Endangered Spells (Witches Academy Series Book 6)

by S. R. Mallery

  After closing his eyes, he brought up his beach image. Only this time, he visualized clear blue water with its white foam cresting over each new wave gushing toward the shore.

  A sudden idea popped into his head and made him hopeful. He pulled out a cheap burner phone the Valenteen brothers had advised him to purchase. After he punched in a number, he waited a few seconds.

  “Hello, yes, this is Harvey Jensen,” he said. “Yes, I would like to talk to Rupert Wollaston, please.” Pausing, he mouthed a silent prayer. “Rupert. Yes, I have a quick question. Is that bank account I opened up for Rebecca Newell and myself years ago still viable?”

  He listened. “Great. I’d appreciate it if you could look up the balance on that.”

  Please don’t tell me she drained the entire account. Please, please––

  “What? That’s fine, I’ll be over to close it out. Thank you, Rupert. See you soon.”

  Eighty-five grand! Thank goodness.

  Driving home with thick wads of cash in his briefcase, two thoughts circulated through Harvey’s head. First off, he had more than a prayer that maybe things might work out now—financially, at least. But he must never let any of this slip out to his wife. That had been Rule Number One the moment he got involved with Charlie and Eddie Valenteen.

  No sooner had he entered his house then he by-passed his family’s quiet noises in the kitchen and discreetly retired to his office. There, he carefully put the money away in a hidden safe he’d installed behind one of his bookshelves.

  The minute the safe’s lock closed, he sank down onto his desk chair, leaned back, and muttered, “That’s done.”

  Instantly, a new idea popped into his brain. “Why didn’t I think of that before?” He suddenly recalled Rebecca once telling him that she sometimes sent her friend, Gillian Good, whatever she was working on to get a second opinion.

  Could she have sent Gillian something about this lethal article?

  Then Harvey flashed on Billy Peterson telling him just the week before that he was no longer available for work. How he and Sammy had already done too much. Enough to land them in jail for at least the rest of their lives, if not the electric chair kind-of-too-much.

  Damn! Billy’s out. Or is he?

  Harvey sat back, wishing with all his heart that Rebecca hadn’t threatened him. If she’d just forgotten about the whole thing and concentrated on the witch’s coven, none of this would have happened. But it did happen. Pulling out his burner cell again, he punched in Billy’s phone number and leaned back even further in his chair.

  The phone was picked up after the second ring.

  “Hello?” Billy’s tone spoke volumes. Hesitant, as thick sounding as molasses, it was obvious he had been drinking—a lot.

  “Billy, it’s Harvey Nelson.”

  “What do you want? I told you I ain’t gonna work for you anymore.”

  Oh, God. Hope this works. “How about more money and a nice regular job when I get elected?”

  There was a long hesitation. “Maybe. How much?”

  “How’s another eight grand?”

  Billy snorted. “Make it ten, and we got a deal.”

  With some fast figuring in his head, Harvey assessed that now he could do both money pay offs. There’d be only ten grand left for himself, but it was worth it, to secure peace.

  “What’s it about, Harvey? Same old case?” Billy asked. “The police came after Sammy, you know. Put him in jail and everything.” He chuckled. “But the Valenteen brothers came to bat for him. Their lawyer bailed him out after a bit. So, he’s free at the moment.”

  “Great,” Harvey said. “This current job is about some kind of manuscript, journal, or even a notebook from Rebecca Newell again. You can identify it probably by a special little icon of a black circle with a white N placed in its middle.”

  “You mean like that Rebecca dame had on her wallet and her car’s dashboard? You know, when I did the job you directed me to do?” he asked, his tone flat, unemotional.

  Harvey gulped. “Yes,” he said.

  “So where is this notebook or journal?”

  “Maybe with someone.”

  “That’s kind of vague, Harvey. I mean, besides me dealing with that Rebecca, you got Sammy and me to take care of those two women at the book festival. Why was that again?”

