"I don't know who would want to kill a simple factory worker," he mused sadly. "It would take a lot of magic to leave such a trace. Someone must have hated him." He looked up at the two, regaining some control. "I suppose it's your job to find out."
"Oh, not ours, sir. It sounds like it'll be passed on to detectives, and maybe magic experts." Miles leaned forward, gripping his shoulder, looking into his gaze. "You sure you're okay, sir?"
"Oh, yes. I'm fine." He squeezed the lad's fingers absently. Even these held freckles. He remembered the bane of such skin from his youth, when he'd been out in the sun a great deal and freckled painfully. "I can give you something for those freckles."
Miles drew back, blushing painfully hard again. "I—that's all right, sir." He scraped a hand back through his hair, scuffing up its short, messy length. "We—we'll fill out the paperwork for your consultation and m-make sure the department pays you. We won't keep you any longer, will we, Jan?" He snatched up the sachet, grabbed his partner by the elbow and pushed him towards the door. "Stop it! It's not funny!"
Lanstrom was clearly trying hard not to laugh, but his eyes danced with a teasing, mocking light.
Ah, they were such boys. Even a death couldn't dim their spirits for long. Of course, they'd probably never met Teddy Johnson, the pug-faced, quiet father of one, who never talked about the children he and his wife had lost before birth.
He'd been a gentle man, for all his face looked like a mashed-in fireplug. A gentle man who couldn't read, who'd deferred to his wife's judgment in all things that required math or words, a man who'd saved his money judiciously so his son could attend a good school…and then paid for his wife's funeral by taking extra hours at the factory. He'd never complained, not once. He always said he was doing fine….
Peter put his head in his hands and wept. Magic left its users sensitive—sometimes too sensitive. It was not as though he and Teddy had been family, or friends, or meant anything to one another except for being neighborly; but Teddy hadn't deserved to die. His life had been difficult, but he'd been so proud of his son in college, and he'd fed the stray cats in the neighborhood, his warm heart tending to them as he would have to all the children he'd never had.
And someone had killed him, with a painful, terrible magic that left a scar here, enough of one so that it had almost hurt to touch the sachet.
The doorbell tinkled. He turned away quickly and swiped at the tears sliding down his face, trying to hide the evidence. But it was too late.
"Peter! Hey, are you all right?" Lee came bounding over, his voice frightened and his steps quick.
Lee. Why did it have to be Lee? He would see Peter at his weakest now and despise him. Many people who didn't have magic did end up despising those who did, with their abilities and sensitivities.
"Oh, whatever's wrong?" Lee didn't sound full of disgust, just distressed and concerned. He gripped Peter's shoulder.
In spite of himself, Peter found the touch calming. He took a deep breath. "Someone has killed Teddy. With magic."
Lee gasped and jerked back. "Teddy? No! Who would do such a thing?" He sat down heavily on the desk. "Are—are you certain?"
Peter thought about it. "Yes," he said quietly. "The police will be investigating, probably soon." He drew out his handkerchief and discreetly blew his nose.
"Why would someone possibly kill him? He didn't have money, and he never hurt a fly."
"I know." He reluctantly turned to face Lee, knowing his face must be blotchy and red, but unable to hide any longer. "It's…it's very…" He coughed into his fist, trying not to tear up again. "I'm—I'm terribly sorry…"
"No, don't be. What sort of bastard would I be if I thought less of you for caring?" He gripped Peter's shoulder tightly, his lips parting, his gaze intense, looking like he wanted to say something more. Then he sprang to his feet. "Where's the coffeepot today? Let me make you something to drink."
Peter blew his nose again. "It's over there, by the sink."
"Oh. How perfectly logical." He bustled around with beans and water and the heating element.
"Why did you drop by?" Peter watched him work with quick, sure movements like a precise dance, even when he was working in an unfamiliar space.
"You know, I can't even remember." He turned back to Peter and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. "Do you think we could help find out who killed him and why?"
He considered it—for all of five seconds. "No, I don't think they'd welcome our interference. Ten to one it'll be round the neighborhood before tomorrow, but even if it is, the longer people rehash, the more likely they are to imagine things and forget anything they really saw. No, best to let the detectives question people about anything suspicious. You didn't see or hear anything strange, did you? I'm certain I didn't."
