Jingle all the Slay: Marshmallow Hollow Mysteries Book 1 Page 11

  I reached out and rubbed his shoulder as I considered the time frame of Hilroy’s death. “You couldn’t have known, Lark. How could you? None of this is your fault.”

  He gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down against his dark brown and yellow scarf. “Know what else?”

  “What else?” I asked, wiggling my freezing toes in my boots.

  “They don’t have any CCTV of the killer. None at all, for crepe Suzette’s sake! Might have been a whole lot simpler to catch whoever did this if the criminal was on camera, but I heard Greg Widmeyer say it only shows Hilroy running from across the street like a chicken with his head cut off.”

  That was exactly what my nana had said. Gilroy had been running around like a loon…

  Well, there went that idea. Not that I was going to be able to get a glimpse of the CCTV footage anyway. But if the police didn’t see anything, this only got harder.

  That meant someone had hit him over the head either in one of the stores across from the ice festival or in the alleyway, shortly before the festival began. So if what Judy said was true about Skyping with Adya and Linny, we could count her out as a suspect, and the same went for Cyril, who was home with his wife.

  Maybe.

  But that did still leave Honey in the mix. Though again, she’s in her early seventies. That’d be one heck of a swing to take at a guy who was twice the size of her.

  And of course, there was Jared, who we had nothing but denial from. I still didn’t know if anyone else had a reason to want Hilroy dead. There could be plenty more people involved who weren’t saying anything at all.

  And was a lowball offer a reason to kill someone if you didn’t even accept it? Maybe for Cyril, who was in dire financial straits and worried Hilroy would take his garage, but surely not for Judy, who made it sound like everything was fine financially.

  “Isn’t that just the way?” I mumbled distractedly, my lips almost numb now as Mo began to struggle in my arms.

  Lark scoffed a snort. “You bet it is.” He flapped his hands before taking little Mo from me. “Anyway, I gotta get Mo home and try to fit in a nap before dinner while Tina’s still in there. I sure hope she’s okay. She didn’t want me to stay because she wanted me to take Mo home. But I feel awful for leaving her.”

  “There’s not much you can do anyway, Lark. But I’m going in to grab Stiles for a lunch date. If I see her, I’ll make sure she’s okay and I’ll text you. That work?”

  He looked relieved. “Yes. That works. Thanks, Hal. You really are the best.”

  I smiled at him and waved, blowing a kiss to a cookie-covered Mo. “Anytime.” And then I practically ran inside, my feet frozen, my teeth nearly chattering.

  I pushed through the glass doors and waved to the guy on desk duty, Officer Paladino. Stiles and I had lunch together pretty often, so most of the force was familiar with me.

  “I’m going to grab Stiles for lunch. Is he free? Or will I disturb him?”

  Officer Paladino, a small man in his early fifties, injured in the line of duty three years ago, smiled and waved me back. “He’s back at Detective Godfrey’s desk. Should be okay to go on through.”

  I zipped to the back of the station, passing the lone Christmas tree they had decorated on a table, hearing the clack of fingers on keyboards and phones ringing, then I caught sight of Stiles.

  I flapped a hand at him with a smile. He looked so handsome in his uniform, entrenched in his element, because if Stiles was passionate about anything, he was passionate about law enforcement.

  I was proud of him for having the courage to make the choice to move back from California and take a job here to help his mother out when his father had taken ill four years ago.

  He didn’t seem to miss the bigger city much, and he’d settled right back into Marshmallow Hollow as though he’d never left. Since his father passed, he’d chosen to stay, and maybe that had a little to do with why I’d come back for good, too.

  We’d had a long-distance friendship for years, Skyping once or twice a week and texting every day, but it wasn’t like being able to go to lunch together the way we do now, and it made me even more grateful I’d come back home.

  I detected a bit of frenetic energy coming from the room at large, but particularly from Stiles. My unrufflable friend looked pretty ruffled. I’d lay bets that had to do with Jared and the car chase.

  I approached the detective’s paper-filled desk with caution and a soft tone. “Hey. You ready for lunch?”

