by Lucy May
Beating back my annoyance, I walked back to my car. Harold Smith, Lemon Bliss’s one and only sheriff, had all but ordered me to get down here and then he wasn’t even around to ask me the questions he claimed were too important to go over on the phone.
“Dangit!” I muttered, once inside the safety of my car.
Staring out the windshield, I debated what to do. It was just about spring and a cluster of azaleas was filled with buds in the front of the police station. Scanning the area, I took in the quiet downtown with its picturesque store fronts, sidewalks lined with flowerboxes soon to be awash with blooms, trees scattered along the streets creating a canopy of shade, and a few people strolling along the sidewalks. Lemon Bliss was a quiet, peaceful town. If you didn’t know it was the year 2018, you could easily land here and wonder if it were 1950. Not much had changed. Oh, the residents were stuck in the past or anything. It was just that Lemon Bliss was far enough away from any urban areas, it stayed quiet and people liked it that way.
When my stomach growled, I remembered my sandwich and quickly scarfed it down, hoping Harold would return by the time I was finished. He didn’t. So, I guess it was off to my grandma’s house. Or my house, rather. I had inherited the Victorian home along with the factory. I had debated the merits of selling it, but couldn’t bring myself to do it. It felt wrong. My mother didn’t want it, citing my destiny and all that jazz. She was living hers, and I had to live mine. More of my mother’s wild ramblings.
I drove to the edge of town, past the crooked oak tree and towards my grandma’s home. I could see the factory in the distance. Seeing the old, gray building that stood sentry over the town sent a shiver down my spine. The place had always given me the creeps. It was a massive old place in a town filled with two-story homes and quaint buildings. Nothing else was nearly as big as that factory.
As I pulled into the driveway of the big, Victorian home, I stared. The flowers were growing out of control. Thousands of colorful flowers covered the yard, snaked up the covered porch rails and completely swallowed the small white picket fence I knew I had passed when I pulled in.
“Wow!” I exclaimed, staring at the vivid explosion of color. Now I understood what the secretary had been talking about. It was an amazing display that would make any gardener envious.
I was going to have to send the caretaker I hired a special thank you note. I had never seen such healthy, abundant flowers. That person deserved the credit, not some silly rumor about witchcraft.
Climbing out of my car, I walked up onto the front porch. Grandma’s favorite wooden rocking chair was still there. It didn’t look the least bit worn. I sat down, inhaling the scent of the flowers and smiling, thinking of my grandmother. I missed her.
I pulled out my phone, hoping I would have a signal, and called Tara.
“Hi!” she greeted. “Don’t tell me you’re already on your way back!”
I chuckled, “I wish. No, looks like I’m going to have to stay the night,” I said, checking my watch. “The sheriff got called out. I’m waiting to talk to him, but the man isn’t exactly efficient,” I explained with a sigh.
“Oh, I’m sorry, but it’ll give you time to visit your mom at least, right?”
I cringed. I knew my mom would lecture me about not visiting. “Yes, I suppose.
“Is there like a haunted hotel you get to stay in?” she asked, excitedly.
“No, I’ll be staying in my grandma’s house. My house,” I corrected, still unable to accept ownership of the beautiful place.
“You own a house?” she asked, her tone shocked.
“Yes. It was my grandmother’s. She willed it to me.”
“Holy cow! I didn’t know you were loaded. I think we need to be better friends,” she teased. “Your grandmother left you everything?”
“Yes. My mom did get a sizeable cash inheritance, but everything else came to me.” I left out the part about me receiving the bulk of her fortune. I didn’t like people to know that. “Trust me, if you saw what I inherited, you would be running the opposite direction.”
“I doubt that. Is it a big house?”
I turned to look at the house behind me. “I guess. It’s old. It was built at the turn of the twentieth century. My grandma modernized it somewhat, but not a lot. It has four bedrooms, all on the small side, and two bathrooms.”
“That sounds amazing. Take pictures! I want to see it,” she laughed. “Is it haunted?”
“What is with you and haunted houses?”
“You know I love that stuff. I can’t wait until Halloween. I’ve got plans to go to New Orleans this year. Don’t forget, I’ll be gone that whole week,” she reminded me for what had to be the tenth time. Halloween was months away, but she planned ridiculously far in advance.
“I know, I know, you crazy woman. One of these days you’ll realize all that stuff is nonsense.”
“Nope. Never. I believe in the supernatural. You should too,” she said decidedly. “There are all kinds of creatures that walk among us. All you have to do is believe.”
I hated talk of that kind of stuff. It hit a little too close to home since I had grown up under a cloud of suspicion. There had always been rumors around town about my mother and grandmother. I always reminded my friends that I would be the first to know if the rumors were true. But it didn’t help. Nothing ever stopped the gossip from periodically making the rounds.
“I don’t believe a bit of it,” I told her, meaning it. “How’s everything going there?” I said, pointedly changing the subject.
