“Six months.” Emmie sighed heavily. “And no end in sight. Nor any suspects.”
“We have lots of suspects, just no evidence.”
The Costco parking lot outside of town was busier than I’d expected.
Inside, a fight was about to break out over the last package of Christmas lights. I just kept walking toward the candle display. I didn’t want to be involved.
I shook my head as Emmie’s eyes sparkled at the comically oversize candles.
“Who needs a candle this size? Aunt Frances is going to be dead before she can even burn half of it.”
“Don’t say that!” Emmie cried, trying to roll the massive candle onto the cart.
It lurched, almost hitting a man.
“I’m sorry!” Emmie exclaimed.
The man, with his eyes hidden by sunglasses, a hoodie pulled up around his face, and a baseball cap low on his forehead, swore then took off at a run down the nearest aisle.
I caught a whiff of almonds.
“That’s him—the guy who was breaking into your shop. It’s the murderer.”
“Wait!” Emmie called as I sprinted after the murderer.
I ran after him down the dog-food aisle, sliding at the end. I caught a movement to my left and took off down an aisle with bakeware. “Dammit!” I swore as, out of nowhere, a box of Christmas ornaments was hurled at me.
I knocked it out of the way.
The murderer squawked and jumped out from behind a stack of flat-screen TVs.
But he was too slow.
I tackled him, sending us crashing into a display of Frosty the Snowman puppets.
“Don’t touch me! Don’t hurt me!” The smaller man tried to wiggle away.
“You…” Emmie puffed, pushing the squeaky cart in front of her. “Have really long legs. Oh, you caught the murderer! And you thought you were going to get away with it, didn’t you… Charles?” Emmie yelped as she pulled the hat off.
“Knew it,” I said. “I told you he was up to no good. Call the cops.”
“No, please!” Charles cried. “I beg of you. Yes, I admit what I did was wrong, but I can explain.”
“Murder is never okay.”
“Murder?” Charles made a strangled noise. “I didn’t murder anyone.”
“Then why were you running?” Emmie demanded. “Why were you sneaking into my café?”
“I wasn’t stealing from you—I swear it. I wasn’t even in your café. I needed my shop to capitalize on the Santa Claws Café being shut down. I sell cream buns. But”—he gestured helplessly—“I don’t know how to bake. I buy premade pastry from Costco, fill them with a pudding and Cool Whip mixture, then sell it at a markup. I can’t make a stable cream filling to save my life, and you can forget about buttercream frosting.” Charles started to sob.
I let him get up.
“Please don’t call the cops. I’m not a thief or a murderer.”
“Just a fraud,” Emmie said determinedly.
13
