Ground

by Kirsten Weiss

  “What?” She unraveled her chignon, and her hair shimmered across her white blouse.

  I groaned. “The shelf installation took longer than we expected. There was a day I wasn't there. Darla had to deal with Matt.”

  “And?”

  “And I don't know! I don't know what happened. I assumed everything went okay, and I didn't ask.”

  “But Darla might have given him a key,” she said.

  “Maybe. I don't know. I'll ask her tomorrow.” I stood, suddenly desperate to end this conversation. “And if I'm going to wake up in time to open, I'd better get some sleep.”

  She rose from the chair. “You'll be up before I am. Lock the door when you leave.”

  I nodded. Our aunt had rarely locked the door, but life was different now.

  I stripped and slipped into my chemise. The sheets were cool, and I shivered in the darkness and curled into a semi-fetal position. The air crackled with static electricity, and tiny bursts of lightning flickered in the waves of my sheets. Ellen may have redecorated my old room, but the moonlight cast familiar shadows, and I felt small.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lenore was a late riser. I doubted I'd be able to wake my sister if I tried, but I tiptoed as I left her house that morning. The sky was dark and would remain so for another two hours. Winter in the foothills was long.

  Enjoying the morning quiet, I strolled into town. A night bird swooped above me, the only sign of its passing the flap of its wings.

  I shivered. The crows hadn't hurt me, but they had shaken me. No animal had ever turned on me before. And I liked crows, clever and elegant. Their attack felt like a betrayal.

  The walk and the chill air snapped me into wakefulness. By the time I arrived home, I was humming.

  In my upstairs apartment, I took a leaf of dried white sage from my magic cupboard and lit it with a match. The flame rose, flickering, and steadied. I blew it out. The tip glowed, the leaf smoldering. I opened the bathroom window that faced over the alley.

  This was my home, dammit, and I wasn't going to let some creep taint it with his bad mojo.

  I saged the coffee shop, visualizing any dark energies that had been left behind pushed into a violet flame.

  Upstairs, I repeated the process. The intruder hadn't made it into my apartment, but negative energy trails might have slipped inside. When the leaf had been reduced to a smoldering fragment pinched between my finger and thumb, I ran water over it from the tap. I tossed the stem in the waist bin beside my sink and shut the bathroom window.

  Closing my eyes, I extended my aura, probing. All I sensed was my own magic, green and bright. My space was clear. But I’d thought it was clear last night, and I’d been wrong. How had that happened? Were we wrong? Was Matt’s killer magical? It would take a practitioner – or something paranormal – to hide from my probing. Either that, or I was really losing it.

  Downstairs, a key rattled in a lock, and I started. I hurried down the steps to Ground.

  Darla let herself in through the alley door and wrinkled her freckled nose. “Sage?” Her blond hair was tied in a neat bun. She pulled a delicate net from her pocket and pulled it over her hair.

  My assistant manager might be the unluckiest person I knew, but she was conscientious.

  “Someone broke in last night,” I admitted.

  Her toffee eyes widened. “What? How?”

  “It looks like they had a key.”

  “Another one?” Her broad face fell. “Did they take anything?”

  “No. I scared the guy off.”

  “You’re so brave. I would never have gone after an intruder.” Shaking her head, she walked to the closet and leaned inside.

  “Do you remember when Matt Zana was doing some work for us?” I asked. “That day I couldn't be here to oversee the shelving installation?”

  She pulled out an apron. There was a crash, and cardboard cylinders of cleanser rolled into the hallway. A plastic bottle was hooked inside the loop of her apron. Her fair skin colored, and she knelt, scooping up the containers. “Sorry.”

  “No damage done.” I helped her return the cleanser to the closet shelf, one that Matt had installed. “About Matt. Do you remember that day?”

  “Vaguely. Why?”

  “Did you ever give him a key?”

  She stiffened. “No! I unlocked for him and locked up afterward. I remember, because I'd just found my own key that day.” Darla pinked.

  “You mean you'd lost your key?”

