Thistle hopped up on the kitchen counter and snatched a slice of apple from my mom as she was sliding the cut fruit from the carving board into the homemade pie shell on the counter. My mom smacked Thistle’s hand dismissively – but there wasn’t a lot of force beyond the motion.
“That’s for dessert,” she admonished Thistle sharply.
“Aunt Winnie, you know I love your apple pie,” Thistle said charmingly. “You can’t expect me to wait for perfection, though.”
What a suck-up.
My mom slid a knowing look in my direction. “At least someone appreciates me.”
Good grief.
I glanced over at my Aunt Twila, Thistle’s mom, to see what she was doing. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like she was basting stuffed chicken breasts. Yum. She hadn’t looked up from her task yet, but I couldn’t wait until she did. When she saw Thistle’s new hair color things were bound to get interesting.
Twila finished her basting and slipped the chicken breasts back in the oven. She straightened and then turned to greet us. Her mouth dropped and her eyes flew open when she saw Thistle’s new hair. “What did you do?”
“I dyed it,” Thistle said coyly. “I thought you would like it. You’d been nagging me for weeks because you didn’t like the blue.”
Twila pursed her bright red lips – which matched her own distinct hair color -- and regarded her offspring dubiously. “When I told you to dye your hair, I meant to a more natural color. What’s wrong with your own hair color? It’s beautiful.”
The truth was, I couldn’t exactly remember Thistle’s real hair color anymore. We had pictures from when we were kids, but for as long as I could remember Thistle had been changing the hue of her hair whenever the mood struck – and her moods were usually the brightest shades of the rainbow she could find in a bottle at the local head shop.
I had a sneaking suspicion that Thistle’s love of changing her hair color had as much to do with her own taste as it did with irritating her mother. Hey, we’ve all done it.
Of course, for Twila to discriminate against anyone’s hair was pretty rich. I had no idea what her natural color was either, mostly because I had never seen it. She’d had the same bright red hair since I was born – and the shade of red she opted for couldn’t be found in nature. It could be found on the creepy clown from It, though.
“I thought you would like the color better,” Thistle said snottily. “Perhaps you should be careful what you wish for from now on?” Thistle quirked her dark brow suggestively. She really was ready for battle tonight.
Twila wasn’t known for walking away from a fight either, and I could tell things were about to get ugly so I changed the subject. “Why is Aunt Tillie wearing sunglasses in the house?”
My mom bit the inside of her cheek and went back to her pie preparations. Twila suddenly found the dishes in the sink more interesting than the conversation. That left Marnie. I turned to her expectantly.
“Aunt Tillie has a condition,” Marnie said carefully.
Clove looked up in surprise. “Is she okay?”
Thistle and I were more suspicious. Aunt Tillie was a lifelong hypochondriac. If she ever had a real condition, I wasn’t aware of it. That is, unless you count vindictiveness as a physical ailment.
“She’s fine,” my mom waved Clove’s concerns off dismissively.
Marnie arched her eyebrows dubiously. “She thinks her eyes are allergic to oxygen.”
What? “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do we,” Twila said cautiously. “It started yesterday. She says her eyes can’t be exposed to oxygen.”
I shot Thistle a curious look. “But sunglasses don’t stop oxygen from getting to your eyes – and why would she possibly think that she’s allergic to oxygen?”
“Because she’s crazy and she wants attention.” I think Thistle meant for the statement to be quieter than it was, but everyone in the room had heard – and given the sharp intake of breath from the older women in the room -- I had a feeling this was one of those things we weren’t supposed to bring up around Aunt Tillie.
“Who wants attention?”
Everyone in the room froze at the sound of Aunt Tillie’s voice. Crap. Today’s episode of Jeopardy must be over.
We all turned to see Aunt Tillie’s frightening figure – all 4’11” of it – as she stood in the doorway. Well, everyone that is but Thistle. She appeared to be trying to make herself smaller on the countertop. She was like a cat – she figured if she couldn’t see Aunt Tillie, then Aunt Tillie couldn’t see her either. What? It’s a theory.
