Down on the Charm

by E L Wilder

  “I understand this is a lot to take in.”

  “Ya think?” she guffawed. “I’m not sure I can do it. You’re going to need to get somebody else. I bake bread—best bread in the world—and pastries that’ll make you cry—and a pie crust that just—”

  “Charlie.”

  “The point is, I bake killer food. I don’t catch killers, and what I definitely don’t do is know about voodoo and hocus pocus and rainbow unicorns or whatever other mystical playmates you’ve kept from me all these years. Friends can have secrets from each other. In fact it’s healthy for friends to have secrets. I thought I could help you with this, but I was wrong. I just need to pound out a couple hundred farmer’s rolls and I’ll feel brand new again.”

  “But I need your help,” said Hazel. She didn’t need to act, to sound sincere. She really did. She couldn’t ask her family to be involved in this one, though it killed her to exclude them from anything now that she had finally come back to them. But she needed somebody she could trust that could also think clearly. Hazel knew she wasn’t that person, and nobody in her family was at the moment. That left Charlie. Trusted Charlie, who she could rely on, even if she had let Tommy Wilkins get to second base.

  Charlie swore softly. “I love you and Juni. You know that. If there’s even a chance we could help her, you know I’ll be there. But can I be honest?”

  “Please.”

  “This scares the stuffing out of me.”

  “Me too,” said Hazel. “That’s why we’ll get through this together.”

  Charlie sat quietly. “So what, we just razzle-dazzle our way to clearing Juniper’s name?”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “I thought you could do magic.”

  “Some things, yes,” she said. “It’s something I was born with, but it’s also something I need to develop. I need more training, more understanding. There’s more to magic than party tricks. Glamours may seem like a lot, they look pretty, but they don’t really do much. Real magic—that requires instruction. It requires passion and focus, but without instruction and training, without the right tools and the right spells, it’s hard to get it right . . .”

  “Like baking,” said Charlie, her eyes softening.

  “Like baking,” confirmed Hazel. “I’m not good enough to make my own dishes yet. I need a mentor. I need recipes. And the consequences for proceedings without them—for magicking badly—can be dangerous. I was just trying to extinguish that.” She motioned to the candle. “There’s a book that my grandmother kept. It’s supposed to be filled with the wisdom of the Bennett women through the ages. Maybe it has something that could help us.”

  “Great,” said Charlie. “Let’s get reading.”

  “There’s a hitch. I don’t know where the book is.”

  “So what else can you do?”

  “Not much . . .”

  Charlie frowned. “So how is this magic thing supposed to help us again?”

  Hazel blushed.

  Charlie looked back and forth between Hazel and the fallen candle and finally shook her head. “Hazel,” she said, her voice even and steady, and uncharacteristically serious. “It really sucked when you left, and it sucked even harder that the next time I saw your face on a movie poster.”

  Hazel hung her head.

  “You must have had your reasons. Everyone does.” She approached Hazel and put her hands on her shoulders. “But I’m glad that you’re home. Even if it’s just for a little bit. If this is the time we have together and this is the adventure we’re meant to have, then so be it.”

  “Does this mean . . .”

  “You always could talk me into anything,” said Charlie, clucking her tongue and shaking her head. “Even believing in magic, apparently. But if you make a fool out of me again, or if I end up in prison, I’ll never forgive you.”

  Charlie approached the crazy wall and inspected the information that Hazel had gathered. “If we can’t solve this outright with magic, I guess we’re going to have to start the old-fashioned way.” She tapped Ruby Northinger’s picture. “Nice headshots.”

  “I found them on their company websites.”

  “You have two juicy suspects here,” Charlie said conspiratorially.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Obviously they were the closest to the scene when things went bad, and that makes them suspicious,” she said. “But there’s more than that.”

  Hazel perked up. She knew she had been right to count on Charlie. It wasn’t just that Charlie was completely trustworthy—which she was—but Charlie knew people. Charlie knew everybody. And she was always a better judge of character than Hazel had ever been.

