Claire and Present Danger (31 page)

That made sense, too.

And, later on, when we were having a drink, silently and still in shock, and the men chose to recuperate in a guy way, walking over to the TV, where the Phillies were involved in extra innings, you take a deep breath and say, “So we did it, didn’t we? A little witchcraft comes in handy.”

That made no sense.

For starters, what had we done? Vicky Baer had jumped to her death, still feeling pursued by a fury named Emmie Cade. Did we pat ourselves on the back for that?

And Gabby’s part of the we hadn’t done a thing except stretch her hands toward the sky.

When I didn’t respond, she prompted me. “Didn’t we save the good one?” she asked.

I wasn’t sure anymore who’d been the good one. “We saved the one who hadn’t murdered Claire Fairchild. Who only hurt people unintentionally. Or because it was easier, or more lucrative.”

“You said she was the good one.”

“Since you mention that, I’m confused why I had to tell you.”

“You care that I didn’t know which girl was which? Big deal.”

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I also thought her incantations were pathetic rhymes, but she was going to be my mother-in-law, so I kept my mouth shut.

“Would you like it better if I called it women’s intuition, which is just another name for paying good attention?” She shook her head. Tendrils of her snow-colored hair had pulled loose from the ornate updo and looked like punctuation marks around her face.

“Men don’t like that better. They ignore it. Puff up, pat your head, and say, There, there little lady.”

True enough. I’d never invoke intuition.

“Like, say, that parking spot I made happen. It is possible that while you all blathered away about who was going where, I saw the man come out holding his keys. But maybe not. Maybe it was magic, and what does it matter? It worked out. I mean, God knows I’m sorry for that girl, but she killed a woman and didn’t seem to give a damn. Not even now. She was going to kill another one. And—”

I knew what was coming, her priorities, what really got to her.

“—she endangered her doggie’s life taking away his medicine.

She had the last word this way. Played judge and jury and doled out her own punishment.”

I hadn’t thought of it that way, and now I did, while I sipped scotch. It helped. I was no longer as conscious of every nerve end in my body.

“So what do you think?” Gabby asked, breaking into my reverie.

“Want to be a witch, too?”

“They don’t do well in these parts. Think Salem.”

“Oh, right,” she said. “A pity what they did, wasn’t it?”

“Plus, I think your son’s onto your game.”

She winked at me. “His father, too. Doesn’t matter, though. It’s like a middle ground where they can agree and still save face. And speaking of them, it’s high time they paid attention to us, don’t you think? I mean, you aren’t even married yet and he’s ignoring you. Can’t have that.” She clapped her hands, twice.

And damned if that instant a huge male cheer didn’t rise up from the bar. “Home run!” the TV announcer shouted out. “And 243

GILLIAN ROBERTS

that’s the game, folks, a nail-biter with the Phillies in eleven with—”

I looked at Gabby with new amazement.

She winked at me, and then at the men, whose mood had light-ened considerably. “We won,” Mackenzie said.

I looked at him. “We did indeed,” I said. We had.

My partner, my fiancé, my love. My one-of-a-kind son-of-a-witch.

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