“You can’t be over here.” Ian joined me at the gate and shook his head. Small beads of sweat had gathered along his hairline and his forehead was wrinkled in concern. “I’m serious, Hazel. This is a crime scene.”
My stomach clenched again. My worst fear confirmed. “A crime scene? So, you think Allen was murdered?”
A guarded expression crossed his face. He took a step back and wrinkled his nose. “I didn’t say that it was a murder. We just want to be very thorough.”
If there was one thing I remembered about Ian growing up, it was that he couldn’t tell a lie. Not properly, anyway. He had a habit of wrinkling his nose whenever he was stretching the truth. And I could tell he was struggling now.
“Come on, Ian, you know I’m not a reporter. You can be straight with me. I just want to know what’s going on. I have a terrible feeling about this.”
His eyes searched my face for a second as a slight frown played on his lips. He glanced over his shoulder and then back at me, leaning in far enough that I caught the tangy scent of his aftershave. “I’m thinking foul play, but so far, no one else agrees. The only reason they’re bringing in the forensics team is because I called in a favor. We’ll know soon enough.”
I knew I should feel relieved that Ian was just being thorough, but the tension didn’t fade away. The Omaha team was already hard at work, setting up a screen to block the townspeople from view of the body. Tiny little Blythe and statuesque Raven still stood on the other side of the wrought iron fence. The crowd had grown behind them, nearly blocking the flow of traffic on Roosevelt.
“Someone’s got to go set up some barriers,” Ian yelled at one of his coworkers, his command punctuated by the horn of an angry driver. “Before a pedestrian gets run over. Johnson, you got it?” He groaned as Johnson shrugged dumbly.
It was then that the crowd of onlookers began to hum with the excited buzz of a hornet. Several people pointed at the Omaha forensics team as they pulled out a bright yellow tape from their bags and began to unroll it around the garden. In bold black letters printed repeatedly along the tape, it read CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS.
So, it was a crime? Ian’s intuition was right. Allen White had died under suspicious causes.
I looked down and realized I’d unknowingly gripped Ian’s arm tight. Forcing my fingers to release, I dropped them to my side and swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat.
“Darn it,” Ian said in a whisper. “I was hoping to be wrong.”
No kidding. I was, too. Stupid witchy senses.
One of the forensics guys came strolling over then. He had a baggie in his hand marked evidence. My eyes followed the sway of that little piece of plastic, and I couldn’t help wondering what might be inside.
“It’s too early to call, but due to the foam present at the mouth, we’re thinking he died of acute poisoning,” the man said. He lifted the baggie up to eye level and clapped Ian on the back, as if congratulating him on a newborn baby. “We’ll get this sent to the lab, but my money’s on that. You’ve got yourself a murder.”
Nothing could’ve prepared me for the buzz of magical panic that rushed through my body and to my fingertips. I clutched my hands against my stomach, willing the power to subside. Poison? Allen White had died from poison? But he had just been in my shop an hour ago.
Instantly, I thought about the tea I’d made for him. With another surge of magical panic, I remembered Grammy Jo’s medicinal potion and the disastrous recipe she’d nearly destroyed the kitchen with last night. There was only one conclusion left to draw.
Grammy Jo had killed Allen White!
Chapter 6
I burst through the door of Brunick manor, cradling Kat under my arm like a football. Blythe and Raven lagged only two steps behind, their breathless voices calling to me.
“Hazel, wait up.” Blythe paused at the doorway and put her hands on her tiny little waist, bending over slightly to catch her breath. “What are you running for?”
“Must. Find. Grammy Jo.” I wasn’t sure if she heard my staccato reply, but it didn’t matter. The sound of pots clattering in the kitchen drew me in. My aunts were probably still home. They ran a dusty little secondhand bookstore downtown called Witch Way and didn’t open most days until noon.
“Girls, what’re you doing home at this hour?” Aunt Piper was busy canning something that looked suspiciously like eye of newt. Her tightly spiraled auburn hair sprung out from its messy bun at the nape of her neck. Her reading glasses hung from their usual pearl chain around her neck and rested on a frilly lace and floral apron. She’d passed on her short height to Blythe. “Did you forget something?”
Aunt Viv stood next to her, sporting the same black turtleneck that only accentuated the frailness of her limber form and stringy dark hair. The only trait she shared with her daughter, Raven, was her bottle-green eyes. She looked at me with dread, her eyes opening wide. “Someone died, didn’t they?”
I would’ve been shocked at Aunt Viv’s perceptiveness, if it hadn’t been the question she asked anytime someone seemed a little out of sorts.
In my eagerness to find Grammy Jo, I’d sprinted into the kitchen. Attempting to make an abrupt stop, my ballet flats lost traction and I slid right into the table, knocking the air out of my lungs.
“Someone did die.” Blythe was right behind me, moving her feet in an energetic little skip. “It’s all over town. Allen White kicked the bucket in his garden this morning. They’re taping off the crime scene right now!”
Aunt Piper’s smile faded from her round cheeks. “Well, isn’t that a doodlecake?”
I could fill a dictionary with her strange nonsensical made-up words. Sometimes it seemed like Aunt Piper spoke a language of her own.
Shaking her flaccid black hair from her face, Aunt Viv looked to Raven. “Is it true?”