The Trouble with Magic

by Madelyn Alt

  Steff's brows went up. "No. Not really?"

  I nodded vigorously. "I saw her myself. Felicity pointed her out. Mid-thirties, I'd guess. Well preserved, but hard. Expensive black sheath dress that might possibly have been one size too small. Silk. It was slit up to… well, never mind."

  "Interesting funeral wear."

  "Yeah. I never saw them together at the viewing, but then again, she was never more than a few steps away from him, either. Oh, and then there was the daughter. If that was the face of grief, I'll never eat chocolate again. She worked harder at the role of hostess than that of grieving daughter, and she couldn't wait to get us out of there."

  Recognition lit up Steff's eyes. "That would be Jacquilyn?"

  "Uh-huh. Do you know her?"

  "Vaguely. Actually, I, um, know her fiance."

  My ears perked. Now that was something new. Despite the graduation photo, somehow I was having a hard time picturing the ice princess I'd just met getting cozy with a guy. "She has a fiance? I didn't see her with anyone at the viewing."

  "Roger Foley." Steff seemed to take a sudden, studied interest in a blanket folded over the arm of the sofa. "His father owns a factory on the north side of town."

  "I wonder why he wasn't there tonight." I couldn't help noticing how Steff's fingers worried the nubby weave of the blanket. Now, I might be a little preoccupied, but I wouldn't be much of a friend if I didn't recognize the signs that my best buddy was having a momentary crisis. "How do you know him?"

  She was silent for a long moment before she answered. "I, uh, dated Roger—briefly—last summer. Not long. I met him at a party, and he pretended to be charming. It didn't take more than a date or two for me to recognize him for the playboy he was." She coughed self-consciously. "I, er, think he was engaged to Jacquilyn Harding at the time. I didn't know it until later, though, I swear. He really was a jerk."

  Well. Isabella and her family certainly knew how to surround themselves with the best sort of people.

  "It's just like him not to attend Isabella's funeral, though, so don't read too much into that. Roger's a twit, but I don't think he would have anything to do with murder."

  I took her view of this point with a grain of salt. Of course she wouldn't want to think that a man she had dated could have been involved in a murder. Who could blame her? "At this point, we don't know enough to count anyone out." Except Felicity. Call it instinct, call it trust. Whatever it was, I still felt certain of that conviction. "Steff, have you ever heard of Ryan Davidson?"

  "Have I ever. Everyone at the hospital knows Mister Davidson. Why? Did you meet him tonight, too?"

  "He came to my rescue, actually. The viewing, the crush of people, the casket… it all started to get to me. I felt like… like a great wall of—I don't know—energy, I guess, was keeping me from moving forward. Panic attack, I suppose. Anyway, I was just about to completely lose it. He saw me and took me outside for a breath of air so that I could calm down. Just in time, too. What?" I asked as I caught sight of her face. "What is that for?"

  "Nothing," Steff said with a little shrug. "Just that he doesn't exactly strike me as the benevolent savior type."

  I thought back, remembering my first impressions of him. "No, he doesn't, does he." It did seem maybe a little too coincidental that he just happened to notice my little attack of nerves. "Well. Assuming that he had a reason for getting me alone, I wonder what he wanted."

  "Well, if he didn't find it already, he'll be back," Steff said with a toss of her bobbing curls. "You can depend on that."

  I shook my head. "I doubt it. He'll be too busy looking for another—shall we say, benefactor?—now that Isabella's gone."

  Steff smirked. "Well, I could pretend that I'm surprised, but you know, nothing much surprises me anymore. The man has quite the reputation among the hospital staff. He's hit on too many Pretty Young Things for there to be any questions about his motives."

  Motives. That was what we needed. Something, anything, that would demonstrate to the Stony Mill PD that Felicity was a dead end, and that they really ought to be investigating every aspect of the case. If this night had proven anything to me, it was that somehow I had managed to get on the right track.

  "Did anyone else arouse your suspicions tonight?" Steff said, interrupting my train of thought.

  "You make me sound like Brenda Starr, Ace Reporter," I complained, making a sour face. "But in answer to your question… maybe."

