by Louise Lynn
Hazel hadn’t seen it, but she nodded and forced herself to smile. The killer dedicating his performance to the person killed. How crazy could one person get? “That’s so very kind of you. Did she leave you anything in her will?”
Ambrose’s smile hardened, and she swore she saw a crack in the edge of it, like a mask that had been tapped with a hammer. “I don’t know. The will reading hasn’t taken place yet. I believe it’s on Sunday at her home. I’m going to attend, obviously. Although Bobby Martin is making it more than difficult. Claiming I’m not family and have no right to be there. We both know how Roberta felt about that,” he said and rolled his eyes.
“How did she feel?” Hazel asked carefully and looked through the viewfinder of her camera again. It was pointed right at the chair where Ambrose would sit.
“She wasn’t exactly fond of him, to put it lightly. He didn’t take after her at all. Too much like his father, she always said.”
Hazel furrowed her brow. “Bill Martin?” She wasn’t sure why she was asking. Who else would Bobby Martin’s father be? But Bobby never reminded her of Bill, who had been a small and compact man with a head full of gray hair.
Ambrose gave her a long look. “I probably shouldn’t say anything since Roberta wanted to take the secret to her grave, but I’m sure it’s going to come out eventually.”
“What?” Hazel asked and felt her heart throbbing faster.
She knew Roberta had been having an affair with Joseph Warner starting two years after her marriage. And Bobby Martin was a few years older than Hazel herself, which meant that the affair had been going on before she got pregnant with Bobby. Perhaps during the time. And when she saw Joseph Warner’s face, she had noted the resemblance immediately.
Her mouth went suddenly dry.
“Bill Martin wasn’t his father. It was Joseph Warner,” she said and snapped her mouth shut.
Ambrose tapped the side of his nose. “I don’t think Bobby knows that yet. He could be in for a rude awakening if he tries to keep me away from that will reading. Roberta wasn’t going to leave me high and dry. Not after everything I did for her.”
Hazel felt a bead of sweat on her brow, and although she knew there were at least a few hundred people milling about outside the theater, the room they were in seemed completely desolate.
Only dim lights shone from above, casting the rows of chairs in shadow. Ambrose’s face was in the same kind of shadow, which made him look older and sharper than usual. Even with that ridiculous blond hair.
Still, this was her chance, and she wasn’t about to blow it. If he tried anything, she’d scream. That’s what she told herself.
She opened her mouth to ask about the New York Philharmonic, but before she got the chance the ushers threw open the main theater doors and began leading the audience inside.
Ambrose took that as his cue to duck behind the curtains. “Wish me luck!” he said over his shoulder.
“Break a leg,” Hazel mumbled more to herself than anything, and let out a frustrated sigh.
She kept her eyes on everyone who entered and saw a plethora of familiar faces. Celia, her parents, Esther and Ruth who sat near Tommy. Raj and the Kholi parents, with Raj’s young daughter, Ripa, between them.
Darla Mabel was there, throwing Hazel glances every once in a while, though she didn’t come over to say hello. Joanne Collins was whispering in everyone’s ear who would listen, probably telling lies about Hazel’s mother killing Roberta, if Hazel had to guess.
She glowered at the woman.
Kenneth Green was absent, and Hazel couldn’t blame him.
He was probably in shock since his shop partner was dead.
Bobby Martin came and sat in the corner of the front row, near Hazel herself, and she avoided his gaze as long as she could. It took her moment to realize who she was looking for.
Sheriff Cross.
And he wasn’t there.
“Where’s the sheriff?” Bobby Martin asked as the lights began to dim.
Hazel shrugged. “I had to work, so he’s probably at the office.” She went back to looking through the viewfinder.
She had the camera on the tripod for now, but she’d remove it once the concert started so she could get a series of dynamic photos.
Bobby made a rude sound. “The sheriff is probably busy working on Joseph Warner’s case too.”
