And with that, I didn’t even wait for Hobbs. I sauntered through the coffeehouse, the tinkle of Christmas music in my ears as I headed for the door to keep from turning Westcott into a cockroach.
Hobbs caught up with me outside the door, latching onto my arm with a light grip. “Hey, you okay?”
I’m sure my face was red with anger, but I didn’t care. “He’s no different than that jerk Abraham Weller. He’s not interested in the safety of these girls, he’s as much an ambulance chaser as Weller is or he would have known about the lipstick leak on the news. He enjoyed the trouble he stirred up. He didn’t do it because it was the right thing to do. Whatever happened to journalistic integrity, anyway?”
“I’ll give you, he’s definitely in it for the salacious side of things.”
“Well, it made me want to punch him. I figured I’d better leave before I did and you got the wrong impression about me.”
“The impression you’re a feisty woman with a big heart?”
I rolled my eyes at him. “No. That mentally I’m a fifth grader with a grudge.”
Hobbs tipped his head back and laughed. “How about we go see how Uncle Darling is doing? You know, so we can keep your hands busy?”
I laughed. “You know what they say about idle hands and the devil.”
“Then we’d better get your hands elsewhere. STAT,” he teased.
As we were turning to leave, I saw Westcott Morgan leave the coffee shop, swallowed up by the crowds of people wandering the sidewalk, looking at the beauty of the decorations, and I had to remind myself it was Christmas.
And in the spirit of the holiday season, I shouldn’t turn him into a cockroach.
Chapter 11
Little Saint Nick
Written by, Mike Love and Brian Wilson, 1963
I gave my Uncle Darling a long hug outside Monty’s room. Leaning back in his arms, I cupped his cheek with my palm. “How was Uncle Monty feeling?”
He looked exhausted, even after only spending forty-five minutes with my uncle. “He’s better.”
With such a short, two-word answer, I was almost afraid to ask. “And?”
Uncle Darling grinned his saucy grin as he leaned back against the wall. “And he remembered me.”
The look of relief on his face made me sigh in relief, too.
“Yay!” I whisper-yelled so as not to get into trouble with the nurses who watched everyone with an eagle eye. “That’s so great, Uncle Darling.”
“But there’s bad news.”
“What?” I asked, a cold shiver slipping along my spine.
“He doesn’t remember what happened. And I do mean nothing. Nada, zero, zippo, zilch. Not a single second of it after he walked into that bathroom, Hal. The doctor said it might come back to him, that he’s had severe trauma, blah, blah, blah, but he also might never remember.”
Wrapping an arm around his plump waist, I hugged him to me. “Well, that sucks.”
Although, it might be healthier for Uncle Monty to never remember the horror of how he’d ended up on that floor in the men’s bathroom of Feeney’s.
I prayed my vision was accurate he didn’t actually see Gable Norton murdered before his very eyes.
But I didn’t want to let on how that really sucked, because it also meant Uncle Monty wouldn’t be able to help us with any information on what had happened before the killer took Gable out. I’d been hoping he’d at least have something to help us find who did this to him.
“It sure does. Because the police have been here, Hal. Stiles came with them, and they want to question him. If not for Doctor Jordon, they’d have stormed in there and disturbed his recuperation.”
I gave him a sympathetic look, smoothing the wrinkles around his eyes with my thumb. “You do know that’s standard stuff, don’t you? He was knocked out cold in the middle of a crime—a murder. The police are going to want to ask him questions so they can catch the guy who did this. They’re not doing it to be meanies, Uncle Darling.”
Sighing, he nodded. “Of course I know that, Lamb. Forgive me if I’m easily vapored. I just want him to rest and get better and not have to worry about killers on the loose and those handsome officers grilling him.”
“That’s why the officer is here. To protect him from killers on the loose.” I pointed in the direction of a nice-looking young man with a cup of coffee and newspaper in his lap.
Uncle Darling patted my arm. “Devon is a nice boy. His mother sent cookies for us. He’s been very kind. Will you make sure he has a warm lunch?”
