A Hillcrest Witch Mystery Collection

by Amorette Anderson

  I speak. “But before I go... there’s one more thing we should talk about. It might pertain to the case.”

  “Shoot,” Chris says.

  “Today at the memorial service, I pulled Victoria aside to ask her some questions,” I say.

  “I saw you step outside with her,” Chris says. “How did it go?”

  “She really opened up to me,” I say. “She told me that... well...” I bite my lip again.

  How exactly am I going to phrase this?

  I speak slowly and carefully. “You know how everyone knows about how Felix saved Rich’s life in that tunnel collapse up at the mine?” I say.

  Chris nods. “Sure,” he says. “I’ve been hearing that story since I was two.”

  “Me too,” I say. “But Victoria told me that everything may not have really gone down in exactly the way that we know it.”

  “Really?” Chris says.

  I nod. “In her version of the story, Felix died of a head wound in the mine parking lot. The story of the accident in the tunnel was a sort of... exaggeration.”

  Or lie, but I’m not ready to say that yet.

  “People love drama,” Chris says. “I’m not surprised that the story got more and more elaborate over the years.”

  “Right,” I say. “You’re absolutely right. No surprise there.” I’m playing it down, but at least I sort of clued Chris in to what I found out.

  “Chris,” I say. “I think it’s all connected. The will, the events of that night thirty years ago. The nugget of gold. Felix’s death... maybe even Victoria and Declan somehow. I just can’t put the pieces together. We don't have enough facts. If you could just ask your chief to start the investigation, we could really make some progress.”

  Chris rubs his hand over his head. His blonde hair stands on edge. “Penny, I don't think we should get ahead of ourselves. Technically, there’s nothing wrong with a mother giving her son a gift of money. Victoria hasn’t done anything wrong. We don’t even know for sure that Rich was murdered. We won’t know until we have the autopsy results. What we’re doing now is good. I think we should keep doing research and collecting data so we’re really ready to go on Monday.”

  “Monday will be too late,” I say.

  How can I explain to Chris this feeling that I have inside of me? I know. I know that Rich was murdered—and I know that we have to act now. I feel it in my gut.

  Chris has never been one to understand womanly or witchy intuition in the past, and I doubt he’s going to tonight. Not while he’s shivering cold and anxious to return to pizza, a bottle of microbrew, and a college basketball game no doubt on the tube.

  “We have to be patient,” he says.

  I guess I’m going to have to count my wins for tonight, and cut my losses. You can’t win them all!

  “All right,” I say. “I’ll wait ‘til we see the results before jumping to any conclusions.”

  Really, it’s too late for that. I’ve already jumped.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I leave Chris and head home. I’m completely and totally exhausted. I fall into bed, where Turkey is already snoozing. As soon as my head hits the pillow I fall asleep.

  The next morning, after I’ve had my first cup of coffee, I call Marley.

  “How are you doing?” I ask as soon as she answers.

  “I’m okay,” she says. “Still a little bit upset, but not as much as last night.”

  “I’m so sorry that I just dropped that bomb on you,” I say. “It was a long day, and I was obsessing about the case. But I should have thought about your feelings too.”

  “It’s okay,” Marley says. “I’ve been stressed too. Having my dad here kind of has me on edge. I didn’t handle it that well. I think I overreacted.”

  “You had every right to be upset,” I say.

  “Yeah, but not at you,” Marley says.

  “Are you still mad at your dad?” I ask.

  Marley sighs. “I really shouldn’t be mad at him, either. I think I’m mad at... well, to be honest, at my grandfather. Everyone’s always telling me how I take after my grandma and grandpa. You know—that I love the land just like they did, and that I look like my grandma Greene. It was just who I was. That was part of the reason I stuck around Hillcrest for so long. I felt like my roots were here.”

  “They are here,” I say. I hear wind whip against Marley’s phone. “Are you outside?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Marley says. “I’m walking to town to meet my dad at the café for breakfast. We need to have a good, long talk.”

  “Why aren’t you in your van?” I ask.

