Deadly Christmas Secrets. Shirlee McCoy

       Copyright

       ONE

      Tires on gravel.

      The sound of a visitor.

      An unexpected one, and that made Harper Shelby stop, her back still bent over the shovel, the deep red clay just under its lip.

      She didn’t get visitors.

      Not ever.

      And that was the way she liked it. It was the reason she’d bought twenty acres out in the middle of nowhere, and it was the reason she’d stayed there. The cabin had been nothing when she’d moved in—just four walls and a loft, a tiny kitchen meant to be used by hunters. She’d made it into something beautiful—a two-story structure with just enough room for her and her dog. One bedroom upstairs. One bathroom. An office on the lower level. A kitchen that was small but functional. A living area and wood-burning stove that heated the place in the winter.

      The kiln at the back of the cleared acre that the cabin sat on.

      It had cost a small fortune, but she’d earned a small fortune playing with the clay she pulled from the creek beds on the property. Lydia would have laughed at that if she’d been alive. Harper’s older sister had been like that—filled with amusement at life and the people in it. She wouldn’t have missed the irony of Harper’s new career. No more clean and sterilized office in one of DC’s most prestigious graphic design firms. No more climbing the corporate ladder, working to impress a boss, earning a bonus, getting the best clients. No more neat brownstone with all the amenities Harper and Lydia hadn’t grown up with. Now Harper shaped clay, molding it into pots and vases and plates that people seemed willing to pay top dollar for. Every one of the pieces was signed with Harper’s pseudonym—Ryan A. Harper. Lydia’s middle name. Harper’s first. A for Amelia, Lydia’s daughter. Harper would have chosen Ryan Amelia Harper, but she’d been afraid the news voyeurs would recognize the combination of names and come looking for her.

      Too many people wanted to hear Lydia and Amelia’s story firsthand, and Harper wasn’t willing to tell it. Not to reporters or true-crime writers. Not even to the police. Not anymore. The case was closed, her sister’s murderer dead, Amelia presumed dead, too.

      Four years was a long time.

      Most people had forgotten, but someone hadn’t. Someone had sent her a package. It had been shoved into the PO box she kept in a town fifty miles away. It wasn’t connected to her new life, her new address or her new property. It was the last vestige of who she’d been, the last connection to her sister’s husband, to the friends she’d once had, the busy life she’d once lived. She’d been thinking that it was time to let the box go. It had been empty every time she’d opened it for the better part of two years.

      Until this last time.

      She’d made the trip the previous day, opened the box and found an envelope shoved inside. She’d opened it with more curiosity than anything. There was no return address. Just a postmark from DC. Inside, she’d found a newspaper clipping—a tiny little section circled. Just a couple of lines about the death of Norman Meyers—a man who’d been convicted of killing Lydia Wilson and her four-year-old daughter, Amelia. There’d been a scrap of fabric, too, a little square of what looked like a pink blanket.

      It couldn’t have been Amelia’s blanket. That had disappeared four years ago, but Harper hadn’t been able to shake the sick dread she’d felt looking at those two things. She’d put a call in to the DC homicide detective who’d handled the case. She hadn’t heard back from Thomas Willard yet.

      She’d planned to give it another day or two and then call again, but the sound of tires on her gravel driveway made her think that Detective Willard might have come to her. Or sent someone to her. A local police officer, maybe?

      She left the shovel standing up in the rich, moist earth. This was her favorite creek bed, the colors of the clay rich and vibrant. Soon, though, it would be too cold to dig. Already the ground was hardening. If she didn’t harvest what she needed soon, she’d have to wait until spring thaw.

      She’d finish collecting today, but first she had to see who was rolling along the road that led to her cabin. She whistled for Picasso but didn’t wait for the dog to appear. He loved the woods, loved exploring the thickets and the deer paths. He always returned when she whistled for him, though, and she could hear him bounding along behind her as she headed up the steep path that led to the cabin.

      Less than a tenth of a mile, but the incline made going difficult. By the time she reached the edge of the tree line, the sound of tires on gravel had faded. So had the sound of squirrels scurrying around hunting for food. The forest was usually busy this time of year, animals collecting as much food as they could before winter took hold. By mid-December, the landscape went silent and still. Harper did her best work then, snow and ice and heavy gray clouds making her feel as if she was alone in the world.

      Until the world intruded.

      Once a month, the church ladies came to visit. Last winter, one of the deacons had come to chop wood for her. She hadn’t had the heart to tell him that she’d chopped plenty during the summer and fall, so she’d let him do it and then tried to pay him for his efforts. He’d refused to take money, so she’d given him a vase crafted from clay she’d harvested, fired to perfection and then glazed with all the colors of winter.

      Picasso halted at the edge of the trees, growling low in his throat, his scruff standing on end. She stopped beside him, touching his head.

      “What do you see, Picasso?” she murmured, peering out from between thick pine boughs.

      She’d been expecting a police cruiser.

      A black Jeep was there instead.

      She couldn’t see the driver, but no one she knew drove a Jeep. She took a step back, her fingers sliding through Picasso’s collar. He might be growling, but if someone got out of the car and offered a treat, he’d be all over that in a heartbeat.

      She didn’t want the Irish wolfhound anywhere near whoever was driving the Jeep because she had a bad feeling about her visitor, a feeling that said she’d be better off staying in the woods than stepping out where the driver could see her.

      The driver’s door opened, and a man climbed out. Tall. Very tall. Very muscular. Blond hair. Eyes shielded by sunglasses. He wore dark jeans, a black T-shirt and a jacket with a patch in the shape of a heart stitched to the right shoulder.

      A uniform of some sort?

      She wasn’t going to ask.

      She wasn’t going to step out from the trees, either. Her property was too far off the beaten path for someone to find his way there accidentally. This guy had come for a purpose. She’d rather have someone else around when she found out what that was. She couldn’t call one of the church ladies, and she didn’t have any close guy friends. She’d call the sheriff’s department. They could send deputies out, and she’d just stay in the woods until they arrived.

      She pulled her phone from her coat pocket, watching as the guy took a step away from the Jeep. Picasso barked twice, the happy greeting ringing through the still morning air. The man turned in their direction, scanning the tree line.

      She didn’t think he could see her through the thick pine boughs, but she took a step back anyway, pulling Picasso with her.

      “You can come out,” the man called, taking off his sunglasses as if that would somehow make him look less menacing. “I don’t bite.”

      “My dog does,” she responded, and he shrugged.

      “I’ve had worse than a dog bite. My name is Logan Fitzgerald. Your brother-in-law sent me.”

      “My brother-in-law has no idea I’m here,” she responded, keeping the pine boughs between them.