You Can't Candle the Truth: Glenmyre Whim Mysteries, #1

You Can't Candle the Truth

A Glenmyre Whim Mystery

Sarah E. Burr

Copyright © 2021 Sarah E. Burr

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Cover design by: Sarah Burr

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

A Note from Sarah

About The Author

Acknowledgements

Hazel and Poppy wouldn’t be here in your hands without the help of many wonderful people. Thank you to Carol Ayer, whose encouragement and cheerleading got this book over its first big finish line. Evan Grant’s thoughtful, witchy insights helped me figure out that Hazel wasn’t a witch—I swear, she’s not! And thank you to my mother for boosting my confidence in my work by telling me she actually enjoyed it. Coming from someone who doesn’t like anything even remotely fantastical, praise like that is huge.

I want to send a hearty thank you to my agent Dawn Dowdle for the work she put in behind the scenes for me. In addition, my editor, Sarah Wu, dove into this manuscript with enthusiasm and joy, which is all an author could ever want from their editor. And to my beloved writer friends, your cheerful comments and positive engagement always brightens my day and makes it so much fun to be a part of this great community.

Last but not least, a shoutout to George and Eevee, the home team sounding board. These two had to listen to me read specific sentences of this book, over and over again, all throughout quarantine. Also, credit is due to Eevee for convincing me that Hazel needed a furry friend in her life.

Chapter 1

Mmhmm, smells delicious, Hazel. Whatcha brewing?

I gave my aunt a pointed stare as she glided effortlessly into the kitchen. You make me sound like a witch.

Am I that far off the mark? You’re literally standing in front of a cauldron. Poppy Glenmyre tossed her faux leather satchel onto a ladder-back chair.

It’s just a pot, Pops. A big ol’ pot.

Fine. What. Are. You. Cooking? She emphasized each word with her usual spunky sass.

I chuckled. Nothing edible, I’m afraid. I pointed to the seventeen-quart double boiler and the gooey soy wax simmering inside. I’m trying to come up with new scents for the fall, but it seems like everything under the sun has already been taken.

Poppy gave me a one-armed hug and inspected my progress with a big sniff. What’s that? Coffee and… She snapped her fingers, trying to pinpoint the smell.

Caramel. I stirred the mixture with a wooden spatula. I was going for a caramel apple flavoring to pair with the coffee, but I lost the apple somewhere along the way. I glanced woefully at the scented fragrance oils lining my cluttered workspace.

Well, coffee and caramel certainly work for me. Poppy took another deep breath before moving over to the refrigerator. Why not call it ‘caramel macchiato?’

I surveyed the glass jars I’d prepared for this latest batch, their cotton wicks at the ready. You may be onto something, Auntie.

Poppy stuck out her tongue as she poured herself a glass of lemon-lime seltzer. She hated when I called her ‘Auntie,’ given that she was only two years older than me.

I grinned. No, really. I tapped the spatula on the rim of the double boiler, shaking as much wax off as I could. What if I make an entire candle collection of signature hot beverages, and, instead of my regular glass containers, I use coffee mugs and fancy teacups made by local artists?

Poppy took a refreshing sip as she considered my idea. That’s actually not half bad. She tipped an imaginary hat my way. You’re welcome.

Excitement sizzled within me as I scribbled down the budding idea on the whiteboard that hung on the wall beside my stovetop. I kept the board there in case inspiration for new flavors and scents hit me while I crafted my homemade candles. Give me ten minutes to get these poured and processed, then I’ll be ready to head out.

Poppy tapped her foot on the hardwood floor. If we miss a moment of Constance Crane’s reading, I swear I’ll put a hex on you.

I don’t doubt it.

With her threat lingering in the air, Poppy disappeared into another room of my cozy, two-bedroom cottage. I sighed before focusing on the task at hand: pouring the hot wax into the wicked jars. Time had gotten away from me, and if I didn’t move quickly, I would make us late for our favorite author’s reading at the local bookstore.

I studied the bubbling wax for a moment. With this fun, new idea for beverage-inspired candles bouncing around in my mind, I chalked this current mixture up as a bust batch, destined for the bargain bin at my candle shop, A Wick in Time. It was a little bit of a candle-making faux pas to put them immediately out on the sales floor, as I typically let my soy candles cure for a week in the shop's storeroom. The extended setting time allowed the fragrance to properly permeate the wax, but a bust batch was a bust batch. While they wouldn’t win any home décor awards, at least I could get feedback from customers about the new fragrance combos.

