by A J Maybe
My heart raced with the rush of sharing this secret, but at the same time I felt free in a way I hadn’t in years. “You’re a good listener, Sherry.”
She shrugged modestly. “Just takes lots of practice. Just like the witch thing.”
“Okay, tell me more about the witch thing.”
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Usually.” Even though I just spilled one of my own for no good reason.
“What do you know about magic, Piper?”
“That it doesn’t exist, officially, except that I ate that chowder and then I summoned a headlight for my ride home. Is it ‘summoned’ or ‘conjured’?”
“That’s impressive,” Sherry said. “Very promising. You were concentrating the ambient light, little as there was, into a useful focal point, and yes, my soup helped unlock some of your potential.”
I whooped. “Do you have more of it?”
“Soup, or magic? There’s some soup, but magic is essentially infinite. It’s natural, and all around us, always. As witches we practice directing it a few different ways. There’s Casters, and ‘Mancers, mostly, and a few folks even get to be Shifters, though it’s rare and they’re not really witches, per se.”
“So, which are you? And what am I?”
“You’re only… a pedestrian so far,” Sherry said. “Like 99% of the world.” She pointed her chin toward the parking lot, where Jimmy was hustling back to the truck, and I knew she meant that was the end of talking about this witch thing, for now.
I’d have to find a chance to question Sherry more about her witchy prowess after we tried our luck with the OPP.
9
Questioning
After the hour-long drive, our visit to the OPP station was a bit brief. Jimmy nosed the truck right up to the building, which was basically a brown brick shoebox, with another, smaller shoebox attached at one end, and a modest yellow sign. It was dwarfed by the tin building with four garage doors in behind. The entrance had been updated, such that a gunmetal grey slab jutted out from one end, clashing horribly with the bricks but giving a handsome frame to the black glass of the sliding doors.
“Hey, there he is— Big D! How ya doin’, Derek the Cleric?” Jimmy sang as we walked through the door. “Long time no see.”
The desk clerk, apparently named Derek, nodded curtly. “James.”
“I was just telling these ladies about that time in high school, when you brought that owl in your backpack, and at lunch—”
“Can I help you, James?”
“Uh yeah man, yeah, of course. It’s just that there seems to be a little, you know, a little miscommunication, no big deal probably just a clerical error” —Jimmy leaned in to whisper now— “but don’t worry, we won’t tell anyone if it was you, no big deal, just...there’s this pink food truck, looks a metal unicorn on wheels, and it belongs to my friend Piper here…”
“Say less. I know the truck.”
“Perfect, yeah yeah, so anyway, she’s definitely just gonna need to grab that back real quick, if you could snag the keys, we’ll just skedaddle, you know, get out of your hair, I’m sure you’ve got lots of important work to do and all.”
“I do have work to do. There’s this whole murder investigation you probably heard about, James,” Derek answered, ice in his tone. “And that truck is evidence. You’re not getting it back.”
“Hmm, okay, okay, cool cool. I see where you’re coming from, yep, okay, so... no problem, if you could have it all set for tomorrow, we could swing by after lunch and pick it up? Like, whenever’s good, three o’clock, four o’clock, no rush.”
“No. I mean, you’re not getting that truck back, period, James.”
Jimmy’s confidence hiccupped only slightly. “Well, sure, not tomorrow. So then… let’s go ahead and aim for the end of the week. That good for you guys?”
Derek shook his head and looked at his five-inch-high stack of paperwork like he wished he were buried in its monotony instead of talking to Jimmy Kiss. “The truck is evidence,” he repeated, “in a murder. Even after we pin down the suspect, the trial won’t start for nine, maybe ten months. Then there’s the appeals process and everything else. Best case scenario, we’re talking years, if ever.”
I elbowed Jimmy out of the way and slapped my palms on the desk. “Officer Derek? I’m just a little confused about how my truck could be involved. The man wasn’t run over, or poisoned by cupcakes, right?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the case, ma’am,” he intoned, staring past me to the clock on the wall.
