24. Marius
24
MARIUS
“ D id you solve that murder yet?” Grayson asked.
I was exhausted. I hadn’t slept that night—couldn’t sleep, just stared at the pdfs on my laptop, stewing about the past, unsatisfied with whatever karma the universe had decided to hand out.
Living well is its own reward.
But it didn’t feel rewarding.
“I—no,” I said, rubbing my eyes, and poured myself another cup of the bitter coffee still out after breakfast had ended. “I think I’m going to go back early to New York.”
“Your aunt will kill you,” Grayson said, a hint of a smile in his voice. “She’s hoping to convince you to find a nice girl, stay in Harrogate. The prodigal son returns. Did you take Emmie out to dinner yet?”
“More than that,” I said, staring blankly out over the empty tables of the dining room.
“So he has found a reason to stay in Harrogate after all. And they say no good deed goes unpunished. All that pro bono work finally paid off.”
“Yeah.”
“Marius, rescuer of stray cats and damsels in distress.”
Emmie wasn’t a damsel in distress. Oh, she played one all right, but in the restaurant,
she hadn’t been just angry. Hers was a vengeful, righteous fury.
In the cold light of the morning, after a sleepless night, my brain must have worked overtime on it because it made perfect sense.
“I think I know,” I said slowly.
“What?”
“The murderer. I missed all the signs.”
“But it’s always the person you least expect,” Grayson said.
“No. It’s always the person you most suspect. Emmie killed her husband. She had means, motive, and opportunity. She had access to the drugs from her grandmother to kill Brooks. She gets revenge on her cheating husband and millions of dollars. She’s the obvious suspect.”
“You said she was innocent.” Grayson’s voice had lost any sort of softness. He was in pure ruthless-billionaire mode.
“I changed my assessment.”
“Then get rid of her. Cut all ties with her,” he ordered. “I know you said you were falling for her, but don’t. If Emmie is the killer, you cannot be associated with her. My company cannot be dragged into this mayhem. Come back to Manhattan. Now.”
I leaned back in my chair stared at the rapidly cooling coffee.
I should go pack. Should just leave.
What if I was wrong?
What if I was right?
If it were an employee of Richmond Electric, I’d advise them to cut off someone they’d only known a week if there was even a chance they could be a murderer.
I should never have gotten involved with Emmie and definitely should never have slept with her.
A chair scraped again the wood floor.
Emmie sat down next to me, anxiously twisting her hands in her lap. “How are you doing? I’m going to the Santa Claws Café, but I can send some food over for you.” She reached out a tentative hand to stroke my cheek.
I jerked away. “I’m going back to New York City.”
“I thought you were staying all December.” Her big brown eyes were wide with worry.
“The CEO has called me back. Nonnegotiable.”
“Really? What if I send him some cupcakes?” Emmie fretted. “I mean, I guess if you have to work, you have to work. I can come visit you. The train runs every—”
“No.” I cut her off. “You can’t.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We can’t see each other anymore, Emmie.”
“Why? Because you’re my lawyer?”
I turned my head to stare at her. “No, because you killed your husband.”
Her mouth dropped open. “I told you I’m innocent.”
“Yes. However, I’m a lawyer. People lie to me all the time. You have no idea how often people lie straight to my face.”
“I didn’t kill him.” Shock and disbelief showed in in Emmie’s eyes.
“You are the only one profiting from his death. You could have easily poisoned those cupcakes and gifted them to Brooks,” I said. “This murder investigation and the little damsel-in-distress routine were just to throw me off my game. Even what we did in the cabin.”
There were two angry spots of color dark on her cheeks.
“You seriously believe I was just using sex to distract you?” she choked out. “Who do you think I am?”
“I think you’re a woman who wants to get away with murder and collect a massive paycheck.”
“I can’t believe you. We have all these other suspects—”
“What other suspects?” I snapped. “Rosie? Who else could it even be? Maybe your grandmother did it, hm? Maybe she’s the real murderer.”
