Wedding Bells and Deadly Spells Page 6

  Harmony and Patrick, our neighbor, were in the living room, watching a movie and eating popcorn when Caleb and I returned from our dinner date. I waved at them, not wanting to interrupt, and continued into the kitchen to stash the leftovers in the fridge. My appetite hadn’t returned after Caleb’s stomach contents comment, but I supposed that was for the best, as it meant lunch for the next day. Facing a paycheck-less horizon meant I’d have to start trimming my takeout bills, and maybe even learn to cook. Shudder.

  Peaches trotted into the kitchen, her long fur mashed down on one side. Clearly she’d had an eventful day of napping. She yowled at me, her customary dinner request-slash-demand, depending on how you looked at it.

  “Would you grab her a can?” I asked Caleb.

  He rustled in the cabinet, retrieved a silver can of gourmet cat food (one thing I couldn’t pare from the expenses list, or else risk having my eyes clawed out in my sleep), and deposited the foul smelling mound of food onto Peaches’s crystal dish. He tried to hide an eye roll as he bent and presented it to the cat. “Your majesty.”

  I laughed, but quickly covered my mouth as the cat shifted her eyes in my direction.

  “Careful,” Caleb warned. “One wouldn’t want to make a mockery of the queen, after all.”

  The laugh slipped out. Peaches thrust her feather duster of a tail into the air, lifted her tiny chin, and twisted away with a decisive jerk before marching back down the hall toward the bedroom. Caleb and I both cracked up laughing, the moment a perfect release valve on the high-stress day.

  “Oh!” I exclaimed, wiping a tear from my eye. “I’m going to have to buy her an entire salmon fillet to make up for this one.”

  “Maybe that was her plan all along,” Caleb added, still chuckling.

  “I really wouldn’t put it past her.” I moved to the opposite cabinets and pulled them open in search of wine glasses. “You want one?” I asked.

  When he didn’t answer, I glanced over my shoulder. He was leaning against the counter, a glossy pamphlet in his hand and a furrowed line between his brow. “I didn’t realize you’d already started looking at real estate agents.”

  “What?” I closed the cupboards and sidled up beside him. The one-page ad showed a series of condos in the Seattle area and featured the name and contact information, presumably for the glowing blonde woman who’s photograph was tucked at the bottom right corner. She wore a navy jacket and white blouse, her arms folded across her chest as she flashed a warm smile for the camera. A sticky note was attached to the ad, bearing Harmony’s handwriting:

  Wednesday

  4pm

  Dress nice!

  I shook my head. “This isn’t mine, Caleb.”

  He frowned at the leaflet and then looked up at me. “Well, then it looks like you might not be the only one thinking about moving.”

  Glancing out into the living room, Harmony was chattering excitedly with Patrick as the ending credits rolled on the screen. Was she looking for a new place to live? And if so, why hadn’t she said anything to me? Surely if she’d meant for us to get a new, more affordable, place together, she would have told me before setting an appointment with a real estate agent.

  Tamping down the sting, I took the ad from Caleb’s hands and placed it back on the counter. “It’s none of my business,” I told him. “Now, was that a yes on wine?”

  He hesitated, glancing back at the glossy ad, but then nodded and offered a smile. “Sure.”

  Chapter 8

  The real estate flyer wasn’t in the kitchen the following morning. Clearly, whatever Harmony was up to, she wasn’t in the mood to share. At least, not with me. The sofa was empty, Harmony’s sheets and coverlet rolled up like a sleeping bag off to one side, as usual. I frowned, suddenly feeling selfish and small. What right did I have to be angry with her for wanting to move out? She’d been sleeping on a sofa for a year. If the tables were turned, wouldn’t I have tried to bolt at the first opportunity?

  I was being too sensitive. Understandable, considering everything that had occurred over the past twenty-four hours, but stars, I needed to get a grip.

  Putting the whole thing out of my head, I set about making myself a pot of coffee and tossed a bagel in the toaster oven. While I waited for the coffee to percolate, I dressed, slapped on a little make-up, and put my hair back using a pair of gold hair pins.

