Spell or High Water

by Gina LaManna

  “Yes, we do,” I said evenly. “I talked to Abigail.”

  “She’s part of the problem! All this talk about murder when maybe it was a horrible accident.”

  “Kenna, you know that’s ridiculous. Mary was murdered. My asking questions about it has nothing to do with the number of tourists we attract.”

  “I’m on the tourism board! This is important, and I don’t appreciate you making fun of it.” Her eyes scanned the clipboard. “Seven people cancelled their ferry rides to Eternal Springs today. Seven people!”

  “Seven less people to steal my tacos,” Mason mumbled, looking around as if someone here had stolen his food. “It never takes this long to get a plate of tacos. If anything, we have too many people running around.”

  I was reminded of something Carl had said. “There’s nothing like a murder to draw attention and a bigger crowd,” I told Kenna. “If anything, we might get an influx of lookie-loos wanting to pop on over to our creepy little island and take a look around.”

  “It’s not a creepy little island!” Kenna appeared horrified at the thought. “It’s a lush, beautiful retreat. A place to relax and unwind, to unplug and treat yourself ... .” She stopped mid-sales pitch and sucked in a breath. “Oh, you’re right. A little spin and the right article and I could change the way this thing goes. Have you seen Skye? I’ll need her to print an article for me.”

  “Nope,” I said. “She’s probably off interviewing more people like I should be doing.”

  “Just do me a favor,” Kenna said, breathless with new excitement. “Keep your investigation on the down low, will you? People are talking.”

  “I’ll make you a deal,” I said, watching as her eyes connected with mine with glittering interest. “I’ll make a big effort to be more discreet if you help me out with Zola.”

  “What about Zola?” Kenna’s eyes shifted to Mason, then back to me. We were all cautious not to reveal too much about our shared histories. “You know I rarely talk with her.”

  “But you’re on good enough terms, yes?” I waited until she gave a reluctant nod. “If you can get her to help with my garden, I’ll be so discreet people won’t even know I’m looking into the case.”

  “What’s wrong with your garden?” she asked. “Why do you need Zola?”

  “She’s got the whole green thumb thing going,” I said pointedly. “My yard and plants are turning into this weird slushy thing and I can’t figure out what’s wrong. Paul won’t even get his feet dirty.”

  “Yeah, well no offense, but Paul’s a wuss,” she said. “Sorry, but it’s true.”

  I shrugged. “Fine, but still. Do we have a deal?”

  She nodded.

  “You know, Evian, it’s not your duty to continue any sort of investigation.” Mason reached over, rested a hand on mine and squeezed. “It’s not your job to solve Mary’s murder. It’s not your fault you stumbled on the body.”

  “This isn’t about Mary,” Kenna snapped, then realized how horrible that sounded and backtracked. “I mean, it is — the poor woman — but if I could just find Skye, maybe we can turn this story around and salvage the beauty pageant.”

  Still muttering, she turned and floated out of the bar in her haze. We waited until she was gone before speaking. Mason was the first to break the silence.

  “Interesting little woman, isn’t she?” he asked with a raised brow. “What is it between the four of you, anyway? Zola, Kenna, Skye and you. I can’t tell if y’all are friends or enemies.”

  “Join the club.” I slumped closer to my margarita and took a sip. “It’s complicated. We went to school together.”

  Mason frowned. “That convent, right? Didn’t something happen there?”

  “Yep.”

  “Not ready to talk about it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Great. Let’s talk about your day. Did you find anything out with all your interviews?”

  “Oh, sure,” I said, sounding forlorn and sarcastic. “Everyone loved Mary, and how could anyone want to kill her? Most people have some sort of strange alibi that doesn’t quite clear them, though they’re all believable enough. Oh, speaking of that, I have to ask the bartender a question.”

  I raised a hand, waited a few minutes until he slid my way and raised his eyebrows.

  “Were you working this morning?” I asked. “Here, I mean?”

  He nodded, then gestured toward my glass. “Yeah, need a refill on that?”

