The Trouble with Magic

by Madelyn Alt

  My stomach dropped to the vicinity of my toes, then made a weak little wobble for good measure. He was looking at me in a way that made my mouth go dry, an odd mixture of softness and awareness and good old-fashioned sexual charisma that went straight to the heart of the matter.

  Margaret Mary-Catherine O'Neill, good Catholic girls don't fall over themselves for a man on the first date… Where's the mystery in that?

  But this wasn't a date. It was a race for the truth, with both of us determined to outdo the other. Did that make a difference?

  Confused, I straightened and pulled away, breaking the connection. "Sorry."

  "Did you hurt yourself?"

  I shook my head and stared ahead as I steered Christine out of the gravel alley and onto the street. For a moment, silence filled the cold confines of the car, broken only by the occasional mechanical rap or wheeze emitted by the aging engine. I gripped the wheel harder, casting about for a safe topic. I for one have always hated the painful silences that occur when two people don't know each other very well. They never fail to make me desperate to fill the void. True to form, I broke it myself.

  "So, why did you follow me tonight? I mean, most men would have given up and gone on to greener pastures, or… something."

  "I figured you got cold feet, and I didn't want to let you go that easily."

  The perfect evasive answer is one that can be construed in a variety of ways. Tom seemed to be quite fond of them. I, on the other hand, despise being manipulated, so I decided to guide the conversation toward a path I wanted to pursue. "You wanted to ask me about Felicity."

  He hesitated a moment. "I won't lie and tell you the thought hadn't crossed my mind. I'm a cop. It's what I do. But that's not the only reason."

  Sidestep needed. Duck and cover. "Why don't you just ask me about Felicity, then? Go ahead. Get it off your chest." Of course I wouldn't promise I'd give him the answers he was looking for, though. That remained to be seen.

  "Not yet. Coffee. I need coffee. Don't you have a heater in this thing?"

  I shook my head. "Not at this speed. It only blows cold air below sixty miles per hour. We'd have to hit the highway to have heat." I looked askance at him. "Except then I would be breaking the law, technically. Not recommended with an officer of the law sitting in the car next to you."

  "I think I'd risk it for a little heat. My hands are like Popsicles. Cold night. Winter's on its way."

  "There's a blanket in back."

  "For just such an emergency? Thanks, but I can think of much nicer ways to warm up my hands." And he grinned in such a way that I could no more escape his meaning than I could my uptight Midwestern upbringing.

  I laughed in spite of myself. "Why, Deputy Fielding, what a perfectly wicked thing to say." I was blushing, but in the dim glow of the dash lights I could be reasonably certain that he didn't know. I was also flirting, but I guess he knew that. "My grandmother would box your ears for suggesting such a thing."

  "I'll be sure to wear ear muffs when I meet her."

  That might seem to suggest that he had intentions of someday meeting my family, but I knew better than to make too much of it. Around here, that's just what people do. My folks have met every guy I've ever dated. They've had them to dinner, to backyard cookouts, and to bonfires. In the end it meant nothing more than the friendly hour or two it was. I decided not to tell Tom that Grandma was already dead. For some reason, I felt more than a little off-balance with him, and anything that might help to make him toe the line would be more than welcome.

  Lights flashed behind us in the rearview mirror as I drove up the deserted main drag. I adjusted it to night vision and wondered (Pet Peeve #13) why no one can remember to lower their brights as they come upon another car. I mean, common courtesy, people! Society advances, and boom, consideration goes down the toilet? At least I didn't have to suffer the thoughtless git for long. The truckstop loomed just ahead on the right, highlighted by dual roaming sky beacons that called truckers down from the interstate at the north edge of town. I pulled off the road into the rutted gravel parking lot and let the high-beam offender whip on past.

