Murder Above the Fold

by ReGina Welling

  “Nice work on the clock. Must have taken months to repair.” Appreciative of older things, Mag found the restoration process heartening. She might have asked a question or two, but Marsha never gave her a chance. She pointed to the man with the tools, deepened her voice to a reverent tone, and said, Aldo Von Gunten, a name that meant absolutely nothing to the Balefire sisters.

  “You’ve never heard of him?” She asked when neither oohs nor ahs were forthcoming.

  “Can’t say it rings a bell,” Clara replied.

  “He’s a local man who’s quite famous all over the world for his work with historical timepieces. I was sure he’d move away after what happened to his daughter. Absolutely tragic, the way she…” she pressed her lips tightly closed and allowed her words to trail off when Bryer Mack opened the front door, then stepped aside to hold it for a slip of a woman who zipped under his arm like an apologetic whirlwind.

  “I’m sorry,” she said before she was even all the way inside. “So sorry. I’m a complete idiot, and you should fire me on the spot. I set up an appointment with those two women who—” Bright blue eyes magnified by an enormous pair of glasses turned toward Mag and Clara. “Are already here,” she finished, sighing.

  The new arrival scurried through the office, depositing a large purse and two reams of paper on the single, clutter-free island in the whole space—a desk across from the layout table.

  Marsha blew out a breath. “Please tell me you at least got a check from Mrs. Mathers for your efforts. Wasn’t that meeting set for 11:30? It’s nearly two in the afternoon now.”

  If she had any qualms about discussing Leanne’s lackadaisical attitude toward work in front of complete strangers, they were buried deep beneath a mound of irritation.

  “Yes, of course, I got the check, and then I stopped by the office supply place.” Leanne’s cheeks pinked, and her voice faltered when she added, “and misplaced my glasses. It took forever to find them.”

  Mag raised an eyebrow. Anyone sporting lenses that thick ought to figure they’d need to be wearing glasses if they planned on finding anything. A circular problem if ever there was one.

  “You really should consider wearing your contacts more often.” Marsha looked like she wanted to say more, but didn’t get the chance when the desk phone shrieked to life. Waving Leanne off when she reached for it, she said, “I’ll get it. Take a look at the layout, I think it’s ready to go.”

  “And that’s my cue to fire up the printer,” Bryer and Leanne moved in the same direction at the same time and nearly collided. When he placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, one of the restored photos caught his eye, and he picked it up so quickly it created a breeze that blew two others out of place.

  On a sigh, Marsha picked up the phone. “Harmony Holler.”

  A loud, angry chatter streamed from the handset. Someone wasn’t happy about something; that was for sure. Shrill tones rendered the words unintelligible, but the sentiment came through in spades.

  The final words were clear, though. “You’re gonna pay for this, you just wait and see!” Before Marsha had a chance to say another word, the line disconnected and she gently placed the handset back in its cradle.

  The smile she turned toward the Balefire sisters gave no hint of her response to whatever threats and accusations she’d just heard. Gently, she ushered them back through the folding counter and toward the door.

  “You ladies are all set. It was very nice to meet you, and I’ll be in touch about that human interest piece.” Her tone was filled with sincerity even though it was obvious she wanted to get on with whatever was next on her agenda.

  As they exited, she heard Marsha say to Leanne, “Better call Dylan and tell him you’re going to be working late.”

  “Speaking of—we should probably head back to the shop.” Out of the corner of her eye, Clara watched Mag bristle. “After we stop for ice cream.” She threaded an arm through her sister’s and turned toward Dairyland and the promise of buttery-sweet, pecan-filled goodness.

  Armed with new knowledge, Clara appraised the clock tower. Ten years on, the paint could use a touch-up here and there, but the permanence of the symbol meant something to this town. She could see that, and felt good about making a life here among good people who would put so much care into making Harmony a better place to live.

  Concentrating on that thought, Clara stepped off the curb and if Mag hadn’t yanked her back at the last second, would have become another statistic. The breeze stirred by the passing motorcycle tossed her hair in her eyes, but not before she got a good look at the license plate. BRYGUY.

