Chapter 4
HUGHES
The office is darker than a fruitcake left in the back of Grandma’s pantry.
A single strand of Christmas lights blinks in the corner, mocking me with its cheer.
I have no leads, no suspects, not even a footprint in the snow—just a body colder than last year’s eggnog and a case that smells worse than a candy cane left in a kid’s pocket all summer…
“Hughie!” Nana pokes her head into my bedroom, flinging the door wide open. “Oh, Hughie, you haven’t been up all night, have you?”
“I work best in the dark, Nana.”
“Well, you’re not going to sleep in all day, not in my house.” She bustles in and throws open the curtains. “It’s the Christmas season, and you can’t waste the day. You were raised better than that.”
“It’s too bright.” I wince at the sunlight bouncing off freshly fallen snow.
“There’s coffee on the stove.”
“It’s seven fifteen, Nana.”
“It’s late. I’d have been up here sooner if I’d known you were already up. Now get dressed.” She goes to my closet and starts laying out clothes—Christmas clothes, including a sweater and snow pants.
“I’ve got my detective uniform.”
“It’s cold outside.” She kisses the top of my head.
“I need you to take these invitations for the ugly-sweater party to Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Locke. There are cookie tins, too, with holiday treats for them. I did want to just let you know that Mrs. Locke—her granddaughter just got into town. Now, she’s married—”
“Nana—”
“But! I think that she and her husband are on the fritz. You should shoot your shot. You’ve been working out the past few months.” She squeezes my bicep. “You’ve got money in the bank. You’re a good catch. Any woman would be lucky to have you.”
“I’m focused on my case, not relationships.”
“Hmm.” Nana purses her mouth. “There are lots of lonely women out there. ’Tis the season for divorce.”
“I don’t want to marry a divorcée.”
“Of course not. You just need to get a little experience, get your dick wet, then you’ll turn all that energy you’re wasting on Jonah’s accident into finding a nice girl!”
I want to die. “You want me to get with a woman my mom’s age?” I complain as she bustles around picking up the empty seltzer cans and my dirty T-shirts. “Nana, I can do it.”
“Let me spoil you.” She kisses my cheeks. “My little grandbaby, oh, you were such a cute baby, such a chubby little tummy.” She pinches my ear hard. “Now, when you do get a girlfriend, don’t you leave your dirty undies lying around. You have to clean up after yourself, or she’ll leave you.”
“I was going to—”
But she’s already bustling out.
“Mrs. Cabot tried to sleep with the UPS man, so you have a shot with her!”
“Ugh.” I flop back down on the bed and stare at my murder wall of clues.
I have… not that much evidence. Anything I do have is circumstantial.
I stare at Jonah’s photo, which I’ve printed off his website.
“Who killed you and why?”
I spin the case over and over in my head as I sip my coffee from the Santa mug Nana has left out. It’s not my aesthetic, but there are no normal dishes in this house. As soon as December hit, everything was replaced with Christmas dishes.
I double-check the addresses on the deliveries then head out into the snow.
Don’t tell Nana, but I am slightly regretting my trench coat as I hoof it down the icy sidewalk. The temperature dropped with the incoming snowstorm, and it’s freezing.
“Oh! You’re Mary Lou’s grandson!” A car pulls up.
“Doesn’t he look handsome? You did buff up.”
“Yeah, I can see the muscles under that thin tarp you’re wearing. Don’t they have coats in California, boy?”
“Ha ha! Weather’s definitely not like here.” I’m trying to be nice, but this is the fourth time since I’ve left Nana’s house that someone has stopped to tell me to put on some clothes.
Another car honks at me.
“Hey! Kid, you need a warmer coat!” an old man hollers then skids out and creams a mailbox.
I don’t know if Mrs. Locke is awake when I stop at her house.
Her newspaper is at the end of the walkway. I stop to pick it up.
“What are you doing here?”
Taylor Grace’s voice comes out of nowhere.
“Uh.” I look around wildly.
