“Tribes...” I murmur dreamily. I’m still gazing at him. Why is it so darn hard to think straight when I’m around Doctor Max Shire?
“Tribal life is fascinating,” Max says.
“How is the new book coming?” I ask, just as the bus girl delivers our starter salads. Max is working on a book called ‘What Tribes Know: The Seven Secret Keys to Living a Longer, Healthier Life’. In fact, he’s been working on it so much lately that I’ve barely seen him this past week. Maybe that’s why I was so excited about this date.
I reach for my salad fork as Max begins talking.
“I truly believe that the tribes I study have information that can help beings master longevity. It’s about so much more than just diet or nutrition—though that helps.” He sips his wine.
“Don’t some primitive people eat like bugs and roots and stuff? That sounds gross.” I spear a cherry tomato. I feel so out of my league talking about this with Max. But that’s a feeling I’ve gotten used to lately. I’ve been pushed out of my comfort zone more often than not.
Take this restaurant, for example. I used to think of it as kind of ‘off limits’. I thought I was a girl who didn’t eat at nice restaurants. I was a burgers at The Place kinda girl. Now here I am, all dressed up, using a salad fork. I mean really! It’s a little fork made especially for eating salad. Imagine that!
Max is still talking “... way of life. That’s why humans call it ‘primitive’, though it’s nothing of the sort. It’s actually much more advanced than the agricultural, hoarding ways of most so-called modern humans.”
Ooops. I’m pretty sure there was something there I’m supposed to respond to.
But what?
Think, Penny. Think.
Boy do I wish I was wearing my fake glasses. They make me feel so intellectual. Like the kind of woman who would say something smashingly brilliant right now. I left them on the bathroom sink. Why, oh why did I leave them on the bathroom sink?
What should I say?
I’m drawing a blank.
Max watches me.
Seeing that I’m at a loss for words, he speaks again.
“I don’t want you to feel bad that you thought they were primitive.” His tone is gentle, as if he can tell I’m uncomfortable. “That’s part of your conditioning.”
“Darn conditioner,” I say.
Max grins.
It’s encouraging to see him smile. “So what is the point of the book?” I ask. “If living longer is not about diet and nutrition then what is it about?”
“It goes so much deeper than just the food we eat or the activities of the day. Living longer is about how you feel about the world and the other beings in it. Are you all on one team? Or are you at war with your surroundings and cohabiters? The hunter gatherer tribes I’ve been living with all have one thing in common. They live with the world around them, not against it.”
“Cooperation,” I say. “I get that.”
“Exactly. Cooperation instead of competition. Tribes cooperate with the earth and animals. I really think that tribal living is essential for living longer,” Max says. “I’m planning to include the book as required reading in my curriculum for humans that are transitioning into vampirism. In fact, I’ve been working on a theory.”
I swallow. “Oh yeah?” I say, before taking another bite. This salad sure is good. The raspberry vinaigrette drizzled over it is sweet, and the veggies are all super fresh. If I could make salads like this at home, I might eat them more often.
Max continues. “I’m starting to see that werewolves are really onto something with their social structures.”
“You mean because they have an alpha wolf that takes on a leadership role and all that?” I say.
“That... and the fact that they live in packs.”
“That is pretty cool.” I say.
“More than ‘cool’... Penny. It’s... it’s... how can I say this? It’s vital. It’s a version of tribal living.”
“I guess living in a tribe would feel really different,” I say, trying to imagine it. All I can conjure up is sitting around a bonfire while someone beats on a bongo drum. Would everyone have to wear loincloths? I feel kind of embarrassed just thinking about it.
“Tribes are powerful,” Max says. “In fact, I’d like to adopt that practice. My theory, actually, is that magical beings of the future will be a sort of hybrid.”
“A hybrid of what?” I ask. “Werewolf and vampire?”
