by Jane Hinchey
“Come on, let’s go into my office,” Whitney grumbled, “it’s a madhouse out here this morning.”
I waved to Mike and followed Whitney. I’d thought her office would be immaculate, so I was beyond surprised at the chaos that greeted me. Boxes were stacked haphazardly, files were overflowing off the corner of her desk and onto the floor, her bookshelves were an absolute mess and there was clutter everywhere. Back in school Whitney had been the most organized—the most anal student of the entire school. What had happened to her?
“Take a seat.” She waved to where two chairs sat against the wall, both stacked high with magazines and various papers. I scooped a pile off a chair and gingerly balanced it on top of the pile on the other chair, praying I didn’t start a landslide. Dragging the chair up to Whitney’s desk, I sat.
She began typing into her computer, ignoring me. I decided to wait her out, knew she was doing a power play with me. She hadn’t liked me in school, I doubted very much she liked me now, and I’d seen the irritation on her face when the others had greeted me so warmly. Ten minutes dragged by and my patience was wearing thin. Pulling out my phone, I glanced at the time.
“Look, if you’re not prepared, we’ll have to reschedule,” I finally said. “I have another appointment to get to.”
Her eyes snapped to me. “I’m prepared.”
“Well then? What’s the hold-up?”
“Listen”—resting her elbows on the desk, she leaned toward me, her face a mask of dislike—“you may be used to the fast-paced city life, but that isn’t how things are done here in Whitefall Cove. I’m in charge. I’m the realtor, not you. From what I hear, you got fired as a librarian.” Her tone told me that my previous occupation as a librarian was barely above that of a dog walker in her eyes. I bristled at her insinuation that being a librarian wasn’t an honorable or worthy occupation. It was. I loved books; I’d spent hours at Whitefall Cove’s only library as a teenager. To lose my job in East Dondure had hurt, but the silver lining was returning home and buying a bookstore. As Gran said, it was meant to be.
Sucking in a deep breath, I remained seated, closed my eyes and fought for inner calm, before releasing my breath and opening my eyes to look at her.
“Like I said, it doesn’t look like you’re prepared.” I stood, preparing to leave. “Give me a call when you are and I’ll come back and sign the papers.”
She didn’t respond. Instead, she rummaged on her desk and opened a folder and slid a sheaf of papers toward me.
“Sign where indicated.” She didn’t offer a pen so I dug in my handbag for one and obediently signed the papers. Five minutes later I was done. The Dusty Attic was mine.
I waited for Whitney to say something, but when she didn’t, I prompted, “Keys?”
Her face darkened, and I saw the blush of color creep up her neck. Her eyes darted away, and her fingers curled into fists on the desk.
“Can I deliver them to you later?” she asked. I could see the level of control it took for her to keep her voice even, so I could only assume that she’d misplaced the keys. I decided to take pity on her. I could see how having to deal with me was grating on her nerves.
“Sure.” I stood, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “Let’s meet at The Dusty Attic at ten.” I’d give her an hour to find the keys.
Nodding curtly she said, “I’ll see you then.”
Chapter Two
I’d always suspected Whitney Sims was a spanks-wearing witch and now I had irrefutable proof. Unfortunately, the fact that Whitney was sprawled across the floor of my newly purchased bookstore, with the hem of her dress revealing her underwear, and looking very much like she was dead took away from my delight.
“Whitney?” Tossing my bag on the floor by the front door, I hurried across to her and pressed my fingers to her neck, watching to see the rise and fall of her chest. No pulse. Not breathing. Whitney was no longer in the land of the living. “Great.” I sat back on my haunches, pulled out my phone and dialed.
“Yes, hello, this is Harper Jones. I’m at The Dusty Attic on Main Street and I’d like to report a death…. yes… it’s Whitney Sims…yes, I’m sure. I’ve checked her pulse and she’s not breathing…no, I haven’t touched anything…I will…thank you.” Hanging up, I turned my attention to the body before me.
“So, Whitney, what happened to you, huh?” I wasn’t surprised when no answer was forthcoming. She was dead after all.
