Witch Ways

by Tate, Kristy

  The last time I’d seen them, Lauren had spread them out on the coffee table. Now, the coffee table lay on its back with its legs pointing toward the ceiling, like Scratch when he wanted a belly rub. I lifted one end of the table to look beneath it. No scrapbooks.

  I sat on the sofa and gazed around the room. The books had been knocked off the shelves and were heaped beside the hearth. A black and white photograph of Marilyn Monroe hung in a silver frame above the fireplace mantle, on which a freestanding wooden clock laid facedown.

  The words of a song the Hendersons sang floated back to me.

  “And it stopped short never to go again when the old man died.”

  tick tock, tick tock

  now my grandfather’s clock

  was too large for the shelf

  so it stood ninety years on the floor

  it was taller by half than the old man himself

  though it weighed not a pennyweight more

  now it was bought on the morn

  of the day that he was born

  and it was always his treasure and pride

  but it stopped short never to go again

  when the old man died

  I went to the clock and set it on its little wood bun feet. The lyrics of the song returned to me.

  now rang an alarm

  in the dead of the night

  an alarm that for years had been dumb

  and we that his spirit

  was ‘plumming’ for flight

  that his hour for departure had come

  still that clock kept the time

  with a soft and muffled chime

  as we solemnly stood by his side

  but you know that it stopped short

  never to go again

  when the old man died***

  I looked at the time, forever frozen, and wondered if that was when Lauren had died. Suddenly the clock whizzed and struck a high pinging note. Startled, I jumped and bumped into the mantle. The clock pitched forward and fell with a clang. Bending down, I picked it up, and as I did, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. It had to have come from inside the clock. I picked it up and scanned the cursive handwriting.

  My darling Lauren,

  Soon, everyone will believe I have left Broadway to try my hand at Hollywood. Which is exactly what I wish them to believe. But I want you to know the truth, even though I know the truth will probably make you hate me.

  I now bitterly regret my heated arguments with Hugh. If not for those unfortunate violent outburst and empty threats, I could go to the police, explain what happened, and share my life with you. But I fear if I went to the police they would never believe Hugh’s death was accidental. But darling, you must believe it. You must know I would never have intentionally hurt Hugh. He was, at one time, my best friend.

  And you mustn’t blame yourself. Yes, we both loved you, but how could you know he would become so delusional? He honestly believed you preferred him to me. He said you only stayed with me for my money. (If only he knew the true state of my finances!) It was a terrible thing to say about you, as if your feelings could be bought with cash by the highest bidder.

  We argued. He pushed me. I pushed him. And he fell, hitting his head on the edge of the piano. I stood above him, waiting for him to get up, but he just stared up at me, his eyes frozen, empty and blank.

  How I wish I could take you with me! But I can’t risk destroying your life the way I’ve destroyed my own.

  Please forget about me. I pray to God you will have a beautiful life. Maybe someday I will see you in the movie theater. I hope so, for I fear that will be the only way I will ever see you again.

  Love, Andrew

  Who was Andrew? I wondered. After a glance at the pink and orange sun peeking over the trees, I tucked the letter into the pocket of my hoodie and hurried through the messy room to the basement stairs.

  Through the basement, up the cement stairs, out the door—my breath returned to normal when I reached the train tracks. When I got to the station, I saw I wasn’t alone. A cluster of people with suitcases, purses and backpacks stood waiting for the early train. I would have to hurry to get home before Uncle Mitch noticed I was missing.

  When I passed the Hendersons’, I heard Bree pounding on a door, yelling at someone to hurry up, the Beatles singing about living in a yellow submarine, and a hairdryer blowing. My own house was still and quiet as I slipped in the door. I padded up the stairs, shed my clothes, and slipped into my bed. I fell into a deep sleep, and dreamed of fire-breathing Munchkins and witches with red shoes.

