“Oh. I'm Renee. Renee Greer.” She brushed her hand across her eyes, as if wiping away invisible tears. “Mathilda and I were best friends. I can't believe this. I can't believe she's gone. She can't be gone. What happened?”
I glanced at the front door. If I told her before the sheriff did, things would not go well for me. But I’d already backed myself into a boxed canyon by telling her Mathilda was dead. “I don't know. When's the last time you saw her?”
“Mathilda was here last night. She had dinner. We argued, because she left a mess in the kitchen.” Her thin face pinched. “She never cleaned up after herself.”
“What time did she leave?”
“I guess around seven.”
“Was she meeting anyone?” I asked.
“I guess. She said she had a date. I don't know. Maybe.”
“Maybe she had a date?”
“She said she did.” She twirled her brown hair around one finger.
“Did she say with whom?”
“No.” She released the lock of curling hair and twirled it again. “Why are you asking?”
Because I was paranoid about getting arrested. Again. “We worked together. She didn’t deserve this. Um, about her stepmother's address…?”
“Oh. She lives on Upton Road, the house that looks like it's out of merry olde England. I don't know the address.”
Someone knocked at the door, and we started.
Renee's hazel eyes widened. “Who's that?”
“I don't know,” I said gently. “You'll have to answer it to find out.”
The knock came again, loud, insistent.
She swallowed and stood. Hands shaking, she walked to the door. “Who is it?”
“Sheriff's Department,” a woman said.
I flinched. I knew that voice.
Sheriff McCourt.
Renee opened the door. “Are you here about Mathilda?”
A pregnant silence. Then, “May we come in?”
The girl stepped away from the door. “Sure.”
Removing her broad-brimmed hat, the sheriff stepped inside the apartment. A deputy, Connor Hernandez, followed. Tall, olive skinned, and well-muscled, Connor's gaze raked the room, searching for threats.
My hands fisted. Connor was Lenore's boyfriend. We knew each other, and I had a bad feeling this was about to get embarrassing for us both.
The sheriff's eyes narrowed. “Jayce Bonheim. What are you doing here?”
Busted, I rose from the gray couch. My stomach quivered. “I came to get the contact info for Mathilda's stepmother. Mathilda left some things at Ground.”
“And you told Ms. Greer about her roommate's death.”
Uh oh. “Only that she'd died. Not how.”
“You know how she died?” Renee asked me. “You told me you didn't know anything.”
“I thought the police should be the ones…” I fumbled, trailing off.
“Deputy Hernandez, will you please escort Ms. Bonheim outside?”
He grimaced. “Yes, ma'am.” He angled his head toward the door.
I walked onto the narrow concrete landing, and he followed, shutting the door.
Damn, damn, damn! “How much trouble am I in?” I whispered.
“Could be interfering with an investigation,” he said in a low voice. “It depends on how the sheriff’s feeling.”
“How's she been feeling?”
“Pretty pissed off.”
“Great,” I muttered.
“Don't worry. I'll let Nick know if—”
The door opened, and the sheriff stepped outside. “Hernandez, take Ms. Greer's statement. I'd like to have a word with Ms. Bonheim.”
A word. That was good, right? One word wasn't under arrest. That's two words. Three if you add, you're.
He walked into the apartment and shut the door behind him. The B jolted, completing its fall, swinging upside down.
She glared. “What were you really doing in there?”
“I was getting the contact info for Mathilda's stepmother.”
“And why, exactly, did you want to contact her stepmother?”
“Well, I owe Mathilda some pay.” My neck muscles tightened. “And like I said, there are some things of hers back at Ground.” I hoped there were some things of hers back at Ground, so I wouldn’t be a liar.
A crow landed in a nearby pine, and a pine cone dropped to the pavement. The bird cawed loudly.
“And?” she asked.
“And… nothing?”
She shook her head. “I thought you were smarter than this.” She unclipped a pair of handcuffs from her utility belt. “Jayce Bonheim, you are under arrest for interfering with a police investigation.”