  “Not really.” She sucked in her cheeks. “I mean, I found it again, at the bottom of the washing machine that morning. It didn’t seem like a big deal.”

  “How did you get inside the day before?”

  “When I realized I’d misplaced it, I'd borrowed the spare key,” she said, talking fast. “You know, the one in the drawer.” She nodded to the small, distressed wood desk, wedged against the wall. “If I hadn't found my key, I would have told you and asked to make a copy. But like I said, I found it the next day.”

  “The day you let Matt Zana into Ground.” I twisted the bangles on my wrists.

  “Right.”

  “And then you replaced the spare key?”

  “Right away! I felt terrible that I'd borrowed it and worse that I'd misplaced the original key. I'm sorry I didn't say anything sooner.”

  I skimmed my hand over my ponytail. “It's okay. You're the assistant manager. I trust you, and like you said, no harm done. You found the lost key.”

  She broke into a relieved smile. “Right.”

  “Where was Matt when you replaced the key?”

  “Matt?” Her forehead wrinkled. “I guess he must have been near the closet. Oh! I remember. I was worried about forgetting to replace the spare. So I returned the spare key to the drawer as soon as I walked inside. So Matt must have been right behind me.”

  And he'd seen where the spare key had been kept. I turned from her, wiping an already sparkling counter with a cloth. “Did you lock the drawer?”

  “Yes. No. I don't... Were we locking it then?”

  My lips pressed tight. I wasn't sure when we'd instituted that policy. “I can't remember either.” If Matt had seen where the spare key had gone, he could have taken it. But why would he? Someone was always here on weekdays to let him inside. There was no reason for him to have his own key.

  “I'm really sorry,” she said.

  “It's all right. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

  “But if I hadn't misplaced that key—”

  “You think I've never run something through the wash I'd forgotten about in my pockets? It happens.”

  “But another break-in.” Her forehead creased. “You’re sure nothing was taken?”

  Something had been added. “Like I said, I scared the guy off.” But had it been a guy? My memories jumbled.

  “You're lucky you weren't hurt.”

  If being here had been good luck, I could take a bit of Darla's bad.

  The alley door opened, a breeze ruffling the streaky ikat curtains at the other end of the narrow room. Sal, another of my staff, walked into the corridor. She grabbed an apron – red for the holidays – off a wall peg. “What's up?”

  “Opening,” I said, knotting my ponytail into a bun. “Let's go.”

  We got busy prepping the coffee shop, and I turned the CLOSED sign to OPEN at six. My morning regulars trickled in, lining up at the counter for pick-ups on their way to work.

  Ground buzzed with Matt's death. This was the first work day since his murder, the first chance for gossip. We didn't have many murders or handymen in Doyle, and he'd done work for many Doyle residents.

  Wynter Swanstrom pressed his trim stomach against the counter and waited for his double espresso. His head nearly brushed one of the ferns, glittering with white twinkle lights, above the counter. The city manager’s hair was white with a yellowish tinge – its natural color since he was in is mid-forties. His ruddy face was handsome in a just-off-the-ski-slopes kind of way.

>   I passed the paper cup across the dark-wood counter and sniffed ginger. It was one of our holiday brews. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks. I hear your truck was used in the murder of that jackass, Matt Zana.”

  My brows rocketed upward. Jackass? “He installed some shelves in one of my closets.”

  “You let him in your closet? I thought you had more sense.”

  He was joking, but for some reason the comment stung. “Here in Ground.”

  He snorted. “That's better.”

  “Did he ever do work for you?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  I snapped a dead branch from one of the ferns hanging above the counter. “What happened?”

  “You know what he was like.” He turned to go.

  A seed of suspicion sprouted tentacles inside me. “How did you hear about my truck?” I asked.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “I shouldn't have, but you know how it is in small towns.” He strode out the red-painted door.

  It hadn’t been much of an answer, and the tentacles grew. I was being paranoid. Maybe he’d learned about it through his position as city manager. Though “city manager” seemed an odd title in a town with an official population of 4,502.

