CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dried leaves slithered across the dead front yard.
Angela dropped into a crouch and grasped the porch rails. Pressing her head against the wooden slats, her breath came ragged and harsh.
Another siren joined the first. A breeze stirred Angela’s short, red-black hair.
“Angela,” I said, trying not to move my lips. We couldn’t stay here. I could sense the magic building, that awful, malignant intent bearing down on us.
“No.” She gulped loudly. “I can't think. This isn't happening.”
“Angela. We should go inside.”
She looked up. Her mascara had streaked, her eye sockets a black splotch, and I noticed how empty her cheeks were, her face skeletal and frail. “Inside?” she asked. “But you said—”
“Into the house.” I edged toward the door, and all the while that horrible watchfulness scalded my skin.
“But—”
“Now.” Extending one hand to her, I fumbled behind me for the door knob.
She grasped my hand.
I wrenched the door open and pulled her inside, slammed the door.
The feeling of being watched eased, and I leaned against the door, breathing hard.
“I don't understand,” she said. “What's wrong? You said we should wait outside.”
“It's better if we stay in the hallway,” I said quickly, still holding her hand and wishing Brayden were here. “We've already been here, in the hall. We won't mess anything up. And that way the neighbors won't see that something’s wrong.” Though they’d figure it out soon enough when the police arrived. I shot the deadbolt.
“Oh.” She nodded, gulping, as if anything I'd said had made sense. “Okay. Okay.”
The sirens grew louder.
And then I thought of that open kitchen door, and fear spiked through me. The wind had slammed the door shut, but was it locked?
Tears streamed down her cheeks. “David and I argued before I went to work today. I said…” She hung her head. “Why did I say that?”
“This isn't your fault.”
“He was so unhappy. I wanted things to be right so badly, but nothing I did helped. And now…” She broke into loud, shuddering sobs and sagged against me.
I held her shaking body. “We'll figure this out. You’ll get through this. I know you will.”
Tires screeched outside.
She drew another shuddering breath and wiped her face with her hands.
Footsteps clomped up the wooden porch steps.
I opened the door to Connor Hernandez and his partner, Owen Denton. Blond and blue-eyed, Owen looked like he’d just stepped off a high school football field.
Connor whipped off his wide-brimmed hat and raked his hand through his dark, wavy hair. He was tall and muscular, and the beginnings of a five-o'clock shadow darkened his olive skin. It was easy to see why Lenore had fallen hard for the deputy.
“Jayce.” Connor nodded. “You found a body?”
“Angela's brother, David. He's in the kitchen.” I pointed in that direction.
Connor brushed past us.
“Why don't we step outside?” Owen led us onto the porch and drew Angela to a faded and dusty outdoor chair.
She sat.
Owen knelt in front of her and said something in a low voice.
She jammed her hands between the knees of her ebony slacks, her shoulders hunched, and shook her head.
I scanned the street, but that thickening of the atmosphere, the sense of watchfulness, was gone.
Rising, the deputy led me to the opposite side of the porch. “I’m with Jayce Bonheim at the Senator residence. What happened, Jayce? Oh, and I'm recording this.” He pointed to the device clipped to his bulky, green-so-dark-it-was-nearly-black jacket.
I told him about meeting Angela in the hardware store, the two of us returning to her house, finding David.
“Did you go inside the kitchen?” he asked.
“Not very far,” I stuttered. Had I gone too far inside? Had I destroyed any evidence?
“What rooms did you go inside?”
Two more Sheriff's SUVs pulled up. Sheriff McCourt stepped from one.
I tore my gaze from the tiny sheriff. “Um, I followed Angela to David's bedroom. She turned off his music, so she must have gone inside. I didn't. After we found David in the kitchen, we returned to the porch.”
“But you were inside when we got here.”
