Secrets of Christmas

By Vicki Bell

A quiet, peaceful walk in the snow—that was the plan—that is, until Claire Kaniere happens upon the dead body of Betsy Piedermeyer lying half in the street under a blanket of snow. It seems bad enough that she has returned to the Canadian Island she vowed to never set foot on again but now she has uncovered a murder.

With a murderer on the loose and her mother enduring the last of her treatments for chemotherapy the last thing on Claire's mind is romance. But, another thing she hasn't planned on is the return of Thad McRaven, a member of the island's upper class and a member of the Grandice family, the very family that thought her unsuitable to be involved with one of them and the reason she left Whippoli Island.

Claire and Thad are immediately attracted to one another and their feelings grow to the point of love. But Thad is a murder suspect as is every other person on the island—and Claire can't, and won't allow herself to, forget that he is a member of the family she despises. Even though Thad seems so different from his relatives, Claire is cautious. But that caution soon ebbs away each time she finds herself in Thad's arms.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Books To Go Now
• Release date: Oct 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386464228

Book preview

Copyright

Secrets of Christmas

Books to Go Now Publication

Copyright © Vicki Bell 2018

Books to Go Now

www.bookstogonow.com

Cover Design by Romance Novel Covers Now

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For information on the cover illustration and design, contact [e-mail]

First eBook Edition October 2018

Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

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Other Titles by Vicki

Hope and Christmas Miracles, Repairing Christmas, If You Believe Christmas Dreams Can Come True.

Dedication

As always, thanks to my children, Kristen and Matthew, for being constant inspirations for everything I do. And, thanks to Nancy Mitchell for being my biggest fan and support.

Excerpt from Secrets of Christmas

Claire Kaniere is returning to Whippolli island where she grew up—the island which she vowed to never return. But with her mother’s breast cancer treatments and the Christmas season coinciding, she does return—to the place where the Grandice family humiliated her years earlier.

When she finds the dead Betsy Piedermeyer, one the island’s most prominent citizens, she becomes swept up in the homicide investigation. She also gets swept into a whirlwind of emotions by Thad McRaven, and his deep green eyes. But as their feelings for one another grow, there is a problem—he is a member of the Grandice clan.

To make matters even more complicated, he can’t be ruled out as a murder suspect. In spite of all of this, Claire is falling deeply in love, as she never has before. As Christmas nears, she feels pressure to get her mother through her treatments and find the actual killer, who has now killed again. She also can’t help but ask herself if a love and a life with Thad is possible.

Chapter One

The ferry lunged forward , jostling the small crowd of people gathered around the railing. Claire - caught herself with the rail, its cold seeping through her thin, yet beautiful, chocolate-brown, lamb leather gloves. Once under way, the gentle sway of the ferry offered her a sense of calming peace, but she had only to look upward for that peace to be betrayed. Rolling gray clouds swirled across an autumn sky in an almost panicked frenzy.

Claire slid her Kate Spade handbag strap farther up her shoulder and then tucked her hair behind her ears under her hat to keep it from becoming unruly by the sharp breezes picking up. She leaned against the railing watching a little boy in a dark green coat, zipped snugly up to his neck, hold his arms straight out to his sides running within the confines of the small space in which his parents allowed him to move about, careful to keep him in their sight. He couldn’t have been more than three. Claire smiled, remembering that feeling; playing outside as winds, preludes to incoming storms, blew around her, offering her the sensation that if she were to run fast enough she could actually take flight. Those were the early carefree days where ignorance was such bliss. She smiled, deep in thought. What she wouldn’t give to have that childlike ignorance once again. Just for a little while.

In spite of the cold day and inclement weather, moods appeared jovial all around. A number of passengers were from cars bearing car tags from the United States and with Thanksgiving Day there celebrated just two days away, many were likely on holiday. Claire longed to share their festive moods but hers rather matched the storm-threatening sky, as opposed to the happiness brought about by the pending holidays. She was returning to Whippolli Island, her childhood home, to be with family, but not just for the holidays. Her mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer a month earlier and if Aunt Marta was correct, which she always was, her mother was not dealing well with the chemotherapy. It was not likely to be a festive holiday.

