Have Yourself a Merry Little Witness

by Dakota Cassidy

  Rolling my eyes, I made a face at him, even if his approval warmed my soul. “Why, because he wants to protect me from the big bad drug dealer? I think you know I can handle myself, Uncle Darling.”

  “No. Because you should have seen the look on his face when you had your,” he cleared his throat, “migraine. That was genuine concern on his chiseled face, honey. Gen-u-wine. Also, I like him. I’m not mad at how good-looking he is to rest my old eyes upon, either.”

  Sighing, I grabbed my coat and hat as Uncle Darling followed behind. “Things have been really hectic here, Darling. Now’s not the time to make life decisions.”

  He stopped me then and bracketed my face with his warm hands. “There’s always time for love, Lamb.”

  “Love? We only really started to get to know one another each other not long ago. I’m not in—”

  “Fiddlesticks, Lamb. When the thunderbolt strikes, it strikes. Time matters not. I’m not saying you should set a date and go wedding-cake tasting yet. I’m only saying, don’t miss out. Leave room in your life for some romance. Your mother would kill me if I didn’t tell you that. It’s worth it.” Then he gave me an impish Uncle Darling grin. “Well, unless he gets whacked on the head and can’t remember who his husband is. Then it’s not such a scream.” He dropped a kiss on my nose and smiled genuinely, for the first time since he’d arrived. Smiled like the old Uncle Darling once had. “So promise your uncle you’ll at least think about it.”

  Oh, I thought about it all the time. If he only knew how much I thought about it. But I didn’t tell him that. I wasn’t ready to show my cards yet. My deck was stacked, and I had a hand full of royal flushes.

  Squeezing his hand, I nodded. “Promise.”

  “Good girl. Now, let me go find our hunk.” He went off in the direction of Hobbs, leaving me to get the rest of my stuff together and say goodbye to my much-neglected familiar.

  Taking Atti off my shoulder, I set him on my finger and I kissed his head. “You behave while I’m gone. Stay away from Phil. He looked especially longingly at you with those hungry eyes of his this morning. I promise we’ll try and catch up tonight. I love you, Atticus Finch.”

  He buzzed in front of my face to let me know he heard me before darting off through the kitchen and down the hall.

  I found Uncle Darling waiting by the front door. “Where’s Hobbs?” I took a quick glance at my hair in the mirror in the entryway, smoothing it with my hands before pulling on my favorite oatmeal-colored hat.

  “Warming up his Jeep for us.” He clucked his tongue at me. “Like I said, he’s a keeper. Now, before we go, do you want to tell me what that vision was about? I’m so caught up in me, I forget how selfish I’m being.”

  “It was pretty much the same as the last one, only this time it had, of all things, a typewriter in it.”

  “Now if that ain’t whistling Dixie, I don’t know what is,” he remarked. “Oh, by the way, just before you put that spell on me last night—and don’t think I don’t know what a sleeping spell feels like, Miss Witch—I remembered something about the store. But I was too tired to move my big mouth.”

  I froze at the mirror where I was still fiddling with my hair and wondering if I shouldn’t have some auburn streaks added to lighten up the coal black. “What did you remember?”

  “You know how sensitive my nose is, right? I can smell what brand of fabric softener someone uses on their clothes from a country mile away.”

  Uncle Darling definitely had a touchy olfactory. “I do remember.”

  “And remember that one time when you thought you were a smart girl and would give smoking a try? Not even a shower could get rid of the smell?”

  I did remember that. He’d smelled it on my jacket after I’d showered. His nose was uncanny. “Yup. I remember that, too.”

  “Well, get this, Lamb. I remembered smelling smoke at Feeney’s. When that horrible man ran past me, he stunk of cigarette smoke.”

  Dum-da-dum-dum-duuuum…

  Chapter 9

  My Favorite Things

  Written by Oscar Hammerstein II, Richard Rodgers, 1959

  “This hardly looks like somewhere a drug dealer would hang out, Hal.”

  We were parked outside of Dessert Storm, the local bakery in town, owned by proud veteran Rhonda Jackson.

  Rhonda had a wide smile, a warm hug, and apparently, according to some of the kids who took karate classes, a hiza geri (that’s a knee strike, for all you laymen like me) that was deadly.

