by Tess Lake
She landed it perfectly, grinning as she did.
We talked as we drove around and I made sure to keep it light, not saying a single word about Hattie Stern or why Kira had come to stay with us. She was very excited about floating the two beacons up to put them in place, and I got the feeling she was treated like a child back at home.
“So can I do whatever magic I want at your house?” Kira asked me as we approached the final location.
“Depends what it is. We don’t do any magic to harm anyone else, and we keep it secret. We don’t have a ban on it. My mother and aunts have put love potions in cakes before.”
“Wow,” Kira said.
She went very quiet then, and I could almost see the gears turning in her head. Was this what it was like when I was a teenager? Was it possible the moms knew exactly what was going on but had to maintain a front of always nipping at our heels?
“Love potion love isn’t really great love,” I said as I turned onto the final street.
“Oh.”
“It can grow to be real love, but who wants to start with fake love?”
I left out that plenty of witches were quite happy to start with fake love.
The final location was… a creepy murder house. It was clearly abandoned. The windows were broken, the yard full of dying weeds and the paint was flaking.
It was three stories tall, with an epic spire at the top. I looked at Aunt Cass’s note.
ON THE SPIRE!
“Too high for levitation,” I said.
I cast a quick concealment spell on us while we were still in the car in case any nosy neighbors were watching. The tug of the spell was slight – like carrying a heavy bag around.
“Is this a haunted house?” Kira asked.
“Looks creepy, but I’m guessing no.”
We went to the front door, which was hanging ajar. It creaked as I pushed it open.
“Super creepshow,” Kira whispered.
“It’s fine. Just an empty house. Let’s get up the stairs and see if we can find a way to get the beacon to the top.”
I left the door ajar… not for any reason, really.
Okay, in case we had to run for our lives.
We went up the creaky stairs to the third floor, both of us trying not to look in the rooms but seeing all kinds of horror movie stuff anyway. An empty crib. An old rocking horse sitting in the middle of a room. Some children’s shoes.
At the top of the stairs, we found a door that led to an outdoor rooftop garden. Unlike the rest of the house, it was still in good condition. There were some very comfortable-looking wicker chairs and a few long planter boxes full of flowers.
Kira floated the beacon up without warning me, so I had to cast a very hasty concealment spell over it. A minute more and the beacon was in place atop the spire.
“Let’s get out of here, before some guy who’s wearing his mother’s skin as a suit comes to kill us,” Kira said, her hands on her hips.
“Good idea,” I said, seeing a glimmer of something ghostly down in the backyard. It looked like a woman. Did I tell you not all ghosts are friendly?
We rushed out of there and back to the car.
On the way home, Kira retreated to the safety of her phone, tapping away in a steady stream. For my part, I was seeing that perhaps she wasn’t just a spiky, annoying teenager. I mean, yes, she was that, but she was also funny and interesting.
We arrived back at Torrent Mansion to find Aunt Cass waiting for us.
“Okay, teenage Slip Witch, you’re with me now. Not you, though,” she said. She waved at Kira to follow her into the mansion.
As soon as Aunt Cass turned her back, I poked out my tongue at her. Kira stifled a laugh and then followed Aunt Cass inside.
I went back to our end of the mansion alone and rode out the rest of Sunday doing not much at all.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I’d managed to distract myself all morning from the fact that a special arson investigator was in town and wanted to interview me, but alone for the rest of Sunday, I had plenty of time to dwell on how many million years I was going to spend in jail.
I tried to tell myself I was innocent (I was, of course) but I still couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen.
Chapter 5
The big question of Monday morning was: where did I go wrong?
I was sitting in my office, having a good old-fashioned misery wallow rather than working.
The Harlot Bay Reader was only ever viable with free rent, and it never really made anything coming close to a full-time job, but at least the money had been on an upward trajectory – that was, until I was frozen for six weeks. I’d been working hard to revive it, posting articles day and night and writing about everything and anything but that break was a wound my poor website simply couldn’t recover from.
The where did I go wrong in that case was: living in a small tourist town where not much happens AND being frozen for six weeks.
I was still trying to help John Smith move on, but that only brought in about forty bucks a week (sometimes more if he forgot we’d already had a session and left extra money on the desk for me).
Essentially, I was starting to delve into new and exciting levels of poverty. The moms had been throwing me some work at Big Pie (two bucks an hour above minimum wage, woo-hoo!) but even they couldn’t give me a full-time job without firing someone else (which would never happen). I knew I should stop buying my lunch, but it was seriously starting to be the one and only small joy I had left.
So here I was in the office, playing the what-do-I-want-to-do-with-my-life game.
Not a fun game.
I was staring at nothing, moving around thoughts of living in a seaside town, poverty, fires, witches, and seemingly everything else that was going wrong in my life, when there came a tentative knock at the door.
The door was ajar and swung open to reveal a small man in his fifties. He was thin and pale – definitely a tourist and not from Harlot Bay.
“Excuse me… I thought this was the Harlot Bay Times?”
