by Madelyn Alt
I was silent a moment, searching deep. "I think I do," I said at last. "I've been given no reason not to trust her. If it weren't for what happened yesterday, she's been the ideal boss. I think what bothers me most is what I see as a preconceived idea that she's their man, even before the investigation has had any real chance to get started."
"They must have some reason—"
"Not necessarily," I said, just a tad bit defensive. "You remember when Mike Coleburn was arrested for destruction of private property simply because he took his old pickup in for some body work and someone saw the dinged fender and a crummy old baseball bat in the back and decided to report him as the person who'd been beating the crap out of all those mailboxes."
"They must have thought they were doing the right thing."
"But that's just it. Haven't you ever noticed that people around here have a tendency to shoot first and ask questions later?"
Steff nibbled thoughtfully on a tough sliver of crust, considering this. "It's the self-preservation instinct. You know? Like the Wild West."
Somehow the images of pistol-toting gunslingers and baseball bat-swinging mailbox vandals just wouldn't mesh for me. "Okay, well, that's all beside the point anyway. The point is, they seem to have this preconceived notion that Felicity is guilty of something. Did I tell you what happened at the store?"
"Do tell."
Briefly I described the strange conversation I'd had with the dishy detective.
"I remember him!" Steff exclaimed, sitting up straighter as her male-triggered radar antennae went up. Steff was a first-rate connoisseur of the complex physical and emotional makeup of the opposite sex. Dr. Ruth had nothing on this woman. "We went to school with his sister Maria. He was a few years ahead of us. So… intense."
I remembered his eyes and the way they had looked when he'd removed his shades. I had to agree with her there. "It was so strange, though. He was warning me away from Felicity. I know he was. But I can't for the life of me understand why. Unless…"
I trailed off, not ready to tell Steff about Felicity's strange beliefs. I wasn't quite sure how she would take the news. I wasn't even sure how I felt about it yet.
"Unless what?"
I shook my head. "Nothing. I don't know. I'm still trying to make sense of it all."
Steff was silent for a moment. "Maria moved away eight years ago. I don't know why, but I'd always assumed her whole family had moved. And yet here he is still. Huh."
I looked at her suspiciously. I knew that tone. "I think he's married, Steff."
She turned wide innocent eyes on me. I knew the look, too. "Why, I don't know what you mean."
"Stephanie Marie Evans, you know perfectly well what you were thinking about."
A twinkle of a smile twitched at her lips. "You mean the uniform they wear, and the way they roll the sleeves up around their biceps, military style?"
"Uh-huh."
"I just love those heavy gunbelts," she said with a sigh.
"Married," I reiterated forcefully as I tried not to think about the way his butt looked in those dark blue pants as he'd walked out of the store without a single backward glance.
She made a face at me. "Oh, tell me you didn't once think about his ass."
"Well… maybe once."
We dissolved into a barrage of giggles as we had countless times over the years our friendship had spanned.
We glanced up to see that Magnum had returned to the screen, and the show was, in fact, almost over. For the last few minutes, we sat enthralled as Magnum got the bad guy, tied up all the loose ends, then kissed the girl one last time before he said good-bye to her for good. The girl smiled wistfully as he drove away, but even she realized that, as handsome and heroic and perfect Magnum was, he was not meant to be kept to oneself. There was a sense of right, of justice, a satisfaction that things were exactly as they should be.
All was right in Magnum's world. How could I make things right in mine?
Chapter Six
The next morning, I arrived at the store fifteen minutes early and used the key that Felicity had given me to open up. I couldn't say I was well rested—the events of the week had taken their toll on me, and I'd been having some trouble sleeping—but the sun was shining cheerily, the air was crisp, and I had a cup of coffee (large!) to brighten my outlook. This was as good as it was gonna get.
As soon as I set my purse down, I saw the note.
Frowning, I picked up the single folded sheet of paper that had my name written in a careful, looping script on the outside.
