Inconvenient Murder: An Inept Witches Mystery (9 page)

Maybe it wasn’t too late. She picked up her cell phone and called 911. “I’d like to report a fire. My bookcase is on fire.” She faked concern. “Please hurry.”

Then she carefully pulled a partially burning piece of wood and tossed it onto the bookshelf.

There. Now maybe something good would come out of this.

•

Saturday Morning

Emily’s phone buzzed on her nightstand, waking her up from a restless sleep. Restless because it was filled with glorious dreams of Sam. The name sounded lovely. Almost as lovely as the so-named super-buff firefighter had looked last night when he put out the fire she intentionally set to her bookcase. He had totally flirted with her. She sensed a rebound in her future. Now that Owen was dead. Maybe his murder would be convenient after all.

The phone buzzed again. She picked it up and looked at the screen. She groaned, but answered anyway.

“Hey, Melinda. How’re you doing? Did you make it home okay last night?”

She heard sniffling into the phone. Melinda was certainly taking this hard. Emily wouldn’t have thought that Melinda would be so emotional over Owen. They’d fought at more than one family Christmas dinner.

“I’m all right, sweetie. How are you holding up?”

Emily smiled. They’d already gone over this. She was better than fine. Owen was out of her life, finally. As soon as they could get this mystery solved, she and Ingrid could get on with their plans to finish renovating the bookstore and magic shop.

“I’m doing okay. I wish you would have stayed last night,” Emily lied. “Which ferry are you guys coming over on? I can pick you up if you want.”

“That’s why I’m calling, honey. I’m just not going to be able to make it.”

“Oh.” Emily wasn’t sure why that bothered her, but it did. It made her want to smack Melinda, even though she didn’t want to see the whiny woman. “Why not?”

“Well, I really didn’t want to burden you with this, but it turns out—even with our arrangement—Davis has been having an affair! I am just devastated. And I’ve got to go get one of those tests done, for an STD. He’s been sleeping around—
in secret—
for months. It’s not as though this is news. I’m not a complete fool. He just told me this morning that he’s got some itching going on…well, you know, down stairs. He thought maybe with that I should get checked out just in case.”

Emily was almost speechless. Almost.

“You mean you knew he’d been having an affair and you just…I mean…it didn’t bother you?”

Melinda’s voice was calm and soothing through the phone. “Now, now, darling. I suppose it bothered me a bit, but Davis and I, well, we’ve been married a very long time and we’ve had time to work through this sort of thing. As long as the girls aren’t prettier than me and he doesn’t flaunt it, it’s not usually a problem for us. We have had an open marriage for years, now. He tried to accuse me of spreading some sort of sexual plague, but I told him ‘I am always careful. I don’t forget to use my brain.’ Unlike him. Obviously.”

“You have got to be kidding me? What is wrong with this family?”

Did I just say that out loud? Oops.

“Well, anyway, I do feel just terrible but I should take care of this before things start itching and parts start falling off. I suppose that would interfere with my sex life. And that is just not acceptable for me. I have got needs that must be met. Damn that man for being so irresponsible. I’m always saying ‘Do take precautions, Davis dear. Don’t get too excitable and get yourself in a situation.’ Clearly he didn’t listen to me. But then he never did. I do hope you understand? Davis will still be there of course.”

Emily rushed to get off the phone, unable to contain her laughter for much longer.

“Sure, Melinda. You, uh, take care. I’ll talk to you later.”

She ended the call and sat back on her bed and shook with hysterical laughter. Every time she thought she was done laughing, the thought of Melinda and Davis screwing around with other people sent her into another round of laughter.

Melinda wasn’t ugly, by any stretch, but she was a little older than middle-aged and had always struck Emily as being a prude.

“Huh. Who knew?” Emily said aloud. “Oh man, Ingrid is going to die.”

She stood up and put her robe on and took the elevator up on floor to Ingrid’s. She walked in without knocking, as usual.

