The body has not been found.
And then a brief article saying that the missing billionaire was presumed dead. The FBI had ruled the death an accident.
The death sounded fishy to me, no pun intended. But had Lydia killed her husband to get at his money? I rubbed the base of my neck. And what had brought Lydia and Mathilda to tiny Doyle?
A motor revved, tires screeching in the alley. Mouth pinched, I shook my head. I could be reckless, but at least I didn’t drive recklessly.
An online post – about Mathilda Sinclair being arrested for driving under the influence and knocking over a light pole. This was before her father had died.
Picatrix rolled onto her back and knocked a blue and orange cushion to the rug.
I let it lie and clicked on an article about the Sinclair wedding. But it was all about the dress and decorations and a who's-who of politicians and minor celebrities in attendance. In other words, unhelpful.
Next, I searched for information on Mathilda's restraining order. The online court records were brief to the point of uselessness, so I checked the local paper. A slew of articles on Judge Longway and his wife, Evangeline, appeared.
Lacking any better ideas, I skimmed the articles. The judge and his wife at a hospital fundraiser. The judge and his wife buying a local winery, Lavender. The judge giving a campaign speech…
I lifted a brow. He'd been endorsed by Sheriff McCourt.
Blowing out a breath, I picked up my yellow pad from where it had fallen against a pillow. Was there something else here I was missing?
Picatrix followed me to the kitchen and meowed beside her half-full bowl.
“I’m not filling it,” I said and ripped off a clean sheet of paper, building a timeline of Mathilda sightings. When I'd finished, I studied my handiwork at the kitchen table.
11:00 - on Main Street outside motorcycle t-shirt boutique
11:30 - seen exiting wine tasting room, Lavender
11:45ish - Ground - got something from her bin? Or put something in it?
12:00 - Barn and Brew - eating alone
3:00 - gas station - bought $5 worth
8:30 - Antoine's
I tapped my finger on the last item. My “source,” a middle-aged woman who’d really wanted that free coffee, had said Mathilda had been alone at Antoine's. She’d also said Mathilda had looked annoyed, like she'd been waiting for someone who never showed.
Absently, I rubbed the leg of my jeans and tucked one foot beneath my knee. But if that someone had showed, my source hadn't seen them.
I needed to stop by Antoine's and ask. The owner was a good guy — he'd tell me what he knew without asking why.
I scrunched my face, remembering what her roommate had told me, and added:
6:00? - dinner at apartment
7:00 PM - leaves apartment
Where had Mathilda been between three and six? My forehead scrunched. She could have run to Angels Camp for cheaper gas, but that wouldn't have taken three hours. Of course, Renee had never specified when Mathilda had been home eating dinner.
Familiar footsteps thumped up my exterior stairs, and Picatrix raised her head, her black ears swiveling toward the sound.
Smiling, I jammed my notes into a kitchen drawer. I hurried to the door, flinging it open.
Brayden grinned. “Miss me?” Immediately, his expression shifted to consternation. “What happened to your head?”
Picatrix darted between our legs and down the stairs.
Lightly, I touched the bruise and winced. “It's nothing.”
“You sure? It doesn’t look like nothing.”
If I told him now, the smile would evaporate from his face. The light would dim in his eyes, and we’d be back where we’d been before. He didn’t need danger and violence – not here. My home was supposed to be a haven of normalcy. And I was fine. “A kitchen accident. What are you doing here? I thought you had to work tonight.”
“I've been taking my buddies’ shifts. It was about time someone took mine.” He traced my jawline. “I want to be with you, Jayce.”
My body seemed to lighten. “I want that too.”
“I'm sorry I've been so…”
“It's okay,” I said. “I get it.”
He smiled crookedly. “Sometimes I wish you wouldn't.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it's time I stop thinking about what's gone wrong and start focusing on what's right. And you're what's right in my life. You always have been. Always will be.” His broad hands locked against my lower back, pulling me roughly against his chest.
