The Wicked Hour

by Alice Blanchard

  “Nope. Sorry.” He put the instrument back in the cabinet and locked it. “We haven’t had any requests for appraisals in a couple of weeks, at least. Besides, I’m pretty good at remembering faces, and I’ve seen her picture in the news. We sell a number of antique musical instruments due to our proximity to the conservatory in Chaste Falls, so I would’ve remembered her for sure. But it’s rare to get a walk-in. Most of our inventory comes from estate sales, auctions, and other dealers. Sometimes you get people who are looking to downsize. Yard sales, garage sales. It’s all about finding inventory and transporting it back to the shop, then renovating, cataloguing, and researching it before you place it for sale.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, but I like old stuff. I like buying and selling it. Once a year, Dad and I took a trip to the southwest or someplace like that, looking for inventory. He started this business thirty years ago. I’d call that a success, wouldn’t you?”

  “Totally.” Natalie glanced around the shop. “By the way, who bought the Victorian embalming table?”

  He smiled. “Ha. You wouldn’t believe it. We have a few high-end customers who are always on the lookout for, shall we say, unique items. That historical witch collection you mentioned? I sold the entire lot to the same buyer.”

  “Really?”

  “He paid a small fortune for it.”

  On a hunch, she said, “Hunter Rose showed me a German Stradivarius-style violin he acquired through a New York dealer.”

  Justin blushed. “Well, yeah … he got that from us. We’ve worked with his dealer for years now. Mr. Rose has a passion for old things. We’re lucky to have a handful of serious local buyers, but I’d prefer to keep their transactions confidential. Do you mind me asking … what has this got to do with Morgan Chambers?”

  “Don’t worry,” she assured him. “These are routine questions. Has anyone else purchased an antique violin from your store recently?”

  “Sure. We get people in here all the time looking for that sort of thing. We also sell old flutes, trumpets, electric guitars, xylophones, you name it.”

  “Has anyone shown any interest in the fake violin in the window?” Natalie asked.

  “A few people.”

  “Like who? Mr. Rose?”

  “And Dr. Swinton, of course.”

  Natalie was taken aback. Russ had never mentioned an interest in violins, although now that she thought about it, he never talked about his private life. He knew more about Natalie than she knew about him. “Why do you say, ‘of course’?”

  “He collects them. Violins. He wanted that German Stradivarius you mentioned, but Mr. Rose snatched it up first.” Justin nervously combed a hand through his hair. “Look, I don’t want to get anybody in trouble.”

  “You won’t. Dr. Swinton collects violins? I didn’t know that.”

  “Yeah, his family has a number of classical musicians in it. His sister used to be a violinist before she died in a car crash, so he set up a scholarship in her honor.”

  “The Maldonado scholarship?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Elyssa Maldonado is Dr. Swinton’s sister?”

  “Maldonado’s her married name, I guess. She and her husband both died in that crash. Icy roads in the dead of winter.”

  Natalie had known Russ for years, but they’d always had a professional relationship. Doctor-patient. Detective–medical director. She’d never thought to ask him anything personal about himself, because she’d sanctified him as her physician. Now it sat uneasily on her shoulders. He obviously had a whole rich, textured life she knew nothing about, whereas he knew her body intimately.

  “Thanks for your time, Justin.” She turned to leave, but he tapped on her arm.

  “I’m always on the hunt for new inventory, Detective, so if you ever clean out your attic, give me a ring. Here’s my card. I’ll make you a good offer.”

  “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” She pocketed his business card and headed for the door.

  31

  Natalie’s head was still pounding as she walked into the hospital ER. Two decades ago, she’d arrived at this very hospital suffering from acute panic. She vividly recalled the boy with the stick attacking her in the woods. She was nine years old when it happened. He was covered in red body paint, wearing a mask, and there was a savage look in his eyes. Samuel Hawke. When he chased her through the woods, all she could see was his red torso darting through the prison-bar tree trunks.

