Fangs and Frenemies

by Cherry Andrews

  I was early to work.

  Today was it. The big day: I was giving away free scones at the bakery all morning.

  Special scones.

  It was, I thought, while I caramelized yet another batch of peach slices in cinnamon butter at dawn, the perfect illustration of how nothing in life was truly free. Of course I was hoping to get something in return—information that could help Bryson.

  And Kade.

  I was still rooting for Kade to be innocent. But man, he sure did look fifty shades of suspicious. I’d been too tired last night after meeting with The Help to try that Dreamland Visitor spell, so I’d have to do it tonight.

  As for Gran, I’d told her I expected it to be a slow day and encouraged her to sleep in. First, I didn’t want her to know what I was up to in terms of magically truth seruming the population and asking about a dead woman. But also, I didn’t want her to be crushed if it was a bust and no one showed up.

  If that happened, my own disappointment would be bad enough.

  I mixed the dry ingredients, then squirted a cup of simple syrup into a saucepan, measured out dried herbs from the labeled mason jars on the high shelf, and quietly stirred the serum as it heated.

  With this small treat, I bid thee speak,

  Freely as long as the potion lasts.

  All facts expose, all secrets leak.

  How bittersweet the spell truth casts.

  At 7 AM I turned over our sign to OPEN, and made myself a green tea. I had nine dozen scones, all baked golden brown, crunchy sugar topped, with generous chunks of peach in every bite. They were bee-you-ti-ful, if I did say so myself.

  Oddly, I wasn’t nearly as tired as I’d expected to be. Maybe I was running on adrenaline?

  The first people to walk in were a pair of white-haired ladies, trusty regulars, who’d scootered over from the old folks home at the south end of Ocean Street.

  “Did you two, uh, hear anything about Ashlee Kensington?” I asked once they’d started munching.

  “What?” asked the first woman, her mouth full of scone.

  “She’s talking about the murdered girl,” yelled the second.

  “Oh that,” said the first and tsked. “I say it’s a scandal to have such a thing happen in our town.”

  I leaned in. “Do you have idea who might have—"

  “I only pray it doesn’t hurt tourism,” the same lady interrupted. “What, she couldn’t have got herself murdered over in Port Orchard? Florence? Astoria? Had to be here, of all places?”

  “Now why do you gotta go blaming the victim?” The second woman shook her head. “You got internalized misogyny, Helen.”

  “Well, you’re full of yourself, Margaret. I’ve always thought so.”

  There was a beat. I recognized it as that silent moment of transition, when the potion wore off.

  “Weeeell . . . ” Margaret looked around, as if trying to get her bearings. “These scones are delicious, Sage. Or no, that’s not Sage.” She chuckled at her mistake. “It’s her kid.”

  “Grandkid!” Helen corrected her. “That’s Hannah, you silly.”

  “Hazel.” I smiled. They were kind of adorable.

  “That’s right, Hazel.” Margaret rose with effort from her chair. “Mighty fine scones, miss, worth the trip.”

  “Bye, Helen! Bye, Margaret!” I called as they scooted out, happy to have finally learned their names.

  The same scene repeated itself with minor variations through the morning.

  All told, nearly a hundred people came in. Ate a free scone. Engaged in unfiltered, politically incorrect, and sometimes bawdy conversation. And each shrugged off the potion and shuffled off in turn, leaving me none the wiser about Ashlee’s murder.

  Maybe because, duh, none of the people likely to walk in today were among the suspects.

  Kade was busy working for the competition. Plus, he was a shifter so the magic would be wasted on him.

  Jenna loathed sugar, and me (when she remembered me at all).

  Drew Kensington would never set foot in my bakery; he was probably waking up right now in his mansion, stretching, ringing the breakfast bell, and having Marina deliver a tray with six eggs cooked by Landon.

  Then there was his father Fred, my personal pick for murderer as of last night’s conversation. Fred sounded like such a nasty human being that it made perfect sense he’d be the killer. On the other hand, he had to be aware that a scandalous murder would lead to the media frenzy his family sought to avoid? Maybe, being so wealthy, he’d hired a hit man to do his dirty work . . . and the hit man hadn’t done a proper job of disposing of the body?

