Anna Denning Mystery Series Box Set: Books 1–3 Page 3

  Anna heard the door to the store’s office swing shut and saw Darlene approach the counter, taking long, quick strides. Anna checked her watch, holding her wrist aloft until Darlene slid alongside her. “I need to run,” she said before Darlene could speak. Time to meet Liz at the Buffalo Café. It was strange, Anna thought, that Darlene, who must have been busy, wanted to spend more time talking to her. It set her radar off.

  “I’m sorry you had a problem with your genealogy,” Darlene said.

  “What do you mean?” Anna said.

  “I feel responsible,” Darlene said, hands to her breastbone.

  “For what?”

  “I suggested Jazmin hire you.”

  Darlene’s statement only led to more questions, but they could wait. Anna wanted out of What Ye Will. The store’s incense and oils were assaulting her senses. And so was the image of poor Susan Muncy. She needed clean air, coffee, and a talk with her sane friend Liz Halvorsen.

  “Everything’s fine,” Anna said.

  “Well, you needed the work. Being a widow, I mean.”

  “Excuse me?” Anna tried to keep the surprise she felt from coming out in her voice.

  Darlene lifted her shoulders. “I’m sure I read about your husband. Sean Denning. Died in a car accident a couple years ago? I’m divorced, so I know it’s hard to support yourself, even when you don’t have kids.”

  What bilge, Anna thought. She looked from Darlene to Jazmin. Jazmin’s head jerked almost imperceptibly. For some reason, Anna was sure of it, Darlene had just made a power play. She wanted Anna to know she had information on her. No husband, no children—the sort of information anyone could have found—but the information itself wasn’t important. What mattered was that Darlene wanted Anna to know she had it.

  “You’re not upset, are you?” Darlene asked.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Anna said. Until she knew more about Darlene, she was going to appear unruffled.

  “Good. We should drop the whole thing. Our conversation, the work you did for Jazmin, all of it. I think it’s best, don’t you?”

  Anna almost laughed at the ham-fisted display of intimidation. It didn’t deserve an answer. She wasn’t going to drop anything. She would dig until she found out what was going on. After all, she was a genealogist. Digging was what she did. “I have to go, I’m late.” She exited the front door, inhaling deeply as the cold air hit her face.

  After a warm November, winter was finally here. Snow clouds were gathering over Rocky Mountain National Park a few miles to the west, becoming a darker gray beyond, over the continental divide. Snow for the next three days. That’s what the weatherman on channel 9 had said.

  She was a lousy driver in the snow, especially on the streets outside downtown, which rose and fell over ridges and through glens, ice-bound where junipers and ponderosas shielded them from the sun. Sean could drive their battered old Jimmy anywhere, on snow and ice, climbing up Black Bear Road to the park, taking the slippery bridge across Elk Lake. He was brave, and she’d felt safe. Two years ago.

  4

  “They’re off and running,” Anna said as she entered the long, narrow café from the back door.

  “Suka knew Jackson was coming today,” said Grace Bell, pouring coffee into a cup and handing it to Anna. “Dogs know these things.”

  “Thanks, Grace, I needed this. It’s been an awful morning.”

  “Sit down, then,” Grace said, waving at a small table where a woman was working on a laptop computer. “Liz has her face in her computer again, hardly knows you walked in.”

  “I know,” the woman said, her eyes never leaving the computer’s screen.

  Anna sank into the chair opposite Liz and wrapped her hands around her cup.

  “She’s been on that thing since she came in,” Grace said from behind the counter. “This is a café, not an office.”

  “I run a news website, Grace.” Liz looked up from the screen. “And you’re the one who got wireless for the Buffalo.”

  “I won’t make a mistake like that again,” Grace said. She wiped her hands on her apron, placed her hands on her generous hips, and surveyed the café. Seeing her other customers engrossed in conversation or coffee, she returned to the counter.

