Death Waxed Over (Book 3 in the Candlemaking Mysteries)

by Tim Myers

  The stars, at least for the moment, had lost their pull for me, and the cold, biting wind just reinforced the fact that I was alone. I put the chair and blanket away feeling the chill of the night, and headed down to my apartment. Once I was back in the warmth, the flashing light of the answering machine caught my eye again, and I knew I’d have to sift through the messages before I’d be able to get to sleep that night. Curiosity was a curse of mine, one I’d had no luck breaking in the past. The light now read twenty-eight; someone must have called while I’d been up on the roof.

  Most of the messages were as I’d expected—people calling demanding to know if I’d really killed Gretel, reporters asking for interviews and a few folks even defending my honor—but the last message struck me as the oddest of the lot.

  “Candles soon burn out,” was all the caller said in a whispered, gravelly voice.

  Now what in the world did that mean? Was somebody trying to be funny, or was it some kind of veiled threat? I reached to hit the save button so I could replay it for the sheriff, but my finger slipped off it and hit the delete key instead; so much for preserving it for further study. Why would anyone threaten me like that? It was a little too creepy for my taste. I wished I’d saved it for Morton to hear, but now I couldn’t even mention it to him. Knowing the sheriff, he’d probably think my accidental erasure was just a little too convenient, since I couldn’t back the claim up with anything other than my word. If any of the other messages I’d accidentally deleted were important, I just had to hope that they’d call back when they didn’t hear from me.

  As I tried to sleep, my thoughts kept returning to what tomorrow would bring. I couldn’t get comfortable in my bed as my mind raced back to the unwelcome sight of Gretel collapsing, slow motion, over and over again. I was almost ready to give up on sleep when it came unexpectedly.

  I might have been better off staying awake. All night the reel kept playing over and over again in my mind, and I was in no shape to face the day when my alarm finally went off.

  I’d prepared myself to face a mob at the candleshop, but twenty minutes before opening, there wasn’t a soul in sight, including Eve. I’d skipped my ritual breakfast at The Crocked Pot, not wanting to face any strangers I didn’t have to. Instead, I’d heated a few frozen waffles upstairs and lingered in the apartment, puttering around as the time crept by before finally heading down to At Wick’s End. It was Sunday, and we didn’t open until noon, so I had a lot of time to kill. Ordinarily I’d take my kayak out on the water—regardless of the cold—or go for a walk, or even go down to the candleshop and practice some new technique, but I was in no mood for any of my options.

  Though it was nearly eleven when I finally stepped outside for the first time that day, the weather had turned back to the cold we normally expected for late fall in our part of North Carolina, and I was glad for my jacket even in my brief commute from my apartment upstairs to the candleshop below.

  As I hung my coat up in the office, I glanced at the schedule and realized that Eve wasn’t due to come in at all that day. It looked like I was going to have to face the crowds alone. As I busied myself preparing to open the store, the telephone started to ring, but I wasn’t about to answer it until I had to. Unfortunately, by noon it still hadn’t given up, and it was time to unlock the doors.

  Bracing myself, I walked to the door and pulled the blinds back.

  No one was there.

  I opened the door with more relief than I should have felt and peeked outside. Not a solitary soul was loitering anywhere nearby. While I was happy none of the pests from the day before had shown up, the fact that none of my regular customers were there either took the edge off my temporary joy. Sunday was normally a big day for us, but it was looking bleak from the start. So was this going to be it? Would Gretel manage to carry out her threat in death, to bury me and my candleshop?

  The ringing telephone pulled me back into the shop, and my hand shook as I answered it.

  “At Wick’s End,” I said.

  “Harrison Black, I was worried something had happened to you. I’ve been calling since ten thirty.”

  “Hi, Eve. I’m here.”

  I could hear her take a deep breath, then she said, “Harrison, I realize I’m not scheduled to work today, but I don’t think you should be alone. Are you crushed with people today?”

