by Bailey Cates
She looked down at Mungo again. Smiled. Then she bent at the knees and ran her fingers lightly down his back.
He beamed at her, looked at me, and then returned his attention to Angie.
Well, he sure doesn’t seem to think she’s a murderer.
I realized then that I couldn’t read Angie Kissel at all. I can occasionally get intuitive hints from people, especially if I really try. It wasn’t any kind of real clairvoyance, more of a feel for who they were or their emotional state, and usually I interpreted it in terms of flavors—bitter, sweet, salty, and the like. It came in handy at the bakery when a customer needed a little enchantment in her life. But try as I might, Angie was . . . flavorless.
She gave Mungo another pat and stood, then answered my question in a low voice. “I was having problems with my husband. It was just the usual stuff couples go through, I suppose, but we’d only been married a year. I wanted it to be like it was when we first got together, all lovey-dovey and moonlight and wanting to be with each other all the time.”
“The honeymoon phase,” I said without thinking. Like I know. I glanced over at Lucy and Ben. He had his arm around her shoulders as she spoke with Peter Quinn. Those two had never known anything but the honeymoon phase, so maybe it didn’t even exist.
Then I looked at Declan, tall and in charge yet so gentle and easy with Margie. A little thrill went through me as I watched him talking with a crime scene tech. By now I knew his many sides, and other than a tendency to be a bit of a slob, he was a flat-out gem. Would that thrill I felt fade away if we were to marry? Or even if we didn’t?
Angie nodded. “There’s a good reason they call it the honeymoon phase, of course. We still loved each other, don’t get me wrong. There was nothing really wrong, just that all those falling-in-love chemicals were fading and life was getting back to the everyday, and while my husband was fine with all of that, I was having a hard time with it.” She sighed. “I occasionally listened to Dr. Dana on the radio, and for some reason that day—it was a Tuesday, I remember—I called in. She was just starting to tout her whole Radical Trust philosophy, and she asked me if I had any secrets from my husband.”
My eyebrows raised a fraction.
“I told her no.”
“So what was the problem?”
Angie hesitated. She looked down at Mungo, licked her lips, and then met my eyes again. “She persisted. And there was something; something from my past. She insisted that I tell my husband whatever it was, and that honesty would bring us closer together.”
Little spikes of excitement mingled with my curiosity now.
She squared her shoulders. “So that night I told my husband of a year that I used to be a practicing witch.”
Chapter 5
My mouth dropped open. Angie laughed, and I saw Quinn turn his head to eye us speculatively.
“He reacted like that, too. At first. Then he got really angry. Accused me of devil worship and a bunch of other stuff. Wouldn’t even listen when I tried to explain what modern witchcraft is really like.”
“Sounds painful,” I ventured. “Wait—you said you used to be a practicing witch,” I said, and as I spoke I realized something else that didn’t quite fit.
“I stopped,” Angie said. “Before I got married. That’s why I didn’t think it was relevant to my marriage.”
Confused, I blurted, “Why did you stop practicing?” I personally didn’t know if that could be possible. After all, my own mother had turned her back on her magical heritage for decades in an attempt to keep me safe in the small town of Fillmore, Ohio, but in the long run even she had come back to what was in her blood.
Maybe Angie wasn’t a hereditary witch. Maybe she had just been a dilettante, dabbling in the Craft for a little fun.
Now she looked down at the floor and shrugged. “I have my reasons.”
“Angie,” I said.
She looked back up, her eyes as dark as chocolate ganache.
Surprised, and a little uncomfortable, I said, “You don’t know me at all. Being a former witch isn’t usually the kind of thing you’d tell a stranger.”
She didn’t look away, but her eyes grew even wider.
I pressed on. “So why did you just tell me all that?”
She blinked. “Because you’re a witch.”
Someplace in the background voices rose and fell, but my world had collapsed to a few square yards in the Fox and Hound children’s area.
After trying twice to swallow and finally succeeding, I managed, “Why on earth would you think that?”
“Because of Mongo.”
Yip! It was a small sound, a doggie whisper rather than his usual vibrant bark. Not understanding why my heart was pounding against my ribs a mile a minute, I watched him look from me to her and back at me again.
“Mungo?” I asked, feeling stupid.
She raised her eyebrows. “Is that what you call him? I called him Mongo. Pretty close. When I saw him, I knew you had to be a witch.”
I stared at her, unable to speak.
“He was my familiar,” she said, and as the words flowed over me, I felt something crack. “When I stopped practicing he ran away. I guess he found himself a new witch.” Her smile wavered. “You.”
I felt myself sway. Her hand flashed out to steady me. She looked over my shoulder.
“Katie?” Lucy’s voice came from behind me. “Are you all right?”
Angie’s hand fell away as I slowly turned to look at my aunt.
“I’m . . . I’m fine,” I stammered.
She didn’t look like she believed me, but she let it drop. “Peter’s ready to talk with you.”
“Okay.” I bent, scooped Mungo up, and walked away without looking back at Angie. But I could tell my familiar was still watching her.
