Death Waxed Over (Book 3 in the Candlemaking Mysteries)

by Tim Myers

  “Thanks, Suzanne, I appreciate your support.”

  “That’s what friends are for, Harrison. Think about what I said.”

  “I will,” I promised. I returned the wrench to Pearly’s small workroom and logged in the repair in his ledger.

  Pearly was the most organized handyman I’d ever come across in my life, keeping track of every call he made at River’s Edge. I wrote down the date, time and nature of the repair, proud to be able to add my own entry. I scanned the listings before mine, wondering what Pearly had handled while I’d been holed up licking my wounds.

  Something odd struck me as I saw Sanora’s name listed; the times logged between the initial complaint and the actual repair were spaced seven hours apart, though there were no other problems that day. I glanced through the log and saw that none of the other repairs had taken more than half an hour to get to in the last month of the journal. The gap had been registered the day before the fair, and I wondered where Pearly had slipped off to for most of the day.

  Was I being paranoid, as Eve often accused me? Surely if Pearly had something to hide, he would have doctored the entry to escape notice. Still, the gap left me uneasy, not because of his response time, but because it was so out of character. Could that have been when Pearly was breaking up with Gretel? The worst thing was I couldn’t even ask him about it, not unless I had more reason than a logged entry to suspect he was up to no good. Pearly would take the questioning as an affront, and I couldn’t blame him.

  As I washed my hands, I remembered the promised baked treat, and Millie had it waiting for me when I walked back in.

  I held the pan to my nose. “It smells heavenly.”

  She handed me a fork. “It’s the perfect temperature right now. You’ve got to try it and tell me what you think.”

  It was all the prodding I needed. I took a bite of the brown topping, then dug into the softened apples below it. The juice from baking had been soaked into the cake-like crust, a mixture of sensations that burst in my mouth.

  “This is unbelievable.”

  Millie smiled. “I thought you’d like it. Take the rest back with you; it saves beautifully in the refrigerator.”

  “It won’t last long enough for that,” I said, then I thanked her again.

  As I walked back to my candleshop, I kept thinking about what Suzanne had said. She was right, whether I cared to admit it or not. I couldn’t stand idly by and watch the business Belle had worked so hard to build crumble into dust, nor could I afford to wait for the sheriff to name the killer. He had more time than I did.

  I needed to do something, and I needed to do it soon.

  “Jubal, I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute.”

  Eve hadn’t minded me leaving the candleshop at all. I’d told her I had a few errands to run, but there was no doubt she knew what I was up to, and it was equally clear she didn’t approve of my behavior. That was just too bad. Though her livelihood was on the line as well, At Wick’s End wasn’t her business; it was mine. I’d stashed what little was left of the Pan Dowdy upstairs in my refrigerator, then after checking in with her, I’d headed into town.

  Jubal offered a sad smile. “Harrison, of course I have time for you. Just let me ring up the next few customers and I’m all yours.”

  Three of the folks who had been shopping at Flickering Lights had been recent regular customers at my candleshop, and when they spotted me coming in, they’d scurried away without buying anything, ducking out as quickly as they could. It was what I’d suspected, but it still didn’t make it any easier seeing them shopping at my competitor’s store and not mine. At least Mrs. Jorgenson wasn’t there. If she’d switched alliances, I’d rather not know about it. I browsed around the candleshop and was surprised to find the shelf stock running low or even completely out in some cases. I hated to think what that meant to my business if Jubal couldn’t even keep his inventory stocked.

  Once we were alone, I said, “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to run any of your customers off.”

  Jubal shook his head. “So that’s what that was all about. I wondered. Harrison, I feel guilty thriving because of your misfortune. I’m not even sure candlemaking is a good fit for me, though Gretel seemed to be quite taken with it.”

  “I thought you said you were excited about coming here and doing this?”

  “Being near my cousin was more the reason for my interest than any genuine affection for the trade. I suppose I’ll run it for the interim, at least until her brother shows up. If they ever manage to track Hans down, that is.”

  “Have you spoken with Gretel’s lawyer about the disposition of her things?”

  Jubal said, “A tired old man came by this morning with some papers, but he was summoned back to his office before he had the opportunity to tell me anything. We have another appointment this evening after my regular business hours are finished here.”

  A woman came in, plopped a large forest green candle in the shape of a pinecone on the sales table and said, “There’s something wrong with this candle you sold me. I can’t get it to light.”

  Jubal raised an eyebrow, and without a word he flicked a lighter open with his left hand and lit the scorched wick. It sputtered for a few seconds, then as the heat touched the wax, the candle glowed in a steady light.

  “Why wouldn’t it do that for me?” she asked.

  Jubal said, “Sometimes it takes a steady flame. Is there anything else?”

  She frowned, obviously ready for more of a fight, then blew out the flame and stormed back out.

  After she was gone, Jubal said, “Some folks are just looking for a reason to be angry, aren’t they?”

  “It takes all kinds,” I agreed.

  Jubal stood from his place behind the register, stretched for a second, then said, “Enough about my worries. What brings you here?”

  “I wanted to ask you if you’ve been able to come up with anybody else who could have wished Gretel ill.”

