Page 7 of Always Murder (The Last Picks #9)

GaGa’s Christmas Tree Farm was located on a winding two-lane road, deep in the thick growth of Sitka spruce and lodgepole pine. It was only mid-afternoon, but the chilly gray of the day had darkened in the thick fog. Under the big trees, it was so gloomy I almost missed the turnoff: a massive wooden sign painted with a rosy-cheeked Mrs. Claus. The drive was smooth, clean asphalt that turned silver where my headlights touched it. (Okay, technically Bobby’s headlights, since I’d been forced to borrow his Pilot.) I drove for maybe another hundred yards through the fog, and then I cleared a line of cedars, and the tree farm appeared in front of me.

The phrase as if by magic popped into my head because, well, it did look pretty magical. Lights hung everywhere—overhead, in long strands of Edison bulbs, and with multi-colored holiday lights framing the tree farm’s buildings. A big gambrel-roofed structure seemed to be the central location; it had been painted red, and it had the right shape and color for a barn, but it was too big and too new. On one gable hung a massive wreath with, yes, more lights. Firepits made little pockets of flickering orange in the fog, and a little farther, at the edge of my vision, I could make out the silhouettes of the rows of trees waiting to go home with a family.

It was harder than I expected to find a spot in the parking lot—which itself was nothing more than a layer of mulch bordered with old pine logs. Cars and trucks were coming and going, with families busily streaming to and fro; the ones coming back to their vehicles were, as often as not, loaded down not only with a tree, but with shopping bags and foam cups and s’mores wrapped in wax paper.

S’mores, my tummy said.

Ignoring it—kind of—I got out of the SUV and trekked toward the big red building. As I did, I worked my phone out of my pocket and texted Millie.

I’m here . When she didn’t reply, I said, Where are you?

Seconds passed, and still nothing.

I pocketed my phone. In an ideal world, I’d wander around for a few minutes, find the entire Naught family (including Paul), and ask him some hard questions—like why he’d lied about what had happened at CPF. If that was asking too much, I’d settle for confirmation Paul was still alive. I mean, someone in this family had to know where he was. Maybe it was just that I’d spent too long writing mystery novels. (And, frankly, doing my own snooping.) But that little plot-conscious guy in the back of my brain told me Paul’s disappearance, under these conditions, was not a good sign.

On the other hand—as I frequently had to remind Fox—we weren’t living in an episode of Law that didn’t make any sense. We lived together. We shared a bed together. (In the Biblical sense, yes, but also in the literal sense.) Even when he worked doubles, I saw him most days.

But when was the last time we’d done something fun? Something cute? Something for the two of us that wasn’t squeezed into the few minutes before Bobby finished a shift and when he needed to go to sleep?

I took out my phone and started to text Bobby—nothing major, just I miss you .

But he was working.

And, anyway, what did I expect him to say? I didn’t want him to apologize; it wasn’t like Bobby wanted to work this many hours. He was exhausted, and on top of that, there was something weird going on with this whole detective thing. Not only our conversation the night before, when he’d been so…evasive. Bobby wasn’t really an evasive person, and it wasn’t like he’d totally avoided my question. But he hadn’t answered it, either, not really.

I was still waffling when I saw Elliott, David (or whatever his name was), Kassandra, and Angeline. They were gathered around a firepit, drinks in hand, and if I hadn’t known them, I would have thought they made a cute foursome.

“Ugh, she’s the worst,” Angeline said. “If she says one more time that she doesn’t trust lawyers because she saw a TV show about a lawyer who did drugs, I’m going to tell Mom.”

“She’s probably the one who does drugs,” Kassandra said. “I bet Keme’s her dealer.”

I considered stomping over there and doing something dramatic, something that would make a statement. I could picture myself standing over them, giving them a piece of my mind, while they cowered and sniveled and realized what awful human beings they were. Of course, in real life, the words probably would have gotten stuck in my throat, or one of them would have started talking over me, or—the possibilities were endless.

“Did your bank ever figure out what happened?” David asked.

Angeline made a sound of pure disgust. “No. They say the ATM cameras were blocked. I keep telling them: I got hacked . I don’t know why that’s so hard for them to believe.”

