Free A Festival of Murder by Tricia Hendricks Page A

town of
five thousand. Why drive past it up winding and ultimately unpaved roads to a
tiny neighborhood that for all intents and purposes had become an alien
commune?
    “Phoebe,
where were you yesterday?” To soften the edges of a question that sounded like
it was part of an interrogation, he added, “Candy punished me. You know she
always forgets to include my extra mushrooms.”
    She
stood. Nicholas immediately missed the temporary intimacy they’d shared.
    “I
wasn’t feeling very well for most of the day,” she mumbled. She looked quickly
over the dining room again. “I’d better check on your food.”
    Her
swift exit bothered him, but not as much as her answer. As far as alibis went,
hers was extremely thin.
    He
shook himself. Why was he questioning Phoebe, of all people?
    Angry
at himself for the momentary betrayal, he picked up his cup of tea and stood.
He felt the eyes of a few tourists on him as he wandered through the dining
room and out into the living room. There was a window seat at the back of the
Gingerbear where he occasionally took his meals when the need for privacy was
overwhelming. He knew Phoebe would be able to track him down when his food was
ready.
    When
he stepped out of the dining room, he was nearly knocked over by Charles.
    “Nicholas!
I’m so glad to see you’ve come for lunch.”
    “I
always do.”
    “Yes,
well, I was worried—erroneously I see—that last night’s goings-on might have
scared off some of the regulars.” Charles rubbed his palms together before
noticing what he was doing and tucked them into his armpits.
    “It’s
not like we have a serial murderer in town who feels compelled to perpetrate
his crimes on your property, Charles.”
    The
large man blanched.
    “Hardly
anyone thinks that,” Nicholas clarified.
    “About
a serial killer or—?”
    “The
police don’t know anything yet. They don’t even have any persons of interest as
far as I know.” It was a big fat lie, of course, since he was currently king of
that particular hill of suspects, but the less Charles knew the better for them
both.
    Charles
glanced around. “Even I can think of a few persons of interest.”
    “Who?”
    Charles
plucked at the front of his knitted sweater, which featured a UFO trailed by a
streak of red and purple yarn. The strands of yarn were fraying and coming
loose from the sweater, suggesting this wasn’t the first time he’d picked at
them. “Of course, you can’t share a peep of this with anyone.”
    Nicholas
was bewildered by the implication. “Who would I willingly talk to?”
    “I
have a mind to think it’s not the most obvious culprit. In fact, I think it’s
Horace.”
    Nicholas
floundered. Horace owned the General Store and that was about as much as he’d
ever cared to know about the man. “Why him?”
    “I
heard him get into a nasty argument with Rocky Johnson yesterday morning. Just
nasty!”
    Nicholas’s
hands tightened around his mug. An alleged confrontation with someone else in
Hightop was good. He could only cross his fingers and hope, rather
uncharitably, that death threats had been flung around.
    “Did
you happen to hear what they were arguing about?”
    Charles
nodded emphatically. “I hadn’t intended to listen, but I was trying to clear some
of the snow down at the base of the walkway and the two of them were standing
right there in the open as if they didn’t care who heard them. So I kept my
head down and dug—the path needs to be clear, Nicholas—and I honestly couldn’t
help overhearing them yelling at each other. Just yelling as loud as you
please. Almost as if they wanted an audience. I wasn’t straining to
listen to them or anything like that!”
    “It’s
all right, Charles.” Nicholas struggled to keep the impatience from his voice. “What
were they yelling about?”
    Charles’s
chubby face puckered for a moment. “Horace was saying something about ‘lying
reporters’ and something about a ‘fire.’” His emphatic