Mr. Hughes nodded as he wiped off the machine and syrup bottles with a wet rag. “Lewis Allen’s been pushing hard to get someone to help us deal with the dead. I hope you three are finally able to get the job done. I’m afraid if it happens again, people are going to start turning on each other.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that it got real ugly for a few days after Sheriff Ridder not only reappeared but turned out to be dead. Lots of accusations being thrown around with little cause, but I don’t know if everyone pretending it never happened now is better or worse.”
Taking a sip of his orange phosphate, Oliver’s eyes watered at the burn of the tart fizz despite how good it tasted. He would have to take Felipe back for a drink before they left. He would enjoy it.
“We’re doing our best. Do you have any theories about what’s going on, Mr. Hughes?” Gwen asked.
“Not really. I’m mostly keeping my head down and staying out of it, especially now that Mayor Stills is getting touchy. My pops on the other hand, he thinks Stills is downplaying what’s going on because the Jarngrens have something to do with it, but he has an ax to grind where they’re concerned.”
“Why does he suspect them? We were told they aren’t necromancers.”
“Oh, they aren’t, but—” Mr. Hughes made sure no one was lingering by the front window or in the backroom before leaning closer and dropping his voice. “Did Lewis tell you the mayor’s wife is a Jarngren?”
Oliver and Gwen nodded.
“And what do you know about the Jarngrens?”
“Only that they’re one of thetown’s founders.”
“The JarngrensareAldorhaven, and there’s no Aldorhaven without the Jarngrens, or that’s what everyone says. We all know that, whether one of them is mayor or not, they still run this place, which means they’re untouchable since the mayor and the sheriff work for them. Lucky for us, you all don’t. Hence, why Lewis Allen wanted to bring in the Paranormal Society. Even if Lewis won’t say it, he knows the Stills or Jarngrens are involved somehow.”
Oliver set his drink down with a frown. “Have they actually done anything to make you think they’re involved or is this merely suspicion?”
“So here’s the thing,” Mr. Hughes began, eyes gleaming as if he had been holding the story in for the right moment, “years ago, my pops worked with the eldest son, Stephen Jarngren. It was their shop. Jarngren & Hughes Pharmacy was what it was called before I came along. Anyway, the Jarngrens weren’t keen on their eldest son becoming a pharmacist and opening a store. They didn’t want him to leave town and having a profession was beneath them, so they tried to stop him by any means necessary. Somehow, he escaped them and did it anyway, though he did come back to town with a woman he married from the outside. Now, if I was him, I would have kept running, but that’s beside the point. From the way my parents talk about him, Stephen was a good man, in spite of being a Jarngren. When he died, he left Pops the store and enough money to send me and my sister to college. His parents and siblings tried to contest the will, but it was ironclad.”
“I don’t see how this implicates the Jarngrens in what’s going on now,” Oliver replied softly. He could feel this story was going somewhere, but by the cadence and enthusiasm of Mr. Hughes’s voice, Oliver feared this was more small town gossip than case-worthy evidence.
“Well, it doesn’t exactly, but the Jarngrens are very insular. It’s always been the family above everyone else. Stephen told my father a lot about the goings on in his family when they were studying and working together, and none of it was good. Now, if you repeat this toanyone outside the shop, I will deny I ever said it,” the pharmacist said, his eyes flicking to Oliver, “but Stephen insisted his family got where they were through nefarious means. More nefarious than your average rich folks. Pops seems to think what’s going on is a punishment for the Jarngrens’ past transgressions. Then again, he seems to think they caused Stephen’s and his wife’s deaths, but all that was before my time.”
Mr. Hughes’s head shot up as someone approached the front door. “Speaking of the devil— Mrs. Stills,” he said brightly at the jangle of the bell, “I have your order all ready. Is there anything else you need?”
Gwen turned sideways and nudged Oliver to do the same, but he wanted to see the woman who had been attacked by Sheriff Ridder’s corpse. While he couldn’t see her face as she rattled off a laundry list of things she required, her posture was rigidly straight, and her white-streaked auburn hair had been pulled back into an elaborate coiffure. Mrs. Stills had to be in her mid-sixties, but she reminded Oliver of the older women he and Felipe occasionally encountered while shopping at department stores; the ones who ran the shop clerks ragged and ruled their homes with an iron fist. Oliver could imagine that her husband was merely a mouthpiece as mayor.
