A Murder in Hope's Crossing

by Brooke Shelby

  “Reverend Mason,” the mayor asked timidly, “would you like to say a few words?”

  “I respectfully decline, thank you,” the reverend replied in a gentle tone, fraught with upset. “I cannot agree with this if the local law enforcement simply let suspects get off scot-free due to negligence,” he looked at Carl, “or personal gain.”

  “What?” someone exclaimed, followed by another and yet another before the stirring journalists began to take pictures of the preacher. As Maggie and Carl walked away, they could hear the protests from the disdainful priest while the members of the press voiced their disbelief and astonishment at his disregard for the law and contempt for the town he lived in.

  “Back to the shop?” Carl confirmed.

  “Back to the shop,” Maggie smiled proudly.

  30

  Sharon loosened her jeans button. She was more of a dress person, but she’d felt sassy when Maggie invited her over for a confection debauchery to celebrate the warm Saturday afternoon.

  “In hindsight,” Sharon sighed, “I should have worn a dress. I should know better than to trust your baking skills, Maggie. Look at me! You are evil.”

  Maggie laughed at Sharon’s utterings, watching her plump neighbor turn in circles in front of the lobby mirror. Sharon swung round with a serious look and apologetic open hands.

  “Um, you do know that that was just a figure of speech,” she begged. “I don’t really think you are evil or any of that stuff. You know that, right?”

  Maggie chuckled again, shaking her head. “Geez, Sharon, lighten up, okay? I know you don’t think I am evil and that is what makes you such an easy target.”

  Bramble howled with laughter from the couch where he was feasting on pot roast and Earl Grey, but only Maggie could appreciate his cackling. All Sharon heard was a few chip-chip meows, as cats usually do when they enjoy a meal.

  “What?” Sharon gasped. “Please tell me you are joking.”

  Maggie was roaring with laughter at her neighbor’s genuine panic. It was sadistically amusing how easy she was to fool, thanks to the relentless guilt complex she still carried for Clara’s death. In the last two weeks, Sharon had been drinking less, because Maggie had taken to inviting her to the shop often. She knew it would spruce up Sharon’s day every day and not leave her wallowing alone in her house with all that alcohol driving her into the pits of blame and shame. Even the lawn had been mowed the Saturday before!

  “You know, it has been a month since Oroville confessed to the murders,” Maggie remarked, “and still I double lock my doors.”

  Sharon sat down—carefully—and gave Maggie an endearing look.

  “It will take some time to get over it. I mean, someone actually tried to kill you, Maggie, and that is not something you shrug off like a bad sneeze. That is serious trauma crap that. You have to take your time to get over it and in the meantime, just relax and remember that he is locked up and can never hurt you,” Sharon lectured like a mother hen.

  Maggie appreciated her friendship, her advice, her presence near the old Corey house, and most of all, Maggie enjoyed Sharon’s clumsy fat-girl silliness.

  “I know,” she told Sharon. “I am taking my time.”

  “Then why the worry? Drink up, we are getting sober,” Sharon grunted.

  Maggie recalled that sinister leer as if it was yesterday. She was not telepathic, as far as she knew, but what Reverend Mason had sent her in that subliminal message was nothing short of odious. Of course, she did not want to reveal this to Sharon, but in truth, Maggie double locked her doors for a fiend of a different sort.

  That fiend, however, had been awfully quiet since the press and social media ripped his snide and arrogant reputation to shreds for his statement that day under the tree. She supposed that he had to back down a little to lick his wounds and recruit new sycophants to do his bidding. He would never deign to show up at her house and attack her himself. Oh no, he would always send some impish lackey to do his dirty work, and she expected one of those every day. Rather safe than sorry.

  “How is the shop doing, love?” Sharon asked as she sliced another piece of cocoa cake.

  Maggie’s face lit up, such a welcome sight to Sharon, who still felt the sting of Clara’s death like a thorn in her heart.

  “You know, since I was exonerated of the murders, tourists have flocked in more than the townspeople!” she smiled, but her face changed at the mention of the locals. “This bunch of cretins may have grudgingly backed down, for now, but I don’t need them. Transients and tourists seem to be keeping the shop in tip-top shape.”

  “That is so good to hear,” Sharon muttered through a mouthful of cake.

  “Tell her to leave some for me, dammit,” Bramble said. “I cannot have her steal the materials I so desperately need to construct a good firm belly.”

  Maggie casually cut a slice and placed it on a separate plate as she spoke.

  “I must say, I think finally Bramble and I are happy, you know, content with life. Knock on wood,” Maggie said, and she did just that.

  “Superstitious? You?” Sharon teased, but they both knew that they both knew.

  “Of course not,” Maggie winked. “I have a black cat. How could I be blamed for such hogwash as superstition?”

  The two girls chuckled as the afternoon sun invited them out.

  “So after you bolt yourself into the house, what do you keep busy with these days?” Sharon asked, cupping the petals and smelling the delectable sweet scent of Maggie’s roses.

