A low rumble came from Rodney’s direction.
Ilona glanced at the cat and backed out of my office, leaving the door open.
“Remember,” she said. “You were warned.”
Every muscle in my body stiffened. This had to end. I had to find a way to bring the situation to a head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
As soon as the library closed for the day, I grabbed a cardigan and crossed the garden to Big House. The sun hovered on the horizon, but the moon hadn’t yet risen, and the few leaves left on the oak trees rustled in the breeze from the river.
I paused beyond Lyndon’s cottage. Should I take the front entrance or try the kitchen door, where Sam and I had sat last night? I headed to the house’s front door. The brass knocker was shaped like a log. I rapped three times and stepped back, my heart beating a rumba.
It seemed like years before Sam arrived, pushing back the curtain over the front door’s window.
“It’s you,” he said with a heartening frown. He wore a frilly apron smeared with something green. Chopped parsley, maybe.
“Surprised?” I pushed past him into the hall. “You shouldn’t be. I thought you were keeping an eye on me. Oh wait. I forgot. I’m just bait.”
He glanced at a grandfather clock in the hall. Despite the shrouded furniture I saw through doorways, the clock was polished and wound.
“I guess the library is closed now for the day. Just barely.”
“Good thing an assassin didn’t stop by to browse popular fiction.”
As I spoke, I took in what I could see from just inside the door. Both the library and Big House were imposing structures, but the library, despite its size, had all the fussy coziness of a Victorian home. In contrast, Big House was heavy and chilly. We stood in a square hall with a staircase straight ahead and open arches off each side of the hall.
The rooms off both arches were dark, but the strains of an orchestra and soprano, and the smell of something spicy came from the house’s depths.
“Come in.” Sam led me through a salon and a dining room—now I saw the long table, big enough to seat twelve people.
As we approached the kitchen, the scent intensified. Cumin and cardamom, if I wasn’t mistaken. Tomato. Along with the recognition, I felt a pang. In the week I lived with magic, these fragrances would have vibrated through me. Now they registered in my senses but didn’t linger.
As in the library, Big House’s kitchen was big enough for a couple of cooks and a maid. A pile of chopped cilantro and a lime sat on a chopping board next to a chef’s knife. Something red burbled on the stove. Big House’s front rooms might have felt mothballed for decades, but here was a scene of real intimacy.
Sam tapped his phone, and the stereo’s volume faded.
“You like opera,” I said, feeling all at once that I’d intruded.
“Surprised?”
“I guess not. Cute apron,” I added.
“It was hanging in the kitchen. You don’t think the gingham makes me look fat?”
I laughed, and my unease melted away. “Indian food.”
“Cooking helps me think. Indian food has lots of toasted spice and grinding and chopping, so it’s especially useful for knotty cases.”
“Like mine. How about Italian food?”
“A good ragù is useful when the facts are in, but answers haven’t shaken out. By the end of a daylong braise, I usually have one or two ideas.” He turned down the burner under the tomato sauce. “We used to have a cook, and as a kid I hung around and watched her. There are good trout in the millpond for frying up. Bert Dolby let me tag along with him sometimes when he went fishing.”
“The sheriff, huh?” Wilfred was probably full of forest trails and swimming holes—a great place to be a kid.
“Do you mind if I cook while we talk? In fact, would you like to stay for dinner?”
At that moment, a thump announced Rodney’s arrival through a cat door I hadn’t noticed until now. He trotted over and wound through my legs. I knelt to pet him, but he retreated to the room’s edge.
“Rodney! Does he come over a lot?” I asked.
“Never, actually. He must have known you were here.” He sneezed and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “Allergies.”
“Do you want me to send him away?”
Sam shook his head. “No. It’s nice to have him around.” Crockery clanked as he pulled two plates from an upper cupboard. “You might as well join me. Plus, I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on you, remember? This will make it easier.”
“Okay,” I said. “In fact, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Keeping an eye on me.”
“All right.”
Rodney sat by the refrigerator and licked a paw. He felt so distant now. So far away.
“I can’t take it anymore,” I said.
Sam turned down the heat and set a lid on the big pot on the stove. “Have a seat.” He motioned to the chair nearest me and took the one across the table. “Tell me about it.”
I’d been working up to a fight, but his solicitude took the wind out of my sails. “What?”
“You can’t take it anymore that I’m watching you. Tell me about it.”
“Well . . .” My gaze wandered the faded curtains and the pendant light reflecting in the night-blackened windowpanes. Yesterday at this time, it would have felt full of mood and depth. Tonight it was just a window. “I want to get this over with and go home.”
“You don’t feel safe in Wilfred? Is that it?” He flattened his palms on the table. For a second, I imagined what those fingers would feel like on my waist. I riveted my gaze to my lap.
“That’s part of it. Mostly, I just want to get back to my old life.”
“A town this small can be a real shock after a big city.” He pulled back his hands and leaned back in his chair. “Remember, I live in L.A. The traffic is a lot better here, though.”
“And the nights are so quiet. Except for the bullfrogs.”
“And the roosters in the morning. Can you hear them?”
