The Strongman's Spell

by Amorette Anderson

  “Neil the Strongman will set you straight on that, Shauna,” the blond merwoman said to her friend, before taking a sip of her champagne.

  I joined them just as Beatrix was chiming in with her own input. “I wouldn’t mind meeting him, just to see what all the fuss is about,” she said, while craning her head up and peering out into the crowd, as if searching for Neil. “But I don’t plan on going to any of his talks this weekend, nor the morning bootcamp events. I’m just here for the spa.”

  “Oh! The spa!” The blond merwoman twittered. She looked at me. “You’re the owner of this place, isn’t that right? Tell us about what the spa has to offer! Are there really customized mud baths?”

  I eyed Beatrix. The real reason I’d approached was to ask her where her husband was, but I couldn’t very well ignore the question that had been posed to me.

  I nodded. “Yes, right through those doors,” I said, pointing to the double doors just to the left of the wide staircase. “This whole lower level—well, except for the lobby—is a spa. There are six mud baths. Five are private, and one is communal. The private ones can be customized to suit your needs. If you’re anxious, I can put elements in the mud that will soothe your nervous system. If you’re fatigued, I’ll use elements that energize. I even place crystals in a grid around the bath. It’s a wonderful experience.”

  “How about facials?” Beatrix asked, reaching up to pat the bottom of her chin. “I could use a touch up. My last was months ago.”

  “No facials,” I said. “Our services are tailored toward deep healing here at this center, rather than superficial aesthetics.”

  Beatrix didn’t seem thrilled by this. Since she was Carlisle’s wife, I wanted her to enjoy her weekend. I went on before she could feel too discouraged. “I do offer a pretty mean massage, though,” I said. “I’ve been a massage therapist for years. That’s what I did full time before I got the directive from my gran’s spirit to open up this place.”

  The plump, pink-haired merwoman named Shauna spoke up. “I love a good massage,” she said. “How can I sign up?”

  “Oh, well... just tell me, I guess,” I said. I hadn’t really given the logistics much thought; I’d been so busy getting other aspects of the weekend dialed in. “I’m the only massage therapist.”

  “Just you?” the blond merwoman arched her brow. “Honey, isn’t the max for this weekend retreat twenty-five? And I heard it was sold out.”

  I nodded. “Yeah...” I said, as I grasped her point. Maybe I should have thought this through a little better, I realized. I looked around for a tray of wine glasses. I’d just finished my glass of white wine, and a second sounded mighty good. The nearest tray was ten feet away. I eyed it thirstily.

  The blond merwoman went on. “How are you possibly going to provide massages to all twenty-five guests, while still managing everything else on your plate? I imagine there’s a lot that goes into running a center like this.”

  I tugged at the end of my braid. “I guess I’m going to find out,” I said nervously. “This is opening weekend, so I still don’t know how the workflow is going to go. I’m hoping that everything just goes smoothly, and that we can all relax in each other's company and learn from Neil along the way.”

  The tray of glasses floated closer. I put my empty glass on it and swiped a glass of white wine as the two merwomen clamored for my attention.

  “So we book with you then? I’d like an eight a.m. massage tomorrow morning! My name’s Lee. Lee Maidenburg,” the blond merwoman said. “Want me to write it down for you? It’s burg, with a b-u-r-g.”

  “I’ll remember.” I said.

  “And I’ll take your nine a.m.,” Shauna said. She turned to her mer friend. “That way we can still make the ten o’clock lecture: How to Persevere Against Resistance: A Bodybuilder’s Story.”

  “And I’d like a customized mud bath at ten,” Beatrix said.

  I sipped the perfectly chilled white wine, and then said, “Okay, I can remember that. Eight, nine, and ten. Got it.” I mentally filed that away, sipped the wine again, and then focused my attention on Beatrix, who was still craning her head up and searching over the crowd.

  “Beatrix,” I said. “Do you know where your husband is? I’d love to ask him how his stay is going so far.”

  She caught sight of someone in the crowd and arched her brow. “Oh, my, my! He is easy on the eyes...”

