This story draws on characters and situations from the earlier story Echoes, but contains no particular spoilers for it and can be read without having read the previous one.

December 22, 1998

“This is a good bundle of cards,” Peter commented, as he entered the kitchen after a day’s work and set them down on the table.

Helen looked up from her dinner preparations with a start. “Oh, thank you. I completely forgot to even look in the mailbox.”

They kissed hello and Helen made her husband a cup of coffee while he sorted through the thick pile of mail and pulled out those addressed to him. After a quick peek in the oven, she sat down beside him for a few minutes’ quiet conversation.

“The phone bill is rather high.” Peter frowned at it, set it aside and opened the next envelope.

“I don’t see how it could be anything else,” Helen answered him, in what was a continuing conversation. Their empty nest and far-flung offspring saw to that and they both knew it. “Here’s a card from Alicia. She enclosed a note asking if I think Trixie would prefer pink or blue throw pillows.”

Peter shook his head sadly. “I think the only honest answer to that is, ‘No,’ but you can’t say that to her. Here’s a note from Andrew. He says he’d like to take up our invitation to visit sometime in the new year and suggests early February.”

But Helen wasn’t listening. She stared at the card in her hand, brow creased.

“Is something wrong?” Peter asked.

She turned it to show him: a snowy scene with a church and a few trees, printed in only a few colours and drawn in the style of many decades past. A holly-strewn banner proclaimed ‘Christmas Greetings’. Inside, a bold hand had written:

“What does it mean?” Helen asked, bewildered. “And who are these people?”

“Where’s the envelope?”

She turned it over. It was addressed to ‘Mrs. H. Belden, Crabapple Farm, Glen Road, Sleepyside-on-the-Hudson, New York.’

“That’s an old stamp,” he pointed out, jabbing it with a finger.

“It all looks a little yellowed, too,” Helen agreed, “but I thought at first it was supposed to look like that – that it had been made to look old.”

“Call Trixie,” he suggested. “Maybe she’ll know what it’s all about.”

Since she’d developed an interest in family history, Trixie had become the one they turned to whenever something from the past turned up.

“After we’ve eaten, I think I will.” She stood up and began pulling out saucepans. “I just need to make the gravy and do a few vegetables.”

He smiled. “Not too many vegetables, please. Just enough for the two of us.”

Helen looked at the saucepan in her hand for a moment, then replaced it with a smaller one.

“I should keep my mind on what I’m doing,” she decided, scooping up all of the cards, opened and unopened, and setting them aside. “And I’ll ask Trixie later whether she can explain it.”

Predictably, Trixie was more than happy to come and look at something mysterious. Almost the moment Helen began to describe the card, Trixie offered to come over right away. She arrived within ten minutes, a small bunch of envelopes in her hand.

“Where is it?” she asked, after a brief greeting.

Helen handed over both envelope and card.

“I thought it was addressed to me,” she explained, “so I opened it. But it makes no sense at all.”

Trixie examined both carefully, then she laid out the envelopes she carried. Two were addressed to ‘Miss T. Henley, Rose Cottage,’ one to ‘Mr. and Mrs. C. Spencer, Manor House,’ one to ‘Mrs. J. W. Frayne, Ten Acres,’ and one to ‘Mr. and Mrs. J. W. Frayne, Ten Acres.’

“Mrs. Vanderpoel got one too,” Trixie added, “but it was actually supposed to be for her. The person who sent it has been dead for nearly forty-five years.”

“How strange and upsetting,” Helen commented. “I hope she’s okay.”

“She was a little shaken up at first, I think,” her daughter answered, “but she’s tough.”

“I still don’t understand how this has happened, or what this card means.”

Trixie frowned. “Well, Dolly is Dad’s grandmother’s nickname, even though her real name was Edna. H. must be Harold – his grandfather – and in those days you addressed letters by the husband’s initial, so she was Mrs. H. Belden.”

“I’m very well aware of that, Trixie,” she replied, with just a hint of exasperation. “When we first married, I was always written to as Mrs. P. Belden.” Her voice softened. “But I didn’t know she was known as Dolly.”

“I have no idea why,” Trixie continued. “And I don’t really know who Meg was, or what she’s talking about. But I’ll see what I can find out about that.”

“But why has it arrived now?”

Trixie shrugged. “I’m already working on that. You’ll notice that they’ve all been post-marked and all on the same day – December 22, 1948. I called the post office when I found the ones in our box, but they denied knowing anything about it. I haven’t had time to look too far, yet, but they all seem to be in the Glen Road area.”

“Fifty years ago,” Helen mused. “Today’s the twenty-second. Exactly fifty years.”

“It’s weird,” Trixie agreed. “Do you mind if I take this?”

“Go right ahead.”

“Thanks.” She gathered them all up. “We’re going to deliver Mrs. Spencer’s to her. But all of these other people are deceased.”

Helen shivered. “Why would someone deliver mail, fifty years late?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out,” Trixie promised. “I’ll let you know when I have anything else.”

“What’s this all about?” Honey demanded, as she entered Rose Cottage through the kitchen door the following morning. “Oh, hi, Jim. I didn’t see you there.”

