A Familiar Tail (15 page)

24

A WHOLE SERIES
of potential responses to Brad's question flashed through my mind. Most contained the words “What copies?” They also might have involved grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking.

But before my hands could move, a voice inside me whispered,
Let him talk. Find out what's going on.

Seems my inner Nancy Drew was a calculating little thing, or maybe it was the magic wand under my palm. Whichever it was, I listened.

“No, I didn't find the copies.” Which was the truth, as far as I knew, anyhow.

Brad's mustache twitched and he twisted his wedding ring. “But she told you where they are, right?”

“Uh, no. She never got the chance.” Which was also, you'll notice, the truth.

The waiter brought my tikka masala and naan along with a dish of jasmine rice and set them all down. He looked expectantly at Brad, who entirely failed to notice him. He
was too busy twisting his wedding ring. I waved the waiter away.

“But at least Frank hasn't found them, right?” The note of hope in Brad's question was painfully sharp.

“I don't think so,” I answered slowly. “He didn't say anything about them.”

“Okay, well, that's something, I guess.”

“I thought you and Frank Hawthorne were friends.” I curled my fingers loosely around the hidden wand. I expected to feel that low prickling under my skin that I was beginning to associate with magic. But there was nothing. The man sitting opposite me just looked sadder. Deflated. Defeated.

“Things change.”

“Is that why you need those copies now? Because things changed?” I asked gently.

He also didn't answer me, not directly, anyway. “I really hoped you'd found something in the attic. I tried to get in before, but that is one tough lock.” He twisted his wedding ring back and forth some more. “I was coming back to try to get the hinges off the door when we . . . met. I guess Dorothy sent you the key or something?”

“Yeah, well . . . are you sure the . . . copies . . . are in the house?” I helped myself to rice and chicken tikka so I had an excuse not to be looking at him right then.

“Where else would they be? Unless she had a safe-deposit box or something?”

“Not that I know about.” I pushed the basket of naan toward him. Brad shook his head.

Then I remembered something Frank had told me. “I do know Dorothy's computer got stolen. Was that you?”

“No. I was too slow. I've been trying for months to find out who took it. It's been making me crazy. I'd hoped for a while it was one of her . . . in-town people.”

“By hers, you mean Dorothy's?”

“Of course Dorothy's.” He frowned hard at me, and I forked some food into my mouth to keep myself quiet. “But when nobody lowered the boom, I figured it was pretty obvious who actually got hold of it.”

No! No, it really isn't!
I screamed in my mind.

“Well, there are two of us now.” This time, Brad did help himself to a wedge of the buttery flatbread and nibbled the corner. “We should be able to pick up the pieces pretty easily. What took you so long to get here?”

I shrugged. “I had stuff to tie up, and I thought . . . things here might take a while.”

“You got that right.” Brad tore his piece of naan in half, popped one piece into his mouth and chewed, for a long time. “So, okay, if you got the keys from Dorothy, we should be able to get back into the house while—”

“Actually, I've got some good news.” If I was playing the coconspirator, I might as well go all the way. “Frank Hawthorne is going to rent me the house.”

“What? You're kidding.” All the blood drained from Brad's face, and I got the slow, creeping feeling that I'd just made a terrible mistake.

“We're drawing up the lease tomorrow.”

Brad swore. He stared and he swore again. “That means they're gone!” he croaked. “He got them, or he knows where they are!” He shoved his chair back and climbed heavily to his feet, getting ready to leave in some kind of panic before I'd even kind of found out what he was talking about.

“Brad, please, calm down. You . . . we can't be sure he found anything.”

“I can't be sure? He hasn't let anybody near that house
for six months and then you show up . . .” He stared at his hand, which still clutched that piece of naan. “You show up and he's renting it out and oh, my God, I'm such an idiot!” He swore again and hurled the bread down onto the table. The hostess and the waiter were staring at us from the podium by the door. “Dorothy would have told you about me! I should have known something was wrong when you didn't come straight out and say it!”

“Look, Brad . . .”

“Is there a problem, sir?” the waiter asked smoothly as he hurried over to us. He was only about as tall as Brad, but he was in much better shape, and right then, much calmer.

“No,” I said quickly. “Sorry. Thank you.”

The waiter looked at me, and he looked at Brad. Brad sat back down, slowly. Over his shoulder I could see the hostess pull a cell phone out of the podium drawer and flip it open.

“You've got to calm down, Brad,” I said evenly. “Otherwise they're going to throw us both out.”

Brad clenched his fists and made an effort to control himself. He actually shuddered doing it. Then he leaned across the table until we were almost nose to nose. “You lied,” he whispered furiously. “You're not working with Dorothy! You're working with Frank!”

“I'm not working with anybody.” Except, of course, I was.

“Then who the hell are you?” He grabbed my wrist and squeezed hard. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm just trying to help, and you
really
want to let me go right now.”

I tensed myself, getting ready to put that self-defense class I took at the YMCA into action. I also clutched the wand under my napkin. The hostess had turned away from us and was talking into her phone.

This time, I felt it, that warm, prickling current. Something in the air around me shifted and Brad's panicked grip loosened.