  Jubal paused, then said, “You know, I’ve been debating calling you. I thought of something, or someone rather, but I wasn’t sure I should say anything. It’s certainly not enough to bother the police with.”

  “Why don’t you tell me, and then we’ll decide how important it is together.”

  Jubal shrugged. “Very well. A man named Runion was pressuring Gretel about the shop a few days before she was killed.”

  “Greg Runion?”

  “I think that was his name. Do you know him?”

  I nodded. “He was nosing around River’s Edge before I told him the place wasn’t for sale. It doesn’t make sense why Runion would be after this place. No offense, but it’s just one shop. I thought he went after bigger game.”

  Jubal waved a hand in the air. “I told you it was probably nothing. How’s Pearly doing?”

  “He’s taking it pretty hard. I gave him some time off to clear his head. He’s heading up to the mountains.”

  Jubal nodded. “I know they were having problems. I just wish...”

  “What?” I asked.

  “I wish they’d been on speaking terms when this happened. Pearly shouldn’t have to deal with the guilt, too.”

  “He’ll be all right. The man’s made of stern stock.”

  “I must admit,” Jubal said, “I’m feeling guilty myself. I keep thinking that if I’d been there with Gretel, I might have seen what was about to happen and stop it somehow.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Somebody had to stay here and run the shop. I had my assistant open At Wick’s End, too.”

  Jubal frowned. “I didn’t even get a lunch break that day; I wolfed down a bagel behind the counter between customers. In fact, I didn’t get any sort of respite until the police called me with the news.”

  A customer walked in—not one of mine, I was glad to see—and asked about gel candle kits. Jubal said to me, “Sorry, I need to handle this. Harrison, if there’s anything I can do, all you have to do is ask.”

  “Thanks
. The same goes for you.”

  I left Jubal to his customer, hoping Eve was keeping busy as well, and took off in search of Greg Runion. Why would he be after Flickering Lights? If he’d wanted the candleshop location, he would have been able to buy it long before Gretel purchased the building. I wasn’t a big fan of the man, so I was going to have to squelch my natural tendency toward him if I was going to get anything out of him.

  Runion’s secretary, a leggy brunette with a ready smile, greeted me as I walked in the door of Runion Developments. “May I help you?” she said in a Tennessee accent I’ve always been a sucker for. Folks from different parts of the country mostly heard a Southern accent as one dialect, but I’d been born and raised in the South, and I could tell Tennessee from the Carolinas, Georgia from Alabama. Each region had its own unique twang, and there was nothing sweeter to my ears than the sound of a woman from Tennessee. It didn’t help matters that nearly every woman I’d ever met from that particular state had broken my heart at least once.

  “Knoxville, right?” I said with a smile.

  “I grew up ten miles outside the city limits. You’re good.”

  “I do party tricks too,” I said. “Is Mr. Runion around?”

  She looked at his schedule, then frowned. “Is he expecting you? I’m afraid I don’t have any openings till next week.”

  “I think he’ll want to talk to me.” That was a stretch, but I needed to get past her somehow.

  She picked up the telephone and asked, “Whom may I say is calling?”

  “Tell him it’s Harrison Black from River’s Edge.”

  She whispered something into the phone, then said to me, “He’ll be right with you.”

  Before she could hang up, Runion came out, cool gray eyes peering out below large black eyebrows. Runion had played football for Micah’s Ridge, had won them their only county title before fading fast at Carolina. He’d come back to town a hero, then gone into the insurance business before heading into real estate. I hadn’t grown up in Micah’s Ridge, so I hadn’t known his history until he’d carefully worked it all into our first conversation. Every third thing out of the man’s mouth was a lie, so I wondered how much of what he said I could believe.

  “Harrison, it’s nice of you to drop by. I’ve only got a few minutes—something urgent has come up—but I’ll give you what time I’ve got.” He turned to his secretary and said, “Jeanie, get Hardin on the line in four, then buzz me.”

  I walked back into his office and saw Runion’s dream projects decorating his walls. They were all artists’ renditions, since none of them had actually come to fruition.

  “So,” he said, “are we ready to work out some kind of deal on River’s Edge? I wish I could offer you the same thing we discussed before, but I’ll have to drop my offer by twenty percent. Times change.”

  I smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “If anything, the property’s more valuable now than it was before.”

  Runion frowned. “Playing hardball, huh? I might be able to come within five percent of my last offer, but no more.”

  I ignored his counteroffer, especially since I had no intention of selling River’s Edge. “I heard you were interested in Gretel Barnett’s place.”

  “Now who told you that?”

  “You’re not the only one with contacts around Micah’s Ridge. Somebody told me you were pushing her pretty hard.”

  Runion held up his hands. “Your source has been lying to you. As a matter of fact, a man called me offering the property last week. Nothing came of it, though. It turns out the place wasn’t his to sell.”

  “Who’d you talk to?”

  “I didn’t get his name, but when I called Ms. Barnett to follow up, she told me she had no intention of leaving the area. Some crank was having his jollies at my expense, most likely. Now what about River’s Edge?”

  I was suddenly tired of the conversation. “You want to know the truth? I just don’t feel good about selling the place.”