“I can’t stop,” he told her, as he headed for the door. “Keep out of trouble, both of you.”

Trixie shook her head at him, but allowed him to kiss her goodbye and followed him with her eyes as he left.

“Get your mind on the task, Trixie,” her best friend chided. “You dragged me over here almost the instant we arrived. You’d better tell me what this is all about.”

Shaking her head once more, this time to clear it, Trixie got back to the matter at hand.

“Something weird happened yesterday and I’ve promised Moms I’d find out why,” she explained, spreading the cards out on the kitchen table in front of her friend.

“So, what’s our first step?” Honey wondered, when she’d heard the whole story so far.

Trixie grabbed a map of the local area that she’d laid ready on the counter. “I think the first thing I want to do is find out how widespread this is. Maybe it was just this little stretch of Glen Road and maybe it wasn’t.”

“First stop, Lytell’s?” Honey asked.

Trixie grinned. “My thought, exactly.”

“We’d better think of some things to buy while we’re there,” Honey decided.

Throwing open the pantry door, Trixie made a quick mental list, grabbed her map and keys and they set off. Minutes later, Honey pulled up outside the store.

“Do we both go in, or should one of us go alone?” Honey wondered.

Trixie considered a moment. “Do you want to do it?”

Honey shook her head. “I’m fine staying here. But if you don’t want to take them, I’d like to look at the cards.”

“That sounds like a plan,” Trixie answered, handing them to her. “I’ll be right back.”

The bell jingled as she pushed the door opened and the old man emerged from the back room.

“Morning,” he greeted, once he saw who had entered.

Trixie smiled and bid him good morning as well. She picked up the few grocery items she’d decided she might need and took them to the counter. She waited patiently while he rang them up.

“That’ll be twelve dollars and seventeen cents,” he told her.

She took her time fishing out the right money. “Been busy this morning?” she asked him, as she counted out some coins.

He nodded. “Always am on Wednesdays.”

Ever since she could remember, the store had closed on Tuesdays on account of opening Sundays.

The old man’s eyes narrowed. “What is it you really want, Trixie Belden?”

Trixie avoided pointing out that she’d been married for well over four years now and that wasn’t actually her name any more. Instead she answered, “We got some weird mail yesterday and we wondered if anyone else did, too.”

Mr. Lytell made a wheezy noise which might possibly have been a chuckle. “Wondered when you’d get on to that.”

“So, has anyone mentioned it to you this morning?”

He eyed her beadily for a moment. “They may have.”

“Could you possibly tell me the names of anyone who has?” she asked, trying to remain polite. “I want to find out how wide-spread this is, without knocking on every door in town.”

He frowned, considering. “Now, there’s a point. All of the people who’ve got one are from Glen Road – or their mailbox is on it. Others had heard about it, but none of them got any.”

“Did you get some old mail?” she asked.

His face crinkled and all of a sudden he looked much older. “As a matter of fact, I did. A Christmas card from my late aunt with a dollar inside.” He shook his head, looking away. “She made such a fuss at the time. Marched right into the post office and accused the post master of stealing it.”

“What did he do?”

The old man shrugged. “Gave her a dollar, I expect. I seem to remember him as the kind of man who avoided trouble. I don’t remember anything else coming of it.”

Trixie pulled out her map. “Can you show me where you’ve heard of other letters?”

He leaned over it and together they marked several houses, with circles for those who had mentioned getting letters and crosses for those who said they hadn’t had one. When they finished, Trixie gathered her purchases and thanked him.

“One more thing,” he called, while she had her hand on the outside door. “I saw something that might have been a letter down by the old Brouwer place when I rode that way this morning.”

“I don’t think anyone lived there in 1948,” she answered, slowly, “but I’ll check it out. Thanks.”

She walked back to the car, stashed her purchases in the back seat and got in.

“Find anything?” she asked Honey, as she fastened her seatbelt.

Honey shook her head. “I like the picture on this one that was for Jim’s great-aunt. But they all look so ordinary. How about you?”

Trixie gave her a quick run-down of the conversation, ending with, “So, what do you think? Should we drive down to where the Brouwer house used to be? Or should we start knocking on all the doors on Glen Road?’

“It’s not far to the ruins,” Honey decided. “Let’s look there first.”

She pulled out, heading back the way they had come. As they passed Manor House, Trixie urged her friend to slow down.

“It can’t be too far from here,” she pointed out. “I’m not exactly sure where the little road that led to the house would have been, but – wait! There it is!”

Honey pulled up next to a scraggly collection of bare branches from which an envelope hung. They both climbed out to take a look.

“I don’t see any footprints,” Trixie noted, crouching down to examine the ground more closely. “If there’d been a bit more snow…”

“They’d probably have chosen a different bush,” Honey finished for her. “Because this isn’t exactly where it was, is it?”

Trixie shrugged. “I don’t really know.”

She reached over and unfastened the pink plastic clothes-peg which held the letter.

