Suddenly too restless to stand still, Tommy took a few steps back. “I’m going to take a walk around. I’ll catch you guys later.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets and headed toward River’s Edge. The farther he got from the square, the fewer people he saw, mostly families carrying worn-out kids to their cars.
At the end of the block, he turned right. Ahead a woman with two young boys were headed to their car. Both boys were dressed as ghouls, and they were chanting in unison. “Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat.”
Once they got in the car and drove away, the street was so quiet Tommy could hear the buzz of the streetlights. The music sounded more than a block away; so did the murmur of the crowd. He felt a hell of a lot more than a block away. He should cut out—he was only obligated to stay two hours. He should take some sweets and visit Pops at the nursing home. Every holiday had been important in Pops’s life—all the big ones, plus Halloween, Labor Day, Washington’s and Lincoln’s birthdays, back when they’d been holidays—and he always got nostalgic, telling stories that Tommy had heard so many times he could tell them himself. Still, he always liked hearing them again. He liked that glimpse into the past, when Pops was younger and healthier, when Gran had been alive, when his dad was happier and his mother hadn’t yet lost herself in a bottle.
He turned right at River Road, walking back toward the square. As he reached it, a group of hooligans and goblins darted around him on both sides. One of them called back an apology, and Tommy grinned. He and the Calloway boys had been hooligans for real when they were growing up, but Sara had seen to it that, by God, they were polite hooligans. They were fast on the trouble, even faster on the apologies, and had always managed to sound sincere. Usually they even had been. They’d never meant to cause trouble. They’d just wanted to have fun.
Once the kids were past, his gaze went automatically to Ellie’s booth, well lit to show off its creep factor. There were two women behind the counter, plus another one waiting on customers at the handful of small tables set up around the booth. All three women were in costume: wenches all, in low-cut, off-the-shoulder blouses and long skirts, with wigs and scarves. The shorter, rounder one was easily identified as Carmen. He wasn’t sure who the other two were, but he did know neither was Ellie. He would recognize her even if she was covered head to toe and wearing a full-face mask.
Dodging a couple dancing in the street, he stepped onto the sidewalk that ran in front of the deli and, as if she’d been summoned by his thoughts, found himself a half-dozen strides behind Ellie. She wore a costume similar to her waitresses: a white blouse, ruffled sleeves pushed off her shoulders, a black skirt with a long slit, a brightly printed scarf tied around her waist to emphasize the curve of her hips and soft black boots. With a black scarf tied around her head like a do-rag taming the wig, the red curls exploded once free of the fabric, electric and wild and surprisingly sexy.
A couple of quick steps and he could be beside her, could say, Hey, how are you? You look great, want to spend the night with me?
I miss you, I want to see you again, even if you don’t love or need me.
I’m happier with you than without you, so I’m giving up—pride, hope, the future.
Instead of speeding up, he slowed his steps.
Ellie turned through the gate at the deli and was halfway to the steps when something made her stop short. Turning sharply, she headed toward the side of the building. Entering the restaurant through the kitchen? Avoiding diners she’d have to see if she used the front entrance?
Not his concern. As she’d told him before, not much about her was anymore.
He expected to see her disappear around the back. Instead, she stopped about midpoint, arms folded across her chest, spine straight, radiating tension. A shorter, stockier figure faced her from a few feet away.
Martha Dempsey wasn’t in costume. She wore jeans and run-down loafers, and a plaid shirt collar stuck up over the neck of a black and orange sweatshirt. She held a foam cup in one hand, a cigarette in the other.
Curious, Tommy moved into the shadows of a tall evergreen azalea, one of a half dozen he and Ellie had planted themselves a few years earlier.
“—agreed to meet after church tomorrow,” Ellie was saying, her voice cold. He’d been on the receiving end of that icy disdain a few times himself. It wasn’t a pleasant experience.
Martha swayed unsteadily. “You might as well get used to having me around, Ms. Ellen Chase, ’cause we’re gonna be a family again.”
