Pyewacket and Jinx were both, for once, in human form and seated rather than curled up in the other two chairs. “Clara and Jo-ohn, sittin’ in a tree…” the three chorused. Clara found she didn’t have it in her to be irritated and just rolled her eyes while pouring her own cup of coffee.
“So, how did it go? Of course, we were watching from the upstairs window, so we know how it ended.” Mag waggled her eyebrows over the rim of her mug.
“It was great, actually. Except for the part where I can’t tell him anything real about my life and who I am.” The mere thought of it took some of the wind out of Clara’s sails.
“You’ll cross that bridge when you come to it. Worked for Mum and Papa. Course, those were different times, and the mere mention of witchcraft and magic didn’t send people running for the hills.” Clara had to give her sister credit, she was trying to be supportive.
“Maybe you’re right.”
“Maybe I am. What you need to do is drop your inhibitions and let things play out naturally,” Mag stated with confidence.
“Since when did you become so well-versed in the nuances of witch-human relationships?” Clara wanted to know.
Mag plastered a haughty look on her face and stuck her nose in the air. “What you don’t know about my past relationships could fill an entire novel, Clarie dear. Be nice, and maybe I’ll tell you about them sometime.”
“Ha, I’m betting it would take a whole bottle of Twinkleberry wine to pry those secrets out of you, and I’d rather not deal with the aftereffects, thank you very much.” Clara retorted, the grin on her face stating clearly that she’d gladly nurse her sister’s monster hangover if it meant finding out more details about the man who’d won Mag’s heart back in the day. “Raincheck?”
“We’ll see,” Mag replied lightly, draining the last of her coffee. “Right now, I’ve got to take a ride over to Woodbridge and pick up some pieces I found in the Uncle Henry’s. Jinx, I need manpower. Go hop in the VW.”
Jinx scowled, but did as he was asked, leaving Clara to her own thoughts as she puttered around preparing the shop for the day’s business.
Clara resisted the temptation to grab a daisy for a round of he’ll call me/he’ll call me not because she wasn’t certain which outcome would suit her better. For a first date, it had gone remarkably well and that was a problem on so many levels. Not least, that he scared her spell-less.
Well, maybe he wouldn’t call.
Of course, he would call. She was Clara Balefire, and not to be vain, but they almost always called.
This line of thinking persisted until the bell signaled her first customer of the day.
“Try this.” A sample tube of soothing face cream dropped into a Balms and Bygones bag while Clara concentrated on presenting a reassuring smile. Not easy with the ghost of a young boy named Rydell hovering over the customer’s shoulder. “Just the thing for repairing windburned skin, and if you put it on before you go out in the morning, it will provide a level of protection as well. I can tell you spend a lot of time outdoors.”
With a cheerful grin and a nod, the forty-something woman pulled out a business card. “All four seasons. We offer guided horseback rides from our place in the valley below Pangborn Ridge. I love the horses and meeting new people, but the wind and sun do a number on the skin. Do you ride?”
At the mention of horses, the ghost spun like a whirlwind. “Ask her if the horses are gentle. And if they like apples or carrots better. Are their coats as soft as they look? I always wanted to touch one, but my doctor said it might mess up my immune system.”
He pummeled her with a dozen more questions, which Clara ignored, but she tucked the woman’s card into her pocket. Losing a battle with childhood cancer at age ten made Rydell’s list of possible unfinished business a mile long and might include visiting a horse. Of all the ghosts hanging around, he was the one who haunted Clara the most. Not in the spooky way, but in the heartbreaking one.
“Not as often as I’d like,” she replied to the woman. Pulling the card back out, Clara glanced at the name and address. Bells went off in her head. “You’re Celia Pangborn? Like the ridge. You’re not too far from Huffington Manor,” she noted without surprise. In small towns, no one was ever too far from anyone else, geographically speaking. And how many Pangborns could there be in one small town? Celia must be related to Mason.