  Stiles cleared his throat as he looked to Detective Godfrey’s very stern face, reorganizing the papers he held under his arm. “I might have to postpone.”

  Detective Godfrey gave him a sharp look and grumbled something under his breath.

  “Strike that. I definitely have to postpone.”

  His tone suggested something big was going on, and so did his eyes. The BFF signal was strong, and it said “now’s not the time.”

  I patted his arm and began to back away. “No worries. I’ll just see you later tonight for Christmas tree decorating.”

  He nodded vaguely, and as Detective Godfrey—a tall drink of water graying at the temples, in tan shirt and dark trousers—headed off to somewhere in the back of the station at an almost trot, Stiles quickly followed in such a rush, he dropped one of the many papers he’d been holding.

  I bent to pick it up and run after him, but the words, in Stiles’s bold handwriting, caught my eye.

  They were his notes on Hilroy’s case, and I knew I shouldn’t look. But I did. I’ll hate myself for it, and I’ll probably confess to him later, but I looked.

  Victim: male, forty-five, two hundred and twenty pounds; from Manhattan, New York. No family. Preliminary autopsy states cause of death, blow to the head. Still waiting on coroner’s report for type of weapon and type of residue left in wound from weapon.

  Evidence so far: 1. Reindeer hoofprints in black ink. Note: Test for brand of ink. Find out who sells brand and stamp.

  2. Bits of what appear to be pink marabou fur stuck to right side of victim’s head.

  3. Hair found on victim’s body is dyed. Not victim’s hair. Possibly perp’s?

  Wincing, I decided I was a bad person for reading Stiles’s notes and he’d probably get into tons of trouble if someone found out I saw them.

  He was long gone, so I turned the paper over and began making my way back toward the front of the station to give it to Officer Paladino to ensure Stiles would get it.

  As I was handing it over to him and explaining what it was, the doors of the station crashed open to the tune of Jared Chatham screaming, “Let me go! I didn’t do it! I’m no murderer!”

  He struggled and spat as two officers dragged him into the station toward the holding cells in the back, kicking and screaming, his face crimson, his clothes askew.

  And then I saw another officer with an evidence bag. A big clear-plastic one.

  What was inside, Hal, you ask?

  A cast-iron frying pan.

  Chapter 12

  Santa Baby

  Written by Joan Javits and Phillip Springer, 1953

  I left the station shook to my core, climbing into my truck on wobbly legs. Seeing Jared dragged into the Marshmallow Hollow PD, the look in his eyes so desperate, crushed me, because I knew it would crush Cyril and Aggie.

  And seeing that cast-iron frying pan really rocked my boat. I don’t know why I saw it in a vision because it certainly hadn’t led me to, of all people, Jared, but it existed, and that scared me.

  Was that the murder weapon? If so, that meant murder weapons were showing up in my visions…

  Yet, that still didn’t explain the typewriter, but I couldn’t focus on something as mundane as a typewriter when there was the frying pan to consider. That is, unless someone had klunked that jerk over the head with one.

  Though, that felt less likely than a frying pan.

  And how did these items involve Hobbs? What did all this have to do with him?

  Wa
rming my frozen hands by the heater, I decided the day still had some legs and, while this was exhausting, suspecting all of the people you loved of cold-blooded murder, I just couldn’t believe Jared was the one who’d killed Hilroy. No matter that they’d found a possible murder weapon.

  Though, I didn’t know if the frying pan officially had anything to do with the murder. So there was still that to consider—which meant I could live in my bubble of denial for a little longer.

  Anyway, I decided I’d stop and check in on Honey Crowley while I still had it in me. I didn’t have to be home for a couple of hours for dinner, something Atti was a stickler about.

  As I drove away, I saw Cyril and his wife Aggie entering the police station, their worried faces battered by the cold wind, their fears for their son evident.

  My heart clenched in my chest for them. Jared was five years younger than me, and almost as far back as I can remember, he was always in some kind of trouble. Most of his problems stemmed from substance abuse, and the only consolation I could find in this was that if he’d murdered Hilroy, he’d be forced to sober up in prison.