* * *
It didn’t take long for Detective Peter Quinn to interview me. After all, this stuff was getting to be old hat for us, so I ran down what had happened in record time. But then he asked about what Angie Kissel and I had talked about, the expression on his face letting me know he was somewhat peeved we’d talked at all.
“Just this and that,” I told him. It wasn’t like I was going to share what she’d told me about being a witch. Not just a witch, but my little Mungo’s former witch. I’d held him tightly in my arms the whole time Quinn and I talked. Bless his little canine heart, he seemed to understand and hadn’t wiggled once to be let down.
“You two seemed to know each other.” He’d obviously been watching us.
I shrugged. “Just met her.”
“Your neighbor seems pretty sure Kissel killed the psychologist,” he said.
“Well, she was kneeling over the body when Margie went in,” I said. “But Lucy told you about the almond smell, right?”
He pressed his lips together.
“You can’t smell it either, can you?”
A sigh, and he shook his head. “One of the techs could, though, so your aunt might be right. We’ll see if it’s really cyanide.”
Citing my dragonfly confirmation would only make him think I was crazy. I said, “Well, it if was poison, it was something that works quickly. She didn’t seem at all ill before she went into the back room. How quickly does cyanide kill?”
Quinn looked grim. “It’s one of the most lethal and fast-acting poisonous substances out there.”
“Well, Dr. Dana was back there by herself for fifteen minutes or so. Er, presumably by herself,” I corrected myself. “And you have no idea how she ingested it?”
“Not—” He stopped himself with a grimace. “Listen, Lightfoot. I know you fancy yourself an investigator, but unless you have something to add to the information I have right now, we’re done.”
“Hmm.” I thought for a moment. “I’m still kind of reeling from the whole thing.”
He glanced up at me. “Of course
. I sometimes forget you don’t run into this kind of thing as often as I do.”
I held up a finger. “Hang on.” I told him about the mix-up regarding the bottled water and how the one Croft had mistakenly provided had been open for at least an hour by the time the author arrived. “Her little entourage brought along her favorite brand, though.” I gestured subtly toward the victim’s sister and husband. “That’s what I saw her drink. Of course, it’s possible she sipped from the pre-opened bottle at some point, even after she was such a prima donna about the whole thing. I didn’t see her do it, but I wasn’t watching her all the time.”
He nodded. “Someone else mentioned that. Don’t worry. We’re sending all the containers to the lab. Did you see anyone touch either of the water bottles?”
“Just Nate and Phoebe and Dana herself. And presumably Croft opened the one that sat behind the podium until they got here.” I snapped my fingers. “And she had a cup of peach sweet tea by her when she was signing books for people.” I left out that Ben had been the one who’d brought it to her. Quinn had already accused my uncle of murder once, and I wasn’t going to invite him to do it again. “I don’t know if she drank any of it or not, though.”
“Okay. Did Ben tell you I’m sending all your leftover pastries to the lab, too?”
“What?” Dread stabbed through me.
Quinn frowned. “If the victim was poisoned, it makes sense to test everything she might have consumed.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. But you don’t think anyone at the Honeybee had anything to do with her death, do you?”
He suppressed a smile. “I’m fairly sure you didn’t off the radio psychologist, Katie. But a nice scone would be a perfect delivery vehicle for poison—don’t you think?”
I grimaced. “Well, I didn’t see her eat a thing while she was here.”
“We have to check.”
“I know.” The thought that someone might have used one of our goodies to commit murder made me downright angry. It didn’t help that someone had done something similar once before.
Quinn stood. “I’m sending everyone home now. I’ll let you know if I have any more questions.”
Relieved, I went to grab my stuff. An exhausted Croft Barrow started shutting off lights. I heard Nate offer to take Phoebe home, and she nodded. She looked as if she’d aged ten years in the course of the evening. Angie Kissel left, and Ben went to get the car. Margie was still pretty shaky, and more than ready to go home to her family.
“If you want to get a little air, I’ll be right out,” I told her as I shrugged into my jacket. “I just want to check in with Deck.”
“Okay,” she said, and I heard her relief at getting out of the bookstore. I hoped it wouldn’t stop her from bringing her kids in for story time in the future.
Declan came toward me carrying an empty plastic bin. “Lucy told me to grab some of the leftovers from next door since the police took everything from the signing. We don’t want to disappoint the folks down at the shelter.”
“Good idea. Trust her to think of it. You want some help?”
He held up a key. “Nah. I borrowed this from Ben. You get Margie home, and when I’m done at the shelter, I’ll be over. Okay?”
“More than okay.”
He smiled, then gestured at my neighbor standing out on the sidewalk. “She’s better?”
“Seems to be.”
“What about you? You’ve seen so many dead bodies at this point—”
“Hey!”
“—that I kind of assume you’re fine,” he finished. “Are you?”
“Sure.”
His eyes narrowed. “Really? You seem . . . something.”
I hesitated. “I got some weird news this evening.”
“In the middle of all this?”
Putting my hand on his arm and giving it a squeeze, I smiled with my eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell you all about it when we get home.”
He nodded his agreement and, with one last look over his shoulder, went out.
Lucy bustled up to me, a surprising twinkle in her eye. “Don’t you worry, Katie. The spellbook club will meet at the Honeybee tomorrow afternoon after we close. I’ve already called the others.”
