by Stuart, Anne
She shoved How to Lose Weight without Trying into the ancient computer, climbed onto her stool by the old-fashioned manual cash register and pulled out her knitting. It was a rich, flame color and shapeless, with a wonderful texture that was mainly the result of dropped stitches. She hadn’t improved much in the past two years, but she refused to give up. This latest would be a Christmas present for someone in her family, she still wasn’t sure who. It all depended on what it ended up being. It had started out as a vest, turned into a cardigan and was now looking like a lumpy sort of afghan. It would probably end up as the same kind of ill-fitting pullover her other efforts had been. Sighing, she dug her needles in, keeping the tension of the yarn too tight, as the sound of waves washed over her and a mumbling voice whispered, “Food is for nourishment, not for pleasure. Food is for nourishment, not for pleasure.”
Sybil remembered her missed dinner the night before, the yogurt that was two weeks past its due date for breakfast, and she sighed. “Food is for pleasure, not for nourishment,” she muttered, dropping a stitch. “Food is for pleasure, not for—”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
Sybil jabbed the knitting needle into her palm. Apart from that she managed quite well, looking up into Nick Fitzsimmons’s golden eyes with only a faint quiver of alarm. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I have been told I have a light footstep,” he intoned.
Sybil abandoned her knitting, temper forgotten in sudden interest as she recognized the quotation from Dracula. “You don’t strike me as the vampire type.” Which was a lie. With his black hair, commanding height and mesmerizing eyes, he could very well be a Transylvanian immigrant.
He moved into the room. He had already shed his jacket, if he’d even been wearing one, and his close-fitting navy sweater and faded jeans accentuated his height and leanness. “What type do I strike you as?” he murmured.
She cocked her head to one side, considering. One part Professor Snape, one part Lucius Malfoy, a dash of Tom Hiddleston, a soupçon of Christian Grey, a side order of Godzilla and a tiny little streak of James Dean. It was a bizarre and potent combination, she recognized ruefully. “An old poop,” she said.
He laughed, placing a heavenly smelling paper bag on the counter beside her. There were delicious-looking grease spots leaking through the brown paper, and Sybil recognized the aroma of tomato-mushroom bisque from the restaurant in town. For a moment she felt faint. “How can you say such a thing when I have brought you a peace offering?” he said.
He was toying with her, she knew he was, and there was a satanic gleam in his golden eyes. Only a devil would waft tomato-mushroom bisque under the nose of a starving woman.
“Peace offering?” She tried to make her voice sound cynical, but it came out in a plaintive bleat.
“Pleasure, not nourishment.” He nodded toward the bag. “Soup, pastrami sandwiches and even, if I remember the floor of your car properly, Tab.”
Sybil slid off her stool, contemplating temptation. According to the ancient legend, Persephone had been kidnapped by Hades and carried off to the Underworld. She would have gotten off free and clear if she just hadn’t succumbed to hunger and eaten six pomegranate seeds. Surely there was a lesson to be learned in all that. This dangerous, disturbing man was standing in front of her, bearing gifts. Surely she could resist.
She wavered for an instant. “What do you want in return?”
His answering smile was blissful innocence itself. “Absolutely nothing. I’m returning your favor of last night and going you one better. I’m going to eat it with you.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Pastrami?”
“And Tab.”
How could he know her greatest weakness, a weakness she’d been trying hard to conquer. “Well,” she said finally, “if you are a vampire, the pastrami should keep you at bay.”
“Don’t believe everything you read. Vampires probably love garlic.”
“Nothing’s sacred,” she grumbled, leading the way into the old kitchen that was still part of the renovated farmhouse. “I take it you’ve found everything you need? Food store, restaurant, liquor store?”
“Actually, I made do with the Danbury C and E restaurant. I figured you could tell me where to go later.”
“I’d be delighted to,” she murmured, setting out plates and silver.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said, unruffled. “What does C and E mean, anyway?”
“Come and Eat.”
“Oh, no.”
“The food’s worth it,” she pointed out, opening the bright pink can of Tab and breathing a blissful sigh as it hissed a welcome. “So what did you do this morning?”
“Nosy, aren’t you?” He dug into his sandwich. “I went visiting.”
Dulcy, she thought in sudden misery. No, Dulcy would be working. “I didn’t realize you knew anybody in town,” she said carefully.
“I met them yesterday. The Muller sisters came calling with your buddy Leona, and they asked me to stop in for morning coffee.”
“And you did?”
“Why do you sound so skeptical? They’re a couple of fascinating old ladies. They fed me coffee strong enough to keep me going for weeks, sticky buns and all the local gossip. I had a great time.”
“I wouldn’t think they’d be your style.”
“We still haven’t come up with what my style is. And I like little old ladies. They were very informative.”
She drained the twelve ounces of Tab and started in on the soup. “At least my conscience is relatively clear—they couldn’t have told you anything that embarrassing.”
“Actually, we didn’t talk about you.”
She looked up sharply. “Sorry. I tend to become a little self-absorbed in the winter. There’s not a whole lot to distract me.”
