Magical Misfire Read online

  She sneered but held her tongue. I turned away from her.

  “Hi,” I said, catching Bryn’s hand and pulling him away from the desk. “How are you? How was the drive from Houston?”

  “Congested.”

  “Are you still mad at me?”

  “I’m not angry. I’m concerned.”

  “Well, your concerned voice sounds a lot like everyone else’s mad voice.”

  “I’m against you trying to contact a ghost. Give me more time to do research.”

  “You can still do research! Go ahead. In the meantime I’ll do some, too, by meeting with Sally O’Shea.”

  “Ghosts can’t be trusted. You of all people should know that.”

  “My ghost can be trusted . . . about most things,” I said. Our family ghost, my double-great-aunt Edie, had been a gorgeous flapper who’d been murdered in the 1920s. She helped raise me. Unfortunately, Edie and Bryn didn’t get on. “She’d never send me into danger.”

  “Not knowingly,” he said, then added, “I’m surprised she’s interfering. I thought your aunt didn’t care whether Jenna and Lucy were returned to normal size.”

  “She doesn’t but she understands that I’m sick of taking care of them. And she knows I’m not going to just turn them loose. Who knows what could happen? Didn’t you see Honey, I Shrunk the Kids?”

  Bryn looked skeptical.

  “I’m serious. Guess what happened today?”

  “What?”

  “Mercutio almost ate them. It was like a Tom and Jerry cartoon. Lucy and Jenna were hiding behind the drapes. Merc saw them, and they had to dive under a bureau. Lucky I was there because Merc shoved a paw in and got his claws into Lucy’s pant leg. He’d pulled her halfway out by the time I stopped him. Another few seconds and—” I made a loud gulping sound, then shuddered. “What would I say to Jenna’s husband, Boyd? He already always gives me the evil eye when he sees me around town. And he’s still after the police to investigate me in their disappearance. Imagine the conversation. ‘Gee, Boyd, I’m still working on getting your wife back to you, but I’ve got some bad news. My ocelot ate your sister, Lucy.’”

  “You don’t owe him an explanation. They tried to kill you. So did he. Besides, Boyd can’t prove that you have any idea where Jenna and Lucy are. As I’ve told you before, you should never admit that you do. Not to anyone.”

  “Leave him wondering for the rest of his life what happened to them? No, Bryn. It wouldn’t be right. I can’t let that one time he tried to murder me cloud my judgment.”

  Bryn shook his head, but his expression softened. “You’re a better person than any of them.”

  “And soon I’m going to be a more festively dressed person than any of them. I brought clothes for you, too.”

  Bryn glanced down at his crisp white shirt and red silk tie. “Is this ghostly meet and greet black tie?”

  “Um, no. Not exactly.”

  • • •

  “Can you cinch that more snug?” I said, frowning. Why the heck did the one ghost in Texas who could help us only show herself to people in costume during Dickens on The Strand? “The dress is so heavy it feels like it’s going to fall right off.”

  Bryn pulled the ties but when I leaned forward, my boobs still threatened to spill out.

  “Can you, um, make it tighter?”

  “You mean am I strong enough to make it tighter?” Bryn asked. With a sharp drag on the ribbons, I was trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, the air whooshing from my lungs. With a little flourish, he tied the strips of satin and I worked to get a breath in.

  He turned me to face him, his hands resting on the dark blue velvet encasing my waist, which was at least two inches smaller than usual because of the corset. I wouldn’t be very proud of my Victorian hourglass figure when my lungs collapsed, but Bryn’s avid attention warmed me to the tips of my lace-up booties.

  Bryn wore an old-fashioned suit. The coat was a vibrant blue that matched his eyes, and he looked really cute, like an actor about to take the stage, but he didn’t spare himself a glance in the mirror. His gaze flirted darkly with my upthrust cleavage.

  “The brochures said Victorian ladies were prim,” I complained. “I thought I was supposed to have lace ruffles all the way to my throat.”

