Inconvenient Murder: An Inept Witches Mystery (14 page)

Ingrid rubbed her good hand over Emily’s hair. “Don’t be sad. You have lots of murdering skillsets. Your tendencies are violent enough. Just not the witch skills. Maybe Hazel killed him. Or maybe he slept with Autumn, the red-headed witchy whore. We’d have to go old school with our murdering. With a gun. Or a candle stick.”

“I could push someone out a window.”

“Or smother them. There has to be visceral satisfaction in smothering someone, I think,” Ingrid added.

“Or shooting them.”

“Right in the gut,” Ingrid said. “But then you’d call me, we’d bury the body and go out for coffee. We’d really need to get our sugars back to where they’d need to be after burying a body. Probably coffee and manicures because I bet burying a body is terrible on your nails. Then the most epic stress shopping trip ever.”

“We’d have to get black polish,” Emily said. “For when we go to prison.”

“Nah,” Ingrid said. “I have been researching. I’ve got the name of some powerful coven. The North Island Coven. Doesn’t that sound completely not-creepy? But they can do enough black magic to get us off the hook. It’d be pricey, but we’d be okay. I’m going to hire them if Gabe doesn’t catch whoever really killed dickhead.”

“That makes me think,” Emily said. “Remember how Autumn always used to show up when me and dickhead would visit? Remember how he sleeps with old broads like Melinda. I bet he banged Autumn.”

“Ew!” Ingrid said, “But if he did, she’d have a reason to kill him. What if they did? How awesome would it be if they caught her and she did it. That would be the best Christmas present for the rest of my life.”

“Oh, man,” Emily replied. “Hang on!”

She ran out of the apartment and came back ten minutes later with three small bottles.

“Are those the truth serums?” Ingrid asked, picking up one of the tiny vials full of clear liquid.

“Yep, we’re gonna truth-serum Autumn and ask her if she killed dickhead.”

“If she did, we’ll have to send her nice things in jail.”

“Sweet,” Emily said. “So, bagels?”

“Only if they deliver. I’m still rocking the rich and lazy boat. I’ve decided what I’m going to do, by the way.”

“About what?” Emily called the coffee shop that delivered bagels from memory.

“About my muscles atrophying. That hot artist type from down that way has a beach tai chi class. It’s all stretchy and balancey but you don’t sweat. I’m gonna do that. Plus he’s super-hot so it’ll either make Gabe jealous or be my backup for Gabe if he doesn’t work out. Since I’ve decided to get knocked up and have babies.”

“I think tai chi is all old people.”

“That’s cool,” Ingrid said. “They know all the good places to eat because they don’t cook anymore, either.”

11

Tuesday Morning

Ingrid and Emily approached Autumn’s house, eyeing each other. They had a thermos of truth-serum laced coffee with them. It had coffee with a touch of cream and was made with Ingrid’s magic ability. Perfect for Autumn, who turned out to be bitter and burnt and could use a little cream to soften her blackened, soulless edges. They brought scones and brownies as well. Those were painted with truth serum. There was no way Autumn was getting out of the truth today.

Ingrid knocked on the worn oak door since Emily was holding everything.

Autumn opened a couple of minutes later. She looked them up and down with a thorough scowl. She was a large woman with red hair and a scowl. Ingrid told herself to think that the woman was kind, but she’d seen the woman’s two daughters at the few coven events that Ingrid and Emily went to. Those girls were as cowed as any two teenagers Ingrid had ever seen.

“We’re sorry,” Ingrid lied, smiling at Autumn with the same grin Ingrid had used every time she’d dealt with Harrison’s know-it-all, uptight fellow professors. It worked for Autumn just like it had for the crew of jerks that Harrison worked with.

“We brought treats,” Emily added. “They’re really good. I was hoping you could help me a little with my magic. Hazel told me that you’re a good teacher.”

The lies were rolling off their tongues as if they needed to expel them before they dosed themselves along with Autumn. They weren’t sure how else to be certain that she partook of the serum without dosing themselves.

