Kicking It

Kicking It Page 23

“I’m going to walk around the house,” Liz said, planting the key in Layla’s palm.

Cia stared hard at her for a moment and then nodded in understanding. “Yeah. Okay.” Leaving Layla—who entered the house without them—Liz led the way and Cia followed, her boots drumming on the carefully placed stepping-stones that ringed the house. The yard to the left side of the house was shadowed, chilly, and narrow, and the gate in the picket fence at the back edge of the house was unlocked. There were no broken windows or any obvious damage. The backyard was deeper than it was wide, and not fenced. Deer tracks and scat indicated that wildlife was welcome out back. The back door was closed, locked, and looked undisturbed. There were no broken windows that a kidnapper or burglar might have used.

On the south side of the house there was a small greenhouse filled with bags of soil, fertilizer, and yard tools, and a gate, identical to the one on the other side. It too was unlocked, with only a tiny catch. Near the front corner of the house was the patch of green pushing up through the soil, the jonquils looking cheerful.

“Nothing,” Cia said.

“Yeah.” They went back up the short flight of steps to the door and it opened before they could knock, Layla watching through the door’s leaded-glass window. She stepped aside and the twins entered, drawing together, as usual, in the unfamiliar place.

The air was warm inside, the heat at a comfortable level, not a lower setting. Most people might decrease the setting of the central heat when planning an extended out-of-town stay, and the comfortable temps seemed significant. Liz unbuttoned her sweater and tucked her hands into her jeans pockets, thinking about fingerprints. Even though she wasn’t looking, Cia put her hands in her jacket pockets, too. Twin stuff.

The house had wide-board hardwood floors, creamy painted walls hung with framed art, painted floor moldings and ceiling moldings. Ten-foot ceilings. Antique furniture juxtaposed with designer pieces. The living room boasted an Oriental rug in wine and blues to match the navy leather couch and burgundy upholstered chairs. The dining room sported navy-and-wine-striped fabric on the dining chairs and a floral rug under the antique table for ten. Perfect. The kitchen was clean, not a dish out of place on the granite-topped cabinets. The stovetop looked as if it had never been used.

Liz pointed up the stairs and Layla shrugged. The twins went up alone and found two guest rooms with a Jack-and-Jill bath between, and a sewing room/craft room/extra super-neat junk room behind a closed door. Theirs were the only footprints on the neutral carpet. Having learned nothing, they went back downstairs.

The house was free of dust, piles of mail, and accumulated rubbish. There were no coats tossed over chair backs. No shoes in a corner or slippers by the front door or gloves on a side table. No clutter. The framed art consisted of impersonal prints that a decorator might have chosen. There were no photos or mementos anywhere. No plants to water. No dog or cat bowls. The house was something for a magazine shoot, not a place to relax, to live.

Until Layla, still silent and watching them with curious and sober eyes, led them into the master suite. Which was totally different.

The suite looked like it had been hit by a whirlwind. The king-sized bed was unmade, the covers and comforter in a heap on the floor. Clothes were everywhere. A bottle of wine was open on a side table near a sitting area, a single long-stemmed glass beside it. Wine ringed the glass, partially evaporated. One glass. Not two, as one might expect if she’d met a man, had a tryst, and taken off with him, as the police seemed to think. Jewelry was in a pile on the bureau, diamonds and gold. A lot of both. The marble bath en suite was clean and untouched, Evelyn’s makeup in a white leather travel case, open but well organized, the contents in sizes accepted by airlines and strict travel security. Larger sizes of shampoos, conditioners, and lotions were arranged in a cabinet that Liz opened with a pocketed hand. Towels were perfectly folded, as were washcloths. Even the laundry basket’s contents were already separated, colors in one side, whites in the other.

“Everything is neat. As close to perfect as it’s possible to be and still be a real home. But the bedroom?” Liz said, making it a question as she walked back into that room.

“It’s never looked like this before. Ever,” Layla said grimly. “My mother is OCD about her stuff. Impossibly OCD.”

Another reason to think that Layla had not had a cheery childhood.

Liz took in the room’s disarray. The clothes on the floor seemed weird somehow, as if they had been dropped in a circle. As if Evelyn had stood in the middle of the room and turned slowly around, dropping her clothes as she undressed. Grabbing the bedcovers and pulling them with her, then dropping them, too. The fabrics and clothing formed a spiral.