  I pulled up to Honey’s store, grateful to find parking this late in the day. Tourists staying at the inn usually filled up the spaces in the parking lot across the street and along the road fairly quickly.

  As I crossed the street (looking very carefully both ways twice), I tightened my scarf around my neck. Man, it was cold, and it would be dark pretty early this time of year.

  I was longing for a warm fire, some of Atti’s home cooking and a hot cup of cocoa while I plopped on my couch surrounded by my dozens of pillows.

  Carolers strolled up and down the street, dressed in their vintage Victorian wear, gearing up for the crowds sure to show up for the ice festival tonight. I loved the women’s costumes, the puffy skirts, the tiers of their capes and their hats tied on with big satin bows under their chins, adorned with festive decorations of holly and greens.

  I smiled at them, dropping some change I had into a bucket Barry Manchester carried to show my appreciation. Most of them were part of the church choir, and one was even a trained opera singer who’d moved here after she’d retired from singing professionally.

  As the words of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” floated to my ears, I stopped in front of Honey’s store and sighed. She was really gifted at drawing your interest with the colorful picture window, decorated with a mannequin outfitted in a gorgeous silky red slip dress and a shiny silver scarf strung over her shoulder with a casualness I admired.

  But that was Honey Crowley in a nutshell. Unfiltered, vixen-ish, even in her seventies, with a sexy ex-smoker’s voice that always made me think of Kathleen Turner or Eartha Kitt.

  Looking down at my jeans and shapeless jacket—beneath it, a thermal shirt under a flannel shirt—and some old boots, I felt a little dumpy.

  I snapped a quick picture of the display to send to my sister, who loved vintage clothing. I didn’t know the first thing about fashion, but my sister wore her clothes just like the mannequin in the window, like a movie star, and I envied how easy she made it look.

  Mentally preparing myself, I pushed open the door, greeted by the smell of a lavender candle burning—and none other than Hobbs.

  I came up behind Hobbs, where he’d leaned his arm on a rack of secondhand blouses as though he’d moved right in, and tapped him on the shoulder while looking around for Honey.

  “Excuse me, Lacey. Are you investigating without me?”

  He turned with a broad, amused smile. “I’m Cagney with the good hair. You’re Lacey with the average hair, and I’m not so much investigating as getting a feel for who Honey is. I haven’t asked her any questions or anything. I’d never do that without my partner. Check your texts. I just texted you to tell you I was here.”

  I pulled my phone from my pocket and scrolled my texts to verify he had indeed sent me one. “Sorry. I had it on silent. I was kind of caught up at the station with Stiles. So where is Ms. Honey?”

  “Getting me some cookies she made the other day. I couldn’t talk her out of it.”

  “She’s not grousing at you?” Honey was overall really sweet, but she was a little short with people sometimes—especially new people.

  “No, ma’am. She’s sweet as pecan pie with whipped cream on top.”

  I rolled my eyes at him. “I should have known. Honey’s a real flirt. Must be all that Southern charm, Cowboy. She usually takes a while to warm to strangers. Anyway, I thought I’d drop by and ask her some questions, but some new developments have occurred since we last spoke.”

  “You mean like they caught Jared Chatham and he’s in custody?”

  My mouth fell open. “How’d you know?”

  “Honey told me when I walked in. She was on the phone with someone. Apparently, there’s a Marshmallow Hollow phone tree and she’s on it.” He smiled, a little too smugly for my liking.

  I should have known someone had likely seen Jared being arrested and passed it along.

  “They absolutely did. I was there at the station when they hauled him in. One of the officers had a cast-iron frying pan in an evidence bag, too. I wonder if that was the murder weapon?”

  “Well, it’s definitely heavy enough to kill someone.”

  I didn’t tell Hobbs about the notes I’d seen from Stiles. I figured I’d better come clean in front of both of them, and my BFF deserved to know I’d read his notes first, anyhow.

  But I didn’t have time to share anything else with him before I saw Honey coming from the back room with a plate of cookies. Her blue eyes surrounded by lines, squinting, her bright pink lips pursed.

