We sign off, and I glance at Connolly.

  “Something is up with that painting, isn’t it?”

  “Most definitely.” He looks toward the house. “I would suggest we attempt to take it. However, I would also suggest I drive along the back roads until we are certain that curse shield you brought works.”

  “And you don’t have a creepy kid popping up between you and the steering wheel, sending us both crashing into the median and dying horribly?”

  “Exactly.”

  * * *

  Do we agree with Vanessa and Marius that this couldn’t be Mercy? I’d like to, but I don’t know Mercy, which is a large part of the problem in general. She’s supposedly interested in mentoring me, and yet I haven’t heard from her since she first promised that mentoring. While I’ve tried to be patient, her siblings all consider her the “flighty” one, and that’s not a reference to Mercury’s winged boots. I’ve started to wonder whether she’d made the offer on a whim and then skipped off to a new project that caught her eye.

  I’ve been called flighty myself, but when it comes to promises and commitments, I’m as grounded as Ani, and I expect the same from others. Being mercurial is no excuse for instability. Though, yes, I’m aware of the double irony there, Mercy being the very source of the word “mercurial” and the fact that the element named after her is known for its instability, in its ever-changing form.

  I understand why Vanessa and Marius are defending her. She’s Marius’s younger sister and Vanessa’s younger foster sister. Vanessa and Marius being a couple would be creepy in modern times, but it was different in ancient Greece, and they’d grown up as friends more than siblings.

  The point is that Mercy is their little sister. She might drive them crazy, but they love her, just as I love Hope. If someone told me Hope played a vicious prank, I’d say they were wrong. My sister doesn’t have it in her. Does that mean I couldn’t be mistaken? Nope. It just means that I can’t imagine her doing that.

  As much as I want to get this painting safely out of Connolly’s car, we need to talk to Ms. Silver again. Was she as unwitting pawn in this game? Or is she part of it?

  It feels as if it should be far too late to talk to her. It’s not. Okay, technically, it is too late for social visits, but with an hour to go before midnight, it’s not exactly the middle of the night.

  We pull into the driveway. The house is dark. We didn’t call first—we’re not about to alert Ms. Silver.

  Connolly checks his watch.

  “10:58,” I say. “Yep, she may have gone to bed and really not appreciate the interruption, but it’s not late enough for her to call the cops. And if she does, I’m sure this fancy car can outrun them.”

  When I start up the drive, he motions for me to wait. He heads to where he can see the left side of the bungalow. Then he crosses the lawn to the right. I think he’s checking the side windows for light, but when he walks up to me, he says, “The bedrooms seem to be to the left, if I’m interpreting the window configuration correctly. I’m going to suggest you ring the bell while I watch.”

  “Ah, to see if a light comes on, but she doesn’t answer the door. Good idea.”

  I walk up to the porch and ring. The bell echos through the house. I glance over at Connolly, who’s shading the neighbors’ lights from his vision. I edge closer to the door to listen. It stays silent. I back out and look at Connolly. He shakes his head.

  I ring the bell again and this time I stay where I am, ear to the door. Nothing.

  “May I help you?” a querulous voice calls, and I jump, spinning.

  An elderly woman stands in the driveway to our right. She has a Great Dane on a lead, the dog nearly as big as her.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” Connolly says. “We know it’s late to call, but we had business with Ms. Silver earlier, and there was an urgent development. We couldn’t reach her on the phone so we stopped by.”

  “Ms. Silver?”

  “The woman who lives here.”

  “You have the wrong address, son. That’s Bert and Mabel’s house.”

  Connolly frowns. “We were here earlier, and we spoke to a woman who identified herself as Ms. Silver. Do the owners have a daughter?”

  “Oh, I know who you mean. The plant-sitter.”

  “Plant-sitter?” I say, coming off the porch.

