Have Yourself a Merry Little Murder Page 11

  She strained her ears for a moment. Colby didn’t sound upset. She didn’t sound scared. It was like she was just having a normal conversation.

  The other voice sounded like a boy. A young boy.

  And there was another sound.

  Thump.

  Thump, thump.

  Darcy ran to her daughter’s door. She twisted the handle and pushed it open. The only bedroom up here with a lock was the master bedroom, for when she and Jon wanted to be alone without the children accidentally walking in on them. Colby and Zane didn’t have locks.

  The room was dark. Colby was sitting up on her bed. She snapped her head around and looked up at her mother with surprise. The light from the hallway spilled in across her face, showing off the highlights in her hair. Sitting very close to her, Tiptoe was a darker shape with luminescent eyes. Their devoted cat wasn’t going to let anything happen to Colby.

  At the foot of her bed was a luminescence, a pale light mist hanging there in the form of a small boy. The mist shifted, and the boy’s face was clearly outlined, and she recognized Joel Harris. In his hand, was the red rubber ball.

  Then the mist faded and disappeared. The ghost was gone.

  With a final thump, the ball came rolling Darcy’s way. It came to rest innocently against the toe of her sock. She’d forgotten about it once Izzy had started snapping at her. It was impossible for it to be here, she said to herself. No way had it rolled across the living room and bounced upstairs and found its way into this room.

  Not unless it was being carried by the hand of a ghost.

  “Mom, what are you doing?” Colby blurted out. She reached over for the lamp on her bedside table and turned it on. “You scared me.”

  “I scared you?” Darcy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Colby had just been talking to the ghost of the Harris boy, and she was acting like it was just an after-school hangout with a friend.

  “What’s wrong?” Izzy asked. She was pressing in close beside Darcy, trying to look over her shoulder. She hadn’t seen the ghost disappear or the ball come rolling over, either. It was probably just as well. If the scene in the car down at the end of Main Street had upset Izzy as much as it had, Darcy could only imagine what seeing the dead boy’s ghost would do to her.

  “It’s nothing, I guess.” Darcy knew she was lying to her friend, again, but she felt this time she was doing it for the right reasons. Telling Izzy that there were ghosts in the house would only end up making things worse between them. Izzy would probably accuse her of making things up to embarrass her. For the moment, lying seemed the best thing she could do.

  From the bed, Tiptoe mewled softly, telling Izzy not to worry about it.

  Izzy gave Darcy another glare and turned on her heel to leave. She stomped down to the spare bedroom and didn’t quite slam the door when she shut it. Their momentary truce was over, apparently. Izzy was back to being mad at her.

  There was no doubt now that she was going to call Mark Franks. Hopefully Jon and his officers would get to him first before Izzy could warn him. Darcy was sure Mark was up to something. She felt it. She was sure of it. Just like she had before, when he first came to town.

  Of course, that time she’d been wrong…

  That wasn’t something she could worry about now. Not with Colby still watching her, and the memory of that ghost standing at the foot of her daughter’s bed.

  “Is she gone?” Colby asked.

  She meant Izzy, of course. Darcy had drilled a healthy caution into both of her children when it came to talking about their special gifts in front of other people. Even good friends. Unless you knew you could trust them completely, it was better to keep some secrets hidden.

  “She’s down in the spare room,” Darcy told her. “It’s okay, we can talk now. That was Joel Harris, wasn’t it? That was his ghost?”

  Colby nodded.

  Bending down, Darcy picked up the rubber ball. “This is his. We saw it in a picture in his mother’s wallet. He’s been here, in the house, ever since the accident. I think he’s looking for help but I couldn’t get him to talk to me. Did he say anything to you?”

  Colby cocked her head to one side, stroking Tiptoe’s back. “But that’s wrong.”

  “Wrong? What do you mean?”

  The cat looked up at her, eyes narrowed like the question was just plain silly.

  “You said, ‘ever since the accident,’” Colby explained. “That’s wrong.”

