The Witch Weekly: a paranormal cozy mystery (The Fairyvale Mysteries Book 2)

by Sofia Belle

“I liked him, okay?” I was sweating now. My half-baked explanation wouldn’t hold for much longer, so I moved to get out while I could. “Did he say anything about me?”

  To my astonishment, Mr. Reynolds’ cheeks turned red. “I didn’t realize he’d broken up with Trisha.”

  “Trisha?” My voice took on a screechy quality. “Who is Trisha?”

  “Uh, his girlfriend. At least, a few weeks ago when I asked if Hank was married or whatnot. He talked about her all the time. I thought they were in love, but I suppose that wasn’t the case if he’s going on dates with other women.”

  “I am not other women!” I wailed. Then I did something I’d never done before: I threw a hissy fit. I flung my hands over my face and pretended to sob, running out of the bathroom, down the stairs and straight out the front door. I didn’t stop with the hiccups and shaking shoulders until I was safely in my car and three blocks away.

  As soon as I was no longer in sight of Mr. Reynolds’ house, I pulled over. “Trish,” I whispered, typing her name into my phone’s browser. I had access to a few media databases that provided me with additional information that “regular” citizens didn’t have access to without a password. “Come to me, Trish.”

  My heart thumped harder when my browser search returned three hits. The first was a lady nearing the age of Dumbledore, so it probably wasn’t her. The second woman’s status listed married with three children. Probably not her, either.

  However, the third Trisha looked to be around my age, maybe slightly older, with an attractive, plump face. Heavy eyeshadow coated her lids, and her perm frizzed out to the corners of the frame. Her mouth was puckered into a half-smile, as if she’d been caught off guard by the photographer. I scanned her address listed below the photo, punched it into my GPS, and I set off to find Trisha.

  As I drove, one more thought popped into my head. Hank had said he was like me; he’d been out of the dating game for a long time. Something didn’t add up here. Either Hank had lied, or Mr. Reynolds had the wrong information. And if Mr. Reynolds had the wrong information about Trisha being Hank’s girlfriend… then who was Trisha, and why was Hank talking about her?

  Chapter 9

  “What is it?” I answered my phone, noting the familiar name as I turned the key to off in the ignition. My car had somehow ended up one block away from Trisha’s house, hidden slightly behind a set of tall lilac bushes. “Make it quick please, Layla.”

  “There’s only one reason you’d tell me to make things quick. I know it’s not because you don’t want to talk to me, so that must mean you’re out hunting down clues to a murder instead of looking for love like you’re supposed to be doing.”

  “I’m not hunting down a murderer,” I said. “I’m merely sniffing around a few of the people Hank knew.”

  “Yeah, whatever you want to tell yourself.”

  I narrowed my eyes, taking in the small, ramshackle house that my database told me belonged to Trisha. It was an interesting house, to say the least.

  Big, round spheres of glass—lawn ornaments, of some sort—lined the walkway up to the front door, while tiny lightbulbs blinked along the path doing nothing during the daytime, but likely providing a soft glow in the evenings. A few more decorations stood next to the door, things that were probably considered art, but looked sort of like blobs of junk.

  The whole thing came together to give me the vibe that Trisha was going for classy and elegant, but that she’d missed her mark and settled on cheap and cluttered.

  “So, did you have a reason for calling, or was were you just checking on me?” I asked, pulling my trusty clipboard from inside a little backpack that I carried around everywhere.

  I called it my disguise on the go. It was incredible how many professions I could impersonate with a clipboard, a clickety-clackety pen, and a set of dark sunglasses. I tried my hardest never to lie outright about who I was or what I was doing, but when I put a clipboard in my hands and people made assumptions about me, sometimes I didn’t bother to correct them.

  “I’m calling both to check on you and to give you an update,” Layla said. “As your self-appointed Love Advisor, I’ve set you up with a date tonight.”

  I groaned. “Maybe I’d be better off forgetting about writing for the paper and flipping burgers.”

