by Jane Hinchey
I went to light the fire with a snap of my wand, then blushed when nothing happened. I’d forgotten, for a brief moment, that my magic had been suspended. With a huff, I snatched up the lighter from the mantel and put it to the logs waiting in the fireplace. With a click the flame took hold.
“You don’t have to light that for me,” he said.
“Now you tell me,” I muttered to myself, but out loud I smiled and said, “That’s okay, it won’t be wasted.”
He was watching me intently, making me uncomfortable, so I waved a hand at the sofa. “Please, take a seat. What can I do for you this evening? Oh. It’s evening. It’s late. Do you normally work this late? Oh God, it’s late—you’re working—which means something is wrong.” I was rambling but couldn’t stop myself. I began pacing in front of the fire, my mind a whirl.
“Ms. Jones. Please. Have a seat.”
I twisted my hands together, stopped pacing to look at him, then resumed the back and forth in front of the fireplace, the fire doing little to warm the cold in my belly. “I don’t think I can,” I whispered, for a sudden feeling of doom had settled over me, as cold and icy as the weather outside.
“Please?” he said it softly, his voice kinder than before. I cocked my head, then nodded, easing my butt onto the edge of a chair.
“Just tell me.”
“Early tests indicate that Whitney Sims did not die a natural death,” he said, his eyes not leaving my face.
I swallowed. “She was murdered?” I'd convinced myself that Whitney had suffered a heart attack, the fact that she hadn't was a rude shock.
“Poisoned,” he replied.
“Right.” I nodded, pushing down the hysteria threatening to consume me. How did my life get so complicated? Until recently, I’d had it all. Now here I was, living with my Gran, unemployed, no magic, and now a suspect in a murder.
“I am a suspect, aren’t I?” I asked, just to confirm what I already knew.
“You are a person of interest,” he confirmed. “Her body was found in your store.”
“One I have only just purchased. Like, literally today. She was meeting me there to hand over the keys. I’ve told you this.”
“We don’t think the poison was administered there.”
“Oh. Right. Good. But then…why am I a suspect?”
“You were with Mrs. Sims earlier, correct?”
“Yes. I was at Palmer Construction offices to sign the papers. But I wasn’t the only one there. And I didn’t see Whitney eat or drink anything. The receptionist returned with a tray of takeaway coffees—well, I assume they were coffee. They could have been anything really, hot chocolate, tea.”
“Ms. Jones,” he interrupted me, and I blushed again. The alcohol I’d consumed was not helping with keeping my thoughts straight.
“Please call me Harper.” Ms. Jones reminded me of the life I’d left behind in the city. The students who'd traipsed in and out of the library had called me Ms. Jones.
Ignoring my request, he continued, “Ms. Jones, can you please take me through, in as much detail as you can, your meeting with Mrs. Sims this morning. No detail is too small or insignificant.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “Do you mind if I record this?”
I shook my head. Outside, a gust of wind buffeted at the window and I shivered again.
“Begin from when you arrived at Palmer Construction,” he instructed, hitting record on his phone. Obediently I relayed what had transpired earlier that day when I’d arrived to sign the papers to purchase The Dusty Attic. After I was done, he thanked me and left. Stunned, I returned to the kitchen to tell the others I was now a suspect for the murder of Whitney Sims.
Chapter Three
“I had a thought,” I said to Gran over breakfast the following morning.
“Oh no.”
“I swear it’s a good one this time,” I protested.
“Let’s hear it.” She sipped her coffee and waited.
“I go to Detective Ward and ask to help with the investigation.”
“Help how?” Gran asked.
“I’m not sure yet,” I admitted, “but it beats sitting around doing nothing. After everything that has happened recently, this is the worst. I’m not a murderer.”
“I know you’re not dear. You’re a librarian.” She smiled indulgently.
“Not anymore. I’m a bookstore owner. Only I can’t even get that right.”
