Have Yourself a Merry Little Witness: A Witchy Christmas Cozy Mystery (Marshmallow Hollow Mysteries Book 2)

by Dakota Cassidy

  Chapter 2

  Baby, It’s Cold Outside

  Written by Frank Loesser, Henry D. Haynes, Jethro Burns, 1944

  I flew out the door and into the garage, beeping my truck, climbing in, and pressing the garage door open.

  As I began to back out, Hobbs was suddenly directly behind me in my rearview mirror, making me slam on the brakes. He came to the window and knocked on it, his handsome face concerned, his knit cap covered in snow.

  I pressed the button to roll down the window. “You scared the devil out of me!”

  “Hal? What’s goin’ on? I was just taking out my garbage and saw your taillights. Everythin’ okay?” he asked, his Southern accent thicker when he was worried. “It’s stormin’ pretty hard out.”

  “Remember I told you about my Uncle Darling coming to visit with his husband Monty this week?”

  He grinned then, making his beard lift and the deep grooves on either side of his mouth more pronounced. “I do. I was looking forward to meeting ’em. Is everything all right?”

  “I have to go get him. He’s at the convenience store just outside of town. His husband’s been hurt—and apparently, the convenience store clerk was killed, and Monty witnessed it.”

  Hobbs blinked, but he didn’t miss a beat. “You okay to drive?”

  I gripped the steering wheel. “I’m fine. I grew up here, remember? This is like a walk in the park for me.”

  “If you don’t object, I’ll come with you. Call me a typical man…that is to say, I’m sure you can handle drivin’ in this blizzard just fine, but I’d like to go with you to be sure. Doesn’t mean I don’t trust your abilities as a driver. I know you don’t need a man to drive in the snow. Just means I don’t wanna see you out on that dark country road all alone.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. It didn’t upset me that Hobbs wanted to look out for me. Not even a little, as long as he tacked on that little part where he acknowledged I was okay doing it alone.

  Still, he was right. Though it was only late afternoon, it was already dark on that short stretch of road from town to the convenience store. Dark and deserted.

  “Make no mistake, this isn’t a blizzard, Texas Man. It’s a squall, but by all means, hop in. I appreciate the company.”

  He rounded the back of the vehicle and climbed in, the scent of wet snow and his fresh cologne invading the interior of my truck.

  Hobbs turned to me and gave me a warm, sympathetic smile. “So what’s going on? How can I help?”

  I handed him my phone. “Read the texts from my uncle.”

  He was quiet for a moment as I backed out of the driveway and plowed forward into the snowy night. Flipping on my satellite radio, I chose the Christmas station and turned it low, letting the dulcet tones of Bing Crosby soothe me.

  But my stomach was in a jumble of nerves. I wasn’t sure what I was going to walk into. The last crime scene I’d witnessed, I saw from a distance. Having a personal stake in it took it to a whole new level.

  “Wow,” Hobbs mumbled. “He sounds pretty freaked out.”

  I nodded, navigating the small twists and turns in the road. “He is, and I’m going to warn you, he’s pretty dramatic on the whole. I love him, but he takes embellishing to a new height. So I’m hoping maybe Gable isn’t dead and this is all just a scratch or something, because the sight of blood makes my uncle go weak in the knees.”

  “I hate to tell you this, but he did say he saw someone running away and that Gable is dead. Maybe it’s no exaggeration.”

  But I could still hope it was Uncle Darling being Uncle Darling—flamboyant, sarcastic, and more flamboyant. As we rounded the final bend to the convenience store, I saw the flash of red and blue lights and wondered if Stiles was actually there.

  He’d soothe my uncle with his familiar face, but I couldn’t remember his schedule these days. I felt like lately, he was always working to prove some point to that sourpuss Detective Godfrey.

  I slowed to a crawl and parked on the side of the road, the lights in the convenience store—plus the ambulance and police car flashers—bright enough for us to walk the rest of the way.

  Hobbs was out of the truck before I could blink, pulling open my door and offering me his gloved hand to help me down.

  He leaned in and whispered in my ear, “I don’t think he was exaggerating.”

  Nodding, my words were shaky when I whispered back, “I think you’re right.”

