I tucked my hair under my slouchy red cap and made a sad face. “Me neither, but Stiles is pretty upset about it.”
He put a long-fingered hand on my shoulder and asked, “Are you okay? I could maybe see if the judges would allow you some time to catch up—”
“No!” I looked around and lowered my voice, trying not to appear so eager. “No. It’s okay. That wouldn’t be fair to the others who’ve worked so hard, to have to try and preserve their carvings while they wait on us.”
“Hmmm. That’s fair.” He slapped his hands against his thighs and gave me a sympathetic look with his gorgeous green eyes. “I’ll let this go for now, but don’t think I won’t be investigating, because I will. I don’t know if it was an accident or purposefully done. Either way, I’m going to look into it. You can bank on it.”
I couldn’t think of a single person who’d purposefully trash our pathetic sculptures, but he could look all he wanted. I was disappointed for Stiles. As for me? I had a sledding contest to see.
Stiles came around our table and waved a hand to Darien, his expression a little shy, which tickled me to death. He was crushing big, and it was sweet, but above all, it was nice to see him interested in someone since his last relationship had ended a while ago.
I decided to try and skip out and leave them alone in the hopes Darien would ask my Fitzi for a date. “Are you going to be okay, Stiles? Do you want me to stay with you? Maybe help you figure out who did this? Clean up?”
I really believed someone had accidentally knocked it over and they were too embarrassed to say so.
His shoulders sagged. “Nah. You go watch Hobbs in the sledding contest. I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll help him clean up,” Darien offered, his deep baritone voice pleasant to my ears.
I kept my sigh of relief inward, but I squeezed Darien’s arm and smiled. “You take good care of my guy, okay? I’ll be back to check on you in a little while.”
With a quick wave and a tug to Stephen King’s leash, I didn’t wait for an answer; I ran off to the bottom of the steep hill the sledders were preparing to race down.
Sidling up to Janice Carpenter in the gathering crowd, I smiled at her as I pulled my phone from my pocket to text Hobbs good luck.
She hooked her arm through mine and pulled me close. “Hey there, young lady! It’s downright a heatwave today, huh?”
I smiled and nodded. “I can’t believe it’s mid-December and almost forty degrees. Unheard of, but a good day for a sledding contest, don’t you think?”
“Sure enough. Makes the snow just right—nice and sticky.” Then she winked. “Been seein’ you around town a lot lately with that good-lookin’ Texas boy up there on the top of the hill. Are you happy?” she asked, her moon-shaped face smiling at me from under a jester’s hat in Christmas colors.
Janice was the cafeteria lady at the elementary school. Bright and cheerful, she was always on hand with a smile and a kind word.
I patted her arm and smiled. “I am. It’s been fun,” I offered, noncommittally.
I wasn’t sure what Hobbs and me were just yet. I figured it was better not to define it until we defined it. For now, we were dating and enjoying each other’s company.
She pinched my cold cheek with her hand tucked snug into a silver mitten. “That’s so nice, honey. And you deserve nice after these past couple of years.”
I peered up the long stretch of white hill and saw the sledders position themselves at the top. “Thanks, Janice. That’s sweet of you to say.”
“He sure is easy on the eye. That beard of his does something to a girl, huh?”
I giggled stupidly and did everything but twirl a strand of my hair. “It sure does.”
“Oh, look.” She pointed to the top of the hill, her cheeks pink from the cold. “Hanson’s up there getting into position with his flag! This is one of my favorite parts of the festival.”
Hanson Jackson was one of the gym teachers at the middle school. He organized all of the winter activities, like the sledding contest and the relay races, to name a couple.
He waved a colorful flag, signaling everyone should get into position. I saw Hobbs and waved, yelling, “Go, Dainty, go!”
Stephen King barked his approval, and Hobbs waved to us from the top of the hill, putting his booted feet in position on the Flexible Flyer he’d purchased with great care and research, for just this occasion.
