Page 93 of Fresh Old Bounties

“Never seen him in my life.”

But the fast flicker of her eyes betrayed her.

“We’re done here,” I said firmly, barely restraining myself from fist pumping in triumph. “Hand over the potion.”

Now that we had a new lead on Mystery Man, I was itching to run to her bed and breakfast and dig around, but I had to be a responsible good witch and rid Olmeda of as much dark magic as possible.

She stepped backward, curving protectively around the vial. “No! It’s mine. I paid for it.”

“It’s dark magic.”

“It doesn’t hurt anyone!”

“Tell you what,” I said. “Tell me what the potion is, and I’ll make you a better one.”

“It’s my tonic.”

I extended my hand. “Hand it over.”

She glared at us, then gave me the potion. I examined the liquid against the fluorescent ceiling light. The small bottle was tinted dark blue, so it was hard to determine the colors of the potion itself. Next, I twisted the cap open and took a good sniff. Lavender, valerian, maybe lemon balm. All herbs meant to help with sleep.

I put the cap back on and pocketed the bottle.

“You give that back right now,” the old woman demanded.

“Come to the shop in two days. I’ll give you something better.” I pointed a finger at her and added in a menacing tone, “And don’t even think of ordering another dark marketplace potion. We know where you live now.”

I turned on my heel and strode out of the room. Ian and Dru caught up to me on the stairs. Dru wore a thunderous expression that told me she wanted to kick more than a couple of rocks.

“Cheer up,” I told her, as we walked toward Ian’s SUV. “We might find him at the B&B.”

“Not likely.” Her mouth formed a terse line, the disappointment obvious.

Ian called the strays to let them know we’d caught the buyer but to stick around for another hour, in case, then we got inside his SUV. Forty minutes later, thanks to Old Olmeda’s Friday night traffic and revelry, we arrived at the bed and breakfast.

It was a quaint three-story old house painted in pastel blues and whites, with a lovely front garden surrounded by a low iron fence. “Dorsey House Bed & Breakfast” was written on a plaque on the wall, clearly illuminated by the front door’s light.

Ian didn’t pause; he took the steps up to the porch and opened the front door as if he’d known it wouldn’t be locked. Maybe he had. While it was late, most of the guests would be expected to party for a long time on a Friday night, so no point in locking it, I supposed.

To the right of the foyer opened a sitting room with a couple of armchairs facing a small fireplace and a welcome counter on the other end, denoted by the leaflets neatly organized on a small shelf by the wall.

I studied them while Ian moved behind the counter and opened the old-style guestbook. There were so many things to do in Olmeda as a tourist. I picked up a couple of brochures and put them in my back pocket.

Veva wasn’t the only shop I could cross-promote with, and I wasn’t against collaborating with human businesses—the possibilities were infinite.

Ian abandoned the guestbook, grabbed an old-fashioned key from behind the counter, and made for the stairs. Ignoring Dru’s look of disgust at my newly acquired knowledge of local tourist attractions, I followed Ian up to the second floor. He stopped by the room at the far end of the landing-slash-hallway and unlocked it.

The room was small but well appointed, with a bed covered by a quilt, a chest of drawers, a bathroom, and a TV.

It was also very clean, and very empty of personal belongings.

I stepped past Ian and peeked inside the tiny bathroom. Also empty.

“We’re too late,” I said, disappointed. “He’s gone.”

“Yes.” Ian gave the room a thorough visual inspection. “Checked out last night.”

“How do you know this was his room?” Dru asked.

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