Love Spell Read online

  Molly nodded in quiet repose. “Did Jane ever specifically threaten violence against your person?”

  Clint considered. “Well… not criminally. No. Nothing I’d mention to the cops.”

  Molly’s head bobbed once. She turned into the parking lot of the Contra Costa Regional Medical Center, and found a spot. Clint opened his door and levered himself out of the vehicle. Molly stepped around and proffered a helping hand. Clint took it, grateful both for the help and for the fact that he could accept her assistance without worry.

  “Thanks for bringing me here,” he said. “That Jane incident wasn’t fun.”

  “You’re sure it’s not issues with her medication?” Molly asked.

  Clint shook his head. “If you knew what I’ve been through over the last several months, I think you’d understand. This needs to end.” He couldn’t spend the rest of his life unable to touch half the people he met. Even marriage was right out the window. And he didn’t even want to think about what might happen if a future mother-in-law tried embracing him at the reception.

  “As soon as the doctors let me go,” he said solemnly, “I will find the old woman and break this stupid curse. My safety and sanity depend on it.”

  TWO

  8:00 a.m., Monday. Lindsay Sullivan stared at the small, silver letters on the door of her office. Of all the names she could have chosen for a private investigation firm, why in the world had she chosen “Sullivan and Self”? She should have gone with her gut and picked something cool like, “Stealthy Sullivan,” or “Lindsay’s Private Eyes” or “Seeking Sullivan,” or any of the other names she had brainstormed the day before she’d applied for the business license. Her Uncle Tom said she should come up with something more professional—it was better for business, he said.

  “But Uncle Tom,” she’d replied, “this is an adventure! If you want action-packed cases, you’ve got to sound like you mean it.”

  Tom had reminded her that she wasn’t living one of her television programs, and that people were more likely to pay her if she didn’t sound like a teenage kid trying hobby sleuthing. She capitulated, and checked out the names of other local P.I. firms.

  She hated them all.

  Ultimately, she fell back on her college degree and internships as a paralegal. Every law firm she’d ever heard of went by the names of its several partners. Only, she didn’t have any partners.

  No wonder I don’t get any calls, she thought sourly. They probably think I’m schizophrenic.

  By the time she’d realized her mistake in choosing a name her pride refused to let her change it, especially in the face of her parents’ constant badgering about getting a real job with a nice law firm somewhere in the Bay Area. Her father had arranged a dozen interviews through his business connections, but Lindsay refused to appear for any of them. At least that had gotten Dad to quit talking to her for the last six months. She ignored the small, uncomfortable feeling in the back of her head whispering that maybe he had been right after all. With a sigh and the turn of the knob, she walked into the closet-like space that housed her chance to finally prove herself.

  In his typical fashion, Uncle Tom had kindly helped by acquiring acceptably attractive secondhand furniture to replace the bland monstrosities that had come with the rental space. Lindsay didn’t mind “scratch-n-dent” stuff. A little sanding, varnish, and elbow grease and things were good as new. The desk was real cherry wood, the chair was actual leather (a graduation gift from her parents, from when they thought she was still living their dreams), and the computer was only four years old. Tom had also gotten her a cheap desk phone with one of those old-fashioned, tape-recorder style answering machines. The overhead light worked.

  And I have a window! The thought always made her smile.

  She squeezed past the stacks of boxes lining the wall as she crossed to her desk, and dropped the day’s mail next to the computer. She sat, luxuriating in the non-Naugahyde embrace of her chair before booting up her computer. Waiting for the machine to rouse itself, she sifted through the mail.

  Bill from Pacific Gas and Electric. A reminder to make the last three months’ lease payments or face eviction in thirty days. Buy two, get one free tacos from Burrito Juan’s. Reminder about the oil change. “Get Well” card from Daryl—ugh. Idiot. Overdue utility bill.

  She stopped, put on her calm face, removed the taco coupon, and then slid the remainder of the mail under her desk. It would wait. Her computer was active now and she checked her e-mail. The content wasn’t much better than the snail mail. But, oh! Mr. Francis had responded! Her heart picked up the pace as she noticed the subject line: “RE: re: Your services.”