“Not because I didn’t have every intention of pumping them about you,”. He continued, “but we got off on the subject of their recent losses.”
For some reason she felt better. “I know, isn’t it awful? They lost every penny of their savings in that stupid investment program.”
“So they said.”
“At least they still have enough to live on,” Sybil continued. “They’ll be comfortable, but that’s about it. They won’t have anything to leave their nieces and nephews.”
“Miss Edla said they weren’t the only ones.”
Sybil had finished the soup and had gone on to the sandwich. “No, they’re not. It seems like half the old ladies in town have lost their nest eggs.”
“Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
She stopped eating long enough to look up to meet his gaze. “No, why should it? Our farmers are all in trouble, too. The economy is lousy right now, and has been for a while.”
“Not that lousy.”
“People have been making bad investments. I can understand how it happens. Half of them are farm widows. When their husbands die they sell off the land and move into town and invest their capital. They’ve never had any major financial dealings before in their lives, and it’s no wonder they run into trouble. Danbury is full of women with the same sad story.”
“Have they lost it all in the same place?”
“Of course not. The Mullers invested in orange juice futures when there was a bad winter. Ally Johnson lost hers in a computer company. Merla Penney and Cleora Lyles invested in a wood stove company after everyone had already bought one. It’s just been bad luck.”
“If you say so.”
Sybil pushed her plate away and stared mournfully at the empty Tab can. She gave herself a mental shake. “Apparently you don’t think so,” she said. “What’s your explanation?”
“I think they’re being swindled.”
“If they are being swindled, why didn’t the crook take
everything? Most of them have enough to get by. Have we got a crook with a conscience?”
“Not if we have one robbing helpless widows, we don’t.”
“Which I don’t think we have,” she said firmly. “I think you’re imagining things. Cabin fever’s already set in and you’ve only been here two days.”
“Maybe it takes an unbiased mind to see what’s going on right under your nose,” he replied, an edge to his smooth voice.
“Well, if we’re looking for an unbiased mind we’re going to have to look farther than you, o great professor.”
He opened his mouth to snap at her, then shut it again, and she could see he was making an effort at controlling his temper. She wondered why.
“Keep that up,” he said, “and I won’t give you the other can of Tab I bought.”
She nearly disgraced herself and begged. Instead, she drew herself up very tall. “That was kind of you,” she said. “But I’ve already had one.”
“You drank it in fifteen seconds flat.”
“Nice of you to notice.”
“I’m observant.”
“I’m trying to quit.”
He fished the second pink can out of the bag and set it on the table. “Don’t let me tempt you.”
She grabbed it before the words were out of his mouth. “You’re rotten, you know that?” she said amiably enough. “I just hope you don’t discover any of my other weaknesses.”
He didn’t say a word; he just grinned. It completely transformed his handsome, somewhat austere face. If he’d looked satanic before, now he looked like a fallen angel, and Sybil felt her heart doing a graceful flip.
“Okay, so if there’s a crook, who do you think he is?” she asked, humoring him.
“She.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Who do I think she is.”
Sybil stopped with the can of Tab halfway to her lips. “I don’t suppose you mean me?”
“Wishful thinking. You’re not evil.”
“You think I’d want to be evil?” she demanded, outraged.
“I think you might flirt with the idea.”
“So if it’s not me, who is it? Dulcy? You’re way off base with that one. Dulcy’s spent half her time trying to help the old ladies. She’s an advocate for the poor and elderly in St. Johnsbury and she does half her legal work for free.”
“It could be a cover-up. You have to admit it would be a pretty effective one.”
“I don’t have to admit anything. You’ve been here two days and already you’re concocting crimes and coming up with suspects. Don’t you think your imagination’s working overtime? I thought you were supposed to be hard-headed and practical?”
Again that wicked smile. “Were you hoping I had a hidden streak of gullibility? You’re out of luck, I’m as close-minded as ever. Besides, I didn’t say I thought it was Dulcy. I just said it would be a good cover-up. She’s not the only one who’s been a good friend to all the old ladies.”
Sybil took a deep, furious breath. “Leona wouldn’t hurt a fly,” she said fiercely. “She’s a little old lady herself; she wouldn’t swindle one of her own kind.”
“Who would she swindle, then?”
“No one,”. She snapped, then took a deep breath. “Do you get some kind of kick out of pissing me off? You’ve been in town less than thirty-six hours and already you’ve been listening to nasty gossip and jumping to foul conclusions. Just because Leona’s a newcomer—”
“How new?”
“She’s been here two years. As long as I have. I’m surprised you haven’t decided I’m her accomplice.”
“I haven’t decided anything,” he said in his maddeningly calm voice. “I just noticed some curious coincidences involving your good buddy. I’m not jumping to any conclusions.”
“It sure sounded like it—” She was interrupted by the jarring ring of the office telephone. “I’ll get it.”
Nick was there ahead of her and his reach was longer. He picked up the kitchen phone. “Society of Water Witches,” he said in an unctuous murmur.
“Give me that phone!” Sybil snarled, reaching for it. She might have been a Pygmy batting at a giraffe.
“I beg your pardon, to whom did you wish to speak?” he said, ignoring her futile attempts.
