Casual Hex

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  Edith Mae was talking about Les Mis’rables, which she pronounced, “less miz-erables.” She’d seen the show back when her husband had been alive and they’d made a trip to Chicago. “I don’t get the title,” Edith Mae said. “Those people in the show certainly weren’t less miserable as things went along. If anything, they became even more miserable.”

  Marc appeared to be wearing Jeremy Dunstan’s clothes, which Dorcas found interesting. She recognized the long-sleeved T-shirt as one she’d seen on Jeremy several times.

  Marc had managed to keep a straight face through the whole Les Mis’rables discussion, but his face relaxed into a happy smile when Dorcas stepped aside and revealed Gwen standing behind her. “I found your lunch date trapped in the crowd,” Dorcas said.

  Marc gazed at Gwen as a man dying of thirst might gaze at a case of bottled water. “I thought you had forgotten.”

  Gwen shook her head. “It’s just very crowded and I couldn’t get through.”

  “Can you believe this?” Sylvia gestured around. “We arrived at eleven so we’d be sure and get a spot. Marc showed up soon after we did, so we didn’t want the poor guy to be lonely while he waited for you.”

  “I don’t think lonely is an issue.” Gwen returned her attention to Marc. “What a coincidence. Jeremy has a T-shirt just like that.”

  “It is not a coincidence,” Marc said. “This is Jeremy’s T-shirt. I never made it back to your house, so he loaned me clothes and let me borrow his shower.”

  Dorcas wasn’t too pleased about that scenario. No doubt Jeremy had proudly mentioned that his wife was an investigative journalist researching mythical creatures like Nessie. He even might have said that Dorcas and Ambrose got Annie the job.

  “So you never got your suitcase,” Gwen said.

  “No.” Marc looked unhappy about it, too.

  Dorcas wondered if it bothered him that much to be wearing someone else’s clothes. She’d taken note of the dress shirt Marc had arrived in, and it was primo stuff. She hoped he wasn’t a clothes snob, especially considering how little Gwen seemed to care about how she dressed.

  “I’m sure you can grab it later,” Gwen said.

  “Do not worry, I will.” He sounded resolute.

  Dorcas began to fear that he was a clothes snob. That might not be a huge conflict in the relationship, but it could set up some initial irritations right when Dorcas wanted everything to run smooth as water over polished marble. Maybe she’d loan Gwen a few more outfits.

  As she mentally sorted through her wardrobe, Leo edged his way up to the table and stuck out his hand to Marc. “Leo Atwood,” he said.

  Marc seemed startled, and he hesitated a fraction of a second before reaching out to shake Leo’s hand. “Jean-Marc Chevalier. Do I know you from somewhere?”

  “Not likely. I’m only passing through. Saw all the commotion and thought I’d check it out. So you’re from Paris, huh?”

  “Correct.” Marc kept eyeing Leo, as if trying to place him.

  “And where are you from?” asked Sylvia, looking Leo up and down.

  “He’s not from around here,” said somebody in the crowd huddled around the table.

  “I’m from Seattle, actually.” Leo gave Sylvia one of his carefully crafted smiles. “I’m down here on a business trip.”

  “That’s a long way to go for business,” commented another onlooker.

  “You have business in Big Knob?” Sylvia asked hopefully.

  He winked at her. “That might be arranged. But I hear there’s no hotel in town.”

  “That’s true.” Dorcas wondered if Leo planned to pose as a traveling salesman and hang around town instead of living in the forest. That wouldn’t be all bad. At least she had a better chance of keeping an eye on him. “My husband and I have a spare room, if you’d like to stay there.”

  “Dorcas and Ambrose have a cat,” Sylvia said quickly. “That can be a problem if someone’s allergic. I have a spare room and no pets whatsoever.”

  “As it happens, I am allergic to cats.” Leo gave Sylvia another of his patented smiles. “I would hate to put you out, though.”

  “Believe me, it’s no trouble, no trouble at all.” She pushed back her chair. “I’m finished eating, and my next appointment’s not until two. Why don’t I show you the place?”

  “Great.” He turned to leave with Sylvia.

  “Monsieur Atwood,” Marc said, stopping him. “Were you at O’Hare airport yesterday? We might have met on the concourse or at the rental car booth.”