  A slight chill rippled over the back of the would-be politician. “Never mind that, Billy. Just go to the following address and see if a certain woman received something from Rebecca.”

  “What woman?”

  “The one you said the Valenteen brothers told Sammy to go after, because she saw you two together at the hospital. They didn’t want any loose ends, remember?”

  “That redheaded gal? Okay, let me get this straight. If she has something from Rebecca, I just pick it up from her, right? No killing this time, right?”

  “No—hopefully not unless she has it and won’t hand it over. Then I’ll let you use your own judgment. But you have to make sure it’s that same redhead, and only her. You’ll need to do a stakeout first, to make sure she’s alone in her family’s house. As I recall, besides this girl, there are three other women living there. I don’t want any witnesses.” After he gave off the address, he had Billy repeat it.

  “Red hair. Pretty. If she doesn’t have anything from Rebecca, no problem. If she does but won’t give it to me, she’s gone.” He paused. “But Harvey, for that, I want twenty thousand. I will need Sammy to do this with me. Then, whatever happens, we’ll have enough money to leave the country.”

  Harvey’s sigh was loud and raspy. So, no money left. “All right. Done. Now, repeat her name.”

  “Gillian Good.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  After his third cup of coffee, Nate willed his eyes away from the computer screen, then, with both hands clasped together above his head, went into a leisurely backstretch. With his head spinning after at least an hour of researching Harvey Nelson’s campaign donors, he figured it was time for a little break. So far, he’d discovered Harvey’s donors were small fry and legitimate. Damn. Nothing sticks out.

  At the department’s vending machine, he fulfilled his need for some junk food. Sliding in several dollar bills, he got himself three bags of chips and a soda, then chuckled. He remembered when he and Gillian had ditched having pizza—to make love.

  Closing his eyes, he could still feel her lips on his and how her light touches and soft body melting into his, had catapulted him into indescribable sensations and urgent needs. Oh, Gillian, you have no idea what you do to me. Without warning, he thought of the Cole Porter song, “You Do Something to Me,” with the famous line, “You do that Voodoo that you do so well.” Voodoo? Adam may very well be right. He was obviously under her spell.

  He realized that by Adam’s standards, he was far less seasoned in the male/female old-fashioned coupling department. Still, he had dated several women and had a couple of girlfriends. But none of them came even close to how he felt about Gillian.

  Back at his desk, he made sure that after his small feast, he would try a different research venue. He pulled up Harvey’s expenditures and scoured page after page carefully, but nothing out of the ordinary cropped up.

  “You’re looking up Harvey Jensen?” Charlotte asked behind him. “I thought you were off that case.”

  Swiveling around, Nate looked up at her. “Yeah. Look, Charlotte, I––”

  She sat down next to him and gave his shoulder a couple of pats. “Nate, He’s a complete fake. Do what you do best.”

  Relieved she was obviously on his side, Nate could feel his pulse revving up. “Explain, please.”

  “Actually, a friend of mine worked on his campaign a little while back, then she quit. When I asked her why, she told me he was in bed up to his eyeballs with some pretty shady people. You know, loan shark kind of people.”

  She leaned over his keyboard and clicked on a site. It was Harvey’s financial statements.

  “What am I looking at?” N
ate asked.

  Pointing with her index finger at the screen, she explained, “See how every month, he pays out low amounts to various places, documenting them as food and supplies for his campaign office?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Look closer at the order numbers that are itemized. No matter the number, they all end with a C&E. You know what those letters stand for?”

  He shook his head. “No, what?”

  “Charles and Edward. C & E Enterprise.”

  “Who are they?”

  “According to my friend, they look nice and legit on the surface, but actually, they’re a local loan shark company known to help business owners and some politicians—all at a high price, I might add.”

  “We’re talking the mafia?”

  She shook her head. “Probably not, but they’re only one step below that. The company is owned by two brothers, Charles and Edward Valenteen. But everyone calls them Charlie and Eddie.”

  “So, if Harvey is crooked, what does that have to do with Rebecca? Was she investigating him?”

