“At the moment, she’s our minion.” There wasn’t time to explain, so Mag popped the screen and watched Maypole settle on Hagatha’s shoulder to preen her feathers and chitter away.
“Well?” Mag asked, tired of waiting. “What did she learn? She can have all the dill she wants.”
Clara looked back and forth between Mag and Hagatha with dismay written all over her face. As far as she was concerned, Hagatha had lured her sister over to the dark side.
No one was more surprised when Maypole opened her mouth, and Reggie Blackthorne’s voice came out. Varying pauses between the sentences indicated multiple phone conversations, but only hearing the parts of them Maypole considered important was enough for the witches to get the gist.
I’ll keep them here and get it done. I don’t care if they’re here until midnight. We had an agreement, and you know for the right price, I always deliver, but I don’t control the weather.
No, you’re not on the books for tomorrow. It was Rolling Hills first, and if you came through on the rest of the deal, I’d bump the work on your parking lot ahead of Victory Lane. The check cleared and that’s enough to put you on the schedule, but I’m not seeing that Prestigio Super7 titanium driver you promised me.
Show me the driver, I’ll have the crew there in the morning, and hang the old biddies and their petition. That pothole isn’t going anywhere.
Look, I’m not the one who offed the mailman on your property and dragged the cops into your business. For crying out loud, you were with me while the guy was getting offed. Whoever it was did me a favor, but your current predicament isn’t my problem.
You want the job started tomorrow, show me a shipping invoice with my name on it first thing in the morning, and I’ll have the crew there. Get me the nine instead, and I’ll pull in an extra guy, shave a day or two off the job, have it done early.
“Looks like we can cross Reggie off the list,” Mag said when Maypole fell silent. “Or turn him for accepting payola.”
To the pixies, she said, “Go on, little one, don’t destroy anything and you can have the run of the gardens. You and all your friends.”
“You’re going to have to fill me in how all of this went down,” Clara’s gaze swiveled between Hagatha and her sister, “but it looks like Reggie is innocent.”
Chapter Fifteen
Clara knew trouble was brewing hotter than a size twelve cauldron, even before Chief Cobb and his partner descended upon Balms and Bygones the next morning.
The pricking in her thumbs had started not long after Hagatha, and her pixies went home the night before. Hours spent staring at the unresponsive depths of a crystal ball provided no useful information on the impending threat.
Stubbornly, Clara resisted the urge to go knocking on the door of Mag’s hut out back, even if her sister could have predicted the visitor’s name, telephone number, and shoe size with only a cursory glance into the smoky sphere.
Divination wasn’t one of Clara’s strong suits, not that she bemoaned it as a weakness. When it came to the big stuff—for instance, the identity of a murderous psychopath—a quartz crystal would be about as useful as a magic eight ball for even the most gifted witch.
“Speak of the devil, and he shall appear,” Mag muttered upon finding Chief Cobb stationed just outside the entrance to the store waiting for someone to unlock the door.
Deputy Nye, who lingered next to her partner, appeared a bit more reserved than she had during her previous encounters with the Balefire sisters, and the fact didn’t go unnoticed by either of them.
“When were we speaking of the devil?” Still annoyed with Mag for consorting with Hagatha without bringing her into the loop, Clara hadn’t found a lot to say to her sister that morning.
“How can we help you today, officers? Come to throw around more accusations, or do you have a warrant this time?” Mag raised one eyebrow in outright defiance, making Clara wonder whether she was ever going to learn to play nice.
Deputy Nye glanced at Chief Cobb for reassurance, and at his nod took the lead, “May we come inside and ask you a few more questions, please?” Her tone brooked no refusal, so Clara graciously stepped aside to allow them entrance.
This time, however, no offer of refreshment would be forthcoming. Though she disagreed with Mag’s method of dealing with the police, she shared her sister’s reluctance to cooperate and wished the officers would direct their efforts toward the real murderer.
