by Hailey North
“Gee, thanks.” Penelope pointed to Mrs. Merlin. “Please don’t take this wrong, but it looks as if you’re the one who needs help.”
Her finger strayed to the page facing where Mrs. Merlin lay. “Hey, look at this,” she said, sounding pretty excited. “I thought I knew every exception to this rule by heart, but . . .”
Penelope wheeled around. “I’ve got to tell Hubert. I think I’ve found the solution to Fitzsimmon’s tax problem!”
“You can’t leave me here!”
“Oh, right.”
Mrs. Merlin found herself shut into the book again, this time with only the top thatch of her hair poking free. She mumbled and moaned and thankfully Penelope had the presence of mind to raise her so at least her neck and face were free.
“Sorry, I just got carried away,” Penelope said as she walked rapidly down the hall. “I had this vague idea to recheck the exceptions, which is why I pulled this particular volume off the shelf, and then, voilà! Problem solved, almost magically.”
Mrs. Merlin felt Penelope stop dead in her tracks. Aha! About time the smarty-pants lawyer learned a lesson about magick.
“Did you hear what I just said?” Penelope said in a low voice.
“Yep.”
“You didn’t—no, what you did last night had to do with passion, not taxation.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Merlin couldn’t keep from sounding pretty superior. “Think again.”
Penelope lowered the book and stared into Mrs. Merlin’s face, or rather the representation of her face. “You had me put the Opinion Letter on the altar.”
“Morning, Penelope.”
“G-good morning, Mr. LaCour, Mr. Richardson.”
“Talking to ourself, are we? Guess that breakfast with old Clarke must have been a tough one?”
Mrs. Merlin couldn’t tell who was speaking. She heard two different male voices and assumed they had to be bigwigs because Penelope flipped the book over so Mrs. Merlin stared down at the floor. Penelope also stammered a bit as she responded.
Then the men passed on by and Mrs. Merlin found herself flipped face up again.
“Nah,” Penelope said, “I would’ve thought to recheck the exceptions whether you threw in a spell or not. It’s simply coincidence.”
Mrs. Merlin kept silent. It tickled her to listen to Penelope fight to maintain her rational order. She wondered how she’d explain forgetting to wear a blouse.
“And rushing about, getting ready in such a hurry. Why, anyone could have forgotten to put a blouse on.”
Mrs. Merlin uttered a flat chuckle. “Anyone, maybe, but not Penelope Fields.”
The lawyer hesitated, gazing down at Mrs. Merlin. A smile flitted across her lips and she began to laugh softly. “Well, you’re right about that. So I guess I owe you and your magick thanks twice over.”
Mrs. Merlin attempted a wink. “From a friend, once will do.”
Penelope smiled, turned the comer, entered an office, shut the door behind her, and deposited the book on a desk. She opened the pages and Mrs. Merlin breathed yet another sigh of relief.
“Well,” Mrs. Merlin said brightly, “now that I’ve solved your little tax problem, how about a wee bit of help with my predicament?”
The menu at Olano’s Seafood House didn’t feature escargots, nor did it flaunt any low-cal, heart-friendly specials.
It was seafood the way generations of New Orleanians loved their seafood: fried, raw, boiled, and grilled, in quantities guaranteed to stuff even the hungriest diner’s belly while tantalizing the taste buds.
Tony had grown up here, done every chore, from taking out the trash to blending the spices used in Olano’s Crab Boil, now packaged in gift boxes and sold to tourists in shops all over the city.
There was an 800 number and a website now, where people could order their seafood shipped by air. Tony’s oldest sister ran that part of the business from her house, where she had three children under the age of five keeping her busy between orders.
Olano’s had come a long way from the turn of the last century when his immigrant grandparents had staked out a small patch of land at the lakefront and began making their living fishing. Later, as the population grew, they began serving meals out of their home kitchen.
Standing next to one of the cauldrons used to boil crabs, Tony called to his brother Chris, “What are you using these days? Red dye number two?”
Chris lumbered over and peered into the pot. “Maybe I tossed in a little extra paprika, that’s all. Since when did you become a food critic anyway?”