I grabbed my potholders and turned off the electric unit beneath the double boiler. I lifted the double boiler with care, doing my best to keep the liquid inside from sloshing around, coating the sides of the pot with wax. One by one, I filled the glass jars until the wax was about an inch from the top. Little wooden dowels perched across the rim of the jars kept the braided cotton wicks upright. I’d trim them once the wax had solidified more. I checked the half-moon-shaped clock on the wall. Hopefully my candles would be ready by the time I returned home from the book reading.

I tossed my utensils into the sudsy farmhouse sink to let them soak. Okay, I’m ready to jet! I did a quick once-over of the kitchen, making sure the stove was off before I grabbed Poppy’s forgotten bag from one of the kitchen table chairs and scooted out of the room.

I found my aunt lounging in the sunroom, her nose practically pressed against my iPad.

Maybe you should get yourself some reading glasses. I tapped my purple and gold frames. A private joke between Poppy and me, as we both knew I didn’t need glasses to see clearly. My unique spectacles served a rather different purpose.

Auntie Dearest scoffed. I think you purposefully shrink the text on here just to make me feel like I’m deteriorating. Having just celebrated her thirty-third birthday, Poppy was convinced her body was already giving up on her. As a fun-loving night owl in her twenties, Poppy had yet to come to terms with the fact that she couldn’t stay up late into the night anymore without feeling the effects the next day. While I sometimes teased her about getting older, I also reminded her that forty is the new thirty, so she had nothing to worry about. Besides, with her svelte figure, elegant features, and gorgeous auburn hair, she could have honestly passed for twenty-one. Not that I’d ever admit that to her face.

I dropped her satchel onto her lap. Your bag doesn’t feel that heavy. Are your books in the car?

As Poppy slipped a strap over her shoulder, she held up a finger in correction. Book. I ended up deciding to only bring one. I don’t want to come off as an obsessed loon in front of Ms. Crane.

"Let me guess. Murder in Misthollow?"

Poppy chuckled. How did you know?

I grabbed the book I’d left on the coffee table earlier that morning. Because we’ve both only read it about fifteen times. I held up my own copy to show her. Murder in Misthollow had been the book I’d chosen to bear Constance Crane’s coveted signature, as well. It was the first novel in the mystery series that had catapulted Constance to author stardom, after her debut thriller release with a big publisher had flopped. Just when the literary community was ready to toss her aside, Constance had come back on the scene and released a gripping tale of murder and intrigue in a small town. The novel had been an instant bestseller and launched her Misthollow Mysteries series. Somehow, our local bookshop, The Poignant Page, had managed to secure the final slot on Constance’s book tour for her latest Misthollow novel, the seventh in the series.

Poppy looped her arm through mine. "I can’t wait to ask her if Murder in Misthollow is based on her life. I know she’s been denying rumors for years, but maybe in person, I can finally get a good read on her."

I smiled knowingly. I don’t think it works like that.

She batted the criticism away. It’s my gift. I can interpret it however I want.

I felt the familiar sting of envy that Poppy considered her special ability, what our family called a whim, to be a true gift. My whim more often felt like a curse.

Poppy and I hustled out onto the porch of my little bungalow. As I locked the glass-paned front door, Poppy marveled at the sight before her. It never gets old, does it?

My piercing gray gaze traveled down the lush, green lawn, to the shimmering bank of Lake Glenmyre. My cottage perched on the southeast edge of the vast lake, with two majestic quaking aspens framing the picturesque view. Nope. I grinned mischievously at Poppy.

She stuck her tongue out at me. Her charming Victorian home roosted on the opposite side of the lake, and sat further away from the bank, due to the stately manor’s sheer size. We joked about trading houses, as Poppy was forever covetous of my pristine view, but she wouldn’t last a day in my small, cozy quarters, whereas I trembled at the thought of maintaining her beast of a homestead.

With a quick glance at her watch, Poppy’s cerulean blue eyes widened, and she started waving me down the porch steps. We gotta get a move on or we’ll be stuck in the back row.

