Dead Witch on a Bridge

by Gretchen Galway

  I took a bite of my burrito and tried to chew as silently yet aggressively as he had. “Fine. That makes it easier.”

  “How so?”

  “I can explain my motives,” I said. “Donna’s worried that with Tristan gone, somebody might get hurt by that cabinet you built. Somebody who doesn’t know what Tristan was.”

  “Liar,” he said. “You want it for yourself.”

  “It’s much too heavy. And my house is cramped as it is.”

  “You want what’s inside it.”

  I couldn’t help myself. I leaned closer and asked, “Do you know what’s inside it?”

  He shook his head and commenced passive-aggressive chewing.

  Eventually I asked, “How do you know what I am?”

  His gaze dropped to my necklace. “That.”

  “Lots of people wear necklaces. You’re wearing one.”

  His lips curved in a brief smile. “Yeah, I knew you’d notice that. My ex gave it to me.”

  “Your ex was like me?”

  “My ex was a witch. I’m not afraid to say it. Normal people don’t quite understand what I mean when I do.” He snowplowed his beans together on his plate. “At first I thought she was normal, staging houses. A real estate agent friend introduced us. But then I found out she was nuts, even for your kind. She hated normal people being in charge of things, but she hated other witches even more.”

  “Sounds like a Freewitch.”

  “Yeah, that’s what she—” He broke off and stared into space, the fork dropping out of his fingers.

  I sensed magic at work. “Nick?”

  His gaze slowly returned to mine. “What?”

  “She was a Freewitch?”

  “Who?”

  “Your ex-girlfriend,” I said.

  He retrieved his fork. “I don’t know and I don’t care.”

  The puff of magic I’d sensed had faded away, leaving only the disgruntled expression on Nick’s face.

  “Why do you still wear the necklace if you’re mad at her?” I asked.

  “I’m not mad.” He stabbed the swollen center of his burrito. “Besides, it won’t come off.”

  Seeing an opening, I said, “I could help you with that.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “OK, but do you have the key? You don’t have to give it to me, obviously, but I’d like to know. There are other people—”

  “Witches.”

  “Yes, witches, who would like to have what’s inside.”

  “Tristan explained that to me when I built the cabinet,” he said. “That’s why it’s locked.” He spoke slowly and deliberately, as if to an idiot.

  “I’m not a thief,” I said.

  Nick snorted. “That’s what Tristan said.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He called himself a collector. I’ve known a lot of rich guys in my life, and I recognize somebody who’s got things he shouldn’t have but doesn’t want to admit it or give them up. And for one of you people, who knows what that might be.” He pointed over my shoulder with his plastic fork. “The dude down in Belvedere where I’ve been installing a whole house full of custom built-ins, for instance. Same story. Gray market, black market, who knows, but he wants his booty and he’s not going to share it with a museum.”

  “I’m not like that. For instance, I don’t collect things unless I use them for my art.” I tapped my necklace.

  “Then why do you want to get in the cabinet? And don’t tell me you’re worried about normal people getting hurt. The safest thing is to leave that cabinet and whatever he put in it alone.”

  “I’m curious,” I said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The magic around it is unusual. I don’t know why he would feel the need to do something like that in his own home.”

  He scoffed. “So what makes it your business?”

  I thought about what Helen had said. “I’m driven to know. It’s what I do. He was a friend and he was—” I started to say murdered, but the official cause of death was a heart attack. “Cut short in the prime of his life.”

  “Not as prime as he looked,” Nick said. “My ex was like that. I found out she was pushing fifty. That creeped me out. Not that I don’t appreciate older women, but I don’t like liars.” He gave me a level stare.

  “I’m not lying to you.”

  “It doesn’t matter if I believe you. That’s just your magic making me believe you.”

  “I’m not using any magic right now.”

  “Sure.”

  “All right,” I said, “there’s something missing, something that was stolen the night he died, and the—authorities—”

  “The Protectorate?”

  “Yes. They think I have it. I know I don’t. So if I find it, I can clear my name.”

  “Why would they think you have it?”

  “Because my father has a reputation for taking things that don’t belong to him.”

  “Does he deserve this reputation?”

  “Definitely.”

  He smiled his first real smile. “I see. Bad luck for you.”

  “Very.”

  “OK, I feel like you’re being open with me, which is probably all a trick, but what the hell.”

  “So you’ll give me the key?”

  “I’m not saying I have it,” he said. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “You’ve got my number—”

  “I sure do.” He wiped his lips with a paper napkin, soiled but neatly folded. A craftsman in love with right angles, or maybe it was compulsive. “I swore I’d never get involved with witches again. All of you are trying to destroy one another. As if the world wasn’t in enough trouble.”

  “It’s understandable you might carry a grudge.”

  “I don’t carry anything except this chain around my neck.”

  “The one she put there,” I said.

  He set down the napkin. “Time for me to go.”

  “It’s not just witches you have to look out for,” I said. “That’s what Tristan’s job really was, protecting Silverpool from those other things. With him gone—”

  “Stop right there. I know what you’re talking about. Demons.” He made air quotes with his big hands, his voice heavy with scorn. “Mankind is the monster here, always has, always will be. With or without magic.” He gave my necklace another pointed look.

