Bait and Witch

by Angela M. Sanders

  “Right now, Ilona lives there, too, you know,” Lalena said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Her mom needs regular care, and they don’t have the money to hire full-time help.”

  “But the car. The clothes. Plus, she told us she was staying at a fancy bed-and-breakfast in wine country.”

  “Leased. Borrowed. Fibbed.”

  I let this sink in. “Essentially, Ilona is a fake.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Sailor jumped into Lalena’s lap. “She’s being more true to herself than she ever was. She’s ambitious. She wants more than life at the Armada. The real her drives a white Mercedes.”

  Lalena might not be psychic, but she had spot-on intuition. “Was her family a victim of the mill closure, too?”

  “Well, yes—and no. Her dad was a union organizer. He was on the road a lot. One day, he simply didn’t come home.”

  Ilona, poor and fatherless. As with so many Wilfredians, my view of her was changing. “How come no one ever told me all this?”

  Lalena shrugged. “Why would they? You’ve only been in town a minute, and you’ll only be here a minute more.” She nudged the dog off her lap and rose. “Hungry? I made a salade niçoise, but with French fries instead of potatoes. And no tuna. Or olives.”

  “Thank you.” The trailer was small enough that I didn’t have to move from my chair to keep conversation going. “Why would the news that Craig was free set her hightailing to her mom’s house? I don’t get it.”

  Lalena abandoned dinner prep and returned to the seat next to me. “Do you think they . . . ?”

  “Would it bother you if they did?” I asked gently.

  She played with the tassel on her belt. “Yes.” She lifted her glass, saw it was empty, and returned it to the coffee table. “Craig has this—this charm.”

  “He’s good-looking, for sure.”

  “It’s not just that. He has a vulnerability people respond to. Women feel safe with him and want to nurture him. He can’t help taking advantage of it.”

  I wanted to disagree—he could, indeed, help it, if he wanted to—but I bit my tongue.

  “The vulnerability is real, Josie. It’s what makes me so sure he didn’t kill anyone.”

  “That and the fact that he was here that night, wasn’t he?” At her surprise, I added, “I saw his moccasins.”

  She looked at her hands folded in her lap. “Yes, he was here. I know he was playing around, but when he stopped by—he said he happened to be in the neighborhood and saw my light on—I couldn’t help it.”

  He couldn’t help it, either, apparently. “Why didn’t you tell your brother when Craig was arrested that he couldn’t have done it?”

  “I did.” She scooted forward an inch. “I did tell him. He didn’t believe me. He thought I was covering for him.”

  Some questions were answered, but others persisted. Darla, Craig, and Lyndon appeared to be in the clear. Ilona and Duke were still possibilities. Could Ilona have planted the murder weapon at Craig’s?

  While Lalena tinkered in the kitchen, I wandered to the front window and parted the pink curtains. Across the way, Duke pushed a lawn mower in the dark, illuminated only by his porch light. Lalena had told me she’d seen him leaving the trailer park on foot with a bag of something. I wasn’t supposed to broadcast my location, but I’d been so successful at worming info from Darla that I decided to push my luck.

  “How long until dinner?” I asked her.

  “Ten minutes. I’m making the dressing now.”

  “I’ll be back. I want to say hi to Duke.”

  * * *

  Duke’s push mower swished across the tiny lawn bordering his doublewide. The motion sensors on his porch light clicked on as he passed, then clicked off as he moved beyond their range. Duke turned at a tidy metal shed and mowed toward me with military precision.

  “Hello,” I said.

  Obviously deep in thought, he lifted his head. He wore a plaid jacket, and a hand-knit scarf circled his neck. “Josie. What are you doing here?”

  “Having dinner with Lalena. You’re mowing in the dark?”

  “It’s calming. My kind of meditation. This might be the last mow of the season.”

  Crickets chirped from the fields beyond the Magnolia Rolling Estates, and a cool breeze rose from the river. Some night soon, it would frost, and winter would move in. I wondered what the library would be like with snow outside and embers in the fireplace. I’d never know. The library wouldn’t be here, or I wouldn’t be here. Or both.

