The Case of the Vision Spell (Book #5)
A Hillcrest Witch Mystery
By Amorette Anderson
Chapter One
“Don’t you think it’s odd?” Rebecca asks, as she pushes the piece of paper across my desk.
I frown. What I think is ‘odd’ is that Rebecca is wearing a dress with an adorable kitten pattern on it. She’s not even a cat person! She’s banished my precious cat, Turkey, from the library more times than I care to count.
She shouldn’t be allowed to wear a dress with a cute kitty pattern on it.
She continues before I can answer. “It’s definitely different handwriting, don’t you think? Compared to the other document?”
I look down at the paper she’s handed me.
My eyes scan the page. Most of the words are typed, except for the handwritten signature on the bottom. Though I haven’t read it carefully yet, I’m pretty sure it’s a will.
It’s almost five o’clock. That was going to be the end of my work day. I don’t particularly feel like studying the paper in front of me.
I don't particularly feel like talking to Rebecca either.
As our town librarian, as well as the president of the Hillcrest Historical Society, Rebecca has a reputation for being a bit of a pain in the behind, if you know what I mean. She’s a stickler for rules, which makes her a great librarian but kind of poor company.
I remember once when Hillcrest’s only bar, The O.P., hosted a karaoke night, and Rebecca insisted that everyone take turns singing according to their birth month and day. She even had us line up in precise order... which of course I wasn’t happy about seeing as I’m born in December. I had to wait until one a.m. to try my hand at Michael Jackson’s ‘Man in the Mirror’.
My eyes reach the bottom of the page and I study the signature.
‘Felix Greene’, it says.
Felix was my best friend Marley’s grandfather.
I look over to the other document that Rebecca has handed me. It’s a petition with about a hundred names on it. Rebecca has posted a bright pink Post-it note with an arrow on it next to Felix’s name.
She’s right. The signatures look different.
Even though I wasn’t thrilled when Rebecca showed up at my office unannounced, I have a funny feeling that she’s supposed to be here. Like this whole encounter is meant to be happening.
It’s a feeling I’ve been having a lot lately—ever since I learned how to cast the Trust Spell a few weeks ago.
Yep. That’s right. I can cast spells. I’m learning to be a witch. A real, live, magic-crafting, spell-casting, broomstick-riding witch. I even have a cauldron—though lately it’s been functioning as more of a fruit bowl.
I inherited the cauldron, along with a book called ‘The Art and Science of Becoming a Witch’, from an elderly woman named Claudine Terra. My Knitting Circle friends, Annie, Cora and Marley joined me in studying the magical book. Together we formed a Terra Coven.
Learning to do magic has really changed my world.
I mean, take the Trust Spell for example. As I was saying, since I learned how to cast it a few weeks ago in mid-January, everything feels strangely perfect.
Like this morning. I stepped out of my apartment and it felt like the February sun was shining directly onto me—like I could feel the little shooting, zooming rays of light traveling through the galaxy just to land on my face at that exact moment. The snow on the ground was sparkling in a magical way. I could imagine all of the snowflakes freezing in just the exact right formation, so that they looked spectacular when I stepped outside.
And they did look spectacular. Truly phenomenal. I don’t know how I never noticed it before.
Even Rebecca—right now. I have this strange feeling that she’s supposed to be here. Like she and I are destined to be talking about this piece of inked paper in front of me. Like for some reason I can’t even comprehend, this is supposed to be happening, just like it is.
Even though a part of me wants to tell her that I need to go home to get ready for my date with Max (dinner at the French Table and then a moonlit soak at Stinky Socks Hot Springs, by the way), a part of me is glad she’s here.
It’s like a little part of me is saying, ‘This is important; this is meant to be’.
Oh! Wait a minute. Is that my cat, speaking telepathically? I look to my left, where my calico cat Turkey is curled up on his home-away-from-home kitty bed, looking out at Rebecca and me.
Yes! He’s definitely communicating with me.