  Leo glanced over his shoulder. “No, I wasn’t at O’Hare yesterday. You must be confusing me with somebody else.”

  “I suppose.” Marc frowned.

  As Leo left with Sylvia, Ambrose leaned over and murmured in Dorcas’s ear, “Same old Leo.”

  She nodded absently, preoccupied with trying to figure out why Marc thought Leo looked familiar. It could be a coincidence, but she was gathering all the clues she could surrounding the presence of Prince Leo here in Big Knob. She didn’t think his task had anything to do with Sylvia. That match-up had been too spur-of-the-moment.

  Leo had walked into the diner, looking for someone, perhaps the person who was part of his assigned task. When Dorcas and Ambrose arrived, he’d been talking with Gwen, and she’d been freaked out. Dorcas needed to talk with Gwen, too, but not here.

  She took inventory of the situation. The mob scene at the Hob Knob was to be expected, considering that a Frenchman didn’t come to town every day, but enough was enough. Somebody had to break up this logjam or Marc and Gwen wouldn’t have any time together.

  Dorcas looked upward, hoping for inspiration. There it was, a beautiful sprinkler system, installed to meet the fire code and guaranteed to accomplish her purpose. Dusting off a charm she’d learned years ago, she mentally apologized to the owners, Sherry and Joe. Then she turned on the sprinklers.

  In the general pandemonium that followed, she linked an arm through Gwen’s. She called to Ambrose to latch on to Marc, and, bless his heart, he was a step ahead of her. In the confusion, no one noticed Ambrose and Dorcas whisking Gwen and Marc out the diner’s service entrance in back. They were all soaked, but Dorcas had a plan.

  “Come to our house,” she said. “We’ll get you dried off.” And give you some of the wine a few hours early.

  “Thank you,” Marc said. “No one will think to look for me there.”

  Gwen’s teeth chattered. “B-but what ab-bout my shop?”

  “Leave it closed for now,” Ambrose said. “Half the townspeople just got drenched. I doubt they’ll soon be out buying flowers.”

  Dorcas congratulated herself as the four of them made their way down the alley running behind Fifth Street and entered the Lowells’ Victorian by the back door. At last she and Ambrose had their current project under their own roof. Let the magic begin.

  “You’re tired from all your traveling.” Sylvia pulled the sheet over both of them and gave Leo a comforting pat on his arm. “You’ll do better after you’ve rested up.”

  Leo was too pissed to comment. This sort of thing didn’t happen to Prince Leo of Atwood. He was always ready to perform. Always. Sure, he’d burned the candle at both ends for the past several nights, but he’d done that before and still managed to have a stiff wick whenever that was required.

  Sylvia slid out of bed. “I have to go to work, but I recommend you stay right here and sleep. I get off at five, and then we can try this again.” She walked into the bathroom.

  Leo watched, observing without interest the perky tilt of her breasts and the inviting sway of her hips. Ordinarily the sight of a good-looking naked woman sent his flags flying. He’d expected a romp with Sylvia to make up for that humiliating incident the night before.

  Instead he’d experienced sexual disaster for the first time in his life. He hated it. Add one more humiliation to the first one where he’d accidentally groped a guy. Yuck!

  Damned if the Frenchman hadn’t recognized him, too. So far Fr
enchy couldn’t remember where he’d seen Leo, but eventually it would come to him.

  Maybe this bright idea to appear in town and meet Gwen in broad daylight hadn’t been so bright. He’d thought she’d be excited to see him. Didn’t women want a man who stepped right out of their dreams? According to popular songs, they did.

  Gwen hadn’t been excited. She’d seemed confused and terrified. He’d hoped for time to calm her down, but then the stupid Lowells had arrived, breaking his concentration. Sylvia’s offer, both the spoken and unspoken one, had sounded like the home run he needed to even the score.

  Instead he’d struck out.

  Chapter 16

  Marc sat in a red armchair in front of the fire and towel-dried his hair. Dorcas had spirited Gwen upstairs to give her the benefit of a blow dryer and some styling gel. That was fine with Marc, because Ambrose was also toweling his hair dry while sitting on a purple sofa next to a glossy black cat who had been introduced as Sabrina. Marc had questions for Ambrose that he could not ask in front of Gwen.