  “Hal? Is that you?” she asked, handing the plate to Hobbs as she fiddled with the chain around her neck holding her glasses. She put them on and looked me over.

  I reached out a hand to grab hers and give it a squeeze. “You know it’s me. How are you, Honey?”

  “Look who it is. Miss New York City, home to roost after being in the Big Apple. Right here in my little ol’ store,” she crowed with a sly grin, tucking her hair behind her ears. “You staying, or are you gonna up and leave us again?”

  Of all the people in Marshmallow Hollow, Honey had the most distinct Maine accent. She was born and raised here. Hearing her speak always reminded me I was truly home where I belonged.

  Grinning, I laughed. “I’ve been back for quite a while, and you know it. So stop grudging about my departure because I’m definitely home for good this time. Promise.”

  She adjusted her thick belt with a Santa hat on the buckle then planted her hands on her full hips. “That’s good to know. Now, what can I do you for? You lookin’ for some new flannel shirts? Or maybe I can talk you into a skirt or two—gussy you up a bit so you’ll stop wearing all those boy clothes.”

  Hobbs said nothing as he munched on a cookie, but I could tell he was getting a kick out of the ultra-feminine Honey poking at my fashion choices while in her green sweater, black figure-hugging skirt, and silver calf-length boots.

  Honey prided herself on her femininity and, despite her age, that hadn’t changed over the years. She, as Honey dubbed it, “put her face on every day” and did her hair because she said it made her feel alive.

  She’d once told us all how, in her very early twenties, she’d gone off to New York to become an actress. But she’d missed her childhood sweetheart so much, she’d come back, and they’d turned what had once been a butcher shop into her secondhand store.

  When her daughter had grown up and moved away, they’d decided to move into the apartment upstairs with their dog, Bowser.

  I batted my eyelashes at her and winked. “Boy clothes are good for mucking stalls and running factories. I can’t wear a skirt when I’m cleaning up after Karen and fixing the oven for the Christmas ornaments to bake in, can I?”

  She swatted me with her hand and scowled. “You could at least try, Halliday.” Then she sighed as though I was a hopeless case and looked to Hobbs. “So what brings you both here
if not for something secondhand?”

  Glancing around the store at the racks of used clothing—and a section with everything from children’s toys to bedding to outdoor garden paraphernalia—I tried to focus on her face. There were always so many cool things in Honey’s store.

  Pulling off my gloves and hat because I was suddenly very warm, I decided to dive right in. “I was just dropping in to check on you, Honey. I heard what happened with Lance Hilroy and the offer he made to you for the store. I suspect it was a crummy one, just like he offered to the rest of the people he thought he could swindle.”

  Like Judy, she immediately stiffened, two very red spots appearing on her aging cheeks, making her blush look almost clownish.

  “That man!” she hissed with a slap of her hand to the shirt rack, jostling the ring of blouses. “Oh, he makes me so angry! I won’t say I’m not glad he’s dead, Halliday. I won’t. He was a horse’s you-know-what! Shoulda sicced Bowser on him the first time he knocked on my door!”

  Bowser was Honey and Walter’s mixed-breed mutt, a big, huge mutt. Much like Honey, he was a total mush if he knew you, but if he didn’t, he’d chew your face clear off.

  “So I’ve heard. Did he offer to buy you dinner while he tried to swindle the store right out from under you like he did the rest of us?”

  Honey wrinkled her nose. “He did, and I told him not a chance. I’m a married lady.”

  Indeed, Honey was married to Walter Crowley, and if Honey could be surly, he was twice as sweet. In the last couple of years, he’d gone almost completely deaf. His hearing aids didn’t help much, but he tried, and he was still as cheerful as ever.

  “So you turned him down, too?”

  She punched at the air, her eyes narrowed. “You bet I did. That nasty piece of work deserved a good kick in the pants. You know what he wanted to do here, don’t you, Halliday? Turn Marshmallow Hollow into a Santa land or some such notion. If it was going to be anything like what he’d done elsewhere, he’d commercialize this place from one end to the other and it would lose all its homey goodness. No way was I going to be a part of that!”