Petal to the Metal

by Annabel Chase

  I gripped the phone. “She’s a cat. She doesn’t have reasons!”

  Ophelia hissed at me.

  “Mystery solved. Good night!” This time Patrick hung up first.

  I flung the phone onto the bed and watched it bounce. “Why would you do this?” I asked the cat. I didn’t know why I bothered to ask. It wasn’t as though she could answer in a language I understood.

  “You’re like a feline ninja.” Ophelia somehow managed to sneak out of the cottage, walk to Patrick’s house, drag the doll out of the rocking chair and all the way back to my bed. I remembered a story my father told me about his childhood cat, Sampson. Sampson had killed a bird in the yard and was so proud of his accomplishment that he’d bitten off the head and delivered it to my grandparents’ bed as a trophy.

  I observed the cat. “Is that what this is, Ophelia? Some sort of trophy? Are you showing off for me?”

  The cat rolled onto her back and I worried she wouldn’t be able to get back on her feet. Her belly was so big that the fur spread like a fresh pancake on the griddle.

  I held a hand cautiously over the bed. “Do you want me to pet you?” I worried the first time had been a fluke.

  Ophelia meowed softly, appearing to welcome a show of affection. It felt like a trap. Slowly, I lowered my hand to make contact with her jelly belly. She made no move to bite me. Instead, my hand vibrated.

  Ophelia was purring again.

  I had no clue what to do about the doll. Ophelia clearly thought she’d done something good by carrying it here. If I got rid of Susie, the cat might view it as an insult and we’d be back to square one.

  I sighed. I was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to crawl back under the covers and go to sleep. My gaze darted to the hallway. There were two other bedrooms to choose from. I could leave Ophelia and Susie in here and claim another bed for the rest of the night. It wasn’t an ideal solution, but there was no way I was sharing a bed with these two. They had nightmare written all over them and I’d had quite enough of those for one night.

  The next morning Patrick turned up on my doorstep with an oversized container of coffee.

  “Wow. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but this look delivers so much more than my imagination could muster.”

  I held out my hands in anticipation. “Gimme.”

  “It was the least I could do,” he said, handing over the caffeine. “I imagine Susie kept you awake.”

  “I decamped to another bedroom for the night.” I took a long, luxurious sip of coffee. “What kind of creamer?”

  “Peppermint.”

  I sipped again and felt my body slowly come back to life. “Ophelia seems to think she made me proud. I feel like I’m supposed to hang Susie on the fridge with a magnet or something.”

  “There’s a surefire way to lose weight.”

  No kidding. I’d bypass the refrigerator until I was on the brink of starvation.

  “I consider it a good omen,” Patrick said.

  “That’s because you like the doll.”

  “I’m not talking about Susie. I’m talking about the fact that Ophelia brought you a gift. It means she’s warming to you.”

  “What will she bring if she really likes me? Herpes and a side of creamed corn?”

  Patrick scrunched his nose. “Ew. Creamed corn is the devil’s work.”

  I pressed the container against my cheek and inhaled the rich aroma. “I like how you skipped right over herpes.”

  “By the way, you’ve got mail and, judging from the floral aroma, it’s not from Tom Hanks.” Patrick handed me a manila envelope.

  I didn’t need to read the perfect script to know who it was from. This envelope had my mother’s scent all over it.

  “She sends me perfume samples from the store,” I said.

  Patrick watched me eagerly. “Anything I might like?”

  I ripped open the envelope and peered inside. As predicted, there were a handful of different fragrances in tiny sample bottles, along with sample moisturizers and a travel mascara.

  “Are you sure you don’t like your mother? Because I think she and I would get along famously.”

  “It isn’t that I don’t like her,” I said. “She’s my mom. She’s supposed to annoy me.”

  Patrick shot me a curious look. “You know that’s not actually true, don’t you? Plenty of people like their moms without getting consistently annoyed by them.”