  I looked around the empty shop. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Don’t put up a brave front for me, I know how overwhelming it was yesterday. I’m coming in.”

  It was time to come clean. “Eve, there’s not a soul in sight. It looks like we’re already yesterday’s news.”

  She hesitated, then said, “Oh dear, I was afraid of that, too. I gather you haven’t read The Gunpowder Gazette yet.”

  “I forgot all about it. How bad is it?”

  “They didn’t overtly name you as the killer, but they did everything else. I’m afraid it’s quite nasty in its quiet little way.”

  I let out a heavy sigh. “Well, at least that explains why I’m by myself. I’m going to go over to Millie’s and buy a newspaper.”

  “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

  I shrugged. “If they are going to be lying about me, I want to know what they’re saying.”

  “Would you like me to come in, if nothing else, for moral support?”

  “No, but thanks for asking. I’ll need you tomorrow for a full day, at least if Mrs. Jorgenson keeps her lesson. Enjoy today off. I know I would.”

  “Harrison, ordinarily I’d never suggest this, but you could just close the candleshop for a few days until things calm down.”

  “Eve, this isn’t going to blow over, and I’m not going to hide or run away. I didn’t do anything. I’m going to be right here at the candleshop, where I belong.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said. “If you change your mind, call me and I’ll be right in.”

  “Don’t wait by the phone. As it is, it looks like I’ll be getting a lot of dusting done.”

  After we hung up, I changed my mind about grabbing a newspaper. Did I really want to put myself through that? I decided I could sit around and mope all afternoon or I could actually be productive, so I grabbed a duster and started in on the shelves. Two hours later the place was as clean as it ever had been since I’d taken over, and not a single person had darkened my doorway. I was about to give up entirely when I heard the bell over the front door ring. At that point, I was willing to answer a reporter’s questions if it meant a sale for the store.

  It was Sanora, the potter from River’s Edge.

  “Did you come by for the wake?” I asked her.

  “Surely they’re not having it here,” she said.

  “I’m talking about the one for the candleshop,” I said. “Hey, who’s watching The Pot Shot?”

  “I never opened. I’m going to start closing the shop on Sundays and Mondays during the winter. I figure I work so hard during the summer months, I deserve a break now and then. You should do it.”

  I gestured around the empty shop. “I’m afraid if I did that, nobody would notice.”

  “That bad, is it? Things will get better, Harrison, you have to rely on that.”

  I shrugged. Given the evidence, I couldn’t make myself believe anything of the sort. “So what brings you here?”

  “I came by to see if you wanted to play hooky with me.”

  “I’m not in the mood for playing,” I said, “but thanks for offering.”

  “Are you sure? I’m heading up to the Blue Ridge Parkway. It’s a beautiful day for a drive.”

  “I really can’t. Besides, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be very good company today.”

  She frowned, then said, “Tell you what, I’ll give you a rain check, and we’ll do it some other time.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that,” I said.

  Over the next few hours, Heather, Millie and Suzanne Gladstone from the new antique shop all popped in to try to cheer me up, and though I appreciated
their efforts, it was all wasted on me. When I closed up at six, it was a first for me, and hopefully a last, too.

  I hadn’t sold a single thing all day.

  As I locked the front door, I realized the only two people associated with River’s Edge who hadn’t checked on me were Gary Cragg and Pearly Gray. Cragg wouldn’t visit me on a Sunday if I was giving away hundred-dollar bills, but it was so out of character for Pearly not to offer his support that I found myself worrying about my handyman and friend. Did he hold me responsible in any way for what had happened to Gretel? Or was he off mourning on his own? Either way, I wished I could talk to him, but Pearly was so adamant about keeping his privacy in his off-hours that I didn’t even know where he lived, and in a town as small as Micah’s Ridge, that was saying something. There was no doubt in my mind I could track him down if I had to—I’d been there long enough to know who to ask—but I figured I’d better respect his wishes. If and when he was ready to talk, he knew where to find me.

