Something was in the air, aside from biting gnats. I could feel it in my bones.
I glanced over my shoulder where Ms. Hoffman’s birdwatching camera had recorded the video of the Black Bandit, along with the moment Seagrave had fallen to the ground. A few more damn inches and the camera would have caught the whole show. Unfortunately, we only got his foot. His scuffed, brown loafer sagging after life left his body.
Too early.
Way too damn early.
“Well, mornin’ there, Detective.”
I turned to see Hazel De Ville padding down the pathway. Beams of sunlight sparkled through her long, dreadlocked silver hair. She wore a brown skirt to her ankles with rope sandals to match, and a tie-dye T-shirt that read Stay Weird.
“Morning.” I pushed to a stance, my knees popping in protest. When the hell did my knees start popping?
“Sure early for you to be out here, isn’t it?”
“Sure early for you to be spreading gossip, Ms. De Ville.”
A silver brow slowly cocked. “Ah, so you know I called Arlo Harper last night.” She snorted. “Of course you do.” She stopped next to the bloodied rocks. “I’ve known the Harpers for decades, back when Arlo bought his first property here. Good people. I come from a time where neighbors still reach out to neighbors. Erickson reached out to me, I reached out to Arlo.”
“And I come from a time where neighbors leave homicides to the authorities.”
“Well, maybe if the kids of your generation still believed in actual human to human communication instead of texting or sitting behind video games all day, there wouldn’t be so many homicides to investigate, Detective.”
“Not arguing with you there, ma’am.”
“Smart boy. Well, I knew you’d have some more questions for me.” A smile cracked her lips. “Come on in for some coffee, son. You look worn.”
Worn.
I followed Hazel up the pathway contemplating, for the umpteenth time over the last few weeks it seemed, if I was getting old.
Old.
Hazel pulled a massive keyring from her woven purse and unlocked the thick wooden door. Burned incense—something called Patchouli, I think—lingered in the air from the day before. The early morning light sparkled through the windows, pooling on a gleaming hardwood floor.
Despite the dated appearance of the rock building, the inside had been completely renovated. Stark white paint and little gold lights highlighted the art on the walls, this in contrast to dark wood Hazel had chosen for the floors. Wind chimes and sun catchers hung from the ceiling, catching the light and sparkling off the walls. Glass cases speckled the main floor, housing everything from handmade jewelry, “healing” crystals, glass-blown knick knacks, ashtrays, to pipes. The room was spotless.
“You always keep it this clean in here?”
She laughed, flicking a few light switches from behind the cash register. “I’ll assume you meant to add ‘no offense’ to the end of that question. Yes, I always keep it this clean. Wasn’t sure if the kid who dusted for fingerprints after the scroll was stolen was pleased or pissed.”
When it came to scanning for evidence, cleanliness had its advantages and disadvantages. Advantage was that it allowed for finding trace evidence easier, as well as recovering prints or tracks. Disadvantage was that, in more cases than not, the scene had been cleaned prior to the authorities searching it. Hotel rooms were an investigator’s worst nightmare. They’d either been cleaned by housekeeping five times over before authorities showed up, or, filled with so many prints and human DNA that it made it almost impossible to nail down a suspect.
Hazel glanced up from the computer she’d just powered on. “Anything turn up yet? With my stolen scroll or with the Lieutenant’s shooting?”
“Not yet.” Not that I’d tell her, anyway. “I was hoping you might have remembered something else, anything else, over the last few days.”
“This leads me to believe you’ve been chasing your tail over the last few days.”
“Part of the job.”
“Let me get that coffee going, then we’ll talk. Caffeine is good for the brain.”
So is Baileys, but I bit my tongue.
As Hazel disappeared into the kitchen in the back, I made my way to the corner of the room where the fourth Cedonia scroll had hung before the Black Bandit swiped it. Now in its place hung a painting of a tree, its electric green leaves glowing in the beam of sunlight shining on it. I cocked my head.