  “Well, Jess Tully is Eric’s wife. They co-own Ladle Creek Construction.”

  “That’s sweet,” said Hazel. She and Chet had costarred in a movie the year before, and it had hardly gone well—both personally and critically. In a lot of ways, it was the beginning of the end of their relationship. The idea of a couple working well together professionally, it tugged at her heartstrings.

  “Hardly. They fight like it’s going out of style,” Charlie explained, then made a face. “Fought. Past tense, I guess.”

  “Maybe she got sick of it and decided to speed up ‘till death do you part’,” Hazel suggested.

  “Especially if she found out about Eric and Ruby.”

  “No way . . .”

  “Yes way. I saw the two of them having dinner at the College Street Cafe last month up in Burlington. They didn’t see me but I lurked like a professional voyeur. Either they’re both super close-talkers or there’s something going on there.”

  “That thickens the plot.”

  “Classic murder-mystery material,” agreed Charlie.

  “A few minutes ago I couldn’t get you to agree to any of this, and now you’re a seasoned detective.”

  “I’ve watched my fair share of Murder, She Wrote. Jessica Fletcher is my girl.”

  Hazel grinned. “So how does a betrayed wife or a jilted lover crush the object of their love and scorn with a ton of tractor? How does a tractor that hasn’t run in a century suddenly spring to life long enough to plow Eric Moore to death?”

  “Is it possible Juniper had suddenly gotten it to work?”

  “In the minutes between when I’d left and when Eric Moore came in?”

  “It’s possible . . .”

  “But not probable,” said Hazel.

  “So how does it move? Did somebody push it? Maybe one of these absolutely not-jacked women?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “But probable?”

  “What if it were magic?”

  “Oh boy . . .”

  “Now that sounds possible!” said somebody standing behind them.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Both Hazel and Charlie screamed, though later Hazel would remember hers more as a reasonable shout of surprise and Charlie’s as a blood-curdling, B-horror-movie, teen-about-to-be-slashed kind of scream. Charlie grabbed Hazel’s forearm and squeezed the flesh like it might contain a trigger to shoot their would-be assailant.

  A man had entered the chapel without their noticing and now stood in the aisle just a few feet behind them. He was dressed like an extra on the set of a George Washington biopic, standing like he was trying to balance a book atop his head.

  “Who the hell are you?” barked Charlie.

  Hazel did her best to put on a friendly smile, even as she slowly excavated Charlie’s fingers from her arm. “What my friend meant to say,” said Hazel, “is hello.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Charlie muttered.

  “I’m Hazel Bennett,” Hazel said, extending her hand and smiling warming, though everything about this situation set alarm bells screaming in her head.

  “I know who you are, my dear,” he said. “I’ve been watching you for quite some time.”

  “Oh hell naw,” said Charlie. “That’s it, I’m calling the police.”

  He recoiled, seeming genuin
ely offended at the suggestion. “I assure you, my dear, that won’t be necessary. Let me explain my—”

  “If you call me dear one more time,” Charlie said. “Somebody’s going to need to get arrested.”

  “Charlie,” she whispered.

  “No, I’m on a roll here.”

  “Charlie.”

  “What?!”

  “Can you see the pew behind him?”

  “What are you—” Charlie stopped, her words tangled in her throat, and for a moment she could produce only a barely discernible keen, like a balloon slowly leaking air. “I can see the pew behind him. Hazel, why can I see the pew behind him?”

  “That’s easy,” said the man. “That’s because I am a spirit. Theophilus Cincinnatus Bennett at your service.” He bowed deeply. “But you may call me Theo, if it suits you.”

  “Cincinnatus?” asked Charlie, who seemed to be trying to home in on something more absurd in this situation than the presence of a ghost.

  “After Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus, the great Roman general who cast aside his plow to defend Rome against its enemies—Bennetts had middle names long before it was fashionable!”

  “Theo,” said Hazel, stepping forward now. “What are you doing here?”

