The Case of the Power Spell: A Hillcrest Witch Mystery
Hillcrest Witch Cozy Mystery
Amorette Anderson
Published by Amorette Anderson, 2018.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
THE CASE OF THE POWER SPELL: A HILLCREST WITCH MYSTERY
First edition. October 25, 2018.
Copyright © 2018 Amorette Anderson.
Written by Amorette Anderson.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
The End
Chapter One
I place the skeins of yarn on my desk, lined up next to the sweater pattern in a little row; blue, yellow, grey.
Then I step back and look at the arrangement, imagining an Icelandic sweater with a blue and yellow decorative pattern around the neck, and grey body.
Hmm... Nope.
It’s not quite right.
I rearrange the yarn; grey, blue, yellow.
Again, I visualize the sweater. No! This is all wrong. Too much yellow in the body.
Maybe I need to go back to the yarn store... For the third time today.
To say my PI business is slow these days is an understatement.
As I’m about to stuff the yarn back into the plastic shopping bag, I hear a knock at the door.
Maybe it’s Marley, my best friend, here with an iced Americano.
Or maybe it’s Sherry O’Neil, owner of the Nugget building in which my office is located, asking for rent.
It is the first of the month.
The knock sounds again. The rap-rap of knuckles on wood is too sharp to be Marley. Too demanding. It’s got to be Sherry.
Drat.
I open the door slowly, my mind whirring as to how I might buy some time before paying her the three hundred that I’ll owe for September. It’s not much, but then, my office isn’t much, either. It’s a yoga studio storage closet actually, but I try hard not to think about that.
“Hi, Penny Banks?” The Mayor of Hillcrest, a tall, white haired man in his mid - sixties, is standing before me.
“Oh! Mayor Haywater,” I say, opening the door wider. It’s not Sherry! Inside, I’m doing a little victory jig. “What are you doing here?” I ask. Because, let’s face it, the guy must be lost or something. Surely, he’s not here to see me.
“Please, call me Cliff,” he says. He extends his hand.
I shake it, still wondering how he’s managed to get so lost that he ended up on the forgotten second floor of the Nugget building.
“I heard you have some sort of Private Detective operation going on here,” he says, peering past me and into the room.
He’s dressed in a white button up shirt that’s tucked into his jeans. A worn, brown leather belt and sneakers top off the business-casual look. As he speaks, he’s reaching into his shirt pocket, fidgeting with a folded piece of paper. He keeps half pulling it out and then stuffing it back in.
Maybe he is here to see me.
“Yes,” I say. I step in, and motion to the wall above my desk, where my PI certificate is displayed. I found an ornate gold frame at Bess’ Antique Haven. Inside of it, the certificate that was emailed to me after I completed a six-month online PI program looks very classy, if I do say so myself.
I make a gesture, à la Vanna White, as I say, “I’m certified, and I’ve been practicing for five years.”
“I see,” says Cliff, nodding. He stops fidgeting with the paper in his pocket, and now he’s looking around the little space, as if he’s uncertain of what to do next.
“Please, have a seat,” I say, pulling my only chair forward.
It’s important to exude professionalism when first greeting a client, according to class number one of my program. “To what end may I assist you?” I ask, rounding my desk and perching on my giant inflated Swiss Ball. For added effect, I place my hands into a ‘power triangle’, as my personal development guru, Jumper Strongheart suggests. With my fingers forming a tent, I give Cliff what I hope is a friendly, helpful, professional smile.
“To what end...?” he repeats. “Sorry, I don’t understand your question.”
Hm. It did come out sounding a bit vague. “I meant, how can I help you?” I say.
“Oh. Good. Yes... so you are taking on work at the moment?” He eyes my desk. “You look like you might have your hands full with... other work?”
I wish I’d had time to put away the yarn. And the knitting pattern. And the knitting needles. And the page full of doodles of my cat. And the half a dozen dirty mugs and one half-eaten bagel.
I’ve been meaning to clean all of this up, but when you sit alone all day in a supply closet—er, I mean office—you start to lose motivation for tidying.
I quickly start cleaning up the space, tossing the yarns on the floor at my feet.
As I work, I’m talking quickly. “No, no. This is just some silly knitting project.” It almost kills me to call knitting silly, because it’s not. It’s a way of life.
“I wasn’t even really working on it,” I say. “I’ve got a few other cases going—” Can drawing doodles of my cat be called a case? Sure; The Case of the Cat Doodle. “—But I’m sure I can carve out some time in my schedule.”
I finish clearing away the knitting needles and pattern, and then fish around for a spare piece of paper. Finding none, I flip my page of cat doodles over, and breathe a sigh of relief when I find the other side of the page blank.
“Just let me get prepared to jot down some notes,” I mutter, hoping that I sound like I take on new cases all the time.
I fish around for a pen or pencil. My top desk drawer is crowded with bulk containers of gum (I like to chew while I knit), a box of feminine supplies (because inevitably, that time of the month arrives) and a cluster of tangled yarn (because, yes, that happened, and I got frustrated and stuffed the whole mess into the drawer. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say).
