Never Again

by Michele Bardsley

  “Anyone come in before four?”

  “Ren. He dropped off those photos on your desk, checked his e-mails, and left. I fielded some phone calls about Marcy’s wake. Folks weren’t happy Cathleen didn’t invite no one to the funeral.”

  “I don’t think there was one,” grumbled Taylor. “Bet she just put her in the ground without any prayers at all.”

  “Humph.” She frowned. “Trent came by, too. Atwood sent him over to file a complaint about Cathleen’s illegal disposal of her garbage.” She waved her hand. “Ant stopped by to talk about my new rose garden. That was much earlier, though.”

  “You hired him to do a rose garden?”

  “Sure did. That boy has a real talent. And I’ve always wanted a rose garden.”

  Taylor resisted the urge to roll his eyes. His brother’s obsession with gardening was the least of his worries. Taylor knew about the café’s overflowing Dumpsters, because Gray had told him. And he knew Cathleen had pissed off Atwood by refusing to pay the service fees. “What’d she do with the garbage?”

  “He doesn’t know. He says she got rid it of somehow and it wasn’t his boys who’d done it.”

  “You got a form for that?” He put the plated ham sandwich in front of Arlene and she dug in with gusto.

  “Of course I do. Gave it to Trent and told him Atwood would have to file a formal complaint in person. He runs that nephew of his ragged ’cause he’s too lazy to do his own work.” She eyed him. “All right. What happened?”

  “Gray married Lucinda Rackmore.” Taylor blew out a breath. “Goddess help me, I married them.”

  Her eyes went wide and she nearly spit out the bite she’d just taken. She managed to get it swallowed, but not without a few gulps of water. “I never thought Gray would marry again—and to a Rackmore! I’m surprised you agreed to it.”

  “Like I had a choice.” He rolled his shoulders trying to work out the knots. “She’s in trouble. And cursed something fierce. I guess he figures being her husband is the best way to protect her.” He paused, thinking about the way the Guardian and his new wife had looked at each other. Business transaction, my ass. “How long do you think it takes for people to fall in love?”

  “A minute and a half,” said Arlene. “You think Gray’s in love with Lucinda?”

  “Even if he was, he’d deny it six ways to Sunday. Eh. What do I know?”

  “That is a question, all right,” said Arlene with a smile. She dusted bread crumbs off her shirt. “I better go check in with Jimmy. He’s in Dallas helping Allan with that hot rod of his. I swear men never grow up.”

  “We never do,” agreed Taylor, grinning. That explained why Jimmy hadn’t called worried about Arlene. He wasn’t around to know she hadn’t gotten home on time. And knowing him and his son’s love for cars, they were probably arms deep in an engine block.

  Taylor watched her pick up the plate and head toward the sink. He stood and plucked it out of her hands. “Don’t you worry about cleaning up. It’ll keep.”

  “I’ll do it all tomorrow. I don’t have time to go home and get myself presentable for the wake,” she said. “I’ll just have to see what I can do with myself here.”

  “You’re beautiful,” said Taylor. He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  Arlene actually blushed. Then she slapped him on the chest. “Get out of my way, sweet-talker. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

  Taylor did another sweep of the offices, even took a look around the empty cells in the basement, but he didn’t discern a single thing that looked wrong or out of place. Maybe it really had been a prank. Or maybe whatever the intruder wanted wasn’t here.

  Just one more puzzle for him to figure out.

  Arlene took only a few minutes to fix herself up. Then she retrieved the marriage certificate and Taylor filled it out and signed his name. All the form needed now were the signatures of the bride and groom.

  “C’mon,” said Arlene, wrapping her arm around his, “let’s go say good-bye to Marcy.”

  The first thing Gray noticed when he and Lucy walked into the Piney Woods Café was the huge donation jar on the counter. Folks around here didn’t have a lot of money, but they took care of their own, so the jar was already half full of change and dollar bills. Cathleen could have asked for help in a million other ways, but no, she expected Marcy’s friends to part with their hard-earned cash. Not a cent being put into that container would be devoted to Marcy.

  “What a coldhearted bitch,” said Lucy.

  Gray looked down at her and saw fury in her eyes. She glared up at him. “Can she do that? Trade on her stepdaughter’s death to make money?”

