“This is my cousin, Cheyenne. Cheyenne, meet my new friends, Clara, and her—"
Catching Stephanie's eye, Clara emphasized, "My mother, Mag Balefire.”
Both sisters noted that Stephanie hadn’t mentioned the real reason for their presence. “Chey works out here sometimes. Says the patterns give her inspiration.”
“It’s very nice to meet you.” Clara extended a hand while Mag simply nodded and kept her eyes peeled. She had her suspicions about Stephanie’s cousin, and the state of her suite upstairs hadn’t improved Mag’s opinion.
Knowing Clara would reprimand her for passing judgment, she decided she didn’t much care. She’d trust her intuition, thank you very much, and if Cheyenne did something to change her mind, she’d happily admit she’d been wrong. Well, maybe happily wasn’t the right word—grudgingly might be more appropriate, if Mag were being honest. Old habits died hard, but she’d admit it.
Cheyenne stood up and grasped Clara’s hand warmly. “Nice to meet ya,” the girl drawled in a thick southern accent. However, this was no belle. There was a shrewdness in Cheyenne’s aqua eyes that belied the blond bombshell look she’d cultivated with a pair of sky-high wedge boots and a low-cut top that showed off a spectacular display of cleavage along with a gorgeous necklace of wire-wrapped crystals in sterling silver.
“Stephie says ya’ll are helpin’ her sort through those horrible nightmares she’s been havin’,” Cheyenne said, the concern lacing her tone sending Mag’s BS-o-meter up another notch. Cheyenne might seem like the doting cousin, but Mag smelled the distinct, mingling scents of desperation and opportunism.
“Did you find anything?” Stephanie turned wide eyes on Mag and Clara.
Mag shook her head, “Nothing suspicious or out of place. No paperweight, no desk, no signs of a struggle. We’re inclined to believe it was nothing more than a very vivid nightmare.”
“That’s what I keep tellin’ her. I was home that night, and I’d have heard a commotion. Besides, it’s not like there’s a body, and no way could Stephie have gotten rid of all the evidence on her own.” Cheyenne provided Mag the perfect opening to pepper her with questions.
Casting a sideways glance at her sister, Mag said, “You were there that night? Constance seemed to think you’d spent the evening with your boyfriend.”
Cheyenne scoffed, “Constance thinks I’m out sowing wild oats if I’m not back in the house by eight and asleep by nine-thirty. I had a late class and then a group study session, and I got home ’bout ten-thirty. I knocked to check on Stephie, and Brad said she was sound asleep.”
Cheyenne started to say something else, but snapped her mouth shut and cast a sideways glance at Stephanie, who didn’t notice because she was lost in her own thoughts. Cheyenne was holding something back, and Mag intended to find out exactly what that might be.
“Stephanie, why don’t you show Clara around? I know she’s been dying to get a look at your herb garden. I’ll sit back and get to know your cousin a little better. That is, if she doesn’t mind chatting up an old lady for a few minutes.” Mag said pointedly. Cheyenne nodded her assent, and as soon as Clara and Stephanie were out of earshot, turned to Mag with a look of appreciation.
“You’d fit right in down south, Ms. Balefire, with that ability to distract and divide.” She stated wryly.
“I could sense you had something else to say, and that you didn’t want your cousin to hear it,” Mag said, cutting straight to the chase.
“You’re right about that. I know old Connie thinks the sun rises ’n sets with Brad, but to be honest it didn’t surprise me as much as it did her or Stephanie when he bailed. You see, on my way to my bedroom that night, I heard Brad pacin’ the hallway, talkin’ about meetin’ up somewhere. I heard him say eleven o’clock was perfect, and I could hear the person on the other end say goodbye. It was a woman, I’m sure of it. It just seemed like adding insult to injury to tell poor Stephie about it. I mean, he’d already gone, and there didn’t seem much point in makin’ things worse. But now she’s all up in a tizzy thinkin’ she might have done something to hurt him, and well, I guess you could say we’re in muddy water.”