I stood on my toes, my bare feet pressing into the soft rug, and he kissed me. Slowly. Thoughtfully. Carefully.
Shivers of desire raced through my veins. It had been so long since we'd been together. Really together. I ran my hand down his shoulder, my stomach whirling.
And then his kisses grew more demanding.
At some point, the door was kicked shut. We stumbled to the bedroom.
Our lovemaking was different that night. He and only he was in control, filled with an alertness, a demand I hadn't felt before. And for all that, it was more intense. My earlier fears of loss and growing distance made me more aware of how fleeting what we had now could be.
But when I lay, sweat drenched and blissfully exhausted beside him, I wondered what this change meant.
And I worried.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Wednesday and Thursday passed uneventfully. And after all that had happened, “uneventful” seemed fresh and exciting.
Upstairs in my apartment, I examined myself in the tall mirror. I was wearing my new ruby sweater with the cable knits on the arms and my favorite skinny jeans. It was a simple outfit, but I'd splurged on the sweater, and it looked good. Smiling, I did a final pirouette.
Picatrix hopped onto the unmade bed and meowed.
“You’re right. Brayden won’t know what hit him.” I slithered into the jacket Karin had given me for Christmas, grabbed my purse, and sauntered out the back door. The automatic light popped on. The exterior stairs jounced slightly beneath me, and I bounced on them. Life was good. Brayden and I were meeting at Antoine’s, and I had to believe things would work out.
I hopped to the ground and strode down the alley, turning the corner to Main Street.
Even though the night was cold, I resisted jamming my hands into my pockets. I'd learned the hard way to keep my hands free. You never knew when an unpleasant surprise might pop up. Plus, the sidewalk was uneven, and it was already dark.
The stores had closed, their windows black. Lights built into the wooden overhang bathed the concrete walk in a yellowish glow. Across the street, music and voices flowed through Antoine's batwing doors. An SUV whooshed past.
I checked the street for traffic and stepped into the road.
Two masculine figures strode along the raised wooden walkway opposite.
I stepped backward, squinting.
Paul Neumark hurried after Judge Longway. The judge shook his head, making an emphatic motion with one hand.
Was Neumark stupid enough to be stalking the judge? Maybe the cops would finally take Paul's lying-in-wait outside Ground seriously. Paul followed the judge into Antoine's.
I angled my head. What was he up to?
Good thing I happened to have a date where my suspects were drinking. I strode into the road toward the western bar.
A furtive movement, like an animal’s, in the shadow of the raised sidewalk stopped me in place. I stared, dread creeping along my spine.
A sliver of light fell across a red hat, and the hair lifted on the nape of my neck.
Virikas.
A line of them marched toward Antoine’s.
A horn blared.
I jumped out of the road, and a Wagoneer roared past.
The virikas crept closer to the bar. Sickened, I fumbled in my pocket for my phone. Not Brayden. Not Antoine. But the presence
of the virikas meant only one thing. Someone was about to die. At Antoine’s.
The line of virikas abruptly turned and scampered across the crossroad, away from the bar, and my muscles relaxed a little.
Thank God. The death wasn’t destined for Antoine's. Where then?
Flesh creeping, I followed, a hundred feet or so behind the virikas, and called Lenore.
Voice mail. “Hi, this is Lenore. Leave a message.”
“It's Jayce. The virikas are on Main Street. I'm following them now. They just turned on Silverado. I'll call back at their final destination.” I hung up and tucked the phone in my jacket pocket.
The virikas sped ahead, and I broke into a trot to keep up. I huffed up the steep road and turned into one of Doyle's nicer neighborhoods. The Victorians here were freshly painted. Manicured lawns and gardens pressed up against the sidewalk. Taller, more modern houses with faux-stone walls and the occasional half-timbering sprouted from the hill.
A shriek cracked the air and raised goosebumps on my arms.
