“This is your fault,” a woman shouted.
My body jerked, the book half-slipping from my arm. I adjusted the book and looked toward the commotion.
On the raised, wooden walk ahead of me stood Mathilda's stepmother, Lydia Sinclair. She stabbed her manicured finger toward a fit-looking man in a business suit. Gray streaked his acorn-colored hair.
Wait a minute. I knew that man. He was a local judge, Judge Longway.
My cheeks heated, remembering my arraignment after the murder of Brayden’s wife. Judge Longway had set my bail.
But I hadn't been guilty. The real killer had been caught. So why did I feel like a criminal now? I kept walking and raised my chin.
The judge lifted his big hands in a pacifying gesture. He was tanned and handsome, things I hadn’t noticed when he’d been arraigning me for murder. “Mrs. Sinclair, I'm sorry for your loss, but—”
“But? But what?” Her crocodile purse slipped from the shoulder of her thick, moss-colored tunic-length sweater. “What can you possibly have to say after what you did?”
A tall, well-dressed woman with platinum blond hair strolled from The Rose and Lion tea room. She placed a possessive hand on the judge's arm. “What's going on?” she asked loudly.
“It's your husband’s fault my daughter is dead.”
The blonde's nostrils pinched. She wore a red silk blouse beneath her furry white vest. Her ivory riding pants were tucked into shiny, black boots. “Your stepdaughter, you mean, and one you never got along with. This has nothing to do with Stoddard, so don't try playing the martyr now. You did enough of that while the little slut was alive.”
“How dare you?” Lydia's face whitened. “And she had a name — Mathilda.”
I walked closer, because it was a public sidewalk. Also, I was nosy.
The blonde huffed out her chest. “And making a scene on the street—”
“Evie.” Judge Longway touched the blonde’s lower back. “It's all right.” He moved closer to Lydia and said something to her in a low voice.
Lydia's mouth compressed. The judge drew her away to stand beside the window of a stone-fronted wine tasting room.
The blonde met my gaze, and her jaw hardened. “It's nothing,” she said. “And it’s rude to stare.” She smelled faintly of lavender.
Three Harleys roared slowly past, their drivers in black leathers. The exhaust overwhelmed the lavender scent.
“Lydia seems upset,” I murmured. I moved the book to one hand, pressing its front cover to my thigh to obscure the title.
The judge was still speaking intently to Mathilda's stepmother. She shook her head once.
“You know Lydia?” Evie asked.
“Her daughter, Mathilda, worked for me at Ground.”
“Oh. The coffeeshop.” She looked as if she was about to say something and thought better of it, then thought better of that. “My husband was the judge involved in getting Mathilda her restraining order. Obviously, it didn't work, but it's hardly his fault.”
“Restraining order?”
“Surely Mathilda warned you if she worked for you? The order against her ex-boyfriend.”
Could that have been the guy who'd surprised me outside my apartment stairs? He'd definitely given off a stalker vibe. “What was his name?”
“I don’t bother myself with disputes among children.” She waved her hand dismissively.
“And you’re…?”
She laughed. “I'm Stoddard's wife.”
The judge broke away from Lydia and joined us. His tanned brow lowered. “Do I know you?” he asked me.
“Um…” Oh, the hell with it. “Jayce Bonheim. I was once arraigned in your court.” I lifted my chin. And he’d been in Ground at least a hundred times. He didn’t need to know my name, but he must have recognized me.
“Ah, yes. And justice was served, as I recall.” He adjusted his cobalt tie and glanced at Lydia. She stood, unmoving beside the window of the wine tasting room, and the empty bottles behind its glass. “Well, enjoy your Sunday.”
The judge and his wife walked off.
I turned to Lydia. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She stared after the two and gripped the strap of her crocodile purse with both hands. “The creep.”
“The sheriff will catch the person who did this to Mathilda,” I said.
“Will she?” she asked bleakly. “This is a small town.”
