“It was infuriating! I spent hours arranging my tanzanite display by color gradient, and the next morning—chaos!” She gestures dramatically to a display case containing purple-blue stones that look perfectly organized to me.
“Did you ever catch who was doing it?”
Her nostrils flare, and a wisp of smoke curls from them. “Not exactly. But the problem was solved when that insufferable spider creature appeared during one of my completely justified rampages about it.”
My heart gives a little kick. “Spider creature? You mean Riven?”
“Yes, that reclusive pest. He simply walked in—uninvited, mind you—observed my distress, and informed me that the mountain was experiencing minor tremors I was apparently ‘too absorbed in my shinies’ to notice.” She mimics Riven’s deeper voice with surprising accuracy.
I bite my lip to keep from smiling. “And?”
“And then he proceeded to use his silk to create suspension systems for my cases.” She gestures to nearly invisible threads holding some of the larger display cabinets. “Ingenious, really. They absorb the vibrations without restricting the visual appeal.”
“That was nice of him,” I venture.
Veronica looks like she’s swallowed something sour. “I suppose I owe the creature a debt. He disappeared before I could offer payment, which was terribly rude.”
Translation: Riven helped her without being asked, expected nothing in return, and didn’t stick around to be berated for his trouble.
“Thank you for sharing that, Ms. Ashcroft. It’s been illuminating.”
She shows me out with a sniff. “Do watch those mountain roads, delivery girl. The tremors have been more frequent lately.”
As I climb back into my truck, I smile at the image of Riven awkwardly helping the haughty dragon organize her treasure hoard while she probably complained the entire time. Not exactly the behavior of someone who’d deliberately cause a mudslide.
One character witness down, two to go.
Ethel Mae’s cottage sits nestledamong the pine trees, looking like it was plucked straight from a fairy tale. Five cats of various sizes lounge on the porch, sunning themselves. I count them automatically—all present and accounted for.
“Is that my Junebug?” Ethel calls from inside before I can even knock. The woman has ears like a bat.
“It’s me, Ethel. I’ve got your medication.”
The door swings open to reveal Ethel Mae Prescott in all her eighty-year-old glory. Today she’s wearing a floral house dress with rainbow fuzzy slippers that immediately make me think ofRiven. Her silver hair is wrapped in pink curlers, and her eyes twinkle with mischief behind cat-eye glasses.
“Well, don’t just stand there letting the heat out. Come in, come in!”
I follow her inside, careful not to step on Theodore Roosevelt and Abraham Lincoln, who weave between my ankles with practiced precision.
“I’ve made fresh coffee and cookies,” she announces, bustling toward the kitchen. “And don’t give me any nonsense about being in a hurry. I can see something’s troubling you clear as day.”
I set her medication on the kitchen table and sink into a chair. Somehow, Ethel always knows.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Child, your aura’s more tangled than Woodrow Wilson’s fur after he gets into the yarn basket.” She sets a steaming mug in front of me. “Now, what’s got you looking like you’re trying to solve calculus in your head?”
I take a sip of coffee—perfect, as always—and decide on a half-truth.
“I’m a bit concerned about all the dangerous things happening on the mountain lately. The mudslide wasn’t the first incident.”
Ethel’s eyes light up. “Oh! You’re finally noticing! This mountain’s been playing its games long before you were born, June.”
“Games?”
“The mountain gives, and the mountain takes.” She leans forward conspiratorially. “But it also protects its own.”
My detective senses tingle. “What do you mean, protects?”
