Night Shift (14 page)

On his way back to the pawnshop, Lemuel thought about the conversation he’d had with Olivia. It had been a long, long time since he’d thought about his past. It was a great thing, to be able to read. He thought of the computer, and how Olivia used hers all the time, while he let Bobo do the computer work for the pawnshop. He felt uneasy using the machine, though he knew the basics. It seemed likely that Olivia could look up his sister’s descendants somehow on the damn thing.

Descendants,
Lemuel thought.
Descendants.
And suddenly, he had an idea. Olivia had gone to bed, but he went down the stairs to wake her up.

F
iji was holding Mamie’s hand. Mamie was restless in her dozing state, her legs moving feebly as if she were walking. Her hands were still, though, and Fiji felt how soft Mamie’s skin was, how thin over the bones. Sometimes old people got worn down from the inside out, and that was the case with Mamie. The former Las Vegas showgirl was a shadow of herself.

“She’s only eighty-five,” Tommy Quick said hoarsely.

“She’s always been so tough,” Suzie said. The rhinestones on her glasses frames glittered in the overhead light. “Real tough. Till she had that fall in Vegas on the stairs. And now this obsession with Midnight. Can’t you stop it, Fiji?”

Fiji considered. None of Aunt Mildred’s spells would cover this. Mildred Loeffler had had spells of cooling and heating, spells to freeze people in their places, spells to hold things just as they were until the spell was rescinded (useful in keeping food from spoiling), spells to make the subject more attractive, spells to make the subject more hateful, spells to help your garden grow, spells to protect you or others from harm . . . and a lot of herb work to combine with the spells for better effect. One or two of these had been lethal. But Fiji could not recall any spell that would take away a dangerous and painful call from some supernatural source. If she had known such words, she would have used them on herself.

Fiji didn’t think Mamie was hearing the voice she heard, but clearly, Mamie was experiencing a summoning.
Probably the same one all the suicides heard,
she thought.
Luring them to Midnight and to their doom. But why Mamie, of all people?

Fiji knew two Mamies. If the one being summoned had been the other Mamie, Price Eggleston’s mother, Fiji would have understood. You didn’t raise a son that hateful unless you had an overabundance of hate yourself, in Fiji’s opinion. But this Mamie seemed so helpless and frail! It was hard to remember that she hadn’t always been that way.

Now Fiji had to comprehend that, because Suzie was thrusting a picture in front of her, a picture of a young woman with a pert round face, heavily made up, and clad in a plumed headdress, high heels, and very little in between.

“Wasn’t she gorgeous?” Suzie demanded.

“She was,” Fiji said, keeping her voice quiet. She didn’t want Mamie to rouse completely, because she was going to try a spell of her own.

“Aren’t you going to say some words?” Suzie asked.

“Magic is will, my great-aunt always told me. You may have a set of words to say, but you may not.” At first this had been incomprehensible to Fiji, but now she got it. If you had the magic, the will and intent would form the words, or the sounds, to bend the magic to do what you wanted. She wanted Mamie to forget about Midnight. She began to hum, moving back and forth a little, as she forced her will into a magical channel and put Mamie at the end of that channel.

The magic formed up nicely and began flowing toward the old woman. Fiji held Mamie’s hand, and rocked and hummed, and after a time she became aware that Mamie’s legs were quiet under the white bedspread, and that Tommy and Suzie were slumped in their chairs, asleep.

Her magic had slopped over. Not very professional.

At least Fiji herself was awake. She extricated her hand from Mamie’s and sat back. Getting to her feet, she retrieved her purse and tiptoed out of the room. Once in the bright hall with its gleaming linoleum and constant bustle, Fiji breathed a long sigh of relief.

She had done as Manfred had asked, and she’d given Mamie some relief. It wouldn’t hurt Suzie and Tommy to catch up on their sleep, either. Fiji deserved a reward, she felt. Maybe she’d stop by Sonic after she’d been to the grocery store. She glanced at her watch and called The Inquiring Mind.

Manfred answered.

“Hey, I did it,” she said. “She’s asleep and not dreaming about walking to Midnight.”

“Fiji, I owe you.”

“No, you don’t,” she said wearily. “And you might as well close up. It’s close to time, anyway, and no one’s going to come in this weather.”

“Okay. Thanks again.”

Fiji got out her grocery list, realized she couldn’t put off shopping any longer, and drove to the store. When she emerged from Piggly Wiggly, the temperature had dropped dramatically and it had begun to rain. Fiji wished she’d brought a jacket to add to her long-sleeved shirt, and it would have been even nicer if the fictional jacket had been rainproof. She turned on the heat in the car.

The rain increased in intensity as she drove toward Midnight. It was pounding down as Fiji parked behind her house and prepared to dash to the back door.

She gathered her cloth grocery bags and purse, braced herself as much as she could, and dashed the short distance to the back porch . . . only to shriek and jump back at colliding with another person.

Fiji and Teacher Reed were face to face, and he had his hand on the doorknob. He’d just come out of her house.

“Teacher, what are you doing?” she said, in what she thought was a remarkably calm voice for someone who’d been taken by complete surprise.

“Shit!” He sounded just as rattled as she had.

“Were you in my house?” It didn’t occur to Fiji to be afraid. She was growing very angry as the outrage sunk in.

“I confess,” he said, making a show of hanging his head. “I was on my way down the street, and the rain started. I got under your back porch, and I knocked. Just kind of absently, I turned the knob, and your back door was unlocked. So I went in the kitchen.”

This was a little more credible since the rain was pounding into the back porch, with about twelve inches of dry left. But she didn’t believe him. He could have sheltered on her front porch, where there was a broad covered area with chairs. He would have been welcome. But this was an invasion.

