Witch at Odds: A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 2 (The Jinx Hamilton Mysteries)

by Juliette Harper

  Tori let out a derisive snort. “Our tax dollars at work. Not.”

  My thoughts exactly. Given everything I’d learned over the past month, I’d come to the conclusion that sometimes you can cheat death a little, but taxes and inept politicians are pretty much here to stay.

  “I’m not worried about the councilmen,” I said, “but the star attraction of the undead political show is going to be a real pain in the backside until we can get him back where he belongs. I think it’s time we learned more about the Honorable Howard McAlpin. For one thing, I want to know what Eldon meant when he said Howie served three-and-a-half terms.”

  “Two halves,” Beau said in a droll voice.

  I started to make a crack about “new math,” but stopped myself. I couldn’t even explain that one to the living.

  Tori reached for her laptop and called up the website for The Briar Hollow Banner. I don’t know who meticulously indexed the archives of the local small town rag, but all the issues from the 1800s forward are all online. Somebody at the Banner must have been very bored or very enamored of their brand new scanner to put in that much work.

  With a few keystrokes, Tori found Howie’s obituary. It was the usual exercise in post-mortem canonization. The writer more or less made the late mayor walk on water. The language was so flowery, Howie might have even poured the water in the lake before taking a stroll on the surface.

  “Go farther back,” I suggested, “before Howie became the most popular corpse in town.”

  With a little more digging, we found out that Howard McAlpin became Briar Hollow’s chief executive when his predecessor met an untimely demise involving a lawn mower, an excess of Miller Lite, and an electrical cord.

  Hey, drunken yard work is much more hazardous than you might think — especially when done in your shorts, beer in hand, while the Christmas lights are still plugged in and glowing.

  Once in office, Howie set out making enemies with a vengeance. From stringent leash ordinances in the land of hound dogs riding in the truck bed, to condemning properties to be auctioned by the city for profit, he attacked every sacred cow of small town life.

  Oddly enough, however, with each election cycle, would-be opponents filed for the mayor’s race only to drop out in a matter of days. By his third term, the one that ended with a swordfish to the heart, Howie ran for his office unopposed.

  That fact didn’t stop him from taking out full-page ads, however, touting a platform that called for bringing outside land developers into Briar Hollow to “eradicate the small-minded thinking of local business people who have kept our community stagnant for decades.”

  “Why do you suppose no one ran against him?” Tori asked, studying the screen.

  “I would venture to say the Mayor had incriminating information on his would-be opponents,” Beau suggested. “It is a standard political tactic.”

  I had to agree. Howie looked like a dirt digger if I ever saw one.

  Just then Tori let out a low whistle.

  “What?” I asked.

  She turned the computer screen around so I could see a full-page, anti-Howie political ad paid for by Fiona Ryan. Among other things, Aunt Fiona had called the mayor “a dim-witted scoundrel with the political foresight of a thug for hire.” No wonder Sally Martin had been surprised when I claimed to have found one of the guy’s campaign posters in my aunt’s store.

  “I guess Eldon was right,” I said. “There were plenty of people in this town who would have been happy to see Howie dead. But honestly, do we really care? All we need to do is get him back in his grave.”

  Tori shot me a “look” complete with cocked eyebrow. “Don’t you mean all you have to do is get him back in his grave?”

  My face flushed. There was no getting around the fact that I’d majorly screwed up last night at the cemetery. “I know, I know,” I said a little miserably. “I blew it.”

  Tori’s expression softened, but not much. “I don’t suppose that same brilliant website you consulted in the first place has any suggestions about how to return spirits to their graves?”

  As much as I hate to admit this, I had already checked Miss Elmira’s Ethereal Emporium online for a possible solution. Nada. But she was having a sale on cauldrons.

