Death Waxed Over (Book 3 in the Candlemaking Mysteries) (7 page)

“
Suit yourself,” she said.
“If you change your mind, call me and I’ll be right in.”

“
Don’t wait by the phone. As
it is, it looks like I’ll be getting a lot of dusting
done.”

After we hung up, I changed my mind about
grabbing a newspaper. Did I really want to put myself through that?
I decided I could sit around and mope all afternoon or I could
actually be productive, so I grabbed a duster and started in on the
shelves. Two hours later the place was as clean as it ever had been
since I’d taken over, and not a single person had darkened my
doorway. I was about to give up entirely when I heard the bell over
the front door ring. At that point, I was willing to answer a
reporter’s questions if it meant a sale for the store.

It was Sanora, the potter from River’s
Edge.

“
Did you come by for the
wake?” I asked her.

“
Surely they’re not having
it here,” she said.

“
I’m talking about the one
for the candleshop,” I said. “Hey, who’s watching The Pot
Shot?”

“
I never opened. I’m going
to start closing the shop on Sundays and Mondays during the winter.
I figure I work so hard during the summer months, I deserve a break
now and then. You should do it.”

I gestured around the empty shop. “I’m
afraid if I did that, nobody would notice.”

“
That bad, is it? Things
will get better, Harrison, you have to rely on that.”

I shrugged. Given the evidence, I couldn’t
make myself believe anything of the sort. “So what brings you
here?”

“
I came by to see if you
wanted to play hooky with me.”

“
I’m not in the mood for
playing,” I said, “but thanks for offering.”

“
Are you sure? I’m heading
up to the Blue Ridge Parkway. It’s a beautiful day for a
drive.”

“
I really can’t. Besides,
I’m afraid I wouldn’t be very good company today.”

She frowned, then said, “Tell you what, I’ll
give you a rain check, and we’ll do it some other time.”

“
Thanks, I appreciate that,”
I said.

Over the next few hours, Heather, Millie and
Suzanne Gladstone from the new antique shop all popped in to try to
cheer me up, and though I appreciated their efforts, it was all
wasted on me. When I closed up at six, it was a first for me, and
hopefully a last, too.

I hadn’t sold a single thing all day.

As I locked the front door, I realized the
only two people associated with River’s Edge who hadn’t checked on
me were Gary Cragg and Pearly Gray. Cragg wouldn’t visit me on a
Sunday if I was giving away hundred-dollar bills, but it was so out
of character for Pearly not to offer his support that I found
myself worrying about my handyman and friend. Did he hold me
responsible in any way for what had happened to Gretel? Or was he
off mourning on his own? Either way, I wished I could talk to him,
but Pearly was so adamant about keeping his privacy in his
off-hours that I didn’t even know where he lived, and in a town as
small as Micah’s Ridge, that was saying something. There was no
doubt in my mind I could track him down if I had to—I’d been there
long enough to know who to ask—but I figured I’d better respect his
wishes. If and when he was ready to talk, he knew where to find
me.

Pacing around my apartment that night, I
debated calling Heather to see if I could host her cat, Esmeralda,
at my place for the next few days. Though I’d never admit it to
anyone, being the feline’s designated roommate whenever Heather was
away had become an important part of my life at River’s Edge. I’d
developed a bond with Esme that had surprised me greatly, since she
was the first cat I’d ever warmed up to. Heather had offered to set
me up with a cat of my own, but I was afraid my affection didn’t
extend to the whole species, just that one particular cat, as
cantankerous as she could be at times. I started for the roof a
dozen times, but the thought of being high above the world right
now wasn’t a pleasant one.

There were only so many steps I could take
in my apartment before I started wearing a path in the floor, so I
decided to go out. What was the worst that could happen? Well,
people could point and stare; they could call me a murderer, or
throw rocks at me. Still, I was willing to chance it. I grabbed a
baseball cap on my way out and pulled it down low over my eyes. It
wouldn’t fool anyone who knew me, but hopefully it would distract
everyone else.

I was startled to find Becka approaching the
building as I walked out. “Bad timing, I’m just on my way out,” I
said, trying to manage a smile for her.

“
I’m so sorry I couldn’t get
here sooner. Harrison, I can’t believe this is happening to
you.”