“My mom was just telling us about your condition,” Clove said. I think she was trying to help Thistle, but it was obviously the wrong move.
“And Thistle thinks I’m making it up for attention?” Aunt Tillie’s voice was ominous as she ran a hand through her close-cropped slate gray curls. She kind of reminds me of a hobbit some days – a really mean hobbit, but a hobbit still.
No one in the room spoke – or made eye contact.
“So everyone thinks I’m making it up for attention? You all think that an 80-year-old woman – the 80-year-old woman that has taken care of all of you for your whole lives – is making up a painful and debilitating ailment to get attention?”
She was pulling out the big guns now. Aunt Tillie only called attention to her age when she wanted to guilt us. When we called attention to her age to modify her behavior she was equally offended.
“Why do you think you’re allergic to oxygen?” I asked finally.
“I’m not allergic to oxygen,” Aunt Tillie scoffed.
Well that was good news.
“Only my eyes are allergic to oxygen.”
Criminy. “And why do you think that?”
“Because my eyes have been watering for days and they’re red and inflamed. When I wear the sunglasses and don’t go outside, that solves the problem. What else could it be?”
Allergies. “It’s fall, there’s a lot of pollen in the air for the changing of the seasons.”
Aunt Tillie gave me a withering look. “You sound like my doctor.”
“And don’t you think the doctor would know about things like this?” I know better than arguing with Aunt Tillie – but I can’t help myself. Now I’m the cat and her paranoia is catnip.
“Not if it’s a new condition that hasn’t been discovered yet,” Aunt Tillie informed me haughtily.
“And you think you’re the first person to have this condition?”
“I’ve always been a scientific anomaly,” Aunt Tillie shot back. “The sooner you people realize that and stop questioning my uniqueness, the better you’ll all be.”
With those words, Aunt Tillie flounced back out of the kitchen.
It was going to be a long dinner.
Five
Clove, Thistle and I helped carry all the dishes of food out to the dining room – leaving my mom’s pies on the countertop to cool. When we got into the dining room, I noticed that both Brian and Marcus were already seated next to each other. That didn’t surprise me, the rest of the guests at the inn were primarily couples.
The conversation at the table was light – and most everybody was excited about the upcoming murder mystery.
Everyone took their seats. I couldn’t help but notice that Thistle had slid into the chair next to Marcus. His eyes had nearly popped out of his head when he saw her outfit. I didn’t blame him.
Twila saw Marcus’ gaze wander down to Thistle’s cleavage – and she didn’t look happy. I didn’t know what she expected. Thistle had purposely brought out the big guns – well, as big as she could muster – for a clear purpose. She seemed to have achieved that purpose.
“Who is this?”
Aunt Tillie had entered the room and her gaze had immediately found Marcus. Thistle introduced Marcus to everyone at the table. My mom, Marnie and Twila had met him casually at the stable – but Aunt Tillie didn’t believe in manual labor, so she hadn’t had the pleasure yet.
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“You brought him to family dinner for your first date?” Aunt Tillie seemed surprised – and somewhat proud of Thistle. “You’re braver than I thought.”
After everyone had doled copious amounts of food onto their plates, the only sounds that could be heard were the various compliments being thrown around. My mom and her sisters basked under the attention. They were all accomplished cooks – and they were constantly in competition with each other to claim the title of “best in the family”. If someone didn’t like their food, it was considered a personal attack.
After a few minutes, Aunt Tillie fixed her attention on Brian. I had purposely picked a seat that was as far away from him as I could manage. “Who are you?”
“Brian Kelly, ma’am,” Brian stood to extend his hand in Aunt Tillie’s direction. She regarded it like he’d offered her a dead frog – although she probably would have liked that better.
“The man taking over the paper?”