“Sorry, this is the Harlot Bay Reader. We are an online newspaper.”
I don’t know why I said we are – it was just me sitting in the office. It wasn’t like I had some staff hidden away somewhere.
“Can I still place a death notice?”
“Ah… sure. Let me take down some details. Please come in, sit down.”
The man shuffled past me, seeming deflated and apologetic in every movement. He sat down on the sofa. I grabbed a notepad and paper.
“I’m Harlow Torrent, by the way.”
“Henry Gray. I’m—” He gave an enormous yawn and then rubbed his eyes. They were red-rimmed.
“Sorry, came down from New York. I’ve been traveling for a solid day. My mother, Lenora, she died in a house fire.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. The more I looked at Henry, the more I realized he was completely exhausted. I got the feeling if he closed his eyes, he would fall asleep on my sofa.
“Thank you,” Henry murmured.
“I saw the fire,” I said, and then mentally kicked myself. What was I going to do? Describe how I’d seen the fire that had killed his mother?
“The police said it was quite extreme. They’re still investigating. I can’t go into the house because it’s not structurally safe.” Henry sighed and looked at the floor. A tear trickled down his nose, which he quickly wiped away.
“My mother was old, slipping into Alzheimer’s, and we kept saying we’d come down here to find a good retirement home for her and put the house on the market. We just couldn’t find the time. Now it looks like she left something on the stove and burnt the house down.”
I was sitting there with my pen on the pad, not writing anything. This was more of a confession than a funeral notice.
“Did the fire department tell you it was something left on the stove?” I asked.
Henry shook his head and rubbed his eyes again.
“No, we’re guessing. Apparently it’s very common for people with Alzheimer’s to die that way. I guess it could have been an accident.”
“It could be. A lot of those old houses had old wiring in them,” I said.
I knew I shouldn’t be speculating, but he just seemed so broken and crushed by the guilt and I didn’t want him to feel so bad. Although it would only be a short-term solution. Perhaps the fire department would find she’d left something on the stove, and then he would have to live with the fact that because he couldn’t find the time to visit his mother, an elderly slip had resulted in her death.
“What do you want me to write in the notice?” I asked.
“Funeral notice for Lenora Gray. Thursday at the Three Pines Chapel at eleven a.m. Dearly beloved mother of two and grandmother of six. You will be in our hearts forever.”
I wrote this down, feeling tears begin to spike in the corner of my eyes. I’d put it up on my online newspaper, but I had to make sure Carter printed it as well. Given how few people were visiting the Harlot Bay Reader, if it was only me running the notice, it was highly likely no one would attend the funeral.
“I’ll make sure this gets into the Harlot Bay Times too,” I said.
“What do I owe you?”
“No charge.”
“Thanks,” Henry said and stood up.
He paused at the door.
“I know this is going to sound bad. We need a real estate agent to sell the land, to put it on the market. That and the empty parcel next to it. Do you know who I should talk to? We want to have the funeral and get it done as soon as possible.”
Immediately Dominic Gresso flashed to my mind. There were a few real estate agents in town, but he was the most well-known. There was another one, Sylvester Coldwell, who I would say was probably the sleaziest real estate developer around, even worse than Dominic and that’s saying something. But it wasn’t my place to judge…
I wrote down Dominic’s and Sylvester’s details and gave them to Henry.
“Thanks for this,” Henry said before he left.
I called the Harlot Bay Times. Carter answered the phone.
“I need to place a death notice,” I told him.
“Why aren’t you doing it in your own newspaper?” he asked. I could practically hear the quote marks around “newspaper.”
I ignored his jab.
“It’s for Lenora Gray.”
I read out the funeral notification as Henry had given it to me. When I finished, Carter told me it would cost twenty-five dollars.
“Okay, fine, I’ll come by at lunchtime and pay. Make sure it goes in tomorrow’s issue.”
“Why are you placing the death notice for Lenora Gray? Did you meet her son?”
Part of me wanted to tell Carter that, yes, I had met Henry, just to rub it in that he wasn’t the only journalist in town and I’d gotten the jump on him yet again. The other part wanted to tell him nothing for the rest of his life. He’d always been a stickler for the truth and facts, but it seemed that modern economic pressure was working on Carter as well, and his newspaper was increasingly being filled with speculation and outright lies written as questions. Corruption in the Police Force? Poison Dumped in the Water? Dogs Running Amok? Not to mention he’d written quite a few things that were untrue about me and my family.
“I have nothing more to add, Carter. It’s just a death notice. Please don’t write an article about it.”
The phone was silent for a moment and then Carter cleared his throat.
“I guess they’re going for a quick real estate sale?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Old lady, family doesn’t live here… common story. The kids are going to put the property on the market and sell it as fast as they possibly can.”
“I really wouldn’t know,” I lied.
“Seems that whoever buys the property at fire sale prices, excuse the phrase, is probably going to benefit. If you want to be a journalist, Harlow, you need to think beyond the surface layer,” he said. I went to retort, but Carter had hung up. That didn’t stop me, however.
