Hotter Than Spell

by Annabel Chase

  “I think that’s Buddy’s other motive,” Skye said. “He knows the town has spent a lot of money on the event. He wants everyone to believe it was an isolated incident, that the drummer brought it on himself. That way no one panics and the event goes off without a hitch.”

  “Believe me, I want the event to go smoothly more than anyone, but we can’t pretend there isn’t a killer running free,” I said. “There’s zero evidence that Pete was high that morning. The bag of pot was unopened and no one saw him acting loopy. I don’t even know when he would have had time to smoke weed. He was too busy shuttling between Two Brothers and the band.”

  “And too busy dividing his time between his wife and his mistress, from what I hear,” Skye added.

  I pressed my lips together. “Please don’t print that, Skye. You’re not The National Enquirer.”

  “If I were The National Enquirer, I’d be writing that aliens impregnated Pete and he died in childbirth after spawning a tentacled baby with two heads, which went on to be adopted by Angelina Jolie.”

  I ignored her. “Pete’s wife, Tiffany, doesn’t know about Pete and Rachel. The woman just lost her husband. Do you really want to be the one to crush her world even more? Their marriage wasn’t perfect, but she seemed to love him.”

  Skye played with a loose strand of her blond hair. “Quit the crybaby act. I told you I’d hold off on the story and I will. Like I said before, right now there’s nothing to report.” She shook a finger at me. “But I’ve been sharing with you, so if you learn something important, promise you’ll tell me first.”

  “Promise,” I said, and started for the door.

  “Oh, before I forget…any leads on the flying monkeys?” she asked.

  My blood ran cold and I whirled around. “What?”

  “The monkeys.” Skye pointed upward. “Hairy creatures with wings, soaring above the treetops and pooping wherever they please.”

  I leaned against the door. “How do you know about them? Have you seen them?”

  “Not personally, but it’s only a matter of time before people do. There was a report on a missing dog yesterday. Mrs. Abernathy’s poodle, Mr. Chucklehead.”

  My hand flew to cover my mouth. “They flew off with a poodle?”

  “Mrs. Abernathy described them as overfed bumblebees. Apparently, bumblebees are known for being hairy. Luckily for us, Mrs. Abernathy’s known in the neighborhood for her dementia. The neighbors say she’s usually searching for King Tut’s tomb or the Golden Fleece.”

  At least she sounded adventurous. “What about Mr. Chucklehead?” I’d have to start forbidding Gerald to leave the house until the situation was resolved.

  “He was found on the edge of the forest, unharmed,” Skye said, and I released the breath I’d been holding. “She’d accidentally bathed him in her conditioner that morning. The story is that the poodle’s fur was so silky, whatever flew off with him couldn’t maintain a firm grip and gave up.”

  “And I suppose you went to investigate,” I said.

  “Paid a little visit to the Cottonmouth Copse.”

  More like the Bigmouth Copse. “I’ll take care of the overfed bees,” I said. “Just keep it to yourself, please.”

  “You’re going to owe a lot of favors after this week, Kenna,” she said, practically giddy.

  “You and I are square,” I said. “And don’t you forget it.”

  “I never promised you anything about flying monkeys.”

  I pointed my finger at the light switch and zapped it, knocking out the electricity in the room. “Oops. Looks like you need to call an electrician. Too bad Mike is so busy these days.”

  I opened the door and sauntered out of the office.

  Chapter Fifteen

  With the competition days away and the murder unsolved, I was entering full stress mode. I rode my scooter over to HEX 66.6 to go over the station’s coverage of the event in light of my schedule changes. Evian needed a list of the revised order and I wanted to see if she’d heard any gossip about Pete’s death.

  I tracked down Evian in the break room, painting her nails. She glanced up in surprise. “Congrats. You survived karaoke.”

  “Barely,” I said.

  “What brings you here? Shouldn’t you be busy lining up the instruments by size?”

  “Hardy har,” I replied. Although now that she mentioned it, that wasn’t such a bad idea. “I need to go over the schedule for the competition with you one more time to reflect recent changes.”

