Page 12 of Wicching Hour (The Sea Wicche Chronicles #3)
TWELVE
We Interrupt This Regularly Scheduled Program for Murder
A t a little after three, when I was putting a fourth batch of cookies in the oven, I heard a knock on the back door. With a flick of my fingers, the outside light over the door went on. I’d spelled the back windows a few days ago to be opaque from the deck looking in. I knew the gallery was getting ready to open and more random people would be visiting my property. I could see out, but potential creeps, like the one earlier, couldn’t see through the windows into my home or gallery.
Bracken stood under the light, squinting into the dark glass nervously. When I opened the door, he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Oh, thank goodness. I was afraid my knock would wake you up.” He walked in, gesturing to the glass. “I understand why you did that, and I agree, but now I can’t see light from your windows, so I don’t know when you’re up.”
“Oh,” I said as I headed to the kitchen to brew more tea. “I hadn’t thought of that. We need to come up with a better system then.”
He sat on the couch. “I was taking a break and came out to sit on a bench and be at one with the waves in the moonlight.” He watched me plate a few cookies. “It helps me wind down so I can sleep. Tonight, though, I smelled cookies and thought I’d take a chance and knock.”
“I’m glad you did,” I said, bringing the plate and a mug to the table for him. I went back for my own mug, checked the timer for the cookies in the oven, and went to sit with him.
“ Mmm , delicious. I thought I’d smelled chocolate.” He took a sip of his tea and leaned back. “You’ve spoiled me.” He shook his head and took another bite. “You bring me peace and comfort.”
“And cookies,” I added.
“Thank goodness,” he said. “And thank the Goddess.” He glanced up the stairs to my loft. “No Declan, I take it.”
I shook my head. “Hopefully, he’s home sleeping by now.” A thought struck me. “Or maybe he’s sleeping in the woods in his fur.” I pictured it, nodding. “I hope he sleeps well.”
“I must admit,” Bracken began, “as much as I benefit from your baking, I feel guilty that you have to experience horrible things in order for me to have middle-of-the-night treats.”
Shrugging, I sipped my tea. “The nightmares happen. Why shouldn’t cookies too?”
He grinned into his mug. “I believe you have a future as a fortune cookie writer, should art fall through for you.”
“It’s always good to have options.” The timer dinged and I went back to the kitchen area. “I wasn’t ready to start blowing glass, so I made a batch of lemon drop cookies, if you’d like one.”
“They smell delicious. I’d love one.”
It had only been a few weeks that Bracken had been living here, but I could already hear a lessening of tension in his voice. He’d never be what some of the family would consider normal, but the fact that he seemed more relaxed, more comfortable around me, made me very happy.
“Some bakers like to drizzle an icing on their lemon drops, but I prefer a lemon zest-powdered sugar combination.” I put my concoction in a special sieve with wider gaps for the tiny pieces of zest. I shook it lightly over the warm cookies. I liked to do two dustings. One when they were warm, so the tart sugary taste melted in, and then another light dusting when they were cool for more of a pretty, powdery finish.
I took back Bracken’s empty plate and slid two lemon cookies on it, returning it to him. I grabbed myself a cookie, took a bite, and loved the quick tart snap to the back of my tongue.
“ Mmm . You are a master, dear,” he said.
I felt a little bubble of joy in my chest as I took another bite and then I remembered something. Spooning out more lemon drops onto a baking sheet, I said, “Earlier, you told me Otis, Daisy, and Jasper came to you for food, but you didn’t have anything. Did you mean that literally?” I gestured to the refrigerator. “There’s always food in there—more than usual since there’s a werewolf around. I have groceries delivered. I can add whatever you want to my shopping list. And I can give you a key.”
He waved away that last suggestion. “No. This is your home, and you deserve privacy. You have a boyfriend that often stays with you. You don’t need me wandering in looking for a snack.”
His hand dropped back to the couch, and he said, “But I would like to order groceries along with you. That’s one of the reasons I want to get a car. Taking an RV to a local supermarket isn’t terribly convenient.”
“Perfect,” I said. “Make out a list and we can use the app together, so you get exactly what you want. When you get a car, I might even go shopping with you.” Once those words were out of my mouth, I wanted to snatch them back. Supermarkets were filled with people who occasionally brushed you as they passed in narrow aisles. The psychic noise could be loud.
