Chapter 11 Willow
WILLOW
“She’s not coming?” I say in disbelief as I stare at the phone and Josie’s text message.
“Hey, Willow,” Hollis says from my elbow. “I wasn’t sure what you and Josie were bringing to the funeral—if it was savory or sweet. I brought some cookies I made with some leftover dough. Hope it’s okay. They’re sort of like pinwheel Santa’s kitchen sink cookies?”
“Josie’s not coming,” I tell her with a sigh. “Apparently, something came up with her husband and his family.”
“Dang, it’s the event of the holiday season. Guess I’ll have to be your girl Friday.” She giggles. “So, who are we investigating? Are we looking for clues?”
“Well.” I sigh. “Hughes and I already talked to Lenore.”
“Ooh, so there is a man on the horizon. Rose was wondering.”
“It’s not like that. And since when is Rose observant about anything?”
“Well, we should go talk to Lenore when there’s no men around. Then, you know, us women, we like to gossip.” Hollis giggles. “Also, she’s so deep in the sauce, she’ll tell you where all the bodies are buried.”
We head back over to the snack table so Hollis can set down the cookies. While she chats about the Jell-O salad Mrs. Rinaldi brought, I notice an elegant woman sifting through the dizzying array of casserole dishes. Something about her is familiar.
The woman’s eyes lock with mine for a moment. I glance away so she doesn’t think I’m staring. When I look back at the table, the young woman has disappeared.
“There she is.” Lenore gestures drunkenly with her wineglass. “Willow made those delicious cupcakes. She’s going to be in that baking contest next week, aren’t you, dear?”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Hollis says breathlessly. “Dr. Merriweather was—”
“A dick. A liar and a cheat.”
“Oh, you mean like he was having an affair?” Hollis’s voice drops.
“I’d bet my life on it,” she says. “He always hid his phone and laptop from me. No.” She gestures with her wineglass.
“I don’t care. I’m making bank off this.
Make sure, girls, that you take a life insurance policy out on your man as soon”—she snaps her fingers—“as you marry him. The biggest you can get. Because Mama needs to get paid. Thank you, karma!”
“How could you?”
The crowd parts.
There is Taylor Grace in a humongous black hat, complete with a veil and a skintight little black dress with a fake fur coat. “You… you witch!” Taylor Grace shrieks.
“Damn.” Lilith and her twin sister pull their sunglasses down, affronted.
“He was the only person keeping me sane. Jonah!” Taylor Grace lets out a wail. “Oh, Jonah.” She looks like she’s getting ready to throw herself over the coffin, except, of course, there is none, so she settles for collapsing on the floor in front of his photo.
Everyone gapes.
Taylor Grace’s foot catches the easel, sending something clattering to the floor. A little locomotive. It rolls over to us.
Lenore tries to kick it out of the way, misses, then curses.
“Did Jonah like trains?” I ask, thinking of Gideon.
“Ugh, the trains. I hate them.” She drains her wine glass. “The whole house is filled with them. No. Jonah kept them for his father. He had daddy issues. Probably why he became a therapist in the first place.”
Her friend refills her glass.
“I told that weirdo in the market he could have them all. Serves my husband right. He kept thinking they were worth money because his father said so. Like I’m going to waste my time trying to sell them when I have this life insurance payout.”
“Wait, the weirdo at the market—you mean Gideon?”
“Oh, is that his name?” She sniffs. “Do you know if he does yard work? I want to dig up the stupid Christmas tree my late husband planted in the yard one year. Idiot.”
“You need to make more of those Santa’s kitchen sink cookies,” I tell Hollis. “They were weirdly a big hit at the funeral.”
She beams.
I stack the last of the boxes on the dolly to take to the Christmas market stall.
I text Josie again to see if she wants to meet me at the stall at some point so I can fill her in on the funeral from yesterday.
But as I’m walking to the door, I see a flash of red hair.
There’s Josie and Lydia with their kids, walking and chatting and laughing.
But they don’t come into my shop—they just walk right on by.
I see Josie pull out her phone, read my text, then put her phone away. I’m crushed.
“She’s extremely ADD and forgetful,” I remind myself. But still, it stings.
“Yeah, she’s got kids now. That’s what happens,” Hollis says, appearing next to me.
“Josie is like those moms who just don’t really get along with non-moms. Taylor Grace had that problem with Lydia.
Not that I’m judging anyone. I guess we just need to get husbands and babies!
” She giggles. “Or you need a new friend circle. Don’t worry.
I’ll be your bestie! I’ll be over in a bit with those cookies.
Have a post ready to go for the socials. ”
I plod through the Christmas market, trying to focus on the murder so I don’t focus on my imploding friendship.
Is Hollis right? Are we growing irreparably apart?
Should I just go get knocked up by a Christmas tourist so I have something in my life to be proud of?
Then Josie and I could hang out. But she has a rich man supporting her.
I would have what? Gran and her illegal Airbnb scheme?
“There you are!” Hughes impatiently grabs the dolly handle from me and practically sprints to my stall. “I have something to show you. Hurry up.”
“I have to put these cookies out.”
He grabs a pair of gloves and starts stacking cookies, cupcakes, cake pops, and other sweets in the glass cases to entice Christmas market visitors. “So, you know about the Christmas committee and the Christmas cops, right?”
“Yeah, everyone loves a man on horseback. Their legs spread like that… drool.”
His face goes red, and I snort.
“Is that payback for me accidentally—accidentally”—he holds up a finger—“seeing you change yesterday?”
“You never did apologize,” I tease.
“Well, Ms. Price”—his voice lowers to a delicious growl—“I’m ashamed to say, I am very sorry for spying on you. Inadvertently. But what I have here will make it up to you.”
