by Louise Lynn
Though, the last time they’d stumbled across a dead body together, Violet hadn’t reacted quite that badly. But she hadn’t known the victim either.
Or been a fan of his.
The fact that Dominic Dane was a disgusting sleaze didn’t make it any easier to think of him as dead.
Hazel put on a strong pot of coffee and dished up Anthony Ray’s breakfast, squishing it in his special stainless steel dish with some warm water—just the way he liked it. He gobbled the whole thing in a few minutes, licked his chops, and then went to a spot near the back door to watch for his enemy the skunk.
Like the rest of the businesses in Cedar Valley, Celia’s café, CATfeinated, wasn’t running its normal hours, which meant Hazel had to fend for herself at home for once.
Fending for herself involved either the toaster or a bowl of cereal. Today it was the latter.
She was halfway through with her Raisin Bran when Violet drifted out of the guest bedroom. She wore a long white robe made of some silky material over her normal pajamas. It nearly dragged the ground, and Hazel raised an eyebrow. That was not Violet’s typical style in the least. It looked like it had belonged to a woman closer to Hazel’s own age, and with a start, she realized it had likely been Violet’s mother who used to wear it.
The girl’s eyes were still bloodshot, but the color had returned to her cheeks, and she didn’t look nearly as drawn or as devastated as she had the night before. “I forgot to bring my cereal over, so can I eat some of yours? I can pay you back,” she said.
Hazel shook her head. “Not a problem. Cereal is in that cupboard and bowls are over there. You know where the milk is. Do you like coffee?”
Violet blinked at that. “I love coffee, but Uncle Colton is, you know. Himself.”
Hazel sighed and nodded. Sheriff Cross was indeed, himself, whatever that meant. She pointed at another cupboard. “Mugs. You can have one cup, how’s that?”
Violet gave her a grateful smile and set about readying her own breakfast. To Hazel’s surprise, Violet took her coffee black the same way Sheriff Cross did, and that little nugget of information brought a smile to her lips.
Maybe the problem with them was they were a little bit too much alike instead of being too different. She hadn’t looked at it that way before. But it’s what caused strife between Esther and their father as well, though much of that had been smoothed over in the past few months due to their combined efforts.
As Hazel finished her cereal, Anthony Ray hopped into her lap and yowled, demanding at least a spoonful of milk.
With a sigh, Hazel obliged him.
When he was done, he smacked his lips and walked back to look out for his enemy.
Violet gave him a quick scratch on the head as he went towards the back door, and she settled down across from Hazel. They sat in silence for a while, Hazel nursing her cup of coffee and mentally going over all the things she had to do that day, if she still had to do them that was.
Cedar Valley never canceled the Shakespeare Festival before, even in the wake of tragedy. Though, as far as she could remember, no one had ever been murdered in the middle of a play either. Though there had been drownings in the lake during the festival, but this was decidedly different.
She also needed a way to explain to her father and assistant that she would not be wearing that corset for another twelve-hour day. Even two hours was too long. She was sure her ribs were bruised from it, though maybe that was an exaggeration.
Or had something to do with having to climb the ladder and take photos of the severed cable while wearing the blasted thing.
Violet finished a bowl of cereal, and half her coffee before she said anything. But when she did, it was enough to draw Hazel from her own thoughts. “I know why he’s dead,” Violet said into her mug.
Hazel blinked. “You do? Why didn’t you tell your uncle yesterday?”
Violet shook her head and tugged at a piece of worn lace at the edge of the silky robe. “Because he wouldn’t believe me. You probably won’t either.”
Hazel tightened her fingers around her coffee cup. “You never know unless you try.”
Violet sucked in a deep breath through her nose. “Okay. But—it’s because of the play itself. It’s cursed.”
Hazel bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing, which she would have done if her mother had made the same claim. Instead, she realized this was a situation where she should tread carefully. Violet Cross was not Maureen Hart.
