A Festival of Murder (8 page)

“So
maybe you didn’t blab about that,” Captain Sam said, “but you sent him sniffin’
my way.”

“He’s
sniffing all of us. That’s his job.”

“Yeah,
but one of you told him I stink more’n the rest.” A blunt finger with a dirty
nail jabbed Nicholas in the middle of his parka. “Which of your buddies got it
out for me, Trilby? Or are you only usin’ ’em to do your dirty work?”

“If
there’s a target on your back, then there’s one on my back, too. I
punched
Johnson. If Kevin hadn’t been the one to find his body, I’d probably be in the
middle of a strip search and delousing this very minute.”

The
other man grunted. “They got lice in prison? That’s inhumane.”

Nicholas
watched him from the corner of his eye as the pie-eating contest begin to wind
down. Two of the contestants had given up and were sitting slumped in their
chairs, looking as green as the cream smeared all over their faces. The
remaining four active contestants were rooting through the cream on their
plates like truffle pigs in the forest. Nicholas checked his watch. They had
another minute to go. Toby, behind him, was building up his stockpile of
snowballs.

Captain
Sam cast yet another shifty glance around them. “I might have something to say
to you—”

“It
doesn’t matter. I don’t want to know anything. I want to be left out of
everything.” Nicholas plugged his ears with his fingertips. “Lalalalala.”

“Darn
it all, shut your trap and let me finish!”

Tourists
and locals turned their heads. Whispers started up. This was what Nicholas
hated. There were a hundred things they could be saying about him, and it was
guaranteed that none of it reflected kindly on his sanity. Or height-weight
ratio, for that matter.

“Just
leave me alone, Captain Sam,” he demanded, low enough that no one would
overhear. “People already think the two of us are off our rockers. Don’t give
them any more ammunition.”

He
crossed his fingers, praying the other man would take the hint and stomp off
like a prickly grizzly bear, but Captain Sam refused to budge.

“I
ain’t lookin’ to be your friend, Trilby. Not any of you. You all want me gone
so you can have the aliens all to yourselves. Just like the military, those
greedy sons of . . .” He subsided into grumbling before finding
a second wind and bursted out with, “But I got somethin’ important to say to
you, Trilby. Today. Outside the Gingerbear. I know you go there for lunch. Meet
me in private.”

Having
no intention of putting himself within arm’s reach of the man again, Nicholas
said, “Fine. Fine. It’s a date. Tell me at lunch.” He just wanted Captain Sam
to go away. The man held all the charm of salmonella.

But
after the man had paced away, Nicholas speculated as to what Captain Sam wanted
to tell him. His gut feeling, though slightly unreliable because of the pie
contest, told him the man wanted Nicholas’s body to be the next to float in the
lake. Never mind that Captain Sam had never harmed a soul, to Nicholas’s
knowledge. The motive behind Rocky Johnson’s murder was a mystery, which meant
no one in Hightop, including Nicholas, was safe.

The
lunch special at the Gingerbear was shepherd’s pie. Nicholas was thrilled.

“Just
like last time—it’s not as good as you’re making it out to be in your mind,”
Phoebe warned him as she brought him a mug with a teabag and a pot of hot
water.

“What
are you talking about? Last time was delicious.”

“Last
time you excused yourself to go to the restroom and didn’t come back for nearly
half an hour.”

Nicholas
reddened and fiddled with the placement of his napkin in his lap to avoid
making eye contact. “Hope springs eternal, Phoebe. If I can’t look forward to
the shepherd’s pie then what can I look forward to?”

She
laughed, softly. “You’re so gloom and doom, Nicholas. On anyone else it would
be pitiful.”

He
jumped on that. “But on me it’s charming, isn’t it? Care to join me for dinner?”

“Charming,
but not quite the lothario. Hang tight while I put in your order.”

He
stared after her as she headed for the kitchen. He wished Phoebe weren’t so
evasive. The woman seemed to love tormenting him by ignoring half the things he
said and barely replying to the rest. Come to think of it, she sounded like a
female version of him.

