Cora touches the corners of her eyes. “His skin is so smooth too. He’s nice and bronzed but he doesn’t seem to have any wrinkles from the sun. I’m getting these little lines here, even though I put on SPF 30 every single day.”
Annie clears her throat. “I think we’re getting off track again. I’m sorry. It’s partly my fault for indulging in the idea of being only seventy. I think we’re all in agreement that this stanza highlights the idea that the poem is written with the voice of someone older and wiser, and aimed at us, the young,” she bats her eyelashes here, “students?”
Nods all around.
I speak up. “What about that training part. What the heck does that mean?”
Cora glances at the page. “‘Train hard’, it says.”
“Instead of leaving it to chance,” I add. I’ve read this poem-riddle over twenty times by now. I almost know it by heart. “But it doesn’t say how to train. I mean, isn’t that kind of important?” I know it’s clear to my friends that I’m frustrated with the poem.
Annie speaks gently. “Maybe the rest of the poem explains it,” she says.
“It doesn’t,” I say. “We’ve all read it already. We know it doesn’t explain. A training program would be something clear and specific, like doing one hundred sit-ups a day.” I don’t go into the fact that doing one hundred sit-ups a day is a part of Jumper Stronghearts’s ‘Strong Spine Strong Life’ protocol. We only have a short period of time and I don’t want to get our conversation off track again.
“Well,” Annie says soothingly. “Let’s just read on and see if anything new comes to us. Maybe the training program is in here, but just in a kind of subtle, tricky way.”
I scoff. “Tricky is a good word for it,” I say.
Cora continues.
‘Practice, child, is where trust lies,
Little steps reveal the first disguise.’
The oven timer rings just then. Annie walks over towards the counter and reaches for an oven mitt. Between the beeps of the timer, she says, “Why don’t you keep reading, Cora. I think that stanza goes well with the next.”
“Okay,” Cora says. She looks down at the page.
‘Soon little steps become great big gains
And fooled you’ll not be by worldly pains.’
Annie finally shuts off the timer. The four of us ponder those two stanzas while Annie removes the cake from the oven.
“Perfectly cooked through,” she says, as she pulls a toothpick out of the cake. “Moist but not sticky. Now, don’t you girls think that the ‘little steps’ that the poem mentions twice could be the training that’s alluded to?”
“Yes!” Cora says enthusiastically. “Great point, Annie!”
I’m less enthusiastic. “Little steps... great. What are we supposed to do, walk around until we magically become trusting?” To demonstrate my point, I begin shuffling around the kitchen with little tiny baby steps.
“It would take a long time to get anywhere, like that,” Marley says.
“It would take me a few days to get back to my apartment,” I say. “I’d probably freeze to death before I got there.”
Cora shakes her head. “The poem isn’t talking about literal steps, Penny.”
“No?” I say. “Then what is it talking about?”
“Metaphorical steps,” Cora says.
“Oh, even better!” I say. “Metaphorical steps! What the heck does that mean? What, am I supposed to take metaphorical steps with my metaphorical feet?”
Marley bursts out laughing. I didn’t mean to make a joke, but I guess my statement did come out sounding kind of funny.
“I’m sorry,” I say shaking my head. “But I don’t have metaphorical feet. I have real, solid, flesh-and-blood feet. Size eight, if you want to know.”
Annie side-steps over to a list that she’s pinned on the large, stainless steel refrigerator. She pulls her reading glasses off of the top of her head, puts them on, and then peers at the list. Next, she crosses off an item.
“Well, brownies are up next,” she says. “And since we only have three hours before Turkey will need to do his kitty business, in his own apartment, I should add—I vote we puzzle over the Trust Spell while we bake.”
“I should really go check on Blueberry Muffin,” Cora says. “She’s out front with Turkey. She’s due for her forest bathing this afternoon.”
“But we didn’t solve the riddle,” I say.
Cora’s already reaching for her jacket, which is on a hook by the door. As she slips her arms in the sleeves, she says, “I’ll be thinking about it while I’m walking Blueberry,” she says. “I think we made a nice start. We now know that we have to train...”
