The Magic of Murder

by Susan Lynn Solomon

  I couldn’t believe it, either. Still… I sat up again. Staring at the green and black label, I rolled the bottle in my hands,

  “Think this out.” She took the bottle from me and placed it on the end table behind her.

  I craned my neck. I couldn’t peel my eyes away from the label. I couldn’t yank my thoughts from what I now feared it represented. I began to shake.

  Rebecca took my hands and held tight to them. “Anyone could have this wine. You said it’s from a local vineyard.”

  Had I said that aloud or only thought it? At the moment I wasn’t sure. All at once, suspicion of Rebecca overrode my suspicion of Roger. I’d bought a bottle of this merlot for her and gave it to her one day when I visited her at The Black Cat. I peered into her eyes searching for any small sign of deception, any clue I might have a murderer in my house.

  That a murderer held my hands.

  Rebecca could easily have done it. I’d spoken about Jimmy and Roger to her, described them in detail. Her eyes clouded over when I talked about Jimmy Osborn: handsome, brave (Roger told me in Iraq, Jim had crawled through raking gunfire to pull him from a burning Humvee), beard and hair always well groomed. Maybe Jimmy’s marriage wasn’t as good as everyone thought. Maybe Rebecca decided she wanted him, had an affair, then Jimmy broke it off. The glee with which she’d helped me construct the hex I threw at Kevin—yes, I was sure Rebecca could be perfectly capable of killing a man who threw her over.

  I shuddered, pulled away from her, and leaned back as far as I could get. Not far enough. She had me trapped.

  As if she didn’t recognize it was her I now feared, the murderer who sat next to me on my sofa continued in a reasonable tone. “Where was Roger when the first bottle was thrown?”

  My mind raced. I didn’t dare let her read my thoughts. God knows what else she might have in her shoulder bag. “He…he was with me in his house,” I said.

  “And the second time?” She again took my hands.

  “We were together at the book shop.”

  “See how much better you feel once you’ve thought it through?”

  Yes, think it through. Think, Emlyn, think. Can’t run past her, not on this bandaged leg. Can’t grab the wine bottle and beat her with it, she moved it out of reach. Oh, she’s smart. I glanced at Sarah Goode’s book on the coffee table. Maybe I can smack her with the book. Stun her long enough to get out the back door—

  Just as I leaned over to grab Sarah’s book, my fear-frozen brain thawed. I caught my breath. “You…you were also in the room with me at Main Street Books when the second bottle crashed through the window.”

  My head dropped. I was too embarrassed to look at Rebecca.

  She sat up straight. “You didn’t think—me?”

  I blinked back tears of guilt. How could I have suspected her for even a minute? She must hate me now. Having broken free of scenarios in which Rebecca’s oil was actually poison, an ointment concocted to cause my certain and painful death, my imagination spun a different scene:

  How could you suspect me? she would say. I’ve been your friend. I’ve shared your secret. How dare you. I drove fifty miles on treacherous icy roads because I saw you’d need me. Would someone who wanted you dead do that? I can’t believe even for a minute you’d think of me as a threat.

  Yes, she would surely say those words as she grabbed her bag and coat, and, not bothering to put it on, slammed out the door. I would hear her shout from outside, Don’t speak to me again! Ever!

  I would be alone then, unprotected, when Jimmy’s killer came for me.

  Tears dripped down my cheeks.

  Rebecca stared at me. After a few seconds, she dropped my hands, leaned back into the cushion at the far end of the sofa, and laughed. In fact, holding her stomach, she laughed so hard and long, she now had tears in her eyes.

  When she at last caught her breath, she said, “I’ve been accused of being a lot of things in this life—a gypsy thief, a charlatan, an adulterer—but a murderer?”

  Still laughing, she yanked the cork from the bottle and poured red wine into two glasses. When she handed me one, she said, “Drink this, it’ll settle your nerves.”

  I instantly obeyed, downing half of what was in my wineglass in a single gulp.

  “You poor girl,” she said, and moved to the wingback chair. “You put on a brave front, but you’re terrified.”

  I conjured up a number of clever things I might say in response, but they all fell flat when I rehearsed them in my mind. In the end, all I could do was nod.

