The cake plate made a clinking sound when Stephanie set it back down on the tray.
"He supported my decision to invest in my cousin Cheyenne’s business, and even offered to sign a prenup if I wanted one. Does that sound like something someone would do if they were only after my money?”
“Not on the outset, no.” Mag was leaning forward, her elbows on the table and her fingers steepled. The cynicism on her face was clear. A con man convincing his mark he was a nice guy while he planned and schemed—oldest trick in the book.
Clara watched Stephanie’s face fall. “Don’t let my sister get under your skin; she’s just cautious and considers every angle. Your financial circumstances have to be considered, even if you’re certain money had nothing to do with what happened.”
“She’s right, I’m a bit of a skeptic,” Mag confirmed, “But that doesn’t mean you’re wrong.” She changed the subject, “Roma mentioned you’d been having nightmares. Dreams are full of insights into the inner mind and emotional landscape. Can you tell us about them?”
Stephanie sighed “They started after Brad disappeared, but this isn’t my first experience with having nightmares.” A wistful expression crossed her face. “After my parents died, I couldn’t sleep for months without reliving the crash.”
“You were in the car.” Clara’s heart went out to the girl as Stephanie nodded in answer. “I’m so sorry, dear.”
“Yes, well, I’ve spent a pretty penny on therapy over the years, but it was Roma who finally helped me come to terms with what happened. I believe their souls are at peace, and that’s enough for me."
Toying with a heart-shaped locket she wore around her neck, Stephanie took a deep breath, and her eyes fluttered closed for a moment. When they opened, there was sadness and a hint of regret.
"It was just an ordinary day. We were in the car, and I'd wanted to stay home. I was arguing with my mother like any normal 13-year-old. She was annoyed with me, and I wasn't happy with her, either. If I'd known that was my last day with her …" Stephanie's voice roughened, but she continued.
"My father swerved, but not in time. Now, of course, I realize it wasn’t my fault. But every night I relived the experience in my dreams, trying futilely to change the outcome.”
“Is that what’s happening now?” Clara gently prodded.
“No, this is different. It's dark and I’m alone, I’m scared, and I’m searching for Brad. I can see him walking ahead of me but every time I get close to him, he disappears into the black nothing. I wake up screaming.” Stephanie’s nose twitched like she was holding back tears, but she maintained her composure.
Mag shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “What do you think happened to him? Why would he be in danger, and from whom?”
“That’s just it. I have no idea. He doesn’t have any enemies. He’s lived over in Woodbridge all his life, he went to State on a full academic scholarship, and he does volunteer work on the weekends. His life is an open book, and none of the pages are smudged. I’m telling you, he wouldn’t leave behind everything he’d worked for at the drop of a hat. Not on purpose.”
What she left unsaid was as important as her impassioned insistence.
“If Brad had wanted to leave me, he would have been man enough to do it to my face. Everything was fine that night. I fell asleep while he was still working through a stack of paperwork. The next morning he wasn’t in bed when I woke up. I figured he’d gone to the shelter early for work, but then I didn’t hear from him all day. That evening, I couldn’t take it anymore, so I went to his apartment and let myself in. All of his things were gone and there was a note.”
Stephanie’s forehead wrinkled into a line as her eyes darted back and forth as though she was searching her mind for some hint that would make everything clear. Finding none, she looked to Mag and Clara with sadness and worry written plainly over her face. “But he wouldn't leave me. He just wouldn't. And certainly not like that.”
“Did you contact the police or any of his family?” Mag asked.
Stephanie’s face contorted for a moment. “Brad doesn’t have much family to speak of. We have that in common. Chief Cobb said that since he left a note, he’s not missing. And he implied that I might need to see a psychiatrist, since I was having trouble accepting the breakup,” she stated bitterly.
Mag snorted. “Chester Cobb is the biggest boob on the planet. Trust me, I know from personal experience.”
“You should talk to his deputy, Lynn Nye,” Clara suggested. “She’s a good cop.”
