A Hillcrest Witch Mystery Collection

by Amorette Anderson

  His dark eyes sparkle. His black hair is longer than I remember, and his tan is deeper. He’s wearing tight fitting shorts that stop just above his knee, and a tank top that reads ‘Namaste’. I spot a yoga mat strapped to his back.

  “It’s been a while,” I say, trying to sound casual. In fact, it’s been two months, one week, and four days since I last saw Max Shire. Not that I’m counting or anything. “What brings you to town? Besides yoga...?”

  We start walking up the steps together.

  “I was hired at the college,” Max says.

  I stop walking. “Hillcrest College?” I ask. “I thought you lived far, far away from here.”

  “I did live far, far away from here,” he says. “But now I live very, very close by.”

  He’s standing very close to me. I can feel that testosterone-estrogen thing happening. It feels kind of sizzlely and tingly. I’m not sure if it’s healthy.

  I take a step back.

  “Are you teaching... er... vampire classes?” I ask.

  One of Max’s passions in life is to teach others how to become Vampires. Not the human-blood-sucking kind. Max only advocates animalitarianism, meaning he sticks to sucking the blood of wild animals. It still strikes me as barbaric, but at least it’s not life threatening.

  “Not exactly,” he says. “I’m starting out in Anatomy and Physiology. It’s a good foundation, but not specific enough to scare anyone off. We’ll see where it goes from there.”

  “Great,” I say. “So do you plan on staying... for a long time?”

  “Many, many years,” he says. “As long as it takes,” he adds.

  I swallow. What’s that supposed to mean? “Then I guess I’ll be seeing more of you,” I say.

  “Much more of me,” Max says, with a sly grin. He motions towards the yoga studio door. “Are you going in for the Vinyasa Flow?”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head.

  “You don’t do yoga?” he asks, a look of concern clouding his handsome features.

  “Not really,” I say. “I’m more of once-a-week Zumba kind of a girl.”

  “Oh, Penny, you really should start up a yoga practice,” he says. “Humans tend to have incredibly tight muscles, ligaments, and tendons. All of that shortening can really throw off the body’s alignment. Poor alignment can lead to all kinds of long term, chronic deficits.”

  “I’ll take a look at the schedule,” I promise.

  “You might want to start with a nice, gentle Yin class,” Max suggests. “I know how tightly wound up you tend to be.”

  He looks me over, in that way he does, from head to toe. Do vampires have x-ray vision or something? Because I feel like Max is looking straight through me.

  It makes me feel light headed.

  “I work just upstairs,” I mumble, backing up. “I’ve gotta go.”

  I back up more, until my heels hit the wooden staircase that leads up to my office. He watches me, as I almost fall. Still blushing, I turn and start running up the stairs.

  I’m breathing hard by the time I make it inside and slam the door behind me. The more barriers between Max and I, the better.

  It takes me a whole hour of knitting to calm down. Since I haven’t started my sweater project yet, I take on a couple of dozen rows to a scarf I’ve been working on for ages. The repetitive movements soothe me. Once I feel my pulse rate return to normal, and the heat in my cheeks dissipates, I pick up my pen.

  I start writing notes right below where I left off, the day before.

  This time, I’m writing a list.

  Joe Gallant: Murder Suspects

  Ralph

  Glenn

  Cliff

  Melanie

  I stare at the list for a minute. Then, without a clear plan in mind, I fold up the piece of paper. I’ve got to start somewhere, and Melanie makes sense. She’s the one who’s been mysteriously weeping, and who booked a one-way flight to Hawaii, yet never went.

  I want to know why.

  She might also be an easy person to find, because I know that she doesn’t work. Usually, she can be found puttering around in the garden of the Haywaters’ front yard. An added bonus is that the Haywaters live just next door to my friend Annie’s cafe.

  My coffee from home is long gone, and I’m craving an iced Americano with soy.

  With that in mind, I head off to track down Melanie.

  After a quick stop at the cafe to fill my travel mug, I reach the Haywaters’ house. As suspected, Melanie is out front, on her knees in front of a rose bush. I lean my bike against the white picket fence, and walk towards the front gate.