  Elvira jumped onto the couch and snuggled under my arm.

  “The cat really understands you,” Rebecca said.

  ***

  Most of the wine was gone from the bottle when we heard my front door open.

  Roger stood in the doorway for a minute, his eyes swinging around my house.

  “Close the door,” I called, “you’re letting all the warm air escape.”

  He glanced from me to Rebecca. “What are you two laughing about?”

  He pulled off his overcoat, draped it across one of the kitchen chairs, and joined us in the living room. Smiling, he lifted my legs, dropped onto the sofa, and rested my feet on his lap. His slacks were icy cold. So were his hands. When he rubbed my legs, it sent a chill through me. At least, I thought the cold of his hands caused my chill.

  “Pour me some of what you’re drinking—if you lushes haven’t finished it all.”

  “You’re in a good mood,” I said. Actually, I probably slurred the words.

  “I am,” he responded, but offered nothing more.

  Rebecca handed him a glass with what was left of the merlot. “You gonna make us drag it out of you?”

  He grinned at her. “This wine is rather good, where’d you get it?”

  Harrumph. It was one thing when I teased him the way I did when Sarah Goode’s book arrived. His teasing me this way was another thing altogether. I smacked his arm. “Don’t be coy. You obviously learned something. What is it?”

  “I’m rather good at what I do, you know?”

  Again I hit him. “I could learn to hate you.”

  He rubbed his arm. “You’ve got quite a punch, lady.”

  “Want another one?”

  Elvira sat up. The meeeow she gave Roger might have said, Don’t start with her, she’ll bruise you.

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “Don’t hit me again.”

  “Then I suggest you start talking.”

  He took a swallow of his wine. “I caught up with Woody in the lot behind the precinct. He didn’t know I was there—probably won’t find out until the two guys watching your house report in.”

  I gasped. “I’m being watched?” I’d been so angry, it hadn’t registered when Chief Woodward told us that. Now it finally did, and my sense of dread returned. Fearful, relaxed, fearful: my emotions bounced around on a pogo stick.

  “Don’t go all ‘Bates Motel’ on me,” he said. “Yeah, there’s an unmarked car just down the block.”

  If my eyes went any wider they would have popped from my skull, rolled along the floor, and hidden under the skirt of my wingback chair.

  “Hey, don’t panic. These aren’t the bad guys.”

  “But…but Chief Woodward…he…you said he won’t let anyone work the case.”

  “He won’t,” Roger said. “The guys in the car aren’t ours. They’re Feds—DEA most likely.”

  “DEA?” Rebecca and I rasped in harmony.

  What was going on here? Someone emptied a clip into Jimmy Osborn’s chest in a dark alley, then that someone tried to fry me like a rasher of bacon—I had no doubt the two were connected—and now the DEA thought I had a stash of drugs in my house? How did I get in the middle of this mess? All I’d done was try out a simple divination rite. Don’t fool around with anything you read in Sarah Goode’s book, Rebecca had warned me. Was that only two days ago? Her words now slammed around in my brain like Thor was in there swinging his hammer. She was right: the spell I’d pla
yed with had unintended consequences. Not the kind of socio-economic consequences Robert K. Merton wrote about in 1936 (I’d learned about him years ago while researching a story), but still rife with potential disaster.

  I grabbed my head. I hoped Rebecca had a remedy in her bag for the sharp pain shooting all the way to my toes.

  “Hey, take it easy,” Roger said. He swiveled to Rebecca. “Get her something, would you?”

  With a deep what-am-I-gonna-do-with-her sigh, she rose. Instead of going to the kitchen to grab a remedy from her shoulder bag, she pulled a bottle of Johnny Walker from the bottom cabinet of my étagère.

  While she poured us both a neat glassful, Roger explained, “They’re not after you. It’s Kevin they want. They figure if he’s so anxious to get money from you, he’ll be back.”

  “How do you know?” I turned to Rebecca. “How can he know?”

  “The DEA’s involved?” Rebecca asked. She swallowed some scotch and poured another.

