Murder Most Witchy (Wendy Lightower Mystery) (12 page)

Wendy watched Ian's hand enter her line of vision and land on her thigh. His hand was firm, strong, and warm, and it sent waves of heat up her leg.

“It takes a while to get used to.”

Wendy swallowed, her mouth unnaturally dry. “What?”

Ian's fingers moved, absently stroking her thigh. “Feeling the responsibility for finding whoever did this. It's a lot to process. Believe me, I know. But I also know that you can do it.”

The tone of his voice, firm and commanding, was enough to draw her attention away from the location of his hand and the interesting sensation that it was causing low in her belly. When she looked up, she saw his warm brown eyes trained on her, and she saw that he meant what he said.

Wendy let out all the air in her lungs like a deflating balloon. “Thank you,” she said warmly. His confidence in her meant more than she would have expected.

Ian smiled, and the dimple on his chin caused the return of some of those interesting sensations. “Now that we have that handled,” he said, his voice low and inviting, “didn't I hear something about a sandwich?”

Seven

The dark surrounded her, like her eyes were closed, except in the space directly in front of her. For the first time, she could see so clearly. Images floated at the edges of the darkness, disappearing whenever she tried to turn and see them. Those images, she dismissed, because what was directly in front of her was perfectly crystal clear. Her eyes focused on the light, feeling a distinct pleasure as her pupils shrank to mere pinpoints at its brightness, her skin searing under the heat. The ball of red fire burned ever brighter, so bright that she thought it would explode and ruin everything. She felt her lips form into a pout, and the fire subsided, only slightly, only enough that the burn wouldn't leave her control. She looked down at her hands, realizing with a jolt of consciousness that they were not
her
hands. Large and encased in unfamiliar black gloves, the hands turned palm up and moved closer and closer towards her face.

Wendy's eyes flew open just as the black hands moved to smother her. She was breathing hard and heavy, her chest heaving as though she had been on a long run. The nightmare had left her cold and clammy, as though her body was ripped suddenly from the intense heat of the fire. Wendy settled back on her pillows, pulling the covers up to her chin to stop the shivering before braving a glance at her clock.

The numbers flashed in annoyingly green neon, 6:18. Twelve minutes until her alarm would blare in her left ear. There was nothing Wendy hated more than waking up in that awkward time when it was too late to go back to sleep, yet she was still too tired to get up. She was still debating what to do when a heavy weight landed directly on her midsection and expelled all the air from her lungs.

“Oof!” she exclaimed, even as Charlie began purring, roughly and loudly in her ear. She inhaled sharply and shoved him off to the side. “Fine,” she huffed after the first sharp inhale, “I'm up.”

Wendy couldn't help but think that her cat wore a suspiciously smug look as he padded out of her room.

The dream stayed with her long after she was out of bed and in the shower. She had remembered her dreams before, naturally, but she hadn't had such a vivid nightmare since childhood. Wendy closed her eyes under the steamy hot water of the shower and allowed the spray to wash away what remained of the dream. By the time she had toweled off and dressed, the dream was nothing more than a rather uncomfortable but distant memory.

Charlie greeted her as she walked into the kitchen with a very loud and very irritated howl. His empty food bowl stood as evidence of her neglect and justification for his annoyance.

“Right,” she grumbled, even as she refilled the bowl, “like you need any more food.”
Charlie resembled a small jungle cat more than a house pet. The vet had told her once that he needed to be on a diet. That had lasted all of two days before she had given up after finding a rather large hairball in her underwear drawer and claw marks on every single piece of furniture in the house.

Charlie graciously ignored her commentary and settled his bulk onto the kitchen linoleum to enjoy his breakfast.

As her cat ate, Wendy set about finding something for herself. She brewed an extra large pot of strong coffee, which she would drink quickly, hot and black. She toasted a piece of wheat bread and slathered on butter and jam, munching it between swallows. The coffee helped to jumpstart her brain and clear away the fog that fatigue had left behind. It wasn't just the early rising that had made her especially tired that morning. It was also that Ian had stayed late, much later than he had intended, she thought.

