“So after leaving your job in Boston, why would you come to Maine to live, where it’s as cold as the Arctic Circle? Why wouldn’t you go home? Isn’t Texas hot with only two seasons?”
“Hot and hotter,” he confirmed with a chuckle. “And I guess I like change. I like new experiences, and believe it or not, I love snow. Don’t get much of it in Texas, but it grew on me in Boston. I took up a little skiing and snowboarding. Loved it.”
Still, this was the polar opposite of a place like Texas. “But why specifically Marshmallow Hollow? There are bigger towns, like Bangor and Portland, for example. This is so far from an urban sprawl like Boston.”
He shrugged, rubbing his palms on his thighs. “My mom’s gone, my dad remarried and lives abroad, I don’t have any siblings, so I could go anywhere. And I like small towns. I like small-town people. I like small-town events just like this one, and I really like Christmas. Y’all really know how to make the holiday magical.”
“That we do, but that doesn’t explain how you found us. In comparison, despite our attraction for tourists, we’re but a dot on the map. Pretty obscure place to choose to live.”
“Not so obscure people don’t know about it. I was in Bangor for business, and a friend had been to your ice festival with an ex-girlfriend who grew up here. He recommended we take a side trip when we had a free day. I fell hook, line, and sinker the second I saw these little shops y’all have up and down Main Street with all the decorations. Made the decision that day to relocate as soon as I could. One of the best decisions I’ve ever made.”
That made me smile.
He wasn’t wrong. Main Street, with its slight incline, wound for about two miles—each store decorated for the holiday modeled similarly to a town in France called Strasbourg, where they adorned every available surface with Christmas decorations during the holiday. Boughs of evergreen graced every single window box, filled with poinsettias and shiny ornaments.
Lights were strung from building to building and wound around artificial trees along the sidewalks. Carved snowmen sat in wooden sleds, animated Santas rang bells and sang tunes. Christmas music was piped into the street as people wandered up and down in the freezing cold, checking out our various shops.
Not a single shop owner missed the op to join in the fun. It was idyllic, and I can’t believe I didn’t love this as a kid or that I found Christmas so annoying, but I sure love it now.
Ansel rapped hard on my hood, pulling me from the conversation we were having. I pressed the button to open the window, confronted with his red nose and cheeks.
“Did you forget Bitty? She’s gonna be fit to be tied if you don’t get a move-on, Hal.”
“Sorry! I’m moving right this second.” Turning to Hobbs, because I didn’t know what was going to happen when I got my hands on my nana, I said, “Why don’t you wait here, and then you can help me get her in the back of the truck? We don’t want Bitty to be distracted by your Southern charm and miss her supper.”
He nodded. “Mind if I take a peek around, see what I can see while I wait?”
While I felt like it was a rather strange request (who wants to look around a murder scene?), I guess there were those who were true-crime fanatics, and a real crime scene was cool to witness. My sister Stevie definitely is one of those people.
I have to admit, when she was here for a visit last year, and I’d inadvertently been involved in a crime we ended up sort of solving together, I didn’t hate it.
There’s a satisfaction to putting a bad guy away, and putting two away was a bonus. She and her fiancé did most of the work, but I found myself very curious while they toiled to figure it out.
Since then, I’d been inspired to start watching some of the true-crime shows she’d suggested, and in truth, I got pretty hooked. I mean, it is cold here in winter, and with the factory closed, well, like I said, it left me with some time on my hands.
Nowadays, we often Skype and chat about some of the cases we watch on the True Crime Network, compare notes, and she often teases me that I’m becoming a real detective. But things like this never used to happen very often in Marshmallow Hollow the way they appear to where she lives—or at least it feels like they happen pretty frequently in her hometown.
But I guess Ansel was right. I was gone a long time and tourism had increased since I’d left. Either way, I suppose I can’t blame Hobbs for his curiosity.
Looking at him, I said, “I don’t mind if you go look around at all. See you in a minute.”
I slipped out of the truck into the cold air, my feet crunching on the snow. Yet, I found myself glancing at the sleigh…where Lance Hilroy was splayed out for the whole world to see as the forensics team did their job.
