Six Times a Charm

by Deanna Chase

  I made a noncommittal noise. I was hardly going to tell him I’d been in three fights in so many days. Allie might be impressed by my ability to bring down attacking martial arts instructors, but that was a long way from laying waste to demons. I needed to be at the top of my game, and I wasn’t. Not yet. “I’m not in the shape I need to be,” I said with a shrug. Simple as that.

  “Need to be,” he repeated. “For what?”

  “For me.” Fighting demons is only part skill and strength, the rest is confidence. My reflexes might still be there, hiding just under the surface, but until my head believed that, I was vulnerable. “I just need to know I can do it.”

  ***

  In the end I’m not sure if Cutter agreed because I’d nailed him, because he believed I was sincere about getting back in sparring shape, or because he thought I was a (somewhat dangerous) nut he had to humor. Honestly, I didn’t much care. I’d come to pencil in times, and I was walking away with a sparring schedule for me (nine-thirty a.m., every day until I cried uncle) and a Wednesday/Friday afternoon class for me, Allie, and Mindy.

  Mission accomplished. One more item crossed off my to-do list.

  Of course, I’d ended up talking with Cutter way too long. (I chalked it up to male insecurity. As we were filling out the necessary paperwork, he launched into his resume, telling me about his military service, along with the myriad awards and accolades he’d received over the years at various martial arts tournaments. I’ll admit, the guy sounded more than qualified.)

  I found the girls outside of 7-Eleven, sucking down Popsicles (“the fruit ones have like no calories”) and describing to each other in minute detail how I’d managed to get Cutter down on the mat.

  “That was so stellar, Mrs. Connor,” Mindy said. “I don’t think my mom could ever do anything that cool.”

  “My mom kicks butt,” Allie said.

  “Allie.” I used my Shocked Mom voice, but I’ll confess to a secret thrill—my kid thought I was cool! “Okay, everyone in the van.”

  As the girls and I got back in the van, the digital clock read 3:35. I confirmed that with a glance at my watch (as if somewhere I’d hidden an extra half-hour), but apparently all my various timepieces were in sync.

  So much for my supermom routine. There was no way I could get the stuff for the cocktail party and get home in time to meet the glazier. Damn.

  I debated my options as I pulled out onto Rialto, still not sure if I was heading to Laura’s house, my home, or the grocery store. I pulled out my cell phone, punched in Laura’s speed-dial number, and stopped at a red light.

  Her machine kicked on and I cursed out loud. I waited through the beep. “Laura? Pick up. It’s me.”

  I heard the clatter of the phone and then Laura’s breathless “Hey. Sorry. I was changing a diaper.”

  “I’ve got Mindy and Allie,” I said. “But could I add one more dessert to our tally?”

  I swear I could hear her smile. “What do you need?”

  I explained about the glass and asked if she and Timmy could finish out their playdate at my house.

  “Playdate, huh?’

  I cleared my throat, and she laughed.

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “I owe you,” I said.

  “You have no idea,” she said agreeably.

  That task accomplished, I turned into a parking lot and reemerged on Rialto heading the opposite direction toward Gelson’s (the kind of high-end grocery store where after you valet park, you might actually spy a celebrity-—or, more likely, the celebrity’s butler).

  This is not my usual grocery store.

  Once inside, I bemoaned the fact that we weren’t rolling in the dough. If an overflowing bank account meant that I could shop regularly in a place like this, I might actually learn to cook a few meals other than the old standbys like meat loaf and chicken with rice.

  The girls peeled off, ostensibly to check out the produce section, but I expected they’d end up at the dessert counter. I continued on to the back of the store, where a fifty-something woman in a hairnet asked what she could do for me today. I wasn’t shy, immediately revealing my sad tale of woe (I’m a terrible cook and was expected to host a cocktail party in approximately three hours).

