by Louise Lynn
Hazel rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t matter what you meant by it. It matters that the woman was murdered the next day, and you were seen having a fight with her the day before. That looks bad. It looks like a motive.”
The tea kettle shrieked from its spot on the wood-stove and her mother bustled over to stop it. She poured hot water over the cups of tea and pressed one into Hazel’s hand. “Have a seat. And a muffin.”
Hazel was about to say she’d already had breakfast, but the tantalizing smell of Esther’s muffins changed her mind.
She could use a snack before lunch.
Her mother finished doling out tea and muffins and sat across from her.
Hazel looked at her face, which was as unconcerned as usual, though she did keep worrying her bottom lip and smearing pink lipstick across her teeth. That was unusual. So she was concerned.
But Hazel also knew from experience that if she went to her mother the way Esther usually did, which meant directly and accusatory, it wouldn’t work. She had to approach her the way her father did. Like sneaking up on a panther having a drink in a stream.
Silently.
Carefully.
Any sudden moves and she might run off.
She picked a walnut off the top of the muffin and chewed. “Why were your fingerprints in Mrs. Martin’s room? Did you touch a violin?”
Her mother’s smile thinned into a line and she blew on her tea before she took a sip. “Of course not. What would I want to do with Roberta’s stupid violin? All that happened was we argued. I’m not even sure who told the sheriff about it. Probably one of those nosy teachers,” her mother said and smoothed her hands over her gauzy outer layer before taking a bite of muffin.
Hazel sighed and chewed on her own muffin. She didn’t bother with the tea. It wouldn’t pair well, no matter what her mother said. “It doesn’t sound like the sheriff has much to go on. But he said he found your fingerprints in the music room.”
Her mother’s chewing slowed. “Well, you know I go down to the school all the time. Helping here and there. I’ve had to step foot in the music room on occasion, but it’s not as if I make a habit of it. Mrs. Martin doesn’t want me there. Or she didn’t.”
That sounded more like it. “Are you sure there’s nothing else? No laxative incidents that I’m not aware of?”
“That was nearly thirty years ago! And no more laxatives. I promise.”
It was Hazel’s turn to worry her bottom lip. If the sheriff’s evidence was so slim, why was he keeping Hazel’s mother as a suspect? Either he didn’t have another one or there was a bit of evidence either he hadn’t shared, or her mother hadn’t.
Either one was possible.
“Have you told Esther?”
Her mother frowned. “No, and you won’t either. You know how she gets. She’ll get angry and then bake far too much and blame it on me. She’s already upset about your father being back in town, we can wait to tell her about this when it all blows over.”
It wasn’t that Hazel liked keeping things from her younger sister, but she understood where her mom was coming from. And agreed.
When Esther got in a mood, she often got very little sleep, and spent most of the time baking. Since she ran a bakery, it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but her mood baking also wasn’t quite as precise as her normal baking. Everything tasted fine, but she wasn’t particularly good at the frosting bit.
And she always said the customers cared about the look of the product as much as they did the taste.
“Fine. I won’t tell her, but if anything else comes up, you come to me right away. I already told Sheriff Cross I was looking into this independently, and he’s not happy with me. So, you’d better share every bit of information, promise?”
Her mother nodded and finished off her first muffin before dipping her hand into the box for a second. “Yes. And I’m glad you’re doing something with your free time. I’m not terribly sad about Roberta Martin’s demise, but I suppose murder is murder, and it shouldn’t go unsolved. You did so well on the last one,” she said with a smile.
Hazel shrugged. Michael had already said she got a look in her eye when it came to solving something, and Hazel wasn’t sure she felt that way or not. The last case had been personal, and so was this one.
“I’m doing this for you.” Hazel smiled and gave her mom a quick hug.
Then she slunk out of the shop. But as she came to the door, Tess whispered from her spot behind the counter. “Remember. Devils and angels.”
