Chapter 6 Hughes
HUGHES
“Taylor Grace incoming.” Willow sags as my client storms across the town square, tourists skittering out of her way.
“Did something happen with Gideon?” I ask Taylor, putting myself between her and Willow, hoping to get some usable information before she spirals into her Willow obsession.
“He’s going behind my back with her,” Taylor rages. “They’re both trying to cut me out of the company. They’re going to team up and go into business together.”
“No, we’re not.” Willow is incredulous.
I’m experiencing whiplash.
“They’re plotting against me,” Taylor fumed. “Willow stole Gideon from me like she stole my business, and now, they’re going to team up and take over the Christmas market.”
“I sell chocolate, not trains,” Willow argues.
“You have to believe me, Hughie,” Taylor sobs, turning on the waterworks like she’s just hit a button. “Only Jonah believed me. I wish he weren’t dead. I don’t know what I’m going to do. How will I survive?” she wails.
“Don’t fucking listen to her.” A man in a heavy coat and workman’s boots stomps through the snow. “She’s a lying, crazy bitch.”
“Help me!” Taylor Grace hides behind me, grabbing my coat, tearing it open so the wind whips through. “Help me, Hughes. You’re my only hope. He’s going to kill me like he killed Jonah.”
“I thought you said Willow killed Jonah,” I remind her, tugging the coat closed, trying not to shiver.
“I don’t know who killed him!” Taylor screams at me. “I don’t know. That’s not my job to figure it out.”
“Yeah, it’s just your job to lie about your husband.” Damien clenches his fists.
I don’t even like Damien, and I feel sorry for him.
“She’s been telling everyone she wants a divorce because my dick’s too small. Is my dick small, Willow? You’ve seen it,” Damien demands.
“You’re sleeping with Taylor’s husband?” I ask Willow, shocked.
“She is?” Taylor is too surprised to be angry.
“No!” Willow hollers. “Damien’s a creep and went streaking at our high school graduation.”
“And it wasn’t small, was it?” Damien smirks.
“I never said that,” Taylor Grace pouts.
“Ida says you did.” Damien gears up for an argument.
“I was just repeating what Willow said.” Taylor Grace tosses her hair.
“I don’t care how big your lazy husband’s dick is or how bad he is in bed,” Willow argues.
“I’m not bad. I’m great. This chick is crazy.” Damien jerks a thumb at Taylor Grace.
“You’re crazy. Jonah says you’re bad for me.” Taylor Grace waves her arms.
“Yeah, Jonah. All you talk about is Jonah. That man was a fraud. He ruined my marriage. He’s the reason you want a divorce,” Damien rails.
“I’m going down to city hall to get a restraining order against you. I’m going to make sure you spend Christmas in jail.” Taylor grabs her purse.
“Yeah, right.”
The two rush off.
“You know what I’m starting to think?” I say slowly as I wait for my ears to stop ringing. “I think you’re correct, Willow, and Taylor Grace is the murderer.”
“Oh, Taylor wouldn’t kill anyone.”
Hollis—I think her name is—worms into the stall with a rack of maple bacon doughnuts.
“She was shitty to you too,” Willow says.
Hollis sighs and sets the box of doughnuts on the counter.
“She had a traumatic childhood. She can’t help it.
” Hollis is more sympathetic than I’m willing to be.
“Now, yesterday, Josie wanted me to make more of these marshmallow cookies. They’re in this bottom box.
She thinks they’re going to be a hit. I posted them on our socials already. There’s a ton of interest!”
“Hopefully, Taylor Grace doesn’t show up to ruin the launch.” Willow massages her temples. “We need to sell out. Stall dues are due Saturday.”
Hollis looks at me. “No progress?”
“Of course he hasn’t made any progress. He’s a useless male playing dress-up,” Willow snorts.
“Hey! I’m going to solve this thing. Just you watch.” I swat her with my hat.
“It’s always the lover or the spouse who killed them, right?” Hollis giggles. “I mean, I hate true crime podcasts. I like cozy mysteries myself, but, like, isn’t it usually the most obvious answer?”
“Sometimes,” I start to lecture, “though, with the rate of unsolved murders being 50 percent, I believe a statistically significant number of victims are murdered by complete strangers.”
“We’d know if someone new came into town,” Hollis argues.
“There are all the tourists.”
“Someone could have come into town and slipped out, Willow,” I remind her.
