One Corpse Open Slay

by Dakota Cassidy

  I hadn’t seen it since he’d made the final move here a few months ago, and I guess I didn’t want him to think I was prone to showing up without warning. We were in the early stages of dating, and I wanted to keep some boundaries intact until we were in deeper—if we got in deeper, that is.

  Crunching my way up the path to his door with a shiver, I rapped my knuckles on the solid wood as Barbra poked her tiny head out of the pocket of my coat and meowed.

  Hobbs popped open the door, a grin on his face. “Well, Detective Lacey, to what do I owe the pleasure?” he growled in his deep, sexy voice with just a hint of his Southern accent. “Did you solve this murder without me again?”

  Chuckling, I made a face at him. “Man, Cowboy, you can hold a grudge, can’t you? This has nothing to do with murder and everything to do with the finishing touches for our dinner.”

  “Then by all means, come on in.” He made a gallant sweeping gesture to step inside and when I did, I was pleasantly surprised.

  Not only did it smell like something delicious, he had a bit of a knack for decorating I couldn’t deny. The cottage was only three rooms, the bulk of it the kitchen and living room, with an average-size fireplace and a good amount of medium-stained knotty pine cabinets with a smoky walnut glaze over them. White, gray-veined quartz countertops lined the entire back wall, where he’d hung shelves above the stainless-steel sink to hold crisp white plates and saucers.

  Stephen King came over to give me a quick snort and an affectionate rub to my calves before he headed back to his bed by the fire.

  I tried not to be a nosy Nellie and stay on task. “Remember when you said you had a bunch of spices and I could borrow them anytime?”

  He reached down and stroked Barbra’s head with a warm smile. “Yep. What’s your poison?”

  “I need some allspice, if you have it.”

  He dropped a kiss on my lips before he said, “Come on in and I’ll go dig it out.”

  Hobbs headed toward the kitchen and I stole a glance around the living room. A puffy, dark gray couch with a couple of stray pillows in red and a tufted ottoman completed the furniture, with the exception of one end table in wood that matched the kitchen cabinets.

  He’d put up a small Christmas tree by the crosshatched front window I’d so painstakingly chosen farmhouse trim for and painted white. It twinkled and glowed softly in the setting sun. There was a swag of greenery over the window with lights, and some silver and gold ornaments attached to it.

  And on the other side of the fireplace, there was a desk. A beautiful pine wood desk with three drawers and a desk lamp.

  But it was a desk with…guess what on it?

  A typewriter.

  The very same typewriter I’d been seeing in my visions.

  How do ya like them apples?

  CHAPTER 7

  “I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus, underneath the mistletoe last night!”

  “Y ou have a typewriter?” I blurted out before I could stop myself.

  He grinned as he handed me the bottle of allspice. “I do. It was my grandmother’s. When my dad and his new wife moved overseas, I inherited it.”

  “Can you type?”

  “Can’t we all? Didn’t you have to take typing in high school?”

  I guess I did. “I did. Were you close to your grandmother?”

  He smiled, and it was a smile of fondness. “I was. She died about ten years ago, but I spent plenty of summers on her farm. She’s who taught me how to cook and she’s who taught me how to smoke sausage, by the way. She was a great lady. I miss her, and my grandad, too.”

  When he spoke of them, his Southern accent became more pronounced, and the love he felt for them was clear.

  Looking around, I smiled up at him. “You’ve done a really nice job in here, Cagney. I’m impressed.”

  He crossed his strong arms over his chest and gave me an impish grin. “From the former interior designer, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Barbra began meowing quite loudly then. Obviously, someone was hungry. I dropped the allspice in my pocket and turned toward the door.

  Standing on tiptoe, I gave him a quick kiss. “I’d better feed her. I’ll see you in an hour for dinner?”

  “I made the bread.”

  “You make bread, too? Phew, Cowboy. You’re a real catch.”

  “I like to think so. Now scoot. Make me some dinner,” he said in a teasing tone. “I’ll see you in a bit. I’ve been doing a little research on our D-bag judge I’d like to share.”

  “Awesome. Oh, and if you demand I make you dinner again, you won’t eat right for a year.”