I heard the crack before I felt the sting of her hand as she slapped me. “You, Marius, are an asshole, and I should have known because all you lawyers are vindictive, selfish pieces of shit.” She stood up, the chair toppling. Her nostrils flared she stared down at me. “And to think I was starting to fall in love with you.”
Grayson had decided I should be in Manhattan by now, back at my desk, and he’d been calling me nonstop.
I sat, stone-faced, in front of the fire in the sweltering great room as the windows darkened and Moose pawed at my leg, wanting to go outside.
Something wouldn’t let me leave.
Part of me didn’t want to walk away from Emmie, even if she was likely a murderer and was going to drag me down with her. Because once I got on that train, it was over. No more Emmie.
You didn’t even like her.
But I did. Even though I tried not to, I did like her.
And she was falling in love with me.
Just to torture myself, I let my mind wander to a happy picture of Christmas in the future, in our home, with our cats and children, decorating a Christmas tree.
Instead, I was going to be spending Christmas alone in a cold glass tower far, far away from Emmie’s warmth.
It was all a lie.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Ow!” I yelped as Aunt Frances smacked me on the head with a rolled-up newspaper.
“How did you ruin it with Emmie?” she demanded. “You’re going to end up old and alone. Moose is going to go find himself a little cat girlfriend and have a bunch of kittens, and you’re going to be the creepy man with too many cats.”
“I can’t be with a murderer, Aunt Frances.”
“Murderer? Emmie?” She snorted. “So what? Who cares?”
“My CEO cares.” I looked up at her, incredulous.
“You need to tell him to mind his own business. Brooks deserved it after what he did to you. Did you tell your CEO that?”
“He doesn’t care.”
The elderly woman glared down at me. “I may or may not have sabotaged my cheating husband’s riding lawnmower. Who knows? But you still come to visit your old aunt. You can’t cut off Emmie for a little thing like murder. She’s rich now! And she’s hot. There are lots of widows around here much worse off.”
“Aunt Frances, what the fuck?”
She pinched my cheek. “Stop poking around the murder, and stop all this foolishness. You’re not going to find a better woman than Emmie—not with that cat anyway.”
“I don’t know…”
She shook her head. “You overthink things. You’re just like your father. I should never have sent you to law school. You need a drink. Turn your brain off for a bit.” She hustled away.
For a second, I wondered if the seniors had been the ones to off Brooks after all. They did have access to Emmie’s cupcakes.
“Surely not…” I didn’t want to pull that thread. I couldn’t send my own family to jail, right?
Was she trying to tell me something?
Aunt Frances came back with a bottle of whiskey and a platter of cupcakes from the overflowing side table full of ever-multiplying holiday treats.
“Have a cupcake; you need a pick-me-up,” she said, setting a platter of wilting cupcakes on the table after shooing Moose off it, and poured me a whiskey.
The cat meowed. I gazed absently at Emmie’s cupcakes, listening to Aunt Frances whistle as she walked away.
I wondered if she was the murderer and maybe was poisoning me.
“You need to sleep, man.” I downed the whiskey. “Aunt Frances wants me to have babies, not die. You’re going crazy.”
I poured myself another shot of whiskey and watched as Emmie’s cupcakes wilted by the fire.
Funny—I’d never actually eaten one.
I picked up the closest one, red frosting with little silver candy sprinkles, like something you’d take to a holiday party. The frosting dripped onto my hands as I peeled the wrapper.
I stared at my fingers coated in red…
At the fire…
At the dripping frosting…
I stood up abruptly and went to the holiday table.
Under the croquembouche was a familiar red-white-and-green-striped box.
Emmie’s cupcakes.
I carried them to my chair, opened the box, and set them next to the fire. I sipped another glass of whiskey as I watched the flames.
The frosting stayed firm.
Barely wiping off my hand, I left smears of icing on my laptop as I opened up the crime-scene photos, flipping through and zooming in on the cupcakes.
They all had wilted frosting.
“Fuck—they weren’t her cupcakes.” I sat back.
Fuck. I’d ruined it.
Fuck. Now there was a murderer loose… and potentially after Emmie.