  “I had to park it at the library lot. That’s the only place in town with overnight parking, and you know how fast those spots go. I found one so I figure I shouldn’t move.”

  I’m about to ask my friend why she might need overnight parking when the answer hits me like a punch to the stomach. “Victoria kicked you off of the land, didn’t she?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Marley says. “I suspected it might happen. Rich was always a lot nicer to me than Victoria was. Victoria said her son is going to level the place and start developing the property. He wants to put apartments up or something. She said construction will start immediately, and she gave me twenty-four hours to be out of there. I didn’t need twenty-four hours. I’m not going to sit there and watch bulldozers roll in there and—”

  “Right!” I say, snapping my fingers. “Declan! Victoria’s son from her first marriage. I figured out that Rich and Victoria gave him all of the money from the gold nugget, too.”

  “Wow—eleven million. That’s generous,” says Marley.

  “Especially for Rich,” I say. “I mean, Declan wasn’t even biologically his kid. That’s a lot of mullah to give up to a step-son. I guess if that’s what Victoria wanted, maybe Rich couldn’t stop her. She seems pretty controlling.”

  “Big time,” Marley agrees. “And Rich was always kind of a push over,” Marley laughs. It’s a relief to hear her laugh. Though my friend is going through a tough time, she’s still the same Marley underneath it all.

  “A grumpy push over,” I say, remembering how cranky Rich was when I visited.

  “A hard shell, but a total softy on the inside,” says Marley. “With a heart of gold.”

  “Or... a heart of a guy who owned gold,” I say.

  Marley laughs. Then she says, “Hey—I’m at the café. I see my dad in there. I gotta go.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Marley... go easy on your dad. He doesn't visit often. It’s nice that you guys get to spend some time together. I wish I could spend time with my dad.”

  Marley’s quiet. I can tell my words are sinking in. I can imagine her hovering outside of the café doors, maybe staring up at the mountains in the background.

  After a beat of silence she says, “But Penny, there are things that I have to say to him. I realized last night that I’m still mad at him for leaving. He left me here in Hillcrest, and it made me feel like I wasn’t a part of the life he wanted. It made me feel like heavy baggage that had to be left behind. Like I didn’t make the cut.”

  “You know that’s not true,” I say.

  “Maybe not,” Marley says. “But that’s still how I felt, so I have to tell him. I’ll feel better. I want to start getting things out in the open with him. It might not be easy, but I just feel like I have to do it. And I’m going to tell him that I want to make an announcement, tonight at the awards ceremony.”

  “What kind of an announcement?” I ask.

  “When Rebecca announces the Heroes of Hillcrest award, I’m going to accept it, and give a speech. I’m going to tell the whole town the truth about Felix Greene.”

  There’s another gust of wind on Marley’s end of the phone. Before I can respond, she says, “Okay, I really gotta go. I’ll see you tonight at the theater?”

  “See you tonight,” I say.

  I hang up and slump over the table. I let my phone skitter off to the side. Turkey hops up and starts nuzzl
ing my head, which I’ve let rest on my upper arm.

  “What’s wrong?” Turkey asks telepathically. “Is Marley mad at you? Your energy feels off.”

  “My energy is off,” I say. “But it’s not because Marley’s mad at me. You know Marley. She’s too chill to be mad. But she is sad, and I think it’s making me sad too. You should have heard what she said.”

  “Tell me,” Turkey says.

  “She’s getting kicked out of the mine parking lot. Marley loves it up there. And now she’s talking about how she doesn’t have roots here. What if Marley leaves Hillcrest, Turkey?” I ask.

  “You’ll have to let her go,” Turkey says.

  “I don’t want to,” I say glumly. I lift my head, and place my hand on my chest. “I’m the cause of all of this. If I hadn't started poking around Rich and Victoria’s house, maybe Rich wouldn’t have died. We don’t even know that there was foul play. The cops don't even take my theory seriously enough to conduct an investigation. Rich was ninety after all. He could have really just had a heart attack—maybe from the stress of my visit.”

  I feel seriously crappy as I say all this out loud.

