by Cindy Stark
The need to know outmanned her manners this time. “Why do you think they don’t like you?”
Sharp pain flashed in her eyes. “I don’t think, Hazel. I know. They don’t like me because they think I’ve ruined my husband.”
But she’d said she lived there alone. “You’re married?”
“Separated. Estranged. Whatever you want to call it.”
Anya inhaled a deep breath and released it. “Eighteen months ago, we’d had a big fight, and I’d asked him to leave. I’d meant for him to go for the night until we’d cooled off, but Isaac walked out and never came back.”
Hazel’s intrigue kicked in full force. “What happened to him? Did he just disappear?”
“Oh, no. He’s living somewhere outside Boston. I saw him once at his mother’s house. He seems to be fine, but we haven’t spoken since.”
“People aren’t going to dislike you because of that.”
Desperation ruled her expression to the point she looked like she might cry. “He said some really horrible things about me around town. Things that weren’t true.”
“That doesn’t mean everyone believed him.”
She nodded. “He’s an extrovert, so he’s good friends with a lot of people in the area. I’m introverted, and others’ emotions wear me down, so I tend to stick to myself. They know him better and, therefore, believed him.”
Hazel frowned. There were so many good and intelligent people in this town. Why were they so easily led astray? “I’m sorry to hear that. It must make your life difficult.”
Some of her emotion dissipated, and she shrugged. “If I keep to myself, I don’t really have trouble. I prefer it that way anyway.”
She supposed that made sense. “Well, I hope you don’t mind if we become friends. I’ll try not to take up too much of your emotional space.” She followed with a warm smile.
Relief flooded from Anya and into Hazel. “I’d like that very much. You’re a good soul, Hazel. A kind person. I sense that very strongly.”
“You keep mentioning energy and sensing. You’re very in tune with the vibes from others, aren’t you?”
Wariness popped out first, but then Anya relaxed. “It’s not something I’ll admit often. They get all weird about it. But, yes. I seem to have this ability to read people and their moods.”
“So, not a witch, but maybe a highly-sensitive person?”
Anya exhaled and smiled. “Exactly. That was part of the problem between Isaac and me. He’d lie about stuff, but I could tell what he thought, so I’d call him on it. In fact, the night he left, we’d fought about money that he’d said he needed for car repairs, but I could tell he was lying. He didn’t like that very much.”
Life could be hard. “It sounds like maybe you’re better off without him.”
She nodded. “Most definitely. I should probably file for divorce, but then I’d have to see him or engage with him again. I don’t want to. I don’t plan to marry again, so I’ve just let it be. I suppose at some point I’ll have to address it.”
Hazel tipped her head in agreement. “Hey, how would you like to come to my house tomorrow morning for tea? I could make omelets, too. Plus, I picked up an amazing cantaloupe at the farmer’s market the other day.”
Anya’s eyes brightened. “Sounds wonderful. What can I bring?”
“Nothing. Just yourself is plenty enough.”
“I’ll be there. Does eight work?”
“Sounds great.” Hazel gestured toward her house. “I’d better get back. My assistant opened the shop this morning, but she’ll be expecting me soon. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Hazel headed out with a smile on her face. She’d been worried what Anya had thought of her for no reason at all. Even if Anya did suspect her of being a witch, she wouldn’t tell. She didn’t really talk to anyone anyway.
Two
Hazel brewed a pot of Happy Day tea with a smile on her face. After meeting Anya, she’d looked forward to visiting with her more again that morning. Hazel had asked Gretta about Anya when she’d gone into the teashop the day before. Her assistant had agreed that she’d never gotten to know Anya, but she hadn’t harbored any ill feelings toward her, either.
Maybe Anya only perceived that people didn’t like her. Or maybe a select few believed her estranged husband, but that didn’t account for the majority. She’d be sure to ask Peter when she saw him, too. As a police chief who kept his finger on the pulse of the community, as he liked to put it, he’d know more of the story.
