Manfred had never linked his psychic ability to witchcraft, and he had no particular religious beliefs. Fiji’s directions to implore Hecate to help those present develop their powers left him just a bit bored and faintly contemptuous. He had no idea who Hecate was. Only his certainty that Fiji herself possessed real power kept him in the store and holding the right hand of the forty-something would-be hottie and the left hand of a white-haired grandmother in a sweeping skirt.
While Fiji implored and invoked, Manfred did the mental math about what he’d clear that month, and then abruptly his brain took a left turn down a dead-end road. He found himself catching a glimpse of the awful corpse of Aubrey Hamilton. As Fiji’s singsong voice went on and on, Aubrey’s skull, with its hanks of ragged hair, rotated toward him. The darkened teeth moved under their remnants of flesh and muscle. Horribly dead Aubrey said, “I truly loved him. Tell him.”
Manfred’s eyes flew open and he looked up to meet Fiji’s. She was looking at him steadily, as if she knew he’d had a true and direct communication. She smiled. And then her eyes shut and her head dropped again, and Manfred was left to compose a grocery list for his next trip to Davy to stave off any other unwanted revelations. As long as he told himself over and over again that he needed orange juice, bread, and peanut butter, plus lightbulbs, he could keep the dreadful vision at bay.
After those few seconds of freezing fear, he was bored silly. Two of the gray-haired women employed the Ouija board, which told them they were never too old for love. After that, there was a round of dream interpretation, though Manfred figured cynically that most of the dreams had been constructed well after the sleep session. If there was anyone approaching Fiji’s talent there that night, Manfred could not detect it. Since he always watched the money flow, he’d noticed right away that Fiji kept a pretty blue bowl on the counter, and he also noticed all the women dropped twenty dollars in it discreetly before they paraded out the door, chattering excitedly about astral projections and ley lines.
Fiji stood on her porch smiling after them, pleased with the evening and with herself, as far as Manfred could tell.
“Was that a typical class?” Manfred asked, making sure his tone was polite and respectful.
Possibly he hadn’t succeeded, because Fiji looked a bit taken aback.
“I would say so,” she said. “You got a true reading, didn’t you?”
“I had a vision,” he said, reluctantly. “At least, I guess it was a vision.”
“Tell me about it, if it wasn’t too personal.”
“It wasn’t personal at all. It was a message for someone else.” He described the brief scene. When Fiji heard about Aubrey’s corpse talking, she shuddered.
“Do you think I should tell him?” Manfred asked.
“Of course,” Fiji said immediately. But she looked anything but happy. “If you have a true vision, you should tell the person involved. He’ll be glad to hear that . . . if he believes you.”
“People mostly believe what they want to,” Manfred observed. “My whole business is based on that principle. How do you square this class with that piece of truth?”
Fiji’s round face was sad, and Manfred felt at once as though he’d kicked a puppy. After a moment, she returned to the easy chair she’d occupied during the “class.” She crossed her legs, and her boot-clad foot swung back and forth. “It’s like teaching ballet,” she said. “Or piano.” She looked very serious.
Manfred laughed. “You mean, ninety-nine percent of the students have no aptitude at all, but you keep doing it for the one student who has talent?”
“Exactly,” she said. She thought that over and nodded some more. “Plus, it gives them something to do, something to think about besides the here and now. That’s not a bad thing, either.”
“You sound like they were all fuzzy kittens,” Manfred said. “Don’t you ever worry about them doing harm with what you’re teaching them?”
“Meditation? Planchette work? Dream interpretation?”
“Witchcraft? Spells? Blood magic?”
“I don’t teach them that,” Fiji said indignantly.
“But it’s the next step. They’ll look at your books, ask you questions about your own spells, your own beliefs, and next thing you know . . .”
He could tell from the way she hunched her shoulders that this had already happened. “The next thing I know, what?” she snapped.
