by Louise Lynn
“She doesn’t want to go ice fishing,” Paul said, unnecessarily.
“She’d prefer a château in Switzerland, if you’re curious,” Hazel said.
His shoulders slumped even more at that.
“I don’t think anyone would mind a château in Switzerland. What are you doing up so early anyway?” Celia asked as the espresso machine behind her whirled and grumbled and made all sorts of racket that resulted in the delicious concoction it finally spit forth.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Hazel said, which was the truth, but she decided not to elaborate until she knew more. Or—maybe not. “The sheriff came by last night and took my mom.”
Celia blinked a good ten times. “What? Did she have too much wine and try to go ice skinny bathing again?”
Hazel snorted and shook her head. “I wish. A mild case of hypothermia would’ve been better than this. She argued with Roberta the day before she died, and it looks suspicious.”
She knew her mother hadn’t killed Roberta Martin, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t done something else. Had she accidentally slipped laxatives in Mrs. Martin’s food again?
Ugh. The sheriff might not like that.
Scratch that.
The sheriff definitely wouldn’t like that.
Celia slipped the latte across the counter and began preparing Hazel’s normal breakfast, a toasted sesame bagel with plain cream cheese. “I’m sure it’s nothing. The sheriff has to check every lead, right?”
“Right. Every lead.” Even the ones that involved a sixty-something-year-old woman. “Plus, she was driving to Reno around the time Mrs. Martin was killed, so she couldn’t have done it.”
Celia nodded as she smeared the cream cheese on the bagel and plopped it on a plate. “Exactly. But who do you think did it then?”
Hazel worried her bottom lip. She didn’t know of anyone who’d been an outright fan of Roberta Martin, besides Ambrose Angel, but she also didn’t know of anyone who had a strong enough motive to kill the woman. Besides, well, her own mom. Which she was not going to think about.
“I don’t know, but I’m sure Sheriff Cross and his deputies will have it figured out soon enough.”
Hazel wandered onto the heated porch to eat her breakfast. The café wasn’t crowded yet, but she could see that it soon would be. And going to her office this early meant it would be cold and lonesome. Better to eat here where the chance of Celia slipping out to talk to her was greater than nothing.
She’d finished half her bagel when the door behind her creaked open. “I was wondering how long it would take you to get here,” she said and took a bite of her second half.
The door clicked shut with a slow finality that didn’t remind her of Celia at all. “I didn’t know you were waiting for me,” Sheriff Cross said.
Hazel spun in her seat and nearly dropped her bagel and latte while doing it. Thankfully, she kept a firm hold on both. Though, she did smear cream cheese on the palm of her hand. “You? I thought you were Celia.”
“I assumed. And I thought the porch was empty.” But he didn’t turn to leave. Instead, Sheriff Cross sat on the chair a few feet from Hazel herself.
He also had a coffee and a toasted sesame bagel with plain cream cheese. And he still wasn’t meeting her eyes.
Hazel licked the cream cheese from her palm and shoved an oversized bite of bagel into her mouth. She thought while she chewed. It was her opportunity to question the sheriff, who was still not looking at her, but her head was filled with too many questions.
“I’m sorry to disturb your family dinner last night,” Sheriff Cross said and began eating his own breakfast.
Hazel wondered if she should let him finish before she started in and decided against it. She’d felt awful all night and needed to know exactly what was going on. Now sooner than later. “You didn’t feel bad enough not to do it.”
He raised his brows. They complemented his signature smirk. Thankfully, he wasn’t wearing that smirk now. “How was I supposed to know you were having a welcome back dinner for your father?”
Hazel snapped her mouth shut and shrugged. Took a long sip of her latte to give herself strength. Or courage. Or an added caffeine boost. “What I meant was you could’ve waited until the morning. It’s not like mom was going to skip town.”
He tore into another piece of his bagel and chewed, reminding Hazel of Anthony Ray when he got a piece of real chicken. Or caught a small rodent. “Well, I’m sorry, Ms. Hart, that I don’t particularly know your mother well. I’ve only spoken to the woman a few times, and I have to cover all of my bases.”
