A Christmas to Dismember, Addison Moore [howl and other poems .TXT] 📗

Fish yowls, Bizzy doesn’t have bacon. You’re thinking of Georgie. But there are cookies nearby.

I want a cookie! Rudolph chirps.

Angelica laughs. “My, you’ve got a rowdy bunch. Mind if I throw the dogs a chocolate chip cookie?”

“No thanks. Chocolate can actually kill them.” Just like she killed Quinn. “Angelica, I know you were in the garden that night.”

“No.” She shakes her head, her eyes wide with horror. “I wasn’t in the garden. I swear it.”

“We have a witness. Warwick saw you there. You were arguing with Quinn. There was physical evidence you were at the scene. There was a red crystal in the garden that night—the sheriff’s department has it as evidence. It came off of your dress.”

Her eyes close tightly and the peppermint bark snaps between her fingers.

“Angelica, I know that you’ve hit hard times,” I say it softly. “That night you told me that it was exhausting to run in your socialite circles—and it’s because it’s taking all you’ve got to keep up appearances, isn’t it? You’ve mismanaged your money, and you were trying to shake Quinn down that night for cash, weren’t you?”

A fire ignites in her eyes. “So what if I was? So what if I lied about being in the garden that night? When they asked, I had no idea what that area was called. It was an innocent misstep on my part at first, but by then I didn’t want to change my story. Who would? I’ve already got a major strike against me if anyone finds out I’m struggling—and they will. I don’t exactly hide my employment. A few very important people I know have come by the Davenport Steakhouse. Word is already getting out.” She glares at a horse-drawn sleigh as it zips on by, leaving the happy chime of bells in its wake. “Quinn knew if he left me any more money I would have squandered it.” Her shoulders sag. “He would have been right.”

“But he did leave you something. Maybe this will force you to manage your money better. That’s not a bad thing. Quinn didn’t have to give you anything. And I’m betting that’s what he was telling you in the garden that night when you struck him.”

“Struck him?” She inches back.

I nod. “That’s why you slipped some diazepam in his coffee earlier, isn’t it? You wanted to weaken him?”

Both Rudolph and Sherlock growl in unison.

“Weaken him?” Her eyes spring wide open. “Bizzy, Quinn forgot to bring his anxiety medication. He emailed me earlier that day and asked if I would bring my own.”

“Then why did you slip it into his drink when he wasn’t looking?”

“He wasn’t looking?” She looks almost as amused by my line of questioning as she does terrified. “Maybe he turned his head? Look, I’m not liking what you’re implying. If Quinn had a bead on him from my dress, it’s because he embraced me in the garden once we met up. And his anxiety is highly documented with his doctor, I’m sure—as is mine.” For heaven’s sake. And to think I came here to get my mind off of things. “I’m leaving now. Hopefully, the next time we meet, the killer will have been apprehended and you won’t be moved to entertain such lunacy.”

“Wait!” I call out after her. “What about the white glove?”

“I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing white on any part of my body after September,” she shouts back with a clear note of exasperation in her voice.

Fish growls, How dare she yell at you. And she’s wearing a red and white scarf, isn’t she?

“She is, but I’ll be the last person to point it out.”

She stalks off just as the carolers stroll this way singing a cheerful rendition of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” and Rudolph jumps and dances once he hears his name.

Fish lands her paw over my chest. What do you think, Bizzy? Is she innocent or guilty?

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “But I think there’s a way to find out.”

I text Arthur and ask if he can send me that access list to Quinn’s email, and in less than a few seconds I have it.

My fingers work quickly as I pry into Quinn’s account. If I can’t read his mind, maybe I can read his emails. And sure enough, they populate my screen one by one. An exchange between Angelica and Quinn corroborates her claim. Quinn forgot his meds and wanted her to bring her own—stating he can’t swallow pills. He requested capsules.

But I’m not deterred in the least about that, because it’s what I find in Quinn’s other email exchanges that sends a chill up my spine.

I glance up at my mother’s shop across the way.

I know who the killer is.

Chapter 16

Downtown Cider Cove has never felt so joyous, so merry and bright. It’s almost seven in the evening, the carolers are belting out their spirited Christmas tunes, and the sound of bells chiming liven up the atmosphere with just the right measure of holiday cheer as the crowd grows thicker by the moment.

It takes a heroic effort to thread my way through the thicket of bodies as I head across the street to the shop where I last saw my one and only remaining suspect.

I’m about to step back into Two Old Broads when out bursts a man clad in a black wool coat, and Fish gives a rather aggressive meow his way—Warwick Tully.

“You play the saxophone,” I say, breathless, and he gives a curious tilt of the head.

“Hey, Bizzy”—a small laugh bumps from him as we step off to the side to allow for the flow of shoppers elbowing their way into the shop—“that I do. Don’t tell me the high school band needs someone to pinch-hit for them.” He winces just as a sleigh full of screaming children flies by.

“No, I just remembered something. That night at the bistro, you had mentioned it to Georgie.”

“Ah yes. She had thought I played the tuba. Not my style. Soprano sax is where I can really