Murder on the Backswing

by ReGina Welling

  After what felt like an age, Mag’s stomach rumbled so hard it hurt, and she was tired of watching while the police cordoned off the scene and rushed about collecting evidence.

  “We’ve told you everything we know. You have our contact information. If there’s nothing else, we’ll be leaving now.” Leaning heavily on her cane, Mag dared the officer to detain her further, and yelled back over one shoulder, “You coming, Clara?”

  Seeing no other choice, Officer Nye dismissed the Balefires with a warning not to leave town.

  Chapter Four

  A few days after the murder, the shop was hopping, and all anyone could talk about was the death of the mailman. Except for one lady, a statuesque woman with piercing blue eyes and a full mane of graying hair who couldn't be bothered to bring up the subject. Full of single-minded purpose, she scanned the room until her gaze fell on an artful display of items featuring dried lavender.

  “Is that culinary or ornamental?” She waved a slim-fingered but capable hand at a bowl of the fragrant potpourri Clara sold by the ounce. “I'm looking for English lavender, the Munstead variety,” she said. “Food grade, please. Clean and dry, with no added oils to increase or prolong the scent. For cooking.”

  Smiling, Clara asked, “Would you prefer fresh-picked or dried? All our ingredients are organic, most grown right here in our own backyard. We cultivate a wide variety of herbs for use in our products. I’d be happy to take you on a tour of the greenhouse and gardens. I’m Clara Balefire, by the way.”

  At ease now, the woman relaxed and introduced herself. “Nice to meet you. Name’s Maude, and I’m an avid baker, and I'd love to see what you have back there. I'm making a pear galette, and I thought it might be nice to infuse the dough with fragrant lavender.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, I’ve lost my entire crop this year to the damnable hummingbirds. I’ll just take some of the dried today, but I’ll come back sometime for a few sprigs of fresh if you don’t mind selling them that way.”

  “Anytime. If you’ll wait just one moment, I have a lovely batch in the back.” Clara passed through the storeroom to the garden behind and selected a scant handful of fresh, fragrant spears. Calling a wisp of Balefire into her palm, she directed the heat toward the tender leaves and petals, drying them so gently they lost none of their scent.

  A whiff of magic stripped away everything but the pale-colored flowers, and these she whisked into a paper cone already stamped with the store logo, twisted the top, and tied it with a ribbon.

  Maude accepted the parcel, lifted it to her nose to sniff with appreciation, then paid with a smile.

  “Now, if you'd like to follow me we can take that tour of the greenhouse. I really think you'll—”

  An excited murmur arose between three perfectly-coiffed ladies in the process of haggling over who would get to buy one of Mag’s Hummel figurines. Each woman was convinced she’d seen it first, and a lively discussion ensued. They were no closer to a decision, though quite near to wearing on Mag’s last nerve.

  “That's Babette Dean, and it looks like she's headed this way,” a lady with owl-eye glasses said in a stage whisper, her gaze drawn to a woman outside on the strip of walkway visible through the shop window.

  “Didn’t expect to see her out and about so soon. Not after the way her husband was killed. I heard they had to use dental records to identify the body because there was so much damage to his face.”

  Mag took a breath to refute that salacious bit of gossip, then thought better of it. Why answer questions when all she had to do was stay quiet and let them believe a load of baloney?

  “I heard the cops are looking at her for the murder.”

  “Well, I heard he was mobbed up. Come on.” The ringleader—the one Mag had nicknamed Ms. Fancy Pants because of the sheer weight she carried in gold jewelry—dragged the other two ladies into a secluded spot where they could listen without being spotted.

  “If you'll excuse me,” Maude said, looking out the window, “I've decided against a tour of the greenhouse today. I'll come back another time if you don't mind. I'm terribly interested to learn what other culinary delights might be growing out there, but I just remembered an appointment, and I must go.” She sailed out the door.

  If Clara found anything odd about Maude’s behavior, it went right out of her head because she was more interested in meeting Babette Dean and hearing her story than taking someone around the gardens.

