Meowsical Death: A Hazel Hart Cozy Mystery Two

by Louise Lynn

  Under the bed?

  Not there.

  Closet?

  A quick glance told her there were no letters in there, and not even a box to store said letters in.

  With a heavy sigh, she tugged Anthony Ray to the last place in the house. It was a spare room that had been set aside for music. It was larger by far than Bobby’s bedroom had been by at least three times. A large window overlooked the front of the house, and the wispy white curtains were drawn back to let in the weak afternoon sunlight that filtered through the snow laden trees.

  A black piano sat at a jaunty angle in the far corner of the room, and the shelves were filled with more instruments than Roberta Martin had at the school. Several different violins, hand drums, a number of horns, and woodwinds.

  Did she play all of these instruments or did she collect them?

  Hazel didn’t know.

  And if she really was broke, like Ambrose said, this was probably where all her money went.

  Anthony Ray was more than happy to explore that area. He tugged himself free of Hazel’s grip on his leash and trotted up to the piano seat. Then, he jumped on top and started batting at something that poked out of the side.

  Hazel raised an eyebrow.

  Right.

  Piano benches often had a compartment inside to hold music and whatnot.

  It was worth a check.

  She carefully moved the cat out of the way and lifted the bench. The top layer was nothing but music sheets, and her heart sank. Then, she saw something handwritten poking out from under one of the sheets. As she shuffled it aside, she noticed it was a letter addressed to Roberta Martin.

  Carefully, trying not to wrinkle or rip any part of the envelope, she folded it back and pulled out the letter. It was yellow with age, handwritten in pencil so the words were slightly faded.

  It read:

  Roberta, my beloved.

  You’re far more beautiful than anything I can ever imagine. The moments I spend with you are the only moments I feel truly alive. And this game is killing me. Please, don’t hold out any longer. You know I’m a far better man than Bill.

  Love,

  Joey W.

  Hazel furrowed her brow. Well, that wasn’t a threatening letter. More like a love letter.

  And it was dated 1977. Before Hazel’s time, but that didn’t mean Roberta wasn’t married then.

  Rifling through the other papers, she came across more letters, most of them love letters from the same Joey W. All of them more forlorn than the next. And yes, it quickly became clear that Roberta Martin had been having an affair with this man. And one of them had eventually called it off—though it looked like Joey had been the one to do so.

  But she didn’t find any threatening letters, not really. The last letter from Joey W. was dated 1989, over ten years since their love affair started, and it stated only:

  Please, stop doing this. If you insist, my life will be ruined. I’ll do anything to prevent it. Anything.

  What had Roberta Martin said to threaten Joey W? Whatever it was, it sounded like a good motive for murder.

  As she gathered up every letter she found to take them down to Sheriff Cross, Anthony Ray jumped into the window and let out a meow.

  “You can’t go out there right now. This isn’t your yard.”

  He answered with another meow, and she walked over to retrieve him.

  That’s when she noticed the figure tucked behind the trees.

  Her heart jumped into her throat. The last time she saw a mysterious figure it hadn’t gone well. Though this one wasn’t wearing a black hoodie. Instead they wore a green puffy jacket and an old blue trucker hat.

  Bobby Martin?

  The build was right—all bulk made bulkier by the puffy coat.

  But he didn’t have a reason to hide.

  She snatched Anthony Ray and hurried downstairs.

  “Sheriff? I found something interesting. And there’s someone out there.”

  Sheriff Cross sat at the kitchen table with a pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose, he started when she rounded the corner and quickly snatched them away and tucked them into his front pocket.

  Hazel couldn’t help the slight smile that slid across her lips. She thought he might wear glasses, and she was right.

  “Who? Bobby Martin?”

  Hazel shrugged, and Sheriff Cross stood up. “Stay here. And if you’re going to read those, don’t touch them without gloves.”

  Of course, he would say that. As if she didn’t know.

  She checked to make sure the back door was locked, it was, before she set her letters near whatever he’d been looking at. And that quickly became clear.

