Casual Hex

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  He shook his head. “The server is fine. I am still a little tired, is all. I need to collect my suitcase and return to Gwen’s so I can shower and change clothes. I should feel better after that.”

  “Then I suggest you hotfoot it out of here right now. I’ve had several calls asking if you were here checking e-mail.”

  “Who is calling?”

  Jeremy nudged his wire-framed glasses back into place. “Curious citizens of Big Knob. They wanted to come by and say hello, and I tried to convince them you needed some privacy to answer your e-mail. No one’s shown up yet, but the longer you hang around here, the more likely you’ll get trapped.”

  “Am I that much of an oddity?”

  “ ’Fraid so. We don’t get many folks from Paris in this town. Come to think of it, I can’t remember a single one.” He glanced out the window. “Your car’s over at the Big Knobian, right?”

  “Oui. I mean, yes.”

  Jeremy laughed. “I understand oui. It’s the verb conjugations I never managed to master. Anyway, the more I think about it, the more I doubt you’ll make it to your car and over to Gwen’s without being stopped a million times. It could easily take you an hour to make the trip.”

  Marc groaned.

  “Listen, my wife and I have an apartment upstairs. I can offer you a shower and a change of clothes. I think we’re about the same size.”

  “That is way too much to ask of you.”

  “I can understand if you don’t want to,” Jeremy said. “But I’d be glad to do it. Any friend of Gwen’s and all that.”

  Marc could hear the affection in Jeremy’s voice when he spoke of Gwen. “You have known her a long time?”

  “All my life. She’s a terrific person.”

  “Yes.” Marc envied Jeremy his long-term relationship with Gwen. “Yes, she is. I am lucky to have met her.”

  “I’d agree with that. Anyway, do what you want, but I’ll be happy to loan you the clothes.”

  “Thank you.” Marc decided accepting Jeremy’s generosity would be a good thing to do. People were more familiar with each other in this small town than he was used to in Paris, but he wanted to be friendly. “I accept.”

  “Okay. Let me get rid of this carafe and I’ll show you where everything is.”

  Moments later, as Jeremy handed Marc some serviceable briefs, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and jeans, Marc noticed a wedding picture on a dresser in the bedroom. Jeremy was in a tuxedo, and a beautiful blonde who must be Annie, Gwen’s best friend, was looking at Jeremy lovingly. Marc realized he had yet to meet Annie and wondered where she was.

  “Your wife is very pretty,” he said.

  “She’s amazing.” Jeremy’s expression reflected adoration as he looked at the picture. “She’s in Scotland. She has a job writing a series of articles on mythical creatures. I can see Annie being the one who finally exposes the Loch Ness Monster as a hoax. Anyway, she’s due back next week.”

  “She is a journalist?” Marc had noticed a small newspaper office on the square, but the Big Knob Gazette looked too small to be able to send reporters to Scotland.

  “Before we got married, she worked for the Chicago Tribune. I was all set to relocate to be with her, but then the Lowells told her about this organization that needed writers for a huge project on popular myths. You know, like Bigfoot and so on. I’m sure they’ll eventually publish her findings in book form.”

  Marc’s instincts went on alert. “The Lowells are interesting people.”

  “Yep. I don’t have a clue why they moved here, but they seem to like it. I’m grateful they did, because they had that connection, which meant Annie and I could live here instead of moving to Chicago. I would’ve done it for Annie, but I’m not that crazy about city living.” He glanced at Marc. “No offense.”

  “None taken.” Marc decided to find out if Jeremy had any inkling about the town’s origins. “Has Annie ever suggested writing about the town of Big Knob?”

  “Big Knob?” Jeremy chuckled. “That would be one boring story. The most exciting thing that happens here is Friday afternoons at three, when eighty-seven-year-old Edith Mae Hoogstraten drives into town for her weekly early dinner at the Hob Knob and we all hold our breath to see if she’ll hit anything.”

  Marc thought Jeremy was mistaken about that. There probably were far more exciting things going on than some old woman’s erratic driving. Annie Dunstan might be one of the few who knew that, but her husband obviously had no idea. And Annie, who was also Gwen’s best friend, was not in town. Too bad. Marc would have loved to ask her some questions.