  Just then the bell on the front door jingled. I went out to discover that a tour bus had just deposited a group of retirees on the courthouse square. Even with the disruption of the workmen in the back corner, the unexpected crowd was a boon to my business. Several mentioned our new Facebook page and were disappointed that we weren’t serving coffee yet. I handed out free essential oils samples, which seemed to satisfy them, and posed for several Instagram shots.

  The customers kept us occupied all afternoon. It was well after 5 o’clock when I finally locked the front door and went back to the storeroom.

  I didn’t make it any farther than the door before I halted in my tracks. The makeshift coffee table was covered with a white linen cloth and a full dinner was laid out for us, complete with wine glasses and real silver flatware.

  As soon as he saw me, Darby lifted the lid away from a domed platter to reveal a perfectly roasted chicken in a bed of rice and mixed vegetables.

  “Darby,” I said, my voice sounding a little breathless, “did you do all this?”

  Smiling hopefully, the brownie said, “Yes, Mistress. I hope you are pleased. I also took the liberty of cleaning and organizing your kitchen this afternoon while you were occupied with business. Your feline companions are most interesting. Did you know Winston has an interest in classical literature?”

  Huh.

  That might explain why he comes running every time there’s a Jane Austen movie on the TV . . .

  Wait a minute.

  My cat reads?

  Okay. One earth-shattering revelation at a time. I own real silver flatware?

  “Where did you find all this stuff?” I asked.

  “In your living quarters, Mistress Jinx,” Darby said, sounding a little uncertain. “Are you displeased?”

  With the way that chicken smelled? Not a chance.

  “No,” I said, giving him a reassuring smile that caused his wizened little face to light up. “Not at all. This is really nice of you, Darby. I just didn’t know I had all these things. You see, I’ve only been living here about a month.”

  I felt, more than heard, Tori come up behind me. “What smells so good in here?” she asked, sounding like a hungry coonhound on the scent.

  When I stepped aside, she let out a little gasp. “You cook, too?” she said to Darby.

  The little man nodded. “I found some peculiar boxed items in the large ice chest in your kitchen,” he said, “but they appear to belong to someone named Jenny Craig. I did not want to steal, so I prepared this instead.”

  Yeah. If Darby could cook like this, Jenny could dang well eat her own food from now on.

  Tori and I sat down and watched in fascination as Darby poured our wine and expertly sliced the chicken. The food tasted as good as it looked. I turned to say something appreciative to our diminutive chef, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  “Do you believe this?” I asked Tori.

  Across from me, she chewed happily. “For food this good, I’ll believe in unicorns.” She paused for a second and then looked at me wide-eyed. “We haven’t asked about unicorns,” she said.

  “Stop,” I ordered firmly. “We have all the metaphysical creatures we can handle at the moment.” Changing the subject, I asked, “Where’s the Colonel?”

  “When you were wrapping up the lavender soap for that woman in the loud green blouse, Beau told me he wants to be at the cemetery when the sun goes down,” Tori answered, taking a sip of her wine. “He said he’ll reconnoiter the situation and be back here ‘as soon as practicable.’”

  We both laughed. “He’s a sweet old guy,” I said, “and that’s what has me worried.”

  Tori frowned. “Worried how?”

  Even with the steady stream of customers, I�
�d had plenty of time to think throughout the afternoon. “Well,” I said, “I guess we can agree that I didn’t know what I was doing when I raised a whole cemetery of ghosts.”

  “No argument from me,” Tori said. “So?”

  “So,” I said, “that means I not only have no idea how to put the new ghosts back, I don’t know what will happen to the old ones when I try.”

  Tori’s face fell. “Oh. My. God,” she said. “You’re afraid you’ll make all of them go away, aren’t you?”

  I nodded. For as much as I had wanted to set the spirits free from their confinement in the graveyard, I hadn’t planned to banish them or anything. I mean, I didn’t want to hold them back from whatever might be . . . next . . . or did I?

  They were our friends now. I couldn’t imagine not watching Jeff hang on every word Tori read to him from Sports Illustrated or listening to Miss Lou Ella try to talk me into ratting my hair up into a bouffant.