  “Watch where you’re going you jerk.” Waving a gnarled fist in the air, Mag yelled at the retreating figure she recognized partly because it made sense given the vanity plate, but mostly when the neon flash of his footwear gave him away.

  “That was close. Next time I see that Bryer Mack, he’s getting a piece of my mind for speeding in town. Kid’s bike, though. ‘77 Kawasaki KZ1000. Kind of machine a teenager might spend his summer income to buy. Still, any bike is better than none. I miss the feel of the wind in my hair.” Mag’s voice turned wistful even as she shocked her sister with the revelation and sparked a mental image Clara knew she might never unsee.

  Chapter Two

  “You’re late.” Wearing a Santa Claus apron over a red, fur-trimmed dress and green-and-white-striped tights, Gertrude Granger bustled up as though she’d been hiding and watching for her impending guests to make their entrance. “Come with me.” Smelling of cinnamon and vanilla, the wannabe elf dragged the Balefire sisters into the kitchen, where she whipped a batch of snowflake-shaped cookies out of the oven.

  “We’re late? Doesn’t she know Christmas was months ago?” Mag hissed in Clara’s ear.

  “Shh. You’ll hurt her feelings.”

  Whether she heard the whispered conversation or not, Gertrude never let on. Instead, she plied the sisters with peppermint cocoa, then hustled off to retrieve the table-top-sized antique sleigh she’d asked Mag to assess for value and sell on consignment at Balms and Bygones.

  The thing was so ancient, Mag wouldn’t have been surprised if it carried the maker’s mark of old St. Nick himself. Since he’d given over to mass-produced goods, it was getting harder and harder to find an original Kringle.

  “Figured you’d want to know Hagatha showed up here half an hour ago. I think she’s up to something.” Gertrude sat the piece down so the sisters could examine it closer.

  I think she’s up to something—a phrase the Balefire sisters had come to dread and the one most often uttered when Hagatha Crow’s name came up in conversation.

  “What is it this time?” No answer could shock Clara since Hagatha was capable of just about anything. “Levitating fire trucks? Enchanted candy? Flying, tutu-wearing pigs? Not that I don’t enjoy crafting a good pig poop-banishing spell, but once was enough to last me a lifetime.” And those were just the highlights.

  “Funny how we were the only witches in a three-town radius with nothing better to do that day. Quite the coincidence,” Mag pointed out. She suspected the witches of the coven were a little too happy to turn the Hagatha problem over to its two newest members and leave them on their own to deal with the fallout. Not what she’d signed on for when certain members had come begging the Balefire sisters to join their coven. Mag had been under the impression the group was looking for new leadership, not glorified babysitters for an old witch with too much power and no filter.

  Gertrude feigned innocence. “Well, she’s got a bee in her bonnet, and she’s acting squirrely. More than usual.” And that was saying something.

  “Shocking. The woman wears a beehive for a hat on all the days that end with a Y and doesn’t bother to hide her nuts for the winter. What is it this time? Is she planning on hexing the channel five meteorologists for predicting rain again?” Mag asked.

  “No,” Gertrude tapped her fingertips on the table as if talking about Hagatha made her nervous, “I don’t think
she’d try again after what happened the last time. She wanted me to go on the Internet and scour all the auction sites for as much ulexite as I could find. Ulexite, of all things!”

  “Television stone,” Mag told Clara. She had a catalog of useful information in her head. “When sliced crosswise and polished, it has fiber optic properties. In magic, it’s used for displaying images. Not a stone often called for in general casting, but useful for projecting during divination. Wonder what she plans to do with large quantities of it.”

  “No idea.” Gertrude lowered her voice, a sure sign she was about to impart some juicy gossip. “But that’s not the only thing I’ve heard. Penelope told me Perry Weatherall came to the center this morning, and he and Hagatha had a huge fight over who gets to use the folding tables. Perry says the Badgers need them for the auction and, of course, Hagatha insisted we had dibs on them for the tag sale. Things turned heated, she threw out a few threats, and he laughed at her.” She raised her brows and took a sip of her cocoa. “As you can imagine, it did not go well. If he comes down with some strange illness, you’ll know who was behind it.”