  I returned to my coffee-making duties, and Darla took orders and made change. She passed me a cup labeled simply Doc, and I smiled. I didn't need to know the order – Doc Toeller was another regular. I made the caramel macchiato and handed it across the counter into the doctor’s waiting hand.

  She smiled sympathetically, her blue eyes crinkling. “Jayce, how are you doing?” Her cap of silver-gold hair glinted beneath the overhead lights. Her ice-blue turtleneck hugged her slim figure. Doc Toeller had to be at least fifty — she'd delivered my sisters and I. But like so many in Doyle, she could have been any age.

  I blew the bangs out of my eyes. “I suppose you heard about the truck too?”

  “What truck?”

  “The police impounded my pickup.”

  She raised her paper coffee cup in a mock toast. “I told you to slow down on those roads.”

  “Someone stole it and put Matt Zana's body inside.”

  Her eyes widened. “No. And then you were burgled?”

  “You heard about that?”

  “It's a small town.”

  My mouth compressed. “So everyone keeps telling me.”

  She laughed. “It's impossible to keep secrets in Doyle. But keep your chin up.” She strolled out the door, and every man in the room turned to watch.

  By nine, the worker bees had departed, and the retirees wandered in. They shoved tables together for their regular coffee klatsch. It would last for hours, but they were good customers, so I was happy to have them filling my seats.

  I was lucky. I loved my coffee shop — not just the scent of the coffee beans or the satisfaction of having my own place, but the diverse energy of the customers.

  At ten, our first wave of work-from-homers poured into Ground. The café had become their office away from home. Younger, these clients tended not to spend on expensive brews. Still, they kept the chairs filled, and I'd installed wi-fi for a reason.

  I pulled my apron over my head. “Darla, can you take over for thirty minutes?” According to my sister, Matt might have had something going with the new realtor, Phoebe England. It was time I followed up on that lead.

  She glanced over the crowd, heads bent over their computers. This crew wouldn't be ordering much more coffee today. “Sure.”

  “Thanks.” I bolted upstairs and grabbed my denim-blue shawl, then left.

  The crisp air snapped at my cheeks. I inhaled deeply. A vintage pickup drifted past, and I admired its curving lines. The sky above was cloudless, the soft morning sunlight sparkling off the shop windows that lined the street.

  I stepped from beneath an overhang. Tilting my head toward the sun, I briefly reveled in its warmth on my face. I walked down an informal, dirt path that meandered between the sidewalk and the road. The earth was soft, damp.

  My shawl snagged on a rose bush, pruned seemingly to nothing. I disentangled myself, pulling out a loop of blue thread. “Darn it.” Maybe Karin could fix it. And maybe I shouldn’t be running to her for help so much. Adjusting the shawl over my shoulders, I walked on.

  A red Porche parked in the dirt across the street, in front of an old barn that had been converted to a wine tasting room. Eric Gertner stepped from the car and glanced my way.

  I gnawed the inside of one cheek. He'd heard Melanie Zana's accusation, that I'd been sleeping with her husband, but he'd also seemed not to believe it. Hopeful, I smiled and waved.

  He stared for a moment, as if he couldn't remember who I was. Returning a half-hearted wave, he strode towards the tasting room. I’d been dissed.

  I stopped in front of Phoebe England’s realty office and pretended to examine the flyers papering the inside of the window. She was new in town, and I only knew her to say “hello.” Accusing her of an affair didn’t seem a good starting point for our relationship.

  Homes for sale. Vacation rentals. I studied the flyers. Most of the real estate on offer wasn’t in Doyle.

  Behind the glass, Phoebe glanced up from her desk, smiled and waved.

  I opened the door. Smiling brightly, I walked inside. “Hi, Phoebe.”

  She smoothed her lustrous blond-streaked hair, and the gold charm bracelet around her wrist tinkled. “Jayce Bonheim! What brings you here?” Phoebe was close to my age — maybe a few years older. Her white blouse and navy skirt might have looked schoolgirl, but the skirt was longer than any self-respecting teenager’s.

