Murder on the Backswing

by ReGina Welling

  Penelope, who had mastered the art of glamour to present her best face to the non-magically inclined, had not been blessed with either beauty or brains. The fact that she kept up the facade in a room full of witches who could always see the sour expression hiding underneath spoke volumes about her ego.

  Furthermore, it didn’t appear that her centuries on earth had granted her the admirable quality of maturity, which—it could be argued—might have rendered a variety of her other personality traits bearable. Still, she was one of the most gifted conjurers Mag had ever seen, though it felt like chewing chalk to admit it.

  “First on the docket,” Penelope began.

  “What are we, in court?” Mag muttered under her breath, earning a giggle from Clara and three sharp glares from the front of the room.

  Penelope continued as if she hadn’t been interrupted. “Is the matter of Bobbie-Sue Abernathy, who wishes to join the Moonstones. I am aware that this is a sensitive topic, but I believe it warrants a discussion. Clearly, there is something special about this woman, considering she has continued to request admission even through our deterrent charms and enchantments.”

  Mag shot Clara a mischievous grin and raised her voice in rebuttal, “Isn’t this supposed to be a coven meeting? Why are we discussing Circle business? You don’t honestly expect us to invite a human into the coven, do you?”

  Penelope sighed, shook her head, and began speaking as though to a child. “Settle down, please. Bobbie-Sue comes from an influential family and would, I believe, be an asset to our charity work. Besides which, we’ve had a request from the leader of our brother organization to apply some leniency."

  "Brother organization," Mag muttered. "Whoever heard of such a thing?"

  Ignoring Mag, Penelope spoke to the rest of the coven. "Perry said he would consider it a personal favor if we relaxed the rules and let in someone new. He has no reason to suspect there’s more behind the Moonstones than meets the eye, and it’s becoming ever more difficult to defend our position on increasing membership.”

  Nothing made Mag’s blood come to a boil quite as quickly as being told to calm herself, and though Clara would have preferred to intervene before her sister started throwing the magics around, she knew better than to attempt any sort of countermeasure while the vein in Mag’s forehead throbbed like a bongo drum.

  “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. Unless you’re considering disbanding the coven to move forward with the secular side of things, the answer is no.”

  As Mag seethed, Clara looked around the room, noting which witches might enjoy watching Penelope being taken down a peg and which ones would follow her into the ninth level of hell. She judged it at about sixty/forty with a pliable contingency of younger witches on the fence.

  “We have no valid reason for refusal, and the last thing I want is to be at odds with Perry Weatherall.”

  “To Hades with Perry Weatherall! We don’t answer to the Brotherhood of Badgers, and even if we did, he could be dispatched easily enough.” Clara remained calmly seated while her sister pushed her chair back and raised her fist to the sky, dandelion-fluff hair charged with static electricity and waving about her head. It was a miracle Penelope had gotten off more than two sentences before Mag’s frustration bubbled out of her mouth.

  “The same way poor Taylor Dean was dispatched?” Penelope shot back with a raised eyebrow.

  Clara held her breath, waiting for a deluge that never came. Had Penelope really just insinuated that she or her sister had something to do with the mailman’s death?

  “I’m going to choose to ignore that last statement considering that if I were to murder someone, you can bet your broom nobody would ever know about it. And I certainly wouldn’t use a golf club or be found standing over the body. Penelope, with all due respect”—Mag’s tone indicated a penny would cover it and still have change coming back—“I believe you’re speaking out of turn. You’re not our high priestess, and I think we should all wait for Hagatha to arrive before delving into this matter.”

  Ahh, the high road—and just when Clara had been expecting some entertainment. Titters of agreement echoed throughout the space while Penelope’s jaw nearly hit the floor.

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Hagatha’s voice rang out above what would have been an audible din if Penelope hadn’t already put the kibosh on unsanctioned chatter.

  Thump. Tap.

  Thump. Tap.

