by Louise Lynn
Once again, it didn't prove anything. And the person with the strongest motive was Amber, since she was also probably lying. But, the look on Tyson Bridger’s face bothered Hazel more than she knew what to do with.
Not only that, but the day before, Tyson Bridger had been skulking around outside of the police tape. Sure, it was his own property, but he was also wearing gardening boots and gloves. And he was upset they were there.
Odd behavior, though she knew Sheriff Cross would say it didn't prove anything.
It all came back to that missing cell phone. If she could find that, Hazel was sure she could put everything together. Fill in all those little missing pieces.
As she drifted off to sleep, she knew what she had to do. Go back to the Rockwell Manor and find the missing phone, first thing tomorrow morning.
Chapter 20
"Hazel, wake up. It’s important," a voice called from far away, and Hazel squinted into the darkness.
Anthony Ray let out a tired meow, and a light flickered on in the corner of the room.
"Dad? What time is it?" Hazel said and rubbed her eyes.
Her father stood in the doorway of her room, wearing his navy-blue bathrobe and house slippers, and he tugged at his beard incessantly. "Your mother's gone. I woke up to go to the bathroom, and she wasn't in our room. I went downstairs, and she's not there either. I think our houseguest went with her."
That woke Hazel up. She climbed out of bed and glanced around for something to put over her pajamas. "Is the car here?"
Her father shook his head.
"Where would they go in the middle of the night? This isn’t Reno. Nothing is open right now," she said as if he might know.
A quick glance at the time told her it was just after one a.m.
A sinking pit filled her stomach. That talk they had at dinner about trying to figure out who did it, and her mother's insistence the spirit board would help. Not to mention Violet saying the same thing right before Hazel sent her to bed.
She groaned and shook her head. "Doesn't she know it's trespassing?"
Her father blinked. "Do you know where they went?"
Hazel nodded. "I have an idea, and it's a terrible one. Which means that's probably where they are."
And considering the time, she didn't have any to lose.
She threw her jacket on over her pajamas and shoved her feet into her tennis shoes. Then got Anthony Ray in his leash and harness and rushed out to her truck, her father on her heels.
"You're going alone?"
Hazel looked over her shoulder. "Do you want the whole family to be arrested for trespassing tonight?"
Her father gave her a slight smile. "Esther's not here, so it wouldn’t be the whole family."
Hazel sighed, and they climbed into her truck. She hoped, as she turned her truck toward the Rockwell Manor, that she got there before her mother did anything silly.
Or before Tyson Bridger found her and called the cops.
The twenty-five-minute drive dragged, and as they went, Hazel explained the case to her father, something she realized she hadn't completely done yet.
"Do you really think Jay Turner is a murderer?" her father asked.
Hazel shrugged. "Honestly, I don’t know, but I feel like I'm second-guessing myself. I don't want to discount him just because of Celia. He's the type of person who could be involved in something shady."
"I've heard stories about his troubled past, but murder is a different thing altogether. Maybe you and the sheriff are looking at it from the wrong angle. What are the two most common motives for killing someone?"
She thought about what her old detective friends at the LAPD said. "Love and greed." And the love angle had hit a brick wall, in a few ways. But the greed angle was wide open. "There might be something to that, but we should find Mom and Violet first."
The exterior lights around the Rockwell Manor shone as she pulled up the drive toward it. Her heart stuck in her throat when she noticed her mom's blue hatchback in the back of the parking lot near the entrance to the garden. Of course, she was here. And with the sheriff's niece to boot.
"I hope he hasn't called the police yet," Hazel said as she climbed out with Anthony Ray.
Her father joined her. "Who? No one lives here. I mean, that Bridger fellow owns the place, but he wouldn't live in it. That would decrease its value. He said so last time I went on the tour."
That was right. She remembered him telling the sheriff that he’d left before all the teenagers had the night of the dance. That the Manor had been locked. And yet, Amber swore Brandon stepped back inside.
Was there surveillance video of that?
She'd noticed the surveillance cameras on the front porch. In fact, Tyson Bridger himself said there was one at every entrance.
"So, if he doesn't live here, the lights are just a security measure?"
Her father nodded. "Probably. Plus, the cameras need them to catch anyone trespassing. No point having a camera without any light."
That was a good point. One Hazel would've come to herself if she wasn't so busy worried about the trouble her mother might've gotten into.
But if Tyson Bridger didn't live here, he had no reason to find them trespassing on his property so late at night.
Which meant, they could get out before anyone was the wiser. She explained her assessment to her father, and he nodded his agreement.
Then she took a deep breath of the chilly spring air and let Anthony Ray lead the way.
If anyone could find her mother and Violet, it would be him.
Chapter 21
"Why are you going toward the Manor?" Hazel hissed at Anthony Ray, but he paid her no mind.
The leash pulled her closer, and Hazel hoped they stayed out of range of the security cameras.
Her father plodded after her, still wearing his house slippers. "I forgot to put my shoes on," he admitted, unnecessarily.
Hazel gave him a helpless smile. She’d done the same thing once and hadn’t even realized it until she got to her studio. Thankfully, it was a quick drive home to change. In this case, he’d have to stick it out. "You can wait in the truck if you want."
