Playing with her hair, she wracked her brain to find a way, a subtle way, to kick them in the nuts. She used Aunt Clara’s method of relaxation to distance herself from her infuriation and step back from the whole situation. This was the only way she could objectively assess the nature of the so-called authorities in Hope’s Crossing.
“The rules have to change,” she whispered, her eyes closed as she tried to focus. “How do you rattle the cage of a town full of well-established hypocrites? How do you put an arrogant bigot in his place? What would hurt this town?”
The questions swam in the serene lake of her mind, but beneath the surface, Maggie had sharks waiting.
“The town is conservative. The town likes privacy to employ its nefarious ways on innocent people, right?” she whispered again. “What would expose these zealots for what they are without spilling blood?”
“You are on the right track, my dear,” she heard Bramble say. Maggie’s eyes shot open and she gasped, but he jumped on her lap and hushed her just before she exclaimed his name.
“What are you doing here?” she smiled, cuddling him. “Better yet, how did you get in? Can you get me out?”
“If you get out, they will just re-arrest you, Maggie. Come now. Think. You were on the right track asking those questions,” he purred. “I just came to help you think.”
“How did you get in, though?” she asked.
Her cat winked and rolled back his lip in that sneer she loved so much, the one where his one little fang showed.
“I have a talent, one of many, where I can find my way into places I should not be able to, you see?” he bragged.
“A talent, huh? Yeah, I can see that talent at work,” she chuckled. “You have to teach me that sometime.”
“Oh, I would if I could, darling,” he replied in his best snobbishness, “but it is reserved for familiars of my level.”
“Excuse me, your highness, but can you condescend to advise me on the plan of action?” she smiled.
“My thoughts were this,” he started. “Conservative towns which keep their business and prejudice private obviously fear exposure, correct?”
“I see where you are going with this,” she smirked. “Maybe our esteemed reverend and his mayor boyfriend would like to explain their recent charges to an audience not under their control.”
“That’s my girl,” Bramble purred as his eyes glinted astutely.
The following day was a potluck at the church and the housewives, schoolchildren, and retired nurses were cackling and clucking over little nothings in their mundane lives as usual. Overseeing the gathering, as usual, was Reverend Mason. He stood on the stage of the small hall adjacent to the main church building, and looked down on his flock with great content. It was good to see so many willing subservient individuals, hungry for his leadership and eager to do his bidding. It had taken centuries, but he was finally at the pinnacle of the town’s throne room.
The mayor had joined him, holding a piece of shortbread on a saucer.
“Well done,” Reverend Mason told him. “Finally you managed to get that heretic into a spot where she cannot wiggle free.”
“I must confess I am quite proud of how easy it was. Would you believe the little imp actually hired a lawyer … from Boston, no less?” the mayor relayed in smug vexation.
“Little good that would do her. I have enough people locked and loaded to testify to all kinds of nasty things the good Lord would never approve of,” the conceited minister sneered.
“Amen,” the mayor chuckled.
A man they had never seen before entered the hall and asked for the parson. One of the ladies pointed to the stage and carried on with her dishing, while the modern-looking man approached the reverend. He was lean and tall, dressed in a suit, and carrying a leather satchel of sorts.
“Reverend Mason?” the man smiled.
“That would be me,” the preacher nodded graciously in his deceptively gentle manner. “What can I do for you, my son?”
The man looked to the door and gestured for his colleagues to enter. “I found him! And the mayor is here too!”
A handful of people entered the hall, brandishing cameras and microphones. They mobbed the confounded men before they could slip away.
“Who are you people?” Reverend Mason frowned, trying to maintain his firm and rigid authority.
“News 87, Stephen Thorn,” the man identified himself. “Tell me, reverend, what is it you hope to achieve with the trial of Margaret Corey?”
“How did you know about the homicide investigation?” Reverend Mason asked angrily.
