Karin strode down the sidewalk carrying a disposable aluminum casserole dish, wrapped in foil.
I straightened in my chair. What was my sister doing here? And why was she walking south, instead of north toward my apartment or Lenore's bookstore?
A murky feeling coiled inside my chest. Hurriedly, I paid the bill and trotted outside.
Karin’s oversized green sweater and wide plaid scarf disappeared around a corner.
I cursed. She’d turned on Candace's street. What was she doing, when she knew that…?
My stomach sank. I'd never called her. I'd never told her Alex had been shot, that there was nothing magical about his death.
Lenore was going to kill me.
I jogged down the street, my purse banging against my thigh. Rounding the corner, my foot skidded on a thin patch of ice. I managed to steady myself without falling on my butt in front of a family decorating their Victorian for the holidays.
Karin stood on Candace Mansfield's porch.
My muscles relaxed, and I slowed. I'd caught her in time. “Karin!” I waved.
The front door opened, and Karin walked inside.
Dammit! I lengthened my strides and bounded up Candace’s steps, knocked on the door. It sprang open beneath my fist.
Candace's blue eyes widened. “Jayce?”
“Hi. Sorry I'm late.” I peered past her shoulder at Karin, unwinding her scarf.
“I wasn't sure you'd make it,” my sister said coolly, covering for me, but she frowned.
Candace smoothed a hand over her cropped, brown-gray hair. Her jeans sagged beneath a worn red Christmas tree sweater with frayed ribbons for ornaments. “I'll just put the casserole in my refrigerator while you take your things off.” She plucked the aluminum container off the bench in the entry and disappeared down the hall.
“What are you doing here?” I whispered, watching the hallway for Candace.
“What do you think?” Karin adjusted her wool coat on the wall hook.
“Didn't you see the paper?” I asked, frantic to end this. “Alex was shot.”
“Yes, I know.”
“So, you're here to make a regular condolence call?”
“Not entirely. I have a theory.” She draped her plaid scarf over her coat.
“A theory about the murder? What—”
Candace emerged from the kitchen. “Come on in.” She led us into her bland, white living room and perched on the edge of one of the soot-colored chairs.
I sniffed. The room still smelled faintly of bleach.
Karin sat beside me on the leather couch. Setting her ginormous, burgundy purse on the patterned rug, she braced her elbows on her knees. “There were so many things we had to do after our aunt died, but we had time to prepare. I can only imagine the burden you're carrying. How can we help? Are there any errands we can run for you? Phone calls we can make?”
Everybody asks how they can help. But my sister had actual suggestions. Karin was good, I thought reluctantly.
Candace's hands fluttered in her lap. “The police haven't released the body yet. I don't even know what I should be doing at this point.”
“You know I'm an estate attorney?” Karin asked.
She nodded, expression cagey. “I already have an attorney. Eclectus Hood.”
“That’s good news. I’m sure he’ll be a big help. It’s just that I have a checklist for my clients after a loved one passes. I actually used it myself after our aunt died. Would you like a copy?”
The tension in her face relaxed. “Oh. Yes, that would be helpful.”
Karin drew a slim folder from her purse and handed Candace a sheet of paper. “Take your time looking it over after we leave. But please call me if you need help with any of this — not as a client, as a friend.”
A checklist. How typical Karin. She'd always been the planner in the family. But plans were for suckers. You never knew what life was going to throw at you. I preferred the flexibility of being spontaneous.
“Yes,” Candace was saying. “But like I said, I already have an attorney.”
“Right,” I said, wanting to wrap this up and get Karin out of here. Candace was covered when it came to legal help, and Karin didn't need to get involved. “I saw Eclectus at Antoine's last night with David Senator.”
“With David?” Candace paled. “That's… strange.”
Karin’s eyes narrowed. “I'm surprised Antoine let's David in the bar. It isn't fair to David, I suppose, but no one would believe he's over eighteen.”
