Owl's Fair (The Owl Star Witch Mysteries Book 2) Read online

  “Astra, it’s your turn now. You and your sisters. Your mother and I are quite happy with our lives the way they are. Simple, in devotion to the goddess and to you girls.” She pulled off her glasses, cleaned them, and placed them delicately back on her nose. “You don’t worry about me, dear. You worry about finding someone for you.”

  “I like my life pretty simple, too, Aunt Gwennie. I’m good.” The last thing I needed was a romantic complication.

  “Besides, she’s got me, and I’m a handful,” Archie, the owl, called in loudly through the open kitchen window. “I’m the goddess’s own owl. I demand a lot of attention, you know,” he informed us matter-of-factly. Then he burped.

  “Excuse you, Archie,” Aunt Gwennie said.

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Archie retorted. “By the way, don’t tell Ami I ate a rabbit.”

  “I hope you didn’t eat the one she likes,” Aunt Gwennie warned him.

  “I hope she’s smart enough not to get attached to the slow ones,” he responded.

  Chapter Two

  I drove to the station hoping for an uneventful day and a good interview.

  “Hey, Astra.” I closed my Jeep door and turned to find Officer Adam Granger watching me. The mid-twenties fresh-faced patrolman observed me with unblinking attention—as if waiting to catch me committing a crime. I wondered briefly if he practiced that expression in front of a mirror. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” The stern stare melted into a smile, followed by a contented look once I nodded in agreement.

  “Morning, Adam,” I called back. I had no dispute with his observation. It was a bright early summer Florida morning. The seagulls circled above us, scouring for the day’s dropped treats. The air was crisp. It always amazed me that—despite the town not being right on the coast—I always caught the subtle scent of saltwater in the breeze. “It is a beautiful morning, as usual.”

  “So what? Probably means the afternoon storms will be even worse,” a gruff voice complained from behind Granger. “The prettier the morning, the worse the afternoon. That’s what I always say. It never fails. You watch. I don’t have to be psychic to know that.”

  “And a good morning to you, Briggs!” I called to Granger’s as yet unseen patrol partner. I’d spent enough time at the police department to know Vince Briggs’s voice—and generally negative outlook—without needing to lay eyes on his stocky frame. “Not a weather witch, so I couldn’t tell you yay or nay on the storms, but since it’s June in Florida? I’m going to say you’re likely more right than wrong, buddy.”

  Briggs popped out from behind the patrol car, his gray beard and hair clearly indicating his long service to the department. That he was still a patrolman out on the beat with that gray hair meant his attitude had gotten in his career’s way much more often than not.

  “Yes, well, good for you, girl,” he barked. “What do you want, a medal?”

  It hadn’t taken me long to become friendly with most of the police department. Those who weren’t friendly when I showed up became friendlier as Emma and I rapidly closed cold case after cold case. A few times we knocked an entire year’s worth of cold cases out in a single day.

  At least, the cold cases with items stored in the evidence locker that I could get information from.

  Thanks to our partnership, Emma’s star rose rapidly. Which, again, wasn’t that hard in a small-town police department with only three other detectives and thirty officers. The three other detectives, incidentally, took retirement a mere two weeks after my arrival.

  “I ain’t gonna wind up working for no girl,” one complained as he walked out the door. “It’s enough that everybody makes fun of that ghost-talking camp. Now we got a psychic on the payroll, too. It ain’t right.” Someone told me he left the police station after his snit fit and made a beeline to the golf course to toast retirement with the other two.

  Not surprising.

  The mayor and the police chief, marveling at the solved case statistics, disagreed with Gruffy McGolfpants. They didn’t care how Emma and I were doing it. They only cared it was finally, at long last, getting done—and getting done for a fraction of the cost of the initial investigations. The cherry on top? The three detectives leaving freed up enough money for Emma to get a raise and for me to be formally paid as a police consultant.

  An impressive month, I’d say.

  “Is today the day the reporter’s coming to visit?” Adam asked.

