“You really think one of them could have done it? I mean, sure, I’ll look into the wife, but what motive would Gideon or Damien have?” I argue.
“The fact that Taylor Grace was sleeping with Jonah?”
“No way.”
“Dude, I know Taylor Grace way better than you. I would be shocked if she wasn’t sleeping with him, and if you think because she’s sleeping with you that she wouldn’t cheat—”
“She’s not sleeping with me.”
Willow makes a noise like she doesn’t believe me.
“Women she tries to turn into her bosom friends—to paraphraseAnne of Green Gables—and men she wants to turn into her daddy or her boyfriend. Probably both. Anyways, since you and the police are completely incompetent, apparently, I’ll have to go solve this murder.”
“You aren’t a licensed PI,” I protest.
“I’m going to talk to Gideon.”
“You’re just going to accost him? What if you spook him?” I argue, rushing after her.
“I’m not. I’m delivering his mail.”
“Me too.”
“No, you’re not.” She glares over her shoulder. “Go do your own investigation.”
5
WILLOW
Hughes follows me through the town square and around the murder tree to Gideon Cross’s stall. There’s still that unnerving smell of barbecue in the air. Gideon must have fixed the lights, though, because the tree glows merrily. Someone’s added a bow to cover up the bald spot where the body was.
“How can he afford a stall this close to the tree?” Hughes asks in a low voice.
“He inherited it, I think, like I did.”
“Who’d you inherit your stall from?”
“My dad inherited it from his grandfather. It’s not free, though. You still have to pay the fees. There’s a waiting list for my spot,” I explain.
The lights are on in Gideon’s stall. I loved this stall when I was a kid, with all the tiny train sets chugging along through the miniature town. I would always go visit Gideon’s great-uncle, who used to run it.
Now? The stall looks a little worn and tired. The miniature trains, trees, and little houses for sale for a train set at home are dusty with faded labels, like no one’s been buying them.
The train chugs around the track, but the village hasn’t been set up with as much care as when Gideon’s late great-uncle did it.
“Gideon!” I call. “Hello?”
I walk into the stall.
The lights on the main Christmas tree were oversized, but the ones wrapped around Dr. Merriweather—they were different, weren’t they? Shoot, I need to see some crime scene photos.
“Did you take photos of the corpse?” I ask Hughes, voice lowered.
“What?”
I point at the lights festooned around the tiny village.
He nods, pulls out his phone, and zooms in on the lights wrapped around Dr. Merriweather’s fried arm. They look very similar.