  Bryn’s jaw-grazing high collar nearly poked his cheeks as he looked down at me.

  “Apparently Johnny took some liberties with your costume. God bless him.”

  “He dressed me like a lady of the night,” I huffed. “Just because we’re meeting a harlot doesn’t mean I have to look like one.”

  Bryn’s gaze rested on the hollow of my throat and his mouth tried to follow. I took a step back and my full skirt squashed against the wall.

  “Don’t get distracted,” I warned.

  “If you serve up your breasts like a pair of French pastries, I reserve the right to salivate over them.”

  I caught his chin between my thumb and forefinger and lifted it. Bryn’s a brilliant lawyer and a brilliant wizard, but sometimes he acts just like a regular guy. Mostly I didn’t mind. Except when we had work to do.

  “There’s no reason for you to get carried away on account of this outfit. You’ve seen me naked,” I pointed out.

  “It’s been a while,” he said. “It feels like a lifetime, considering the way you look in indigo velvet.” His head dipped toward mine.

  “One kiss.”

  “It was the season of light,” Bryn murmured, leaning close.

  “Only one or I’ll probably pass out.”

  His black hair gleamed like the polished boots that met his trousers. My fingertips trailed through his dark locks.

  His kisses are magic-laced, as sweet as custard, and addictive. He pulled me against him, or as close as we could get with ten pounds of fabric between us.

  Half-starved for air even before our lips touched, I swooned. He caught me before I toppled into the open closet.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice husky and amused.

  My hands gripped his shoulders. “No wonder ladies were always fainting in the olden days. They were suffocating.”

  “Let’s lock the Reitgartens in their plastic toy case and—”

  “Bryn, no! I’m so sick of them. They can go home or they can go to Hell, but they can’t live in a Malibu Dreamhouse at your mansion anymore. I’m going to find Sally O’Shea. You can come with me or you can stay here with Mercutio.”

  “Mercutio is not the company I want tonight.”

  “I know,” I said, giving him a gentle shove. “But turn me loose. I can’t breathe as it is.”

  I bustled away in my lace-up boots. My momma had a pair kind of like them from when she was a teenager, only hers were plain brown leather. Mine were made of velvet and black lace with small beads studding them. When Johnny Nguyen, our local hairdresser and community theater director, makes a costume, it’s never dull. No Victorian shopkeeper or serving girl in burlap brown. Only a dapper gentleman and a plucky prostitute bedazzled with beads will do.

  I lifted the velvet pouch that matched the outfit.

  “Absolutely not!” Jenna yelled, guessing my intent.

  I scooped her up and dropped her inside. Lucy walked to the edge of the desk, folding her arms across her chest and waiting with cold dignity.

  I lifted Lucy and placed her inside. “I’ll try not to jostle you guys too much,” I said before pulling the satin cord to close the makeshift handbag.

  Bryn picked up his top hat and silver-handled cane. “My fair lady,” he said, extending his arm.

  • • •

  The streets brimmed with street performers, vendors, and visitors. Bryn and I shared bites of a savory meat pie, and we tried wassail, a spiced cider served hot from a pot. I marveled at the snow. I’d never actually seen any before in real life, so I stood delighted
with my face tilted skyward as the snow-making machines turned the street into a winter wonderland the likes of which you’d see in a movie. Unfortunately, the snow didn’t carpet the ground. The sixty-four-degree temperature melted the snow too darn fast.

  “Like being in a snow globe,” I enthused, putting my hands out to catch the clumpy flakes.

  “Real falling snow is a bit different.”

  “Prettier?”

  He nodded. “But this is a nice effect. The organizers have done a great job capturing the spirit of the times.”

  “Yep,” I said. “It’s a festive festival.” I scanned the crowd incessantly, hoping to spot Sally O’Shea.

  Mercutio brushed against me. He wore a collar of jeweled lace for the occasion, as if he were part of an exotic circus come to London. He stuck his tongue out to capture a wafer of snow.

  “Merc approves.”

