Potions Are for Pushovers

by Tamara Berry

  “As much as I appreciate you sharing this cake with me, it’s not why you stopped by,” I say. “You want something.”

  She hesitates.

  “It’s okay, Penny. You can tell me. People often entrust their deepest, darkest desires to a woman in my situation. I’ve seen much of the world—both this one and the next. Nothing you have to divulge will surprise me.”

  “Why do you say that?” The nerves are back in place again, her skin ashen. “What do you want me to tell you?”

  “I don’t want you to tell me anything you’re not comfortable with,” I soothe. “But I’m guessing you’re here because of your relationship with Sarah Blackthorne. I saw you the night she died—you were the first to rush to her aid. It shows what a nice person you are, especially since the two of you didn’t always get along.”

  Her fork halts in midair. It shakes once, shivers twice, and drops to the table. Any color that remained in her face is wiped away. Any lingering doubts I have are wiped away, too. It seems the general was right when he said that Sarah made enemies of everyone at the committee meeting. It had to take a real piece of work to get on the wrong side of a sweet woman like Penny.

  Then again, maybe it’s not so difficult to do....

  “What do you know about me and Sarah?” Penny asks, her voice becoming shrill. She pushes back from the table, her actions surprisingly agile for a woman who had such a difficult time rising from my stoop not more than fifteen minutes ago.

  Partially to calm her and partially because I have more questions I’d like to ask, I wear my most serene expression. I’m grateful that I took the time to dress before I visited Vivian, my vintage floral wrap dress a little optimistic for the weather, but perfect for giving the impression that I’m one with the elements.

  “I know enough,” I say. “But don’t worry. Your secrets are safe with me.”

  “I won’t do it, you hear me?” She casts a look so frantic around the kitchen, I’m suddenly grateful my knives are tucked away in a drawer. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. I’ve had enough, and I don’t care what you plan to do about it.”

  “Penny, it’s okay. I only want to be your friend.”

  Penny’s whole body jerks. “When Sarah died, I thought that would be the end of it. I thought it was over. I thought I would finally be fr—”

  Free.

  She doesn’t have to finish the sentence. Aware that she’s said too much, Penny clamps her jaw tight. She makes a fumbling attempt to put her rain cap on, but all she does is tear the plastic along one side.

  “How dare you, Madame Eleanor.” She holds the rain cap up as if to blame me for its rough handling. “They said you were different, that you actually cared. But you don’t. You’re just as bad as she was.”

  I open my mouth to defend myself, but I have no idea what I’m supposed to defend myself against. As far as I can tell, I’ve done nothing more than offer support and guidance and, yes, friendship. Above all else, it seems as though Penny could use a friend.

  “Here.” She reaches into her purse and extracts a long pink billfold. With a shaking hand, she extracts two fifty-pound notes and throws them onto the table. They flutter like the wings of a butterfly, not stopping until they land and stick in the chocolate ganache.

  “There’s no charge—” I begin, but she’s no longer listening. Pausing just long enough to kick angrily and ineffectively at the cauldron, she whisks herself out the front door.

  I stand, my fork still in hand, and watch her go. Part of me wants to chase after her and demand an explanation, but there’s no need. My psychic senses have already determined what it is she’s hiding.

  Penny Dautry, like so many other people in this village, wanted Sarah Blackthorne dead.

  Of course, what I don’t know is why. Or how. Or what on earth I’m going to do next. I might be a hundred pounds richer and the sole possessor of a chocolate cake designed by the gods, but that doesn’t mean anything if people are going to run screaming from my house at the first sign of kindness.

  “I’m not like Sarah,” I say as I shut the door and appraise my house—cold and empty, without even a sign of my cat to make it feel like home. “I have apprentices. I have friends. I’m not miserable and alone.”

  I hold my breath and wait, willing Winnie to jump in and reassure me, but she’s just as silent as before. She and Beast both.

  Which makes me a little miserable, to be honest. And, considering that the steady drip-drip in the cauldron is the only sound I hear, also makes me alone.