“Nope, not far at all, and I am Celia, like the ridge.” A wistful smile replaced her cheerful one. “My brother and Kennedy Huffington grew up practically in each other’s pockets, so Ken was in and out of our house for as long as I can remember. Such a tragedy, and now I hear there’s another one. Poor Stephanie practically being left at the altar.”
Fascinated, Clara subtly teased more information from Celia. Growing up, Stephanie’s father preferred jeans and cowboy boots to khakis and loafers. He enjoyed a natural affinity with horses and would rather have studied to be a veterinarian than take on the Huffington legacy.
“Daddy used to joke that the storks mixed up those two babies on the way to Harmony because Mason hated anything to do with raising horses and they weren’t too fond of him, either. Old Deacon tried to kick him through a wall once when we were teenagers. Broke three of Mason’s ribs and gave him a concussion. Then again, Deacon didn’t have much patience with humans except for Daddy and Ken. And truth be told, he only tolerated my father.”
Once she got going, Celia could talk the paint off the wall.
Which led Clara to a dilemma. It seemed as if Celia might be a good source of information about John, but that would be prying and prying would be bad. Wouldn’t it?
“What about John Masters? Were they friends back then, too?” So much for her resolve.
Besides, it couldn’t be called prying with Celia so eager to talk. “John was a few years younger than Mase and Ken. Five or six, I think.” Her eyes fluttered up and she frowned while she did the math. “Buffy was two grades behind me, and John was a year ahead of her, so that makes it five years.”
Once she got going, Celia picked up the conversation and rolled along. “Yes, that’s right. Mason was in his first year of law school when he helped John out of a little legal scrape.”
“Even before he passed the bar? That’s fascinating.”
Tell me more, Clara thought.
“You ask me, it was Buffy got him into it, but John insisted the whole thing was his idea. John couldn’t afford a lawyer, so Mason stepped in and coached him. You can represent yourself in court, though it’s a stupid thing to do. It worked though—got it bargained down to petty theft, and because John wouldn’t turn eighteen for another two months, they let him off with community service.”
If there was more to learn, it would have to wait because Celia announced she’d be late if she didn’t leave now, and reached for her bag of purchases.
“I have a party of five booked for an afternoon ride, and then I talked Mason into coming for dinner. He’s been holed up in that office for the last two weeks, and I know he’s not taking care of himself.”
“I’m going with the horsey woman,” Rydell called out, and dove into the bag as if it were a swimming pool.
“No, wait. You can’t leave,” Roma called out, but it was too late. Celia carried him out the door with no resistance whatsoever.
“Okay, I guess you can. Well, if he can do it.” She zipped toward the door at full speed and rebounded in a cloud of ghostly essence. “Ouch. I guess it’s just me.”
“I’ll be back,” Mag said when the door closed behind Celia, leaving them alone in the shop.
“Where are you going?” The question fell into empty air because Mag was already gone.
Clara heaved a sigh and proceeded to throw herself into the familiar task of dusting in an attempt to quiet the pulsing thoughts occupying her brain. Of course, trying to ignore something usually just turned the volume up, and that was exactly what happened to Clara. It didn’t help that she had an obnoxious elderly ghost peppering her with the ver
y questions she wanted to ignore.
“What do you think he took? Says a lot about a man if he’s willing to steal.” As she zipped along near the ceiling, Roma’s voice drifted down. “Maybe he’s a bad egg. Could be he had something to do with Brad’s disappearance. Do you think so? Should you go ask him some questions?”
Clara was about to start pulling her hair out by the roots. She vehemently wished there was some way to glean a little peace and quiet and a reprieve from the implications she wasn’t yet ready to contemplate, but that she had every intention of contemplating anyway.
The image of John as a thief and a liar didn’t gel with the impression she’d gotten after spending time with him. Was she blinded by her feelings for the man? He had hired a private investigator to look into Brad’s past, but that didn’t mean he would have resorted to running the man out of town or bashing him over the head with a paperweight.
Then Clara remembered the inkling she’d had the previous night when John had driven down that dirt road. Had it been her intuition, and if so, was she ignoring it because she was so attracted to him? Or, could she be over-thinking the whole thing because she was so attracted to him, and it scared the hell out of her?
