Somehow, Priscilla doubted it, but she acknowledged the statement with a curt nod. She welcomed the cold night air on her face when she stepped out of the shop.
“We don’t know that he’s aiming to kill you next,” Maddison soothed, grabbing Priscilla’s hand in her smaller one.
Priscilla didn’t answer. If it comforted Maddison to think that, then she’d let her hold onto the delusion. After three hundred and fifty-three years of life, Priscilla knew better than to believe in sweet little lies. Deep down, they both knew the truth. The killer knew she was involved in the police investigation and was willing to pay the high price for silver bullets, just to make sure that Priscilla stayed down. How had he known she was investigating? Had he been spying on the police this whole time? Or had this hitman done his homework and read up on her? Sam Hodge’s piece had made her name somewhat infamous in these parts.
The ride home was a quiet one. The radio in her car played a doo-wop song that Maddison happily sang along to. Priscilla used the time to catalog the facts as she knew them. The man who’d killed Benedict and Clarissa was well-connected enough to have been able to buy a false identity or two with which to purchase the supplies he’d need to complete a job. He was short, like Martino, but not obviously connected with the Sicilian mob, as far as she knew. He had no accent. He’d purchased specialized bullets to kill her, and anyone else who got in the way. He was well-informed and knew that she was aiding the police.
That thought led her to another unpleasant conclusion. Whoever had contracted the hit man was probably one of the wealthy citizens of Bellmare. It narrowed the pool from thousands to a handful of names, many of whom had a known grudge against her. At least that made sense. But who had motive to target the Montgomery family? That was the part she couldn’t figure out. The outpouring of support that had occurred after Benedict’s death indicated that most everyone loved the family.
If she could find the ones who didn’t, she’d be that much closer to solving the murder of the twins.
When they pulled up outside Fangs in Fondant, she found her lights on. Bemused, she glanced over at Maddison.
“You didn’t turn my lights on before we left, did you?” she asked.
Maddison shook her head. “Everything was off.”
Every hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Someone was waiting in her shop. Someone she had not invited. After the revelation about the silver bullets, she was almost certain the intruder wasn’t friendly.
“Reach into the back,” she instructed. “I should have a tire iron somewhere.”
Maddison crawled into the back and produced the sturdy piece of metal a few moments later. Priscilla felt better grasping it, even if it was no match for a gun-toting psycho. She’d just have to be faster than her attacker. If she could break a bone in his shooting hand, perhaps she’d throw his aim off.
“You can’t go in there,” Maddison hissed.
“I have to,” Priscilla said. “If I don’t come out in five minutes, or you hear a gunshot, call the police.”
“Priscilla—”
She didn’t hear what Maddison said next. She climbed out of the van, grasping her improvised weapon tightly. What happened next would have to be quick and decisive. She’d only have seconds to absorb the scene before the killer struck. She kicked off her heels, for added stealth, and crept to her front door. Someone had drawn the shades over her window and door, and she could only make out the faint, shadowy outline of someone beyond.
She grasped her door handle in shaking fingers and twisted it, pushing the door inwards with a loud crash as it struck the wall with inhuman speed. She hefted her weapon, ducked in, and—
Came face to face with an irritated cop. Arthur was leaning against her counter, still dressed in his crisp dress uniform, holding a frog in his arms.
“What the hell are you doing, Priscilla?” he snapped. She froze halfway to him, tire iron still raised above her head. She let her arm swing limply to her side as relief flooded her body.
“It’s just you.”
“Who else were you expecting?” Arthur asked. “Wait. Never mind. I don’t want to know. What I do want to know is why the hell you have a frog in your bathtub.”
It took Priscilla a little longer than it should have to process what he’d said. “What were you doing in my bathroom?”
“I borrowed Anna’s key after I arrived home. I was going to snake your drain and solve your plumbing issue. Only I found that there was nothing wrong with it. You were lying to me. And I want to know why. Why the hell is there a frog in your tub?”