  The bell over the door tinkled, and a hush fell over the three women crammed in a corner when the newly widowed Babette entered the store. She was a narrow woman, was all Clara could think, but not in a wiry or willowy way, just narrow as if a line ran down her center and every part of her angled back from there. Only her eyes were wide, their deep blue framed with the redness left by an ocean of tears in an otherwise pale face.

  Not as wide, though, as Mag’s eyes went when her gaze fell on the box dangling from Babette’s right hand. Mahogany with a decorative rosewood inlay and brass bindings, it looked too old and too valuable to be carried in such a careless manner. Giving it a mighty heave, the tiny woman raised Mag’s heart rate another notch when she dropped the box on the counter with a bang.

  “You sell antiques, so I was wondering if—I mean would you have any interest in maybe purchasing this box? I don’t know much about it, except it’s old and my”—her voice went hoarse—“husband told me it was worth a lot of money. He’s gone and I … it was unexpected. There are going to be costs and the insurance will take time.”

  “That’s a writing box, circa 1870.” Mag’s tone drew Clara’s attention. Something was wrong, and Babette was at the heart of it, but for once, it seemed Mag chose diplomacy in place of a hissy fit. Stepping closer, Clara caught Mag’s eye and received a dark look in exchange.

  “It's worth about twelve hundred dollars. I could give you a thousand because I need to make at least some profit on it.” Calm and cool on the outside, Mag seethed under the surface. Clara sensed it but didn’t understand the reason.

  “Yes. Yes, that would be fine. I didn’t expect it to be that much. Thank you. I’m just … thank you.” Tears welled fresh. Babette cleared her throat, sniffled a couple of times, then pulled herself back together while a suspiciously silent Mag wrote out a purchase order and pulled cash from the till.

  Unable to see such misery without trying to do something to help, Clara made her way over to the pie safe that doubled as a display case. A moment passed while she considered the best choice, then she pulled a box of her famous tension-reducing herbal tea blend from the shelf. She let a tendril of magic slide out to taste Babette’s energy. The tea would take some of the edge off, but not even the most magically gifted witch could alter the depth and breadth of grief.

  “Take this. It’s an herbal blend. Steep it for ten minutes and drink a cup whenever you start to feel overwhelmed. I truly am sorry for your loss.” Babette’s fingers felt chilled despite the heat of the day. No wonder she wore a long-sleeved top in the middle of summer.

  Babette accepted the tea and fumbled in her purse for cash.

  “On the house,” Clara waved away the payment.

  Instead of turning to leave, Babette paused as though there were something more she wanted to say.

  “Is there something else I can do for you, dear?” Clara asked while Mag stashed the rosewood box underneath the counter. Whatever it was that had her sister seething, Babette seemed lost, and Clara's heart went out to her.

  “No. Not really. It's just that you're so nice to me and people have been saying such horrible things about my Taylor. And about me, and I’m rattling around in the house alone. My mother came for a few days, but she’s gone now, and I don't know what to do with myself. Your shop is so warm and welcoming. Would it be okay if I browse a little?”

  The furtive shuffling of feet sounded from the corner where the three women were hiding. They probably hadn't expected Babette to hang around, and they were trying to figure out whether to come out or stay hidden. Cl
ara felt no sympathy for them. Being on the wrong end of unearned speculation was something she and Babette had in common.

  Combining Margaret’s love of antiques with Clara’s affinity for creating lotions and creams turned the interior of Balms and Bygones into an eclectic haven of sights and smells. Under the earthy notes of Clara’s signature lines lay hints of beeswax, lemon, and antique wood. Jewel-toned jars sparkled on the patina of old things Mag kept polished to a shine.

  No one who knew them, least of all the Balefire sisters themselves, would have placed bets on this shop becoming a labor of love, or on Mag managing to serve the public without adding a new toad or two to the world. But so far, so good.

  Until today with Babette, who seemed prone to touching. She ran a finger over a crystal decanter, and Mag simmered like she carried an active volcano inside and was about to blow. After two suppressed sighs and a full-on snort, Clara sent her sister a questioning look.