He nods. “And witch. I’m thinking of labeling these new hybrid beings—” He pauses dramatically, and then mimes a cascade of letters in the air in front of him as he says, “Wi-vam Wolves”
The wine I just sipped threatens to squirt out between my lips, or out of my nose. I’m not sure which would be worse. I cover my mouth and a snorting sound emits from somewhere deep inside of me.
Did I just snort out loud? Crap. How embarrassing!
But seriously... wi-vam wolves?
I manage to swallow, and then I laugh out loud. “Really Max?” I ask.
“What... you don’t like it?” He chuckles a little too.
“Wi-vam wolves...” I say slowly, trying it out. “It sounds like some sort of Disney movie... or a game show. Wi-VAM!”
“What about Wi-vamp wolves,” he says. “Maybe the ‘p’ would give it a little weight.”
“How about Were Vitches?” I ask. Then I giggle some more.
Max laughs too. “I’ll think about it,” he says. “The theory is still in the works. I need to finish this tribal living book first, before I can devote time to it.”
“Understandable,” I say. “One world-revolutionizing project at a time.”
“Think of it, Penny. A hybrid being would adopt the pack mentality that wolves enjoy. They could live extremely long lives, like vampires, and cast spells as witches do. It’s the natural progression of things. An evolution of sorts. The genetics of it are irrelevant. So what if a hybrid being wouldn’t actually sprout fur or have fangs? It’s the lifestyle and mindset I’m driving at here.”
“Wi-vam wolves...” I say slowly. I sip my wine. “I guess it does make sense.”
“A new magical being...” Max says. “And if I pioneer this work, you and I could be the first of a long line of them.”
“A long... line?” I say. My voice comes out all wobbly. A long line of beings...? Is Max talking about having children?
He grins. “Just planting the seed,” he says slyly.
I can feel my cheeks start to heat up; I’m starting to freak out. I really am crazy about Max. That doesn’t mean I’m ready to talk about our far-away future together. Or kids. I lift my hand and start fanning my face. “I’m not really in a gardening mood,” I say.
Max laughs. “Alright. I don’t mean to put any pressure on you. I know that thinking about the future tends to make you uncomfortable. But Penny... having a vision of the future is so important. Without painting a picture in your mind of how you want things to be one day, you’ll keep living reactively.”
“Oh—I’m pretty good at that,” I say. In fact, every time I see Max I feel myself react. My palms sweat, my cheeks flush, my heart beats faster, and I feel the flutter of butterflies in my stomach.
Max is chewing his salad, so I continue, taking the opportunity to change the topic of conversation to one that feels a little more solid beneath my feet.
“I’m sorry I was running late this evening. I tried to get home earlier to get ready but Rebecca popped into my office right before I could leave for the day, and I couldn’t just kick her out.”
“That’s right,” Max says. “You were saying you had a visitor.”
I nod. “The town librarian. Rebecca Brown. She’s in her forties... average height, on the thin side. Short brown hair. I’m sure you’ve seen her around. She’s usually scowling about something or other.”
I make a scowl.
Max grins. “Yes. I do believe I know just the woman you’re talking about.”
I relax my
expression.
“What did she want?” Max asks.
“My help,” I say.
“Yes, that’s clear,” Max says. “But with what matter?”
I sigh. “Nothing too interesting. Just some paperwork that she came across. You know how Marley lives up at the old mine?”
Max nods.
“That mine used to belong to Marley’s grandfather, Felix Greene. He was killed in a tragic mining accident—they were doing some work in a tunnel, and one of the sides collapsed. Felix had to fight his way out, dragging one of his employees along with him. Felix saved the guy, but ended up dying from a head wound he received in the accident.”
“That’s terrible,” Max says.
I nod. “It was a really big deal,” I say. “It happened before Marley and I were born, so it’s not like I remember it or anything, but everyone knows the story. That mine was never very profitable, but at least we all got a heroic story out of it. Anyways, Rebecca was going through some historical documents at the library, and she came across his will. She noticed that the signature on it looked forged.”
“Interesting,” Max says. “Do you agree with her? Did the signature look forged to you?”
