by Amy Cissell
“Thanks! See you later!”
“What do you want?” Bill asked Drew as she was leaving.
“Can I get a large drip coffee?”
“Sure.” Bill’s usually friendly demeanor was replaced with a cold monotone and Sandy thought for a moment about making an alien joke, but decided against it. Something was going on there, and it was none of her business.
She let the door close behind her and ran smack into someone’s chest, splashing coffee over her wet hands and his suit. Suit…damnit. She looked up. It was Vincent.
“I am so sorry,” she said, grabbing one of the napkins she’d shoved in her hoodie pocket and dabbing at the coffee on his jacket. “I don’t know what it is about you, but I can’t stop spilling on you!”
He grabbed her hand and stopped her. “It’s not a big deal. My dry cleaner has dealt with worse. I’m less worried about the coffee and more happy to see you.”
Warmth suffused her body, and she smiled up at him, then ducked down and looked around quickly, hoping Aaron wasn’t lurking somewhere. It’d ruin her plans with him if he saw her flirting with Vincent.
“What’s wrong?”
“I ran into Aaron earlier and was just making sure he wasn’t hanging about being creepy.”
“I didn’t see him on my way over here. Can I buy you a cup of…” he trailed off as she held up her Americano. “I guess you didn’t spill enough for me to have to replace it, did you?”
“Not quite.”
“Well, can I buy you a scone at least? It’s the least I can do for making you spill.”
“I ran into you,” Sandy reminded him.
“Somehow, it’s my fault. Let me accept the blame and make it up to you with baked goods.”
She laughed. “It’s hard to say no to baked goods, regardless of how misguided the reason. I’ll allow it.”
Vincent reached behind her and opened the door. She turned and went back in.
The tension inside had not noticeably diffused. If anything, it was thicker than before.
Bill’s mouth was open like he’d been about to say something, but when Vincent and Sandy walked in, it closed with a snap. He took a deep breath. “Can I get you anything else, Drew?”
“No, thank you, Bill.”
The politeness was so overdone it was excruciating, and Sandy found herself holding her breath as Drew paid for his coffee and scone and left.
“Did you need another Americano?” Bill asked, tension draining from his shoulders the minute the door closed behind Drew. Sandy had to fight the urge to ask prying questions. Maybe she’d save them for Drew later. He’d certainly pried enough into her life.
“I’ll have a twenty-ounce soy latte,” Vincent said. “And two of the cranberry, orange, and hazelnut scones.”
“I’m still good with coffee,” Sandy said, holding up her paper cup. “Although, if I’m going to be stopping in a couple times a day, I should get a reusable one. Do you have any for sale?”
Bill set up the espresso machine for Vincent’s latte, then opened a cabinet behind him. It was stacked with “Caffiend Dreams” cups and t-shirts as well as an incongruous stack of branded frisbees.
“Frisbees?” Sandy asked.
“We get a lot of frisbee enthusiasts in the summer,” Bill shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Spoiler: it wasn’t.”
“I’ll grab a cup next time I’m in,” she said. “And maybe a t-shirt, too. Those look pretty great.”
Bill smiled at her, and with that, was back to his regular, sunny self. He finished making Vincent’s latte, warmed up their scones for them, and handed them over.
They sat at one of the tiny tables along the back wall—Sandy was trying to avoid any chance encounters with nosy ex-husbands—and sipped their coffees.
“Do you have plans tonight?” Vincent asked as she took a huge bite of the warm scone. He laughed. “You can nod or shake your head. I have a knack for asking questions at exactly the wrong time.”
She nodded, swallowed, and said, “It’s psychic night.”
“You have an awful lot of those.”
“They’ll tell you they meet biweekly, but what they mean is three or four times a week,” Bill interrupted, a tinge of bitterness creeping back into his voice. “Especially when it’s almost Halloween, or when the Autumn Bazaar is approaching, or the Yule Ball, or there are shenanigans afoot. And trust me, man, there are always shenanigans afoot.”
Sandy did her best to look innocent. “I am the honorary chair of the Bazaar, and apparently we’re doing group costumes for Halloween this year, so I have to get…fitted? I don’t really understand what’s happening.”
“So, if I can’t take you out tonight, can I take you out tomorrow?”
Sandy winced. “I’ve plans tomorrow, too. Could we do the next day?”
“That’s the night of the Halloween parade and costume contest,” Bill pointed out.
“Thanks for helping with my social life,” Sandy called back.
“From what I’ve heard, you two need all the help you can get. Vincent, man, why don’t you find out what your girl’s costume is, find something complimentary, and offer to escort her to the festivities. After the family-friendly parade and contest, which is being judged by yours truly this year, Andy opens up the second floor of The Pour House for karaoke, dancing, and fun.”
“As much as I’m not used to having a matchmaker interfere with my dating life, that does sound like fun,” Sandy said. “What d’ya say, Vincent? Halloween date? It is the best holiday.”
“Only if you help me pick out my costume.”
“I can give you a starting point, but that’s the best I can do,” Sandy said. She leaned forward and whispered the psychic group costume into his ear, and he leaned back, eyes wide, and said, “What am I supposed to do with that?”
“I’m sure you’ll come up with something impressive.” She leaned forward before she could talk herself out of it and kissed his cheek, before picking up her coffee and heading out the door.
Drew’s house was filled with costumes, sewing supplies, and Halloween detritus.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Paska asked. Again. He was the least excited about the costume idea, but had been voted down by the rest of the group—Morgana only going along with it if she got to pick which of the characters she’d dress up as. Bowing out was not an option.
“It’s a brilliant idea,” Drew said, sorting through wigs. He found three with long, blond hair and took one for himself and handed the others to Paska and Misty. “Here. This will go perfectly with your dress.”
“Where’d you get all this stuff?” Sandy asked, looking for a tunic to go over her brown breeches. She’d already grabbed a short sword complete with scabbard.
“Drew’s done about everything at one point or another, including running a theater troop,” Jezebel said. “Can I wear white?”
“Isn’t that only for virgins?” Ceri giggled.
Jezebel bopped her on the head with the staff she’d already grabbed. “Whatever, shortie. Where’s your beard?” Ceri flipped her off, then went back to the pile.
“You can wear white,” Drew said. “But don’t forget your beard.”
Morgana strode into the room, glanced at the pile, and in less than a minute had picked out an outfit, complete with a cloak and sword, and then left the room.
“I have a date with Aaron tomorrow night,” Sandy said.
Silence fell as everyone stopped sorting through costumes. Morgana returned, and everyone stared.
“That was fast,” Misty observed.
“He’s easy to manipulate,” Sandy said. “But I feel creepy and gross about the whole thing.”
“Where are you going? One of us can show up to keep an eye on things,” Drew said. “Morgana or Paska would be the best choice. He won’t recognize them.”
“Won’t he recognize Paska? They spoke the other night.”
“He won’t,” Paska said. “I’ll do it. J
ust tell me where and when.”
“The Italian place in Long Beach at seven-thirty,” she said. “I’ll try to get it out of him. I hope his ego is bigger than his brain.”
“And what about Vincent?” Drew asked.
“I’m seeing him the next night. He’s going to be my escort for the costume contest and after party at Andy’s. By the way, Misty, Andy said he’s in for the Bazaar again this year, just like every year, and you don’t have to keep asking.”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course I have to ask. If I didn’t, he’d be offended and would withdraw his support. I don’t know why he has to be so difficult.”
“Of course you know,” Paska said. “He’s the devil.”
“Maybe a devil,” Morgana muttered under her breath. “But not the devil.”
“Guys,” Sandy said. “Guys.” All eyes turned towards her. “I am not happy about this. Couldn’t we find another way? Paska, aren’t you a cop? Couldn’t you call the Portland PD and talk to them about our suspicions?”
“I am not a cop,” he huffed. “What gave you that impression?”
Sandy stared at him, jaw dropped. “You said you were when Aaron was bothering me the other night.”
“That was a lie to intimidate him. It worked, didn’t it?”
“Vincent’s company didn’t take the matter to the police, as long as he was able to repay the missing amount in a specified time,” Misty said. “That’s why he’s here, trying to sell our town, instead of in Portland cooling his heels and awaiting trial.”
“Can’t one of you go hit on Aaron instead of me?”
“Didn’t he promise his cheating days were over? It’d hardly behoove him to accept a date with another woman while trying to win you back,” Morgana said.
“His cheating days will be over when the rain stops in the Pacific Northwest,” Sandy huffed. “It wasn’t the first time; it was just the first time I walked in on him.”
“No,” Morgana said. “You are the best candidate for the job. He already believes himself to be pulling the wool over your eyes in so many ways, that he trusts what he perceives as your lesser intelligence. He’s wrong, of course, and desperately afraid of that fact. Ideally, Misty could meet him and shake hands to ascertain the truth of the matter, but unless I can get him to drink a cup of tea with me…” she looked at Sandy.
“He thinks tea is for wusses and foreigners,” Sandy said.
“I suspected that would be the case. Did he often mock your intake of the beverage?”
Morgana’s slightly formal speech was distracting Sandy, and she was having trouble following her from one end of the sentence to the other, so it took her a beat to realize she’d been asked a question. “He mocked most things I enjoyed. Tea, prosecco, my choice of books—romance novels are another thing that adults don’t like—”
“And he thinks to woo you back?” Morgana drummed her fingers on the end of the couch. “Is he stupid? That kind of behavior is not how to win a woman.”
“It’s called gaslighting, Morgana,” Ceri said. “It’s a manipulation tactic used to subtly demean a person, to crack their self-esteem, and to undermine their own version of events. He probably also often publicly disagreed with her about things she knew—knew—to be true to the point where she started questioning her own memory.”
Sandy nodded. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice how pervasive it was.”
“That’s the point. You don’t notice, and soon, you doubt yourself enough that anything they say is true. So, when he tells you he only cheated the one time you caught him and that he wants you back, he expects you to believe him and come running back, because that’s what you’ve done with all the smaller things over the years. Tell me, did you stop drinking tea and reading romance novels during your marriage?”
Sandy flushed and nodded.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed for reacting like anyone would,” Ceri said. “You just have to be strong enough to recognize what he’s doing now—particularly since you’ll be spending time with him socially tomorrow evening.”
Sandy steeled herself and straightened her shoulders. “I can do this,” she said.
“Of course you can,” Drew confirmed, giving her a half-hug. “Besides, if you go back to him and have to give up drinking bubbles, that’ll be an end to your French 75s. No man is worth that, sugar.”
“We should kill him,” Morgana said. “He will find someone else to prey on.”
“I agree,” Paska said.
Ceri sighed. “Killing is not the answer. He’s a human being. We can’t go around killing humans, no matter how much they deserve it.”
“I hate this time period sometimes,” Morgana muttered.
“I miss killing my enemies,” Paska agreed.
Sandy pasted a smile on her face. Who the hell were these two, and how old were they?
Drew leaned in closer. “Best to not ask too many questions. The answers won’t be forthcoming and will just make everyone even more uncomfortable.”
Morgana looked at Sandy and grinned. “Of course, we jest, do we not, Paska? We don’t want to kill anyone. We are as modern as the rest of you.”
Somehow that was less convincing than it could’ve been, but Sandy didn’t feel like she was in a place to argue, so she nodded and smiled and hoped she looked sincere.
Chapter Ten
About ten minutes before she was to meet Aaron at the Italian restaurant that was a twenty-minute drive away, Sandy started dressing for her date. Nice jeans, a blouse, and booties would have to do. She didn’t have the time or inclination to fuss over her outfit the way she had with Vincent. She grabbed her leather jacket, clattered down the stairs, and jumped in her car. With luck, she’d still beat him to the restaurant. He hated when she was late but was usually so consistently late himself, that as long as she wasn’t more than twenty minutes behind schedule, he’d never know.