“Fun. Well, I’ll let you sit here and mansplain murder while I go actually solve this. Hollis, can you man the stand for a bit? Shouldn’t be much traffic,” Willow tells her as she packs cookies in a box.
“Sure. Are you going back to the store? Could you take the boxes back?”
“I will, but I’m going to the police station first.”
“The police! Did you figure out who killed Jonah?”
“No, but I’m going to solve it. I cannot take the entirety of the Christmas season with Taylor Grace and her flying monkeys ruining the holidays. I need to know everything the police do.”
“You need me to come with you.” I put on my hat. “I’ve spent the last few months buttering up the officers. We’re all friends.”
I take the box from Willow. She has to hurry to keep up with my long legs. She’s kind of cute, huffing along beside me.
“So, you just follow my lead here. I’m used to dealing with cops.”
“And I went to preschool with these jokers. I don’t need your help solving this murder case. You had no suspects, and now I have several viable ones.”
“I had suspects, but I’m not solving this case on vibes. I’m doing it on facts.”
“And the facts are that we need more evidence before we can put any of these men on the suspect list.”
“But I’m on the suspect list,” she counters.
“You’re not not on the suspect list.”
“You’re going to throw a tantrum when I solve this case before you, aren’t you?”
The police officers are all standing around when we walk into the police station, passing several elderly people sleeping off their eggnog in the drunk tank.
“We brought cookies, boys! New recipe!” Willow calls.
“Hughes.” Officer Girthman trudges over.
Bobby greedily takes two cookies. “Delicious. I saw these on Instagram. So good,” he says around the crumbs.
“Yeah, it’s a new recipe. Hopefully, everyone likes it.”
I can’t take any more of the small-town small talk. I need answers. I cut in. “Now, Bobby, look. A man’s been murdered, and we need some information.”
Bobby squirms.
“This is a high-profile case. The mayor didn’t like it when we said it would be ruled an accident. I can’t just be giving out evidence.”
“We don’t want evidence, just a little information,” Willow presses.
“We can leave her out of it. She doesn’t have to know.”
“Well—”
Willow tries to shove me aside. “Bobby, you tell me the information. I made you cookies,” she wheedles. “You like them, don’t you? I’m making extra-special cookies every day this month. You can have one of each.”
“I can?”
“And I’ll give you that peppermint tea you like so much too.”
He perks up. “Well, we don’t really have any information.” He hands me a folder.
“What’s this?”
“That’s our evidence.”
“This is your evidence?”
“His clothes, all burnt up.”
“What about his phone?” I demand. “I know computers. I can recover data as an assist to the department.”
“No phone. We didn’t find one on him.”
“Did you check under the tree?”
“Yeah, I did,” he whines. “The mayor made us.”
“Great detective work,” Willow says dryly.
“When can I get my cookies?” he asks hopefully.
“You didn’t give us anything useful, Bobby. You’re not getting cookies.”
“But—”
“You know where to find me if you have something.”
“Call me,” I mouth over my shoulder as I trail an angry Willow out of the station.
I try to look tough and not shiver beside her on the street while Willow paces angrily.
“Well, shoot. That phone is probably with the murderer.” She turns to me. “You’re a computer wiz. Track it and find it, and let’s solve this thing.”
“I can’t do that. That’s not how computers work. I’m not a wizard.”
“Really? Don’t virgins turn into wizards at age thirty?”
“It’s age forty, which I’m not. And I’m not a virgin,” I snap.
Several people look at me askance.
I lower my voice. “I have had sex before.”
Willow slow claps. “Good for you.”
“And I’m going to have it again.”
“With Mrs. Cabot?”
I don’t like her shit-eating grin. I step back.
“Be careful. My granny claims she gave everyone at the yacht club gonorrhea. Also, crap.” She turns and heads back into the station.
“What are you—”
“Hey, Bobby! Let Gran out of the cell, please.”
Bobby shuffles.
“Bobby,” she warns. “Now. I have things to do today, and I’m not coming back down here by the time you actually process her.”
“You have to pay bail.”
“Do you want me to rescind the invite to her ugly-sweater party?”
“Can I have a cookie?”
Willow sighs and hands over the box.
His keys jingle as he opens the cell door.
Her grandmother, Beryl, yawns and smacks her lips. “Partied a little too hard.” She winks at me. “Ding-dong, Jonah is dead,” she hums.