Death Retires

by Cate Lawley

  What had she said? I saw her extended hand, which jogged my memory. She’d promised no harm.

  Witches didn’t lie. I wasn’t sure where I’d learned that fact, but I seemed to recall it was a reputable source. Something about karmic debts or burdened souls. The specifics eluded me, but it was enough for me to ignore my poorly mannered sidekick and accept her hand, belated as the gesture was.

  “Geoff Todd. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” And on some level, it was. I wasn’t the only one living here, on this quiet street of humans, with the weight of otherness resting on my shoulders. Witches were more “other” than I was, in many ways.

  Her welcoming smile turned to a grin. “I like you, Geoff Todd. Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea? No harm,” she said, aiming a sharp look at Clarence.

  I glanced at Clarence, now two feet behind me.

  “The cat creature can come, too. He’s very welcome.” She leaned down so that she was nearly eye level with Clarence. “Even though he’d like to eat my liver.”

  Clarence sputtered. “A liver, not your liver.” His head drooped low and his tone turned defensive. “I’m not a cannibal, just hungry.”

  She winked at him. “I thought there might be some human in there somewhere. Come inside. I think I have some chicken liver in the freezer I can heat up for you. And if not, how does beef heart sound?”

  He stood to attention when she mentioned livers and hearts. In a much subtler whisper than was his norm, Clarence said, “I might have been wrong about this one.” Then he darted through the door and disappeared into the house.

  Once we’d all gathered around the kitchen table—Tamara and me with herbal tea and Clarence with tiny cubes of medium-rare beef heart—I gave Clarence a look, hoping he’d be smart enough to use his company manners.

  “He’s fine,” Tamara assured me. Her cheerful demeanor slipped slightly. “My own companion recently passed, and it’s good to have a feline presence in the house again.”

  Clarence swallowed, then licked his lips. “Part feline.”

  Which made her grin again. “Yes, that’s right. Might I ask what you’ve done? I sense only the one personality inside the bobcat body—and I assume that presence is you, Clarence.”

  That was news to me. And I suspected to my bosses—unless they’d had a witch take a look at Clarence. I hadn’t even known witches could see such things.

  Clarence picked up another cube and actually chewed this time, rather than swallowing it whole. He took his time, savoring the tiny piece of meat much longer than I’d have thought his greedy appetite would allow.

  About what I’d gotten out of him myself so far: squat.

  “To put your mind at rest, Geoff, if ever there was a soul before Clarence’s in that body, it’s long gone.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention. How had she known?

  Possession was a foul word, and the idea that Clarence had done such a thing—to any creature—had greatly altered my view of him. But if he wasn’t sharing that feline body with another soul, did that make him the original owner? Creating a fully functioning body was magic unlike any I knew.

  Tamara sipped her tea and watched me, seeing far too much. My trouble alarms weren’t ringing, but I suspected this meeting should end sooner rather than later.

  “Clarence and I had planned to introduce ourselves as new neighbors and try to sneak in a few questions about your whereabouts the last few days.”

  “You weren’t aware of my particular leanings,” she said.

  “The magical ones? No.” And still wasn’t entirely certain of them. She was a witch—but my intuition said she was perhaps something else as well.

  “You might like to meet Hector when you have a moment, though best to try after sunset. He’s more likely to open the door then.”

  Hector wasn’t on the list. Was she saying Hector should be on the list?

  “You think he might have relevant information?” I shared a glance with Clarence, but he shrugged.

  “Oh, I have no idea. You’d have to ask him.” With her face schooled to a pleasant neutrality, I couldn’t tell if Tamara was concealing information or simply believed that Hector and I would hit it off.

  When in doubt, courtesy was never amiss. “Thank you. We’ll be sure to stop by.”

  “Perhaps not the cat, though he isn’t truly feline, is he? I’ll leave that to your discretion.” She looked as pleasant as before, but something shifted. “Now, ask me your questions.”