  The rhythm of Hagatha’s progress pulled the focus of every witch in the room. Clara wondered if, like her sister, who conveniently forgot to use her cane when it behooved her to do so, Hagatha also exaggerated the effects of advancing age. A tiny smile played across her lips as she slowly made her way to the front of the room, noting the expressions of exasperation some of the witches failed to conceal.

  “Put that gavel down, Penelope. For Hecate’s sake.” She silenced the meddling witch whose mouth hung open like a goldfish. It had become such a frequent expression, Mag half considered loosing a curse to render it permanent. Instead, she tamped down the inclination while adding the latest instance of Penelope’s insubordination to a running tab that would rival Santa’s naughty list.

  Gertrude would be so proud.

  “First of all,” Hagatha continued, “Bobbi-Sue Abernathy can take a flying leap. Strap her to Perry Weatherall’s back and kill two birds with one stone. The discussion is closed, permanently.

  “Secondly, this coven has always been considered a family, which means we don’t accuse one another of heinous acts of evil such as murder. I don’t care how new the Balefire sisters are, they’re seasoned witches, and Clara served as High Priestess to one of the Port Harbor groups for years before her unfortunate incarceration.”

  Gertrude nodded in agreement and stood up to address the group, “We’re lucky to have Mag and Clara here. You should be ashamed of yourselves, treating them with that level of contempt. They’ve done nothing but what they were invited here to do, and you’d all do well to remember that.”

  “Yes, indeed. They’ve done a fantastic job corralling your senile leader, haven’t they?” Hagatha grinned.

  “What?” she asked innocently, enjoying the looks of panic flitting across the faces of Penelope and her flying monkeys. “Didn’t think I had any idea about your little coup, did you? I may be old, and I may have lost my give-a-damn for hiding in the shadows, but that doesn’t mean I’m off my rocker quite yet. You’ve got another hundred years of Hagatha ahead of you, at least, I can promise you that.

  “Now, if we’re all done with the gossip and intrigue, could we couch the civic conversation and actually discuss the upcoming solstice?”

  Nobody would have dared argue, even if provided with a leg to stand on, and the meeting moved forward.

  “I’m proud of you, Maggie. You really kept your cool in there. What gives? I nearly loosed an acne charm all over Penelope’s face, and you were suspiciously magic-less.”

  Her sister merely shrugged, “All in good time, Clarie.” An ominous statement coming from Margaret Balefire.

  Clara led Mag out the back door and toward the rear of the municipal building, where a winding path that snaked through the woods would deposit them in their own backyard. As they rounded the corner, Mag noticed a figure moving in their direction.

  “Incoming,” she hissed under her breath to Clara. “Your biggest fan approaches.”

  Sure enough, when Clara looked up, it was into the face of Norm McCreery, who Mag referred to as Mayor McCreepy due to his growing obsession with Clara. The fact that he had suspicions of the magical underpinnings of the Moonstone Circle made each of their encounters somewhat awkward, considering the Balefires initially came to town to keep such information under wraps.

  Clara thought it might work to their advantage when dealing with human society to have someone on the inside, but wasn’t willing to open the door any more than a crack for fear the mayor would try to wedge his way into her life, heart, and bed. None of which she had any
interest in, whatsoever.

  If you asked, that was her story, and she was sticking to it.

  “Mr. Mayor,” Clara nodded as he approached.

  “Just Norm, please.” It wasn’t the first time the request had been made.

  She dipped her head. “Norm then. What can we do for you?”

  “Well, I’m actually trying to do something for you,” The mayor turned toward Mag, “I’m sorry to say I was obliged to corroborate Leonard Wayland’s statement that you and Taylor Dean had an unpleasant encounter on the sidewalk in front of your place the day before he was murdered.”

  He cleared his throat. “I want you to know that I don’t believe either one of you had anything to do with the crime, but Chief Cobb feels differently. You’re not the only suspects he’s pursuing if it makes you feel any better.”

  That piece of news came as no shock to either of the sisters and didn’t appear to concern Mag in the least. “You mean Reggie Blackthorne, don’t you?”