“You’ll have a dead husband or an enslaved boyfriend,” Manfred said, speaking what he knew to be the unpleasant truth. From the corner of his eye, he saw the marmalade cat with the stupid name leap up from its cushion to stare at him. “I like you, Fiji, and I hope we’re getting to be friends . . . but if you don’t think about the next step, you’re being irresponsible.” He shrugged and opened the front door. “Thanks for inviting me. See you later.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say, and Fiji didn’t open her mouth. After a moment of standing there feeling like a fool, and a jerk, Manfred left.
As he crossed the road, which was shockingly visible under the full moon, he chewed over his last pronouncement to Fiji. Though he was sorry they were at cross purposes, he still believed he’d spoken the truth. He gave a mental shrug, shoving the problem to the back burner. He noticed that Olivia’s car was gone from the rear of the pawnshop, and he was surprised she wasn’t home packing for her trip. Then he noticed that the pawnshop was closed. Lemuel ought to be in there. Well, that was strange but none of his business. As he was unlocking his front door, he glanced back to see Mr. Snuggly sitting at the edge of the yard, watching him.
22
Fiji stood on her porch for a minute in the chilly night air, admiring the moonlight and the peace of the night. It felt good after the stuffiness of the store with all the witch-wannabes crowded inside, all their chatter and busyness.
She was a little disappointed in Manfred’s negative reaction. He’d definitely had a real vision there tonight, no matter how superior he tried to act. “Self-righteous idiot,” Fiji muttered as she locked her front door, but she was not truly angry. She hadn’t really expected an enthusiastic participation. Nonetheless, she admitted to herself that she would have been happy to have an older witch around, someone she could talk to about how Manfred’s opinion made her feel.
She decided she would think about it the next day, when she was rested . . . and calm. As she turned off lights in the big front room, her thoughts moved from one troubling topic to another. When she’d been down at the Antique Gallery and Nail Salon to look at a small round table Joe had thought might interest her, Joe had told her that the Rev had preached at Home Cookin on Tuesday night. The Rev preached when he was worried. When the Rev was worried, there was cause for concern.
Mr. Snuggly came in the cat flap in the back door after Fiji had put on her nightgown and brushed her teeth. He ran into the room as she pulled down the sheets.
“He got home okay?” she asked the cat. Mr. Snuggly stared up at her without expression . . . naturally. “Of course he did,” Fiji answered herself. “Or you’d have come in a lot quicker. Well, let’s turn in, Snug. It’s been a long day.” The room was furnished with her great-aunt’s bedroom set, though Fiji had stripped the wood of its chipped varnish and painted it sky blue. The walls were painted white, and the throw rugs on the floor were bright and colorful. It was a cheerful room, and Fiji was always glad when the time came for her to sleep in it. She went through her usual nighttime routine before climbing onto the high bed, pulling up the covers to relax with a clean face and a fairly clear conscience. Mr. Snuggly jumped up to curl at her side. Fiji fell asleep with her fingers in the cat’s fur.
She remained asleep two hours later when something big brushed up against the outside of the house. Mr. Snuggly was awake, though, his golden eyes wide and unblinking as they followed the progress of the creature on the other side of the wall. When it paused outside Fiji’s window, Mr. Snuggly
hissed, his ears flattened back on his head. But after a few seconds, the cat heard huge feet padding away. Mr. Snuggly lay awake for a few minutes, staring into the darkness, to see if the creature would return. When it did not, he put his head down on his paws and slid back into sleep.
The same creature visited every inhabited house in Midnight, sniffing at the air, inspecting the doors and windows. It spent the longest time giving its attention to the trailer in which Madonna and Teacher lived with their baby. There, it rumbled, deep in its throat. But no one woke.
23
The next morning, Bobo turned on the local radio station while he was making toast for breakfast. The big area news was about a fire outside Marthasville, and Bobo found himself standing, knife poised over the butter tub, while he listened.
