The Magic of Murder (13 page)

The hazel of Roger’s eyes turned dark. “Stay where you are!”

Rebecca gasped at his tone—a sound approximating air rapidly escaping a balloon.

As if he expected me to argue, he turned in my direction with his face so stiff his cheekbones might soon poke through the skin. He needn’t have worried. A flash of pain shooting from my leg to my brain caused me to fall back on my chair.

Roger dropped his hand to the service pistol on his waistband as he went to the door. “Yeah?” he said in his roughest tone. “Who is it?”

I’ve never understood why this is: as soon as you speak about somebody, he shows up.

“Detective Frey, open the damn door!” Chief Woodward
growled.

I heard the door open. A second later, a scowling Harry
Woodward stomped into my kitchen.

When Roger followed him, he turned abruptly. His words clipped, he demanded, “Have I not made myself crystal clear?”

Roger’s face turning crimson—from embarrassment at being scolded in front of us or from anger, I couldn’t decide—he said, “About what?”

Woody pushed close to Roger’s face. In a menacing tone, he said, “You know damn well, what. But in case you don’t, I’ll be clearer. I don’t want you within twenty miles of the Osborn case.”

Ready to ask in the nastiest way what Chief Woodward
was doing to stop the killer from firebombing my life, I opened my mouth.

Roger must have sensed my anger. His eyes locked on his boss, he held up a hand. “What makes you think I’m working the case?”

“You were at Main Street Books this afternoon.”

“Yeah, so?”

Breathing hard, Woody glared at him.

A high-pitched snarl rose from Elvira’s throat.

I couldn’t stand this any more than the cat could. “He was there because I had a book signing. I asked him to come.”

Still glaring at Roger, Woody said, “And why would you do that?”

“First, because he’s my friend. And second, because I was frightened. Someone’s trying to kill me!”

“It’s a good thing he was there,” Rebecca added. “If he hadn’t been, right now you’d be viewing her body in the morgue.”

If she thought her words might deflate Chief Harry Woodward, she was wrong. The former marine colonel wasn’t about to have his flame doused by the ice water in her voice.

“I’ve got men watching Ms. Goode,” he said.

“Who? It sure as hell isn’t our men.”

“Never you mind, who.”

“They’re not doing a very good job of it,” Rebecca said.

Now I jumped in. “You don’t want Roger working Jimmy’s murder and now you don’t want him looking out for me? Obviously the two cases are connected.” Tears of fear burning my eyes, I started to cry. “Dammit, Woody, whatever you’re doing isn’t enough!”

“If you’re really doing anything,” Roger said.

The detective chief’s face turned as crimson as Roger’s.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“No one’s working the case but you and you’re parked in your office most of the time. It isn’t just me who’s noticed. All the guys in the squad room are talking about it.”

I rose unsteadily from my chair and leaned on my crutches. I hardly noticed the way the fabric of my slacks flapped where the nurse had cut the pants leg up to my thigh. My fear tempered the pain once again weakening my leg. “Kevin Reinhart was at my book signing today,” I said. “So was Amy. If the place had gone up in flames, she also would’ve been killed. Don’t you even care about your wife?”

Elvira was at our feet. She stared up as if she expected what happened next.

The chief closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and held it. Perhaps the florescent light caused an illusion, but his face seemed to go pale. “My…wife was there?”

The argument ended as quickly as it began. In two strides Woody was out of my kitchen, headed for the front door. As he opened it, he stopped and turned back. His face again red, he said, “Don’t make me tell you again, Detective Frey, to stay away from this case. And as for you, Ms. Goode, I haven’t figured out yet where you fit in this, but you better believe I sure as hell will!” His tone bristled like his close-cropped gray hair.

We stood in stunned silence as the door slammed, and Woody’s car roared out of my driveway.

When the engine sound faded, Rebecca asked, “What just happened?” She said it so softly, she might have feared Chief Woodward would hear and return to continue bellowing at us.

Roger was rapidly blinking. “Damned if I know,” he murmured.

Rebecca glanced at our food as if she had no idea what it was or how it had gotten on my dinette table.