  Darcy was beginning to wonder if they were having the same conversation. “Honey, their car plowed into a snowbank, or something. Your father’s trying to figure out why but there was definitely some kind of accident. Why else would the car be stopped there?”

  Tiptoe shook her head hard enough to make her ears flap.

  “You shush,” Darcy told her gently. “You weren’t there.”

  Colby tucked her feet under her. “No, Mom. Tiptoe’s right. Joel Harris told us so, and you know he was there.”

  That was true. Ghosts were the best eyewitnesses to their own murder… or they would be, if they were in the habit of saying exactly what happened to them. In Darcy’s experience the dead were only interested in talking about their unfinished business. Oh, a ghost would go on and on about needing to tell a loved one goodbye, or about how they wished they could pass on the secret family recipe for apple pie, but getting them to tell you what happened in the last moments of their life was like pulling teeth. For the dead, those sorts of details just weren’t that important.

  It was downright annoying.

  “Did Joel say anything else to you, honey?” Darcy figured it couldn’t hurt to ask. Ghosts didn’t like to give the specifics of their death, but they loved to give clues.

  Also annoying.

  Colby’s little face pinched up in thought. “Um. He told us the car stopped in the street. Not an accident, he said. Uh. Then he said there was shouting. Lots and lots of shouting.”

  “Shouting? Was the shouting in the car or outside?”

  “Mom,” Colby said, rolling her eyes. “How would I know?”

  “I thought Joel’s ghost would have told you.”

  “I didn’t think to ask him. Why would I ask that? He just said there was shouting.” Colby looked up at her mother. Her mouth formed into a little circle. “Should I have asked? Is it important?”

  Next to her, Tiptoe bumped her head into Colby’s hip. It was like the cat was trying to tell her it was all right, because nobody was perfect.

  “It’s okay, Starshine” Darcy promised. “You’re still a little young to be worrying about what questions to ask ghosts about their murders.”

  Colby’s lip twisted up sarcastically. “I’m a Sweet. My mother is Darcy Sweet. Ghosts are kind of our thing. We don’t choose who we are when we’re born. We have to choose to be the best version of ourselves as we grow up. Right?”

  That made Darcy laugh. Her daughter was so smart. How did she get so lucky with this one?

  Her family meant the world to her. Zane, and Jon, and her wonderful daughter. Tiptoe and Cha Cha, too. Everything important to her lived here, in this house. Wouldn’t any mother feel the same about her family?

  She frowned, because that made her think… Joel’s mother was locked up in the cells at the police department. She had been in the car when her husband and her son were murdered. She had to be. She had that bloody bar in her purse. She was obviously traumatized. Either by what she saw… or because she had killed them herself during the accident.

  No. Not an accident. Joel’s ghost had apparently been very plain about that. Jon had said there was nothing wrong with the car. No damage. Wouldn’t that mean it didn’t run into the snowbank where it was buried, then? Wouldn’t that have caused damage that just wasn’t there? If there was no accident, then the only way the car could have been buried like that… was if it had stopped there before the snow started, when everyone was taking cover, and it stayed there while the snow fell, foot by foot. Just exactly like the storm had buried Da
rcy’s car in her own driveway.

  Something had stopped the car out there on Main Street as the snow started to fall, and before it had gotten too deep.

  If the murder had happened before the snow fell, like Joel’s ghost had hinted at, then they weren’t looking for a killer who could walk on the snow after all. They were looking for someone who knew the Harris family was coming to Misty Hollow. Someone who had met them on the road, waiting for them… and that’s why the car had stopped!

  Or was it the other way around? Had the shouting Joel mentioned been an argument between his parents. Had Brian stopped the car to argue with Lana, and had Lana then killed him—and then her son?

  Two possibilities, each of them just as likely as the other.

  Shouting. Lots and lots of shouting…

  She just didn’t know.

  “Colby, are you sure Joel’s ghost didn’t say anything else about…?”

  Her question was interrupted by a loud knocking on the front door.

  Zane and Cha Cha were just coming off the top of the stairs, Darcy could hear her son down the hallway. “Mom? I think someone’s outside. They want to come in.”