Much to Hazel’s own chagrin, there might actually be something to the rumors of the curse. Not that the curse was real, but everyone around the production seemed to believe that it was. It’s why Christopher and Sophia refused to say the name of the play. Even Angela Dane followed suit, but Dominic hadn’t, much like Hazel herself.
“What makes you say the curse killed him?” Hazel asked carefully.
Violet slurped her coffee. “Because of the stories. They say that other people have died or been injured during the production of that play. Especially people who don’t value the curse. It’s like what happened with King Tut’s tomb, how all those guys died because they opened it.”
Hazel smiled slightly and reached across the table to pat Violet’s hand. She didn’t mention that all those guys would have died had they opened the tomb or not, and that a curse had nothing to do with it. “Okay. I can see how those things seem related, and while I don’t necessarily believe in curses, I believe that people believe in curses. So maybe what you’re saying isn’t so far-fetched. But before we go on a supernatural hunt, we shouldn’t discount the possibility that a person did it. Don’t you think this is a little more likely than a nebulous curse?”
Violet picked a fleck of black paint from her fingernail. “I guess. I mean, yeah. We can’t say a curse did it, and not work to find a real killer. But what if someone did it because of the curse? Because Dominic was always saying the name of the play and everything?”
Hazel nodded. “That’s a good place to start. Now, I know you were working as the assistant costume designer, and you probably saw or heard a lot of things that no one else was privy to. Did you see anybody get in a fight with Dominic? Anyone who seemed to have anything against him?”
Violet pinched her lips shut and then took another long sip of coffee. “Honestly, I didn’t get to see much. Farrah and me were sewing costumes most of the time. I hadn’t even really met him until yesterday. I mean, we were introduced as part of the crew, but that doesn’t matter. Though, a lot of people weren’t happy with him. He was a brilliant actor, but–”
“Not a very nice man?” Hazel put in.
Violet nodded tightly. “Yeah. As I was learning. But I didn’t hear anyone say anything about killing him. You know, it was more like what Mr. Allen said yesterday. He was just complaining about Dominic being drunk and not showing up for dress rehearsal. That’s what most people said.”
Hazel mulled that over. It was true that complaining about someone’s bad behavior didn’t equal murder. If it did, everyone in town would’ve been guilty of killing someone at some point, and that obviously wasn’t true.
But, as she thought back to the day before and what Hazel herself had witnessed, she realized she had heard someone threaten Dominic Dane’s life—someone who seemed to have a pretty good motive for wanting him dead too.
“Are you gonna investigate this too? Like the other ones?” Violet asked in a small voice.
Honestly, Hazel hadn’t considered not doing it yet. It felt like she had to, though she wasn’t sure why. Maybe if she didn’t the mystery would keep gnawing at her until she finally gave in. She saw it happen. How could she not want to find out the truth?
“As long as your uncle doesn’t mind,” Hazel said and forced a smile.
Violet nodded. “I want you to find who did this, whether Dominic deserved it or not.”
Hazel blinked at that. “What do you mean whether he deserved it or not?”
Violet shrugged and looked into her empty mu
g. “Because he wasn’t a very nice person. You said so yourself. Wonderful Heathcliff or not.”
Hazel thought perhaps the reason Dominic Dane was such a great Heathcliff might have had something to do with him being similar to the brooding jerk from the book, but she let that go for now. Violet was obviously still upset, and if something else had happened, she was sure the girl would tell her once her nerves had calmed. At the moment, something else pressed on Hazel’s mind. “As long as your uncle is okay with it. I know you think I’m the cool one, whatever that means, but I don’t want to do something expressly against his wishes. You understand?”
Violet met Hazel’s eyes. “Course. I don’t—it’s not like I want to break his rules on purpose, but they’re so confining. He still thinks I’m twelve.”
Hazel smiled at that. “It’s hard for people to realize you’re growing up. Especially a parental figure, like Colton. He worries about you.”