Tony shrugged. Even though he hadn’t wanted to continue in the family business, he did have a knack for food.
“Hey, you haven’t changed your mind, have you?” Chris spooned a sample from the boil, blew on it, then stuck a finger into it to check out the blend.
“Nah.”
“Your business coming along?” Chris reached for a bag of lemons. “Make yourself useful. Add a few of these and cut that down a bit. Least you haven’t lost your touch.”
Tony grinned and set to work on the lemons. The steam from the boiling pots had clamped his shirt to his back, reminding him that even the longest of stakeouts in summertime New Orleans was cooler than a night in a restaurant kitchen.
Before Chris returned to the worktable where he’d been supervising one of his own sons battering catfish, he said, “You need any money, you let me know.”
“Sure, sure.” Tony couldn’t meet his brother’s eyes, but not for the reason Chris assumed. The thing Tony hated the most about his current investigation was putting his family through his supposed disgrace.
“Hey, Uncle Tony,” called one of the busboys running back into the kitchen with a pan of plates covered in fish bones, shrimp tails, and smears of tartar and cocktail sauce.
Tony waved at another of his nephews. Of his two sisters and three brothers, he was the only one to have been divorced, the only one who hadn’t yet produced an Olano grandchild.
He gazed at the lemon in his hand.
“You guys oughta see the babe at the bar.” Chris’s oldest son swaggered into the kitchen, drying his hands on a bar towel. He’d been barbacking this summer, and to the seventeen-year-old the gruntwork was nothing compared to the satisfaction of getting to check out what he called “the babes.”
“This one’s different,” Chris, Jr., said. “Hey, Uncle Tony, you ought to take a look. All dressed up like she’s on her way to church, but if you look real close, you can tell she’s just pretending to be snooty.”
“Oh, yeah, and how can you tell that?” Tony quit staring at the lemon and sliced it neatly in two. Now wasn’t the time to figure out his personal life. He had his assignment and everything else had to wait.
Even Penelope. But after he’d held her last night, and kissed her, Tony had known he didn’t want to wait.
He wanted Penelope.
Now and forever.
Chris, Jr., leaned closer to Tony and wiggled his brows. “You can see her bra ’cause she’s not wearing a blouse.”
“Is that right?” Tony thought his nephew was probably exaggerating for effect. Olano’s was the kind of restaurant where families brought children of all ages. The long bar served as a watering hole for many of the regulars, but also doubled as a resting place for many diners waiting for their names to be called. The bartenders served as much iced tea as they did beer.
“She’s all alone, too.” Chris, Jr., punched Tony playfully in the ribs. “Maybe you should take my place. You can sure get an eyeful!”
“Yeah, go ahead,” Chris’s father chimed in. “You’ve been moping around. Go catch yourself a woman. Maybe you can retire—” he bit off his words. “Sorry.”
“Hey, no problem.” Tony wiped the knife and rinsed the lemon juice from the counter where he’d been working. “Come on, Chris, I’ll check out this babe, but from the other side of the bar.”
“As a customer?” The disgust in Chris’s voice was evident.
Tony grinned. �
�Come on, you can watch your uncle in action.”
Chris slapped his hand in a high-five and the two moved out into the entryway of the restaurant. Chris headed to his post behind the bar and Tony slipped down the hall to the restroom to clean up a bit. His heart wasn’t in the chase, especially on this evening when he’d intended to be having dinner with Penelope, but he couldn’t bring himself to disappoint his nephew.
Chapter 18
Fortunately for Penelope, Jewel knew immediately what to do when she learned Penelope’s car had disappeared from a French Quarter street. Just as Tony had surmised, her car had been towed for a parking violation.
By the time Penelope was ready to leave the office, with Mrs. Merlin safely stashed in one of the books she carried home, Jewel had located her car at the city impound lot.
Not only had Jewel found it, but she’d made a few phone calls and the $97 towing ticket had disappeared. Penelope accepted the help and the ride from Jewel to reclaim her car in a lot huddled beneath a freeway overpass.