  Guilty of not, there was no chance Fred Kensington would be hauling his billionaire butt into my store, on the promise of a free scone (they were normally $3).

  I really hadn’t thought this through. No wonder it was a dismal failure.

  But I’d still had a lot of fun talking to customers. For awhile the place was hopping, and plenty of people did buy coffee drinks and other pastries. That was something, right?

  Bryson surprised me by stopping by around lunchtime. “How are you holding up, Haze?”

  I ran around the counter to hug him. “I’m surprisingly ok,” I said. “We had lots of people come in today, so maybe that cheered me up. And you?”

  “Good, good overall . . . ” His face went grim around the eyes. “Except that I’ve been officially told by Sheriff Gantry not to leave town.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “It’s ok,” I said, though it was terrifying, in fact. “Just a formality, I’m sure. We’ll get through it, and anyway, they’ll find the killer soon.”

  Or I will.

  “I like your energy today, very positive.” Bryson kissed my head. “How about I come by at 7 with Indian food? We can search for a new comedy on Netflix.”

  “Can’t, I’m meeting the girls tonight at The Barrel.” It was an emergency meeting called by Max in a midmorning text.

  He gave me an odd look. “You’re having a girls’ night out . . . you?”

  “Yes, I have friends, thank you very much.” Did Max and Britt qualify as friends? It had been long enough since I had real friends that I wasn’t sure. But it was starting to feel that way, in moments at least.

  Bryson smiled indulgently. “You’re acting a little off lately. I thought after the last few days, you’d be more likely to ditch me for a nice hot bath with a book.” How well he understood me. “But this is cool, keeping me on my toes.” He turned to leave, then spun back around. “Oh, before I go, I wanted to ask. What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

  “Uh, usually my sister Bea hosts or my parents do . . . why?”

  “What would you think about us hosting this year?”

  Gulp. He wanted to meet my family? “I don’t know.” I reached for a handy excuse. “My place is so tiny.”

  “Yeah, means it wouldn’t take long to clean. I’d even help,” he added. “I really want to get to know everyone.”

  He left, after I promised to think about it.

  Five minutes later, Gran finally poofed into work, well-rested and in a devil-may-care mood. “What a morning I had,” she bragged. “Did the crossword puzzle, made myself an omelet, watched two soaps. What’d I miss here, the usual crickets?”

  I hid my smile behind my teacup. “We had a few people come in. Some interesting conversations.”

  “That’s my girl, positive attitude.” She clinked cups with me.

  “Hello?” A stocky tween girl with nervous doe eyes and long hair in a messy ponytail was standing mere inches from the counter. She’d tiptoed in without my noticing her. “I know it’s after twelve.” She held up a printed version of the coupon Max had designed for the blog. “But are you still giving out free scones?”

  “Free scones?” Gran narrowed her eyes at me. “Samples, surely. Not full-size!”

  “You gotta go big to get people’s attention nowadays, Gran.” I tried to sound confident. “All the marketing books say so.”

&
nbsp; “Marketing schmarketing. Seems like a lot of money wasted.” Shaking her head, she shuffled to the back to check on inventory.

  I squinted at the girl, mentally clocking her age at about ten. I couldn’t see myself questioning a child about a homicide. “Would you like a free chocolate cupcake instead?” I asked.

  “No, thank you.” She looked down shyly. “I’ve never had a scone before, and I want to know what they taste like.”

  Dang it, we didn’t have any other scones today but the dosed ones.

  I definitely wasn’t going to bring up Ashlee, though. If she wanted to ramble about cute boys or horses, I’d listen.

  “My mom’s best friend got murdered,” the kid blurted out moments after she wolfed down the pastry. “They found her body in a trash can. It’s all I can think about. What if someone else gets killed, like me or my mom?”

  “Oh, sweetheart, that’s not going to happen,” I said, wanting to give her a hug then and there. Wait, her mom’s best friend? “What’s your name?”

  “Sophie. Sophie Jeffries.”