  Under the magnifying lens of small-town living, seemingly trivial events sometimes held more significance than an outsider might guess. That was a lesson Clara remembered from the days before the city of Port Harbor swelled and invaded the little hamlet where she was raised. It was funny, she thought, how living among more people allowed for an increased sense of privacy when it seemed just the opposite should hold true.

  In an effort to hide a bevy of witches in plain sight, Hagatha rallied them up and formed the Moonstone Circle, an organization that served a combination of civic and social functions while providing a safe space for the coven to meet on the sly.

  Scandalized by the idea of a ladies-only club, Pastor Evaniah Johnson prevailed upon some of the members of his flock and once the Brotherhood of Badgers was born, relegated the Moonstones to the status of a ladies’ auxiliary group.

  Alas, shortly after his tireless efforts to push through the inception of the Badgers and usurp the Moonstones, Evaniah suffered a horrifying affliction. Much to his astonishment, his dangly bits petrified and fell off.

  The damage was done, the rivalry cemented, but all the coven would agree it had been a genius plan that allowed them to fly under the radar—literally—until their fearless leader decided she was tired of living in secrecy and wanted to let her witchlight shine for all the world to see.

  “If Hagatha ever figures out the coven brought you here to keep her under wraps, she’s going to wreak havoc on us all. I swear it’s enough to make me want to take up day drinking.”

  Pfft, Mag thought to herself, as if there aren’t already two fingers of Bailey’s in that cup of cocoa.

  “What’s wrong with that niece of hers?” Mag said out loud. “Isn’t she supposed to keep tabs on old Haggie?”

  “Between you and me, that girl is about half a string short of a set of Christmas lights.” Even in metaphoric speech, Gertrude’s mind ran on a single track.

  Mag quoted Gertrude an estimate for the sleigh and dragged Clara out of there, leaving the overgrown elf to decide if she could part with the beloved trinket. They made it just past Gertrude’s candy-cane-lined front walkway before she burst into a diatribe.

  “As if a thousand-year-old high priestess like Hagatha thinks the Balefire witches moved to town for the sole purpose of peddling antiques and lotions.” Mag hmphed. “And goddess love her, but doesn’t Gertrude know the holiday season ended months ago? I didn’t realize her obsession with Christmas lasted the whole bloody year.”

  “I’m guessing her recent encounter with Wizard Claus himself has burgeoned her holiday spirit. When summer rolls around, and it’s hotter than the blazes, you’ll be singing a different tune while you’re enjoying snow cones and ice skating at her Christmas-in-July party.”

  Mag gave her a questioning look.

  “Oh, yes, she told me all about it when you disappeared into the bathroom.” Clara made air quotes, knowing full well her sister had merely used the calling of nature as an excuse to snoop around Gertrude’s second floor. “Penelope Starr agreed to conjure a miniature snow squall in Gertrude’s backyard for the occasion.”

  “Penelope Starr,” Mag growled. As much as she hated to admit it, Penelope’s conjuration abilities were a tad more developed than her own. Even more galling since there was little doubt the ladder-climbing witch had manipulated her way into taking over the duties of High Priestess while Hagatha was technically still on the job. Worse, she expected the Balefire sisters to do her dirty work and keep the old witch in line.

  “Tell me,” Clara said, leaning toward her a little, “because I’m dying to know—what’s her bedroom like?”

  Mag declined to gossip, but she did whistle a popular holiday tune all the way home.

  “Say you love me.” Clara’s familiar, Pyewacket, sing-songed the minute her witch companion stepped over the threshold. Able to shift from cat to human form at will, familiars carried their own brand of magic. Normally, Pye and Jinx served more functions than the ones to which they were being put since moving to a town where hiding one’s witchlight was expected. A rule that affected both witches and their lifelong companions.

  “I sold that hideously overwrought silver tea service for a tidy profit right after you left, which means you can’t even get mad at me for letting Hagatha pinch a few fennel fronds out of the greenhouse.”

