Page 4 of A Dye Hard Holiday

“Oh my,” Mrs. Jamison said, literally clutching her pearls, “it’s really tragic about what happened at Santa’s Village last night.” It figured that the oldest person in the store was the one who finally worked up the courage to pry. My mom always said that you cared less and less about propriety the older you got. I snickered internally because, based on her theory, that meant my mom should be pushing ninety instead of sixty-five.

Santa’s Village?That’s where Gabe and Adrian were called out to last night?Adrian’s response to the call finally made sense then. I thought he was just being sarcastic because the dispatcher interrupted our discussion about my annual Ugly Christmas Sweater party.

Mrs. Jamison leaned closer and lowered her voice. “I nearly panicked when Mr. Shoffsky said that Santa was hung from the flagpole.” She looked around to see if anyone was eavesdropping because she wanted the exclusive from the captain’s man all to herself. “I couldn’t imagine who would want to kill old man Adams.”

I tried not to laugh when she referred to Mr. Adams as old because she was probably only a year younger than him. I had no doubt that she’d swing her purse and knock me upside my head if I called her old woman Jamison.

“Anyway, I called the Adams’s house this morning to offer Eustice my condolences and she informed me that her husband was still alive and kicking. Well, she put the phone down and went and checked to see if he was still breathing. She thought maybe I’d become clairvoyant like that Emerson and had experienced a vision.”

“Emory,” I corrected.

“Yeah, that’s it,” she replied then leaned nearer. Any closer and people would think something hanky was going on between us in the frozen food section of the Sac-N-Save. “Even though it turned out to be a life-sized stuffed Santa scarecrow-type thing, if I was your husband, I would keep an eye out on Eustice. She sounded a little bit hopeful when she put me on hold to see if old man Adams was dead.”

“I’ll be sure to pass that on to Gabe,” I told her, trying my best to keep a straight face. “I hate to disappoint you, Mrs. Jamison, but Gabe doesn’t share any details about his investigations with me. I didn’t even know that someone hung Santa from the flagpole until just now. I don’t have any gossip for you.” She dropped her pearls long enough to cover her heart like she was shocked that I would suggest such a thing.

“You wound me, Joshua.” But not enough to stop her from kissing my cheek. “Don’t forget the whipped cream,” she suggested after perusing my cart to see what I had picked out.

“Oh, I make homemade cinnamon whipped cream. That frozen stuff isn’t good enough for my pumpkin pie.”

“Well, aren’t you fancy?” she asked with a sly smile.

“I prefer fabulous, but I’ll take fancy.”

“Go on with you now,” she said, shooing me along.

In the dairy aisle, Mrs. Schulman told me that she had seen an older Buick Skylark cruising near Santa’s Village a few times but hadn’t jotted down the license plate. I couldn’t think of anyone who drove the car she described. “Rust spots on the side shaped like the ones you see on dairy cattle.”

“I’ll be sure to let Gabe know,” I said with a smile.

“Oh, I already told that sweet Officer Wen this morning. He wrote it down.”

As I was checking out, Mr. Beddinghurst was in front of me and he said that Mr. Adams told him that morning on the phone that he had to close the village early the night before because he wasn’t feeling well. Something to do with the sausage and sauerkraut he had for lunch giving him fits. “He took some Pepto-Bismol this morning and is feeling better.”

“That’s good to hear, Mr. Beddinghurst.”

“I heard that several of the shops were vandalized. Is that true? How long do you think the village will be considered a crime scene?” the bagger, Bucky Dillwater, asked me. He sounded a little bit too hopeful, and I knew why. Santa’s Village opened in the middle of October and closed on December 23rd. The rest of the year, the high school kids used it as make out spots. I’d done my fair share of using a fake ID to wiggle a lock loose so I could get into one of the closed shops for a little tongue-on-tongue action back in the day. It sounded to me like Bucky, and probably the rest of the kids, were hoping the village stayed closed a little longer.

“Until the captain clears it, Shaggy,” I replied soberly. “You, Scooby, Freddy, Velma, and Daphne need to stay away from there because there are serious repercussions if you contaminate a crime scene.” I sounded like I knew what the fuck I was talking about, but I got most of my police procedural talk fromThe Closer. I just knew that Brenda Leigh would be proud of me.

“Yes, sir.” His face turned bright red, and I bet he suddenly wished he was back in English 101 instead of bagging groceries during Thanksgiving break. I let the “sir” shit pass and headed out to my car.

I was down to my final stop and eager to get back home and away from prying eyes and big ears. Luckily, no one at the butcher shop wanted to pump me for information when I picked up my two fresh turkeys and spiral cut ham. I was aware that I was going overboard, but I couldn’t stop myself. At least my friends and family would have leftovers to last them a week.

I decided to stop by Books and Brew on my way home to grab a peppermint mocha hot chocolate. One of the owners, Milo, was behind the counter with Emory’s cousin, Memphis, who was absent from dinner the previous night. I narrowed my eyes as I neared the order counter. He rarely missed dinner since he moved to town after Emory’s brain surgery, so I wondered what had kept him away.

“I’m sorry,” he said, blushing profusely. “I was cataloguing my latest haul of comic books for the store and lost track of time.”

“I guess it’s okay, but don’t forget about Thanksgiving. It’s on Thursday,” I told him.

“This Thursday?” he asked.

My mouth popped open to respond but my thoughts froze. My dinner would be the event of the year and he had lost track of what week it was? I made my turkey gravy from scratch for fuck’s sake.He must really love comics.

“Just kidding,” Memphis said. “I’ll be there at two.”

“Make that one,” I corrected him.

“Got it.”