  Gwen had hoped Marc would come into the shop some time during the morning, but as the female population of Big Knob continued to arrive in a steady stream, she realized having Marc show up might not be such a great idea. Her customers were either using a floral purchase as an excuse to pump her for information about him, or buying flowers to make themselves look more attractive for their lunch at the Hob Knob.

  Lunch would be a mob scene. She would have loved to save him from that, but he hadn’t wanted to take her suggestion of a private meal at home. Little did he know that protecting her reputation was becoming a lost cause.

  So far, every woman who’d come into Beaucoup Bouquets seemed to believe that Gwen’s story about Marc being a cousin was a smoke screen and that she’d hooked up with him through some international online dating service. They all assumed she was having sex with him, and their logic made perfect sense. What woman in her right mind wouldn’t try to seduce a man who looked like Marc?

  Well, she wouldn’t be doing much seducing at the Hob Knob, but she’d promised to meet him there, so she might as well go. Her business had trailed off by eleven thirty, and as she glanced out at the snowy square, she noticed that it was empty. She’d bet that everyone who could spare the time was holding down all the available seats at the Hob Knob.

  She wondered if there would be a place for her or if she’d have to go home to eat. Maybe both she and Marc should drive to Evansville tonight. It might be the only way she’d ever have him to herself again.

  Closing the shop at five minutes before noon, she bundled up in her coat and boots and cut across the deserted square to the diner. She wished Marc hadn’t brought up all that stuff about five-pointed stars and Wicca, because now she looked at the square and the streets around it differently.

  She even looked at the bronze statue of Isadora Mather differently. Marc had implied that the pioneer woman might have been Wiccan, but that couldn’t be right. Gwen had intended to check out some of Marc’s gonzo theories with Lucy Dunstan, but she’d reconsidered doing that. No reason to stir up trouble.

  Marc just needed to spend more time in Big Knob. Then he’d see how ridiculous his ideas were. She hoped he’d plan to come back. Once the novelty had worn off, people wouldn’t be so desperate to spend time with him.

  They apparently were desperate now, though. All the parking spaces in front of the Hob Knob were taken. Edith Mae’s old Buick was angled in such a way that it effectively occupied two spaces. Gwen recognized Angie Jankowsky’s silver SUV and Donald Jenkins’s truck with the Big Knob Dairy logo on the door panel. Old Calvin Gilmore and his wife, Rachel, had driven their well-worn sedan, and there was Can-dice Merriweather’s little sports car.

  Many others had walked, no doubt. Most people lived a few blocks from the square, and in winter walking made more sense than driving on the icy roads. Even before Gwen opened the door, she could hear the racket inside. It was noisier than the school gym during a basketball game.

  Once she was inside, finding Marc didn’t take much effort. She could see the top of his head, but the rest of him was obscured by the Big Knobians crowded around his table. He might as well have been a celebrity holding a press conference. Poor Marc.

  She wondered if she could rescue him somehow. Nothing brilliant occurred to her. She’d have to push her way through the crowd to let him know she was here. Talking to him would be out of the question, but she
wanted him to know that she’d kept their lunch date. So had three-quarters of the town, unfortunately.

  The diner was swelteringly hot with all the bodies inside it, and Gwen took off her coat. She’d probably be putting it right back on again, because there was little chance she’d be staying. She rebelled at being just another groupie.

  Her bud vases filled with miniature carnations looked festive on the tables, although she doubted anyone had paid the slightest attention to the flowers. Joe and Sherry rushed to fill orders as quickly as possible.

  Gwen was trying to figure out how to wedge herself through the mass of people when the door opened behind her, letting in a welcome blast of cold air.

  “This looks like the wrong place to have lunch today,” said a male voice that sounded vaguely familiar.

  “No kidding.” She couldn’t quite place the voice, but as she turned, she expected to see another one of her neighbors who’d come to rub shoulders with a genuine Parisian who spoke actual French.

