Jingle Spells

  He did look awful cute today in tight, soft-looking blue jeans and a red flannel shirt under his Carhartt jacket. A faux-fur cap with ear flaps perched atop his head. “Mornin’,” he said with a grin. “You got an Americano with my name on it?”

  After fueling him up with an Americano and half-a-dozen morning buns, I thanked Lucy for covering for me, and we left the warmth of The Witch’s Brew for the frosty December morning.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t want to take the pink Cadillac,” I teased him as I slid into the passenger’s seat in his police cruiser.

  “You will never catch me dead in that monstrosity.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind if anything were to ever happen to you. I’ll be sure to let Chief Nolte know you requested the pink Cadillac as a hearse.”

  “You’re a regular comedienne, you know that?” Cole remarked, signaling to pull away from the curb.

  As he drove through downtown Tates Creek, I closed my eyes and worked on weaving the glamour for the car. My magic was powered by liquids — water-based liquids worked the best, but I could work with gasoline and oil, too. After a few moments, I opened my eyes, pleased to see the shiny texture of my magic coating the car.

  “We’re in business,” I said.

  “The cruiser’s invisible?” Cole looked around. “I still see it.”

  “That’s because you’re inside it, dork. Do we have a plan?”

  “Yeah, we do.” Cole reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved his phone. “My contact in Atlanta PD said Lonnie is the head agent at Lars Kendrick’s real estate firm.”

  I gasped. “His boss?”

  “Looks that way.” He pocketed his phone and glanced at me. It thrilled me to see interest on his face: excitement for the investigation, like a wolf ready for the chase. That look was the Cole I knew before his world turned upside down. “Guess we’ll see what ol’ Lonnie has to say.”

  It was four hours to Atlanta, but we made it in three-and-a-half thanks to Cole’s lead foot. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t fear for my life; I just reminded myself he was a trained law enforcement professional, which helped. Slightly.

  We pulled into a small side lot by Kendrick’s real estate agency before ten a.m. I shrugged into my black pea coat and removed a few stray Skadi hairs before I joined Cole on the sidewalk. By the time I stood by his side, I realized I should have left my coat in the car.

  “Holy Hades, this is what winter in Georgia is like?” I gagged, unbuttoning my coat.

  Cole laughed. “Welcome to the south.”

  “Kentucky is the south. Sort of.” I stared up at the peach Victorian that sat on a well-traveled street corner. I’d never been to Atlanta before, but we seemed to be in a nice area of the city. A wrought iron sign hung in the lawn declaring Prater & Prater Realtors. “Cute building.”

  “Probably housing a murderer,” Cole said gruffly, motioning for me to follow him.

  Shiny gray steps led to a large wrap-around porch. I eyeballed a fancy iron chandelier light hanging above the door, and ran smack into a woman coming out of the house.

  I stumbled backwards, feeling as if I’d run into a brick wall. “I’m so sorry! Please excuse me.”

  The woman caught my wrist with a low laugh. “No, I’m sorry. Are you all right?”

  She was a lovely woman with chestnut curls, thick eyebrows, and a curvy, muscular body beneath her skirt suit. But she held the muscles well — feminine-like, though my chest still stung from running into her.

  “I’m fine, thank you for asking. Sorry, again!” I called as Cole took my arm and escorted me past her with a curt nod.

  The house was just as gorgeous inside as it was out. Dark wood wainscoting covered the walls beneath rich Victorian wallpaper. The foyer spilled into a large room that had probably once been a living area, where a tiny receptionist beamed at us from behind the front desk.

  Cole announced himself as a lieutenant with the Tates Creek Police Department. The young woman behind the desk stared at him wide-eyed for a brief moment before she shot to her feet and ran down the hall. Cole and I exchanged glances.

  She appeared a minute later from the recesses of the house and beckoned to us. “Mr. Prater will see you now.”

  Lonnie Prater stood as we entered his office, unfolding a willow-thin body well over six feet tall. He offered a hand to Cole, his kind green eyes flickering to me. “Welcome, Lieutenant. Tates Creek? Where Lars died.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Prater.” Cole shook his hand. Cole was no small man, but Lonnie’s long fingers and large palm nearly enveloped his. “This is my … associate. Miss Pettigrew.”

