“I think I could write better than that,” Turkey says. “And I don’t have thumbs. I could hold the pen in my mouth, and...yes! Yes, that could work...”
I feel his tail swishing against the side of my head. He’s twitching it. He does that when he’s happy.
His thought fades, and I sense that he’s lost in glorious thoughts of penning notes to himself and others.
“Turkey, I want to be excited for you,” I say. “I really do. But right now, I don’t feel excited. Do you realize what this means?”
“It means I’ll finally be able to do crossword puzzles!” Turkey says.
“No!” I counter. “I’m not talking about you holding a pen in your mouth. I’m saying...do you realize what this means,” I tap my phone screen.
Turkey’s tail stops twitching. “It means it wasn’t Declan” he says.
“At least, it wasn’t Declan who forged the signature on the will,” I say. “And my feeling is that they’re all connected. The will. Felix’s death. The gold. Rich’s death. They’re all pieces of the whole. We can’t understand this case without considering all of the pieces.”
“So you think someone else was involved?” Turkey says “Someone we haven’t even thought of yet?”
“Must be,” I say. “I just wish I knew who...”
“Maybe Owen,” suggests Turkey.
“I really hope not,” I say. “Marley would not be happy with me if I got her kicked off of her land and got her dad thrown in jail. Besides—he wasn’t even here when Rich was killed.”
“Not that we know of,” Turkey says.
I screw my mouth to the side, pondering this. “Right... not that we know of...” I scratch my head, thinking. Then I stand again and move to my messenger bag. I fish around until I find the little round white pill that I took out of the prescription bottle at Rich’s bedside. I carry the pill over to the couch. As I sit, I set the pill on the table.
“What’s that?” Turkey asks.
“A pill I found in Rich and Victoria’s bedroom,” I respond. “It was in a prescription bottle that was labeled as Rich’s heart medicine. The guy had a-fib and if he didn’t take his medicine, his heart could stop working properly. I’m curious...” I pick up my phone and start typing. The pill has a little code etched in it. ‘7767’. I type these numbers into a search, and come up with a medication name. It’s some sort of pill that helps with arthritis.
“Weird,” I say, looking over the drug information. “The pill that was in the prescription bottle isn’t heart medicine. It’s arthritis medicine....” I look at Turkey. “You know who has arthritis? Victoria. I heard her mention it when I was spying on her.”
“I thought we ruled out Victoria?” Turkey says.
I slump back against the couch cushions. “Me too,” I say. “Me too.”
“This really is complicated,” Turkey says.
“You got that right,” I agree. “Let’s think about this...”
We sit and mull over our clues for a while longer, until I can’t possibly mull any more. I busy myself with cleaning up the apartment, and calling my friends to talk about witchy things. Annie and Cora are excited to hear that Azure is in town to help us with the Vision Spell. I can’t get ahold of Marley, but that doesn’t surprise me. She’s probably still with her dad. I know I’ll see her at the theatre.
Ugh! The theatre! I so don’t want to help with setup. But I promised Rebecca that I’d be there, so at three-thirty I start to get ready, dragging my feet the whole time.
Chapter Fifteen
By four, I’m standing inside the lobby of the West End Theatre. Rebecca really did transform this place into an art installation. There are black cloths up over the walls, and little white Christmas lights strung up on the top and bottom edges. Black and white photographs honoring Felix Greene hang from the cloth, moving in chronological order from the entrance all the way to the sign-in table at the end of the room.
I peek at the pictures as I wait for Rebecca to spot me and give me a set-up assignment.
There are pictures of Felix as a child, being held in his parents’ arms. Then he’s a young man, holding an axe, one foot up on a tree stump. A wedding picture of he and Marley’s grandmother. She’s Native American, and looks exactly like Marley. The two are standing by Hillcrest Creek. I recognize the waterfall.
Then, there are pictures of the mine. I feel sick to my stomach as I spot a picture of Felix with his arm around Rich Dempsey's shoulder. The two men are smiling. ‘Felix Greene and Rich Dempsey: Taken two months before Felix saved Rich’s life,’ reads the caption of the photo.
