by Dani Lamia
Backstrom shifted his weight from one foot to the other and glanced back at Carp, quiet now but still staring at the two witches with unveiled anger.
“She says your hex killed her son-in-law,” Backstrom said.
Hester dramatically dropped her head down, her chin resting on her chest. Her fists slipped from her hips and dangled at her sides, dragging down her shoulders. “You simply must be joking.”
“Nope,” the detective said.
Hester brought her head up and glanced at Dzolali, who played dumb. Her expression was one of concern, with her lavish eyebrows drawn low in thoughtfulness.
“Can you believe this?” Hester asked her fellow coven member.
Dzolali shrugged and shook her head.
Hester turned her attention to Backstrom. “Look, Clive. I provide a means for distraction. It is entertainment. And, yes, Darla Carp was here yesterday afternoon, quite upset, I might add, and said her son-in-law . . . what was his name?”
“Kenneth Hillsborough, White Lake’s town president, Ms. Pyncheon,” Backstrom provided. “It was Hillsborough that proposed the appropriation of your land for that expansion. You two had words, as everyone knows.”
“Oh, of course! I thought the name was familiar when Darla mentioned it,” Hester said and waved it off. “Anyway, Mrs. Carp said this Hillsborough fellow is married to her daughter and was cheating on her and all that, and she wanted a spell put on him.”
“What kind of spell, Ms. Pyncheon?”
“A simple revenge spell,” Hester answered, adding the element of boredom to her façade. “I told her it would make him a failure in his business and repulsive to women.”
“And Darla paid you for that?” Clive asked with an edge of incredulity.
“Yes, one hundred.”
“A hundred dollars?” he exclaimed.
“I have overhead,” Hester shouted indignantly, sweeping her left arm to include the house. “Clive, people come to me with problems, and I listen. I take their hands in mine and supply them with a fancy explanation of the meaningless lines on their hands or read their fortunes from cards. Sometimes I give them a little light show on the crystal ball, and when they have a special issue, whether it is a séance to communicate with their departed loved ones or they have a wish, I cast a spell. They get a little solace from thinking that a witch is on their side and has a solution. They leave here feeling a little better for a while, and I am compensated for my time.”
“Okay, okay,” the detective muttered. He cast a look over his shoulder at Mrs. Carp, still agitated but quiet.
“If you honestly think I have the magical ability to conjure up a sort of killer wolf from thin air, slap the cuffs on!” Pyncheon threw her hands out in front of her, crossing the wrists in surrender. She stared at him defiantly.
“Now, Hester,” Backstrom said soothingly, holding up a hand, “you know I have to check these things out. This woman’s son-in-law was mutilated.”
“Ew,” put in Dzolali.
He looked to the redhead and smiled but said to Hester, “And I just have to put a report together is all.”
“Yeah, okay,” Hester said. “I’m sorry for her loss, but I don’t know what to tell you.”
Backstrom took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he regarded the two women for a moment. “Hester, you have to understand, it just comes across as odd that just last week, you and Hillsborough had that shouting match—”
“Heated discussion,” Hester interrupted.
“—in the middle of the village hall meeting over the proposition—”
“Ridiculous notion, you mean.”
“—that threatened to knock this . . . this . . . pile of village ordinnance citations you call home—”
“Clive Backstrom!” Hester exclaimed indignantly and folded her arms.
“—to the ground in exchange for a generous sum.”
“Pittance!”
“And then, combined with Mrs. Carp’s visit to you just yesterday, makes more than one factor in Hillsborough’s death point in your direction.”
“This has been my home since I was born, young man,” Hester Pyncheon said in a scolding tone. “And no one shall remove me from it while I live. If you think I’ve spent all that money on electronic gizmos in my parlor because I’m some evil magical being capable of conjuring a murder, then haul me away!” She finished with a dramatic thrusting of her wrists toward Backstrom.
