eighteen

It was dark when I arrived home. Toeing off my shoes, I sprawled on the couch and unbuttoned the top snap on my jeans. I couldn’t ignore my weight gain any longer.

The remote control on the coffee table was just out of reach. I stretched, unwilling to make the effort to sit up and grab it. Handing out tickets was surprisingly grueling.

My phone rang, and my fingers brushed the remote, knocking it to the floor. With a snarl, I got up and dug my cell from the pocket of my jacket, which I’d slung over a Mediterranean-blue chair.

“This is Maddie.”

“It’s Harper. Are you at home?”

“Yes.”

“Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Good. I’m outside.”

Before I could tell her I was in no mood to go out, she hung up. A pair of feet thundered up the steps.

I opened the door, and Harper handed me a warm pizza box fragrant with tomatoes, cheese, and mushrooms. She’d changed out of her work clothes into jeans and a tight olive-colored sweater under a tan leather jacket.

She knotted her long hair into a loose bun. “I presume you have alcohol.”

“Wine or beer?” I nudged the door shut with my foot. In my prior life overseas, friends didn’t casually drop by with pizzas. I’d moved around too much to develop relationships. This was … nice. Even if I was heading toward pizza overload.

“It’s too cold for beer,” she said. “I hear Cabernet works with pizza.”

“Cabernet works with anything. Wine’s in the rack in the kitchen.” I set us up at my coffee table with plates and wine glasses, while Harper uncorked the wine—a Cabernet from Paso Robles.

She sat down in a wing chair and poured us glasses, then raised hers in a toast. “Cheers.”

I took a sip, letting it roll over my tongue. Dry, with a faint hint of blackberry. Mmm. “So what brings you to my door?”

“I wanted a vegetarian pizza and didn’t want to eat it by myself. What has Adele said to you? She told me they’ve dropped the charges, but she was pretty close-mouthed.”

“I met a lawyer, Sam Leavitt, this morning when I dropped off a check for her criminal attorney. Sam said she was off the hook because she was too short—that the person who struck Christy had to be taller. And, of course, she was in jail when Michael was killed.” I wrinkled my brow. “But Adele told me the police seem to think she could have had an accomplice. So she isn’t in the clear.”

I’d found the body with Adele. I’d been on the loose when Michael was killed, and had found his body. Could the police possibly think I was that accomplice? I gnawed my lower lip.

“Dammit.” Harper put her glass on the table with a clatter. “It’s so stupid. Anyone who knows Adele knows she couldn’t have done it.”

“There’s something else that bothers me,” I said. “This lawyer, Sam, used to date Christy. It seems like a conflict of interest for him to be working for the lawyer handling Adele’s defense. When I asked him, he played it down. But it doesn’t seem right.”

A slice of bell pepper fell to Harper’s plate. “That’s the problem with living in a small town. For better or worse, if you want a local lawyer, you don’t have a lot of options. I know about Sam dating Christy and it ending badly. Trust me, he’s got no reason to mess with Adele’s case.”

“What do you mean?”

“After Sam and Christy broke up, he was kind of moping around her, hoping to get back together. I was at a Chamber of Commerce function—one of those wine-and-cheese things—and the two were there. Christy loudly told him to leave her alone, and insulted his, er, performance in the process. I felt bad for the guy.”

“If it was such an ugly breakup, why is he the trustee of Christy’s estate?”

Harper took a bite of the pizza and chewed. “The breakup was about six months ago. Maybe she hadn’t gotten around to making the change?”

“And why isn’t someone from her own firm the trustee? You’d think, with them being estate attorneys, that someone from her firm would be a logical choice.”

“Maybe. But sometimes you want to keep your work and personal life separate, you know?”

“I’m starting to wonder if that’s possible.” I’d lied to that reporter when I’d said the petition against the museum hadn’t bothered me. My ego was getting tangled in the museum, just like it had in my prior career. It was all personal.

“In a town this small,” I continued, “all the relationships—even the professional ones—seem incestuous. Is there a lawyer or CPA in town you don’t know?”

She laughed. “There’d better not be. My business depends on networking.”

I turned the stem of my wine glass, my insides tensing. “Harper, were you the ‘client’ Christy was blackmailing?”

Her expression tightened. “You know I didn’t kill Christy. Or Michael. Does it matter?”

I stared at the hole in my sock. She wasn’t denying it.

“We’re friends, and you deserve your privacy,” I finally said. “I don’t need to know what it was about. But the police do need to know if there’s someone else out there who might have had a motive for murder. If you were her blackmail victim, then I’ll drop it. But if there’s actually a client out there who has a motive … Harper, you’ve got to tell the police. Adele is still in jeopardy.”

Her jaw clenched. She looked past me, and I had my answer.

We sat in silence, sipping wine that turned to dust in my mouth. I wasn’t sure where to go from there, so I said nothing. Adele would have thought of some adroit way to change the subject, but all I could think of was blackmail and murder.

“I don’t need details,” I said.

Abruptly, Harper stood. She walked to the window, her face reflected in the glass, blackened by the night. “You do. I should have told you years ago.”

