A Festival of Murder (20 page)

“Just don’t base
everything on motive,” Nicholas advised, thinking of his own situation and
Canberry’s emphasis on motive for pinning down the killer. He tugged at the
collar of his sweater.

“We’ll find this
criminal, I just know it,” Charles said. “This is rather exciting now!”

Thankfully,
Charles didn’t clap his hands together like a thrilled child, but Nicholas did
have to quickly raise his mug of eggnog to his lips to fend off a bear hug of
excitement from the other man.

Settling down once
more, Charles regarded the doorway.

“You’re going to
join the party, aren’t you? You must,” he pleaded when panic blossomed over
Nicholas’s face. “You’d be the guest of honor and truly cap off the night.”

“I don’t want to
distract from your movie marathon,” Nicholas mumbled pleadingly before he
finished off his eggnog and balanced the mug in the sink beside the Jenga tower
of dirty dishes already teetering there.

“Nonsense!”
Charles clapped him on the back, only doing so, Nicholas was sure, so he could
get a grip on him and prevent him from leaving. “They’ll be thrilled to see
you. Here, a little liquid courage.”

He thrust a clean
mug into Nicholas’s hands, this one shaped like the head of Santa Claus. A
grimace and a pained-sounding hiss accompanied Charles’s efforts to retrieve a
bottle of dark liquid from a cabinet beneath the sink. Charles gave him a wink
as he filled Santa’s head all the way to the top with sweet-smelling liquid.

“Rum?” Nicholas
hazarded.

“Pumpkin-infused!
My own concoction. I’ve been experimenting with my own blends.”

“Cheers to
creative expression,” Nicholas said and toasted with Kris Kringle’s head before
taking a tentative sip. Warmth filled him. Anxieties seemed to fade. “Hmm. It’s
not half bad.”

Charles beamed. “I
used the highest proof rum I could find. Infused it for two months with pumpkin
puree and spices. I’m quite proud of it. Drink up. Drink up. It’ll grease the
wheels.”

Nicholas obeyed
and gulped down two large mouthfuls, gasping afterward as cinnamon and clove
seared his throat. As he choked for breath, Charles gave him a refill before
tugging him along to face his fans.

The living room of
the Gingerbear was nearly as large as the dining room and very cozy. It was one
of Nicholas’s favorite places to relax outside of his own home. Numerous
windows dotted the walls, giving the room the sensation of being a train
boxcar, and each featured the beveled glass he’d appreciated in the dining
room. The fabric for the drapes consisted of red and tan plaid shot through
with gold thread, which was then tied back with gold cord adorned with heavy
tassels. The pattern was repeated throughout the room in the form of throw
pillows on four red chenille loveseats with the cushiest cushions Nicholas had
ever sat upon and three chocolate brown wing chairs. A shaggy, dark brown rug
about the size of a Jacuzzi rested beneath the oak coffee table and provided a
soft place to rest one’s feet or stretch out upon as half a dozen children were
currently doing.

Fire crackled and
danced in the hearth, the occasional sound of popping wood only barely audible
above the sound of the movie playing on the fifty-two-inch flat screen that
Charles had put on a payment plan last Christmas. The remake of
War of the
Worlds
starring Tom Cruise was playing. Nicholas wondered why no one ever
suggested that Tom Cruise play him in the story of his life. The man could fake
any experience, apparently.

Every eye in the
room swiveled toward him as if he were Santa Claus making a surprise appearance
on Christmas Eve.

“Hello,” he
muttered, resisting the impulse to wave like a new participant of an AA
meeting. The smell of the Christmas tree in the corner was the only thing
keeping him there. He could feel curiosity and fascination building in the room
like a lightning storm gearing up to strike him down where he stood.

“Thanks for
showing up, Mr. Trilby,” said one of the tourists he’d seen at the UFO-pie-eating
contest, one of the few who hadn’t thrown up afterward.

