by Kathy Dexter
“Stubborn females. Assign one of the men to keep watch a couple more nights.”
“Will do.” As if he hadn’t planned to anyway.
Stoner tapped a pencil on a stack of paperwork. “Why attack these women? They’re strangers in town. Author signing a book for kids seems pretty harmless.”
Sylvia’s outburst gnawed at Logan. A connection? “I heard we might have a radical bunch claiming she’s corrupting our young people with her story about dragons and magic.”
“Since when do fairy tales contaminate kids’ minds?” Stoner snorted. “Particularly in a town like Mystic Lake where we have psychics on every corner, séances on a regular basis, and a Museum of Magic attracting hordes of tourists.”
Logan couldn’t make sense of it either. “If we could identify at least one of the attackers, we might learn what’s going on.”
“Keep at it. Not good for tourism and the town’s economy to have crackpots runnin’ loose and hurtin’ young women.” Stoner pulled a folder from the bottom of the stack on his desk. “What about the bones that washed up on shore?”
“The lab is testing those as well.”
“For DNA?”
“And age.” Logan kept silent about the technicians analyzing a couple of pill samples, too. He didn’t know if he could give a good explanation to the chief. But his internal sonar had pinged.
Stoner glanced at the folder. “You recall the Sloane case?”
So his boss had made the same leap Logan had. “I wasn’t on the force then. Too farfetched to think the bones might belong to one of Hunter’s parents?”
“We could have a cold case come back to haunt us.” Stoner rocked back in his chair. “Not that we don't already have enough ghosts flittin' around in people's houses. And imaginations.”
Discussing the paranormal with his boss gave Logan a headache. Despite living in a town filled with magic, Stoner maintained a contemptuous scorn about the supernatural and occult, calling the citizens’ beliefs superstitious poppycock. What would the chief think if he knew Hunter’s magic had caused the deluge which washed the bones ashore?
Stoner handed over the folder. “Here’s the case file. I was a detective back then. We had divers in that lake for over a week, but we couldn't find the bodies. Beyond that, the lab boys were unable to figure out what tore the boat apart. Everything about it was fishy, but we had nothin’ to go on. No evidence, no motive. And the girl couldn't remember anything. Rough on her, losing both parents. Last I knew, her aunt took her in. She ever regain her memory?”
“No,” Logan said. “Although she’s suffered some terrible nightmares about boats being destroyed and sinking.”
“Nightmares aren’t evidence, detective. Maybe the lab can use some newfangled science on those bones to give us some answers. Make sure we have somethin' hard core before we get sucked into the old case. Facts, not feelings. That means no supernatural gibberish.”
Logan itched to read the file. On the way to his desk, he grabbed coffee for the caffeine surge which would help him focus. When he finally flipped open the folder, the lack of paperwork surprised him. Nothing about Logan’s own involvement in the tragedy. Yet a policeman had interviewed him and taken notes. They weren’t here. Anything else missing? What about articles published from the local newspaper? Maybe they could give him information, some leads.
Logan called Finn Franklin, the editor and chief reporter of the Sentinel.
“Sure,” Finn said. “We keep back copies.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
When Logan pushed open the newspaper’s glass-paneled door, Finn didn’t stop tapping on his computer keyboard. “Be with you in a sec.”
Logan glanced around the room, noting only three desks, computers on each one, and a door that led to the back. He’d forgotten how small an operation the weekly Sentinel was, manned only by Finn and his assistant, Hannah Parker, with a few part-time employees, including Charlie Daniels who manned the press.
After a few more clickety-clicks, like the rhythm of a jazz number, the editor rose and ambled over to the front counter. He retained the boyish looks of his youth: sandy hair and freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks. Piercing dark eyes negated the impression of an innocent kid. Finn was all grown up.
“Haven’t seen you in a while, man.” Finn gave Logan a firm handshake and opened the gate to let him into the main area.
