Athene Kappas was Lucien’s right-hand woman. I’d never been able to tell whether their relationship was sexual in nature or not, but she handled all his business and always appeared at his side. For all I knew, he’d made her be his chauffeur on this little Arizona road trip. I wouldn’t put it past him.
In a way, I had to laugh at the gall of a man who would drive all the way from L.A. to Globe to importune me into being his partner while dragging his possible-paramour along for the ride. It seemed so inimitably Lucien.
But I only smiled sweetly and said, “Well, bring her along. I’m sure all three of us will have a lot to discuss.”
He didn’t take the bait, though. “No, I think it’s better if you and I meet alone. Where?”
“The Flatiron,” I said, naming a café where I’d had a couple of decent breakfasts since coming to town. “It’s over on Highway 60.”
“I’ll find it,” he replied. “Ten o’clock tomorrow.”
“Ten o’clock,” I repeated, glad that he hadn’t suggested a time at the crack of dawn. But then, that sort of meeting would have been even more inconvenient for him than it would have been for me. I’d gotten the impression that the man was a complete night owl.
To my relief, he didn’t push it after that, but instead headed toward the door, which had been left slightly ajar after he entered. “Tomorrow,” he said ominously, then swept out.
I didn’t bother to respond, but only went over to the door and locked it behind him. That task done, I glanced around the store. Everything was in its place, everything as it should be, and yet I still felt as though something had gone seriously wrong with the world.
Well, I’d deal with all that the next day. For the time being, I was just going to head to bed and figure out tomorrow, tomorrow.
At least the store opening had gone well.
I put myself together decently the next morning, mostly because I planned to go straight to the shop after breakfast with Lucien. Well, unless he turned me into a toad or something. A few weeks earlier, I wouldn’t have thought such a thing was even a possibility, but Archie’s experience had taught me not to take anything for granted.
“Who was that man?” he asked, planting himself on his haunches in the entrance to the bathroom as I applied mascara.
“What man?” I responded.
Archie let out a soft hiss. “The man you were arguing with last night.”
“You were eavesdropping?”
“Hardly,” Archie said, now sounding bored. “I was sleeping on the landing, and your voices carried quite clearly up the staircase. You didn’t sound very happy with him.”
“That’s because I wasn’t,” I said. Because I figured it couldn’t hurt to give my resident cursed cat some background, I added, “He’s — he’s a sorcerer from L.A. He’s also a world-class ass, and I’m less than thrilled that he tracked me down here. But done is done, so now I have to deal with it.”
“And how are you going to ‘deal with it’?”
“I’m meeting him for breakfast.”
“That’s supposed to solve everything?”
I slipped the tube of mascara back into my cosmetic case and pulled out my favorite MAC lipstick. Thank the Goddess that I could still mail-order the shades I knew and loved, although I was going to miss going into the store in person to try out new colors.
“Honestly, I don’t know if it’s going to solve anything,” I said after I’d applied a light coating of Antique Velvet to my lips. “But I have to try. At least this way, there’s a slim chance I’ll be able to persuade him to let me stay here in Globe rather than haul me back to L.A.”
At once, Archie’s golden-green eyes slitted in alarm. “You can’t let him do that. I was just starting to get comfortable here.”
I shook my head. “Yeah, Archie, it’s all about you.”
Being Archie, he didn’t seem at all embarrassed that I’d called him out on his selfishness. Not for the first time, I wondered if he’d been the same way as a human, or whether his selfish streak had emerged over the decades while he was hustling to stay alive as an alley cat.
“It should always be about ourselves,” he said, sounding huffy. “After all, who else can we trust to look out for our own best interests?”
For a second, I considered asking him whether he was a devotee of Ayn Rand, because his comment sounded exactly like that author’s self-serving philosophies. But since I didn’t want to get sidetracked, I decided to let the matter go.
