Dead Witch on a Bridge

by Gretchen Galway

  “Give me a few minutes,” I told her. “I’ll see if I can, uh…”

  “Neutralize it?”

  I knew I couldn’t do that without knowing what was inside—and maybe not even then—but I said, “Yeah. Exactly.”

  “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  “All right.”

  “You really don’t know who’s going to take over this place? I’m not the only one who needs to know if we still have a job. Oscar—he’s the landscaper—he was asking me. Everyone else works for the winery, but Tristan paid us directly.”

  “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  She let out a long sigh and left me to the invisible toe-breaking cabinet.

  Which turned out to be better guarded than I’d expected. I couldn’t even get into the room. With my first step, a wave of nausea swept over me, making me double over. Hands on knees, I gasped, trying not to cast up my coffee and toast on the bamboo plank flooring as I struggled to concentrate on Tristan’s protective spell.

  Sweat coated my body, and I began to shake from head to toe. My abdomen spasmed around what felt like a ball of barbed wire, reminding me of the time everyone got food poisoning at boarding school.

  Donna was lucky to have only stubbed a toe.

  I fell on my ass and flung a hand up to grab my necklace. The beads had a highly personal power, and it rushed into my body like fuel, tearing down my skin like wildfire, cutting the bonds between me and the…

  The guarding spell was coming from an invisible wall at the threshold. I rolled over and put my face near the floor, inhaling as I searched for a visible line on the wood planks.

  There. A row of tarnished silver dots. The heads of pins that had been driven into the… rowan. The bamboo floor in the hallway ended at the doorway and became witch wood. No wonder I felt sick, but Donna had walked right in.

  Tristan hadn’t feared the nonmagical finding his cabinet. This was for people like me. Witch people.

  I was more curious than ever about the cabinet. Donna was right—it could be dangerous for normal people to get their hands on anything he guarded so carefully.

  Clutching my stomach, I forced myself to sit up, bracing my back against the hallway wall with my legs sprawling out in front of me.

  Rowan and silver would be a challenge for me to break. The wood alone was doable, but bound with metal—

  I got to my feet, having to keep my hand on the wall for balance, and lurched down the hall to the kitchen, where Donna was mopping the floor.

  Her floor wash smelled a lot better than mine.

  “Hi,” I said to get her attention.

  “Oh my God, what happened? Should I call somebody?” She rested the mop against the refrigerator and began to come over, although she stopped with several feet between us. “You don’t look so good.”

  “I don’t feel so good. Would you mind getting me a glass of water?”

  “Sure, sure.” She turned and opened the fridge, but I stopped her from taking out a plastic bottle.

  “Just tap water,” I said. “Please. From the faucet.”

  “But he—Tristan won’t be drinking this—I’m sure he wouldn’t mind—”

  “Tap. Please.” I smiled at her until she shrugged and got a glass.

  As she filled it at the sink, I concentrated on my desires that the hint of wellspring magic that made its way into Silverpool tap water would help me recover.

  “I think it tastes bad,” Donna said, handing it to me.

  I gulped it down without comment. It was faint, but I felt a thread of magic dissolved in the water and now seeping into me, my lips and mouth and esophagus and finally my stomach…

  The cramping ceased. I let out a long breath and moved to get more, but she stopped me, pointing at the wet floor and my boots, and refilled it for me.

  After I’d finished that one, I felt good enough to smile sincerely. “Thank you so much, Donna. It has a little something in it, you know? You might want to drink it sometimes.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What’s in it?”

  “You know. Something.” I held up my thumb and forefinger about a millimeter apart. “Just a little.”

  “Tristan never drank water out of the faucet,” she said. “He didn’t even want me cooking with it.”

  That surprised me. I’d thought Tristan wasn’t as hostile to wellspring magic as the mainstream Protectorate witches who would’ve buried every spring under mountains of rock and mud if they’d had the power. In fact, they’d tried just over a century ago, down the coast in Big Sur, but fairies had immediately redirected the water to the surface nearby. Probably laughing while they did it, triggering a few earthquakes in revenge.