“It’s been too long.” Logan had fond––and rowdy––memories of growing up with Finn. “How about joining me at the Lucky Horseshoe after work?”
“I have to finish a major story first.”
“But you just published yesterday. Almost a week until the next issue is due.”
Finn chuckled. “Shows how much you know about the newspaper business and deadlines, bud.”
“Educate me.”
“Always glad to enlighten the readership. Makes them appreciate what we do around here. While we put out a physical paper on Sundays with advertising inserts like grocery ads, we have to be sure to provide our subscribers with any newsworthy items during the week. So we’ve set up a website.”
“Where you can post daily updates?”
“Exactly. Once I finish my story and upload it with some other info, I can meet you for a drink. About five?”
“I could eat as well. You, too?”
“Always!” Finn grinned. “So you’re looking for some back copies?”
“From ten years ago. I have the exact dates.”
“Hannah!” Finn shouted.
A trim woman in her forties with curly black hair, except for a strip of white around one ear, looked up from an open drawer belonging to a bank of gray metal cabinets. Deep green eyes glimmered. “Haven’t gone deaf, Finn.”
“Yeah, she likes to ignore me,” Finn said. “So I yell until she tells me to shut up.”
“Shut up.” Hannah strode several feet across the room to give Logan a hug. “Good to see you, my friend.”
“You want to set Logan up with microfiche?” Finn said. “I gotta finish my story.”
Hannah led Logan to a small table near her desk and the cabinets. “Dates?”
When he told her, she put a hand to her head and closed her eyes for a moment. “The Sloanes?”
“Yes.”
“The young woman who’s doing the book signing.” She scrunched her nose as though in deep thought. “Hunter Sloane. The daughter?”
“Your gift continues to amaze me.”
Hannah pushed fingers through the white strip of hair, the one physical reminder of the car accident which had taken her husband and gifted her with an uncanny memory and certain psychic abilities. “It serves me well.” She began to set up a reel in the microfiche machine. “How’s the family?”
Logan started to give a noncommittal reply, not wanting to talk about Sylvia’s mess. On the other hand, Hannah’s unique ability might provide some leads to the friends his stepmother had mentioned. “Sylvia’s been having some struggles with her health.”
Hannah’s hands paused on the reel. “Sorry to hear that, Logan. Will she be okay?”
“Her behavior’s been odd lately. Doc Adams is running some tests.”
Something flickered in Hannah’s eyes. “Does this involve Theo?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Last week, as I locked up the building for the night, Theo ran around the corner, pale faced and shaking. I thought maybe some bigger boys had chased him, so I took him inside where I thought he would be safe.”
“That was kind of you.” Logan waited. He sensed she had more to say.
Hannah glanced toward the window. “Sylvia stormed along the sidewalk, very angry, yelling his name.”
“Did Theo go to her?”
“No. He ducked behind the door and shook his head at me. I waited until Sylvia rushed past, then I took him home.” Hannah drew a deep breath. “I asked why his mother was so angry, but he scooted inside without saying anything.”
“Could be he was in trouble for not getting home on time.” The kid had been terrorized by his mother far too long. Logan should have noticed her bizarre behavior much sooner. Guilt whipped through him.
Hannah finished setting up the reel and aimed those observant eyes in Logan’s direction. “You brought up Sylvia’s condition for a reason, didn’t you?”
He grinned. “Can’t put anything past you.”
Hannah sat on the edge of the table and tapped the side of her head. “Not with the gift from this scrambled brain. How can I help?”
“Have you noticed anything, heard anything, about an organized group determined to eliminate magic, believing children in the community are being corrupted?”
“Is that why Theo’s afraid of his mother?” Hannah’s eyes widened. “She’s trying to keep him from using his gift?”
“She thinks something bad will happen to him if he continues.”
“And others believe the same way? Not good, Logan. That can only mean trouble for Mystic Lake.”
“Unless we stop them first.”
