sheriff grimaced. “Well, Lucy’s in the back of an ambulance on her way to St. Michael’s Hospital,” he told her.
“Is she all right?” Sully asked, concerned, then realized what a stupid question that was. Of course the woman wasn’t all right. She was on her way to the hospital.
Tyler nodded. “She will be.”
“Uh, well, do you want me to stay with Mary Anne until she gets back home?” Sully offered. The poor woman had to be devastated by her son’s murder, and probably just a little anxious with her daughter-in-law being rushed to hospital.
Tyler’s face grew grim. “Mary Anne isn’t going to be needing your tea anymore, Sully. She died earlier tonight.”
Sully gaped, and sorrow pierced her from within. Mary Anne was a sweet lady. “Oh, no. That’s so sad. Gary’s death was too much for her, huh?”
Tyler shrugged. “We’ll never know. She was murdered.”
Sully blanched, stunned. “No.”
“Well, we’re still investigating, obviously, but from what I saw, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a suicide or an accident.”
Sully tilted her head against the backrest. “How—how did it...?” she couldn’t quite finish the sentence. How did Mary Anne die?
Tyler glanced back at the house. “I can’t say. Not yet.” He looked down at Sully. “But I will say this—go home and lock your doors. Stay safe.”
He tapped the roof of her car, then turned back to the Adler house. A deputy was unravelling yellow tape along the front veranda railing, and Sully’s blood cooled in her veins at the sight, and what it meant.
The Adler house was a crime scene. Sweet little Mary Anne had been murdered in her home. That woman was so lovely, Sully couldn’t imagine anyone having enough animosity, enough rage, to want to kill the older woman. And so soon after her son’s murder. Were they connected? She couldn’t quite believe that one murder had been committed in their sleepy little cove, let alone two. What were the odds that they were two separate, random acts? What were the odds they were connected? Poor Mary Anne. Sully shifted gears and reversed down the street until she could do a U-turn. It wasn’t until she was pulling into her darkened yard, with only the moonlight and the stars to illuminate her garden, that Tyler’s words really sank in.
Lock the doors. Stay safe.
What the hell kind of danger was out there? And why did he think it could visit her?
Dave frowned at the Closed sign on the shop door. There was a lot of that going around Serenity Cove, today. He’d just tried to get some breakfast at the diner in town, only to find it was temporarily closed for business. He’d managed to find a burger joint down near Crescent Beach. He’d also found a bar, but it was too early to open.
He had not found a certain witch, though. He’d checked the beach he’d first seen her on, and then had taken the walk up the stairs to the top of the cliff. He’d found a cleared area at the top, and then a little road that led back to the highway. He’d found her home—her garden was very impressive, along with a little shed out the back. He hadn’t been able to find her, though.
And he needed to find her. He needed to...seek forgiveness. Redemption, maybe. His gut tightened inside him, like a corkscrew twisting into a cork. What he did, killing witches, it was a crap job that someone had to do. He was there to stop witches from abusing power, abusing the vulnerable. It was an ordained vocation, and he was supposed to be doing good. He had a witch to hunt, but he’d found he couldn’t concentrate until he made it right with the witch he’d wronged. His shoulders tensed. He didn’t want to think about what he’d nearly done, but he didn’t usually shy away from the difficult—that’s why the Ancestors had picked him in the first place. Still, he felt like a heel for what he’d done, how close he’d come to really hurting her.
He glanced down at the flip-flop he gripped. He’d used it to perform a locator spell, and even now it was tugging away from him, toward the door that was closed to customers. He glanced about. Sullivan Timmerman’s shop was on the edge of town. It was set back a little from the road, with a parking area in front. Just like the rest of the stores in the area, it had a sweet facade of Victorian wood trim, painted white, and a soft pastel blue on the clapboards. It gave an impression of welcome and charm, the kind of thing he’d associate with a sweet little grandmother—only the witch inside was no grandma, and after seeing her defense against him, he’d say sweet wasn’t his first descriptor for her. Fiery, maybe. Sweet, not so much.
He was trying to ignore the towel, the sand pillow and the dressing that had soothed the pain in his chest.
He knocked on the door, then peered through the glass pane. For a moment all he could see was his reflection, his sunglasses glinting in the sunshine. He had to cup his hands around his eyes and press up against the window to see inside. The shop interior was dark. A little on the small side, and devoid of anyone, including the witch he sought. She was in here, somewhere, damn it. The flip-flop told him. He glanced carefully about in the gloom and finally noticed the flickering light through a transom window above a door that led from the shop room into an area behind.
He knew it. She was here. He shrugged out of his leather jacket and draped carefully, silently, over the glass-topped counter display. The garment was great on a bike, lousy in the summer, and creaky when he wanted to be quiet.
He muttered a quick yield spell, and the door unlocked, swinging inward. He shook his head. She hadn’t bespelled her property at all, from the looks of it. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He hesitated, then flicked the lock. He had to apologize, and he’d prefer no interruptions, and no witnesses.
He stepped up to the door that led out back, and tested the doorknob. He shook his head when it twisted at his touch. Security was not a priority for this witch. He opened the door a little and peered through it. It opened into some sort of workshop. There was large machinery, grinding wheels, anvils and sharpening blocks. There was an artist’s desk, with a number of sketches pinned to the corkboard above it. His eyes widened when he saw the wicked-looking blades lined up on a magnetic knife rack on one wall. Different lengths—hell, was that a sword?
He could hear a regular thump, thump, thump, accompanied with a faint grinding sound. It took a moment, but he finally narrowed down the source of the sounds. She sat at a machine, and every time she pressed her foot on the pedal, a weight would descend, making the thump, thump noise he could hear. He realized it was a press of some sort. She’d place a metal prong into the press, and the weight would descend, and then she’d remove and slide into another chute, and thump again. When she removed the prong, he could see tines had been cut into the metal end.
Forks. She was making...forks? He watched her for a moment. Her blond hair was tied back into a thick braid, and she wore a loose-fitting blouse over a long patterned skirt. She was so intent on her work, her head and shoulders dipped each time she set the prongs in the chutes. At one point she arched her back, and his gaze was drawn to the long line of her body as she tilted her head back and rubbed her neck. The flowing clothes made her look willowy and lithe, but he could see the strength in her arms as she placed the newly formed forks onto a tray next to her. Then she returned to her task, inserting the metal prongs into the chutes and cutting tines in the ends.
