Page 22 of Always Murder (The Last Picks #9)

The next morning, we spent Christmas Eve the way Christmas Eve should be spent: with sloth, gluttony, and the slow build-up of avarice. (Also, lust—but that’s more of an adults-only, mom-and-dad-have-to-wrap-one-more-present, don’t-peek-in-your-stocking kind of thing.) Suffice to say that after having Lots of Feelings, Bobby was still feeling frisky. And after Bobby was frisky, I wanted to sleep until noon and then have someone hand-feed me snickerdoodles.

In spite of all those extra shifts at work, though—and all the friskiness—Bobby was banging around in the bathroom by nine, and at eleven, I was told, “Good morning,” in a way that was more command than question or suggestion. It was familiar from all our weekend hikes, when lollygagging and loafing were not to be tolerated.

In that weird way of adulthood, it hadn’t felt like Christmas—and now it did. Keme and Millie had decorated the house weeks ago, but the garlands and lights and sprigs of holly all seemed to catch my eye for the first time (not to mention the enormous Christmas trees that Keme had lugged around the house to impress Millie). The gray outside had cleared, and the day had a chiseled cold that felt like winter, and which made the snug warmth of Hemlock House even cozier. Indira was in the kitchen making peanut brittle, which meant the first floor smelled like hot sugar and peanuts and vanilla. Fox was “smoking” a bubble pipe and wearing a Victorian smoking jacket over a unicorn onesie. Keme and Millie, now fully reconciled, were canoodling on the chesterfield. In plain view, I might add. With smooching and whispering and giggling. Yes, even from Keme.

Bobby and I ate a small breakfast. (Okay, Bobby ate a small breakfast—he had a bowl of oatmeal, and he didn’t even put maple syrup on it. I, on the other hand, found half a pan of bread pudding, and declared Christmas Law—which means you can eat dessert for breakfast.) After we’d finished, and before my blood sugar could plummet, we hung the stockings on the billiard room mantel. The stockings were a new addition this year. Indira had produced them when the rest of the Christmas decorations came out, without any explanation. But they’d been knit by hand, and they had our names on them, and they were all the same shape and size. I wondered when she’d made them, and how long it had taken her. Bobby found some music on his phone. It was a mix of classic Christmas songs. Some Irving Berlin. Some Ella Fitzgerald. And of course, some Mariah Carey. I mean, we’re not monsters.

I was giving the stockings an evaluating glance, trying to decide if they were evenly spaced—and also wondering if I could convince Indira to let me have a go at the bacon, since I needed protein after all those carbs—when Bobby said, “I asked Paul about that card, the one you found at Three’s house. He said the last time he saw it, it was in his locker at work.”

It took me a moment to redirect my attention. “It was?”

“Sorry, I meant to tell you last night.”

“That’s important, right? That means something. That points back to somebody at CPF. Did you tell the sheriff?”

Bobby nodded.

“What does that mean?” I asked. “She didn’t believe you?”

“Dash, it’s complicated.”

“She thinks Paul’s lying ?”

“Paul wouldn’t lie,” Millie said from the chesterfield. “He always tells the truth, even when it gets him in trouble.”

Now that I could believe. “So, what? If the sheriff is convinced Elliott did this, then how did he get Paul’s arcade card?”

“That’s a good question,” Bobby said. “I don’t know.”

“I’m calling over there,” I said. “I want to talk to Luz. Maybe she can tell me what they did with Paul’s stuff when they cleaned out his locker.”

“Someone dropped off a box at the house,” Millie said.

“That means Elliott could have gotten the card from the box,” Keme said.

I gave him a dirty look. “You too?”

He shrugged.

“We wondered why the thief took Paul’s arcade card instead of his driver’s license or a credit card,” Bobby said. “Maybe that’s why: it was easily accessible in that box of stuff.”

“This still doesn’t make any sense.” I drew out my phone. “Elliott only targeted high-value items. Why would he want a gay manga so badly that he’d risk a confrontation with Three?”

“Why would anyone?” Bobby asked. “Don’t we have to ask the same question even if it’s someone else from the delivery company?”

I gave him my best don’t-start-with-me look as I placed the call to Clatsop Parcel and Freight. The phone rang. And rang. And rang. And then a recording picked up.

“Thank you for calling Clatsop Parcel and Freight.” I recognized the voice of the less-than-helpful receptionist. “The office will be closed from noon on Christmas Eve until seven AM on December twenty-sixth. To leave a voicemail, please stay on the line.”

“I don’t want to leave a voicemail,” I told the recording. “I want to talk to Luz Hernandez.”

“Good luck with that,” Bobby said. “We’ve sent three deputies and called I don’t know how many times. Tried her cell phone. Went to her house. That woman’s a ghost.”

“I see you’re operating on the same theory as Millie,” I said. “I talked to her the other day. Well, Jinx St. James and I talked to her.”

“What does that mean?” Keme asked.

“Mess around and you’ll find out.”

Millie giggled.

“You are so weird,” Keme told me, with all the fraying patience of a late adolescent.

“OH MY GOD!” Millie said (I use the word loosely). “MAYBE A GHOST TOOK PAUL’S CARD!”

“This is what I’ve been dealing with,” I told Bobby over the ringing in my ears. “I bet she loved The Sixth Sense .”

“Not really,” Millie said. “I figured it out at the very beginning.”

Bobby must have seen something on my face because he whispered, “Deep breaths.”

I opened my mouth to say—well, something about ghosts, probably. And then everything clicked, one thing after another falling into place: the string of robberies that had been blamed on Paul; the inexplicable theft of Three’s manga; spilled Cherry Coke, and Paul’s story about the damaged Super Smash Bros. package, and the manager’s door that led into the warehouse; a dead bird; the arcade card that had been left as evidence; the attack on Paul at the storage unit; Millie’s ghost; even the Santa suit, and that inexplicable suspicion I’d had that the perpetrator had wanted to be seen.

My laugh sounded weird even to me.

“Dash?” Bobby asked. “Everything okay?”

“We should have listened to Millie.”

But Millie didn’t even seem to appreciate the acknowledgment; she had received a call, and her phone was pressed to her ear.

“What?” Bobby said. “What are you talking about?”

And then the rest of it clicked into place: the timing.

“We’ve got to get over there before we lose the body.”

“What’s going on?”

“Millie was right,” I said. “We’ve got to go now .”

“Go where?”

“CPF! Come on!”

But Bobby caught my arm. “Dash, we can’t just go charging in. I don’t know what you figured out, but we need to talk to the sheriff, get a warrant—”

“Paul’s gone.” Millie’s voice cut through Bobby’s words. We looked over at her. She clutched her phone in both hands. “Nobody knows where he is. He’s gone.”

“He figured it out too,” I said. “When you asked him about the card. He figured it out, and he’s going there right now.”

Bobby squeezed my shoulder. “We’ll call the sheriff on the way. Let me grab my gun.”