by Cate Conte
I took the stairs.
The office encompassed the whole floor. The floors weren’t huge, but there were two whole office spaces that they’d taken over. I went to the main door, hoping for signs of life. The frosted glass made it impossible to see inside. I pushed the door and it opened. I stepped in and looked around. Sell sheets of various expensive properties lined the waiting-area walls. I moved closer to take a look. A waterfront property in Roger’s Field, which was a village within North Harbor, was listed for $1,595,000. Yikes. No wonder Carla was so serious about her work. Lots of money to be made. I wondered how they divvied it up, or if it all came strictly from their respective commissions.
I heard a low voice coming from down the hall, fixed with a lot of pauses. On the phone, perhaps. I couldn’t tell if it was Andrew, and I had no idea if they had other staff. No one else was around.
I went into the little waiting area and perched on the edge of a chair, glancing down at the pile of reading material stacked on the gleaming wooden coffee table. A few newspapers, still in their wrappers, lay on top of some recent People and Us Weekly issues. I moved them aside to get to the magazines, but a photo facing me from one of the papers caught my eye. I bent closer to look at it.
It was me. In my shop, behind the counter, bending to retrieve a stone. The photo wasn’t great quality—and not the most flattering angle—but it was obvious. And from the outfit, it looked like it had been taken . . . yesterday.
I ripped the plastic off the paper and unfolded it. The Fairway Independent. I’d never heard of it. The caption under the photo read, Full Moon proprietor Violet Mooney selects crystals for a customer.
There was a small article accompanying the photo. The headline: Rise in fake psychic healers puts Fairway County officials on alert.
What was this crap? I went to the story, but my eyes fell on the byline. My mouth dropped.
By Mazzy Witherspoon.
Seriously? Blood rushed to my face. This was why Mazzy was in my shop? To write nasty things about me and accuse me of being a storefront scammer psychic? So much for awakening her spiritual side.
I realized the voice down the hall had gone quiet. I shoved the paper in my tote bag and stood up, taking a couple steps down the hall.
“Hello?” I called out.
A second later, Andrew’s head poked out of one of the offices. “Yes? Oh, hey, Violet.” He stepped out, closing the door behind him, an inquisitive look on his face. I noticed the bags under his eyes, the hair that stood up in tufts as if he’d been running his fingers through it. He wasn’t dressed like he was seeing clients either, if his faded jeans and flannel shirt were any indication. Maybe he’d come in just to get things in order. Whatever that meant. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry to bother you. I know it’s . . . a crazy time but I need to talk to you,” I said. I wasn’t sure how he was going to react to this impromptu interview. The only times we’d really interacted had been during one or another of Natalie’s events. He’d always seemed a little aloof to me, but he could just not be good with crowds.
“Of course. What’s up?” Then his eyes widened. “Is Natalie okay?”
“She’s fine,” I assured him. “At least I think so. I haven’t seen her since earlier this morning.”
Which reminded me. She was due to come back to the shop today, and I was probably not going to be there. Shoot.
He visibly relaxed. “Want some coffee? Water?” Without waiting for an answer, he moved toward a little kitchenette off the hallway.
“Water’s fine,” I said. “Thank you.”
I watched him grab a mug and put a pod of coffee in a coffeemaker. He hit a couple of buttons, then leaned against the counter while the coffee brewed. I couldn’t see what he was staring at, but my guess was the wall.
He came back with a bottle for me and a mug for himself and motioned to the chairs lining one of the walls. I sat in one, and he pulled another over so we were facing each other. He perched on the edge of his, holding his mug with both hands like a safety blanket. Not only did his eyes carry excess baggage, they were red-rimmed and a little puffy. “Sorry,” he said. “I guess I’m a little jumpy after . . . everything. So what’s going on?”
“I don’t blame you,” I said sympathetically. “How are you doing?”
Andrew jerked his left shoulder in a shrug. “Fine. I can’t quite believe it yet. I’m just trying to make sure I take care of some of her clients who were close to buying.” He motioned vaguely behind him toward the offices. “I don’t know what else to do, really.”
I nodded. “I get it. After my grandmother died I had no idea what to do. I still don’t, some days.”
His gaze fell to the floor, and he studied his boots.
I wasn’t really sure how to start this conversation, so I decided to be straight. “Look. I’m sorry to barge in like this, but I wanted to talk to you about Carla. You may know that the police . . . have been talking to me. About her death.”
That got his attention. “You? Why on earth would they be talking to you?”
“Because people saw us having words the morning she died,” I said.
Andrew thought about that, and one side of his mouth lifted in a smile that wasn’t quite amused. “If that’s the only reason, you’re good. Carla has—had—words with a lot of people. She didn’t mean anything by it.”
The heck she didn’t. But being argumentative wasn’t going to get me anywhere. “Yeah, I took it at face value,” I said. “But Nat said the cops came to talk to you too, and I thought it might be, I don’t know, helpful if we put our heads together and thought about alternatives to give the police.” I paused, but he didn’t say anything, just continued looking at me.
I waited.
