Familiar Motives

by Delia James

  “Do we know for sure whoever is trying to set up the frame used a key?” she asked Pete.

  As soon as she said it, both cops headed for separate doors: Pete took the front, and Kenisha took the balcony. I stood in the middle, forgotten.

  It took maybe ten seconds for Kenisha to call, “Pete!”

  “You got something?”

  He was across the room before she could answer. I’d had no idea that Pete could move that fast. They were bent over the latch for the balcony doors. By carefully and quietly stepping forward and kind of sideways I could see over Pete’s shoulders that the shiny silver finish on the doors’ aluminum trim was scratched and nicked.

  “Was that there before?” asked Pete.

  “It wasn’t on the report,” said Kenisha.

  Pete sucked in a breath. “We really need to go back and check the crime scene photos.”

  Kenisha’s jaw hardened. “Right. Okay. I’ll get back and write that report and then . . .” Both of them were now looking at me. “Right,” she said again.

  “I’ll meet you there,” said Pete. “Ms. Britton? Do you need a lift anywhere?”

  “No, thanks, I’ve got my Jeep.”

  “Then you have a good day.”

  I was being dismissed. I looked past Pete to Kenisha, but she shook her head. There was nothing more to say here, at least not while I was listening. So I pulled on my parka and my knitted cap and headed back out into the cold.

  The first thing I did when I climbed into my Jeep was to start the engine warming up. The second thing I did was close my eyes and breathe deeply and release the shields I’d been holding clenched so tightly around me.

  The third thing I did was pull my phone out of my purse and hit Val’s number.

  “Anna,” said Val as soon as she answered. “What’s going on?”

  “Is Kristen there?”

  “Yes. Anna—”

  “I have to talk to both of you.”

  “Sure, of course.” I did not bring up her recent stretch of not answering my phone calls after that “of course.” “Are you on your way?” she asked.

  “Yes, and Val . . . it’s not good.”

  Val was silent. Then she said, “Okay.”

  We said good-bye, and I hung up. I also stared out the windshield for a long time, thinking about all the things we knew that Kenisha could not tell Pete.

  The wards on Ramona’s apartment had been broken. Ruby was being hidden beyond the reach of Julia’s magic and her familiars. Ramona’s books of shadow were missing, along with her laptop.

  Kenisha said that she felt like she was looking at two different puzzles. But maybe it was just one big puzzle, with two different perpetrators, only one of whom needed to be a witch.

  It had to be a witch who broke those wards. You also didn’t need to be a witch to steal the books of shadow once the wards were broken. You just needed a witch to tell you they might be important.

  And you didn’t need magic to jimmy the door on a second-floor balcony or plant a couple of Aldina beads under a bed. All you needed was some skill, some motivation and some time.

  Skill you might have picked up during a juvenile career as a thief and pickpocket. Motivation that might include trying to stay out of jail, and time could be chosen. Like during a funeral that would conveniently occupy pretty much everybody who might otherwise turn up at this empty apartment.

  That witch might be an old friend who knew about your record and who could be convinced to help you to try to keep herself, and her family, out of trouble.

  Julia said I didn’t have the luxury of disbelief. But I couldn’t possibly believe any of this about Kristen or Rachael Forsythe. I was so sure they were good people. I’d liked them both instantly.

  I especially couldn’t believe it was about Valerie.

  Could I?

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t my belief that mattered. It was Kenisha’s—and Pete’s.

  And Lieutenant Blanchard’s.

  31

  I’D JUST PUT the Jeep in reverse when my phone rang.

  I didn’t plan on answering, but I did check the number. I couldn’t help it. When I saw it was Frank calling, I cursed the man for his lousy timing. I also put the Jeep back in neutral and hit the Accept button.

  “What’s up?” I asked after we’d said hello.

  “Do you remember that little chat we had at Ramona’s funeral?” Of course I did. It had only been a couple of hours before. A couple of very long hours I would give anything to have back now.

