“Then we have to find Marsha’s killer. We’re the only ones who can.”
Chapter Six
Three times, the middle-aged couple gawked in the window but passed by the shop, and Mag all but smelled the curiosity on them.
“Come in. You know you want to.” She stopped short of sending out a flickering tongue of magic to lure them inside, but only because she and Clara had agreed never to enhance their business by working on the free will of others. But, oh boy, was she ever tempted.
It wouldn’t take much to nudge them into that all-important first step, and once she had them inside, she’d find the one thing they couldn’t live without. A bit of silver, maybe, or an occasional table.
Well, there was more than one way to lure a live one. “Pyewacket, could you come down to the storeroom, please?”
When Margaret Balefire said please and in that butter-wouldn’t-melt tone besides, Pye knew something was afoot. Since curiosity and cats are natural companions, she made her way down to find out what.
“Human form, if you don’t mind.”
In a flurry, tawny fur turned to golden skin.
“There’s a couple of lookie-loos outside. I want you to show off your excellent badonkadonk,” even after several months of trying, Mag had not found the source of the no-cussing charm Hagatha had laid on the house, and it gave her no end of annoyance to have her words turned as they left her mouth. “Tootie fruity…backside—close enough—to that man out there and give him a good a reason to drag his wife inside.”
“That’s dirty pool isn’t it?” Not that Pye cared as long as it didn’t get her in trouble with her witch companion, and Clara had never warned her about this type of interference.
“I agreed not to cast any of my charms on the customers, but I never said a thing about not casting yours. Go out there and bend over or something.”
Mag’s ploy worked well enough; the couple came in just ahead of a local woman who scanned the shelves and made a grab for a tube of skin cream.
“I’m on my lunch break, so if you could ring me up quickly, that would be awesome. Feel my face.” She turned to the female half of the reluctant couple, “No really, feel it. I’m telling you, it’s as soft as a ripe peach. You’ve got to try this cream. It’s like magic.”
A grinning Pye took the money the enthusiastic woman practically tossed at her, and before there was time to make change, the door swung shut behind her.
“I’ll have one of those, please,” said the Mrs. while her husband locked eyes on a set of Bavarian beer steins. Mag sold him the steins, and that was just the beginning. By the time they left, the couple had parted with several hundred dollars, which put Mag into a good mood.
A good mood that lasted right up until Clara declared it was time to leave for the Moonstone Circle’s final party-planning meeting.
Small towns are notorious for throwing celebrations to commemorate even the tiniest of accomplishments. Take the upcoming event, for example. While the Balefire sisters couldn’t argue that the money raised during the Founder’s Day Festival would go to a good cause—restoring Harmony’s decrepit covered bridge—the irony of the situation didn’t escape either of them. Ten years prior, the clock tower revamp had coincided with the town’s annual birthday celebration, and now the anniversary of one restoration would serve to fund another.
“Next thing you know, we’re going to be throwing a shindig on the anniversary of the day they re-roofed the library, or the time the Clemson’s dog peed on the red fire hydrant instead of the yellow one. This is ludicrous.” Mag griped, pulling on a burnt-orange blouse over a neon-green tie-dyed skirt.
Clara raised an eyebrow at her sister’s choice of ensemble, but let the matter drop, knowing full well she’d get an earful about how the nineteen seventies were the epitome of high fashion. She could quote Mag’s diatribe word for word and figured if she ever wanted to wear her own favorite eighties-throwback, triangle-print dress—complete with shoulder pads—again without setting off a response, she’d better keep her mouth shut.
“Yes,” Clara agreed as her hair magically flipped through several styles until finally settling on a high ponytail. “I know it seems a bit odd, but if you’ll recall, we attended a parrot’s birthday party back in Port Harbor—and bought a gift, to boot. Besides, this gives us a chance to ferret out some information. I say we hop on board.”
“Speaking of ferrets, remember when Delia Slatterhorn made us come to little Kiki’s wake?”
