Witchy Wishes

by Nic Saint

  “I have to agree with Edie on this one, Strel. There’s simply no way Tisha is picking up thousands of snakes at a pet shop and then making them magically appear in Gran’s greenhouse. When I walked in that greenhouse this morning, there weren’t any snakes. Then, when I turned to leave, suddenly the place was crawling with them.” She shook her head decidedly. “This is witchcraft, pure and simple. No other explanation makes sense.”

  “Okay—all right,” said Strel, throwing up her hands and plunking her head down on the foot of my bed. Her feet were resting on my pillow, as usual. Strel likes to sleep upside down for some reason, and likes to keep up the habit when she’s visiting me or Stien. “So a witch is sending us snakes. But who? And why? And how come Gran is having such a hard time getting rid of them?”

  “Yeah, every time she’s forced to destroy these snakes she seems to grow weaker,” Stien said pensively. “Normally she should be able to handle them with a flick of her fingers. There’s something we’re not seeing.”

  “And as usual Gran won’t tell us,” said Strel with a frustrated groan.

  “Yeah, that part is baffling,” I admitted. “Why is Gran having such a hard time with these snakes? And why doesn’t she want to admit she’s up against an enemy who’s obviously more powerful than she is?”

  “I wouldn’t say the enemy is more powerful,” said Strel with a frown. She’d placed her arms beneath her head and was staring up at the ceiling, at my disco ball. It was a genuine Saturday Night Fever disco ball. Yes, I know Saturday Night Fever is a seventies movie, but the success of disco and the Bee Gees spilled well into the eighties so there.

  “Yes, she still manages to destroy the threat,” said Stien. “So I don’t think whoever we’re up against is more powerful than Gran. Still—they must be pretty powerful.”

  We were all quiet for a moment, as we thought about poor Gran expending the last of her powers in her fight against these horrid invaders.

  “I hope she still has enough strength to restore the greenhouse,” said Strel.

  “I hope she has enough strength to keep fighting off these attacks,” Stien countered.

  “We have to help her somehow,” I said. “We have to convince her to confide in us—to tell us what’s going on so we can take care of the witch that’s been doing this to her.”

  “Let’s spy on Tisha!” Strel suddenly exclaimed, sitting up and pummeling my pillow with her shoes.

  I groaned. “Can you remove your shoes? That’s my pillow. My head goes there.”

  “My shoes are cleaner than your head,” she said dismissively, and I threw the View-Master in her direction. I missed my target, though, and it hit my cassette player instead.

  “Look, we’re not even sure Tisha’s behind this. She’s not a witch,” I said.

  “Who else could it be? She’s the only one who hates Gran enough to form an alliance with a witch so she can try and destroy us. She said as much yesterday, remember?”

  Yes, I remembered. Tisha had issued a warning. And now she was making good on it.

  “I think Strel’s right,” said Stien now. “We have to find out what Tisha is up to—and who’s been helping her put those snakes in Gran’s garden.”

  “Our garden,” I said. “And our greenhouse. This is a threat against us as much as it is against Gran.”

  Stien placed her hand on the bed. “Let’s destroy the destroyer. With or without witchcraft.”

  Strel placed her own hand on top of Stien’s, then I placed my hand on top of hers.

  “Let’s take down Tisha,” I agreed. “And whatever witch is helping her.”

  We uttered a yell, and threw our hands into the air and shared a laugh. We might be lousy witches, but when we set our minds to something there was nothing we couldn’t accomplish—even if Gran was refusing to let us help her in any meaningful way.

  “Hey, didn’t it feel good to practice witchcraft again?” asked Strel, bouncing up from my bed and knocking over the ET and Goonies action figures placed on the nightstand.

  “Oh, yeah, that felt so good,” Stien chimed in.

  I raised my hands, and saw they were once again witchcraft-free. My sisters were right. It was great to be a witch again—even for a brief moment. “I just wish Gran would trust us enough to give us back our powers. We could really do some damage that way.”

