Venla tapped her perfectly manicured nail on her chin. "I'm going to go with sparkleberry infusion. Get that healthy glow back in your cheeks."
"A healthy glow sounds good," I said.
Venla began to gather her materials in preparation for the facial. I watched as she used her wand and gently tapped each item.
"Do you use fairy magic for the facial?" I asked.
She glanced at me over her shoulder. "Of course. This is a fairy salon. What else would we use?"
I had no clue. "You seem close in age to Elsa Knightsbridge. Did you go to school together?"
Venla scowled. "We did, not that she would acknowledge my existence. I tended not to hang out with other fairies."
A-ha. There was my opening. "Who did you hang out with?"
"My best friend is a troll. You can imagine how well that went over in the fairy community, especially in high school. Trolls are inelegant creatures, not really our type, if you know what I mean."
"All of the trolls I’ve met here have been wonderful," I said. That was true.
"Marianne and I met in high school and we’ve been best friends ever since." She brought over a jar of multicolored sparkles that looked like confetti. She used an applicator and applied it to my face like a paste. "She's going through a tough time right now, in fact. Her husband died."
I watched her carefully out of the corner of my eye, praying she didn’t douse my eyeball with sparkles. "That's terrible. What happened?"
Venla shrugged. “The sheriff is still investigating. Marianne is distraught, as you can imagine. Walter was her world." There was something in her tone that suggested he shouldn't have been.
"Did you like Walter? I imagine it would be hard if you don't like the husband of your best friend."
Venla continued to smear the paste across my cheeks. "I liked him well enough. I just don't think he was the troll she believed him to be."
"What makes you say that?"
Venla pressed her lips together. "Let's just say I found out some unflattering information about him recently. It made me angry."
"Did you tell Marianne about it?"
"No, because I didn't want to ruin our friendship. I felt like it would be one of those situations where the messenger might get the blame."
I understood her fear. Often times the person who didn't want to know the truth blamed the person who opened their eyes in the first place. It was a touchy situation.
"So this unflattering information," I began. "Are you going to tell her now that he’s dead?"
"Absolutely not," she said emphatically. "What's the point? I would rather preserve her positive impression of him. Why sully his good name now? It’s pointless. It seems to me that both women are suffering enough without him."
"Both women?" I repeated. So she did know about Pansy. I suspected as much, but I wasn't one hundred percent sure until now.
Venla heaved a sigh. “Yes. Walter had a mistress. I found out about it not that long ago when I saw them together near Walter's office. I was heartbroken for Marianne."
"Did you confront him?" I asked. She smoothed the paste so close to my lips that I was having trouble speaking at this point.
"No, but I know they saw me. I kept waiting for Walter to come and speak to me about it, but he never did."
"You said you were angry. Why didn't you go to see him about it?"
"Honestly, I was still deciding how to handle it. Marianne didn't seem unhappy with him and he treated her well. Part of me wondered whether she knew and chose to turn a blind eye."
That was an interesting theory. "Do you know how Walter died?"
"I heard he was found frozen to death in the woods," she said. "Some kind of magic spell.”
"Fairy magic?" I queried.
"I certainly hope not," Venla said. "That would be bad for all of us."
“How's Marianne holding up?"
"She has good days and bad days," Venla said. “I’ve been trying to spend as much time with her as possible. She wants to reminisce about Walter. I find that a little difficult, but I indulge her."
"You don't think you’ll ever tell her the truth?"
"No," she said firmly. "Her good memories of him are all she has left now. What kind of friend would I be if I destroyed that?"
"Were you around when Walter’s body was found?" I asked. "Were you able to be with Marianne?"
"I was actually here when the message came," she replied. "I had the early shift, but my boss let me leave in the middle of a facial so that I could be there for Marianne. She knows how close we are."
There was no way that Venla killed Walter. Yes, she was a protective friend, but she never would have killed Walter over his affair. Not when she knew how much Marianne would suffer as a result. Plus she had an alibi as well. I was definitely ruling her out.