“But we have a decent sheriff's department.” When they weren’t dragging me to the station for no good reason.
“Of course, you'd say that.” She hitched up her purse. “They cleared you after that woman was killed in Ground.”
Oh. I shrank a little inside. So, she knew about that. I cleared my throat. “Mrs. Longway told me—”
“Evelyn Longway-Chatterton. She has all the money. She's not giving up her last name.”
Small towns. A part of me was glad our aunt had homeschooled us, keeping us separate from the Doyle gossip, like who had the money. But the snoopy part of me wanted to know more. “Right, um. She said the judge was involved with Mathilda's restraining order against her ex-boyfriend?”
“He was.” Her tone was Campari bitter. “Now I wish she'd never walked into that courtroom.”
“Do you think the restraining order made things worse?”
Mathilda’s stepmother gave me a long look. “It didn't make things better.”
“It's only that someone claiming to be Mathilda's ex was hanging around my coffeeshop the other night. He was in his mid-twenties, about five-eleven, had scars on his face from acne?”
“Paul Neumark,” she spat. “But don't bother telling the police about his visit. They're useless.” She turned.
“Mathilda's things,” I said quickly. “She left some at Ground. Do you want me to bring them to your place?”
Her back stiffened beneath her long, green sweater. “No. That’s all right. I'll come and get them when I can. You're open on Tuesdays, right?”
“Yes.”
She nodded, curt, and strode away.
Dissatisfied, I turned toward Ground. But when I got to the red-painted cafe, I kept walking, across the arched stone bridge and down a winding, residential street. I needed answers, and I thought I knew someone who might have them.
Mrs. Steinberg was one of those indispensable small-town old ladies who knew everything about everyone. And it didn’t hurt that she worked in town records. Rumor had it the mayor was too scared of Mrs. Steinberg to force her to retire.
Wondering what she knew about me, I paused in front of a sunshine yellow Victorian with white trim, and a white lace curtain in its window shifted.
Mrs. Steinberg was home.
I crunched up the gravel drive. It had been raked like a Japanese sand garden in long, neat lines. Not a single leaf lay upon the gray stones. Guiltily, I looked over my shoulder at my footprints, then shrugged and continued toward the porch.
The front door opened, and Mrs. Steinberg emerged from the house. Beneath her thick, black coat, she wore a longish black dress and motorcycle boots. The old woman brandished her cane. “No solicitors!”
I paused at the base of the porch steps. “You know I'm not a solicitor.”
“But you want something.”
“I saw Mrs. Raven and Mr. O'Hare today.”
“Did they see you?” she asked tartly.
“They were watching the bookstore,” I said, my sense that she knew something about the odd couple growing.
One of her white brows rose. “Watching?”
“Watching,” I said firmly. “Who are they, really?”
She drew an e-cigarette from the pocket of her coat and took a long draw, shooting twin streams of smoke out her nose. “You're not asking the right question.”
“Then what is the right question?” I asked, exasperated.
She blew a smoke ring and chuckled. “You girls. I don't know what to think of the younger
generation. You're bolder than we were, but just as constrained in your own way.”
“What does that have to do with Raven and O'Hare?”
“Not a damn thing.”
“What are they doing here? It's been months. They're not tourists.”
“Ah.” She pointed her e-cigarette at me. “That would be a better question, if you didn't already know the answer.”
“What answer?”
“You told me the answer.” She turned and clomped to her front door. “Think.” She cracked open the door and scuttled inside, slamming the door behind her.
I jammed my hands on my hips and glared at the white-painted door. When that didn't get me any results, I paced the driveway, taking a petty pleasure in messing up the raked lines. What had I told her? That O'Hare and Raven…
I whirled to face the yellow Victorian. “Watching!” I shouted. “Is that it?”
Not a single lace curtain stirred.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I love Mondays.
Yeah, I know, weird. I didn't always love them, but at Ground, there's a certain Monday morning buzz. People walk in cranky and walk out with a java-laced spring in their steps.
