by Madelyn Alt
"Guilt is not the only reason for hiring a lawyer," I protested. "You need someone who can look out for your best interests, someone who can advise you and who can obtain information from the authorities that you don't have access to. You have to know what you're dealing with."
My voice had risen steadily in pitch throughout my impassioned bid for common sense, but I knew nothing I said would convince her until she made up her own mind. Felicity, it seemed, was as stubborn as I was.
As if to prove my point, Felicity smiled at me and held out her hand. "Sit down, dear."
I did as she asked, perching on the edge of another stool, my muscles so twitchy that I could scarcely make myself stay seated. Every nerve in my body urged me to get up and pace the floor.
"Maggie, I want you to know that I appreciate your concern. I do. But I also need you to understand there is nothing you can do."
"Maybe I can't. But there must be something you can do," I pleaded. "Look, I don't know very much about this witchcraft thing, but surely you have some way of dealing with false suspicion."
"What is it that you suggest?"
I'd gone this far. I might as well go for the whole hog. I placed my hands on my knees and gripped them hard to keep them from shaking. "A spell. Or a charm. Or even a hex, for God's sake! Anything that will make them back away from you long enough to realize that there might be another explanation. A better explanation."
Please, God, let there be another explanation. I did not want to think she could be involved.
Felicity's lips twitched. "A spell, hmm?" When I nodded, she patted my hand kindly. "Oh, Maggie. I haven't educated you very well yet, have I? You see, except in the most extreme circumstances, modern-day witches abide by Karmic Law, or the Rule of Three." At my blank look, she explained, "That, positive or negative, whatever we do returns to us three times as strongly somewhere down the road. We do not believe in manipulating the will of others in most circumstances, because we believe in treating others as we ourselves hope to be treated. And because our will is human and personal, we cannot possibly see the full ramifications of altering the plans the Goddess has set into motion. Now"—she patted my hand again—"do you understand why I'm telling you this?"
"Because you cannot cast a spell on our police force that will force them to look for the real killer."
"Will not. Not cannot," she corrected with a hint of pride in her voice. "They need to come to the conclusion on their own, else they'll be following my will. But don't worry. The Universe has a way of seeing that justice is done in its own good time."
Before I could voice my opinion that it wasn't much good being a witch if one couldn't defend oneself, she swept up her purse and began to dig within it.
"What time is it, what time is it. There you are," she said, withdrawing a tiny silver pocket watch on a fine chain. "Nigh onto noon, is it? Small wonder I'm famished. Tell you what," she said, taking out her checkbook. "I'll spring for a hopping-good lunch if you'll go out and pick it up for the both of us. After your boundless support, it's the least I can do. What do you say?"
What could I say? Fifteen minutes later, I puttered to a halt by the curb in front of a little restaurant I'd never tried before, a cute little cafe on Main Street called Annie-Thing Good. Outside, mix-and-match wrought-iron patio tables were pushed up against the plate glass window, tipped-up chair legs akimbo and laced together with chain, awaiting the arrival of summer so many months away. I waded through them to the pumpkin-and-cornstalk-flanked door and pushed my way inside. The fairytale tinkle of brass wind chimes sounded with the movement, mingling with the lilting soprano of some Celtic-style songstress and lifting my spirits.
Inside, the scent of baking bread just about bowled me over, yeasty, fresh, mouth-wateringly powerful. I took my place in line at the counter, nodding to Mr. Krieg, one of my old high school teachers who was nowadays tormenting a whole new generation of underachievers, and waving at Old Mrs. Hlavacek, who'd been postmaster at our outdated post office since before the changeover from the Pony Express and who was now having an enormous bowl of soup at one of the little side tables. For a newer restaurant, the cafe seemed to be doing brisk business. Usually it took a while for a new place to find a clientele, but the proprietor of Annie-Thing Good had somehow beaten the usual stick-in-the-mud tendencies of the good residents of Stony Mill. I'd lay odds it had something to do with the wonderful scents wafting out from the back kitchen. Nothing that smelled that good could be kept a secret for long.