There were about thirty or so people in the adult race category, all in all, a nice turnout. And it was a decent enough day. Warmer than average, with blue skies and not a hint of snowy weather. The trees at the top of the hill were still covered in snow, but it was melting under the sun.
That would likely change on a dime, but for now, it was a great day for a sled race.
Hanson pulled out his megaphone and held it up to his mouth. “Racers, on your mark, get set—go!”
Stephen King tugged anxiously at the leash, something Hobbs had warned me about. My little buddy loved to ride a sled and whenever he saw one, he was rarin’ to go. Despite his initial struggle to go after the sleds, his snorts of joy and his paws rutting in the snow were pretty funny.
I tightened my hold on him, keeping him close, and said, “Not yet, pal. Wait for Dad to finish. Promise you’ll get your turn.”
As everyone zoomed down the hill, with Hobbs a very close third to Randall Cleaver’s second, Stephen King’s excitement mounted. The snow spitting up from the blades of the sleds, the cheers from the crowd, were obviously more than my wigglebutt could take.
Catching me completely off guard, he leaned back on his haunches and yanked so hard on his leash, I almost couldn’t believe my calm, lazy little couch buddy was capable of such strength. He took off like a shot up the hill.
“Stephen King, no!” I shouted as the racers, distracted by him, began to zigzag down the steep hill, knocking each other over.
I took off running after him, but his stout legs pumped like mad, carrying him up the hill as though he wasn’t a chunky mass of love, but some great athlete.
I almost couldn’t believe how fast he was. My heart pumped hard as he headed for the row of thick trees to the left of the hill, and I tried to run through the deep snow that hadn’t been raked for the race.
I realized I was never going to make it moments before I tripped in the snow and fell to my knees, calling after Stephen King as more racers crashed into one another, and he disappeared behind the thicket of trees.
“Stephen King, you get back here right now!” I bellowed, pushing my way back up to a standing position.
Now, for all intents and purposes and to his credit, he did listen. He came scurrying around the corner of the small hut Marshmallow Hollow used to store traffic cones and all manner of holiday decorations for the gazebo in the square, his jowls flapping as he ran.
But he wasn’t alone.
He was using his head to push a red sled…one with deep sides, almost like one of those sled jets many of the fishermen used to ice fish or carry firewood across an icy pond. As he reached the edge of the top of the hill, he did what Stephen King does best.
He gave the sled a nudge, forcing it to crest the hill, and just as it tipped over the edge, he began to run alongside it before hopping in.
I’d seen him do it a bunch of times with Hobbs. He really was amazing.
Except, as he grew closer, I noticed there was something in the sled with him, but what was in the sled didn’t register at first.
But as he whizzed by me, snow spraying in my face, I saw clearly what was in the sled and there was no mistaking it.
He was sitting on someone’s lap.
Stephen King was sitting on a person’s lap. Someone wearing a hooded jacket.
What the…?
I got the willies as he sailed by, but I brushed them off, thinking my macabre thought was ridiculous.
Then I blinked. No. That couldn’t be…
The sled flew by so quickly, I knew I had to be seeing things.
> That is, until my favorite love nugget made it to the bottom of the hill and everyone started screaming.
Then I knew for sure my willies were justified.
Because when Stephen King landed at the bottom of the hill, and as he hopped from the sled and jumped around, quite pleased with himself, the sled tipped over and someone fell out, stiff as a board.
Stiff as a board, I tell you.
In other words, I’m pretty sure the person was dead.
CHAPTER 3
“C’mon, it’s lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with you!”
I ran down the hill—okay, tumbled down the hill is likely more apt a description, tripping and falling until I gave up and let my butt do the work for me. Sliding the rest of the way down the incline, I smashed into Hobbs, who was yelling to Stephen King.
“Stephen King! You get away from there now! Stephen, come!” he shouted with a whistle as he helped me up and I brushed off the back of his jacket.
However, Stephen King had other ideas. He was busy sniffing the semi-stiff body, nudging it with his nose to attempt to get it to play with him.