  He’d found the jackpot of threatening letters, but he hadn’t had a long enough time to look through them. These weren’t in as good condition as the ones she had. They were wrinkled and torn in some places.

  Still, Hazel found a few written in the same handwriting as Joey W, though he no longer signed his name or made any professions of love.

  They mostly said things like:

  How dare you think you can keep holding this over my head. It happened twenty years ago. Haven’t you been ruining my life long enough? I’ve given you all the money I have. What more do you want?

  If you keep this up, you’re going to be sorry.

  I’m done. You’ve been warned.

  Another was in handwriting that wasn’t like Joey W’s, because while his was blocky and heavy-handed, this was a light and swoopy cursive. A hand that Hazel recognized all too well.

  Her mother’s handwriting.

  The envelope it came in was unmarked, and the letter said:

  All bad deeds eventually come to light. I’d be careful, if I were you.

  And another read: You miserable old toad. You know what you did, and I’ll never forgive you for it.

  And finally: You like to pretend you’re holier than thou? Just remember, I know the truth about you, Roberta. The nasty, ugly truth that you try to hide, but it oozes out of your pores every day when you look in the mirror. Your bitterness overflows in everything you do, and if you keep this up, it’s going to get you killed someday.

  Hazel sunk into the chair and Anthony Ray butted his head against her legs.

  Why?

  Why did he have to find this?

  Especially with Sheriff Cross’s order to not hide evidence ringing in her ears. She couldn’t snatch the letters away and pretend she’d never seen them.

  Or burn them.

  That was definitely a crime.

  Not that they were completely incriminating, but they also didn’t shine favorably either.

  Before she could come up with a plan of action that didn’t include run and hide, the front door banged open and more than one set of footsteps clomped in.

  “If you don’t settle down, I’ll arrest you right now. Answer my question. Why are you sneaking around?” Sheriff Cross grumbled.

  Hazel peeked around the corner, and her brow furrowed. She recognized not only the puffy coat and blue trucker hat, but also the old man who wore them. He wasn’t Bobby Martin, but she knew he was bald under the hat. And he and Bobby had a similar nose and flat, wide mouth that always reminded Hazel of a bass. “Joseph Warner? What are you doing here?”

  His beard bristled the way her father’s did as he moved his lips back and forth, and his shoulders slumped forward. “Wanted to tell Bobby Martin I was sorry about his mother’s passing,” he said and tilted his chin up.

  “You know this man?” Sheriff Cross asked and looked at her across Joseph Warner’s hat.

  Hazel nodded. “Yeah, he runs the fishing shop with Kenneth Green. But—oh!”

  Anthony Ray pawed at her leg, as if he were trying to get her to remember something.

  Joey W.

  Joseph Warner.

  If he was here, it couldn’t be a coincidence.

  And even better, it gave her some time to sort out the other letters before Sheriff Cross came to the wr
ong conclusion about them.

  “I know why he’s here, and I don’t think it has anything to do with Bobby, does it?” Hazel said and picked up the pile of letters they’d found. “You’re Joey W, and you were having an affair with Roberta Martin, and she was blackmailing you about it.”

  Chapter 14

  The cold morning air froze Hazel’s face until it felt like a mask. She’d gotten to the trail a few minutes early to give herself time to think and was beginning to regret that decision now. The hat pulled low over her ears and forehead didn’t seem to combat the cold at all. The only thing that kept her entire body from turning into an icicle shaped Hazel was the thermos of coffee in her gloved hands. And even it was rapidly cooling.

  She was jittery with the caffeine; the thermos was her third or fourth cup. She’d lost count at some point.

  Anthony Ray sat huddled in his own kitty-sized sweater and he hadn’t bothered wandering off into the trees yet. Though he did keep batting at the snow with one of his oversized paws.

  Truthfully, the day before hadn’t gone as she had anticipated after they found Joseph Warner wandering around Roberta’s old house. He’d refused to say anything about the incriminating letters, and Sheriff Cross had taken him in for questioning.

