“Not the barista from Ground?” His dark brows slashed downward.
Unable to speak, I nodded.
“All right.” He released me and strode toward his partner.
Beside Mathilda’s body, Sam looked up and shook his head.
A chill knifed through me. I'd known Mathilda was dead, but there was something awful in the confirmation. Nauseated, I turned to Karin, but she had vanished.
“She's gone back to the road,” Lenore said, “to tell the sheriff where exactly we are.”
My mouth went dry. “Right.” Sheriff McCourt. I was not on her list of people to invite to a party. I hadn't been since Brayden's wife had been found dead inside my coffeeshop, Ground, over a year ago. And now a barista from my cafe was dead as well — murdered – and I’d found her corpse.
I swallowed. I'd found Brayden's wife too.
“It will be okay,” Lenore said.
I shook my head, my throat closing. I'd thought my sisters and I had broken the curse that had once doomed our family. But I was starting to wonder.
Brayden paced toward me and stopped, his arms loose at his sides. “Jayce… It's not—” He looked quickly about the forest. The red and blue lights flickered across his handsome face. Even in the darkness, I could see the strain in his expression. He glanced at Lenore, and his look shifted to unease. “It's not magic, is it?” he asked quietly.
I looked away, studying a fallen pinecone. “I didn't sense magic.” But I hadn't sensed any magic last November, either, when things had gone so terribly wrong.
He gazed at me, his eyes filled with doubt and something else… fear. Fear my magic had put there. A cold fist seemed to grab my heart and squeeze.
Flashlight beams bounced through the pines. Karin, Sheriff McCourt and a baby-faced deputy, Owen Denton, strode from the trees.
The sheriff stopped short at the sight of me. Her mouth compressed. She adjusted her broad-brimmed hat, squashing her blond curls. “Where?”
Karin pointed.
The sheriff said something to Owen and marched toward the body.
Brayden squeezed my arm and went to speak with her.
Owen clicked a device on the collar of his near-black deputy’s jacket. With his blond hair and youthful appearance, he could have been the sheriff’s son. “I'm recording this conversation. Is that all right?”
I expected it didn't matter if it was or wasn't, and I nodded.
“How did you come to find the body?” he asked carefully.
My sisters and I glanced at each other.
“Night hike,” I said.
“Denton!” the sheriff barked. “Separate the witnesses.”
He flashed a brief smile and told Karin and Lenore to stand beside separate trees and not talk to each other.
“Tell me what happened,” he said to me.
I was as vague as he'd let me get away with. And Owen let me get away with quite a bit, all things considered. Did he feel sorry for me? Or was he taking it easy out of loyalty to his usual partner, Connor Hernandez, who was dating Lenore?
Sheriff McCourt joined us. “All right, Denton. Get statements from the other two.”
He nodded and walked to Lenore.
“She worked in your coffeeshop,” the sheriff said, clicking the device on her collar.
I sucked in my cheeks. She was doing it, making the connection between me and murder. But because I’d found the body, the connection was there, whether I liked it or not. “Yes.”
“Why was Mathilda Sinclair out here?”
“I don't know,” I rapped out.
“Why were you out here?”
“My sisters and I were out for a walk.”
She arched a skeptical brow and pulled a leather-bound notebook from her jacket’s inside pocket. I guessed she didn't trust her tech. “Huh. Where did you start your walk?”
Oh, damn. My mouth went dry. We hadn't had time to coordinate this part of our story. “We cut through near the old folks' home,” I said, thinking fast. Keep as close to the truth as possible, make it harder for her to sniff the lie. I just hoped Karin and Lenore were on the same wavelength as I was tonight.
“The senior care facility? Why?”
“We were nearby, and the trail isn't far from it.”
“Why were you nearby?”
My palms grew damp. Here we go. “We were walking.”
“And then you decided to walk in the woods. At night.”
“The sky is beautiful.”
Something rustled in the branches above us, and my shoulders squeezed together.