“I felt… It was cold, and we'd already been in the hallway.” How could I explain about that horrible feeling of being watched? Owen would think I was in shock or hysterical. And maybe I had been, but I knew what I'd sensed. “I didn't think we'd disturb anything in the hallway that we hadn’t already.”
He asked more questions, then let me go, saying they might be getting in touch later.
“Of course. Thanks.” I walked down the steps and paused, looking over my shoulder.
Angela rocked slightly in her chair in a corner of the porch.
The Sheriff stopped to say something to Owen and walked inside without giving me a second glance.
I raised my hand in farewell to Angela.
She didn't look up.
Shaken, I walked away, my horror giving way to sadness. David had been a decent kid. He'd gone through so much — being taken, the shock of the return, and now murder. It had to be murder. Unless it had been self-inflicted? I hadn't gotten too close to the body, hadn't really seen what had happened, hadn't wanted to see.
I stuffed my trembling hands in my jacket pockets. Suicide didn't make me feel any better than murder. And I couldn't forget that unseen watcher. Something more was happening here.
Murder.
I found myself turning from the town center and toward Candace's house. As Alex Mansfield's wife, was Candace a suspect in his death? But why kill David? I pulled my arms closer to my body. Where had she been this morning when David had died?
I turned onto Candace's street.
A spark of irrational anger flared in my chest. Brayden should have been with me, not with Maya and Terry. But Terry was his guest, and he couldn't have known what would happen. If I, the witch who can “feel” things, hadn't seen what was coming, how could he have?
A curtain lifted in the window of Mrs. Steinberg’s sunny Victorian, opposite. The two homes could have been twins – same turret, same molding, same general structure. The only difference was the color. Mrs. Steinberg’s was sunshine yellow, and Candace’s was the color of a twilight fog.
Half-heartedly, I waved to Mrs. Steinberg.
The curtain dropped.
My footsteps clunked noisily on Candace’s front steps. I raised my hand to knock, and her door opened.
Candace took a small step backward. “Oh!” Today’s holiday sweater was a snowman in a top hat. The snowman had seen better days. She tugged its hem lower, over her loose, faded jeans.
“Hi, Candace. Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Jayce. This is a surprise.” She peered at me. “Are you all right?”
Suddenly unsure what I was doing here, I bit my bottom lip.
A flush crept up her cheeks, and she smoothed her sweater. “Alex gave me this years ago. I know it's old, but—”
“Have you been here all morning?” I blurted.
“Yes.” She frowned. “Why?”
“I just…” I looked down the street, and my eyes grew hot. “David Senator is dead.”
Her hand reached for her throat, dropped. “Oh my God. What happened?”
“I'm not sure. There was a lot of blood.” I swayed, remembering, and braced my hand on the chalk-white doorframe.
“You found him? Good God. Come inside.” She pulled the door wider.
Unthinking, I walked into the house.
She ushered me into her black-and-white living room.
I stared stupidly at the diamond-patterned carpet.
“Have a
seat,” she said gently.
I collapsed into a black leather chair. Its springy metal legs swayed, jouncing the cushion beneath me.
“Would you like some tea?”
I nodded, and she bustled from the room. She returned five minutes later with a tea tray and set a steaming mug on the low table in front of me. “I hope chamomile’s okay.”
“It's fine. Thanks.” My teeth chattered.
“How is Angela?” She draped a throw over my shoulders and sat on the leather couch opposite.
“I'm not sure. I left her with the police.”
“Was she—? Did she find him too?”
“We were together.”
She blew out her breath. “At least she wasn't alone. I can't imagine…” Gaze unfocused, she looked toward the black velvet curtains.
Candace hadn't found her husband's torn body, and I understood now what a mercy that had been. I closed my eyes, wishing away the memories of that scarlet-drenched kitchen.
“It doesn't make sense!” My hands fisted. “Why kill David? He was only a teenager.”
She smiled faintly. “Well, not quite.”
“No, but— You don't think his death has to do with his disappearance? That doesn't make sense. Your husband didn't disappear.”
