A little misty-eyed, Winifred rounded the counter to welcome the new arrivals. “Come back anytime. I’ll let you know if anything important about Brad comes to mind.”
On the way back out the door, Mag nearly took a nasty fall when her cane got tangled in a rake leaning against the side of the building. “Ouch! That wasn’t there before.”
“I’m so sorry, ma’am.” A lanky red-headed man in faded overalls quickly gathered his tools. “I’ll get these out of your way.” He walked with a limp, his left foot dragging slightly behind him, but it didn’t seem to slow him down much.
“I’m okay, really. It’s no big deal.” Mag replied, loathe to be treated as the fragile old lady she appeared to be.
The man seemed grateful Mag was all right, and began chatting nervously. “Name’s Tommy. I’m the gardener, and I was just finishing up the last of the fall tasks. Winter will be here before you know it. Farmer’s Almanac says it’s going to be a doozie. Did you ladies find what you were looking for?”
Mag winked at Clara and replied, “No, not exactly.”
“There’s been a rise in the number of surrenders lately, at least that’s what I’ve heard. I’m not exactly in the loop, of course, I’m just the gardener. But I got my Maisie here, and she’s just the best service dog I could have asked for.” His face lit up and he snapped his fingers to call the golden lab to his side.
“Are you a war veteran, Tommy?” Mag asked, her curiosity getting the best of her while she returned the dog’s intelligent, but gentle gaze. Never before had she felt so thoroughly assessed by an animal, and it unsettled her slightly.
“Yes, ma’am. Two tours in Iraq, till I got my leg blown off. I was lucky.” Lucky was a stretch, as far as Mag was concerned, but she understood the sentiment.
“How long have you been working here?” she asked.
“Going on two years now. It’s not easy to find a good job these days, but they let me work around my appointments and I get to bring my best girl to work with me. Couldn’t ask for anything more.”
“Did you happen to know Bradley Graham before he resigned?” Mag pried.
Tommy nodded. “Sure did. He’s the one who hired me. Things have been hard around here, him leaving so suddenly.”
He caught the expression on Mag’s face and qualified. “Not for me, just in general. More work for everyone. Can’t say I blame him though, who would want to work if they didn’t have to? I’d sit home with Maisie all day if I could.”
“Is that what he’s doing? Did you see him before he quit?”
“No, and that was a little odd, if you ask me. Whole thing seems off. He didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would sneak out the back door. I just figured he cashed in his meal ticket. That girlfriend of his is loaded. But then again, what do I know? After all, I’m just the gardener.” Tommy repeated for the third time. “You ladies have a nice day.”
With that, he settled a rake in the wheelbarrow, grabbed the handles, and moved off to continue his work for the day, whistling for Maisie to follow.
“I’m driving.” Clara announced in a tone that brooked no refusal, and ignored Mag’s mutters of protest.
“Interesting how she corroborated Cheyenne’s story, no?” Contemplating the coating of sugar on her fingertips, Mag tried to decide whether to lick them clean or eat another chocolate donut.
Clara spared her attention from driving to glance over at her sister. “Is that what you got from what Winnie said?”
“Well, yeah, didn’t you think it was convenient that he’s getting calls from women at work and on his personal line?”
For whatever reason, Clara felt compelled to defend Brad. “Oh, so now it’s women. Honestly, Mag, you’ve condemned him without a shred of evidence, and you’re turning more cynical by the day. The caller could have been a family member, or any number of other innocent women, for that matter.”
Several chocolate crumbs flew out of Mag’s mouth with the force of her response. “Or he had a side piece and was out for what he could get from Stephanie. We’ve never even met the man, so how am I supposed to form an opinion of him? And I’m not a cynic. We’ve been told there’s danger lurking, and there’s a man missing. I'm only looking at the facts.”
“Or making them up to suit yourself.”
“At least I’m not ignoring half of what people tell me. You hear the good things and discard the rest.” Never would she admit it, but Mag admired Clara’s ability to believe the best of everyone.
