Potions Are for Pushovers

by Tamara Berry

  She’s perplexed by this command, but she nods a solemn agreement. Mrs. Brennigan agrees, too, her protective arm going around the girl’s shoulder. I don’t like leaving Lenora alone—not like this, not when I still have one last thing to do—but I trust Mrs. Brennigan to hold her fast.

  “I still have to make my statement,” I apologize as I step inside the door to the police station, which is buzzing with all its late-night activity. Between potential murderers being hauled in for questioning, a kidnapping victim being released from a greenhouse, and Richard King getting carried from his car in a stretcher with restraints holding him down, they’re rather busy. “I’m sure we’ll all find the closure we seek soon.”

  I leave the villagers to their low-murmured variations of “I’d never believe it of Oona MacDougal” and “I always knew there was something off about her” and head inside. Inspector Piper is expecting me, his hip against the counter and an aura of pained acceptance about him.

  “Well, Ms. Wilde?”

  I shake my head. “He’s not here yet. I can’t imagine what’s keeping him. Actually, I can imagine it, which is what has me worried. Do you think—?”

  “It’s a likely possibility.” He tilts his head toward the back, where the interrogation room once again waits for me. This time, however, I’m not the one who’s being questioned.

  “Where’s Lenora?” Oona demands the moment I walk through the door. She looks much as she always does, neat and precise, her features sharp, but there are dark circles under her eyes that seem to be growing by the minute. Getting hit over the head with a hoe will do that to a person, even though I did it as gently as I could. “And George? Are they being looked after? Who has them?”

  “Mrs. Brennigan has Lenora, but we still haven’t seen George,” I say.

  She makes as if to bolt up out of her chair, but a look from Inspector Piper has her staying put. “Around what time did your husband take him?”

  She casts a bewildered look around the room. “I don’t know. Seven o’clock or so—when the search party started. I picked up Lenora from Castle Hartford, and Ian took George.” Her bewildered look takes a decidedly nasty turn as it points at me. “We wanted to help find Eleanor as soon as possible and thought it would be best to split up.”

  Inspector Piper coughs. “Yes, well. Technically, you did find her. Or, rather, she found you.”

  “What are you going to do to me?” Oona asks.

  “As of right now, nothing but ask you to be patient,” he says. “Ms. Wilde believes that having you here would be the best way to draw your husband out, and I’m inclined to agree. Considering the lengths to which he went to preserve his reputation in this community, he’ll most likely be here demanding your release at any moment.”

  “No he won’t,” Oona says sadly. “He doesn’t care about me at all. I’m beginning to think he never did.”

  In this, however, Oona is mistaken. As if on cue, Ian MacDougal’s slightly lilting burr sounds in the distance. “What’s going on here? Why is my wife being detained?”

  “George,” Oona asks with a pleading look my way. “See if he has George.”

  I nod and slip out the door before Inspector Piper has a chance to tell me to stay put. He hasn’t been too pleased with my handling of the situation thus far, but there’s no denying that I already hand delivered him one criminal. Richard King confessed to knowing of and benefiting from his aunt’s blackmail scheme within minutes of being detained.

  As for the other criminal, well, he’s not in handcuffs yet, but he will be soon. Especially since it looks as though two of the larger officers on the force have just blocked off the front door.

  Ian MacDougal stands in the middle of the police precinct with George, one hand resting heavily on his son’s shoulder. My first priority is to make sure that little boy will get through this in one piece and live to tear the wings off of dozens of flies, so I put on a smile as I approach.

  “Thank goodness you’re here, Ian,” I say in a deceptively breathless voice. “Oona’s been asking for you since they brought her in. Hello, George. Would you like to come check out the vending machine with me? They have three different kinds of onion crisps.”

  George’s face lights up at the prospect of this simple treat. “Can I have all three?” he asks and, without waiting for an answer, “I’m glad you’re not dead, Madame Eleanor.”