  Holy smokes. So this shy, polite kid was Jenna’s daughter?

  Now that I was looking at her closely, they had the same exact shade of brown hair.

  I crossed the counter and sat with Sophie at her table. “Sophie, are you talking to anyone, about your fears?”

  Sophie shrugged. “Don’t really have anyone to talk to. I’m not that popular, you’ll be shocked to hear.”

  Her deadpan delivery was a thing to behold. Oh, this kid was going to melt my heart. “That’s ok, I wasn’t either at your age. What about talking to the school counselor?”

  Sophie pushed away her empty plate. She’d gobbled the treat—sugar was probably outlawed at home. “Mom said not to.”

  “She did?” Was Jenna one of those tough-love parents who thought counseling was coddling?

  “Yeah, but I think it’s just because of Drew.”

  Those words gave me chills.

  “Because he’s Mom’s friend,” Sophie went on, “and he helps her with money, but Ashlee wanted him to stop. Mom wouldn’t want me to tell a counselor about that stuff.”

  I hesitated. Sophie wasn’t a regular here and she didn’t look especially relaxed or comfortable. So I knew I didn’t have much more time before the scone’s power gave out. I could ask her more questions, but it seemed awful to ask a child to incriminate her own parent. “Sophie,” I said instead, “I want you to talk to the counselor anyway, but don’t talk about your mom, ok? Just talk about you and how you’re feeling. You deserve to feel better, not scared and lonely.”

  Sofie blinked and looked around, disoriented. “That was yummy. And it was nice talking to you . . . I think.”

  “Come back and talk anytime. There might be even be more free scones in it for you.”

  “ . . . And it was like talking to my own younger self,” I told Britt and Max that night at The Barrel, wiping away a tear. “Sorry, allergies.” Not really.

  “Talking to a younger Hazel? Geez, that must have been a real drag.” Britt burst into a smile. “Kidding, haha!”

  We were lounging around the back booth, having a drink. Britt, just finished with her shift, was wearing her Drunken Barrel T-shirt with a blue miniskirt that probably scored her mad tips.

  Brittany’s stomach growled. “All right, time for you to tell us why you called this meeting. I’m feeling a little peckish, gonna need to grab that waiter soon and shove him into the manager’s office to bite his neck.”

  I cringed. “Not the super young waiter.”

  “He’s not as young as he looks.” Britt folded her arms defensively. “Domestic animal shifters tend to have youthful looks. Thomas is some kind of terrier, I think, and he’s twenty-five. Not fifteen like you’re thinking.”

  I was thinking that.

  Max looked stunned. “That kid is a dog?”

  “You can’t tell, Max-y?” Britt clearly found that amusing. “I can smell a shifter a mile away.”

  “Funny, I can smell a dead bloodsucking monster a mile away,” Max said.

  To my surprise Britt laughed. “You know what? I can’t. Vampires have no radar for other vampires.”

  Max cracked a smile. “Guess we really do need each other, Brittany.”

  “Yeah, for now,” Britt agreed. “But once this case is closed, we can go back to being mortal en—”

  “So, why did you call the meeting?” I asked, anxious to speed the conversation in a less ominous direction.

  Max fidgeted in her seat, looking nervous for once. “I need to tell you something. Both of you, but especially Hazel.”

  That cranked up my anxiety. “Why especially me?”

  “Hold on, there’s some backstory.” She pushed her glasses higher on her nose and I sensed her professorial vibe coming on. “See, every shifter family has an animal totem, a spirit of that animal that’s watching over their family. Most shifters can only turn into their family’s animal. Kade and me, we’re pretty sure we were born to parents with two different animal totems, which is taboo. It’s probably the reason we got dropped off in the woods as babies.”

  “You were left in the woods?” My mouth dropped open. I’d always known Max and her brother were adopted, but I’d never connected it to them being shifters. Her parents, the Dwecks, were normal people. A healthy, wholesome couple who grew cherries and plums on their organic farm, distributed CSA baskets, and ran the local farmer’s market. They always seemed bewildered as to how they’d ended up with kids as odd as Max and Kade. When Max turned eighteen and changed her name to de Klaw—she’d done some digging and discovered it was a family name—her mom was crushed.