  And Sheriff Cross promised Hazel he was going to hold Joseph as long as he could.

  But last Hazel heard, Joseph wasn’t talking.

  Though, while Sheriff Cross had been busy with that, it gave Hazel time to shuffle the letters around and place the ones written by her mother at the bottom. At least the sheriff’s suspicion was pointed in another direction until Hazel could explain why her mother sent those letters in the first place.

  She’d thought about it all night and hadn’t come up with a reasonable explanation yet.

  And now, she’d have to talk to her father about it before she broached the subject with either Esther or her mother.

  Esther would be furious, and her mother would, well, Hazel honestly didn’t know what she’d do. Not outright lie, but make it seem like it wasn’t a big deal when it may have been bigger than she let on.

  Her father didn’t do things like that, which was why Hazel had to talk to him first.

  He arrived on time, the old truck belching into place beside Hazel’s new one. He climbed out, as insulated against the cold as she was, with one of his old film Nikons slung around his neck.

  Hazel shook her head. She had her newer and rugged Pentax around her neck. While she loved her Nikon, it was a lot more sensitive than this camera. And in the cold, wet weather, she wasn’t about to chance getting it ruined.

  “I didn’t expect you to be here first,” her dad said and gave her a warm hug.

  Hazel shrugged. “If I wasn’t first, I’d no doubt be late. Plus, I couldn’t sleep last night.”

  Her father’s eyebrows, bushier than they’d been when she was a girl, danced above his eyes, and he ushered her down the trail towards Lake Celeste.

  This time of year, it was mostly covered in several inches of snow, but it dipped in and out of the trees and was easy enough to follow, if you knew where it was.

  Hazel did.

  This was the trail they’d always taken when she was young. One of her favorites. It didn’t only wind down to the lake itself, but through the towering mix of cedar and pine, past a beautiful meadow—where it was easy to spot deer and other animals—and it even went by a small lake. Though, to call that body of water a lake seemed silly when Lake Celeste was right there. It was really more of a pond, in Hazel’s view.

  However, at this time of year, everything seemed frozen in time. No deer were out in the meadow, sporting their furry winter coats, and the pond was frozen solid enough to ice skate on, if one were so inclined.

  Hazel was not, but she could see the spots where people had in the weeks past.

  They walked in companionable silence, Anthony Ray picking his way through the snow, his belly dragging. They stopped to snap photos when something caught one of their eyes.

  Like a single red-breasted bird crying from a tree.

  Hazel snapped a dozen photos of the robin and smiled. That was a sure sign spring was coming, if the robins were returning.

  The brash and boisterous Stellar jays also cried from the surrounding trees. They were beautiful, with their black heads and top-knots that gave way to a bright blue body. Though, when she had a bunch of them on her roof and was trying to sleep, it could get annoying.

  Finally, they arrived at the lake, the ice at its edge was melting back, another sure sign of spring, and no matter how many times Hazel had seen it, her breath always snagged in her throat a little.

  She snapped a handful of photos, crouching and bending and moving until the light was right on the brilliant jewel blue surface.

  After they both shot their fill, her father patted her on the back. “So, why couldn’t you sleep last night? Does it have to do with this trouble with the sheriff?”

  Hazel worried her bottom lip. It was entirely possible her father didn’t even know about the letters. Then again, it was also possible he did. Hazel nodded and told him what she found the day before.

  He stared off at Lake Celeste, his eyes a little unfocused, and drew in a sharp breath. “Oh, that sounds like your mother. And while I’m sure she could explain it better than I can, I still think there’s something you need to see.”

  Hazel furrowed her brow. “It’s not bloodied gloves, is it?”

  Her father snorted, and his breath came out as a white puff. “Hazel, I hope you know your mother better than that. No. But it does have something to do with Roberta Martin, years before you were born.”

  The knot in Hazel’s stomach tightened, and her curiosity piqued at the same instance. She knew there was a reason that her mother and Roberta had never gotten along, and maybe this was it.