Word of mouth travels like lightning around here.
Behind me, the door tinkled again. More customers. I hoped Annie The Proprietor was feeling up to the task. She seemed to be alone behind the counter.
There was a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to find Deputy Tom Fielding, standing in line just behind me, sunglasses, uniform, and all.
"Fancy meeting you here, Miss O'Neill."
I gulped, wondering if he had a permit to look that good. "I—I was just getting lunch. To take back to… to the store."
He took his aviators off and slid one earpiece into the front pocket of his leather cop's jacket. Right beside his badge. My gaze hit the glint of the badge, and it shocked me back into reality.
What the heck was I doing, making goo-goo eyes at the enemy? Tom Fielding had made no bones about his position regarding Felicity. Okay, well, maybe a few bones, but he hadn't hidden it much. It wasn't so much that he suspected her that bothered my sense of justice—hadn't I wondered myself?—rather it was the idea that he had convicted her in his mind without completing his investigation that didn't sit well with me. But that was the way our boys in blue operated. Imagination isn't what they're known for.
"So, have you eaten here before?"
Annoyed with myself, I turned my back on him, hoping he'd get the hint that I wasn't interested in conversation. "No."
"You'll love it," he said, oblivious to the fact that I thought he was a cretin. "I come here all the time now, but I don't know that I've ever appreciated the line as much as today. Must be my lucky day."
The comment was so unexpected and curious that I had to turn back to look at him.
He peered at me full on with a glint in his eyes that was unmistakable. There are few certainties in a woman's life. Unadulterated male appreciation was one of them. It also wasn't something I was overly comfortable with. My share had always seemed to be deflected somehow, rerouted toward my younger sister, or any number of more vivacious young women. I suppose that made me more like the ugly stepsister than Cinderella, but every once in a while I did find a guy who seemed to like me despite the fact that I was not blond, athletic, or rich.
"Is it?" I responded coolly, looking down my nose at him. I had to tilt my head back to do it, too. I'm sure it wasn't especially pretty.
"Well, it could be. How's that job of yours going?"
"It's fine."
"And how's that boss of yours doing?"
Ah, so that's what all this was leading up to. I must have been wrong about the level of appreciation I'd seen in his eyes. Apparently I was nothing more than a means to an end. He was looking for information about Felicity and thought I might have something to offer.
All of a sudden I was angry. Angry for myself, angry for Felicity, and angry for Isabella, whose murderer would walk free so long as such biased treatment was allowed to go on unchecked.
Riding high on the sudden surge of indignation, I whipped around again to glare at him. "You have some nerve," I whispered fiercely. "You know perfectly well how Felicity is, since you were questioning her all morning with your harassment-happy buddies down at the station. But since you're asking me, let me tell you. You're barking up the wrong tree. Felicity had nothing to do with her sister's death. Nothing. So if you're serious about looking for the killer who's out there on our streets as we speak, you might want to actually look, rather than pinning all your hopes on the easy target."
His mouth had fallen open at my tirade, and I was glad for it. I wa
s mad enough to spit icicles. Another place, another time, and I would have walked out there and then, my chin held high, pride intact. The only thing that kept me in place was the check in my purse, made out to Annie-Thing Good, and the fact that the line ahead of me was moving and I was the next one up.
Good food wins out over the perfect exit every time.
At last, it was my turn to order. I stepped up to the counter and did a quick scan of the menu. "Hi. I'll have—"
My attention shifted from the menu to the woman standing behind the counter, and I did a double-take. Round of face and short on stature, this strawberry-haired dynamo did not exactly fit into the faded flannel and denim world of your typical die-hard Hoosier. She wore a cherry-red crinkled broomstick skirt that reached to her ankles and a lemon-yellow oversized T-shirt that screamed chefs do it tastefully! cinched around her comfortable middle by a frilly fifties-style apron. Though the gray in her softly curling hair suggested that she might have reached middle age, she wore it hitched up into a youthful ponytail, the ends bouncing with every energetic step. Stone-colored Birkenstocks and sensible white ankle socks completed the picture she made of an aging hippy making her way in life exactly as she wanted.