  “This is where I dwell, my de . . .” He trailed off, wisely decidedly to leave Charlie’s threat untested. “I exist here. Or hereabouts,” he added, nodding in the direction of the cemetery outside.

  “Why haven’t I seen you here before?”

  “Because you’ve never been here this late,” he said. “Spirits are almost impossible to see in the daylight. Why else do you think we’re called shades?” He chuckled and wriggled his eyebrow, seemingly undeterred by their flat reaction. “A little spirit humor.”

  “Theo. You said you were a Bennett. So that would make you my . . .”

  “Great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather,” he said.

  To think that there were Bennetts still walking the grounds that though long dead were not long gone. Which other ancestors of hers might be lurking on the grounds. What if—

  “Is Helena . . . is she here?” Hazel asked.

  “Hardly, my dear,” Theo said, apologetically. “The Bennett women do not leave ghosts.”

  “They don’t?”

  “They’re always off to bigger and better things, I suppose. As in life, so in death,” he said, shrugging. “Yourself, for instance. I couldn’t help but overhear your predicament. If there is a Bennett in trouble, I am duty-bound to assist in whatever way that I can.”

  Hazel nodded slowly. “We could use all the help we could get, Theo.”

  “Yeah, that’s gonna be a no from me, dawg,” said Charlie. “I don’t mean to interrupt the family reunion, but everyone here seems just a little too comfortable with this . . . premise.” She gathered her cardigan and her purse as she spoke. “But I am certainly not comfortable. I am distinctly uncomfortable. I might never be comfortable again.”

  “Charlie, it’s okay,” Hazel said.

  “It is nothing of the sort. Talking about hocus pocus and magic tricks is one thing, but it’s not even in the same league as conversing with Casper the Friendly Ghost. This is too much for one day. This is just . . . I’ll talk to you tomorrow . . . if I don’t call out sick . . .”

  “Charlie—”

  Charlie silenced her with a raised pointer finger and a sharp gaze. Then, she eyed the door and, locking her gaze on the apparition, climbed up on the seat of the pew and spider-stepped over the back to the next pew, muttering under her breath the whole way.

  “. . . ain’t afraid of no ghost my butt . . .”

  “. . . starting to see why you ran away from this place . . .”

  “. . . two bottles of wine . . .”

  When she reached the back row, she hopped down and hurried to the door.

  Now Hazel was back at square one. She was no closer to solving this case, and Juniper was no closer to being cleared. She turned to Theo, anger bubbling up inside her.

  “You said you were going to help,” Hazel spat. “Is this what you had in mind?”

  Theo chuckled nervously. “I was going to tell you where your grandmother has placed the Bennett family book.”

  “You know where it is?” she gasped, her anger draining from her.

  “I’ve watched generations of Bennett women come here and hide it,” he said. “You’d hardly be the first Bennett lady I’ve pointed in the right direction. And they would never let it stray too far from them, even in death.”

  “The mausoleum!” she exclaimed.

  “Oh, dear girl, no!” he gasped in horror. “That’s simply morbid. A mausoleum is no place for an heirloom book. Think of the mold.” He nodded toward the head of the chapel. “The altar is the place, my dear.”

  Hazel rushed toward the altar, passing directly through Theo—something that made them both shiver. She ran her fingers over the Biblical tableau, pawing at wooden elephants and lions in search of some latch or lever or button. Was she just looking for another secret passage like the ones her grandmother had shown her?

  “Where?!” she demanded, her frustration growing.

  “Well, my dear,” he said, chuckling nervously. “I don’t exactly know. The book has always been a secret of the Bennett women. And a man is wise to leave a woman to her secrets.”

  “I can’t tell if that’s sexist or progressive,” she grumbled, stepping back, scanning the wall.

  At that moment Charlie’s scream cut the air. Hazel rushed toward the door, but before she could reach it, it burst open. Charlie scrambled back inside, slamming the door shut behind her. “There are more of them!” she wailed, panting. “Out there.”