With the tea happily brewing, Hazel moved to the cupboard and removed the teacups with violets hand-painted around the rim. The single violet inside on the bottom of the cup always made her smile. Something to look forward to seeing when she’d finished her tea.
Rapid thumping on her front door was a jolt to her peaceful morning.
Anya, if that’s who was out there, repeated the pounding before Hazel reached the living room, sending her emotions into a frenzy. She quickened her pace to the front door and opened it.
Anya stood on the porch, her face eerily white like a morning mist coming off the ocean. Fear reflected bright in her eyes and radiated from her, hot and thick.
“Hazel.” She panted. “Oh, God. Hazel. He’s dead.”
Dead? Her pulse kicked into high gear, and she reached for Anya’s hand. A chill from Anya’s icy fingers seeped into her bones. “Calm down. Talk slower so I can understand.”
“Isaac.” Anya shook her head and swallowed hard. “He’s in the road. Lying in a pool of blood. Hazel. Oh, Hazel. He’s not breathing.”
She kept her hand locked firmly around Anya’s and stepped on the porch, pulling the door shut behind her. “Let’s go.”
Hazel dialed the police department’s emergency number as they rushed away from the house. “This is Hazel Hardy. We have a possible death. On Hemlock Street. Just past my place.”
She waited for the dispatcher’s response. “Thank you. Please tell Peter, too.” She pocketed the phone and, together, she and Anya took off in a sprint.
From first glance, Hazel knew Anya’s husband had passed. Too much blood. But more than that, he had no aura, and she sensed no soul.
She halted before they reached him, bringing Anya to a stop, too. She turned her friend away from the sight. “We don’t need to go any closer. He’s gone, Anya. I can sense it, and I think you can, too.”
Anya broke into tears. Hazel wrapped her arms around her new friend, and Anya sagged against her.
“How could this happen?” Anya said between sobs. “Why was he here?”
Hazel held her and did her best to absorb Anya’s pain. “I don’t know. We’ll have to let the police sort that out.”
Just as she said that, sirens echoed in the distance.
“Hang on, Anya. They’re almost here.”
“Wait!” Anya pushed back and gripped Hazel’s forearms. Wild despair shown in her eyes. “I can’t stay here. They’ll blame me.”
Hazel instinctively closed off some of her senses, making her less vulnerable. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
“They will,” she cried. “Look at him. He’s dead in front of my house. They’ll say I did it.”
“Anya, I know the police chief, and—”
Anya glanced frantically between the direction the police units would come from and the body. She shoved away from Hazel, and Hazel stumbled backward, while Anya ran to her dead husband.
She grabbed one wrist and then the other and tried to drag him.
Hazel stared in disbelief for a long moment and then rushed to her. “Anya, stop. What are you doing?”
A frazzled, crazy lady had replaced the calm woman she’d met the day before. “I have to hide him. They can’t find him here. Not by my house.”
The sight of letters written in blood on his forearm stole Hazel’s breath.
Anya.
Had Anya’s husband named his killer?
Hazel gripped her arm. “Anya. Stop.”
Her firm w
ords seemed to penetrate the crazed fog that had stolen Anya’s better sense, and she paused. Raw fear emanated from the rigid stance of her body to the look in her eye.
Hazel breathed in relief. “You can’t hide the body, Anya. It will only make you look guiltier. You wouldn’t have time anyway.”
Anya covered her mouth and shook her head. Tears filled her eyes. “He’s going to get his wish, Hazel. He always said that if he couldn’t be happy, then he’d never let me be, either.”
Her heart broke for the poor woman.
“You have to have faith that everything will work out.”
Anya shook her head. “It doesn’t though, does it? I’ve seen the documentaries of innocent people who ended up in jail.”
Sadly, Hazel had as well. “Our police chief is a good and honest man. He will do his best to figure out what happened. He’s also very smart. And at this point, you don’t have a choice but to trust him.”
Anya broke into tears.
So much for trying to calm her.
Instead of making another attempt, Hazel took her hand and held it.
