by Bella Falls
“That’s Biddy, right? Tipper’s crow?” asked TJ.
“Pretty sure.” I reached out my hand towards the bird. She hopped down a couple of branches closer but stopped just shy. Her presence dredged up details from my murky memory and solidified them. Talking to Tipper. Finding him on the bench. And everything else in between. Rubbing my right arm, I shivered.
Matt watched me with brotherly protectiveness, no doubt debating whether or not to risk Nana’s wrath to send me back home. With reluctant resignation, he pointed at the building. “Let’s get you inside. TJ, you go in and open the side door. We’ll meet you there.”
Once his wife crossed the street, my brother turned to me, his stern look suggesting serious business. “I was against this, but there’s no talking Nana out of anything. All the women in our family have a stubborn streak a mile wide.”
I smacked his arm. “Hey, I resemble that remark.”
He swatted me back. “Pay attention. You go hide up in the projection room. I don’t want anybody talking to you before you’re ready.”
“Sure. And you also would like not to get into trouble with your boss if I talk to anyone but him first, right?”
The wrinkle between Matt’s eyebrows deepened. “He’s not my boss. When he transferred from his big job up North, he came with his rank. Big Willie wasn’t too pleased, but there wasn’t much he could do.”
I’d bet the last of the money in my savings that Sheriff “Big Willie” West didn’t enjoy having a city boy trying to run things in his small town. I’d also bet Detective Mason Clairmont had a talent for ruffling feathers wherever he went. He must be over the moon to have a big case to work.
Mocking my brother, I tiptoed behind him across the street like an idiot. One person leaving early or arriving late, and the jig was up. But we made it to the side door with no problem. A quick knock and it opened with a tiny squeak of its hinges.
“Want me to come with you?” offered TJ.
I shook my head. “Naw. I know my way around.”
The stalwart building was old stomping grounds for my friends and me. Unbeknownst to the town officials, including my grandmother, we’d sneak in to share a snatched mason jar of moonshine and snacks. The place served multiple purposes, including town meetings, use of the stage for things like the community theater group, and especially as our only movie theater. All of us kids at some point worked the projector when a new movie came to town. Well, new to us meant practically classic to the rest of the world.
I jiggled the old knob on the door to the projector room, and it gave way like it used to. Walking up the stairs covered in frayed thin carpet, I crept toward the projector window and slid it open, cringing when it gave way with an audible scrape. I poked my head up, relief replacing fear as everybody focused on Nana, who sat on the stage in the larger of the three chairs, the one to her right empty and the one to her left occupied with a frowning Hollis Hawthorne.
“As I said, due to the town’s loss of Tipper Walker, we will be suspending any town business until we officially fill his seat.” Nana’s voice rang clear and true throughout the entire building.
A tall man stood up as my grandmother recognized him to give him the floor. He spoke in a clear, snooty British accent. “You’ll forgive me, but I was led to believe that holding the meetings and then forcing the vote was crucial at this time due to so many town citizens returning for the yearly festivities. It is our best chance to have any prospect of an opportunity to present the issues and have a fair and balanced decision.” A smattering of applause followed his frustrated words.
Hollis smacked the table in front of him. “I must agree with Ralph, the venerable gentleman vampire. There are serious issues that need decisions now. Begging your pardon, Vivian.”
“It’s Raif, sir,” corrected the tall man.
“What?” Hollis blustered.
“My name. It’s Raif, not Ralph. A common mistake.” He sat down without pushing his point further.
A woman next to him whispered something in his ear sharp enough for him to wince away. In a huff, she stood up and maneuvered her way to the end of the aisle. Her full name escaped me, but I knew her as Eveline. Technically, Lady Eveline, if memory served me. Some old aristocratic title she carried over from her days prior to being turned. Dashing away what looked like pink tears from her eyes, she rushed out.
Before Nana could utter a reply or grasp control again, someone raised their hand and cleared their throat. With confidence that radiated off of him like sunbeams, the guy that claimed to be Tucker’s best friend stood up. What was his name? Ashton Something?
He addressed the two members on stage. “This has more than just a seat on the council at stake, if you’ll pardon my use of that word, Raif.” He nodded his head at the former speaker. “There are matters that need attention that affect the business and economy of the town. Both Tucker and I have worked hard on preparing our proposal.” He gestured next to him, where Tucker sat, nodding his head.
My grandmother held up her hand. “Which will not go ignored. However, I believe that observing a brief suspension of town business is more than called for in this instance. Considering the considerable amount of change that will be happening,” she gestured at the empty chair next to her, “I ask for the town’s patience so that our transition forward, whatever that looks like, will be a smooth one that is in all of our best interest.”
Hollis shot a sideways glance at my grandmother and a stern glare at his son’s friend, who sat down. Nobody dared to add anything else, and the silence gave space for Nana to conclude business.
She shook her head. “We were all sad to hear of our dear friend Tipper Walker’s passing two nights ago. Arrangements are being made for his parting ceremony by his surviving niece, Leonora Walker.”
