The Christmas Thief Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Christmas Thief

  (A Cottage Grove Mystery)

  A Novella

  Julie Carobini

  Copyright © 2015 Julie Carobini

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Published by Dolphin Gate Books

  ISBN: 978-0-9862292-6-8

  This story is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Julie Carobini.

  Award-winning author Julie Carobini writes novels set by the sea. RT Book Reviews says, "Carobini has a talent for creating characters that come alive." Julie lives in California with her family and loves all things coastal (except sharks). For a free novella and other news, sign up for her newsletter: http://www.juliecarobini.com/free-book/

  Cover Design: Angie Carobini and Rob Williams

  Photo Credits: Almgren/Dreamstime.com

  ~~~

  Other titles by Julie Carobini:

  The Chocolate Series

  Chocolate Beach (book 1)

  Truffles by the Sea (book 2)

  Mocha Sunrise (book 3)

  The Chocolate Beach Collection (books 1-3)

  Otter Bay Novels

  Sweet Waters

  A Shore Thing

  Fade to Blue

  The Spa at Winter Beach (A Seaside Novella)

  ~~~

  To my dad and mom, Dan and Elaine Navarro, who love to couch sleuth

  CHAPTER ONE

  Wishful thinkers. Or tourists. Tasha wasn’t sure which, but she couldn’t allow the strangers to traipse across the vacant property next to hers for long. Didn’t they know they were trespassing?

  She’d have to let them down easy, though. Didn’t want to appear as some crabby thirty-something single with a hermit streak. Especially so soon after celebrating Thanksgiving. Although, come to think of it ... Rog sometimes accused her of being too quiet, too mousy ... too introverted.

  Tasha squeezed her eyes shut. She’d promised herself she’d never say her ex-fiancé’s name again, and she’d have to remind herself that thinking his name was off limits too.

  Wolfy, her amiable mutt, whined beside her. She chose the pup because of his wildly curly fur coat, similar to the head of hair that she too had been “blessed” with. The rescue shelter promised her the dog was properly ferocious. “He’ll protect you from intruders, both animal and human,” they’d said. Right. This dog counted bunnies, squirrels—and snakes—among his friends. The closest thing to protection he would ever provide her would be to save Tasha from weight gain by sneaking off with the dessert that she occasionally forgot to put away after dinner.

  Wolfy whined again, but this time added a tug on his leash. Tasha slid a glance to see Mr. Cho, her friendly neighborhood garlic farmer, strolling toward them on the opposite side of the street with his poodle, Courtney, a prima donna if she’d ever seen one. Coming up behind Mr. Cho was a speed-walking couple she’d yet to meet, though they’d passed each other often. The man always smiled and waved adding a “hiya” when they moved past her, while the woman’s acknowledgment was more of a brief nod. It always seemed to her that the woman was on a mission while the man was just along for the ride.

  There were no sidewalks near the homes in the remote seaside village of Cottage Grove, and Tasha was fine with that. A premium on water rights, not to mention the periodic building moratorium, kept high-financed builders away. The lack of formal pathways gave the quiet area a less well-traveled feel, like she was living in a bygone era where people walked more than drove, and during wintertime’s shorter days, where they stayed inside to read by the fire and turn in early.

  Okay, maybe that did sound a little hermit-like. Still, Christmas was coming and even party animals enjoyed a nice fire during the holidays.

  “Hello, Tasha,” Mr. Cho called out to her.

  She sent him a wave and a “hi.”

  Courtney the dog stared straight ahead, as if Tasha and Wolfy were invisible, and pranced along the street like a royal horse leading a procession. Wolfy stopped and whined when they passed by.

  “Shh,” Tasha said. “She’ll break your heart and then there’ll be two of us tending to our wounds. We don’t want that now, do we?”

  Low-toned voices interrupted her thoughts. Undecipherable words coming from the men on the empty lot swam in the breeze. Tasha stepped behind a leggy pine tree at the top of the canyon behind her property and watched the strangers for a moment longer. The tall one wearing the black cowboy hat had lifted one boot-shod foot onto a tree stump and unrolled a wide swath of blue paper to rest across his thigh. The younger one, a straggly boy with bed head, peered a look over the paper too.

  Blue paper.

  Blueprints?

