“No, of course not. I love Doyle. And Ground is here.”
“Right, and my bookstore.”
“Right.”
“Right.”
We gazed at each other for a long moment.
“Okay.” I pushed away from the high counter. “I'd better get going.”
“Let me know what you find out,” she said.
“Ditto.”
Stomach twisting, I walked into the winter twilight and down Main Street. I did love Doyle. My sisters were here, and so was my business. But was Lenore right? Were we bound to Doyle? Trapped?
I shouldered deeper into my parka, turned a corner and walked into the alley behind my coffeeshop.
The setting sun, hidden behind a bank of clouds, cast misty shadows between the cars. I strode past the neatly aligned garbage bins under the stairway to my apartment.
A car door slammed, and I glanced behind me.
A wiry, masculine figure in a gray hoodie slouched toward my stairs.
Digging for my keys, I fumbled in my purse and rounded the corner of the wooden steps.
“Hey,” the man said. “You work there?” He jerked his chin toward Ground’s metal, alley door.
Tensing, I turned and backed up a step. “Yeah. But Ground's closed on weekends.”
“I know.” He was in his mid-twenties, with an acne-scarred face. Even standing on a step, I couldn't look him in the eyes – he was that tall. Or I was that short.
“Can I help you?” I asked, shifting.
“Maybe.” He stared for a long moment, and his jaw thrust forward. “Can you tell me who killed Mathilda?” His voice was hard, aggressive.
“Mathilda?” My heart hammered against my ribs. Without breaking eye contact, I maneuvered the keys between my fingers. “You knew her?”
He drew his hands from the pocket of his hoodie. They were fisted. “She was my girl.”
“Oh.” That explained why his energy crackled with hurt and fury and danger. I swallowed. “I'm very sorry for your loss.”
“No, you're not. I know all about you, Jayce Bonheim.” He spat my name. “Mathilda told me what a princess you are.”
I felt my cheeks flush. She’d said that? Mathilda and I hadn't been best buddies, but I’d thought we'd gotten along okay.
“Look,” I said, “I don't know—”
“You found her!” His eyes glittered with an odd, inner flame. “You knew what she was up to. Who was she seeing?”
“Found her?” My breath quickened. The paper hadn't printed anything about my sisters and I finding the body. We weren't blabbing that detail around town, and I didn't believe the cops were talking either. How had he found out? Had he been there?
He climbed onto the step beside me.
Heat flushed through my body. Too close! My fear flipped to anger. Jaw hardening, I edged backward and up another step. “Hey! Personal space, buddy.”
In the fading light, I could see a beat pulsing in his jaw. “Mathilda loved me.” He poked me hard in the shoulder with two fingers, and I gasped, more shocked than hurt. “Me. I'm watching you.”
He turned and shambled toward his car, an uninspiring silver four-door, with a dent over the rear wheel.
“I'm not letting this go either,” I shouted. Jerk. “So, watch it!”
He stopped, turned.
Oh, crap. Why did I have to have the last word?
He stared for what felt like five minutes but was probably only seconds. Then he turned and got into his car.
I raced up the stairs to my apartment. Hands shaking, I let myself in and bolted the door behind me.
Picatrix sauntered across the throw rug and wrapped herself around my legs.
I knelt, one knee dropping to the rug, and stroked her warm fur. Slowly, my heartbeat quieted in my ears. “I really need to learn to be less mouthy.”
The black cat sneezed.
“I'm taking that as agreement.” I shrugged out of my parka and tossed it onto the nearby couch. It slid from the cushion to the colorful carpet. “I didn't even get the guy's name. What sort of detective am I?”
Picatrix trotted to the kitchen. She looked expectantly at a white cupboard door beneath the metal sink.
“All right, I can take a hint.” Opening the low door, I pulled out a bag of cat food. I shook it. A few bits of kibble rattled inside the bag. “Tuna it is.” I crumpled the bag and tossed it into the plastic garbage bin beneath the sink.
Rising, I opened another cupboard. Only two cans of tuna were left. I sighed. Brayden was right, I needed to plan my shopping better.