“Penelope,” he silently transmits. “This is important. What Rebecca is bringing to your attention could be significant.”
“But it’s five o’clock,” I transmit back. “I wanted to leave at five o’clock. Max made dinner reservations for six, and if I don’t leave now I won’t have time to—”
“You should listen to her.” Turkey transmits, interrupting me mid-thought.
“But she’s annoying,” I respond silently. “Remember all those times she’s kicked you out of the library? And just check out the way she looks at you!”
Indeed, Rebecca is now giving Turkey a look of disgust. “Are pets really allowed in here?” she asks. Her short hair is in a pixie cut though she is far from a playful pixie. She’s about as serious as they come.
“Sure,” I say. “It’s my office. I work for myself. I can do whatever I want.”
Including asking you to leave, and putting this boring case off for another day. The thought zooms through my head so fast I barely have time to catch it.
Turkey catches it however. “Penelope,” he transmits sternly. “Take the time to listen to her.”
“Fine,” I respond silently. Of course, I have no real intention of asking Rebecca to leave. She’s here in my office for a reason. I’ve progressed too far with my magical studies to think that she’s just randomly here.
Nope. This isn’t a fluke. She’s supposed to be here. Now it’s up to me to figure out why.
Rebecca speaks in a clipped tone, while still glaring at Turkey. “Yes, you do rent this office,” Rebecca says. “But it’s technically part of the Nugget Building, owned by Sherry O’Neil. If I remember correctly, only service pets are allowed inside this building.”
See? Annoying.
I ignore her statement. Instead of responding, I lean over the papers.
My eyes bounce back and forth between the scrawled signatures.
The first one, on the will, is composed of short, squat, rounded letters, all of the same size.
The second signature, on the petition, looks different in every way. The letters are tall, narrow, and slanted. The ‘F’ in Felix is very big. So is the ‘G’ in Greene. The rest of the letters line up nicely.
Rebecca is leaning over the desk now. When she speaks I can smell her spearmint chewing gum. “See how there’s a big blotch next to the last ‘n’ there?” She points to the will, where the final ‘n’ in ‘Greene’ ends with a blotch of ink. “It’s kind of like the person writing paused there. The ink pooled. Then they wrote the ‘e’. It’s like they didn’t even know if there should be an ‘e’ or not. I think this signature is forged.”
She taps the petition. “I looked through other town documents. Felix Greene always signed papers the same way. I just brought you the petition as an example, but take my word for it, they’re all identical. It’s his signature. But then this one here,” she moves her hand and raps the will with her knuckles, “on his will, is completely different!”
“So, it is a will then?” I ask.
“Of course,” Rebecca says. “It says it right on the top. Last Will and Testament.” She looks at me like I’m dull.
I straighten my glasses. “I just wanted to be sure,” I say. In truth, I’ve never actually seen a will before. My mother didn’t have one when she died. I’m full of questions. It’s called a Last Will and Testament... so does that mean there’s a First Will and Testament? And what are they testifying to? I don’t want to ask, because I do
n’t want Rebecca to lose confidence in me, so I stay quiet.
Rebecca continues. “Ever since I came across it this morning I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. I mean, why would this signature—on Felix’s will—be different than the rest?”
“Why were you even looking at his will?” I ask.
“I was organizing documents, trying to find some that would look nice for a lobby display about Felix. As you know, A Night of Hillcrest History is coming up at the West End Theatre this Sunday evening. Each year, one upstanding citizen is chosen to receive the Hero of Hillcrest award.”
I nod. “I know that,” I say. “Last year it was Molly Gallant for raising the money for the art co-op.”
“That’s right. Well, this year—I hope I’m not ruining the surprise for you—but the historical society voted on Felix for the award.”
“But he’s not alive,” I say.
“That’s irrelevant. The award winner can be a person from the past or present. Felix is the winner this year. We’re going to make a whole display about him and the way he saved Rich Dempsey's life. I’m in charge of decorating the lobby.”