“No.” Candace rubbed a spot on the knee of her jeans. “But at least he gets to start over.” Her voice trembled.
“I'm sorry,” Karin said quickly. “We were talking about how we could help you, and now we're gossiping like nothing's happened.”
“No.” She shook her head. “It's not…” Candace looked up. “You're very kind. You heard that Alex was shot?”
I nodded.
“There's something I didn't tell the police. I think now, maybe I should have. But Alex didn't want anyone to know. I thought… Well, at first, I didn't think of it at all. But then when I did, I thought I was honoring Alex’s wishes by saying nothing. Now I'm not so sure.”
“What?” Karin asked, too quickly.
I shot her a quelling look.
My sister ignored me, leaning closer to the older woman. The leather seat cushion squeaked beneath her jeans.
“My husband was receiving, well, hate mail.” Candace laughed shortly, disbelievingly.
“Hate mail?” I asked, intrigued in spite of myself. See, Karin, nothing magical here. Just ordinary human meanness. “Do you mean threatening letters?”
“I'm not sure. I think so. I never got a good look at them. The only reason I noticed them at all is the way they came. The envelopes were dropped on our front porch, with Alex’s name cut out in letters from the newspaper.”
How retro. “Did you see the actual letters inside?”
“Only once, and then only a glimpse. Alex was so upset.” She turned to Karin. “Do you think I should tell the police? Because eh— I don't have the letters. I couldn't find them after Alex died. I think he may have burned them.”
“Yes, I do think you should tell the sheriff,” Karin said. “If someone was threatening your husband, it could be the same person who shot him.”
“All right.” Candace clasped her hands between the knees of her jeans. “I guess I will.”
We made more small talk. Karin gave Candace instructions for reheating the casserole, and the two of us left.
Once we passed Candace's picket fence, I turned on Karin. “See? It's an ordinary murder, nothing magical.”
“Like there was no magic involved in the ordinary murders over the past year?” She adjusted the scarf around her neck.
“That was different,” I said, uncomfortable. The problem with Karin was she was too smart for her own good.
“I know people kill each other for all sorts of awful, ordinary reasons. But we both know Doyle's different. Besides, I don’t think Eclectus specializes in estate law. At least, he didn’t last time I checked. I hope an estate attorney drew up Alex's will or trust, because if there's nothing in place, she's in for a lot of problems.”
“Karin! Now you're looking for trouble,” I said, exasperated. “Or for work.”
“Definitely not work. My writing is the only thing that keeps me sane, and the only thing I have time for when I’m not taking care of Emmie. But when we had that little…” She looked up and down the street, lowered her voice. “When we had that fairy problem last year, the fairy was influencing people. It was subtle, but it was there. It could be happening again. Or the problem could be working the other way, with past murders influencing magical entities. I read about fairies in one section of an English forest turning, well, evil, after a massacre.”
A chill pebbled my skin. “Who was massacred?”
“People, by other people.”
“But the
re's no evidence—”
She pulled her knit hat lower. “Oh, please. There's no way a wild animal would have gotten anywhere near Alex and Candace’s house. Don’t you remember all the noise those construction workers were making? Not even a fresh corpse could have attracted an animal into that pandemonium.”
“Maybe it was rabid.” There was a cheery thought. “And where's Emmie?”
“I left her with her father.” Her eyes glinted. “I'm not bringing her back to Doyle until whatever's going on here is resolved.”
No, no, no. It was happening again. Karin was abandoning her daughter and using the supernatural as an excuse.
Except, there really was something happening in Doyle. But how could I tell her what Lenore and I had sensed? Karin would jump all over that, and we’d have a repeat of last summer.
“Keeping her with Nick makes sense,” I said slowly.
She stopped walking and stared at me. “You're agreeing with me? Who are you, and what have you done with my sister?”
“Ha ha. Look. At this point, we can't be sure what's going on. But there's no sense in taking chances. Emmie is safer out of Doyle.” I hesitated. “Even if we were never really sure how far the fairy's reach extended.”
