A Wedding to Die For- Wedding Bells and Magic Spells

by A. R. Winters

  “Kiwi? Kiwi?”

  She had asked my pet parrot for permission, which was almost as ludicrous as it sounds.

  “It’s just a lunch date, and I’m sure it won’t go anywhere, what with me leaving on vacation this afternoon…”

  I shook my head and sighed and did all the things that express disapproval and consent at the same time.

  She was my best friend, my worst (and only) employee, and I’d have hidden in the back if I were her too. Especially if I were going off on vacation anyway.

  “Good luck on your date,” I said as she and her flirty skirt that she seemed to be floating in swished out the front door.

  “Luck? Don’t need it. Mwah!” she kissed into the air.

  “And have a great vacation…” I said to the door as it closed.

  I’d barely sat down before the door opened again with a DING and the real trouble began. If I thought the New Yorkers had been difficult, it was nothing compared to what was coming up next.

  Chapter 2

  I was just beginning to regain my sense of balance when the bell above the door dinged.

  There were no other bookings that day, so this would be a walk-in. I rose to my feet, ready with a smile. It faltered for a moment when I saw who it was—not a customer—but it came back again quicksharp when I saw who it was.

  Detective Jack Bowers.

  We knew each other casually—Sarah had introduced us, and we’d had a few occasions to chat, usually at various town council meetings (which I attended as a dutiful citizen) or parties hosted by mutual acquaintances.

  During one of our chats, I’d found his green eyes so enchanting that I’d accidentally let slip that I was a witch, but he’d just nodded and smiled, as though all I’d said was that I found the weather a bit on the chilly side. I guessed he thought I meant that I was a wiccan, and not a real witch witch.

  Later, Sarah had explained to me that he didn’t believe in magic, which meant that he’d never believe I was a real witch.

  Detective Bowers was one of the most eligible men in town, at least in my estimation, so why was he strolling into the town’s only bridal shop? Had someone finally gotten their hooks into him?

  He returned my smile, briefly, before forcing the corners of his mouth down.

  “Good morning, Miss Whitmore,” he said, as always.

  “Aria, please,” I said, as always.

  He nodded acknowledgment but perhaps not compliance.

  “Are you working alone today?” he asked, peering around the shop.

  “No, Sarah’s here. Well, she was here. She's gone to lunch now though.”

  “You don't go to lunch together?”

  I shrugged. “Sometimes we do, sometimes we don't. When she has a date, I tend not to tag along though. People think it's weird.”

  We both laughed but he quickly regained his serious expression. Uh-oh. Jack's normally uptight, but we can at least usually have a bit of a giggle.

  “So what can I do for you today? Just want to try one on?” I asked waving my hand in the direction of the rail of dresses I'd prepared for the insufferable New Yorkers.

  His cheeks went rosy and he sucked in air fast. I think I'd genuinely shocked him. Unless it wasn’t what I’d said, it was what he was about to say…

  “Miss Whit—Aria, I'm afraid I'm here on rather a serious matter. A very serious matter, in fact.”

  I let out a sigh. Serious matters. There was something in the air today. First the New Yorkers, and now a serious matter with the police of all things.

  “Let's sit down,” I said.

  I have several comfortable chairs in the shop. Often, future-brides will bring along a mother or grandmother who need to sit while the bride is fitted for a dress, so there’s a pair of comfortable armchairs. I also have a table set up as a desk where I consult with clients when we're planning a wedding or arranging a payment plan or the like.

  Where to take him? Comfortable armchairs, or the business-like desk?

  As I stepped out from behind the counter, the decision was made for me; Jack pulled one of the armchairs out from the wall and twisted it slightly to face the other. He stood next to it.

  “Please,” he said, indicating the chair with a hand.

  “Thank you,” I said and sat down. It was almost like he was entertaining me in his home rather than the other way around.