“I’m going to try appealing to his better nature,” I told the cat, even as I privately wondered whether Lucien Dumond had a better nature to appeal to. Still, I had to try. “Or at least, I’m going to do my best to persuade him that there’s no reason why he’d even want me back in L.A. With any luck, I’ll convince him that I’m a mediocre witch and no one he needs to waste his energy on.”
“I’d be happy to help you with that argument,” Archie said with a sniff. “Considering you’ve been here nearly three weeks and you still haven’t turned me back into a human.”
More than once during that time, I’d done my best to tell him I really wasn’t that kind of a witch. Obviously, those words hadn’t yet sunk in. I needed to save my arguing energy for dealing with Lucien, though, and so I just shrugged as I stowed my makeup bag back in its drawer. “I’ve been doing what research I can, Archie. There are only so many hours in the day. I did just put a store and an apartment together in three weeks, you know.”
The cat made a harrumphing noise — coming from that throat, it sounded more like he was about to cough up a hairball — and stalked out of the bathroom.
Just as well. Although I was used to him hanging around while I put on my makeup, it was sometimes annoying to have to dodge questions while applying lipstick.
I went to the little hand-painted box on the dresser that held my jewelry and pulled out my favorite dangly amethyst earrings. The weather had started to warm up, so I wore a scoop-necked black T-shirt over my favorite purple and black sequined skirt, and black ballet flats instead of boots. It had always been one of my favorite outfits, and I hoped it would give me some courage for the coming confrontation.
Because I definitely wasn’t getting dolled up just to impress Lucien Dumond. I had my planned lunch with Hazel as well. Good thing we’d decided to meet at one; that would give me plenty of time to get this breakfast with Lucien over with.
Ten minutes until ten. I grabbed my purse and hurried downstairs, then went out the back door into the alley. That was one drawback about my new home; it didn’t have a garage or even a carport.
But Brett had helped me put up one of those canvas and steel car shelters, and that had helped to keep my poor Beetle from getting hopelessly dirty. Even so, I knew I’d need to take it to get washed pretty soon, since the shelter didn’t keep all the dust out.
I knew I was preoccupying myself with silly concerns like the car because I didn’t want to think about this face-to-face with Lucien. While I had to hope he wouldn’t make too much of a scene in a public place — my entire reasoning for asking him to meet me at the Flatiron in the first place — I couldn’t know that for sure. It was entirely possible he’d cause some sort of commotion embarrassing enough that I’d be forced to leave Globe just to avoid the fallout.
Or not, I told myself as I headed down Broad Street toward the restaurant. What do you care what people think? You’ve already outed yourself as a witch, so who cares if Lucien starts haranguing you about your powers or whatever? This isn’t high school.
No, it wasn’t, thank the Goddess. All the same, even a functioning adult generally wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of creating a scene around the people they had to live and work with.
My nerves were fairly vibrating with anxiety by the time I pulled into The Flatiron’s parking lot. I didn’t see Lucien’s car — a big black Mercedes S-Class sedan with California plates would have been pretty conspicuous amongst all the pickup trucks and SUVs — but I had a feeling he wante
d to be late on purpose so he could make an entrance.
Whatever.
I touched the amulet of black tourmaline I carried in an inner pocket of my purse, hoping that its ability to absorb or even repel negative energy would be enough to protect me. Right after I’d gotten up that morning, I’d lit a protection candle and uttered an invocation to Cerridwen, goddess of the earth, that she might give me the strength I needed for this confrontation, but I still wasn’t feeling all that confident. Ordinary people I could deal with…but Lucien Dumond was a whole order of magnitude beyond ordinary.
Since it was later in the morning, the restaurant wasn’t too crowded. I managed a smile at Ingrid, the owner, who was doing hostess duty.
“Any place you like, Selena,” she told me as she handed me a menu.
“Thanks,” I replied. “Can I have another menu? A friend is meeting me.”
Interest sparked in her light blue eyes. “‘Friend’?” she echoed. “Anyone I know?”
I supposed at some point I’d get used to the casual nosiness of small-town dwellers. “No,” I said, trying to sound casual. “A friend from L.A.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding a little disappointed. I couldn’t be sure, but I was starting to get the feeling that a bunch of the local busybodies had started a pool to see how long it would take before I started dating someone.
