Snuffed Out (Book 2 in the Candlemaking Mysteries) (5 page)

Ann Marie had to notice my suddenly slumped
shoulders. She stopped tapping her pencil altogether and smiled
softly at me. “It’s not as bad as all that. You’ve actually got six
days to find another tenant before your electric bill is due.”

“
Wow, six whole days,” I
said. “Listen, I know you’re just trying to help. I’ll see if I can
round up Belle’s list of potential tenants and find out if any of
them are still interested. Thanks for dropping by.”

She took the hint, swallowing the last of
her coffee and waving good-bye to Millie.

I was still staring at my muffin when Millie
came by to top off my coffee. “Don’t let the monkeys get you down,”
she said.

I smiled in spite of my gloom. “Where did
you come up with that one?”

Millie said, “My Uncle Timothy used to say
there were kind people on this earth, and then there were monkeys,
folks who never evolved past throwing bananas at each other. It’s
not the people who try to bring you down, it’s the monkeys.”

“
He sounds like an odd
bird,” I said.

“
And proud of it, truth be
told. You should meet him. He’s as full of spit and vinegar as
anyone I’ve ever met.”

“
Next time he’s in town,
bring him by.”

Millie studied me a moment, then said, “Yes,
I believe you would get along just fine with my uncle. Now don’t
you have a candleshop to run?”

I glanced at my watch. “No private lessons
today, so I’m not in any rush.”

Millie said, “Well I am, I can’t stand
around here all day and listen to you.” She softened her words with
a flick of her towel. “I’ve got baking to do.”

“
Don’t forget, I want to be
one of your tasters.”

“
Oh you’re on my list, all
right. Now shoo.”

I walked out of The Crocked Pot as Tick
walked in.

“
Morning, Harrison. It’s a
stunning day, isn’t it?”

“
You’re feeling better,
aren’t you?”

“
I found a wonderful new
allergist. I believe he’s cured me.”

“
That’s
excellent news,” I said. After Tick went inside, I took a deep
breath of the cool autumn air. It was my favorite time of year, bar
none, and I wished, for just a moment, to have the leisure to enjoy
it more instead of spending the day inside At Wick’s End. I’d
always thought being my own boss would give me freedom from
punching clocks and nosy supervisors. Instead, I found that I
worked harder for myself than I ever had for any employer. I was,
without a doubt, the toughest boss I’d ever dealt with. Well, there
had to be perks to running my own show. Eve was slated to work the
evening shift, and I’d always worked alongside her. Not tonight.
Come 4:00
p.m
., I was going to take the rest of the day off.

I peered in Heather’s new age shop as I
walked past it, wondering if she’d come to grips yet with losing an
old love. Since my parents had died in a car wreck on my
twenty-first birthday, I hadn’t lost a soul I was close to until my
Great-Aunt Belle was murdered.

To appease my conscience
for cutting out early, I decided to open At Wick’s End half an hour
early. Eve came in three minutes after I flipped the sign to
open.

“
You must have hit it by
accident,” she said as she flipped it back.

“
No, I thought I’d get a
jump on things,” I said as I set it back.

“
We never opened early,” Eve
said with a snort. “Belle always said if we did, soon enough folks
would expect it every day.”

“
Well, I don’t think one day
is going to start any bad trends, one way or another. Chances are
nobody’s going to show up early anyway. I just felt like opening.
Eve, did you ever used to work the store by yourself, or was Belle
here every second the store was open?”

“
Goodness no, she took a day
off now and then. She said she had to or she’d go stir
crazy.”

“
I’m getting a little antsy
myself,” I admitted. “I haven’t missed a minute of work since I
took over, and it’s starting to get to me. I’m thinking about
cutting out at four, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“
Mind? Why should I mind,
Harrison? It’s your shop, after all. I’ll be fine on my
own.”

She sounded almost eager to get me out of
there, but I wasn’t going to push it. Eve could probably use the
space as much as I could. Though she’d been a godsend teaching me
about candles, I was certain she longed for a little quiet time at
work just waiting on customers and not educating her new boss.

