Dime Store Magic (18 page)
A Twelve-Step Plan
"GODDAMN IT!" I SAID, "I TOLD YOU PEOPLE THIS MAN IS
NOT MY—"
Before I could finish, I found myself, once again, caught in a binding spell. The officer, having paid no attention, closed the door and left me alone with Cortez. When the door shut, he undid the spell. I grabbed for the door handle, but Cortez caught my hand. I spun to face him.
"You scheming son of a bitch! I don't believe this. I told them—I told that detective—no one's listening to me! Well, they're going to listen now.
I didn't sign anything and if you have papers with my signature, I'll prove it's a forgery. Whatever the penalty is for misrepresenting a client—"
"They aren't going to charge you."
I stopped. "What?"
"They don't have enough evidence to charge you now and I doubt they will ever find the evidence they need. The injuries to Mr. Cary make it impossible to argue that you pushed him out the window. Furthermore, I have proven that there is no evidence to indicate you came in physical contact with Mr. Cary at the time of his death. His office was cleaned Saturday night. The only fingerprints found within belong to Mr. Cary and his cleaner, as do the only footprints on the vacuumed carpet near his desk. The scene shows no sign of a struggle. Nor does his body. It would appear that Mr. Cary's chair was lifted from the floor without human intervention and propelled with great force out the window."
"How are they explaining that?"
"They aren't. While they may believe you did it, they cannot prove it."
"How do—" I stopped. "They think I used witchcraft?"
"That is the general consensus, though wisely left unmentioned on all official papers. Since such an accusation would never pass a Grand Jury, you are free."
Cortez checked his watch. "We should leave. I believe Savannah is growing quite restless. We have to complete some paperwork before you can be released. I must insist that you refrain from speaking to any law
enforcement officers we encounter during our departure. As your lawyer, I will handle all external communications herein."
"As my lawyer… ?"
"I believe I have proven my intentions are—"
"Above reproach?" I turned and met his gaze, keeping my voice soft, reasonable, letting no trace of anger escape. "But they aren't, are they?"
"I am not working for—"
"No, you probably aren't. I accept your story, that you're here to offer your services to further your career… at my expense."
"I'm not—"
"Do I blame you for it? No. I run a business. I know what someone our age needs to do to get ahead. I need to undercut the competition. You need to take cases the competition won't touch. If you want to bill me for today, go ahead. I'll pay. You earned it. But I can't—won't—work with you."
I opened the door and walked out.
Finishing the paperwork proved an ordeal; the grim-faced desk clerk filled out forms so slowly you'd think his wrist was broken. Worse yet, Flynn and the other detectives stood off to the side, watching me with glares that said I wasn't fooling them, I was simply another criminal who'd gotten away with murder.
Cortez, as one might expect, didn't accept defeat so easily. He stuck around to help me with the paperwork, and I let him. Why? Because six hours in captivity was enough for me. If the police knew that my freedom had been arranged by a man misrepresenting himself as my lawyer, could they toss me back inside? Accuse me of fraud? Probably not, but I didn't know the legalities involved and, now that I was free, I wasn't about to start posing any hypothetical questions that might land me in a jail cell. I didn't say that Cortez was my lawyer and I didn't say he wasn't. I ignored him and let the police draw their own conclusions.
When I went to collect Savannah, Cortez took his leave. He said nothing more than a murmured good-bye. To be honest, I felt a bit sorry for him. Sorcerer or not, he had helped me, and it hadn't done him a damn bit of good. I hoped he took me up on my offer of payment. At least then his efforts would have some reward.
I found Savannah in the waiting room. The public waiting room, amidst a half-dozen strangers, none of them the "armed state troopers"
Detective Flynn had mentioned. Anyone could have walked into that room, including Leah. On the heels of my flare of anger came another silent thanks to Lucas Cortez for getting me out.
If he didn't bill me, I promised myself I'd track him down and pay him anyway.
The waiting room looked like waiting rooms everywhere, with cheap furniture, yellowing posters, and stacks of year-old magazines. Savannah had laid claim to a row of three chairs and was lying across them, sound asleep.
I knelt beside her and gently shook her shoulder. She mumbled something and knocked my hand away.
"Savannah, hon? Time to go home."
Her eyes opened. She blinked and struggled to focus.
"Home?" She pushed up onto her elbow and smiled. "They let you out?"
I nodded. "I'm free to go. They aren't going to charge me."