None of us was hungry any longer.

I rubbed my hands up and down my slacks, and said, “I’ll clean up.”

“No, get off that leg,” Rebecca said, “I’ll take care of it.”

Neither of us moved.

After what felt as if it were five minutes, Roger broke free from wherever his thoughts had taken him. “He’s protecting Amy,” he said.

“From what?” I asked.

“That’s what I’m gonna find out.”

I grabbed his arm. “Don’t!” I said, suddenly more worried about him than about me. “Woody will bounce you off the force.”

He patted my hand. The chill in his eyes said I wasn’t going to dissuade him.

“Be careful. Please,” I said.

Instead of assuring me he would, as he threw on his coat, he said to Rebecca, “I don’t think anything else will happen tonight, but keep the door locked.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, and hobbled on my crutches to the living room where I pulled my keys from my purse. With a little effort, I unhooked the front door key from the others and held it out. “Take this.”

For the first time since Harry Woodward broke in on us, Roger smiled. “Is this an offer to exchange keys?”

At another time I might have laughed or blushed. Right then I didn’t do either.

Chapter Fourteen

Unintended Consequences

            
 
I
was again stretched out on the sofa. The pain that had settled into a dull ache in my right foot and leg had flared again when Harry Woodward burst in on us. In the time since Roger left, Rebecca applied more of the sandalwood, carnation, and rosemary oil she carried in her shoulder bag. I wondered whether she always had this ointment with her, or if she might have played around with candles and chants, and learned I would need it. Whatever the answer, I was glad she had the stuff.

Magically, the pain is almost gone,
I thought as the sting of my injury subsided into dull throbs.

Not so long ago, I would have said my pain was gone
as if
by magic, but not anymore. In the past few months, I’d learned there really is more in heaven and on earth than
Hamlet’s pal, Horatio, dreamed of in his wildest imaginings.

“Feeling better?” Rebecca asked as she settled into the wingback chair.

A sleepy smile on my face, I said, “Like my leg never got burned. That oil you concocted is better than aspirin.”

A chuckle came from deep in her chest.

“You really must teach me how to make that ointment. Think it would work for a headache?”

“
Don’t get carried away,” she said. “I have no idea what
would happen if you drink it. Might turn you into a spider.” She glanced at the albino cat splayed across my chest. “Or maybe turn you into one of those.”

Elvira’s head shot up. She glared at Rebecca.

I pushed the furry head down and assured her, “That’s not an insult, cat. Nothing’s wrong with the life you have.”

As if to demonstrate how right I was, Elvira rubbed her face with her paws. Then, stretching, she yawned, smacked her lips, and closed her eyes.

“Being a cat’s all right if you’ve found the person you’re supposed to be with.” Rebecca’s eyes rolled to the left. Tilting her head in the direction of the door through which Roger had left, she added, “Speaking of which…”

“Uh-uh, don’t get any ideas,” I said. “The Osborns once tried to set me and Roger up. It didn’t take.”

“What happened?”

I shoved my body up against the cushions and lifted the hair from my neck. “Nothing. He wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready.”

“Looks to me like he’s ready now.”

“What do you mean?”

As if she wondered how I could be so dense, Rebecca sighed. “Oh, come on, Emlyn. Think about the way he fusses over you.”

I sat up and looked at her through eyes not much wider than slits. “Maybe
I’m
still not ready.”

A smug smile grew on her face. “In that case,” she said,
“you’d better not turn into a cat. So instead of drinking my oil, how about some wine?”

“Ummm. That’s a much better idea.” I pointed to the étagère creating a visual break where my living room became a dining area. “Bottom doors. Glasses are on the shelf above.”

She stooped and pulled a bottle from the wine rack. “How about this merlot?”

When she held the bottle up, I saw the label. My eyes
shot open wide and my breath caught in my throat. The relaxed, sleepy feeling that came with the abatement of pain was gone.

“Something wrong?” Rebecca asked. “Is this a special wine you’re saving?”

I shook my head so hard it startled Elvira. With a screech, she toppled from my chest to the floor.