  Jack walked over to the other chair, sat down, and immediately pulled out a notebook and pen from a pocket inside his jacket. He briefly wiped a hand over his forehead, just below his dirty-blond side-parted hair, which he quickly ran his fingers through.

  “So, what's the ‘serious matter?’”

  He cleared his throat before beginning. “This morning, Mrs. Barnett, a housekeeper, arrived at her client's home, and after the owner didn't open the door, she let herself in.”

  I nodded.

  “She soon found the reason the door was not opened. He was dead. Murdered.”

  “Goodness! Whose house was it?”

  “The Cypress Estate, owned by a man called Fletcher Davenport.”

  “Oh!”

  I shook my head, trying to process what he'd just said. Davenport murdered? But I'd only just seen him the night before. Who would want to do something like that?

  “You sound shocked. Did you know the deceased?”

  “No. Well, yes. I mean, I didn't know him well, but I did know him.”

  “May I ask where you were around midnight last night?”

  I blinked at him. Me? Was he questioning me? Did he suspect me?

  “I was at home, sleeping.”

  “And can anyone corroborate that?” he asked, his eyes staring down at his notebook.

  I felt my cheeks redden. “Certainly not!”

  His head shot up and he stared at me.

  “I mean, I live alone. There was no one else there except Kiwi,” and then, too fast, I made a complete fool of myself by blurting out, “that'smyparrotnotaman!”

  The corners of his lips edged, just slightly, upward and his jaw clenched. He was trying not to laugh! Now I'd made a fool of myself, and I hadn't yet told him that not only did I know Davenport, I was with him a few hours before he was killed!

  In fact, I must have been the last person to see him alive. Apart from the murderer, of course.

  “When was the last time you saw the deceased?”

  “I…” Looking down at my lap, I realized I was wringing my hands together, twisting them around each other and squeezing them. Like I was nervous. Like I was guilty!

  “Miss—Aria?”

  “Sorry. I saw him last night,” I said and looked up at Jack, trying to meet his gaze so he could see I was being open and honest with him.

  His eyes looked forest green inside the shop, but I knew that when the sun caught them they were more like emerald. Not that I paid special attention to how his eyes changed color, of course, but on a sunny day they really stood out.

  “Last night? Did you often see him at night?”

  “No! Last night was the first—and only time I ever saw him at night. It was about a dress.”

  “Was he planning to remarry?” Jack asked incredulously.

  I laughed. “No, no. Nothing like that. I had seen his wife's wedding dress, from fifty years ago, in the newspaper. It was really special, an amazing dress. I wanted to ask him if he would sell it to me. For the shop. Not for me to sell, you understand, but to put on display. It's a really stunning dress, like a museum piece.”

  “So you went all the way over there, at night, to see this dress? Why didn't you get him to bring it here if he was going to sell it to you?”

  I carefully unclasped my hands which had, completely of their own accord, wrapped themselves around each other again and begun wringing.

  “Well, he would be doing me a favor, letting me buy it, so I felt that I should go to him rather than the other way around. And he sounded so old on the phone—I didn't think it'd be fair to make him drive here at his age.”


  “And so you have the dress now?”

  I stifled a sad sigh. “No. He wanted to keep it one more night. I think seeing it after all those years brought back the memories of his wife and, well, he just wanted to spend a bit more time with her—her memory.”

  “I see. Did anything seem amiss in the house? Did he seem worried or scared about anything?”

  I shook my head. “Not at all.”

  “And was there anyone else there? Was he expecting any other visitors after you?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head again. “I don't think he was expecting anyone else until his housekeeper came in.”

  Jack scribbled something down in his notebook before looking at me again with his piercing green eyes. “Did you kill him, Aria?”

  “What!? No!” I cried.

  “Sorry,” he said sincerely, “I had to ask. It's procedure, I'm afraid.”

  I nodded but I didn't think much of his apology. Asking if I'd murdered the old man indeed.

