by Delia James
“What I want,” I said slowly, “is a drink. How about you guys?”
Kenisha stared at me, startled; then she shrugged. “Why not? I’ve only been in this uniform fourteen hours. Another couple won’t make a difference. How about you, Val?”
“Very pregnant here, in case you forgot.”
I smiled. “It just so happens, I know a place where you can get a really amazing mocktail.”
• • •
LIKE THE SQUARE, the bar at the Pale Ale was full of cheerful people and cheerful voices. As soon as we got through the door, the three of us automatically started craning our necks to see if the shifting crowd had left anyplace to sit. I spotted Sean on duty behind the bar. He raised his hand to wave hello and pointed toward a free stretch of banquette in the corner. I waved back and led the other women over.
“You know, we could be the opening line of a joke,” I said as we shifted and slid to make room for one another around the little round table. “Three witches walk into a bar . . .”
“You’re not a witch yet, remember.” Valerie picked up the wine list, gazed at it like an old friend, and put it back down. “Being a witch involves commitment and study. I’m glad you’re thinking about it, though.”
“I reserve the right to backtrack at any moment.”
“Fine,” said Kenisha. “But what’s got you thinking?”
“The idea I might be able to learn how to control my Vibe. That and . . .” Val nodded in encouragement. It was going to take a while to get used to talking about my Vibe in public. As it was, I felt strangely exposed, like I’d taken off my shoes in public. “If somebody is trying to use . . .” Nope. No good. This was a conversational bridge too far.
“Magic,” Valerie said it for me.
“You’ll get used to it,” added Kenisha. “Admitting you have a problem is the first step.”
I shrugged. “Okay. Hi. My name’s Anna and somebody’s trying to use magic to get me to leave town.”
“Hi, Anna,” chorused Val and Kenisha, and I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I threw back my head and I laughed.
“Good evening, ladies.” Sean stepped up to our table, wiping his hands on a clean white towel that he tossed across his shoulder.
“Young Sean!” Kenisha slapped palms sideways with him. “Aren’t you supposed to stay back there?” She nodded toward the antique oak bar.
“Like I’m going to let somebody else take care of New Hampshire’s finest? Not to mention my boss’s best friend. What can I get you, Miss Britton? Ginger Lady? Maybe with prosecco instead of the seltzer this time?”
“Perfect.”
Kenisha raised that eloquent eyebrow of hers. “Ginger Lady? This is new. Can anyone play?”
Sean laid one hand over his heart and bowed. The guy was clearly something of a showman. “I’d be delighted to make you a Ginger Lady, Officer Freeman. Anything for you, Val?”
“Cranberry spritzer.”
“My pleasure.” Sean gave another little bow, with added sparkle, and headed back to the bar. When I turned back to Kenisha and Val, they were both looking at me.
“What?” I asked testily.
“Nothing,” they said, again in perfect unison.
I might have been tempted to start an argument, but the sight of a red coat moving through the crowd distracted me. “Martine!” I called, raising my hand.
“Hey, Anna. Sean said you were out here.” Martine gave me a peck on the cheek and extended her hand to Officer Freeman. “Kenisha, good to see you. Hi, Val. You guys don’t know what a miracle you’re seeing. Normally, Anna here turns into a pumpkin around ten.”
“I do not,” I said indignantly. “I am the total party girl.”
“Uh-huh. The kind who parties with the cop and the pregnant lady.” Martine turned to a passing server. “We need the French fry tasting for the table, Beth,” she said.
“Yes, Chef!” Beth said immediately, and changed direction, heading for the kitchen.
“Martine . . . ,” I began, but she turned her chef’s eye on me.
“You have something to say, Miss Britton?”
“No, Chef. Sorry, Chef.”
Martine laughed. “We’re still doing Monday, right? If this is the company you’re keeping, I’m guessing we’ve got things to talk about. Good to see you all.” She nodded to the other women and left us, cutting a professionally straight line through the crowd.
