by Madelyn Alt
I sighed, watching her. “The idea that somebody might have wanted to hurt her—”
She looked up sharply. “What gave you that idea?”
“Just something I heard somewhere. It makes sense, doesn’t it? I hear some people don’t think it was an accident. Do you . . . do you think that might have been possible?”
“I guess.” She bit her lip at the thought. “I guess I think with Amanda anything was possible. Like I said, I don’t think she let many people really know her.”
“I keep thinking back to the day that Amanda disappeared,” I mused. “I suppose you’ve probably already told the police what happened after you all left the store that day.”
There is a fine line between making polite queries and being viewed as a busybody. I was probably in a fair bit of danger of crossing that line, but I pushed on, despite the squeamish nature of my conscience that would under normal circumstances have made me back down in disgrace. Keeping her mind on the move made it less likely that she’d realize I was asking questions she didn’t have to answer. And I really wanted to know. I couldn’t explain why it seemed so important just then, but for the sense that if I didn’t ask the questions now, I might never have another chance. Which didn’t make me exactly a nice person, I guess, but at least someone sensitive enough to want to leave that impression.
She leaned back against the door (brave girl) and closed her eyes. “I wish I knew. We shopped until two, and then she was supposed to go home to get ready for an afternoon date with Jordan before heading in to work at six.”
“Jordan?”
“Jordan Everett. Her boyfriend. They’re—they were—pretty tight. But according to him, she never showed up. He’s pretty broken up about it.”
“I’ll bet.” I paused, wondering whether I should say anything else. But Amanda’s death really had me troubled, and in the end I couldn’t help myself. The last thing we needed was yet another teenage girl so intent on living on the edge that she forgot about the lack of guardrails. “You know, Candace, if you don’t mind my saying so, I’m pretty sure you’re not old enough to be here legally.”
She flinched slightly, but youthful bravado saw her through. She tossed her curls. “Well, I’m here with my uncle. His friend owns the place.”
“Your uncle knows Jerry Maxwell?”
Her tension eased, ever so slightly. “Yes. And I would hate for anyone to get into trouble because of me. You won’t tell, will you?”
I turned off the water. “Candace. The owner’s name is not Jerry Maxwell, and something tells me the guy you’re with is not your uncle.” Not to mention the state law that said no one under the age of twenty-one was allowed to be in a bar. That appeared to be beside the point.
“Yes, he is, he—”
“No. He’s not. Look, this is none of my business—”
“No. It’s not.” She stuffed the tissue into her tiny little purse and jerked herself upright.
“—but you’re so young, and if you don’t mind me saying so, that guy looks just a little old for you. I know it’s tempting to go for someone a little older, a little more knowledgeable, someone who can maybe get you into bars and parties and such. But Amanda is gone, and we don’t know why. Or how. You’re such a pretty girl. Just, please . . . be safe.”
Her expression closed in on itself with the sullen and suspicious undertones of a girl not yet free of her Me years. “You know, lady, somebody ought to tell you to mind your own beeswax, ’cause I sure don’t need anyone to mind mine,” she smarted off before tossing her dark head at me and sailing out of the room.
I sighed and turned to look at myself in the mirror beneath the restroom’s harsh fluorescent lights. My thirtieth birthday was right around the corner, and in a way the thought of it made me cringe. Was it the end of an era, or only the end of my youth? Then again, based on Candace’s reaction to my words of caution, maybe my youth was long gone after all.
By the time I followed Candace’s example, she had her guy friend by the arm and was headed for the door. Did I really believe her to be in danger with her friend? Not necessarily. The more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed that she was just working the good-girl-gone-bad thing. Trying for independence, but getting it all wrong. It happens to the best of us.
Still, Amanda was gone, and I was getting the distinct impression that Amanda had led the charge down that same path. I hoped Candace and other girls like her would see that as a sign to stick to the straight and narrow. To play it safe.
I decided it was time to call it a night, so I motioned to Marcus, who was chatting with a big biker with arms like battering rams and a handlebar mustache that drooped two inches below his jaw.