Whippolli Island was located off the coast of Newfoundland, Canada, near St. John and reasonably close to Prince Edward Island. In many ways, Whippolli Island was like stepping back in time. With streets of cobblestone and most of the buildings and cottages with their low, slate roofs from past centuries, it had always reminded Claire of the far away lands denoted in fairytales. Even the social structure had failed to progress with the times. The island was ruled by, for lack of a better word, aristocracy, even though technically under the rule of Newfoundland. The Grandice heirs who employed her family were nearly considered royalty on the island and those not fortunate enough be born into that family, or a few other wealthy ones that were denoted acceptable by the Grandice family, were likely to never rise above their station. The Grandices had the last word on who counted and who didn’t. In other words, if you were born into the working class, or poverty level, you were to respectfully remain as such for all of your days. That was the rule Claire couldn’t abide and one of the primary reasons she had been compelled to leave Whippolli Island without looking back. Another reason, however, was a bit more complicated.

Whippolli Island wasn’t all bad. In fact, it actually had more good than bad with some of the most wonderful people in the world and amazing views that would give pause to even the most oblivious of persons. Were it without its bad elements, it would have been paradise. As a young child, Claire always loved it—even the cold winters that blew through their little house, requiring them to lie under piles of homemade quilts. For with the cold came snow and what kid didn’t love snow?

A hint of a smile made Claire’s lips turn upward for a second. Seagulls caught the winds of the Nor’easterly spreading their wings wide, allowing them to float, adrift with little effort before crooking their joints and dropping low above the passengers, accustomed to offers of crumbs of bread or whatever enticing morsels might be offered up. Deftly catching the bites, they would once again allow winds to carry them high into the November sky, scarfing down their tasty morsels. The familiarity of the entire scene brought on a nostalgia and she fought back tears until a force inside her, stronger than her will to hold herself together, allowed her eyes to pool, leaving her looking through a watery film at the place she had called home for so many years—a place she now loathed. The only reason she was returning was that Whippolli Island was home to the three people she loved the most in the world—and no doubt always would be. But then, such was life. Why was life always a jangled bundle of contradictions? Turning out to face the water and the island, visible on the horizon, she wiped away tears quietly spilling from her brown eyes, hoping no one could see her.

Had it not been for the gloom settling low over her, she would have more appreciated the burnished foliage of the trees, the yellows, oranges and reds against a blue-gray sky coming closer. It was a perfect scene for the Thanksgiving season—with, of course, the exception of the storm sure to hit by late afternoon. The waves had gathered force since the ferry left the shore.

Feigning nonchalance, Claire wiped away remaining tears with gloved fingers and glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. She thought her emotional moment had gone unnoticed until she saw him standing opposite her, his back resting against the railing. Even in his slumped position, it was obvious that he was tall, his masculine features salient. Her gaze moved above broad shoulders covered by a beige cable-knit sweater and royal blue windbreaker, until her eyes caught his, green and piercing. She could feel her face flush and looked down, trying to focus on something else—anything else. But her emotions overcame her again and she once more found herself held in a green gaze staring intently at her—or perhaps through her. It was hard to discern in her current state.

His stern expression remained the same even when he gave her a slight nod. She had every intention of reciprocating politely but found herself frozen—mesmerized. It was only when the ferry bumped the rubber tires along the sides of the dock, breaking the spell, that she managed a faint smile. If he saw it, he didn’t react. Instead, in the blink of an eye, his attention turned to moving to a shiny black Range Rover that would be exiting first. She told herself not to stare, but couldn’t help doing so. She watched his long, jean-clad legs fold as he climbed in, his hiking boots the last to disappear before he slammed the door shut.

He was a stranger to her, of that she was certain. Granted, she had been back so seldom that she likely wouldn’t recognize even most of those she had gone through school with, but she was certain that she would have remembered him, his image now forever burned in her mind.

Just as she stepped off the ferry onto dry land, the man drove past, their eyes once again locking for the fleeting second before he drove steadily away and around the curve leading to the main street running around the island. The brief encounter, if it could be called that, had stirred something in her but she dismissed it as her emotional state confusing matters. Shaking her thoughts back to the present, she looked around for her ride, smiling when she saw Uncle Walt fold out of the small, blue car her Aunt Marta and he had driven for over ten years—and they still referred to it as the new car, having kept the thirty-year-old green gardening truck they rambled around in when the car wouldn’t suffice or they wanted to prevent adding miles.