Seated once again behind the wheel of her car, Penelope waved good-bye to her assistant, then said, “So I guess it’s back to my place, Mrs. Merlin.”
Her answer was a drifting sigh from where the squished grandmother lay atop Penelope’s briefcase in the passenger seat.
“Come, now, I’m sure we can figure something out,” Penelope said.
“This time you’ll have to do the entire spell,” Mrs. Merlin said in a voice full of doom.
“Well . . .” Penelope bit her lip. She’d been about to say she didn’t see how she could do a worse job than Mrs. Merlin had, but that smacked of ego. And ego, she knew, would get her into a pickle.
“Go ahead, say it. I’ve made a mess of things again. Maybe you should just take me to Mr. Gotho and let me throw myself on his mercies.”
Two days ago, Penelope would have zipped the car around and headed straight to the Bayou Magick Shoppe, more than ready to hand over the responsibility. Today, though, she pressed on through the traffic, intent on getting back to her apartment.
“Oh, I’ll see if I can’t help you.”
In record time, she made it to her place, whisked her déjà vu houseguest up the elevator, and settled her on the dining table near last night’s altar, TV and remote at the ready.
Then, despite Mrs. Merlin’s protests, Penelope whisked into her bedroom to freshen up, and to strap herself into the ridiculously high heels she’d worn the night before.
Knowing the woman would howl upon hearing she had to wait until Penelope performed a particular mission of her own, she paused only for a moment to tell Mrs. Merlin she’d be back soon, hoping the woman wouldn’t notice her shoes.
“Soon?” The woman’s eyes opened wider. She swayed slightly forward and back. “What about me?”
Penelope couldn’t help her mischievous answer. “You did say it was all right to be selfish. And I’m not hurting you because I know while I’m gone you’re going to come up with exactly the perfect spell to undo this pickle.”
“Smarty-pants lawyer,” Mrs. Merlin muttered, and closed her eyes.
Now, sitting in the parking lot of Olano’s Seafood House, a lot overflowing with far more cars than she had pictured, Penelope felt none too daring.
Lights streamed from the sprawling wood-framed building, reflecting off the waters of Lake Pontchartrain lapping at the edges of the homey structure.
Olano’s was situated literally on the lakefront.
More cars meant far more people than she’d expected to encounter.
Wondering whether her nerve would fail her, wondering why walking into a friendly-looking restaurant all alone should bother her—Penelope Sue Fields, who’d grown up in the shadows of the restaurant business—still she hesitated.
The chef at Primo’s, who to Penelope’s surprise turned out to be Tony’s cousin, had assured her in a friendly way that if Tony had invited her to a place at the lakefront that he described as far better than Primo’s, he could only mean Olano’s, the family business, and the place he had last been chef.
He’d also hinted that Tony could use a good woman in his life, and urged her to drop by Olano’s. Tony might not be there, but someone in the family would make sure he got the message that a gorgeous woman had been there looking for him.
At that point in the conversation, Penelope had interrupted to inquire how Leo could assume the woman in question—herself—was beautiful.
She’d almost been able to hear the man’s shrug over the phone. Then he’d said, “Tony wouldn’t have asked you out otherwise.”
Penelope had hated to admit to herself just how much that remark thrilled her. She’d thanked Leo, both for the compliment and the advice, then gone in search of the tax code provision niggling at the back of her mind.
Which, of course, is where she’d bumped into Mrs. Merlin again.
Penelope experienced a twinge of guilt thinking how she’d rushed off in chase of a man who was no doubt a cad, while Mrs. Merlin couldn’t even enjoy a dish of oatmeal. But this twinge she quickly crushed.
She’d questioned Mrs. Merlin about the wisdom of mixing the IRS letter in with her own return spell and had been brushed off. So Mrs. Merlin would have to wait. Penelope wiggled her feet, staring at her heels, the only change she’d made to her day’s wardrobe.
No, she hadn’t put on a blouse.
Penelope blushed and pushed open the car door. It had worked for her earlier; perhaps it would again.