Marcus caught up with me by the door “Hey. I see old Wonder Bread is gone. All too early, too.” He pushed the door open and held it for me. Cold seeped in from the outside, but it was nothing compared to the chill that tightened like a band around my heart. Seeing my woebegone face, Marcus took my hand and tucked it through the crook of his arm, giving it a solicitous pat. “Don’t worry, Maggie. I always did think him an idiot, but sometimes it’s hell being proven right.”
Sighing heavily, I touched my forehead to his shoulder. “Thanks, Marcus. You’re a good friend.” I paused a moment before pulling back to a friendlier distance, and looked up at him. “You really don’t like him much, do you?”
“Am I that obvious?” he said, with a self-mocking grin, knowing full well just how obvious he had made it.
“Only just.” He took Christine’s keys from my hand and unlocked the door. I couldn’t help noticing the locks cooperated instantly, knife through butter. Traitorous thing. “Why is that?”
Marcus shrugged. “Not all energies are compatible.”
Energies. I took this under consideration. Was that why some marriages worked and some didn’t? The couple’s energies revved up their engines, but when all was said and done, they were out of calibration? “Fair enough. But I still feel like you’re not telling me everything.”
“Everyone loves to maintain an air of mystery, no matter how slight.”
He was so good at that, answering a girl’s questions without ever truly clearing the air. Marcus kept more than his share of mystery gathered about him. I wasn’t even sure what he did for a living now, although I did know he’d left the military only a year or so ago, a fact I’d gleaned from his informative aunt. But he was a supportive friend and Liss trusted him implicitly, so that was good enough for me, too. He’d fill me in on the rest when he was ready.
Funny, though. I couldn’t picture Marcus, with his long hair, impudent slouch, and alternative way of looking at the world, as a military man.
We sat in the car, waiting for the engine to smooth out enough to drive. So much for unseasonably warm weather—it was getting colder by the minute. I didn’t have my gloves, so I tucked my hands between my legs and tried not to shiver.
I felt a nudge. “Here,” Marcus said, holding out a big pair of dark leather gloves, “before you freeze to death.”
“Thanks.” I put them on. The heat from his hands permeated the soft lining. Instant relief. “Marcus? Did you see the girl in the pink dress at the Nipper tonight?”
He laughed. “Underage hottie? Yeah, I saw. Why?”
“That was Amanda’s friend. The one from the store. Remember, I told you they’d been harassing Tara? I didn’t tell you this, but they saw the books she’d brought down from the loft and were just really, really cruel about it.”
His jaw tightened, but he said, “I’ve run into a few of those types in the past myself. Tara will be fine. She’s a strong one.”
“Yes, I know. Very strong willed. She’s also very talented.”
“What do you mean?”
Briefly I recounted how I’d run into Tara at Riverside Park, and what I’d witnessed. “A binding, she said. She raised quite a lot of power. I’ll be honest—it kind of scared me. It didn’t feel like the power Liss raises. I . . . I thought I should tell you. It’s p
robably nothing—the difference between Liss’s age and experience as opposed to Tara’s—but I thought you should know.” I paused a moment, then added, “She called me a Fluffy Bunny. Sounds cute, but from her tone I got that it wasn’t meant to be.”
He shook his head and sighed. “You’ll find that even in the Pagan community, differences are not always embraced. Although I think as a general rule, Pagans are more tolerant than most people. Sometimes to a ridiculous extent. Ah, well.” He shook his head again. “I’ll have a talk with her.”
“Um . . . Could you also maybe, possibly, ask her about the books she borrowed from the store?”
He froze. “Borrowed?”
“Well . . .”
“You mean took,” he said, his tone as flat as a cast-iron griddle. “She’ll be there tomorrow to return them or to pay for them. You have my word.”
“No biggie. I’m sure she meant to, but with everything that’s been going on . . .” I didn’t ask him what he thought Tara might have been binding, there by the river. I didn’t want to push my luck. “I think Christine’s ready to go. Where can I drop you now?”
“My truck’s at the library. I met Aunt Marian there earlier.”
