Familiar Motives

by Delia James

  “Best of luck,” Kristen told me. “And despite everything, it was good to meet you. Tell Val I said hi and I will call soon.”

  “Sure thing.” We shook hands and smiled. Kristen picked up Ruby and draped her against her shoulder so Ruby was looking back at us as they walked out the glass doors. Alistair drooped visibly.

  “And here I thought you were stepping out with Miss Boots,” I muttered as I scratched his ears. “Or did Colonel Kitty agree to take you back?”

  Alistair washed his whiskers like he didn’t hear a word I said.

  “Well,” said Ramona, too briskly, I thought. “Shall we finish up?”

  “Sure,” I said uncertainly and scooped up Alistair to follow her back into the examination room.

  But once she closed the door and I set Alistair down on the table, Ramona just stood there with her hand on the knob for a minute.

  “Anna, I’m about to tell you something.” She spoke softly and quickly, like she needed to get the words out before she changed her mind. “And I’m speaking as a friend and a sister practitioner.”

  “Um, sure, Ramona.”

  “If you’re thinking about a coloring-book deal, or anything like that, with the Attitude Cat people, don’t.”

  I hadn’t been, until she mentioned it. Now, though, I opened my mouth to ask Why not? but from out in the lobby we heard the sound of people and at least two quarreling dogs entering the clinic.

  “We’ll talk more later.” Ramona smoothed down her lab coat and walked out of the room without looking back.

  “Wow. Okay,” I said to the door.

  “Merow,” agreed Alistair. He also, somewhat to my surprise, let himself be put into the carrier and taken out into the lobby. I gave my credit card to Jeannie and signed the receipt. Ramona was smiling at an old woman with a pair of shih tzus on gold leashes. She also stepped back to let a man and a little girl clutching a cardboard box walk past her into another examination room. She didn’t even look up at us.

  Something is going on, I thought. Then I thought, It’s nothing to do with you, Anna. You’ve got a party to go to and books to draw and there’s the matter of Thanksgiving coming up. You are planning on spending quality time with your family; oh, and trying to find some way to tell them all you’re a witch. That’s more than enough to be juggling right now.

  This was all very true and perfectly reasonable, and it almost worked.

  Almost.

  4

  “ANNA!” JULIA PARRIS made her way through the crowd of guests as I walked into the bookstore. “There you are!”

  Julia Parris owned Midnight Reads. She was a tall woman about my grandmother’s age with long snow-white hair and a figure best described as zaftig. She always carried herself with immense dignity, even though she did have to walk with the help of her black cane. She had a taste for dramatic clothes and tonight was wearing a floor-length black velvet dress covered by a long jacket of gold and silver lace.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said as I shook icy rain off my scarf and hat. “I had trouble finding a parking spot. Hi, guys.” Maximilian and Leopold, Julia’s minidachshunds, scampered up to sniff my ankles, bark, wag and generally make sure I was who I was supposed to be. I reached down to ruffle the dogs’ ears, because, well, dachshunds. How can you resist?

  As Gabrielle, Julia’s newest sales assistant, came to get my coat, Julia cast an appraising glance over my appearance, which included gently chattering teeth. “Wine or coffee? I suspect coffee.”

  “Please.” I rubbed my hands together. I grew up mostly in Connecticut, so it’s not like I’m a stranger to rough winters. New Hampshire, though, was teaching me a few things.

  “I’ll get you a cup. You circulate.” Julia handed me a name tag to clip to my red cardigan so people would know who I was. “A number of my guests have been waiting to talk with you about the paintings.”

  Julia moved off toward the snack tables that had been set up next to the wine selection. I took a deep breath and faced the crowd, putting on my best professional smile.

  Not only is Julia a great witch and a great teacher; she knows how to throw one heck of a party. Midnight Reads bookshop was full to the brim with people there to enjoy wine and snacks, new books, used books, and, oh, yes, some new paintings by a local Portsmouth artist. Even without my magical Vibe going, I was instantly warmed by the cheerful, chatty atmosphere.