All signs pointed to Brad having walked away of his own volition. It was only Stephanie’s insistence that had kept the possibilities open, and all their investigating had only proved that Brad might have had multiple reasons for leaving town. Clara chose to hold onto that fact until there was evidence to the contrary, but Roma wouldn’t stop trying to drive her opinions home.
“What are you going to do, Clara?” Roma sounded like a schoolyard bully, taunting her to the point where she was ready to snap.
Before Clara had a chance to blow her top, Mag sauntered through the door towing an irritated-looking Hagatha. The tennis balls on the feet of her walker thumped double-time as she tried to keep up.
“Look who I found wandering around the town square talking to herself.” Mag said with an eye roll.
“She practically forced me into that death-mobile of yours, and insisted that my services were needed here. I’ll have you know, my help doesn’t come cheap, especially when I don’t offer it willingly.” Hagatha practically shouted, her conspicuous presence, or perhaps the well of power coiled deep inside her, calling all the ghosts into the front room of the store.
Clara quickly flicked a finger, flipping the sign on the door to ‘closed’ and closing the blinds to deter curious eyes and more customers. “Sorry, Haggie, but she’s right. There’s something weird going on here, and you’re our only hope. We have need of your vast expertise.” She laid it on thick, hoping to appeal to Hagatha’s extended ego.
“Are you witches blind, or something?” Hagatha retorted, ignoring Clara’s attempt at brown-nosing entirely. “Can’t you see she’s tethered? The rope is practically corporeal.”
In return, Hagatha received a blank stare from both Balefire sisters as well as each and every ghost in attendance, including Roma.
“And you’re supposed to be the best medium in the county.” The accusation held less scorn than they would have been expected, since having a leg up on everyone around her was Hagatha’s comfort zone, and she enjoyed lording her superiority enough to bring a smile to her deeply-lined face. “Follow me.”
Hagatha made a beeline for the workspace behind the shop, following a trail nobody else could see. “There,” She pronounced when Mag, Clara, and Roma filed in behind her, pointing toward the table where the crystal ball that had once been Roma’s now sat.
“I still don’t think any of us have any idea what you’re talking about.” Mag squinted, trying to see whatever it was Hagatha was seeing.
“Here, girl,” Hagatha took off her spectacles and handed them to Mag, who didn’t much like being referred to as ‘girl’ considering she was over two and a half centuries old, “Try now.”
Mag slid the glasses onto her nose and looked around, her expression turning from bewilderment to understanding. She handed them to Clara, who repeated the experience minus the understanding part. Yes, she could see the glowing rope of energy, not unlike the filmy mist the ghosts were made of, except much brighter. But that didn’t mean she had any clue what it meant or what to do about it.
“Why is she tied to that ball and how do we … um … free her?” Clara asked.
Mag cut Hagatha off before she could answer, causing the old witch to snatch her spectacles back and scowl.
“When I borrowed that thing,” Mag pointed to the hunk of clear quartz crystal, “it was so full of Roma’s essence I couldn’t see anything clearly. I had to cleanse and recalibrate. I used Balefire, of course.” She’d taken on her lecturing tone which meant she had some idea what had caused the problem.
“So?” Clara asked, her brow furrowed. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“It’s simple cause and effect.” Again with the lecture, only this time with patronizing overtones. “When Whizzer pushed Roma into the flames, the Balefire got a taste of her spirit. That’s why it turned purple, the same color it turned when I cleared the ball.”
“Clear as mud.” Now Clara was annoyed.
“Two things in the house with the same flavor? Remember when Roma forgot she was dead and tried to touch the ball? That must have been enough to awaken any remnants of her energy, and when she fell into the fireplace, the Balefire reinforced the connection.”
“It didn’t just reinforce,” Hagatha cut in, determined to add her two cents’ worth, “It amplified. That’s why she’s stuck.”