She took a deep, steadying breath. This wasn’t the endgame scenario she’d been constructing in her head, but it was still bad. Revealing this lie could destroy the tenuous friendship she’d built with Arthur over the last few months. But if she wanted his protection from the homicidal gunman, she couldn’t keep deceiving him. He deserved the truth.
“It’s Joseph Reed,” she said, sinking into one of her chairs.
“Come again?”
“That frog is Joseph Reed, the missing executive. He’s been living in my house for the last few days now.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Dead serious,” she said with a small, nervous laugh. “I’ll explain everything, if you give me time.”
He glanced down at the frog in his arms in disbelief. “This is a man? How?”
“You might want to sit down for this,” she said with a sigh. “It’s a long story.”
Chapter Ten
Arthur’s face was stony by the time she’d finished. She hadn’t seen him this unhappy with her since their fight about Emily’s graveside service. His eyes were like two flecks of glacial ice in his face.
“So you mean to tell me that your faerie godmother turned this man into a frog, and you told no one?”
“Well, Anna knew,” Priscilla said. “Though I’m not sure she believed me.”
Arthur’s face purpled. “My own daughter knew, and you thought that this wasn’t important enough to tell me? I’ve been hounded by that company for days and you didn’t think it was worth mentioning that you had one of their chief executives in your bathtub?”
“I knew you’d be angry.”
“Angry doesn’t even begin to cover it, Priscilla! You kept vital information from me. Were you going to tell me about your little excursion tonight if I hadn’t turned up? Or were you going to play martyr and get yourself killed, trying to track him down?”
“Of course, I would have! How can you say something like that, Arthur? I’m not trying to act like a hero. I want to catch this guy as badly as you do. I’m not keeping anything vital to the investigation from you.”
He snorted. “Oh, you like to play the hero all right, Pratt. What were you thinking, charging into a building where you thought there might be an armed gunman waiting for you? I could have killed you before you got to me with that tire iron, if I’d had my gun out. This man has means and motive to kill you. I don’t care how fast or strong you are, Priscilla, you’ve got to learn when to let the professionals handle a case!”
“I don’t see what this has to do with Joseph Reed.”
Arthur kneaded his temples for a solid minute before he answered. “Because it is a part of a pattern of behavior that I find distressing, Priscilla. Once again you chose not to confide in the people who could help you, insisting you could handle it yourself. If you’d told me, maybe we could have found someone to reverse the spell. But no, you decided to handle it on your own, and now you’re too deep in this investigation to do anything about our froggy friend here.”
“The spell will probably wear off on its own before too much longer.” Priscilla glanced guiltily down at Joseph, who’d finally fallen asleep in Arthur’s arms. Maddison had offered to take Joseph Reed home with her, until a better place could be found for him, but Priscilla had declined. She’d wanted Reed somewhere he was less likely to run away.
“That’s not the point. Did you know he w
as on my short list of suspects?”
“For the murder? But you hadn’t seen him around town. No one had. And he’s got no motive.”
“Oh, he didn’t?” Arthur said, raising an eyebrow at her. “He’s been after you for months. Your initial meeting took place at the funeral of a girl whose murder you’d just solved. I’m sure he has the money and resources to recreate the same stresses. For all I know, he could be trying to blackmail you into giving him what he wanted.”
“Well, you can remove him from the list. Whatever his plans were before coming to Bellmare, they’re on hold until he changes back.”
“And what exactly am I supposed to do in the meantime? The studio is breathing down my neck, and I don’t think they’re going to stay in LA much longer.”
“Tell them you saw Joseph hopping around town tonight?” she suggested with a wry grin.
He didn’t even crack a smile. Priscilla sighed. Humor was so underappreciated these days. “What do you want me to do now, Arthur?”