“You’re making me out to be a Pollyanna type and that couldn’t be further from the truth,” Clara growled. “I'm not blind to people’s faults; I simply choose to believe that most can rise above them.” And with that, silence reigned until the VW rocked to a halt in front of Balms and Bygones.
Turning in her seat, Clara shot Mag a stern look. “Why can’t you just be nice? That poor woman has had more heartache and loss in her life than anyone her age should have had to face. If she’s been dumped, she didn’t deserve it, and rubbing it in isn’t going to win you any points. If something worse has happened to Brad, you’re going to feel like a complete jerk later. I'm trying to save you from your baser impulses.”
Sullen, Mag muttered, “I’m only telling it like it is.”
“Well, don’t.”
The car door slammed behind Clara and neither sister was too happy with the other when they went inside.
***
The butterflies in Clara’s stomach felt like they’d evolved into pterodactyls, and by the time she’d emerged from the shower to begin picking an outfit for her date with John, she’d nearly talked herself into calling to cancel.
She took a look around, checking for the presence of any male ghosts that might make the prospect of getting dressed feel like taking part in a peep show, but the only presence in her bedroom was Mag. Sprawled out on the bed with Jinx curled up against her side purring contentedly, it reminded Clara of when they were teenagers, getting ready for what then constituted a wild night out. Thankfully, this evening would not include a barn raising or skinny-dipping at the lake. At least, she doubted it anyway.
“I hope you’re not planning on wearing that towel turban on your date,” Mag teased with a grin. Her comment was returned with a look that was meant to be stern, but ended up looking pathetic due to the bundle of nerves that was Clara.
“I’m just joking with you, relax.” Mag rolled her eyes.
“How am I supposed to relax? I haven’t been on a date in decades.”
“What? You worried you’ve started to grow cobwebs over your—”
“Don’t even finish that sentence, Margaret Balefire.” Clara admonished, but she couldn’t hold back a snort of laughter.
“Why are you so nervous, anyway? You’ve got two hundred years on this guy. It isn’t as though you’re inexperienced, or some silly young girl who doesn’t know her butt from a hole in the ground. You’re an intelligent, beautiful woman, and I promise you he’s having a bigger anxiety attack than you are.”
Clara wondered if Mag had accidentally taken an anti-snark pill, so unused was she to her sister being this nice.
“I doubt it—at least he’s dated during this century,” Clara replied, her words running together as she tried to apply mascara and talk at the same time.
“Just be happy someone wants to take you on a date. Trust me, you’ll miss it when you reach your crone phase and nobody gives you a second glance. We’re only four years apart, Clarie, for crying out sideways. I should still be a healthy, virile woman, not an old bag of bones.” Mag lamented. It wasn’t much more than she’d ever said on the subject, but it was the first time Clara hadn’t had to pry Mag’s feelings out of her with a metaphorical crowbar.
“I had no idea you had any desire for a relationship,” Clara said, feeling a little bad for her sister. “Don’t give up. I’m sure there’s a man out there for you somewhere.” She hoped like heck she didn’t say the wrong thing. You could never tell with Mag.
&n
bsp; “It’s not about wanting a relationship,” Mag said, flopping onto the bed as much as her stiff joints and aching back would allow. “I never wanted that, not really. I wanted adventures and lovers and excitement. Now I’ve got antiques and bunions and a bum hip. Sometimes I think it would have been better if that Raythe had just taken me out. I never intended to get old—I figured I’d go down swinging in a fiery blaze. What that thing did to me was almost worse than killing me. Now all I have to look forward to is more centuries feeling like this.” She indicated her prematurely wrinkled face and pear-shaped figure.
