Endangered Spells (Witches Academy Series Book 6)

by S. R. Mallery

  “I gotta get this guy back to the police station. But first I’m gonna call Charlotte to send someone here to take you home.”

  “Nate, really, I think I’ll be all right.” She didn’t even bother blinking back tears this time.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, wiping off her tears with one finger.

  “Yeah, sweetheart,” the branded man snarled. “Sorry I didn’t get to off you. Next time, don’t get involved in things you don’t understand, or I’ll definitely finish the job.”

  “Enough out of you.” As Nate jerked him off toward his car, he flatly spouted the obligatory “Miranda Rights,” as if reading a menu. Once he pushed his prisoner inside, strapped him into a heavy-duty crisscrossed belt, and locked the back door, he put the perp’s gun into a plastic bag. Then, as a squad car pulled up, he turned back to Gillian.

  “See you later,” he said with a sweet smile.

  At home, she decided not to tell anyone what had just happened. Instead, she quietly retreated to her bedroom and closed the door, figuring there was enough going on between her and her mother already. Telling her would only incite even more angst. Still, she was tempted to share one fact, something her mother would undoubtedly be thrilled to hear.

  It looks like my powers have actually returned!

  * *

  Back at the police department, Nate figured he would simply hand Sammy Dayton, this psycho who went after Gillian, over to Adam. Easy enough.

  Apparently not. After Charlotte booked this new perp and Det. Bob Shiffer took him into an interrogation room, Nate noticed Adam, off to one side of the main room, subtly motioning him over.

  “What’s up?” Nate asked.

  “I can’t interrogate this guy, bro. Sorry.”

  It suddenly clicked. Of course not. “Adam, this is your childhood friend, the one you never want to see again, right?”

  Adam shook his head. “No, but he’s my friend’s cousin. A nasty piece of work. You think you got ethical issues? Well, here’s mine.”

  Nate thought a moment. “Okay. Chief Hutton isn’t here today, so let’s ask Charlotte and Bob Shiffer to interrogate him.”

  “Charlotte?” Adam asked.

  “Hey, she’s detective grade now, partner. And damn smart. It’ll be fine.”

  “If you say so. Meanwhile, I’ll quickly check to see if we have anything on Sammy in our files. If so, I’ll get it to her,” Adam said.

  “And give her these. I’ve already registered them.” Nate handed over the bagged gun. Then, taking out his cellphone, he said, “I recorded Sammy’s words to Gillian at the park.” He scrolled down on his phone. “See? I put the video here, in this file.”

  Sitting across from the heavily marked man with the light brown bomber jacket and scruffy chin, Det. Bob Shiffer began. “So, Sammy, until your lawyer shows up, I do have something to tell you.”

  Sammy sniffed loudly as his steely gray/blue eyes focused on the detective. “Good luck with that,” he sneered.

  “I’ve been reading about your record. It’s less than stellar,” Charlotte said. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  Sammy feigned indifference.

  She took out a manila folder Adam had given her, opened it up, and calmly pushed it across the table toward their perp. Pleased she got at least a gulp out of the man, she continued. “So, I’m glad you got yourself a lawyer. Hope he’s good. Still, this county doesn’t like strong-arm men like you threatening people. So, I’ve got to tell you, it’s not going to help your case when––”

  Just then, a three-piece suited lawyer with coiffed hair showed up. He introduced himself and sat down next to Sammy. “What is my client charged with?” he asked.

  “Simple assault. Funny, but I was just about to show Mr. Dayton why.” Charlotte pointed to the folder, pulled out Sammy’s bagged gun, and held up Nate’s cellphone.

  Once she found the correct file, she hit play. Out came Sammy’s words to Gillian at the park, just after Nate had intervened and had him in handcuffs.

  Sammy’s raspy voice echoed in the room. “Yeah, sweetheart, sorry I didn’t get to off you. Next time, don’t get involved in things you don’t understand, or I’ll definitely finish the job.”

  The detective played it two more times for greater effect.

