“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” he finally said.
“Please tell me she was a dog person. If I’m beginning to like her, I don’t want my affections to be false. If she didn’t like dogs . . .”
“She loved them.”
“Oh, good.”
“And Becca?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t compare what I felt for her to what I feel for you. I don’t think that would be fair—to her. I’m pretty sure you’re the one for me. I knew it the second I had to question you regarding the first murder you were somehow involved in.”
“That’s kind of romantic.”
Hobbit yawned with a dog throat-squeak and stood from where she was curled around Sam’s feet. She’d adjusted well to Sam, though she still had loyalty to Ian.
“I think she’s ready to head back to bed,” Sam said.
“I can take her. You can stay out here if you want to.”
“No, I think I’m good. I think I’m getting better all the time.”
Hopefully, we all were.
• • •
Sam was gone by the time I woke a few hours later. His shift wasn’t scheduled to start until 7 A.M., but he wanted to get a jump on investigating Reggie Stuckey’s murder, so he’d left about 5 A.M. I was out of bed and ready to go by 6 A.M., which was unusually early for me and a shock to my system. Hobbit and I took our morning walk, but she was ready for the bed on the porch shortly afterward. We were both morning people, just not ridiculously early morning people.
I could get to Bailey’s early, but unlike the enthusiastic summer crowds, which were there right at dawn to beat the heat, the December crowds meandered in around mid-
morning.
I could have baked more cookies, but I was now ahead of my originally planned schedule, so I had a few hours and enough curiosity to follow through on a couple tasks that were on my mind, and Hobbit could come with me.
I searched the Internet for the Stuckey Christmas Tree Farm. I knew that the Ridgeway Farm wasn’t too far from Monson, about thirty minutes away, but it was a hilly and curvy drive that could take up to an hour in bad weather or with Christmas-week traffic. The drive itself had become a yearly tradition for many people. Apparently whatever the Ridgeways had done to market their farm had done wonders, because the Stuckey farm was much closer to town. Its location as well as the great condition of the trees I’d seen in the Stuckey truck made me doubly wonder why in the world I, and it seemed many others, had never even heard of the farm.
“Come on, girl,” I said to Hobbit, “let’s go check out some trees.”
I loaded my inventory into the back of the truck, and Hobbit, suddenly wide awake again, climbed into the truck with her typical enthusiasm. Now, it didn’t matter that it was early or that she normally had some time to herself in the mornings, she was just excited to be a part of the adventure. As I steered us down the highway toward town and the market, her tail wagged approvingly.
“Well, we’re not going to the market, but we’ll stop by later.”
The tail continued to wag.
Monson was never too busy, but this predawn morning was particularly quiet. Downtown would be transformed by the parade soon, but I didn’t think the decorating committee was supposed to begin until tomorrow. The semi-darkness and the few and far between strings of light had something to do with the peacefulness.
Through most of December, the upcoming parade made Monson look like Scrooge had moved in and taken over. It had become tradition not to do much to decorate until the parade, which was always the weekend before Christmas. We’d go from boring and bland to lit up like Vegas overnight, and then decorations would stay up through New Year’s. As I skirted the edge of Main Street, I turned the radio off and left the window down a bit to enjoy the quiet, the cold air, and the scents of small town surrounded by farmland.
Once through town, I would turn onto the road that would lead me directly to the Stuckey farm, but first I pulled the truck into a parking spot and enjoyed the peace and the quiet morning.
“Look, girl, we get to live here,” I said to Hobbit.
Hobbit leaned over me and peered out the window. Suddenly an orange tabby the size of a mountain lion darted across the road about a half block away.
Hobbit looked at me as if to ask if she could go play.
“No, we’re working—investigating, to be more precise.”
She moved back to her side of the truck.
“Don’t tell Sam,” I added. “Don’t tell anyone.”
Her muzzle was sealed, I was sure, but even just asking my dog to keep a secret from Sam left me feeling suddenly uncomfortable. I’d tell him later, to alleviate the guilt I felt at not telling him beforehand. I was aware of my backward thinking, but I didn’t dwell on it.