  From her reaction, I wondered what else my friend carried around in her shoulder bag. Marijuana, maybe? I’d read somewhere pot helps settle a witch’s mind so she can focus on her spell. If Rebecca had any illegal drugs, maybe she feared the DEA would burst in, and she would wind up dangling from a rope next to me on Gallows Hill, hanged side-by-side like our ancestors.

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Roger said. “When I caught up with Woody, he was talking to a guy—getting bawled out by him, actually. I managed to get close enough to overhear. Apparently, the Feds have been trying to shut down a drug ring in Buffalo for more than a year.”

  Wine, scotch: the hot pain in my head drifted behind a cloud. My tongue felt thick. Roger’s voice now sounded as though it came from my kitchen or maybe from my backyard. I forced myself to concentrate.

  “Drugs? Someone’s feeding drugs to buffaloes?” I asked.

  Roger laughed. “You’ve had quite enough alcohol for one day.” He took the half-filled glass from my hand and set it on the coffee table.

  Elvira squiggled free of my arm and leaped onto the table. As if it were her bowl of milk, she began to lap up the scotch.

  Roger shooed her away. “This cat’s as bad as you two,” he remarked.

  Elvira grinned up at him from the floor and her tongue moved slowly across her lips. It was as though she said, Where’s that stuff been all my life?

  Leaning back against the cushions, Roger said, “All of you try to focus. From what I could make out, the Feds think a cop may be involved in the drug ring, and the guy with Woody said where there’s one there’s probably more.”

  “So Jim Osborn’s death is about narcotics?” Rebecca asked.

  “Seems to be,” Roger said. “They think the ring’s operating in Niagara Falls, too. Makes sense, now there’s a casino here. They’ve decided Jimmy’s murder is proof the drugs have crossed into the Falls.”

  I was shocked. Well, as shocked as I could get in my semi-inebriated condition. “Jimmy?” I said. “But you told me you would have known if he was involved in something like drugs.”

  Roger shrugged.

  I gnawed on the idea for minute. Jimmy Osborn had been my friend. Margaret was my friend. I felt as though I would betray them if I believed for even a minute Jimmy could be part of a drug ring. I’d buried my initial suspicion by then. Now it rushed back: the Corvette in the Osborns' driveway, the expensive wedding they’d given their daughter—where had the money for such things come from?

  Roger broke into the haze of my thoughts. “Anyhow, now I know why Woody won’t let the guys in my squad, and especially me, work the case. With the Feds not knowing how deep it goes in the department, his hands are tied.”

  “And Kevin?” I asked.

  With Rebecca’s warning about unexpected consequences echoing in my recollection, I trembled at the idea my ex was involved. A new guilt rose like acid from my stomach and my face grew warm. I recalled the spell Rebecca and I had thrown at Kevin. Our candles and herbs and chants had caused him to lose his job as an insurance agent, and go bankrupt—it happened so soon afterward, I was sure our spell was the cause. I hadn’t foreseen the hex might lead him down a dark path. Now he was a hunted drug runner.

  As if he read my thoughts, Roger said, “They want him to testify against the ones who are behind this.”

  No wonder Kevin was so panicked. I’d read in the newspaper and seen television movies about how dangerous it was to testify against drug lords. Witnesses disappeared, their bones found years later when an old building was torn down. Yes, most of such plots are made up by people like me. Knowing this didn’t help, and it didn’t matter that I had little love left for my ex. Damn my imagination! Half-soused and all scared, no room remained in my mind for logic.

  “This is all my fault!” I blurted out.

  Roger’s eyes went from me to Rebecca. “What did you two do?” he demanded.

  “Uh…nothing,” she stammered.

  “Well…” I said.

  Elvira knew damn well what we had done. She’d been there. Now she was back on the coffee table, lapping at the glass of scotch. I guess she recognized the accusation in Roger’s voice.

  I sure did. His tone was like a hangover remedy.

  Rebecca focused on her glass. My eyes wandered around the room.

  Earlier, when I thought Rebecca might be the killer, I’d wondered if I could swat her with Sarah Goode’s book and escape out the French doors. Now, I wondered if I could escape from Roger’s stern look in such a way.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Something Rotten in Niagara Falls

  In fits and starts, and with a lot of hemming and hawing, in tandem Rebecca and I told Roger about the candles and wine and the stuffed doll we used as the centerpiece of our vengeance ceremony. Of course, we left out some of the details—he had no need to know the name of the goddess we invoked, what we promised her, or how scantily we were clad (even thinking about the half-dressed state we were in makes me blush). When we finally finished, he shook his head and swallowed the rest of his wine.