  “I’m glad too,” I say. I prepare to walk him back to the vending machine to ply him with onions and potatoes in hopes of easing the sting of having a parent who’s a murderer, but Oona ruins it by appearing in the doorway.

  “George, thank goodness you’re all right!” she cries and drops to her knees before him.

  The boy looks highly embarrassed to be embraced and smothered with affection in front of so many police officers, but he accepts the kisses on his cheeks with an air of one resigned to his fate. It’s that, more than anything, that tells me my instincts were spot on.

  Well, that and the fact that Lenora has been confiding all of Oona’s similar crimes to me over the past week. Forcing her to drink beet and spinach smoothies. Wishing she’d choose to apprentice at the clinic with her instead of with a witch. Pushing her into friendship with a girl who shares her interests and intelligence. Casting herself in the role of bad guy by taking away the Book of Shadows because, well, Satanism.

  Oona MacDougal is hardly a soft woman, but she is a good one.

  And a smart one. Too smart to poison Lewis King with a substance she knew would be counteracted by atropine, anyway. As his doctor, she had to have known better than anyone that aconitum would never work on him.

  Her husband, however . . .

  “Ian MacDougal, you are under arrest for the murder of Sarah Blackthorne and attempted murder of Lewis King.”

  Moving as one, Oona and I usher George out of the room and toward the vending machines. There are some things a child should never have to witness firsthand. The arrest of his father is one of them.

  “How’s your head?” I ask as I dig around in my purse for all the spare change I have before handing it to Oona. Police station snacks don’t come cheap.

  “It hurts. How’s yours? If I’d have known you were just going to rip all those stitches out, I wouldn’t have been so careful with them.”

  I wince and turn to face Oona, an apology hanging from my lips. She sees it and gives George several bags of the potato crisps with instructions to take them over to the corner, where he can enjoy them as far away from her as possible. “I hate the way the onion ones smell,” she explains to me, but we both know that’s a lie. She just wants George out of the way while we talk.

  In addition to a good woman, she’s also a good mom. A great one, probably.

  “What’s going to happen to them?” I ask. “After Ian is arrested, I mean?”

  She seems surprised by my question. “Nothing, I imagine. It won’t be easy, getting them past this, but they’re resilient. George will probably either turn to stealing candy from the local pick-and-mix or setting fire to anthills. Lenora’s rebellion will most likely take the form of following a certain psychic around town and trying to sell potions to unsuspecting villagers. That’ll be fun for both of us.”

  I can’t help chuckling at the picture thus conjured—especially since I suspect she’s right. The laughter doesn’t linger, though. “You’re sure you’ll keep custody of them?” I ask. It’s the one thing that’s been worrying me the most. With their biological mother dead and a father in prison, they’ll most likely become government wards.

  “Absolutely. I’d like to see anyone try to take my children away from me.”

  “Your children?” I echo.

  “Well, of course they’re mine. They always have been. I legally adopted them the day Ian and I were married.”

  At my continued look of bemusement, Oona shakes her head. “Have I shocked you? And here I thought the Great Madame Eleanor was on to everything. The children are the only reason I stayed as long
as I did. It certainly wasn’t for Ian. He never would have let me take them with me, even if he didn’t particularly want them for himself. He only cared how it reflected on him.”

  I can’t help thinking of what Nicholas said about Ian—that he’s a weak man, a small one, one who would never stack up to the woman he married, and who probably resented her for it every day of his life. It seems he was more astute regarding their relationship than I was.

  I’m beginning to think he’s more astute about our relationship, too.

  “He was so determined to bury our problems, to save face in the community even when Sarah kept demanding more blackmail money out of him,” Oona continues. “You overheard our argument that day at the house. You know.”

  Actually, I know nothing of the sort. I’d been so sure that the topic under discussion was me and my role as Lenora’s mentor that it hadn’t occurred to me to dig deeper. How’s that for myopia?

