A Murder in Hope's Crossing

by Brooke Shelby

  “Have I not endured enough in this godforsaken town yet tonight? Now I have to come home to this? I don’t think so!” she ranted as she waited for the sheriff to answer.

  “Hope’s Crossing County Sheriff,” he answered the call himself, which surprised Maggie a bit.

  “Sheriff Walden? Maggie Corey here,” she tried to even her voice to be polite while exasperated, a fine art she had almost mastered by now.

  “Miss Corey … Maggie,” he said, secretly stifling a sigh. “What can I do for you?”

  “I would like to report vandalism to my property, sheriff,” she said bluntly. Deep inside, she felt kind of proud of herself for calling it her property so casually. She almost felt like a success, no matter how small. “Someone burned something on the sidewalk in front of the shop and I would like you to come out and have a look at it, please. I have had enough of this incessant target practice on my family. Just please come out and file a report.”

  “On my way,” he said plainly and hung up the phone.

  “A little rude, I’d say,” she mumbled. Her eyes caught sight of poor Bramble, high on sedatives and yet paying attention to her every word. He was remarkable, she thought, replaying the recent event in her head and recollecting the immense strangeness of it, in hindsight. It was as if the cat knew what would happen, as if he did it on purpose, but her common sense doused such a suspicion and she went outside the gate to wait for Carl Walden to show up.

  A mild breeze pampered her face and rocked her slightly unkempt braid as she waited on the sidewalk. She grew impatient and angry every time she looked at the black burns in front of Corey’s Herbs and Simples, but upon closer inspection, she noticed that the burn marks were confined to an abrupt crescent that indicated some kind of object in the way. Only on the one side, the side of the shop, did the marks have a distinct cut-off line, where the other side bled out gradually as the heat damaged was reduced.

  “Peculiar,” she said, studying the strange phenomenon. “What was shielding the damage? Did they put something down on one side that blocked off the fire?”

  “You know, talking to yourself is the last thing you want to be seen doing in this town, Maggie Corey,” the sheriff said from behind her.

  With a start and an awkward chuckled, she stood up and shook her head. It was the first time she had ever seen Carl Walden smile and it was not an altogether unpleasant sight. He towered over her with his strong, robust presence and his contrasted sad eyes, waiting for her to say something.

  “I have been getting only the highest quality advice from this particular source, I will have you know,” she jested, arms folded over her zipped-open hoodie. “Why? What is the consensus here about people who talk to themselves?”

  “The consensus here should never apply, Maggie. Just a personal opinion,” he smiled.

  “Tell me about it,” she sighed, not even ready to relay to Carl what had happened before she found the scorch marks. He automatically sank to his haunches to investigate the marks, running his thick fingers over the stains.

  “Do you want to lodge an official charge?” he asked. “There is no damage to the property, to be honest.”

  She had to concede that he had a point, even though she was worried that the next attempt would be successful. “I suppose,” she answered, “but if this persists, it is only going to get worse every time. I mean, what if I end up like Aunt Clara? I bet you she had a lot of this treatment before someone actually killed her and I am going down that same road, sheriff.”

  “No, you are not. I will not let anything happen to you,” he spat out a bit too eagerly, creating a slightly awkward moment which he quickly talked over. “I have to apologize for the way this town’s people have been treating you. They have always been this …” He could not find a word that was not insulting to his fellow townspeople.

  “Petty?” she asked.

  “That is a good word, yes. A fine word, although it is merely the summit of that mountain,” he admitted. Maggie nodded.

  “So they treated Aunt Clara like this too?” she asked.

  Carl nodded contritely. “They did. They never stopped being callous and judgmental towards her because of her family name.”

  “How does that make sense? That is ridiculous,” she retorted.

  “Oh, it is very plausible when you consider that the Reverend Mason and his closest acolytes have harbored a grudge against the Corey name since forever,” Carl explained.

  “So this is about a feud between the town and my family?” she asked.