He
peered through the beveled glass window beside him. Through the ice frosted
glass he watched tourists and locals hike up the stone path leading to the
Gingerbear, huffing and puffing like asthmatics. Everyone appeared to have
retained their appetites despite the best efforts of the UFO-eating contest.
The high altitude and cold could do that, he supposed.

Kevin
had shown up soon after the pie contest ended and retrieved Toby from Nicholas.
Captain Sam had remained invisible ever since, which suited Nicholas just fine.

He
looked up as a small bowl of honey was placed on his table.

“You
sometimes like this instead of sugar, right?”

“You
know me better than anyone.” For better or worse, it was the truth.

He
expected her to wander off again but she lingered. Before she could find an
excuse to leave, he said quickly, “How are you? All right after last night?”

The
black rhinestone barrette in her hair flashed in the light as she shook her
head. “Not completely.”

He
frowned. “Want to talk about it?”

“I
had a nightmare about him.”

“Who?
Rocky?”

“I
dreamed I was in the boat, out on the lake. He was in the water, calling my
name and swimming after me. But he didn’t want me to pull him out of the water.
He wanted to pull me in there with him.” Phoebe rarely showed vulnerability,
but this time her brown eyes were soft and scared. “I dreamed I hit him over
the head with an oar, Nicholas. I killed him.”

Nicholas
spread his hands on the table. His fingers were red and dry from the cold. He
curled them so she wouldn’t see. “It was only a dream.”

“I
feel bad.”

“That’s
natural.”

A
muscle in her jaw rippled. “No, I don’t mean I feel bad that he died or that I
dreamed of killing him. He was a nasty man. I should feel worse, but I don’t.”

“He
was a stranger to you. To all of us.” He studied her troubled profile. “Phoebe,
you’re getting worked up for no reason. You’re not obligated to cry your eyes
out for him.”

“I
know that. I care more about knowing who did it.” She searched his face. “I’m
not the only one who’s worried about the fact there’s a murderer up here with
us, am I?”

Nicholas
resisted the urge to look around at the other diners. Any one of them could be
a killer, could be eying him as his or her next victim.

“I
think it’s unlikely that another murder will occur. Not with the police now
involved.” He wanted to touch her shoulder. He pressed his fingertips to the
tablecloth to quell the urge. “We’re not in danger, Phoebe.”

“Whoever
did it is still here because the road is closed. They’re trapped just like we
are. Panic may make them turn aggressive.”

“We’re
not trapped. Detective Canberry and Officer Little made it up here just fine.”

“The
police made it up here with snowmobiles. Have you heard the sound of
snowmobiles before or since?” She picked restlessly at the edge of her apron. “No,
it’s been quiet in the woods. That means the killer is still in Hightop.”

She
glanced around at the other tables before dropping down into a careful squat
beside Nicholas’s table, her black skirt spread around her like a corona of
shadow. “Why do you think he was killed?”

“He
was as likeable as psoriasis.”

“The
same can be said of Captain Sam. He’s still breathing.”

“But
everyone knows Captain Sam is mostly harmless, barring a break-in or two.”

The
corners of her mouth twitched.

“Rocky
was a stranger,” Nicholas said. “He wasn’t one of us, and worse, he was trying
to undermine what people are doing here. He rubbed a lot of people the wrong
way with his questions and his doubts. Apparently, somebody was offended to the
point of no return.”

“You’re
saying a local did this. One of us.”

“I’m
saying Rocky was the intended target and the only target.”

Phoebe
scowled. “Kevin stopped by for his coffee earlier today. He told me you two and
the twins are going to try to solve the murder. You wouldn’t do that if you
truly believed we have nothing to worry about.”

Possible
deflections came and went. He discarded all of them. He couldn’t lie to a woman
he considered to be an ally and hopefully, at some point in the future,
something more to him.