  She’d recently retired from the Army and had come home to Marshmallow Hollow to open a bakery, finally fulfilling her secret pastry chef passions.

  And I’m here to testify, her red velvet cupcakes with butterscotch frosting are like moist bites of Shangri-La made with the hands of anointed angels. Just ask me and the three I’d had only the other day for lunch.

  I hadn’t told Hobbs what my Uncle Darling had said about smelling smoke, but it was really bugging me. We’d both smelled it, but was my vision reliable and was Uncle Darling’s memory correct?

  I mean, it had sounded pretty scary. Out of all the things to remember, who’d remember something like smelling smoke when you were faced with a guy with a shotgun? But then, he’d remembered the crease in the killer’s pants. I guess it wasn’t that unusual.

  Anyway, in other news, we’d decided to ask Landry some questions while my uncle visited with Monty, to keep my mind busy.

  I peered at the gorgeous interior of the store with its beautiful chandelier lights and pinkish rose-gold walls and furniture. Rhonda had modeled it after one she’d been to when she was stationed in France, and it was every little girl’s dream—filled with confections galore in pastel colors.

  I made a face at him. “This is where Landry works, Hobbs. Look at his Facebook page. That’s what it says.”

  Hobbs rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “I can’t believe a drug dealer works someplace so…so pink.”

  “Rhonda’s known not just for her incredible baking skills and karate moves, she’s also known for her big heart. Like Mr. Feeney, she does a lot of volunteer work at the church and the rec center. I’d almost bet she hired him at Mr. Feeney’s request. Now let’s get a move-on and see what we can see.”

  As we hopped out of the car and headed toward Rhonda’s, I smiled at how beautiful it looked with its pink-and-white striped awning over the picture window and the soft pink of the brick façade she’d managed to talk the town council into letting her paint.

  Oyster-white columns flanked a door etched in gold lettering with the bakery’s very appropriate name for a woman who was proud to have served her country. Two cone-shaped topiaries in white vases sat on either side, with white twinkling lights on them.

  We stopped at the entrance and I pointed inside. “Now, listen to me. I know how you feel about a good pastry. Or most sweets in general. But, and I can’t stress this enough, don’t let the luscious aroma of croissants and other delicacies deter you from the mission.”

  He saluted me. “Right. Question Landry Tithers about where he was last night and why Patricia Fowler thinks he’s partially responsible for her son’s death. Let no cupcake made from the tears of a saint put asunder.”

  I smirked and jabbed my finger in the air. “Exactly. And I’m here to tell you, it won’t be easy to fight off the scent of frosting and freshly baked petit fours, but you must stay on task.”

  I might not have known Hobbs for long, but I knew his appetite for sweets could be insatiable. He loved cookies and cake, and he especially loved chocolate, but Twizzlers were his one true love.

  He pulled the door open with a grin. “Swear it on my bag of chocolate Twizzlers. After you, Cowpoke.”

  Slipping inside, I sighed at the incredible smells and the pink tinted glass cases, filled with rows upon rows of pastel-colored treats.

  The enormous chandelier hung over us, positioned at the center of the raised-tray ceiling in white. Smaller recessed lighting dotted the ceiling above ca
ses, making everything sparkle and glow.

  There were pink and white ornaments strung everywhere, a small white Christmas tree in the corner and string after string of twinkling lights, floating end to end in the space. Christmas music in French, seeping into the air, completed the whole feel of the store—giving it what Rhonda had explained she hoped would be an “experience.”

  “Ooohh,” Hobbs murmured, his eyes wide.

  I tugged on the arm of his jacket. “Hey. Stop being bedazzled and stick to the mission.”

  “Hal? Girl, is that you?”

  I turned to see one of my favorite shop owners on the planet. Not only because she had amazing baked goods, but because she was so kind and friendly. She almost always had a good word about everyone, and if you were having a bad day, Rhonda somehow sensed it and offered a confection of consolation on the house.

  She’d come from the back where the kitchen was located, her raven hair under her pastry chef’s hat, her pleasantly round, solid body covered in a double-breasted white jacket with gold and pink buttons.