  As I watched her sip delicately at her tea, it clicked. What I’d read as a certain pleasantness before was much more. It was balance. Tamara was in harmony, with herself, her environment, everything. And that harmony was currently being ruffled.

  I set down my teacup and trained all of my attention on her. “We’re here about the explosion in Sylvie Baker’s house.”

  “Her shed.” The correction was gentle, but firm. “The explosion was in her shed. Quite some distance from the house.”

  That correction, that assertion of fact, made me very uncomfortable. I wanted to like this woman—this witch—but she was practically admitting some involvement, or possibly knowledge.

  “I knew it,” Clarence said. “The red hair is a dead giveaway. Or it was, when you had it. Red-headed women have fiery tempers.”

  Tamara snorted, and that bit of ruffled energy I’d felt slipped away. “Nonsense. I have almost no temper at all. Be thankful, since I live within striking distance of your house, young man.” She leaned forward, her elbows on the table, and said with a cheeky grin, “And the red hair was dye. This is closer to my natural color.”

  Her casual reference to Clarence as a “young man” surprised me. I didn’t think Clarence was a young man at all . . . which brought into question Tamara Gilroy’s frame of reference. I felt myself sinking deeper into a mystery I wasn’t sure was related to Sylvie’s problem, and probably wasn’t one I should poke with a sharp stick.

  Shifting gears, I let loose our money question, because Clarence and I needed to retreat and regroup. “Did you have anything to do with the explosion at Sylvie’s house?”

  Her pretty green eyes wide and the neutrally pleasant expression we’d seen on arrival firmly affixed to her face, she said, “I don’t wish Sylvie Baker any harm, no harm at all.”

  14

  Tuesday early evening

  Clarence and I had ended our interview of Tamara as quickly as possible. I glanced over my shoulder at her picture-perfect front yard. A yard that held more magically useful herbs, flowers, and grasses than could occur by chance. How had I not seen it before now?

  All we could get out of her was that she had no ill intentions toward Sylvie and that she wished her no harm. That and a very enthusiastic—even genuine, I thought—welcome to the neighborhood.

  Since witches didn’t lie, I took her comments concerning Sylvie to mean that she was in this up to her eyeballs, but that she didn’t want Sylvie dead.

  “Oh, she so did it.” Clarence stalked in front of me at the very end of his leash. “She blew that shed to bits. Guarantee you, she did. Dye or no, read hair is red hair.”

  At least he’d waited until we were a few houses away before he’d started to lambast Tamara. “That beef heart didn’t buy much loyalty, did it?”

  “Give me a break. I may take bribes, but I’m pure where and when it counts, boss.”

  “Right.” But there wasn’t quite as much sarcasm behind the comment as there might have been in the past. “Why did you let everyone think you were sharing that body?”

  He spat and hissed a bit. “That again? Leave it, Geoff.”

  And I did, because he wasn’t going to say a word until he was ready. If my bosses couldn’t get him to spill, then I had no chance. “What’s with you and the red hair? You do know that’s completely ridiculous, right? Someone’s hair doesn’t define their personality.”

  “That’s what you say.” He tugged on the leash, and I picked up the pace. We were
just about to the house when he stopped suddenly, attention fixed on some point in the far distance. His voice uncharacteristically quiet, he said, “Red-headed women will always break your heart.”

  Then he picked up the pace again, pulling, darting, zigzagging, and generally trying to trip me. A completely normal cat-on-a-leash jaunt, as if he hadn’t just shared an excruciatingly intimate detail.

  Trying to fill the silence, I mentioned Hector.

  Clarence paused. “He’s been here a few years; that’s why he didn’t make the list. You think we should bump him up?”

  “No, but I do think we should swing by and introduce ourselves the first chance we get. I don’t think she mentioned him casually.”

  As we passed Sylvie’s house, a curtain twitched, and not five seconds later she emerged waving. “Mr. Todd—Geoff!”

  Clarence and I crossed the street again to join her. I hoped she was distracted enough by recent events that she missed his left-right-left check for oncoming traffic.

