Prague Murder
This book is dedicated to Auburn Seal
Wench Face
Witchacha
Queen Subcommander of the Crazy Train
Maybe even an American
Chapter 1
“I want tacos.” Ingrid attempted to stretch her legs out, but she couldn’t. They’d been mis-booked. Or she’d messed up. Something. The airplanes seats in the row ahead were mere inches from her knees, and she was pretty sure that the universe was twisting, bringing those seats ever closer. Eventually she would be smothered by the seat.
Maybe. Maybe she’d not been paying attention when she’d clicked purchase.
Maybe. Maybe, this was all her fault.
But. Look. She couldn’t be held accountable for
everything.
That being said, crossing the Atlantic in coach was not for doves who were rolling in inheritance dough. Especially old, tired doves. Who’d been productive for days. Practically a week. And then followed up that productivity by an epic shopping and eating tour of New York City.
Also, she missed her Gabe.
Therefore, she shouldn’t have even been saddled with buying flights. She turned to look at her best dove, who should have been the one to buy these tickets and
hadn’t
been. And
she
hadn’t thought to bring tacos on the flight. And
she
hadn’t even figured out where Prague was yet. Where
were
they going? Ingrid was not sure.
“Do not ever mention food again,” Emily said. “If you do, I’ll punch you so hard that…”
Ingrid waited, but Emmy-dove had her hand over her mouth and seemed to be literally holding in her last round of tacos.
“I don’t know how you have anything to puke up,” Ingrid commented and took a sip of seltzer water. “I’m starving.”
Maybe she’d also forgotten to order a meal for the flight. Certainly, the leftover offerings made her willing to wait. She hadn’t been feeling that great for the last few days. She assumed it was travel fatigue. They’d spent the last two weeks in New York City, shopping, eating, and sleeping. She’d been forced to buy a whole new wardrobe for their trip since she’d left home without her bags and Emily had grabbed Ingrid all the wrong things.
The good news was that no one had the number to the phone she carried since she’d taken it from her…boyfriend…
…was Gabe her boyfriend? Were they more than that? She loved him. He loved her. But…they had a history that was rocky and the truth was that Ingrid was probably the worst match for him that was possible.
Saving for actual murderers.
She had baggage from her first marriage.
Baggage from her childhood or maybe just from never being good enough for her family.
She was lazy and spoiled.
And he was a good man.
Kind.
Caring.
Smart.
Hard-working.
He needed someone
better
than her.
That was probably why she both felt sick to her stomach and also wanted nothing more than some grilled steak tacos with pico de gallo and sour cream. The memory of him in the rain, letting her flee her mother while refusing to do so himself was pretty dang sexy. As were his lovely eyes. Especially when they looked down at her with love and humor.
It was true.
She was a besotten dove.
Damn it.
Next thing she knew they’d be living together. Which would be okay. As long as he expected all of her contributions to be done by paid help. He wouldn't expect her to…iron would he? He wasn’t that much of a caveman was he? No, no.
Of course not.
This wasn’t 1950.
Did
people even iron still? Surely they didn’t.
Her stomach roiled and she thought, perhaps, that she was sick—not with food or travel or exhaustion—but with anxiety.
Emily got up and rushed down the aisle. Surely, she knew that the flight provided puke bags? But then again, Ingrid’s stomach was upset too, and a friend puking one seat over would be sure to make them both go down. It was better for everyone else if she puked on the guy in seat 27A or whatnot.
As long as it wasn’t on Ingrid.
She leaned back in her seat, closed her eyes, and contemplated sending Gabe a series of needy texts, but she didn’t. She held herself back and tried to remember that just because she’d been hot and cold their entire relationship, if not actively being a suspect in a murder investigation, was no reason the Sage Island sheriff would realize she was insane and move beyond her.
She pushed her head back against the back of the seat to stretch and tried again to get comfortable. But she couldn’t.
Now she was afflicted with the image of her Gabe with some other woman. Some curvy little blonde with freckles and a button nose.
Damn the woman.
Whoever she was.
If she was.
Ingrid would have to learn to hex if this woman ever existed. That way the man-stealing dove would learn her lesson. And then, of course, Ingrid would have to hex Gabe too. Which would be painful.
But necessary.
Her head started to pound and she tried again to get comfortable. How did people
live
like this?
It was horrible.
There had been a time when Ingrid hadn’t been stupidly wealthy. But she’d been younger then. And more flexible.
“Holy crap, Ingrid,” Emily said. “I didn’t screw up our flight to St. Maarten’s. This is ridiculous. How hard is it to book a flight?”
“Shut up, evil, mean, nasty dove,” Ingrid replied without opening her eyes. “I will set you on fire. So hard.”
