Using blue this time, she created lines leading from Dylan to both Blossom and Leanne. The two women were linked with yellow, but no obvious pattern pointed to a clear suspect.
“If there’s a connection between the two deaths, I can’t see it,” she finally admitted. “Why now? Blossom’s killer got away with murder because no one was looking at her death as anything other than an accident. History seems to be repeating itself with Marsha. That’s too big a coincidence to ignore, and it points to the same killer both times. Stick with what you know, right? But why now? That’s the question that keeps coming back to haunt me. We need to talk to someone who was around for both murders.”
“Someone from the coven, you mean?” Clara asked. “Not Hagatha, I hope. She’s about as trustworthy as a kid with her hand already in the cookie jar, and I think Gertrude told us all she knew. Honestly, that woman could be standing on the tracks and not notice the train unless it was covered in tinsel.”
“Or smelled like gingerbread.” At the bottom of the hill now, Mag made a beeline for one of the benches dotting the verge between the sidewalk and the wrought iron fence on the corner and tossed in her agreement. “But no. I was thinking about Dylan.”
“So you’re leaning toward it being him? He would have a brass set on him if he stuck around for ten years only to commit the same crime the same way a second time. He didn’t strike me as the type to be carrying heavy artillery.” Ripe skepticism flowed off Clara in waves. Only someone brutally ruthless or monumentally stupid would pull a trick like that, and she didn’t think Dylan fit either of those descriptions. “I can’t see it.”
Mag scowled at her. “As a source of information is what I meant. He would not be on the top of my suspect list—if I had a suspect list. How are we supposed to solve a decade-old murder when there are no clues or evidence? It was easier hunting Raythes—they’re evil, but they’re upfront about it.”
Dylan Snow looked like he hadn’t gotten an iota of decent sleep in days, not that either of the Balefire sisters could blame him. With Leanne still admitted to the hospital, he’d been trekking back and forth and spending most of his time on an uncomfortable fold-out chair that served—though barely qualified—as a bed.
Clara decided they’d marched up to enough practical strangers’ houses over the last few days, people were going to start wondering if they were part of some kind of door-to-door pyramid scheme.
This time, at least, the occupant didn’t look disappointed when he opened the door. “Hello, Mrs. And, er, Ms. Balefire.”
Clara smiled, “Just Mag and Clara are fine, Dylan.”
“Did you come here to check up on Leanne? She’s not here. They haven’t released her yet, but she’s doing well. I wanted to thank you for that basket of mini muffins you sent to the hospital. So much better than anything they have in the cafeteria. Leanne and I are both glad you two decided to move to Harmony.”
“You’re more than welcome,” Clara answered. “Actually, we came to talk to you.”
“Really? What about?”
Clara ran through the usual spiel that was becoming quite familiar, and, ignoring his insistence they had to be mistaken, caught Dylan up to speed. “So, as you can see, we need your help.”
“Well,” he said, “to be honest, Blossom’s death isn’t a subject I’d like to discuss with virtual strangers. It was the worst thing that has ever happened to me, and considering how stressful my life has been lately, the last thing I want to do is relive it.”
Clara opened her mouth to say something respectful, and let Dylan off the hook, but it was Mag’s turn to put in her two cents, and there was no way she was leaving without having some questions answered.
“You dated Blossom for what, a couple of years in college?” she asked with an edge in her voice. “What about her father, her friends? They spent many more years loving her. Don’t they deserve the closure we could give them? And what about Marsha Hutchins? She was your friend as well, wasn’t she? Don’t you want to bring their killer to justice?”
He raked his fingers through his hair. “Look, of course, I want that, I’m not an animal. It’s just that there’s not much I can tell you. I only moved to Harmony to be with Blossom. I stayed because at first, it was enough to feel her presence—to walk the same streets she walked, experience the life she wanted for us. And then when Leanne and I—well, the point is, even though I wondered if there was more to Blossom’s death, there was never any evidence of foul play.”