  I dumped the contents of the envelope on the counter and let Patrick rifle through them. He happily took the lion’s share of the samples, leaving me two small bottles of floral perfume.

  “I prefer earthier scents,” he said, by way of explanation.

  I sniffed the bottle. “I guess I should get used to floral aromas. I’ll be surrounded by them soon enough, assuming I can get this garden in shape.”

  “Yeah, no offense but I don’t see that happening anytime soon.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I spritzed the air between us.

  Patrick wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Much too rosy. It screams kaftans and wine.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  He gave me a deadpan look. “Nothing if you’re an aging debutante.”

  I shoved the samples into my purse. “I’ll keep them handy in case one of your dolls accosts me.”

  “What should we do about Susie? Am I taking her home?”

  “Please. I’ll have to move if she stays and then I’ll lose my inheritance.”

  “Why do you think Hazel added that provision?” Patrick asked.

  I shrugged. “I guess she wanted me to give this place a chance and the only way to do that was to keep me here for a specified period of time.” It was like she knew me, even though she didn’t.

  I walked into the living room and stopped short. Susie sat on the sofa with a throw pillow nestled behind her.

  “O unholy night,” I breathed, my palm flat against my chest. My heartbeat thundered between my ears.

  Patrick appeared beside me. “She certainly seems to be making herself at home.”

  “I really wish she wouldn’t.” I scanned the living room for the cat. “Ophelia, where are you?”

  There was no response.

  “No worries. I’ll take her from here.” Patrick swept Susie off the sofa and held her like a small child.

  “Do me a favor and strap her into the rocking chair when you get home. I don’t want any repeat appearances.”

  “Tell that cat of yours to keep her sticky paws to herself.”

  “Deal.”

  I was relieved to see the back end of Susie the creeptastic doll. If I never saw those glassy yellow eyes again, it would be too soon.

  Chapter Sixteen

  After my difficult night, I spent the day on the sofa, watching Bravo and nosing through a few decks of tarot cards I discovered in a kitchen drawer. There was a set with bright rainbow colors, another one with a muted vintage design, and a third one that featured a diverse and stylish cast of characters. Other than admiring the artwork, I had no understanding of the cards and I was too tired to research them online.

  Ophelia emerged from the kitchen, her tail swishing back and forth.

  “Is that tail thing a form of communication?” I added the question to my mental list of online searches. I had so much to learn.

  The doorbell rang and I nearly dropped the phone.

  “I really have to get used to that,” I grumbled. Nobody in the city ever came to my door unexpectedly. At most, they texted me from the sidewalk outside the building to announce their presence.

  I dragged myself to the door, stepping over a throw pillow that had fallen off the sofa. Ophelia followed me, apparently curious to check out my visitors.

  I opened the door to find Patrick and Scarlet on the doorstep.

  “Did we have plans to go out?” I asked. Patrick’s outfit suggested an evening of drinking and dancing.

  “No, we have plans to stay in,” he said.

  �
�Your feather boa tells a different story.” I flicked his black accessory.

  “May we come in?” Scarlet asked.

  I backed away to let them pass and nearly tripped over Ophelia in the process. The cat waddled away like a penguin fleeing a crack in the ice.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “First, I’d like to offer you this.” She held up a bud vase. With their white petals and yellow centers, the flowers looked like daisies.

  “Are you trying to overwhelm me?” I asked.

  Scarlet glanced at the vase. “What do you mean?”

  “You already gave me the aloe plant to keep alive. This just feels like tempting fate.”

  She relaxed into a smile. “No, these are chamomile for your nightmares.”

  “How did you know…?” I glared at Patrick. “Is nothing sacred?”

  He raised his chin a fraction in subtle defiance. “Sorry, I didn’t know it was a secret.”

  “Keep this on your bedside table and it will keep the nightmares away,” Scarlet said.

  I accepted the vase and hurried upstairs to put it in its prescribed place. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was willing to try anything to avoid another spate of terrible dreams.

