cute.â
âMy poor tomato plants are treading water,â said Lucy, attempting a joke. âWhereâs Ted? Resting up after the fire?â
âNo rest for the wicked,â said Phyllis. âPress conference at the police station.â
âAbout the fire?â asked Lucy, switching on her PC.
âYour guess is as good as mine,â said Phyllis.
But when Ted came in an hour later, dressed like the Gortonâs fisherman in bright yellow rain gear, it turned out the press conference hadnât been about the fire after all.
âThe state police identified the burned guy,â he said, carefully placing a handful of rain-splotched papers on Phyllisâs counter.
âWho was he?â asked Phyllis, dabbing at the mess with a paper towel.
âName of Malcolm Malebranche. He was a magician, worked at kidsâ birthday parties, stuff like that.â
âMalebranche, thatâs an unusual name,â said Lucy. She knew sheâd heard it before but couldnât quite remember when.
Ted wasnât looking good; Lucy figured he was still tired from covering the fire. Being out there in all that smoke couldnât be good for a person. It was no wonder he had a nasty little cough and looked a little green about the gills.
âItâs really horrible,â he was saying, swallowing hard.
Lucy and Phyllis were all ears. âYeah?â prompted Phyllis.
Ted sat down on one of the chairs in the reception area, by Phyllisâs counter. âThe medical examiner says he was burned alive.â
Phyllisâs thin, pencil-line eyebrows shot up. âWhat did you say?â
âHe was burned alive,â repeated Ted.
Lucy had heard him the first time, and she was struggling to understand how something like that could happen.
âThe ME thinks it might have been some sort of magic trick gone wrong, a Houdini-style escape that didnât work, something like that.â
âHe mustâve been really dumb to try something like that,â said Phyllis.
âNobodyâs that dumb,â said Lucy, suddenly remembering where sheâd heard the name. It was in the car, with Diana. Sheâd remembered something Lord Malebranche had told her. Diana knew him, and from the way she referred to him, Lucy suspected he was also a witchâand she wondered if his death was really a tragic accident or something more sinister.
âIâll be back,â said Lucy, pulling on her boots. âIâve got a lead I need to follow up on.â
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When she got to the house, she found the girls in the kitchen, making chocolate chip cookies for Diana. The kitchen smelled wonderful, rich and chocolatey, and Libby, the Labrador, was keeping an eye on the proceedings, ready to lick up any spills.
âDonât give her too many cookies or sheâll get sick,â warned Lucy, slipping off her rain gear and grabbing a cookie from the wire tray as she headed for the stairs. The cookie was at that perfect stage when the chocolate chips were still warm and gooey and the dough was crispy, but she didnât really enjoy it, because her mind was already on the conversation she was going to have with Diana. Swallowing the last bit, she knocked on the door.
âDiana, itâs me, Lucy,â she said.
âCome in.â Dianaâs voice was thin and reedy.
When she opened the door, she found Diana in a cotton T-shirt and underpants, lying on the bed with the covers thrown back. The poison ivy rash was peaking, and the large pink blotches that spotted her body were blistered and oozing. She looked so miserable that Lucy found her defenses crumbling.
âIs there anything I can do for you?â she asked.
âThe girls are taking good care of me,â said Diana. An inflamed patch near her mouth made speaking difficult; another had nearly closed her left eye. âThey keep bringing me cold drinks and things to eat.â
âIt will