“Okay then. Prince Oberon—now King of the Fae—knew he couldn’t live without the love of his life, and he also knew that the few years she had left weren’t nearly enough. He used a considerable amount of Faerie magic to make Esmerelda immortal—and even offered her daughter, who by then had grown into a woman, the same gift. Only Bianca refused, instead striking a bargain that would benefit all of witchkind. I think we should let one of the Balefire sisters tell the rest, don’t you?”
Mag poked Clara in the ribs. “You were Keeper—go for it.”
“Well,” Clara began, stepping forward, “Bianca made a vow to watch over the sacred flame, and pass the honor down through the generations, knowing that as long as the Balefire burned bright, the Unseelie would remain trapped in the Faelands. She implored King Oberon to amend his terms, and asked him to bestow prolonged life upon all witches in case the Balefire family line ever died out. He agreed, even though it meant that even he could never reenter the earthly realm. Esmerelda followed him back to the Faelands, and as far as anyone knows, they’re still there, ruling to this very day.” Clara gave a little nod and sat back down, allowing Hagatha to retake the stage.
“And that’s why we all have a bit of Balefire burning in our hearth. Witch feeds flame, and flame feeds witch. It’s why we have distributors who travel to the Keeper every year at Beltane, renew their connection to the Balefire, and spread its magic across the Earth. And of course, it’s why we keep a low profile, and try not to reveal our magic to mortals.”
Mag snorted quietly, finding the idea of Hagatha preaching about low profiles hilarious considering how many times she’d nearly outed the lot of them. When she and Clara had stepped into the Harmony coven, they was under the impression that Hagatha’s give-a-damn had gone out the window, but after having dealt extensively with the High Priestess over the previous few months, it was clear they’d been hoodwinked, and not by Haggie.
Hagatha’s actions didn’t stem from a desire to expose the magical community—she’d simply come to the realization that most people don’t believe even when the truth is staring them square in the face.
Coupled with a penchant for getting her geriatric self into troublesome situations, Hagatha tended to act without thinking. Still, Mag knew there was more to the story, but so far any attempt to discern Penelope’s reasoning for summoning the sisters only to treat them with utter contempt had come up short.
After the dramatic conclusion of Hagatha’s tale, and the feast which did, to Mag’s delight, include hot dogs, the senior coven members left the children making s’mores under the supervision of the older kids, and receded to an adjacent clearing for some conversation of an official nature. It brought a smug smile to Mag’s lips when she noticed the children skirted an arc around Penelope, some even turning their noses up at her when she spoke to even the teens as though they were toddlers.
“So, I heard you’ve made friends with Stephanie Huffington.” Penelope made the statement with no preamble, and the way she spit it out made it seem like a question to which she was entitled an answer. Even in ritual attire, Penelope somehow managed to show off her glamoured cleavage, though why she bothered in a gathering of witches who could see the shriveled scoops of flesh underneath the façade, neither Mag nor Clara could understand.
Gertrude Granger, one of the few witches who had taken the time to get to know the Balefires, sidled up beside them and responded before Mag could open her mouth to spew vim and vinegar all over Penelope. “Don’t see how that’s any of your concern.”
Penelope largely ignored Gertrude, whose red velvet robes trimmed in white fur—an homage to the Christmas holiday Gertrude loved most and all year round—were an assault to the eyes and in particular Penelope’s fashion sense, and spoke to Clara directly. Mag found it amusing that Penelope considered her sister the least volatile of the pair, and vehemently hoped that at some point in the future, Clara would show her how wrong she was on that count.
There was plenty of spice under Clara’s sugary coating.
“Under normal circumstances, I couldn’t care less who you socialize with, but we’ve been trying to get Stephanie Huffington to donate some funds to the Moonstones, and so far she’s been less than cooperative.” Penelope scowled.
“Maybe she just doesn’t like you; did you ever think of that?” Mag couldn’t hold back the snark.
