Free A Cast-Off Coven by juliet blackwell Page A

under the age of eighty who didn’t have a cell phone.
    Besides, Ginny had invited me. Oscar and I set out to find her. We first peeked into the café, where a group of young men were shouting at one another about the birth of modernism, and then stuck our heads into a few of the artists’ studios, where we interrupted a couple in the middle of a loud breakup—but no one had seen Ginny. Walking down the hall, we passed a cluster of young women bickering over the relative merits of oil sticks versus traditional chalk pastels.
    Artists made for a volatile student body.
    Wherever we went, Oscar caused a sensation. He preened and snorted, lapping up the attention. Not for the first time I wondered, given that Oscar could choose to transform into anything he wanted, why he had chosen to be a pig. I’m allergic to cats, but I quite like dogs. Having a dog as a familiar would have made my life a lot simpler. Then again, I reminded myself, Oscar’s duty was to make my spell casting, not my life, easier.
    As we passed the administration offices, I noticed a light was on. A large oak door sported a sign, MARLENE MUELLER, PROVOST.
    “Wait here. Do not move,” I told Oscar, and knocked.
    There was a long pause and then scuffling sounds before a woman’s voice beckoned me to enter. When I did, I felt as though I had interrupted something. Marlene Mueller sat behind her desk, her face flushed, and a young man stood near her chair.
    “Lily, what are you doing here?” Marlene asked.
    “I hope it’s all right,” I said. “I never got a chance to look at the clothes last night.”
    “Oh . . . I see.” She glanced up at the young man standing beside her. He was lanky and blond, good-looking in a sort of surfer-dude-meets-boy-band way. He appeared to be in his early twenties, around Ginny’s age. Did Marlene have a son?
    “Well, since the incident . . . That is, I don’t think . . .” Marlene trailed off.
    “I won’t disturb the crime scene,” I said.
    “Still . . .” She trailed off once more, her light eyes again searching out the young man. Marlene was not nearly the lithe pixie her daughter, Ginny, was, but she had a delicate manner that suggested she might faint at the sight of blood. She wore her golden brown hair in a romantic upsweep, with artful curls framing her fine-boned face. An asymmetrical, rainbow-patchwork jacket and lots of chunky handmade jewelry made her look artistic and businesslike at the same time, but tonight she seemed pale and pinched.
    Having one’s school associated with the suspicious death of its most generous benefactor must be a potent double whammy for someone in her position.
    “It can’t hurt if she gathers the clothes, Marley,” the young man told her, his voice soft but sure.
    “We haven’t met,” I said, and held out my hand. “I’m Lily Ivory.”
    “Todd Jacobs. Nice to meet you.” He shook my hand. His blue-eyed gaze met mine, and I could see he had a certain charm about him, to be sure, but his vibrations were careful, standoffish, as though he were assessing me just as I was him. I also detected a surprising sense of control, rare for one so young.
    “Oh, I’m sorry, where is my head?” Still seated, Marlene reached up and took Todd’s hand, leaned in to him, and beamed. “This is my husband, Todd.”
    Husband?
    “I can’t tell you how wonderful it is, to have someone by your side when going through an ordeal like this,” Marlene said. “Do you know, one of our very own faculty members has been accused of this hideous crime.”
    “That Luc fellow?” I asked.
    “No, of course not. Why would Luc be involved? I was thinking of poor Walker—Walker Landau. Do you happen to know him?”
    “I don’t really know anybody . . .” I began.
    “Poor Walker—”
    “Walker wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Todd interrupted. “This whole thing is ridiculous. Fact is, everyone wanted that man dead.”
    “Wanted Walker dead?”
    “No, Jerry Becker,” Todd