  “It’s because we did so much damage she took them away,” Stien reminded me.

  My phone chimed, and when I picked it out of my pocket, I saw it was Skip.

  “Hey, Skip. What’s up, Skip? It’s Skip,” I told the others. And as I listened, my mouth dropped open and I heavily sank down onto the bed. “Yeah—we’ll be there. Thanks for letting us know, Skip.” The moment I disconnected, the others were all over me.

  “What’s going on? What did he say?” asked Strel.

  “Oh, God. They’re closing Brown’s?” asked Stien. “Are they closing down the bakery?”

  “Worse,” I finally said. “There’s been another murder—and another message to the neighborhood watch.” I looked up at my sisters. “The Tisha Lockyer surveillance operation is going to have to wait. First we have a murder to solve.”

  Chapter 24

  We arrived at the crime scene in record time—no Uber needed. It was only a couple of blocks from Nightingale Street, and we might be still reeling from the greenhouse snake infestation incident, but there was nothing wrong with our legs so we walked the distance.

  When we arrived, I saw that dozens of people were milling about. Rubberneckers and reporters. When we reached the scrum, I saw that they were all staring at Sam and Pierre, who were intently staring at a wall in yet another back alley. Just like the day before.

  I decided to brave the storm, and muscled my way through the crowd that had gathered, followed by my two sisters. And as we approached the lonely officer who had to guard the yellow crime scene tape, reporters recognized us and started shouting questions.

  “Is the neighborhood watch involved in this?”

  “When are you going to do something about the Slasher?”

  “Is the Slasher one of you guys?”

  We didn’t even deign the reporters with a response, but found ourselves between a rock and a hard place when the officer held up a hand and halted our progress.

  “We’re the neighborhood watch,” I announced.

  “I know who you are,” said the officer, who was a skinny male with a ruddy complexion and carrot-colored short-cropped hair. “And I can’t let you through.”

  “But the killer wants us involved,” I argued.

  “Yes, officer,” said Strel, batting her eyelashes. “He’s been sending us messages.”

  The officer hesitated, then glanced in the direction of Sam and Pierre.

  Sam gave him a shrug, and the officer grunted, “Well, all right then. Off you go.”

  He held up the crime scene tape and we passed underneath it.

  The moment we joined Sam and Pierre, it was obvious we weren’t exactly welcome here. I decided to ignore Sam’s dark expression and Pierre’s apologetic grimace. “So what’s going on? Who’s the victim? Is it true the Slasher left a message for the watch again?”

  “Too many questions,” Sam growled, holding up his hand like a traffic cop.

  “What’s the message, Sam?” asked Stien, glancing around. “And where is it?”

  “Like I told you before—I don’t want you to get involved. Now please leave.”

  Now it was my turn to fix Sam with a dark look. “That’s not fair, Sam.”

  “Take it up with Chief Knox.”

  “The Slasher is targeting us—sending us messages. We have a right to get involved.”

  “No, you haven’t. This is strictly a police matter. Now please let us do our jobs.”

  “But, Sam—”

  “Look, I’m in enough trouble already.” He gestured at the media people. “The moment the chief sees pictures of us talking, he’s going to bust a gut. So if you don’t want
me to be suspended, you’ll turn around right now and go back the way you came.”

  I heaved an exasperated groan. My sisters were not to be deterred, though.

  “Hey, there, Pierre,” said Strel. “You’re looking very handsome today.”

  I rolled my eyes even as Pierre’s Adam’s apple gamboled happily. “Why, thank you, Strel,” he said in a slightly choked-up voice.

  “Yes, you’re the picture of the dapper cop,” said Stien.

  “So tell me, Pierre,” said Strel, trailing her fingers along the cop’s chest. “What happened here? And what’s the message the Slasher left for me and my sisters?”

  Pierre cleared his throat, then, studiously avoiding Sam’s intent stare, quickly said, “The man that was murdered is called Carl Rove. The message the Slasher left is right there.”

