The Trouble with Magic

by Madelyn Alt

  I took in her container with but a few spoonfuls missing, then my own, with but a few spoonfuls remaining. I set mine down as well, ruing the loss almost instantly, but like everything else about her, Felicity's slender figure was a constant cause for inspiration. I couldn't look at her without having visions of salads, aerobics classes, and vegetarian cookbooks. The result was exhausting, but I could do worse than to emulate her whenever possible.

  So I supposed that meant the miniloaf of bread was out of the question.

  Sigh.

  "I ran into Deputy Fielding at Annie's," I said to distract myself.

  Felicity laughed and began to gather together the trash into a paper sack. "The ubiquitous Mr. Fielding."

  "Was he—?"

  "Yes, he was there this morning."

  "He wants to talk to me."

  "Does that bother you?"

  "I'm not sure. He bothers me. But I think what troubles me most is that he seems so ready to believe the worst of you. It's his job to get to the truth of the matter, but it sounds as though the police aren't even following up on any other suspects. It doesn't seem as if the truth is all that important to him."

  Felicity chuckled and wrapped her arms about me in a spontaneous hug. "Ah, Maggie, you are a dear. Thank you for worrying about me. But don't fret overmuch. I'm quite capable of taking care of myself. You do what you need to do. And I, I will go on with my life as best I can. That's all any of us can do, you know. The best we can."

  She puttered around the office a few moments. I sensed that she had something else on her mind, so I waited in place, giving her time to form the words if she so wished.

  I didn't wait long.

  "By the way, Maggie," she began, uncharacteristically tentative, "I was wondering… but no, perhaps that is too much to ask. Forget I said anything."

  "Don't be silly. What is it?"

  "I discovered this morning that the police have released Isabella's body to the family."

  Inwardly, I was glad for it. Isabella Harding had suffered enough indignities in death. It was time to allow her family to bury her and get on with their healing.

  "I've spoken with Isabella's daughter," she went on by way of explanation. "There will be a viewing tonight, and then the funeral will be tomorrow afternoon."

  In her voice I heard a quality that nagged at me but that I couldn't quite put my finger on. And then the clarity of it struck me like a bolt from the blue. Isabella had family to mourn her, a husband and daughter, but neither had thought to call Felicity until now, to ask how she was coping. Felicity appeared to be on her own.

  "If you don't have anyone else to go with you to the funeral, I'd like to be there for you," I offered shyly.

  "I was hoping you'd say that," she admitted with a telltale shimmer in her eye. "I'll pick you up at seven."

  Chapter Seven

  What was I thinking? I hate funerals.

  There was something about them that would haunt me for weeks after, an aura of despair and utter melancholy that would hang around me like a swarm of bats, swooping back down at me just when I thought I had shaken off the oppression at last. And yet, paying one's respects to the dead is considered a duty of honor no one I knew would dream of forsaking. Parents taught it to their children through example, and in this way, generation by generation, the tradition of honoring the dead was passed on. I can remember being brought to viewings by my parents as a small child. Hanging on to my mother's skirt as she dragged me along with her to view the body where it lay in a fancy, polished casket that appeared more a prison than a place of rest, my fingers gripping ever tighter with each step we took. A glimpse of a pale face, cheeks and lips ruddy with abnormal color. There were times when I thought I heard them speaking to me, hushed whispers in words I couldn't quite make out. I would dig in my heels, anxious to get away, terrified that one day I would get up to the casket and the eyes would open, the head would turn, and the cold lips would whisper my name the way they did in my head. And always, always came a wave of emotion that slammed into me like a tsunami, reckless in its hunger to consume, voracious with a power man was meant to revere. Anger, sadness, loneliness, fear. Inevitably I would melt down, unable to bear the weight of such raw, all-encompassing emotions, and my mother would smile tightly at everyone we passed as she steered me by the elbow to my father's big, sensible sedan, all the while scolding me for allowing my imagination to control my good judgment.

  "Margaret, an undisciplined mind is a wicked mind," she would tell me briskly, "a tempting playground for Satan's minions. Never forget that."

