“Next customer.”
“I need to pick up the mulled wine spice order. For the Christmas party,” Willow says. “Are you coming?”
“I hate Christmas.”
“There will be a bonfire.” Willow rocks on her heels.
A large burlap sack lands on the rough wood counter with a thud. I dutifully pick it up. The sharp scent of the spices tickles my nose.
“What, ah, how’s Lenore doing?” Willow winces.
“How should I know? We’re not friends.” Lilith takes the money Willow hands her. “I did offer her 20 percent off a Ouija board session to talk to her deceased husband.”
“Very generous of you.”
“We do what we can for our neighbors.”
“She didn’t say anything at all to you about who she thinks killed him?” Willow prods.
“Maybe she’ll say more at the funeral.”
“Are you going?” I ask. “I thought you weren’t friends.”
“Any excuse to attend a funeral.” She gives me a sharp smile.
“We’ll see you there, then.”
Willow and I race out of the spooky stall.
I look around outside. The fog from earlier is clearing. I’m turned around. “Wait.” I whirl.
It’s like the stall vanished. I stifle a curse.
“Guess we can cross Lenore off the list,” Willow says, chewing her bottom lip.
“Her grief could just be a ruse,” I argue. “We need to see how much she benefits from his death, if she was cheating on him, you know. I mean, the man died, what, less than twenty-four hours ago, and she’s out about town, doing her Christmas shopping? It’s suspicious.”
I shift the heavy bag, watching as Willow stares at my arms.
“Don’t worry, I won’t drop it.”
“Just leave it, Taylor Grace. She doesn’t want to,” someone declares loudly.
I take off after Willow to a small seating area decorated with garlands. It would be picturesque, the perfect cozy pocket away from the holiday madness of the Christmas market—except that there are several screaming children, an exasperated pregnant woman, a drunk husband, and of course, Taylor Grace.
“She really is crazy.”
“You’re just figuring that out?”
Willow and I huddle next to a large snowman sandwich signboard.
“I’m her auntie.” Taylor Grace tugs at the five-year-old girl having a tantrum on the ground. “She wants to go shopping with me. Make her stop crying!”
“For God’s sake, Lydia, do something about your crazy sister,” Travis demands, hand over his phone.
“This is why I didn’t want to have kids with you,” Damien says loudly, stomping up. “And you better keep an eye on her,” he tells Lydia, who’s trying to wrangle her kids while her husband complains to someone on the phone. “I bet Taylor’s having an affair with him.” He points at Travis.
“You never support me,” Taylor Grace sobs to her sister. “Everyone likes you better than me. It’s always ‘How can we help Lydia?’ ‘What can we do to make Lydia’s life easier?’ No one ever takes care of me.”