“The library it is, then.”
The Stony Mill Carnegie Library stood on a quiet tree-lined street three blocks from the Town Hall square, on the fringes of the downtown area that comprised Main Street. I puttered up to the curb behind the only vehicle parked along the street, an old, battered pickup truck that appeared to have hailed from the same era as Christine.
“No bike tonight?” I asked him.
“In this weather? I’m no fool. By the way, thanks for the ride.”
“Don’t mention it. Tonight was—” My breath caught in my throat. “Oh my God! Someone’s in the library!”
He swung around to see what I was looking at. “Where?”
“I saw a flash of light in the basement. It had to be a flashlight.” I grabbed his arm. “There it goes again! Did you see it? It must be one of those micro-miniflashlights, the beam wasn’t very big, and—”
The tension in Marcus’s arm released and he turned back to me with a chuckle. “There isn’t anyone in the basement, Maggie.”
I frowned at him. “What do you mean? Didn’t you see it?”
“I saw it. The light had a blue tint to it, didn’t it?”
“Well . . . yes. I guess it did. Why?”
He was grinning by now, even white teeth flashing in the muted light from Christine’s dash. “How long have you lived in Stony Mill?”
“I was born here.”
“You’ve never heard that the basement of the library has a resident spirit?”
I opened my mouth, closed it, turned to gape at the library. “I—”
“I’m surprised Aunt Marian never told you about him herself. It’s Boiler Room Bertie, or so they say. He died in an accident when the library was young, just after the turn of the century.”
“Boiler Room . . . Bertie?” I echoed, dubious.
He held up his hands. “Hey, I don’t name ’em. I just investigate ’em.”
Chapter 8
Tuesday morning arrived on the heels of a sleepless night. I had lain awake for hours, thinking about Amanda, and wondering how her life, which up until that point had seemed so charmed, could have ended so badly. Was it fate that had brought Amanda Lynn Roberson to our doorstep that Saturday?
Busybodying had its downside. I awoke, dazed and confused after too little sleep, to the raucous jangling of my alarm clock going off bright and early at six-thirty. I sat up with a jerk and reached out a hand to stop the horrible ringing at once . . . only to discover I’d forgotten to set the alarm. At the precise moment I remembered that my alarm clock made a bleep-bleep and not a clanging jangle, some unseen thing fell to the floor across the room, dropping with a thunderous clap. I leapt from bed, clutching G.T. (Graham Thomas, my dilapidated but beloved old teddy bear) to my breast while I groped for the light switch. But once I had found the switch and light flooded the room far and wide, I could see no reason for the noise itself. Still I knew.
Apparently someone . . . or something . . . didn’t want me to miss my appointment.
It hadn’t happened in a while—or perhaps I had been extra successful at turning a blind eye toward the phenomenon—but I had understood all the while that it was not gone forever. A reprieve, yes, but no more.
There was nothing to do but get on with it, then.
“All right, all right, already. I’m up.”
Eight o’clock in the morning was an ungodly time to have to think about undergoing the torture that modern science called the feminine annual exam. Especially on such short notice. All the women I knew called it “your yearly,” a polite term for the regularly scheduled legal torture that took place in your doctor’s medical chamber of horrors. I mean, what else can you call the feet-in-stirrups-knees-to-chin-spread-’em! procedure that took a woman’s dignity, pride, and money all at once? All in the name of preventive maintenance. Did I mention that Dr. Phillips had the unfortunate tendency to tell jokes while probing about doing his doctor thing? Until a person had been in that position, staring up at the perforations in the ceiling tiles and trying to ignore the terrible jokes that made you clench your teeth to keep from laughing in spite of everything, one had not really lived.
I signed in at the board and set about finding a comfortable seat where I could be sure to avoid stray germs.
“Maggie? Why, Maggie O’Neill!”
I looked up. The blond receptionist had stood up behind her counter and was leaning out the sliding window. “Katie Coolidge?”
“Oh my gosh! It is you! Wow, I haven’t seen you since high school.”
