“Jayce, think.” He rested his hands on my shoulders, and his warmth flowed through me. “We live in a small town. Our relationship doesn't look good. This can hurt you.”
“Or are you afraid it will hurt you?”
He dropped his broad hands, his green eyes darkening. “You know I don't care about that.”
“Maybe you should.” My breath was quick, noisy.
“The closer we appear, the weaker our alibi seems.”
“So what? Neither of us had any reason to kill Matt. The worst he ever did to me was talk too much and work too slow, and I'm sure he did that to all his clients. If that was a motive for murder, he would have been bumped off long ago.”
“You're not wrong,” he said. “But it's not about what's true. It's about what people think is true.”
“Who cares what people think!”
“I care what people think about you. A bad reputation could hurt your business.”
“But—”
“Stay away from me, Jayce. It’s only for a little while, until things blow over.”
Heat spurted from my chest to the roots of my hair. Fine. I spun on my heel and strode out the front door, letting the screen door bang. I couldn't believe Brayden was being such a... coward. But he wasn’t a coward. He probably thought he was doing something noble by pushing me away.
I didn’t like being pushed.
CHAPTER FOUR
Picatrix didn’t return for dinner.
And that cat never missed a meal.
Maybe she’d picked up on my mood and decided to steer clear of the apartment.
I couldn’t read magic into everything, could I? Feeling muddled, I leaned against the window frame and watched people stroll along Main Street below. Everyone had a place to go. Everyone but me.
I called Lenore. “Hey, witch. Want to come to the Bell and Thistle with me?”
Lenore sighed. “You mean you need a ride.”
“We agreed I’d investigate. I can't do that without my truck, not when there's no taxi service in Doyle.” There wasn't a bus service either. If it wasn't within walking distance, you'd better have a ride. Fortunately, most destinations were walkable. Unfortunately, the Bell and Thistle wasn't one of them.
There was a long pause, and I worried she'd say, no. Lenore and Karin weren't much for bars. “All right. Karin and I aren't doing anything to find the fairy tonight anyway.”
“You're not?” I asked, surprised.
“Karin had to drive to Angels Camp — she’s having dinner with Nick's parents.”
“Meet the parents? Yikes.” Things really were getting serious between Karin and the lawyer.
“They drove up from San Francisco. I don't think she could get out of it.”
I doubted she’d wanted to. Karin longed for stability, and being part of Nick's family, now that ours was just the three of us, would appeal. “When can you pick me up?”
“Thirty minutes?”
“Perfect.” I'd use the extra time to amp up my glamour spell. The pub was familiar territory, but a little extra flash wouldn’t hurt, especially when I needed to charm information from witnesses.
We said our goodbyes, and I glanced toward the cat door. It wasn’t like her to stay out this late on such a cold evening.
Frowning, I headed to my bathroom. I'd decorated it like a sultan's bath — plenty of gilt and a shimmering, cushioned footstool. I lined up a dozen essential oils on an ornate tray and, stripped to my lingerie, sat on the footstool.
I massaged lavender oil into my first chakra and visualized my roots extending into the ground. “Let me be rooted.”
I selected more oils and rubbed them into my chakra points, calming. Everything would be all right. I’d get through this, maybe not quite with style, but I’d get through.
Rising, I lifted my palms and made a latticework of my fingers. I breathed my glamour incantation and parted my hands like a curtain. The top of my scalp tingled, telling me it was working. I pulled my clothes on, ran my scented fingers through my hair, touched up my makeup.
I'd just finished blotting my lipstick when Lenore knocked at my door.
I hurried to open it.
Lenore had piled her blond hair in a loose bun. Gold earrings dangled from her ears. She seemed to blaze against the night in her white, knit coat.
I squinted at the jewelry. “Are those rabbits?”
“I liked them,” she said, defensive.
A gust of wind struck me, and I shivered. “They're cute.” I grabbed my purse off the couch, and we clunked down the wooden exterior staircase.