Uncle Walt had actually retired from his position as head gardener for the Grandice Estate, six months earlier. Perhaps it was a cliché, but she considered her mother, aunt and uncle to be the salt of the earth. They truly were. Her mother had also been an employee of Grandice Estate, perched high above all of the lower class residents, as the chambermaid and Aunt Marta was still in service as their head cook. Her mother, of course, had no choice but to quit when she began chemotherapy. There were drugs on the market to prevent the poison they pumped into a cancer-ridden body from causing as many side effects, but such medical treatments weren’t covered under Canada’s socialized medical provisions, leaving the less fortunate to suffer without alternative ways to pay for them.

Uncle Walt, a tall, beanpole of a man, gave his adored niece a warm hug, stirring mixed feelings of feeling safe and sad. Evidence of time passing, could be found both in his stature and on his face. She saw too little of her beloved three family members, having allowed her anger and hurt to keep her away. Of course they spent most holidays together at her little apartment in Boston, but it wasn’t the same as being home on the island together. For the second time that day, tears welled. When he finally let go of her, she kissed his cheek and dried her eyes.

Here now, Poppet, he said, using his name for her as long as she could remember. Dry those tears. There’ll be no reason for such sorrow. For now, let’s be as happy and positive as we can, under the circumstances. Uncle Walt was strong and always positive and could make better even the worst of situations—which, of course, this was to Claire.

With her luggage loaded, Uncle Walt and she were soon on their way, turning in the same direction as the man in the Land Rover. The little blue car may have been old, but it was kept up in meticulous fashion. Claire couldn’t help but smile. She came from tidy people. She knew she was stalling, dreading the question that had to be asked. A lump formed in her throat. Uncle Walt, how is she?

Poppet, I’ll not lie. She’s powerful sick. But the doctors say the outlook is good. Let’s just focus on that. That’s what she keeps telling your Aunt Marta and me on a regular basis. It’s good that you’re here, though. You’ll brighten her spirits.

The lump in her throat was large enough to choke her and she half wished it would. To have her mother ill to the point that she could die, was too much to bear—especially when she had always been there for Claire and was such a precious person. What would she do without her? How could she live in the world without her mother? Claire asked herself silently. Even though she lived miles away in Boston, she and her mother had remained close, talking almost every day. She told herself that her mother was strong and a fighter and she would win the battle over breast cancer. Part of Claire knew that was absolutely true, but she couldn’t fight the fear that seeped through her just as the poisonous chemo seeped through her mother.

Claire turned her face to the door’s window, pretending to look out at her surroundings. But she knew she wasn’t being clever. Uncle Walt had to have seen her wiping more tears flowing from her eyes. Forgoing the pretense, she fished through her bag for a tissue and blotted her face. She couldn’t let her mother see her falling apart. It was Claire’s turn to be the strong one. You can do this. You have no choice.

So, Uncle Walt, nothing seems to have changed around here.

He gave a hearty laugh. Will it ever, I ask you?

Claire pressed her lips together. Probably not.

They soon pulled up in front of a small, white cottage, its exterior as neat as the little blue car. During short summers on Whippolli Island, the flower gardens around the house were amazing—compliments of Uncle Walt who had the greenest thumb of anyone Claire knew. Actually, thanks to him, the yard didn’t look too shabby no matter what the season. It was probably in that small yard surrounded by a low, green picket fence, that she developed her love for all things botany, which was what she had earned her master’s degree in and was working on her PhD, while writing the gardening section of A Perfect Place magazine.

Uncle Walt came around the car after removing the luggage and said, Best get inside. Your aunt and mother will not be forgiving me for keeping you too long.

Claire nodded, insisting on taking the smaller bags from Uncle Walt. They had no more than made it onto the winding rock walkway, when the side-door flung open and out rushed Aunt Marta, arms open wide, her plump torso covered by a pink, ruffled apron dusted with flour. Claire was only five feet four inches, but towered over Aunt Marta. Still the loving arms managed to reach around Claire’s neck and pulled her against her warm, soft body. Claire closed her eyes, soaking in the loving warmth and the smell of shortbread.

I’ve missed you, child.