And Hazel knew why Sheriff Cross wanted to protect his niece, especially after what happened to her parents. They’d never talked about it, but it was only natural. And he probably didn’t realize how suffocating it felt to Violet.
Hopefully, they would come to a compromise in the near future. That could wait until they’d gotten some space from each other.
For now, Hazel needed to learn everything she could about the consummate Lady Macbeth.
Chapter 8
“Murdered? Is the sheriff sure? I thought it was an accident,” Hazel’s mother said in a rare break from customers at her booth. She named it The Three Weird Sisters, because of course she would.
The banner was of the three sisters around a cauldron, which would have looked right at home in a Halloween shop.
Tess hung in the background, and, similar to Hazel’s mother who wore numerous layers of flowing gauzy material, wore a crocheted cardigan that made her look like a bird. For once, she didn’t look like a drab owl, but something a bit showier. Perhaps a robin, since the cardigan itself was a brownish gray and she wore an orangey red knee-length dress underneath.
Like usual, Tess didn’t have much to say. Hazel wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.
“I think Colton knows what he’s doing. The light that landed on Dominic Dane was sabotaged. Someone cut the cable holding it in place.”
Her mother nodded. “That’s to be expected. The man didn’t respect the spirits surrounding that play. You know, I told the council not to put it on, but Mr. Allen insisted. Even though his wife said it was a bad idea. They even had me over there to cleanse the stage before the production, and this still happened.” She shook her head sadly. As if waving around a bundle of burning sage could’ve prevented someone from cutting the cable and murdering a man.
Hazel rolled her eyes. “Okay. I get it. There’s a bunch of unsubstantiated rumors surrounding Macbeth, but that doesn’t mean that a very real person didn’t kill him.”
What Hazel didn’t mention was that in all the times her mother had claimed some sort of spirit had killed someone in the past, she’d been wrong every single time. While Hazel had been right that it was a human who did the killing.
“They aren’t rumors; they’re facts. And I believe you have an idea who did this?” her mother said and placed a few new packs of tarot cards on her table. She seemed to have sold out at least half her stock, which was impressive.
Hazel wondered if her own booth was doing so well.
“I’m not sure yet. I have a lead. But that’s all I’m telling you.”
Her mother frowned but didn’t argue, because Maureen Hart was very much like her daughter in the nosy department, but she also felt compelled to tell everyone what she’d learned. Hazel wasn’t particularly a gossip. But she did like finding out the truth of things. Especially when those things ended in someone’s death.
“Well fine. You’re just trying to distract me from what I really wanted to know. Yes, you’ve witnessed another murder, which is dreadful. But Colton? I’m glad you finally graduated to a first name basis with the man you’ve been dating for a month.”
Hazel’s cheeks flushed, and she shoved her curls behind her ears. “We’ve been on a few dates, does that constitute dating? And, of course I call him by his first name. Sometimes. When it’s appropriate.”
Her mother gave her a look, her eyebrows raised in amusement. “I’m not exactly sure how I have two daughters who insist on being so proper. I always called your father by his first name.”
Hazel shook her head. “You guys met at college, that’s why. Plus it was the 60s,” she said and wrinkled her nose.
Her mother waved her hand in the air, as if trying to cast a magic spell. Whatever spell she was trying for didn’t work.
Hazel sighed and smoothed her hands over the front of her navy tunic. Like she’d promised herself the day before, she’d gone in the opposite direction of historical accuracy and instead of an awful corset wore a pair of bright floral leggings and a short sleeve button up tunic. Loose and flowing and one million times more comfortable than the other outfit.
Anthony Ray wound around her ankles and plopped on her sandaled feet. She’d left his frilly collar at home as well, though she’d neglected to call Michael and her father to tell them they didn’t have to wear costumes if they didn’t want to.
“Is it just me, or are there more people here today than there were yesterday?” Hazel glanced around.
