Witchy Worries

by Nic Saint

  “Um, I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Gran,” I said.

  She turned to me. “Why not? I will see this business succeed, and no sniping, annoying customers are going to stand in my way. If wiping their memory is what it takes, then so be it.”

  “I’m sure there are other ways,” said Ernestine, looking equally perturbed as me.

  “What other ways could there possibly be?”

  “Well, we could ply her with alcohol,” Estrella suggested. “Or we could dig into Glenn’s stash and ply her with cocaine.”

  “Glenn has no stash!” Ernestine cried. “He’s a clean-living actor who doesn’t do drugs.”

  “Whatever you say,” said Estrella, holding up her arms in a peaceable gesture.

  “Why don’t we simply be nice to Mona?” I suggested. “And… keep certain influences away from her.” I cast a meaningful look at Leigh, who was studying a cookie, probably examining its aura.

  “I don’t think that will be sufficient,” said Gran. “The woman has clearly turned a corner. She’s probably dictating a review to her son as we speak, packing her bags and preparing to leave.”

  “Can’t we simply hack Airbnb and change her bad review to a good one?” asked Estrella.

  Gran laughed. “If it were that easy, everyone would do it, honey.”

  It was obvious, though, that Strel’s comment had given her food for thought, judging from the thought wrinkle that had appeared on her brow.

  “You can do it, Gran,” said Strel encouragingly. “If you can wipe Mona’s mind, you can wipe Airbnb and make her review disappear.”

  “You know,” said Gran, taking a seat, “that might not be such a bad idea. I could simply change all of my reviews into glowing five-star ones. That way we would have our pick of customers. They’d all be clamoring to stay here.”

  “See?” asked Ernestine. “And we don’t even need to cast aspersions on Glenn’s character.”

  “Cast what now?” asked Estrella.

  Ernestine raised her chin. “Aspersions. It’s a word. Look it up.”

  Leigh, emerging from her trance, said, “These cookies were baked by a person with a very solid aura. I can tell.”

  I smiled. “Thanks, Auntie Leigh.”

  She glanced at me. “Thanks for what?”

  “For telling me I’ve got a solid aura.”

  “I wasn’t talking about you, dearie. I was talking about the person who baked these cookies.” She nodded. “A very nice aura indeed. I would love to meet this person. We could exchange aura energy.”

  “Um, I made those cookies.”

  “No, you didn’t. I would know if you did. I’m very perceptive.”

  “But…” I caught Gran’s eye. She was shaking her head. So I gave up. All this talk about my solid aura was going straight over my head anyway. Or was it straight over my aura?

  Just then, Sam returned with Glenn. He gave me a nod. “Edie? A word, please?”

  My heart constricted. For some reason, each time Sam utters this phrase, I have a feeling he’s about to arrest me for something, even though I’m pretty sure I haven’t done anything wrong.

  I followed him out into the garden, which was a good sign. He’d talked to Glenn Kerb in the parlor, so maybe this meant he wasn’t going to arrest me after all.

  “So what’s this all about?” I asked once we were sauntering down the garden path.

  “There’s been a murder,” he said without preamble.

  Oh, no. “Did… Is Glenn a suspect?”

  “That’s why I wanted to have a chat. The coroner places time of death around midnight. Kerb claims he was at Safflower House last night, and says that you can vouch for him. Is that true?”

  I thought for a moment, then nodded. “He’s right. We had a late dinner last night, and Glenn helped with the washing up. Afterwards we decided to have a movie night and watched two of his movies back to back. So yeah, he was here the whole time.”

  “I thought as much. He doesn’t look like the kind of guy who would kill an old friend.”

  “An old friend? Who’s the victim?”

  “Guy called Rico Torrent, though his real name was Johnson Junqueras. Used to be a very popular actor about a decade ago, until some scandal ended his career.”

  “Johnson Junqueras. Never heard of him,” I confessed.

  “I’m not surprised. He was more of a B-movie actor. Action hero type of stuff.”

  “And Glenn knew him?”