  “Turns out you were right.”

  That was fast. But then, this was Frank. He could chase down a news lead faster than Alistair would chase rabbits out of the garden.

  “What was I right about?”

  “A lot. Where are you?”

  I looked up at the Riverside Condominiums sign and decided Frank probably didn’t need to know all the details. “Heading for downtown,” I told him. “Should I meet you somewhere?”

  “I’m at home. Can you come here?”

  “Give me five minutes.”

  “You got ’em.”

  We hung up.

  Okay, okay. I took a deep breath. This is good. This is answers.

  I’d hear what Frank had to say. Then I’d go talk with Val and Kris. Just to get a couple of things clarified. Not because there was any reason at all to suspect either of them of anything. Kris was angry at Cheryl for all the trouble she’d caused, but Kris was not a witch. She couldn’t break Ramona’s wards or hide Ruby out of reach of Julia’s magic or her familiars. She wouldn’t have known the books of shadow were important.

  Valerie, of course, was a witch. But Val was sensible and levelheaded. She was loyal too, but there were limits to how far she’d go to help a friend. She would not have used her magic to let Kris into Ramona’s apartment or to help hide Ruby. She would not have gone in herself to steal the books of shadow on the off chance there was something in there that could hurt her or her family. That was not at all what she’d been doing during that time when she wasn’t answering her phone. No way. Uh-uh. Not possible.

  But once I’d cleared things up with them, then I’d be able to go talk with Rachael Forsythe. I mean, Rachael had given me, a virtual stranger, the keys to her mother’s apartment. She knew me and my complicated, and active, Portsmouth history. And she was Ramona’s daughter, and, of course, she was a witch. Just like her aunt Wendy, who was already very suspicious of Julia and of me. And who just might have called the cops on the off chance we were up to no good.

  I was absolutely, entirely positive that when I talked to Rachael, I’d discover that it must have been Aunt Wendy who broke the wards. She must have thought there was something in Ramona’s books that might embarrass the family and she took them for safekeeping. That was all. It was nothing to do with Ramona’s murder. Not really.

  And once I’d gotten all that cleared up, I could tell Kenisha everything I’d learned. Kenisha could find a way to point Pete in the right direction, which would prove to be away from my friends and away from Ramona’s grieving daughter.

  And that would be the end of it. We would know exactly what part magic played in this mystery, and Julia could stop worrying about it and Kenisha could stop worrying about it, and we could all get back to our normal lives.

  This was good. I had a plan. I liked plans. Now that I had one, I would start feeling better. Any second now.

  • • •

  FRANK LIVED IN the historic district. His house had been standing when Portsmouth’s men marched away to fight in the Civil War, and it had been divided into apartments around the time Portsmouth’s women went to work in the factories and fisheries during World War II.

  His apartment was at the top of the house, toward the back, and he yanked the door open before I had a chance to knock more than twice.

&nb
sp; “Come on in.”

  Frank had swapped out the blue suit he’d worn to the funeral for plaid flannel and jeans, what my brother Ted called “lumberjack chic.” His wavy black hair was sticking out in all directions, which meant he’d been running his hand through it. Which meant he’d been thinking. A lot.

  “Am I going to need to sit down for this?” I asked as I followed him into the living room. Frank’s apartment was the direct opposite of Ramona’s. Ramona’s had been neat, spare and very modern. Frank’s was battered and crowded. The furniture was all secondhand and the primary decoration was floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Every flat surface was covered with stacks of manila folders, magazines and newspapers and yet more books. A pinholed map of Portsmouth was taped to the wall over his desk.

  It was also hotter than blazes.

  “Sorry about the heat.” Frank gestured me toward his sagging couch and made a detour into the kitchen to wrestle the double-hung window open. “Can’t get the radiator to turn off. Super’s supposed to be on it.”

  “Ah, the joys of a vintage apartment.” I moved a stack of dog-eared science fiction paperbacks from the 1940s and sat down.

