The Magic of Murder

by Susan Lynn Solomon

  I turned my back. “I had to clean up.”

  “You could’ve waited till morning. I would’ve helped.”

  “Didn’t need help.”

  He shook his head. “You’re hopeless, you know that?”

  “Come into the kitchen,” I said. “I’ll get us something to drink.”

  He went into the living room instead, setting the stool back on its legs as he passed it. “How did you fix the window?” he asked.

  “I called Fred Silbert.”

  He stormed into my kitchen, and stood, hands on his hips, glaring at me. “Didn’t I tell you not to let anyone in?”

  “It was just Fred,” I said.

  He took me by my shoulders. “Until we catch the guy, you can’t trust anyone. You hear me?”

  It was hard to be annoyed with a man who worried this much about me. I suppressed a smile, and brushed past him, carrying the pizza to the living room. When I placed it on the coffee table, I said, “Make yourself comfortable. Turn on the TV. There must be a ballgame of some kind on. I’ll get plates and be right back.”

  The next thing I heard was a multitude of voices cheering from my living room. Someone must have done something good, I thought.

  “The Sabres scored!” he called to me. Or maybe he said it to the television.

  When I returned to the living room, I saw Roger on the sofa, his shoes off, his legs stretched out on the coffee table. Elvira was curled up next to him, her mouth turned up in contentment. I circled the table, and settled next to him with my hand on his chest and my head on my hand.

  He leaned over, stroked my cheek, and kissed my forehead.

  A soft purr floated up from the sofa. It didn’t come from the cat.

  This is sort of nice, I thought. I could get used to this.

  And maybe get used to where it might lead?

  Chapter Eleven

  Sarah’s Book of Shadows

  After some minutes of prolonged kisses and thoughts about perhaps continuing this upstairs, I pushed away from Roger, and shook my head. “I can’t do this,” I said. I wanted to go on kissing him. More than kiss him. I couldn’t. Damn Kevin for leaving me in this twixt-and-tween state!

  Roger understood my struggle. “It’s okay,” he whispered, and kissed me once more.

  I moved to my oversized chair with a slice of pizza and a glass of beer. He again rested his feet on the table.

  I have no idea who won the hockey game. The stress of the day caught up with me. With my legs pulled up and my eyes drooping, I nodded off. The next thing I knew, it was morning. I awoke to soft snores instead of to my alarm clock. Roger was stretched out on the sofa under my afghan, with Elvira still curled up next to him.

  It took me two tries to sit up. One reason was because my muscles were stiff from sleeping in a chair. The other reason I struggled: I was covered by the rose-colored quilt from my bed. Either I had walked in my sleep, taken the cover and, deciding the chair was a comfortable spot to finish the night, returned downstairs. Or more likely, Roger, bless him, had fetched the quilt so I wouldn’t be cold.

  At last able to untangle myself, I slogged to the kitchen to put up coffee. Then I stumbled upstairs to the bathroom to brush my teeth—I didn’t want to greet my hero with morning breath.

  Ten minutes later I was back downstairs, ready to straighten out the living room. When I reached for the pizza box, I froze. On the table, next to Roger’s empty beer bottles, was Sarah Goode’s book.

  My hand went to my mouth. What had I been thinking? Clearly I hadn’t been. If I had, I wouldn’t have left the book on my desk where he could find it. Damn! It was one thing to tell Roger of my heritage. Detectives demand evidence and I’d given him only words. He’d marked those off to my being scared silly. I had an out. Now he had seen the evidence, and because of his total disbelief in the power of magic, he must have concluded the Goodes, from first to last, were loonies.

  While I stood, eyes unfocused, imagining what my life would be like after he drove me to the Buffalo Asylum, I heard his sleepy voice say, “That makes for interesting reading.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic.

  Elvira leaped from the sofa, turned, and glared at Roger. It was as if she told him, Don’t you dare say anything derogatory about Sarah!

  I can only imagine the five or six shades of red of my face turned. “It…it’s about my family,” I stammered.

  He sat up, rubbed his eyes. “Quite an ancestor you have.”