“Unfortunately, we’ve been unable to verify your credentials. There is no record of a Margaret or Clara Balefire having been born within the last hundred years, and the Bureau of Motor Vehicles confirmed that neither of you has a valid driver’s license. As far as public records go, you two are ghosts.” Nye spoke in a matter-of-fact yet gentle tone while a vein in Chief Cobb’s forehead throbbed from the effort of staying silent.
Try as he might, Cobb simply couldn’t maintain the illusion that his partner held the reigns, “You need to explain yourselves, right now. Just who are you, and how did you manage to acquire this property without valid identification?”
Mag’s lip twitched, and it took everything she had not to answer with the truth. Explaining that they had been born in the eighteenth century and had purchased the house from a witch-owned agency who verified identities in a most unorthodox way would only give Cobb the ammunition he needed to have them committed.
“There must have been some clerical error,” the lie tripped off Mag’s tongue with ease, “Are you sure you spelled Balefire correctly?” She reached into the purse she was still carrying and presented an authentic-looking identification card.
Chief Cobb held it up to the light, looking for a telltale sign of tampering and, finding none, handed the card back to Mag with frustration painted plainly across his face. “This still doesn’t explain the lack of paperwork.”
“Chief Cobb, with all due respect, my mother is an old-fashioned woman. All of her accounts are still in my father’s name.” Another total lie stated with ease. “As we said before, come back when you have a warrant or any actual evidence related to this crime.”
“Forget about the warrant, if he wants to search the place, let him. He’s not going to find anything.” Mag challenged, the strength of her tone a direct contradiction to her frail appearance, which did nothing to convince either the chief or deputy of her inability to commit the murder.
Chief Cobb didn’t need any further encouragement. In fact, he’d been dying to find out what was inside the house since before Hagatha sold it to the Balefires, which wasn’t surprising since the old witch seemed to elicit curiosity by the truckload.
Deputy Nye shot an apologetic smile toward the sisters and began helping Chief Cobb search the parlor first, then move on to Clara’s upstairs living quarters.
With the blink of an eye and a flick of her wrist, everything witchy disappeared into thin air. If he wanted to go rooting around in her underwear drawer, all he would find was a few pairs of granny panties and a battery-operated device she’d conjured in an attempt to embarrass him.
Looking as though someone had peed in his Cheerios, and having found nothing of relevance to the crime, the chief moved into the shop to conduct the last part of his search. Checking every nook and cranny, he still came up empty-handed and looked halfway apologetic when he returned to the entrance and removed a pair of disposable gloves from his hands.
Mag turned narrowed eyes on Chief Cobb and was just about to lay into him when something near the door caught his eye. He pulled on a new pair of gloves and yanked a golf club out of the same umbrella rack Babette Dean had knocked over during her first visit to Balms and Bygones.
“Well, look what we have here. Forensic evidence identified the murder weapon as a golf club just like this one. I think we have enough evidence to take you into custody. Margaret and Clara Balefire—”
A swell of magic lifted Clara’s hair, and she instinctively turned to her sister, assuming she had been the one to render Chief Cobb and Depu
ty Nye frozen in place. To her surprise, Mag looked equally dismayed.
“This is getting more interesting by the day.” Hagatha chuckled. “We can’t have them dragging you down to the station now, can we?”
“What do you intend to do, turn them into statues as part of the garden decor?” Clara took a tentative step toward the immobile officers. Even the dust motes that had been circling the air around their heads were now suspended in place, as if the time-space continuum surrounding Chief Cobb and Deputy Nye had been displaced.
Hagatha sighed, “Of course not. We need to use a memory charm. It’s the only option, don’t you agree?”
“It bears consideration,” Mag replied.
“Am I the only one who takes the rules seriously?” Clara demanded. “We can’t interfere in their free will. As witches, we’re expected to harm none. I don’t know about you two, but I don’t feel like having this come back to me times three.”
