Teddy Tumtum wasn't there to add anything. Peez had opted to lock him in the trunk of her rental car. He'd served his purpose, giving her a crash course in the true history of Salem and how best to apply that knowledge during her upcoming interview with the witch-queen. She had to admit, he did have a devious mind, for a stuffed animal, full of practical insights on human nature. On the other hand, Peez didn't need anyone to tell her that the person who showed up at a business meeting packing a loaded teddy bear—even a magically articulate one—had already lost the first through fifteenth rounds of negotiations.
She's beautiful, Peez told herself. But I've got something that's better than beauty: I've got brains. I'm smart, and I'm only going to get smarter as time goes on. Meanwhile, she's just going to get old and wrinkled and saggy. There's just so much that plastic surgery can do. She's not going to flummox me. I can take her.
She drew another centering breath and went into the bookstore.
A small brass bell above the door chimed sweetly as Peez entered. The shop appeared to be deserted, which was strange. Peez checked the sign on the front door, but it said open.
Maybe she's doing something in the storeroom, Peez thought, glancing at the red and black bead curtain veiling the doorway behind the counter. She opened her mouth to call out, but changed her mind. She'd never been very good at knowing what to say under such circumstances. Yoo-hoo? Helloooo? Hi, it's me? All lame, all guaranteed to make her feel like a fool. Fools did not win the support of influential clients for a pending corporate takeover. Not unless they were highly-placed government officials. She decided to say nothing and simply await Fiorella's inevitable appearance. Meanwhile, she looked around her.
The interior of Ye Cat and Cauldron was a comforting blend of dim light and musty smells. The shelves were laden with a fine selection of books, hardcover and paperback both, dealing with matters of the occult, though there was an entire section marked off as Love Spells. A thread of patchouli incense wove its way through the displays of plaster skulls, crystal balls, and mass-produced Egyptian statuettes of gods, goddesses, cats and hippos. There was a real cat present—black, of course. He lay stretched out full length across the top of a glass display case that was crammed with enough silvery ankh pendants to outfit half the population of suburban Goth wannabees on the Eastern Seaboard. There was also a cauldron in one corner. It was full of umbrellas.
"Loaners, in case of a sudden cloudburst," said Fiorella. She had passed through the bead curtain without calling forth so much as a click-click. The black cat let out a wowowowwwwlllll of ecstatic greeting and leaped onto her shoulder where he perched like an owl. "They're for the tourists."
"Isn't everything?" Peez said, letting her eyes sweep across the shop. Her smile mirrored Fiorella's. It was a stratagem that Teddy Tumtum had suggested to her. She wished he were there to see how well she had begun this interview. Amazing how coolly she could comport herself on the outside when her gut felt like a blender set on puree. "Very kind of you to help them out, but doesn't it run into money when they don't return them?"
"Not at all." The witch-queen's little pink tongue ran lightly across her upper lip as if she were relishing the taste of something very toothsome indeed. "Please note the sign."
Peez looked at the wall above the cauldron. There hung a sheet of yellowed parchment, slightly charred at the edges, with the calligraphed words:
Welcome Ye Be to Borrow Mee in Tyme of Neede, Yet Hearken Ye: A Witche's Curse Doth Follow Fast on Hee Who Keepeth Mee.
"That," said Peez, "is false advertising. There's no curse on those umbrellas. I'd be able to feel it."
"Nothing but the curse of truly awful poetry," said Fiorella complacently. "But it works like a charm, and it's much cheaper than imbuing the umbrellas with a homing spell. The tourists come here because they believe, or because they want to. The first rule of successful retail is to give the public what the public wants, or thinks they do. I'm in the business of meeting popular expectations. Just between the two of us, black isn't my best color, incense makes me sneeze, and I'm frightfully allergic to my darling Pyewacket, here." She reached up and scratched the black cat's fluffy chest. He purred mightily. "But the tourists expect Ye Cat and Cauldron to have both, and I have a reputation as a witch-queen to uphold. You can buy an awful lot of antihistamines on what this store clears in a week."
"I know. I've reviewed your records."
"Thorough," Fiorella murmured. "But I'd expect no less of Edwina Godz's daughter." She stepped back, gesturing at the bead curtain. "Would you care for some tea? I've just been making preparations in the back—my Lilith Lair, as I like to call it. The two of us have much to discuss."
The area behind the bead curtain was a miniature jewel of a room, all ruby glass, burgundy velvet, and gold silk tassels. The tea things were already set out on a low mahogany table with ball-and-claw feet. Fiorella waved Peez to a place at one end of the settee before settling herself at the other. "Two sugars and a squeeze of lemon for you," she said, filling Peez's cup.
How does she know that's what I always put in my tea? Peez fought to keep her self- possession. Fiorella had meant to astonish her, to throw her off-stride and gain the initial advantage in this interview. I-know-something-about-you-that-you-didn't-know-I-knew was a business ploy that had been old when Babylon was young. The witch-queen was up to something. Peez felt a fleeting urge to rush out to the car and fetch Teddy Tumtum, but she knew that was impossible. Instead she sat up a little straighter and launched a silvery laugh.
"How very kind of you to find out how I take my tea," she said smoothly. "But I'm afraid your information is sadly out of date. I no longer care for lemon. Just cream." She arched one eyebrow and peered critically into the tiny porcelain pitcher on the tea tray. "That is cream, isn't it? Real cream?"
Fiorella's perfect cheekbones flushed red. She muttered a few arcane words and wiggled her fingers over the little pitcher. The level of liquid went down slightly and the color deepened from the bluish-white of skim milk to the more buttery-white of full dairy cream.
"It is now," she said, somewhat testily.
Peez sipped her tea and looked demure. Inside she was gloating and doing a victory dance, even if it was just to honor a small victory. That wasn't so hard, she thought. That was even ... fun! Fiorella already sees that I'm smart, that I can think on my feet—or on her settee—and that I've got to be the only worthy successor to my mother's empire. Besides, I'm a woman. That's got to count for something with this country's number one wiccan! It's a Goddess thing.
She set down her teacup and said, "Fiorella, under normal circumstances I would enjoy a long chat with you, but since we're both businesswomen, we know that sometimes one must sacrifice nicety to necessity. I hope you won't mind my cutting to the chase, but you do understand that I'm—that I'm working under a terrible deadline."
"Of course." Fiorella removed a cobwebby lace handkerchief from one long, black sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. "Your poor mother, my dear friend Edwina. So sad. So sudden. So—so strange. When I first heard about her condition I rather wondered why— It just wasn't like her to—to—" Fiorella's voice trailed off and a distracted look came into her face that had nothing to do with sorrow.
Peez didn't know why or whither the witch-queen's attention had wandered, but she determined to recapture it forthwith. There were other places for her to be, other people to meet. She was doing all right so far, mastering her innate awe of beautiful people, handling a face-to-face meeting, but she didn't know if she could keep it up indefinitely.