by Bella Falls
“But you don't always sign in when you do visit.” The detective made his observation a statement rather than a question.
My roommate cleared his throat. “No, not always.”
“And when you do go there, who is it that you intend to see?” Mason held his pencil at the ready.
“Do you need a complete list?” Beau asked.
The detective nodded. “That would be helpful.”
I attempted to hold back my surprise as my roommate revealed a long list of female names, half of whom I knew growing up. Beau paused to consider if the list was complete, and I smacked him on the arm.
“You dated all those women?” How could someone so incompetent at many things be such a ladies’ man?
“Depends on what you mean by date,” he said.
“Define it what you mean, please,” Mason insisted.
Beau tapped his finger against one of his fangs. “Sometimes all they want is some company. Someone to talk to or to pay attention to them. Others want a dancing partner or someone to play cards with or checkers.”
“And is that all you were doing with Miss Cordelia? Playing a game of checkers in her room?” I needled.
“There are other activities that I engage in with the ladies when the connection is mutual. For example—”
I waved my hands, cutting him off. “I don't think we need those types of details, do we, Mason?” The two men might get their privacy if I had to listen to Beau go into any deeper descriptions.
“Maybe,” Mason said. “But first, I see that you left off Eugenia Kettlefields. Was she not one of your…friends?”
Realization dawned on my roommate's face. “Oh, no. Not her. She wasn't the social type. I saw her around the place, but I wouldn't say that she had many friends there. In my estimation, she was a very lonely person.”
“And you never entered her bedroom?” Mason pressed.
“No, never,” answered Beau.
The detective’s interrogation piqued my interest. “Why are you asking him these questions? Did you find something that puts Beau on your list of suspects?”
“Let me ask the questions right now, Charli,” Mason insisted. He produced a book from his suit pocket and placed it on the coffee table in front of us.
“That's one of our old textbooks,” I observed. “Why do you have a copy of the History of Magic?”
“We've been collecting Mrs. Kettlefields possessions, and cataloging them after your raid of her room. This was among them,” he replied.
“I bet it's one of her teaching things she must have kept. I don't see why it would be that special.” I fingered the tattered cover, remembering my time in school when my biggest worry had been memorizing the most powerful witches of the fourteenth century. As an adult, I now understood that not all of the information in the book had been completely true. As an educational tool, it was pretty useless.
“Look inside,” ordered Mason.
I flipped open the cover, expecting to see a school stamp on one side with the scrawled names of the different children who were assigned the book through the years across from the familiar title page. Instead, I found pages and pages of scribbling.
Picking the book up, I held it closer. “Is this her diary?”
“It is,” admitted Mason. “You can read it,” he said, granting me permission to the question I hadn’t asked yet.
My eyes scanned my teacher’s neat handwriting. For the most part, she wrote about how mundane her life was after being forced to quit teaching. In the beginning, she expressed her anger at her retirement, but further on, the entries confirmed what Beau had said. Without the daily contact with her pupils, Mrs. K was very lonely.
A wave of sad sympathy washed over me. “It doesn't reveal much other than an old woman who longed for her earlier life and didn't know what to do with the rest of the time she had left.”
Mason stood up and took the book out of my hand. He turned the pages until he got to where he wanted and handed it back to me, pointing where I should start.
The tone of her words changed rapidly. Instead of bitter complaints, her words expressed joy and elation.
“It has been so long since I have felt this alive. Not since the first time and seeing my words come to life on the stage by my dear students. It's as if my life has been lived in darkness and somebody has switched on the lights.”
I turned the page. The next few entries were the same, expressing her newfound happiness. I started to skip and scan her words until I noticed an even more significant change. Hasty scribbles replaced the careful script.
A shaky hand wrote the words. “The thing I feared most is coming true. My mind is slipping, much like my dear departed mother's. I am finding I have patches of time gone. Memories that aren't there. Holes in my narrative. Perhaps I should tell someone, but I don't want to be taken away. Mother was taken, and she was never the same.”
I turned the page. “I have misplaced the brooch I hold so dear. Its value may not be high to others, but my gift my retirement gift holds a priceless value for me. Much like some of my memories, I cannot seem to find it.”
The next entry disturbed me more. “There are thoughts in my head that I do not know if they are mine or someone else's. I am unsettled most of the time. I find the most comfort in my normal routine of life, and still crave those stolen moments where I am shown how I can be truly free.”
“I don't know if I want to finish this,” I admitted. It was one thing to suspect that someone's sanity was spiraling into an abyss but a whole other thing to witness it in her writing.
“Skip to the last entry,” Mason said.
I turned to the final page with cursive on it. “He tells me that I will know when the time has come to speak my mind. A part of me questions his reasons, but then another part of me desires to make him happy. I am being torn in two, and am not sure what will become of me.”
“Him,” I emphasized. “That's why you’re questioning Beau.”
“I swear to you, I never spent time with Mrs. Kettlefields.” My roommate shifted in discomfort next to me. “If you need confirmation of that, then I suggest gathering the testimonies of those women. But I would prefer if you did it one at a time and not all at once, if you don't mind.”