  “More like a feud between the Reverend Mason and your family, but you know how it is. The weak and uninformed will follow anyone and the town is unfortunately at his beck and call. Whatever disease he spits out, they spread around,” he rambled, unaware that he was revealing too much about his personal feelings towards the church he himself belonged to.

  While it was evident that Carl was so open about the town and its people, Maggie thought that this would be the opportune time to ask the most important question. She had to confront the notion that had been hounding her all this time.

  “Sheriff, why do these people keep calling me a witch?” she asked.

  Carl Walden looked startled by her question and quickly looked at his watch.

  “Oh, I am sorry, Maggie. I have to go and pick up my daughter from ballet class. What do you know, I am late already,” he stammered and started walking to his vehicle.

  “But you haven’t …” she tried, but abandoned the effort when she saw him get in the car and shut the door. He waved at her with a polite nod and a smile and all Maggie could do was wave back.

  8

  The wind was raging outside her window, but Maggie felt strangely safe as she stared at the wall of her bedroom. From the streetlamp, a faint light fell into her room in streaks, and for some reason it calmed her. The incident with the man tailgating her was still fresh in her mind and she often found herself wondering what had become of him after his car got stuck in the ditch. Perhaps it was all the hostility the town had treated her with since she had arrived, but Maggie discovered that she had gradually become more indifferent.

  Aunt Clara’s big black cat was lying at the foot of her bed, paws and belly up as he slumbered happily. Again, the recollection of the madman in the swerving car haunted her. The way in which the cat hissed at him. Bit by bit, the incident played out in sections.

  “You’re doing it again, brain,” she mumbled, pulling up her covers as the wind rattled her windows. “Shut off and go to sleep, dammit!”

  She wished that she could sleep like Bramble. “Just look at that. Not a care in the world,” she remarked with a sigh of defeat. While she was unable to fall asleep, she figured she might as well make plans for her immediate future in Hope’s Crossing. She assumed that Aunt Clara’s invitation had more merit than she initially suspected. She was going to train Maggie to work in the shop, which meant that she intended on her niece being her replacement of sorts.

  It was too soon, was it not, to open the shop again? Should she? Should she rather sell it and try to make a life somewhere else? Bramble’s paws fell gently on her bedcovers and he strolled towards her belly, where he casually curled up to continue his nap a bit closer to her. It made Maggie smile. For the first time in a long while she felt just a little important to someone, even if that someone was a cat. Suddenly, Maggie knew that she had to stay, as if Bramble’s random act instilled a silent beckoning in her.

  “All right, you persuaded me,” she whispered as she stroked his head.

  The next day was mild and peaceful. Maggie had taken a stroll through the gardens to see what kind of maintenance she needed to take care of. Much of the place was natural garden, so there was not a lot of landscaping to worry about, but the grass was getting a bit long. In the left greenhouse, she noted that there were some empty pots with bags of soil that had not been tended to.

  With Bramble coiling at her ankles, Maggie took stock of everything—including the actual st
ock. In the shop, she had made notes of merchandise Aunt Clara kept. The old lady’s books were organized, but hardly professional. By these ledgers and slips, Maggie could ascertain the nature and quantity of stock her aunt used to have in the store before it was so brutally destroyed.

  On her laptop, she checked online for a local landscaper for the lawns. The yard would look even more fetching once the edges were trimmed a little. Besides, if she was going to stay and continue Aunt Clara’s legacy at Corey’s Herbs and Simples, she had better improve the view from the street. While she was at it, she decided to go and apply for her business license to get the ball rolling. She grabbed her purse and set out to Otto’s Garden Services down the road, but Bramble trailed at her heels.

  “Go back, honey,” she told the cat, but he looked up at her and meowed. “Go. You wait here. I won’t be long.”

  As she turned, he darted ahead, out the door, and trotted to her car. Against her protests, he persisted, circling the car as she approached.

