Three French Hens and a Murder (3) by Michele Pariza Wacek

Author:Michele Pariza Wacek [Wacek, Michele Pariza]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Aye Alba Publishing

“So where do we even start?” Pat asked as we stood in the police lobby, bundling up before heading out to my car.

I blew the air out of my lungs as I wound a scarf around my neck. “I’m not sure.”

Tiki stood up on her hind legs, tail wagging, as Pat eased her back in her purse and rearranged her little red blanket around her. “It would help if we at least knew where Dremel was.”

“Or the French hens,” I said.

Pat shook her head sadly as she jammed her hat on her head. “I don’t have a good feeling about the French hens.”

“Yeah, I don’t either,” I said, glancing out the door to look at the sparkling white scenery. It was beautiful … and also deadly. In my mind’s eye, I pictured Santa stumbling through the snowstorm, head bleeding, slipping and sliding on the icy sidewalks after shooting Drexel.

I couldn’t buy it.

But then I started to think about where Drexel’s body was found, and an idea started to form.

“What if we’re going about this all wrong?” I said.

Pat eyed me as she yanked her gloves on. “What are you talking about? We have nothing to go on, so what are we doing wrong?”

“We’re focusing on the wrong person,” I said, feeling the excitement start to bubble inside me.

Pat paused and looked at me in confusion. “I don’t understand. Who are we supposed to be focusing on?”

“The victim,” I said. “Think about it. We’re busy focusing on Santa. Which is understandable as he’s the one who doesn’t remember what happened to him, and he’s apparently the prime suspect. But, if we don’t think he is the suspect, then where should we start looking?”

“Where the victim was,” Pat said, the light starting to dawn in her eyes.

I nodded. “Exactly. Which means we should start retracing his steps.”

“Like where was he before he was shot,” Pat mused.

“Yes. I’m thinking if he was in the alley near the Tipsy Cow, maybe he stopped there first.”

“Worth a shot,” Pat said, as she pushed open the front door, blasting us with a gust of cold air. “Maybe he got into a bar fight, and someone wanted revenge.”

“Seems more likely than Santa offing him,” I said.

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