  She frowned, giving Clarence a curious look. “Did your cat . . . No, never mind. How are you?”

  Since I hadn’t recently lost my shed to an explosion . . . “I’m fine, but more importantly, how are you doing?”

  She didn’t look like she’d recently suffered a traumatic event. She was wearing a pretty dark blue dress with white embroidery, the thin straps showing off her tanned shoulders. She had beautiful shoulders. I lifted my gaze several inches.

  “About that . . .” She clasped her hands in front of her, twisting them this way and that—but no explanation followed.

  Clarence butted me with his head.

  Nudging him away with my toe, I made a note to thank him later. “Ah, thank you for having me over last night. After you, ah—”

  “Passed out?” The twisting stopped, and she touched her fingers to her forehead, effectively covering her face.

  “No, not at all. After you retired for the evening, I had a short chat with Bobby.” I must have been moving in the right direction, because her hand lowered and she peeked at me. Encouraged, I continued, “He didn’t have much of value to add. But I had to check him off the witness list.”

  Her hand fell back to her side as I spoke, and I swallowed a sigh of relief.

  “Does that mean you have other potential witnesses?”

  Ghosts were one thing, but witches another. And outing Tamara was simply not an option.

  “We have a few leads, and we’re working on a list.” All true.

  She cocked her head and smiled curiously. “We?”

  Clarence smacked me with a paw—claws extended.

  I nudged (kicked) him away. “Me, sorry. Just a turn of phrase.”

  “Like the royal ‘we’?” She grinned, flashing her dimple again.

  “I guess. So, I was thinking, when you have a moment, maybe we could sit down again and you could tell me about your husband’s work history?” No need to mention I, via my talking and typing cat, had pulled Bobby’s work history already. She might be able to fill the gaps, primarily how his completely above-board-appearing employment was in any way shady.

  “Sure, I’d love that.” With a wry smile, she added, “And maybe no wine this time. I’m a bit of a lightweight.”

  “I’d probably drink more than a few glasses of wine if someone had done that kind of damage to my home.” I couldn’t quite manage to say “explosion” or “bomb.” The words were too close to the reality, and it seemed wrong to say them in her presence.

  “At least you didn’t catch me drinking tequila or whiskey. That’s a sight. Trust me.” She shook her head, but now I was curious to know what exactly tequila or whiskey did to her that constituted “a sight.” She licked her lips. “I’m off to work now for a few hours, but if you’d like to get together this evening . . . ?”

  “You’re working already?” Modern women, independence, and some other related, liberated-type thoughts flashed through my head, and I realized perhaps I’d misspoken. “Sorry, yes, this evening would be lovely. What time?”

  She bit her lip, but her eyes crinkled. “Eight. Your place?”

  “Absolutely, I’ll see you then.”

  “And Geoff, thank you—for last night.”

  “It was entirely my pleasure.”

  She smiled and her dimple made yet another appearance. I was developing a strong affection for that dimple. “You are an odd combination of the traditional and modern man, Mr. Todd.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. Maybe give me a hint?”

  She laughed—but didn’t answer.

  As I watched her walk back to her house, Clarence said, “It’s good, Geoff. Trust me on this one.”

  I wasn’t taking romantic advice from a talking (and frequently lecherous) cat, even one who’d just revealed the presence of a heretofore hypothetical heart.

  15

  Tuesday evening

  A message from Lilac was waiting for me on my answering machine.

  “This is Lilac. Is this an answering machine? Geoff, you really need to get a cell phone. Anyway, I’ve given it some thought, and . . . Well, just come by today if you can. I canceled my appointments, so I’m free. I’ll be here until about seven. And, you know, bring the cat.”

  Encouraging? Maybe not. But there was at least a possibility of acceptance stashed in that message. Canceling appointments might be an indication of a personal, professional, or existential crisis. But it might also just be her working through some complex variables, or even making time for an important client.

  That last one wasn’t very likely, but I could hope.