  “Tell me about it.” Frank dropped into a worn leather armchair and started rearranging the piles of folders and books that covered the coffee table. A midnight black cat emerged from under the chair and jumped up to help.

  “Off, cat.” Frank lifted her away and set her back on the floor. Affronted, she meowed and leapt onto the back of the chair so easily, you’d be forgiven if you didn’t realize she was missing one back leg.

  The cat’s full name and rank was Colonel Nick Kitty. When she first showed up, Frank had mistakenly thought she was a male and decided to name her after the comic book character Nick Fury.

  “What did you find?” I asked. Colonel Kitty was interested as well. She stepped delicately onto Frank’s shoulders and draped herself around the back of his neck.

  “You’re probably not going to like it,” Frank told me as he flipped open one of the folders. Colonel Kitty batted at his ear.

  “I already don’t like it, but I need to know, whatever it is.”

  “Ramona Forsythe was in trouble.” Frank leaned back, which annoyed Kitty. She mewed and flowed down from his shoulders to his lap. “Money trouble.”

  “But . . . ,” I stammered. “Ramona was a veterinarian. They make really good money.”

  “They do, unless they spend more than half their time on pro bono work, which Ramona did.” Frank scratched Colonel Kitty’s ears absently, and I suddenly, strongly wished Alistair was here. I really needed something besides the couch arm to hold on to.

  “How’d you find this out?” I asked.

  “Ramona used an accounting firm, and I happen to know somebody there who owed me a favor.” I suspected a certain editing of events but didn’t say anything. I mean, it wasn’t as if I could throw stones.

  “According to my source, Dr. Forsythe was juggling six or eight different credit cards,” Frank went on. “Some had truly awful interest rates. That was on top of regular payments on assorted loans.”

  “What kind?”

  “Student loans, mostly. Hers and her daughter’s.”

  I pictured Rachael standing in front of me, afraid and angry and trying to find some kind of reassurance that Ramona’s death was a murder. She’d also wanted to be sure it was connected to Ruby and not anything else.

  Before I’d walked into Frank’s apartment, I’d been worried that Rachael had wanted us to find those planted Aldina beads. Now I wondered if Rachael was so anxious to hear Ramona had been murdered because the alternative was that her mother might have done something terrible because she couldn’t pay the bills.

  I bit my lip. Frank, of course, noticed.

  “Anna . . . where were you when I called?”

  I shook my head. “It’s not important.”

  “And I’m supposed to believe that?”

  I looked at him. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Frank, but he was who he was. He couldn’t stop putting together a story any more than I could see a blank piece of paper without doodling on it.

  So, I did the obvious thing. I changed the subject.

  “Frank, what have you found out about Cheryl Bell?” Because there was no way on this good green earth that Frank had neglected to check out Mrs. Bell’s background.

  Frank grimaced. “She lived in Portsmouth until she was nineteen. She was friends with Kristen and Valerie. She left suddenly and vanished off the map for about five years. When she resurfaced, it was in New York City as the wife of a prominent plastic surgeon named Milton Bell. After that, she became a feature of the society pages and gossip columns until her fast and acrimonious divorce.”

  I blinked. “There are still society pages?”

  “Who’d’ve thought, right?” Frank shrugged. “Anyway, the high life can be addictive—and expensive. I don’t know exactly what the divorce settlement was, but Cheryl strikes me as the kind of person who would run through it pretty quick. Now, call me cynical, but since Mrs. Bell hasn’t yet remarried, she might need to find herself another source of income.”

  “Don’t be a Neanderthal,” I said primly. “Why couldn’t she get a job?”

  “Cheryl does not seem to be the working kind. Her idea of establishing an income stream tends to involve taking money away from other people.”

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t disagree. It fit too well with everything I’d seen of her so far.

  “Is there a reason she needs the money? I mean some reason other than that she’s got expensive tastes?”