  Dr. Swinton had treated her in the ER that day, reassuring her in his calm, low voice that everything was going to be okay. And it was. She trusted him. She’d trusted him ever since, and that was the reason she’d chosen him as her family doctor. Over the years, Russ had treated her for anything a general practitioner would’ve treated her for, referring her to various specialists he knew—gynecologist, allergist, dermatologist. It worked for her.

  Last April, after Grace died, Dr. Swinton prescribed an antidepressant to help Natalie cope with her grief, and now he was in the process of incrementally decreasing the dosages to help ease her off the medication. He wasn’t a therapist, but she confided in him. She trusted him.

  It pained her to realize now how little she knew about this man, a lifelong bachelor. Rumor had it he’d been engaged once, but it didn’t work out for whatever reasons. He was greatly respected in the community, on a lot of medical boards and a presence at local charity events. Besides that, she knew nothing about him. Zilch. He was one of the most private people she’d ever known. More private than Luke. More private than herself.

  Now she stood in front of the reception area, sweat dripping down into her eyes, while one of the ER nurses said, “You’re in luck, Natalie. It’s super quiet tonight. He can see you right away.” The nurse escorted her into an examination room and proceeded to take her blood pressure and perform a few tests.

  Five minutes later, Dr. Swinton knocked on the door. “May I come in?”

  “Yes.” There was no need for modesty, since Natalie was in her work clothes, minus her jacket, with her blouse sleeves rolled up.

  He breezed into the room in his blue scrubs. “How are you feeling, Natalie?”

  “A little queasy. I have a bad headache, but I think it’s because I haven’t eaten all day.”

  “That’ll do it.” He consulted her chart. “Well, your blood pressure’s good. Pulse rate, respiration, temperature … all normal. Any dizziness?” He put down the chart and checked her eyes. “Any blurriness of vision?”

  “No.”

  He plucked a tongue depressor out of a box and tore off the wrapper. “Say ah.” She did. He nodded absently and tossed the tongue depressor away. He palpated her neck. He used his stethoscope to listen to her heart. He took off his latex gloves and crossed his arms. “Tell me how you’re feeling in general.”

  “Well, it’s been a rough day,” she admitted.

  “So I’ve heard. Terrible news. Tragic.” His eyes narrowed. “And you’re in charge of the case?”

  “Yes.”

  “Added stress can cause some of the symptoms you’re experiencing—queasiness, headaches. But the discontinuation schedule is the more likely culprit. Your body’s adjusting to the lower dosage of antidepressants we put you on. You may feel nauseous or have a loss of appetite. You may sweat excessively, flush, become light-headed, and have trouble sleeping. All these things are normal reactions. I want to continue decreasing the dosage as planned, but in smaller increments from now on. That should help.” He picked up a prescription pad and jotted something down. “Let’s keep you on your current dosage for another two weeks. Then we’ll decrease it by twenty milligrams and see how it goes. I’m also prescribing a medication that will help with those headaches. Sound good?”

  “Thanks.” She took the prescription slips and tucked them away.

  He signed off on her chart. “Come see me if you’re feeling dizzy or having any trouble with your balance or vision, Natalie. All r
ight?” He stood up to leave.

  “Russ,” she said. “I didn’t realize Elyssa Maldonado was your sister.”

  His eyes grew solemn. “That’s right.”

  “And you were a judge for the Monster Mash contest?”

  He nodded stiffly. “This year.”

  “But Morgan Chambers was one of the finalists. And you never mentioned that.”

  His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What’s this all about, Natalie?”

  She hopped off the exam table and put on her jacket. “I’ll need a reference for a general practitioner. I shouldn’t be seeing you for treatment anymore.”

  His jaw clenched. “Why not, may I ask?”

  “Because you’re connected to the case I’m working on.”

  “You’re talking about Morgan Chambers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ask me anything. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “About the contest…”

  “Veronica Manes asked me six months ago if I’d like to be a judge. I accepted,” he explained. “I met Morgan about two months ago when she came into the clinic for a strained wrist, the type of injury that’s very common to violinists.” He shrugged. “It’s an occupational hazard.”

