The Trouble with Magic

by Madelyn Alt

  He nodded slowly, the gears turning. "That seems a safe assumption. But then, anyone who really knows Liss knows that she doesn't bother to lock up her house. She uses wards to protect herself. Wards and the security gate."

  And we both knew that the security gate would stop only the most superficial of house pests. Anyone with half a brain could find their way around it, even if it meant traipsing the long way through the woods. We'd proven that ourselves.

  Damn it, Liss! I railed to the universe at large. I'd learned enough superficial witchy information in the past week to know that white sage and protection charms might work against your basic psychic interloper, but a locked door works a hell of a lot better to dissuade bad guys.

  I began to pace. Not an easy thing to do with all my sorting piles. "This is ridiculous. I still say Jeremy is our best bet. The only one that makes any sense. Who else would have reason to shoot out Davidson's windows, on the heels of a secret rendezvous with Jetta?"

  I couldn't take it anymore. I grabbed my jacket from the closet and threw it on.

  "Whoa," Marcus said, catching my arm. "Where are you going?"

  "To the cop shop. I have to see Liss. I might just have to kick Tom Fielding's sorry ass. And when I'm done with that, I have a thing or two to say to Jeremy Harding. Wanta come with?"

  His mouth twitched. "You're awful cute when you're pissed."

  "You ain't seen nothing yet."

  * * * *

  "What do you mean, I can't see her?"

  The blond dispatcher-cum-officer-cum-receptionist stared at me. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but the prisoner isn't allowed to have visitors at present. She's entitled to legal counsel, of course—you aren't her attorney, I don't think?" She paused a moment, then pushed on before I even had a chance to shake my head. "But until the judge can arraign her, she really isn't supposed to have visitors, family or otherwise."

  "And-when-will-that-be?" I gritted out carefully, the soul of politeness.

  The girl's eyes twitched from my rigid face to Marcus over my left shoulder. "Well, not today, anyway. Judge Hardcastle's out of town and won't be back until tomorrow afternoon. Depending on his schedule, it could be late tomorrow, or possibly Wednesday, I guess. If you'd like to be present at the arraignment, ma'am, I'm sure you could call his office tomorrow and ask. Winnie—that's his secretary—she's real helpful."

  "I'll bet." I let my fingernails rat-a-tat against the counter. "Well, if I can't see Mrs. Dow, perhaps you'd let me speak with Deputy Fielding. Surely he is allowed visitors?"

  She blinked at me. "Well, of course he is."

  "Then you'll call him for me?" I asked, sweet as pie, already anticipating the verbal tongue-lashing Tom Fielding so richly deserved.

  "Sorry, can't do that, ma'am."

  Now it was my turn to blink.

  "He's out on a call, ma'am." My face must have fallen, because she added, "You're welcome to wait in the lobby, but it might take a while."

  Drat and double drat. And I'd be willing to bet it might take all day if he pulled up to the police department and saw Christine parked out front.

  My every attempt frustrated, I turned to Marcus. "Well?"

  He shrugged. "You're the boss."

  I turned back, just in time to catch the blonde giving Marcus the eye. "Thanks anyway," I said, past caring that I didn't sound the least bit grateful, "but we'll come back another time."

  "Any time, ma'am."

  If she called me "ma'am" one… more… time…

  Outside, I stomped back to Christine.

  "Where to now, Jeeves?"

  "We can't see Felicity. Fielding's avoiding me, the coward." I jammed my key into the door lock. "Well, we have to do something. I'm going to see Harding."

  "Do you think that's wise?"

  I yanked open the door. "Either you go with me or you don't. But I'm going to Harding Enterprises. I have a few questions for Mr. Jeremy Harding. Now what'll it be?"

  He shrugged his shoulders. "With you, of course."

  * * * *

  We arrived at Harding Enterprises (early 1970s, glass and brick facade) just in time to witness the mass exodus of the lunch lizards. I'd seen this scene before, in my other life as an office slave. It wasn't pretty. Two hundred people make like lemmings toward the nearest fast-food establishment so they can gulp down their lunch in the prescribed thirty minutes and hurry back to their dead-end jobs with clogged arteries and roiling indigestion working together, along with monumental stress levels, to shorten their miserable lives. I knew it was pointless to try to buck the crowd, so I waited, blinker on, until it was safe to turn into the parking lot.