  Lorraine (I caught a glimpse of her name tag) rose to the challenge, and less than twenty minutes later I was in the checkout lane writing a check for a clump of caviar (and the accompanying sour cream and little potato puffs on which to dab it), foie gras, some fancy crackers that put my usual Saltines to shame, cheese puffs, spinach dip in a carved-out bowl of bread, champagne grapes, and my old standby Brie. (A social faux pas since I’d served it last Friday, but I figured I’d survive the shame). I also had a few bottles of wine (recommended by the store’s sommelier), the basic supplies for various flavored martinis, and two outrageously large slices of chocolate cake that the girls dubbed their reward for surviving the first day of high school.

  After writing a check roughly the size of our mortgage, I followed the clerk out to the van and watched as he loaded my purchases, all the while thinking that I could get used to this. A few minutes later we were turning into Laura’s driveway, and I was feeling more than a little pleased with myself.

  “Your mom will be back soon,” I told Mindy, who didn’t look like it much mattered to her. “And you,” I said to Allie, “aren’t staying overnight. Come back home by ten.”

  “Sure, Mom.”

  I waited to make sure the girls got inside all right, then circled the block, heading toward my own house. I parked in the garage, then grabbed a bag before climbing out. I backtracked down the driveway to fetch the morning paper, then headed inside. Laura met me at the door, my phone pressed to her ear.

  She held up a finger as I pushed inside, signaling for me to wait. “It’s Stuart,” she said.

  I took the phone from her, cradling it between my shoulder and ear as I dumped my bag by the refrigerator. Timmy had heard me come in, and now he was racing to me, his cries of “Momma!” drowning out pretty much every other sound.

  “What hon?” I yelled. “Say again?” I bent down to collect my son in a bear hug, and he immediately reached for the phone. “Timmy talk! Timmy talk!”

  “Kate?”

  “Go ahead.” I wrestled the phone back from Tim with a stern “No, Mommy’s talking.” To my husband, I said, “I’m listening.”

  “I was just calling to check in. You got my note? Six-thirty?”

  “We’re all set,” I said. “I just got back from the grocery store.” Behind me, I heard the door open and close, and I turned to see Laura traipsing in with the last of my bags. I mouthed a silent thank you.

  “You’re the best” he said. “I’ll be home by six to help you out.”

  “Sounds good …” I trailed off, looking at my watch as I shifted Timmy’s weight in my arms. I was thinking about all I needed to do in order to get me and the house ready for company, and wondering if I shouldn’t make Stuart come home at five. Too late. Before I got the words out, he’d said the requisite “I love you” and hung up.

  Great.

  “Lady, you got dry rot.”

  And it just kept getting better and better.

  I’d moved through the kitchen, and now I looked up to see a scarecrow of a man in coveralls and a baseball cap picking at the window frame with what looked like a putty knife.

  “Oh,” I said. He kept looking at me, and so I said the only other thing that came to mind. “I’m sorry?”

  He exhaled (loudly). “Yeah, well, what do you want me to do about it?”

  “You talking, Momma?” Timmy said. “You talking on the phone?”

  “No, sweetie. Mommy’s done on the phone.”

  “Lady?”

  “Hold on a second,” I said. I headed into the living room and passed Timmy off to Laura, who’d been going through the motions of picking up what appeared to be every single toy Timmy owns.

  “The girls?”

  “Your place,�
� I said.

  “I figured as much. You want me to keep Allie until after your party?”

  Considering I’d already told Allie as much, Laura’s offer couldn’t have been more perfect. “You’re a saint, you know that, right?”

  She found Boo Bear under an askew sofa cushion and passed it to Timmy, who clutched it greedily. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” she said.

  “I’ll remember that. And I think we’re up to four desserts, now. With the next favor, I’ll buy you a gym membership.”

  She grimaced. “And here I thought you appreciated my help.”

  I thanked her again, and as she headed out the back door to go supervise the girls, I put Timmy down. He headed straight for the laundry basket where Laura had been collecting his toys and proceeded to rescatter them across the living room. Next on my list: straighten house.

  I moved back into the kitchen, and ten minutes later knew more than I ever wanted to know about dry rot. After a lot of technical mumbo jumbo, we hit the bottom line—he could do a temporary fix, but we needed to get someone in to replace the frame, at which time the new glass could be reinserted and better sealed. He’d be happy to handle the full job, of course, and assured me that his prices were competitive.

