“We’re serious about our studies.” I say gravely. “And my life might depend on it.”
I don’t want to end up with a knife in my back, like Raul.
I can see the almost-full moon, peeking bright through the trees. The night sky is a deep navy blue now. What time is it, anyways? Turkey must be worried sick.
“Silas, I really have to go. My cat is waiting on dinner. My coven is having an emergency meeting tomorrow, at the Death Cafe. Maybe you could stop by? If you’re going to be helping us out tomorrow night, I’d like to introduce you to everybody before the dance starts.”
Especially Cora, I think to myself.
This guy is totally handsome, nice, and noble. And single, by the sound of things. So is Cora! Yes, it’s an odd time to be playing matchmaker, but I have a feeling that now that I’m learning witchcraft, a lot of my life is going to be like this. Odd.
“I can do that,” he says. He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a card, and hands it to me. I read it. ‘Black Wolf Construction’ it says. There’s a picture of a hammer, and a wolf howling at the moon. Below the company name I see his phone number.
“Nice,” I say. “Subtle.”
He grins. “That was what Raul and I were going to do so that we could save up for some property,” he says.
I tuck the card in my back pocket. “I think my friends will be very honored to meet you, and grateful for your help. You don’t mind a trip into town, do you?”
“Not at all,” Silas says. He glances over to where his cooler is tucked into the trees. “I’m almost out of food, anyways. Raul and I packed our supplies when we journeyed from the Water Realm, but we’re starting to run out.”
“There’s a market in town,” I say. “You’ll be able to find everything you need there. It’s a little bit expensive, but, hey,” I shrug as if to say, ‘what can you do?’ “See you tomorrow?”
He nods. “Be safe on your hike down the hill,” he says. “You need to borrow a flashlight?”
I think for a moment. Light would be nice. Then, an idea strikes. I lift my palm, and say aloud, “Flamma!”
A ball of light emerges, six inches from my hand. Not only does it light the woods up around me, but it also casts a warming glow over my face, arms, and torso. Lovely! Sometimes being a witch totally rocks.
I say goodnight one last time to Silas, and promise that I’ll get in touch with him tomorrow to let him know when our coven meeting will be. Then start picking my way back towards the trail. I remember the direction it was in, and I know it wasn’t far. Sure enough, five minutes later, I’m back on the path that will lead me home.
By the time I reach the bottom of the mountain, I’m exhausted. The short bike ride home feels like pure torture to my burning leg muscles. I climb the flight of stairs to my apartment as if I’m eighty, not twenty-seven.
When I open my apartment door, Turkey leaps off of the stool he’s been sitting on and strides over to me.
“What happened to you?” he asks, telepathically as I hobble into the room. “You look like you just ran a marathon. Is that chocolate on your face?”
“I was working late,” I say, giving my cheek another rub to clean off the chocolate that I’ve apparently missed. I release my bag with a thud onto the floor. “Tracking down a werewolf. Just a day in the life of a witch PI.”
Turkey leaps up into my arms, and I catch him. He nuzzles my face, and I grin and start to pet him. I’m tired, but not too tired to give my precious kitty a little lovin’.
“Well, this is a nice greeting!” I say.
“I was worried about you,” Turkey says. “I tried to reach you, telepathically, but I wasn’t getting any responses. You smell like—” he sniffs the air. “Marshmallows. And smoke. And pine trees.”
With that, he leaps out of my arms.
I reach up and pull my hood off. I touch the marshmallow mess in my hair. It’s hardened now, into a dime sized clump of dried stickiness, matted with tangled hair.
“I was in the woods,” I say. “My mind was on a million other things. I must have been too distracted to hear you. You wouldn’t believe the day I just had.”
“I want to hear all about it,” Turkey says. “And then I’ll give you my own report. I’ve had quite a day, myself. And I wouldn’t mind some dinner.”
I move towards the pantry, where I store Turkey’s food. He weaves between my legs as I reach for his dry food and a can of Finicky Feline Feast.
“You’re going to have to give me some room!” I say, laughing.