I couldn’t see him terribly clearly, but I could see spatters of darker snow where apparently he’d bled pretty hard. It looked like it came from the back of his head, and seeing the scene left behind a cold shiver I couldn’t shake.
His thick body, in nothing but a sports coat and slacks, was sprawled on its back, one arm dangling out of the sleigh, the other almost across his forehead. There was definitely blood on the ground, and I’d bet there were reindeer prints from my nana. So at least my vision was explained—except for that cast-iron frying pan.
But wait…
Could that be the murder weapon?
I fought a gasp. Should I mention it? How could I possibly tell someone I’d seen a cast-iron frying pan in a vision? Come on.
Either way, I couldn’t see much else, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I didn’t like Hilroy. He was a creep. But again I wondered, did he deserve to die because he was a creep? I dunno.
That was when I heard one of the officers standing at the end of the bed of my truck mutter, “What in all of H-E-double-L left those kind of marks all over him?”
Which intrigued me no end and left me wanting a peek at what was going on in that sleigh.
Hobbs, standing taller than most of the officers, shook hands with some of them, his head bobbing sociably, his eyes bright even in the dark. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was almost enjoying this.
But that’s macabre, isn’t it? Though, I can’t honestly say I wasn’t curious, too. My sister had to stop tempting me with all these crime shows and podcasts she sent me links for, or I was going to turn into the weird lady with the cats who liked dead people.
Forcing myself to walk across the street (though I admit I walked backward, so I could keep my eye on what Hobbs was doing), I tucked my chin into my scarf and prepared to give my nana a dressing down.
Yanking open the door of animal control, a sturdy brick building, also decorated to the nines, at the end of our very colorful Main Street, I was surprised to find it quiet. That my nana wasn’t honking her displeasure to high Heaven was a credit to Bitty and her soothing nature.
The warmth of the small reception and lobby area, where only three chairs sat, hit me in the face with its antiseptic smell. Bitty, behind the desk, her head covered by one of the kooky hats she’d knitted, straightened and her eyes met mine.
“Didja take the slow boat from Bangor to get here?” she asked gruffly.
To say Bitty is colorful is an understatement. She’s been known to make a sweater or two that would leave your eyes bleeding from the clashing colors.
But she doesn’t care if anything she has on matches. She doesn’t care if you don’t like that what she wears doesn’t match. Bitty marches to the beat of her own drum, and I hope to one day be just like her.
I made a face of apology as I approached the clean white Formica countertop she sat behind. “Sorry, Bitty. I was in the middle of decorating when Ansel came to tell me what happened, and it took me a second to get myself together. Where is she, and why is she so quiet?”
She thumbed a wrinkled digit over her shoulder toward the back. “Sleeping her sugar rush off. How in all of tarnation does she get out of that barn, Hal? Don’t you lock it up?”
I smiled at her and shook a finger. “Karen i
s a crafty one, no doubt about it. But thanks so much for keeping her safe from that mess out there. I know we’re keeping you from your dinner.”
Bitty grunted at me, her small eyes darting to the big picture window where the police lights flashed red and blue. “And what a mess it is. Though, can’t say I’m upset that rat’s gone.”
I cocked my head as I adjusted my hat. “You knew him, too?”
She folded her arms on the countertop, rolling up the sleeves of her purple and green sweater. “I didn’t know-know him, honey. I knew of him. He tried to buy up a couple of the stores ’round here. Actually tried to get a few of the folks to sign a preliminary contract. Just ask ’em, you’ll see.”
“Contracts? This is the first I’m hearing about it.” How had I missed something so vital?
I can only blame my distraction on the end-of-the-year rush to fill orders and send everyone home to their families, in keeping with my family’s tradition. Sometimes it wasn’t always easy, but I’d done it.
My eyes must have gone wide in shock, because Bitty patted my hand in consolation. “Don’t worry, kiddo. That stinker can’t make good on any contracts now—he’s deader’n a doornail.”
I nodded. Facts.