  “They have a friend who stops by to water the plants. I said I’d do it, but they’re very particular about their tropicals. Mostly Bert. That man treats them like children. I’m surprised Mabel can drag him away.”

  “Ms. Silver is their plant-sitter?”

  The old woman waves a hand. “I don’t know her name. Never spoken to her. She waves, though. Always smiles and waves, friendly as can be.”

  “This Ms. Silver,” I say. “Is she in her early thirties? Dark blond hair?”

  The woman laughs. “Goodness, no. She can’t be a day under fifty. African-American woman.”

  “Ah, well, obviously we have made a mistake,” I say. “Thank you. We appreciate your time, ma’am. Have a good night.”

  * * *

  As Connolly pulls from the drive, I groan and thump back against the seat.

  “Taylor Silver,” I mutter.

  “Hmm?”

  “The name Taylor. It makes me think of the singer.” I glance at him. “Swift Silver. Quick silver.”

  “Mercury.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Eleven

  As we drive into Unstable, we pass a state police car idling at the intersection. I notice because Unstable, while small, has its own police department. We don’t want outsiders policing our quirky little town, not when those outsiders might roll their eyes at our paranormal bent and grumble about the inconvenience of managing our tourist trade.

  Our taxes pay for a small force, run by Chief Salazar, descended from one of the town’s oldest families. I presume if the state police are in town, they’re consulting with her on a matter that crosses both jurisdictions. Still, the car catches my eye, so when flashing lights flip on behind us, I know exactly what it is and twist to see the police car on our bumper.

  Connolly frowns. “I’m under the speed limit, and there wasn’t a stop sign. I do hope this isn’t another breathalyzer test.”

  I snort a laugh. We’d had an incident where Connolly used luck to avoid a car accident, and the resulting balancing had made him so clumsy the police suspected he was drunk. Then their machine wouldn’t work—his bad luck—which only made things worse.

  “That’s a state police car,” I say. “They won’t be pulling us over. Just let them pass.”

  He rolls to the curb a few doors from my shop. It’s well past midnight, every window dark, even the pub closed for the night.

  I expect the car to continue on. Instead, it stops behind us.

  “What the hell?” I mutter.

  “It’s fine,” Connolly says. “Whatever the problem, it’ll be nothing more than an inconvenience. It never is, and my luck in that has nothing to do with my powers.”

  He means that he’s a white guy wearing an expensive suit, driving an expensive car. No one’s pulling him over thinking he stole the vehicle or has drugs or weapons stashed in the trunk.

  Connolly rolls down the window, his license in one hand, the other on the steering wheel.

  “Good evening, officer,” he says.

  A middle-aged man leans down. “Do you know why we pulled you over this evening?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Step out of the vehicle please. Both of you.”

  We comply. He doesn’t ask us to keep our hands where they can see them. He doesn’t rest his hand on his gun. He just steps back and waits for us to get out and then waves us to the sidewalk, where a younger woman, also in uniform, joins us.

  “The car is a rental,” Connolly says. “The paperwork is in the glove compartment. I presume you’d rather get that out yourself?”

  The older officer waves for his partner to do that, and I step out of her way. She retrieves the rental agreement and says, “It’s rented to an Aiden Connolly.”

  Her partner grunts, which I presume means he’s confirming that’s the name on the license. He’s only paying half attention as he circles the car. Then, without saying a word, he goes to the cruiser and climbs in. We wait. A moment later, he’s out again.

  “I see you have a Lexus registered in your name, Aiden. Seems odd, renting the same vehicle for a drive from Boston.”

  “My car has been making a knocking noise, and I haven’t had time to get it into the shop. I rented this for the trip today.”

  I try not to grumble in annoyance. The state police have no jurisdiction here, and it’s hardly a crime to rent a car when you have one already. Connolly is calm, though, as if this is a perfectly reasonable line of questioning.

  The older officer circles the car again. I glance to the younger one for clues, but her face is as expressionless as Connolly’s.