“Shut up, you arrogant buffoon!” I said to the phone in my hand.
“There’s a headline! Local reporter yells at someone!” a voice from behind me said. I whirled around to find myself facing Sylvester Coldwell, the sleazy real estate agent I’d been thinking bad thoughts about only about ten minutes earlier.
Was this some crazy new Slip Witch power? I just had to think about someone and they would show up?
Jack, Jack, Jack.
He didn’t appear.
Sylvester was tall with light hair and blue eyes. He’d actually be good-looking if he didn’t exude a persistent reeking sleaziness.
“Hi, Mr. Coldwell, how can I help you?” I said, quickly recovering my equilibrium.
“I came up here to see how our local tax dollars are being spent with the free rent and all. Is it only you who works in your business?”
“That’s right. Just me.”
“How much money are you making?”
“That would be private.”
Sylvester looked around my office which, honestly, wasn’t that clean. There were two coffee mugs left sitting out and a few pieces of note paper strewn about the place.
“How well do you think Bishop Developments downstairs is doing? Is it creating revenue for the town?”
“I have no idea. Why are you asking?”
Sylvester took another look around the office, as if assessing every single part of it.
“This place has good bones,” he said.
“I like it.”
“I’m sure you do. Free rent courtesy of the taxpayer to run your business. If only we could all be that lucky.”
“What you mean? The free rent is to encourage more small businesses to start. That’s something Harlot Bay needs.”
“I’m sure those businesses getting free rent say that a lot,” Sylvester said. “I have to go now.”
“Whatever,” I said, channeling my teenage self, or possibly Kira.
“See if you talk like that when I get this stupid program shut down,” Sylvester snapped. He turned away for a moment and then back again, giving me a greasy smile.
“I apologize. I didn’t mean that. Some of us taxpayers are worried about where our money is being spent. I actually came here because I want to talk to your family about buying and developing Torrent Mansion. Do you think they would be interested?”
He pulled a business card out of his wallet and held it out to me. I felt like screaming at him to get his sleaziness out of my face.
I pulled myself together.
“We’re not interested in selling,” I said through gritted teeth.
“I haven’t seen April Torrent around for a while. Do you think it’s possible I could meet with her?”
“She doesn’t meet real estate agents. Now I need to get back to work, so could you please go?”
Seeing that I wasn’t going to take the business card, Sylvester put it down on the desk before seeing himself out. I heard the stairs creaking as he walked down to Jonas’s office and knocked on the door. I listened to the two of them talking while I stood there waiting for my blood to stop boiling.
As if I didn’t have enough problems. The mayor’s free rent program had faced some opposition from local businesses who felt that it was unfair for them to be paying rent and a new business not to pay anything. The mayor had won them over, however. The fact was that empty buildings didn’t help business. It was a bad sign as well, especially when some of the local teenagers broke windows and started vandalizing the places. Eventually the business owners had reluctantly come around, and as a result some of the empty buildings now had people like me trying to work and start businesses. The good side effect was that none of the buildings had been vandalized in quite a while. Now it appeared that Sylvester Coldwell was intent on pushing the issue again.
And what was with these real estate agents who wanted to buy Torr
ent Mansion and develop it? The place had been a wreck for a very long time. The moms put some money into it and started a bed-and-breakfast, and the next minute it’s a prime development opportunity?
And what was with Carter Wilkins and his “this is how you be a real journalist” garbage? I was the one who’d tracked down Preston Jacobs! I was the one who’d found two murderers!
Like he’d broken any big scandals in Harlot Bay with his cutting-edge journalism.
But although I was angry and really wished I’d told Carter to shut up, he did have a point about Lenora Gray. It was common practice that, when an elderly resident passed away, the children who inherited the home put it up for quick sale. Often houses were sold completely furnished with only minor personal effects being removed because the kids couldn’t be bothered with removing all the furniture.
Was Carter suggesting that the fire that’d killed Lenora Gray was set deliberately? It seemed such a roundabout way to acquire her land. Especially given that Henry would just put the house on the open market. Would the person who supposedly started the fire hope to get in first?
I was back at my desk, chewing this over in my mind, and also the problem that two real estate agents wanted to meet in person with my frozen grandmother, when Mom called.
“…going to need sixteen boxes. Harlow, good, you finally answered,” Mom said.
“You only just called,” I protested.
Mom ignored this. She had a habit of pretending every time she called that this was actually call number twenty-five and I hadn’t answered any of the previous ones. Then finally she had gotten through to me.
“Is Kira Stern with you?” she asked.
I knew immediately that something was going on. But I didn’t have enough information to know whether I should lie and say she was, or say she wasn’t and possibly uncover that Kira had lied at some point.
“I haven’t seen her today,” I said, hedging my bets.
“She’s going to be doing some work, either here at Big Pie, with your cousins, or with you. We’ll discuss it tonight after our big announcement.”
