Chapter 37
In the days that followed, Ingrid managed to drag herself out of bed every morning and go to work.
Even if her reflection in the mirror told her that she had barely eaten or slept, she forged ahead.
She had plenty of clients, friends of the Loefflers and others, who were still coming to her for readings.
Apparently, Sailor had not told anyone that her former psychic-witch had hexed her own mother.
But word about other things Ingrid had done for Sailor’s wedding had gotten out.
Now, when booking a client for a simple half hour reading, they requested spells for all sorts of things: new jobs, new boyfriends, new cars.
Ingrid explained to all of them that was not her business model—she wasn’t exactly Santa Claus—and soon, the flood of new customers slowed to a trickle.
Ingrid knew she should cleanse herself, meditate, maybe even do a settling ritual that would help her focus on her own healing. But she had no desire to set foot in her altar room. No desire to connect with Edie or the Goddess. She just wanted Sailor back. Sailor and Cas, her new family.
With all the free time she had on her hands, she took to lurking around Monterey Square, baseball cap pulled down low over her face, hoping to catch sight of Sailor.
Usually there was no sign of her ex-friend.
Only once did Ingrid spot her slipping out of the garden-level door of the Loeffler mansion and stepping into the open door of the Rolls that Adrian held open.
The Rolls pulled away, heading north, then turned a corner and disappeared.
One day, Ingrid showed up at the door of Boney’s filthy apartment.
It was on the second story of an old cotton warehouse that faced the river, above a trinket shop that sold souvenir mugs, magnets, and shot glasses.
In the shop there was, of course, the ubiquitous Savannah Sauce shelf, with all the flavors on offer so tourists could take the taste of the town back home.
A set of iron stairs on the back wall of the building led up to the space Boney shared with Mari and another guy who occasionally worked at the shop downstairs but mostly sat in his room and smoked the place up with a particularly pungent form of weed.
After enduring Boney’s gloating that the richies had dumped her just like he said they would, she accepted his apology in the form of an hour in his bed—although bed would be a generous word for the lumpy double mattress that occupied the corner of his bedroom.
It was a relief, losing herself in Boney’s embrace. Being with him was the only thing that took her mind off her situation, if only momentarily. And after she told him the truth about what had happened with the karma spell, he gave her his whole stash of weed.
One early Sunday morning, after a night filled with bad dreams, Ingrid got out of bed and pulled on one of Edie’s old shapeless linen sack dresses and her lavender mohair sweater.
She had a vague idea that if she walked down to Forsyth Park, sat in front of the fountain with her morning coffee, and focused on the sights and sounds of the spraying water, she might feel better.
Out of habit, she went by way of Monterey Square, and nearing the Loeffler mansion, happened to spot Sailor and Cas emerging from the house. She quickly set her coffee thermos on the bench next to a homeless man and hurried to duck behind a huge azalea bush.
“Thanks,” the man said, and she nodded then put her fingers to her lips. Peeking out from behind the bush, she zeroed in on Sailor. She wore a shirtdress this morning with ruffled shoulders and an orange floral print. Erdem, Ingrid thought automatically, around twelve-hundred dollars.
In contrast to Sailor’s polish, Cas looked positively ragged in rumpled chinos and a faded black Henley shirt, his shaggy blond hair curling over his ears and neck.
The combination took her breath away. Oh, was he a beauty, like an angelic carving of stone.
Except for those eyes. They were nothing like stone.
They were alive. Like the rich brown eyes of a deer.
Her sinner. She missed him almost as much as she did Sailor.
As soon as they were safely past her, she scooted out from behind the azalea and followed them, being careful to stay far enough behind not to be noticed.
They headed north, through Madison Square, then Chippewa, all the way up to Wright, where they ascended the steps of the Lutheran Church of the Ascension.
A half a minute later, Ingrid followed them inside and up the stairs to the second-floor sanctuary.
She slid into a back pew and scanned the space.
The sanctuary was lovely. Peaceful and bright, with a sparkling arch of jewel-colored stained glass behind the altar as well as down either side of the pews.
The pastor, an older woman with short, bristly, gray hair, was dressed in a robe with a colorful stole around the neck. A choir sang a rousing hymn.
