Pawsitively Secretive

by Melissa Erin Jackson

  She turned to leave but came up short when she almost careened into a man standing behind her. She groaned. “Ugh, what are you doing here, Alan?”

  It was the same man from the day of Chloe’s search, and the one who had been watching Amber from across the patio at the Catty Melt. He hadn’t looked at her yet; his semi-disgusted expression was focused on the young woman in front of him. “I’m doing my job, Dawn.”

  “I’d hardly call what you do a job,” she said, then walked away in a huff before he could reply.

  Amber shot a horrified look at Ann Marie. “Well, she was a nightmare.”

  “You have no idea,” Ann Marie said. “She and Chloe clearly don’t get along. Their dads are rivals, so they are too, I guess. At least the way Dawn sees it. Last I heard, both girls are in the running for Miss Here and Meow. Chloe was front runner, but if she doesn’t come back before the gala, it looks like the title will go to Dawn.”

  “Which I’m sure will also look great on her résumé?” Amber said.

  A man cleared his throat, and Amber glanced up to meet the intense gaze of the man Edgar had said was most definitely a cop. She’d hoped that if she ignored him, he’d go away.

  “Hello,” Ann Marie said, all smiles. “Can we help you with something?”

  The intense cop stare he always aimed in Amber’s direction suddenly transformed as he turned to address Ann Marie. “Are these sign-ups only for high school seniors, or can an old man like me sign up too?” Like a chameleon, now he was charming, had a goofy self-deprecating air, and a smile that could light up a room.

  Ann Marie flushed and tucked her hair behind her ears. “Of course,” she said, grinning. “We can use all the help we can get. Were you interested in volunteering for the 5k or the gala?”

  His smile was wide as his gaze raked over Ann Marie’s upturned face. “What’s still open?” he asked. Then, with a sultry air, he said, “You can put me anywhere you want me.”

  “All right,” Amber said, abruptly standing up, which seemed to snap Ann Marie out of her pheromone daze. “You,” she said, pointing at the chameleon, “come with me.”

  He didn’t resist her command.

  She stalked past the Lil Whiskers Daycare table and toward the side door they’d come in earlier. Just beyond the door was a locker-lined hallway that was nearly deserted when Amber slammed her way into it. When Amber turned around, she found the man a few feet away, the door closing behind him.

  “Who are you?” she asked, arms crossed.

  “Alan Peterson,” he said without hesitation.

  It was such a plain name; it being real or made up seemed equally likely.

  “Are you a private investigator?” she asked.

  His mouth quirked up a fraction. “I need to work on my appearance if I’m that easy to spot. But, yeah, I am.”

  “Hired by whom?”

  “Not going to tell you that.”

  “But it’s connected to Chloe’s disappearance?”

  “Yes,” he said. “My client is desperate to find her, as I’m sure you are.”

  “We all are,” she said.

  “That’s what I mean,” he said. “Edgehill is definitely a town full of well-meaning people. You all hope you have something useful to tell the police … or a PI. Anything that will assist the professionals in finding her.” He paused for a long time, then slowly said, “It is strange, though …”

  Amber tried not to take the bait, but she couldn’t help it. “What is?”

  “You’re the one who found her phone,” he said. “It was a needle in a haystack and yet you found it as if you’d known exactly where it would be.”

  Amber swallowed, heart thundering in her chest. How could he possibly know that? Who told him? The chief wouldn’t. But would Kim? Had he charmed the information out of her as he’d tried to do with Ann Marie? Had he overheard something? Had he been watching her in the woods when her magic had pulled her toward Chloe’s phone?

  “Can I ask you something?” When Amber didn’t respond, he said, “What’s the … nature of your relationship with Chief Owen Brown?”

  Her head reeled back. “Excuse me?”

  He shrugged. “I just meant he’s relatively new to town, isn’t he? Do you think a big city cop has been a good fit for a place like Edgehill?”

  That wasn’t at all what he’d meant and they both knew it.

  When it was clear to him that Amber was done talking to him, he fished around in his back pocket and produced a business card which he held out to her between two fingers.

  Normally, Amber would have refused the card and told him where to shove it. But seeing it between his fingers, seeing the contact the paper had with his skin, made her reach out and take it.

  “Give me a ring if you hear anything interesting anything about Chloe, okay?” he asked, taking a couple steps back. “I promise we’re on the same side here.”

  Amber stayed rooted to the spot as she watched him walk down the hall, hands shoved into his pockets. He looked like your average dad taking a stroll through the halls. Someone passing him would likely assume he was here to pick up his kid—would assume he belonged here.

  She looked down at the card in her hand. Alan Peterson, huh? Well, Alan, let’s see whose side you’re really on.

  Chapter 10

  After Amber’s conversation with Ann Marie about Kim’s stress level at the Job and Career Fair earlier, Amber had a chat with the Bowen sisters later that evening.

  The sisters were tall, blonde, and a year apart, though they looked like they could have been twins. Lily, the younger at eighteen, was the more adventurous and extroverted sister, her hair color changing every couple of weeks. Daisy’s mid-back length hair was its usual shade of straw this evening, while Lily’s came just below her ears and was a soft baby pink.

