My concern was mostly for Sylvie, since she’d only just heard about Clarence, but she looked disconcertingly serene.
Tamara gestured to her right at the seat next to Lilac and placed a cup of coffee on the table for me. Clarence helped himself to the seat closest to Sylvie.
She didn’t even lift an eyebrow as he leapt into the seat and assumed a regal pose. Maybe he’d display his Sunday-best manners, if he had any.
Once I’d settled into my chair and enjoyed my first sip of Tamara’s truly exceptional coffee, I asked, “What conclusions have you reached?”
All three women turned to look at me, and Tamara said, “You’re the common denominator.”
Since Sylvie and I had come to the same conclusion the previous evening, her pronouncement shouldn’t have carried any particular weight. And yet it did.
My alarm bells weren’t ringing, but an uncomfortable feeling grabbed hold of me. “You don’t think I’m responsible? The attack on Lila, the explosion at Sylvie’s, the break-in . . . I didn’t have anything to do with them.”
“No. No, that’s not what we mean at all.” Sylvie frowned at Tamara. “Is it? I didn’t mean that.”
“Of course not.” Tamara took Sylvie’s hand, gave her fingers a quick squeeze, then let go. “I don’t think he’s responsible for any of those things. And I most certainly would never accuse Geoff of the bombing.” She paused, sipped her coffee, then said, “I did that one.”
20
Wednesday mid-morning
Somehow we’d traveled from me being at the center of the nefarious goings-on to Tamara Gilroy, friendly neighborhood witch, bombing Sylvie’s shed.
The theme music to The Twilight Zone played in my head. Seconds passed before I pinpointed an external source: Clarence. He whistled the tune as he gave Tamara the evil eye—or the cat version of it. I nudged his chair leg with my toe, and he stopped.
“Why would you bomb my house?” Sylvie asked in a small voice.
Tamara and I both said, “Your shed.”
I raised both hands. “But I had no idea it was Tamara.” It didn’t make any sense. The crime or confessing. “Why would you do such a thing?”
Clarence tapped the side of his head with a paw, which I translated as the sign for a crazy person.
“I’m not crazy, cat. I was trying to protect Sylvie.” Tamara turned to a dumbfounded Sylvie and said, “You have the most beautiful aura.” Then she squinted. “Usually. Either way, you certainly didn’t deserve our kind of trouble. You still don’t, even if your aura is a little muddled now.”
“Muddled?” Sylvie’s cheeks were stained a bright pink. “My aura is not muddled. I’m pissed off. That’s righteous anger you see clouding my aura.”
Lilac didn’t comment, but her eyes were huge as she watched the unfolding scene.
Tamara said, “Our world is a difficult place. I know it’s hard to believe, but I truly was trying to protect you.”
“You can talk about ‘our’ world all you like, but I don’t blow up my neighbors’ sheds,” I said. “I moved here because it was a quiet neighborhood.” No need to mention my multistage, months-long plan for quietly reintegrating with humanity. That plan was up in smoke, in part due to Tamara and her neighborhood bombing shenanigans.
“Well, I’m not talking specifically about you, Geoff, more the supernatural crowd in general. It’s a bad bunch to run afoul of. I figured whatever they’d been looking for in her shed wouldn’t be a problem anymore if I blew up the building a little bit.” A look of consternation crossed Tamara’s face. “I’m much better with magic. The result was a little bigger than I’d planned.”
A startled laugh escaped Lilac. Her hand flew to cover her mouth. “I’m so sorry. It’s just all so ridiculous. Who in the world blows up something ‘a little bit’ to help someone?”
Sylvie’s eyes narrowed. “No one, that’s who. Nice, normal, sane people call the police. Or just let their neighbors know there’s a problem.”
“Ah, and there’s the flaw,” Tamara said. “I’m not normal, not in the way you mean. I’m not human. No one who has magic is fully human—or what you’d most likely label normal. And I was trying to keep you away from a particularly unsavory element within the not-entirely human crowd.”
Tamara’s argument took a curiously circuitous path to a less-than-logical conclusion—in my mind. In her own, it seemed to make perfect sense. And I still wasn’t getting any particular read off her that made me believe she was dangerous.
Perhaps I was giving my intuition too much weight, but it had held me in good stead as a soul collector.
“Who was searching her shed and for what?” I asked. “And why did blowing it up seem like the best answer when you could have, as Sylvie mentioned, just warned her? Or retrieved whatever it was this undesirable element wanted from her shed.”
Sylvie shot me a censorious look. “You believe her?”
“I want to hear her story,” I countered.
“Quite sensible.” Of course Tamara would say that, especially if Clarence was right and she was as nutty as a fruitcake. “As for the explosion, that was my attempt at discretion.”
I set my coffee cup down. “Tamara, as much as I’d like to believe you have a pure heart in this matter—”
“Oh, I never said my heart was pure. Much as I admire Sylvie, I also don’t want the wrong element on our little street. It’s shaping up to be a wonderful little spot. Have you met Hector yet?”
My left eye started to twitch. I pressed my thumb to the corner and tried to remember why exactly I’d retired. The difficulties of collecting recently departed souls weren’t nearly as complex as human life or supernatural life among humans. Maybe they’d take me back.
But I couldn’t go back, and that left going forward. “Please explain, Tamara, how blowing something up is discreet.”
“Arson and man-made explosions are discreet when you’re talking about magic.” She winked at me. Turning to Sylvie with a more serious expression, she