"No, he doesn't live on my street, and he hasn't been by the bread shop for months. He usually buys his bread at the other place, I think." He grimaced. "My competitors are still far outselling me, even considering the difference in our size and location." He scraped fingers back through his hair. "I'm sorry. Here I am worrying about my business when— How selfish you must think me!"
He looked actually worried, as though he cared what Peter thought of him.
Peter smiled ruefully. "I welcome any distraction at the moment," he admitted, squeezing his knees tightly and rocking forward and back slightly. "I just can hardly believe—" He closed his eyes, ashamed to feel the prick of further tears.
"Hey. None of that. Hush." Lee's strong, gentle arms enfolded him in an awkward hug.
Peter breathed shakily, ashamed of how much he enjoyed this comforting sensation. How long had it been since another person held him, just held him? He couldn't even remember….
"There. The coffee's done." He gave Peter a pat and moved away. "I'm…I'm sorry about Teddy, but let's talk of something else. It's not your fault and you needn't make yourself sick over him."
"I'm not such a weakling." He wiped at his eyes surreptitiously, missing the warmth of Lee's arms already.
"No, but you're sensitive. It goes with being a wizard, doesn't it?" He carried two mugs back towards the little desk, moving carefully. "Now come on—let's change the subject. Quick, what are you doing for the Fourth of July? Please don't tell me you mean to keep the shop open, because I simply won't allow it!"
He couldn't help laughing a little at the indignation in Lee's voice. "How do you propose to stop me?" He accepted one of the mugs with a quiet thank-you.
Lee froze, looking lost for a moment, as if caught out at something. His tongue darted out, licking his lips. "Um…I thought I'd invite you to the beach with me."
Peter sat very still. The hot coffee burned his fingers through the mug, but it took him a moment before he remembered to move, to set it down. He stared at Lee. "Why?"
"Why not?" Lee raised one shoulder in an awkward shrug, giving Peter an awkward little half-smile. "I wouldn't like to spend the day alone either and…and it would be fun to go together, wouldn't it? We get along all right, don't we?" His voice held something ringing, hopeful, and desperate, as though Peter's answer mattered to him greatly.
"I—I suppose we do." He thought miserably of Lee's attraction spell. Well, it—and whoever it was for—could simply wait. "Yes. I'd love to go with you."
Lee's face broke out in a relieved smile. "Oh, brilliant! You'll have to buy a bathing costume, because I'm sure you don't have one that's not from the last century!"
"There's nothing wrong—" He choked on his answer. "And besides, I never bathe in the sea anyway!"
#
"Inspector Benson." Peter straightened up, tugging his waistcoat straighter, hoping desperately that he didn't have ink stains or something else disreputable on his shirtsleeves. "It's good to see you."
"Thank you." Inspector Philip Benson inclined his head wearily. He was grayer every time Peter saw him, and looked more tired than the whip-smart, ambitious young inspector Peter had met ten years ago when P
eter first started consulting for the police. Benson held his age well, and would be a very handsome man—if only he didn't look so tired. Even so, Peter was always tempted to straighten up around the man, and always wondered if his own hair and clothes were neat. Something about Benson made one want to impress him, even when he had bags under his eyes.
"Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Um, yes. What you said to my constables—that was correct?"
He blinked. "Of course, sir. There was magic imprinted on the—"
He raised a hand. "Very well. I don't need details. I just…need you to check something else for me." He held out a tiny sachet that looked grubby and sad, soaked in a stain that had dried dark brown.
This time, Peter was prepared. He accepted it cautiously, wincing internally away from the feel of the blood and the dark magic that had soaked into it. But, less surprised, he was able to glean more from it than simple horror. He turned it over. A woman's sachet, unless he missed his guess. To make her body refuse to bear children. It was a clumsily done, cheap one, but it had probably worked. It was old and worn, but the magic it had soaked up was only about a week old.
The hard edges had had time to fade, but he felt the same feeling from it. And this time, he felt with certainty that the anger and rage were its caster's natural state. He killed without remorse, turning that anger where he willed.