“Maybe you didn’t get hacked,” Elliott said in a thoughtful tone. “I know this is going to sound awful, but as a lawyer, you have to learn to ask the tough questions. Do you remember if you ever left your purse in the same room as that boy?”

There was no doubt who that boy was, and I decided I was definitely going to give them a piece of my mind, only first I needed some cotton candy to get my strength up.

“Oh my God, you poor baby,” Angeline said. “What happened to your hand?”

Elliott’s answering laugh could best be described as phony . “My cat got a little too frisky.”

I hoped to God that wasn’t a euphemism.

That was when I saw Ryan.

He had his head down, his shoulders turned in, and he glanced from side to side and over his shoulder as he hurried away from the barn-like building. It was not the stride of a man leisurely picking out a Christmas tree with his family. No, Ryan’s scurrying rush toward the trees was the behavior of someone who was determined to get a place on Santa’s naughty list.

So, I went after him.

I’m not a master of tradecraft (in spy novels, that’s what spies always call it). But fortunately for me, neither was Ryan. He walked in a straight line toward the trees, and although he did glance around and check behind him, all I had to do was stay back, drifting through the crowd of happy families, and not wave my arms or jump in the air or shout my name. (Also, I did pull my hood up, and it made me feel super cool.)

When Ryan reached the rows of trees, I marked the aisle he stepped into. And a few seconds later, I started down the next aisle over.

The change was immediate. The trees were placed close together, and they made the narrow footpath feel like it was cut off from the rest of the world—the sounds of laughter and music faded behind me, and the lights strung overhead thinned and then stopped completely. Even my footsteps were muffled by the thick carpet of evergreen needles. The smell of balsam and fir grew stronger, sharper, and while it was pleasant, it also seemed to activate some primitive part of my brain that knew being out alone in a forest, in the dark, was not a great way to keep the human race alive. My heart started to beat faster. The fog was wet on my face. And I was painfully aware of every tiny sound that broke the stillness: branches rustling, the scuff of something moving behind the screen of trees, the rustle of my clothing.

This didn’t make any sense, I told myself. Someone should be out here. Families should be picking trees.

But was this the right spot? I hadn’t really been looking at signs. Maybe this area wasn’t being used right now; maybe that’s why the lights weren’t strung out here. Maybe happy families shopping for happy trees were in another part of the tree farm, far away from here, which meant I was completely alone except—in theory—for Ryan, and if you’ve ever written a mystery novel, you know—

A scream broke through my thoughts.

For the record, I didn’t scream. Or jump. Or say any bad words.

I did, however, have a single moment of paralyzing panic, and then my body decided now was a great time to take an adrenaline bath, and my heart kicked into triple-overtime.

Somewhere nearby, someone was laughing.

“It’s not funny!” That was Ryan, and to judge by the ragged edge in his voice, I guessed he’d hit the pee-your-pants level of terror. Someone said something I couldn’t hear, and then Ryan said, “I know it’s a bird, dummy.”

If that scream had been a bird—in the fog, out in the middle of this dark, lonely forest—then GaGa needed to start doing a haunted house every year.

“What do you want?” Ryan asked. “What’s so important?”

Fox had once told me that I had been, quote, born blessedly free of the curse of common sense , and that comment came back to me as I crept toward the sound of voices.

Someone answered Ryan, but their voice was too low for me to make out.

“This is stupid,” Ryan said.

That same low voice answered. I thought it had a familiar quality, but that might have been my brain playing tricks on me. Whoever it was, though, he—or she, or they—was clearly more worried about being overheard than Ryan, because they were practically whispering.

Whatever they said, Ryan didn’t like it.

“No,” Ryan said. And then, “I don’t care.”

I was close to the voices now. I got down and crawled toward the line of trees separating us—that’s tradecraft, by the way. Humans have a tendency to look at, well, eye level. So, if you want to spy on someone, being above them (or below them) gives you an advantage.

(These are the kinds of things you learn if you actively avoid sports.)

In the next aisle, Ryan stood with his back to me. He was blocking my line of sight, so I couldn’t see the person he was talking to—all I caught was a glimpse of their clothes.

Red velvet.

White fur trim.

A hat traditionally known as a Santa hat.

Santa—okay, the person dressed as Santa—said something.

“No,” Ryan said. “And leave me alone—”

Before he could finish, voices rose nearby.

Okay, a voice rose nearby.