At my words, an elderly woman turned to stare at me, then mumbled something to the man beside her. I was struck by the overwhelming urge to explain, to turn to these strangers and tell them I hadn't done anything wrong, that my being here was a mistake. I bit it back and tugged Savannah to her feet.
"Have you been out here the whole time?" I asked.
She nodded sleepily.
"I'm so sorry, hon."
"Not your fault," she said, stifling a yawn. "It was okay. There were cops around. Leah wouldn't try something here. So, what happened in there? Did they fingerprint you and everything? Are you going to have a record?"
"God, I hope not. Come on. Let's get out of here and I'll explain what I can."
There was a small crowd at the front door. Well, "small" in comparison to, say, the crowd at Fenway Park on opening day. I saw some media types, some placard-waving types, some rubbernecker-ghoul types, and
decided I'd seen enough. They were probably there covering a "real"
event, something completely unrelated to me, but I opted for the back door anyway, so I wouldn't disturb their vigil.
The police had towed my car to the station, which removed the problem of finding transportation, but also meant they'd searched it.
Though I keep a very tidy car, they'd managed to move everything that wasn't nailed down, and there were traces of powder everywhere.
Fingerprint powder, I suspected, though I had no idea why they'd be dusting my car for prints. Given the low homicide rate in this area, they probably used each one as an opportunity to practice every technique they'd learned in police college.
I had a seven-thirty Coven meeting in Belham, so Savannah and I grabbed a quick dinner, then headed straight there without returning home.
It was seven twenty-seven when we arrived at the Belham community center. Yes, I said
community center
. We had a standing reservation for the third Sunday of each month, when our "book club" would meet in the center's main hall. We even had the local bakery cater the event. When women from town asked to join our club, we told them, with deep regret, that our ranks were full, but took their names for our waiting list.
Our Coven had fourteen initiated witches and five neophytes.
Neophytes were girls from ten to fifteen years of age. Witches attain their full powers when they first menstruate, so the neophytes were the girls newly coming into their powers. On their sixteenth birthday, assuming they've reached first menses, witches are initiated, meaning they receive voting rights and begin learning second-level spells. At twenty-one they graduate to the third level and, at twenty-five, to the fourth and final tier.
Exceptions could be made. My mother had moved me to third level at nineteen and fourth at twenty-one. And I'd be really proud of that, if Savannah hadn't already surpassed me—and she hadn't even come into her full powers yet.
As Savannah and I crossed the parking lot, a minivan pulled in. I stopped and waited as Abby's older sister, Grace, and her two daughters climbed out. Fourteen-year-old Brittany saw us, waved, and jogged over.
"Hey, Savannah, Paige," she said. "Mom said you guys weren't—"
"I thought you weren't coming," Grace said, frowning as she approached.
"I nearly didn't make it, that's for sure," I said. "You wouldn't believe the day I've had."
"I heard."
"Oh? Word gets around, I guess."
Grace turned to yell at seventeen-year-old Kylie, who was still inside the van, chatting on her cell phone.
So the Coven already knew about Cary's death? I'd hoped they hadn't.
If the news hadn't reached them yet, then that would explain why no one had come to my aid.
Cortez's words about the Coven still stung. I understood why they hadn't rallied around me at the police station. They couldn't take the risk of associating themselves with me. But they could have discreetly found me a lawyer, couldn't they? Or, at the very least, brought Margaret to check up on Savannah.
Grace and I walked in silence to the doors, then she suddenly remembered something she'd left in the van. I offered to walk back with her, but she waved me off. When Brittany tried to follow Savannah inside, her mother called her back. I could still hear them whispering as I pushed open the community center doors.
As I walked in, all chatter stopped dead and everyone turned. Victoria was at the front of the room talking to Margaret. Therese saw me and motioned to Victoria. Victoria looked up and, for a moment, seemed stunned. Then she snapped something to Margaret and strode toward me.
"What are you doing here?" she hissed when she'd drawn close enough for no one else to overhear. "Did anyone follow you? Did anyone see you come in? I can't believe you—"
"Paige!" called a voice from across the room.
I looked up to see Abby bearing down on me, her arms spread as wide as her grin. She caught me up in a hug.
"You made it," she said. "Thank God. What a horrible day you must have had. How are you feeling, hon?"
I could have sunk into her embrace, I was so grateful.
"They dropped the charges," Savannah said.