Thorn to Die

by Lacy Andersen

  “What do you mean?” Raven asked, jumping off her chair and taking the letter from my hand. “It says right here that she’s been threatening him.”

  “Yes, but how?” I ran a hand over my hair. All this running around had left it tangled. “She could’ve been threatening him with a lawsuit, not with death. It doesn’t mean that she was fixing to kill him.”

  Blythe took the letter next. “Yes, but we know they were arguing. Don’t you think the police would take a hard look at that? Grammy doesn’t even have a motive.”

  I nodded, willing my brain to work faster. “Yes, but we need someone to corroborate the story. We need someone who can describe how bad things had gotten between Allen and Angie. We need a witness. Then, the police will know for sure they’ve got the wrong person in their sights.”

  My mind reeled through the scene of the murder again. The crushed rose petals, the body splayed across the ground, the police officers laying a sheet over Mr. White. Then, it came to me: our witness. “Laura Blight! She was Allen’s housekeeper. If anyone knows anything, she does.”

  Blythe danced on her tiptoes and swung her arms wide. “Right! And she can confirm the contents of the letter. Maybe she’s even witnessed things getting violent between the two of them. It’s worth a shot.”

  A crowd of people walked past my door in nineteenth century apparel. I peeked my head out the doorway to observe my coworkers making their way to the fake bonfire, yelling at Michelle Dackery who already clung to her fiery post. Butch Hall stood among the dozen or so visitors, his back to me.

  I couldn’t help but think of my Grammy Jo and how much she needed this witness. If no one stepped forward to provide new evidence regarding Allen White’s murder, my grandmother might become another victim of this town. Except in this modern day witch hunt, it wasn’t so easy to run from a town full of angry people on the hunt for blood.

  Chapter 11

  Early the next morning, the three of us arrived at Allen White’s home. Word had it that Laura Blight was still taking care of the mansion, making it spotless for his funeral, which would be held whenever the police decided to release the body.

  As I stared up at the brick building, a shudder went through me. She had to be crazy to want to be alone in that big old house. With Allen gone, it was as empty as a tomb. If it wasn’t for Grammy Jo, I don’t think I would’ve stepped a foot inside it.

  “Oh, look,” Blythe paused by the garden. Pieces of the crime scene tape still clung to a few of the thorny rose bushes, drifting on the light summer breeze coming from the east. “The roses are still blooming. I’ll bet Grammy Jo would love one last stem.”

  Before I could protest, she’d hopped down the grass pathway and straight onto the trampled patch of grass where Allen’s body had lain only days ago.

  “Ew,” Raven spat. She tried to chase after our cousin, but her stilettos sunk in the grass. “Get out of there. That’s unsanitary.”

  “Just one clipping.” Blythe pulled a tiny pair of scissors from her oversized handbook and snipped the most beautiful bloom in the bunch. Pulling a little hardbound book from the purse, she put the rose inside and snapped it shut. “There, it’ll dry that way and never die. Grammy Jo will always have one of her roses.”

  Blythe was looking too proud of herself for me to mention how morbid that sounded. After this week, I’d feel better if I never had to look at another rose for the rest of my life. Maybe Grammy felt differently.

  We climbed the stone stairs to the mansion’s front door and pressed the doorbell. A chime went off inside, followed by the shuffling of something across the floor. Moments later, the door creaked open and Laura Blight peeked her head out. Her large doe eyes were red, as if she’d been crying. She wore a plain white blouse and a stiffly pressed black skirt – the same uniform I’d seen her wearing the day of Allen’s death. She couldn’t have been more than a few years older than us.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Hi, Laura.” Blythe stepped forward. We’d agreed she would have the best excuse to get us inside and chatting. “I’m supposed to be doing the organization for Mr. White’s funeral. May we come inside? I’ve got some questions I think you can help me out with.”

  Laura blinked twice, and then nodded, swinging the door open. We walked inside the foyer, our shoes clicking on the wooden floors. Blythe had been right; a giant wooden staircase curved around the room and upward where a gold and crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling.