“We were never a family.” More ice, more disdain, accompanied by anger.
Oblivious of the emotions, Martha gulped from her cup. “I’m gonna like living here in Copper Lake. Everybody’s so friendly and welcoming. And you…well, you’re just gonna make it all that much better, aren’t you?”
Ellie glared, the light from the streetlamp leaching color from her. Her face was pale, as unyielding as stone, and her breathing was shallow, tight. Tommy had seen her angry, aroused, amused, hot and warm and cold, but never quite so passionate. Whatever was between her and Martha threatened her composure, as if she might lose control for the first time in the five years he’d known her.
“I wish to God you were dead.” Her voice was strained, taut with emotion.
Strong sentiment, but Martha’s response was a sly smile. “But I’m not dead. I’ve got a good twenty-five years left, and I’m gonna spend them with you.”
Even from a distance, Tommy could feel the emotion ratcheting through Ellie. Her fingers tightened into fists, and she opened her mouth as if to argue, clamped it shut and breathed deeply before speaking again. “I agreed to meet you tomorrow after church. Until then, get the hell off my property and stay the hell away from me.”
Quick as a snake striking, Martha’s hand shot out and smacked sharply against Ellie’s cheek. Tommy was stunned, more so, it seemed, than Ellie. He left the shadows, covering the distance between them in a few strides. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.
Martha’s smile was smug and phony. “Nothing, Detective. We were just having a little conversation.”
“Are you all right, Ellie?” He studied her in the colorless light. Her cheek was mottled, her eyes frigid and glittery. A muscle twitched in her jaw before her lips turned up in the faintest of smiles.
“I’m fine.” But her voice was distant, her expression detached.
“Like I said, Detective,” Martha butted in, “we were just talking.”
Tommy kept his attention on Ellie. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, to offer her comfort that he knew she wouldn’t accept. He settled for moving to stand between her and Martha. “Do you want to file charges against her? I’d be happy to take her in.”
“Charges?” Martha repeated, outraged. “For what?”
“Assault. Public drunkenness. Trespassing.”
“That wasn’t an assault, was it, Ellie? I just gave her a little pat on the cheek. And I’m not drunk.” Martha grinned crookedly. “Believe me, I’ve been drunk before. I know the feeling. I’ve just had a little sip or two to keep me warm. And as for the trespassing, I’m sure Ellie would disagree with you on that, too. We were just talking. No harm, was there, Ellie?”
Tommy shifted his gaze. “Ellie?”
For a moment she looked as if she’d disappeared somewhere inside herself; then she gave a little shake of her head. “No harm,” she agreed tonelessly. “Martha’s just leaving. I’d appreciate it if you’d escort her back to the square.”
Before he could protest, Ellie walked off toward the alley.
He turned back to scowl at Martha. “What the hell is going on between you two?”
She stabbed one finger in his direction. “You are entirely too suspicious. Ellie and I are old acquaintances starting a new friendship. Now, are you going to do like she said and escort me back to the square?”
“I’d rather throw your ass in jail,” he muttered under his breath as he gestured for her to lead the w
ay to the street.
She heard him, though. “I’m sure you would. But you know what, Detective? You and me are going to be friends.”
Yeah, right. And Ellie was going to show up at his door after the restaurant closed, wearing that sexy off-the-shoulder blouse and the red wig and asking him to take both off.
Hell, he’d do damn near anything to make that happen.
Even become friends with Martha Dempsey.
Trembling, Ellie stopped in the shadows outside the restaurant’s back door. Her hands were shaking, and her chest hurt from the panic that had wrapped itself around her. She should get in her car and leave right now. Her bags were loaded. She had everything she was taking with her. She could call the deli before abandoning her cell phone—she didn’t want friends calling once they realized she was gone, didn’t want something as simple as a GPS chip in a phone to track her down. She could tell the staff she had a headache, or was tired, or Halloweened-out. They would close up for her. They would tell her to go home, rest, take care of herself, that they would see her on Monday.