“Probably,” she said, and told herself, silently, that she was not disappointed in the least. She was busy anyway.
The first part of the concert seemed to drag on forever. The owner of the theater came out to introduce everyone to Ambrose, tell his history and how he was dedicating his performance to Roberta Martin.
Hazel’s frown deepened, and she looked around the audience again.
Sheriff Cross should be here for this. Even if he was waiting for warrants or whatever it was he was doing, a murderer was in this building!
Then Ambrose Angel emerged with his violin case and set it carefully on the ground. With all the care of a mother for her infant, he unfastened the locks and pulled it out to rest under his chin.
As the concert began in earnest, Hazel snapped photos, the music twirling in the air around them like some sort of a spell.
The music would lead her to the truth.
Nonsense.
Yet, the more photos she snapped, the more she thought of the original murder scene. Roberta Martin’s violin was nearly as mutilated as her body. And the way Ambrose Angel was so careful with his own, would he have done that to her instrument to get back at her?
Or—
She didn’t know. But she didn’t doubt he was a talented violinist.
With every new soaring note, her emotions were tugged along behind it, even though she knew what he was.
Might be.
Was?
She wasn’t even sure herself anymore.
Would one of these photos be used on the Cedar Valley Post the next morning. The headline reading: Ambrose Angel Double Murderer?
But whoever had done this ripped a string from a violin. Ambrose was strong enough, but would he hurt an instrument like that? Watching him play, Hazel didn’t think so.
And why would he kill his meal ticket? That made no sense.
Then it struck her what Bobby Martin had said.
The sheriff is probably busy working on Joseph Warner’s case too.
How did he know about Joseph Warner’s murder? The Sheriff’s Office had done a good job of keeping that quiet for the day. And Sheriff Cross said he wasn’t going to release the information until after the concert.
Yet Bobby Martin knew.
Her heart thudded as the music picked up in tempo. Sweat beaded down her back. Was the theater really that warm? What should she do? Stop everything and point the finger at Bobby Martin?
She needed Sheriff Cross.
She needed time to think.
But she didn’t have any.
Ambrose played the final note and stood still, panting on stage, his blond hair hanging in a sheet around his face, and sweat beading on his brow.
Hazel found herself holding her breath with everyone else, and then the crowd leapt up into applause. The sound was deafening, and she found herself clapping along.
Then the theater goers slowly rose for the break at intermission, and Hazel was able to breathe again.
She wiped her palms on her dress and tried to catch someone’s eye. But her parents were talking amongst themselves, Ruth was yawning, and Ripa was sleeping. Esther and Celia were in a conversation with Tommy and Raj.
Everyone emptied out of the theater, and she looked around wildly for Bobby Martin. The chair he’d sat in was empty, but she saw the black curtain move and his oafish form strutting backstage.
“You can’t go back there,” she found herself saying, but he hadn’t heard.
She fumbled in her camera bag for her phone and called Sheriff Cross, but it went straight to voicemail. “You need to get here now. I was wrong. It wasn’t Ambrose. I
t’s Bobby.”
Then she ran backstage.
The back of the theater had more hallways than she thought was possible, and so much equipment. Where had they gone? She glanced down at the wide, open, backstage area and moved toward the hallway that looked most promising. When she heard voices, her heart beat faster.
“You have no right to be back here,” Ambrose said behind one of the doors.
Without thinking, Hazel burst into the room.
Ambrose sat in a chair in front of a vanity that looked like something from the 1930s with all of the oversized bare bulbs around it. He wiped the sweat from his brow and frowned at his reflection. “My dressing room isn’t a public bathroom,” he said scathingly and turned to look at them.
Bobby Martin was wearing a pair of black leather gloves and glaring daggers at both of them. “Why are you here, Hazel? You shouldn’t be here.”
Hazel swallowed the heavy lump in her throat and felt her mouth go dry. “You killed Roberta Martin and Joseph Warner,” she said and fought not to look away from his glare.
