I patted his shoulder. “I’ll bet you were a really good brother, Mike.”
Mike glanced at me and shrugged. “I hope so. Because he sure was one to me.”
Chapter Five
I rode my scooter across town to Azalea Avenue and scanned the block for the house Mike described. As it turned out, the Simpson house was impossible to miss. I parked my scooter and stood in front of the lawn, my jaw hanging open. The yard was a minefield of pink flamingos, sunflowers, ladybugs, and other colorful metal sculptures. The largest one was a garden spinner that was at least seventy-two inches tall. When the wind hit it, the sculpture looked like rainbow confetti. The riot of colors and textures was an assault on my sense of sight. Nothing flowed. The colors weren't even complementary. It took all my resolve not to hop on my scooter and drive away.
I strode up the walkway and averted my gaze from the offending items. I rapped on the front door quickly, then slowed my pace, reminding myself that I was about to speak to Pete's widow. The woman deserved my sympathy, not my scorn…unless she was the murderer, of course. Then I would go full scorn with judgmental guns blazing.
There was no answer, but the sound of a machine drew me to the backyard. A small shed sat in the far corner of the yard, its double doors wide open. Remnants of sparks dusted the air.
“Tiffany?” I called. I didn't want to get too close and risk a stray spark singeing my clothing.
A slight blonde emerged from the shed, tipping up a protective mask. Was the band restricted to dating only blondes?
“Can I help you?” With her mask raised, I immediately noticed the dark circles under her eyes. Tiffany Simpson seemed to be sleep deprived. Whether that was from grief or guilt remained to be seen.
“Hi, Tiffany. I’m Kenna Byrne. I just wanted to come by and say how sorry I am to hear about your husband. Pete's death is a great loss to the community.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Do I know you?”
“No. I’m in charge of the Battle of the Bands competition. I was there…”
Understanding spread across her pert features. “You’re the woman who found him.” She eyed me curiously. “What were you doing in the men’s bathroom in a bar? I wanted to ask Buddy, but it seemed inappropriate given the awful news I’d just received.”
To be honest, I thought it was an odd question to ask now, one day later.
“I was looking for Pete, actually,” I said. “His band was ready to play, but no one could find him.”
Tiffany yanked down her mask. “Yeah, well, if he hadn't been so insistent on being in that band and pursuing a music career, he might still be alive today.”
Wow. She seemed far from a grieving widow. To be fair, everyone grieves differently. I know this firsthand because my witchy sisters and I had experienced four different responses in the aftermath of the destruction of St. Joan of Arc. I’d always been a hyper focused achiever, but after the incident, I sort of kicked it up a notch and never looked back. Skye had only minored in sarcasm before then, but quickly became fluent. Zola’s maternal side wasn’t even evident until after the fire. Up until then, she’d been happy to do her own thing. Afterward, she seemed determined to dole out sage advice and pick the nits off our backs, or would have done if we’d been gorillas. Evian became much more reliant on her familiar. Not that Paul wasn’t the best toad in the world—he really is—but Evian needed to cut the cord. So maybe this tough, blasé act was Tiffany’s way of coping. I didn’t know her well enough to say for certain.
Tiffany retreated back into the shed and I quickly followed.
“You didn't approve of his music career?” I asked. Once I crossed the threshold, it took me a moment to get my bearings in the shed. The interior was worse than the front lawn. Disorder reigned supreme with metal sculptures everywhere I turned. Birds, flowers, a sun and stars, even a gecko. My stomach clenched and I nearly backed straight out of the shed. Then I pictured Pete’s lifeless body on the floor and steeled myself against the onslaught of tacky garden decor.
“It seems you both have creative streaks,” I said. I gestured to the interior of the shed. “Is that your handiwork on the front lawn, too?”
Tiffany beamed with pride. “Yes. Big Mama’s Heavy Metal is the name of my company. I supply most of the shops in town with my sculptures. I'm sure you've seen them around.”
Not if I’d blocked them from my memory as a matter of self-preservation.