  “Wait.” Natalie looked at him as if they’d never met before. “What clinic?”

  “At the Harrington Brock Music Conservatory. I volunteer there one evening a week.”

  “I had no idea you were connected to the conservatory,” she said.

  “My sister went there as a young promising violinist. After the accident, I started to volunteer my time. I do it because some of these kids are one injury away from having their dreams snatched away, and I don’t want to let that happen. I’m sure my sister would’ve approved.”

  “So you treated Morgan for a strained wrist two months ago?”

  He nodded. “Being a musician is like being a professional athlete. One significant injury can ruin your career.” He put down the chart. “What else do you want to know about my relationship with Morgan?”

  “Your relationship?” Natalie repeated, recoiling slightly. “Who said anything about a relationship?”

  “There was nothing inappropriate going on, I can assure you.” His eyes grew defiant. “She reminded me of my sister—dogged, determined, disciplined. I was moved by her passion for music.”

  “So now you’re saying she wasn’t just a patient,” Natalie clarified. She couldn’t believe he was painting himself into a corner like this.

  He licked his lips nervously and tried again. “I escorted Morgan to a Halloween party,” he explained. “She wanted to meet Owen Linkhorn. He’s the record producer who was on the panel with me. I told her I’d be happy to introduce her.”

  “Are you talking about Hunter Rose’s party on Sunday night?”

  “Yes.”

  Natalie considered this for a moment. “Did you introduce her to the producer?”

  “He didn’t show up. He may have come later, but Morgan left around ten o’clock. I left shortly afterwards.”

  “How did she get to the party?”

  “I drove her there. She took an Uber back to town.”

  “After Morgan left, where did you go?”

  “Me?” He cracked a small, self-deprecating smile. “Home.”

  “You went straight home?”

  “I felt rather silly. Embarrassed. Morgan didn’t actually say good-bye.”

  “She ghosted on you?”

  “Is that what they call it nowadays?” He smiled sadly. “Not that I blame her. She’s a lot younger than me, but … I felt an instinct to help her. I sensed she was in trouble somehow. Emotionally, personally. I wanted to help her by introducing her to Owen. But then he didn’t show up.”

  “Did Morgan bring her violin with her?”

  “To the party?” He frowned. “I don’t remember. I assume she brought it with her. But now … Natalie. I’m concerned. Am I a suspect?”

  “I’m just gathering information,” she said, but it wasn’t the whole truth.

  Russ rubbed his forehead and looked around desperately. He glanced at his watch, but he would not escape lightly. “I’ve tried dating, but it never seems to work out. Not because I’m picky, but because they’re so picky. It feels as if you’re expected to do some kind of song and dance, and I don’t know the tune. I can provide a woman with a good home and a good life, but I’m not sure what else they want,” he said. “I’m a boring old man with nothing to contribute, I guess. Since when did I become a walking cliché?”

  “What do you think Morgan was looking for?”

  He shook his head and shrugged. “She was very ambitious. I admired her for that.”

  Natalie suddenly remembered a detail she needed to confirm. “Were you wearing a Batman costume that night?”

  He nodded reluctantly. “Believe it or not. Guess I’m a midlife crisis fool.”

  She felt sorry for him. She also felt suspicious of his motives. Why didn’t he tell her about Morgan right away? It didn’t sit right.

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Russ.”

  He nodded stiffly. “Sofia will send you a list of general practitioners in the morning.”

  32

  The foothills above Roscoe Canyon were a Realtor’s wet dream, with exclusive residences tucked behind ornate wrought iron security fences. Home to an eclectic mix of artists, real estate agents, and business owners, Roscoe Canyon was bounded on all sides by conservancy lands. Residents paid a premium for the mountain views, but Hollis Jones’s digs were modest. While most properties in the area went for sums in excess of $1 million, Jones lived in a stucco cabin whose gateposts were crumbling.

  Natalie rang the doorbell and heard a reedy voice say, “Hello?”