While the festival was always popular among both locals and tourists, there did seem to be a higher number of the former here suddenly. Sure, Mr. Allen had mentioned the day before that attendance was booming because of Dominic Dane appearing in a play, but now the actor was dead. And it seemed like there were more people skulking about.
And the great numbers couldn’t even account for the schoolchildren who were there as well. It was one of Hazel’s favorite parts of the year when she was a child, because the town decided as a whole that cultural immersion counted as education. Therefore, every grade came to the festival every day instead of having to sit in a classroom.
Of course, they needed to do something to get a grade for their attendance here. Violet for instance, was working in the costumes department. Children as young as Ruth however, at only eight, usually had to fill out some Shakespeare inspired worksheets and go from booth to booth on a scavenger hunt.
But, as far as Hazel could tell, the adults outnumbered the children today, and she wasn’t sure if that had anything to do with the murder or not.
“There are a fair more number of people here today,” her mother said and a frown pulled at her lips.
“Vultures, not people. Circling the bones of the dead, hoping to make a fortune with the deposed king’s head,” Tess whispered.
Hazel blinked, as she often did when Tess suddenly spoke, and tried to work through what the woman had just said. “Deposed king’s head? Do you mean Dominic Dane?”
“I believe she does. And many of these people seem to have cameras that you and your father would be envious of, don’t you think?” her mother said and pushed up her wireframe glasses.
Now that Hazel looked closely, yes, many of the crowd around the festival did have high-end cameras. More so than normal tourists.
Nowadays, most people took pictures with their cell phones or tablets, and only those dedicated to photography as either a profession or an amateur carried around an actual camera. Not to mention the prevalence of telephoto lenses.
Hazel wrinkled her nose. “Oh no. I didn’t even think of this yesterday. We’ve been invaded by paparazzi.”
Her mother chuckled. “True, but they’re probably better for information than anyone else, if you think about it.”
Hazel wasn’t sure she shared her mother’s optimism. Sure, they might learn a lot of things from skulking in the shadows, but they gave a bad name to photography as a profession. Like Tess said, they feasted off the bones of the deceased—Dominic Dane in this case—or other famous people. Posting photos of their exploits without their consent
.
They didn’t work with model releases or anything like that. Instead, they worked outside of ethical boundaries and were focused solely on profit. Not something Hazel could get behind.
A group of actual tourists approached, several women wearing long flowing skirts and peasant blouses, with black bands tied around their arms. One of them looked at Hazel’s mother. “Is it true that Dominic Dane is dead?”
Maureen Hart had a face made for sympathy, and she used it now. “I’m afraid so.”
“We didn’t even get to see him perform yet. We came all this way,” another woman said.
They looked young, probably in college, from Hazel’s estimate.
“It’s better that you weren’t at his final performance. It was a nasty affair,” Maureen said.
Hazel decided to extract herself before her mother started selling tarot cards and spirit boards in an attempt for the mourning fans to communicate with the dead. She didn’t have time to hover around, especially with a murderer on the loose.
First off, she needed to talk to both Sheriff Cross and Angela Dane.
Violet hadn’t been able to give her much insight on Dominic Dane’s widow, besides the fact that the woman was mean and yelled at Violet every chance she got. Hazel already figured that since the woman had yelled at her as well.
And Hazel heard Angela and Dominic arguing the day he was murdered, which could be everything or nothing. Annoyingly.
Her eyes scanned the crowd as she moved between booths, looking for Sheriff Cross’s familiar height and uniform.
Before she found it, Celia waved her down.
Her booth, Ophelia’s Fountain, was reasonably crowded, but Celia still motioned for Hazel to come over. The iced coffee she was brandishing in her hand didn’t hurt matters.
“I thought you could use this, after last night,” Celia said and gave Hazel a sympathetic smile.
Hazel took a long gulp of the concoction and nodded her thanks. “I could use about ten more. Have you seen Sheriff Cross?”