  “Not yet.” I pulled it closer, telling myself more margaritas wouldn’t solve a murder mystery no matter how much I wanted it to be true. “This morning, do you remember if anyone was here when you opened?”

  “Are you talking about that nut who asked to borrow the keyboard?” Jim raised his eyes. “Yeah, he was here for a bit. Why?”

  “Just curious. Was he alone?”

  “Yeah. Waiting for a girl to show, but she never did. Said he was some sort of coach.” Jim shrugged. “He gave me a hundred bucks to sit here for an hour.”

  “What time was he here? And did he leave at all?”

  “I just let him in — we didn’t open until eleven, so I ran some errands and stocked up a new shipment. I didn’t really see the dude at all.”

  I sighed. Another half-alibi. Carl hadn’t lied about coming here, but the more I asked around the more it seemed impossible I’d ever find anyone who had a solid, rule-them-out alibi.

  “Why you so interested? Is this to do with that murder that happened earlier?” Jim’s eyes bugged out. “Are you asking me to provide an alibi for the guy? Jeez, Evian. I don’t want that sort of pressure on me. Why are you poking around, anyway? Why not leave it to the cops?”

  “She stumbled across Mary’s body and feels guilty,” Mason replied in a dry monotone. “Try to talk her out of getting involved. I already tried.”

  “Mary deserves justice,” I said, “and I was the one to find her. It feels … . I feel obligated to help her.” That, plus the whole investigative piece for the station, but I didn’t need to make that public. That made me sound as bad as Kenna.

  “You could get hurt.” Mason stared at me, more intense, more deeply than ever before. “Nobody wants to see you get hurt, Evian. Leave this to the professionals.”

  “You both are making such a big deal out of this. I’m only asking a few questions. I’m not planning to get hurt or in trouble, or any of that. Okay?”

  Jim shrugged and disappeared down the bar to serve another customer. Mason didn’t respond, sipping his beer instead.

  “Why do you care, anyway?” I asked him. “Here I thought you got excited every time I found myself in a mess.”

  “Messes you can get yourself out of,” Mason said, “but this time —.”

  “There you are.” Skye interrupted. “I need to talk to you, Evian Brooks.”

  “Can’t this wait?” While I wasn’t excited to see Skye, I was particularly annoyed this time around because I wanted to hear what Mason had to say. “I’m in the middle of a conversation.”

  “You know what?” Mason said, standing. “You have a lot going on, Evian. I’ll leave you to it. Your scooter — sorry, but it might take a week. You really pulled it through the wringer.”

  “Yes, yes,” Skye waved him away. “Toodles. Hasta la vista.”

  “Bye,” I called over Skye’s shoulder as he walked away. Turning to the wind witch, I glared. “Why are you ruining my dinner?”

  Her eyes flicked to my empty plate. “Your food is gone. Nothing left to ruin. Jim, can I get a margarita?”

  Jim nodded. We waited until he poured Skye’s drink before she launched into her list of woes.

  “I’m the investigative one in Eternal Springs,” Skye said. “You’re ruining the good thing I have going. Why are you interviewing all these people anyway?”

  “I’m not ruining anything! You got to all of the people before I did.”

  “I know, but sometimes I have follow-up questions, and when I called to ask about them, they’re all, li
ke, ‘I told your friend everything.’”

  “Well, I haven’t been telling anyone we’re friends.”

  “Good. So, let me do my job, will you? You have the radio show. I have the newspaper.”

  “The radio has been stuck on calypso music ever since we ... .” I lowered my voice, looking around the room. “Ever since that incident at school. You’re part of the reason nobody listens to me!”

  “Yes, well.” Skye looked proud. “Just leave my witnesses alone.”

  “They’re not your witnesses, and you are not a cop. I am conducting an investigative piece on it too — I just don’t write about it. I am talking about it on air.”

  She rolled her eyes. “On a station nobody listens to.”

  “Maybe they will listen when I find out who murdered Mary before you!” A few nearby glances flicked our way, and I lowered my voice. “Also, I sincerely don’t appreciate your little wind gimmick this morning with the storm.”