  “Hi... Melanie?” I say, as I reach the gate.

  She stands up. It’s eleven in the morning. The September sun is higher in the sky, and it’s right in her eyes. She holds a garden-gloved hand to her brow and squints at me.

  “Hi,” I repeat. “I’m Penny Banks. I’m a private investigator in town. Mind if I come in?”

  “I know who you are,” Melanie says. “What’s this about?”

  She hasn’t smiled yet. In fact, as she squints at me, her expression is very sour.

  I hope I look like Melanie when I reach my fifties. I mean, I know that she’s fifty-four because there was a town-wide birthday party for her last year, at The Place, but she doesn’t look a day over thirty-five. She’s slender and pretty, with salon-styled shoulder length blonde hair, and perfectly done makeup, despite the fact that she’s doing yard work.

  “I was just hoping I could ask you a couple of questions,” I say.

  I can’t tell her that her husband hired me, so I start improvising. “I’m verifying some facts about Joe Gallant’s death,” I say, which isn’t far from the truth. “It would be helpful if I could run some things by you. I’ve heard you were at the restaurant that day.”

  A nervous look crosses her face. At the same time, she walks towards the gate. “Yes, come in.”

  When she unlatches the gate, she studies me. “I didn’t know the police were still interested in that,” she says. Her voice quivers.

  She’s definitely nervous.

  “I’m not with the police,” I clarify. “I work for myself.”

  “But someone hired you to look into Joe’s death?” she asks.

  Shoot. I wasn’t prepared for that question! “Yes,” I say, and then quickly follow up with, “I understand that you were at The Place on the day that Joe was Found? That was August fourteenth, wasn’t it?”

  She nods. She’s still looking at me like she can’t quite figure out what she thinks of me. I get the feeling that she doesn’t really want to have this conversation, but that she also doesn’t want to be seen standing out on her front lawn talking to me.

  “Would you like some coffee?” she asks.

  I already have full travel mug of iced americano in my bag, but I want to talk to Melanie so I agree.

  We head up the walkway, and I take in the perfectly pruned rose bushes and blooming peonies as we go. Inside, her house is spotless, which makes me feel guilty about my own poor housekeeping skills. Melanie leads the way into the kitchen, and goes right to the coffee maker. She begins emptying out the old coffee, so that she can brew fresh. I stand awkwardly near the counter, not sure where to begin.

  Finally, after searching my brain for something that would start off the conversation right, I blurt out, “It must have been awful, seeing Joe’s body. I heard he had icicles hanging out of his nose. Did you have nightmares?”

  She immediately turns pale, and then the spoon she’s holding clatters to the countertop. She reaches for the edge of the counter to brace herself, and suddenly, she bursts out into tears.

  Oops. That may not have been the most graceful way to start my interview.

  But the ball’s already rolling, so I continue. “He was already dead when he was found, is that correct?” I ask, while looking around the kitchen for a Kleenex. I’m not cold-hearted, just socially awkward at times. I want to comfort her.

  Not findin
g any tissues, I reach for a roll of paper towels and tear off half of one. When I walk towards Melanie and hand it to her, she takes it with a shaking hand.

  “Yes,” she says, between sobs. “It was awful. He was—oh! Poor Joe—he was dead when Cliff found him. The medics didn’t know how long he’d been dead for, but they said that it could have been hours.”

  “Tell me about that day,” I say. “What was happening in the kitchen?”

  With great effort, Melanie picks up the spoon that fell from her hands, and begins measuring the ground coffee from a little tupperware into the waiting coffee-maker. She’s still crying but trying to function anyway. It’s an interesting sight to watch. Her hostess instincts are overriding her emotional breakdown.

  “Do you take cream and sugar?” she asks, and then she dabs at her eyes while trying to look at me.

  “Sure,” I say.

  As she crosses the kitchen to get cream from the fridge, she begins talking. It seems easier for her to talk if she’s doing something else at the same time. “Cliff and I had been at the park that afternoon,” she says. “The town hosted that retirement party for him,” she says. “Not that he was really retiring —he still has The OP and his mayor responsibilities. But stepping away from The Place was a big deal for him.”

