A Festival of Murder (16 page)

“No, he wasn’t,”
Nicholas said, trying to contain his rising hope as he recalled the argument
between Horace and Rocky that Charles claimed to have overheard.

Phoebe moved to
the edge of her seat. “He’s a more convincing suspect than you are, Nicholas.
Once Canberry gets wind of this it should help deflect suspicion.”

“It’s terrible
having to cast suspicions on neighbors,” Bea said softly.

Nicholas looked
around at the doubtful, guilty faces of his friends and rose to his feet. He
walked to the fireplace in the connecting living room and stared into the small
fire flickering there. A few bundles of cinnamon sticks smoked in the flames
and they filled the room with a pleasant scent, but he missed the smell of a
freshly cut Christmas tree. He was overdue for selecting one. He’d planned to
do it, he remembered, before the storm and all this drama blew in.

December was his
favorite month of the year. Christmas was his favorite holiday. Yet this year
not even his Christmas sweaters or Bing Crosby’s voice could push back the
harsh reality of what had befallen Hightop. This was no winter wonderland while
the mystery of Rocky Johnson’s death hovered in the air and the killer remained
at large.

“I didn’t kill
Rocky,” he said aloud as he continued to stare sightlessly at the flames. “Some
think I should have. That I had the right to, considering his plans to question
my honesty.”

“I never thought
that,” Phoebe said firmly.

“Justified or not,
someone beat me to the punch. That same someone is now willing to sit back and
allow me to take the fall for this. Or worse, endanger our lives as well. Well,
that’s not going to happen. I’m going to do whatever it takes to find the real
killer.” He turned away from the mantle to face his friends. “If that means I
have to confront a neighbor, so be it.” His smile was bittersweet. “It’s not
like I’ve ever been in the running for Mr. Popularity anyway.”

“You’re delusional
if you think that.” Phoebe rose from her chair. Nicholas’s heart thudded as she
approached and laid a hand upon his arm. Her nails were painted black. “You’re
the most important person in Hightop, but this isn’t a movie, Nicholas. In real
life innocent men get convicted and sent to jail all the time. We don’t know
what we’re doing here. Maybe it’s better if we let Detective Canberry do the
investigating. What if we make things worse?”

“What’s worse,
Phoebe? Hightop was meant to be my sanctuary. What is it now?”

Her hand slid off
his arm. “It’s still Hightop. It’s still full of people who trust you and
believe in you.”

“Do you?” If he
hadn’t been in such a maudlin, self-pitying mood, he wouldn’t have said it. But
now that it was out there he wanted to hear her answer.

As he expected,
she looked away and wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s not that easy,
Nicholas. Of course, I believe in you.”

“But you don’t
believe me.”

He studied her
profile. She wasn’t a delicate beauty, and that was what he liked about her.
She stood up to anyone. But that also meant she stood up to him.

“I wake up every
day wishing people would forget about me and leave me alone,” he said. “And yet
nothing seems as important as convincing you to believe me. Doesn’t make any
sense, does it?”

Her dark eyes
shifted back to him. “It makes perfect sense.”

They stared at each
other in one of those perfect moments that Nicholas had always wanted to have
with her but which was always thwarted because she would look away before the
moment stretched long enough to mean anything. Not this time. The fire
crackled. Somewhere outside, snow slid off the roof. Phoebe’s gaze didn’t
waver.

A discreet cough
from the direction of the dining room reminded Nicholas that they weren’t
alone. “I think the rest of us are going to call it a night,” Kevin said softly.

Nicholas
reluctantly took his eyes off Phoebe. “Thank you for coming to dinner, Kevin.
You, as well, ladies. I appreciate the company and the help.”

“Now that I think
about it,” Phoebe said, turning away from him, “I should probably go, too.”

Nicholas gently
caught her arm. She didn’t look at him. “You’re welcome to stay.”

She shook her
head. “Another time, Nicholas. When people aren’t watching.”

