Murder on the First Day of Christmas (Chloe Carstairs Mysteries) by Billie Thomas Page A

dull.”
         “Well, for Heaven’s sake, don’t tell him that,” she had said. “You’ll only strengthen his resolve.”
         Trouble was, I thought Jacob was a keeper. What else could you call a man who grows his own basil, makes his own pesto and freezes single-serving portions in ice cube trays?
         “Gay?” suggested my mother, ever helpful.
         “Not gay,” I had insisted. And this had been confirmed by my friend Reggie, who had pronounced Jacob hopelessly heterosexual. Said it kind of snotty, too, like my man wasn’t cool enough to join such an exclusive club.  “He’s a nice guy, Mom. A down-to-earth nice guy like Dad.”
         I wasn’t ready to give up on Jacob. As his workout partner, I had given him abs of steel. As his decorator, I had glazed two rooms in his house and tiled a bathroom. I had gotten him into his first pair of flat-front khakis, increased his sense of humor by 25% and broken him of his embarrassing habit of going “Woo-hoo!” every time he saw cleavage. A significant investment had been made in the man, and if any woman was going to reap the rewards, it was going to be me.
         Now if I could just get him on board, I’d be all set. I glanced in the mirror over the Browley’s fireplace. Perhaps if I went half a shade blonder with my highlights.
         “Who has time for romance this time of year anyway?” I asked Cassie, more to distract myself than anything else. “There’s too much to do. Christmas is like three weeks away, and I’ve barely started my shopping.”
         “Shocking,” Mom said as she arranged antique papier-mâché Santas on a mahogany coffee table.
         “Oh, and I suppose yours has been done for months,” I retorted.
         “Not months.” She smiled. “Month, as in one.”
         I looked to Cassie for support.
         “Sorry. I finished mine last weekend.”
         “What’s the fun in that?” I demanded. “Where’s the stress? The last-minute panic? The impulse buys? That’s what Christmas is all about.”
         “Says the girl who has given personal training gift certificates the last two years in a row,” Mom countered.
         “People love those.” I said. “And we could all stand to get healthier. Besides, I’ve gotten Dad’s gift.”
         We always went in together on Dad’s gift, and Mom had already gotten it. She wasn’t impressed.
         “I’m all for procrastination,” Cassie said, “but Dad’s in Louisiana, so it’s easier to do my shopping here before I head down.”
         “What does your father do, dear?” Mom asked absently.
         Given her mood, I wasn’t about to tease her, but she did sound an awful lot like her own mother: “Now tell me, dear, who are your people?”
         “He’s the manager of a savings and loan, but in a good way.”
         “There’s a bad way?” I asked.
         “Well, you know, all those scandals and bankruptcies. Nothing like that ever happened in New Bedford. Typical small southern town.”
         “It’s nice that you can make it home for the holidays.” Mom unwrapped more Santas.
         “I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Seems like the whole town comes over to celebrate with Dad. He still lives in the big old house I grew up in. Mom, too, of course.”
         Mom arched her eyebrow at me.
         “We sing carols and open gifts on Christmas Eve. That way, on Christmas Day, we can just enjoy each other’s company and pig out.”
         “Sounds lovely, dear,” I said, taking the words right out of Mom’s mouth. She was so not ready to be teased this morning.
         “It’s great.” Cassie sighed. “Simple, you know?”
         I thought of the work ahead of us and all the money the Browleys were lavishing on their Christmas. Simple sounded heavenly.
        My mother’s thoughts seemed to be running along the same lines. “I know.”
         We