She giggled. “Everything is fine here. Relax and enjoy your visit. Oh, I have a customer coming in, better run. Call me as soon as you know something. I have to live vicariously through you!”
Rolling my eyes, I hung up the phone. So glad someone was enjoying this mess. I fished out the set of keys I’d been carrying around for years, though I’d never used them. They had come in the mail, along with the deed to the house and factory. I had hired a caretaker when my mother refused to keep an eye on things for me, saying it was my responsibility. I had taken great satisfaction in hiring the caretaker. That showed her.
“Here goes nothing,” I muttered, expecting layers of dust, cobwebs everywhere, and furniture covered with sheets.
I pushed open the front door and stood stalk still. I couldn’t move.
The house was exactly as Grandma had left it. I could almost smell the scent of fresh baked bread coming from the old kitchen. Once again, I reminded myself to send the caretaker a note. The home was in immaculate condition.
The gleaming mahogany floors had been waxed and polished to a high sheen. My fingers trailed over the arm of one of the antique couches that faced two antique armchairs. All were clean, without a speck of dust. I made my way through the sitting room and into the kitchen where I had many fond memories of baking with my grandmother.
I stood in the kitchen and closed my eyes. I could practically feel her there, her hands busy kneading dough on the large butcher block on the center island. I could smell the yeast mingled with the ever-present scent of lemon in the air and hear her voice as she told me stories while she worked. I missed her terribly.
“I thought I’d find you here,” my mother’s voice cut through the vivid memory.
I spun around, startled to see her. “Hi, you scared me.”
“Were you spending some quality time with your grandmother?” she asked, completely serious.
That was my mom. Spirit communicator. “No, I was just remembering baking in here with her. It always smelled like bread and lemons and it still does.”
She nodded with a knowing smile. “She’s here.”
“What?”
“You can feel her. You have to admit that, Violet. Every time I come here, I can feel her. Close your eyes and open your mind.”
I shrugged. I didn’t have to admit anything. My mom was the daft one who did the spirit thing. Not me.
“Have you been keeping the place up?” I asked, suddenly wondering i
f my mom had changed her mind.
“No. I came by earlier today and put fresh linens on the bed and removed those horrible sheets from the furniture. I wanted it to be ready for you. Those sheets make it look so drab in here. I hate those things. Why does that man insist on covering the furniture with them?”
“To protect the furniture. It isn’t like anyone sees how drab it looks,” I countered.
“Well, you would, which is why I pulled them off.”
“I hadn’t actually planned on coming here at all.”
She ignored my comment. “I brought you some things,” she said, holding up a couple of bags.
“Like?”
“A few groceries and toiletries. I didn’t think you would have remembered to pack those with you.”
“Thank you. I didn’t. I hadn’t planned on staying the night,” I reiterated.
One of her perfectly sculpted black brows lifted. “What do you mean? Of course, you’ll stay.”
“I was hoping to answer the questions the sheriff had and go home tonight. I don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to.”
“Violet, don’t you see? This is an omen. It’s time for you to come home,” she said, walking towards me, her charm bracelets softly tinkling as she moved. “Your grandmother left you the house so you could live here and raise your own daughter here.”
My ears focused on the clinking of her bracelets, blocking out what she was saying. It was a familiar sound. One I had grown up listening to on my mother and my grandmother. It took me back to a simpler time. A time before I had to be an adult and give up the wistful fantasies my mother and grandmother were always spinning.
I blinked a few times, nearly hypnotized by the charms. “Mom, I’m not staying. I have a life and a business to get back to. This isn’t my home anymore.”
She turned and started unpacking the bags. Her back was to me, so I couldn’t see the expression on her face, but I didn’t need to see it to know she was upset.
“I thought you would be staying. This is important, Violet. We need you.”
“What is so important?”
She turned around to look at me. “Us. Me. The girls. The sheriff has some ideas about what he thinks may have happened in the factory.”
“What does he think happened?” I asked, growing a little worried.
“Why do you think he asked you to come?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. He didn’t really say. He implied that because I was the owner, I needed to answer a few questions.”
“He wants to pry.”
“Pry into what, Mom? What has got you so worried?”
She sighed, more in resignation than frustration. “Oh, Violet. You have so much to learn.”
Chapter 3
My mother left after getting a phone call, leaving me in the house alone to ponder her rather cryptic message. Well, not alone I guess, since according to her, Grandma’s spirit was hanging out with me.
When my phone rang, I yelped and jumped about three feet in the air. All the talk about witches and ghosts had left me a little freaked out, even if I didn’t actually believe in that stuff.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Violet Broussard?”
“Yes. May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Sheriff Smith. I’m sorry I missed you earlier. Do you have time to meet me at my office now, or would you like to wait until tomorrow?”
I checked my watch. It was only five, not too late at all. “I’ll be right over. Give me about fifteen minutes.”
After I quickly freshened up in the bathroom, I left the house. When I pulled up to the sheriff’s office, he was outside waiting for me. I took in the sight of the portly, balding man—his appearance had changed very little over the past twenty years. He had aged some and lost more hair, but he still had that bumbling look about him.