“Yes, devils and angels. Listen to what she says. She knows what she’s talking about,” her mother said and nodded sagely.
Hazel stepped out to the biting air. “She knows what she’s talking about, but nobody else does,” she muttered to herself.
Though it did remind her of her other errand involving an angel. Though, perhaps that’s what Tess meant. He might have the name Angel, but he didn’t seem like one in the least.
Chapter 9
Cedar Lodge stood halfway up the mountain above Cedar Valley and overlooked the expansive lake below it. Though, this late in the season, there weren’t many people staying there. Probably because the once powdery snow had turned into ice and was no longer fit to ski on.
Though Hazel didn’t really understand the specifics. Her family had never been one for winter sports. Or any sports in general.
The last time she’d been to the Lodge was for a party that had gone decidedly south, though she had to admit the food was good. Yet it also reminded her of working with Sheriff Cross, and it was the first time he’d ever given her an actual compliment which sounded like it came from the heart and not from some other place.
She shook that from her head and climbed out of her truck.
She’d called ahead, and found out that yes, Ambrose was staying at the Lodge. There wasn’t any other hotel in town that was quite as extravagant as this, so of course he was staying here. He was the sort of person who demanded extravagance in all things.
He hadn’t responded to Hazel’s email from the day before, or the voicemail she left on his phone, so she decided tracking him down in person was her next best bet. Beyond that, she might have to get the sheriff involved. Which, after the way she left things this morning, was even more awkward than it would’ve been normally.
The Lodge itself was old by Cedar Valley standards, mostly because the valley itself had been too difficult to get to until the advent of motor vehicles and paved roads. Which was in line with the rest of the Sierra Nevada, really.
Unlike its name, the Lodge wasn’t only made out of cedar, but more like a mix of cedar and pine. It was all exposed wood with a grand pointed roof that was green like the trees around it. They were both covered in snow now.
The warmth hit her as soon as she stepped in, and it smelled like floor polish and wood smoke. Large bouquets of out of season flowers sat around the lobby, and Hazel figured they got them from the local shop in town. Probably the flower shop’s biggest customer, if she thought about it.
She headed straight to the front desk. The man working was familiar, middle-aged with thinning hair on top and wearing a perfectly put together suit. “May I help you?”
“I’m looking for Ambrose Angel. It’s business related. I needed to shoot some extra photos of him, and he should be expecting me.” She tapped the camera that hung around her neck. It was the Pentax she kept in her truck, and not necessarily one she’d use to shoot portraits, but this concierge didn’t know that.
And it wasn’t quite a lie either because it was business-related. Just more monetary businessman than photo business.
“Oh. I haven’t seen Mr. Angel all day. Shall I call his room and tell him you’re coming?”
“Or you could give me the room number, and I’ll knock. I’m in a bit of a hurry, and I know how he is at answering his phone,” she said and tapped her fingers on the counter.
It was something her father had taught her when she was young. Pretend like you know exactly wha
t you want and what you’re doing, and other people will believe it. And here Sheriff Cross thought she was a terrible liar. Well, she was terrible at outright lying. But bending the truth was a bit easier overall.
“I usually shouldn’t give out customer rooms. But you’re right. He doesn’t answer his phone. Not even the room phone.”
Hazel raised her brows. “Tell me about it. It took him forever to get back to me about the photoshoot.”
“That’s nothing,” the concierge said, dropping his voice—probably because he shouldn’t be bad mouthing a customer. But Ambrose Angel had that effect on people. “He doesn’t even answer the door for room service half the time. He put a do not disturb sign on the door and then ordered.”
Hazel shook her head, as if she knew that was bad manners. She didn’t even remember staying in a hotel that had room service until she was an adult. Even then the exorbitant prices kept her from ordering anything. She’d rather go to a restaurant than pay seventy dollars for a steak.
He rattled off the room number and she thanked him before trotting for the elevator.
At least he wasn’t on the same floor that Simone Wilkins had been on. That would’ve been too much of a memory trip for one day.