Another journalist poked his microphone in front of the preacher as his cameraman zoomed in on the old man’s face. “Reverend Mason, Paul Hallen from Massachusetts Daily,” he said. “Could you give us a quote?”
“How did you find me?” he growled. He looked at the mayor in fury. “Did you tell them that I am involved?”
“You’re a reverend. This is a church,” he heard a woman say. She looked like a harpy, her red hair short and her attitude as loud as her clothing. She was definitely not from a small town. “I am Ricky Hamish, Reverend Mason,” she continued. “Tell me, why are you and the mayor charging Margaret Corey with two murders clearly committed by a man?”
“What?” he frowned as she pinned him with her eyes while the others filmed.
“Clearly a man committed those murders, but of course a woman always has to be blamed by you church types. Feminists will not stand for this, unless you can explain to us why you are badgering a woman for crimes that could only have been committed by a masculine killer?” the feminazi insisted.
“She was standing to inherit considerable holdings in this town if Clara Corey died,” he tried to defend.
“Even though she was not even in town at the time of the murder?” Ricky the feminist retorted quickly. She hated the reverend on principal alone. The mayor stood half behind the preacher, afraid of the direct mess he was confronted with.
“We have reason to believe that she could have hired someone,” the mayor tried to intervene.
“Have you established who the killer is that she supposedly hired?” another man asked. “The case does not mention anything about an accomplice. You are charging Margaret Corey with murder. Shouldn’t that be conspiracy to commit murder? Where is the warrant for the supposed man she hired?”
The mayor and reverend stood dumbstruck among the hive of journalists and television reporters. Endless questions flew at them from people who would clearly never conform to their limited power in the small town of Hope’s Crossing.
“This murder trial should be great for tourism, don’t you think?” a woman asked from the back of the group. “Is this why you are charging a small innocent woman with a double murder? I can see it now,” she made quote signs with her fingers, “modern-day witch hunt in which a woman is persecuted for the crime of a man.”
A man close to the reverend smiled. “That is genius. Was that your intention, mayor? It is a great opportunity to garner attention to your little town. The age-old Salem witch hunt, reinvented to suit our day and age! Brilliant. The town’s clergy setting out to punish a blameless woman for murder. That is guaranteed to put your town on the map.”
“How does Margaret Corey feel about your accusation for the sake of publicity, Reverend Mason? Mayor? We have a press conference with her lawyer at 3:00,” the feisty Ricky badgered them.
Reverend Mason was livid. His face flushed red and he ground his teeth, unable to lash out at the press or wallop the mayor for his clumsy handling of public affairs. He bit his tongue and took the brunt of the liberal press that hammered him with contemporary reasoning. Now, among all these outsiders, it was best to refrain from spewing the contempt and hatred he felt towards the feminists and witch lovers, as he saw them. After all, if he allowed them to get to him and he risked an outburst, all his efforts and careful orchestration would be in vain.
20
When Maggie was released, s
he was uncharacteristically quiet. This alone unsettled those who bore witness to her liberation, but they only looked on as she left the building where she had been in police custody. The media furor, or most of it, at least, had subsided somewhat, but the damage was done. It would take the mayor a lot of diplomacy to restore public relations and tourism. Tourism would definitely now increase, but at a high cost—the town’s reputation.
Maggie Corey walked down the street, back to her house and shop, where Bramble would be on guard, as they’d discussed. Just in case. Deep inside she felt relieved, but furious. She had struck a hefty blow to the townspeople of Hope’s Crossing and that felt good. Payback. On the other hand, Maggie was still fuming about the audacity they had to even implicate her in such a preposterous agenda and for that, she was not going to stand. How dare they? As if the constant badgering and vandalism was not enough, they were callous enough to take it one step further?
“What is next? From threats and name calling to vandalism,” she moaned to Bramble, her sole audience, when she sat down on her porch. “They stepped up to incrimination, so what is next? Murder?”
