As UFO B&Bs go, Wits’ End is pretty nice. At least, it’s nice when you’re not on the lookout for a winged monster. I scanned the blue sky above its gabled roof. No bat-winged baddies. But I still practically ran up the porch steps and into the foyer.
I was probably freaking myself out over nothing. The sluagh couldn’t be flying around in the daytime. Could it? Uneasy, I dinged the bell on the scarred reception desk.
A vacuum roared somewhere on the second floor. A bucket of cleaning supplies partially blocked the carpeted hallway at the base of the stairs. I shifted the box of pastries braced against my hip and waited.
“Broomsticks,” I muttered. I’d ditched a busy Friday morning at Ground to come to the B&B.
I dinged again and glanced at my nails. My heart jumped, speeding. Was I imagining the red darkening their edges, leftover from our door last night?
The vandalism had been paint, not blood. But the warning had been clear.
Susan, tanned and slim and cheerful emerged, smiling, from the kitchen. She wiped her hands in a dish towel. “Hi, Jayce. What’s up?”
I smoothed the front of my berry-colored tank. “I’m looking for Oonagh Davidge.”
“Ah, you just missed her. She checked out about fifteen minutes ago.”
“Checked out?” I asked, alarmed. “Is she leaving Doyle?”
“No, she’s staying with her mother-in-law. I can’t blame her for wanting to save the money.” Her blue eyes darkened. “Horrible about Mac.”
“I know.” I lowered my head.
“And horrible for you,” she said. “I heard it happened right outside Ground.”
“Did you—? I knew he was staying here, but did you know him from before?”
“From summers in Doyle. There was a group of kids that used to hang out together. For all of five minutes I had a huge crush on him. That was when he was in his goth phase.”
I smiled, remembering his vampiric figure sloping through Doyle.
“His head was always buried in some occult book,” she continued. She shook her head, rueful. “I thought that made him dangerous and mysterious.”
“Occult? That’s…”
“We were teens. Like I said, dangerous. Mysterious.”
“I know, it’s just… He was getting a PhD in folklore.” Had the occult led him in that direction?
She laughed. “I guess goth mutated to something more marketable.”
“Do you remember if he was interested in Doyle’s fairy folklore back then?”
She flushed. “I do seem to remember a party out by the fairy spring that involved a… I think he called it a spirit board.”
My scalp prickled. Spirit board? For summoning ghosts?
“He said the veil between the worlds was thinner there.” Susan waggled her fingers, then sobered. “It’s hard to believe... It was all so innocent back then, you know? And now... murder.”
But Doyle had never been innocent. There’d always been deaths and danger and disappearances. Feeling slightly sick, I shifted my weight. “How well do you know Oonagh?”
“Not at all. She was a couple years younger than us. It’s awful that someone so young is now a widow.”
“I heard her family moved recently.”
“Yes,” Susan said. “I heard that too. They moved to Florida. Oonagh told me last night.”
“Did she tell you anything else?”
“Only that she and Mac were in Doyle for some family business.”
Mac hadn’t mentioned that, but if it was family business, there was no reason why he should. Did Stetson know? “Do you remember who else was at that party at the fairy spring?”
“Aaron—he moved to San Francisco. Leah—she’s in Colorado now, said California had become too expensive and too crowded. And Rye, of course.”
“Not Arsen?” I asked slyly. Arsen was Susan’s hot boyfriend, and a long-time resident of Doyle.
Susan blushed. “He’d left for… He’d left Doyle by then, hence my walk on the wild side with the spirit board.”
“You said Rye was there. Do you mean Rye O’Bryant?”
She nodded and frowned. “Funny thing is, I have this vague memory that Oonagh was there as well, sort of lurking in the background. I don’t know why she would have been though.” Susan shook her head. “There were no other younger kids there that I remember.”
“Rye’s working at the O’Dougal Winery, isn’t he?” I asked slowly.
“At the vineyard,” Susan corrected. “He’s the vineyard manager.”
“Right.” I tapped my fingers on the reception desk. “Thanks. I’ll see you around.”
“Do you want to leave a message for Oonagh? She said she’d check back in case any came in.”
I hesitated. “Yeah. Please tell her I stopped by with my condolences, and I’ll try to find her later.”
“Will do. Take care.”
I shivered and hesitated on the porch, beneath the shady overhang. Taking a deep breath, I scanned the blue sky and walked into the sunshine.
Oonagh with the fairy name. Oonagh lurking at the fairy spring the night a bunch of bored teens had used a spirit board. I gnawed my bottom lip. And Mac had become a folklorist, with an interest in Doyle folklore...
