Charmed Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  “Do we look like Glinda?” Hope asked.

  “Maybe if you traded in your leather miniskirt for a ruffled pink gown…” I smiled to let them know I was teasing. These were modern witches, and as Tinkie had described them, sexy. They wore black leggings, skinny jeans, miniskirts, and the latest provocative styles. I could definitely see where they might cast a spell on a man.

  “What do you know about Corey Fontana?” Tinkie asked.

  “The little bastard spray-painted ‘Burn, Witch, Burn’ on the wall of the dairy. That’s what I know,” Faith said. Her temper seemed to match her red hair. “I ran him off. I did chase him through the fields and woods, but I didn’t hurt him. I didn’t catch him. As far as I know, he went home.”

  “How old is Corey?” Tinkie asked.

  Faith shook her head. “Maybe seventeen or eighteen. I didn’t get a good look at him, but I know his reputation. He and his mother have been stewing about us for weeks now. Ever since we came to town in December and started renovations. I’m pretty sure she sent him over to deface our property.”

  “Your property?” I asked.

  “We’re buying the dairy, manor, and grounds from Trevor. He’ll remain living in the manor. There’s plenty of room for us and a boatload of students, artists, and teachers.”

  “I can’t believe Trevor’s actually selling the property.” It had been in the Musgrove family for close on two hundred years. Like my ancestors, Trevor’s had gradually bought pieces of land until they owned a tract of more than a thousand acres. “Is Trevor at the manor now?” I asked.

  “On the third floor. He seldom comes downstairs. Charity is going to handle the international sales of his artwork for him. He’ll remain on the third floor as long as he lives.”

  “His work is fantastic,” Charity said, already wearing her marketing hat. “His series of ancient goddesses are stupendous. And the nudes as iconic religious figures—now that created such a scandal, but those paintings sold for six figures in Italy, Spain, and Brazil.” She nudged Faith.

  “He isn’t that old,” I said. Trevor Musgrove wasn’t even sixty. “He could live another thirty years. I can’t believe he’s going to be a tenant on his own family’s property.”

  “He won’t make sixty at the rate he’s going,” Faith said. “Women march up and down those stairs at all hours of the day and night. His models, or so he says. More like his paramours. He’s doing a lot of activity besides painting, if you get my drift. You know, it’s interesting that this county gets up in arms about a school, but they don’t say a thing about Trevor and his sexual escapades. He’s banging half the under-fifty wives in the county.”

  “It’s the whole witch thing.” Tinkie held up her hand to stop them from commenting. “You have to teach the public what you represent and stand for. The word witch has a lot of negative connotations. Eye of newt, bat wings, spells, consorting with Satan, plagues, famines—black magic.”

  “How perfectly medieval,” Hope said, and we all laughed.

  I wasn’t certain the Harrington sisters would fare well in Sunflower County, but I respected what they were trying to accomplish. The idea of a school focused around nature and healing seemed like a much-needed area of education—and if a Protestant- or Catholic-based school could get state funding, the Wiccans should be able to have it, too. Besides, if the younger generation didn’t value the planet, there would be a terrible price to pay. Even I could see that.

  “This school voucher thing,” Tinkie edged toward the hot topic. “Do you really believe the state will give students money to pay for your school?”

  “They have to. The legislature opened the door to this when they began to allow parents to use vouchers or education credits to pay for private schools. We’re a recognized religion. What they do for one, they must do for others.” Hope’s grin was more than a little wicked. “We wouldn’t want the federal government down here messing in the schools again, would we?”

  “I might,” I said under my breath. The state politicians were certainly making a mess of it. “Okay, good luck, ladies. I have a date with Dorothy and Toto. I was in the middle of The Wizard of Oz before I came here.” I was ready to head home. The wind was biting into my face and hands as we stood outside the school board meeting, and my pets were waiting for me. I’d been roused from my evening plans by a tempest in a teapot.

  “Watch out for the green witches,” Hope called out. “They’re the most dangerous.” And then she gave a perfect imitation of Margaret Hamilton’s cackle. It made chills dance along my skin.

  I’d reached my car when Kitten Fontana came bursting out of the building calling my name and Tinkie’s.