  “Well, you know, watching movies, rummaging around in Aunt Clara’s stuff for hidden treasures, and just spending time with Bramble while I test out new recipes,” Maggie sang dreamily, winking at her cat. Bramble was grooming himself on the veranda, but she could hear him sniggering.

  “And the sheriff?” Sharon asked like a schoolgirl. “How have you two been getting along, you know, when he doesn’t cuff you?”

  Sharon burst out laughing at her own joke, no doubt reinforced by the alcohol that coursed through her veins. Maggie gave her a slap on the arm and giggled at the double entendre of her neighbor.

  “Well, seems like being cuffed paid off,” Maggie played along, “because now I can actually fill up my tank or eat at a restaurant without any snide remarks or dirty looks from the locals. I guess I owe Carl a debt of gratitude then.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Sharon said, gesturing with her head at the car that had just pulled up in the road and parked next to the still-stained sidewalk. Maggie turned to see the sturdy, big man get out of his car.

  “Oh, hello!” Maggie called out.

  “Are you joining us for some wine, sheriff?” Sharon teased. She lowered her voice so that only Maggie could hear, “Or should I go home now?”

  “No, no, stay,” Maggie almost begged.

  “I just quickly came to drop off these for you, Maggie,” he announced, holding a few wreaths in his large left hand. “Nellie made them out of God knows what, but she said they are your kind of stuff, whatever that means.”

  With glee, Maggie received the three wreaths from him.

  “Most unusual. I love them!” Maggie smiled, examining the intricately woven vines, berries, and pine cones. “Now this is amazing. She has incorporated other things in here. Look! Bells, little fairy bottles, and beads with threading.”

  Carl had a tense face of concentration as he tried to recite what his daughter ordered. With his eyes cast up to recall, he stuttered, “And Nellie says, you are, um, supposed to … what was it? Oh yes, you are supposed to put them up in a triangle, because they are supposed to be one thing. Or the whole thing is actually three things. Something to do with threefold power. I don’t know. She reads a lot.”

  Maggie and Sharon chuckled at his endearing ineptitude at witchy things and girly knowledge. It was adorable.

  “Thank you so much, Carl,” Maggie beamed, her eyes like glowing sapphires in the afternoon sun. He stood frozen for a moment, regarding the Corey woman’s astonishi
ng beauty. Here in the sun, she seemed almost … otherworldly.

  “Well,” he said suddenly, clapping his hands together, “I have to go pick her up from a party. Enjoy your evening, ladies!”

  And with that, Carl sauntered off to his car with an arm aloft to wave goodbye without looking back at the women.

  “Bye, Carl!” Sharon cried, holding her glass up in a toast.

  When the sun kissed the horizon, Sharon gave her thanks and happily staggered home, while Maggie elected to put up the wreath. Obviously, young Nellie would pass the house at some point and then she would have to see it on display. As the hour passed, Maggie mounted the wreaths in a triangular order as prescribed by the gift-giver.

  “Look, she even wove ribbons through it all and the thread is like a dream catcher,” Maggie remarked to Bramble. He was face-deep in a death-by-chocolate cake and agreed by grunting. “It is beautiful. Reminds me of a triquetra, don’t you think?”

  “Hm-hm, lovely,” his words came muffled from the messy frosting.

  “You are not going to fall asleep too quickly tonight, are you?” she laughed. “We still have to cover the angelica root stuff tonight.”

  Bramble had been teaching Maggie herbalism every night, specializing in the more important and potent kitchen witching.

  “Yes, briefly, because I am so full I could burst, and the best way to fix that is with a nice long nap on your bed,” Bramble purred, his paw on his puffy tummy. “Ah!”

  “How about an hour’s instruction and I’ll throw in some catnip?” she asked.

  He sat up and cocked his head. “You have new catnip?”

  “Yes,” she grinned. “In some undisclosed location.”

  “You had catnip all along and you gave me chocolate?” he gasped.

  “Hey, I got the catnip just this morning. I thought it would be a good card to pull if you didn’t want to teach me the angelica root work tonight,” she confessed, while he suddenly rubbed against her ankles and meowed in his cutest way to impress her.

  “You are absolutely cunning, Maggie Corey,” he said. “I am so proud of you.”

  “So we have a deal?” Maggie asked.

  “I believe so, madam. We have an accord,” Bramble charmed, excited for the catnip. “But only an hour’s tutoring. It is the weekend, after all.”

  After Bramble had favored her with her nightly root-work lesson, she gave him his treasured treat and let him go crazy. It was wonderful to finally know more about the spells and ingredients of a good kitchen witch and Maggie finally felt as if she belonged. She was slowly finding her feet and meeting her destiny.

  In the back of her head, though, Maggie Corey had one haunting notion that had been sitting there like hair in a drain since she’d learned that Oroville was responsible for Clara’s death. She dared not entertain the thought, yet it persisted. Maggie looked out the kitchen window and wondered how Oroville had gotten past Clara’s wards in order to kill her. She had seen it work for herself, so how did it not stop him before? They were supposed to be impervious.

  Right?

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