Bat Out of Spell

by Amanda M. Lee

  Lena was already face down under the sheet, her eyes pressed shut, and she was clearly waiting for her massage to start.

  “I want the hot stone massage today, Margo,” she murmured. “My muscles are extremely tense.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I had no intention of actually rubbing the woman, instead planting a suggestion that I was so she would open up. I made a big show of squirting massage oil on my hands before leaning close to her ear and whispering. “Somnum.”

  It was a simple spell, one of the few Latin words I remembered from my classes at St. Joan of Arc. I waited a beat until I heard Lena murmur something under her breath and then I jumped right in. Margo would only be distracted by her car issues for another ten minutes tops, which meant I had to be out of the room long before that.

  “What’s the deal with your daughter and Blair Whitney?”

  Lena didn’t act surprised by the question. “They hate each other.”

  “Because your daughter is sleeping with Mrs. Whitney’s husband? You know that’s the rumor, right?”

  “It’s not a rumor. I encouraged her to do it.”

  I was dumbfounded. “Why?”

  “Charles Whitney III is a very rich man.” Lena was matter-of-fact. “He’s worth billions. Not millions, but billions.”

  “He’s still married.”

  “Not happily.” Lena made a face as she shifted slightly on the table. “Blair was an unpleasant woman and didn’t care about meeting Charles’ needs. When Charles started showing interest in Rebecca, she came to me with her concerns. We talked about the issue and agreed it would probably be in everyone’s best interests if she allowed him to make a move.”

  I had trouble wrapping my head around Lena’s blasé attitude. “So you basically prostituted your daughter.”

  “I did not!” Lena’s voice shook. “We made a decision that was best for our family. We’re still convinced it will work out.”

  “Right.” I felt as if I’d accidentally tripped and fell into an alternate dimension. “Why did Blair Whitney invite you on this trip?”

  “Because she knew Charles was in love with Rebecca and didn’t want them spending any time together while she was getting one of her nip-and-tucks. This was simply her way of controlling the situation.”

  “And because you didn’t want her pushing the issue, you agreed,” I surmised. “That’s just … all screwed up.”

  “Tell me about it.” Lena didn’t appear bothered by my judgment. “We all knew it would be an uncomfortable situation, but no one thought it would end this way.”

  She gave me an opening for my next question, so I took it. “Did your daughter kill Blair?”

  Lena snorted. “Of course not! My daughter is many things, but she’s no murderer.”

  “Okay.” I licked my lips. “Did you kill Blair Whitney?”

  “No. I’m not a murderer either. You’re looking at it wrong. Blair was notorious for self-medicating. She drank herself into a stupor every night. She added pills to the mix regularly. She wasn’t killed. She tripped and hit her head. It was an accident that we all saw coming years ago.”

  I stared at the woman’s back for a long time. The spell I’d cast wasn’t exactly a truth spell. It was supposed to make the individual under it feel relaxed enough to spill whatever came to mind. That didn’t mean lies were out of the question. I was almost out of time and dosing Lena with truth serum now was too risky.

  “Do you feel guilty about any of this?” I took a step toward the door as I ran the information about Blair through my head. It would make sense that she was self-medicating. Her life was falling apart around her and she wanted to forget. Still, an accident didn’t fit the facts of the case. Something else was going on here.

  “Why would I feel guilty?” Lena challenged. “Blair didn’t give her husband what he needed and my daughter did. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  I could think of a few things wrong with it, but decided to let it go. I was out of time. “Oh, just one more thing.” I paused with my hand on the door handle. “I think you should go to Coconuts bar and participate in karaoke with your daughter tonight.”

  It was a basic suggestion that Lena could accept or deny. I hoped she was relaxed enough to simply agree.

  “We’re not karaoke people.”

  I scowled. I wasn’t a karaoke person either. I decided to try a different tack. “They have the best rum runners in town. They’re strong … and cheap.”