Stephanie dipped her head. “She is. I’ve known Lynn most of my life. We went to school together. And I already spoke to her. She pretty much agreed with Cobb, though not on the part about the psychiatrist. Lynn said she’d keep her eyes and ears open and contact me if anything turned up. Honestly, I’m not sure how you could possibly help me.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” Mag scoffed. “We’re more capable than we look, I promise you. We’ll do some digging, and we’ll be in touch.”
Clara pulled a card emblazoned with the Balms and Bygones logo out of her purse and scribbled something on the back of it before pushing it across the table to the younger woman. “Here’s the number to the shop, and my cell is on the back. If you need anything before then, or if anything else comes up, give us a call.”
“Thank you, really. I appreciate your concern,” Stephanie said, but didn’t move from her chair. It seemed like there was something more she wanted to say.
Guessing that was the case, Clara said gently, “You can ask us anything you want, dear.” It felt natural to take a motherly role with Stephanie, and she could sense the girl craved the attention.
“What kinds of things can you do? You know, with your witch powers?” she asked bashfully.
A wide smile spread over Mag’s face. She took a surreptitious look around and reached out with her witchly senses to make sure nobody but Stephanie would witness what she was about to do. “Now, don’t go repeating what you’re about to see. Not that anyone would believe it anyway.” With that, Mag loosed a bit of Balefire from her finger and set the library fireplace blazing.
Stephanie’s face lit up like a kid who caught Santa Claus in the act of scurrying back up the chimney, and promised she’d keep her lips zipped on the subject.
Trailing behind Stephanie toward the front door, Clara watched it open from the outside and her breath caught when a man stepped into the foyer. So strong and powerful and immediate was the attraction, she could have sworn she heard the angels sing.
“Uncle John, I didn’t know you were stopping by today.” Stephanie enveloped one of the men—there were two, Clara noticed belatedly—in a warm hug, the strained look on her face relaxing a little as she sighed and held on for an extra few seconds of comfort. It was clear she felt completely at ease with her uncle.
The pair of them, she so petite and doll-like with her perfect features and he beaming with pride, made a nice family portrait.
“This is my uncle. John Masters.” Stephanie began the introductions.
If Clara had a type—which she didn’t, and if she did, she’d never admit it—John Masters ticked every box. Taller than her? Yes, at least six-foot-three given the way he had to bend awkwardly to return his niece’s hug. He did so with an ease that showed he’d placed a fair amount of effort into maintaining his physique as time closed the gap between middle age and what comes next.
Even trying not to look too hard, be too obvious, Clara appreciated the way his jacket fell off broad shoulders and the sleeves brushed against hands that looked strong and capable. Romance book covers had it all wrong. Washboard abs were nice, but a strong hand she could imagine trailing fire over her skin—that was sexy. Another box ticked.
An easy smile that went all the way up to spark fire in a set of warm, brown eyes. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Or was that the sound of her heart speeding up?
When he raised his head and those eyes locked on Clara’s, they widened just en
ough to convey shocked pleasure and a sense of recognition even though she knew they’d never met before. She’d have remembered that.
She flipped a lock of burnished sable back over one shoulder with a little head toss that presented the graceful line of her neck to his gaze.
The moment passed when he noticed Mag, and Stephanie explained, “This is Clara and Margaret Balefire, they own a shop in town and were acquainted with Roma.”
At the medium’s name, John’s left eyebrow shot up. The pleasant look slid off his face and he opened his mouth as if to offer an unwanted opinion before choosing to go with a polite, but decidedly cool, “It’s nice to meet you.”
Stephanie continued the introductions, “And this is Mason Pangborn, an old family friend and our lawyer. He’s a partner at Pangborn, McKenzie, and Lowe.”
Rosy-cheeked and built like a brick house, the lawyer offered a hearty greeting. His hello carried a false undertone that set off Mag's jackass alarm, and she studied him with suspicion.