Hazel rolled her eyes. “And all of your bases told you that my mother is innocent?”
The sheriff’s eyes darted to his coffee, and he sipped it, not answering.
Okay, that was a bad sign.
“She didn’t kill Roberta Martin.” Hazel’s voice came out certain. “She was in Reno yesterday morning.”
“I’m following a lead, and the lead points to your mom. She went to Reno after Mrs. Martin died. I hope we can get this cleared up as soon as possible, but she also fought with Roberta Martin the day before the woman was murdered. In fact, several witnesses heard her threaten Mrs. Martin. I can’t discount something like that as a coincidence.”
Hazel shook her head and was glad she’d already finished her bagel. If she’d heard that before, she wouldn’t have been able to stomach it. And throwing away food was one of her major no-no’s. “That’s conjecture. People heard them fight. So what? Unless you have some physical evidence–”
The sheriff took another sip of coffee, which Hazel was quickly figuring out meant he didn’t want to say something.
“Oh no. You have physical evidence? What?”
“I’m really not at liberty to say, especially because you’re her daughter,” the sheriff said and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
Hazel balled her hands into fists and stood up, trembling as she did. “That’s exactly why you should tell me. I know my mom. I—she didn’t get along with Roberta Martin. I admit that, and I’m sure she would too. But she wouldn’t have killed the woman.”
Finally, the sheriff lifted his eyes to meet Hazel’s own. They were as blue as the deepest part of Lake Celeste, and they rolled with emotions the way the lake did in a storm. “Fingerprints. We found fingerprints in the room that match your mother’s. She’s not in jail, but she is a strong person of interest. I advised her not to leave town, so if you let me do my job, I’m sure we can get this all figured out.”
It was the sort of thing Hazel thought that morning, but now she wasn’t sure if it was possible.
The porch was suddenly too hot, the propane heater sucking all the air from the room. She drew in a long breath and shook her head. “She goes to the school to help out all the time. I’m sure there are hundreds of other fingerprints in that room besides my mom’s. And—I can prove she didn’t do it.” The words spilled out, and the sheriff raised his brows.
“You’re not getting twisted up in another investigation. Need I remind you, again, you’re not a detective. And that’s not how investigations work. We don’t clear someone’s name because we think they’re innocent. We pursue the evidence until we find out who’s guilty.”
She didn’t need a lecture from him on how detectives worked, but she also wasn’t going to accept the fact that her mother could’ve brutally murdered a woman because she didn’t like her.
Hazel shook her head. She didn’t have anything else to say, and she knew if she spoke again it would be an insult. Something rude that she couldn’t take back. So, she gathered up her trash and her latte and stomped off the porch.
“Hazel,” Sheriff Cross called, but she ignored him.
Celia’s eyes widened when she saw Hazel’s expression. “Everything all right?”
Hazel shook her head and stepped out into the icy morning air. It bit into her cheeks like frozen fangs, chilled her lungs, but it was better than the stuffiness of the porch.
The
n she turned, purposefully, toward her studio and marched there.
Her mother was not a murderer.
And no matter what Sheriff Cross said, she was going to prove it.
Chapter 8
Maureen Hart’s shop, Esoterica, sat tucked at the corner of Lake Street and Pine Lane. Although, Pine Lane led directly to a dead end at Lake Celeste, and Lake Street itself was more of a main street in Cedar Valley than anything else.
Hazel used to puzzle over the street names when she was younger, now, she didn’t have time. She spent the whole early morning straightening up her shop to a ridiculous degree. A degree that wouldn’t even matter since it was already clean to begin with.
When Michael finally arrived, he gaped at the state of the office and blinked his round eyes several times. “Is there something wrong?”
Hazel felt herself pouting. “Wrong? What could be wrong?”
Michael shrugged. “Well, you usually don’t open, and the office has never been this clean. Ever.”