  “She’s fine.”

  “What?”

  Clarence heaved a huge sigh. “You had that look, like someone had drowned your favorite kitten. Lilac sounded fine on the message.”

  “Please stop with the drowned kittens. And by the way, drowning any kitten would be bad. The favorite part is overkill.”

  “Got it, boss. So call Lilac already.”

  Right. I picked up the phone and dialed the number from memory.

  She picked up after one ring. In a breathless voice, she said, “Geoff, thank . . .” But her voice trailed away as if the connection was poor or the phone far away. But then, much more clearly, she said, “You’re coming?”

  Caller ID. It was baffling on so many levels how such a simple device could alter phone etiquette so significantly. “Yes. Clarence and I can swing by within the hour, if that works for you.”

  “Uh-huh. Ah, hurry.” And she hung up.

  I held the phone in my hand and stared at it. I was not a fan of this abruptness.

  “She said ‘bring the cat’ on the message. I heard her.” Clarence’s ears pricked forward, and when he looked at me, his pupils were huge. “You can’t leave me at home.”

  We’d just been out, and yet the thought of a trip had him so overstimulated that he could barely think straight. If I didn’t find a way for him to constructively occupy his time, all that bottled-up energy and excitement would explode into a mushroom cloud of mischief.

  “I’m not leaving you, but if you do anything to push Lilac over the edge, I might dropkick you into traffic.”

  Clarence sauntered to the garage door, all feline grace and confidence, unruffled by my hollow threats of violence. “It wasn’t me that had her screaming, was it? That was all you, Mr. Retired Death.”

  He was right, but that didn’t mean I had to like it—or speak to him on the ride to Lilac’s shop.

  When we arrived, the store windows were dark. It looked like she’d locked up early. Not completely shocking, given her stated intent to cancel all appointments for the day, but I’d expected the retail store to still be open, like it had been when we arrived last time.

  When I tried the door it was locked, but I caught a glimpse of movement from inside. I rapped sharply on the glass door a few times.

  Within seconds, Lilac was at the door unlocking it and motioning us inside. She looked around outside with a furtive
, panicked glance then locked the door behind us.

  Clarence had gotten this one wrong. He’d said Lilac was fine after listening to her message, but the woman standing in front of me was not fine. Her skin was pale and clammy and her eyes red-rimmed.

  “You have to help me.” She gasped and then held her breath, clearly trying not to break down into tears.

  “Of course. Whatever we can do.” I didn’t know whether to hug her like a child or hold her hand.

  Her eyes met mine and she crumpled into a sopping mess, tears streaming down her face.

  That answered one question, at least. I removed a newly laundered handkerchief from my shirt pocket and handed it to her. It was always appropriate to offer a lady in distress a clean hanky, whatever the year.

  Thank goodness for Mrs. Feldhaus, my cleaning lady, because I hadn’t yet mastered the art of laundry or ironing.

  “Boss.” Clarence’s voice came from the back of the shop, eerily disembodied in the dark room.

  “Just a minute, Clarence.”

  Lilac bawled into the scrap of linen for several seconds, then started to hiccup, then drew several ragged breaths. She wiped her eyes and clutched the damp hanky tight in her fist. “I think I’m in trouble.”

  “Boss,” Clarence called again.

  I turned to reply, but stopped when I saw the haunted look on Lilac’s face. Her eyes were locked on the same dark corner where Clarence had disappeared. “Everything okay back there, Clarence?”

  “I’m not so sure about that, boss. I think we have a problem.”

  Holding my hand up as I left, I said, “Wait here.”

  Lilac didn’t move a muscle. Even her eyes remained fixed and staring.

  The difference in light between the front and back of the store necessitated a slow approach to allow my eyes to adjust. When I arrived, I found Clarence on the sofa that was pushed against the back wall. Next to him was the slumped figure of a man. But for the disturbingly absolute stillness of his body, he appeared to have simply stopped to rest his feet and fallen asleep.