She stretched out a hand and snatched the card from me, clutching it against the baby’s swaddled back. “Where did you get this?”
“It must have fallen somehow, or ... well, I’m not sure, actually,” I told her, realizing just how true that was. It had been on the floor in Mel’s room. I was just guessing that the card is what I had seen falling from the magazine. “Marcus found it. We knew you would be missing it.”
“What is it, Frannie?”
Harry Jr.’s voice came drifting over to us. Frannie started, tucking the card away before turning toward her approaching husband. “Nothing, Harry.”
Harry had come to see what was up. “Oh. Hello,” he said, recognizing us.
“We didn’t mean to interrupt,” I told him. “Especially in light of... everything.”
He nodded, his brow furrowing slightly. “If you don’t mind my asking . . . why are you here?”
I cleared my throat. “We just came to return something to your wife. Something you all dropped yesterday. We didn’t intend . . .” I shrugged, helplessly.
The tension relaxed just a bit. “Well, that was kind of you. What was it, Frannie?”
Her dark eyes darted to mine. “Nothing important, Harry. Just a ... something that the hospital had given us before we left. That’s all.”
“Oh.” His brow furrowed a bit in obvious confusion and distracted consternation. “Well, isn’t that nice. Thanks, folks, for coming all the way out here like that. It was . . . Well,” he said again, obviously at a loss for words. He cleared his throat and took the baby from Frannie’s arms. “I don’t mean to be rude, but . . . well, I’m sure you can see we’re in the middle of something at the moment.”
An understatement, surely. “Of course,” I said.
“Take care of that leg, now,” he told me, masterfully turning Frannie around with a big hand on her shoulder and retreating to the house where his family would be momentarily safe from the prying eyes of the neighborhood watch.
I watched them go, wondering at the change that fatherhood had wrought in Harry Jr. When I had first seen him, I thought him rather pale and bland. Nice, but somewhat uninspiring. Today, he seemed almost . . . a man. Taking charge with the best of them.
“Did you see that?” Marcus asked, bending close to my ear.
“Hm?” I hummed, distracted by my own musings.
“Did you see that?”
“What?” I turned my head this way and that, trying to figure out what he meant. Julie Fielding was still standing by the open door, watching me as I watched the Watkinses retreat, a probing look on her pretty face.
“She crumpled it.”
Julie? She had a clipboard in her hands, but as it was made of metal it was most definitely not crumple-able. She caught my eye and raised her brows. I turned away from her curious stare and lifted my mouth to Marcus’s ear. “What are you talking about?” I whispered.
He laughed indulgently. “Where are your thoughts running off to?
Frannie,
She crumpled the card you gave her.”
“She . . . The bassinet card?” I frowned. “How odd. Why would she do that? After all the trouble we went to to get it back to her?”
“Maybe she’s not the sentimental type,” Marcus said as he helped me back across the lawn to more level ground.
“Maybe.”
With our only excuse for being there behind us, there was nothing left to do but leave the investigation to the pros and make our exits.
“Just a moment.”
Before we could go anywhere, I saw Julie Fielding following us. Marcus stopped, politely waiting for her to catch up.
She held up her clipboard. “If I could just have your names, addresses, phone numbers . . . I would really appreciate it. Just a formality, you understand,” she said when I opened my mouth to protest that we had just wandered on scene a short time before. “See? Chief’s guys are making the rounds with everyone in the neighborhood.”
So they were. And that is how I found myself an official part of an honest-to-goodness homicide investigation.
“Thank you,” she said matter-of-factly when we had both complied. There was a breath of a pause, and then with her gaze never lifting from the clipboard, she murmured, “Marcus Quinn. You probably don’t remember me, do you?”
Marcus smiled; only someone who knew him as well as I did would notice that it didn’t reach his eyes. “I remember. How are you, Julie?”
“Fine. Really. I am.” Another breath of a pause. “How is Ray?”
“Surviving,” Marcus said, the nonsmile in a tight holding pattern.
She nodded, looking for a moment as though she might say more, but in the end, she didn’t. She just flicked the button on her pen and tucked it up tight in her palm before turning back toward the house and its still-open front door.