  “Ohhhh…this is gorgeous, Laura.” Blythe was dancing around the room, running her hands over the woodwork. “You’re so lucky you get to work here. I would just drool over this house every day.”

  Again, Laura blinked at us but said nothing. Her tightly curled brown hair had been pulled back into a perfect bun. It left her face looking bare and pale, no doubt a product of the emotional stress obvious in her eyes.

  “What do you need to know for the funeral?” Laura wrung her hands together in front of her skirt. “I’m not sure what I can help with.”

  “You’re helping plenty, Laura,” Blythe said in a soothing tone. “I needed to get an idea of the layout of the home for the memorial. This really helps.”

  For as wacky as Blythe could be sometimes, she really knew how to calm a fidgety housekeeper. Laura nodded and dabbed at her nose with a tissue, her shoulders relaxing. Time for my job.

  “I don’t suppose you were here when Allen died?” I asked, casually looking at one of the landscape paintings hanging on the wall. A herd of buffalo grazed in the background while Native American hunters crept through the tall grass. I was never very good at landscapes. Portraits were more my thing. “Do you know what happened?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her jump. She stumbled on her words, stuttering a reply. “Nnn…nnn….no. I was sick that morning with a headache. I didn’t get here until Mr. White was already…” She pointed toward the garden, unable to get the words out.

  Dang it, we still had no witnesses. If Angie had visited Allen that morning to poison him, it would’ve been the final piece of circumstantial evidence we needed to pin her down. But maybe Laura still knew something useful about their relationship.

  “Do you know why Angie Pine and Allen didn’t get along? Everyone’s saying that she did it, but I’m not sure if I believe it. Did they really hate each other that much?”

  Laura perked up and nodded her head vigorously. “Oh yeah, those two hated each other. There was one time I was just finishing up cleaning the kitchen when that awful woman stopped by. She started screaming at Mr. White through the front door, saying all sorts of nasty things. He had to threaten to call the cops before she’d leave.” She raised her chin and pursed her lips together. “It was dreadful. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was the one who killed him.”

  Bingo! Laura Blight’s testimony, combined with the letter we found in Angie’s basement, was plenty of evidence to take the blame off Grammy Jo. Ian Larson could take his suspicion and shove it right up his…

  The front door burst open and in walked a tall gangly man dressed in a loose fitting linen t-shirt and draw-stringed pants. His shaggy light brown hair looked slightly matted and dingy, as if he’d been playing in dirt this morning. I wouldn’t have said he was any older than 30. In his arms lay a small cotton bag, filled with something like sand.

  “They’re almost ready, my dear,” he shouted before spotting us all. Pausing in front of the door, he shifted and lowered the bag, as if to hide it behind one of his pant legs. “What are you doing here? No one’s supposed to be here.”

  My tongue twisted inside of my mouth. The story we’d made up just minutes ago flew out of my head. I looked over at Blythe. Panic pulsed in her wide eyes. She’d forgotten the story, too.

  An awkward minute ticked by before Raven stepped forward. She stood nearly eye to eye with the man, her customary tight black jeans and Suicide Squad t-shirt drawing a quick scan-over by the intruder. “We’re helping plan Mr. White’s memorial. And who
exactly are you?”

  He took a step back, bumping into the tall glass panes next to the antique door. “I’m Andy Jenkings. I live just next door.” He pointed to his left. “I was just dropping off some…” He looked down at the bag in his hands and held it up. “Some fertilizer. For the gardens. Laura didn’t know what kind to get.”

  So, this was the hippy neighbor who liked to fight with Mr. White over water waste? It was awfully nice of him to care about his dead wasteful neighbor’s yard.

  Raven must’ve been thinking the same thing, because she raised one thin eyebrow and crossed her arms. “I thought you hated Mr. White’s gardens.”

  Andy shook his head and I swear, dirt fell to the floor. “Well, yeah, I hated them. The man didn’t care an ounce about water conservation. Did you know landscaping accounts for over half the water we waste? Dude – if we just all made some minor changes to the way we lived on this planet, then maybe it’d be around for our children and children’s children. I’m sick of seeing all the waste.”

