For Love or Magic by Lucy March

to be a full kitchen. It was a throwback to what I’d guess to be late fifties, early sixties. The cabinets were blue, the counters butcher block, the appliances classic stainless steel, and a wall covered in blue-painted pegboard sported an improbable array of copper cookware. Seamus sniffed a low-hanging saucepan and settled on the floor in front of the display.
    â€œWow,” I breathed.
    â€œYes, it’s wonderful, isn’t it?” she said, grinning as she filled a copper-bottomed teakettle with water from the sink. “It’s less a replica of Julia Child’s kitchen—we have nothing like that kind of space—and more of an homage, but I love it.” She cranked up the gas burner and put the kettle on.
    â€œIt’s a working kitchen,” I said. “Is it all for sale? There are no price tags on anything. Because not for nothing, I’d like to be buried in that chaise.”
    Addie smiled. “It is lovely, isn’t it?”
    â€œI’m serious,” I said. “I know I can’t afford it, but what is the price on that thing? A girl can dream.”
    â€œIt’s not for sale, yet,” she said, motioning for me to take a seat at the long table, covered in a solid print burnt-orange cotton tablecloth. “I don’t put tags on anything until I can bear to part with it.”
    â€œSo … how is it a business, then?” I asked.
    She shrugged. “My wife is independently wealthy. Her family is old Connecticut money, too busy exploiting the worker and raping the environment to reproduce. Both her father and her uncle left her everything, and while we don’t have quite the moral fortitude to reject the cash altogether, we do give generously to the hippie liberals, which I’m sure made the greedy bastards whirl in their graves like rotisserie chickens.” She giggled and sighed. “Twice a year we have a date night where we give a good chunk of their money to Planned Parenthood, drink one of their ridiculous bottles of old wine, and have sex on her uncle’s bear rug, supposedly made from some poor animal Hemingway shot.” She gave a good-natured eye roll. “Honestly, I prefer the wine that comes in the box, but it’s really about the principle of the thing.”
    I smiled, liking her even more, but also pretty sure I didn’t want to hear any more sex stories. Time to change the subject.
    â€œSo, I was wondering if you had leads on any jobs for me? I’m gonna need to buy some food soon.” I dropped that last bit lightly, but it was sadly true. The first thing I’d done that morning was dig the trash bags out of my truck and throw in everything from the Welcome Wagon that hadn’t been factory sealed. Then I drove to the IGA, threw the perfectly good food into the Dumpster in the back, and spent my last few bucks on a box of Cheerios and a half-gallon of milk. I had enough in my checking to pay the utilities, feed Seamus, and put gas in that stupid truck, but after that things were gonna get dire, fast.
    â€œOh, yes, of course, we’ll get to that, but first … I need to talk to you about something.” The teakettle started to whistle and she pushed up from the table to tend to it. “Herbal or classic?”
    â€œOh. Um. Classic. So, what’s up?”
    She dropped tea bags into a delicate floral teapot, and poured the boiling water, waiting until she was finished before looking at me with purpose. “Desmond Lamb.”
    I almost wanted to laugh at the seriousness on her face, but there was also a hint of genuine worry in her eyes, so I didn’t. She set down a tray with a red polka dot teapot, two stoneware mugs, and a matching white porcelain creamer and sugar dish on the table. She poured a cup for me and a cup for herself, then motioned toward the cream and sugar. “Help yourself.”
    I pulled my mug toward me and said, “Thank you. Now, what is this