"Not really."
"No, it's Sunday."
"Church isn't till ten."
Jack moved them all back by the simple means of scanning the crowd with eyes that had iced over. It still stunned me a little to see how tiny changes in his posture and expression changed him in an instant from the fun, easy-going guy who liked to do dishes and tease me about my singing to this person.
CommanderShepherd.
Soldier. Leader.
Butt-kicker.
Andy walked out just then, as people were moving back, and gave his own version of a move-or-die stare. Despite his slender stature, flaming red hair, and freckles, Deputy Andrew Kelly wasn't somebody to mess with, as he'd proven over and over during the year.
"Move away, folks. This is a crime scene. I don't want anybody trampling on potential evidence."
I bit my lip and stepped back, hoping I didn't have any evidence on my shoes.
"Thanks for coming out, Jack. I was just trying to call you. I know you said you want nothing to do with law enforcement ever again, but—"
"Just tell me what you need," Jack said quietly.
Andy visibly relaxed at Jack's response. "Thank you. Our temporary deputy quit, and the new one isn't due till noon … Never mind all that. The coroner is on her way, but it will be some time. Darryl—the body—is behind the counter, out of sight of curious eyes. The Peterson brothers are in shock. I need to get them to the station to sit down and maybe have some hot tea with sugar. Separately. I need to question them separately."
He ran a hand through his short, spiky hair. "I really wish Susan would show up and take over. I've never run lead on a murder investigation before."
"Are you sure it's murder? He might have just had a stroke, or a heart attack," I whispered hopefully.
Andy tightened his lips. "Not unless he smashed the back of his head in with a hammer on his way down. Tess, if you could escort the Petersons to the station, I'll—"
"Roosterdiddo it!"
The voice had come out of nowhere, but seconds later, a skinny teenager raced toward us, waving something in the air.
"Rooster killed Santa! I found the murder weapon in the back of his truck!"
17
Tess
Andy let out a growl through gritted teeth that nearly rivaled one of Jack's when he was in tiger form and pointed at the kid. "And youpicked up what might be a murder weapon and maybe destroyed evidence?"
The kid—maybe one of Bubba's cousins? He had the look of a McKee—skidded to a stop and dropped a large hammer on the street.
Andy clutched his hair, briefly closed his eyes, and then pinned the kid with a stare. "You. Stand there and don't move."
"Yessir," the kid said, face paling beneath his freckles. "Sorry, sir."
"Name?" Andy strode over to him and, whipping a large plastic bag out of one pocket, crouched down. He turned the bag inside out and put his hand in, so there was a plastic layer between him and the hammer, picked it up, and sealed the bag. He immediately whirled around so he was facing me and Jack and not the crowd, and his face was grimmer than I'd ever seen it.
Staring at the bag, I knew exactly why.
Bright red coated the hammer's head, and whatever the red substance was—not blood, please don't let it be blood—it was smearing the inside of the bag.
"That's blood," Jack murmured, dashing any tiny glimmer of hope I might have had. "We've got trouble now."
"I'm F-F-Frog," the kid stammered out. "I mean, Frank. Francis, I mean. Francis McKee. But everybody calls me Frog."
