“You have got to be kidding me? What is wrong with this family?”
Did I just say that out loud? Oops.
“Well, anyway, I do feel just terrible but I should take care of this before things start itching and parts start falling off. I suppose that would interfere with my sex life. And that is just not acceptable for me. I have got needs that must be met. Damn that man for being so irresponsible. I’m always saying ‘Do take precautions, Davis dear. Don’t get too excitable and get yourself in a situation.’ Clearly he didn’t listen to me. But then he never did. I do hope you understand? Davis will still be there of course.”
Emily rushed to get off the phone, unable to contain her laughter for much longer.
“Sure, Melinda. You, uh, take care. I’ll talk to you later.”
She ended the call and sat back on her bed and shook with hysterical laughter. Every time she thought she was done laughing, the thought of Melinda and Davis screwing around with other people sent her into another round of laughter.
Melinda wasn’t ugly, by any stretch, but she was a little older than middle-aged and had always struck Emily as being a prude.
“Huh. Who knew?” Emily said aloud. “Oh man, Ingrid is going to die.”
She stood up and put her robe on and took the elevator up on floor to Ingrid’s. She walked in without knocking, as usual.
“Ingrid. You are seriously not going to believe what I just found out about Melinda and Davis. What are you doing?”
Ingrid was sitting on the kitchen counter, holding a knife. There was a jar of aloe cream next to her, and blood dripped from Ingrid’s wrist.
Ingrid shrugged. “Oh, no. This isn’t what it looks like, dovey. I just am trying to see if I can heal again. Only on purpose this time, you know? And I had to have something to heal so I stabbed myself in the wrist. And I figured that the aloe plant probably had something to do with it so, you know.”
She shrugged like it was no big deal.
Emily rolled her eyes. “Seriously, Ingrid. I don’t have time for you to slit your wrists and bleed out all over the place. Okay? I’ve got to clear my name.”
Ingrid slid down the cabinets until her feet reached the floor and rinsed her wrist in the sink.
Emily reached for the bandage Ingrid held in her hand. “I’ll do it,” she said. “You bandaged me up last time. But, for real, you’ve got to find a way to do magic that won’t maim, scar or kill us. Yeah?”
Ingrid laughed, “Yeah. Fine. You’re no fun. So, what did you want to tell me about Melinda?”
Emily finished sticking the bandage onto Ingrid’s wrist and tossed the wrapper in the garbage.
“Seriously, guess. I dare you.”
“Uh, I have no idea. They missed their ferry? No, wait. I know. Davis is dead and Melinda killed him! No, that’s not it. Oh, I know. Melinda, that sweet rabid dove, called to tell you that dickhead was a gazillionaire and left it all to you?”
“Hah. Nope. Owen wouldn’t have left me one red cent. Melinda killing Davis, though…maybe that’s not such a stretch. Melinda called me to say that she can’t come to my interview today with Gabe and Davis because she has to get tested for an STD.”
Ingrid snorted and laughed simultaneously, which turned into an uncontrollable cough, and reached for her glass to take a drink.
“It’s a little early for wine, don’t you think?” Emily asked.
Ingrid glared.
“Whatever. Anyway. That’s not even the best part,” Emily said when Ingrid stopped coughing. “Turns out they’ve had an open relationship for years. She said she’s been lecturing Davis to wear a condom, but he is just too excitable to remember.”
“Ugh. That’s disgusting.” Ingrid gulped another mouthful of wine and wiped her mouth. “I feel like I should brush my teeth. And boil my brain.”
“And, Melinda’s going to get tested because she has such a full sex life—she has needs, she says—that she needs to get it taken care of immediately.”
Both of them began laughing so hard they were gasping for breath. Ingrid paused only long enough to pull down a wine glass and pour a healthy dose of Merlot into a glass and hand it to Emily.
“We are going to need more wine,” said Emily.
Ingrid nodded. “And I’m going to need a lobotomy to forget.”