A familiar voice.

“BECAUSE IT’S A TRADITION!”

I love Millie. I really do. She’s sweet. She’s kind. She’s scarily insightful sometimes, and she absolutely refuses to follow the agreed-upon human code of conduct of avoiding ever actually expressing yourself in a meaningful way. (Like the time she forced me and Bobby to talk about, ugh, feelings.)

But that girl does not have an inside voice. Not that we were inside, but—you know.

Ryan said something that bumped him several spots up on the naughty list.

Santa—or whoever it was—beat a retreat. I glimpsed a man’s face—and it wasn’t Paul. It wasn’t anyone I recognized, for that matter. Then the fog swallowed him. Ryan turned toward the next row of trees, pushed his way through them, and was gone.

“WE DO IT EVERY YEAR,” Millie was saying. “IT’S SO MUCH FUN!”

Keme said something in response; the words weren’t clear, but the tone suggested he didn’t agree with this assessment.

In a slightly—and I mean slightly —quieter voice, Millie asked, “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” Keme must have given a boy answer, which is to say, mumbling something completely noncommittal, because Millie said, “You’re not having a good time.”

Here’s the thing: Millie isn’t manipulative. (Not unless you count the time she forced me to talk to Mrs. Knight at the Cakery, because Millie thought I’d enjoy hearing about Mrs. Knight’s, quote, time in the service, even though I kept giving Millie the signal that I didn’t want to talk to Mrs. Knight.) So, I knew that the sadness in Millie’s tone wasn’t feigned, and it wasn’t a ploy.

And because Keme was a boy, he somehow managed to screw up enough, uh, gumption to say, “I’m having a good time.”

He didn’t even sound like he choked on the words or anything.

“No, you’re not,” Millie said. “You hate it. I’m sorry; we don’t have to stay.”

Keme’s labored “I don’t hate it” was actually physically painful to listen to.

It’s not like I was trying to spy on them; even though Millie is basically my younger sister, and Keme occupies a spot that shifts between feral wolf child and big brother who still gives wedgies. (And here’s the deal: it’s all fun and games, and everybody thinks wedgies are hilarious—right up until you actually get one, and he does it so hard that it gives you rug burn.) But Millie and Keme sounded like they were right there, in the next aisle over, and if I moved now, I knew they’d hear me—and, at this point, they’d assume I had been spying on them. The best thing to do, I decided, would be to stay here until they moved on, and then haul butt back to the barn.

“I don’t hate it,” Keme said again, and it even sounded slightly more believable. “I’m here, aren’t I?” My guess was that Millie found that as unconvincing as I did, and Keme must have picked up on it because he added, “I’m with you. I want to be with you.”

Sure, the delivery was awkward. And I don’t think anybody bought the idea that Keme was having a grand time. But Keme was eighteen and pretty much the definition of keeps to himself. For the boy to put anything into words, much less something that felt so revealing, was actually kind of heart-melting. (In a good, Grinch way.)

“At least we’re not with David and Elliott,” Millie said.

Keme laughed. He honest-to-God laughed. It was this husky little thing that was so adorable I wanted to squeeze him until his eyes popped out of his head. (That’s called cute aggression, and it’s a real thing.) “David asked me, quote, ‘What’s the dealio on buying drugs?’ Like I couldn’t see he was recording me on his phone.”

“Oh my God,” Millie said. “I’m going to tell Kassandra.”

“Nah,” Keme said.

“What’d you say?”

“I told him I knew a guy from when I was in jail. I told him where to meet him tonight.”

“KEME!”

“It’s that abandoned fruit stand outside of town. I bet he’ll show up, get spooked, and drive back here as fast as he can.”

Millie burst into giggles, and more of Keme’s raspy laughter joined hers.

After, they were quiet for a few moments. Too quiet. And they weren’t walking anymore; I wasn’t sure why they’d come all the way out here and then just stopped to stand around. And then I had the horrifying (and horrifyingly adult ) realization that they might have snuck away to make out. For someone with the emotional maturity of an eighth-grader (AKA, me), that was high up the list of personal nightmares.

I was considering whether I might need to make a break for it—even if it did mean getting caught—when Keme said, “What about this one?”

“OH! THAT’S A GOOD ONE! You’re so GOOD at this!”

