Page 50 of Real Fake Hauntings

“I already did.”

“And…?”

“I would’ve told you if they had, Avery. Anything else?”

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask for her alibi. When you got down to it, how much could one know about another human being? Sonia had appeared to warm up toward me, but maybe she’d been planning my downfall all along without me realizing.

Still, outright asking her for an alibi would never work; she’d just ignore my question like everyone else had.

“Did you have fun last night?” There. Slickness personified.

“Yes.”

How, I wanted to ask. Eating people’s souls? Drinking their blood? Practicing curses at home? “That’s great! What did you do?”

“Why are you asking?” Her voice sharpened. “Did something happen last night? Have there been any new pentagrams?”

Slickness, indeed. “Just wanted to know,” I demurred. “I feel like we’re almost friends now, and friends talk to each other about their lives.”

Silence and the message “Call Ended” were my answer. With any luck, she’d scrub my question about last night from her brain along with my attempt at friendship and wouldn’t find it curious once Crane came out as missing.

A pair of women entered the shop, and I greeted them warmly. After serving them their orders, I concentrated on the problem at hand.

Why Desmond Crane? Assuming the death had been intentional and not an accident, who wanted him dead? Or, in this case, who wanted him dead the most right now? And if the murderer had chosen my shop intentionally—which looked like it—why be so obvious about it?

One of the couples at the tables left as a trio entered. They insisted on discussing every tea on the menu with me before finally settling on coffee and muffins.

Back to the question—why me and my shop? Was it an encroaching dark witch who didn’t care about the shop and simply wanted me out of here?

The bell tinkled again. An older woman entered, looking adorable in a pumpkin-styled coat. I complimented her outfit, and we exchanged costume ideas for a minute before another customer came to pay before leaving.

Okay, so, why my?—

The door opened. A man and a kid entered, asked if they could use my bathroom. I told them where to find it and kept an eye on the bead curtain as they did their business because what better way to spy on a witch shop than fake needing to use the bathroom? I had seen this move in too many TV shows to count.

After they came out, the father ordered a coffee to-go and a muffin for the boy, so I decided maybe they weren’t evil paranormals looking to spy on my establishment and handed the kid a couple of my organic candies.

As I was saying, Desmond Crane and?—

“Do you sell beer?” a woman asked from the door.

“Sorry, no,” I said. “Tea and coffee only.” What in The Tea Cauldron and all its witchy vibes said beer?

The woman made an unhappy face and left. The trio changed their mind and wanted to try one of the teas after all. Pumpkin Cutie wanted another muffin and a refill. One half of a pair spilled coffee on their table, the other half wanted a refund on his muffin.

The door opened. Dru stepped inside.

I wanted to cry with relief.

“Oh, shut up, and wipe that expression off your face,” she muttered, walking behind the counter. She pointed at me with one elegantly manicured finger. “Triple pay for today and tomorrow.”

“Deal!”

Together, we dealt with all the outstanding requests, then huddled together behind the counter to gossip like noisy crones as I updated Dru on my and Ian’s theories about Crane’s death and my shop.

“Could it be one of your dark magic clients?” Dru asked. “If they figured out you gave them a placebo, they might be sending you a message, and that’s why they didn’t call the police on you.”

“That’s a strong message.” But the idea had merit. I thought back on my dark magic clients so far—love potion girls, Brimstone, a couple of other minor ones who Bagley had totally been scamming because what they wanted needed zero unwilling blood. I couldn’t see any of them jumping to warning-by-murder instead of simply going to another witch or, in the case of Brimstone, trying to set my house on fire.

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