“Could be the same lights—”
“What are you doing in here?”
We jump.
Hughes jostles one of the little houses, and he curses as he sets it back in place.
“Hey, Gideon. Just delivering some mail that got mixed up with mine.” I wave the envelopes.
He snatches them from me without even saying thank you. “It’s just junk mail,” Gideon mutters and dumps them in the small trash can next to the ancient cash register.
“So, has business picked up for you since the murder?” I rock in my boots.
“Why, you after my stall too?” he snaps.
“What, me? No, I can barely take care of my own. Just trying to get a little solidarity going with a fellow stall owner affected by the tragedy.”
“Not a tragedy. This town is better off without Jonah Merriweather.” Gideon scowls.
“What makes you say that?” Hughes asks.
Gideon just glares at him.
“You and Taylor Grace aren’t going to pin his death on me!” he hollers. “Get out! Out! I’m not the only one who hated Jonah Merriweather. You need to leave me and my shop alone!”
“Well, that went better than expected,” I say when we’re back in the Christmas market.
“I’ll say.” Hughes whistles and pulls out a stack of mail.
“Where did you get that? Did you steal that? What kind of PI are you?” I hiss.
“The kind who solves cases.” Hughes grins.
“Oh my gosh.”
“Do you want to know what’s in them or not?” He waves the mail at me.
In my stall, Hughes takes out a knife and slices open the top envelope on the stack of mail.
“What is it?”
“A late notice.” He frowns. “Credit card bill due. Rent due.”
“So he’s prickly because he can’t pay his bills.”
“Maybe. He should start charging for photos if he’s worried about cash.” Hughes nods to several girls taking photos in front of the stall. “I mean—” He shows me an Instagram feed. “People literally come to this town just to visit his stall and don’t buy anything.”
“Yeah, but what does that have to do with the murder?” I cross my arms.
Hughes shrugs. “Maybe Jonah wanted that stall spot?” he muses.
“To run his therapy stand? It doesn’t make any sense. It’s a dead end,” I argue.
“But the lights match,” Hughes reminds me.
“Might match. Anyways, this is a waste of time,” I huff. “Thanks for nothing.”
“Traitor!” someone shrieks. “You’re a stain on this Christmas market!”
