Fangs and Frenemies

by Cherry Andrews

  “Not ready, what’s that supposed to mean?” This was spiraling out of control. Just because she didn’t love Bryson, she was making judgments about my abilities?

  “I don’t feel comfortable passing the deed of the bakery on to you. Not yet. And I won’t be going into an advisory role. I may not do as much magic but I’ll still be here, supervising you, a hundred percent of the time.”

  “That’s way more than you supervise me now!” I cried. “Am I being demoted or something?”

  She hesitated. “No, but maybe it’s time we got a little more formal about our roles at work. Oh, and as your boss I formally request that you confine your flower arranging to nonpoisonous species.”

  “Great, anything else you want to change about how I live my life?” I said sarcastically.

  How could a day go from bad to worse so fast?

  “Is that what you think I’m doing, controlling your life?” She shook her head sadly. “This bakery is our family’s legacy, Hazel. I hope one day you’re as eager to protect it as I am now. Miles may I roam, but there’s no place like home.” She snapped her fingers again and dematerialized as the flowers had done, leaving behind her rumpled black coat on the chair’s back. Three seconds later, the coat vanished, too, like an afterthought.

  Show-off. Magical commuting was still hard for me. I was hoping I mastered it before the old hunk of metal that currently housed Trixie’s spirit wore out.

  As I angrily bleached and scrubbed the counter, it hit me that magical commuting wasn’t the only spell I still couldn’t do as well as Gran. I was also terrible at reading auras. And organization spells—you know, the Mary Poppins stuff. And so much more. She might be “done” as she put it, but I was still a little raw in the middle.

  What if she was right, albeit for the wrong reasons, that I wasn’t ready to take over? And if she was right, what on Earth would become of our family bakery?

  I was still wiping the counter when the bell rang to announce a new customer.

  “Sorry, we’re closed,” I said in my super-sweet customer service voice, without looking up.

  I didn’t see the tall redhead approaching until her horn-rimmed glasses were inches from my face.

  “We need to talk,” said Max deKlaw. “It’s urgent.”

  “Kind of busy here,” I shot back, hating the part of me that was glad to see my old friend. Urgent. God, she was so arrogant. When I wanted to talk, I had to wait ten years. Now suddenly, time mattered?

  I’d caved the other night and listened to her rambling voicemail, asking if we’d be hiring holiday helpers at the bakery this year. That was a puzzler. Max made a pretty good living through her website, Blue Moon Roundup, which for years now had eclipsed the Gazette as our town’s official newspaper. Local businesses all bought ads, including us. Why would she want a part time job?

  Hey, not my friend, not my problem.

  I sighed. “There’s nothing left to say, Max. Unless you’re here to drink our honest coffee instead of Java Kitty’s high-tech swill?”

  “No. FYI, their white mochas slay.” Her cool green eyes met mine without shame. “But that’s not what I’m here to tell—“

  “White mochas?” I should have let it go, but bickering with her felt as natural as slipping into a warm bubble bath. “That’s the price of your loyalty these days, sugar that dreams of being chocolate?”

  “Hazel, will you please stop interrupting me?” Max grabbed the rag out of my hands and tossed it into the sink. “I’m trying to tell you that Ashlee Stone’s gone missing.”

  “Missing?” A chill snaked down my spine.

  “She disappeared just over twenty-four hours ago,” Max went on. “The police are involved, so we have to act fast. They’re going to be calling you any minute.”

  “Me?” My head swam with awful questions. Was my failed blessing already having its effects? Was Ashlee’s disappearance my own fault, somehow? But, no, that made no sense. Even if it was all my fault, there’s no way the Sheriff’s Department would know that. “Why would the police come after me?” I whimpered.

  Nothing could have prepared me for Max’s next words.

  “According to Ashlee’s diary, the last person to see her alive was that hot new guy in town—the guy I saw you kissing on the pier the other night. Bryson Goodman.”

  Chapter 6

  Feeling dizzy and more than a little nauseous, I followed Max out to the back parking lot. It was already nearly dark. “That’s impossible. There’s no way he could know Ashlee.”

