“Who?”
I giggled. “Never mind. I meant I snooped with Hobbs. He was there, too.”
“You don’t think I didn’t know that, do you? Marshmallow Hollow may have grown since you left, but it didn’t grow that much.”
“It was more than just snooping. I mean, I did that, but I also offered my help.”
“I know that, too, Hal,” he said softly.
“Okay, then did you know today, in the station, you dropped your notes? I gave them to Officer Paladino on my way out. First, I saw what I think is the murder weapon because,” I lowered my voice, “a you-know-what-happened at Cyril’s, and later I saw what I’m betting is the alleged murder weapon carried into the station today in an evidence bag. Which I also saw in my you-know-what. Aaaand…I saw your notes on the investigation.” I blurted the admission before I chickened out.
He paused a second and then he sighed. “You saw what was in the evidence bag in your you-know-what?”
I nodded somberly. “Twice. I had one last night, then today at Cyril’s.”
“Holy smokes,” was all he said, but by the look on his face, it troubled him that I was seeing murder weapons he couldn’t talk about.
“And I also read your notes…” I repeated.
“That much I’d already figured. So what’s your take? I can’t confirm or deny anything, but it wouldn’t hurt to bat some ideas around. Maybe I’ll even feel better. I won’t give away anything confidential, so I’m telling you now, Hal, don’t dig,” he warned. “But I’ll listen.”
“Wouldn’t that mean we’d have to share with Mr. Dainty? He is my guest tonight…”
As if on cue, Hobbs came out of the kitchen with the glasses of wine, padding into the living room with soft footsteps even against the light-colored hardwood.
He looked at us both with a blank stare before pointing at the tree. “There’s a light out on the tree—and share what with me?”
I explained seeing the cast-iron frying pan in the evidence bag and that I’d read Stiles’s notes. I passed on what he’d written while my best friend stood by the fire, fiddling with the broken light in the middle of our enormous tree as though he couldn’t hear us.
Then I told them what my nana had told me about Judy and her arrest for assault against Hessy Newman. I watched Stiles’s face for a clue as to whether they’d considered her a suspect because of her past, but he didn’t flinch.
Hobbs chuckled. “Sorry for laughing, but Judy’s feistier than I gave her credit for. Though, let’s keep in mind, a wallop with a purse doesn’t a murderer make.”
“No, it doesn’t, and I don’t even know if it really happened the way I heard. But it does mean, according to the law and Hessy Newman, Judy still has a history of assault. And don’t worry, Stiles. You don’t have to tell me if you guys already know about it. It might not be online because it was so long ago, but I’d bet someone at the station remembers.”
Still, Stiles remained quiet—and that meant yes, they’d taken it into consideration.
Hobbs sat on the edge of the coffee table, sipped his wine and appeared to be absorbing what I relayed before he finally asked, “So, for speculation’s sake, we’re going with the cast-iron frying pan as the murder weapon, right? It’s heavy enough, no doubt, and if the police found one, that amps up our theory, but that doesn’t explain the reindeer prints all over Hilroy. The stamp matches what Judy said she had in the store, and suddenly the only one she had left is missing. Also, something else to think about. Judy has likely sold that exact same hoofprint stamp to a bunch of people in town. She did say they went fast.”
Nodding, I agreed, “So that could mean more suspects than we anticipated. Shoot! I wish I’d asked her how many of those she’d sold, and who she sold them to. And why would Jared have a reindeer hoof stamp anyway?”
Hobbs shrugged. “Does he have a niece or a nephew? If I did, I’d maybe make tracks in the snow for them. That’s the only reason I can think of.”
Sliding to the edge of the couch, I felt the blood pump through my veins. “Jared’s an only child. So the answer is no.” Pausing, I decided we needed some perspective. “Let’s start at the beginning. First, I’m wondering, did you guys ever talk to all the people Hilroy approached, Stiles? I mean, you haven’t brought me in yet, and he approached me. Can you at least answer that?”