I’m about to move to the next picture when I hear Rebecca’s voice behind me.
“Oh good! Penny! You’re here!” she says. “We’re running a little bit behind. Could you go help Martha pull extra chairs out from under the stage? We’re expecting a full house tonight!”
For the next two hours I bustle around with the other volunteers. As a payoff, just before the doors open to the public, one of the Historical Society members offers me a glass of wine in a plastic Dixie cup.
With wine in hand, I take my place behind a long table. To my right, several Historical Society members are manning cash boxes. I’m the end of the line. A stamp and an ink pad are right in front of me. I’m instructed to stamp each person’s hand that comes down the line, which will show that they paid their entry fee.
I sip my wine as people start filtering through the line. Soon I’m stamping hands as fast as I can, one after another. I do my best not to get too sidetracked by a conversation with Cora and Silas, though I have to admit that perhaps a dozen people slip by me without getting their hands stamped.
The event is supposed to start up at seven. Marley and Owen enter at quarter to.
“Are you sure about making your speech?” I ask Marley as I press the rubber stamp on the back of her hand.
She has kind of a stony, determined look about her. Not her normal, care-free, easy-breezy, giggly self.
“Yeah,” she nods. “It has to be done.”
I reach for Owen’s hand. As I stamp it he says, “I just wish we could tell this town the truth about Felix Greene on a night not designed to celebrate his heroic qualities. I mean... there are a lot of people here.”
“Dad,” Marley says, looking up at her father. “We talked about this. People deserve to know what happened that night. It’s not right to keep this charade going.” She motions to the photographs that surround us. The images of Felix, the mine, and Rich seem to leer down on us.
“It is kind of painful to see these pictures, isn’t it?” I say. “Hey! Did you get a stamp?” I shout as a townsperson passes by. They keep walking. “Eh,” I say with a wave. “It’s not like anyone’s really checking.”
Two more people wander by.
“So how are you going to do this?” I ask Marley.
“We decided to wait until Rebecca issues the award,” Marley says. “She talked to us a little bit about it. First she’s going to show a slideshow of town pictures, and talk about the mining history of Hillcrest. Then, she’ll introduce the award. She said that would happen at about eight-thirty.”
Owen speaks up. “She asked if Marley or I could accept the award on Dad’s behalf, and say a few words.”
“And we plan on saying a few words,” Marley says. “We didn’t tell Rebecca what we plan on saying...”
I nod. “I think that’s good,” I say. “If you told her you’re going to tear down the reputation of the guy she’s put this whole thing together for I think she’d lose it. She’s the type of person who wants things to go exactly as planned.”
As if on cue, I see Rebecca appear in the double doorway that leads from the lobby into the theatre area. She’s waving her hands in my direction, like she wants to catch my attention.
“Penny!” she says. “Penny! Are you remembering to stamp hands?”
A group of four people are passing by me. They’re already paid their cash, and they’re hea
ding for the theatre.
“Hang on guys!” I call out to them.
They pause, and then back track. As I stamp their hands one by one, I say to Marley and Owen, “I’ll catch you guys inside!”
“When do you get to come in?” Marley asks.
“Whenever people stop coming through the doors,” I say to Marley. Then to the group of four whose hands I’ve just stamped I say, “You guys are all set. You can go in.”
“So you’ll be there when Rebecca gives out the award?” Marley asks.
“Yeah. For sure,” I say.
I really concentrate on my task of stamping hands for the next fifteen minutes. As eight o’clock hits, the line finally isn’t out the door any more. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel! You might not guess that stamping hands could make one’s arm sore, but I’m telling you, the constant repetitive reaching motion almost made me break a sweat.
My arm needs a rest. I eye the end of the line. Just about twenty more people to check in.
