Have Yourself a Beary Little Murder by Meg Macy

Author:Meg Macy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington Books
Published: 2019-08-23T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

Back at home, I unlocked the door and laughed when Rosie raced over to greet me. Her leash’s end dangled from her muzzle. “Poor thing! I get the hint, but it’s cold.”

Onyx was curled in the hollow of her new microbead pillow, soaking in the late afternoon sunshine. Clouds to the west promised a hint of overnight snow. First, I checked the cleaning crew’s progress in case they hadn’t finished, but spotted the invoice on the kitchen counter. Then I toured the shop. The floors gleamed, all the Christmas decorations had been put back into place, and the crew accomplished every task. I logged into PayPal and then forwarded the paid invoice email to Aunt Eve so she could print and file it in the morning.

I shrugged into my coat and fastened Rosie’s on before adding her harness and leash. “Hope this place stays clean for the open house. Come on, girl.”

She led the way outside. I needed to think over everything I’d learned today and sort out the possible suspects and motives. Who had last seen Cal Bloom, and where? Despite Dave Richardson’s forceful words, the mayor’s death seemed too pat. Whoever killed him hadn’t thought of taking him so far away from a source of electricity. It didn’t seem natural. And it smacked of an arrangement, in my opinion.

The mayor was also nowhere near any homes, only the closed and locked Quick Mix Factory. I doubted if Lois Nichols had a key. Although the elementary school was close, no cars had been parked in that lot—which meant teachers and students had all gone home, too. No witnesses, unless one of the custodians had been around, but I doubted that. Had anyone seen a car? Someone arranging the mayor’s body on that remote bench?

Rosie sniffed a strip of grass beside the picket fence on Theodore Lane. The Davison’s house, a near perfect match to ours, had been swathed with real evergreen boughs, red velvet ribbons, and swags of pinecones. Nothing artificial for Barbara Davison. Her husband wouldn’t have cared, but she embodied Martha Stewart’s homemade and handmade style. Mom tried to convince me to match Barbara’s elegant style for the Silver Bear Shop’s exterior, but I wouldn’t budge. She’d have to compete with her friend in other ways.

I glanced back at the Silver Bear Shop. The oversized snow globe on the lawn, with its teddy bear in a rocker and falling flakes, looked so sweet—and Santa and his sleigh perched on the roof with more bears spilling out of his sack. Both emphasized our brand as a fun place for children. Once darkness fell, bright lights would outline every window, door, railing, and the eaves. And inside the shop, more lights decorated the Christmas trees, wreaths, and garlands. Our customers adored it all. That counted far more in my book.

Thanks to Maddie’s clever marketing, too, online sales were booming.

Rosie barked at a squirrel who dashed across the lane and tugged me along in a frantic chase. My scarf half-strangled me, so I unwound it and left it hanging loose.

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