“My husband?” Her mug clattered on its plate. “You think the two are connected?”
“I don't know. And Eclectus…”
“What about Eclectus?”
“David was angry at him, and Wharton is angry at him—”
“Eclectus is a good man.”
I shot her a doubtful look.
“Some people react to feelings of fear and guilt by getting angry,” she said firmly. “He is a good man. I’m sure you understand.”
I wasn’t sure I understood at all. But anger was a lot easier than other, more vulnerable emotions. I scrubbed my hands across my face. “I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm saying.”
“It's fine. I understand.” She set her mug on the end table and leaned forward. “You're in shock.”
I wasn't in shock. Was I? I picked up the teacup, and the throw slipped from my shoulders. The chamomile was weak, from a bag, but I closed my eyes, enjoying the liquid's warmth.
“Is that why you came here?” She worried a loose piece of yarn on the snowman’s carrot nose. “Because you think Alex's death and David's were by the same hand?”
Coming here had been a bad impulse. “I didn't see enough to think anything.”
“Maybe…”
I looked up.
“They knew each other in high school, David and Alex.” She bit her lip. “They were on the wrestling team.”
“You think that has something to do with their deaths?”
“No. I mean, maybe. I mean—”
Someone knocked on the front door, and her eyes widened. “Sorry.” She rose, smoothing her loose jeans. “I should get that.”
I slouched in the chair. What was I doing? I'd come to interrogate her — I'd thought — and she’d comforted me instead.
Voices murmured in the hallway.
I scrunched the hair near my scalp and groaned. This was awful.
Candace returned with two sheriff's deputies. Her face pinked. “They want to ask me some questions.”
I leapt to my feet, forgetting I was holding a mug of hot tea. It splashed across my hand and dripped to the diamond rug. “Sorry.”
“It's fine,” she said.
“I'll go.” I wiped the side of my hand on my jeans.
Silently, the two deputies watched Candace walk me to the front door.
“I'm sorry I bothered you,” I said in a low voice.
She grasped my hand. “No, don't be. Come any time you want to talk. It's… It's better than me sitting home alone and feeling sorry for myself. Come.”
Feeling like a jerk, I escaped.
Candace couldn't be the killer.
I didn't want her to be.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Behind the counter, I glanced up from my cell phone. Monday afternoon sunlight slanted through Ground’s front windows and gilded the faux-wood floor. A handful of twenty-somethings bent their heads over their phones and tablet computers.
Arsen Holiday, local mountain bum/millionaire, sat at a corner table and pecked away on a computer keyboard. He was about my age, funny and handsome, toned and athletic. Most days, he wore a broad smile. It would have been easier if I’d fallen for someone like Arsen – carefree and unattached.
My heart twisted. Easier, but impossible. If soulmates existed, Brayden was mine.
And my gut told me Arsen was in love with someone else.
I cocked my head and felt with my magical senses. Karin would say it was wrong to snoop, but hey. Small town. Bad habits. And what else was I going to do on a sleepy Monday?
The knowing came, like a gear clicking into place. Arsen loved, but the object of his affection didn't know. Not yet.
With my free hand, I made a gesture, flooding my system with joy. When I felt full, I pushed a quick happiness spell his way. Arsen was a decent guy, and he deserved good things in his life – good things like I had with Brayden.
Brayden and I had loved each other – and honorably, in spite of what those crones had suggested – through the worst life could dish out. Whatever distance I’d felt or imagined between us, we’d get through our issues.
“Jayce?” Darla asked.
Hurriedly, I stuffed my cell phone into my apron pocket and looked up. “Huh?”
Darla frowned and crossed her arms over her green apron. “I asked if you wanted me to close up for you this afternoon.”
I glanced around the coffee shop. Mathilda lounged with one elbow on the counter and looked bored. Gray twilight puddled beneath the red-paned front windows, their edges frosted with condensation. The hanging plants, the brick walls, the scent of coffee, all gave the café a cozy air, and a feeling of comfort surged through me.