  I waited to see where he would go with this.

  He glanced at the front window Fred Silbert repaired. “Plants and hoodoo,” he muttered. His head tilted, one brow raised and one eye closed, he added, “You don’t really think that stuff will protect you?”

  Feeling like a schoolgirl who’d been called to the principal’s office, I began to nod but stopped.

  As if to say, Damn right it will! Elvira finished my nod.

  “Come on Emlyn, this isn’t a Harry Potter story,” Roger said. “And you’re not a child.”

  I pulled at the waistband of my pajamas (I’d been in my PJs yesterday when I ran from my house, and one thing or another, I hadn’t gotten dressed since).

  He reached for my hand.

  I pulled back, grabbed Sarah’s book, and held it to my breast.

  “You’re pouting?” Shaking his head, he laughed. “What am I gonna do with you?”

  ‘Gotta love me’, would have been the obvious answer. But at the moment, nothing was obvious. Even if it were, the thought of how nice it might be if he did love me, left me mute.

  He leaned forward with his hands in his lap. His posture was supposed to convey the idea his next pronouncement would be entirely reasonable. “The only thing that’ll keep you safe,” he said, “is for us to catch the guy who killed Jimmy.”

  I finally found my voice. “I agree.”

  “You do?” He sounded surprised I’d given in so easily. Then, as if struck by the thought my compliance came too easily, his eyes became slits. “What’s going on in your mind?”

  “I said I agree with you, and I do. The only way I’ll be safe is if Jimmy’s killer gets caught.” I held out Sarah Goode’s book. “So, Woody will go about it his way, and I’ll go about it mine.”

  He stood up to his full six foot height. His turtleneck sweater and brown slacks were creased. “Emlyn—”

  “Coffee’s ready,” I said. “I’ll get you some.”

  “Emlyn,” he said again, drawing my name out even further.

  Still holding the book, I turned on my heels, strode to the kitchen, and poured coffee into two mugs.

  “You take milk and three spoons of sugar?” I stirred them into his mug.

  For a minute, I stood at the sink, gazing out the window. Another overcast day. Cars crawled through the slush on River Road.

  Roger came up behind me so quietly in his stocking feet, I bumped into him and nearly spilled his coffee when I turned around.

  “Sit. Drink this while it’s hot,” I said. I’m sure I sounded far braver than I felt.

  When we were both settled at the round dinette table, I said, “I don’t know what information Woody’s got. Whatever he knows, he’s not moving fast enough. Look at what happened yesterday. If it weren’t for you, I might be dead now.”

  “Not really,” Roger said. “That Molotov cocktail was so poorly made, you would’ve stomped the fire out before it did real damage. Still, why give the killer another chance to get you?” He blew the steam from his coffee and sipped it.

  “Yesterday I wasn’t doing anything and someone tried to kill me. Who’s to say the killer won’t get me even if I stay locked in my house?”

  I mimed throwing a Molotov cocktail through my window. “If I’m gonna get killed, I’d rather it happen while I’m doing something about it.”

  He peered at me while he formulated a response.

  I didn’t give him a chance. Pushing the leather-covered book across the dinette table, I said, “That’s
what Sarah would have done.”

  He shoved the book away, as if he might be stung by a swarm of hornets if it got too near.

  “If you read it, you’ll know I’m right.”

  He put down his mug, and raised his hands in mock surrender. “You’re impossible.”

  I smiled at him. “That depends on your perspective, doesn’t it? From where I sit, Sarah’s approach seems like my best defense.”

  He stretched his arm over Sarah’s book to take my hand. “If you insist on doing this, I’m going after the killer my way.”

  The big guy had just one-upped me. He’d told me if I used magic, he’d use a gun.

  “You can’t,” I argued. “Woody will have your badge.”

  “Not if the guy can’t talk when Woody finds him.”

  I stared at Roger. Was he serious? Had I given him an excuse to disobey his boss? My stomach began to churn.

  His face broke into a smile.

  I let out my breath. He was playing with me.

  Making his voice sound like an old-time gangster, he said, “Okay, copper, where you gonna start?”

