Bewitching Hour

by Stuart, Anne

  It took him just a moment. Then he laughed, a rich, delighted sound that was almost as beguiling as his kisses. “Saralee Richardson,” he said when his amusement had died away, “I think maybe that potion backfired on its maker.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be able to come up with an antidote.” She moved toward the hallway, and this time he made no effort to stop her. She could feel his eyes following her, and for a brief moment she reveled in that tiny sense of accomplishment. If Nicholas Fitzsimmons had thrown her for a loop, she had at least disturbed his seemingly invincible self-control.

  He’d left her coat hanging over the banister, and she pulled it on without any help from him, heading toward the door without a backward glance. He said something beneath his breath, and for a moment she was tempted to ask him to repeat it. It had sounded like “I’m not sure I want one.”

  “I’ll see you Monday,” she called over her shoulder and stepped out into the chilly night air.

  “If not before,” he replied, still in the living room.

  She shut the door behind her and walked to her Subaru. It had a light dusting of snow mantling its battered exterior, making it look almost as elegant as Nick’s Jaguar. If one didn’t have a good eye for beautiful lines, she thought, climbing in and offering up a silent prayer that her station wagon would start on the first try.

  It started on the second try, and Sybil let out her pent-up breath as she let out the clutch, zooming up the driveway at breakneck speed. The sooner she got home, back to the safety of her house and the companionship of her dogs, the happier she’d be. For a few minutes back there she’d felt the solid foundation of her universe shift and slide, like geological plates during an earthquake. Everything she held dear, everything she believed in, had shimmered and dissolved for a brief moment when she was in Nick’s arms. And she had to wonder whether the damned potion had worked after all.

  “DULCY?”

  “It’s seven in the morning, Sybil,” the tired, cranky voice came back over the telephone. “Saturday is my only morning to sleep late.”

  “I know that. And I wouldn’t have called you this early if it weren’t desperately important.”

  Her response was a sigh. “What is it? If you’re not bleeding or on fire I’m hanging up.”

  “How do you know it’s not something life-threatening?” Sybil countered, much aggrieved.

  “Trust me, I’d know. Don’t play games with me, Sybil, it’s too early. What’s the problem?”

  “I need some herbs.”

  There was a long pause on the other end, and then, to Sybil’s amazement, Dulcy laughed. “Do you indeed? Should I waste my time asking why, or do I just guess?”

  Sybil bit her lip. “I don’t suppose you’ll believe that I want to do some cooking.”

  “No. I think you must have fallen prey to Nick’s little experiment. Don’t tell me it actually worked?”

  Sybil ignored the unmistakable glee in her friend’s voice. “Of course it didn’t work!”

  “Then you don’t want an antidote?”

  “You’re not making this any easier for me, Dulcy.”

  “I don’t intend to. If you don’t want an herbal antidote, what are you calling me for? Do you want to try a love potion for him?”

  “God, no!” she said quickly, before she could even consider the enticing idea. “I don’t need an antidote, the damned potion didn’t work, but I decided it wouldn’t do any harm to try one. You and I both know that it’s the power of suggestion that makes spells and curses work, not actual magic. And . . . I might have fallen prey to the power of suggestion.”

  “Did you sleep with him?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! He doesn’t even know I had any reaction to the filthy stuff.”

  Dulcy laughed. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Nick struck me as a very observant man.”

  “Then it was wishful thinking on his part,” Sybil snapped. “My main problem is the nightmares.”

  “Nightmares?”

  “Well, perhaps not really nightmares,” she admitted, running a hand through her heavy mane of hair, which she hadn’t yet confined in braids. “Just disturbing dreams.”

  “You can tell me about them when I get there and we’ll analyze them,” Dulcy announced.

  “Forget it. You’re too young.”

  “That raunchy, eh?”

  “No . . . yes,” Sybil admitted finally. “That raunchy. I probably won’t be able to see the man without blushing. I’m sure it was just tension and lack of sleep. But I figured I’d hit all bases.”