Whipping a card out of his pocket, Mason handed it to Clara with a twinkle in his eye, which lingered over her decolletage just long enough to raise her blood pressure a couple of points, and not in the way that his companion had. Now, he was on both the Balefire sister's naughty list. “If you’re ever in need of my services …” his emphasis on the word services earned him an eye twitch from Clara and a sharp look from John.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Clara commented wryly. “It was nice to meet you.” She flashed a dazzling smile at John without thinking and then promised Stephanie they’d be in touch while Mag tried to hold back her opinion of Clara’s flirting.
As the door closed, Clara overheard the beginning of their conversation.
Stephanie ask Mr. Pangborn a question. “Do you have the partnership papers I requested for Cheyenne?”
The lawyer’s reply was flippant. “Patience, girl. These things take time. We’ll work it all out, don’t you worry. You’ve got enough on your mind these days. Any word on what happened to Bradley?”
What sounded like genuine concern threaded through his voice, and Mag and Clara left, hoping Stephanie was in good hands.
Chapter Five
“You were right, Clarie.” Mag admitted breathlessly about two seconds after her butt landed in the seat of the van. “That was easier than I thought it would be.”
“I would have let you drive, you didn’t need to race me to the car.” It would be a race against the clock to get home, though, because Mag drove as if someone, somewhere held a checkered flag with her name on it.
The only smart thing to do was hold on and have a few spells at the ready, just in case.
Or distract her with conversation.
“What were your impressions of Stephanie?” Clara prodded.
“I liked her, and I think Roma was right, but that doesn’t make me feel any better about the situation. She’s a lovely girl, and I’m happy she opened up to us. Problem is, she showed us too many of her cards too quickly. Maybe she’s too trusting. Maybe her fiancé really is a no-good shyster, and was trying to fleece her for all she’s worth.”
“If that’s true, then it was working, so why would he have left?” Clara fired back. “And furthermore, he’s lived nearby his entire life. It’s not like he’s some grifter with a spotty past. I’m more inclined to believe she’s a good judge of character and picked up on our benevolent intentions. Which means she’s probably right, and there’s something deeper going on there.”
Chewing the inside of her lip and driving more slowly than usual, Mag considered what Clara had to say. “Hence the danger Roma mentioned. But if Stephanie happens to be wrong …” she trailed off and took a moment to think. “No, you’re right. I can’t see what he would stand to gain by leaving. A true shyster would be pushing for a quickie wedding and a trip to the bank to add him to all her accounts.”
“Okay, so if we’re agreed the fiancé didn’t leave willingly, why did he go?”
Lifting a hand off the steering wheel to wave it around, Mag said, “I can think of plenty of reasons. Just for starters, something happened at his work, or there could be another woman. He got in trouble of some kind and now he’s on the run.”
Clara chided, “You watch too many crime shows on TV.”
“At least I didn’t know who shot JR.” Mag fired right back. “Maybe that uncle of hers is overprotective and paid him off.”
“John?”
Mag’s eyebrow shot up and she fired a sideways glance at her sister. “Didn’t know you were on a first name basis already.”
Clara scowled. “Shut up, Maggie. And don’t start harping about my love life.”
“You don’t have one.” Mag pointed out. “So there’s nothing to harp about. Except you can’t deny there were sparks between you. The air practically sizzled when you locked eyes with him.”
“Let it go, please.”
“Whatever you say.” The careful lack of snark and easy agreement didn’t fool Clara one iota. The stubbornest of mules could learn a few tricks from Margaret Balefire when she had her teeth into something, and the sweeter she seemed, the more she needed watching.
That was why, when Clara spied the stooped figure of Hagatha Crow stomping through the grass along the side of the road, relief outweighed annoyance. At least there would be no more discussion of men.
Mag slowed down and prepared to stop. “Wonder what she’s doing way out here. She looks mad. I think we’d better see if she needs a ride.”