Not one pen.
Ah ha! A mechanical pencil! I pick it up and click the end, desperately hoping that there’s some lead in it. No luck. I chuck it over my shoulder.
Cliff is watching me, a concerned look on his face. “Maybe I should come back at a better time,” he says, carefully.
I don’t have to be a graduate of ‘Speedy’s Online Private Investigator Licensure Program’ to detect that Cliff Haywater was losing confidence in me. Fast.
He starts to stand up, looking at the door.
“Sit!” I say, sounding desperate. Probably because I am desperate. The knocking wasn’t Sherry this time, but the next time, it will be.
I push my glasses up on my nose and take a deep breath. My eyes spot a pen. Thank goodness. I pick it up, and immediately feel better. I’m ready.
I square my shoulders and say, “Cliff, I’m a detective. I can help you with whatever issue you need investigated. I’m the only PI in town.”
He’s half sitting, half standing. He looks at me. I position the pen over the paper, ready to take notes—as any organized, intelligent PI would do. “So, what’s going on?” I ask.
He sits.
I breathe out a second sigh of relief.<
br />
He fishes in his pocket, and pulls out a piece of paper. “I found this,” he says. “In my home recycling bin. I was looking for a receipt I’d thrown out. I can’t figure it out...”
I jot down, ‘looking for a receipt’ on my paper, just to look engaged.
He pushes the paper across the desk, towards me.
I pick it up and read it.
Express Travel Confirmation and Receipt for: Melanie Haywater
Destination: Oahu, Hawaii
Flight information:
Departure: Flight A1665 Departing Denver at 3:05 pm on August 15, 2018
You have no return flight booked for this trip.
Melanie, your flight is confirmed! Your confirmation number is 73010188
Please be sure to check in online at expresstravel.com for boarding prior to your trip.
I look up at Cliff. “What’s so confusing about this?” I ask. “It looks like your wife, Melanie, booked a one-way trip to Hawaii on August fifteenth. That was, what... two weeks ago?” I try to do the math in my head. It’s the first of September. Thirty days, hath September, April, May, and November...
I wish I had a calendar available. I make a note to bring one in.
“Did she go?” I ask.
Cliff shakes his head.
“That’s the odd thing about all this,” he says. “I can’t figure it out. She hasn’t gone anywhere. But I checked our bank account, and I see the charge for the ticket. Why did she buy it, and then not use it?”
“Did you ask her?” I ask.
He nods. His face becomes a little bit flushed. We’re getting into uncomfortable territory here, I can tell.
“I did,” he says, stiffly. He’s quiet for a moment, as if thinking. Then he sits up straight, and clears his throat. “She wouldn’t tell me,” he says. “She refused to talk about it, actually. Which is why I thought of you. I was hoping you might do some digging, maybe call this ‘Express Travel’ place and see when the tickets were booked, or talk to her sister, Gale. She tells Gale everything.”
“Hm,” I say. I’m not so sure about this. Why should I go snooping around in my Mayor’s marriage? I’m getting the impression that’s it’s not exactly a healthy relationship, if she’s hiding something like a one-way ticket. This feels like a can of worms better left lidded.
“I’ll pay you well,” Cliff says, removing his wallet from his back pocket. He takes out a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and places it on my desk. Then, a second.
I’m warming up to the idea.
He continues. “This is really important to me. If my wife wants to travel to Hawaii, I’d like to take her there. Maybe I could get us both tickets, as a surprise. It could be good for us.”
He thumbs through his bills, and then, to my delight, he takes out a third hundred. “Will you see what you can dig up?” He asks me, pushing the little stack forward.
Considering I have zero dollars saved up for the rent that is due today, I nod my head. I can’t say no to this.
Besides, maybe Cliff is right.
Maybe, by uncovering the truth, I could save the Haywater’s marriage. Cliff could purchase two round trip tickets to Hawaii, and the happy couple would thank me for my help, for years to come.
A sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach tells me that won’t be the case, but I do my best to ignore it as I pick up the bills. “I will start today,” I say.
“Well, now, don’t ignore your other cases, just for this,” Cliff says, standing up. “You can get to it when you get to it.”.
“Oh, it’s no problem,” I say. “My other work is of a long-term variety.” The Case of the Cat Doodles will go on for years, I’m guessing. “This will take precedence,” I say.
“Thank you.” Cliff gives a business-like nod, and then reaches into his wallet again. This time, he pulls out a business card. “I’m always around town, and I’m sure you know where my offices are.” He hands the card to me. “When I’m not at my offices, I’m at The Other Place,” he says.
In addition to being Hillcrest’s mayor, Cliff Haywater also owns The Other Place (or The OP, as us locals call it), which is a local watering hole on main street. He also used to own The Place, which is practically Hillcrest’s only restaurant. However, I recall now that a few weeks back, he’d sold it.
“That’s right,” I say. “You’re not running The Place any more. How do you like semi-retirement?”