Bobby Martin laughed. “What reason would I have to kill my mother and my dad’s old friend? I—he’s the one who did it.” Bobby pointed at Ambrose, who sucked in a shocked breath of air and rose from his seat.
“Me? Why would I kill good old Roberta?”
Bobby Martin’s face twisted into a scowl. “Because you’d been blackmailing her for years, and she finally cut you off. And now you’re trying to get your hands on her will. It’s not going to happen. She didn’t leave anything for you.”
Ambrose had gone paler, if that were possible, and shook his head wildly. “Blackmail? I never blackmailed her. That’s preposterous.”
“It is,” Hazel said and stomped her foot so they’d look at her and not each other. “Roberta wasn’t being blackmailed by Ambrose. He was helping her blackmail Joseph Warner, isn’t that right, Mr. Angel?” The final bits of the puzzle clicked into place. It was the only way that argument with Joseph Warner made sense. “You fought with Joseph on Wednesday about money. And because Roberta was dead, he didn’t have to pay her any longer. But Ambrose couldn’t have that. You wanted the letters, so you could keep on blackmailing him.”
Ambrose shook his head, but his voice stuttered as he spoke. “I—I don’t have to listen to these wild accusations about blackmail. Why would I want to blackmail some old fisherman?”
“Because you lost your spot in the New York Philharmonic. I don’t know the details, but you haven’t played for them in ten long years, and you were devastated. Since Roberta was one of your biggest supporters, and she felt that her life here had taken away from her ability to do what you did, she was willing to support you. However, that support came at a price, didn’t it?”
She looked at Bobby.
He stood still as a statue and a vein in his neck throbbed. “I don’t know what you’re going on about. Mom and I got along fine. She–”
Hazel shook her head. “You didn’t. Ever since you were a child, she resented you. And you never really knew why, did you? She resented you because you held her here. And because of who your father was.”
Bobby Martin’s head snapped in her direction, “I know who my father was. He died ten years ago. So, you shut up,” he screamed.
Ambrose’s face twisted into a sick smile. “Bill Martin wasn’t your father. It was Joseph Warner. Whoops. Cat’s out of the bag!”
Bobby’s eyes widened. “No. She was screwing around with Joseph Warner for years, but he wasn’t my dad. He wasn’t my dad,” he said again—louder. As If repeating it would make it untrue.
He resembled Joseph Warner even more closely now. Hazel wondered how she hadn’t seen it before. They had the same wide mouth and nose. The same balding head. Even the same bad taste in coats. “He was your father, but you didn’t know that. You thought he just had an affair with your mother, so you blamed him. Which is the same reason you killed Roberta, isn’t it? Years of neglect at her hands. She always loved her instruments more than you. Then you find the letters and learned she was blackmailing someone and giving the money to Ambrose? You couldn’t take it anymore. That was your inheritance and it was all disappearing down the drain, right?”
Bobby Martin let out a vicious laugh and lunged at her.
Ambrose screeched, and Hazel stepped out of the way at the last moment, cradling her camera to her chest.
She was not going to get her expensive Nikon broken in a brawl with a murderer.
Suddenly, she understood how Ambrose felt. He never could’ve broken Roberta’s violin—he had too much respect for the instrument to do such a thing.
Bobby didn’t. Bobby never had.
He scrambled up off the floor and leapt toward Ambrose, who fell against the mirror and it cracked behind him.
Bobby’s eyes were crazed and wild, and his leather clad fingers gripped Ambrose’s throat and squeezed.
Hazel looked around.
If she ran, Ambrose might be dead by the time she got back. She had to do something!
Stop this.
But the only thing in the room was Ambrose’s violin case.
She picked it up and found it heavy and cumbersome.
Good.
That could do.
It would have to do!
She swung with all her might, and it came down on the back of Bobby Martin’s head.
He stood still for a moment, then slumped over and fell to the ground.