“It's not the best conditions for stargazing,” she said.
I shrugged. “There's not much else to do around here.”
“On a Friday night? I figured you’d be at Antoine’s.”
“Brayden was working.” I nodded toward him, speaking in low tones with another deputy who’d appeared when I wasn’t looking.
“How long has Mathilda Sinclair worked for you?”
“Since last October, nearly four months.”
“Any problems?”
“With Mathilda? Not really.”
She glanced up from her notepad. “Not really?”
“She could get a little impatient with the job,” I admitted.
“With the job, or with the people?”
“Both.” I hesitated. “I think she found serving coffee a little boring.”
“Any personal conflicts?”
I shook my head. “Not that I know of.”
“Which one of you touched the body?”
Briefly, I closed my eyes, dread turning my insides to lead. I’d no doubt left evidence nearby, evidence Sheriff McCourt would use against me. “I did. I tried to take her pulse. I didn’t see right away that she was… My sisters didn't get near the body.”
“Convenient.”
“I'm not sure how,” I said, suddenly angry. I hadn't done this! And there was nothing convenient about murder.
She stared at me, and I stared back. Not being totally stupid, I looked away first.
The sheriff tapped her pen on the notebook. “I'll be in touch.”
I went to wait by a pine, and Brayden came to stand beside me. “Are you sure you're okay?” he asked.
Shrouded by the forest’s darkness, I slipped my hand into his, broad and strong. He squeezed gently.
“I'm worried,” I said.
Lightly, he rubbed his thumb along the inside of my palm, in the sensitive spot above my wrist. I exhaled slowly.
Karin walked up to us, and he stiffened, his tension vibrating through my hand. I looked up at him and bit my bottom lip.
“How did it go with the sheriff?” she whispered.
“Fine,” I said. “Why wouldn’t it?”
The sheriff had returned to studying the body. It didn't escape my notice that I was the only one she'd questioned personally.
A breeze soughed, mournful, in the pines.
“Brayden,” Karin said, “did you—?”
“Sorry,” he raised his hand, his gaze tracking his partner, walking away through the forest. “I've got to go. I'm still on duty.” Brayden kissed my cheek. “I'll call you tomorrow.” He hurried away.
Karin stared after him. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” I lied. “He's just busy.” And Karin was the freakiest of the three of us when it came to magic. Something sharp and bitter burned my throat. My sister was everything Brayden feared. The skin bunched around my eyes. I guessed I ran a close second.
“Are you all right?” Karin asked.
“Everyone's been asking me that tonight,” I said tightly. “Don't I look all right?”
“You look worried.”
“There's a murderer in Doyle, and we found the body.” I met her gaze. “Everything's normal.”
CHAPTER THREE
I went home.
And since my boho apartment is right above my coffeesh
op, before I went to bed, I pulled Mathilda's personnel file. I snapped a picture of her employment application with my phone and returned the file to its spot in my closet. It was a good bet the sheriff would be here tomorrow demanding I turn over the file. She wasn’t lazy or stupid. I half-wished she was, because McCourt wasn't going to leave me alone. We had too much history.
Brayden crept into bed around one that morning. He spooned against me, and I half woke, then drifted back into a troubled sleep.
I awakened to bacon sizzling from my kitchen. Winter light streamed from the skylight over the bed and washed me in warmth. Frost crusted the windows. The temperature must have dropped overnight. Now maybe we’d get some snow.
Smiling, I stretched and rolled from the bed, knocking colorful pillows to the floor and onto the soft rug. I slipped into a silky kimono robe. I’d been too sensitive about our relationship last night. Brayden was here, cooking, and we were fine.
I padded from the bedroom and into the open-plan apartment.
Picatrix sat on the kitchen’s green floor tiles, her tail flicking. The cat kept exactly far enough from the stove to avoid Brayden's bare feet and stay within range of any dropped bacon. The ebony cat glanced at me, decided I had nothing to offer, and returned her attention to Brayden and his tongs.