“Of course,” Turkey says, backing off. “Sorry, sorry.”
I scoop dry food into his bowl, and then top it off with a dollop of the gourmet wet stuff.
It’s duck and pea flavor, and it smells icky. But Turkey loves it. As soon as I place it on the floor, he begins chowing down.
As he eats, I recount my day—from my run in with Chris all the way to my meeting with the coven, and then finishing up with my fireside chat with Silas.
“So,” I say, after summarizing my conversation with the kind werewolf. “I think that solves the case. Now all I have to do is figure out how to use the Banishing Spell so that we can get rid of this Zeke guy for good.”
Turkey polishes off the last of his late dinner, and then looks up at me. “You think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?” he says.
I’ve helped myself to a bowl of cereal, and I lift a spoon, dripping with chocolate-tinted milk up to my mouth. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I do,” I say, my mouth full.
“I wouldn’t be so sure, if I were you,” Turkey says mysteriously.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Let me show you,” he says.
He leaps up onto the counter and then uses his paw to hit the power button on my laptop. The screen turns blue as it comes to life.
“You want to show me something on the computer?” I ask.
Turkey nods happily. “Yes. I’ve been doing some research. And I found something that I think you’re going to want to see.”
Chapter Eleven
I slurp up the last of my now soggy choco-puffs as Turkey works on the computer. It’s really cute watching him concentrate on the screen as he twitches his little paw on the touchpad.
Within a minute or two he turns to me. “Take a look at this, Penelope,” he says, quite seriously.
He uses both paws to turn the laptop so that it’s facing me.
I grin. “You are so freakin’ cute!” I transmit to him.
“If by ‘cute’ you mean brilliant, then thank you,” he replies.
“Yes,” I lean forward and give him a pat on the head. “Brilliant. That’s what I mean.” I set my bowl down on the table, and focus on the computer screen.
Turkey has pulled up a news article. In the middle of the page, I see a photograph of Sarah Pelletier, wearing her usual pencil skirt and blazer. She’s shaking hands with a man in a suit and tie. Both have big smiles plastered on their faces. Under the picture, there’s a caption: ‘Sarah Pelletier, the owner of 100 acres of land in Northern Utah, with George Barter, CEO of Powder Paradise, a ski resort that has expanded exponentially over the past six years.’
I look at Turkey, my eyebrows raised. “Powder Paradise!” I say. “They’ve been starting up ski resorts all over Colorado!”
“Yes. With the help of Sarah Pelletier,” Turkey says. “Read the article.”
I’m so tired that it’s hard to focus on the little words on the screen. It doesn’t help that my fake reading glasses are smudged with sweat and dirt from my jaunt up the mountain. I take them off and give my eyes a good rub.
This barstool is uncomfortable. I pick up my computer and walk with it over to the couch. Turkey trails after me.
I set the laptop on the coffee table, and settle into the couch. Turkey hops up next to me. I give him a few quick pets, and then, I lean forward and start reading the article.
‘Sarah Pelletier, who recently moved to the Grander County in Northern Utah, states
that she was approached by George Barter, CEO of Powder Paradise ski resorts, about the possibility of selling the 100 acres of land that she recently bought.
The sale will allow Powder Paradise to open a ski resort in the rural area of Utah. Powder Paradise is a quickly growing corporation which has been criticized for paying employees low wages, interfering with wildlife routes, and leading to the overpopulation of towns.
Members of the Grander County community are upset about the recent sale of land. Nancy Riley, who owns a ranch next to the now Powder Paradise land, states: “This is bad. I always thought that if a big commercial operation was going to move in, we’d have a chance to voice our concerns. But this land deal went on without any input from the community. It’s happening whether we like it or not—and I can assure you, we don’t like it.”
A source familiar with Sarah Pelletier's history states that this is not the first time that she has purchased large amounts of land from a variety of individuals and then sold it to Powder Paradise.’
The article ends there. I look up at Turkey. “What happened?” I say, taking a quick look at the date on the article. “This article is from almost a year ago. Did the ski resort go in?”
