It was Christmas Eve in Winterhaven, and there I was, Detective Arthur Hale, walking through streets blanketed in shimmering white snow and twinkling Christmas lights. Wreaths with bold red bows hung on lampposts and the sounds of carolers carried on the crisp, cold air. To me, Christmas was just another day, another cold case in a year full of ’em.

The police precinct was filled with the smells of gingerbread and pine, a festive cheer in stark contrast to the bleakness of my usual haunts. When the gift exchange rolled around, I was surprised to receive a present. I made it known in no uncertain terms that I was not participating in the Secret Santa or the grab bag. But here I was holding an anonymous gift addressed to me.

I unwrapped the small, unassuming package, and inside was a compass – an antique by the look of it. The circular case was a rich cherrywood with a hinged brass lid protecting the glass face within. Lifting the lid revealed an ornate dial, the cardinal points decorated with intricate scrollwork fading with age. The thin metal needle quivered slightly before settling into place, not quite pointing north.

Upon closer inspection, the craftsmanship was exquisite for an object of its size. The polished case glowed a deep garnet in the precinct’s Christmas lights, and brass accents bordered the glass which was engraved with nautical motifs. This was clearly no ordinary navigational device, but something unique and curiously valuable. Definitely something none of the skinflints I worked with could afford to make or buy.

Flipping it over, “Guide to Winterhaven’s Hidden Corners” was finely etched into the aged wood on the back, a supposed clue that this compass would lead its bearer somewhere mysterious. As it rested weightily in my palm, the needle vibrated once more then steadied itself resolutely, as if magnetized toward a secret only it could discern, which would make the average mark question what lay at the other end of its path.

This was obviously some sort of prank, but when I asked around the precinct no one fessed up to being a part of it, and even if they weren’t drunk this motley crew wasn’t good enough liars to beat my inner detector. Which meant my curiosity was officially piqued. To be clear, I wasn’t interested in discovering these so-called hidden corners, I just wanted to get to the heart of the gag and find out who was behind it. My payback would be epic.

So, skepticism in tow, I followed the compass into the starry night. The first place it led me to was a musty old second-hand bookshop, Bound & Found.

I stepped into the shop, a chorus of bells announcing my arrival. Glancing around at the higgledy-piggledy stacks and shelves cramped with all manner of books, my eyes settled on the proprietor – Mrs Genevieve Ellington. The self-appointed steward of Winterhaven’s history stood behind the counter, peering at me through oversized red horn-rimmed spectacles.

“Ah, welcome in out of the nippy night, good sir! Care to warm your soul by the fire and peruse treasures both new and old upon my shelves? Many a wayward traveler has discovered adventures untold between these covers. Legends, histories, and fanciful tales that stir imagination and intellect await to be unearthed, should a curious mind come calling!” chirped Ellington with a theatrical flutter of her wrist.

While the shopkeeper had never been on the wrong side of the law and never caused me trouble herself, the kooky old bird ruffled feathers around town, treating Winterhaven like her own Renaissance Festival fiefdom. Her penchant for period dress reflected her eccentric obsession with the past. Today she wore a dark emerald velvet gown that looked snatched from a museum costume chest and smelled strongly of mothballs and aged parchment. Iris-hued crystals glinted from the pendant around her neck as she gave me an appraising once-over.

“I was hoping you could tell me about this,” I said, placing the ornate compass on the counter.

Behind her glittering spectacles, Mrs. Ellington’s eyes widened with intrigue. “My, my, this is quite a unique navigational artifact, inspector! But it doesn’t seem at all interested in pointing north. Whatever might it be pointing towards?”

“Supposedly to Winterhaven’s Hidden Corners according to the inscription on the bottom.”

The shopkeeper’s curiosity flashed. “Can this be a mysterious treasure hunt from days of yore across our beloved town?” She clasped her hands together eagerly, and from somewhere beneath the counter she produced a jeweler’s loupe and studied the compass’ magnetic needle. “There’s an engraving here: J.M. Jonathan Merryweather, mayhaps?”

“The town founder?”

