I turned, longing, embarrassment, and annoyance jumbling inside me.
He stood bareheaded in his deputy’s uniform, his handsome face creased with tension.
Erica brightened. “Hi, Connor! You guys asked if we had security footage of the back door.”
His brows lowered dangerously. “And why would you need security footage, Lenore?”
“I think the person who killed Heath Van Oss came in that way.” I couldn’t lie to Connor. “That Van Oss was expecting a guest, someone who came in between nine and ten p.m. the night he died. He did die in the night and not the morning, didn’t he?”
His olive skin darkened. “Mind if I have a word?” He jerked his chin toward the front door.
I followed him outside, the sidewalk cool beneath my thin sandals.
“What are you doing?” His voice was low, intense, critical.
“Alba’s neck was broken. And I think Mike’s was too. And Van Oss was obviously–”
“Lenore, leave it.”
“The three murders are linked,” I said.
A pulse beat in his jaw. “Listen to me. Leave it.”
Outraged, I stared, the pieces clicking into place. “You already know they’re connected. You see it too.”
The sounds of construction, cars, passersby were dull and sharp at the same time.
“And if you keep this up, you’re going to be the next body found with a broken neck. Leave. It.” He turned and strode down the street.
Nauseated, I stood frozen on the sidewalk, unsure if I’d just received a warning or a threat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Pensive, I walked down Main Street. I needed to start crossing suspects off my list. I needed alibis.
As if in answer to my wish, Steve Woodley popped out of the yarn store across the street. A tiny woman with white hair and wearing an old-fashioned floral print dress leaned on his arm.
I waited for a ghost carriage to pass, its wheels rattling, then I jogged across the road. “Mr. Woodley! Steve!”
He halted, looked up, and smiled. “Lenore. How are you? You remember my aunt Ethel?” In his free hand, he carried a cloth bag filled with pale blue yarn. In spite of the morning warmth, he wore a pressed, blue suit.
“Of course,” I said. “Hello Mrs. Woodley.” The woman had to be close to a hundred, but she stood straight, and her wrinkled skin had a soft, pink glow.
Her black eyes twinkled maliciously. “Ah, one of the magical Bonheim sisters. I hear you’ve had quite a time of it lately.”
My muscles twitched. “Magical?”
“All triplets are magical.” Steve laughed. “Isn’t that what you always say, Ethel?”
“I’m part Indian, you know,” she said.
Steve rolled his eyes. “It’s Native American, you know that.”
“I’ll call myself what I want.” She stepped closer to me, and I smelled peppermint and lavender. “You’ve been finding bodies. It’s happening again, just like with your other sisters. It’s no accident, you know.” She lowered her voice. “She always knows.”
I didn’t know where to look. Was she another Alba? Mad enough to see the truth behind the fairy spell?
Steve patted her gnarled hand. “Perhaps we should get you home.”
“But I want to hear about the murders.” She drew closer to me. “So exciting. Did you see Alba fall? Terrible woman. I’m only surprised no one threw her out a window sooner.”
“Poor Alba wasn’t murdered,” Steve said, “you know that. She killed herself.”
“Did the police tell you anything?” I asked him. “I saw you there afterwards.”
“My aunt sent me outside to see what was going on.” He rolled his eyes, careful to turn his head so she wouldn’t see.
“How else was I going to find out?” she snapped.
“So you were with your aunt that night?” I asked and looked to his ancient aunt. “I didn’t realize you lived near Alba.”
“On the same street,” she said.
“I was the one who called Doctor Toeller,” he said. “Ethel was feeling poorly.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “I was fit as a fiddle. You were the one feeling poorly, all twitchy and irritable.”
“I was worried about you,” he said. “You’re the only relative I have left. I’d like to keep you around.”
“All that poking and prodding,” she said. “And what did the doctor tell you afterward? I’m fine.”
He gave me a put-upon look. “My aunt will live forever.”