Claire pulled back with reluctance. I missed you, too. All three of you. It’s good to be home. That wasn’t a total lie. It was good to be with them at the family home. It was just unfortunate that it happened to be on Whippolli Island. How is she?

Oh, she’s havin’ one of her good days, dear. I think just knowing you’re to be here has been the best medicine, Aunt Marta whispered as if Claire’s mother could possibly hear them outside when her room was on the other side of the house to the back. She was sleeping last time I checked in on her.

Claire smiled and they made their way inside. She expected to find her mother in her room asleep and was shocked when her mother stood from one of the old, worn wooden chairs around a Formica table, with the red very nearly worn off after years of being scrubbed clean in the heart of the house. Her mother had lost at least ten pounds—pounds she didn’t have to lose to begin with—and her head was wrapped in a bright pink and green scarf that sort of matched the worn green robe she wore over pale-pink pajamas.

My baby’s home for the holidays. I’m thrilled you’ll be staying through Christmas, her mother said, her smile brightening her pale, gaunt face.

Claire rushed to her and wrapped her arms around her. She could feel her mother’s shoulder blades. Tears pooled in her eyes. You can’t do this. Now you have to be the strong one. Somehow, by the time she faced her mother, her eyes had dried and she forced one of her brightest smiles on her face. Mom. It’s so good to see you. I was expecting you to look sick, but you look great, she lied.

Her mother didn’t buy that for a second. Oh, now. I raised you a good Catholic girl. You know lying isn’t nice. Or has that big city gotten to you?

Claire looked at the familiar teasing twinkle in her mother’s eyes and felt better. At least she was up to picking at her. That was a good sign. Now, I’m not lying. You’re just being too self-critical.

Her mother looked to Uncle Walt and Aunt Marta. Will you listen to this college graduate? Analyzing me. You’d think she’d studied people instead of plants. Her mother patted a ruffled yellow cushion on an empty wooden chair next to the one she had been sitting in and said, No need in standing, when we can sit and talk.

She wasn’t fooling Claire. She was already tired from the short while on her feet. Sounds good. I stood the entire time on the ferry. Claire looked around the kitchen at the pies and baked breads. Is that pumpkin bread with walnuts? she asked.

It is. Just took it fresh out of the oven. Would you like a big slice with a cup of tea or coffee?

Claire smiled at Aunt Marta. Coffee sounds great. And a slice would be wonderful. Just don’t make it a huge one.

Ah, watching our figure are we? Uncle Walt teased, leaning back against the small kitchen counter, sipping his own cup of hot coffee. He gave Claire a wink, to let her know he knew just what he was starting.

She’s the perfect size, Her mother said.

At the same time, Aunt Marta chimed in, Well, if you ask me, she could do with a bit more meat on those beautiful bones. I think she misses my cooking. Aunt Marta’s lip thinned into a broad smile that crossed the whole of her chubby face, the way they always did when she was proud of something—and her cooking was definitely something to be proud of.

I do miss your cooking, but probably won’t get any running in while I’m here and I don’t want to gain ten pounds. She, like the other three in the room, knew full well she wouldn’t gain anywhere near that even if she ate constantly her entire visit.

Why can’t you go running around the island? her mother asked. I know you love to run and the island is so beautiful this time of year.

It is, Claire said, blowing across the top of her coffee before sipping it. I might. She didn’t want to say it, but the last thing she wanted was to run into certain people in the village and jogging might just lead to that.

Her mother shifted her weight in her chair She looked tired. If there are people you’d rather not speak to, then just run right past them.

Claire laughed. That I could do. In fact, she might even enjoy the snobbery of doing so. God knew, she had been on the other end of it enough during those last years before she moved from the island. In truth, however, she wasn’t likely to encounter the Grandices or the McRavens or any of the others in their class. They seldom came down from their estates—or they didn’t when Claire was still living on the island. She knew little about them since then, having made the rule that her family was not allowed to discuss them at any time. It was easier that she continued to carry a lot of bitter and hurt inside her. Most of the time since leaving the island, she had managed to force those thoughts out of her head, but when they did creep in, she always felt that familiar warmth of shame and hurt wash through her. Perhaps coming home was a mistake. Claire had no sooner thought that than she looked at her mother watching her, a faint smile on her lips. Don’t be selfish, Claire. How could you consider not being here now? More shame.

Her mother