  Pacing around my apartment that night, I debated calling Heather to see if I could host her cat, Esmeralda, at my place for the next few days. Though I’d never admit it to anyone, being the feline’s designated roommate whenever Heather was away had become an important part of my life at River’s Edge. I’d developed a bond with Esme that had surprised me greatly, since she was the first cat I’d ever warmed up to. Heather had offered to set me up with a cat of my own, but I was afraid my affection didn’t extend to the whole species, just that one particular cat, as cantankerous as she could be at times. I started for the roof a dozen times, but the thought of being high above the world right now wasn’t a pleasant one.

  There were only so many steps I could take in my apartment before I started wearing a path in the floor, so I decided to go out. What was the worst that could happen? Well, people could point and stare; they could call me a murderer, or throw rocks at me. Still, I was willing to chance it. I grabbed a baseball cap on my way out and pulled it down low over my eyes. It wouldn’t fool anyone who knew me, but hopefully it would distract everyone else.

  I was startled to find Becka approaching the building as I walked out. “Bad timing, I’m just on my way out,” I said, trying to manage a smile for her.

  “I’m so sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. Harrison, I can’t believe this is happening to you.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that.” The last thing I wanted to discuss with Becka was my innocence. “Have you had any more problems with your stalker?”

  “Don’t call him that, it gives me the creeps,” she said. “No, I haven’t seen him since I was here. I’m hoping he’s given up on me. Harrison, what are you going to do?”

  “If he’s not bothering you, there’s not really anything I can do, is there?”

  She touched my arm lightly. “I’m not talking about me; I’m talking about you.”

  “I’m going to trust Morton to find Gretel’s killer, Becka. There’s not much I can do on my own.”

  She rubbed my arm gently, then started up toward my shoulder when I pulled away. “Listen, I appreciate you coming by, but I’m fine, honest. Like I said, I was just on my way out.”

  I could tell she was waiting for an invitation to join me, but I wanted to be alone. Even if I’d been looking for company, I most likely wouldn’t have turned to my ex-girlfriend.

  I expected a heated protest from her, but Becka said, “I understand. If you need anything, even if it’s just someone to listen, call me.”

  “Thanks,” I said. She got into her car and drove off, and I headed to the parking behind River’s Edge.

  I got in Belle’s Ford truck and started driving around Micah’s Ridge, happy for once that night had fallen so early. Usually the winter months depressed me, especially those after Christmas. We’d done well over the holiday season, and I’d wondered what I was going to do with our growing cash reserves. I was glad I’d fought the impulse to squander it on a trip. I’d need every dime I’d banked if things kept going like they were headed. I slowed the truck near A Slice of Heaven—my favorite pizza place in the world—and debated going in. But though I’d felt brave leaving my apartment, I wasn’t ready to throw myself into the thick of humanity, not with the suspicions that were hanging over me. Maybe coming out wasn’t that great an idea after all. It was starting to rain, and my windshield was streaked with moisture as I turned my wipers on. I started back for River’s Edge and was nearly there when I heard a police siren behind me. I looked in my rearview mirror with a sinking feeling in my stomach. A police car was on my tail. What had I done? Had I sped through a stoplight, lost in my thoughts? I pulled over onto the shoulder and could see the officer get out and start toward me.

  I rolled down the window and saw Sheriff Morton approach. Before he could say a word, I said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I’d done anything wrong.”

  “This isn’t about your driving, Harrison. You’ve got bigger problems than that.”

  “What is it? You’re not going to arrest me, are you?”

  “Quit asking me that. You’ll know it if I’m going to lock you up. Listen, we’re almost back to the candleshop. I’ll follow you and we can talk there.”

  I did as I was told, my thoughts racing as I tried to figure out exactly what I’d done now. I’d know soon enough, but that didn’t keep me from guessing.

