Some Practical Magic Read online

  “Except keep me company.”

  Wordlessly, Endora patted Cassie’s hand, and Cassie genuinely appreciated the gesture. It was difficult enough being a witch in a human-dominated world. Getting out among them as she did served to emphasize the vast differences between the two species.

  Witches being so long-lived, Cassie had found it necessary to change her identity and location every twenty years or so to keep neighbors from becoming suspicious of her true nature. The Witness Protection Program could have learned some tricks from her. But since the average human can’t accurately tell a person’s age between approximately thirty and fifty—especially with hair products and surgical enhancement to alter the truth—Cassie’s identity changes generally consisted of moving to another part of the country, wearing a different hairstyle and color, and getting a new job. And, as a subtle precaution against detection, she changed her dominant hand with every one of her birth date upgrades. This time, she was left-handed.

  A quick alteration of the date on her birth certificate, and then it was just a matter of filling out forms for the various required government documents. She had four Social Security numbers, twice as many different driver’s licenses, and had filed tax returns in half the states in the Union. If she ever decided to do it, collecting retirement benefits would rival the trials of Hercules.

  Unfortunately, she often had occasion to rethink her choice of dominant hand as part of her disguise. It was a right-handed world, after all. She had gotten so sick of smudging her left pinkie finger during autographing that she’d created an instant-drying ink which wouldn’t come off on her skin when hand followed pen across page. The ink’s rare main ingredient—henbane—was well worth the trouble to find, as it saved on many trips to the bathroom to clean up. To alleviate the “curled hand” writing style of so many southpaws, she’d also taken to turning the page and writing straight up. No more cramped fingers.

  “C’mon, let’s get you a cup of tea,” Endora urged, rising gracefully from the chair. “As your manager, it is my duty to see that your every wish is granted, your every whim indulged.”

  “You sound like a genie, not a familiar,” Cassie teased. Her friend’s eyes again shifted in the direction of the aquarium, a wistful expression entering them. Linking her arm with Endora’s, she said slyly, “I’ve heard salmon is the house specialty here.”

  “Wonderful,” Endora purred.

  MICK GLANCED AT the check before reaching for his wallet. Man, eating out had gotten expensive. In Toledo, no less. Jennifer’s vegetarian lasagna, approximately one cubic inch in size, almost cost more than his steak, which had a pretty hefty price tag. Add beverages and dessert to that, and the bill could offset part of Haiti’s national debt.

  He almost sighed for the “good old days.” When one dollar could buy a burger and fries at a fast-food restaurant. And, of course, Mick’s “good old days” included Thanksgiving dinners with his big Slovak family at their home in Detroit. A huge turkey with all the trappings, dumplings, Slovak pastries to send the cholesterol soaring, pies, cranberry sauce, and—his favorite—homemade sweet pickles. As a kid, he got a quart jar of his grandmother’s sweet pickles as a Christmas present every year. It was the absolute best present she could ever have given him.

  Times were not so simple now but, realistically, when had that fact ever been different for adults? Things were simple for kids. Adults complicated their lives and the lives of others. His life hadn’t been simple for nineteen years, not since his debut novel made the New York Times bestseller list, and he’d become a twenty-one-year-old mega-star. Had he written as Mirek Sandor, his privacy would have vanished right then, so he counted his blessings for having the presence of mind to use his mother’s maiden name as his pen name. How media and sports stars managed to handle the public idolization heaped on them, he’d never know. Of course many didn’t, as evidenced by the number whose secondary addresses were rooms at the Betty Ford Clinic.

  A sudden realization struck him. Jennifer would never have fit in with his raucous, fun-loving family. Her big-city style and metropolitan world view would have meshed with Mick’s simple Old World roots like American Kennel Club members at a Humane Society dog adoption. It saddened him to think he and Jennifer were so completely unsuited for each other. Better for both of them they hadn’t legally bound themselves to each other before they figured that out.

