“I'm sure Sheriff McCourt will unravel this puzzle. I hear you had a break-in the other night?”
“Yes.” Disappointed, I handed him the coffee. So much for loosening his tongue with my own gossip. “Someone got into the employee's bins.”
“Not Mathilda's!”
“Yes, Mathilda’s. Fortunately, I'd taken a photo of the contents and was able to at least give that to the sheriff.”
He snapped a plastic top onto the cup. “Good detective work. Doyle needs more concerned citizens like yourself.”
If only the sheriff saw things the same way.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I hadn't heard from Brayden, and I didn't want to push, to leave more messages. That would seem too close to the desperation I was beginning to feel. When Brayden was ready to talk, he would.
I hoped.
But we always spent Friday nights at Antoine's. And after work that evening, I found myself giving my hair extra curl, selecting my favorite sapphire sweater, putting in a pair of dangly earrings.
Maybe I'd become more a creature of habit and less spontaneous than I'd thought. Or maybe I just didn't want to admit I couldn't enjoy Antoine's on my own.
I walked to the western bar, pushed past its batwing doors and scanned the crowd.
Brayden sat in a booth facing the door. My heart grew wings, fluttered to the rafters, and zipped around the hanging brass lamps. He was here and hadn’t missed our date.
Smiling, faking confidence I didn’t feel, I strolled to the booth. “Want some company, handsome?”
Our gazes locked.
The corners of his mouth slid upward. “When did you have to ask?”
The jukebox hiccupped, and a Tony Keith song blared. A woman whooped, and more people joined the dance floor.
I slid in beside him. “Brayden—”
“No. Let me go first.” He drew a heavy breath. “You're right. I have been treating your sister badly.”
“I didn't say badly—”
“But it was. It was inexcusable. I know better. Or I should have. Karin was a victim in all this too.”
“I wouldn't exactly say victim.” Karin had gone looking for trouble last summer, and she'd found it. Plus, she hated being thought of us a victim.
“Don't worry, I didn't say that to her.”
My eyes widened. “You talked to her? I thought you went to San Francisco?”
“Nick had mentioned he'd been trying to find time to drive to the city and pick up a specially-made bed for Emily. I thought I'd make the run for him as a thank you.”
“At night?”
“I crashed at a friend’s and got the crib when the store opened, so I could get back in time for my shift today.”
Ouch. I grimaced. No doubt my legal problems had made it harder for Nick to take time off.
Brayden studied his broad hands, wrapped around a beer mug. “About last November…” He cleared his throat. “I understand why you’ve been trying to protect me lately, even though I wish you wouldn’t. I still don't know how to get my head around what happened.”
My own hands fisted. I wanted to hold him, to tell him it was all right, it didn't matter, it was over. But I didn't say any of these things, because it wasn’t over. Not for Brayden.
“A part of me knew what was happening,” he said, his voice low and intense. “But it was like that part of me was trapped in a box – a warm, soft, comfortable box I couldn't escape. I saw myself doing things, but I couldn't stop myself.” His knuckles whitened on the mug. “I had no control.”
“None of that was your fault,” I said quietly.
“But that's it, don't you see?” He turned to me, his expression fierce. “It wasn't my fault, because I had no control. That thing did. That… witch.” He shook his head, took a gulp of his beer. “Of course, you don't understand. I wouldn't want you to, because that would mean you'd gone through it too.”
“I might not be able to understand it all, but I can try.”
“No!” He looked at the rough, wood wall. “You can't. I don't want this to touch you.”
A waitress in a short black apron and shorter black shorts approached our table. “Can I get you anything?” Pam asked.
“I'll have what he's having,” I said.
“Coming right up!” She whirled into the crowd.
It had taken a lot for Brayden to admit this. A lump squeezed my throat. Now it was my turn, and I'd do whatever it took to help.
“Do you want to leave Doyle?” I asked. “Because I will. I'll go with you. I love you, Brayden. It doesn't matter to me where we are.” That wasn't a hundred percent true. Leaving Doyle and my sisters would hurt. But maybe it was time for a change.
“I don't know. When I heard about the virikas, that you were chasing those things…” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I don't want to be constantly worried about your safety. I want to have a life with you.”
I relaxed. That was okay then. If he wanted me, if he was willing to try, we'd be all right.
A waitress hurried to our table. “Brayden? Someone's choking.”
I squeezed from my seat.
A crowd had formed around an older man. He clutched a table with one hand and his throat with the other.
Edging backward, I bit my bottom lip. It wouldn’t help for me to follow Brayden. So I made a quick gesture of protection behind my back, sent positive thoughts the man’s way.
Our first waitress, Pam, slid my beer onto the table. Her eyes didn't leave the commotion in the corner, near the jukebox.
A cheer went up, and we smiled at each other.
“The next round is on the house,” she said.
I returned to my seat. “Thanks, but it's not necessary.”
“Maybe not, but I want to.”
“Hey, were you here last Friday night?” I asked casually.
Pam nodded. “Yeah. I had a shift. Why?”
“Did you see Mathilda Sinclair here?”