  I debated the probability of Stuart siphoning enough time to handle this himself against the likelihood that he’d pawn the job off to me, expecting me only to run the estimates by him after all the bids were in. Since Option Number Two was the more likely—and since I couldn’t see fitting home-repair estimates into my already full schedule—I told the repairman he had the job. What Stuart didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. (And to ensure that Stuart didn’t know, I made a mental note to pay the bills for the next two months, even though it was technically Stuart’s turn to handle the checkbook.)

  He promised to have the temporary glass inserted within the hour, and I raced back out into the living room to try to straighten the house up. Fortunately, Timmy helped, and that made the whole process go a lot faster. (For those of you who might have missed it, that’s commonly referred to as sarcasm.)

  Once the toys were cleared away, I settled Tim on the couch with Boo Bear, his harmonica, a coloring book, and some (washable) crayons, then headed up the stairs to change. Since Stuart had given me no advance warning, choosing an outfit was easy. I wore the only thing in my closet that hadn’t succumbed to wrinkles—a navy blue pantsuit that I’d bought on a whim at a 75-percent-off sale, still sporting the tags from Kohl’s.

  I did a quick makeup job, fastened my hair on top of my head with a clip, doused it with hairspray, doused the rest of me with apple-scented body mist (to hide the hair-spray smell), then headed back downstairs just in time to sign the invoice and write an extremely rubber check to the Atlas Glass Company. (Note to self: Transfer money from savings.)

  After that I got down to the really important work—moving all my various purchases to my own dishes, and reheating the quiches and cheese puffs until a) they were warm, and b) the kitchen smelled like I’d actually cooked the things. Just for effect, I tossed a few pans, mixing bowls, and other utensils into the dishwasher and turned it on. Early arrivals would assume I was just wrapping up a day of cooking.

  Devious, yes. But it calmed my fear that the entire political community would assume that Stuart was married to an incompetent. (“She stays home all day with her little boy, but her house is always a mess, and she can’t cook to save her life. I mean, really. What does he see in her?”) Paranoid, maybe. But I was willing to put on the act just in case.

  At ten after six, I walked back into the house after dropping Timmy at Laura’s for the duration of the party (she really is a saint). I expected to find Stuart puttering around, sampling all the food he wasn’t supposed to be touching.

  No Stuart. I frowned, more than a little irritated. This was his party, after all. The least he could do was show up when he promised.

  I puttered for a few more minutes, straightening the trays of food, twisting the open bottles of wine on the buffet so that the labels were perfectly aligned. I even fanned out the cocktail napkins (there were still some left in the buffet, just where Stuart had said they were last Friday). The timer binged, and I retrieved the batch of cheese puffs, then arranged them artfully on a bright yellow Fiestaware plate.

  Still no Stuart.

  I fluffed the pillows on the couch and was just about to retrieve a piece of lint from the carpet (how shocking! how gauche!) when I heard the front door rattle. Finally!

  I headed for the foyer and pulled open the door.

  No one. Just a flyer for pizza delivery. Okay, fine. I tamped down my anger, reminding myself that red, blotchy skin would clash with my carefully applied makeup. There were still fifteen minutes before the party was supposed to start; surely Stuart would be here shortly.

  In an effort to appear calm and collected, I grabbed the Herald from the basket we keep in the foyer, then unfolded it as I walked back toward the kitchen. I poured myself a glass of wine (the better for remaining calm) and spread out the paper, flipping idly through the sections.

  When I hit the “Local Interest” section, my hand froze, my gaze glued to the page. There, front and center, was a full-color picture of my Richie Cunningham demon, smiling at the camera and looking oh-so-innocent. Underneath the picture was a short article:

  English major Todd Stanton Greer narrowly survived an attack by a vicious dog Saturday evening. “It was awful,” said classmate Sarah Black, who witnessed the attack. “It just came out of nowhere.” Local animal-control authorities had no explanation for the origin of the dog. Citizens with information are requested to contact authorities at 555-3698. Greer was admitted to Diablo County Medical Center in critical condition, but was discharged the following evening. “There was no point in holding him,” stated Dr. Louis Sachs. “His recovery was remarkable.”