  I stared at him with my mouth open. He wasn’t playing. He wanted to teach me a lesson and he was right. I hadn’t thought further ahead than reading more of Sarah’s book to get some ideas. I didn’t have time for reading today, though. With a glance at the clock nailed to the soffit over my sink, I pushed back from the table. “I’ll figure out where to start later,” I said. “I’ve got to get to Main Street Books. I have a book signing in two hours.

  “You’re gonna put yourself in the middle of a crowd of strangers?” He sounded shocked. “I know the store.”

  “You do, huh?”

  “Hey, I read.” Now he sounded as though I’d insulted him.

  Might as well really do it. “Do tell?” I said.

  “Yeah. And I even buy books. That’s why I don’t want you at Main Street Books. Someone hiding behind one of their stacks could pick you off at his leisure.”

  I hitched up my pajama bottoms. “I promised I’d do the signing.”

  “And you never break a promise?”

  I stuck my chin out. “Never.”

  He sighed, and rose from the table. His square jaw set, he said, “Let’s go then.”

  “Where?”

  “I’m going with you.” His tone said he’d brook no argument.

  I snapped my waistband. “Think I ought to get dressed first?”

  With a toothy grin, his eyes traced my body from my toes to my face. “I don’t know. I’ve kind of gotten used to seeing you this way.”

  I planted a playful slap on his cheek. “Pig.”

  He laughed. “Nah. I’m just a guy watching a good-looking dame.”

  As I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, he called after me, “Might not be a bad idea, you being out there. If the guy kills you, I might catch him. Do that, Woody can’t get pissed at me for working the case—I’ll tell him you invited me to your book signing.”

  I hung onto the banister at the top of the stairs, and thought, Great, I’ve set myself up to be bait.

  Chapter Twelve

  Main Street Books

  The book store has been on Main Street for as long as I remember. With an oval window in an old-fashioned door set between green painted pillars, the shop is in the center of a block several miles north of the carnival atmosphere summer brings to the American side of Niagara Falls. Harold Anaison used to own this shop. Everyone called him Uncle Harry. When I was a child, my mother took me to Main Street Books after church most Sundays. That’s when Uncle Harry would read about Barbar the Elephant King, Eloise’s exploits at the Plaza, and a large cat in a striped hat causing rainy-day mischief. When I was five years-old, those stories transported me to a world of fantasy. By age six, I decided to become a writer. Or, as my agent terms it, a professional liar.

  Uncle Harry’s grandson, Zack, runs the shop now. At five foot eight, he isn’t much taller than I. His hair is prematurely gray, and his face is pale, long, and smooth. I imagine this is what a bookworm must look like. In fact, Bookworm Anaison is what the kids used to call Zack when we were in third grade.

  Wearing jeans and a light blue thermal vest, Zack greeted me at the door with a hug (he’d long ago forgiven me for my childhood taunting). He kept up a constant line of chatter about the latest works by Nicholas Sparks, Nora Roberts, and Sue Grafton, while he led us past dusty rows of crowded shelves and tables piled so high with books, a single sneeze would surely have caused them to cascade like the Niagara River over the Falls. Next to me, Roger’s head swiveled from side to side. He seemed the image of a man who’d never seen a place such as this.

  Halfway between the door and the back of the store, I saw Amy Woodward browsing through discount books on one of the tables. I was surprised to find her there. Though a bright woman—she was valedictorian of her high school class—from what I’d seen of her in recent years, her reading consisted of no more than thumbing through copies of Woman’s Day while waiting to check out at the supermarket. I smiled, waved to her.

  She lifted her head. Her almond-shaped eyes glanced past me, as if looking at someone who’d just come through the door.

  “Hi,” I called.

  At last she waved back. “I, uh…came to hear you read.” She pulled a copy of my book from her bag, and held it up.

  My smile broadened into a wide grin. While the detective chief’s wife was a practiced hostess, she’d never struck me as particularly friendly. But she’d made a point of standing beside me at Jimmy’s funeral, and now she was here. Maybe she’s finally warming up, I thought.