“Luce,” I said. “I don’t think—”
“Now, don’t argue,” she said. “You know we need to talk about what to do about this latest murder, and the sooner the better.”
“I’m sure Quinn can handle this one,” I said, but I didn’t even manage to convince myself. After all, having the primary murder suspect be Mungo’s ex-witch lent a paranormal element to Dr. Dana’s death. Or did it? After all, Angie wasn’t even a witch anymore. Still, if she was innocent, she might need my help.
If she was innocent. And whether I wanted to give her that help? That was yet another matter.
“Pffft.” Lucy broke in to my thoughts. “You always say that. You’re a catalyst and a lightwitch, and if you’re here, there must be a good reason. When this kind of thing has happened before, there was usually magic involved. You know Peter Quinn can’t—or won’t—pay attention to that aspect of his cases.”
“But—,” I said.
“Bye, honey! See you bright and early.” And she was out the door.
* * *
As I turned onto Abercorn Street, I glanced over at Margie. She sat in the passenger seat of my Volkswagen and stared straight ahead without blinking.
That morning I’d placed a tiny bouquet of basil and lavender in the Bug’s narrow bud vase. It was a combination I often used because of the two herbs’ many magical associations. Basil was a standard for protection, but tonight I was glad it also dispelled confusion and calmed fear. Margie and I could both use some of that. Lavender, which grew here and there throughout my gardens at home, also afforded protection, as well as healing and peace. Steering around Lafayette Square, I casually reached out and adjusted the herbs in the vase, squeezing them enough with my fingertips to release their combined aroma into the air.
“Do you want to let Redding know we’re on our way?” I asked.
“I called him when I was waiting for you.”
She looked down at the books in her lap. Dr. Dana’s face was on the cover of both of them, her retro look the same on both volumes. I wondered whether the rather outdated advice she’d provided stemmed from a fifties sensibility as well.
“You don’t think she did it, do you?” Margie asked out of the blue.
“I assume you mean Angie Kissel? I have no idea.”
Mungo made a noise in the backseat. I ignored him.
She turned in her seat. “I saw you talking with her. It seemed pretty intense.”
Not for the first time I fervently wished my discussion with the former witch hadn’t been so public. Everyone seemed to think we were buddy-buddy now.
“You’re going to try to prove she’s innocent.” Margie couldn’t keep the disgust out of her voice.
“Now, why would you think that?” I asked.
Movement in the rearview mirror drew my attention. Mungo had apparently decided not to stay in my tote bag as usual. Instead, he leaned on the back of my seat with his front paws and bored a hole in the back of my head with his eyes.
“Mungo, will you please sit down back there?”
He blew hot breath in my ear but did as I asked.
Margie said, “Oh, you don’t talk about it much, at least not to me, but I know you’ve been involved in murder cases before. I’ve seen that Detective Quinn at your house a bunch of times. And then there was all that business about voodoo and Mother Eulora a few months ago.”
“They don’t even know for sure that Dr. Dana was murdered,” I hedged.
She made a rude noise. “Your own boyfriend said it was a crime scene.”
“Possible crime scene.”
“Whatever. She was too
young for it to be a heart attack or something like that. And she was a health nut, too. Talked about it all the time on the radio.”
“Talking isn’t the same as walking.” I turned toward our neighborhood in Midtown, already thinking about a plate of pasta and a salad.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Margie roll her eyes.
“Okay, it was probably murder,” I said. “More than probably, in fact. Poison. And Ms. Kissel definitely had a problem with Dr. Dana.”
“I’ll say,” Margie muttered.
Yet Angie’s dislike of the psychologist didn’t necessarily translate to a murder motive. “That other gentleman who was there tonight didn’t like her, either,” I said. “He confronted Dr. Dana in front of everyone, too.”
“He left and didn’t come back, though.”
“Maybe. But we can’t know that for sure. And he’s not the only one. That back door to the alley was open. Anyone could have come in that way.”
In fact, Nate and Phoebe had gone out to move Dr. Dana’s car closer. Together. Could they have conspired to kill her? From what I’d seen, Phoebe didn’t much care for her brother-in-law. Besides, if one of them had dosed the water bottle, he or she wouldn’t have had to come in from the alley anyway, which made their absence from the bookstore at the time Dr. Dana died completely moot.
I shook my head, feeling confused.
Margie pressed her lips together and blinked slowly. “I guess you’re right about the alley door.” She didn’t sound convinced, though.
However, I wasn’t trying to convince her. I was only playing devil’s advocate, right? For all I knew Angie Kissel had indeed murdered Dr. Dana.
But the former witch’s voice echoed in my mind. I didn’t kill anyone.
I pulled into my driveway. It ran between my little carriage house and the Coopersmiths’ far larger home. Margie got out at the same time that her front door opened, and Redding’s substantial figure filled the frame. I let Mungo scramble down to the asphalt and grabbed my tote bag from the backseat. Margie’s husband came down the steps, backlit from inside. He had Baby Bart on one hip and a glass of Margie’s favorite pink wine in his other hand.