Free A Familiar Tail by Delia James Page B

Britton.” While I was still drawing breath toask my next question, Ellis ducked into his shiny black car and shut the door on me and the rest of the world.

10
    I WATCHED ELLIS Maitland’s car as it pulled away down Summer Street. Since I didn’t have a high-priced automobile, I just drummed my fingers on my purse. “Well, A.B., doesn’t look like you’re getting out of this mess anytime soon.”
    Because never mind the wand I’d accidentally taken without permission, or the fact that somewhere on the streets of Portsmouth, there was a startled would-be burglar with a recent cat-inflicted injury. Never mind that Grandma B.B. (who still had not called me back) had once lived in Portsmouth and made an enemy of Elizabeth Maitland and never talked about either event. Even put aside Alistair the Spooky Cat. I still really needed to know just how my picture came to be on that altar in Dorothy Hawthorne’s attic.
    Dorothy Hawthorne, who I now knew had been murdered.
    About then it sank in that I’d been standing there talking to myself for a long time, and Frank—who’d said he had an interview to get to—hadn’t come out of the house. I tried totell myself that it was probably a phone interview. Or he might have gone out the back. My shoulder blades tightened, but I didn’t let myself look around. Frank might be watching from the house, and I didn’t need to look guilty for him.
    It occurred to me right then that there was somebody I could talk to—Valerie McDermott. She and Dorothy Hawthorne had been good friends. At least, she said they had. As soon as I thought that, the events of this long, strange day sort of shifted sideways in my head to make room for a new question. I checked the time on my phone and saw it was nearly five o’clock. I hit Martine’s number even though I knew she would be in the middle of getting ready to reopen for dinner. I also walked a discreet distance up the block, just in case Frank Hawthorne really was watching.
    â€œBusy here, Britton,” Martine answered briskly after the fourth ring. In the background I could hear a kitchen’s worth of shouts and clatter.
    â€œI know, I know. Sorry. I just . . . why’d you pick McDermott’s for me?”
    â€œWhy? Something wrong with the beds?”
    â€œNo. Nothing. It’s great. Just . . . why McDermott’s?”
    Martine’s sigh was sharp and short. “I told you. Val’s a friend, and she’s fighting to keep the place running. You know how it goes. So I was pretty sure there’d be room for you on zero notice.”
    â€œJust like that? There wasn’t any more to it?”
    â€œWhat else could there be?”
    â€œNothing. Nothing. Sorry, and thanks.” I tried to sound casual and failed. I also failed to hang up quickly enough.
    â€œWhat’s going on, Anna?”
    â€œI’ll tell you when I see you.” Because maybe by then I’d know.
    Martine paused for a full three seconds. I wondered what she was drumming her fingers on. “Okay. Take care of yourself.”
    â€œWorking on it.”
    This time, I not only hung up; I stuffed the phone back in my purse and started walking.
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    I TOOK THE long way back to McDermott’s. The really long way, which went all the way through downtown and paused at the River House for fried clams and a view of the peaceful, beautiful, entirely normal Piscataqua River. I spent the entire meal resolutely checking e-mails and my HeyLook! page and Twitter and not—I repeat, not—thinking about witches, wands, spooky cats, murder or any old grudges Grandma B.B. might have left behind her.
    Right. I wouldn’t believe me either. But I did have the fried clams.
    By the time I made it back to McDermott’s, summer’s twilight had settled across Portsmouth. I was no closer to knowing what I could, or