  It’s not fun to admit to all of the possible wrong turns I’ve taken, but I have to get it out of my system. It will do no good to hold all of this inside of me. I keep venting my displeasure telepathically. “And if I didn’t start digging around in Felix’s history, maybe Marley would still believe he was a hero. The town could keep him up on a pedestal and Marley could keep living up at the mine.”

  Turkey looks at me with a stony expression. “You don't believe a word you’re saying, do you?” he asks.

  “No...” I transmit. I let my head flop down over my arms again. “But I wish I did.”

  “I can feel what you’re feeling,” Turkey says. “You know that things are bad for Marley right now, and you feel guilty. But you also value justice and truth.”

  I nod. “Too much,” I mumble. “I mean, there’s nothing wrong with the fact that Felix wanted to be remembered as a hero.”

  “Penelope... think about what you just said,” Turkey transmits. “Is it a fact?”

  “Hm?” I say.

  “You said “there’s nothing wrong with the fact that Felix wanted to be remembered as a hero. But I’m asking you ... is it a fact?”

  I stare at my cat blankly. I guess he gets tired of waiting for an answer, because he continues, transmitting his communication slowly, like he’s talking to a young child. Well, I am only twenty-seven after all.

  “Penny... let’s think this through logically. We have two accounts of what happened at the mine thirty years ago. In one account, Felix Greene heroically saves a friend from the rubble of a collapsed tunnel wall. In the other account, he dies of an embarrassing accident. But what is it that Jumper Strongheart is always saying?”

  I perk up a bit. I love talking about Jumper Strongheart. “The ceiling is only the ceiling if you don’t know how to break it open,” I say. “I’m not sure how that applies to this situation.”

  Turkey shakes his head. “No,” he says. “The other thing.”

  “When the going gets tough, the tough kick some butt?” I say.

  Turkey shakes his head again.

  I try a third one. “You can’t judge a—”

  “No!” Turkey interrupts me mid-thought. “The question he says you should always ask yourself.”

  “Oh! Right. What else is possible?”

  “Exactly,” Turkey says. “What else is possible. We know of two possibilities regarding how Felix died. But what if there’s a third possibility?”

  “Hm...” I say. “Yes... I do see where you’re going there. It’s possible.”

  “It certainly is,” Turkey says.

  “The problem is, how are we going to know? All we really have is Victoria and Owen’s word about what happened. And they both say the same thing. Victoria says that she and Rich went up and found Felix outside of the outhouse. They helped him back to the office later. They called Owen and he went up and met them there.”

  Turkey’s whiskers twitch. He thinks we’re getting close to something; I can tell. His excitement is contagious. I set my coffee cup down and then resituate myself. I fold my legs under me and sit up a bit straighter, facing my cat.

  “Turkey! What if something else did happen that night. Kind of an option C.”

  “It’s more than likely,” Turkey says. “Logically speaking, all we really have is Victoria’s word about the head injury. She claims Rich was there to see it, but he’s deceased so we can’t easily ask him. And Owen technically didn’t arrive until after the injury allegedly occurred.”

  “So you’re saying Victoria could be lying!” I say. I bounce a bit up and down.

  “Do you want to take a break and use the bathroom?” Turkey asks. “I’ll wait.”

  “No!” I say. “This isn’t a pee dance. I’m just excited! Turkey... Victoria could be lying. Her version of the story might not be the truth. But how are we going to get to the bottom of it?”

  “Let’s go back to the basics,” Turkey suggests. “The foundation of this case: the forged signature on the will.”

  “Yes.” I say. “That’s a big one. And that’s something that really messes me up. Because without that signature, my money would be on Victoria. She seems controlling and manipulative. Selfish, too. I mean, who knows the recipe for the world’s best iced tea, and never shares it with anyone?”

  I reach for my coffee. If Turkey and I are going to talk logic, I need all the help I can get. “It’s Blackstrap molasses, by the way,” I say, after taking a sip of my coffee. “In the iced tea. I saw her add it.”