What he didn’t say was: you never clean up. But Hazel understood the gist of it, however, she decided he didn’t mean it in a negative sense. And he was right. Ever since she took up shop in that building, the office had never been perfectly organized.
And it wasn’t that way now, not to someone like Esther’s standards, but everything was organized the way Hazel wanted it.
She shrugged and glanced at the clock on the wall. It was one of those old-fashioned cat clocks with a tail and eyes that moved with every tick of the second hand. Her father had hunted one down for her several years ago and sent it to her for Christmas, right after her divorce. She got a warm feeling in her stomach thinking about that, though it was quickly replaced with a ball of lead.
Just after ten a.m. Good. If her mom was going to open the shop for the day, she should be there now.
“I have to run some errands. Track down Mr. Angel and do a few other personal things, so if you can finish working on the school pictures, I’d really appreciate it,” she said and patted Michael on the shoulder as she pulled on her coat and gloves.
Michael nodded and watched her. “Are you sure everything is okay? Your acting the way you did when… you know.”
“I actually don’t know.”
Michael sucked in a breath. “The way you acted after Dirk died. You have this look in your eyes. It’s a little … intense.”
Hazel furrowed her brow, and for once, cursed the lack of mirrors in her office. She had no idea what he meant, though she did know her father got a similarly intense look in his eyes when he was hunting for the perfect photo. Was it something like that? “Well, you’re not completely off the mark. It does have something to do with Mrs. Martin. And I have to ask a few questions. Nothing major.”
That felt like a lie. Protecting her mother from being charged with murder was major. But saying that might bring up too many unpleasant memories for Michael, so she abstained.
With the bone-chilling cold in the air, Hazel opted to drive a few blocks down the street to her mother’s shop instead of walking. Since it was March, it wasn’t difficult to find a spot to park. Though, come summer it would be near impossible.
The sign for the shop was flipped to open and done in a swoopy cursive font that she was pretty sure her mother had hand-drawn. Beneath it said: Let’s Get Spiritual!
Hazel groaned internally.
It made her picture her mother in early 1980s workout gear. She was pretty sure that was an actual memory, one of the times her mother got on board with one of those silly fitness fads. Yes. They had those Joan Fonda workout tapes, and leotards to match. She wondered if Esther remembered that.
She’d have to ask.
Her mother probably even had the leotards tucked away in the attic somewhere since she was a terrible packrat and wouldn’t get rid of anything unless absolutely necessary.
The door jingled as Hazel shoved it open and knocked the snow from her boots. A sudden wave of incense washed over her, cherry tinged with frankincense. She couldn’t remember the properties of that particular mixture, and if she asked she’d get an earful from her mother. And a lecture for not remembering.
The shop was the exact opposite of Hazel’s own. Instead of being bright and clean and well lit, it was cluttered and dim in a meaningful way. Crystals hung on little stands throughout the store for healing purposes or to dangle in a window and catch the light. There was a whole section of New Age books pushed against the far wall. There were also board games from exotic locations, most of them with the directions written in foreign languages that Hazel didn’t understand. The tarot cards had an entire table to themselves, stacks of different decks all with intricate and beautiful artwork, waiting for someone to claim them.
Then there was the incense, also given its own extensive table. Followed by candles and spirit boards. A number of funny signs hung on the walls. They said things like: Tea you later! And: Cats welcome. Humans not.
The newest addition to the shop were a series of sarongs that hung in the far corner. Hazel wasn’t quite sure what their spiritual use was, but her mother had recently taken to wearing them as shawls or skirts or another layer to her already many layered outfits.
A quick glance around the shop told Hazel her mother wasn’t there.
Her stomach clenched. She half expected to see her mother sitting in one of the chairs near the wood-burning stove. They were worn and a little lumpy, but a few of the local women who enjoyed the same sort of things her mother did would sit in them for hours, drink tea, and gossip.
They were empty now.
The shop was open, yet her mother wasn’t there.
That wasn’t normal.
Then Hazel heard a rustle of movement and turned with a start.
