Page 62 of Christmas Mittens Murder

He gave her a hug. “What can I say, I love Christmas.”

MURDEROUS MITTENS

Maddie Day

Chapter One

Quiet can be peaceful. At other times it’s ominous, as if something bad—disaster, tragedy, even violence—looms.

I nursed my glass of pinot noir in the Colinas wine bar that December afternoon. It was quiet here in Vino y Vida, as it was in the whole town, and for the moment felt peaceful. The peace was a welcome contrast to the always-moving energy of the Los Angeles area where I lived and worked. I was the only patron sitting at the bar, although a smattering of wine tasters occupied tables. I wondered if the quiet would last through the holidays.

Still, traveling to Northern California from my home in Pasadena a week before Christmas to visit my twin sister might have been a mistake. Allie’s real estate business was suddenly so crazy busy she’d suggested I head over to Vino y Vida in the historical complex and taste local vintages until she could join me.

The bartender, a striking older woman whose dark hair bore a proud streak of white, had introduced herself as Val but turned away to help other customers. I wished I’d brought a book. Or my tablet. Scrolling through my phone got old, fast. I took a sip and gazed around at the thick adobe walls adorned with framed antique wine posters and maps of the Alexander Valley. Glass doors led to a terrace overlooking the Russian River, but when I’d arrived, all the repurposed barrel tables out there had been occupied.

A tall, lanky woman who I guessed was near my own early-forties age lowered herself onto the next barstool. She gave me a quick smile, then focused on the blackboard where today’s pourings were listed. She glanced back at me with light blue eyes.

“What are you having?” she asked.

“An Alexander Valley pinot noir, apparently made right down the road. It’s quite nice. I’m Cece Barton, by the way.”

The other woman’s face brightened. “Cameron Flaherty. Cam.” She extended her hand. “Nice to meet you, Cece. Do you live in town, or are you a tourist like I am?”

“My home is in the Los Angeles area, in Pasadena. But my sister Allie has lived here for a while, and I came north to be with her for Christmas.”

“Wait. Allie Halstead, with the bed-and-breakfast in the big Victorian down the street?” She tucked a lock of red hair behind her ear.

“She’s my older sister.” I bobbed my head. “Older by a whopping four minutes. They named us Alicia and Cecelia, which lasted about an hour.”

Cam’s smile broadened. “I have a suite in the B&B. I checked in an hour ago.”

“I’m staying there too. Let me guess. She recommended walking over to Vino y Vida.”

“Exactly.”

Val hurried over and spoke to Cam. “What can I get you to drink, ma’am?”

Cam gave the same little wince I used to react with. When the general populace decides you merit being addressed as ma’am rather than miss, it’s a milestone, and not one those in Cam’s—or my—age bracket generally celebrated.

“I’d like what she’s having, please.” Cam pointed at my glass.

“You got it. I’m Val Harper, and I manage this lovely establishment.” She selected a stemmed glass with a fat bowl and filled it a little over half full.

Cam thanked her and lifted the glass, facing me. “Cheers.”

I clinked her glass and took a sip. “What brings you to Colinas, Cam?”

She sipped the wine and set down her glass. “I own and run a certified organic farm in Massachusetts.”

My eyes widened. “That’s different.”

“Yep. I’m trying to widen my practices, and I heard about a few innovative farms out here practicing permaculture and other forms of sustainability. My darling sainted husband said he’d keep our little girl for the week and told me to go.”

“Good husband. How old is your daughter?”

“Ruthie is every day of her two years and eleven months.” Cam shook her head, smiling. “She was an early talker, and she basically rambles and asks questions constantly. Pete’s going to have his hands full.” She pulled out her phone and showed me pictures of a sturdy little girl with red curls.

“She’s adorable, but don’t blink. Your Ruthie will be nineteen in a minute.”

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