I scoffed. “Yeah, I know that feeling. I planned a whole dinner party to celebrate after the reception was done.”
Aurelia smiled sadly. “You’re going to find your way, Ana. And remember, I’m always here to help. Anytime.”
“Thanks, Aurelia. That really means a lot. And, you never know, I just might take you up on it.”
“Good.” She beamed. “Now, let’s talk wedding dresses! I was thinking the other day that a sweetheart neckline would be lovely with your figure. Do you think you’ll wear your hair up, or down?”
“Aurelia!”
“What?” she asked with a sly smile. “It never hurts to be prepared, dear.”
Chapter Seven
Caleb didn’t seem surprised when I relayed Aurelia’s story over dinner. “Honestly, after the interviews I had today, it checks out. I’ve never had so many people pile on to complain about a victim before. Normally, even if they hated the guy’s guts, they’d try to come up with something positive to say out of respect for the dead.” He shook his head. “Not this time.”
“Listen, I worked for Evan and Charlene for over six months, and every moment I had to deal with them was unpleasant and, at times, downright miserable. I don’t have a hard time believing he left a bad impression on people, but there’s a huge jump between that and killing someone. Especially on his wedding day. I mean, that’s pretty sinister.”
Caleb inclined his head, fork poised over his meal. “Agreed. It also makes me wonder what Charlene saw in him. By all accounts, she’s a social butterfly with lots of friends. What’s your impression of them as a couple?”
I hitched one shoulder. “I don’t know.”
Caleb narrowed his eyes, a smile playing at his lips. “Oh, come on, Ana. Don’t give me that. I know you have an opinion.”
I sighed. “Fine. Honestly, I thought they deserved each other. Charlene might have a lot of friends, but she’s not a friendly person. At least, not to those she sees as being beneath her. Unless you have money, power, and influence, you’re no better than a piece of tissue paper stuck on her Manolos.”
“Yikes.” Caleb cringed.
“I didn’t think they had the kind of enduring love from a movie, but they were the kind of couple who would stick it out, using each other’s power to get whatever they wanted, all while building upon their families’ already vast fortunes. I mean, even just the way he was looking at her walking down the aisle. There was no emotion, no love. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out the whole thing was some kind of modern-day arranged marriage, or at the very least, there weren’t some heavy incentives on both sides that pushed them together in the first place.”
Caleb listened intently, then took a few bites, pondering my assessment further. “Any chance she’s the one who poisoned him?”
I nearly choked on my own dinner. “What? No!”
“How can you be so sure?” he asked. “If they weren’t in love and she decided she wanted out, it seems she would have had few options. Neither of their families would want a broken engagement tarnishing their spotless reputations, let alone a runaway-bride situation. Maybe she thought bumping him off was the only way out.”
It was absurd but I humored him, taking a moment to consider it. After a beat, I shook my head. “I don’t know. My gut says no, but it seems like the suspect pool might be pretty big on this one, so maybe it’s best to include her.”
“Would she have had access to him that morning?” Caleb asked. “Traces of the poison were found in his stomach contents—”
I put my fork down and pushed my plate away.
“Sorry,” Caleb said, wincing.
“Remember when we first started dating and you had a ‘no crime scene talk’ rule?” I asked with a wry smile. “Maybe we should go back to that.”
Caleb laughed softly and nodded his agreement. “Fair enough.”
I was a crime show junkie and loved a good murder mystery—well, the fictional variety—but discussing stomach contents over dinner was a step too far.
“Tell me what else you and Aurelia discussed,” Caleb prompted, still picking at his own entree.
I debating telling him about her not-so-subtle proposal hints, but decided against it. We’d discussed marriage before, but only in vague, abstract ways that weren’t framed in a way that made it personal to our relationship. Even after nearly a year of dating, I wasn’t sure I even knew if Caleb wanted to marry at all one day. Did he want kids? That was another area we’d silently marked as off-limits. But why? Sitting there across from him, I wasn’t sure.