  When I woke, light poured through the open curtains, filling my room with warm midday sun. I bolted upright. Even though my head felt swimmy from oversleeping, I climbed out of bed, picked up Tabitha Fox’s scrapbooks, and spread them out in front of me. Flipping through the pages, I found several photos of Andrew Voltaire.

  Thin, small boned and fine featured, he reminded me of someone, and I wondered if maybe I’d seen him on TV or in the movies. I tried to imagine what he would look like now. Would his blond hair be silver? Would his fair skin be red and weather-beaten or gray and wrinkly? Or maybe he’d be one of those forever pretty, ageless people.

  Church bells rang out over the town. I imagined the Hendersons piling into their van, singing their songs on their way to church. After I showered and dressed, I ran a comb through my hair and pulled it into a messy bun. I considered makeup, but decided against it. In a few minutes, Dylan would eat a scone and lose all interest in me. He’d probably go back to pretending he didn’t know me, no longer gracing the sophomore zone with his exalted senior presence. And that’s what I wanted, right?

  Right.

  Uncle Mitch sat at the kitchen table with a bowl of oatmeal, a book of puzzles open in front of him and a pencil in his hand.

  “Good morning,” he said, smiling and looking much happier than his usual morning self.

  “Does Janette come home today?” I asked.

  “I’m going to pick her up in a few minutes. Want to come?”

  I shook my head. “I have to return these scrapbooks to a friend.” I put the plate of scones on top of the books.

  “Want me to drop you off on the way?” Uncle Mitch asked.

  “That’d be great.”

  He stood and carried his now empty cereal bowl to the sink. “You’ve become quite the baking queen lately.”

  “I know. I need a crown or something.”

  “Let me get my keys and we can go.” Uncle Mitch disappeared into his study and returned moments later with this hair carefully combed.

  On our way down Elm Street, I asked, “So, what made you decide to fall for Janette?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “The baked goods?”

  I shook my head. “Lame answer. She’s been bringing us treats for years and you’ve never really seen her as anything other than a friendly neighbor until now.”

  Uncle Mitch slowly shook his head. “I don’t know what changed. One day she was the neighbor lady, and the next day . . .” His voice trailed off. He looked at the scones. “I thought you were going to give those to Josh so he could try and mend fences with Dylan.”

  “I decided that was dumb.”

  “You’re not trying to win some guy through his belly, are you? Because if you are, you should know buying someone’s affection almost never works.”

  “You’re not really one to throw pastries, Uncle Mitch, but since you asked—these cupcakes are trying to do just the opposite.” I glanced down at them. “Besides, they’re scones, not cupcakes. I’m going to tell Dylan I’m not interested in him, and I’m hoping the scones will soften the blow.”

  Uncle Mitch looked skeptical, as well he should. If he knew about the spell I put on the scones, he’d probably laugh—right before he launched into a lecture about malarkey and hogwash.

  I tightened my grip on the plate and mentally rehearsed the things I wanted to say to Dylan while Uncle Mitch yammered on about hormones and mate selection.


  #

  I climbed out of the Thunderbird, carefully balancing the plate of scones on top of the scrapbooks. Opening the front gate, I made my way down the walk, but my steps faltered when I spotted a familiar dirt bike propped up against a maple tree.

  What was Josh doing here? After last night, it was hard to imagine Dylan and Josh were still speaking, let alone friends. I never really got guys. They were different from girls. Girls could be mean, and they would simmer in their cattiness for years. Guys would be mean, then someone would burp, they’d all laugh, and then they’d be friends again. All within five minutes.

  I hoped Dylan and Josh could still be friends. I hated to think of them like Andrew and Hugh—which totally could have happened. If Josh had pushed Dylan instead of punching him, Dylan could have fallen and hit his head—just like Hugh.

  I wondered what Andrew had done with Hugh’s body? It had to be close by. What would I do if I had to get rid of a body? Dump it in the ocean and risk it washing ashore somewhere? Burning it?

  And then I knew exactly what I’d do. I’d put it where I put the red tennis shoes, underneath the foundation of the theater.

