Not in the Cards

by Amy Cissell

  “There’s an arts and crafts fair where local artisans sell their homemade goods—it’s a little like real life Etsy—and a huge bake sale. Everyone who enters the bakeoff is required to provide an extra item for the sale.

  “There’s usually games for the kids, some kind of adult event—” Drew snickered and Morgana swatted at him. “—and a huge fundraiser auction. Half the proceeds go to the local women’s and children’s shelter, and the other half is the budget for the next year’s Bazaar.”

  “And I’m in charge of…”

  “The whole thing, sweetie,” Misty said.

  “And it’s scheduled for?”

  “Six weeks from today!” Ceri said, holding her glass out for a refill.

  Sandy downed the rest of her bubbly, then emptied the bottle between her glass and Ceri’s. “I’m not sure about this,” she said.

  “The Bazaar planning has been underway since the last one ended,” Drew said. “You won’t have to do much of anything. You’ll preside over the judging, tally the results, and award the prizes. You’ll be the face of the Bazaar, but most of the work’s been done. It’ll be easy. I promise.”

  Sandy gulped down the glass of prosecco, let out a tiny, ladylike burb into her hand, and opened the second bottle of bubbly. Her skepticism warred with recent experience, but her natural distrust of strangers—particularly strangers who claimed to be a step removed from witches—lost to her curiosity and desire to make friends and start a new life. “Fine, I’m in.”

  Chapter Four

  Vincent Bryson got out of his silver Porsche and surveyed the small Main Street before him. It was typical of every small coastal town in the Pacific Northwest, and with both ocean and bay views, more valuable than most.

  He grimaced at the thought of selling the property he owned here. This was the first time he’d set foot in town, and something about it seemed like…home. But if he didn’t sell, he’d be in more trouble than it was worth, even for a quaint small town that made him feel at peace for the first time in months.

  He glanced at his watch—no longer the Rolex he’d sported a few months ago—and sighed impatiently. The developer was late, probably some kind of powerplay, and Vincent was not a patient man. He had to meet with the woman he’d hired to manage his properties and serve as a landlady after this meeting, and he was not looking forward to telling her what was happening. Although they’d never met—his former financial manager had handled all the liaising on his behalf—he received regular reports, as well as Christmas and birthday cards from her, and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that she loved this town and would not be excited to hear that the properties she managed were being sold to a developer. A developer whose meager portfolio demonstrated a commitment to taking charming main streets and suburbanizing them to the point of generic unrecognizability.

  He tapped his foot for a few moments before stopping it. He might be impatient, but he’d be damned before he showed any outward signs of it. You are damned, though, aren’t you? he thought to himself. This whole situation is a damned mess.

  Before he could fall too far down the hole of anger and self-recrimination, the developer showed up. Vincent made a point of glancing at his watch. “You’re late.”

  The developer laughed, as if Vincent was making a joke, and held out his hand. “I’m Darwin Sibel. You must be Vincent Bryson. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “Likewise,” Vincent lied. “Let’s walk down the street, and I’ll point out the properties I own. I’m meeting with my property manager later today, so we can’t go inside any that aren’t open right now, but if you’re interested, I can make that happen later this week.”

  “Sure thing. You’re the boss.”

  They walked up and down both sides of the street. Vincent pointed out each building that was his while consulting from a list.

  “You own quite a few fortune telling businesses,” Darwin said. “Guess you should’ve called them up a year ago to find out if you were going to get caught.”

  Vincent winced before he could stop himself. He hadn’t told that part of the story, but it made sense that the developer would’ve done some research. “Ha,” he ground out, trying to sound amused and failing miserably.

  “I’ll give you $1.25 million for the lot.”

  “You haven’t even seen inside them.”

  “I’ve pulled the records of the last sales and been inside each that was open. I haven’t seen any of the attached apartments, but I don’t need to.”

  Vincent mulled it over. $1.25 million after taxes would be the exact amount he needed to get out of this damned mess with the smallest shred of dignity still attached.

  “I’ll need to think about it,” he said.

  “The offer isn’t going to get better,” Darwin warned.

  “There are others out there who might offer more. It’s worth at least double that.”

  “But if you don’t sell soon, this’ll be seized along with your other assets, and you won’t be able to avoid paying the piper. I can snatch it up at auction for less when that happens.”

  He was right, but Vincent wasn’t about to admit that. At least not yet.

  “I need some time. I’ll be speaking with my property manager this afternoon, and I’ll be in touch later this week.”

  “Don’t wait too long,” Darwin advised, laughing as he oozed away. He gave off a very distinctive used car salesman vibe, and Vincent felt as though he needed a shower after talking to him for even that brief amount of time. He still had a couple hours before he was due to meet with his property manager Mystic Greene, so he decided to get a cup of coffee and stare at the waves as the tide came in.

  Vincent sat at a small table on the back patio of Caffiend Dreams, one of the many properties he currently owned, and sipped on his quad shot Americano. He didn’t usually take cream or sugar, but the barista had talked him into some fresh goat cream from a local farmer. He stared out over the ocean and tried to figure out how he’d gotten here. A year ago, he’d been a successful businessman, the youngest CFO in his marketing company’s history, and a rising star in the Pacific Northwest.