“Same postmark as the others. Miss A. Brouwer – that would be Alma,” she noted. “But I think she was already dead by 1948. I’ll have to dig out my notes. Do you think we could open it, or do we need to hand it over to the family?”

Honey frowned. “I think we’d better hand it over. Principal Stratton was the nearest relative, wasn’t he?”

Trixie nodded agreement as they got back into the car. “We can go and see him later. Let’s try knocking on some doors.”

They bent over the map together once more and had soon come up with a plan. Trixie would do all the leg-work, while Honey would keep the car warm and keep a look-out for anything unusual.

They drove down to the first house on their target list and Trixie jumped out. This one, she judged, probably dated to later than 1948, so probably had not received anything. But since it may have replaced an earlier structure, she knocked on the door and asked the resident, who she didn’t actually know, if they had received any cards in the past few days with a fifty-year-old postmark.

“I live further down Glen Road,” she explained to the woman. “And all of my neighbours got them, too.”

The woman shook her head. “No, nothing like that came yesterday. And I didn’t see anyone delivering anything. But you should speak to the people in the next house. I think they got something.”

Trixie thanked her for her time and departed.

Next door, she was shown a Christmas card not dissimilar to the one her mother had opened and an envelope that bore the same postmark. But the elderly couple who lived there had no clue to how it had arrived.

“Skip the next two houses,” she told Honey, as she got back in the car. “They already told Mr. Lytell they didn’t get anything, or know anything.”

“The next one looks empty,” Honey commented, as she slowed next to it.

“It’s been empty a couple of years. I’ll just take a quick peek in the mailbox,” Trixie decided, with just a tiny twinge of guilt.

“Anything?” Honey asked, when she returned.

Trixie shook her head. “Let’s try the next place.”

They worked their way along the road, speaking to residents and examining old Christmas cards. By the time they reached the other end of the road, they had found no one who had seen anything unusual, or who had any clue to why the cards had arrived so late. They headed back to Rose Cottage to get something to eat and to decide on the next step.

Trixie dumped her grocery purchases on the kitchen table, heated some soup and fixed them both some gooey toasted-cheese sandwiches. Then, map spread out on the table, they talked things through while they ate.

“So, no one saw anything?” Honey asked. “And no one had any idea why this had happened?”

Trixie shook her head while she chewed a bite of sandwich. “I think the main thing we learned from all that was that whoever did it followed about half-an-hour behind the official mail-carrier and travelled in the same direction. Most of the people picked up their card with their other mail, but some of them didn’t find it until later. And it doesn’t even seem to be the whole of Glen Road, but concentrated around our part of it.”

“And other than Mr. Lytell’s dollar, which was still there, none of them had any actual value.” Honey frowned at the map a moment. “So, what next?”

Trixie shrugged. “We could try the Post Office again, now that we know a little more. And we should probably check in with the police about it. We should go and see Principal Stratton. And, if we have time, we could drop Mrs. Spencer’s card to her – though, I think that might have to wait. And we should check the newspaper archives at the library, of course, to see if there was anything reported about it at the time.”

Honey wrinkled her nose just a little. “I might need to leave you to it. Everyone will be wondering where I’ve gotten to, as it is.”

Trixie shook her head. “But they already know that I’m working on this. One of those letters was delivered to Manor House, remember?”

Honey gave her best friend’s hand a squeeze. “I know. And it’s been fun to be on the trail again, but I did actually have some plans for later today.”

A pang of guilt stabbed through Trixie. “You came here to visit people and I’ve had you sitting in a car by yourself all morning.”

“I used my time well,” Honey assured her. “But I do have some things I need to do and people I want to see.”

“I’ll call you tonight and let you know how it goes,” Trixie promised.

They set a rough time, finished their meal and both went on their way, but not before Trixie dug out her notes on the Brouwer family.

She drove into Sleepyside itself and parked near the police station. She gathered the papers and walked inside, almost running into Wendell Molinson as she did so.

“And what are you up to now?” he asked, with just a hint of suspicion in his expression.

She smiled. “Nothing that should worry you. Are you aware that roughly twelve Christmas cards, all postmarked December 22, 1948, were delivered along Glen Road yesterday?”

He stared at her for a moment. “Are you suggesting some kind of time travel problem? Or is this a criticism of the postal service?”

Trixie shook her head. “I don’t think a time traveller from 1948 would have used this plastic clothes peg. And the post office has denied all knowledge – though now that I have some more information, I’m going to try them again later.”

“Back up a minute,” he ordered. “Are you saying that someone has been tampering with the mail? Because that’s a crime.”

“I know. And that’s one of the reasons why I came in here.” She spread out the map for him. “Sometime between eleven and two yesterday, someone dropped fifty-year-old mail into these boxes. There’s still a mailbox at Ten Acres. The one addressed to Miss Brouwer was pegged to a branch around the place where the mailbox might have been. Every one I’ve seen was a Christmas card – not a letter, or a bill, or advertising, or anything else. The one sent to Mr. Lytell supposedly had a dollar in it, but I don’t think any of the others had anything else in them, though there are a couple that haven’t been opened yet because they haven’t reached the person they belong to.”