The whole town really is here! I even got to see Max for a minute, and he promised he’d meet me inside. I told him to find a seat in the reserved front row. He’s with me after all, and I’ve put my blood, sweat and tears into this evening. I even braved the dusty crawl-space under the stage! I deserve to invite a guest into the front row with me.
Shoot! The lobby doors are opening. More people? Come on. When will it end?
Annoyed, I watch the late stragglers wander in. It’s Victoria and with her, I see Declan Nelson!
Well, what did I think? Hillcrest doesn’t have many entertainment options. Plus, I already checked in the whole staff of The O.P, so I know Declan’s favorite hang-out is closed.
I can’t help but think about the case as I wait to stamp Victoria and Declan’s hands.
There are things that still bother me about the story as I know it. It frustrates me to go over the questions I have. I feel like I’m banging my head against a wall.
Whose handwriting is on the will?
I stamp a person’s hand. “Enjoy the evening,” I say politely.
What really happened that night, up at the mine? I think, as two more people step in front of me. “I just need to give you an X so they know you paid,” I say, holding out my stamp. Stamp, stamp. I get both of them.
Was Rich’s death natural? Or was he murdered?
Stamp, stamp, stamp. I catch three more people before they can sneak by me.
And if he was murdered... who did it?
I press the rubber stamp into the ink pad, and wiggle it around, getting it all juiced up. When I look up, reaching my hand out at the same time, I realize that Victoria is standing in front of me.
“Hello Victoria,” I say coolly.
I mean, at least, I’m pretty sure I sound cool. Sometimes I can pull that off.
She smiles at me, with just as much iciness in her demeanor. “Penny,” she says. She levels me with a look. “I hope you kept what we discussed yesterday to yourself?”
Declan is hovering behind her. He seems interested in the answer as well.
“Maybe,” I say. “And maybe not. What’s it to you?”
“Felix Greene was my friend,” she says, keeping her voice low. “And my husband’s friend. We made a promise to him, all those years ago. I’d hate to think a nosey little busybody would think it was up to her to ruin all of our hard work.”
I lift my chin into the air. “I don’t know of any nosey little busybodies, so I’m afraid I can’t answer you,” I say. “I need to stamp your hand.”
She reluctantly holds out a hand. I reach for it. Her flesh is cool; her hand feels bony. I press the stamp into it. Nope. I am not getting a good vibe from this woman.
“Enjoy your evening,” I say. I have a feeling she’s not going to enjoy Marley and Owen’s speech, but I’m not going to tell her that. She’s going to be just as surprised as Rebecca at the turn this night’s about to take.
“I will, thank you,” Victoria says. Then she turns to Declan. “I’ll meet you inside. I have to use the women’s room.”
She heads off to use the lavatory, and I’m left face to face with Declan Nelson.
“Hello... Declan,” I say.
“Hi,” Declan says. “Do I... do I know you?”
“I’m not sure if you remember me,” I say. “We got into a bit of a disagreement one night, at The O.P.”
He stares at me, narrowing his eyes. “Oh... oh, yes... your hair was longer then... but I recognize those glasses. You and your annoying friend were trying to play some stupid pop song on repeat.”
“Not a stupid pop song,” I say. “Thriller. By Michael Jackson. The best song ever—” I stop myself short. “Never mind,” I say. “Not important. The past is the past. My name’s Penny.”
I hold out my hand. He reaches out and we shake. As we shake hands, I notice a long scar on his right thumb.
“What happened?” I ask, as we pull our hands apart. “To your thumb there? Looks like surgery.”
He looks down. “Right. Arthritis. I had to get ligament reconstruction.”
“Sounds painful.”
“Not bad,” Declan says. “They took a bit out of my wrist and put it in my thumb. Can I get a stamp?”
I hold the stamp out, and am about to press it into his hand when I pull it back. I want to talk to him for a minute more, and suddenly I find that since I’m the woman wielding the stamp, he’s stuck with me.
“So... you have arthritis?” I ask.
“Yes,” Declan says. I think he’s getting annoyed by my questions. His brow has a deep V in it, and he keeps looking over at the door.