Intervening for the protection of normals after one of Hagatha’s magical mishaps was one thing. Outright casting to protect one’s backside was entirely another.
“You young’uns think that every time you cast, the karma police are going to come cart you off to some magical prison. In case it’s escaped your attention, the actual police are about to cart you off to actual jail. Now, did either of you whack Taylor Dean with that golf club?” Hagatha retorted.
“Of course not!” Mag exclaimed.
“Didn’t think so. But if they’ve got you in their sights, you’re not going to get the chance to find out who the real killer is, and he or she will walk free. There’s no reason to resign yourself to that fate if you have the means to stop it.” Hagatha said.
“She’s got a point, Clarie.” Mag looked at her sister with desperation on her face. “Whoever killed Taylor must have found out we’re investigating, and obviously wants us stopped. Planting evidence is risky, and that means the murderer is either worried we’re getting too close to learning the truth, or they’re completely insane. Getting ourselves arrested simply isn’t an option.”
Mag paused, considering the Chief and his officer, one frozen with a look of self-righteous victory and the other with consternation. “This seems like the lesser of evils. We charm these two to forget about the club, find the killer ourselves, and hand him over on a silver platter. No harm, no foul. No karma.”
“I agree we don’t have a choice, but you’re wrong about the no karma. We’re casting on a human for personal gain, even if we find the killer. If you think otherwise, you’re kidding yourself. It’s going to cost us each one of our own memories and I hope it’s worth it.”
Everyone has a memory they’d rather lose, but Clara knew the rules of magic carried their own brand of trickery. Spinning this particular wheel could cost her something dear.
“Then I’ll do it myself. Half of my memories are lousy anyway.” Mag offered to take the bullet.
“No. This is for both of us.”
Together Mag and Clara chanted:
On this day and in this hour
We call upon Lethe’s might and power
Time turn back their memory
As we will, so mote it be.
Feeding intention into the spell in a steady stream, Clara took the reins and carefully wiped away the period of time that might point Cobb in her or Mag’s direction. The process required a delicate touch, making her the best suited for the job.
Remove too little, and you miss the trigger point and set yourself up for the whole problem to loop back around. Remove too much, and you risk causing emotional damage.
When it was done, Clara gently eased the club from Cobb’s grasp, whisked it away to a secure spot in her closet, and replaced it with one of Mag’s Victorian chamber pots. Just because the visual tickled her sense of humor.
“Okay, I think we’re good, Hagatha. Release the spell, but get out of sight before you do. Neither of them will remember you were here, and that can’t help but be a good thing.”
Grumbling all the way about how some people were nothing more than ungrateful witches who didn’t appreciate her, Hagatha stomped through the shop, and out the back. So annoyed was she, she didn’t bother to turn around, casting the release of her spell over her shoulder.
Cobb flickered back to life, stared at the chamber pot in his hand, and then at the Balefire sisters with a frown. “What was I saying?”
“I believe you were asking the price of that chamber pot,” Mag had trouble biting back a giggle; a situation made worse when Clara shot her a wink. “I’d be happy to give you a discount on it if you like.”
“No, I—thank you for your time. I think we’ll be leaving now. If you remember anything further, please don’t hesitate to call.”
Thrusting the ceramic vessel decorated in a distinctly feminine, floral motif into Mag’s hands, Chief Cobb left the building with no memory of the umbrella stand or its contents.
When the coast was clear again, Mag twisted the lock on the door but left the open sign facing out so there’d be a clear warning before an errant customer entered the store. Then she turned to Clara. “Well, that was fun.” Sarcasm spun out into the room like darts winging toward a bullseye.
Clara conjured the golf club from the closet, and careful not to touch it any more than she already had, settled it on the counter as Hagatha and her walker made a reappearance.
“You didn’t have to hide the combustion powder.” Ignoring the elephant in the room, she directed her comment to Mag.
“It seems I did. Or you wouldn’t know it was missing, now would you?”