“I told her I quit A Touch of Magic.”
“Oh?” He raised his brows. “And what did she say to that?”
“She was disappointed, but quickly rebounded and told me all the reasons why I should open my own planning business. She even offered to throw business my way.”
“And?” he prodded. “Are you going to take her up on the offer?”
I frowned and cocked my head. “Aren’t you the one who, just this morning, told me to take a week before thinking too much about it?”
“Yeah,” he replied with a laugh. “And now I’m saying maybe you should strike while the iron is hot! Seriously, Ana, think about how many calls she must get a week. If even a small percentage of them took her advice and called you for a consultation, your schedule would be packed in no time. I can’t think of a better ally in the business. Aurelia is expensive and exclusive. The types of people who call her for an appointment are the exact same people who need a wedding coordinator and who have the types of weddings that you like. Big, flashy, over the top.”
I tapped my fingernails against the stem of my wine glass.
“Okay, think about this. How much was getting scooped off the top of your commission?” he continued. “All of that money was going to Hyacinth and the partners. Meanwhile, you were the one out there on the front lines, so to speak.”
“That’s because they ran the business side. I wouldn’t know the first thing about any of that. And if you thought my schedule was outrageous before, just imagine what it would be like if I were to go into business for myself. It would never stop! I wouldn’t have the money to hire an assistant, at least, not right away, so I’d be stuck doing all the little stuff while trying to cram in as many clients as I could just to keep myself afloat.”
He gave a begrudging nod, acknowledging my point. “What does Harmony think?”
I sighed. “You know how she is. All starry-eyed and full of big dreams. To her, it’s as easy as a snap of the fingers. Presto, change-o, you have a business.”
Caleb snorted. “Presto, change-o? Is that an official spell, Ms. Winters?”
I laughed. “Can you tell I’ve been practicing my magic lessons?”
“Very nice.”
I blew out a long sigh. “I don’t know. I mean, Harmony’s been pitching in and paying rent, but I don’t know how long I can count on that. If things didn’t take off right away, it wouldn’t be long before I really found myself in a pickle.”
“You think she’s going to bail out?”
Caleb knew my history with my sister. While she’d stuck around this time for nearly a year and hadn’t shown signs of flaking out and leaving in the middle of the night, as was her teenage MO, I also knew she wasn’t likely to be content spending the next year sleeping on my sofa—comfortable as it was.
“I don’t know what’s going on with her. She’s working full time, and it seems all her spare time is going to her potion classes, but I don’t know to what end. We need to sit down and have a serious conversation about her plans. It’s been on my mind for a while, and this whole thing seems to be accelerating things. If I don’t find something quick, I’ll have to start seriously looking at other places to live. My savings won’t allow me to sign another year-long lease.”
Caleb nodded, his eyes hooded as he looked down at the contents of his plate. “And the odds of that new place being in another haven…?”
“I don’t know,”
I answered quietly. “That’s not what I want to do.”
“But?”
“But, yeah, it’s a possibility.”
Caleb set his fork to one side and reached for my hand across the table. “Ana, I know you have to do what’s best for you, and I trust that you’ll make the right decision, but I’d be an idiot if I didn’t at least try to make you stay, because I don’t want to lose you.”
The simple statement hit me in the chest with the force of a thrown hammer. Caleb wasn’t an overly emotional man. He didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve or make grand, overwhelming romantic gestures. His affection was more understated, a bouquet of flowers for no reason on a Wednesday, the steady hand at my back whenever I got tense, a foot rub after a long day. We’d never told each other how we felt or dropped the L-bomb, even though I quietly suspected we both felt it.
I squeezed his hand tight, anchoring myself in the moment. “You’re not going to lose me, Caleb. I might not be sure of much right now, but I do know that we are special, you are special, and even if my circumstances change, I’m not giving up on us without a fight.”