“How could I forget? The neighbor’s oversized beagle wrenched the carcass right out of the coffin—hand-built, by the way—and took off at a sprint. Poor Delia. Do you remember the look on her face?” Clara let loose an inappropriate laugh and quickly covered her mouth with her hand. “I’m a terrible person. She really loved that ferret, and he was a cute little thing.”
“Relax, Clarie, old Delia can’t hear you, and I know for a fact not all the tears that day were of sorrow over the tragic loss. Let’s go. We’ve got a murderer to catch.”
Harmony’s modest town square buzzed with activity as Mag and Clara steeled themselves against the impending onslaught of one Penelope Starr. Having had the foresight to see that Hagatha was, for once, safely ensconced with her niece, Penelope attempted to settle into her role of wannabe High Priestess with gusto.
“Now Perry, you can’t possibly expect women of such delicate constitution to sit out in the sun all day, can you?” Penelope drawled, batting her eyelashes in a coquettish manner. “Surely a man as handsome as you, and with such…talents…can find a few more canopies somewhere.”
Coffee nearly spewed out of Clara’s nose at Mag’s muttered comment, “Who does she think she is, Scarlett O’Hara? For the love of tiny pickles, that woman is worse than old Haggie by a mile.”
“Penelope could conjure up a three-ring circus if she wanted one, to say nothing about a few tents. But, apparently, presenting her heavily-glamoured butt to all the eligible men in town is more fun.”
Clara stifled another giggle as Perry attempted to disentangle himself from Penelope’s razor-sharp talons. “At least she’s not casting right here in the square during broad daylight, like someone else we know would.”
“Too true,” Mag murmured. Seeing her chance to ask the man a few pointed questions about his purportedly bad relationship with Marsha Hutchins, she marched straight up to Perry without a glance in Penelope’s direction. “Hello, Perry, can I bend your ear for a moment?”
Jumping at the chance to exit an uncomfortable conversation, Perry nodded and tossed a hasty talk to you later toward Penelope, who glared at Mag and then at Clara before whirling on her heel and stalking off in the opposite direction. Her shrill voice rose above the din, beckoning her entourage to her side.
“Thanks for saving me. That woman is like a leech when she wants something.” Perry’s shoulders had stopped hovering around his ears, and he looked measurably more relaxed as he ambled across the expanse of grass between the town hall and the bank of shops surrounding the newspaper office. “I owe you one.”
A little husky through the middle and with a hairline that looked to be creeping north, Perry’s blue eyes and sunny smile had probably left a broken heart or two in his wake.
Mag shot a mischievous grin at Clara, which her sister understood meant that was exactly the position in which she’d wanted Perry Weatherall to find himself: in their debt.
“Looks like the event will go off without a hitch. Perfect timing, too. The town could sure use a happy occasion, considering the pall that’s fallen since Marsha Hutchins’s death.” Mag commented innocently while leaning heavily on her cane.
Perry’s eyes clouded over, and the tension returned to his shoulders. “Yes, you’re absolutely right. Such a tragedy, and for someone with so much life ahead of her.” His voice roughened with emotion, but Perry covered it with a cough. “Bunch of idiots have been spreading rumors. Don’t you believe a word of that nonsense. She fell, plain and simple, just like the police report say
s. Marsha had too much going for her to waste it all by jumping off a bridge. Suicide wasn’t in her nature.”
“You two were close then? Word around town is that you and Marsha had a turbulent relationship.” Mag prodded without a trace of remorse. “Something about a disagreement regarding the paper’s lease of your building. Maybe you’d know if there’s any truth to the story she was having a torrid relationship with an unavailable man.”
Perry’s head snapped up from where his eyes had been trained on the grass below, and his voice was razor sharp when he exclaimed, “That’s not true. Who said that?” He reined it in, appeared to calm down a notch, and shook his head.
“I can’t tell you much about her personal life, but that doesn’t sound like Marsha. And yes, we had our differences, but that lease-agreement business hasn’t been a factor for some time. In fact, I’d just updated the high-speed Internet and donated a gently-used industrial printer to the newspaper so she could do everything in-house.”