“Ingrid. You are seriously not going to believe what I just found out about Melinda and Davis. What are you doing?”

Ingrid was sitting on the kitchen counter, holding a knife. There was a jar of aloe cream next to her, and blood dripped from Ingrid’s wrist.

Ingrid shrugged. “Oh, no. This isn’t what it looks like, dovey. I just am trying to see if I can heal again. Only on purpose this time, you know? And I had to have something to heal so I stabbed myself in the wrist. And I figured that the aloe plant probably had something to do with it so, you know.”

She shrugged like it was no big deal.

Emily rolled her eyes. “Seriously, Ingrid. I don’t have time for you to slit your wrists and bleed out all over the place. Okay? I’ve got to clear my name.”

Ingrid slid down the cabinets until her feet reached the floor and rinsed her wrist in the sink.

Emily reached for the bandage Ingrid held in her hand. “I’ll do it,” she said. “You bandaged me up last time. But, for real, you’ve got to find a way to do magic that won’t maim, scar or kill us. Yeah?”

Ingrid laughed, “Yeah. Fine. You’re no fun. So, what did you want to tell me about Melinda?”

Emily finished sticking the bandage onto Ingrid’s wrist and tossed the wrapper in the garbage.

“Seriously, guess. I dare you.”

“Uh, I have no idea. They missed their ferry? No, wait. I know. Davis is dead and Melinda killed him! No, that’s not it. Oh, I know. Melinda, that sweet rabid dove, called to tell you that dickhead was a gazillionaire and left it all to you?”

“Hah. Nope. Owen wouldn’t have left me one red cent. Melinda killing Davis, though…maybe that’s not such a stretch. Melinda called me to say that she can’t come to my interview today with Gabe and Davis because she has to get tested for an STD.”

Ingrid snorted and laughed simultaneously, which turned into an uncontrollable cough, and reached for her glass to take a drink.

“It’s a little early for wine, don’t you think?” Emily asked.

Ingrid glared.

“Whatever. Anyway. That’s not even the best part,” Emily said when Ingrid stopped coughing. “Turns out they’ve had an open relationship for years. She said she’s been lecturing Davis to wear a condom, but he is just too excitable to remember.”

“Ugh. That’s disgusting.” Ingrid gulped another mouthful of wine and wiped her mouth. “I feel like I should brush my teeth. And boil my brain.”

“And, Melinda’s going to get tested because she has such a full sex life—she has needs, she says—that she needs to get it taken care of immediately.”

Both of them began laughing so hard they were gasping for breath. Ingrid paused only long enough to pull down a wine glass and pour a healthy dose of Merlot into a glass and hand it to Emily.

“We are going to need more wine,” said Emily.

Ingrid nodded. “And I’m going to need a lobotomy to forget.”

•

Saturday Afternoon

“Hey, guy,” Ingrid said, chasing after the guy who rented the art gallery. She went to reach for him, but her wrist was killing her. She probably shouldn’t have stabbed herself, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

The guy sold only his own art, and his pictures were creepy, but his rent was on time. And his daughter was sort of charming in the desperate way only rebellious teenage girls can be when they are trying to get their father’s attention.

Considering he lived above the book store she should probably learn his name. But also, considering he lived over the book store, he might know more about what happened when Owen died. Like who killed dickhead.

“Ingrid,” he said. He looked her up and down with cold eyes.

Okay, he needed to move. All of her warning senses were telling her to stay away from him. The things she did for Emily.

“Hey, were you around the other night? I was wondering if you saw…”

“More than you whoring after the sheriff? Planning to make yourself look better by telling him about the way Owen seduced my baby girl? Or were you just planning to sleep with him so he wouldn’t arrest your friend.”

“What? Hey! Ew…” Ingrid tried to hide her revulsion and wanted to punch him in the stomach. “Your daughter?”

“She’s just a little girl. It’s good that he’s dead. Better for us all. Especially me and my baby. We have enough trouble without people like him. You should have kept Owen Brown away from my baby.”