  Sammy’s gulp lasted a lot longer than his first one had. “That’s not legal,” he snarled.

  His lawyer sighed. “Maybe not in many states, but unfortunately, here in Connecticut, it is.”

  “But it’s not my fault,” Sammy moaned. “I knew I shouldn’t get involved with that politi––”

  “That’s enough, Mr. Dayton!” the lawyer snapped. He eyed the gun then looked at both detectives. “So, when’s the arraignment?”

  “What? You’re gonna let them arrest me?” Sammy cried. “What kind of a lawyer are you?”

  “The kind that knows the law, Mr. Dayton. Don’t worry, as soon as the judge sets bail, I’ll have you out of here.”

  The Wheelton Police Department’s evidence room was relatively small, but well stocked and highly organized. There were always two people on duty there. One stood out at the counter, meticulously signing people into their large, week-by-week ledger book. The other police employee present always sat at the back room’s large desk, surrounded by shelf after shelf of clearly labeled white cardboard evidence boxes.

  With Chief Hutton still away and Charlotte on duty out front, Nate knew that with her in charge, she would be lenient about his time spent in the evidence room. That meant he could take his sweet time on “another case,” he claimed he was researching. He was also lucky that the man inside the evidence room was also low-key. So, after Nate nodded a greeting, the man returned to his busywork and paid no attention to which boxes Nate was pulling out.

  Soon, Nate was on the floor, hemmed in by four cardboard boxes, labeled Rebecca Newell. They were filled with page after page of Rebecca’s emails and letters, always with her signature icon prominently displayed—a white “N” on a black circle. Going through everything was a long, exhausting business, but two hours in, he remained determined. Forget any new evidence for the three victims, he was now also on a quest to get rid of any threat that might be hovering over Gillian.

  With the last box in front of him, the phrase love of my life did float through his brain, causing him to sit back, to draw and release a very long, extended breath. He had never, ever felt that way about anyone before, but the simple fact was, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Couldn’t stop envisioning her in full technicolor as she miraculously fulfilled his heart, mind, and body.

  Absently, he pulled out a photo of Rebecca and Harvey Nelson from years before. It made sense because he’d been her publisher. After a fairly fast perusal, Nate was about to put it back into the box, when another photo caught his eye. He withdrew it then quickly noticed something that had escaped both Adam’s and his attention before.

  It was a picture he’d already seen of the author and her publisher at a racetrack, beaming at whomever was taking the photograph. Harvey’s arm was slung over Rebecca’s shoulder and the author’s grin, broad and happy looking. But it wasn’t just the two of them that held Nate’s attention. A paperclip hung off one of its edges. Yet when he flipped the photo over to its other side, there was nothing there.

  “There must have been something else attached onto that photo,” he muttered as he placed the box onto his lap and foraged through it. After a couple of minutes of emptying out the box’s contents, he found at the bottom three items. Withdrawing them from the box, he examined each one closely. There were two old, yellowed, almost crumbling tickets to a horserace. But that wasn’t his main focus.

  Also, there, evidenced by a slight tear across one edge, as if it had had a paperclip attached to something else at one point, was a business card. “Private Home Games,” it read. Turning it over, Nate saw a note in Rebecca’s handwriting on its flip side. It read: “Is Harvey into these guys for money?”

&nb
sp; In a flash, Nate thought of Harvey’s look of fear at Rebecca’s funeral as he openly stared at those three well-dressed goons.

  Stashing the tickets and business card into his shirt pocket, he returned all the other objects back into the Rebecca box from where he’d removed it, then he returned the four Newell cartons to the shelves.

  “Did you find what you were looking for, Nate?” Charlotte asked as he signed out.

  “Maybe. Right now, I’m going back upstairs to get onto my computer.”

  To look up Harvey Nelson’s financials—and possible campaign issues.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Sitting alone in his home office, Harvey Nelson knew he should get back to his campaign headquarters. Undoubtedly, right about now, there’d be someone there who was in dire need of his directions. Still, he couldn’t return until his twitches were under control. The nervous spasms that he’d tried to hide most of his childhood before he finally outgrew them—a miracle he mostly attributed to his helpful, caring wife—had returned. He certainly owed her a lot, and all the more reason not to let her see him right now. She would instantly know something pretty dire must have triggered his old condition, and she’d insist on him telling her everything.