  Even at one o'clock in the morning, Ivy's parking lot was not as empty as one might expect. Several big rigs were packed like sardines in a tin can against the back fence at the rear of the lot. The drivers didn't mind so long as they could get a little shut-eye. Nearer the building stood a nondescript sedan and a rusting old Ford pickup. The pickup was jacked up high enough that the driver must have needed a ladder to climb in and out of it. But the light shining from Ivy's windows was dazzling, and the music coming from inside was pure old-fashioned honky-tonk, bright and reassuring. I switched off the engine, took a deep breath, and turned toward Tom, but he was already getting out of the car. Before I could do the same, he had hustled around to my side and opened my door for me.

  "Wow," I said, both surprised and, I admit it, more than a little pleased, "whoever said chivalry was dead?"

  He flashed me a ten-kilowatt grin and held out his hand. "Obviously whoever it was has never been to Indiana."

  Taking his hand produced a strange feeling. Everything about him felt strange and yet familiar, alien and yet comfortable. He would have kept my hand in his as we walked, but I pulled gently, self-consciously, away under the excuse of digging in my purse. Still, I couldn't help noticing the way he held the door for me or the way he helped me out of my coat before I slid into the first available booth.

  "So," he said as we gazed cautiously across the table at each other.

  "So." I decided to cut right to the point. "I've been meaning to ask you something, so I've decided I'm just going to come right out and ask."

  "Shoot."

  "The day Isabella Harding was killed and you came to the store to give me Felicity's keys, you said something that made me wonder what you meant."

  "You mean, when I told you to find another job?"

  "More the comment about Felicity's secret world."

  "Ah."

  "Well?"

  His eyes searched mine. "Maggie, how well do you know Felicity Dow?"

  With another person I'd known for a week, I'd have had to think about my answer, but Felicity was special. "By your standards, not very well," I admitted. "But I know what's most important. I know her heart."

  We paused as our waitress, a middle-aged brunette wearing tight jeans, a T-shirt, and the requisite orthopedic shoes, interrupted us with two steaming cups of coffee, dropped two menus on the table, and bustled away with all the energy of a pint-sized cyclone.

  Tom waited until she was out of earshot before he said, "I know you probably think you know her. But believe me, there are things about your friend that would scare you and the rest of the good people in this town to death."

  All of this pussyfooting around was enough to drive even the most patient woman to distraction. "You mean because she's a witch?"

  I regretted it as soon as the words left my mouth. While I'd never promised to safeguard Felicity's secret, I felt it my duty as a friend to protect her as much as possible. If disclosed to the wrong person, what I'd just said was tantamount to the worst kind of betrayal. And taking into consideration Tom's choice of profession, he was about as wrong as a person could be.

  His lips tightened. "Yes. That's exactly why." He took a calming sip of coffee, keeping both hands wrapped tightly about his cup. "How do you know about that?"

  I followed his lead with the coffee, because it kept my hands from betraying my nervousness. "I know because she told me. Before I started working for her."

  "That surprises me."

  "Because you don't know her. If you did, you could never suspect her. How did you come by this information?"

  He shrugged noncommittally. "People talk. Heaven knows there were rumors." He paused a moment, then admitted, "I did a little digging. It didn't take much."

  "Hm. You know, religious intolerance is an ugly thing, but persecution is far worse."

  He looked at me, not saying
a word, his thoughts shuttered behind his eyes.

  "Does anyone else know?" I pressed, determined to know the full extent of the damage.

  "On the force, you mean? The chief does, but I'm not sure about anyone else."

  "Good. Let's just keep it that way. It's Felicity's life. She doesn't deserve to have it ruined simply because you don't like her."

  Exasperation crackled in his gray green eyes. "Look. Maggie. There are reasons for Ms. Dow to be investigated as a suspect. You have to trust me on this."

  The only thing to do was to call his bluff. "All right, then, tell me. Tell me what evidence you have."

  "I'm not at liberty to say."

  "But you're at liberty to hound a person because you have preconceived notions about her guilt thanks to her—shall we say unconventional—beliefs?"

  He had the decency to look uncomfortable, at least. "Look. I realize they're calling it a religion now, which gives them certain rights—"

  "Good of you to recognize that."

  "—but you know as well as I do that's a result of liberals and the whole bizarre PC movement. It's invading every aspect of our lives. And witchcraft!" He shook his head. "That's about as bizarre as you can get."