  I followed her gaze, and saw that she was now staring at Neil, who was chatting with a little gaggle of beings by the fountain.

  “Isn’t he?”

  “So handsome!” the two merwomen twittered.

  I tried to get Beatrix’s attention again. “I’d love to introduce you and Carlisle to Neil,” I said. “If you can just point the way toward your husband, that is.”

  She shook her head. “I haven’t seen him,” she said. “He must still be in his room.”

  “Oh... that’s not good,” I said. I bit my lip and looked to the staircase that led up to the third floor. “Maybe I should go get him and remind him about the meet and greet. I’d hate for him to miss this.”

  “It is beautiful,” Lee said, tilting her chin up to look at the floating candles.

  “Absolutely stunning,” Shauna agreed. “I love the live tree in the middle of this room! And that piano music is divine... In all my years of going to retreat centers like this, I’ve never seen anything quite so unique. It’s the perfect mix between beauty and serenity.”

  That settled it. I had to go get Carlisle so he could appreciate the magical atmosphere. “I’ll be right back,” I told the three ladies.

  I headed for the stairs, and took them two at a time. Then I hurried down the third-floor hallway. When I reached room 312, I knocked.

  I waited.

  No answer.

  I knocked on the door louder. “Mr. Crimson?” I said in a loud, clear tone. I listened intently for a response, but I didn’t hear anything.

  That’s weird, I thought. He must have already stepped out; maybe he’s doing some exploring around the grounds. Seems no one’s in there.

  I was about to turn away, when a little niggling sensation in my gut stopped me.

  Before I even started studying witchcraft, I had a strong sense of intuition. Now that I was a witch, it was even stronger. That sense of intuition was nudging me. I sensed that something about the situation was off.

  Maybe it was that Carlisle hadn’t seemed to be in the exploring mood when I’d left him, Maybe it was the words that the banshee had shrieked in this very spot, just an hour earlier.

  Whatever the reason, I had the distinct feeling that I should check on Carlisle.

  I pulled my master key card from my vest pocket and swiped it through the lock box. The light flashed green and a little beep let me know that the door would open. I knocked a few times as I pushed the door in, and called out, “Mr. Crimson? It’s me, Marley Greene... just checking up on you...” My voice faded as I saw that the suite was empty. Maybe my intuition was wrong.

  Then I got another nudge.

  Something was off.

  I walked toward the bathroom. The door to the bathroom was partially closed. I could smell fragrant bath salts in the air, as if someone had drawn a bath and added them in. There was also something else—something stinky and sour. I didn’t like it.

  “Mr. Crimson?” I said, as I pushed open the bathroom door.

  There was a figure in the bathtub, and it was clearly Carlisle. He didn’t answer, and I had a feeling about why: Carlisle Crimson looked dead.

  Chapter Four

  “Please don’t be dead,” I whispered, as I approached Carlisle’s still, gray body. I reached out and shook his damp, cool shoulder. “Carlisle?” I said. “Carlisle, can you hear me?”

  Yeah, definitely dead, I thought.

  I didn’t panic.

  I’m not the panicking type.

  The reviewer that I was so eager to impress was in a bathtub, right in front of me, dead as a doornail. But I k
now enough about cycles and nature to know that death is natural. Everyone dies. Unfortunately, it seemed that Carlisle’s time had arrived.

  Then I caught sight of something pink in the tub next to him—a hairdryer.

  He shouldn’t have tried to use his hairdryer in the tub, I thought. Well, maybe his death wasn’t so natural after all. His death was a tragic accident, by the look of things.

  I felt a heaviness settle over my shoulders as I realized that I would have to inform his wife and daughter about the accident.

  I would also have to notify the Air Realm authorities. There was no way I was going to call Hillcrest's PD about the death. When a person died in Hillcrest, they usually checked out the scene while a coroner pronounced the body. But the officials in my little mountain town resisted all things magical, so inviting them onto the premises would be a huge mistake. Luckily, the Air Realm was only a telepathy-session away, and I knew they would meet us at the portal gate and take the body away so that he could be laid to rest in his own realm.

  Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time that a being from another realm had died in Hillcrest, and I knew the drill.

  “Okay,” I whispered aloud to myself. “I can handle this. I’ll just get my witch sisters up here, and they can help me make arrangements for the body and notify his kin. This sucks, but it’s not the end of the world. Accidents happen.”

  “This wasn't an accident,” an annoyed male voice proclaimed.

  It sounded like Carlisle.

  But how could it be? I thought. He’s dead. It must have been someone else.

  That was a pretty scary thought, seeing as I thought I was alone in the suite with Carlisle’s body. My heart leapt up into my throat, and I whirled around quickly this way and that, searching the bathroom. It was empty.

  “I would never blow dry my hair in the bathtub,” the voice said. “I don’t even own a hairdryer! And even if I did, I’m smarter than that. I’m a direct descendent of a scribe for the Akashic Records. I’m intelligent, not foolish.” It was definitely Carlisle.

  But how is he talking to me? I wondered, eyeing the tub.

  His body was still; his lips weren’t moving.

  That’s when I saw a little flash of light. It was similar to the movement in the air that I’d seen right before my gran appeared to me, on the night I spent in a cave high up on Hillcrest Mountain.

  Am I about to have another vision? I wondered.

  The light was coming from a place at the foot of the bath—near the shimmery chrome faucets. I focused on the spot.

  I remembered that before I had my first vision, Skili told me to wait, watch, and listen, so that’s what I did.

  I tried to stay calm.

  I settled down onto the floor. The tiles were slightly wet, with splashed water from the tub. I didn’t let that bother me. I crossed my legs, and tried to relax my body.

  I waited. I watched. I listened.

  And then, just like that night in the cave, the light became brighter, and it formed a shape—a body. Carlisle’s body.

  He was buck naked, sitting on the edge of the bathtub with one leg crossed over the other.

  “Oh!” I gasped.

  “You can see me?” he asked. “I suspected you could hear me, due to your reactions, but I thought I was invisible.”

  “I can see you,” I said. “And you’re naked.” I felt my cheeks flush slightly.

  “Oh... I see. That’s no good...” He stood up. There was a small room attached to the master bath, which contained a toilet. The door to that room was ajar. He stepped into the little room and then peeked his head around the door. “How’s that?” he asked.

  “Better,” I said. All I could see now was his head.

  “It’s time for you and I to have a little chat,” he said.

  “About what?” I asked.

  “You did this to me.” He motioned to the body in the bath.

  “What do you mean I did this to you?”

  “You caused my death,” he said.

  I looked to the tub and the hairdryer that was submerged by Carlisle’s body. A cord ran from the hairdryer to an outlet in the wall by the sink. “You mean I threw the dryer in there?” I asked. “I definitely didn’t. I know that’s a recipe for death. I would never murder another being, Carlisle. I’m all about healing, not killing.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “Let me ask you this,” he said. “If it wasn’t for this retreat center, would we be in this position? Would I be dead?”

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly.

  “Would I have taken a bath in this jacuzzi, on this particular day, in this particular spot?”

  “No,” I admitted.

  “Then this is your fault.”

  I shook my head. He reached his bare arm around the door and wagged a finger at me. “You’re responsible for my death, Mrs. Greene. I’m here in this awful retreat center because of you. You suggested that I take a bath.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t know—”

  “I was soaking, just like you told me to do, and someone entered the bathroom and threw a hairdryer into the bath with me!” He threw his hands up into the air, and then craned his head around the door so that he could look at his dead body in the tub. He gestured wildly at it. “Look at me! I look terrible!”

  “You don’t look that bad,” I said.

  He sighed with exasperation. “I’m dead, and I want you to find my killer. If you fail to figure out who killed me, I’m going to make sure that my record of this place is so bad that no one will ever want to stay here.”

  “Mr. Crimson,” I said, “you’re a ghost now. I assume that you can’t pick up a pen. You can’t depress keys on a keyboard. You’re non-physical.”

