Murder Above the Fold

by ReGina Welling

  Angela laughed and brushed Clara’s apology aside, “Just one of the perks of small-town life. She’s not wrong, but you won’t get anywhere trying to get Taylor fired. The last time someone quit, it took six months to find a replacement. No one wants the job.”

  “Wonderful.” Mag muttered as she stomped out through the door to retrieve the bundle. She glanced around, did a quick sweep to make sure no prying eyes would witness what she was about to do, and directed a bolt of magic across the street. Mrs. Macomb’s package lifted in the air, spun around, and shot onto the dry, covered porch. “You’re welcome.”

  She contemplated tossing another spell toward the mail truck Taylor had left parked at the corner, considering a wet seat fitting punishment for his crime. However, she made the mature decision to refrain, figuring he’d reap what he had sowed eventually, without her interference.

  Clara and Angela were chatting like old friends by the time Mag returned to the shop interior.

  “The garden club meets on Tuesdays at ten a.m. in the library solarium. Then we fan out to take care of the community plots. Actually, there’s a special session tomorrow to discuss how we can battle this hummingbird problem. Have you noticed how much larger they are this year? Maude Prescott was attacked by one when she didn’t fill their feeder fast enough, and now her flower beds are full of weeds because she refuses to go into her backyard.”

  Mag snorted loudly and rudely enough to earn a glare from her sister, which she duly ignored while pretending to dust an antique canning cupboard.

  “We have a delivery scheduled for the morning, unfortunately,” Clara said with just the right amount of disappointment in her tone. She finished up with Angela, agreed to attend the next regular garden club meeting, and ushered her new friend to the door before descending upon Mag with a furious expression.

  “Are you trying to alienate every paying customer who walks through the door?”

  “Of course not,” Mag said, wrinkling her nose, “and don’t talk to your mother like that.” Though she claimed she wasn’t bothered that her outer appearance didn’t reflect just how close they were in age, Clara knew it rankled just the same.

  “You know, I feel the same way you do, but in the opposite direction. At least you’re perceived as the wise old woman you are, whereas I don’t look like I’ve had time to contemplate a midlife crisis—of which I’ve experienced several.”

  With only a handful of years between them and, thanks to the blessing of long life bestowed upon all witches, neither of them appeared their actual age—which had already surpassed two centuries. Humans tended to assume Mag was closing in on her eighties and pegged Clara for about fifty years younger. Not even the town drunk would have believed them sisters.

  Though she would never mention it to Mag, who wore her battle scars proudly, Clara had been working her way through an obscure collection of magical texts to see if there was a way to reverse the damage done by the Raythe attack that had leached away Mag’s youthful appearance.

  Mag would give birth to a pink unicorn with a rainbow cottontail if she suspected for one minute her front of indifference had been penetrated. And Clara would do anything in her power to restore what her sister had lost.

  A commotion outside caught Clara’s attention as she arranged a new batch of lavender pillow spray on a recently-acquired hutch near one of the front windows.

  “Maggie, it looks like your mailman is getting his just desserts.” Clara waved her sister over.

  Taylor had just returned from his trek up and down the waterlogged Mystic Street when Leonard Wayland, half of the couple who owned the house next door to Georgia Macomb, descended his porch steps. Leonard approached the mailman with an angry expression, and Mag bustled outside just in time to hear him spit vim and vinegar.

  “I won’t stand for this any longer!” Leonard said, waving his mail. “I’ll file another complaint with your supervisor if I have to. How difficult is it to close the mailbox door? If my wife’s magazines keep getting soaked, I’ll either have your job or your head, Taylor Dean!” Leonard shouted, his patience having reached the breaking point.

  Taylor took a step back, puffed out his chest, and when he spoke it was too low for Mag to overhear. Whatever he said turned Leonard’s face even redder than before and slackened his chin in surprise. Not for long, though, because after a second, Leonard’s eyes narrowed and his posture changed to match Taylor’s.

  “Don’t mess with me; I'm a big old man.” Mag muttered her own mocking version of the conversation. “I’m bigger and hairier, too/” She hmphed. “Idiots, the pair of them.”

  The discussion petered out quickly, and it didn’t look to her like either side had come away entirely happy.

  His face devoid of expression, Taylor strolled toward Mag, who stepped into his path. When she lifted her hand, first and middle fingers in a V shape and used it in the swiveling gesture pointing to his eyes and then to hers to indicate he’d better listen, Taylor’s eyebrows shot up. And so did Mag’s temper.

  Mayor Norm McCreery chose that inconvenient moment to appear on the sidewalk, headed toward Balms and Bygones to stare at Clara, Mag could only assume. And so, he was on the spot to hear her grit out the warning, “I’m watching you.” A chill fell, one that had nothing to do with the rainy day, and for a split second, something untamed and powerful rose in the old woman’s eyes.

  Taylor shrugged past her and only turned once to find her gaze still heavy on him as he made for his truck and drove away.

  “Problem?” Norm asked.

  “Not for long,” Mag answered, turning to go back in the shop.