I hurried to the passenger’s side of Poppy’s beige Subaru and popped open the door. Don’t get your panties in a bunch. Ezra said he’d keep two chairs reserved for us.

Poppy shot me a devilish look as we settled into the compact SUV. That’s very sweet of him.

He’s a very sweet person. I clicked my seatbelt into place.

Once we were buckled in, Poppy gunned the SUV into gear and took off down my dirt driveway like she was driving in the Indy 500. He told Bea he wasn’t allowing anyone to reserve seating. Bea Thompson owned the local inn and had been Poppy’s close friend since high school.

My cheeks warmed at Poppy’s suspicious tone. That’s odd.

Poppy turned onto the main road that wrapped around the lake, in the direction of town. Maybe Ezra should have told Bea he wasn’t allowing anyone he wasn’t head over heels for to reserve seats for the reading, instead.

Even though she was driving and currently had my life in her hands, I smacked Poppy’s arm a bit more forcefully than I should have. Ezra isn’t head over heels for me. He hardly speaks to me whenever I stop by the book shop.

Poppy exaggerated the pain I’d inflicted by rubbing her arm with a pout. Oh, please. He hardly speaks to you because he’s so overwhelmed and flustered by your bewitching beauty.

I shook my head and let my gaze trail out the window, admiring the woodland scenery as we drove around Lake Glenmyre. Now, you’re just being silly. I caught a glimpse of my reflection. I was hardly beautiful, let alone bewitching. I had fine, dark hair, which I usually kept back in a ponytail, for fear of loose strands working their way into my candles. At five-eight, I wasn’t exactly thin, but also not sensuously curvy. Bewitching? More like blah. My gray eyes were my best feature, but the thick frames and lenses of my glasses often distracted others from noticing their icy, translucent coloring.

Poppy sighed. If you two would just get over yourselves, you’d be the cutest couple this town has ever seen.

I closed my eyes and leaned back against the leather headrest. By now, it was very easy for me to picture myself with Ezra. I fantasized about it at least once a day. His tall, slender frame was fit, but not overwhelmed by muscle. I wasn’t one of those girls who was into biceps and bulging abs. He had tousled raven hair that always looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. With refined cheekbones, green eyes, and a crookedly sexy smile, he was the definition of bewitchingly beautiful.

You’ve got that goofy grin on your face again. Poppy poked me in the side.

My eyes flew open as I wiggled away from her tickling fingers.

The last time I saw that look was when Ezzie saved a copy of Stephen King’s new release for you.

Defeated by my aunt’s prying into my personal life, I burst out laughing. Please don’t ever, ever call him Ezzie again.

Only if you ask him out for coffee at some point during the book event tonight.

Panic fluttered in my stomach. He’ll be so busy throughout the whole thing. I don’t want to inconvenience him.

Fine. Poppy’s lips curled upward. I’ll give you until the end of the week.

I didn’t respond. Instead, my gaze dropped to my lap, where my white-knuckled hands clutched my Constance Crane novel.

Why are you so against dating him? I thought you liked him? Poppy’s voice was softer now, her familial concern overriding her sometimes childish behavior.

I do like him. I studied the chipped purple polish on my nails. I like him a lot.

Then why not go for it? Poppy was not going to give this up.

Because… My throat tightened, and traitorous tears sprang to my eyes. I couldn’t live with knowing his time.

Out of the corner of my watery eyes, Poppy’s expression morphed into sympathetic understanding. Oh, Hazel. I’m sorry. I-I wasn’t thinking. I thought—

That I’d be wearing my glasses every single moment I was around him? Annoyance crept into my voice. Of course, Poppy hadn’t thought this all the way through. Her whim was a gift that she treasured. Her Glenmyre power wasn’t a complete burden like mine.

Poppy chewed on her lower lip as she began to slow down for the stop sign up ahead. You can’t be alone forever, Hazel. You can’t resign yourself to that fate.

Isn’t that what Great-Aunt Ruthie did? I folded my arms in a huff, wishing I hadn’t broached the subject.

Ruthie didn’t have these for most of her life. Poppy reached out and tapped the left temple of my glasses.

