By Familiar Means (40 page)

Alistair raced up to the ballroom door and vanished.

I had a split second to make a decision, and I did. I followed my familiar.

I dashed, or tried to, across the ballroom. The door opened behind me.

I knocked the ficus sideways and stepped on the switch. The door opened and I staggered through into the dark.

Rich swore. I shoved the door shut. Alistair meowed. I knew where he was. Exactly. I didn't need a light. The world cleared, and even though I couldn't see my hand, I put it on the wall and started down the stairs.

The door clicked open. Light flashed behind me, filling the staircase. I kept going. The door was right in front of me, and it was open.

Rich's hand closed on my shoulder and spun me around.

“Saved me all the trouble,” he breathed as he clamped his hands around my throat.

He was laughing.

No, he wasn't.

But somebody was. The loud, raucous sound echoed through the tunnel. An icy wind whirled around us. Rich let me go and we both staggered backward.

“What?” cried Rich. “What? Who . . . ?”

That ain't no way to treat a lady, pally.

That artic wind blew again and I heard Rich scream. I dropped to my knees and covered the back of my neck like I was in a tornado drill.

“Freeze!” shouted somebody.

My head snapped up. There was light all around, and somebody at the top of the stairs, and more somebodies charging up the tunnel. And just for a minute, there was a slim man in a wide-shouldered suit with a fedora on his head and a toothpick in his mouth and a blue-white glow all around him.

He touched his hat brim to me, and he vanished. Just like Alistair did.

43

Rich Hilde was arrested for the murder of up-and-coming chef Jimmy Upton and the attempted murder of Kelly Pierce, food and beverages manager of the Harbor's Rest hotel. Dale was arrested as an accessory after the fact and for obstructing justice, as well as for assaulting a freelance artist.

Kelly regained consciousness in forty-eight hours and the use of her voice two days after that to tell Pete Simmons that Rich had come to her house with a bottle of burgundy, which he'd used to hit her over the head.

Gretchen and Christine rallied around each other and bought the brothers the best legal counsel they could afford. It didn't do any good, and I don't think any of the family really expected it would. What I do know is that mother and daughter came out on the other side in a much tighter bond. The hotel did not get sold. Christine did not open her exclusive resort, and the restaurant did not become a destination. But the smugglers' tunnel did, especially after the historical society and the tourist board started talking it up, along with the jazz weekend and Prohibition New Year's ball.

They did also actively try to hire Sean away from the Pale Ale to tend the new Roaring Twenties–themed cocktail bar.

I slept for twenty-four hours straight, which, Grandma assured me, was not unusual after that level of magical exertion. She brought me chicken soup from Kirkland's Deli. And ice cream. And lots of tuna for Alistair.

Julia agreed that I had used my magic under emergency circumstances and said it would not be held against me.

Two days later, Val gave birth to Melissa Maureen McDermott, seven pounds eight ounces, with her mother's red hair and a strawberry birthmark on her derriere that Grandma B.B. declared was a sign of a prosperous future. The birth was entirely uncomplicated, except for the part where her waters broke at midnight, and she almost didn't make it to the hospital because their own car wouldn't start and she nearly gave birth in the backseat of the Galaxie with her husband holding one hand and Julia holding the other and working birthing chants nonstop while Kenisha gave us a police escort to the hospital. But, you know, that's comparatively minor. The important thing is mother and baby are doing fine.

Kelly Pierce entered into negotiations with Jake and Miranda to create a custom blend of Northeast Java coffee to serve at the Harbor's Rest.

Northeast Java opened its new location to a huge crowd. The murals were a big hit. But one corner of the café was fenced off by old-fashioned velvet theater ropes. On the other side stood a bentwood chair and a vintage marble-topped table with a shot glass and a bottle of whiskey on it. Framed articles and photos about the history of the building and its role in Prohibition in Portsmouth hung on the wall. We'd even found a picture of one Nate Kelly, bootlegger and ladies' man. It hung beside a copy of the newspaper article detailing how Nate had been shot during a raid on the Harbor's Rest when he'd stayed behind to help his moll (who had probably been pickpocketing the rich guests) escape. Café customers
could pour a shot for the ghost and have their picture taken in the chair, in the hopes of catching a reflection of the spirit.

So far Nate had declined an appearance, but Jake swore up and down that that whiskey glass was empty every morning, no matter what. I believed him.

And when it was all finally over, Grandma B.B. packed up her suitcase and came down into the kitchen for a farewell cup of coffee and a muffin (Roger might be a new dad, but he still found time to bake) with me and Julia and, of course, Alistair and the dachshunds.

I watched her sip tea and chat with her old friend, and a whole fresh round of feelings welled up inside me.

“Grandma?” I said.

“Yes, dear?” She smiled over the rim of her teacup.

“Don't go.”

The smile faded and Grandma B.B. set the cup down. “Oh, Annabelle.”

“I mean it. Don't go. Stay here. Why shouldn't you? I mean, everybody would love it if you lived closer, and now that I've got the house, I've got plenty of room.”

“I couldn't, dear.”

“Sure you could,” I said brightly. “We'd fix up the front room, just for you.”

Julia looked out the window. She swirled her tea a few times, but she didn't say anything.

“No, Anna.” Grandma covered my hand with hers. “I appreciate what you're saying, and I know you mean it. But, dear, you have a full life. Having me living in your house would only get in the way of that.”

“No, it wouldn't,” I insisted.

“Then stay with me,” said Julia.

Grandma looked startled beyond words. Julia just drew herself up a little straighter. Max left his usual spot at Julia's side and trotted over to Grandma B.B. He whined and wagged and pawed at her hem.

Alistair combed his whiskers in disbelief. Even Leo looked embarrassed. “Yip!” he announced.

Finally, Grandma B.B. found her voice. “Julia, do you mean that?”

“Would I have said it if I didn't? It's time to come home, Annabelle.”

“I . . . well . . . it wouldn't be immediately, of course. There are so many
arrangements
, so
much
to pack . . .”

“But you will, won't you?” said Julia. “I have that room, and I could always use some help around the store. It's not a nightclub, but still . . .”

Grandma spread her hands and beamed at her old friend. “Oh, Julia! I don't see
how
I could possibly refuse!”

“Merow!” exclaimed Alistair.

“And I
certainly
wouldn't dream of arguing with that kind of logic!”

Born in California and raised in Michigan,
Delia James
writes her tales of magic, cats and mystery from her hundred-year-old bungalow home in Ann Arbor. She is the author of the Witch's Cat Mysteries, which began with
A Familiar Tail
. When not writing, she hikes, swims, gardens, cooks, reads and raises her rapidly growing
son.

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