“Arson investigators for Pioneer County are at the site of a blaze at a ranch house owned by Price Eggleston, thirty-two, of Marthasville. Eggleston said he and his friends used the house as a hunting lodge and that no one should have been in the building at the time of the blaze. Chief arson investigator Sally Kilpatrick said she’d turn in her findings to the sheriff as soon as her investigation is complete. In other news, rancher Cruz Vasquez, in the Cactus Flats community south of Midnight, reported that one of his cows was killed by a wild animal . . .”
Price Eggleston. He’d heard that name before, hadn’t he?
As usual, by the time Bobo went downstairs, Lemuel had been asleep in his apartment for over an hour. Bobo reopened the shop, turned on the lights, and sat down to read the customer register that Lemuel insisted they keep, though everything was entered on the computer as it ought to be. Lemuel had had two customers during the later part of the night, but that wasn’t what Bobo was checking for.
Yes, Price Eggleston had been in the store a few weeks ago. Bobo had a good memory (one better than he wanted, actually), and he recalled the man clearly once he saw his register. Eggleston had come in with an antique gun he’d wanted to pawn. The whole time he was in the shop, Eggleston had looked around constantly, as if he expected to see someone in the corners. Then he’d haggled over the money he could get for the weapon, but with a suspicious lack of fire. The gun was worth something, though it was no fine family heirloom. In fact, it needed some work to be usable. Eggleston had suggested Bobo restore the gun.
“I don’t know anything about working on guns,” Bobo had replied, surprised. “You’ll have to get someone else to do the work. You’d get a lot more money for it if you have it cleaned up and in working order.”
Eggleston had looked at him sharply and with some contempt. “All right, then,” he’d said, clearly angry, and he’d accepted the low price Bobo had offered. The more Bobo thought of the conversation, the more clearly he could recall Eggleston. The man had been tall and tan, his face broad across the cheeks and narrow at the chin. Cowboy boots, jeans, western shirt. He’d been wearing a ball cap, not a western hat.
Bobo felt as though he should tell someone about Eggleston’s visit, but he couldn’t think why, when he got right down to it. Since he was alone in the shop, he sat at the computer and Googled “Price Eggleston.”
After five minutes of reading, Bobo was pretty happy that the man’s “hunting lodge” had burned down. He was only theoretically sorry that Eggleston hadn’t burned along with it.
A couple came in to see if there were any old wedding rings that might work for them, and for half an hour Bobo was busy taking out the cases of rings (some of them had been sitting in the worn velvet slots for longer than he’d been alive) and showing them to the middle-aged couple, who seemed charmed by the assortment. They actually bought silver bands, and he entered the sale carefully. He was glad to see them smile at each other as they left the pawnshop.
Bobo had plenty to think about when he was alone once more. He reviewed his memory of Price Eggleston’s visit to the shop. In hindsight, Bobo became convinced that the man had wanted a look at him. He was sure that Eggleston had deliberately tried to provoke a discussion about firearms, perhaps to see if Bobo actually liked guns, was adept in their care and maintenance.
Or maybe, to have a legitimate reason to meet Bobo, Eggleston had grabbed the nearest object someone might be likely to take to a pawnshop.
Bobo had to abandon this rearview reassessment when the bell over the door rang. An old, old woman came in. She moved oddly, and something about her made the hairs on Bobo’s arms tingle, and not in a pleasant way. This was surely one of Lemuel’s customers. She sidled through the shelves and the furniture as if she wasn’t able to walk in a straight line, and her stringy long hair, which was as many shades of gray as a cloudy sky, slid around her face.
“Are you the current proprietor of this establishment?” she asked, rolling the words around in her mouth as if she were pleased to be saying them, glad to exhibit a skill she didn’t often exercise.
“I am,” Bobo said. Perhaps Olivia might come up? She knew more about the night customers than Bobo did. But then he recalled he’d seen her getting into her car from his apartment window, right after he’d gotten out of bed, and he realized she’d been leaving for the airport.