  “Maybe,” Charlotte said. “Word is the emails from Rebecca to her friends mentioned something big she was working on.”

  Clicking on another site, Nate pulled up a picture of Sammy Dayton that was taken after he had threatened Gillian. “Remember this guy?”

  “Yeah, sure. That’s the guy Bob Shiffer and I questioned, Sammy Dayton. A real dirt bag. But between you and me, I’m wondering about someone else. A friend of Adam’s.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “Someone he’s known for years, I think, because of how the two of them kidded each other. But the last time he was in, Adam refused to see him. Told me flat out not to ever allow him to come in. Period. Do you know who that person is?”

  Nate shrugged. Don’t worry, Adam, I’m not gonna say anything. “Beats me.”

  “Okay, then.” She glanced down at her watch. “Hey, I gotta go to the post office. See you later.”

  “Thanks, Charlotte, you’ve been a big help.”

  Left alone, he went back to start scouring the police files on the Valenteen brothers, when Charlotte, hugging a couple of padded manila envelopes, popped her head in again.

  “Hey, do you need anything from the post office like stamps or envelopes?” she asked.

  “No, thanks, Charlotte,” he said absently, already concentrating on the sleazy duo.

  Searching further, it was probably true. Eddie and Charlie weren’t really mafia, but they might as well have been. Picked up for racketeering and an armed burglary, needless to say, neither of them presented all-star track records.

  Without warning, he thought of Charlotte and her padded envelopes as his brain made a one hundred eighty turnaround. He imagined Gillian at the post office that day when they first really connected. He remembered how beautiful she had looked to him as they talked. And how he wanted to get to know her, learn all about her and her wonderful flapper phrases.

  And how she was holding a couple of packages in her arms. Two padded, eight-and-a-half by eleven manila ones. The top one showed on its upper left corner, a little black circle, with a contemporary looking white “N” superimposed over its middle.

  A chill spilled over him. Could Gillian have Rebecca’s last journal and not know it? Or was she hiding it from me the whole time?

  * *

  Whenever Gillian had some alone time in their house, she took full advantage of it. As much as she loved her family and usually appreciated their companionship, sometimes she just needed enough space to reflect on certain things. Things that puzzled her, bothered her, or had just cropped up in her life. Case in point? Nate Meeks.

  Wandering through the living room into their kitchen in her comfy sweats, she started to prepare a cup of tea. “Ah, Nate, Nate,” she murmured. Just saying his name filled her with a kind of warmth she had never experienced before.

  “Pretty girl, pretty girl,” Joselyn cawed as her little toes clicked into the kitchen. “Peek-a-boo. Peek-a-boo,” she chirped.

  Gillian couldn’t help it. She shook her head. That bird always has to be the life of a party. “No peek-a-boo now, Joselyn. I’m thinking about Nate.”

  “Pretty girl, pretty girl,” Joselyn repeated softly as she waddled away down the hall.

  So much for being alone.

  As soon as the teakettle whistled, Gillian poured the boiling water over her teabag, and silently, watched it steep in her favorite mug. The mug her father had bought her so many years before. Before his life was taken from him. And all because of that horror of a witch’s vendetta?

  Mustn’t go down that road. What’s past is past. Nate. I should just think about Nate.

  An unconscious sigh slipped out as she recaptured their easy banter, his kind yet intense dark eyes, his taut, masculine body, his unbelievably spine-tingling kisses and touches. Her mind didn’t stop there. As if reliving it now, she could almost feel the intensity of their passion building up into that explosive release.

  She actually moaned out loud. Get a grip, Gillian.

  In an effort to calm down, she suddenly thought of her mother. That did the trick.

  “Mama, it’s time you just accepted your daughters. Time you respected my interests, time you embraced Carly’s, and time you realize what a gem you have in Stevie. In all of us, in fact.”

  She listened for any comments from Joselyn, but when none came, she was satisfied she was truly alone.