•
Saturday Afternoon
“Hey, guy,” Ingrid said, chasing after the guy who rented the art gallery. She went to reach for him, but her wrist was killing her. She probably shouldn’t have stabbed herself, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.
The guy sold only his own art, and his pictures were creepy, but his rent was on time. And his daughter was sort of charming in the desperate way only rebellious teenage girls can be when they are trying to get their father’s attention.
Considering he lived above the book store she should probably learn his name. But also, considering he lived over the book store, he might know more about what happened when Owen died. Like who killed dickhead.
“Ingrid,” he said. He looked her up and down with cold eyes.
Okay, he needed to move. All of her warning senses were telling her to stay away from him. The things she did for Emily.
“Hey, were you around the other night? I was wondering if you saw…”
“More than you whoring after the sheriff? Planning to make yourself look better by telling him about the way Owen seduced my baby girl? Or were you just planning to sleep with him so he wouldn’t arrest your friend.”
“What? Hey! Ew…” Ingrid tried to hide her revulsion and wanted to punch him in the stomach. “Your daughter?”
“She’s just a little girl. It’s good that he’s dead. Better for us all. Especially me and my baby. We have enough trouble without people like him. You should have kept Owen Brown away from my baby.”
“Me? What are you talking about? I’m not responsible for your kid.” Ingrid looked around the sidewalk as if for support.
That girl looked twenty, but Ingrid was pretty sure she’d seen a backpack. The kid was top heavy, round-hipped and just Owen’s type. She had to be in high school though. Man, that was nasty, Ingrid thought. What a way to have your first time. She felt like she should take the girl aside and tell her things would be okay. Eventually.
Her dad didn’t agree, considering the way he was scowling at Ingrid.
“Um,” she said, “You’re her dad.”
The gallery guy stepped closer to her. She was going to have to punch him in the privates instead of his stomach, she thought. Especially if he moved one step nearer.
Then, he said, “You knew he was a dirty bastard.”
Ingrid pushed at him with her magic, and he backed up a step as she replied, “Anyone with eyes knew that he was smarmy. How many times did I tell my best dove, Em?”
He stepped forward again, and she shoved him with her magic. She could almost see him fight against it. “Oh man,” Ingrid drawled. “He slept with your kid?”
She shook her head as she thought about it. It was too wrong and also kind of hard to believe this old guy in front of her was really the dad of that pretty girl. Except for those tortured Dad eyes. They were too much. Ingrid preferred to see him as the creepy gallery guy and didn’t want to be guilted by his dad eyes into buying one of his stalker photos.
“You think it’s funny? She’s only seventeen.”
“Why would I think that’s funny? It’s nasty. Your poor kid.” Ingrid started, but he continued trying to shove past her magic.
“I’d have sued him and sent him to jail if he hadn’t died. We’re moving because of all of this. My baby doesn’t need to be around you—” he looked her up and down like she was trash before he finished, “—types. I expect you’ll be waiving our lease fees.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Ingrid said. She had a flash of a memory when she said, “You should probably get your kid checked out for STDs. He was a disgusting piece of work.”
The vicious look the gallery guy
gave her made her want to step back, except no—she wasn’t cowering away from someone like him. He cursed and stomped away before she decided upon the best reaction.
“You’re a foul witch and going straight to hell,” he yelled over his shoulder.
Ingrid grinned and waved and then texted Emily. As soon as Ingrid hit send, she called Gabe.
“Hey, Sheriff Hotpants.”
“Don’t call me that. This is my personal, private work number.” But he didn’t sound upset. And she thought he should get used to her ways.
“Yeah,” Ingrid said, “I’m a witch, my sweet manly dove. Your words say no, but your aura says yes.” As he sputtered, she added, “Did you know if you don’t use your magic, you can lose it?”
“No. Why would I know that?” He sounded exasperated, but he didn’t hang up. A good sign.
“Turns out it’s true,” she said. She listened to his huff, laughed at him and then added, “So, listen up my pretty, did you know that creepster art gallery guy’s daughter slept with dickhead? Gross. Super, super gross.”