The colorful tree was in contrast to a dark blue background, its long branches growing away from the trunk like snakes. The roots ran deep underground in a kaleidoscope of colors, the ends disappearing off the canvas.
I knew this tree.
I squinted and leaned closer, my eyes tracing each one of the branches.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Hazel snuck up behind me.
“What tree is this?”
She handed me one of the rainbow-colored ceramic mugs in her hands. “Not sure.”
“Thanks.” I took the coffee but didn’t sip, still staring at those branches. Thick at the bottom, crowded at the top. The perfect climbing tree. Then it hit me—the Voodoo Tree.
“This is the tree from City Park.”
“There’s many trees in the park.”
“No, I mean…” My mind started to race. “Who painted this?”
“It was donated.”
I turned. “Seriously?”
“Believe it or not, Detective, there are a lot of people who paint for love, not money.”
I snorted, then refocused back on the painting. “Who donated it?”
“A woman traveling through town. A painter. We traded a few pieces of art, and this is one I got from her. The others have sold. It’s a popular tree, you know. Lots of people have painted it.”
“What was her name?”
Hazel shrugged. “I don’t remember. The woman was a gypsy. Had her whole life packed up in her car.”
“Wasn’t a blue sedan, was it?”
“No. Bright yellow Volkswagen with a peace sign on the door.” She grinned.
“When was this?”
“That I received this painting?”
I nodded.
“Oh, dear.” She cocked her head, her gaze shifting to the ceiling, a little bell on the bottom of one of her dreadlocks jingling. “Years ago.”
“And you just put it out?”
“No. It was over there,” she nodded to the opposite corner. “But no one ever noticed it. Not like you are, that’s for sure.”
A moment clicked by as I searched the painting, the wall around it, then back to the painting. I imagined the Black Bandit standing exactly where I was. My eyes drifted from branch to branch in the exact path I’d climbed the real tree the night before.
“What do you see, Detective?”
“Witchcraft,” I mumbled.
A soft hmm escaped her lips. “Look closer.”
I leaned in, almost nose to nose with the painting.
“Now tell me again, what do you see?”
“A clue.”
Hazel leaned in. “I see magic.”
I straightened, took a step back and focused on her. “Why don’t you say whatever it is you’re dancing around.”
She eyed me for a minute. “Fine. I don’t want you idiots to shut down the Moon Magic Festival this weekend.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one, I’ll make three months’ worth of revenue in two days. Two, because I’m sick of the divisiveness in this town. I’m sick of the narrow-minded, short-sighted rednecks exploiting stereotypes and spreading fear and propaganda about a religion that is not rooted in evil.”
“You’re talking about Wicca?”
“Yes, I am,” her chin lifted with defensiveness. “Berry Springs should welcome all people, from all walks of life, not just those who ride horses, chew tobacco, and tuck their balls into the left side of their Wranglers.”
“One, thanks for the visual, two, who’s embrac
ing stereotypes now, Ms. De Ville?”
“This is serious, Detective. This is exactly how wars start, how civilizations fall. If we all worked together, respected each other, embraced our differences, and learned from each other, the world would be a much better place. Festivals like Moon Magic don’t only bring money into the town, but they also build a sense of community.” She stomped her foot like a child. “You cannot cancel the festival. I will not have it. It will lay a dangerous precedent. Our town will shrivel up and die if we don’t embrace others.”
“It will shrivel up and die if someone starts a fire during this burn ban.”
She rolled her eyes. “Because everyone’s going to be smoking doobies, is that right?”
“I’ll see what I can do.” I sipped my coffee—piping hot, fresh. “But I want something in return.”
“Of course you do.”
“Tell me about the Harpers.”
“What in particular do you want to know?”
“You said you’ve known Arlo for decades.”
“Yes, before he made all his money. I was friendly with his wife.”
“His wife is deceased, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“How?”