  She could practically hear the smile in Dulcy’s voice. “I know just what you need. Make a big pot of coffee and I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  “Bless you,” Sybil said with real relief. “I knew I could count on you.”

  Dulcy’s delicious chuckle, the one Sybil had learned to distrust, came over the line. “You surely can, my friend. I have just the thing.”

  Slowly Sybil replaced the receiver, telling herself her sudden qualms were no more than part and parcel of a sleepless night. She would have been better off if it had been sleepless—her dreams had been so erotic and so real that she was still quivering from an advanced state of sexual tension that nothing seemed to diminish, not a cold shower, not Saturday morning cartoons on the TV, not meditating on the sins of Nicholas Fitzsimmons.

  But Dulcy was coming; Dulcy with her common sense and her bag of herbs would take care of things, put her back on the straight and narrow.

  But Sybil couldn’t rid herself of the suspicion that she’d gone from the frying pan to the fire. That gloomy thought reminded her she hadn’t had breakfast, and she headed into the kitchen, the dogs trailing behind her. Maybe food would drown her sorrows, or at least blunt her unmanageable cravings. Sighing, she opened the refrigerator.

  “Damn you, Nick,” she muttered to the link sausages. “You and your love potions.” Slamming the door shut, she sat down at the butcher-block table to await her deus ex machina in the unlikely form of a white witch cum lawyer named Dulcy Badenham.

  Chapter Nine

  DULCY WASN’T LONG. The coffee had just finished running through the drip machine, Sybil had thrown on a loose pair of jeans and a Santa Claus sweatshirt, and the dogs had had their morning romp. The wood stove was cranking out enough heat for two houses, and the dreams of the night before seemed a distant aberration. Until she remembered them, and felt herself growing hot all over again.

  Dulcy was dressed in lavender, wispy clothes and wonderful handwoven woolens that played up her otherworldly air, an air that was instantly dispelled as she strode into the house and dumped her huge multicolored tote bag on Sybil’s table.

  “Pour me some coffee,” she ordered, stripping off her cape and diving into the bag. “And I’ll get things started. You can also tell me all the details about last night.”

  Sybil was already pouring. “There are no details. Did you know what Nick had in mind when he asked you for the herbs?”

  Dulcy smiled, pulling out a pile of little paper bags. “Any fool could guess. Didn’t you know what he was plying you with?”

  “Thanks a lot. I don’t happen to be a fool, either; I knew exactly what he was giving me.”

  “Why didn’t you refuse?” She took the wooden salad bowl Sybil handed her and began sprinkling herbs into it.

  “Because I knew it wouldn’t work.”

  “So why am I here at quarter to eight on a Saturday morning, mixing up herbs?”

  Sybil sank down in the chair, staring morosely at the rapidly filling bowl. “Because I’m gullible. You know it and I know it. My common sense will tell me it’s all ridiculous, but my subconscious won’t listen.”

  “The subconscious is a powerful thing,” said Dulcy, taking a sip of her coffee and then pouring a generous s
losh into the salad bowl.

  “You don’t have to tell me that. That’s what killed people during the Middle Ages; it’s what kills people in the Caribbean who’ve been cursed. All they have to do is believe they’re going to die and sure enough, they do.”

  “You’re not going to die, Sybil,” she said in a prosaic tone of voice. “Got any vodka?”

  “Not at this hour in the morning.”

  “For your antidote.”

  Sybil lifted her gaze from the disgusting concoction. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “Why did you ask me to come if you don’t trust me?”

  “Oh, I trust you,” Sybil assured her. “I’m just tired and cranky.”

  “And if you don’t believe Nick’s potion really worked, it won’t matter what I give you as an antidote, as long as your subconscious is convinced it will do the trick. Right?”

  “Er . . . yes,” she said doubtfully. “But you might as well give me the right one while you’re at it. It wouldn’t hurt to touch all bases.”

  “All I need is vodka and it’ll be ready to drink.”