Though, she reminded herself sternly, her only goal in going to Olano’s was the vague hope that she’d run into Tony and torment him with what he’d missed.
No way would she actually fall for the guy ever again.
Or kiss him!
She ran her tongue over her lower lip, stepped from the car, and stumbled over a very fat cat.
“Eee-rarrhh!” The cat let go a meow loud enough to wake the dead.
“Sorry,” Penelope said, adding, “Nice kitty.” She knew less than nothing about cats, but she saw no reason to offend one.
She glanced around the parking area and realized several dozen cats shared the grounds with this one. They milled about, many of them eating from cartons placed on the ground. One large orange cat jumped on the hood of her car and sat there on its haunches, staring at her.
“Almost daring me to ask you to move, aren’t you?” Penelope said to the cat, deciding she admired the look of determination on the feline’s face. Maybe she would get a cat. She wondered whether Mrs. Merlin would be offended if she named the cat after her, then laughed at the idea. She ought to be thinking how she was going to get Mrs. Merlin back to her house in Gentilly and out of her apartment, rather than daydreaming about owning a pet.
For that matter, she’d be better off at home poring over her notes on the Fitzsimmons file than here picking her way among cats and abandoned Styrofoam cartons on her way to an assignation designed to punish a man who had intended to give her the brush-off.
But she’d promised herself to sit at the bar, make sure the bartender knew her name, then flirt outrageously with the first man she could get to respond. According to his cousin Leo, Tony would be sure to hear about her visit.
Despite her inner commentary, she stepped forward. One somewhat wobbly step at a time, Penelope crossed the swaying wooden bridge than led from the parking lot to the porch of the restaurant. Quite a few people sat on benches there, obviously waiting for tables. Well, Penelope didn’t need a table. She only needed to take a seat at the bar.
She swallowed nervously and thanked a big-bellied man who exited, holding the door open for her.
To her relief, she spotted a long bar just inside the door, covering the right wall of the waiting area. It was actually fairly impressive, especially the floor-to-ceiling carved mahogany piece behind the bar featuring lifelike mermaids and dolphins.
She spotted an empty seat at the bar and advanced on it, wishing she’d worn her sensible loafers rather than these silly heels that caused her
to teeter like a drunken sailor.
A pleasant-faced woman with a child on her lap made room for her. Almost at once the young man behind the bar asked her what she wanted to drink.
Penelope glanced longingly at the sweating glass of iced tea at the place next to her, then said, “Wine, please.”
The bartender stared at her. “Any preference?”
She had definite preferences as to cooking wines, but at a bar, Penelope was pretty much at a loss. However, this ignorance didn’t suit the siren image she’d determined to adopt. So she took a breath and rattled off the French Bordeaux David had selected at Primo’s.
The bartender slapped his thigh. “Hey, Chris, we got any ’89 Chateau du France Bordeaux?” He laughed. “Got a comedienne here.”
Penelope smiled weakly, then said, “Whatever you have that’s red.”
“That’s more like it.” The man slapped a small glass onto the bar and poured from a jug. “We stick to the basics at Olano’s,” he said. “You’ve never been here before, have you?”
She shook her head. “No, but it seems nice.”
He nodded. “That’ll be three twenty-five, or are you running a tab?”
Yet to lift the wineglass, Penelope waved a hand. “Tab.”
He drifted off to serve another customer and Penelope glanced around. Behind her people were coming and going in a steady stream from the dining room. Aromas that made her mouth water filled the air. Compared to this place, Primo’s had been a pristine sanitarium where food appeared mysteriously in elegant dishes.
Here, Penelope got the feeling she was right in the midst of a celebration of eating. Swinging doors to the side of the bar led to the kitchen. What she wouldn’t give to pop in there and take a lesson or two!
Of course, she’d felt the same way about Primo’s, but the difference in the atmosphere intrigued her. It was the difference between rich kids dressed in velvet and told not to get dirty before Christmas dinner versus children running riot out-of-doors during a family gathering before they plopped down on picnic benches to wolf hot dogs.
