Chapter 12 Hughes
HUGHES
“We need a list of all his patients,” I tell Willow. “Did you see one in his office? Or, like, a schedule book or anything?”
Willow shakes her head. “The police must have taken it.”
“It’s probably on his phone, which is missing.”
“Jonah seems a little too old-school for that,” Willow counters. “He seems like he writes things down with a fountain pen.”
We flip through the photos I took of the office just to verify we didn’t miss the appointment book.
“Did you see patient files or anything?”
“They could be at his house.”
“Or at the police station.”
Winston Girthman pats his belly when we walk in.
“Did you make more of that tater tot hot chicken casserole, Willow?” he asks hopefully.
“No, but I can if you do us a favor,” she coaxes.
“Oh. I hope it’s not the medical examiner’s report.”
“We were looking for patient files, but there’s a report?”
“Well, we got the medical examiner to look at the body after he got back from his cruise, and he thinks it wasn’t electrocution, but he’s not sure. They will send it to the county, however.”
“So not an electrocution.”
“Could still be a hanging.” Winston beams. “Suck it, fire department!” He shakes his fist.
“Speaking of the cause of death… we wanted to see if you all logged an appointment book into evidence,” I say.
“I really shouldn’t be giving it to you.” Winston squirms.
“I’ll give you cookies at my shop for life,” Willow sings.
“For life?”
“The shop’s got five months tops, so good luck,” Willow mutters so only I can hear, though I’m not sure if she means it. “Sure! For life. A cookie a day.” Willow forces a smile.
“Or a cupcake?” Winston asks hopefully.
“Or a cupcake a day,” Willow amends.
“You’re still going to make those chocolate toffee ones, right?” Winston asks anxiously.
“I’ll bring you a whole box if you bring me that appointment book,” she promises.
“Shh, not so loud. Well, I’m happy to talk to you about your grandmother’s memory issues. Just right this way to my office—okay?” He leads us into a messy room packed with stuff.
“So, this is everything we took from Dr. Merriweather’s office,” he says.
Willow and I dig through the box.
There’s not much in there—a plastic plant, an old clock that doesn’t work, a book on Jung.
“Why did you take these things as evidence?” I look at Winston.
“We had to fill up the box.”
“Great.” I pull out the appointment book. “At least there’s that.”
Willow and I each start at one end of the appointment book, quickly photographing the pages with the lists of names.
I barely register them. Her head is almost touching mine.
Her hair tickles my cheek every time she turns a page, our fingers brushing as we hurry to collect the evidence, trying to photograph as many pages as we can before Winston tells us we have to go.
“Oh, shoot, the chief’s back from vacation early.” Winston jumps up. “You have to go.”
I grimace when we step back into the cold.
“I didn’t get all of the pages.” Willow adjusts her scarf.
“We have a pretty good list, though.”
We scroll through the photos as we stroll through the Christmas market.
“Well, here’s Taylor Grace, obviously. There’s Donna Reeves—she runs one of the ornament stalls, I think.”
“It would be helpful to know how he actually died,” I muse.
“Hanging, you think?”
“If it’s hanging, Lenore couldn’t have done it, right?”
“Unless she had a helper.”
“Dr. Merriweather could have multiple affair partners.”
“She could have convinced someone to do it.” Willow blows out a breath and wraps her arms around herself.
“Hey, do you want to go grab—I was going to say coffee, but you’re probably tired of it. Maybe pizza and a beer, and we can look at our potential evidence?”
“Oh. I can’t.”
For some reason, I feel disappointed. Why? It’s not like I was asking her out. Or was I? That can’t be right.
“I have to go help Gran with the prep for the ugly-sweater party tomorrow,” she explains. “You’re coming, right?”
“I think I’d be drawn and quartered if I didn’t. I hear it’s the event of the holiday season.”
She reaches up to pat my chest then tug at the lapels of the too-thin trench coat. “Well, stay warm.”
“You don’t think…” I trail off.
“What?”
“Ah, never mind.”
“What?” she insists.
“Uh, just need to figure out where I’m going to live tonight.”
“You need to go to Costco and buy a garden shed.”
“Guess there’s not room enough for two?” I joke.
“Unless you really want to get cozy.”
Part of me wants to say I do.
“If you want—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—you can crash in my shop. If you want.”
“Really?”
“But you should bring a warm blanket. The ovens will come on at 3 a.m., but still.”
I don’t want to tell her what I was about to ask: Do you think our grandmothers could have had something to do with Dr. Merriweather’s murder after all?