She searched the pews for Sailor and Cas, spotting them on the opposite side of the aisle, a few rows up. She fixed her eyes on them, telling herself to stay calm. To breathe. She reviewed all the things she wanted to say to them:
I’m sorry for what I did to your mother.
It was a mistake, a misunderstanding, and I will do anything to fix it.
She would stop Cas and Sailor outside the church.
Make them listen to her. Remind Sailor how she’d made her feel seen and understood.
How she’d given Cas a safe place to start to explore his shadow-self, even though she wouldn’t say that part out loud.
She imagined the moment when their faces froze first in shock, then softened with compassion.
She imagined Sailor, reaching out to her.
Gathering her into her gentle embrace and telling her how much she’d missed her one true friend.
And Cas. He wouldn’t say anything, not in front of Sailor.
But later, when they’d found a place to be alone, he would plead for the saint to absolve the sinner.
She felt revved up and jittery, right here in the back pew, just thinking about it.
During the opening bars of the last hymn, Ingrid slipped out and was heading out the front doors when she was caught by something. Someone who reached out and took Ingrid’s hand in both of hers.
“Peace be with you,” the older woman said.
“Oh,” Ingrid said. “Thank you. You, too.”
“Are you visiting with us?”
“I …” In the spill of congregants, Ingrid noticed Cas and Sailor walk past her, out the doors, and down the steps. “Yes. I just wanted to try it out.”
“Well, I hope you’ll come back.”
Ingrid nodded and pulled her hand away. Sailor and Cas were headed toward the square, cutting through it toward Bull Street. She should follow them.
The woman looked over her shoulder and greeted the person behind her. “Judge Norwood. Welcome back. You’re looking tan and well rested. I hope your vacation was a pleasant respite from this heat.”
Ingrid nearly jumped out of her skin. Norwood. The judge who’d handled Scoot’s case.
Who’d sent her to the luxury rehab instead of charging her with a crime.
“Eighteen holes of golf in hundred-and-one degree weather isn’t exactly a respite,” boomed the man behind her.
She melted back into the well-dressed crowd, trying to get a glimpse of the judge and his wife, Patti Jo.
Ingrid watched them separate from the crowd—with much waving and air-kissing—then head south toward Bull Street just like Sailor and Cas.
She followed them, an alternate idea forming in her mind.
One better than approaching Sailor and Cas directly.
On Oglethorpe the judge and his wife turned right and disappeared into an elegant restaurant called Husk.
Ingrid stood on the corner of Oglethorpe and Bull, gathering her courage.
This may not be an entirely conventional approach, but she couldn’t stand silently by any longer.
She had to own up to her responsibility. She had to at least try.
She entered the restaurant, momentarily taken aback by the opulence, the crowd, the huge paintings. She suddenly became aware of the existence of the striking host who was giving her a quizzical look.
Ingrid imagined Sailor standing beside her, as she had so many times when they’d walked into restaurants. Leimberger for Loeffler, Sailor would always say, and not once would the host even skip a beat. They would always nod briskly and cheerfully and tell Sailor and Ingrid right this way.
She lifted her chin now. “I’m with the Norwood party,” she announced in a voice she hoped sounded confident.
“Yes, of course,” the woman said. “Just there by the window.”
Ingrid was glad she didn’t offer to show her to the table. She really didn’t prefer an audience for this. As she walked up, she fixed a smile on her face.
“Excuse me,” she said to Patti Jo Norwood. “I’m so sorry to interrupt.”
Patti Jo looked up from her menu. “I’ll have an unsweetened iced tea, dear. And a lime, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh … no. I’m sorry. I’m Ingrid White. The, ah … Sailor Loeffler’s psychic.”
Patti Jo seemed to be reaching back into her memory. The judge had a wary look in his eye.
“We met at the party. Sailor’s engagement party,” Ingrid added, smiling at them both.
“Oh, that’s right.” Patti Jo was pointing at her now with a short, pale pink fingernail.
“Clemmie Fairburn’s been to see you a few times.
She said you’re absolutely marvelous. Dead-on, every time.
” She sent her husband a wry smile. “I’ve been dying to make an appointment with you, but the judge over here has been keeping me busy with all this traveling—”
“I’d be happy to make time for you this week, if you like,” Ingrid said.
“Oh, that’s sweet.” Patti Jo looked distracted now. “I’ll have to check my calendar.”