“Will it?”
“Okay, so,” he says excitedly as he fans out the copies on the counter, “here are all the complaints Jonah Merriweather made to the Christmas committee.”
“All of these”—my eyebrows rise—“are his complaints?”
“Yeah, since Thanksgiving.”
“There’s, like, hundreds.”
“Mostly about short-term Airbnb rentals.”
“You better not be about to accuse my granny of murder,” I warn.
“No way!” He holds up his hands. “Then I’d be implicating my own as well. Stupid Airbnbs. Maybe Jonah was onto something. I still need to find a place to crash tonight.” He sighs. “Anyway—but no. Look here.” He pushes three sheets toward me.
“Jonah lodged several complaints against Gideon for trying to sell non-model-train-related items. Looks like Gideon submitted a request to sell cookies?”
“He can’t sell cookies. I sell cookies.” I shake my head. “No. He’d just go buy some shit from Costco to sell. He doesn’t know how to bake.”
“In that, you and Dr. Merriweather agree.”
“Broken clock,” I quip.
“Well, you better file a complaint, then, because Gideon has already”—he shoves more papers at me—“asked for a review of his proposal. He wants to sell Christmas train–themed cookies. And according to the old lady at city hall who slapped my butt, the committee is probably going to approve his request—unless you make a stink or Jonah rises from his snowy grave.”
“So this is it.” I lean against the stall. “You did it. You solved it.”
“Hmm?”
“You solved the murder.”
“I mean, it’s a pretty good theory,” he preens.
“No, like, Gideon killed Jonah. We thought it was because Jonah is perhaps having an affair with Taylor Grace, who Gideon apparently had a thing with, but this is a very clear motive. He had reason to want him dead, profited off his death, and had the means and opportunity to kill him.”
“So are we going to the police?”
“No.” I grab my phone. “We need a confession first.”
“A confession?” Hughes hisses, ducking out of the stall after me. “We can’t just go confront a potential murderer.”
“I’m not letting the police ruin this investigation. I need my name cleared right now. Gideon!”
He jumps when we enter his stall. It smells even mustier than it did the first time.
“Can I—” He looks up at Hughes, who is tall and menacing behind me in his trench coat, the hat low over his eyes. Gideon gulps. “Help you?” he squeaks.
“I want a confession.” I shake the papers at him. “I know what you did. I know what you’re doing, and you need to confess to your crimes,” I thunder.
“I didn’t do anything.” Gideon looks like he’s going to make a run for it.
Hughes grabs him by the collar and shakes him roughly. “Tell the truth, or we’ll drag you down to the precinct right now.”
“Okay.” Gideon starts sobbing. “Okay, don’t hurt me. God. It’s probably better that it’s all over.”
Hughes dumps him onto his stool.
“I can’t take the guilt anymore. It’s killing me. This whole thing was a mistake.”
“So you’re saying Jonah’s death was an accident?”
Hughes gives me a strange look. “His what? I thought you were here about the model train fraud.”
“The what?”
Hughes sags on his stool. “There’s no money in model trains.
Hasn’t been since the mid-’90s at least. Oh sure, you can sell some of the older special-edition models from the ’40s to the ’60s online, but you don’t get anywhere near the money you got when my great-uncle ran this place.
” He looks around wistfully. “Model train enthusiasts are a dying breed.”
“Well, it’s good to have a hobby.”
“It’s not my hobby. I hate model trains,” he says vehemently.
“All the old people in town think I love them, though, so people are constantly gifting me their model train sets, willing me their model train sets, or dumping the model train sets of their deceased relatives on me. Sure, people like to look at the Christmas sets in the winter, but no one wants to pay to see them. The city throws me a few bones every winter to set up model train sets in the city hall, and some businesses want them for the winter, but it doesn’t pay the stall fees or my shop fees.
” Gideon looks dejected. “Jonah thought he could do a better job at it than I could. He thought I was purposefully not selling the trains so I could make money on the internet. But that’s not how it works! ”
“So what’s the fraud?” Hughes asks, confused.
Gideon sighs and pulls out his phone. He pauses then gives in and shoves the phone at Hughes. “This is how I make money.”
On the screen is a slow-motion video of a miniature train in a miniature town. Then, suddenly, the train blows up. There’s a soundtrack of screaming.
“Oh my god.” Hughes laughs. “You make these videos? I’ve seen these all over the internet. I love these videos. They’re crazy!”
“Yes. I blow up model trains for money.” Gideon starts crying.
“And Jonah found out, so you killed him?” I’m still hopeful we can solve this mystery.
“God, no. I have enough money saved up and enough trains in storage to stop maintaining this stall. It’s just the guilt…”
“But the missing train from his office—”
“He doesn’t keep trains in his office,” Gideon says impatiently.
“They’re all at his house. His wife is dumping them all on me.
It’s guilt, you see. People’s parents, grandparents, uncles loved their trains, and they want to think that they’re going to a good home.
Jonah found my videos. He recognized one of the sets.
Apparently, his dad made it and gave it to a friend.
That video did get me a small bourbon sponsorship, though.
” He sits back down. “I can’t keep living the lie. ”
“Oh, but everyone loves the Christmas train sets.”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s the small-town charm. Do you know how demoralizing it is to have people stop at your shop, take a photo, then leave? I can’t afford to hire anyone, so I just have to sit here.” He kicks a shelf.
“Well, it seems like you knew Jonah fairly well,” I finally segue awkwardly. “Do you know who killed him?”
Gideon shrugs.
“Do you know who he might have been having an affair with?”
“Like, all of his female patients.”
“All of…”
Hughes and I look at each other.
“So we could have a whole other list of suspects.”