  The Sedona wine Dorcas had promised them sat open on the coffee table, along with four goblets and an array of crackers and cheese that Dorcas had set out before going upstairs with Gwen. The men had promised to wait for the women before partaking. Gwen had said she would probably pass on the wine, but Marc hoped she would change her mind.

  A glass of wine would help them both relax. Then if Gwen kept the shop closed and he could get to his suitcase without being waylaid, the afternoon might end very nicely. In the meantime, he had a chance at an up-close-and-personal view of a house that belonged to a self-proclaimed witch and wizard.

  From the minute he had come through the back door of this house, he had been observing like crazy. The black cat who had come to greet them and now lay regally on the sofa was almost a clich’. Even her name, Sabrina, was straight out of a Hollywood movie about witchcraft.

  Marc had expected the scent of incense, and it was there. The brightly colored furnishings were a surprise, though. For some reason he had expected everything to be black. He saw no symbolic pieces anywhere, but he noticed that Ambrose had quietly laid a broom across the front doorsill.

  Marc had read somewhere that a broom across the door would keep out unwanted influences, including people. Maybe they just tripped over the thing. However it worked, anything to discourage visitors was fine with Marc. He had experienced enough social interaction in the past hour to last him a lifetime.

  Although the bold colors were eye popping, the most fascinating thing in this Victorian parlor was the stained glass piece hanging in the side window, away from the street. Weak winter sunlight shone through the colored glass, making it glow faintly. At first Marc had thought it was simply a pretty design, but then he had taken a closer look and discovered the “design” was a couple having sex.

  Focusing on that artwork was liable to make him a little too eager to be back at Gwen’s, lying naked in her fluffy bed, so he looked away. But much as he tried to ignore the stained glass couple, he found himself returning to look again. And again.

  If Dorcas and Ambrose conducted their marriage counseling sessions in this room, they probably had a great success rate. Between the rich colors of the furniture and the suggestive stained glass, Marc was becoming aroused by the whole concept of pleasure through sex.

  “We brought that piece from Sedona,” Ambrose said.

  “Very nice.”

  “We like it.” Ambrose laid the towel on the arm of the sofa and finger-combed his hair. Then he gazed longingly at the wine. “No telling how long the women will be. Ever since Dorcas changed her hairstyle, it takes her forever to fix it.”

  “How long have you two been married?”

  Ambrose stroked Sabrina, who purred loudly. “Many years.”

  “Smart answer.” Marc grinned. Most of his friends lost track of those details, too. “I would bet Dorcas knows exactly how many.”

  “Dorcas knows everything.” Ambrose leaned back against the sofa cushions. “But don’t tell her I said so.”

  “Would never dream of it.” The statement jolted a memory, and he suddenly knew who Leo Atwood looked like—the guy in his nightmare, the one who had come on to him until he apparently realized Marc was a man.

  But that had to be some sort of wild coincidence. Now that he knew why Atwood looked so familiar, he would just forget about it.

  Following Ambrose’s example, Marc laid his towel on the chair arm and leaned back. He had used the coat, or rather Gwen’s father’s coat, to repel the sprinkler water. By grabbing it from the back of the chair and throwing it over his head, he had stayed fairly dry. Not having his own clothes was not a problem, but he sure missed those condoms.

  “You and Gwen seem to be getting along well,” Ambrose said.

  “Very well.” And we would get along even better if I could snag my suitcase. But Marc did not want to talk about Gwen right now, much as he enjoyed the subject. “Pardon, but I assume you are aware of what Dorcas mentioned to me this morning.”

  Ambrose’s expression gave nothing away. “I believe she planned to fill you in on a few things.”

  “So you are a . . . wizard?” Marc found it harder to say that than he had expected. It was the kind of question you would ask a child playing dress-up in a cape and star-spangled hat, not a question you would normally ask an adult.

  “I am,” Ambrose said.

  “Can you elaborate?”

  “What do you mean?”

  This discussion was not exactly flowing downhill. “What do wizards do?”

  Ambrose continued to stroke Sabrina. “Well, we don’t go around casting spells and brewing up potions all the time. In general we lead a fairly normal life.”