Penelope shot her a dirty look and continued addressing Clara. “Josephine Huffington was a great supporter of the Moonstones, and Buffy carried on the tradition. Once she passed, the donations ceased. It would be a great boon if you could find out why, and see if we can get back in the Huffington’s good graces. The future of the community center depends on it, and you know how important it is for the kids in this town to have something to do besides huff paint thinner and raid old Mr. Tate’s strawberry fields.”
As far as cover stories went, Clara couldn’t find fault with the Moonstones. When Hagatha conceived the idea for the group, anonymity was more than necessary. The practice of burning witches at the stake was still popular, and groups of women with no purpose were suspect. Nowadays, there was less concern, but the civic side of the organization did so much good, the Harmony coven simply kept on keeping on.
“Don’t you think this would be better coming from you, Penelope?” Clara asked, casting a sideways glance at the other witch. “It is, after all, part of the job you lobbied so hard to get, and you’ve made it quite clear how little use the Balefire sisters are to the community. Outside certain, shall we say, unsavory chores, that is. How could you trust us not to let out any secrets about the Moonstones you’d rather keep under wraps?”
“Pfft.” Penelope dismissed Clara’s pointed barb. “Jo Huffington knew all about the Moonstones, and I do mean all about us.”
Ah, Mag thought, that must be why Stephanie seemed so calm when they’d told her their secret.
“We’ll have to think about it.” She refused to commit to anything and made sure Clara did the same.
Chapter Ten
“Aren’t you glad this place was on the way to the shelter?” A bag of chocolate donuts in one hand and molasses ones in the other, Clara juggled the two packages and waited for Mag to choose.
Located halfway between Port Harbor and Harmony, C&R’s carried as eclectic a mix as Balms and Bygones, except it lay at the other end of the spectrum when it came to goods. Part grocery store, part restaurant, and part gas station, you could also purchase a full set of fishing gear including a license, browse through a selection of rental DVDs, or play a game of pool.
Considering the merits of both flavors, Mag made a quick decision. “Get both. And if they have any orange creme whoopie pies, I want one of those, too.”
“Okie dokie,” Clara said. A display of handmade Celtic-style jewelry had captured her attention. She’d already wrapped several sterling silver rings around her slim fingers and was holding them up to admire the effect. “I wonder if this artisan is local. These would sell really well at Balms and Bygones.”
Mag agreed. “Ask for a card on our way out.” She chose a pair of earrings and examined the beaten silver dangles. Good weight, nicely crafted. Excellent shelf appeal and would make a good addition to our product line.”
Born of the necessity to cater to Mag’s tiny bladder, the store made a perfect stopping point on the weekly trips back to the city to visit Clara’s granddaughter Lexi. But it was the rustic charm and homemade potato salad that kept them coming back.
The witch’s way of transport, magically skimming from one place to another, would have been easier, but driving offered the advantage of being able to stop and shop along the way. So, while Mag ruthlessly scoured shops and yard sales for rare antiques, Clara made it a point to hit every boutique from Harmony to Port Harbor.
“What do you think? Is it me?” Popping out from aisle behind the coolers, Mag sported a ball cap in pale blue with the words Wicked Pissah in white script across the front. To make matters worse, she’d added
a sweatshirt featuring a moose wearing a googly-eyed lobster apron.
“Cute,” Clara deadpanned, then whipped out her phone to snag a photo. “I’ll blackmail you with this later.”
“Can’t see how. I’d have to give a rat’s patootie for that to work, and I’m fresh out,” Mag scoffed.
“You take the fun out of everything.”
In addition to trying on various combinations of tourist wear, every time they visited the establishment, Mag enjoyed the photo mounted on the wall behind the register. A panoramic view of the store’s facade taken at least thirty years prior.
To her, the photo represented a real life version of the ‘find the differences between these two photos’ game. So far, other than updated trim colors, only one element appeared out of place: a set of hand hewn, three-foot-tall, wooden letters spelling out the store’s name.
At some point in its history, CARS had become C&R’s simply by replacing the A with an ampersand and adding an apostrophe.