Mason made some notes. “I may have to do that, and I make no guarantees. For now, I suggest you cease-and-desist any nighttime visits there. I've already started asking some questions, and you may find your welcome mat taken away for the moment.”
“I understand,” Beau grumbled. He stood up and stomped his way back upstairs.
Left alone with Mason, too many questions bubbled to the surface. “I think you can rule out suicide.”
“That was unlikely anyway, considering that her official death was lack of oxygen from being choked. Still, it does show that her mind was not quite right,” he replied.
My pulse quickened. “Which might explain her outburst during the first election event—”
“—but not why she was killed,” finished Mason.
It felt good to have our ideas flow so well together. Almost like before, when we put together the pieces of Tipper’s demise.
“About that brooch,” Mason said. “If you have the time, would you be willing to come with me and help search for it?”
The adrenaline of excitement rushed through me. “Of course,” I declared without thinking. When my brain caught up, I winced. “Except…” With my magic not working quite right, was it worth making the attempt only to fail?
I picked up the glasses to take to the kitchen. “By the way, did Ms. Alma ever file a report about her missing ring?”
Confusion settled on his brow. “I don't know. I'll have to check on that when I go back to the station. Or you could come back with me, and we can check together before you help me find the missing brooch.”
The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed the hour, and I panicked. “Uh, I can't right now.” I stood up in haste and ushered Mason toward the door. “Maybe la
ter.”
Why hadn't I been paying attention to the time? Of course, it wouldn't matter much if it weren't Mason still standing in my house on any normal day, which today definitely was not.
The detective chuckled at my insistence. “I’m entirely capable of leaving on my own, Charli.” He didn't seem to appreciate my hands on his back, pushing. “What's the rush? Is Beau right? Do you have a date?”
I grunted in exasperation. “No, it’s not a date.”
“Yes, it is.” Dash’s deep voice countered my protest. He peered over Mason’s shoulder at me. “And you're running late.”
The detective’s face dropped, and he shook it off. With his cool mask of professionalism back on, he turned to greet the shifter. “Dash.” He stuck out his hand to shake.
“Mason,” Dash replied. The wolf shifter opened the screen door wide and moved to let the detective walk by.
“Thank you for your assistance,” Mason said to me over his shoulder.
“Am I interrupting something?” Dash asked.
“We’re done here.” Mason left without looking back.
The tension in the air could be cut with a butter knife. The clock ticked every tense second.
Dash regarded me with wary eyes. “If you don't want to go, I won't be upset.” The glare in his eyes told a different story.
“Just give me a quick second, and I'll be ready for our,” I paused. “Lunch… thing… picnic.”
“Then I'll wait right here to take you to our lunch, thing, picnic,” Dash teased. “But hurry up because I'm hungry.” His eyes flashed, and, I swear, he licked his fangs.
Chapter Thirteen
The twisting branches of the Founders’ tree dripped with lush strands of Spanish moss. Its leafy canopy offered shade from the hot sun. It surprised me that they had picked this location for our lunch, but I had to admit that the low-hanging branches that dipped into and out of the ground provided a decent place to sit.
Blythe busied herself, arranging the food on a blanket in front of us, the contents so numerous that she almost ran out of room. She hummed out of tune under her breath. She never hummed.
Damien watched with fascination. “I must admit, I have never partaken in a picnic that was so bounteous. Explain to me what we have.”
Blythe pointed at her contributions. “This one is coleslaw, which is grated cabbage. I also fixed macaroni salad and stole some of Steve's potato salad as well.”
The vampire examined each one. “I find it interesting that you use that word, and yet, I see no green in those dishes.”
My friend held up a finger. “That's why I made an actual salad salad as well.”
Damien laughed with enthusiasm, and Dash smiled. I did my best not to mock my friend for her bubbly joke, trying to remind myself that everyone deserved a chance at whatever happiness they found. Even if it changed their personalities.
The vampire took a sip of his drink and screwed up his face. “I am not sure I will ever get used to that amount of sugar nor having my teeth cold.”
“I thought you were from London,” Dash remarked. “Isn't that place full tea drinkers?”
Damien set his cup down, balancing it on the ground. “Yes, of course. But we prefer that it is hot, and usually take either milk or lemon with it depending on what type of tea it is. My particular favorite is the Oolong blend that they serve at The Savoy. It is the queen’s favorite, you know. What kind do you use to make this concoction?”
“The kind that comes in a bag,” I answered.
Blythe shot me a look of warning at my sarcastic remark before continuing. “Dash here has provided us with our main course, fried chicken.” She unfolded the red-and-white checkered towel covering the delectable golden brown treat.
“You made it?” I asked.
Dash lifted his finger to my chin and closed my mouth. “Don't be so surprised. I have many talents you don't know about.” He placed a couple of pieces on a plate next to the other food he'd already scooped out and handed it to me.
“And many secrets,” I added.
“But not as many as I used to keep from you,” he replied in a low voice.
I stared at his lips. “I kind of like a man who can cook.”