  And then there was Beau. He’d only been here at the store with us for one day and I already loved having him around.

  Tori set her mouth in a firm line. “Jinksy,” she said, “no more wonky web magic. You can’t do anything until you really know what you’re doing.”

  “Agreed,” I said, “but what are we going to do with this herd of ghosts I’ve let loose?”

  Spearing a potato with her fork, Tori said, “Oh, come on! How much trouble could a few extra ghosts cause? We can manage it.”

  Famous last words.

  10

  Tori and I had been enjoying our catered supper so much, neither one of us noticed when the sun went down. It wasn’t until I heard a polite cough from the doorway that I looked up to realize the front of the store was dark. Beau Longworth stood just inside the room. The look on his face told me instantly we were in for trouble.

  “I tried,” he said simply, his voice filled with regret.

  Uh-oh. That did not sound good.

  “Tried what?” I asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

  “To get them all to stay in the cemetery,” the Colonel answered. “I’m afraid they chose not to listen.”

  Tori and I both got up without a word and followed his faintly glowing form to the big front windows. The entire courthouse square was filled with wandering spirits. I watched with both fascination and pity as an elderly man stood in front of an empty storefront that had apparently been his business in life. He was rummaging through his pockets, I assumed searching for his keys. Suddenly it dawned on him that he could walk through the door, but when he did, his pale, luminescent form darted frantically back and forth across the darkened windows.

  Even half a block away, we heard his voice raised in alarm. “Help!” he cried. “Someone call the police. I’ve been robbed!”

  A few sympathetic spirits milled toward him murmuring support, but my attention was drawn to a spectral police officer in full uniform. He was standing in the middle of the intersection to our left, which was now regulated by a traffic light. Oblivious to this fact, he blew forcefully on his whistle, gesturing for an oncoming car to stop only to have a Honda Civic run right through him.

  The officer looked down at his body in horror, glancing around frantically. “Stop that car!” he yelled, blowing on his whistle again. “That jerk just tried to run me down.”

  We watched at least a dozen of these incomprehending melodramas play out around the square. Beside me Tori said, in a choked voice, “Jinsky, this is awful. We have to do something to help them.”

  His own voice thick with emotion, Beau said, “I tried to explain to them that they are no longer part of the world of the living. They did not believe me. Every one of them thinks they are neglecting the details of their lives.”

  Even though it was an incredibly personal question, I had to ask. “Was it like this for you at first, Beau?”

  The old soldier shook his head. “Not exactly,” he said. “I was a cavalry officer. My men were escorting wagons of supplies when we were ambushed a few miles outside of town. We charged the attacking Union forces and I took a Minie ball in the chest. I remember the sensation of falling off my horse and striking the ground.”

  He paused and swallowed hard. “I was grateful that Sampson, my mount, was uninjured in the fray,” Beau said. “He was a faithful companion to me for many years. I watched him nuzzling my fallen body and knew that I had been killed. Poor Sampson, he was far too upset for any other possibility to be the truth.”

  Dear God. All these years later, the Colonel was more upset about his horse than his own death. I never wanted to hug someone so bad in my life.

  Beau cleared his throat and continued with his story. “In those days it was not practical to transport bodies over long distances,” he explained. “I have come to understand that in modern times there are methods of preservation, but we were buried here, in the local cemetery a day or so later.”

  “Were you born around here, sir?” I asked. Suddenly, I really hoped there had been mourners when this gallant gentleman was laid in his grave.

  “I am a native son of Tennessee,” he said proudly. “After the war, my wife and daughter came to Briar Hollow to visit my grave. They are responsible for the obelisk that now marks my resting place.”

  Well, that was something. “Why didn’t they take your . . . remains . . . home?” I ventured.

  He turned to look at me, smiling sadly. “Almira, my wife, knew me well,” he said. “My place was here, with my men.”