“Hey, babe.” Glancing over his muscular shoulder, he edged aside a carton of cracked eggshells on the blue-black granite counter. “Did I wake you last night?”
“No.” I strolled behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist. His white tee smelled of detergent and Brayden – soap and cedar. “Mmm. You really know how to treat a girl.”
One corner of his mouth quirked upward. “What makes you think this is for you?”
“It’s always about me,” I joked, mumbling into his broad back, and released him. “Where did you find the bacon?”
“They're called grocery stores. You might want to think about checking one out.” He opened the refrigerator, newly supplied with milk and orange juice. Scrambled eggs bubbled in the iron skillet.
“You went shopping?” I asked, surprised.
“Before you woke up.”
“That's service.”
“If you buy fresh supplies before the old supplies run out,” he said, “then you never run out.”
“Mm hm.” It was his EMT training. He was always thinking ahead, so I didn’t have to.
“Jayce, I don't want you running out of food.”
“I'm not going to starve.” I laughed. “California's not on rationing.”
“That's not the point.”
Picatrix meowed.
“I get it,” I said. “You can't trust cats. Picatrix might get hungry enough to eat us both.”
He frowned and flipped a piece of bacon. “Why did you find Mathilda last night?” he asked, not looking at me.
“Why?” I stepped backwards, narrowly missing the cat’s tail. “That's a weird question.”
“Is it?” He leveled his gaze at me.
I exhaled, puffing out my cheeks. “I had no idea I'd find—”
“I? You were alone when you found her? But your sisters were there. Weren’t you hiking together?”
“I had no idea we'd find Mathilda.” I squirmed inside, wanting to tell him the truth about the virikas and knowing it would be a bad idea. We’d been tiptoeing around what had happened in November, and he’d made it clear he didn't want to hear about the magic side of my life. Maybe I was being gutless. But last November had been bad, and I didn’t want to push. “It was just one of those things.”
He grunted and shifted to the skillet, prodding the eggs with my wooden spoon.
Picatrix meowed with impatience.
“It wasn't an accident, was it?” I adjusted my kimono’s neckline. “Mathilda's death, I mean.”
“It didn't look like one to me. The rock that killed her was a good six feet away. She couldn't have fallen on it.”
“You found the rock? She was hit in the head with a rock, and that’s what killed her?”
“It wasn’t hard to find. The rock was covered in blood, and I had a flashlight. You didn't,” his voice vibrated with irritation. My flashlight-free philosophy drove him nuts.
“You know it's better on night hikes to let your eyes adjust to the dark.”
“You should have one anyway, in case of emergency. The good ones have strobe lights for signaling.”
“Well, I didn't need one. You know Karin always has a flashlight, swiss army knife, and bottle of water in that ginormous bag of hers. I was walking ahead of them and found Mathilda first. We agreed they shouldn't come closer, in case…”
“In case what?” he asked.
“In case there was evidence.”
“So, you knew it was a murder,” he said, accusing.
I sighed. “I suspected. Brayden, it's Doyle.”
He turned to me, his fist tight around the wooden spoon. “Maybe we should leave.”
“Leave what?”
“Doyle.”
Leave Doyle? Stunned, I set my hand on the small kitchen table for balance. “What?”
He turned back to the eggs and scraped the spoon against the bottom of the iron skillet. “I know Doyle’s your home. It's mine too. But something's not right here. It's not like this in other places.”
It wasn't magic in other places. “My sisters are here,” I said weakly.
“Not Karin. She and Nick moved to Angels Camp.”
“Which is all of thirty minutes away.”
“You're right. We should go farther. Karin was—” He clamped his jaw shut.
But he didn't need to go on. I knew what he'd wanted to say. Even though she lived in Angels Camp, Karin had gotten sucked into the Doyle magic last summer. That magic had been dark.
And even though I'd tucked away my crystals and tarot decks and smudges at the back of my closets, he worried. He was right to worry. I’d never been able to let go of the Doyle magic. Suddenly, the scent of bacon and eggs turned my stomach.