  “They were friendly. Worked on some of the same movies, when Glen was just starting out and Johnson’s career was winding down. He didn’t even know Johnson lived here. Nobody did.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Shot seven times at close range.”

  I placed my hand on the burly cop’s arm. “Do you need my help on this one, Sam?”

  He scratched his scalp. “I think I might take you up on that offer. You know the neighborhood—you know the people. If you and your neighborhood watch could ask around, I’d appreciate it.”

  “So I take it there are no suspects so far, huh?”

  “Not a one. One of his neighbors heard the shots but thought Johnson was playing his TV too loud. It was only this morning, when the cleaning lady came in, that his body was discovered.”

  “Could it be a drug thing? I mean, maybe he forgot to pay his dealer?”

  Sam laughed. “Forgot to pay his dealer. That would certainly explain things.” He shook his head. “At this point, I honestly don’t have a clue. We’re looking at all possible angles.”

  “I’ll ask around,” I promised. “Do some digging.”

  “Thanks.” He gave me a peck on the lips. “I have a feeling this is going to be a tough one.”

  Chapter 6

  When we returned indoors, I saw that Renée Reive had arrived. Gran’s best friend, Renée is one of our neighbors, and usually very well informed about everything that goes on in the Haymill neighborhood. In fact it was Renée’s idea for me and my sisters to start the neighborhood watch, seeing as we’re not shy about meddling in other people’s business, and it would give us something to do besides running the flower store Gran bought for us. Plus, since Gran had taken our powers, we’d been feeling a little low, and fighting crime seemed one of those things that was right up our alley.

  “Hey, Renée,” I said as I watched her snap up one of my cookies and take a tentative nibble.

  She gave me a smile. “Are these yours?”

  “Yes, they are,” I said proudly, as I was now fairly certain that eating the cookies did not pose the health risk I’d feared.

  “They’re pretty good,” the graceful, gray-haired woman said, giving me two thumbs up.

  Sam, his interest piqued, also took one of the weirdly shaped cookies and studied it for a moment. “What’s this funny color?”

  “They’re supposed to be orange,” I said. “They’re pumpkin spice cookies.”

  “They don’t look like pumpkins.”

  “You don’t have to make a study of them,” said Renée, exasperated. “You just have to eat them.”

  “It’s my first attempt,” I said apologetically. “Next batch will be more photogenic. I hope.”

  He shrugged and took a bite, then nodded appreciatively. “Pretty good. I can taste the spice.”

  “That’s the idea,” I said, relieved.

  He gave us a halfhearted salute, grabbed a couple more cookies and was off.

  “Leaving already?” asked Gran, disappointment clear in her voice. “Don’t you want a cup of coffee, Sam? It’s just the way you like it. Black, strong and piping hot.”

  “Thanks, Cassie. But I have to be off. I have a pretty nasty murder on my hands.”

  “Murder!” Gran cried.

  “Yeah, I told Edie all about it. See you later, ladies.” And then he was off.

  All eyes turned to me, and in a few brief words I told them what Sam had told me.

  Renée nodded knowingly. “I remember Johnson Junquer
as. He was one of those action heroes. Very popular two decades ago. Like Jean-Claude Van Damme or Chuck Norris. He made those direct-to-video movies. I used to catch them late at night when there was nothing else on. They weren’t very good but Johnson was. He had a certain… animal magnetism. Very handsome man.”

  “Did you know he lived on this block?” asked Gran, pouring herself a cup of herbal tea.

  “No, I didn’t,” Renée admitted. “Rico had unkempt hair and a ratty beard that might have gotten him cast on Pirates of the Caribbean. He looked more like a vagrant than a movie star. He also kept getting himself into trouble with the neighbors. I remember hearing a story about a parrot.”

  “A parrot?” asked Gran. “That sounds more like a joke.”

  “Well, it was no joke to Myron McCaughey—he’s the one who told me the story.”

  “And you say this Johnson guy was murdered?” asked Estrella.

  “Yes, last night,” I said. “Which is why Sam wanted to talk to Glenn. He and Johnson were friends.”