Whether it had been a change of ownership, or merely the realization that Cars was a confusing name for a general store, Mag had no clue. But she did appreciate the thrifty nature of whoever had made the decision, and she found it comforting to be reminded that the more things change, the more they stay the same.
Under the wrinkles and flyaway hair, she was still a fun-loving girl with a penchant for getting herself into and out of impossible situations. That her insides didn’t match her outsides was an unfortunate reality.
Unable to decide between three of the silver rings, Clara decided to buy them all and asked for more information about the jewelry maker.
The lanky boy manning the register, a youth named Shawn according to the tag pinned to his shirt, moved with all the speed of a slug. It took him nearly five minutes of rustling around behind the counter to figure out he couldn’t find the artisan’s card. Meanwhile, Mag hit the slushy machine.
“Red or blue, name your poison.”
“I don’t know why I love these so much,” Clara commented, “You get all the flavoring out in a few sips and then all that’s left is a cup full of tainted ice.”
Mag grinned, “It’s the same addictive ingredient the Colonel puts in his chicken, I swear.”
Shawn emerged from the back room with a piece of paper. “I called my mom, and she said the woman’s name is Cheyenne Bishop. I’ve got her number.”
“No need, young man, we know Cheyenne.” Shawn seemed a little irked that his efforts were going unappreciated as Mag waved away the slip of paper.
“Thank you, though,” Clara said with a smile, but it did nothing to help the boy’s mood.
Juggling the bag of goodies in her arms, Clara slid into the passenger’s seat of the Volkswagen. “Weird coincidence, don’t you think?”
“Not especially.” Mag didn’t believe in the concept of coincidence, but then again, she didn’t believe in moon landings, either. “But I can see why Stephanie wants to send some funds Cheyenne’s way. She’s talented. Feckless idiot, Constance called her, but I don’t think that’s the case. She’s just young and has gotten herself tangled up with a man far below her station.”
“You’ve barely even met this guy and you’re already condemning him, and based on one woman’s opinion. A woman whose judgment you just questioned, no less. He could be perfectly nice.” Clara’s response should have chagrined her sister, but Mag had made enough concessions as of late.
“Trust me, barely was plenty. And you didn’t meet him at all, so your opinion is invalid. When you do have the unfortunate experience of being introduced to that boob, you’ll be eating a healthy serving of crow.” Mag promised.
Clara let it drop and pointed to her right. “There’s the sign for the shelter. Slow down and turn here.”
“I see it, Miss Side Seat Driver.” Mag put Cheyenne out of her mind to focus solely on the task ahead. Single-minded determination—that was the best way to get things done. Sometimes, Clara thought, it prevented her from seeing the bigger picture, but she’d discovered that when it came to her sister, there was never a good time to open a can of worms.
According to the search results on Clara’s phone, the Pets Alive Animal Rescue sat on approximately ten acres and sheltered anywhere from five to twenty animals at a time. The grounds included a large red barn, a fenced-in area where six or seven dogs romped happily, and a corral of kennels shaded from the sun by a sturdily-built roofed awning. Everything received meticulous care, from the gravel parking area to the now-browning grassy play area. Only a few stray leaves from a nearly bare oak tree littered the lawn.
Mag, as was her custom, took in every detail in case there was a need to mentally reconstruct the setting later. Clara, meanwhile, absorbed the emotions radiating from the animals and humans present. Using her perceptions as a filter, she noted how her mind, body, and spirit felt about the surroundings. Together, the pair made a thorough and observant team.
Inside the office, a semi-circle chest-height counter provided a barrier to the area behind the scenes. Dogs barked in rotation. As soon as one stopped, another started up. Mag’s nose wrinkled at the thought of having to listen to that racket all day long.
When the harried-looking woman popped up from behind the counter, Clara recognized her as one of the trio of young coven members Mag had dubbed Double Bubble, Toil, and Trouble.
“Can I help you?” Winifred Owens asked. The name came back to Clara with a snap. “Oh, it’s you two. Are you looking for a dog?”
