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 toevidence 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.”