Mag had never possessed the same classic beauty as her sister. She’d always been a little taller, her features a little more angular and severe—what you might call handsome—but she’d had the same wide hazel Balefire eyes and symmetrical nose, and a ferocity for life that cast a unique beauty on her face. Margaret Balefire had been a force to be reckoned with, with just as many suitors as Clara had. Only difference was, it was usually the bad-boy type that went for Mag, and that was how she’d liked it. No commitments, no strings.
“Oh, Maggie, that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.” Clara made a note to herself to talk to Hagatha about the effect honey pixie hormones had had on her sister. If they put their heads together, they might find a magical cure for her premature aging.
Mag scowled. “I’m not looking for pity, so stop that right now. I’m just telling it like it is. You wanted to know what’s going on inside my head, you want to know how I feel about things all the time. I’m happy we’re getting the chance to reconnect, but sometimes it feels like I’m watching you live life from the sidelines.”
In fact, it felt like she was doing it right that very moment, watching Clara get ready to meet a man she was excited about. It made her happy, but that little green monster kept poking his head out of the shadows, threatening to burst onto the scene at any second.
Clara sighed, and kept her tone light. “Now you know how it felt to be me all those years, sitting around doing nothing but keeping the home fires burning.”
“That’s a cop-out and you know it, Clarie. Keepers can still live a full life, and you know just as well as I do you weren’t chained to the hearth by anything more than your own sense of obligation. I’m truly glad to see you taking a chance. One of us sure as heck should. And stop right there, that dress is perfect.”
“You think so?” Clara twirled in front of the mirror, applied a final coat of lipstick, and pronounced herself ready. If only those pterodactyls would stop twirling around inside her stomach, everything would be perfect.
***
John’s eyes widened in appreciation when Clara descended the front steps outside Balms and Bygones. She’d let her chestnut hair fall in waves around her face, highlighting the amber flecks in her wide-set green eyes. Having come of age in a time before women were expected to flaunt themselves without any sense of propriety, she’d decided on a simple outfit of leggings and a long, loose-fitting button-down blouse under a cardigan. A belt to match the flat-heeled boots she wore cinched the top at her waist, and the silver jewelry from Cheyenne’s collection elevated the look to date-worthy.
“Wow, you look … beautiful.” John stuttered as he took her hand and led her down the walkway. She didn’t have a chance to tell him how handsome he looked in the crisp cornflower-blue oxford shirt that showed off his well-built shoulders and made his brown eyes look like molten chocolate, because she was distracted by the sleek classic sports car parked at the curb.
“Is that an E-Type Jag? Looks like a ’64.”
It gave Clara much pleasure to note the surprised expression on his face. Men were always shocked when women knew anything about cars, though she could never fathom why they couldn’t understand how a shiny, finely-tuned machine might appeal to members of both genders.
The fact that she could remember when the sporty E-Type hit the showroom floor for the first time, back in 1961, was something she’d keep to herself.
There were only a few restaurants in the small town of Harmony, and when John turned right out of Clara’s driveway, she started to get a little concerned, “We aren’t going to the Oarhouse are we?” She asked with an edge in her voice.
“Nope, I thought we could try something a little more my speed. It’s a surprise. Or, at least I think it will be. What’s wrong with the Oarhouse? They’ve really upped their game since they changed the name.”
Clara laughed, relieved, “Yeah, the Harpy’s Hideaway was colorful, but probably not great for the tourist business. Though, depending on what kind of tourists you’re trying to attract, that might not be the case. Don’t get me wrong, their food is fantastic, and the lobster rolls are to die for, but I don’t think I can ever set foot in that place again after what happened during the canoe race.”
Realization dawned on John, and he was instantly contrite. “Of course, the murder. You do seem to find yourself in some interesting situations for a small-town shop owner, I must say.”
Hoping ‘small-town shop owner’ wasn’t a euphemism for something even less flattering, Clara decided to brush past what felt like an insult and give John the benefit of the doubt. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”
Over the next ten minutes, Clara learned that John enjoyed an eclectic mix of hobbies including para-sailing and Tai Chi, and though technically retired, he still went in to work five days a week because he truly cared about the charitable causes Huffington Foundation backed.
