by Leanne Leeds
“The town ghosts? As in the ghosts of not-witches, you mean?”
She nodded.
“I don’t know. In the beginning, it seemed sort of odd to me. I just figured it had something to do with the curse on the town and thought little more about it.”
She frowned. “So, you think it’s because of the curse, but you have no explanation—no theory at all—for why no ghosts are haunting Mystic’s End? That doesn’t seem like you at all, Fortuna.”
I opened my mouth to say something and then closed it again.
In some ways, Keziah was right. The team was continually looking to me for answers (even though they usually knew just as much as I did) because I—or Pepper—tended to put all the pieces together. Here, though? It just didn’t seem all that important to waste time thinking about.
Watching the steam rise from my nearly untouched morning cup of joe and yawning away the last bit of tiredness, I shrugged. “I don’t know every little thing that happens in this town or the answer to every anomaly. Like I said, it didn’t seem a top priority. And don’t forget, there are ghosts in Mystic’s End. Spike was living in this very building for years. Tom Wilson’s ghost is living with his ex-wife and ex-mistress,” I told her.
Keziah leaned on the counter and raked her thick, dark hair back from her face. She was incorporeal, so she wasn’t really touching her hair (just the memory of hair) or leaning on the counter (she could pass right through it). I noticed, though, that the memory of life was so powerful ghosts would mimic sitting, leaning, lying down…I guess it was the same way that Chris appeared to breathe. “It just seems to me that there’s something more to the absence of afterlife here.” She looked around the room at the other ghosts. “We shouldn’t be all there are, Fortuna. There has to be more. Souls don’t simply disappear.”
“Well, of course not, but don’t they go somewhere?” Dalida asked, joining us. My sister placed a hand on my shoulder as if to apologize for allowing Keziah’s questions to waylay me. “Heaven, the Elysian fields? Have to go somewhere, right? Maybe that’s what happened. The entire town just moved on except for the few that are left.”
I shrugged again. “That answer’s way above my pay grade.” There was a slight pause in the conversation, so I gulped my coffee down. If this was the breakfast chat this day was starting with, it would likely be another long one.
“I can’t believe you two are unconcerned. We have gone, two by two, all over the length and width of this town,” Keziah continued, squinting at Dalida. “As we’ve looked for the bottles, we’ve looked for others like us: other secrets, other souls, other paranormals. I say to you both—that we have found none, not a one? It is abnormal. Something is amiss.”
“It doesn’t seem like anything in this town is completely normal, Keziah,” Dalida told the concerned ghost, a kind look on her face. “Just the fact that you are here, that Angie, Fortuna, and I have the history that we do…That Angie’s father suddenly has no memory of all he learned about magic and their mother…” She paused and looked off into the distance for a moment, as though the reason everything was as it was hung in the air on the other side of the room. “This is a strange town with strange stories.”
“But we know most of them now.”
Dalida turned and raised her eyebrow. “You think so, sister?” She glanced down at Angie’s greyhound and chuckled. “You haven’t even told Angie that her dog is a transmogrified murderer.”
The hint of a frown crossed my forehead. “I’m going to tell her. Eventually.”
“It’s been two months. You’re not going to tell her.” Dalida dismissed my assertion.
“I just don’t know how to explain that her beloved pet is her crazy ex-friend Ella Grayson. I mean, if I had told her a few months ago, it probably would’ve been easier. But then I put it off. And I put it off some more.”
“And I agreed to hide it from her,” Dalida added faintly. “Something I still can’t believe I did.”
“We were brand-new sisters!” I chirped. “You didn’t want to make me mad.”
“As I’ve gotten to know you and Angie, Fortuna, I should have been fine letting you be angry at me. Our younger sister has a bit of a fiery temper, in case you haven’t noticed. She’s the one I should be wary of.”
“Of course, I’ve noticed. She pushed Spike down the stairs and killed him,” I pointed out genially.