  Grace Bell was the scolding mother of Buffalo Café, a Summit Avenue fixture for more than twenty years. She had introduced Anna to Liz and had been Anna’s first guide to the town eight years earlier, when she and Sean had moved as newlyweds to Elk Park. Where to find the best produce and best brew pubs, the shops that charged too much, the shortcuts to take during tourist season—a fount of information from “a tough old bird,” as Sean had called her.

  Grace was tough. And she was Anna’s inspiration. Grace’s own husband had died fifteen years before Sean, but she’d carried on. She opened the doors of her little café every day except Sunday. Anna had liked her from the start, and she loved her after Sean died for never once giving her the standard lecture about getting over it, getting on with her life and finding someone new.

  “If I were you I’d keep that laptop shut,” Anna said.

  “I can’t,” Liz said. “There’s an important council meeting tonight and I need to post before and after reports.”

  “I was just at Tom Muncy’s house.”

  “Councilman Muncy?” Liz straightened in her chair. “What were you doing there?”

  “Delivering research on Susan Muncy’s family tree.” Anna took a gulp of coffee and jammed her hands into her pockets. They were beginning to shake, and the cold was seeping through her jacket and across her skin as though someone had poured an icy drink over her shoulders.

  “What happened? Anna, you’re white as a sheet.”

  As Anna recounted the events at the Muncy house, Liz ran a crooked finger over her red beaded necklace and her mouth became a small oval rimmed in peach-colored lip gloss.

  “That’s horrible,” Liz said when Anna had finished. “You poor thing, no wonder you’re so pale. What do you think happened to her?”

  “It didn’t look like she had any injuries, not even from the broken glass.” Anna remembered Susan’s tortured fists, the vomit, her pale skin. “Something made her sick.”

  “Just a sec.” Liz reached into her coat pocket for her ringing cell phone and checked to see who was dialing. “I have to take this, it’s one of my contacts,” she said, pressing a button on the phone.

  Anna smiled. A year ago her friend didn’t have contacts. She’d been a woman in her late thirties embarking on what more than a few people told her was an empty-nest reaction to her only child leaving home for college in Colorado Springs. But her husband Dan had been all for it, and that encouragement was all Liz had needed. A year after the launch of ElkNews.com, it was the number one place Elk Park residents went for town news—even before the local paper.

  Liz hung up and dialed another number. Getting no answer, she pocketed her phone. “My contact at the police department,” she said. “About Susan Muncy.”

  “Already?”

  “He says cops in the department are talking overdose or poison, leaning toward poison.” Liz peered into her cup to see how much coffee was left then downed what remained in one gulp. “I can’t believe you were just there.”

  Anna leaned back in her chair. Poison had been her first thought too.

  “Why were you doing Susan Muncy’s family tree?” Liz asked.

  “I was hired by someone who said she was Susan’s daughter.” Anna told Liz about Jazmin and Rowan, and the veiled and open threats from both Tom and Darlene. Liz frowned as she listened, a look of concern spreading across her face.

  “Muncy threatened to put you out of business? Why is Darlene Richelle involved?”

  Anna tried for a lighter tone to ease the worry she saw in Liz’s eyes. “It’s crazy. I don’t know any of these people.”

  “I do. I know about them, anyway. Let’s stoke the boilers. Cappuccino?”

  “No, just black coffee. Oh, cripes.”

&n
bsp; “What?”

  “I just remembered I didn’t get my check from Jazmin. I didn’t get paid.”

  “Never mind.” Liz stood and took both coffee cups to the counter for refills. Anna shifted in her seat to take a look out the café’s front window. She went over the morning in her mind. Tom Muncy was sure she was involved in Susan’s death, if not directly then through Darlene. He was also sure she knew Darlene. If he thought she knew something, then she’d better know it, for her own protection. Whatever was going on, it all came back to Susan’s family tree.

  It had started to snow and the wind had picked up, driving the tiny flakes sideways in the cold air. People on the streets pulled down on their snow hats and beanies and stuffed their hands in their coat pockets, hunching their shoulders against the wind.