  He glowered at me. “I may be in ghost form now, but I'm also a scribe,” he said haughtily. “You think you’re the only one advanced enough to see me? I think not. I know plenty of beings trained in the art of perceiving the nonphysical. I’ll reach out to one of my scribe friends, and they’ll happily write down whatever I dictate.”

  “Unicorn poop,” I said.

  “I want to know who killed me,” he reiterated. “And you’re the one responsible for this whole place. You have to figure it out. If you don’t, I’m going to make sure that the piece I write up for the Record Keeper Reviews reflects your ineptitude for running a center such as this one.”

  With that, he stepped out from behind the doorway. I averted my eyes. “I need answers,” he said. Then he stalked out of the bathroom.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “Anywhere but here!” he said. “That dead body is giving me the creeps.”

  “But it’s your body!” I said. There was no response. The ghost of Carlisle was apparently out of earshot. Either that, or he was choosing to ignore me. Either way, our conversation was over.

  I looked at the dead body.

  Carlisle wants me to figure out who killed him, I thought. How am I supposed to do that?

  The meet and greet was still going on downstairs. Should I cancel it? I wondered. Should I cancel this entire weekend?

  Heck—should I cancel this entire idea? Maybe running a retreat center isn’t for me.

  The thought of letting my Granny Greene down didn’t sit well with me. If I gave up on the retreat center, I’d be failing the task she gave me.

  This was what she wanted for me. But was it what I wanted for myself?

  I wasn’t sure.

  The whole thing felt like a disaster so far. The retreat center was a lot of responsibility. I just wanted the weekend to go smoothly, and now I had a dead body to deal with. Not only that, but Carlisle had charged me—me!—with finding the killer.

  “This sucks,” I whispered. I walked closer to the tub. The hairdryer was caught between one of Carlisle’s thighs and the edge of the tub. It was a pearly pink color. “BioPro Supersonic 120 Volt,” it said on the side.

  Hm. A pink hairdryer, I thought. Seems like something a woman would ow
n.

  I stepped back and shook my head. No—this is crazy. I can’t play detective on top of everything else I had to do this weekend.

  Or can I?

  In my vision, my grandmother said I’d been passive and idle my entire life. She said that it was time to act.

  Maybe I was more capable than I was giving myself credit for.

  “It’s time to act,” I whispered to myself.

  Then I turned away from the body. I knew what I had to do next. If I was going to figure out who killed Carlisle, I’d need some help. I also needed some fuel. I was feeling more than a little lightheaded. I knew just what would help: my witch sisters, a plate of cheese and crackers, and a glass of wine.

  Chapter Five

  I stood in the doorway to the bathroom, with a glass of wine in one hand, and a cheese-topped cracker in the other. As I nibbled the cracker, I watched my friend, Penny, approach the bathtub.

  Penny is a certified Private Investigator. She earned her certification online, through this —to be honest—really shoddy program that barely taught her anything. Maybe that’s not fair. She knows that a killer needs motive and means, and she also knows how to tell a man’s footprint from a woman’s, but that’s about it.

  Mostly, she solves cases by being too bold for her own good.

  “I’m sure his wife did it,” she said as she examined the body. “What did you say her name is? Beatrix, right? Doesn’t that just sound evil? I mean, say it a few times out loud. Beatrix... Be-a-trix... it’s like be a trick-ster. You know what I mean...? Be a trickster.”

  I took a sip of wine. She went on.

  “It’s almost always the wife. I learned that in Lesson 3 of Speedy’s Online Licensure Program. 99 percent of the time—or was it 89 percent? Or 79? I don’t know—it ended with a nine. Something-nine percent of the time, the lover is the perp. So chances are really, really good that his wife Beatrix is our gal.” She reached into the forest green messenger bag that she always wears and pulled out a little handgun with a pearl handle. “Let’s go kind of shake her up a little bit. You know... make her quake in her knickers in a bunch. Isn’t that the saying?”