“Cancer. Such a shame. Her name was Betsy. She used to come into my shop from time to time. Bought a few pieces from me, then looped me in with her husband once he started building. That’s how we got to know each other. Betsy could see the art, if you know what I mean.”
“When did she die?”
“Around two years ago.”
“What do you know about Sunny?”
“That she wouldn’t kill the pastor’s son.”
“Where did you hear it was the pastor’s son?”
“Old man Erickson is the one who called me for Arlo’s number, remember?”
I was stupid to think the entire town didn’t already know that the victim was Julian Griggs. One thing they didn’t know, though, was Sunny’s story that she didn’t kill him. That someone else did. A phantom, in the wind.
“Why so sure she wouldn’t have done it?”
Hazel shook her head, letting out a little tsk, tsk. “You agree with me. I know you do. Don’t play that game with me. That girl wouldn’t shoot someone in the face. You know it as well as I do.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“It’s been awhile. When Arlo’s company started to grow, they moved to Dallas, but kept some properties here. Rumor is Arlo goes back and forth a lot. Easy, with the thirty minute flight and all.”
“Sunny too?”
“Until she moved here about a year ago.”
“Where does she live?”
“Bought a place by the river.”
“What river?”
“Shadow River. East of town. Her house is the only one down county road 3228. Her Daddy owns the land around it. Leases it for hunting.”
“What brought Sunny back to Berry Springs? Do you know?”
“You’ll have to ask her.”
I let the conversation linger a moment, wondering if Hazel knew about Sunny’s attack in Dallas.
“She single?”
Hazel cocked her brow. “You interested?”
“I’m interested in finding who attacked her.”
“You’ll have to ask her.”
A moment settled between us.
“You know…” Hazel scanned the shop with squinted eyes. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that the only thing stolen from my shop that night was the Cedonia scroll? I have a few pieces of jewelry in this shop worth a thousand bucks. The Black Bandit didn’t want it. That scroll was all they wanted.”
“Meaning—not Seagrave. Is that where you’re going with this?”
“Exactly. Just my two cents, son. I don’t think the Cedonia thief shot your lieutenant. Just sayin’.”
I felt a headache settling between my temples. Way too early for a headache.
“Has anyone else asked you about the Cedonia scroll?”
“Yes. Yesterday. A busty little blonde came in asking some questions.”
“Who?”
Hazel held up her index finger, then sauntered back to the cash register and dug out a card.
“Briana Morgan, with Harold and Associates.”
I took the card, my brows arching. “An art investigator.”
Hazel nodded. “Got the vibe that whoever the scrolls were originally stolen from hired her firm to get them back.”
Speaking with this Morgan chick just jumped to the top of my to-do list.
The phone rang.
Hazel glanced at the clock. “Nope. No sir,” she said addressing the ringing phone. “Not eight o’clock yet.” She looked at me. “I do need to get moving, though. Need to put out a few new pieces before I open.”
She let the call go to voicemail.
“Thank you for your time,” I lifted my mug. “And the coffee.”
“Thank you in advance for doing whatever you can to keep the Moon Magic festival running this year.”
I nodded. “Before I leave. Is there anything else you remember from that night?”
She shook her head. “Wish I did, son. I’ll let you know if I do.”
“Let me know if the busty art investigator stops by again.”
She grinned. “Will do.”
My hand was on the door knob, when—
“Detective?”
I paused and turned.
“Leave the scrolls alone.”
“No stone unturned, Ms. De Ville. That’s how it works.”
“Even when the scrolls are said to be cursed?”
“Especially with cursed scrolls.”
She shifted her gaze to the painting on the wall. “Just be careful you’re not barking up the wrong tree.”
I dipped my chin. “Ma’am.”
A black bird called out from the tree above as I stepped outside into a single beam of sunlight already burning the sidewalk. I didn’t have time to worry about curses, witchcraft, or supernatural powers, or the fact that Hazel was the second person including Colson to tell me to leave the scrolls alone.
