Hex Marks the Spot

by Madelyn Alt

  We’d first gotten together when Tom was investigating the murder of Felicity’s sister, Isabella—and he’d fingered Liss as the prime suspect. Of course, she’d been cleared of all charges, but Tom still didn’t trust her, and he didn’t trust any of the paranormal activities she was involved with, either. That had never set well with me. And of course, there was the fact that he was only separated from his wife and about to start divorce proceedings.

  Maybe we both had issues with trust that needed to be worked through.

  “Enough,” I said aloud, shaking my head to break free of the serious thoughts and lifting my face to the midmorning sunshine streaming through the car windows. Now was not the time to crawl through the cobwebs of my subconscious.

  Before I knew it, I had crossed town and ventured onto Victoria Park Road

  . Once lined with working farms, this meandering stretch of byway was now the gold coast of Stony Mill’s surrounding countryside, as evidenced by the occasional happily situated residence punctuating the picturesque isolation. But it wasn’t until I approached Liss’s manor-style home that I realized how long it had been since I’d last driven the road’s narrow curves. Had it really been six months since Liss’s sister had been killed? At one time I might have labeled Isabella Harding’s death the spark that set fire to my intuitive sensitivities and abilities, but looking back now, I couldn’t be so sure. I had the slow, sneaking suspicion that things had been happening in town all along. Was it just that I’d been too busy to notice? To really see?

  I drove slowly past the architectural monstrosity that was the Harding estate, barely visible behind the elaborate six-foot iron fence that protected the house and grounds from the outside world. From the outside world, yes, but the bigger threat had come from within. I couldn’t help wondering how Jeremy Harding was filling his time these days, now that both his wife and his daughter had abandoned him for…other eventualities. Something told me the grieving widower was too busy following his bliss through the ministrations of his able-bodied assistant, Jetta James, to be missing the dear departed Isabella…but maybe I was being too hard on the man.

  Eh, probably not.

  I slowed down as Harding’s grandiose fencing transitioned to Liss’s classic fieldstone. The entrance to Liss’s property was already open as I approached—a sign, perhaps, that whatever ghosts Liss had been suffering had finally been laid to rest. I hoped so. Turning onto the smoothly paved driveway, a welcome change from the crushed limestone most often found in these parts, I tooled up the wooded stretch that began just inside the gates, turning the wheel this way and that until I rounded the last bend and burst through to the stretch of green lawn and burgeoning spring gardens that surrounded the English-style manor house.

  Liss hurried out to greet me as Christine sputtered to a halt beneath the carriage port.

  “Record time,” she enthused as she folded herself into the bucket seat next to me.

  Known for her retro-antique fashion sense, today Liss had chosen an outfit that was actually on the mod side: a pair of khaki linen slacks and a bouclé jacket. She paired it with a gorgeous embroidered silk frame purse with a snake chain handle that was something my grandmother might have used as a young woman. As for me, I’d worn my usual safe uniform of turtleneck, jeans, and wool jacket—worn open, as a concession to the season. Spring may have sprung, but summer heat was not exactly forthcoming, and in my mind, comfort was king. Or at least queen.

  “Onward?” I suggested.

  “Absolutely. Oh, Maggie, I’m so looking forward to this—great Goddess, it’s been a long winter! This is going to be just what the doctor ordered.”

  “I feel a little guilty, leaving the store to the girls,” I fretted as we bumped along county roads still pitted from the winter frost heave.

  “Spring is all about renewal,” Liss said, patting my hand on the stick shift. “Women tend to put the needs of everyone and everything before their own. We all need to refill the well from time to time.”

  The annual kickoff to the upcoming summer season was opening day of the county craft bazaar and farmers market. It was a big deal, highly attended by Stony Millers, well-to-do and poor alike. Not so many years ago the bazaar was little more than an informal assembly of pickup trucks and tents gathered around the courthouse square on Thursday mornings, until the traffic had gotten bad enough to necessitate a more spacious venue. The 4-H Fairgrounds at Heritage Park fit the bill nicely, so long as one didn’t mind the smelly animal barns and deeply trenched demolition derby field also on the premises.