Blame it on the honest magic of coffee. Or on the good vibes spell I'd imprinted into the crystals hidden inside the plants hanging above the counter.
My brows gathered inward. I really missed playing with my crystals. But – and here's another fun fact – crystals literally get a charge from being back in the earth. It's where they were born, where they grew. So, giving my crystals some “back to earth” time was a win-win for my plants and for the stones.
We'd be opening in ten minutes, and I glanced around the empty coffeeshop. Two millennial-aged men stood on the darkened sidewalk outside. They shifted their weight, staring at their cell phones.
My assistant manager, Darla, walked behind the polished, wood counter. She carried an open box of pastries from the local bakery. I helped her arrange them in the low window.
She cleared her throat, her round-face serious. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” I said, smoothing the front of my Ground apron. “What's up?”
“Could Mathilda's death have had something to do with Ground?”
I straightened from the glass case. “With Ground?” I asked sharply. “What do you mean?”
“There was a guy hanging around outside the other day, asking about you.”
“Who was he?” I jammed my hands in the pockets of my green apron.
She shook her blond head. “I think he might have been Mathilda's boyfriend, but he's not from Doyle.”
“Did he bother you?” I asked, worry spiraling in my gut.
“Yes. I told him to stay away from Ground and from me and from you. I don't think he got the message though.”
You go, Darla! Since her bad luck had turned around last year, she’d gained confidence. “You’re right. He didn't get the message,” I said, frowning, and shucked off my thin plastic gloves. “He was hanging around the alley the other night.”
Her brown eyes widened. “What did you do?”
“I told him to beat it.” I adjusted the hem of my Ground long-sleeve tee. “If you see him around again, let me know, will you?”
She nodded, her blond hair in a neat bun. “I hate to say it, but I’m not surprised Mathilda got involved with someone like that.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She liked guys who were trouble. You know what I mean?”
I laughed shortly. It hadn't been so long ago that people had said that about me. “Yeah, I know. But how do you? You said you weren't sure if that guy was her boyfriend or not, so I'm guessing she didn't introduce you.”
“It's just the way she talked about men.”
“She talked to you about guys?”
“Well, sure.” She arranged bear claws on a tray and slid it beneath the counter. “We worked together.”
Darla was assistant manager, an authority figure, like me. And Mathilda hadn't been open about her personal life around me, the owner. Disappointed with myself, I dropped my hands to my sides. I guess I wasn’t the cool and freewheeling boss I’d thought I was. “What else did she say?”
She shook her head. “Nothing about who might want to kill her. But…”
I leaned closer. “But what?”
“But she was angry about something that last day.” She swallowed and looked away.
“Any idea about what?” I asked.
“I think it was about her ex-boyfriend.”
My stalker was looking like a prime murder suspect. “Why did you think that?”
She closed her eyes. “Out of the blue, she said she wouldn't be treated that way. She deserved better. When I asked her what she was talking about, she clammed up. I mean, she wasn’t talking about work, was she? Mathilda didn't have a problem with you, did she? A work problem?”
“Not that I know of,” I said, uneasy. I treated everyone at Ground the same, or at least I thought I did.
But the day before she'd died, I'd had to tell Mathilda to mop the floor twice. I hadn’t been mean about it. I’d just pointed out where the gunk had gotten shoved into corners and beneath tables. That didn’t make me an evil boss, did it?
One of my baristas, Diane, raced through the curtains covering the kitchen door. She tied her apron behind her back. Her chest heaved. “Sorry I'm late.” Diane stopped short. “About Mathilda, I can't believe it.”
“Me neither. One minute she was here…” I shook myself. “I'll open up.” I flipped the sign in the front window to OPEN and unlocked the door. The two men had been joined by a half-dozen other regulars. They streamed inside the café.
We made coffee drinks, heated pastries and toasted bagels.