The bell above the door jingled. “Congratulations!” Jenna, my best friend, bustled inside, arms full of flowers, a bouquet that was a riot of colors and scents. Then she saw Whitney. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” I nodded solemnly, then stepped forward to take the flowers from her, burying my face in the soft petals. “Thanks for these.”
“You’re welcome. Ummm. What’s Whitney doing on the floor? And is she…?” Her voice dropped in that way you tended to do when speaking of the deceased.
“Dead? Yes. I’ve called the police.”
Jenna nodded. "Good. There's still time." Reaching into her purse, she pulled out her phone and began taking pictures. "What happened?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I’d arranged to meet her here at ten for handover of the keys. The door was unlocked when I got here, and I found her like this.”
“Are you okay?” Jenna paused in her photo-taking frenzy and looked my way.
“I’m fine,” I reassured her, giving her a weak smile. “It’s just that when I thought things couldn’t get worse, they do, you know?”
“I know, hon. You were so excited about this place. A fresh start. New beginnings. Don’t fret, it can still happen.”
“Having Whitney Sims dead in the middle of the floor has kinda taken the shine off,” I grumbled. “It’s cold in here, right?” I shivered, rubbing my hands up and down my arms. I hadn’t noticed immediately, too intent on Whitney to pay any attention to the freezing temperature in the store.
“Let’s go find the thermostat. It’s probably out the back.” Satisfied she'd taken enough photographs, Jenna slid her phone back into her purse and together we explored the store, finding the thermostat in the storeroom. I flicked the heating on and listened as it wheezed to life.
“That doesn’t sound good,” I muttered, making a mental note to get it looked at as soon as possible.
“The Dusty Attic has been closed for months,” Jenna said. “It just needs a little TLC is all.”
Once upon a time, I would have delivered that TLC with a wave of my wand, but not anymore. With my magic on lockdown, everything had to be done the old-fashioned way. Manual labor.
The bell above the door jingled again and we stepped out of the storeroom to see a policewoman enter. She headed straight for Whitney, checked she was dead and then spoke into the radio clipped to her shoulder before turning her attention to us.
“Harper Jones?”
I stepped forward. “Yes.”
“Ms. Jones, I’m Police Officer Liliana Miles of the Whitefall Cove Police Department.” She tapped the badge pinned to her belt. “Take me through what happened.” Pulling out a notebook and pen, she waited, hand poised above the paper.
“Well,” I began, “I’ve just bought The Dusty Attic bookstore, and Whitney is the realtor managing the sale. I’d arranged to meet her here this morning at ten for handover of the keys. She must have gotten here before me because the door was unlocked when I got here. I came in and found her like this.”
“Have you touched anything?”
“I checked her pulse. Other than opening the door and turning on the thermostat I haven’t touched a thing.”
“And you”—the officer turned her attention to Jenna—“what are you doing here?” Before Jenna could answer she swiveled her gaze back to me. "Did you call the press?"
"No, she didn't," Jenna cut in. "I'm a personal friend of Harper's. I dropped by to congratulate her and give her these.” She pointed to the bouquet of flowers I’d laid on the counter. Jenna was a reporter for our local pa
per, the Whitefall Cove Tribune, and was apparently known to Officer Miles.
“Right.” She flipped her notebook closed. “I’m going to have to ask you both to wait outside. But first”—she held her hand out to Jenna—"hand it over."
"What?" Jenna played dumb, but Officer Miles wasn't buying it.
"Your phone. I know you've taken photos. Your footprints are all around the body. Now give."
"Fine!" She huffed, slapping her phone into Officer Miles’s outstretched hand. I stood silently while Officer Miles flicked through the images and then diligently deleted each and every one. Jenna rolled her eyes at me and mimed being hung and I bit back a laugh.
Handing the phone back, Officer Miles pointed to the door. "Wait outside."
“What? It’s freezing out there,” I protested, looking out the window to the grey winter day outside.
“It’s freezing in here,” Officer Miles pointed out, “and until we determine what has happened to Mrs. Sims, this is a crime scene.”
“What if we wait at Bean Me Up?” Jenna asked. “Would that be okay?”
