This Magick Marmot Page 13

  It was cool enough in the shop to turn off the AC. I propped open the door with the large ceramic dragon Bronwen had bought for that purpose. The air wafting in carried the scent of newly mown lawns and Lolly’s chocolate. Two clouds popped up in front of me as I walked back inside. I shooed them away from the open door and into the supply room where they wouldn’t be seen.

  The edges of my mother’s cloud were turning purple, a mixture of sadness and anger. “I thought you’d be thrilled to see me,” she said.

  “Of course I am. I’m overjoyed to see you again.” I had missed her, even if I hadn’t missed the frequent arguments. I would have embraced her if I could, but as long as we resided on different sides of the veil, coming into contact was not an option, especially if I wasn’t ready to join them. “You have got to be more careful where you materialize. We can’t let anyone else see you.” What a horror show that would be with cell phone cameras and social media. We’d be under siege by every news outlet, every kook and phony evangelist. “Remember, you two are proof that the soul survives physical death.”

  Morgana’s cloud shook the attitude and returned to white. “Forgive me. I’ve been so immersed in spiritual learning, I forgot about the limits and pettiness of life on Earth.” And yet she’d gotten her figurative nose out of joint, because I sent them to the supply room. Her learning on the other side was clearly a work in progress.

  It occurred to me that Bronwen hadn’t said one word. “Are you all right, grandma?”

  “I’m enjoying being with two of my dearest again. Besides, I’ve discovered that words aren’t always necessary. In fact they often get in the way and lead to misunderstanding.” Can I get an amen?

  “However I do have something to tell you. It is permissible for us to explain that spirits may choose to appear to the living as energy clouds or as they looked in life.”

  “Then I don’t understand why you and my mother have chosen to appear as generic energy clouds.”

  “At the outset, you and Tilly were so devastated by our sudden passing that it didn’t seem wise or kind to appear as ourselves. We wanted to visit with you, but keep a certain distance between us to help you move on.” I held my breath, worried my grandmother might have revealed too much. But as the seconds passed without her being snatched away, I relaxed.

  “We are only given the choice once,” Morgana added. I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t sure I agreed with their choice, but at least I understood it now. As much as I would have loved to see them again as I’d known them in life, they had chosen what they thought was in Tilly’s and my best interests at the time.

  “How is my sister?” Morgana asked. “And Merlin?”

  “They’re in Tilly’s shop. I’ll get them.”

  “No need,” Bronwen said, “we’ll get there faster ourselves.” Before I had a chance to warn them about Froliquet, they took off for the teashop like sloops catching a fresh wind. Cats had a long history as familiars for sorcerers and wizards. As such they were rarely put off by magickal occurrences. Marmots were another story.

  I followed Morgana and Bronwen into Tilly’s shop where apples, cinnamon, and sugar were bubbling away in the oven. My mouth started watering for my aunt’s strudel. Merlin was on his stool keeping track of the timer, with Froliquet asleep at his feet.

  When the clouds sailed in, the marmot must have felt a disturbance in the plane, because she awoke with a start. She jumped to her feet and backed away from them with an awkward gait. It occurred to me that I’d never seen her squirrel relatives move in reverse. If they wanted to change direction, they simply spun around. But Froliquet didn’t seem inclined to turn her back on the indoor clouds for even a moment. Instead she sat up on her haunches and issued a high-pitched whistle alarm to those she considered members of her madness—namely us.

  “Merlin,” Tilly yelled from the tearoom, “Make her stop! She’s your familiar. Teach her some manners! My poor ears!”

  When Tilly came around the corner and saw her family gathered there, a smile split her face, plumping up her cheeks. Although the clouds couldn’t smile, they twinkled, bouncing up and down with delight. With good feelings abounding, Froliquet caught the spirit, quieting to an occasional hiccup-like chirp.