  I handed her the empty glass with my thanks and went to look at the cabinet again. From the mantle I grabbed a framed photograph of him standing in front of the Silverpool Vineyard sign at the bottom of the drive, the rows of vines rolling up the hill behind him in bright, golden autumn light. It was a recent picture, or at least timeless. He looked happy.

  Being in his house was bringing up a lot of memories, making me depressed. Living in Silverpool was going to be lonely without him. He’d been a womanizer, but he’d found me the rental house, encouraged me to sell my beads, and then found me wealthy witch customers to buy them, usually for much more than I’d priced them. When the Protectorate had dumped me, he’d helped me get back on my feet when I’d felt completely alone in the world.

  I lifted the photograph and looked him in the eye. “I owe you.”

  I waited a moment to see if he’d reply (you never know) before hugging the frame to my chest and returning to the hexed guest room.

  Holding Tristan in my thoughts, and his picture over my heart, I studied the cabinet again from the safety of the hallway. In many of its visible compartments, I could see keyholes. It was certainly locked in more than one way.

  “It wasn’t always here, you know,” Donna said behind me, making me jump.

  “Where was it?” I asked, then caught myself. “You mean he got it recently?”

  “Last year. It used to be a guest room. People slept in here. But then a guy from town came in with the cabinet in pieces on a dolly, and then I didn’t see it again until I stubbed my toe on it.”

  “What guy?”

  “I’ve seen him around. Contractor type. Handyman, remodeling, that sort of thing,” Donna said. “He was at the deli last week in his work clothes. I was standing behind him in line, and he was covered with dust. Even his hair. If you’re going out to a restaurant, even a takeout place, don’t you think you should brush yourself off first?”

  “Do you remember his name?” The man who made it would know what kind of mechanical locks the cabinet had. Even after I figured out the magic protections, I’d still have to get it open.

  “Sorry. Local, that’s all I know.”

  I thanked her, got her permission to take the photo, and hurried out to my Jeep. I would have to ask Birdie at the hardware store if she knew about a cabinetmaker working on an elaborate piece of furniture for Tristan.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Cypress Hardware was the biggest building in the business district, with a full-sized parking lot that set it back from the street, pushing it against the river’s edge. Cypress not only provided sand bags to the community every winter, it relied on them to form a dam along its property line, when the river turned into a brown, flowing lake every December. The town, like so much of California, had a tendency to build in floodplains. Unlike the rest of the state, however, having the Protector as a close neighbor meant the store floor remained dry, even when the river broke its banks and took out the bridge.

  I parked and found Birdie at the customer service counter near the front door. It was a small-town hardware store but was oddly enormous, with ten registers, big-box warehouse architecture, and dozens of aisles stacked high with do-it-yourself merchandise. When the UPS truck usually got lost, you stopped ordering online.

  “Where’s your dog?” Birdi
e asked me. She wore a green Cypress apron and a bulky canvas coat over it to stay warm. It got cold next to the door, even in late summer. “You know you’re allowed to bring him in here?”

  “Thanks, I know. He’s home,” I said. “I need to get back and take him for a walk.”

  “I’ll take him anytime,” Birdie said. “If you trust me.”

  “Of course I trust you.” It was true. She wasn’t a witch, but now that Tristan was gone, I felt closer to her than anyone else in town, even Jasper. “Did anyone else drop off any pictures?”

  “Oh. No. That is, maybe. I don’t know.” Rubbing her eyes, she bent down to look under the counter.

  I realized how tired she looked, as if she’d spent all night washing her floors with her own urine and then had to drive Protectorate witches away. “Are you all right?”

  Busy with a pile of plastic bins under the counter, she didn’t answer.

  “Birdie?”

  “What? Yes?” She stood up, clutching a bin to her chest. “Am I all right?”

  “You seem tired.” Now I noticed the dark circles under her eyes, the dullness of her complexion.