“I get it, but the truck was parked at Gino’s Garage at the time of the murder, so unless Gino’s a suspect, or I’m a suspect…”
Derek looked thoughtful. “Actually, Ms. Mars, is it? Detective Desmoulin got statements from the auction manager, and the mechanic, but she’ll want to talk to you, as well. She should be back within the hour, if you’d care to wait.”
I snorted. “Not unless you’re arresting me, pal.” Oops. Sometimes snark just slips out of my mouth like that.
Derek gave me half a smile, which was better than anything we’d seen so far. “Well, the murderer is someone who can overpower a fully grown man.” He looked me up and down, apparently amused at the idea of little old me trying to tangle with Rex Bales. “So unless you have a history of violence you’d care to share with us.”
I don’t wish to share my history with anyone, thanks.
“Anyway, the Detective got the cell number you gave the auction manager but it was out of service. Any reason you’d provide a false phone number, Ms. Mars?”
“Oh, silly me. I must’ve given my previous number. Old habits die hard.”
“Fine. If you could fill out an accurate contact form for me, Detective Desmoulin will be in touch.”
He pushed a stack of papers across the counter, then pulled them back. “Ooh, not those. This.” I frowned at the sheet of paper, with spots for my name, number, email address, and other basic information. “Trade you my number for the Cupcake Machine.”
Derek looked at me, calmly, and said nothing. Silence is an excellent negotiating tactic.
“Hey, it was worth a shot, right?”
More silence. I wrote my number down, sighing dramatically, and Derek slid the form back to his side of the counter. “Listen, lady. It’s not totally hopeless, okay? If it turns out that we can conclusively clear the truck of any involvement, it will be returned to you. But that’s not happening this week.”
Jimmy stepped up again, finger in the air, “Okay Big D, here’s a deal for ya. We’ll—”
Derek stood up. “Jimmy if you don’t get out of here I’m going to charge you with obstruction!”
“Obstruction? Of your coffee break?”
Derek reached for the phone on his desk, and we scurried out the door.
As we clipped into our seatbelts, Sherry slapped the dash. I jumped, not expecting such an outburst from her. “Those idiots think Lion Tamer is the killer!”
“LT? Why do you think that?” Jimmy asked.
“That paperwork he pushed across the first time. I read it. Aside from the people Derek mentioned, they’ve questioned Robin Jarvis and Lion Tamer. They told Lion Tamer not to leave the area, and they know about his anger issues. Piper might not have a history of violence, but Lion Tamer does.”
My first thought was, Wow, she read a stack of papers that was in sight for two seconds, without touching them, from five feet away? She’s gotta be a serious witch. And she had basically offered to be my mentor while Jimmy was in the gas station, hadn’t she? I buzzed with excitement at the idea.
My next thought was less happy. I considered my meeting with Luke. He certainly had the physical ability to manhandle Rex, so I could see why he was a suspect. Did his laid-back vibe hide unresolved anger issues? “But Luke seemed all surfer-bro. Like, maximum chill.”
Sherry nodded. “Yeah, that’s him now, but he used to wrestle as Spitting Dragon.”
Jimmy chimed in. “LT’
s all about ‘taming the inner lion’ these days, but back then he was more into drugs, motorcycle racing, and throwing loudmouthed-but-innocent managers down staircases, even when it’s not part of the show.”
“And so... when Rex disrespected the mask at the auction,” I said, “you think that sent him over the edge?”
“Not a chance. He’s in control now. No way he’d snap over something like that,” Jimmy said.
My face twisted in displeasure. It was great that Jimmy and Sherry had faith in LT, but on paper, he looked like suspect numero uno, and he’d been seen opening up the Cupcake Machine the day of the murder. If he was the suspect, then the truck really was evidence, and I’d never get it back!
I remembered that LT had either scared Rex off or elbowed him out of position, letting me jump in with the winning bid. Add in whatever record he had, and everything pointed to the big guy with the leather vest and black dog.