“Hey!” She leaned forward to take my hand. “None of this is your fault. Don’t ever think that. You’re right though. Sitting here stewing over the whole ghastly matter isn’t helping. Why not go and see the detective and find out when you can get access to The Dusty Attic? We have a grand opening to plan.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I thought you already put flyers up about that?”
She shrugged a “maybe” before carrying her dishes to the sink where they promptly began washing themselves. I sat for a moment longer, then decided to hell with it, I'd go see the detective I had a right to clear my name.
Pulling on my coat and slinging my bag over my shoulder, I called out goodbye to Gran and headed out. First stop, the police station.
I managed to snag a park right outside and, smoothing my palms down my jean-clad thighs, I approached the door, a fluttering of nerves in my belly. I was right to be nervous. When I stepped inside all activity stopped and if it hadn’t been so disconcerting it would have been hilarious.
“Can I help you?” It was Officer Miles. I gave her a small smile that she didn’t return and stepped up to the counter.
“I was wondering if I could speak with Detective Ward?” I asked.
“You can talk to me,” she said. I don’t know what it was, but I got the distinct impression she didn’t like me, and I wondered what I’d done to deserve it.
“I was really hoping to talk with the detective,” I pushed. She blew out an irritated sigh, placed her palms on the counter and leaned forward, jaw tight.
“Listen,” she began but was interrupted before she could gather steam by Detective Ward coming around the corner, pulling on his jacket then freezing when he saw me.
“I was just coming to see you!” he said, and I smiled weakly.
“Snap?”
He looked over my head to the officers who’d been watching the whole interaction unfold. “You lot got nothing to do?” he drawled. I heard a bustle of activity behind me and it almost killed me not to turn around and look.
“She was just requesting to see you,” Officer Miles said, voice icy. “I was just telling her she can speak to me.”
“Thanks for the initiative, Liliana, but I’ve got this. I wanted to talk with Ms. Jones anyway.” He turned his attention back to me. “Fancy a coffee?”
“Ummm, here?”
“Good god no. The coffee here is swill. Bean Me up okay with you?”
I nodded. “Sounds good.” And followed him out the front door I’d entered through mere minutes ago.
“Mind if we walk?” he asked. The Police Station was located a couple of blocks over from Main Street. It was a ten-minute walk tops.
“That’s fine.” Burying my hands in my pockets, I noted that he matched his long stride to my shorter one. Simon had always been two steps ahead whenever we’d been out together.
“You wanted to see me?” I asked.
“Yeah. I’ve been looking into you—” At my gasp, he quickly added, “Purely routine. Anyway, as I was saying, I was looking into your background and see you were a librarian at East Dondure Library – that you are especially skilled at research? In fact, you helped a lot of the East Dondure University students with their dissertations?”
“That’s right.” I nodded. “Do you need help with something, Detective?”
“I do. Did you know that? Is that why you came to the station? You know, your witchy skills in play?”
I chuckled, shaking my head. “I came to the station to see if I could assist in any way because being a suspect in a murder case is
not sitting well with me at all. You said you’ve been looking into me, so you know what happened in East Dondure, with my fiancé?”
He nodded. “I do.”
“So, you’d know that I not only got fired, but my witch’s license has been suspended?”
“I didn’t know about your witch’s license.” I could feel him looking at me as we walked, “I’m not that familiar with witch law.”
“Well, let’s just say I broke the cardinal rule of not using magic for harm. The Academy suspended my license—so basically my magic is on lockdown.”
“The Academy?”
“Drixworths Academy of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” I explained. “Kinda like a witches’ council.”
“You said suspended. Does that mean you can get it back?”
“I hope so. I’m waiting to hear from them.” And the wait was killing me.
“So, it was purely coincidence that you came into the station when I needed to see you?” He sounded skeptical.
“On this occasion, yes. No magic involved,” I assured him. Reaching Bean Me Up, he held the door open for me and I stepped inside. It was quieter today and we grabbed a table at the back.