“Doctor’s exams are never much fun,” I said to her, sympathizing.
“He wouldn’t know,” she said. “He was watching TV while I was subjected to all manner of indignities.”
“You asked me to leave the room,” he reminded her.
“Steve,” I said, “were you near the Historical Hotel on Friday night?”
His silvery brows rose. “Friday night?”
“Between nine and eleven.”
“No, I was visiting my aunt.”
“We watched my program together.” She pouted. “We watch it every Friday night. But I fell asleep and missed it.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “I recorded it.”
“Recorded?” She sniffed. “That doesn’t seem right. Now you tell your sisters not to muck about in things they don’t understand. We have a good thing here in Doyle. I won’t stand for them ruining it.”
Steve colored. “Perhaps I should get you home. Good day, Lenore.”
Wondering, I watched them amble down the plank sidewalk. Was I going crazy? Had Steve’s aunt…?
No. I had to stop listening to crazy people and interrogate someone whose mind was fully functioning. Dreading what I was about to do, I pulled my cell phone from my purse and called Peter.
“Lenore?” he asked. “What do you want now? Because I’m not going back to that bookstore. When I said I quit, I meant it.”
“I know,” I said. “But something’s going on, and it has to do with your uncle. I’d like to talk to you and Gretel again.”
He didn’t respond.
“Please,” I said.
There was a long pause.
I thought I heard murmuring in the background.
“We’re at Alchemy,” he said, “finishing breakfast.”
“I’ll be right there,” I said and hung up.
Turning around, I strode down the street and crossed the road. Past the low stone bridge, the shops thinned out, giving way on one side to homes and barns.
Peter and Gretel sat at a table on the restaurant’s sidewalk patio. I opened the metal gate and walked inside.
Gretel’s mouth pinched, her expression sullen. They were both in casual wear – tank tops and slouchy shorts that showed off their tans. The remains of their breakfasts lay on white plates before them. Crumbs were scattered across the black tablecloth. Tall champagne glasses, half-filled with mimosas sat on the table.
“You again,” Gretel said. Her loose tank hung from her slim shoulders and skimmed her breasts.
“I think Mike was murdered for something he had or he knew,” I said. “That bookdealer, Van Oss, was involved in it, and so he was killed too.”
Gretel’s mouth fell open. “That’s... that’s ridiculous.”
“And I don’t believe it was a coincidence that Mike’s neighbor, Alba, is dead either.” I pulled out a metal chair. Its legs scraped against the rough pavement. Tucking my tunic dress beneath me, I sat. “Living next door to him, she may have seen something.”
“Wait.” Peter shook his shaggy blond head. “Mike died in his bookstore. Van Oss died in his hotel. Alba may have lived next door to Mike, but Mike and Van Oss didn’t die anywhere near her. She couldn’t have seen anything.”
“Alba was at the hotel right before Van Oss died,” I said. “She may have inadvertently helped his killer. She made a scene, diverting everyone from the stairs leading up to the rooms. Everyone was looking at Alba. Maybe she was looking at the killer.”<
br />
“Why?” Gretel stabbed a piece of poached egg and popped it in her mouth. “Why kill Mike or this Van Whatever?”
I steeled myself. “Mike may have owned a book worth over a million dollars.”
Gretel’s tongue darted out, moistening her lips. “A million?” Contemplative, she sipped her mimosa.
“Did Van Oss approach you?” I asked.
Peter nodded. “He said he’d lent Mike a book of American folktales to appraise before he died and asked us to watch for it. He said there’d be a reward.”
My brow furrowed. “Folktales?” Those again? I thought he’d lied about the book as an excuse to hang around and get his hands on the William Blake. But why send Peter and Gretel on a wild goose chase for a book of folktales? He could have just asked for the Blake. They wouldn’t have known its potential value. Hell, I wouldn’t have known its value if someone hadn’t told me.
“He said it wasn’t intrinsically valuable,” Peter said. “A college professor on the east coast needed it for his research.”