  We left Christine in one of the parking areas, then made our way toward the tents where the bulk of the festivities were to take place. Ropes of brightly colored flags pointed us in the right direction along straw-covered paths. Not that we needed them with the unmistakable smoky aroma of Port-a-Pit chicken wafting our way. Lunch, I hoped…or maybe a brat…or a tenderloin…or…

  I was still thinking about my stomach when I realized just how many Stony Millers had turned out for the opening day. People, great throngs of them, milled about between the myriad tents and tables. I faltered a moment when I saw them. Crowds aren’t exactly my favorite things in the world, mostly because people en masse give off an amazing amount of energy, and I still hadn’t quite mastered the ability to completely shield myself from the cumulative effects. But at least I’d prepared for this possibility today—as much as a fledgling empath could. Some of the personal wards I had put into effect earlier. Just a few last-minute preparations were needed now.

  As Liss had taught me, I took a moment to center myself, to call for the white, protective light to fill me, surround me, keep me safe from harm. That and a deep, steadying breath…

  Not as effective as a personal Taser, perhaps, but on a spiritual and emotional level, it was the next best thing.

  “Better?”

  I opened my eyes to find Liss watching me, her blue eyes smiling kindly. I flushed a little. “I…well, yes. Thanks.”

  She leaned in a little as she took my arm and we began walking again toward the crowds, two sensitives united against the outside world. “Don’t resist so much. Let the energy flow through you. Recognize it for what it is, acknowledge it, and let it go. You’ll feel better.”

  Letting it go sounded like good advice, but it was going to take a little practice.

  The first tent we came to was filled to bursting with chatter and the predictable “kuntry” crafts so many found charming these days. Cows, chickens, gingham, too many items decorated with that watered-down and ubiquitous blue that had been popular for at least a decade…Even miniature two-seater privies for the country girls who had everything. And then there was the proliferation of bunnies of all shapes and sizes, phony eggs, and baskets with pastel grass, proudly displayed side by side with the crosses adorned with plastic Jesus figures, just in time for the upcoming holiday. I smiled to myself, wondering what they would say if I told them the bunnies and colored eggs stemmed from the pagan festival of Ostara, a name that had been shamelessly usurped and revamped by the early Church leaders. Not that it would make a difference—they wouldn’t believe me anyway.

  I drifted from table to table, nodding politely at the vendors (mostly middle-aged ladies trying to make a buck or two to justify their favorite hobbies) as they proudly demonstrated the tchotchkes they had made at their kitchen tables, but I knew we were unlikely to find anything suitable for Enchantments in this particular tent. Still, Liss took her time, speaking personably with each vendor, exclaiming over their wares and even buying a particularly florid rooster that she insisted was the mirror image of one her own wee mum had owned when she was growing up at their home in the Trossachs area of Scotland. Personally, I suspected she was just making nice with the natives, but then again, that was Liss. God love her for it.

  Eventually we moved on to other tents with more crafts, as well as a few antiques and collectibles. But the booth Liss had really come for was yet to be seen—a display of hand-made Amish
furniture made by your friend and mine, fellow N.I.G.H.T.S. member Eli Yoder.

  Speak of the devil…

  “Eli!”

  I had caught sight of our friend where he had set up his tools and projects in an open horse barn across the way. I waved cheerily and immediately headed in his direction, knowing Liss was only seconds behind me. Most days when I saw Eli, he wore a pair of black pants held up by a pair of suspenders, a black coat with black buttons, and a white shirt, topped off by a round, flat-brimmed hat. Today he wore—wait for it—a pair of black pants held up by suspenders, a black coat, and a white shirt topped off by a round, flat-brimmed hat. I’ve heard tell that when he really wants to mix things up, he wears a shirt that’s robin’s egg blue or pale green, but I’ve never seen him look anything but, well, plain.