“Is that why you stopped by the newspaper office the night of her death?” Mag’s seemingly innocent question hung in the air while Perry’s eyebrows wrinkled together, giving the impression that a fuzzy caterpillar had decided to take a lazy nap on the lower part of his forehead.
Perry’s gaze shifted once more to the building across the square, and Clara didn’t miss the way his face went carefully blank, “If someone says they saw me there, they were mistaken. The last time I saw Marsha, she was playing beat-the-clock to get the layout done on time. She didn’t want to try out the new printer on the special edition in case there was a glitch. Maybe if I had been there…”
Eyes kindling to a blaze, he growled, “Where did you come by that piece of misinformation? Never mind. I’m sure I can guess. Leanne Snow, right? Loves to gossip and has zero grasp on the facts, which is perfectly appropriate for someone who works at a newspaper. Takes her glasses off, forgets where she puts them and fumbles around in a half-blind stupor hunting for them.”
“For someone who didn’t know the dead woman very well, you seem to know a lot about her.”
Perry’s face practically iced over and matched his clipped tone, “Good day, ladies.”
“Touchy, isn’t he?” Mag said, knitting her brow as he stormed off. “He’s hiding something; let’s put him in the maybe pile.”
“You think so?” Clara frowned. “I thought he felt genuinely sorry for Marsha.”
Mag opened her mouth to issue a tart rebuttal when a furtive movement drew her attention and forced all thought of Perry Weatherall out of her head.
“Hey, isn’t she supposed to be on lockdown for the day?” Mag’s gaze landed on Hagatha, who cast a furtive look back over her shoulder before scuttling around the corner of the shady side of the clock tower. “I know we should go roust her and find out what plot she’s trying to hatch, but I don’t have the gumption to deal with her right now.”
“To tell you the truth, I think it’s almost easier cleaning up after one of her messes than getting in front of her when she’s in the thick of it all. My memory-charm skills have never been better. I might regret saying this, but Hagatha who?”
“Right you are. I saw nothing.” Mag agreed.
Chapter Seven
“I don’t want to go,” Mag insisted.
“Haven’t you ever watched a single crime show?” Clara looked at her as if she was explaining something to a simpleton. “The perp always goes to the funeral. If we’re at the spot, one of us might pick up a vibe from the killer.”
Mag scowled. “I know all that. What I don’t understand is why you’re making me wear this ugly black dress. It looks like a trash bag and a tablecloth had a wild affair and gave birth to the dark spawn of fashion.”
“It’s not that bad.” Clara took a closer look at her sister. “You’re wearing it backward.”
“See, it’s so ugly I can’t tell the front from the back. I look like a reject from a nursing home.”
“Quit complaining.” Having had enough, Clara dipped into the ball of magic that lay like fire in her belly and cast that power in an arc toward the offending garment. Before Mag had time to say tie-dye, the dress spun the right way around, cinched itself in to fit properly under the arms and around the bust, and the color softened to a deep, velvety green. The skirt shrank to swirl and brush halfway down Mag’s calf.
“There, Cinderella, you’re ready for the ball. Now get a move on because we’re not driving to the cemetery and if you don’t hurry up, we’re going to be late.”
“I’ll go, but I’m getting ice cream after it’s over.”
Shaking her head, Clara led the way downstairs and out the door.
“There you are, Ms. Balefire. I was hoping to run into you today.” Norm McCreery separated from the cluster of mourners and hastened toward the Balefire sisters. His gaze swept down over Clara’s form and quickly back up to her eyes. His face tinged with red when he saw the quirk of her lips that said she’d noticed his appreciation.
“Please, just call me Clara, Mayor McCreery.” The false note of graciousness Clare felt necessary when dealing with the Mayor had Mag muttering insults under her breath.
“And you can call me Norm.” To Clara’s surprise, the florid little man pulled one of the sample tubes of her soothing oatmeal skin cream out of his shirt pocket. He glanced nervously around to make sure no one was within hearing distance. “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare tube, would you? I ran out this morning, and I can already feel my face starting to dry out.”