I was just getting ready to grab some lunch
when Mrs. Jorgenson walked into At Wick’s End.

“
Good morning,” she said
brusquely. “I assume you’re ready for me.”

I nodded, too surprised to say a word. So
she’d come back after all. Eve started to greet her, caught one
look at the expression on her face and stepped back into the
storeroom where she’d been preparing an order.

I’d never gotten around to cleaning up from
the day before, so the table looked as if I’d set it out fresh just
for her. Before I could say a word, Mrs. Jorgenson said, “I must
apologize for my behavior yesterday. I didn’t realize until I
arrived at the store that our lesson wasn’t until today. I must
have written it down wrong in my book. I’ve been doing that more
and more lately. Too much on my mind, I suppose.”

“
No harm done,” I said,
ready to accept her fabrication if it meant keeping her coming
back. “So, are you ready to get started learning a new technique
today?”

“
I’m quite excited,
actually,” she said. “How do we begin?”

I got out an old shoebox and handed her a
hammer and screwdriver, along with a hefty block of translucent
wax. She asked, “What happened to the plastic bags?”

“
This system works a lot
better,” I said. I’d stumbled across it in one of my books and had
found it to be much more effective than using a plastic bag to
break up the wax in. “Chisel off small chunks,” I ordered as I went
over my supplies again. Mrs. J took the safety glasses and slid
them into place, then attacked the wax with glee. She was enjoying
it a little too much, and I realized she was getting out a lot of
aggression. Good for her; it was the cheapest therapy I’d ever
heard of.

When she had enough wax chipped off the main
body, I stopped her, but not until she’d given it a few extra
whacks. I pulled out what remained of the block and broke up a few
of the larger chunks, then slid the fragments into the double
boiler.

As the wax started to melt, I asked, “Would
you like to add color and fragrance, or will we be making the
economy model today?”

“
Harrison, you know I always
start with the basics. What do we do next?”

I measured out some wick and said, “The
first few times it might be better to do single tapers, just until
you get the hang of it.” I’d laid out some of my earlier efforts
and showed her what I’d done. She picked up a few of the singles,
then examined a double I’d done in beeswax. I could tell she wanted
to jump a few steps, something I would have been delighted to do,
but her analytical approach held fast as she put the candles back
on the tabletop.

“
Where do we
begin?”

I peered inside the double boiler, then
said, “It looks good. Let’s get started.”

“
Shouldn’t we check the
temperature first?”

I looked at the pool of melted wax. It
looked exactly like water, and the first time I’d done it I thought
my double boiler must have been leaking. “It looks just right to
me.”

I took a pot of boiling water off another
burner and poured it into a stainless steel cylinder I used as a
dipping can.

“
You put water in there
first?” she asked, incredulous.

“
Absolutely. Now we add the
wax.” I gently eased the melted wax into the container, with Mrs.
Jorgenson close enough to breathe my air. After close examination,
she said, “I can’t see a difference. Did it all mix
together?”

“
Look at the sides of the
container. You can see the line where the wax ends and the water
begins. When you use dye in the wax, it’s really easy to
see.”

I handed her a piece of number-one wick and
said, “Dip away. Just remember, use quick even dips, then give the
wax a chance to cool between immersions, and you’ll have a candle
in no time.”

By the tenth dip, she barely had any wax on
her wick at all. “How long does this process take?”

It had never taken me more than three or
four dips to get some kind of buildup on the wick. Something had
gone wrong. I thought about all I’d read, then realized the wax was
probably too hot.

“
Tell you what,” I said
matter-of-factly, “Let’s allow it to cool a little
first.”

“
The wax on my wick, or
what’s in there?”

“
Both,” I said.

We waited a few minutes and I decided to
test it with a piece of wick of my own. After three dips, along
with a little waiting time between immersions for cooling, I had
the beginnings of a taper.

