Chapter 21 Willow
WILLOW
An earring, a bracelet, and odd-smelling leaves. All clues from two different murder scenes near or at places that I own.
“What does it mean?” I whisper to the items laid out on the counter of the shop. I’m waiting for the last batch of cookies to finish baking so I can take them to the Christmas market stall.
Could someone be trying to frame me? Why are both murders connected to me? Not to mention the only person who would have any logical reason to frame me is currently in the morgue.
I pack the cookies into a basket, drape it with a towel, and head out into the Christmas market.
I’ll open the shop tomorrow. I guess.
All while in business with Taylor Grace, I fantasized about quitting, about running away to Tokyo or something and just leaving the business to rot. Now that she’s out of the picture? Well, this might just be a merry Christmas after all.
“I really shouldn’t be so evil,” I remind myself.
Taylor Grace was my friend before she showed her true colors. Thinking ill of the dead could come back to bite me.
Still guilty, I start mentally calculating the numbers now that I don’t have to pay her any more money.
“I’m free!”
Around me, I hear whispers, feel the stares.
Realizing I’m smiling, I force myself to look, not sad—that might be a stretch—but at least unhappy. I don’t want the townspeople to think I’ve committed a double homicide.
Rose is in the stall. “Oh my gosh, perfect!” she squeals when I set the cookies on the counter. “I was about to get eaten alive by influencers.”
I stare down at the case.
Rose giggles.
“I made a little change and upped the prices.”
“Murder Munchies cookie?” I read the card.
“We didn’t have that many, so it’s supply and demand.” Rose flips her hair.
“Double Chocolate Homicide?” I groan. “People are going to think that we had something to do with the murder—that I had something to do with it.”
“Everyone else is profiting off of it, and now that Taylor Grace is gone—praise the queen of karma herself!” Rose rummages through the cookies. “I’m calling these Willow’s Revenge.”
“No, you are not.”
A headache is settling behind my eyes as I step back out into the snowy Christmas market. This is getting out of hand. I have to find some more clues, more evidence to point me in the direction of the murderer. But first I need something to eat.
After waiting in line for thirty minutes—gasp—I have a piping hot Mistletoe Melt. The thick-cut rosemary sourdough, buttered and grilled golden, holds Brie cheese, cranberry chutney, and roasted turkey breast hash with a drizzle of aioli.
My first stop is the jewelry stalls.
Actually, my first stop is one of the apple cider stalls. Sipping the steaming hot drink, I plot out what I’m going to say to weasel some information out of one of the jewelers.
After cosplaying an interested customer, I spy a jeweler who has wares most similar to the bracelet I’ve found. I hover, waiting for the customers to trail out, then I approach the counter.
“Hi!” I try to sound bubbly. “I wanted to see if you knew who might be able to make a bracelet like one I borrowed from a friend.” I fumble the chain out and extend it on my mitten.
“Where did you get this?” the stall owner demands.
“Um—”
“It’s a custom piece. For a billionaire. I made this for Mace Svensson. It is very expensive. How do you have it?” she demands.
I tuck my chin down into the scarf. “Oh, well, yes, I am friends with his wife, so—”
“If you were already friends with her, why do you need to ask around to see who crafted it?” The jewelry stall owner doesn’t seem convinced. “I’m calling the Christmas cops.”
“No need!” I yelp. “I’m actually going to go meet her now. Bye!”
I jog out of the stall then run blindly through the crowd, dodging a Christmas cop on a big horse snorting in the cold and almost running into a lady selling Christmas cheer cups from a small cart.
“Watch it!”
“Sorry, Noelle.”
I keep jogging, though not very far. I lurch to a stop and double over next to a stall, coughing and out of breath, hoping that no Christmas cops are after me.
I suck in air. I really shouldn’t have eaten that sandwich before trying to do physical exertion.
Ah, who am I kidding? I’m just generally out of shape.
I peer at the ground. Another dead end. Josie is forgetful. She must have dropped the bracelet in my shop. But why hasn’t she asked about it? She has a lot of jewelry. She probably didn’t realize.
Mace, though—he’s meticulous. He’s always watching after her. He would notice if she left with a bracelet then didn’t come home with it. When she and I are out, he often comes by with something Josie’s forgotten.
“It’s a mistake or a misunderstanding,” I tell myself firmly.
Josie’s not the murderer, right?
She was late to the party…
“She’s not a murderer. I’m hungry and tired.
Well, maybe not that hungry.” I suck in air through my nose, trying not to sound like I’m dying, when I smell it—a familiar, pungent, spicy, sour, herby smell.
Just like the leaves I found in my shop.
Sniffing the air, I follow the smell through the market.
There are fewer tourists in this part of the market, farther from the ice rink and oversized Christmas tree. I plod along slowly, trying not to lose the thread of the scent. Is it coming from someplace closer to the Main Street market entrance or by the general store?
“…be thankful that she’s gone,” a man says in a low voice.
I carefully step toward the little pocket seating area festooned with Christmas garlands and trees and tiny tables with candles in glass vases.
“…can’t let anyone find out. We’ll go to jail forever.”
“…one will find out…”
“…she had it coming… good she’s dead.”
I peer around a Christmas tree and see Lydia and her husband, heads bent.
Oh my god. I back away, trying to disappear as quickly and quietly as possible back into the warren of Christmas market stalls. Did they kill Taylor Grace? Are Lydia and her husband the murderers? But what about Jonah?
Maybe Lydia was pissed Jonah was enabling Taylor Grace, they got into an argument, Travis came to her rescue, and bam—Jonah was dead.
Travis is strong enough to hoist Jonah’s body.
Then Taylor Grace went even crazier, and bang—she died too.
But Travis has a good job at Svensson PharmaTech.
Would he really risk it all to murder someone?
Maybe Lydia murdered her sister, and Travis just covered it up. I don’t know. I’ve never been in love. But I wonder if a man could ever love me enough to cover up a murder for me.
I’m lost in thought. Then it hits me. The smell. So pungent it makes me sneeze. I don’t have any trouble following it to a small storage shed at the back of a stall. Heart pounding, I check the door. It’s unlocked. I ease it open. I’m just going to stick my head inside…
“Aah!”
Someone shoves me, and I fall in, scraping my hands.
“Hey!” Scrambling up, I rush to the door, push, kick, try to get it open. But it’s locked. Dammit.
The murderer—it has to be. Was it Travis and Lydia? Did they see me?
I scroll through my phone. I don’t want to call 911 and tip the murderers off that I’m onto them. I call Hughes. No answer. Then I call Josie. No answer. Gran? No answer.
“Why doesn’t anyone answer their phone?” I fume, giving the door another kick.
Then I smell something burning…