  Movement beyond the approaching waiter drew his attention. Two women had risen from their table, and the taller one could be none other than Cassandra Hathorne. Since her book jacket photo was seared into his memory, he recognized the short cut of her brown-black hair even from across the room.

  Stranded in Detroit’s Metropolitan Airport a couple winters back and facing death by boredom, he’d picked up her first book. Then finished it in the three hours it took airport officials to de-ice the flight’s wings. She was simply one of the best writers he’d ever read, even though her columns were definitely of more interest to women and male interior decorators than to a macho pop fiction writer like Mick. Thus, he’d never told a soul that he’d written her a fan letter. Using his real name, of course. He’d received a gracious, hand-written reply. Although he’d be surprised if she’d actually written it herself, the gesture was appreciated. He hadn’t answered his own fan mail in over fifteen years. The volume was overwhelming, and some of it was way too bizarre to warrant personal comment.

  Regardless of the authenticity of her letter, Cassandra Hathorne’s “Kitchen Witch” column had become required reading for him, and he actually looked forward to autographing next to her on the tour. He wondered if non-fiction writers suffered the same self-confidence lapses he and his fellow fiction writers seemed prone to, and decided he’d ask. Besides that, she was extremely easy on the eyes. He’d not have been a red-blooded male if he didn’t understand that on the most basic level.

  The other woman, he assumed, was Cassandra’s publicist-manager. Her startling gray hair and feline manner put him instantly in mind of a cat. Being allergic to the wretched creatures, he’d never owned one and had no desire to. His knowledge of them was pretty much confined to Animal Planet specials on cable TV, and only if that was the only program on. But as his gaze followed the women’s departure, his throat started getting scratchy and his eyes watery. He felt as if an allergic reaction was imminent.

  That had him shaking his head, amazed at his flight of whimsy.

  Whatever good mood seeing The Kitchen Witch had put him in was doomed, however, as bleak reality rose up to snuff it out. He could have sworn he felt his whimsy draining out of him. Although he loved writing because he could control the outcome for his characters, he wasn’t so egotistical to think that his fiction could translate into life. If he’d been that good, he’d have asked years ago if God needed some help. But the fact remained that Mick was a writer. He couldn’t not be one. And though he had no intentions of ever penning another horror novel, the thought of never writing again terrified him.

  Mick shook his head to clear it and glanced at his watch. Twelve-thirty. The first signing was set for four that afternoon. The first signing on the last promotional tour he would ever do . . . What crap to dwell on that fact. Mick didn’t do maudlin. After all, life moved on, and it was time he did, too. The reason behind his retirement was what brought his mood low. That, and having Jennifer along in her business manager capacity.

  The latter problem had definitely been caused by “man think,” he realized belatedly—the idea that they could get along in a professional capacity after their personal affair was ended. Too late to change that now. He’d just have to ignore her attempts to keep him writing. At this point, Jennifer’s schemes were minor problems compared to the urgent reason for this tour.

  Suck it up, Sandor, he chided himself. You couldn’t live with yourself if you didn’t quit now.

  No multi-book contract, regardless of how lucrative, c
ould be worth the possible damage if he continued his career.

  No time like the present to get started on ending things.

  THE CONFERENCE center would soon be open, and Cassie meticulously prepared her table for the book signing.

  To her left, she prominently displayed a framed, autographed picture of Agnes Moorehead. A trophy from the years 1964 through 1973, when she was Cassandra Smith, staff writer for television’s Bewitched. Of course, anyone who asked was told the photo had been her grandmother’s, the “Bewitched writer” for whom Cassie was named.

  Out of profound respect, she had always addressed Agnes Moorehead as Miss Moorehead. Had lobbied to name the character of the witch mother-in-law after her own cat-familiar, Endora.

  They were all gone now. Agnes, Elizabeth Montgomery, both Darrins—Dick York and Dick Sargent—Paul Lynde; the original Mrs. Kravitz, Alice Pearce; her replacement, Sandra Gould; Aunt Clara, Marion Lorne . . . Dead of various forms of cancer, coronary artery disease, heart attacks, Alzheimer’s, emphysema. The liabilities of humanity.