On the road to the Bell and Thistle, we talked about everything but the murder and the curse. Lenore drove the slick highway at a crawl, her face puckered with concentration. “Are you sure going to the Bell and Thistle is such a good idea?”
I sighed with impatience. She and Karin were so careful. I could have walked to the pub in nearby Arcadia faster. If it hadn’t been so cold and dark, I would have walked. “Someone may have seen something the night my truck was stolen.”
“And it’s a bar.”
I grinned. “That too.”
Lenore pulled into the dirt parking lot and blew out a relieved breath, her hands unclenching on the wheel. She parked between two SUVs, and we squeezed out of her Volvo. The Bell and Thistle looked nothing like an English pub. A log cabin, its peaked, green roof stretched low beneath the pines. Rock music and golden light flowed through its windows in welcome.
We crunched across the light drifts of snow to the front door. Lenore clutched her purse to her chest. I was willing to bet her notebook was inside — she took it everywhere.
Widening my strides, I grabbed the door handle and waited for Lenore to catch up. A bell the size of a man’s head hung nearby. I grabbed its thin rope and clanged the bell. The sound died quickly, as if swallowed by the earth and snow.
Lenore’s laugh was hollow. “You ring that bell every time, don’t you?” She glanced toward the dark woods.
“It’s tradition.” Shaking off my unease, I opened the door, and a roar of cheerful noise greeted us.
The pub was packed, every table full. People stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the bar, but I intended to get a table, and my magic was on tonight.
Sure enough, as we squeezed through the crowd, two men abandoned their small, round table near the window. I dropped my coat over one chair and sat. A gust of wind struck the window, rattling it like bones.
As soon as Lenore was settled, I sprang up again. “Hold the table,” I shouted over the noise. “I'll get our drinks.” And talk to the bartender.
Lenore shouted something after me. Assuming it was her drink order (she liked hard cider), I kept moving. The same bartender, Hank, who'd been here last night was on duty again tonight. Hank knew me. He'd talk.
I scooted through the mob at the bar and ignored the looks the men gave me.
Catching the bartender’s eye, I smiled and rested my elbows on the bar. Twinkle lights wound around the bottles on the mirrored shelves behind it.
Hank tossed his blond head and grinned back, mischievous. A dedicated skier, his skin had that nearly-burnt look. He spent his every spare moment higher up in the Sierras on the slopes. “So,” he shouted, ambling toward me. “You've got yourself in trouble again, lady.”
I rolled my eyes and leaned closer to be heard over the music. “It's not as much fun as you make it sound.”
He sobered and bent toward me. “No, I guess it isn't. The police were asking about you. I told them you were here.”
“It was the truth.” I shrugged. “No reason not to tell them. Did you see Matt Zana here that night?”
The music stopped. A redhead ambled to the juke box and pondered the selections.
He shot me a look. “Jayce, what are you up to?”
“Nothing!” I laid my palm over my heart and winked.
“There is such a thing as interfering in a police investigation.” Roughly, he polished the bar with a damp rag.
>
“Who’s interfering? Can’t I gossip with an old friend?”
He raised a brow. “So we’re friends now?”
“You wound me. Come on. Did you see Matt?”
He shook his head. “Nope.”
“Did you see anything, well, weird?” I asked.
“Weird like you and Brayden acting like two nervous teenagers? That was definitely not the Jayce I know and love.”
I arched a brow. “Maybe you don't know me as well as you think.”
An AC/DC song started up, and he barked a laugh.
Someone waved at him from the other end of the bar.
“I'd better take this order,” he said. “What do you want?”
“A cider and a dirty martini.”
He nodded and moved off.
The place was busy and loud and shouting another serious conversation would be tough. Maybe coming here on a Saturday night hadn't been the best idea. But Mrs. O'Malley and her husband were in their usual spot. And the same waitress was on duty as well.