  “That’s right.” I remember hearing about the party. “From noon to two, right? Lunch was served?”

  She nods. “A bunch of members of town council organized a potluck. Were you there?”

  I’d missed the party, and I tell her so. “Was there a good turn-out?” I ask.

  “Of course,” Melanie said. “You know how this town idolizes Cliff.” Her tone is bitter here, which interests me. I don’t get a chance to dig into it though, because she continues. “Cliff knew that The Place would be packed that night, because it was his last night as the owner. Right after the party, Cliff went in to help Joe and Glenn with prep work.”

  “Did he do that often?” I ask. “I mean, work in the kitchen?”

  Melanie nodded. “My husband is constantly working,” she says. “Even if he doesn’t have to, he’ll go into The Place or The OP and bus tables or help out behind the bar. He’s been a workaholic for as long as I can remember—all thirty years of our marriage.” She sighs heavily, and then turns towards a cupboard and reaches for two mugs.

  “What happened next?” I ask. “After the party, Cliff headed off to work at the restaurant, getting ready for the rush he expected. What did you do?”

  “I came home to freshen up,” she says, avoiding my eye. “Then, I went in to the restaurant to.... to visit Cliff.” These words are rushed, and as she speaks she wipes a dishcloth furiously back and forth over the counter, though the black granite is already polished and spotless.

  She’s hiding something from me.

  “You didn’t do anything else?” I ask. “You just came home and then went to the restaurant?”

  She nods.

  “What time did you arrive at The Place?” I ask.

  “About three, I’d guess.” She says. She finally stops polishing and looks at me. “When I got there, Cliff and Glenn were hard at work. You know, chopping and mixing and what not. They said that Joe didn’t turn up for his shift.”

  She looks away from me, and reaches up again with the now damp, mascara stained paper towel I handed her to dab her eyes. Tears are starting to flow again.

  As she turns, she catches sight of the coffee pot. It’s filling nicely. As if she’s eager to have something to do, she takes a few strides towards it.

  Her back is to me as I say, “And what did you do, when you got there?”

  Her back and shoulders jump up and down as she takes a few jagged breaths. I can tell she’s trying to center herself but it’s not really working.

  I give her a minute.

  When she turns around, she has the coffee pot in her hands. She walks over and fills our mugs. I’m a coffee hound, so I start doctoring mine up right away, and then take a few long slurps.

  The pause in conversation allows Melanie to collect herself, and when she speaks again, it’s in an even, metered tone.

  “I wasn’t there long,” she says. “Cliff and Glenn were rushing around, so busy trying to get ready for a full house, you know. Cliff said something about needing to pull a box of mac and cheese from the freezer. He went over to the door, but he couldn’t open it.”

  She presses her lips together. Her eyebrows tent. Her nostrils flare. She’s giving a valiant effort to stay in control.

  I slurp my coffee, waiting.

  “Cliff had to pull on the door really, really hard. When it opened, he almost lost his balance. He walked in and started shouting for help. Glenn went over, and they started—oh! It was so terrible—they started dragging Joe out of the freezer.” Her hand, covering her mouth, is shaking.

  “I’m so sorry that you had to see that,” I say. I really am. I’ve seen dead bodies before, and it is not a pleasant experience.

  She nods.

  I’m about to ask her to describe the body, but I think better of it. I already know that Joe was dead, blue, stiff, and icicle-ridden. Asking her to go into the nitty-gritty details would only upset her, more than she already is. See? I’m learning.

  “Did the medics and police arrive, soon after?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says. “Cliff called out to me, and asked me to call nine-one-one. I was... well, I was in shock, really. It was difficult to dial the phone. The rest feels like a dream—” Her eyes go vacant as she recalls the way the afternoon progressed. “The paramedics pronounced him dead. The police asked us a few questions. Then, the restaurant started to fill up. Cliff and Glenn had to go about serving dinner. Of course, nothing was served from the freezer.”

  “That’s good,” I say.