  And so I would sit in the car alone, stinging with the shame of a public loss of control, yet unwilling to risk going back into that chamber of horrors for anything. As I grew older, I learned to stay back when my parents made their walk-by of the casket, hiding behind a mask of teenage indifference with the rest of my cousins and friends, and I had remained in the car at cemeteries, pleading boredom. My mother had allowed this, in her own way even encouraged it, perhaps remembering the old days of tearful collapse.

  I hadn't attended a funeral or viewing in years.

  And now? Now I found myself preparing to attend a viewing for a woman I didn't know, freely and of my own volition, for the sake of a friend I admired but whom I'd known only a matter of days.

  A noble sentiment, certainly. But in the back of my mind I couldn't help wondering if I'd outgrown my phobias about the dead.

  My message light was blinking when I got home just after six. My mother again, I supposed. Rarely did a day go by that I didn't have multiple calls from my mother. It wasn't that we were overly close. My mother was a complicated person. God knows I didn't understand her, even after nearly thirty years.

  I pressed the button as I slipped off my heavy coat and went to the closet to hang it up.

  Beep. "Miss O'Neill, this is Tom Fielding."

  The hanger missed the rod. Hanger and coat both fell from my suddenly tingling fingers and landed in a heap at my feet.

  "I was hoping to find you in, but I guess I must have missed you. Hey, I… I wanted to apologize to you. I don't know what it was I said that set you off today—"

  Hmmph.

  "—but whatever it was, I hope you can understand that I didn't mean to offend you."

  What he didn't know… Double hmmph.

  "Call me. Please. My number is 555-9872. I'll be home tonight. Thanks."

  I picked up my coat, replaced the hanger, and calmly hung it in the closet. Outwardly I was a model of serenity, but inside I was a mass of confusion.

  Please…

  That single word, so deeply masculine, so real, had lodged itself in my heart and refused to let go. I didn't know what to do. You see, driving home that evening, I'd come to a realization. I'd stopped at the grocery across town, then on a whim took the slow route back, traversing tree-lined streets golden with fall color. The season had been particularly lovely this year, and the evening should have been idyllic, but I couldn't shake off the feeling that trouble wasn't far behind. Of course it was the murder that had me on edge. I'd been thinking about Felicity. Once I had wondered whether she might have been involved in her sister's death, but I believed her now. I believed her, completely and utterly. The clincher had been the quiet sincerity in her voice when she spoke of her belief in the Rule of Three and a universe that had a way of exacting its own kind of justice. Beliefs so strong and unswerving that she felt no need to contact an attorney to look out for her best interests. She was innocent. I felt it.

  But how on earth could I explain that to Tom Fielding?

  I didn't have an answer, but I knew I had to try.

  My fingers trembled as I picked up the handset of my cordless and dialed the number he'd given.

  "Hello?"

  My heart thundered in my ears. He sounded so good over the phone. I licked my sandpaper lips. "Deputy Fielding?"

  "Miss O'Neill." I could hear the pleasure in his voice. "You called me back. I wasn't sure that you would.
"

  All right, so it had been a while. Big deal.

  "I wasn't sure that I would either."

  "I, uh, wanted to apologize for whatever it was I said that annoyed you, but I'd rather do it in person. Maybe dinner."

  "Dinner?"

  "Yeah. Do you like Mexican? I know this really great restaurant. Looks like a hole in the wall, but the food is grand."

  I gripped the phone tighter, staring at myself in the mirror next to my door. Flyaway hair, pale round face, open mouth. Yup, situation normal. "Let me get this straight. You're asking me to dinner."

  "Yeah. I guess I am."

  "Deputy Fielding—"

  "Tom. Please."

  "Tom, then." I didn't want to think about the consequences of even the minimal intimacy of using his given name. "If this is because you want to question me about anything, or even if it's because you think you offended me in some way, then let me assure you, it's not necessary." I paused a moment, then couldn't resist asking, "Is it?"

  He didn't answer right away, and I had a mental image of him squirming. "Well… no. Not entirely."

  "Not entirely."