  Except for a few stragglers, still shopping in the town’s Christmas stores just four days before the holiday, the tourists were gone and the residents had taken back Summit Avenue, Elk Park’s own Piccadilly Circus. You could stand anywhere on the street and watch the town go by. At some point each day, half the people who lived in the town passed by, driving, walking, bicycling. That was how the Buffalo Café and most stores downtown stayed open. In the off season the people of Elk Park came to the shops on Summit, maybe only one or two at a time, but they kept coming.

  Anna noticed Rowan Glamorgan on the other side of the street, on the curb directly opposite the café. When the traffic passed, he dropped his cigarette to the street, stomped on it, and sprinted across the road, his hair moving as he ran, beads bobbing at the end of each snakelike twirl. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, and he entered the café rubbing his bare arms and sniffing not to keep his nose from running. He was almost to the counter before he saw Anna. He smiled at her, a muscle rippling under his right cheekbone.

  “Hi, Rowan,” Anna said. “You’re a coffee drinker, I see.” Not a brilliant observation, she thought, but she had to be the first to speak. Rowan seemed nervous in her presence and she wanted to keep it that way. It was best to keep anyone connected with What Ye Will off balance.

  “Yeah, good coffee here,” Rowan said.

  Anna saw Liz lift a hand to the wooden hairclip that gathered her dark brown hair in a loose bun, patting it as she bent discreetly toward Rowan and examined him.

  “The best in Colorado,” Anna said. “You come here a lot?”

  “Every day. Can’t live without my large latte.”

  Anna wondered how a store clerk in his twenties could afford a four-dollar coffee every day. She used to come in three times a week with Sean, but now she came in as often as she could afford it, which wasn’t often, and then it was mostly for Grace, and for Jackson, who loved to run with Suka. These days she bought her coffee in bags at Walmart and drank it at home.

  A cup in each hand, Liz headed back to the table. “Coffee,” she said, handing a cup to Anna and taking her seat.

  “Thanks. How long have you worked at What Ye Will, Rowan?” Anna asked quickly, before Rowan could end the conversation by doing an about-face to order his latte.

  “As long as it’s been open.”

  “So you knew Darlene before she opened the store?”

  “No.” Rowan took a step backward toward the counter. “I knew of her, but I’d never met her.”

  “Her reputation preceded her?” Anna asked.

  “You’ve never heard of her?”

  Anna smiled, hoping that Rowan would see a baffled rather than mocking expression on her face. “Why does everyone think I’ve heard of her?”

  Rowan turned and caught Grace’s attention by waving a hand. He shouted his order, loud enough for a couple at a table by the window to look his way, their cups frozen at their lips. Rowan grinned at them. He seemed pleased by the attention in spite of their looks of disapproval.

  Grace gave Rowan a sharp look before taking a carton of milk from under the counter. She didn’t like being shouted at. Rowan couldn’t possibly be from Elk Park, Anna thought. He probably wasn’t even from Colorado, or anywhere west of the Mississippi. People didn’t shout their orders here, as if they were on some city street corner.

  “Most people I know have heard of her,” Rowan said, swinging back. “I mean, her grandmother lived with Julian Brandon, a real famous guy in occult circles. She learned from him, and her grandmother taught Darlene.”

  “Are you new to Colorado?” Anna asked.

  “Yeah, about eight months ago. How’d you know?”

  Anna shrugged. “Just a guess. A lot of people who live here aren’t from here. I’m from Wyoming originally.” She nodded toward Liz. “My friend is from Ohio.”

  Liz had opened her computer and was typing in between sips of coffee. She looked up at Rowan. “Northeastern Ohio.”

  “Then we were neighbors,” Rowan said to Liz. “I’m from Pennsylvania.”

  “I have relatives there,” Liz said. “Where in Pennsylvania?”

  “Near Pittsburgh.” Rowan sniffed and turned his back to Anna. That was as much as he was going to say, she realized. Anyone who lived his life under a pagan alias probably wanted a break with the past. He wasn’t about to dredge it up in front of two strangers. His feet planted firmly in the direction of the counter, he concentrated on Grace as she poured hot, foamy milk into a tall paper cup.