“Oh, more than that, good sirrah, his legacy whispers like a phantom through the local legends of Winterhaven,” Ellington said, a spark flashing behind her spectacle lenses. Whirling around, her emerald velvet skirt swirling, the shopkeeper began scanning the towering bookshelves intently.

I watched with thinly veiled amusement as she traced her fingers along the aged leather spines, mumbling under her breath as she went. “Let’s see…before the town hall records but after the first census…aha!”

Triumphantly, she dragged over a small step ladder, mounting it with surprising nimbleness while holding up the candled lantern clamped under one arm. Reaching to a top shelf shrouded in shadow, the bookkeeper rummaged doggedly, unperturbed as she sent dust motes swirling through the feeble light.

“Where has the blasted thing got to…by Jove, I know you’re here!” More determined muttering preceded a delighted “Aha!” as Ellington wrenched a weighty, clothbound tome from where it had been wedged. Nearly toppling from her perch in her enthusiasm, the undaunted shopkeeper presented the book to me with a beam of victory.

“This, inspector, contains early cartographer sketches of Winterhaven before proper mapping! Clues may lurk within for a clever detective, no?” She arched her brow impishly, awaiting my response, heedless of still swaying slightly atop the ladder in her post-discovery glee.

I took the heavy tome from Mrs. Ellington’s eager grasp, resisting an urge to smirk at the shopkeeper’s flushed face and flyaway locks, evidence of her zealous quest for clues. Flipping open the aged volume revealed intricate hand-drawn maps of Winterhaven from centuries past, annotations in flowery script trailing over the pages.

My detective instincts tingled as I traced the sketches, overlaying them in my memory with the winding streets and alleys I had come to know well over years walking the beat. Here, faint markings indicated spaces that no longer stood, hinting at what once occupied the shape of the land before the Burgeoning township became today’s Winterhaven.

Something drew my attention to the compass. “That’s odd. The needle was facing eastward before…now it’s pointing southwest.”

“Oh, my stars and garters…!” Mrs. Ellington exclaimed peering over my shoulder, nearly upending the precarious tower of books beside her. “Well don’t just stand there gawking, inspector! Find our location on the map—there may be clues about where this new direction leads!”

I ran my finger along the aged sketch in the book, orienting it to align with the shop. “If the town hall’s location is here, then this thoroughfare would be…yes, Maple Street.” I indicated the corresponding marks. “Making our location here. Now the compass is guiding me…”

Tracing my finger southwest, I met with a hastily scratched ‘X’ beside a square marked The Laughing Fox Inn, which was obviously a public house that existed decades before my time. Behind me came a sharp intake of breath.

“The old Laughing Fox, of course! Burnt down ages ago but not before rumors flew of secret gatherings and backroom dealings within its walls even the law turned a blind eye to…”

“To what?” I turned around so that we were face to face. I hadn’t noticed before just how attractive she was, but being this close…

“No,” Ellington said.

“No?”

“No, I won’t tell you.”

“Are you refusing to aid in a police investigation?”

“Don’t be absurd. But we both know this is no official police investigation. It’s a treasure hunt, and if I divulge what I know, you will be off on your merry goose chase, leaving me behind with a mind full of unsolved mysteries, which is not fair and I shan’t stand for it.”

“Essentially, what you’re saying is you want to come with?”

Straightening her shoulders officiously, the shopkeeper declared, “As Winterhaven’s resident archivist, I insist on aiding your quest, Inspector Hale! You shall find my familiarity with our history absolutely vital to unraveling whatever secrets this compass unveils!”

To say I was reluctant to indulge the town kook would have been an understatement, but there was a shrewd intellect beneath her theatrical veneer. “Very well then, if you can keep up, Mrs Ellington,” I acquiesced.

“Genevieve, if you please, but never Jen, Jenny, Jeanie, Eve, or Evie,” Genevieve said, clapping her hands delightedly.

“That’s a shame. I’ve always had a fondness for the name Evie and I think it suits you.”

She seemed to consider that for a moment before catching herself. “Excuse me for a moment while I close up shop.” Her graying chestnut curls bounced as she bobbed an awkward mini-curtsy which caused her taffeta underskirts to rustle.