Harmony and Patrick, our neighbor, were in the living room, watching a movie and eating popcorn when Caleb and I returned from our dinner date. I waved at them, not wanting to interrupt, and continued into the kitchen to stash the leftovers in the fridge. My appetite hadn’t returned after Caleb’s stomach contents comment, but I supposed that was for the best, as it meant lunch for the next day. Facing a paycheck-less horizon meant I’d have to start trimming my takeout bills, and maybe even learn to cook. Shudder.
Peaches trotted into the kitchen, her long fur mashed down on one side. Clearly, she’d had an eventful day of napping. She yowled at me, her customary dinner request-slash-demand, depending on how you looked at it.
“Would you grab her a can?” I asked Caleb.
He rustled in the cabinet, retrieved a silver can of gourmet cat food (one thing I couldn’t pare from the expenses list, or else risk having my eyes clawed out in my sleep), and deposited the foul smelling mound of food onto Peaches’ crystal dish. He tried to hide an eye roll as he bent and presented it to the cat. “Your majesty.”
I laughed, but quickly covered my mouth as the cat shifted her eyes in my direction.
“Careful,” Caleb warned. “One wouldn’t want to make a mockery of the queen, after all.”
The laugh slipped out. Peaches thrust her feather duster of a tail into the air, lifted her tiny chin, and twisted away with a decisive jerk before marching back down the hall toward the bedroom. Caleb and I both cracked up laughing, the moment a perfect release valve on the high-stress day.
“Oh!” I exclaimed, wiping a tear from my eye. “I’m going to have to buy her an entire salmon fillet to make up for this one.”
“Maybe that was her plan all along,” Caleb added, still chuckling.
“I really wouldn’t put it past her.” I moved to the opposite cabinets and pulled them open in search of wine glasses. “You want one?” I asked.
When he didn’t answer, I glanced over my shoulder. He was leaning against the counter, a glossy pamphlet in his hand and a furrowed line between his brow. “I didn’t realize you’d already started looking at real estate agents.”
“What?” I closed the cupboards and sidled up beside him. The one-page ad showed a series of condos in the Seattle area and featured the name and contact information, presumably for the glowing blonde woman who’s photograph was tucked at the bottom right corner. She wore a navy jacket and white blouse, her arms folded across her chest as she flashed a warm smile for the camera. A sticky note was attached to the ad, bearing Harmony’s handwriting:
* * *
Wednesday
4pm
Dress nice!
* * *
I shook my head. “This isn’t mine, Caleb.”
He frowned at the leaflet and then looked up at me. “Well, then it looks like you might not be the only one thinking about moving.”
Glancing out into the living room, Harmony was chattering excitedly with Patrick as the ending credits rolled on the screen. Was she looking for a new place to live? And if so, why hadn’t she said anything to me? Surely, if she’d meant for us to get a new, more affordable, place together, she would have told me before setting an appointment with a real estate agent.
Tamping down the sting, I took the ad from Caleb’s hands and placed it back on the counter. “It’s none of my business,” I told him. “Now, was that a yes on wine?”
He hesitated, glancing back at the glossy ad, but then nodded and offered a smile. “Sure.”
Chapter Eight
The real estate flyer wasn’t in the kitchen the following morning. Clearly, whatever Harmony was up to, she wasn’t in the mood to share. At least, not with me. The sofa was empty, Harmony’s sheets and coverlet rolled up like a sleeping bag off to one side, as usual. I frowned, suddenly feeling selfish and small. What right did I have to be angry with her for wanting to move out? She’d been sleeping on a sofa for a year. If the tables were turned, wouldn’t I have tried to bolt at the first opportunity?
I was being too sensitive. Understandable, considering everything that had occurred over the past twenty-four hours, but stars, I needed to get a grip.
Putting the whole thing out of my head, I set about making myself a pot of coffee and tossed a bagel in the toaster oven. While I waited for the coffee to percolate, I dressed, slapped on a little make-up, and put my hair back using a pair of gold hair pins.