  Impossible.

  ~~~

  Tasha let Wolfy off his leash. Maybe for once he would live up to the rep the rescue shelter had pinned on him. As predicted, when he realized his freedom, he raced to the men on the empty lot, his yappy bark adding to the mix of their voices. Wolfy reached the men and spun around, his tail dipping and diving like a stunt plane. He plunked himself on the dirt and rolled onto his back so the taller of the two men could bend down and give the animal a tummy rub.

  You had one job, Wolfy, one job ...

  The man stood as she approached, allowing the blueprints to slide onto the needle-strewn land. He wore faded Levi’s and a dark red-on-red plaid flannel. His face was tan and in need of a shave. “Good morning,” he said. “This your dog?”

  She nodded, unsmiling.

  The two males exchanged a look. The boy buried his hands into his pockets and backed up as if to say that the older one was in charge.

  He stuck out his hand. “Marc Shepherd.” He gestured to the kid with bed head. “And this is Andy.”

  “Can I help you two with something?” she asked.

  “Well, I don’t know. Are you my neighbor?”

  “Depends, I guess,” she said, tension rising in her lungs. “I don’t know where you live.”

  Marc spread his arms out like an eagle’s wings. “Before long, I’ll be living right here. If all goes well, I’ll lay the foundation before Christmas. It’ll be a slow process after that, unless the weather cooperates, that is. If rains are sporadic enough, I just might have her up by spring.”

  “Here? You’re building a house here?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “But ... but that’s impossible. This land failed a perc test ... I was told it couldn’t be built on.” Her jaw tightened.

  The men exchanged another look. Andy shrugged and looked away.

  Marc nodded, his mouth grim. “Yes, it did a few years ago, when I first purchased the lot. But we were recently able to nail down the problem, and last month it passed without any hitches.” He paused. “You may have seen a county official truck out here recently?”

  She had and it had unnerved her—though she hadn’t suspected the truck’s presence anything but routine.

  “I saw it.”

  “Yes, well, a surv
eyor was out too. Planted some orange flags around the edges of the property—”

  “But somebody stole them!” Andy piped up.

  Marc put a meaty hand on the teen’s shoulder, as if to calm him. “It’s true that sometime between midnight and six a.m., the flags disappeared.”

  Andy flicked his head, tossing a stray bang off of his forehead. “You wouldn’t know anything about that now, would you?”

  Tasha shrank back. “Excuse me? You think I would have something to do with ... with that?”

  “Or maybe we have ourselves a Christmas thief!” Andy said.

  Marc frowned at Andy. “Stop. Of course our neighbor ...” He glanced at her, a question in his eyes.

  She returned his frown. “Tasha.”

  He nodded. “Of course I don’t think Tasha had anything to do with that. Was a windy night and those flags could be down on the beach somewhere by now.”

  Tasha released a harsh breath and looked away. She had owned her tiny fixer-upper cabin for about a month, the real estate agent promising tranquility and solitude. This wooded stretch of the coast wasn’t easy to navigate, so there weren’t too many homes here, save those few on the hill behind hers. Living here among the pines and redwoods gave Tasha the sense that she was encapsulated somewhere deep in the woods, when in reality, she was cradled between the lushness of evergreen vegetation on one side and the starkness of cliffs hanging over the sea on the other. After losing her fiancé—and her career—in one unapologetic swipe, she’d welcomed the remote location and its power to heal and restore.

  Now, this.

  Tasha met his eyes. That’s what you’re supposed to do with the enemy—look them in the eye and let them know you won’t back down.

  Marc sidled up closer to Tasha while Andy sulked away. “I want to apologize for my partner’s assertion that you would’ve had anything to do with the missing flags,” Marc said, his voice low. “He’s ... well, he’s in a rough patch right now with a young lady, and I’m trying to help him through it. He didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Tasha glanced over at the boy, his chin hanging low. Her heart prickled at the sight. Unfortunately, she knew all too well the face of heartbreak. She met Marc’s eyes. “That’s rough.”

  He gave her a half smile. “Thank you.”

  She flicked a glance away from his watching eyes. “The tree,” she said, changing the subject. She gestured at the soaring pine tree in the center of the property. She had already made it her morning routine to sit on her deck on the south side of her cabin and gaze at the graceful branches of the fragrant pine. “I hope you’re planning to incorporate it into your plans.”

  Marc stroked his stubbly chin, glancing at her first, and then upward along the imposing trunk of the towering pine. He winced into the light-filled sky, and then once again returned his gaze to her. “She is a beauty—a Torrey pine,” he said. “But unfortunately, she’ll have to go.”

  He might as well have slapped her, the sting of his words drawing blood.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tasha kicked the door shut behind her. Surely she could fight this ... but how? She picked up her phone, scrolled through her contacts, and called the real estate agent for the first time since escrow had closed.

  A receptionist answered.

  “Harry White, please!”

  “Mr. White is no longer employed at Mile Pines Realty. Can someone else help you?”

  A knock at the door startled her. She hesitated.

  The receptionist cut in, “Can I connect you with someone else?”

  Tasha darted a look toward the door. “No. Th-thank you.” She hung up and answered the door, fully hoping to find Marc Shepherd on the other side, Stetson in hand, telling her he had changed his mind. Instead, a woman with an updo and an overladen basket stood on her stoop.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Welcome to Cottage Grove!” the woman said. “I’m Marylu from the town’s welcoming committee and I’ve brought you some goodies.” She extended the basket across the threshold.