  Her breath left her lungs. Looking into those icy blue eyes, she felt her world shift. Now she knew why his voice had sounded so familiar. She’d heard it in her dreams for the past week.

  This couldn’t be happening. It defied everything she’d ever believed about herself and the nature of reality. She blinked, but he was still there, staring down at her.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met.” He extended his hand.

  Oh yes, we have! You’ve made passionate love to me every night for a blessed week! Frozen with the improbability of what was happening, she couldn’t manage even the barest response. All she could do was stand and stare.

  “I’m Leo Atwood.” The man lowered his hand again. “I was passing through town and thought I’d stop and get something to eat, but this is nuts. What’s going on here?”

  Closing her eyes briefly, she swallowed. When she opened her eyes again, she’d regained a measure of composure. Of course this man wasn’t her dream lover.

  He looked something like him, true, and he sounded a bit like him, but many guys probably looked and sounded something like him. Her dream lover had always shown up in some sort of costume, but this guy wore normal clothes—jeans and a gray sweatshirt under a black quilted ski jacket.

  Feeling more confident, she noticed that his hair was shorter than in her dreams and his aftershave smelled nothing like the ocean. She’d been under a strain with this visit from Marc approaching. She’d overreacted.

  “Is something wrong?” He peered at her. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Clearing her throat, she struggled to speak normally. “I . . . uh . . . I’m sorry to be rude. I haven’t been sleeping well lately, and . . . you remind me of someone.”

  He smiled. “I hope it’s a good memory.”

  That smile. Her heart raced, and she grabbed the nearby counter for support as dizziness threatened to knock her off her feet. Forget logic. Forget plausibility. It was him.

  Chapter 15

  ‘That man who just walked into the diner looked like Leo!” Dorcas walked faster, her stylish boots plowing through the slush on the sidewalk.

  “Oh, I hardly think so, Dorcas.” Ambrose hurried to catch up with her. “Probably just somebody who looks like him.”

  “How could it be? No one in town looks like him, and you turned off the exit sign, so nobody should have come into . . .” She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and spun to face him. “You did turn off the exit sign, didn’t you?”

  “Uh, I will, my love, as soon as we get home again. I’ve been worried about losing part of my staff, and I’m not firing on all cylinders.”

  Dorcas moaned in frustration. “So it could be a stranger who looks something like Leo. We certainly don’t need that, if it is, but I think it was him. He had that Leo swagger.” She started down the sidewalk again.

  “I don’t know why he’d be going into the diner.” Ambrose fell into step beside her.

  “He has business with someone in there, that’s why. I’ll bet it’s no coincidence that he showed up in the area a week before Marc was due to arrive. I haven’t put it all together yet, but I will. Now that he’s decided to walk around town like a regular guy, I’ll smoke out his motivations. See if I don’t.”

  “I have every faith you will, dearest.”

  Dorcas kept her eye on the diner’s front door. “I wonder if my corpus status quo spell is still working. That might be why he’s resorted to skulking around town as a tourist. He can’t minimize himself and do reconnaissance that way.”

  “I thought you said he was swaggering.”

  “He was sort of skulking and swaggering.”

  “Sounds hard to do, Dorcas.”

  “You’re too literal, Ambrose. Mark my words, he’s on a reconnaissance mission.”

  “Reconnaissance for what?”

  “Didn’t you hear what he said last night? He has something he needs to do here, something of a personal nature. I’m going to guess that Queen Beryl gave him a task that he must complete or he doesn’t get the throne.”

  “That would be a relief, actually,” Ambrose said. “Queen Beryl is good people, or good fairies, as the case may be. If she gave Leo a job, it would be a noble task. Am I right?”

  “You probably are,” Dorcas agreed, “but giving a noble task to a responsible person—or fairy, in this instance—is not the same as giving it to a shithead.”

  “Dorcas! Watch your language!”

  “I can’t help it. I’m extremely frustrated. We spent most of the morning looking for the other part of your staff and still couldn’t find it. How are we supposed to operate effectively without your powers?”

  “I could wear Sabrina’s collar.”