My gaze fell on the alcove. New ivy plants in tiny pots struggled to climb the white-brick walls. Last year, I’d figured out how to make plants grow faster and stronger with magic. But with Brayden’s current state of mind, that trick was off the table. “Sorry guys, you’re on your own.”
My forehead creased. Would the two of us ever be able to move forward?
I fed the cat, then walked downstairs to my closed cafe. Just because I hadn't managed to get the name of the guy who'd staked me out — he had been staking me out, hadn't he? I tipped my head to one side. Anyway, there were other things I could do.
Flipping on Ground’s kitchen lights, I opened the door to its walk-in closet. My breath steamed the air. I kept the downstairs heat off on weekends. The plastered-over bricks held the cold, turning the room into a refrigerator.
I walked to the shelf with five colorful, plastic bins labeled with the names of my employees. They used the bins to hold their purses and things while they worked. Sometimes stuff got left behind — favorite hand lotions or stress balls or other random junk.
Mathilda's bin was yellow plastic. Not feeling much hope, I pulled it out. Something slid inside.
I removed the bin and left the closet. Setting the bin on the narrow kitchen table, I pulled out a leather-bound hardback, a book of poems by Lord Byron. I flipped through the pages. Not seeing any obvious clues or secret messages, I set the book aside.
A pack of cigarettes. A silver ring. The latter fit my pinky finger and was surprisingly heavy. Was it white gold instead of silver? The ring looked vintage, with a thin band and a lotus flower on each side of a small diamond. It could have been an engagement ring. But it didn't really look like Mathilda's style - she'd been a more modern sort of gal.
Laying the book, cigarettes, and ring on the table, I took a couple photos and sent them to Lenore and Karin. Then I placed the ring and cigarettes in the bin, returning it to its place in the closet. I carried the book upstairs.
Automatically, I walked to my guest bedroom and opened the media cabinet. Instead of my magical crystals and tarot decks and candles, a TV stared back at me.
I grimaced. I'd cleaned out the cabinet after Brayden and I had gotten back together. It was a way of giving him some space from the magic.
The potted spider and aloe plants on the nearby tables hid my crystals beneath their roots. It was simple, discrete magic, designed to make the energy in my apartment safer and loving. The crystals also helped with drainage, since the pots were decorative and didn't have holes in the bottom.
Besides, I had to keep my crystals out of sight somewhere.
“This is really becoming a drag,” I muttered.
Picatrix trotted into the room. She pawed at the cabinet and meowed.
“Nope. No TV for you.”
Steadying myself on the door jam, I tugged off my boots. I padded to the sofa-bed and made myself comfortable, adjusting the India-inspired throw pillows behind me. I pulled a soft throw rug across my lap.
My phone pinged. I pulled it from the back pocket of my faded denims.
A message from Karin - MATHILDA DIDN'T LEAVE MUCH BEHIND. WHAT DOES IT MEAN?
NO IDEA, I typed back. COLLECTING EVIDENCE.
YOU GO WITCH, Karin replied.
I set the phone on the arm of the sofa-bed.
Picatrix leapt onto the sofa. Setting
a tentative paw on my thigh, she hesitated, then clambered into my lap. The cat curled into a furry ball and yawned.
“Ugh.” I made a face. “Tuna breath.” I could live without that, but I scratched behind her ears.
Had the book of romantic poetry been a gift? I ran my hand over the red-leather cover. There was no inscription on the front pages. But Mathilda had been a Yale girl – I could easily picture her buying Byron.
I turned to the beginning and began reading. The title of the first poem had been underlined in blue ink, She Walks in Beauty…
Soon, I was caught up, breathing in the lush language, the rhythmic splendor of the poetry. “Oh, Byron, you bad boy.” Remembering myself, I scanned every page for notes or messages, and found none.
“Who wanted you dead, Mathilda?” The creepy guy outside my apartment? The wicked stepmother? The roommate who only pretended to mourn your death?
My phone rang on the sofa’s arm. I checked its glowing screen. Brayden. My heart gave a little worried/happy twist.