“How long have you known Martine?” asked Val.
“Since we were kids. We roomed together in college for a while too, before she switched over to culinary school.”
We talked a little about where we’d grown up and how each of us came to be here. It turned out Kenisha’s family had roots in Portsmouth, but Val was a relatively recent arrival from Chicago. From the way she danced around it, I guessed the situation she left there had not been good.
I was maybe halfway through the list of places I’d lived since college when Sean edged his way back to the table carrying a heavily laden tray.
“Right on time, Young Sean!” said Kenisha as Sean set the glasses in front of us.
“Why Young Sean?” I asked.
“Because my dad’s Old Sean, and it keeps me from being called Sean-Boy.” In addition to the drinks, he set down three wire holders containing paper cones of French fries, and a trio of sauce-filled ramekins. Kenisha and Val were watching me again. I really wished they’d cut that out.
“And here I’ve just been calling you Sean the bartender.” I sipped my Ginger Lady. It was spicy and sparkling, and just what I wanted.
“Ah, well, see, there’s a problem with that, because my dad tends bar too. It’s a family thing. Now, then.” Sean gestured toward the array of dishes. “We have here the sweet potato fries, the zucchini fries, and the double-dipped potato fries, my personal favorite. The sauces here are a spicy aioli, a lavender mustard, also my personal favorite, and a soy ginger.” Something back at the bar must have set his bartender sense tingling, because he glanced over his shoulder. “I have to get back to manning the barricades. You have a great evening.” I did not particularly notice that he was looking at me when he said this. There was no reason for Val to give that low whistle or for Kenisha to become deeply fascinated by the sweet potato fries.
I opened my mouth to point this out, but Kenisha leveled a French fry at me. “Trust me, Anna—now would be a good time to remain silent.”
“So, what are your plans?” said Val, very intelligently changing the subject. “You said you were only going to be in town a couple of weeks.”
“That’s a really good question.” I swirled a zucchini fry in the soy ginger sauce and popped it in my mouth. They were fabulous, but then, they came out of Martine’s kitchen and she did not accept anything less. “I guess it’s going to be for longer than that now.” All things considered. “But I’ll need someplace to else to stay.” I couldn’t afford the B and B for more than a couple of days, even with the discount, and Martine and I had tried the long-term roommate thing once. It did not go well. I am, as I’ve mentioned, a morning person. Martine, on the other hand, had never voluntarily gotten out of bed before ten in the morning when the house wasn’t actually on fire.
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” said Kenisha. “There are plenty of apartments in town.”
At Portsmouth rents. I tried not to wince. Those rents would get jacked up to new heights for a short-term lease. Plus, it’d have to be a place that would take spooky cats. I wondered if the local landlords would charge extra for the spooky part.
Before I could say anything about this, though, Valerie started waving to somebody over my shoulder. “Laurie! Over here! Laurie!” she called, half standing to be seen better.
I twisted around to see a woman in a pale blue sundress making her way toward our table. She had a brown leather purse slung over her shoulder and u
nder her arm she clutched a black portfolio, the kind used to hold prints and sketches. I had been through about a thousand of them since school.
“Hello, Val. Hello, Kenisha.” The woman, Laurie, smiled. She looked a little older than me, and recently sunburned. She’d French braided her straight brown hair, but the wind off the river had had its way and wisps of hair straggled across her forehead and down the back of her neck.
“Laurie Thompson, this is Anna Britton,” Val introduced us, and we shook hands. “She’s thinking about moving to town. Here, have a seat.”
“Thank you.” We all shuffled around to make room for Laurie and her portfolio. “I’m meeting Brad and Colin here. My husband and my oldest,” she added for my benefit. “But I haven’t seen them yet.”
“You’re an artist?” I gestured toward her portfolio.
She blushed. “Oh, well, no, not really. I do some watercolors. Martine was nice enough to say she’d hang one here.”