“But you don’t know who’s involved.” She moved to her desk, picked up a folder and grabbed her purse and coat. “I have to confirm copy with some of our advertisers for Sunday’s paper. Let me see if I can glean some information for you in my rounds.”
“Be careful, Hannah. Something’s not right with these people.”
She spun around. “More than a fringe group out to stir up trouble?”
“I think so. I can’t put my finger on it, but. . .”
“I’ll be discreet. However, you might want to consult the Gyld about this.” Her heels clipped briskly across the polished hardwood floors. “Out to get the okay on the ads, Finn. Back later. With some checks.”
Finn gave a brief wave and continued to rap a rhythm on the keyboard.
Logan shifted his focus to the microfiche reader. A little twist of the dial and the story about Hunter and her family glowed on the screen.
According to several sources, the Sloanes had taken their boat for an afternoon cruise. No mid-summer storm brewed. No call for help about lost power or equipment failure. What had destroyed the Sloane boat? And what had happened to Hunter's parents? The authorities stonewalled the reporter who’d written the story and avoided answering his questions. Logan’s interview appeared in a later edition; he remembered every vivid detail:
The boat shook, then exploded as though some mysterious violence had torn it from the inside out. Logan stood on the shore near his father’s home, watching in horror. He’d told no one about the shimmering ghost rising from the water, urging him to rescue a drowning girl. Fueled by desperation, he shoved his canoe into the water and paddled to the center of the lake.
When he reached the spot where large portions of the boat had submerged, he paddled through fragments of clothing, shards of metal and glass, burned ropes, smears of gas and oil, until he caught sight of the girl floating face down. He flipped the canoe to get into the water as fast as possible. With dogged strokes, Logan reached her within moments and spun her body over so she could breathe. He held her tight and swam for shore.
An eternity passed.
Heart hammering and lungs burning from the strain, he crawled up the sand, Hunter clutched to him. He managed somehow to give her mouth-to-mouth.
She coughed and sputtered. Jerking upright, she screamed. “Mom! Dad! Come back!” Agony flashed in her eyes, then faded to a dull blue emptiness. She shut down physically and mentally.
Others rushed to help. An ambulance arrived, scooped her up and sped away to the hospital. He never saw her again––until the Masquerade Ball when she materialized in his life once more without any memory of him or what happened ten years ago.
At eighteen he’d been baffled by what occurred. When he tried to see Hunter in the hospital, they turned him away. No visitors allowed. Then her aunt whisked her to the city. Over the following years, he’d shoved the incident to some deep recess of his mind, never fully forgetting the girl or his knowledge that some magical force destroyed her family. Unable to discover the truth, despite his paranormal skills, he became a trained investigator, determined to prevent such disasters in the future.
Enough of that soap box. He studied some of the other stories, looking for answers to the past. He blinked and rolled the microfiche back to a small paragraph. Why hadn’t he remembered that little tidbit? He made copies of all of the articles. When he finished, he plunked bills on the counter. “Paying for some printouts.”
Finn strolled over. “I heard you had some trouble at your end of the lake last night.”
“That the story you’re working on?”
Finn nodded. “Have you located the nitwits who tried to scare off two women with ugly threats and bottles of fire?”
“You'll have to check with Chief Stoner.”
“So much for exploiting friendship.”
Logan headed out with Finn's laughter still in his ears.
CHAPTER 13
“I ’D LIKE TO GET your take on what happened.”
Who was that? Hunter didn’t recognize the voice. She peered around the corner from the downstairs bathroom. Ally was at the front door talking to a young man with a face full of freckles and desert-colored hair. He could have been a teenager, except for knowledge-weary espresso eyes.
“You looking for dirt to print in that rag of yours, Mr. Franklin?” Tone grim, Ally stood with hands on hips. “I don’t talk to the tabloids.”
Franklin held his palms up defensively. “Hey, we’re just a little weekly, but my readers like to keep up on what’s happening in their community.”