  “I won’t let her.”

  His promise seemed to mollify her. Unable to resist, he put his arm around her thin shoulders and held her close. The sheriff hadn’t yet released her duffel from his custody, so they’d ended up washing her soiled clothes. He could tell she wasn’t comfortable wearing a shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes to the wake. It was obvious, too, that her clothes were old and threadbare. She told him that she’d left Bernard without a thing except what she was wearing—which had been silk pajamas and cashmere socks. Then she’d admitted that she procured food and clothing through charities. If she couldn’t find a shelter serving a meal, then she usually went without. Even when she managed to get some cash, thanks to being a Rackmore, she never kept it for long—certainly never long enough to spend it.

  His heart broke for her, but he knew she wouldn’t appreciate his pity. He’d gone upstairs to put clean sheets on his bed. He had every intention of sleeping in it with Lucy. The bedroom itself would take hours to set in order. It needed a good scrubbing. Instead of resting in the guest room like she was supposed to, he found Lucy in the kitchen doing the dishes. And she had already started lists for cleaning supplies, missing utensils, and gardening equipment. She said she was his wife, and she would keep her part of their bargain and her vows.

  Obviously, she had a whole different set of expectations than he had. He’d been thinking with his dick first, blinded by those berry lips and dewy flesh. Beyond sex, and protecting her from Franco, he hadn’t much thought about how they’d live together. He hadn’t considered how she’d fit in his home—or within what had been a solitary, and selfish, lifestyle. He hadn’t had a chance to adjust to the idea of Lucy invading his space, much less jumping into the role of wife with such . . . enthusiasm.

  Well, more like bared-teeth determination.

  He decided he’d sort out how he felt later. Right now, he just wanted to pay his respects to Marcy and get Lucy home. She was pushing herself too hard, and he didn’t like it. He’d made her leave the kitchen, but she told him in no uncertain terms she would get the dishes done before bedtime. Ha. That was what she thought. If she even looked toward the kitchen, he’d put a sleep spell on her.

  He guided Lucy deeper into the café. People were clustered in small groups, talking in low voices. On the counter, Cathleen had arranged saltines and glasses of water. Then there were the offerings of the attendees. Pies. Pasta salads. Casseroles. Food for a woman who didn’t care at all that her stepdaughter had been beaten to death.

  “I should’ve realized,” murmured Lucy. She looked at him, and he was surprised to see the shame in her gaze. “We should’ve brought something. Isn’t that what people do? I remember you said no one made a good funeral casserole better than Nevermore women.”

  “You remembered that I said that? When did I . . . ?” He lifted his eyebrows. “At the reception after my . . . the other . . . um, wedding. We talked for a while. Outside on the terrace.”

  “I guess that conversation kinda imprinted.” Color rose in her cheeks.

  Goddess, she was lovely.

  “This is my failure, Lucy. I’m the Guardian.”

  “And I’m the Guardian’s wife,” she whispered.

  “Which you’ve been for less than two hours. Give yourself a break.” He pulled her in closer and tipped up her c
hin. Her eyes looked too big for her face, and she was so pale. Like moonlight. “You nearly gave your life for hers. That’s better than a gods-be-damned casserole.”

  He’d spoken too loudly, and the room went quiet.

  People glanced at them, expressions varying—from puzzled to suspicious. Gray met those curious glances, daring a soul to say a word against him or Lucy. Soon enough the conversations restarted. It seemed, too, that people made an effort to give him and Lucy space. Bridging the gap between himself and the citizens of Nevermore was going to take a lot of work, especially now that he’d married a Rackmore witch.

  “Gray.” Taylor joined them. He took a moment to shake Gray’s hand and then he bussed Lucy’s cheek. Gray knew it was a public show of support, and he appreciated it. He kept screwing up—and damn it, he felt like he was trapped in quicksand. How was he ever gonna make things right for the town? He kept sinking under the weight of his idiocy.

  “Oh, you!” Arlene busted through their tight circle and gave Gray a hug that nearly bruised his kidneys. Then she turned toward Lucy. “Aren’t you sweet? I could eat you up with a double scoop of ice cream, I could.” She hugged Lucy with just as much gusto. Then she leaned back. “I’m Arlene. You need anything at all, honey, you just call me.”