  “Always a pleasure to meet a woman so fair of face,” Lonnie clasped my hand in both of his and bowed gently. “Welcome, Miss Pettigrew. Please, have a seat.”

  I could admit my experiences with crime were few. Nil, to be exact, unless you counted the time I wrote “DP + CN” on the girl’s bathroom stall at the Tates Creek Watering Hole on my drunken 21st birthday. But Lonnie Prater didn’t strike me as a murderer. His mention of Lars’ name had been followed by a sincere grimace of pain, his lined green eyes saddening. His handshake had been firm and kind. My gut intuition told me he was a good man. A kind man.

  But as he took his chair behind the desk, I locked my gaze on the Louisville Slugger mounted on the wall above him.

  From the chair beside me, Cole excused himself to tap a message on his phone. He put the slim Android away and locked eyes with Lonnie Prater. “Louisville Slugger, eh? Do you play?”

  Lonnie smiled. “I did. Many moons ago. All-Star senior year. Loved it. Injured my shoulder sliding into home my first year of college. Never played again. My wife bought me that bat several years ago. Had my name inscribed upon it.”

  Cole leaned back in his chair, looking for all intents and purposes unconcerned. “What a coincidence, then, that Lars Kendrick died beneath the blunt force of a baseball bat.”

  Lonnie’s face drained of color. “Dear God. The autopsy results are back?”

  I glanced at Cole. He carried on without a flinch. The man was good.

  “The crime scene technicians are flawless,” Cole responded smoothly, not answering the question but sure sounding like he had.

  “Poor Lars … ” Lonnie shook his head. “Are there any leads?”

  Cole sat forward, his face hardening. “There weren’t. At first. But in just a moment, Atlanta’s finest will have a warrant to confiscate that bat and any others you may have in your possession.”

  *

  Sunset over Atlanta brought a stream of heavy thunderstorms through the city.

  I waited in an empty interrogation room at the precinct, a long-emptied coffee cup on the table beside my dying cell phone. Thunder rattled the single, barred window at my back, and the soothing thrum of rain echoed off the walls.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about Lonnie’s staunch insistence he hadn’t murdered Lars Kendrick. I believed him. Even when the lab rushed the bat through forensics and found blood spatter on the wood — cleaned, but there nonetheless. I still believed him. He’d insisted Lars was like a son to him, despite the bad press from the dogfighting. Lonnie Prater didn’t kill Lars.

  But neither did Cole.

  So who did?

  A uniformed officer opened the door to check on me. “Miss Pettigrew? Can I refill your coffee?”

  I laughed. “It’s a shame you people think this is coffee.”

  He chuckled, his coiffed black hair flopping on his broad forehead. “I absolutely agree. Unfortunately, that, and a glorious selection of vending machine junk food, is all I have to offer you.”

  “Is Cole still tied up in questioning?”

  “He is. Not for too much longer, though.” The officer glanced over his shoulder, and then gently eased into the room, shutting the door behind him. Atlanta PD wore uniforms similar to Tates Creek PD, but black instead of dark blue. This particular officer was young and new to the game, but he was sharp. He’d been tasked with
my safekeeping, and we’d developed a camaraderie I blamed for his next statement. “Between me and you, I don’t think the guy did it.”

  “I don’t either, but all I’m going off is instinct. You have anything more than that?”

  He leaned against the wall and lowered his voice. “Guy’s got an old injury. Can’t lift his right arm higher than his freaking nipples. How’s he gonna bash some dude’s head in?”

  I nodded, recalling Lonnie’s innocuous statement regarding that old college injury. “That leaves us back at square one.”

  The officer shook his head. “They’re still pushing him. That blood’s gonna come back positive for Lars Kendrick and Crissy Nolte.”

  “You’re sure?”

  He shrugged. “I’m mostly sure. Would be quite a coincidence if it wasn’t.”

  I sighed, shoving the empty cup away. I could smell the dying dredges of precinct octane, and it made my stomach turn. “Do you mind if I get out for a while? Maybe go grab some food and real coffee?”

  He laughed, motioning for the door. “Yeah. You’re not a prisoner here.”