The timer on the toaster oven sounded in chorus with the doorbell and I frowned. It was eight o’clock in the morning and I wasn’t expecting company. I glanced at my phone as I went to answer the door, wondering if I’d missed a call from Caleb or perhaps CeeCee. The screen was blank.
With the murmur of a spell, a charmed peephole appeared in the front door, allowing me full view of who was waiting on the other side, while the person on my welcome mat had no idea I was watching. With a rush of relief, I saw Francois standing there, looking nervously around the hallway.
I hurried to release the wards on the door and pulled it open. “Francois! What are you doing here?”
Without waiting for me to invite him in, the chef stepped into my home. “Your boyfriend isn’t home, is he?”
“No …” I replied slowly, closing the door and resetting the wards with a simple hand gesture. “Why?”
Francois ignored me, too busy inspecting every inch of the entryway of my condo. He took in the art on the walls—most of it abstract and neutral in color—and then the furnishings and personal touches. A small table with a blown glass bowl for holding pocket change, Shimmer Bus coins, ticket stubs and receipts.
“Francois?” I said as he started to shuffle into the living room.
“Hmm,” he said, still perusing.
“What are you doing here? And why do you care if Caleb is here or not? Are you looking for him?”
The chef slid his hands into the pockets of his chinos and circled his gaze back to me. A flicker of heat flashed. “I wanted to tell him off and thought it might be more satisfying in person. The woman at the front desk of the SPA building claims he’s not there. I thought this was the next obvious choice.”
“Tell him off?” I folded my arms. I’d been about to offer him a cup of coffee, but decided against it. “What for?”
“For having me dragged out of bed and down to headquarters this morning,” he replied tersely, as if I’d somehow had a part in it.
“Okay, back up. I’m confused.”
“They think I killed Evan Stimpton,” he said, adding something in French under his breath.
“Stomach contents.” I groaned and placed my face in my hands. “Of course.”
“Yes, apparently, along with my crappy food, our beloved Mr. Stimpton also had some kind of deadly potion in his system.” Francois’s narrow nostrils flared. “And, seeing as I personally prepared every morsel that went into that imbecile’s mouth, I am now the c
hief suspect in his killing.”
“I’m so sorry, Francois. I don’t know what to say—”
“Say that you’ll help me!” he replied. “Tell your boyfriend I had nothing to do with this! I might have more affection for a pile of dog excrement than for that rich brat, but that doesn’t mean I killed him!”
“I know that,” I replied. “But, I’m not sure how much my word can really do.”
Francois tossed his hands into the air. “Mon Dieu.”
“We’ll figure this out, Francois. It’s only the beginning of the investigation and they let you go, so that has to be a good sign, right?”
“They’ve closed down my kitchen and I’m not allowed on the property until they’ve completed their search,” Francois replied with a deep scowl.
“Well they won’t find anything,” I said, moving toward the kitchen as the smell of my bagel burning wafted to me. The last thing I needed was the sprinkler system to go off. Even witches couldn’t figure out how to enchant a smoke detector to know the difference between burnt toast and a five-alarm fire.
“What did they ask you?” I called from the kitchen, using a fork to retrieve the unsalvageable bagel from the toaster oven.
“They wanted to know why I insisted on personally preparing every dish meant for Mr. Stimpton—or, the victim, as they called him—though I’d argue we suffered more than he did!” Francois grumbled, moving into the dining room. He ran his hands over the back of the chairs set around the table. “These are exquisite. Froggio?”
“That’s right.” I nodded at his appraisal of the chairs. “Do you want coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”
“I don’t touch the stuff,” he replied.
I realized how little I actually knew about the esteemed chef. We were industry friends, having worked dozens of events together over the course of my event-planning career. But I couldn’t recall having ever spent time with him outside of that sphere.
Witchy Weddings: A Magic Witch Mystery Series: The complete Touch of Magic series Page 36