  Rhonda held out her arms to me, her coal-black eyes twinkling, and I went straight into them, letting her hug me hard. “How are you, my friend? You look great and the store looks amazing!”

  She dropped a kiss on my cheek. “Well, the store looks amazing because you helped me design it, kiddo.”

  Hobbs twirled his finger around. “You did…this?”

  She swatted a tea towel in the air. “Yeah, she did. If not for Hal, this would be some tables and a chair and a lot of cake. I showed her what I’d seen in France, and she made it happen with her interior design contacts. And voila!”

  I grinned at her, so pleased she was happy with her life and the dream she’d worked so hard to achieve. “It was your vision, my friend. I just drew a picture of what you wanted.”

  “Oh, petunias,” she scoffed with a smile. “This happened because of you and I won’t hear any different. Now, what can I do for you today, pretty lady, and who’s this fine-lookin’ fella?”

  Hobbs put his hand out to Rhonda. “Hobbs Dainty, ma’am. Pleasure to meet you. I rent the cottage behind Hal’s. I’m new around these parts.”

  Her eyes went wide and her smile wider as she pushed her hands into the wide pockets of her jacket. “Do I detect a bit of a Southern accent? Where from?”

  He grinned. “Texas.”

  She rocked back on her heels. “Uh-huh. A Southern boy. Had a sergeant from Texas. Dallas, I think it was. Fine man to have served with.”

  Hobbs grinned wider. “Yes, ma’am. A fine place indeed.”

  I decided to get right to the heart of the matter. “Listen, Rhonda, I’m here to ask you a couple of questions about an employee of yours. I’m guessing you heard about Gable Norton’s murder last night?”

  She clucked her tongue before she blew out a breath. “I sure did. Cryin’ shame is what that is. I sent over some croissants to that poor child Anna and her mother this morning. At least they’ll have a little something to put in their bellies, but Greer said they looked pretty torn up.” She shook her head then, her eyes two deep pools of sorrow. “I thought he’d really gotten himself together, but now the rumor mill’s talkin’ about drugs and whatnot. Smells fishy.”

  Greer was Rhonda’s life partner, and her partner in Dessert Storm, and equally as warm and friendly.

  “I talked to Anna and her mother at the hospital last night, and she was definitely in a bad way.”

  “Aw, honey! I forgot. Your uncle was mixed up in that mess, wasn’t he? Is he okay?”

  “He was. And that’s why I’m here. First and foremost, I’m worried about his safety. Ansel has an officer posted outside his room, but we’re worried the person who killed Gable might come after Uncle Monty.”

  Her brow furrowed. “No. No, no. I can’t believe this is happening right in my hometown! First—’scuse my language—that pissant Lance Hilroy ends up dead, and now Gable and your uncle are mixed up in a murder. You just let him come ’round here and I’ll show him what’s what!” she said fiercely, taking a karate stance. “How’s your Uncle Darling? He okay?”

  “He’s a wreck, and that’s why I’m here.”

  “You want pastries? No, wait! Macarons. Andrew loves pink, strawberry-filled macarons. I’ll get you some to bring to him.”

  I grabbed her arm and smiled. “You’re very kind, but like I said, Rhonda, I’m worried about my uncle and the possibility he might know something the killer wants to be sure he doesn’t tell anyone…and I can’t sit by without at least trying to figure out who did this. So I thought I might ask around about something Anna and her mother told me. It’s about Landry Tithers. Does he still work here?”

  Immediately, I sensed she became guarded. “He does. He’s outside taking a cigarette break right now. Why?”

  Instantly, I was on alert. He smoked? Interesting. “Can we speak with him?”

  “You don’t think…” Rhonda shook her tea towel, her expression one of disgust. “You don’t think that boy’s mixed up in this mess, do you? He’s worked real hard to stay sober, and that’s the only reason we hired him. He has to take a drug test every week to stay employed here—no guff allowed about it, neither. I give it to him myself, and he’s clean as of last week.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. But I have a couple of questions I’d like to ask anyway. Do you mind?”

  “He’s right in the back alley. You go on ahead while I fix up a box of those macarons your uncle likes. And if you find something out I oughta know about, you better tell me, Miss Hal. I won’t have a druggie workin’ here.”