At first, he
thought she meant Kevin and the twins, who still hovered awkwardly in the
dining room, but then he realized what she meant. The police. The killer.
Someone could be watching them that very moment.

Privacy in Hightop
had disappeared, and even though it was unfair, Nicholas couldn’t help blaming
it all on Rocky Johnson.

After his guests
had left, he contemplated the situation and decided that investigative shows
weren’t called
The First 48
for nothing. Detective Canberry, as befitted
his position as the homicide investigator on this case, would be doing his best
to solve the crime as quickly as possible. That didn’t leave Nicholas much time
to be sitting around at home bemoaning the state of his love life and the
mental capacity of his neighbors. If he wanted that happy ending with Phoebe,
if he wanted a chance at it, he needed to be a free man.

“Take no
prisoners,” he said to Winchester through the kitchen window.

But not until the
morning. It was dark outside now, and a bit scary.

Early
Sunday, he made the short trek to the General Store with his head down,
pretending not to hear the occasional tourist greeting or the shouted questions
about UFOs. He saw no sign of Detective Canberry, although the man might be at
the crime scene again, looking for additional clues besides the watch. Nicholas
deemed this his last day to move about freely to uncover the killer before
Canberry learned of his history in Tampa. Once that happened, he would be
pulled in for questioning, and his every move would be colored by suspicion and
bias.

Horace’s
shop was an A-frame log cabin sitting directly opposite Alien Artifacts on Main
Street. Horace lived in the loft above the sales floor. Nicholas preferred to
shop here rather than make the trip down to Estes Park, but as he kicked the
soles of his boots against the boot scraper, he acknowledged that he didn’t
know Horace well at all. Emma had claimed he was an ex-mercenary, but what,
exactly, did that mean? Surely, his job hadn’t been to shoot people for money?
Wasn’t that called assassination and wasn’t it illegal?

Ruminating
on the idea of Horace as a paid killer, Nicholas entered the store. The aisles
were tight, packed with everything from food stuffs like ground coffee, peanut
butter and canned soups to seasonal staples like camping gear and winter
clothing. As befitting a store in Hightop, there were also two aisles dedicated
to products that would assist would-be alien hunters, such as night-vision
scopes, alien pheromones, powdered plaster of Paris for making casts of
suspicious footprints, and evidence bags of every size to ensure that any
discovered alien artifacts could be stored safe from contamination.

The
store was a catchall and as was to be expected, filled with several tourists
who’d underestimated the severity of the storm and were buying road flares and
tire chains. Nicholas had half a mind to tell them not to waste their money.
Hightop was locked up tight for the foreseeable future.

Clapping
his gloved hands together to spark circulation, he made his way past the
register and front counter, ignoring the wave he received from the kid running
the register. At the back of the shop he found the storeroom door cracked open,
revealing a slice of Horace’s enormous inventory.

“Horace,”
he called into the room. “Are you there? It’s Nicholas Trilby.”

He
heard a great crash from within and winced.

“Just
a sec, there, Trilby!” Horace’s voice boomed. “Dammit! Stay up there, stupid
box.”

Nicholas
called back, “Take your time. I’ll browse around for a while.”

He
avoided the crowded clothing and snack aisles and wandered over to the empty
camping section. Once upon a time, he had been an avid camper. That was before
the abduction. Now, his chances of setting up a tent in peace, or in a space by
himself, were about as likely as enjoying a real date with Phoebe.

“There
you are.”

A
meaty hand clamped down on his shoulder, nearly buckling his knees. He braced
himself briefly against a shelf before turning around. “Hello, Horace.”

Horace
was a tall, rangy man with long limbs and a stride that ate up distance as if
it were an enemy. He wore a dark blue mechanic’s bib with patches for various
automotive products sewn across the chest. Though his long, blond beard gave
him a passing resemblance to the main actor of the old TV show
Grizzly Adams
,
his pale green eyes glinted with a sharp, unnerving awareness that Nicholas
guessed only men who’d seen military action could possess.