  “Yuck.”

  Dulcy’s antidote didn’t taste any better than Nick’s vile brew, she thought as she dutifully downed a glassful, picking out the herbs from between her teeth. Mind you, it didn’t taste any worse. As a matter of fact, it tasted exactly the same. She looked up at her friend. Dulcy was sitting back in one of the kitchen chairs, her long, slender fingers wrapped around a mug of coffee, a smug expression on her otherworldly face. “You’re certain this is the right antidote?”

  “Of course I’m certain. The proper antidote to the love potion in the Hungarian curse book is simply to administer a different love potion. I just whipped you up the one from the old English book of charms and curses. I realize it tastes much nastier than that nice lemony potion Nick gave you, but nasty medicine works better.”

  Sybil sat listening to this artful chatter with a growing sense of horror. “He didn’t give me any nice lemony brew, Dulcy.”

  Her friend set the coffee cup down very carefully, her pale blue eyes meeting Sybil’s with just the right amount of concern. “What do you mean?”

  “He fed me something that tasted exactly like your antidote.”

  Dulcy sat back in her chair, chagrin washing over her face. “Oops,” she said.

  “What do you mean, oops?”

  “I gave you the wrong antidote.”

  “I knew it,” Sybil howled. “Things couldn’t be this easy! Couldn’t you tell from the ingredients Nick asked for last night that it was this potion?”

  Dulcy shrugged. “I didn’t pay any attention. I felt sure he would have taken the Hungarian book home with him. It’s so much more interesting than the English one.”

  “He took both, Dulcy.” Sybil resorted to another cup of coffee, her third, both to wash the taste of the love brew out of her mouth and to give herself courage to face this latest trauma. “Do you have what you need for the Hungarian potion?”

  “Why should I need stuff for that?”

  “For the antidote,” Sybil said patiently. “If the English potion wipes out the Hungarian, surely . . . surely . . .”

  Dulcy was shaking her head. “Sorry.”

  “Well, you must know something?”

  “I hate to tell you this, kid, but there’s nothing I can do. One dose of love philtre I can combat: two, and you’re a sitting duck.”

  “Great,” Sybil grumbled.

  “Look at it this way—you don’t really believe the stuff works. Just exert a little mind over matter. A glassful of nasty-tasting herbs isn’t going to make you fall at Nick’s feet. Not if you don’t want to.”

  “I don’t want to!”

  “Of course you don’t,” Dulcy soothed her. “And you could meditate, mentally surround yourself with a healing blue light. No, on second thought, that might not be a good idea.”

  “Why not? It sounds like an excellent idea.”

  “Because if you surround yourself with a healing blue light you might get more than you bargained for. Who’s to say that lusting after Nick Fitzsimmons isn’t the healthiest thing you could do right now?”

  “I do,” she snapped, immediately resolving to give up meditating.

  “Cheer up, Sybil. You and I both know it doesn’t really work. And look on the bright side of things. At least you’re better off than Mary Philbert.”

  All thought of love potions vanished from Sybil’s mind as she felt a sudden dread. “What happened to Mary Philbert?”

  “The same thing that’s happened to too many people. She lost all her savings.”

  “How?” Her voice came out raw and raspy.

  “Some bad investment or something. I don’t know all the details, but it sounds as if she’s another victim.”

  “Victim?” Sybil echoed, as dread washed over her. Nick couldn’t be right. Could he?

  “Of the bad economy. Or were you thinking she was a victim of something else?” Dulcy was nothing if not shrewd. “Or someone else?”

  “Of course not.”

  “It’s been awfully coincidental.”

  “Dulcy, it’s happening all over the country.”

  “It’s happening too much here. I’m planning to go visit her later this morning, to see if there’s any way I can help. Maybe it wasn’t just bad luck, maybe I might be able to trace some sort of fraud.”

  Sybil set her mug down, banishing the last of her self-absorption. “I’ll come with you. I didn’t have anything planned anyway, and Mary’s always been one of my favorite people.”