“What? You mean that Mary Martin slept with Owen? Owen was like thirty-four.”
“I know,” Ingrid agreed, sitting on the bench outside of the bookshop and crossing her legs. “And he was a dirty old thirty-four, too. Hookers would have looked him over and said no thanks. I might have killed him if my kid has slept with a piece of work like the dickhead.”
Gabe snorted with laughter before he said, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me Sheriff Hotpants.”
“Can I call you mine?” She stood and walked down the street toward the bakery. She wanted a chocolate croissant. She’d make her own coffee, but her baking left every possible thing to be desired. Especially since it was non-existent.
“I cannot have a relationship with the best friend of a murder suspect.”
“But otherwise you would?” She felt more than heard his flash of laughter and agreement. She pictured him in her head, sitting at his desk, a file in front of him. She hoped that the photo of dickhead was the dead one. The guy was smarmy, but he photographed well when he was alive. Better to remember him as he was.
“Look,” Gabe said.
“It’s okay,” she interrupted. “You’ve said enough. I hear the yes in your voice.”
“I didn’t…”
“Witch here,” she explained, heard him sputter again and pressed forward. “So after we catch the real killer, you can take me out. I like steak, cheesecake, coffee, and wine. I prefer my roses to be lilies.”
“There is no we.” Gabe said, and she felt his flash of humor again followed by frustration as he realized that she intended to stumble through her own investigation.
She shook her head at him, even though he couldn’t see it, and sat down on the bench outside of the overpriced dress shop. She stared toward the ocean and realized that it was a lovely day. Crisp blue skies, the sound seagulls rollicking over the gray waves, big puffy clouds. Warm enough to be comfortable in regular clothes without needing a jacket.
Perfection.
“The thing is,” Ingrid said, “My Em didn’t do it. But you don’t know her like I do. Now I’m not saying she wouldn’t kill someone. She’s got a vicious streak. But she’d probably only kill child rapists and stuff like that. Him harassing her about the inheritance just isn’t her trigger. I’d have been more likely to kill him for making her crazy.”
“It’s good then that I saw you on that ferry when he was being killed.”
“As the sheriff, you do make both great eye candy and a great alibi. Are you coming for coffee?”
“No,” he said, but this time he didn’t hide his laugh.
“You know you want to,” she said as she examined her nails. Maybe she should learn the spell for keeping nails from chipping. She didn’t want to actually work at magic but being able to make good coffee and have clear skin was worth dabbling in the craft. It was possible that nails were worth a little extra effort. Maybe. “I do make a perfect cup. I might even have some sort of food in my apartment, though I’m pretty sure that most of it is expired.”
“I’ll talk to you later,” he said. “Quit interfering in my investigation.”
She grinned when he hung up on her since she felt his delighted humor with her. She’d brightened his day. Like a jolly, interfering sunflower or something.
She dropped her phone into her lap until she saw that she had 11 texts. Emily had made her descriptions of what she thought of dickhead into a fine, but foul, art and each of her text messages were X-rated.
8
Saturday Afternoon
Ingrid considered going back to the bookshop, but it was dusty and the books were stacked almost to eye level. Plus there was the whole crime scene thing. She wondered if dickhead’s spirit would haunt their shop. If so, he had to go. She wasn’t going to put up with that kind of nonsense, and she wasn’t moving as long as Emily didn’t actually get arrested for murder. They’d probably have to move if Ingrid broke Emily out of jail, so it was better to just get a handle on this thing.
She glanced around. Emily was busy. Ingrid had eaten tacos, so the croissant had to be crossed off her list. Stress food had to be exchanged for stress shopping. So….
But she didn’t like the flowy skirts that were the primary style sold on the island.
So no to that.
Then Sage Spa caught her eye. Her nails were chipping. She crossed the street, thinking about adding a facial or a foot massage or something.
“Hey,” Ingrid said as she walked in. Kimmie was sitting behind the counter, painting her nails. The rest of the shop was empty. “Where is everyone?”