  The timer on the toaster over sounded in chorus with the doorbell and I frowned. It was eight o’clock in the morning and I wasn’t expecting company. I glanced at my phone as I went to answer the door, wondering if I’d missed a call from Caleb or perhaps CeeCee. The screen was blank.

  With the murmur of a spell, a charmed peephole appeared in the front door, allowing me full view of who was waiting on the other side, while the person on my welcome mat had no idea I was watching. With a rush of relief, I saw Francois standing there, looking nervously around the hallway.

  I hurried to release the wards on the door and pulled it open. “Francois! What are you doing here?”

  Without waiting for me to invite him in, the chef stepped into my home. “Your boyfriend isn’t home, is he?”

  “No …” I replied slowly, closing the door and resetting the wards with a simple hand gesture. “Why?”

  Francois ignored me, too busy inspecting every inch of the entryway of my condo. He took in the art on the walls—most of it abstract and neutral in color—and then the furnishings and personal touches. A small table with a blown glass bowl for holding pocket change, Shimmer Bus coins, ticket stubs and receipts.

  “Francois?” I said as he started to shuffle into the living room.

  “Hmm,” he said, still perusing.

  “What are you doing here? And why do you care if Caleb is here or not? Are you looking for him?”

  The chef slid his hands into the pockets of his chinos and circled his gaze back to me. A flicker of heat flashed. “I wanted to tell him off and thought it might be more satisfying in person. The woman at the front desk of the SPA building claims he’s not there. I thought this was the next obvious choice.”

  “Tell him off? ” I folded my arms. I’d been about to offer him a cup of coffee, but decided against it. “What for?”

  “For having me dragged out of bed and down to headquarters this morning,” he replied tersely, as if I’d somehow had a part in it.

  “Okay, back up. I’m confused.”

  “They think I killed Evan Stimpton,” he said, adding something in French under his breath.

  “Stomach contents.” I groaned and placed my face in my hands. “Of course.”

  “Yes, apparently, along with my crappy food, our beloved Mr. Stimpton also had some kind of deadly potion in his system.” Francois’s narrow nostrils flared. “And, seeing as I personally prepared every morsel that went into that imbecile’s mouth, I am now the chief suspect in his killing.”

  “I’m so sorry, Francois. I don’t know what to say—”

  “Say that you’ll help me!” he replied. “Tell your boyfriend I had nothing to do with this! I might have more affection for a pile of dog excrement than for that rich brat, but that doesn’t mean I killed him!”

  “I know that,” I replied. “But, I’m not sure how much my word can really do.”

  Francois tossed his hands into the air. “Mon Dieu.”

  “We’ll figure this out, Francois. It’s only the beginning of the investigation and they let you go, so that has to be a good sign, right?”

  “They’ve closed down my kitchen and I’m not allowed on the property until they’ve completed their search,” Francois replied with a deep scowl.

  “Well they won’t find anything,” I said, moving toward the kitchen as the smell of my bagel burning wafted to me. The last thing I needed was the sprinkler system to go off. Even witches couldn’t figure out how to enchant a smoke detector to know the difference between burnt toast and a five-alarm fire.

  “What did they ask you?” I called from the kitchen, using a fork to
retrieve the unsalvageable bagel from the toaster oven.

  “They wanted to know why I insisted on personally preparing every dish meant for Mr. Stimpton’s—or, the victim, as they called him—though I’d argue we suffered more than he did!” Francois grumbled, moving into the dining room. He ran his hands over the back of the chairs set around the table. “These are exquisite. Froggio?”

  “That’s right.” I nodded at his appraisal of the chairs. “Do you want coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”

  “I don’t touch the stuff,” he replied.

  I realized how little I actually knew about the esteemed chef. We were industry friends, having worked dozens of events together over the course of my event-planning career. But I couldn’t recall having ever spent time with him outside of that sphere.

  I put another bagel into the toaster, set a short timer, and poured a cup of coffee for myself. “You didn’t tell them about the argument you and Evan had after the rehearsal, did you?” I asked, carrying it into the dining room.