  “I assure you that, like most spirits, they are harmless,” Theo explained.

  “Mmmhmm,” Charlie hummed, mouth pressed in a manic smile. “Ghost can stop talking now.”

  Theo started to speak, but Charlie brandished the silencing finger again, and the spirit wisely shut his mouth.

  Charlie turned on Hazel now. “There is no way I’m staying alone in my apartment tonight, Hazel Bennett, so you’ve just earned yourself our first sleepover in almost a decade. And we are going immediately.”

  Two ghostly heads appeared, poking through closed chapel door. Charlie screamed again. She scurried to Hazel, slowing down long enough to edge around Theo. Two apparitions passed fully through the door, stepping into the chapel.

  “Really now, Chauncey and Malcolm,” Theo scolded, “you’ve scared the poor girl half to death!”

  “They have?” asked Charlie incredulously. Charlie grabbed Hazel’s shoulder, digging her fingers into the flesh again. “Let’s. Go.” Hazel thought Charlie might rip the limb free if she didn’t get what she wanted, but there was no way they could leave yet.

  “The book is here, Charlie.”

  “The book?”

  “The Book of Bennett,” said Hazel. “Gammy’s spellbook. It’s somewhere in the chapel.”

  “Well let’s grab it and get the hell out of here.”

  “It’s not exactly sitting out in the open. It’s somewhere in the altar.”

  Charlie eyed the wall and just a few moments later reached out and tapped a carving. “Your family has a seriously unhealthy cat obsession.”

  Hazel leaned in. Amidst all of the standard Noah’s Ark passengers—pairs of tigers, zebras, doves, and whatnot—that boarded the ship, a single cat stepped through the crowd, threading dangerously between the legs of a giraffe. And while all of the animals looked toward the Ark, awaiting their turn to board, the cat peered over its shoulder, gazing mischievously at her and Charlie, flicking not one but two tails and twitching two sets of ears. Just like the cat in the mausoleum crest.

  “Charlie, you’re brilliant!” Hazel gushed.

  “And it wouldn’t hurt to hear it more often,” Charlie remarked.

  Hazel pressed firmly on the cat. The carving yielded, sinking into the relief with a sharp click and the
open door of the Ark popped out like a cash register drawer. Within, a large metal case lay nestled in black velvet. With silent reverence, Hazel withdrew the case and set it on the altar. She looked up at Charlie, who for the moment seemed to have forgotten the ghosts as she looked on with wide eyes. “Go on,” Charlie whispered.

  Hazel had always shunned the idea of magic-bullet solutions. If you needed something done, you didn’t sit around waiting for it to happen. You got there through sheer determination and hard work. Except here it was in this box—a literal magic-bullet solution

  Hazel flipped the latches holding the case shut and pulled the lid off.

  Empty.

  She exhaled, a long shuddering sigh that drained her of every drop of hope. Every part of her felt heavy, weighed down by the events of the last few days, by the emotion of being home, of her fearing for her sister, and the strain of so many sleepless nights—it all suddenly caught up to her. She sank to the floor, overtaken by a flood of tears. She was vaguely aware that Charlie was at her side, arms wrapped around her.

  “It’s hopeless,” she sobbed, burying her face into Charlie’s shoulder. “Hopeless.”

  “Don’t worry,” Charlie whispered. “We can still do this because we’ll do it together. Of course I’ll help. Of course.”

  Charlie helped Hazel to her feet. “You’d all better clear the way,” Charlie warned, looking up at the three spirits. “Because me and my girl are coming through.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Hazel had no recollection of being put to bed, but when she woke the next morning, that’s where she was. Charlie wasn’t there, and when Hazel rolled over and looked at the clock, she realized why. It was already ten in the morning, and Charlie would have left before sunrise and walked to the bakery to start her shift. Hazel dragged herself out of bed, feeling no better for having slept so late. She would kill for a good cup of coffee at that moment, but she suspected she was miles from anything resembling quality dark roast.