Magic Steals

Jim was shaking the man’s hand. “My name is Jim Shrapshire. This is my colleague, Dali. Her relative owns a salon two doors down from you.”

“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Cole Waller. We noticed Ms. Indrayani wasn’t here today. Is she alright?”

I picked my jaw off the floor and made my mouth move. “She isn’t feeling good this morning.”

Concern touched his face. It seemed genuine. “Sorry to hear that. I hope it’s nothing serious.”

To tell him or not to tell him? If I didn’t tell them, and this was connected to the property, they could be in danger.

“I’m afraid it is. Someone used magic to target her.”

“Seriously?” The man turned back and yelled, “Amanda!”

A blond woman emerged from the depths of the office. “Yes?”

“This is my wife, Amanda. She’s the chiropractor.” The man came out from behind the counter and stood next to his wife. “Someone tried to hurt that nice lady who owns the salon.”

Amanda blinked. “Ms. Indrayani? Oh my God, what happened? Is she okay?”

“She’s fine for now,” Jim said, his face concerned. “We believe someone targeted her because they want this property. Have you received any buyout offers?”

Cole frowned. “Yes. Yes, we have.”

He walked back behind the desk, opened a filing cabinet, riffled through the files hanging on the metal racks, and produced a piece of paper. I glanced at it. Abbot, Sadlowski, and Shirley letterhead, letter, enclosed offer to purchase. Dated two months ago.

“Did you agree to sell?” Jim asked.

“We thought about it,” Cole said. “The price was generous.”

“But this place is our own. It’s about five minutes from our house. We have an established client list,” Amanda said. “And our son’s school is only ten minutes from here. The bus drops him off two hundred feet down the street. It’s so nice. He walks here, gets a snack, does his homework and then we go home together. If we moved, he would have to be dropped off near our home and with the phones not working during magic, we wouldn’t even know if he made it or not. My older brother died on his way from school. He was run over . . .”

“We said no,” Cole finished for her and hugged her gently.

“Do you have any idea who the buyer is?” Jim asked.

Cole shook his head. “Got to be someone in the building. I’ve talked to some people, but nobody admitted it. The thing is, they’re offering two hundred and fifty grand. If it’s one of the owners and the other four got the same offer that makes it a cool million for the building. I can’t imagine any of us pulling together that kind of money. There is Vasil, who runs the deli. He works six days a week and half day on Sunday. Then there is the courier place next door. Never see more than three couriers there. The guy who runs it, Steve Graham, is some sort of fitness nut. Runs marathons and complains about how in the future magic is going to make everyone fat. Makes his couriers ride bicycles.”

“Dotes on his daughter,” Amanda said.

“Yes, he talks about her all the time.”

“The Eleventh Planet is run by two college kids,” Amanda said. “They host card games and have a tip jar on the counter. I’d be surprised if they have two nickels to rub together.”

“The thing I don’t understand is why,” Cole said. “The building’s kind of old and the location is great for us, but it’s not exactly Central Market Lane.”

“Have you noticed anything unusual?” I asked. “Strange behavior from the other owners, odd magic?”

“Unusual?” Amanda shook her head. “Well, Vasil isn’t here today. I suppose that’s unusual. He’s usually here like clockwork. A very nice man.”

“Do you think they’ll come after us?” Cole asked.

“It’s a possibility,” Jim said.

Amanda sighed. Her shoulders drooped. “God, if it’s not one thing, it’s the other. You know, even with all of the things that go on, I never worried about magic. I mostly worry about traffic accidents.”

Cole put his arm around his wife again.

I handed him a card with my name and phone number. “If something strange does happen, please call me.”

• • •

STEVEN Graham turned out to be a spare man in his forties. He looked like a bicycle enthusiast, his body toned, his frame narrow, and his movements economical, as he stood behind a counter, the wall behind him lined with sample box sizes and price stickers. The lone courier remaining in the office, on other hand, looked more like a doorman in some nightclub. Big, broad shoulders, chest slabbed with muscle. He gave Jim an I’m-a-bigger-man stare. Jim looked at him for a moment. The courier crossed his arms on his chest. Ha-ha.

When we were young, we could hide behind tables and chairs when threatened. But once we reached five, that behavior wasn’t acceptable anymore, so we folded our arms on our chest, forming a barrier and protecting vital organs. Judging by the courier’s clenched teeth and fists, he was building one hell of a barrier between himself and Jim. That’s right. My Jim is scary. It won’t help you, anyway.

“Shipping or notice?” Steven Graham asked.

“Neither,” I said, while the courier and Jim looked at each other. The place smelled like packing supplies: cardboard and glue. Plastic tape had become too expensive a while ago and now the boxes were sealed with homemade paper tape dipped in glue made by blending cornstarch with boiling water. That’s exactly what I smelled, and tons of it.