She’s stomping down the sidewalk toward me. “Uhh,” she mocks. “Why aren’t you answering my calls? Why did you send me to voicemail? Are you ignoring me? Huh?”
“It was the middle of the night. I’m trying to work on the case,” I say slowly. “What is wrong with you?” The words escape before I can stop them.
“Why do you think something’s wrong with me?” Taylor Grace demands. “It sounds like you’re trying to accuse me of something. Why? What are you hiding?”
“I’m literally just delivering cookies for my nana, then I’m going to the Christmas market to work on your case.”
“Oh!” It’s unnerving how her features immediately soften. “Well—” Her arms wrap around my waist. “That’s good, isn’t it?” She’s talking in this baby voice that seemed cute the first time I met her. Now, it’s weird.
With how angry she got—and it came on suddenly, like an avalanche on a calm, sunny day—yeah, I guess I could see her being the murderer. I wonder if Willow was onto something after all.
I resist the urge to go home after delivering the last of the cookies.
“I’m living my childhood dream,” I whisper to myself, teeth chattering as I walk through the nearly empty Christmas market.
There are only a few influencers wanting to take photos before the crowds swarm for lunch and locals getting in a bit of shopping or restocking their stalls.
“I didn’t think dreams would be this cold.”
Willow, who wears a knit hat with a red pom-pom low on her head, is stocking her stall.
I grab the top box before it falls off the cart.
“Give that back,” she snaps.
“You don’t want to say, ‘Thanks, Hughes, for saving my expensive merchandise’?” I set the box on the counter.
“Do you want to say, ‘Thanks, Willow, for not punching me in the stomach’? Also, where is your coat?”
“Look, I ran into Taylor Grace earlier—”
Willow scoffs.
“No, just hear me out. I’m trying to work on this case, and I do have to explore every angle, right?”
“I’m not a murderer.”
“But you have some thoughts on who it could be, right?” I coax.
Willow looks at me with suspicion as she pulls out the little trays of fancy chocolate and starts stocking them in the glass cases. “Thoughts? So now you want me to do your job for you?”
I blow out a breath. It hovers in front of me.
“Look, I’m not trying to be your friend, but Taylor Grace is getting a little unhinged about this murder, okay?
She is really bent out of shape about Jonah’s death.
This is going to sound crazy, but I don’t think she’s sleeping.
She’s been acting paranoid and almost possessed. ”
Willow doesn’t look shocked or concerned. She just starts laughing. “Whooo! She finally split on ya, huh? Well, you lay down with backstabbing bitches, prepare to get fleas.”
“Look, I think she might literally kill me if we don’t solve this murder.”
“We? Who?” Willow scoffs.
“Just we, the collective? Also, right now, you’re my only suspect.”
And maybe Taylor Grace, but it’s sacrilegious to say that about my client.
“Really, I’m your only suspect?” Willow slams the glass case’s door shut. “What about Jonah’s wife, Lenore? What about Damien, Taylor Grace’s boyfriend? Shit, what about Gideon Cross? Did you look into him?”
“You really think one of them could have done it? I mean, sure, I’ll look into the wife, but what motive would Gideon or Damien have?” I argue.
“The fact that Taylor Grace was sleeping with Jonah?”
“No way.”
“Dude, I know Taylor Grace way better than you. I would be shocked if she wasn’t sleeping with him, and if you think because she’s sleeping with you that she wouldn’t cheat—”
“She’s not sleeping with me.”
Willow makes a noise like she doesn’t believe me.
“Women she tries to turn into her bosom friends—to paraphrase Anne of Green Gables—and men she wants to turn into her daddy or her boyfriend. Probably both. Anyways, since you and the police are completely incompetent, apparently, I’ll have to go solve this murder.”
“You aren’t a licensed PI,” I protest.
“I’m going to talk to Gideon.”
“You’re just going to accost him? What if you spook him?” I argue, rushing after her.
“I’m not. I’m delivering his mail.”
“Me too.”
“No, you’re not.” She glares over her shoulder. “Go do your own investigation.”