“Anna’s an artist,” said Kenisha.
“Are you? You look familiar . . .” She snapped her fingers. “I know. I saw that article in New England Arts Monthly about art and the Internet. You sounded very upbeat. Half the time people talk like the Web is going to bring about the end of the world.”
I smiled and thanked her and we chatted a little about change and art. Both Val and Kenisha looked at me expectantly, and I knew what it was they expected. Because I wanted to be friends with them, I took another swallow of the Ginger Lady and nodded at Laurie’s portfolio. “Can I see what you’ve got?”
“Oh, well. It’s not really that good. Not professional or anything.” As Laurie fumbled with the portfolio tie, I started lining up polite, noncommittal compliments.
As it turned out, I didn’t need them.
The painting inside the portfolio showed an extreme close-up of a stone tide pool, with a cluster of shells and pebbles nestled in the hollow. The tiny, complex scene was richly rendered in sepia ink and bold watercolor on cream paper.
“This is terrific.” It wasn’t framed, so I took it carefully by the edges and held it toward the light.
“Do you really think so?” I could tell by Laurie’s voice the blush was back.
“Yes, I really do. You’ve done a great job with the details and the light.” In fact, the light seemed to glow from the depths of the paper. It’s a beautiful effect that’s tough to achieve, and even tougher when you’re representing water. “Martine’s getting herself a find.”
“Thank you. That means a lot.” I laid the painting back down into the portfolio and Laurie flipped the cover closed, like she was trying to trap the praise. “I’d been hoping to maybe get something into one of the galleries in town, but so far I’ve had no luck.”
If this was a sample of what she could do, the gallery owners of Portsmouth must be blind. Not only was her painting good; it was perfect for tourists looking for something to take home with them. I opened my mouth to say all this but did not get the chance.
“Hi, Mom. Sorry. Didn’t see you there at first.”
Two men came to stand beside our table, both carrying overloaded paper grocery bags. The one who called Laurie “Mom” was a boy who looked like he was in high school. Tall and thin, he was still at that all-knees-elbows-and-ears stage, like he hadn’t caught up with his final growth spurt. His white coat and checked trousers announced he had a summer job at one of Portsmouth’s many restaurants.
“Hi, Colin,” said Laurie. “How was work? Hi, Brad.”
The second man, Brad, came out of his son’s shadow and stooped to give Laurie a quick kiss. All the sound in the bar faded away into the background as I took in Brad Thompson’s sagging cheeks and his mustache, and the way his pale skin turned dead white as he straightened up and saw me.
“Hi,” I said. Which was not original, but it was better than So, Mr. Mustache, we meet again.
Because Brad Thompson was the other burglar.
16
“SO, LIKE, YOU guys know each other?” Colin Thompson’s narrowed eyes shifted from his dad to me. A minute ago, I’d been glad the bar’s lighting was good enough that you didn’t have to strain to read the menu or see a painting. Now I wished for a total blackout, because this kid most definitely did not like what he saw.
“Oh, do you?” Laurie also looked from me to Brad, but thankfully without the sting of cutting-edge adolescent suspicion.
Brad, on the other hand, looked about ready to pass out. “Miss, um, she was considering some properties and wanted some advice.”
“Just thinking about possibilities,” I mumbled and took a quick swallow of my Ginger Lady.
You know that awkward moment where what you really want to do is flee the scene, but you can’t, because that would make people ask the wrong questions, so all you can do is stay put and pray nobody asks the wrong questions anyway? That was this moment, and the questions I did not want included either Kenisha or Val wondering why I was “thinking about possibilities” with Brad Thompson when it had been pretty clear to all concerned that I hadn’t been planning to stay long-term in Portsmouth until an hour ago.