It was snowing when we left the secondhand bookshop. Genevieve was decked out in her period attire, a richly embroidered woolen cloak around her shoulders with a matching jaunty velvet capotain hat (I only knew the name because I inquired) with a sweeping ostrich plume, doeskin gloves buckled at the wrist, and leather calf-high boots sporting Tudor-era geometric cutouts and scrolling.

“Ready to chase down secrets unseen for centuries, Inspector?” Genevieve asked, her prim spectacles still perched on the end of her nose thanks to a jeweled chain that looped behind her ears. Her rose-cheeked and bright-eyed exhilaration at the adventure ahead showed despite the bitter chill.

Guided by lantern light and a cryptic compass, Genevieve and I crunched through the blanketed streets. Turning a corner onto a narrow alley, my investigative partner gave a “Voilà!” confirming we had arrived at the former site of the legendary Laughing Fox Inn.

In its place now stood a small, ramshackle antique shop with an assortment of oddities in the frost-lined window. Above the entrance, the creaking sign read Thorne’s Curiosities and Sundries.

“Owned and operated by Algernon Thorne,” Genevieve began. “Who purports to be a dealer of antiquities, but there is something not quite right about him, I feel it in my waters.”

I caught Genevieve’s arm as she moved toward the shop. “Just a minute. You’re not going one step further until you elaborate.”

She turned back and raised one eyebrow. “Whatever do you mean, Inspector?”

“The Laughing Fox Inn. You hinted at some shady operations happening there behind closed doors. Care to illuminate?”

“Oh, that! Well…” Genevieve shrugged. “They were likely only whispers and scandals passing through. Although some rather…salacious tales did crawl my way over the years.”

I folded my arms. “Continue.”

“Let’s just say the inn hosted certain men who wished to…pursue very private forms of entertainment unfit for their noble wives’ drawing rooms, if you take my meaning,” she blushed slightly.

“What, so the Fox was a gentleman’s club?”

“Of sorts. And an exceedingly discreet one owned and operated by Madam Amber Fox herself during its heyday. Only Winterhaven’s most elite keyholders supposedly gained access to those sacrosanct backrooms and the thrills within.”

“Any idea what happened to this Madam Fox?”

“She vanished of course! Along with all her secrets. But some claim that on cold, lonely nights, the inn’s rafters still echo with ecstatic cries from beyond the veil…” Linking her arm through mine once more, Genevieve declared, “Now come along Inspector, mysteries await!”

As we stomped snow from our boots, the door flew open with a bang. There stood the proprietor, whose appearance was just about as intriguing as his wares. Mr. Algernon Thorne cut an imposing figure, stern hawk-like features with a generous smile wreathed by a salt and pepper beard.

“Mrs Ellington! To what do I owe the pleasure?” he boomed in a rich baritone. Noticing me, he added, “And who might your intrepid companion be?”

Before I could respond, Genevieve interjected, “This is Inspector Hale, hot on the trail of a mystery I dare suspect some long-buried clues around your shop may illuminate!” She pointed at the antique compass as evidence.

“Well now!” Thorne laughed. “Bringing an adventure to my door on Christmas Eve? How can I refuse? Come in from the cold, and let’s see what secrets can be brought to light.”

I surveyed the cluttered shop as we stepped across the threshold. Genevieve was right, this guy prickled my detective instincts. There was something shifty lurking behind Thorne’s friendly demeanor. And I wasn’t too keen on the way he kept a close eye on us, gauging our interest in his peculiar collection as Genevieve circled the room.

I did a little nosing around of my own and on one wall was a framed map that had browned with age. Similar to the map in Genevieve’s book, it depicted Winterhaven’s historic town square, but a few of the landmarks were different. An updated version from the one she had? I tugged on her sleeve, bringing it to her attention.

“Here!” Genevieve exclaimed, a little too excitedly. “This etching on the glass—it’s the compass!” She tapped an engraved compass rose in the map’s lower corner. Upon closer inspection, one tiny marking where the northwest axial line met the perimeter caught my eye.

Genevieve spotted it too. “Why, those markings…they indicate the old Marlowe property that stood on Blackthorne Hill!” She turned to me with those bright eyes. “That estate is long gone, burned to the ground in a terrible fire. It’s a private cemetery now, but I will wager my eyeteeth we shall find something there!”