  Lena’s demeanor changed in a heartbeat. “That sounds fun.”

  “Yeah. I thought that might pique your interest.”

  Nine

  Karaoke at Coconuts is one of those weekly traditions that I’m embarrassed to admit I attend. I can’t sing. I’m a terrible dancer. And, as much as I love bad seventies and eighties music there’s nothing more annoying than listening to the same people belt out the same lame tunes week after week. I mean … there’s only so many times you can hear “Summer Nights” before wishing the singers would actually disappear in a flying car.

  I had no choice but to attend tonight. I had a plan and I wanted to stick to it.

  By the time I entered the bar, opting for simple cargo pants and a black shirt, it was packed with regulars. Tourists almost always find their way to the bar – it’s too loud to ignore – but regulars pack the seats and turn it into a gossip free-for-all.

  I found Kenna, Evian, and Zola sitting at a table in the corner. Even though we like to bicker, we also make a show of hanging out because that way people don’t question us when a situation that requires pooled witchy energy arises. We were left behind for a reason – to clean up the mess we wrought as teenagers – and the occasional issue continued to crop up. We were resigned to working together, even though it wasn’t always comfortable.

  “I see you guys are all dressed up.” I wrinkled my nose at their sparkly outfits and ornate sandals. “It’s just karaoke, for crying out loud.”

  “I always feel good when I look good,” Kenna shot back, her hair so glossy it gleamed under the seashell twinkle lights. “You should try it some time.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I waved off her dig. “So, I got some information on the dead woman at the resort today. It seems she was quite the busy little bee.”

  Zola, a rum runner in hand, raised her eyebrows as she sipped. “Does this have something to do with what I told you?”

  “Kind of.” I related my afternoon, leaving nothing out. When I was done, instead of being impressed, my former classmates were amused.

  “You need a hobby or something,” Evian suggested. “Have you considered taking up yoga or dance classes? If anyone ever needed to sweat out her aggression, it’s you.”

  I blew a raspberry in her direction as I signaled the waitress for a drink. It was karaoke night, so there was only one thing on tap for the regulars. It was no big deal for me because I liked rum runners. I simply had to remind myself that they were stronger than they tasted because there’s nothing worse than a drunk witch on karaoke night.

  “I have a hobby.”

  “Since when?”

  “Well … I haven’t killed you guys yet. That’s got to count as the most benevolent of hobbies, right?”

  Kenna let loose a low whistle as she shook her head. “Who crawled in your corned beef hash and died?”

  “It’s just been a long day.” That was true. “I think I talked the mistress’s mother into bringing everyone here so I can squeeze more information out of them. I’m antsy.”

  “And why would you want that?”

  “Because Blair Whitney was murdered and I want to know who did it. I’d think you would feel the same way because tourism is literally your job. If people believe we have a murderer on the loose they’ll stop coming to the island.”

  Kenna leaned back in her chair and gave me an appraising look. For a brief moment I thought she was going to agree with me. That had never happened before. It turned out it wasn’t going to happen now either. “If I thought you
were actually worried about tourism I might cut you some slack,” she said. “You’re only interested in getting information because you’re a busybody.”

  She said that like it was a bad thing. “Whatever. The simple fact of the matter is that as concerned residents we should want to make sure that no one gets away with murder on our watch.”

  Instead of responding, Kenna ducked her head under the table. I watched her for a moment, confused, and when she popped back up I pinned her with a look.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for the pile of crap you’re clearly shoveling. I thought it might be invisible.”

  “Oh, whatever.” I rolled my neck and kicked back in my chair. “I stand by what I said. I’m a community-minded individual and I want my community to be safe.”

  “Says the woman who allows her familiar to run around town crapping in people’s coffee when they’re not looking,” Evian drawled.

  “That is a community service all its own.”

  “How?”