Brian must have realized that Aunt Tillie wasn’t going to take the proffered hand so he retracted it and sat back down in his chair. “Yes, ma’am. I’m Bay’s boss at The Whistler.”
“I’m sure she must be thrilled by that,” Aunt Tillie said sarcastically.
If Brian picked up on the sarcasm, he wisely ignored it. “I have a lot of plans to improve The Whistler.”
“Like what?” My mom bristled. “I think the paper is perfect the way it is. Bay does a wonderful job.” The women in my family are irritating, but loyal to a fault.
“Of course she does,” Brian tried to placate my mom. “I just think the paper could be more than it is.”
“How is that?” Marnie asked dubiously. “It’s not like this is a hotbed of crime and political corruption.”
Brian looked confused. “I know but . . .”
“It’s not like Bay can manufacture the news,” Twila interjected. “She can only report what’s going on in the community, and this is a very small and tight knit community that likes things the way they are.”
“I didn’t say that it wasn’t . . .” Brian started.
“What is it exactly that you’re saying then? How do you figure that you can change the paper in a community that doesn’t want to change?” Aunt Tillie was on the offensive. For my part, I was happy just to sit back and watch the show.
“I just think there is more news here than anyone probably realizes,” Brian was feeling attacked. It was obvious. I didn’t blame him.
“What news? You think we’re all hiding some dark underbelly that only you can find?” My mom was incensed.
“No,” Brian protested.
“You think that you somehow know this community better than Bay does – even though you haven’t been here in years?” Marnie fixed a hard stare on Brian.
“No.”
“You think that somehow you’re going to magically come to town and turn the paper into some big daily that is full of nothing but crime stories and petty town fights? Like a gossip rag?” Twila asked.
“No.”
“Then what do you think you’re going to be able to do with the paper that Bay already hasn’t?” Thistle asked irritably.
“I don’t know,” Brian said carefully. He was treading softly at this point. The room had taken a decidedly chilly turn.
“Then maybe you should stop talking out of your ass,” Aunt Tillie sniped.
My mom turned on Aunt Tillie. “Don’t be rude.”
“What? I don’t trust him,” Aunt Tillie sniffed.
For once, we were on the same page.
The rest of dinner was uncomfortable, but my mom and her sisters managed to convince the rest of the guests that the fireworks were over. I couldn’t help but notice that Aunt Tillie was shooting disgusted looks in Brian’s direction on a regular basis – even with the ever present sunglasses affixed to her round face.
When dinner was over, my mom left two pies in the dining room for the guests, and took another two to the den located off the main entryway in the inn. We were meeting several people from the town to discuss the murder mystery plans and dessert would make things more pleasant.
I wasn’t surprised to see that Chief Terry, the head of the local police department, was already seated in the den. He was an imposing figure, standing nearly 6’0” tall, and his uniform and graying temples gave him a distinguished look.
Chief Terry was a regular fixture at the inn – and it wasn’t just because my mom, Marnie and Twila were locked in a battle to secure his undying love. I couldn’t be sure, but I think he got off on their subtle squabbling. Plus, the fact that they chose to battle with food items was just an added bonus in his book.
I caught a glimpse of Thistle at the front door. She was talking to someone. My guess was Marcus. She closed the door to the den when she entered the room, shooting me a “butt out” look when she saw the question on my face. The interrogation would have to wait until we were back at the guesthouse.
“Marcus seems nice,” my mom said to Thistle.
“He is,” Thistle averted her gaze.
“Will we be seeing more of him?”
Thistle looked horrified at the thought. “I think our next date will just be the two of us,” she said finally.
“That’s probably wise,” Aunt Tillie said knowingly. “You don’t want to scare him off.” Aunt Tillie looked Thistle up and down. “Although, if that hair didn’t scare him off you’re probably alright.”
I choked back a laugh.
“What are you laughing at? Your date is an ass.”
