the box out from the back of her car, lifting the tailgate with her hip. She didn’t bother winding up the window or locking it. Anybody with half a mind to steal her car must be desperate, and welcome to it. Besides, everyone in town knew this was her car, and you didn’t steal from a witch. The resulting curse wasn’t worth it.
She walked up the steps to the Brewhaus Diner, and her flip-flops made a smacking sound on the veranda. She pushed through the door and the tinkling sound of the bell above the door brought an almost instinctive response as she stepped inside. She put a smile on her face as she ignored muffled emotions knocking at her protective walls.
Cheryl Conners, the waitress, was hiding her hurt that Sheriff Clinton was absorbed in his phone and not her. Sheriff Clinton was worried—but that seemed to be his default setting. Harold’s gout was troubling him, Graham, the cook, was tired and his feet hurt, Mrs. Peterson was fighting off a strong cold, and Lucy—
Sully halted at the diner counter. Lucy wasn’t happy. No, she was...heartbroken. She couldn’t see the woman, but she could feel her pain—and that was with her shields up.
She placed the box on the counter and looked over at Cheryl as the waitress walked over to her.
“I’m here to see Lucy,” Sully said softly. She glanced toward the swing door that led to the kitchen and the office beyond. “Is she okay?”
Cheryl shook her head. “She got some bad news.” She lifted her chin in the direction of the sheriff. “They found Gary’s body last night.”
Sully gasped, then lifted her hand to cover her mouth. “Oh, no.”
Gary Adler was the coach over at the null comprehensive school, and Lucy’s longtime boyfriend. No wonder the woman emitted the feel of devastation.
Sully patted the box on the counter. “Look, I’ll leave these here, we can talk about sorting stuff out later. She’s got enough on her plate, tell her not to worry about this. We can talk when she’s ready, but don’t stress over it.” She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “When is the funeral?”
“Won’t be for a few days, yet,” Sheriff Clinton said, glancing up from his phone. “We’ve got to wait for the autopsy.”
Sully nodded. Gary had watched what he ate, exercised regularly, and apart from that one Christmas festival, didn’t drink much. She wasn’t aware of him suffering from any illness. They’d have to do an autopsy to find out what had made a relatively healthy man drop dead.
“Any ideas what the cause was?” she asked the sheriff.
He grimaced. “We’re guessing it was the stab wound to the heart that did it.”
Cheryl’s jaw dropped. “What?”
Sully’s eyes widened. “Are you saying he was murdered?”
“Well, it didn’t look like he fell on the knife, or stabbed himself,” the sheriff commented dryly.
“Oh, no, poor Lucy,” Sully murmured. “I’ll go home and put together a tea for her.” She nodded to herself. “I should go visit with Gary’s mother, too.” Gary’s mother lived in a tiny cottage on the northern tip of the seaside town, along with the bulk of the null community. “She’ll be devastated.”
Sheriff Clinton nodded. “Yeah. I’m sure Mary Anne would appreciate a visit, but I don’t think a tea will help her.”
Sully smiled sadly. “Not in the usual way, but herbs can still affect a Null, just like any other person, and there’s always a little comfort to be found in a shared brew.”
She waved briefly to the sheriff and Cheryl, and was nearly at the door when she snapped her fingers. She walked back over to Mrs. Peterson, and gently placed her hand over the older woman’s.
“How are you, Mrs. Peterson?” she asked loudly so the woman could hear.
“What’s that, dear?” Mrs. Peterson leaned forward.
“I said, how are you?” Sully said as loud as she could without shouting at the woman.
She opened her shield a crack and pulled in some of the pain she could sense in the swollen knuckles, and fed some warmth through in return, laced with a little calm.
The older woman’s face creased like a scrunched-up piece of paper when she smiled up at Sully.
“I’m doing well, Sully,” she said in her wavery voice.
“You’re looking nice today. I like your dress,” Sully said, gently patting the back of the woman’s hand. She could already sense the easing of tension in the old woman as her arthritic pain subsided.
“What mess?” Mrs. Peterson glanced down in confusion at the table.
“Your dress,” Sully repeated. “I like your dress.” Pity she couldn’t do anything about the woman’s hearing—but she was an empath witch, not a god.
“Oh, thank you, dear,” Mrs. Peterson said, and her face scrunched up even further as her smile broadened.
Sully nodded and winked, then turned in the direction of the door, cradling her hand on the top of her satchel. She closed her mental walls, ensuring nothing else leaked in she wasn’t ready for. She walked on toward the door and waved at Harold when he signaled her. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring you something back later, too, Harold.” She wagged a finger at him. “But you really do need to lay off the shellfish.”
She pushed through the door, her smile tightening as the pain in her hand throbbed. Poor Mrs. Peterson. That really was a painful condition.
She skipped down the steps and dusted her hands as she walked to her car. To anyone else it looked like she was shaking black pepper off her hands as she discarded the pain she’d drawn in from Mrs. Peterson.
She considered the teas she’d make for Lucy and Mary Anne Adler as she climbed into her car. Lemon balm, linden and motherwort, she decided. They each had a calming effect, and the motherwort would be especially helpful with the heartache and grief. She waited for a motorcycle to turn across the intersection in front of her, and then pulled out. She sighed. Poor Gary. Murdered. Who would do such a thing?
Dave pulled his motorbike into a spot on Main Street, and slid his helmet off his head. He looked around. So this was Serenity Cove, huh? The town was picture-postcard quaint. Victorian cottages, cute little boutiques and stores, and lots of white picket fences and ornate trim. Lots and lots. This place looked so damned sweet, he could feel a toothache coming on.
There were a few people wandering around. Admittedly, he thought there’d be more. It was summer and Serenity Cove had a fishing marina, nice little beaches—if his online searches could be trusted—but for some reason there wasn’t the usual vacationers drifting around with beet-red sunburns and sarongs. A local bar also seemed to be missing from the scene. He eyed the diner across the street. In lieu of a bar to visit and source information, this place would have to do. Maybe someone in there could tell him where the bar was—after he got some intel on Sullivan Timmerman.
He