CHAPTER FOUR
I was handcuffed.
And not to a bed or a sexy guy.
I sat cuffed to a metal table in the sheriff’s cinderblock interrogation room. It stank of disinfectant and misery, with a base note of something sour. I mean, seriously bad juju. I’d have to sage myself when I got home. Right after I showered with every soap and scrub and lotion in my bathroom.
In lieu of banging my head on said table, I stretched my arm across it and laid my head on my arm. The chain clanked.
The really depressing part was this wasn't my first time in handcuffs.
I closed my eyes and tried to force down my rising panic, but bad memories flooded in. I’d been here before, for the murder of Brayden's wife.
Did Brayden know I was here? Were those remembered fears shivering his bones, twisting up his spine, like they were mine?
The metal door swung open, and Deputy Denton walked in. He jangled a key from his finger. “We're cutting you loose.”
I jolted upright. “You mean, I'm not under arrest?” I was free? I rattled the chain that connected the handcuffs to the hook on the table.
“Nick got you out.”
“Nick?” So, Brayden had tracked down my lawyerly brother-in-law.
“And your sister, Karin.”
My heart sank. Brayden wasn't here? But maybe it was okay. Brayden wasn't a lawyer – he couldn't have helped even if he'd wanted to.
The deputy unlocked the cuffs, and I gasped with relief, rubbing my wrists.
“I didn't think the sheriff was going to let you go this time,” he said. “She's starting to get the idea these little scares aren't having much effect on you.”
I laughed unsteadily. “Is that what arresting me was? A little scare?” Because they were working all too well. I stood, my legs wobbly.
“Come on.” He angled his blond head toward the open door.
I followed him down the hall, through a door, past an open-plan office filled with uniformed deputies. At a Dutch door, I signed for my purse and phone, and a stern female deputy handed them through the window. Owen and I walked through another door and into a high, modern atrium.
Karin, in a long, blue-wool coat, hurried toward me. “Jayce! Thank God.” She pulled me into a hug.
Her husband, Nick, shook Owen’s hand. “Thanks, man.” Instead of his usual lawyerly business suit, Nick wore a thick, navy hiking jacket and khaki slacks. A suspicious spot dampened his shoulder – I guessed baby spit.
“No problem.” The deputy touched a finger to his brow and retreated through the door. It closed firmly behind him.
“Does Brayden know what happened?” I asked.
“We didn't tell him,” Karin said.
“Oh.” Well. Good. I cracked my knuckles. That explained why he wasn't here. Besides, knowing I was here would only worry Brayden.
“I appreciate your initiative,” Karin said. “But did you have to run to Mathilda's roommate before the sheriff got to her? McCourt really wanted to charge you with something this time.”
“How was I to know the sheriff hadn't interviewed her yet?” I asked.
The winter light through the atrium ceiling cast the room in a misty, surreal glow, dulling my senses. Or m
aybe it had been the hours I’d spent in the interrogation room. I ran my fingers lightly over the leaf of a nearby peace lily. Its lifeforce sparked through my fingers, jarring me back into alertness.
“Um, logic?” She rolled her eyes. “I can't believe how reckless you were and after everything that's happened! How many times is McCourt going to drag you in before the lesson sticks?”
“She won't,” I said, defensive. “McCourt knows Doyle isn't normal, and she knows…” I glanced at Nick.
He crossed his muscular arms over his chest and cocked his head. “Knows what?”
“Who else is going to deal with… this?” I asked helplessly.
They looked at each other.
“So that's what you three are now?” he asked in a low voice. “Doyle's magical crimes police?”
“She's right,” Karin said. “The virikas led us right to Mathilda's body. Her death might not be completely, er, human.”
And because of the virikas’ presence, we knew Mathilda must have been killed not long before I'd arrived. The virikas were attracted to dying, to the act of death. They'd been running toward a murder in progress, not to a corpse.
