Page 23 of Tangled In Tinsel & Knots
“Mr. Walsh. At the post office.”
“The guy who’s been running that place since dinosaurs roamed the earth?”
“He’s not that old. Maybe seventy?” I slow down for a patch of ice. “I was there this morning mailing Christmas cards, because I’m an adult who does things on time, and I asked if he knew anyone in town who owned reindeer.”
“And he just… told you?”
“He said there used to be a couple. Greg and Mary Saxon. They ran a small hobby farm on their property, kept reindeer. But they both passed a few years ago, and the reindeer went tosomeone else. Family, maybe? He wasn’t sure. But he had the address because he still delivers mail there.”
“So you’re driving to a dead couple’s property to find reindeer that may or may not exist.”
“When you say it like that, it sounds bad.”
“Because it is bad, Hannah.”
“It’s fine. It’s research. Due diligence.” I take another turn, and the road gets even narrower, climbing now.
“Or you’re about to trespass on private property owned by armed bounty hunters.”
“You really need to stop watching those murder shows.”
“And you really need to start watching them. They’re educational.”
The trees thin out slightly, revealing glimpses of the valley below. Whispering Grove spreads out like a toy town, all those Christmas lights twinkling even in daylight. Beyond it, mountains rise in every direction, snow-capped and dramatic.
It’s beautiful. Isolated as hell, but stunning.
“Okay, I think I’m getting close.” I check the GPS on my phone. “Mr. Walsh said it’s about twelve miles out from town center, private drive on the left marked with a stone pillar.”
“Marked how? WithTrespassers Will Be Shotsigns?”
“You’re not helping my anxiety here.”
“I’m preparing you for reality.”
“Your version of reality involves me getting murdered by reindeer-owning bounty hunters.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
I spot the turn, a stone pillar about four feet tall with the words “Saxon Estate” carved into it, partially obscured by snow. The driveway curves off into the trees, disappearing from view.
“Found it.” I slow down, then signal even though there’s no one behind me. “I’m turning in.”
“If anything feels wrong, leave. Don’t be polite. Don’t worry about being rude. Just leave.”
“I will. Promise.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” I turn onto the private drive, tires crunching on gravel under snow. “But I’ll be fine. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Do you want the list alphabetically or by likelihood?”
“Goodbye, Lily.”
“Stay on the phone!”
“Fine.” I keep her on speaker as I drive, following the winding driveway through dense trees. “But if this turns into a three-hour conversation about your true crime theories, I’m hanging up.”
