Bell, Book & Candlemas

by Jennifer David Hesse

  I stiffened at Mila’s words. She glanced up quickly and let go of my hands. An apologetic look crossed her face.

  “All right then,” she said. “I think our time is up. Do you have any questions?”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m good. Thank you for the readings.”

  I stood up and grabbed my purse before Farrah could ask any questions. I was ready to leave.

  Chapter 19

  After leaving Moonstone, Farrah and I hopped on over to the Loose Rock, our favorite nightspot. Over bruschetta and beer, we discussed our palm readings.

  “That was actually very cool,” Farrah said. “Do you think the lines on our palms really revealed everything Mila told us? Or is she just extremely perceptive?”

  “Probably a little bit of both,” I said. “She interpreted the lines using her natural psychic abilities.”

  “Hmm.” Farrah gazed out over the empty dance floor. “You know what? I think you were right about Mila. She didn’t strike me as a murderer. In fact, she was quite lovely.”

  Inwardly, I thanked the Goddess and breathed a sigh of relief. “You see why I want to help her now? I don’t know what’s going on, but it looks like someone is trying to drive her out of business.”

  “Could be,” Farrah said. “So when the dark threats and property damage didn’t work, somebody decided to frame her for murder?”

  I scrunched up my face. “I don’t know. Maybe? But get this—yesterday Mila told me she’s getting creepy phone calls now, too. The caller is saying someone else is going to die if she doesn’t permanently close her shop by Saturday.”

  Farrah widened her eyes. “Are you kidding me? I just got massive goose bumps. That is so freaky. How was she so calm tonight?”

  “I know. I think she’s trusting in a higher power, or something.” I tore my napkin into little pieces of confetti on the table. “I was really hoping to solve this thing, but time is running out.”

  Why is the deadline on Candlemas anyway? Does the killer know it’s a Wiccan sabbat?

  Farrah tapped her fingernails on the side of her beer bottle. “Time hasn’t run out yet. Tell me—who are the suspects again?”

  “Well, one of them could be Yvette’s mystery client.” I told Farrah about my lunch with the real estate agent. We agreed it seemed odd that she wouldn’t reveal her client.

  “After all,” said Farrah, “if the person ends up buying the place, his or her identity will be a matter of public record. What’s the point of keeping it a secret now?”

  “I know, right?” I finished off a piece of bruschetta and wiped my fingers on what was left of my napkin. “You know, here’s another thing I wonder. Who were the prior owners of Mila’s shop? And who handled the sale? I’m still thinking about who else might have had a key.”

  “I can look that up,” Farrah said. “I might have time tomorrow.”

  I was about to tell Farrah about Tish’s apparent disdain for Mila when two guys approached our table. The taller one slid into the booth next to Farrah.

  “I thought we might find you here,” he said. He reached over and grabbed her glass of beer, tipped it toward me in a salute, and took a swig.

  Farrah rolled her eyes. “Next round’s on Jake,” she said, brushing the floppy bangs off his forehead.

  I scooted over to make room for the other guy, a burly young man with light brown hair, whom I recognized as Jake’s friend, Dave. He was the police officer who had helped me out over the summer as a favor to Farrah.

  “Catch any thieves lately?” he asked me with a grin.

  “I’m working on it,” I said, smiling back at him.

  “Actually, don’t.” His grin fell away. “Unless you’re thinking of joining the police force.”

  “Now there’s an idea,” Farrah joked. She signaled a waitress to bring two more beers, then turned to Dave. “So what’s with all the crime in Edindale lately? Do y’all have any leads, or what?”

  “You know I can’t comment on pending investigations,” Dave said. “However, I can tell you about my theory on crime.”

  “Here we go. . . . ” Jake chuckled and took another drink from Farrah’s beer bottle.

  Dave folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. “It’s almost always about greed,” he said. “Any crime—you name it. The root is greed.”

  “Arson,” said Farrah, giving Dave an arch look.