She explained, as much as she could explain while leaving coven politics at the door, how she and Mag had wound up moving to Harmony and opening Balms and Bygones. Those ten minutes were enough to make her realize that having to hide the details of her entire life might make the evening more stressful than enjoyable, and vowed to stick to subjects that wouldn’t necessitate outright lying.
Clara had just begun to get comfortable when John took a sharp right-hand turn into what looked like a long driveway. She’d never been to this part of Harmony before, and wondered briefly if she were about to be taken to a secluded location, bashed over the head, and left for dead.
Okay, an unlikely scenario given her defensive capabilities, but that the notion sprang to her mind ahead of anything remotely romantic was something to think about later.
When the trees parted and she heard the sounds of bluegrass music wafting toward her, Clara let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding.
“Where are we?” She asked, raising an eyebrow and chancing a glance at John.
“Raylynn’s B-B-Q,” He replied with a smile, “She and her husband are southern transplants, and they brought their favorite recipes up here with them. They open during the summer months, and close when they run out of pulled pork. Tonight’s the last of it. I hope you weren’t expecting something fancier, but hole-in-the-wall is more my speed. Harmony’s best-kept secret, in my humble opinion. Been coming here for years.”
“I’ve never been much for fancy, so this is perfect. I’m just glad I didn’t wear white.” Clara could already detect the mouth-watering scents of simmering meat and barbecue sauce, and her sense of smell, honed from years working with herbs both fresh and dried told her it was homemade.
She let out a hum of appreciation, and her stomach rumbled.
From the outside, Raylynn’s looked like a cobbled-together old country house, but inside it was comfortable and homey. The live band, made up of three elderly gentlemen, plucked away on their various acoustic stringed instruments, and for a second she almost believed they’d walked smack dab into the middle of the Deep South.
Sitting across from John, Clara tried to identify the sensations pinging around in her body. Some, the majority probably, came from plain old first date jitters—a mix of he’s looking at me and what if I say something stupid?
There was also a hint of what if he’s hiding something to do with Brad.
No. Tonight was just for her and for him. The mystery would have to take a backseat. Shoving suspicion firmly to the
side, she let herself fall into the date without reservation.
John ordered for her, and while they dug into the food, she kept the conversation to superficial topics like books and movies.
“But why?” Clara asked, “This is why I despise horror movies. They always go back into the house, or the woods, or the abandoned factory. People that stupid deserve whatever happens to them. Give me a good, suspenseful ghost story any day.”
“Not a fan of sappy romances?” John smiled.
Waving her fork at him, Clara pointed out, “See, right there you’re showing your bias with the word sappy. Romance can be full of tragedy and comedy, too.”
“Ah. The appeal of the brooding Heathcliff.”
“Not my type, but I can see how he might seem romantic. I tend to go for the quirky leading man, myself. Less predictable.”
John seemed to take that as a challenge, and pulling Clara from her seat, whirled her into his arms for a sprightly jig until the band took pity on him and played something softer and slower. He gathered her close and the scent of him flooded her senses.
Heart racing almost as fast as the previous song, Clara let herself float in the warmth she found in his arms. As first dates went, this one was shaping up nicely.
It ended at her front door with the breathless anticipation as his lips hovered over hers and she moved in to complete the kiss. Mingling her breath with his, she sighed when it ended, and wanted more.
“Good night, Clara Balefire. I’ll see you soon.”
She murmured a reply, and went to bed with a smile plastered to her face.
Chapter Eleven
Clara woke from a dream with the sounds of bluegrass music humming in her ears, and the memory of a kiss lingering on her lips. She absentmindedly dressed herself with a flicker of magic, and floated down the stairs to the shop on a cloud, only to find Mag waiting for her in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, smiling like the cat who ate the canary.
Haunted by Murder Page 10