Keme’s silence had the quality of a shrug. I had no idea what he’d done—or in what way he’d been good at it—but it was hard not to enjoy his efforts not to be pleased with Millie’s praise.

“You’re good at everything,” Millie said.

“No, I’m not.”

“You are. You’re so smart. You learn things so quickly. You know so much about so many different things.”

I caught myself thinking, He does? I mean, I knew Keme was smart. And I knew he was tough and resilient and scarily strong—like, freakishly. Like maybe they were testing super soldier drugs in his Fruity Pebbles. But the fact that Keme knew stuff was…kind of a surprise. Maybe that was because he said so little and kept so much to himself. And my heart did that Grinch thing again when I realized he wasn’t doing that with Millie—he wasn’t holding himself back, wasn’t making himself less. She got to see all of him. And I thought about what that meant for both of them.

In a tone a little too casually off-hand, Millie said, “The application deadline is in a couple of weeks.”

The sound of a footstep crunching evergreen needles was the only answer.

“And I did some research,” Millie said. “There are lots of local scholarships. The Keel Haul even has one; I asked Dawn about it.”

Still nothing.

“And I bet Indira and Dash and Bobby would help—”

“I don’t know.”

“Come ON,” Millie said. “They’d LOVE TO HELP.”

The silence felt even longer this time.

“Even if you don’t want to ask them,” Millie said, “we can still make it work. It would be great. I think it would be REALLY GREAT.”

It was like words dropping down a dry well—a tumbling fall of sounds, and then nothing.

“You know what we could do?” Millie said. “We could look at MAJORS! Then you could pick what you want to do, and you’d feel more excited.”

Millie’s expectation must have finally been too much for Keme, because it dragged a “Maybe” out of him.

I tried not to move. I tried not even to think. I didn’t want to risk any possibility of interrupting this moment. For the last few months, the Last Picks and I had been scrambling in that completely ineffectual way adults have, trying to figure out what to do with Keme after he graduated high school. Any attempts to have a conversation about it had been rebuffed. Even Indira and Bobby, who usually got more out of Keme than the rest of us, had been met with a wall of disconnect. I’d tried a few times myself. Each attempt had gotten progressively scarier; by the end, I came out of a fugue state and found myself in the kitchen after I’d eaten half a dozen of Indira’s whoopie pies. (Also, they were delicious, so I have zero regrets.)

So, I crouched on the cold hard ground, my hands and knees covered in needles and sap and dirt, practically holding my breath so that I didn’t cause even the slightest disruption in the universe.

Which was when I heard a familiar—and shrill—voice cry out, “MILLIE!”

I actually groaned.

Fortunately, the groan was covered up by Millie’s own grumpy-sounding exhalation.

I couldn’t see Keme, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if he looked like a man who’d been spared by the executioner.

The sound of steps came through the dark, and then another piercing cry of “MILLIE!”

“OVER HERE!”

If there were any wild animals still living around here, I figured they were all packing up now to find somewhere quieter.

The rustle of branches mixed with huffs of exertion, and then Christine said, “There you are! We couldn’t find you!”

“You told us to find this year’s pinecone,” Millie said. “Look at this one. Keme found it—isn’t it GREAT?”

“You took too long. We had to decide all the parts in the Christmas pageant without you. Millie, you’re a shepherdess.”

“BUT MOM, you said I could be Mary!”

“Gracie Sterling is going to be Mary.”

“BUT YOU SAID—”

“And I’m telling you,” Christine snipped, “Gracie Sterling is going to be Mary this year.”

Several seconds passed. I caught the faint notes of “Auld Lang Syne” drifting to us from the barn.

With a wobbly return to her former enthusiasm, Millie said, “Oh, Mom, Keme could help with the music. He’s SO GOOD at that kind of stuff—”

“Keme,” Christine said over her, “you’re the donkey.”

Okay, listen: I try not to take pleasure out of watching my friends suffer. Honestly. I want to be a good person. I don’t want to build my life on schadenfreude.

But Keme had called me a donkey so. many. times.

“Mom,” Millie said. “That’s not—” She stopped and tried again. “Isn’t there anything else?”

“I’m sorry, but if you two hadn’t dawdled, you could have picked parts with the rest of us.”

“But you said the boyfriends were going to be the Three Wise Men.”