  He laughed as I waved over my shoulder and headed toward my mudroom door, wondering why that typewriter was in my visions and if it had to do with anything I was missing.

  I also wondered why I didn’t tell him about it back when I confessed to having visions. It must have been some gut instinct—but about what? He had a typewriter. So what?

  Scurrying inside the mudroom, I pulled my jacket off and hung it up, taking Barbra with me as she howled and squirmed, catching Phil’s attention.

  He hopped down from his cat tower perch and followed me into the kitchen, where I pulled out a can of soft food for her. I lectured him as I opened the can. I’d hoped to introduce them slowly, but it looked as though Phil had other plans.

  “All right, Phil, m’love. We have a new friend. You are to be nice to this new friend. Not the kind of nice you are to Atti, either. She’s tiny and helpless and if you so much as look at her the wrong way, we’re going to have—”

  Phil interrupted my speech by hopping up on the island counter, where I’d set Barbra’s tiny little body, and he didn’t even sniff her before cozying up to her, nudging her with his head.

  She ignored him in favor of eating, but he continued to nudge and cuddle with her. He didn’t even try to steal her food—and it was his favorite brand of canned food.

  “Atti?”

  “Yes, Poppet?” he answered in his deep tone, flying into the kitchen and landing on my shoulder.

  “Prepare for the Apocalypse. Phil likes another animal. That makes two. Stephen King and now Barbra.”

  “Oh, heavens. Shall I gather our emergency bag and the canned goods?”

  I watched in wonder as Phil began cleaning Barbra. “Only if you hear the Four Horsemen.”

  “Never joke about such things, Halliday. They exist. A ragamuffin, smelly band of fellows, to be sure, but they exist.”

  Eep. “Sorry, but I can’t believe this is happening right before our very eyes. I mean, it’s Phil. The Phil who wants to eat you.”

  “Miracles never cease, do they, Poppet?”

  I leaned down and listened closely, holding up a finger. “Wait. Is that purring I hear? Phil, are you purring?”

  He stopped cleaning Barbra, who wasn’t at all bothered by him lapping at her fur as she ate, and looked up at me with his familiar expression of disdain as if to say, “What is your dealio, lady?”

  I let out a small gasp. “You are purring, you heathen,” I whisper-hissed. “If ever there was a monster, it has to be you. I give you all the love any cat could want—or not want, for that matter—and you shun me as though I have leprosy. But I bring in what any normal cat would consider a rival, and you treat her like some long-lost friend? What gives, buddy?”

  I reached out and stroked his back, and he stopped licking Barbra long enough to stare at me again with his Phil brand of intensity. Which meant, back off, sister.

  “You are unbelievable,” I playfully scolded. “But you listen up. Don’t you turn my Barbra against me, you hear? If she even considers staring at me with haughty disdain, you’re outta here.”

  “If only,” Atticus drawled.

  Of course I didn’t mean it. But I also needed someone to cuddle and Barbra was it. No matter how much I loved Phil, his grouchy butt wasn’t going to influence that.

  Smiling, I leaned down and dropped a kiss on her tiny head when I heard
the front door open and the bells attached to it jingle.

  “Kitten? You here?”

  I froze. Stiles. Son of a—

  “Don’t even think such a word, Halliday Valentine,” Atti warned in his uncanny knack for reading my mind and forever minding my tongue.

  Holding my finger up to my mouth to beg him to be quiet, I waved my hands over Barbra’s tiny body and mumbled, “Far, far, far away, take your leave where you must stay!” Then I crossed my fingers I’d sent her to the barn, where I knew Nana would care for her, and not the outer reaches of Mongolia.

  “I’m here!” I called out. “In the kitchen, feeding Phil.” Who, by the way, was staring at the empty space where his new playmate had been, and blinking in confusion.

  When Stiles entered the kitchen, still in his police garb, his gaze instantly went to the counter where Barbra had been and he crossed his arms over his chest.

  In the glow of the Christmas lights above the cabinets, I saw his skepticism.

  “Since when do you feed Phil on the counter? And why isn’t Atti here having an apoplectic fit about it?”