  “Greed for power and notoriety,” Dave said. “See, greed is just a supremely selfish desire for something. It’s usually money. Think of theft, embezzlement, fraud, et cetera. But it can also be greed for other things, like sex or power or control.”

  “What about murder?” I said. “The motive for murder can’t always be greed.”

  “No, not always,” said Dave. “It can be hatred or revenge, or some other warped emotion. But greed is right up there, like I said.”

  The waitress brought beers for everyone and a fresh plate of bruschetta. I wasn’t sure if I agreed with Dave’s theory, but it was interesting to consider. My thoughts drifted back to the anonymous notes Mila had been receiving.

  “Hey,” I said, “have any of you heard of the First Church of the New Believers?”

  They all gave me blank looks.

  “The pastor is this outspoken dude who calls himself ‘Reverend Natty.’”

  “Oh!” said Dave. “You mean Brother Nat?”

  “Brother Nat?” I looked from Dave to Jake.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Jake, nodding. “I remember him. He used to stand on the quad at SCIU yelling through a bullhorn. He harassed students as they walked by, calling them sinners for drinking and fornicating.”

  “Nice,” Farrah said sarcastically.

  Jake laughed. “What a nutcase. That was a few years ago, though. Is he still doing that?”

  “If he’s the same guy I’m talking about, he has his own church now. And he’s still against drinking, among other things.”

  “To Brother Nat,” Dave said, lifting his beer.

  “To Brother Nat,” Jake echoed.

  We clinked bottles, then moved on to other topics of conversation. Yet, in the back of my mind, I kept wondering about the person harassing Mila. What was that person’s motivation?

  * * *

  When I came home from the Loose Rock, I should have been tired. It had been a long day, both at work and afterward. But my thoughts wouldn’t slow down. I couldn’t stop thinking about murderers and vandals and thieves. Oh my.

  To relax my mind, body, and soul, I decided to do some yoga. I dragged my coffee table to the edge of the living room and rolled out my yoga mat in the center of the floor. I started with some standing poses, stretching my arms to the sky and breathing in rhythm with each move.

  I wonder what Wes is doing right now?

  Dave had insisted on giving me a ride home. He was a nice guy—he talked about his two little boys, a toddler and a baby, the whole way. There wasn’t a hint of flirtation, which I appreciated. However, if anyone had observed me being dropped off by the nice-looking off-duty cop, they might assume I was coming home from a date. If Wes saw, would he care?

  Sighing, I lowered myself to the floor for some easy forward folds. As I held each posture, my mind drifted back to the night Farrah and I found Charlie’s body at Moonstone. I shuddered at the memory.

  I sat up straight and crossed my legs for a seated spinal twist. Inhaling, I lengthened my back. Exhaling, I twisted gently to the right. After a few seconds, I switched sides and twisted to the left. As I looked over my left shoulder, my eyes fell upon the stack of books on the end table next to my sofa. On top of the stack was the booklet Farrah gave me the day before we conducted our late-night reconnaissance of downtown Edindale. I untwisted from the pose, shook out my legs, then crawled over to the end table to retrieve the book.

  I read the title: Twentieth Century Edindale: A Pictorial History. I had been so preoccupied during the week, I hadn’t had a chance to look at the booklet. Now, I leaned against the sofa and fl
ipped through the pages.

  It was a neat little compilation. I especially liked the oldest photos showing the early town citizens in their charming hats, often standing outside next to horses and buggies or Model Ts. Some of the most striking photos showed the working-class folks: a group of somber coal miners after a hard day’s work, a class of barefoot children next to their one-room schoolhouse.

  Most of the pictures featured the town’s businesses. There was the first general store, the old movie theater, and a few long-gone manufacturing companies. On a couple of pages, Farrah had inserted sticky notes. Next to the picture of a 1920s cigar shop, the note attached said, “now Handbags and More.” And next to a photo of a former tavern, the note said, “now Gigi’s Bar and Grill.”

  As fascinating as the book was, I yawned and rubbed my eyes. I should be able to sleep now. I thumbed through the remaining pages to see if there were any more sticky notes. There weren’t, but something else jumped out at me. It was the word commune.