My stomach dropped. If Aunt Nora were in charge of Tipper’s estate, that would mean she’d be the one to inherit the third seat on the council as the next in the Walker line. With that sour-faced woman in a position of power and Hollis Hawthorne as a potential ally, who knows how things might go sideways in our little town? But Nana was right. Now was not the time to think about those kinds of changes.
“In honor of Tipper, I’d like to ask everyone to please stand.” Nana scooted her chair away from the table and waited. In unison, everyone stood up. “Let us honor his memory with a moment of silence.”
The sounds of a few sniffs peppered the air. My own eyes watered. That silly old man had been a horrible and entertaining influence on me all my life. He’d embraced mischief like an old friend and danced with abandon on the edge of sanity. But his heart had beaten strong and true. At least up until the end when somehow it had stopped. Why had I been the one to find him? Nothing clouded my memory anymore, and I hugged my arms around my body, giving into muffled sobs.
“And now, since last night’s festivities in the park were canceled due to the unfortunate incident, I can think of nothing more appropriate than letting the Honeysuckle Hams perform their little play written by Tipper himself, all about our town’s humble beginnings. Hollis, would you please dispose of our table and chairs.” Nana walked off stage left, leaving an extremely displeased Hawthorne family member to use his magic to move the furniture.
Several people in mix-matched antique garb filled the back of the stage. One of them, Beauregard Pepperpot, stepped to the front, the bright makeup on his face giving him the appearance of a cross between a ghost and a clown.
Taking off his hat, he addressed the restless audience. “Before we start, I just wanted to say that Tipper Walker wasn’t simply my best friend. He was loyal to our town and a friend to pretty much everyone here. In his honor, we perform his words as he wrote them.”
Oh boy. No telling what version of history we were about to watch.
One of the troupe pulled out a fiddle and played a somber melody almost in tune. Three others stepped forward and stopped in the middle of the stage, holding wands in their hands and bringing the tips of the wood
en props together.
Wands? Since when did we need those to practice magic? Perhaps Uncle Tipper had somehow gotten his hand on some popular books about witches, wizards, and magic from the outside world. This did not bode well.
“Woe to our nation and its peoples,” proclaimed the one on the right with dramatic intensity. “Where can we go where we will not be persecuted and can live in perfect harmony?”
The woman in a vintage dress with too tight of a bodice and a swinging hoop skirt that kept knocking into the two next to her brandished her wand in wide arcs. “Why, Prentice Goodwin. You do bring up a valid point. I, Norberta Walker, propose that we shall found our own town. One in which more than just us witches can live in freedom. To do as we please without judgment or censure from anybody else. Especially those who would seek to topple us.”
Beauregard stumbled from a wayward nudge of the hoop skirt and looked directly out at the audience, his ears redder than a ladybug. “I, Hollis Prissypants Hawthorne, shall offer up my land for this good work for witches.”
My shoulders shook from containing giggles. No way did the esteemed Mr. Hawthorne appreciate what must be coming up based on that little jab.
The man playing the Goodwin ancestor paced away from the other two, holding a hand over his heart while the one holding the wand gesticulated wildly. “Alas, if we do not offer the freedoms to all who possess magic, then I cannot agree and must away to find another haven.”
The woman sashayed her way next to Prentice, her skirt swinging like a bell. “Fear not, for I am in complete agreement with you. Freedom for all or sanctuary for none.” She paused and waited. When nothing but silence followed, she cleared her throat and spoke in a booming voice. “I say again…Freedom for all or sanctuary for none!”
Playing along, the audience clapped, although probably not as loud as Tipper had anticipated or wanted.
Norberta turned her head to the third actor. “What say you, Mr. Hawthorne? Do you yield or do you stand in opposition?”
Beauregard, playing his role as the Hawthorne descendent, rubbed his chin in staged thought. “While I do not agree with everything you say, I shall not stand against you for now. I admire you, Ms. Walker, and declare that you and your family to come must be the smartest and handsomest that ‘ere our town shall know.”
Laughter rippled through the audience, and I stifled more snickers behind my hand. The whole production had Uncle Tipper’s stamp all over it.
Beauregard continued. “And as I admire you with such great adulation, I shall offer you the most attractive tract of land to establish your long line while I take the least tempting for myself.”
Sweet honeysuckle iced tea, Tipper outdid himself. Everyone who had ears had heard him tell tale of how his great-great-great whatever so many times removed had won the land his large estate sat on in an ill-advised run of cards and gambling. The animosity between the two families had fueled town gossip for generations.
Tucker stood up and made his way out the aisle, followed by Ashton and his mother. No doubt his father had already taken his leave. Maybe my aunt and cousin were joining them somewhere in the back where I couldn’t see from the tiny window.
The three founding surrogates took out objects and held them up. They pantomimed digging a hole on the stage and then burying the objects.
The woman playing Norberta Walker swayed back and forth, her skirt knocking into the other two players. She waved her hands and the wand in the air as she declared, “We sacrifice our personal treasures and bury them in good faith that our town shall be protected forever more.”
The squeak of a pulley pierced the air, and a drop cloth painted like a tree rose from the stage, growing from the spot where they’d buried their treasures. I stifled a giggle at their childish re-enactment of the founding events, imagining how much Tipper would have enjoyed it.