I grinned in Devon’s direction. “Of course. I’ll make sure he’s well taken care of. Now, shall we take you home, or is Doctor Jordon going to let you have more time with Uncle Monty?”
His face fell. “Not until tonight, unfortunately. I’d stay all day if they’d let me, in spite of the smell of sanitizer and death.”
Sighing at his unfiltered response, I began to steer him toward the elevators when I heard Uncle Monty cry out.
I ran to the room and pushed open the door without thinking, worrying he was hurt. “Uncle Monty, are you all right?”
He reached out to me from the bed, his pale, slender hand clasping mine. “Hal, oh, Hal…” he murmured with a raspy whisper, and began to cry, pressing my hand to his cheek. “I’m so glad to see you.”
I drew his fingers to my lips and pressed a kiss against them, choking back tears at how fragile he looked in the middle of all the machines and needles poked under his pallid skin.
Brushing his weathering cheek with my knuckles, I whispered, “Me, too, Uncle Monty, but I’m not supposed to be in here, especially because I have a case of the sniffles. So hurry and tell me before the nurse comes and boots my butt to the curb, are you okay? What’s wrong?”
He pulled me to him, surprisingly strong for someone who’d had such a major surgery. “I remembered something. I have to tell you before I forget.”
Uncle Darling came to the other side of the bed, his face a mask of worry. “What is it, my love? Tell me. Do you remember who killed Gable?”
He wrinkled his nose before he coughed. “No. A smell. I remember a smell…”
I think we both stiffened, or at least I did. “What—” I gulped. “What did you smell, Uncle Monty.”
“Cigarette smoke. Whoever did this to us—to me and that boy—they smelled like cigarette smoke!”
One of the nurses had come in and given Uncle Monty a sedative when his blood pressure shot through the roof. His condition was such that he needed to be calm and rest, and as I tucked the blanket under his chin and pressed a kiss to his forehead, his words began to jive with me.
That was three of us who’d smelled cigarette smoke. I hadn’t revealed my vision to either Monty or Darling, but I did text Stiles and tell him. Maybe the killer had left behind a cigarette butt with DNA. Yet, that felt too easy.
Though, clearly he was a heavy enough smoker for it to have made a lasting impression on my uncle.
Naturally, the doctor was totally against anyone asking questions of Uncle Monty at this point. Delving into that night was going to have to wait until his health was better, but the cigarette smoke was at least something.
Or was it? How many people in the world smoked, anyway? Too many to question about a crime, I’d suppose. I mean, we could go around and ask all the smokers in Marshmallow Hollow questions about Gable’s murder, but we’d be at it for a long time to come.
After Uncle Darling said his goodbyes, and as we stood outside Monty’s room, preparing to head down the long hallway with its institutional-green colored walls and the attempts to make it look more Christmassy, a man appeared from around the corner.
I recognized him almost immediately. Dean Maverick, attorney-at-law. I saw his commercials all the time on the nights I couldn’t sleep and I stayed up watching mindless TV while I sketched décor I hoped to one day create.
His commercials were colorful and loud as he pointed emphatically at the viewers in his knockoff designer suit
and promised them a settlement no matter what.
Immediately, I wanted to know why Mr. I’ll Get You the Money You Deserve was here.
He sauntered toward me, too confidant, too cocky with his slicked chestnut-brown hair and his expensive suit bought off the backs of people he’d likely roped into his scam of a law practice.
I had to wonder why he was so far from home, too. I thought he was based in Bangor.
“Are you Halliday Valentine?”
My hackles rose almost immediately. “You go grab the elevator, Uncle Darling. I’ll meet you downstairs. Hobbs is waiting for you. Tell him I’ll be right there.” Then I turned to Dean, pretending I didn’t know him. Something I sensed would irk his narcissistic personality. “Who’s asking?”
There was a slight glimmer of irritation in his hawk-like blue eyes, but he covered it up quickly by sticking his hand out to me. “Dean Maverick. I’m an attorney.”
I stared at him without blinking, but I didn’t take the hand he offered. “Bully for you.”