  “If you’d like to experience the real thing, I could take you on a vacation. How about a week in the mountains? I could teach you to ski. Or we could go to Connecticut. I’d like to show you where I went to school.”

  “Um,” I hesitated. I was crazy about Bryn, but I was trying to take things slow. My relationship with my ex wasn’t resolved, which Bryn knew full well. He just liked to pretend he didn’t. “Maybe someday, but this month I’ve got dozens of holiday parties to bake for. Being unemployed I can’t afford to turn down work.”

  “You’re not unemployed. You’re self-employed,” he corrected. “You’re the most talented pastry chef in the region. You’ll always have as much work as you want.”

  I smiled. “Well, if you want the talent to be able to afford to buy you a Christmas present, you better not try to tempt me into slacking through the season of pumpkin pies and holiday cookies. Hey, here comes the parade!”

  I reveled at the outfits and props: an old-timey fire cart pushed by costumed firemen, marching London bobbies and soldiers, and a procession of lords and ladies in horse-drawn carts passed by.

  Sitting on the back of a passing nautical float, a busty woman with a knowing smile caught my eye. Despite her dark lipstick and heavy makeup, she looked . . . yes, she was slightly transparent.

  “Mercutio,” I said and inclined my head.

  Merc’s sleek stripes bobbed up and down in answer.

  “Bryn, I think I see Sally.” I grabbed my skirt and hurried down the street, weaving between vendors, my dress bumping against wide swatches of fabric worn by women in my way.

  “Sally! Sally O’Shea!” I called.

  She gave me a sharp-eyed look, then her mouth curved into a crimson smirk. With a flounce of phantom skirts, she hopped down from the cart. She sashayed onto the sidewalk and waited.

  I hurried to her, Mercutio padding along with me until a rotisserie of smoked sausages on sticks proved too much of a temptation for him and he darted off.

  I turned to ask Bryn if he could see the ghost. Unfortunately, I’d managed to lose him in the crowd, too. Men! “Miss O’Shea?” I asked.

  “The very same. Who wants to know?” she asked in an accent I hadn’t heard since I saw the Duvall play production of A Christmas Carol. Russet curls danced around a face more pug than princess, but she had round, rouged cheeks that made her seem cheerful.

  “I’m Tammy Jo Trask. I need your advice.”

  “I’d hold half a guinea you don’t. With hair bright as copper and that face, you’ll do fine. Make sure he pays first and keep a maid to knock on the door for more money if he goes over his time.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “And don’t go giving it away for a bag of crisps like those little things along the boardwalk. A pity that is. You could— Hallo,” she said, smiling past me.

  A glance over my shoulder revealed Bryn was standing behind me. “Miss O’Shea, this is Mr. Lyons.”

  “Oh ho. Pray, how do you do, sir?”

  “Very well, Ms. O’Shea,” he said, extending a hand. Her semitransparent chubby fingers rose so Bryn could kiss them. “And you?”

  “Right enough. But I don’t hold with a girl having a male protector unless he works for her, not the other way round.” She looked at me. “You’ll make treble or more on your own, my girl. Look at his fancy clothes. Half your wages will go to keeping him in suits.”

  “Pardon me?” I asked.

  Bryn’s smile turned grim. “She’s implying I’m your pimp.”

  “For the love of Hershey!” I muttered, flushing. “I told you this outfit made me look like a lady of the night! I’m not a prostitute, Miss O’Shea. I’m—” I glanced around, lowering my voice to a whisper. “I’m a witch. I’ve done a spell I’d like to undo, and I’ve heard that you have some expertise in this particular area.”

  “A witch,” she said with a skeptical sniff. “There’s always some girl or young man who fancies herself or himself magical and arrives here looking for me, expecting free lessons. It’s why I stopped appearing to tourists except during the Dickens revival. The holidays and seeing the old clothes puts me in a good mood. Don’t take that to mean I can abide having my time wasted. I can’t.”

  “Because at this point, your time’s so valuable,” Bryn said, his voice dry as a martini.