“Was the missing dollar reported, do you know?”

She shrugged. “Mr. Lytell said his aunt accused the postmaster of stealing it. I don’t know if she reported it.”

“Jenkins! Archive search. What was the date again?”

Trixie repeated it for him and the young man wrote it down. Captain Molinson added a few more instructions, then the man departed, presumably for the archives.

“We’ll look into it.” He gave her a stern look. “I expect an update. Especially if you come across any evidence of a crime.”

“Of course,” she answered. “I don’t expect to find a crime.”

“Then what do you expect?”

A small crease appeared in her brow. “I expect to find a person who is at least forty years old, and probably a lot older than that, who has some sense of right and wrong, and who doesn’t want to admit their involvement in the matter.”

He frowned. “How do you figure that?”

“Well, they knew where the Brouwer house once was when even the little road that went past it disappeared somewhere between the 1960s and the 80s.” She ticked off the points on her fingers. “They returned the letters, when no one knew that they had them. And they did it in a way that no one seems to have seen them, even though they did it in the middle of the day sometime.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” he grudgingly admitted. “What’s your next move?”

She held up a letter. “I’m going to see Principal Stratton and give him this – since he’s the closest living relative to the Brouwer family – then I’m heading to the library to check the newspaper archives. And after that, I’m going to check again with the post office and see if I can convince them to tell me who delivered the mail to Glen Road in 1948.”

“I doubt that they’ll know,” he answered, with a slight chuckle.

She nodded. “My plan B for that is to check with Mrs. Vanderpoel, Mr. Lytell and Mr. Maypenny. One of them might remember. Oh, and at some point I need to deliver the letter to Mrs. Spencer, who used to live at Manor House. I’ll ask her, too, if I haven’t found out before then.”

He nodded, seeming to consider the conversation over.

Trixie left the police station and set out on the course of action she’d just outlined. Just minutes later, she knocked on the door of the Stratton house. Mrs. Stratton answered it, looking flustered.

“Sorry to bother you,” Trixie began. “I was really wanting to speak to Mr. Stratton. Is he here?”

“I wish he was,” Mrs. Stratton replied. “I’ve just spent ten minutes trying to shift the refrigerator shelves and one of them just won’t budge.”

“Maybe I can help,” Trixie offered, and at the older woman’s nod, followed her through to the kitchen, explaining on the way why she had dropped by.

The kitchen table, when they reached it, was laden with all kinds of festive foods and their ingredients. A half-defrosted turkey waited in its tray and Trixie could spot many of the ingredients for its stuffing around the room: bread, celery, onions, carrots, garlic, parsley, sage and thyme.

“It’s this one,” Mrs. Stratton told her, after opening the refrigerator. “I need it one notch higher so that both the turkey and the ham will fit at the same time.” She shook her head. “I never should have agreed to have so many people that I had to do both.”

Trixie smiled. “It looks like you’re preparing a wonderful feast.”

She put both hands on the recalcitrant shelf and wriggled it to see if she could find the problem, then bracing herself against the frame, pulled with all her might. The shelf hesitated a moment, then came out so suddenly that Trixie landed on her backside.

“Oh! Are you all right? I’m so sorry!” Mrs. Stratton cried.

Trixie smiled up at her and scrambled to her feet. “I’m fine. Is the turkey going under this shelf? Maybe we should put it in before we put the shelf back, to make sure it’s in the right place.”

They had returned nearly everything by the time the door opened and her old principal entered.

“Trixie! What are you doing in my kitchen?” he asked, with a hint of a frown on his face.

“She’s been helping me, Trevor,” his wife chided.

His frown disappeared and he just looked confused. Trixie took pity on him and picked up the envelope, which she had left on the table.

“I actually just wanted to give this to you. It, and a number of others like it, were delivered along Glen Road yesterday.”

He took it in his hands and stared at it blankly. “For any particular reason?”

“So far, I don’t know,” she told him, “but I’m trying to find out. You don’t have any ideas, do you?”

He shook his head. “None, whatsoever.”

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Stratton. I’ll let you know when I find out more.” She glanced at the envelope, which he was turning over and over. “And when you open that, could you please let me know if there’s anything unusual about it?”

He reached over to the counter and picked up a letter-opener. “You can see for yourself right now.”

He slit the flap with a well-practised movement and slid out a card. This one featured a Christmas tree with gifts underneath. The brief message inside invited Alma to write back to the sender and gave an address.

Trixie smiled sadly. “Alma had been dead for about six years when this should have arrived.”

“Do you want it?” Mr. Stratton asked. “I’ll only throw it out.”

She scooped it and its envelope up, thanked him again and left, with Mrs. Stratton’s effusive thanks for all her help ringing in her ears.

Her next stop, at the library to check the newspaper archives, turned out to be uninformative. The Sleepyside Sun did not report anything in December 1948 or January 1949 which seemed to shine any light on the matter. The front pages were dominated by some long-forgotten scandal involving a dishonest mayor, the wife of the police chief and a series of real estate deals. While the issue of December twenty-third did mention the mayor using postcards as a code, there seemed to be no connection to Glen Road. The society pages detailed all of the visitors in town, but gave no useful information. She set the task aside as something that had to be done, but wasn’t very interesting or enjoyable, and moved on to the post office.