  Marc gulped. “You cast spells?”

  “Why, yes.”

  “I suppose it is all symbolic.”

  “There is symbolism involved.” Ambrose scratched behind the cat’s ears.

  “Of course there is.” Marc chuckled in relief. “After all, nobody can cast a spell and actually make things happen. You simply perform a ritual and hope for the best.”

  Ambrose gazed at him. “Just what did Dorcas tell you?”

  Marc recounted this morning’s conversation. “And she also stated that you were here in a supervisory role, but I did not understand that. Is Big Knob some sort of Wiccan version of Mecca?”

  Ambrose smiled. “Uh, no.”

  “Then what are you here to supervise?”

  Ambrose hesitated for a few seconds as if considering his answer. “The residents of the forest.”

  Understanding dawned. “Ah. Of course. You are a nature-based religion, and that would certainly make you conservationists. If you perpetuate the myth of a haunted forest, there is less chance of hunters and loggers coming in, so the forest and its inhabitants remain safe.” He waited for Ambrose to applaud his logical thinking.

  Instead, the wizard’s jaw dropped as if he had stumbled upon a deep, dark secret. “Great Zeus, that’s true! All this time, when we thought George was shirking, in a way, he’s actually been . . .” Ambrose leaped up from the sofa so fast Sabrina nearly rolled onto the floor. She had to hang on with both front paws and pull herself back up.

  “Who is George?” Marc pictured a Wiccan man living in the forest in a hovel.

  Ambrose ignored the question. “Excuse me a moment. I need to tell Dorcas. We should have new paperwork drawn up, new criteria established.” He started for the stairs. “Dorcas! Whatever you’re doing up there, I need to see you immediately!”

  “Who is George?” Marc called after him. He got no answer, but he had a hunch if he found George, he would know a lot more about the secrets of Big Knob.

  “I’m curious about that man who came into the Hob Knob,” Dorcas said as she used a round brush and a blow dryer on Gwen’s hair. “The one who went home with Sylvia.”

  “Leo Atwood.” The sensual feel of the brush and the blow dryer relaxed Gwen, and Dorcas’s motherly attitude was
wearing down her resistance to Dorcas’s matchmaking plans. Dorcas had insisted on giving Gwen an outfit to wear in addition to restyling her hair.

  Consequently, Gwen had once again become Cinderella going off to the ball, this time wearing a bronze-toned tunic and matching bronze palazzo pants. The clothes were silk and made Gwen feel sexier than sin. The Larimar pendant was her only piece of jewelry, but it was enough. The scooped neckline of the tunic allowed the pendant to dangle, once again, in Gwen’s cleavage.

  “Yes, Mr. Atwood,” Dorcas said. “Do you know him from somewhere?”

  Gwen hesitated, but she desperately needed to tell someone about this strange situation, and it couldn’t be Marc. “This is going to sound very weird,” she said.

  “Try me.” Dorcas continued to stroke the brush through Gwen’s hair in slow, soothing motions.

  Gwen told her about the dreams. After keeping them to herself for so long, it was a huge relief to have someone to confide in.

  “So then, this guy shows up, and he looks exactly like my dream lover,” Gwen said. “He even has the same sexy smile. How is that possible?”

  Dorcas didn’t answer right away as she continued working on Gwen’s hair. “Does Marc know about these dreams?” she said at last.

  “God, no. I’d be embarrassed to tell him. This is some bizarre coincidence, right? I mean, you can’t conjure up some imaginary lover and then have that person show up in real life.”

  “Not usually,” Dorcas said. “So, how do you feel about Marc?”

  “He’s terrific.”

  “And you wouldn’t want to be with this Leo person instead?”

  “No! You saw him. He’s a horn dog. Five minutes after meeting Sylvia he was headed off to her place, and I doubt they were planning to have tea and crumpets.”

  Dorcas’s knowing smile was reflected in the oval mirror of her dressing table. “I’m glad you picked up on that.”

  “Who wouldn’t? When he first walked in he was coming on to me, but once Sylvia noticed him, he switched his focus to her.”

  Dorcas turned off the dryer. “Let me get something.” Walking over to a velvet jewelry case, she opened it and took out a sparkly bracelet.