Witch Myth Omnibus: A Yew Hollow Cozy Mystery

by Alexandria Clarke

  Gwenlyn had abandoned her lemonade. With the pink straw between her teeth, she clambered up onto the porch rail, sat down, and swung her feet out over the holly bushes in the front yard. As if she could feel my gaze on her, she turned her head to observe me with a curious eye. It was the first moment since I’d seen her in which she didn’t appear totally hostile. In fact, a sense of fragility radiated from her shadowy eyes. She hopped down from the porch rail, hurdling the holly bushes with her long legs, and walked out toward the swing set. As Gwenlyn’s rounded shoulders slumped farther forward, I threw up my hands in defeat.

  “Fine,” I said, stepping down from the porch. “I’ll talk to her, but I’m not Yoda, okay?”

  “You don’t have to be.”

  I ignored Cassandra and strolled out across the backyard toward the swing set. The lightning bugs had started to come out, flickering in the tall grass like faulty matches. After such a long day, all I wanted was to go back to the loft and collapse into bed, but if it was my job to bond with Gwenlyn, I figured I might as well get the first attempt over with.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Gwenlyn said before I even had the chance to speak.

  “Do what?” I asked and claimed the swing next to hers.

  “I heard you talking to Cassandra,” she said. Her voice was heavy, as though it took her an inordinate amount of exertion to make conversation with me. “I’m not deaf. I’m also not a charity case. If you want me to leave, I’ll leave.”

  “I don’t think my mother would let that happen,” I said, kicking my feet back and forth to get the swing moving. Gwenlyn didn’t bother to swing, which to me seemed sad. It meant she’d already had the majority of her happiness beaten out of her and didn’t have enough left to enjoy the simple things anymore. “And I don’t think you’re a charity case.”

  She stared at the ground, digging into the dirt beneath the mulch with her bare toes. “I’ll give you back your T-shirt, if you want.”

  “Nah, keep it. I can’t fault you for your good taste.”

  A ghost of a smile crossed her features. I wondered how long it had been since she had last exercised those facial muscles. She didn’t strike me as a particularly cheerful or humorous human being.

  “Do your foster parents know where you are?” I asked. My mother hadn’t offered up any specifics on Gwenlyn’s past. For all I knew, she could be some kind of juvenile delinquent, devising a clever con to take advantage of the Summers coven. Or maybe I was just paranoid.

  She shook her head. “I’m pretty good at making a quick, unnoticed exit,” she said. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

  “Won’t they be worried?”

  Gwenlyn shrugged. “They’re probably relieved.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay.” If Gwenlyn didn’t want to open up about her situation, I wasn’t going to make her. My mother had good instincts, so even if Gwenlyn was a troubled delinquent, I didn’t doubt my mother’s ability to turn her around. “So you never knew that you were a witch?”

  She laughed outright. It wasn’t an amused laugh though. It was a cynical one, and it didn’t reach her eyes. “Witches aren’t real.”

  “Except we are.”

  “Yeah, well, how the hell was I supposed to know that?”

  “I guess I figured the whole seeing-ghosts thing would clue you in,” I said. I dragged my heels against the ground, stopping my swing to look at Gwenlyn. She avoided making eye contact with me, instead finding great interest in scratching a bit of rust off the chain of her swing.

  “I thought I was crazy,” she finally said.

  “I know the feeling.”

  “No, you don’t. Not really.”

  We fell silent. Gwenlyn wasn’t forthcoming with any further details about her life, and I really wasn’t all that dedicated to removing the chip from her shoulder. Teenagers would be teenagers. They always thought they had it harder than everyone else. It was the “anywhere but here” feeling. I knew it well. Hell, I had only just abandoned my own wanderlust the previous fall. Gwenlyn could have her angst. I’d learned that human beings grew through things, not out of them.

  The stars started to glimmer as the last of the sun disappeared beneath the tree line. The air had cooled off with its absence, and as a breeze drifted through the backyard, Gwenlyn shivered in my holey T-shirt.