  I flipped back to the section covering the 1960s to the 1970s and searched for the word again. When I found it, my heart skipped a beat. In the midst of photographs showing soda fountains and discos, wide lapels and bell-bottoms, there was a snapshot at the entrance of a farm. According to the hand-drawn sign, it was the “Happy Hills Homestead.” The caption stated it was an experimental commune on the edge of Shawnee National Forest. Three smiling young people stood in front of the sign, next to a brightly painted boulder. Two women and a man, each with long hair and ruddy cheeks.

  Based on photos I had seen in my mother’s old scrapbooks, I would have bet my bottom dollar one of the women was Josie O’Malley—aka Aunt Josephine.

  Now I was more curious than ever about what my mom had discovered relating to Aunt Josephine. I couldn’t wait to receive the package she had sent—and to send her a copy of this photo.

  On the downside, I was also wide awake again.

  Chapter 20

  As I cut through Fieldstone Park on my walk to work Friday morning, I remembered what Father Gabe had said about Charlie people watching from a bench somewhere in the park. On a whim, I changed course and made my way over to Clarke Street on the north side of the park.

  Green painted benches appeared every few yards along the broad sidewalk. Which one did Charlie favor? My question was immediately answered when I observed a flock of pigeons congregating around one bench more than the others. I walked over to the bench and sat down.

  “Sorry, guys,” I said to the birds. “I’ve got nothin’ for you.”

  And your bread-crumb supplier won’t be coming back, I thought sadly.

  I gazed around, taking in the Charlie’s-eye view. The morning air felt cool on my face, but the bright sun made me wish I had brought sunglasses. Traffic was moderate on Clarke Street. A school bus passed by, as well as a few cars carrying commuters to work. Pedestrians were sparse on the sidewalk in front of me. I saw only one jogger and one dog walker in the five minutes I spent sitting on Charlie’s bench.

  Why did he have to die? Did he see something he shouldn’t have? Or was he just a convenient scapegoat?

  For the next few minutes, I sat on the bench wondering about Charlie’s whereabouts the previous Sunday night. Before long, I was reminded of the extra-large green juice I downed for breakfast and recalled seeing a small sign pointing to the public restrooms. Might as well take advantage of the facilities before heading on to work. I knew the city park amenities were usually well maintained.

  With a backward glance at the pigeons, I left Charlie’s bench and followed a concrete path to a pavilion featuring picnic tables, a park directory, and a ramp leading to an underground shelter. At the bottom of the ramp were the public restrooms, as well as a door labeled PARK OFFICE. To the left was a pedway leading to an underground parking garage for city maintenance equipment.

  When I came out of the restroom, I paused outside the door to the park office. The glass window was dark. It occurred to me that Charlie had probably frequented the facilities here, considering how much time he used to spend outside.

  I took a few tentative steps down the pedway as an idea began to take shape in my mind. Along the concrete wall were several metal grates approximately three feet high by four feet long, fastened by old, rusty screws. Except for one grate, which was held in place with four shiny, silver screws. Frowning, I peered through the slats, but it was too dark to see anything.

  A noise behind me caused me to jerk my head around. A young man in torn jeans and a ragged sweatshirt appeared at the bottom of the ramp and went into the men’s room. I took that as my cue to get going.

  Once back up in the sunlight, I walked downtown as rapidly as I could. Along the way, I pulled out my phone and called Farrah.

  “What’s the story, morning glory?” she said upon answering.

  “Hey, can you stop by my office today by any chance?”

  “I can be there in half an hour. Does that work?”

  “Yeah, that would be perfect. Oh, and bring your iPad. I want to take a look at that map you made, the one that points out all the burglary locations.”

  * * *

  When Farrah arrived at my office, we had to talk quickly before my 10:00 client meeting. I ushered her inside and closed the door. She pulled out a sheet of paper from her purse and set it on my desk.

  “I printed out the map,” she said, taking the seat across from me. “Should we tack it to your corkboard and mark it up with colorful pushpins?”