I nod. “Definitely. I’ll have to verify it by looking at his signature on other documents, but I’m almost one hundred percent sure that Rebecca’s right. Whoever signed that will was not Felix himself.”
“And what does that mean?” Max asks.
I shrug. “I’m not sure. But I told Rebecca I’d look into it. I’ll probably have to dig through some old Hillcrest Crier articles or something. It’s not the most exciting work, but at least it’s something. I think I’ll also visit Rich Dempsey.”
“And who is Rich Dempsey?” Max asks.
I see the bus girl hovering. I still have half a salad left, so I shovel a forkful of greens into my mouth, chew and swallow before answering Max.
I pat raspberry vinaigrette from my lips with a white linen napkin as I say, “He’s the guy Felix saved. Rich worked up at the mine, for Felix. He’s in his nineties now. Lives over on Juniper Street with his wife Victoria. When Felix died, he left the Hillcrest Mine to Rich. Even though the mine shut down for good in the eighties, Rich still owns all the property. He’s really nice. He lets Marley park her van up there even though it’s private property.”
“And you think he’ll know something about the forged signature?” Max asks.
I shrug. “I’m not sure. Maybe. I’d rather talk to an actual person than shuffle through old newspapers, so I think it’s a good place to start. This case isn’t going to be easy for me. I’ve always found history kind of boring. I mean, I know some people love it—it’s just not my thing.”
I chew while thinking over the way I used to barely scrape by in history classes in high school. I had a lot of trouble with history because I had a hard time believing it. I mean, sure—we were learning a version of events. But that version was written by the victors! I wanted to know the other side of things. Yep. History and I don’t have a very good relationship.
Despite that, this Sunday evening I’m going to have to spend hours at an event dedicated to history.
Max is quiet so I continue. “Ugh. That reminds me. I got roped into volunteering on Night of Hillcrest History this Sunday.”
By the time I’m done complaining about my volunteering duties, our salads have been cleared and the main course is served.
Max ordered a rare steak, while I opted for the fish. I wanted angel hair pasta with clam sauce, but Max has a strange vendetta against white pasta, so I stayed away. Even delicious pasta wasn’t worth listening to him go on about how terrible refined flour is.
After our meal we travel via broomstick (I drive, and Max sits behind me) to the Stinky Socks Hot Springs. The night is chilly, the air is crisp, and the water is steaming hot. Any remaining stresses from the day melt away, and by the time I return to my apartment and lie down in bed, Felix Greene’s signature is the last thing on my mind.
Chapter Three
Date night has relaxed me so thoroughly that I sleep great overnight.
I wake up feeling refreshed and ready to tackle the day.
Contemplating what, exactly, I have to tackle leads me to thoughts of the forged signature again.
And so, by ten a.m. I’m standing on the front stoop of Rich and Victoria Dempsey’s small bungalow on Juniper Street.
It’s painted bright blue. There’s a wind chime hanging from the porch ceiling, and it tingles a melodic tune as I wait for the door to open. The winter sun is bright but it does little to warm the morning air. I stamp my cowboy boots a few times to get my blood flowing.
Out of habit, I pat my messenger bag to make sure I can feel my gun and my handcuffs. Not that I’ll need them or anything, it’s just a good habit to make sure I have them with me when I make a work call.
I feel the hard bumps of metal inside my bag.
Yep. I’ve got them.
Turkey opted on staying home today, so my bag is fairly light. I’m glad I thought to bring my Book of Shadows. Maybe as I question Rich I’ll jot down some notes.
I should have some answers for Rebecca by lunch time!
Mm... lunch. I start dreaming about biting into a juicy burger from The Place, but my fantasy is cut short when a stooped old man wielding a cane opens the door.
“Rich!” I say happily as he peers up at me. “Hi! Good morning! Sorry to stop by unannounced like this.”
Rich tilts his head to the side, presenting one of his ears to me. “What’s that now? Time for my dentist appointment?”