  "And Isabella's death indicates the use of witchcraft, is that what you're trying to tell me?"

  "Of course not."

  "No hocus pocus? No jinxes, or hexes, or even a psychic attack?"

  He waved a dismissive hand. "You know there are no such things."

  Gotcha. "Then you agree that it could have been anyone who killed Isabella? Anyone with a motive?"

  He leaned back against the bench and assessed me quietly. "I can see you're trying to make a point."

  Bet your ass I am, big guy. "Did you know that Jeremy Harding kept a mistress? Or that Isabella herself had a lover? I met both of them at the viewing. Lovely people, too."

  Anger flashed in his eyes, swift as sheet lightning. "Jesus, Maggie, you think we don't know our jobs? In answer to your question, yeah. We asked questions. And in case you don't realize it, Jeremy Harding was in a business meeting at the time with six other prominent members of Stony Mill society. Didn't leave once, not even to go to the bathroom. As for Ryan Davidson, he was attending a deposition on behalf of the hospital. I guess that knocks both husband and loverboy out of the picture, huh?"

  I stared at him, a little in awe of this sudden change in him.

  And then I shook myself back to my senses. "All right. So they have alibis. They also have motives, and where there's a will, there's a way."

  "What are you saying?"

  I shrugged. "Murder for hire? It wouldn't be the first time."

  "Okay. All right. That's a possibility, and it's one we'll check into further. Satisfied?"

  "Supremely."

  "Good. Now let's talk about your boss. In my book, she's every bit as good a suspect as the husband or the boyfriend."

  "Oh, for heaven's sa—"

  "They were estranged, and had been for over a year. Did you know that?"

  "Sisters have arguments all the time," I told him. God knows I speak from experience. "Trust me on this."

  "Let me test a theory out on you. Woman discovers, after the death of her beloved husband from causes natural, that said husband had a long-term affair with her own sister. The two sisters have words and refuse to have anything further to do with each other. But secretly the woman is consumed by rage and jealousy and denial. Suddenly, after a rift that has only deepened after more than a year, the sister ends up dead. Murdered. By coincidence, that very morning she calls the woman to her side, just in time to discover her body. Now," he said, arching a brow at me, "what does this situation say to you?"

  I stared him down, my eyes as steely as my resolve. "Felicity is not guilty. I would stake my life on that."

  His mouth twisted in a cynical excuse for a smile. "You know, if there's one thing I've learned, it's this: Best to avoid making sweeping statements like that in the middle of a murder investigation."

  A sharp rebuttal leapt to my tongue, but it was stilled by the insistent electronic musicale of a cell phone. Tom put his hand to his waist.

  Sorry, he mouthed to me as he flipped it open and spoke into it. "Fielding."

  All I could hear of the conversation was a voice that twittered on at length on the other end of the satellite, but I didn't need to hear the words to know that whatever the news, it wasn't good. Tom's face said it all.

  "Yes. No problem. I'm out anyway, and you're right. It's probably nothing. I'll head on over as soon… yes, right away. Gotcha. Right. I'll report back later."

  He folded the phone closed with a snick and held it loosely in his hands on the tabletop. "That was the chief. Duty beckons, I'm afraid. I'm on call tonight. I have to go."

  "Is something wrong?"

  "No, nothing. Just a little Saturday night highjinks he asked me to check on."

  He was lying. I knew it, without fanfare, the way you know that in the morning you'll have Cheerios for breakfast, shower, and brush your teeth, or that your mother will call you on Friday to ask after your latest boyfriend in the off chance that you've managed to get engaged in the preceding seven days. How did I know? Maybe it was his deliberately deadpan expression, or maybe it was the down-to-business way he stuffed the cell phone into his pocket. Body language is an important element of conversation, and I'd always tended to be more observer than active participant, so I had a lot of experience to back me up. Whatever the catalyst, I knew I was right.

  "Gee, that's too bad," I told him, injecting just the right amount of disappointment into my voice. "I was enjoying our little talk."

  His gaze slid to mine in a sidelong glance rife with disbelief. "Were you, now."