  Runion said, “Come on, everything’s for sale, if the price is right.” He pointed toward the front office. “Did you see Jeanie out there? She kept saying no to me, too, until I finally wore her down.”

  I shook my head. “Sorry, it’s not going to happen.”

  I walked out of his office and looked at the secretary. Evidently I wasn’t too successful in hiding my disappointment in what Runion had just told me about her.

  She started to say good-bye, then her smile faded as she said, “He’s been bragging about me again, hasn’t he?”

  I bit my lip, then said, “I was hoping you were a better judge of character than that. Not that it’s any of my business.”

  Without another word to me, she stood up and stormed into his office. “Gregory Runion, if you tell one more lie about me, I’m going to tie a knot in your tail you’ll never get out. I don’t know what fantasy world you’re living in, but I won’t stand for it, do you hear me?”

  I left them there arguing, wondering why Runion had come up with such a flimsy response to my question about Gretel’s place. His account of what had happened stretched the boundaries of believability, and I wondered why that surprised me. The man reminded me of the old joke that said the only way you could tell when a lawyer was lying was to see if his lips were moving. I’d trust Gary Cragg first, and the attorney at River’s Edge didn’t have much credibility with me. If Runion was telling the truth, he hadn’t approached Gretel first at all. The idea of a crank call just didn’t resonate with me. But if Runion was after her shop, was it possible her store was part of a bigger purchase? I didn’t know, but at least I knew one way I might be able to find out. I had a source inside City Hall who just might be able to help me separate fact from fiction.

  I found Frannie Wilson locking up her office door at the Register of Deeds when I got to city hall.

  “Harrison Black, I can’t believe my eyes. You, of all people, out playing hooky.”

  Frannie was a big fan of candlemaking, and had been one of Belle’s first customers at the shop. She looked like somebody’s grandmother, but had a sassy, playful streak that always caught me off guard.

  “I haven’t seen you lately, so I wanted to make sure all was well with the world.”

  Frannie said loud enough so everyone in the building could hear, “I know you didn’t kill that woman, Harrison.” In a lower voice, she added, “There, do you think that helped?”

  “At this point it couldn’t hurt.”

  “Things are as bad as all that, are they?” she asked, scowling. “I don’t understand folks around here turning on you, Harrison. I know in my heart you never would have shot that woman.”

  “Thanks.” I was grateful for her support, and wished she’d stopped there.

  Not Frannie. “Now I can see you running her down with your truck, or even whacking her over the head with one of those monster candles you like so much, but shooting her? No sir, I don’t buy it, not for a second.”

  “It’s good to know you believe in me.”

  “So what brings you here? I don’t wager for one minute that you missed my ugly mug.”

  “Frannie, you know you’re one of my best-looking customers.”

  She cackled at that, then added, “Then you’ve got to do something to pretty up your clientele. Enough of this idle chitchat. Why are you here?”

  “I need to know if Greg Runion’s been up to anything in the downtown district lately; say, right around Gretel Barnett’s shop.”

  She pretended to look shocked. “Harrison, you should know better than to ask me something like that.” As she spoke, she nodded her head vigorously. “I could get in serious trouble giving out that kind of information.” Then she winked, and added with a whisper, “It didn’t turn out to be much, though, since he couldn’t buy the whole block. There was one holdout, so the deal fell through for everyone. Guess who it was?”

  “I don’t have to guess. It was Gretel, wasn’t it?”

  Frannie nodded. “I don’t have to tell
you it didn’t make her popular with the other folks wanting to sell to Runion. There are three people who own the rest of that block, and I’d be willing to believe that any one of them had a better reason to plug her than you did.”

  “You wouldn’t mind telling me which three folks she crossed, would you?”

  Frannie looked up and down the hallway, saw that it was empty, then said softly, “There’s Martin Graybill, he owns The Ranch Restaurant. Then there’s a man from Minnesota who’s never set foot in North Carolina, as far as I can tell.”

  “Who’s the third party?” I asked.

  Frannie shook her head, then finally said, “If you tell a soul I told you, I’ll deny it till I die, but you actually know the woman. The only other owner on that block is your star candlemaking student, Mrs. Henrietta Jorgenson herself.”

  Chapter 8

  “Mrs. J? Are you sure?”

  Frannie said, “Harrison, most of Micah’s Ridge has no idea how much property that woman owns. She’s the closest thing to a Rockefeller we have around here.”

  “If she’s already wealthy, she wouldn’t be too upset missing out on this deal, would she?” I couldn’t believe Mrs. Jorgenson would hurt anyone because of money, when she already had so much of it already.

  Frannie shook her head. “You don’t know many rich folks, do you? There are two kinds I run across in my job, and they’re as different as dogs and cats. There’s one sort who are the best kind of folk around, and no one would ever know how much they’ve got by the way they act. Then there’s the other kind, the ones that want every cent they can get their hands on, like it’s some kind of race to the end. Do I need to tell you which type your Mrs. Jorgensen is? She’s never given up a penny without making it squeal, except for her hobbies. In everything else, she’s as shrewd and tight-fisted a woman as you’d ever want to run across.”