The shaky quality of Dylan’s voice revealed the doubt he felt—that everyone who was close to Blossom seemed to feel—about the nature of her death. It amazed Clara that people—witch or human, it didn’t make any difference in these types of situations—could ignore their instincts and accept something they otherwise would reject, simply because someone with a badge told them to.
And therein lay the difference between the two Balefire sisters: cut from the same cloth, their life experiences varied vastly. Mag’s had taught her that the mind is capable of creating a protective barrier against unwelcome information. Which for some, was a blessing rather than the curse her sister presumed it to be.
“We’re not asking you for proof; we’re just asking for your opinion.”
“It’s not my opinion you need,” Dylan shook his head sadly, “It’s Leanne’s. She was Blossom’s best friend. If anyone has inside information to share, it will be her.”
Chapter Seventeen
“I call driver this time, Clarie. I feel the need to put the pedal to the metal.”
“That doesn’t bode well for me, I don’t think, but go for it.”
They hustled down the hill, hopped into the VW bus, and managed to shave five minutes off their arrival time thanks to Mag’s lead foot.
Mag beamed with pride when she noticed the protection charm on Leanne’s hospital room was still intact. “Can we come in?” She asked, poking her head in through the cracked door.
“Yes, of course.” Leanne beckoned them inside, her voice nearly back to normal and her color improved.
“You look much better, they must be releasing you soon,” Clara commented while fluffing Leanne’s pillow.
“Yes, tomorrow actually. I can’t wait to get home; I can’t handle any more soap operas, and the hospital only has basic cable. I’m going a little bit batty.” Clara, who had a DVR full of Days of Our Lives at home, declined to comment. “Now, is this a social call, or have you figured out what happened to Marsha?”
“Not yet, but we’re getting closer—and what we’ve discovered is that her murder might have something to do with the death of Blossom Von Gunten. We’re very nearly certain the two are related.”
Leanne’s eyes widened in surprise and an undercurrent of pain that set a single tear hovering on her lashes, “Whatever in the world are you talking about? Are you saying…what I think you’re saying?” Something in her tone caught Mag’s attention.
“You don’t seem particularly shocked by the idea. Why don’t you tell us about what happened back then? We know you two were best friends, and we know Dylan was going to marry Blossom. What we don’t know is, who would have had a reason to kill her?”
Leanne accepted Clara’s proffered tissue and took a moment to clean herself up. “Nobody, as far as I’m concerned. But nothing would shock me at this point, and honestly, in some strange way, I always felt like there was something off about her death. For more than the obvious reason that she could tiptoe across a balance beam as lightly as a feather—we had been closer than sisters for our entire lives. I’ll tell you my story, and maybe you can help us lay this all to rest.
“Blossom and I shared the terrible fate of having lost a mother early in life. Neither of us remembered ours, and we were both raised by our fathers. Daddy always said he felt Mama’s presence the day he met Aldo over at Darby’s. Two sad men with baby girls at home—they bonded immediately, and the two of us grew up together.
“Of course, we had our differences like all girls
do, particularly considering how beloved Blossom was. She shined so brightly, and I faded into the shadows. Which was okay with me, up to a certain point. Watching her be crowned homecoming queen, prom queen, and basically, the princess of Harmony stung a little, sure.
“We were teenagers; of course, I felt jealous. But you couldn’t stay mad at Blossom for long. She could have used her popularity to snag the captain of the football team for a boyfriend, but instead, she chose Bryer Mack who, in high school, was as close to a nobody as a guy could get. He was part of the chess and AV clubs, so far below Blossom’s station that I think he felt like an angel was smiling down on him when she showed an interest.
“They dated all through school, but then Blossom took that scholarship and Bryer stayed here to help out on his dad’s farm. It was a quiet breakup, and when she returned after college with Dylan by her side, Bryer was gracious and congratulatory. I remember thinking how lucky she was—even when she broke someone’s heart, they practically thanked her for it. Like just knowing her, having been in her presence for a little while, was enough of a gift.