  “And Mr. White was wasteful?”

  “He was the worst.” Andy jumped forward. “I mean, there are some other people in this town I’d love to take care of, but he was the absolute worst. In fact, I’m glad he’s dead. The dude had it coming.”

  My heart wanted to beat right out of my chest. The three of us exchanged shocked expressions as Laura ran forward, batting her tissue at Andy.

  “You don’t mean that. He doesn’t mean that. It’s all just talk.” She took his arm and practically yanked him into the foyer. “I think it’s time for you ladies to go. If you need anything else, just call next time.”

  Laura nearly shoved us back out the front door and down the steps. The sound of her slamming the wooden door behind us made us all cringe.

  “Boy, if I didn’t have my money on Angie Pine, I’d say that hippy dude would be my first suspect,” I told them as we strolled toward Main Street.

  “He did seem awfully happy about Allen’s death,” Raven said quietly.

  “Do you really think he could’ve killed Mr. White over water waste? I mean, money, I understand. But water?”

  “I don’t think that’s the only reason Andy would’ve killed Mr. White,” Blythe said slyly. She skipped ahead of us and turned, blocking the sidewalk.

  “What do you mean?” I placed my hands on my hips. I hadn’t seen another motive for murder in that dusty old mansion. And I’m an artist. Not much gets past me.

  “Come on, it is so obvious.” She splayed out her arms and twirled in place. “Laura Blight’s in love. My momma saw her dream the other night. She’s boinking the hippy neighbor.”

  Aunt Piper’s detailed description of Laura’s romantic dream came back to me. Sure, Laura might have been in love with Andy. They might have even been sleeping together. But that didn’t give him extra motive to take care of his neighbor.

  Raven grabbed Blythe’s hand to keep her from spinning. “So you think Mr. White would’ve had a problem with the relationship?”

  She nodded, her blonde bob bouncing back and forth. “Yep. He hated his neighbor so much, he would’ve fired Laura Blight on the spot if he caught them. While Allen was alive and Laura worked for him, they would never truly be together. That’s motive, baby.”

  Blythe skipped off toward her little rented office, leaving Raven and me to raise our eyebrows at each other. This case was getting more complicated by the hour. Given enough time, the whole town could be a suspect.

  Chapter 12

  The three of us witches didn’t have time that morning to discuss the implications of our interview with Laura Blight. We had to wait until the evening to meet at the Jazz Club, out of earshot of any nosy aunt or grandmother. Angie Pine’s letter was still folded up in my front jean pocket, practically burning a hole in the denim.

  We packed into our customary booth, overlooking the dancefloor. Friday nights at the club tended to get a little packed. Already, at least 2 dozen people danced below, their bodies pumping with the beat of a recent pop song release. I ordered my cider and sank into the cool soft surface of the booth, sipping the tart beverage.

  “Where did all these people come from?” Raven crossed her arms and huffed. She’d been moody all evening. “I swear, every week it gets busier. Don’t these city folk have clubs of their own to overrun?”

  “I like the crowds,” Blythe answered in a sing-songy voice. “It’s nice to know Uriville isn’t just a black hole. There’s life out there.”

  I had to admit, I agreed with Blythe. As annoying as these trendy kids from the cities tended to be, especially when they drank all of my locally brewed cider, it was nice to get away from the typical Uriville citizen and their nosy ways.

  Despite the tourist trap I worked for and this bustling club, Uriville maintained a small town atmosphere that made it impossible to keep a secret. Just the fact that it hadn’t already leaked around town that Grammy Jo was a suspect in Allen’s murder was nearly a miracle. Ian Larson had done a good job of keeping it under wraps. And that was the way it was going to stay.

  Craning her neck to look over the booth, Blythe turned to us and huddled in closer. She’d put on a sparkly sequin top this evening that cut dangerously low. “Now that we’ve had a few hours to digest that scene this morning, what do you guys think?”

  “I’m no longer sure Angie Pine did it,” Raven responded in a slow drawl. “I mean, sure, we have the letter and Laura’s word about the feud between them. But did you get a load of Andy?”