  “You can’t come with me, Bramble,” she chuckled. “I can’t carry a big cat around town all day.”

  But he answered in a determined meow that made her laugh. It was as if he could understand her, as if he was actually conversing with her. Eventually, Maggie surrendered and allowed Bramble to hop in the car with her.

  “You know I am going out to do business, right?” she asked him as she drove. “This is not an outing for fun and there will be no food.”

  She had to laugh at the slight dip of Bramble’s head and low grunt that escaped him in response. He looked away, as if he shunned her for such a blasphemy. When she arrived at Otto’s Garden Services, she told her cat to stay in the car. “I cracked a window and I won’t be long, okay?” she smiled at him.

  A middle-aged man with a potbelly and dirty blond hair was busy fixing a lawnmower when she entered through the open garage door of the business. Two other men were busy unloading some garden tools onto a trailer, but they ceased their activities to ogle the attractive, athletic woman with the powerful blue eyes. As she passed, ignoring them deliberately, their eyes were on the shape of her body, although their demeanors were rooted in disdain.

  “Pity,” said the one. Maggie heard him, but paid no attention.

  “I know, right? What a waste of a nice ass,” the other one sneered loudly on purpose.

  “Come now, boys,” the potbellied man reprimanded them as he stood up to meet Maggie. He was wiping his greasy hands with the rag, but it was not to clean up for a handshake. “Finish loading up those tools.”

  “Hi,” Maggie smiled. “Are you Otto?”

  “I am,” he said, biting the side of his lip. “Why?”

  “Oh, I was just wondering if I could make an appointment or something,” she chuckled awkwardly, “for my lawn to be mowed sometime this week?”

  “Sorry, no can do,” he replied so briskly that she hardly finished her sentence.

  “Okay, then how about next week?” she asked.

  “Nope. We are booked solid,” he said.

  “Booked solid? What are you, a hotel?” she snapped, clear on what was once again happening. “You cut grass, Otto, you don’t host heads of state. How long could you possibly take to mow a small lawn?”

  “Oh my dear, I can mow your lawn in ten minutes,” he smirked, “but why do you need us? Can’t you just say a magic spell to keep your grass short?”

  They all burst out laughing as Maggie stormed off past the tools. She turned around one more time and said, “If I could do such things, I know exactly where I would tell that rake to lodge itself!”

  With their cackles of ridicule echoing in her furious ears, she slammed her car door so hard that she thought it would come off. “I am so goddamn tired of this! Morons! I wish I was a witch! Then I would clean up the crap in this town!”

  Bramble hissed, but Maggie was so upset that she could cry. Without even thinking, she stepped on the accelerator and drove away with screeching tires. Livid, Maggie was unable to speak because she was afraid of what manner of curses would come out as she raced to the town council for her business license application.

  “I hope the town clerk has better manners or I swear to God, Bramble …” she seethed.

  Maggie expected the worst when she walked into the converted law office that served as the local council chambers. She had everything she needed to file for the license, but by now, Maggie was well aware of how things worked in Hope’s Crossing—especially when you were a Corey. Armed with a predisposed assertive manner, she briskly walked through the small lobby that led to the offices. A short, plump woman greeted her. Her thick glasses, tight ponytail, and conservative clothing said it all. She had it in for Maggie Corey.

  “Good morning, dear,” the woman smiled warmly. “And what can we do for you today?”

  Maggie searched the statement for sarcasm or some kind of malice, but found none. It was a rather bewildering moment, so she elected to answer the lady with something that was firm, but polite.

  “Good morning,” Maggie said, pulling out her large brown envelope containing all the necessary documents, “I would like to file for a business license for Corey’s Herbs and Simples, please.”

  Here it comes,’ she thought to herself. Here come the snide remarks and the excuses and the looks and smirks …

  The woman took the envelope and adjusted her spectacles as she pulled out a handful of folios. She paused, perusing the first page and raising an eyebrow. She looked back up at Maggie’s stone face and smiled kindly. “Well of course, Miss Corey. Come into the office so that I can give you the proper documentation to fill out and we’ll have you done in no time, I am sure.”