  “I want to talk to you about the night of the murder,” I said.

  His expression shut down. “This again? I have nothing to say. And if I did, I wouldn’t say it to you. My life is my business.”

  “No, Duke, I’m on your side.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “That night, you were seen walking to the library.” This was a stretch. It would work, or it wouldn’t. “You were hiding something.”

  He shook his head. “You’re making this up.”

  “I’m not.” I lowered my voice. “You see, the night I arrived—the night of the murder—I was all keyed up from the flight, so I took a walk around the grounds.”

  He didn’t respond, but he watched me intently. A sign I was on the right track.

  “I found something of yours.”

  “What?” he said quickly.

  Relieved, I continued. My gaze dropped to his waist. That would do. “A silver rivet from your belt. It caught the moonlight. It clearly hadn’t been on the trail long—not a speck of dirt on it.” I glanced across the drive to Lalena’s trailer. Her form moved in the kitchen window, setting plates on the table. “I don’t know what to do. I feel like I should tell the sheriff, but I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

  “You have the rivet?”

  “Of course,” I lied.

  “Show me.”

  “It’s back at the library. Somewhere safe. But, Duke,” I said, “you aren’t a murderer. I know that. I’ll toss the rivet. But I need to know why you were up there. You must have had a good reason.”

  He leaned on the mower’s handle and gazed past me. “It doesn’t matter anymore, I guess. Follow me.”

  He wheeled the mower to the shed and opened the door. I stood outside. Sure, Lalena knew where I was, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

  “In here,” he said.

  “No thanks.”

  “Good grief.” Holding a grocery sack, Duke stepped onto the lawn. “Here.”

  I peered inside to see two canisters of spray paint. I sucked in a fast breath. “It was you. You’ve been spray-painting the library.”

  “Ilona gave me a hundred bucks each time I did it. I was going up there that night for another session. I knew Lyndon was out.” He took the bag from my hands. “I’ll deny it if anyone asks. The only reason I’m telling you now is that the library’s sale is a done deal. Ilona has assured me.”

  He wouldn’t meet my eyes. He wasn’t telling me the whole story. He was hiding something—something more serious than vandalism.

  “That’s not all, is it?” I said. “You saw something. Or someone.”

  Duke snatched the grocery sack and lowered his voice to a growl. “If you say anything, I’ll deny it. We never had this conversation.”

  “Josie?” Lalena yelled from across the drive. Sailor barked in response. “Dinner’s ready.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Duke stomped up his steps and slammed the door after him.

  * * *

  As I helped Lalena clear the dinner dishes, her cell phone rang from the kitchen counter. “It’s Sam. For you.”

  “We have him,” Sam told me. “The man Bondwell sent to silence you. And he’s talking.”

  “Does that mean I’m safe?” I could hardly believe it. I’d been on the run for less than two weeks, but in that time I’d lived enough for several lifetimes.

  “Definitely. You’re in the clear. You can go home.”<
br />
  I couldn’t tell if I heard a smile or a frown in his voice. “I’m having a good time at Lalena’s, actually. I might just stay here tonight.”

  Lalena nodded and waved the corkscrew.

  “I meant home, D.C. With the info we’re getting now, Bondwell wouldn’t dare try anything.”

  Home. Funny how Wilfred was feeling more like home all the time. “I want to see what the judge rules on our letter before I book my flight. It shouldn’t be more than a few days.” According to Ilona and Duke, it was a done deal.

  An awkward silence arose. “Maybe you’ll let me take you to dinner before you leave? There’s a good place for sushi in the basement of the old Carnegie library in Hillsdale. It’s not exactly big city, but it’s good.”

  Warmth suffused me. “That would be nice.”

  “I’ll see you soon, then. Give Rodney a pat on the head for me.”

  Still in a daze, I handed Lalena the phone.

  “What’s with you?” she asked. “It can’t be the wine. That stuff has the alcohol content of Kool-Aid. Kind of tastes like it, too, actually,” she added as an afterthought. “We’ll open your bottle next. You’re still staying, right?”