  Evian arched an eyebrow. “More schedule changes? That doesn’t sound like you, Kenna.”

  I plopped in the chair across from her. “This has been more challenging than I thought. So many bands. Pete’s murder. The flying monkeys.”

  Evian snapped to attention. “They’re still out there?”

  Oops. I meant to keep that tidbit to myself. “They are, but not for much longer. Gerald and I have a plan.”

  “You’d better. If you need our help, you can admit it.” She twisted the lid back on the polish and blew gently across her nails. “Asking for help doesn’t make you weak.”

  “It isn’t that.” Okay, maybe it was a little bit. “It’s that I know what your help means--an opportunity to wreak more havoc in my life.”

  Evian considered the accusation. “It is fun to torment you, but if there’s a flying monkey problem, we should deal with it together. It impacts everyone.”

  I fidgeted with the stapler on the table. “I guess so, but I have this ingrained sense of responsibility. I saw the monkeys first and I said I’d handle them, therefore, they’re my problem.”

  Evian regarded me carefully. “Are you sure it’s not more than that?”

  “What do you mean?” The stapler skipped out of my hand and clunked onto the floor. I slunk down to retrieve it, mildly embarrassed.

  “The school burned down,” Evian said. “Burned, Kenna. I’m sure the fact that fire was to blame has plagued you now and again.”

  “Now you sound like Gerald,” I said. “I know it wasn’t my fault.” Mostly.

  “The hellhole specializes in flames,” Evian said, “plus there were other fire witches there at the time. The whole coven was still on the island then.”

  “True, but they weren’t on watch that night. We were.”

  I met Evian’s penetrating gaze. I didn’t want to explore this particular slice of history right now. I had more important matters to attend to.

  “I’ll take care of the airborne poop flingers,” I said. “You focus on the broadcast. That’s where I need your help.”

  Evian gave me a sympathetic smile. “I know it goes against your nature, but it’s not your job to control every outcome of every situation. Let us help.”

  “As I said, you’ll help me by revising the schedule for the competition.” I pulled my planner from my bag. “Here are the tweaks I need…”

  We were about to wrap up the discussion when a familiar voice interrupted.

  “Kenna Byrne, you are a hard woman to track down.” Rachel Simonson appeared in the doorway. “Your assistant—the one with the questionable fashion choices—she thought you might be here.”

  Evian looked at me, knitting her eyebrows. “Assistant?”

  “Dottie,” I said.

  “She certainly is.” Rachel’s gaze shifted to the table. “Perfect! Your planner’s already out. Let’s talk.” She took the seat beside me and whipped out her matching day planner.

  Evian looked from mine to hers, her mouth twitching. “How interesting.”

  “Rachel, this is Evian, the owner of the station. Evian, this is Rachel Simonson. She’s married to Keith, the lead singer for Fat Gandalf.”

  Rachel’s mouth formed a thin line. “I’m also the manager for Fat Gandalf, which is the reason I’m here.” She gave me a sharp look. “As a woman, I’d think you’d make an effort not to reduce me to the label of someone’s wife.”

  Ouch. “I’m sorry, Rachel. You’re absolutely right.”

  �
�While I’m here,” Rachel turned to Evian, “maybe you could think about adding more of Fat Gandalf’s songs to the local playlist. I don’t hear us nearly enough considering how good we are.”

  Evian tried to temper her response. I knew firsthand that she didn’t like anyone giving her orders when it came to her radio station. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

  Rachel flipped open her book. “I’m not happy about the new lineup, Kenna, and I’d like to have it changed.”

  Across the table, Evian rolled her eyes. We’d only just finished reviewing the new schedule.

  “I moved you to fifth to give the band time to ease into the competition,” I said. I figured any extra time they had to recover after Pete’s death would only serve to help them.

  “No, that won’t do at all,” Rachel said. “I need them third or sooner.”

  “Third,” I repeated. I scanned the schedule to see if I could manage the change easily. Who was I kidding? There was nothing easy about it. Still, I knew the band was reeling from Pete’s death and I didn’t want to make things harder for them. “For Pete’s sake, I’ll make it happen.”