  "No. I mean… well… God, this is hard. I mean, yes, I did want to ask you a few questions relating to the case. And I do want to apologize. But that's not the reason I'm asking you to dinner."

  "Oh." I didn't know what else to say.

  He waited through a few moments of silence. "Does that mean you'd rather not?"

  "I'm not sure. You haven't told me why you're asking me."

  He laughed. "You don't let a guy off easy, do you."

  "I'll take that as a compliment."

  Was I flirting? My God, I was flirting. Oh, this was very, very bad.

  "You do that."

  "So?"

  He blew his breath out, long and low. "All right. I'd like you to go to dinner with me because I think you're pretty, and you're interesting, and I'd like to get to know you better."

  I swallowed hard. I hadn't expected him to be quite that honest. "Oh."

  "Does that mean yes?"

  "Well…"

  "Oh. Hey. I guess I forgot to ask. Are you seeing someone?"

  "No, it's not that. But you are forgetting one thing, aren't you?"

  "And what's that?"

  "Your wife. Gold ring, third finger, left hand. Remember?"

  "My wife… ? Oh. God. I forgot about the ring."

  "Men do tend to do that at times," I quipped.

  "Uh, yeah. I guess for a while there, I still felt married, but… The truth is, my wife and I have been separated for two years. Once upon a time, I'd hoped we might work things out, but she served me with divorce papers three months ago. A new man. She wants to get on with her life and let me get on with mine. At least that's what she told me."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Yes, well, don't be. Sometimes things don't work out, even when you love each other. It just wasn't meant to be."

  And that was how he got to me. I mean, how could I refuse dinner with a man who didn't choose to blame his problem marriage on the wife who left him?

  "All right. Yes. Dinner would be… nice."

  "What are you doing tonight?"

  "Oh. Well, actually I do have plans this evening. The Harding viewing."

  "I didn't realize you knew Mrs. Harding."

  "I didn't. Felicity… well, she doesn't have anyone. I thought she might need support from a friend."

  "Nice of you. How about tomorrow night?"

  "All right." It would get me out of dinner with my family, too. That worked out beautifully. My mother would do anything to see me married with children, including letting me off the hook for dinner.

  "Pick you up at seven?"

  I gave him my address and hung up feeling giddy, and confused, and hopeful, and nervous. I went into my bedroom and flopped backward on the bed, my heart and stomach bouncing in time with the old spring mattress. Staring up at the shadows at play on the ceiling, I couldn't help wondering if I was doing the right thing. Too late now, though. I'd already said yes. And it was only one date, after all. Not a lifelong commitment. And if I could sway him in some small way, if I could make him understand what I had learned about Felicity, then it would be worth it.

  Felicity needed a champion, whether she admitted it or not.

  Reaching over my head, I grabbed my ratty old teddy bear from his nest in the pillows and pulled him in for a snuggle. He smelled like dust and fabric softener and memories. Comforting and familiar.

  "What do you think, Graham Thomas?" I asked him, holding him out at arm's length.

  Graham Thomas stared back at me with his black dome-button eyes, once shiny and now scratched and dull after years of falling out of my bed. He didn't say anything. That's what I liked about G.T. He didn't get mouthy. He also gave unconditional love, he never hogged the covers, and he didn't get too bent out of shape if I accidentally knocked him out of bed. G.T. was perfect.

  "He seems okay," I told him. "I'll take it slow. I'm hoping he'll outgrow his suspicion for Felicity. If not, well, I guess he's outta here."

  That seemed simple enough.

  I switched on the small, frilly lamp at my bedside and blinked as the sudden light dazzled my eyes. The alarm clock showed the time as six-thirty-six. I deducted the fifteen minutes I habitually set the clock forward and decided I had thirty-nine minutes before Felicity would arrive. Settling G.T. back against the pillows with a loving pat, I went out to the living room and popped a tape into the VCR, set it to record Magnum at seven, then went through my bedroom into my Lilliputian bathroom. My makeup kit yielded up a compact of pressed powder and lipstick. I applied both, pulled my hair neatly back with a silver clip, then went to my closet. Somewhere in its depths, I knew I possessed a black suit. My mother had made sure I was supplied with everything I needed to meet her definition of a good Catholic. Good Catholics attended Mass and weddings and funerals, and always dressed conservatively and appropriate to the occasion. Tonight, at least, the suit would come in handy.