  Before I could answer, my phone vibrated again. “Yep. That’s probably Emma griping at me for not being here yet.” I smiled at the too-young-for-me officer and eyed him up and down. Adam was handsome, but he had the air of a man that cared little about that. I made a mental note to introduce him to Ami. “I need to go. You guys have a good day, and stay safe.”

  “Stay dry, you mean, when those storms roll in,” Briggs grumbled.

  Just then, Adam’s radio crackled, reporting a complaint of an owl in someone’s backyard.

  Chasing rabbits.

  Most police stations were bustling with activity, but not Forkbridge. The chairs were empty, and the place was relatively quiet. I pushed my code into the electronic lock next to the reception window. Cassie Blackwood looked up and smiled at me after I buzzed in.

  “Even when you’re going to be interviewed by the newspaper, you’re still going to wear that diving outfit, are you?” The old woman was a fixture at the reception desk. At sixty-six, she’d been here longer than any police officer, and I was sure she knew twice as much as any of them. “Someday, we are going to have to get you into regular clothes.”

  “I like my clothes, Cassie. Besides, it’s a newspaper article. They don’t care what I look like.”

  She laughed, and it was like the sound of sandpapered bells. “She brought a photographer, dear. If I know Meryl Hawkins, you and Emma are going to be on the front page above the fold.” Looking back down at her papers, she pointed toward a hallway without looking. “You better get going. The chief wants this article to be flattering, and it won’t do anyone good if she has to write that you were late.”

  “I’m not late,” I mumbled, but I sped up my steps anyway.

  “There she is!” Chief Daniel Harmon called across the room. With his back against the wall, hands at his sides, the chief looked rigidly alert. The chief always looked rigidly alert, though. “Astra, please, join us. I don’t believe you’ve met Meryl Hawkins. Ms. Hawkins, this is our official police psychic, Astra Arden.”

  I extended my gloved hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Hawkins.”

  The reporter stared transfixed at my hand—but refused to shake. Finally, she glanced up at me and met my eyes. “Is there a reason for the gloves, Ms. Arden?”

  “You don’t want her poking around in your head, do you?” Emma quipped as she walked out of the break room holding two cups of coffee. “Nice of you to join us, Arden. No psychic connection to a clock, I guess?” She handed one cup to the chief.

  I glanced at the clock on the wall. I was a mere five minutes late.

  Just five minutes.

  Emma Sullivan never met a ball she didn’t want to bust.

  “I don’t poke around in people’s heads. That’s not a particular talent I have.” Within three words of my speaking, I heard the distinct click of a tape recorder turning on. Behind Meryl, a skinny young man crept between us with his camera and snapped a close-up picture of my nostrils. “I can read the histories of objects and, sometimes, people. But I don’t do it unless it’s necessary.”

  “Could you read this pen?” Meryl asked, tilting the pen toward me.

  “I could, but what I do isn’t a parlor trick,” I told her somewhat defensively.

  The chief frowned, and Emma froze. Her eyes widened to the size of half dollars, then she swallowed. Glaring at me as if to remind me her future career depended on this interview going well, she turned toward the reporter.

  Pasting a gigantic, friendly (and out of character) smile on her face, Emma said, “What Astra means is s
he only utilizes her talent for specific purposes. She doesn’t just go around randomly grabbing things and sifting through the mental images she gets.” The detective jerked her chin toward my still-outstretched hand. “That’s the reason for the gloves. They keep her from getting any images unless she’s intending on reading an object.”

  “It also keeps her from getting too tired,” Chief Harmon added. “I imagine it’s a muscle like anything else, and too much use can exhaust her. I came into the station many a day,” he added proudly, “to see these two in the conference room, Astra hard at work uncovering information we never would’ve gotten any other way. She looked like she’d been up all night and on into the morning.”

  “Well, obviously, we’re all very impressed with Forkbridge PD’s ability to close so many older cases. But I have to ask—are we sure this woman’s information is correct?” Meryl pointed at me without looking at me. “Wouldn’t it be an absolute tragedy if we found out this is nothing more than psychic hokum, and men and women were put in jail based on the say-so of a charlatan?” Meryl blinked innocently, her pen poised on her pad.