  “Sam asked me to pat Rodney—Rodney! I forgot to give him dinner. Can you wait a few minutes while I run up the hill?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  I borrowed a flashlight from Lalena and made my way over the bridge and up the hill. This time, I didn’t worry about being seen. Sam had made it clear. I was safe.

  From the bridge, all of Wilfred spread below me. The trailers on their curious cinder-block platforms, Darla’s tavern and diner and its busy parking lot, the PO Grocery now shut for the night, the lone fire engine waiting in the back lot. Far off to the left was the black mass of the old millpond.

  Across the highway, modest houses with roomy yards platted an area that would have made up a mere four square blocks back home. Many windows were warm with light. I envisioned Mrs. Garlington and her son dishing up a crusty-topped casserole and, a few blocks away, the Tohler clan setting its knitting aside for bowls of chili. Beyond them, farmhouses dotted the horizon. It’s true that Wilfred wasn’t the big city, but it had all the conflict and variety of any town fifty times its size.

  I turned up the path to the library, toward the thickening woods of the coastal range. Big House was dark. No surprise there. I couldn’t tell if light burned at all in Lyndon’s cottage, thanks to his tightly drawn curtains. The truck was parked out front. And of course the library appeared tucked in for the night, just as I’d wanted it to.

  “Rodney?” I called.

  No sound of Rodney trotting through the leaves. Maybe he was out prowling the garden. Now that my magic was contained, I’d lost my connection with him. That knowledge drained some of the satisfaction from the FBI’s arrest. I swept the flashlight over the lawn. A black cat wasn’t easy to spot at night.

  Seeing the library in the moonlight brought back the creepiness I’d felt the night I’d first arrived. I now knew the library to be a place of warmth, somewhere special, but it looked especially foreboding tonight. I could almost hear the books inside humming a warning.

  “Rodney. Here, kitty, kitty,” I said from the kitchen door. Besides the wind in the trees, all was quiet.

  Then, a hiss.

  “Rodney? Time for dinner. Come on.”

  Rodney edged from under the porch. His hiss stretched into a growl.

  I froze. Rodney’s eyes—now more citrine than amber—caught the light from my flashlight. “What?”

  He didn’t move.

  I turned the key in the kitchen door’s lock. As far as I could tell, the house was empty, but my neck prickled. The sound of the books had reached the muffled pitch of a flurry of violins. I knew had I not performed the containment spell, I’d hear nothing else. Yet the house was empty. Or was it?

  I glanced at Rodney’s dish. It was nearly full. That was all I needed. I backed out of the house and locked the door, double-speed, behind me. Within seconds I was back at the river trail, willing my body to relax. Whatever it was I’d felt, I wanted it to stay far away.

  I stopped behind an old oak and leaned against its mossy trunk, catching my breath. What had gone on back there? I scoured the windows for a trace of light, a hint that someone was there, but the house stared back blankly.

  “Looking for something?” came a voice I knew all too well.

  I opened my mouth to scream, and a man grabbed me from behind, clapping a gloved hand over my mouth. I stamped at his feet and hit boot leather. It was Richard White, Senator Markham’s aide. I went limp. Something hard—the barrel of a gun—jammed against my back.

  “Let’s go inside,” Richard said. “We have some talking to do.”

  * * *

  “Unlock the door.”

  The gun’s barrel rose to press between my shoulder blades. A bullet would pierce my heart.

  “Hurry up.” Richard White nudged the gun for emphasis.

  With surprising calm, I unlocked the kitchen door and turned on the lights. Richard flipped their switches off and pushed me forward.

  “We’ll go to the other side of the building,” he said. Because no one could see the light, he didn’t have to add. I forced myself to breathe evenly.

  We passed into the library’s atrium, where Lyndon’s arrangement of dahlias and golden maple boughs nodded.

  “In there.” Richard yanked my arm toward the house’s old drawing room. He pushed me into a chair at the reading table and clicked on the side lamp.