  A screen door slammed, startling me.

  “Evie?” Josh stepped off the porch and tucked his hands in his pockets. “What are you doing here?” He looked at the ground and shuffled his feet. “Not that you can’t be here, or anything.”

  “I’m returning Mrs. Fox’s scrapbooks. She lent them to me.”

  “And you brought cupcakes.”

  “Scones, actually.”

  Josh plucked one off my plate.

  “Don’t eat that!”

  He must have heard my panic because his hand froze midair. “Why? Did you poison it?”

  “No, I just . . .” Images of Hugh and Andrew flashed through my mind. “I’m just kidding. Go ahead.” But right then I knew I didn’t want Josh to eat a magic scone unless it had a love elixir.

  But none of it was real, right? Maybe Uncle Mitch was right. Love isn’t about hormones, or aligning stars. Love is about caring for someone no matter what—magic spells, and pheromones aside.

  Still, as Josh bit into the scone, my heart fell. It landed somewhere near my feet, and I kicked it out of the way on my way to the front door.

  “Hey.” Josh trotted behind me. “Do you want a ride home after you drop those off?”

  I wondered if Josh knew, if he could see, what I only just discovered for myself—that all of my pheromones were crying out for him. “Sure. Do you mind waiting?”

  Josh shook his head, climbed the stairs to the porch, and rang the bell.

  Moments later, Mrs. Fox opened the door. Even in a pair of pink sweats, she looked lovely. “Hello, Evie.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Fox. I’m returning your scrapbooks. Thanks for letting me borrow them.”

  “Did they help?”

  “Yeah.” My thoughts went back to the newspaper article. I still needed to figure out how to tell Hugh and Andrew’s story. I also knew I needed to give the letter to the police, but I didn’t know how to do that without admitting I’d been in Lauren’s house. “I think it’s going to be a great article,” I said slowly, still trying to figure out my next step.

  “And are these cupcakes for us?” Mrs. Fox flashed her smile at the scones.

  “They’re scones. And they’re for Dylan . . . not that you can’t have one. I brought enough for all of you. I just . . . is he here?”

  “No, he’s at the club playing tennis. He’ll be sad he missed you.”

  ”Oh. Can you make sure Dylan gets one?”

  “Of course, dear. Aren’t you sweet?”

  Not really.

  “You knew he wasn’t here, didn’t you?” I said to Josh as soon as Mrs. Fox disappeared into the house, carrying the scrapbooks and plate of scones.

  He grinned.

  “What are you doing here?”

  His grin faded. “I came to say I was sorry about last night.”

  “That makes two of us,” I said. “Do you think he’ll forgive you?”

  “That all depends.”

  “On what?”

  Josh sighed. “I think that depends on you.”

  “Don’t worry. Dylan’s over me.”

  “What makes you say that? He wasn’t acting over you last night.”

  “No, but he will be soon.”

  My phone buzzed with a text, and I pulled it from my pocket.

  “Andrea wants to meet me at the theater to work on my song. Can you drop me off?”

  “Sure.” Josh pulled his bike away from the tree, picked up his helmet, and stuck it on my head.

  “You should wear this, not me,” I told him.

  He tucked my hair inside the helmet. “The theater’s just around the corner. I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll be okay, too.”

  “Yeah, you’re okay,” Josh said, throwing a leg over his bike and waiting for me to climb behind him.

  Why hadn’t I noticed how it felt to sit like this before? Why was it now that I tingled when I put my arms around his waist?

  “Ready?” Josh asked over his shoulder.

  I nodded, breathless, while Josh gunned the engine.

  #

  I entered the theater through the back door. Pushing aside the curtains to the stage, I saw only an empty auditorium.

  “Hello? Andrea?”

  My voice echoed through the hall. Somewhere, music played. It was opera, only not anything that I recognized. I followed the sound to the basement door. “Hello?” I called out. “Andrea?”

  “Down here, Evie.” Andrea’s voice floated up the stairwell.