  “What was the purpose of this trip?” the officer asks.

  When Connolly isn’t quick to answer, he glances over. “The longer it takes you to respond, the more obvious it’ll be that you’re making up stories.”

  “No,” Connolly says carefully. “I do not need to discuss my evening with you, and I am trying to determine whether I should request legal representation or simply explain, as I have nothing to hide.”

  “If you have nothing to hide, you don’t require legal representation.”

  Connolly gives him a humorless smile. “Does that line actually work on anyone, officer? Yes, I know I should insist on speaking to a lawyer, but it’s late and I’m sure there’s been some misunderstanding I can easily clear up. I am here visiting my friend, Ms. Bennett.” He nods at me. “Who runs the antique shop just over there.” Another nod. “We had purchased a painting online for her shop, and we retrieved it tonight.”

  “The painting’s in the trunk?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The officer leans his hip against the car. “It wouldn’t happen to be a painting of a little girl, would it? Crying Girl by Victor Costa? A painting that was reported stolen two weeks ago?”

  Connolly’s brows shoot up. “That is the painting. I certainly hope it wasn’t stolen. We were dealing in good faith with a reputable auction site. If it is stolen property . . .” He glances my way.

  “We’ll return it, obviously,” I say. “Though I’ll have to ask for proper documentation to file an insurance claim.”

  If Mercy stole the painting, I’ll give it back. The insurance excuse is a ploy to give me time to uncurse it first. But when I say that, the older officer’s eyes glint.

  “Insurance. Isn’t that your business, Mr. Connolly?”

  “It is.”

  The officer—Platts, I see on his badge now—waits. Connolly just stands there, as if he too awaits more.

  “Seems a little suspicious, don’t you think, Aiden?”

  Not “Mr. Connolly” anymore.

  Connolly replies blandly. “I’m not certain how you see that, sir. Yes, my firm insures Ms. Bennett’s business. If this is a stolen painting, she will be able to file a claim for the exact amount she paid tonight. That means she won’t have lost any money, but she will have wasted an evening retrieving goods she can no longer offer for sale. Insurance or not, she will come out farther behind than before she bought that painting, unfortunately.”

  “If she paid for the painting. If she can provide all proper documentation of a sale.”

  Connolly nods. “True, which brings up an important point. I’d actually purchased it on my credit card, for convenience. As it was for her business, she should be able to recoup the loss under her policy, and then I would be repaid, but I will need to check the exact details of that policy. It may turn out that, with the policy I sold her, I cannot recoup my money on the painting, which would be ironic.”

  “Not ironic,” Officer Platts says. “Convenient.”

  Connolly frowns. “How so?”

  Officer Platts pauses, as if he threw that out because it sounded good, and now realizes there’s no way Connolly could benefit from not being able to recoup his money from his own company. He glances toward his partner for help, but she only shrugs.

  “It’s suspicious, that’s all I’m saying,” Platts mutters. He squares his shoulders. “I’m going to need to see that painting, and I’m going to need to see your receipt.”

  Connolly doesn’t even twitch. He only says, smoothly, “Of course, officer. Let me show you the receipt first. May I pull it up on my phone?’

  Platts grunts, and Connolly takes out his cell, while warning that he’s reaching into his pocket, though neither officer seems the least concerned.

  Connolly taps his phone a few times and holds out the original receipt. “As you can see, I was the purchaser, and I bought the painting reported stolen.”

  “And you paid for it?”

  “I provided my credit-card information, as you can see on the receipt. As Ms. Silver—the seller—did give us the painting, I can only presume she successfully charged my card.”

  “You didn’t notice? Two grand to eBay, and your credit card company didn’t flag that as suspicious? Mine sure would.”

  There’s a pause. Such a long pause that my gut twists, thinking Connolly didn’t consider that. But when he answers, his tone is apologetic with just the right hint of embarrassment. “I have what is known as a black card.”