  “We're still in the process of settling my aunt's estate,” I said, “and we're not sure if we're going to sell her house or not.” I sent a silent apology to Lenore. We'd already decided to keep the house. It was too big a part of our childhood, and Lenore needed a place to live. Poetry and bookstore management weren't the most lucrative careers. “I thought you might be able to help us figure out its value.”

  She rose and motioned to a business-like chair, and her charm bracelet jingled. “Grab a seat. Can I get you some coffee?”

  “No, thanks.” I sat.

  “I guess offering you coffee is like bringing tea to China.” She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. They were red-rimmed, as if she'd been crying. Maybe the rumor about Phoebe and Matt Zana was true.

  “I probably drink too much.” Coffee, and other beverages. I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my jeans. “Are you all right?”

  Phoebe blinked, sniffed. “Yes, of course.”

  “Matt's death has shaken a lot of people. I heard you two were close.”

  “Where did you hear that?” She moved a stack of paper from one side of the desk to the other. “I wouldn't say we were close, but I did work with him. He'd do quick fix-ups for my clients before I sold a house. You'd be surprised how little details can wreck a home sale. Most buyers have so little imagination. You have to make it easy for them to see themselves inside your house. I'd need to see the inside of your aunt's house to know whether staging makes sense, or what we'd have to do to get you and your sisters the best price.”

  Wait. Staging? “Right now we’re more interested in getting a valuation.”

  “You’d need an appraiser for that, and I can certainly recommend one.”

  “At this point, we were hoping for something more informal. My aunt kept up her house, though I don't think she ever used Matt's services. It's a pity he's not around now. I'm sure there are things that need fixing or touching up in there that he could have done. He helped me install some shelves in Ground once.”

  “I think he mentioned that.”

  I angled my head. “Oh?”

  Her olive skin darkened. “You were one of his references.”

  And if someone had asked, I would have given Matt an okay reference. I’d only become more critical since he’d been killed. “I'm surprised he mentioned me. It was a small project — a simple shelf installation.”
r />   “Most of the work he did for my clients was small too.”

  “He was a fun guy. I'm sorry he's gone.” I smiled reminiscently. “He had quite a reputation with the ladies.”

  She stiffened. “I wouldn't know. We were only business associates.”

  She was lying. But I didn’t know how to break past the falsehood, and I didn’t know if it even mattered.

  “When would be a good time for me to stop by your aunt's house and give you my opinion?” she asked.

  I blanked. “My aunt's house?”

  “About a sales price, what needs to be done?”

  “Oh! Right!” I fumbled in my macramé purse. “Sorry, my phone is vibrating,” I lied. I pretended to check the messages. “Urgh, I forgot I've got another appointment. Sorry, let's talk later, okay?” I hurried to the glass, front door.

  “I could stop by tomorrow? When would it be convenient?”

  “Right, sure.” Nearly running, I sped onto the sidewalk. What had I agreed to? If the fairy or Matt's murderer didn't kill me, Lenore surely would.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I returned to the café. A second wave of thirsty customers poured in, packing Ground’s tables. Heads bent over laptops, they sipped holiday confections piled with whipped cream and garnished with cinnamon sticks. Darla went home for the day, leaving just me and Sal.

  I took a rack of steaming mugs from the industrial dishwasher and set them on the counter in the tiny kitchen to cool. Leaning over the clean mugs, I enjoyed the rising heat, warming my face and neck.

  Brayden, in his usual jeans and flannel shirt, brushed through the ikat curtains.

  I couldn’t help it. I grinned at the sight of him, my heart flying skyward. But he’d told me we should stay apart. What was he doing here?

  He shoved his sleeves to his elbows. “We have to talk.”

  “What's wrong?”

  “Why didn't you tell me the burglar knocked you down? What were you thinking, confronting him?”

  “Because I didn't know there was a burglar.” I wiped my hands on my apron. “I hear noises all the time, and they're usually just the building shifting or an animal outside.”