Dear Maggie,
I've been asked in to the police station again this morning for further questioning. Don't worry about me—just stay at the store and I'll be in as soon as I can.
Further questioning? A sense of foreboding shivered through me. I couldn't help wondering if Felicity had thought to seek legal counsel. I also couldn't help wondering if she needed it. Surely as a witch she could do something to protect herself. A spell or charm that would force the police to look for the true guilty party.
Unlocking the front door, I made a mental note to broach the subject as soon as she came in.
Yesterday's mail lay in a pile beneath the note. I flipped through the stack, sorting out catalogs, picking out the bills. When the phone rang, I picked it up on autopilot.
"Enchantments Fine Gifts, how can I help you?"
"Margaret Mary-Catherine, is that you?"
Damn.
I pasted a fake smile on my face and tried to inflect as much good cheer as I could muster. "Mooooommm. Hiiiii!"
Extra syllables kicked up the perkiness quotient nicely, I've always thought.
"Are you not returning calls to your parents these days?" Mom was too shrewd to be fooled by false gaiety.
"I'm sorry, Mom, I completely forgot—"
"I could understand it if you were married and had children and a husband to take care of, Margaret, but as it's only you, I just don't understand why you can't return a simple phone call."
"I meant to call you, really I did, but I fell asleep early last night."
"Your sister called me back last night."
Of course she did. Melanie always did what Mom wanted her to do—at least that's what Mom thought. I happened to know better, but it was easier to perpetuate the myth.
"Mom, I'm going to have to get going soon," I said, using my usual excuse. "I have work to do, and I feel guilty talking on the phone too long."
"And that's another thing: that job of yours. Is it true what they're saying? About the woman who owns the store? I tell you what, Margaret, I have a bad feeling about all this. You never had a head for business, really, and I worry about what you're getting yourself mixed up in—"
"Mom." I cut her off. "You don't need to worry. I'm fine. Felicity is being questioned, yes, but it's only because she was the one who found her sister's body. That's all."
"Yes, but you should hear the kinds of things going around town, dear. And you know, where there's smoke…"
"Mom, I have to go."
"You always have to go. I did have a reason for calling, you know."
I sighed. "What did you need?"
"I thought you might like to come over Saturday evening. Melanie has already said she and Greg and the girls would love to come, and of course your father and Grandpa Gordon. It's been an age since you've stopped by for a visit, Margaret. But of course the last thing I want to do is to pressure you into a nice family visit."
My heart fell. Not to worry, though—my blood pressure shot up to compensate. "Of course," I gritted out, pressing my hand to my newly aching head.
"What did you say, dear?"
"I said, of course I'd… love… to visit, Mother. Saturday, you say?"
"You don't have anything planned already, do you, Margaret?"
I wracked my aching brain, wishing I'd thought ahead. "Well… no. Well, I might later in the evening"—that was wishful thinking—"but I could probably make an early dinner."
&nbs
p; Accent on early. Best to reserve time for a real live date, just in case.
"Wonderful, dear. We'll be eating at five."
I hung up feeling manipulated and grumpy. Dinner with my mother usually ended in either indigestion, irritation, or a combination of the two. And the indigestion rarely had anything to do with the food.
My good mood slipped a notch. Grumbling under my breath about my loving family, I finished going through the store mail. The last piece came in a nondescript manila envelope with no return address. Uncertain what it might be, I slid a letter opener under the flap, slicing it clean.
The Speculator. It appeared to be some kind of newsletter. I ran my gaze down the front page, pausing at a headline. CROP CIRCLE IN SW OHIO, one screamed; AUTHORITIES BAFFLED. Another read, STONEHENGE MIDSUMMER CELEBRATION, 1ST IN SIXTEEN YEARS—WHY? The rest of the newsletter seemed to contain similar messages. UFOs, fairy lights, the Reiki Connection (Jesus as Reiki healer, anyone?), divination techniques, and of course, the ubiquitous message that the government was somehow involved in covering up all evidence of the supernatural or paranormal in our daily lives.