She sucked in her breath. “What are you saying? You think Emmie isn't safe in Angels Camp?”
“I think she'd be safer with magical protection,” I said, hating myself for being the one to put the fear in her eyes. “With you.”
“Oh,” Karin breathed. “Oh. You're right. I should go.” She strode down the road to Main Street, where her red Hyundai SUV sat parked beneath an elm. Golden leaves drifted onto its hood.
She opened the door and braced her hand on the top. The skin between her brows pinched together. “But what about you and Lenore? I don't like leaving you two to deal with this alone.”
“You've always been better at research than me. Why don't you do what you do best from Angels Camp, and Lenore and I will do what we do best here?”
“But… You'll let me know if you need me here to help, won't you?”
“Sure.” Behind my back, I crossed my fingers. I’d never ask for help. “I'll give you daily updates. I promise.” Updates would keep her in Angels Camp.
If I didn't start making progress on Alex’s murder, Karin would start investigating for real. I'd seen that look in my sister's eyes before. She was heading toward that dark place. I couldn’t let her drown in that insanity again.
CHAPTER NINE
My sister’s SUV trundled down Main Street. A last glimmer of sunlight sparkled off her bumper, and her car vanished around the bend.
I stared down the shopping street for a long moment. Then I walked home, got in my F-150, and drove toward Wharton's lumber mill.
Wharton had been talking trash about Alex at the bar the other night. That made him a suspect.
My pickup bumped up the winding, muddy track. The ground dropped steeply to the left, and my hands clenched on the wheel. Lumber trucks much wider than mine drove this road every day – trucks that could knock my F-150 sideways. The oaks clinging to the hill wouldn’t stop my truck if I skidded off. Craning forward, I strained to see around the bend, covered in wilted grass.
I rounded the curve, and the road opened onto a clearing. Behind a wire-mesh fence, a giant mechanical claw shifted a two-story pile of uncut logs. The whine of electric saws and machinery cut the air.
Heading away from the fence, to the public lot, I parked. Most of Wharton's lumber was trucked elsewhere, but he maintained a public yard where locals could buy.
I winced at the roar of machinery and stepped from my pickup. A circular saw taller than me swung forward, slicing through logs rumbling down a metal chute. I imagined the teeth on that thing, the damage they could do to human flesh, and I rubbed my arms beneath my chunky gray sweater.
Wharton, in a hard hat and orange vest over his flannel shirt, stood in a corner of the lot surrounded by dozens of crows. A low pile of dirty snow sat pressed against the nearby chain link fence. The lumberyard owner held out one arm.
Indifferent to the screaming saw, a crow flapped onto Wharton’s sleeve. The bird's black, curved beak pecked at something in the man’s gloved hand.
I hesitated. I'd planned on chatting him up over two-by-fours, but the crows gave me pause.
Last year, I'd been attacked by a flock of crows. It hadn’t been personal – they'd been driven by magic. But the memory of their talons scraping at my bare arms and hair lingered. Cautiously, I sent a soft, push of awareness toward them, testing for signs of magic.
Feathers and alpine air and delight.
Wharton loved these birds, and the feeling was mutual. But I didn’t sense magic.
Still, I approached quietly so as not to disturb the large birds. Wharton’s gaze flicked upward to meet mine.
“Hello, Wharton,” I said in a low voice. “This is amazing.”
The bird on his arm flapped its wings and settled.
“Crows are smart birds,” he said, smiling. The sudden expression took years from his face, and I realized he was probably close to Brayden’s age. “And they know I've got food.”
“Hellooooo,” the crow said, and I jumped, my hand flying to my chest.
“Did that bird…?”
Wharton chuckled. “Joe learned to mimic somewhere. Not from me.” He raised his arm in a quick movement, and the crow fluttered onto the branch of a low oak.
