This was a good place. And to think a killer had invaded the neighborhood just days ago. She shuddered. There was always someone to spread poison and evil.
She strolled up to the counter, glanced at the glass jar filled with biscotti, the bin of mints, and the We Accept Tips cup. A young teen boy with shoulder-length blond hair, wearing a Georgetown T-shirt and jeans, moved up to the register.
“How’s it going, Joey?” She dug her change purse from her pocket.
“All’s well, Maya. You want the regular? Latte and sugar cookie seeing as it is Friday?”
She laughed. “Yes.”
The kid stared at her with a clear direct gaze, and she had liked him from the start. “So how go your classes?”
He shrugged as he held a pitcher of milk up to the steamer. “Can’t complain. Calculus blows, but I’m managing.”
“I know tutors if you need help.”
“So far I don’t need the cavalry, but I’ll let you know if I do.”
Joey finished her latte, set a cookie on a plate, and rang her up. Seconds later she was sitting at a small round table by the large picture window that overlooked The Wharf. Drooping yellow crime scene tape still cordoned off the area. She’d read about the murder in the paper. There’d been suggestions it was related to the occult but details had been sketchy. Likely it was some ignorant kid who didn’t even know how to spell devil.
She sipped her coffee. A couple passed by her table. They were laughing. Some days she wondered what it would be like to experience pure happiness. Or what it would be like to accept a man’s smile at face value without searching for the kernels of evil. Or what it would be like to kiss a man and not fear he’d steal her heart.
This time when she raised the cup to her lips, the tension in her fingers threatened to crack the cup. Carefully, she set it down next to the uneaten cookie.
“Hey, welcome again.”
She glanced up into Katrina’s face. “Good afternoon.”
Her smile brightened as she wiped down a table. “So how does that cookie taste?”
“Good and fattening.”
“Please. You run so much, you’ll never gain weight.”
“You should have seen me forty pounds ago.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You look stunning.”
“Thanks. Lots of blood, sweat, and tears.” Her on-again /off-again had told her she’d looked a little puffy the other day.
Katrina moved on to the next table, leaving Maya to her cookie, her latte, and her book, which she dug out of her worn backpack. Today, she was giving the kids a test so there were no lessons to plan.
When a man sat at the table beside her, she was only vaguely aware of him. When he scooted his chair, the sound dragged her gaze upward. She’d seen him here before. He was quiet. Kept to himself. A reader. All traits she shared. As she lowered her gaze, she noted the book he was reading, Salem’s Lost.
She had been reading it the other day. It was a historical biography of a woman accused of witchcraft in the seventeenth century. “So how do you like Salem’s’s Lost ?” she said.
He carefully marked his place before he glanced up. “I’m not buying the writer’s hypothesis. I mean really, bacteria caused mass hysteria that led to the witch trials.”
“It’s a theory that has been debated a few times.” She relaxed back in her seat. “Not many folks get into the history of Salem.”
“There’s a lot to be learned from history.” He broke a piece off his muffin as if he were going to eat it. “But in this case, I think the writer has it wrong.”
“Really?”
He didn’t let his gaze linger on her too long. “Bacteria in the bread did not make the town lynch those women. It was fear and greed.”
“Honestly, I agree with you. But it never hurts to explore new theories.” On reflex she pushed up her sleeves to her elbows.
“However, the author provides some great historical detail.”
She tucked a strand behind her ear and studied him closely for the first time. She liked what she saw. “Mind if I join you?”
He scooted his chair back and held out an open-faced palm in invitation. “The company would be nice.”
She picked up her cup and took the seat across from him. “I’ve seen you here before.”
“I like this place. Very homey.” He glanced out the window toward The Wharf. “You hear about what happened there?”
“I did. Terrible.”
“I hope the cops catch the nut soon.”
She extended her hand, and the silver bracelets jingled on her slim wrist. “I’m Maya Jones.”
He took her hand. “I’m Hunter. Hunter Thompson.”
His hand was warm and soft. “Very pleased to meet you, Hunter.”
They spent the next half hour talking and laughing, and for the first time in too long she felt as if the universe had tossed her a lucky break. Her watch beeped and she glanced down at the time. “I’ve got to go, Hunter. This has been great, but I’ve got to teach my class.”
He checked his own watch. “I need to get going, too. Maybe we can grab a cup of coffee again?”
“I’d like that.”
“Can I walk you to your car?”
“Sure.”
They rose and he held the front door for her. So charming, so old-fashioned, so very nice. They strolled down the street.
“I have a book I think you’ll like to read,” Hunter said.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a history of this area. Fascinating stuff. If you’ve got a quick sec, I’ll pull it out of my trunk.”
She checked her watch. The side trip would make her late for class. She hesitated. And so what if it did? How many times had she waited on on-again/off-again or the kids in her class? “Sure.”
She followed him down a side alley toward a Lincoln. He pulled keys from his pocket and clicked the lock open. As he leaned over and rummaged through piles of books, she caught his scent. Soap and soft aftershave. Nice. Normal.
“Here it is,” he said.
She leaned forward a fraction and in that second felt the prick of a needle in the side of her neck. Her vision blurred almost immediately and her legs buckled.
Hunter grabbed her and quickly laid her in the trunk of his car on the books. “That was almost too easy. You are so predictable, Maya.”
As her vision grew hazier and darker, her last image was of Hunter gazing at her with searing hate.
Chapter 14
Monday, October 25, 6:55 p.m.
Charlotte had scored a clear victory today in court. Innocent! Her client had been released from jail and now was free to get on with her life. The press for Wellington and James had been outstanding. Life was looking up.
So why did life feel so out of control? Why in the light of so many successes did she see only failure?
Because you are too tired and you need a break. Because you were on this case too long and you just can’t let go.
She set aside the reports on her new client prospects and rose from her living room couch. Barefooted, she’d changed from her suit into short gym shorts and an old T-shirt. This was her go-to comfort outfit that made her feel like herself and one that she’d never wear in public.
In the kitchen, she set a copper teakettle on the stove and turned on the gas burner. She wondered what Sooner was doing now. Where was she going to sleep when she left the carnival?
The teakettle blew. She shut off the gas flame, poured hot water into a black and gray mug, and set the kettle on a cool burner. Moving into the living room, she stared at the mountain range of brown boxes. The movers would be here on Friday. She’d signed the closing papers, taken the buyer’s check, and finalized the lease agreement on the modest two-bedroom apartment. In two days, the consignment store representative would arrive and she’d chosen what she wanted to sell and what she wanted to keep.
It was all necessary. All had to happen. Yet it was deep
ly unsettling. She’d moved around so much as a kid. And she’d hated it. There’d been no real school to attend. No long-term friendships. Everything had been temporary.
Had Sooner hated the endless moving? Had the girl longed for a permanent place, or was she part gypsy like her grandmother?
The movers had packed most of her belongings but she’d asked them to leave the back closet to her. She’d yet to tackle the task because all that stuff belonged to Grace Wells, stuff she should have pitched a long time ago.