Her house was too clean. And too perfect. It didn’t look like anyone even lived there. It started to bother Ingrid about the teenagers. What did they do? Were their rooms dirty or were they not allowed even that much latitude? It felt like they must live in a cave in the basement, but that wouldn’t be perfect enough for this woman. She led them into her large kitchen and pulled out a tray from perfectly organized cupboards. Three tea cups were put down on three saucers.

Three plates and three forks were set on the table, and then Autumn arranged the treats on the tray. She carried the perfectly laid-out tray across the room and set it at her dark-wood shiny table that did not have a single scratch.

Ingrid couldn’t help but remember feeding Gabe half-eaten Chinese food with the same chopsticks she’d used herself. Autumn would have been disgusted.

She poured each of them a cup of coffee and set sugar and cream in front of them. Ingrid well knew how bitter, strong, and burnt the coffee she’d made was, so she added sugar and cream with a heavy hand. Emily followed suit.

“You have a lovely home,” Emily said.

It was lovely. It was as nice as any home Ingrid had ever seen. But it was lovely in a way that metal birdcages were lovely. Or Venus flytraps. Emily probably hated it. She had that look in her eye that said she was full of lies.

“Thank you,” Autumn said. It was evident from her cat that ate the canary look that she was delighted to have the two of them asking her for help. “So what is it that I can do to help you?”

Ingrid and Emily watched her take a sip of her coffee and follow it up with a precise and careful bite of the brownie. They’d made a bet whether she’d eat the scone or brownie first. Ingrid had just won with the brownie. Sweet.

“Well, mostly,” Ingrid said baldly, “we were wondering how long you were sleeping with Owen.”

“Oh, years now,” Autumn said. And then she realized what she said, eyes widening she said, “You truth-serumed me.”

Emily snorted as Ingrid nodded.

“So did you kill him?” Ingrid demanded.

“You think I killed him!”

“Well, he was a dick. Maybe you found out he’d been doing Mary Martin, too.”

“What?” Autumn’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not true.”

Ingrid took a huge gulp of her coffee and said, “Of course it is. Mary Martin, his secretary, his secretary’s sister, Melinda, that coffee shop chick, the girl at the post office with the retro hair and glasses.”

“My former friend, Lucy.” Emily added, “He was probably sleeping with the ferry boat captain on the way over every time we came here. The man was a whore.”

“Yup,” Ingrid said. “A nasty, disease-ridden, cheating, no-good, bastard whore.”

“It is against coven rules,” Autumn said, “to potion or perform magic spells on each other. It is against coven rules to betray our sisters like this.”

“But not to sleep with their husbands? Surely there’s a rule about conduct toward your sisters.”

“Emily wasn’t…”

“Emily,” Ingrid cut in, “has been a member of this coven since before I knew her, and before she married dickhead, I joined this coven when I visited in college. I’m betting based off of your paling face that there is a rule. Since we’re junior members of the coven and you’re full on, I bet you’d get in more trouble than we do.”

“You need to leave,” Autumn said. “Everyone knows that Emily hasn't used her magic since the
incident
. I don’t even consider her a sister of the coven.”

“Did you kill Owen?” Emily asked, ignoring Autumn’s excuses.

“I’m not helping you one little bit.” Autumn scowled. “Now get out of my house before I call the police.”

“Man, I hate her,” Ingrid replied. “We better dump the coffee and pastries before she uses them on her kids. Poor things.”

Autumn gasped as Emily grabbed the tray, dumped it into the sink and forced it through the garbage disposal. Ingrid picked up their thermos and held the door open for Emily.

“You’re going to regret,” Ingrid said, “how you treat your daughters when they kick you and this coven to the curb and move to Minnetonka to be accountants.”

“Yup,” Emily said. “If I ever saw girls ready to fly the nest and never come back it is those two.”

“Leave,” Autumn ordered.