  “Good for you,” Turkey says. I pick up on a hint of sarcasm, but I let it slide. Turkey’s never tasted the tea. He doesn’t know how cool it is that I figured that out.

  “Yes,” I say happily. “Good for me. Victoria just seems like a villain. She wears those cat-eye glasses.”

  “What’s wrong with cat eyed glasses?” Turkey says, glaring in my direction.

  “Nothing! Nothing at all,” I say. “It’s just—she strikes me as someone who could get into trouble if she had a mind to. And she even has the motive... for both murders.”

  “Explain,” says Turkey.

  “Well... she might have heard about the gold nugget somehow. Who knows how, but it’s possible, right?”

  Turkey nods.

  I continue. “Say she heard about the nugget... she could have gone up to the mine and killed Felix. She planted the fake will, so that her husband would inherit the mine. She knew that if he inherited the mine, he’d inherit the gold too.”

  “Yes... yes!” Turkey says. He hops off of the couch and begins pacing back and forth. As he walks he transmits, “The will gave the mine to Richard, but since Victoria was Richard’s wife, for all intents and purposes it was just like she inherited it too. She got to enjoy the benefits just as much as he did.”

  “The money from the gold went into their shared bank account,” I say. “Then, she decided to give it all to her son. Who knows why.”

  “Because she loved him,” Turkey says. “She wanted the best possible life for him. All parents want that for their children.”

  I sip my coffee again. “There’s only one problem,” I say. “The signature on the will doesn’t match Victoria’s writing. I’m sure of it. I’ve seen Victoria’s handwriting.”

  “Perhaps she disguised it,” says Turkey.

  I shake my head. “It doesn’t make sense,” I say. “If she was going to go to the trouble of disguising her handwriting, she would have disguised it to look like Felix Greene’s. Whoever signed that will didn’t do that at all.”

  “True,” Turkey says. “Very true. Good point.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “It wasn’t Rich’s handwriting either. I saw plenty of samples of that. The only other person I can think of is Declan—Victoria’s son from her first marriage. I mean, he’s the one that ultimately ended up with millions of do
llars. It would have been tough, but maybe he arranged everything. You know... maybe he was in the background pulling strings.”

  “Good hypothesis,” Turkey says. “He has motive...to the tune of eleven million. He also had the means—he lived in Hillcrest at the time of the murder, I assume?”

  “I’m pretty sure he’s never left,” I say. “He just doesn’t seem that motivated to explore. He has Hillcrest Lifer written all over him.”

  “And he lives here currently?” Turkey asks.

  I nod.

  Turkey continues. “Then he could have gone over to Victoria and Rich’s and killed Rich. It wouldn’t have been hard for him to get in the house. Either Victoria or Rich let him in, or he knew the place well enough to know how to break and enter without drawing attention to himself.”

  My cat makes a good point. I add onto it. “It would be easy—he’d just slip some drugs into Rich’s food, and then get out of there.”

  “I wish we had a hand writing sample from him,” Turkey says.

  “Wait a minute!” I say. “I think we do! Chris gave me a print out of a traffic ticket that Declan signed.” I jump off of the couch and make my way excitedly to the counter, where my phone is charging.

  I’m talking the whole time. “Remember how I said Chris was being really cool about sharing information?” I ask. I pull my phone off of the charging cord, and then hurry back over towards the couch. “He sent me a ticket that he issued to Declan. I’m pretty sure it’s going to have Declan’s signature on it! We could use that as his handwriting sample!”

  I settle into the couch. Turkey leaps up to the cushion behind me and then peers over my shoulder as I pull up Chris’s message.

  I zoom in on the ticket, and then scroll down, down, down...

  When I get to the bottom my heart sinks.

  “Crap,” I say.

  “That’s not a match,” says Turkey, peering over my shoulder.

  “Not at all,” I agree. “Far from it.”

  Declan’s signature actually looks like a six-year-old wrote it. It’s all blocky and wobbly. The man has terrible handwriting. Terrible and distinctive. I don’t think I’ve ever seen handwriting this bad.