Her mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Funny, how true that statement turned out to be. Nobody got to keep her. And that’s how Dylan and I ended up together. I certainly didn’t set out to marry my best friend’s fiancé, but sometimes that’s just how things work out. Shared grief creates a bond, and from that bond, we built a real relationship.”
She lifted a hand. “Don’t get me wrong; there are moments where I’ll catch him wearing a wistful expression, and I wonder if he’s thinking about her. She’ll always be the young, beautiful girl she was when she died—her boobs won’t get saggy, and she’ll never get crow’s feet or cellulite, or become an old lady. In a way, I envy her as much now as I did then.”
No wonder Leanne chased perfection with such dogged determination, Clara thought sadly.
“Blossom’s death never did set well with me. At the time, I blamed it on emotions like shock and anger and self-pity. I dreamed she came back, over and over; it had all been a lie, and she wasn’t dead at all. After a while, time washed over those feelings, smoothing their edges like the ocean beating against the sand. And then I started to wonder if perhaps there was more to it.
“Blossom loved spending time up in that clock tower, and the scholarship she received was for gymnastics, of all things. Of course, accidents happen all the time, and it’s certainly within the realm of possibility. But I spent that entire day with Blossom, and when I left her, she said she wanted to climb up and look down on Harmony one last time as a single woman.”
Along with an onslaught of silent tears, mascara tracked down Leanne’s face leaving a black, blotchy mess in its wake.
“I got the idea she was out for something more like quiet contemplation, and goofing around up there didn’t seem like part of her agenda. But accidents happen, and we all had to accept she was gone.”
“And everything was hunky dory with Dylan? How did he react to the idea of living in the same town as her ex-boyfriend?” Mag asked when Leanne was finished with her tale. “They must have run into Bryer at some point.”
“My husband is not a killer. He’s so gentle with me, with his children. I would know if he had that kind of darkness in him.” Leanne’s conviction took the form of cold, hard truth and burning-hot defense.
“Blossom and Dylan were that couple. The one everyone loves to hate because they’re so perfect together they make you look at your own relationship with a critical eye. Sometimes I wonder if they’d have held it together for the long term.”
She raised a brow. “Call me skeptical, but that kind of perfection never lasts. He was so besotted by Blossom I doubt he even noticed Bryer existed. After all, he’d won her heart and Bryer wasn’t even a blip on his radar. They’re friends now, you know,” she mused. “I wonder if they ever talk about her when I’m not around.”
“What about Bryer Mack? Did he have the opportunity?”
“No. He had the sense to leave before the wedding, so he wasn’t even in town when Blossom died. He said he’d been planning that road trip for months, but I think he thought it would be awkward to watch her marry another guy. He tooled out of here on his motorcycle two days before the wedding, and when he got back and found out what happened, he was distraught. But then, so was everyone.
Blossom’s poor father—you know, I still visit him, but we never talk about her. Nobody does. It’s always seemed such a shame. When Marsha started putting together the commemorative edition, she wanted to feature a story about Blossom, but I managed to talk her into nixing it in favor of a photograph and reprint of the obituary. She was always fascinated by what happened, and she asked a lot of questions. Maybe she asked the wrong person the wrong question.”
A memory flitted across Mag’s consciousness; something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but that insisted on being explored. “It’s to do with what went in that paper. That’s the only explanation. Marsha had those photos remastered—photos from the very same day Blossom died. There must have been something in one of them that the murderer didn’t want anyone to see!”
“And that’s why he burned the papers when they came. Leanne, please tell us you have a copy left somewhere?” Clara implored.
Leanne shook her head sadly, “I don’t. But the printers might. I can call them on Monday.”
Looking at Leanne’s pale face and the angry red marks on her arms, Mag’s instincts screamed that if getting Leanne out of the way had been his goal, the killer might try to find a way to finish the job. Her protections charm might not be enough to sway the mind of a murderer with only one goal.
