Chapter 8 Hughes
HUGHES
Idon’t know why I hugged her. Probably because I’m terrible and awkward at flirting.
Willow looks at me like I have three heads.
I laugh, trying to play it off as a joke as I release her. “You can’t tell me you don’t think I look great in the trench coat.”
“At least you’re not wearing it with sweatpants.” Her eyes slide down my body to my boots. “At least I assume there aren’t sweatpants under there.”
“I’d open this up and show you, but I’m actually very close to freezing to death here.”
“I knew it!” she crows. “I knew you were cold. The Trekhaven is on First Avenue. They have warm coats.”
“My nana bought me a coat, but it’s bright red,” I complain to her. “And it has a matching hood. I’ll look like ski patrol.”
“Then buy your own coat, asshole.” She laughs.
“You don’t know my nana. If I show up in a new coat, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Oh my gosh.”
“Oh come on, if your granny bought you a gift and then you went out and bought an identical one, she’d be ticked,” I protest.
“No, actually, I think she’d be very happy if I came home with a new sex toy.”
I double over laughing. “Stop, you’re pulling my leg. Your own grandmother bought you a sex toy?”
“Shh!” She giggles. “Not so loud, this is a family-friendly event.”
“What kind of sex toy? I mean, like, what does that even mean? Like a dildo?”
“Yeah, it’s called Santa’s Beast and—”
I collapse, hand over my mouth, against a speaker pole. “You’re lying!” I grab her arm, and she hauls me up. “You’re lying. That’s horrible.”
“I know, right?”
I almost—almost—ask her if she’s actually used it, but that would be really awkward.
“Ah, young love. How revolting.”
“Lilith, heyyy!” Willow waves to a pale-skinned young woman with long raven black hair and dark, soulless eyes.
I shiver, and not from my poor clothing choices.
Lilith’s dark eyes bore into mine for an excruciatingly long moment, then she turns back to her customer. “Steep these leaves for five minutes in boiling water,” she instructs, handing over a sachet of parchment paper.
I stare at the older woman.
Lenore Merriweather.
“Hi, Mrs. Merriweather. I’m so sorry for your loss,” Willow says, going in for a hug, thinking better of it, then patting Lenore awkwardly on the shoulder. “Gran is making quiche lorraine for you.”
The widow stares at Willow. Her face is splotchy and red. She looks like she’s about to faint. “I hate quiche.” Then, silently, she turns and hurries away.
Willow tugs on her sweater collar.
Next to me, a black cat seems to materialize out of nowhere and meows loudly.
“Next customer.”
“I need to pick up the mulled wine spice order. For the Christmas party,” Willow says. “Are you coming?”
“I hate Christmas.”
“There will be a bonfire.” Willow rocks on her heels.
A large burlap sack lands on the rough wood counter with a thud. I dutifully pick it up. The sharp scent of the spices tickles my nose.
“What, ah, how’s Lenore doing?” Willow winces.
“How should I know? We’re not friends.” Lilith takes the money Willow hands her. “I did offer her 20 percent off a Ouija board session to talk to her deceased husband.”
“Very generous of you.”
“We do what we can for our neighbors.”
“She didn’t say anything at all to you about who she thinks killed him?” Willow prods.
“Maybe she’ll say more at the funeral.”
“Are you going?” I ask. “I thought you weren’t friends.”
“Any excuse to attend a funeral.” She gives me a sharp smile.
“We’ll see you there, then.”
Willow and I race out of the spooky stall.
I look around outside. The fog from earlier is clearing. I’m turned around. “Wait.” I whirl.
It’s like the stall vanished. I stifle a curse.
“Guess we can cross Lenore off the list,” Willow says, chewing her bottom lip.
“Her grief could just be a ruse,” I argue. “We need to see how much she benefits from his death, if she was cheating on him, you know. I mean, the man died, what, less than twenty-four hours ago, and she’s out about town, doing her Christmas shopping? It’s suspicious.”
I shift the heavy bag, watching as Willow stares at my arms.
“Don’t worry, I won’t drop it.”
“Just leave it, Taylor Grace. She doesn’t want to,” someone declares loudly.
I take off after Willow to a small seating area decorated with garlands.
It would be picturesque, the perfect cozy pocket away from the holiday madness of the Christmas market—except that there are several screaming children, an exasperated pregnant woman, a drunk husband, and of course, Taylor Grace.
“She really is crazy.”
“You’re just figuring that out?”
Willow and I huddle next to a large snowman sandwich signboard.
“I’m her auntie.” Taylor Grace tugs at the five-year-old girl having a tantrum on the ground. “She wants to go shopping with me. Make her stop crying!”
“For God’s sake, Lydia, do something about your crazy sister,” Travis demands, hand over his phone.
“This is why I didn’t want to have kids with you,” Damien says loudly, stomping up. “And you better keep an eye on her,” he tells Lydia, who’s trying to wrangle her kids while her husband complains to someone on the phone. “I bet Taylor’s having an affair with him.” He points at Travis.
“You never support me,” Taylor Grace sobs to her sister. “Everyone likes you better than me. It’s always ‘How can we help Lydia?’ ‘What can we do to make Lydia’s life easier?’ No one ever takes care of me.”
“What about your creepy PI?” Lydia’s husband snaps, covering the phone speaker.
“Shoot.”
“Hughes!” Taylor rushes over to me.
“Hey, just, uh, was getting stuff for the Christmas party.”
“Oh, of course.” Her face screws up when she sees Willow. “Of course you’re sneaking around behind my back.” Her tone has this angry, hysterical edge. “You of all people. You can’t buy loyalty these days, apparently.”
Willow stands next to me, her mouth a thin line, like she’s struggling not to say anything.
“And you, you’re always trying to steal people’s things,” Taylor spits. “You’re trying to steal my man like you stole my company. Well, guess what? His penis doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to me.”
“What the—” I’m shocked.
“Taylor Grace!” Lydia claps her hands over her kids’ ears. “Can you watch your language?”
“Maybe you need to do a better job of being a mother. I can’t be expected to police what I’m saying,” her sister snaps.
“She’s not coming to Christmas if she acts like that!” Travis bellows.
“I have to go.” Willow grabs the sack of herb mix.
I watch her run off while Taylor Grace has a complete meltdown in the Christmas market. Yeah, Taylor definitely could have killed Dr. Merriweather. I need to find a way to talk to Lenore.