Mag couldn’t have agreed more. The waters certainly were muddied, and so was her opinion of Cheyenne. She seemed to genuinely care about her cousin, and to have Stephanie’s best interests at heart, but there was something about her that grated.
“Was that the first time you’d wondered about his intentions?” Mag inquired. It seemed as though she might have found one person who wouldn’t mince words, and she intended to use the discovery to her advantage.
Cheyenne shook her head. “I thought he was perfect for Steph when she first brought him home, but lately he’s seemed a bit … off, I guess. On edge. And he’s been takin’ more private calls than normal. He mighta been dealing with weddin’ plans, though, for all I know.”
Her explanation came to an abrupt halt when a scruffy young man appeared on the path from the direction of the house. “Bas! You’re late.” Cheyenne admonished, but her wide, besotted smile belied any real irritation.
“Sorry, babe.” Bas apologized lazily, wrapping his arms around Cheyenne and grabbing her rear end with both hands in a way that made Mag supremely uncomfortable. She knew he’d seen her, because they’d made eye contact for a brief moment while Mag sized him up and came to nearly the same conclusion as Constance.
Bas sported a long mane of slightly greasy hair tied into a bun on the top of his head. That alone was enough for Mag to consider him a delinquent, but the smarmy look in his bright green eyes was what sealed the deal.
Oh yes, he was handsome in an alternative sort of way, with a strong jawline and perfectly symmetrical features. It was his attitude that made him unattractive, changed what would have been a nice smile into a condescending sneer and highlighted the cockiness in his postured stance.
Cheyenne waved her goodbye to Mag, tossing a distracted, “take care of my cousin,” over her shoulder while following Bas back down the path.
“Kids these days, indeed.” Mag muttered to herself, grateful she’d long since left the stupidity of her own youth behind.
Chapter Eight
Leaving Stephanie with Constance, Clara followed her sister outside. “You drive,” she said, shocking Mag with the suggestion. Most of the time, it was Mag who experienced flashes of intuition and insight when it came to finding evidence and solving crimes, but it seemed Clara had the tingles about this case.
After talking to Cheyenne, Mag decided Brad had left Stephanie for some other woman, but Clara’s gut said otherwise and she was willing to defend that position.
Mag would call it a flight of fancy or wishful thinking, and she might be right. Clara didn’t think so, though. She couldn’t understand why when it came to intuition, Mag trusted her own beyond reason, but was quick to discard anyone else’s feelings without remorse.
Listening to her prattle on about cold feet and cheating louts, Clara tamped down her irritation the same way she always did, without worrying whether at some point, it might come bursting out in the exact kind of magical display she tried so hard to avoid.
“Stop here!” When Clara practically shouted in her ear, Mag jumped and yanked the bus to a halt.
“Are you trying to kill me? I think I just had a heart attack.”
“Sorry.” Feet hitting the pavement, Clara called back over her shoulder, “I need some things from the grocery store. You go on ahead and I’ll walk home when I’m done.” She didn’t think Mag had noticed the tall—and yes, handsome—figure of Stephanie’s uncle disappearing through the automatic sliding doors.
“Get me some ice cream,” Mag ordered and Clara knew what was coming next. “Butter pecan if they have it. I’ll wait.”
Other than to satisfy that niggling of her intuition and a powerful need to talk to the man again, there hadn’t been anything Clara needed. And yet she picked up a basket, slung the handle over her elbow, and made her way along, taking a surreptiti
ous glance down each aisle as she passed.
She found him staring at the ice cream selection in the freezer section, and managed to make meeting him there look like a happy coincidence. Judging by the way his eyes lit up when he saw her, it wasn’t much of a tough sell.
When he reached out to shake, she put her hand in his.
“A lot of choices,” he gestured toward the shelves. “I remember when there was one brand to choose from and maybe five flavors on a good day. Now it’s fat free, sugar free, double churned—whatever that means—and four kinds of chocolate. Frozen yogurt, gelato. How am I supposed to choose?”