  Chapter 11

  “Wait—I don’t understand. You ate the entire cake? By yourself?”

  “Don’t judge, Liam. If you tasted this masterpiece, you’d understand what drove me to it. It’s almost animalistic, the things this cake makes you do.”

  A sigh sounds through my phone. “You mean, like forcing otherwise reasonable women to consume fifteen thousand calories in one sitting?”

  “Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of slaughtering pigs and cats for no discernible reason.”

  The sigh becomes a heavy pause. At least, I assume it’s heavy. I’m currently slogging through yet another muddy lane on my way to the village. Part of it is for exercise, since those fifteen thousand calories of cake are no laughing matter, but I also have to meet up with my apprentices for yet another afternoon of questionable supervision.

  The wind whistles around me as I walk, the afternoon gloom filled with the sounds of Mother Nature wreaking her vengeance. I envy her that.

  “Do you feel a sudden compulsion to murder animals, Ellie?” Liam eventually asks. “Because if that’s the case, I think you should double-check that whole poison thing. Don’t bath salts make people get weirdly violent?”

  “Why do you think I ate the whole thing?” I ignore the bulk of his commentary, since its sole purpose is to frighten me into giving up England and going back to New York to roost on his couch. “If I left any lying around, Rachel and Lenora would have sniffed it out. I was saving them from an untimely death.”

  “A true hero.”

  “You’re missing the point. It’s a good cake. Penny knows it, which is why she only bakes one when someone is dead or she wants something. She’s like a postapocalyptic kingpin hoarding all the water reserves.”

  “England is making you weird.”

  “I hate to break it to you, brother dear, but I was weird long before I jumped across the pond.”

  He uses my confession of oddity to segue into what’s really bothering him. “Have you, uh, heard from Winnie lately?”

  Unlike my brother, I don’t need an excuse to draw our sister into the conversation. She’s a topic I would happily discuss to the ends of the earth and back again—which, to be honest, is what this walk is starting to feel like. “No, and I’m freaking out about it. She hasn’t said anything since Beast went missing.”

  “Your cat is missing?”

  “Yes. I’ve searched everywhere, but she’s disappeared—run away, or been kidnapped, or . . .” I trail off, my voice wavering as I try to quash the image of last night’s carnage. Beast couldn’t have been killed the same way. I’d feel it if she were. I’d know it. “I didn’t make the connection right away, but I can’t avoid it now. I think Winnie’s either gone to watch over the cat, or, and I know this sounds strange, she is the cat.”

  Another weighty pause greets me from the other end of the phone. For about twenty seconds, I’m afraid I’ve lost my cell phone connection—a thing that happens in these parts much more often than I’d like—but Liam eventually speaks up. “Has anyone else seen this animal? Like, touched it and can confirm its physical existence?”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Yes, Liam. She’s a flesh-and-blood animal. I have her rabies vaccination papers to prove it.”

  His sigh of relief is lost in the wind. This time, our connection really does start to crackle, so I sign off.

  “Don’t worry so much,” I say, though I’m not sure how much of it
he can hear—or how much he believes. “I’m getting oodles of fresh air these days thanks to the holes in my roof, and I’m a hundred pounds richer than I was yesterday. Things are looking positively optimistic around here.”

  It’s a bald-faced lie, but I don’t know what else to say. Besides, even though I don’t have a roof or a murderer or even much of a career, I do have suspects. Lewis’s erratic behavior and money troubles with his aunt place him at the top of my list. Penny’s up there, too, what with her obvious relief at Sarah’s death and the fact that she’s acting strange, throwing money and chocolate cake at me.

  As for the werewolf, well . . . It’s only Wednesday. There are still two more days before the full moon hits. I’m sure it will all be explained away before then.

  I’m so preoccupied with my thoughts that I don’t notice the car right away. I should notice it, since it’s bright teal and whizzes down the unpaved lane in a manner that can only be described as erratic. Although quite a few families around here have vehicles, it’s much more common to see the villagers on foot or traveling via bus. The roads are so terrible, it tends to be both faster and safer that way.