  "Oh, absolutely," I said, wide-eyed and artless as he signaled for the check. Under the cover of the no-frills laminate table, I fingered my keys in anticipation. "Sooooo. Tell me. What kind of highjinks are we talking about?"

  "We weren't discussing anything."

  "Of course we were. What did your chief want you to check on? An accident of some sort? Teens out disturbing the peace? Domestic trouble?" He was doing the perfect impression of a deaf-mute. Obviously he needed convincing. Employing every bit of wile I had, I reached out and playfully chucked him under the chin. With any luck, my eyes had just twinkled. "Oh, come on. I'm not going to go blabbing about it. It's one-thirty in the morning, for God's sake. Who could I tell?"

  He wanted to frown at me. I could tell. But he couldn't hide the slight quirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth. Finally he caved. "Well… all right. I guess it won't hurt anything." He lowered his voice to an undertone. "Someone called to report a drive-by." While I tried to wrap my mind around this, gingerly hoping the report hadn't originated with my parents' nosy neighbor, he remedied, "Shooting, I mean."

  My brows shot up. "Here?" It seemed unthinkable. Things like that didn't happen in towns like Stony Mill.

  He nodded in the affirmative just as our waitress hustled over, the table check waving in a breeze of her own creation.

  "Got your total right here, hon," she said, dragging a pencil from its nest in her curly 'do. "You folks should sure try a piece of our pie before you go. Sugar cream and cherry are the specials today. No? You sure? I could wrap it up for you."

  I swallowed convulsively over the thought of cherry pie, but I shook my head. "Thank you, no."

  Tom handed her a five. "There you go, Jo Lee. Keep the change."

  She looked at the cash. "A four-dollar tip for pouring two coffees? You're nuts, Tom Fielding. But a good kind of nuts. You must be wanting to get out of here real fast, huh?" She chuckled and gave me a saucy wink that had me turning five shades of red. "Have a good one, you two."

  I ducked my chin before Tom could see my discomfiture and know it for what it was.

  He held the door for me and put his hand on the small of my back as I walked through. I tried not to think about it, but somehow the gesture spoke to my feminine si
de, the one that liked to feel protected and pampered by a big strong man. I know, I know, the feminazis would have a cow, but hey, why fight nature? That's why I didn't argue when he helped me into Christine and closed the door for me before coming around to the other side.

  "Where to?" I asked as he reached for the seat belt.

  "Back to the store, so I can get my truck and head out."

  "I'll take you."

  "What? No. No, you won't."

  "Why? It would be much faster if I drove you." Mulishly he jutted out his chin. "We're wasting time."

  "Right. We're wasting time. Now, where to?" Exasperated, he looked at me. His chest lifted as he took a deep, deep breath, then let it out slowly. "You are one hell of a stubborn woman, did you know that?"

  My lips curved slightly. "Thank you. I do try." I could see the wheels of his mind churning. I had him, and he knew it. He scowled at me, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Finally he seemed to come to a decision.

  "Fine. You're going. But you're not getting out of the car, and if I tell you to get on out of there, you're gonna do it as fast as this beast can take you."

  "Fine."

  He gave me the address. Regan Street

  , only six blocks away from the store. We drove back across town, a sense of anticipation giving the silence between us a palpable tension, one we both felt. We were alone on the street, stately trees arching their branches overhead. Headlights approached, far away, then turned off. We motored along through dark streets filled with equally dark houses. It occurred to me, then, how the night encourages isolation, and how isolation breeds fear. We were alone, but beyond that was a sense that there was something else out there in the darkness, something cold and without emotion watching our movements with predatory patience. As we turned left onto Regan, Tom reached over and touched my hand. The unexpected touch fortified me, reminding me that there was strength in numbers, just as there was comfort in shared experience. I let my hand relax beneath his, getting to know the size of his hand over mine, feeling the warmth of his skin, the tougher skin along his palm. Just being. I didn't dare look at him, but I knew he had been studying me. For some reason that knowledge didn't make me nervous, or embarrassed, or even awkward. It made me feel warm.