7
Onenspek
It was Mr. Onenspek’s turn to have his bed sheets changed, so Phoebe knocked on the door. She heard nothing in response, so she tried the knob. The door was unlocked and swung freely inward. The room was one of the smaller bedrooms of the House of the Seven Gables, being only larger than Phoebe’s quarters due to its rectangular shape.
Phoebe stepped inside warily and called out to announce her presence. It was a gloomy room with the curtains drawn over the west-facing windows, darkened further by the navy blue wallpaper that featured stretches of strange, bronze-colored designs resembling garlic cloves that repeated vertically.
She stepped to the bed, one that was identical to hers in size, only to stop short in a moment of indecision. The bed appeared to have not been slept in. The colorful and new-looking comforter was perfectly tucked about the pillows, which, she noted with a downturned lip, were much fluffier than those in her room.
Mercifully, the walls were bereft of the dark works of the man who was supposed to sleep here. Phoebe became aware that someone was behind her, watching.
“Good morning, Mr. Onenspek,” she said without turning around. “You don’t have to make your bed yourself. Would you like new sheets anyway?” With that, she turned and was startled by the man’s appearance.
Ned Onenspek appeared gaunt, with sunken cheeks that Phoebe swore had not been in such a condition the previous evening. His eyes were sunken as well, with the flesh darkened around them. His forehead, cheeks, and chin were smeared with a multitude of colors, primarily based in reds, fooling Phoebe into thinking for a heart-fluttering moment that he had been injured. His stare was hard, and the pupils appeared unreal, bead like and fixed like a doll’s. Ned’s tall hair was pressed into a rough pompadour, as if his hands had been run through it repeatedly throughout the night. Flecks of paint were present throughout his thatchy mane, so Phoebe thought this was likely. Over his thin body he wore an artist’s smock that had once been perfectly white. It was now a masterpiece on its own, and due for proper framing.
Ned watched Phoebe and deeply inhaled through his nose, which, by the sound of it, was quite congested. He wiped at his nose with the back of his right hand, blinked, and looked about the room as if just realizing he had entered it.
In this moment, Phoebe was blanketed with emotions of despair, broadcast from him with such power that she was sure she could have felt it a mile or more away. Her maternal instincts arose in response, and only the unfamiliarity with the man, and the fact that he was covered in paint that may or may not have been dry, kept her from embracing him immediately. Instead, her eyes watered with sympathy.
“My God,” she whispered shakily, “are you all right, Mr. Onenspek?”
In her eyes, Ned found her soul, and it brightened him instantly. A great smile beamed, displaying his fortunate, paint-free white teeth. “Perfectly!” he called out, nearly in a shout. Softness dawned on his facial features, and his body relaxed. He put forward his left foot and adopted a casual stance. “I heard someone over here, so I thought I’d take a break and see.”
“Ah,” Phoebe said. “So, is there anything you need in here? Clean sheets or whatever?”
“Umm,” Ned pondered. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and cast his eyes over the room as if he had never seen it. He looked at Phoebe with a kind glance, noting her tired appearance as well. “Nah, it’s fine. All good, you know,” he wave
d her off. “I’m sure everyone else’s rooms are much more in need.”
Still thick with concern for the man, despite the nature of his horrific artwork, she pressed him. “Are you sure you’re okay? Is there something I can get for you?”
Ned considered this gesture for a long moment. Finally, he said, “Thank you, Phoebe. I’ll let you know. Quite busy painting in the next room.” He indicated the room to her left, one nearly identical to this one.
“Need anything cleaned over there?”
“No!” he protested almost before she was done with the question. “No, not at all. That room’s not to be disturbed.” He looked into her eyes with an expression that would have been intensely grave had it not been for his arched right eyebrow and the leftward tilt of his head.
She gave him an amused smile. “No problem. I will not be doing that then.”
They left the mostly unused room together, and Phoebe closed the door behind her.
“Have a good day painting, Mr. Onenspek,” Phoebe called after him.
Onenspek turned to her with his hand on the studio’s doorknob, “I do thank you for that, Phoebe.” He said this with heartfelt appreciation and went inside. She heard the lock click.