  Sashkatu appeared in the doorway. He regarded us all with an aristocratic disdain that conveyed his feelings as well as any words could—you’re all noisy and ill-bred peasants. He turned and strutted back to Abracadabra, his tail straight as a flagpole. Once he was out of sight, we all cracked up. Froliquet chattered along, trying to mimic us.

  Chapter 20

  Hugo Humphrey called the next day. He had the two bartenders scheduled to meet with me at the hotel that afternoon. Maybe he’d taken my little speech to heart. If I could catch Genna’s killer, her story would quickly be replaced in the news by the other myriad horrors around the world. The public’s memory of it would quickly fade, courtesy of their shortened attention span. Hugo might stand a chance of saving his job after all.

  How could I tell him I couldn’t make it, after I’d demanded the meeting ASAP? But I’d forgotten that a group of seniors were coming to New Camel from the senior center forty minutes away in Corning. At least a dozen strong, they made the trip a couple of times a year. They were active, clear minded, and fun to be with. When they were younger, they must have been hell on wheels.

  The words were barely out of my mouth, when Tilly offered her services. “Yes, I’m free. I’ll do it, whatever it is.”

  “Don’t you want to know what you’re signing up for?”

  “No, not necessary.” I explained the situation anyway. “Wonderful! I’ll leave Merlin home with his marmot. It will be like a vacation. I know that group from Corning—they’re a hoot. When I get older, I want to be just like them.” I didn’t point out that she was already as old as some of them, ran a business, and took care of a house, not to mention a mercurial wizard. Arthritis and bunions may have slowed her down, but nothing had made a dent in her forward-ho spirit.

  The catering manager’s office was one floor below the main lobby, where one could also find the Waverly’s spa and gym. Although I was early, I was the last one to arrive. Three sets of eyes turned to the door when I walked in. Humphrey was seated behind his desk, looking much like I imagined him during our phone conversation—forty something with a jawline already melting into his neck. He was wearing a lightweight blue suit, white dress shirt with a collar that cut into his beefy neck, and a blue and red striped tie.

  Two young men, still south of thirty, lounged in chairs across from Humphrey’s desk. They looked like print models.

  Humphrey pushed his chair back and stood up to offer me his damp hand. The bartenders smiled, and nodded, as relaxed as Humphrey was tense. When you’re good at tending bar, there’s always another gig to play. Catering manager positions were in far shorter supply in Schuyler County. If the killer wasn’t caught soon enough, Hugo might have to uproot his wife and two girls, who were smiling at me from the photograph on his desk.

  “Please, Ms. Wilde,” he said, indicating the empty chair.

  Before sitting, I set it at an angle to face all three of them and introduced myself. Humphrey turned beet red when he realized he’d failed to perform that basic courtesy. He seemed to shrink in stature as I watched him. He mumbled an apology and as soon as my butt hit my chair, he sank into his.

  The bartender who was farther away gave me a salute and a wink. “I’m Joey.”

  “Blake,” said the one closer to me.

  I pulled a mini legal pad and pen from the purse that had replaced my slim cross-body number. Another decade and I’d probably be toting around a satchel the size of Tilly’s. “Thank you both for making yourselves available on such short notice.”

  Joey gave me a grin that could have been in an ad for teeth whitening. “Not a problem.” Blake made do with another head bob.

  I ha
d decided to question them together. The detectives may have separated them, but that approach had clearly not netted them the killer. By speaking to the men together, I hoped to make them less wary, more willing to part with information.

  “Do I look familiar to either of you?” I asked to start things off. It wasn’t likely they recognized me. Although I’d been at the bar briefly, it was Genna who had ordered my club soda.

  “Sorry,” Blake said.

  Joey asked me to stand up, and then he gave me a slow and studied appraisal, one that might have earned him a slap under other circumstances. “I must have been working the other end of the bar,” he said finally, “because I’m positive if I had seen you, I’d remember you. And I would have asked for your phone number.”