  Marcus followed me, not saying a word. Obviously he knew a hot-headed female when he saw one.

  The reception area was deserted, but I didn't let that stop me. I walked quickly up and down the aisles, past glass cases filled with undetermined metal objects, beyond something that was either a display rack or a twisted piece of modern art, peeking into darkened offices. The lower level contained no signs of life, so, determination intact, I continued up the stairs (utilitarian with nubby low-pile carpeting) to the offices above. This floor was different from those closet-sized offices below. The, stylishly decorated reception area opened onto a pair of offices.

  Something cautioned me to quiet my steps as I stepped from the utilitarian carpet to top-of-the-line plush.

  We heard voices as soon as we approached the nearest door, which stood slightly ajar.

  "It must be an error, Jetta. I can't explain it any more clearly than that." The brisk voice belonged unmistakably to Jacquilyn Harding.

  "Excuse me for saying so, Ms. Harding, but I thought the same thing. So I called the rental company, and they checked their records. They swear that the mileage is what you signed for."

  "Then I made a mistake as well. I was tired. It happens. Now can we drop this? I'm really very busy. The last thing I have time for is stupid little details like this one."

  "But if it's wrong, then I hate to just let it go. Unless I'm mistaken, the car was to be driven in Chicago. There's no way you could have gone over the allowed miles. The bill was several hundred dollars more than it should have been. We shouldn't be required to pay—"

  "I said, drop it," Jacquilyn snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "It's not important enough for me to waste my time worrying about it. Why don't you go out and get some lunch, hmm? And bring some back for me while you're at it."

  Marcus pulled me away from the door and through the doorway on the opposite side of the room. A quick glance around showed a darkly paneled office—real wood paneling, not the pressboard variety made so popular by the Bradys. The nameplate on the desk announced JETTA JAMES. I exchanged urgent glances with Marcus. Before we had a chance to make a hasty exit, Jetta stalked into the room.

  Resplendent in a clingy green tube dress whose neckline plumbed depths not generally examined in business surroundings and strappy black sandals that made her nearly six feet tall, she gave us one irritated glance and held up a finger when I opened my mouth to speak.

  "Jeremy," she called through the closed door on the rear wall of her office, "you have visitors. I'm on my way out to find lunch for Her Highness."

  "Thanks, Jet," a muffled male voice called. "Hey, if you're going out, would you mind bringing something back for me?"

  She started muttering under her breath, yanked her purse up by the strap, and stalked out of her office without a backward glance. When Marcus's gaze tarried overlong on the exaggerated sway of her hips, I gave him a good healthy nudge with my elbow.

  The door swung inward. "Can I help—?" Jeremy Harding caught sight of us in the next moment, and confusion furrowed his brow. Annoyance replaced it a moment later. "Oh, it's you. You're my sister-in-law's friends, aren't you?"

  I pulled myself up by the proverbial bootstraps. "I wonder if we might ask you a few questions, Mr. Harding."

  He looked amused. "What are you, Jessica Fletcher? I'm afraid you're going to be terr
ibly disappointed. I have nothing to say. I've answered every question the police posed to me. As far as I'm concerned, they have their woman."

  I'd long ago decided that I was too old to keep walking around afraid of my own shadow. It was time I proved it to myself. "One question, Mr. Harding. Just one. Then I'll leave you to your afternoon."

  He sighed and looked at his watch. "All right. One. Shoot."

  Reasoning that a position of authority was the most likely to receive a response, I took a firm stance. "Did your wife have a key to Felicity's house?"

  My strategy seemed to work, putting him on the defensive.

  "What kind of a question is that? I have no idea what my wife did or didn't keep."

  "Does that extend to .. .friendships ... she may have kept?" Inwardly I was cringing, but it was too late to turn back now.