  "Well?"

  "Davidson let on that Isabella had taken out a restraining order against someone."

  "Let me guess… her husband?"

  "Nope. You'll never guess this one."

  "Do tell."

  "A Reverend Baxter Martin."

  Her brows stretched high. "You're right. I can't believe it. A reverend?"

  "I have no idea if it's true or not. But I intend to find out."

  "How?"

  Well, I hadn't gotten that far yet, but I had no doubt that if I was meant to find out, a way would present itself to me. I'd long ago discovered that if I stopped trying to rush things and let them happen on their own, they would do just that without my help. "I'm still working out the details."

  "You don't have a clue, do you."

  "Not even one. But what I do have is good, old-fashioned Hoosier resourcefulness."

  "Uh-huh. That and a dollar will buy you a cup of coffee."

  "Something will come up. I'm sure of it."

  "I hope you're right. And I hope it's sooner rather than later. It makes me feel twitchy to know that there's a killer on the loose. The question is, is he a he? Or is she a she?"

  "You mean, is it a husband, a lover, a mistress, or a whacked-out religious fanatic?"

  "That about does it, yes."

  "It is rather amazing, the sheer number of potential assassins Isabella had amongst her acquaintances," I said in all seriousness. Then I laughed in spite of myself. "Listen to us. We're either turning into a pair of honest-to-goodness sleuths, or else we're turning into a couple of old cats, gossiping and carrying on."

  "It's a sad, sad thing."

  * * * *

  I ended up spending the night at Steff's.

  Calling myself a coward didn't change my mind. Neither did repeated self-affirmations. I'd psyched myself up for the eventual return to my place for hours while we talked well into the night. Every time I thought about it, the great black maw of my apartment opened wide in my mind's eye, jeering at me from the darkness and goading me to come down and play. Trouble is, I wasn't quite sure what I was dealing with, and until I knew by whose rules I was playing, the game was going to have to go on without me.

  After all, a sleeping bag on a friend's sofa was eminently more inviting than a sleepover date with something dark and unnatural.

  I woke up around eight after a long restless night of tossing and turning with the feeling there was something I had to do.

  I sat up amid the bulky confines of the half-zipped sleeping bag and blinked away the sleep from my eyes. Steff was already up—I could hear the shower running, and from the kitchen wafted the scent of fresh-brewed coffee. Kicking my way free of the sleeping bag, I stumbled in the direction of the tiny galley kitchen. Not much bigger than my own, it was little more than a sink, a stove, a row of cupboards—up and down—and a small table. What it did have that mine did not was a killer cappuccino machine, a gift from a former boyfriend.

  Like I said, Dr. Ruth had nothing on Steff. The woman was legend.

  I found two cups set out on the counter, just waiting for someone to fill them. I was only too happy to oblige. The cappuccino machine made a lovely, foamy, sputtering sound as it shot the steaming liquid into first one cup, then the other. I had just buried my nose behind the rim of mine when Steff emerged from the bathroom, wrapped from head to toe in baby pink bath towels.

  "Ahhh," she sighed as she accepted the cup I held out to her, "there's nothing like a hot shower to make a tired woman feel human again."

  "Oh, good.
There's still hope for me, then."

  "Didn't you sleep well?"

  I shrugged and ducked her question. "What do you have on your calendar for today?"

  "The usual stuff this morning." Setting down her cup, Steff unraveled the towel from her head. Her auburn hair fell heavily to just below her shoulders. As she talked, she used her fingers to tousle it into curls. "You know. Cleaning the toilet. Laundry. Tonight I have a date with Danny."

  "Danny?" I asked. She must have moved on. The last boyfriend I remembered her talking about was some guy named Paul.

  Her lips curved in a secret little smile. "Dr. Daniel Tucker."

  "Someone new?" And a doctor, too. Impressive.

  She snugged her towel tighter around herself and then reached into a cupboard for a bowl. "Very new. Danny is a new intern at the hospital, fresh from med school in Massachusetts. How he ended up interning waaaay out here is beyond me. With anyone else I'd guess poor grades, but Danny is brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Want some Sugar Smacks?"

