Witchy Wishes

by Nic Saint

  I dragged my hands through my red mane in an attempt to tame it, smoothed down my Simple Minds T-shirt, and pushed myself up off the bed.

  Swinging my door wide, I stalked over to Strel’s room, where the racket seemed to originate.

  Without bothering to knock, I barged in and yelled, “Strel! Will you please cut it out?!”

  Only then did I see that Strel wasn’t alone. She was accompanied by a young man with a slight hint of peach fuzz on his chin—Shaggy Rogers style—and a goofy expression on his face—Scooby-Doo style. The young man was clutching a guitar and was obviously doing the honors of accompanying Strel.

  “Oh, hey, honey,” said Strel in her usual chipper way. “Did we wake you?”

  “I’m so sorry, Edie,” said the young man who was, of course, none other than Helmut Totti himself. He was smiling apologetically. “We thought it would be a nice treat to wake you guys up with a pleasant little song this morning. You know, put you in a good mood before starting your day.”

  “Trying to put Edie in a good mood in the morning is hopeless, Helmut,” said Strel. “She’s Miss Sourpuss and nothing we do will ever change that.”

  I planted my hands on my sizable hips. “If you learned how to sing, I might wake up in a good mood for once, and not ready to commit murder.”

  “Oh, here we go,” said Strel with an expressive eyeroll. She pushed at her long blond hair, which was draped across her slender shoulders. When I looked closer, I saw that she was actually wearing a flower in her hair, as if channeling Joan Baez or Joni Mitchell, about to conquer Woodstock.

  “Why don’t we sing you a nice ballad?” Helmut suggested, and before I could stop him, he struck a chord on his guitar, and the both of them launched into a harrowing and painfully bad rendition of Bridge Over Troubled Water.

  I pressed my hands to my ears and removed myself from the room as fast as I could, haunted by twin wails of ‘When you’re weary, feeling small.’

  Well, they sure were right about that. I was feeling pretty weary right now.

  “Why?” I muttered as I hurried out. “In the name of everything that is holy, why, oh, why?”

  I almost bumped into my sister Ernestine who had also come out to trace the source of the terrifying noise.

  “Is that Strel singing?” she asked as she pushed her glasses further up her nose. Stien is the brainy one in our family. She’s also the legal beagle.

  “Yup. She’s found a partner in crime, apparently.”

  Stien frowned, her default expression. “A partner in crime? I didn’t know Strel was into crime these days.”

  “It’s an expression, Stien. She’s doing a duet with Helmut.”

  “Oh,” said Stien, understanding dawning. “I thought I heard a second, even more awful voice dueling with Strel’s.”

  I nodded somberly. “We’re doomed. He’s encouraging her, Stien. After everything we did to discourage her, he’s simply adding fuel to the fire.”

  Stien shrugged. “Maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe he can finally teach her how to sing properly.”

  We both listened to the dueling caterwauling for a moment. It sounded like two cats fighting in a back alley for possession of the same white mouse.

  We both shook our heads. “No, he can’t,” I said. “No one can.”

  Chapter 3

  Cassandra Beadsmore—Cassie to her friends and Gran to the triplets—was busily enjoying the early morning in her precious garden. Ever since she’d retired from running a national chain of flower shops to take care of her granddaughters, she’d transferred her love of flowers to her own garden, and had managed to turn it into a feast of floral delight.

  She had a greenhouse, where she kept her most precious blooms, and the garden itself was now crisscrossed by small cobblestone pathways that took visitors past every flower, shrub, perennial and tree that would grow in the New York climate and even some that wouldn’t. But such was the power of Cassie’s green thumb that she managed to make even those grow abundantly.

  Neighbors up and down Nightingale Street often wondered how she did it, and regularly sought her advice on how to deal with some tricky issue like aphids chomping on their flowers, or weeds threatening to break down the fragile eco-structure of their backyards. She was always happy to help, and had become the go-to person for Gardening First Aid.

