She harumphs. I walk over to Cooter. He looks at me sheepishly, eyeing the crowd and then looking back at me. He reeks of alcohol. Not necessarily recently consumed. It’s like he’s fermented over the years. I feel for him. I’m not going to enable his habits, but I have compassion on the man. I know what it’slike to be labeled and shelved by an entire community. We have that in common.
“Cooter, you ought to walk on the sidewalk,” I say, trying to keep my voice low enough to avoid adding to Kate’s sense of self-satisfaction.
“Too many people over there,” Cooter mumbles. “I’ll get out of the street up there.” He tips his head to a spot up past the church.
I nod and turn back to the crime scene. Alex is wrapping up questioning Kate. We move through the crowd. Some people admit to knowing nothing, while others remind me of that character inMonsters Inc. “I tried to run from it, but it picked me up with its mind powers and shook me like a doll!”
More than one person has a guess as to who the culprit or culprits are. Usually there’s obvious rivalry or animosity behind the accusations, not actual facts that would give us a concrete lead.
Case in point are Mrs. Hawthorne and Mr. Dobbs, who are in a full-scale argument—each accusing the other of “borrowing” the baby for their yard displays.
“I wouldn’t put it past you, Grace!”
“To steal the actual baby Jesus? That’s a low blow, Stuart!”
“Not the actual baby Jesus. Pretty sure that ship sailed over two thousand years ago.”
“Okay. Okay,” I interject, stepping between the two of them. “Let’s all remember the Christmas spirit.”
They turn on me with twin glares. Nothing like a common enemy to bring opposing sides into alignment. I hold my hand up, give each of them a serious look and walk away.
Kate mingles with a few other women off to the side of the property, watching me and Alex go through the motions of investigating the scene as if she’s about to give our annualperformance evaluations. She moseys over while I’m looking around the manger, taking snapshots and looking for clues.
A small cellophane wrapper catches my eye. I bend to pick it up, sniffing it—peppermint—then pocketing it. It could be nothing. But you never know.
“Did you see the trash in the bushes?” Kate asks, her hand perched on her hip.
“I haven’t made it over there yet.”
It irks me to have to answer her. Her condescending tone says she thinks she could do my job in her sleep. Maybe she could. That doesn’t mean she shouldn’t give me a modicum of respect.
“The evidence leads to those three.” Her well-manicured hand points at the teen boys still lingering at the edge of the property. Her tone drips like sap—sweet enough to appear helpful, sticky enough to entrap you.
“Evidence?” I ask.
“In the bushes,” is all she says before sauntering back to her cluster of friends.
I walk to the bushes. A few energy drink cans and an empty bag of Takis are stuffed there. I call the boys over. “Braxton. Jaxon. Pax.” I feel like I’m rapping. “Can you take care of your trash?” I point to the mess under the bushes.
“What makes you say it’s ours?” Jaxon asks.
Braxton elbows him in the ribs, drawing out anoof. “We’ll get it, Jesse.”
The crowd starts to tire of standing around and people wander off. Alex and I stick around, rearranging the nativity to some semblance of order.
Back in the patrol car, I tell Alex about the wrapper I found. “Could be nothing.”
“Anything could be a clue,” Alex says. Then she reads her notes to me, ending with, “Kate has motive.”
“I heard that too. She likes how the crime is drawing more attention to the holiday festivities. But stealing baby Jesus? That’s going too far—even for her.”
“She’s not exactly giving off warm fuzzy vibes,” Alex says.
“She’s not mean,” I say. When Alex’s eyebrows shoot up, I amend with, “Not usually. She cares about the town. She’s incredible at organizing big events. I guess it takes a bit of that boss-babe energy to coordinate big productions with the ease she does.”
Alex shakes her head, smiling at me softly.
“What?”
