12. Marius
12
MARIUS
“ I ’m not giving you any lip, Aunt Frances.” I fought an ugly battle with myself to keep my face pleasantly neutral.
“Good, because I’m not asking for much. Costco is right down the road. Won’t take you long at all to stop in and get a few little things I need.”
“No one needs a candle in a ten-gallon bucket, Aunt Frances.”
“Myra’s granddaughter bought her one. Make sure you get the red-and-white-striped one. I’ll take the green one, but don’t bring one of the blue ones back.”
“You’re driving out in this?” Emmie asked me when I walked through the great room, keys in hand.
Moose didn’t even look up from where he was napping in front of the fire. Snow fell softly outside, coating everything in white.
Emmie tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear.
“Apparently, my great-aunt desperately needs a candle.”
“She’ll be the queen of the retirement community with one of those.” Emmie chuckled.
“I have to get going. I’m sure Costco closes soon.”
“It’s the holidays. They unofficially stay open late.”
“Joy.”
“I can come with you… if you want the company.” Emmie was giving me that soft smile again.
“Come on.” I jerked my head.
“I can’t believe you have a car in New York City,” she said as I helped her with her coat.
“The only reason is that my company provides free parking, so I just keep my car in the company deck,” I admitted as I opened the door of the black sedan for her.
I turned on the heat in the frigid car, brushed the snow off the windshield, then we were off, driving in the snowy dark down Gingerbread Lane.
“I thought it was Wisteria Lane.” I frowned.
“The street changes seasonally for the holidays or whenever one of the seniors has a whim. Mrs. Abercrombe still does part-time work at city hall in the mayor’s office. She changes the name for them. The seniors always throw a party for the name change. Yes, it’s extremely confusing for everyone. But it does give the postman job security.”
“You’ve been here awhile,” I said to her, glancing briefly in the dark.
“Six months.” Emmie sighed heavily. “And no end in sight. Nor any suspects.”
“We have lots of suspects, just no evidence.”
The Costco parking lot outside of town was busier than I’d expected.
Inside, a fight was about to break out over the last package of Christmas lights. I just kept walking toward the candle display. I didn’t want to be involved.
I shook my head as Emmie’s eyes sparkled at the comically oversize candles.
“Who needs a candle this size? Aunt Frances is going to be dead before she can even burn half of it.”
“Don’t say that!” Emmie cried, trying to roll the massive candle onto the cart.
It lurched, almost hitting a man.
“I’m sorry!” Emmie exclaimed.
The man, with his eyes hidden by sunglasses, a hoodie pulled up around his face, and a baseball cap low on his forehead, swore then took off at a run down the nearest aisle.
I caught a whiff of almonds.
“That’s him—the guy who was breaking into your shop. It’s the murderer.”
“Wait!” Emmie called as I sprinted after the murderer.
I ran after him down the dog-food aisle, sliding at the end. I caught a movement to my left and took off down an aisle with bakeware. “Dammit!” I swore as, out of nowhere, a box of Christmas ornaments was hurled at me.
I knocked it out of the way.
The murderer squawked and jumped out from behind a stack of flat-screen TVs.
But he was too slow.
I tackled him, sending us crashing into a display of Frosty the Snowman puppets.
“Don’t touch me! Don’t hurt me!” The smaller man tried to wiggle away.
“You…” Emmie puffed, pushing the squeaky cart in front of her. “Have really long legs. Oh, you caught the murderer! And you thought you were going to get away with it, didn’t you… Charles?” Emmie yelped as she pulled the hat off.
“Knew it,” I said. “I told you he was up to no good. Call the cops.”
“No, please!” Charles cried. “I beg of you. Yes, I admit what I did was wrong, but I can explain.”
“Murder is never okay.”
“Murder?” Charles made a strangled noise. “I didn’t murder anyone.”
“Then why were you running?” Emmie demanded. “Why were you sneaking into my café?”
“I wasn’t stealing from you—I swear it. I wasn’t even in your café. I needed my shop to capitalize on the Santa Claws Café being shut down. I sell cream buns. But”—he gestured helplessly—“I don’t know how to bake. I buy premade pastry from Costco, fill them with a pudding and Cool Whip mixture, then sell it at a markup. I can’t make a stable cream filling to save my life, and you can forget about buttercream frosting.” Charles started to sob.
I let him get up.
“Please don’t call the cops. I’m not a thief or a murderer.”
“Just a fraud,” Emmie said determinedly.