“It seems random for him to kill Jonah. I mean, didn’t Hughes just get into town? Why kill a random therapist?”
“I don’t know. Because he has a personality disorder?”
Hughes is lurking in a corner, his fedora low over his head, the trench coat swishing around him as he surveys thetownspeople in my café. Already, several people are looking at me, pointing and whispering. Taylor Grace is bad-mouthing me all over town. I know it.
“Taylor Grace is probably the one who killed Jonah,” Josie says.
“Yeah, she would do something like that just to pin it on me because she hates me and wants to ruin my life.”
I set two plates of Midnight Snow Cake—dark chocolate sponge with shimmering edible silver dust and snowflake sugar lace—and two cups of our dark roast Christmas Night coffee onto a tray.
Do I really think Taylor Grace killed Dr. Merriweather? I wonder as I head out to the seating area. I mean, I’m not sure I believe that she didn’tnotkill him.
But who else can it be? Aside from Hughes. He might be too incompetent to commit murder. And if he is, the police will figure it out, surely.
“Don’t think anyone will connect it to us…”
“Orders up!”
“Oh!” The two elderly women jump.
“Talking about the murder?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Just my upcoming ugly-sweater party, Willow. You need to come help us set up. Don’t forget.”
“And you’re making your poinsettia petal cookies, aren’t you?” Mary Lou asks me.
“Of course.”
“Fabulous. This will be the best party we’ve had in years.”
“Yeah, it’s going to top the one when Graham spiked the punch and confessed he was in love with the comptroller’s wife.” Mary Lou snickers.
“My stove never did work right after he shot it up.” Gran slaps the table.
“I need to go see if the police will let me back to my stall,” I tell Josie, taking off my apron.
“I should probably go find my child.” She looks longingly at the freshly made sugarplum truffles. “Can we trade chocolate for a little help in the shop?”
“Go for it. Though Hollis can come help once she’s done with the snow-globe truffles.”
“Almost got them, just adding the finishing touch!” my employee calls.
I load up Lord Mycroft into his basket and set out into the wintry night with a broom and some cleaning supplies. The crunch of heavy boots in the snow lets me know I’m not alone.
My lips flatten. “Do you not have a job?”
“This is my—”
“No, I mean a real job.”
Hughes’s stride lengthens to catch up to me. “I’m retired.”
“Bullshit. You’re like twelve.”
