“Morning.” I pushed to a stance, my knees popping in protest. When the hell did my knees start popping?
“Sure early for you to be out here, isn’t it?”
“Sure early for you to be spreading gossip, Ms. De Ville.”
A silver brow slowly cocked. “Ah, so you know I called Arlo Harper last night.” She snorted. “Of course you do.” She stopped next to the bloodied rocks. “I’ve known the Harpers for decades, back when Arlo bought his first property here. Good people. I come from a time where neighbors still reach out to neighbors. Erickson reached out to me, I reached out to Arlo.”
“And I come from a time where neighbors leave homicides to the authorities.”
“Well, maybe if the kids of your generation still believed in actual human to human communication instead of texting or sitting behind video games all day, there wouldn’t be so many homicides to investigate, Detective.”
“Not arguing with you there, ma’am.”
“Smart boy. Well, I knew you’d have some more questions for me.” A smile cracked her lips. “Come on in for some coffee, son. You look worn.”
Worn.
I followed Hazel up the pathway contemplating, for the umpteenth time over the last few weeks it seemed, if I was getting old.
Old.
Hazel pulled a massive keyring from her woven purse and unlocked the thick wooden door. Burned incense—something called Patchouli, I think—lingered in the air from the day before. The early morning light sparkled through the windows, pooling on a gleaming hardwood floor.
Despite the dated appearance of the rock building, the inside had been completely renovated. Stark white paint and little gold lights highlighted the art on the walls, this in contrast to dark wood Hazel had chosen for the floors. Wind chimes and sun catchers hung from the ceiling, catching the light and sparkling off the walls. Glass cases speckled the main floor, housing everything from handmade jewelry, “healing” crystals, glass-blown knick knacks, ashtrays, to pipes. The room was spotless.
“You always keep it this clean in here?”
She laughed, flicking a few light switches from behind the cash register. “I’ll assume you meant to add ‘no offense’ to the end of that question. Yes, I always keep it this clean. Wasn’t sure if the kid who dusted for fingerprints after the scroll was stolen was pleased or pissed.”
When it came to scanning for evidence, cleanliness had its advantages and disadvantages. Advantage was that it allowed for finding trace evidence easier, as well as recovering prints or tracks. Disadvantage was that, in more cases than not, the scene had been cleaned prior to the authorities searching it. Hotel rooms were an investigator’s worst nightmare. They’d either been cleaned by housekeeping five times over before authorities showed up, or, filled with so many prints and human DNA that it made it almost impossible to nail down a suspect.
Hazel glanced up from the computer she’d just powered on. “Anything turn up yet? With my stolen scroll or with the Lieutenant’s shooting?”
“Not yet.” Not that I’d tell her, anyway. “I was hoping you might have remembered something else, anything else, over the last few days.”
“This leads me to believe you’ve been chasing your tail over the last few days.”
“Part of the job.”
“Let me get that coffee going, then we’ll talk. Caffeine is good for the brain.”
So is Baileys, but I bit my tongue.
As Hazel disappeared into the kitchen in the back, I made my way to the corner of the room where the fourth Cedonia scroll had hung before the Black Bandit swiped it. Now in its place hung a painting of a tree, its electric green leaves glowing in the beam of sunlight shining on it. I cocked my head.
The colorful tree was in contrast to a dark blue background, its long branches growing away from the trunk like snakes. The roots ran deep underground in a kaleidoscope of colors, the ends disappearing off the canvas.
I knew this tree.
I squinted and leaned closer, my eyes tracing each one of the branches.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Hazel snuck up behind me.
“What tree is this?”
She handed me one of the rainbow-colored ceramic mugs in her hands. “Not sure.”
“Thanks.” I took the coffee but didn’t sip, still staring at those branches. Thick at the bottom, crowded at the top. The perfect climbing tree. Then it hit me—the Voodoo Tree.
“This is the tree from City Park.”
“There’s many trees in the park.”
“No, I mean…” My mind started to race. “Who painted this?”
“It was donated.”
I turned. “Seriously?”
“Believe it or not, Detective, there are a lot of people who paint for love, not money.”
I snorted, then refocused back on the painting. “Who donated it?”
“A woman traveling through town. A painter. We traded a few pieces of art, and this is one I got from her. The others have sold. It’s a popular tree, you know. Lots of people have painted it.”
“What was her name?”
Hazel shrugged. “I don’t remember. The woman was a gypsy. Had her whole life packed up in her car.”
“Wasn’t a blue sedan, was it?”
“No. Bright yellow Volkswagen with a peace sign on the door.” She grinned.
“When was this?”
“That I received this painting?”
I nodded.
“Oh, dear.” She cocked her head, her gaze shifting to the ceiling, a little bell on the bottom of one of her dreadlocks jingling. “Years ago.”
“And you just put it out?”
“No. It was over there,” she nodded to the opposite corner. “But no one ever noticed it. Not like you are, that’s for sure.”
A moment clicked by as I searched the painting, the wall around it, then back to the painting. I imagined the Black Bandit standing exactly where I was. My eyes drifted from branch to branch in the exact path I’d climbed the real tree the night before.
“What do you see, Detective?”
“Witchcraft,” I mumbled.
A soft hmm escaped her lips. “Look closer.”
I leaned in, almost nose to nose with the painting.
“Now tell me again, what do you see?”
“A clue.”
Hazel leaned in. “I see magic.”
I straightened, took a step back and focused on her. “Why don’t you say whatever it is you’re dancing around.”
She eyed me for a minute. “Fine. I don’t want you idiots to shut down the Moon Magic Festival this weekend.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one, I’ll make three months’ worth of revenue in two days. Two, because I’m sick of the divisiveness in this town. I’m sick of the narrow-minded, short-sighted rednecks exploiting stereotypes and spreading fear and propaganda about a religion that is not rooted in evil.”
“You’re talking about Wicca?”
“Yes, I am,” her chin lifted with defensiveness. “Berry Springs should welcome all people, from all walks of life, not just those who ride horses, chew tobacco, and tuck their balls into the left side of their Wranglers.”