Turkey nods. “It did,” he says. “And that’s not all. Look at this.” He pats his paw against the touchpad, bringing up another article. “Two years ago, Sarah bought up 105 acres of land from four different private landowners in rural Montana. She then sold the land to Powder Paradise, again stirring up controversy and frustration within the town.”
I skim the words of the article. Yep, it’s the same storyline as the first article—Sarah arrives in town, buys up land, and then turns around and sells it, much to the townspeople’s dismay.
Turkey clicks the mouse pad again. Another article pops up.
“Prior to that, Pelletier purchased close to eighty acres in New Mexico. She owned the land for under a year before turning it over to Powder Paradise for development.”
I don’t even bother reading the article. I’m starting to see what Turkey’s getting at.
“Turkey, Dawn said that Sarah bought up close to seventy acres here in Hillcrest. Do you think she’s planning on selling it to Powder Paradise?”
“If her past is any indication,” Turkey says, “Then I think she will. It seems to be her modus operandi.”
“Her what?”
“Modus operandi,” Turkey says. “Her M.O. That was in class number three of your Speedy’s Online Personal Investigator Program’.
“Turkey, I think you’re a better PI than I am,” I say.
“You just need to spend less time mooning over men, and more time studying,” Turkey suggests.
“I do not moon over men,” I say.
Turkey raises one of his little whiskered eyebrows.
I choose to ignore him. “Turkey... this is awful. Powder Paradise can’t open up in Hillcrest. That corporation is a monster. It would take over the town— bigger roads, huge hotels, fancy new retail shops. It would be a disaster!”
Turkey moves his paw over the computer, scrolling down a bit in the article. “There’s more,” he says. “Keep reading... this part here is important.”
I give my eyes another rub. My goodness. I am really tired.
‘Sources close to Sarah state that while her recent land sales have been extremely profitable, that has not always been the case.
Ten years ago, Sarah bought up close to a hundred acres in Southwest Colorado. She was meaning to flip it over to a ski resort, but a scandal on the property prohibited this. Shortly after Sarah leased the land to Powder Paradise for a trial period, mountain lion sightings became frequent. After one skier was chased down the hill by a mountain lion, guests named the hill “Mountain Lion Death Trap.”
George Barter, when questioned about whether or not he was interested in continuing to lease the land from Sarah, stated, “I wouldn’t touch that hill with a twenty-foot ski pole. It’s doomed to failure, now that it has a reputation.”
When questioned about this failure, Sarah refused to comment.’
“Hunh,” I say aloud. I’ve reached the end of the article. My head is spinning. I flop back onto the couch, and close my eyes. Just for a minute. As soon as my eyes close, my mind begins to drift.
Sarah Pelletier... buying up and selling it to a bigwig in the ski industry...
Angry land owners.
Hillcrest—with a highway running through it, and a new, shiny, hundred-foot resort hotel, right where the Death Cafe is now located.
Mountain lions... chasing after skiers.
A wolf... running up the street, away from Hillcrest Inn.
Then, my mind goes blank.
The next thing I know, I hear purring by my ear. I feel the couch cushion behind my head rocking up and down. I hear Turkey’s little claws making little ripping sounds as they knead the couch cushion.
I open my eyes. It’s light out.
“Hunh?” I say, and then I smack my lips together twice.
Yuck.
I need to brush my teeth.
“Turkey?” I say. “What time is it? What day is it?”
I’m disoriented. It feels weird to wake up on the couch instead of snuggled in my bed. Or Chris’s bed, for that matter, but I don’t want to think about that at this exact moment in time.
“It’s exactly nine minutes past eight o’clock in the morning,” Turkey says. “One hour and nine minutes past my preferred breakfast time. It’s Saturday.”
“Saturday!” I say aloud, springing up into a sitting position. “Crap! I fell asleep, didn’t I?”
“Indeed,” Turkey says.
“I was supposed to practice the Banishing Spell last night!” I say. “I shouldn’t have fallen asleep—there’s so much to do!” I stand up, and run my fingers through my hair.