A few moments later, three police cruisers, including Peter’s, and an ambulance raced toward them down the street and stopped feet from them.
Peter was first out of his car. He strode toward Anya and her, his gaze darting across the entire scene and surrounding area. Hazel wished she had his skill for making such a quick assessment, but she supposed that came from years of training.
He stooped next to the body and lifted his wrist. Softly, he placed it back on the ground a second later and stood. No need to search for a pulse. The man was clearly dead.
He turned to his men as they approached. “Take photos of everything. Make sure to note what’s on his forearm.”
Anya jerked her gaze toward her dead husband. “What’s on his—oh, God. Noooo,” she wailed.
Hazel forced her to turn away. “Shh. It’s okay, Anya. Just don’t look.”
Her gaze was more frantic than ever, and Hazel worried she’d slip off the edge of sanity. “It’s my name. In blood.”
She threatened to crumple, and Hazel focused on Peter. “We’re going to sit on the grass, okay?”
He gave a firm nod and followed them to a spot of lawn near the road. He was all police chief in that moment, no trace of her sweet boyfriend.
Anya wept. “I didn’t do it. I swear I didn’t do it.”
Hazel met Peter’s gaze over top of Anya’s head and gave him an uncertain look.
Peter pulled the notebook from his pocket and squatted down next to them. “Tell me what you know.”
Anya cried harder.
Her anguish filled Hazel, and it was hard to not let it bother her. “Anya and I were supposed to have tea this morning at eight. But when she showed up, she was extremely upset and kept saying ‘he’s dead’. That man is her estranged husband.”
Peter nodded. “I recognize him. Can you tell me anything, Anya?”
Anya inhaled a shaky breath, and Hazel sensed that she struggled to hold herself together. “I don’t know what happened to him.” She sobbed. “I left my house to go to Hazel’s, and he was just there. In the road. I knew he was dead. But I couldn’t believe it. All I could think was to run to Hazel for help.”
Peter jotted notes. “You were estranged, correct?”
Anya’s whole body rocked as she nodded.
“How long?”
She blinked wet lashes. “I don’t…umm…he left in November, so two years this fall.”
Peter lifted his gaze to Anya, his face a mask of seriousness. “Do you own a gun, Ms. Worley?”
“A gun?” she repeated in a shaky voice as she dropped her gaze. “N-no. I don’t like guns.”
Hazel hadn’t noticed a gunshot wound, but she hadn’t looked that closely, either. “Was he shot?”
Peter caught Hazel’s gaze and lifted his chin to indicate affirmative to her question.
Anya glanced up. “Was he? Shot?”
Peter hesitated a few moments before he spoke, and Hazel was sure he was judging the outcome of his answer. “He was. In the stomach.”
She clamped her hand over her mouth and began crying again. Her whole body shook with her sobs, and she struggled to breathe.
“I think she needs a few minutes.”
“Agreed. I’m going to have Larsen take you ladies down to the station for official statements. Being away from the crime scene will be better for you both.”
Hazel wanted to stay with Peter, but she knew she didn’t have a choice. Hopefully, he’d tell her what he could later.
Such was the life of a teashop owner compared to a police chief.
Hazel stood and helped Anya to her feet. Together, they made their way to the police cruiser. Neither of them said a word on the way to the station.
As they stepped inside the historic gray rock building, Anya turned to Hazel. “Am I being arrested?”
She shook her head. “No. Just questioned. Both of us. They need an accurate accounting of everything we did and saw this morning. It will help with the investigation, so try hard to tell them everything, okay?”
Anya released a shaky breath. “Thank you, Hazel. I’m so grateful you were there.”
She was, too. “Of course. I’ll be here whenever you need me, okay?”
Anya relaxed and nodded.
Three
Hazel stayed at the police station after one of Peter’s detectives escorted a frightened Anya back to an interrogation room. At least she’d been smart enough to ask for an attorney. Waiting for her lawyer to show meant that Anya would be at the station longer, but she’d be glad she protected herself.