  “I’m hiring the Delaney Detective Agency to find my son,” she declared. “Corey went over to the dairy and hasn’t returned home. Those witches are up to something and he was going to prove it. They must have caught him or he’d be home. He didn’t have any dinner and he’s not answering his phone. He’s just a kid, and I just know they’ve done something terrible to him. Here’s a check for ten grand. That’s your retainer, correct?”

  We didn’t have a retainer fee, but I took the check. Taxes were due. As much as I wanted to go home, business was a priority.

  “Let’s head over to the Prince Albert for a libation and a chat,” Kitten said. “I need a vodka to clear my head.”

  I was a little stunned that a drink was Kitten’s solution to a missing child, but then again, Corey did have a reputation of driving people to drink. Tinkie waved goodbye to the witches and fell into step with me and Snook—Kitten.

  The wind almost took our breath away when we stepped out of the lee of the building and into the street. We put it in high gear and hustled to the Prince Albert bar, where I lost no time ordering a dirty vodka martini with multiple olives. It was a martini kind of night. Kitten went straight for the cream with a White Russian, and Tinkie played it safe with white wine. Someone had to be responsible.

  I was a little curious that Kitten jumped on her barstool, kicked off her shoes, and sighed with contentment. The night was tanking—temperature-wise—and the mercury was on the verge of freezing. Her teenage son was missing—she’d written a check for ten grand for us to find him—and she was drinking cocktails. I wondered if Bob was out looking for the boy or if they’d simply had enough of his bad behavior and the worry it caused. Or maybe she knew exactly where her kid was and she’d come to the school board meeting to cause trouble for the Harrington sisters.

  “Do you really believe those women are witches?” Kitten asked.

  “You tell me. You were going to slap one of them and you stopped.” I was dying to hear this explanation. “What happened?”

  “It was like someone grabbed hold of my hand and bent it backward. Almost like they were going to break it at the wrist. The pain was excruciating.”

  She had doubled over, as if she were in actual pain. But Kitten, like all women who made their way pleasing a man, was a great actress. I’ll bet Bob Fontana believed he was the best lover alive. Ego was always the weakness of men like Bob. He had a talent, but it wasn’t sensitivity or brains.

  “And the pain stopped as suddenly as it began?” I asked.

  “It did. It was very curious. You don’t think—” Her eyes widened. “She was protected by a spell!”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “It would certainly explain it.” Kitten whipped out her phone. She couldn’t wait to spread the news that the witches could cast spells.

  Tinkie snatched her phone. “Don’t do that. You have no proof and you’re going to get those women hurt. Some people will get hysterical about the idea of spells and such.”

  “Have you been to Musgrove Manor?” Kitten eyed her phone but she didn’t attempt to grab it. Tinkie had won, for the moment. “There are cats everywhere. Everyone knows witches have cats as familiars.”

  I could only roll my eyes. “I have a black cat.”

  “I’ve always wondered about you, too,” Kitten s
aid, deadly serious.

  “Please, if I had the power to cast spells, you’d know it. The only reason the dairy is overrun with cats is because Trevor was too lazy to get them spayed and neutered. Totally irresponsible.”

  “Trevor is a great artist. He shouldn’t worry about vermin.” Kitten sipped her drink and licked her lips, just like a cat. I had visions of neutering her.

  “Where do you think your son is on this bitter cold night?” Tinkie asked, inserting the ice pick and giving it a little twist.

  “Those witches have him. I know it in my heart.”

  “Now if they were into voodoo, he might be a great human sacrifice,” I said, draining my martini. I’d had enough of her company. Her check might be good but her soul was rotten. To the core.

  “They wouldn’t dare harm a hair on his head.” Kitten lapped her drink and gave me a knowing look. “They’ll default on that property, Bob will buy it, and soon Sunflower County will have an exclusive subdivision built around a world-class golf course. Those broomstick riders will fly right out of the county.”

  She was pretty certain of her predictions, and I wondered why.

  “We’d better get busy looking for Corey,” Tinkie said. “It’s freezing outside. If he has injured himself and is out in this weather, he could face hypothermia.”