I waggled my fingers at her. Katie Coolidge had been as geeky as me back in high school—we’d even hung out once or twice—but she’d been far more interested in worming her way into the popular cliques than I had ever been, and our friendship had never grown past a polite affability. Last I heard she’d moved to Chicago with a boyfriend. Seeing as how her last name was still Coolidge, it was a pretty easy guess that that particular relationship hadn’t worked out.
“When did you start working for Dr. Phillips?” I asked her.
“Oh, I’ve been here almost a year now. I guess you’ve heard Doctor P. is closing his practice, huh?”
I nodded. “My mom told me, and she’s none too happy about it, believe me. Tough luck on your part, or are you going with him?”
“I guess I’ll be staying on here. We have a new doctor that’s going to be taking over the practice.” She glanced down at the file folder she held in front of her. “So you’re here for your yearly, huh? Lucky you.”
Waaaay too loud. I made a small sound in the back of my throat that could have passed for either assent or dissent and went to find a seat as far away from everyone else until my name was called.
Dr. Phillips’s waiting room walls were lined with personal photos. I whiled away the time studying them, one by one. Pictures of fish, both ocean creatures and northern lake varieties like trout and bluegill. Some photos of what I assumed to be his family. More fish. It was pretty funny how the pics of the fish outnumbered those of his family.
Men. Ya gotta love ’em.
“Margaret?”
I looked up to find a nurse standing in the open doorway, calling my name at last. She smiled expectantly at me. Rising, my purse clutched against my side, I followed her down the hall, past a bathroom with the usual cubbyhole specimen repository, toward the examination rooms. The nurse measured my weight (perhaps I had better rethink that bowl of cream of potato soup I had been considering for lunch . . . Maybe a garden salad. No dressing. Sigh . . .) before leading me into an exam room, where she checked my blood pressure and temperature, jotted a few somethings down in my file, and left.
With a resigned sigh, I scowled at the examination table. The metal stirrups glinted coldly, taunting me. I hated this part. After folding my clothes
and setting them neatly on the chair, I wrapped a paper robe around myself.
A knock at the door scared the pants off me—well, they were already off, but you get the idea.
“Everyone decent?” Dr. Phillips’s trademark greeting boomed from the hall.
“Everyone being me, then I’ll say yes,” I replied dryly, turning toward the door as it swung inward and Dr. Phillips’s barrel-chested bulk seemed to fill the narrow room. I’d always liked Dr. Phillips despite his corny jokes. He had a no-nonsense way of speaking that let you know he was listening without giving in to fears, and whether young or old, he seemed to really care for his patients.
He consulted the folder he had in his hand. “So you’re here for your yearly,” he said, unwittingly echoing his receptionist’s greeting.
I crossed my arms protectively over my paper-covered chest. “And how are you today, Doctor?”
“Much better than you’re about to be, I’d wager,” he quipped right back at me—the family practice doctor’s equivalent of gallows humor. “Why don’t you just climb up there on the table while I fetch Amy.”
Amy turned out to be the whirlwind of a nurse who had checked me in. Dr. Phillips returned with her in tow within seconds. All of the necessary instruments had been prepped in advance. Amy the Nurse helped Dr. Phillips with his latex gloves. The snap as she fitted them into place made me wince. Dr. Phillips turned to me, his hands held up before him at the ready. “All right, Miss Maggie, if you’ll just lie back, Amy will help you get your feet into the stirrups.”
Oh, joy.
The paper crinkled as I slid into place. I felt Amy’s blessedly warm hands guide my bare feet into the stirrups. From thereon out, I tried to forget where I was and why.
Focal point. I needed a focal point.
My desperate gaze fell back to the line of photos along the wall. A blurry vacation photo of the Doc in cover-thine-eyes! tight little swim trunks (well, more briefs than trunks), flanked on each side by a beaming friend, the three of them lifting aloft a huge swordfish. And was that a tattoo on the good doctor’s shoulder? He didn’t seem the type. Then again, he didn’t really seem the too small swimsuit type either. Blech. New focal point needed. I turned my gaze to the ceiling.