But one look at the line, which filled all the available space inside and stretched outside and around the side of the building, changed her mind. She stood there for a minute, scraping the toe of one boot against the icy ground.

“What I really need right now is someone old,” she murmured to herself, and then turned in a slow circle.

Eyes lighting upon the drugstore, Trixie set off. By the time she’d reached it, she’d thought of a couple of potential purchases which would give her an excuse to start up a conversation. As soon as she got inside, she knew she’d come to the right place. Several elderly people waited for prescriptions, or browsed the shelves. She chose the friendliest-looking old lady and started looking at the shelves near her, which held various kinds of wound dressing and adhesive tape.

“Excuse me.” She reached in front of the lady, to pick up a package and examine it.

The old lady smiled. “Not at all. By the way, dear, would you mind terribly picking up one of those rolls down there for me?”

Trixie bent down and selected a roll of tape from the bottom shelf. “This one? Or the next one over?”

She grabbed one of each and let the woman look at them.

“Thank you. It’s this one.” She smiled up at Trixie. “That’s so helpful of you.”

“It’s no trouble,” Trixie answered. “I’m just glad I’m in here and not waiting at the post office. Did you see that line?”

“Dreadful,” the woman agreed. “In my young days, they would never have left people waiting out in the cold like that. Mr. Sheldon, the postmaster, would come out of his office and serve people himself if the line so much as reached the door.”

“Have you lived in Sleepyside all your life?” Trixie asked. “I suppose things were very different thirty or forty years ago.”

Her companion laughed. “Oh, there’s no need to be so polite about it. I’m talking about more like sixty years ago, not thirty.”

Trixie smiled back. “You know, something strange happened yesterday that has me wondering about the mail from fifty years ago. I wanted to go into the post office and see if they could tell me if any retired employees might be able to answer my questions, but I’m not waiting in that line to do it.”

“Fifty years,” the woman mused.

“Yes; 1948,” Trixie added. “About a dozen cards from December 1948 got delivered along Glen Road yesterday, exactly fifty years late.”

“Ah. Now I place you. You’re the Belden girl.” The old lady smiled. “I knew your grandparents well. I’m Mrs. Porter, by the way.”

“Trixie Frayne,” she answered.

“Now, let’s see.” Mrs. Porter stopped to think a little. “Who is there who worked at the post office back then and is still around to ask? Mr. Sheldon is long gone, of course; he was quite an old man when I was your age – or, at least, he seemed that way at the time. After him was Mr. Hayes, I think. But he didn’t stay in Sleepyside after he retired and he didn’t start out as a mail carrier anyway. Ah, I know! You’ll want to talk to Jeb Mundy.”

“Oh! I went to school with Lester Mundy. Is he a relative, do you know?”

The old lady shrugged. “Could be. There is some family.”

“How do I get in touch with him?” Trixie asked, while searching in her bag for a piece of paper and a pen.

“That will be the tricky part,” her new friend admitted. “But we’ll ask around and see if we can find someone who knows.”

Trixie followed Mrs. Porter all around the store until she had asked every one of the other customers. It turned out that nearly all of them knew the man, but none knew where he lived.

“It can’t be too far from here,” one woman told them. “I often see him walking nearby.”

“He’s moved into that new building where the electrical store used to be,” a man added. “But I don’t know which number he’s in.”

“Well, we tried,” Mrs. Porter consoled Trixie, when they had exhausted the supply of customers. “If I see him, I’ll be sure to tell him that you’d like to talk to him.”

They walked together to the counter with their respective purchases.

“You don’t happen to know Jeb Mundy, do you dear?” she asked the young woman behind the counter.

She jolted in surprise. “Why do you want to find him?”

Mrs. Porter launched into an explanation of the whole story, ending with, “… and I’d love to introduce this youngster to Jeb so she can ask him about it herself, only I don’t know where he lives these days.”

“I can pass a message to him,” the assistant offered. “He lives in my building.”

“That would be great!” Trixie smiled and put down the piece of paper she’d found to write down her contact details on it. “He can call me any time. I’d love to talk to him.”

“I’ll drop this to him on my way home,” she promised.

Once both of their purchases had been made, Trixie thanked Mrs. Porter for her help.

“I don’t know how I’d have gotten in touch with him without you,” she added.

The old woman smiled. “Oh, no. You’d have just have to have waited until after the Christmas rush.”

“I’m home,” she called, as she entered the house not much later.

“In the dining room,” Jim answered.

Trixie stopped short in the doorway. “What are you doing?”

Her husband set down the scissors, arranged the paper and picked up the tape. “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve,” he pointed out. “I thought it was high time this got done.”

“I was going to get to it. Tomorrow, probably.”

He cast her a dubious look and continued wrapping.

“Well, tomorrow night,” she admitted. “Or, really early the following morning. But I would have done it eventually.”

“How is your investigation coming?” he asked, letting the other subject drop.