  “You should head inside,” I said, pushing myself up from the swing. “I’m sure my mother has dinner waiting for you.”

  Surprisingly, she didn’t argue. She simply hopped down from her unmoving swing and set off toward the house. I walked in the opposite direction, toward the woods, before turning around once more.

  “Gwenlyn?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  I considered that for a second, remembering my own feelings of isolation and confusion when I was that age, and said, “Everything sucks at sixteen. Push through it.”

  She straightened, raised her hand to her head in a mock salute, then executed an abrupt about-face and goose-stepped back to the house. I shook my head, laughing, and headed home.

  The next day, as per usual, I met my sisters at the swing set for what seemed to be evolving into a regular morning meeting. A light drizzle coated my skin with misty raindrops and settled on the grass in shiny jewels of dew.

  “You didn’t come by last night,” Karma accused. She and Laurel were busy weaving flower wreaths with the daisies that grew around the swing set. Laurel stood, placed a finished daisy crown on my head, and smiled at her handiwork.

  “Sorry,” I said, squinting into the pale sun that peeked through the gauzy clouds. “Mom distracted me. Have you guys met Gwenlyn yet?”

  “Yes,” Laurel said. She sat down again in the grass beyond the mulch, kneading a pinecone between her palms as if contemplating ways to incorporate the cone in her artwork.

  “What do you think of her?” I asked. The stem of a daisy poked at my scalp, so I adjusted the crown until it sat comfortably.

  “She reminds me of you when you were her age,” Malia said.

  “Well, she was wearing my T-shirt.”

  “It’s not the T-shirt,” said Malia with a light chuckle. “She’s all sharp edges and attitude.”

  I took that with a grain of salt. In my opinion, the only thing Gwenlyn and I had in common was the whole sixth-sense thing. Just because I had also been a moody teenager didn’t mean that we were kindred spirits.

  “What happened at the station yesterday?” Karma asked.

  “I have a client who thinks her dead husband is still abusing her,” I said. Talking about it made me eager to head in to work. I needed to get started on debunking Teagan’s theory. The longer I waited, the longer the matter went unattended, and the idea of ghosts with hands festered in my head.

  “Are you buying that?” Laurel asked, handing me a partially completed wreath.

  “I wasn’t at first,” I admitted, accepting the wreath and clumsily attempting to continue weaving another flower into its steady pattern. “But I have this weird feeling about it.”

  “What kind of weird feeling?”

  “I can’t explain it,” I said. Laurel confiscated the wreath from me, frowning at the messy knots I’d tied into it. “I know something is strange about this case, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

  Malia ruffled my hair. “You’ll figure it out. Besides, you have us. If you need anything, let us know.”

  “I might take you up on that,” I said, combing my fingers through my hair to combat Malia’s windy touch. “I’m going to take a look around my client’s house again today, or what’s left of it anyway. It burned down. Maybe I’ll pick up something I missed the last time I was there.”

  “Good luck,” said Laurel. A passing butterfly landed in her hair, pulsing its periwinkle wings like a living barrette.

  “Thanks. I’ll see you all later.”

  Th
ey chorused a farewell as I headed into town. There was no time for donuts or jokes today. As soon as I got to the station, I headed straight for my office. It was hilarious, really, that I even had an office, rather than a desk and a cubicle like all of the other officers. When I had been hired at the force, I had essentially replaced the town’s previous detective, who was a complete asshat, so I didn’t feel too terrible about throwing all of his shit into a box and leaving it out on the curb for the weekly trash truck to collect. Now my new office was rather barren. I wasn’t sure what the protocol was for personalizing a detective’s desk, so I’d settled for a tiny potted succulent, an antique globe, and as a joke, a large, ornate magnifying glass that I’d picked up at a thrift store.

  “Summers!”

  I backtracked, peeking into the adjacent office.

  “You bellowed?” I said to Chief Torres. He beckoned me inside.

  “Shut the door.”

  I did so then sank into one of the leather chairs opposite Torres’s desk. “Are you firing me?” I joked. “Because you should probably reconsider. I mean, who else is going to help you keep all these creepy deaths and rebellious ghost stories under the radar?”