She didn’t turn. Didn’t say anything.

I couldn’t believe Harper had done anything wrong. Maybe silly or embarrassing, but not wrong. Not Harper.

“Don’t tell me,” I said. “You’re a serial killer. With a string of unpaid parking tickets. You never got a permit for your home remodel, did you?”

“No, you idiot.” She turned to me, her lips twitching.

“Late library books? An embarrassing rash?”

“I’m a strega.” She looked toward the kitchen.

“A what? Wait, is that one of those kinky—”

“A witch!” Harper fisted her hands and jammed them on her hips. “A witch from the Italian tradition. You know how my dad’s mother raised me after my parents died? Well, when I was in college, she turned up a box of my mom’s things when she was cleaning out the attic. We’re still not sure how it got there. Once she realized they were my mom’s, she stopped looking at them and handed the box off to me. That’s what she says, at least. Underneath the clothing were books and talismans and my mother’s notes. She was a strega. At first I started studying it because I was curious about her. At first it was academic. But then I began practicing. It made me feel closer to her. Now it’s just what I do.”

I shook my head, disbelieving. “Is that all?” Relief mingled with hurt as I sank into the couch. Harper had been doing this since college? Why hadn’t she told me? “And Christy was blackmailing you over it? How did she know?” How had Christy known and I hadn’t? My lungs constricted.

“I have to keep my work and my craft separate. This may be California, but how do you think my financial planning clients would feel if they knew I was a witch? They’d begin to suspect I was using magic to predict the stock market.”

“Would you?”

“Of course not! As a financial planner, I know enough not to even try. You should base your investment choices on your goals and risk tolerance, not …” She laughed shakily. “Sorry about the financial lecture. It’s become automatic.”

“But why didn’t you tell me?” That came out more plaintive than I’d intended. I wanted to ask if Adele knew, but pride held me back. Then: “Wait a minute. That business about the tea recipe you wouldn’t give Adele … Was it a special strega tea?”

Harper hung her head.

So Adele didn’t know. This made me feel better for all of five seconds. Then I realized what it meant. “You’ve got to tell her.”

“Maddie, I can’t!”

“She’s going to find out, and then she’s going to ask me if I knew, and I’m going to say yes, and then she’ll be mad at me. Tell her. We’ve been friends for years. I still can’t understand why you’ve kept it such a secret.”

“At first it was about me and my mom, family business. And then I got so used to keeping that side of me private, it became a habit.”

“How did Christy find out?”

“I’m not sure. For a short time, I was in a local coven. One of the women there may have told her.”

A slice of pizza slid off my plate and into my lap. “There’s a coven in San Benedetto?”

Beneath her olive sweater, Harper’s shoulders tensed. “You say it like they’re Satanists or something.”

“I say it like I can’t believe people are upset about the Paranormal Museum when we’ve got a coven practicing witchcraft! It’s totally unfair!” I blotted pizza grease from my jeans.

Harper smirked. “Well, now you understand why I’m keeping
my alter ego on the down-low. If the Ladies Aid Society is after your little museum, imagine what they’d do to me.”

“Point taken,” I grumbled. “Got any spells for increasing sales at the museum?”

“First, I think you need a spell for clarity on whether you want to buy the museum.”

“Yes, please.” I sat up straight and folded my hands in my lap. “Give me clarity.”

“Are you having fun?”

“Fun?” I leaned back on the couch and stared at the ceiling. A tiny spider crawled across it. “You mean aside from riding herd on a bookie, and finding a body, and battling the Ladies Aid Society?”

“Aside from that.”

I thought about Herb the “collector” and Sam’s oddball taxidermy. “There’ve been some entertaining moments.”

“Is it a challenge?”

“Figuring out how to turn a paranormal museum into a profitable business? I’ll say.”

“Do you like the area?”

I liked nodding at people I knew on the street. I liked friends dropping by just because they could. I liked the fog rolling over the vineyards, the neat rows of orchards, the Victorian houses. “It’s good to be home,” I said.

“Then I think you have your answer.”

“There’s more to it than that.”

“Is there?”

I tried to summon a steely look and slid another slice of pizza onto my plate. “To recap: Christy had broken up with Sam and wasn’t very nice about it. So he might not mind that she’s dead. You’re a strega, and there’s a coven in San Benedetto. Anything else I should know?”

“Just one. Your museum is being haunted.”

“It’s haunted.” I tilted my head, skeptical. “Let me guess. By the ghost of a brunette with deep-set eyes and a long nose, dressed in a gown from the nineteenth century and named Cora.”

Harper’s jaw dropped. “You can see her too?”

“Cut it out, Harper.” One corner of my mouth twisted downward.

“Cut what out? You’re a ghost whisperer? How long have you been able to see spirits?”

“Ghosts don’t exist.” This had stopped being funny. Was she also pulling my leg about being a strega?

“You’re a ghost whisperer who doesn’t believe in ghosts? That will be a challenge.”

“Knock it off,” I said sharply.