“Don’t you have to get back to work?” I whispered to Jenna, who shook her head and whispered back, “Not when my editor hears I'm at the scene of a breaking story. This might get me off obituaries this week.”
“Fine.” Officer Miles turned her back and we were dismissed.
Snatching up my bag, I buttoned my coat and followed Jenna outside. I linked her arm with mine and we crossed the street to the coffee shop, Bean Me Up. It was like stepping into a Christmas wonderland—decorations abounded, and a massive Christmas tree dominated one corner, the star on the top brushing the ceiling. Christmas carols played over the speakers and I felt it from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. I was home.
We snagged a table by the window and ordered hot chocolates while watching the arrival of an ambulance, lights flashing but no siren, at The Dusty Attic, Jenna snapping more pictures through the window.
“Thanks for waiting with me,” I said, blowing on my drink.
“Oh please, you're giving me the inside scoop to a hot story.” Jenna waved her hand over her cup, then did the same to mine, bringing the temperature of the boiling milk down to a drinkable level. I missed my magic. Funny, after everything that had happened I would have thought I’d miss my fiancé. Or my job. And while those things did leave a hollow feeling in my chest, I missed my magic the most and that spoke volumes about the life I’d been leading in the city. Had it been a lie all along? I’d spent the last five years climbing my way up the librarian ladder, I’d just been promoted to head librarian when it all came crashing down, and yet now? I didn’t miss it all that much.
“It’s good to have you back home. We’ve missed you.” Jenna smiled, and I laughed out loud at the milk mustache she now sported.
“I never thought I’d say this…but I’ve missed Whitefall Cove too,” I admitted, taking a gulp of my drink and showing off my own milk mustache.
And that’s when a tall, dark, and handsome man came up to our table and said, “Harper Jones?”
I looked up, eyes widening. He was drop dead gorgeous and my heart did a little flutter in my chest. “Yes?” I squeaked.
“Detective Jackson Ward. Mind if I sit down?”
Clearing my throat, I said, “By all means.”
He turned away to hook a chair and Jenna was madly signaling at me to wipe the damn milk mustache off my face. I couldn’t help it, I laughed.
“Something funny?” he asked, and I immediately sobered and shook my head.
“Take me through what happened.” Unlike the police officer earlier, he didn’t take out a notebook and pen, just pinned me with his intense green eyes.
“I already told Officer Miles what happened,” I said.
“And now I need you to tell me.” His voice told me he was in no mood to play games, so I repeated verbatim what I’d told Officer Miles.
“How well did you know Whitney Sims?”
“Pretty well. We went to school together,” I answered.
“You were friends?” he pressed.
I snorted. “Hardly. Frenemies is more accurate.”
“Frenemies?” A dark brow arched, and he looked at me with his head cocked to one side.
“On the surface, we acted friendly, but the reality was we couldn’t stand each other. She was a bully and I didn’t like her. And she didn’t like me.”
“So, you’d have reason to cause her harm?”
His question shook me to my bones. “No! Of course not,” I said. “Whitney and I may not like each other, but I didn’t wish her harm, and I certainly didn’t want her dead. She’s only in my store because I’d just purchased it and she was the realtor handling the sale. For the Dudley’s.” I narrowed my eyes. “Wait. You think foul play? That she was murdered?” My voice dropped on the last word.
“We don’t know the cause of death,” he replied, not giving an inch. “Until we do, don’t leave town.”
I snorted. “Hardly. Don’t worry, Detective, I’ll be around.”
“Thank you for your time.” He got up and left, giving Jenna a curt nod as he passed.
I waited until he’d left the coffee shop before fanning my face and winking at Jenna. “Phew, that man is—”
She cut me off. “Taken. Detective Jackson Ward is currently dating Police Officer Liliana Miles,” she informed me.
“Figures.” I sipped my hot chocolate again, watching out the window as Whitney Sims was wheeled out in a black body bag and loaded into the back of a non-descript van that had pulled up behind the ambulance. “How come you know this?” I murmured.