  “Get her out of here,” Mag mouthed back, but it was too late. In a feat it would have taken a group of engineers with precision timing to carry off, Babette tested the texture of a fist-sized cannonball. The gentle touch sent it rolling off the shelf and onto the up-ended tines of a fork lying in a shallow tray. The fork flipped up, levered a spoon and sent it flying with sufficient force to knock into the curved handle of an umbrella in its stand. The handle spun in an arc that swept it across the edge of a dresser and caught on one of Mag’s famous tatted doilies.

  Mag saw it coming, but while she possessed the magic to reverse the whole debacle, there stood Babette, right in the middle of the fray, leaving her no choice but to let it all play out. Still, she averted her gaze when a prized crystal vase teetered on the brink of destruction.

  Clara lunged, measuring her length upon the floor, and caught the vase a breath away from the hardwood surface. The sound of her elbows cracking against the hard oak flooring made Babette wince with pain.

  “Oh, I'm so sorry. I’m such a klutz.” When Babette reached down to help, her sleeves slid up to reveal a series of bruises on one arm that were just fading from purple into yellow around the edges. “I’m always knocking things over and bumping into things—doors, furniture.” She yanked the cloth back down to cover the vicious-looking marks and made a hasty retreat.

  No sooner had the door closed behind her when, chattering like magpies, the three women vacated their hidden corner.

  “I thought she’d never leave. I can’t believe you talked me into hiding back there for so long.” The ringleader ignored the fact it had been her idea in the first place.

  “To be honest, I’m starting to feel a little sorry for talking about her that way. She seemed so lost and alone.” Owl-glasses earned herself a discount on the Hummel for that.

  Looking like she was about to burst, Mag rang up the purchase, pulled two more of a similar vintage out of storage, and sent the gossip brigade out the door. The second it swung shut behind them, she rounded on Clara

  “Babette Dean just sold me my own writing box. The one I bought from that widow down in Charleston, remember? I packed it up myself and had it shipped here, but it never came.”

  “Are you sure? There must be hundreds of them out there, just like that one.”

  “You are aware there weren’t writing box factories in the late 1800s, right? These were not mass-produced. And yes, I’m sure it’s the same box. I’d know it anywhere.”

  Mag spread a towel on the counter, retrieved the writing box, and laid it gently down on the lid.

  “See this rub mark? And that crack that runs along the joint? I documented both on the receipt. Looks like the mailman has been stealing packages, and that’s a federal offense. Makes sense now why he was out on that back road digging around in boxes. What a jerk.”

  “Well, I don't suppose he can be convicted of it now, considering he’s dead. You don't think Babette knew anything about it, do you?” Clara sincerely hoped not, but you never knew.

  “I can't see how she would be stupid enough to bring that particular piece to me if she had any idea that it was stolen property. I wish I had asked her if she had any more things she wanted to sell. If he's done this more than once and someone found out, it could speak to motive.”

  That was Mag, always thinking about bringing the bad guy to justice, and it was certainly more plausible than the theory that he was mobbed up.

  “Love, money, or revenge. Those are the three most common motives for murder, and did you notice no one said anything about him stepping out on his wife? That leaves money and revenge.”

  While she talked, Mag kept her hands busy polishing the brass with a microfiber cloth. “But we can't discount the bat-crap-crazy factor.”

  “So you think there's a sociopath loose in the town of Harmony? Unlikely.” Or maybe Clara just wanted to believe the best of people.

  Mag lifted a shoulder. “Stranger things have happened.” Given her history, the term stranger things took on a whole other level of meaning.

  “If the cops really are looking at Babette, we shouldn't rule out love as a motive just yet. Maybe she caught him catting around with a neighbor or something. Those bruises on her arms didn’t look self-inflicted. Maybe he was an abusive husband.”

  “Then it would be a case of self-defense. Who could blame her?”