  “I . . . um, okay. Thank you?” Lucy sounded confused and looked dazed. Being around Arlene could do that to a person. She was energetic and bighearted—a human whirlwind that came at you with soft arms and warm words.

  “Well, then. I gotta keep making the rounds.” She gave Lucy another hug and then smacked Gray on the arm. “I better see you more often round here. We miss you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Lucy leaned into him, and he held her close. Every so often, he felt a shiver go through her. Was it the aftereffects of the curse? Or just nerves about being in the café’s negative space? Or maybe she wasn’t looking forward to seeing Cathleen. Goddess knew he wasn’t. He kept his wife close, and she seemed content to remain next to him, her arm around his waist, as she studied the people around them.

  Gray took in the mourners, too. He’d known these people his whole life, and yet they were all strangers to him now. He didn’t see Ember and her husband, Rilton, but he didn’t blame them for skipping. No doubt Cathleen had made it clear they weren’t invited.

  He knew just about everyone. There was Harley, who’d been friends with Gray’s parents. At least he had been once. After his wife committed suicide, he stopped coming around. He still ran the same small farm up near Old Creek. Taylor had asked Gray to give Ren the part-time deputy position a few months ago, even though the boy was only nineteen. Well, twenty now. A friend of Ant’s, if he recalled correctly. Still, Gray had done so without question because he’d trusted Taylor. And yeah, he didn’t want to be bothered with thinking about anyone other than himself and his own pain.

  His gaze landed on Henry and Maureen Archer, who’d managed to come pay their respects even though they’d just lost their son. Taylor had told Gray how the kid had wrapped his Mustang around the oak tree. Damned shame.

  His gaze snagged on Trent. He hadn’t known him at all, not until the boy had stood up to Cathleen. He was talking to Ren intently, and Gray wondered what their conversation entailed.

  “What’s the deal with Trent?” he asked Taylor.

  “Troubled, but mostly a good kid. Just turned seventeen. He’s Atwood’s nephew. You remember his younger sister Sandra?”

  “Yeah. She moved to Oklahoma. Got married, right?”

  “Fell in love with Tommy Whitefeather. He was Cherokee. Worked for the casino up in Durant.”

  “Oklahoma,” Gray clarified for Lucy. “The casino’s’bout the only thing out there.”

  “Tommy made a good living. He was a decent guy,” said Taylor. “Few months ago, Tommy and Sandra got T-boned by a drunk driver.”

  “Shit,” said Gray. He grimaced. “Cathleen called Trent a half-breed.” He nodded toward Ren. “How’d they get to be friends?”

  “Don’t know if they are,” said Taylor. “You know how it is here, Gray. Everyone knows everyone.”

  “I don’t see Cathleen,” said Lucy.

  “She’s in the back,” said Taylor casually. His gaze bounced around the room. “Probably figuring out how to make gruel because saltines and tap water isn’t enough of an insult.”

  Gray snorted. “She’s a blight on Nevermore.”

  “I was gonna go with ‘wart on a gremlin’s ass,’ but your description has more class.”

  They looked at each other, and grinned.

  Cathleen came through the swinging kitchen door. She stopped behind the long Formica counter, her gaze sweeping over the people like that of an executioner surveying death row inmates. Her concession to mourning was to don a black jogging suit and black Nikes.

  The second her beady eyes alighted on them, her expression turned mean. She stomped around the counter and made a beeline, her arctic gaze zeroed in on Lucy.

  “Don’t make her explode,” muttered Taylor. “It’s messy, and I’ll have to arrest you.”

  Gray could do worse than zap the woman with a fireball, or even a bolt of lightning. Much worse.

  Cathleen arrived and planted herself right in front of Lucy, hands on her hips. Before she could even open her mouth, Lucy offered her hand and said, “I’m terribly sorry for your loss, Miss Munch. I didn’t know Marcy well, but she seemed like a lovely girl.”

  Gray was amazed at the calm, sincere way Lucy spoke to the crone. She held the woman’s gaze, emanating nothing but sympathy.

  Cathleen backed up a step from Lucy, looking at her as though she were plague-ridden. “Don’t need the wellwishes of a Rackmore,” she snarled. “Get out!”