  She was now knee-deep into yanking out some pesky weeds that were threatening to choke the life out of her rhododendrons, and as she worked, her knees on one of those colorful memory foam kneeling pads, she hummed a pleasant tune.

  If she could spend her every waking hour in her beloved garden, she would. Unfortunately she hadn’t been able to resist the siren song of creating another business, and had recently turned her home into an Airbnb, taking in paying guests. And since paying guests also like to pay to enjoy a meal at regular intervals, she’d become an innkeeper in these, her golden years.

  This week her guests included a moderately famous Belgian singer, who seemed adamant to teach Strel the finer points of his chosen profession. Then there was the Middle Eastern prince, who was in town to learn all he could about America. And of course Jerome Cursons, who was in New York for more prosaic reasons, as he was preparing to go to trial against a large pharmaceutical company.

  And Cassie was still humming a happy tune, drowning out the loud ‘singing’ Helmut and Strel were engaged in inside the house, when suddenly a slithery creature appeared in the undergrowth, and reared up to attack her!

  She quickly retracted her hand and stared down at the small green-brown snake. “Now what are you doing here?” she asked a little sternly.

  The snake stared up at her with its yellow eyes, its forked tongue stealing out of its mouth, then hissed, “I’m coming for you, Cassandra Beadsmore. I’m coming for you and your family.”

  She smiled. “You’ve said that before, and yet all you can do is send snakes into my garden. As threats go, not very convincing, wouldn’t you say?”

  “This is only the beginning. Just you wait and see,” the serpent hissed.

  Cassie couldn’t help but shake her head in abject bewilderment. “If this is the best you can do, permit me to have a good laugh, oh sneaky one.”

  “Laugh all you want, Cassie, but I’m here to tell you that your days of lording it over the rest of us are finally over.”

  Her smile disappeared. “What do you really want?” she asked.

  The snake seemed to grin. “I want to put you down a peg or two. For far too long the Fallon Safflower strand has dominated this town, but no longer. I’m taking my rightful place again.”

  “You forfeited your rightful place when you tried to murder Fallon, remember? So please remove yourself from my house before I do it for you.”

  She’d gotten up and was now towering over the small snake.

  “Oh, feeling all high and mighty, are we? Well, not for much longer. Your days are over, Cassandra Beadsmore. Yours and those of your filthy brood.”

  “Oh, just go away,” said Cassie, and flicked her fingers just so.

  A thin stream of sparks emanated from her fingertips and flashed down in the direction of the snake.

  “Mark my words, Cassie. I’m coming for you!” the snake whistled, then jumped when enveloped with the sparks, and vanished without a trace.

  “What was that?” suddenly a voice sounded behind Cassie. She turned, and found herself gazing into Edie’s green eyes. As usual, her granddaughter was dressed in black from head to toe: black T-shirt, black jeans and black combat boots. Even her eyes were gunked up with too much black eyeliner.

  “Nothing,” she assured Edie. “Just some pesky weeds.”

  But Edie wasn’t fooled. Her expression darkened. “Was that a snake?”

  Cassie waved an airy hand. “Of course not. Like I said, a nasty little creeper. I took care of it.”

  “Oh, Gran,” said Edie with a sigh. “It’s Tisha again, isn’t it? What’s with her and snakes?”

  Cassie was back t
o pulling out weeds. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, honey. Now can you start breakfast? I’m sure our guests would like to eat.”

  But it was obvious Edie wasn’t ready to let this go, for she gave her one of her trademark grave looks. “Gran,” she insisted. “We have to talk about this.”

  Chapter 4

  I could see that Gran was in one of her stubborn moods. She always feels extremely protective of us and more often than not simply refuses to upset us by telling us something is wrong. Which was exactly what she was doing now.

  “Look, I saw the snake, Gran, so there is no use saying it was some pesky weed,” I insisted. “Who sent that snake and what can we do about it?”

  Gran lifted her chin and shot me a keen look with those expressive blue eyes of hers.

  Gran is a proud and handsome woman. She became a grandmother at an early age and even now is only in her mid-fifties. Her long platinum hair still retains its original color, even though I have a sneaking suspicion she might be using some of the magic she inherited from our ancestors to keep it looking that way.