Mr. O'Hare and Mrs. Raven stepped up to the counter, and I stilled, one hand poised above the register.
“Two large coffees,” Mr. O'Hare said. He wore his usual Victorian clothing — brown checked jacket, tan waistcoat, pocket watch dangling from a buttonhole. “Black.” He handed a crisp bill across the counter.
Mrs. Raven said nothing. She held her emerald green purse over her forearm. It rested against the stomach of her green, forties-style suit.
Their clothing never altered. Did they have racks and racks of exactly the same suits? Did they magically never get dirty?
“For here or to go?” I asked. An image of an old stone church rose to mind, and I realized one or both of them smelled of frankincense.
“We’ll drink them here,” he said. Mr. O’Hare had the pink skin and white hair of an albino, but his eyes were deep, chocolately brown.
I made change. “How are you enjoying Doyle?” I asked casually.
“It's a charming town,” Mrs. Raven said in a shame-if-something-happened-to-it tone.
“Are you still staying at Wits' End?” I handed the coins and bills across the counter. “I hear they have fantastic breakfasts.”
“Miss Witsend is a generous hostess and a fine cook.” Mr. O'Hare nodded, and the two looked about the now-crowded cafe. As if on cue, a man and woman rose from a round table and strolled out. O'Hare and Raven sat at the table and turned their chairs to face the counter. Specifically, to face me.
Watching.
My hand jerked, spilling the change I was about to hand to a customer. I scooped it up and scowled at the strange couple.
Now, they were just trying to creep me out.
And it was working.
I took orders from customers and tried to ignore the odd couple. But I couldn't help darting glances at them every few minutes. They sat at their table, unmoving, their coffee mugs cooling by their elbows.
I rubbed my hand down the front of my apron. What were they really doing here?
Brayden stepped up to the counter in his blue EMT uniform. “Good morning, beautiful.”
He was trying to act as if everything was normal, and my heart lurched.
> “I missed you last night.” My throat tightened, turning the words to a whisper.
“I have to spend some nights in my own place. Someone might think it's abandoned and break in.”
I started to make a joke about sleepy, low-crime Doyle. Then I realized there was nothing low-crime about Doyle. Not anymore.
He reached across the counter and rested his broad hand on mine. “I want to make this work.”
The backs of my eyes heated, and I blinked rapidly. If we loved each other, did we have to make it work? The thought was probably unfair. And according to all those “relationships take work” sayings, possibly unrealistic. “Me too.”
A woman cleared her throat behind him, and he colored, edging aside.
Sheriff McCourt stepped to the counter. Lenore's tall, dark and handsome boyfriend, Deputy Connor Hernandez, stood beside her. His gaze shifted away from mine.
“Hi, Sheriff,” I said. “What can I get you?”
“Some private time. Come with me.” She angled her head toward the kitchen and strode through the ikat curtains.
I looked a question at Connor. “It's better if you go,” the deputy said.
“What's going on?” Brayden asked him.
Connor shook his head. “I'll explain, but Jayce…” He motioned toward the kitchen.
“I'm going, I'm going,” I muttered. “Darla?” I called down the counter to her. “I've got to step away from the register.”
“Sure thing.” She bustled to take my place, and I walked into the cramped kitchen.
McCourt leaned against the closed door to the walk-in closet. “We have a complaint.”
My heart stopped. A complaint about Ground? I wiped my hands on my apron. “What’s wrong?”
“Mr. Paul Neumark said you threatened him.”
I stared, disbelieving, and sagged against the kitchen sink. “Wait. Mathilda's ex?”
Brayden stormed through the blue and white curtains, Connor close on his heels. “Don't say anything, Jayce.”
The sheriff raised her hand. “You need to step away, Mr. Duarte.”
“Sorry, Sheriff,” Connor said and placed a hand on Brayden's arm.
Fey: A Doyle Witch Cozy Mystery (The Witches of Doyle Book 5) Page 6