“
Now why can’t I do that?”
Mrs. Jorgenson asked impatiently.

“
It’s all yours,” I
said.

After a few minutes, she had a thin taper
herself, one of frosty white wax. “Why, it looks just like a
miniature icicle.” The delight in her voice was impossible to
miss.

“
You’re a natural,” I said
as she continued to dip. Before too long, she had a fine, stout
taper and announced that it was complete. Before I could say a
word, she said, “I’d like to do another.”

I looked into the container and saw that we
had plenty of wax left. She took the offered wick and began dipping
it immediately. After Mrs. Jorgenson was into making her fourth
candle, she said, “What’s wrong with the wax now?”

I looked and saw that there was a skim coat
of wax forming on top. “It’s supposed to do that. It’s starting to
cool.”

She nodded, but continued to dip.

I said, “You really should stop now. It’s
not fit for dipping.”

“
Nonsense. I want to
experiment.” As the wax began to congeal, she picked up lumps of it
onto her candle. The shape was exotic and not altogether
unattractive. “There, it’s perfect,” she announced, and I had to
admit she’d been right.

“
Do I have to let these cool
overnight?” she said, eyeing her creations with joy.

“
No, ma’am, as soon as they
cool to the touch, they’re ready to go. Give them another ten or
fifteen minutes and they’ll be set.”

“
Excellent,” she said. “That
will give me time to gather my supplies. Aren’t you
coming?”

“
I’m right behind you,” I
said, happy that she’d come back for reasons more than her money.
In Mrs. Jorgenson I had a true kindred spirit in wax. On the
surface, we had nothing in common. She was a rich, older widow with
time on her hands, and I was a fairly young man doing everything I
could to keep my head above water. But when we were working on
candles, we were two of a kind.

After picking out our nicest double broiler
and dipping can, Mrs. J added more wax to her substantial
collection, along with a thick roll of wick and a wide variety of
colors and scents. “I can’t wait for our next lesson. Do you have
anything special in mind?”

“
There are a lot of things
we can do with dipping candles,” I said. “Next week we’ll
experiment.”

She signed the substantial receipt and was
humming gladly as she walked out of the store.

“
Miracles really do happen,”
Eve said after Mrs. Jorgenson was gone. “I never believed she would
come back.”

“
I’d like to say it was my
charm, but she said she thought she’d written down the wrong day
for our lesson.”

Eve snorted. “Don’t you believe that for one
second. She’s too sharp to do that. No, I’m guessing that little
story was her way to save face. She’s got the candle bug, and she’s
got it bad, Harrison.”

“
I can’t blame her, I’ve got
it myself.” Suddenly I didn’t feel guilty about taking the evening
off anymore at all. “Tell you what, as soon as you get back from
lunch, I’m going to call it a day.”

Eve nodded. “I think that’s a splendid idea.
I shan’t be long.”

She was as good as her word, back in
nineteen minutes from the beginning of her hour break. When I tried
to protest that she had more time, Eve shooed me out of my own
store. “Go now, there’s a whole world out there, in case you’ve
forgotten it.”

With a sheepish grin, I headed out of At
Wick’s End with a free afternoon and a little money in my
pocket.

It should have been perfect, and it would
have been, if I hadn’t run into my worst nightmare in the parking
lot behind River’s Edge before I had a chance to get away.

Chapter 4

I tried to duck when I saw Manfred Stratton
standing by my truck, but it was too late. He spotted me before I
could get back out of sight, and hailed me in his booming
voice.

“
Harrison. I was just ready
to come looking for you. We have a great many things to talk
about.”

Manfred Stratton had stumbled into At Wick’s
End two weeks before, and I hadn’t been able to shake him since. If
the man had shown the slightest interest in candlemaking I might
have warmed to him, but instead, he was a former salesman who now
had nothing to do but harass shop owners with his windy
conversations and pointless stories of his past successes, no doubt
many of them accomplished only in his mind.