Thorne remained silent but I could tell from his expression and the way he stroked his beard that he was far more interested than he was letting on. I wanted to confirm my suspicions but Genevieve was already halfway to the door saying, “Make haste, Inspector! To Blackthorne Hill!” 

As I turned to follow Genevieve, movement flashed in the corner of my vision. I spun back just as Thorne drew one of his relics, a flintlock pistol from his coat, aiming straight at me.

“My apologies friends, but I cannot let you depart with that compass and its secrets,” Thorne said.

Genevieve gasped. I shifted to place myself between her and the armed antiques dealer. Thorne tsked, motioning with the pistol. “The compass, if you please, Inspector. I know what it leads to, you see. I’ve searched a long time…”

My thoughts raced for options even as I slowly extended the compass. But suddenly Genevieve cried “Look!” pointing frantically at the window. As Thorne glanced reflexively, I lunged and grabbed his gun arm, throwing off his shot. The blast went wide, antique pottery exploding. Thorne was stronger than he looked and he managed to get his pistol hand free and caught me with a blow to the temple that sent stars across my vision…

I shook off blackness only to discover I was lying on the floor with Genevieve’s beautiful worried face hovering over me.

“Are you all right, Inspector Hale?”

“Thorne?”

“I’m sorry…I tried to stop him. I blocked the door but he pushed past me and fled into the darkness.”

“Nothing you could have done. He was armed, Evie.” The nickname escaped before I could catch it. It registered with her but she let it slide. “But we’re not licked yet.”

“How can you say that? He has a head start to Blackthorne Hill and that compass was our only hope of finding Winterhaven’s hidden prize!”

“Don’t you see? He claimed he knew what we were looking for,” I said. “But he needed the compass which means he doesn’t know where it is, plus he’s missing one key element…if he was a smart man, he would have taken you, Mrs. Genevieve Ellington.”

The shopkeeper blushed and turned her face away, as she helped me to my feet. I was still reeling from Thorne’s lucky blow.

We hurried outside and found that the snowfall had picked up. “We’ll need to step on it to catch up with Throne and stop him from finding whatever it is we’re searching for first.”

“Too right, Inspector! Fortune favors the swift and crafty this night. We shall roust that pilfering knave yet!” Genevieve said in her unique fashion.

Navigating through Winterhaven’s twisting back alleys, we attempted to cut down on Throne’s lead by utilizing a series of shortcuts, but our lungs were burning in the icy air, as we reached the town’s outskirts. And there was no sign of the antiques dealer anywhere, not even a trace of a footprint.

“Thorne…must nearly have…reached the cemetery already…we shall be too late!” Genevieve panted out.

“You head back to your shop, I’ll take it from here,” I said.

Before she could object, a rusted red pickup truck roared around the bend. I flagged it down and behind the wheel sat scraggly old Marv Jenkins, and beside him was his old arthritic basset hound, Hector.

“Just taking Hector out for his late-night constitutional,” Marv said. When he got a good look at the state we were in, he added, “You two look like you were ridden hard and put away wet! Need a lift somewhere?”

“Marv, I’m going to need to commandeer your truck. Official police business,” I said.

Marv looked me square in the eye and tutted, “Nobody drives Ol’ Rusty but me, I’ll have ya know. Temperamental in her gears, y’see!” He scrutinized me further. “Say now, you’re that Inspector fellow, ain’t ya? Chasin’ trouble or some’at?”

After I gave him the Cliffs Notes version of events, Marv asked, “And he’s headin’ up the Blackthrone Hill, ya say? Never did cotton to that feller! You can hop in, if’n you don’t mind sharin’ Hector’s seat.”

In the truck’s rattling cab with Hector draped across both our laps, Genevieve and I listened as Marv shared his misgivings about Thorne. “Dunno what business that odd duck has pokin’ round the graves on a night like this,” Marv remarked with a shiver. 

The truck’s headlights cut through the thickening snow and Marv’s rambling stories mingled with the whistling wind. Despite the urgency of our mission, I found myself oddly reassured by the familiar rumble of the engine and the warm presence of Genevieve beside me. Even Hector’s occasional snore added to the comforting, albeit surreal, atmosphere of our impromptu expedition.