None of which improved the odds of me driving the Cupcake Machine back to Saint Mauvais at the end of the week. The only way that would happen was if the police found a new suspect within the next few days.
As Jimmy drove, I considered this. If Derek was representative of the people working on the case, it didn’t seem like things would move along very quickly. And hadn’t he talked about “the Detective”, like there was only one?
Maybe, I decided, this Detective Desmoulin could use a little help. With my budding witchy powers and Sherry on my side, maybe I could be that help.
10
Dungeon Toe Holds
Sherry didn’t think Luke was the killer. Maybe it was just because I wanted my truck back, but he didn’t feel right to me, either. If it was someone else —and if I could prove that it was someone else— maybe I could get the keys to the Cupcake Machine before the next federal election.
Maybe I could even start selling cupcakes before the credit cards came due.
And in a small community like this? Somebody must know something. Maybe something they didn’t want to tell the police about. I bet people would talk to Sherry — she seemed universally liked and easy to trust. I bet she had a charisma spell up her sleeve.
I imagined us rambling around the Cove with magnifying glasses and deerstalker hats, like a pair of Sherlocks.
Sherry cut into my fantasy, pulling my attention back to the cab of Jimmy’s truck. “So, Donut Witch: did you make the donuts too, or just steal them?”
“It wasn’t stealing! And no, I only made cappuccinos and stuff.”
“Well, if you want to learn, really want to learn, I can show you.”
YES. That’s exactly what I want. I thought about the soup, the green steam, the glow I was able to conjure on my bike ride home. Sherry was offering to teach me more than just Donuts 101 — she was talking about witchcraft. I was almost sure of it.
“Uh, yeah, of course! That’d be great.”
“What do you like, food-wise?”
“What do I like to bake? Nothing. To eat? Everything.”
“Pick something.”
“Can we do sourdough? That’s my favourite.”
Sherry nodded. “Takes about a day, but yeah, we can start. Jimmy, you can stay for a visit too right?”
Jimmy? Aw, man. No way she’d pull out the magic with Jimmy around. Maybe I was wrong, and this was just a regular baking lesson. I’d noticed that Sherry didn’t want to talk about it in front of Jimmy, anyway.
I had the urge to bail and a desire to be alone with my thoughts. “I’ve gotta get my bike, actually,” I said. “It’s still chained up by Love of Cheese’us. And I should get back to the camp, really.” Which was true. I wanted to email Brennan again, and I wanted to get in touch with Familiar Faces, since I had a little information to share about the OPP’s primary suspect. I could trade that for use of their platform, where I could start a blog to act as a tips line for our little grassroots investigation…
This was just planning on the fly, but it seemed promising. “I’ve got a couple emails I need to send, ASAP.”
Sherry grunted and gave me some side-eye. “We can pick up Piper’s bike first, eh Jimmy? I’ll need a little nutmeg from Gary’s Grocery if we’re doing sourdough anyway.”
“No worries!” Jimmy said, “Then we can swing by the camp so you can fire off those emails before we head to Kasper’s.”
And so we did. I carefully heaved my bike into the bed of Jimmy’s truck while Sherry ran in for spices. She and Jimmy idled in the camp driveway while I ran in to slap out a quick email. Brennan hadn’t replied yet, which was actually a relief. What I really wanted was to get the ball rolling with Familiar Faces:
Heyyy
You don’t know me. I’m new in town, but I know something about the Bales murder that you don’t. Willing to trade info in exchange for promoting my blog.
Best,
P.
The blog part didn’t exist yet, except in my imagination, but I could start one in about twenty minutes. I ran back out to the truck.
Pulling into Kasper and Sherry’s place, Jimmy had to jam the brakes to avoid crashing into one of the parked cars lining the drive. My poor bike rattled around in the back. “You throwing a surprise party, Sherry?” Jimmy said. “Very sweet, but my birthday’s not for months…”
Sherry frowned. “They better not be in my kitchen.”
There were three cars and a truck. The truck was one of those jacked-up deals, with a big light bar on the roof. I’d bet anything that it sounded like the exhaust pipes had been ripped off.