  “He has the finest outdoor gear. Vest, coat, socks, boots, hand warmers.” Kitten slipped into her heels and stood. “He’s probably hiding out at a friend’s.”

  “But you just gave us ten grand to find him. If you think he’s safe…” This wasn’t about Corey or finding him. This was the beginning salvo in the Fontanas’ plan to get their hands on Musgrove Manor and the dairy. The golf course subdivision wasn’t just big talk, it was the future as envisioned by Kitten and Bob.

  “We’ll report in tomorrow,” Tinkie said, grabbing my elbow and steering me toward the door. She knew I was about to explode. “Daddy needs a new Cadillac,” she whispered to me as she forced me to the exit. “Hold your tongue. Daddy needs a bright red Caddy.” Tinkie’s brand-new car had been destroyed in our last case, and she did need a new one.

  “Okay, okay.” I shook free of her and continued out of the hotel. In the shadow cast by the front of Hoffman Furniture, a woman lurked, blending into the storefront. I nudged Tinkie. “Who is that?” Tinkie knew everyone in the county.

  “I don’t recognize her, but I can’t see her all that well either.”

  The woman was staring right at us, but she didn’t step forward. She was trim and wearing stilettos that looked like a whorehouse special—the kind of shoes we used to call knock-me-down-and-screw-me shoes, which led me to believe she might be a friend of Kitten Fontana. She had that Snooki thing going with her hair, too. Hadn’t they ever heard that roaches would nest in teased hair that was shellacked to madness with hairspray?

  “I’ll bet she’s waiting on Kitten to come out.” Tinkie tried to hustle me away from the hotel door.

  When I looked back inside the bar, Kitten was on the phone. Judging from the animation on her face and her excitement, I’d be willing to predict that spellcasting would be the town buzz by daybreak. Tinkie and I race-walked around the corner and pressed ourselves against the wall. And waited. When we heard voices, we looked back.

  Shadow Woman had stepped under a streetlamp and Kitten rushed out the door to speak with her—after casting furtive glances around to be sure she wasn’t seen. She should have been safe; the town was quiet. But she hadn’t counted on us.

  Tinkie inhaled sharply. “I know who that is. It’s Esmeralda Grimes, the tabloid reporter from Memphis. She’s on a lot of those entertainment shows where they dish the dirt on celebrities. Millie is going to have a field day.” She was about to squeal with delight when I put a hand over her mouth. Tinkie was correct—Millie Roberts, café owner, was addicted to celebrity and entertainment gossip—but we were snooping and had to stay quiet.

  Oh, I knew who Esmeralda Grimes was. “She’s that crazy … person who writes for the International Report and does those stories about live births of half-sheep-half-human babies, alien abductions, conspiracy theories about members of the royal family and their connections to Appalachian baby sales.”

  “That’s her! And she’s meeting with Kitten. Those two are up to no good.”

  And that was the first major understatement of the new year.

  2

  Instead of going home, as any smart detectives would have, Tinkie and I left her rental car and I drove my mother’s antique Mercedes Roadster to the U-Tote-Em, Zinnia’s all-night emporium of rolling papers, wine, cigarettes, pork skins, and cardboard pizza. And, best of all, the latest issue of the International Report.

  While I picked up two packs of cashews and some sparkling water, Tinkie grabbed two copies of the tabloid. We were off into the night. It was one of those rare evenings when Tinkie wasn’t ready to go home. Nothing against her husband, Oscar, but our detective blood was up. We had work to do. And I suspected she hated driving the rental car, which looked like a cube on wheels. Tinkie’s elegance bone was offended.

  Sweetie Pie and Pluto greeted us at the front door of Dahlia House as we hurried inside. I rustled up some drinks and popcorn to go with the cashews and we went to our office to study the tabloid. It didn’t take much study. The headline screamed ZINNIA WITCHES CONJURE DEAD ELVIS.

  The whole front page was an image of Faith, Hope, and Charity flying around a bubbling cauldron on broomsticks. Rising from the pot was gold-lamé Elvis. The picture was so obviously Photoshopped I wanted to laugh. How many rubes would take this as literal evidence the Harrington sisters were raising the dead? Not to mention flying on broomsticks.