I pulled my hand away, gently. “Look, Brad. I can tell you want to talk to somebody about . . . all this. That's why you're here. Whatever you tell me, I promise, it won't go any further without your say-so.”
For your family's sake, if nothing else.

There it was, the pricking under my skin, the shifting in the air. I felt it stretch out, and I willed Brad to trust me. I wanted him to trust me. I needed him to. It was important.

Tears glittered in his eyes. Then the air shivered and the connection broke.

“I know I'm a freakin' coward and I look like some kind of idiot,” he whispered. “But you better keep your mouth shut. I swear that if you bring my name into whatever game you're playing, I can still break you, and Frank. You tell your new landlord that.”

He stomped out, shoving his way hard through the door. I fell back in my chair, crumpling my napkin in my hands.

The hostess closed her cell phone and turned to greet the new family who'd come through the door. The waiter brought me my check and offered to wrap up the rest of my dinner to go. I couldn't blame him. I didn't want me in here anymore either.

•   •   •

IT WASN'T UNTIL
walking—okay, tiptoeing—through the door at McDermott's that I realized I'd left my carryout bag on the bus.

I tried to shrug it off, but somehow it really bothered me. You know how it is, when you've got so many big things going wrong that somehow it's the last little thing that seems to bring the world crashing down.

“Anna?”

I jerked around, wobbling dangerously on the stair. Roger came into the foyer from the threshold of the great room, drying his hands on a striped dishcloth. He wore a green
polo shirt and jeans and his dark hair was tousled. He looked so intensely nice-guy normal, it was almost embarrassing. Here I was worrying about witches, theft and murder. He was probably worrying about whether his quiche was going to gel, or whatever it was those sneaky quiches did when you weren't looking.

“Good day?” asked Roger, like his quiche hadn't a care in the world.

“Oh, yeah. It was just . . . long.” I started up the stairs. I needed to be away from this guy and all his normalcy. I was tired, I was confused and I was entirely without the tikka masala that had been supposed to make things better.

“You do remember I know what's going on, don't you?” said Roger to my back. “We're here if you need to talk.”

He was trying to be nice. Considerate. I made myself smile. “Thanks. Really. But what I need right now is some space.”

“I understand. Call down if you need anything else, okay?”

Up in my room, I closed the door and locked it. I pushed back the curtains on the window and checked the sill. There was no evidence of Alistair. At that moment I didn't know whether to be relieved or worried. I dropped my stuff and myself down on the bed.

I had wanted Brad Thompson to tell me what he was doing in Dorothy's house, and he had, except now I was more confused than ever. So confused, I'd tried to use magic to get Brad to tell me more, and it had kind of spectacularly failed to work.

“So what
was
that?” I asked the world in general as I ran both hands through my hair. “A lesson in being careful what you wish for?”

“Merowp.”

I jumped and tumbled over on the bed. Alistair was sitting on the windowsill, tail twitching back and forth and big blue eyes blinking calmly.

“Jeez, cat!” I pressed my hand against my chest. “You can't do that!”

He blinked again.
Do what?
Then he jumped down and stuffed his face into my purse.

“There's no food in there,” I told him. “I left it on the bus.” I might have been a little grumpy when I said it, but I was tired. Tired of turning all this mess over in my mind. Tired of talking to nobody but the cat.

“Mmmrp.” Alistair gave my purse a shove, knocking it off the bed and, incidentally, spilling the entire contents onto the floor.

“Oh, for Pete's sake!” I bent down to start scooping things back in, but Alistair was already in the middle of the mess. He was batting at a scrap of paper with his paws, and of course it was getting away from him. Therefore, it must be chased after, and pounced on, and swatted for good measure, because clearly it was a most dangerous scrap of paper.

I shook my head. Julia was right. Whatever else he was, Alistair was still a cat.

I was about to drop my cell phone back into my purse, but I hesitated. What I really needed right now was to get out of my own head, which was too full of mystery, magic and murder.

“Merow,” said Alistair with an air of strained patience. The paper was holding still, but he didn't trust it, and crouched down, ready in case it tried to make a break for it.

“That's it, big guy; you show it who's boss.” I hit my brother Bob's number.

“Hey, Annie!” shouted Bob when he picked up. Members of my immediate family are the only living beings allowed to call me Annie. “How's it going? How's Portsmouth?”

“Hey, Bobby,” I answered him. “Portsmouth is great . . . In fact, I'm thinking I might stay for a while. If everything is good there. How's Dad?”

“Dad's great. Watching the Red Sox.” I heard a shout behind me, but I couldn't tell if it was good or bad.

“Hello, Annie!” shouted Dad. “Whaddaya mean he was out! The ump's blind!”

“Instant replay doesn't lie, Dad,” I heard my sister-in-law, Ginger, reply. “Hi, Annie!”

“Hi, Ginger!” I shouted back, picturing my brother's grimace as he yanked the phone away from his ear.

“Instant replay my . . . ahhh, hooey . . . ,” grumbled Dad.

“Hooey!” The shout came from my small, enthusiastic, and consistently oversugared nephew, Bobby Britton III. “Hooo – EEEE!”