“And I’m Anna Norton’s attorney,” he said smugly.
Why the effity-eff would Anna need an attorney? I continued to stare at him with a blank look. “So?”
But he grinned, a devilish upturn of his lips. “So, I’d like to talk to your uncle Montwell Danvers and ask him some questions about what happened last night.”
My lips thinned. “Oh.”
I knew I was annoying him, but he didn’t reveal it in his eyes or even his expression. It was the pulse of the vein in his forehead that gave him away. “May I see him?”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I shook my head. “No. You may not.”
“This is a very serious matter, Miss Valentine.”
Man, what was it with the greedy slugs these days? After Abraham Weller and Westcott Morgan, I’d had my fill of a peek at the bottom of the barrel.
The nurses behind me stirred from their seats. “So is a subdural hematoma. Go ambulance chase someone gullible enough to believe your cereal-box-prize law degree and fake charming smile.”
Dean Maverick’s eyes narrowed for the merest of seconds before he tried appealing to me with a different tactic. “A young man is dead, Miss Valentine. I only want to see him get justice.”
“And my uncle just had major surgery. So you’ll just have to calm your overactive quest to fill your pockets with—”
“And he’s been sedated and under strict doctor’s orders to rest—without any kind of stress,” the nurse who came to stand behind me said. “You’re not supposed to be on this floor, Mr. Maverick, and you know it. If you don’t leave immediately, I’ll have the officer escort you out. You’re not disturbing a patient on my watch.”
You’d think Dean Maverick would be angry, but instead, he smiled at the nurse as though they were old friends. “Ah, Effie Calloway. Ever the pit bull. That’s fine, but I’ll be back. Count on it.”
He took his time strolling down the hallway, pulling out his phone and stopping by the elevator to scroll through it as if he hadn’t just been kicked off the floor.
I turned to Effie Calloway, a tiny redhead with the personality to match her fiery hair, with a smile of relief. “Thank you for that. Are you familiar with him?”
She lifted her chin. “That man is a vulture—the first-scent-of-chum-in-the-water kind of shark lawyer. He gets even a little whiff and he’s here, trying to drum up business for that one-man circus he calls a law firm, and I won’t have it. You let me know if he shows up again and bothers you, and I’ll make sure someone tosses him out on his ear.”
I gave her arm a squeeze. “Thank you,” I whispered, hanging back while Dean Maverick waited for the elevator to avoid riding down with him.
And I admit. I did something petty I knew Atticus was going to find out about, but I was so filled with disgust, I decided it would be worth it. What was the worst Atti could do?
Ground me? Me—a grown woman?
Hah!
I flexed my fingers, placed them under my chin, and wiggled them with a whisper, “Itchy-twitchy, ants in your pants. Do it now, dance, monkey dance!”
As the words left my lips, I took one last glance at Dean Maverick and smiled when a look of surprise came over his face, rather quickly turning to shock only moments before he began to hop around like a cat on a hot tin roof, scratching his unmentionables.
Smiling to myself, I decided to take the elevator at the other end of the hall.
You know, to give Dean his privacy while he itched his way to his next victim, fresh off the ambulance.
Chapter 12
O Christmas Tree (O Tannenbaum)
Written in 1824 by Ernst Anschutz
“Dinner was really nice, Hobbs. Thanks for cooking. I had no idea hot dogs could be so…festive and fun,” I teased as I hunkered down in my favorite full-length coat the color of deep cranberry.
Hobbs laughed at me. “I’ll have you know, smoked sausage is not a hot dog. It’s a delicacy where I come from, Miss Foodie.”
Chuckling, I smiled at him, feeling a little flirtatious. “I’m just teasing. It was the best hot dog I’ve ever had.”
He sighed and shoved his gloved hands into his jacket pockets. “There’s just no learnin’ you about Southern cuisine, is there?”
Knowing how tired we were from the day’s events, Hobbs offered to make dinner for us before we went to the annual Christmas tree lighting in the town square.