Pulse racing, I rushed forward.
A writhing mass of virikas covered the lawn of a palatial Tudor. Lights streamed from its upstairs, mullioned windows. Crimson gnomes brawled outside the brick home’s open door.
I took a small step backward and shook my head. Fighting each other? This was new. What was going on?
Heart rabbiting, I stepped onto the flagstone path and edged around the battling virikas to the open front door. I leaned inside, unwilling to step across the threshold. “Hello?”
My voice echoed in the high-ceilinged foyer. A round table with a massive bouquet stood in its center. A spiral staircase coiled upward.
“Hello? Is everything okay?” I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry.
The virikas were here, even if they were acting weird. Was someone hurt? Dying? Maybe I could help them. Maybe I wasn’t too late.
Feeling like a housebreaker, I strode inside and hesitated beside the foyer table. Open doorways led to the right and left. I chose right and found myself in a cream-colored living area. My boots sank into the deep carpet. I took a few steps inside, saw no one, and retraced my steps.
I walked through the opposite door and into a study. Oriental carpets. High, cherry-wood bookshelves, a polished desk.
A body.
I gasped and ran to the fallen woman. Blond hair fanned across the deep red carpet. Her face was turned toward the desk.
“Hey.” I knelt beside her. “It's going to be okay.”
I pressed my fingers to her neck and felt no pulse. But I was never good at finding pulses, even on myself. Fumbling in my jacket, I called for help.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“This is Jayce Bonheim. I found a woman. She's unconscious, possibly dead.”
“You don't know which?”
“She's still warm, but I can't find a pulse.”
“Okay, you need to check if she's breathing.”
“Just a minute.” Carefully, I pulled back the woman's hair.
The phone slipped from my hand to the plush carpet.
Lydia Sinclair's eyes stared emptily toward the elegant desk.
I knew dead. I knew that empty look. Shaking myself, I snatched up my phone. “She's not breathing.” My voice trembled. “She's dead. Oh my God, it's Lydia Sinclair.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m…” Good question. Where the hell was I? I ran outside.
The virikas snarled and tumbled over each other, fists flying, churning up mud on Lydia's damp lawn.
I walked backward, searching for a house number and found it on a brick mailbox. “Fourteen twenty-five Silverado.”
“Emergency services are on their way. Can you check again for a pulse?”
I swallowed. “Sure.” Something chilled my knee, and I looked down. Crimson stained my jeans. Blood. My head spun. I must have knelt in it and not…
I gulped. It didn't matter.
I returned to the study and touched Lydia’s wrist, her neck, again. “I'm with her. There's no pulse.” But she was warm. She couldn't have been dead long. The arrival of the virikas was proof of that. They always arrived at the moment of death.
I shivered. Lydia must have died right before I'd gotten here. How close had I been to stumbling across the murderer?
The dispatcher was saying something, but I’d stopped listening. Would the sheriff try to blame this on me? How was I going to explain my presence?
Stick close to the truth. I’d been walking past, saw the open door, called out, no one answered…
The dispatcher’s squawks were tinny.
Stunned, I walked outside. Woodsmoke scented the air.
The virikas continued their battle, shrieks and grunts punctuating the night. One gnome sank his teeth into another’s neck. His victim gagged, bloodshot eyes bulging.
“Stop that!” Unthinking, I took two long steps onto the ruined lawn and kicked his attacker away.
The bitten virika reeled, clutching his throat, into a juniper bush.
Motion ceased. The virikas stood frozen in battle poses, arms raised, one tiny fist smooshed into a cheek. Their heads swiveled toward me.
I cracked my knuckles, my skin heating. “Oh, I am so not—”
Howls split the night air. They charged.
Heart thumping, I pivoted toward the house. Something caught my feet. I sprawled, the muddy lawn breaking my fall. Cursing, I unhooked my toes from the tree root, lurched into the house and slammed the heavy door behind me. Tiny thuds rattled the thick, paneled wood.
