Hobbs steepled his hands in front of his mouth. “Serial kidnapper? Is that even a thing? I don’t know. The only thing I do know is, I think this guy Westcott has a point, and I wonder if there are more girls we don’t know about.”
A violent chill ran along my spine. “Maybe we should email him? See if he gets back to us? He might not want to talk to us, but it’s worth a try.”
Hobbs took his phone back. “I’ll do it.”
“When you’re done, you take Jasmine Franks, who’s been missing for two months, and look at her Facebook page. I’ll take Kerry Carver and the other girl, Lisa Simons—who, by the way, has been missing for three months.”
As we both took to the task of scouring Facebook pages and Twitter timelines, a comfortable silence fell between us, the clack of my fingers on my keyboard the only interruption.
When my eyes became gritty and sore, I looked away from the computer, reaching up toward the ceiling to stretch my arms. “I’ve got a big fat bupkiss from these Facebook and Twitter pages. How about you?”
Hobbs squeezed his temples and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. “Same here. Other than the initial details of their alleged abductions, and the pleas for their safety and for the police to look into it, there’s not much else. There are tons of prayers being sent up and ‘I miss you’s’ posted, but nothing that sends up any smoke signals.”
Looking at the time on my laptop, my hot chocolate long gone cold, I realized it was almost two in the morning, and that made me yawn. “I’m going to send the girls’ parents a message on Facebook and see if they won’t talk to me.”
Hobbs reached across the table and laced his fingers with mine. “You’re exhausted. You need to get some rest, Hal.”
But not him. He looked fresh as a daisy. “How come you look like you just rolled out of bed after a refreshing twelve-hour nap?”
He shrugged and grinned sheepishly as he tucked his phone into his back pocket. “I’m a night owl, I guess. I’m used to being up this late.”
“Oh, yeah, I remember seeing the lights on in the cottage one night when I got up for some aspirin. It was pretty late, as I recall.”
“I like the night. We see eye to eye on a lot of things. The peace and quiet being one of them. No phones, no doorbells. It’s a great time to do a crossword puzzle.”
Chuckling, I understood. Running a busy factory, I spent the day with a lot of boisterous workers, not to mention some rather noisy machines. Peace and quiet was a small blessing from time to time.
“So let’s call it a day for the moment? Uncle Darling’s going to need all my attention tomorrow, with the way things are shaping up with Uncle Monty, but fingers crossed these girls’ parents will at least give me the time of day.”
Hobbs rose and grabbed his coat, pulling it over his arms. “Okey-dokey. I’ll do some more poking around online before I go to bed, but if you’re okay with it, I’ll be back tomorrow to help out.”
My heart clenched in my chest. “That would be really nice. I’ll make sure we have plenty of biscuits and gravy ready in your honor.”
He grinned, his expression surprised. “You know how to make biscuits and gravy?”
I didn’t, but I bet Atti did, and what good was magic if you couldn’t use it to make someone else happy? At least, that was how I planned to sell it to Atti.
“Don’t you worry your little cowboy head about what I know,” I said in a really bad Southern accent. “Just be back here for breakfast around nine or so.”
Making his way around the table, he grabbed my fingers and gave them a squeeze. “See you then, Hal. G’night.”
He whistled to Stephen King, who’d been lying by the fireplace in the dining room, and the next thing I heard was the jingle of the door as it closed. Then, for the moment, I was alone.
Inhaling deeply, I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples.
“Headache, Poppet?” Atti asked, his deep voice resonating in my ear as he flew to my shoulder, his soft wings brushing against my forehead.
“Tension headache, I guess. Tension and worry about Uncle Monty and Uncle Darling. How are you?”
He brushed his wing along my cheek, his deep voice full of concern when he said, “Worried about you.”
Tears stung my eyes again and my throat grew tight. “Don’t worry, Atti. I’m going to find who did this to Uncle Monty and Gable Norton, and when I do…”
“Come, Poppet. I’ve turned down your bed and made a fire. Let’s get your thermals on and tuck you in. The Sandman is calling your name. Tomorrow will bring with it new perspective.”
