A Festival of Murder (6 page)

“Huh.
I thought Kevin was saying he couldn’t pinpoint when Rocky bit the dust. So,
like, he could have been killed before the party started and been floating in
the lake all that time until he was found.”

Nicholas
gave him a level look. “I’m not the only person in this place who disliked him.”

“Too
true. I bet pretty much everyone who owns a business here woulda wanted him
dead. Sounded like he was going to write an article that would’ve really
screwed with your tourism. Which would’ve sucked, because then I’d be camping
out here by myself, you know?”

“If
only.”

“Not
pointing fingers or anything, Mr. Trilby.” Dennis raised his hands, palms up. “You
can say I’m a suspect too since I didn’t dig the guy all that much. But hey, I
don’t mind being eyed by the cops if it means we got rid of him, right? I’d buy
whoever did it a beer if I could.”

Nicholas
tried to appear calm as he raised his cup to his lips, but the porcelain
chattered against his bottom teeth. “Be careful what you say.”

Dennis
grinned around a mouthful of scone.

Nicholas
stood. “As interesting as this has been—” it hadn’t been, not at all, “—I need to
open my shop.”

“Oh,
yeah, no problem, Mr. Trilby.” Dennis jumped to his feet and dropped the
half-eaten scone back into the basket with the others, helpfully contaminating
them all. “It was great hanging out here and finally meeting you.”

Nicholas
walked him to the door without comment.

Dennis
slipped out the front, pausing to give Nicholas a two-finger salute. “See you
later, Mr. Trilby. Thanks again!”

Nicholas
watched him forgo the new path leading to Nicholas’s Subaru to hop across the
knee-deep snow in the yard with the grace of a mountain goat. Dennis was no
stranger to snow.

Nicholas
shut the door, distracted by snippets of the conversation he’d had with the
younger man. Dennis wasn’t the first to pepper him with questions about his
abduction, but it had been months since Nicholas had discussed it as much as he
just had. The old scars felt inflamed.

When
the feelings of discomfort grew, he gravitated to his bedroom, specifically to
his closet. Inside, his coats were spaced precisely on the rod, but not too
precisely. He wasn’t a control freak, after all. Nor did he have OCD just
because he hung up his jeans. He simply didn’t have a dresser in which to store
them, and he hated ironing out the wrinkles that tended to form in the denim
when they were folded. Socks were stored in a hanging caddy made expressly for
that purpose, and which was very handy when he wanted to match colors with the
different hues of his jeans. Naturally, his Christmas sweaters were stacked—
four sweaters to each pile, the exception being stacks of six for the cashmere
ones which were thinner. All in all, a very typical, normal closet. He made a
mental note to dust inside here the next time he cleaned.

From
beneath a Rudolph sweater with a battery-powered light-up nose he extracted a
photo album. A chill shimmied through him as he carefully grasped the cover and
opened it.

The
pages didn’t hold a single photograph. Instead they clasped numerous newspaper
and magazine clippings between their pages. With the tip of a finger he peeled
back the pages, revealing article after article. Some were accompanied by
photos of him looking somber, while other photos showed him wearing a
bewildered expression, as if he’d just been dropped off in a foreign country
with nothing in his possession but two quarters and a penlight.

The
headlines were all variations on a theme: “Man Abducted by Aliens from Colorado
Rockies!
”
Some articles adopted a skeptical tone. Some, depending on
their agenda, were sensational. Others were hopeful. There was even an article
that attempted to tie his abduction to his consumption of pork. All of them
told him what he wanted to know: the details of the abduction he’d forgotten a
week after it had occurred.

He
supposed there was a logical explanation for his memory loss. Most likely it
was stress-induced amnesia. In the articles, he’d told his story over and over
again, dozens of times, never deviating in the details no matter how often the
reporters tried to catch him in a contradiction. Always the same story of being
kidnapped from his home and being woken up in the yard an interminable length
of time later by Winchester, who’d been nosing the back of his neck. That kind
of repetition would make anyone crack.

He’d
lied to Dennis about possessing physical scars. That made for a good story, but,
in truth, Nicholas hadn’t found a single mark on his body, nor any evidence
that something had been implanted inside him (and what a search
that
had
been). No, the scars were all mental.

A
chill flowed over his skin, making him shiver.

“Much
better to have forgotten,” he murmured to himself.

He
wasn’t often haunted by nightmares, and his waking hours weren’t cluttered with
daydreams of bug-eyed aliens. But things still clung to him—his fear of the
dark and, more worrying, the occasional memory blackout.

He
turned with the album to replace it on the shelf. A figure stood in the doorway
of the closet.

Nicholas
screamed.

“Aw,
geez, sorry, Mr. Trilby.” Dennis held up both hands. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You—you.”
Nicholas clutched at his chest.

Dennis
blushed, although his eyes greedily soaked up the pages of the opened album in
Nicholas’s hand. “I came back because I’d forgotten to tell you that Kevin
wanted you to know that he talked to that Detective Canberry this morning. I
guess he wanted you to have the heads-up.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t
mean to make it look like I was snooping. I couldn’t find you in the kitchen
and so I, um . . . .”

“Went
snooping. Yes, perfectly understandable.” Nicholas contemplated murder but
discarded the idea as being
very
incriminating. “Get out.”

Wincing,
Dennis danced backward. “I’m already out the door. Consider me gone, Mr.
Trilby!”

“I’ll
consider you a nuisance,” Nicholas said. He collapsed against the wall and
listened for the sound of the front door shutting. He must have forgotten to
lock it. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. He’d had his fill of unexpected
visitors.

He
tossed the album atop the sweaters and slammed the closet door behind him. Two
minutes later he returned to the closet and tucked the album carefully beneath
the Rudolph sweater.