  Frowning, I said, “But, Beau, you’re the only Civil War soldier I’ve seen at the cemetery.”

  “My boys rest in peace,” he said simply. “I do not.”

  Before I thought, I asked, “Why not?”

  Colonel Longworth inclined his head slightly, but then raised his eyes. “Because they were killed under my command,” he said, as if he were admitting to having committed a heinous crime. “I was not vigilant that day. I chose a road for our transit without proper reconnaissance. My men died because of my foolish impatience.”

  There was nothing to say to that.

  When I first met Beau, he explained that my Aunt Fiona, who visited the cemetery regularly, believed the spirits there had unfinished business. He didn’t bother to add that the business that kept him walking the earth could never be finished.

  We silently turned our attention back to the milling crowd of ghosts in the square. A trio of middle-aged housewives, circa 1950-something, walked past the window, and I heard one of them say, “Let’s see if Aggie has any good sales today. I need a new dress to wear to Leona’s for bridge Thursday night.” They were on their way to the dress shop two doors down.

  So far none of the spirits seemed to be doing anything threatening or that would call attention to themselves — other than the problematic Howard McAlpin, and so far he was nowhere to be seen.

  Those were all positives. And after all, we were the only ones who could see the ghosts . . . weren’t we?

  I put the question to Beau. I didn’t like his answer.

  “You and Miss Tori are the only living souls who can see these spirits for now,” he said. “But, like Mayor McAlpin yesterday, as they are thwarted in their attempts to resume their normal lives, and the more they are ignored by the living, their frustration will grow, and with it, their anger. I would anticipate that there will be . . . incidents.”

  Great. Just freaking great.

  “So what do we do?” Tori asked.

  Before either of us could answer her, I heard a gasp somewhere near the vicinity of my elbow and looked down to see Darby standing beside me. Well, okay, more like cowering behind me.

  “Darby,” I said, “what is it? Are you okay?”

  The little man looked up at me with round, frightened eyes. He was trembling.

  “She is here, Mistress, ” he whispered.

  I don’t know about you, but I had more than reached my quota of prophetic statements for one evening. Couldn’t anybody just deliver the bad news and get it over with?


  Resigning myself to the next layer of complication headed our way, I asked the inevitable question. “‘She’ who?”

  Darby shook his head vehemently and took a step back. “Please, Mistress,” he pleaded. “Do not make me say her name. She will find me.”

  Great. We had a Lady Voldemort on our hands. She Who Will Not Be Named.

  But I didn’t say that or anything else snarky. Darby was too scared for me to be impatient with him.

  “It’s okay,” I said soothingly. “Just point at her.”

  Now shaking violently, Darby raised one hand and extended his index finger toward the courthouse. “There,” he said, in a voice so soft I had to bend down to hear him. “She stands in the shadow of the gray soldier.”

  I followed his gaze toward the granite Confederate Veteran’s monument on the courthouse lawn. At the base of the statue, a lone woman stood perfectly still watching the bedlam around her with an expression I can only describe as bemused.

  She was tall and lean with sharp, hawkish features. A long mane of red hair tumbled around her shoulders, blending into the folds of the flowing black cloak that covered her body and pooled on the ground around her feet.

  As I studied her, the woman seemed to become aware of my gaze. Her eyes lifted toward the store and met my own.

  She smiled.

  Crap.

  11

  Nobody argued when I suggested we step away from the window. The red-haired woman continued to stare toward the store with that creepy smile on her face as we retreated into the shadows. Even when I knew we were hidden from her view, I had the uneasy sensation that she was still watching our every move.

  Darby was so frightened by this time, he was letting out snuffling whimpers. Rather than tower over his diminutive frame and talk down to him, I knelt on the floor and put my hands on his arms.

  “Darby,” I said, waiting to continue until he was looking right at me. “I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. Do you understand?”

  The brownie nodded, but the eyes that looked out at me from his wizened features were still huge with fright.