  I was about to launch into a ridiculous explanation for my stance, but my attention was diverted by the group of women walking into the bar. I recognized Lena, as well as her daughter, right away. I’d seen photographs, although they weren’t altogether flattering. The two other women were harder for me to gauge. “Well, look who decided to stop by after all.”

  Three heads snapped in the direction I stared. I didn’t miss the little hiss Zola allowed to escape when she realized I hadn’t been kidding about inviting a possible murderer to karaoke night.

  “I can’t believe they showed up.” Kenna made a clucking sound as she shook her head. “That seems rather inappropriate, don’t you think? I mean … the one woman’s mother was found dead in the bushes thirty-six hours ago. I don’t think most people grieve the loss of their mother with rum runners.”

  That sounded like the best way to grieve. “Do you know which one she is? I only saw photos of Lena and Rebecca.”

  “The blonde,” Zola answered automatically. “I saw her in the coffee shop earlier today and someone pointed her out to me. Her name is Sheridan.”

  “Sheridan Whitney?” I made a face. “What is it with these people and their preppy names?”

  “I think it goes along with money,” Evian supplied. “Like … if you make more than three million a year you get a different baby name book than everyone else.”

  That actually didn’t sound out of the realm of possibility. I studied the woman in question for a long time, doing my best to wrap my head around her bland expression. She didn’t seem moved by anything going on around her. Granted, she wasn’t laughing and enjoying herself. She didn’t exactly look prostrate with grief or anything either. “She doesn’t exactly look like a woman in mourning, does she?”

  “Why?” Kenna challenged. “Is it because she’s not wearing black?”

  I would never be that shallow. “No. She just looks … normal.”

  “Maybe she’s in shock,” Zola offered. “She didn’t say much at the coffee shop. She sort of sat and listened as the other woman – the one with the brown hair sticking close to her – did most of the talking.”

  I switched my attention to the fourth woman. “That would be the assistant, right?”

  “Yes. Her name is Jane Smith.”

  I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. “I take it back. The preppy names are better than Jane Smith. I mean … there are worse names than Sheridan.”

  “She’s the assistant,” Kenna pointed out. “Her name is supposed to be boring so she doesn’t overshadow everyone else.”

  “So … you’re basically saying that no one named Bambi has ever wanted to be a secretary.”

  “I think if you name your kid Bambi that she’s got another life already carved out for her,” Kenna said. “Sadly, it’s probably on a stripper pole … or maybe that’s simply how it always seems to work out.”

  “Maybe.” I watched the women for another moment before downing my drink in four long swigs and getting to my feet. “I’ll be back in a little bit.”

  “Oh, I don’t like the look in your eyes,” Evian complained. “You’re about to do something stupid, aren’t you?”

  “Would I do that?”

  Kenna, Evian, and Zola nodded in unison, causing me to scowl.

  “I never do anything stupid,” I shot back. “I’m a master at getting information and hurting no one in the process.”

  “Yeah, I’ll remind you of that when you get arrested for doing something dopey and are locked in the back of the cop cart,” Kenna said. “By the way, if that happens, I’m not bailing you out.”

  “Me either,” Zola enthusiastically added. She was clearly already halfway to drunk.

  “I might bail you out,” Evian offered. “I’ll charge you interest, though.”

  “I’m so glad I’ve been stuck with all of you on this rotten island,” I muttered, grabbing my purse and slinging the strap over my head so I’d have easy access to what I’d hidden inside when I got behind the bar. “Your loyalty and friendship touches my very soul.”

  “Something else might end up touching you if you get arrested,” Kenna shot back, grabbing the song book from the end of the table and flipping it open. “So … who wants to sing ‘Love Shack’ with me tonight?”

  Ugh. I was glad to get away from that discussion.

  I SPENT THE NEXT TWENTY minutes behind the bar with Bonnie Fisher, one of Coconuts’ most popular bartenders. She was in her forties, didn’t get territorial about the space behind the bar and was always up for telling a good story … whether it was true or not.