I lean forward a little so I’m closer to his ear. “I said—hello!” Did I say hello? Now I can’t remember. It’s not important. “My name is Penny Banks!” I shout.
He looks at me again. His eyes register recognition. “I know that!” he says. “Marley Greene’s friend.”
“Yes sir!” I say. “I’m also a private investigator! Could I come in and have a word with you?”
“What now? You want some stew?”
Oh brother. This is going to be harder than I thought.
I’m mustering up another yelled statement when Rich’s wife, Victoria, appears just behind him.
Victoria is petite and her posture is hunched over, like her husband. Her short hair is curled and dyed auburn. She wears glasses with bright red, cat-eye frames. The glasses match her bright red lipstick and the red necklace that she’s wearing over her black sweater.
She places a hand on Rich’s shoulder. “She said she wants to come in,” she shouts to her husband. Then she looks up at me. “Hello Penny,” she says.
Rich comprehends his wife’s words. He steps in and to the side, making room for me. “Well, you want to come in? What are you waiting for, then?” he asks, sounding a little bit annoyed.
“She was waiting for you,” Victoria admonishes.
I skootch into the tight hallway, and then manage to close the door behind me.
It smells like potpourri in here... sweet and floral.
Victoria starts shuffling down the narrow hallway. Rich hobbles after her. I’m third, following these two deeper into the potpourri cave.
We reach a living room. The television is on, with the volume turned all the way down. Facing the television, I see a recliner and a couch.
The couch is one of those really hard, stiff couches with a tall back. White crochet doilies are laid out on the back cushions. On one end, a stack of newspapers is piled so high that it looks like it’s about to topple over. Victoria begins moving the papers by the arm-full, transferring them to the polished coffee table in the middle of the room. All the while she’s saying, “Sit, sit. Make yourself comfortable. Here we go now... a spot for you. Haven’t had visitors in a while!”
When the papers are all transferred, she motions to the empty seat. “There we are! Would you like some iced tea?”
Now, Victoria is famous for her iced tea. She brings it to town potlucks, picnics and parties, and no
matter how many compliments she gets, she refuses to reveal the recipe.
I don’t know one person in Hillcrest who hasn’t wondered what the secret ingredient is. Annie swears up and down that it’s maple syrup. Cora thinks that Victoria uses some kind of special spring water. Marley thinks the tea is steeped extra long. I have no idea; I just know that it tastes delightful.
“Yes, please!” I say, as I perch on the edge of the couch in the spot that’s been so graciously cleared off for me.
“Coming right up,” she says. “Wait right here. I’ll bring it out to you.” Then she raises her voice and speaks to her husband, who is settling into his recliner. “Richard, I trust that you can keep our guest occupied while I get us some tea?”
She gives him a stern look.
It’s one of those looks that passes between a husband and wife who have been together longer than they’ve been apart. I’m sure she’s telling him something, I just don’t know what. That’s the thing with these husband-and-wife looks. They’re a language that only that couple knows.
I wonder if I’ll ever be able to communicate full paragraphs to a man just by giving him a look.
Max? Will Max and I one day be one of these couples?
In my mind, I recall sitting at the French Table last night, gazing at Max over the candlelight. ‘Think of it Penny... if I pioneer this work, you and I could be the first of a long line of...’
I swallow.
Wow. Max is serious about me. I’m serious about him.
It’s a good thing, right?
Rich speaks before I have a chance to answer my own question. “How is Marley Greene doing?” Rich asks. “Haven’t seen her in a few weeks. She usually stops by on Saturdays but Victoria and I have been going to the church senior days lately and we keep missing her.”
“She’s doing well,” I say. “She still loves living up at the mine.”
“She’s fine?” Rich asks.
I raise my voice. “Very well!” I shout. “She likes it up at the mine!”
“I know,” Rich says, nodding. “She always has. She’s like her grandfather that way—he loved it up there. And her grandmother. Both of them were very connected to the land. Not her father though. He was cut from a different cloth altogether...” He shakes his head.
A Hillcrest Witch Mystery Collection Page 71