  What? Maggie practically shouted in her head. Just like that?

  Less than an hour later, a beaming Maggie Corey emerged from the town council offices, quite the contrary to what Bramble saw at Otto’s Garden Services. Looking like a schoolgirl that just scored well on a test, she crept towards the car with a big smile.

  “Can you believe it, Bramble?” she asked jovially as they headed back home. “Not a single scoff or catty remark? In Hope’s Crossing? I mean, she just did her job and that was that! I can’t believe it!”

  Meow.

  “I know, I know,” she answered Bramble. “You must be hungry. Don’t worry. I am famished myself!”

  Maggie’s moods always determined her appetite and when she was happy, she cooked. Even if she could not eat half of the dish she prepared, she cooked up a storm. After all, that was her thing, right? Well, she thought so. Bramble did not leave her side for one moment, always insisting on traveling with her in the car, always following her around the house, and always curling up on her bed with her. She was not used to a companion; not one that actually gave a damn about her anyway, but this was darling.

  When the night became old and the mantle clock struck midnight, Bramble found her in the lounge while she was watching a movie on her laptop.

  “Oh, hey you!” she smiled as she reached for her tea. “What have you got there?”

  In his mouth, he carried a small object that he must have fished out from somewhere in the house. It was a tarnished old key, no bigger than a digit on Maggie’s finger. She took it, scrutinizing the small antique trinket with great wonder.

  “This is beautiful, Bramble,” she smiled, playing with the item between her fingers. It was not the first thing the cat had brought her, but she chalked his clinginess up to kitty trauma from the loss of his Clara. Still, it was endearing and special to her that he would appreciate her so much, apart from the fact that she took care of him. It was not the first time he’d brought her a random object. Earlier he had delivered a small piece of paper and a ribbon. Now it was a key. Maggie was just grateful that her cat did not drag in dead rats and birds.

  “You are a feline of great taste, monsieur,” she winked at him as she put the key on the mantle. “No dead birds from you. Oh no, you bring fancy things, pretty things.” Upon this new delivery, Maggie thou
ght to have a look at the scrap of paper he had brought her before. It was folded on top of the mantle as well, where she had been collecting everything he brought her.

  “What is this?” she asked with big eyes, looking at Bramble. “A treasure map, perhaps?”

  When she unfolded the old piece of paper, she realized that it was a note to the cat sitter a few months before. Maggie’s curious eyes scanned the concise letter of instruction that indicated that Bramble was to be given an array of listed herbal teas, but the next notation was peculiar.

  “Loin?” Maggie frowned in amusement. “Salmon, pasta, and steak? Wow, you really do have good taste, Bramble, if this is what Aunt Clara fed you. She spoiled you rotten.”

  He meowed and licked his paw in a rather condescending manner that made her giggle.

  “Yes, yes, don’t worry,” she answered as she folded up the paper and replaced it on the mantle. “I will make sure you reap the full benefits of having a qualified chef at your beck and call.”

  There was no question in Bramble’s mind. He had tasted her cooking before when she first fed him the stuff he had ‘accidentally’ showed her in the fridge. Her cooking was delicious, and he wanted to keep her.

  9

  Salem Funeral Directors had contacted Maggie to let her know when Clara’s funeral was to be held. She hardly felt it necessary to put the notice in the paper, not with the kind of treatment both she and Clara had been subjected to. If anyone wanted to come, they would contact her to find out, in her opinion. As long as she was there with Bramble, Maggie knew it did not matter who else attended.

  “Bramble?” she called, but the cat was nowhere to be found. “I made you some lemon meringue pie!” she cried and waited. “That should get him here in a flash,” she chuckled to herself. Still, he did not come, which was very strange for the hedonistic feline she was spoiling. “Bramble?”