Well—I try to run my fingers through my hair.
They get stuck halfway down, on a giant tangle of hardened marshmallow. “Crap, crap crap!” I repeat. “You shouldn’t have let me fall asleep,” I say.
“I tried to wake you,” Turkey says. “You wouldn’t budge. You were snoring quite loudly.”
“I was not!” I say. “I don’t snore. I might have been breathing loudly, but I wasn’t snoring.”
“If you say so,” Turkey says. He’s sashaying into the kitchen area. I follow him.
Coffee is calling my name.
I start a pot brewing, and then fix Turkey his food. Next, I peel off my campfire smoke infused clothes, and hop in the shower.
Once I’m clean and dressed, I try to run a brush through my hair.
It’s useless. No matter how hard I jam the wire brush into the giant tangle that has formed, I can’t get it through.
It’s frustrating, not to mention painful. I do not have the pain tolerance or patience for this—especially not this morning. I reach for a pair of scissors, and then hold the tangle out to the side.
Snip, snip, snip!
The tangled mess falls into the sink.
Ah! It’s gone. Done with.
My relief is short lived.
I look up into the mirror. My face is now framed on one side with my normal, long wavy locks. On the other side, my hair stops abruptly at cheek level.
Any hope that my little fix-up would go unnoticed flies out the window.
Looking at my reflection, I grimace. “Ooops,” I whisper. “That didn’t go so well, did it?”
I hold the short hair up to the side, and then let it flop back down. “Well, there’s only one thing I can do to fix this.”
I raise the scissors up, and begin cutting.
Twenty minutes later, I emerge from the bathroom. I’ve cut my hair to about three inches long, all around my head. It’s starting to dry and as it frizzes up it expands. Somehow, I now have a puffball of brown hair around my head that makes me look like I belong in the Jackson Five.
As I walk to the coffee pot, Turkey stares at me. “New do?” he asks.
“I do not want
to talk about it,” I fire back.
I fill up a mug with coffee and begin drinking.
Immediately, the caffeine starts to wake me up. Perhaps I should have had my coffee before I gave myself a haircut.
My phone battery is still dead. I plug my phone in and then fix up some breakfast while it charges.
I’ve been dying to try Dawn’s jam. I coat two pieces of toast with butter, and then smother them with the thick raspberry preserves. Taking a seat on one of the barstools near my countertop, I eagerly turn on my phone before taking the first bite.
Has Chris called, to give me an update on the police department’s progress with the case? Or to apologize for his behavior? Or to check up on me? Or maybe... all three of those things?
Better yet, has he called to say, ‘I love you Penny’?
I have a sinking feeling in my stomach as soon as I’m able to turn my phone on.
I have zero missed calls.
There are four new emails, however, but none of them are from Chris.
What the heck?
He’s supposed to be my boyfriend, and yet he hasn’t even called to see if I’m still alive?
Then again, I’m his girlfriend and I haven’t called him.
Turkey hops up on the countertop. “Communication is a two-way street,” he says.
“I know,” I mumble aloud.
“Then are you going to initiate a conversation with Christopher?” Turkey asks telepathically. “Like a mature adult?”
I don’t have an answer to that, so I say nothing. Instead, I bite into my toast. Wow! This jam is even better than I hoped it would be.
“Are you?” Turkey presses.
I place the toast and jam down. I can feel sticky wetness on my cheek, and I look around for a napkin.
All I see is an empty paper towel roll. Shoot. I meant to get more of those.
I lift my sleeve, and give my cheek a quick wipe. I don’t feel like receiving a lecture from Turkey about my manners this morning, so I glance up with the hopes that he missed this. He didn’t. He’s frowning at me. His little silvery whiskers point down towards the floor.
“You know I’m not a mature adult,” I say.
“Penelope, you’re twenty-seven,” Turkey chides. “You’re not a teenager anymore. I know your mother died when you were only seventeen, but that doesn’t give you an excuse to remain a child.”
A Hillcrest Witch Mystery Collection Page 29