  “Oh, I’m fine. But I don’t see any more pictures.” She pushed the bin back beneath the counter. “You could ask Carolyn. She worked on his kitchen remodel.”

  “Sure. Thanks.” I started to walk away, then turned. Maybe a happy dog would cheer her up. “Would you be interested in taking Random for a walk later? I don’t know if you’d be willing to have him in your house—”

  “Sure! I’d love it.” Her face fell. “But I’m working until eight. And then I can’t.”

  “Maybe tomorrow then. He seemed to really like you.”

  “I’m really sorry. I said I could take him anytime and then the first time you ask, I’m like, no, busy.”

  “Totally fine,” I said. “Listen, do you know any woodworker or crafty guy who made a custom cabinet for Tristan, at least a year ago? It’s a big thing, lots of nooks and crannies—”

  She shook her head. “Carolyn might know. Ask her that too.”

  “OK, thanks,” I said. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Totally. It’s not like a stroke or cancer. I’m fine.” She smiled faintly and then began to laugh.

  Concerned, I lingered at the counter until I realized a customer holding an air conditioner was standing behind me, waiting for Birdie, and I hurried away.

  I found Carolyn behind an office desk in the Designer Showroom area, where several mock kitchens and bathrooms had been set up in the back corner of the building. She was in her thirties, highlighted gold-and-copper hair, lots of makeup, flattering black pantsuit, pretty but unhappy. I’d seen her around, but she was the type of person I avoided—smart and observant but aggressively conventional, a bad companion for a witch trying to live under the radar.

  I introduced myself and explained I was looking for pictures of Tristan for the memorial.

  “Livia told me you were making a slideshow,” she said, wiping her nose with a tissue. I noticed she might be wearing so much makeup to cover a recent bout of crying; her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, her nose red. “Such a tragedy.”

  “You knew Tristan?”

  Her voice dropped. “I knew Tristan.” She sighed and looked off into space before offering me a chair. “I do have pictures. Tons of them. I’m not sure how many you can use, though.”

  “I only need a few.”

  She looked past me again, then leaned over the desk. “Can you be, you know, discreet? I want to honor his memory, but…”

  “Whatever you feel comfortable sharing.”

  “What I mean is, do you have to say you got them from me?” Licking her lips, she glanced at the ceiling. “You see, although I did work with Tristan on the remodel, these pictures aren’t exactly from the project itself, if you know what I mean.”

  “I don’t want anything, you know, inappropriate—”

  She recoiled in horror. “No, of course not. It’s just these are obviously, uh, casual shots. He’s at the beach.”

  “Fully clothed?”

  “Of course! You think I’d offer naked shots of him for his memorial?”

  “But then why are you so afraid to give them to me?”

  Carolyn sat up straighter but didn’t meet my eyes. “Look, it’s Livia. She— You know how— She really admired Tristan, but things never—”

  “She doesn’t know that you… knew… Tristan pretty well.”

  “She thinks our relationship was strictly professional.”

  I almost felt sorry for Livia. The only woman in town he hadn’t slept with. “I don’t need to tell her you gave me the pictures. I already have a couple that were dropped off anonymously at the store.”

  “You do? Oh, that’s great.” She let out a long sigh and smiled. “Livia and I have been friends a long time. Since we were both living in Napa. I had a bad divorce and came out here, told her how nice it was, and one day she just showed up.”

  “But if you knew Tristan from before, then she could hardly mind—”

  “I knew him but didn’t know him, if you know what I mean. Until a few months ago.” Flushing, she arranged some folders on her desk and shoved them into a binder. “She’d kill me if she knew. She’d made no secret of her feelings for him.”

  No, she hadn’t, I thought. “It’s just a little slideshow,” I said. “Do you want to email them to me?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll make prints and… give them to Birdie. Anonymously. Will that work? You never know with email what’s going to get forwarded, and I don’t want my name attached.”

  “No problem. I’ll come by the store… say, tomorrow? The memorial is on Saturday.”