Quite possibly the oldest living witch in the world, Hagatha was a regular fixture in the town of Harmony. Until recently, she’d been the head of the Order of the Moonstones, the civic organization she’d formed to hide regular coven meetings from a town full of non-magical people.
“You know there’s no reason for her to be walking unless she wants to.” Clara referred to a witch’s ability to skim between places in the blink of an eye, but reached for the window roller anyway. “But I suppose you’re right; we should check. She’s been suspiciously quiet since we put an end to the pixie invasion, and it looks like rain.”
“Hello Hagatha,” she said when Mag pulled up alongside. “Do you want a lift back to town?”
Hagatha’s face might have looked like an apple left to wrinkle in the sun, but mischief glittered in her beady eyes. “Penelope Starr sending her watchdogs after me again?”
“What?” Clara said, suspicion in her voice. “No. Was there a reason she should? You’re not up to no good, are you?” Not that asking would garner anything close to a straight answer out of old Haggie.
“Hop in, it’s warm in here and the day’s turning chilly.” Mag offered.
Hagatha climbed into the back seat with a concerted effort. She held the collars of her tweed jacket together at her neck and shivered. “Snow’s coming early this year. My knee is screaming and that always means snow.”
“It isn’t even November yet.” Clara raised an eyebrow, hoping old Haggie’s bum knee was just reacting to too much walking.
Hagatha shrugged. “You can’t tell me that in over two hundred years, you’ve never seen an early squall? Don’t you remember the year without a summer? 1816, I believe.”
Clara did, indeed, remember that summer, when nobody understood why Jack Frost was still out and about in July. “Well, nowadays we’d know if there was a volcanic eruption on some distant part of the earth affecting weather patterns.”
“It’s funny to me that a witch of Balefire caliber would believe that ridiculous explanation.” Hagatha commented, refusing to say another word on the subject.
It took only a sideways flick of her eye to draw on enough magic to pop open the back door so Hagatha could stow her tennis ball-footed walker in the cargo space. “Penelope was born in a tizzy, and whatever one she’s in now has nothing to do with me.”
Snorting quietly, Mag checked for traffic and pulled back onto the blacktop. “I can see that right enough. She’s turned twisted knickers into her own priva
te fashion statement, but you can’t deny you enjoy tossing her into the spin cycle just for fun.”
Hagatha cackled, her eyes alight with humor. “Gives me something to do while I wait to die.”
“Say, Hagatha,” Mag ventured when the minibus had been silent for a solid three minutes. “Is there anything we ought to know about your old house?”
“Probably several things, Margaret, but I’m going to need more information.” Hagatha snuggled deeper into her coat as if the snow she’d predicted had already begun to fall, and Clara turned the heat up another notch.
Mag sighed and explained what had happened with Roma and the other spirits.
“It probably just needs a good cleansing.” Hagatha stated without giving any other helpful information. “Stop right here, I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
“But Romilda’s place is just up there,” Mag protested.
“Yes, I know that. I’m not senile.” Hagatha spat back but offered no reason for wanting to be dropped off a stone’s throw from her destination. “Don’t you two forget about the full moon celebration Friday night. Wouldn’t want to disappoint the children, now, would you?”
With a reassurance that they’d be in Dawkin’s woods at dusk the next night, and against her better judgment, Mag let Hagatha out on the side of the road. Clara watched as she dismounted less than gracefully, and kept her eyes trained on the old witch’s retreating form while her sister pulled away. So quickly Clara wasn’t quite sure she was seeing what she thought she was seeing, a tiny honey pixie poked her head out above Hagatha’s tweed collar and then burrowed back inside after casting a wink in Clara’s direction.
She opened her mouth to relay the information to Mag, and then closed it again. Mag had been an integral part of the plan to get rid of the Faeland-hailing pixies after the rainforest habitat Hagatha had created for them threatened a drought that would have effectively canceled the town’s annual canoe race—and any chance for a successful harvest season.
Haunted by Murder Page 4