  “You know I don’t tell lies.” Max threw her hands up impatiently. “Whatever, you don’t have to take my word for it. Sheriff Gantry will be calling you soon to interview you as the girlfriend of a ‘person of interest.’”

  I raised my eyebrow. “Since when does Gantry loop you in on his plans?”

  “He didn’t. Elliot pulled me aside when I was down at the station earlier and told me everything.”

  That at least made sense. Deputy Elliot James had been nursing a crush on Max since our high school days. He was far from the only good looking man to go for her quirky brand of sexiness. Guys liked Max. It was women who looked down on her, for having the social graces of a rattlesnake. I was the only girl who’d ever tried to befriend her, and where had it gotten me?

  “What were you doing down at the police station that led to you seeing Elliot?”

  “Getting grilled by Gantry, what else?”

  My eyes must have bugged out of my head because she said, “Relax. They don’t suspect me of offing Ashlee. They just wanted to ask me some questions about Kade.”

  Well, that made sense. Like his twin sister, Kade de Klaw was sharp-witted and scruffily good-looking, with a muscular build, strawberry blond hair and freckles. They’d both been wild teenagers, too, but where Max had grown out of her screwup phase, Kade had spent too many years bouncing in and out of juvie, then jail, for stupid offenses. He was still struggling to transition to adulthood.

  “Well, thanks for the heads up,” I said stiffly. “This all has to be a mistake. I’ll go find him at work and clear everything up.”

  “Good luck.” Max turned to go. Her Mustang wasn’t in the lot, which means she must have jogged over.

  I pressed the button to unlock Trixie but nothing happened. I tried again, over and over. Couldn’t even hear her voice. “Crud! The remote battery must be dead.”

  Max jogged back over, looking curious. “Maybe you could just fly to him, or something?”

  Oh, right, she knew I was a witch. I rolled my eyes at her. “Witches don’t fly, that’s a myth.”

  “Not even with a broomstick?”

  “Also a myth.”

  “Can you stop time?”

  “I’m a kitchen witch, not freakin’ Dr. Who.”

  “Teleportation spell?

  “That is a real thing,” I admitted grudgingly. “I’m just . . . not very good at those kinds of spells yet. Or Mary Poppins clean up spells. Or reading auras.”

  Max closed her eyes and sighed. “Right then.” She screwed up her face into a grimace.

  “Wow, sorry my witch skills aren’t up to your high standards,” I muttered, miffed.

  Max’s eyes opened in surprise. “I’m not judging you.”

  “That’s not your judging face?”

  “No, it’s my shifting face. I’m getting ready to shift into a bobcat so I can sprint back home and get my car for you.”

  I stared at her. “Wait, what?”

  “Yeah, I thought I’d leave it at home today, it was nice and sunny . . . ”

  “Not that. You didn’t by any chance just say you were turning into a bobcat?”

  “Guess I did.” Max shrugged and made a lackadaisical “oops” face. “Welp, that was me coming out. Now you can process that whole ‘shifter’ concept till I come back.”

  I didn’t so much see Max shift as I saw her clothes fall to the floor in a soft heap. A graceful, brown-spotted wildcat with black-tufted ears bounded pas
t me. Picking up her still-warm shirt, I caught a whiff of the pleasant, woodsy essential oil blend she liked to mix up and use as perfume. Made sense. A bobcat liked the smell of the woods.

  There wasn’t really much to process. Except what an idiot I’d been not to have guessed it all ten years ago.

  This explained so much.

  “Wait a minute.” I finally connected the dots ten minutes later in her Mustang as we were speeding to Byrson’s office. “When you said you were answering questions about Kade at the police station . . . does that mean he’s a suspect in this case?”

  “Person of interest,” she growled. Post bobcat, Max had changed into black shorts and flip-flips. No doubt she’d shaved a minute or two off her transit time, but I felt cold just looking at her legs. “Just like your boyfriend is a person of interest, Hazel.”

  That shut me up. Almost. “Did you know your shirt’s inside out?”

  “I know and don’t care.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Ha.” She smiled at my pun, then her face twisted up with worry again. “Kade is innocent, obviously. All they have on him is that he was seen talking to Ashlee shortly before her disappearance.”