I had a rule about not putting up Christmas decorations until after Thanksgiving. Maybe I should reconsider. You could never go wrong with twinkle lights.
“You want to close up today?” I asked. “Mathilda leaves at five.”
“Well,” Darla said, “um, yeah.”
“Are you sure?” Closing was everyone’s least favorite part of the business, because it involved cleaning. Lots of cleaning. I couldn't imagine why she'd volunteer.
Darla blushed. “You know I bought that cottage on Grizzly Lane?”
I nodded. She'd had a streak of good luck this year and picked a winning lottery ticket. It had been a modest sum as state lotteries go, but it was enough to buy a nice piece of property. Darla's overlooked a tiny lake and sat on several acres, so no one would build beside her and encroach.
“I haven't furnished it yet,” she said. “I'd like to earn some extra cash.”
I smothered a laugh. Buying a house and running out of money for the furniture was exactly the sort of thing I'd do. “Sure. I wouldn't mind getting out of here early.” I glanced toward the windows. Shadows crept across Ground’s wood floors. “I want to see how Angela is doing before it gets too dark.”
Darla shuddered. “Poor David. I can't believe there's been a second animal attack, right here in town. I wouldn’t want to be out alone after dark either.”
The local paper had reported briefly on David's death. According to the sheriff, he’d been mauled by an animal, possibly the same one that had gotten at Alex. But David and Alex had been killed during the daytime…
“What’s wrong?” Darla asked.
“I was thinking about what you said, about these attacks.” Had David been killed first and then mauled, like Alex? The paper hadn't said. Since it had only been a day and the Sheriff was down one forensic scientist, I guessed the police might not know yet either.
“Are you going to be okay alone at your cottage?” I asked. Her new place wasn’t so far from our tiny downtown, but it felt l
ike another world, and an isolated one.
“That’s different.” She raised her chin. “It’s mine.”
Ah, the lies we told ourselves. “Okay, then. If you want to close, go for it.” I shrugged, shifting beneath my apron.
“Thanks.” Darla walked away to top off a customer’s coffee.
Surreptitiously, I pulled out my phone and looked at the photograph of the boot print on Angela’s porch. The treads were wide and distinct, like they'd come from serious work boots.
I searched the internet for work boot tread patterns, and then for hiking boot tread patterns. I couldn't be sure from the photos online, but the print could have come from a work boot. And Wharton had been wearing boots at his lumber yard.
I typed in Wharton’s name, and an article about the lumberyard popped up: VAN GOETHE LUMBERYARD STAYS IN THE FAMILY. It was a short piece from fifteen years back, about Wharton taking over the lumberyard from his father. “The Van Goethe lumberyard is an important part of the local community,” Patton Van Goethe said. “Our family takes that responsibility seriously.” At the bottom of the web page was a photo of a slim, young, and unhappy-looking Wharton. He stood beside an older man, with the Wharton of today’s curling salt-and-pepper hair.
One of those weird rushes of customers stormed into Ground. Darla, Mathilda and I scurried about behind the counter taking orders and making coffee. Finally, Darla shuffled the last customers out the door.
“See ya!” Mathilda sketched a wave and hurried into the kitchen. The rear door slammed.
Darla and I shared a look.
I slumped against the counter. “What a day.”
“You’re telling me.” She turned the sign in the door to Closed. “Where did all those people come from?”
I boxed leftover pastries. Karin was the sort to bring frozen casseroles to the bereaved, but I had pastries – another sort of comfort food. “You’re sure you don’t mind me leaving you to close up?” I asked, closing the lid.
“Go!”
I whipped off my apron, grabbed my purple-bronze parka from the kitchen, and slung my purse over my shoulder. I returned to the front, where Darla mopped the floor. “Okay then. I’m off.” I unlocked the front door and pushed it open with my hip.
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