“Cigarette smoke. Whoever did this to us—to me and that boy—they smelled like cigarette smoke!”
One of the nurses had come in and given Uncle Monty a sedative when his blood pressure shot through the roof. His condition was such that he needed to be calm and rest, and as I tucked the blanket under his chin and pressed a kiss to his forehead, his words began to jive with me.
That was three of us who’d smelled cigarette smoke. I hadn’t revealed my vision to either Monty or Darling, but I did text Stiles and tell him. Maybe the killer had left behind a cigarette butt with DNA. Yet, that felt too easy.
Though, clearly he was a heavy enough smoker for it to have made a lasting impression on my uncle.
Naturally, the doctor was totally against anyone asking questions of Uncle Monty at this point. Delving into that night was going to have to wait until his health was better, but the cigarette smoke was at least something.
Or was it? How many people in the world smoked, anyway? Too many to question about a crime, I’d suppose. I mean, we could go around and ask all the smokers in Marshmallow Hollow questions about Gable’s murder, but we’d be at it for a long time to come.
After Uncle Darling said his goodbyes, and as we stood outside Monty’s room, preparing to head down the long hallway with its institutional-green colored walls and the attempts to make it look more Christmassy, a man appeared from around the corner.
I recognized him almost immediately. Dean Maverick, attorney-at-law. I saw his commercials all the time on the nights I couldn’t sleep and I stayed up watching mindless TV while I sketched décor I hoped to one day create.
His commercials were colorful and loud as he pointed emphatically at the viewers in his knockoff designer suit and promised them a settlement no matter what.
Immediately, I wanted to know why Mr. I’ll Get You the Money You Deserve was here.
He sauntered toward me, too confidant, too cocky with his slicked chestnut-brown hair and his expensive suit bought off the backs of people he’d likely roped into his scam of a law practice.
I had to wonder why he was so far from home, too. I thought he was based in Bangor.
“Are you Halliday Valentine?”
My hackles rose almost immediately. “You go grab the elevator, Uncle Darling. I’ll meet you downstairs. Hobbs is waiting for you. Tell him I’ll be right there.” Then I turned to Dean, pretending I didn’t know him. Something I sensed would irk his narcissistic personality. “Who’s asking?”
There was a slight glimmer of irritation in his hawk-like blue eyes, but he covered it up quickly by sticking his hand out to me. “Dean Maverick. I’m an attorney.”
I stared at him without blinking, but I didn’t take the hand he offered. “Bully for you.”
“And I’m Anna Norton’s attorney,” he said smugly.
Why the effity-eff would Anna need an attorney? I continued to stare at him with a blank look. “So?”
But he grinned, a devilish upturn of his lips. “So, I’d like to talk to your uncle Montwell Danvers and ask him some questions about what happened last night.”
My lips thinned. “Oh.”
I knew I was annoying him, but he didn’t reveal it in his eyes or even his expression. It was the pulse of the vein in his forehead that gave him away. “May I see him?”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I shook my head. “No. You may not.”
“This is a very serious matter, Miss Valentine.”
Man, what was it with the greedy slugs these days? After Abraham Weller and Westcott Morgan, I’d had my fill of a peek at the bottom of the barrel.
The nurses behind me stirred from their seats. “So is a subdural hematoma. Go ambulance chase someone gullible enough to believe your cereal-box-prize law degree and fake charming smile.”
Dean Maverick’s eyes narrowed for the merest of seconds before he tried appealing to me with a different tactic. “A young man is dead, Miss Valentine. I only want to see him get justice.”
“And my uncle just had major surgery. So you’ll just have to calm your overactive quest to fill your pockets with—”
“And he’s been sedated and under strict doctor’s orders to rest—without any kind of stress,” the nurse who came to stand behind me said. “You’re not supposed to be on this floor, Mr. Maverick, and you know it. If you don’t leave immediately, I’ll have the officer escort you out. You’re not disturbing a patient on my watch.”
You’d think Dean Maverick would be angry, but instead, he smiled at the nurse as though they were old friends. “Ah, Effie Calloway. Ever the pit bull. That’s fine, but I’ll be back. Count on it.”
He took his time strolling down the hallway, pulling out his phone and stopping by the elevator to scroll through it as if he hadn’t just been kicked off the floor.
I turned to Effie Calloway, a tiny redhead with the personality to match her fiery hair, with a smile of relief. “Thank you for that. Are you familiar with him?”
She lifted her chin. “That man is a vulture—the first-scent-of-chum-in-the-water kind of shark lawyer. He gets even a little whiff and he’s here, trying to drum up business for that one-man circus he calls a law firm, and I won’t have it. You let me know if he shows up again and bothers you, and I’ll make sure someone tosses him out on his ear.”
I gave her arm a squeeze. “Thank you,” I whispered, hanging back while Dean Maverick waited for the elevator to avoid riding down with him.
And I admit. I did something petty I knew Atticus was going to find out about, but I was so filled with disgust, I decided it would be worth it. What was the worst Atti could do?
Ground me? Me—a grown woman?
Hah!
I flexed my fingers, placed them under my chin, and wiggled them with a whisper, “Itchy-twitchy, ants in your pants. Do it now, dance, monkey dance!”
As the words left my lips, I took one last glance at Dean Maverick and smiled when a look of surprise came over his face, rather quickly turning to shock only moments before he began to hop around like a cat on a hot tin roof, scratching his unmentionables.
Smiling to myself, I decided to take the elevator at the other end of the hall.
You know, to give Dean his privacy while he itched his way to his next victim, fresh off the ambulance.
Chapter 12
O Christmas Tree (O Tannenbaum)
Written in 1824 by Ernst Anschutz
“Dinner was really nice, Hobbs. Thanks for cooking. I had no idea hot dogs could be so…festive and fun,” I teased as I hunkered down in my favorite full-length coat the color of deep cranberry.
Hobbs laughed at me. “I’ll have you know, smoked sausage is not a hot dog. It’s a delicacy where I come from, Miss Foodie.”
Chuckling, I smiled at him, feeling a little flirtatious. “I’m just teasing. It was the best hot dog I’ve ever had.”
He sighed and shoved his gloved hands into his jacket pockets. “There’s just no learnin’ you about Southern cuisine, is there?”
Knowing how tired we were from the day’s events, Hobbs offered to make dinner for us before we went to the annual Christmas tree lighting in the town square.