  Torres rested his meaty hands on the wide expanse of his stomach. His chair strained and popped as he reclined. “I’ve got some good news for you, Summers.”

  “I’m getting a pay raise?”

  “You wish. No, I’ve hired another detective.”

  For a second, I only stared at him, wondering if he was joking. As far as I knew, Yew Hollow had only ever had one detective in its small police force. Clearly, though, Torres wasn’t kidding.

  “You what?”

  “Now, don’t go and get yourself all worked up,” he said. He began to straighten a stack of business cards on his desk, as if to avoid making direct eye contact with me. “We got lucky with this guy. He practically fell into my lap. He comes highly recommended, and he’s not afraid of the Hollow’s quirks. You give him a chance, you hear me?”

  “But I’m Yew Hollow’s detective.”

  “You’re the paranormal detective,” Torres corrected, now very concerned with the dust between the keys of his computer keyboard. He blew at what appeared to be a donut crumb. “But let’s face it, Summers. You don’t have a whole lot of experience when it comes to actual detective work. You aren’t even a real cop.”

  “Then teach me how to be a real cop,” I urged. “I’ll do whatever you need me to. You want me to get certified? To complete a training course? Come on, Torres. Cut me some slack.”

  “I don’t have time to teach you,” said Torres wearily. “That’s why I hired this guy. You’ll work together on the Riley case. The faster we get this mess cleaned up, the better. Afterward, if you still want official training, we can have it arranged.”

  I slumped down in the chair, crossing my arms like a petulant child in the principal’s office. “I can’t believe you don’t think I can do this on my own.”

  “Summers, I have complete confidence in you.”

  “Then why’d you hire someone else?” I demanded.

  “Look, just meet the guy before you bite my head off, okay?”

  “Where is he?”

  Torres checked his watch, which looked as though it was cutting off the circulation in his sausage of a wrist. “He should be here any minute.”

  “So he’s late? Great way to make a solid first impression.”

  “Summers…”

  “I know, I know. Don’t bite your head off.”

  “I appreciate it,” Torres said, his shoulders sagging in relief at my reluctant cooperation. “By the way, I should warn you. Detective Dobbes doesn’t know about your, uh, speciality.”

  “I thought you said he knew about Yew Hollow’s quirks.”

  “The town’s, yes. Your quirks, on the other hand, I left for you to explain.” He leaned over his beefy arm, staring me down from across the desk. “Listen here, Summers. You better go easy on him. I don’t think he’s quite convinced that our town’s a little different from the beats he’s worked before.”

  I pushed myself out of the chair and, taking a leaf out of Gwenlyn’s book, gave Chief Torres a little fake salute. “Don’t worry, Chief. I’ll break it to him gently.”

  “Get rid of that evil grin before you do, Summers.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I left his office, hoping to hide away in my own before the new detective showed up. Maybe, if I got lucky, I could avoid him long enough to prove that I could work the Riley case on my own. Yew Hollow didn’t need another detective, and I was determined to eliminate the competition before Chief Torres got any other ideas.

  But when I swung through the door of my office, I found that someone was already sitting in my rolling chair, his feet propped up on my desk near the potted succulent. He was tall, lean, and offensively good-looking, and had a royal-purple aura that would have romanced even the most misandrist of witches. His jawline was so square and his hair so coiffed, he could have been a comic book superhero. Like me, he didn’t seem to adhere to the standard detective dress code. He wore a pair of fitted jeans, a white Oxford shirt, and a skinny black tie. When he looked up to see who was in the doorway, I couldn’t help but notice his eyes. They were the clearest blue I’d ever seen, but that didn’t stop me from marching in, shoving his feet off my desk, and demanding:

  “Who the hell are you?”

  I already knew, of course, and I didn’t care if it seemed as though I was pissing on my territory. This guy sure as hell didn’t belong behind my desk. Despite this, I still felt a twinge of professional jealousy as he stood—and my goodness, was he tall—reached out a large, calloused hand and said, “Detective Dominic Dobbes. You must be Morgan.”