  “There was a reason I came to speak to you, actually, even before I knew you'd met Davenport last night.”

  “Oh?”

  “You have to keep this to yourself though, okay?”

  I nodded, and tried to stop wringing my hands together.

  “The reason I'm telling you this, is because, well, you're interested in that... spiritual stuff. Occult. Magic. That kind of... thing, right?”

  I knew he wanted to say rubbish, or maybe claptrap instead of thing. According to Sarah, he was a man who prided himself on his 'logic' and 'science' and I knew he was dubious about even the existence of the magical arts. Which, living in Sequoia Bay, was actually quite ridiculous.

  He may have had the looks, and the book-smarts, but he didn’t have the real smarts. About the way the world really is: the magic, spells, witches, mages, energy, auras, familiars, spell books, pentagrams and circles, and all of the rest of it. No, if it wasn’t in his books, it didn’t exist. And he didn’t go hunting for books in my section of the library.

  “I am a witch, yes.”

  “A... witch. Right,” he said, jotting something else down. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. The body... it was found in the basement. But the circumstances were rather unusual.”

  “Go on…”

  “You see, there were markings around it. There was a large circle, and in the circle there was a shape, a kind of pointed star?”

  “A pentagram,” I said, quietly, while my mind whirred.

  “Right,” he said, writing ‘pentagram’ down in his little notebook.

  “You're saying his body was over a pentagram, in a circle? And it was in the basement of the house?”

  “Yes. The... ‘pentagram’... appeared to be upside down. You know, the top point was at the bottom, not by his head.”

  I muttered under my breath. This was not good. This was not good at all.

  “Look, Jack, I know you don't have much time for magic, but you at least recognized the symbols and their importance. I'm telling you, whoever did this was not a witch like me.”

  “Why's that?”

  “That symbol…” I struggled to explain in such a way that a skeptic like Jack would understand. “Well, that symbol, the inverted pentagram in a circle, that's used when someone is trying to summon a demon. And summoning demons is not something that any right-minded witch would ever want to do.

  “We can't control them, not really. They're big, and powerful, and wildly unpredictable. Even if you do have one on a tight leash, they can still send waves of chaos and disruption through the world. No, that was not done by any Sequoia Bay witch.”

  Oops. I'd probably gone a bit too far for talking to a skeptic.

  “I... see,” he said without further comment. I could see him mentally processing what I’d said and concluding something along the lines of 'witches don't use inverted pentagrams for imaginary reasons.'

  “You see,” I explained, going all in now, “we believe—no, wrong word—we know that when a witch uses magic, it comes back to them threefold. Maybe not in exactly the same form, but nonetheless, everything comes back thrice over.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said with raised eyebrows. He was twiddling his pen in his hands instead of writing now.

  “If you use positive magic, then that will come back three times over. And the same for negative. So, if you use magic to summon a demon and kill someone, well…” I paused and wiped my forehead, “The payback on that is not something any witch with a brain would wish upon herself.”

  “If that's your... belief... then how do you explain the fact that it happened? The circle and pentagram are there.”

  I shrugged. “Well, it's either someone very stupid, or someone with a lot to lose.”

  “A lot to lose?”

  “Indeed. No one would take a risk like that otherwise. But I'm telling you, it's something that no witch I know would do, even if the situation was really dire for them. It would never be worth it.”

  “Well, thank you for all of... that. And can I confirm, you don't know anyone who might have wanted Fletcher dead?”

  Dead. Fletcher, dead.

  “Oh!” I said and then slapped my hand over my mouth. Silly Aria.

  Jack cocked his head at me and his green eyes gleamed.

  “Oh, no, it's probably nothing,” I said. “Did you hear that Fletcher was thinking of selling his property?”

  Jack nodded. “Not just thinking, he was going to. He was going to have to. I heard he really needed the money.”

  I tapped my chin. Should I tell on them? They were about to be my new customers, and big spenders by all indication.