  I held it against me, wondering whether I could get by without pressing it. The austere cut wasn't the most flattering, but hey, it wasn't my funeral… and beggars can't be choosers.

  "Maggie…"

  The eerie whisper came from behind me, lingering on as though it had been spoken through a microphone and someone had set the synthesizer to echo. The fine hairs on my arms stood suddenly at attention. Clutching my suit to my chest, I turned toward the door, my heart in my throat with the thoughts of what I might see there.

  Holy-Mary-Mother-of-God, what was that?

  My first instinct was to back into the depths of the closet and pull the jumble of clothes about me, but I knew for a fact that I had shot the deadbolt, and the windows were too small to admit anything but the smallest mammal. Squirrels, yes. A cat? Sure. A psychopathic sex maniac? No way.

  I grabbed my trusty baseball bat anyway—better to be safe than dead meat. With a semideadly weapon to boost my confidence, I tiptoed over to the bathroom doorway and peeped inside.

  Nothing hiding under the pedestal sink.

  Nothing slouching beside the toilet.

  Nothing skulking behind the shower curtain.

  Okay then.

  I took a deep breath and pussy-footed my way to the bedroom door, holding the wooden bat back and ready to swing for all I was worth. All was still in the apartment. No sounds except for the ticking of the alarm clock and the soft low hum of the refrigerator. Standing in the open doorway, I shivered as a sudden chill permeated the weave of my loosely knit sweater. It was like standing before an open deep freeze. Frigid air tingled over my arms, raising gooseflesh wherever it touched. Adrenalin shadowed fear in a headlong tumble through my veins. I leaned close to the doorframe, peering carefully around the corner. I half expected to see my outside door standing wide open, the frosty night air clouding in around some hulking brute of a man standing threateningly in my living room.

  The door was closed. The room was empty.
The windows remained intact.

  Where the devil was that cold air coming from?

  With a death grip on my Louisville Slugger, I valiantly stepped forward to complete a walk-through of my tiny studio apartment, switching on lamps as I went until the entire room blazed with light. I needn't have bothered. The single greatest advantage of having an apartment the size of a postage stamp was that everything was visible at once. There was no one in my apartment.

  No one.

  Had I imagined the voice?

  I bit my lip, my gaze darting back and forth as I tried to take in the entire room at once. I knew no one was there—that much was obvious—but I could almost swear I saw movement. A shadow here. A mirage-like waver of the air. A twinkle of light there.

  Get a grip, Maggie. You're not a little girl anymore.

  I made myself turn my back on the living room and return to my bedroom. It was my intention to push the incident to the back of my mind, but even though I knew there was nothing there, I couldn't seem to shake off the jitters. My pulse continued to race as I changed into my suit and squeezed into a pair of long-line control tops. When I had succeeded in making myself presentable, I perched on a hard wooden chair by the door, my back to the wall and a wary eye scanning every inch of the room as I tensely awaited Felicity's arrival.

  Even so, the buzzer at my ear nearly made me fall out of my chair.

  "Impressive," Felicity said as I opened the door. The corners of her mouth twitched. "Blowout sale on lightbulbs at the home shopping center, I see."

  I shrugged into my coat and grabbed my purse. "Ready?" I said as I eagerly stepped past her onto the landing.

  She hesitated behind me, one hand poised on the doorknob. "Shall I switch off the lights for you before we go?"

  "No!" The panicky tone of my voice made her turn with a quizzical stare, so I amended, "I mean, it makes me feel… safer… to have a light burning when I get home after dark."

  Her brows lifted as her gaze traveled from lamp to lamp, but she was gracious enough to keep her thoughts to herself. Instead, she followed me out and waited while I locked up.

  Her car stood at the curb—warm, solid, safe. Real. I closed myself into the womblike interior and sighed with relief, not daring to look back at the house.