Page 7 of The Mistletoe Mystery

I hear the familiar groan of the shower turning on, and above that, the whirring of the fan. Juan soon begins a Christmas concert solo in the confines of our bathroom, belting out “Joy to the World,” followed by an especially jaunty rendition of “Deck the Halls.” I know he’s nearly done when he reaches the high part in “O Holy Night.” The shower stops, then moments later the bathroom door bursts open, and Juan’s bare feet pad down the hall to our bedroom.

I wander over and stand in the doorway as he gets dressed. Our soiled clothes hamper is where it always is, in the corner by the bed, but it isn’t empty, as I expected it to be. Rather, it’s three-quarters full.

Juan watches me from the bed as he wrestles socks onto his damp feet. “You’re wondering what I was doing in the laundry room. An old lady needed help.”

“An old lady,” I say. “Mrs. Nguyen?”

“The woman down the hall? No, not her,” he says.

“Mrs. Bancroft from the fourth floor?”

“Do you know her well?”

“Not really,” I reply.

“Yes, it must have been her. Mrs. Bancroft,” he says. He pops up from the bed like a gopher emerging from a smoke-filled hole, rushing toward me and sweeping me into his arms. He smells soapy clean and fresh, and at long last, his hair is neatly combed.

“Are you ready, Molly? It’s time to choose our Christmas tree! I’m so excited.”

He kisses me then, his mouth minty fresh, and I forget all about old ladies and laundry and just about everything else.

We don coats and shoes and head out the door. Holding mittened hands, we make our way out of the building and onto the sidewalk dusted with powdery snow. The Christmas tree lot isn’t far away, just a few blocks. It’s a pop-up installation set up once a year in a grocery-store parking lot. I swear I could make it there with a blindfold on just by following the scent of fresh conifers redolent in the air.

When we arrive at the lot, the burly tree seller heads straight to us. “Merry Everything,” he says. “Need a tree?”

“We do!” says Juan. “Show us the best you’ve got.”

“Look up,” he replies as he points to a magnificent tree on display right behind us. It must be over two stories tall.

“We’re actually looking for something a tad more modest,” I explain. “Maybe my height?”

“Over here,” he answers, walking us to the back of the lot. “I’ve got balsam fir, Fraser fir, Douglas fir, Norway spruce, eastern white pine, and one premium, deluxe option—beautiful blue spruce.”

“Beautiful blue spruce!” says Juan. “That’s the one for us.”

“This way. Pick the tree you want. Let me know when you’re ready.” The man trudges off to help some customers gathered at the front of the lot.

“Are you sure we need a premium tree?” I ask Juan the moment the attendant is out of earshot. “Gran always said ‘premium’ is just a fancy way of saying ‘foolishly expensive,’ and I’m not sure we have the money to spare. The price of everything has shot up so much, you know.”

“Christmas comes just once a year. And besides, how bad can it be?” As Juan says this, he checks the price tag on the nearest blue spruce. “What?This is insane. Are they all this expensive?”

We quietly check the tags on all the trees amassed in this far corner of the lot, which, I suspect, is where the cheapest options are collected.

When Juan finishes his price check, he stares at me, his expression one I’ve never seen conveyed quite so succinctly on a face before—the stunned look of sticker shock.

“Molly, we can’t afford any of these trees.”

“I know,” I say. “But chin up, Buttercup. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

I search out the man I’m looking for, who’s easy to spot given he’s wider and taller than anyone else on the lot and may very well be part tree himself. “Yoohoo!” I call out, and soon enough the burly lot attendant is trudging back our way.

“Which tree should I bind up for you?” he asks.

“Actually,” I reply, “I’m afraid it is we who are in a bind—ofthe financial variety. We simply can’t afford to purchase a tree at this price. Not this year, at least. I thought I’d ask if you have any budget-friendly trees that might be better suited to our…pecuniary predicament?”

“Uh…are you asking if I’ll give you a tree for free?”

“No!” I reply. “Of course not. We’re willing to pay, but at a more modest price point.”

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