Venla fluttered back to admire her handiwork. "We’re going to leave this mask on for twenty minutes. How does it feel?"
"Like someone vomited glitter all over my face," I said.
She smiled. "Perfect."
Chapter 16
Venla’s words stayed with me. What if Marianne knew the truth, but chose to turn a blind eye only to change her mind in the heat of the moment? It was a careful line to tread because if she didn't know, then I didn’t want to be the one to tell her. I had to make sure that the conversation was vague enough to get a sense of her awareness without showing my hand.
I stopped outside Brew-Ha-Ha. I waited until she retrieved her coffee from the counter to enter the coffee shop. I made sure to brush past her, pretending not to notice her. Basically, the way I was treated in high school.
"Miss Hart," she greeted me.
I broke my stride and turned toward her. "Mrs. Rivers," I said, feigning surprise. "Oh my goodness, how are you?"
“Please call me Marianne. I’m hanging in there," she said. "We had a lovely service for Walter. You should've seen it. So many friends came to say goodbye." Her eyes glistened with tears. "I was really touched to see the outpouring of love for him."
"I assume everyone was there from work," I said.
"Oh yes. Quinty was there. And his sister, Pansy. They've known Walter forever and a day.” She glanced around the room. "Would you like to join me for a few minutes? Grab a drink and come sit down."
I smiled. "Don't mind if I do. I hate to drink alone."
That was true. Although I didn’t consider myself an introvert, I didn't like eating alone in restaurants either. It was plain boring.
I hurried to the counter and placed my order. Henrik greeted me with his usual snarl. I knew better than to be intimidated by it. It was part of the berserker’s charm.
"Thanks, Henrik," I said, as he handed me my latte with a boost of sunshine. I joined Marianne at the table by the window.
"How are you handling things?" I asked. "One day at a time?" That was how I coped.
She nodded and sipped her drink. "I'm trying to force myself to leave the house. That's why I'm here now. If I don't force myself, then I'm prone to sit in the house and cry. That's not the life Walter would want for me."
No, certainly not. Much like I knew my parents wouldn't want me to live a life of no loving relationships because I feared their loss.
"You showered and left the house," I said. "That's a huge win."
She gave me an appreciative smile. "Thank you. I think so too."
“I’m sure you gave a lovely speech at his service," I said. I wondered whether Pansy had cried throughout the service and, if so, whether Marianne had noticed.
"I didn't think I would manage to get through the speech," Marianne said. "Walter would have been proud of me. Public speaking was never my thing. He was the gregarious one."
I patted her arm. "You give him all the credit, Marianne. You seem to have no shortage of friends."
She took another sip and set down her cup. "That's true. I'm very grateful for them, especially Venla. I don't know what I’d do without her."
"You and Walt
er seemed to have a wonderful friendship on top of everything else," I said. "You probably didn't feel the need for too many friends when you have a husband like that."
"I suppose," she said. "But he did spend a lot of time on his inventions. If I didn't have other friends, I would have been very lonely."
“An invention widow," I said. In the human world, some wives were called football widows during the NFL season. It was probably much the same for Marianne.
"And now an actual widow," she said sadly.
My hand whipped across my mouth. "Oh, Marianne. How thoughtless of me. I'm so sorry."
"Don't be," she said. "I know I’m romanticizing our relationship now that he's dead. Of course he wasn't perfect. No relationship is perfect."
"Was that your main issue with him?" I asked, careful not to push too hard. "Did you argue about the time he spent on inventions?"
"Pretty much," she said. "It seemed like all his free time was spent on perfecting them. That left little time for me. It seemed to get worse over the last few years or so. I often thought about leaving him, but I didn’t want to do that to him. I don’t think he could have managed without me.”
Oh, the cruel irony. I resisted the urge to comment. Instead I asked, "Why do you think he was so obsessed with the inventions?"