“Could we focus on the more immediate problem?” Clara dropped the window shades. For once, she wanted to work magic in peace.
Calling on the source of her power, she sent balefire in a flickering sheen across the surface of the club’s handle. If there were any fingerprints to be found, soot from the flame would pick them out.
“Wiped clean by the looks of it,” she concluded.
“Or the killer wore gloves.” Donning her own pair, the ones she wore when she examined priceless antiques, Mag picked up the club and inspected it more closely.
“If this is even the murder weapon,” Hagatha chimed in.
“What would be the point of stashing it here if it wasn’t? I think we can safely assume the killer has been in the store.”
“Give it here,” Hagatha held out a hand. “I just need five minutes and a grain of combustion powder, and I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
Mag wasn’t fooled.
“Not one grain. Help or don’t help, that’s up to you.”
“Ungrateful witch.” Hagatha’s assessment of Mag held no heat, presumably because to her, this was high entertainment.
Whispering and muttering to herself, Hagatha tested her mettle against the club’s metal with nothing to show for it in the end. Spells of increasing power and complexity failed to reveal even a single piece of evidence save for the presence of blood on the business end.
Well, none that had anything to do with the wielder of the golf club, anyway. She did manage to reveal that Mag wore a girdle under her skirts before she called it quits. Information no one really wanted to know.
Chapter Sixteen
“We’ll take it from here, Hagatha.” Since the curtains were already closed, Clara suggested Haggie take the easy way home, and for once she actually left without an argument.
“I think that took more out of her than she would like to admit,” Mag commented once Hagatha had been dispatched. “Brilliant bit of magic, though.”
Clara sighed for what felt like the millionth time that day, “Brilliant, yes, but I don’t know if our choice of a memory charm was the best decision.”
Mag ignored the comment, her mind having already wandered into figuring out what their next step should be.
Now that it didn’t matter if she touched it, she held the golf club aloft and took a couple of practice swings. “Really, anyone who golfs regularly would have had t
he strength to take someone out with a club like this. It looks like the type they use to drive the ball over long distances.”
“It’s called a wood. The heads of the clubs used to be made out of hickory, but nowadays they’re metal. Lightweight enough to swing, but heavy enough, like you said, to lob the ball a couple of hundred yards down the fairway.” Clara supplied.
“Okay, Tiger Woods.” Mag raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
“I still have a few secrets of my own, sister dear,” Clara retorted. She grabbed the club from Mag’s hands, bustled over to the desktop computer that served as a cash register for Balms and Bygones, and began typing furiously.
“It’s got the name Sondheim etched into the shaft. Expensive, and made entirely of lightweight titanium. It is, like I said, a fairway wood, and this particular club is part of a set and not commonly sold by itself.”
Clara tapped on the keys while Mag watched the screen with a skeptical expression on her face. “This is ludicrous. How is anyone going to have an original thought anymore if they get spoon-fed information just by typing in a question?”
“And you wonder why people always assume you see the glass as half empty. Think about it this way: if you don’t have to remember all the small stuff, there’s more room in your brain for bigger considerations. If Albert Einstein had a computer to store all the superfluous information rolling around in his head, imagine how much more he could have discovered.” Clara enjoyed a moment of silence while her sister contemplated what she’d just said.
“Look.” Clara pointed to the screen. “Rolling Hills has a website. A nice one, surprisingly, with links to the pro shop. And guess what? They sell Sondheim clubs. I think it’s time for a trip back to the country club. They’re going to force us to pay for a membership if we keep showing up there.”
“Hey,” Mag said, brows raised, “you want to put on one of those little skirts and get rubbed down on a weekly basis, go for it. I’d rather chew leather than spend any more time on closely clipped grass than I have to. Do you know that golf courses are a serious threat to the fresh water supply? Not to mention, all the pesticides they use to make sure their snobby clients don’t actually have to come into contact with anything resembling nature.”
Murder on the Backswing Page 11