“
Thanks, I appreciate that.”
The last thing I wanted to discuss with Becka was my innocence.
“Have you had any more problems with your stalker?”

“
Don’t call him that, it
gives me the creeps,” she said. “No, I haven’t seen him since I was
here. I’m hoping he’s given up on me. Harrison, what are you going
to do?”

“
If he’s not bothering you,
there’s not really anything I can do, is there?”

She touched my arm lightly. “I’m not talking
about me; I’m talking about you.”

“
I’m going to trust Morton
to find Gretel’s killer, Becka. There’s not much I can do on my
own.”

She rubbed my arm gently, then started up
toward my shoulder when I pulled away. “Listen, I appreciate you
coming by, but I’m fine, honest. Like I said, I was just on my way
out.”

I could tell she was waiting for an
invitation to join me, but I wanted to be alone. Even if I’d been
looking for company, I most likely wouldn’t have turned to my
ex-girlfriend.

I expected a heated protest from her, but
Becka said, “I understand. If you need anything, even if it’s just
someone to listen, call me.”

“
Thanks,” I said. She got
into her car and drove off, and I headed to the parking behind
River’s Edge.

I got in Belle’s Ford truck and started
driving around Micah’s Ridge, happy for once that night had fallen
so early. Usually the winter months depressed me, especially those
after Christmas. We’d done well over the holiday season, and I’d
wondered what I was going to do with our growing cash reserves. I
was glad I’d fought the impulse to squander it on a trip. I’d need
every dime I’d banked if things kept going like they were headed. I
slowed the truck near A Slice of Heaven—my favorite pizza place in
the world—and debated going in. But though I’d felt brave leaving
my apartment, I wasn’t ready to throw myself into the thick of
humanity, not with the suspicions that were hanging over me. Maybe
coming out wasn’t that great an idea after all. It was starting to
rain, and my windshield was streaked with moisture as I turned my
wipers on. I started back for River’s Edge and was nearly there
when I heard a police siren behind me. I looked in my rearview
mirror with a sinking feeling in my stomach. A police car was on my
tail. What had I done? Had I sped through a stoplight, lost in my
thoughts? I pulled over onto the shoulder and could see the officer
get out and start toward me.

I rolled down the window and saw Sheriff
Morton approach. Before he could say a word, I said, “I’m sorry, I
didn’t realize I’d done anything wrong.”

“
This isn’t about your
driving, Harrison. You’ve got bigger problems than
that.”

“
What is it? You’re not
going to arrest me, are you?”

“
Quit asking me that. You’ll
know it if I’m going to lock you up. Listen, we’re almost back to
the candleshop. I’ll follow you and we can talk there.”

I did as I was told, my thoughts racing as I
tried to figure out exactly what I’d done now. I’d know soon
enough, but that didn’t keep me from guessing.

I parked in front of the candleshop instead
of in the alley behind River’s Edge, and the sheriff pulled up
beside me a minute later. I asked, “So what’s going on?”

“
Inside,” he said as he
gestured to the door. The rain was really starting to
intensify.

The automatic security lights—armed with
motion detectors—turned on as I approached the shop, and I thought
about when Pearly and I had installed them. I flipped the lights on
as I walked into At Wick’s End, but the sheriff hadn’t followed me.
He’d evidently ducked back into his squad car and was talking on
his radio. Without a word or a glance back at me, he pulled out of
the parking lot, his lights coming on as he did. Whatever he’d
wanted to talk to me about had been overruled by something
else.

I waited around half an hour, but for the
first time in months, being in the candleshop was depressing. Not
even the brightly decorated wax candles on display could cheer me
up. I locked the shop’s front door and headed upstairs. My dinner
matched my mood: a cold sandwich, some stale potato chips and a
two-liter bottle of root beer that had gone flat days ago. It
wasn’t exactly a gourmet meal, but I choked it down.

I didn’t bother with a plate, eating off a
paper towel instead. It sure made doing the dishes easy. Looking
through my books, I settled on a biography of Thomas Jefferson. As
much as I loved reading mysteries, I was in no mood for dead
bodies, not after the night I’d spent replaying Gretel’s murder in
my sleep.