They hadn't even been discussing the case. After Wendy had slapped together a few sandwiches and an easy green salad, they had lingered over their food and wine, just talking. She had smiled and laughed, a lot, and she felt at ease for the first time since Benny's murder.

Another glance at the clock told Wendy that she was still earlier than she needed to be for work. With a shrug, she filled a travel mug full to the brim with more coffee, and she left, locking the door behind her. She would be the first one at the library, she knew, and the thought that Benny wouldn't be there to greet her filled her with unexpected sadness, but perhaps she would have an opportunity to do some investigating before anyone else arrived.

The building was depressingly dark and quiet as she unlocked the doors and let herself in. Even though she knew that Benny wouldn't be there, she was still disappointed when she found the building empty.

Wendy's heels echoed on each step coming into contact with the polished hardwood floors. She noticed the high sheen to the normally foggy wood and realized that Derek must have hired someone to clean the place, probably some very efficient and impersonal cleaning service. It was difficult to even look at them, cleaner than Benny had ever left them in the years he had worked there, and Wendy kept her eyes up or scanning from side to side as she walked towards the safety of her office.

Her eyes lighted on Carrie's desk and on a stack of books, apparently waiting to be re-shelved. Wendy picked up the stack and saw that they were all local histories, town registers, and accounts by the town founders. Someone must have started a history or genealogy project and left the books for Carrie to put away. Wendy took the few minutes to take care of that chore for her, smiling with the knowledge that she was being helpful. With her familiarity with the library and its contents the job was only minutes but might have taken longer for someone as inexperienced as Carrie.

Back in her office, Wendy caught up on all the paperwork that somehow managed to accumulate on her desk whenever she turned her back. She was in charge of handling most of the financial aspects of the both the library and the museum, along with other areas that Derek considered mundane like staffing. If it didn't directly relate to his next exhibit, Derek wasn't all that interested. By the time she finished the update on their 504 status for the IRS, Wendy was ready for a break and a very large cup of coffee.

The rooms, which had been dark and empty upon her arrival, were now light and surprisingly busy. She always forgot how dreary her own office was with its one small window until she stepped into the large open spaces of the library. The smile that crossed her face was purely a reaction to the sunshine and smell of old leather that hit her as she exited her office. It lasted only as long as it took for her to register that the noise she had taken for busy crowds of visitors was actually one single person speaking very, very loudly.

Derek was standing in front of the circulation desk, leaning over the warm, worn wood, his face twisted into a fierce scowl. Carrie sat behind the desk, shrinking further and further away from him into the upholstery of her chair as though she could escape into chair's very fabric. He was yelling, somewhat incoherently, at her while she vigorously shook her head in denial.

“Derek!” Wendy snapped.

His head whipped around at the sound of his name and landed on Wendy, all five feet and a bit of her bristling with indignation.

“What do you think you're doing?” she demanded.

To his credit, Derek had the decency to look ashamed. “Someone was moving things around in the exhibit.”

Wendy had to take a deep breath and remind herself that she could zap Derek into a pile of smoldering ashes if she wasn't careful.

“What,” she asked when her anger was more under control, “on earth makes you think Carrie had anything to do with it?”

Derek shifted his weight back and forth as though deciding whether her question was a trap. Apparently deciding to go back on the offensive, he shot back, “Everything was in the correct place when I left last night. Today
it’s all moved around.” She pointed a long stiff finger in Carrie's direction. “She was the only one here when I arrived.”

Wendy actually rolled her eyes at him. “I've been here for hours Derek. Long before you. Long before Carrie.” She tapped her toe very deliberately on the highly polished wood floor. “Did you ever consider that your new, overly ambitious cleaning company might have had something to do with it?”

Derek looked confused, and Wendy pressed her advantage. “I mean, look at this floor,” she threw her hands up as though she couldn't believe how clean it really was. “They probably just moved your stuff around to clean under it.”

Derek's eyes slid to the floor and back to Carrie. He murmured a nearly inaudible apology before stalking off back to the museum, muttering under his breath about “very clear instructions.”

After he had gone, Carrie slumped in her chair, obviously relieved. She gave Wendy a watery smile.

“Thanks,” her voice sounded a bit winded, and Wendy felt her anger at Derek boiling up all over again.