  “Satan selling Popsicles,” Tinkie said. “This is an outrage.”

  And suddenly we were both laughing. And we knew exactly why Esmeralda Grimes was in town. Kitten had money to burn, and she was determined to rid Musgrove Manor of the witches. One way or the other. Slander and libel would be as effective as a house fire. Kitten was a devious and determined woman.

  We read the story, which held little factual content and a whole lot of speculation about the sisters and why they had left Lafayette, Louisiana. Still, it was a good lead for us to follow up on, should Corey Fontana fail to appear in the next few hours. I felt certain the teenager was only helping his mother foment fear about the witches, but I’d learned never to count my chickens before they hatched.

  Tinkie and I drank, ate, and talked until the sun came up. We made a list of places to check for Corey, including classmates, hangouts, and area jails—the boy was a known juvenile delinquent. But mostly we talked. It had been a long time since we’d pulled an all-nighter just sharing. And we were ready for action at first light. Tinkie brought out a pair of sweatpants and sneakers from her desk drawer. We’d vowed at the first of the year to walk and work out at least three times a week. Needless to say, her clothes were still clean and unworn. But they’d come in handy now.

  I raced upstairs to change into hiking boots. Our breakfast at Millie’s would have to wait. I grabbed flashlights and my gun. Again, I didn’t anticipate shooting anyone, but it was better to be prepared. Just as the sun peeked over the horizon, Tinkie, Sweetie, Pluto, and I were on the way to Musgrove Manor to search for the missing teen. Chablis, Tinkie’s little Yorkie, was going to be angry at us, but we didn’t want to risk waking Oscar by stopping by Hilltop for her.

  My cell phone rang and Coleman’s warm and sexy voice buzzed in my ear as he teased me with, “Ready for some company in that big bed?”

  “Only if you don’t consider three a crowd. Tinkie is with me. She said she had a hankering to stand naked on the stairs at Dahlia House.” I could still make him blush at the mention of Tinkie and sex in the same sentence, and though I couldn’t see Coleman I knew he was blushing. When Tinkie had caught us both naked on the stairs, she’d gained the upper hand over Coleman Peters. And I was glad to help her keep it.

  “Sarah Booth, just understand that the
re’s a price to be paid for not playing fair.”

  It was definitely a threat. “I’ll take my chances.”

  “I’ll wait until Tinkie isn’t around. We’ll see how tough you are when you don’t have your protector.”

  “I can take care of myself.” But my heart was racing, and I felt a little light-headed. “So did you catch the robbers?” Turning the conversation was the only smart thing to do.

  “I did. I heard from DeWayne that you’re working for the Fontanas.” He was all but laughing. Kitten’s reputation preceded her.

  “Her kid is missing. Maybe. I think she’s stirring up trouble for the Wiccan school.”

  “Corey Fontana is trouble. He’s been associated with some real crime in the county. I haven’t been able to pin anything on him, but he’s got a streak of violence. Be careful.”

  “I think the kid is at home playing video games. This is a ploy.”

  “Bob Fontana wants to develop the Musgrove property. I’d say your instincts are right on,” Coleman said. “Still, be careful.”

  “Tink and I are headed out to search the woods for the missing boy. Just in case he’s hurt.”

  “Shall I join you?”

  “You get some sleep. If you’re going to bring me to heel, you’re going to need all of your strength.” I hung up before he could respond. Baiting the bear was safe only for a limited amount of time.

  Tinkie was grinning like the Cheshire Cat when I glanced at her. “Shut up.”

  “I didn’t say a word.” Her grin widened. “I should have taken that photo of you two looking like ’possums in the headlights. I’ll never again let decency and friendship overrule a chance for power.”

  “Coleman would put you in jail.”

  “And Cece would print that photo. Then where would our pistol-packing sheriff be?”

  Tinkie had the upper hand. The best I could manage was a graceful retreat. “Look, there’s the dairy. Shall we start on the grounds or go to the manor house and wake them up?”

  “Do witches need to sleep?” She answered my question with a question as I pulled into the parking area. She leaned over and pressed hard on the horn. “That should do the trick.”