  John Francis had come to her five days ago, asking after her prices and qualifications. He hadn’t gone into detail, but he’d hinted at a sneaking suspicion that his wife was stepping out on him—possibly even funding her dalliances with money from his businesses. Lindsay had assured him of her skills and reasonable fees, and when she finished, he seemed impressed. He left with a promise to get back to her soon because he “might now be done shopping around for a P.I.”

  Best of all, he seemed rich. Rich clients were the best kind.

  Holding her breath, Lindsay opened the e-mail.

  “Dear Miss Sullivan,” she read aloud. “Thank you for offering your services. I admit I could not find a more competitive price anywhere in town.”

  Lindsay gave a little squeal. At last! A case! Finally something to silence the naysayers.

  She read on.

  “I regret to inform you…” Her heart sank at those words, and she reverted to silent reading. Mr. Francis had decided that the sensitive nature of the case, and the skill of his wife in hiding her deeds, required someone with more experience in the field. He thanked her for her time, and signed it “John.”

  He had the gall to include a “P.S.” inviting her to dinner with him that coming Friday. Pig.

  Lindsay slumped back in her chair, and kicked absently at the mail protruding from under the desk (she made a mental note to clean that crevice out this month). John Francis had been one of only seven people to ever walk through her office door in the five months she had been in business. Herself, her parents, and Uncle Tom made up most of the rest of that list. She didn’t count the janitor.

  C’mon, think, girl. Don’t give up! That’s exactly what Mom and Dad expect! It’s only one little setback. You need some name recognition. Let people know you’re there, and that you’re good, and they’ll be beating down your door.

  Her desk phone rang. She snatched it without thought.

  “Sullivan and… Self… Private Investigators. This is Sullivan.”

  Silence. Then some heavy breathing. Lindsay rolled her eyes and slammed the receiver down. She hated the fact that her business phone pre-dated caller ID. She’d change that as soon as she got her first paycheck. It rang again immediately. She flipped the ringer to “off.” Grabbing the keyboard, she started hammering in search criteria for free, local advertising. Eventually voicemail picked up.

  “Hi,” she heard that tinny, grating recording of her voice say. “You’ve reached Sullivan and Self Private Investigators, where we never fail to find what you’re looking for. I’m unavailable to take your call at the moment. Please leave your name, a detailed message, and a phone number I can reach you at, and I’ll return your call as soon as I can. Have an excellent day!”

  The machine beeped, and Daryl’s unfortunately familiar voice blared from the speaker. “Yo, Lindz! Ya get my card? Yeah, I heard about your surgery. Figured you’d like it.”

  “It was a regular dental checkup, moron,” Lindsay muttered to herself.

  “I made it myself,” the man added. “Well, Mom helped with the spelling, but I put the whole thing together. I even used that recycled stuff you’re always talking about.

  “Anyway, I’ll be there in a bit. You stiffed me for our last two dates. I’m still takin’ you to dinner. Tomorrow. My place. Mom’s making her lasagna. I’ll
have her come getcha sometime. Love ya, hot stuff! Ciao!”

  Lindsay nursed a new headache. Daryl Duncan was quite possibly the stupidest man on the planet. She wondered what stroke of bad karma had earned her his affection. It was one thing to have the wealthy, handsome John Francis offer to take you to dinner—that was at least flattering, even if he was an obvious liar and a two-timer. But Daryl? Lindsay was uncertain whether she could have penetrated his skull with a diamond-bit drill. Oh, she’d tried turning him down nicely the first five times he’d asked her out. After that, she’d grown increasingly blunt. That failed too. Ignoring him sometimes worked, but Daryl had this disturbing habit of showing up at the most unexpected of places and times. Lindsay grabbed her pad of sticky notes and jotted a reminder to increase her counter-stalking defenses.

