The Mystery Before Christmas

Tuesday

I wasn’t sure if it was my discussion with Carolyn the previous day or just my tendency toward insomnia that had me sitting in the attic window at two a.m. with only Alastair to keep me company, but I found that even the beauty of fresh snow on the frozen lake couldn’t quite still the racing of my thoughts. Just twenty-four hours ago, I’d thought that being a real reporter and obtaining a staff position for the local newspaper was exactly where I wanted to take my life, but now I was less certain. I could see that being a reporter would be a job riddled with tough decisions at times. Decisions that would challenge me to take a hard look at my beliefs and my priorities. In this case, I found myself forced to decide whether it was more important to be a dependable employee who did my job and turned in my assignments as promised, or to listen to my conscience and allow Secret Santa to retain his anonymity.

“I really don’t want to let Dex down,” I said aloud to the cat. “He’s been so good to me, and he has really taken a chance by letting me run with this story. I promised him I could do it, and I know I should.”

“Meow.”

I stroked the cat’s head. “You do have a point. All I need to do this week is to write an article featuring the Secret Santa prospects. I don’t need to make a final decision about a big reveal. Maybe I should just focus on that and hope everything works itself out by the time I am faced with the third article.”

The cat began to purr loudly.

“Maybe once I interview Secret Santa, he or she will make it clear that they wouldn’t really mind me revealing their secret. I know I’ve been clinging to this singular thought, and I know I’ve brought it up quite a few times, but finding that Secret Santa is after some publicity, after all, is the only way I am getting out of this unscathed.”

I leaned back against the window frame behind me and slowly let out a breath. Tying myself up in a bundle of nerves was not going to accomplish anything. I needed to relax and clear my mind, so I focused on the warm and cheerful room and let my mind wander.

I’d plugged the tree and window lights in when I’d come up to the attic but had left the overhead light off. There was something magical about sitting in a dark room, with only tiny white lights to illuminate the space. I knew if there was anywhere that would allow my mind to settle, it would be up here in the attic, where I’d always found solace.

As I watched the snow falling gently outside the window, I thought about my mission to unmask, or in this case, unbeard Secret Santa. Yes, I had a decision to make, but I supposed the reality was that decision would be mute if I failed to figure out who the mysterious gift giver was. Carolyn had been a good lead, but after speaking to her, I was fairly certain it wasn’t her running around granting wishes behind the veil of anonymity. Randy from the bank hadn’t been any help, and when I’d spoken to him yesterday afternoon, Smitty from the snow removal service swore the gift card for Gilda Fredrickson had been purchased anonymously. I supposed I could still track down whoever handled the sale of Stephanie Baldwin’s oven, although she had told me she’d tried to find out who’d sent it to her and was told the gift giver did not wish to be identified.

I’d spoken to all the Secret Santa gift recipients except Donnie Dingman, who’d been gifted with a used four-wheel-drive vehicle. I supposed I’d track him down today and see what he might know and be willing to tell me. Now that Carolyn had been eliminated from the suspect list, I supposed the most likely Secret Santas were Dean and Martin Simpson. I’d ask Cass to try to arrange a meeting between the tech billionaires and myself when I saw him this afternoon.

“Should we try to go back to sleep?” I asked the cat, who replied with a yawn.

I pulled him into my arms and stood up. I clicked off the white lights as I left the attic and headed toward the stairs. I supposed that life was riddled with difficult choices, and all I could do, all any of us could do, was to make the best choice we could at the time we were required to make it. I really didn’t know what I was going to do about Secret Santa, but I couldn’t do anything in the middle of the night, so I’d put the decision aside and try to get at least a few more hours of shuteye.

I thought about other decisions I’d made in my life. The decision to leave Foxtail Lake in the first place. The decision to skip college and set aside the other aspects of my life to focus on my music. The decision to leave the life I’d built in New York and return to Foxtail Lake after the accident. The decision to pursue a career in journalism after a random article about the death of my childhood friend sent me down that path. I liked to think of myself as being a purposeful sort who acted with intention, but as I thought about my life choices, I realized that I was a lot more likely to make a choice on a whim rather than devoting much time to gathering data and then making an informed decision. When I’d decided to devote my life to music, I certainly never took the time to research careers in music, and then decide if that was the right choice for me. I’d simply followed my heart and arranged my life accordingly.

Of course, if I were honest, music was more of a passion than a whim. I played because I found comfort in my music during a time in my life when nothing made sense and everything felt out of place. Could writing serve the same purpose in my life? Was a career in journalism my destiny, or was it yet another whim created by an opportunity presented at just the right time?