  The convenience store loomed in front of me, a box-shaped structure of neon signs for beer and soft drink companies, with a red tin roof and a newspaper stand.

  As we clomped through the snow, I heard my Uncle and his hysterical sobs while someone was carried off on a gurney and someone else shouted orders before loading whoever was on the gurney into the ambulance.

  “Hal!” I heard Stiles call to me, and caught sight of him behind the crowd of police and forensics team members, his arms raised high. “Over here!”

  I held a hand over my eyes to keep the flakes from pounding my face and crunched across the parking lot with Hobbs leading the way, noting the huge drops of blood as we got closer to the store.

  Feeney’s Fuel and Gruel, owned by Lamont Feeney, had been around since I was a kid. We used to ride our bikes here in the summer to buy ice cream and chips or a soda, because Feeney’s always had the best ice cream—the word according to Stiles.

  Mr. Feeney made a point of stocking Bomb Pops for Stiles the minute he’d found out he liked them, and he still did to this day. But the best thing about Feeney’s was the lobster roll sandwiches—or if you’re a local, the lobstah rolls.

  Weird for a gas station to have them, I know, but he made the best lobster roll in all of Marshmallow Hollow.

  That he’d managed not to end up bought out by a bigger corporation was admirable. Though, he had turned the management of the store over to Gable Norton last year, when Gable came home from rehab and needed a job. Mr. Feeney worked with all sorts of folks who had substance abuse problems at the church in town, because he’s a recovering alcoholic himself.

  So when Gable cleaned up, Mr. Feeney was the first person to extend a hand to help him get on his feet. I hated thinking he was dead after he’d come so far…

  I waved to Stiles and pushed my way around the sidewalk toward him, and that’s when my uncle saw me and fairly collapsed against my chest.

  “Oh, Hal!” he cried, using my scarf to wipe his tears. “Oh, Lamb, it’s dreadful. Just dreadful! He’s…he’s going to die! Monty’s going to die!”

  Stiles was on hand to help me lead my uncle into the bright interior of the store, where it was warmer. “Don’t move from this spot, Hal. Okay? They’re still processing the crime scene, but they’ve taken Monty to the hospital.”

  “How bad it is?” I mouthed to him over my uncle’s chubby shoulder.

  “Bad,” Stiles mouthed back, his handsome face, red from the cold and very grim, making me gulp and force myself to gather my wits in order to be strong for Uncle Darling.

  Hobbs came in behind me and stood at my back, his hand on my waist, but he remained silent as my uncle cried and we both absorbed the mess the store had become.

  Everything mostly looked the way it had when I was a kid, from the rows of candy and chips and a small selection of sundries, to the coolers with beer and soda.

  Apparently there’d been a scuffle, because the shelves closer to the bathroom were knocked over, cans of coffee and small jugs of laundry detergent scattered across the floor. The rack that held fresh flowers from the local flower shop, where you could grab a small bouquet of carnations, was toppled over, green leaves everywhere.

  And those drops of blood were all over the place, too—from the cashier’s counter all the way to the bathrooms down a short hallway. I didn’t know if they were from Monty or Gable or both, but seeing them made me shiver.

  “Nooo!” I heard a female voice scream, raw and ragged. “No! No! No! Please, say it’s not true, Stiles! Please tell me he’s not g
one!”

  Blanching, I realized Gable’s wife, Anna, had arrived, and hearing her cry out could only mean Gable was dead for sure.

  Uncle Darling lifted his head, his wide blue eyes brimming with tears, his raspy voice cracking. “We need to get to Monty, Hal. They wouldn’t let me go in the ambulance. I absolutely must go to him. He’s the love of my life. I can’t lose him! Not now!”

  Hugging him hard, I cupped his cheeks and forced him to look at me. “Listen to me, Uncle Darling, I have to be sure you’re allowed to leave. So I need you to take a deep breath and answer my question. Do you know if the police have any more questions for you?”

  He gripped my wrists, his pudgy face collapsing. “I don’t know, but I have to go to him, Hal. He needs me!”

  Wiping his tears with my gloved fingers, like he’d done for me so many times, I nodded. “I understand, and I’ll get you to him as soon as I can. I swear I will. But first, let me check with Stiles, all right? I know it’s hard, but we can’t just run off if they need to talk to you. Okay?”