  “Well, Glenn certainly wasn’t involved,” said Ernestine decidedly. “He was here all night, wasn’t he? Sitting through his movies with us.”

  “Bad energy,” said Leigh. “Very bad energy. Murder is not good for the aura. Not good at all.”

  She fixed me with those pale blue eyes of hers, enlarged through the bottle-bottom glasses. “Better stay away, my dear. Getting mixed up with this terrible business is not good for your aura.”

  “Well, Sam has asked the neighborhood watch to dig around,” I said. “And I said yes.”

  “That’s what you get when your boyfriend is a cop,” said Renée with a smile.

  “I guess so,” I said, returning her smile.

  I still wasn’t used to calling Sam my boyfriend. We’d gone out on a few dates, and now suddenly we were an item. Officially. And the weird thing was that I wasn’t even the prettiest of the Flummox triplets. Estrella was, with her blond hair and her gorgeous features. Probably all the time she spent in the shower not skipping any steps had done something to improve her looks. I was the dumpy one in the family, my red hair a mess, my pasty skin and full-figured bod my main features. Ernestine was the intellectual one, with her glasses, long, dark hair and slender figure. And still Sam had picked me for some reason. Sometimes I wondered if Gran hadn’t applied some of her witchy powers and had secretly dumped some love potion in Sam’s coffee to make him fall in love with me. But Gran always denied the claim staunchly. She said what attracted Sam to me was my heart, which was pure. Not sure what she meant by that. She probably had been listening to Leigh too much.

  The door to the kitchen swung open and Glenn walked in. Only he didn’t look like the Glenn Ernestine and millions of other women knew and loved. This new Glenn was wearing a trilby hat, a mustard-colored mustache, thick glasses from the Leigh Shamrock collection, and a cleft chin where no cleft chin had been before. Looking closely, I could see where the new chin began. Prosthetics.

  We all applauded and Glenn took a bow. “And? What’s the verdict?” he asked.

  “I don’t think anyone is going to recognize you, Glenn,” said Ernestine fervently.

  “Coming from you, Ernestine, that is glowing praise indeed,” he said, fingering his mustache.

  Since Glenn didn’t like to be recognized on the streets of New York, he’d been experimenting with different disguises. The day before yesterday he’d dressed himself up as a woman. Unfortunately, paparazzi had still recognized him and pictures of Glenn in drag had appeared in all the papers. Today, though, I was sure that no one would recognize him, not even his own mother.

  “You should put some more makeup on that chin, though,” I said. “It looks fake.”

  “Thanks, Edie,” he said. “I will take your advice… and run with it.” And then he ran off.

  When he returned, exactly thirty seconds later, Ernestine asked, “Is it true that Johnson Junqueras was a friend of yours?” She cast worried looks at her favorite actor. Estrella’s accusations that Glenn was a secret drug user hadn’t been forgotten, apparently.

  Glenn’s face sagged. “Yes, he was. We weren’t bosom buddies or anything. We were friendly, though. Especially since Johnson taught me some of the tricks of the trade back when I was just starting out. I had no idea he’d moved to Brooklyn. I guess no one did. And that’s the way he liked it.”

  “Why did he leave LA?” asked Estrella.

  “He’d run into so much trouble he had to get away,” said Glenn, taking a seat.

  “What kind of trouble?” I asked.

  He lifted his hand. “You name it. The man was a drug addict, a gambler, a sex addict—he contracted AIDS, and his health deteriorated to the point he had a hard time playing the action hero. He got addicted to painkillers… Oh, and let’s not forget his financial troubles. He foolishly thought, like many people before him, that if you simply ignore your tax return it will simply go away. Well, it didn’t, and he ended up owing millions in unpaid back taxes. Eventually he became unhirable, and he simply… vanished.” He snapped his fingers. “One day he was there, the next he was gone.”

  “Until now,” I said softly.

  Glenn nodded. “Yeah. Looks like Johnson’s problems finally caught up with him.”

  “Don’t you worry, Glenn,” said Ernestine. “We’re going to solve his murder.”

  If Glenn was surprised at this bold statement, he didn’t show it. “I’m sure you will, Stien.”

