Home for a Spell (30 page)

“I am now,” I heard him groan from up the hall as I made my way down it.

“You have to get up,” I told him.

My face must have conveyed my urgency, because he sat up then and there. On any other day I would have stopped to admire the way the sheets fell away from his chest and pooled around his abdomen and hips, not to mention the five o’clock shadow that, combined with his tousled black hair, gave him a swarthy look that hovered somewhere between bed head and bed god. He pushed the hair off his face and swung his legs over the edge. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Just get some pants on and come look.”

The bacon was just crossing the line from cooked to scorched, so I flipped the burner off as I crutched past to wait for Marcus in the doorway to the porch. He was right on my heels, though, with nothing more than a pair of unfastened jeans giving him even a modicum of modesty. I led him out onto the porch and jabbed a finger repeatedly in the pertinent direction. “There.”

He looked to see what I was pointing at. In the passing of a moment, his expression changed from blind searching to curious uncertainty to full-out incredulity as he saw the footprints in the freshly turned dirt of the flower bed. The flower bed that stood
right beneath the window to Marcus’s computer command central
.

“Shit. Tom was right. He did see someone out here last night.”

I nodded anxiously. “But were those marks made before Tom saw them and chased them away with his searchlight . . . or after?” Yeah. I just lived to torment myself like that.

He stepped down onto the grass and carefully knelt, making sure to avoid the impressions. “Lug-sole boots or shoes of some sort. A man would be most likely to wear a style like that. Someone not too big. Those feet aren’t too much larger than yours.”

I certainly hoped that was supposed to mean it was a smallish man or a man with smallish feet, and
not
that I was the female equivalent of Bozo the Clown. Minus the freaky red ’do. “Should I call Tom?” I asked him.

I could tell he didn’t like the idea of running to Tom for protection every time something happened, but I could tell he also realized how much this assault on my sense of security bothered me. He nodded. “Call him.”

It took Tom a little longer than I’d hoped to get to Marcus’s house for what amounted to the third time in as many days . . . and yeah, trust me, I was weirded out by that, too. But, regardless of that, I had enough time to finish breakfast, wash dishes, bathe, do my hair and makeup, and get dressed before he finally showed up around eight thirty.

“Sorry it took me this long,” he said. “You said it wasn’t an emergency, and I had already scheduled an early morning meeting with the bank manager. What did you want me to see?”

Marcus led the way out through the kitchen onto the back porch. Tom followed Marcus, and I picked things up from the rear, staying as close as my crutches would allow.

The expression on Tom’s face was unreadable as he knelt down to examine the print markings, much as Marcus had done two hours before him. “You found these here this morning?”

“I did,” I told him. “I got up early and came outside to enjoy the sunrise.”

“Did either of you hear anything last night? After I left?”

“Not me,” Marcus said.

“But he sleeps soundly,” I offered, and then winced at the unwitting cruelty of my interruption when I saw a look of pain flash behind Tom’s eyes, before he managed to mask it away behind a pretense of neutrality. “I mean . . . I thought I heard something. But it’s so hard to tell with older homes. And I was really trying not to make myself more nervous than I already was.”

In spite of his personal feelings, good, bad, or otherwise, Tom’s professional, no-nonsense tone never wavered. “I can’t tell, looking at this, when the tracks were made. Before I scared them off, or did the person I saw return later? We may never know. And we may never know the reason they were here, if someone knew what they were looking for . . . or if it was someone with an eye on your expensive equipment. I think that’s probably the likely scenario. Do you have insurance against theft? If not, I would think about it, if I were you. Take the proper precautions. Lock your doors, your windows, keep your curtains drawn. Invest in a home security system.”

Did he really think it was burglars? Why didn’t that resonate with me? I stared down at the crisply formed prints in the dirt, frowning, trying to see in my mind’s eye what had happened and who had made them, but for whatever reason, I could not.
Hey, Grandma C? I could really use some help here. Any chance that you could lend me the wisdom and whatever else is needed in order to make sense of this?

I continued to mull this over as Marcus went inside to take a phone call and I watched Tom take some photos of the prints, using a tape measure for size perspective. Tom finally rose and dusted the dried grass bits and crumbs of dirt from his knees. “Interesting turn of events, huh?” he offered offhandedly.

Life. Is it ever not interesting? And isn’t that the point? To be intrigued, compelled, and fully engaged in the ever-changing moment? Whatever the experience, life is a gift, to be lived to its full measure. Staying in the moment. Although, that could be difficult in those particular moments that brought fear and anxiety.

“How was your appointment this morning?” I asked, needing a change of subject.

The look he threw me was disconcerted. “How did you know I was just thinking about that?”

I shrugged and attempted a smile. “Just lucky, I guess?”

“Whatever.” He shook his head to clear his thoughts. “The manager was very accommodating. He gave me the names and addresses for all the accounts that had transferred or wired money directly from their accounts into Locke’s bank account.”

That was exciting news. “And?” I prompted.

He sighed, shaking his head. “Just my luck. There are some important people here, Maggie. I gotta tell you, I am not thrilled about this. These are not the kinds of people you want to piss off if you intend to continue to have a career in city government. Some of them are real movers and shakers of Stony Mill. DA Ledbetter is going to want to tread lightly. Sheriff Reed, too. They’re both up for reelection next year.” And then his eyes took on a shrewd light, and his expression morphed into something sly and cunning. “I, on the other hand, know that it’s my business to get to the bottom of this. Whether Ledbetter decides to pursue or not, that’s his business.”

“Do any of them have children who are middle school age?”