  Skye grinned. “I thought it was quite clever.”

  “You sent gale force winds my way, made me late for work and sent me spiraling almost face first into the same pool as a dead body,” I said. “That’s hardly a prank. It’s overkill.”

  “Overkill.” She snickered. “Good one.”

  “Can you never let one of my projections be correct? I just wanted one sunny day without wind or rain.”

  “Okay, I had nothing to do with the rain ... really,” she shrugged. “I just blew in a few breezes, so yeah, maybe that was my fault. But the bit about you wiping out on your scooter and crashing through the fence was not my fault. I can’t help it if you don’t know how to steer straight.”

  “Lay off the weather patterns or I’ll drench the little notebook you carry around writing all your stories in!”

  She frowned but seemed to agree to a truce for the time being. “If you want my advice —.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Lay off the interviews. Leave it to the professionals.”

  “Like the police?”

  She didn’t seem to have an answer to that one, so in response she slurped down the rest of her margarita, turned and stormed out. I stood with a huge sigh, realizing both Mason and Skye had flounced in, had dinner and left me to foot the bill. And I already had a huge bill with Mason. Just wait until I got my hands on him!

  “Nah, you’re all good,” Jim said when I threw enough money on the table to cover all our food and drinks. “Mason took care of it.”

  “But —.”

  Jim nodded for me to pick up the cash. “It’s all good.”

  “Did he tip you?”

  “I told you he took care of everything,” Jim said. “Have a good night, Ev. And maybe give the poor guy a break next time you see him. I think he likes you.”

  It was with that thought that I floated home, blissfully free from the rest of my worries such as murder, unpaid bills and malfunctioning scooters. As I twirled through my front door I saw Paul sitting on the kitchen table, watching me through narrowed eyes.

  What are you so happy about? he asked. I don’t like it. Something is weird about you.

  “I’m not allowed to be happy?”

  Not when you found a dead body this morning.

  “Gee, you really know how to keep a party going.”

  What was it? Did you go to Coconuts without me? I smell salt and lime on you. Don’t tell me you had a margarita and didn’t bring me one.

  “Paul, can’t you just go outside and sit under a fern like a normal toad?” I studied my familiar fondly. Though we bantered, I couldn’t imagine life without him. “You’re the only toad in the world who takes cooling baths in margaritas.”

  His body gave a shudder of excitement at the thought. Well, I’m not just any toad now, am I?

  I headed to the blender and gathered the ingredients for Paul’s favorite: a strawberry margarita with a sugared rim. Next he’d be asking for a bon bon. It was all very If You Give a Mouse a Cookie with this one.

  So, he said as I rubbed the lime around the rim of the glass, what’s got you all peppy?

  I debated a massive attempt to keep my thoughts hidden from Paul, but that would never fully work. The moment my guard dropped he’d be able to read my thoughts anyway.

  “I think Mason doesn’t hate me,” I told Paul. “And he might give me a deal on the scooter.”

  I don’t know about the deal on the scooter, but of course the man likes you. He’s been drooling after you since you ran into his garage on that golf cart.

  “Let’s not talk about that,” I said, picking up Paul and plopping him into the margarita. “Maybe Skye did have a point — it’s probably not her fault I crashed. But it is her fault the wind crapped my scooter out.”

  Paul gave a heavenly sigh, closed his eyes, and sat back to relax.

  Go away. I’m basking.

  I left my toad to bask and climbed upstairs to prepare for bed. After a quick shower and a few hours spent compiling and pouring over my notes from the day, I decided to turn in early.

  Tomorrow morning I’d pay a visit to Edwin. Somebody had to know something about the murder. The only thing I could be certain of about this case was that poor Marilyn hadn’t killed herself.

  Eight

  “Good morning,” I chirped to Leslie, the receptionist at Eternal Springs Resort and Spa. Luckily Dylan, an overly hopeful kid with crushes on me and my witchy sisters, wasn’t working today. I didn’t have time for his bribes or his misplaced affection. “Brought you a coffee.”