Phoebe walked toward the front of the house, looking ahead to the next room on her list, the corner bedroom in the southwest turret. Dzolali’s room. She sighed heavily and knocked, though she was almost certain that Dzolali was still with Hester downstairs.
There was no answer, so Phoebe entered. The room was much like hers, though the windows were much taller, topped with a stained-glass decoration shaped in a half-circle. These third-floor corner bedrooms featured walls done with a dark wood paneling that ran from the floor to the arched ceiling of the cupola, and it was from these beams that the ceiling light and fan were mounted.
The sunlight washed over the room through the parted drapes, and the upper part of the wall to Phoebe’s right was tattooed with the colors from the stained glass, haloed by a rainbow.
The bed had been slept in and was not made, so Phoebe went about her task of stripping it. As soon as she touched the sheets, the scent that was in Phoebe’s own bedsheets filled her nose. Her body instantly reacted to the water lily and vanilla and exploited her memory of the previous night’s dreams.
Phoebe was surprised by a sudden lightheadedness. She backed away from the bed and steadied herself by leaning against the dresser for a moment, drawing air through her nose and exhaling it with a puff of her cheeks. Once recovered, she went back to work, piled the sheets and pillowcases on the floor, and took fresh ones out of the corner dresser’s bottom drawer. Curious, she put them close to her nose and inhaled.
Fresh, clean, but no water lily and vanilla. She went about dressing the bed in the fresh linens, her mind distracted by the possible reasons for her own sheets exuding the scent that Phoebe had come to associate with Dzolali Alameda.
As Phoebe slipped the pillowcases onto the pillows, she recalled waking several times out of the ongoing dream, enough to realize that she was alone in the bedroom before rolling over and going back to sleep and the dream resumed.
She replaced the top sheet and finished tucking the pillows into the comforter and thought of the obvious answer. The sheets had been transferred to her room, unwashed from Dzolali’s use.
Of course! How else? She smiled to herself, convinced that she had solved the mystery. You’re such an idiot, sometimes, Phoebes.
“Well, hello there.”
Phoebe cried out, startled, and spun around. There was Dzolali, just feet away and blocking the door.
Dzolali looked surprised at Phoebe’s reaction and placed a hand over her bosom. “I’m so sorry!”
Flustered, Phoebe waved it off. “It’s okay. Didn’t hear you come in.” Or feel you near, either, she thought. Phoebe looked to the pile of laundry and bent to gather it up. She regretted it immediately, for the scent invaded her again. She stood, involuntarily looked upon the redhead, and felt near to a swoon. Dzolali’s lips were covered in a delicious red that nearly matched her hair, and her eyes were decorated with a black eyeliner. Catlike in an upward sweep, it set her coppery eyes aflame. Her jawline glowed in a shade of almond.
“Thank you so much for doing all that.” She indicated the bed and stepped forward, remaining in the path of Phoebe’s escape.
The closeness set Phoebe’s heart racing. Worse, her knees began trembling. “Oh, it’s um . . . no problem. No problem whatsoever.” Damn it, shut up! And stop staring at her!
Dzolali knew well her effect and took another step closer. She relished in Phoebe’s expression and the fact that her eyes kept wandering over her face, down to her vast cleavage, and back up. In that moment, Dzolali’s attraction to Phoebe deepened.
“Um, what did the cop want?” Phoebe asked.
“Oh, there was a man killed by wolves or dogs or something,” Dzolali answered and dismissed it with a brief wave of her hand.
“That’s awful!” Though she truly felt that it was a terrible tragedy, Phoebe did feel a relief knowing that the detective had not come for her.
“So, you mentioned something about writing a book,” Dzolali said as she clasped her hands together. “What’s it about? I’m dying to know.”
“Well, um,” Phoebe stammered, unable to cease her stare into the other woman’s face. “It’s uh, about a woman who . . . rides this motorcycle—”
“Oh, I love motorcycles!”