I rose and followed Atti down the hall to my bedroom, feeling helpless and scared while, strangely, Phil loomed at my heels.
Now more than ever, I wished my mother Keeva was here to help me soothe Uncle Darling. What if Uncle Monty’s memory loss wasn’t only because of the anesthesia? What if he didn’t remember the one person who loved him more than almost anything else?
If that was the case, my mother would know what to do. She’d know what to say.
Stripping off my clothes, I put on the thermal pajamas Atti had so kindly laid out at the end of my bed and climbed under the thick comforter. The fire roared in all its purple and orange glory, the Christmas lights on the mantel twinkled, and outside, the ocean crashed against the rocks.
Phil hopped up on the bed and brushed against me, rubbing his oddly shaped head on my cheek. Yes, the Phil who can barely contain his disdain for me was making actual physical contact.
I sniffled and reached for him, wrapping my arms around his neck—and he did what Phil does, he squirmed out of my reach and stared at me as though I’d offended him with my needy desperation and my grabby hands.
“Too much, buddy?” I whispered, my throat tight.
He glared, his glassy green eyes sending one of his angry messages.
I smiled at him despite the ache in my heart. “That’s what I thought.”
But as I snuggled under the covers and Atti took his place beside me on his pillow, Phil did something very uncharacteristic. He snuggled up in the crook of my knees.
Maybe things weren’t as helpless as they felt, after all.
Chapter 8
Do They Know it’s Christmas?
Written by Bob Geldof and Midge Ure, 1984
I was feeling a little under the weather with a stuffy nose as I watched Hobbs push the last of his breakfast into his mouth before wiping it with a napkin.
“I gotta give it to you, Hal. For a Yankee, those were some dang good biscuits and sausage gravy. Real close to my mama’s.”
I blushed as I pushed mine around my plate. I couldn’t take credit for making the meal. Atti’s magic could.
We all sat around the dining room table in the cold morning light. The sun was out, glinting on the ocean outside the windows, but that wouldn’t last for long if we listened to the forecaster from the morning news.
Snow was in the forecast for tonight, when Hobbs and I had a date for the Christmas tree lighting in the square. But this morning, we were going to find Landry Tithers, and early this afternoon, after getting an email from him in response to Hobbs, we were going to meet with Westcott Morgan.
“I’m glad you liked it. Uncle Darling?” I looked across the table at him, his eyes red and weary even after eight solid hours of sleep. “Won’t you try and eat something for me? Please? I know your appetite is suffering, but you need your strength for today. Uncle Monty’s awake, and that’s amazing news.”
I almost burst into more tears when I got the text from Belinda just as she was preparing to leave her night shift. Uncle Monty was awake again, and she said Dr. Jordon told her Darling could visit when visiting hours began at ten.
“I know you’ll probably think this is crazy, Lamb, considering the size of the caboose on my choo-choo train, but I’m not a stress eater. No disrespect to your homage to the delicious cowboy and the great state of Texas. I’m just not very hungry,” he said, his raspy voice low on energy.
>
Maybe my sleeping spell wasn’t as great as I’d thought.
Hobbs’s face turned bright red. “None taken, Uncle Darling. Can I get you more coffee?”
Uncle Darling smiled at him faintly, and ever so coquettishly. “The only thing you can get me is another one of you.”
I giggled because I was exhausted and glad to see a glimmer of the man I knew. “You are incorrigible,” I chastised.
“I,” he said with a saucy wiggle of his eyebrows, “am truthful. Better nab this one pronto before some other cowgirl comes along and lassos him right out from under your pert little nose!”
Now my face was the one turning red. “You hush and go get Monty’s things together. I’m sure he’d love his toothbrush at this point.”
Instantly, his shoulders sagged under his freshly pressed button-down shirt. “But will he remember what a toothbrush is? That’s the million-dollar question.”
Hobbs wrapped his arm around Uncle Darling’s shoulders and gave him a pat on his arm. “If not, we’ll remind him, because my mama always said good oral hygiene is important.”