Stiles leaned an arm on the mantel, rustling the greens and ornaments. “You’re on the list for tomorrow. That’s all I can tell you, and you probably already have a voicemail from Ansel, asking you to come in.”
I grabbed my phone from the coffee table, and sure enough, I had a voicemail from Marshmallow Hollow PD. “Okay, but what about everyone else?”
Stiles shook his head in the negative. “I can’t tell you that, Hal.”
Then an idea came to me. “Wait! Put the brakes on that thought. I bet the Marshmallow Hollow Chatter group on Facebook can tell me. You know as well as I do if you guys brought people in or went to their stores to question them, someone saw it, and they won’t be able to resist talking about it…”
I went to my Facebook app on my phone and clicked on the group and, sure enough, it was the first post. “Uh-huh. Lawrence Botham was the first to post he saw you guys at both Judy’s and Honey’s stores almost right after we’d been there.”
Hobbs winked and tipped his glass in my direction. “Well, that clears that up. So the police probably know as much as we do, which really wasn’t a lot. But before we go any further, I looked up Hilroy on Google. Did a bit more of an in-depth search on him than we did last night, and Honey’s right. He did seem to single out seniors with his real estate deals. In fact, he tricked a couple of people into signing something they didn’t understand, leaving them homeless.”
I gasped. “Did they sue his pants off?”
Hobbs shook his head with a look of disgust. “No. He preyed on the unfortunate who didn’t have the resources to hire good attorneys, and then he sent in his legal eagles to terrorize them. At least according to one woman who was had by that shyster. Basically, he waited them out and squeezed ’em dry.”
I kept scanning the Facebook group, where I found a post by Linny Armstrong. My eyes widened when I read her full post, making me jump up off the couch.
“Linny Armstrong posted that she saw the police raid Jared’s place and they left with something, but she couldn’t see what it was. The only thing she knew for certain was that it was an evidence bag. So that means…”
No. I hated this…but no. I didn’t want any of them to be a killer. I swallowed hard, my throat dry. “That must mean that you guys found the frying pan at Jared’s.”
“Can’t answer that, either.” Stiles’s response was stoic. He took a big gulp of his wine before he added, “But you can’t tell anyone you saw it, Hal. You either, Dainty. We can’t afford leaks right now, and I’m asking that as not just a police officer, but as a friend.”
My pulse began to race as more adrenaline pumped through my veins. “Oooo, does this mean you’re trying to smoke someone out by keeping some details out of the press?”
Stiles rolled his eyes. “Seriously, Hal? This isn’t like when they hunt serial killers on TV. We’re just doing our jobs, and that means we’re not saying anything official until we have solid evidence. It’s standard stuff.”
“And you know what that means, Hal?” Hobbs asked, clearly as excited as me. “It means they haven’t gotten back the full coroner’s report yet. So they’re going to check the frying pan for evidence to see if it was, in fact, the murder weapon.”
Now I tipped my glass at Hobbs. “Good point. I didn’t think of that.” I paced the furry throw rug, pushing storage containers out of the way as I went. “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, back to the evidence. So we have one cast-iron frying pan—which both of us will die before telling anyone of its existence, right, Hobbs?”
Hobbs offered me his pinky. “Till death do us part.”
I wrapped my pinky around his and tightened it t
o seal our deal. “Okay, the next bit of evidence is the pink fluff that Lark saw. I saw him today at the station. He was leaving as I was coming to pick you up for lunch and he told me about it. So I actually knew about that item before I saw your notes. Now, that fluffy stuff. It could have—”
“Come from Judy Minch’s store,” Hobbs finished, setting his almost empty glass of wine on the end table. “And she has a history of assault. But she claims to have an alibi, which is easily checked by chat logs on Skype. So if the police already did that—and they probably have—and she’s not in custody, they’ve ruled her out.”
“Exactly!” I yelped, stirring Stephen King, who yawned and curled back up into a ball.
Hobbs’s shoulders suddenly sagged. “But what was the pink fluffy stuff from? We don’t know. Could be a million things. Could be a dress, a wrap, a scarf, a toy…”
Sugar snaps. “True. So if we go on the assumption it’s not Jared, I guess we could then eliminate Cyril because of that. I mean, how likely is he to have anything pink and fluffy?”