  The logo for her syndicated column—which adorned her stationery, book covers, and every piece of merchandise the Kitchen Witch embellished—was the show’s logo of Samantha Stevens, on a broomstick and wearing a pointed witch hat, smiling that million-dollar smile. Of course, Cassie had had to put a spell on her logo so that anyone who saw it would vaguely recognize it but never be able to say definitively where they’d seen it. One couldn’t be too careful about copyright infringement or trademark violation these days, after all.

  MICK’S PREPARATIONS for what promised to be a horde of autograph-seekers usually took all of thirty seconds. He’d sit down between a poster-sized picture of himself on his right and a mountain of copies of his latest book on his left, adjust his tie, and pick up his favorite Mont Blanc ink pen.

  Since everything was ready to go, including the pen, he capitalized on his chance to clandestinely study Cassandra Hathorne up close. The Agnes Moorehead picture made him smile. Excellent touch. But the next touch was better. His nostrils flared when Cassandra set out a plate of hard candies made from a recipe in her cookbook. Cursed with a chronic Slovak sweet tooth and no time to devote to candy making, he had latched on to this particular recipe months before. It required a microwave and a maximum of twenty minutes in the kitchen.

  Just looking at the plate of confections triggered his salivary glands. He knew how great that candy tasted. To spare himself the embarrassment of drooling in public, he reached into an open box sitting behind the authors’ chairs, grabbed Cassie’s book, then retrieved his pen from the table.

  “Autograph this for me?”

  She looked up, startled, and he noted that her eyes were a color he’d never seen before. A rich, dark caramel. Fascinating. A man could gaze into those eyes for a long time . . .

  He gave himself a mental shake and refocused. He had a goal here, and right now it wasn’t gazing into a woman’s eyes. It was scoring some sweets. For a moment Mick thought Ms. Hathorne wasn’t going to answer him, then she snapped out of her daze and gave him a shy smile. A smile nearly as beautiful as her eyes.

  “Sure, but you don’t have to buy a book to get some candy.”

  It was his turn to be startled.

  “You must be a mind reader as well as an incredible cook,” he said, but when a sudden uneasiness crept into her gaze, added, “but I do want the book. I’ve got all your others, including the one with that candy recipe.”

  One dark eyebrow shot up. “You do?”

  He didn’t bother to tell her that he kept this fact from all of his friends and relatives, especially the male ones, and that her books were in his private office where no one would see them. “Actually, yes.” Offering his pen and the book, he said, “Would you sign it ‘To Mick’?”

  “Sure thing.”

  As she bent to autograph the title page, he caught a whiff of spicy, exotic perfume. Suddenly, his mouth started watering for reasons other than candy. To cover his abrupt and shocking reaction to the smell, he grabbed three candies off the plate and popped them into his mouth.

  Great seating arrangements, he concluded silently.

  THERE. ON THE fourth page of the convention brochure. With a trembling fingertip, he traced the name of his idol. His god. Raising M. S. Kazimer’s photograph to his lips, he placed a gentle kiss on the glossy forehead.

  It was almost time to begin. Soon, not a living person would doubt his genius.

  He locked the hotel room door, pulled the curtains, opened the latest book to the description of the first murder. There was no need to read the words, as he had committed them to memory. Eyes closed, he pictured the first victim’s face. A drug-addicted businessman caught on his way to a connection in a seedy part of town. He’d died in a truly satisfying way, exactly as the plot depicted. Funny how life—or in this case, death—imitated art.

  Aroused once again at the memory of his triumph, he stroked the book’s pages as if caressing a lover.

  Soon, two more murders in two more cities, culminating in a final orgy of death in New Orleans. The book tour would take him there, stopping in each of the novel’s settings. And at every venue, he would carry out his destiny as depicted in the pages.

  In New Orleans, all would know his true brilliance.

