by Iris Kincaid
“Litter box time. Gotta go.”
“I thought you might have some more questions for me.”
“No, you gave me a lot to think about. Support. Mentoring. Symbiotic relationships.”
With a big, fake, grateful smile plastered on her face, Margo made her exit. Walking home, she sighed, disappointed. She knew more than she had before, but nothing about the murder.
Again bumping up against her frustrating limitations, Margo eagerly looked forward to the next lesson with Delphine. Perhaps she would learn how to read minds or see shadows of the past. Or speak to Julian Meeks’s ghost—something that would be useful for solving this case.
She also thought that it was about time that she discussed the case with someone who actually solved murders for a living. Good thing she had a date with one tonight.
*****
Margo and Finn had just come out of the last showing of Casablanca at her theater and headed over to The Clam Shack next door. The walls and corners of the eatery were crammed with hanging fishnets, anchors, buoys, ship models . . . over the top nautical excess that tourists and locals alike got a kick out of.
Margo tried to ignore Clarissa’s big, curious eyes and gestures in Finn’s direction.
“It’s on the house. Whatever you want, my pleasure,” Clarissa gushed.
“You don’t have to do that,” Margo protested.
“You let me sneak into movies for free all the time. And since I will continue to do so, I think I can spare a few clams.”
“All right then, I’ll take this scallop special. How about you?” She asked Finn.
“The crab sticks sound really good,” Finn said.
“That’ll just be ten minutes,” Clarissa said.
“You must be a real VIP,” Finn said. “Gettin’ meals comped like a boss.”
She knew that he was teasing. But just being on a date with this very hot guy who couldn’t take his eyes off her went a long way toward making her feel like a VIP.
“So, how did you like the movie this time around?”
“I can’t believe it was the same movie that I saw when I was sixteen. All I can remember is thinking that Humphrey Bogart wasn’t a terribly good-looking guy. And his character wasn’t even very nice. But yet this woman, this gorgeous woman, was crazy about him. And then the end left me a little befuddled. Because if you’re lucky enough to have a woman like that love you, you just hold on for dear life.”
“This time, I’m hoping it made a better impression.”
“Well, I finally noticed all that political stuff that you said to look out for. American isolationist policy before World War II, and Rick standing in for that. And then eventually, Rick and America making sacrifices for the greater good. That just completely went over my head when I was sixteen and probably would have again if you hadn’t told me to look out for it.”
“It’s nothing original, I assure you. I read a lot of movie critiques. But it’s just so well done. And the dialogue is just the best.”
“I have to hand it to you. You know how to pick ’em. But you’ve promised—next time, I get to introduce you to my taste in movies. And you’ll keep an open mind, right?”
“Does any of these movies you have in mind feature someone named Jason or Chucky?”
“Oh, no. That would ruin the surprise.”
They exchanged a long smile, and Margo looked away thoughtfully.
“Franc for your thoughts?” Finn teased.
“I wanted to talk about Russell Knox,” Margo began.
“I was afraid of that,” Finn said, shaking his head. “But I’m really not allowed to discuss the details of this case.”
“I didn’t want you to tell me anything. I wanted to tell you something. You know Ian Fowler, the owner of the Verona restaurant across from Russell’s place?”
“Verona, yeah. Great sausage lasagna.”
“You’ve been over there? What were you doing over there? Did you try to talk to Ian?”
Finn shrugged noncommittally.
“Is Ian Fowler a suspect?” Margo asked excitedly.
“Hey, keep it down,” Finn shushed her. “He’s just . . . a person of interest.”
Margo gingerly pulled the letters from the liquor license bureau out of her purse. “Ian Fowler stole these letters from the liquor license bureau and tried to ruin Russell Knox’s business.”
“Yeah? Where’d you get those letters?"
“Out of the file cabinet in Ian Fowler's office.”
“I did not hear that. Are you insane?
“That's a crime all by itself, isn't it?”