“I know small towns,” Ally spit out. “They pig out on gossip and scandal.”
“Not much of that here.”
“You’re lying.” Ally started to shut the door.
“Wait! Parents are worried.”
“What does that––”
“They have a right to know about the nut jobs running loose, out to hurt someone they believe to be a witch, to stop others from using magic. That’s something that hits home for those in Mystic Lake. They don’t want crazies attacking their kids for being. . .different.”
Ally stopped shutting the door but didn’t open it wide. “How do you know all those details about the attackers?”
“I have sources.”
“Then why come here?”
“Your firsthand knowledge can verify what they told me.”
“I have nothing to say.”
Franklin slouched in the doorway. “Well, how about an interview with Ms. Sloane about her book signing on Sunday?”
Ally snorted. “You’re really going to write a story about that?”
“I write the major stories for the Sentinel. That includes a piece about a famous writer signing her books for the local children.”
Ally looked like she was swallowing the reporter’s line, but Hunter knew the shark that lurked beneath her friend’s naïve appearance.
Ally invited the reporter in and offered him a glass of lemonade. “I can certainly fill you in on how well Hunter Sloane’s popular fantasy novel is doing, Mr. Franklin. My client’s book appeals to children of all ages.”
“Finn.”
“And I'm Ally.” She smiled and shook his hand before sitting in a nearby chair.
Finn sipped his drink. “I've read Ms. Sloane’s book. Well-written.”
Ally looked skeptical. “Saying that to get an interview? Why would you read a book intended for kids?”
Finn took out a notebook and pen. “I do my research. Even though Hunter Sloane lives in the city, she’s a native of Mystic Lake. My readers are always interested in local talent.”
Ally rolled her eyes. “What a schmoozer. Tell me, what did you think of The Sapphire Dragon’s theme?”
“The heroine willing to risk her life for others? Fighting evil at all costs. A great role model for kids. But my favorite character is the dragon Henry.” His glance swept over her. “Nice costume
at the party.”
Ally’s cheeks reddened, but she didn’t lose her skepticism. “Sorry I missed your costume. Woodward or Bernstein?”
Finn laughed. “Not putting anything over on you, am I?”
“Yeah, I'm not that gullible. Appearances, you know.”
“Are deceiving.”
“Catch on quick, don't you?”
“Have to, in this business.” He looked at her sideways. “Too many want to use newspapers for their own purposes.”
“Like getting free publicity for a client?” She pointed a finger at him. “You offered first.”
“Where’s the author? I could use some first-hand answers for the interview. Can I speak to her?”
“She's not here right now. Running errands.”
Hunter muffled the sudden, bubbling laughter. Ally wouldn’t mention the author was out practicing magic. What would a reporter do with that kind of information? Luckily, Hunter had returned with plenty of time to clean up and change clothes. Maybe she should make an appearance and relieve Ally of dealing with the reporter. On the other hand, Hunter was enjoying the conversation.
“Alone?” Finn asked. “She’s not worried about another assault?”
“Ah! Now we get to the info you really want.” Ally eyeballed him up and down.
Hunter recognized that look. A combination of suspicion and intrigue. And perhaps a touch of enjoyment at outwitting an opponent. A game Ally enjoyed with relish.
“Before I answer your question, tell me how you’ll publicize the book signing on Saturday if your paper is a weekly and published on Sundays.”
“Ah! So you’re not completely ignorant about the local press.”
“I do my research as well.” Ally batted her eyes.
“Nice move. Reminds me of you in costume, fluttering the dragon’s giant eyelids. Hard to resist such an attractive creature.”
“Smooth talker.”
His voice quivered with amusement. “I’m enjoying our chat immensely. So seldom I meet a person who can battle me word for word.”
“You assume flattery will get you a story? Think again, mister.”
He held his hands up. “I surrender. I didn’t mean to upset someone so charming.”