  “Look, this is all very interesting, honey,” Gran now said. “But sometimes vermin will make its way into a garden. I can assure you I’m perfectly capable of dealing with it. I really don’t see why this should concern you as well.”

  “Because I’m worried,” I said. “It’s not the first time a snake finds itself entering your garden, and last time Tisha Lockyer was the one who sent it.”

  “Well, this time I’m sure Tisha had nothing to do with it. And if she had,” she quickly added before I could respond, “I’ll deal with her, all right?”

  Tisha Lockyer runs a competing flower store. She’s been engaged in a nasty feud with Gran ever since she opened her rival store back when Gran still ran her flower empire.

  It was obvious Gran didn’t want to discuss the subject any further, so I reluctantly agreed to drop it. I gave her a warning look, though. “If any more snakes show up, you have to let us know. We’ll have a word with Tisha. She can’t keep threatening you like this. It’s not right.”

  “Oh, and don’t I know it. But like I said, there’s absolutely nothing to worry about. Now why don’t you go back inside and start breakfast? I’m sure Skip has already brought by the big bag of Brown bakery goodies?”

  I frowned. “Actually, I haven’t seen him yet.”

  “Oh, well, perhaps one of your sisters brought the bag in and forgot to tell you.”

  She was probably right. Skip came by every morning with his usual delivery. And since he was practically family, sometimes he didn’t even bother to ring the bell but simply walked right on in and dropped the bag on the kitchen counter.

  “Oh, and Edie?” asked Gran when I turned to leave. “Could you be a doll and take the prince on that tour of Brooklyn he’s been asking about?”

  I groaned. “Do I have to?”

  “Yes, you do. It’s all part of the Cassandra Beadsmore service.”

  I wanted to tell her that if that was the case, maybe Cassandra Beadsmore should be the one delivering the service, but I bit my tongue. Gran already did so much for us, and she had her hands full with running the Airbnb. I couldn’t expect her to run around town with our guests in tow on top of all that.

  “It’s just that he’s something of a pain in the neck,” I said.

  “Oh? And why is that?”

  I flapped my arms a bit. “He insists on seeing every little thing. He’s not happy to be simply shown the sights. He says he wants to experience life as an ordinary American, and he’s always asking a million questions.”

  Gran gave me a radiant smile. “Isn’t that great? A young man with such an eagerness to see this wonderful country of ours. We should all be so lucky.” Then she gave me a wink. “He’s very rich, you know. I’ve been told he’s the heir to the throne of his kingdom, and stands to inherit an entire country. Can you imagine? One day he’ll be king of his own country.”

  “Thanks, Gran,” I said, “but I’m not interested in becoming a sheikha.”

  “You could do a lot worse.”

  “In case you forgot, I already have a boyfriend.”

  “Of course you have,” she said vaguely, and I had the sneaking suspicion there was something she wasn’t telling me. Gran has a habit of knowing things before they happen, which can be annoying, especially since she hints at things that haven’t happened yet, and then plainly refuses to discuss them.

  I folded my arms across my chest. “What’s going on, Gran?”

  “Mh?” she asked, feigning innocence. I wasn’t falling for it.

  “Is something going on with Sam? Is he seeing someone behind my back?”

  Gran looked up sharply. “Oh, how ridiculous, honey. How can you possibly suggest such a thing? Sam is absolutely devoted to you.”

  “Then why do you keep trying to set me up with Sheikh Yahoo?”

  “I’m sure that’s not his real name. And I’m not trying to set you up with anyone. I’m just making a case for you to be nice to our guest. He is a royal, and he is exceedingly rich. Two qualities that are in great demand.”

  I rolled my eyes and turned to leave. “Well, he might be the richest man in the world for all I care, he’s also a pain in the patootie.”

  “Yes, dear. You already said that,” Gran reminded me, then resumed her weeding duties while I walked back to the house, in search of Skip Brown’s elusive bag of bakery goodies. Gran was right. It was time to start breakfast.