  “Says who?” Mag sputtered. “You know the drill when it comes to Hagatha. Contain and confine. How hard is that to understand?”

  “Pfft. Do I look like I’m made out of miracles? When I told her you didn’t like people messing around with your plants, she called me a cute little kitten and threatened to turn my tail into a ball of yarn so I would have a new hobby to keep me busy.”

  Pyewacket arched her back in much the same way she would if in cat form. “If you want Hagatha Crow contained and confined, you’d better invest in a goblin-made cage and troll to stand guard.” Ire infused Pye’s golden skin with a dull red flush. “And all I did was open the door, Jinx practically carried her into the backyard.” Pyewacket threw Mag’s familiar so far under the bus he could smell the exhaust.

  Jinx let out a nervous giggle that sounded both girlish and desperate to Clara’s ears. As different from his witch companion as night is to day, he preferred a sunny corner to the thick of battle. Clara couldn’t help thinking his personality, or lack thereof, balanced out against Mag’s fiery spirit and willingness to take on the world.

  Still, there must be something more to him than suggested by his appearance and demeanor, since Mag’s successes as a warrior required the support of a strong companion. Maybe the pale skin and wispy white hair hid a lion-hearted interior, but if they did, Clara had yet to see that side of him.

  Clara petted Pyewacket’s arm, using the same strokes as she would to soothe a cat. Despite their ability to appear human, familiars were pure feline at heart.

  “Powerful things often come in small packages,” she said. “You are right to be wary of someone with so much magic and so little impulse control. Don’t fret. Mag knows it was our choice to move here, and that the job dangled in front of us came with a cargo-plane-sized load of baggage.”

  Clara’s rebuke, though mildly delivered, hit its target dead center and if Mag didn’t exactly apologize, she did let the scowl drop off her face and gave Pye a commiserating smile. “Did you see which way she went when she left?”

  Jinx nodded toward the back room, pale face flushing a pink so delicate it wouldn’t have looked out of place on a baby bootie knitted by a grandmotherly type.

  The shuffle and thump of a tennis-ball-footed walker preceded the creaking comment, “Who said I left?” Entering the room, Hagatha burned Mag with a look.

  “He did,” Pyewacket jerked a thumb toward Jinx, and then held up both hands in surrender. “You’re back, my shift is over. I’m out.” Long and lithe, she stalked across to the
stairs leading up to Clara’s living space, her footsteps turning to the soft shush of paw treads about halfway up the flight.

  “I’m…I’ll just be…” Stammering, Jinx followed as if his tail was on fire. Or in danger of turning into twisted wool.

  In her day—which, according to Mag, must have been somewhere around the same year dirt was invented—Hagatha Crow had been a stunning specimen of a witch. Now, well into the last stages of her crone period, her face looked like the windward side of an old barge—storm-tossed and weathered by time. Amid deeply-etched wrinkles, dark eyes twinkled with intelligence and the fire of mischief. Reports of Hagatha’s senility were very much overrated.

  Hagatha had long ago used up the last of her give-a-damn and made it her goal not to die until she’d revealed the presence of magic to the world. Or at least to the town of Harmony.

  “What were you doing back there, Haggie?” That she had been up to no good was a given, and Clara always had something on the brew in one of the big cauldrons suspended over the hearth where the magical Balefire crackled. Having been born into the family entrusted to tend the flames that fed the source of witch magic, Mag and Clara were Balefire witches in more than surname only.

  “Ought to crown you the queen of twisted knickers,” Hagatha chortled. A gnarled fist lifted to display one of Clara’s sample packets clutched between knob-knuckled fingers. “Thought I’d test the wares, see if this stuff can take ten years off my age.”

  “Like anyone could tell.” Mag didn’t even bother to hide the snark.

  “Quite a mouth you’ve got.” Admiration edged out the censure in Hagatha’s tone as she stuffed the sample packet in with the fennel fronds peeking out of her coat pocket. “You ladies try to be on time tomorrow; we’ve got a celebration to plan. One this town won’t soon forget.”