  I’d never paused to consider Max’s side of the story. No one had been able to prepare her for what she was. The first time she shifted, it must have been the most frightening thing in the world.

  No wonder she worried about Kade—she felt responsible for protecting him. They were all each other had.

  “Ok, cool, what’s your other animal?” Britt was clearly not as interested in the details of Max’s emotional past as I was.

  Max grinned. “Guess.”

  From her boastful tone I figured whatever animal she could turn into was pretty powerful. “A grizzly bear? A great white shark? Dire wolf? Velociraptor? Phoenix?”

  “Nope, way better. Common housefly.”

  “Oh, ew.” I recoiled as one of those tried to land on our plate of fries.

  “Is that Kade?” Britt joked.

  “Better not be,” Max said. “He’s not supposed to go flying—that’s what we call it—without checking in with me first. We came up with that system together after the last time he got out of jail. He’s too tempted by the stuff he sees when he goes exploring on the wing.”

  “Whoa.” Finally I got it. “That’s how Kade became a thief. He never had to break into places, he’d just fly through open windows. And that’s also how he got out of the car at Ashlee’s wedding, when I could have sworn someone was in there.”

  “It’s nice to know,” Britt said cheerfully, “that if I ever do need to kill you, I can just use a fly swatter.”

  Max rolled her eyes. “Better not miss, or I’ll fly into your mouth and shift back inside your throat.”

  “Can you two please try and act human?”

  Max turned to me. “So, here’s the thing. Last night, I went flying. And . . . I ended up flying into Bryson’s apartment.”

  “Because you got lost?” I leaned into my denial.

  “No. To spy on him.”

  Feeling even more betrayed than angry, I turned to Britt. “Never mind, swat her to death.”

  “I’m sorry!” Max didn’t sound sorry. “But it was driving me crazy how suspicious he acts. Lying about knowing Ashlee. Acting like the perfect guy, but you always seem tired and miserable after you’ve been with him.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m not miserable, I’m content and . . . settled.”

  “More like settle-ing,�
�� Max muttered. “He’s hot but he’s boring. When you talk about your dates it sounds like all you do is binge TV shows.”

  “Sometimes we kiss.”

  “Oh girl.” Britt looked me up and down. “Your life sounds sad.”

  “To each her own,” I snapped. “Anyway, you had no right to do that, Max. Especially when Kade’s the suspicious one,” I added, looking away guiltily since I was about to do something similar if not worse. I’d already baked the dream cookies and was planning to spy on her brother’s dreams, this very night.

  “Listen, I know it was wrong. I should have told you. But you’re lucky I did it, because I learned something crazy about good ol’ boring Bryson.”

  Britt rubbed her hands together. “Oooh, I love me a good crazy boyfriend story.”

  “Do you mind? You’re talking about the person I’m in love with.”

  “But is he a person?” Max said. “Because Bryson—get ready for it—does not sleep.”

  “Oh please.” I shrugged. “He probably got really involved in a video game.”

  “No, Hazel, he wasn’t looking at screens. He was standing up, in the dark, in one corner of his studio apartment, all night. Sweet studio on the waterfront, by the way. Do you know what rate he pays for that? Is there an HOA fee?”

  I gave her a look.

  “Fine, I’ll move on. The point is, he was like he was a robot powering down. He was breathing really slow, too. Yoga teacher slow.”

  “Maybe he sleeps standing up.”

  “I thought of that. But human beings aren’t very good at sleeping standing up, we tend to topple over. Besides I checked, once my fly eyes adjusted, and his eyes were mostly open.”

  I shook my head. Sure, what she was describing sounded odd, but it was all highly speculative. I mean, she was talking about what she’d “seen” as a criminal housefly. “Maybe your fly eyes and fly memory just aren’t as reliable as you think?”

  “Or your fiancé isn’t as human as you think.”

  Britt spoke up. “That is weird behavior. We need to investigate him further. And I’m sorry but you need to be on board with that, Hazel, or—or you’re out of the group.”