At Wick's End - Tim Myers [68]
I was just starting to pour another candle to be sure I knew what I was doing when there was an urgent pounding at the front door. Without even realizing I was still carrying the jug of hot wax in my hand, I walked up front to see who was trying to get my attention so late after closing.
It was Lucas Young, no doubt checking up again to see how I was adapting to my new life. He’d be disappointed when he found that Eve was already gone for the day.
I opened the door and said, “Come in, Lucas. What brings you to At Wick’s End?”
“I’m glad you’re still here, Harrison. I was out this way this evening and saw your window display. It’s quite touching, actually, a fine tribute to your aunt. Great-aunt,” he corrected automatically.
“Thanks. I wanted to do something to mark her passing, and I thought it would be appropriate.” The window was certainly getting a great deal of attention, there was no doubt about that.
“In fact,” he continued. “I’d like to buy that particular candle from you. It would give me a keepsake to remember Belle by. She was one of the finest women I ever knew.”
“Sorry, but it’s not for sale,” I said as a chill ran through me.
He wasn’t about to give up that easily. “Come now, you’re just starting a business brand-new to you. I know what your financial situation looks like, Harrison. Surely you’ve got enough of your own memories to part with this one object. I’m willing to be quite generous with you.”
“I’m sorry, but this one’s kind of special.”
Then I knew. Lucas Young was behind it all. Things started to click in my mind, coincidences coming together that didn’t make sense any other way. His constant appearances around the shop, his familiarity with the building since he’d been the tenant in Markum’s old office at one time, and the fact that he’d been the only one who’d had a key to Belle’s apartment legally as her executor; there were too many coincidences for my taste. I studied him, wondering what his motive could be, wishing I’d armed myself with a baseball bat or something to defend myself with. All I had was a pot of wax.
Hot wax. Maybe, if it came to that, it could work.
“I really must insist,” the attorney said, reaching into his jacket pocket. I could see the outline of something bulky there, and there was no doubt in my mind he was going for a gun.
It was time to stop playing detective before he did anything I’d live to regret. I had no desire to face a man with a gun when all I had was a pitcher of hot wax. Before Young could finish that motion, I said, “I had no idea she meant that much to you. Of course you can have it.”
He eased his hand back out of his pocket, and instead reached for his wallet. “Would a hundred dollars be sufficient?”
“That would be fine,” I said.
The attorney took the candle after handing me the money. As he walked toward the door, I eased my grip on the wax. Once Young was outside, I’d call Sheriff Coburn and tell him all I knew. Let him take the risks. After all, that’s why he was the sheriff and I was the candlemaker.
The attorney held the candle tightly as he stopped near the door, then slid the dead bolt in place instead of walking out.
“What’s wrong,” I asked. “Did you forget something?”
“No, but you did. I happened to smell this candle in Belle’s apartment when I broke in, and it had the distinct aroma of cinnamon. This one smells like clove.”
Blast it all, I’d added the wrong scent! I was coming down with a cold, so the different aroma had been lost on me as I made the duplicate, and in my rush to finish the candle, I must have grabbed the wrong bottle of essence.
Young said, “That can mean only one thing. You must know,” he said, this time pulling the gun all the way out of his jacket pocket.
There are times I just hate being right.
“I don’t