“He wasn’t my date,” I shot back. “He was a guest at the inn and Thistle is the one who invited him to dinner as payback to me for inviting Marcus.”
“You’re learning,” Aunt Tillie said to Thistle before turning her attention back to me. “You should learn to stay out of your cousins’ business.”
“Like you stay out of our business?”
Aunt Tillie narrowed her eyes. “I am not a busybody.”
Whatever.
“You should be glad to have someone with my vast knowledge working on your side,” Aunt Tillie informed me.
“Except you’re usually working against me,” I grumbled. “Ow!” I swung on my mom angrily. “Why did you pinch me? That hurt?”
“Don’t start a fight with your aunt,” she admonished me. “If you drag out this meeting longer than it has to be then your aunt isn’t going to be the only one cursing you.”
Chief Terry looked surprised at my mom’s statement, but she easily deflected his curious glance. “I made apple pie, would you like a slice?”
“Apple pie is my favorite,” he said appreciatively.
“I know,” my mom said, shooting Marnie and Twila a triumphant look. For their part, they didn’t look especially terrified by her pie seduction powers.
We all looked up when the door to the den opened and Mrs. Little – the town’s pewter unicorn aficionado herself – entered the room. “Sorry I’m late,” she said apologetically.
“No one missed you,” Aunt Tillie muttered.
Marnie shot Aunt Tillie a murderous look. The truth was, none of us liked Mrs. Little. She was a mean little gossip – and she didn’t like us anymore than we liked her. The problem was, we had to work with her if we were going to participate in any of the town activities because she was almost always the primary organizer. This wasn’t the time to antagonize her.
Mrs. Little was still sharp – her suit choices notwithstanding – and I had no doubt she had heard Aunt Tillie’s dig. “Tillie, so good to see you,” Mrs. Little said with fake enthusiasm. “It’s especially nice to see you when you’re not poisoning the coffee at the senior center because you lost a hand of euchre.”
Uh-oh. I had just recently found out that while I was out of town and working in Detroit, Aunt Tillie had created quite the stir at the senior center when she poisoned the community coffee with belladonna because she was convinced they were all cheating her.
“So, what
do we have planned for the mystery weekend?” I broke in smoothly.
Chief Terry shot me a grateful look. He had been the one who opted not to press charges against Aunt Tillie. I had a sneaking suspicion it was because he didn’t want his food supply cut off more than anything else.
Everyone turned to the task at hand. And, while the meeting was understandably tense, things managed to progress easily enough. Essentially, numerous members of the town were going to be “killed” off by an unknown assailant over a three-day period. Town visitors were to follow the clues to the killer. Whoever solved the crime would win a special basket of goodies from the town’s various businesses. Granted, it wasn’t a great prize, but people were interested in the mystery and the ambiance of the town more than anything else.
“So, who is the murderer?” Thistle asked.
“None of your business,” Mrs. Little said. “Only a handful of people know, and you’re not one of them.”
Thistle grimaced. Under normal circumstances, she would have unleashed a tirade of snarky comebacks. No one wanted to prolong the meeting, though.
“Who is dying? Or is that a secret, too?”
“We had hoped we could use Tillie as one of the deaths?” Mrs. Little looked at Aunt Tillie expectantly.
Oh, this was going to go over well.
“No.”
“No?” Mrs. Little looked surprised.
“No. I don’t want to be a murder victim.”
“Aunt Tillie, we promised someone from the inn would serve as a victim. And since all three of us are so busy all the time . . . “ Twila broke off.
“No,” Aunt Tillie crossed her arms over her chest obstinately.
Clove stifled a giggle.
Mrs. Little looked at my mom expectantly.
“We’ll talk to her,” my mom promised.
Mrs. Little took advantage of the break in conversation and excused herself. Once she was gone, I turned to my mom. “You’re not going to get her to agree.”
Every Witch Way But Wicked (A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Mystery) Page 3