  I did my best to keep my face deadpan, because I knew that was the way to take what she said, but whatever emotion I kept my face from betraying? Emma…did not.

  Her face reddened with vexation, she stepped closer to the reporter and leaned in. “I’m a military veteran, and a trained police officer, Ms. Hawkins,” Emma told the reporter, meeting her eyes boldly. “This may be a small town, and many of these crimes may be small crimes, but they were important to the people they happened to. Astra is one tool of many tools that we use to get information. Like any decent police officer that knows the law, I confirm or discard that information after thorough traditional investigation—”

  “Oh, of course. I never meant to imply otherwise.” The reporter interrupted Emma’s head of steam and waved away her previous statements. “Though now that you mention it—did you have to discard much of her information?” Meryl Hawkins asked coldly. “How much? What percentage would you say? After all, I think the taxpayers would like to know what percentage of this woman’s salary is wasted on bogus information that our fine police officers have to spend time chasing down.” The woman smiled like a snake. “Don’t you?”

  A flashbulb popped, and the chief threw a dark glance at me.

  I grabbed the top of my full-length glove and yanked it down before anyone could speak. Meryl Hawkins opened her mouth to say something, but I snatched the pen from her hand before she could start whatever new thought was in her head about my uselessness. “Are you sure?” I asked, holding the pen up in my bare hand.

  “Please,” she answered with a viper’s grin.

  I closed my eyes. Images flashed through my mind. A man with dark hair signing a check for twenty thousand dollars. A letter being written to Meryl apologizing for leaving and going back to his family. A request never to speak of their affair, that it would ruin his political career. That he hoped paying for college would make up for the pain he caused. My eyes popped open. “Do you really want me to talk about the twenty thousand dollars?”

  Meryl Hawkins’ face paled slightly beneath her copious amounts of makeup, and she shifted from foot to foot. Her mouth opened, then closed.

  For a second, I gloated to witness her sudden and intense discomfort, but I realized that glee made me a bit too much like her.

  “I, um, I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” she said.

  Yes, you are. Your face is telling everyone you are. “A check that you got, along with a letter, from—”

  “Yes, well, I don’t know that what you’re seeing is entirely accurate.” Meryl snatched the pen from my hand, being remarkably careful not to touch me. “But you’ve said enough that I can see clearly you have the capability you claim you have. Even if what you see isn’t the whole truth. Obviously.” I watched the expensive pen disappear into her purse.

  Chief Harmon held out a cheap ballpoint pen politely. “Please, take mine.”

  “I don’t think I need one, thank you,” Meryl told him. “We’ve got all we need for the story.” She cleared her throat. “I think I’ll leave any investigative exposés for the future. After all, Astra has only been here one month, and closing all of those cold cases is definitely a milestone that should be celebrated without complications.” She looked at me pointedly. “Perhaps we should leave any unpleasantness unsaid at this point.”

  I stared back and said nothing.

  “Well, Ms. Hawkins, the Forkbridge Police Department would certainly appreciate some good press for a change,” Chief Harmon told the reporter with noticeable relief. “You’re more than welcome to get any information you need or to continue the interview in the conference room if you—”

  “No, no, I think that’ll be all. We’ve got several interviews scheduled with some of the people you’ve helped, and I think that should be the focus.” She leaned over and grabbed her bag. “The Gundersons are just ecstatic you helped find the terrible people that stole their labradoodle. Everyone likes a dog story.” She smiled briefly at each one of us. “If I need anything, I’ll let you know.”

  “Please do that,” Chief Harmon told her. “Let me walk you out.”

  “I feel like I could’ve stayed home,” I told Emma. We watched the three make their way toward the front door, the photographer skulking along behind like an inept bodyguard. Emma pointed toward several bottles of pink liquid on her desk, and I shook my head. “Not thirsty, thanks. And not sure I’d drink a sports drink that bright pink color. Anyway, did she get any information from you at all, or was that just the shortest interview in the history of interviews?”