“I’ve turned down every appointment today. They’re all the island gossips wanting to see what I know. You know what I think about that? They’re harpies.”
“Plus you need to see what others know so you have something worthwhile to say. That way your first appointments will tell other people, and you’ll have new clients coming just to hear about the body-finding from you, my clever, evil dove.”
“I know!” Kimmie sighed as she pulled out a chair. “But no one will tell me anything. Please tell me things. Details that are morbid and terrible. It’ll really help my business. Think of it as charity.”
“I’ll tell you everything, but you have to give me free manicures for a year.”
Kimmie sighed woefully as she said, “But you’re my best client. And you’re rich.”
Ingrid tapped her nails and waited.
Kimmie sighed again, long and slow. When Ingrid didn’t budge, not even softening her face, Kimmie finally growled. “Fine! But that doesn’t include any extras. Give it to me straight and full of details.”
Ingrid told her of finding the body and lusting after Gabe. That was deliberate. The island ladies needed to be aware he was taken now, and it would give them something other to talk about than Emily. She added in stuff about her demon step-children from the marriage with Harrison. That way Kimmie would know Ingrid’s game about laying claim to Gabe.
They commiserated for a while about stepchildren, Kimmie had four, and then Kimmie asked, “So, was he bloody?”
Ingrid snorted before she lifted her hand to admire the job. Kimmie really was very good at manicures, and the pearly pink French tips were just what Ingrid wanted. “I don’t know what killed him, but he wasn’t bloody. But there was vomit. Honestly,” she tapped her finger against her lips. “He was just dead except the puke. He was probably poisoned. That’s what Hazel thinks.”
“That’s kind of disappointing, isn’t it?” Then Kimmie’s eyes widened, she met Ingrid’s gaze, and they both started giggling.
“We’re going to hell.”
“You are,” Kimmie agreed at once. “I mean, you’re a witch.”
Ingrid snorted and then asked, “So you didn’t see anything you can tell your customers?”
She didn’t expect an answer, but Kimmie leaned forward and grinned wickedly.
“Well, I did see so
mething—” She trailed off suggestively, especially with those raised brows. She wanted Ingrid to ask.
Ingrid did, leaning forward. “What did you see?”
“What’s it worth to you?”
Their gazes met, Ingrid’s bright with humor and Kimmie’sfull of mischief. “You witch,” she drawled.
“I know,” Kimmie nodded almost rubbing her hands together.
“Fine, I don’t have to have free manicures for a year.”
Kimmie just waited, wry twist to her mouth.
Ingrid eyed the manicurist, who met her gaze without flinching. “You,” she said calmly, “are a terrible person.”
Kimmie nodded.
“I like it,” Ingrid finished. “You know I’m desperate. It’s a cold, cruel, vicious heart that takes advantage like this, you evil cow-dove.”
“Thank you,” Kimmie said, lifting her paintbrush to finish the last of Ingrid’s top coat.
“What do you want?”
“Free coffees, every day, from your shop.”
“Fine.” Ingrid snapped, eyeing Kimmie.
“The next three bedroom apartment that opens, I want it.”
“Okay, whatever.”
“At half-price.”
“Are you kidding me?” Ingrid snapped.
“My place is a hole. I can’t afford yours now that they’re all pretty. I want to live downtown, and the story I have to tell is very, very good.”
“Worth endless half-price rent?” Ingrid lifted her bag, pulled out the cash for the manicure, minus the tip, and eyed the other with her wallet open.
“Yes. Since you’re rich.” Kimmie said it openly. Her gaze met Ingrid’s and promised to deliver.
“If I don’t think it’s worth it…”
“Then half price rent for six months instead. I thought Emily was your best friend. What do you call her? Your favorite dove?”
“You are a terrible person,” Ingrid said before admitting, “Damn it. She is my best dove.” Ingrid grabbed several bottles of nail polish and slapped them down. “Look what you’re making me do! Stress-shopping while you…you…blackmail me.”
Inconvenient Murder: An Inept Witches Mystery Page 7