She shrugged. “I’ve got a good lead on someone who might help me with the post office in 1948 end of things. I haven’t even started on the problem of what the card means. But I’m planning on going carefully through my records before I try to find out anything about that. I thought I’d start on that now.”

“After dinner.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh. You’re home from work. Did you have a good day?”

Jim smiled. “Yes, I did, as a matter of fact. And I’ve got the oven heating and something ready to go in it.”

She pushed the present aside and kissed him. “You’re too good to me.”

He shook his head. “I just don’t want either of us to starve.”

Later that evening, Trixie sat down with her genealogy records to see what clues they might offer up. She had reviewed the family group sheets the night before, to get that particular part of the family straight in her mind. This time, she returned to original documents where possible. Jim looked in on her around the time that the dining table surface disappeared from view.

“So, my Dad was not much more than a year old,” she mused, out loud, jotting the fact down as she did so. “He and his parents didn’t live at Crabapple Farm then; his grandparents had it.”

“Harold and Dolly,” Jim added. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

Trixie nodded. “In 1948, he was still working. They had three grown-up sons and five grandchildren so far and my Dad was the youngest of them.”

“And you don’t know of anything terrible that happened in the family around that time,” he mused.

She pushed several of the papers away. “No. But I’m thinking that maybe Meg was right and whatever they were afraid was going to happen never did. I can’t even think of how I might find out what that might have been.”

Jim shook his head. “It sounds impossible. Unless you can find someone still alive who remembers.”

“There just isn’t anyone who could, as far as I can see,” she replied, clutching at her curls. “And I’m no closer to finding out who Meg was, either.”

“There wasn’t a return address on the envelope?” he asked.

She shuffled through the papers until she found it. “There’s an address, but it doesn’t give her last name, only the name of the house, the street it’s on and the name of the town.”

Jim frowned at it a moment. “Millwood. That’s not far away at all. I wonder how often they saw each other?”

Trixie sat back in her chair. “Now, that’s a thought. If they did see each other often, it would really narrow down the timeframe that I need to look at. And maybe in the morning I could drive over there and see if the house still exists. Maybe someone over there might know who she was.”

“On Christmas Eve?” he asked, casting her an inquiring look.

“Well, when else am I going to do it?” she wondered. “After tomorrow, we have things on every day until I have to go back to work on Monday. And who knows when I’ll have time after that?”

He shrugged, conceding the point, and left her to it.

The next morning, Trixie had her hand on the kitchen door, ready to leave, when the ringing telephone caused her to pause. She gazed back at it for only a moment before deciding to answer it.

“Is that Mrs. Frayne?” a hesitant male voice asked.

“Yes, it is,” she answered.

“I was wondering how long it would take for you to find me.” He let out a breathy sigh. “I thought I’d have a little longer than this.”

“You’re Jeb Mundy, right?” she asked.

“That’s me.”

“Thank you so much for calling me,” she told him. “I just had a few questions I wanted to ask about the post office.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” he muttered. “I’m not going to answer them over the phone,” he continued in a firmer tone. “You’ll just have to come and see me in person.”

She pulled a notepad and pen towards herself. “That would be fine. I can come right now, if you like.”

“No,” he answered. “Now’s not so good. How about if you come this afternoon? Say, around three?”

Trixie’s nose scrunched in disappointment at the delay, but she said, “That would be just fine, Mr. Mundy. If you can give me the address, I’ll be there at three.”

She jotted down the address he gave, then read it back to make sure she had it right.

“At three,” he repeated. “I’ll see you then.”

Setting the receiver down, Trixie tucked the note with the address away carefully and proceeded with her earlier plan. The drive to Millwood ended almost before it began. Within fifteen minutes she crawled along a quiet street, looking for either the house where the card had originated, or an elderly resident who looked friendly. She found the latter first and jumped out of the car to go and speak to her.

“Excuse me,” she called to the lady who was busy adjusting the large wreath that hung from her front door. “I was wondering if you could tell me which house is called Lakeside?”

“None of them, any more,” the lady replied with a disapproving sniff. “But it used to be that one over there.”

Trixie looked in the direction indicated, to see a house that had been renovated into something quite dissimilar to the tasteful and well-kept mid-century houses around it. On top of the substantial alterations, it had been painted in an eye-watering combination of neon yellow and dusty pink. Not even the layer of pristine, white snow could improve the view.

“I don’t suppose it’s owned by the same people any more,” Trixie commented, turning away from it.

The lady with the wreath shook her head. “Oh, no. It’s changed hands many times over the years. I’ve lost track of how many people who’ve been there.”

Trixie took out the envelope the card had come in and showed it to her. “This arrived at my parents’ place in Sleepyside a couple of days ago,” she explained. “The card inside was signed by someone called Meg. I think her husband’s name started with F. Would you happen to know their last name, by any chance?”

The old lady did not hesitate. “Driscoll. Frank and Meg Driscoll.”

“Seriously?” Trixie made a few mental calculations. “She would have been my great-grandmother’s sister. But her name wasn’t Margaret, or anything like it. If I could just remember… Got it. She was called Bertha.”