“Me? What are you talking about? I’m not responsible for your kid.” Ingrid looked around the sidewalk as if for support.

That girl looked twenty, but Ingrid was pretty sure she’d seen a backpack. The kid was top heavy, round-hipped and just Owen’s type. She had to be in high school though. Man, that was nasty, Ingrid thought. What a way to have your first time. She felt like she should take the girl aside and tell her things would be okay. Eventually.

Her dad didn’t agree, considering the way he was scowling at Ingrid.

“Um,” she said, “You’re her dad.”

The gallery guy stepped closer to her. She was going to have to punch him in the privates instead of his stomach, she thought. Especially if he moved one step nearer.

Then, he said, “You knew he was a dirty bastard.”

Ingrid pushed at him with her magic, and he backed up a step as she replied, “Anyone with eyes knew that he was smarmy. How many times did I tell my best dove, Em?”

He stepped forward again, and she shoved him with her magic. She could almost see him fight against it. “Oh man,” Ingrid drawled. “He slept with your kid?”

She shook her head as she thought about it. It was too wrong and also kind of hard to believe this old guy in front of her was really the dad of that pretty girl. Except for those tortured Dad eyes. They were too much. Ingrid preferred to see him as the creepy gallery guy and didn’t want to be guilted by his dad eyes into buying one of his stalker photos.

“You think it’s funny? She’s only seventeen.”

“Why would I think that’s funny? It’s nasty. Your poor kid.” Ingrid started, but he continued trying to shove past her magic.

“I’d have sued him and sent him to jail if he hadn’t died. We’re moving because of all of this. My baby doesn’t need to be around you—” he looked her up and down like she was trash before he finished, “—types. I expect you’ll be waiving our lease fees.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Ingrid said. She had a flash of a memory when she said, “You should probably get your kid checked out for STDs. He was a disgusting piece of work.”

The vicious look the gallery guy gave her made her want to step back, except no—she wasn’t cowering away from someone like him. He cursed and stomped away before she decided upon the best reaction.

“You’re a foul witch and going straight to hell,” he yelled over his shoulder.

Ingrid grinned and waved and then texted Emily. As soon as Ingrid hit send, she called Gabe.

“Hey, Sheriff Hotpants.”

“Don’t call me that. This is my personal, private work number.” But he didn’t sound upset. And she thought he should get used to her ways.

“Yeah,” Ingrid said, “I’m a witch, my sweet manly dove. Your words say no, but your aura says yes.” As he sputtered, she added, “Did you know if you don’t use your magic, you can lose it?”

“No. Why would I know that?” He sounded exasperated, but he didn’t hang up. A good sign.

“Turns out it’s true,” she said. She listened to his huff, laughed at him and then added, “So, listen up my pretty, did you know that creepster art gallery guy’s daughter slept with dickhead? Gross. Super, super gross.”

“What? You mean that Mary Martin slept with Owen? Owen was like thirty-four.”

“I know,” Ingrid agreed, sitting on the bench outside of the bookshop and crossing her legs. “And he was a dirty old thirty-four, too. Hookers would have looked him over and said no thanks. I might have killed him if my kid has slept with a piece of work like the dickhead.”

Gabe snorted with laughter before he said, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me Sheriff Hotpants.”

“Can I call you mine?” She stood and walked down the street toward the bakery. She wanted a chocolate croissant. She’d make her own coffee, but her baking left every possible thing to be desired. Especially since it was non-existent.

“I cannot have a relationship with the best friend of a murder suspect.”

“But otherwise you would?” She felt more than heard his flash of laughter and agreement. She pictured him in her head, sitting at his desk, a file in front of him. She hoped that the photo of dickhead was the dead one. The guy was smarmy, but he photographed well when he was alive. Better to remember him as he was.

“Look,” Gabe said.

“It’s okay,” she interrupted. “You’ve said enough. I hear the yes in your voice.”