  Humphrey cleared his throat and sent Joey a look of displeasure.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know it’s against the rules,” Joey said, his eyes still on me, “but I would have made an exception. What good’s a rule without exceptions?”

  I resumed my seat and took out my phone. “What about this woman?” I handed Blake the phone with the picture I’d taken of Charlotte and Genna that night. He concentrated on it for a count of five, before saying no and passing it on to Joey.

  “The one on the right—she’s the one who was poisoned. I saw her on the news, but I didn’t see her at the reunion.”

  “Here’s the thing,” Blake said, “when you’re working an event, there’s this sea of faces and you’re busy making one drink after the other. In a bar or a restaurant things are usually slower. You have a chance to talk to people, joke around. That way you remember them.”

  “How hard is it for someone to get behind the bar during a party?” I asked.

  Joey laughed. “Here? Not hard at all. Most places it’s not an issue. But I worked at one bar with some pretty scary customers, guys who wouldn’t think twice about smashing up the place if someone looked at them funny. The only way you could get behind that bar was through a little supply room that locked from the inside, so someone had to let you in.”

  Humphrey was aghast. “That’s awful! I’ve never heard of such a thing.” He’d apparently recovered enough from his embarrassment to throw in his two cents. He looked at me. “Why do you need to know that?” The man had no imagination.

  “If the killer had access to the bar, then he could have made Genna’s drink himself.”

  Blake took exception to my theory. “It doesn’t matter how busy we were, we would have noticed if some stranger was suddenly working the bar with us.”

  Joey fixed his friend with a sly smile. “Not so fast.”

  Blake rounded on him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “There was a guy who came behind the bar that night. He said he was there to spell us if we needed the restroom. I figured Humphrey arranged—

  “I did no such thing,” the manager interrupted. “There was no need for restroom breaks when the cocktail hour was just an hour.” He didn’t have a great way with words.

  Joey gave a quick roll of his eyes for my benefit. When he was a kid, he must have spent a lot of time in the principal’s office. “I didn’t take the guy up on the offer anyway. And I didn’t think about it again, until Ms. Wilde brought it up.”

  Blake laughed. “Hey Joey, I know someone who’s got a bridge for sale.”

  There was no humor in Joey’s expression. “Really? And what would you have done if that guy came over to you?”

  “I would have told him he had to get out, he didn’t belong back there. And if Humphrey sent him, he could tell me that himself.”

  Anger flashed in Joey’s eyes. “Yeah right, your hindsight is twenty-twenty, but you wouldn’t have done anything different from me. You talk big, but you back down from real confrontations.”

  I don’t know if Humphrey or Blake understood what was happening, but I sure did. Joey didn’t like being the one who may have let a killer get past him without even questioning his unlikely story.

  Blake grabbed a Waverly brochure off Humphrey’s desk, rolled it up and bopped Joey on the head with it.

  “Cut it out,” Joey snarled, pulling the brochure out of Blake’s hand and tossing it behind him.

  Humphrey opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He tugged at the knot in his tie. Beads of sweat blossomed on his upper lip. He’d be out two good bartenders if fists started flying, not to mention the potential for breakage. He glared at me as if it were my fault for demanding the meeting.

  “Boys, boys,” he cajoled, “there’s no reason for animosity here. We’re all on the same side. Fighting among ourselves won’t help Ms. Wilde find the killer.”

  “Joey,” I said, hauling the conversation back on track, “did you see that man again during the night?”

  He combed his hair back in place with his fingers. “Matter of fact, I did. He was wandering around the room with a glass in his hand. I thought maybe he was working security too.”

  A mocking smile lit Blake’s face. “Yeah I’m sure his resumé reads security guard slash relief bartender.”

  “It’s called blending in with the crowd.”

  Listening to them, reminded me of the way Elise’s kids bickered. I suspected these two had been friends for years. “Did you see this guy doing anything suspicious?” I asked.

  Joey shrugged. “I was busy and it wasn’t like I was told to keep track of him. It was before that woman was killed. And it’s not like he was wearing a blinking sign that said KILLER.”