  “Like in the movies?” I grinned. “That won’t be necessary. However, I do want to draw on it.”

  I took a pencil from my desk drawer and drew a faint line connecting all the businesses that had been robbed. Then I continued the line to Moonstone Treasures. Finally, I made an X on Fieldstone Park and another on the street between the courthouse and the county jail.

  Farrah watched me mark up the map, then looked at me with raised eyebrows. “What are you thinking, captain?”

  “I’m thinking maybe the burglar is breaking in from the inside.”

  “An inside job like the police indicated?”

  “No. More like an underground job.” I pointed at the map with my pencil. “See how there’s a relatively straight line connecting all the businesses? What if there’s a tunnel under there? Just like the tunnel here—from the jail to the courthouse—and here, in the pedway to the park’s underground garage.”

  “Ooh!” Farrah’s eyes gleamed. “Ingenious! So we’re looking for a mole person.”

  She scratched the back of her head. “Wait. Wouldn’t all these businesses know if there was a tunnel into their buildings?”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “Not if the tunnel is secret. These are all old buildings. I imagine the tunnel, if there is one, would predate all of the current occupants.”

  I studied the map again. “Any guess why someone would create a secret tunnel?”

  “Underground railroad?” Farrah said.

  I took the pencil and drew another X on the map, this time on the edge of the paper, about two miles from the downtown business district. I wrote “Cadwelle Mansion” next to the X. “How about for smuggling bootlegged liquor?”

  Farrah’s eyes grew wide. “Of course! The original owner of the B&B was a bootlegger!”

  My desk phone buzzed. The caller ID display told me it was Julie. “My client is probably here,” I said. “What’s your afternoon like?”

  “I’m giving a guest lecture on legal research techniques at the law school,” Farrah said. “But I’ll be there less than two hours. Why?”

  “Think you could do some research of your own? Like maybe check city and county records to see what the government knows about what lies beneath Edindale?”

  “You bet.”

  “I’d also like to know what year the tunnel to the courthouse was constructed,” I added.

  “You got it, Daphne,” she said, folding the map and re-placing it in her purse. “If my knowledge of history is correct, tha
t tunnel was probably dug in the early part of the twentieth century.”

  “You’re the best, Velma,” I said, as I opened my office door.

  “So, shall we meet up at the Loose during happy hour and compare notes?” Farrah asked.

  “Sure thing. Unless . . . ”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless I can get Wes to let me stay with him at the B&B tonight. I really want to get a closer look at that speakeasy.”

  “Ooh. An overnighter at a B&B. How very ‘coupley’ of you. Maybe the psychic was right.”

  “Maybe.” I didn’t know whether to frown or grin at the idea.

  Guess I’ll wait and see how Wes reacts.

  * * *

  “You want to join me on my assignment?”

  I had called Wes right after my last client meeting of the day. It wasn’t easy to concentrate on work with the dark deadline looming. Now I sat at my desk gazing out the window at the street below. Although the late afternoon sun cast long shadows, I was heartened to note that the daylight hours were noticeably longer. Tomorrow I would have to find time to officially welcome the return of the light in my own private Candlemas celebration.

  “I need a cover,” I said to Wes. “An excuse to snoop around the B&B. I figured no one would think it odd if you brought your girlfriend along for the evening.”

  There. I said it.

  I held my breath as I waited for Wes to respond.

  If he hesitated, it was only for a second. “True. I’d love to have you come along. But I still don’t understand why you want to snoop around.”

  Yes! I twirled in my chair. Then I filled Wes in about my tunnel theory.

  “I think Charlie found the tunnel, Wes. Remember you said his last song was ‘Down in the Valley’ mixed up with ‘Down Down Baby’? He could have gone down the ramp to the Fieldstone Park restrooms and then heard something that prompted him to crawl through a grate, leading him further down into a tunnel. He probably even did it more than once.”

  And then he was caught. I swallowed as I recalled the appearance of Charlie’s body when Farrah and I found it. The back of his suit and head were black, as if he had been dragged through dirt.