  The younger officer whistles. “That’s a real thing?”

  Connolly tugs on his tie, clearing his throat as if embarrassed, though no color rises in his cheeks. “Er, yes. My family has a . . . special relationship with our bank.”

  “What the hell’s a black card?” Platts snaps.

  “It means he isn’t just rich,” his partner says. “He’s super-rich. Yeah, the bank’s not going to call him for spending two grand on a painting.” She looks at Connolly. “I gotta ask. Is it an actual black-colored credit card?”

  He takes out his wallet, again warning that he’s reaching for it. The card he removes is black with a gold edge.

  “That’s real gold, right?” she says.

  “I’ve heard so, though it may be an urban legend. I’ve never had it tested.”

  “You’ve tested out the unlimited spending, though, I hope?”

  He gives her a ghost of a smile. “Of course.”

  Platts clears his throat and glowers at his partner, but she ignores him and says, “Nice. Still, we are going to need to see that painting.”

  “Naturally.” He glances up and down the street. “If you’d like to examine it in Ms. Bennett’s shop, we can do it there. The painting was securely wrapped for transportation, and it will need to be opened. I can carry it to the shop or drive closer, whichever works for you.”

  “Just drive,” the younger officer says. “We’ll be right behind you.”

  Her partner squawks, but she’s already heading to the driver’s side of the cruiser.

  Chapter Twelve

  Twelve

  I climb into the car. Connolly puts it in gear and rolls forward, barely hitting five miles an hour. That keeps the cops happy but it also gives us a moment to talk.

  “You think Mercy stole it?” I ask. “As part of her test?”

  “Possibly.”

  “She is the patron god of thieves. Could this be another part of her test? Dealing with the police. She might have stolen it, but there’s no way the police randomly pulled us over when we had it in your trunk. Did she steal it and report it?”

  “He said it was reported stolen two weeks ago.”

  “This isn’t making any sense.”

  “I agree. If it’s Mercy’s idea of a prank, I don’t think you want to have anything to do with her, however useful she might be to your career.”

  “Oh, I’ve already realized that. This is bullshit, and I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into it.”

  “If I was concerned, I’d have already placed a call to my lawyer.”

  I glance over. “Are you really holding off because you think everything’s fine? Or because you’re afraid your lawyer will tell your parents you were with me?”

  “The police don’t have any grounds to charge us.”

  “You are concerned your parents will find out.” I study his expression. “Or do you think they’re behind this?”

  He parks and meets my eyes. “At this moment, I don’t know what to think, Kennedy. My concern is that they are about to take this painting and you’ll want to uncurse it first.”

  I exhale. “Okay. Let’s focus on that.”

  “How long do you need?”

  When I hesitate, he says, “That was an unfair question. I’m asking you to rush the reversal of a dangerous hex, which is unsafe.” He glances in his rearview mirror. “I can lend you some luck if that would help.”

  “It would . . . but then you’d need to deal with a balancing while also dealing with an asshole cop who really wants to charge you with something, rich boy.”

  I try to pass him a smile, but it falters. “No luck, please. If you can keep doing all the talking, I’ll unwrap the painting for them and make some excuse about rewrapping it for transportation after they’ve seen it. That might buy me enough time.”

  He nods, and we climb out of the car just as the two officers are walking over. Connolly pops the trunk.

  “Would you like me to carry it inside?” he asks.

  “Actually, allow me,” I say. “It’s light enough, and I know where to set it down.” I toss the keys to Connolly. “You remember the door code?”

  “I do.”

  “Then let’s get this inside.”

  * * *

  I take the painting to a low table that I use to wrap fragile purchases. It also does double-duty as a work bench, because I’ve learned that in a place like Unstable, you don’t want to do your repairs in the back. In Boston, customers only wanted to see the final product. In a tourist town, tinkering in the open is seen as craftsmanship at work, and passersby will slip in to watch me sand or paint.