Chapter 20 Jagg
JAGG
Iturned to see Hazel De Ville padding down the pathway. Beams of sunlight sparkled through her long, dreadlocked silver hair. She wore a brown skirt to her ankles with rope sandals to match, and a tie-dye T-shirt that read Stay Weird.
“Morning.” I pushed to a stance, my knees popping in protest.
“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.”
I smirked. “Not arguing with you there, ma’am.”
“Smart boy,” she winked. “Well, I knew you’d have some more questions for me this morning. 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 heavy keyring from her woven purse and unlocked the thick wooden door. A swirl of incense—Patchouli, if I had to guess—drifted out, clinging to the air like memory. Morning sunlight poured through the tall windows, casting golden puddles across the gleaming hardwood floor.
From the outside, the stone building looked like a relic.
Inside, it was anything but. Stark white walls and warm gold lights spotlighted the eclectic artwork.
The dark floors shone like polished onyx.
Wind chimes and sun catchers hung from the ceiling, scattering color across the room in shifting kaleidoscopes.
Glass display cases dotted the space, showcasing everything from handmade jewelry and “healing” crystals to glass-blown trinkets, ashtrays, and pipes. Every surface sparkled.
“Do you always keep it this clean in here?”
Hazel laughed, flicking on a row of light switches behind the counter. “I’ll assume you meant to tack on a ‘no offense’ to that question. And yes, I always keep it this clean. Still not sure if the kid who dusted for fingerprints after the scroll went missing was impressed or annoyed.”
Cleanliness had its pros and cons when it came to evidence collection.
On one hand, it made finding trace evidence easier—prints, fibers, tracks.
On the other, more often than not, the scene had already been wiped down before law enforcement ever got there.
Hotel rooms were the worst. Either scrubbed spotless by housekeeping, or teeming with so many prints and DNA samples it was like trying to find a needle in a haystack of human debris.
Hazel glanced up from the computer she’d just powered on. “Anything turn up yet? My missing scroll? The lieutenant’s shooting?”
“Not yet.” Not that I’d tell her even if I had. “I was hoping you might’ve remembered something. Anything.”
She gave me a long look. “That tells me you’ve been chasing your tail the last few days.”
“Part of the job.”
“Let me get the coffee going—caffeine’s good for the brain.”
So is Baileys, but I bit my tongue.
While Hazel disappeared into the back kitchen, I drifted toward the far corner of the shop—toward the empty space where the fourth Cedonia scroll used to hang before the Black Bandit swiped it.
In its place now hung a painting of a tree. I paused, coffee temporarily forgotten.
Its leaves were a sharp, electric green glowing under a stream of sunlight, a vivid contrast against a moody blue background. The long branches twisted upward like serpents, while the roots ran deep beneath the surface in a swirl of colors, disappearing off the canvas.
I knew this tree.
I stepped closer, eyes narrowing, tracing each branch like a map.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Hazel’s voice came from behind me.
“What tree is this?” I asked.
She handed me one of those rainbow-colored ceramic mugs. “Not sure.”
“Thanks.” I took the mug, but didn’t sip. My eyes were still fixed on the branches—thick at the bottom, crowded at the top.
The perfect climbing tree.
It clicked. “This is the tree from City Park. The Voodoo Tree.”
“There’s a lot of trees in the park.”
“No, I mean…” My brain started racing. “Who painted this?”
“It was donated.”
I turned to her. “Seriously?”
“Believe it or not, Detective, there are people who paint for love, not money.”
I snorted, then turned back to the canvas. “Who donated it?”
“Woman passing through. Artist, I think. We traded a few pieces, and this is one I kept. The others sold. It’s a popular tree. People paint it all the time.”
“Her name?”
Hazel shrugged. “Can’t recall. She was a gypsy type. Had her life packed into her car.”
“Wouldn’t have been a blue sedan, would it?”
“Nope. Bright yellow Volkswagen with a peace sign on the door.” She grinned.
“When was this?”
“You mean when I got the painting?”
I nodded.
“Oh, years ago.” Her gaze drifted toward the ceiling, a bell tied into one of her dreads jingling faintly.
“And you just now put it up?”
“No, it was over there.” She nodded to the opposite corner. “But no one ever really noticed it… not like you are.”
I stared again, my eyes following the branching pattern, the flow of the roots. My pulse ticked higher. I imagined the Black Bandit standing exactly where I was, studying this canvas the same way.
“What do you see, Detective?”
“Witchcraft,” I muttered.
Hazel gave a soft hmm. “Look closer.”
I leaned in until my nose was almost brushing the paint.
“Now,” she whispered, “what do you really 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.”
“One, thanks for the visual, two, who’s embracing stereotypes now, Ms. De Ville?”
