Page 89 of Wicche Hunt

It was funny. The art world knew my name. My pieces sold for a lot of money. My agent told me that the legend around me was of a recluse who occasionally popped her head up to introduce some new masterpiece into the world. The people who knew me, though, were forever surprised that the odd, curly-haired psychic in overalls was actually a successful artist. I supposed it had to do with perspective, which was something I understood quite well.

“How much is this?” Osso asked, pointing to a glass mermaid with dark skin and long, curly black hair fanned out around her face. “My daughter would love this.”

She was way too much for a police officer to afford, unless he had hidden wealth and just worked for fun. “I’ll make her a smaller version.”

He looked at the mermaid again. “Was that a stupid question?”

“Not at all, but she’ll go for at least ten thousand. Maybe more.” I hated the idea of putting price tags on my work, but it had to be done. My agent had been publicizing the opening and said there were quite a few collectors flying in for it. Since she was afraid that left to my own devices, I’d undervalue my work, she said she’d visit next week and we’d decide on prices together.

Osso took a step away from the expensive mermaid, eyeing it warily.

“Did your kids like the octopuses I made them?”

“Yeah,” he said, watching where he moved, now hyperaware of being surrounded by expensive art. “They love them. Thanks.”

“The mermaid’s pretty tricky to make and I’m going to be swamped for a while, but I will make one for her.”

He held up a hand. “That’s okay. Never mind.”

“I’ll do it. Just give me some time. When’s her birthday?” I asked.

“September ninth.”

Nodding, I pushed the empty cart back toward the studio. “I’ll have her made by then. Let’s go sit down and you can tell me why you guys are back.”

When I returned from the fire room, Osso and Hernández were on the couch and Declan was sitting on the wobbly stool, pulled up beside my chair. “I’m going to need to buy more furniture, aren’t I?”

“Probably a good idea,” Hernández said.

I sat down, kicked off my shoes, and pulled up my feet, sitting cross-legged. “So what’s up? Am I in trouble for the stalker?”

Osso glared at me. “Why would you be?” he said slowly, like he was talking to a child. “He shot himself. You’re the innocent victim.”

I nodded solemnly. “I am.”

“One might even say helpless,” Declan added with a grin.

“Let’s not go too far,” I protested. “I took a self-defense class.”

“You did?” Hernández asked. “But you can…” She wiggled her fingers.

“I do have excellent finger dexterity. That’s true,” I said, causing Osso and Declan to laugh. “I had a great P.E. teacher who taught self-defense instead of tumbling or square dancing or whatever.”

“I had to square dance,” Hernández said, outraged.

“Did you have Ms. Smith in seventh grade?”

She shook her head. “Mr. Gillespe.”

“There you go. She was a first-year teacher and more progressive than the rest. My cousins had Gillespe and said he was super old-school.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Sexist old creep. If a guy showed up late, he was told to hustle. If a girl was late, she was told to stop wasting time fixing her makeup or to deal with period stuff on her own time, not his.”

I’m not sure what look I had on my face, but Hernández nodded in agreement.

“I wanted to punch that guy in the gut so bad,” she said. “I hear he finally retired. Anyway, no, we’re not here about the stalker.”

Osso picked up the black bag on the floor and placed it on the coffee table. “We think we found the dean’s murder weapon.” He pulled out a plastic evidence pouch holding a glass award.

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