  Zack touched my arm. “We oughta get started,” he said.

  I waived again to Mrs. Woodward. “See you upstairs.”

  She nodded, and began to leaf through a book she picked up.

  So much for her warming up, I thought.

  As I came abreast of an aisle between bookshelves, I heard my name whispered. I stopped.

  Again I heard a whispered, “Emlyn!”

  I peered down the dim aisle to where an overhead light marked a break in the row. A head poked from behind one of the bookcases. Kevin’s head. His face was paler than it had been when he sat in my living room the day before yesterday, and he sounded out of breath.

  “I’m in trouble, Em. Need your help,” he whispered.

  “What’s the holdup?” Roger said. He put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Everything okay?” Zack was now on the other side of me.

  “Kevin,” I said, and pointed to where I’d seen him.

  It took Roger only a second to scoot down the aisle. He soon returned shaking his head. “No one there.”

  I heard the bell on the shop door tinkle as the door opened then slammed shut. I spun around in time to see my ex’s shabby gray overcoat through the window. His head low, Kevin dashed down the street.

  Back at my side, Roger asked, “What did he want?”

  “I don’t know. He said he was in trouble.”

  My eyes darted from the door to the aisle where Kevin had been. Call it a moment of prescience; call it a remnant of the divination spell I had tried. Whatever the cause, I felt as though Kevin showing up at Main Street Books didn’t bode well for me.

  Zack’s eyes flicked from me to Roger then back again, as if he were trying to figure out what just happened. He tugged at his vest, wiped his hands on the back of his jeans. “Um, folks are waiting for us upstairs,” he said.

  Roger hung back for a moment. I knew he was trying to decide whether to chase after my ex. Finally, he said, “Yeah, we should get this over with.”

  Zack gave me a knowing smile. It appeared as though he took Roger’s remark as a statement from someone who didn’t care much for literature, but was grudgingly here to support me.

  At the rear of the shop, we passed through a doorway and climbed a flight of stairs to a meeting room that spanned the length and width of the store. In front of the large windows on the Main Street side of the
room, a semi-circle of chairs surrounded a blond-wood table. Copies of my latest short story collection were stacked in two piles on the end of the table. From the doorway, I gazed around, flattered to see what looked to be more than fifty chairs filled.

  These are my people, I thought, and my apprehension dwindled. For the moment I was able to shove Kevin from my mind. In fact, I was able to shove everything aside: Jimmy’s murder, the killer I’d envisioned, the attempt to burn my house.

  As I strolled to the desk, I noticed Jennifer Ryan and her husband, Sean, in the fourth row. I stopped next to Jen, leaned down, and whispered, “I can’t believe you came. How’s your mom?”

  She gave me a sad smile.

  It was Sean who answered. “Marge is doing about as well as you might expect.”

  When I glanced at him, it struck me how much he resembled the young James Stewart in After the Thin Man. It was an early film from before the time Stewart drew top billing, and one of the few times he played the bad guy.

  Jennifer twisted her wedding ring. “Mom didn’t feel up to leaving the house yet,” she said, “but she wanted me…” her eyes turned toward her husband “…uh, us to be here for you.”

  I noticed a bruise on her wrist. “Jen, you’ve hurt yourself.” I thought back to the bruise I’d seen beneath her eye after her father’s funeral.

  She glanced at the red mark. “Oh, that—” She shrugged. “I banged it on a counter at Mom’s house.”

  Sean stroked her hair. “That’s my wife. Clumsy.”

  Who did Sean think he was kidding? I looked toward Roger. This wasn’t the time to tell him what I suspected. I’d tell him later. I gave Jen’s cheek a peck and moved on.

  “Thank you all for braving the weather to be here,” I said as I slid onto a seat behind the table.

  I saw Roger’s head turn as he scanned the room, making note of the people who had come to hear me read. I presumed he wanted to decide if anyone appeared poised to commit murder and mayhem. Apparently satisfied there wasn’t a mortar or an assault rifle tucked into someone’s belt, he settled on a chair near the door.