“No, I don’t, not on me. This isn’t really the appropriate venue for selling product.” Her nod indicated the series of gray and white marble monuments to the dead, and the casket suspended over a draped hole. “We’re here to pay our respects to Marsha.”
“Oh, come on. You’ve got to help me out here. I need it, you know.” The mayor twitched like an addict in dire need of a fix. “Another sample. Anything.”
What on earth was wrong with the man? His skin looked perfectly fine. Mag’s elbow dug into Clara’s ribs hard enough to leave a mark and then it hit them both at the same time.
Hagatha.
She snatched the sample from McCreery’s hand, held it out of sight, and played a shimmer of Balefire over the plastic. The skin of flame turned purple and winked out, leaving a thin layer of smoke hovering over her palm, which Mag inhaled.
“Compulsion spell,” She whispered once she identified the flavor. This was serious business. “A strong one.”
Tucking her own elbows in to make sure a second assault on her tender side wouldn’t be forthcoming, Clara risked enough magic in public to call a fresh tube into her pocket via a trip through the Balefire to make sure the cream was free of any undue magical influence.
“Oh, my mistake, look what’s right here in my pocket. Here, it’s on the house.” The minute his hand closed over the tube, Norm’s face relaxed from anxious to slightly confused. He held up his hand, and to make matters worse, observed its contents as though he’d never seen the container of skin cream before.
“Um, thank you.” He shook off the daze and with a puzzled, sidelong glance at Clara, then found someplace else to be.
“I’m going to kill her. Being stoned won’t be so bad. You can put me in a garden where there are pretty flowers and birds, and it will all be worth it.” Mag searched the area for a glimpse of the stoop-shouldered old witch.
“It could have been worse,” Clara’s observation netted her a snort from Mag as she held out her hand for the bespelled tube. “Feels like it was a one-off spell. How many of these samples do you think we’ve handed out this week?”
“Thirty, maybe forty. I think half the box was gone when Jinx helped me get those silver candlesticks down from the top shelf this morning. Pye’s been dropping the tubes in every bag, and we’ve handed them out like candy.”
Pulling out her phone, Clara sent her fingers flying over the touch-screen to warn Pye about the possible onslaught, and instructed her to toss the r
est of the box into the Balefire’s purifying flames. “I guess I know what I’ll be doing for the next few days: replacing the sample stock, and now that we’ve isolated the flavor of her spell, clearing the storeroom of every last vestige.”
Spring rains had left the ground soft enough to dig Marsha’s grave and also to make for a muddy walk to the service.
Tight-faced with grief, mourners clustered on either side of the royal blue casket topped with a blanket of red roses. I wonder who picked it out, Clara thought, given Marsha’s lack of family.
Sun glinted off more roses repeated in the pattern of the brushed-nickel decorative corners. Someone cared very deeply for the dearly departed and in a romantic way. She started scanning bereaved faces to see if she could figure out who when Mag swore and the sound of a walker thumped closer and closer from behind.
Hagatha wore a pair of rubber rain boots in a garish plaid pattern, which wouldn’t have been so noticeable if she hadn’t paired them with a matching tam-o’-shanter hat, the pom-pom on top bobbing with every step. At least she was fully dressed, even if she did look like a toddler searching for a good mud puddle to stomp through.
No sooner had that thought crossed Clara’s mind when the scent of magic tickled her nose and the sound of bagpipes rent the air. If there’d been any question about the source of the plaintive music, Hagatha’s saucy wink and grin put all doubt to rest.
“Feels like herding ducks on a treadmill,” Mag snarled.
“You deal with her. I’ll handle the cleanup.” Clara spotted several coven members clustered around Penelope, the lot of them doing their level best to avoid locking eyes with her. Anything to keep from being dragged into one of Hagatha’s little dramas. Fine. Let them cower like chickens.
Pulling from the center of her power and letting it flow up and out like water, Clara crafted an illusion on the fly that, while fuzzy around the edges, would do in a pinch. The piper looked real enough so long as no one got too close. If the other witches didn’t like the use of magic in public, they were welcome to handle the problem on their own.
Murder Above the Fold Page 6