  “I did,” Francois replied, a defiant set to his angular jaw. “I told them the truth. I said that Evan Stimpton was a sniveling brat from an overrated family and that he had more money than common sense or good taste!”

  I closed my eyes. “Oh, Francois.”

  “I told them I personally prepared the food he was served that afternoon because I wanted full control of every detail, down to the garnishes.”

  “How did they even know you prepared his plate separately?” I asked, warming my hands on my mug of coffee.

  “Apparently I have a rat in my kitchen. A chef’s worse nightmare, literally and figuratively, it would seem.”

  “So, what’s next?”

  “They search. And unless they plant something, they’ll come up empty. I don’t keep potions or potion ingredients in my kitchen. Everything I cook is delicious because I made it, not because of some artificial trick.” He lifted his chin. Even under the spotlight of a murder investigation, he retained his pride.

  “The SPA isn’t going to plant something, Francois.” I kept my expression neutral, even as anger flared under the surface at his prickly suggestion. “Caleb is an honest man and a good agent.”

  Francois didn’t look convinced. After a moment, he waved a dismissive hand. “Let’s not argue, Ana.”

  The toaster pinged and I stood from the table, happy for the interruption.

  “This is a nice place you’ve got here. Somehow, just as I expected. Minimal but classy.”

  I spread jam on the bagel and topped off my coffee. “Thank you.”

  Stepping back into the dining room, I sighed. “I’ve got at least two more months to enjoy it, I guess.”

  Francois cocked his head. “You’re moving?”

  “Most likely.”

  “In with the boyfriend?” he asked, and I couldn’t tell if he approved of disapproved of this idea. He’d been the one to inform me of Caleb’s interest in me after our first meeting. He’d not-so-secretly been hoping Caleb would flash those blue eyes his direction, but was happy enough when they landed on me instead. Since then he’d been one of the most ardent supporters of my relationship with the handsome agent.

  “I quit my job, remember?”

  “Mon Diue, Ana. I assumed you would have patched that up by now.”

  I snorted. “Not sure there is much to patch. I quit, and by now, I’m sure Hyacinth has already given my position to Kait Gerrick.”

  Francois pulled a face and I laughed. “Yeah.”

  “What even happened?” he asked, casually snatching one half of the bagel from my plate. “I’m supposed to be off carbs this month, but…” he trailed off and took a sinful bite.

  “In a word, Hyacinth happened.”

  “I’m going to need a little more,” Francois said, rolling his fingers through the air as he leaned back in his chair and took another bite. “Hyacinth is a beast, I’ll grant you that, but that’s not nearly enough reason to quit.”

  “Apparently, it is,” I replied, lacing my hands together. “Ever since my promotion to wedding planner, she’s shone some kind of spotlight on me, watching every move, just waiting to pounce and rip me to shreds. It started after the Swan rehearsal dinner near-miss, then a month later it was the Vanguard disaster, six months ago I got tangled up in the attack on Aurelia, and now this. It’s one too many scandals.”

  “None of those things were your fault,” Francois insisted.

  “I know, but Hyacinth wasn’t going to let it go. She flew into the chapel—literally—and started screaming at me like a deranged harpy, and I just … snapped.”

  Francois blinked. “Diue. I never thought you’d actually leave the firm. What are you going to do now?”

  I laughed, the sound short and hollow. “That’s the million dollar question”

  “Seems the Stimpton wedding’s left a mark on both of us.” He polished off the last bite of bagel and brushed his fingertips together, ridding them of the crumbs. “I should probably leave you to your day. With any luck, your boyfriend’s attack dogs will pick up a new scent trail and leave me alone. I probably should call the bartender from the reception and give him a warning. I have his number somewhere. He works at that martini bar on Everlight.”

  “Persimmon?” I asked.

  Francois nodded. “That’s the one.”

  “You’re not talking about Guy Hansen, are you?”

  Francois snapped his fingers. “Yes, thank you. I was having a devil of a time coming up with it.”