“Monday isn’t good enough. There’s got to be another way.” Mag’s statement was meant for her sister, but Leanne, having suddenly remembered something of importance, was the one to answer.
“The negatives! Marsha put them in the fire safe, but the fire department hasn’t let anyone back in.”
“You leave that part to us.”
Chapter Eighteen
The acrid stink of wet and blackened wood layered over smoke caught in Clara’s throat, crawled down into her belly, and set it churning as she made her way to the fire safe in the Harmony Holler office. In the clear light of day, she saw how the aftermath of the fire had gutted the place, turned it into a post-apocalyptic nightmare of slagged plastic and twisted metal.
Her memory overlaid an image of the newspaper office as she had seen it on that first day, and she wished she’d paid more attention to the photos then.
“Negatives. It had to be negatives. That’s what? Two weeks minimum to get back prints, even if we put a rush on the order.” Clara grabbed the knob and tried to give the dial a spin, but soot and debris clogged the mechanism. She tried again. And again while Mag smirked until Clara groaned in defeat.
“It’s no use, it won’t open.”
“You really do take the personal-use thing a step too far.” Sparks arced between Mag’s crooked finger and the dial, which coughed out a cloud of dust and spun free. “What’s the good in having a gift if you never use it?”
“Okay, Hagatha lite. Point made. Now help me get this open.” The closet-sized safe door turned out to be a lot lighter than it looked.
“What is this thing made out of?” Only Mag’s tight grip on her cane kept her from overbalancing. Inside the safe, floor to ceiling shelves held dozens of narrow boxes, each one labeled with the year. “Look, they stop after 2005. Isn’t that odd?” She reached for the box they had come here to find. “What do you suppose happened to the rest of them?”
“I keep forgetting you missed the technological revolution. That must have been the first year they went digital. But there should still be some sort of media storage. What did they call them again? Flip flops?”
“What do shoes have to do with it? Modern technology is your thing; I prefer the simple life.”
“Oh, like before there was fire or the wheel? Or the refrigerator? How would you keep your ice cream fro
zen?” While she scoffed, Clara’s mind supplied the proper term from her research into the advancements made during her stony period. “Floppies. There should be floppies, or disks, or thumb drives somewhere. Then again, Leanne didn’t know if Marsha was using the cloud for the remastered images.”
“Do you have any idea how ridiculous all of that sounds? Floppies and driving thumbs. How do clouds figure in? Never mind. I don’t want to know.”
Mag rifled through the contents but found nothing fitting the bill.
“It looks like we’re stuck with old-fashioned methods. With all the modern advancements, there must be a faster way to get prints from negatives.”
“Well, there was a phenomenon called one-hour photo processing. Every drug store in the country had it. No more waiting weeks for photos. Now, since hardly anyone uses film anymore, those have gone out of style, and it’s back to sending out for prints. You know, all in the name of progress because film has become obsolete.” That much she’d seen for herself over the years.
Human drug stores drew Mag like fruit flies to a ripe melon. All the little bottles of this and that and the pills. Oh, the pills. Tablets and capsules with tiny, sterile beads rattling around inside, yellows and blues and reds. Mag collected pills, and if she had resorted to magical means to get them, she’d never tell.
“Ah, Maggie, sometimes I feel obsolete, too.” Clara lost herself in a moment of silent thought, then picked up the box of negatives, shoved the safe door closed, and spun the lock.
Back at Balms and Bygones, an hour of tapping away at computer keys armed Clara with enough knowledge to set up a darkroom. If she were going to do this at all, she’d do it her way—using a blend of magic and whatever she had to hand.
“Sorry,” Clara grimaced when a small, pewter cauldron nearly cleaned her sister’s clock as it sped from the shelf to her work table. Grinning, Mag settled back to watch Clara work.
Murder Above the Fold Page 13