I frowned, twining my finger in my bolo necklace. Now that I thought about it, the pub had been unusually empty last night. I'd been so nervicited about being with Brayden, I hadn't paid much attention before. But last night had been Friday. The pub should have been hopping. It was almost as if the place had cleared out for the murder.
I shook my head. I had to stop reading that unseelie curse into every odd thing that happened in Doyle.
“And this isn't even in Doyle,” I said aloud. Technically, we were in next door Arcadia, which consisted of a general store and a handful of homes scattered in the woods.
Hank slid the drinks in front of me. “Yes, it is.”
I blinked. “What?”
“The Bell and Thistle is in Doyle.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Is too.”
“The sign a hundred yards down the road says Arcadia. That’s between this pub and Doyle.”
His even, white teeth flashed. “Everything past our parking lot is Arcadia. But the property this bar stands on is a little island of Doyle.”
“How did that happen?”
“I don't remember the whole story,” he said. “It had something to do with taxes and Prohibition.”
“Wait. Including the parking lot?” The skin prickled on my scalp. “That’s in Doyle too?”
“Of course. That's our property. Weird, huh?”
I picked up the drinks. “Weird,” I muttered. It had become my word of the day. I made my way through the crush of bodies to Lenore.
She sat stoop-shouldered, writing in her notebook, which was lying flat upon the table. Her hair shimmered golden beneath the hanging lamps.
I smiled. Typical Lenore. I loved that she did her own thing, no matter the circumstances or what people thought. We were a lot alike in that way.
I sat across from her, and she looked up.
“Learn anything?” she asked.
“Did you know this pub is in Doyle?” I rubbed the hollow of my neck.
She frowned, glancing around the crowded bar. “I'd forgotten, but now that you mention it, I do remember reading something about it. I think there's an old newspaper article with the story. It’s framed, hangs on the wall.”
“There is? Where?”
She pointed toward the front door.
Huh. I must have walked past that clipping hundreds of times. It figured Lenore, who was no barfly, would actually read it. “Don't you think that's odd though?”
“People do all sorts of funny things to get around the law.”
“No, but...” I leaned across the table. “The curse. The fairy’s connected to Doyle. We suspected the fairy can only work its mojo there. And here we are, in Doyle, where a man was killed and put in my pickup.”
She set down her pen, twin lines appearing between her brows. “We don't know that the unseelie can only work its magic in Doyle.”
“But we do know Doyle is where all the weirdness happens. Where the beautiful people — even the beautiful buildings — are. It's like we've been preserved beneath glass. Doyle is where the hikers disappear every seven years. Doyle is where the fairy spring is. And Doyle is where we are right now.”
“But why would an unseelie care about human boundaries drawn on some map?”
“Maybe the boundaries aren’t human.” The words tumbled from my mouth as if someone else had said them.
Her blue-gray eyes clouded. “What do you mean?”
“I'm not sure.” I turned my head. “Forget it.”
A buxom waitress slid past us, her long legs tanned beneath her green miniskirt.
I waved to her. “Kelly!”
She turned, and I signaled again. Kelly had been here last night, and I wasn’t just here to drink. Honestly.
The waitress leaned her hip against my chair. “Hey, girlfriend. The cops were asking about you.”
“I know,” I said, tingling sweeping up my neck and face. “Did you see or hear anything strange last night?”
“Nope.” She shook her head. “Sorry.”
“What about Matt Zana? Did you see him around?”
“Yeah, I did. I went outside for a smoke break and saw him in the parking lot.”
“What was he doing?” I asked.
“Looked like he was waiting for someone.”
“What time was this?”
She glanced at the beamed ceiling, stained with decades of smoke before the no-smoking laws had kicked in. “Around eight?”
I nodded. That tracked. I'd run outside at about a quarter after. So who had Matt been waiting for? And why had he waited outside, on a freezing night, instead of inside the nice, warm pub? “What about—?”
There was a crash, and Kelly swiveled toward the sound. She sighed. “Someone's knocked the tree over again. I've gotta take care of this.” The waitress plunged into the crowd.