“I did not!” Angie retorted as she pushed her way into our discussion. “It was an accident. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you it was an accident, but you know? I think you bring that whole thing up more than Spike does! Get over it, Fortuna.”
“Your sister knows about accidents,” Keziah said with a clever eyebrow raise.
“Are you kidding? Miss Perfect over here?” Angie glanced over at me and stuck her tongue out. “When have you ever made a mistake? Had an accident? Colored outside the lines?”
Keziah, Dalida, and I immediately looked at Angie’s dog.
Angie’s eyes narrowed. “Why is everybody looking at my dog?”
Beulah Conroe swept into my store right after my second cup of coffee.
I was—mercifully—upstairs in a meeting with Dalida, Angie, Bessie, and Mary, plotting out our next search grid to look for the last bottle. Poor Azalea looked haggard as she came up to the second floor and apologized profusely for bothering me. “She just won’t tell me what she wants, Fortuna,” Azalea explained, her eyes wide. “I’ve asked a hundred different times, it feels like, and the woman just refuses to talk to me.”
“Did she ask for me specifically?”
“No, not…not by name,” the young artist responded, shifting uncomfortably.
I blinked. “Okay, I’ll bite. What does that mean?”
“She used some language that I would rather not repeat.” Azalea’s cheeks pinked up. “If that’s okay.”
Dalida, Angie, and I looked at one another. “Okay, I’ll be right down.”
Azalea nodded and hurried down the steps.
“Who’s Beulah Conroe?” Dalida asked.
“She’s a member of the Grace Gang at Holy Grove Church,” Angie told Dalida with a frown. “The Grace Gang is this group of three old women who have nothing better to do than get into everyone’s business. They are the most judgmental, horrible, pseudo-pious—”
I raised my eyebrow. “I take it you’ve had a run-in with them?”
“You mean because I’m the former town lush? Or because I ran off to Hollywood?” Angie sat back and posed in a sultry manner. “Or because my first husband was super old, and I was super young, and he died, and I became super-rich? Or because—”
“I think we got it,” Dalida said, cutting her off.
Angie shot Dalida a humorless smile. “But yes. The Grace Gang has tried to save my soul. It was decidedly unpleasant.” She wrinkled her pixie nose.
Before Angie discovered she was our sister—the product of an affair between our mother and the father who raised her—she’d had many problems she tried to drink away. On top of the inherent difficulties that come with being perpetually drunk, Angie’d been angry when she drank. Her verbal assaults on people—including me—were legendary, and her reputation in the town was not the best.
I detested her. Once.
Miss Bessie had told me I didn’t know her full story, and the old woman had been right. Angie had no idea she had inherited paranormal powers. My younger sister, the sultry spitfire lush, was actually a powerful empathic healer. Her touch could take away pain or sadness or darkness in an instant. It had been, we realized, the reason her first husband loved her so much. She had taken away the intense anguish caused by his illness and replaced it with bliss. That kind of thing could make anyone fall in love.
Once Angie discovered the truth about herself, it seemed to settle her.
Well, mostly.
“I guess I should go talk to her,” I said with a reluctance that all could see.
“You need to close this business,” An
gie told me with a toss of her head. “We all have more than enough money to live the life of rich socialites. Why are you even keeping this place open? I mean, why bother?”
My younger sister wasn’t wrong. Well, about her and Dalida, at least. Angie had millions thanks to her first husband (who had been childless). Dalida had a somewhat cordial relationship with her own adoptive parents, and they provided a substantial trust fund for her comfort. But I left my rich, adopted parents when I was barely sixteen without taking a dime from them. While my two sisters might not need to work, I did.
“If you don’t have to work, why bother keeping the club open?” Angie owned and held court at The Centre Club, an overly fancy rotating restaurant at Martin’s entertainment complex.
“It’s not like anyone else’s gonna let me on stage to sing,” my sister shot back.