He shook his head and bent to examine one of the tulips, hardly visible in the shadows.
"Find mom, Anthony Ray," Hazel said, but the black cat kept marching toward the back porch. If he was trying to get inside. . .
Suddenly, he veered toward the side of the porch and wandered into the flower planter. Hazel glanced about. "If you have to go to the bathroom you could’ve gone anywhere."
Her father padded closer to the gardens. "What did Maureen say at dinner? The best place for the spirit board reading was at the scene of the crime?"
"Yes," Hazel whispered, though she didn’t know why. They were alone, as far as she could tell. But the noise in the darkness seemed to carry better than it did in the light. However, she didn’t hear Violet or her mother at all.
Strange.
Anthony Ray yowled, and Hazel shone the flashlight on him.
He sat surrounded by yellow tulips in the same spot he’d tried to dig on Saturday, with a pleased expression on his face, and she noticed something behind him. Something blue and white.
"Did you just dig that up?" she said and knelt to get a better look.
Sure enough, instead of going to the bathroom, he’d gone into the planter to dig instead. The scent struck her nose before she saw what it was—that heavy floral scent that clung to Brandon Sizemore’s body. The oil from the burner. And this was the burner itself.
"What have you found?" her father asked and peered over her shoulder.
Hazel pulled it out carefully with a tissue she kept in her coat pocket. "The missing Nara era oil lamp I told you about," she said and carefully turned it over.
"That’s not Nara era. It’s a modern reproduction, albeit a good one. Look." Her father pointed at the seal on the bottom. "That’s a stamp. They didn’t have stamps in Nara era Japan, not yet. Any seal would have been hand-wr
itten."
Something Violet had mentioned the other day fit with that. "People often put the real antique in a safe and displayed fakes, so this was a fake Nara era oil lamp. But Tyson Bridger claimed it was authentic and missing," she said and looked at her dad.
His eyes widened. "Sounds like greed to me."
It sure did. Plus, she’d overheard Tyson talking to that insurance agent about it the day they were looking for Brandon before anyone knew he was dead.
If he lied about that, what else had he lied about?
"What's that?" her father said and pointed behind the area that the oil lamp was buried. A piece of white cloth stuck out of the soil.
Hazel carefully tugged it free. "Looks like a dress shirt. The one Tyson Bridger wore the night of the dance," she said and pointed at the buttons. Black. They stood out to her as more high-quality than the rented tuxedos and suits that most of the other attendees wore that evening.
And, in the bright beam of her flashlight, she noticed a large stain on the arm. Yellow and smelling strongly of the same floral oil that filled the burner. The same burner that Brandon had tipped over. There were also dark brownish red flecks on it.
Blood, she guessed.
"What does this mean?" she breathed.
Her father's eyebrows danced above his eyes. "Tyson Bridger is keeping more secrets than we knew about. And it means we should probably find your mother as quickly as we can."
Hazel nodded, and carefully tucked the evidence back behind the tulips.
Anthony Ray was already tugging her in another direction, past the carriage house and toward the gardens beyond. However, as they approached, she noticed the door to this carriage house was open. The last time she'd been there it was closed, as it wasn't part of the museum, but used for storage and whatnot according to Mr. Bridger.
However, now it stored a car—a familiar black sedan.
Hazel stopped dead and her breath clogged in her throat. She grabbed her dad’s arm. "That's the car. The one at my house last night."
Her father took her flashlight and flicked it off.
For a moment, they stood in silence and both listened. The only sound Hazel heard was the slight rustling of wind through the trees and the call of a nocturnal bird. Plus, her pounding heart and Anthony Ray's footsteps on the gravel.
She dug into her pocket and pulled out her truck keys and pressed them into her dad's hand. "Get back to the truck and call Sheriff Cross. I'm faster than you, so don't argue with me. Please," she said, and her voice trembled.
Her father squeezed her hand and let out a sigh. "You're right about being faster. Especially since I'm in slippers. But don't do anything dangerous. If you see the man, hide."
She nodded and tucked herself against the carriage house as his shadow disappeared behind the Manor and toward the parking lot. Hazel waited until she heard the sound of her truck door close before she finally moved again.
At least her dad was safe, and the police would be here soon.
Now she had to find Violet and her mother before whoever owned that car did.
Her thoughts raced as she moved toward the hedge maze, the half-moon guiding her way. So, this all came down to greed. But did the buried oil lamp and shirt mean Tyson killed Brandon?
Anthony Ray tugged her toward the garden, and she walked as quietly as she could across the gravel. It was difficult since every step displaced the rocks beneath her feet. And she decided against using the flashlight lest someone see it.
The car in the carriage house was another strike against him, but that didn't mean he was here. It could be a spare car. She knew the man was rich enough to afford one. Though he didn't act it, always complaining about not having enough.
The cold bit into her skin past her flannel pajamas, and Hazel wished she thought to put on a hat. Her breath came out in white puffs. It could still freeze this time of the year at night, and it felt close to it. Her fingers were stiff with cold, and she hadn’t seen any sign of her mother or Violet besides the hatchback.
