“I’m not so sure I believe you,” Tinkie said, echoing my own thoughts.
“I don’t give a rat’s patoot what you believe,” Tulla said. She was finding her backbone and about to bolt.
“Who shot the arrow at Clarissa?”
“It clearly wasn’t one of us. As much as I’d like to pin it on Bricey, we were all on the porch. You saw us.”
“Like I believe you five are the only swingers in town,” I said. “It’s likely someone in your group who has decided to settle a score. Put your thinking cap on and tell us before someone is killed. Is Officer Goode one of your swinging group?”
“Him? Heavens no. He’s too straitlaced. He’d never play by our rules, and we’re the only ones that matter,” Tulla said with some of her old arrogance returning.
“Who else is involved?” She exhausted me, but it was time to wrap this mess up.
“None of your business.”
“What about Colton Horn?” I asked. If he were in this up to his ears, it would throw a completely different light on the whole car episode.
“He’s a stick-in-the-mud. Handsome man. He could have been fun, but too uptight.”
“You legitimately hired him to fill Bricey’s car with cement?”
“I didn’t hire anyone to do anything. I’ve told you already, Kathleen hired him.” Tulla all but dusted her hands to show her lack of involvement. I didn’t buy it for a second.
“It was all Kathleen. That’s what you’re saying?” I asked.
“Looks that way to me,” Tulla said. She had begun to enjoy herself. She intended to push the blame for everything onto a dead woman.
Tulla waved a hand. “Look, you need to leave. I haven’t done anything illegal. None of us have.” She went to the front door and opened it wide. “Make your exit now, please.”
29
Exhausted, I trudged up the stairs at the B and B to find that Coleman had the sheets deliciously warmed. He’d been listening to some Christmas music on an app on his phone, and he snuggled me to him as Mariah Carey sang, “All I Want for Christmas Is You.”
“That’s really all I do want,” Coleman whispered in my ear, sending chills over me. He had the magic touch when it came to me. “I only want you.”
“Okay, I’ll send those presents back to Santa.” I couldn’t be all soft and gooey—I had a reputation to uphold.
He chuckled. “Not a chance of that. And I have a really big surprise for you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow isn’t Christmas,” I said.
“But you’re getting a present anyway—if I can lure you away from your case long enough for a little fun.”
“What kind of fun?” He’d really gotten my curiosity bone to itching.
“Oh, something you may never have experienced.”
Now he was definitely working on me. “I’ve never bungee jumped.”
“Not that.”
“Vacationed in Denmark.”
He laughed. “For someone who didn’t want a present, you have some big dreams.”
I kissed him. “I’m just playing along. You want me to guess, and I know even if I guess correctly, you won’t tell me.”
“You’re right about that.” He smothered my protests with another kiss, which quickly turned into something that canceled all thoughts of trying to trick him into telling me his secrets.
When we were both spent, we snuggled close, and I fell asleep to the mellow sounds of Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas.”
The next morning, I was tapping on Tinkie’s door before sunrise. We’d finally reached the time of year when the days would get longer—by about a minute a day. I was ready for the longer days. Outside the windows of the B and B, night still held sway.
When Tinkie didn’t answer the door, I tapped again. And again. Oh, I had some payback in store for her. At last the door cracked open.
“What? It’s not even six A.M. It’s still dark outside.”
“I know that. Get dressed. We have work to do.”
“Don’t forget the Christmas parade is today,” Tinkie said. “Oscar has made me promise that we’ll be there. No excuses. Not even for a case.”
I liked parades. I looked forward to the Columbus Christmas parade. “Fine by me. So let’s work this morning. The parade isn’t until tonight.”
“Meet me downstairs. Give me fifteen minutes.”
I didn’t hear Darla rattling around in the kitchen yet, so I poked up the glowing embers of the fire in the parlor and threw on two more logs. Gumbo came to join me as I waited for my partner. The little kitty was so dainty and feline, gently kneading my thighs. At last I put her aside and began to explore the room. It was spacious and lovely, with built-in bookshelves on either side of the fireplace.
Anxious to get busy but stuck waiting for Tinkie, I examined a bust of William Faulkner. Judging from the books on the shelves, Darla was quite a reader. She had bestsellers, classics, childhood favorites, and a dozen slim volumes of poetry. I could spend a week going through her books.
I saw a volume with a brown leather cover and picked it up. It was a journal. When I opened it, I discovered it was handwritten, like a diary. I wondered if I’d stumbled on the musings and thoughts of one of Darla’s ancestors. Perhaps someone connected with the Bissonnette House, which had once been a private home.
I turned on a reading light beside the fire and dropped into a chair to read until Tinkie came down. The first page of the journal involved the B and B and the beauty of the structure. There were no dates or signatures—no way to know who wrote the journal or when it was created.
The journal detailed holiday celebrations, complete with menus and comments about guests—who were named only with initials. Darla was obviously the author, and the journal was a neat look inside Darla’s time as a hostess. She obviously enjoyed her role and her work.
I heard footsteps and closed the booklet to greet Tinkie, but it was Darla. I stood up and the journal slipped from my hand and