  Chapter 5

  I probably should have taken the time to enjoy the early morning delight of the garden but I had too many things on my mind to properly do so.

  Gran, ever since she’d devoted herself to creating a miniature paradise on earth, had really outdone herself. The garden was now a genuine oasis of greenery in the heart of the big city. In fact when I was sitting on one of the benches Gran has placed for our guests’ enjoyment, it was hard to believe Safflower House was located in the middle of Brooklyn. I had to admit that even though I’d never been a great fan of gardens, even I was favorably affected when I spent time in Gran’s oasis. It was soothing to the soul.

  I stepped onto the deck and then through the sliding glass door and into the large kitchen, which was pretty much the hub of the house. A butcher block stood in the middle, next to an oak table big enough to offer seating for our family and our many guests. It was one of Gran’s house rules: all meals were served in the kitchen, and we all sat down as a family to enjoy them.

  The appliances were all brand-new, courtesy of Gran, who liked to reinvest any Airbnb money into the house. Not that she needed it, as she’d been richly compensated when she sold her thriving flower business several years ago.

  The kitchen cabinets were state-of-the-art, and gleaming pots and pans hung from hooks over the kitchen island, ready to be used in meal prep.

  I searched around for the bakery bag but couldn’t see it anywhere. I darted a quick look at the clock over the door. It was well past eight now, which meant Skip was late. Or someone had pinched our delivery this morning.

  I decided to check in with my sisters. Maybe they’d seen the bag.

  It wasn’t hard to figure out where Strel was, as she was still regaling us with Simon & Garfunkel’s greatest hits. I took the stairs two at a time and stuck my head in the door.

  “Strel? Did you see Skip this morning?”

  Helmut halted his plinking on the guitar and Strel shook her head.

  “Haven’t seen him. Sorry, Edie.”

  I tapped the doorframe in acknowledgment and went in search of Stien.

  I found her in her room, her nose buried in a thick legal tome.

  “Have you seen Skip? The bakery bag isn’t in the kitchen where he usually leaves it.”

  She glanced up, a frown grooving her brow. “Mh?”

  “Skip? Did you take delivery of the bag this morning?”

  She shook her head absentmindedly, as if this was the first she’d ever heard
of Skip, bakery bags or anything concerning daily life at Safflower House.

  “Um, no, actually,” she said finally. “Did you know that there’s a legal precedent for the kind of suit Jerome is bringing against Mega-Pharma?”

  “No, I did not.” Nor did I particularly care what happened to the suit. “Why? Are you giving him legal advice now?”

  Stien nodded vigorously. “He asked my advice when he heard I have a legal background. He’s explained to me some of the particulars of his case and now he wants me to figure out, before going in, if he even has a case.”

  I decided to humor her. “And? Does he have a case?”

  “Oh, for sure. As I said, there’s ample precedent.”

  I gave her a dubious look. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of representing him, Stien.”

  She laughed. “Don’t be silly. I’m not a lawyer. I couldn’t possibly represent him in a court of law. I could, however, give him the benefit of my extensive expertise. Really put my legal mind to work on the problem, you know.”

  I bit my tongue. Stien’s legal expertise was limited to filing at the law firm where she used to work as a legal secretary. To Stien’s credit, though, she’d recently started taking night classes and was gearing up to finally get her law degree.

  I was eager to return to the topic of the missing bag but Stien was already lost in her thick tome again. She obviously couldn’t care less about breakfast.

  As I slowly wended my way down the stairs, I thought with a pang of regret about my own plans and ambitions, which I’d abandoned to start work at the flower store Gran had bought for my sisters and me.

  I’d always wanted to own my own bakery—heck, I’d wanted to own my own baking empire, complete with cookbooks, a TV show, a string of successful stores carrying my name, the works. Unfortunately my ambitions exceeded my skills, and I’d even been fired from my last job at the Manhattan Brigham Shatwell branch, just like Stien had been fired from the law firm and Strel had been fired from her job as a voice talent. At which point Gran had stepped in and bought us the flower shop.