“We’ll drive over in my rig,” he said by way of greeting.
“Drive over?” I asked, caught a little off-guard.
“To the factory.”
“Oh, I didn’t know I needed to go there,” I said, a little uneasy about a visit to the site of a death, whether it was accidental or intentional.
He eyed me suspiciously, making me a little uncomfortable. The man had been the county sheriff forever, it seemed. I had been lucky enough to never have any real run-ins with him, but he still had a way of making me feel as if I had done something wrong.
“You can ride in the front,” he said, as he motioned to his extended cab truck with the telltale wide green stripe down the side.
“Uh, thanks,” I mumbled. As if I was going to ride in the back! I wasn’t a criminal. I was there merely as a courtesy to him.
He drove to the factory in complete silence, and the tension in the vehicle had me on edge. It was worse than any interrogation room. Well, I assumed so anyway, considering I’d never actually been interrogated, but I imagined it was something like this.
He stopped the truck in front of the side entrance of the old building. I jumped out of the truck, anxious to get out of the small space.
“You got the key?” he asked.
“Uh, why would I? You’ve been in and out of here already, haven’t you?” I asked, motioning to the crime tape across the door.
He smiled and nodded. “That’s true. I put my own padlock on here to keep people out. Folks are curious about this place.”
Once again, I had to stop myself from saying what was on my mind. He couldn’t possibly believe I had anything to do with the man’s death. I had been two hundred miles away.
He unlocked the padlock and pushed open the massive steel door. Light shone in from the tall windows, providing ample light to see inside on the upper floors.
“What are we doing here?” I asked, tired of the games.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
The man was making me nervous. Was it really the best idea to come out here, all alone with a man I barely knew? Sure, he was the law, but that didn’t mean much.
“About what? Why couldn’t we talk in your office?” I asked, tamping down my growing fear.
I took a few steps to the left, suddenly not wanting to be within reach of the man.
My rubber-soled shoes were silent on the concrete floor of the factory. I took a brief second to look around, seeking escape routes, just in case. I saw plenty of potential weapons I could use if needed. All the old machines and various tools used to box up the lemon teas once produced here were all in their original places. It was eerie, as if the typical work day had ended and everyone went home, intending to return, yet never did.
The dust was thick and as we walked, it stirred up the debris on the floor. The sun streaming in through the bank of windows highlighted every little dust particle in the air.
“The man killed here was named Dale Johnson. He was one of those supernatural investigators,” he explained.
I nodded my head. “Okay.”
“Dale and his buddy George Cannon had been in town for about two weeks.”
“Why?”
He looked at me. I could feel him sizing me up, trying to determine whether I was lying or telling the truth.
“To investigate the coven.”
I felt my blood run cold. I gulped down the lump in my throat. “Coven?” I squeaked out.
“Yep, can you believe that nonsense? These guys are part of some paranormal investigator group or something like that. They travel around the country and investigate the supernatural. Dale was from Lemon Bliss and said he’d always wanted to investigate this old factory. He was convinced it was haunted and built on old witch grounds,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I’m not sure what all this has to do with me, Sheriff?”
“Well, this is your property. I figured you might have an idea why these two yahoos thought there was something to find in here.”
I shook my head. “I don’t. I had no idea they were investigating. I mean, this is private property. Weren’t they trespass
ing?”
He shrugged. “Well, considering one of them is dead, I don’t think that’s a big problem, do you? I think what we need to focus on is how a man ended up dead in your building,” he said with a slightly accusing tone.
“I don’t see how it’s my problem at all. If I can’t press charges for trespassing and I don’t live around here, why is this something I need to be involved in?”
“Want to tell me who else has access to this property?”
I shrugged, “Apparently, anybody. I have keys, and my mother has a set, but considering these men got in here, I guess a locked door isn’t a big deal.”
“You and your mom have keys?”
I nodded, not thinking anything of the question. Of course, we had keys.
We walked across the factory floor to the metal staircase. The sheriff started to climb the stairs. When I didn’t follow, he looked down at me. “This way, please.”
I reluctantly took a step up and followed him to the second floor of the four-story building. The second floor looked down over the first with more equipment on this level.
“Over here,” he gestured.
I followed him to the spot he was standing and looked around. “What?”
“That George fellow told me this is where they detected some paranormal activity.”
“Am I supposed to feel something?” I asked dryly.
“Well, I don’t suppose you would, but thought you should know this is where the man died.”
I stepped back, immediately wanting to put some distance between myself and the area. It was creepy. Maybe not supernatural creepy, but very eerie.
“Okay, now I know. I have no answers for you, not that you’ve really asked me any questions,” I pointed out.
He stared at what looked like a laundry chute. Why there would be a laundry chute in a factory I mused.
“Helllooo!” a voice rang out below.
Sheriff Smith looked at me with frustration. I knew he recognized the voice. I certainly did, considering it had only been a few hours since I had talked to her last.