  Maybe it could help clear her mother’s name too.

  She drove behind her father back to the house, in case his old truck didn’t make it home, but they arrived without incident. Her mother’s hatchback was still parked under the carport, and that knot tightened again.

  She sucked in a breath and climbed out of the truck with Anthony Ray bundled in her arms. His paws felt like ice, though he didn’t shiver.

  The house smelled like one of her mother’s awful tea mixtures and overly sweetened oatmeal. Her stomach grumbled, she wished it hadn’t. Perhaps they should’ve stopped at Esther’s bakery for a muffin, but no. She could do with something like oatmeal. As long as her mother hadn’t already ruined it.

  Maureen Hart’s eyes lit up when they turned the corner and she bustled forward in layers of green and purple gauziness and gave her husband a kiss on the cheek. “Hazel. What a surprise. Good thing I made a big pot. I’m awful at figuring out how much oatmeal to make. The directions say one to two servings and they only give you a teeny little bowl. Who only wants to eat half a cup of oatmeal for breakfast?”

  Hazel set Anthony Ray down and looked at the pot. It had boiled over on the sides, and she instantly knew where her lack of cooking instincts came from. Where Esther got hers, she didn’t know.

  At least someone in their family was a good cook though.

  “I don’t know, mom. But I guess I can salvage this.”

  Her father didn’t say anything, but she noticed him duck away upstairs, hopefully to get what she needed to see.

  Anthony Ray settled on her lap as she forced herself to down a bowl of oatmeal with too much honey mixed in. It stuck to the roof of her mouth, and her mother poured her a cup of coffee to help with it.

  “We have orange juice too. The kind you like with lots of pulp. Let me get some,” she said and did that.

  Hazel took a long gulp and gave her mother an exasperated look. “The sheriff is going to want to talk to you again. We were in Roberta Martin’s house yesterday, and I found something you sent her.”

  Her mother froze, and her face worked into a few different contortions before finally smoothing out. �
��Oh. Those. I didn’t know she would’ve kept them. She never acted as if she received them.” Her mother poured her own cup of coffee.

  “They look threatening. And even if Joseph Warner’s the one who did this, Sheriff Cross is still going to talk to you about it. Why were you sending her threatening anonymous letters?”

  Her mother let out a sigh and sunk into a seat across from Hazel. It was the same old round kitchen table she remembered as a child, scrapes and all, though her mother had covered it up with a rainbow knit tablecloth. There was a burn hole in one side—Hazel had no idea where that came from—and she poked her finger through it.

  “What makes you think Joseph Warner did this?”

  “Maybe because he was having an affair with Roberta?” Hazel said, and her voice rose at the end the way Esther’s would have if she were here confronting her mother about this very thing. Hazel snapped her mouth shut and glowered.

  Her mother waved her hand as if it were nothing. “Oh, I doubt Joseph Warner did this. Yes, they were having an affair. It was a dreadful thing for Roberta to do to her poor husband. But if Joseph put up with Roberta’s nastiness all these years, I don’t see why he’d murder her now.”

  Hazel frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Just then, her father padded into the room with an album clutched to his chest. “Here it is. Took me a while to find it. Buried at the bottom of the box.”

  Her mother’s eyes narrowed behind her oversized glasses. “That old thing? You don’t have to show that to Hazy.” She made a motion to snatch at it, but her father pulled it out of her grasp and set it down in front of Hazel.

  “No, I think I do. This whole situation has gotten out of hand. Roberta dead. The police involved. Maureen, just because you don’t like the past, doesn’t mean you can change it.”

  There. Sensible dad. Just the person she needed. Still, as Hazel flipped open the album, her heart throbbed. What would she find?

  A photo of her mother stared back at her, young and fresh-faced. Her arm was draped around that of a thin young woman with a grin.

  Roberta Martin.

  Hazel blinked several times. She’d never seen her mother or Roberta look happy in each other’s company. Not once. And yet, when they were young, teenagers or just beyond, they had draped their arms around each other and taken this photo.