“I just was having brunch with my”—Ingrid waved her hand vaguely in the direction of some nonexistent table across the restaurant—“and I saw you, Judge, and wondered if I might speak to you about … about a legal issue.”
Judge Norwood raised his eyebrows.
“Honey, talk to her,” Pattie Jo said, and rose from her chair. “I’m going to run to the little girls’ room.” She bustled off and the judge sat back in his chair.
“It’s about Scoot Loeffler,” Ingrid said to the judge quickly. “I have something to tell you about her case.”
“There is no case,” he said gruffly. “Not anymore.”
“But they sent her away to some kind of rehab.”
“I can’t discuss the details of a private legal matter, Miss—”
“White. Ingrid White.” Ingrid gulped. “It’s just that I’m not only a psychic, I’m a witch, too. I … I do spells and things like that, on occasion …”
He was looking up at her, a look of intense alarm on his face.
“Only white magic, mostly,” she said hurriedly. “For things like healing and success and peace. Positive things …”
His eyes were darting around now, possibly hoping his wife was on her way back.
Ingrid went on. “I think I … well, I know I did a spell against Scoot that night. The night she had her accident. I didn’t mean to, but I think I inadvertently did some kind of black magic spell, a curse or a hex—”
His face had gone pale and slack. “Young lady—”
“Anyway, it’s my fault.” Ingrid felt her armpits grow damp, a bead of sweat rolling down her spine. “It’s my fault that she got in her car in her … condition. That she hit that man—”
“Young lady.” The judge’s voice was firmer now. He stood, glancing around the room surreptitiously before gently, but firmly, taking her arm and propelling her toward the door.
Ingrid tripped along beside him, words pouring out as fast as her feet were moving. “I hexed her and that’s what made her do that. It was because of me, and that’s why I should be held responsible, not Scoot—”
“Hush,” he growled at her as he manhandled her past the host stand and the woman standing beside it, staring in curiosity.
“Do not say another word.” He yanked her arm, hard and fast, and her mouth clamped shut.
In an instant they were out the door and on the busy sidewalk.
He still didn’t release her but held her close enough to hiss in her ear.
“I know who you are.”
“I’m—”
He held her even tighter. “I’m talking now.”
She found his eyes. The look in them—recognition—turned Ingrid’s legs to water.
“I knew Edith White,” he said in a low voice. “Your grandmother. She was a good woman. The kind of woman who would look out for someone’s child if they were in trouble. And you, my dear, are in trouble.”
Ingrid felt her face go hot.
“But I did a—”
He gave her arm a little shake. “No spell made Scoot Loeffler order too many drinks at the Perry Lane rooftop bar with some young beefcake and then get in her car and drive out to Tybee Island. That was her ridiculously poor decision, and only hers. You hear me?”
Ingrid swallowed the rest of what she’d been about to say and nodded.
He inhaled then spoke in a measured tone.
“You have no idea of the family you’re dealing with, Miss White.
The absolute and unbeatable power. So, on behalf of your grandmother, I will tell you that the best thing you can do right now is go home and shut your mouth.
Stop this nonsense before Rill Loeffler hears about it and decides you really are somehow responsible. ”
He turned her loose. Her legs felt weak. Her heart pounded against her ribs with sickening thuds.
“Go home, Miss White.” He turned and walked back into the restaurant, but she couldn’t move. People streamed past her on the sidewalk, skirting her or bumping into her, all oblivious to her distress.
The judge was right. He was. All Sailor had to do was spread the word about Ingrid’s spell, and the only customers she’d be left with were tourists.
If Rill found out what Ingrid had done, she’d be finished in Savannah, Ingrid was fairly certain of that.
Norwood was kind to tell her to go home. He was trying to help her.
Still … how could she just let this go? None of it added up.
Sure, Scoot drank a lot, but it was always at home or on family outings.
And the woman had a full-time chauffeur to take her everywhere.
So why would she go out and drink in public with some young guy?
Why would she go to Tybee, a place Sailor said she stayed away from? It made no sense.
Ingrid had to find out what had happened.
If her spell had really caused this, maybe, somehow, she could figure out a way to fix it.
Judge Norwood’s warning still ringing in her ears, she cast one look back at the entrance of the restaurant, then headed east, in the direction of the Perry Lane Hotel.