“My baby,” Ambrose shrieked and grabbed the case from her hands.
Then she heard a ruckus down the hall, and a familiar voice called her name. “Hazel? Where are you?”
She popped her head out of the dressing room and waved.
Sheriff Cross stared at her for a moment, his face full of concern, and charged toward her.
She stepped out of the way so the deputies could enter the room, and leaned against the wall as her nerves finally caught up with her. Her legs shook, and she took steadying breaths to calm her racing heart. “I don’t think the concert is gonna get its second half.”
Sheriff Cross shook his head and squeezed her shoulders. “Did you knock out another killer?”
“It’s the Hart signature move,” she said with a grin.
Then he got down to brass tacks and arrested the murderer.
Chapter 19
The following morning, the cover of the Cedar Valley Post featured two of Hazel’s pictures. One of Ambrose on stage with the headline: Blackmailer Cleared of Murder Charges.
The other of Bobby Martin looking wild in Ambrose’s dressing room, taken after the deputies slapped him in cuffs. It read: Double Murder Suspect Detained.
Not exactly the sort of press Ambrose Angel probably wanted for his first concert at Lake Celeste, but it was as good as he was going to get, considering.
At least it meant everybody stopped talking about her mother as a suspect in the murder. Cedar Valley’s mind changed quickly when the truth got out, and the fact that two of the town’s full-time residents had been murdered in less than a week was enough to stir up lots of gossip.
Though, overall, people were sadder about the fact that Joseph Warner was dead than they were about Roberta Martin.
It couldn’t be helped, Hazel thought.
She decided to open the studio late that morning, and blinked in surprise at who waited for her.
Ambrose’s blond hair was tied back from his face. His neck sported bruised handprints, but he was otherwise unharmed. He wore the same expensive watch, but he looked sheepish. A little shy, even.
“Mr. Angel. What can I do for you?” Hazel asked as she opened the studio since Michael had the day off.
“I, well, wondered if I could get copies of the photos you took last night. I can pay for the prints, obviously. I’m not destitute yet,” he said and laughed in a way that didn’t suit him.
She flipped the lights on as they stepped inside. “Yeah. I can do that. I take it you aren’t being arrested for anything?”
Hazel wasn’t sure if that was fair or not. Both Roberta and Ambrose had ruined Joseph Warner’s life for a long time, and ended up getting him killed, though in a roundabout sort of way.
Still, she wasn’t a cop—like Sheriff Cross would say.
It didn’t take long to pull up the photos from the night before and burn them onto a CD. They hadn’t been fixed, but they were workable as is. And she’d already decided to give him a slight, five percent, discount because of that.
“Are you really going on a US tour or was that a lie too?” Hazel asked as she handed over the CD.
Ambrose flinched. “I’m trying to put it together. I really do want to make up for what I’ve done and make Roberta proud. Nobody else knew her like I did. She understood music better than people, I think.”
Hazel smiled, and it was only a little forced this time. She remembered the pictures of Roberta in high school, smiling with Hazel’s mother, and wondered how that girl’s future could have been different.
Better.
It was too late for that now.
“Also,” Ambrose said as he pulled out a few bills to pay her. “I needed to thank you for saving my life last night. If you hadn’t been there, Bobby would’ve killed me.”
Hazel felt her cheeks heat and shrugged. “I did what I could. Just promise me no more blackmail or excessively expensive watches.”
Ambrose looked at his time piece and sighed. “I think I can do that.”
She watched him walk away, then, got back to work.
They had another family dinner planned for that night to make up for the one that was interrupted on Tuesday, and Esther had even offered to cook.
Hazel didn’t have to ask what the occasion was. Gratefulness, mostly, she decided. And made a point to stay out of Esther’s way until dinner was ready. Which meant she didn’t arrive at her parents’ house until close to seven p.m. Anthony Ray cuddled in her coat as she stepped inside.