  “O…okay,” he sobbed, raspy and deep as he clung to my arms.

  “I’ve got him, Hal,” Hobbs said, and I gratefully mouthed my thanks.

  Planting a kiss on my Uncle Darling’s wet cheek, I pointed to Hobbs. “This is Hobbs, he’s renting the cottage behind me and he’s a friend. Is it okay if he stays with you while I check to see what needs to be done?”

  Now, if you knew anything at all about my uncle, you’d know Hobbs would certainly warrant a slick comment about how good-looking he was, but my uncle didn’t make a single off-color remark.

  Instead, when Hobbs held out his hand, he went directly to him, his head low, his tears splotching the white tiled floor.

  Hobbs pulled him away from me and back toward the beer cases, speaking to him in soothing tones.

  I waved Stiles over, my nerves feeling a little frazzled. As he approached, the crisp legs on the pants of his uniform wet at the ankles, his face looked positively green.

  Reaching out a hand, I grabbed his wrist. I didn’t know if he was friends with Gable in school, he’d been a year behind us, and if I’m truthful, back in the day, he’d been a terrible bully.

  It didn’t seem likely that Stiles would have been friends with him, but he sure looked pretty upset.

  “You okay, Fitzi?” I asked, calling him by his nickname when I tugged on his police-issued jacket.

  “I’m okay, Kitten. Seeing Anna like that was tough. They have a baby, and I gotta say, it was pretty awful to see her so torn up.”

  I caught sight of Anna on the other side of the convenience store, where the police were huddled around her, giving me only a glimpse of her beautiful blonde hair and her face, red from crying.

  I bit the inside of my cheek at the tragedy of it all. She’d just had a little girl a couple of months ago. In fact, Gable had been showing the baby’s picture to anyone who’d look when they came into the store.

  “Gosh, that’s awful.” I rubbed his arm. “So what in blazes happened here? Uncle Darling’s beside himself over Monty.”

  Stiles blew out a breath. “I’m not sure of the details because Darling was hysterical and there was no calming him down. I think, and I use that word loosely, that Monty came in to use the facilities and grab you some flowers because he insisted, in Darling’s words, they be fresh for his favorite little witch. Monty took too long, so Uncle Darling decided to come looking for him, and someone in a knit mask ran out of the bathroom, almost knocking him down. He ran to the bathroom to find Monty covered in blood and unconscious, and Gable shot…dead.”

  My stomach jolted. How awful for Uncle Darling. “So that was Monty being taken away in the ambulance?”

  I know it was a dumb question to ask, it definitely wasn’t Gable on the gurney, but I almost needed to hear it out loud to digest the information.

  He gave me a curt nod, gulping hard. “It was, and it looks pretty serious, Hal. I won’t hesitate to say I’m worried about him.”

  Crap, crap, and more crap. “Okay, so can we take Darling to the hospital to see what’s happening? Or does he have to answer more questions?”

  “How about I go check and I’ll get back to you in a sec. There’s a lot going on.”

  I’d say. The team of forensic people were in and out of the small hallway leading to the men’s bathroom, their faces somber, plastic on their shoes, leaving bloody footprints in their wake.

  No less than four police officers and Detective Godfrey were talking to Anna, and that didn’t even account for the other police officers outside, marking off the parking lot.

  “Yes, please go check,” I whispered, my heart pounding as Anna began to cry again, her husky sobs agonizing to hear.

  A female police officer came and took hold of her, escorting her to a car outside, her arm around Anna’s shoulders, keeping her close.

  Thankfully, the car drove away, and I was glad for it…because what happened next will probably haunt my dreams forever.

  There were a couple of grunts from the back where the men’s room was located and then, without warning, another gurney came out. Maybe someone hadn’t covered Gable’s body well enough or the sheet had slipped off, but I got a bird’s eye view of my first murder victim.

  Four sturdy men pushed the gurney carrying Gable, his brown eyes glassy and wide, his mouth in a thin line of what looked like pain, suggesting he’d experienced anguish at the hands of his killer.