  “Thanks, Rhonda. I will,” I said, giving her arm a squeeze before I headed toward the back exit with Hobbs hot on my heels.

  When I pushed open the door, Landry stood by the dumpster, tucked into a dark blue down jacket, his hands and nose beet red. A plume of smoke rose above his head as he stared vacantly at the brick wall in front of him, smoking his cigarette.

  “Landry?” I asked, approaching him with tentative steps as Hobbs placed a protective hand on my waist.

  He pulled at his knit cap and eyed us with a defensive glare. “Who’s askin’?”

  I didn’t bother to offer my hand, instead I merely responded, “Halliday Valentine, and this is Hobbs Dainty.”

  He snorted, a puff of condensation shooting from his mouth in a small cloud. “Dainty? Your name is Dainty? Like, delicate?”

  Hobbs stepped toward Landry, looming over him by at least a foot and a half. “Uh-huh. It rhymes with ‘I don’t like it when people make fun of my name.’ So are you gonna behave like you’re still on the playground in fifth grade, or are you gonna use your manners and act like the adult your license says you are?”

  I watched Landry’s face go even redder before he straightened up and took a small step backward, but he didn’t back down entirely. He made that clear from his defensive tone. “What do you want from me, lady?”

  Eyeing him, I jammed my hands in my pockets to keep from putting a hex on his sullen butt. “I want to know what you know about the deaths of Gable Norton and Evan Fowler.”

  As the snow began to pour out of the sky, he flicked his cigarette to the ground and scrunched up his face. “I don’t know anything about either one of them.”

  “That’s not what Patricia Fowler said,” Hobbs told him.

  “Yeah? Well she’s whack, okay?” he spat. “I didn’t make Evan take any drugs. I wasn’t anywhere around him when he died. They teach you at my substance-abuse program that you’re responsible for what you shoot into your veins. Evan shot up a bad batch of somethin’. That’s not my fault.”

  “Did you sell the bad batch of somethin’ to him, Landry? In fact, while we’re talking about selling drugs, did Gable sell drugs for you? Was he still selling them as of last night? Was he only pretending to be clean? Or do you know of someone who might have a drug-related grudge against Gable?” I asked, unconcerned about the accusatory tone to my questions.

  Landry�
�s narrowed eyes flashed angry under the bruised purple skies. “What is it with you idiots? It’s like you don’t want me to get better when every time anything in this Podunk town happens, it’s my fault. I’m the first person they come lookin’ for. It’s crap!”

  “Sometimes, your reputation precedes you,” Hobbs offered as an explanation.

  Landry spat on the ground from a clenched jaw. “Well, I didn’t have anything to do with Evan’s death. His mother knows that, but she keeps harping about how I’m responsible for getting him into drugs, which is stupid. Evan bought from a lot of people, but I definitely didn’t sell him that bad batch of snuff! Evan was a weak little follower who would have taken drugs from the devil himself if he would have invited him to his kegger. It was a long time ago, for crap’s sake. Why won’t she let it go?”

  I fought a cringe at his cavalier attitude about Evan, but I stuck to asking him questions rather than grabbing hold of his ear and dragging him off to the naughty corner.

  “How long ago did Evan die, Landry?”

  He made a face at me, his cold eyes dull with disinterest. “What? You don’t know, lady? What kind of snoop are you? He died almost eight years ago—when we were still mostly kids. And before you ask, I don’t know if Gable was using drugs again or if anyone from his drug using days was bent enough to want to kill him, but I was nowhere near him last night. You can ask Miss Rhonda. I was here working. Now get off my back and leave me alone!” he bellowed.

  He made a crude gesture with his finger as he pushed his way past us and stomped back into the bakery.

  I looked at Hobbs and made a face as fat flakes of snow came floating down, hitting my cheeks. “So that was pleasant.”

  Hobbs clucked his tongue. “He’s got a pretty nice-size chip on his shoulder, doesn’t he?”

  “I want to feel sorry for him because obviously he’s the target of a lot of blame, and not without reason, but he was a little bit of a you-know-what. That instantly cancels everything else out.”