Free Shakespeare's Christmas by Charlaine Harris

Don’t ruin it.”
    He stared down at me as I swung my legs into his car. The taut muscles around his mouth relaxed. “All right,” he said and shut the door.
    We backed up to follow the other cars out of the parking lot.
    “You found the doctor today,” he said.
    “Yes. How did you know?”
    “I brought my police scanner. Are you OK?”
    “Yes.”
    “How much do you know about Dill Kingery?” he asked.
    I felt as though he’d punched me in the stomach. I had to sit silent to gather breath, my panic was so complete and sudden. “Is something wrong with him?” I asked finally, my voice coming out not so much angry as scared. Varena’s face smiling up at Dill came into my mind, the long engagement, the relationship Varena had worked so hard to build up with Dill’s daughter, Varena’s cheerful acceptance of crazy Mrs. Kingery . . .
    “Probably nothing. Just tell me.”
    “He’s a pharmacist. He’s a widower. He’s a father. He pays his bills on time. His mother is crazy.”
    “That’s the old biddy who said I was trouble?”
    “Yes.” She was right.
    “The first wife’s been dead how long?”
    “Six or seven years. Anna doesn’t remember her.”
    “And Jess O’Shea? The preacher?”
    I looked over at Jack as we passed a streetlight. His expression was tense, almost angry. That made two of us. “I don’t know anything about him. I’ve met his wife and little girl. They have a boy, too.”
    “He coming to the rehearsal dinner?”
    “The minister usually does. Yes, I heard them say they’d gotten a sitter.”
    I wanted to hit Jack, a not uncommon situation.
    We pulled into Sarah May’s Restaurant parking lot. Jack parked a little away from the other cars.
    “I can’t believe you’ve upset me this much in five minutes,” I said, hearing my own voice coming out distant and cold. And shaking.
    He stared through the windshield at the restaurant windows. They were edged with flickering Christmas lights. The glow flashed across his face. Damn blinking lights. After what felt like a very long time, Jack turned to me. He took my left hand with his right.
    “Lily, when I explain what I’m working on, you’ll forgive me,” he said, with a kind of painful sincerity I was forced to respect. He sat holding my hand, making no move to open his door, waiting for me to extend him . . . trust? Advance absolution? I felt as if he’d opened a cavity in my chest and turned a spotlight on it.
    I nodded sharply, opened my door, and got out. We met in front of the car. He took my hand again, and we went into Sarah May’s.
     
    SARAH CAWTHORNE, HALF of the Sarah May of the name, showed us to the private room that Dill had reserved for the party. Of course, all of us but Jack and Mrs. Kingery had been in it many times, since it was one of two places in Bartley you could dine out privately. I saw that it had been recently carpeted and wallpapered in the apparently perpetually popular hunter green and burgundy, and the artificial Christmas tree in the corner had been decorated with burgundy and off-white lace and matching ribbons. This tree was lit, too, of course, draped with the small clear lights, and thank God they didn’t blink.
    The tables had Christmas centerpieces in the same colors, and the place mats were cloth and so were the napkins. (This was very swank for Bartley.) The U-shaped banquet arrangement hadn’t changed, though, and as we all drifted to our seats I realized that Jack was maneuvering us toward the O’Sheas. He was steering me unobtrusively with his hand on my back, and I was reminded of a puppet sitting on a ventriloquist’s knee, the controlling hand hidden in a hole in the puppet’s back. Jack caught my look, and his hand dropped away.
    Dill was already standing behind a chair with my sister on one side and his mother on the other, so only Jess O’Shea was available as a target.
    Jack managed to slot us between the O’Sheas. I was between the two men, and to Jack’s right was