  Not going to happen.

  He tried to gather a deep breath, but the air filtering into his nose was shaky at best. Short, jagged pants caught in his throat, no matter how hard he tried to stay calm.

  He sure didn’t need that pay-up note, on top of everything else. He wouldn’t have even been in this position if his great-aunt’s financial safety net hadn’t dried up. All of a sudden, she got judgmental because of his gambling debts? That was rich, after he had done so much for her.

  His mind still swirling, he thought about Billy Peterson. Then his nasty cousin, Sammy Dayton. They were supposed to help him out in just a couple of ways. That was it. Easy. Especially when Billy had lobbied hard to get this job, assuring Harvey that he and Sammy could handle anything they were tasked to do. But, as it turned out, paying those two men to do his bidding was cash he could ill afford to hand out right now. Everything he had—and then some—was earmarked for the Valenteen brothers.

  “Life isn’t fair,” he said, his twitches still going.

  As soon as he leaned back against his comfortable leather desk chair, he slowly rolled his eyelids shut. Then, using one of his wife’s techniques from long ago, he envisioned being on a beautiful beach, the white sand so fine that when he scooped some of it up then let it go, it felt like tiny feathers trickling through his fingers as it spilled onto the shore.

  It seemed to be working. His breathing had almost returned to normal, his heartbeats were no longer banging against his chest, and he could think more clearly. But with that, his mind drifted back to that fateful luncheon he’d had two months before—with Rebecca Newell, former author, now journalist extraordinaire, and for a long time, his major cash cow.

  He remembered how she had called him out of the blue, asking him to meet her for lunch, at their favorite restaurant, Le Petite Chien. Pleased she had reached out to him after so many years, he went eagerly, expecting a few laughs and a fine trip back to the good ole days. A time when he’d helped her with her budding mystery author career, which ended up benefitting both of them so well.

  She looked pretty good, considering the word out on the street reported she had been working herself to death, writing this article and that, and doing her usual relentless investigations. I guess some things never change.

  After he gave her a warm hug in the front room of the restaurant, they both were guided to a cozy, red-leather booth, where the second they each sat down, Rebecca asked for a double-up, dry martini with a lemon twist.

  Harvey chuckled. “Some things never change, right?”

  She smiled, but not as broadly as she would have done in the past. Poor woman, she really is working herself to death.

  When the waiter returned with her drink, Harvey ordered a whiskey on the rocks. Why not? It was fun to be back with his former client and an alcoholic lift would certainly add some pizazz. As he observed the famous author/reporter guzzling down her drink, he was reminded of how proud of her he’d been over the years. And how, each time he had heard about her going on to a high-end career of investigative articles, he would smile, knowing he had once played a hand in her success. Thinking about it now, perhaps that’s why he’d decided to go into politics. Truthfully, he didn’t really care all that much about other people, except his family, of course. No, what he liked about politics was the idea that he could brag about being a local politician and enjoy all its perks. That kind of life seemed the perfect way to go.

  He took a long sip. “So,” he said, smiling, “what a surprise after all this time.”

  Why is she looking uncomfortable? What’s that about?

  “Yes, well, I figure it was time we met up,” she said, her eyes now anchoring onto him.

  Just then when the waiter appeared to ask, “What will you have?” Harvey realized he’d suddenly lost his appetite. “I’m not really hungry.”

  She agreed and added, “But I’ll have another one of these, please.”

  Harvey followed suit with his whiskey, as a wave of apprehension cascaded over him.

  Once they had downed their second drinks—and their third––he had to ask.

  “So, what’s really up with you, Rebecca? Because we go way back, I sense something is going on. What is it?”

  It felt as if she was stalling. First, she cleared her throat then eyed her empty cocktail glass on the table before switching her full attention back to him.