  “Very funny.” She paused in front of the door to the diner. Sure was noisy in there. She turned back to Ambrose. “Put on your game face.”

  Ambrose started to laugh. “I don’t know where you get these things without being online.”

  “I read.”

  “Celebrity gossip magazines.”

  “That, too.”

  “Come on, Dorcas.” He opened the door for her. “Let’s get you and your game face in there so we can find out what’s what.”

  Dorcas composed her expression and walked into the diner. Ambrose could make fun all he wanted, but she did have a game face, and she’d need it if Leo was in that restaurant.

  Which he was. He was over by the cash register, talking to Gwen. He glanced over when the door opened but gave no sign of recognition.

  Dorcas narrowed her eyes at him. Ambrose might not have found the rest of his wizard’s staff, but Leo didn’t have to know that. She wanted him to be very afraid.

  Sadly, he seemed arrogant as ever. Once he’d noticed who had come in the door, he turned away, dismissing them neatly as he refocused his attention on Gwen.

  Gwen, however, spied them and hurried over, panic in her eyes. She clutched her coat in her arms as if needing something to hold on to. “Dorcas and Ambrose, hi!” She sounded manic. “I’d like to introduce Leo Atwood. He’s passing through town.”

  “Really. How nice.” Dorcas held out her hand to Leo. She wished she had one of those trick buzzers in her palm to give him a shock. “I would be Dorcas, and this is Ambrose.” She inclined her head in her husband’s direction.

  “I figured that out.” Leo shook Ambrose’s hand and looked bored. “Interesting little burg you have here,” he said with lazy indifference. “I was hoping to get a ham sandwich, but it doesn’t look promising.”

  “I’d try Evansville,” Dorcas said. “Or better yet, go into Illinois. Springfield has some good restaurants.”

  Leo’s smile made him look like a shark trolling for chum. “Something tells me I couldn’t make it by lunchtime.”

  “Oh, you never know with the Interstate system,” Dorcas said. “It seems as if you can be somewhere instantly. Right, Ambrose, darling?”

  “It can seem that way,” Ambrose said. “What brings you this way, Mr. At
wood?”

  “Business.” Leo gestured toward the corner where everyone was crowded around Marc. “I understand this French botanist is the one causing the traffic jam in here. Isn’t that what you told me, Gwendolyn?”

  Gwen gasped. “What did you call me?”

  “Isn’t that your name? I could have sworn you said that it was—”

  “Gwen,” she said, her face pale. “I said it was Gwen. I never said Gwendolyn.”

  “My mistake. I like old-fashioned names, so I probably made the leap to Gwendolyn.”

  He seemed to hold some sort of spell over Gwen, Dorcas noted. She’d bet her bottom dollar that whatever Leo was assigned to do in Big Knob, it related to Gwen in some way. She couldn’t imagine how, but she was determined to find out.

  She turned to Gwen. “Have you talked with Marc yet?”

  “No.” Gwen looked nervous. “I was about to work my way through the crowd when Mr. Atwood came in. We’ve been . . . talking.” She sounded scared to death.

  “Call me Leo.”

  Dorcas didn’t think she imagined the flash of predatory interest she saw in Leo’s eyes when he looked at Gwen. Oh, no, you don’t. That woman’s spoken for.

  “Let’s get you over there, Gwen.” Grabbing her by the hand, Dorcas started working her way through the mob. “Marc will want to see you.”

  “I wouldn’t mind meeting this Frenchman myself,” Leo said. He followed.

  Dorcas didn’t want him to follow, but maybe if she gave him some rope, he’d hang himself.

  “I’ll go along, as well,” Ambrose said.

  The procession reminded Dorcas of a conga line snaking through the mass of people, but she kept forging ahead and eventually made it over to Marc, who sat at a table with three women. Sylvia and Francine wore elaborate hair arrangements with roses tucked into them, and Edith Mae Hoogstraten sported one of her many outrageous hats. This one included tiny flags from various countries, but the French tricolor was stuck in the crown on top.

  Other townspeople had gathered around the table, but somehow Sylvia, Francine and Edith Mae had scored ringside seats.