  I grimaced. "Er, no thanks. Not before ten."

  "Suit yourself." She poured an overflowing helping of the sugary puffed wheat, added a dollop of milk, then settled herself into a kitchen chair.

  I sat down across from her, bracing my elbows against the tabletop with my cup held hostage between my cupped hands. "Soooo. Tell me. What's Dr. Danny like?"

  She licked a droplet of milk off her lips. "Dishy. Gor-juss. He's taking me out for dinner and a movie tonight."

  "Aha. Which one?"

  "I don't know. Either a chick flick or a spook show, that much we know. All the better for snuggling, doncha know." She waggled her eyebrows.

  At any other time, I would have shared my own plans for the evening then, but at this point it was all too new, too uncertain, and in the end I chickened out. How could I tell Steff, the queen of Saturday night, that I might have a date… assuming I hadn't misread the interest in Tom Fielding's eyes… when in reality it was probably all my imagination, and that really, the evening would likely be no more than a way for Deputy Fielding to worm information out of me. Assuming that I knew anything he did not.

  I took a sip of my cooling cappuccino. "If you don't have anything pressing this morning, I was wondering…"

  I broke off, uncertain how to explain what had been running through my head since the moment I opened my eyes.

  Steff glanced up from her cereal, took one good look at me, and set down her spoon. "What's on your mind, Mags?"

  "Well, I was thinking. Isabella Harding's funeral is today. I thought I might… well, that I might go. Felicity won't be attending, and I just thought it would make sense to put in an appearance."

  Understanding made her green eyes sparkle. "And you want me to go with you?"

  I nodded, thankful that she could read me so well. "We'll be able to watch people's faces. See their expressions, observe their reactions."

  "Nancy Drew time?"

  "Exactly. Someone has to look out for Felicity's best interests."

  She considered this, then pushed her chair back and stood up. "Right. Give me five minutes."

  Chapter Ten

  One can always judge the caliber of one's friends by their readiness to sacrifice for you. Not only did Steff cut her breakfast short, but she also accompanied me back to my apartment so I could grab some clothes. In light of what I'd told her last night, I considered this above and beyond the call of duty.

  But that was Steff for you.

  My apartment was still dark, all the light switches flipped down, even though I knew I had painstakingly turned every last one on before I tore out of there like a complete scaredy-cat. Why I had expected things to revert back to normal overnight, I don't know. Wishful thinking, I suppose.

  Steff walked around, antennae up for anything out of the ordinary as I nervously threw my suit on the bed. In the blink of an eye I had yanked on a respectable sweater and dark slacks, dragged a brush through my unruly hair, and tamed it with one of those handy-dandy toothy hair clips (a working girl's best friend). One blink more and I had pulled on a pair of loafers that were only minorly scuffed, then finally hurried back to Steff's side before the bogeyman could get me. I Snagged her by the arm and pulled her toward the door.

  "There. You see? Nothing happened," I told her, relieved to be turning my key in the lock and heading for the flight of cement steps that would carry me back to safety. To normalcy. "It must have been my imagination. There is no other explanation."

  "Uh-huh. That would definitely explain the lights."

  "Maybe I only thought I left them on," I argued, a little out of breath as we crossed the yard and headed toward the curb. Christine waited there like a faithful hound, a little tired, a little worse for the wear, perhaps even a bit temperamental at times, but there for me when the chips were down. I gave her an affectionate pat on the hood before scrounging in the depths of my purse for my keys.

  "We could take my car," Steff offered too quickly.

  "Oh, that's okay. Christine needs to be run regularly or she gets testy."

  "Really, I have a tank full of gas. It wouldn't be any trouble. Really."

  My groping fingers hit paydirt. "Found 'em!" I exclaimed, waving the keys around in triumph.

  "Well, if you're sure you're sure…" When I turned to look at her, she shrugged. "I don't think your car likes me, that's all."

  "Don't be silly. She's just a car."

  "Hunh. Don't forget, I've actually read Stephen King."