  Melanie continues. “I couldn’t stay. How they went on as if nothing had happened is beyond me. That’s Cliff. All business. Once he has an idea in mind, he’ll stick to it no matter what happens. He’d planned on announcing who he would sell the restaurant to that very evening. I couldn’t take it. I came home, and went to bed early.”

  “I don’t blame you,” I say. “What do you mean that Cliff was going to announce who he would sell it to? You mean he was keeping that a secret?”

  “It wasn’t so much a secret,” Melanie said, “as that he didn’t actually know. He was having a hard time deciding between the two bidders: Joe and Ralph. They both wanted to buy the restaurant from him.”

  “Ralph, his assistant?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Melanie says. A dark shadow crosses her face. “Ralph.” Her voice drips with disdain.

  She stirs her coffee, but still doesn’t take a sip. I’m almost done with mine. My mind is working double-time.

  I speak aloud as I try to work through the possibilities. “If Ralph and Joe were both in the running to own the restaurant, was Ralph happy when Joe was found dead?” I muse. “Could he have killed Joe, so that he could own the restaurant?”

  “Wait a minute,” Melanie says. “You think Joe was killed?”

  “It’s definitely a possibility,” I say. “That’s what I learned in PI school. Means plus a strong enough motive equals murder. It was one of the formulas we had to commit to memory.”

  Melanie’s quiet, so I keep talking. “That’s a pretty major motivator, don’t you think? Ralph has been in your husband’s shadow for years. Maybe he felt that if he owned the restaurant, he would finally be in the spotlight. What is he like?” I ask.

  “Ug,” she says, making a disgusted sound.

  “You’re... you’re not a fan?” I say, interpreting her grunted communication.

  “Ralph and I don’t get along,” Melanie says. “Why my husband insists on working with such a sleazy man is beyond me. Cliff goes on about Ralph’s work ethics and attention to details,” Melanie scoffs. “But does that matter, if a person is rotten to the core? If I was the mayor, I’d rather deal with a few administrative slip ups now and then, than having a
weasel as my right hand.”

  Interesting.

  Before I can ask more about Ralph, Melanie says, “Enough about him, though. I don’t like to speak poorly of people. It’s not attractive, you know.”

  She glances at her watch. “Speaking of attractive, I have a hair appointment at eleven thirty. I’m going to be late. If I don’t get my roots done, I feel like a slob.”

  Taking the hint, I stand. With a whirlwind of activity, Melanie cleans up the coffee mugs, creamer, sugar, and napkins, and gives the countertops a quick wipe down. She really is a housekeeper extraordinaire.

  While she’s occupied with her frenzy, I take a peek at a neat pile of notebooks and magazines, positioned in a little metal organizational bin at one end of the countertop.

  The book on the top of the pile is leather bound, and looks like a planner. I can see little tabs announcing the days of the months, sticking out from one side.

  I want to badly flip it open and take a glance at August. I’m not sure if the book is Melanie’s or Cliff’s, but either way the information inside might be helpful.

  Melanie snaps off the coffee pot and then begins ushering me to towards the door. I intentionally leave my messenger bag on the floor by the stool I’ve been sitting on.

  “Thank you for your time,” I say, as we reach the front gate.

  “Well,” she sighs dramatically. “It couldn’t be avoided. I hope that I answered all of your questions.”

  I can read between the lines: She’s hoping that she won’t have to endure another interview with me.

  “I think so,” I say. “If anything else comes up, I’ll be sure to reach out to you.”

  She frowns and opens her mouth, but I set off towards my bike before she can protest. “Bye, Melanie!” I call out.

  I linger around on my bike, watching her round the corner. Then, I make my way back through her gate. Surely Melanie wouldn’t mind if I let myself in, just to grab my forgotten bag?

  I feel clever! I reach the kitchen. Before collecting my bag, I walk over to the leather bound planner and take a quick peek inside. I locate the September tab, and flip open to a calendar.

  With one look at the pink, cursive writing, I know that I’ve got Melanie’s planner in my hands. A quick look at the first of September confirms this: ‘Hair appointment—touch up roots—11:30’ it says.