“What are you having?” he asked, “my treat.”
“Thank you. Um, I’ll have a hot chocolate, please.”
“Not a coffee drinker then?”
“I am, I just really enjoyed the hot chocolate I had here yesterday.” He was being super nice to me and I wondered if he was buttering me up for something. Simon had deployed the same tactic and to say I was a little gun shy was an understatement.
He ordered our drinks, then sat opposite me, blowing out a breath. "Here's the thing," he said. "We know Whitney was poisoned. But the poison used is not in our database. Given your research capabilities, I was hoping you'd be able to help us try and identify it."
"Okay…I guess?" I hesitated, "although I'm not sure I'll be of much help. Surely you need a chemist or scientist or something along those lines…not a librarian."
"We've got a lab in East Dondure working on it, but I figured, the more the merrier."
"Is this ethical? I'm a suspect after all."
"That's why I've got a lab in East Dondure working on it." His lips lifted in a grin and I was saved from answering by our drinks arriving. The waitress, a young, petite woman with golden blonde hair pulled into a ponytail, placed a hot chocolate in front of both of us and gave the detective a smile.
"Thanks, Lexi," he said, then waited until she'd left before picking up his cup and taking a cautious sip. "You're right," he said, "it's good. Tell me why you came to the Police Station to see me."
"Oh right. Yes. Um, I came to see if I can help with the investigation." Then I heard the ridiculousness of what I'd just said. He had literally asked for my help not two minutes ago. He must have thought I was crazy, although his only reaction was to arch one brow quizzically. I rushed on. "Yes, I know that sounds stupid since you just asked me that very thing. I'm sorry. With everything that's going on lately I'm a bit all over the place."
"I understand." He nodded, but I seriously doubted he understood. Unless he'd been through something similar.
He chuckled. "Your face gives you away, Ms. Jones."
"Please call me Harper. The students called me Ms. Jones, and you're hardly a student."
"Harper…I know what it's like to feel like you've lost it all. That your life is spinning out of control, that you've lost a grip on your reality. It's terrifying. I get it."
"You do?"
"I do. I moved here for a fresh start, a do-over, just like you."
Some would consider it rude to ask, but I really wanted to know, so I blurted, "What happened?"
He paused, then said, "I was shot in the line of duty." His words were devoid of emotion, but I saw the pain and anguish in his eyes. "My partner too. He died. I survived."
"Survivors guilt?" I guessed.
"Pretty much. That whole ‘if only we'd done this, or taken that route’ or whatever. But we didn't. We spotted a car belonging to a wanted criminal, we gave chase, and pulled it over. Cory reached the vehicle first and the driver opened fire. Cory got hit in the chest, point blank, straight through his heart. He was dead before he hit the ground. I had enough time to duck for cover, although a bullet lodged in my hip."
"I'm so sorry," I whispered, my heart hurting for him.
He shook himself. "No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring you down. I just…you're not alone, that's all. This place, Whitefall Cove, it's kinda healing."
I nodded. "It is pretty special."
"So? You'll help?"
As if he had to ask. I wanted in on this investigation and here he was, giving me exactly what I wanted. "Sure. I'll help." Rummaging in my handbag I pulled out a notebook and pen, "Tell me what you know about the poison."
"You always carry a notebook with you?" he asked, his surprise evident.
I looked down at the polka dot-covered, dog-eared notebook that lived in my handbag. "Doesn't everyone?" I grinned. "I'm a librarian. A lover of books." I shrugged. "I have notebooks everywhere."
He was right...they didn't have much to go on. What was found in Whitney's stomach contents was an unknown substance that was toxic, yet they couldn't identify it. All they had to go on was that it was ingested. And it was plant-based, at least in origin.
"But you don't know how it killed her, how it worked?" I asked, tapping the end of my pen against my bottom lip.
He shook his head. "No. We won't know that until we identify what, exactly, it is. And that's where you come in."