“That doesn’t sound fun,” I say.
“Oh, no, it’s a real walk in the park,” Declan says sarcastically. “Hey, can you hurry up? I think they’re starting in there.”
“Okay, okay,” I say. “Calm down. It’s just—I’ve actually been wanting to talk to you. Your mom is Victoria, right?”
“What the hell?” Declan says. “What is this about?”
I can tell he’s about to walk away from me, stamp or no stamp. I’m feeling desperate. I mean, sure, Declan’s writing doesn’t match the will, so he might not be involved. But he could know something that could help me. I have to keep him talking.
“Arthritis, hmm?” I say. “And thumb surgery...”
“What, is this a medical intake or something? Yes—arthritis. Thumb surgery two years ago. I also had a tooth pulled six months ago—do you need to know that? Geeze. I didn’t know I’d have to answer questions about—”
Hang on. Did he just say two years ago?
I interrupt him to clarify. “Wait—you’re saying two years ago, around this time, you were wearing a brace on your right hand?”
He pushes a hand through his hair as he nods. “Yes!” he says. He’s really getting fed up.
“Oh!” I say. I change tactics and pretend that this information means nothing to me. Instead of continuing my line of questioning, I casually pull my messenger bag out from under the table. I flip open the top.
“Did you sign up for the raffle?” I ask Declan, as I reach into my bag for my Book of Shadows. “You can have a chance to win a ... um... a new Tesla car.”
This came right off of the top of my head. I know Declan likes sports cars, so it seemed like something he’d be interested in. Plus, Max is always going on about how wonderful Teslas are.
I think I hit the nail on the head. Declan’s eyes light up. “A Tesla?” he says. “Seriously?”
“Um... yeah! Really.” I place my notebook on the table, flip to a blank page, and push it towards Declan.
Then I pull out a pen. I hand it to Declan. He accepts it with his right hand.
“Just put your name down on the raffle list... it’s going to be... uh... a random drawing.”
Declan leans over the table as he scrawls his name.
“Put your address too,” I say. “That way the Historical Society will know where to mail the keys to.”
“Why is my name the only one on this list?” Declan asks, as he finishes doing as I say.
Just then, Victoria emerges from the hallway that leads to the ladies room. “Declan!” she calls out. “What are you still doing out here? Come on. It’s starting.”
The double doors into the theatre are closed.
“It’s starting!” I repeat. “If you put your hand out, I’ll stamp it so you can get in there. You’re late!”
Declan looks at me like I’m crazy as he puts his hand out. “I’ve been trying to get you to stamp my hand this whole time,” he says. Then he mutters, “Crazy... she’s crazy.” He’s shaking his head as he walks away from me.
I reach for my book eagerly.
The Historical Society members to my right are closing up their cash boxes. “Well, that’s everyone!” one member says.
“It is. Quite a turn out!” the other replies “Now let’s get in there.”
One turns to me. “Ready Penny?”
“I’ll be right there,” I say. They’re already walking past me. I’m too busy looking down at my Book of Shadows to hear if they say anything else to me, but apparently I’m off the hook because the next thing I know, I’m alone in the lobby, sitting at the long table, staring down at the page in front of me. My mouth is hanging open.
Holy crap.
This changes everything!
What I’m looking at really changes everything. I had an idea, when I heard that Declan had surgery on his right hand two years ago. That was when Chris gave him the traffic ticket. What if Declan was wearing a hand brace when he signed that ticket? That would mean he was either writing weird because of the brace, or maybe he was writing with his left hand. In either of those cases, the handwriting sample wasn’t accurate.
Now that he’s no longer recovering from surgery, I have an accurate sample; a sample of his real, natural handwriting.
And that changes everything, because it’s clearly a match. The e’s, the n’s, the x’s, the r’s the i’s... they’re identical.
Just to be sure, I pull up a picture of the will signature on my phone, an compare it to the writing in my notebook.
A Hillcrest Witch Mystery Collection Page 84