Well, if that was the case, they were going to be waiting a long time. Not that I had anything against dating, per se, only that it hadn’t worked out so well for me in the past. Over the last couple of years, I’d spent my energies focusing on the craft and my practice, since I’d gotten the distinct feeling that a happy love life was not something I was destined to enjoy during this particular lifetime. Maybe my dismal love life was merely karma…or maybe just really bad luck.
I took the menus over to a table that overlooked the parking lot, figuring at least that way I could see when Lucien pulled up and steel myself for his arrival at the table. No sign of the black Mercedes yet, though.
A waitress I didn’t recognize — and who looked barely out of high school, if even that — came by and asked if I wanted anything to drink. Since I didn’t know how long I’d be waiting for Lucien to appear, I asked for some hot water and a basket of herbal tea. It wasn’t that I avoided caffeine altogether, but I was already on edge and didn’t see the need to make myself even more jangly.
Ten o’clock came and went. My tea arrived, and I wasted some time in the ritual of choosing which variety I wanted from the little basket provided, then pouring hot water over the bag I’d selected. While I waited for it to cool down enough to drink, I got out my phone and frowned at the time stamp.
Ten fourteen.
Hmm. I didn’t have any missed calls or texts, so it wasn’t as though Lucien had tried to reach out and let me know he was running late. I supposed he could have gotten lost, although that wasn’t such an easy thing to do in Globe, especially in a late-model Mercedes that I assumed had a top-of-the-line navigation system.
A big white SUV with some sort of logo on the door pulled into one of the empty parking spaces. I couldn’t tell what was on the logo, since the vehicle was nearly pointed dead on toward the table where I sat. A minute later, the door opened, and Calvin Standingbear got out, black hair shimmering in the bright morning sun.
If possible, he was even more impressive in full daylight.
The logo on his SUV was probably the badge of the San Ramon tribal police department. I wondered what he was doing here, then thought he probably had stopped in to get a cup of coffee to go or something. After all, the restaurant was located right on Highway 60, and he could come and go from here more easily than heading over to Cloud Coffee, the coffee shop located just down the street from my loft and store.
I picked up my tea, extracted the bag, then blew on the hot liquid within the mug. The sharp, clean scent of peppermint drifted up to my nose, and I breathed it in. If nothing else, it would probably help calm me a bit.
The door to the restaurant opened, and Calvin walked in. He greeted Ingrid, but his eyes were already tracking to the various tables inside and their various occupants.
Until his gaze landed on me.
He walked over to the table, stride purposeful. At once, my heart started hammering away in my chest. What was he doing here? Had he decided that he’d blown it by not talking me up a bit more at the store opening? Was he at The Flatiron because he realized he wanted to ask me out on a date?
Even as I chided myself for allowing those ridiculous thoughts to churn away in my head, he came to a stop next to my table. For someone on a social call, he looked awfully grim.
“Selena Marx?” he said, voice brisker than it had been the night before. Actually, it was downright abrupt.
“Hi, Calvin,” I responded, hoping it was okay to address him by his first name. I knew if I tried to call him “Chief Standingbear,” I’d sound like an idiot.
He didn’t blink. Instead, he withdrew a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and slid it across the tabletop toward me. “Do you know this man?”
I looked down at the paper. On it was a fuzzy picture of Lucien Dumond, one that looked as though it had been enlarged from a driver’s license. “Ye-es,” I said, my voice shaky. Cold went over me, and as though from very far away, I heard the harsh squawk of a raven.
No, not from inside the restaurant, or even out in the parking lot. I knew it had come from much farther than that.
A harbinger.
“That’s Lucien Dumond,” I went on, since Calvin hadn’t said anything else, only stood there, looming over my table. “He’s visiting from Los Angeles.”
Face still impassive, Calvin said, “His body was found early this morning.” A pause before he added, “I’ll need you to come with me.”