  He led me through a maze of dimly lit corridors that smelled of Pine Sol and gun cleaner. We ascended a wide staircase covered in rubber safety strips, and exited near the front entrance.

  A woman sat on the bench in the foyer, her elbows resting on her knees. She stood at the sound of us approaching. She wore cropped black workout pants and a skin-tight sports tank, as if she’d just come from the gym. She’d slicked her chestnut hair into a tight ponytail.

  “No word yet, Mrs. Prater. I promise as soon as I know something, I’ll tell you,” the officer assured her.

  I stared at the woman, trying to place her. Her gaze glanced off me before she sat back down, but she registered no recognition. Her arms were more defined than most men I knew back home.

  “There’s a deli about two blocks over,” my guide offered. “Take a right on the sidewalk and keep going. You’ll see the sign. Gardelli’s. Better coffee than this place, let me tell ya.”

  “Thanks.” I paused, my hand on the door handle. “Hey, have you mentioned to anybody what you think? That Lonnie didn’t do it?”

  He nodded. “Of course.”

  “Anybody looking into coworkers at the firm? Family? Somebody who has access to Lonnie’s office?”

  “Yeah, ’course. We’ll find who murdered Lars Kendrick. It’s what we do.”

  *

  I ate a turkey sandwich and pickle chips sitting in the chilly café at the deli. I called my mother and asked her to feed Skadi, then texted my sister for an update on her end.

  Chief Nolte should be down there by now. Atlanta PD working with TCPD.

  I cringed for Cole — his daddy was going to be none-too-happy about him running away to investigate on his own, especially being on forced leave.

  I threw away my trash and thanked the wizened old woman behind the counter before heading into the night.

  It might have been warmer in Atlanta during December, but the sun liked to hide away early, just the same. I cradled my umbrella in both hands as I splashed through puddles on the sidewalk. I glanced up, eyeballing the gunpowder gray clouds. Even though the rain had slowed to a trickle, it looked like more trouble was about to roll through. I wanted to be safely back in the precinct before that happened.

  No sooner had the thought occurred to me than strong arms encircled me from behind and dragged me into an alley.

  Instincts kicked in. I screamed bloody murder until an arm tightened over my throat and choked me silent. I jabbed backwards with the open umbrella, my boots dragging across the concrete as my assailant took me into the shadows behind a dumpster.

  The umbrella was ripped from my hand, and I dropped like a sack of potatoes. I landed on my back in a puddle.

  The woman in workout clothes stood over me, a small, pink handgun pointed at my head.

  Chapter Seven

  “You’re Lonnie Prater’s wife,” I said, recalling the young officer’s formal address to her back at the precinct. “And I ran into you this morning at the real estate agency.”

  “Too bad I didn’t know what the hell you and your cop boyfriend were doing here, or I would have ended you both then,” she snapped. And then she fired the gun.

  No warning. No villainous monologue before taking my life. Just an almost imperceptible straightening of her arm before the sharp, deafening crack of gunfire in close quarters.

  But I saw the arm movement. When you work with people every day, closely watching them for clues to how you can spell their favorite beverages to make them feel better, you get used to how they move. Prater telegraphed the shot by shifting her gaze from my eyes to my forehead and straightening her elbow.

  Thank all the gods in all the heavens and worlds she did.

  I rolled, pain blossoming from the side of my head as the bullet grazed my skull and hit the concrete behind me, spitting chips of broken rock my way. I slapped both palms to the massive puddle of rainwater beneath me and spelled it to burn like acid.

  Then I splashed it in her face.

  She screamed, the gun firing off another shot but too wide to come anywhere near me. The pink handgun hit the ground nearby, and Prater fell to her knees, clawing at her red, steaming face. Skin tugged away beneath her fingernails.

  I was a good witch, and I used my powers for good. That didn’t mean my power couldn’t destroy, given the right circumstances.

  I grabbed her gun and stumbled to my feet, my heart pounding so hard I thought I was having a heart attack. Blood ran warm down my neck, mingling with rain as it began to fall steadily from the sky.

  Prater fell forward, grabbing my knees even as she couldn’t open her swollen eyes. Her muscular weight drove me down, and I landed on my butt in the puddle. I clocked her on the side of the head with her own gun, and Prater fell dead weight on my legs.