“Yeah. I told the sheriff she was here, alone.”
“Did she leave alone?”
“Yeah, and she wasn't happy about it. She was obviously waiting for someone, so I told her my twenty-minute rule. If my date doesn’t show after twenty minutes, I'm gone.”
“I've got that rule too!”
Pam’s brow furrowed. “But I think the guy came after all.”
“What do you mean? Was someone asking about her?”
“No, but I saw her leave.” She nodded toward the batwing doors. “She stopped in the open doors, waved to someone, and ran out. Mathilda looked a lot happier. Well, I couldn’t see much from the back, but you know. Her shoulders kind of straightened, and there was a spring in her step.”
Smiling, Brayden appeared at our booth. “Mr. Datura will be okay.”
The waitress smiled. “Great. I was just telling Jayce—”
“That drinks were on the house,” I interrupted. “But I said it wasn't necessary.”
“I don't need to be rewarded to help someone,” Brayden said, ducking beneath a brass lamp to slide in beside me. “But thanks for the offer.”
Pam nodded and faded into the crowd.
I took his hand. It was rough and strong, the hand of a man who worked with his body. The hand of a protector. “Have I mentioned lately how awesome you are?”
“Once or twice. And you're not that bad yourself.”
“Not that bad?” I laughed. “That's all?”
“You're amazing.” His green eyes seemed to darken. “But I wish…”
“What?”
“That you'd be more careful.” He edged closer in the booth, his energy pulling my own aura toward him, fiery and forceful.
“Brayden—”
“Do you have to deal with those virikas things? You told me they were attracted to death, not that they were causing it. They're not really doing any harm, are they?”
“They wrecked Nick's car.” They'd done a number on
Lenore's Volvo too. She planned to buy a new one this weekend. Have I mentioned my youngest sister is stinking rich? It would be totally annoying if I didn’t love her so much.
“But only because you were bothering them, right?”
“Right,” I said, reluctant.
“So, if you don't bother them…?”
“They won't bother us.” But how could I explain they didn't belong here? Or the feeling that it was up to me to put them back where they belonged? Why did I feel that way? Did I have to put them back?
“Will you think about it?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” I said, relieved he hadn't asked for more.
I would think about it.
But thinking about things had never been my strong suit.
*****
The next morning, tourists and locals cast anxious glances toward the iron gray skies. Like everyone else, I crossed my fingers and wished for snow.
Dodging a tourist couple walking a white huskie, I strode into Alchemy. I paused beside the hostess stand and scanned the crowded restaurant. The noise from chattering couples and clattering silverware bounced across the tiles. A fire leapt in the open fireplace.
Renee sat at a small table. I'd bribed her with a promise of mimosas to meet me here.
And I hadn’t told Brayden.
Our gazes met, and she shifted, slouched in the metal chair. Renee nodded, and I joined her at the two-top.
“Hi,” I said. “Thanks for meeting me.”
A waitress appeared at my elbow and sat a mimosa in front of Renee. “Can I get anything for you?” she asked me.
I shrugged out of my silvery down vest and hooked it over the back of the chair. “I'll start with a mimosa too, thanks.” I waited until she'd walked away, then smiled at Renee. “How's your morning going?”
She raised her glass. “Free mimosas is a good start.” A navy knit cap lay on the table beside an empty plate and a menu. Her brown hair was mussed, as if she'd recently removed the hat.
“Yeah, it's hard to go wrong with champagne.”
Renee extended her slim legs, jeans crossed at the ankles. Her narrow face hardened. “But you're not here to talk about drinks or about me.”
She was only half right. I’d moved Renee from a witness and into the suspect category. But I nodded. “Mathilda.”
Renee toyed with the stem of her delicate glass. “I heard what happened to her stepmom.”
“So much for the idea Lydia killed her stepdaughter for a stolen inheritance.”
“Unless Lydia was in on it with someone.”
“An accomplice? Like who?”
Renee leaned forward and licked her lips.
The waitress picked that moment to reappear with my drink. “Here you are. Are you ready to order?”
I glanced at Renee.
“I'll have the spinach omelet,” Renee said.
“Huevos rancheros for me,” I said.
The waitress bustled off.
“You were saying about an accomplice?” I asked.
She shrugged and sat back in her chair. “No idea. I'm only saying, it's possible, right?”
“Right,” I said, disappointed, and adjusted the collar of my forest-green turtleneck. “But if there wasn't an accomplice, if this had nothing to do with Mathilda's money—”
“Someone gets the money. It doesn't just vanish.”
I canted my head, considering. Who did benefit financially from the deaths of Mathilda and her stepmother? “Do you have any idea whom?”
“Mathilda didn't have any family aside from her stepmom. Maybe some charity got the money. Her dad was big into stuff like that. Mathilda talked about it all the time, the boring charity events she got dragged to.” Renee rolled her eyes. “But she couldn't have been that bored, you know? She liked her dad. Or at least, she did, until he married Lydia.”
“Did she ever talk about her father's death?”
She snorted. “Did she. She was convinced Lydia shoved him over the railing of that cruise ship.”
A log in the fireplace collapsed, sending up a shower of sparks.