I’m not sure why I asked, why I couldn’t simply mind my beeswax, but I asked anyway. “Who did he talk into possibly selling their stores, and why, Bitty? You do know Hilroy tried to talk me into selling the factory, don’t you? But he didn’t say what he wanted it for, and I sure didn’t ask. Any ideas?”
“Theme park. Santa Land or something like that,” she said with a slap of her hand to the Formica. “You got some prime real estate there, Hal. Acres and acres of it with all those warehouses and whatnot. Add to that, it’s oceanfront property. That can’t hurt a theme park. Only figures he’d come looking for you. Would make a perfect place to put some ugly roller coaster—which is exactly what May Sheffield told me she heard he was planning to do over lunch at the diner the other day.”
May owned the sweets shop, Sweets for Your Sweetie, and she’s one of the cutest members of Marshmallow Hollow. How she and Bitty had become such good friends spoke to the age-old adage that opposites attract.
I blinked and shook my head. “Did she say who else was planning to entertain the idea of selling?”
“Yep. She did. Cyril Chatham was giving it some thought. He’s old, and his lazy kid doesn’t want to take over the garage. Then there’s Honey Crowley, Judy Minch, and I can’t remember the other person, but I think there was one more. Anyway, that rat was on a mission, for sures, but I guess someone decided game over.”
A loud honking noise interrupted our conversation.
Translation? Nana Karen was awake.
Bitty sighed and waved me toward the back where the animals she so loved found respite from the harshness of homelessness in arctic Maine, but the only animal I found when I pushed through the doors was my nana—wide awake and ready to take a bite out of my behind.
Bitty followed and stepped around me, putting her hand out to rub Karen’s head, using the other to hike up her red and white thermal stockings.
“She’s a good girl who needs a better lock on her barn door, aren’t you, Karen?” she cooed as she stroked Karen’s head.
I threw my hands up in defeat. “Okay, okay. Guilty. I’ll get a better lock, but I’m telling you, Bitty, she’s Houdini reincarnated in a candy-cane-loving reindeer. She’ll find a way to bust out because that’s what she lives for.”
Bitty cackled and dropped a kiss on Nana’s head, which I’d hear her complain about later. “She’s really something else, but she’s a part of Marshmallow Hollow just as much as the rest of us.”
I took a look around the small facility and noted there wasn’t a single spotless cage with an occupant. Bitty was pretty diligent about finding homes for strays, and she knew how to sell a bill of goods and pair people with the perfect furbaby, but I didn’t know she was this good.
“Bitty? Where are all the animals?”
She smiled for the first time, her small heart-shaped face lighting up. “Adoption fair. Last week over at the grocery store. Last one went yesterday. Just in time for the holidays, too.”
I gave her a small hug, which she worked her way right out of pronto. “How awesome! You really are a miracle worker, Bitty. I don’t know what we’d do without you, and the kind of time and effort you put into loving these animals and keeping them safe.”
“Wasn’t just me. That nice-looking man of yours paid for all the adoption fees. It inspired people to give generously.”
A warm zing shot up my spine. Hobbs was turning out to be a nice guy. A really nice guy. I didn’t hate hearing that.
Just then, Stiles poked his sandy-haired head in from the reception area and grinned. “Bitty, m’love, I have a little something for you. Hot meatloaf and gravy sandwich from Sid’s. C’mon. While Hal rounds up Karen, I’ll take you home so you can eat it while it’s still hot and fresh.”
She wagged a finger at Stiles but beamed a smile up at him. “Don’t you try and butter me up, youngster. Hot meatloaf sammies won’t change the fact that I’m well past closing, but they might make me forgive you quicker.”
Stiles laughed his hearty chuckle, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, dwarfing her with his size as he took her out to the reception area so I could collect Nana. He’d worked for Bitty when he was in high school, and their affection for one another remained.
Looking at my nana, her big brown eyes defiantly unapologetic, I leaned into her ear and whispered my age-old threat. “Nana, consider yourself grounded, young lady. When we get back home, there’ll be no feedings from your crush Hobbs for a week. You can’t keep busting out of the barn like you’re some teenager climbing out of your window to see your forbidden boyfriend!”