“This is serious, Detective. This is exactly how wars start, how civilizations fall. If we all worked together, respected each other, embraced our differences, and learned from each other, the world would be a much better place. Festivals like Moon Magic don’t only bring money into the town, but they also build a sense of community.
” She stomped her foot like a child. “You cannot cancel the festival. I will not have it. It will lay a dangerous precedent. Our town will shrivel up and die if we don’t embrace others. ”
“It will shrivel up and die if someone starts a fire during this burn ban.”
She rolled her eyes. “Because everyone’s going to be smoking doobies, is that right?”
“I’ll see what I can do.” I sipped my coffee—piping hot, fresh. “But I want something in return.”
“Of course you do.”
“Tell me about the Harpers.”
“What in particular do you want to know?”
“You said you’ve known Arlo for decades.”
“Yes, before he made all his money. I was friendly with his wife.”
“His wife is deceased, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“How?”
“Cancer. Such a shame. Her name was Betsy. She used to come into my shop from time to time. Bought a few pieces from me, then looped me in with her husband once he started building. That’s how we got to know each other. Betsy could see the art, if you know what I mean.”
“When did she die?”
“Around two years ago.”
“What do you know about Sunny?”
“That she wouldn’t kill the pastor’s son.”
“Where did you hear it was the pastor’s son?”
“Old man Erickson is the one who called me for Arlo’s number, remember?”
I was stupid to think the entire town didn’t already know that the victim was Julian Griggs. One thing they didn’t know, though, was Sunny’s story that she didn’t kill him. That someone else did. A phantom, in the wind.
“Why so sure she wouldn’t have done it?”
Hazel shook her head. “You agree with me. I can see it in your eyes. That girl wouldn’t shoot someone in the face. You know it as well as I do.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“It’s been awhile. When Arlo’s company started to grow, they moved to Dallas, but kept some properties here. Rumor is Arlo goes back and forth a lot. Easy, with the thirty-minute flight and all.”
“Sunny too?”
“Until she moved here about a year ago.”
“Where does she live?”
“Bought a place by the river.”
“What river?”
“Shadow River. East of town. Her house is the only one down county road 3228. Her Daddy owns the land around it. Leases it for hunting.”
“What brought Sunny back to Berry Springs? Do you know?”
“You’ll have to ask her.”
I let the conversation linger a moment, wondering if Hazel knew about Sunny’s attack in Dallas.
“Is she single?”
Hazel cocked her brow. “You interested?”
“I’m interested in finding who attacked her.”
“You’ll have to ask her.”
A moment settled between us.
“You know…” Hazel scanned the shop with squinted eyes. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that the only thing stolen from my shop that night was the Cedonia scroll? I have a few pieces of jewelry in this shop worth a thousand bucks. The Black Bandit didn’t want it. That scroll was all they wanted.”
“Meaning—not Seagrave. Is that where you’re going with this?”
“Exactly. Just my two cents, son. I don’t think the Cedonia thief shot your lieutenant. Just sayin’.”
I felt a headache settling between my temples. It was way too early for a headache.
“Has anyone else asked you about the Cedonia scroll?” I asked.
“Yes. Yesterday. A busty little blonde came in asking some questions.”
“Who?”
Hazel held up her index finger, then sauntered back to the cash register and dug out a card.
“Briana Morgan, with Harold and Associates.”
I took the card, my brows arching. “An art investigator.”
Hazel nodded. “I got the vibe that whoever the scrolls were originally stolen from hired her firm to get them back.”
Speaking with Morgan just jumped to the top of my to-do list.
The phone rang.
“Nope. No sir,” she said, addressing the phone like it were a living breathing thing. “Not eight o’clock yet.” She refocused on me. “I do need to get moving, though. Need to put out a few new pieces before I open.”
She let the call go to voicemail.
“Thank you for your time,” I lifted my mug. “And the coffee.”
“Thank you in advance for doing whatever you can to keep the Moon Magic festival running this year.”
I nodded. “Before I leave. Is there anything else you remember from that night?”
She shook her head. “Wish I did, son. I’ll let you know if I do.”
“Let me know if the busty art investigator stops by again.”
She grinned. “Will do.”
My hand was on the doorknob, when—
“Detective?”
I paused and turned.
“Leave the scrolls alone.”
“No stone unturned, Ms. De Ville. That’s how it works.”
“Even when the scrolls are said to be cursed?”
“Especially with cursed scrolls.”
She shifted her gaze to the painting on the wall. “Just be careful you’re not barking up the wrong tree.”
I dipped my chin. “Ma’am.”
A black bird called out from the tree above as I stepped outside into a single beam of sunlight already burning the sidewalk.
I didn’t have time to worry about curses, witchcraft, or supernatural powers, or the fact that Hazel was the second person including Colson to tell me to leave the scrolls alone.