Pawsitively Secretive

by Melissa Erin Jackson

  Unless, of course, this had all been staged by the mayor.

  Amber’s gut told her that Chloe wasn’t in Edgehill anymore, but she needed proof of that.

  Flinging back her comforter, causing Tom to yowl in disgust as the blanket was tossed over him and Alley, Amber padded to her coffee table and pulled open one of the two small drawers. She riffled around in one, shut it, then opened the second. At the bottom, she found the map of Edgehill she had purchased when she scried Whitney Sadler’s whereabouts, searching for Melanie’s killer. When Amber’s magic had found Whitney, a small dot had appeared on the map at Whitney’s house.

  When she’d scried for Whitney, Amber had used a picture of her to focus on. She needed to keep the image of the person she wanted to find fresh in her mind in order for her magic to know what to do. Now, with the memories of her spell so clear, all she would need was to remember that scene of her and Chloe talking in the bathroom.

  Clearing a spot on her dining room table—which mostly consisted of shoving her collection of half-finished miniature cat toys to the other side—she laid out the map. In a basket tucked under the window bench seat, she found her amethyst crystal and her personal grimoire. The crystal was supposed to strengthen magic; she would need all the help she could get for this.

  After working through a few spells, and tweaking the wording, she stood before her map and, with the crystal held firmly in her hand, recited the incantation. The way her magic reacted, as if it had flowed down her arms, into her crystal, and then out of her in a rush, she knew the spell had worked.

  Problem was, no dot appeared on the map.

  Amber conducted the spell twice more, each one with more concise, demanding language, but the result was always the same: Chloe was no longer in Edgehill.

  Amber placed the crystal on top of the map and slumped into a wooden dining room chair. Her gaze skirted over the familiar streets of her town, wondering which one the man had taken to get Chloe out. Had he gone north into Marbleglen, or south to Belhaven? Had he not stopped in either town and gone on to cross a state line? Was he planning to smuggle her even farther than that?

  When the questions began to drive her batty, she got up to grab her cell phone and called her aunt.

  She answered on the second ring. “Hi, Amber.”

  “Hi, Aunt G,” she said, trying to force some cheer into her voice, despite feeling bone-weary. “How are you?”

  Chuckling, she said, “Come out with it. What’s the matter, little mouse?”

  With a sigh, Amber flopped onto her bed. Tom crawled out from under the comforter to drape his body across her stomach. Then she told her aunt the whole story. Aunt Gretchen didn’t make a peep until Amber had finished speaking.

  “Oh my,” she said. “That poor, poor girl.”

  “Yeah,” Amber said. “I wish I had—”

  “Don’t you dare blame yourself for any of this,” her aunt said. “You did what you could for her, but she made her own choices that night.”

  “So you think this is her fault?” Amber said, her voice a little sharper than she’d intended. “That if she had done x, y, and z better, she wouldn’t have found herself in that position?”

  “Absolutely not,” Aunt Gretchen said, a bite to her tone, too. “The only ones at fault are the sleaze who took her and the sleaze who paid him to do it. What I’m saying is, you cannot control what Chloe would do any more than what that horrible man was going to do. Don’t beat yourself up.”

  Amber sighed.

  “Now, what is it you need from me?”

  “I can’t just call my favorite aunt because I want to hear her lovely voice?”

  “I’m your only known aunt, so don’t play that favorite nonsense with me.”

  “Can you walk me through that premonition tincture you use at night?” There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “I know tinctures aren’t my strong suit, but if you go through it with me—maybe on video chat so you can watch me—I can make sure I get it right? I’m … I haven’t slept well since that night at Edgar’s. With all this Chloe stuff, now my worries about her are making their way into my dreams, too. Maybe the premonition tincture will help organize my thoughts a little. Give my energy and magic something to focus on.”

  Gretchen slowly said, “Tinctures for the mind are already risky. Ones used to affect the mind while asleep even more so. If done incorrectly, it can cause madness, can trap a person in a dream state …”

  “I’ll be careful,” she said. “I’ll have you watch everything I’m doing and if you have any hesitation—any at all—I won’t take it.”