  Chapter Four

  In Which Ghosts Have Hands

  “It’s Detective Summers,” I said shortly, though no one had ever addressed me as Detective Summers in my entire time at the force. For a moment, I considered not shaking his hand, but I was trying to prove to Chief Torres that I was a professional. I grudgingly placed my hand in his, which he squeezed tightly. That was a good sign. I hated when men gave women a dainty little handshake, as if we weren’t solid enough to withstand the strength of their fingers.

  He dipped his head in apology. “Detective Summers. It’s really nice to meet you. I’m looking forward to working on this case with you. It definitely seems… interesting.”

  “Uh-huh. Listen, how much did Chief Torres tell you, Detective Dobbes?” I asked. My office seemed to have shrunk in size to accommodate Dobbes’s ridiculous height. I waved him into the spare chair opposite my desk, eager for him to reduce his presence in the room. As we switched places and sat down across from each other, Dobbes spoke in a languid voice tinged with the tiniest hint of a Brooklyn accent.

  “You can call me Dominic,” he said. “Chief Torres filled me in on a few things. I have to admit that I’m a little confused.”

  “That’s the general reaction,” I said, moving the succulent back into place from where Dobbes’s foot had shifted it. “Yew Hollow is pretty unusual.”

  “I hear you have a ghost problem?”

  There was no hint of laughter in his voice, which was impressive. Most people were skeptical of Yew Hollow’s paranormal history, and when you mixed police work with things that weren’t supposed to exist, the lines got a little blurred.

  “Yes, we’ve been dealing with a number of deaths lately, all of which are somehow involved with witchcraft,” I said, watching his face for a reaction.

  “Witchcraft.”

  “Yes, witchcraft,” I repeated. “I thought you said that Chief Torres filled you in.”

  “Sorry, I’m still wondering if this is all just a funny prank that you guys play on the new guy,” Dobbes said, leaning forward in his chair and resting his elbows on his knees.

  “Brace yourself, because Chief Torres left out a couple of things.”

  “Such as?”

  I looked him up and d
own, wondering how best to deliver my next piece of news. To his credit, he maintained steady eye contact with a confidence that I couldn’t help but admire. Then again, when you looked like an underwear model, confidence wasn’t something you needed to bolster.

  “I’m Yew Hollow’s paranormal detective,” I said. “I’m a psychic medium, so it’s my job to deal with the cases that go over the other officers’ heads.”

  It was clear that Detective Dobbes was not expecting this. He hid it well, though. His blue eyes narrowed only slightly before he asked, “A psychic medium?”

  “Yeah, yeah. ‘I see dead people’ and all that.”

  “How does that—?”

  I heaved a sigh. Obviously, Torres had not done a bang-up job of explaining Yew Hollow’s inner workings. “Look, all you need to know is that my family, the Summerses, are a coven of witches. I’m a witch too. I can see ghosts, which may or may not be relevant to the case that you and I have been assigned to.”

  “Teagan Riley.”

  “Yes,” I said, relieved that he’d finally caught on to the fact that he was going to have to accept my odd occupation in order to work on the case. “She was attacked at home. She says her husband did it, but he committed suicide two weeks ago. We have to figure out if she’s being haunted or not.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, which stood up for a moment before settling back into its original position. “And how exactly am I supposed to help with that? I don’t know anything about ghosts. Or witches, for that matter.”

  “Since my expertise is focused on the paranormal aspect of things, I’ll handle that. What I need from you is to back me up with the actual detective work.” I extracted Teagan’s file from my desk drawer and handed it to Dobbes. As he shuffled through it, his brow furrowed in concentration, I explained, “Ghosts aren’t able to physically interact with mortals. In any case, I haven’t seen Teagan’s husband hanging around, so I can’t help but wonder if she’s using the ghost story as a cover for something else.”

  “Like what?”

  I shrugged. I only had theories, not facts. “Teagan says her husband was abusive. Maybe there’s more to his suicide than we originally thought.”