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, even if I wanted to.
A face appeared in the scribbles. Wild hair. Thick glasses. It didn’t take me long to recognize the figure. Mr. White’s profile was clear as day on the easel. He was looking off to the left and slightly down.
My head screamed with exhilaration and panic. It was like a message from the great beyond. “Um…Kat? Are you seeing this?”
Maybe my sensitive witchy powers had picked up on Allen White’s sudden death. Maybe they had even picked up on his murderer. I ached for the photo to finish, praying that it wouldn’t be a picture of Grammy Jo standing menacingly next to poor Mr. White.
My hand flew across the page, filling in the last of the details. A single luscious rose, its petals spread wide in bloom, appeared. With its approximate positioning next to Mr. White’s face, it looked like he’d picked it to sniff.
My mouth fell open in disappointment. So much for getting a firsthand look at the killer. What good were these witchy powers if I couldn’t get a little peek at the deadly secrets of this town?
I tried to pull my hand away, expecting to be finished, when it sprang to life again. Moving with a speed unlike I’d ever seen, it began to scribble madly over the rose, shading in the petals. It wasn’t until my hand had dropped that I realized the beautiful rose had been transformed into a black and dying rosebud, dripping with something deadly. I jumped back at the sight, fear pulsating through my veins. Spooky.
“Good morning, Hazy.”
My skin nearly left my bones lying in a heap on the ground. Swirling around, I found myself face to face with Ian Larson in his uniform, freshly groomed and smelling of aftershave. He stood in the doorway, his eyes sweeping over me and then over to the morbid picture.
Drawing his mouth into a tight frown, he narrowed his eyes at me and took a step inside. “That’s an interesting drawing. What could’ve inspired that?”
My eyes popped open wide as I looked back and forth between him and the drawing. “Um…I guess Mr. White’s death has me all messed up inside.” I tried to step in front of it and shrugged my shoulders. “It isn’t even a good likeness.”
“It sure looks like him to me. I think it’s pretty good, actually.”
“Well, it’s not.” I took the canvas down and laid it on the floor, face down. “You’re not here to lecture me on my pig again, are you? Because that’d be like beating a dead horse.”
I winced at the morbid analogy. Surely, I could’ve come up with something that didn’t involve death.
“No, not today.” Ian slid the chair out that I usually had my subjects sit in, and made himself at home. “I’m on more important business today. Because my instinct about the murder was correct, the chief gave me this case to work. I’m following up a lead.”
I averted my eyes and busied myself with cleaning up my paint station. In the three weeks I’d worked this job, not once had it been tidied. Trying to organize was a bad idea. A pressure washer and some turpentine were the only things that were going to solve this mess.
“I suppose that’s good for you. It’s practically a promotion, right? Congrats, Ian. I hope it’s what you wanted.”
He shifted in the creaky chair. “Yeah, I guess. Listen, I’m here because I had an anonymous tip from a witness who said he saw Allen White having tea here just an hour before he died. Is that right?”
Blood flooded my face. I’d bet my entire stock of rare paint dyes that Butch Hall was that anonymous tip. What I wouldn’t give to go magically crazy on him. He’d end up with body parts in all the wrong places. All the witches in the world wouldn’t be able to put him back together again.
“Yeah, I think he might’ve been here. Why do you ask?”
“Because, Hazy, that’s suspicious!” He leaned forward and grabbed my arm. “You know Allen White died from poisoning. It’s only a matter of days before the lab figures out what kind. If you know anything about it, you’ve got to tell me.”
I huffed and shrugged my shoulders. “So, what if he drank tea here? It’s not the first time Mr. White has stopped for a cup. Are you saying I’m a suspect?”
“Cripes, Hazel, not yet.” He dropped my arm. “But I’ve got to ask you about it. Why did Allen White stop by yesterday morning? He wasn’t exactly known to be social. And he barely knows you.”
I scooped up Kat from the floor and held him close to my chest, hoping that even this tiny little shield would help deflect the questions coming from Ian. Lying wasn’t a skill of mine. Momma Tula could always see right through my fibs. According to her, my ears would turn red and I had an awful habit of scratching my nose when nervous.
“Ian Larson, how long have I known you? Since I was three months old? How can you seriously be asking me these questions?”
That’s right, deflect. Classic technique. If only it would work on a trained law enforcement officer.
He sighed and looked up at the ceiling. From this angle, I could see the tiny patch of beard he’d missed while shaving this morning. “I don’t think you did anything wrong, Hazy. But I’ve got to start somewhere. Besides, you’ve been gone the past ten years. Somewhere off in in the southwest, the last I heard. You can’t pretend we really know each other anymore.”
His comment felt like a shotgun blast to the chest. I hadn’t really been gone an entire ten years. Momma Tula and I had visited a few times. But apparently it was enough time to forget a person’s character and suspect them of murder.
“Allen White was just stopping by for some tea, that’s all.” I lifted my chin high and pushed my shoulders back. “I can’t help it if I’m particularly charming and Mr. White prefers…er, I mean…preferred my company. If that’s a crime, arrest me now.”
Ian rolled his eyes. “Hazy…”