“So, what are we doing today?” I tucked two fingers in the front pocket of his jeans and tugged him toward me. “After we eat this amazing breakfast, I mean.”
“I've got to work.”
“What?” I asked, disappointed.
“Sorry. I got the call when I was on the way back from the store. Jack’s out sick – I'm going to need to take his shift.”
My stomach wormed. When Brayden had been under the witch’s control, he’d told a lot of lies about extra shifts. But that was over now. If he said he was working an extra shift, he was working an extra shift. “That is so unfair!”
“He's covered for me before,” Brayden said. “And I don't mind the extra pay.”
And that was Brayden – always there to help a friend. He'd been there for me, too, a comforting anchor when all was chaos. He balanced me in a way I couldn’t imagine losing.
But an unsexy tension vibrated between us as we ate a tasteless breakfast and cleaned up. Then Brayden hurried out the door, leaving me alone.
Picatrix growled.
“All right, all right.” I crumbled a small piece of bacon and dropped it into the cat's ceramic bowl. “I’m not completely alone. Not that you’ve been any great shakes as a familiar or a mouser.”
She attacked the bacon like I hadn't fed her for a month. And for the record, that cat never went hungry in my house. When I ran out of cat food, she got tuna. Picatrix lived for my forgetfulness at the grocery store.
I showered, dressed, and lounged in my upstairs apartment. Checking email and watering plants, I killed time.
At eleven, I couldn’t put it off any longer. I walked to Mathilda's, because I knew what was coming. The sheriff would find a way to blame me for her death. It wouldn’t be hard. Mathilda had worked for me, and I’d found the body. I was a natural suspect.
My mouth hardened. This time, I wasn’t going to be Sheriff McCourt’s patsy.
Mathi
lda had lived in a ramshackle, wooden apartment complex that had been built in the seventies and hadn't been updated since. Pines leaned toward the two-story building. A thick carpet of dead needles and pine cones layered the ground.
Double-checking the address, I walked up the creaking stairs to 2B. I knocked. The golden B canted a half-inch to the left.
Footsteps sounded behind the door.
A twenty-something woman with tousled brown hair threw open the door. She wore gray yoga pants and a thin, pink sweatshirt. “Yeah?”
“Hi. I'm Jayce Bonheim, from Ground?”
Her expression turned wary. “Yeah?”
“I have a check for Mathilda, and I'm not sure where to send it. Do you know her stepmother's address?” It wasn’t a lie. I would have a check for Mathilda’s estate when I got around to it. And I didn’t know where her stepmother lived. They were newish to Doyle.
“Why would you send it there?” She lowered her narrow chin. “Just give it to Mathilda.”
Oh. Hell.
I blew out a slow breath, dread curdling in my gut. “You don't know.”
“Don't know what?” She folded her arms.
The easiest way to deliver bad news was to spit it out. I'd learned this the hard way. “I'm sorry, Mathilda's dead.”
She froze, paling. “What?”
“She was found last night on the south-side trail, not far from the old folks' home.”
Her green-brown eyes flashed with… satisfaction? And then the expression was gone.
I drew slightly back, wondering if I'd imagined that look.
She blinked rapidly. “Dead? Mathilda's really dead?”
“I'm very sorry. I thought the police would have told you by now.”
She gulped and moved away from the door. “Come in.”
I walked into the living room, and she shut the door. White walls. Beige carpeting. Ikea furniture. Framed posters of impressionist paintings on the walls. It looked like my old college dorm.
She dropped onto a simple gray couch. “I can't believe she's dead.” She sniffed. “You're sure? It's not a joke?”
“I wouldn't joke about something this awful. I'm Jayce Bonheim, by the way.” I'd already told her, but she still hadn't told me her name, and I hoped to jar her into politeness.
Fey: A Doyle Witch Cozy Mystery (The Witches of Doyle Book 5) Page 2
