Chapter 19
M
Y HEART THRUMMED
in my ribcage as I stared at the High Priestess tarot card. The priestess sat in front of the gate of Mystery, clad in a gorgeous blue dress. I knew from previous readings what she represents: knowledge, power, and truth. She mediates between light and dark, reality and illusion. The moon beneath her left foot represents her dominion over intuition.
“You see?” I said. “I’m bound by duty to continue to seek out the truth.”
Aunt Vera let out a deep sigh.
“Oh, c’mon. You know I’m right.” Although I didn’t believe everything the cards revealed, I was more than willing to use them to my advantage, and I truly did want to help Ellen.
Aunt Vera took back the card and shoved it into the deck. “Have you told Chief Pritchett that you got a call from Willie?”
“Norah said she would do it.”
“And has she?”
“How should I know?”
Aunt Vera ogled me.
I sighed. “Fine.” I set Tigger on the floor, which didn’t please him—he could have lounged in my lap until dawn—then headed for the telephone on the sales counter. Aunt Vera followed. I had the telephone receiver in my hand when the front door opened.
Rhett entered looking as rugged as the sailor I had once used in a sea-salt commercial: chiseled cheeks, bright eyes, a bit of a swagger. In a word, delicious. “Ready?”
“For what?” I said, then realized he had come to take me on a date. I set the receiver in the cradle. “It’s Monday.”
He aimed his index finger at me. “Give the girl two points.”
“What’s so unusual about Monday?” Aunt Vera asked.
Rhett unfastened the buttons of his pea coat. “We’re hitting the town.”
“Well, it’s about time.” Aunt Vera slotted the tarot deck into her pocket and whispered to me, “The High Priestess is patient.” Then she moved to Rhett. “Where are you off to?”
“We’re going lamp lighting.”
“Oh my,” Aunt Vera gasped. “I completely forgot. I’ve got to get cracking.” She hustled behind the counter. “Jenna, where are the scissors? We have paper bags and candles, don’t we? We keep them for emergencies, right?”
“Bags and candles for what?” I said, thoroughly stymied.
“You don’t know?” Rhett grinned. “I thought you knew everything that went on in Crystal Cove.”
“Not yet. What’s going on? What’s lamp lighting?”
“Stars,” Aunt Vera said. “I’ll punch stars in the bags.” She glanced out the front windows. “Oh no. Pepper is way ahead of me. Go, you two. Have fun.” My aunt shooed me toward the exit.
I dug in my heels. “What about Tigger?”
“Too-ra-loo. I’ll take him home.” My aunt scooped the kitten into her arms. “We’ll have our own fun, won’t we, fella?” She nuzzled his nose.
“I should contact Chief Pritchett,” I said.
“I’m sure the Mumford girls did as promised.” Aunt Vera gestured for me to leave and began to stroke the amulet around her neck.
“My car,” I added, glancing toward the parking lot.
Rhett cocked his head. “If I didn’t know better, Jenna, I’d say you were trying to get out of our date.”
“No.” I laid my hand on his forearm and something zinged inside me. A good something, filled with desire. I’d had a crush on the sea-salt guy, too. “I want to go with you. Absolutely. My purse.”
I fetched my tote, slipped on my denim jacket, and returned in a matter of seconds. Grinning, I looped my hand around Rhett’s elbow.
As he guided me toward the exit, I glanced over my shoulder. My aunt, the kook, smiled smugly.
Hocus pocus,
I mouthed. Chortling, she released her phoenix amulet and shuffled to the stockroom.
• • •
LAMP LIGHTING NIGHT
was like spending an evening in an enchanted fairy tale. As Rhett and I strolled along the sidewalk and the sun melted into the horizon, leaving a wash of orange and peach brushstrokes in the sky, little bags of light in front of the shops started to twinkle. Shop owners had cut intricate designs in paper bags and inserted either real or battery-operated candles into the bags. Disneyland at night had nothing on Crystal Cove.
We greeted couples and families. Most were bundled up; many hummed songs. I heard the strains of “Let It Be” and “Blowin’ in the Wind,” campfire-style songs that filled me with a warm glow.
A short while into our stroll, Rhett started humming U2’s “All I Want Is You,” which brought back memories of elementary school and a towheaded boy who wanted to kiss me. He had chased me around a tree while singing the song at the top of his lungs.
I started to laugh, and Rhett said, “What’s so funny? Am I off-key?”
“No.” I related the story.
“The kid had good taste.”
“He had the worst breath.”
“Should I chew a mint before we kiss?” He hesitated. “Perhaps that was presumptuous of me.”
“I’m pretty sure we’ll kiss before the night is over.” I wasn’t lying. I felt lighthearted for the first time in eons, and I was definitely attracted to my date. He had a quiet but strong presence. I felt adored by him. “If I recall correctly, my errant young suitor gave me a present that Christmas. I about freaked out when a frog leaped from the box. I think he was going for the frog-turns-into-a-prince metaphor, he being the hopeful frog.”
“Did it work?”
“It failed miserably. I had no idea I could scream so loudly.”
We laughed.
After a long, comfortable silence, Rhett said, “What was that, back at the store, about you needing to call Cinnamon?” So much for calm. Rhett’s jaw worked back and forth waiting for my answer. I wished I could change Cinnamon’s mind about him, but it wasn’t my fight.
Not wanting to think about murder, or any crime for that matter, I said, “I don’t want to talk about it, okay?” I switched the topic back to the present. “Who came up with the Lamp Lighting Night theme?”