  “I’ve been trying to find that out. Unfortunately, Mrs. Bell is not eager to talk about herself, or her past, except for how she was a good friend and doting cat owner who has been so cruelly wronged.”

  While the humans were engaged in this boring and unimportant conversation, Colonel Kitty bounded into the kitchen.

  “Meow!” she announced, skidding to a halt by the dining table.

  “Merow,” answered a second voice.

  “Alistair?” I twisted around in my seat.

  A huge chestnut tree spread its branches outside Frank’s kitchen window. In summer, the green light made the place feel like a gigantic tree house. Now that it was November, the branches created stark black lines on the other side of the glass. One of those branches was currently occupied by my big, gray, highly truant cat.

  “Merow!” Without waiting for an invitation, Alistair jumped through the open window and landed on the kitchen table.

  “What the heck?” said Frank. “What’s he doing here?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “He’s been . . . mostly gone since Ramona died.” Because he was Dorothy’s nephew, Frank had pretty much grown up with Alistair, and he knew as much about his magic as anybody who wasn’t an actual witch.

  Alistair jumped off the table and down onto the floor beside Colonel Kitty, extending his neck to nuzzle her. Kitty sniffed.

  “Merow!” The black cat retreated, back hunched, hackles raised. Alistair scrunched backward. Colonel Kitty made a rude noise.

  “What’s that about?” I demanded. “I thought you guys were friends.”

  In fact, before he’d taken up with Miss Boots over at the Harbor’s Rest, Alistair had been . . . seeing . . . Colonel Kitty. Now, though, Kitty pawed the air in front of him and Alistair streaked into the living room like greased lightning and darted under the sofa.

  I stared. Several ideas dropped like bricks into the middle of my mind, and they made a very big splash.

  “Anna?” Frank waved his hand in front of my face. “You still in there?”

  “Uh . . . yeah,” I croaked. “Yeah. Still here. Sorry.” I shook myself, trying to clear the ripples in my mind. I could sort out the cats later.

  “Frank . . .” I paused and started again. “Frank,
there’s something I have to tell you, but you have to promise me you won’t write about it.”

  Frank looked at me for a long time, and nodded.

  I swallowed. Kenisha was going to kill me. Pete was going to kill me. I was going to have to leave town. I was doing it anyway, because I needed help, and I didn’t know where else to go. “Before I came here, I was in Ramona’s apartment. We found some bangles under her bed that could have come from one of Cheryl Bell’s bracelets.”

  Frank’s fingers twitched.

  “The thing is, Kenisha and Pete are both certain that they weren’t there when the apartment was searched.”

  “So the question is how did they get there? And when?”

  I nodded. “Lieutenant Blanchard took charge of them.”

  Frank looked at me and I looked back. “You are not suggesting that Lieutenant Blanchard might make that evidence . . . go away, because Cheryl Bell is an old friend of his?”

  “I think I don’t know. Kenisha and Pete seemed to think there were signs of a break-in, but . . . but there’s no way to tell when it happened, at least until they check the crime scene photos. Kenisha thought maybe things had changed since the night of the murder, but she wasn’t sure.”

  Frank blew out a long, hard sigh. Colonel Kitty jumped up on his lap and head butted his chin. He grumbled a little but started scratching her ears. Alistair looked out from under the sofa, forlorn and innocent. Colonel Kitty did not look back.

  Alistair sagged, slunk backward and vanished.

  “There’s something else,” said Frank. “It’s just a rumor so far, and it might turn out to be nothing, but . . .”

  Which was when my phone rang. Again.

  “Oh, of course.” I dug the noisy appliance out of my purse. I meant to shut the ringer off, except the screen said it was Val calling.

  “One sec,” I told Frank instead and hit the Accept button.

  Val didn’t even wait for me to say hello. “Anna, where are you?” she shouted in my ear. “Are you at the police station?”

  “What? No! Why? What’s happened?”