He watched the bird for a moment, and his expression shifted to something harder. Wharton turned to me. “You looking for lumber?”
The crows regarded me, their beady eyes glittering flatly.
“I need a two-by-four for a small project.”
He grunted and pointed to a corrugated iron building. “You can get one there. One of the guys will help you.”
So much for a conversation starter. Time for the direct approach. “I saw you in Antoine’s Tuesday night.”
His eyes narrowed. “Oh?”
“You were talking about Alex.”
His lips flattened to a straight line. “What’s that got to do with two-by-fours?”
“Well,” I admitted, “nothing.”
I waited.
“You’re not really here for lumber,” he finally said, “are you?”
“No. I’m here because Candace told me her husband was getting threatening letters.”
His head jerked, his brown eyes widening in an incredulous stare. Then he threw his head back and laughed.
The crows rose around us, a black tornado of talons and feathers. Their cawing melded with the shriek of equipment, until I couldn’t tell one from the other.
I hunched and raised my hands defensively.
Something brushed the top of my head, and I gasped.
Heart leaping, I dropped lower.
The crow sailed past and alighted in a pine. It shrieked, keeping its beak open wide as if to better make its point.
Wharton laughed over the cawing of the birds. “Threatening letters? Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy.”
“So, you did know Alex,” I said shakily. Slowly, I straightened, keeping my eye on the bird in the pine. It might not be magic, but that had been personal.
“I went to high school with that—” His final word was lost in the rumble of a passing lumber truck. “He was a bully then, and he is now. Or he was until someone shot him, probably his wife.”
His wife? Had Alex been bullying or even abusing Candace? I thought of her long-sleeved shirts, with so much potential to cover bruises. “What do you mean?”
“That he hadn't changed? Because I saw him pushing around David Senator.”
“David Senator? The kid who returned?”
He nodded.
“Why would he bother David?”
“How should I know?” His brows slashed downward. “I came around a corner, and there they were, hands on each other's collars. He’d jammed David up against a
wall. When Alex saw me, he let David go. Alex turned beet red and ran off.”
My pulse quickened, and I angled my head. Was David Senator a murder suspect? “And David? How did he react?”
“What's it to you?” His nostrils flared.
“I'm worried about Candace,” I said and realized it wasn't a lie. “I don't think she's going to have any peace until this is resolved.”
“Her!” His lip curled. “Why should she deserve peace?”
“She just lost her husband,” I said, voice clipped.
“She probably killed him. Don't you know it's almost always the spouse?”
“That’s what they say, but—”
“I got things to do. You know where to get your two-by-four.”
He strode toward the chain link fence. A gust of wind flapped his orange vest. He adjusted his hard hat.
A trio of crows lifted off a branch. They caught the current and hovered above him, their cries a lament.
CHAPTER TEN
“You owe me, Karin,” I muttered to no one. From the end of the short driveway, I studied the Senators’ ranch house. Paint peeled from its sides. A mercury sky pressed against its low roofline. The thrum of bass rattled its windows.
I kicked a pebble onto the neatly clipped and very dead lawn and smoothed the front of my gray sweater. David was a suspect in Alex Mansfield’s murder. But I had no good excuse to visit the kid. Man. Whatever he’d become after all that time as a Disappeared.
Climbing the porch steps, I rang the bell. I didn’t have much hope anyone would hear, not with the windows vibrating from the eighties prog rock. I studied the street. On the opposite side, someone had leaned a homemade plywood sign against their fence. The spray-painted words read: FENCE DO NOT UNSTABLE LEAN. I frowned, bemused.
The door swung open, and I tore my gaze from the cryptic sign.
“Fence unstable, do not lean,” David said. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his slouchy, faded jeans, rucking up the hem of his Genesis t-shirt.
I blinked. “What?”
He nodded past my shoulder. “Our genius neighbor’s sign.” He tossed back the shock of brown hair covering his eyes. “Are you looking for Angela? She’s not home.”
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