“I want you to stay in your bakery and focus on your job, Pratt. Things have gotten too dangerous out there. If I thought we were dealing with a run-of-the-mill opportunist, I wouldn’t insist. You’re a big girl and you’ve proved you can handle yourself. But this guy is a hitman, Priscilla. My search turned up dozens of deaths just like these, stretching back over years. None of them have been solved. He’s good, and he won’t hesitate to kill you if you get in the way.”
“How can we be so sure that it’s a he?” she asked.
Arthur shrugged. “From what you told me, Mr. Romano is fairly certain.”
“And I’m fairly certain he’s lying to me,” Priscilla said.
“There’s only one way to be sure.”
“You can’t be serious, Arthur. I can’t join the mafia just to get this guy’s name. I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”
“I have a plan,” Arthur said. “But it’s risky. And I can’t be here to back you up, no matter how much I’d like to be. If Romano suspects you’re not on the level, he’ll bolt.”
She pursed her lips. “This all seems pretty inconsistent, Arthur. First you tell me to bolt, now you want me to meet with this guy.”
Arthur rubbed the back of his neck and wouldn’t look at her. “I want to keep you safe, Priscilla. That’s all I want for anybody in my town. But I’m pretty sure only you can get this information for us. And I don’t want to see more dead bodies left in this guy’s wake, just because I was too stubborn to let you do what had to be done.”
Priscilla steeled herself. At least this was something only she could do. She didn’t like the thought of abandoning this case midway through. She owed it to Benedict, and now Clarissa, to do what she could to bring their killer to justice. No matter what the risk was to her personally.
“What’s the plan?”
He explained it to her. She noted that the frog had woken and was listening with interest. How much of it would he remember when the spell wore off?
“Can you do it?” Arthur asked. “I’ll give you what resources I can, but at the end of the day, you’re on your own.”
“I’ll be fine, Arthur. Where do you want me to set up the meeting?”
“Somewhere public. Someplace you know and can escape from, in case of a firefight.”
Priscilla smiled. “I know just the place.”
“A dozen macarons, as promised,” Priscilla said, plunking the decorative company bag on Tobias’ counter. Normally, she’d have just used wax paper or her standard plastic bags, but for the favor he was doing her, she’d felt he warranted special treatment. “Thank you for letting me use the shop on such short notice.”
Tobias gave her a toothy smile that revealed his gold-capped teeth. “Ah, don’t mention it, Priscilla. You really saved my bacon last time you were here. Loaning the place to you for an hour is the least I could do.”
Despite herself, Priscilla grinned back. Tobias was a gruff man, and not very welcoming of strangers. Last October, an angry mob of citizens and tourists who’d assumed his guilt in a murder investigation had tried to exact their own justice by killing Tobias. That debacle couldn’t have improved his attitude toward newcomers and tourists. It was a bigger deal than he let on that he was allowing the meeting in his place of business. He was trusting her, and he trusted very few people.
It had been too late to implement Arthur’s plan the night before, as most of the businesses in Bellmare she could have contacted to arrange a private meeting were closed by ten. So she’d used the remaining hours of darkness to restock her supplies, put out fresh cookies and confections, and had placed a very special call to Tobias.
“Still, it’s very generous of you,” she said. “I appreciate your willingness to do this.”
Tobias waved away the thank you with one heavily tattooed hand. “What time do you need me to beat it? I’ve got a date in an hour.”
Priscilla hoped that her expression wasn’t as unflattering as the surprise she felt at the news. She’d always pegged Tobias as a loner, and assumed his reclusive ways were totally by choice. Tobias spotted her surprise and chuckled, apparently not offended by it.
“Yeah, surprised me too. She’s a nice gal.”
“Anyone I know?”
“I doubt it,” he said. “She’s only in town for a few more weeks. She originally hails from New York. She’s just doing some sightseeing before she heads back.”
A tourist. Would wonders never cease?
“Go on, then. I can man your shop until Romano shows up.”