Somehow I couldn't see Felicity setting stock in such tripe, but I placed it on her desk anyway.
Store traffic was slow, so I set myself up on a stool behind the counter with my coffee and the witch book I had been reading, a slick trade paperback titled The Return of the Goddess. I was determined to understand Felicity, and this seemed to be the best way to go about it since I didn't know her well enough to ask too many impertinent questions.
I was just beginning to dig in when the bell over the door tinkled. Swiftly tucking my book away, I glanced up to find a trio of women entering the store. My irritation level, already on overdrive from the phone call with my mom, went on the rise again as I recognized the expensive clothes and well-kept arrogance of women obviously suffering from that insidious, spreading contagion, Wannabe Chic.
Why did it not surprise me to recognize my little sister leading the pack?
Her companion, however, did surprise me. Just a little.
What the hell did Mel think she was doing, traipsing around town with Margo Dickerson, my high school tormentor and arch nemesis?
"There you are, Mags!" Mel exclaimed, storming forward between the displays with the same single-minded fervor as Sherman's march to Atlanta. She stopped just before the counter, her hands on her hips. "You didn't return my call," she said with a reproving twist of her lips. She paused, waiting for my apology. When it became apparent that one would not be forthcoming, she added, "I waited up until at least ten."
If there was one thing I had learned about my little sister over the years, it was that giving in to her, like mollifying a cranky child with treats, only reinforced the negative behavior. I was determined not to yield. I was also uncomfortably aware of the smug curiosity of her boon companions. Oh, Margo and her friends pretended to flip through a case of matted lithographs, but the avid watchfulness in their eyes made it painfully clear why the two were here.
I straightened my spine and lifted my chin, throwing on a sheltering cloak of aloofness. "What are you doing here, Mel? I thought Mom said we'd be getting together this weekend."
She waved a hand to dismiss the question. "Yes, but you didn't really think I could wait that long to get the scoop, did you?"
"There… is… no… scoop," I grated out between tightly clenched teeth with a pointed glance at her two cohorts.
She caught the glance and misinterpreted it utterly. "Oh, Mags, how could I have forgotten? I should have introduced you right away." She motioned her friends forward. "Have you met my neighbors, Margo Dickerson-Craig and Jane Churchill? Ladies, this is my older sister, Margaret O'Neill."
"Maggie," I corrected her, wishing I wasn't forced to by her outdated Miss Manners standards. After all, I seriously doubted that Miss Manners had ever been locked out of the girls' locker room wearing nothing but a towel.
Margo extended a regally limp hand, looking half as though she expected me to kiss it. "Maggie O'Neill. Maggie O'Neill…" She paused thoughtfully. "Did we go to school together?"
With anyone else, such a memory lapse was forgivable. With Margo, the smirk glittering in her hard eyes made it clear that she remembered me all too well. She just meant to be insulting.
Well, two could play at that game. "Did we? Sorry, I guess I don't remember. It has been a loooong time. Were you a few years ahead of me?"
She pulled her hand back as though I'd bit it and selfconsciously smoothed her Mary Kay-perfect cheek. Score one for the Gipper.
"No," she snapped. "Same year."
"Jane and Margo live on my street, Mags. Margo's husband, Randy, is editor-in-chief for the Gazette, and Jane's husband works in the firm with Greg." Mel supplied the helpful details with relish. "We three formed a little coffee klatch of sorts a few months ago, because we have just loads in common."
"Ah." Somehow I didn't find that hard to believe.
"So. Mags." Mel moved closer to me, watching me with scandal-hungry eyes. "Is your boss here?"
I snatched away and began to tidy the stack of tissue paper beside the register. "No."
"Oh." Mel's face fell. "We were hoping…" Her voice trailed off, but then she brightened considerably. "But at least that gives us a chance to talk without worrying that she'll hear us. You can tell us everything."
"Such as?"
"Well… what's she like? Everyone's saying that she killed her sister."
If I kept my hands on the tissue paper, I would end up shredding it to ribbons to keep from throttling my sister. "Don't say that."
