Page 82 of Christmas Mittens Murder

Whoa. Hang on a second. First of all, I didn’t know whether he was a murderer. Second, was he hitting on me? Well, we were single mature people, and he was both fit and reasonably good-looking. Stranger things had happened.

All the warm and fuzzy went poof when Detective Quan sauntered up.

“Morning, Ms. Barton. Might I have a word with you, Mr. Torres?”

Rafael gaped. He glanced quickly around. To see if there was an escape route? Or wondering if townspeople were looking, maybe.

“I’m running a booth, Detective, as you can see.”

“I understand.” Quan clearly wasn’t going to take no for an answer. “It won’t take long. Perhaps around the back?”

Rafael’s shoulders drooped.

“I’ll hang out here, tell people you’ll be right back,” I offered.

“Thanks.” His voice was so low I almost couldn’t hear it. He followed Quan around the corner of the tent. It had walls, making it impossible to watch them.

Arthur caught both balls and stopped tossing them. “Is Mr. Torres in trouble?”

“I don’t think so,” I told him. “But the detective wants to talk with him.”

“I think he’s in trouble,” Franklin whispered, big-eyed.

In one fast move, Arthur lay on the ground at the back of the tent and lifted up the wall a couple of inches.

“Arthur.” I used my best auntie stage whisper, shaking my head and motioning toward me.

He didn’t budge. Franklin looked alarmed at this mutiny.

I headed toward him. “Artie, now!”

He jumped up, glanced at me with a pale, frightened face, and took off running.

Chapter Sixteen

Cam hurried up. “Where’s Arthur off to?”

“I don’t know. Can you watch Rafael’s booth? Frankie, honey, please explain to Mrs. Flaherty.”

Cam nodded, although she rolled her eyes at my choice of names.

I set off at a jog, weaving through the crowds. I wasn’t hopeful I could catch a kid one fourth my age and four times as fast. But whatever Arthur heard had terrified him. I had to find our boy and hold him. Make sure he knew he was safe. Stay with him until he felt better.

My nephews hadn’t been privy to any of our discussions and musings about Val’s murder. They might have picked up gossip at school, but neither had mentioned anything about the homicide at dinners or before bed. Inquisitive Franklin hadn’t asked questions. Impulsive Arthur hadn’t blurted out shocking statements or fourth-grade hearsay.

My heart sank when I thought about what Arthur might have heard. Quan might have mentioned Allie in connection with the killing. Thinking his mom could go to jail would make any kid run for it. Run for home, maybe. Was home where I should be looking?

I scanned the crowds for a moving blur of yellow at about adult shoulder height.

“Cece Barton,” a man’s voice hailed me. “You looking for anyone?”

I put on the brakes and whipped my head to the right. Otto Harper stood behind his historical complex table, which was now draped in a purple tablecloth reaching the ground. He pointed dramatically—and repeatedly, without speaking—straight down at the table.

“Yes, I am, Otto. My nephew Arthur got separated from us, and I’m really worried about him. Age ten, yellow jacket?”

Otto nodded and pointed down again. “Can’t help you, unless you want a historical society brochure.”

I nodded in return, indicating I understood, and slid out of my pack. I gave the table a wide berth and set my pack on a chair at the back of the booth. I squatted at the back of the table, lifted the cloth, and crawled in next to poor Artie. He sat with his knees drawn up to his chin, his arms wrapped around his legs.