“That's interesting,” Lenore said.
The O'Malleys rose from their table.
“I'll be right back.” I leapt from my chair and wove through the crowd. By the time I caught up with them, the couple had reached the narrow entry. “Mrs. O'Malley?”
She turned, and a series of expressions flashed across her oval-shaped face. Disapproval. Pity. And finally, a fixed pleasantness. “Hello, Jayce. And you don't have to call me Mrs. O'Malley anymore. We're both adults.” She brushed a curtain of black hair behind her ear.
Her husband turned up the collar of his thick, canvas coat and said nothing. His sideburns had begun to turn an elegant silver.
“Sorry, it’s habit.” I fumbled for words. “How are you?”
“Fine.”
We stared at each other.
“I saw you here last night with Brayden,” she said, her tone growing chill. “The police asked us about it. I don’t think it’s very nice.”
I wondered what wasn’t nice. The murder? Being questioned by the police? Brayden and I together at last? “I wanted to ask you about that too. Did you see Matt Zana or anything else strange last night?”
She zipped her black parka. “I don't think it's something we should discuss,” she snapped.
“Saw him walking,” her husband said.
She pressed her thin lips together. “The police won't want us talking about what we saw.”
“They didn't tell us not to say anything.” He ruffled his dark hair. “Saw him walking down the highway. I guess he was walking here.”
“What time was this?” I asked.
“We got here around seven-thirty, so it must have been just before then. It's only a mile between here and Doyle.”
“This is Doyle,” his wife said, and tapped the framed newspaper clipping, yellowed with age.
“You know what I mean,” he said.
“Right. Thanks.” I nodded to them. Matt had walked to the pub. Had the killer come here on foot as well? That would explain why he or she had used my truck to dispose of the body — it was handy and the killer didn't have one. But why dispose of the bo
dy at all? Why not leave it in the parking lot for someone to find, or drag it into the tree line?
Mrs. O’Malley’s nostrils flared. She turned on her heel and slammed out the door. Meekly, her husband followed.
I returned to our table and dropped into my chair.
Lenore looked up. “Well?”
I told her what they'd said and what I’d thought.
She closed her notebook on a poem. “Either the killer needed your truck because it was his best option for moving the body, or the killer was trying to frame you.”
Snakes writhed in my gut. Matt’s murder had just gotten more personal.
*****
Thanks to Lenore, I woke up late Sunday morning without a hangover. She'd been obviously bored at the Bell and Thistle, so we’d left as soon as I was certain there weren't any more regulars to interview. Disappointment clouded my chest. Last night’s investigation had not been a raging success.
Curled on my sofa between two silken pillows, I sipped my coffee. I wasn’t going to slack off like last summer. I might not have cracked the case at the Bell and Thistle, but there were other leads to follow. Matt had been married. Though I didn't know his wife, Melanie, beyond saying “hello” at the grocery store, she deserved a condolence call. It was my truck that had been used to dispose of his body, and I’d known him slightly. That gave us a connection.
I dressed in jeans and my sapphire turtleneck. The clouds outside were gunmetal gray, threatening snow. I grabbed a thick, blue shawl-sweater from my closet and tossed it over my shoulders.
Blindly, I stared at the contents of my purse, fallen across the dining room table. Picatrix still hadn’t returned. I’m usually philosophical about cats – they come and go when they will. But I didn’t like the timing of her departure.
Cats knew things.
Shaking off my worry, I jammed my wallet into my back pocket and left.
I walked down Main, passing pristine nineteenth-century wood and stone buildings. OPEN signs hung outside the shops and tasting rooms. Like the rest of the town, they catered to tourists on their way to or from the ski resorts higher in the mountains.
I stopped in a bakery and bought a cinnamon coffee cake for Melanie Zana.
Pink box gripped in both hands, I trudged up Oak Street and tried to figure out what to say to Melanie before I arrived on her doorstep. I’m sorry for your loss seemed inadequate.
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