“And that’s what drew the rest of the spirits, isn’t it?” Clara wondered out loud. “Makes sense, I suppose. So now, what? We just have to break the connection? What would that entail?”
Hagatha grimaced, “An entire covens worth of spellwork, to start. Or …” She glanced at Mag, who raised an eyebrow with suspicion. “You could take the easy way out and destroy the ball.”
Mag puffed out her chest and raised her voice an octave. “Over my dead body are we destroying the most perfect specimen of a crystal ball I’ve ever seen. I’d rather—”
Before the rest of the group could find out what Mag would rather do, Roma let out a bellow. “I don’t give a purple pony about your opinion, Margaret Balefire. That’s my crystal, and therefore it’s my choice. It’s also my essence tied to it, and I’d like it back if you don’t mind. Now, pick it up and do what you have to do. Or so help me, I’ll stick around and irritate the socks off you for the next century, at least.”
Mag looked from Roma to Clara to Hagatha, her eyes so full of frustration and misery Clara felt sorry for her even though Mag didn’t have a leg to stand on. With an enormous sigh, she picked the crystal ball up off its pedestal and heaved it into the fireplace where it smashed into a million tiny shards.
Whatever it was—essence, energy, Mag didn’t really care what it was called at that point—slammed back into Roma. She stiffened, the blurry edges of her ghostly form looking nearly solid for a moment.
“Here goes nothing,” she shouted, and squeezed her eyes shut as if that would help. Floating at a decent speed, she hit the doorway and passed right through.
“It worked.”
Three sets of human ears popped when a flood of ghosts streamed out of windows and doors. The mass exodus shook the foundation hard enough for dust to filter down from the cracks in the old plaster ceiling. A fine mist of ectoplasm swirled, then dissipated leaving only Roma, Kirk, and Whizzer behind.
Turning to Kirk, Mag demanded, “Why are you still here?” Too bad Whizzer couldn’t answer that same question.
Ghost blushes might still come in shades of white or gray, but Kirk’s was visible all the same. Keeping his face turned away from Clara, he admitted, “I thought maybe if I hung around long enough, I’d get a chance to see a naked woman. Or even a half-naked woman. I never had a girlfriend.”
He might have thought he was playing the sympathy card, but as far as Clara was concerned, he wa
s holding a dud hand. She opened her mouth to offer a tart reply, but Hagatha beat her to it.
“You’d like to see some boobies, eh?” The old witch grabbed the hem of her blouse and began to lift it to give Kirk a peek.
He emitted a yelp of protest, turned, and ran into the light as if the hounds of hell were on his tail. The last motes of him faded away to the sound of laughter.
“Guess he didn’t want to see mine.” Hagatha seemed a little disappointed.
Chapter Twelve
“Half-caff mocha latte!” Sebastian shouted, his eyes scanning the group of customers milling near the pick-up area. When nobody claimed the latte, he scrunched his eyebrows together in irritation and slammed it down, sloshing coffee out of the plastic lid and onto the counter. Without bothering to wipe up the spill, he turned his back and began making another order.
From her post at the register, Evelyn rolled her eyes and asked for Mag and Clara’s order. “Kids these days, am I right?” she joked.
“You ain’t kidding,” Clara quipped back. “Just a mint tea and a cup of coffee, black.”
“You got it.” Evelyn pulled two to-go cups from a stack and shook her head in disgust. “Hey, Bas, go take a break.” She tossed the suggestion over her shoulder, and Sebastian didn’t waste any time disappearing out the side door.
She raised a brow at the sisters. “You don’t happen to know anyone looking for a job, do you, Clara? I’d like to make some staffing changes, if you know what I mean.”
Clara smiled. “I know all the same people you know, Evelyn. But I’ll keep my ears open just in case. Say, how’s your latest baking experiment going?”
“Actually,” Evelyn replied with a sly grin, “I set one of the new donuts aside for you. I had a feeling you’d stop by today. Give it a try.” She handed Clara what looked like a plain cake donut with a thick layer of milk chocolate glaze and some crushed bits of something amber-colored.
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