The Magic of Murder by Susan Lynn Solomon Page B

herbs. I couldn’t use a stainless steel knife from my kitchen. I prepared meals with those. Rebecca had told me the spell would be spoiled if my ritual knife were used for anything else.
    The supplies I’d need in hand, I returned to the kitchen. Rebecca hadn’t told me not to use the herbs I cook with, so I took dried rosemary, thyme, and a couple of bay leaves from my spice cabinet, and crushed them in a stone mortar.
    Again in my living room, I set down on the coffee table everything Sarah said I would need. I was ready for my first solo flight, so to speak.
    With Elvira parked at my feet, I arranged three candlesticks in a triangle, placed the yellow tapers in them, and sprinkled a generous mixture of the herbs. I stepped back to examine my preparations. Everything was as Sarah Goode had described. I turned off the electric lights. Why does it seem as though magic only works in the dark?
    The box of kitchen matches held over my head, I struck one with a flourish.
    Sparks flew.
    Panicked, I threw the lit match into an ashtray and patted my hair, certain I’d set myself on fire. This clearly wouldn’t be as easy as Sarah’s book made it sound.
    Satisfied I hadn’t lit me instead of the candles, I tried again. This time I got the match lit without mishap. I cupped the match in my palms, and touched it to each of the candlewicks. Once the flames grew strong, I turned slowly, and repeated the words Sarah had written. Of course, I changed the business about her love, to a request for information about who killed Jim Osborn.
    My prayer completed, as if I were a medium who’d invoked a spirit, I raised my hands above the candles and waited.
    Nothing happened. No image magically formed in the room or even in my mind.
    I stared at the candles. “Come on, show me something,” I whispered.
    Still no image formed. No second sight. Not even a first sight.
    “What’s going on here?” I asked the cat.
    She snorted and walked away. If she could speak, I’m certain Elvira would have muttered, Amateur, as she disappeared into the kitchen.
    With my head hung in defeat, I followed her. “If you’re so smart,” I said, “tell me what I did wrong.”
    She raised her head from her bowl and licked the milk from her face.
    “Just like Kevin,” I said. “Full of criticism, but no ideas for how I can do it right.”
    She rolled her eyes. I didn’t know cats could do that.
     
    ***
     
    The sun streaked through the window blinds in my bedroom the next morning. Rays of light crawled along the carpeted floor, up the walls, and onto my closed eyelids. Even more annoying, fur was in my mouth, and tickled my nose. I rolled over. The fur followed me. It was again on my nose and in my mouth.
    Bleeech !
    I rubbed my eyes and opened them.
    Two very pale pink eyes stared down at me.
    “Go away, cat,” I mumbled, and rolled over.
    The sunlight pried my eyes open.
    “What time is it?” I asked, as if a cat could answer.
    She did—though it was only a long meowww .
    “I don’t want to get up,” I said. “I don’t have to. Got nowhere to go today.”
    She licked my face leaving slime on my cheek. Yuck!
    I glanced at the clock. It was almost eleven. I never sleep past nine. Still weary, again I rubbed my eyes. What time had I gone to bed last night? I got home from Marge’s just before ten, and Kevin knocked on the French doors. Then Roger knocked on my front door, then Chief Woodward. By the time they left, it was past midnight. What had I done after that?
    I sprang up, all at once remembering the ceremony I’d tried to perform. Had I left the candles burning?
    I tumbled from my bed and stumbled down the stairs with Elvira close behind.
    The ashes from last night were still on the coffee table in the living room. As I gazed at the candlesticks and the stubs of the tapers, a queer feeling rose from my stomach—a feeling there was something I should remember, but couldn’t quite grasp.
    Oh, well, I thought, it’ll come to me