I might’ve had a to-do list for the day that was as long as my dick, I decided to add one more stop to that list.
15
Jagg
It was eight-thirty in the morning by the time I reached the “only house” down County Road 3228, north of Shadow River. A bit early for an unannounced drop in, but like I said, that damn list. I’d already called the art investigator, Briana Morgan, twice, and left two voicemails. I decided to wait again until after lunchtime. Mainly because my battery was already low.
The road to Sunny’s house was long and lonely, desolate, surrounded by miles and miles of dense forest, wilted under the heat. It was tough to imagine a woman living out there alone. Assuming she did, anyway. I had no idea what, or who, I was going to find at her house. I prepared myself for another man, and daydreamed about another woman. Wouldn’t be the first time I’d walked up on that. I had the video to prove it.
I braked at a rusted mailbox at the end of a rock driveway flanked by wooden fences. New fencing, I noted, and wondered who’d built it. Then I wondered why I immediately assumed she hadn’t. The woman was capable of holding me off in a physical altercation. Building a fence was something she could likely do in her sleep.
I squinted at the house a hundred feet from the mailbox.
I’d expected a sprawling “Harper Construction” mansion, or given its location, maybe fancy ranch house of sorts. What I got was a small, weathered, A-frame cabin with a wraparound porch and picnic table out front. The cabin was a freshly-painted evergreen color, with deep red shutters. I thought of Sunny’s lips. The paint color matched the soaring cedar trees that enclosed it. Barely a yard. All trees.
It was cute. Quaint. No way in hell an heiress to a real estate fortune’s house.
Hesitating, I glanced in my rearview mirror, then back at the little house. The underbrush had been trimmed, but
much like the drive to it, endless woods surrounded the cabin. No fields, no rolling hills. Just trees that sloped down to Shadow River somewhere behind the house.
I flicked my turn single, then laughed at myself and flicked it off, then turned into the driveway. As I inched closer to the house, a blazing red caught my eye, where my dream car from the night before, a 1972 Chevy Cheyenne, was parked under the cedars.
Yep, the old A-frame, teeny-tiny cabin belonged to Sunny Harper.
Add it to my list of shockers.
I parked next to a blooming lilac bush, careful not to graze the purple petals. Always liked lilac bushes. The sweet scent carried like a perfume as I climbed out of my Jeep. The woods were vibrant with energy. Birds singing overhead, grasshoppers chirping, and in the distance, the sound of river water rushing over rocks. A magnificent blue butterfly flittered past my face. I couldn’t explain why, but a sudden feeling of warmth ran over me, more than the beams of sun shooting through the cedars.
It was peaceful.
Real country.
Then, I noticed the lack of human noise. No voices, televisions, radios, microwaves buzzing in the background. Nothing.
A warm breeze whispered through the trees as I crossed the driveway and stepped onto the porch. A scent of vanilla wafted out of the open windows and screen door. My brow cocked. The woman jogged with a nine millimeter in her pants but left her windows and door open in the middle of the woods.
The porch was small, enclosing the cabin, with a few slats recently replaced. Two rocking chairs sat to the side and based on the wearing beneath the legs, were used frequently.
Two chairs.
Two.
I skimmed the ground for cigarette butts, ashtrays, pipes, empty beer or soda cans. None.
Potted begonias lined the porch, their red and pink petals overflowing in a hodgepodge of brightly-painted clay vases that seemed to go together despite their obvious mismatch. Enormous citronella plants sat at the edges of the porch, and hanging from the corner, the biggest electric bug zapper I had ever seen. Thing could fry a squirrel.
Now that’s the girl I knew.
I glanced into the trees, lingering a moment on the wind chimes.
I looked in the front window. Lights off. Dark inside. I knocked on the door. The screen wobbled on its hinges. No answer. I searched for a doorbell with no luck.
Jagger (Steele Shadows Investigations) Page 12