Tess Turtledove stood there. She wore glasses, though they weren’t the wire framed ones that perched on the end of Hazel’s mother’s nose. These were huge and sat close to her eyes, magnifying them so she looked like an owl.
In fact, everything about Tess reminded Hazel of an owl. She was short and a little round, and the way she hunched her shoulders made it look as if she didn’t have a neck. Her hair frizzed around her head like the mane of a lion, and she always wore as many layers as Hazel’s mother did, though hers didn’t float around her like a ghost. They hung limply off her body and gave the impression of feathers.
Hazel had no idea how old Tess was. She could be anywhere from twenty-five to sixty-five, and neither would’ve surprised Hazel in the least.
“Tess, hi. Is my mom in yet?” Hazel asked and tried to sound as nonchalant as possible.
The fire in the stove crackled.
Tess stared at her for a long moment behind her great glasses. And then she spoke. Her voice was more like the whisper of wind between the trees on a deathly still night. “The time has come. Ancient debts to be repaid. Old wrongs made right.”
Hazel felt herself grimace. That was the other thing about Tess. It was difficult to get a straight answer from her. Almost everything she said sounded like a poem. And Hazel had no idea if she was quoting something or trying to sound profound on her own. The effect was a little disconcerting.
Most people in Cedar Valley labeled Tess as odd, while Maureen Hart said she was eccentric.
And Hazel’s mother loved eccentricity.
“Can you tell her I dropped by. I really need to talk to her,” Hazel said and felt herself backing toward the door, but Tess reached forward and snatched at the arm of her coat. Her fingers were long and talon like.
Maybe she was an owl in a past life. Or she turned into an owl at night. Though Hazel didn’t like that line of thought because her mother would likely say it was true. And she knew that it wasn’t.
But that didn’t mean Tess didn’t think she turned into an owl at night.
“Old debts. Bad energy flowing around. Devils and angels. Birds and mice. Cats and dogs,” Tess hissed.
Hazel wrinkled her nose. “Don’t tell me they’re living together. The
cats and dogs, I mean.”
Tess let out a heavy sigh and released Hazel’s arm.
As Hazel was about to turn away, the door jingled. “Oh, Hazel. I stepped out for a moment to pick up breakfast. Banana nut muffins. Freshly made right from Esther’s oven. You want one?” Her mother swooped into the room in her layered gauzy glory.
Hazel frowned. Banana nut muffins on a morning like this? Of course. What else did she expect? “You’re picking up baked goods when you were at the police station last night?”
Her mother waved her hand dismissively and set the box of muffins on the counter. Then she went about fixing a kettle of tea by placing the kettle on top of the wood-stove. All in all, an efficient way to do things.
“Have one, Tess,” her mom said and patted Tess on the arm.
Tess slowly opened the box and picked one out with her long fingers. She sniffed it before holding it close to her mouth and nibbling on the edge.
It took Hazel a moment to look away, half expecting Tess to grow a beak any minute.
“You shouldn’t be acting so normal. I know what happened last night. Well, I mostly know what happened last night.”
Her mother plopped three mugs on the counter next to the muffins and put some foul-smelling tea bags in them. Probably one of her fresh herb mixtures that didn’t taste or sound or smell at all appetizing. But her mother would claim it was good for chakra cleansing or something like that.
“Oh, that was a silly thing. And I do have to say that Sheriff Cross can be quite intense if he wants to be. Saying things like: stop lying to me Ms. Hart! It gave me a bit of a thrill if I’m being honest,” she said and smiled benignly.
Hazel sucked in a deep breath. After the scene she put on in front of the sheriff, this was how her mother was acting? “You’ve been implicated in a murder. He’s serious about this. He really thinks you may have killed Roberta Martin.”
Tess nibbled faster and blinked at them behind her oversized glasses. Though, she didn’t have any more weird omens to espouse. Thank goodness.
“That was because of the argument we got into. You were there. You know how Roberta drove me up the wall. I didn’t mean anything by it.”