  Amber held her breath.

  “Fine.”

  She gently pumped a fist in the air as to not disturb the cats. “How soon can we start?”

  “Now?”

  Amber smiled. “Now is good.”

  “I don’t know how to do this video chat thing, though. I don’t have a video camera. Do I need that Skippy program my friend Norma uses to talk to her grandkids?”

  It took Amber a moment to realize her aunt meant Skype, then laughed. “We have a lot to teach each other, Aunt G.”

  The following morning, Amber hopped on her bike at just after seven to meet Edgar in town for breakfast. They had a tentative plan to meet every Sunday—partly to keep in touch, and partly to ensure Edgar got out of the house for at least a couple of hours a week.

  She and Aunt Gretchen had worked on the premonition tincture for hours, but when her first attempt turned the color of black sludge—when it was supposed to be clear with “a hint of pink”—and started to bubble, then shattered the glass bowl she had been using, Aunt Gretchen had suggested they take a break. Attempt two, several hours later, had resulted in a small, fireless explosion that filled Amber’s kitchen with thick gray smoke. Tom and Alley both had bolted under the bed for safety.

  “Amazing!” Aunt Gretchen had said, her wide eyes taking in the scene in Amber’s kitchen from the safety of her own back in Portland. “And I don’t mean amazing in a good way. Amazing as in ‘I don’t understand how you’ve managed to get two completely different, yet equally horrible results from the same recipe.’”

  “I think my magic is glitching,” Amber had said, coughing and swatting away the smoke with a dish towel.

  “Something is glitching,” her aunt had muttered. “You need rest, dear child. Drink some of your sleepy tea—that one doesn’t cause comas, does it?—and we’ll try again once you’re rested.”

  “Ha-ha.” Amber was still waving away smoke, her eyes watering. The smoke smelled a bit like burned plastic. “Henrietta buys it every week and has yet to slip into a coma.”

  “Wonderful. You should use that as your slogan.”

  Amber had “accidentally” hung up on Aunt Gretchen after that.

  Currently, she was pedaling toward the Catty Melt on Calico Way, not far from the Manx Hotel. It had been difficult to get Edgar to agree to many outings, but when he’d come to the Catty Melt last week and had tried their Buttermilk Catty Cakes, he no longer would hear suggestions for anywhere else. He had ordered three six-cake stacks that morning—on her dime—and had been in so much pain afterwards that they’d had to walk it off for half an hour before he could comfortably get back in his new truck and drive home.

  When she cruised to a stop outside the Catty Melt, she found Edgar already sitting at one of the tables positioned inside the black iron fence. There were a dozen tables outside, but Edgar was the only person in one of the seats. Four currently closed green-and-yellow striped umbrellas wedged into thick black iron stands were dotted around the patio area. They looked like the closed petals of giant flowers.

  Edgar had clearly already ordered coffee and was currently reading a copy of the Sunday edition of the Edgehill Gazette.

  After securing her bike, she strolled up to the fence-lined patio. “Hey, cousin.”

  His head snapped up, and for a moment his eyes were wild with fear. But then his gaze settled on her and his
features relaxed. Folding his newspaper, he dropped it into a corner of the table. His out-of-control hair had recently been trimmed, his gray T-shirt didn’t have a stain on it, and he wore shoes—on both of his feet. Things were looking up.

  Edgar Henbane was a handsome guy when he put in the effort to shower. But, she supposed when one has been driven nearly mad by the voice of a cursed Penhallow trapped in his head, things like hygiene weren’t high on the priority list. The fact that he was putting in an effort now spoke volumes. He folded his arms on the table. “You’re late.”

  She rolled her eyes and pushed her way through the unlatched gate. “I am not,” she said, taking a seat and pulling the strap of her messenger bag over her head. “How have you been? I see you got a haircut.”

  He self-consciously rubbed his hand up and down the back of his head. “Does it look okay? Just walking into that place was hard. It’s so noisy in there. I was holding onto the sides of my chair so hard when the lady started cutting, I thought I would rip the armrests right off.” He rubbed the back of his head again. “I thought it turned out not half bad, though.”

