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the three of us stood behind the truck and looked up at the back doors.
    “Should we just open it and get the trees out for him, or at least give them air—if that will help them?” I suggested.
    Denny shifted his weight from one foot to the other, but didn’t say anything. He was hesitant and uncomfortable; he would want to be careful about overstepping his bounds.
    “No one answered when I called his office this morning. We haven’t seen him since yesterday. It’s almost noon.” Allison looked at the time display on her phone. “I don’t think it’s necessarily time to be worried, but I can’t help it—I
am
worried. If it’s not locked, I’m going to open the back and just take a look.”
    “Here, let me help,” Denny said resolutely. He stepped forward and moved the arm mechanism that kept the doors closed. It clicked with no resistance. “It’s not locked.”
    He stepped backward as he pulled on the door. We were greeted by the scent of pine, but it was different than yesterday’s sense-stimulating earthiness. This time, it mixed with other, less wonderful smells, too. The temperature had been warm enough to make the closed-up inside of the truck stagnant and stuffy, which gave the air an automatic dusty thickness.
    There was something else, too, something I didn’t readily recognize but I probably should have.
    I scrunched my nose. “What
is
that?”
    “I don’t know,” Allison and Denny said together.
    As if to answer my question, a dark liquid trickled out of the truck and to the asphalt below. It probably didn’t make a noise, but I watched the trail of red drops, and in my mind they plopped loudly when they hit the ground.
    “That . . . that looks like blood,” Allison said.
    “Oh no,” I said.
    Somehow and with no organization, suddenly the three of us were up and inside the truck. We each managed to grab a tree or two and throw them out the back. A mere few seconds later, we finally found Reggie Stuckey. He was on his back in the middle of his own tree truck, a thick stake through his chest.
    Reggie Stuckey would not be selling trees from Bailey’s this year, or any year in the future, for that matter.
    “Reg, oh, Reg,” Denny said from his knees. He avoided the puddle of blood as he felt Reggie’s neck for a pulse. He looked up at Allison and me. “He’s gone.”
    “Becca,” Allison said as she looked at me.
    I didn’t need any further prompting. I pulled out my phone and called Sam.
    • • • 
    “It’s an outdoor tree stake,” I overheard Denny tell Sam.
    I was back a bit from the two of them but I could hear their conversation. I was sure Sam knew I was eavesdropping, but he hadn’t signaled me to go away yet, so I hadn’t.
    Sam and I had been through some scary—and downright horrifying—moments, but we’d been friends at the time, not a couple. My previous “as-friends” bold behavior included asking him questions about cases that were none of my business. Even then he’d answered more than he should have, but I now wondered just how much I would be able to get out of him. Would our pillow talk turn to things murderous and criminal, or would he become more protective of his information, and more protective of me knowing things?
    Time would tell.
    “Is it a standard stake? Something all Christmas tree vendors sell?” Sam asked.
    “Well, we all sell something like it, though I’m not sure what kind exactly was used on Reggie,” Denny said. “Most natural-tree vendors would definitely sell something like it, though.”
    He was saddened by his competitor’s demise; that much was obvious. The two of them hadn’t displayed congenial friendship the day before, but Denny had been completely shaken by Reggie’s murder. We all had, but there was something tender about his reaction that made me curious about their history. I’d mentioned my observation to Sam when he arrived.
    “Becca,” a voice said from behind me.
    “Officer Norton, hello,” I