“I was hoping you would not say that,” he remarked.
“Well, it is true, Bramble,” she snapped, but not at him, at the town in general. “What can they do next? Think about it. They have slandered my name, my aunt’s name, to such an extent that I cannot even eat at a restaurant in my own bloody town? Now that I knocked them in the balls, they are definitely going to step up their game, and after a murder charge, they can only escalate to that thing you don’t want me to say.”
“Murder is an ugly word, but I am not avoiding the point, my dear Maggie. I fear for you, and do not forget that I, too, lost Clara. In fact, if I may be a bit blunt, I knew her longer and better than you ever did. Imagine what I felt when I found her—like that.”
Maggie had to admit that he had a point. It was completely understandable that he would not like the implied next step she mentioned, much as it was true. Sometimes she forgot what Bramble’s stake in this was and she felt ashamed for it. Her hand fell gently on the top of his skull as she stroked his pelt along his spine.
“I know. I am sorry, Bramble. I’m a moron,” she admitted. “What you are saying is absolutely accurate and I have been too busy just thinking of myself. How can I make it up to you?” she asked.
“Two words,” he replied as he purred. “Pork roast.”
Maggie chuckled. “That, I can do.”
“With mint sauce,” he added as she rose to her feet and entered the front door to get it done.
“Yes, yes, with mint sauce,” she babbled as her voice faded into the bowels of the house.
Bramble enjoyed the sunshine as he coiled his body on the cushion of the porch swing while Maggie started their scrumptious dinner. She was grateful that she still had some pork left. After all, with her being in jail and all, she had not been to the supermarket, nor did she feel especially inclined to go there soon. She could only imagine the stares now!
Her heart was still thundering every time she recalled the disdain with which she had been treated by law enforcement and the town council. Luckily she was an excellent cook and did not have to concentrate much as she prepared the delightful dish for her and Bramble. She’d hardly had anything decent to eat while in custody, so this was her first proper meal in a while. Her hands automatically chopped the herbs as her brain raced over the past few days.
“Don’t get upset,” she coaxed herself. “You won, remember? They got a good hiding because of you, so just let it go, okay?”
However, there was a difference between letting it go and allowing them to get away with murder—in the truest sense of the term. Maggie’s messy braid rocked along her lower back as she worked, much as her adrenaline raced through her discontent.
“Nope. That’s not enough,” she mumbled as she placed the neck of pork on the oven tray and collected the mint. “Strike while the iron is hot. Get them while they are vulnerable. If they recover from this, all this stuff will just escalate all over again.”
“What on earth are you on about, my dear?” she heard Bramble’s playful voice. Stealthily as he always moved, he had jogged into the house to see how his feast was coming along.
“Just thinking aloud, is all,” she shrugged, but he could see that hellfire in Maggie’s eyes, the same fire he had seen in the jail holding cell. She was concocting a spiteful comeback for this town once again. Part of the idea worried him, but for the most part, Bramble was excited. He liked a good fight. After all, it was in his nature, right?
“And what are we thinking aloud about? Drawing and quartering?” he inquired with his head cocked to one side. Maggie chuckled dryly.
“Close,” she replied with her right eyebrow raised. “So very close. If only I could get away with such a thing, but alas …”
“Yes, I know. It would be a fine way to celebrate Samhain this year, wouldn’t it?” he jested.
“I think I must rip this town to shreds while I can, Bramble,” she confessed as she licked off her fingertips and poured a glass of dandelion wine.
“Pray tell,” he purred.
“The old-fashioned way of mortals,” she started. “I am going to throw them off-guard, you know? Use their own methods to take them down.”
“I am dying to hear the actual point of this buildup, my dear,” he sighed.
She flattened her peculiar purple and green crocodile apron—one of many she collected—and folded her arms across her chest. Maggie’s pretty face distorted in a nasty expression of spite, something Bramble was not accustomed to see on the naïve, sweet girl.
