Harley rushed around the bar and wrapped her arms around Hazel, rocking her in the bar stool. “It’s going to be okay,” she said. “It’s going to be okay.”
Hazel cried into Harley’s shoulder, moistening her flannel shirt with tears. “But I didn’t kill him. I wanted to. Oh, how I wanted to. I wanted him to hurt just like he’d hurt me.”
Harley released herself from Hazel’s grasp and pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, placing it in Hazel’s hand. Then she grabbed the kettle and refreshed the hot water in her mug.
“Do you believe me?” Hazel wiped the tears from her face with the handkerchief. “Do you believe I’m innocent?”
“I’m not the one you have to worry about. The police are going to question you.”
“I was expecting that.”
“They’re going to ask you where you were last night. What you were doing.”
“Well, I was at home most of the night. I even went to bed early, and that’s the truth. But I found myself tossing and turning in my bed, thinking about what’d happened between Patrick and me. So I got up and I went downstairs. I sat at the kitchen table and I wrote him a letter, apologizing for how I’d acted, hoping maybe at some point we could be friends again.”
“And?”
“I decided I didn’t want to wait until morning to give the letter to him. I wanted to do it then. So I got dressed and I put on that same hat and raincoat hanging over there.” She pointed to the coat rack. “And I walked to his house.”
“What did you see?”
“Well, when I got to his driveway, I noticed the living room lights were still on, and the curtains had been drawn. It was odd, I thought, for Patrick to be up at that hour. He always went to bed so early. I thought he might’ve accidentally left them on before he went to bed. But that didn’t seem right either. So I walked up to the front porch, and I peeked through the gap between the curtains.”
“And what did you see?”
“Patrick was sitting in his leather chair, and he was talking to someone, someone who was sitting across from him.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know. The chair was facing away from the window. It’s that tall leather chair, you know, the one by the Tiffany lamp.”
“Could you hear what they were saying?”
“No. Patrick installed top of the line everything in that house, including all of those windows.”
“Do you remember anything else? Anything different about Patrick. About the room?”
“Patrick seemed fine. It seemed as if the two were just having a normal, pleasant conversation.” She paused in thought for a moment. “I do remember something out of place though. Something that hadn’t been there at the meeting last night.”
“Yes?”
“A bottle of whiskey. One of your bottles actually. It was on the table beside Patrick along with a half-filled glass. One of the ones he was always drinking from … with the curved lip.”
“A Glencairn.”
“Yes. Yes, I think that’s what he called them.”
“And the person who was with him. Could you tell if they were drinking too?”
“I believe so. I mean there was a glass beside the chair.”
“Then what happened?”
“I don’t know. I heard a car pull in to the driveway and I left.”
“Did you see who it was?”
“I believe it was Ruby Montgomery. At least it was her Lexus. And you know how she drives. Aggressive. Even when she’s pulling into someone’s driveway.”
“Did she go inside?”
“I assume. She parked the car and got out of it. And there was one other thing,” she said. “Not something that happened last night, but about a month ago.”
Harley waited for her to continue.
“I’ve been going through old newspapers in my attic, ones my mother had kept over the years. She never did throw anything away, my mother. I thought I might go through them, see if they could be of some value for the historical society.
“Well, I was working my way through some of them one Saturday. I had them piled up on the dining room table when Patrick walked in. He’d just stopped by to say hello, he said, and to pick up some of the manuscript pages I’d typed for him that week. I told him about the newspapers, how I found them in the attic, and was sorting through them to see if there might be anything I’d like to keep. He said he thought that was a great idea, and he began looking through them himself for fun.
“After a little while, I asked him if he wanted anything to drink, and he said, ‘Yes, a cup of tea would be fine,’ and I went into the kitchen to get it. When I came back in the dining room, his eyes were glued to one of the newspapers, transfixed, like it was the most interesting thing he’d ever read. I’d never seen that expression on his face before. It was so strange. And he didn’t even answer when I asked him if he wanted some lemon with his tea.”
“What was he reading in the newspaper? Could you see what the article was?”
“No, unfortunately, I couldn’t. And when I asked him, he tucked it under his arm, said he had to get going. Then he took it without asking. Just left without even saying goodbye.”
“Do you remember the date of the newspaper? The issue?”
“No, I’m sorry I don’t.”
She noticed the look of disappointment on Harley’s face and added, “But I do remember the one I’d been reading just before that one. It was from thirty-three years ago. During the Fourth of July festival. I assume it would’ve been around the same time. You see, mother stored all of the newspapers chronologically in the attic. She was like that.”
“Thanks for telling me all of this.” Harley placed her hand over Hazel’s. “I appreciate it.”
“I thought I had to tell somebody.” She rose from the bar stool. “Other than the police, that is. And, well, I trust you, Harley. I know you aren’t a gossip. I know you value people’s feelings. Keep their secrets.”
“Here,” Harley said, “let me show you out.”
Harley made her way toward the front of the shop with Hazel following behind her. When they reached the coat rack, she took Hazel’s raincoat and helped her guide her arms through the sleeves before handing her the fedora hat.
“Thank you,” Hazel said. She tucked her dark bobbed hair into the hat and pulled a pair of sunglasses from the pocket, perching them on her nose. “Maybe I can get home without seeing anyone I know.” She looked through the windows where people passed by with regularity. “Looks like they’re gathering for the festival.”
Harley unlocked the shop door and held it open for Hazel. As she passed through, Harley touched her arm. “Patrick did love you. I know he did, in the best way he could. You were a true and dear friend to him. A friend he needed all those years. I know it’s not quite the type of love you wanted, but it’s no less special, no less true.”
The expression of hurt tightened Hazel’s features again, then softened into a frown of complacency. “I wish that were true. I wish I could see that. But right now all I can feel is that he didn’t care anything for me at all. That I was just someone to type his manuscripts, bring his coffee. Old trustworthy, reliable, nondescript Hazel. That’s all I was.”
She drew her raincoat to a close at the chest then scurried down the sidewalk, her petite figure disappearing among the pedestrians on Main Street.
“You’ll come to see it in time, Hazel,” Harley whispered. “I know you will.”