The label depicted green vines growing across a black background and had embossed gold letters. The wine came from Varney Estates, a local vineyard. The same label had been on the bottle someone chucked through my window. Probably also on the bottle that smashed into Main Street Books’ meeting room, though I wasn’t sure. From the shock and pain I’d suffered, I was too far out of it to notice. I didn’t even know if Zack Anaison held onto the bottle and gave it to the cops when they arrived.

“Roger brought me this wine,” I said, barely able to get the words out. “It was one of three Varney Estates bottles in the basket the Woodwards gave him for Christmas last year.”

“You don’t think he—” She couldn’t get any more words out.

“I…I don’t know what to think.”

I knew how I
felt
, though. Betrayed. I wanted to crawl into bed and pull my quilt over my head. Jimmy was Roger’s partner. If Jimmy was into something dirty, they would have been in it together. Comrades-in-arms. Best friends. But why would have Roger murdered his friend? I shuddered and thought,
Greed, of course, or jealousy—the oldest of motives. Cain killed Abel because of it.

Yes, jealousy. Jimmy had a perfect marriage, while Roger’s had fallen apart. And the way Jimmy was killed had been cold and professional. That’s just how Detective Roger Frey would have done it. Then he would have come after me because I told him what I suspected while I spoke with Marge Osborn. Yet, now he was acting like my bodyguard. Why? I dropped back against the cushions.
Because he wants to find out whether I really know anything
,
I thought.

My eyes now completely wet, I groaned, “It could have
been Roger.”

Rebecca carried the bottle to the sofa and sat beside me. “Don’t be so fast in jumping to conclusions.”

I looked at the front door. As if I saw my neighbor, my friend, standing there, my eyes clouded with tears.

“I can’t believe Roger would do this to you,” Rebecca said.

I couldn’t believe it, either. Still… I sat up again. Staring at the green and black label, I rolled the bottle in my hands,

“Think this out.” She took the bottle from me and placed it on the end table behind her.

I craned my neck. I couldn’t peel my eyes away from the label. I couldn’t yank my thoughts from what I now feared it represented. I began to shake.

Rebecca took my hands and held tight to them. “Anyone could have this wine. You said it’s from a local vineyard.”

Had I said that aloud or only thought it? At the moment I wasn’t sure. All at once, suspicion of Rebecca overrode my suspicion of Roger. I’d bought a bottle of this merlot for her and gave it to her one day when I visited her at The Black Cat. I peered into her eyes searching for any small sign of deception, any clue I might have a murderer in my house.

That a murderer held my hands.

Rebecca could easily have done it. I’d spoken about Jimmy and Roger to her, described them in detail. Her eyes clouded over when I talked about Jimmy Osborn: handsome, brave (Roger told me in Iraq, Jim had crawled through raking gunfire to pull him from a burning Humvee), beard and hair always well groomed. Maybe Jimmy’s marriage wasn’t as good as everyone thought. Maybe Rebecca decided she wanted him, had an affair, then Jimmy broke it off. The glee with which she’d helped me construct the hex I threw at Kevin—yes, I was sure Rebecca could be perfectly capable of killing a man who threw her over.

I shuddered, pulled away from her, and leaned back as far as I could get. Not far enough. She had me trapped.

As if she didn’t recognize it was her I now feared, the murderer who sat next to me on my sofa continued in a reasonable tone. “Where was Roger when the first bottle was thrown?”

My mind raced. I didn’t dare let her read my thoughts. God knows what else she might have in her shoulder bag. “He…he was with me in his house,” I said.

“And the second time?” She again took my hands.

“We were together at the book shop.”

“See how much better you feel once you’ve thought it through?”

Yes, think it through. Think, Emlyn, think. Can’t run past her, not on this bandaged leg. Can’t grab the wine bottle and beat her with it, she moved it out of reach. Oh, she’s smart.
I glanced at Sarah Goode’s book on the coffee table.
Maybe I can smack her with the book. Stun her long enough to get out the back door—

Just as I leaned over to grab Sarah’s book, my fear-frozen brain thawed. I caught my breath. “You…you were also in the room with me at Main Street Books when the second bottle crashed through the window.”