"By him or by you? By him? Maybe. Maybe not. Little hard to prove now that the letters are no longer in his possession and your fingerprints are all over them.”
“I actually tried to handle them very carefully. I'm sure Ian's fingerprints are still there. Can you check them?”
Finn took the letters by the corner edges. “Maybe. But I’m still not seeing a connection to the murder.”
“Ian hated the competition from Russell's restaurant. He tried to slow down his liquor license, and he did, by six months. It put Russell in a bad spot. But he finally made a huge success with the restaurant, and Ian lost a big chunk of his business.”
“Okay . . . what next?”
“He had to try something else to shut Russell down. Something to take away Russell's business. Scandal. A rumor. Food poisoning. What if Ian arranged the food poisoning? And maybe he didn't even intend to kill anyone, just have someone get sick at Russell's place and ruin the reputation of the restaurant. Maybe things got out of hand. He used too much arsenic. Maybe he never intended for someone to die.”
“You’ve got imagination, I'll give you that. You know we don't get that many arsenic cases these days. Antifreeze is now the number one way for people to poison someone. Everyone's got some in the garage. Nothing suspicious about it. But arsenic . . . that's a lot harder to acquire and a lot harder to explain. Leaves a trail of some kind, one way or the other.”
“What if he had access to poison? Don’t restaurants use rat poison? Maybe that's how he got it.”
Finn pulled out his cellphone and pulled up an arsenic webpage. “Not really used for rat poison. They’re worried about kids and animals having too much access to it. But it’s still used in electronics, LED lights, and wood—it prevents wood from rotting. Lotta buildings that got put up with lead in the walls also had to be checked for arsenic as well.”
“Will you look into it?” Margo pleaded.
“I’ll do that. But you’ve got to stop stealing things.”
“It didn’t belong to Ian Fowler. There’s nothing wrong with trying to restore something to its rightful owner . . . but it sounds as if you’re at least willing to entertain the possibility that Russell is not the killer.”
“There’s plenty of evidence against him. But there’s things about his case that never added up. Why kill someone in your own restaurant and keep the poison in your car? It’s not smart. Not saying that criminals are always smart, but . . . the thing that puzzles me the most is no motive. There’s absolutely no reason for Russell Knox to target Julian Meeks. No motive whatsoever.”
Margo shifted uncomfortably. There actually was an incredibly damning motive. Finn and the police were still unaware of the $50,000 that Russell owed Julian Meeks and was not going to be able to pay. If they did know, the following up of all other leads would come to a crashing halt. So as badly as she felt about it, Finn was going to have to be kept in the dark a bit longer about that very problematic detail.
CHAPTER NINE
Knowing how to break things was bad enough. Learning how to hurt people? Maybe she didn’t want to be a witch after all.
“Why? Why? That’s a terrible thing to know how to do—you want to turn me into a human taser?” Margo wailed.
Delphine shrugged apologetically. “Lilith had a special affinity for electricity. As a rule, it requires very strong anger to activate, which she could
summon at will. It is a great irony that she died of a lightning strike. It was widely rumored that when there was an electrical storm about, she could redirect it toward whatever target suited her, human or otherwise.”
“I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“Stop being a baby,” Lilith groaned. “The first order of life is to protect oneself. To be stronger than all adversaries. To fear no one.”
This was a bit stronger than Delphine would have framed it. Perhaps it would help to provide some context. “Lilith’s mother died shortly after her birth—like yours. But under suspicious circumstances. Lilith had to be very mindful of the dangers and enemies that surround us. She recommends that you look upon this as a self-defense class. Hopefully, you’ll never need it. But if you do . . .”
Margo shook her head. “I’ll be able to touch someone and zap them with electricity?”
“Well, yes. Not unlike static electricity—but with quite a bit more voltage. Of course, Lilith didn’t have to be close enough to touch. She could send someone a jolt from a considerable distance. I witnessed it myself once. But again, she was formidable. It’s likely you’ll always have to touch whatever you are . . . zapping.”
