At Wick's End (Book 1 in the Candlemaking Mysteries) by Tim Myers

pushes me, I have a tendency
to push back.
    I had to walk past Markum’s mysteriously
vague salvage-and-recovery operation to get back to my apartment. I
was dog-tired, but my curiosity outweighed my desire for that hot
shower.
    I knocked on the door, waited thirty
seconds, then knocked again, this time quite a bit harder than
before.
    No reply. Jiggling the handle, I discovered
that the door was locked. It appeared that Markum was not in.
    So what was the sound of voices I heard
coming from the other side of the door? I patted my pockets and
came up with an old grocery list and scratched out a quick note on
the back of it. Would like to meet you. Harrison Black, Belle’s
place.
    After sliding it under the door, I headed
back to my new apartment. It was time for that shower after
all.
    Glory be, hot water was not a problem in my
new accommodations. I don’t know how long I stood under the
pounding heat of the shower, but by the time I shut the water off,
my fingers were starting to prune up. As I walked into the kitchen,
toweling my hair dry, I lit Belle’s candle, most likely the last
one she’d ever made, and watched as the wick jumped to life. 
The flame, strong and steady, reminded me of Belle, a solid part of
my early life. There was a hint of cinnamon in the air that I
loved. It reminded me again of sweet rolls, apple pie and
Snickerdoodle cookies.  I let the candle burn as I cooked my
self a pasta dinner and kept it glowing while I ate. At the rate it
was burning. I’d have that candle memorial for a month, a fitting
period of mourning for my great-aunt.
    Later, after the dishes were done, I went
prowling around the apartment for something to read. Belle was an
avid reader. She’d been the one who’d gotten me hooked on the
printed word, mysteries in particular, giving me a complete set of
Agatha Christies on my ninth birthday. Okay, I’d asked for a new
baseball glove, but by the time I’d read The Mysterious Affair at
Styles. I was lost forever. I’ve never been without a book to read
since, though my past living conditions made it tough to keep them
after I’d read them.
    Belle had an extensive collection of books
on hand, and I’d had to force myself not to start browsing as I’d
resolved them from their tumbles to the floor. Amazingly enough,
none of them had been damaged in their short falls. There was her
own complete set of Agatha Christie books present, though hers were
hardcovers instead of the paperbacks she’d given me. Judging from
the number and variety of titles on the shelves, she’d kept her
interest in mysteries through the years, with books from the latest
bestseller lists mingling with classics from the Golden Age of
mystery. I chose one of the Agatha Christies at random, curled up
on the couch, and quickly found myself revisiting a world full of
English villages, vicars and tea.
    It nearly jarred me off the couch when the
telephone rang.
    “ Hello,” I said, marking my
place with one finger, unwilling to put the book down.
    “ So it’s true,” I heard a
familiar feminine voice say on the other end of the line. “You’ve
moved out of your apartment after all.”
    “ Hi, Becka. I’m surprised
to hear from you. How’d you find me?” Becka Lane and I had dated
off and on for the past few years, but three months ago she’d
decided we were finished for good. She had declared with more
frustration than regret that I’d never amount to anything, and she
was tired of waiting for me to make something of my life. I’d been
more relieved than heartbroken with her declaration, a sign that
told me we were probably both just waiting for the other one to
give up first.
    She said, “It was the oddest thing,
Harrison. I was out running around today and I went by your place.
I don’t know what hit me, but I suddenly wanted to see you again. I
can’t tell you how stunned I was to find you’d moved.”
    I knew without a doubt how she’d gotten my
new number. I was sure Mrs. Harper