  “You can’t really believe in this stuff,” he said.

  Rebecca had a mischievous glint in her eyes.

  “The spell worked, didn’t it?” I said as I wiped away tears of guilt.

  Elvira’s head came up so fast she nearly slid off the coffee table.

  “Come on now, your chanting didn’t do a thing,” Roger said. “Think about it logically. Once Kevin lost his job, it wasn’t a long leap for him down the rabbit hole. I didn’t know him well, Emlyn, but I’d seen enough of him to lay odds he’d go looking for a fast buck in a scheme that didn’t require much effort.”

  I wouldn’t surrender my guilt so easily—my mother’s ministrations left it too well embedded. Roger was just being kind. “You don’t know anything of the sort,” I insisted.

  “I know what I saw. He was my neighbor for the three years you were married. He was happy to move here to your parents’ house. In fact, I once overheard him say he was glad he glommed onto a woman with assets. And I saw the way he treated you—like a housemaid. No, I didn’t like it, and I didn’t like him much.”

  “He worked hard,” I said. “All those late nights visiting clients.”

  I don’t know why I defended Kevin. Guilt, I guess, is a rapist ripping away the clothes of one’s reason.

  “You think he was visiting clients?” Roger said. “I saw him a couple of nights at Flannery’s, a drink in one hand and a woman in his other.”

  My hand flew to my mouth. A sob burst from my throat.

  “Stop it!” Rebecca said. “That was mean.”

  Roger’s brows arched. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have told you.”

  “I always knew what Kevin is,” I moaned.

  He took my hand. “The bastard didn’t deserve you.”

  I gazed into Roger’s soft hazel eyes and, for a moment, forgot my hurt.

  Rebecca peered over the rim of her glass. Her sly smile told me she was pleased she might have wri
tten, produced, and directed this scene. “If you lovebirds are finished cooing,” she said, at last, “I’d like to remind you of something.”

  Without breaking eye contact with me, Roger asked—almost whispered, “What?”

  “You said Kevin turned to crime after he lost his job.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It strikes me you started in the middle. Our spell did work. It caused him to get fired—”

  My tears erupted again. “See, I’m the cause of whatever he’s done. That means Jimmy…his murder was also my fault!”

  Rebecca handed me a tissue. “It wasn’t just you, Emlyn. I was part of it. And what we did we can undo.”

  I didn’t feel any less to blame.

  “Magic got him fired?” Roger said. “I doubt that.”

  I sniffed and blew my nose. “What did it then?”

  He stretched his legs onto the coffee table. His hands behind his head, he said, “There a logical answer to that, too. Shouldn’t be very hard to learn what it is.”

  “Without your boss finding out you’re asking questions?” Rebecca said.

  A grin spread across Roger’s face. “Yeah, there’s that.”

  “Please, don’t do anything stupid,” I said. Now my bubble of guilt expanded to envelop the trouble Roger was about to get into. It would be another unexpected consequence flowing from my need for revenge.

  “Sitting here, just talking about who might have done what, is stupid,” Roger said. “Doing nothing about it is stupid. And I’ll tell you something—I’m tired of being stupid.”

  “But Woody said—”

  “Yeah, Woody. He’s doing nothing and using the Feds as an excuse to do it. You saw what happened when you told him his wife and Kevin were both at the book signing? He couldn’t get out of here fast enough. My boss, Chief Woodward, is covering for someone.”

  My mind flashed to the brief conversation I had with Amy Woodward at the Osborn funeral. Was it my imagination, or had she gone pale when I told her how lucky she was to have a steadfast husband? I’d also seen Kevin at the funeral. Then Amy had been at Main Street Books. For my reading and signing, she told me. But when I said hello, she seemed surprised to see me. Then, a minute later, I saw Kevin. He was in trouble, he said. He came because he knew I’d be there. After the way he’d skulked in my backyard then tried to cadge money from me, I believed him.