  Cha Cha barked twice. Then he barked again.

  Zane sounded worried. “Cha Cha says they smell angry.”

  Chapter 8

  Darcy looked toward the stairs. Someone was here. Someone who wasn’t happy.

  Why was nothing ever simple?

  Down the hallway the doorway to the spare bedroom opened. Izzy stepped out, arms crossed, her expression smugly satisfied. “I called Mark. I told him everything you were saying. That’s him downstairs, by the way. He wants to talk to you.”

  A heavy sigh blew out of Darcy. No. Nothing was ever simple.

  “The kids?” she asked.

  “Go on,” Izzy told her. “We’ll stay up here while you and Mark have a little talk. Try not to accuse him of anything he didn’t do this time, okay?”

  Darcy had a feeling it was going to be more than a little talk, but at least she knew Izzy would keep Zane and Colby up here. She might be furious with her right now, but they were still friends, and nothing would ever change that.

  For a moment she considered texting Jon. She’d feel a lot better if he was here when she and Mark had this ‘talk.’ But her cellphone was downstairs and to get to it she would have to literally stand down there, staring at Mark through the front door and hoping he didn’t come striding inside while she was dialing Jon’s number.

  Better just to get this over with. Besides, if he started acting up, she could just hit him over the head with a tea kettle. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d resorted to that.

  With a deep breath, Darcy took herself down the stairs. It was when she was crossing into the kitchen that she remembered the rubber ball was still in her hand. She saw the shadow of Mark Franks standing out on the front porch, through the curtain on the window. Somehow, she doubted that he was going to take her seriously if she confronted him about being involved in this mystery while she was holding a child’s toy in her hand.

  She put the ball back up on the shelf while Mark knocked on the door again. Darcy went to answer it, just as Mark opened the door for himself.

  He smiled at her surprise. “Izzy invited me,” he said. There was a tight edge to his voice that Darcy definitely did not like. “I figured you wouldn’t mind if I showed myself in since she asked me to come here and all.”

  “Mark, listen.” Darcy knew she was going to have to talk fast. “I told Jon about everything I saw in your house. I told him. He’s on his way here now. He just wants to talk.”

  The door snapped closed as he leaned himself back against it, literally blocking the exit with his body. In his bulky winter coat and his gloves and his ski boots, he seemed much bigger than he was. He smiled when he saw the uneasiness Darcy was trying to hide. Then abruptly, he took a step toward her.

  Darcy stepped back.

  Mark’s smile got wider, showing his teeth. “Jon wants to talk to you,” he mocked, imitating her voice and inflection nearly perfectly. Darcy had always been impressed at the way he could change his voice. Right now, it just freaked her out. “What’s he want to talk to me about, Darcy? Huh? Is it… this?”

  In one quick motion he pulled the glove off his left hand and threw it up in her face and Darcy stepped further back, bumping into one of the chairs around the table. Across the back of his hand, she saw the livid purple bruise again.

  His hand got an inch away from her face. She was sure, just for a split second, that he was going to hit her.

  When he didn’t, she swallowed and told herself she was standing her ground because of her own resolve, not because the table was behind her, blocking her way.

  “You lied to me,” she said, forcing herself to make the words steady.

  He flexed his fingers and in spite of her resolve, Darcy flinched.

  “What did I lie about? You saw this bruise on my hand and decided it meant I killed someone, right?”

  She blinked. “Well, actually…”

  “Yeah, that’s what Izzy said. You know, you really should thank her for being such a good friend. She called me to tell me all these horrible things you were saying because she was worried about you.”

  Darcy crossed her arms in front of herself and met Mark’s stare. “Oh, really? I think she was just worried about what might happen to you, actually. And I think you’re here just to give me excuses about… whatever you did.”

  He flexed his fingers again. “Do you honestly think I could kill anyone?”

  “I… I don’t know,” she answered truthfully.