“Did he tell you the professor’s name?”
Peter’s boyish face twisted. “Are you kidding? He must have figured we’d try to sell the professor the book ourselves.”
And they would have.
“So we wouldn’t have killed him,” Gretel said, triumphant. “There would be no way for us to get paid.”
“Does that mean you found the book?” I asked.
They glanced at each other.
An SUV crawled past.
“No,” Peter said. “We were looking for it when you ran into us at Mike’s.”
“Did you notice anything odd at Alba’s place that day?” I asked.
“Why would we?” Gretel asked sharply. “We didn’t have anything to do with her death.”
“But you were nearby after she fell,” I said. “And you must have walked past the house earlier.”
A waitress in a short, black apron approached. “Can I get you anything?”
I shook my head. “No thanks.”
“I’ll have another mimosa.” Gretel tossed back the remains of her glass and handed it to the waitress.
“Certainly,” the waitress said. “And for you, sir?”
Impatient, I squirmed in my seat.
“I’m fine,” Peter said, studying me.
The waitress disappeared into the restaurant.
“Alba was in her garden when we left the house,” he said. “She shouted at us, called us names. We ignored her and walked on.”
“Why did you return?” I asked Gretel.
Her gaze darted sideways, across the narrow patio. “Went for a walk, like I told you.”
Liar. “And did you see or hear anything?”
“I heard Alba shouting,” she said. “So I turned around and walked up a different street. I didn’t want her to cuss me out again. Later, I heard sirens. It sounded like they were near Mike’s place, so I walked back.”
“What about you?” I asked Peter.
He shifted in the black, metal chair. “What about me?” Peter crossed his arms over his t-shirt.
“Where were you when Gretel was out for a walk?”
“Home,” he said shortly. “Alone, cooking dinner. We had a stir fry.”
“And Friday night?”
He blinked, and his blue eyes widened. “Friday night?”
“Between nine and eleven p.m.”
They looked a question at each other.
“We were home,” Peter said. “The both of us. Watching TV, I guess.”
“You guess?” I asked.
His mouth pursed. “It’s not something we calendar.”
“We were at home together,” Gretel said. “Why? Is that when that other guy died?”
I nodded.
“So we have an alibi,” she said. “Happy?”
“Do you have any idea why someone would have wanted to kill them?”
One corner of her mouth quirked upward. “Aside from a million-dollar book? No.”
“Well, thanks.” I rose from my chair.
Peter looked up at me, his head cocked. “You think Van Oss was lying to us about the value of that folktale book?”
“I think he was lying about something.” I left, deep in thought, and narrowly avoided walking through the ghost of a miner.
I’d been on the wrong track. The Blake book might be valuable, but the folktale book was worth something to someone too. I needed to find it.
My phone rang, and I exhumed it from my purse.
“Hi, Lenore.” Karin sounded as if she were speaking from underwater, and I had to strain to understand her. “Any news?”
“Lots, but I’m having trouble making sense of it.” I pressed a hand to my other ear to block out the street noise.
“I know it’s early, but I’m starving. How do you feel about brunch?”
I wasn’t hungry, but I did want to see my sisters. “Sure.”
“Great. Jayce said as long as there are mimosas involved, she’s in.”
“Um...” I glanced over my shoulder at the restaurant. On the front patio, the waitress brought Gretel a mimosa. “Please tell me she hasn’t picked Alchemy.”
“I was thinking of a place in Angels Camp. Lux. I just feel we need to get out of Doyle to discuss things.”
My shoulders relaxed. “Good idea.”
She blew out her breath. “Great. I’ll pick you up. Where are you?”
“I’m on Main Street, headed toward Ground.”
“Perfect. See you there.” She hung up.
I met Jayce, a dusting of sawdust in her brown hair, in front of her coffee shop. Karin pulled up in her red, Ford Fusion.