“The
UFO-eating contest is at eleven.” Emma pointed a feather duster at him. “You’re
announcing the start and crowning the winner.”

“Why
does it have to be me?” Nicholas’s fingers rat-a-tat-tat’ed on the counter
while his right foot jiggled against one leg of the stool on which he sat. “I
bet Charles would love to do it. He made those pies. It would raise his
self-esteem to witness someone eating one without having been dared to.”

“You,”
Emma said, “are a very bad man.”

Nicholas
shrugged, unable able to refute that.

After
an unexpectedly profitable morning rush, no doubt spurred by his hot, new
status as Suspect Number One, the shop was quiet again, leaving just him and
the twins inside Alien Artifacts.

Emma
and Bea weren’t really twins as far as he knew. They had different last names
and they simply
looked
different. Emma was tall and thin, withered like
an old stalk of corn but with the sharp eyes of a crow. Bea was the opposite: a
good foot shorter than Emma with rounded shoulders that made her appear even
smaller and sort of curled up like a pill bug. One day the two elderly women
had walked into Alien Artifacts, Emma leading the charge, and declared they
were going to be Nicholas’s new volunteers. Only somehow “volunteers” had
turned into “permanent staff” and at no point did Nicholas recall ever saying
he was okay with any of it.

“Your
presence at the contest will make the visitors very excited,” Bea told him.
Like Emma, she sported her own duster. The two women appeared to be trying
their best to create a dust storm within the small shop. “You’re an inspiration
to them, Nicholas.”

“Why?
Because I went only
partially
insane after having contact with aliens?”

“Oh,
honey, you’re not insane at all. Just a bit . . . twitchy.”

“Don’t
coddle him! He’s going to act like an even bigger baby about this.”

“Having
no interest in watching grown men vomit up green pies isn’t me being a baby,”
Nicholas shot back.

The
storm that was promised through the weekend seemed to have taken a breather.
The snow fell in heavy sheets but the wind had settled, so tourists and locals
were making the most of the break and sledding through the center of town,
doing their best to bruise as many unprotected shins and ankles as possible. A
snow-alien-making contest was being held across the street in front of the
General Store. The audience’s cheers of encouragement occasionally slipped
beneath the door of Alien Artifacts like unsolicited flyers for pizza.

The
business brought in by the festival was a boon. He couldn’t argue the register
receipts. But he also couldn’t help wishing for a better Internet connection in
Hightop so he could close the shop and sell his junk solely online. If he never
had to meet another fan who hoped proximity to him would ensure his or her
eventual abduction, it would be too soon.

“You’ve
been facing bad PR lately.” Emma stabbed the duster at him again. “The locals
didn’t forget that you refused to appear at your statue’s unveiling at the
festival last year.”

“I
refuse to endorse hideous statues carved out of butter. Besides, it didn’t even
look like me.”

“It
had a hint of Adam Sandler in it,” Bea offered.

“That’s
even worse!”

“You
also aren’t their favorite person after you showed up at the closing ceremonies
drunk, and then claimed you were kidnapped by an alien who was wearing the face
of your ex-girlfriend.” Emma clucked her tongue. “Oh, and then you said you
were pretty sure she was an alien back when you were dating her because she
was, and I quote, ‘Out of this world in the sack.’”

“You
have no proof that I said such a thing.” Nicholas thought about it, winced. “I
only said that just the once, right?”

“You
shouted it twice,” Bea informed him cheerfully. “And offered to show us photos.”

“If
you want Hightop to succeed, you’ve gotta get along with your neighbors,” Emma
said.

“And
a public appearance here and there wouldn’t hurt,” Bea added, smiling.

“But
you have to make an effort, Nicholas! None of that sourpuss face you’ve got
going on right now. Your fans didn’t come here to get snarled at.”

“Yes,
you can be very charming when you want to be.”

Nicholas
grumbled beneath his breath about needing to do layoffs. The twins were yet
another reason to become an e-merchant, though he likely wouldn’t be able to
escape them there either. They’d probably become cyberbullies.

To
put their meddling out of mind, he picked up his old mail, which filled a
plastic grocery bag. He let it build up because whatever people had to send him
was rarely good. He shuffled disinterestedly through the bag’s contents. It was
all garbage: bills, credit card offers, fan letters whose envelopes were
covered with alien stickers, more bills. A large manila envelope caught his eye
until he noticed the return address:

Cryptozoo ConWest

Freeland,
Washington

“Con”
probably was short for “convention,” and he knew better than to steer anywhere
near one. He was on the verge of tossing the envelope over his shoulder in the
general vicinity of the trash can when Emma all but flew across the shop and
plucked it from his fingers. She squinted at the return address from behind her
glasses. Bea hovered behind her right shoulder like a vestigial wing.

“I
was wondering when you’d begin receiving these.” Emma tore open the envelope
and dumped its contents into her palm.

“You’ve
just committed a federal crime.” Nicholas crossed his arms, smug. “Now, I can
fire you.”

“As
soon as you begin paying me.” She scanned the first sheet of paper. Her
eyebrows climbed into her hair. “Aha!” She showed it to Bea, whose eyes grew as
round as magnifying lenses.

Nicholas
eyed them warily. “What?”

“They
want you to be a speaker at one of their panels.”

A
feeling of flattery was immediately eclipsed by suspicion. “What’s the subject
of the panel?”

“‘Brushes
with the Unknown: Encounters with Extraterrestrial and Cryptozoological
Species.’“

“Crypto-what?”

Bea
smiled. “I think that means Bigfoot.”

Nicholas
jolted. “Oh, no. Absolutely not. The last thing I want to do is to share a
table with Loch Ness monster hunters and Bigfoot groupies and invite people to
ask me stupid questions.”