To get a better feel for the layout, Liz stepped inside the bare space on the floor and turned around. Yeah. A spiral. Facing one corner of the room, Evelyn had started disrobing while turning in a slow circle, releasing her clothes in a nearly circular, doughnut-shaped pile. Coat, then scarf, gloves, jacket, shirt, bra, boots, dress pants, leggings, and undies, dropped in that order. “Except . . . ,” Liz said, studying the clothing, “there’s only one boot.”

Cia, who had been watching, walked slowly around the room, checking corners. Her hands still in her pockets, she opened the door beside the bath to reveal a huge walk-in closet. She flipped the light switch, illuminating the rows of designer clothes, arranged by color and season. “What kind of boot?” she asked.

Liz bent and studied it. “Christian Louboutin, a five-inch spike-heeled black suede boot with fringe down the back seam. Size six and a half. A right boot.” Liz almost smiled, feeling her sister’s desire through the air and the twin bond. Cia loved boots. Like, really loved them. It was a miracle she hadn’t worn her boyfriend’s gift until today. She owned dozens of vintage boots, which took up most of the closet floor in their rental house. And they both wore size six and a half.

“No single left boot in here,” Cia said, “by any designer.” The light clicked off.

Liz tilted her head, studying the fringed boot and the floor beneath it. “There’s something under it.” Using only forefinger and thumb, Liz lifted the boot and knelt to see the floor. Beneath the boot, there was a small spatter of . . . dried blood. The drops were so tiny she might have missed them had she not looked extra closely. But blood could mean either foul play or black magic used against the missing woman. And either one would mean that this was a police case—local human law enforcement or PsyLED, the Psychometry Law Enforcement Division.

They would have to give the money back. Liz drooped. She had, unconsciously, already made plans for that money.

Cia said, “Got something here.”

Liz looked up and found her sister standing in front of a glass case that displayed collectibles, expensive stuff like bronze statues and porcelain figurines. Cia was holding a short black ribbon, and from it dangled a small lacquered figure about an inch high.

Even from where she knelt on the floor Liz could tell it was black magic. Blood magic. Liz looked back at the spatter. Softly, she said, “Damn.”

“What?” Layla asked.

The twins looked at each other, communicating silently.

“What?” Layla demanded, a note of panic in her voice. The goat under her arm bleated in fright and pain; Layla relaxed the grip she had on it and set it on the floor. The baby goat thundered off on unsteady legs, its little hooves a tattoo of noise as it raced out of the room and down the hall. Probably scuffing the expensive wood. Evelyn would have a cow—to go along with her daughter’s goat. If she lived to see it.

“Tell me,” Layla said, calmer.

“You know how we said we don’t do blood magic?” Cia asked.

Layla nodded, drawing the lapels of her leather coat closed over her chest.

“Well, this is blood magic,” Cia said. To Liz she added, “Carved horn. It looks like a set of tiny carved elk horns, layered with blood from past workings.”

Liz set the boot back where she had found it and stepped out of the circle, orienting herself to the north by feel and the position of the sun beyond the windows. The figurine case was on due north and matched the exact spot where Evelyn had started to disrobe. As if the figurine case were the number twelve on a clockface, Liz moved clockwise through the room. At about two o’clock, she found another of the little charms, this one tacked to the back of a dainty upholstered chair. She lifted the charm just as Cia had done and studied the carved figure. “This one’s a tiny knife, carved from old bloodstained ivory.”

“What does it mean?” Layla demanded, her voice cold.

Cia moved to the number five on the clockface and lifted another charm. “This one is an owl, some kind of stone.”

“Bloodstone,” Liz said with a glance, feeling the stone resonate with her own magic. She took the next point, between seven and eight. There she found and lifted a charm that looked like a tooth. She held it in the light at the window and said, “A wolf tooth. A real one.”

Cia nodded and moved to the number ten. This charm, unlike the others, wasn’t hanging from a thin black ribbon. It was nestled in the pile of expensive jewelry Evelyn had been wearing. “Ivory again,” Cia said. “Probably walrus. It’s scrimshaw attached to her bracelet with a silver link.”

It all fit. And it was all bad. “The boot’s in the middle of the pentagram. There’s a splatter of blood under it.”

“Middle of what?” Layla asked. “How did you know where to find those things?” Inherent in her question was the accusation that the Everhart witches had put them there.

“They were on the points of a pentagram, the geometric shape that allows a witch coven to contain their power and safely do workings,” Cia said. “Once you discover the north point of the five-pointed star, you can find the rest based on the angles and the size of the working space.”

“High school geometry,” Liz said softly, remembering that Layla had been in their geometry class. The twins had excelled at geometry. Layla, not so much.