  Color shot to his cheeks. "How dare you. My wife is only recently passed—"

  "Your wife must have been very close with Ryan Davidson. I hear she was very generous to his upcoming campaign. I'm sure he'd appreciate your continued… support."

  Marcus put his hand on my arm, but if it was a bid for caution, it was far too late. Harding's eyes flashed with anger. "Who have you been talking to? My wife was a respectable woman. I won't have you defiling her memory this way. You have no right. Slander is a very serious offense."

  "Your wife is dead, Mr. Harding. And unlike you, I'm not convinced that the police have the real assassin in their holding cell."

  "No?" he growled, advancing on me. "Well, let me tell you something about Felicity Dow."

  Marcus, silent until now, moved forward to put his bulk slightly between mine and Harding's. "Careful…"

  "You be careful," Harding hissed. "I know you. You're Felicity's creepy little friend. I have a good idea what you've been up to. Does she?" He indicated me with a dismissive flip of his finger. Then he turned to look at me. "Witches," he sneered. "Goddamned witches. Right here under our very noses. Town doesn't even know it." He paused, then added threateningly, "Yet."

  Marcus didn't even blink.

  I stepped forward. "Your wife is gone," I said carefully, "and there isn't anything anyone can do to bring her back. But Felicity isn't gone. She's right here, and she didn't do what you and everyone else are accusing her of. You hate her because she's different. Because she stands for something you don't understand. That doesn't mean she murdered Isabella." I'd come this far, so what was a little farther? It was the only way. "You want to know what I think happened?"

  He crossed his arms and stretched to his full height. "I know I'm probably going to regret this, but you've captured my attention. Enlighten me."

  I was nervous, but he didn't need to know that. The trick was to keep him off balance and on the defensive as much as possible. And then maybe, just maybe, the added pressure would trigger off fissures in that ultrasmooth exterior.

  I sat on the edge of Jetta's desk, letting my legs swing carelessly. "I think the killer planned that morning very carefully. I think the killer knew Isabella's morning routine. That she would be alone that morning. That she had a habit of drinking tea. I think he watched in the wings while she drank her tea, knowing it was laced with a drug that would render her powerless. He watched as she went upstairs to lie down after beginning to feel the effects of the drug. And then, when he judged the moment to be right, he deliberately and without remorse bludgeoned her"—I slammed my hand down on the desktop for effect and was gratified to see him flinch—"and shoved her down the stairs to be sure the job was done. Voilà."

  His lips thinned. "I see you've put a lot of thought into it," he said tightly.

  "I do try. Except that the killer wasn't done."

  "No?"

  I shook my head. "Huh-uh. The killer decided to frame Felicity for the murder. I don't know exactly how, but somehow he must have convinced Isabella to phone Felicity before he killed her. The drug was especially important in the killer's scheme. I figure it ensured that Isabella would go quietly into that good night. I figure it also allowed the killer to convince Isabella to phone Felicity herself."

  Jeremy rolled his eyes. "That's about the most harebrained idea I've ever heard."

  "And after he made certain that Felicity was the one who would find Isabella's body," I said, ignoring his comment, "he escaped through the woods to safety, knowing that Felicity's story would sound ridiculous and that she would be the first person investigated."

  "You know, there's a reason we employ professional law enforcement personnel in this country. It prevents rank amateurs from pretending they are actually… competent."

  "Only when it became apparent that Felicity's fate wasn't sealed, the killer decided an added boost was in order, so he borrowed a gun from Felicity's late husband's collection in order to take a potshot at Ryan Davidson. Only that was a big mistake. Felicity had no reason to kill Ryan Davidson. No motive."

  He stared at me, eyes narrowed, for a long moment. "Nice try, but evidently the police don't agree with you. Let's not forget that it's Felicity they arrested this morning."

  "Strategy," I said with a shrug.

  "You expect me to believe… oh, the hell with it. Look, I'm not interested in your theories. As far as I'm concerned, the police have the person responsible for my wife's death. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like you to vacate the premises. Or do I have to call security?"

  I exchanged a meaningful look with Marcus. He nodded.

