by Cindy Stark
Hazel returned and scooped up the six different bottles of polish. One by one, she set them along the side of the tea table before she took her seat. Her so-called tea delivery service had become more of a social service, but she didn’t mind. The ladies in town who chose that service appreciated the company and didn’t mind paying extra for Hazel’s time.
Plus, as her assistant, Gretta, suggested, it was a great way to get to know the town’s residents and ingratiate herself with them.
“I brought a new flavor today,” Hazel said as she set a tea strainer in Florence’s cup. “It’s a strawberry green tea blend.”
The older woman lifted the teacup and held it near her nose. “That smells divine, Hazel. Do I detect traces of grapefruit in there?”
“Nose of a bloodhound,” she said with a smile. “No one could get anything past you.”
Florence winked and touched the tip of her nose. “Not to say that they haven’t tried.”
“A fool’s errand,” she said, and they both chuckled.
Hazel poured hot water into both of their cups and picked up a bottle of light pink polish while the tea leaves steeped. “This is a lovely color. May I?”
“Certainly. We should both paint our nails before you leave.”
Hazel opened the bottle and drew the brush across one of her nails, leaving a lovely shade of pink in its path. “So pretty.”
Florence agreed.
After they’d finished their tea and blueberry scones that Mrs. Jones had provided for them, Florence lifted a bottle of cherry red polish. “I think I should like this color.”
Hazel let out a low whistle and grinned. “Perfect for a sexy siren like yourself.”
Florence blushed bright pink. “Stop, young lady. You’ll embarrass me.”
“All right.” Hazel didn’t want to tease her too much. “Give me your hand.”
The older woman spread a napkin over the gleaming wooden table and laid her hand out, palm down. With careful, precise strokes, Hazel painted bright red on each of the woman’s nails.
When she finished, she set back with a smile. “Gorgeous.”
A smile crept across Florence’s face. “I used to wear this shade all the time when I was younger, back before this damned disease crippled me.”
Hazel yearned to tell her how sorry she was that she’d been afflicted as she had, but that would help nothing. “Any time you want me to paint them, just ask.” She lifted a bottle of clear polish. “How about a top coat so your color will last longer?”
The woman rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Not that one. It works a little too well.”
Hazel laughed. “How can it work too well?”
“It stays on even after you want it to come off. I don’t want red nails forever.” She pushed the clear coat aside. “Use the other one.”
“I understand completely. I once had a beautiful shade of gold polish with flecks of glitter in it. I used tons of cotton balls soaked with polish remover before I could get it off. Such a pain.”
“Exactly.” The older woman agreed with a firm nod of her head.
Hazel selected a second bottle of top coat and applied it to the woman’s nails. “There. You look like you’ve just come from the beauty salon.”
She beamed as she examined her hands. “I do. Wait until Albert sees. Now, finish your nails before you need to leave.”
“Yes—”
A terrified scream for help cut her short. Her gaze flew to Florence’s. “Someone’s hurt.”
Color drained from the older woman’s face as Hazel jumped to her feet. “Good Lord. Go. Please,” she commanded.
Hazel dashed into the hall. She followed the sounds of commotion to the opposite end of the floor and entered a bedroom where several people had gathered including Mick and Mrs. Jones.
Mr. Winthrop lay sprawled on the bed. His eyes bulged from their sockets as though he, too, was stunned.
Their young maid with sleek blond hair sat on the floor near his bed, her nakedness only partially covered by an ivory throw. She’d buried her face against the mattress, but Hazel could see from her shaking shoulders that she sobbed.
Hazel’s heart lurched in sickening thumps, and she glanced at the stoic faces around her. “Why is no one doing anything?” She stepped forward.
Mick gripped her arm, stopping her. He shook his head. “It’s too late. He’s dead.”
Hazel jerked her arm free. “How do you know? If it’s a heart attack, maybe he can be revived.”
Rachel sobbed harder. “I wanted to help.” Her words came out between frantic breaths. “But he was frothing at the mouth and convulsing…” She stilled, her dark eyes wet and rimmed with red. “Like a rabid dog,” she whispered.
Hazel did take a step back then. She couldn’t imagine what kind of disease or disorder would make a person froth at the mouth, but it couldn’t be good.
“What is it?” A feeble voice came from behind them. “What’s happened?”
Hazel cringed. Mrs. Winthrop. She couldn’t see this. Not her dead husband that she’d wanted to impress only moments before. Not the naked woman who’d obviously been with him doing things they shouldn’t when he’d died.
No wife should ever witness something like this.
Hazel turned from the gathered crowd and met Florence in the hall. She took the woman’s chilly hands in hers. “I’m so sorry, Florence.” She would hide it all from her if she could. “It’s your husband.”
“Albert?” She shot a frantic gaze beyond Hazel’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
Hazel closed her eyes for a long moment, not wanting to be the one to deliver the news. Then she met the new widow’s gaze. “He’s dead.”
Florence screamed and collapsed against Hazel.
“Help, please,” Hazel cried out.
Mick emerged into the hall and gathered Florence into his arms. “Let’s get her to bed, and you can stay with her while I call the police.”