"Remember I'm a librarian, Detective Ward, not a scientist or biologist or an expert on anything really."
"If I'm going to call you Harper then you can call me Jackson."
"Why?" I blurted. "We're not friends. You don't have to be friendly toward me to ask for my help."
He leaned back in his chair and studied me before replying, "You're right. We're not friends. But that doesn't mean we can't be. And it's just a name. Call me whatever you want. I really don't care, but I figured you might have felt weird if I was using your first name and you were being formal, but if that's what you need to feel comfortable, whatever." He stood, dug into his jeans pocket and laid a business card on the table. "Call me if you find out anything interesting."
He left me sitting at the table, feeling like the biggest bitch on the planet. And a tad defensive. Okay, so I was a little touchy, a little sensitive, but I had reason to be. Simon had employed the same tactics to woo me—not that the detective was wooing me. I scolded myself. He had a girlfriend, was dating his co-worker. He didn't have to employ any tactics whatsoever and I was deflecting my experience with Simon onto him. That wasn't fair, and I felt a little ashamed and a little embarrassed that I'd reacted the way I had. He was being friendly. Full stop. Nothing more. It was me who was acting like a fool, and that rankled. I owed the detective an apology.
Chapter Four
I ran to catch up with Detective Ward. Correction, Jackson.
"Wait!" I panted, sprinting to close the distance between us. He was almost at the corner, his long legs eating up the sidewalk faster than mine ever could. Hearing me yell, he glanced back over his shoulder and stopped.
"First, I'm sorry if I sounded rude back there," I panted, hand on my chest. God, I was out of shape and made a mental note to start exercising more. A two-hundred-meter dash had my breath heaving in and out of my lungs and a sweat breaking out on my forehead. "That's my bad and I apologize," I puffed. "So not fit," I muttered under my breath.
"No apology necessary," he said, waiting patiently while I caught my breath.
"Right. Because you weren't pissed off at all. Anyway, whatever." I shrugged. "The second thing is, I'd like to get access to the books in my store. I know when I lived here before that Mr. Dudley had some really quite old and remarkable books. One of the first jobs on my list after purchasing The Dusty Attic was to do a stock take and see exactly what books are in stock and th
ose that need to be ordered. But"—I held up my hand when he opened his mouth to reply—"my whole rambling point is, I need access to the books for researching the poison that killed Whitney."
He grinned. "You should have led with that."
"Oh. So? You'll do it? I can finally have the keys to my store?"
"Shouldn't be a problem. Let me check that forensics are done." He began walking again and I fell into step beside him. I had to go back to the police station anyway since I'd left my car there.
"Liliana, hi." Oh, he was calling his girlfriend, the one who didn't like me. "Is forensics finished with The Dusty Attic? Swabs? Fingerprints? Photos?" There was a pause as he listened to her response, then in a super calm voice, he replied, "Yes. I know you know how to do your job. I wasn't questioning it. I was asking if they were done." Silence again. I watched, unabashedly interested. Seemed Liliana was pissed at him for asking about the store. "I'm on my way back to the station now. Can you have the keys ready to sign out? And before you ask, yes, I am returning them to Harper Jones. She's helping me with something and needs access to the books." He winced and held the phone away from his ear, then glanced at me before cupping his hand over the phone and whispering, "She's on it."
Right. Whatever you say, champ. He hurried a few steps ahead and continued the conversation in a hushed whisper and again I wondered what had Liliana so riled. I didn't know her, she didn't know me, yet by her reaction to my presence in the police station this morning she was not happy to see me at all. Of course, it probably didn't help that Jackson and I had just had hot chocolate together and now he was telling her to give me back my keys to the store—the one thing I'd gone in and asked of her.
I was right. She was seething. Jackson had disappeared into his office, and no one else paid me any attention, so I signed where she stabbed her finger on the clipboard she’d shoved across the counter. She slapped the keys down, then snatched the clipboard back without saying a word. Curling my fingers around the keys, I left.