  I frowned. “Why would Caleb’s agents go after Guy?”

  “Because he was the one sending drinks down to Stimpton and his band of merry men.” Francois ran a hand through his coiffed curls. “So, when they realize it wasn’t something from my kitchen, he would be their next logical stop, and I might have pointed that out during our little tete-a-tete.”

  He smiled, the edges a little too sharp. “I suppose I should feel bad. He seems nice enough. Asked me to come to his bar sometime for a drink, on the house. He’s cute, too.”

  I’d hired Guy for the wedding. He normally worked at Persimmon and occasionally filled in at Luna. I’d gotten to know him after Harmony had introduced us and had hired him for a few wedding events. He was handsome, whip smart, and made killer signature drinks, tailored to each occasion. He checked every box.

  “Did Guy have issues with Evan, too?” I asked Francois. “He didn’t mention anything to me when I saw him before the ceremony.”

  Francois hitched one slim shoulder. “Let’s just say, he didn’t have anything nice to say about the guy. Apparently they have a history.”

  “What kind of history?”

  And, perhaps more importantly, why hadn’t Guy mentioned it to me when I’d called to book him for the reception? I’d given him the bride’s and groom’s names.

  “I don’t know, but he said something along the lines of “he’s always been like that”, which gave me the impression they knew each other. Look, I’m not saying he had anything to do with it, but that poison had to come from somewhere, and Guy was making sure Evan and his goons were well lubricated.”

  I drew in a breath. “Caleb will figure it out. He always does. In the meantime, just keep your head down and let things blow over.”

  Francois didn’t look convinced, but he nodded amiably and rose from the table. “We’ll see. All I know is that if they try to throw me in some SPA jail-cell, they’re going to have a fight on their hands.”

  Chapter 9

  Evan Stimpton’s obituary appeared in the morning’s Haven Herald, the nationwide newspaper for all things supernatural. The funeral was set for the following weekend. I circled it in the paper and made a note to send flowers because it was the right thing to do. Glancing at the clock, I tried to decide what to do with myself for the day. Harmony was off at her potion class. CeeCee was working. Caleb too.

  My knee bounced as I mentally flipped through my options. I could go back to the bookstore, and this time, skip the wh
ole nervous breakdown part and actually enjoy myself. Or, at least, try. Maybe it would be better to get a jump on the job search. I could venture into the human side of Seattle and see what I could find out. It couldn’t hurt to take my resume around to some of the larger event-planning firms. I still had acquaintances in the human division of A Touch of Magic Events. They might know if there were openings at the competing firms.

  As I weighed my options, I closed the paper. Perhaps I’d first stop by and visit Charlene. Sending flowers to the funeral was impersonal and cold. I wasn’t employed by the firm, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t follow through with the job as if I were. After all, it wasn’t likely that Hyacinth had done much more than send a gift basket to the family in order to keep the firm in their good graces for future events.

  I dressed and made my way to the flower shop a few blocks from my building. Armed with a sympathy card and an arrangement of tulips, I hopped a Shimmer Bus to Lakewood Estates, a posh building in the center of town that provided its esteemed residents stunning mountain views and walkability to anything they could possibly need. The high-end units started in the million-dollar range, and Evan Stimpton had a penthouse. I didn’t even want to know how much he’d paid for it.

  A doorman ushered me inside and I took the elevator to the top floor. A security guard was stationed outside the door, and I had to wait while he called inside via radio to make sure I was welcome. When he was granted permission, he stepped aside and gestured one meaty hand to usher me forward.

  Before I could knock, the door swung open and a face I recognized appeared. “Hello, Clive,” I greeted in a hushed tone. He was one of Evan’s groomsmen, though I’d been told he’d originally been Charlene’s friend. He was average height and build but carried himself with the kind of confidence that came along with being wealthy. He was neither handsome nor ugly, with an oval face, grey eyes, and a somewhat pointed nose. He wore spectacles and frequently pushed them up, almost like it was more nervous habit rather than necessity.