6
Under Suspicion
I really didn’t know what to expect from a tribal police station. Honestly, I’d never even been in a regular police station, so I had no frame of reference beyond what I’d seen on TV or in the movies.
The San Ramon tribal police headquarters were located in a newish building on the reservation, with what looked to be up-to-date computers and phones and office furniture. The glossy surroundings surprised me a little, since I hadn’t expected anything quite so modern, not when Globe itself felt as if it was stuck somewhere back in the ’80s…and that was being charitable.
To my relief, Calvin hadn’t put me in handcuffs or anything. In fact, he’d allowed me to drive my car back to the apartment so I wouldn’t have to leave it in the parking lot at The Flatiron. I’d tried to stammer to him that there must be some kind of mistake, that I hadn’t seen Lucien since he left the store a little before nine the night before, but he didn’t want to hear anything of it. He told me he’d take my statement at the police station, and instructed me to get in the back seat of his Dodge Durango.
And then we’d driven out to tribal lands.
Now we sat in Calvin’s office. He’d left the door open, but everyone in the station seemed to have been instructed to stay away, since no one was working at either of the desks immediately outside.
He’d also been conscientious enough to get me a cup of water. I gulped from it and said, “I don’t understand what’s going on.”
Expression sober, he replied, “Two of my people found Dumond’s body dumped on a riverbank when they went to go fishing this morning. His wallet with I.D. was still on him — along with nearly five hundred dollars in cash. Obviously, robbery wasn’t the motive. He’s been taken to the county M.E. for an autopsy, but right now, best guess as to time of death was around midnight last night.” Calvin’s dark eyes narrowed, feeling like a pair of black laser beams as they focused on me. “Care to tell me where you were?”
“I was home in bed,” I said. For the moment, I thought it better to stick to the facts. I couldn’t really process my feelings about Lucien’s death, especially since I thought I might be more relieved than anything else…or I wo
uld have been, if I weren’t sitting in the San Ramon tribe’s police station, getting grilled by the chief. “Where else would I have been? I was exhausted after the store opening.”
Something flickered in Calvin’s eyes. Was he remembering me at the store, how excited I’d been to have the place open and people actually coming in and buying things? Maybe he was trying to reconcile the woman he’d seen then with the kind of person who’d be able to murder a man in cold blood.
“Got anyone who can corroborate that?”
He probably knew perfectly well that I didn’t. The whole town knew I lived alone. And all right, Archie had been there, had known I’d collapsed in bed a little after ten o’clock, but I kind of doubted the word of a talking cat was anything I could plausibly offer as support for my alibi.
“No,” I said. I almost added that anyone in the area would have been able to see that I hadn’t left the building after I locked up the store, but who would have even been around to notice? None of the other lofts in my particular block were used as residences, and while there was a small apartment building — formerly a dormitory for miners — at one end of the street, it was far enough away that I doubted the people who lived there would have seen any activity on my block. “But it’s the truth.” I hesitated, then added, “How — I mean — ”
“How did it happen?” Calvin asked. “He was stabbed multiple times with a knife. We haven’t found the murder weapon yet, so I can’t tell you what type.” He stopped there, arms folded over his chest. The sleeves of his khaki uniform shirt were rolled up, and I noticed for the first time that he had an interesting tattoo on the underside of one arm — the phases of the moon, waxing and waning against his smooth brown skin. “Do you own a knife, Ms. Marx?”
“Selena,” I said automatically, even as a painful, worried lump began to form in my throat.
Because I did happen to own a knife. Several, actually. The athame, or goddess dagger, used in a variety of rituals, and the boline, a small, sharp blade used to cut up plants and papers and other items used in all sorts of ceremonies. The athame, because its purpose was purely ceremonial, didn’t have a functioning point or blade, although I suppose if you shoved it into a person hard enough, it might penetrate the flesh. The boline was sharp enough along its edge, I supposed, but Calvin had said that Lucien had been stabbed, and the boline was definitely not a stabbing kind of knife.
Grave Mistake Page 6