  “Excuse me, young sire,” Atti said in his very best condescending tone. “Phil had a bit of a tummy ache and, as Halliday is wont to do, she’s keeping a watchful eye on his eating habits. Even if he doesn’t deserve such.”

  I fought a giggle. Atti, even if he could be a real stickler for rules and manners, was always on my side. No matter what.

  Stiles smiled and pulled off his knit cap. “Evening, Atti. Seen a kitten around here?”

  Atti bristled his colorful wings. “Really, Stiles, whatever do you mean? I see the same bedraggled, filthy curmudgeon I’ve always seen. His name is Phil. What do you see?”

  Stiles chuckled and ran a hand over Phil’s back. “So no kittens, Kitten? You didn’t use your magic to ship it off somewhere?”

  Turning my back to him, to avoid looking him in the eye, I went to add the allspice to my stew, the delicious aroma filling up the kitchen.

  “I shipped nothing. Now, are you here to harass me about a kitten, or would you like to stay for dinner? It’s stew night, and I know how much you love stew.”

  He came up behind me and tugged at my hair. “Actually, I have a date with Darien tonight. So I can’t stay.”

  I whirled around with a smile and jumped up and down, happy for my friend. “Squeeeee! Did you finally ask him out?”

  Stiles grinned his handsome grin. “Actually, he asked me. We’re just grabbing a drink and maybe some happy hour munchies before the judging begins.”

  I squeezed his arm. “I’m happy for you. I hope it’s amazing. Now, have they found another judge to replace Yule?”

  “I’m hearing Jolie Sampson’s mother, Tana West, is going to fill in for the expert and beginner levels because she can’t judge Jolie and Jerry, who are mid-level expertise. So Mayor Bader is taking over that part of the competition.”

  I gave my stew a good stir and asked, “Does Mayor Bader know anything at all about ice carving?”

  Stiles shrugged. “I have no idea. Maybe they’ll call her a guest judge.”

  “So Tana West is coming, huh?” I remembered Jerry mentioning her.

  “Yep. She’s an expert in the field of ice sculpting with six championships to her name. In fact, she beat the pants off Yule Wolfram in one with an entry titled ‘Ice Lilies of the Valley’ that was pretty impressive. Saw a picture of it.”

  I wondered if Tana West thought Yule was a jerk, too. “So Jolie’s mother is judging. How interesting. Does she still compete today?”

  Stiles shrugged. “She’s coming in from Chester Bay, where they all live, but I don’t know if she still competes. I didn’t ask.”

  Tucking my hair behind my ear, I said, “I had no idea we had champion ice carvers among us. Where did Yule come from, anyway? I know he touts Germany, but Rory Green said while he’s German, he didn’t ever truly live there.”

  Stiles barked a laugh. “Rory’s right. He comes from over in Kennebunkport. Has quite a place on the beach, as a matter of fact. Huge, gorgeous,” he rubbed his fingers together, “expensive.”

  I turned and gave Stiles a facetious smile. “Do you have something you’d like to share with the class?”

  “I wish I did. Do you have any visions you’d like to share with the class?”

  I snorted and put the top back on the Crock-Pot. “I wish I did. I have nada. All I have is a dead lothario. Though, I suppose you know that already.”

  Stiles’s lips thinned. “Yeah, I do. I think he tried to tap nearly every single woman at the ice festival, and I talked to every one of them.”

  “So you heard Gracie’s story about her mom? And about Blanche Ritter?”

  He dragged a bowl of chocolate Kisses toward him and unwrapped one, popping it in his mouth. “Yep. Made my head want to explode. Twyla’s one of the nicest ladies I know. When her husband died, she was pretty lost there for a bit. It made me sad to see her like that. Gracie told me today she was just getting back into dating, and Wolfram came along and lifted her spirits long enough to indulge in some hanky-panky before he told her that was all it was ever gonna be.”

  My fists clenched and I narrowed my eyes. “Had I known that, I would have given him hives that lasted a week. But I didn’t know until today. So I guess, in comparing notes, you didn’t find out anything I didn’t already discover.”