“Knock what off? I’m serious—you’re being haunted by a woman like you described.”

“I told you I was researching Cora McBride.”

“Cora who?”

I must have told Harper about Cora. Hadn’t I? Or if I hadn’t, maybe she saw my research and her subconscious picked it up. “If you can see Cora, ask her what happened. I’d love to get the story from the horse’s mouth.”

“I can’t talk to them, or even see them. I only get … impressions.”

“Because you’re a strega.”

Harper lowered her head and chewed her bottom lip. “You don’t believe me.”

“I respect your beliefs,” I said carefully.

“You just don’t share them.”

“No.” I couldn’t lie to Harper. Not to a friend.

Sighing, she shook her head. “You will.”

We moved the conversation to lighter fare—a winery event, a trip to Tahoe next month, and whether the Dairy Association would build another Christmas Cow.

Harper left an hour later. Stuffed with wine and pizza, I returned to my sprawl on the couch and finished reading my self-help book. My self did not feel helped.

Maybe I should have started reading paranormal books instead? It made sense for the museum’s theoretical gift shop to sell theoretical paranormal books. Grabbing my e-reader, I downloaded a book about a metaphysical detective in San Francisco and began reading.

The phone rang, startling me out of a high-tension scene in a pie shop. Struggling from the couch, I lunged for it. “Hello?”

“Mad, it’s Shane.”

“Shane. It’s …” I checked my watch, rubbed my eyes. “After eleven. What’s up?”

“I need a favor. Brittany lost one of her diamond studs and thinks it might have fallen off in your museum.”

“No problem. I’ll look for it tomorrow.”

“Uh … could we look for it tonight? Brittany’s got an early morning flight to New York.”

I smothered a curse. “If I find it, I’ll mail it to her.”

“Sis, have a heart. It has sentimental value.”

“Color me heartless. It’s almost midnight!”

“It’s eleven fifteen. And her father gave the earrings to her before he died.”

I stared at the ceiling. The spider was gone, no doubt biding its time until I fell asleep to play tiddlywinks on my nose. Assuming I ever got to sleep tonight. “Fine. I’ll meet you there in thirty minutes.”

He breathed a sigh. “Thanks, Mad. But you still owe me one for picking you and your buddy up at midnight.”

Muttering bad words, I jammed on a pair of tennis shoes and shrugged into a jacket. I stopped in front of the mirror before the door. I would not compare well to Brittany. My hair was mashed on one side from lying on the couch, my makeup worn thin. I grabbed a knitted hat from the coat tree and pulled it over my head. That solved the couch hair problem. The museum would be too dimly lit for her to notice my blotchy skin.

A heavy layer of fog hung low over the deserted city streets. I parked in front of the museum, then figured I might as well start the search inside rather than wait for my brother and Brittany. The sooner I found that earring, the sooner I could get home to bed.

Unlocking the door, I flipped on the overhead light and paused as one of the fluorescents flickered to life. The one above the counter remained dark. I frowned at it, willing it to blink on. It blinked erratically, washing the room in flickering, yellowish light. I cleared my throat, uneasy. More was off than the overhead light.

I held my breath, listening. As if expectant, the museum seemed to hold its breath with me.

Shaking off my overactive imagination, I closed the front door, locking it for good measure. Something moved at the edge of my vision. I spun toward it, hands extended like the boxer I wasn’t.

The rocking chair swayed, empty. I gritted my teeth. Because there are no such things as ghosts, I forced myself to walk to it. Black cat hairs sprinkled the wooden seat. I blew out my breath, shoulders sagging. GD must have jumped from the chair when I’d let myself in. That was all. Ghosts. Ha! I’d almost half-believed the chair really was haunted. I’d told Harper I didn’t share her beliefs, but when things went bump in the night, primitive superstition ran wild.

The plastic curtains separating the museum from the tea room rippled. My pulse quickened. Even though there was no such thing as ghosts, it wouldn’t hurt to get a move on and find that diamond earring. I’d start where Brittany and Shane had stopped to talk to me—the front counter.

I explored the area around the counter. No diamond winked at me from the linoleum, but the wonky fluorescent above me was not a light to hunt diamonds by. Reaching over the counter, I grabbed for the flashlight. Its weight felt solid in my hand, comforting.

Cold rolled in on a wave of silence.

I went rigid. The cold was unnatural, the quiet uncanny. Eerie. Wrong.

No, I didn’t believe in ghosts, but every primal instinct I had screamed at me to flee. My limbs rebelled. Fear locked them in place, frozen.

Imagination is not always a gift.

The atmosphere thickened, choking me. The quiet stretched, the only sound my own harsh breath, breath I could see in the air. It was a nails-on-a-chalkboard silence, a deep silence that tightened my throat and made me tremble.

Noiseless, a white sheet of paper drifted off the counter. It alighted on the checkerboard floor, making a slithery, rustling sound. I heard myself take an uneven breath, and the room warmed.

It was over.

Hand shaking, I stooped to grab the paper.

Something whooshed over my head, and pain exploded at the top of my skull.