She froze as she put the car in drive. He wasn’t in control anymore—she was, and she could be late if she wanted. There was nothing he could say to her that was harmful. She took a deep breath, engaged the transmission, and drove off.
Sandy arrived exactly fifteen minutes late, handed over the keys to her Subaru to the valet, and went inside. A quick scan of the restaurant revealed no familiar faces, so after checking to see if there was a reservation under Aaron’s name—there wasn’t—she headed to the bar to wait. She ordered a French 75 and settled in to wait.
She was halfway through her second when Aaron finally showed up. She glanced at her watch. She’d been there for a half hour, so he was at least forty-five minutes behind schedule. She rolled her eyes at her own worry.
“I put our name in for a table,” Aaron said to her, then turned his attention to the bartender. “Whiskey on the rocks,” he said.
“Any particular label you’d prefer?”
“Whatever you think is the best,” Aaron said.
“We have a Red Breast fifteen-year for twenty-four dollars or a twenty-year for sixty-four. I would recommend if you order one of those, to skip the rocks and drink it neat.”
“I’m not paying you to tell me how to drink, just to get me the most expensive whiskey you have.”
The bartender smiled tightly. “Very well. I’ll be right back with your Red Breast twenty year.”
“You should be polite,” Sandy chided. “He was offering professional advice.”
“Only idiots drink whiskey neat. The same kind of idiots who drink champagne other than for special occasions.”
Sandy sighed and took another sip of her French 75. She was feeling decidedly mellow about everything at the moment and knew this would have to be her last drink if she wanted to be clever enough to get him to admit what he’d done and then drive herself home afterwards.
“I like it,” she said simply. “It makes me happy, much like expensive whiskey on the rocks makes you happy. There’s nothing wrong with drinking something for the pleasure of it.”
“It’s juvenile,�
� he said.
She just shrugged, remembered how much she was enjoying the drink, and her tea, and her romance novels, and smiled at him. “Fortunately, no one will make you drink a champagne cocktail, so everyone can be happy.”
The host came over to seat them, interrupting that line of conversation before Sandy’s temper broke through the gin and champagne combo to ruin her fact-finding mission before it could even get started.
After they’d order, Sandy smiled at him, played with the rim of her glass, and glanced around the restaurant. Paska was sitting at the bar, drinking something amber out of a lowball glass. Probably a nice whiskey, neat, Sandy thought snarkily. Misty was beside him drinking what appeared to be a Long Island ice tea.
She searched her head for a topic that would lead them into the embezzlement, but couldn’t come up with anything remotely subtle as a lead-in. Screw it, she thought. Aaron never got subtle anyway.
“Tell me about your car,” she said. “It must have been wickedly expensive.”
Aaron grinned at her, leaned back, and clinked the ice cubes in his drink. “It was very expensive, and I bought two of them. This one, as I said before, is for you. Although if you don’t like the color—I thought green was your favorite—you can have the other. It doesn’t matter to me.”
“What color is the other one?” she asked.
“Purple. I had it custom done.”
“Purple is my favorite color,” she said, for a moment entertaining the thought of driving around Oracle Bay in her very pretty, very expensive sports car.
“No, it’s not. Green is.”
She tilted her head and tried to ignore the instinct to agree to keep the peace. “Green hasn’t ever been my favorite color. It just looks good on me, so I wear a lot of it. All my accessories have always been purple, though.” She held up her purple purse.
“Oh, I thought that was just you exhibiting bad taste.”
Now that she knew what he was doing and why, it was easier to ignore him, but she still felt the pang of pain at his words. Instead of succumbing, she leaned her head back and laughed. It felt good, and the smile stayed on her face. “Do you always insult the women you’re attempting to woo?” As soon as she asked the question, she knew the answer. Of course he did. “Because that’s not going to work on me.” This time, she added silently.