Page 47 of The Most Wonderful Crime of the Year
She looked around the room at Eleanor’s guests. Rupert and Kitty, the duchess and duke, Cece, James, Dr. Charles, Freddy Banes. And, of course, there was Ethan. She was grateful for the sure, steady weight of him, for the heat. He didn’t feel like the competition in that moment. It was the two of them against the world, which should have been terrifying, but something about the way he was looking at her made her feel calm and Maggie made a silent vow to chastise herself for that later.
James must have found Inspector Dobson a cane because he was leaning on one as he stood at the front of the assembled group like they were about to have a game of charades and it was his turn to draw a movie out of a hat.
“When the weather clears and the roads open,we’ll get the contents of that tray to our lab. Don’t you worry. We’ll find out if Sir Jasper was poisoned.”
“Which he was,” Maggie muttered under her breath as Ethan slipped an arm over the back of the couch and gave her a little nudge.
Dobson glanced their way but kept on talking. “Dr. Charles and Kitty tell me he is resting comfortably in a guest room upstairs. In the meantime, I think we should proceed as if he were poisoned by someone or something in that office. It’s a crime scene, ladies and gentlemen. And it’s dangerous, so stay out.”
The wind howled outside and the sky was dark. The whole world felt ominous and cold, but the strangest thing was how she felt herself leaning against Ethan, depending on Ethan, finding comfort in the very person who—twelve hours earlier—she might have fantasized about killing.
I’m the guy who takes the bullet, he’d said. And Maggie couldn’t stop thinking that the person he would have taken one for was her.
“In the meantime, I’m afraid to say, you would all be wise to be careful,” Dobson finished.
“Well, what does that mean?” Cece asked.
“It means he thinks Sir Jasper was poisoned,” Victoria said shrewdly. “It means he thinks one of us...”
“Is a killer.” Dobson nodded while looking at them all in turn.
For a long time, there was nothing but the crackling fire and howling wind and the too-heavy thoughts of strangers trapped together for the worst Christmas ever.
Then Freddy Banes looked around and asked, “Say, is it time for dinner?”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Maggie should have felt better after a warm meal and a hot shower, but if anything, she was colder now. She’d pulled on her thickest socks and softest pants and her second-favorite long-sleeve tee (just drew it!with a picture of Nancy holding a magnifying glass like a basketball high over her head).
But she couldn’t get warm. And she couldn’t get comfortable. And she couldn’t stop thinking about everything long enough to think about anything, so she just lay on the giant bed, looking at her heavy door and its frankly inadequate lock.
Every time she closed her eyes, she heard a sharp sound on the wind; she saw the rustling hedges and felt the wet globs of falling snow. But, most of all, she remembered the way strong arms had grabbed her and tugged her through the hedges, the body that had pressed her down, shielding her. Protecting her.
I’m the guy who takes the bullet.
It was the first thing Ethan had ever told her that she’d one hundred percent believed. Then Maggie looked at the lock again, wishing she could make it stronger for whole new reasons.
The door opened in and there was an antique dresser beside it, so maybe it wouldn’t be the silliest thing in the world to sort of...shiftthe dresser? Just a little?
She was being silly.
She was being foolish.
She was letting her imagination get the better of her, but her imagination had also paid the bills for the better part of a decade, so her imagination, frankly, deserved the benefit of the doubt. Or so Maggie told herself as she climbed off the too-tall bed and rushed across the cold floor and lifted. But the dresser didn’t move. She went to the end and tried again, managing to swing it away from the wall just a little. Then a littlemore. And a little—
When the knock came, Maggie might have jumped. And screeched. It wasn’t her proudest moment, in other words, as she inched toward the door and asked, “Who is it?”
There was a low chuckle on the other side. “Who do you think?” And Maggie didn’t know if that was better or worse than the shooter.
“Are you here to kill me?”
She heard that quick, low laugh again. “Maybe. If you don’t open the door.”
She had to think about it for a moment, because right then she wasn’t sure what was more dangerous—the killer she had to keep out or the man she didn’t want to let in.
“Come on, Margaret Ann. Let me in.” The dark wood was no match for Ethan’s deep voice. “Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. I can do this all night, you know. I’ve been complimented on my stamina many, many—”
He stumbled when she threw open the door, catching himself with the grace of a natural athlete, elbow on the doorjamb, smirk on his face. “I knew you liked me,” he said, then looked her up and down—from her wet hair to her fuzzy socks—and gave a little growl. “Sexy.”