I nod. “It is a pretty cool story,” I say. As the story goes, Felix Greene, the owner of Hillcrest Mine at the time, heroically pulled one of his workers from a tunnel that collapsed. The man he saved, Rich Dempsey, is still alive to this day. Felix, unfortunately, died from a head wound that occurred during the event. “So what are you going to do, put up old black and white photographs of Felix in the theater lobby or something?”
She straightens up. “And photocopied documents, and newspaper clippings. I’ll use a background of black drop-cloths. I’m also thinking of stringing up little white lights. It will be an art installation, really. It’s not a small responsibility, you know.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s a really big deal,” I say.
Turkey meows. He’s right. My tone was bordering on sarcastic there. I need to watch myself.
I straighten up too. “Rebecca, you’re right. This signature,” I point to the will. “Looks different than this one,” I point to the petition. “But I’m really not sure what you want me to do about it. I mean, Felix is dead.”
“I know that, Penny. But it’s not right. Signatures are supposed to match. That’s the rule. Now that I know about this discrepancy, it’s going to keep bothering me. It’s like when you get something stuck in your teeth...” She grimaces. “And you feel the need to floss. Do you know what I mean?”
I eye her. “You’re saying you want me to be your floss?”
She nods. “Well, you are the only PI in town. It’s your job to solve puzzles, isn’t it? Well—here we are!” She motions to the two papers. “I’ve found a puzzle for you.”
I resituate myself on the Swiss ball I use instead of a chair. “I solve crimes,” I say. “Not puzzles.” I bounce a bit, thinking.
“Please, Penny,” she says. “Until I figure out why these signatures are different, it’s going to bother me to no end. How about this... I’ll give you fifty bucks to figure it out.”
She starts rummaging through her I-heart-books tote bag, for her wallet I assume.
Now, just a month ago her offer of cash would have had me drooling and nodding like a fool.
That was the old me. Things have changed.
Turkey’s been making oodles of money online lately as a marketing consultant for cat food companies.
“I know we don’t need the cash,” I hear Turkey transmit, from his little bed. “But that doesn’t matter. Take the case.”
Rebecca pulls out her wallet, and then removes two crisp twenties and a ten. She fans them out neatly on the table.
“I’ve never hired a private investigator,” she says. “I’m afraid I have no idea of the going rate. I feel fifty should be sufficient.”
“Sure,” I say, heeding my cat’s advice and the nudging of my own intuition. “I accept. I’ll look into it and see what I can come up with.”
“Excellent,” Rebecca says crisply. “I’m glad to have that off of my plate. It’s been bothering me all day. I like the town records to be orderly. Imagine, finding a discrepancy like this, after all these years!”
“Well! Now that I’ve gotten that taken care of...” She stands and gathers up her tote bag. “I hope you signed up to help out at the Night of Hillcrest History?”
Is this a question? I’m not sure how to respond.
I stammer a bit as I fumble for an excuse. “Oh—well, not quite yet. I’ll be super busy this week what with... uh... what with...” I can’t come up with anything on the fly. I bite my lip.
“Nonsense,” she says with a wave. “Everybody will be there, and if you volunteer you get front row seats. Just a touch of setup and cleanup, plus a task while the event is going on. I’ll put you down for stamping hands at the door. How’s that? That’s a very easy task.”
Easy task! Just who does she think she’s talking to here?
I adjust my fake glasses, which I wear to help me feel smarter. It works. “I can handle a complicated task, Rebecca,” I say.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to offend you,” she says. “I just mean that you seem to be so readily distracted, Penny—chatting with your friends and whatnot. You’re a real social butterfly.”
She’s made it to the door before I can decide whether I need to defend myself or not.
“Thank you for your help!” she says, before disappearing.
I run to the door. I don’t want to volunteer at history night. Front row seats aren’t worth hours of setup and cleanup, and I don’t want to stamp hands. I make it to the doorway and am about to call out to stop her, when I realize that it’s probably almost five-thirty by now.