She settled back in her chair, thinking. "I don't really know. Some days I felt like he was bored with me. We would be sitting together and he would get this faraway look in his eyes. I knew he was somewhere else in his head." Her expression softened. "It annoyed me a bit, but I never asked him about it."
"Why not?"
"I don't know. Part of me probably didn't want to know the answer."
"Do you think he was happy with you?" A potentially incendiary question.
"I don't really know what happy is. We liked each other well enough. We never fought. I suppose that's a kind of happiness."
There was no way Marianne knew about Pansy. She may have suspected something, but she preferred to hide her head in the sand than discover the truth. She wanted her rose-colored version of events to be the final word on her marriage. Part of me understood.
"You're still young, Marianne. I don’t mean to speak too soon, but maybe in a year or so you’ll be ready to start a new relationship."
Marianne burst into laughter. "I don't know that anyone would have an old troll like me, but thank you for the suggestion."
I shrugged. “There’s always Pandora. People seem happy with her matchmaking service.”
The door to the coffee shop opened and Hugo strode in, his hooves leaving scuffmarks on the floor. He growled when he saw me.
"Meddling again, Hart?"
I shot him an innocent look. "I don't know what you mean. Marianne and I are having a friendly chat over lattes. You should try it sometime."
"If you need someone to help you figure out what happened to your husband," he said to Marianne, "don't hesitate to call a professional."
"She has a professional," I said. "Sheriff Astrid is going to crack this case wide open any day now."
"Thank you for the offer," Marianne said. "But I have confidence in the sheriff. She's been keeping me updated on the case and she is committed to finding Walter's killer."
Hugo blew a short puff of air from his nostrils and stalked off toward the counter.
"Talk about someone who needs a hobby," Marianne said, and I laughed.
"Did you mean it?" I asked. "Are you satisfied with Sheriff Astrid’s performance so far?" I didn't want to assume that everyone was happy with her. I knew that I tended to be loyal to a fault.
"Solving a murder isn't magic," Marianne said. "It takes time. I know that. She's doing her best and I have confidence that she’ll bring the murderer to justice."
"She’ll be happy to hear that," I said. "I'm sure not everyone would have your patience.”
Marianne drained her cup and stared out the window. "If that was one thing Walter taught me, it was patience. You don't learn how to wait for someone day after day without learning a thing or two about it.”
Yes, I wholeheartedly agreed. When you were forced to live according to someone else's timetable, patience was the only option.
“Emma, it’s good to see you.”
“Hi, Paisley,” I greeted the witch. Paisley was unlucky enough to work alongside Jemima at Mix-n-Match. “I brought a friend tonight. I hope no one minds.”
Paisley smiled at Britta. “It’s harp therapy. No one minds anything. We’re all too relaxed.”
“And you swear this is better than knitting?” Britta asked, clearly unconvinced.
“It is for me,” I said. “The only way to know for sure is to try it.”
Britta surveyed the room full of harps. “Looks like a bunch of old timers.”
“Watch who you’re calling old, Viking.” Phoebe Minor swept past us and took her seat next to Sheena Stone.
“Whoa,” Britta breathed. “You’ve got a harpy in here. That’s hardcore.”
I smiled. “I think that’s the first time anyone has referred to harp therapy as hardcore.” I spotted two empty seats together and guided her over. “Maybe spend the first half of the class listening.”
Britta apparently wasn’t very good at listening. She plopped down in the chair and immediately began to pluck the strings. With her tongue.
“Sounds weird,” she said.
“The way you’re doing it, yes, it does,” Phoebe said.
Britta’s expression shifted and she gave the harpy the calm, cold look of death. Uh oh.
“Britta,” I said, gently removing her face from the harp. “Maybe listen and learn. The sound of the harp can be very soothing.”
“I’m not sure it’s really my style,” Britta said. “I like loud, thumping music.” She hopped to her feet and jumped around in a small circle, jerking her head back and forth.