"Yes, it's the same." Peter handed it quietly back. "The person kills easily and he holds his anger close all the time. It's less specific than I thought, which makes sense. I don't know how anyone could hate Teddy."
Benson accepted back the sachet and pocketed it. "Ted—Mr. Johnson—he was the sort of man who rescued cats, is that correct?"
"Yes, that's correct."
Benson's lips twitched grimly. "Very well." He sounded resigned. "I want you to stay out of this, Peter. It's nothing to do with you, and we have the manpower to deal with it. You don't."
"Yes sir."
"If you see anything suspicious, report it. Don't try to take care of it on your own."
"It's my neighborhood, sir. I'm the strongest magic user for miles. Surely I ought to know if someone's killing my neighbors—ought to stop it, or at least be aware of what's going on. Isn't there anything you can tell me?"
Benson regarded him sadly, shook his head. "We have men trained to deal with this sort of thing. You're not it. You couldn't even handle the world of corporate magic without having a nervous breakdown, so you certainly don't need to be tackling killers."
Peter felt the heat rising in his face. "I—"
"And I don't say that to disparage you. Please. You're valuable here, and to the police department. But you're not a fighting wizard and never will be. Stay out of it."
Peter looked down, flushed and miserable.
Benson moved nearer, put a hand on his arm. "I could have put that better."
Peter cleared his throat, raising his gaze to meet Benson's with effort. "And how are you feeling? Do you need any more sleep assistance?"
Benson smiled, warmth in his gaze. "No, I'm fine. But I could use a cup of your coffee if you have any to spare."
Peter moved quickly to comply, relieved to have something to do to cover his embarrassment. He'd always liked the inspector, and it made him miserable to think the man looked down on him.
They were sitting quietly, talking on desultory topics a few minutes later. Benson sat leaning slightly forward, hands wrapped around his mug. He nodded gently to Peter's latest comment.
The bell above the door jingled. "Hi!" called Lee cheerfully. "More pie today. I hope you like apple!"
Peter straightened up quickly, smiling, brushing back his hair self-consciously. "Of course. Hello, Lee."
"Hello." The inspector nodded his greeting as well, taking in the man's appearance, cataloging him with the quiet authority of a policeman. "You're the baker."
"Um. Yes." Lee stopped. He glanced between the two men, holding the pies awkwardly. "Have I come at a bad time?"
Peter leapt to his feet and moved forward to fetch another chair. "No! Come join us. This is Inspector Benson. He had a question for me about magic—and warned me off the case, as though I were going to stick my nose in." He laughed uncomfortably. "Inspector, this is Lee Harnford. He makes the absolutely best fried pies in the county."
"Oh? Have you tasted all the other fried pies, then?" Lee gave him a smiling-eyed look, one side of his mouth easing up a tick further than the other. "Eating other pies behind my back, are you?"
Peter laughed. "And he has a good sense of humor, too." He put a hand on Lee's arm, steering him towards the extra chair. "Won't you try his pie, Inspector? You'll never want to eat anything else!"
"Well." Benson smiled at him, a laughing look in his eyes. "I can't say no to that."
The three men sat and ate, talking quietly of many things, most of them light. Benson proclaimed the pies "good enough to eat" and said he'd like an order of fifty for tomorrow as a treat for the men. "Delivered to the station, if you please."
"Oh!" Lee sat back, his eyes wide, and then licked his thumb off hastily. "Um—yes sir. I b-believe I can arrange that. They cost three cents each, or two for five."
"I'll pay now. Does it cost extra for delivery?"
He hesitated. "Um, no sir. That is, I've never delivered before, but…of course not. Any special flavor of pie you'd like?"
The inspector stopped. "I have a choice?"
"Yes, cherry, apple, meat filling—"
"Cherry. Cherry sounds good."
Lee smiled, looking relieved. "Cherry it will be."
"Good man. Earlier the better. Policemen start the day early." He rose, patting the table lightly with the flat of his palm. "Well, I'll say good day to you, gentlemen. Peter, a pleasure as always. You take care now."