If I don’t leave right this instant, I won't even have time to change clothes before my date with Max. I look down at the scrubby, faded black sweatshirt I’m in. Nope. This won’t do. I turn and head back into my office.
I leave the will and the petition on my desk, along with a travel mug and a plate with a half-eaten bagel. All that can wait ‘til tomorrow. This girl needs to get home!
I scoop up Turkey and plop him into my messenger bag, which I’ve slung over my shoulder. I throw on a hat, scarf, and mittens as I say, “We have to get going!”
“We’re not going to stay and examine the will?” Turkey asks.
“Tomorrow,” I say. “Or else I’m going to be late for my date with Max.”
“You need to work on your priorities,” Turkey huffs as I run down the stairs from my second story office.
“Noted,” I tell my cat. “I’ll do that. I’ll start working on that first thing tomorrow. But tonight I have a date.” I smile.
Chapter Two
When I have my mind on getting ready fast I can really make some moves. I’m like a Tasmanian devil in my bathroom—a blur of speed in and out of the shower, pulling on my dress, tights (backwards once, but then on correctly) and swiping smoky grey shadow over my eyes. A quick Perfect Hair Day Spell and swipe of lip gloss has me ready for my date by six-fifteen. A little late, but not bad considering I didn’t get home until quarter to six.
Max is waiting patiently in my living room, and after I say goodbye to Turkey and don my jacket, we walk hand in hand to the French Table.
Once we’re seated, I feel like I can finally catch my breath. We made it!
It takes me a while to settle down, but after we order and sit still for a little while, the atmosphere starts to affect me. In the dimly lit, romantic little dining room, marinating in acoustic guitar music and Max’s presence, I feel myself relax.
A candle flickers on the table between us. Max lifts a bottle of red wine and begins to pour it into a glass while I watch him dreamily.
I swear, half of the time I’m with Max, I’m just staring at him. I can’t help it. There’s something about him.
It’s not just the chemical cocktail that seems to flare up inside of me when I’m in his presence. It’s more than that.
The guy
has a glow about him. When he’s in a room, my eyes are drawn to him and all else fades to the background.
Max is wearing a black button-up shirt and khakis. His tousled black hair is even more whirly-whippy than usual. His always-bronzed skin glows golden in the candle light. When he smiles at me, passing the wine glass across the table, I actually want to pinch myself.
I mean, I’ve got to be dreaming, right?
This can’t be my life.
Little old Penny Banks is surely not sitting here across from a handsome-as-heck vampire, in Hillcrest’s fanciest restaurant.
Until I inherited the book that’s teaching me witchcraft I was just your average girl.
Actually, though I hate to admit it, statistically speaking I might have been below average. I mean, I failed out of police academy. Emotionally I was closed off and needy, so my love life was a disaster zone. My PI business was a total flop. I was just sort of surviving—hoping to make it from one day to the next.
Then I started studying magic.
And everything changed.
I mean, not like snapping your fingers in the air or anything. It’s taken a lot of work. But slowly, steadily, I feel myself becoming more magical. My world is becoming more magical. What I see, daily, reflects the changes that happen inside of me.
Max seems to be proof of that.
“I love it when you slip into alpha,” he says softly, interrupting my thoughts. As he speaks I notice I haven’t yet accepted the wine glass he’s holding out to me. Mm... wine! I reach out for it.
“Hm?” I ask.
“Alpha brain waves,” Max says. “Most humans run around in beta... very fast electrical activity in the brain muscle. It makes them act like hamsters running round and round on a wheel. When you slip into alpha all of the electrical activity slows down. Your posture changes. I can also see it in your pupils. It’s very attractive.”
“My pupils are attractive?” I ask. I sip my wine.
He laughs. “And the way you smell. It’s all connected. I learned about it while I was living with the Zambi tribe, over two hundred years ago.”
A Hillcrest Witch Mystery Collection Page 70