  “That’s not true, you love writing.”

  “Yeah, but not at the expense of others’ lives. Apparently my entering the dating pool is dangerous.”

  “That’s why you’ll like who I chose for your date tonight.”

  My stomach sank like a rock. “What? Layla, you better spit it out right this instant, or I’m going to come to the Witches Britches and pull your new undies out through your nose.”

  “Number one, that is a very gross image,” Layla said. “Lingerie is meant to entice and enhance, not cause morbidly disgusting imagery.”

  “Then tell me what you’re doing to my dating life!”

  “I’m enhancing it.”

  “You’re ruining me.”

  “I’m creating happiness in your life.”

  “Happiness to me is—”

  “—a pint of ice cream, yeah, yeah, I’ve heard your speech before.” Layla chuckled, but when I didn’t chime in, she stopped. “Let me put it this way. You don’t know what you don’t know, darlin’. I’m gonna open your eyes.”

  “No. I don’t need my eyes opened.”

  “You do, hon. Maybe it’ll loosen you up a bit.”

  “I am loose.” Falling quiet, I waited for Layla to agree with me.

  Instead, she gave a bark of laughter. “I know how much you love a good mystery, so I’m taking a page out of your own book, and keeping your date’s name a secret.”

  “What? No. You can’t do that.”

  “You need me to do that. This blog series is going to save your newspaper, I can feel it, but to save the paper, you need to actually go on the dates, or it won’t work.” Layla blew out a long breath. “Which is why I’ve set you up with Dreamy McDreamerson tonight.”

  “Dreamy McDreamerson?”

  “Believe me, you’ll approve.”

  “What if I don’t?”

  “Well, we won’t know unless you show up, now will we?”

  I nearly growled into the phone. If there was one thing I couldn’t stand, it was not knowing a juicy piece of information. And I’d call a mystery date a pretty juicy piece of information. “Dang it, Layla. You’re supposed to be my friend. You’re not supposed to exploit my weaknesses.”

  “Yes, I am. That’s what friends are for.”

  “False.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you. However, if you’d like more information, be sure to swing by the shop this afternoon.”

  “Your shop?”

  “No, the donut shop. Of course, my shop. I will give you additional details then. And yes, that is a bribe.”

  “You are infuriating.”

  “See you this afternoon!”

  Even as Layla clicked off the phone, I knew she had me. Good riddance to my curiosity; if I could just stop caring, then I’d never have this issue, and Layla wouldn’t be able to bait me into showing up for a blind date.

  Then again, if I wasn’t curious by nature, I might not have found success as a journalist. Un-curious journalists didn’t make it very far. And now, I was very un-curious about the articles that I was writing, all nail polish and hairdryers and top-ten-diet foods.

  Really, my only chance of keeping the job I’d once loved was to go on this blind date, work hard to bring up our readership numbers, and earn the freedom to write the articles I loved so much.

  But in the meantime, Trish was waiting.

  Chapter 10

  “Hi, Trisha, I’m here with the Construction Times,” I said cheerily, having put the sunglasses on my head, the clipboard in my arms, and a piece of notebook paper on top which I tapped with my clicky pencil. For some reason, the click always added a little bit of extra oomph to my believability factor. I hurrie
dly moved on before Trisha could ask too many questions. “I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time?”

  Trisha’s eyebrows furrowed. Unlike her picture, she’d lost the bright blue eyeshadow, though she’d traded it in for a shade of violet that made it look like she’d just walked away from a bar fight. “What do you need my time for?”

  Looking down with my notepad, I made my face as confused as possible. “You were Hank’s former girlfriend, were you not?”

  At the mention of Hank’s name, a wave of something resembling sadness crossed her face. “What’s it to you?”

  “I just wanted to say I’m really sorry for your loss. I was hoping to write up an article for the construction community as a testament to his great work. Just a quick blurb to say thank you for his services. The only reason I came here today is because I’ve never met Hank in person; I’m just the scheduler for one of the construction companies.”