"Thank you. You too, Inspector." They smiled at each other, and Benson left the building, walking slowly, his hands stuffed in his pockets.
Lee and Peter watched him go. "A friend of yours?" asked Lee quietly. "He seemed pleasant."
"Yes, he's a good man. Works too hard and doesn't sleep enough."
"Doesn't he have a wife to take care of him?" Lee looked down at the table, tracing its lines with his thumbnail.
He shook his head. "Married to the job. I worry about him."
"Oh," said Lee softly. He got up with an abrupt, awkward movement. "I—I'd better see about those cherries for tomorrow. This is the biggest order I've ever gotten." He tried to smile.
"No, stay for a bit." Peter caught his arm, and then was shocked at his own temerity. "Um…I mean, if you want to." He released Lee and dropped his gaze to his half-finished coffee. It was cold; talking had been more interesting than drinking.
"All right," said Lee, sitting down cautiously. "Thank you. I suppose it can wait. You know, cherry is the best flavor he could have picked."
"Why's that?"
"Well." The chair creaked as Lee leaned back, getting comfortable and sounding more at ease now. "Cherries are cheap because they're in season, and sweet, so they take less sugar than apples from last fall. And they're my best flavor, I think, so he'll likely want to order them again. I'll be making decent money if I get the police force as a regular client!" He sounded cheered up now, and Peter risked a glance at his face.
Lee was leaning back, smiling, hands behind his head, looking up at the ceiling. "I love your shop, you know. Little touches everywhere. Even those…those feathers hanging from the ceiling. Are they owl feathers?"
Peter cleared his throat. "Um, yes, they are. Joel found them a few years ago and gave them to me. They've no practical use that I know of, but I couldn't bear to discard such elegance."
Lee nodded. "It's the little things like that. Everything you touch seems to turn special somehow." He gazed around the shop fondly.
"Well, it wouldn't be very clean if not for Joel. I never can seem to keep anything organized on my own." He smiled ruefully. "But tell me, why don't you charge more for your p
ies, if some of the filling costs extra? I'm sure the police can afford to pay what it's worth."
"Well, I'm not a very big or well-known shop. A lot of my business comes from locals or people who know it's cheap. If I raise prices, they might go away, and then I'll earn even less!"
He really is worried about his business failing. Just how tight were finances? "I'll come by and add a little magic to your new ingredients after work," Peter offered. "If you don't mind staying a bit late."
"No! That would be lovely. Just put it—"
"On your bill. I know." He grimaced.
Lee smiled, the lines crinkling around his eyes. "Are we still on for this weekend?"
"This week—oh, the Fourth of July! Yes, of course. I'd love to go. Do you have transport arranged? Are many people coming?"
"Ah, well, just us, if that's okay?" Lee traced the lines on the table again, suddenly appearing very interested in them.
"Of—of course." Peter blinked, startled. He'd been trying to resign himself to the presence of the unsuspecting sweetheart, perhaps with a crowd of family and friends to disguise his intent and not spook her. To have Lee to himself would be an unexpected gift. And he would be far more comfortable with just Lee than among a merry-making crowd.
"Wonderful." Lee rose and tapped the table with his fingers, giving Peter that special smile. "And yes, I have transport arranged. I'll pick you up at seven in the morning. Is that all right?"
He looked up at Lee, trying very hard not to beam. "Yes, wonderful. I mean—yes." He cleared his throat. "That sounds enjoyable."
"Great!" His smile broadened, if possible, further. "Don't forget swimming gear!" He gave Peter a quick, roguish wink and sauntered from the shop, whistling quietly under his breath.
Peter watched him go, and then quickly raised his mug to cover his blush.
#
It proved a long day with lots to think about, and plenty of customers to serve. Ladies from neighboring streets now wanted bedbug sachets, and quickly. There was a rush on good-luck charms, which were nothing to do with luck, really, though people didn't seem to want to stop calling them that; they were lightly-magic'd pieces of jewelry to help the bearer stay calm and in the present—all that luck amounted to, most times. If one was constantly distracted or stressed, it was easy to miss the moments of good fortune that came to everyone who looked.
Magic for Lee (sweet gay romance) Page 4