  Tasha stole a look over the woman’s shoulder. Marc’s truck was pulling away from the side of the road. She flashed another look at her guest. “Thank you,” she said. “Would you like to come in?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “I made some chai earlier. Would you like some?”

  “That would be lovely!” Marylu made herself comfortable on the couch, while Tasha stashed the basket on the coffee table and poured a cup of tea from the carafe on her counter. “I’m Tasha, by the way.”

  “Oh, I know who you are, dear.”

  “I see.”

  Wolfy whined at Marylu’s feet until she petted his head. “And who’s this?” she asked.

  Tasha set the cup down in front of Marylu. “That would be Wolfy. Never met a stranger’s hand he didn’t like.” Unfortunately.

  “That’s lovely. I’d be happy to look in on him if you ever have to travel. Do you work very far away? Many of our residents do.”

  “Not too far. Just down at the camp.”

  “Oh, how perfect. Well, you’re right, the camp is not too far, but I’m retired and have plenty of time on my hands. I hope you’ll take me up on my offer anytime. Maybe sometime when you have a long shift at camp?”

  Tasha weighed that. Not a bad idea to have someone to call if she found herself in a bind. “I might do that. Thank you. Now, tell me about this welcoming committee. I didn’t realize Cottage Grove had one.”

  “I apologize for the oversight, Tasha.” She sat back and Wolfy ran off after having gotten what he wanted. “I should’ve visited you weeks ago, but Harry ran off to a job somewhere in Vegas, and your information was lost in the shuffle.”

  “My information?”

  Marylu picked up the cup, took a sip, and cradled it in her palms. “Your name, of course. And address.”

  “And you knew Harry, my real estate agent?”

  “Of course, I did. Everyone knew Harry. Shame about those allergies of his. Hopefully Nevada’s dry heat will clear it up.”

  “Hmm, yes, a shame. Well,” she said, eyeing the basket filled with chocolates, a plant, some coupons, and a lint brush, “thank you for the coupons and other items. I’m sure ... I’m sure I’ll enjoy visiting the shops in town. I’ve been meaning to do that.”

  Marylu turned her head side to side, no doubt taking in the stained paneling and dated fixtures, the bare floors and cookie-cutter rooms. Thankfully, Tasha had already torn out the tattered and dirty carpeting and had it hauled away. While she saw the entire place as a challenge that she would overcome and make into something beautiful when she wasn’t assisting the cook at the camp down the road, others just saw a dump. She understood that, but she also refused to be dragged down by negative assessments. At least, not anymore.

  Marylu’s gaze landed back on her. “Well, you’ve had your hands full, haven’t you?” The woman chuckled, her eyes glowing. “No one thought Mrs. Jordan would ever sell this place, and I guess you could say she didn’t!”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The woman’s laughter died away. She lowered her voice. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I just meant that, well, she wasn’t here to sell it, you know, since she passed away.” She paused. “Wonder how it was that it landed in Harry’s lap to sell.”

  Harry had said that the house had been taken over by the state after the owner had died without any known relatives. But Tasha didn’t care to kibbutz with the welcome lady about how she’d come to take ownership—no matter how many discounts she’d brought along with her. “I don’t blame Mrs. Jordan for never wanting to leave,” she finally said. “As soon as Harry showed me this cabin, I knew I wanted to live here. It’s so, so beautiful.” And healing. She cleared her throat. “Anyway, I plan to take my time renovating it. Hopefully, Mrs. Jordan would be pleased with the results.”

  Marylu nodded. “Of course, dear. I’m sure, I’m sure.” Her eyes shifted toward the picture window, the one that framed
the pine that Tasha had already grown to loves so well. She gave Tasha a knowing smirk. “And from what I saw when I arrived, you’ll have plenty of help with that Marc Shepherd around.”

  Is anyone a stranger around here? Tasha held her tongue. Marylu, she’d discovered, was the type of woman who blew into a room, assessed it, and pulled unsuspecting inhabitants into her confidence. Even Tasha teetered on the edge of adding a lunch invitation to that tea. While she reveled in the solitude that her move had brought her—cultivated it actually—an occasional friendly visit was not completely unwelcome.

  She had no plan to invest in idle construction chitchat with Mr. Marc Shepherd, however—especially if he had any intention of tearing down that beautiful tree. The thought brought a harsh lump to her throat, and she glanced away so Marylu wouldn’t probe into why she likely looked like she could cry.

  Only one thought dammed her tears: If Marc Shepherd planned to disrupt her newfound paradise, she sure wasn’t going to make it easy on him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  At thirty-two years old, Tasha McHenry had been the youngest Human Resources Director at Tinston Insurance Services. She had started as a junior agent right out of college, but soon found that she preferred managing careers, as opposed to insurance needs. She’d met Roger Tinston, the owner’s son, around that same time, but he had not stuck around long enough for anything serious to develop between them. It took six years of working around the country in various capacities—landscaper, stock broker, ice cream store manager—before Roger realized it was time to come home and take his rightful place in the family business.

  Tasha remembered the day with a mix of pain and dread. She hadn’t felt that way at the time, of course. Quite the opposite. When the prodigal son returned—although she never approved of the moniker that many in the staff had affixed to him—she found herself more eager to get to work than anytime previously. A born storyteller, Roger’s presence infused charisma into the always sedate, and occasionally dreary office. Several of the women on staff even began to see him in a new and better light, forgiving him his past and pegging him as a “perfect” match for their daughters. But much to their open chagrin, he chose her.