  “Suspicious character,” Blythe said with a sip of her pink drink.

  “Not just suspicious,” I looked over her head to make sure no one was listening, “but totally vocal about his hate for Allen. Did you hear him? He was glad that Mr. White was dead. That sounds like a confession.”

  They bobbed their heads in agreement and we all sat silent for a moment, listening to the song change over the speakers. I thought about the painting I’d done yesterday morning with Mr. White and the dead rose. Did anything in that painting point to Andy Jenkings? He certainly looked like he was capable of murder; more so than Angie Pine. It was all so confusing.

  “What could’ve happened to make all you pretty ladies so down?” Drew Warring slipped into the booth with a large amber beer clasped in his fist. “Have a bad day?”

  I would’ve groaned at the cheesy hello, but I held my tongue. So far, Drew seemed like a pretty nice guy. Better than most of the men Blythe went after. He held himself tall like a military man and said things like “yes, ma’am” and “no, sir.” Not too bad in my book.

  Blythe giggled and sidled up to him, her legs practically wrapping around his. “We’re just thinking about Mr. White. It’s depressing, you know? Plus, there’s a killer on the loose.”

  For a brief second, I wanted to kick Blythe under the table. She didn’t need to tell Drew everything.

  He groaned and smacked his forehead. “Seriously? I thought they already caught who killed him. That lady who runs the floral shop?”

  “They don’t know that for sure,” Raven replied with a wave of her dark red manicure. “That’s just rumors. There could be other suspects.”

  “Like who?” Drew’s eyes grew wide and he grinned, revealing a cute dimple in his right cheek. “Was it Colonel Mustard in the ballroom with the candlestick?

  “Maybe.” I leaned forward a bit, my tongue suddenly loosened by the hard cider in my hand. “Mr. White wasn’t exactly beloved around here. He had a lot of people who hated him.”

  He shrugged and yawned, as if suddenly bored by the conversation. “Well, I didn’t know Mr. White, but what kind of man has so many enemies? Sounds like he was pretty awful.”

  Blythe took that moment to avert Drew’s attention to something funny on the dancefloor. I leaned back in my seat, running my fingers over the cool slippery surface of the glass in my hands. Maybe Mr. White had been pretty awful. Not even Grammy Jo liked him, and that said a lot. His murder could’ve been justified, for all I knew. B
ut that didn’t matter as long as Grammy Jo was on the line for it. We had to find the real murderer.

  I looked up from my glass to see Ian Larson just coming up the stairs in a dark brown leather jacket and gray jeans. Despite the fact that he was obviously off duty, the shape of a holstered gun still hung at his side. His gaze met mine and he froze. In a sudden change of thought, he turned around and began to descend the stairs he’d just walked up.

  “Hey guys, I got to run,” I told them, slipping out of the booth and not bothering to give an explanation for my hasty exit.

  It didn’t take long for my feet to catch up with his. He had just rested himself on a barstool when I plopped myself onto the adjacent one, setting my glass down with a loud clink. “Going somewhere?”

  He closed his eyes and pursed his lips. “I was trying to avoid an awkward moment.”

  “Awkward? How could this be awkward?” I waved my hands about. “I mean, the last time you saw me, you basically accused my grandmother and me of killing someone. But I don’t see how that’s awkward.”

  “Hazy…” His tone was filled with a warning. “I don’t want any drama. It’s been a long day and I just need to relax. Can you let me do that?”

  Why was it that Ian Larson was the only person in the universe who still insisted on calling me by that name? It irritated the heck out of me, causing angry hives to burst along my collarbone. I scratched at them, willing them to go away.

  “How can I do that when my Grammy Jo’s your number one suspect? It would kill Momma Tula if she found out. She’s so fragile right now.”

  For the first time, Ian turned to look at me. “I’d heard she was holed up in your grandmother’s house. Is it really that bad?”

  I swallowed hard, finding my gaze locked to his. “Worse. She doesn’t eat, she doesn’t shower. Not unless I practically force her. If it wasn’t for her family, I think she’d fade away.”