“You’re
right. I am trying to solve this mystery. But not because I’m worried the
killer will strike again.” He gave a tight-lipped smile. “I have a past. That’s
not as intriguing as it may sound. I’ve tried to put as many years and miles
between myself and it as I could, but it’s gum on my shoe that stretches and
won’t scrape off. If it comes to light before the real murderer is caught,
well, there’s a chance I could be eating my next shepherd’s pie in a cafeteria
filled with men in orange jumpsuits. And I look terrible in orange.”

Her
eyes widened. “You’re exaggerating. I can’t imagine you doing anything even
remotely scandalous.”

He
wasn’t sure it was her intention, but he felt faintly insulted. He took a sip
of his tea, stalling. “No one in Hightop knows that I was the subject of the
news once before, and not because of any extraterrestrial encounter.”

She
cocked her head. “Go on. I’m intrigued despite your warning.”

“When
I was younger and dumber, I partnered with an old college friend to start up a
company that purchased and resold distressed real estate in Florida. ‘Go big or
go home,’ was Ben’s motto so, of course, we couldn’t get our feet wet with a
single family home. Oh, no. That was small time. That was for wimps. We were ‘aggressive
entrepreneurs,’ so Ben found an eleven-unit condo building. We had a lot of
ambition but not a lot of credit— not enough to fund the project we wanted. But
Ben was persuasive. He could sell you ice cream during a snowstorm, so, of
course, he coaxed our friends and families to become investors.”

“So
far so good,” Phoebe said cautiously.

“Flipping
was the thing to do at the time, and all of our investors were eager to become
a part of it and earn what we convinced them would be easy money.” He smiled
grimly. “Our first property was purchased for thirty cents on the dollar. Ben
had some connections that allowed us to clean up the place, make it
presentable. A lot of elbow grease and good paint and landscaping choices can
make a huge difference.”

“I’ve
seen those flipping shows on TV. It seems like a quick way to double or triple
your money as long as you’re willing to get your hands dirty.”

“I
thought the same. We put the property up for sale at a reasonable markup, or so
we believed. But time began to pass. Two weeks. A month. Two months. Six months.
The market in Florida had crashed, and we’d jumped in just as the bubble burst.
The property sat there like an ugly girl at prom, and all the money we’d
collected from investors had been used up.” Nicholas spread his fingers as he
sat back. “With all of that debt, with all of our investors waiting to recover
their money, Ben bought me dinner. I’ll never forget it—surf and turf with the
best lobster I’ve ever eaten. He disappeared the next day. For good. Which
wouldn’t have been such a big deal except it turned out he hadn’t been putting
all of our investors’ money toward the property. He’d been embezzling it.”

Phoebe
gasped. “He lied to all of you?”

“I
was twenty-eight years old. I woke up from the dream of being a millionaire to
the reality that I might spend the rest of my life in a federal prison. The
police searched the country for months, but never found Ben. For much of that
time, the police and probably everyone I’d ever known suspected me of having
taken all the money and buried him somewhere. Only Ben’s use of a credit card
at a rental car service in Vietnam and some grainy security photos saved me
from taking the rap for his death, but that didn’t clear me completely.

“Ben
was labeled a fugitive. They’re probably still searching for him. Meanwhile, I
was left holding the bag. A very large, very empty bag.” He drummed his fingers
hard on the table, not trusting himself with any other movement lest he break
something. “I served time in a federal prison, Phoebe. Not as much as I could
have, since the judge determined that Ben had misled me in addition to the investors.
But I was guilty, nonetheless. My signature was on those papers, too.”

A
self-flagellating part of himself had welcomed the incarceration, knew he
deserved it. He had vouched for Ben to his family and friends. Ben may have
committed the crime, but Nicholas had served up the victims for fleecing. His
parents. His older sister. Two cousins. So many good friends. He had paid back
as many as he could, but he hadn’t been rich at the time. That had been the
reason for the deception.