"First-time visit?" Her ready smile welcomed me as surely as a friendly hug. "It's cold outside and the forecasters are threatening a flurry or two this evening. Fall flurries are always the coldest. Why don't you try a nice, hearty bowl of baked potato soup? It's my specialty, with green onions and bacon and a helping of sour cream thrown into the mix. Trust me, it's pure soul food."
"That sounds great. I'll take two. Thanks."
"No problem," she said, eyeing me curiously as she doled out the man-sized servings of something that smelled like heaven. "It comes with your own miniloaf of homemade bread. Just what you need to take your mind off your troubles."
Lately my troubles seemed to be multiplying, and the man standing behind me, close enough that I could smell his spicy cologne, was not helping.
"And since you're a first timer, I hope you'll accept a little welcome gift from me. Caramel cream cheese brownies, my personal specialty. I'm Annie, by the way. Annie Miller. And you work for Felicity."
I stared at her in amazement. "How did you know?"
"Felicity called to tell me you were on your way over," she said with an impish wink.
I laughed, somehow relieved that there was a mundane, nonparanormal explanation for her knowledge. "Ah. I should have guessed. For a moment there, I thought you were going to tell me…" I caught myself just in time. "Never mind. It's not important. Thanks again."
I handed her the check and gathered up the two cartons and the bag with the bread. I had to stack one on top of the other, holding the topmost bag in place with my chin.
She helped me get my arms around everything. "That should do it. Oh, look who's here," she said, gazing past me. "Deputy Fielding, long time no see. You want the regular?"
"Hey, Annie. Yeah, the regular's fine."
"I'll have it for you in a jiffy," she said as she tidied my scarf around my shoulders like some sort of surrogate mother.
"No hurry."
In a slick, efficient movement, she whirled around, grabbed his already bagged lunch out of the warmer, plunked it down, and swept up the money he'd placed on the counter. I turned to leave, eager to get away before she finished with him.
"Tomorrow as usual, Tom? Oh," she said, as she noticed me trying to make my escape, "tell Felicity that I'll see her Saturday night, would you?"
"Uh-huh," I grunted as I backed out the door. The top bag started to slide, forcing me to grab it with my teeth before it could fall to its doom. Got it—whew. I looked up, bag in teeth, just in time to see the good deputy standing in front of me, a lopsided smile curving one side of his mouth.
"Allow me," he said, reaching a hand over my shoulder to hold the door for me. I took a quick step back, my heart scudding fast against my ribs with his nearness.
It wasn't fair, I decided as I tried to put space between us, that a woman should be so affected by a man the world had put forth in direct opposition to her. I hurried out into the brisk October air, hoping the wind that was scuttling dried leaves against the brick building would also cool my burning cheeks before he caught sight of them.
Now to get out of his way.
I hustled my butt over to Christine and tried to use my pinkie to push the chrome button release.
Locked. Damn it all to hell.
Muttering between gritted teeth, I turned momentarily back toward the cafe—long enough to intercept the grin Fielding didn't bother to conceal—then whirled away. Keys, keys, where did I put… My heart sank as I recognized the hard, cold object weighing heavily in my left hip pocket.
"Shi'," I hissed around the bag.
"Need some help?"
"No' f'om you."
He walked over and leaned a hip against Christine's flank, crossing his arms over his chest. I pretended to ignore him while I shifted the boxes and bags in my arms in the hopes that I could manage to free a finger and thumb. All the better to hook the key ring out of my pocket, my dear.
Except my key ring had slid to the lowest possible depths. No matter how hard I stretched my fingers, I couldn't manage to snag it.
To make matters worse, the topmost box began to slide.