  Rachel heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank you. Between the funeral and practice sessions, this week has been an absolute bear.”

  “How was the funeral?” I asked.

  Rachel pulled a face. “Perfectly nice except for Lizzie’s insistence on singing. She can’t stand to be out of the spotlight for more than two seconds.”

  I tried to be diplomatic. “Well, people often sing at funerals.”

  Rachel’s brow lifted, challenging me. “Do they often sing Shania Twain’s I Feel Like A Woman? So incredibly tacky.”

  Hmm. Probably not. “Everyone expresses grief differently.” That was my mantra and I was sticking to it.

  “The only thing Lizzie was expressing was oxygen,” Rachel said.

  “Technically, that would be carbon dioxide,” I said.

  Evian stifled a laugh.

  “I guess Pete’s mother is still in town?” I asked.

  “Yes, she’s staying for a bit to help Lizzie and Mike with the kids and to go through Pete’s belongings.”

  “That’s good for the family,” I said.

  “It’s wonderful for Lizzie,” Rachel said. “I saw her in the mud pits, drinking cocktails with two of her friends as if she didn’t have a care in the world.”

  “You can drink cocktails in the mud pits?” I queried. I shuddered at the potential for mess. What if you spilled your rum runner in the mud you were naked in? Yuck.

  “Apparently,” Rachel replied. “I mean, I know it must be hard for her to be stuck at home with three kids day in and day out, but she chose that path. If she really wanted to be a singer, she should have made different choices instead of sitting home and resenting everyone else’s freedom.”

  I wondered if Rachel and Keith were childless by choice, but I wasn’t rude enough to ask. For a brief moment, I wished Skye were here. She was willing to ask the questions other people weren’t. That was why she made a good reporter, not that I’d ever admit it to her.

  “I’m sorry I seem so difficult. Thank you for being so flexible,” Rachel said. “I know it can’t be easy, juggling all these personalities.”

  “It’s part of the job,” I said brightly.

  Rachel scraped back her chair and stood. “I need to get back to the band. Kyle Charney needs a lot of practice before he’s ready. It’s tough bringing in a new member so last minute. It could ruin our chances.”

  “Well, Pete couldn’t exactly help dying,” I said. “I’m sure he would’ve opted for a different outcome.”

  Rachel’s expression darkened. “Of course. I wasn’t suggesting otherwise. Keith and I are devastated. Life won’t be the same without Pete.” She inhaled deeply and hoisted her bag over her shoulder. “I’ll see you at the competition, ladies.”

  I returned home from Evian’s office and tried to focus. I sat on the couch and stared at my bulleted list for the hundredth time, burning the tasks into my corneas. I knew it was partly stress—because I was always stressed—but there was also a sadness that lingered. I’d thought confessing to Lucas the morning after karaoke was the right thing to do, but now I wasn't so sure. His reaction had been much worse than I anticipated. Our pranks occurred more than a decade ago and he’d grown into a successful, confident man. I had no idea that our behavior had scarred him so deeply. I felt terrible.

  You haven't eaten for hours, miss, Gerald commented. Shall I fix you something?

  I shook my head, the lump in my throat prevented me from answering.

  Is this about the murder? Gerald asked. Why are you blocking your thoughts from me?

  I offered my familiar a reassuring smile. “It's not you, Gerald. I'm just having a moment.” The truth was that I felt ashamed and I didn't want Gerald to know. He thought the world of me and if he knew how much I'd hurt Lucas, however unintentionally, I didn't want that to change his opinion of me. Gerald was more than my familiar—something Stuart failed to grasp—the armadillo was a part of me.

  Is this about the conversation you had with Master Luke the other day on the porch? he pressed.

  “Don't push it, Gerald,” I said. “And don't call him Master Luke.”

  Apologies, miss. I meant no offense. You’re both fans. I wasn't mocking him.

  “I know you weren't,” I replied. “You're better than that. Always better.” And he made me a better witch as a result. That was another thing Stuart didn't understand. Gerald didn't simply shower me with cups of tea and read my innermost thoughts. He also served as my spiritual guide. My moral compass. I sometimes lacked the maturity of other women my age, which was odd considering I'd been left to my own devices since I was a teenager. Since the coven had abandoned us. You’d think I'd have grown up faster, but instead, I seemed to have stalled.