No, Ambrose Angel wanted only the best. Therefore, he was staying on floor six, which were exclusively suites.
Hazel gasped as she stepped out of the elevator. There were bouquets of flowers on little fancy side tables, and far too many mirrors to be comfortable. They reflected back on each other and made the hallway seem longer and wider than it actually was. It would be interesting to photograph it, and she stopped and decided to snap a few pictures. The Pentax was better for outdoor photography and natural light, but she could manage.
She crouched to get a more interesting angle and snapped a few pictures. Something about it was familiar, almost like the hallway in The Shining but creepier. And she didn’t think that was possible. Of course, there weren’t any ghostly twins standing at the end. So, maybe it was slightly less creepy.
She turned the corner at the hall and saw a man she recognized, though he didn’t look like he belonged in the suites at Cedar Lodge.
He wore a brown puffy coat with a blue knit hat pulled over his head, so it took Hazel a moment to recognize him. He worked as the manager of the local grocery store, Super Food Plus, and she saw him often enough. Although she wasn’t much for grocery shopping.
He was stocky, tall, and always reminded her of the muscle in mobster films. Or perhaps a troll in human form.
Bobby Martin, Mrs. Martin’s only child.
A voice spilled out of the door. “I have as much right to be there as you. How dare you threaten me at a time like this,” Ambrose Angel’s voice cried. It reminded Hazel of the shrieks from the day before.
“You have no right to be there when you—” the man said to the cracked door and stopped when he noticed Hazel.
He was one of those people that were so ordinary they sort of blended into the crowd. Maybe his father was like that too—Hazel honestly couldn’t remember. Bill Martin had died ten years ago, but she thought he was a small man with a full head of hair, and she swore Bobby Martin was nearly bald.
“Oh, Hazel. What are you doing here?” the man said and smiled. He was about five or six years older than Hazel, she thought, and his face was lined in a way that suggested he had worked outside when he was younger. Probably in his father’s boat rental business, now that Hazel thought about it.
“I was paying Mr. Angel a visit. I’m so sorry about your mother,” Hazel said and tried to look as empathetic as possible.
Bobby Martin nodded. “Yeah, it’s such a shock. I hope the police find out who did it soon. I—I can’t imagine why anyone would want to do that to my mom,” he said and shook his head. His hands balled into fists and he shoved them into his coat pockets.
“I agree. And I want you to know that although our mothers didn’t get along, my mom would never have done anything to hurt Roberta.”
Bobby let out a huff. “I know. The sheriff said he was looking into a few leads and when he mentioned your mom, I told him not to bother. She’s a sweetheart. They had some silly rivalry I’ve never been able to figure out. I’ll leave you to your meeting.”
Hazel nodded and walked toward the door, which was still open a crack. Ambrose Angel’s eye peered out, streaks of blond hair hung around it, like he was some ghost in a Japanese horror flick.
As Bobby reached the elevator, he turned. “You spend a lot of time at the CATfeinated Café, don’t you?”
Hazel nodded. “I guess.”
A slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Well, maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”
Hazel shrugged and watched him disappear behind the elevator doors. Then she turned back to Mr. Angel’s room. He still hadn’t opened the door fully, but at least he hadn’t shut it either.
“Have you come to rub in my loss even more, like him,” Ambrose Angel said more melodramatically than Hazel thought warranted the current situation.
She forced herself to smile, though she was afraid it came out a bit thin. “No. I already said I was terribly saddened by your mentor’s loss. I actually came because you need to pay for the shoot yesterday. You took off before I could settle the bill with you.” Hazel pushed a slip of paper through the door.
Mr. Angel snatched it out of her hand with his long elegant fingers and the door crept open as he read over it. “Right. Of course. Hold on a moment,” he said and swept further into the room, the door standing ajar.
Hazel raised an eyebrow. He only wore a hotel robe, a plush terry cloth one in pure white with the little Cedar Lodge logo on the breast. He was wearing a pair of the Lodge’s slippers as well, though his heels hung off the end.