You make it sound so simple. I wiped the lingering tears from my eyes. But like I said, I can’t always have my glasses on. I mean, what if I wake up in the night and look over at Ezra, sleeping beside me? Then, bam! I smacked my palms together, the sound rattling through the car. I can’t escape it.

Poppy struggled to look contrite. You’re already thinking about sleeping with him, huh?

I rolled my eyes. Childish, bratty Poppy was back. Enough of this. There’s no point. It’s pretty clear that Ezra and Yvonne Finchmore have a thing for each other. She’s always seen leaving through the back door of his store.

Poppy let out a howling laugh. Yvonne might have a thing for Ezra, but it certainly isn’t reciprocated.

I scowled. No guy in his right mind would pass up a chance to date a gorgeous energy heiress.

Poppy patted my forearm, a triumphant smirk on her face. Ezra isn’t in his right mind. He lost it the moment he laid eyes on you.

My bestie was wise enough to let me change the subject, and we spent the rest of the quick drive into town discussing the questions we wanted to ask Constance Crane while she signed our books. We’d been working on whittling the list down for most of the week, but with our face-to-face encounter rapidly approaching, I started to doubt the questions we’d settled on.

Do we really care what her writing process is? I tapped my chin in thought. I mean, it’s not like either of us is ever going to write a book.

Worry lines appeared in Poppy’s otherwise ageless skin. You’re right. I just want deets on where she’s going with Jinx and Atticus’s romance.

I laughed. I doubt she’s going to dish about when her main characters are finally going to realize they’re hopelessly in love with each other.

I have my ways. Poppy grinned.

What? Are you just going to throw out guesses and see which one her aura reacts to? I raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Poppy snapped her fingers. Bingo.

Before I could critique her method, downtown Crucible came into view. For a small town situated in a quiet, upstate New York valley, Crucible had a lot to offer, which is why I had lived there my whole life. With a population teetering on the brink of twenty-five hundred, downtown Crucible consisted of an eclectic collection of shops and eateries scattered along the town’s main road. My specialty candle store, A Wick in Time, was one of them. Most buildings faced Lake Glenmyre, giving patrons a breathtaking view of our town’s most acclaimed natural feature.

Poppy cursed under her breath. We should have gotten here sooner. Do you see an open parking spot?

By the look of the crowded main strip, Crucible was the place to be this evening. A horde of vehicles sat parked up and down the six-hundred-foot stretch of pavement that ran parallel to the cluster of shops.

We have twenty minutes until the reading starts. Why not park down by the lake? We can walk. It’s a beautiful night. August weather could be fickle in this corner of the world. Sometimes, I wondered if Crucible had its own weather system hovering in the atmosphere. One minute it could be hot as all get out, then the next, a chilly breeze down from the mountains could have you reaching for a sweater.

Poppy gunned her Subaru forward and zipped down a side road toward Lake Glenmyre State Park. With a residential all-season pass stuck to her rear window, Poppy zoomed through the park gates, giving a wave to Horace Swenson, the ranger on duty.

Looks like a few others had the same idea. Poppy placed the SUV into park as she scanned the parking lot. During the daytime, the park was filled with families on summer break, as well as busloads of kids from nearby summer camps. Now, only a few diehard swim fanatics squeezing out the last of the daylight remained, as the sun had almost set on the western horizon.

I followed her searching gaze and saw Ione Martin climbing out of her truck, waving a greeting to Sofía Perez, who had parked her giant SUV a few spots down from Ione.

I didn’t know Ione and Sofía were Constance Crane fans, I mused. Both women owned successful businesses in Crucible, leaving me to wonder when they found the time to read for pleasure. I might have A Wick in Time, but my store hours were significantly less taxing than Sofía’s or Ione’s. Sofía ran The Corner Store, Crucible’s one-stop-shop for home good necessities. Ione operated Sip, a juice and smoothie bar that provided healthy eating options for Crucible residents.

Poppy motioned for me to get out of the Subaru. We need to beat them to Ezra’s!

I laughed at my aunt’s somewhat heartless tactics. It would be rude if we didn’t say hello.

Poppy was already out of the car, her copy of Murder in Misthollow tucked under her arm. Hi, Ione. Hi, Sofía! She tossed a friendly wave over her shoulder and began hiking back toward town like she was being chased.