Looking around the shed, I was surprised she didn't support her husband's interest in music.
“Was your husband a fan of your artwork?” Because I would have completely understood if he wasn’t.
Tiffany began welding what appeared to be a metal ostrich. Honestly, it was hard to tell.
“Pete was very supportive of me,” she said. “The problem was that Pete's creative interest clashed with mine.”
“How so?” I didn’t see how a drummer’s dream interfered with ugly metal lawn ornaments.
She stopped welding and flipped up her mask again. “He wanted to be a full-time musician,” she said hotly. “He intended to win the prize money from the competition and use it to fund his dream.”
So she did know. “What’s so wrong about that?”
“That meant quitting his job, spending all hours in a recording studio, and touring for months on end.” She examined an imperfect piece of the ostrich. “We’d have been apart too much. It would have been bad for our marriage.”
“You could have gone with him,” I said.
Tiffany gaped at me as though I’d suggested removing her wisdom teeth right here and now with her welding torch. “I couldn’t possibly leave all this.”
Glancing around the haphazard shed, I wasn’t sure how she stayed and retained her sanity.
“Did Pete know you weren’t on board with his plan?” I asked.
Tiffany’s expression soured. “He knew I wouldn’t leave here. We fought about it more than once. He thought I’d be excited to leave Eternal Springs and travel.”
I knew I would. Then again, I wasn’t on the island by choice, so my attitude was bound to be colored by that simple fact.
“He seemed very confident about winning the competition,” I said. “Was he always like that?”
Tiffany removed her protective gloves. “Not particularly. He did seem very confident that he’d be leaving here, though. I assumed it was wishful thinking. He’d been wanting to see the back end of Two Brothers for so long. He talked about it constantly.”
“Did you think he should use the prize money for something else?” Maybe to fund the expansion of her own business?
Tiffany shrugged. “I didn’t care so much about the money. I’m a girl of simple tastes. I love this house and I love what I do. Pete’s the one who wanted more.” Her eyes gathered unshed tears. “And now he’ll never have it.”
No, he wouldn’t. “Were you at the practice session when he died?” I didn’t recall seeing her there.
“No, I was at Marta’s Vineyard discussing supplies. She wants more bee ornaments in the next delivery. They apparently sell well to the beekeeper crowd.”
There was a beekeeper crowd on the island? That was news to me.
“You can never have enough bee ornaments,” I lied enthusiastically. I knew Marta Hammond, so Tiffany’s story would be easy enough to check out.
Tiffany regarded me. “You know what? If you’re the tourism director, maybe you could find a way to get my sculptures into more local shops. That Gigi Montbatten refuses to stock my stuff. Like she’s too classy for pink flamingos. It’s insulting.”
Gigi Montbatten owned A Touch of Elegance gift shop. I could hardly blame her for rejecting the menagerie of metal monstrosities.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said. “Again, I’m sorry for your loss.”
Tiffany pulled down her protective mask, ready to get back to work. Burying oneself in work was a sentiment I understood all too well.
I’d traveled only a block from Tiffany’s house
when I spotted it—the Waffle Wagon. The red wagon was at the far end of Thistledown Road, preparing to make a right turn. If I put the pedal to the metal, I might be able to catch up before I lost sight of it. As I was about to make a move, a splotch of black and white on the side of the road ahead caught my eye. My hands gripped the handlebar as I felt my blood pressure rise. Once again, the Waffle Wagon would have to wait.
I pulled over and whipped off my helmet. “Clover!” I yelled. “What do you think you’re doing? We’ve talked about this.”
Zola’s skunk familiar was notorious for playing dead in order to fool tourists. She’d lure innocent passersby to the side of the road like a stinky siren, and then hop to her feet, delighting the tourists with her miraculous recovery. In return, they’d ply her with treats.
“How many times have I told you it’s not okay to play roadkill?” I demanded, my hands flying to my hips.
Clover ignored me, which only made my blood boil more.