“Funny you should ask,” he said. “I did get ahold of the middle school principal at home late last night. He was curious as to how I had received word of the situation with his suspended teacher . . . but that’s because he is protecting the school’s interests, I think, and wanted to know whether Miss Miller was going to fight the process through legal avenues. Don’t worry—I told him that information was privileged. But, when he heard that it could possibly be related to a criminal murder investigation, he was more than happy to cooperate, to the fullest extent.” If a voice could contain a smirk, his would have.

“And what did he say?”

“He said they’d traced the pics of Miss Miller back through forward after forward, kid to kid. A couple of the kids had received it through email because they didn’t have texting, and it showed the whole string of forwards. It seems originally to have come from one particular boy. An eighth-grader named Austin Poindexter.”

Poindexter? The Poindexters were well-known in Stony Mill. They owned a string of hardware stores around the area. They could definitely be classified as town movers and shakers.

“And is Austin Poindexter’s father on that list of bank accounts?” I asked him, because I could feel a connection there, something to explore.

Tom gave me a manly blink, times three. If he were a woman, his eyelashes would have fluttered. “I can neither confirm nor deny . . .”

I grinned in spite of myself at his roundabout and casual way of nonconfirmation. “There is no need.” Another thought occurred to me. “You know . . . social organizations like lodges often include many prominent citizens among their registry.”

“The lodge thing again?” He looked at me askance. Skeptically. “You and your feelings.”

And it was because they were feelings that he was so willing to dismiss the notion out of hand. It wouldn’t be the first time his personal prejudices muddied his vision. “Why not? Look, I can’t explain why I get these feelings. All I know is that I keep getting nudges about the lodge. And secret brotherhoods? It wouldn’t be the first time unsavory little details had been kept from coming to light by people bonding together over their secrets.”

“I thought you said Quinn’s uncle was a lodge member.”

I had, and it was the one thing that really bothered me. Because he
had
just the other day asked Marcus to speed up his own hard drive, much like Locke had hired Marcus to do. And he
had
mentioned videos and pics. But Uncle Lou wasn’t like that. He couldn’t be. And in his favor, he did seem unaware of the whole pics-for-sale thing. When he spoke of Angela Miller being suspended, he seemed surprised by the nature of the pictures and uncertain as to how the whole thing could have come about. For now, Uncle Lou had the benefit of the doubt as far as I was concerned. Because I knew Marcus and the type of man he was, and I knew how much he respected his uncle. Out of respect for Marcus, it was the least I could do.

To Tom, I shrugged. “He is. But I doubt you’ll find that every member would be in the know about everything that happened within the organization.”

“Hm. Probably true.”

“Look, we know Uncle Lou is a member. But he’s been the one person throughout all of this that has given information without withholding a thing. In other words, I’m certain he’s not hiding anything. Why not run the names past him? Maybe you’ll be able to find out what you need to know without alerting anyone within the organization that aspects are being investigated.”

He nodded. “I’ll do that.” He took Lou’s number from me.

After Tom left, I went inside and found Marcus in the computer center. The window beside him was open. “Hey,” I said, coming up behind him and putting my hand on the crook of his shoulder.

On the desk in front of him was one of his old computers—he had added the hard drive from Locke’s apartment to the computer’s existing drive and was just setting it aside so that he could get to work. “Hey.”

There was a heavy tone in his voice, a quietness not usually there. “What’s wrong?”

“You two were . . . awfully cozy.”

I gaped at him and uttered a soft cry of surprise. “Marcus Quinn. Are you . . . are you jealous?”

He brushed my question aside. “Of course not.”

“You are! Don’t deny it, I can see it on your face.”

“Well . . . maybe for a minute. Or less.”

I shook my head, smiling softly. “There’s no need to be, you know. Tom is a good guy, but he and I . . . we never meshed, really. You know?” I stroked my hand down the back of his head, then leaned down and looped my arms around his chest, laying my cheek along the side of his warm, strong neck. “I never felt with him the way that I do when I’m with you.”

“Oh.” He turned his head toward his shoulder and nudged his way into a surprisingly sweet kiss. “Good.”

I’ll say.

Reassurances and everything else out of the way, there was nothing more to do but . . . “I suppose it’s time for me to head in to the store now.” Amazing how much could happen in a single morning, and I could still make it into work to bring home the bacon. It had to be better than this morning’s burnt offering at least.

“Check.” He bounced up out of his chair with all the restored assurance of a man who had just been told that he had nothing to fear from another man. Even an old boyfriend. “Do you want Minnie today, or can she stay with me? I kind of like her here. Maybe I’ll have to keep her forever,” he teased.

“Only if you keep me, too,” I teased right back.

“Hm. I might have to do that,” he teased again. Only suddenly he didn’t sound teasing at all.

My heart leapt into my throat, and I was forced to catch my breath. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to think about it or influence it or jinx it in any way. We would cross that bridge if we came to it.

Or did I mean “when”?

The morning whizzed past for both Liss and me as we finished the preparations for the weekend’s coming Sidewalk Days, deciding what was safe to be put out on tables, what would be marked down, how we could best showcase some of the wares we had to offer. This would not be an event meant to play to our witchy clientele. This was for the mundanes, the regular, everyday folk who had no idea that when they searched for their favorite scents, lotions, and antiques, they were rubbing elbows with witchy folk who came from Indiana and all four surrounding states to sample our more witch-centric wares in person. Our air-conditioning had gone out sometime during the night—electrical in the old building was not quite up to modern needs—so it was hot, and we were both sweating and tired.