“But his death was investigated by the FBI, and they never charged her.”
“Well, they couldn't, could they? She was at the captain's table when it happened.”
“Eating dinner?”
“Yeah, one of those fashionably late meals.”
“Why wasn't her husband with her?”
“Lydia said he wasn't feeling well. She implied he'd been drinking. But here’s the thing. No one knows when he went overboard. Lydia could have shoved him over, gone to dinner, then come back, and no one would have been the wiser.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You're well informed.”
She rolled her eyes again. “Well, duh. Mathilda was, like, obsessed with her father's death.”
I took a deep breath. “What about Paul?”
A thud of bass. A mustang, windows down, cruised past our window and down the street.
Renee blinked, the glass stilling halfway to her lips. “Paul?”
“Mathilda’s ex.”
She emptied the glass and motioned to the waitress. “I already told you about Paul.”
“It must have been awkward for you though, living with Mathilda, since you'd dated him first.”
Her face contorted. “Yeah. Well. Paul and I were totally over when he met Mathilda.”
“That sucks,” I said in a soothing tone. “I mean, breakups, no matter what the circumstances.”
“Yeah.” She looked away.
“What happened?” I asked gently.
She met my gaze. “We weren't right for each other. He needed someone… different.”
“Different like Mathilda?”
She shook her head, emphatic. “No. Mathilda was a mistake. A big one.”
The waitress set another mimosa at Renee's elbow and whisked away her empty glass.
“Why?”
“She didn't care about Paul. She only cared about herself.”
“Is that why she got the restraining order?”
She jerked forward. “That was totally ridiculous. He wasn't stalking her. Paul isn't like that.”
And yet he'd lurked outside my apartment like a creeper, and then tried to use the law against me when I'd pushed back. “Then why'd she do it?”
“You know how rich people are. Any problem has a legal solution. She didn't know how to deal.”
“And Paul was a problem?”
“She got bored with him.”
“Have you?” I asked gently.
Her nostrils flared. “What do I have to do with anything?”
The waitress stopped at our table and set heaping plates in front of us. “Here you go. Can I get you anything else? Another mimosa?”
“I'll take one,” Renee said, glaring.
She hadn't even finished her second, and I sighed. This was going to be an expensive interrogation. “I'll have another too.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I didn’t get anything else from Renee, and I was more confused than ever about the murders. So, I decided to take advantage of a lazy Saturday morning and visit the most confusing person in Doyle — Mrs. Steinberg.
No, it wasn’t logical. But magic works in a place beyond logic. Maybe that’s why I was getting so good at it.
But I needed to stop, back away from the magic I loved. I forced a smile. The break from magic would be worth it. And it wouldn’t be forever, just until Brayden was feeling more himself.
I tromped up the porch steps of her sunshine yellow Victorian and rang the bell.
Silence.
I shifted my weight in my boots and hoped the bell was louder inside than outside. Waited. Shoved my hands in the pockets of my shiny down vest. Took them out.
No one came to the door.
I knocked, and the cycle of waiting and weight shifting repeated.
I walked backwards, down the steps,
and eyed the windows. The lace curtains behind the glass didn’t move.
Served me right for assuming she'd be home. But I couldn't exactly call Mrs. Steinberg to make an appointment. She was reclusive, and I didn't have her number.
A high-pitched scream split the frigid air. Crows shot from an elm tree in the barren front yard.
Another scream, from behind the yellow Victorian.
I ran to the high gate and fumbled with the latch. The gate swung open, and I raced inside, stumbled to a halt.
Roses.
The flowers trailed up the side of the house, blossomed beside a dry bird bath, scented the air.
I gaped, astonished. Roses blooming in the winter. I'd only seen this one other place, at Doyle’s UFO-themed B&B, Wits' End, and I'd assumed there was some odd magic involved.
Peering at a rose bush, Mrs. Steinberg brandished an old-fashioned copper bug sprayer. She pumped the handle. A cloud of sinister white powder puffed out. It coated the leaves and her black gloves, the cuffs of her voluminous black coat.
“Mrs. Steinberg?”
She jerked upright and clutched the sprayer to her chest. “What—? What—?”
“I heard a scream.”
“Aphids!” Her blue-gray curls quivered with indignation. “On my Amazing Bubbles!”
“This is… That was you screaming?”
“I don’t know.” She adjusted her Jackie-Kennedy-style sunglasses. “Maybe.”
“How are you getting these flowers to bloom in winter?”
She straightened. “Well, they're sheltered by the fence, aren't they?”
I gave her a look. If it were that easy, every rose grower would be doing it. “Did you get these from Wits' End?”
“Certainly not! I gave Mrs. Witsend, God rest her soul, clippings for her garden. We were friends.”
I’d never sensed any magic on the current owner of Wits’ End. But if the roses at the B&B were connected to magic here, that might explain why they still bloomed. “This is mag—”
“No! No. These are normal, surprisingly hardy roses thriving in Doyle’s unique volcanic soil.”
Fey: A Doyle Witch Cozy Mystery (The Witches of Doyle Book 5) Page 13