Finally he said, “The cops weren’t questioning me as a suspect, Vi. They were asking me as the person who probably spent the most time with her, all things considered.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest,” I began, but he cut me off.
“I already gave them all her client lists and any other people I could think of that could’ve had a problem with her, from a business perspective. I didn’t get involved in her politics or any of that. Not my thing.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. I was far from an expert interrogator, and I got the feeling this wasn’t going well. Plus I was getting a weird vibe in the room—a heavy, dark cloud, depressive and hopeless, settling over us. It felt suffocating. I knew the feeling. I’d been living with it. Grief, strong and all-encompassing.
I focused on taking a few deep breaths. “Was she here all day yesterday?” I asked.
“She had appointments in the morning. We were here together for a bit in the afternoon, then I left around five. I promised Natalie I’d help her with some publicity for your healing circle.”
“Thank you,” I said.
He looked at me a little strangely.
“So did she mention having an appointment with anyone yesterday evening?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“She didn’t, but that didn’t mean anything. We didn’t keep tabs on each other.” He kept his gaze steady on me. He hadn’t taken a sip of his coffee yet. A muscle jumped near his eye. “Why are you asking all this? I’ve already been over this with the police. Are you working with them all of a sudden?”
I flushed. “No. Like I said, they questioned me pretty extensively. I feel like I need to think up some other options for them, in case they get too stuck on one thing. You know?”
“Ah. So you’re being Nancy Drew.”
I didn’t like his tone. “I’m looking for an answer. That’s all.”
Andrew raked his hand through his hair, adding to the untidy tufts already standing straight up. “An answer,” he repeated with a harsh chuckle. He stood, abruptly, coffee sloshing over the rim of his mug. “I’m afraid you’re not going to find an answer here. Despite what people would have you believe, there were no problems in this office—not with money, not with client
s, not with anything. We had—have—the best reputation in the county for placing people in high-end homes. And I’d really appreciate if you didn’t start looking for trouble where there isn’t any. This was either someone with a deep-seated grudge that had been festering, or truly a random act of violence. Let the police do their jobs, okay?”
I sprang to my feet, defensive. “I didn’t mean—”
But he cut me off and went to the door, holding it open. “I have to get back to work,” he said.
I grabbed my bag and stepped through the door, but paused on the threshold. “Andrew. I know you’re as invested in this as I am. We should be helping each other,” I tried again.
But he wasn’t hearing me. “It’s out of our hands, Violet.”
And he closed the door. I had to jump back to avoid being hit with it.
CHAPTER 36
Well, that hadn’t gone as planned. I leaned against the wall and rubbed my temples. Andrew definitely hadn’t liked me asking questions. He was probably going to march straight home and tell Natalie all about how her friend had come snooping around, trying to find a scapegoat to save her own skin.
I wasn’t making friends today, that was for sure.
I adjusted my hat back on my head and took the stairs down to the first floor. I was walking out just as Rain was walking in. How many times in one day was I going to see this guy?
Rain, however, brightened when he saw me, like I was an old pal he was delighted to bump into. “Hey, Violet! Got my crystals right here,” he said, patting his pocket.
“Great,” I said, trying to slip past him. I really wasn’t in the mood to chat.
But he blocked my exit. “You here for the nail salon?” he asked, nodding at the directory on the wall behind me.
“What?” I glanced behind me. I didn’t even know what else was in this building. But there was a salon on the second floor. “Yeah,” I lied, shoving my hands in my pockets so he couldn’t see my clearly-in-need-of-help nails. “You?”
“Just running some errands. So I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” he asked.
“Yep. Can’t wait,” I said.
He grinned and pointed his two index fingers at me, thumbs up, like he was aiming a gun. “I knew I could count on you.” He hit the button for the elevator. The door opened immediately. He winked at me as it slid closed behind him.
I watched the button light up above the elevator as it rose, stopping on the fourth floor.
At North Harbor Realty.
I swallowed hard. Why was Rain going there? He didn’t look like he was in the market for a million-dollar house. Yet he had been talking to Andrew this morning at the Bean, so they had to be acquainted somehow. But if it wasn’t related to the bridge—which Natalie hadn’t seemed to think Andrew had cared that much about—then what?
I thought about going back up, but figured Andrew would throw me out this time. But what if he was in danger? This guy had, for all intents and purposes, appeared out of nowhere. The environmentalist thing could all be an act. Maybe he was some crazed killer who went after wealthy or well-off people or something. Andrew wasn’t wealthy, but he might not know that.
I couldn’t live with myself if someone else died.
Decision made, I found the stairwell door and climbed the four flights. I paused before opening the door, listening hard. Silence. I pushed the door open a crack and peered out. I had a clear view of the office door. No one was visible. I slipped out of the stairwell and approached the door. Taking a deep breath, I pulled it open as quietly as I could. Thankfully there was no bell or buzzer when someone came in here, unless there was a silent one that rang in the offices.
I could hear voices down the hall. It sounded like the office door was closed, though. Rain was talking—I’d gotten to know his voice after today—but even with the volume he used, the words were muffled. I crept as close as I dared, staying against the wall, and tried to hear.