  We all looked where he was pointing. “’Neighborhood Watch—I’m watching you. You’ve abandoned all women. Why?’” I read out loud. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Yeah, we do plenty of women protecting,” said Strel.

  “Carl Rove was something of a sex pest,” Pierre explained, once again ignoring a direct order, both from his superior officer and from his partner. “Though if you want to know more, you better talk to Renée Reive. She seems to be particularly well-informed.”

  “As usual,” Sam muttered. “Now will you please get lost before I lose my job—or, better yet, we both lose our jobs,” he said with a pointed look at Pierre.

  “They can help, Sam,” said Pierre. “I know they can. They’re very smart.” From the looks he kept darting at Strel, I fully expected him to add, ‘And very pretty,’ but he restrained himself with a powerful effort.

  We left one lovesick and one irate cop as we ducked back underneath the crime scene tape, and once again were bombarded with questions, which we studiously ignored. We were getting very good at this celebrity thing, I thought, even though we were hardly celebrities. The moment the Slasher was caught and put away for life, we would go back to being anonymous members of the public, not one reporter interested in what we had to say.

  I searched the crowd until I found the person I was looking for.

  Renée Reive was right where I thought she’d be, at the center of a small group of concerned neighbors talking animatedly amongst each other.

  Chapter 25

  “Hey, you guys,” said Renée, disentangling herself from the discussion with her neighbors. “How are you holding up? What a terrible business, right? What’s happening to this neighborhood? Another murder? A serial killer on the loose? A slasher? Terrible!”

  Somehow she didn’t seem as shocked as her words indicated. If anything, she relished the opportunity to discuss the murders. “Did you know Carl Rove?” I asked.

  “Oh, no. But I knew of him, of course. A horrible man. A day trader, you know,” she said, making it sound as if day traders were the worst kind of human beings on the planet.

  “Pierre said he was something of a sex pest?” Strel probed.

  “Well, he was. I talked to several people who knew him by reputation. Couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Always trying to feel up the ladies. He seemed to consider himself a real ladies’ man but he was anything but, I’m afraid. And now he’s dead. Slashed to pieces,” she added with a tsk-tsking sound. “A terrible, terrible business. Bad for all of us.”

  “Did you see the message the killer left?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes, I did. He seems to think you should be doing more to protect the women in our neighborhood. Though I don’t see how you could. After all, it’s not as if you can go out and make a citizen’s arrest of every annoying male you meet. Though wouldn’t that be fun?”

  “Yes, well, maybe we could do more,” said Stien. When we all gave her a curious look, she added, “I mean—if men like Carl Rove and Gus Brown and Rudy Hosband and Michael Cane are harassing women, there must be something we should do about it. Right?”

  I frowned. “You mean like launching an awareness campaign or something?”

  “Yes. Or something.”

  We all thought about this for a moment. Did the watch have a responsibility to educate the men in this neighborhood? Perhaps to encourage women to file charges against serial harassers? To teach them a course in self-defense, maybe?

  “Really,” Renée finally said, “you can’t be held responsible for every horrible male roaming these streets. This Slasher is simply a very disturbed person.” She lowered her voice. “Though he’s getting a lot of sympathy, I must say.”

  This had us all look up in surprise. “Sympathy? You mean people approve?” I asked.

  “Very much,” she said, nodding fervently. “They think he’s doing a fantastic job.”

  “But he’s murdering people!” Stien cried, causing several people to turn in our direction. Lowering her voice, she added, “He’s a cold-blooded murderer, Renée!”

  “Oh, you don’t have to remind me, dear. I’m not one of this Slasher’s fans.”

  “The Slasher has fans?” asked Stien, flabbergasted.

  “More than you can imagine. Especially the women seem relieved that finally someone is doing something about these horrible, terrible men who seem determined to make our lives so miserable. Well, you know what I’m talking about.”

  I did know what she was talking about. I think every woman or girl did. It’s not much fun to walk the street and be whistled at or hurled foul and abusive comments at. And I’d often wished someone would strike down those men or teach them a lesson in common decency and manners. The streets of New York could be particularly noxious for a woman.