  The car proves it by thumping its front wheel against a particularly large stone working loose from the mud-soaked lane. The sound it makes, the wrenching of metal being ripped from the undercarriage, causes me to jump.

  “You really should slow down along these lanes,” I call, my voice sharper than I intend thanks to the adrenaline coursing through my veins. The car was never close enough to hit me, but with so much moisture rendering the road barely navigable, it came a lot nearer than it should have.

  The door pushes open and a man staggers out, his hand clutched to his head. It takes me a second to recognize the blood coursing from his temple; two to realize I’m looking at none other than Lewis King.

  It might seem strange that it takes me longer to recognize the man than the injury, but he’s reached such a state of disarray that he barely even looks human. His beard hasn’t been trimmed since I saw him yesterday, and his yellow eyes are sunken and bright. The rain and blood make it difficult to tell for certain, but it looks as though he’s perspiring heavily. A quick peek at his wrinkled shirt confirms it—the sweat stains are undeniable, as is that musky scent I’m coming to recognize as his natural body odor.

  “Lewis, are you all right?” I ask. Unwinding one of the scarves from around my person, I devise a makeshift pad and hold it out. “You don’t look so well.”

  “I’m f-fine,” he says, jumping away from my proffered first aid with a nervous start. “It’s this blasted c-car.”

  I’m no expert, but the blasted car is some kind of vintage sports model that looked, until it ran over that rock, to be in pristine condition.

  “It’s a nice car. Too nice for this weather. They keep a Land Rover up at the castle to make it over some of these roads.” Never one to let an opportunity go to waste, I add, “Did you drive her down from London? I thought you said before that you took the train.”

  A nervous, sweating wreck Lewis might be, but he’s no fool. His glance is sallow but sharp. “I did t-take the train. I always t-take the train. The train is all I can afford. This”—he breaks off to kick one of the tires—“is my b-brother’s car. You seem to know things. How much d-do you think it c-cost?”

  I’ve managed to get my wrapped shawl near enough to Lewis’s head to staunch the flow of blood, so I’m able to hide my surprise under the guise of industriousness. For him to bring up the topic of money—unprompted—is a stroke of luck I wasn’t expecting.

  “Cars aren’t really my forte, but if I had to guess . . . Twenty thousand?”

  His short laugh is meant to put me in my place. “Maybe n-now,” he says with a meaningful look at the torn metal.

  “He makes a good living working in television, doesn’t he?”

  An expression that can only be described as a glower descends upon his brow. “Y-yes.”

  “And you don’t, do you?” I fall into my Madame Eleanor voice—that soothing, soothsaying tone I’ve perfected over the years. It comes so naturally by now, it’s almost like falling into a trance. “You struggle for each penny, make each one stretch as far as you can, but it doesn’t matter. They never make it all the way. It must be difficult, watching your brother buy all the luxuries you can’t, knowing that even with your struggles, your aunt still preferred him to you.”

  A heavy resignation settles on his shoulders, making him look even more exhausted than before. I’m not proud of adding to his troubles, but that slump confirms the suspicion I just voiced aloud.

  “Were you coming to see me again?” I ask. “Is that why you were on this road? To finish our conversation?”

  He glances up and holds my gaze long enough for me to notice that his pupils are enlarged. Fear, I think. And a lot of it.

  “I’d like to help if I can,” I add.

  He hesitates for a long moment, balancing as if on the precarious edge of a fence. I wait, unwilling to push while he’s in such a state.

  “You’re an expert in w-witchcraft stuff, right?” he asks. “Like spells and c-curses?”

  He spits out that last word, as if merely by saying the word curse, he’s opening himself up to the possibility of one taking possession of him.

  “I don’t curse people, if that’s what you’re asking,” I reply. Especially not if he’s going to pick up his aunt’s thread about all that evil eye stuff. “But, yes, I’m familiar with the general practice thereof.”

  “What are the s-symptoms?”

