I'm your shadow. I'm not anything more.
― Haruki Murakami
Lindsay
I stared hard at Lindsay. She was a good detective but some days we just weren't on the same wavelength.
"Witchcraft and teenage girls— you're back to that? You've got to be kidding."
"I wish I were."
I clasped my hands behind my head, swung my heels up onto my desk, closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "Go ahead."
She stared at me uncertainly.
"Proceed," I said, in a tone of resignation.
"You think I like this?" she flared. "I'm embarrassed to even have to tell you, but I learned long ago to follow the evidence—wherever it leads."
"What evidence?" I asked wearily.
"Cassandra Mitchell and Darla Pendle—they're both enrolled in the school—they're bitter rivals—and they're both witches."
"Really?" I asked, opening my eyes, a grin spreading across my face.
"How delicious!"
"Yeah, I thought you might like that," she conceded glumly.
"Why didn't you tell me this before?"
She threw up her hands in exasperation.
"I did—in a Reader's Digest version. Maybe, I was hoping you'd come up with some other explanation—other than being a typical male and patronizing me."
"Oh, so that's what you think, huh? —Well, you're clearly mistaken. As the song says, you don't know me. But then, you haven't really taken the time, have you?"
She let one arm drop wearily and looked at me, corners of her mouth turned down. "I try not to get involved with people I work with."
"I'm not a cling-on—besides, we've only worked together three times in the past two years...unfortunately."
I saw her eyes go soft. My heart bled a little.
"Okay, I'll tell you what—help me solve this case, and I'll relax my rule."
"So, if all goes well, you'll go out with me?"
"One date—dinner at Shakespeare's—that's all I'm promising."
"It's near the theatre—we might as well combine it with seeing a play."
I smiled, but my eyes pleaded.
"Fine," she whispered, eyes cast down.
"A detective who appreciates the arts—who would've have known?"
"Hey!" she said, glancing around as if the walls had ears, "The date's not for sure. You've got to sing for your supper."
"Don't worry, Lindsay—a few adolescent girls dabbling in magic, aren't really that formidable."
"I'm glad you think so," she shivered.
She looked vulnerable again. My heart melted. I stifled a smug smile. Little did I know what awaited me at Saint Dunstan's School for Girls.
Lindsay and I drove to the school on the Hamilton Mountain the following day.
It had been a dull, late February morning and it matched both our moods. But as we drove up the Mountain access, bright snowflakes began to fall.
In a moment, the gray backdrop of trees exploded into stuttering clarity and huge white sparks flew toward the windscreen of our car.
Within minutes the expanse as far as the eye could see was whitened and softened beneath soft, wet snow.
"An omen?" I asked facetiously.
Lindsay's hands on the steering wheel just tightened and her mouth was set.
Note to self: no more jokes about witchcraft.