“Answer me, Clover, or I will drown you in lava.” Okay, that threat was a bit extreme, I admit, but I was pissed.
It was then that I noticed the blood.
I took a hesitant step forward. “Clover?”
“Kenna, I’m so glad you’re here.” Stuart swooped down from nowhere and I swatted him back.
“Not now, Stuart,” I said, scooping up Clover and placing her in the basket of my scooter. I had to get her to Zola’s for immediate help. The skunk was unconscious, and I couldn’t find the source of the bleeding. This was the ultimate case of the skunk that cried wolf.
“But I saw what happened,” Stuart insisted, flying beside me.
I strapped on my helmet and fired up the scooter. “I can guess what happened. Clover’s roadkill game almost became a reality.” I headed toward Cackleberries, Zola’s garden shop.
As usual, Stuart continued rambling. The albino raven could never take a hint, no matter how strongly worded. Thanks to the helmet and the wind whipping around my ears, all I heard was garbled ravenspeak.
“I need to get to Zola right now,” I shouted. “I’ll talk to you later.”
I made it to Cackleberries in less than five minutes. I lifted Clover into my arms and rushed inside, the door slamming behind me before Stuart had a chance to follow. Zola was behind the counter, crushing herbs in a mortar with a pestle.
“What happened?” she asked, alarmed.
“Not sure. I found her on the side of the road. She must’ve actually gotten hit by a golf cart or a scooter.”
Zola’s expression darkened. “And left for dead? Who would do such a thing? Bring her to the back.”
I hurried behind her to the back of the shop and gently placed Clover on a wooden table.
Zola set to work gathering ingredients to concoct a healing tonic for her familiar. As the earth witch of our foursome, she was the most adept at plant-based magic—something that came in handy during times like this.
“I don’t think she was hit by a scooter,” Zola said, as she began to treat Clover’s injuries.
“Why not?” I leaned over to examine the skunk.
“The wounds don’t match what I’d expect from impact with a vehicle,” Zola said. “She’s battered and bruised, but the injuries aren’t consistent with being hit by a scooter or a golf cart.”
A tapping on the back window caused us both to jump.
“Stuart!” I yelled. “Not now.”
“Seriously? Is that albino raven still hounding you?” Zola queried. “Can’t you get a restraining order?”
“He’s trying to pull an All About Eve and replace Gerald as my familiar,” I said.
“What does he think is so great about being your familiar?” Zola asked, her eyes riveted to Clover as she worked her magic on the skunk’s limp body.
“He has good taste,” I said. “Other than that, I really don’t know. He thinks it’s his true calling.”
“Gerald is an absolute treasure,” Zola said. “Does Stuart realize how versatile that armadillo is? Those are hard wings to fill.”
Stuart continued tapping on the window.
“I can’t concentrate with that racket,” Zola said. “Make your stalker go away.”
I went and opened the back door. “Get a move on, Stuart. We’re trying to focus on helping Clover.”
“Flying monkeys attacked Clover,” Stuart said quickly, before I had a chance to close the door.
My hand hovered over the doorknob. “What?”
“Flying monkeys,” he repeated.
“There’s no such thing,” I replied.
The words tumbled out in a rush. “I saw them. Three of them. Big and ugly. They flew down and attacked Clover.”
“Are you sure they weren’t birds?”
Stuart’s beady eye fixed on me. “I’m a raven, Kenna. Do you think I wouldn’t recognize another bird?”
Flying monkeys? How was that even possible? “You’re saying they attacked Clover and then flew off?”
Stuart nodded. “Back toward the forest.”
That explained the strange poop in the Cottonmouth Copse.
“Okay, Stuart. Thanks for the intel.” If there were flying monkeys about, I had a sinking feeling I knew where they were coming from. Great Goddess of Mercy, I did not need this right now.
“So you’ll promote me now?” he asked eagerly.
“It doesn’t work that way and you know it,” I said. “But I do appreciate the tip.” I closed the door before he could object.
When I returned to the table, Zola was feeding Clover from a baby bottle. I heaved a sigh of relief.