Reluctantly, Margo agreed to acquire this latest skill. Lilith’s heart had given her life, and freedom, and courage. It seemed ungracious to reject all the other things that came with it.
Delphine directed Margo to keep one hand on her pendant and the other holding a sheet of paper, chanting Nesploro Fiere, and she gave her instructions to go to the polar opposite of her happy place. In order to summon her inner Lilith, Margo needed to get good and mad. Not as easy as it sounded.
“Have you ever had a terrible boss?” Delphine offered helpfully.
“No. I did have a few jobs before opening the theater. But they were all so sweet to me. Probably because they knew about the heart problem. My employers really looked out for me—very considerate, all of them.”
“What about family? Relatives? Rivalries, disputes, backstabbing?”
“Bette is my only relative now. She’s been an angel. I couldn’t have made it without her.”
“Exes? Nasty jerk boyfriends?”
“There weren’t that many. And they weren’t such bad fellows. Actually, I just met someone. We don’t really know each much about each other, but . . .” Margo’s mind drifted off into engrossing reveries.
It was time to get tough. “A man was killed in your friend’s restaurant, and they weren’t just content to kill. No, they had to make sure that another person took the fall. Right now, they’ve got their feet up somewhere, glass of scotch in hand, thinking what a pathetic sap your friend Russell is and not feeling a shred of guilt because Russell’s life was worthless and insignificant. Disposable. They think about him in a six by ten cell. And they laugh. They are laughing.”
Margo bristled. That was probably close enough to the truth. Someone had callously, inexcusably framed Russell for murder and was now just twiddling their thumbs, waiting for him to be tried and found guilty and given a life sentence. Whoever it was, she could just . . .
“Nesploro Fiere! Nesploro Fiere! Nesploro Fiere!”
The paper burst into flame. She tossed it into the nearby sink, her own eyes still ablaze with anger.
“Oh, my dear,” Delphine said admiringly. “I was sure that would take you a few weeks. But you’re a natural.”
“I just got so mad,” Margo said haltingly.
“I told you, don’t fear your anger and don’t suppress it. It can be channeled into power. It’s true for all witches, but especially so for Lilith Hazelwood. And you have exhibited some of her most distinctive tendencies.”
“I wish she had been a whiz at solving murders.”
“She’s thinking about that young man in jail again,” Lilith groused. “It is my murder that she should turn her attention to. You must explain to her exactly what her duty is to me and that she owes her life and all of her powers to me.”
“Let her strength grow first. Today was an important step. And her courage grows daily. But her ability still lags behind her courage, and there’s no telling what danger that could put her in.”
“Discourage all distractions,” Lilith demanded.
“Why don’t I walk you back to your shop?” Margo offered. “I’ve got to pick up a few things at the store for tonight. My new friend Finn is coming over. I think you’d like him.”
Lilith’s groan was so loud, it sent Newhart running for shelter.
*****
Bette was thrilled that Finn was scheduled to arrive before she had to leave for her evening shift. On the one hand, she couldn’t be happier that Margo finally had a new fella in her life. At the same time, he’d better be a pretty spectacular guy. Not just any man was good enough for her little sister.
“I’ll get it! I’ll get it!” Bette yelled when the doorbell rang. She opened the door and could only shake her head at Margo’s good fortune. Absolutely, Mark Ruffalo.
“Hi, I’m Bette. You must be Finn. Come on in.”
“Enchante,” Finn responded. Margo had advised him that he would best endear himself to Bette by showing a little continental flair. She was right. Bette looked about to swoon.
“You speak French?” Bette gushed.
“I had to go to Paris to extradite a prisoner. Picked up a few essentials.”
“Cool. FBI or CIA?”
“FBI. Right out of college.”
“Ooh, America’s Most Wanted?”
Finn nodded modestly.
“Did you catch any?” Bette asked excitedly.