And he’d come through in spades. Apparently, my favorite cowboy likes a smoked piece of meat, and he’d thrown some sausage in his smoker before breakfast. He’d also made macaroni and cheese (Southern style), and potato salad.
All were not only welcome, but delicious, leaving both Uncle Darling and me deeply impressed.
Now, as we stood by an outdoor heater waiting for the mayor to light the Christmas tree, I looked for Patricia Fowler. I wasn’t sure what we could learn from her. We sure weren’t batting a thousand in the suspect department. Evan’s death was a long time ago, and though I’m not a mother, I fully understand how the pain of losing a child never goes away.
She was stuck in the time of her son’s death, but I didn’t really think she had anything to do with Gable’s murder, especially with Kerry Carver’s lipstick in the mix.
The dots simply didn’t connect, but I wanted to talk to her anyway. Maybe she knew someone else who wanted Gable dead, and they knew Kerry Carver? It was the longest of shots, but it was the only scrap I had.
Her most recent Facebook post said she was excited to be meeting her daughter, Cherry, and her grandchildren for the tree lighting. After discussing it with Hobbs, we decided to try to carefully approach her.
The tree lighting in Marshmallow Hollow Square was something everyone looked forward to each year, and from the looks of it, the falling snow and the bitter cold weather hadn’t deterred the locals.
The town had made sure there were plenty of standing heaters and everyone, including us, had bundled up and gathered around them.
I loved the square at Christmas. From the Edison lights hung from the large gazebo where, in the spring and summer, weddings were held and lobster boils were a bi-monthly event, to the evergreen boughs strung around the octagonal-shaped perimeter, it was gorgeous and joyful.
The mayor, Greta Bader, a stout woman with a happy laugh and smiling eyes, tucked into a long coat with a furry collar, was doing the honors tonight. There was a huge digital display with the time and date on it so the children could see how long until Santa arrived from the moment Mayor Bader lit the tree.
We all had battery-operated candles, creating a sea of light. As we waited for the mayor to start the ceremony, I scanned the crowd, looking for Patricia Fowler and her daughter, but hadn’t seen them so far.
“Here Comes Santa Claus” played on the sound system while the kids from the high school bell choir played along to the music. The tree, an enormous Douglas fir of at least fifty feet and decorated by the children from the elementary school, sat dark in th
e center of the square.
Hobbs tipped his cup of hot chocolate, filled to the brim with marshmallows, toward the crowd. “Man, I love seeing all these people. It reminds me of my little town in Texas where most everybody knew everybody.”
“Except I bet you guys didn’t have to wear ten layers of clothes to keep from getting hypothermia.”
Hobbs chuckled as the snow fell around him in fat white flakes. “True. Hey, where’s Uncle Darling? I thought he was going to meet us here?”
“He decided he was going to pop in on Uncle Monty and try to catch the lighting from the window of his hospital room. The glow from the tree, if it’s clear enough, can be seen from pretty far away.”
Hobbs wrinkled his nose as he looked up at the deep velvet of the starless sky. “I dunno if he’s going to see much tonight with the snowfall. How about I videotape it with my phone and we show it to him later, so he doesn’t entirely miss out?”
I fought a girlish sigh. Hobbs was the nicest, most thoughtful guy I’d ever met. Really. That was the truth. He had it all. Thoughtful, considerate, a gentleman, loved animals, made a killer smoked sausage and mac and cheese, he listened, he communicated. And more than anything, I wanted to trust him with my secret.
Well, at least part of my secret. But for all the amazing things Hobbs is and does, I wondered if he was amazing enough to believe in my visions. They were a huge part of my life, but I had to feel safe enough to share them.
“Kitten?”
I turned to find Stiles smiling down at me, dressed in a thick jacket and scarf, with an earmuff cap on his head. “Oh, hey, Fitzi! How goes it?”
He put his arm around my shoulders. “Got a second?”
“Yeah, sure.” I held up my finger to Hobbs to indicate I needed a minute before letting Stiles lead me to a corner by the gazebo. “What’s up?”
“Any more visions?”
Have Yourself a Merry Little Witness Page 10