  Why wouldn’t men leave her alone? Except as clients, of course. She could handle men—especially rich, handsome ones—paying her to do their snooping for them. But why did they all keep asking her out? She had vowed she wouldn’t bother them. Couldn’t they extend her the same courtesy? Was it really that hard to avoid commenting on her eyes or her legs or her… never mind. She was a professional doing professional work. She was not some piece of meat to be ogled, thank you very much.

  She deleted the voicemail as soon as it ended, and then went back to perusing her e-mails. Spam. More reminders. E-mail from Mom about how worried she was about her daughter. Message from an old high school girlfriend. Something about the Nevada State Fair. She looked askance at that, but then remembered she’d been browsing sites about Las Vegas for someone who almost pretended to become a client. Nothing of real note. She deleted the spam, read the message from the girlfriend, opened the one from Mom just to trigger the “message read” receipt on Mom’s e-mail, and kept the one about the fair for no real reason at all. When she finished she flipped through her list of past “almost clients.” If no one would come to her, she would have to go to them.

  “Ashworth, Beverly,” the first card read. Mrs. Ashworth had called her three months back, inquiring whether Lindsay would help find her lost dog. At the time, it seemed like a silly request—Lindsay was not some low-class pet detective. The older woman had accepted Lindsay’s courteous explanation as to why she couldn’t take the case, but seemed disappointed all the same. Unbidden, the stack of bills from the morning’s mail came to mind. Maybe Old Lady Ashworth’s prize Pomeranian was still alone and afraid somewhere? She dialed the number, and waited until a kind, elderly voice came on the line.

  “Hello, Mrs. Ashworth? This is Lindsay Sullivan of Sullivan and Self Private Investigators. I was wondering…”

  A half hour, and seven, short phone calls later, Lindsay had come up blank. She checked to see if the free, local ad she’d put out last week had received any hits. The page’s view count was dismal, and there had been no click-throughs. Then again, she had a hunch about what to expect when resorting to one of the painfully few “no-cost” options. When she had checked them out, her detective sense smelled something fishy about all but one of them, and even that ad firm didn’t look encouraging. She supposed she could go door to door, but that was hardly professional.

  An image popped into her mind of a hulking man with the word “Bills” tattooed across his chest. He was beating on a little nerdy guy wearing a t-shirt with the logo “Lindsay’s Bank Account” on it. She felt sorry for the nerd.

  “God,” she whispered, looking up at the sky, “I know I don’t pray much, and I’m probably not a top priority for you, what with world hunger and all those other problems, but would you mind helping me out a bit? Maybe, send me a case? Or two?”

  No answer. She wasn’t sure she had expected it. But who knew? Maybe God had an answering machine as well, and had to sort through billions of prayers one at a time. No, He would have a proper staff to handle His secretarial work. He probably didn’t have a lease either. Maybe she should have gone to school to be a goddess. Did they even have schools for such a thing? Either way, being a supernatural being would certainly be an adventure.

  The urge to use the ladies’ room brought her back to earth. Lindsay made her way around her desk. In a rare, clumsy moment, her foot snagged a teetering pile of boxes. She yelped as a half dozen of them crashed down, spilling their contents all over the floor. She groaned.

  “Well, it’s not as though I was doing anything else right now.” She excused herself to freshen up. She’d deal with the mess in a moment.

  9:30 rolled around before Lindsay declared the disaster “conquered.” She looked at the rearranged stack with satisfaction before turning back to her desk. An unexpected upshot of her little accident was that she had unearthed some of her old high school paraphernalia. Maybe a little mental break would help clear her mind and bring in some fresh ideas. She put her old notebooks aside and went straight for the yearbooks.

  Freshman year. The picture above her name made her shudder. Had her hair really been that ratty? And those freckles? Ugh. As if being strawberry blond hadn’t been bad enough. Then there was the acne. She slammed the book shut.