My head dropped. I was too embarrassed to look at Rebecca.

She sat up straight. “You didn’t think—me?”

I blinked back tears of guilt. How could I have suspected her for even a minute? She must hate me now.
Having broken free of scenarios in which Rebecca’s oil was actually poison, an ointment concocted to cause my
certain and painful death, my imagination spun a different scene:

How could you suspect me?
she would say.
I’ve been your friend. I’ve shared your secret. How dare you. I drove fifty miles on treacherous icy roads because I saw you’d need me. Would someone who wanted you dead do that? I can’t believe even for a minute you’d think of me as a threat
.

Yes, she would surely say those words as she grabbed her bag and coat, and, not bothering to put it on, slammed out the door. I would hear her shout from outside,
Don’t speak to me again! Ever!

I would be alone then, unprotected, when Jimmy’s killer
came for me.

Tears dripped down my cheeks.

Rebecca stared at me. After a few seconds, she dropped
my hands, leaned back into the cushion at the far end of the
sofa, and laughed. In fact, holding her stomach, she laughed
so hard and long,
she
now had tears in her eyes.

When she at last caught her breath, she said, “I’ve been accused of being a lot of things in this life—a gypsy thief, a charlatan, an adulterer—but a murderer?”

Still laughing, she yanked the cork from the bottle and
poured red wine into two glasses. When she handed me one,
she said, “Drink this, it’ll settle your nerves.”

I instantly obeyed, downing half of what was in my wineglass in a single gulp.

“You poor girl,” she said, and moved to the wingback chair. “You put on a brave front, but you’re terrified.”

I conjured up a number of clever things I might say in response, but they all fell flat when I rehearsed them in my mind. In the end, all I could do was nod.

Elvira jumped onto the couch and snuggled under my arm.

“The cat really understands you,” Rebecca said.

***

Most of the wine was gone from the bottle when we heard my front door open.

Roger stood in the doorway for a minute, his eyes swinging around my house.

“Close the door,” I called, “you’re letting all the warm air escape.”

He glanced from me to Rebecca. “What are you two laughing about?”

He pulled off his overcoat, draped it across one of the kitchen chairs, and joined us in the living room. Smiling, he lifted my legs, dropped onto the sofa, and rested my feet on his lap. His slacks were icy cold. So were his hands. When he rubbed my legs, it sent a chill through me. At least, I
thought
the cold of his hands caused my chill.

“Pour me some of what you’re drinking—if you lushes haven’t finished it all.”

“You’re in a good mood,” I said. Actually, I probably slurred the words.

“I am,” he responded, but offered nothing more.

Rebecca handed him a glass with what was left of the merlot. “You gonna make us drag it out of you?”

He grinned at her. “This wine is rather good, where’d you get it?”

Harrumph
. It was one thing when I teased him the way I did when Sarah Goode’s book arrived. His teasing me this
way was another thing altogether. I smacked his arm.
“Don’t be coy. You obviously learned something. What is it?”

“I’m rather good at what I do, you know?”

Again I hit him. “I could learn to hate you.”

He rubbed his arm. “You’ve got quite a punch, lady.”

“Want another one?”

Elvira sat up. The
meeeow
she gave Roger might have said,
Don’t start with her, she’ll bruise you.

“Okay, okay,” he said. “Don’t hit me again.”

“Then I suggest you start talking.”

He took a swallow of his wine. “I caught up with Woody in the lot behind the precinct. He didn’t know I was there—probably won’t find out until the two guys watching your house report in.”

I gasped. “I’m being watched?” I’d been so angry, it hadn’t registered when Chief Woodward told us that. Now it
finally did, and my sense of dread returned. Fearful, relaxed, fearful: my emotions bounced around on a pogo stick.

“Don’t go all ‘Bates Motel’ on me,” he said. “Yeah, there’s an unmarked car just down the block.”

If my eyes went any wider they would have popped from my skull, rolled along the floor, and hidden under the skirt of my wingback chair.

“Hey, don’t panic. These aren’t the bad guys.”

“But…but Chief Woodward…he…you said he won’t let anyone work the case.”