A Festival of Murder Read Online Free PDF Page B

dealing with the presence of a detective in their midst. Did that say
something about their guilt?
    “I’m not arrested
yet, so I’d say so far so good,” Nicholas said, smiling like a man with a gun
pressed to his spine.
    Canberry turned to
Charles. “I’d appreciate if you’d spare me a few minutes. Just some quick
questions.”
    Charles blanched
and looked ready to topple. “You want to—you want to speak to me, do you?”
    Nicholas headed
for the kitchen to refill his mug with eggnog. This looked to be a long night
and he’d be a fool not to be properly hydrated for it.

3
     
     
    It
was Saturday morning, and Rocky Johnson had been dead for half a day.
    Nicholas
stood at his kitchen window, hands curled around a mug of steaming tea, and
stared at the alpaca in his backyard whose nose was pressed to the glass from
the other side.
    “Eventually
I’m going to learn you’re an undercover alien spy, aren’t I?”
    Nicholas
wished he could smile at his own joke, but a part of him studied the alpaca
with suspicion.
    Winchester
was strange looking enough that he could very well be an alien. Nicholas had no
idea if the bulging brown eyes were normal or if the banana-shaped ears were
meant to swivel like radar dishes as they often did. Twin spots of ghostly
rings blossomed on the window in front of Winchester’s nostrils as he stared
back at Nicholas and simply breathed. Nicholas shuddered. Creepy.
    He
belatedly noticed a red ribbon tied into a bow around the animal’s neck that he
certainly hadn’t put there.
    “You’ve
chosen him over me, haven’t you?”
    The
alpaca stared back. Nicholas thought he saw something shift, deep within
Winchester’s eyes. A rising alien intelligence? Awareness of an impending bowel
movement?
    “You’re
welcome for the vegetables, by the way.” Nicholas turned away from the window. “Maybe
next time I’ll throw them out, seeing as how you’re two-timing me with someone
else.”
    He
wandered over to the breakfast nook. He took a seat at the small table there
and contemplated the teeth-shaped scabs that had formed over his knuckles. They
were remnants of a bad day that threatened to extend into a very bad week.
    He
had climbed into bed that morning at 1:00 a.m. He had been the worst sort of
gawker last night, hanging around the Gingerbear to see how his neighbors and
the tourists handled being questioned about a potential murder. Their reactions
had helped distract him from his own muddied headspace until Charles, and later
Phoebe, let slip that many of the questions they’d been belted with had
concerned him.
    Nicholas
didn’t appreciate being a person of interest in Canberry’s investigation, but
he understood why he was. That punch had been damning. The only way he could
have further incriminated himself was if he had walked into the party last
night soaking wet.
    Suspicions
were one thing. They would eventually prove unfounded. However, Nicholas
possessed a past that could cast a shadow of guilt upon him that might be too dark
to dispel. Nicholas didn’t believe for a second that most suspects were viewed
as innocent until proven guilty. If Detective Canberry didn’t find the killer
soon, Nicholas might end up in considerable trouble simply for being shady.
    His
front door shivered beneath a knock. He abruptly remembered that he’d offered
up Captain Sam as a prime suspect to Canberry. Probably not the smartest of
moves in retrospect, but it had been a long time since Nicholas had been
questioned by the police. He was rusty.
    He
crept to the door, his heart thudding louder than his footsteps, and pressed
his ear to the wood. Not hearing heavy breathing or swearing from the other
side, he tentatively cracked open the door a couple of inches.
    The
young man on his doorstep looked like the sort Nicholas expected to see
trekking across Europe while wearing an oversize backpack. This particular
backpacker was minus the backpack, but possessed the distant gaze of a