  After a moment of silence between them, he lowered his arm. “Well, you always were honest to a fault. Darcy, this mark on my hand doesn’t mean anything, except that I’m a klutz. When I went to get my skis out of the closet two days ago, I accidentally cut the string on a compound bow I’ve had since I was kid. Those things are under a lot of tension and the string whipped out and caught me across the hand. It hurt like mad, I can tell you that.”

  Darcy studied his face. The set of his jaw. The direct look in his eyes. If he was lying, she couldn’t tell.

  “You broke your bow?”

  Mark shrugged. “Not very manly to admit, I know, but I’m clumsy. I told Izzy about it when it happened. You can ask her, if you don’t believe me. Accidents happen. And that’s all this was. Just an accident.”

  An accident, Darcy thought to herself. Like the car accident the Harris family got into on the far end of Main Street…

  But no, because that wasn’t an accident. It happened before the snow got too deep to travel in, when people were just starting to take cover and before everyone got snowed in, when anyone could have been out and about.

  Anyone, including Mark Franks.

  But then what would be his motive? She didn’t know the answer to that, but she did know one thing.

  “You still lied to me,” she insisted. She worked her way back around the kitchen table, keeping her eyes on him the whole time. She just felt better with the table between them. “You lied to me about being a writer. That novel on your laptop is just a copy of one that’s already been published. Colony 41 is selling pretty well in my bookstore and I’ve scanned through it enough to recognize it when I see it. You’re no writer. You’re just a plagiarist.”

  “And a liar?”

  “I think that’s implied when someone steals someone else’s ideas, yes.”

  “And a murderer?”

  Yes, was what she wanted to say, but she had no proof and no motive. No basis to accuse him. She still felt uneasy with him here, standing there all menacing, but that didn’t mean he did this terrible thing.

  When she took too long to answer, Mark snorted. “You’re a strange lady, Darcy Sweet.” In a British accent, he added, “A proper woman, with good bearing and brains I say, and just like a bulldog when you’ve got those teeth of yours into a thing, wouldn’t you say?”

  Darcy felt the smile
on her lips. This was the Mark Franks she had come to know. Witty. Enchanting. He was the kind of guy everyone wanted to be around. Not the kind of guy you associated with criminal behavior.

  But here she was, accusing him.

  Again.

  “You’re still a liar,” she said, crossing her arms again.

  He shook his head back and forth. “No, I’m not.”

  “You’re no writer. Name me one book you’ve ever written.”

  “Now you know I can’t do that. I write freelance. It’s called ghostwriting for a reason. Everything I’ve ever written has a non-disclosure agreement attached to it. My publishers are happy with my work, but no one will ever get to know the brilliant mind behind all those stories they’re reading. Can’t give you the names. Sorry.”

  “How convenient. I don’t believe you. That story on your laptop isn’t yours.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  She was surprised. She didn’t expect him to actually admit to it. “But then… why is it on your laptop?”

  Mark smiled with his teeth once more. His hand shot out, and grabbed a chair, and dragged it out so he could sit down. Darcy jumped at the sharp, sudden sound. After another moment, Mark settled his elbows on the table and steepled his hands together. “Writing isn’t as easy as you think. You don’t just sit down and start putting words on the page and expect a best-selling novel to come out. You have to plan, you have to chart out the plot and the subplot and make sure your characters are as detailed as real people. There’s a lot of skills involved with writing, and just like any skill, you have to constantly practice if you want to get better.”

  “That sounds like a lot of work.”

  “It can be, but it’s also a lot of fun. Especially when you’re good at it like I am.”

  “I’m happy for you. What’s this got to do with you plagiarizing Colony 41 on your laptop?”

  “Like I said, you have to practice to hone your skills when you’re a writer.” He spread his hands wide, and Darcy’s eyes focused on the line of that bruise as it moved back and forth. “There’s lots of ways to do that, but the one I like best is to type out a book as I’m reading it. That allows me to get a sense of the style used by other successful authors. It lets me see the things that are working for the fans. The way they craft a scene. How they structure their paragraphs. Little phrases that are better than the ones I use. Things like that.”