That was news to me. And I suspected to my bosses—unless they’d had a witch take a look at Clarence. I hadn’t even known witches could see such things.
Clarence picked up another cube and actually chewed this time, rather than swallowing it whole. He took his time, savoring the tiny piece of meat much longer than I’d have thought his greedy appetite would allow.
About what I’d gotten out of him myself so far: squat.
“To put your mind at rest, Geoff, if ever there was a soul before Clarence’s in that body, it’s long gone.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention. How had she known?
Possession was a foul word, and the idea that Clarence had done such a thing—to any creature—had greatly altered my view of him. But if he wasn’t sharing that feline body with another soul, did that make him the original owner? Creating a fully functioning body was magic unlike any I knew.
Tamara sipped her tea and watched me, seeing far too much. My trouble alarms weren’t ringing, but I suspected this meeting should end sooner rather than later.
“Clarence and I had planned to introduce ourselves as new neighbors and try to sneak in a few questions about your whereabouts the last few days.”
“You weren’t aware of my particular leanings,” she said.
“The magical ones? No.” And still wasn’t entirely certain of them. She was a witch—but my intuition said she was perhaps something else as well.
“You might like to meet Hector when you have a moment, though best to try after sunset. He’s more likely to open the door then.”
Hector wasn’t on the list. Was she saying Hector should be on the list?
“You think he might have relevant information?” I shared a glance with Clarence, but he shrugged.
“Oh, I have no idea. You’d have to ask him.” With her face schooled to a pleasant neutrality, I couldn’t tell if Tamara was concealing information or simply believed that Hector and I would hit it off.
When in doubt, courtesy was never amiss. “Thank you. We’ll be sure to stop by.”
“Perhaps not the cat, though he isn’t truly feline, is he? I’ll leave that to your discretion.” She looked as pleasant as before, but something shifted. “Now, ask me your questions.”
As I watched her sip delicately at her tea, it clicked. What I’d read as a certain pleasantness before was much more. It was balance. Tamara was in harmony, with herself, her environment, everything. And that harmony was currently being ruffled.
I set down my teacup and trained all of my attention on her. “We’re here about the explosion in Sylvie Baker’s house.”
“Her shed.” The correction was gentle, but firm. “The explosion was in her shed. Quite some distance from the house.”
That correction, that assertion of fact, made me very uncomfortable. I wanted to like this woman—this witch—but she was practically admitting some involvement, or possibly knowledge.
“I knew it,” Clarence said. “The red hair is a dead giveaway. Or it was, when you had it. Red-headed women have fiery tempers.”
Tamara snorted, and that bit of ruffled energy I’d felt slipped away. “Nonsense. I have almost no temper at all. Be thankful, since I live within striking distance of your house, young man.” She leaned forward, her elbows on the table, and said with a cheeky grin, “And the red hair was dye. This is closer to my natural color.”
Her casual reference to Clarence as a “young man” surprised me. I didn’t think Clarence was a young man at all . . . which brought into question Tamara Gilroy’s frame of reference. I felt myself sinking deeper into a mystery I wasn’t sure was related to Sylvie’s problem, and probably wasn’t one I should poke with a sharp stick.
Shifting gears, I let loose our money question, because Clarence and I needed to retreat and regroup. “Did you have anything to do with the explosion at Sylvie’s house?”
Her pretty green eyes wide and the neutrally pleasant expression we’d seen on arrival firmly affixed to her face, she said, “I don’t wish Sylvie Baker any harm, no harm at all.”
14
Tuesday early evening
Clarence and I had ended our interview of Tamara as quickly as possible. I glanced over my shoulder at her picture-perfect front yard. A yard that held more magically useful herbs, flowers, and grasses than could occur by chance. How had I not seen it before now?
All we could get out of her was that she had no ill intentions toward Sylvie and that she wished her no harm. That and a very enthusiastic—even genuine, I thought—welcome to the neighborhood.
Since witches didn’t lie, I took her comments concerning Sylvie to mean that she was in this up to her eyeballs, but that she didn’t want Sylvie dead.
“Oh, she so did it.” Clarence stalked in front of me at the very end of his leash. “She blew that shed to bits. Guarantee you, she did. Dye or no, read hair is red hair.”
At least he’d waited until we were a few houses away before he’d started to lambast Tamara. “That beef heart didn’t buy much loyalty, did it?”
“Give me a break. I may take bribes, but I’m pure where and when it counts, boss.”
“Right.” But there wasn’t quite as much sarcasm behind the comment as there might have been in the past. “Why did you let everyone think you were sharing that body?”
He spat and hissed a bit. “That again? Leave it, Geoff.”
And I did, because he wasn’t going to say a word until he was ready. If my bosses couldn’t get him to spill, then I had no chance. “What’s with you and the red hair? You do know that’s completely ridiculous, right? Someone’s hair doesn’t define their personality.”
“That’s what you say.” He tugged on the leash, and I picked up the pace. We were just about to the house when he stopped suddenly, attention fixed on some point in