“Yeah, it’s great
to finally meet you,” piped up another. “I’ve been trying to find you all
weekend.”

A couple of other
tourists waved at him or spoke his name excitedly as if he were about to break
into song any second.

“Great of you to
show up, Mr. Trilby,” welcomed a familiar voice from the back. Dennis emerged
from one of the restrooms while tucking his red flannel shirt down the front of
his jeans. He was wearing a blue and yellow striped knit cap with earflaps
despite the comfortable warmth of the room. Nicholas still had no idea what
color his hair was.

“We weren’t sure
you were going to show up for the marathon. You missed a really good first
movie. I bet it would have brought back memories for you, Mr. Trilby.”

“No sane person
would want those memories,” Nicholas muttered beneath his breath.

Dennis cocked his
head and asked solemnly, “Is there any one movie that’s more accurate than the
others in its portrayal of the aliens?”

On the TV screen,
actors were running full speed against a green screen explosion. The scene
stirred tendrils of cold dread in Nicholas’s bones, not because he feared the
fiction would someday become fact but because he held the deep conviction that
Hollywood—and humankind in general—couldn’t begin to predict what an alien
invasion would be like or how it could be stopped. It was simply unfathomable,
much like the idea of murder being committed in Hightop.

He didn’t like the
analogy one bit.

He stepped over a
row of small children, nearly clipping an older one in the forehead with the
heel of his boot, and gave Dennis a friendly push toward a round table in the
corner of the room beneath an enormous, ornately framed mirror. “Let’s discuss
it in private so the others can enjoy the movie.”

“Wow! Awesome! Let’s
do it,” Dennis said above the chorus of disappointed groans that arose from the
others.

They settled in,
Nicholas with his back to the wall to prevent an overzealous fan from sneaking
up on him for a hug or a selfie. He studiously avoided looking at the television
screen where a major American city was being decimated by alien laser fire.

“I’m flattered by
your continued interest in my experience,” he managed to say with a straight
face. “You’re a true believer.”

“You have no idea
how stoked I am to be here. I got to meet you and now I’m sitting here talking
one-on-one with you. How sweet is that?”

Nicholas cleared
his throat. “Has Kevin managed to introduce you to the other locals? We have an
interesting cast of characters, and, of course, they all share your interest.”

“Oh, sure, I’ve
been meeting people left and right. Most of them have their own stories about
UFO sightings. I plan to compile them all into a book someday.”

“I assume that
means you’ve spoken with Captain Sam. What do you think about his attempts to
contact a ship using his radio?”

Dennis reached up
and combed his fingernails through the scruff on his chin. “He’s all right, I
guess. Kind of weird, isn’t he? Did he do a bunch of LSD in the sixties, you
think? He sure doesn’t like having all these people up here. He thinks they’re
scaring off the aliens, like birds covering the tarmac at an airport. UFOs don’t
have anywhere to land now.”

“He must have
hated having a reporter here, increasing our exposure,” Nicholas observed.

“That’s putting it
lightly, man. You should’ve heard him ranting.” Dennis laughed. “But if you’re
trying to find out if I think he did it—killed Rocky, I mean—the answer is no.
It wasn’t him.”

“Really? Because I’m
pretty sure he broke into my cabin recently and that makes me inclined to think
he’s trying to set me up for the murder.”

Dennis scratched
at his scruff again. “Why do you think it was him who broke in? Was there,
like, proof or something?”

“His fingerprints
are all over my private safe.”

“They are?” Dennis
nearly fell backward out of his chair.

“No,” Nicholas
said. “But
your
fingerprints are on the knob of my bedroom door.”

The younger man
wilted. “Aw, jeez, I didn’t mean nothing by it, Mr. Trilby. I just wanted to
see the album again. I know I should have just asked you. But I was afraid you’d
say no.”

Nicholas stifled a
grunt of satisfaction at being right. Ever since he’d realized nothing of value
had been stolen from his cabin and Captain Sam hadn’t planted anything, he’d
whittled down the list of who had entered his cabin and come up with one
anomaly: Dennis. And what had Dennis been interested in?