  “I swear on my mother’s life that I saw it.” Bonnie mimed crossing her hand over her heart, her expression solemn. I’d come up with a solid plan for getting the truth serum into Lena and her friends. Unfortunately, I had to listen to Bonnie’s tale of terror about running into Bigfoot on her way to work to get access to the liquor.

  “Are you sure it wasn’t just Jim Oleson?” I queried. “He’s got that back-hair situation and his beard gets pretty bushy if he goes without trimming it every few days.”

  Bonnie made an exaggerated face. “I’m sure it wasn’t Jim Oleson. It was Bigfoot.”

  I held up my hands in capitulation. “Sorry. It was Bigfoot. I stand corrected.”

  “He’s out there, and the government knows about it.” Bonnie lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s part of their black files.”

  I had no idea what she meant by “black files.” I also didn’t care. “Well, if you see him again, try to get a photograph. I’ll totally print it in The Town Croaker and give you a photo credit.”

  Bonnie mock saluted. “You’ve got it.”

  I mixed four rum-runners and left them on a tray as I escaped from behind the bar long enough to approach Dylan. He sat with several of his co-workers and I didn’t miss the looks he lobbed my way when a slow song started. “I’ll have time to dance a little later,” I offered as I neared. “I just have to finish up with some drinks first. It shouldn’t be long.”

  Dylan broke out in a wide smile. “Okay.” He looked younger than his twenty years when he blushed, if that was even possible. “You look pretty tonight.” I hadn’t worn the requested dress, but he didn’t seem to care.

  “Thank you.” I straightened and cast a glance to Lena and her cohorts. They seemed deep in conversation and were almost finished with their first round of drinks. It was the perfect time to deliver my round of special libations – the ones I’d dosed with truth serum – and get them talking. Things were falling into place.

  “And we meet again.”

  I jolted when Augie slid into the open spot to my right and graced me with what I’m sure he considered a charming grin. He had a rum runner in each hand and looked as if he’d dressed up for the occasion … and by that I mean he’d put on a fresh polo shirt.

  “We really do need to stop meeting like this,” I drawled, rolling my eyes when he handed me one of the rum runn
ers. “What’s this?”

  “I bought you a drink.”

  “You bought me a … .” I trailed off, dumbfounded. “Why? You’ve never bought me a drink before.”

  “Maybe I thought you looked like you needed one.”

  Was that an insult? “I … um … .” For lack of anything better to do, I accepted the drink and drank half of it so I had time to collect my thoughts. “This is great. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Augie’s lips curved as he looked toward the bar. “Is that Shana Witherspoon doing ‘Redneck Woman’ again?”

  I nodded without looking at the stage. “She does that song every week. I don’t know why you’re surprised.”

  “I’m not surprised. I just thought maybe she’d branch out one week.”

  “I sincerely doubt that will ever happen. I’m pretty sure she only knows the one song.”

  “Someone is feeling catty.” Augie made mock growling sounds and pretended to flick imaginary cat paws. “Rawr.”

  “Oh, don’t do that,” I complained. “People will think you’re gay and you already have enough strikes against you when it comes to finding a date in this town.”

  Augie’s smile slipped. “You don’t always have to say what comes to your mind. You know that, right?”

  “Maybe I like being blunt.”

  “And maybe it’s a defense mechanism because you’re afraid to get close to people,” Augie suggested. “In fact … .” He grabbed the drink from my hand and slid it onto a nearby table, depositing his there as well before dragging me toward the dance floor.

  At first I was confused. Then I felt something else that I couldn’t quite identify. It felt like panic. “What are you doing?”

  “We’re dancing.” He didn’t ask. He didn’t extend a hand and wait for me to accept it. Instead he simply slid his arms around me and started swaying to the music. I was absolutely befuddled.

  “We don’t dance.” I pushed against his chest – which felt much more solid than it should – as I tried to find an escape hatch. “We’ve never danced.”