  I handed over a to-go cup from the local coffee shop, earning a smile from her.

  “And what do you need today?” she asked. “I can’t send you back to Carl’s room. His assistant put in a request for no more visitors. Apparently, the poor man’s been bombarded by people after his friend died yesterday.”

  Lucky thing I’d made the cutoff, I thought, as I raised my own latte to my lips and took a sip. “Oh, no. It’s just, actually, I have an interview request for the radio show. Do you know Edwin Prong’s room number?”

  Leslie leaned closer. “I’m really not supposed to be giving these things out to you.”

  I gave a pointed look at her coffee. “Well, in that case ... .”

  Leslie hugged the coffee protectively with both hands. “Fine, but I’m just going to point the room number out to you. If he doesn’t want to talk, leave him alone. And make up some story about how you found his room, okay? I can’t get fired. I need this job.”

  “Thanks so much,” I said. “Oh, I really love you.”

  “You’re just lucky I am addicted to coffee,” she said, her eyes scanning her log. “Okay, here we are. You’re headed to this room,” she pointed to Room 809 on the screen. “Upstairs — not quite the penthouse, but a pretty sweet suite.” She giggled at her own joke. “Sorry, hotel humor.”

  I laughed along with Leslie, an acquaintance old enough to be considered a friend. We didn’t hang out all that often because keeping close human relationships is a bit of an issue for me. Sooner or later, they began to question why I talked so much to a toad or why I took so long to shower.

  To answer the latter, it was due to the Coven. They tended to contact me — a hugely annoying process — through the bathroom mirror when it steamed up. Not exactly a relaxing steamy shower when a voice barked through the curtain for me to hurry up because I was late to a meeting.

  I considered this as I walked along the corridor and took the elevator up to the eighth floor. I really needed to put a curtain over my mirror. I’d do that as soon as I got home — it’d been on my to-do list for three years.

  The elevator dinged and I stepped onto an open-air corridor. Though I’d spent most of my life in Eternal Springs, I paused to take in the sights, to inhale a breath of the fresh air, to sip my coffee in an attempt to enjoy the morning. The views from eight floors up were unparalleled: In most directions, the ocean stretched for miles, disappearing as if fading into a watercolor landscape.

  Tree branches ob
scured some of the view, but the grass and underbrush washed the island with greenery. A golf course sat in the distance for the older men who got dragged along while their wives sat through every spa treatment under the sun.

  Room 809 was a corner unit. I spotted the number as I finished the dregs of the magic potion known to humans as coffee. With a sigh, I dropped the cup into the nearest trash container and forced myself to raise a hand and knock before the caffeine rush wore off.

  I’d done some asking around about Edwin as I’d grabbed the coffee this morning. A few of the pageant girls had been at the cafe, whispering over their black coffees and avoiding the pastries as if even a whiff of them would add inches to their thighs.

  Most of the girls had run into Edwin at one point. His bio stated he was from New York, but upon closer inspection he had been born and raised in Iowa, though he tended to hide that branch of his roots. He now worked as a professional pageant coordinator and traveled often and widely, organizing staging, costumes and even distribution for televised programs.

  One thing all the girls had agreed on was a lack of fondness for the man, which sent my gut churning as the door was pulled open by a harried-looking man with frustration in his eyes. I glanced up and down the hallway and realized, once again, that I was quite alone up here despite being in a public place. Not unlike Marilyn the morning she’d been killed.

  “Yes?” he asked, sounding annoyed at the silence. “Are you housekeeping? Where’s your uniform? I’m going to call the front desk to verify. I told them I am very private about my space.”

  “No — no,” I said quickly. “It’s not like that at all. My name is Evian Brooks, and I am an investigative reporter for HEX 66.6,” I said, fudging just a little. Maybe the title wasn’t professional yet, but if I did a good enough job on this case I could promote myself. “I just have a few questions.”

  Edwin’s eyes flashed darker. “Your name is Evian, like the bottled water?”