beautiful twin girls, the very thought of snuggling Iris and Flora making me sigh in delight.

And yet, being here in Montpelier, joining the team outside the town where I grew up, has been the best decision I could have made for myself. Even if it means I’m missing out on the babies growing up day-to-day.

In the ten minutes it takes me to sort the files into their appropriate alphabetized spaces—while sighing a little over the fact several are out of order and unable to stop myself and my innate tidiness from doing something about it—the Christmas carols pause as the radio host interrupts with local news.

The others would tease me if they were here, call me old-fashioned that I still listen to Montpelier radio instead of taking advantage of the endless stream of songs available via our satellite service. But I’m here by myself, after all, and it’s almost Christmas and nothing makes me feel more like a girl waiting in anticipation for Santa to come calling than the nostalgia that local broadcasts bring.

I’m barely listening, regardless, as I close the bottom drawer of the furthest cabinet, the Yonkers file now safely tucked away until I return on December 27th, my knees cracking—when did that start, anyway?—beneath my A-line skirt, the woman’s youthful and energetic voice finally catching my attention.

—series of thefts in The Meadow/Pembroke Heights and College Hill areas being reported, she says. "Montpelier Police are investigating the string of break-ins and recommend residents check their doors and windows are locked and secured. But not too tight, she laughs. Santa needs to be able to get down your chimney!"

I’m not sure her script is going to land well. Those sections of the city are some of the wealthiest and I’m positive the residents care less about the fictional (shh, don’t tell the kids!) jolly man in his red suit and more about protecting their property.

And now, the weather, she says as I return to my desk, turning off my computer and checking my watch. Almost 5PM. I’m running a little behind. We’re already feeling the effects of that winter storm heading toward us from across the Canadian border, so bundle up out there! With expected snowfalls of twenty inches overnight, this storm is going to be a doozy if the fifty-mile-per-hour winds with gusts expected over seventy pushing the front over Montpelier don’t ease up a little. More good news. I hope you’re not planning to drive anywhere in the next twelve to sixteen hours!

She’s just full of Christmas cheer, that one. I’m grateful when a new carol starts up, signaling the end of her contribution to my late afternoon as I finally nab my bag and head for the front door, my long, red wool coat waiting patiently for me.

I’m so focused on getting while the getting is good, I’m halfway into my coat before I realize someone is standing outside the doorway, peering in and I squeak in surprise—and a bit of fright—at the sight of the young woman watching me. I flash her an apologetic smile when I realize she’s not some threat lurking and gesture for her to come inside, finishing fastening the sparkly buttons at my throat over the soft faux fur neckband beneath as she hesitantly joins me.

Her dark hair sparkles with snowflakes that rapidly melt, hazel eyes wary and her smooth cheeks pink from the chilly air outside. But despite her obvious youth, there’s an aged feeling to her, as though she’s seen enough out of life that her childhood is a long-gone terrible memory.

That has me pausing and turns my empathy up to full while I continue to smile and finally speak when she doesn’t.

Daisy Bruce, I say, offering my hand. She shakes it with some trepidation, bobbing a nod.

Hi, she says, voice soft and cracking a little. She clears her throat before going on. Lia Trevors. She looks around, hands shoved back into the pockets of her white puffer coat, shuffling her feet in her shaggy boots as moisture pools on the rug there to capture just such a mess. Are you a private detective?

I nod immediately, the twinge of anxiety I feel at the delay shoved firmly aside. If I don’t get out to Reading tonight, I’ll leave tomorrow after the storm, no big deal. Did you need help, Lia?

She doesn’t say anything, biting her lower lip, like she’s already decided this was a terrible decision. I see it in her face, the moment she chooses to balk and reach out to her even though she’s closed off from me, eyes shuttering, lips a thin line.

Never mind, she mutters, spinning and pushing on