“—and she rides all over the country, just having little adventures and stuff,” Phoebe fumbled. “There’s, like, this murder that happens in South Dakota at this bar one night—”
“Uh-huh,” Dzolali interjected and stepped to Phoebe’s right side.
Phoebe followed her movement and swallowed hard when she realized she was getting a double-dose of the water lily and vanilla, one live, one recorded on fabric. At some point, Phoebe realized she had stopped talking and, bringing her eyes up, found that Dzolali had followed Phoebe’s gaze to her own fleshy chest, which was now almost grazing Phoebe’s shoulder. Dzolali’s eyes flicked back up to Phoebe’s.
Busted, Phoebe admonished herself. Busted checking out another woman’s tits! Damn it, Phoebes! She turned to face Dzolali and took a step back but smacked into the vanity against the wall behind her.
“Careful,” Dzolali cooed and reclosed the gap.
“Um yeah, so this woman in the story sort of, you know, solves the murder,” Phoebe finished.
“Sounds great,” Dzolali said. “Can I read it?”
“It’s not done,” Phoebe blurted too forcefully. “I mean it is done, but it’s not edited or anything. I just went right on into part two.”
“Fascinating.”
Lightheaded, weak in the knees, and filled with the want to drop the linens to her feet and plant a deep, meaningful, and hours-long kiss on the red lips of the vixen in front of her, Phoebe’s fight-or-flight response saved her.
“I gotta get done. See you at dinner. Bye!”
Phoebe glided out of the room and, with the intent of dropping the laundry down the chute, realized she had gone the wrong way. She whispered a profane word and spun around. Dzolali was standing in her doorway, one fist on a cocked hip, and the other palming the doorjamb. The expression on Dzolali’s face was terribly inviting.
Phoebe uttered a small laugh as she forced herself to again pass the opportunity by. “It’s this way silly me.”
“See you later,” Dzolali sang out.
Phoebe didn’t dare cast another glance behind her. She dumped the sheets down the chute and headed to her next chore. Holgrave’s room.
She went around the corner and put her palms and forehead against the wall, opposite the closed dining room doors. Frustrated with her suddenly supercharged libido and its symptoms, she bit her lip and berated herself internally, willing herself back to some sense of
normalcy. Almost in tears, Phoebe pushed herself from the wall and approached the attic door. She yanked it open and slammed it when she entered the stairwell and bounded up, not caring how loud they creaked or thumped when she stomped on them.
She knocked on the door to Holgrave’s suite but was so off kilter, she didn’t wait for a reply. She pushed the door open and went in.
Holgrave was standing just inside the door with something in his palm. He was wide-eyed in surprise at her appearance and, when she took a step back from him, ended up slamming his door with her back to it.
The contraption in Holgrave’s hand exploded into activity with a metallic snap that made the tall man flinch severely. The little item flipped into the air between himself and Phoebe and clattered to the floor.
Phoebe looked up at Holgrave’s twisted face, then to the floor. It was a mousetrap. She raised her gaze to him again and, to Holgrave, she appeared frazzled, but not from something he had done or his touchy mousetrap. Something else had gone wrong, he felt certain, to drive her inside his room in such a flurry.
Rendered curious at this, he softened his expression and greeted her mildly. “Hello.”
“Hi,” she replied, though somewhat gruffly. Her back remained plastered against the door, as were her palms. She felt herself blush, but the overwhelming need that Dzolali had instilled within her just by her very presence was fading.
Holgrave was dressed in black trousers and black sweater over a white linen shirt complete with collar.
“That’s a mousetrap,” she muttered, not looking at it. Her eyes were locked on his.
“Indeed, it is.”
“You have mice?”
“Indeed, I do.” He thought about his answer. “Well, one. A mouse.”
Phoebe gathered herself and stepped from the door. She took a deep breath and let it out before continuing. “Well, I am here to take care of your bed.”
“Pardon?”
“The sheets. I have to change the sheets,” she retried.
“Ah. Thank you,” he said and gestured unnecessarily toward it.