“Somehow,” I say.
“And we know that we have to practice.”
“Something,” I say. “That’s the problem. We don't know how to train and we don’t know what to practice.”
“But we know that we're not supposed to go shuffling around town like Frankenstein,” Marley says, imitating the walk I did just minutes before. “Taking baby steps.”
“Right,” I say, giggling because I can’t help it. “We’re supposed to take metaphorical steps with metaphorical feet.”
Cora rolls her eyes. “You guys are so ridiculous sometimes.”
She hugs us and heads out the door. Marley, Annie, and I finish off the list of baked goods. By the time four o’clock hits, I’m riding back to my apartment with a well-rested Turkey tucked safely in my bag.
Chapter Ten
As I pedal down snow-packed Main Street, Turkey catches my attention with a meow. My thoughts are going a mile a minute. I’m trying to make sense of the Trust Spell... and failing. Turkey’s meow causes me to focus in on him.
If my mind is too busy, I can’t hear Turkey’s telepathic transmissions. But as I stop thinking about the spell and tune into him, I hear, “Pull over please”.
“Why would I pull over?” I respond, still pedaling.
“I have to use the loo,” Turkey says.
“We’re ten minutes from home,” I say. “Can you hold it for your litter box?”
“I’d rather not,” Turkey says. “There’s something so liberating about peeing outside. Turn here! We’ll duck into the alleyway.”
I glance down at him and see that he’s motioning to the right with his little copper and white paw.
“Here?” I ask, turning my bike right.
“Good. Then down that side street there,” Turkey transmits, motioning left now. I turn my bike again. We’re now in a narrow alleyway. I stop my bike and open the flap to my messenger bag. Turkey leaps out. “Ah—this is perfect. Really, this is an ideal place for a nice outdoor pee.”
“Turkey,” I say, and he walks along a brick wall of the building to our right, apparently looking for just the right place to urinate. “I think I’ve learned more today about your bathroom habits than I ever wanted to know. Why don’t we talk about... you know... cool witchy stuff?”
“Like the Trust Spell?” Turkey asks as he does his business. “Or the case you’re working on?”
“Exactly,” I respond, averting my eyes. “You know, I don’t think Cora and her familiar chat about bathroom habits all day long.”
“Well then,” says Turkey. “Which do you want to talk about... the Trust Spell, or the case?”
“Let’s talk about the case,” I say. I chance a look over at him. He’s still peeing. I look away as I say, “Trying to figure out the Trust Spell makes my head hurt.”
“Well,” transmits Turkey, “Would you be happy if I told you that I just spotted a spirit disappearing around the corner?”
“Yes,” I say. “But I know that’s impossible. All of the spirit athletes are supposed to stay inside for the day—until it’s dark out. Then we’re all going to get together at Cora’s house for another group dinner. Hopefully this time, no one will turn up dead in the bathtub. Then, we’ll all head over to—”
“Penelope, you’re not listening to me,�
� Turkey says. “I really did just see a spirit—an athletic looking woman with short, reddish blonde hair, disappear around that corner!”
I turn in the direction Turkey is facing. The alleyway opens up to Pine Street. “That must have been Beth!” I say. “You saw her walking down that street, Turkey?”
“Indeed!” Turkey says. I open up my bag and he leaps in.
“Let’s follow her!” I say as I take off pedaling.
I slow down as I near the corner of the alley and Pine Street. “Which way, Turkey?” I ask.
“She was heading south,” Turkey says.
I begin to turn left, which will carry us south. My bike tire skids a little so I slow down even more. “What is she doing out in town, walking down Pine Street?” I wonder telepathically.
“I don’t know,” Turkey says. “But we’d better find out. Hurry!”
The alley is rutted with puddles that have filled with ice. I’m navigating around one, still working on turning left down Pine Street, when Turkey prompts me again. “Hurry, Penelope! We’re going to lose her!”