“Back to work she goes, I guess,” I whispered to Marcus. “Whatever that is. Interrogating and investigating, I guess.”
“More like counseling and interrogating,” Marcus whispered back. “You know, psychologist-style. She up and moved down to Indy to work with the state police when her husband found out about her and Ray—our bass player. Tore Ray up pretty good. I imagine Fielding didn’t like it much, either.”
No, I don’t imagine that he did. Somehow that made me feel even worse for our problematic almost-but-not-quite relationship. But better to cut our mutual losses than to draw it out when the magic just wasn’t there.
“Wonder what she’s doing back here?” Marcus mused, turning just enough that he could surreptitiously watch her disappear inside the house once more. My gaze snagged on Tom, across the way. In my mind, the answer was pretty obvious.
Well, whatever had brought her back, it was perfect timing for Frannie and her family. In the days to come, they were going to need a bit of handholding from someone who knew them well.
We were quiet all the way back to the truck, our mood somber and reflective. Marcus helped me in. I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t even realize where he was taking me until he turned down the hill off Main onto River Street.
“Liss made me swear I wouldn’t come in today!” I exclaimed.
He shrugged with a silly smirk. “She didn’t make me promise I wouldn’t bring you in. Besides,” he said, “I thought you could use some energy recoup time, after the events of today. And yesterday. And the day before that.”
I laughed. “Maybe I can, at that. And a cup of iced fresh-brewed Roobikoos tea might be nice, too.”
He parked in an empty customer space in front of the store, hurrying around the beat-up old truck to help me down to the curb. “We won’t be here long enough to worry about taking up a spot reserved for customers,” he assured me even though I’d not said a word.
The displays in the front windows were the same—I’d only been gone a day and a half—so why did I feel so much like the prodigal daughter returning home at last?
It wasn’t often that I entered the store through the front door. The brass bells tinkled sweetly overhead as I clumsily crossed the threshold with a clatter and a bump. Instantly my nose was assailed by the familiar scents of cinnamon and tea, coffee beans and vanilla, all underscored by notes of paper and linen and a million bulk spices and herbs all blending into one sweet symphony. Yes . . . this had become home to me, in so many ways.
“Maggie O’Neill! What on earth . . . didn’t I tell you not to come in today?” Liss rushed forward to place an arm solicitously and securely around my waist as I thumped across the old, creaky wooden floorboards, as though she expected I might collapse forward at any moment.
I stopped a moment to get a better look at her—ah, the Edwardian clothing styles were her choice for today: wasp waist, peplum jacket, and a narrow skirt that dropped to her ankles. Definitely not a crutches-friendly outfit. Well, I’d be lucky if I could walk in that skirt even without crutches. They didn’t call it a hobble skirt for nothing.
“What is it, dear?”
I shook my head and leaned my cheek against hers. “Just that it’s good to be here,” I said with a relieved sigh and then kissed her on said cheek for good measure. “It’s been a heckuva day.”
Liss aimed a measuring stare at Marcus. “Didn’t I tell you to keep her home today?” she fussed as I made my way over to the ribs-high counter, which made a fine brace to help me turn myself around and back into a stool.
“Have you ever tried to make Maggie do something she doesn’t want to do?” he countered.
“Well, I can’t say I’ve ever had to.” Smiling with her eyes, Liss glanced over at me, and I shrugged as if to say,
I don’t know what he’s talking about.
“Hm. I do see what you mean, I think.”
Marcus waved Liss off the moment she headed for the counter. “You sit down. I’ll do it.”
“You folks got room for one more?”
I turned on my seat to see a big, sweet face peeking around the corner from the back room. Genevieve Valmont was a member of the N.I.G.H.T.S., a former nun of a certain age who had given up living a life for the church out of the blue one day; no one knew the full story as to why. Now she lived a life of simple pleasures running a bait store on the lakes north of town. She might be big and burly, but the rough exterior hid a heart the size of all five Great Lakes put together.
“Gen popped in yesterday morning right after I heard the news about your ankle,” Liss explained, “and since the girls started back to school on Monday, she volunteered her services here at the store until we get you up and running.”