  “They’ll be ready first thing in the morning.” She stood up as if she was going to send me away, but I stayed in my chair.

  “Listen, do you know anything about a handyman Tristan bought a cabinet from?” I asked. “A local guy?”

  “You mean Nick?” She sank into her chair, smiling more easily now. “Don’t let him hear you call him a handyman. He’s a craftsman. His pieces cost a fortune, and they should. Gorgeous work.”

  “Do you have his number? Last name?”

  “Takata. Nick Takata. Sure, why?”

  I hesitated. “I saw the cabinet he made Tristan and was interested in talking to him, one woodworker to another.” I cast a quick convincing spell to help her believe me.

  “Oh right,” she said, eyes dropping to my necklace. “You’re kind of an artist.”

  “Kind of,” I said. “I’m learning.”

  She jotted down a number from her phone onto a yellow notepad. “Well, he’s amazing. Not easy to talk to though. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  I took the note, thanked her again, and headed for the parking lot. Birdie was busy with another customer as I approached the front doors. I waved, but she didn’t see me. Was she ill? A cold was going around. Working hourly, she probably couldn’t afford to take time off.

  As I walked to the car, I vowed to check up on her later.

  Chapter Twenty

  After a few rounds of phone tag, Nick agreed to meet me at Taco Perdido at four that afternoon on his way home from work. He’d explained that he was working on a job in Marin and might get stuck in traffic. I took the opportunity to go home and take Random out for a long walk.

  Willy came out of his tree as I was leaving again. “Your animal misses you when you’re gone. He cries.”

  “I hate to leave him,” I said, “but I have no choice.”

  Willy put a hand over his heart. “I will sing to him.”

  “Thank you. I won’t be gone long.”

  A short drive later and I was at the taqueria. Based on Donna’s description of a working man coated in sawdust, I was pretty sure I recognized Nick Takata the moment he walked in. Tall, broadly built guy with black hair cut short, wearing paint-splattered jeans, a black T-shirt, and a brown canvas jacket that looked as if it had been dragged beh
ind a truck doing ninety in a muddy field.

  “Nick?” I asked.

  He took off a pair of sunglasses to look me over, which he did slowly, his face blank. Then he walked past me and placed an order at the register without looking at the menu.

  He was a little older than me, good-looking but, as Carolyn had warned, obviously not the friendliest guy in the world.

  When he had his drink and a bowl of chips, he came over and took the chair across from me. “Aren’t you eating?”

  “Looks like it’s ready now,” I said, getting up for my burrito, which waited for me in a red plastic basket at the counter. “Thanks for agreeing to meet me. Salsa?”

  “All right.”

  I got the burrito and two bowls of salsa and returned to the table. He’d taken off his coat, revealing broad shoulders and a silver chain around his neck. I could feel the power coming off it in slow waves, a sign it hadn’t been used for a while. Maybe he didn’t know what it was.

  “I could’ve emailed you the picture,” he said, holding up his phone. On the screen was a shot of Tristan, the cabinet behind him, not yet put under enchantment.

  I peered at the screen. I’d crop out the cabinet, which might interest the wrong people. “Could you do it now?”

  He nodded and hit a button. “You got my name from Carolyn?”

  “I saw that cabinet at Tristan’s this morning.”

  “Thought so,” he said, rolling his eyes. “This isn’t about his memorial.”

  “I came across your cabinet while I was getting ready for the memorial.”

  “And now you want the key,” he said.

  “Do you have the key?” I’d been afraid Tristan had hidden it somewhere I’d never find it.

  He made a face and stood up to get his own burrito. When he returned, he turned his attention completely to his food, sawing through the aluminum foil with a plastic knife and scooping black beans into his mouth without speaking.

  I watched him chew for a full minute. “Have I offended you somehow?”

  He tore open a white paper salt packet and sprinkled it over the chips. The chain around his throat continued to hum, but no differently than before. “I know what you are,” he said.