“Nick . . . !”
“Sara Lee?” he echoed.
With a howl of rage she ripped the phone out of his grasp. “Hello, Mother. Yes, it’s me.”
Nick just stood there, staring, and that fallen-angel grin of his spread across his face once more. Leaning against the doorjamb, he waited, all mischievous patience, as Sybil dealt with her surprisingly loquacious mother.
“Yes, I’ll be down before Christmas. No, I can’t leave the office for any longer than that. Listen, Mother, I’m very busy. Yes, one can be busy at the Society of Water Witches. No, that wasn’t a nice man who answered the phone, it was a very nasty man. Yes, I’ll call you back tonight. Goodbye, Mother.”
“Nasty man?” Nick echoed as she replaced the receiver, resisting the impulse to slam it down.
“Very nasty man.” She braced herself, waiting.
“Sara Lee? As in pies and cakes and frozen goodies?” The laughter in his voice might at any other time be beguiling. But not when it was at her expense.
“Saralee. One word, named after my maternal grandmother, who never baked a day in her life. All she did was make money.”
“Saralee,” he murmured, his voice slipping over the syllables in an oddly erotic way. “It suits you. Far better than Sybil ever did.”
“If you call me Saralee,” she said calmly, “I will castrate you and pour sugar in your gas tank.”
“Leave my Jaguar alone. As for my testicles, I’d like to see you try. I’d really like to see you try.” The slight growl in his voice was more suggestive than hostile, and she ground her teeth.
“No, you wouldn’t,”. She said flatly, her cold voice daring him to continue that topic of conversation.”
She’d never questioned the man’s towering intellect. “Okay, Sybil.” His voice mocked the name. “Show me where I can work and I’ll keep out of your hair.”
She had to admit that Sybil didn’t sound half as nice as Saralee did in his rich, sexy voice. Had to admit it to herself, not to him. Maybe she would see if she could take more vacation time, fly down to Princeton and the bosom of her family and stay there until Nick was ready to leave.
No, she must be out of her mind. Even Nick wasn’t as bad as the assembled Richardsons with their tactful concern. Besides, she couldn’t close the bookstore during the Christmas season—it was the only time she made any money, and she wouldn’t let Nick Fitzsimmons drive her out of her comfortable home in Danbury.
She’d have to warn Leona, of course. The old lady had had a hard enough time, coming into a tiny, tight-knit community like Danbury without having a stuffed shirt like Nick giving her trouble. It was all absurd, of course, but it wouldn’t do any good to tell him that. He wasn’t the kind of man to doubt his own brilliance.
“Deke’s office is at the top of the stairs,” she said, her expression giving nothing away. “The library’s in the room next door. Be careful with the books—some are very old and rare.”
“On water witching?”
“On everything. We even have a couple of ancient books of curses and spells someone’s ancestor brought over from England. They’re practically indecipherable but fascinating enough.”
“Don’t tell me you believe in spells and witchcraft?”
“No, I don’t believe in spells and witchcraft,” Sybil snapped. “They’re a curiosity, that’s all. Go away, Nick. Let me get back to work.”
“I take it the truce is over?” He stood there, still blocking the doorway. She
wished he were six inches shorter and six times uglier. “My bribe didn’t work for any longer than that?”
She reached over, drained the second Tab, and gave him a flashing, gorgeous smile. “Ten minutes of sweetness per Tab,” she said.
He looked startled, then straightened up and headed toward her out of the doorway. She ducked underneath his arm, brushing past him as she went. “Thanks for lunch,” she called back, heading for the bookshop and her private phone line.
“Give Leona my love,” he called after her.
Sybil, trying to remember where she’d be able to reach her friend that day, shivered.
DEKE APPLETON’S office was small and cramped, with the sloping ceilings proving a decided menace to a man who topped six feet three. The library was a little better, the table provided more work space than Deke’s desk, and it had a view out over the small, picturesque little village. All he needed to make it perfect was Sybil Richardson in plain sight.
She was right about the books. There were real treasures there, including books from the nineteenth century on water witching that he’d heard about but had never been lucky enough to see. The books on regular witchcraft were in a locked, glass-door cabinet, cheek by jowl with Aleister Crowley and his ilk. For a moment he was tempted to go back and get the key, then thought better of it. Sybil—no, Saralee—needed some time away from him.
He had to be very careful not to push her too far or too fast.
For that matter, it wouldn’t do him any harm to ration his exposure. For some reason, the more he saw her, the more attracted he was to her, and there was no earthly reason for it. He was used to women with a great deal more physical beauty, and certainly more charm of manner. He was used to statuesque blondes who flirted, not sullen little sparrows who every now and then looked up at him out of those melting brown eyes.
So, okay, here he was, finally able to start work on the dowsing book and, instead, he was standing there having erotic fantasies and suffering from the expected physical reaction such fantasies usually provoked. If nothing else, he could at least make a catalog of the books he was planning on using. And if worse came to worst, that glass-door cabinet would be a simple matter to open, even without the key. He could distract himself by reading some ancient witch’s prescription for syphilis.