  There was a bit more to the article, but I couldn’t read it. My hands were shaking too badly.

  Roving dog my ass. The local SPCA might think so, but I knew better. The dog was a demon manifestation, vile and cold-blooded. And the only reason it had to roam the streets of San Diablo would be to attack and kill—and gain human form for the demon who controlled it.

  Todd Greer hadn’t miraculously survived. He’d died Saturday night. And Sunday evening, a demon had walked out of that hospital, headed to my house, and attacked me by the trash. So much for my nice, safe neighborhood.

  San Diablo wasn’t demon-free anymore. Worse, everything I’d seen pointed to an aggressive and virulent demon invasion. Forza needed to be out here, fighting the good fight. But at the moment I was the only Hunter on deck.

  And I was knee-deep in cheese puffs and Brie.

  Chapter 11

  With the exception of Stuart’s continued absence, the party was a roaring success. It had expanded beyond the original guest list, and now the living room and den overflowed with politicos, all standing around talking about funding and candidates, with the occasional praise of my cheese puffs thrown in for good measure.

  I smiled and nodded and tried not to look at the clock every three minutes. Not easy. I saw Clark cross to the bar, and I tagged along behind him, waiting patiently while he finished up a conversation with a stern-looking woman in a black-on-black suit. “Eminent domain is not a power to be tossed around willy-nilly,” she said. “Be careful, Mr. Curtis, or we will see you in court.”

  Had she not sounded so serious, I would have smiled at the phrase willy-nilly coming from the lips of such a buttoned-up woman. As it was, I wasn’t laughing. “What was that about?” I asked as soon as she’d gone.

  “The county’s looking to acquire some land for expansion of the college. Unfortunately, the land we want is already occupied by some nice little clapboard houses.” He lit a cigarette and looked so miserable I didn’t even remind him that we don’t allow smoking in the house. “Sometimes I hate my job,” he said.

  “Sometimes I hate your job, too,” I said. “Is that the
reason Stuart’s late? Do you have him working away on some land deal?”

  “Stuart’s my candidate, Kate. Do you really think I’d keep him away from his own party?”

  I didn’t, but I’d secretly hoped. Otherwise, I didn’t know what to think.

  I mingled a bit more, keeping my political-wife smile firmly plastered on my face, but only half-listening to the conversations going on around me. When I heard the front door open and close, I hurried in that direction, expecting to see Stuart, but instead finding Judge Larson.

  “Thank God you’re here,” I said, leading him into the relative privacy of the kitchen. “I’m going crazy.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything,” I said.

  “That bad?”

  “Stuart’s not here. He’s half an hour late for his own party. And there are demon hordes roaming the streets near the community college.”

  “Oh, dear,” Larson said. He poured himself a drink. “Let’s examine those one at a time. Have you called him?”

  “Twice. I just get his voice mail.”

  “There was an accident on the 101. He’s probably stuck in traffic.”

  “For his sake, I hope so.” Throwing these parties was painful enough. Throwing them without Stuart was positively torture.

  “About the demon hordes?” Larson prompted.

  “Right,” I said, pitching my voice lower. “Look at this.” I pulled out the newspaper article, then let Larson read in peace as I puttered around, piling more cheese puffs and baby quiches onto a cookie sheet, then shoving them into the oven.

  After that I made a quick hostess run through the living room and den with a newly opened bottle of red wine. Everyone seemed to be having a good time, I didn’t catch anyone looking at their watch with a frown, and everyone was polite enough not to mention Stuart’s absence. When I got back to Larson, he was leaning over the table, each hand on either side of the paper, literally shaking with rage.

  “Larson?” My voice was barely a whisper, but he heard me. He turned his head up to face me, and the anger I saw there made me take a step back. “Judge? What is it? Did you know him?”