“You were right to
assume I wouldn’t let you see it again,” Nicholas said, barely holding onto his
temper. “That didn’t give you the right to break into my home to take it. Where
is my album?”

“In my room at Mr.
Lee’s,” Dennis mumbled. “It’s totally undamaged, I swear.”

Nicholas bit his
tongue to control his immediate reaction, which was to launch himself across
the table at the other man. It wouldn’t have improved his public image much.

“I want it back,”
he ground out.

“I never intended
to keep it. I just wanted to read the articles. I’m sorry, Mr. Trilby. I’ll
bring it over right away.”

“Yes, you will.”

“Mr. Trilby, are
you going to watch a movie with us?” one of the children called out to him from
the floor. Alien antennae bobbed from a headband sitting crookedly atop the
little girl’s head.

Turning away from
a cringing Dennis, Nicholas surveyed the expectant faces staring up at him. It
was he who felt like cringing beneath their avid interest. Expectations circled
his wrists like manacles.

In answer to the
child’s question, he said nicely, “No.”

“Awww
 .
”

“
Come on, Mr.
Trilby
. . .
”

“
But you’re the
guest of honor!”

Charles, in the
act of serving from a tray of cookies, saved him by announcing, “Nicholas
stopped by to say hello, but he has other obligations that won’t allow him to
stay.”

One of the
teenagers pointed at the television screen. “Is that what the alien ship looked
like? The one that kidnapped you?”

“Did the aliens
communicate with you?” an older woman asked, her eyes large. “Did they speak
English or were you able to understand them telepathically?”

“And what about
the anal probe?” one of the teenagers asked, inciting a round of snickers from his
buddies. “How was that, Mr. Trilby?”

He clenched his
teeth before pointing at the metal saucer floating above the trees in the
movie. “You want the truth? The truth is that that is as ridiculous as
believing that Bigfoot uses deodorant.”

Greed swelled in
the room. The tourists’ need for knowledge sucked at Nicholas, demanding more
from him. The pumpkin rum had been a mistake. He could feel his self-control
unraveling, loosened by the potent alcohol and the prying fingers of his
audience. A grim smile curved his lips. He’d give them what they wanted.

“The aliens,” he
announced with all the gravity of the president delivering a State of the Union
address, “are not bound by the laws of gravity or the state of Colorado. They
could, for instance, materialize directly into this room if they wished. We
wouldn’t see it coming or be able to do a thing to stop it. In fact, I’m
positive they could materialize directly inside your body, causing it to
instantaneously explode.”

“Oh, my god!”
someone gasped.

“Gross,” someone
else murmured.

Someone admitted, “I
wanna see that.”

“Did you encounter
any of the other abduction victims?” a woman asked Nicholas. “I’ve always been
fascinated by the possibility that young airmen from World War Two were taken
by the Others.”

He gave her a
stern look. “I wasn’t given time to socialize while I was a prisoner. For the
majority of my sentence, I was kept suspended in a glutinous liquid through
which I obtained all of my oxygen and nutrients. My eyes, ears, and nose were
sealed shut to keep me in a state of perfect suspension. When I wanted to eat
or breathe, I would open my mouth and gulp in the alien jelly.”

Someone gagged.

“But I thought you
didn’t remember—” someone began.

“I get flashbacks!
Surely you’ve heard of post-traumatic stress disorder?” Nicholas glared at
them. “You’d be traumatized too if you were milked.”

Charles clapped a
hand over his mouth.

“The aliens,”
Nicholas continued, pointing his Santa Head mug at the crowd, “are nothing but
demonic farmers. They want to grow us like crops. If you’re lucky, you sprout
only oranges. But there were some who were growing alfalfa from their heads.”
He toasted the air with his mug. “The aliens, ladies and gentlemen, are growing
human chia pets.”

Someone choked on his
own spit.