Clara’s laugh rolled out, rich and warm like the rest of her. “I’m going for the old standby, butter pecan. It’s my si … mother’s favorite.” Flustered because he hadn’t let go of her hand, she almost forgot the cover story she and her sister used to explain away the difference in their apparent ages.
“Don’t you have a favorite?” John asked, the well-worn lines around his eyes crinkling in an unexpectedly attractive way.
“Anything with caramel. And you?”
His smile sent another shiver over Clara’s skin. “Mint chocolate chip, but this isn’t for me. Cheyenne called to tell me Stephanie had a hard day. The kind that requires boatloads of ice cream and other mysterious things women do to get over a breakup, so here I am. Tell me what to buy.”
“Go with the good stuff. Start with the full fat, extra churned. Go for anything that says double chocolate on it. Then, this caramel gelato with chocolate shavings on the top, and the rainbow sherbet, and something with coffee in it. That should cover the bases. Oh and if you really want to earn some brownie points, buy brownies.” In times like these, a little self-indulgence never hurt.
“Brownies it is. Though I don’t see how any of this is going to heal a broken heart.” The shadow that crossed his face said more than words, and Clara suspected he was thinking of his late wife. Time was the only cure for that type of loss.
“You’d be surprised at the healing effects of copious amounts of chocolate.” Clara recovered from her private thoughts quickly, though it took her a fraction of a second to remember what she was supposed to be replying to. “I know Stephanie has had quite a shock, but she’ll be all right, eventually.”
John’s face clouded over, “She’ll survive and find someone more suited.”
The statement didn’t come as a surprise to Clara. After all, John thought of Stephanie as his own little girl, and all father figures are suspicious of the other men in their daughter’s lives. But that didn’t mean she’d let the statement pass without digging for more details.
“What was wrong with Brad? I don’t mean to pry—well, actually I do.” Clara knew her tone sounded flirtatious, but she found herself unable to tamp it down.
Frowning, John shifted his weight and rested his shopping basket on his other hip, “I’m not insinuating that good people can’t come from bad circumstances, or that Brad didn’t try to overcome a disadvantaged childhood.”
This time when the tingle came, it had more to do with what John had to say than his sexy manner. Worse, this jangle along her nerves came with a sense of dread.
“I know Stephanie would not approve, but when things started getting serious between them so quickly, I hired a private detective, and learned some disturbing information about Brad’s family.”
“And what did you find?” Caught between the parts of her that wanted to get closer to him and the parts that wanted to recoil because he’d gone behind Stephanie’s back, Clara felt a little crazed.
She missed part of what he had to say because her brain kept providing good reasons for what he’d done and then countering with all the ways it constituted betrayal. How could she be attracted to someone like him, and how could she not?
“—was convicted. Bigamy is a class E crime, and the judge gave him the maximum sentence. When he got out of jail six months later, Scott Graham had lost both wives, his kids, and his job. He was on the hook for child support times three. He’d borrowed the money to pay his fine from Brad’s grandfather and when my investigator dug a little deeper, it turned out Scott took the money and ran. Never saw any of his kids again, including Brad.”
“And you think Bradley takes after his father.”
“I’d hoped not, for Stephanie’s sake, but now I’m not so sure. I didn’t have the heart to tell her anything about it, and it doesn’t matter anymore, anyway.” John shook his head., “Mason seems to think he was siphoning money from Pets Alive, and temporarily pulled their funding while they review the books. Neither conclusion makes me feel any better about the situation.”
“I’m sorry things turned out the way they did.” Almost instantly, the niggling doubts that had started to creep into Clara’s head dissipated. Rich people had problems—and solutions—she’d never understand, but she understood that John had felt it was his duty to protect Stephanie. And how could she fault him for that?. Sizzling jolts of energy radiated from his hand to hers and didn’t stop there. Even her toes felt the sparks as they curled inside her shoes.
“Nothing for you to be sorry about.,” John shook his head., “Everything happens for a reason. At least, that’s what I try to tell myself. Take this, for instance, you and I being in the same place at the same time, buying ice cream.”
