“Tea and Tarts? They’re established but not trendy.”
“Good.”
I texted Candice back, asking her to meet me atTea and Tartsin three hours. The drive only took up half the time, but I had to take care of my own business first.
Ange ushered her yoga ladies out and promised to pick me up for our trip to Cannon Hill.
I left Cosmo napping while I headed out to visit Ms. Vine. She lived in a white wooden A-frame building from the 1940s, with a pistachio-colored front door and window shutters. Large terracotta urns with pansies flanked the front step.
Ms. Vine opened the door so fast, I almost stumbled inside. “Bex? What a surprise.”
I followed her into a large room with an artificial fire in the fireplace. Bookshelves lined the wall, and a half-finished jigsaw puzzle covered a table.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
I closed my eyes and concentrated on the pit of my stomach where my witchy intuition would hopefully give me signs. I opened my eyes again. “I need to leave town and was wondering if you’d take over the library again.”
“For how long?”
“Hopefully only this afternoon, but I can’t be sure.” The warm tingling in my stomach told me to trust her. “I might also need other favors, if you are what I think you are.”
“Which is?” Her lips twitched.
“Something similar to what my aunt was?”
“What your aunt was, or what you are?”
I nodded, wordlessly.
“I’m not a witch, if that’s what you’re trying to ask. Something similar does describe my situation a lot better. As for favors, it depends on what’s going on.”
“We had another murder.”
She gasped. “Not again.”
I gave her the gist of it.
“That’s terrible,” she said. “Of course I’ll take care of the library, and I’ll also have a think if there is anything I can contribute.”
“I still don’t know what that is, or what you are.”
“This is not the time to go into long explanations, if you want to go to Cannon Hill.” She nudged me towards the door. “Just think of me as a conduit. And now, my dear, go and sort out this latest mess.”
Chapter 8
Aconduit? Whatever did she mean? I decided to ask Cosmo, the almost all-knowing.
He’d woken up from his nap when I set foot in our apartment and peered at me.
“She’s coming.” I rummaged through my wardrobe. My stretchy pants and old sweatshirt were fine for stacking books and dusting shelves, but when confronted with the younger generation in the form of my ex’s bride-to-be, murder suspect or not, I intended to add some oomph to my habitual meh. I’d read that phrase somewhere and it had stuck with me.
I grimaced. These days, I preferred to reserve my headspace for important things like spells and where I put my new reading glasses. Pithy remarks were all well and good, but not if they cluttered up my mind.
Cosmo sashayed over to me. “The burgundy shirt and black slacks look good on you. They bring out the blue hair.”
I changed without so much as checking my appearance in front of the mirror. Maybe it was the French aristocrat in him, or the fact that he’d lived through more fashion eras than a Hollywood costume designer, but his taste was impeccable if he made an effort.
“What’s a conduit?” I asked.