I climbed out of the car with my book in hand. Hey, ladies. I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.

Sofía held up a copy of Full Moon Murder, book three in Constance Crane’s series. I couldn’t miss the chance to see how Constance pronounces the name ‘Mireille.’

Both Ione and I snorted.

What? Sofía’s sharp, dark gaze bounced back and forth between the two of us.

She certainly won’t be pronouncing it like that. Ione grabbed a tote bag from the back of her trunk and ambled over to my side. The waning sun shimmered across her dark skin. She’d come dressed to impress in a sleeveless sundress that showed off her toned arms and enviable physique. I think pretty much every place in town closed early tonight for her event.

I eyed her thoughtfully. Maybe it was time to start a Constance Crane book club, if Crucible had so many fans.

Except Cold Cauldron, Ione corrected herself. I think Fitz is expecting everyone to filter over to the brewery for drinks once the reading wraps up.

He doesn’t strike me as someone from Constance’s stereotypical reader demographic, I teased.

Ione smirked. "Oh, he gave me his copy of Hook, Line, and Murder for Constance to sign." She held up her tote for emphasis.

I giggled, picturing lumberjack-lookalike Fitzgerald Ames devouring a cozy Misthollow mystery.

We’d better catch up with Poppy. Sofía began to trot down the road leading back toward town, her thick, dark ponytail swinging. To give her heart palpitations by letting her think we’d take her seat at the reading, if anything. She smirked.

Ione and I picked up our pace. If Poppy thinks you might steal her spot, I’d be more worried about your own safety than hers. I pointed out.

Noted, Sofía said with a snort.

We chatted about our workdays as we hiked up the deserted road, enjoying the natural beauty cocooning us. Trees lined both sides of our path, creating a leafy green canopy overhead and blocking the light from the setting sun. The state park had installed Victorian lampposts along the road, giving the scene an old-timey feel to it.

I caught glimpses of the sparkling lake water through the trees. Lake Glenmyre looked so inviting this time of evening. I imagined sinking into the refreshing waters just outside my cottage, Ezra swimming right beside me.

You’ve got that silly grin on your face again, Hazel. Sofía’s teasing jerked me out of my daydream. Last time I saw you looking like that, Ezra had just held the door open for you at The Corner Store.

My cheeks felt like they might melt off my face in embarrassment. I-I was just thinking about how we’re going to be meeting Constance Crane in less than ten minutes.

Both Ione and Sofía exchanged narrowed glances with each other, as if they didn’t quite believe me.

A few heartbeats later, the forest faded away and downtown Crucible came into view. As Ione had indicated, most storefronts had already gone dark for the day, except for The Poignant Page. Ezra’s bookstore radiated with activity, a line of eager Misthollow fans flowing down the sidewalk.

My stomach momentarily clenched. Maybe I should have followed Poppy’s advice and gotten here sooner. Despite its spacious layout, I worried that there wouldn’t be room in Ezra’s store for us all.

As Sofía, Ione, and I approached the crowd, I scanned the line for Poppy, not spotting her amongst the sea of familiar faces. Where could she have gone?

I craned my neck and stood on my toes, not paying attention to my immediate surroundings. It wasn’t until I heard an Oh my gosh! that I sensed something wasn’t quite right, but by then it was too late. Someone smashed into the middle of my back, sending me stumbling forward.

I’m so sorry, Hazel! I wasn’t looking where I was going. A worried, male voice wheezed behind me.

I scrambled to push my glasses up onto the bridge of my nose, but not before my accidental assailant grabbed my elbow in a kind gesture to help me regain my balance. In that moment, my gaze flashed to the flustered man. My focus didn’t fly immediately to his face, but rather, to the glaring, pink digital clock ethereally hovering six inches above his head.

I ground my teeth together in both frustration and panic. I hadn’t straightened my glasses quickly enough to obscure the annoying power of my whim. I now knew the man in front of me was destined to die in forty-nine years, three days, seven hours, and five minutes from this very moment.

Chapter 2

I am so, so sorry, Hazel. I was on my phone, like an idiot, stupidly not paying attention to where I was going.

I pushed my glasses firmly in place and blinked. To my relief, the haunting countdown above the man’s head disappeared.

"Hazel? Oh, goodness. You didn’t hit your head, did