“Good. Because I like a girl who can bake. I can't wait to get a piece of your pie.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me, and the heat between us almost matched the midday temperature.
I shoved him in play to break the tension.
“Try it,” he insisted with enthusiasm and little bit of nerves, waiting for me to taste his contribution.
I sank my teeth into the slightly warm chicken leg. The crust crackled and flaked in my mouth with good crunch. The meat tasted tender and juicy, almost rivaling my Nana's recipe. “Holy unicorn horn, so good,” I managed through my full mouth.
Blythe nodded in agreement. “You've got a nice scald on it. Did you brine the meat first?”
“Of course.” Dash chewed off a piece. “That's my secret.”
“Buttermilk?” I asked, taking another large bite.
He shook his head. “Nope. I might as well tell you because you'll never guess. It's sweet tea.”
“Really? Steve uses buttermilk at the cafe,” Blythe said.
The shifter swallowed. “My mother didn't always have access to buttermilk. But there was always sweet tea in the house growing up.”
“I take it back. Maybe your sweet tea concoction does have its place. This is indeed delicious.” The vampire picked up a thigh with his fingers, unable to hide his discomfort at our lack of utensils.
Curling his upper lip, he took the teeniest bite I'd ever seen with is non-fanged teeth. “Mmm,” he emitted, chewing. “Truly delicious.” It didn't escape my notice that he did not partake of much of the food, which made me question why we were all here in the first place.
Blythe wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Did you hear that Horatio has officially dropped out of the election?”
The information didn't surprise me after my talk with Juniper, but disappointment still filled my chest. “It really is too bad that DK has given Linsey a full-time reporter's job. She seems to walk a fine line between facts and conjecture.”
“Scandal remains one of the world's best currencies,” commented Damien. “It sells newspapers and generates money as well as gossip. It can take a person from obscurity and raise them into infamy or sink an entire nation.”
“Is that what you found in your travels,” I remarked, my cold gaze landing on the vampire’s, trying to figure him out.
“One of many things,” replied Damien, not backing down from my visual challenge.
“Let's not talk politics, guys,” insisted Blythe.
The four of us settled into quiet eating. Well, three of us. Damien continued to pick at the food on his plate rather than indulge. I got lost in my thoughts, going over this Mrs. K’s diary entries in my head. The poor woman had been so lonely, and not one of her former students came by to visit. We’d all mocked her and locked her away in our memory, assigning her the role of a ridiculous caricature of who she really was. Only the mysterious he had made an attempt to connect her, and even that person seemed questionable.
When I remembered that Mason wanted me to help find her missing brooch, I stopped eating, my stomach turning a bit with worry.
Dash kicked my shin, interrupting my thoughts.
“What?” I rubbed the spot.
Blythe stared daggers at me. “You didn't answer Damien’s question.”
“Ask me again,” I insisted, giving him my full attention.
My friend repeated the vampire’s words with slow deliberation. “He wants to know if you've lived here all your life.”
“Oh. Yes, for the most part, Honeysuckle was and still is my home, although I don’t know if Blythe told you about my year spent away. But I’m honestly glad to be back.” There. Now, she couldn’t complain that I wasn’t taking part in the conversation.
“And your brother works with the town’s wardens?�
�� asked Damien, barely waiting for my reply before adding, “And with the last name of Goodwin, may I presume that you are related to the honorable woman who sits in the high seat on the town council?”
“It seems you’ve done your homework.” If the man wanted to start a better conversation, he needed to ask me more than yes or no questions.
“Tell him what it's like being a member of one the founding families, Charli.” Blythe lifted her eyebrows at me, her unspoken irritation clear as day.
“It’s…fine?” What could I really say?
Dash leaned over to me and whispered in my ear. “Be nice.”
I shrugged him off and added, “It means my grandmother tends to be pretty busy all year-round.” There. Damien could chew on that since he wasn't chewing on anything else.
“You could tell him about your family’s participation in things like the founding ceremony.” My friend turned to Damien. “Only the founding family members know what treasures are buried underneath this tree.”
I dropped my cup, and ice-cold sweet tea spilled all over me. “Blythe,” I exclaimed.
“What?” she snapped back. “He's been showing an interest in our town history. And since he's thinking of laying down roots here, I don't see the harm in him knowing about stuff like that.”
“But you're not supposed to say anything about the specifics. If he stays, he'll find out on his own.” I batted Dash’s hand away from mopping up the liquid with a napkin, wiping it overly close to my chest area.
Blythe set her plate down and stood up, towering over me. “What's your problem, Charli?”
“What's yours?” I returned, struggling to stand so I could face her.
“He has been nothing but nice, and you can't summon up the energy to engage in regular conversation.” She placed her hand on her hip.
“And you said you would never let a man turn you into a fool.” I countered. “You never giggle or hum.”
She stepped closer to me and narrowed her eyes. “The only foolish thing I've done is invited you here today.”
“I didn't want to come anyway,” I yelled.
“Then leave,” she demanded.
Before I could reply, Dash pulled me by my arm until we stood a few feet away. I kept my eyes on Damien, who comforted Blythe with his arms around her.