As we neared the crest of Blackthorne Hill, the cemetery’s wrought iron gates loomed in the hazy glow of the truck’s headlights. “This is as far as I go,” Marv grumbled, eyeing the graveyard warily. “Bad juju in them parts.”

“Understood,” I said, offering a nod of gratitude as Genevieve and I clambered out, returning the basset hound to his rightful seat.

“Be careful up there, you two,” Marv cautioned, handing me a hefty flashlight. “And give that Thorne feller what for, if you catch him!” And with that, Ol’ Rusty chugged away, leaving us in the eerie silence of the snowy graveyard.

The flashlight beam cast shadows on the gravestones, creating a tapestry of light and dark that played tricks on the eyes. As we navigated through the labyrinth of crypts, a faint glimmer caught my attention. Kneeling, I brushed away the snow, revealing a small, brass plate embedded in the ground. Etched into it was a familiar compass rose, identical to the one on the antique compass.

“This must be it,” Genevieve whispered, her voice tinged with awe.

We followed the brass plates, each discovery drawing us deeper into the heart of the cemetery. Genevieve’s breath fogged in the air as she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “The Marlowe crypt should be just ahead.”

Genevieve and I hurried through the shadowy cemetery, guided by the glints of brass markers. The trail ended at an ornate stone mausoleum. I swept my flashlight beam over the entrance where the heavy door stood suspiciously ajar.

We exchanged a tense glance. Drawing my coat back to free my sidearm, I cautiously nudged the door wider. It groaned open to reveal…nothing. Only swirling eddies of dust danced in the flashlight’s glare. The mausoleum was empty.

“Thorne must have already come and gone with his prize,” Genevieve said, crestfallen.

I wasn’t convinced. Circling the crypt, I searched for clues. In the far corner, scuff marks smudged the stone floor. Kneeling closer, I discerned a rectangular outline in the dust, traces of something heavy recently shifted.

“A hidden door!” My exclamation echoed as I ran my hands along the concealed edges. Finding a latch, I tugged. With rasping protest, a section of stones swung inward. A dark void lurked beyond.

I cast a victorious grin back at Genevieve. “Thorne may have given us the slip, but he left the lights on!”

We descended through the opening into musty darkness. Cobwebs draped across our faces as we felt our way down an old stone staircase. At the bottom we emerged into a small chamber. My flashlight revealed walls lined with sconces holding ancient, twisted candles. Their wicks flared to life suddenly in an unseen draft. There, frantically digging at a section of the wall, was Algernon Thorne, his coat discarded, sleeves rolled up, and sweat glistening on his brow. He was so engrossed in his task he didn’t notice our arrival.

“Thorne!” I barked, stepping into the mausoleum.

He spun around, startled, his eyes wild. “You! How did you—”

“End of the line, Thorne,” I said firmly. “Whatever you’re looking for, it’s over.”

But Genevieve’s attention was focused on something else. Against the far wall, an ornate sarcophagus dominated the room. Inlaid gems glinted, refracting the candlelight. Above it was an engraved plaque reading “Here Lies Madam Amber Fox.”

“The legendary proprietress herself,” Genevieve gasped. “She existed after all!”

Thorne’s gaze flicked between us, a calculating look in his eyes. “You don’t understand, inspector. This… this is my family’s legacy!”

Genevieve’s attention turned away from the sarcophagus. “Your family? The Thornes of Winterhaven?”

“Yes,” Thorne admitted, his voice softening. “My great-grandfather, Jonathan Merryweather Thorne, was an apprentice to the legendary artisan Jonas Marlowe. Marlowe’s ornate glasswork decorations were highly sought after to adorn the Christmas trees of Winterhaven’s most prominent families. But he was also known to craft special commissions for more…discreet clients.”

I raised a skeptical eyebrow at Genevieve. “Sounds like those backroom dealings at the Laughing Fox Inn that you mentioned.”

“The inn provided a neutral meeting place for Marlowe and his patrons who wished to remain anonymous,” Thorne continued. “But it also made the establishment an ideal location when Marlowe needed to transport sensitive parcels. My great-grandfather would often courier his mentor’s completed commissions to and from the inn by cover of night.”