  “He’d spent all our savings by that point.” She heaves a sigh. “I think that’s why he resorted to poisoning poor Sarah and her nephew. I wouldn’t give him another penny—mostly because I don’t have any more. That big house, the perfect façade . . . Ian insisted. He always insisted. But he couldn’t keep it up without me. That was the arrangement you overheard us discussing.”

  “You gave him the perfect wife,” I say.

  She nods sadly. “And he gave me my children.”

  I’m not sure what to say to that, so it’s just as well that George takes advantage of the momentary lull in conversation. “I’m thirsty,” he calls from his snack corner.

  “Of course you are. You just ate six times your daily sodium allowance.” Oona sighs. “Do you have any more change, Eleanor? I didn’t think to grab my purse before you knocked me unconscious.”

  I wince. “Sorry about that. I couldn’t think of how else to get you in here. I wasn’t sure you’d believe me if I told you I suspected your husband of murder.”

  “You might have been surprised. I learned a long time ago that Ian MacDougal wasn’t the man I thought he was. I should have known something was off when our cat died like that.”

  “Died?” I ask with a careful look to make sure George isn’t listening in. “But I thought . . .”

  “That he disappeared? That was another lie we told the world, but at least it came from a good place.” She grimaces, as if remembering. “Rather, I thought it was a good place at the time. We wanted to protect the children. I found the poor thing about a month ago under one of the rosebushes. He used to go tomcatting around Margaret Piper’s garden—I remember sending Ian to investigate, to see if any of her poisons looked nibbled on. That must have been what sparked the idea to kill Sarah Blackthorne.”

  I think about all the other missing animals, of the werewolf scampering over the countryside last night with fresh carnage in its hands before it lured me toward the cliff’s edge. “Do you think he would have tested the poison . . . ?” I begin, too horrified to continue.

  “On other people’s pets? Yes, unfortunately. Ian has a lot of qualities I don’t admire, but he’s not the sort to rush into something without knowing what he’s getting into. Especially once he found that it wasn’t working on Lewis.” She levels me with a careful stare. “Take my word for it and hold on to a good man the moment you find him. They’re not so plentiful that you should take them for granted.”

  I can’t pretend to misunderstand her. “It’s not like that with me and Nicholas.”

  “No?” she asks. “You could have fooled me. He’s the one who took over the search party from Annis—he had the whole village organized within minutes. I’ve never seen anything like it. In my line of work, I’ve witnessed a lot of men worried for their partners’ well-being, but never one as grim and determined as that one. If everyone hadn’t immediately come to your aid the moment they heard, I have no doubt he would have torn the countryside apart with his hands trying to find you.”

  “No, really—” I begin, unsure which part of that I’m objecting to. Nicholas coming to my rescue or the fact that I can’t believe the village came together for anything but my untimely demise.

  “He loves you, Eleanor. The whole village does. Those aren’t gifts you want to take lightly. People die for that kind of thing.” An inexpressibly sad look takes over her expression, and I don’t have the heart to contradict her. “People kill.”

  Chapter 21

  For a man who supposedly loves me, Nicholas proves difficult to track down.

  It’s officially midnight by the time I approach my house, the moon luminous and full overhead, but I don’t feel the least bit like dancing. Not only does every bone in my body ache after the day’s events, but I’m feeling unaccountably depressed by the way things have turned out.

  I should be elated—I’ve solved the murder, found my place in the village, and made a new friend. Even the news about Lewis King is positive. According to the latest hospital reports, he should make a full, if painful, recovery.

  But there’s no denying that Oona’s sad story has left a gaping hole in my heart. Not just for her children, who are going to have a lot to deal with as more of the facts surrounding the case become known, but for all those who had to die along the way—human- and animal-kind alike.

  “Oh, Beast,” I say as I near my back door. “Will I ever see you again? Or did you fall victim to Ian MacDougal, too?”

  “I thought I told you to come see me the moment you finished tonight.”