And by Monday she would be hundreds of miles away.
But when she moved, she went to the door, not the car. She let herself in, passed the storeroom and walked through the kitchen, smiling automatically at employees, not slowing until she reached the bar.
She wasn’t a drinker; growing up with parents who were could turn a kid off alcohol forever. But it was her last night in the restaurant, her last night in town, and she’d never even had a drink in her own bar. Her cheek was throbbing—memory, not lingering pain—and she was feeling…too much. Too hurt, too angry, too scared, too bitter, too alone.
She stopped at the bar, and Deryl Markham came over. He grinned, looking too young to even be in a bar, much less tending one. “Name your poison, boss.”
“What’s hot?”
“The cider.”
She thought of the alcohol-and-cider smell coming off Martha, and her nose wrinkled.
“Cocoa,” Deryl went on. “The pumpkin spice ale is ice-cold but selling hot.”
“I’ll have that. I’ll be over there.” She nodded toward a booth in the corner, sat down, closed her eyes and began rubbing her temples. Her muscles ached from too much stress, and she didn’t expect them to relax any time soon.
“Ahem.”
Opening her eyes, she found an unfamiliar witch standing beside her table, glass in hand. She set it down, then slid it toward Ellie. “The waitresses are busy, so I offered to deliver this for Deryl.”
“Thank you.”
The woman started to leave, then turned back. “You look like you could use some company. Mind if I join you?”
I could use a new life, a new past, a new future. But no company. But Ellie forced a smile and gestured toward the other bench.
The witch detoured to the bar and picked up her own drink, then slid onto the bench. Her costume was no cheap one-time-only outfit. The black robes were heavy, made of substantive fabric, and her hat bore no resemblance to the cheap, floppy things Ellie and the female staff had worn last year. Her hair, coarse strands of black heavily mixed with gray, was either real or a good-quality wig, and her makeup job, complete with warts, was outstanding. She could have been a regular at the diner, a neighbor or the woman who shared her church pew each Sunday, and Ellie wouldn’t have a clue.
“This town certainly knows how to celebrate,” the witch said with a careless wave around the room. An ornate ring of braided silver on her right hand glinted in the light.
Ellie glanced around. Deryl was dressed in an Atlanta Braves baseball uniform, and the few other customers were also costumed. “They enjoy it.”
“It’s great for the parents. All the fun of Halloween with none of the risks.” The woman’s voice was soft, definitely Southern, but unfamiliar. If Ellie had met her before, it hadn’t been consequential enough to remember.
Smiling politely and wishing she’d taken the drink to her office, Ellie picked up the glass and sipped. It was cold, fragrant with cinnamon and cloves and allspice, but that didn’t hide the fact that it was ale. Bitter and far too strong a reminder of Martha.
Still, she took another drink. If it would soothe her nerves and ease the pounding in her head, she would even drink the icky liquid the green head was floating in at the booth.
Feeling a bit of warmth with the second, longer drink, she focused on the witch. “Do you live in Copper Lake?” People from cities thought a town of twenty thousand was so small that everyone knew everybody else—probably true for Tommy and Robbie, but not most people. She had her small group of friends, acquaintances, fellow church members and business associates, and recognized some other folks, but the majority of people in town remained strangers to her.
“No, I’m visiting a friend. I don’t know where she’s gotten off to. We agreed to meet at the bandstand at nine, so I thought I’d warm up with a drink until then. I’m from Augusta.”
“Nice city.” Ellie took another drink and realized the glass was half-empty. Was she feeling better? In some ways. Her teeth weren’t grinding anymore, and she was pretty sure her head wasn’t going to explode, after all. In fact, she was starting to feel a little drowsy.
She realized the witch was speaking again, though her voice seemed to come from farther away than just across the table, and Ellie had to concentrate on listening.