Two
Hazel drew a strand of hair across her lips as she stared at Florence’s slack features and pale skin. The poor woman lay on her bed, passed out from shock, and Hazel couldn’t help but worry. The EMTs who’d come for Mr. Winthrop had checked her stats, said they were fine, and offered to transport her to the hospital if they were still worried. Hazel and Mick had decided to call her doctor instead.
Mick had left moments ago to make the call, and Hazel sensed she’d likely be fine. At least, physically.
The poor woman had experienced quite a shock, so maybe it was better that she was asleep. What a horrible, horrible morning, and her friend had many long, difficult days ahead of her.
Hazel gently took her hand and gave it a soft squeeze.
Florence drew in a deep breath that startled Hazel, and her eyes flew open. She stared at Hazel for a long moment as though confused, and then her face crumpled into a mask of pain. “Tell me it was a dream. Please. Tell me it’s not true,” she whispered.
Agony emanated from the older woman, and Hazel’s heart wept along with her. “I’m so sorry, Florence.”
She shook her head vehemently as though rejecting Hazel’s apology. “How could this have happened? He was perfectly fine this morning, in one of his jovial moods.”
Hazel squeezed her hand again. “They think he had a heart attack.”
“Heart attack?” she whispered and then nodded. “I told him to slow down. That he’d end up dead. A man his age shouldn’t do half the things he did.”
Hazel tilted her head, wondering if she should bring up Rachel’s presence in his room when he’d died, wondered if Florence knew about his indiscretions. “How do you mean?” she asked instead.
“Drinking. Smoking that cigar. Driving like a maniac. The man was seventy-four years old. He should have acted like it.”
Florence’s ire dissolved into a puddle of tears. “He can’t really be gone. I need him, Hazel. I need him here with me. How will I go on without him?”
Heart-wrenching grief poure
d from the woman, and Hazel fought to remember the skills her mother had taught her to help others rid themselves of negative emotions without her absorbing the same.
Not as easy as it sounded.
She gave the woman’s hand another squeeze and stood to escape the overwhelming emotions. Guilt jumped like a boogeyman from the shadows, but she refused to allow it into her space.
Hazel grabbed several tissues from the container on the antique table near her bed and handed them to Florence. “Mick is calling your doctor to ask him to prescribe a sedative and to stop by if he thinks it’s necessary.”
Florence nodded and released another sob.
Despair tore at Hazel. She needed to help the woman, but how?
From the corner of her eye, she spied the tea service at the table where they’d sat not long ago, before the world had crashed down upon them.
Tea. In her world, that fixed everything. Especially if it was the right tea.
Her mother’s warning jumped in her mind like a glaring red flag. Don’t give them a reason to hurt you.
Hazel shook it off. No one in Stonebridge would hurt her. First, none of them would ever know she’d added a little something to Florence’s tea, and—
Another wail left her cringing. She couldn’t let the poor woman suffer.
With her back to the bed, she dumped Florence’s cold tea into her own cup and refilled the now-empty teacup with fresh hot water. She pulled her personal blend of chamomile tea that had been helping many of the ladies in Stonebridge sleep better, and, with a few whispered words, she added a little extra magic to quicken the effect and help it last longer.
She stirred with a spoon and took the cup to Florence’s bedside. “Here, dear. Drink some of this. My own personal blend guaranteed to help calm your nerves.”
Gratitude floated in the woman’s tear-stained eyes, and she took the teacup with shaking hands. “Thank God you’re here, Hazel. You really are the kindest person.” A stuffy nose distorted most of her words, but Hazel still understood.
“I’m glad I was here, too. Don’t worry. You won’t have to endure this alone.”
Tears started again, but Hazel shook her head. “Drink.”
Florence did. Several sips. And then several more.
Her breaths grew more even, and the twisted tension in her face eased. “It’s very good.”
“Thank you.” She smiled. A touch of magic helped so many things. “I’ll bring more when I visit again.”
Florence’s eyelids drooped, and Hazel rushed forward to reclaim the cup before it tipped. “Here, let me sit this on your table. Close by in case you want more.”
“Yes.” She nodded and blinked several long, slow times. “I’m feeling very tired now.”
“That’s good.” Hazel took her hand again and was relieved the anguish in her soul had dropped several levels. “Sleep is the best thing for you right now. You’ve had quite a—”
Florence’s loud snore cut off her last word.
“Okay, then,” Hazel said and smiled. “Sleep tight,” she whispered as she backed away from the bed.
That concoction should keep her out for a couple of hours. By then the doctor might have prescribed sedatives.
They wouldn’t work as well as her tea, but that’s the way the world wanted it. At least the little town of Stonebridge did.
Hazel gathered her bag and zipped the internal compartment closed before she slung it over her shoulder. She sent off a quick text to her assistant, telling Gretta she’d been delayed and that she’d explain everything when she made it to the shop.
With that, she quietly slipped out of Florence’s bedroom and closed the door.
As she turned, a man in a black jacket appeared directly before her. She slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her cry of surprise.
Three
Hazel found herself face-to-face with one of the town’s police officers, Officer Parrish if his name badge was correct.