  Clara tossed out two or three more theories before she noticed Mag wasn't paying any attention to the conversation. She’d flipped the inlaid box back over and opened the lid to reveal a series of compartments and a sloped writing space. Running reverent fingers over the polished wood, Mag tested the dividers to make sure none were loose. She ignored her sister until Clara finally trailed off on her lit list of possible reasons for killing the mailman.

  “I wonder if this one has a secret …” A secret what, Clara would not learn right then because the leader of the Hummel brigade had returned on her own to ask if Mag had any other treasures stashed away.

  Chapter Five

  "It's not normal," and it wasn't the first time Mag had stated this particular opinion, either. "A coven that meets in the middle of town. Where's the nature? The elements?" Even the tapping of her cane on the sidewalk sounded annoyed.

  For thousands of years, witches have practiced their craft in secret, meeting on the sly to conceal magic from the rest of the world. While that may seem unfair to those not blessed with mystical power, so does the persecution witches have suffered at the hands of regular humans throughout the ages.

  Hagatha Crow had already lived through several such periods, and the effects of the Salem witch trials had still been fresh when she enlisted the Harmony coven to form a civic organization aptly named The Moonstone Circle. Hiding in plain sight, the coven operated behind the scenes while contributing to the community in a myriad of ways.

  Of course, then-Pastor Evaniah Johnson had to stick his nose in and create the Brotherhood of Badgers, relegating the Moonstones to the status of an auxiliary group. Hagatha considered the act a blatant attempt to further usurp the good women of Harmony’s independence and retaliated with a curse that affected old Evaniah’s tender regions and encouraged a rivalry between the two groups that had yet to be laid to rest.

  If it had been up to Haggie, the Moonstones would have continued on their way, happily spitting in the Badgers’ faces while performing their rites and rituals as tradition dictated. Instead, she’d passed the civic baton to Penelope Starr, who had allowed the title of First Chair to go straight to her head, and assumed that meant she also held dominion over the coven itself—whether she was next in line for the job or not.

  By rights, the designation of High Priestess should have passed on to Gertrude Granger who, at half Hagatha’s age, was still the next-oldest coven member. However, she lived all year with the spirit of Christmas in her heart and was too focused on whether or not the great wizard known as Santa Claus had noticed her efforts to spread holiday cheer. Instead, she spent most of her time giving back to the less fortunate through one of her many
charitable causes.

  “Hello, you two,” She mumbled around the candy cane stuck between her teeth. To describe Gertrude, one need only evoke the curious image of a pin-up girl slightly past her prime and dressed as a Christmas elf. That night, green velvet stretched over her prodigious bosom and barely skimmed over her behind. White tights spangled with glitter completed the look.

  Since arriving in Harmony, Gertrude had been one of the only coven members to accept the Balefire sisters with open arms. Even though Mag thought her a bit eccentric, Clara was happy to see that she’d had arrived at the coven meeting early and saved them two seats in a prime location near the air conditioning vent.

  Convening indoors smacked of blasphemy to Mag, who felt the municipal building’s conference room lacked ambiance. Clara had quelled her complains with a diatribe, insisting the location was acceptable only because that day’s meeting would focus more on planning and less on ritual.

  Gertrude’s eyes were kindly, and her painted and glossed lips curved into a soft smile as Clara and Mag took their seats.

  The rap of Penelope’s gavel might as well have been nails on a chalkboard as far as Mag was concerned. It was enough to make her miss the mysteriously absent Hagatha. Penelope was smart enough to know that their high priestess never arrived at coven meetings on time, but had insisted the topic at hand was so urgent it couldn’t possibly wait for their leader’s arrival.

  “Silence, please.” She urged when the majority of the rest of the group—sixteen witches in total—continued their cheery chitchat. Only the two women flanking Penelope—her henchwomen, Mabel Youngblood and Evanora Dupree—refrained from speaking.

  Mouths set in thin, disapproving lines, the three of them looked like they were auditioning for the adult version of Mean Girls. How a trio of women who had lived through the civil war and the industrial revolution could maintain any level of self-respect while acting like adolescents was beyond Mag’s comprehension.