  “There are all kinds of monsters.” I was starting to lose my temper. “And more are on the way. When other people—and other things—learn Tristan had a secret cabinet under heavy disguise, they’re going to go looking for it, wherever it is, whoever has it. Whether that’s Donna or some estate agent or you.”

  “I’m sure Tristan thought of that before he died. He seemed like a very careful guy. Nobody’s going to hear about it unless you tell them.”

  “They’ll hear about it from somebody. It’s guarded and invisible, not really hidden. Somebody else is going to stub their toe on it and start poking around.”

  “Let them. It’s locked.”

  I didn’t know how to get through to him. I understood his point of view—what claim did I have? I was just some stranger wanting the dead guy’s loot for myself.

  Just then I realized that Nick must believe the official story, that Tristan died of natural causes, though tragic.

  I had to give him more reason to believe me.

  “Tristan was murdered,” I said. “And the reason might be in that cabinet.”

  He got to his feet and cleared the table. “All the more reason to leave it alone.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I returned home to find Willy singing to Random through the kitchen window. The dog had climbed up on a chair and was fogging up the glass, panting desperately at the gnome on the other side.

  “He enjoys the old songs,” Willy told me as I unlocked the door. He jumped off the window ledge, his red cap bobbing on his head like a quail’s feather plume.

  I set the package I’d brought the gnome on the
patio tiles. “Thank you for keeping him company. I’ve brought you some horchata and flan.” Knowing how much he loved sweets, I always got dessert to go. It wasn’t just cynical manipulation on my part; I liked to make him happy. He always returned the favor.

  “My pleasure.” Willy picked up the bag, almost as big as he was, and dragged it behind him to his tree.

  After Random got the love, kibble, and potty time he needed, I went to my file cabinet, lifted my staff, and sat on the floor with it balanced on my knees.

  I took several deep breaths and calmed my mind as best I could.

  Nick Takata hadn’t believed me about the murder, hadn’t given me the key. As I got more frustrated, I wondered if he was right, if I only wanted to get inside to satisfy my own greedy urges, either possession or knowledge. What right did I have? The Protectorate would deal with it.

  The torc wasn’t inside the cabinet. Why would it be inside the cabinet?

  I kept telling myself that, fingers wrapped around my staff for focus, strength, calm.

  It didn’t work.

  Nick had said Tristan reminded him of black market collectors he’d known. If the Protectorate opened the cabinet next week, after Tristan was buried and they’d seized his property, and found the torc inside, would they tell me? Would they absolve my father, apologize to me?

  No. I’d be left worrying forever. They’d use it as an excuse to spy on me in the future, and the Bellrose name would never be redeemed.

  But how could Tristan have the torc?

  Because he stole it, a voice inside me whispered. Had my father tried to steal it from Tristan, and then—

  None of it made sense. I had to know more.

  I reached up to my desk for my phone and scrolled through it until I found one of my father’s phone numbers. He’d used a lot of burner phones and went through email addresses like an internet scammer, but this one usually reached him eventually.

  I hadn’t expected him to pick up, but his voice answered on the second ring. “Alma, so nice to hear from you.”

  “Hi. Quick question. Need the truth. Ready?”

  “Lovely weather we’re having.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Home, of course. Where else would an old man like me be after dark?”

  “I can think of a few places,” I said. “A few of them in Europe, closely guarded.”

  “I’ve retired, honey. How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “The Protectorate has been here, looking for something they think you stole from the Diamond Street office. I need to know if you have it.”

  “You think I have it?”

  I’d expected him to be incredulous, but I didn’t expect for his act to convince me. But he had managed to fool me countless times before, even since I’d been an adult. He knew I was an honest person, and people like us are easy marks. He was my father but had no morals whatsoever about lying to me again. At a fundamental level, Malcolm Bellrose would always be a cheat.

  “Do you?” I asked.

  “Turn all your verity spells on me and hear the truth, my daughter. I do not have it.”

  If verity spells worked on my father, he’d be in a Protectorate jail by now. “Did you ever have it?”

  “Of course not.”

  This was a waste of time. He’d swear the sky was a flat-screen TV from the future if he’d get something out of it. For me to get information from him, I’d have to offer something valuable in exchange. But not too valuable. I couldn’t tell him about the cabinet—he’d be at Tristan’s house in five minutes, key or no, rowan or no—but I could fish a little.

  “I’m helping out with the memorial,” I said.

  “The what?”

  “Tristan Price. Protector of Silverpool. He died.”

  “You slept with him,” my father said.

  “That’s not why he died.”

  “I was simply attempting to clarify that we were discussing the same individual,” he said.

  “Yes. Same individual, as you well know,” I said. “Anyway, I’ve been collecting photographs of him for the memorial, and an interesting quirk about him has come to my attention.”

  “I hope you’re not shocked to learn you’re not the only woman he slept with.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment. “No, I was aware of that.”

  “What kind of quirk are you talking about then? Rich witch like him probably had a few interesting kinks.”

