“Afraid not,” she said, taking a bite of pork chop. “I just moved in, and there’s so much to do, because the house hasn’t been lived in—”

“Well, that’s a damn shame,” the waitress said, cutting her off. She flounced off to the far end of the counter. As Ivy ate her lunch she saw the waitress leaning across the counter, conversing with another diner in a loud whisper, her eyes shooting daggers in Ivy’s direction.

She hurriedly finished her lunch and set off across the square to finish her errands.

At the county courthouse, a small but stately white Greek Revival building, she stopped at the animal control office and applied for Punkin’s dog tag and presented his vet records for rabies certification. Then she found the clerk’s office and filled out the paperwork to change her voter registration and file for homestead exemption.

“So, you’re the lady who bought Four Roses, huh?” asked the clerk as he looked over the documents she’d just filled out. He was an older man who looked to be in his early sixties. The name badge pinned to his carefully starched shirt read: “Herman Schoonover.”

“Welcome to Tarburton.”

She waited to be asked about the Christmas lights, but he busied himself typing something into his computer.

“Thanks,” she said. “Did you know the Rose family?”

“Oh, sure,” he said. “Everybody knew Bob and Betty Rae, rest their souls. They were the salt of the earth. They sure made Christmas special for the folks in this town.”

“I understand Mr. Rose used to play Santa Claus,” Ivy said.

“That’s right. Every kid who grew up in these parts sat on Santa Bob’s lap over the years, my own kids and grandkids included.”

“I know it’s a long shot,” Ivy said. “But I’m looking for a father and daughter who I think used to live around here. The father’s name is Everett, and the daughter’s name was Carlette. And I think the father must have served in the military. Probably Vietnam?”

“Last name?”

“I’m hoping you can tell me.”

Mr. Schoonover scratched his nose while he thought about it. “No, those names don’t ring a bell, but I didn’t move to town until the mid-eighties. Which makes me a newcomer to some folks.”

“Like me,” Ivy said, handing him her paperwork.

“Any special reason you’re looking for these folks?” he asked.

Ivy hesitated. It sounded far-fetched, even to her. “I found a note. In the pocket of Mr. Rose’s Santa suit, from this little girl named Carlette, asking Santa to bring her father home safely. From the war. It … touched me.”

“Wish I could help you,” Mr. Schoonover said. He puffed out his chest a little. “I’m an old Navy man myself.” He tapped some keys on his computer, nodded, and looked up. “Okay. You’re all squared away here. Have yourself a good Christmas, you hear?”

It had started to warm up while she was in the courthouse, so Ivy decided to check out the town square. There was a fountain in the middle, near the soldier’s memorial statue, and she’d noticed it had a special spigot, close to the ground, for dogs. Now that Punkin was a legal resident, she’d bring him along on her next visit to town.