“Is she having a seizure?” Phoebe asked. “Quick, someone whip up an anti-seizure tonic.”
Britta continued to demonstrate her dance moves, unperturbed.
“She’s dancing to the beat of her own drum,” I said.
“There aren’t any drums here,” an elderly voice interjected.
“Not literal drums, Melvin,” Phoebe snapped. “Put in your hearing aid.”
“I heard her fine,” Melvin objected. “I just misunderstood is all.” He plucked a few strings. “Harpy.”
“Damn straight,” Phoebe shot back. “Faun.”
“How about we stop the name calling?” I suggested. They were worse than the town council as children.
“She is a harpy,” Melvin said.
“And he is a faun,” Phoebe replied, her voice bristling with irritation.
“Then maybe stop saying the words with such disdain,” I suggested. “There’s nothing wrong with being a harpy or a faun. They’re both lovely.”
“Well,” Britta began. “I don’t know that I’d call a harpy lovely. That’s a bit of a stretch.”
The harp music came to a screeching halt and everyone stared at Britta. There was a collective uneasy pause.
“Oh no?” Phoebe asked. “And how exactly would you describe a harpy?”
Britta shrugged, seemingly unaware of the venom in Phoebe’s tone. I began to wonder whether Britta had a death wish.
“Tough old birds?”
Phoebe seemed satisfied with her response. “Fair enough.”
“Have a seat, Britta,” I urged. “Class isn’t long, so let’s take advantage of it.”
I began to strum the harp strings. Although I wasn’t nearly as good as everyone else, the sound still managed to be pleasant.
“What song is that?” Britta asked.
“It’s not a specific song,” I said. “I’m just playing by ear.”
“She’s got the hang of it,” Britta said, pointing to Sheena. “I could listen to that at bedtime. Might be a decent replacement for alcohol.”
“You…drink alcohol so you can sleep?” I queried.
“It
helps.”
Sometimes it was hard to believe that Astrid and Britta were sisters. As similar as they looked, their personalities were night and day.
“Why do you have trouble getting to sleep?” I asked, thinking of my own anxiety.
“My dreams suck,” Britta admitted. “Some nights I don’t want to sleep so I can avoid them. When I drink enough, I don’t remember my dreams.”
Wow. That seemed to be a horrible way to live.
“What kind of dreams?” Phoebe asked. She seemed genuinely interested, which was uncharacteristic of the aging harpy.
Britta inhaled deeply. “Battlefield stuff. Lots of blood and gore. Missing limbs. I know I’m supposed to be cool with that because I’m a Viking badass, but it freaks me out.”
“Why do you think you dream about it?” I asked. “It’s not like you’re fighting any battles here. Spellbound is fairly quiet.” Except for the occasional murder.
“It’s in my blood,” Britta said. “My brother has them too, but he enjoys them.”
“What about Astrid?” I asked.
“She doesn’t seem to mind them,” Britta said. “When I ask her, she says she barely remembers her dreams.”
The sounds of the harp lulled me into a sleepy state of mind as I focused on my music. Razor-like snoring erupted beside me and I noticed Britta’s head tilted back. A long trail of drool dripped down her cheek and onto the floor.
“I guess harp music relaxes her after all,” Sheena remarked.
I studied the Valkyrie. “I hate to wake her.” Not only because she appeared peaceful, but also because she struck me as someone who might attack upon waking.
“Pretty,” Britta breathed between snores.
“What’d she say?” Phoebe asked.
“Pretty dress,” Britta said. “I like roses.”
“She likes roses,” Melvin said loudly.
“Fire is pretty too,” a sleeping Britta added.
Um, okay. Apparently not the battlefield dream she was worried about.
“She likes fire,” Melvin said, trying to be our helpful interpreter.
“Thanks, Melvin,” Phoebe said. “We got it.”
“Class is over,” Sheena said, watching everyone pack up to leave. “Who wants to be the one to wake her?”
Cast Away Page 10
