Merry Market Murder(78)

A bunch of “excuse me’s” later, Hobbit and I reached the other side of the street and the red, white, and blue tree. Joel and Patricia had moved on, but I didn’t know in which direction.

I pulled out my phone and was relieved that Sam answered on the first ring.

“I just saw someone steal an ornament,” I said.

“Who?”

I told him the details and he instructed me to meet him at the police station.

Hobbit and I hurried.

• • •

“There have been a lot of thefts,” Sam said. “There always are, apparently. Considering the ornaments you’ve been given, we’ve been asking more questions of those who’ve decorated trees. A bunch of ornaments go missing every year. It’s a hazard of having the parade out in the open and amid a crowd. Gus said there are so many fingerprints on the goldfish that we’d never be able to figure out who gave it to you.”

“What about the cameras? Anything?”

“I’m afraid not. None of them were pointed toward the goldfish tree.”

He handed me a cup of what I knew was the worst coffee ever brewed, and sat in the chair behind his desk. We were the only ones in the station.

“That’s not very helpful in trying to find whoever’s been leaving me the ornaments.” I took a sip; I was right, it was terrible. I tried to control the reactive face contortion that always came with police station coffee, but I was sure I wasn’t successful. Sam either didn’t notice or had seen the reaction so often that he ignored it.

“Not at all.” Sam sighed. “Vivienne’s tracking down Joel and Patricia. She’ll get the flag back and she’ll scare them enough that they’ll admit if they’ve been your Secret Santa. She’s good at that.”

“What do you suppose Patricia used to look like? I mean, she has the long, blonde hair, but when she was younger, maybe she looked like Mamma,” I said.

“Maybe, but I think her act of theft makes her more suspicious than her hair.”

“You think I’m being silly?”

“No, Becca, I don’t think you’re being anything but you. I may not understand the way everything in your mind works, and I assure you, sometimes you make me want to laugh like I’ve never laughed before, but only in good ways. And then sometimes you put it all together despite not one iota of proper police procedure. It’s probably one of the things that made me . . .” He stopped.

I froze as I waited, but he took too long, and I’ve always had such a problem with patience.

“I’m crazy about you, Sam Brion,” I said, bitter coffee aftertaste and all.

Sam smiled and the phone on his desk rang. He put his hand on the handset but didn’t lift it right away. “It’s about time you realized that. And, just in case you haven’t figured it out, I feel the same way about you. I’m head over heels for you, Becca Robins. I have been since the first moment I questioned you regarding the gruesome murder of Matt Simonsen. We’ll graduate to the L word soon, I’m sure of it.” He picked up the handset. “Sam Brion.”

I was sure I’d care about who killed Reggie Stuckey again soon, just not for a few minutes.





Twenty-three





Such romantic moments would be typically followed up by more romantic moments, but it wasn’t meant to be that night.

I lost count of the leads Sam mentioned that he had to chase down, and then I lost track of him. I wasn’t able to find my parents again. I wasn’t able to find anyone. Hobbit and I wandered a little, helped some of the highest bidders load their trees, and then we went home.

I woke early the next morning, excited about the idea of Sam and I cutting down our own tree but concerned he wouldn’t be able to take the time away.

I got ready quickly and pulled out my phone just as I was hurrying to the kitchen to start the coffee and let Hobbit out.

“Hey, Becs,” Sam said as he answered. “I wanted to call, but then it got late and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah, just police stuff. Don’t know much more of anything yet. Still looking for Joel and Patricia, and Brenton. It can take time.”

“I know your work should come first, but do you think you’ll able to go up to Ridgeway Farm?”

“Yes, but I’m in Smithfield now. Should we just meet there?”

“Sure,” I said, more pleased that he’d be able to go than disappointed we wouldn’t be going together. “What’s in Smithfield?”

“Evelyn Rasmussen. I didn’t get a chance to talk to her last night. I’m going to in about twenty minutes. I don’t expect it to take long. If you leave there in about a half hour, we should both make it up to Ridgeway at about the same time.”