“No.” Clara replied wistfully. “I love dogs, but Pyewacket would have a fit.”
“Tell me about it. My Nixie gives me the silent treatment after every shift, but I love my job. Where else am I going to get paid to snuggle puppies?”
Hitting her chit-chat limit, Mag interrupted.
“We’re looking for Bradley Graham.” She declined to say why, but maintained the facade of having no idea Brad no longer worked at Pets Alive.
That caught Winnifred’s interest. “Bradley?” The way she growled his name out from between clenched teeth gave a pretty good indication of her feelings for the man.
“Unfortunately, Bradley no longer works here. He resigned and left us in the lurch. We’ve all been working overtime, and it’s going to take weeks to find a suitable replacement.”
“Did he happen to provide a forwarding address?” Clara asked innocently.
“No, there wasn’t one included in his resignation letter.” Winifred shook her head. “Don’t repeat this.” Leaning forward, she pitched her tone low.
Clara thought to herself how nice it was to live in a town where people didn’t hesitate to tell each other’s business to virtual strangers. Of course, it was one thing when you were attempting to unearth information, and quite another when you were the subject of the loose lips.
Eyes sliding sideways as if to check for eavesdroppers, she announced, “But there’s talk. It came as a shock. Running the shelter seemed like a passion project for him and none of us thought he would just up and leave.”
With that non-explanation, the young witch cemented Mag’s opinion that Toil was a better name for her since it took a lot of work to get her to come to a point.
“What kind of talk?”
“Brad was working on a long-range plan for expansion, thanks to Stephanie Huffington’s generous donation. If he’d stayed, we were on track to double the number of animals we could help by the end of next year. It’s important work. Now, there’s talk we might be shutting down instead. We’re all wondering if he got caught doing something shifty, because the funds should still be available. I can’t imagine what else could have drawn him away, especially now.”
Finally, something Mag could get her teeth in to. “Do you have any evidence? Have you seen or heard anything suspicious?”
Winifred, realizing she might have said too much, snapped her mouth shut and only shook her head.
“Look you—” Coming in hot, Mag would have steamrollered right over the younger witch
if Clara hadn’t jabbed her with an elbow and stepped in to smooth things over.
Fixing a reassuring smile on her face, she troweled it on thick. “I can tell you have …” Her voice dropped to a whisper and Clara glanced around as if to make sure no one was listening even though there was no one else in the building. “Strong magic. It makes you a good judge of character, and that’s why your opinion would be so useful to figuring out why Bradley left so suddenly. We’re worried about him, so is his fiancée, and I can tell you are, too.”
Which was nothing less than the truth on all counts.
Delighted surprise bloomed over Winifred’s face and Clara caught herself wondering about the younger witch’s history. Had no one remarked on her potential before? Maybe it was time to get to know the individual members of her current coven a little better.
More kindly, now, Clara asked, “Do you think Brad was stealing from the shelter?”
Winifred paused. “I don’t know. If you’d asked me that before he left, I’d have said no and not even thought twice. Now, I can’t help wondering what was going on behind the scenes.”
A quiet suggestion from Mag. “Trouble in paradise?”
“You mean with Stephanie?” Winifred seemed surprised and Mag nodded. She shook her head so hard her earrings swung. “Impossible. I’ve never seen a man so besotted with a woman. It was enough to make me think there might be a few good ones left in the pack.”
Resting an elbow on the counter, Clara wondered what the chances were of Winifred letting them take a look around the office. “It’s probably nothing.”
“Why, what have you heard? I know there was a phone call for him on the office line a week or so before he left. A woman who didn’t want to leave her name, but that’s not unusual. We get sales calls all the time and I figured it was just someone else trying to hit the top guy in the chain of command.”
“Well, we—”
The sound of another vehicle pulling up outside had Winifred checking the clock. “I’m sorry, I have an appointment to take this family through the shelter. They lost their dog in the spring, and now they’re feeling like it’s time to find a new fur baby. This is the best part of my job, watching people fall in love with a new companion.”
Haunted by Murder Page 9