The cars were all black, new but plain. “Those are rentals,” I said.
Sherry brightened. “Ooh! It’s the wrestlers!”
Jimmy and I followed as she trundled up the stairs and rushed inside. The kitchen was empty except for a pile of footwear by the door. “Good afternoon, Esme,” I said, nodding to the kitchen witch. “Where are all the, uh, athletes?”
Then I jumped as an unearthly groan rose from the floor, followed by a SLAP! that shook the house.
“They’re in the Dungeon,” Sherry grinned.
I stared. “You have a dungeon?”
“It’s just a basement,” Jimmy said, “but any basement where wrestlers are training is called a Dungeon. It’s tradition.”
“The guys had been training at the park,” said Sherry, “but I guess that’s closed now.”
“So they’re goin’ old-school with Kasper,” Jimmy concluded with an excited giggle. “This is awesome.”
“And you’re brave enough to train with those guys, Jimmy?” I said, baiting his ego. I figured if I got Jimmy out of the kitchen, Sherry might share some secrets with me.
Jimmy snorted. “Heck no! All a manager has to practice is talking, and taking the odd bump.”
“A bump,” I repeated. Rex used the same word to describe his father’s accident. “That’s wrestler-code for ‘falling’, right?”
Sherry nodded. “More or less. Most spots end with someone taking a bump.”
“Right. Like a stair spot,” I said, using Rex’s words.
“Well, a spot is, like, a mini scene within a match,” Jimmy explained. “It can be a few moves strung together, or one big dive off the top rope, anything like that is a spot. A stair spot would be like...bouncing someone’s head off the ring steps, I guess.”
“Or falling down them,” I added, acting like I knew what I was talking about.
Sherry and Jimmy gave me matching looks, like I clearly didn’t understand pro wrestling yet. “Uhhh… I guess, if the wrestler was pushed. But if he just slipped, that’s just… embarrassing,” Sherry said.
“More of a botch than anything,” Jimmy agreed. “Anyway, as a manager, I don’t need to be stretching tendons and tearing ligaments unless there’s a paying crowd and/or some cameras rolling.”
A pained howl escaped from the floor, right on cue. Sherry knelt down by the heat register in the floor and hollered, “We’re comin’ down!”
She led us to a back room full of plants, lights, mist
ers, and a few terrariums so full of greenery that I couldn’t see what lived inside. I caught Sherry’s eye and gave her an eager curious waggling of my eyebrows. “These are witchy plants, right?” I tried to say with that look.
Sherry lifted a non-committal eyebrow and lifted a door-sized hatch in the middle of the floor to reveal a steep staircase.
“This really is a Dungeon,” I said with a nervous laugh.
Five thick guys formed a semi-circle around Kasper, who was holding court under a bare light bulb mounted to the joists overhead. He had LT bent to one knee and was manipulating the big man’s wrist and elbow into a “Z” shape. One guy with a ginger ponytail tucked inside his faded salmon Roots hoodie crouched down for a better look. LT was still in his pleather pants outfit. It looked hard to kneel in.
I guessed the “Lion Tamer” thing was a full-time deal for him, whereas the other guys only got into character for their shows. “So you guys don’t wear the masks when you train?”
“Hardly anyone wears masks these days.”
“Too hard to see.”
“Only if you’re playing two characters in one night.”
“They’re great for selling merch though, if you get into one of the bigger promotions with a family-friendly show. Every second kid will get their parents to shell out $25 for a vinyl mask.”
“Too true,” LT grunted, nearly lying on the floor under the grip of Kasper’s wristlock.
“You see?” Kasper said, “With lateral pressure, it’s tight: he stays down. Front-and-back? No pressure, nothing, just all floppy. Looks fake.”
“So good,” one of the guys breathed.
“You really are The Wizard, Kasper,” said another, hooting at LT’s discomfort.
LT grunted in pain but gave a thumbs-up with his free hand. His pewter necklace had fallen into his mouth and he bit down on it with a grimace.