  Forgive me, miss, but I believe Jane Austen is trying to draw your attention.

  My chin jerked up. Sure enough, the eyes of my marble bust of Jane Austen glowed red. “You've got to be kidding me! Not now.”

  Jane Austen's bust was my charmed object that acted as a direct line to the coven. Her glowing red eyes meant only one thing — an incoming call from the mainland. I bet I knew why they were calling, too. I’d thank Skye in person with a friendly hex the next time I saw her.

  I walked over to the bust and tugged her ear. “Good morning, Hestia. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I'm surprised to catch you at home,” Hestia replied. “It sounds as though you have a lot on your plate. I should think you'd be out and about, cleaning up whatever mess it is that you've made.”

  I stiffened. “I don't know what you've heard, but I'm not responsible for any mess. This isn't St. Joan’s.” Hestia was my coven mentor. She’d fled the island along with the rest of the coven after the Incident That Shall Not Be Named. We didn't exactly have a close, personal relationship. It was hard to have such a thing with the witch who basically abandoned me to my fate. Unfortunately, she was also my only link to the mainland and coven headquarters.

  “How's Trixie?” she asked. “Have you seen her?” Trixie was Hestia’s familiar, a black cat with white paws that refused to leave the island when the witches evacuated. She ran with Tut’s crowd in the forest and I only saw her on occasion.

  “As far as I know, she's doing well,” I said. “I've seen Tut recently, and I'm sure he would've mentioned it if there were any issues.”

  “You mean issues like winged monkeys?”

  I closed my eyes in frustration. “Who told you about them?” I bet Skye didn’t contact Hestia directly. That was too obvious. She probably blabbed to her mentor, Jadis. Skye knew perfectly well that Jadis would go straight to Hestia with the news. Those witches on the mainland had nothing better to do than micromanage life on the island. If they cared so much, they should have stayed. “Skye and her big mouth are going to be sorry. She knows I’m already in the middle of a crisis.”

  Hestia paus
ed. “What other crisis?”

  Magic and mayhem, me and my big mouth. Word obviously hadn’t reached the coven about Pete’s murder, most likely because it wasn’t magic related. “Nothing. Just a scheduling conflict. You know how important schedules are to me.”

  “I certainly do, Kenna. Anyway, it doesn't matter how I know about the creatures,” Hestia said. “The only thing that matters is sending those freaks of nature back where they belong. Please tell me you have a plan.”

  “Of course,” I said. “When do I not have a plan? I'm the Queen of Plans.” That much was true, and I typically executed them well. In this case, I felt slightly over my head. I think it was the combination of Pete's murder and Lucas that was throwing me off my game.

  “Are you sure, Kenna?” I detected a note of concern in Hestia's voice. Well, it was too late for her concern. She’d lost that privilege when she left. She was a fire witch like me. I could have learned so much more from her, if only she'd stayed. Now I was left to teach myself, along with whatever Gerald could research for me. I was lucky to have him.

  “Everything is under control,” I insisted. “The island will be a monkey-free zone soon enough. I'm not going to do anything to jeopardize the Battle of the Bands competition. I've worked too hard on it.”

  “I knew that would be the ideal job for you there,” Hestia said. Jane Austen smiled, reflecting my mentor’s delight. “I still remember when you started in the tourism office. I knew you'd be successful there. You've managed to hone your organizational skills to benefit the community. You should be proud, Kenna.”

  “I don't need your approval, but thanks,” I said. Generally speaking, I was proud. Right now, I felt as if my whole world was caving in. It was like St. Joan’s all over again, and if I didn't get things under control quickly, another cataclysmic event would change everything. I couldn't afford to go through that again. That was the reason I needed order. And control. I knew my coven sisters made fun of me for those traits, but they were a necessity. Gerald was right—I wasn't able to cope without them.

  “I also heard that you've been seen around town with a rather attractive young man,” Hestia said. “Anything you’d care to share with me?”