“Ignore him,” she finally said, though her teeth were perhaps a bit more clenched than normal. “He gets himself worked up sometimes. Doesn't have anything to do with you.”

“He's a jerk.” Magda appeared out of nowhere, leaning over the desk on her elbows. “Don't make excuses for him, Wendy.”

Wendy forced a smile for Carrie, grabbed Magda by the elbow and led her away from the girl's desk. “Don't cause trouble, please.”

Magda huffed and pulled her elbow away. “He is a jerk, Wendy. There is absolutely no excuse for shouting at anyone the way he just did.”

“Agreed,” Wendy conceded, “but the last thing this institution needs is to be sued by a co-ed for hostile working conditions, so let it go. Okay?”

Magda shrugged. “Fine. What are you doing tonight?”

As ever, Wendy had a hard time keeping up with Magda. “Nothing. Why do you ask?”

Magda was already walking away as she answered over her shoulder. “Dinner. Your place. Make that lasagna I like. See you tonight.”

Wendy shook her head at Magda's retreating figure. Leave it to Magda to invite herself over and expect Wendy to cook. She returned to her office still smiling.

By the time Magda knocked on the door that evening, Wendy was pulling a homemade lasagna out of the oven. The spicy smell of tomato sauce mingled with cheese filled the apartment. Without waiting for an answer, Magda walked in, sniffing appreciatively.

“Smells good,” she called out. Waggling a chilled bottle of white wine back and forth, she joined Wendy in the kitchen.

Wendy pointed to a drawer, and Magda fished around until she found a corkscrew. She pulled down two glasses from a cabinet and poured the light golden liquid. After Wendy set the pan of lasagna on a hot pad she took a sip of her wine.

“This should be cool enough to cut in a few minutes.”

Magda drank some of her wine, smacking her lips. “No rush. I'm quite comfortable.”

Wendy settled the small of her back against her marble counter top. “I bet you are. Now, are you going to tell me why you're here?”

Magda feigned offense. “You make it sound like I have some ulterior motive.”

“Don't you?”

Magda shrugged. “Maybe. You don't have to be so quick to point it out.”

“You wouldn't like me as much if I didn't.”

“True,” she agreed. “I want to talk to you.”

Wendy cut out squares of the lasagna and put them on plates. She topped the pasta off with fresh
Parmesan cheese. They sat across from each other at the small square table off the kitchen.

“I'm listening,” Wendy said once they were sitting. She waited, but Magda didn't say anything, just sat in front of her plate blowing on bites of hot lasagna before popping them in her mouth.

Wendy knew better than to push her. Magda would talk to her, in her own time and not before. Between bites, Magda looked at Wendy and moved like she was going to say something, and then she shook her head and kept eating. She had eaten one whole piece and started on a second before she finally gathered her thoughts or her courage to talk.

"Remember that guy from the bar? The one that showed up at the party."

"Douglas Fry," Wendy prompted. "He didn't 'show up' at the party, Magda. He was there as the primary donor for the exhibit."

Magda waved her hand as though the distinction didn't matter. "What did you think of him?"

Wendy didn't answer right away. Whatever she had expected when Magda had said she needed to talk to her, this wasn't it. When she answered, she chose her words with care. "I didn't spend all that much time with him," she began, "but from what I saw he seemed like any other nice, normal, ultra-wealthy museum donor."

She smiled, but Magda didn't match the expression. She looked worried, or perhaps afraid. Wendy laid her fork down beside her plate. "What is it, Magda?"

She pursed her lips and appeared to be weighing her answer. "He called me."

Wendy waited for more, but it wasn't forthcoming. Finally, she said, "Okay. Is that a problem?"

Magda shook her head. Wendy was used to her friend's almost overbearing self-confidence, and it was a little unnerving, despite what she knew about Magda's past, to see her looking so unsure.

"I gave him my number," she admitted.

Wendy couldn't hold back the smile. Virtually every day since she had met Magda, Wendy had seen some man show interest in her, either by a glance or an attempt at conversation. Never once had she seen Magda respond to any of it.

"I think that's wonderful, Magda. I'm really pleased."