  “For the rest of this week,” Amber said, “do you think you two could swing more hours?”

  Lily grinned. “Yes! We love it here. We’re planning on taking a trip to Europe in six months for my birthday, so we need all the extra cash we can get.”

  Daisy nodded. “We don’t have lives, so we’re all yours.”

  “Speak for yourself!” Lily said, balled fists pressed to her hips. She wore rings on both pinkies today. Then she dropped her hands. “Okay, she’s right, we have no lives.”

  Amber laughed. “Usually I don’t either, but I need to be as available as possible to help with the Hair Ball preparations. It’s only a week and a half away and we’re understaffed.”

  “Just tell us when you need us and we’ll be here,” Lily said.

  Amber sent them home an hour early—with pay—as a thank you.

  After closing, she busied herself with restocking shelves, making a note of which animated toys would need to be replenished soon—the head-tossing horses were especially popular lately—and filled a few of the tea orders that had been called in earlier in the day.

  A knock sounded from the front door and Amber nearly dropped her clipboard. Chief Brown stood on the other side of her locked door, hands on his hips.

  “Uh-oh,” she muttered to herself. It had been nearly a full twenty-four hours since she’d talked to the chief. She wasn’t ignoring him so much as she was just not answering his calls. She placed her clipboard and pen on the counter and made her way to the door to unlock it. The chime above the door tinkled as she pulled it open. “Chief …”

  He strode in. “Amber.”

  When she turned to face him, she found him with his arms crossed, scowl marring his forehead. “Did you get my voicemail?”

  “Which one? The one where you asked me to call you back? Or the one where you said I was going to give you a coronary?”

  He pursed his lips. “Who did you interview yesterday?”

  “Francine Robins,” she said, then proceeded to tell him about how Francine had been fired, that the mayor could be a “monster,” and that there were monthly payments being made to an unknown account.

  He sagged
a little and then grudgingly said, “That may actually prove to be useful. But you have to stop doing this, Amber. I don’t know what … techniques you’re using to get information out of people, and I don’t want something you do to come back to haunt me.”

  “I just talked to her. Human to human talking. And there were cupcakes. Without any added magical tinctures. Scout’s honor.” When he only seemed partly mollified, she changed the subject. “Did you know there’s at least one PI in town?”

  The chief’s brows hiked up. “No. Who is he? Did he talk to you?”

  “Yeah, he talked to Ann Marie and me at the job fair. Alan Peterson. He wouldn’t say who hired him, only that he’s trying to find Chloe, too,” she said. “He also seems to think that this—” she motioned between herself and him—“is something worth looking into. And he knows I’m the one who found Chloe’s phone.”

  “What?” he said. “When were you planning on telling me this?”

  “Now?”

  “Amber.”

  “It only happened a few hours ago!” she said. “I didn’t know what to do with it.”

  “Don’t do anything with it.”

  “Does ‘anything’ also include telling you about it? I’m a little fuzzy on the rules right now.”

  He grunted. “You are going to give me a coronary.”

  They stared at each other.

  “Was that it?” she finally asked. “You just came over here to yell at me?”

  With a huff, he said, “I was on this side of town to get a cake from Betty. Jessica and I had our daughter last night.”

  Amber squeaked. “Chief! Congrats!”

  Despite how bone-weary he looked, his mouth inched up on one side. “Her name is Isabelle. She’s quite possibly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “You’re a big softie under that gruff exterior,” she said. “I knew it.”

  He coughed. “Well … uhh … I should go get that cake,” he said, moving toward the door again. Just after he opened it, he looked over his shoulder at her and said, “Stop interviewing people.”

  As she watched the door close after him, something occurred to her and she grabbed the handle before the door could shut. “Chief!”

  He turned to her, standing on the curb.

  “You didn’t come over here to yell at me about Francine, did you? You used that as an excuse to drop by because I wasn’t answering your calls. You wanted to tell me about Isabelle.”

  “No …” he said unconvincingly, dragging the word out. “It was definitely to yell at you.”

  “Chief Owen Brown, are you and I friends?”

  Rolling his eyes, he said, “Don’t be ridiculous, Miss Blackwood.” But just before he turned away from her to walk across the street to Purrfectly Scrumptious, she caught the hint of a smile.

  Once Amber had cleaned up for the night, fed the cats, and taken a shower, she settled onto the couch, the chief’s words ringing in her head.

  I don’t want something you do to come back to haunt me.

  Alley was stretched out on her stomach on the back of the couch, purring away behind Amber’s head. Tom lay curled up by Amber’s side. She stared at Alan Peterson’s card lying on her coffee table. One of the problems with conducting spells on a paper object was that spells often only worked once—especially if there wasn’t something handwritten on it. Alan’s card was made of sturdy white paper, and had his name and phone number clearly printed in a standard, easy-to-read font. No embellishments. Nothing was written or printed on the back. It was wholly impersonal, which was the point, she was sure. But it meant that whatever spell she used on it would have to be stronger than anything she knew how to do on her own. The spell would have to be able to tap into what little of Alan’s energy still resided in the card. And the longer Amber debated on what spell to use, the weaker that energy got.