“—should be going. My friend’s always early, so I don’t want to give her time to get herself in trouble.” The witch slid to her feet, her robes rustling around her, and gave an incongruous wink. “At least, not without me.” In a voice reminiscent of The Wizard of Oz, she added, “Finish your drink, my pretty, then go find yourself a handsome rogue and enjoy the rest of the evening.”
“I will,” Ellie said, saluting her with the glass. She wished she could take the woman’s advice. Wished there was a handsome man in her life. Wished there was any man in her life.
No, she didn’t, she amended as she watched the witch leave, then took another swallow. Men had been the source of much of her heartache. There had been too many, starting with her father and ending with Tommy. But it wasn’t fair to lump Tommy in with the others. He was a good guy, possibly only the second she’d ever met. All he’d ever wanted was her—for her to trust him, love him, marry him, have babies with him.
She couldn’t.
No matter how much she wanted it, too.
Suddenly unbearably tired, Ellie got to her feet, swaying a bit. She set the glass down, then her retreating fingers spilled it onto its side, ale splashing her skirt, puddling on the table. Grimacing, she swallowed the last bit, then headed for the bar. “Can I get a towel, Deryl? I spilled my drink over there.”
“I’ll get it, boss,” he replied, and she gratefully nodded.
Her office was far enough away from the front of the restaurant to mute the sounds of the ongoing celebration. The air was warm inside, smelling of the potpourri in a dish on her desk, and the space was dark. Welcoming. She reached for the light switch beside the door but missed, her hand brushing brick instead. She was so tired…
Ellie pushed the door shut, leaning against it for a moment, rubbing her cheek. When Tommy had intervened outside and she’d realized that he’d witnessed Martha slapping her—hardly the first time, but for damn sure the last—she’d been filled with shame and anger and hatred. I wish to God you were dead, she’d said, and she’d meant it.
God help her, she really meant it.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside the door. Staff, customers—she neither knew nor cared. Carefully she straightened and found her legs unsteady. The pumpkin spice ale should come with a warning: hazardous to your balance. She took a few cautious steps to reach the couch, sat down, then slowly stretched out on the cushions. She didn’t have time to waste—so much to do, so many miles to put between herself and Copper Lake and Tommy—but her ears felt as if they were filled with cotton, her body seemed heavy as stone and even in the near darkness, her vision was blurr
y. She should have known that ale, stress and a lack of drinking experience weren’t a good combination.
Just a rest. That was all she needed. A brief nap, time to recover, and after that she could…
After that she…
She would do something, she thought as she drifted off. She just had to remember what.
Tommy escorted Martha Dempsey back to the sidewalk and to the far end of the block. Mostly, that meant holding on to her arm to keep her upright. She practically ran into a light pole and apologized profusely to the metal before he dragged her aside; then she began humming along with the band, a tuneless sound that drove him nuts in three seconds flat.
“What’s between you and Ellie?” he asked, as much because he wanted to know as to stop that damned noise.
Martha smiled goofily at him. “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”
“You make a habit of lying to cops?”
“We all have our lies and secrets. Me, you, Ms. Ellen Chase.”
“Why did you slap her?”
“I didn’t.”
“I saw you.”
Martha’s head lolled to the side and she squinted to bring him into focus. “That was just a little pat on the cheek, like I told you. Like she told you.”
All Ellie had said was that she was fine, which she wasn’t. That there’d been no harm done, which there had been.
Tommy would give a lot to know everything about her and Martha, but she wasn’t talking, and neither was Martha.
“What are your secrets?” he asked, guiding her around a cluster of kids comparing the takes in their trick-or-treat bags.
“If I told you that, then they wouldn’t be secrets.” She smiled, flirtatious in a creepy way. “You tell me one of yours and I’ll tell you one of mine.”
“How do you know Ellie?”
“That’s no secret. We’ve been family for years.”
“Funny. She was pretty adamant back there that you were never family. Were you involved with her father?”
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