“You never did apologize,” I tease.
“Well, Ms. Price”—his voice lowers to a delicious growl—“I’m ashamed to say, I am very sorry for spying on you. Inadvertently. But what I have here will make it up to you.”
“Will it?”
“Okay, so,” he says excitedly as he fans out the copies on the counter, “here are all the complaints Jonah Merriweather made to the Christmas committee.”
“All of these”—my eyebrows rise—“are his complaints?”
“Yeah, since Thanksgiving.”
“There’s, like, hundreds.”
“Mostly about short-term Airbnb rentals.”
“You better not be about to accuse my granny of murder,” I warn.
“No way!” He holds up his hands. “Then I’d be implicating my own as well. Stupid Airbnbs. Maybe Jonah was onto something. I still need to find a place to crash tonight.” He sighs. “Anyway—but no. Look here.” He pushes three sheets toward me.
“Jonah lodged several complaints against Gideon for trying to sell non-model-train-related items. Looks like Gideon submitted a request to sell cookies?”
“He can’t sell cookies. I sell cookies.” I shake my head. “No. He’d just go buy some shit from Costco to sell. He doesn’t know how to bake.”
“In that, you and Dr. Merriweather agree.”
“Broken clock,” I quip.
“Well, you better file a complaint, then, because Gideon has already”—he shoves more papers at me—“asked for a review of his proposal. He wants to sell Christmas train–themed cookies. And according to the old lady at city hall who slapped my butt, the committee is probably going to approve his request—unless you make a stink or Jonah rises from his snowy grave.”
“So this is it.” I lean against the stall. “You did it. You solved it.”
“Hmm?”
“You solved the murder.”
“I mean, it’s a pretty good theory,” he preens.
“No, like, Gideon killed Jonah. We thought it was because Jonah is perhaps having an affair with Taylor Grace, who Gideon apparently had a thing with, but this is a very clear motive. He had reason to want him dead, profited off his death, and had the means and opportunity to kill him.”
“So are we going to the police?”
“No.” I grab my phone. “We need a confession first.”
“A confession?” Hughes hisses, ducking out of the stall after me. “We can’t just go confront a potential murderer.”
“I’m not letting the police ruin this investigation. I need my name cleared right now. Gideon!”
He jumps when we enter his stall. It smells even mustier than it did the first time.
“Can I—” He looks up at Hughes, who is tall and menacing behind me in his trench coat, the hat low over his eyes. Gideon gulps. “Help you?” he squeaks.
“I want a confession.” I shake the papers at him. “I know what you did. I know what you’re doing, and you need to confess to your crimes,” I thunder.
“I didn’t do anything.” Gideon looks like he’s going to make a run for it.
Hughes grabs him by the collar and shakes him roughly. “Tell the truth, or we’ll drag you down to the precinct right now.”
“Okay.” Gideon starts sobbing. “Okay, don’t hurt me. God. It’s probably better that it’s all over.”