  “Which one?”

  I mumbled a name that had construction somewhere in there, and hurriedly continued. “I promise I will run the article by you before I print anything.”

  “So you’re a reporter?”

  “I’m just writing up this article,” I said, not confirming or denying her question. “And I apologize for bothering you so soon after Hank’s death. If you want me to leave, I’ll go right away. I was just in the neighborhood, and I figured who better to give a testament to Hank’s personality than you?”

  “We weren’t dating anymore, you know.”

  I hung my head. “I don’t know all of this history between you two, I was just told that he still talked about you a lot, so I assumed you were together. I’m sorry if I assumed too much.”

  “He talked about me a lot?” Her eyebrows raised, and a ray of happiness shone from her eyes. “Really?”

  I nodded, watching as her features softened, and a wave of an emotion that looked like hope shone across her face. “He did. I went to a former client’s house for a few words on Hank’s personality, and he directed me to you; the client said that Hank couldn’t stop talking about you while he worked.”

  “Well, I suppose you can come in.” She opened the door wider, and took a few steps into her home. “Excuse the mess.”

  When most people said something along the lines of excuse the mess, it was more of a formality than anything else. However, judging by the mess in the entryway alone, Trisha truly meant it.

  I followed her inside, glancing around at the tables, shelves, and counters filled with stuff. Lots of stuff. All sorts of stuff. All sizes, colors, and themes of stuff.

  Just like the outside of her house, I got the impression that Trisha had tried to collect vintage or antique candles and picture frames and other knick-knacks that are meant to enhance a person’s home and add character. Most of the time, people used one or two pieces as accents. Trisha, on the other hand, used all of them.

  “You have a lovely home,” I said, not bothering to add that I felt as if I’d walked into a thrift shop that hadn’t been organized since the 1990’s. “Lots of beautiful… pieces.”

  “Thanks, I collect them.”

  Collect what? I wanted to ask. Clutter? This place was sending my OCD on the fritz. Thankfully, I bit my tongue and focused on moving a stack of multicolored paperclips from the couch where she gestured for me to sit.

  Since the clips were scattered across the cushions, I had no hope of gathering them all up and putting them into a bowl organized by color, size, and other properties like I wanted, so instead I just pushed them into one central location and built a small teepee of clips.

  “I appreciate you taking the time to chat with me for a few minutes,” I said, once we were both sitting down in the living room. “I know this must be a hard time for you.”

  Trisha pulled a throw blanket onto her lap and fiddled with the edges. “I didn’t want to let you in at first because I thought you were one of them reporters or curious folks peepin’ in to pry at Hank’s private business. He wouldn’t have liked that.”

  I fell silent. Trisha seemed to be genuinely saddened by the loss of her ex, and it didn’t help my guilt to know that I was a reporter, and I was peeping into Hank’s private life. The only thing keeping me from leaving right this very moment was to remember that Hank deserved someone looking into his death, and Jo deserved someone keeping her out of jail.

  “But an article in the Construction Times—is that where you said you’re from?—he would’ve really liked that.” A small, sunny smile peeked out from behind bright pink lip gloss, a color that completely clashed with her choice in eyeshadow. “Hank was a good man. A private person though.”

  “Private… in what sense? He kept secrets?”

  She shook her head. “No, not secrets. He was just… hm, how do I put this gently?”

  “Give it a shot, I’m sure I’ll understand.”

  “Hank was a simple man.” She nodded. “I don’t mean that in a bad way, in fact, I mean it in a compliment. He knew exactly who he was, exactly what he wanted, and exactly where he was headed in life.”

  “I like simple.” I offered up my own smile back, meaning it. “I’m quite simple myself.”

  “He just kept his head down and did good work. That’s all Hank cared about, the work.”

  “Is that why the two of you broke up?” I raised my hands as soon as the sentence came out of my mouth. “I’m really sorry, that was my personal curiosity speaking, so you can go ahead and ignore that. My extensive apologies. I won’t include anything about your relationship in the article.”