  I parked in front of the candleshop instead of in the alley behind River’s Edge, and the sheriff pulled up beside me a minute later. I asked, “So what’s going on?”

  “Inside,” he said as he gestured to the door. The rain was really starting to intensify.

  The automatic security lights—armed with motion detectors—turned on as I approached the shop, and I thought about when Pearly and I had installed them. I flipped the lights on as I walked into At Wick’s End, but the sheriff hadn’t followed me. He’d evidently ducked back into his squad car and was talking on his radio. Without a word or a glance back at me, he pulled out of the parking lot, his lights coming on as he did. Whatever he’d wanted to talk to me about had been overruled by something else.

  I waited around half an hour, but for the first time in months, being in the candleshop was depressing. Not even the brightly decorated wax candles on display could cheer me up. I locked the shop’s front door and headed upstairs. My dinner matched my mood: a cold sandwich, some stale potato chips and a two-liter bottle of root beer that had gone flat days ago. It wasn’t exactly a gourmet meal, but I choked it down.

  I didn’t bother with a plate, eating off a paper towel instead. It sure made doing the dishes easy. Looking through my books, I settled on a biography of Thomas Jefferson. As much as I loved reading mysteries, I was in no mood for dead bodies, not after the night I’d spent replaying Gretel’s murder in my sleep.

  There was a pounding on my door as I picked the book up, so I laid it down on the table and opened the door.

  It was the sheriff, and he was dripping wet. “Sorry about that,” he said. “I had a call I needed to take.” He started in, then said, ‘Tell you what; why don’t we do this in your shop? I don’t want to get your floor wet in there.”

  I nodded. “I wish I knew what this was about.”

  “Just be patient for another minute,” he said.

  “Let me grab my keys and I’ll meet you downstairs.” I picked up my key ring and locked the apartment behind me. Morton was under the awning in front of the candleshop waiting for me.

  I unlocked the door yet again and flipped on the lights. I was spending more time there when I was closed than when I’d been open.

  After he walked in, I locked the door behind him. “So what’s going on?”

  He pulled something out of his pocket, and I could see a letter in a clear plastic envelope. It said, i saw the candle guy kill her, in block letters.

  “You call this evidence?” I said. “I know who did this.”

  “I didn’t say I believed it, I just thought you should know what you’re facing here. And I highly doubt you
know the sender. There wasn’t an identifying mark on it, and it was mailed from the downtown post office in Micah’s Ridge.”

  “Some nutcase was waiting for me by my truck yesterday. He told me that for the right price, he would swear he saw someone else kill Gretel. When I ran him off, he threatened me with something just like this. I never thought he’d follow through with it, though.”

  “How did he threaten you?”

  “He said that he could just as easily tell the police that he’d seen me shoot her instead of backing me up.”

  Morton shook his head. “Harrison, I hate to break it to you, but we’ve gotten several tips from people claiming that you’re the one who shot Gretel.”

  “Did anybody leave their name and number?” I asked.

  That actually got a smile from the sheriff. “No, it’s funny how brave folks are when it’s all anonymous, isn’t it? You’re taking the newspaper write-up pretty well.”

  “That’s because I didn’t read it,” I said.

  “You probably should, just to know what they’re saying about you.”

  “I don’t need to. I’m already expecting the worst.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “The real reason I came by was to tell you to watch your back. There’s a witch hunt brewing, and I won’t have it in my jurisdiction.”

  “So you believe me?” I asked.

  “Let’s just say I’m not rushing to judgment,” he said. “On the face of it, I’d say it wasn’t your style to shoot a woman in the back like that.”

  “Thanks for that, anyway,” I said.

  Morton headed for the door, then waited for me to let him out. As I shut off the lights, I said, “Sheriff, thanks for the warning. I appreciate it.”

  “Just thought you ought to know.”

  I went back upstairs, picked up the biography and started to read, but I just couldn’t get into it. I drifted off wondering how many accusations tomorrow would bring.