“Mayor Zeller, the year after her husband died. She started the event as a night to focus on the future.”
“You like her. I can tell.”
“ZZ’s a hoot. She never stops, that woman. She’s always on the go, drumming up ideas to spark the economy. She’s good for Crystal Cove. She makes it a destination place. Hey, look at that.” He pointed at The Pelican Brief Diner. The entryway and front windows were outlined with blinking lights. A sandwich board sign stood in front with words written in chalk:
Warm Up Your Night with a Romantic Meal
. “Hungry?”
“Starved.” I could go for my favorite fish sticks.
Beyond the diner, in front of Play Room Toy Store, I spied Norah, Ellen, and her daughter. They were peering into the plate glass window, and no wonder. The toy store owner always created the most elaborate, good-humored displays. Norah held on to the handle of the stroller. Ellen’s daughter was wiggling a pink baby doll animatedly at something in the window. Seeing the trio made me wonder if Ellen had heard from Willie. She looked pale and drawn. She was rubbing her arms briskly. Given her illness, why hadn’t she worn her coat instead of a sweater? Norah said something; Ellen responded. As they chatted, the conversation with my aunt recycled in my mind. Was Ellen a victim or a manipulator? Did I need to be a high priestess on her behalf, or was she fully in charge of her own destiny?
As Rhett and I approached the diner’s entrance, a blaze of flashing lights filled the street. Police cars. Three of them. Speeding toward us. No sirens. The first car came to a screeching halt beside the sidewalk, near Ellen. The other two lined up behind the lead car.
Cinnamon hurried from the passenger side of the lead car and approached Ellen and her family.
I broke free of Rhett’s hold and raced forward.
He yelled, “Wait,” but I didn’t stop.
I pushed through the throng that had gathered around Ellen. She was tucked into herself and moaning. I asked one of the onlookers what was going on.
“Willie’s dead.”
A lump formed at the pit of my stomach. I snaked between a knot of onlookers until I reached the front of the group. The glow from the police car’s interior light cast a greenish pall on Ellen’s skin.
Cinnamon said, “He was found at the motel up the road.”
Norah wrapped her arm around her sister and pulled her close. “How did you locate us?”
“My deputy is off tonight. She received an interoffice e-mail, spotted you, and sent me a message. Now, back away, everyone.” Cinnamon raised her hands. “This is official police business.”
The deputy who reminded me of a moose joined Cinnamon. He carried a handheld device and a digital-writing implement.
Ellen caught sight of me and called, “Jenna.”
Cinnamon’s gaze flew to Rhett and back to me. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re taking in Lamp Lighting Night,” I said.
Cinnamon’s mouth turned down. If only I could change her mind about Rhett. Start fresh.
Focus, Jenna.
“What happened?” I asked.
“It’s private,” Cinnamon said.
“Please, Chief Pritchett.” Ellen reached for me. “Let her stay. Willie . . . He called Jenna last night.”
Cinnamon lasered me with another dismal look. Swell.
“He didn’t leave a message,” I said hastily. “I don’t know why he called. It was odd, to say the least. What happened?” I moved closer to Ellen. She was shivering. “How did he die?”
Cinnamon ran her tongue across her teeth. “He was murdered.”
Ellen gagged. Her hand flew to her mouth. “I knew it. I knew something horrible had happened.”
Norah, who seemed as stunned as Ellen, eyed her niece. She crouched beside the girl and plucked the baby doll from her hands. Mean-spirited shrew, I thought, until Norah wiggled the doll in front of the girl’s face to distract her. Norah played keep-away a tad longer, then handed the doll back. She sang the beginnings of “The Alphabet Song.” Picking up where Norah left off, the girl crooned to the doll.
Norah rose and slung her arm around her sister again. “Willie has been missing since early Sunday.”
Cinnamon arched an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you report him gone?”
“Sam called the precinct,” I said. “He was told that the police were ‘on it,’ but warned that missing adult cases are not taken seriously for forty-eight hours.”
Ellen said, “Do you know who killed my husband? Or why?”
“No.” Cinnamon assessed Ellen. “He was shot. Do you own a revolver, Mrs. Bryant?”
Ellen shook her head and clutched the collar of her sweater. She had been shivering before; now, she was downright quaking.
I felt awful for her. A friend at Taylor & Squibb, a freehand drawing genius, had lost her father to gun violence. Her art grew extremely aggressive. For two years, I begged her to seek help to guide her through the pain and the nightmares. Finally she agreed. She still went to support meetings as far as I knew.
“Your husband was shot at close range,” Cinnamon went on. “We think it happened before midnight last night.”
“You only just found his body?” I said.
“The motel manager called at three
P.M.
A maid discovered him. We’ve been working the case since then. The coroner thinks he died around nine
P.M.
last night.”
“That isn’t possible,” I said. “He called me at ten.”
“Why did he call?”
“As I said before, I don’t know. He didn’t leave a message. It had to have been a mistake. Perhaps a pocket call, though I can’t understand why Willie would have entered my cell phone number into his directory. He’s never telephoned me before.”
Cinnamon addressed Ellen. “Where were you last night?”
Ellen hesitated. “I was out.”
“The maid described a woman who looked like you at the motel,” Cinnamon said. Her associate, the Moose, was taking furious notes. “She said the woman was wearing a knee-length black coat. You own a coat like that, don’t you, Mrs. Bryant?”
“No,” Ellen said. “I mean, yes. I do. I forgot it at the diner.”
“No way could my sister have killed her husband last night,” Norah blurted out.
“Why not?” Cinnamon said.