“We put a few away. I was on a good team.”
“But you’re retired. You’re awfully young. And how young, exactly, are you?”
“Thirty-one.”
“Siblings?”
“Two. Brother and a sister. Whole family still in Boston.”
“Brother? Good-looking single brother?”
Finn grinned. “Yeah, he’s single. It’s hard for me to say if he’s good-looking. He looks a lot like me.”
Bette gasped. Margo shook her head at her sister’s brazen lack of shame.
“And the vetting process is complete. You passed,” Bette informed him.
“Isn’t it time for you to get to work?” Margo scolded.
Bette didn’t object—the more time these two spent alone together, the juicier the details would be afterward. She could wait. After her departure, there was one more introduction to make.
“Remember what I told you about Newhart. I know it’s really difficult, but try to keep your feet away from him. He’s still so skittish about that.”
“I remembered. Your sister’s not the only one who is going to be blown away by my charm.”
Margo went to her room where she knew Newhart was luxuriating in his kitty bed. She brought him to Finn. Stroking him carefully, speaking to him softly, and preparing him for what would surely be a slightly jarring addition to his life, she set him gently on the floor.
“You just have a seat on the sofa and let him get used to the sight of you. Then when he’s ready, maybe we’ll put him in your lap so he doesn’t have to deal with the sight of your feet.”
Finn complied. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty. Uncle Finn is here. I think you’re gonna like me.”
Margo had expected Newhart to turn around and run into the next room. But he was looking at Finn very curiously. He inched closer and closer and then did something most remarkable. He made a beeline for Finn’s feet! He sniffed his shoes, batted them with his paws, sniffed them again, and then threw his body on top of Finn’s shoes and started snuggling against them. Margo watched in amazement. Newhart backed off the feet and started batting them again with his paws. And then he stretched on them again, tummy up, arms waving furiously in the air. Finn looked triumphant.
“What is going on?” Margo asked.
“Your cat appears to be a little under the influence. I may have overdone it a bit.”
“Is that . . . is
that . . .? Did you put catnip on your shoes?”
Finn nodded guiltily. “How else do you make friends with a cat?”
“Not by drugging him.”
“I think he likes me though.”
“He’s inebriated.”
“Yeah, ya think he’s gonna have a little kitty hangover tomorrow?”
“You ought to be ashamed.”
But Margo wasn’t really irritated. Even this silly bickering with Finn was all part of a dream come true. A modest dream by most people’s standards, but one that she had sadly accepted would never be part of her reality. An intriguing young man was in her house, trying to impress her sister and her cat, all to ingratiate himself further with her. And they were going to spend the evening eating some homemade snacks and watching a scary movie. And who knew what else?
“What is that delectable smell?”
“Lobster quesadillas. I need to finish putting them together,” Margo said. “Don’t get Newhart into any more trouble.”
“I will not let him drive or operate machinery in his present condition.”
Margo was halfway to the kitchen when she turned. “Oh, what movie did you bring?”
“I brought something that, like Casablanca, is a true classic of American cinema. With timeless lessons of human endurance, courage, despair, hubris, and loyalty, a really unmatched encapsulation of the human experience.”
Margo raised her eyebrows suspiciously. “Don’t leave me in suspense.”
“Alien. Ah, I can tell this is going to be your first time. More like six or seven for me. It’s gonna blow you away. Guaranteed.”
As a film lover, Margo wasn’t sure that Alien should be mentioned in the same breath as Casablanca. But scary movies were a good test for the rapidly increasing strength of her new heart. And her regular old conventional human heart was being stretched to the limit as well. Finn was looking very good.
“We should probably eat by the half hour mark of the movie, ’cause after that, you may lose your appetite,” Finn warned. “Trust me.”
He turned out to be right. Margo flinched, shuddered, gasped, and peeked squeamishly through her fingers at the unspeakable monstrosity on the screen. And her heart pounded away like crazy. Who knew being scared could be this much fun?