After a brief but serious struggle, Brad pasted a smile on his face. “In fact, I’m glad I ran into you.” He shifted his grocery bag to the crook of his elbow and started fumbling in all his jacket pockets in rapid succession. “We didn’t get to talk as much as I would have liked the other day. Maybe we could meet up tomorrow, or Monday? Monday would be better, I’m sure. No need to do business on a Sunday if we don’t absolutely have to, right?” He finally produced a slightly battered business card and held it out.
“Sure.” I tucked the card into my purse. “Sounds like a good idea.”
Colin watched the whole show. I’m not even sure he blinked. Laurie’s polite smile started showing distinct signs of strain.
“Well.” Brad tried to sound brisk. That didn’t work any better than trying to sound nonchalant had. “I’d better get my family home. Nice to see you all again.”
“Yes, it’s getting late.” Laurie got to her feet, holding her portfolio against her chest. “Just let me drop this off with the manager.” There were whole volumes of things not being said among the three Thompsons, but Laurie didn’t look angry, just tired. “See you soon, Val, Kenisha. Nice to meet you, Anna.”
I nodded. Brad shot me a last pleading glance and hurried after her. Their son, though, stayed just long enough to make sure I couldn’t miss the way he was glowering at me.
Once Colin had finally strolled out of earshot, Val slapped both hands down on the table. “Well! That was interesting.”
“Sure was,” agreed Kenisha.
I looked at the bottom of my empty glass and wished Sean would pick now to make another appearance.
Val levered herself to her feet. “Unfortunately, the pregnant woman needs the restroom. Don’t start without me.”
But as soon as she was gone, it became clear that Kenisha had no interest in obeying her instructions.
“So.” Kenisha folded her arms and leaned them on the table. “That thing there, with Brad and family. Anything you want to tell me about that?”
If we’d just run into Brad on his own, I would have told her straight-out, I think. As it was, though, I couldn’t stop remembering Laurie’s exhaustion and Colin’s suspicions. Something bad was going on there, and as much as I already liked Kenisha, she was the police. I saw her sharp eyes, and her uniform with the patch on the shoulder of her dark blue shirt, reminding everyone she was here to “Protect and Serve.” Telling her that Brad had broken into Dorothy’s house would open a whole new can of worms for the Thompsons, and it was pretty clear they’d already been through a lot.
“No,” I said.
Kenisha sighed and tipped her glass toward her, measuring the amount of cocktail still in the bottom. “Didn’t think so.”
“Sorry.”
; “Let’s just hope it doesn’t lead to more sorry. We’ve had too much of that.” She plucked another fry from its paper cone, dipped it in lavender mustard sauce and chewed. “Listen, Anna. You need to think long and hard about what you’re actually doing here, because you’re jumping in the deep end.”
“I did notice,” I said, to my drink and the last zucchini fry. “Is . . . Is Laurie another . . . you know . . .”
Kenisha rolled her eyes. “Will you please get over this stutter of yours? Is Laurie a witch? A member of the guardians’ coven? No. She’s just somebody who’s had a hard time and could use a break. Now, here comes Val. Since you’ve got nothing to say, we should probably get you guys home. If I don’t get a shower soon, we are all going to regret the heck out of it.”
• • •
BY THE TIME we got back to McDermott’s, I owed Kenisha a whole boatload of favors. She hadn’t let Val sit back down at the table, but stuck to her story about needing a shower, even adding that Sunday was her one day to sleep late, and she wanted to enjoy every second of it. She also mentioned that Roger was going to kill her if she let Val stay out too late, because he was deep into the whole nervous-father routine. In short, she didn’t give Val any time to ask the kinds of questions she was clearly dying to.
I may have owed Roger a few favors too, because he had waited up for us. While Val was kissing him and telling him at least something about where she’d been for so long, I was able to sneak upstairs.
I set the box down and unlocked the door. My plan was to shut myself into the room, quickly. But when I put my hand on the knob, I remembered how the last time I’d been alone in this room, I’d gotten a vibe that was not just bad, but actively hostile in a new and personal way. Almost before I realized what I was doing, I reached into my purse and curled my fingers around the wand.