  People gasped, and others muttered darkly. Coming from a grieving stepmother, Cathleen’s rudeness might’ve been overlooked, but her inhospitality . . . No, that was an unforgivable offense. Even the Rackmore witches deserved a chance to mourn.

  Lucy dropped her hand. Her face had gone red with embarrassment, but when she looked up at Gray, she had that stubborn tilt to her chin—and a look about her as if she were a deposed queen who refused to give up her crown. “I’ll meet you at the house,” she said quietly.

  “The hell,” said Gray. He tucked Lucy next to him and glared down at Cathleen. “Apologize to my wife.”

  “Y-your . . . wife?” Cathleen went white. One chubby hand fluttered against her throat.

  “I married them myself,” said Taylor pleasantly. He pushed up the brim of his hat. “Go on, now, Miss Cathleen. Offer the Guardian and his lady your congratulations.”

  She reared back so violently, she bounced off a table, and thudded to the floor.

  Gray shared a look of astonishment with Lucy, and then they looked down at the prostrate woman.

  “Well,” said Taylor. “Don’t that beat all.”

  Ren and Trent stood a couple feet behind Cathleen, but only the deputy bothered to come to the woman’s aid. Gray didn’t want to touch the crazy woman, much less help her, and it seemed as though Taylor felt the same way. Ren’s expression suggested he’d rather be shoveling manure than helping Cathleen Munch into a nearby booth.

  “You need some water?” asked Ren. “Maybe a saltine?”

  She wouldn’t meet his gaze. In fact, she didn’t look around at all. She seemed to have shrunk in and wrinkled, like a prune left out too long in the sun. “Just leave me alone,” she said.

  Ren stepped back, and Cathleen suddenly scooted out of the booth. She stood in the middle of the café, her eyes wild. She turned and pointed at Gray. “There’s the demon! And the demon’s bride.” She spit at them, but the globs of saliva fell harmlessly to the floor. “The Calhouns killed my daddy! And now they got a Rackmore witch to do their dirty work. I hope you both burn in hell!”

  Silence was so thick Gray felt like he could choke on it. He was stunned by Cathleen’s breakdown—and the expressions of the townsfolk revealed the same shock. Cathleen trudged
behind the counter and went into the kitchen. The oppressive atmosphere deepened. Gray felt like he was gonna suffocate, and no doubt everyone else felt the same.

  He’d had enough of this farce.

  “We’ll miss Marcy,” said Gray. “She was a good girl who deserved a much longer life. Sheriff Mooreland assures me everything is being done to find the person who killed her. I swear to you, as your Guardian, she will get justice. Thank you all for your donations. The sheriff will ensure the funds go toward a proper headstone for Marcy’s grave.”

  People took the hint and headed toward the exit. A few stopped to offer their congratulations to Gray and Lucy, including Trent and Josie Gomez, but most folks shuffled by without a word. In no time at all, Gray, Lucy, Taylor, Arlene, and Ren were the only ones left.

  Cathleen’s weeping had quieted, but she seemed to be pacing. Her shoes squeaked against the linoleum in a consistent, endless pattern.

  “I’ll stick around,” said Ren. “Make sure everything gets locked up and she gets home okay.”

  “Thanks,” said Taylor, clapping his deputy on the shoulder. “I appreciate it.”

  Taylor scooped up the donation jar. Gray took Lucy’s hand and followed him and Arlene outside. It was a clear night, the moon bright and full. The air seemed clean, and so much lighter than what they’d been breathing in the café.

  “Got your marriage certificate,” said Arlene. “Just need your signatures. Then I’ll make you a couple of notarized copies tomorrow.” She dug inside her gargantuan purse and pulled out a folder and a pen. “Here. Let’s use my car.”

  Like most folks in Nevermore, Arlene had a truck. Hers was a 1986 short-bed Toyota, just the right size for its hood to serve as a desk.

  The moonlight was enough to illuminate the paper. Gray signed his name above “Name of Groom, Magical,” and handed the pen to Lucy. She actually took the time to read the whole thing, and as it was a document created by magicals, its language was formal and in some places archaic.

  She pointed to the sentence above where she was supposed to sign. “What does that mean?”