I lookedup and found him grinning at me. We were surrounded by boxes of Christmas and winter-themed decorations. I was sitting on the couch, trying to stay out of the way as Lulu, Noah, and Elliot festooned the whole house—with Noah and Lulu doing most of the festooning, and Elliot explaining what things were or providing the nails, putty, or other necessary tools with which the festooning was accomplished.
The three of them were having a great time.
Not that I wasn’t—I’m just not that excited about decorating. Especially when we were going to take it all down in a week or two, because Christmas was literally the following day.
I’d dug the last two ducks out of the chest freezer Elliot kept in the garage yesterday with this in mind, and was slow-roasting them with apples, onions, potatoes, and herbs. I’d madeElliot prepare bread dough this morning, as well, so that I could bake rolls to go with the duck. There was also squash cut and seasoned, ready to go into the oven, and roasted brussels sprouts with hazelnuts and dried cranberries.
Dessert would be poached pears with pomegranate seeds and ice cream—regular for everyone else and cashew milk for me.
So I was intermittently prepping dinner while the other three gleefully decorated the house, traditional Christmas music playing through Elliot’s bluetooth speakers. Lulu and Elliot definitely knew all the words to most of them—especially Lulu. Noah and I had some of them—“Jingle Bells,” “White Christmas,” the songs that played over speakers in stores and on TV shows. But the other two knew the traditional carols, too.
They were currently belting out Latin verses of something that sounded familiar, although I wasn’t sure of its title.
“Were you raised Catholic or something?” I asked Elliot when he came near the couch. He hadn’t struck me as being at all religious, and it felt weird to think about an Indigenous family being Catholic—although I suppose there was no reason that that would be any weirder than anyone else being Catholic.
“No, but the Harts are. So Ma always has Christmas music going in the house after Thanksgiving.” He cocked his head to one side, studying me, several ornaments hanging from one hand that were, in theory, going on a pine tree that Noah and Lulu had gone out to purchase this morning while I had been in the kitchen soaking the ducks in water while Elliot made pancakes.
Noah had also brought back a wreath for the front door and a sprig of mistletoe that they’d hung from the little overhead light on the front porch. To say nothing of the lights that they’d begged Elliot to hang and he’d promised to do before lunch.
The song changed from the Latin thing to “Silver Bells,” and Noah joined in the chorus just as the kitchen timer went off, and I pushed myself up to go check on the duck.
My phone went off,and I looked down with a curse, seeing Colfax’s name on the screen.
“It’s Christmas Eve,” I complained by way of answering.
“And some stupid asshole always likes to put actual candles in a tree every year,” came the response. “We’ve got a body, so I need a CSI.”
I sighed. “Merry Christmas to us.”
The other three were all giving meyou’ve-got-to-be-kidding-medisappointed faces, despite the bouncing notes of “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” playing in the background.
“Look,” I said, holding up my hands. “I get tomorrow off, guaranteed, so that means I have to take this one.”
Noah sighed dramatically. “But we came all the way out here…”
“And I’m the rookie,” I pointed out.
“Will you make it back for dinner?” Elliot asked.
“No idea,” I answered honestly.
“Be careful.”
I kissed him. “I will be.”
Everyone was unbelievably grumpy,although I wasn’t in the least surprised. Nobody wants to work on Christmas Eve, and nobodyreallywants to work a death scene on ChristmasEve. We were at an old farmhouse that was now in a rural neighborhood in Fairbanks, just south of Tigerton.
Well, an old former-farmhouse. Part of the framing still stood, but most of the rest had been reduced to blackened beams and ashes.
I pulled the van in behind the car I recognized as belonging to McKinley, then got out, wincing as my booted feet hit the ground. I hadn’t bothered to change, so I was still wearing jeans and the ridiculous Christmas sweater Noah had brought and insisted I put on.
“Nice sweater, Mays,” McKinley remarked as I shucked off my parka to pull on a bunny suit.
“You, too,” I told him, noting the fluffy snowman peeking out of the half-unzipped front of his parka.
“My mother won’t take no for an answer,” he replied dryly.
“My brother won’t, either.”