  Blake laughed. “Now that would have made for an interesting resumé.” Humphrey tried to contain himself, but a chuckle got away from him. He covered his mouth and swallowed hard, trying to regain control.

  I ignored him, determined to continue. “Joey, can you describe the man?”

  He scratched his head. “Five-ten, gray hair, between fifty and sixty—that’s all I got.” It wasn’t much. He could have been describing any middle-aged man. If your ambition was to be a hired killer, it was a description that would serve you well.

  I thanked everyone for their time and handed out my card with the usual request to call if they thought of anything else related to that night.

  I’d left my car at home and walked the mile or so to the Waverly. With the temperature in the mid-seventies it was a perfect day to be outside, and I needed the exercise. On the way there I’d hustled, because I didn’t want to be late. Going home, I took my time. Tilly would have called if she needed me sooner.

  I replayed the meeting in my head, trying to tease more information from what Joey and Blake had said. The man who went behind the bar may well have been the one who poisoned Genna. He might have taken a cocktail glass and poured the poison into it, waiting for the perfect moment to add it to her drink.

  Halfway home I forced myself to put the case on a back burner and focus on the simple pleasures of walking when there were no appointments to keep. A lawn mower growled in the distance, birds sang their unique melodies, tea roses sweetened the air, and sunlight sparkled off a freshly washed red convertible that made me think of open roads and wind in my hair. I didn’t hear the soft footfalls behind me, until it was too late.

  Chapter 21

  He slapped his hand over my mouth and shoved a gun into my back. “If you want to live, keep quiet!” His words were low and gravelly, the way men in movies sound when they’re trying to disguise their voices to scare you. He was taking a huge chance by attacking me out in the open in daylight. As if he’d read my thoughts, he hurried me off the main street and into an alley between a hardware store and a dry cleaner’s. He pushed me to go faster, making me stumble over my own feet. When I fell forward, he jerked my head up and back with the hand that was over my mouth. I thought my neck would snap.

  This was no impulsive attack, no thief looking for quick cash and credit cards to fund a drug habit or he would have snatched my purse and run. No, he’d s
tudied the area. He knew he had to grab me before I reached the tourist part of New Camel, where people were always in and out of the shops, especially in the summer.

  What does he want from me? The question beat at my mind, but I couldn’t let myself go there. Fear was this guy’s wingman. I couldn’t let it paralyze me. I tried to center my mind to invoke a spell, but I couldn’t hold onto the words and their rhythm.

  When we reached the end of the alley, he pulled me roughly to the right, behind the cleaner’s. There were no windows or security cameras. Toxic vapors from the solvents they used vented there, mixing with the fetid smells of rotting food in the garbage cans. When I gagged, my attacker hissed at me to cut it out. In my head I yelled, it’s an involuntary reflex, moron.

  I was having trouble breathing through my nose alone. I was light-headed; darkness crept around the edges of my mind, closing in. Panic rose in my throat tasting of bile. Forget about the gun, I told myself, fight while you still can.

  His palm over my mouth had shifted enough for me to snag the meaty part between my teeth. I bit down hard, the metallic taste of his blood making me gag again. He yowled in surprise, but didn’t pull his hand away. If he had, for even a second or two, I would have screamed at the top of my lungs and spun around, going for his vulnerable spots like the experts tell you to. But he jammed the gun deeper into my back, up against a rib until I thought the bone would crack. He leaned close to my ear, “You try that again and I’ll knock your teeth out. If you’re a good girl, you’ll get out of this without any permanent scars. Now pay attention—I’m only going to say this once—stop playing detective or someone else is going to die, someone you love and it will be your fault!” He snickered as if he were enjoying this game. It tripped a switch in me.

  Anger surged through me, stronger than panic. My mind cleared long enough for me to focus and gather my life force. Long enough for the right words to tumble into place. I just had time to recite the spell once: