by Sharon Pape
“All right. The answer is two.”
“I know who owns one of them,” I said with a little smirk, enjoying turning the tables on him. I could see that I’d surprised him. At that moment, Sashkatu started yowling for his freedom, so I went to his rescue. He followed me back into the living room. I reclaimed my seat beside Travis. He used his steps up onto the couch and then scrambled the rest of the way to his perch on the top. The couch bore the marks of hundreds of such treks, the fabric pulled in tufts and loops by his claws. Morgana had made peace with the damage back when he first started to decline, declaring that he was far more valuable than any piece of fabric. No one mentioned it again.
“Who do you know?” Travis asked once we were all settled.
“Patrick Griffin. I had a chat with Zach today. His friend, Chris, told him his dad has one. He didn’t know the caliber, but I’m guessing it’s a forty-five.”
Travis laughed. “Way to steal my thunder. But do you know who owns the other one?” I shook my head. “Rusty, the curmudgeonly janitor.”
It was my turn to be surprised and excited. “That’s it then. Either he or Patrick killed John Doe.”
“Not necessarily,” he said. “Regardless of the law, a lot of people buy handguns on the black market. Cash on the spot. No permit needed. No background checks.”
My heart sank to somewhere in the vicinity of my knees. One step forward, three steps back. “Of course, that would have been way too easy. Where do we go from here?”
“Since we can’t investigate names we don’t have, I say we take another look at the two we do have. When you interviewed Rusty and Patrick, you were totally focused on Amanda’s death. It’s possible you dismissed information because it didn’t fit her case. Now that we have a second murder, I want to interview them again.”
“You mean both of us together, right?”
He shook his head. “I think I should conduct the interviews this time. Maybe it will shake up our suspects.”
“They might not let you in the door,” I pointed out.
“I’m a lot more charming and sly than you may think.”
“I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” I said, feeling like he was kidnapping my investigation. I told myself that was absurd. We were partners, and he was only trying to help close both cases. One thing nagged at me. “But even if one of them did kill John Doe,” I said, “we’re no closer to finding the creep who dug that knife into Amanda’s throat. And I have to tell you, finding justice for her is a lot more personal to me.”
Before Travis could respond, his phone rang with the rousing theme from Star Wars. I’d heard it often enough to know it was his boss. Travis’s side of the conversation was limited to “yes,” “no,” and “on my way.”
“Sorry,” he said to me, already on his feet and heading for the door. “Talk soon.”
I stayed where I was, staring at the blank TV screen, my mind just as blank. Maybe Sashkatu sensed how unsettled I felt because he made his way along the top of the couch until he reached me. Using my shoulder as a step, he climbed down into my lap and curled into a comforting ball of fur.
Chapter 32
Sashkatu slept close to me all night. When I changed position, he did as well, never more than a wisp of fur away. In spite of his valiant efforts, my spirits were still sagging in the morning. The thought of spending the day in Abracadabra was usually enough to get my engine revving. That plus a decent cup of coffee. But with no tour buses scheduled, Mondays are generally slow in the magick trade. I could go in a bit late and use the extra time at home to try teleporting myself, I suggested to my reflection as I was combing my hair.
I’d been dying to give it a try ever since Merlin translated the spell for an easy landing. Maybe dying wasn’t the best word choice, given the inherent dangers of the activity. My reflection didn’t have any advice or misgivings about the idea, but then she rarely does. So it was decided by me, myself, and I that now was as good a time as any to give it a whirl. If nothing else, having a plan pulled me out of my doldrums.
I chose the kitchen again for my trial run. I had teleported objects from there to the upstairs bathroom without mishap several times. Why mess with success? I made sure the bathroom door was closed to keep cats from wandering into the target area, and I took Bronwen’s advice about doing a practice run. This time I used a plain drinking glass. When it disappeared, I ran upstairs to see if it was waiting in the bathroom. I found it on the floor, none the worse for its brief trip. All systems were “go,” as NASA liked to say.
I took my seat at the kitchen table, my anxiety like a churning bubble machine in my chest and stomach. It took quite some time for me to calm and center myself before I could even begin the process. When I finally reached that Zen-like state, I drew on the energy from each cell in my body. I said the ancient spell and envisioned myself leaping over time and space to a gentle landing in the bathroom. I felt myself quivering like the objects before they disappeared. I struggled to maintain my concentration and block out thoughts of what might happen if I lost control in the middle of my passage.
I was reaching the hard limits of my energy when I finally became weightless, as light and insubstantial as a snowflake. And then I was sitting on the bathroom floor. I’d made it. I felt fine, but I checked my body for bruises or bleeding anyway. I appeared to be unscathed by my journey. For the last part of my evaluation, I stood up and peered in the mirror. My reflection stared back at me for the second time that morning; nothing had changed. I breathed a sigh of relief and promptly collapsed onto the floor.
I didn’t regain consciousness for two hours by my watch. And when I did, I felt like I’d partied too hard. My only experience with alcohol had been one beer my freshman year of college, but that was enough to convince me that Morgana and Bronwen were right. Wildes must never drink. They warned me that even a tiny amount of alcohol could fry the special circuitry in our brains and cause mutations to the unique parts of our DNA and RNA. That one rebellious beer nearly cost me my magickal powers and possibly my life.
I sat up, feeling like a rag doll with most of its stuffing torn out. Standing would have to wait. At least the haze in my head was starting to dissipate.
“You’ll be fine,” Bronwen said, her cloud popping out of the ether all white and fluffy with a grandmotherly glow. “You just need to strengthen yourself before you try that again. It’s clearly a lot more difficult than teleporting objects.” I was happy to hear her voice and have the reassurance of her company. “If your mother or I had been fortunate enough to have your gift, we would be better able to instruct you in its proper uses and pitfalls.”
“Any suggestions gladly accepted,” I said.
“I’m afraid my advice hasn’t changed. You need to build up your psychic muscle, so to speak.”
“If all the telekinesis and teleportation I’ve been practicing aren’t enough, I don’t know what is,” I said, sounding peevish, a little girl wanting her grandmother to fix the problem. Exhaustion was making me vulnerable and cranky.
“It may be that your concept of enough in this matter simply isn’t,” she said.
I could tell her patience was slipping. As warm and loving as she was, she never could put up with whining. But then I didn’t have much tolerance for it myself. “I guess I have some work to do,” I said, feeling stronger by dint of trying to sound that way.
“That’s more like it, my dear girl.” There was a definite smile in her tone. Without another word, she winked away.
* * * *
I didn’t make it into work for another hour, and when I did, Tilly swooped in from her shop. She had been busy with a client who begged for a reading the moment Tilly opened her door. The woman had gone to a psychic fair over the weekend and was desperate for reassurance that she wasn’t actually going to have another baby at the age of sixty-two.
“She wasn’t, was she?” I cou
ldn’t help asking.
“Of course not,” Tilly said. “The poor girl was so grateful; she gave me a fifty-dollar tip for accommodating her. But I didn’t come in here to tell you that. I was concerned about your tardiness.” I gave her an abbreviated version of my morning. “That’s worrisome,” she said, her brow furrowed. “You didn’t have the energy to return to your starting point?”
I shook my head.
“Very worrisome, indeed,” she repeated. “Caution must be your watchword. Caution above all else. I could not bear to lose you too. I know it sounds selfish, but that’s the truth of it.” She grabbed me into a hug and didn’t seem to be in any rush to release me until Merlin came in like the town crier, spreading the word that the pumpkin muffins might be burning.
The rest of the day was a typical Monday, and given the morning’s adventure, I was grateful for it. I caught up on paying bills and on reordering the products I don’t brew or concoct myself, like candles and incense, healing stones, and our signature tote bags. Through trial and error, Morgana and Bronwen had discovered that if a magick shop was to succeed in the twenty-first century, it not only had to look like an old magick shop in the eye of the customer but also had to keep up with current trends.
From the outside, Abracadabra had fit the bill down through the centuries. But inside, the inventory had changed over time. Tourists now made up the majority of the customers, and they expected more than dried plants and herbs with strange names. Witches and warlocks could roll their eyes until they fell back into their skulls, but our shop had survived since the days of the French and Indian Wars. We were clearly doing something right.
* * * *
Travis called as I was arming the security system in the shop. “Breaking news,” he said with the gravitas of a news anchor with important information to impart.
I stopped and reset the system. There was no way I could ignore such an alert. Sashkatu, who’d been leading the way to the back door, grumbled and gave me a weary, what-now look over his shoulder. Travis’s teaser won hands down.
“You have my attention,” I said, holding up one finger to show the cat I’d be with him in a minute.
“Brace yourself,” he said dramatically. “The bullet that killed John Doe didn’t come from any of the registered guns in the area.”
I was stunned into silence.
“You still there?” he asked.
“I’m here. Are you sure? How did you find out?”
“I figured the results of the tests should be in by now. I was in Watkins Glen anyway, so I stopped at the precinct to see if I could talk Duggan into revealing them.”
“He told you?” That didn’t sound like the Duggan I knew.
“No, of course not,” Travis said. “In fact, he was in a particularly belligerent mood. But I took my time leaving the building, which is when I overheard two cops discussing the results.”
“Then the gun could have come from anywhere,” I said, frustrated. “Isn’t there a national gun registry the police can access?”
“Every state has its own laws governing firearms.”
“At this rate we’re never going to solve the John Doe murder. For that matter, did the police ever find the knife that killed Amanda?”
“No, but on the off chance that her killer threw the knife into the marsh, they’ve let the Waverly crew go back to dredging. There’s a CSI team on the scene in case there’s anything else hidden in there. For all anyone knows, criminals have been tossing bodies and evidence into that marsh from time immemorial.”
Until now, I’d never given much thought to all the cold cases stored away and forgotten. “I’m not going to let Amanda’s death become just another unsolved case,” I said with more vehemence than I intended. “John Doe’s either, for that matter. They deserve better. This town deserves better.”
“We’re not going to let that happen,” Travis said, his voice like a warm arm around my shoulders.
Chapter 33
I was standing in the open doorway of my shop, looking for something to distract me. I hadn’t been able to settle into any productive work, since opening. My mind was stuck on an early morning text from Travis, in which he said he hoped to drop in on Rusty and Patrick before the end of the day. I texted him back, asking why he was still going now that we knew their guns were clean.
In the name of efficiency, he called me to explain. “When you have no leads to follow, you create some,” he said. “I have nothing to lose by talking to them. Rusty and Patrick probably know other gun enthusiasts. Maybe one of them or one of their friends heard a rumor or saw something suspect.”
I wished him good luck. But waiting for news was a lesson in patience, and I was failing it.
Lolly appeared in her doorway, looking up and down the street as though she were expecting someone. She waved when she saw me and crossed over to chat.
“Who are you looking for?” I asked.
“A group of women who were supposed to arrive here at eleven,” she said, checking her watch. “I hope they didn’t get lost.”
“Women you know?”
“Not yet, although I did speak to Frieda last week. She’s sort of an unofficial leader of the group. Since they’ve never been to New Camel before, she wanted to make sure the shops that interest them would be open. She told me they’ve all lost spouses to one thing or another, in her case it was ‘younger-than-springtime Jessica,’ as she put it. They get together to knit and crochet. It’s a nifty idea when you think about it,” Lolly said. “A support group with exercise to keep their fingers nimble.” She sounded a little wistful, though she already had a plate that was so full it was often overflowing.
“Nifty,” I said. Lolly was the only person I knew who still used the word that harkened back to the beatniks of the late fifties and the hippies of the sixties.
“I’m sure they’ll be going to Busy Fingers,” I said. The shop, on the other side of Main Street, close to the site for the Waverly Hotel, was one of the town’s top draws. When I was little, I loved going in there to see the skeins of yarn in every color and shade I could imagine. They filled the wall behind the counter, a cubby hole for each color.
“According to Frieda, it’s the main reason they’re making the trek. That and my chocolate,” Lolly added, beaming.
“I didn’t get a call from them, but I’m not surprised. They don’t sound like a good fit for a magick shop.”
“Don’t be so sure. On paper, a magick shop might put some folks off, but once they see Abracadabra, they have to be charmed enough to take a peep.”
“It has happened before,” I said, trying to think positively. And today was a good day for it. I could have used the distraction as much as the business.
“I’ll talk up your shop to them,” Lolly said. “I’ll tell them they can’t leave town without visiting the famous magick shop that’s been here for four hundred years.”
“I’ll have to give you a commission,” I said with a laugh, knowing she was as good as her word. I didn’t know a soul in New Camel who didn’t love Lolly. Honesty and chocolate were a hard combination to beat.
Two sedans, one white and the other a light blue, came slowly around the curve in the road, entering Main Street at our end of town.
“That’s probably them now,” Lolly said, excusing herself to scoot back to her shop.
Rather than make a U-turn, the drivers parked in front of Abracadabra. Seven women emerged from the cars, sprightly enough in spite of their ages. The majority appeared to be in their late seventies, but there were definitely a couple on the far side of eighty. Without a glance in my direction, they made a beeline for the chocolate shop.
I went back in to tidy up in case Lolly’s propaganda was successful. There wasn’t much to tidy, though. I kept the shop neat as a pin, the way my mother and grandmother had. So I realigned books on a shelf and straightened the
framed portrait of my great-great-grandmother, Gwent Wilde. It took all of two minutes. I cleaned out Sashkatu’s water dish and refilled it. When the phone rang, I grabbed it, hoping it was Travis, but the caller asked me to take a survey. I told him I didn’t have time. He promised it wouldn’t take long. I explained the meaning of no time; said I was sorry, though I’m not sure why; and hung up.
Twenty minutes later, the door chimes jingled, and one of the ladies in Frieda’s group marched in. Her hair was several shades of gray, from charcoal in the back to salt and salt-and-pepper on the sides to a snowy white framing her face. Her only makeup was a dash of red lipstick. She was wearing floral capris with a T-shirt that matched the bold pink in them. In one hand, she was holding a quilted purse and, in the other, a white paper bag from Lolly’s shop.
Before I had a chance to welcome her, she came to me, holding out her hand. “I’m Frieda,” she said, introducing herself in a hearty voice.
“Kailyn,” I said, glad to retrieve my hand from her iron grip.
“What a tantalizing store you have.” Her gaze flitted around the shop as she spoke. “Are you a witch? Oops, I apologize. Ever since menopause I don’t seem to have any filters.”
“I’m sure some people might call me a witch,” I said wryly, “but I prefer sorcerer.”
Frieda giggled. “Good one. Mind if I browse on my own? I can’t stand salespeople hovering over me. Sorry.”
“It’s actually refreshing to hear the truth. Of course you can browse solo. Come to me if you have any questions.”
“I like you,” Frieda declared.
The chimes pealed several times in quick succession as three more of her group arrived. Within ten minutes, all but one of the women were circulating through my shop, calling for each other to “come look” at this treasure or that oddity. They all had questions, many of them the same, so Frieda took charge. She told everyone to gather near the counter. In no time, I was answering questions from the entire group without having to keep repeating myself. I explained the skin-care line, gave them an overview of the natural remedies, and taught them the difference between white magick and black.