Unfortunately, I only caught every few words. But the ones I did hear were worrying. Financial mess particularly. And cops will want to see . . . records.
I strained my ears to try to catch more, but Andrew was soft-spoken, so whatever he was saying in return was lost on me. But I couldn’t wrap my head around why Rain was here having any kind of conversation with Andrew about financials. I guess Nat was right, and whatever they were talking about wasn’t bridge related. Maybe they had some other business deal going that was separate from any of this? But then why would the cops want to see anything?
I was startled out of my thoughts when the office door flew open. Without thinking, I jumped through the nearest door, which happened to be the bathroom. I stood behind the slightly ajar door, holding my breath and praying that no one needed to go before they left.
Luckily, the footsteps went straight past my hiding place. A second later, I heard the front door open, then whoosh closed. I stayed put, listening for any sound.
More footsteps, then the sound of running water. Andrew was getting more coffee, by the sounds of it. Hopefully he hadn’t drunk enough that he needed to use the bathroom. I waited what seemed like the longest five minutes ever until I heard footsteps retreating, then a door down the hall softly closing. I waited another fifteen seconds, then peered around the corner.
All clear.
I stepped out of the bathroom and crept down the hall, letting myself out as quietly as possible. I took the stairs again, hoping I’d given Rain enough lead time. The lobby was empty when I exited the stairwell. I wasted no time hurrying outside.
Back out in the cold, it occurred to me that I could’ve tried that whole teleporting thing again to get me out of the bathroom once it became clear I’d heard everything I was going to hear. I wondered if it would’ve worked if I was actually counting on it.
I ducked into the parking lot next door and reached into my bag for my phone. It was still on do-not-disturb, so I hoped Syd had texted back and I’d missed it. But when I checked messages, still nothing. I shoved the phone back in my bag and as I did so, I remembered the newspaper I’d also stuffed in there. I yanked it out, stopping in the doorway of the next building to flip open the paper.
I almost blew right past the above-the-fold article, since it had to do with Carla’s death. But I caught the words possible financial troubles and alleged unethical business practices and that slowed me down. I thought of Rain’s words—financial mess. I went back to the beginning and read.
The infamous Mazzy had written this article too. North Harbor must be her beat. It was vague—and not well written, in my humble opinion—but it hinted at trouble within the realty office. The article outlined Carla and Andrew’s business and the types of homes they sold, pretty much parroting the literature I’d seen at the office. But then it mentioned a “source” who tipped this reporter off to potential financial distress within the company. She didn’t draw a conclusion to anything, or mention specifically what type of distress, but the intimation was clear— that something going on at the office had led to her death. The final paragraph told me Andrew Mann had been unavailable for comment and police were still investigating.
A grainy photo of the courtyard area surrounded by crime scene tape accompanied the article.
I pondered this mysterious source. Carla’s soon-to-be ex-husband? Charlie said he was out of the country, but maybe he’d returned. He had to be her next of kin. But in my heart I knew the answer. This had something to do with Rain. But I just couldn’t seem to make the pieces fit.
I flipped the paper and skimmed through the other article, which appeared below the fold—not as big news as Carla, but big enough to make the front page—and felt my blood pressure go up almost instantaneously, forgetting about Carla for the moment.
It was a load of garbage, and pretty badly written too. The Fairfield Independent must be so small and desperate its editors didn’t seem to care if their reporters were actually qualified. The article claimed that storefront psychics and people claiming to be all sorts of healers were
popping up in droves all over the county, and scamming desperate people out of their money. Officials from the various towns were coming together in an attempt to crack down on the practices, Mazzy claimed, with hopes of driving these fraudulent businesses somewhere else—or out of business entirely. One of the names sounded familiar to me. I racked my brain and then realized: Lilia Myers. The psychic Carissa Feather had mentioned.
There was even a way-out-of-context quote from me, from when Mazzy had asked me if crystals really worked, or something like that. I’d explained the crystals had incredible energies and promoted great healing, but people had to do their own work too.
She’d quoted me as saying, “They’re nice, but people have to fix themselves.” So this is what that other reporter lurking outside my door had meant when she said I’d spoken to other media.
By the time I finished reading it, I was so hot I forgot I was standing outside in thirty-degree weather. I read it again, then noted the small text in italics under the story: Mazzy Witherspoon can be reached at . . . and it gave a phone number and email address.
Before I flew completely off the handle, I forced myself to stop and think. I wanted to ream her out for this hideous piece of tabloid journalism, but I also wanted to know who her source was for the Carla article. There had to be some sort of trade-off I could offer. Or maybe I’d just threaten to sue her for slander, or libel. I wasn’t exactly sure which but figured one of them would fit. This could be a direct hit to my reputation, if anyone actually read this garbage.
I guessed the direction I took would depend on how open she was to a conversation. She’d probably be on the defensive if I identified myself, just given the content of the article, so I decided to try a different tack to ensure I got a response.
I pulled out my phone and dialed the number at the bottom of the article.
She answered on the third ring. “Mazzy Witherspoon.” Her voice was distant, as if the speaker was too far from her mouth, and there was a lot of background noise.