  “You look great,” she said. “Honestly.”

  He nodded to himself a few times, like he was glad to get confirmation of something he’d already suspected.

  “I’m proud of you,” she said.

  He wrinkled his nose. “For getting a haircut?”

  “For trying,” she said. “Trying is hard. Especially when Neil is still in there.”

  Edgar absently tapped the side of his head. “He’s not as loud. It’s kind of like having a roommate now. I know he’s there. I can sense him, but he stays out of my way for the most part.”

  “Glad to hear it.” She jutted her chin toward the newspaper on the table. “Anything interesting in that?”

  “Nah,” he said. “Just that Chloe Deidrick is still missing, the police are following all leads, and there’s currently no evidence of foul play.”

  Amber pursed her lips and glanced away for a moment.

  Edgar leaned forward, looked left, then right, and said, “You know something.”

  A couple, hand in hand, strolled past the patio, and Amber waited until they were hopefully out of earshot before she said, “Locator spell led me to Chloe’s cell phone in a stream. And a memory retrieval one showed me Chloe was kidnapped. I don’t know who took her.”

  Edgar’s thick black brows arched up. “Dang.”

  The waitress came out then to take their order. They both ordered orange juice and Catty Cakes—Edgar’s with extra powdered sugar. When she’d left again, Edgar said, “How’s the chief going to handle this?”

  Amber shrugged. “No idea. I scried for her. She’s not in Edgehill anymore.”

  “Scrying isn’t exact, though. If she somehow doesn’t want to be found, if she was unconscious when you scried for her, if she’s more than ten feet underground—your magic wouldn’t find her.”

  Amber wasn’t sure if any of that was comforting or not. “Can you think of anything else I can try? Do you think just looking at the Henbane book would—”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t touch the cloak on those things. We have to hope that if they stay cloaked, no one will be able to sense your mother’s magical signature. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not deal with another Penhallow for a while.”

  Amber absently rubbed her throat. “Agreed.” After a pause, she tentatively changed the subject. “Any word from your dad?”

  Edgar’s lip curled a fraction. “Won’t answer my letters or my calls—assuming I even have the right address and number. I’d thought he’d materialize if it meant learning more about his sister—I know he doesn’t care enough about me—but not even the truth about what happened to the great Annabelle Henbane was enough to make him crawl out of his hidey hole.” He shrugged, but the tightness of his jaw belied the casual gesture. “Maybe he’s dead.”

  “We’ll keep trying,” Amber said. “Willow and Aunt G are trying to find him, too.”

  With a finger running idly along the lip of his coffee cup, he shrugged again. He looked like such a little boy then. A boy who missed his father and who couldn’t figure out what he’d done to chase the man away.

  Amber wanted to find Raphael Henbane if only so she could give him a quick kick in the pants.

  “I can search my books for other possibilities to help with Chloe,” he said. “I’m guessing you’re going to be your relentless Blackwood self and keep searching until you find her, for better or worse?”

  Amber shrugged. “Probably.”

  “I’ll do what I can to help.”

  They talked about normal things, then—like Amber attempting to cart groceries home on her bike. Yesterday, between disastrous premonition tincture lessons, she’d gotten a few essentials at the store. Somehow, on the way home, the bag’s bottom gave out and sent her eggs, bread, assorted vegetables, and a bottle of wine crashing to the asphalt. Amber’s cursing had been such a shock to a kid and his mother riding their own bikes ahead of her that the kid looked over his shoulder to see what the fuss was about, slammed into a lamppost, was pitched over his handlebars and crashed to the ground, badly scratching up an elbow and knee in the process. Amber had apologized profusely to him and his mother, but she demanded Amber leave them alone. At least the kid had been wearing a helmet. She’d eaten a mushy apple and two bread butts for dinner.

  Edgar had done his best not to laugh, but a loud chuckle escaped anyway. It was a sound she hadn’t heard in a long time. “We need to get you a car, cousin. This is getting ridiculous. You’re a threat to children now.”