“I’m doing the best I can,” I respond, as I lower my feet and slide them along a particularly bumpy frozen patch of ground. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel like wiping out on an iced-over p-p-p-puddle!” My telepathic tone turns panicky as my cowboy boots slide out from under me and my bike skids out to the side.
Turkey and I land in a heap on top of the icy puddle. Unfortunately for Turkey, I’m on the top of the heap. My bike comes next, and under all that, my fur baby lies.
“Oof,” I say, attempting to right myself. “Yikes. Max was right. I should be wearing a helmet. Lucky my head didn’t get hurt. You okay down there?” I ask as I finally pull myself up.
Turkey and my bag come with me.
Turkey shakes his head a little bit. “I’m alright,” he says. “I suppose I’ll do a little online shopping for cat helmets tonight, too.”
“Too? What do you mean, too?” I say. My heart, already racing from our slip on the ice, is now hammering away even faster. The thought of my cat doing online shopping is giving me cold sweats.
“I ordered us some cleaning supplies,” Turkey says. “Now that we plan on keeping our apartment clean, I knew they would come in handy. While I was at it, I ordered you an alarm clock that moves. That way you can’t just hit ‘snooze’ on your phone alarm from under your covers. I also purchased an entire case of Finicky Feast. It’s a much better deal when you buy it by the case, you know. Did you know that they just came out with a trout apple flavor? It’s all organic, too.”
“How much did all of that cost?” I ask.
“Oh, I forget the number exactly. Just a touch over one-twenty, I believe. Now, we’d better get moving if we want to have any chance of catching Beth! Onward ho!”
“Not so fast,” I say. “Turkey, you can’t just spend one hundred and twenty dollars! I don’t have one hundred and twenty dollars.”
“Maybe you don’t,” Turkey says. “But I do. I’ve been doing some consulting from home while you’re at your office.”
“Consulting?” I ask. My anger is now turning to curiosity. Has my fur baby been doing more than just surfing on the internet while I’m out of the house? Could he really be earning money of his own?
“Indeed,” Turkey says. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it, actually. I had to use your social security number, for the purposes of registering my business. I am an extension of you, after all, and I didn’t think you would mind. Especially because I’ve made over five thousand dollars for us this month alone.”
“Five thousand?” I say incredulously. I lift my feet up, one by one, and place them on my pedals. My heart rate has slowed down enough that biking will be safe. I know that if we don’t hit the road soon, Beth really could get away from us.
As I push the pedals, slowly at first and then faster and faster, aiming us south on Pine Street, Turkey starts to explain. “It started out with surveys,” Turkey says. “You’d be surprised at how much you can earn online just by clicking the mouse. I earned a nice little sum taking surveys, and I focused most of my attention on surveys about cat food. I started to type up messages to the companies about how they might better catch the attention of their feline viewers. After all, if a cat shows interest in food, their owner is more likely to buy it.”
“That’s how you roped me into buying Finicky Feline Feast,” I say. “I remember you went berserk every time the commercials came on the television.”
“Right,” Turkey says. “The marketing director for one of the bigger cat food companies tried out my suggestions and it worked. Cats all over the country began begging their owners for the kind of food advertised. So, the company paid me to consult. I watch ads and give my feedback.”
“Brilliant!” I say. “We’re rich, Turkey! Let’s buy something really fun. I could use a new bike. Or—ice skates! Oh my goodness... Turkey—do you think a trampoline would fit in our apartment? Maybe in the living room? Jumper Strongheart says that trampolines are—”
“Penelope, I hate to break it to you, but you are the worst with money. Really, you are. We’re not going to buy you new ice skates, or a new bike. First, we’re going to pay back Annie—”
“Oh, crap. I got so excited that I forgot about Annie.” I had to borrow three hundred dollars from Annie a few months back. It’s a good thing my familiar is keeping track of my finances for me!
“I know you did,” Turkey says. “That’s why I’m here. After we pay back Annie, we’re going to pay down all that you owe to Speedy’s Online Licensure Program. Then, we’re going to start investing.”