  “I can’t believe Ashlee let herself be seen with a member of the criminal element.” A snicker fell from my lips before I could stop it. “That came out wrong. I meant because Ashlee’s such a snob . . . ” I trailed off. I was the one who’d sounded snobby. “Sorry.”

  “It’s ok,” she said stiffly. “I’m pretty sure Ashlee only talked to him because he was making her a cappuccino. He just landed that barista job at Java Kitty.”

  “Good for him.” Would that place never stop haunting me?

  “He’s trying so hard. It’s like he can’t catch a break.” Luckily Max was too busy talking to herself to notice my lack of a supportive response. “The only reason they’re flagging their conversation as suspicious is because Kade’s got a record.”

  I shrugged. “People who break laws are more likely to break them again.”

  She scoffed. “Kade’s crimes were all pretty trifling, though.”

  “Like stealing?” As long as I was pissing her off, why quit now? “Stealing’s kind of a big deal.”

  “He stole minor stuff. Souvenirs.”

  “Wasn’t he also caught making fake IDs for every kid at Blue Moon High?”

  “There was some minor identity theft. A long time ago.”

  “You keep saying the word minor like it makes everything ok.”

  Max blew out a sigh. “Hazel, I know everything’s not ok with Kade. I’m not stupid. Why do you think I started spending all day in Java Kitty Cafe the moment he got a job there?

  I was silent. I’d thought it was because she was a bad person and disloyal bakery customer.

  “My brother needs someone to be his conscience, but only when it comes to the piddly stuff. He would never kidnap anyone.” Her voice was sharp.

  “Yeah, but . . . never mind.” But I saw the pain in her eyes and realized she wouldn’t appreciate my perspective. “That sucks, Max. Hopefully Ashlee comes home soon.”

  Max gave a weak smile. “Bet you never thought you’d say that, right?”

  Her Mustang pulled up at a two-story office park at the edge of town, where Google assured me Bryson’s office was located. Reassuringly, his blue road bike was locked up outside.

  Max waited in the car while I stormed into the grey-paneled office building. I located his name on the marquee in the empty waiting room— Suite 200—and jogged upstairs.

  The Do Not Disturb Therapy Session in Progress sign was on his door.

  I hesitated for one moment. I’d never pried into this side of his life before, having been accused of not giving past boyfriends the “space” they needed. But this was different. I had to do something.

  I banged on the door. When no one answered, I barged in.

  Bryson whirled to face the door, looking a little annoyed—a look I’d never seen on him. Till he saw it was me.

  “Haze?” His eyebrows pulled downward in concern. “What’s wrong, baby?”

  “Something terrible’s happened.” I felt slightly hysterical suddenly. I was here to warn him, about a dangerous mistake by the police, yet it was easy to see how my words could all tumble out wrong and make it sound as if I was confronting him. Accusing him. I wanted him to know I was on his side. But what was the right way to phrase it? I decided to blame Max. “A former classmate of mine—who definitely isn’t a friend—said you were . . . oh.”

  A dowdy, middle-aged couple were perched stonily on opposite ends of the sofa. As stonily as they could be given their soft middles.

  “Sorry to interrupt your session.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” The man hitched up his Dockers and stood. “All this therapy nonsense is bunk anyway.” He turned to his wife. “Want to just get a divorce already?”

  “Finally, you said something that doesn’t make me want to slap you upside the head.” She rose and slung her purse over her shoulder.

  “So glad to have facilitated a peaceful goodbye for you two,” Bryson said in a voice even calmer and smoother than his usual tone.

  I threw him a look of dismay. Surely he was going to intervene. Was this a therapist mind trick?

  He waved as the pair shuffled out. Nope.

  “Trust me,” he whispered. “Those two should have split up long ago. They’ve hated each other’s guts for decades. It’s almost like their marriage was cursed.”

  Guiltily, I looked away, thinking of Ashlee and the failed cake blessing. “Bryson, remember that woman whose wedding I had to go to?”