Uncle Darling reached up and pinched his cheek before brushing his knuckles over it. “You’re not just pretty to look at, are you, sweet boy?” He pressed a kiss to Hobbs’s fingers and was off to gather Uncle Monty’s things to take to the hospital as I collected the plates from the table.
I was busy going through the events of last night when I remembered I had a loose end—that ambulance chaser, Abraham Weller, whose card was still in my jacket pocket.
“Just a head’s up. A guy by the name of Abraham Weller tried a bid at ambulance chasing with me last night at the hospital, about Uncle Monty. Be on the lookout for shady lawyers in tweed jackets. I don’t want anyone scaring Monty any more than he already is.”
He pointed to his eyes. “I’ll keep ’em wide open. Anything from the missing girls’ parents?”
“Not a single thing. They probably think I’m another reporter. I’m sure after that Westcott’s article, where he insinuates Kerry Carver’s parents are getting all the police love, no one’s going to want to talk to me. But I’ll try to find an address for them, and maybe we can pay them a visit.”
Fighting a yawn, I dropped the plates in the sink and planned to rinse them, but Hobbs beat me to it. “You made breakfast, I’ll clean up,” he said with an affable smile.
Oh, Hobbs, if you only knew how breakfast got on the table.
“Did you get any sleep last night, Cagney with the good hair?” I asked as I wiped down the counters and avoided staring at his broad back.
He popped open my stainless-steel dishwasher and began dropping dishes into it. “I did, Lacey, but not before I spent a good hour internet surfing for more stuff on the three missing girls, Gable and Landry Tithers.”
Stephen King came snorting his way over to me, and I scooped his chunky body into my arms, giving him a hug and a kiss on the top of his head. “Did you find anything of interest or more of what we already found?”
“Not a lot of interest. Though, I did look at Anna’s page and found an interesting comment from a Patricia Fowler.”
“Interesting how?” I asked as I pulled a dog biscuit I’d bought especially for Stephen King out of a tin decorated in gingerbread men and showed it to Hobbs for permission.
He smiled and nodded before clearing his throat. “Well, the best I can figure from the conversation is, Patricia’s son, Evan Fowler—was also an addict—often spent his time with Gable and Landry. Unfortunately, Evan died of a suspected overdose…and Patricia blames Gable.”
I gave Stephen King his biscuit and one last kiss on the top of his head before setting him in front of the roaring fireplace, in the dog bed I’d also purchased just for him.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and hooked up to Anna’s page. I saw the thread on Gable’s death and began reading. “She blames Gable for her son’s death?”
Hobbs wiped his hand on the red Christmas tea towel, closed the dishwasher and nodded. “Yep. Read her comment under all the condolences people were posting. I don’t know if it’s still there. Maybe Anna deleted it, but if so, I saved a screenshot.”
It was easy enough to locate, and when I read her comment, my eyes widened. “Holy—”
Atticus, the foul language police, came buzzing directly at my head, preventing me from swearing.
“Spit. Holy, holy spit.”
“Yeah,” Hobbs drawled. “It’s pretty bad.”
As I read what Patricia wrote, I saw between the lines a mother who’d lost her child to an insidious disease, and it broke my heart.
Your good-for-nothing husband and that Landry Tithers killed my Evan and then left him to die! He has blood on his hands, Anna Norton, and he deserved to die for his sins! Gable Norton is a murderer, and don’t you forget it!
“That’s worse than I could have ever imagined.” I leaned against the counter where Hobbs was rinsing out the sink. “Do you think we should add Patricia Fowler to our suspect list? Uncle Darling is still convinced it was a man who killed Gable, but a woman is possible, right?”
Hobbs folded the towel and grimaced. “It feels like a stretch, but stranger things have happened, right? We don’t have a lot to go on, so I guess it couldn’t hurt to add her to the pool.”
“While Uncle Darling visits with Monty, I’d like to ask around about Gable and see if we can hook up with Landry.”
“You do realize I’m not lettin’ you talk to a drug dealer alone, right?”
My brow furrowed and my lips popped in aggravation. “I don’t need a man to—”
“I don’t care what you say you don’t need. I’m twice as big as you and likely three times as strong. Those are just stats, Hal. Facts, if you will. No way I’m letting you look for a killer in a drug den alone. And I’m not going to hear a word about it.”