  Anna shot a look at Liz before taking a sip of coffee. Her friend didn’t have relatives in Pennsylvania. But Liz knew that a name, a place of birth, and a birth date were all Anna needed to unseal Rowan’s past—his ancestors’ names, their wills and estates, court proceedings and arrest records, occupations. And not just his ancestors, but Rowan himself—the schools he’d attended, a marriage or divorce. It all started with a name, place, and date. Even “near Pittsburgh” helped. Each piece of information was a clue, a piece of the puzzle that helped other pieces of the puzzle fall into place.

  Rowan stepped to the counter and paid for his coffee. Cup in hand, he started for the door, but stopped and circled back to the table when Anna called his name.

  “Can I ask you something?” she said. “I don’t want to keep you from your work, but I’m curious about pagan names. How did you choose yours?”

  “I didn’t, it chose me,” he said. He paused before continuing, watching her and, she thought, judging in his silence whether to continue. “I’m eclectic but I’m tending toward druidry. I got the name Rowan in a vision, and the druids I hang with helped with Glamorgan. It’s a place in Wales.” He set his cup on the table and wrapped his arms across his chest. “Some pagans don’t talk about how they got their name. Some don’t even reveal their magical name, to anyone. It’s who you are, what works for you, your path.”

  Anna could see Rowan relished talking about his pagan path. He had turned off when Liz asked him about Pennsylvania, and now he was back on again.

  “What about the name you were born with?” Anna asked.

  “Pure accident. Doesn’t mean a thing.”

  The door to the café opened, sending in a wave of cold air over the tables. A man entered, bent forward, and shook snow from his curly brown hair. “Damn, it’s really coming down,” he said as he strode toward Rowan.

  Rowan threw the man a sideways glance and reached for his coffee on the table.

  “Picking up some java for me and Monica,” the man said to Rowan.

  Rowan looked at Anna and tilted his head. “Jason and his wife grow herbs for the store.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jason,” Anna said.

  “Anna Denning,” Rowan said to Jason. “She’s a genealogist. Did some work for Jazmin.”

  “Yeah?” Jason said.

  “Rowan and I were just talking about pagan names,” Anna said. She saw Rowan’s fingers play nervously over the lid of his coffee cup.

  “Magic names?” Jason asked with a grin. Anna had thought he was at most thirty, but when he smiled, his pale skin crinkled into crow’s feet at his eyes, making him look slightly older and calling her attention to touches of gray mixed with the br
own hair at his temples.

  “Jason thinks it’s all crap.” Rowan pried the lid from his cup and gingerly took a sip. “My pagan name means something, the name I was born with doesn’t.”

  “But you can tell a lot from the name you were born with,” Anna said.

  “Such as?” Rowan stared down into his coffee. He was looking for a way out of the conversation.

  “A large percentage of surnames were originally place names or occupations.”

  Jason laughed and jabbed an elbow into Rowan’s side. “I wonder what kind of occupation Smolak was.”

  “You’re a tool,” Rowan said. It was clear to Anna that the two were friends, and just as clear that Rowan didn’t like his real name mentioned. Or maybe he didn’t like to talk about the past. It was a long way from Pittsburgh to Elk Park. He’d put his past fifteen hundred miles behind him.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Gotta get back to work.” Rowan pressed the lid down on his coffee cup and headed out the door, leaving the scent of stale cigarettes in his wake. He smacked Cody the buffalo between its horns and dashed across the street.

  “And I’d better get my coffee,” Jason said, motioning toward the counter with his head.

  “Can I ask you something first?” Anna said. “Had you heard of Darlene Richelle before you started growing herbs for her store?”

  Jason eyed Anna warily. “Why?”

  “Everyone seems to think I should know her, or know about her.”

  “A lot of people know Darlene. She used to run a coven in Denver, and her grandmother’s a famous witch.”

  “What about her mother?”

  Jason stroked his Adam’s apple with his thumb and forefinger, considering the question. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard her talk about her mother. It’s always her grandmother. Maybe her mother wasn’t into witchcraft.”

  “I see.”

  “Nice meeting you.” Jason turned abruptly and walked to where Grace was refilling a biscotti jar behind the counter.