Hobbs squinted in obvious thought. “I’d tend to agree with you, Hal, but who knows? Maybe Jared has a girlfriend? Or he was buying something for his mother? I mean, if it were black fuzzy stuff, would we say the same thing?”
“Point taken. Let’s just call it a probability then. And if we’re going with a probability, that doesn’t eliminate Judy or Honey, because they could both have something pink and fluffy, and Honey’s more likely to have a cast-iron frying pan at her secondhand store than Judy is at a craft store. Though, they’re both good cooks, and I know it sounds sexist, but I’m having trouble believing Jared has a cast iron frying pan, and the fact that the police found it at his house is really bugging me.”
Hobbs nodded his head, crossing his feet at the ankles. “Also all good points, but that would mean someone had to plant it at his place. Who would want to frame Jared?”
“Another good point, but it would have fingerprints on it, wouldn’t it? Like on the handle?” I tugged at my lip. “I guess you can’t tell me if there are fingerprints on it, can you, Stiles?”
He gave me one of his hard-jawed serious looks. “You know I can’t.”
“Can you tell me the time of death?” I asked. Although, I wasn’t sure it really mattered at this point.
“Nope.”
Of course he couldn’t. “Okay. So finally, there’s the dyed hair found on Hilroy. Sort of also a pro in both Cyril and Jared’s favor. Neither of them dye their hair. But I suppose it could have been anyone’s hair Hilroy came in contact with that day.”
“But!” Hobbs shouted, scaring Phil. “Didn’t Judy say she and Honey had their, and I quote, ‘hair did’? Did that entail dying? Or just a wash and set? A trim?”
I looked at his handsome face, totally impressed he’d remembered that detail. “Nice memory, Hobbs. Well done. I’d totally forgotten about that, but I don’t know the answer. Either way, a dyed hair could have come from anyone, but Stiles did make note of it. So it might not be that insignificant. However, because my BFF has to maintain his professional boundaries, we’ll back burner that clue as well. ”
“Well, forensics can pull DNA from a single hair. I’m sure the police took samples. Agreed. Stiles?” Hobbs looked to him but Stiles shook his head.
“Can’t answer that,” he said.
I flapped a hand in my best friend’s direction. “But here’s our problem now—what if the people we talked to aren’t the only suspects? There could be more we don’t know about.”
Hobbs frowned. “Even with the Marshmallow Hollow Chatter page on Facebook? Wouldn’t someone have mentioned something if a local was questioned? Or talked about the police paying them a visit? And let’s not forget about the possibility that this could have been a tourist. Or maybe even someone who had bad dealings with Hilroy and followed him here.”
I sighed and sat back down, taking another swig of wine. “Sure, but it’s not impossible to think there’s someone else local in the mix. But if it’s a local, I haven’t seen it. As to a tourist? Yeep. There are scads of them, Hobbs.”
Shoot. Who else could it be? I could go door to door asking, but if seniors were the target, we had a lot of them in Marshmallow Hollow. I’d join their bleepin’ ranks before I found the answer.
“You know what’s really buggin’ me?” Hobbs asked.
“What’s that?”
“Like you, I don’t get the murder weapon or the reindeer hoofprints. Why would a kid like Jared use a cast-iron frying pan, and how does that connect to a reindeer hoof stamp? Why would he have something like that?”
Aye-yi-yi. We were going in circles now.
Stiles drank the last of his wine and set his glass on the coffee table. “Okay, crime stoppers, I have to go. I have an early day tomorrow, and if you got even a little feel for Detective Godfrey, Hal, you’ll know he has a short fuse.” Leaning down, he dropped a kiss on my forehead. “I love you, Kitten. See you tomorrow. Let’s try lunch again.”
“Wait! That’s it? That’s all you have to say? See you tomorrow?”