  “Mr. Jones? It’s Detective Lockhart.”

  Wind chimes dangling from the porch overhang made discordant music in the November breeze. Natalie heard footsteps and could see a faint outline behind the rusty screen door. A pale face. Spiky dark hair. Broken capillaries on a long, thin nose. An old robe worn from repeated washings.

  “Can we talk for a minute?” she asked.

  Jones gazed at her through the screen door, furrows of stress forming on his face. “How am I in trouble, exactly?”

  “No trouble at all, sir,” Natalie said. “I’m investigating the death of Morgan Chambers.”

  “Oh.” He scowled. “I had nothing to do with that.”

  “May I come in? It’s cold out here.”

  He balked, then conceded. He opened the door.

  The furniture was a mixed bag, chosen for comfort over style. The twinkle lights strung across the living-room ceiling glowed like shy stars, while the wooden crossbeams cast cavernous shadows. The place was untidy, cluttered with newspapers and packages from Amazon. A teak shelving unit displayed vintage collectibles, and there were authentic-looking primitive masks hanging on the walls.

  “Just so you know,” he told her, “I was supposed to meet her at Blondie’s on Sunday night, but then I ditched her for another opportunity.”

  “Why? What happened?” Natalie asked.

  “The truth is, I met someone else.”

  “You stood her up?”

  He shrugged. “Ava Dixon gave this amazing fucking performance. We hit it off. I’m going to see her next weekend. We may do a gig together.”

  “Did you call Morgan and let her know?”

  “Nah. I acted like a complete asshole.”

  “So you just let her wait for you in a bar alone, and you never showed?”

  “Right. But listen. I liked her at first, until she revealed her true colors when we saw each other on Saturday night. So I decided not to waste my time on someone like that.”

  “Someone like what?”

  “Who thinks being a fiddle player is beneath her. She said she was looking for a gig like mine, but pretty soon she let slip what she really thought. As if playing the fiddle wasn’t a worthy occupation.”

  “Did you dress up
as a zombie for Halloween by any chance?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t go in for that shit. I was wearing my standard uniform. T-shirt, jeans, and a hoodie. Maybe a little mascara.”

  She disliked his arrogance, but he wasn’t coming across as guilty of anything other than being a complete jerk. “When did you first meet Morgan?”

  “At the contest. She came up afterwards and shook my hand. She was very bold, which I liked. We talked. She wanted to talk some more. I suggested we meet at the Shady Planet the following night. Ten o’clock.”

  “And you enjoyed her company enough to see her again on Sunday night?”

  “She’s sexy.”

  “But you stood her up.”

  “I met someone even sexier,” he said.

  “Where did you and Ava go?”

  “I took her to Lucia’s. Then we came back here and had a nice time.”

  Natalie nodded. “Can I have Ava’s contact information so I can verify this?”

  “Okay. But I didn’t have anything to do with whatever happened to Morgan.” He looked at Natalie. “By the way, what did happen to her?”

  “Just get the information, please.”

  “Hold on.” He went to fetch his phone.

  When he came back, she decided to just throw it out there. “Have you ever used GHB or Rohypnol?”

  “The date rape drug?” Jones laughed. “Are you serious? Me? Women fling themselves at me every night. I have to beat them off with a stick. Do you want Ava’s number or not?”

  33

  Natalie buzzed through the supermarket—eggs, milk, a box of double-fudge cake mix, Cape Cod potato chips, Pete’s dark roast coffee, and extra-strength Excedrin. She grabbed a box of Dove bars, then put it back. She tossed a box of cronuts into the cart and thought about the kinds of food Willow used to love. She used to keep junk food in the trunk of her car, the old Chevy Nova she called the Snooze-mobile because of its lousy acceleration. Tall, slender Willow adored the worst kinds of food—things you wouldn’t find growing anywhere in nature, chewy lumps of chemicals wrapped in cellophane. Things you could keep in the trunk of your car for weeks and they wouldn’t go bad. Food with absurdly long expiration dates. Food stripped of all nutrients. Food that bounced.