"Shi'!"
With a movement so smooth it might have been choreographed, Fielding bent at the waist and almost leisurely stretched out his hand. The box dropped neatly into his palm.
He straightened and held it out to me. "Sure I can't help you?"
I gave up. Piled everything on top of Christine's sloped roof, then held them all in place with one hand while I dug in my pocket with the other. Retrieving the keys I jammed the right one into Christine's willful locks, yanked open the door with an embarrassingly loud creak of the hinges, snatched the box from his hand, and threw it all into the passenger seat in one fell swoop. "Thanks."
I all but leapt into my car. I would have closed the door, but Fielding put his hand on the frame and leaned down toward me.
"Miss O'Neill—"
"If you don't mind, I'd like to leave. Our lunch is getting cold."
"I'd like to speak with you further."
"In an official capacity?"
He hesitated, long enough for me to guess that nothing we discussed could possibly be determined unofficial. "There are some things I'd like to ask you," he admitted.
"About Felicity."
"Among other things, yes."
Exasperated, I crossed my arms and scowled at him. "Don't you have any intention at all of actually getting to the bottom of that poor woman's death?"
"I can hardly be expected to 'get to the .bottom' of it if I don't have the full cooperation of all relevant witnesses, now can I?"
It made my hair frizz to admit it, but I supposed he was right. "Including me."
"I was hoping to… interview you later."
I hemmed. I hawed. I just didn't see a way I could refuse.
I heaved a sigh of resignation. "Do I have to go down to the station?"
His lips curved up in a one-sided smile. "Not if you promise to answer my questions."
"Do I need a lawyer present at this… interview?"
"Do you feel you need one?"
"Not really."
"Then I think you should do what you feel comfortable with. Personally I don't think you need one—that's just my humble opinion, and should not be misconstrued as legal advice in any way, shape, or form—but the only purpose a legal eagle might serve in this case is as a chaperone."
Did he mean to suggest we might need a chaperone?
Get ahold of yourself, Maggie…
My gaze strayed down to the ring shining golden and warm in the cold sunlight on his left hand. I might be a lot of things, but one thing I was not was a homewrecker. I was a one-man woman, and as such, I felt the rest of the world should hold themselves to such high-minded principles as well. The world would
be a happier place if more people did.
I narrowed my eyes at him. "It will be a short interview, I trust?"
"Scout's honor."
So why didn't I feel reassured?
I stewed about it all the way back to Enchantments, so much that my arrival there took me by surprise. It's rather disconcerting, when you think about it, to drive several miles and have no recollection of a single one. How many cars did I drive past that I didn't really see? How many people? How many other drivers were so caught up in their own private world that they didn't see me?
But at least the drive had accomplished one thing. By the time I arrived at the store, I had decided that meeting with the dishy deputy might be a good move. How many other opportunities would I have to pump for information the very people who had access to the crime scene itself? Because more and more it seemed that if I wanted Felicity to have a fair shake, I was going to have to do my part to help shake up our well-meaning, if shortsighted, boys in blue. Namely, Deputy Tom Fielding, whom I suspected to be a driving force behind the investigation.
Shake him up, hell! I'd prefer to throttle him.
Having learned my lesson back at the cafe, I purposely made two trips in with our lunch. Felicity was waiting for me in the little office.
"There you are. How did you like Annie's place?"
"Very interesting woman, that Annie. High energy. By the way, she says to tell you she'll see you Saturday night."
"Yes, she is that. High energy, I mean. Spirits seem to love Annie, you know. They flock about her like moths to a flame."
Ah. Important safety tip: Stay away from Annie Miller after dark.
To Felicity I just smiled and handed her a container of soup. "She certainly seems to know her soups. This smells wonderful."
She'd scarcely dipped into the creamy broth before she dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and pushed hers away. "Oh, my. That was delicious, but I'm afraid I can't eat another bite. Promise you won't tell Annie when you see her next."