“And David and Elliott are going to be Wise Men, dear. And we’re saving the third spot for Paul, since he couldn’t be here.”

“But you said it was going to be the boyfriends.”

“Paul’s not here, Millicent.” Christine’s voice had taken on the crisp, no-nonsense tone of a veteran parent. “And we can’t have four Wise Men. You don’t mind being the donkey, do you, Keme?”

It was the kind of silence on which episodes of Dateline are built.

“All right,” Christine said. And then, “I’ll take that. I suppose it will have to do.”

Presumably, that was in reference to this year’s pinecone , whatever that meant. Her footsteps started to move away.

And I realized I was going to be right back where I started: trapped, with the possibility of an angry teenage make-out session holding me hostage.

I jumped to my feet and shouted, “Christine? Christine!”

“Who is that?” Christine called. “Hello? I’m right here!”

I pushed through the line of fir trees—remembering, at the last minute, the pine needles stuck to my clothes. I hoped it would be too dark for anyone to think too much about it. When I reached the next aisle, I threw a quick look at Keme and Millie. To say Keme was glowering would be an understatement; Keme was alight with the rage of a million slighted teenagers. And Millie didn’t look much happier, her mouth open with what looked like another objection or argument or fight. Millie had clearly dressed up for the night, in a pullover and leggings that managed to look chic (on me, it would have looked like I’d rolled off the sofa). Keme was in a hoodie and joggers, and he was channeling the rolled-off-the-sofa vibe.

Christine, on the other hand, looked like she’d stepped out of a Christmas movie. A Hallmark Christmas movie. Set in the 1990s. She was wearing a red-and-green sweater with little bells sewn all over it, and the sweater itself was a patchwork thing with lots of embellishments: wreaths and poinsettias and, yes, Christmas trees. I was starting to wonder if every night was ugly Christmas sweater night for the Naught family. She was holding a pinecone, and although I wouldn’t consider myself an expert, I had to agree with Millie—Keme had done a great job; it was a very nice specimen.

“Dash!” Christine beamed at me. And then she glanced around. “Are you solving a murder?”

“Uh, no.” At least, I sincerely hoped not.

With evident disappointment, Christine asked, “Then what are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know, picking out a Christmas tree. Waiting for a chance to meet Santa. Looking for an elf to beat up.”

Christine blinked.

Millie frowned.

Keme looked like he was thinking about beating someone up, and it wasn’t an elf.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I have no idea why I said that. I wanted to talk to you, actually. Am I interrupting?”

“No,” Millie said.

Keme shook his head savagely.

“Not at all,” Christine said, with a little too much sugar on top. She even took my arm. “You can be a gentleman and walk me back to the barn, since no one else offered.”

Okay, zero schadenfreude that time—the way Keme’s jaw sagged made me sick to my stomach.

But I let Christine lead me down the path. It wasn’t really meant for two people to walk side by side, which meant Christine walked in the center of the path and I stumbled along at her side, my arm in the motherly equivalent of a wristlock, getting hit in the face by apparently every branch on this tree farm.

“I don’t know what she thinks she’s doing,” Christine said. “It’s a disaster. This never would have happened if she’d stuck with dance. I told her to stick with dance, but she doesn’t listen.”

“What—”

“That boy,” Christine said. “I mean, he’s in high school , for heaven’s sake. And so rude! And you know he broke all the windows at the Sandbergs’ place. Threw rocks while they were out of town. He’s a vandal . And he won’t open his mouth to say two words. I think if someone invites you over for dinner, you ought to at least make polite conversation, don’t you?” Before I could answer, she patted my arm and said, “I wish you would date her.”

“Right, well, I’m gay. And I have a boyfriend. And Millie’s only a friend. So many reasons, really—”

“It’s because she’s desperate.”

Okay, that didn’t exactly boost my self-confidence, but I was too caught up in a wash of fatherly-brotherly rage. “I think Keme and Millie are a great fit. I know you don’t see it yet, but that’s only because you haven’t had a chance to get to know Keme. He’s one of the best people I know. I love Millie, and I want her to be with someone as amazing as she is. You just need to give Keme some time.”

Christine sighed and, with what sounded like affectionate fondness—like I was a slightly dull nephew who was, nevertheless, pleasant to be around—said, “You’re so young, dear. You don’t understand. That boy is a menace.”