  With her mug in hand, she retired into the living room, turned on their flat screen, and sank back against the pillows for a little tube-out session. When the local news came on, she was about to switch channels but paused. Rebecca’s name was up front and center.

  “Still without any real suspects, some are calling the Rebecca Newell case a police failure. In fact, the parents of the two other authors who were friends of Ms. Newell have indicated they are thinking of filing a civil suit against the local police department for not doing their job.”

  Wow. Poor Nate. Maybe I should call him? She reached for her cell in her pocket, but after punching in a simple message, she suddenly thought better of it and shut it off. Even if he was officially off the case, he might not appreciate her interfering, particularly as it was about unwelcome news. She texted Charlotte instead. Then, switching channels, she relaxed with a whodunit murder mystery as she sipped her tea.

  The TV murderer was about to be revealed when her cell’s ring made her flinch.

  “Hi, Charlotte,” she said. “I was just hearing on the news about Rebecca’s case and––wait, let me get back to you. Someone’s at the door. I’ll call you back.”

  With the TV still on, she headed for the door, picking up a needy Joselyn, cooing wistfully, “Pretty bird, pretty bird,” as if her life depended on it.

  “Joselyn, be a good girl, will you?”

  “Good girl, good girl.”

  Opening up the door, she just hoped the cockatoo would behave herself. After all, not everyone loved birds.

  It was the two men from the hospital. The blond, curly haired one was now standing still on their doorstep, blinking furiously. Next to him was the creepy tattooed monster who had threatened her in the park—now aiming his gun straight for her heart.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Get the journal,” the tattooed one snarled. The blinker nodded in agreement.

  At first, Gillian had trouble registering his words. She was too busy staring at the guy’s weapon. But when the gun-toting man cleared his throat, she found some words.

  “The journal? I don’t understand. What are you talking about?” she asked.

  “I know you have it. Just go get it. Now. Or else.” The creepy guy slowly cocked his firearm.

  “Or else. Or else,” Joselyn chirped quietly.

  The blinker laughed. “You have to admit, Sammy, that’s funny.” He stopped chuckling as soon as his partner threw him a dirty look.

  “Stop that bird. Don’t need to hear his chatter,” Sammy said to Gil
lian.

  Joselyn’s head feathers rose up a couple of inches then flopped back down onto her head.

  “Again, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gillian said, willing her speech to sound calm, not panicked.

  “Billy, tell her,” Sammy said.

  Okay. We have a Billy and a Sammy. Who sent them?

  “Rebecca Newell’s latest journal,” Billy snapped. “You know what I mean.”

  Her eyebrows twisted upward for several seconds. She was about to say something when suddenly, she paused. Could it be in that package from her I never opened?

  Sammy sneered. “A-hah! I can tell. You know what we’re talking about.”

  Nodding slowly, she said, “I did receive something from her several weeks ago. It’s in my bedroom. But I swear I haven’t opened it yet.” How could she have forgotten the package? It might hold clues to her murder.

  Stepping toward her, Billy said, “Then let’s all go and get it together.”

  Based on the digging in of the cockatoo’s claws, she could tell Joselyn was becoming seriously agitated.

  “First, I need to put my bird in her cage,” she said firmly. No matter what happened, she didn’t want Joselyn to face any nasty fallout.

  “Good idea,” Sammy muttered and motioned her with his gun to get moving.

  But when she attempted to reach up to take Joselyn off her shoulder so she could put her back into her cage, which had recently been placed in the living room, the bird was having none of it. She stood high up on her owner’s shoulder and started to flap her wide wings.

  “What’s going on with you, girl?” Gillian asked. Then it hit her. Wow, is Joselyn actually feeling protective? Ordinarily, that would definitely be grounds for a little treat, but now, trying to get a hold of her was the main object, particularly since her attackers were only inches away.

  “Get in the cage, you stupid bird,” Sammy barked.

  That did it. Joselyn flew off down the hall, screeching and squawking at top volume.

  Gillian flipped around to face them both. “Don’t you ever try to tell her what to do.”