  "As you wish," I said, sliding off Jetta's desk with a light bounce. The seat of my jeans caught the corner of a stack of papers. Several floated to the floor as I found my feet. I bent to retrieve them. "If you'd like to continue this conversation at a later date, just let me know."

  "Oh, believe me, Ms. O'Neill. If I change my mind, you'll be theirs? to know."

  The papers were a mess. I shuffled them together, clapping the edges on the desktop to put them in order. As I did so, my eyes came into focus on the topmost one—a car rental bill in the name of Jacquilyn Harding for service dating last week. Could this be what Jetta and Jacqui had been discussing?

  Curiosity got the better of me. My gaze dropped to the total. This invoice was for over six hundred dollars. Pretty pricey for a two-day trip.

  Before I could find the line that related to the mileage, Jeremy held his hand out for the papers and I was forced to relinquish them. But I couldn't help wondering what Jacqui had been doing on her so-called business trip. A secret affair of her own? A few days ago, I would have found the concept laughable, but now… maybe the Ice Princess wasn't as passionless as she appeared.

  * * * *

  "What do you think you're doing?"

  Marcus's annoyed question came as soon as we were out of earshot.

  "What do you mean?" I asked, playing dumb.

  "Don't give me that. You were baiting the man."

  "Me?"

  "Purposely trying to antagonize him enough to lash out at you. It's a damn good thing I decided to tag along. Goddess knows what the man might have done in the absence of witnesses."

  I waved my hand at him. I know, it's rude and dismissive, and I hate it when someone treats me that way, but what can I say? I was still high on the thrill of the hunt. "Don't be such a man, Marcus. How else do you expect to flush a killer out of his comfort zone? Besides, his daughter was right around the corner. I seriously doubt he'd make a move in front of her."

  "She left," Marcus said, his tone blunt. "Several minutes ago. I think she'd been listening."

  I nearly stumbled. Had I really been so focused on Harding that I didn't hear Jacqui leave? Chagrined, I risked a sideward glance at him. "I must not have heard…"

  He shook his head at me. "Maggie, I know how much you want Felicity's name cleared. But you can't put your safety on the line to see it done. You just can't. That's not helping anyone."

  I kicked at a loose piece of gravel with the toe of my boot. "You're right. I guess I got a little carried away. But dammit, Marcus, you saw the man. His attitude
doesn't exactly scream innocence, now, does it?"

  "No. But we have no proof, Maggie. Just suppositions and instinct. And gut feelings aren't gonna cut it. We won't convince anyone until we have Jeremy's fingerprints on the instrument of death and a confession signed on the dotted line."

  I knew he was right, and it irritated the hell out of me. I opened the car door and swung my purse into the backseat.

  "Then we'll get proof," I said simply.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I drove Marcus back to the store so he could get his bike. I'd intended to drop him off and go home—I was in no mood to deal with the hordes of curiosity seekers sure to plague Enchantments this afternoon, once news of Felicity's arrest had time to make the rounds and back again—but by the time we got there, I had decided I would continue my search through the store's sales records. It wasn't much, but maybe it would spark something for me.

  We were both quiet as I pulled into my usual space.

  "What will you do?" Marcus asked quietly.

  I jumped, wondering if he, like Felicity, could read my mind. The thought made me uneasy. "I'm not sure. Keep searching, I suppose. I've been sorting through store records from the past few years. I thought maybe I'd find a record of a sale to Jeremy, or even Jetta, something to tie him to the tea. I know it's a long shot," I said before he could say it himself, "but I can't think of anything better at the moment."

  He just looked at me, his gaze dark and steady. "You're a nice person, Maggie O'Neill."

  Nice. He might as well have called me flat-out dull. "Thanks," I said, keeping the flatness out of my tone.

  Grandma Cora always said graciousness and good manners would save the world someday. "You, too."

  "Want some help?"

  I hesitated, and for a moment I actually considered taking him up on the offer. But I'd already taken up too much of his time, and just then I needed to think things through more than I needed companionship. I shook my head. "Thanks, but the time alone will do me some good. I appreciate the offer, though."