She felt Emily plop into the next seat and Ingrid squeezed her eyes tighter. Maybe if she could see nothing that wouldn’t be the smell of puke on the air. Nope. Emily definitely smelled like puke.
“You stink, dove,” Ingrid said, breathing through her mouth.
“Shut up, wench,” Emily replied, sounding as disgusted as Ingrid. “I got some in my hair. It’s impossible to get it out in that closet.
* * * * * * * *
“Why do we have plans?”
Ingrid was whining and she recognized it. They’d arrived, gotten to their hotel, slept—but not
nearly
long enough, and now she was following Emily down some ancient road on foot.
Why? Weren’t they supposed to be sipping something delicious on a boat that moved them around while they lolled about? She was sure that was
all
she had signed on for, and yet here she was tromping after Emily who had an actual mission. And goals.
“I don’t know. Hazel said we’d like it. She said it was our heritage. She made me swear to check into the witch stuff or she’d…hex the shiz out of us? Me? Mostly me, I think.”
Ingrid sighed and then said, “Well that sounds like your problem to me, my best dove. I said I wanted tacos.”
They looked around the ancient city with its cobblestone streets, red roofs, and statues. Their hotel was near a pretty gorgeous bridge with statues all over it. The problem was…nowhere seemed to be serving tacos. She wasn’t quite sure what goulash was, but it seemed to be a specialty of the natives.
Hadn’t they heard of tacos?
Didn’t they know she needed some? Didn’t they
care
?
“Where are we going again?”
“I don’t know,” Emily growled. She looked drunk, but she was just a jet-lag zombie. She rubbed her eyes and shoved her fingers into her hair.
“You’re full-on afro my friend,” Ingrid said, examining her friend’s wild curls.
“Shut up, jezebel hooker,” Emily said. She found her way to an outdoor cafe and plopped down into a chair.
“I want tacos,” Ingrid said again, but Emily didn’t even seem to notice that Ingrid was speaking. Em plopped her head onto the table as hard as she’d plopped her butt into the chair.
Ingrid ordered them both macchiatos and said a silent prayer that they wouldn’t be crappy. She might have been a coffee snob. And by might of been, she was. Hugely. One of her few magic abilities was the insane skill she had at making coffee and espresso drinks exactly perfectly for each individual.
Hers came in a cup so large it was almost a bowl with pretty designs made in the foamed milk in the espresso and smelling, almost, of magic. She smiled into the cup and took a long slow sip. It was not magic. But it was close. Her eyes fluttered closed and she sipped slowly until she felt almost human again. By the time she was nearly done, their food had arrived.
Ingrid had zero idea what she had been ordering. She basically pointed to pictures. Fruit thingys with different sauces, a sort of stew, and what looked like a slab of mozzarella that had been deep fried. The fruit thingys were a bread coated fruit dumpling that went straight to her heart. Emily was too out of it to recognize anything other than the ability to shovel food into her mouth, so Ingrid ordered another macchiato and kept all the dumpling thingys to herself.
* * * * * * * *
Emily’s second macchiato seemed to revive her a bit, and she started eyeing Ingrid’s favorite food even as Em broke off pieces of mozzarella, pulled them up to create long strings of cheese, and then shoved it into her mouth with a fluttering of her lashes. The dove liked melted cheese so much, she could just stay busy with the cheese.
“What are we doing again?” Ingrid asked around a mouthful of bread and fruit.
“We’re going to a convent.”
“We’re pagans,” Ingrid said. “Sort of. We’re lapsed pagans.”
She took another bite. This one was blueberry and her favorite yet. Next time—and there would be a next time—she’d order all blueberry whatever-they-were again, and some of the creamy sauce to submerge them in. She’d submerge them until they were near drowned and falling apart and get it to her mouth somehow. She couldn’t think beyond the food. All desire for tacos was gone and replaced by a desire to never eat anything other than what was currently in her mouth.
“That looks good,” Emily said, eyeing Ingrid’s fruit dumplings.
“They’re all right,” Ingrid lied. But she made up for it by telling the truth, “They aren't tacos.”
Then to change the subject, she said, “So, why are we going to a convent?”
“Hazel made me get a tour of Prague from a local guy. I guess he’s knowledgeable about the magical history of the city, and it starts at the convent. Or ends at it. I can only remember the feel of my sheets against my body and my pillow under my head.”
“Do you see those people over there?” Ingrid nodded to a young couple. They had been on the flight, but she was pretty sure Emily had no idea given how often she’d been puking. The couple were giggling and bouncing. Literally. On their toes as they gazed around the city—which admittedly was gorgeous—everything about the couple bespoke life and energy. Youth.