Tobias frowned. “You sure you’re okay in here alone? I don’t want you to get hurt, Priscilla.”
“I’ll be fine.”
He still looked troubled. “Wait here,” he instructed.
She waited, leaning against the hardwood counter as Tobias disappeared into the back. When he returned, he slapped something onto the counter in front of her.
“A Smith and Wesson?” she asked. “If you had a revolver, why didn’t you use it when those crazies busted up your shop last year?”
“I got it afterwards,” Tobias explained. “Be careful if you have to shoot it. This model might be small, but the recoil is somethin’ else.”
She nodded and tucked the gun into the pocket of her coat, after making sure the safety was on. “Thank you, Tobias. This does help.”
He gave her a thumbs-up and another glittering grin before he retrieved his duster and top hat from the stand by the door. “Happy hunting, Priscilla. I hope you catch this guy.”
“Me too,” she murmured as he exited the shop.
The next hour was unnervingly quiet. She eased her nerves by polishing the counters and shelves. Not that they needed it. Tobias was a compulsive cleaner, and there was nary a speck of dust to be found in the place, despite how prone to dust old shops like this could be.
Tobias had done his level best to make sure that his apothecary resembled those of old. He depended on oil lamps for light and only ran the heat in the winters to keep his pipes from freezing. Priscilla hadn’t realized how accustomed to modern conveniences she was until she lacked them. Often, she or Olivia would run the radio to fill the long hours of baking. The silence that pressed on her ears now was unwelcome and put her further on edge.
Martino Romano arrived at half-past seven, as they’d agreed, with Avalon in tow. Her godmother looked uncharacteristically nervous. Priscilla wondered if this meeting had finally gotten through the faerie’s thick skull that Martino was not a good guy.
He grinned when he saw her standing with the items he’d requested she bring with her. “I knew you’d come around, cara mia.”
“I thought I told you to stop calling me that,” Priscilla replied waspishly.
“Ah. My apologies. Shall we get started?”
He approached the counter and lifted the paring knife she’d brought from the bakery. “I expected you to have a little more flair. No decorative knives, Priscilla?”
“I’m fresh out,” she said dryly. “W
ill this do?”
He shrugged. “It should work. Are you ready for this?”
“As I’ll ever be. How do we do this?”
Martino reached lazily into his pocket and withdrew a gun. Priscilla recoiled from it, half expecting him to shoot her. To her surprise, Avalon recoiled as well, staring at Martino as though she’d never seen him before. Priscilla wasn’t sure if it was the cold iron that infused most bullets which scared her godmother, or if she really hadn’t believed him capable of violence until now.
“Do you really need the gun?” Avalon mumbled.
“It’s tradition, stellina. Don’t be so shy. This is what it’s like to be a part of the family.”
Avalon’s lips pursed and she averted her eyes. Priscilla felt a strange stab of betrayal. Avalon was clearly uncomfortable with all this, and she was choosing to ignore it. So much for loyalty to the Pratt family.
Martino placed the gun on the counter, next to her utility knife, reached into his pocket again and withdrew a card. Priscilla looked away from it immediately, lest the image of Saint Peter make her eyes water.
“This isn’t going to work,” she muttered. “I can’t touch that.”
“Why not?”
She gestured to herself broadly. “Vampires and religious iconography don’t mix, Mr. Romano.”
“We’ve got to burn the card as a part of the ritual.”
“Well, unless you’d like to cart me to the hospital afterwards, for the burns, we’ve got to figure something else out.”
“What do you suggest we do then?” he asked.
Priscilla strode over to the nearby assortment of souvenirs, a very small selection to be sure, and picked up a pack of cards. “One of these should work.”
Martino shook his head slowly. “That’s not how it is done, signorina.”
“Take it or leave it,” she said.
“It’s a part of the ritual,” he insisted. “It’s always done this way. You put your blood on the saint, burn the card, and then take the vow.”
A Bite of Blueberry Page 11