I shivered. We must have just missed seeing the killer.
“Hold on,” Nick said, his voice low and intense, “are you suggesting the sheriff knows what’s really going on? About the magic?”
“She has to suspect,” I whispered.
“We need to stay on top of this.” Karin glared at me. “But that doesn’t mean interfering in a police investigation.”
My face heated. “After everything that's happened—”
A deputy walked past.
Nick shook his head. “All right. We’ll talk about this later.”
“Let's get out of here before McCourt changes her mind,” I said.
We hurried through the tiled atrium, past tall houseplants and groupings of chairs.
A door opened, banging against a wall behind us. Involuntarily, I looked toward the sound.
A blonde in a cream, cable-knit tunic and matching fur-lined vest stormed into the atrium. She looked to be in her mid-forties. Expensive ivory leggings and high suede boots showed off every taut muscle.
She whirled and stabbed her finger at an unseen someone on the other side of the doorway. “This is garbage, and you know it!” She gasped, something like a sob, and pressed one hand to her mouth. The woman turned and raced toward us and the sliding front doors.
“Mrs. Sinclair…” The sheriff stepped from the door, one hand raised. She met my gaze, shook her head and retreated.
I swallowed. Sinclair? That was Mathilda's last name. Was this the “wicked” stepmother Mathilda had joked about in Ground?
Nick moved swiftly out of the woman’s way, but Karin wasn't quick enough. The two women collided in a flurry of apologies.
“Are you all right?” Karin asked.
The woman wiped her damp cheeks and sniffed. “Yes. I'm sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going.”
Here was real grief, real loss, and my heart tightened in response. My feelings toward Mathilda had been neutral at best, but she'd been loved by this woman.
“You're Mathilda's mother,” I said, “aren't you?”
She blinked, and her blue eyes widened. “Her stepmother. You knew Mathilda?”
“She worked for me at Ground.”
She shook her head, her golden hair cascading around her shoulders. “Of course. I used to go there, until—” She swallowed. “What are you doing here?”
“The sheriff had some questions for Mathilda's employer,” Nick said quickly and shot me a look.
Damn, he was good. It wasn't even a lie. No wonder Karin had married the man. That and he was sexy as hell.
“Has something else happened?” I asked.
“Something else?” Roughly, Mrs. Sinclair wiped her fingers beneath her eyes. “Nothing's happening. That stupid sheriff seems to think Mathilda was killed by a random maniac.”
“She does?” I asked, surprised. Had the sheriff uncovered new evidence? Well, she had to know more than we did.
“She should be looking at my stepdaughter's so-called friends.”
“So-called?” I remembered Renee's faux tears. “Do you think one of them killed her?”
“I don't know, I don't know.” Her voice was a moan.
Karin laid a gentle hand on my arm. “Jayce.”
“Who?” I pressed. “Her roommate? Someone else?”
She lowered her head. “And that man—” Mrs. Sinclair pushed past us. The automatic doors swished open, and she ran through.
I moved to follow, but Karin's grip tightened. “Let her go.”
“She may know something,” I said.
“And she's grieving.”
I blew out my breath, my gaze tracking Mrs. Sinclair to a Mercedes SUV.
Karin was right. I had pushed too hard, too thoughtlessly, too recklessly.
It was time for a new approach.
CHAPTER FIVE
I slumped in the back seat of Nick's SUV. It was a very nice SUV, broad with leather seats, but I was still mashed against the door. The empty baby seat had claimed center position, while Karin and Nick sat up front.
“Where's Emily?” I asked.
Redwoods whizzed by, their roots spiderwebbing from the embankment that was my window view. Ignoring the double-yellow line, a motorcyclist in red leather passed us.
“Her grandparents are visiting.” Karin peeled a long, auburn hair from the shoulder of her blue coat. “They agreed to watch the baby.”
“While you bailed your sister-in-law out of jail?” I asked Nick.