  “No, Reggie has been cleared of all suspicion. There was an altercation, but the facts didn’t line up with the time of the murder. That’s all the detail I can provide.”

  He wanted to say more; was practically dying to spill his guts.

  “Thanks for the heads up, but since neither of us knew the man well enough to want to kill him, we have nothing to worry about.”

  “Who are the other suspects?” Clara hoped the desire to impress her would further loosen Mayor McCreery’s lips.

  “Officially, anyone present at the country club that day, aside from the staff, who have all been cleared.” With a pained expression Clara understood to mean he was about to do something he normally wouldn’t, Norm continued, “Unofficially, we’re looking at the wife. Babette Dean.”

  “Not very original; it’s always the spouse who’s fingered.” Mag ignored the snort brought on by her unfortunate choice of words. “And what about Leonard himself? He had more words with Taylor than I did. Even you can attest to that.”

  “And that’s exactly what I told the chief. But Leonard was standing in front of a classroom full of high-school geometry students at the time of the murder, so his alibi is iron-clad. Don’t worry—they’ll find the real culprit eventually. Unless you two find him first.” Mayor McCreery left them with that tidbit of information, wondering whether his words were intended as encouragement or merely an observation.

  Chapter Six

  “What am I supposed to wear to this hen party?” A closet half full of new clothes, and none of them appealed to Margaret Balefire. Where were the bold patterns, the exaggerated paisleys and bright colors of her favorite era? And what was up with the snug legs on those hideous jeans Clara had forced her to buy?

  Nothing said fashion like the gentle swish of faded, bell-bottomed denim. She’d worn her hair long back in the day—long enough to brush across the back of her derriere. A mighty fine one she’d had, too. What she wouldn’t give for a pair of platform shoes with a chunky heel. Now her closet screamed blah.

  “It’s not a hen party, it’s a social event,” Clara said, scowling. “Crocheting for Charity sounded like a fun way to meet more new people. You like to fool with yarn. I’d have thought this would be enjoyable for you.”

  “Knit. I knit. I don’t crochet. You know there’s a difference, right?” Defiant, Mag shoved the new clothes aside and grabbed the ugliest thing she could find. A shapeless, flowered polyester number with a zipper down the front that was never meant to be worn in public. The muumuu was the seventies version of today’s pajama pants. She ran a hand through wisps of hair to make it stand more on end than normal and marched out of her bedroom.

  Clara arched a brow at her. “What? You couldn’t find your velour tracksuit?”

  “Shut up or I’ll carry a polka-dotted parasol and wear my garden boots.” Neon pink and covered with butterflies, the boots would set off the ensemble with just the right eccentric touch to make sure Mag was never invited back. Exactly what she wanted, and reason enough to give the addition to her outfit some serious consideration.

  “Go ahead,” Clara called her bluff. “People will come from miles around to buy antiques from the nutty old bat in Harmony. I’m sure they’ll take your prices seriously and not try to haggle you down to the last penny.”

  “Someone has an acid tongue.” Still, Mag was wearing the polyester monstrosity—sans parasol or boots—when Clara led the way into the back room at the Harmony town library. When they came to a thick maple door with a hand-lettered sign reading Crocheting for Charity taped to its glass, they knew they were in the right place.

  “Looks like a hen party to me,” Mag muttered as Clara swung open the door.

  Gertrude Granger sat on a folding chair half buried in a candy-cane-patterned scarf that would probably have been too long for the Jolly Green Giant. When she caught sight of the new arrivals, she used widened eyes and a series of subdued head movements to direct their attention to the woman sitting to her right.

  Mag chose to ignore Gertrude. She slumped into the first empty space she came to where she could put her back to the wall and have a good view of the entire room. Even here, where the most dangerous thing she might encounter would be a vicious piece of gossip, Mag remained ever vigilant. Thirty seconds later, she defiantly dared anyone to comment on the clack of her knitting needles amid a room full of the shushing sounds made by crochet hooks.

  Settling in on Gertrude’s left, Clara prepared to introduce herself to the group, but never got the chance.