Cliff grunts. “Oh, I’d hardly call it semi-retirement. I’m still busy as always with The OP and my duties as mayor. I thought selling the restaurant would give me more time on the golf course,” he shakes his head and emits a polite chuckle. “No such luck. Now I just end up spending more hours fussing over town politics in my office or working at the bar.” He points to the card that is now in my hand. “But if you can’t find me at either of those two places, just give my cell phone a call.”
I look down at the card as I stand and walk towards the door. “Will do,” I say. I open the door for him, and he’s about to step out, when something stops him. I don’t like the uncomfortable look on his face. I sense that he’s about to say something he really doesn’t want to say.
“There’s one more thing,” he says.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Melanie... Melanie’s been crying a lot lately. I don’t know if that’s of any relevance, but... you should probably know.”
Great.
Any sliver of hope that this is all going to end happily is fading quickly. “Okay,” I say carefully. “Thanks for the information. When did that start?”
“Well, it was after the fiasco with the deep freezer at The Place.”
I’d heard about that. The Place’s head chef, Joe Gallant, was found dead in the restaurant’s walk-in freezer. It seemed that he’d gotten stuck inside and froze to death. The freezer, usually set at thirty degrees Fahrenheit, had been found at negative two.
“It was a terrible accident,” Cliff goes on. “On the last day that I was the owner, no less. August fourteenth. Not the best way to go out...” He shakes his head. “Terrible luck. I can’t quite understand it. That freezer never gave me one issue, in all those years, and then to have it act up on the very last day.”
“That is unfortunate,” I agree.
“And Melanie was there, you know, when he was found,” Cliff says. “At first, I thought she was crying because it was such a traumatic event. It really was, too. He was blue and had icicles growing out of his nose. But it’s been two weeks, I thought it would pass, but she’s still crying constantly. I’m beginning to think it’s not about the dead body at all. I’m starting to wonder, since finding this ticket, if her being upset has something to do with Hawaii.... Though I can’t fathom what.”
I frown. “I’ll look into it,” I say. “That’s very helpful.”
He nods. “Good. I thought it might be.” He seems very relieved to have that bit of the conversation over with. “Well, then! I guess that’s it. We’ll be in touch!”
“I’ll reach out with an update in the next few days,” I promise, as Cliff heads for the stairs.
Chapter Two
Back in my office, I stare at the sheet of paper that Cliff handed me, detailing Melanie’s travel plans.
A one-way ticket to Hawaii. Constant crying. Hm.
Even without doing one lick of investigating, I’ve started forming conclusions about the case.
Melanie clearly isn’t happy in her marriage; not talking to her husband, secretly booked tickets, and chronic crying jags do not equal a happy wife.
My shoulders slump.
I do not want to be the one to tell Cliff that his wife is not happy.
After a few minutes of dwelling on this, a phrase from Jumper Strongheart, my personal development guru, comes to mind: Are you a worrier, or a warrior? I can imagine him pacing the stage, asking the audience this question. I’ve never seen him live, but I’d love to. I imagine him in my little office, pacing back and forth and speaking into a headset
. ‘Are you a worrier, Penny Banks, or a warrior?’ he’d ask.
“Warrior!” I say out loud
The sound of my own voice jolts me, and I start tipping backwards on my Swiss Ball. Then I fall backwards off the exercise ball, and land with a thud on the floor, my dress up around my waist. I am so glad that didn’t happen when Mayor Haywater was in the room.
I silently curse Jumper Strongheart and his ‘Strong Spine—Strong Life’ protocol, which forbids chair-sitting.
I prop myself up onto my elbows. My feet are still high up on the ball. From down here, I can see the yarn that I tossed onto the floor, along with the empty mechanical pencil. It reminds me of how pitifully I handled the ‘intake’ of my new client.
I am cringing as I struggle to my feet. On the blank piece of paper, I jot down a few notes to myself, so that I can learn from the situation.
Improve my client intake skills. How to look more professional? Clean desk! Plant in the office?
Work on core stability. Sit-ups every morning? Reread Jumper’s strong spine protocol. Must be able to balance on ball!
Don’t take husband-wife cases. Too sad!
There. I think that about covers it. I think I’m about done for the day. I’ll tackle this again in the morning, when I feel fresh.
Though it’s been a rough day—a learning experience, as Jumper would call it—there is one good thing that happened. I have three hundred dollars! I can pay my rent.
I happily stuff the cash into my wallet, and then go about emptying coffee mugs.
The supply closet has one little window, which opens and doesn’t have a screen. When I poke my head out of it, I can see down to the sidewalk below. I pour mug after mug of stale coffee and tea out onto the empty sidewalk, where there’s always a brown stain in between rain storms (thanks to me).
Once this is done, I stuff three of the empty mugs, into my cross-body messenger bag. Then I carefully don my bag and head for the door.
Soon I’m at home, scrubbing coffee stains out of mugs. I’m elbow deep in suds when I hear a knock on the door.
The Case of the Power Spell Page 1