  But she got in anyway, settling into the worn passenger-side bucket seat without further complaint. While I revved the engine for a few minutes to heat up the oil and prime the pump, so to speak, Steff punched idly at the chrome buttons on the antiquated radio.

  "Static. Always static." She sighed and flopped backward against her seat.

  "She might like you better if you didn't always insult her."

  Steff just didn't understand Christine. Sure, she provided constant challenges in my everyday, ordinary, plain Jane life. Sure, I might daydream about owning a brand, spanking, straight-from-the-factory new car, one that didn't try to lock me out on a regular basis and that smelled fresh and clean and not like a pair of my brother's old gym socks left out on the back porch overnight. But to tell you the truth, there was a comfort level to driving Christine that went beyond tangibles.

  Christine was a real rock. You'd never find her spray-painted Day-Glo orange and spewing Marilyn Manson from her throbbing woofers and twizzling tweeters. She had a way of doing things that was unquestionably her own, and I loved her for it.

  Oh boy. Was I waxing poetic about my car? I really needed to get out more.

  According to the obit in the local paper, Isabella's family had chosen not to have a funeral service at a church, selecting instead a short graveside vigil that was more likely to fit into the busy schedules of the PalmPilot and cell phone set. Even so, the dearth of cars lined up behind the gleaming black hearse in the parking lot at Hinkle and Binders took me entirely by surprise. At this rate, we probably wouldn't even need a police escort. The viewing had been standing room only, and I had decided to attend the funeral based on the understanding that I would be afforded a certain degree of anonymity at the cemetery. Unfortunately it was fast becoming obvious that I would be hard pressed to remain in the background.

  Despite what I'd told Steff, I'd had no intention of actually participating in the funeral. I figured I could stand back, maybe even watch from my car, as the words were spoken over the closed coffin and people said their final farewells. It would be interesting to see who attended, and who did not. Best of all, it would keep me from having to be anywhere near the coffin.

  So much for plans.

  We pulled off the state road we had followed south of town, into the quiet, tree-shrouded gravel lanes of Oakhill Cemetery. Christine was number eleven in a string of no more than fifteen cars, one of which was the hearse. There was no hope for fading into the masses, because there were no masses. Were
it not for Steff's reassuring presence encouraging me to stay the course, I might have abandoned my place in the lineup entirely. Instead I found myself gripping the wheel tighter and trying to convince myself that all would be well. This was for Felicity, who would not do it for herself. I would see it through as best I could.

  The morning had dawned sunny and clear of all traces of the previous week's mists and rains. It was the kind of October morning that persuaded one that winter was a very long way oft. A day of warmth and wiles and wishful thinking. A day of promise. The perfect day to bury a person who had died under mysterious circumstances. I watched as the others in attendance left their cars and drifted toward the black-suited minister who waited, his hands clasped around a worn Bible, an air of solemnity worn like a badge of office.

  "Welcome, friends. Welcome."

  Steff got out first, before I could put out a hand to stop her. Without hesitation, she wandered over to the fringes of the gathering. In slim black slacks, ankle boots, a belted leather jacket, and shades, she looked every bit as if she belonged there. I watched from inside Christine, biting my lip and fighting down the apprehension that was turning my insides to Jell-O.

  Apprehension merged with confusion when the group turned as one and wandered somberly through a legion of marble tombstones toward an imposing limestone building built into a hillside a short distance away, near the treeline at the back of the cemetery.

  My heart stood still. The Mausoleum.

  I'd been to it only once, when I was a little girl. Ten, maybe eleven years old. A bunch of us had been playing together when someone. I don't remember who, dared us all to go to the cemetery. We'd ridden our bikes across town that long, lazy summer afternoon. Laughing as we called each other good-natured names, we'd laid odds on who would be brave enough to touch the gated door of the mausoleum beneath the watchful gaze of its monumental guardian high above. The angel's arms stretched up toward heaven, but the eyes… pupil-less, blind, the eyes looked down upon you. Bore into you. Straight into your soul. It had scared the bejesus out of me then, and truth be told, it still did.