  I breathed heavily, an ache spreading from what was probably just a superficial bullet wound near my temple. My body ached all over from hitting the ground — twice. I gripped the gun tightly, scooting out from underneath the woman’s unconscious body.

  Fishing my phone from my front pocket, I searched for Cole’s number.

  *

  Five days later, I closed up The Witch’s Brew an hour early on the Winter Solstice. Lucy was home with a sick toddler, so I’d been on my own all day, and it had been a great one. Tiring, sure, but another fulfilling day in a place I loved.

  Mama, Devin, Delphine, and Grandmama, as well as Delphine’s two girls, waited for me back at Mama’s house so we could do our annual Solstice all-nighter. Tonight, we’d eat a feast prepared by the old biddies. We’d decorate the Yule log, and sing Yule carols over mulled cider and Solstice cookies. We’d watch Practical Magic, fashion new ornaments for the tree out of found items from the Forest Preserve, and just before dawn, we’d traipse down to the lake with Irish coffee and greet the sunrise with a beautiful solstice fire ritual.

  It was my favorite holiday, and I was so thankful to be alive for it. If it hadn’t been for the storms passing through Atlanta, I might have died in that alley.

  Alana Prater was a thirty-five year old Crossfit instructor, which explained her physique. She’d murdered Lars Kendrick in cold blood. She’d been having an affair with Kendrick — who’d been having an affair with Crissy. Prater discovered he was two-timing her when Crissy came to Atlanta several weeks ago. When he broke plans with her to come steal Crissy away from her marriage, Prater followed him north.

  Lonnie, as I’d suspected, was a gentle man, twenty years his wife’s senior. Lacking a real weapon in their home, she’d stolen the Louisville Slugger off her husband’s office wall and used it in Tates Creek to bash Lars’s head in. And Crissy’s.

  Then Alana Prater stole the prissy pink gun from Crissy Nolte’s purse — a gun Crissy never had a chance to reach before the bat knocked her out — shot Lars out of spite, and waited to see if she’d get away with it.

  A knock sounde
d at the front door, startling me as I was wiping off the base of a café table where someone had dumped what seemed an entire large Brewlatte. I stood, banging my head on the underside of the table.

  I groaned, putting a hand to my hat. They’d cut my hair and stitched my bullet wound that day in Atlanta. I still had two more days before my general doc would take the stitches out, and my head was finally starting to feel normal. Thank goodness I’d been wearing a thick knitted wool cap over it while working, or else that knock to the noggin would have hurt even more.

  Cole Nolte stood on the other side of the glass front door, cringing. As I unlocked and opened the door, he said, “Sorry, Daiya. I didn’t mean to startle you. How’s your head?”

  “It was feeling better,” I said pointedly, but winked to show I held no ill will.

  On the contrary, this was the first I’d seen him since Atlanta, and I sure was glad to see him. He wore those butter-soft jeans I liked so much, and a long-sleeved Wildcats t-shirt that hugged his thick chest and shoulders beneath his ever-present Carhartt jacket.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Sure. You want an Americano?” I walked towards the Marzocco.

  “No, thanks. I came to talk to you.”

  I paused and turned. “Oh?”

  “Sit.” He motioned to a table — the table where we’d sat the day after Crissy died and he told me he didn’t kill her. I’d heard they buried Crissy yesterday. I left a Thermos of Americano, a bag of cinnamon buns, and a sympathy card on Cole’s front porch before the birds even sang that morning. I spelled the Americano for strength and healing.

  Cole sat across from me, wiping his palms on his thighs as he avoided my eye.

  I waited patiently.

  “Thanks for breakfast yesterday. And the card.”

  I nodded. “How you doing?”

  “Much better than I expected,” he said truthfully. He took a deep breath, and then reached over the table to take my hand. “I wanted to thank you. Properly. For helping solve Crissy’s murder.”

  “I didn’t do anything your own boys wouldn’t have done,” I said. “TCPD would have gotten there with or without my Last Moments spell. Good always triumphs over evil.”

  “Not always,” Cole objected. He squeezed my hand. “But it sure did help to have a witch on our side for this one.”

  I blushed. “I was happy to help. I’m always here to help.”