She reared back on her haunches as I adjusted her glow-in-the-dark harness and ran a hand over her velvety head. “I saw him, Hal. You hear? I saw him!”
I blinked. I bet she’d seen a lot of candy canes. “Saw who, Nana?”
“The murderer!”
Chapter 5
Milk and Cookies (’Til Santa’s Gone)
Written by Clint Black, Shake Russell, Hayden Nicholas, 1995
Hobbs stood in my kitchen by the bay of windows overlooking the backyard, and beyond that, the freezing-cold Atlantic Ocean. He fingered a string of icicle lights woven through some evergreen swags draped across the window.
“You have a light out here, too, Hal. Case you were wonderin’.” He held up an icicle to show me with a facetious smile.
“Hobbs,” I said with a grin as I threw another cookie sheet into the oven. “If you stick around long enough, you’ll lose count of how many lights go out in a season around here.”
He laughed, cupping his hand against the thermal-paned window to peer out at the backyard. “You really outdid yourself, Hal—even in the backyard. It’s like Santa’s village out yonder.”
“Well, Christmas is kind of our thing. It’s sort of expected, I guess.”
I loved the backyard with the arbor, normally covered in trailing roses during the summer, now covered in twinkling lights. All the trees dipped in glacial ice, their branches bending to the chill, lit up like frozen fingers dancing in an arctic wind.
If you walked through the backyard toward the roar of the ocean, it was like walking in a winter wonderland. We had endless lighted life-size decorations, from gingerbread to snowmen, but my favorite was my grandfather’s ’48 Ford pickup. A red, rusty bucket of steel we had painted and decorated seasonally. Last month it had housed pumpkins, mums and hay bales; this month it was filled with wood cutouts of Christmas presents and a waving Santa.
“I’ve been meaning to ask, is that a ’49 Ford I see? My grandad had one, too, but it was powder blue,” he murmured almost wistfully, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans
“Forty-eight, and was, at one time, Leland Augustus Valentine’s pride and joy. Well, after my grandma Karen, that is
.”
Hobbs’s dark eyebrow rose. “Wait, is your reindeer named after your grandmother?”
“She is, and that’s because she’s as naughty as my grandmother was. It fits, and I like to think she’d get a kick out of it.”
After we’d loaded Nana into my truck and settled her into the barn—where she’d promptly fallen asleep, and I couldn’t further question her about what she’d said at animal control until she woke up because she sleeps like the dead, no pun intended—it was still early enough to bake some cookies.
So we’d all had our sandwiches and then got to work making cookie dough from my grandmother’s recipe, eating some of our bounty as we went with big glasses of milk (soy milk for my weak-tummied best friend).
Ironically, Phil was curled up next to Stephen King by the white brick kitchen fireplace. Hobbs’s dog in the cat bed with Phil wrapped around him, as if to declare he’d claimed him as his own.
Phil hated everyone, but his sudden love affair with Stephen King must be positively torturing Atticus. They both happily snored, safe and warm, as we chatted and made cookies to bring to the seniors at Sunset on the Hollow.
Stiles sat at my big kitchen island, sprinkling red and green sugar on another batch of cookies while Atticus sat on his perch, overseeing—or more likely, quietly judging us and our messy technique. There’d be fire-and-brimstone type lectures come tomorrow when Atticus saw the mess we were making of the floor.
Then he’d poo-poo me when I offered to do cleanup, without magic, because if my Atti was anything, he was a shining star of martyrdom.
While we waited for a couple batches of cookies to bake, Stiles had googled Lance Hilroy and found a video or two of the real estate mogul, ducking paparazzi as he watched tenants being evicted by the police from a low-income housing building he’d purchased.
The video was taken somewhere in New York by the daughter of one of the people being evicted.
As the small crowd of soon-to-be-homeless tenants and protestors chanted, holding up signs of their objection that read “Money is The Root of All Evil” and “Slum Lord Billionaire,” he pushed his way through them, his big body covered in a dark, expensive trench coat. He had a scowl to beat the band on his face, the lines along it showing not an ounce of compassion.
Jingle all the Slay: Marshmallow Hollow Mysteries Book 1 Page 4