  While tables and open shelves dominated the front of Midnight Reads, a set of older, library-style shelves waited up a short flight of stairs. When I first saw them, they’d been plain wood labeled with section names: MYSTERY, PSYCHOLOGY, HISTORY, ROMANCE, ETC. (Literally. Julia kept a section of otherwise unclassifiable books for the adventurous reader.)

  Those shelves were now decorated with my artwork. I’d taken popular editions of some of the titles and re-created their covers on the ends of the bookshelves, both the ones that faced the doors and the ones that faced the comfortable sitting area at the back of the store. I’d layered and framed the painted covers carefully, so that the effect (I hoped) was like looking down on inviting piles of books, so you could decide which one to pick up next. The mystery section had probably been my favorite to paint. I love those old noir-style covers from the forties and fifties with the damsels either in distress or vamping in doorways.

  While I sipped the coffee Julia brought me, people began coming up to talk about the paintings and to express anticipation about the new coloring book. I admit it, I enjoyed all the warm greetings and friendly faces. In fact, as I made my way through the shifting knots of people, beaming and shaking hands, I was amazed at how many of those friendly faces I recognized, even though I hadn’t been in Portsmouth for very long.

  “They do look fantastic.” Sean McNally came up beside me. Sean had gotten off of his usual bartending shift at the Pale Ale to supervise the wine service for the party and, incidentally, advertise the drinks selection from that historic Portsmouth tavern. “And so, by the way, do you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I murmured. I may have preened, just a tiny bit. Since I was a guest of honor at this little shindig, I had dressed up more than usual. This involved unearthing my only black pencil skirt, my black tights, and the bright red cashmere cardigan my grandma B.B. had given me as a Christmas present last year. I had also wrestled my unruly brown hair into a French twist. “You’re looking pretty good yourself.”

  Sean was lean and tall, with a neatly trimmed beard, an easy smile and more than his fair share of Irish charm. As usual, he dressed in his slightly vintage style, which today included a pin-striped vest over a bright blue shirt and charcoal gray tie.

  “Maybe I can sweep the guest of honor away afterward?” he suggested softly.

  Sean and I had been on our first date just last week. Nothing huge. Just dinner (a very good dinner) and a movie (Sean did not balk at going to see a romantic comedy, and I promised we’d go see the latest superhero extravaganza next time). We’d talked and we’d laughed and the twinkle that seemed to always lurk in the depths of his blue eyes was proving a strain on my resolve to take this very, very slowly. After all, my last relationship had ended when a blond nineteen-year-old from Vegas showed up on my doorstep looking for my then boyfriend. That kind of thing can make a girl a little hesitant when it’s time to jump back into the dating scene.

  “You should be careful,” I murmured out of the corner of my mouth. “Your boss is watching.”

  “What am I watching?” Martine Devereux strolled up to us both. Martine is a tall African American woman with dark brown skin. She looked resplendent in her scarlet chef’s jacket. She is the head chef at the Pale Ale and has been my best friend since forever. In fact, my original reason for coming to Portsmouth was to visit her. I’d planned to stay for only a couple of weeks, but things got, well, just a little complicated.

  “Thanks for being here, Martine,” I told her as we excha
nged a quick hug.

  “Can’t stay. Full house tonight, but I wanted to check out the grand opening.” She nodded toward my paintings. “Nice job, Britton. You’re taking the town by storm. Enjoy it. Oh, and, hey, great cheese muffins,” she added over my shoulder to Roger McDermott, who was behind the snack table, refilling a tray of miniature treats. “You ever want a job, you come see me.”

  “Thanks, Chef.” Roger beamed. “That’s a real compliment.”