There was a pounding on my door as I picked
the book up, so I laid it down on the table and opened the
door.

It was the sheriff, and he was dripping wet.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “I had a call I needed to take.” He
started in, then said, ‘Tell you what; why don’t we do this in your
shop? I don’t want to get your floor wet in there.”

I nodded. “I wish I knew what this was
about.”

“
Just be patient for another
minute,” he said.

“
Let me grab my keys and
I’ll meet you downstairs.” I picked up my key ring and locked the
apartment behind me. Morton was under the awning in front of the
candleshop waiting for me.

I unlocked the door yet again and flipped on
the lights. I was spending more time there when I was closed than
when I’d been open.

After he walked in, I locked the door behind
him. “So what’s going on?”

He pulled something out of
his pocket, and I could see a letter in a clear plastic envelope.
It said,
i saw the candle guy kill
her
, in block letters.

“
You call this evidence?” I
said. “I know who did this.”

“
I didn’t say I believed it,
I just thought you should know what you’re facing here. And I
highly doubt you know the sender. There wasn’t an identifying mark
on it, and it was mailed from the downtown post office in Micah’s
Ridge.”

“
Some nutcase was waiting
for me by my truck yesterday. He told me that for the right price,
he would swear he saw someone else kill Gretel. When I ran him off,
he threatened me with something just like this. I never thought
he’d follow through with it, though.”

“
How did he threaten
you?”

“
He said that he could just
as easily tell the police that he’d seen me shoot her instead of
backing me up.”

Morton shook his head. “Harrison, I hate to
break it to you, but we’ve gotten several tips from people claiming
that you’re the one who shot Gretel.”

“
Did anybody leave their
name and number?” I asked.

That actually got a smile from the sheriff.
“No, it’s funny how brave folks are when it’s all anonymous, isn’t
it? You’re taking the newspaper write-up pretty well.”

“
That’s because I didn’t
read it,” I said.

“
You probably should, just
to know what they’re saying about you.”

“
I don’t need to. I’m
already expecting the worst.”

“
Maybe you’re right,” he
said. “The real reason I came by was to tell you to watch your
back. There’s a witch hunt brewing, and I won’t have it in my
jurisdiction.”

“
So you believe me?” I
asked.

“
Let’s just say I’m not
rushing to judgment,” he said. “On the face of it, I’d say it
wasn’t your style to shoot a woman in the back like
that.”

“
Thanks for that, anyway,” I
said.

Morton headed for the door, then waited for
me to let him out. As I shut off the lights, I said, “Sheriff,
thanks for the warning. I appreciate it.”

“
Just thought you ought to
know.”

I went back upstairs, picked up the
biography and started to read, but I just couldn’t get into it. I
drifted off wondering how many accusations tomorrow would
bring.

Chapter 6

I discovered that some kind citizen had left
me two newspapers in front of the candleshop when I went downstairs
the next morning. They’d thoughtfully provided yesterday’s edition
of The Gunpowder Gazette, along with Monday’s paper as well. I
considered tossing them in the recycling without reading them, but
my curiosity got the better of me, and after going inside, I
unfolded the papers with dread.

It was even worse than I’d
expected.
candlemaker slain at
fair
, the headline screamed across the top
of page one of Sunday’s paper. The top of the fold carried the
story, along with a glamour shot Gretel had used for publicity
announcing the opening of Flickering Lights. When I flipped the
paper over, I was shocked to find my own face staring back. The tag
line under it said, “Harrison Black, rival candlemaker, questioned
at the scene.” It wasn’t the most flattering photo I’d ever seen of
myself, and somehow they’d managed to shade it two tones darker
than normal, giving me a dark and sinister look. If that was how
they’d handled the photograph, I couldn’t imagine what the article
itself said. I scanned it for my name and found it uncomfortably
close to the top. Harrison Black, embroiled in a heated rivalry
with the victim, was present at the scene of the crime. Though Mr.
Black was questioned extensively by the police, he was released due
to insufficient evidence. An anonymous source with the police
department said that though there was an eyewitness to the slaying,
there was no other specific direct evidence against Mr. Black at
the time of his questioning. That was just wonderful. Reading the
article, I was starting to get the suspicion that I’d done it
myself.