  “The symptoms of being cursed?” I’m thrown for a momentary loop. Of all the strange questions I’ve been asked throughout the course of my career, this one has never crossed my path before. How to curse someone, sure. How to lift one that’s already there, of course. But in my experience, the only thing needed to diagnose one in the first place is a healthy imagination and a tendency toward hypochondria. “Well, it depends on the curse, I suppose. They’re all designed to do different things. For example, do you want someone to feel pain? Have a run of bad luck? Fall under your control?”

  “You c-can control someone?”

  “Theoretically, yes.” Sensing another opportunity to mine for information, I add, “But there’s a limit to what you can force another human being to do. Mystical powers can influence a person, but they can’t make you do anything you wouldn’t normally do. For example, I can’t make you put poison in your aunt’s coffee, and I can’t make you steal your brother’s car and run it off the road—at least, not unless those were things you were already contemplating doing.”

  Each accusation I level at Lewis’s head has the effect of turning him even paler and sweatier than he was before. Nerves can account for excessive perspiration, but it’s so cold out here I’m starting to lose feeling in my toes. This man must be carrying a monstrous burden of guilt to be heating up like that.

  “Aunt S-Sarah never drank c-coffee,” he says.

  “Perhaps not,” I allow, “but this is your brother’s car, and it’s currently standing in a watery ditch. That makes you one for two.”

  He gives a spasmodic twitch. “Are you g-going to tell him?” he asks. Of the two accusations, he seems the most preoccupied with the latter, which I find strange. Automotive theft carries a much shorter prison sentence than premeditated murder.

  “I don’t know your brother very well, but I imagine he’ll be able to see the damage and come to a fairly accurate conclusion.” Both pity and a strong desire to get out of this rain prompt me to add, “Would you like me to drive you back to the village? I can take the long way, and we can have that talk you wanted. Better yet, you could relax and take a nap. . . .”

  “A n-nap?” A spasm overtakes him, causing him to jerk away and toss my shawl back at me. “Now? Are you k-kidding? There’s too much to d-do and not enough t-time until—”

  “Until?” I prompt. There are several ways I can think to conclude that sentence, each one more interesting
than the last.

  Until the police come to the natural and inevitable conclusion that I murdered my aunt.

  Until I manage to flee the country with my brother’s car and life savings.

  Until the full moon and my transformation is complete.

  But it’s too late. Apparently deciding he’s said too much, Lewis turns around and squelches back to the car. I’d feel sorry for him, what with the weight of his aunt’s death on his shoulders and the disfavor of the entire village at his back, but he doesn’t even think to offer me a lift.

  Then again, maybe it’s best not to get in a car with that man right now. Not only has he confirmed that his financial struggles are a very solid, very real source of agony in his life, but his agitation only grows as he starts up the car and revs the engine in an attempt to pull out of the slog. The poor guy. I can’t help but feel it’ll be a wonder if he makes it back to the village without accidentally running that car off a cliff.

  But then his wheels finally grip the road, casting showers of mud into the air before splattering them upon my head, and I almost wish he will.

  * * *

  “Don’t ask.” I sit delicately on the end of the library chair, careful lest the mud covering nine-tenths of my body transfer itself to the upholstery. The only way the librarian at the front desk would even let me in was by my solemn promise that I wouldn’t touch anything. “It’s been that kind of day.”

  Rachel makes a cluck of sympathy from the other side of the research table. I scheduled today’s meeting at the library to avoid having to buy another one of those extravagant high teas, but that was before my hundred-pound windfall. I shouldn’t spend the money Penny gave me, I know, but I’ve soothed my conscience by promising I’ll only use the funds to help solve Sarah’s murder. Whatever is agitating Penny is clearly tied up in it.

  Besides, she still might end up being the killer. In that case, it would be a crime not to accept the payment and bring her to justice. Right?

  Despite the lack of tea service, Lenora came prepared. She extracts several candy bars from her backpack and lines them up in the middle of the table. Since there’s also an enormous stack of books on wolves, British wildlife, and railway timetables, I let the candy slide.