She dropped her hand from her mouth to her throat. “Oh, Blessed Mother, you scared me.” She exhaled a deep breath that ended on an embarrassed chuckle. She’d noticed the handsome and impressive man with dark, wavy hair in town before but had never met him.
“Blessed Mother?” Devastatingly green eyes sparked with interest.
She inhaled, realizing the blunder of using a phrase common among witches and not so-common among the witch-fearing citizens of Stonebridge. She forced another laugh and waved away his concern. “A silly phrase my college roommate used all the time, and it stuck with me.”
He arched a serious brow, bringing her attention to the long lashes framing his beautiful eyes. “Was she a witch?”
“Of course not.” She did her best to keep her words lighthearted. “Do folks here really believe in such things? I thought it was an act, for tourism’s sake.”
Her attempts to lighten the mood had no outwardly effect on him. “People believe what they believe. Miss Hardy, I presume?”
She furrowed her brows, more than a little unnerved that he knew her name. “How did you know?”
“Small town.” He lifted one side of his mouth into a smile. She swore if her mother hadn’t raised her better, she would have melted right there in front of him.
“Of course. Yes. I’m Hazel Hardy. Proprietor of Hazel’s Teas and Temptations.”
“Temptations?”
Electricity sparked between them and then jolted straight into her ever-loving heart, leaving her bewildered. No man, especially a non-magical one had ever had that effect on her before.
“Cookies. Brownies,” she managed. “Those kinds of temptations. Soon, anyway. I haven’t added them to my stock yet.”
He nodded in appreciation. “I see. Well, Miss Hardy, you’ve made an impression on the town.”
Good or bad? She’d like to think good, but she’d never been an outlaw before, so this could go either way. “I have?”
“My assistant can’t work without a cup of your tea on her desk. She swears by it. I suppose I should stop in one day to see what I’ve been missing. I like to keep my finger on the pulse of the town anyway.”
“Oh. Of course. You can have a temptation tasting on the house,” she said with enthusiasm. Unfortunately, her unintended flirtation flooded her face with heat. She took a small step back to limit his effect on her.
Her embarrassment seemed to draw a bigger smile from him, and then he cleared his throat. “Back to the reason I’m here, Miss Hardy.”
The use of her formal name always seemed so impersonal. “Hazel, please.”
He nodded, but his gaze had taken on a serious quality that left her uneasy. “Let me start by giving you a word of warning, Hazel.”
His words drained all warmth and happiness from her.
“The good townsfolk of Stonebridge won’t appreciate phrases such as Blessed Mother, so I’d avoid using it. Our town hasn’t had a known witch live here in over seventy years, but they are as skittish as ever when it comes to the subject, so if you could find a way to forget that phrase, it will be in your best interest.”
She twisted her fingers together. “Yes, sir.”
His expression softened. “I’m not trying to scare you. Just, as a newcomer, you might find it helpful information.”
Her posture remained stiff and alert. “Of course. Thank you.”
He inched closer to her. She wanted to back away but felt she needed to hold her ground. “With that out of the way, I need to address the unfortunate incident that happened here today.”
“Mr. Winthrop?”
He gave her a curt nod. “Mrs. Winthrop doing okay?”
Ice chilled her veins as she thought of the potion she’d given her, not to mention other incriminating ingredients she carried in her purse right now. She swallowed. “She’s sleeping. I think the shock was too much for her.”
“Probably for the best. Would you mind following me into another room for a few minutes to answer a couple of questions?”
“Of course not
.” In that respect, she had nothing to hide.
He rapped on the door of the bedroom across the hall. When no one answered, he turned the knob and stepped in.
Though it was sunny outside, this room sat on the shady side of the house, leaving the room shrouded with a cozy dimness. He held out a hand, palm forward, inviting her to join him.
An awkward rush of attraction coursed through her as he closed the door. She glanced around, but there was nowhere to sit except the bed. She faced him instead and folded her arms across her chest.
“Miss Hardy.” He paused. “Is it Mrs. or Miss?”
She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to know she wasn’t married. “It’s Hazel, remember?”
The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Right. Okay, Hazel, other witnesses place you here at the time of Mr. Winthrop’s death. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” She widened her eyes into innocent ovals. She wasn’t guilty, but his earlier reminder of the town’s hatred for witches left her on guard. “I came as I have for the past four Mondays to bring Florence her tea.”
“Florence? Not Mrs. Winthrop?”
Her cheeks flushed. “We’ve become friends. She asked me to call her Florence.”
He nodded. “Like you asked me to call you Hazel.”
Er…not exactly. “I suppose.”
“But you’re not friends with Mr. Winthrop?”
At her confused look, he continued. “You called him by his formal name instead of his first, like you did with his wife.”
“No. We’re not friends. Today was the first day I’ve seen him at the house.”
He jotted something in a notebook small enough to fit in his hand. “So, you brought Mrs. Winthrop tea as you do every Monday. Did Mr. Winthrop have any?”
She frowned. “No, why would he?”
He continued to scribble. “Just dotting the t’s and crossing the i’s.”
“Isn’t it crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s?”
He winked, and she flushed again.
Was he flirting with her? If so, didn’t he know that expression was about as lame as they came?