“I’m going in now,” she said evenly. “But only after I watch you leave my yard. I’m seriously upset.” That was what her mouth said, while her brain was thinking of spells to use.

“I’m really sorry I scared you, Fiji,” Teacher said, waving his hands in the air as if to pat it softer, soften the offense.

“You mistake me. I’m
angry
.”

Another tiny corner of her brain was wondering what it was about thunderstorms and men making her mad, since her abduction by the now-deceased Price Eggleston had occurred during just such a storm.

Teacher seemed to expect her to say something else, but Fiji stood mute. No matter how wet she was getting and how scared she was becoming, she would not enter the house until he was gone. She would not be trapped inside with him.

After a second more of waiting, Teacher dashed off into the rain. She watched him, her will pushing him away faster.

As soon as she was sure he was gone, Fiji went inside, slammed the door and locked it, and wedged a kitchen chair under the knob. And then she did something she had promised herself she would never do again, and she did it without any conscious deliberation. She called Bobo.

“Fiji!” he said, and his voice was full of surprise and happiness. Ordinarily, she would have basked in that for a moment. Instead, she said hurriedly, “Listen, the weirdest thing just happened.” She explained.

“Did he really stay in the kitchen while he was in your place?” Bobo asked.

“Maybe. I only see wet footmarks in the kitchen. But that might just mean he heard me pull up and realized he had to get out of here.”

“Or maybe he was smart enough to take off his shoes and leave them in the kitchen while he was roaming around your house.”

“That’s a horrible thought.” As the anger drained away, Fiji felt her eyes brimming with tears.

“What could he have been looking for? I’m not doubting your instincts, I’m just wondering.” Bobo sounded like he was suppressing a strong emotion himself.

“I have no idea,” Fiji said. Her hands were trembling.

“You need me there?” he asked, as though he could see her hands, too.

“No, you’ve got a customer,” she said. She’d just walked into her shop area and looked out the front window, as if being a few feet closer to Bobo would make her a bit safer. A car was parked in front, and its driver door was opening.

“Shit. Okay, I’ll come over in a while,” he said. “If anything else happens, just run over here, okay?” And he hung up, as Fiji saw a huddled figure dash up the steps to the door and enter Midnight Pawn.

The cat,
she thought, as she turned away from the window. She looked under the counter to see that Mr. Snuggly was curled up in his cat bed. He blinked at her to prove he was alive, and she nodded and went into the kitchen.

Fiji gradually became calmer as she put her groceries away. “Mr. Snuggly!” she called. “Let’s talk.”

In a moment, the cat flowed in from the shop. “Is it dinnertime?” Mr. Snuggly inquired, in his bitter little voice. “The rain makes me hungry.”

“Everything makes you hungry,” Fiji said. “Where did the man go when he was in the house?”

“He left his shoes in the kitchen,” the cat replied. “And he went through our house with his socks on. But he didn’t find me! I hid very carefully.”

Fiji sat down at the table abruptly. She had hoped to hear that Teacher had done exactly what he’d told her. After a moment, she roused herself to say, “You think he was going to steal you?”

“Why else would he come?” the cat asked, bored. “What else is there here worth having?”

Fiji thought seriously about this question. She discounted the possibility that Teacher was actually looking for Mr. Snuggly, since Teacher did not know the cat could talk; also, he’d said in Fiji’s hearing that he didn’t care for cats. She remembered such things.

What could Teacher have wanted? Fiji didn’t have much cash in the house, and after she’d opened the till, she knew he hadn’t touched it. Mildred Loeffler’s diaries were important to Fiji, but she couldn’t imagine them being interesting to anyone else, especially since Aunt Mildred’s writing was extremely challenging to decipher.

What else?

Fiji looked around her as she went from room to room. There were only five, so it didn’t take long. She had very little jewelry of value, and her good earrings were still in her jewelry box. She had no correspondence that would be interesting, but it did seem to her that her files of business papers had been slightly disarranged. If she hadn’t known someone had been in the house, though, she doubted she would have noticed. Since Fiji considered business papers boring, she couldn’t imagine what anyone might want with them. Insurance, utility bills, bank statements, supply orders, receipts. Things she saved for the tax season, when she carted them all to a CPA in Davy.

None of the goods she sold in the shop were very valuable, either, and they were all present and accounted for. Athames (she checked those first), books, statuettes, wind chimes, incense, Ouija boards, oils, tarot decks, Wiccan calendars, candles, mortars and pestles, tote bags . . . even one little cauldron, which she’d had on the shelves for two years. Her shop was pretty “Witch Light.” Nothing really powerful to take, in and of itself.

So why would Teacher Reed search it?

After an hour of checking, Fiji was almost certain Teacher had not taken a thing.

But she felt his presence in her house now, like a horsefly buzzing around her head. This impression was almost impossible to dispel. It disturbed her greatly.

Can I kill someone for you, witch?
asked the deep voice.

She didn’t answer. She knew it wasn’t wise to turn this weird conversation into a dialogue. She forced herself to get back in the thinking groove.

Fiji was fond of little Grady, and she’d always respected Madonna, if she didn’t exactly like her. Her feelings were even more wounded by Teacher’s invasion because she’d thought of Teacher himself as one of the most useful people she knew, and warm and affable, to boot.

Horns of a dilemma,
Fiji thought. As she checked to make sure the front door sign was turned to Closed and gave Mr. Snuggly a treat for his accurate reporting, she wondered what the hell she was supposed to do about this.

Fiji couldn’t let Teacher get away with it.
Not that I’m vindictive,
she told herself, hoping that was true.
But I have to have respect.
And respect could only be maintained if she protected her territory and her property.