At least I'd remembered my little backpack I used as a purse. I dug around and found a hair tie and pulled mine back and out of my face. My hair was nearly down to my waist now, and I really needed to get several inches chopped off.
Two things that had been stopping me, though:
1. Jack really loved my hair, and
2. An evil witch had killed my stylist.
Jack, of course, was gorgeous in a rust-colored long-sleeved Henley I'd gotten him, jeans, and boots. He never wore a jacket. Tiger shifters have naturally high body temperatures.
It came in handy, too. I never had cold feet when I slept anymore.
I groaned.
"What?" Jack took the turn to town.
"I'm thinking stupid thoughts about my socks and cold feet when somebody just killed Santa. One of the Santas. Whatever."
"I'm thinking stupid thoughts about how it will probably be a long time until we get breakfast," he said ruefully. "Bad news doesn't stop the world from turning, fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your perspective."
"Maybe Mellie's bakery will open early, because you know everybody who heard is on their way downtown right now."
I was right, of course. Half of Dead End's five-thousand-person population seemed to be converging on the town square.
I turned to Jack. "Andy's alone. We're going to have to help."
He sighed. "I know. I'm going to park the truck sideways across the street here, since he's got the squad car across the street down there. We can at least block off the area in front of the store until the coroner gets here."
"We don't have a coroner anymore, remember? Doc Ike retired. Somebody will have to come from Orlando."
Jack muttered something beneath his breath and pulled his truck in at an angle facing toward the hardware shop. I could see Harold and Emeril in there with Andy, and I felt a sudden pain for them.
Darryl was—had been—their cousin, after all. Even if he annoyed a lot of people, they probably had memories of him as a kid. They had to be hurting.
I shoved my relief about Rooster out of the way, but just then, as if my brain had conjured him up, the man himself strode down the street wearing his Santa suit.
Jack jumped out of the truck and headed him off before he got to the shop. I climbed out and joined them on the sidewalk, trying not to look in the window.
"Rooster, will you help me disperse this crowd so Andy can do what he needs to do?"
"Sure, Jack," Rooster agreed, but his face was blank with shock. "Is it true? Is it Darryl?"
"Yes. Aunt Ruby says the brothers found him this morning. It's just awful."
He nodded and then strode toward the growing crowd and started bellowing orders. "Hey, everybody! Get back! Move away! This is a dang crime scene!"
Questions came from all sides.
"Who is it?"
"Is it Darryl Peterson?"
"Who killed him?"
"Did you do it, Rooster?"
I gasped and whirled around, trying to see who'd yelled that, but there were too many people. "Of course, he didn't do it! Don't you have anything better to do?"
People looked at each other, then back at me, and shrugged.