  Sophomore year. Her family had moved to a different town and gave her a fresh start. The acne was mostly gone by then, but she wasn’t sure if braces made such a good replacement. She’d straightened her hair, but what was with the little poof of bangs on the right side of her head? Why had she been so hideous back when guys were still worth thinking about? She wondered if there was some sort of “reverse plastic surgery” to make a girl look a tad disgusting to keep them away now. No, she still had her dignity, and Mom would never pop to cover a nose job designed to make her look like a toucan.

  She looked through the yearbook signatures she’d gotten from various friends; she was surprised at how few there were. She slightly regretted her plan to skip her ten-year reunion when it came up, but she had her reasons. As she started to close the book, the pages flopped down to reveal the seniors. A face stopped her cold. That lazy, blond hair over those gray-blue eyes that she used to think shined for her. There was that familiar, half grin that never quite left his lips, and seemed to get wider when he saw her. It was almost a shame that she’d scribbled a big, black X over his picture; it was the only one of him she had. No amount of scribbling would ever erase her mental picture of him.

  I’d almost forgotten about him. The lie was comforting. She thoroughly despised Clint Christopherson. She could have forgiven him if he’d merely been a dolt like Daryl. The way Clint had pulled out her heart with a surgeon’s care, so much that she was blinded to its absence, was another thing altogether. It wasn’t until her breakup with her first serious boyfriend—and she didn’t shed one tear over it—did she realize just how much Clint affected her. Granted, that made it easier to be dumped by boyfriends two and three, back in college. Maybe she should be grateful? No. Clint was scum. He deserved a long, slow death after a life of celibacy. At least she had finally woken up to the fact that she could be her own woman.

  Still, she took a long, last look at that markered face before gently closing the yearbook and filing it back in its box. After a moment’s thought, however, she fished it back out, and set it on her desk; it would be fun to look through it tonight while on the phone with Jen.

  This has nothing to do with Clint, she told herself.

  What had happened to him, anyway? A moment of hesitation, and then she turned to her computer. No sin in a little curious searching, now, was there? Ten minutes was all she needed to find out that he was still single and still in the Bay Area. Would he even remember her? Would she want him to remember her? No, no. He was a liar; he didn’t deserve her. He’d missed his chance back when she was young and stupid. His loss. She was a big girl now. A big girl with big girl responsibilities.

  She closed the web browser and looked out her window at the street below. Of all those people down there, surely someone needed her services. A case would come her way sooner or later, she was sure. It had to. Otherwise, Mom and Dad would, once again, be right. Lindsay coul
d afford no more Mrs. Ashworths: Lindsay would take whatever case she could get.

  THREE

  Clint emerged from Contra Costa grateful to still have all his internal organs. Fate had assigned him to an overly curious resident who had quickly diagnosed Clint as “damaged goods but in good health,” and then proceeded to express unearthly interest in Clint’s interior anatomy. He resorted to creative answers and, in the end, simply demanding to leave without further testing.

  For his troubles, he was given a sling for his left arm, and a prescription to “take it easy for a few days.” Visits like that always made him wonder why art couldn’t be more like medicine. He would love to be able to stare at a painting with a client, ask a few generic questions, and then state the obvious for a nice chunk of cash. Alas, life didn’t play that tune. At least his upcoming job interview presented a chance to break out of his post-collegiate rut.

  His injuries addressed, the morning seemed a little brighter. The sunlight mingled with a hinted scent of the bay, and a stronger hint of Molly’s perfume as she walked close beside him on the trip back to the car, content to let the silence linger. He was grateful she wasn’t one of those “gotta talk all the time” kind of girls. He’d dated too many of those, in his time; he’d never forget that wonderful two hours he spent dumping his crazy ex, Michelle, over text messaging. He’d never have escaped her if they’d been face to face instead.

  Back at the car, Molly looked at him expectantly. He pursed his lips and thought for a moment. “Well, I’ve got neither shirt nor shoes, so that rules out visiting any fast food joints this morning. Unless we do drive-thru.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “A guy’s gotta eat, right? Breakfast is the most important meal, and all that. Of course, my wallet’s still back at my place, so even if I were fully dressed… Run me back to my place quick, please? So I can pick that stuff up?”