“Well, I enjoy painting, and I enjoy having the shop,” I told her with a shrug. “And I am not independently wealthy the way the two of you are, so I have to keep my business running. If Beulah Conroe wants to learn how to paint beautiful paintings, I’m happy to sell her the supplies or tell her when to show up for class.” I pushed off the counter and headed toward the stairwell. “This shouldn’t take too long. Just let me help her with what she needs.”
“Maybe you should find out what name she called you before you decide to take her on as your next art student,” Dalida called after me.
“And Reverend Kane thought you were a lost sheep,” Beulah Conroe said as I emerged into the storefront. “I once told you when you came to the church, we shoot wolves in these here parts. Didn’t take the hint, did ya?”
Her tone stopped me in my tracks. I stared at the woman, surprised by the animosity coming off her.
When I didn’t reply, she gave Azalea a stern look. “I think it’s time for you to go into the back.” Azalea froze, staring back at the silver-haired old woman. “Now!” she added when Azalea didn’t move, her voice dripping with menace.
“Azalea, why don’t you go get the studio set up for this afternoon’s class,” I told the girl in a friendly, casual voice. Usually, I would jump all over anyone that talked to my staff that way, elderly woman or not. After Beulah’s opening, though, I sensed it was safer for the girl to be as far away from this conversation as I could get her. “I’ll let you know when I need you up front again.”
“Okay,” she responded quickly and bolted into the back.
When Azalea was safely two rooms away, I whirled back toward the old woman. “Just what on earth do you think you’re doing coming in here and talking to her like that?” I asked the cantankerous old woman. “That young woman did nothing to you, and that was no way to treat her.”
“I don’t know who you think you are, talking to me that way, but I will not be spoken to in this manner by a Delphi hussy,” Beulah spat back, her nose so far in the air that if she walked out in the rain, she would drown.
“You won’t be spoken to in this manner?” I asked, laughing. “Ma’am, have you listened to yourself lately?”
“We waited two months for our donation,” Beulah spat, holding up two fingers and thrusting them at me. “Two months, we struggled, and it’s your fault! You’re the reason our church might go under!”
“I…Your church?” I blinked. “What do I have to do with your church?”
“Your mother has been donating to our fine house every month for years,” Beulah explained, the haughty arrogance never missing from her tone. “She told Reverend Kane that she won’t hand over another penny until her daughter comes and talks to her.” The old woman’s watery eyes narrowed. “That’s you. How you could come from so fine, so pious a woman, I will never know. But you’ve got to fix this, young lady. You’ve got to fix this right now.”
I suspected my face looked shocked, and my mouth was probably gaping open like a fish. My mother donated monthly to the Holy Grove Church? Why would she do that? How long had it been going on? And why had Ollie, Rev. Kane’s son, said nothing about this? My mind raced in a hundred directions at once.
When I didn’t respond, Beulah Conroe shot me an angry look. “Well?”
“Are you telling me that the Holy Grove Church is entirely funded by Karen White?”
“Didn’t I just say that?” the old woman asked.
“And Reverend Kane has gone to see Karen White in jail?”
“I just said that, too!” Beulah responded angrily. “You have cotton in your ears?”
“And Karen White said until I go visit her in jail, she won’t donate to your church anymore?”
Beulah Conroe clenched her teeth. “Are you just going to repeat everything I said back to me?”
“Until I understand it, honestly, I just might,” I said, scratching my head. “If this has been going on for two months, why are you just now coming to me? And if she told that to Reverend Kane, why is he not here? And what about my other two sisters? She doesn’t want to see them?”
“She wants to talk to the one that’s dating the blood devil,” Beulah hissed, and then made many signs on herself after she said the words blood devil. “That’s you. And I’m sure you don’t care, but Reverend Kane doesn’t understand what’s going on. He’s afraid that because your sister is dating Martin, approaching you would make Martin angry. You’ve made a vigorous man afraid, you Delphi hussy!”