Hazel gave a brief statement and then chatted with Peter’s assistant until she felt she was keeping Margaret from her work. From there, she wandered into Peter’s office to wait for him to arrive from the scene. Unless Anya finished first. Then she’d accompany her home and make sure she was okay.
She didn’t know if Anya had family in the area. When they’d first met, Anya had mentioned her family, or maybe most of her family, was dead. All Hazel knew was now was not a good time for her to be alone. She’d only known her neighbor for two days, but already felt protective of her. Someone had to look out for the poor woman.
Unless she was the murderer.
But Hazel didn’t see how she could be. She hadn’t noticed any dark vibes coming from Anya, so unless she was mentally incapacitated, Hazel didn’t see how she could hide such a crime so well.
Raised voices in the reception area snagged Hazel’s attention, and she focused on them.
“Don’t tell me the chief isn’t in.” The woman’s higher-pitched, almost childlike tone reached Hazel. She sounded suspiciously like one of her tea delivery clients, Gretchen Egginton. “I want to see him right now.”
“I’m sorry Mrs. Egginton,” Margaret said. “As I said, he’s currently out on a case.”
Yep, that was Gretchen all right. Hazel stood and made her way to the doorway to see if she could help. The plump, fifty-plus woman with shoulder-length graying brown hair stood with her hands on her hips glaring at Margaret.
“That’s not an acceptable answer, Margaret. I need to see him right now,” she demanded.
“I understand,” Margaret replied in a calm tone.
“No, you don’t,” Gretchen said, giving Hazel the genuine sense she was about to combust right in front of them. Something must be seriously wrong for the dear, sweet woman to behave so. Perhaps, she could help.
Hazel stepped from Peter’s office. “Gretchen, hello. I couldn’t help overhearing your distress. Is everything okay?”
The poor lady’s composure dissolved into wretched sobbing. “They said…my son is dead.”
Hazel’s reserve crumbled. “Oh, Gretchen.”
The woman shook her head repeatedly. “It can’t be true. I need Chief Parrish to tell me this isn’t true. He’s hurt. He’s in the hospital. Or they have the wrong person. My boy is not gone.”
&n
bsp; Gretchen swayed, and Hazel feared she’d collapse.
“He can’t be gone,” Gretchen said.
Bless her poor, anguished soul. Hazel rushed forward and wrapped a supportive arm around her. “I’m so sorry. Come, let’s sit down. Peter’s not here, but I’m sure Margaret can find someone to tell you what’s happened.”
The middle-aged woman allowed Hazel to help her to a reception chair. “I can’t…he can’t…” She struggled to breathe. “He was my heart.”
Hazel recalled that Gretchen often fondly talked about her two sons, Edmond, and most especially…
Her insides clenched.
Isaac.
Blessed Mother help them all.
Hazel had first-hand knowledge of what had become of her son, but she couldn’t bear to tell her. Margaret met her gaze over the top of Gretchen’s head, and she knew Margaret had found herself in the same boat.
It seemed crazy now that she hadn’t put two and two together, but Anya had introduced herself as Anyanka Worley. Not Egginton.
From the corner of her eye, Hazel spotted a man walking toward them, and she gave him her full attention. A priest. The new priest who’d taken Father Christopher’s place after his untimely death.
She’d heard this man was called Father Orien.
Hazel would guess he was close to forty, with strawberry-blond hair that fell across his forehead, and kind green eyes. From what she could tell from his aura and vibes, he was a much better person than Father Christopher.
Father Orien acknowledged her with a brief smile and then focused on Gretchen. “Mrs. Egginton,” he said softly and knelt in front of her.
“No,” she cried and shook her head repeatedly as anguish poured from her soul and washed down her face.
Hazel was certain Gretchen had figured out that if the priest was there for her, it was to comfort her after the loss of her son.
Gretchen struggled with a breath. “Don’t come for me. I don’t need you. Isaac is not gone.”
He took one of her hands and sandwiched it between his before he shifted his gaze over his shoulder toward Margaret. “Is there a private place we can wait for Chief Parrish?”