  “We’re going to find your friend’s killer and we’re going to bring him to justice.”

  “Or her,” said Glenn. “Johnson was a womanizer. It wouldn’t surprise me if one of the women he harassed came after him.” He swiftly rose. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I have to bid you adieu.” With a flourish, he took a bow, and exited stage left.

  Ernestine heaved a sigh of admiration. “Isn’t he simply the greatest?”

  “He’s a pretty cool guy,” I admitted.

  “I like him,” Renée said.

  “Me too,” said Gran. “He promised to write me a five-star review and his check didn’t bounce. What’s not to like?”

  We all laughed. Yes, Glenn Kerb was the perfect customer. If he would only ask his Hollywood friends to follow in his footsteps, Safflower House was sitting pretty. And so was Stien.

  Chapter 7

  We decided to drop by the house of the late Johnson Junqueras and check out the crime scene. Not that we’re seasoned investigators, but that’s the kind of thing you do when a murder has happened and you decide to agree when your boyfriend the police detective asks you to chip in.

  The house where Johnson had lived was a bungalow that had seen better days. The front yard was all weeds, and judging from the peeling paint and the missing roof tiles it probably wasn’t even fit for habitation.

  Ernestine screwed up her face into an expression of distaste. “Are you sure this is the right place?”

  I glanced at the police cruiser parked at the curb, and the yellow crime scene tape stuck to the front door. “Yup.”

  “Oh, there’s Sam now,” said Estrella, and waved at the cop as he rounded the house. “Hey, Sam. We’re here to solve your murder.”

  He rewarded her with a grin. “My murder?”

  “Well, someone’s murder, anyway.”

  “Can we take a look inside?” I asked.

  “Be my guest.”

  Walking up to the front door, I almost stumbled over a piece of rock that was sticking out of the ground, then got my foot ensnared in a piece of weed. This place needed a gardener. Once inside, I adjusted my assessment. This place needed a bulldozer. The moment we entered the house, a musty stench assaulted my nostrils. Yuck.

  “That’s not the late Mr. Junqueras, by the way,” said Sam, noticing I’d wrinkled up my nose. “That’s just the way this place smells.”

  “Rot,” said Ernestine, before clamping her lips shut and shaking her head.

  “Yeah, it’s not exactly the Beverly Wilshire,” Sam
agreed.

  The entrance led into the living room, which was a mess. Torn up sofas had haphazardly been dumped inside, a threadbare old carpet lay curling up on the floor, pizza boxes and fast-food wrappers littered the place, as did newspapers, beer bottles, and what looked like… needles.

  “So this is what a drug den looks like,” I said.

  “Yep. Pretty awful, huh?”

  “Yeah, pretty much,” I agreed. Something about the place struck me, though. “Did you say the cleaning lady found him?”

  “Yeah.” He checked his notes. “Moriah Mockford.”

  “This place doesn’t look like a cleaner has ever set foot in it,” I said, gesturing at the mess.

  Sam scratched his scalp. “Great point. It doesn’t.”

  “Maybe she was a very lousy cleaning lady?” Estrella suggested.

  “Yeah, maybe she took the money but didn’t do the work,” Ernestine chimed in.

  “Why would a guy like Johnson even have a cleaning lady?” I asked. “I thought he was broke?”

  “Yeah, well, those are all great questions,” said Sam, nodding. “And I’m going to ask them when I visit the Mockfords.” He eyed us expectantly. “Anything else?”

  I looked around, until my eyes rested on the chalk outline on the floor, where the body of the former actor had been found. I shivered. Good thing the body had already been removed. I didn’t want to lay eyes on a dead body, even if I was now a proud member of the neighborhood watch.

  “Do you have pictures of the crime scene before they removed the victim?” I asked.

  Sam nodded. “Sure thing.” He took out his phone and scrolled through the pictures. I watched on, trying not to get nauseous. And that’s when I noticed something. I pointed at one of the pictures. “What happened to the vodka bottle?”

  “What vodka bottle?”

  “There’s a vodka bottle in these pictures.”