“I am going to sue this town,” she revealed proudly. “I am going to sue them for everything they have and watch them scramble.”
“Just make sure that you get a solid lawyer, my darling Maggie. With magic we can do unspeakable things to them, but if you wish to take the course of law, a very fickle course at that, you must be assured of victory,” he advised.
“I know,” she said.
“And we cannot let them find a loophole that might exacerbate things,” he added.
“I know,” she said a bit louder. “I know all that, but it is worth a shot. I cannot let them just walk away from destroying my comfort, infringing on my privacy, damaging my property, and accusing me of a capital crime without consequences!”
Bramble licked his paw at leisure while Maggie was visibly upset. He put his paw down and replied, “I cannot agree more, now that you summarized the matter so astutely. I have to agree. We cannot let them get away with this.”
“They have to learn, Bramble, that their actions will have consequences, dire ones at that, if they insist on harassing me like this. If the repercussions are heavy enough, they will learn quickly to think twice before cooking up their next agenda against us,” she lectured, and she was right.
“And the nature of my revenge is perfectly within the constraints of the law, a nice, normal legal case that they cannot hang the moniker of ‘witch’ on in any event,” she boasted as she opened the oven door.
And that was what she did. Maggie had her lawyer draw up a brief intent to take legal action and send it to the town council. She did not even condescend to approach Reverend Mason at all, or even mention him in the document, which already infuriated his ego, playing to the fact that he was simply not in a high enough capacity to be deemed a threat. From her years of being married to a narcissist, Maggie knew how to insult the reverend better than anyone.
At the town hall, Carl Walden was waiting for a permit from a local fisherman when he overheard Reverend Mason and the mayor arguing in subdued tones in the next office.
“Who does she think she is, pulling a stunt like that? I swear, Thomas, I cannot abide by that woman’s insolence any longer!” the reverend hissed.
Carl heard the mayor clear his throat several times, as he always did when he got nervous.
“I know, reverend, but technically, there is nothing we can do to
avert this. If she is suing the town, we have to play ball or look guilty,” the mayor retorted in his reserved cowardice. “What do you want me to do?”
“Why do I always have to do the town’s thinking?” Reverend Mason complained in his soft-spoken manner. “Politics and legislation is your sport, Thomas, not mine. Mine is to tend to the souls and morals of the good people of Hope’s Crossing.”
Carl scoffed to himself at the blatant corruption of the vindictive preacher, deeming himself a good man without any shame.
The mayor whispered hard, “She is going to bury us, reverend, if we do not give her some space soon. I am not saying forever, but maybe we can just leave her alone for a short while, until this public relations nightmare is over.”
“She is worse than her aunt, that one,” the reverend said. “We have to get rid of her before she makes too much trouble.”
“I know, but can we just leave that for a while? Let her call off her dogs at Blakemore & Sons before we hit back,” the mayor suggested. “If we just pretend that we are sorry, she will drop the case and then we are free to make our next move. Just let her be for long enough to stop the legislation, Reverend. My God, she is eating this town’s reputation alive as it is.”
Carl knew he had to do something. Stuck in the middle between his job and loyalty to his town and his friendship with Maggie Corey, he did not really know how to defuse the situation other than talking to Maggie and appealing to her mercy. After all, she saw him as one of the few people she could talk to. Her trust, however, was lost to him after the incident of the arrest, and she let him have no doubts about her distrust when he tried to apologize for it.
“How dare you speak for them, Carl?” she shrieked at him. “You know what they are and you know what they did—or are doing—and yet you deign to make excuses for them? No! I will not have it! You arrested me for something ridiculous you know I had no part in, Carl. You! Don’t tell me you could not put it together. I refuse to believe that you …” she caught her breath. “You know what? You are either thick as a clay pig’s ass, Sheriff Walden, or you are, in fact, as evil as that tall demon.”
A Murder in Hope's Crossing Page 10