“You can come in, Ms. Hart,” Ambrose said and leaned over the table in the middle of the suite.
Hazel didn’t make it a habit of walking into stranger’s hotel rooms, but he was connected to Mrs. Martin. And clearing her mother’s name meant finding the other suspects who could have done it.
No matter how Ambrose Angel acted at word of Roberta Martin’s demise, it didn’t mean he hadn’t been the one to strangle her. In fact, he’d arrived in town the day before it happened. Which was all kinds of suspicious. Especially because he had heavy ties to the dead music teacher.
Well, she assumed.
Why else would he so upset? Like Celia had said, it sounded like he was hiding something, and Hazel intended to find out what.
She carefully stepped into the room, the carpet plush under her boots, and let the door click shut behind her. She had no weapons but her own wit and her fists. She hoped it was enough if he tried to kill her as well. But doing so in his own hotel room wasn’t the best idea.
Then again, murder wasn’t the best idea either.
Hazel wasn’t quite sure what she expected when it came to a suite at the Cedar Lodge, but this one exceeded whatever those expectations were in the first place. It looked to consist of several rooms—most of them filled with chairs and couches of some kind that were both ridiculously plush while still keeping with the rustic aesthetic. Lots of pine furniture and exposed beams, and the curtains were open to a small balcony covered in snow.
Still, the view snatched the breath from her throat. She could see all the way to the bright blue waters of Lake Celeste, the snowy trees sloping down gently toward the shore.
Her fingers itched to take a photo, but she wouldn’t open the door with Mr. Angel in only a robe. She hoped he had something on underneath.
“So how do you know Bobby Martin,” he said, an edge to his voice she hadn’t noticed before. He was fiddling with his wallet now, pulling out cash.
Good. Better than a check. Those could bounce.
“I don’t really. I mean, he’s the manager at Super Food Plus, so I see him every once in a while.”
“Well, I would like it known that he has been harassing me,” he said and handed her an envelope with
the money in it.
Hazel raised a brow and counted it before tucking it into her purse. Putting it in an envelope made it seem rather clandestine and less like a normal business dealing. Was this how they did things in New York? She doubted it.
“Do you want to tell Sheriff Cross about it?”
Ambrose waved his hand in that melodramatic manner. “Of course not. You think the police would listen to me?”
Hazel shrugged. “They might. Why did he come by?”
Ambrose swept himself to the suite’s mini fridge and opened it. He pulled out a mini bottle of Prosecco and worked to pop the lid. “To harass me, like I said. He knew I was looking forward to speaking with my old mentor. And he’s always been jealous. Sickly jealous of me our entire lives.” The cork popped free. “Would you like a glass?”
Hazel had the feeling he was only offering to be polite and not because he actually wanted to share his ridiculously expensive Prosecco that came from a hotel mini fridge. Plus, it was a bit too early for her to start drinking. “No thanks. What do you mean by jealous?”
“Didn’t you see him? Those stubby little fingers. He couldn’t even play the piano with those.” He took a long swig from the bottle, and Hazel raised an eyebrow.
In truth, she hadn’t noticed Bobby Martin’s hands. Though, she had to admit they probably weren’t as long or elegant as Ambrose’s own.
“So, he was jealous because he didn’t play any instruments? I didn’t know. Have you known him a long time?”
Ambrose took another long sip and hiccuped before he answered. “Ever since she became my tutor, when I was, let’s see, four or five. We’re about the same age, and he used to come to the lessons and watch. More like glower, actually. His beady little eyes staring daggers into me.”
Hazel nodded and glanced around the room. It wasn’t in any particular state of disarray, but it looked lived in. As if Ambrose Angel had flopped himself from chair to couch to other couch in an effort to get comfortable or to calm his grieving heart. Hazel didn’t know which was more accurate. “Has he ever been violent toward you?”