Hemlock Bay

simply lists Tri-Light Investments and the Habib Bank AG at 59 Weinbergstrasse.”
    “Curiouser and curiouser,” Simon said.
    Hoyt said, “I’ll call Interpol and get someone to check this out. But don’t count on finding anything out. The Swiss have duct tape over their mouths.” He paused for a moment. “You suspect someone, don’t you, Simon? And not just the Frasiers. Who?”
    “If the owner of this Tri-Light Investments is a Swede by the name of Olaf Jorgenson, then we’re confirming lots of things,” Simon said.
    “Makes sense,” Hoyt said. “He’s the collector, isn’t he? That’s how it all ties into Ms. Savich’s paintings. You guys think he’s the one who commissioned them.”
    “It’s possible,” Simon said.
    Lily punched Simon in the ribs. “It’s more than possible, Clark. Call us on the cell phone as soon as you know, okay?”
    Hoyt said, “You promised no hotdogging. That means you don’t go see Charlotte Frasier without having at least me along.”

    Hemlock Bay, California

    Lily pointed to the Bullock Pharmacy, and Simon pulled into an open parking spot in front of Spores Dry Cleaners next door. An old man was staring out at them from the large glass windows that held three hanging Persian carpets, presumably just cleaned.
    Ten minutes later, Lily came out of the Bullock Pharmacy carrying a small paper bag. She eased into the passenger seat and drew a deep breath. “It’s such a beautiful town,” she said. “I always thought so. You can smell the ocean, feel that light sheen of salt on your skin. It’s incredible.”
    “Okay, I agree, lovely town, lovely smell in the air. What happened?”
    “I had a real epiphany going into that pharmacy.” And then she told him what had happened. There’d been about ten people in the store, and all of them, after they saw her, were talking about her behind their hands. They stepped away if she came near them, didn’t say anything if she said hello to them. Lily was frankly relieved when Mr. Bullock senior, at least eighty years old, nodded to her at the checkout line. Evidently he was the spokesperson. He looked at her straight in the eye before he rang up her aspirin and said, “Everyone is real sorry you tried to kill yourself again, Mrs. Frasier.”
    “I didn’t, Mr. Bullock.”
    “We heard that you blamed it on Dr. Frasier and left him.”
    “Is that what everyone believes?”
    “We’ve known the Frasiers a long time, ma’am. Lots longer than we’ve known you.”
    “Actually, Mr. Bullock, it’s very far from the truth. Someone has tried to kill me three times now.”
    He just shook his head at her, waved the bottle of aspirin, and said, “You need something stronger than these, Mrs. Frasier. Something lots stronger. You’ll never live to be as old as I am if you don’t see to it now.”
    “Why don’t you talk to Lieutenant Dobbs in Eureka?”
    He just looked at her, saying nothing more. Lily didn’t feel like standing there arguing with the old man to change his mind, with the dozen other people in the store likely listening, so she just paid and left, knowing those people were thinking she was one sick puppy, no doubt about it.
    “That’s it. Nothing much, really.” She waved the bottle of aspirin. “Thanks, Simon.” He handed her a bottle of diet Dr Pepper, and she took two of the tablets.
    “Isn’t it interesting that no one wanted to speak to me,” she said, “except Mr. Bullock. They were all content just to hang back and listen.”
    “It’s still a beautiful town. Tennyson, Mom, and Dad have been busy,” Simon said. “How about some lunch?”
    After a light lunch at a diner that sat right on the main pier, Lily said, “I want to visit my daughter, Simon.”
    For a moment, he didn’t understand. She saw it and said, even as tears stung her eyes, “The cemetery. After I leave, I know I won’t be back for a while. I want to say good-bye.”
    He wasn’t about to let her go by herself. It was too dangerous. When he told her that, she simply nodded. They stopped at a small florist shop at the end of Whipple Avenue, Molly Ann’s Blooms.
    “Hilda Gaddis owns Molly Ann’s. She sent a beautiful bouquet of yellow roses to Beth’s funeral.”
    “The daffodils are lovely.”
    “Yes. Beth loved daffodils.” She said nothing more as they drove the seven minutes to the cemetery set near the Presbyterian Church. It was lovely, in a pocket nestled by hemlock and spruce trees, protected from the