  The wooden stairs led to the dark basement and groaned beneath my weight, warning me not to go any farther. My mind whirred with possibilities—all the things I’d learned in the past few weeks. But the puzzle pieces didn’t fit. Sure, I thought Hugh’s body could be in the basement, but why would Andrea be in the basement?

  A light glowed in the darkness, and a scraping noise kept time with the music. I stepped around the corner and dirt flew through the air. It landed with a plop on the brick floor. A wooden chair holding a lantern stood beside a deep pit. On the other side of the pit was a pile of dirt and bricks. And in the pit, stripped to the waist, with sweat gleaming all over his naked—manly—chest, was Andrea.

  Or should I say, Andrew. Suddenly, the puzzle pieces fell into place.

  He stopped shoveling when he saw me. “Found your shoes,” he said, in a man’s voice that sounded so wrong coming from him.

  “Those aren’t mine,” I said.

  “Well, then why were you so anxious to get them?” He planted his shovel in the dirt and scowled at me.

  “I don’t have to answer any of your questions.”

  “Of course you don’t. But I bet you have a few questions for me—like why didn’t I kill you that night in the woods when I had the chance? I keep asking myself that one.”

  He scratched his head and looked genuinely curious. “Too bad your boyfriend isn’t here to save you now.” Andrew dug up a shovelful of dirt and tossed it in the pile. “Since you’re so interested in the history of the Thornhill Theater, I thought you’d appreciate this little known tidbit of tawdry gossip.”

  I turned to run back up the stairs, but as I did, the door above me slammed shut seconds before it burst into flames.

  “Don’t even think about it, little girl.” Andrew climbed from the pit, wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand and braced the shovel in front of him.

  Wordlessly, I pointed at the door, my only means of escape. I ran toward it, determined to push through the fire if I needed to.

  Andrew’s laughter rang out below me. “Would you like to see Hugh and satisfy your curiosity?” He laughed at his own pun. “Get it, see you?”

  I stopped at the top of the stairs, frightened by the heat and flames. “Did you kill Lauren, too?”

  Andrew stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at me. “I didn’t kill anyon
e. Don’t you understand? Lauren and Hugh both destroyed themselves. Hugh hit his head—purely accidental.”

  “But Lauren’s death wasn’t an accident.”

  “Lauren, the real Lauren, died many years ago. What was left of her, the empty shell she’d become, that was easy enough to dispose. It seemed fitting—leaving her in the mess she’d made of her worthless life.”

  Fear surged through me and tingled my hands and feet. Now, I decided, would be a good time for sparks to fly from my fingertips. But nothing happened. I glanced at my hands. They looked the same as they always looked. Pale, thin, harmless.

  I screamed. Using all the lessons Mrs. Olson had tried to teach me, I gathered all my breath, tightened my diaphragm, and belted out another scream.

  Andrew sighed and climbed one step, the shovel braced in his hands. “My dear. Stop. Just stop. Don’t be so cliché. No one can hear you.”

  I willed my fingers to throw fire.

  Nothing happened.

  “And down here, no one will ever find you—just like they never found poor Hugh.”

  I screamed again, this time so loudly and shrill, the window broke.

  Glass shattered and fell in a sparkling rain shower as Josh fell into the room.

  Surprised, Andrew swung his shovel around, but Josh somersaulted on the floor. After so many years of wrestling with his brothers, he was prepared. He kicked Andrew’s feet out from under him.

  Andrew flew backward, hit his head on the chair, and stumbled into the pit.

  I ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Staring into the pit, I knew immediately Andrew wouldn’t be trying to get out anytime soon. He lay still and motionless beside the bones of Hugh Thornhill. Best friends, together at last.

  Josh, barely winded, stood frozen beside me. “What the—”

  I nudged him with my elbow. “Call the police.” My voice trembled and pretty soon my whole body did.

  Josh noticed and wrapped his arms around me, trying to stop my shivering, but I noticed his legs were shaking, as well.