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arched eyebrows indicated I was waiting to hear what it was.
    “We’ve got to decide who’s going to play Santa Claus this year, now that Rory is gone.”
    “A good question,” I said. “Any suggestions?”
    “I’ve had some discussions with a few people from the festival committee,” Cynthia said. “An interesting idea came up.”
    “I’m all ears,” I said.
    “You!”
    I looked at Seth. “Me?”
    “Interesting notion, wouldn’t you agree?” Seth said. “Politically correct, as they say. Might be a real good thing for Cabot Cove to have the first woman Santa.”
    I couldn’t help but guffaw. “That’s ridiculous,” I said. “Not the concept of having a woman as Santa Claus, but this woman? I hate to be vain, but I really don’t think I look the part.”
    “That wouldn’t be a problem,” Cynthia said. “Always easy to make somebody look heavier than they are. You know, pillows strapped around the waist, that sort of thing.”
    “Absolutely not,” I said. I glanced at Seth. “Have you ever considered being Santa Claus, Dr. Hazlitt?”
    “No, and I don’t intend to at this stage in my life. Too old to have all those little kids jumping up and down on my bad knees. You think about it, Jessica. Probably get us lots of media attention, having a female Santa and all. You know, television shows, maybe a reporter from a big paper. Would give everybody in Cabot Cove a boost.”
    “Well,” I said, “I will not think any more about it because it is absurd. I think we’re much better served focusing our attention on how to diffuse this situation concerning Jake Walther. There are many good candidates in this town for taking Rory’s place as Santa. I’m not one of them. I’ll call Mort as soon as you leave.”
    I didn’t mean to say it in such a way that I wanted them out of the house, but I suppose it came off that way because they both stood, thanked me for the tea, and said they’d get back to me later after I’d had a chance to talk with Mort.
    I was happy when they were gone, not because I didn’t love being with them, but because it had been such a hectic, traumatic day. I needed some quiet time to think about what had transpired.
    I made another cup of tea and went into my den that also serves as my writing room. I was between books, as they say, which was a pleasant change. Too often, I was facing deadlines around the holiday season, and swore every year I wouldn’t allow it to happen. This time, things fell right, and I was free to enjoy the holidays.
    I called Mort a half hour later and was told he’d returned to the Brent farm with Robert Brent. I left a message and decided to spend an hour catching up on correspondence I’d let slip over the past week. I’d just settled down to respond to a letter I’d received from an old friend and former mayor of Cabot Cove, Sybil Woodhouse, who’d moved earlier that year to California with her husband, Adrian, when I heard a knock at the door.
    I glanced out my den window. I hadn’t noticed that snow had now begun to fall with conviction, and a wind had picked up, sending the flakes swirling. A bad night to be out, I thought, as I got up from my writing desk and went to the front door, where I pulled aside a curtain on one of the side windows.
    Standing there was Mary Walther, Jake Walther’s wife.

Chapter Five
    Mary Walther’s arrival took me by surprise. I don’t know how to explain it, but seeing her standing at my front door was unsettling. I suppose it had to do with the conversation I’d just had with Seth Hazlitt and Cynthia Curtis about Jake Walther and the rumor he’d murdered Rory Brent.
    But as these thoughts went through my head, I had a parallel realization that I was being terribly rude. The weather outside had turned truly foul. There she was, standing in the snow and wind, while I peered through a window from the warm comfort of my home.
    I opened the door. “Hello, Mary.”
    She didn’t move, nor did her stem