Jenna chuckled but didn't lower her phone from capturing the scene outside. “You’ve forgotten what it’s like in a small town haven’t you, Harper? Everyone knows everything about everyone else. Or thinks they do. And what they don’t know, they make up. The handsome detective, for example, arrived in our town two years ago. Single. And despite every eligible female in Whitefall Cove throwing themselves at him, he didn’t date. Rumors abounded that he was gay. Then Liliana Miles transferred here last year and six months later, they’re dating.”
I plastered a smile on my face. “Well, good for them.”
Jenna glanced at her watch, then gave me an apologetic smile. “I’ve gotta get back to the office and write this up. You’ll be okay?”
“I’m fine. You still coming over this evening?” We’d arranged to have a mini celebration at Gran’s house. Jenna, myself, and my other best friend Monica.
“Of course. Eight o’clock, right?”
“Yep. I’ll see you then.” We left together, Jenna hurrying down the sidewalk to the Tribune's offices only a few doors down from The Dusty Attic. Shivering, I pulled my coat tighter around myself, glanced once again at the heavy clouds overhead and wondered if we’d get rain. There was something about cozying up inside in front of a fire with a good book on a rainy winter’s day—providing you didn’t just find a dead body.
“This is all your fault,” Jenna slurred, eyeballing Monica who was acting as hostess and making us the most delicious cocktails.
“I hope so.” She grinned, placing a glass in front of me full of rainbow colors that slowly swirled in the glass. Monica was the polar opposite of Jenna. Where Jenna was blonde and small, Monica was dark and tall. The word svelte comes to mind. Both were beautiful, but Monica had an otherworldly allure, with her jet-black hair and equally dark eyes, and ruby red lips. Monica was also a vampire.
“Where’s mine?” Gran came bustling in and my jaw dropped. This evening she was in a gold sequined mini dress with a plunging neckline. Unfortunately, Gran had plunging breasts to go with it and the overall effect was…appalling. She’d thrown an old grey cardigan over the top that was at odds with the glamorous dress, and on her feet, her favorite Ugg boots—she had a friend in Australia who regularly sent her Uggs to add to her collection.
“I’ve got you covered, Gran.” Monica grinned and produced a massive
cocktail glass filled to the brim. She ushered Gran into a chair and placed the drink in front of her and added a straw with a flourish. “Enjoy.”
“You’re my favorite, you know,” Gran told her, smiling and wrapping her lips around the straw she sucked, her eyes widening. “Girl! You’ve got skills,” she crowed, smacking her lips in approval and going in for another suck.
I laughed. My good mood from purchasing The Dusty Attic had taken a blow at finding Whitney dead inside, but my two best friends, plus Gran, had pulled me out of it, insisting we celebrate anyway. I was glad we had, and I was doubly glad I had such good people around me. Jenna, Monica and I had gone to school together. Monica had been born a vampire, which meant she aged normally as a child, then her aging process slowed down when she hit twenty-five, so despite all three of us reaching thirty-two this year, Monica had aged—or not aged—the best. Despite being gone for five years, sitting here tonight it was as if no time had passed at all.
“Thank you.” I smiled at each of them individually, reaching out to clasp their hands across the table. “Thank you so much for this—for being here for me, for being my friends. You mean the world to me.”
“Oh God.” Gran rolled her eyes and nudged Monica. “She’s getting all sentimental. I haven’t had enough to drink for this!”
“Gran!” I protested with a laugh. Our frivolity was interrupted by a knocking at the front door.
“Get that, will you, Harper?” Gran ordered. “I’m not leaving this table until I’m done with this drink.”
Shaking my head, I made my way down the hallway to the front door, expecting to find one of Gran’s loony friends on the other side. I did not expect Detective Ward.
“Evening.” He nodded at me, rubbing his hands together for warmth.
“Detective.” I did a bad job at hiding my surprise. “Um, come in. It’s cold out.”
Closing the front door behind us, I winced at the raucous laughter coming from the kitchen at the back of the house. Instead, I directed him into the living room. Gran had outdone herself with the Christmas decorations in here. Baubles in a riot of colors were suspended from the ceiling, bows of holly strung across the top of the window, a red Christmas tree stood majestically in the corner with an ever-growing mountain of presents beneath it, and pinned above the door, mistletoe.