  Roger was my neighbor and was married to one of my coven sisters, Valerie McDermott. Together they ran McDermott’s B and B. Valerie handled the business end, while Roger was in charge of maintenance and food. I had to admit, he’d outdone himself with the selection of minicupcakes and savory muffins on display. He grinned over the heads of the crowd toward Val, who was standing in the far corner talking with some other members of the coven, Shannon Yu and her sister Faye. Allie Paulson was there too, gesturing grandly about something. The dramatic was pretty much Allie’s home territory. She ran a housekeeping business, as well as a book-and-tour group for those who loved gothic romances and mysteries. Trisha Robinson stood in another corner. Trish was a freelance computer programmer and would, if you gave her more than two glasses of wine, start explaining how computer programming and spell casting are essentially the same thing. She makes a surprisingly good case. The stocky man in a linen sports coat beside her was probably her boyfriend, the one who worked at MIT in the communications lab and was going to make the Internet obsolete. I had informed Trish that if he took away my ability to watch cute cat videos, I would never forgive either of them. She made faces at me.

  In fact, about the only member of the guardian coven missing from the party was my grandma B.B. Grandma had gone back down to Sedona, Arizona, to pack up her apartment. She was reversing the usual American senior migration pattern to move back up here and become Julia’s roommate. She’d be back before Thanksgiving, but given the amount of stuff there was to pack, probably not much before then.

  The thought of Thanksgiving threw cold water on my glowing spirits. I was just settling into my identity as a witch, which meant I was also just starting to tell people that’s who I was. I hadn’t told my family yet, though. I didn’t like to think I was stalling, but I was. Especially when it came to telling my father. Grandma had said that the one time she’d tried to talk to Dad about her magic, he’d gotten so angry he’d threatened to cut her off from her grandkids.

  If I was going to come out of the broom closet, I was going to open a whole very large can of worms over the roasted turkey and cranberry relish.

  This, however, was a problem for another day.

  Sean gave me a grin and quick touch on the shoulder before heading back to man the wine supplies. I smiled back, and looked around for something distracting. Fortunately, Valerie noticed I was at a loose end and edged her way through the crowd.

  “Nice turnout,” she remarked. Val is a small, freckled, strawberry blond woman with a stubborn streak that you’d never guess waited behind her sunny face. Her baby daughter, Melissa, had inherited Val’s coloring and, I suspected, something of that stubbornness. Although, again, you’d never know it if you saw the newest McDermott sleeping on her mother’s shoulder, her tiny fist pressed against her mouth, like it was now.

  “Julia throws a good party.” I whispered in that way you do around a sleeping baby. I smoothed down one of Melissa’s soft strawberry curls. I’d been designated an adopted aunt. Which was, of course, very nice, but I had made it clear, I wasn’t going to be one of those people who go overboard about that kind of thing. I certainly had not gotten into the habit of buying cute little stuffed animals or infant clothes at the drop of a hand-knitted strawberry cap. Those pink footie jammies with the Picasso-style cat on them were strictly a one-time event. Except for the yellow ones with the Monet water lilies and the green ones with the bit of A Sunday on La Grand Jatte and the . . .

  Yeah. Well. Okay. Moving on.

  “I met a friend of yours today,” I said to Valerie. “Kristen Summers.”

  “Really?” Surprise widened Valerie’s eyes, followed fast by a faintly worried look.

  “Yeah, I had to take Alistair to Dr. Forsythe, and Kristen was there with her cat.”

  “Oh.” I knew I did not imagine the relief in Val’s face or her voice. “What did you think about our local kitty celebrity?”

  “Well, for one thing, I think you never told me you knew Attitude Cat.”

  “Well, I think you never asked,” Val shot back with a grin. “Besides, I try to respect their privacy.”

  “Then you may need to warn Kristen that Alistair might just have a crush on Ruby.”

  “Anna, you are going to have to have a talk with your familiar.” Val made a face. “And, yes, I did just say that. Witch life is strange.”

  I nodded in agreement and swirled my coffee. “I met Cheryl too.”

  “Cheryl Heathe? Oh, no, wait, it’s Cheryl Bell now. Was Kristen still there?” I nodded, and the worry intensified behind Val’s bright eyes. “I bet that was interesting.”

  “‘Interesting’ is one word for it.” I looked into my almost empty coffee cup, searching for subtlety. I didn’t find it. “Sounds like those two have a lot of history. Or maybe those three?” I added. “If, you know, you count the cat.”

  Valerie cocked her head at me and rocked in that slow little side-to-side dance parents do to comfort sleeping babies while standing (relatively) still. “Anna? Is this you fishing for gossip?”