  “The Slasher fan club is growing, ladies,” Renée said. “He’s becoming the most popular killer this neighborhood has ever seen. People—and with people I mean women, of course—are over the moon that Carl Rove is dead, and Gus Brown, and Rudy Hosband and Michael Cane. There’s even some talk of establishing a hotline to report on men just like them, and then somehow transfer their names to the Slasher so he can ‘take care of them.’”

  “Take care of them,” I repeated. “You mean kill them.”

  Renée raised an eyebrow and gave me a knowing nod.

  “The Slasher is turning into a superhero,” said Strel slowly. “A new Superman.”

  “Well, at least he seems to be taking care of a problem that no one else is particularly concerned about,” Renée said. “And we all know why that is, don’t we, girls?”

  We stared at her. “Why what is?”

  “Why nobody takes these men to task about harassing women on a daily basis!”

  “And why is that?” I asked, fearing my question would make me look stupid but deciding to ask it anyway.

  “Because this town is run by men! Men are in charge of the police department. Men are in charge of city hall. Men are in charge of the justice system. Men make the rules, and women be damned. We don’t stand a chance, ladies—and we’re left to fend for ourselves.”

  Renée’s sudden outburst left us reeling. She was right, of course. Men didn’t suffer abuse the way women did, and so were not all that motivated to do something about it.

  Renée pursed her lips. “You know what? I wasn’t going to admit it but I’m Team Slasher, too. I think he’s doing a great job, and I hope he catches many a bastard more.”

  “Renée!” Strel cried, half amused, half horrified.

  “Pardon my French,” Gran’s friend added. “But there. I said what I had to say.”

  And as she joined the small group of neighbors—all of whom were women, I now saw—we were left feeling shaken. The Slasher was a local hero. Who would have thunk?

  Chapter 26

  “You know what?” said Strel.

  “No, what?” I asked, trying to shake off the feeling we were in way over our heads.

  “Maybe Sam is right.”

  “What do you mean, Sam is right? Right about what?”

  She flapped her arms. “That the neighborhood watch should sit this one out!”
/>   “How can we sit this one out? The guy is murdering people! In our neighborhood!”

  “So—let the police take care of it. You heard Renée. The Slasher is performing a vital community service. Taking out the trash. Making this world a better place and all that. And besides,” she went on before I could interrupt, “we have other fish to cook.”

  “Fry,” Stien muttered automatically.

  “Whatever. I have my singing career to think about—Helmut says I’m making real progress.” She gestured at Stien, who’d been listening with a frown etched on her brow. “Stien has her law degree and…” She looked at me. “You have… whatever it is you do.”

  I gave her a critical look. “’Whatever it is I do?’ What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Don’t you… I don’t know… have a bakery to open or something?”

  I gulped slightly. “I’m a lousy baker, Strel. You know that.”

  “That doesn’t mean you should give up on your dream. I’m a lousy singer.” When we started to protest, she added, “No, it’s true. I can’t sing for crap. But that doesn’t mean I have to stop trying to improve. Success is 90 percent work and 10 percent talent. Or in my case more like 99 percent work and 1 percent talent—or maybe even less. Well, I don’t care! Or look at you, Stien. You were a lousy legal secretary, but that hasn’t stopped you from working hard to achieve your dream. One day you’re going to be up there with Ally McBeal and we’re going to be in the audience clapping and cheering you on as you perform.”

  “A courtroom isn’t Madison Square Garden, honey,” said Stien. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

  “And you’re a terrible baker, Edie—and an even worse cook. But why should that stop you? You wanted to become a pastry chef since you were three. Remember how you almost set the kitchen on fire that one time?”

  “I remember numerous times,” Stien said dryly.

  “Look, I know this neighborhood watch is important and all, but is it as important as fulfilling our destiny? Going after our dreams? Look into your hearts and tell me I’m wrong.”