  But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of it was the hole in his chest. From where I stood, it looked enormous and ragged, the tear in his Feeney’s Fuel and Gruel shirt blackened around the edges.

  My stomach flipped upside down as someone yelled, “Didn’t I tell you to wait until I cleared everyone out, you idiots? Have some respect and cover him up!”

  As they passed Uncle Darling, I heard him cry out a primal scream seconds before the ground beneath me began to swell and lift—and with no warning, I was in the men’s bathroom of Feeney’s, watching two men fight for control of a shotgun while Monty lie on the small tiles of the bathroom floor.

  Crumpled, almost broken, his slender face slack, his glossy red hair bloodied.

  My heartbeat slowed, and as though my feet were made of concrete, rooted to the spot, I watched the split second play out when Gable Norton had fought for his life.

  Chapter 3

  Oh, Holy Night

  Written by Adolphe Adam, Placide Cappeau, John Sullivan Dwight, 1847

  For sure, one man was Gable; I’d know his towhead and hulking frame anywhere. At one time, he’d been the golden boy of Marshmallow Hollow, the star quarterback at our high school (go Chickadees!), and all the girls had wanted him to take notice of them. Even though he’d been a year behind me, he’d played varsity football, and being a bit of a football fan when I was in school, I saw him play at most of the games.

  The other man, just as Uncle Darling had told Stiles, definitely had a black knit facemask on, but he wasn’t nearly as large as Gable. He was average height but broad-shouldered. They were shouting at one another, but the words were as muffled and hazy as my heartbeat.

  They tussled for a moment and, of all the curious things, a tube of lipstick fell on the ground near Monty. A tube of hot-pink lipstick with no cap…

  Then there was a loud boom and then blood everywhere.

  Dear Goddess, the blood…

  “Hal!” someone hissed with urgency in my ear. “Hal, listen to me. You’re having a vision. I’m going to grab your hand to keep you steady. Come back to the land of the living.”

  I blinked, my eyes dry from the forced-air heat of the store, my legs wobbly and weak.

  “Hal? You okay?”

  I gripped what turned out to be Stiles’s hand and nodded with a slow nod. “Yes…”

  “What did you see?”

  I leaned against his chest for a moment. He’s a good deal taller than me, and my head only reaches his pecs. “The murderer, I think…I think I saw…the gu
y who murdered Gable.”

  His grip on me tightened as the world came back into focus. “Who? Who was it, Hal?”

  “I don’t know,” I murmured in frustration. “I don’t mean I saw him-saw him, you know? But it was just like Uncle Darling said, there was a man in a black knit facemask, and a tube of…lipstick? Hot-pink lipstick. What does that mean? Was it Uncle Darling’s?”

  He was, after all, a drag queen. He had tons of lipstick. In fact, he’d showed me how to contour my cheekbones and make my lips look fuller. He rarely traveled with his makeup if he wasn’t on tour or doing a show, but I suppose it was possible he or even Monty had it.

  Stiles shook his head and rasped a sigh. “I don’t know, I didn’t see the scene directly, and I haven’t heard anything about a lipstick, but I’m sure if there is one, they’ll ask Uncle Darling about it. Guaranteed. Anything else?”

  Sighing, I scrunched my eyes shut and popped them back open. “I don’t have much more than what he already told you. I’m sorry…”

  We’d had a long conversation about the last murder I’d kind of infringed on, and the visions I’d had associated with said murder, and we’d agreed that my visions could have been helpful in solving the crime. If Stiles couldn’t reveal what I told him to his superiors, at the very least he could be aware of what I’d seen and keep a keen eye open when looking for clues.

  I know he had to be careful about any details he shared, and I didn’t ever want him to jeopardize his work, but I did promise to share any future visions I had with him in case they could help.

  Stiles patted me on the back and dropped a kiss on the top of my head. “Don’t be sorry. I’m used to half the story when it comes to your migraines,” he said. “But if you have another one with more clarity, text me, okay?”

  I pushed off from his chest and nodded, my breathing returning to normal.

  “She okay? Another migraine?” Brett Messer—tall and lanky with brown hair and pleasant hazel eyes—asked as he braced his hands on the heavy belt that held his gun.