“Investing! Ug!” I transmit, with a telepathic groan. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“The fun is in compounding interest,” says Turkey. “Now, that’s a good deal of fun, if you ask me. You see—”
Thankfully, I don’t have to listen to Turkey’s lecture on compound interest—whatever that is—because at that exact moment, Turkey and I both spot Beth at the same time.
She’s turning onto Oak Street. There’s something in her hand, but it’s hard to see what. Is she on the phone? I’m not sure. She’s about a block away from us. I pedal harder.
“Beth!” I call out. “Wait!”
She stops and turns to face me.
Now I can tell what’s in her hand. She drops it quickly, but it’s too late.
I already saw the cigarette she was holding.
She twists her toe into the sidewalk, snuffing out the cigarette as I ride up to her.
“Beth!” I say breathlessly. “What are you doing out in town?” I look around us. It’s a freezing day, and it seems that for the moment at least, people are cozied up in their homes or offices instead of braving the cold. There’s no one else on the sidewalks. The nearest car is a block away, cruising in the opposite direction.
For now, we’re able to talk unnoticed, which is a really good thing; I’d sure have a hard time explaining what I was doing on the sidewalk of Oak Street talking to a half-transparent being.
That could really freak a person out. Heck, it would have freaked me out, if I’d seen it a year ago before I started studying magic.
Beth hasn’t answered me yet, so I go on. “I thought we all talked about the idea that you athletes should stay out of sight during the day,” I say. “At night, it’s okay for you to walk around Hillcrest, but in broad daylight there’s a risk you’ll be seen.”
“I’m sorry,” Beth says. “I know that I shouldn’t have left Cora’s house.”
“That’s where you stayed last night?” I ask.
Beth nods. “Yes,” she says. “With Henry. Cora is a very lovely host.” Beth looks around us and then grimaces.
‘What is it?” I ask. “Why are you out here walking around and smoking? You should be at home resting, out of sight, getting ready for tonight’s games.”
“Oh... you saw that I was smoking?” Beth asks. The slight grimace turns to a guilty frown. Her
brows turn upwards. “You won’t tell Henry, will you?” she asks.
“About what?” I say. “That you left the house? He thinks you’re still there?”
“He fell asleep,” Beth says. “I know my husband. When he falls asleep during the day he’s always out for at least two hours. Henry is a very solid sleeper. So, I took the chance to sneak out and get some fresh air.”
“And feed your nicotine habit,” I say. I admit, my tone is judgmental. I guess it’s because I’m surprised to see an athlete smoking.
Beth wrings her hands together. “Yes, that too,” she says. “You won’t mention it to my husband, will you? I’d really prefer it if this just stayed between us.”
I’m quiet, thinking this over.
She goes on. “I’ll head straight back to Cora’s now. No one will see me. Henry won’t have any idea that I stepped out. Say, Penny, you don’t happen to have a mint on you, do you?” she asks. “Or a stick of gum?”
I ignore her question and narrow my eyes. My brain has a tickly sensation, near the back. It’s a message; there’s something here. “You’re really saying that your husband has no idea you smoke?” I say.
She shakes her head. “He’d be very upset with me,” she says. “Ever since we won the last tournament here on Earth, Henry’s been obsessed with winning it a second time. He says we have to prove we’re still the best, and that means being in top physical condition. My little habit isn’t exactly healthy. Henry would be so disappointed. Please—don’t tell him.”
“How much do you smoke a day?” I ask.
“Oh...” she avoids my eyes as she reports, “One or two, here or there.”
Hm. My PI senses are really tingling now.
I am onto something. I’ve been wondering what Beth was hiding. She said that she laid down in Cora’s guest bed to test the mattress, but clearly, she didn’t or she would have known that it was extra soft. Is this what she was hiding? Her smoking habit?
In my bag, Turkey shifts around and then meows softly. He knows that we’re onto something too.
My cat has some pretty fine PI instincts of his own.
A Hillcrest Witch Mystery Collection Page 63
