Or anyone else’s.
“Mr. Knapp, can you tell us the name of your murderer?” Ben asked, bypassing all my blithering.
Thank goodness.
There was a long, tense silence as we waited for the answer.
Ursula’s hand gripped mine harder, and the muscles in her neck flexed. “Simon has something he wants me to pass on,” she intoned. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought she was being overdramatic. Heck, maybe she was, out of habit. There had to be a certain amount of showmanship associated with her profession.
“Simon says . . .”
We all leaned toward Ursula.
“Simon says . . .”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Althea said in a loud voice and suddenly stood. “I know you used to like to play Simon Says, Knapp, but this isn’t a children’s game!” She emphasized her words with an unsteady jab of her finger. Unfortunately, that hand also held her glass, and a crimson dollop of wine splashed out to land on the tablecloth. We all stared at her with varying expressions of horror.
“Lord have mercy,” Mimsey exclaimed under her breath.
“Althea,” Steve hissed, reaching for her elbow.
She jerked away from him, miraculously avoiding another spill. “You be quiet, Stevie. Ursula has worked her magic. Now we need an answer. Who killed you, Simon? Just tell us so we can call up the police and let them know your ghost told us who they should arrest.” Sarcasm dripped from her words.
Ursula’s eyelids fluttered and then popped open. “He’s gone.”
“Oh, sure,” the actress said, throwing her arms wide. Steve grabbed her glass and set it on the table. “He’s just kidding around, aren’t you, Simon? Never did like being told what to do, did you?”
The psychic released my hand and Mimsey’s at the same time while gaping at her employer. “What is the matter with you, Althea? Were you trying to make him leave? Because I assure you Simon Knapp’s spirit is long gone now.”
My shoulder slumped. Gone. “Can you get him back?” I asked. Nods all around.
“Well, I’m afraid you can do it without me,” Althea said, taking an unsteady step toward the door. “I’ve had a very long day and have to get up early in the morning.” With that, she tossed her head and strode out of the room as fast as her stilettos would carry her.
Looking an apology at all of us, Steve rose and followed her, closing the door behind him.
The room erupted into conversation. “What was that all about?” Bianca asked, while Lucy wondered, “Do you think she purposefully drove him away?”
Why would Althea disrupt the séance? Did she think Simon would reveal her as his murderer—or was she afraid he might reveal something else, something only a fixer would know?
The image of Althea with her mystery man in the wardrobe tent flashed across my mental movie screen, and I guiltily wondered if I should tell Steve. We were friends, after all, and he’d look out for me the same way if the situation was ever reversed.
Declan squeezed my hand. “Was there really a spirit here?”
“I think so.” My eyes met Ursula’s and she nodded. “Will he come back?” I asked.
“I can try. He seemed awfully angry, though. Quiet, everyone. Let’s give this another go.”
Althea’s querulous voice cut through the door, making it that much harder to concentrate.
“Good goddess,” I muttered before closing my eyes again. “That woman is a first-class pain.”
We tried the chanting again, but it felt lame all over again, falling on dead air. It soon became apparent Simon’s spirit was too offended to grace us with his presence again. Ursula opened her eyes and shook her head. Our voices trailed off.
Suddenly her eyes darted to the left. “Hello?” she asked. “May I ask who you are?” She seemed to listen; then her eyes cut to me. “Yes, I’ve heard of you.”
Taite? My heart pummeled my ribs.
Then I smelled the sweet fragrance of gardenia. Not Taite. Nonna. The floral scent grew stronger.
“Smell that?” I asked Declan.
Frowning, he shook his head.
“Lucy? Do you smell it?” I asked.
My aunt leaned forward, her face shining. “Mama?”
Ursula’s lips curved up in a smile. “Yes, it’s your mother. Is there anything you’d like to say to her?”
Lucy’s eyes welled. “Only that I miss you, Mama. And I hope you’re happy over there.”
A pause, then Ursula said, “She says she is. She says she watches over you as well as Katie and . . . Mary Jane?”
I nodded. “That’s my mother.”
“She says to pass on her love to Mary Jane and that’s she’s sorry she hasn’t been in contact with you directly, Lucy, but that you haven’t needed her in the same way.”
A tear spilled down my aunt’s cheek, and she whispered, “Oh, that’s okay, Mama. I understand.”
“Nonna,” I called. “Can you tell us what happened to Simon?”
The psychic paused before shaking her head. “She can’t help us with that. She says she simply wanted to say hello, given this opportunity.”
I laughed. “Figures.”
Ursula took a deep breath and distributed a look between Lucy and me. “She’s gone.”
Uncle Ben, looking a bit baffled, scooted his chair close, put his arm around Lucy, and pulled her to him. She leaned her head on his shoulder, still beaming.
Mimsey patted her hand. “I told you,” she said, and I wondered whether Lucy had confided her disappointment that Nonna had contacted my mother and me but not her youngest daughter.
“I think we’re done for tonight,” Ursula said. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out—” She stopped. “What?”