Feeling her gaze stray toward him, Oliver turned back to his drink and the two framed photographs hanging on the wall near his elbow. A smile crossed his lips as he studied the pictures. The first was of Mr. Hughes and his father in front of the shop.Hughes & Sonstood stark and fresh against the green paint. Mr. Hughes Sr. beamed proudly with his arm around his son, a stout and grey haired version of the younger man. The photograph below it was of the shop again, though in this one, the sign above the shop readJarngren & Hughes Pharmacy. The glasses and supplies in the front window were different, and the whole building looked new. Once again, two white-coated men stared proudly at the camera from the front door, but while one man was presumably Mr. Hughes Sr., though several decades younger, the white man beside him must have been Stephen Jarngren.
Oliver tilted his head as he studied the other man’s face from afar, wishing he could pluck the photograph off the wall for a better look. Stephen Jarngren had a long, straight nose, and square shoulders. A small, affectionate smile curled the corner of his lips as he stared at someone just off camera. Oliver was about to ask Gwen if they should speak to the pharmacist’s father when he found her gaze narrowed as it trailed from the photograph to his face. When two tugs came across the tether, Oliver let out a silent sigh of relief at the interruption and downed the last of his orange phosphate. He didn’t want to think about what that look might mean.
“Felipe’s on his way back. We should head over to the cemetery now,” Oliver said, not meeting Gwen’s eyes as he laid more than enough money for their drinks on the counter and gave the tether a single long tug in return.
Passing Mrs. Stills and Mr. Hughes with his head down, Oliver tried to think only of the hand-drawn map of the graveyard in his pocket and not the implications of what Gwen saw in the dead man’s features.
Chapter Thirteen
Lost Things
Felipe climbed back into the steamer and tried not to look as disappointed as he felt. The whole morning had been one door shutting in his face after another. The men at the mill did not want to talk about their deceased coworker, the foremen threatened to throw him off the premises for asking questions even after Mr. Allen intervened, and Ekland’s wife and Hogarth’s children were apparently too busy bickering over the business to answer questions, from Felipe or anyone else. At least Oliver hadn’t been with him, Felipe thought as he scrubbed a hand over his jaw. He would not have handled the hostility and raised voices very well.
Where Felipe could have used Oliver’s eye was down by the river. As expected, it hadn’t yielded any obvious clues, but Oliver might have been able to deduce more after having seen the man’s corpse. Felipe had only briefly glimpsed it swarming with insects, so there was no way he could have matched the piece of muddy fabric he saw clinging to a branch to the sheriff’s clothing. He debated bringing it back for Oliverto look at, but he couldn’t reach it without risking life and limb. It was far too cold to wade up to his thighs in the river for something that might be trash. Besides, if that infernally itchy bug bite got infected after an ill-advised dip in the river, Oliver would never let him hear the end of it.
As Felipe pulled the steamer back onto the cobbled road and headed for Main Street, the tension in the tether loosened a fraction. After decades alone, it still amazed Felipe at how much relief he felt knowing Oliver was nearby. Glancing at the greying sky between the trees, Felipe hoped the weather would hold until Gwen and Oliver finished up at the cemetery. In the distance, thunder rumbled like a dirge. If it started to pour, he would cut his losses at the sheriff’s office and pick them up, Felipe decided as Mr. Allen instructed him to take another turn.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get anywhere with the men,” Mr. Allen said from the passenger seat. “I honestly thought they would be more cooperative.”
“It’s fine. Their bosses may have told them not to speak to us, and I can’t blame them for not wanting to lose their jobs. Are you sure you can get into the sheriff’s office?”
The innkeeper patted the pocket of his waistcoat. “Got the key right here. I’ll give us cover when we go in, so no one bothers us. I doubt anyone will, but Luther might get huffy if he catches us, not that he can do much about it. Be sure to put the steamer on the side street. We don’t have many in Aldorhaven, and someone’s liable to tell Luther.”
