Death and Relaxation (Ordinary Magic #1)(56)

“He had several too many. He’ll be fine in the morning. You know his constitution. Jean’s waiting for us in the car.”

We walked to the door.

“What did the deities have to say?” she asked.

“They don’t think Heimdall’s death was accidental either.” I pushed out into the cool, salty breeze. Took a nice deep breath. Smelled rain on the air.

“Is that all?”

“They made a deal with Dad that they’d help me through my first power transfer.”

“That’s…nice?” she said.

“And a little condescending. But yes. Mostly it’s nice.”

Jean perched on the hood of the car, drinking a beer and staring at the sky. “Finally. I thought you two would never come out. I am not the desig-ig…desig-nated driver tonight.”

Myra looked at me.

“I’m good. One beer two hours ago.”

She nodded and tugged on Jean’s leg, sliding her down the hood a bit.

“Yo-ho-ho,” Jean sang, “where’s my bottle of rum?”

“We’re leaving,” I said.

“Shotgun,” Myra said.

“Shotgun,” Jean said too late. Then: “Crap. Fine. I’ll sit in the back seat. Who’s covering my shift tonight?”

“You,” I said. “Roy’s already over his hours for the day. Ryder should be gone.” I started the engine. “Finish the beer. I’ll stay at the station, do some paperwork until you sober up, then it’s all yours.”

“Killjoy,” she said.

I glanced in the rearview. She stuck out her tongue at me.

“Want me to drop you at your place?” I asked Myra.

“No. I’ll go to the station too.”

“It’s not your shift.” I turned onto the main street. “You should get some sleep.”

“I can nap on the cot.”

“Are you that worried?”

“I just think we should all stick together tonight.”

And since it was such a nice thought, I didn’t argue.





Chapter 17


“CANNON LUBE?” I suggested, looking over the situation with a critical eye.

The groundskeeper’s daughter, Treana, who was sixteen now, snickered.

The groundskeeper was a woman named Stella with #6.5R Nice-n-Easy auburn hair pulled back in a tight bun and a badge and uniform that looked more official than mine. She speared me with a hard glare.

“If I kept that much lube on hand, I would have used it, wouldn’t I?” she asked.

That got another snicker out of her daughter, and I huffed a laugh.

Just because Stella was made of the same stuff as the cannon—hardened iron—didn’t mean she didn’t have a sense of humor. As a matter of fact, as the one and only keeper of the historic significance of Ordinary, I thought she had to have a roaring sense of humor to remain serious about her work.

Ordinary lived up to its name as far as mortal history was concerned, although this one ridge was once a bunker put in place during the Civil War. Unluckily for Stella, the only attack to reach this side of America’s coast was a lone submarine that lobbed a few shells at Fort Stevens up north of us a bit. It knocked out a telephone line then turned and went home.

And while our mortal history wasn’t exactly teeming with excitement, Stella was the caretaker of it, and she took that job seriously.

Which was why the concrete penguin with the little red Superman cape jammed into the barrel of the cannon was no laughing matter.

Well, no laughing matter to her.

“How long has this been going on?” Stella asked.

“What? Mrs. Yates’ penguin harassment?”

She nodded.

“I don’t know. I guess a year or so.”

“And you still haven’t found the person doing it?”

“No.”

“Seems to me a year is an awfully long time to let something like this go on.”

I nodded as I crouched at the front of the stuffed cannon barrel, unconcerned that she’d accused me of not doing my job.

“Well, we figure it started with a kid. Maybe a graduating senior at the high school. We figure he or she moved on, but the tradition was passed on to someone else in the school.”

I sent a look to Treana, who shifted her eyes and suddenly found her shoes more interesting to look at.

“What I’d like,” I said, “is for whoever is behind this to knock it off. It’s eating up my time, and Mrs. Yates no longer thinks it’s funny.”

Treana still wasn’t looking at me.

“What I’d also like is for the class to give me a heads-up on what they’d like to do for senior trick day. I’m fine with non-damaging mischief, but the penguin escapades are bordering on harassment. Harassment comes with a large fine and can land a person in jail. And if I knew someone who knew about this, I’d kindly ask them to inform the lawbreakers to knock it off with the penguin before I decide this is something serious enough for me to shake down the entire school.”

Treana lifted her head, guilt clearly written across her face.

“What about Mrs. Yates?” Treana asked. “If she doesn’t like it, why doesn’t she just put the penguin inside her house?”