  “No. Just”—I gestured toward the gathering—“making party small talk.”

  “Uh-huh.” If I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn my coven sister doubted me. “Well, how about this for small talk? Do not get involved. This isn’t just a dispute between old roommates. It’s a huge mess, with serious money at stake and lawyers aimed and ready to fire.”

  “You know, you’re the second person to tell me to not get involved with Attitude Cat,” I said, and took another sip of coffee. “You’d think I have reputation or something.”

  “I wonder how that happened?” Val murmured. I ignored her.

  “I just feel kind of bad for Kristen. Cheryl seems like a pretty hard case.”

  “Not answering.”

  “Sure you’re not.” I grinned and leaned closer. “Not even a little?”

  “Nope,” said Val firmly. “Not going to enable you. Oooh . . . look, there’s a new Sandra Boynton board book! Come on, baby girl.” She cooed at Melissa, who shifted in her sleep and tried to stuff her fist a little farther into her mouth. “Mama wants to go look at some pretty pictures.”

  “Coward,” I muttered at Val’s back.

  “Something wrong?” This came from Kenisha as she moved away from the wine table to stand next to me. Kenisha Freeman is another of my coven sisters. An athletically built African American woman, Kenisha is the only witch cop in New Hampshire. She has rich brown skin and a sprinkle of dark freckles under both eyes. Tonight she wore an electric blue silk blouse and beaded jeans. Her red- and auburn-streaked hair had been pulled into a pair of braided loops at the back of her head. “You don’t look really happy to be here.”

  When you’re a witch cop you become uncomfortably good at watching people.

  “It’s nothing,” I told her. “Val thinks I’m becoming a Nosey Parker.”

  “You?” Kenisha said blandly. “Well, dang, girl. There’s some real news. Should I call Frank over at the paper?”

  While I was still fumbling for something suitably witty to say back, that familiar prickling began in my fingertips.

  “Hey, Anna.” Kenisha lifted her chin, like she’d just caught an unpleasant smell. “Is it just me, or . . . ?”

  “It’s not just you.” Val came over to us, shifting Melissa from one shoulder to the other. “I can’t tell what it is, though.”

  I bit my lip. Then I saw Max
and Leo scrabbling up the stairs that separated the two halves of the store. The dogs made a beeline, or at least a dachshund-line, for the back of the shop. A lightbulb went on in the back of my mind.

  “I think I know,” I said. “’Scuse me.”

  Smiling and doing my best to act casual, I slid through the crowd, up the three steps and between the shelves to the rear of the store. The sitting area here had overstuffed couches and armchairs in front of a fireplace, all tailor-made for browsing on a lazy afternoon. There was also a door that led to Julia’s cramped and book-piled office. I followed the dachshunds inside. A window looked out onto the alley. It was closed, of course, because while it might be a little stuffy in the store, it was nowhere near stuffy enough to open the windows onto New Hampshire’s November.

  On the sill on the other side of the glass, Alistair paced urgently back and forth.

  5

  “MEROW!” ALISTAIR SCRABBLED at the window latch. Max and Leo yipped urgently and pawed at the desk, craning their necks to get a look at the cat outside the glass. Midnight Reads was magically warded by Julia herself. This meant that the bookstore was one of the few places Alistair couldn’t just pop into whenever he felt like it.

  I undid the latch and shoved the window open. Alistair and a blast of frigid wind flowed inside. But instead of leaping into my arms or demanding attention, my cat snaked between the dachshunds and straight under the desk.

  “Merow!” My familiar hugged the floor, his tail lashing and his eyes so wide I could see the whites. “Merow!”

  I stared. What on earth was the matter?

  “It’s okay, big guy.” I squatted down, carefully, because of the narrow skirt and high heels. “Come on, Alistair.” I held out my hand. “It’s all right.”

  Alistair made a growling sound low in his throat and scrunched back farther. Goose bumps prickled down my arms, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I was still getting used to my empathic connection to Alistair, but even I could tell what was happening. My familiar’s agitation was strong enough to communicate itself to me.