“Running. Ha. That might take a while,” Marcus teased. He ducked when I threw a to-go packet of organic honey at his head.
Gen came forward and gave me a big bear hug. “One of the benefits of being retired,” she said, brushing aside my words of gratitude. “But don’t get any ideas about me staying or anything.” She pulled with discomfort at her sedate sweater and black slacks. “I’m not exactly used to dressing up anymore, ya know.” Leaning conspiratorially toward me, she whispered, “I much prefer my overalls. The epitome of comfort. But I suppose they don’t do much to help sell high-end stuff like what Enchantments has to offer, huh?”
I gave her a reassuring pat. “I like them just fine.”
“So, what brings you in today,” Liss asked as Marcus slid a steaming cup of lemongrass tea in front of her, “in defiance of direct orders?”
“Well,” Marcus said, clearing his throat, “
I
did it, actually. Don’t blame Maggie. She was off in her own world until we got here.”
I took a sip of my iced Roobikoos (he remembered!) and wrinkled my nose at him from over the rim of my cup. “I was, a little. So much has happened.” And from there I had to share the whole sordid tale, from beginning to end. Babies, weirdness, a broken ankle, a missing husband, a murder, a confession, and all. Marcus helped me fill in the details as he knew them. Between the two of us, it didn’t take long.
“Well, now. That was
some
trip to the hospital,” Gen said when we were done. “New babies are always exciting, but . . . wow. When you do it up, you really do it up. And two more deaths in this town . . . Lord have mercy. What on earth are we to make of all this? That’s what I’d like to know.” She shook her head. “I know Harold Watkins. Not well, but . . . I always thought he was a good man. Salt of the earth. Makes me wonder what could have happened to get him riled up enough to ... kill someone.”
Marcus nodded in agreement. “He is a good man; at least, I’ve always thought so. I know my Uncle Lou thinks so, too. But they say we all have it in us. To kill, I mean. For the right reasons, of course.”
What would those reasons be, I wondered? I tried to think of anything that could induce me to take another person’s life. None of the usual motives, certainly. Not power, not greed, not ambition. I didn’t roll that way. But to protect someone I loved with all my heart, whose very existence was in danger? Depending on the circumstances, yes, I liked to think that I would find the courage within myself to rise to the occasion if said occasion dictated the need. As with most areas of life, there were no blacks and whites, no absolutes. Each situation had to be judged on its own merits, or lack thereof.
But I wasn’t kidding myself. I knew not everyone thought the same way. Not even another “good guy.” The question was, what would induce Harold Watkins to kill? And how was Nunzio related to all this?
I couldn’t help but think it
must
have something to do with Frannie.
“I can’t get it all out of my head,” I confessed to all. “I keep running through my time there at the hospital. From beginning to end. I feel like I’m forgetting something. Missing something. Something big. Something that
might
be important.” Marcus reached out and linked fingers with my own.
“Like what, darling?” Liss asked. “Something that you saw? Something you heard?”
“I don’t know.” Frustrated, I rubbed my forehead hard with the heel of my free hand. “Maybe it’s silly. Maybe I’ve gotten so used to having been in the wrong place at the right time, maybe I just expect that to come into play this time, too. Whether it’s divine guidance or intuition, or just plain dumb luck doesn’t really matter in the end, does it?”
Marcus took my hand. “You can’t feel responsible for not having the answers, you know. You can’t be in sync with everything. No psychic is a hundred percent. And sometimes, what you do tune into is accidentally misinterpreted. A miscue.”
“Not everything, no.” Not that it mattered, because I wasn’t even a true psychic. Not really. Not like Evie. Not even like Liss. Just enough that I knew that something I couldn’t quite put my finger on from the last few days was important, and that whatever it was, it wasn’t forthcoming.
“You’re trying too hard,” Liss observed. “Intuition simply cannot be forced. Have you never noticed that the connections are easiest when you occupy your thoughts with something mindless and menial, allowing your intuition to work its magick behind the scenes?”
I frowned, not immediately understanding. “Something menial.”