The three on stage traipsed in front of the tree. With the tips of their wands touching, they recited some nonsensical poem, and the ends shot off tiny fireworks. The fiddler stomped his feet and changed the song to a quick, merry tune. The rest of the troupe’s costumes made more sense as they represented the different supernatural beings that came to live in Honeysuckle Hollow. They danced around the tree with joyful abandonment while the audience clapped along.
From the side of the stage, a figure walked to the front, waving his hands and getting in the way of the ridiculous spectacle of merriment.
Detective Mason Clairmont held up some sort of badge in his hand and attempted to yell over the commotion. It took a few comical moments for the whole troupe to comprehend what was going on until a single elderly female dressed as a fairy waving a sparkly wand with a star on the end ran into him mid-skip.
“My apologies for the interruption, but as everyone is gathered here in one place, it makes it easier to address the ones I need to talk to.” He stared out into the audience as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
Nana reappeared on the stage and rushed to Mason’s side. He bent his head to listen to her. By the looks of the theater group members, what she said couldn’t have been too pleasant. Having been on the receiving end of her displeasure, I took perhaps too much glee in Mason’s apparent discomfort.
A dull buzz in the air rose to indignant murmuring. It died down when my grandmother held up her hands and addressed everyone. “Ladies and gentlemen. While I agree that perhaps the methods of Detective Clairmont are…lacking in propriety, I suggest that we allow him some latitude as I am sure that what will follow will be in all of our best interest.”
“Is it about Tipper?” someone yelled out.
Mason frowned. “We are not prepared to make any formal announcements at this time. However, with your cooperation, if we can get on with it, then things will be over more quickly.” He rustled the paper.
That arrogant man must be as dumb as a post, using his city ways on small-town folks like these. All he’d managed to do was stir up a hornets’ nest of drama and gossip.
“Would the following people please remain here while the rest of you exit as quickly and quietly as possible.” Without hesitation, Mason read off a short list of names.
With wide eyes and concerned whispers, the rest of the crowd filed out, their heads turning around to try and figure out what to do. Nana remained on the stage despite the detective’s evident agitation at her presence.
By my count, nine people remained. And every single one of them had one thing in common.
“This is outrageous,” Raif declared. “Madame Goodwin, surely you cannot condone this kind of blatant profiling of your small vampire population.”
Beauregard sat down on the edge of the stage, his makeup running from sweat. Or maybe tears. “Tipper would have hated this.” He sniffed and pulled a hanky out of his pocket to wipe his nose.
I hated to disagree with him, but I was pretty sure that wherever Uncle Tipper was, he was loving the mayhem.
“Would you please explain yourself and what you want from us? I would prefer to leave this witch hunt as soon as possible,” Raif demanded. The rest who rallied around him, staring up at Mason on the stage.
The detective counted the crowd. “This isn’t everybody.”
Nana spoke up. “A town hall meeting is an invitation for everyone to attend and participate. It is not mandatory.”
Mason frowned. “Then I’ll collect what I can and pursue the rest later. I need each of you to tell me your whereabouts during the First Night festivities.”
Raif stepped forward. “Why us, sir? Why make our lives harder by holding us as responsible for Tipper’s murder?”
“I did not say that he was murdered.”
“You all but did!” shouted Raif. “To the entire town!” The other vampires joined their tall companion in expressing their outrage.
Mason maintained a stoic stance on the stage, sweat glistening on his brow. “I’m trying to rule you out, not arrest anybody. For reasons I cannot, nor will, not divulge at
this time, questioning all of you is necessary.”
His eyes swept the room, and I swore he glanced in my direction. Ducking down, I held my breath. Voices echoed from below, but from my crouched position, only some of what was said remained clear.
Mason may not have said the word murder, but his zeal to question me and now this particular group told me enough. What happened to Tipper that night hadn’t been natural. And his ramblings that I thought showed how touched in the head my distant family member had turned might have had some truth to them.
My mind raced to organize the details of talking to Tipper. People wanted to end his fun. He knew things. And he’d said that if someone had wanted to stop him, they had to do it over his dead body.
What else had we talked about? He’d wanted me to help him find his bowtie. The whole thing was probably to test out my abilities to locate things so that I could help him in some upcoming adventure. Except…
With a gasp, I scrambled to my feet and hurried down the stairs. Turning the old knob and opening the door a crack, I checked for anyone around. The coast being clear, I snuck to the side door and did the same, pushing it open into the night air and running around to the back of the building out of sight, trying to piece together a plan.
My locating abilities required touching something or somebody to pick up on whatever I searched for. A thought or memory of someone I’d never truly been in contact with wouldn’t work.
The flap of wings and the familiar screech near my head alarmed me until an idea struck me. Taking a chance and trusting my gut, I spoke directly to the bird. “Biddy, I need to find someone. Now. Can you help me? For Tipper?” I held out my arm in hope.
Without hesitation, she flitted down and landed on me, her head cocking side to side so her dark eyes could regard me. Recalling a picture of the person I sought in my head, I contemplated how to make a connection through Tipper’s bird to find them. Before I found my solution, the crow nodded her head.
