“Lydia and her husband,” I add.
Hughes stares at the photos. “This is Maris?” He taps her photo.
“Yup.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
“The night of Taylor Grace’s murder… I saw her with what I now wonder might have been a bloodstain on her sweater.”
“The bloody coat,” I say to fill him in.
“Damn. I mean, she’s a suspect, then. Maris Dupuis? Taylor Grace ruined her business and ran her out of town. Shemysteriously comes back a few weeks before Taylor Grace is killed?” Hughes lets out a low whistle. “But who on this list would want to kill both Taylor Grace and Dr. Merriweather?”
“Maybe it’s two completely different murderers and they’re unrelated. Or—” I snap my fingers. “Maybe Lenore and Maris did a murder swap, like Maris killed Jonah and Lenore killed Taylor Grace, so they both have alibis and they both win.”
“Or—” Hughes puts Damien’s photo back on the wall. “We look at the people who have reason to kill both.”
I add Lenore’s photo. “These two are directly impacted by the affair and have the most to gain.”
“Damien doesn’t gain anything,” Hughes argues.
“But he thought he’d gain half a business. Don’t any of these people have alibis?” I ask.
“Maybe.” He pulls up his computer on the large TV on one wall. “I’ve written a script to troll the Harrogate tags on Facebook to see if we can pick up anyone. I ran it after Dr. Merriweather’s murder, and of course, everyone on this list was in the Christmas market and at the tree lighting during the time of the murder, so no alibi.”
I try not to be too impressed.
“And the night of Taylor Grace’s murder?” Hughes scrolls through the results that the program turned up. “Most of these people were at the Christmas party, though they could have murdered Taylor Grace right before or snuck out during the event.”
“We don’t have an exact time of death?”
“The coroner seemed overwhelmed when I brought him some sympathy jerky. He kept bitching that the mayor wanted him to perform the autopsy right now.”
“Is he really that backed up? How many deaths have happened in Harrogate?”
“Nope. He’s been renting out the morgue to Airbnb-ers and doesn’t want to evict them yet because he’ll be out the money.”
“This freaking town,” I mutter.
“Lenore posted that she was at home, which could have been fake. And Damien doesn’t show up in the photos, though that doesn’t mean he is in the clear.”
“Okay, move Damien back to the suspect side. Wait—” I hold up a hand as I type into my phone. “No, he’s clear.”
“What?”
I hold up my phone.
“#DrunksOfHgate?” Hughes reads the hashtag name.
“There’s Damien.” I point at a man lying next to a stall, his pants undone—while a tourist mugs for the camera to take a selfie.
“Maybe he went and drank after he killed Taylor Grace,” Hughes argues. “If anything, this is more evidence in my column. He stays a suspect.”
I glare at him. He’s staring at my chest.
I look down. Do a double take. “Crap.” I pull the robe closed. “Sorry, didn’t mean to flash you.”