  “And?”

  I hoped I wouldn’t regret this.

  “It's probably nothing. But there was a couple in here earlier, and they brought up the topic of his property. They said they were hoping to buy it.”

  “I see. Do you know their names? And is that all they said, that they wanted to buy it?”

  “Nina Bellamy and Jack Wellington. They're here to get married, but they are also looking to buy a property here. And they said... well...”

  “Go on,” he prodded.

  “Well they said they wanted to buy the Cypress Estate and they hoped he would drop dead. That they might be able to get a better price on his land that way.”

  The detective’s cheeks seemed to whiten. His eyebrows arched high and his head tilted down, lips pursed. “They said that? They wanted him dead?”

  I nodded. “But they're some bigshot New Yorkers. I think they were maybe kidding?”

  “Kidding about him dying? Who would do such a thing?”

  I lifted up one shoulder. “I don't think they were serious. It would be mighty silly of them to say something like that if they had... you know.”

  “Indeed it would. But it may surprise you to know, most criminals actually are pretty ‘silly’ like that. At least the ones we catch!”

  Ding!

  I didn't have my customer-greeting smile on yet when I looked up at the door.

  And I definitely didn't put one on when I saw who it was.

  Nor did Jack, who quickly rose to his feet.

  “Thank you very much, Miss Whitmore. You've been very helpful,” he said briskly. He turned to the blond woman who had entered and offered a terse, “Good morning,” before beating a hasty retreat.

  The door closed with another ding-a-ling of the bell.

  I had half a mind to follow Jack out and make a retreat of my own, but I couldn't exactly abandon my shop in the hands of this woman.

  My voice was about as enthusiastic as Fletcher Davenport’s would have been, if you’d asked him at that very moment.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  Chapter 3

  It wasn’t that I wasn’t pleased to see my mother. Wait, no. Actually, I wasn’t pleased to see my mother. She was, to put it politely, a pain in the backside.

  She pushed the door shut behind Detective Bowers and turned to me with a flick of her freshly-dyed blon
d hair and a wicked look in her eyes.

  “Does he work here?” she asked.

  I frowned at her. She knew full well that he didn’t work here. But like a lot of things my mother says, there’s hidden subtext and usually scheming, subterfuge or at least mischief behind her questions.

  “He was here on official business,” I said primly.

  “He does a lot of official business here, doesn’t he? Tell me, how much exactly does our local police force spend on wedding dresses and party favors? As a taxpayer, I’m concerned. Perhaps I should have a word with Donovan.”

  I rolled my eyes at the mention of Donovan. And pretty much the rest of what she said, too.

  Donovan was Donovan Charlston, the mayor of Sequoia Bay and part-time paramour of my mother. That she was bringing him up must have meant their on-again off-again relationship must currently be switched to the on position.

  “The official police business did not involve buying wedding dresses or any other wedding planning, Mom, as well you know. He was here bec—”

  “Oh don’t tell me, I know why he was here. He may have the excuse of police business, but the real reason is because he wants business with you. And I don’t mean wedding business.”

  “I can assure you that the reason he was here was nothing to do with—”

  “You’ve got to get married sometime, you know,” she interrupted again.

  I spluttered and spat the tea I was drinking back into my cup.

  “It’s true. I mean, you’re not getting any younger, are you?” Mom pursed her lips as she looked me up and down, as if judging how old I looked. Her lips formed a wide, plump O shape. In fact, a little plumper than I remembered. Witchcraft or lip injections? She actually looked quite nice with her newly-dyed hair and plumped up lips, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. No way.

  “I do not have to get married sometime. Plenty of people don’t get married. And even if I did want to get married, it wouldn’t be to him. He’s far too uptight.”

  “You should at least go out with him. He’s clearly interested in you. He’s in here all the time.”

  “He is not in here all the time, and the reason he was in here today was most certainly not because he’s interested in me. At least not in the romantic sense!”