Josie’s not the murderer, right?
She was late to the party…
“She’s not a murderer. I’m hungry and tired. Well, maybe not that hungry.” I suck in air through my nose, trying not to sound like I’m dying, when I smell it—a familiar, pungent, spicy, sour, herby smell. Just like the leaves I found in my shop. Sniffing the air, I follow the smell through the market.
There are fewer tourists in this part of the market, farther from the ice rink and oversized Christmas tree. I plod along slowly, trying not to lose the thread of the scent. Is it coming from someplace closer to the Main Street market entrance or by the general store?
“…be thankful that she’s gone,” a man says in a low voice.
I carefully step toward the little pocket seating area festooned with Christmas garlands and trees and tiny tables with candles in glass vases.
“…can’t let anyone find out. We’ll go to jail forever.”
“…one will find out…”
“…she had it coming… good she’s dead.”
I peer around a Christmas tree and see Lydia and her husband, heads bent.
Oh my god. I back away, trying to disappear as quickly and quietly as possible back into the warren of Christmas marketstalls. Did they kill Taylor Grace? Are Lydia and her husband the murderers? But what about Jonah?
Maybe Lydia was pissed Jonah was enabling Taylor Grace, they got into an argument, Travis came to her rescue, and bam—Jonah was dead. Travis is strong enough to hoist Jonah’s body. Then Taylor Grace went even crazier, and bang—she died too. But Travis has a good job at Svensson PharmaTech. Would he really risk it all to murder someone?
Maybe Lydia murdered her sister, and Travis just covered it up. I don’t know. I’ve never been in love. But I wonder if a man could ever love me enough to cover up a murder for me.
I’m lost in thought. Then it hits me. The smell. So pungent it makes me sneeze. I don’t have any trouble following it to a small storage shed at the back of a stall. Heart pounding, I check the door. It’s unlocked. I ease it open. I’m just going to stick my head inside…
“Aah!”
Someone shoves me, and I fall in, scraping my hands.
“Hey!” Scrambling up, I rush to the door, push, kick, try to get it open. But it’s locked. Dammit.
The murderer—it has to be. Was it Travis and Lydia? Did they see me?
I scroll through my phone. I don’t want to call 911 and tip the murderers off that I’m onto them. I call Hughes. No answer. Then I call Josie. No answer. Gran? No answer.
“Why doesn’t anyone answer their phone?” I fume, giving the door another kick.
Then I smell something burning…
22
HUGHES
“Help!” I hear again, faint over the wind.
It takes me a second to figure out where the cries are coming from as I turn through the twisting, narrow pathways of stalls crammed into the Christmas market.
“Help!”
I’m closer now, and I smell the smoke of something burning. I turn down a small alley behind the narrow rows of stalls.
A figure all in black slams into my shoulder as he runs past me.
“Hey!” I call out to him.
It’s dark. I can’t get a good look at him—just a flash of heavy black boots and canvas work pants. I have to make a decision: Follow the guy, or help whoever is calling for it? I race after the perp. Hoofbeats thud on the gravel path, and I’m almost mowed over by a huge black horse.