  I scream and whirl as a male voice accosts me from near the garden wall. Although I know in an instant that it’s Nicholas—the soothing sound of his clipped baritone is unmistakable—I can’t help holding a hand to my rapidly beating heart.

  “What are you doing, standing around like that in the dark?” I demand. “Do you have any idea what I’ve gone through tonight?”

  “No, but from the look of you, it can’t have been pleasant. Are there more stitches on your face now?”

  There are. Before I left the station, Oona patched me back up again—this time with the addition of three more stitches along my brow. They hurt a lot more the second go-around, but she promises that I won’t look completely haggard once they’re gone.

  “It was Ian MacDougal,” I say. “He’s the one who murdered Sarah.”

  Nicholas nods as though that makes perfect sense.

  “And a little bit of Richard King, too. He’s the one who kidnapped me.”

  He nods at that, too, his calm acceptance of the news doing much to settle my nerves. So, too, does the way he offers me the crook of his arm and tilts his head toward the field out behind my cottage. It’s a ridiculous thing to do, to take me out for a casual midnight stroll after everything that’s happened, but I accept his escort anyway.

  “Where are we going?” I ask as he adapts his long, lean stride to match my own faltering steps. At this rate, he’ll probably have to carry me back. “I don’t mean to be rude, but what I really want right now is a hot bath and my bed.”

  “Even more than you want me?” he asks archly.

  “Well, yes,” I admit. “By, like, a really big margin at the moment.”

  Over the low sound of his chuckle, another voice sounds. This one is lighter, softer, and oh so familiar. Silly Ellie, it says, ringing out clearly in the night. Always so practical.

  I start. I know better by now than to be the least bit surprised to hear my sister’s voice carried on the wind, but I can’t help it. “Winnie, you perfect wretch!” I cry, heedless of the fact that Nicholas is watching me. “I could have used you a hundred times this past week. Where have you been?”

  She doesn’t answer. I’m tempted to stop walking—and talking and eating and sleeping—until she speaks up again, but Nicholas gives a mild cough and answers for her.

  “I believe you’ll find her out in the stables.”

  “The stables?”

  “It was one of the first places I looked when you went missing.” His voice is gruff. “I’d appreciate it if
you wouldn’t do that again, by the way. I find I didn’t care for it.”

  “I didn’t care too much for it, either,” I mutter, but I can’t help the way my footsteps feel suddenly light, my heart even lighter. “I’m sorry you were worried. I didn’t expect anyone to kidnap me in broad daylight.”

  “That’s because you’ve always underestimated your effect on people. Come on. It’s only a little ways from here.”

  There’s so much I want to say to Nicholas, so much I want to ask him, but none of the words feel right. From the tales Oona told, I have Nicholas to thank for saving me today. He organized the villagers and spearheaded the search after Annis put out the call. He took to the hills to find me no matter what the cost.

  To look at him, however, you’d think he did nothing more than read a few newspapers before changing his shirt for dinner. He’s calm and collected, not the least bit ruffled as he leads me out under the full moon to the sound of my dead sister’s voice.

  In other words, he accepts me as I am. The murders and the kidnappings, the head wounds and the voices from beyond the grave—none of it ruffles him. They’re part of who I am, which means he embraces them without question.

  I want at least one of them to be named after me, my sister says, interrupting me before I can corral my thoughts into words. And not the weird little one, either. You can name that one after Liam.

  Once again, she floats away into the distance. I don’t mind as much this time because we’ve drawn within view of the stables. It’s a much shorter trip now that there are no hunched Ian MacDougals in the distance, carrying off his poisonous evidence and leading me over cliffs.

  “In the third stall on the right,” Nicholas says as we approach the cavernous opening. There must have once been a door there, but it’s since fallen off the hinges to leave nothing but a moldering pile of wood and debris. Most of the stables are like that, actually, an architectural hazard as decrepit as it is beautiful. “I’ll wait out here and keep your sister company. Come find me when you’re done.”