Her gaze swung to Declan, who, I realized, no longer held my hand. I turned to look at him, and what I saw made my heart stutter. He gripped the arms of his chair so hard, his fingers were white. His head leaned against the back of the chair, lips parted, eyes rolled back so that only the whites showed. I heard Jaida suck in a surprised breath as I thought: seizure.
There were gasps around the table. “Deck!” Ben exclaimed and leaped to his feet.
“No!” Ursula said. “Don’t touch him.”
But I did anyway, putting my hand on his arm. The contact blasted power through me, and I lurched in my chair. The familiar-yet-not signature I’d felt earlier swept over my psyche, and I realized it was Declan.
Declan? My Declan?
He blinked, his head dropped, and his baby blues found mine. They sparkled and danced in a way I’d never seen, and I found myself unable to look away. “Katie, m’ darlin’! How I’ve admired you from afar!” Gone was my boyfriend’s sorghum-laced accent, replaced with the playful lilt of a native Irish speaker. His voice was much higher, as well, and disturbingly nasal.
“Who are you?” Ursula asked. My heart spasmed again. She was right. This was my boyfriend’s body, but no longer was Declan running the show.
“Connell O’Donohue, at your service! I’m this boyo’s great-great-uncle, don’t you know. Been watching over him since he was a wee lad.”
Like Nonna. Only Connell felt . . . different. And unlike Nonna, he was possessing my boyfriend. I gripped Declan’s arm tighter.
Those blue eyes I knew so well flashed, and he let loose a high-pitched chortle. “Now, don’t you worry, Katie. I’ll only be a moment—or two! Ah! It’s such a luxury to be what you would call corporeal again, though. How I’ve missed it!”
“Is that why you’re here?” Ursula asked in a tense voice. I didn’t like the worry that pinched the skin around her eyes. “Or did you have a message for one of us?”
He sighed. “Only for my great-great-nephew. To tell him I’m glad he finally found a woman worthy of his attention, who will embrace his gifts even if he won’t.” He winked at
me. “And that now he has to make sure he’s worthy of her attention, as well.”
“All right. Thank you.” Ursula’s tone was gently dismissive.
“Oh. I see. You don’t want me to stay!” Connell sounded angry now.
“Please,” I said. “Where is Declan?”
“Well, begorra! Did you think I wouldn’t be lettin’ yer man come back to you? Ah, Katie darlin’. I see I’ve worried you unnecessarily. All right. I’ll go now.”
Declan’s head arched against the back of the chair again and then fell forward. He gasped for air, and when he looked at me again, panting, it was my sweet guy looking at me from his eyes. I threw my arms around him and held on tight. Jaida reached over and rubbed his shoulder, instinctively murmuring words of comfort.
When I let go, everyone was staring at us in alarm except Ursula, whose concern had turned to amusement. “Well, that was quite the show, Mr. McCarthy.”
He licked his lips.
“Do you remember?” she asked.
He finally managed, “I think so. Connell.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “What the hell happened?”
“You,” she said with satisfaction, “are one of those rare people who can not only hear the spirits, but can actually channel them. I can’t even do that.”
“No.” He shook his head again. “That’s not possible.”
“A true medium,” she said. “Very rare, indeed, to have the precisely right vibrations to allow a spirit to occupy your physical self.”
Declan blinked at her in disbelief. I knew the feeling. I’d felt the same way when Lucy had told me I was a witch.
Ben was still standing. Lucy pulled him back to his seat. “He’s okay,” she said. “Aren’t you, Declan?” She was still riding high after the contact with Nonna.
“That was horrible,” he said with a shudder.
The smile dropped from my aunt’s face.
Mimsey, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, make a tsking sound. “A glass of wine, a nice hot bath, and a good night’s sleep. That’s what you need, young man.”
Bianca got up and went to the sideboard. She poured a glass of wine and brought it to Declan, who drank it down like so much of Margie Coopersmith’s Kool-Aid.
“Whoa there, big guy,” I said. But when Bianca brought me a glass, I didn’t hesitate to take a swig, either.
Mildly fortified, I leaned close to Declan’s ear and murmured, “Are you okay?”
“No,” he shot back. “I’m not okay.”
“You will be,” I tried to assure him.
“Can we talk about this later?”
“Of course,” I agreed.
Someone turned on the chandelier, and soon everyone was milling around the room, subdued conversations murmuring in the corners, the occasional glance at Declan full of wonder.
“Here. Finish this.” I handed him my wine. “I’m going to check in with Ursula, and then we can go home.”
She was standing by the sideboard next to Bianca. My stomach growled, and I realized I was starving. Reaching for a slice of that succulent cheese, I asked, “Is Declan really okay?”
Her smile was weary. “Should be. The spirit who visited him was friendly, a relative who has been with him for his whole life, it sounds like. There shouldn’t be any lasting effects. Your friend there”—she indicated Mimsey—“prescribed exactly the right thing.”
“Do you think it will happen again?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
I took another bite of cheese. “Do you know what this cheese is?”
Ursula snorted. “I ought to. Althea made me go get it since Owen is, shall we say, indisposed. It’s called Mimolette.”
I had another quick nibble, eyeing the selection of wine that was supposed to go with it. An empty bottle of Côtes du Rhône stood next to half-full bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon and Malbec. “Guess that must be what Althea was drinking,” I said, pointing to the empty bottle.