Bracken must have seen my expression because he said, “I like to shop in the middle of the night in one of those twenty-four-hour markets. The store is empty except for a skeleton crew of zombies restocking shelves.”
“Oh,” I said, sliding the sheets back into the oven and setting the timer again. I stripped off the rubber gloves I used for baking, leaving my normal ones. “I’d love to be able to walk the cooking aisle and see everything they offer. Okay, that’s a plan. Once we have a car, I’ll go late-night shopping with you. In the meantime, we can place an order today.”
I grabbed my phone and sat beside him on the couch. “We should just do it now. You’re going to go to sleep soon, and I need to get to work.”
We used the thirteen minutes the cookies were baking to create an order. I had lots of baking supplies to replenish, and he had a love of pot pies. Who knew? There were frozen individual-serving ones he liked to fill his freezer with. I also made sure he got some fruits and vegetables. When I suggested chips, he told me he never ate them when he was working—and he was almost always working. He couldn’t touch old texts with greasy fingers. I suggested pretzels and he said he’d give them a try.
Once we were done, he went back to his RV to sleep and I cleaned up, put on my work clothes, and went into the gallery to move all the items the Winslows had purchased for the shipping people who would be arriving later today.
Using the list Mary Beth had left me, I gathered a great deal of my art into the open café section of the gallery. Remembering, I went into the fire room to get the additional items they’d chosen yesterday morning, wheeling them out to join the rest.
While I was at it, I gathered all the artwork with white dots—a far smaller number of items—for the second collector. Mary Beth had texted me back while I was baking, giving me a list for him and informing me the same shipping company would take care of his purchases as well. She also told me to check my gallery banking account.
After everything on the lists had been double-checked, I clicked into my banking app and about had a heart attack. I sent a mind-blown emoji to Mary Beth, and she responded, telling me that didn’t include the big order for the twelve-inch octopuses I needed to work on for the Winslows, nor the window for Mr. Cheng. I still had a couple of months to complete the first order and even longer for the second. When I was done, I could expect two more large paydays.
Bursting with pride, I looked over my gallery, knowing even if I never sold another piece of art, I could take care of myself for life. Eyes welling, my throat tightened. Why was I crying?
I brushed away the tears as I wandered around display tables. I’d done this. I’d created something that others valued and because of that, I never had to worry about being a burden to the family who didn’t much care for me, or about having to move in with Mom or Gran. I’d fought to stand on my own, to express what was in me, and enough people appreciated my art that I was making a living on my own terms. Damn.
A loud knock sounded at the front door. Startled, I looked out the back windows. The sun had barely risen. The clock against the café wall read 6:20. Who in the world? I pulled up the security camera feeds on my phone as the loud pounding came again, followed by the buzzing of my phone.
Detective Hernández was calling. And Detective Hernández was standing at my front door. I jogged over and opened the original cannery metal door. I’d intended to replace it with something much nicer but decided a fancy door would ruin the abandoned cannery look.
Hernández, red-eyed and somber, gave me a look that told me everything.
“I’m so sorry,” I murmured, opening the door wider for her to come in.
“Can you come with me while the scene is fresh?” she asked.
I held up a finger and jogged back to the studio, grabbing my backpack and some cookies in a napkin. When I went back, I handed her the cookie pack. “I know you’re not hungry, but you need to eat something. Maybe sugar from a friend will ease the pain a bit.”
Flicking my fingers, I locked up the gallery and headed to her car. Hernández put the cookies in the cup holder and started her engine. We were in the car for at least five silent minutes before she said, “It looks like he broke in after I called to check on her.”
In the dream, the killer had been waiting outside, watching the back of the house. He heard a phone ring and then the lights turned on. Eventually, they all turned off and he moved in. It hadn’t happened yet. I’d dreamt it before it happened, called the police, and still hadn’t been able to stop it.
“I’m not sure how to talk to you about this,” I said. “She was your friend. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Her grief washed over me and made my head pound. “It’s Arthur’s case. He knew Gaby too—she works at the station—but they aren’t friends. I told him about our phone calls, but I might have left things out. You should tell him everything from the beginning,” she said.
“Of course, and I’m very sorry about your friend.” I knew my words were hollow in the face of her grief, but I also felt compelled to say them.
She nodded and continued driving in silence. Eventually, she turned into a neighborhood of small, neat houses, lined up in a row, and my stomach cramped. It wasn’t as though I hadn’t known where we were headed, but now I was going to have to watch Detective Hernández’s friend being murdered.