  FIVE MINUTES BEFORE the doors opened on the Midwest Booksellers Association convention in Toledo, Cassie and Mick sat at their ten-foot-long table, ready for the crush of fans who had come to this event just to see one or both of them. Mick bent his fingers back, stretching them to prevent cramping, while Cassie closed her eyes and took four slow, deep breaths.

  “Does this ever get to you?”

  Surprised by the question, Cassie turned toward M.S. Kazimer. “Pardon me?”

  Mick gestured to the huge exhibition hall. “This. All the booths, the crowds. The fans. Does this ever overwhelm you?”

  Great Mother Goddess, this guy’s gorgeous! Incredibly blue eyes were locked on hers like a laser guidance system, short-circuiting Cassie’s rational thought patterns and replacing them with images of smoky jazz music and rumpled sheets. She had to mentally swallow to steady her racing heart.

  Earlier, when he’d asked her to sign her book for him, she’d barely made eye contact. She’d unthinkingly told him he could have the candy before he’d even asked, and his observation that she was a mind reader had put her on guard. That, coupled with dread that she’d have to confess to never having read any of his work—especially in light of the fact that he claimed to be a fan of hers—had kept her from looking at him for too long.

  Now, she thought she could stare into those eyes forever. But the underlying sadness in the blue gaze that studied her so intently grounded her flight of fancy. His aura reinforced what his eyes told her: M. S. Kazimer was a very troubled man.

  “This is only the third time I’ve ever done this,” she confessed. “The novelty hasn’t worn off. I imagine—if I manage to stay as popular as you have for so long, Mr. Kazimer—the novelty will wear off.”

  She saw some of the tension ease from his beautiful eyes. “I wish you continued success and boundless enthusiasm,” he said in his wonderful baritone voice. “And, please, call me Mick. That’s how you signed the book. Besides, ‘Mr. Kazimer’ sounds too much like some corporate raider’s name for my taste.”

  Impulsively, she extended her hand to shake his. “Mick. It’s Cassie for me.”

  “Cassie.”

  The sound of her name on his tongue practically made her swoon. Pull yourself together, you idiot, she ordered her reeling senses. This guy’s out of your league and probably spoken for as well.

  That latter thought tossed a bucket of ice water on her steamy thoughts. She could practically feel them fizzling out.

  Just then, Endora glided up behind the table and set a large thermos and a co
ffee mug to Cassie’s right so she could pour and drink with her right hand and sign books with her left.

  “Here’s your batwing tea,” she crooned. “I added just a pinch of eye of newt and a sprinkle of unicorn horn. Enjoy.” Smiling despite the glare her boss was sending her way, she raised in salute to Mick the small creamer she’d brought with her, drank its entire contents, then sauntered out, not bothering to wipe her new cream moustache from her upper lip.

  Bemused, Mick watched her inimitably feline exit. He blinked his suddenly itching eyes and sniffed once. “Can I ask you a question?”

  Cassie looked over the rim of her tea cup as she sipped, then lowered it slowly. “Sure. As long as it isn’t ‘How do you come up with ideas to write about?’”

  He gave a fake shudder. “Been asked that one too many times myself. That, and ‘Your writing is so realistic, have you ever actually killed someone?’”

  “To which you’d love to reply, ‘Just the people who ask me that question,’ right?”

  “That’ll be our little secret, okay?” He winked one piercing blue eye, and Cassie felt herself getting breathless. “Actually, I wanted to ask you about your publicist.”

  “Dora’s not for hire,” she stated. “I’m too selfish to let her work for anyone but me.”

  “Fair enough. Besides, I’ve got one of my own.” His gaze focused on the far side of the room where Jennifer was in a heated discussion with the convention hall’s manager.

  Cassie’s gaze followed his, and she honed in on the conversation. It involved which author deserved top billing. Jennifer, of course, insisted Mick get the largest lettering at the top of the marquee, but the manager maintained that, in the interest of fairness, authors were traditionally listed alphabetically.