“I only knew her as Meg,” her new acquaintance answered. “Or, really as Mrs. Driscoll. But her generation called her Meg.”

Trixie smiled. “Her sister was Edna, but known as Dolly, so I guess anything is possible in a family like that.”

The lady turned back to her wreath and, after thanking her for her help, Trixie returned to her car. She drove slowly past the house in question, but decided not to bother its occupants. There didn’t seem much else she could do there, so she turned back towards home.

But with several hours to wait until her afternoon visit and no other plans, she decided to drop in on Mrs. Vanderpoel, knowing full well that she could expect an appreciative audience to her account of the investigation so far, and an offer of coffee and delicious, home-made cookies.

When the door opened, Trixie took a deep breath of the sweet aroma of baking.

“Just the kind of person I was hoping for,” the old lady greeted. “I hope you have some time to stay a while.”

“I have too much time,” Trixie answered, with a smile. “Did you need help with something?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind. I’ve gotten a bit behind,” she admitted. “Come through to the kitchen.”

Trixie hung up her coat and washed her hands, before being set to rolling out dough.

“I suppose you’ve solved the whole mystery of my very late card,” Mrs. Vanderpoel suggested, as they worked together.

Trixie laughed. “Not quite. I’ve set up a meeting this afternoon with a man that I hope can tell me what happened. He sounded guilty on the phone earlier, so I think he’s going to confess what he did.”

Her friend smiled. “So, that’s what’s got you feeling impatient. But is that the whole problem?”

Trixie paused to transfer the first of her cookies onto one of the half-dozen trays that lay on every free surface. “This morning, I’ve been trying to figure out something about the card that Moms opened.” She explained all about the message inside the card and the things she had found out, ending with, “I can’t think of how I can get any further on that one. I even looked through about a dozen issues of the Sleepyside Sun, but they were too busy obsessing on some scandal to do with the mayor to report about anything else.”

A timer started beeping, but Mrs. Vanderpoel ignored it. “That was that year?” she asked, looking surprised. “What’s the name of the man you’re meeting today?”

“Jeb Mundy,” she answered, frowning. “Uh, do you need to do something about that timer?”

The old lady flicked it off, grabbed her oven mitts and pulled out the trays of newly-baked cookies, sliding in two more to replace them and setting the timer once more.

“Mundy,” she repeated. “Yes, I think that was the name. It all went on for months and months, so a dozen issues wouldn’t cover it. I don’t recall many of the details, but I’m sure you’ll have the whole thing sorted out once you speak to him.”

Trixie shook her head. “I don’t understand. What does a political scandal have to do with the missing Christmas cards?”

Mrs. Vanderpoel cast her a shrewd look. “I think the piece of information you’re missing is that your great-grandfather worked at town hall. He and another man were caught up in the scandal for a time, but were eventually exonerated.”

“I didn’t know that.” Trixie’s hands slowed as she thought through the implications. “That explains what the card means, I guess, but it doesn’t explain why they’re late.”

“You might just have to wait until you speak to Mr. Mundy.” Her friend smiled. “And once we get the last of these cookies in the oven, we can sample the ones that are already baked. That will certainly help to pass the time.”

Trixie grinned. “It sure will.”

When the time for her appointment neared, Trixie made her way into the middle of Sleepyside, itching to find out what Jeb Mundy could tell her. She found his building without trouble and arrived at his door right on time.

“You’re here,” he greeted her as he opened the door. Trixie observed that he looked terribly old and ill.

She introduced herself and followed him through the small apartment. At his invitation, she sat opposite him.

“You had something to tell me, didn’t you?” she asked, gently. “Something about this old mail.”

He stared at the envelopes she held out and visibly gulped. “It wasn’t me. Not exactly.”

“You’re not in trouble, Mr. Mundy,” she told him, still in the same gentle tone. “We just want to know what happened.”

He nodded. “I moved here a few weeks ago. Couldn’t manage in the old family home any more. Had to sell up.”

“That must have been hard.” She gave him an encouraging smile.

Once more, he nodded. “Been in the family for generations. But none of ’em wanted it any more. Had to clean everything out. Everything.”

“And that’s when you found the letters?” she asked.

“Hidden in the attic,” he confirmed. “My grandson found them. He wanted to open them, but I told him no. That’s a crime, that is.”

“Do you know how they got there?”

His hands began to tremble. “It’s my fault. I knew at the time I shouldn’t have done it, but I thought I didn’t have a choice.”

“You hid the letters?”

He shook his head wildly. “No! I’d never have done that.” He took a deep breath. “No. I never hid them. But I didn’t deliver them, either. See, my father was in some trouble to do with his work at town hall. People were saying he’d done things he’d never have done. And so I thought I’d help him one day by running an errand. But I’d just gotten my job as a mail carrier – fresh out of school, I was, back then – and I was supposed to deliver the mail at the same time and I couldn’t do both. So, I got my younger brother to finish it off for me after school. He must have been the one to hide them in the attic.” Before she could ask, he added, “He died a long time ago.”