  “A pretty tongue you have, sharp as a blade,” she said, leaning close to him. “Have a care, love, or you’ll find yourself haunted.”

  “Not likely. My property’s warded with stronger magic than you could overcome.”

  “Bryn, don’t be rude.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “So you think you’re a wizard, too, do you? What sort, then?”

  “Celestial,” he said.

  “A stargazer?” she asked, then shook her head slowly. “You don’t look it. You’ve the look of water about you. Shiny as a—” She paused scrutinizing him and then me. “My girl, where do your people come from?”

  “I’m from Texas, born and bred. But my momma’s family’s from New York and Great Britain a ways back. My daddy’s from Scotland or thereabouts, or so I’m told.”

  She studied me, taking a deep breath so her big bosom wobbled in her low-cut dress. “You’ve done a spell you said. What manner of spell?”

  My furtive glance darted to either side and over my shoulder before I loosened the purse strings. I rolled the opening down an inch, and the wild-haired head of Jenna Reitgarten popped up.

  “Help!” she wailed.

  “Oops,” I squeaked, clapping the top together and cinching it closed.

  “Lucky stars above,” Sally said with a throaty laugh. “The genuine article. Tell me your name again.”

  “It’s Tammy Jo. Do you think you can help me?”

  “It was the spring of hope,” Bryn murmured, frowning at my eagerness.

  “Call me Sal. We’ll help each other,” Sally said.

  “It was the winter of despair,” Bryn added.

  I beamed at Sally then turned to Bryn. “Don’t be negative,” I said, giving his arm a pinch. “Call it the winter of hope. And the Christmas of relief!”

  “I would,” Bryn said. “But somehow that’s never the way the story goes.”

  2

  “On the whole, I don’t believe corsets are proper adventure attire.” I twisted, trying to stop the corset’s bones from poking me. The shifting worsened things and I had to stop and stand up straight, which made me feel dizzy. Sally had sent us on a mission. But it turns out I can’t walk very fast when my torso’s in a straitjacket. So annoying.

  “Are you all right?” Bryn asked.

  “As right as I can be in underwear that could double as a torture device,” I said, huffy. We passed a worn building that housed a flea market antique store.

  Sally had sent us to steal sea creatures from a fountain, and a bunch of questions kept swishing through my brain. How did they survive away from the ocean? What did they eat? If the owner used chemicals to
treat the water, did it make them sick?

  Sally had said we’d need to use a spell to attract them. “Why would fish be drawn to magic?”

  “They wouldn’t be,” Bryn said.

  “You’re saying Sal lied?”

  “I know it’s hard to imagine. A prostitute who lies, alert the media.”

  “Sometimes you sound just like your dad,” I said, frowning. Lennox Lyons was the most sarcastic person I’d ever met. “If I poured some sugar water over you, I could make lemonade.”

  “Great. We’ll have something to drink in jail.”

  It should’ve been a sobering thought, but instead of worrying me it made me giggle.

  “It must be this way,” I said. “I know Mercutio was having fun on the Strand with all those people feeding and admiring him, but I’m surprised he didn’t come with us.”

  “He recognizes a fool’s errand when he sees one.”

  “Are you saying my cat’s smarter than us?”

  “Yes.”

  That made me laugh again.

  “Is this right?” I mumbled, straining to see the street sign. To say the house was a faded beauty was putting it mildly. Paint peeled off the walls and backyard weeds grew taller than me. Several of the downstairs windows were boarded up.

  “Yes, this is Postoffice Street. In Sally O’Shea’s time, this was the red-light district.”

  “Oh,” I said. A few months back, I hadn’t known what a red-light district was, but apparently it’s the place where the houses of ill repute are clustered together.

  “There was a row of female boarding houses. When a prospective customer was shopping for company, it was called ‘going down the line.’” The ones at the end of the street were more opulent and therefore the girls were more expensive. The last house was called the ‘top of the line.’”

  “Is that where that expression comes from? No! I say that all the time. It started out as a description for whorehouses?”