  “Yes, we do go way back, Harvey, so I want you to know I will forever be grateful to you for helping me sell so many of my mysteries.”

  “My pleasure.” He leaned in toward her. “Come on, spit it out.”

  She drew an exceptionally long, deep breath, then blew it out, noisily. “Okay. I just want you to know I’ve started a new article.”

  “You mean about the witch coven? I’ve heard about that.”

  “No, this is different. I put the coven thing aside for now. I realized since the Gambit House witches only practice White Magic, that’s not going to really sell. These days, people seem to crave mostly Black Magic.” She paused. “The article I am writing now is a…” she said, then bit her lip. “A doozy.”

  A doozy? Why tell me?

  Signaling the waiter, she asked for another two rounds for both of them. “Wait,” she muttered to Harvey.

  As soon as the fourth and fifth rounds arrived, she downed her fourth in less than two seconds.

  Uh-oh. He did the same.

  “Remember, I’m a writer first, friend second.”

  Not good, so not good.

  “This doozy of an article has a major star, Harvey. And it’s you.”

  He could feel his chest tighten. “What—what do you mean? Why me?”

  She finished her fifth round even faster. “Let me put it this way. To me, you’ve become a person of interest. I mean, when my research revealed you were in bed with the Valenteen brothers, I had to do further digging. You know me. That’s what I do. You used to say I was a dog with a bone. You’re right, and that bone turned out to be your campaign finances, in regard to your gambling habits. Basically, we’re talking serious corruption.” Swaying now, her eyes were moist. “How could you, Harvey?”

  “Please, Rebecca, please don’t do this to me,” he begged, his own tears threatening to spill over.

  “Sorry, Harvey, I really am, but this is too big a story to ignore.” She sucked the fifth glass dry. “And the fact that your great-aunt is, shall we say, uniquely colorful as well as shady, that’s just whip cream on the pie.”

  “What—what are you talking about?” He knew the answer but had to ask just in case.

  “Priscilla Crowe, of course. The New Orleans Séance Queen. The witch who created so much evil, she was drummed out of the Witches Academy years ago and has been living in an undisclosed location. Y
ou know, the one who’s been helping you financially and politically these past few years. She’s always been quite a character, hasn’t she, Harvey? In fact, you should talk to the Good family here in town and see what they think of her. It appears you have quite a bit of criminality in your DNA.”

  Fueled by liquor, anger surged through him. “I can play dirty, too, Rebecca,” he snarled. “I’d watch it if I were you. After all, since you’re so convinced my family and I are crooked, what makes you think I would take this crap lying down? And if I’m so ‘dirty’ to you, then you should know that my connection to Charlie and Eddie Valenteen might not be the best thing for you.”

  Without warning, she stood up—kind of. She swayed from side to side, and he noticed when she clutched her chair back, it was with a tight, needy grip, to retrieve her balance.

  On his feet now as well, their face-off reminded him of the time back in high school when he had had enough of being teased about his tics and had finally defended himself—all six-foot-one of him.

  “Just so you know,” Rebecca said, “I’ve already sent emails to two of my author friends, Marsha Beaumont and Lilith Dickerson. If anything happens to me, they’ll be paying a visit to the police. I’ve also sent someone else proof of what you’ve been up to.”

  Extracting some bills from her purse, she tossed them down on the table, and staggered by him, hissing, “Nice knowing you, Harvey.”

  That lunch scene seemed so long ago. But now, surrounded by his books, files, and computer, it played in his head as if it were yesterday. “Rebecca, you bitch,” he snarled. “Glad you’re no longer.”

  Returning to his campaign headquarters, Harvey told his wife he’d taken a much-needed nap, and now, completely refreshed, he was better able to tackle any issues that might come up.

  The afternoon wore on uneventfully, and because of that, a lot of small, nit-picking things were accomplished. By the time the staff had all left for the day, and his wife and son were on their way back home, he plopped down onto his office chair and surveyed the empty outer room, grateful for some quiet, so he could concentrate on how to get a hold of a lot more money by the next day.