Well . . . okay. He could handle one old woman, even if she did give him the creeps. Wasn’t he tired of being rescued all the time? No, he decided as she grew closer and he could see her more clearly. No, I’m not. I’d love it if someone else came in right now. Fiji, Manfred, Chuy, Connor, anybody.
“I’m sure you are wondering who I am and why I’ve come to patronize your store,” she crooned.
“Yes,” he said. That was all he could manage.
“I mean you no harm,” she said unconvincingly. “I understand that you are a friend of Lemuel’s and of Emilio’s.”
Emilio. Bobo was stumped for a second. “The Rev,” he said. “The Reverend Sheehan.”
“Yes, of course.” She was right up in his face by that time, and he could see a lot of detail. The view was not encouraging. The lines in her cheeks were deep enough to look etched, and she smelled like dirt and rain. “I could not wait until tonight to pick up the brooch Lemuel repaired for me.”
Bobo felt a certain measure of relief. She was a legitimate customer. She wanted something tangible. She wasn’t going to rip his throat out and feed him to the dogs. (Where had that image come from?) “Yes,” he said, hoping that this was the right customer. “I think the brooch you’re talking about is right here in the case.” The pretty one he’d been showing Arthur Smith, it had to be. Bobo found he was incredibly pleased to be behind a counter, which provided a handy bulwark between him and . . . “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name,” he said.
The thick gray brows rose. “And so you don’t,” she said. “You may call me Maggie.”
“Nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Maggie,” he said, and she actually cackled with laughter. He’d never heard anyone cackle before. It was as unpleasant as he’d always imagined. Bobo’s hands weren’t completely steady, but he managed to reach under the glass counter to extricate the brooch. He looked at the little tag Lemuel had attached to double-check his memory. “That’ll be twenty dollars, Miss Maggie.”
“Oh, that’s dear,” the hag moaned, shaking her head. (He thought she might say “Tut, tut,” but she didn’t.) “Oh, that’s such a price!” She cast a sly glance at Bobo to see if he was going to negotiate. He gave her a level stare. “However, Lemuel does wonderful work, and he’s such a sweet boy,” she said, seeing that Bobo wasn’t going to cave.
Lemuel had been a boy well over a century and a half ago, by Bobo’s quick estimation. The odds were good that Lemuel had been sweet to someone, at some point. “He’s repaired it,” Bobo said agreeably. “Worth every penny.”
She groped around inside her clothes for the money, a sight Bobo could have lived without. Eventually, she handed him twenty one-dollar bills, incredibly rumpled and soiled. She grasped the brooch as soon as he accepted the money, and she
pinned it to her chest with fingers shaking with eagerness.
Suddenly, in front of him was a lovely, straight-backed woman in her forties, a woman wearing a dress with a tight bodice and full skirt. She was wearing heels, too, instead of the cracked flats Maggie had worn into the store. Her glossy brown hair was put up in a French thing—he couldn’t remember what his sister had called it—on the back of her head. There was a mirror propped against one of the columns in the store, and she sprang over to eye her reflection.
“I look lovely,” she said, and at least her voice was the same.
“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed. “You look great.”
She gave him a gleaming sideways look. “Oh, you’re just the cutest thing! If you weren’t off-limits, I would just eat you up.”
“Sorry, I’m off those limits,” he responded with as much of a smile as he could manage, spreading his hands in deprecation. “Thanks for your patronage, come again.” He didn’t mean that, but the words rolled out of his mouth from long habit. He picked up his cell phone, punched speed dial at random, and when Fiji answered, he said, “Lemuel! I just wanted you to know that Maggie came in today to pick up her brooch. She’s pleased with your repair. I know you’ll get this the second you wake up.” He disconnected instantly before Fiji could start talking, since he had no idea how acute Maggie’s hearing was.
Maggie was looking a bit hangdog. “Well, if you’re going to be like that,” she said pettishly, “I’ll say good-bye.”