  When I returned downstairs, Patrick and Scarlet had migrated to the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry. What is this?” Scarlet asked. She was studying the bulletin board covered with pictures and information related to the investigation.

  “My murder board.”

  She snorted. “A murder board?”

  I pointed to the image of the grey-haired man in a collared shirt that I cut out of one of my aunt’s catalogs. “That represents J.D., Aunt Gladys’s gentleman friend.”

  “Why is there a big black X over the picture?” Patrick asked.

  “Because I’ve ruled him out.”

  “This is both deranged and kind of cool,” Scarlet said.

  “All the best television detectives have one,” I said.

  Scarlet studied the board. “Somehow I doubt Chief Tuck has one of these in his shed.”

  Patrick made a noise at the back of his throat. “Why don’t we explain to Mia why we’re here?”

  “Right.” Scarlet shifted uncomfortably. “We’d like to have a talk with you.”

  “About?” I prompted.

  “You, jellybean,” Patrick said.

  Scarlet glanced toward the living room. “Maybe we should sit down for this.”

  I felt uneasy. Maybe Casey Schultz had been right and they were about to reveal they’d killed Gladys.

  “Is this about the murder?” I asked, my stomach churning.

  Scarlet seemed mildly surprised. “No.”

  I eyed them closely. “Is this a wine conversation or a tequila shots conversation?”

  They consulted each other.

  “Do you have any fireball?” Patrick asked.

  “I think tea will do,” Scarlet said.

  “Spoilsport,” Patrick whispered.

  “I’ll take care of it.” I filled the kettle and set it on the burner.

  The fact that Scarlet suggested tea gave me pause. “Is this some kind of intervention? Because I don’t need one of those. I swear I black out long before I do anything stupid.” Most of the time.

  Patrick frowned. “It’s not an intervention, but based on what you just said, it might be a good idea.”

  “We only drank with you at Jama and you weren’t sloppy drunk,” Scarlet said.

  That was true. Thanks to Ophelia, I’d been off booze since the day I found Gladys.

  Patrick placed his hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eye. Man, were his lashes amazing.

  “We want to make it clear that we’re your people,” he said.

  “My people?”

  “Yes. Do you understand?” Patrick stared at me intensely.

  “Ohhh. My people.” I broke into a broad smile.

  Patrick released me. “Yes. We want you to know you have a safe space with us.”

  “That’s really sweet of you, but I’m not gay. I mean, I’ve had the occasional fantasy about Angelina Jolie in her Tomb Raider outfit, but who hasn’t? The woman is a goddess.”

  Patrick and Scarlet wore matching frowns.

  “We’re not talking about you raising a rainbow flag.” Patrick reached for my hand. “We’re talking about magic.”

  I patted his hand and let go. “I’m sure it is magic—for you. But I like a nice set of pecs and a nice, big…”

  Patrick silenced me with a look. “Don’t distract me. I’m trying to make a point.”

  “You’re not doing a very good job of it,” I said.

  Scarlet chewed her lip. “Hold on. I think show-don’t-tell is in order.”

  I looked at her. “I thought it was don’t ask, don’t tell?”

  She shook her head and reached into her bright blue tote bag, producing a book. “Here. This should help.”

  I opened the book and scanned the top of the page. “Top Signs You’re A Witch. Is that some kind of Harry Potter handbook?”

  “No,” she scoffed. “This is for real witches.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Oh, yes. Real witches.”

  Patrick read over my shoulder. “Animals are attracted to you.”

  “I suppose that’s true. I haven’t lived anywhere that didn’t involve a mouse or two. And there was that rat that followed me in the subway one time, but I think it was because of the chili cheese fries I was eating.”

  “You notice repeated numbers or patterns,” Scarlet said.

  My eyes popped. “Ooh, yes! I love when the clock on my phone says 11:11. Twice a day!”

  “You had an obsession with fairies as a child,” she continued.

  I clutched my heart. “Hell, yes. I was convinced George Michael was going to marry me one day and my mom thought that was hilarious.”