  Now, he was selling off the last of his large property holdings to pay back the amount of money that’d been embezzled from his company—and for which he’d been fingered. They’d given him three months to pay back the company, or they’d press charges. He didn’t know why they were giving him a grace period—perhaps they wanted to avoid the time, expense, and publicity of an embezzlement trial—but it was a mixed blessing. He’d sold his house, the other two cars, and most of the rental property he owned in Portland, but still was nearly a million dollars short. Word had gotten out that he was desperate, and he wasn’t getting nearly what the properties were worth. He’d hoped to hold off on selling his share of Oracle Bay—or at the least, only sell part of it—but if he wanted to stay out of jail, that might not be possible.

  He looked at the list of businesses in front of him. There really were an inordinate amount of psychics in this town. Maybe he should’ve consulted one of them. Maybe he still could. Perhaps that’s how he’d find out who the real criminal was. He had his suspicions, but the man appeared above reproach, and there wasn’t any proof. Pointing fingers—or ‘whistle blowing,’ as the man had named it—wasn’t proof of a crime. The timing was suspect, though. Vincent’d been about to do an audit because the books seemed off, and as soon as he announced his intentions to the IT department so they could start pulling data from everyone’s computers, the embezzlement came to light, and he was accused of the crime.

  It had to be someone in IT. He hadn’t even told his team about it—but if it was someone in IT, why was a mid-level finance manager blowing the whistle?

  He shook his head. He’d been trying to solve the mystery for a few months now and wasn’t any closer to an answer now than he’d been before. The only things he knew were that he was innocent and if he didn’t want to end up in jail for a crime he didn’t commit, he�
��d better come up with the remaining million dollars by the end of the month.

  He looked away from his list of businesses and back at the ocean. Clouds were rolling across the horizon, and the previously smooth sea was looking choppier. Boats dotted the water here and there, and he wondered how much the town relied on fishing compared to other businesses. Vincent shook his head ruefully. This was the only property he owned that he knew next to nothing about. It’d been a spontaneous investment a few years ago, just as he was beginning to enjoy his first taste of true wealth.

  A man he’d met at a social networking event—a man he’d later hired—had talked up the investment. Most of the businesses on the main street were owned by the last remaining descendants of the founding family—brother and sister Henry and Myra Reed. The Reed siblings, along with Myra’s daughter, Skye, had fled Oracle Bay and been on the run for almost ten years after Hatchet Henry was convicted of manslaughter. Their old mansion was decrepit and crumbling, and they no longer bothered to maintain the buildings on Main Street.

  Once they’d stopped paying taxes, the city had seized the buildings and was trying to sell them. Vincent’s new friend was deeply saddened that he didn’t have enough money to fund this amazing investment opportunity—records showed that all the businesses were currently occupied and profitable, and would probably be able to afford an increase in rent if the right landlord invested in the properties just a little.

  Flush with money and the desire to be altruistic, Vincent had allowed himself to be talked into purchasing Main Street Oracle Bay sight unseen. He’d left the management of the property to his business manager and a local appointed property manager elected by his tenants—and hadn’t that been the best idea Vincent had had, regardless of how much his advisors hated it—until about a year ago, when he started corresponding directly with the woman who’d sent him friendly cards a couple times each year.

  He paged through the records. The upgrades he’d recommended had never been completed, and some of the businesses were in no better shape now than they’d been five years ago. Having met Misty, he knew the fault didn’t lie with her, but, more than likely, his business manager. He never should’ve mixed personal and professional business. The man had seemed knowledgeable and competent enough, but there was always something not quite right about their business dealings. Vincent tried not to let his distrust for the man who’d eventually pointed the finger at him color his perception of his integrity, but it was difficult.

  He shook his head and got back to the matter at hand. The property had still increased in value, though, and was worth almost twice what he’d paid for it, and half again as much as he could realistically expect to get for it, selling on a short timeline. He had one month left to pay back the funds and avoid arrest, a trial, and probable jail time.

  He sighed. The rents being charged were so low. The developer he’d spoken to earlier would surely triple them immediately if he didn’t kick the tenants out first thing. Vincent had seen the other couple towns the developer had ‘revitalized,’ and it’d be much more likely that Oracle Bay would end up with a couple Starbucks, some chain seafood restaurants to compete with the two local ones whose ‘catch of the day’ was probably literally the ‘catch of the day,’ a chain bookstore, and any number of other generic businesses that would push the local businesses to bankruptcy.

  Vincent slammed his cup down with more vigor than he’d intended. It was a crap situation all around, and he winced at the role he was about to have in ruining so many people’s lives.

  “Cup of drip?” the man running the coffee shop asked, appearing at his side suddenly enough to make Vincent jump.

  “Thank you,” Vincent replied. The man placed a large cup in front of him and filled it, leaving a bit of room at the top. A bit more of the fresh goat’s cream topped it off, and the man smiled.