“So, when you found the letters, what did you do?”

His shoulders slumped. “At first, I just kept them. Couldn’t face up to the fact that I’d failed in my job. I always delivered everything, and on time, too, if I possibly could. But they ate at me. I felt sick every time I thought of them. So, I decided that they should be delivered. Only, I didn’t think I could do it myself, not at my age and my knees not so good. In the end, my grandson did it. He was the one who thought they should be delivered on the same day they should have arrived. Most of them were easy enough. I told him where the Brouwer mailbox would have been – it was already gone back then, I think; that one would have just been sent back.”

A knock at the door interrupted the reply she was about to make. “Shall I get that for you?” she offered instead.

The old man nodded and Trixie answered the door, finding herself face to face with Captain Molinson.

“I should have known I’d find you here,” he grumbled, by way of a greeting.

She smiled. “Where else would I be?”

“May I speak to Mr. Mundy?” he asked.

Trixie relayed the message and was instructed to invite the policeman inside. He shut the door behind himself and stepped up to the place they had been sitting.

“I’m ready to go quietly,” the old man declared, though he shook visibly.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Molinson answered. “In fact, I’m here in a mostly unofficial capacity. Your grandson has made a full statement about finding the letters and returning them. I just want to clear up one small point and then the matter can be laid to rest.”

“What’s that, then?”

“I’m not sure how much you know or remember about that old scandal,” the police officer began. “One of the elements of it involved people sending coded messages using post cards or greeting cards. And one of those cards might have been understood to be part of the pattern.”

Trixie shuffled through the envelopes. “This one?” she asked. “From Mr. and Mrs. Mundy to Mr. and Mrs. Frayne?”

Molinson nodded. “From what I understand of the situation, Mr. Mundy’s brother possibly suppressed these cards to hide that particular one, which he may have assumed incriminated his father. The trouble with that theory is that the news wasn’t published until the day after these cards went missing. So, I was wondering, Mr. Mundy, how your brother might have known in advance.”

He frowned, shaking his head. “He couldn’t possibly. How would he?”

“I think that’s fairly easily explained,” Trixie told them both. “When would your brother have seen the paper?”

The old man slapped his thigh. “That rapscallion! When he collected the papers for his paper run. The lazy sod didn’t go anywhere near Glen Road that day, like he promised me he would. He kept the whole lot for when he did his paper run the next morning.”

“But all of the envelopes you found had Christmas cards in them, not letters or anything of that sort,” Trixie noted. “That would support the theory that they were suppressed because they might have been part of the plot. He probably delivered any other mail when he did the paper round.”

Again, Molinson nodded. “That lines up with our investigation.”

Trixie slid the card out of its envelope. “Does it mean something?”

Wendell Molinson took it and examined it. “No. No, it’s just a card. The code had to do with trees, but there are no trees here.” He opened it up. “I don’t think it was written by your father, Mr. Mundy. I think it was written by your mother.”

The old man started to reach out for it, but stopped.

“You can have it, if you like,” Trixie told him.

A soft smile settled on his face as he took it.

“From what I see in the files, neither your father nor Mrs. Frayne’s grandfather even knew about the code,” Molinson added, as he rose to leave. “They were both completely cleared.”

“All for nothing,” Mr. Mundy muttered, after Molinson had left. “Those people didn’t get their mail and there was no reason for it at all. He should have known our father had nothing to do with that crooked mayor.”

Trixie gathered the rest of the old cards. “It must have been really hard, at the time. And maybe he didn’t really understand what was going on.”

The old man shook his head, but did not otherwise reply.

“Well, thank you for seeing me, Mr. Mundy,” Trixie continued. “I’ll leave you in peace, now. Please don’t worry about this any more. You’ve done everything you can to set things right.”

He sighed and got up. “You’re right. It’s all done with.” He set the card on a side table, where he could easily see it every time he came in the room. “I can’t change what happened fifty years ago.”

They said their goodbyes and Trixie opened the door to leave, almost running into Lester Mundy as she did so.

“Trixie!” he exclaimed, a guilty look springing up on his face. “I thought it would take at least a couple of weeks before we got busted and it’s only been two days.”

She nodded, grinning. “But it’s okay. No one’s in trouble.”

“Yeah, that’s what the police said when I spoke to them,” he answered. “Once I knew you were on our trail, I thought I’d better go and confess.”

“I guess it’s nice to be remembered as a sleuth.”

He cast her a strange look. “Remembered as a sleuth? You still are a sleuth.”

Trixie thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, I guess I still am.”

“Well, I’d better be starting on dinner.” He glanced at his grandfather’s direction. “Thanks for clearing all this up for him. He seems a lot happier already.”

“Thanks for providing me with a little Christmas mystery,” she answered. “It’s been fun.”

She smiled and waved to Lester’s grandfather and stepped out into the corridor feeling light as air. She had lifted a burden from an old man’s shoulders, solved the puzzle of the strange message on the card and she had her own family’s Christmas celebrations to look forward to. And her husband would be waiting for her at home for their own private Christmas Eve. Her steps quickened and a smile spread across her face.

The End