  In the dusty shade of the barn Eli bent over a piece of wood stretched between two well-used sawhorses, his thick hands delicately sanding the wood to a state of perfection.

  “And how are you this bright and beautiful morning?” I said as I drew near.

  Lifting his big head, he smiled at me, his hands continuing their task. “Gut.Wunderbar! Und Sie? ”

  I held up my hands in protest, laughing. “And now I wish I’d paid more attention to Frau Nielson in first-year German class. Why is it that life is always clearer in retrospect?”

  “It is just the way of the world,ja ?”

  “So it would seem. What are you doing?”

  “I am preparing the wood. See? You try.” He ran his hand over the wood, motioning for me to do the same. “What do you feel?”

  I smoothed my hand over the piece of wood. It was warm, and slick as glass. “Nothing.”

  “Then it is ready almost.”

  Liss sidled up beside me. “There you are, Eli. We’ve been looking all over for you and your wares.”

  I could have sworn I saw Eli blush beneath the brim of his hat. “I have been here. Just so.”

  “I see that.” She ran her gaze over the gleaming tables, bookshelves, and rocking chairs that surrounded us in the dusty shade. “My, you have been busy this winter. These are lovely, Eli. Just lovely.”

  “I am glad they please you.”

  “Oh, they do. They do. You are a real master of the wood-crafting arts. And—oh!” She caught her breath. Holding her hand to her breast in awe, she nodded in the direction of an armoire at least seven feet high that was being hefted onto a furniture dolly by two knot-shouldered men in Amish garb. “Is that yours?”

  Eli grunted as he straightened his spine. “The cabinet? Ja. It is mine. For now.”

  Unlike Eli’s other pieces, the cabinet was ablaze with color and chased delicately with carvings that looked almost Celtic in origin. “That is amazing work,” Felicity sighed.

  “Ah.” Eli dusted his hands off on a thick bundle of cheesecloth. “That would be Luc’s handiwork. Lucas Metzger,” he said by way of explanation, nodding toward the departing armoire. “That is Luc, just there on the left.”

  I glanced at the retreating backs of the two men. The man on the left was just another man in Amish garb, made nondescript by the homogeneous uniform.

  “A friend of yours?” Liss asked politely as she ran practiced hands over the joints of a chair. “Or a business partner?”

  “Not partners. Luc, he used to work with his brother roofing houses, but he left off doing that for a job at the RV factory in town. But this winter was hard—his hours were cut at the plant, and he is a proud man and would not go back to his brother. I have been giving him extra work whenever I can spare it.”

  Honorable Eli. “That was a very nice thing for you to do,” I told him, and meant it.

  Eli gave a modest shrug. “He had the need, I had the means. A good arrangement for the both of us. But the cabinet…”

  “The color and carvings,” Liss commented as she studied the retreating piece with the attention of a scholar. “Like something straight out of Celtic Europe. I’ve never seen you do that before.”

  “No. It is not plain,” Eli said, quieting his voice as though reluctant to allow the admission to go beyond their earshot. “Luc, he was raised in a Pennsylvania order of Amish. Some things they do not do the same way that we do here.” He looked down at the ground, deep in thought, then shrugged. “It is not plain, the cabinet, and so it is not something I could in good faith sell as my own…and yet it would be wasteful to dismantle it. That is why I donated it for the auction today. Someone will put it to good use.”

  “Auction?” Liss’s ears perked up at the use of one of her favorite words.

  I had almost forgotten. The highlight of opening day was an auction that raised money for a different charity selected by a governing committee every year. The committee identified the best from those items offered by the local crafting community. To be one of the chosen few was a big honor, and free publicity for the artisan in question.

  Liss was eyeing the armoire’s retreat with a gleam in her eye. “I know just where I could use something like that.”

  I giggled. I knew well what the look meant. “Should I call my father and ask whether his pickup will be free?”