When he latched onto the body’s coat, Hobbs ran for him, grabbing his thick collar and pulling him away. Which was when I got a good look at the victim. His hood had fallen from his head, his profile revealed.
Aw, man. I fought a gasp as the crowd around him started pulling children away and heightened panic began to set in.
It was Yule Wolfram. The snide champion ice carver from Germany. He was partially frozen in death, his lean, elegant features rigid, his dark hair with silver strands in it hardly mussed at all, his blue eyes staring straight ahead, his body stuck in a sitting position.
There was caked, dried blood on his neck in what would most likely turn out to be the wound that had ended his life. Stephen King’s hair was on his dark corduroy jeans, obviously from when he’d jumped in the sled with him, but there was a patch of fuzzy hair stuck to the blood on his neck.
Gray, fuzzy hair. How strange.
“Looks like they got his jugular,” Hobbs commented as he held Stephen King firmly by his side.
I didn’t have to call 9-1-1, there were plenty of people with their phones out. Stiles came running from the tent, his face stricken as he approached and saw the body.
He cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled, “Everyone! Please back away! This is a crime scene.”
As the remaining bunch of people backed off, he knelt beside the body, and I saw him fight a gasp, too. “Holy cow. It’s…”
He didn’t have to finish the sentence, because suddenly Blanche Ritter was there, screaming her lungs out for all they were worth. “Yule! Oh no, nooo!”
As she dropped down on the ground in her cute white and sky-blue snow bunny outfit, I found myself surprised by her reaction. I didn’t know they were that close—not close enough to warrant this kind of hysterical response.
Blanche tried to throw herself on his chest, her perfectly made-up eyes shedding large teardrops, but Stiles stopped her from touching Yule’s body.
How crazy dramatic.
And that instantly made me suspicious. Was she putting on a show?
No, Hal. That’s ridiculous. Why would she kill Yule Wolfram and cover it up by acting like her mother had just died?
Maybe they were involved. You know, intimately.
I caught myself. All this murder as of late apparently had me thinking anyone and everyone was capable of homicide. No one had even called this a murder yet.
Maybe Yule cut himself, and he decided he needed to sit down for a minute, not realizing how bad the cut really was, Hal. Not everything is a mystery needing solving, Agatha Christie.
Okay, maybe that theory was out there. Still, his death could have a perfectly logical explanation.
Instead of speculating further, I reached a hand down and placed it on Blanche’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Blanche, come with me. Please. Let’s get out of the way of the police.” I tried to help her up but she stiffened, unwilling.
Stiles took over then, reaching under her elbow and forcefully lifting her. “Miss Ritter, please. This is a crime scene. I’m going to have to ask you to clear the area.”
She cried out as Stiles guided her away from the crowd, her eyes full of sorrow, but he successfully dropped her off with the couple we’d met last night, Jolie and Jerry, who took her under their wing and ushered her toward the ice carving tent.
When he returned, he headed straight for me. “What happened?”
I looked down at my favorite dog with a grimace. “I don’t know, Stiles. I was down here, cheering on Hobbs. Stephen King got away from me and went running up the hill in the fastest sprint for a dog his size I’ve ever seen. He disappeared around the side of the storage hut that’s not clearly visible from down here.”
Stiles looked up the hill, putting his hand over his eyes to block some of the glare. “So the right side of it where those bushes are, right? Did you see the sled before he pushed it?”
I followed his gaze and shook my head. “I didn’t see it at all, probably because I wasn’t looking for a sled to be on the wrong side of the storage hut.”
Stiles nodded, pulling his phone from his pocket and taking notes as the sirens blared in the distance. “Then what happened?”
“As I was running uphill, chasing him, he’d just begun to nudge the sled with his big ol’ head. The next thing I know, he’s doing what Stephen King does. I’ve seen him do it a bunch of times right here on this very hill. He pushed the sled until it crested the edge of the hill and then he chased after it until he was close enough to jump in. He does it all the time. Ask Hobbs.”
“So he was strong enough to push a sled with a full-grown man in it?”