“She's already dead,” I shouted. “Go away!” Tears burned at the corners of my eyes, dampened my cheeks. I dashed them away. Honestly, there’s only so much a witch can take. Virikas. Lydia.
The pounding on the door grew more frenetic then suddenly stopped.
Outside, a siren wailed.
Far off, my phone rang. Bewildered, I followed the sound to the study. At some point, I’d dropped the phone by Lydia’s body. I bent and plucked it from the scarlet carpet. I checked the number. Brayden.
I answered the phone.
“I know fashionably late is your style,” he said dryly, “but I wanted to check if we were still on for tonight.”
“Tonight?” I blinked at the body. “No. No, I can’t. Not now. Something happened.”
“What's wrong?” His voice sharpened.
I stared at the desk. It was neat. Laptop. Letter opener. Fountain pen. Blotter. “Well, you know how it is, I can't be early. That would just be wrong.” I laughed bitterly. “So, I went for a walk up Silverado.” I couldn’t lie to him. But I couldn’t tell him I’d been following gnomes either.
And I needed to.
I closed my eyes. “There was… magic. I had to go. And there was a house with an open door. And it seemed kind of weird—”
“Magic?” he asked.
I forced myself to look around the room. I needed to pay attention, learn what I could. “Look, the police are on their way. Let me get this out. There was an open door,” I said. If I was going to sell this to the sheriff, I needed to clean up my story. What was so strange about an open door, minus the virikas? “And it was cold out.”
It was cold inside the study too. I shook uncontrollably.
“The door was open as I walked up the street,” I continued, “and it was still open when I came back a few minutes later. And that seemed—”
“Magic.”
“No, that wasn’t… I went to check if everything was okay. And… Lydia Sinclair is dead.” I gulped. “I found her inside the house. She’s dead.”
There was a long silence. “Where are you?” he asked.
“Fourteen-something Silverado.”
The sirens grew louder.
“I'll be right there.” He hung up.
Feet dragging, I walked to the study’s open doorway andd stopped. I turned and stared into the room. A clot of m
ud dropped from my jeans onto the red carpet.
I took a photo of the body with my phone and backed into the foyer.
Blood. There'd been blood, because I'd knelt in it. But from this distance, I couldn't see it in the red swirls of the oriental carpet. My knee had been pretty close to Lydia’s head and neck though. Had she been stabbed? Bludgeoned?
I scanned the room for clues. A shine on the carpet six feet from Lydia's body caught my eye. A glass paperweight. That didn't belong on the floor.
My hands clenched my phone. But I was not, not, going to return inside and look at the paperweight. I'd left enough evidence of my passage behind.
A fist hammered the front door, and I jumped.
“Sheriff's Department!” a man shouted.
I swallowed. It was time to face the police.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Jayce!” Brayden squelched across the sodden lawn. Blue and red lights cascaded weirdly over the front of the Tudor mansion. Neighbors stood on their doorsteps and hugged themselves, silently watching the deputies. On the opposite side of the street stood another couple, out of place and jarring — Mrs. Raven and Mr. O'Hare.
I shuddered and looked away.
Beneath her broad-brimmed hat, Sheriff McCourt shot me a stony look. “You know how this looks.”
The muscles in my shoulders bunched. “I know.”
The sheriff glanced at Brayden and sighed. “Talk to him. Then we're going down to the station.” She walked away to speak to two deputies.
I swayed, surprised. She was going to let me talk to Brayden before hauling me in for questioning? That was unusually decent.
Had she planted a bug on me or something?
Brayden stopped in front of me and glowered. The emergency lights streaked across his chiseled face, making the stony planes gargoylesque. “What happened?”
“I was walking—”
“What really happened?”
I glanced at the sheriff.
Fey: A Doyle Witch Cozy Mystery (The Witches of Doyle Book 5) Page 11