I climbed in, and we descended the mountain highway. The pine woods turned to aspen and scrubby oak on red earth cliffs. Jayce kept up a running lament on the perils of permitting and contractors, until we passed the sign for Arcadia Township. She sagged in the front passenger seat. “Are we paranoid, thinking we can’t speak freely in Doyle?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Steve Woodley’s aunt said something strange to me today.”
“What?”
“She said she knows everything, hinted we were witches, and said we should leave well enough alone. She reminded me of Alba.”
“I’ve met his aunt.” Karin glanced in the rear-view mirror at me. “She wanted me to write her a new will. In the end, I couldn’t. I told Steve it didn’t seem like she was in sound mind. Fortunately, they’d put together a medical power of attorney for her years ago, so he can take care of her.”
“She was sure rambling today,” I said. “I wasn’t sure what to make of it.”
“You’re thinking maybe there’s some truth in her crazy,” Jayce said. “That she was talking about the doctor?”
“I guess I did,” I said.
“It’s all about sight, isn’t it?” Karin slowed behind a lumber truck. “We can see what’s happening around us because we’re magic. People like Alba and Ethel see things differently too. Now I wonder if some of the things Alba said before were about the unseelie. Maybe that’s why she was killed.”
“But the doctor’s never killed anyone that we know of,” I said.
“She killed our mother.” Karin’s voice choked. “She was probably the midwife at all the births in our family, going back over a century.”
“She won’t be yours.” My jaw set. But my faux-determination couldn’t keep the stalking wolf of fear at bay.
“No.” A vein pulsed in Karin’s jaw. “Nick and I have decided to have the baby in San Francisco.”
Over her shoulder, Jayce shot me a worried look.
San Francisco wasn’t far enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Angels Camp was a mining town, like Doyle. But it had Mark Twain going for it, and his Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County. We passed giant, green frog statues and antique shops, making our way up the main road to a tiny restaurant with a garden in the rear. Moss grew beneath its paving stones, and w
ater trickled from a Spanish-style fountain on the patio.
We brunched in the lazy summer warmth. Nearby, bees feasted on fat wisteria blossoms trailing from the white-painted trellis.
Karin watched us drink mimosas, but her professed envy seemed a front for her obvious happiness. With a sharp stab I understood she was willing to die for this tiny life inside her. I understood it, but a small part of me felt betrayed.
“Have you turned up anything else while researching Doyle history?” I asked her.
She pushed garden potatoes around her plate with her fork. “Unfortunately, we haven’t learned much.”
Jayce sipped her mimosa. “What did you learn?”
“Doyle’s reputation for healing waters grew so large in the early twentieth century that the town almost became a spa.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“It started with Prohibition,” Karin said. “The Bell and Thistle had been incorporated at that point into Arcadia Township. It couldn’t make beer anymore – at least not legally – and the owner began to make the pub over into a health spa.”
“You’re kidding.” Jayce leaned back in her chair, shifting the cushions.
“He’d lined up investors and everything,” Karin said. “Then some prominent Doyle citizens got together and managed to shift the boundaries. You already know this, but that’s when they made a little island of Doyle around the Bell and Thistle. I guess the Doyle police weren’t as strict as those in Arcadia, and the pub continued on as a restaurant.” She put the last word in air quotes.
“You mean a speakeasy,” I said.
“Exactly.” Karin swished her auburn hair behind her shoulders.
“Was the doctor one of these prominent citizens?” I asked.
“There’s no record of Doctor Toeller being involved,” Karin said. “But Nick and I are certain she’s changed her name over the years. She would have had to, don’t you think? At any rate, at the same time, there were a series of murders near the wellhouse. It got a reputation for being haunted. The town closed it to the public, and stopped up the tap. With the two most accessible sources of healing waters shuttered, the movement to make Doyle into a resort died.”
“Wait,” I said, leaning forward. “Movement? I thought it was just the owner of the Bell and Thistle who wanted to do it?”
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