"Well, it's true. Greg heard they're amassing evidence against her."
It was as I'd feared. But why? Why would anyone suspect Felicity? Was it only because she was the first person on the scene? Or was there more to that story? Something I didn't know?
Despite my first instinct to boot all three of their scrawny asses out of the store, I decided to put up with them for the time being. I wanted to know what else Mel had heard.
I was a little new at this sleuthing bit, but a girl could learn anything if she put her mind to it. Even if it meant kissing up to her own sister.
"Mel, let me show you the new toiletries we got in just this week," I offered, taking her arm and leading her over to the display. "Direct from Paris. You'll love the scents. Oh, and try this lotion. It's absolutely magical." When she was nose deep in an amethyst-hued glycerine bar, transported to new heights with the pungent scent of lavender, I made my next move. "So. Tell me. What else does Greg say?"
"I don't know about evidence," Jane said, coming forward to lift the lid on a pot of Bee's Knees, a soothing balm for rough skin that smelled wonderfully of honey, "but it doesn't take a psychic to know there have been rumors going around for ages about bad blood between Felicity Dow and Isabella Harding. Not much happens in this town that can be counted secret or even private. I mean, when we were moving into our new house in Buckingham West, I called the utilities commission to make arrangements to transfer our account, and they already knew our new address. And here we'd just signed the papers!"
Mel dipped her finger into Jane's tester of Bee's Knees and rubbed it into her cuticles. Examining them, she said, "I heard Isabella had a fling with Felicity's husband, and that's what caused the split between the two."
If it was true, it was a piece of information I didn't have, one that I would have to pursue later with Felicity. But it didn't mean she was a killer. "What about other suspects?" I asked, trying to direct the conversation toward something a bit more useful. "Have you heard of anyone else who might have held a grudge toward Isabella? Other family members?"
"One husband. One adult daughter. I heard they were both out of town on business. Face it, Maggie," Mel said, placing a hand on my shoulder in what was supposed to be sisterly compassion, "Felicity Dow is simply the most likely candidate." She looked around the store, taking it all in, and I could see the questions moving through her head. "Mayb
e this job wasn't such a good idea after all."
"It's fine."
Mel just looked at me. Then she shrugged. "Suit yourself, but keep this moment in mind later, when I tell you I told you so…"
Turning away, she rejoined Margo, who had remained haughtily in the background since I insulted her, and motioned for Jane to follow. "Let's go, girls. We have loads of shopping to do. Maggie, I'll see you Saturday."
As they walked out the front door, I heard Margo say, "I told you she wouldn't know anything. What a total waste of good gossip."
Let it go, Maggie, I told myself as I struggled with my dislike for a woman I'd hoped never to see again. Just let it go. Think about what's really important.
For the next two hours, I dealt with the intermittent flow of customers and little else. I tried to go back to my book, but I couldn't seem to focus on the details. More and more I found myself standing at the front windows, watching for Felicity's car. By the time Felicity finally walked in the door, it was almost noon, and strain was beginning to unravel the edges of my composure.
"Liss! I was really starting to worry! Are you all right? What did they want? What did they say?"
She sat down heavily on a counter stool, letting her antique velvet purse drop carelessly to the floor. A full minute passed before she found the strength to answer. "They simply wanted to question me further."
"Yes, but how? What was it all about?" I asked, picking up her purse automatically and setting it down on the counter next to her. I was hovering, feeling useless, but I managed to stop short of wringing my hands.
"They wanted me to go over the sequence of events once again. Actually, several times again. I think they were waiting for me to slip up."
"Oh, Liss." It was just as I'd feared. There was no second-guessing this time. "I think it's time you consulted a lawyer about all this."
She peered up at me, considering this. "No. No, I don't think so."
"But—"
"Maggie. I'm not guilty of killing my sister. And while I'm not naive enough to believe that innocence triumphs over all in the American judicial system, in this case I simply must believe the truth will prevail."