“Hi, Brayden.” I smiled.
“Hey. Did Karin and Nick get home okay?”
“I'm sure they did. The tow truck driver was taking them and their car back to Angels Camp.”
“I thought you were going to drive them?”
I closed my eyes. I never should have lied. Not outright.
“Look,” he said, “we really need to talk about what happened.”
“I know. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but I didn't know what to do. Lenore was there, and she needed us, and you were working. None of us thought things would get so out of control.”
“So,” he said slowly, “you just charged in.”
I winced at the blank TV. “Well, yeah.”
“And you knew the problem involved… that thing you and your sisters do.”
I fingered my crystal bolo necklace. He couldn't even say the word magic. “It was just one of those random, Doyle things.”
“Yeah.”
There was a long silence. I breathed into it and prayed we’d be all right.
“Listen,” he said, “something's come up, and I’ll be late. You’ll probably be sleeping when I get back, and I don’t want you to think I’m avoiding you. I’m not angry, but I do want to finish this conversation. Tomorrow?”
My throat squeezed. “Right, sure. Tomorrow,” I said brightly.
“All right,” he said quietly. “I love you, Jayce.”
“Me too.” My voice cracked. I hoped he hadn't heard it. “Bye.”
“Bye.” He hung up.
He'd told me he loved me, he wasn’t angry, he was coming home tonight.
But had I imagined the uncertainty in his voice?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Pans clattered in the kitchen. Rubbing my eyes, I wrapped a silky kimono robe around me and squinted at the windows, covered in frost. Had I actually been dreaming about garden gnomes and cheesecake? Garden gnomes in cheesecake? Throwing cheesecake? I shook my head and stumbled from the bedroom.
I’d woken up when Brayden had gotten in last night. We’d made up for our communication issues in spectacular fashion. But the magic still lay between us, a barrier I didn’t know how to cross.
Now, Brayden stood in his blue EMT uniform at my stove, his muscular back to me. Two empty plates sat across from each other on the wooden, kitchen table.
“What, no bacon?” I joked.
Expression annoyed, Picatrix looked up. The cat probably had been wishing for something more exciting too.
Brayden raised a bag of cat food from the counter and rattled the kibble inside. He shot me a reproachful look over his shoulder.
Yeah, yeah, I should have bought more myself.
“Just poached eggs and toast this morning,” he said. “I've got to run to work.”
Worried and disappointed, I slipped my arms around his waist, my short robe falling open. I leaned my head against his broad back and inhaled his clean scent. “As long as you're here now.” But my mind ran, as it so often did, to the last time he'd worked such long hours, and to the spell that had broken us apart.
He turned and cradled me in one muscular arm. “I am here. For good.”
But I could feel he wasn't, not really. And then he was kissing me, and all I could think of was his mouth, hard against mine, his hands exploring my curves.
I'm at my best when not over-thinking.
Breathless, we broke apart.
He grinned, and suddenly it was all worth it — hiding my crystals beneath my plants, backing away from my magic and keeping it on the DL…
Except it wasn’t on the down-low anymore, and my lie had come between us.
Hot makeup sex wasn’t enough. We needed to talk. Really talk.
“Brayden, about the other day—”
Water hissed on the stove. He whipped around, cursing. Foamy water flowed over the rim of the low saucepan and sizzled on the glass-top stove. He shifted the saucepan to an unheated burner. “What about—”
The toaster snicked, and sourdough bread popped out.
He grabbed a plate off the table and dropped the toast on it. Removing the eggs with a slotted spoon, he carefully set them on the sourdough. Brayden handed me the plate and checked his watch. “Damn, I’ve gotta go.” He grimaced. “Sorry. I've got real life issues to deal with today.”
“Real life? What does that mean?” I had a real life. Magic was real.
“Nothing. Poor wording.” He kissed my forehead.
“But it's…” I glanced at the digital clock on the stove. “…ten o'clock. Aren't you eating with me?”
“I ate after I got back from my run.”