“I do understand, actually. And as Keme’s friend, I need you to know that I’m not okay with you talking about him like that—”

“Well—” And she broke off for a bosom-heaving sigh that drowned me out. “—I suppose there’s nothing either of us can do about it except wait to pick up the pieces.”

I opened my mouth.

And I realized I was about to try speaking louder .

What would it be like, I wondered, after twenty-odd years of this? I wasn’t sure I wanted to think about that question too closely. On the other hand, I also found myself suddenly thinking of how Millie had been acting tonight. The dwindling reserve of false cheer, the gradual surrender. The Millie I knew didn’t surrender. And she didn’t have to pretend to be excited. I couldn’t help remembering a few hours before, at the freight warehouse, and the contrast. I can tell you this much: Jinx St. James wouldn’t have put up with any of that bull plop.

But that was neither here nor there; right now, I had more pressing issues to focus on.

“Christine,” I said, “I was wondering if you knew where Paul was.”

“Don’t get me started,” she said. “I love those boys, but they are never going to grow up. I told Paul we were getting the Christmas tree today. I told him. And instead, he goes haring off.” In a surprisingly dour voice, she added, “To play Nintendo.”

“So, you do know where he is?”

“If I knew where he was, that young man would be in for the spanking of a lifetime.”

Ah, yes—the Naught Brothers’ claim to fame. “I really need to talk to Paul.” If, I added mentally, he was still alive. “Are you sure you don’t have any idea where he could be? If he asked you not to tell anyone, I understand you might feel like you need to keep it a secret, but this is important. Even if I could just talk to him on the phone.”

“Dash, he could be anywhere. You know how boys are.”

That was simultaneously a staggering mistake on Christine’s part—all anyone had to do was look at my love life to understand very clearly that I did not , quote, know how boys are —and a bizarre dismissal of what was becoming an increasingly strange situation. True, Christine didn’t know Paul had been fired. And she didn’t have my, uh, writerly instinct that something bad was happening. But didn’t she wonder where her son had disappeared to? Didn’t she find it strange that he hadn’t answered calls or messages? Wasn’t she curious ? The practical part of me, though—after a few hours with the Naught family—suggested that having to deal with two decades’ worth of Paul and Ryan’s playing turning into wrestling turning into fighting turning into crying, all staged in the center of the living room, might have generated the need for a certain laissez-faire approach to child management—primarily because the alternative involved a blow dryer and a bathtub.

As we stepped free of the trees, I decided to switch tracks.

“If he does get in touch,” I said, “would you let him know I need to talk to him?”

“He’ll be at the Christmas pageant. Speaking of which.” She swiveled toward me, a terrifying calculus happening behind her eyes. “You don’t have a part yet.”

“Oh, I don’t need—I mean, I’m not religious—I mean, it’s your family—”

“You can be the manger, or you can be the innkeeper’s wine barrel. It’s in storage in the stable. That’s called a vivid detail, Dash—it’s all part of the rich tapestry of character. You could use that in your writing.”

I did some silent squawking. (It’s a real thing—you’ve done it too, I’m sure.) Finally I managed to squawk externally: “A barrel? ”

“The manger it is, then. Oh my God, you’re going to look so cute holding baby Jesus. Poor Bobby isn’t going to know what to do with himself. Don’t blame me if you’ve got a ring on your finger by New Year’s!” She gave a laugh and wagged a finger at me, as though I were being naughty, which all around was a confusingly mixed message. Then she gave a brisk clap. “Now, hop to it and solve your murder so you’re free for rehearsals!”

“I’m not solving a—what rehearsals? I’m going to pretend to be a manger for—wait, how long is this thing?”

“Two hours. And that’s entirely the wrong attitude, Dash. A real actor doesn’t pretend to be anything. A real actor inhabits the role. They become the part.”

That was when I realized instead of quibbling about rehearsal time, I should have clarified that I would not be playing the role of “Manger” in the Naught family’s two-hour-long production of the Nativity story.

I opened my mouth. And then something caught my eye—a hunched figure moving through the throngs of happy families.

Ryan.

And he was getting away.

“Excuse me,” I managed to say, and then I broke into a run.

But running—as always—was a mistake. Because by the time I got to the parking lot, Ryan was gone.