  I felt, rather than heard, the tension of the volumes of books around us. They tightened the air like metal bands. I had to force my lungs to draw breath. Had my magic been active, I knew I’d hear the books shrieking. I remembered my mother’s vision. There had to be another way out of this.

  “What do you want?” I said.

  He swung a briefcase onto the table and opened it. A clip of bullets slid to the side. He withdrew a piece of paper and a pen. He wiped the pen with a cotton handkerchief and handed it to me.

  “Hold this.”

  “Why?” My heartbeat rose.

  “You shouldn’t have talked to the reporter from the Post. Now you’re going to have to recant your story.”

  Upstairs, the telephone rang. Its full-throated bell was only a quiet purr down here. Richard lifted his head but apparently decided it wasn’t a threat. The ringing stopped.

  “In fact,” he said, “you’re so sorry for all the lives you’ve ruined that you’ve decided to kill yourself.”

  Ice chips coursed through my veins. Rodney sat in the corner staring at me. Every muscle in my body was rigid with fear—fear of Richard and of what would happen if my magic cut loose.

  For a second I imagined my body exploding with energy and books flying through the air as if caught in a vicious squall. Windows would shatter, furniture would rocket across the room.

  Use it, a voice said. Use your magic. My eyes shot to Marilyn Wilfred’s portrait, just visible outside the door. It was her. She was talking to me.

  I screwed my eyes shut and said, “No.”

  “You don’t seem to realize you don’t have a choice.”

  My eyes flew open to Richard’s voice. “Why? Why would I write what you say if you’re going to kill me, anyway?”

  He leaned in, a clump of gelled hair falling forward. “There are lots of ways to die. Some are more painful than others.” He ran a finger down the gun’s muzzle. “I’m not saying I like it. I went to some trouble to hire someone to stop you the first night you were here. She had a nice packet of money to offer you to change your story. Everything could have ended much more pleasantly.”

  “Ten thousand dollars,” I said. Lalena’s money. How had it ended up under her trailer?

  Richard’s eyes narrowed. “Too late now.”

  “The second man, the one from Bondwell. He was a decoy.”

  Before Richard could answer, the phone rang again. This time it was the li
brary’s extension in Thurston Wilfred’s old office next door. Someone was trying to reach me.

  Rodney’s tail twitched. If I had my magic, I could ask him to knock the phone off the hook. Maybe someone would hear us. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it. It was too dangerous.

  The ringing stopped.

  “Pick up that pen,” Richard said.

  I picked it up and pulled the paper in front of me.

  “Write what I tell you.”

  I refused to speak.

  Use your magic, Marilyn told me. Trust it.

  There had to be another way. Someone was trying to call me, to warn me. Someone—Sam? Lalena?—knew I was in danger. They’d come soon. They had to.

  “We’ll skip the salutation,” Richard said. “Write this. ‘I lied, and I can’t live with it any longer.’”

  The phone rang again. Richard spoke over its trill.

  “ ‘I never overheard any conversation between Senator Markham’s aide and a lobbyist.’” He waved his gun. “Write faster.”

  I had been copying his words deliberately slowly. The longer I took, the more time someone had to find me. Besides, the pressure of the books’ forced silence rushed in my ears like high tide and slowed my fingers.

  “I’m shaking,” I said. Writing these words went against everything I stood for. My mother had called me a “truth teller.” Never had I felt this to be so exact.

  “As you would if you were in an emotional state and planning to off yourself.”

  My mind raced. Marilyn stared me down. I felt like I was in the driver’s seat of a stagecoach pulled by a dozen wild horses, leading me along a thin trail at a cliff’s edge. The reins were slipping, and there was nothing I could do. If I let loose, we’d all die.

  The phone rang again—the fourth time. Someone was frantic to get through. Richard abruptly stood, keeping his gun fixed on me. He backed into Thurston Wilfred’s library.

  “I’m taking the phone off the hook.”

  This is it, Marilyn said. You can do it. Use your power to seal the doors. Trap him.

  Rodney heard the words, too. He mouthed a silent meow.