Page 8 of Wicching Hour

Hernández held up her hands in surrender and we waited until the door closed.

“Damn,” she breathed. “She’s scary. And hot.”

I nudged the detective with my shoulder. “Look at you, sharing your hot girl opinions with me.”

“Yeah, well, she scared the professionalism right out of me.” Shaking her head, she pulled her ever-present notepad out of her jacket pocket.

“I won’t tell your girlfriend,” I said.

“Eh.” She shrugged. “Andie would agree she’s hot. And scary.” Shaking her head, Hernández flipped open her notebook. “You’re right. I am here about someone being dead. I have two people murdered in much the same way, with no evidence left at either scene. So far, I can find nothing connecting the two. One’s a middle-aged woman, a judge. The other’s a man in his late twenties who works part-time at the station. When I tell you they have nothing in common, I mean they don’t even use the same laundry detergent.”

Leaning back against the bench, I thought longingly of my nice warm bed. I might have been able to get a few more hours before opening. Then again, without Declan, I’d have a hard time sleeping.

“They have the law in common,” I said.

Hernández shook her head. “When I said he worked at the station, I meant he worked in records. He’s a drummer in a local band. The part-time work he did for us was his only stable source of income. As far as I could tell, his path never crossed with the judge.”

“Okay, but isn’t theno evidencething a clue?” I asked. “That takes some expertise, doesn’t it? Maybe your killer is a crime scene cleaner.”

“Don’t think that hasn’t occurred to me,” she grumbled, glancing at the back door. “So, can I borrow you for a little while? I’ll have you back before opening.”

I stood. “Yeah, I guess. I need to be back no later than one and preferably before. I’ve got a lot of empty shelves in the gallery to fill.” I waved her into the studio with me. “I didn’t get a chance to eat anything this morning.”

The clear muffin box on the counter looked emptier than yesterday. “It looks like Declan took a few. I have a strawberry-pistachio, a salted caramel, and a marbled chocolate and cinnamon. What’ll you have?”

“I want the salted caramel!” Mary Beth called from the gallery.

“Okie-dokie.” I tore off a paper towel to pick it up.

Mary Beth met me at the doorway to the gallery, the phone at her ear. She took a bite of the muffin whilemmhm-ing to whoever was on the line, and returned to the gallery.

“I’ll take the strawberry,” Hernández said. “I had a strawberry one before and it was amazing.”

“Ah, thanks. The pistachio adds a nice nuttiness to it. Hopefully you enjoy this recipe too.” I offered the pinkish muffin in the box to the detective and then took the last one with another paper towel, not wanting crumbs on my gloves. “I just need to get my backpack.”

Taking a bite, I went to the doorway and waved to get Mary Beth’s attention.

Eyebrows raised, she waited.

“She’s taking me to a crime scene. I told her I have to be back by one.”

“Twelve is better,” she warned.

“I told her that too.” I studied the gallery, taking another bite, while I made mental notes of what needed to be filled in. If I was out of anything—and I was—I’d need to rearrange the displays.

Mary Beth glanced around as well. “I’ll fill in what I can. I’m flying back to New York this afternoon. The shipping service will be here Monday at ten. I’ll leave you a list of everything they should be boxing up.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I grabbed my backpack from the base of the stairs.

I’d started taking it when I went anywhere with the police. I carried a sketchbook and pencils, so I could draw what I saw. I also had bandages and antiseptic after one harrowing experience when the cuts the victim had endured showed up on my body. I even had snacks and water. The police weren’t big on feeding me. And my plastic honey bear bottle that I filled with ocean water. Sometimes I needed a little water fae boost.

Hernández waited for me on the deck. I pulled out the honey bottle, dumped the water back into the ocean, and then held my hand over the waves, pulling up a stream of seawater. When the fountain of water was level with me, I collected some into the jar, screwed the lid back on, and stowed the bottle.

The detective knew I was a wicche but still stared whenever I did something wicchey.

I shouldered the backpack, took another bite, and headed around the outside of the gallery, Hernández following.

“You don’t hide that stuff around me anymore,” she said, hitting her key fob and unlocking the doors of her very plain sedan.

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