  “She’s an old sweetie. At least the other ladies are rallying round. A lot of them have been through the same thing, so they’ll be as helpful as anyone can be at a time like this. It’s a shame Leona isn’t around.”

  “She isn’t?”

  “She and Mary were in New Hampshire yesterday, and apparently something came up. She drove Mary back and then went on to Burlington. Something to do with her investments. Let’s just hope she’s not the next victim.”

  “Yes, let’s hope so,” Sybil mumbled, not entirely sure she meant it. While losing one’s life savings was a devastating blow, if Leona were similarly hit it would at least clear her of any suspicion.

  Not that anyone was suspicious, just that slimy Nick. Even Dulcy, who had strong reservations about Leona, didn’t seem to suspect anything.

  Probably Nick didn’t, either, she thought, as she watched Dulcy drive away. He probably just came up with that theory to worry her. He had a definite talent for it, a definite talent for upsetting and exciting and arousing . . .

  “Hell and damnation!” she said out loud, slamming her hand down on the windowsill. “I am going to stop thinking about him.”

  The dogs looked up at her out of soulful spaniel eyes, and Annie’s openmouthed pant looked just a tiny bit like derisive laughter. “Yeah, I know,” she muttered, pouring out the last of the coffee. “Fat chance.”

  “IT CERTAINLY SOUNDS suspicious, Nick, but I don’t know how you think I can help.” Ray’s thick Boston accent came over the other end of the line. “After all, I’m just a vice cop in Boston—I wouldn’t have any jurisdiction up in Vermont.”

  “I’m not asking for jurisdiction, Ray. I’m asking for information. You’ve got access to the most advanced information system in the world. All you have to do is punch a few buttons and you can find out anything.”

  “You academic types.” He sighed. “How many times do I have to tell you, it just ain’t that simple.”

  “Are you telling me you can’t help?”

  “I’m telling you it isn’t as easy as you think. I’ll do my best for you, buddy, but I can’t promise anything. And these things take time.”

  “I hate t
o hear that. You’re shattering all my illusions about the new, tech-savvy police.”

  “Ain’t it a crime,” Ray said with sarcastic sympathy. “Just like telling you there isn’t really a Santa Claus. It still boils down to old-fashioned grunt work. Tell me this old bird’s name one more time.”

  “Leona Coleman. She’s around seventy, no taller than five feet, heavy set, dark eyes, white hair. She’s lived in Danbury for two years, and I haven’t yet been able to find out where she lived before that. I think she gets close to the old ladies and gets them to invest in fraudulent schemes, either by simple friendliness or through her phony psychic stuff. I wouldn’t put séances and all that hogwash past her, though if she goes that far it’s pretty much of a secret around here. She’s trusted and well liked, God knows why, and she’s able to cover her tracks. No one’s lost their money in the same way, and no one’s made any connection between the sudden financial reverses and their sweet little friend.”

  “But you have?”

  Nick leaned back in his chair, propping his feet on the kitchen table that was serving as his desk. “I have. I think it’s a question of people being too close to the situation to notice. It takes an outsider to realize something’s wrong.”

  “Have you mentioned your suspicions to anyone?”

  Nick grimaced, glancing over at the dregs of his foul-smelling potion. “Just one. She had a minor fit, accused me of harassing the poor old dear. She’s not going to listen to reason until I come up with some proof apart from my dastardly suspicions.”

  “And you want her to listen to reason? I take it this isn’t one of the little old ladies.”

  “You take it right. And I don’t want her to listen to reason, just to a few indecent suggestions.”

  “Lucky Nick. You always manage to fall on your feet,” Ray said with a wistful sigh. “Heard anything from Adelle recently?”

  “Just that she’s happy and big as a house.”

  “No regrets?”

  Nick thought about it for a moment, probing at the thought as one might prod a sore tooth to make sure it still hurt. Nothing, not even a twinge. “No regrets, Ray.”