“I think they’re Duke’s,” I said. “Darla’s threatening to ban roosters in the trailer park.” I thought of the perfect poached eggs I’d had the morning before. “Thankfully, he can keep the hens.”
Sam’s gaze took a faraway look. “I miss being able to order Chinese food—good Chinese food—and I even kind of miss the crowds.”
“Sometimes I love a crowd. You can simply vanish and watch people around you and imagine their stories. On a nice day, sometimes I used to walk to the sculpture gardens outside the National Gallery and watch people. It’s almost as good as reading a book. Almost.”
“So, you don’t spend every lunch hour in the stacks.”
“No”
“It would have been tempting.”
Something splattered on the stovetop. “Your pan,” I said. “The little one in front.”
He leapt up and moved it off the heat. “Red lentils. They’re ready now.”
“You love books, too,” I said.
Sam wiped around the burner with the spilled lentils. “Maybe not as much as you do, but I’d rather read or listen to music than watch TV.”
“Why did you vote to sell the library?” This was something I’d wanted to know but certainly didn’t think would come rolling out of my mouth.
His brows furrowed as he focused on scrubbing a spot on the stovetop. “Do you think what I did was right?” he asked finally, tossing the dish sponge into the sink. “I love the library. Always have. More happy childhood memories take place there than in this house.”
The way he said “house” left it clear that his childhood hadn’t been entirely happy. In Big House there wouldn’t have been many places for a boy to roughhouse or even sit with pants dusty from the path on the river, except the porch off the back kitchen. No wonder he liked it there.
“Ilona and Duke made such good arguments,” he continued. “Besides, it was my family that left so many people out of work. So suddenl
y, too. I know people still talk about it. I figured if I could help get the town going again . . .”
“You didn’t think you’d ever be back in Wilfred, did you?”
He drew forks and spoons from a drawer and placed them on the table. “How about if I serve you from the stove?”
I nodded. I was hungrier than I’d thought.
“To answer your question, no. We still own land around here, but in case you hadn’t noticed, the Wilfreds aren’t very popular in Wilfred.”
“I’m not sure that tearing down the library would make you much more popular.”
He slid a plate of lentils and curry dusted with chopped cilantro in front of me. “Dig in before dinner gets cold.”
“Thank you.”
“We never did get to what you want to tell me.”
I set down my fork. “Yes. Well . . .”
Complete dark had fallen now, and except for the rare car in the distance, the night was quiet. Rodney drowsed at the room’s edge. The kitchen was a warm, yellow-lit oasis. Sam sneezed and dabbed his eyes with his napkin.
“I don’t like all this waiting,” I said. “Waiting for someone to show up to threaten me—or worse.”
“It won’t be long now. Given last night’s attempt—”
“Wasn’t that just an accident?”
“That’s Sheriff Dolby’s story, and we’ve agreed to run with it, but I don’t think so. If it wasn’t for the craziness when the lights cut—” Sam set down his fork. “Josie, what happened over there? For a moment, I swore I saw fire, but then, nothing.”
I looked down at my plate. “Must have been the transformer. Anyway, I’m tired of the waiting, the lies, all of it. Too much has happened this week. I just want to go home.”
The anger that had built in me fizzled to a near-sob. Rodney looked toward me, then leapt through the flap to the garden. Before—when I’d claimed my magic—he would have been in my lap.
Sam’s voice was soft. “What would you have us do? You could go home, sure. I won’t stop you. But the case against Richard White and Bondwell will be nearly impossible to prosecute. And you won’t be safe. Just a few more days. I promise.”
A fluttering settled over my chest. It had to be left over from before the spell had broken, I thought, when every sense and feeling was amplified.
“Okay,” I said. “But I want it sped up. I can’t go through my days as a sitting duck, not to mention the fact that soon I probably won’t have a job here.”
“What would you like to do?”
“The FBI sees me as bait. Well, fine. I want to draw out Bondwell. I have a plan.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The next morning I rose early, and as soon as the coffeepot beeped, I laced a cup with cream and took it to the kitchen table.
Courage, I thought as I gulped a too-hot mouthful of coffee. It’s for the best.
Washington, D.C., was three hours ahead. I wanted to catch my boss after she’d settled in for the morning, but before she was getting ready for lunch. I dialed her number and screwed my eyes shut.
One ring. Two rings. I was mentally preparing a voicemail message when she answered.
“Folklife collections. Lori Moore speaking.”
“Hi, Lori. It’s Josie.”
The pause on the other end lasted so long that I’d opened my mouth to check the connection when she responded.
“Josie! Where are you? I don’t recognize the area code. I thought you were in New York.”
“Oregon. Way rural Oregon.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When Anton disappeared, I had to go into hiding. You get it, right?”
“An FBI agent was here asking about you.” Even from the other end of the phone, I heard her fingers drumming on the receiver. This nervous habit had earned her the nickname Little Drummer Girl. The goal among her staff was to talk to her without starting the fingers going.
“I know.” I couldn’t tell Lori that I’d spent most of last evening with one, or I’d blow his cover.
“What are you doing out there? Are you safe?” The drumming picked up speed.