“So when the fire erupted…” Genevieve breathed.

“Indeed. It was just before Christmas when the blaze broke out. In his haste to flee the inn, my great-grandfather was struck by debris. He managed to stumble away but regrettably, the package entrusted to him remained inside.” Thorne shook his head ruefully. “Marlowe was beside himself at the loss of his painstaking creation. And my kin never ceased endeavoring to uncover what was buried that night.”

Evie placed a sympathetic hand on Thorne’s arm. “Until fate delivered that compass into your keeping. Perhaps Marlowe’s spirit guided its path, hoping his unfinished legacy might yet resurface.”

“My great-grandfather hid something here, something of great value. I’ve spent my life searching for it.”

Genevieve’s expression shifted from suspicion to empathy. “And you thought the compass would lead you to it.”

Thorne nodded, a mix of desperation and hope in his eyes.

I sighed, lowering my flashlight. “Thorne, let’s do this the right way. If there’s a legitimate claim, we’ll help you sort it out. But no more secrets, no more running.”

Thorne hesitated, then slowly nodded. “Alright. Alright.”

Together, we opened the chest, revealing an assortment of old journals, maps, and a small, intricately carved wooden box. Thorne lifted the box, his hands trembling. “This… this is it.”

He opened the box to reveal a beautifully crafted glass ornament, shimmering in the flashlight’s beam. “It’s the first ornament my great-grandfather made for the town’s Christmas tree. It was thought lost in the fire at the Laughing Fox Inn.”

Genevieve smiled warmly. “A piece of Winterhaven’s history, returned.”

We escorted Thorne out of the cemetery, the ornament safe in his grasp. As we emerged into the snowy night, the town’s distant Christmas lights twinkled like stars. In that moment, something shifted in me. The cynicism and weariness that had long clouded my view of the holidays began to melt away, replaced by a sense of wonder and a newfound appreciation for the mysteries and histories that bound us all.

Music and laughter enveloped Genevieve and me as we rejoined the townsfolk. Every corner of the square now pulsated with renewed festivity. Friends and neighbors who had only exchanged passing greetings all year reunited with hearty handshakes and backslaps. Children darted gleefully through the crowd, their delighted shrieks echoing. The scent of roasting chestnuts mingled temptingly with the tang of mulled cider from outdoor stalls.

Above it all towered the mighty Christmas tree, its boughs laden with strings of pearlescent bulbs that cast a kaleidoscopic glow. As Thorne reverently hung his great-grandfather’s recovered ornament, lighting the tree’s starry crown, a cheer resounded from the multitude. The lost relic had returned to its rightful place of pride, a symbol of Winterhaven’s tenacious spirit.

The cheers and carols faded as Genevieve and I slipped away from the crowd. We wandered the perimeter of the twinkling town square, neither of us eager to let the night end. I stole glances at Genevieve as we walked, taking in the way the Christmas lights danced in her eyes.

“Quite an adventure for Christmas Eve, Inspector,” she said, a playful smile on her lips.

“Please, call me Arthur.”

“Only if you call me Evie from now on.”

I grinned. “Alright then…Evie.”

“Do you really think people can change, Arthur?”

I followed her gaze to where Thorne stood singing with the carolers, the ornament gleaming in his hands. “Yeah. Yeah, I think they can.”

“And what about you?” Her tone was light and teasing, but her expression told me it was no trivial question.

“I think…” My gaze lingered on her upturned face. “I think maybe people like me can change too. With the right partner to guide the way.”

“The Christmas spirit works in mysterious ways.”

“Seems anything can happen,” I conceded, shaking my head in wonder.

As we spoke, a sprig of mistletoe manifested above us, strung by invisible hands between lamp posts. Genevieve followed my gaze upward, cheeks flush with more than cold.

“You know, they say it’s bad luck to shun fate,” she offered coyly.

I pulled her close, the crowd and falling snow enveloping us in their own magic. “Well, far be it from me to tempt fate.”

The church bells chimed the midnight hour as I drew Evie close. And under the falling snow, our silhouettes came together in a kiss.