  They fell into companionable silence as their food arrived and Edgar stared at his Catty Cakes as if they were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He then proceeded to drown them in so much syrup, his pancakes looked like lily pads floating on the surface of a polluted pond.

  While they ate, the patio started to fill up with diners. She didn’t have long before she’d have to be back at the Quirky Whisker, but Lily and Daisy were scheduled to open for her on the mornings she met her cousin for breakfast.

  She gazed out at Calico Way as it slowly came to life around her. More bikes, more foot traffic, and people milling about in the park across the street. Moms with strollers or toddlers, people walking dogs, a pair of guys playing Frisbee. Life continuing on as usual even though Chloe was missing.

  Someone walking past her table interrupted her view and she watched a waitress lead a man to a table on the other end of the patio. He had arrived alone and took a seat with his back to the patio’s fence, giving him a view of Calico Way stretching to the west behind Amber. She had just taken a sip of orange juice when the man’s focus suddenly snapped to her and she sucked in a breath, which caused her drink to go down the wrong way. She coughed and sputtered.

  Downing some water, she wiped her eyes and nose on her napkin.

  “You all right?” Edgar asked, a thin dribble of syrup hanging from his chin.

  As she motioned to the spot on her own face, he wiped at his chin with the back of his hand. In a hushed tone, she said, “There’s a guy who just got here who I saw at Chloe’s search yesterday. There’s something … off about him. I don’t think he’s a Penhallow, but …”

  Edgar made to turn around and Amber shook her head discreetly.

  Returning her attention to her food, she cut out a very small wedge of pancake while occasionally shooting glances toward the guy. He was scanning the crowd milling about the sidewalk. Then he picked up his menu.

  “Look now,” she whispered.

  Just as Edgar did so, the guy looked up. He offered a wave. Edgar awkwardly returned the gesture, then turned back around. “Oh, that’s totally a cop.”

  “Really? Like a plainclothes detective?” she asked.

  “That or a PI,” he said, returning to his sugary mess of a breakfast. “Didn’t the chief say the mayor was going to start bringing those guys onto the case if he didn’t get answe
rs soon? Maybe they’re already here.”

  Amber didn’t like the vibe she was getting from the guy, but she couldn’t explain why. Wouldn’t more people attempting to find Chloe be a good thing? The chief worried less-reputable PIs could hinder his department’s efforts, but if his department currently didn’t have any leads, and the only vague one they did have was one received by a witch, maybe the chief needed all the help he could get.

  She hazarded another quick glance his way, only to find him watching her. Studying her. And he wasn’t hiding it. It felt neither flirtatious nor predatory. He simply wanted her to know that he was keeping an eye on her.

  She didn’t like it one bit.

  Chapter 8

  At lunchtime the following day, Amber knew she should ride her bike into town for a reasonable meal. Lily Bowen had even offered to bring back a sandwich for Amber from the Catty Melt, where she and Daisy were headed for lunch. She had declined, and after closing up her shop, dashed across the street to Purrfectly Scrumptious. Ever since she’d tried Betty’s Oreo Dream on the evening of the town hall meeting, she’d been craving another.

  All she had in her apartment to eat were rice cakes, condiments, and a bruised apple. She needed, at the very least, to invest in a sturdy bicycle basket so her groceries wouldn’t end up spilled all over the street again. But, until then, she was going to eat cupcakes for lunch. She was an adult, dang it, and she could do whatever she wanted.

  Plus, her sleep had been plagued by nightmares again and she hadn’t slept well; the sugar would help get her through the after-lunch hours at the shop. So, really, the cupcakes were necessary—vital, even.

  The door to Purrfectly Scrumptious was propped open, several customers still inside. Amber walked in and caught Betty’s eye. The woman nodded at her and held up a hand, motioning that she’d be done soon. Resting against the back wall, Amber waited while Betty and Bobby tended to the last of their customers. Betty boxed up three dozen cupcakes for one order, and half a dozen for another. Bobby joked and chatted with customers while he rang them up.