Clara wasn’t about to tell him the reason for that was that she’d stalked and cornered him in the frozen- foods aisle, and instead felt the blush creeping up to her cheeks as, to her surprise, she let out a breathy response., “Yes, I’d call that a happy coincidence.” Despite what he insinuated he’d done, she wanted him.
John smiled, and once again Clara found herself drowning in his sparkling eyes. When he spoke, his voice had gone all husky and shy., “I don’t suppose you’d want to repeat it, on purpose this time. For instance, at dinner say, tomorrow night?”
Now that she was being put on the spot, Clara was torn. On the one hand, involving herself personally with a member of Stephanie’s family when she and Mag were only supposed to be solving the mystery of her disappearing fiancé had to be a conflict of interest. On the other hand, it wasn’t as though they’d been hired, or were receiving any kind of compensation. It was a favor for a friend, and that was that.
“I’d love to.”
“Perfect, I’ll pick you up at seven o’clock.” John smiled that delicious smile again, and Clara felt like a damsel from a Jane Austen novel.
The number of decades since she’d felt this way about any man could be counted on one hand, but that was still a long time for an itch to develop and Clara had one. One she wanted to scratch with this man. She could admit that to herself.
She might have admitted it to him, too, if she’d had the chance.
“Hello Clara.” Norm McCreery, Harmony’s mayor, had been harboring a crush on the younger Balefire sister since the pair had moved to town. An unrequited crush. Oh, he was nice enough and not bad looking, but not the kind to set a woman’s toes on fire with nothing more than a touch. He did have impeccable timing, though.
“Mr. McCree…ry.” Drat that Mag. She’d called him Mayor McCreepy so many times the name had become stuck in Clara’s head. Still, she hoped the formal greeting would be enough to convince John that there was nothing romantic going on there. But when he released her hand, she wasn’t sure if it was only to offer it to Norm, or her plan had failed.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have to go.” Clara yanked open the freezer, grabbed the first carton of ice cream on the shelf, and left the two men staring after her. If she’d bothered to turn and look, she’d have seen identical expressions of admiring interest.
Rounding the corner of the aisle, she held the ice cream container to her heated cheek for a second, then took a good look at the label. Mag would be eating fat-free, plain old vanilla instead of butter pecan, and Clara would never hear the end of it.
***
Preferring privacy above all else, Mag lived in what looked from the outsi
de like an overgrown shed tossed together from materials pulled out of a dumpster. Dusty cobwebs—or the illusion of them anyway—, coated the windows, and the whole thing appeared to lean precariously to the left.
From the inside, Mag enjoyed a clear view of the river from a pristine bay window, in her perfectly cluttered, bedecked- with- doilies, Victorian-styled parlor.
Too fussy for Clara’s tastes, the decor suited Mag right down to the ground and was completely at odds with her reputation. It was there where, later that night, unable to sleep, Clara broke one of Mag’s cardinal rules.
She knocked on the door sometime after midnight, and entered without waiting for her sister’s reply. Mag knew something was on her mind, but waited patiently as Clara wandered about her living room and gravitated to a display of family heirlooms covering the mantle above the fireplace. Clara touched a gentle finger to her father’s gold pocket watch, and wiped a tear from her cheek.
“I don’t know if it’s the time of year, or Roma being here, or maybe just her mention of the history of this house, but I can’t stop thinking about Mum and Papa. I know you hate talking about them, but I’m telling you right now, Maggie, I can’t keep indulging this gag order of yours. Please,.” Clara pleaded, the desperation in her voice zinging like an arrow straight through Mag’s heart.
Mag repositioned herself on the settee where she’d been knitting, and returned her needles to the bag at her feet., “It’s not that I don’t want to talk about them, Clarie. It just hurts. What I can’t understand is how you could ever forgive her. You were always Mum’s golden child—future Keeper, model witch—and I took solace in Papa’s constant encouragement. He’s the only one who understood my wanderlust, and part of me died right along with him. But she was supposed to stick around and help us through it. Instead she just bailed.” Mag stared at her sister, the pain evident in her twisted expression.
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