“We left that part out,” he said. “And there was no bail.”
My phone buzzed in the pocket of my down vest, and I dug it free. Lenore.
I answered. “Lenore, what's going on?”
“The virikas are at Sunrise Care again.”
Pulse thumping into overdrive, I swore. “Are you sure?”
“I'm sure. I'm there now.”
I looked out the window. Clouds grayed the sky, but it was still daylight, and would remain so for hours. “Has anyone else noticed?”
“No,” she said. “Our theory was right. They really seem to be invisible to non-magical people. Nurses and visitors are walking right past them. It's me they're giving weird looks to.”
“Hold on.” I lowered the phone. “The virikas are back at Sunrise Care. Lenore’s there alone.”
Karin twisted in her seat, the belt cutting across her neck. She jerked it down. “Now? In broad daylight? Then I was wrong, and the sun doesn’t bother them.”
“Looks that way.” But I smiled. For Karin, being wrong was a cardinal sin. It was easier for me. I was used to the feeling, so I threw her a lifeline. “But you were right. It doesn't look like anyone else can see them.”
We zipped around a sharp turn, pressing me against the door.
“But others must be able to hear the virikas,” Karin said. “People have complained about the sounds.”
“Where's Sunrise Care?” Nick asked.
“On Vineyard Way,” Karin said.
He programmed it into the GPS on the car's dash. “Got it.”
I put the phone to my ear. “We're coming to you,” I told Lenore.
“I'm not sure you should. There's not much we can do with all these people around.”
“Then why are you there?” I asked.
She sighed. “I felt like I had to.”
“What'd she say?” Karin whispered.
“She said she felt like she had to.”
“Tell her to take notes on their behavior,” Karin said. “We might learn something useful.”
“Karin says—”
“I heard,” Lenore said. “Take notes. I'm on it. There is one thing.”
“What?”
“I think they recognize me.”
My breath caught. That couldn’t be good. “
Recognize? What do you mean?”
“Well, they're paying more attention to me than to the other people. Not that there are a whole lot of other people hanging out in the parking lot.”
My voice razored. “Maybe you should get out of there.”
“No, they're not making any aggressive moves. Karin's idea is a good one. We're never going to be able to get rid of these guys if we don't understand them. I'll see you soon.” She hung up.
“We need to hurry,” I said.
“What's wrong?” Karin asked.
“The virikas recognize Lenore.”
The SUV's engine growled, and the car leapt forward, pushing me deeper into the leather seat.
He glanced at me in the rearview mirror, his chiseled face grim.
I shot Nick a grateful look.
He turned into Doyle proper and kept to the speed limit in the residential areas. We were all more careful now, mindful of children now that Karin had one. But we still reached the senior care home in record time. Nick pulled into a spot beside a leaning pine tree.
I scrambled from the car and nearly stepped on a virika.
It gibbered angrily, shaking its tiny fist and adjusting its peaked, red cap.
“Whoops. Sorry,” I said automatically.
And why had I just apologized to an evil gnome? I glowered at the virika.
The gnome scowled back and raced to join the others… who stood packed in a circle around Lenore.
“Oh, damn,” I breathed. My pulse turned sluggish. There were dozens of the shark-toothed creatures around my sister.
Lenore stood off to one side of the wide, concrete steps leading into the senior center. She waved to us and pulled a cannister of salt from the pocket of her ivory parka. At least she’d had the sense to come prepared. She must have poured a protective salt circle around her.
Karin stumbled to a halt and clutched the sleeve of Nick's jacket.
“What is it?” Nick asked. “What's wrong?”
“You can't see them?” Karin asked, dismayed.
“See what?” he asked.
The virika I'd nearly squashed jabbered at his companions. Their heads swiveled toward us.
I clutched my slouchy, leather purse. “Um, Karin?”
“Can you hear them?” she asked him.
Fey: A Doyle Witch Cozy Mystery (The Witches of Doyle Book 5) Page 3