“Just as well,” Bianca said. “That was to be paired with the Camembert yesterday. Not quite as suitable for this lovely Mimolette. Here, try the Cahors.” She held out a bottle.
“No, thanks. I’m driving—and I think Declan’s about ready to go.”
The door to the dining room opened, and Steve came back in. I heard him say to Jaida, “I didn’t want to interrupt if you were trying to contact Simon again.”
Her fingers gripped his arm, and she pulled him to a far corner, talking rapidly. He listened for a few moments, then shot a look at Declan and then me. She was telling him what had happened, though I doubted Declan would appreciate her sharing.
Ben approached Ursula and me. “So much for finding Simon’s killer.” Disappointment hummed under his words.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Eagel. We did try.”
“I’ll say,” he said, eyes widening as he turned to look at his firefighting protégé. “I still can’t quite believe what happened.”
Lucy threaded her arm through her husband’s. “See what happens when you get involved with the spellbook club?”
Chapter 13
We left Jaida and Ursula talking about tarot layouts and walked out to the street with Mimsey and Bianca, Lucy, and Ben. Steve followed close behind, heading for his Land Rover. I wanted to ask him about Althea’s ridiculous display, but my priority was getting Declan home. We called good night to each other as we made our way to our vehicles, started them up, and went our separate ways.
It was almost eleven by the time we got back to Declan’s. Mungo bounded off the sofa to greet us at the door, and I bent down to pick him up. Nuzzling his dark fur, I murmured, “Boy, did you ever miss an interesting evening.”
He whined and licked my neck.
“I’ll tell you about it later,” I said, putting him down. I shed my light wrap and laid it over the back of one of the barstools next to the high counter that separated the kitchen from the living room.
Declan’s laugh sounded tired. “I think he really understands you.”
Yip!
“Of course he does,” I said. “I told you he’s my familiar.”
“Yeah, but what does that . . . ?” He trailed off, staring at me. “Oh, my God. You mean he really does . . . ?” He wagged his head as if trying to dislodge something from his brain.
“Talking with the dead give you a different perspective?” I teased and reached for him.
But Declan turned his shoulder toward me and went into the walk-through kitchen. He stood for a long moment in front of the open refrigerator before selecting a can of soda and closing the door. Still, he didn’t move. The under-cabinet lighting provided the only illumination, casting the strong planes of his face into shadow.
“Oh, hon,” I said softly from the doorway. “Tonight really threw you, didn’t it?”
He looked up, his public poker face melting into the bewildered expression of a child who has been told there is no Santa Claus.
Except in this case it was more like the opposite.
Taking a few tentative steps toward him, I asked, “Are you okay?”
Finally, he spoke. “Honestly, Katie? I’m not sure.”
I crossed the distance and wrapped my arms around his waist. I laid my head on his chest. The crisp fabric of his shirt crinkled against my cheek, and his heartbeat thrummed in my ear. His hand moved to the back of my neck and rested there, but he didn’t return my embrace.
Letting go, I stepped back and looked up into his eyes. “Come on.”
I led him into the living room, pushing aside Mungo’s afghan on the sofa. Sitting, I patted the cushion beside me. “Let’s talk about this.”
Instead of joining me, he said, “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” He handed me his sweating soda can, walked into the bedroom, and flipped on the light.
Flummoxed, I waited. Took a sip of
his drink. Orange, sweet, and tangy. Mungo jumped up on the sofa beside me. We heard a door open and some rattling noises, then a thunk. Silence, then a rustling.
I got up and turned on a couple more lamps. Whatever was going on, it didn’t seem like there was romance in the air, so we might as well have some light. I sat back down, and Mungo crawled onto my lap.
Declan’s newly renovated apartment was charming. However much he cooked and gardened, though, he had not absorbed much in the way of decorating sense from his strong mother or his four sisters. An unframed Guinness poster was the only art on the blond brick walls, and the Mexican rug tossed onto the gleaming wide oak planks of the floor was worn and frayed from foot traffic. Most of his furniture looked like he’d picked it up from the curb back in college and never bothered to upgrade. The pull-out sofa was an unfortunate brown plaid, the coffee table pitted and scarred from hard use at the firehouse, which had been its original home, and the red Scandinavian rocking chair was weirdly out of place.
This abode needed some tender loving care. It needed, in short, a woman’s touch. However, when I’d made a few suggestions, Declan had started talking about moving in together. I wasn’t ready for that, so I’d dropped the subject. If Declan wanted to live with ugly furniture, so be it.
Now he returned from the bedroom with a large, leather-bound book in his hand and a serious expression on his face. It was an album, I saw as he settled onto the sofa beside me. Putting his arm around me, he opened it across both of our laps. I snuggled into his side, and Mungo wiggled in even closer.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“It’s one of many family scrapbooks. My mother was crazy about keeping records of things, and when she went back to Ireland to explore our roots, she got a bunch of photos from a cousin of ours. See? This is my great-great-grandfather from Connemara.”
Some Enchanted clair : A Magical Bakery Mystery (9780698140561) Page 13