I got into my pickup and drove toward town. The spirit board incident was probably nothing—just a dumb teen party. But Rye had apparently been one of Mac’s friends too. And someone had killed Mac here, when he’d returned to Doyle, which seemed to point to a local killer.
My forehead wrinkled. I needed to talk to more people who’d known Mac.
I checked the dash clock and turned onto Main Street. It was a quarter to eleven. I could return to Ground, or I could take advantage of my brief time off to talk to Rye.
I didn’t even have to flip a coin to make that decision. My guilt over Mac’s death far outweighed guilt over ditching Ground. Especially since Darla always had things in hand. She was getting a bonus this week in appreciation.
And then I saw Hermia. My old friend walked down the sidewalk, beneath the shady overhang. She wore her usual fifties-era mechanics uniform and headscarf. I smiled. Hermia had style.
I pulled into an empty space and hopped out. “Hermia?”
She turned. Stopped.
I trotted to her. “Hey.”
Hermia tried to pull off the everything-is-okay look, but I could see it was a struggle. Her exhalation was ragged. She smiled. “Hi, Jayce. It’s good to see you again.”
“It’s great to see you too. What are you doing in Doyle?”
“Selling my sister’s house. It’s been a long process. But there was a lot to…” She looked away. Cleared her throat.
Losing a sister, and so young. God. God. “I’ll help,” I said. “Just say the word, let me know what needs doing.”
She stared at the sidewalk in front of her work boots. They were thick and black, with frayed laces. “I know. Thank you. But there’s nothing to be done. Not anymore.”
My heart ached. “Hermia, I—”
“It’s okay, Jayce. It wasn’t your fault. None of it was your fault. It’s this town. It will always be this town.” She turned and walked down the sidewalk, her thin shoulders hunched.
I stared after her. I’d thought I’d wanted her forgiveness. And I had. But what I really wanted was for Hermia’s pain to end, for her to feel some peace. But that eluded us all.
Somber, I returned to my F-150 and drove down the mountain to the O’Dougal Winery. A shamrock decorated the sign, perched on a swell of hillside beside the highway. I turned down the curving driveway and parked in the tasting room lot.
The middle-aged woman who worked there was unlocking the glass door as I approached. She smiled and pulled it wide. “Good morning. Are you here for a tasting?”
“No, I’m looking for Rye. Is he working today?” I raised the pink pastry box, as if that explained everything.
“I just saw him heading into section three, looking for Rascal.” She nodded toward a vineyard, the twisting vines thick with green leaves.
“Rascal?”
“One of our goats. He’s a Houdini at escaping his pen.”
“Thanks.” I turned and walked toward the vines.
“Keep an eye out for Rascal,” the woman shouted after me.
I walked down the rows of vines, strung along wires. Tiny green, unripened grapes dangled between the broad leaves.
“Rascal!” a man bellowed.
I turned, orienting on the shout. It sounded like it had come from the east. I ducked beneath the wires, crossing several rows of vines.
I looked up and down a row. No Rye.
“Hello?” I called. “Rye?”
Dry grass crunched behind me, and I turned.
A goat with wicked, curving horns and a tufted beard stood motionless, watching.
I know it’s unfair, but there’s something especially creepy about a goat’s eyes. They can’t help that their pupils look like demonic mail slots. This fellow’s were a feral sulfur-color.
“Hey,” I said. “You must be—”
The goat lowered his head and snorted.
“Rascal,” I finished uneasily.
He pawed the ground.
“Look,” I said in what I hoped was a soothing voice. “I’m just looking for—”
The goat charged.
“Oh, damn.” I skipped out of the way, knees high.
The goat skidded in the dirt, spinning to face me, and I knew a hop and a skip out of his way wasn’t going to cut it. Pivoting, I sprinted down the row of grapevines.
Hooves thudded behind me.
I know. You’re not supposed to run from something chasing you. But the ends of those horns looked sharp. And I’m sure I just imagined brimstone breath billowing at my heels.
The goat rammed me, sending me stumbling.
I dropped the pastry box. It spilled open, bear claws and chocolate croissants scattering across the ground. I lurched forward, my fingertips scraping loose earth.
A set of powerful hands grabbed me around the waist, picked me up, and spun me inelegantly in the opposite direction.
“Rascal,” a man thundered.
I straightened, blinking.
Rye stood, hands on his hips, and glowered at the goat. He was a big man in a sensible plaid shirt. His face, chest and hands were browned by the sun.
Rascal’s shoulders hunched, his monster eyes widening as if penitent. I didn’t believe that for a second.
“Get over—”
The goat snatched a bear claw off the ground and raced beneath the vines.
“Pastries,” Rye said in a disgusted tone. “You had to bring pastries.”