  “You must be Clara Balefire, and that’s your mother, right? You’ll have to tell me how you managed to get into the Moonstones so quickly. I’ve been trying for simply ages, and you just show up in town, and you’re in. I’d love to know your secret.” Young, ruthlessly blond, and perky, but with an avid edge.

  Wouldn’t you just? Clara considered her initial impression of Bobbie-Sue as Gertrude’s questing elbow tagged her on the arm.

  “Old family connections.” Ancient ones.

  “Really? In Harmony? To whom? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  Clara paused to note Bobbie-Sue’s body language. A subtle quirk of the brow pursed lips, and a slight upward angle to the chin showed disbelief and gave the impression that she knew, or thought she knew, more than she was willing to say. It left Clara with the unsettled feeling of being put under a microscope, and she pulled out the one name least likely to be questioned.

  “Hagatha Crow.”

  Not only did the name work like magic, it was magic. Hagatha’s magic, in fact. It prickled over Clara’s skin, leaving a familiar sense of recognition behind. Bobbie-Sue went slack-jawed—only for a second, but when she spoke again, it was on the subject of crocheting.

  Gertrude made a quiet sound low in her throat, and Mag’s head came up as she scented the magic in the air. It was a powerful spell that could be triggered by the mere mention of a name.

  “Tell me about your project,” Clara directed her attention toward the crocheter seated directly across from her: Maude Prescott, the woman who had requested dried lavender and a tour of Clara’s greenhouse at Balms and Bygones. The crinkly sound of plastic strips twisting and twirling around a massive crochet hook drew curiosity. “What are you making?”

  “Sleeping mats for the homeless to help keep them a little warmer at night. It's a double crochet pattern in a simple rectangle shape. Quick and easy to do. We’ve perfected a method for making them thicker by stacking a pair of mats together and binding them with single crochet around the outside edges. They’re lightweight but provide some extra insulation. We box them up by the dozen and drop them off at shelters in Port Harbor once a month.”

  If she’d had to bet, Clara would put money on Maude having had a brush with homelessness at some point. Steadfast fingers moved through the repetitive motion with a level of conviction. Maybe a family member would benefit from the work.

  “We’re working to double our quota from last year. Afghans and hats, too.”

>   Mag’s knitting needles suddenly got quieter, and Claire noted the chagrined look on her sister’s face. Clearly, Mag hadn't expected the group to be doing anything of a seriously charitable nature.

  Talk turned to the chatty type that women engage in when there are no men around to listen.

  Someone in front of her said, “I hear the club poached that new massage therapist from Back in Touch. He’d only been there a week, and they offered him a double salary to leave without notice.”

  Fingers flying, Clara listened to the conversation flowing around her without trying to put names to faces.

  “Well, can you blame them?” another woman responded. “I mean, the man has the hands of an angel.”

  “And the backside of a devil.” Hoots of laughter followed the ribald comment.

  “I’ve just about had it with the club.” Maude Prescott’s voice rose to a level of pique that did pull Clara’s focus. “I've been a member there for years. Long enough to have a standing tee time and I always use cart number thirty-two. Everyone knows that's my cart. Everyone.”

  Murmurs of polite, but disinterested sympathy followed, but Maude couldn’t let it go. “Then along comes Miriam May in a pair of pants so tight you can see Boston and France."

  Having lost count of her stitches, Maude paused to yank out an inch of work, then jammed the hook back in place and kept crocheting.

  And complaining.

  "There used to be a dress code, but that's gone the way of the world. Now, all it takes is a couple of women showing off their wares, waggling their fingers at the attendant, and off they go in my cart. Can you imagine?”

  Maude might have continued ranting if a figure hadn’t materialized on the other side of the glass.

  The door swung open, and a red-eyed Babette Dean entered the room, sniffed once, and bravely said, “Sorry I'm late. I’ve just returned from talking to the police.” Visibly shaken and pale as milk, she focused on one of two empty chairs left in the room and only tripped over one pair of legs before she landed in it.