Stephanie had said something similar.
I squinted and then sighed. “Barry, what’s the connection between Brenton and the Ridgeways?”
“Oh.” Barry shifted his weight to his other foot and then he shifted back again. “I don’t rightly know.”
“His ex-wife is your niece, you’ve known Brenton forever, but you don’t know his connection to the Ridgeways?”
“Becca, I don’t know the Ridgeways. They’ve had that tree farm forever, but they’ve always stayed to themselves. Their farm’s in the hills and this is the first year they’ve been at Bailey’s. I don’t know them.”
He wasn’t lying, at least not about not knowing them. He was keeping something else from me and to himself, though, but I wasn’t sure exactly what.
“How in the world can I find the connection?”
Barry shrugged. “Ask the parties involved.”
“They aren’t telling.”
“Then maybe it’s none of your business, Miss Nosy.” Barry smirked playfully.
He was correct. It probably was none of my business, but I just couldn’t help but think that we were so close to knowing who the killer was because of that connection.
I’d gotten ideas in my head before, though, ideas that were off base and ended up leading to nowhere at all, or leading me straight into more trouble. Maybe that’s what this one was.
But, maybe not.
Eighteen
Downtown Monson was suddenly decked out. Whoever had been in charge of this year’s decorations had gone far above and beyond. I parked my truck at the end of the street and spent a few moments just admiring the currently unlit colorful lights wrapped around the streetlight poles, and the array of trees, some already starting to be decorated, that lined the entire three-block-long drag. Come sundown, Monson would be so bright we might attract passing UFOs.
I was glad to finally get out of bed and have something to do. I’d spent the night tossing and turning and trying to figure out why or how some people might be connected to other people. I’d replayed conversations over and over again, trying to glean something new, something that might help lead the police to a killer.
Sam had had to work late, though oddly not on anything related to Reggie Stuckey’s murder; he’d stayed at his own house so he wouldn’t disturb me. In fact, I hadn’t slept anyway, and I would have welcomed the disturbance even just to have someone to talk to. He hadn’t seen the new ornament. Since he’d been so busy with other police work, I hadn’t even told him about it yet. My decision to keep it to myself seemed wrong as the sun had risen, and I hoped to drop off some cookies at the parade site and then find Sam at the police station to let him know about the tree.
For the moment, though, I enjoyed the line of perfect, or at least almost perfect, real trees. It seemed like the entries only improved every year, and this year’s artists would have some beautiful palettes to work with. I didn’t see the Ridgeways anywhere, but they had outdone themselves. I thought the trees they brought to Bailey’s were wonderful, but these were even better: greener and fuller. From my vantage point, even though they were mostly not decorated yet, I had no doubt this year’s would easily outdo all the ones from previous years.
“Becca! Come help me with this.”
I tried to find the person attached to the voice. It took a second, but I finally saw my dad perched high on a ladder against a wall of the library.
“Dad?” I said as I hurried out of the truck.
“Here, I don’t feel secure enough up here to let go and get this string in place. If you’d just hold the ladder a second, I’d be fine.”
I gripped both sides of the ladder and held it tightly. “What are you doing up there?”
“This is the job of the VP of decoration’s husband. I’m to string lights. I’ve been stringing lights since about three this morning and will probably be stringing them into the night.”
“Mom’s the one in charge of decorations? I didn’t know. What about her allergy?”
“She’s taken pills of some sort. And she didn’t know about her job until this morning.”
“What happened?”
“Got a call from Vivienne Norton last night. Officer Norton said that the decorator dumped the job. Vivienne knew your mom knew her way around a sewing machine and some knitting needles; she figured that those skills somehow put her in the running for the position.”
“Does Allison know? You should have called me earlier.”
“We decided not to tell either of you girls. You’d both dump whatever you were doing to help us out. You have jobs and people to attend to. Polly and I have time for a decorating emergency.”