  He clucked his tongue. “I know that, too. People are really starting to talk about how good you are at this.”

  My cheeks went red as I wandered over to the kitchen windows facing the ocean, to watch the water crash against the rocks. “I’m not good at this. I’m lucky at this, and with the factory closed for December, I have time on my hands. That’s all. Now, let’s forget all that and talk about what you know.”

  Stiles came to stand beside me, driving his hands into the pockets of his police-issued trousers. “Like?”

  “Like time of death? Cause of death? I mean, I think the cause is obvious, but what was the murder weapon?”

  “Time of death was probably three or four hours before he came down the hill on that sled.”

  I chewed the inside of my cheek in thought. “So really early morning, huh? I was there at nine.”

  “And I was there at quarter of. So yeah, according to the coroner and the time rigor mortis set in, it was probably five or so in the morning,” Stiles said.

  I shivered thinking about how Ruthie might have jogged right past the dead body—or even when the murder was in progress.

  “Did you talk to Ruthie? She said she was jogging early in the morning.”

  “Yep. I learned about as much as you, I bet.”

  “Which is nothing.”

  He blew out a breath of air. “Exactly.”

  “Any thoughts on why someone would put him in a sled and hide him by, of all places, the storage shed? It wasn’t exactly discreet.”

  Stiles ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “The theory is, whoever did this to him, chased him up the hill and whacked him there. He fell in the sled, but the ice festival crew shows up pretty early—around six or so. The idea being, maybe someone had to ditch and run because they got scared when the crew arrived.”

  “But no footprints to trace because it snowed in the morning before it got weirdly warm.”

  Stiles nodded. “Exactly, and footprints wouldn’t exactly be the lead of the century. Everyone has some type of boots on at this point in the season. Discerning who the killer is by their Eddie Bauers would be a nightmare.”

  That was very true, not that it mattered if the snow covered the footprints up anyway. “Thoughts on a weapon?”

  Now he scratched his head, a look of puzzlement on his face. “No one can figure out the weapon, and it isn’t at all obvious. The cut to his jugular—the cause of death, by the way—is clean, but the coroner said it didn’t look like he was sliced open. It was more like someone took a jab at him. Of course, that’s all preliminary findings at this poin
t. Prelim findings I can trust you to keep to yourself and Hobbs?”

  I nodded. “Always. Any DNA on his body? Any other evidence in the sled—or anywhere, for that matter?”

  “You mean aside from the cat hair from a cat that doesn’t exist?”

  I fought another smile and kept looking straight ahead to keep my composure. “Yep.”

  “Then nope. Not as of yet. And what I learned about Wolfram is mostly that he was unpleasant and a playboy. All of Kennebunkport, that’s where he comes from, is on fire about his death.”

  I sighed. The only thing I’d learned about him so far was what a total creep he was. “So single guy, ice carving champion…any family? Children?”

  “No children and no family to speak of. Mom passed away in 2002. Dad in 1997. No pets. And no other job but ice carving, it would seem. He traveled all over the world for a long time in the nineties and then seemed to settle into the role of judge in the early two thousands, and he’s been judging ever since.”

  Turning to look at him, I asked, “You know what I wonder? Why is a guy who’s so world-renowned and rich judging a little ol’ contest in, of all places, tiny, not-so-world-renowned Marshmallow Hollow?”

  He smiled and made a check mark in the air. “I have the answer to that. He was good friends with Mayor Bader. This was a favor to her—one he, according to some people who heard him talking to the final judge, Peter Lattimer, was happy to remind her about.”

  “So he was above all this, is what you’re saying.”

  “That was Peter’s impression—even though Peter beat him twice and won more competitions than Yule. He said, and these are his exact words, ‘He chased skirts and talked about what a Podunk town Marshmallow Hollow was and how he couldn’t wait to get back to Kennebunkport where tail is aplenty.’ Peter said he only came because Mayor Bader sponsored one of his trips to Europe when he was just starting out. She was good friends with his mother, and Mayor Bader played the connection card.”

  “Well, I guess he’s not so bad. If he was doing a favor for Mayor Bader because of his mother. At least he loved his mom, right?”