I swallowed. News sure traveled fast in this town.
Marge nodded. “Thank you for telling me.” She returned her suspicious gaze to me.
I gave her my most charming smile. “I love your sweater, Madam Detective. Perfect for the season. But then your sweaters always are.”
“I appreciate it, I do have fun picking them out,” she replied without cracking a grin. “You were leaving the festival, you say?”
Clearly, charm wouldn’t derail her. “Yes.”
“And you came straight home afterward?”
“Not straight home,” I hedged.
“Where did you go?”
“I dropped Lydia off at her home.”
“Your wife?” Her eyebrows climbed high enough to need oxygen. “You mean you dropped her off at the Bennets’ home? Isn’t this her home now that you’re married?”
I shoved my hands into my pockets and tried not to appear like the sort of man who hides things—like guilt. “She’s staying with the Bennets.”
“Any particular reason?” she pressed, leaning in as if the answer might be whispered from my pores. “Marital spat? Mysterious illness? Sudden hatred of your decor? I hear your wallpaper is quite… loud.”
“Personal reasons,” I said stiffly.
She scribbled something in her notebook. “Mm. Personal. That’s what my first boyfriend said right before he joined a meditation commune in Vermont. You sure she’s not in Vermont?”
“Pretty sure,” I muttered. “She hates maple syrup.”
Marge wrote again in her notebook. “Mm-hmm, okay. Would you like us to leave a police officer at your house for a few hours? Just in case?”
“No,” I blurted. I brushed my hands over my clothes, willing my nerves to calm. “That won’t be necessary. But thank you.”
She paused and squinted at me, then said, “If you spot anything questionable around, will you inform us?”
I nodded, just wanting them to leave so I might think for a moment. “I will.”
“Have a pleasant night, Mr. Wickham.”
She hurried over to Mr. Rothschild, who still waved his arms and spoke too loudly. “I told you something nefarious was taking place here. Those figures were up to no good.”
“And what do you want me to do about it? They clearly aren’t here now,” Marge replied.
“We live in a magical town. Can’t you use your witchy powers to find out what happened?”
“Go home, Reginald,” she stated.
I gave a final wave to the police and Mr. Rothschild as I entered my townhome and shut the door. I leaned against the wood and let out a sigh of relief. The light smell of pine accosted me from the scented sticks I’d put on my fake Christmas tree that still sat in the corner of the front room. Those sticks certainly lasted a long time. I ran a hand over my face to calm my nerves. Moving the body seemed to have deflected suspicion from me for now. But who knew how long it would last?
And what did it all mean? Someone was trying to expose me. Perhaps my sire wanted to punish me from a distance. Maybe it was a threat of the potential consequences for those who were vulnerable around me if I exposed the vampire world to humans and fae. I didn’t want to do that, but maybe the vampires I knew were unaware of that.
I needed to discover what was going on and who was behind this.
Or who knew what could happen next?
I checked my watch. Visiting hours for prisoners at the nearby prison started at 9:00 a.m., and I planned on being there as soon as it opened.
I walked up to the lady at the counter in the waiting area of the prison. Besides being locked up for being a vampire, my sire also faced murder charges, which reinforced the stigma against vampires.