He strode to the front door, grabbing his jacket from the hall closet with a smug smile. “You knew the rules of engagement when I laid ’em out. Now, I gotta split. But have fun, you two.” He gave me a BFF wink that meant he knew I thought Hobbs was cute, and he hoped I had the kind of fun that involved smooching.
When the door closed, the sound of jingle bells from the chime on the handle wafting to my ears, Hobbs and I looked at each other, the energy in the room deflated.
And then I didn’t know what to say. I’ve never been terribly good at flirting or making my interest known, and it showed.
But it didn’t seem to bother Hobbs. He grabbed a cookie from the plate I’d left out on the buffet under a bank of black-and-white framed pictures of me and my mother and grandmother. He smiled, nodding at the photos. “These are beautiful.”
Gathering up the wine glasses, I blushed. “Thanks.”
“Your interior design experience shows. Your house is incredible.”
“And still mostly undecorated for Christmas due to our amateur investigation. But thanks for your help tonight. You’re an awesome ornament hanger.”
“My pleasure, ma’am,” he said, his eyes grabbing mine. He looked as though he wanted to say something, but then decided against it. He went and gathered Stephen King from the couch, setting him on the floor. “Welp, I’d better get home. I’m pretty tired after our hunt for a killer, and I bet you are, too.”
I fought a yawn. I was pretty beat, but I also didn’t want him to go, and I found myself thinking of ways to stall his exit to ensure I’d see him again.
“Hey, Hobbs, are you a traditional guy?”
“Traditional about what?”
“Relationships.”
“I dunno. I like to think I’m pretty progressive, I believe in equal pay for all, equal rights, but I also still believe in opening doors and walking on the outside of the sidewalk. Why do you ask?”
Closing my eyes, I decided to go for it. “How do you feel about dinner tomorrow night?”
“I feel like I’ll probably have some. I usually do.”
He wasn’t going to make this easy, was he? “I mean with me. Having dinner with me.”
His eyebrow rose, then he smiled. “Are you asking me out, Halliday?”
I inhaled. “I am, Digby.”
“Where are we going?”
He caught me off guard. I hadn’t given that any thought. “Um, where would you like to go?”
“You’re buying. Shouldn’t you decide?”
“Okay, I’ll decide.”
“Is it going to be brats and a beer or somethin’ fancier?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet. Why?”
“Well, I have to know how to dress, and if I need to get my hair did,” he joked with a grin.
I burst out laughing. “How about I text you with time and location tomorrow?”
“And dress co
de. Don’t forget to tell me what the dress code is. I don’t wanna show up in my suit for a hoedown.”
Chuckling, I agreed. “I’ll text you with all the pertinent information.”
He looked at me one last time with his deep-chocolate eyes and responded in his husky-chocolate voice, “I look forward to hearing from you.”
I think my toes curled in my slippers. “Bye, Hobbs.”
He made his way to the door and pulled on his coat with a warm smile. “Bye, Hal.”
As he exited, with Stephen King in tow, I sighed a long sigh. That wasn’t as hard as I’d thought it would be.
As I gathered not only my wits, but wine glasses and the cookies, Atti wolf whistled from where he’d been hiding somewhere down the hall. “Halliday has a date! Halliday has a date!”
“Shut it, Atti!” I ordered, my cheeks volcano hot.
But then I smiled.
I had a date.
That was really nice.
Chapter 15
“Oh, fuuudge!” Only, I didn’t say fudge.
Ralphie, A Christmas Story, 1983
* * *
I’d decided to keep our first official date casual and take Hobbs to our local diner. I’d heard him mention his love of fried chicken, and I’d also heard true Southern tourists say nobody made fried chicken like Coral Smithers, who owned Coral’s Cove Diner.
As I put the finishing touches on my very minimal makeup, checking to be sure I didn’t look like a clown, I got a text from Stiles.
Please remember what I said about what you saw at the station, with a smiley face emoji attached.
Ugh. That cast-iron frying pan was going to haunt me for the rest of my life. I had a dream about the stupid thing last night. A disembodied arm, whacking Hilroy over the head with the flat end, and then him draped over the sleigh with blood pouring out of his skull.
Double ugh.
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