With every passing moment, dread filled her bones.
It would take Sheriff Cross at least twenty-five minutes to send deputies here. What if Tyson Bridger found her mother and Violet and killed them to protect some secret she hadn’t figured out yet?
Suddenly, Anthony Ray stopped, and his ears perked. He let out a low growl.
Well, that could mean any number of things. Raccoon. Possum. Bobcat. Or, just a person he didn't like.
Hazel stood silent, and she heard a step on the gravel near her.
Anthony Ray turned toward the hedge to her left and let out another growl.
Another step, this one obviously human.
Boots against gravel.
Fear clogged Hazel's throat, and she swallowed it. She was in the hedge maze at the Rockwell Manor possibly with a killer.
Her mother or Violet wouldn’t be sneaking around like that, would they?
No.
First of all, she knew her mother much too well. Maureen Hart would be yammering the whole time.
So, whoever this was, in all likelihood, wasn’t friendly.
Hazel looked behind her and her heart dropped into her shoes. The hedge maze opened to the left about ten yards from where she stood, and whoever was on that side could easily look around and spot her.
There was only one thing to do.
Run.
Hazel did.
Her legs pumped, and her feet skidded across the gravel as she charged in the opposite direction of the ominous footsteps.
Anthony Ray didn't need any provocation to run alongside her, though he did try to dart into the hedge more than once. It took her a moment to realize the footsteps were following. She heard them pound after her, skidding on the gravel, and her heart pounded in her ears.
She turned one corner, then another, getting herself thoroughly lost. What if she backed into a corner and couldn't escape?
Well, she’d have to dive into the hedge itself. Much like Anthony Ray was trying to do. Maybe that was a good idea.
She turned another right, and her foot caught on something that wasn't gravel. She flew forward. A yelp escaped her throat and she crashed into the ground and rolled. Her hold on Anthony Ray's leash loosened, and he shot away from her, pulling the plastic handle behind him.
Hazel groaned and rolled over, her elbows, knees, and chin throbbing. Her head pounded with the sudden impact. She sucked in several breaths and rolled on her back.
No one was there—yet.
But she heard footsteps.
They were closer, and they'd heard her fall.
She only had one choice now.
Her palms ached as she pulled herself into a crawling position to get around the next corner, then threw herself into the hedge.
The branches scraped and poked her exposed skin and tangled in her hair like angry fingers. She sucked in a deep breath and covered her mouth with her hand in an effort to be as quiet as possible.
Whoever was out there wasn't trying to be quiet any longer. The footsteps crunched across the gravel, and a grumbling sound emanated from the person’s mouth, an obviously masculine sound.
As Hazel sat there, frozen in fear, her free hand dug into the soil around the hedge. Branches prodded her all over, and she was glad for her coat, which protected her from the worst of it.
Then her fingers brushed something hard and plastic. She blinked, and slowly pulled her hand free. She stared at the slick screen of one of those new oversized cell phones—the kind that looked halfway between a tablet and a phone.
Brandon's cell phone.
Here in the hedge.
For a moment, she forgot about the footsteps only yards away, and pressed the home button.
The battery was close to dead, but by some miracle, it was unlocked. Perhaps Brandon forwent that security measure in place of speed. She didn't know.
She carefully turned the screen away from the hedge where her pursuer might see the light, and with shaking fing
ers, opened the photo app.
Sure enough, there were incriminating photos of Travis and Brandon together, like Amber said there would be, but Hazel wasn't interested in those.
The ones from the dance. Those were what was important.
There were plenty of pictures of Travis looking somewhere between happy, bored, and annoyed. Then selfies of Brandon and Amber or Brandon and Travis or Brandon and any number of other people.
But the last few photos were something else entirely. There were the pictures of Brandon's suit pants stained with oil and a photo the oil lamp upside down. When she squinted at it she could see the seal was clearly visible.
The next set were the most incriminating. They were taken from the top of the porch looking down on Tyson Bridger obviously burying the oil lamp.
The final photo was of Tyson’s rage filled face.
Then—nothing.
That last picture had a timestamp that read 1:26 a.m.
Four minutes before the medical examiner’s stated likely time of death for Brandon Sizemore at one thirty.
As carefully as possible, Hazel turned off the phone and slid it into her jacket pocket.
Her dad had made it to the truck. He’d called the police. She just had to wait for them to arrive as she put the final pieces of the puzzle together.
The insurance. The oil lamp. The garden boots. The staircase in the garden, meticulously clean. Brandon’s death.
It all made sense now that she found the phone.
The footsteps came closer and stopped right next to the hedge in which she crouched.
She recognized those gardening boots, the dark green rubber, and the navy pants that brushed the top.
Tyson Bridger was the killer, and now Hazel had absolute proof.
Only, he was less than a foot away, so how was she supposed to escape?
Chapter 22
"Why, it’s Anthony Ray! What are you doing here? And where's Hazel?" Maureen Hart cried from somewhere far too close for Hazel's comfort.
She never thought the sound of her mother's voice could cause her heart to sink even lower.