  “You liked the cream, didn’t you?”

  “It was different but delicious,” Vincent replied.

  “Most people are too skeptical to try it. It was nice you did. I knew you’d like it.” He wiped his hand on his apron and stuck it out. “I’m Bill. Bill Walters. Can I get you a pastry while you wait?”

  Vincent shook his hand. He recognized the name as one of his tenants. “Vincent Bryson.”

  The man’s eyes widened. “This is your shop, isn’t it? I shouldn’t have charged you for the coffee.”

  “Of course you should. You’re running a business the same as any of the rest of us. If it’s not profitable, it doesn’t work,” Vincent said, pasting a smile on his face and trying not to think about what was coming down the pike for the town. “I’d love a pastry. Where do you get them from?”

  “Make everything in here myself. The back kitchen—he jerked a thumb over his right shoulder—gets up and running every morning by about four o’clock. Today, I’ve got doughnuts with various toppings, bear claws, marionberry scones, lemon poppyseed muffins, and a variety of cookies.”

  Before Vincent could make a selection, the bell over the door jingled softly, and Bill looked up at his newest customer. His face lit up like the Fourth of July and was just as quickly shuttered again. Vincent turned around to see who’d caused such a dramatic reaction. A young-looking man with dark hair, a hint of a beard, and grey-blue eyes strode to the counter. The look he exchanged with Bill was so heated, Vincent needed a cold shower to bring the temperature back down.

  “Drew,” Bill said, coolly enough that Vincent’s shower was rendered unnecessary.

  “Bill,” Drew replied with the same level of chill.

  “What can I get for you?”

  “Two large mochas and two bear claws.”

  “Two?” Bill asked, his question loaded with meaning.

  “Two,” Drew confirmed, clearly not answering the question Bill was asking.

  Bill rang him up in silence while Vincent very deliberately stared at his paperwork.

  “Thank you,” Drew said, dropping his change in the tip jar by the cash register.

  “You’re welcome,” Bill said. “I hope you and your friend enjoy the pastries.”

  “We will.” The door shut with another cheery jingle.

  Vincent stood up. “I think I’ll take a scone to go. And can I get the rest of my coffee transferred to a to-go cup and topped off?” He paid and left, leaving Bill behind to angry-clean his small coffee shop.

  At one o’clock on the dot, a woman plopped down in the chair across from where Vincent was waiting in Driftwood, one of two local seafood restaurants.

  “I’m Misty Greene; you’re Vincent Byron. It’s nice to finally meet you.” She didn’t hold out a hand for him to shake, and he put the hand he’d started to extend back on his lap.

  “Misty?” he asked.

  “I prefer the nickname to my given name.”

  He filed that away as a reference. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Misty.”

  She got the attention of the waiter and ordered a Long Island Ice Tea. “Just water for me,” Vincent said.

  “Whatever you’re going to tell me is not going to be good, and I need the fortification,” Misty defended her order.

  “I’m not going to judge you. But how do you know I’m the bearer of bad news?”

  “In the five years you’ve owned Main Street, this is the first time you’ve ever set foot in town. You were seen talking to Darwin Sibel this morning. Not everyone recognizes a developer on sight, but there are those who do. Plus, as I’m sure you’ve noticed,” she nodded towards the folder he’d set on the table, “this town has a lot of psychics. It’s hard to sneak anything by us.”

  “You’re one of them, right?” he asked.

  “That’s right. I read palms, more or less, which is why I prefer not to shake hands unless I’m wearing gloves. I don’t want any more extraneous information about people’s sex lives floating around in my head.”

  “I can assure you, you wouldn’t get that from me,” Vincent said, a bit stiffly. For all that Misty was dressed like a c
onservative librarian in her slightly too-tight suit, prim hairdo, and cat-eye glasses, she had an aura about her that made him a little uncomfortable.

  “In that case, I’m sorry to hear that,” Misty said, grinning.

  He rewound his words, flushed slightly when he realized what he’d inadvertently given away, and said, “That’s not what I meant. I only meant that it’s not real.”

  “Of course. Now,” she said, taking a long pull on her freshly-delivered cocktail, “lay it on me.”

  “I have to sell Oracle Bay—” he said.

  “You can’t sell a town,” Misty objected before he had a chance to continue.

  “I can sell the properties I own.”

  “No. You can’t.”

  Vincent leaned back in his chair. He’d been prepared for all sorts of reactions, but flat out refusal was not one of them. “I need the money,” he said, trying to wrest control of the situation back from the prim-looking woman across from him. The woman who’d just finished her first Long Island in record time and was signaling for another. “You don’t understand,” he tried again. “I have no choice.”

  “How much?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “How much do you need to sell it for?”

  “I don’t see how knowing that will help…”

  “How. Much?” The look she gave him was cold enough to raise goosebumps along his spine.

  “One point two-five million dollars,” he replied.

  “Oof. That’s a lot.” Misty was silent until her second cocktail appeared.

  “Yeah, it is. That’s why I need to sell.”