“Why is my mother donating to your church?” I asked her, my tone not bothering to hide my suspicion. “What is it you and your church are doing for her?”
“That’s none of your business,” she snapped back.
For a time, we stared at one another in mutual consternation. The gray-haired woman resented having to come here, and I could feel it snapping off her like fireworks. And she really disliked me.
I pushed within her mind to examine what she held there, what secrets she was hiding from me.
There was fear. A deep sorrow that this church she cared about so much was so very threatened. A fury that to save it, she had to come and speak to the likes of me.
But there was another, darker agenda just below that.
A nugget of truth, a fact, floating just beneath the murky depths of her fury.
It was cloaked, and I couldn’t pull it out no matter how hard I tried. Maybe Beulah Conroe didn’t even know what was hiding out within her own mind. That’s how secret, buried and protected it was.
Which meant it was hidden, buried, and protected by magic.
Great.
Three
Just when I thought the day could get no more complicated, Pepper raced into my shop waving her cell phone. “I just got a call from Ollie. You’re not going to believe what happened.”
“Well, Ms. Stanford, funny you should show up. I’ve got a story for you, too,” I replied with a wave of my hand. “Beulah Conroe was just here. She claims that my mother is the primary financial support behind Holy Grove Church. Since dear old mom’s in jail, there have been no donations for the past two months, and they’re a bit miffed. Beulah Conroe says Mom told Dexter Kane she won’t cut a check unless I go see her.”
“Your mother?” Pepper said, her voice louder. “Why would your mother support that crazy church? Did she even go? And why would she pass messages to you through Rev. Kane of all people?”
“That’s probably a better question for your boyfriend.” Pepper Stanford and Dexter Kane’s son Ollie had been dating for several months now. Much to the Right Reverend’s chagrin, Ollie was a long-haired biker devoted to the local paper’s star investigative reporter. “Speaking of, what’s your story?”
Pepper looked confused for a moment, and then her eyes widened as if she just remembered. “Oh, right, the call from Ollie. He and Bobby Newsom went to pick up a dead body. Councilman Conrad Noble got shot. The dude was sitting right in his office, and someone popped him right between the eyes.”
“Oh, no! That’s horrible,” I told her. I didn’t know the councilman well, but I had met him once or twice at the track. He was a balding man, smal
l and nervous. Kind of reminded me of a weasel. “Why would someone kill him?”
Pepper shrugged and leaned against the counter, her chin in her hands. “His secretary found the body this morning. As far as I know, no one’s been arrested. But that’s not the crazy part. That’s not even the million-dollar question. Go on.” She batted her eyes at me. “Ask me the million-dollar question. Oh, you’ll never guess. But try. No, no, you’ll never guess. It’ll knock your socks off.”
I tried to jump into the conversation Pepper seemed to be having with herself. “Okay, what’s the million-dollar question?”
“The million-dollar question is why the nerdy pencil pusher was found dead in his office clutching the very last witch bottle in his cold, stiff hand.” Pepper stood up and held her hands out. “Ollie found the last witch bottle. Granted, that’s the good news.” She frowned. “The bad news is that last part—that he found it in a murder victim’s hands. Now it’s in evidence.”
I blinked in shock. “Is Ollie sure it’s a witch bottle?”
Pepper rolled her eyes and tapped on her phone. Turning the screen toward me, she held up a picture of the dead councilman. His fingers were wrapped around a purple bottle that clearly resembled the twenty-six other witch bottles we had found around Mystic’s End. “You tell me,” Pepper said. “You’re the expert. He says he’s ninety-nine point nine percent sure it’s the last bottle. We’ve been looking all over for these. He can tell.”
“It looks like it could be,” I said as I examined it, my voice low. “It’s hard to tell from the picture, though.” I looked up. “Can we get close to it?”
“Right, again, that was the whole bad news part? Remember? The dead guy was clutching it. When he died.” Pepper stared at me, and I gazed back at her, waiting. “They put it into evidence.”