  “I think she planned to do some pseudo-exposé on the evils of psychics. Which, to be honest, has nothing to do with psychics. She dated some guy from the Cassandra spiritualist camp years ago, and he left her to go live on an ashram in India.” Emma sat down at her desk and rolled her eyes. “I don’t think she ever got over it.”

  “Well, then she’s got terrible taste in men.”

  Emma stared at me curiously. “Really now? What did you see with that pen that got her so freaked out?”

  “Let’s just say she had an affair with a married politician as a young woman,” I told Emma, my voice low. “When he went back to his wife, it appears he bought her a journalism degree as a parting gift.”

  Emma stared at me, shocked. “Wow, are you kidding?”

  “Not kidding. The images were super clear.”

  “Did you recognize the politician?”

  I nodded. “Not going to tell you who it is.”

  Emma looked disappointed, but she eventually nodded. “I get it. But still. You’re a spoilsport. What good is it having a psychic as a friend when I can’t find out all the juicy bits everybody hides?”

  “The good is that you close a whole bunch of cold cases, everyone sings your praises for finding a psychic that can help you do that, and you run off the other three lazy, misogynistic detectives that can’t stand the idea of you being super-detective with the highest close rate in the state of Florida overnight.”

  Emma sighed. “Yeah, well, there is that.”

  It was the Forkbridge mayor in the images from the reporter’s pen.

  Since the mayor was so enthusiastic about my coming on to the Forkbridge Police Department, I suspected Meryl Hawkins’s desire to make me look bad had as much to do with him as her hatred of all things psychic because of the ashram dude.

  “The important thing is she knows I know who he is,” I told Emma as I sat down across from her. “I don’t think we’ll have any problem with the Forkbridge Gazette. At least not for a while.”

  “That’s good.” Emma tilted her head and raised her eyebrow. “It’s that obnoxious house representative, isn’t it? The one that’s always on Fox News yammering about immigrants and white people?”

  “Not going to tell you.”

  “Spoilsport.”

  Chapter Three

  The fol
lowing day I stood in Ayla’s bedroom doorway at half-past five, ready for our brisk three-mile morning run. (Or, to be more accurate, however many miles of a run I would get to have before my younger sister gave up.) Her bedroom was dark, the curtains drawn, and a soft snore emerged from somewhere within the pile of blankets.

  I cleared my throat. “Ayla.”

  She didn’t move or open her eyes.

  “Ayla, it’s time,” I said, a little louder.

  Nothing. Not a movement, not a sound.

  I crossed my arms and leaned against the door frame. “Ayla!”

  Her eyes popped open in surprise, and she looked solidly about. Finally, she found me in the doorway and regarded me blearily without lifting her head from her pillow. My youngest sister groaned. “What?” she glanced sleepily at the clock. “It’s not even six. Go back to bed.”

  “I said I was going to wake you up early.”

  “This isn’t early. This is the middle of the night!” Ayla complained. “Everyone is still asleep! Everyone should be asleep. I should be asleep. Go away!”

  “That’s not true. I’m not asleep. I’m dressed and ready to go.” I waited for her response, but got only a glare. “Come on, sleepyhead, do you want those earrings or not?”

  Her eyes swept up and down, and then she closed them. “I don’t want anything this early in the morning,” Ayla mumbled. “Go away.” She pulled her blanket over her head and burrowed back into her pillow like a bear returning to hibernation after discovering it was the dead of winter. “Come back in two hours. We can go do the running thing then. Two hours. Thanks.”

  I sighed a little too loudly. A little too dramatically. Then I clapped my hands together just loud enough to be sure the sound would annoy her. “Well, I guess this settles the argument about which one of us is better, doesn’t it? Enjoy the rest of your sleep, Ayla. I’m going out for my morning run.” I grabbed the door loudly and made sure the creaking went well and long as I closed the door. “Night, lazybones.”