“Glad
you came by.” Horace glanced around at the browsing customers as if he
suspected some of them of being spies. Nicholas pictured him wearing camouflage
and a helmet covered with leaves. “You’re a hunted man, Trilby. It’s time to
circle the wagons.”

Nicholas
laughed, hoping to cover his alarm. “Hunted? Who would be hunting me?” He glanced,
out of habit, to the ceiling.

‘That
detective, for one. Maybe the aliens, too.”

“Wha—”

Horace
squeezed Nicholas’s shoulder in a close approximation of a Vulcan neck pinch. “Wait
here. Let me make sure Shawn’s got this covered. I swear the kid’s got ADD. Can’t
concentrate to save his life.”

Nicholas
hovered behind a display of lanterns, hoping to be out of sight and out of
mind. Shawn had painted a welcome message to the aliens on the roof of his
parents’ cabin using glow-in-the-dark paint. He was a Believer and considered
Nicholas to be an alien prophet. Nicholas could do without the adoration.

When
Shawn glanced over at him, Nicholas ducked, his attention dropping naturally to
the shelf of flashlights in front of him. They came in all shapes, sizes, and
colors. Some were battery-operated and others could be charged by hand cranking
or by shaking. He picked up a metal one, painted matte black. It was as long as
a baton and he was surprised by its weight. This must be the sort carried by
police officers. He swung it experimentally. It would do some damage.

“Sorry
for that.”

Nicholas
shoved the flashlight back onto the shelf and spun around. “Not a problem.
Business comes first.”

Horace’s
brows drew down, a ponderous action. “You seem jumpy, Trilby.”

In
for a penny, in for a pound, Nicholas thought. “I live in a town which is home
to an alleged murderer.”

Horace
didn’t appear impressed. “That’s debatable.”

“You
don’t believe Rocky Johnson was murdered or you don’t believe the killer is
still in Hightop?”

Horace
crossed his arms as he considered Nicholas’s question. “I think people are
jumping the gun by claiming that Johnson was taken down by someone else,” he
said eventually. “The man was on a mission to prove Hightop is a fraud. He was
obsessed and probably not thinking clearly. It doesn’t strike me as strange
that he went out in that boat, hit his head, and drowned. People have drowned
in their bathtubs in two inches of water.”

“What
reason would he have to be in that boat?”

“Lots
of reasons. Maybe he was trying to get a different perspective on the area.
Maybe he saw something out on the ice and tried to retrieve it. Or maybe, and I
think this is highly likely considering the type of man he was, he was out
there with the intention of spying on us as we came and left the party, hoping
to catch someone in the act.”

“In
the act of what?”

Horace’s
eyes twitched. “It’s too bad he’s not around to tell us.”

“Detective
Canberry seems convinced he’s working a murder investigation.”

“In
my opinion, the detective is drumming up business.” Horace’s thin smile showed
he didn’t consider Canberry to be much of an investigator. “Man’s probably
bored stiff working out here. Along comes a potential homicide and he’s ready
to declare it a serial murder case. I don’t blame him for being a go-getter,
but in this case he’s wrong. We don’t have a murderer up here. There’s no
reason to kill anyone in a place like this.”

“At
least not until Rocky Johnson showed up,” Nicholas said beneath his breath.

“Enough
about that nonsense. I’ve got bigger concerns than Johnson.” Horace headed for
the storeroom, waving Nicholas to follow. “Your timing’s good, Trilby. I’ve got
something for you. Come on.”

Nicholas
followed the big man through the store, absently noting the huge amounts of
stock the store carried and how well it was laid out, the product in neat rows,
labels facing forward with military precision so every shelf looked like a
procession of soldiers.

“Have
you done this sort of thing before?” he asked. “Run a retail store, I mean.
Your place is impressive.” It certainly wasn’t an aptitude he would have
expected of a former mercenary.