“You literally baby your familiar,” I said.
Zola patted the skunk’s head. “She was nearly killed. Show some compassion.”
“I rescued her, didn’t I?”
Zola’s expression softened. “You did. Thank you.” She stroked the skunk’s soft fur as she worked in more of the tonic. “Flying monkeys, huh?”
“Seems so.”
Zola’s jaw tensed. “Well, that’s the reason we’re here. The cleanup crew.”
I nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”
Zola’s eyes met mine. “Are you sure? I feel like you’re already so busy.”
“We’re all busy, Zola. If I need help, I’ll let you know.”
Zola smoothed Clover’s fur. “I wish that fire had never happened.”
“Preaching to the converted, Zola.”
“Where did you find her?” she asked, frowning.
“I was leaving Azalea Avenue and headed toward…the Waffle Wagon,” I admitted.
Zola suppressed a laugh. “You’re still chasing waffles?”
“They’re not just any waffles,” I said. “They’re liege Belgian waffles. They’re made differently from other waffles.”
“With all your island connections, you’d think you could track down the Waffle Wagon,” Zola said with an amused shake of her head. “What were you doing on Azalea Avenue? That’s not your neighborhood.”
“Talking to Pete Simpson’s wife,” I replied.
Zola cocked her auburn head. “Who’s Pete Simpson?”
“The dead drummer from Fat Gandalf.”
“Oh, I heard about that from Skye.” She shot me a quizzical look. “Wait, aren’t you the one that found him?”
I nodded. “In the men’s room at Anchors Away.”
She squinted. “What were you doing in the men’s room?”
A common question today. “Looking for Pete. Practice was about to start and no one could find him. Speaking of which, you’ll come to the competition, won’t you? I could use the support.”
“Battle of the Bands?” Zola asked with a grimace. “You know all that commotion isn’t my jam.”
“There’ll be rum runners,” I promised.
When Zola chewed her lip, I knew I had her. “Which day is it again?”
“Next Saturday,” I replied. Clover stirred and her eyes fluttered open. “She’ll be okay now, won’t she?”
Yes. Thank you, Clover said.
“Did you see the flying monkeys, Clover?” Zola asked.
Clover froze with fear. Three of them. She shuddered before fainting.
“Poor Clover,” Zola said, and pressed her ear to her familiar’s chest. “The tonic will work, but she needs rest.” Her brow creased. “If there are actual flying monkeys loose on the island…I’m worried about the cats.”
The island has a healthy population of stray cats that lived in the forest due to the evacuation of the coven thirteen years ago. A group of familiars refused to budge from the island, despite their mistresses’ pleas. They ended up staying behind like the four of us and reproducing at the rate you’d expect for stray cats.
“I’ll make sure they’re okay,” I promised.
“Even Tut?” Zola asked. The annoying hairless cat acted as the de facto leader of the stray cat faction.
There’d been enough death in Eternal Springs for one week. I didn’t need a trio of flying monkeys to add to the body count. Not on my watch.
I straightened my shoulders. “Even Tut,” I agreed.
Chapter Six
Despite Pete’s death and the flying monkey issue, I had to focus on the competition. This event was my baby, and I had to make sure everything was in place for the Battle of the Bands to succeed. If the event was a flop, Buddy might not fund another of my ideas ever again. He could even—gulp—have me fired. This was my big attempt to expand the reputation of Eternal Springs to include music and I needed to promote it like crazy. The key to promotion on the island meant one thing--HEX 66.6.
I pushed open the door to the office of the island radio station, owned by my witchy sister, Evian. Most of the time, I resisted the urge to ask for favors because I hated owing any of that trio. Inevitably, I regretted their involvement in any of my tourist-related activities. Or my life, for that matter.
“If it isn’t Firestarter,” Evian announced to nobody. “What Eternal Springs event brings you here?” She held up a finger. “Oh, wait. Let me guess. Starts with ‘battle’ and ends with ’bands.’”
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