  Liss laughed, too. “Maybe so. I suppose it all depends on how successful I am at the bidding.” She turned back to Eli. “What time is the auction?”

  “The big reveal is at eleven o’clock,” I said, reading from the schedule I’d picked up on the way in. “Don’t worry, you have plenty of time.”

  Liss leisurely selected several items from Eli’s stock, including a solidly crafted plant stand that she said would be perfect for an altar. While Eli slapped Sold signs on them and grumbled good-naturedly about letting things go under cost, Liss and I hightailed it over to the main pavilion where the auction was to be held.

  The pavilion was shrouded with white sheets to give the proceedings an air of anticipation and mystery. A crowd had formed around it, whispering together, wondering what offerings the committee had selected this year. The comprehensive list of donations that some organized soul had thought to post was a thing to behold and made one thing abundantly clear: Our little town boasted its share of craftsmen, artisans, and closet artistes.

  Kind of made a hometown girl proud.

  Liss looked at me and smiled.

  The white curtains at the front shivered, then parted briefly as the committee chair stepped through to the podium. At the helm was none other than…

  Jetta James?

  Jetta James, not-so-secret paramour of Liss’s not-so-grieving ex-brother-in-law, Jeremy Harding.

  Six months had not allowed for much change, I noticed as I surveyed her from the anonymity of the crowd. Same brassy hair, same penchant for tight clothing and teeter-totter heels, same hard eyes.

  “Ladies. And. Gentlemen.” Her voice rang out over the crowd. “Welcome, one and all, to the opening day of the Stony Mill Farmers Market and Craft Extravaganza! We, the members of the Stony Mill Planning Committee, want to thank you for your support of this vital part of our town’s continued economic growth and vigor. We are extraordinarily proud of the improvements we have been able to make in the last few years, and with your ongoing support we will continue to do just that. And now…without further ado”—an important shuffle of the papers—“let’s move on to the moment we’ve all been waiting for. Committee members, come forward, please.”

  Several Stony Mill notables emerged from the crowd to join her. The hush of anticipation became a ribbon of energy that snaked from person to person, circling the pavilion. I felt it first as a flicker in my solar plexus that made me expand my lungs to take in more air, the very fiber of which felt distinctly alive. It was always like this when people joined together. Good vibes, bad vibes, neutral vibes, but always something.

  Beside me, Liss smiled blandly, seemingly untouched by the exchange of personal energies. I did my best to emulate her calm.

  “Come on down, committee members, don’t be shy,” Jetta teased, beckoning with her free hand. To the crowd at large s
he said, “These people have put in untold hours, and I think they deserve a round of applause from us all, don’t you?” The crowd obliged her politely. “Bill Childers, Catherine Neely, Bob Dixon, Olivia Manning, and our selfless leader, Jeremy Harding. We thank you all for your dedication to the success of this year’s festivities.”

  Jeremy Harding? Liss’s self-serving brother-in-law a selfless volunteer?

  Behind Jetta, the curtains trembled once, twice, then fell in a puddle to the weathered floorboards. Delighted titters of excitement rose from the crowd. Auction junkies eager to strike.

  While everyone else leaned forward as one to get a better look at the goods, I scanned the committee faces I’d thus far ignored. Sure enough, there Jeremy was on the end, all well-tailored suit and pretty-boy hair, the only man in town who went in regularly for a manicure. But as for the selfless part, I didn’t believe it for a minute. He wasn’t the altruistic type. And for that matter, neither was Jetta. Which raised the question of why they were both serving on the SMPC.

  Hmm.

  But there was no time for speculation. Jetta was busy introducing the crafters and artisans who had created the show’s auction prizes. With all the glib savoir faire of a game show model, she made a flourish at each prize, describing it in enthusiastic detail and giving a short introduction of the artist. I couldn’t help beaming like a proud mom when Jetta presented Eli’s work to the crowd.