Though Yule Wolfram wasn’t a large man, he was actually quite lean, he definitely couldn’t have been easy to push. But then, the snow was very slippery.
Hobbs confirmed my words. “He loves to sled, Stiles, and he’s pretty strong. He’s always pulling bales of hay in the barn where Hal keeps Karen. He can even manage to nudge me on my sled. He uses his big bull head all the time to push stuff around, and this Yule guy’s a lot lighter than I’ll ever be. I outweigh him by at least fifty pounds.”
Stiles looked at Hobbs. “So this guy was dead, inside a sled, the whole time you were all getting ready for the race…and no one saw a thing while you were up there?”
I wasn’t sure I loved Stiles’s tone. I know he had to ask questions because it was his job, but I sensed some aggression in his voice. “They were on the other side of the storage hut, Stiles,” I defended.
“And we all walked up the hill along the stairs over to the left, because that’s where the sign-in for the race was. See the folding table up there? That’s where we got our numbers,” Hobbs said, pointing to a long staircase that led to the top of the hill, where the baseball field was also located, then pointed to his chest and his official race number. “I wasn’t going to wear myself out climbing the hill in snow this deep. I had to save my energy for the race.”
The police were crossing the ice festival grounds now, heading straight for us, with Detective Godfrey—a surly grouch—in the lead.
He wore a black trapper hat, his pinched, narrow face almost swallowed whole by it, his jacket flapping in the breeze as he stomped toward us, glaring at me.
“What happened here, Stiles?” he asked, his pen and paper at the ready, his mouth stretched into a thin line.
“I just questioned two of the people who saw what happened. I took their statements,” Stiles responded, but I could tell he was nervous—or maybe on edge, is a better term. I knew my BFF, and this man intimidated him, which I found strange.
Stiles was mostly a secure guy. Though, Detective Godfrey could be kind of brisk, and I guess he was Stiles’s superior. It made sense he’d want to impress him.
Detective Godfrey turned to both Hobbs and I, his intense hazel gaze darting from one face to the other. “Is there anything
else you’d like to add to those statements?”
Hobbs bristled—as in, I saw him visibly straighten and puff out his chest. “I think Officer Fitzsimmons got everything he needs from me. How ’bout you, Hal?”
I leaned into him when he put his arm around me and tucked me close. “Same.”
Detective Godfrey sucked in his cheeks, turning away from us while mumbling, “Stay available to us in case we have more questions.”
Goddess, he was a bad word I wasn’t supposed to say.
“So now what?” Hobbs asked, his eyes searching mine.
I looked around as the police dispersed the crowd to other areas of the ice festival. “Well, I guess the race is over. You disappointed?”
“Nah. Though, I think Stephen King might be grounded today,” he said, looking down at my little wigglebutt, whose tongue was hanging out of his mouth as he panted, making him look almost as if he were smiling.
I bent my knees and scratched his broad head as my curious gaze roamed over to the body, now surrounded by forensics. “He was just doing what he does. It’s my fault for not keeping a better grip on him. Right, buddy?” I cooed. “Tell Daddy it’s all my fault.”
Hobbs ran a hand over his bearded chin. “I should have known better than to tempt him with so many sleds. It was a utopia he couldn’t resist.”
“So does that mean treats are still on?” I asked with a grin. “Because the Frau Sausage will be open soon, and I have it on good authority Stephen King likes a good cheese sausage on a stick.”
Hobbs rolled his eyes. “Maybe. Until then, who do you think would want this guy dead?”
I drove my hand through his arm as we began to stroll toward the entry to the ice festival, passing families and couples, some of whom had wide-eyed looks of fear on their faces. “We don’t know if someone wanted him dead, Cagney. Stop turning everything into a mystery we have to solve. Didn’t we just do that a week or so ago?”
He stopped, heeling Stephen King by his ankle and grinning at me. “I think it was you who solved that, Lacey. Or at least that’s what you keep reminding me of every time we watch another episode of Shakespeare and Hathaway.”
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