Ingrid slammed the door behind them as they left.

“Well,” Emily said, “she’s totally going to hex us.”

Ingrid laughed, but it was true. She drove Emily to the apartment and said, “Get out. I’m using the rest of the coffee and serum on Gabe.”

•

Tuesday Afternoon

Ingrid drove her huge SUV to the police station even though it was only three blocks away. She checked her makeup and then got out. She didn’t wait for the desk person to wave her in, but bypassed him without pause.

“Hey,” the man called.

Ingrid waved him off, opened the door to the office with the words Gabriel Tate written on the door and went in.

“Hey,” she said. “I brought you some coffee.”

“Hey,” he said. He looked up from his computer scene and rubbed his eyes. “I could use some of your amazing coffee.”

“It’s not one of my better efforts,” she admitted. “But it has caffeine.”

And other things, she thought. She poured him a cup into the lid of the thermos and watched him drink it slowly. He made a face, but he drank the whole thing and then another.

“Feel better?”

He nodded.

“So,” she asked what had been bothering her. Harrison would have hated how she’d behaved toward Gabe. Harrison hated her joking, teasing ways. It took her a couple of years to feel like herself again after his death. Why didn’t Gabe hate those things? Why had he been putting up with her? Why did he seem happy to see her? Or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he found her as irritating has her dead husband had on occasion.

“Why do you put up with me?” Her voice was soft, and she searched his face.

Gabe’s head cocked as he stared at her, seeming to understand what she meant. When he answered, he took her breath away. “You’re adorable, fun, sweet, kind, and like a lioness in protecting your friend. I don’t feel like you’re playing games with me, and what I see is what I’m going to get.”

“I’m not playing games,” Ingrid said. “I want a family and I like you. A lot.”

“I like you back a lot. I’ve got to finish this investigation, so…”

He didn’t finished, but she didn’t need him to. He was upstanding and honest. He’d feel guilty spending too much time with her until no one could look at them and doubt if they were being honest.

She smiled at him. He smiled at her.

It was enough.

She took hold of his hand and then asked, “What’s the deal with the gallery guy? Man, he creeps me out.”

Time to fish now that she knew what she needed to know. There was still Emily to get off, so she could have Gabe’s babies and let him cook for her.

“You should stay away from him, Ingrid.”

Maybe it was the truth serum, maybe it was because she wasn’t asking directly about the case but instead about—was it a potential security issue?

“Why?” She kept hold of his hand, playing with his fingers rather than looking into his face. She needed to wrap this up so that…

“Ingrid, he’s a dangerous man. His wife reported him more than once for domestic abuse before she left.”

“She just left her daughter?” Ingrid was furious. Sure, Mary Martin was hard to like—but what would she have been like without that prickly facade?

“She did,” he said, sounding as disgusted as Ingrid.

“Just because someone hits his wife doesn’t mean he’s dangerous to random people.”

“His wife was a witch. He objected to her way of life. You and Emily are witches, Ingrid. Even if…”

“We suck?” She laughed at him when he hesitated to say it. “Gabe, my pretty, you don’t have to protect my feelings. I’m well aware, as is Emily, that we’re not good at magic. I suppose that…maybe we could be…but…”

“It interferes with being lazy?”

“Yes that. Also,” Ingrid said, “it’s a lot of work. Like a lot, a lot. Those witches that are good? They practice all of the time. They learn obscure languages to do one random spell. It’s not any chick who can learn to fly. You can spend your whole life working every minute of every day and only be as good as everyone else at everything that they can do. Finding a gift is freaking hard. Like stupid soul-searingly hard. It’s like shooting at a target in the dark and hoping you find the one that makes you special, but you don’t even know which way to aim. Some people work for forever and then discover they’re good at talking over distances. Anyone with a cell phone can do that.”

“What’s the point?”

“Right! It would be one thing if I like meditation and dancing with old ladies naked and cooking up potions and stuff. But meh, meh, meh.”