“I’m okay. I want to come home, though.”
“It feels empty without you here. You and Anton.”
I bit my lip then asked anyway. Sam had said he was okay, but I had to be sure. “Have you heard from him?”
The drumming stopped. “No. Nothing. Funny, though, the FBI never asked about him.”
So, he was okay. Sam wasn’t lying. “Anyway, I wanted you to know I’m fine and tell you my return might be delayed.”
The drumming started again, slowly, then gaining force. She didn’t reply.
“Lori? Is something wrong?”
“I’m so sorry.” The anguish in her voice was real.
“What?” I asked.
“It happened just yesterday. They eliminated your positions. Yours and Anton’s.”
My grip on the handset tightened. So that’s the way they did it. I hadn’t been fired; my job was “eliminated.” A lump thickened in my throat. “Did they say why?”
“Budget cuts.”
“Sure, but lots of things could be trimmed to meet the budget.”
“I know.” She sighed. “I can’t explain it. The decision came from the top. It’s effective as soon as your leave runs out.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “You could get a lawyer and contest it under the Whistleblower Protection Act.”
“I don’t know,” was all I could say. This had been my dream job. Now it was gone for good.
“I’ll write you a great recommendation, of course. I have a friend who runs an elementary school in Arlington. I think they’re looking for a librarian.”
“I don’t know what to say. I can’t believe it.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
Shock melted into sadness tinged with anger. I’d made the right decision by reporting the conversation, even if it had turned my life inside out. I couldn’t have made another choice. My mother was right: I was a truth teller.
“Yes, in fact there is something. It’s going to sound odd. Could you check the archives for stories on witchcraft, especially in the Maryland area?”
I gave her the Wilfred library’s address, promised a lunch date when I returned, and hung up.
Then I called the Washington Post.
* * *
I took the stairs down to the library’s kitchen, where Roz would almost certainly be brewing up the first of today’s many pots of coffee.
My conversation with the reporter had gone well, but the success was bittersweet. My old job was gone for good. The kids cluttering Thurston Wilfred’s office, Mrs. Garlington chugging through “Please Release Me” on the organ, the knitting club examining the town’s events for sinister motives, even Roz’s dour mood and hot flashes—I’d miss them.
Roz came in, humming something indistinct but upbeat. “What a glorious morning.”
“Has Darla heard anything from the judge?”
“Not yet. I’m sure everything will work out okay, though.”
I stared at her. Who was this person, and what had she done with Roz? “Are you all right?”
“Excellent. Better than excellent. I’m going to do it,” Roz said triumphantly and pushed the coffeepot’s power button. “I’m going to talk to Lyndon. I’m not going to dillydally around, either, with a suggestion of coffee or a walk. We’ve known each other too long for that. I’m going to tell him how I feel.”
“That’s great, but what made you change your mind?”
“It was the book you recommended for me a few days ago, Trembling Rose.”
“It was a romance, then?”
“You don’t remember?”
“There are so many novels,” I replied. I’d recommended the book in passing when my magic was in high gear and my brain was a Niagara Falls of titles.
“Well, it wasn’t a romance at all. It was a tragedy. If only
Rosamund had confessed her love, Edgar would still be alive.”
“I see,” I said.
“What if Lyndon has loved me all along but didn’t dare think I’d return his feelings?”
“He’s definitely the quiet type.”
“It’s not easy. I admit, I’m terrified.” Despite her emotion, Roz’s skin stayed pale. No hormonal flushes. She must be truly committed. “But if it opens up something between Lyndon and me, it will be worth it. And if it doesn’t, well, he has to be flattered, right?”
She smiled, her freckles and slight overbite making her even more adorable. “I can’t see how he could resist you,” I said truthfully. “When are you going to do it?”
“Right away. I can’t wait. Do you mind if I take a bit of time off this morning?”
“Please do. I’ll watch for patrons.”
Lyndon would be starting his morning gardening by now. Usually he took care of the grounds in the morning and tended to whatever needed work in the library in the afternoons. Thus Roz’s work sessions in the conservatory where she could keep an eye on him whether he was inside or out.
“Coffee ready?” Ruth Littlewood had brought her own mug. “I have a birding expedition to prepare. If anyone needs me, I’ll be in natural history.”
I caught a glimpse of Roz striding across the lawn and Lyndon straightening from his hunched position over the rosebushes. I silently wished her good luck.
Lalena Dolby was waiting for me at the sitting room-slash-circulation desk. If possible, she was beaming more brightly than Roz had. What was going on around here? Sailor tugged at his leash. A glance into the foyer revealed Rodney tormenting him from under the table.
“You’ll never guess what happened,” she said. “I need all your books on Paris.”
“You won a prize?” I guessed. “An all-expenses-paid trip?”
“I found ten thousand dollars.” She clapped her hands in excitement, and Sailor sat in response, clearly expecting a treat.
“You what?”
“This morning I was weeding, you know, putting the garden to bed for the winter, and I saw a loose cement block in the foundation. I was pulling it into place, when something glinted from under the trailer. If the sun hadn’t been in that exact spot, I never would have noticed it.”
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