  He smiled. “The country club thing? Where I’d have had to wear a suit?”

  “That’s it.” Whoever saw him with Ashlee had to be wrong, I thought with relief. He was just good old Bryson, sweet and innocent and chill. Perhaps a little too chill when it came to his job, but who was I to judge. “The bride is missing,” I explained, “and there’s been some crazy error at the police station where they think—mistakenly, of course—that the last person to see her was—”

  “Ashlee’s missing? Oh no.”

  I gasped. “You’re on a first name basis?” Why would he keep that from me? “Bryson, what on Earth is going on?”

  He sighed. “She’s one of my clients. I wanted to tell you, Haze, but I couldn’t because of therapist-client privilege.”

  “Hang on, Ashlee Stone is in therapy?” I couldn’t help but shake my head trying to picture that. Ashlee was the least vulnerable, least open-to-change person I could think of. “I guess she shares a lot of personal stuff with you, then?” It bothered me to think of lanky, gorgeous Ashlee lounging on this couch, sharing her deepest secrets with my boyfriend. “Does she have a diagnosis? Oh, right. You can’t tell me.”

  “So sorry.” He cringed. “That’s why I made an excuse to avoid going to the wedding.”

  My mouth fell open. “So the continuing ed program in Portland was made up?” He’d lied to me. So easily. “I begged you to be my date that night. I was lonely.” Well, not really, because of David, but details didn’t matter right now. “You lied to me and left me to face it alone.”

  Bryson hung his head. “Hazel, I’m sorry, ok? But if she’d encountered me in a social situation, it could have hampered her ability to keep seeing me as her therapist. Which could slow her progress,” he added quickly.

  Progress in what? I thought. Filling out her personality disorder bingo card? “I still can’t believe you lied.”

  “And I can’t believe she’s missing . . . ” He took a deep breath as if to steady himself. “If a client is in danger, it means I have a duty to share the records of our sessions with police. As much as Ashlee’s going to hate that.”

  “Who cares what Ashlee hates, what about me?” I couldn’t seem to stop picturing Ashlee parked on this couch, her snake eyes locked on Bryson’s warm blue ones, seductively reaching for the tissue he offered. Ew. “You lied to me,” I repeated, feelin
g petulant.

  “Haze, oh my gosh!” He laughed out loud, then leaned down to kiss me on the forehead. “Do you see what’s happening? We’re having our first fight.”

  “Is that what this is?” It didn’t feel good at all. But fighting wasn’t supposed to feel good, I reminded myself. At least Bryson and I had made it a full three months before we got here. “I guess I can sort of see why you had to lie about Ashlee’s wedding to me,” I admitted grudgingly. “Protecting your clients’ anonymity is part of your job.” And when I really thought about it, he wasn’t the only one keeping job-related secrets. I had a much bigger one I’d been holding onto. Like, hello, I was a witch. Wasn’t it irrational for me to be angry at him for a small lie when I lied every day by not mentioning this core part of who I was?

  Our cell phones bleated at the same time, interrupting what could have been the start of making up from our first fight.

  Both callers were from the Blue Moon Bay Police Station, each requesting our presence as soon as possible for an interview.

  “I’ll ride with Max, you take your bike,” I told Bryson, feeling suddenly terrified again. “We should go separately. We don’t want them to think we’re in cahoots.”

  “Whatever you say, Bonnie. Get it? We’re Bonnie and Clyde.” He grinned at me. It was clear he didn’t feel threatened or intimidated by the prospect of a police interview, and maybe he was right. After all, he had a perfectly valid reason for being the last person to talk to Ashlee. “More importantly, though,” he added, “tonight we should celebrate having our first fight.”

  I looked at him like he was crazy.

  “It’s a family tradition,” he insisted. “We have to get ice cream. Really rich ice cream, with gooey caramel. And I have to feed it to you, as penance for upsetting you.”

  Despite myself, I laughed. “Twist my arm, why don’t you.” How could I stay mad at Bryson for long when he was this adorable? “Your family traditions beat the pants off mine,” I admitted, grudgingly. “When we fight, we just sit around glaring at each other until someone apologizes.”