Janis Jets nodded toward Michael. She stood on the second floor of The Fort, wrapped in her black quilted jacket, worn regulation boots planted firmly in an inch of snow. "Nothing says Christmas like a whole bunch of crime scene tape." Jets snorted.
Michael felt remarkably calm, considering he'd found the dead Betty only an hour earlier. He looked at the nutcracker and realized, if he could admit it at least to himself, a certain amount of relief. Finally he'd have something to worry about instead of himself and his Christmas issues.
A quick vision of a nutcracker in a coffin, carried in by Elf One and Elf Two, with Mr. and Mrs. Santa popped into his mind. He shook his head, trying to reconnect with the seriousness of the situation. I'm losing it for sure.
"That was one way to shut him up," he told Jets, nodding at the oversized conductor.
"He was a real crowd pleaser," Jets said sarcastically, "at least for the tourists."
Only twenty minutes earlier Michael had watched the paramedics. They'd gone down on their knees gently shifting the wooden statue up and then away from the body. Tipping the nutcracker to the left side, they propped him up against the building.
Betty King, appearing flattened and small, was exposed. One paramedic on each side, they shifted the body onto a stretcher. An outline where she lay gave Michael a queasy stomach.
He kept watching as one paramedic checked Betty's wrist for a pulse. Once the sheet covered her face, Michael sighed. There was no longer any doubt. Betty King had not survived the crushing blow.
Two people lifted the stretcher as two more arrived on the scene. Must be the forensics team, Michael thought. Janis Jets had already stretched yellow tape across the front of the shop. Her team walked under the tape, making their way to the inside of Old Toy Trains while Jets shooed tourists away. "Get out of here," she said. "Go shopping on Main Street. This is a crime scene."
Most people turned away, leaving one woman standing with a little girl's hand in hers. "What about Santa?" The little girl, dressed in a red and white snowsuit, began to cry.
Jets just shrugged, turning her back on the pair.
The mom bent over, using her most persuasive voice, speaking into the child's ear. "Santa is busy right now. We'll come back later."
"But I wanna sit on his lap!" the child insisted, stomping her shiny red boot against the deck.
The mother glanced around to see if anyone else was looking. Michael stared at her, a slight smile at the corner of his lips. "Time for a bribe?" he suggested. "It is the most wonderful time of the year."
The mother snatched her child's hand with an appreciative nod. "Come on, sweetie. Let's get some hot chocolate and a cookie. We can finish the list you made for Santa and then come back." The mother shot Michael a grateful look, making her way toward the stairs, passing other people coming up.
"No Santa this morning!" Jets shouted again. She turned to Michael, mumbling under her breath. "I am not a Santa crossing guard. Get me out of here."
"What about me?" Michael asked Jets. "Should I get going?"
"Absolutely not! You discovered the body and are a main witness." She waved at two more parents with children. "Go away!" Then she turned back to Michael. "Maybe Betty's death wasn't an accident. Death by nutcracker." She paused as if to consider the possibility. "Nah, that's not a thing." She glared at him more fiercely.
She tapped her temple with her gloved hand. "Rumor has it you hated that nutcracker and his obnoxious impersonation of a train conductor. Maybe you arranged for the conductor to make his last announcement and topple over. Betty just got in the way."
He shrugged, turning to face the shop. Janis isn't wrong. I hated that blaring interruption. I could have rigged the statue to fall over, being a contractor and more than handy with tools. He didn't bother to defend himself, knowing Jets was just trying to get on his nerves.
When he failed to respond, Jets looked toward the shop window. "The Christmas tree is lit," she mumbled. "Feels kind of otherworldly, the woman who owned the only Christmas shop in town, dying ignominiously under a nutcracker six days before Christmas."
Overhead lights from inside the shop illuminated two police officers taking notes and bagging possible evidence. Michael shifted his glance back to the nutcracker. Propped on its side, eyes level with his boots, Michael felt a shiver up his spine. Kind of creepy up close. I'm surprised the kids weren't scared of him.
He noted the array of wires caught under the wooden body. Some tangled between the wooden legs. "Are you looking closely at all of those wires?" He pointed to Janis. "Most of the evidence would be outside, don't you think?"
"Trying to tell me how to do my job, Mike?"
"Oh, I'd never do that, Officer Jets." He mocked her by using her official title.
"We'll get to the nutcracker in a minute. The fingerprint guys are on their way." She stared at him, as if waiting for a comment.
Michael spoke firmly. "I admit I didn't like Betty that much. No one did apparently. But what bothered me the most was that announcement every hour for an entire week. It got on my nerves and seemed to get worse every year. Almost made me want to take a trip to the Bahamas for the holidays. I did hate it that much."
"You weren't the only one." Janis nodded. "But I can't see someone actually bumping off Betty just to shut up a nutcracker announcement."
Michael thought about his feelings. "Killing someone for their insensitive and aggressive business strategy doesn't seem in the wheelhouse of an average Lily Rock resident. Maybe someone from out of town did the job. Pushed the damned thing over just to make it look like an accident. One thing is for sure, it wasn't me."
Jets let a smile break through her serious demeanor. "I never thought it was. Just winding you up a bit. But I do need you to tell me exactly what you saw and why you came over to check out the shop."
"Will there be a hot beverage while I tell you everything, spill my guts, get to the confession…"
"It's always about the tea with you. Let's meet at the constabulary in half an hour. Bring your toolbox along. I want to round up the usual suspects and make plans for my interviews. You can be first. And then stick around."
"What for?"
"You have the perfect cover. You can walk from room to room looking all hunky, pounding in nails and measuring stuff, pretending to do work. But all the while you'll be listening to my interviews. Then we can talk it through afterward. I could use you as a sounding board."
"You can use me as your primary witness, a man with keen observational skills and the desire to bring culprits to justice no matter what the cost."
"Yah, that too." Jets flicked her fingers at him as if to shoo him away.
Michael took the hint. "I’ll head over to the constabulary and make you a hair-raising pot of strong hot coffee."
"Hair-raising?"
"Strong enough to grow hair on your chest." He grinned.
"No more about my chest," muttered Jets. "But I would appreciate the coffee. See ya."