Around me, I hear whispers, feel the stares.
Realizing I’m smiling, I force myself to look, not sad—that might be a stretch—but at least unhappy. I don’t want the townspeople to think I’ve committed a double homicide.
Rose is in the stall. “Oh my gosh, perfect!” she squeals when I set the cookies on the counter. “I was about to get eaten alive by influencers.”
I stare down at the case.
Rose giggles.
“I made a little change and upped the prices.”
“Murder Munchies cookie?” I read the card.
“We didn’t have that many, so it’s supply and demand.” Rose flips her hair.
“Double Chocolate Homicide?” I groan. “People are going to think that we had something to do with the murder—that I had something to do with it.”
“Everyone else is profiting off of it, and now that Taylor Grace is gone—praise the queen of karma herself!” Rose rummages through the cookies. “I’m calling these Willow’s Revenge.”
“No, you are not.”
A headache is settling behind my eyes as I step back out into the snowy Christmas market. This is getting out of hand. I have to find some more clues, more evidence to point me in the direction of the murderer. But first I need something to eat.
After waiting in line for thirty minutes—gasp—I have a piping hot Mistletoe Melt. The thick-cut rosemary sourdough, buttered and grilled golden, holds Brie cheese, cranberry chutney, and roasted turkey breast hash with a drizzle of aioli.
My first stop is the jewelry stalls.
Actually, my first stop is one of the apple cider stalls. Sipping the steaming hot drink, I plot out what I’m going to say to weasel some information out of one of the jewelers.
After cosplaying an interested customer, I spy a jeweler who has wares most similar to the bracelet I’ve found. I hover, waiting for the customers to trail out, then I approach the counter.
“Hi!” I try to sound bubbly. “I wanted to see if you knew who might be able to make a bracelet like one I borrowed from a friend.” I fumble the chain out and extend it on my mitten.
“Where did you get this?” the stall owner demands.
“Um—”
“It’s a custom piece. For a billionaire. I made this for Mace Svensson. It is very expensive. How do you have it?” she demands.
I tuck my chin down into the scarf. “Oh, well, yes, I am friends with his wife, so—”
“If you were already friends with her, why do you need to ask around to see who crafted it?” The jewelry stall owner doesn’t seem convinced. “I’m calling the Christmas cops.”
“No need!” I yelp. “I’m actually going to go meet her now. Bye!”
I jog out of the stall then run blindly through the crowd, dodging a Christmas cop on a big horse snorting in the cold and almost running into a lady selling Christmas cheer cups from a small cart.
“Watch it!”
“Sorry, Noelle.”
I keep jogging, though not very far. I lurch to a stop and double over next to a stall, coughing and out of breath, hoping that no Christmas cops are after me. I suck in air. I really shouldn’t have eaten that sandwich before trying to do physical exertion. Ah, who am I kidding? I’m just generally out of shape.
I peer at the ground. Another dead end. Josie is forgetful.She must have dropped the bracelet in my shop.But why hasn’t she asked about it? She has a lot of jewelry. She probably didn’t realize.
Mace, though—he’s meticulous. He’s always watching after her. He would notice if she left with a bracelet then didn’t come home with it. When she and I are out, he often comes by with something Josie’s forgotten.
“It’s a mistake or a misunderstanding,” I tell myself firmly.