It was happening again, the distance, the not-talking. What wasn't he telling me? “But—”
He grabbed his jacket off the wall peg by the door. “I'll see you tonight.” He hurried out the door. His boots clomped down the wooden stairs outside, the sound fading with his descent.
Was I imagining being shut out? I blew out my breath. “And I have a real life,” I said to Picatrix.
The black cat's whiskers twitched. Picatrix turned and stalked to the cat door. She wormed through, following Brayden.
“I do too have a life,” I shouted after the cat and looked down at my eggs. “I can't think about this right now.”
Without tasting my food, I ate, then dressed in my favorite sapphire V-neck sweater and jeans. I wrapped a thick, brown cable knit scarf around my neck and shrugged into my metallic blue vest.
I locked the landing door behind me and jogged down the rear stairs. My bootheels thumped hollowly on the wood.
One thing was sure — I wasn't going to sit home and think about the magic I couldn't do, or what Brayden might or might not have meant.
Dwelling.
Bad.
Since I'd already eaten, and brunch was out of the question, I ambled down Main Street to Lenore's bookshop.
A CLOSED sign hung in the window, but Lenore sat, pencil in hand, behind the counter. She angled her head, her full lips pursing. Her blond hair spilled forward and hid her face.
I rapped on the window, and she looked up. Smiling, my sister walked to the front door and opened it.
“Hey, witch,” I said.
“What are you doing up so early on a Sunday?” She shut the door behind me. The bell above us jingled.
“Brayden made me breakfast.”
She walked to the high counter, and I followed. An old-fashioned ledger was spread open on the cheap laminate.
“That's great news,” she said. “So, he's not mad about the virikas?”
I ran my hands through my hair. “No. He understands.” I glanced out the front window and started.
Mrs. Raven and Mr. O'Hare stood motionless on the opposite sidewalk. They wore the same, old-fashioned suits from the senior home. Mrs. Raven clutched an emerald-green handbag to her chest. They stared at the bookstore.
I shivered. Where the hell had
they come from? I’d swear they hadn’t been outside just moments before.
“What did Brayden say?” Lenore asked.
I jerked my attention back to my sister. “We didn't really talk about it. It's no big deal.”
Her brow creased. “Wait. You didn't talk about it? Why not?”
“Because…” I stared at my suede boots. Why was it no biggie? Why was I feeling a knife edge of anxiety rather than a full-blown panic attack? I let the answer come. “Because he'll talk when he's ready,” I said slowly. “He's been different since…”
“Since he was tortured.”
Startled, I looked up. I hadn't thought of November’s dark spell as torture before, but she was right. It had been. “Yeah.”
She raised her index finger and walked to a shelf, drew out a hardback. Returning to the counter, she handed it to me.
I blinked at the cover. “PTSD?”
“The book also has a chapter on torture, and how people who've gone through it dealt with it afterward.”
“Oh.” I smoothed my hand along the slick cover.
“Maybe something in it will help.”
My stomach roiled. “Right. Thanks.” Brayden didn't have PTSD, did he? He didn't act twitchy or fearful. But there had been a distance, and he seemed to spend a lot of time avoiding me. And when he did come over, it was often late at night, when I was already asleep. I knew he'd been in my bed, because of the rumpled pillows and covers. But aside from last night, there hadn't been much going on lately beside sleeping.
I backed away. “I'm going to go home and read this.” While Brayden wasn't around to see me psychoanalyze him.
“Sure. But, Jayce—”
Her words were lost as I escaped onto the street.
O'Hare and Raven had vanished.
Slipping the book under one arm and my hands into the pockets of my metallic vest, I looked up and down the street. Its old-west false fronts stared back. Maybe O’Hare and Raven had gone into one of the shops?
I blew out my breath. What was with those two?
Instead of walking toward my apartment, I headed in the opposite direction, toward the old town hall. I wasn't ready to read the book on PTSD. I wasn't sure I wanted to know what it had to say. If this was something serious — of course it is — could I even help Brayden? Because I'd do anything for him, even if it meant giving up my magic for real.
Fey: A Doyle Witch Cozy Mystery (The Witches of Doyle Book 5) Page 5