  Patrick glared at me. “Steady now.”

  “You feel drawn to collecting objects such as crystals or shells,” Scarlet said.

  “I had a shell collection from a trip to Myrtle Beach when I was eight. I managed to keep it for a whole year until my mom accidentally threw it away.” I used air quotes around ‘accidentally’ because I knew perfectly well the act had been deliberate.

  “You feel drawn to the moon,” Patrick said. “And butterflies always land on you.”

  I pursed my lips, thinking. “Mosquitoes are basically vampiric butterflies, right?”

  “As a child, you liked to make potions,” Scarlet said, watching me intently.

  “All. The. Time. I used to mix my dad’s bourbon with my mom’s vermouth and rum.” I laughed. “Not the best mixture.”

  “You feel drawn to nature,” Patrick said.

  I glanced in the direction of the garden outside the kitchen door. “I did feel kind of connected to those weeds. It’s like they need me to thrive.”

  “You’re empathetic,” Scarlet said.

  I turned to look at her. “That’s harsh.”

  She shook her head. “No, em-pathetic. You feel drawn to helping others.”

  “Ooh, got it.” I tapped my chin thoughtfully. “Do I need to score ten out of ten?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” she said.

  “That settles it then. I must be a witch.” I raised my fist for a bump.

  Patrick exhaled. “You’re not taking this seriously.”

  “Are you pouting?” I asked. “It’s hard to tell when your lips are already so plump.” I heaved a sigh. “Listen, I hate to disappoint you, but I’m not a witch. I’m forty-two years old. I think I would know by now.”

  Scarlet seemed to contemplate her next step. “Hold on. I came with a backup plan.” She plucked another book from her bag. “Here. Open to the bookmarked page and read it to us.”

  I handed the first book to Patrick and skimmed the contents of the page. “I see a bunch of unfamiliar words, although I recognize one of them from a jar in the pantry.”

  “Really?” Scarlet moved closer t
o peer around me. “Where?”

  I pointed to the word.

  “Huh,” she said.

  I craned my neck to look at her. “Wait. You can’t read this page?”

  “No. Can you?”

  “Sort of, although it doesn’t make sense to me. It looks like a recipe that involves plants and flowers,” I said.

  “Or perhaps a spell,” Scarlet said.

  I laughed. “A spell?”

  “It makes sense. This is Hazel’s book,” Scarlet said.

  “Then why do you have it?”

  “She loaned it to me last year. She thought maybe if I spent some time with it, something might…happen.”

  My mind was muddled. “Is this a gardening book?”

  Patrick groaned. “No, silly.”

  “It’s a special book,” Scarlet said, “that can only be read by certain kinds of people.” She watched me carefully as though gauging my reaction.

  “Literate ones?”

  Scarlet ignored me. “I have certain abilities, but they’re not organic, not like Hazel’s.”

  “If she was so skilled, then why is her garden such a disaster?”

  Scarlet drew a deep breath. “I tried to help, but nothing happened.”

  I stared at her. “What do you mean you tried to help?”

  Patrick lightly smacked her arm. “You didn’t tell me that.”

  She fidgeted with the hem of her top. “I hated seeing the gardens in disarray the past couple months. I knew how much it would upset Hazel to see them in this state, so I came over a few weeks ago and tried to clean them up a bit.”

  “In that case, I’ll have to rethink my offer of having you help me because it’s still a mess.”

  Scarlet shook her head. “You don’t understand. The weeds…The flowers…They just ignored me. Everything I did was in vain.”

  I laughed. “You’re saying the garden has a mind of its own?”

  “It sounds like she’s saying it’s a magic garden,” Patrick interrupted.

  Scarlet lowered her gaze. “I know it all must sound crazy to you. You didn’t know your great-aunt. You haven’t been raised to believe in…”

  Anything, I thought but didn’t say aloud. I wasn’t raised to believe in anything. Not myself. Not other people. And certainly not in magic.