  She got up without disturbing the cats, plucked her landline phone off its wall-mounted cradle, and dialed her cousin’s number. She’d needed to call him so many times during the last few weeks, now she had it memorized.

  He answered quicker than usual. “It’s only Tuesday. I don’t have to leave the house until Sunday.”

  “What if it’s for a good cause?” she asked. “That cop we saw at the Catty Melt? He’s been creeping around town and I want to find out what he’s really up to. Want to come over and help me with a memory spell? We can cloak my studio to prevent detection; it’ll be easier to keep my little place cloaked during the spell than your whole house.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “I’ll order a pizza,” she offered.

  “Two pizzas,” he said. “At least one of them needs to have pineapple and green peppers.”

  “On the same pizza?” Amber blurted.

  “Do you want my help or not?”

  “Pineapple and … green pepper it is.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty.” He hung up.

  It took him closer to half an hour to finally arrive, and by the time he did, his abomination of a pizza was already waiting for him, along with a pepperoni for herself. She met him downstairs and let him into her dark shop. He stepped over the threshold with a leather-bound book clutched to his side. As he looked around the Quirky Whisker, the tighter he held to the book, as if it were a life raft.

  Edgar had been in Edgehill for years, but this was the first time he’d ever been in her shop.

  “My apartment and the pizzas are upstairs,” she said, and he flinched slightly, as if her voice had been as loud as a gong.

  She led the way up the steps, and when they reached the top landing, Tom and Alley were sitting side by side on the dining room table, watching. Amber had expected Tom to already be under the bed, so she was doubly surprised when Tom offered Edgar a little mew, hopped to the floor, and immediately started to nuzzle against Edgar’s pant legs.

  “Wow. Tom is usually scared of his own shadow. He’s only really ever been friendly with Willow and Aunt G,” she said. “I guess he knows who’s family.”

  Edgar dropped to one knee, placing his grimoire by his feet, and gave Tom a thorough greeting, scratching under his chin and on the sides of his face. Watching him as a bit of the hardened, anxious side of her cousin started to melt away, she saw what he might be like when he was relaxed and not so guarded. The small smile on his face—courtesy of Tom reaching up and gently tapping Edgar’s hand every time he had the audacity to stop petting him—shaved a good five years off his face.

  She hoped that over time, Edgar could find peace with himself. That he’d find a way to be happy.

  After they’d each had a few slices of pizza—three for Amber and seven for Edgar—they sat side by side on her couch, their grimoires lying on the coffee table, and Alan’s business card resting a few inches above them. Edgar flipped through his book until he settled on a page for cloaking spells.

  “Okay, so I’m thinking something simple—one with only two levels, as you call them—will be enough for what I have in mind for the card,” Edgar said. “We’ll both do the incantation. Me first—since mine will likely be stronger—and then yours on top of that. If someone breaks through yours somehow—mine will take more energy to tear down.”

  Amber swallowed, nodding.

  Edgar read the spell and completed both levels in a handful of minutes; it seemed easy enough. He strolled into the kitchen to grab another slice of pizza.

  When he was done, she picked up his grimoire and rested it on her pressed-together knees. She kept her intention clear in her mind—to remain undetected while they pulled a memory from Alan’s residual energy—and began to read the words of the spell. Her magic hummed beneath her skin as she read, and then turned to something closer to buzzing when she approached the end of the first “level.” Her magic pulsed out of her, and she imagined it as a physical thing again—taking the form of blue snaking smoke that oozed out of her pores like a fine mist. When it happened again at the end of level two, the pulse was a bit stronger and she immed
iately felt drained. Like a twisted wet rag, squeezed dry.

  How had Willow and Aunt Gretchen conducted a spell with four levels, and while working under the added pressure that if they failed, Kieran Penhallow would surely kill Amber? She’d always thought of magic like a muscle—one that needed to be trained and strengthened. If that analogy was true, she desperately needed to get her out-of-shape butt into a gym. She grabbed a bottle of water out of the fridge and chugged half of it down while resting against her dining room table, watching Edgar from his place on the couch.

  He still didn’t look taxed in the slightest. Amber’s head felt a little woozy. She polished off the rest of her water.

  If Edgar noticed her weakened state, he didn’t say anything about it. After he’d finished his eighth slice, he plopped onto the couch again and rested his elbows on his knees. “Now, the spell I think we should try is a memory reveal spell, just like you’ve done before. But the one you use is very basic. You get your magic to show you the last memory held in an object—and you can only be shown a memory from where the object in question had been. In a way, you saw what happened to Chloe as if you were her phone. We don’t want a memory of where this guy’s business card has been—we’d likely just see the inside of his wallet.

  “What we’re doing is tapping into Alan’s energy stored in the card because he touched it. That’s what your magic will be latching onto. But that’s why spells like this get tricky. We need specifics. We have to get the date, time, and location of the scene you want to see as exact as we can—if we’re off by, say, half an hour, your magic won’t know where to go and you’ll use up what little energy the card holds and your chance will be gone.”