“I have to agree with the strapping cowboy, Lamb. I don’t want you chatting up drug lords without protection, and this hunky-hunk is the man to provide some,” Uncle Darling said, reentering the kitchen.
But I wasn’t hearing him—the world had stopped all motion and my heart took to skipping beats as it slowed.
I was in Feeney’s again, peering into the men’s bathroom like some voyeur. They were by the old, rusty sink Mr. Feeney was always talking about replacing but hadn’t since as far back as I could remember.
Gable was fighting with the killer, Uncle Monty was on the floor under the towel dispenser, bleeding everywhere.
The toilet seat had spatters of blood on it, and it dripped down the side to pool on the floor.
Goddess, there was so much blood… The shot rang out again, and Gable dropped to the floor, broken and pale, looking as though a bomb had gone off in his chest. I saw the lipstick on the floor with no cap on it, its pink color glistening under the harsh lights of the bathroom.
And then everything slowed down, slowed so much it sounded like a Charlie Brown special when the adults speak in the background. That was when the most curious thing of all happened.
A typewriter appeared out of thin air, sitting right on the sink, sticking out like a sore thumb. It was one of the old ones, a manual typewriter, if I’m not mistaken.
Black and shiny, the keys sank and rose as though someone’s fingertips were actually hitting them, and then I heard a distinct ding, as if an invisible hand hit the carriage and carried over to the next line.
And then, like some sick slow-motion replay, the killer and Gable were struggling again. Yet, I reached out to try to touch the typewriter in the midst of Gable and the killer fighting over the gun, I don’t know why, or what inspired me to try. I could never move when I had a vision, and I knew that even while in the height of one.
As usual, I was left frozen in place, but I tried to reach for it anyway, my limbs feeling like thick, heavy sausages.
Suddenly, a scent reached my nose, one I distinctly knew because of my ex-fiancé.
Smoke.
Someone smelled like cig
arette smoke.
I’d know that smell anywhere. Hugo was a sometime smoker, and he often had the lingering scent on his suit jackets or in his hair.
How odd. I couldn’t remember ever having a scent-o-vision… Technicolor? Yes. A scent? No.
I came back to the land of the living with my Uncle Darling on one side of me and Hobbs on the other. Atti was on my shoulder, rubbing his head against my cheek.
“There she is. There’s my Lamb,” I heard Uncle Darling coo in my ear as he brushed the hair from my face. “Another one. Isn’t that two in two days, Lovey?”
As the haze of my vision cleared, I tried to parse his words, but could only nod.
“Do you want something to drink? An aspirin?” Hobbs asked, holding my hand with loose fingers.
“No,” I whispered. Then I stood up straight and cleared my throat. “No. I’m all right.”
Hobbs smiled down at me, the deep grooves on either side of his mouth so appealing. “Boy, those are humdinger migraines, huh? Maybe it’s all the stress of the past couple of days? Maybe you should stay in and rest today?”
But I shook my head and blew out a breath. “It’s passed now, Hobbs. How about we get you to the hospital so you can spend some time with Uncle Monty, Darling? The doctor said you can’t stay long, but I bet he can’t wait to see you.”
“Oh-oh-oooh!” he poo-pooed with a squeak, fanning himself in dramatic Uncle Darling fashion. “That’s if he remembers me at all.”
“Well, we won’t know until we go find out. Am I right? Grab your coat and I’ll get my things and we’ll do this together. Remember what Mom used to say?” I asked as I headed toward the mudroom with him in tow.
“You can’t face your fears if you’re hiding under the covers,” he answered.
I jabbed a finger in the air. “Exactly. So pull those covers off and let’s get this chuckwagon rollin’.”
But Uncle Darling grabbed me and squeezed my arm while Hobbs went to the front door to get his coat. “Speaking of chuckwagons, Cowboy’s a keeper, Lambykins. A real keeper. Uncle Darling approves.”
Have Yourself a Merry Little Witness Page 7