  “Rich people like to buy things,” I said, “things my father might know about because they’re not totally legit.”

  The line went silent.

  “Dad, please,” I said, softening my tone. “Is it possible Tristan had the torc before he died? You don’t have to admit anything, just yes or no. Is it possible?”

  After a long pause, Malcolm said, “I wasn’t a good father to you, was I?”

  “Just—please, answer the question. Is it possible?”

  “If I answer, are we cool? You’ll forgive and forget?”

  I decided that his question referred to only recent crimes, not a lifetime of them. “All right,” I said.

  “Lovely,” he said. “Doesn’t that feel good? I bet your heart is lighter now.”

  “Answer the question.”

  After a pause so long I thought he’d thrown the phone in the San Francisco Bay, I heard a single, quiet word.

  “Yes.”

  And then the line went dead.

  The next morning I called Nick again to ask him if he’d reconsider giving me the key, but he didn’t pick up, and my texts went unanswered.

  It only strengthened my resolve to find another way. Besides, the physical key was the least of my problems with a cabinet so heavily spelled. Breaking through the magical protections would take time. And knowledge. And who knew what else.

  After sucking down a can of cold coffee, I sat outside under Willy’s tree, cross-legged in the dirt with Random curled beside me, and got to work. Thinking. So much of magic was just figuring things out. My father had taught me how effective a well-planned invasion could be, even against what seemed insurmountable.

  The key. Maybe that would be the least of my problems.

  The rowan. It could either work for you or against you and was always powerful. With the right tools, I could turn it to my side.

  The silver. Like the rowan, it could repel evil or perceived evil intent. With a pure heart, I would be able to enter. Since I didn’t have a pure heart, I’d have to trick it—by taking it down an exhausting, twisted path. A knot snare.

  The unknown. What glamour had Tristan used that had survived his death? Something physical, embedded in the ceiling or the floor, perhaps the cabinet itself. Metal? Another botanical? Old magic or new?

  And stone. Tristan had loved precious gems. He’d worn sapphire cuff links on fancy occasions. Numerous jade sculptures from Chinatown adorned the living room—had there been any in the room with the cabinet? I’d been too busy trying not to throw up to notice.

  I cast my mind back, trying to remember. I couldn’t see it in my mind’s eye, but I could feel it. A guardian spirit, green, stone, watching me from across the threshold. A monster with five eyes, tiny but deadly, claws digging into his perch on the top of the—I strained to remember—on top of the cabinet itself. No bigger than my fist.

  Covered with sweat, I opened my eyes and let myself fall onto my back on the ground, sucking in deep breaths. Random wiggled out from under me and began licking my face.

  “I think I’m ready,” I told him.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Donna greeted me on Tristan’s doorstep. She’d been in Santa Rosa when I’d called but had agreed to meet me at the house.

  “Thanks for letting me in,” I said. A bag slung over my shoulder was heavier than it looked, digging a painful groove into my collar bone.

  Donna, still wearing her coat, stepped aside to let me in the house. “I can’t stay,” she said. “I’ve got another job.”

  I held up
a box of pastries from the Riverside Café. “I got these for you, if you’re interested. I really do appreciate your making the trip.”

  Frowning, she took it from me. “Donuts are bad for my blood sugar, but I’ll see if Oscar wants any.”

  “There’s a gluten-free keto vegan nut bar in there too,” I said. As unusual as Silverpool was, it was still California. “If that appeals to you.”

  “Maybe. Thanks.” She tucked the box under her arm and stepped outside. “Pull this door shut when you leave. It’ll lock behind you. I’ll be back in a few hours to make sure you’re OK.”

  I swung my heavy bag to the floor, where it landed with a thud. “You don’t have to come back.” I didn’t want her to interrupt me while I was casting my spells.

  “You don’t know what that thing might do,” she said. “Who should I call if you… you know…”

  “Drop dead?”

  She nodded.

  “The police, I suppose.” If something killed me, the Protectorate deserved to have the nonmag officials asking questions. “But I’ll be fine.”

  She shuddered. “That’s what Tristan said,” she said as she left.

  A few moments later, as I was dragging my bag down the hallway, I thought about her choice of words. I dropped the bag and caught up to her in the driveway.

  “Did he say that the night he died?” I asked. “That he’d be fine?”

  “He said that every night.” Donna covered her mouth as she spoke. She held the nut bar in the other hand.

  “OK, thanks again.”

  For a part-time housekeeper, Donna seemed awfully familiar with Tristan and his secrets. She’d been working for him as long as I’d known him. Had they slept together? Did it matter?

  I went back inside to my bag in the hallway. The first thing I removed was a long necklace of carefully knotted red yarn, which I pulled over my head and looped around three times. My eyes still ached from focusing on the tiny knots, making sure the spacing was right (clustering them in fives, nines, and sevens). It rested on top of my favorite redwood beads.

  I was a witch, but I did wonder if some of this stuff was superstitious nonsense. My wood beads gave off a power I could feel, a power I’d carved and polished into each piece. But would five knots in a strand of red yarn really help me any more than would six knots in yellow yarn? Really?