Chapter Sixteen

Mel walked into the small, sterile exam room, surprised that Gregg Marks was there, too. But then the room was full of surprises—Doc Hart wearing scrubs instead of her usual classic rock T-shirt.

“Come in,” she ordered Mel. “Might as well show this to both of you at the same time.” She gestured toward the microscope on her counter. “There wasn’t much to find on the body, but under poor Mr. Hubbard’s fingernails I found some fibers.”

Deputy Marks and Mel both moved to peer through the eyepiece. Marks backed off with forced gallantry. “Ladies first.”

Mel peered through the eyepiece but didn’t recognize what she saw. “What is it?” She relinquished her turn to Marks.

Dr. Hart shrugged expansively. “Don’t know, at least not yet. Dog hair possibly?” Mel and Marks exchanged a pointed glance, both knowing the evidence against Jackson mounted. “There isn’t much there, which would suggest to me he didn’t put up much of a fight. I can also tell you from some minor bruising around his mouth it appears he was suffocated, most likely with a pillow or something soft.”

“Maybe the killer drugged him to subdue him,” Mel thought out loud.

“From either the cookie or the gingerbread latte you found next to the body.” Marks hesitated only slightly. “Both of which he bought from The Hungry Puppy.”

Mel shook her head, pacing the small room. “But I saw Jackson block my driveway with his truck. He’d been busy all day getting ready for the Festival. The timeline doesn’t work.”

“Are you sure?” Marks frowned. “Did you talk to any of the other volunteers working that night?”

“No.” Mel never wanted so much to be wrong about a suspect in her entire life and fought to find a way out for Jackson. “But any of the guests from the cabins could have gone into the Great Room through the back door, it’s not locked till ten pm. That would explain why I didn’t hear or see anyone enter.”

“The same is true about anyone, including Jackson,” Deputy Marks pointed out. “The swinging bridge gives access to your inn to anyone in town.”

Mel shuddered at the thought. Not of how many people could just walk in, but that they’d do it over that rickety bridge. “Yeah, but no one goes over it at night, do they?”

Dr. Hart scoffed. “How do you think I got to your place so quick last night when you called? And I’m not half as nimble as a lot of folks around here.”

Mel stood her ground. “It doesn’t matter, the timing is still off. Jackson couldn’t have run across the bridge, strangled Hubbard, and then run back across to get in his truck and drive up to park it where I’d clearly see him.”

“C’mon partner, let’s time it and find out.”

“Partner?” Mel's jaw dropped open.

Marks sheepishly stared at his feet. “You were right about both deaths being murder. I should have listened to you. The bridge is right next door, let’s run across and see how long the trip takes.”

His admission touched Mel deeply, but not enough to make her to step one foot on that bridge. How was she going to get out of this?

****

As Mel stared across the length of the ancient, suspended bridge, the Babbling Brook seemed miles away and getting farther with each thud of her heart.

“It seems like everyone in town uses this as a shortcut.” Marks examined the multitude footprints in the snow. Mel inched closer to the bridge and swore when she saw a familiar imprint. The Big Dipper hiking boot. “All right, set your watch and let’s see how long it takes to make the round trip.” Halfway across, he stopped and looked back at Mel, rooted to the spot. “Aren’t you coming?”

“I’ll stay on this side and time you, no sense in both of us going.” The excuse was lame, but she was never good at making up lies. “And go!” She made a big show of staring at the timer on her phone. Fortunately, Marks didn’t give it a moment’s thought and dashed across the span. He disappeared inside momentarily, then came out and ran back across, not even slightly out of breath.

“Well?”

“Less than ten minutes,” Mel admitted. Depending on how long it took to suffocate a drugged man, Jackson could easily have done it.

“We still don’t have enough proof to arrest him,” Marks acknowledged. “But I’m keeping my eye on him during the Christmas Festival tonight. It would be the perfect distraction for an escape.”

“Oh crap, I forgot all about it,” Mel moaned. “I still have to bake the dang cookies!”

Deputy Marks motioned toward the nearby Hungry Puppy. “Want an espresso pick-me-up? Have to admit, they do make the best in town.”

Mel nodded, hoping Jackson wouldn’t be there.

****

“Hey, boss,” Stacy greeted them, a to-go cup in her hand on her way out of the popular diner. Mel really wished she could bottle the woman’s energy, she’d need it to get through the night ahead. Or the next ten minutes. She spotted Jackson marching toward them.

“Oh good, glad to see you’re both here. Together. Again. Deputy, arrest her for breaking into my house.”

“What! Your dad was super nice about it.” Her temper rose to meet his. “If you’d just admitted you knew Hubbard, I wouldn’t have had to sneak around.”

“I don’t care if you don’t believe me or not, I’m telling you I never met the man. My dealings with the investment firm he worked for were with Todd Johnson, Hubbard’s boss. Who, by the way, called me to apologize for the delay in telling me if we got the money or not. Apparently, the death of an employee has a way of slowing things down.”

Mel had to admit the news blew a hole in her motive theory. “Look, Jackson, I’m sorry for, well, everything. But the fact is, we’re sure Hubbard was murdered. I had to consider every possibility and find the killer before the Babbling Brook becomes the next snarky Internet meme and we lose all of our business.”

“Well,” Jackson conceded after a long silent pause, “I know a little bit about a reputation surviving a social media storm, but next time just ask me. And no, I don’t own any high-end hiking boot.”

“No hard feelings?” Deputy Marks extended his hand to Jackson. He reluctantly accepted it and then grimaced as Marks must have squeezed too hard. “Now how about one of those killer cookies?”

Discreetly shaking off the pain of Marks’ grip, Jackson shook his head. “Sorry, Stacy bought the last one a couple of minutes ago. She must love ’em, she buys coffee and a cookie around the same time every day.”

Mel knew Stacy took her break at three every day but was curious why she spent it coming here for a snack. They had food at the inn. Mel got her espresso, let Deputy Marks drive her to the Babbling Brook while wondering the entire trip why three o’clock rang a bell and how it tied into the murders.