Death Waxed Over - Tim Myers [35]
Eve gestured around the shop. “So you pick this moment to alienate our best customer. Brilliant.”
I thought about it a moment or two, then realized Eve was right. I shouldn’t have pressed Mrs. Jorgenson, certainly not without more information than I had. I hurried to the parking lot to see if I could catch her, but by the time I got outside, she was already gone. It appeared that I’d blown my last chance with my star student and benefactor.
To my surprise, we had a relatively busy day at the candleshop, though I was too morose to enjoy it. I knew Markum was expecting me to get Gretel’s lawyer’s name from Jubal, but I didn’t have time to slip away. I was thankful for the shoppers and didn’t want to leave a buzzing store. Maybe things were finally easing up. I was happy The Gunpowder Gazette hadn’t printed any more photos or stories linking me to Gretel’s murder. At least on that front, things were improving.
By the end of the day, I actually had enough income to justify taking it to the bank for more of a reason than just routine. As I filled out the slip and prepared the deposit, Eve took one of our Shaker-style baskets we were starting to carry made by a local craftsman and began filling it with candles and accessories.
After she was finished, she plopped the basket down in front of me.
“What’s this for?” I asked.
“It’s your apology to Mrs. Jorgenson.”
I pushed the basket away. “What makes you think she’d even see me?”
“What makes you think she won’t?”
“You’re kidding, right? I’ve got a feeling the way she stormed out of here was a pretty good indication that she might not be all that eager to greet me.”
“Thus the goodwill basket,” Eve said. “Harrison, the longer you let this go, the more permanent the rift might become. Make amends before she convinces herself she doesn’t need us anymore.”
I took the deposit and started for the door. “I think we’ve already crossed that particular line.”
“You owe it the candleshop to at least try,” Eve said firmly, collecting the basket, then pressing it into my hands. “Swallow your pride, Harrison.”
I took the offering from her, albeit reluctantly. “I don’t even know where she lives.”
Eve said, “She’s in Parsons Ferry. Here, I wrote her address down for you.”
I took it and stuffed the note into my pocket. “Okay, I’ll do it. You realize she’s probably going to slam the door in my face.”
“From the way she looked when she left, you’ve got it coming, wouldn’t you say?”
I drove to the bank and made the deposit, though it would have been much closer going to Mrs. Jorgenson’s first. Every plea I could think of was rejected as quickly as I thought of it. What could I say, that I was sorry? Was I, though? The more I thought about it, the more I had to acknowledge to myself that I was. I’d let my imagination get the best of me. I didn’t care what Markum thought. There was no way Mrs. Jorgenson would shoot Gretel. She might try to run her out of business and Micah’s Ridge, but murder? No, I just couldn’t see it. I’d let the fact that I was under police suspicion cloud my judgment about a friend, and I vowed to never let that happen again.
Parsons Ferry was the ritziest development in Micah’s Ridge. I hadn’t been there since I’d moved into town, but I’d heard enough around that should have prepared me for what I found. The houses—perched on the edge of the Gunpowder River—were extraordinary: mansions on the water. I hadn’t even slowed at the guarded gate, just tossing a wave to the man inside. The builder had tried to make the development an exclusive one, and the imposing guard’s station was just one of the many ways it tried to discourage casual visitors. But an article in The Gunpowder Gazette a few months earlier had disclosed that since the state of North Carolina maintained the roads, there was no way access could be limited legally. Cruising the neighborhood had become a new hobby for some of Micah’s Ridge’s less wealthy citizens, and I’d heard complaints from some of my customers that something was going