  “You can,” she said slowly. “It’s no secret.”

  “What’s no secret?”

  “Hank and I had been on and off for a long, long time.”

  “How long is long?”

  “Ten years.”

  My eyebrows shot up almost to my hairline. Hank had lied to me! When I had told him I’d been out of the game for a while, he’d said the same thing. Unless maybe he had meant that he’d just gotten out of a relationship?

  I shook my head, focusing on the task at hand. “Wow, I’m really sorry, this must be a hard time for you. Not that it wouldn’t have been otherwise, but ten years—just wow. That’s a long time to be with someone.”

  “Yeah, but we weren’t together that whole time, like I said.” Trisha blinked, a slight mistiness in her eyes. “We fought a lot, that wasn’t a secret.”

  I forgot all about taking notes and leaned forward, truly interested in what Trisha had to say. “Tell me—what keeps a couple together for ten years on and off?” I blushed. “Again, this isn’t for the article. I’m just interested, since I can’t seem to find any luck in love.”

  “That’s the answer,” she said. “It’s just love. I loved that man, and he loved me back.”

  I frowned. “Like I said, I am not a relationship expert. But if you both loved each other, then what was keeping you apart?”

  “His job!” She threw up her hands in frustration, then she pushed over a stack of books on the end table to retrieve a tissue that’d been hidden under a tiny stuffed teddy bear. She honked her nose loudly before continuing. “I loved him and he loved me, but he loved his job more than me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He loved construction. Loved working with his hands, building new things, working with clients—all of it.”

  “I don’t understand… isn’t that a good thing? Most people never find a career they’re half as passionate about as it sounds like Hank was about construction.”

  “It is until he starts undercharging for everything!” She gestured around her house. “Look at me. I’m a woman with certain standards.”

  Standards of clutter? I nodded. “I can see that.”

  “I like to keep things classy. I like nice decorations and the finer things in life.”

  I focused on the stack of Tic-tac boxes stacked like the Leaning Tower of Pisa on the armchair of the couch. “Absolutely.”

  “Hank loved his job so
much that if a project interested him, he’d practically pay the client. He lowballed bids so much for jobs he wanted that it wasn’t worth the gas money to drive over there!” She shook her head. “I wasn’t asking him to make me a millionaire. I just asked him to consider either figuring out a way to charge more, or finding a job for a bigger company that could afford to pay him an honest wage.”

  I glanced down at my notes, feeling mighty conflicted. On one hand, I understood Trisha’s desires. Her idea of the “finer things in life” was a bit questionable, but I understood the need to make a living and pay rent and eat food.

  However, I could see Hank’s side of things, too. He owned a small, tidy house from what I could tell based on the photos of the outside. He enjoyed his job and made enough money to pay his bills and keep his stomach from growling. Really, what more did a person need?

  If Hank was fulfilled at his job, that counted for a lot in terms of his overall happiness levels. I knew from experience. When I’d first been hired on as an intern by The Witch Weekly, I’d been paid peanuts, but I’d never been happier. I didn’t need things or job perks.

  As long as I could keep a roof over my head, I lived for the thrill of chasing a story. Without my job, I would’ve been miserable. From the sounds of things, Hank felt much the same way about building decks and fixing pipes.

  “I can see how that could cause problems,” I murmured. “So that kept you guys on and off for ten years?”

  She nodded. “At first, it didn’t bother me so much. We dated for five years straight because I thought he’d change with time.”

  “I see…”

  “Except he never did. We broke up after five years and stayed away for some time, but then we got back together for another year.” She dabbed at her eyes with another tissue. “After that, we started spending more time broken up than together. The last time we broke up was a few months ago, and he told me it was the last time.”

  “Had he ever said that before?”

  Trisha didn’t answer. A sob wracked her body, and she bent in half. “No, that’s the thing. He had never said that. Before, there was always hope. But this was the very, very last time. I could feel it in my bones. I think we both could. We were tired of the back and forth.”