Charmed Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  “Do you have a suggestion?” Harold loved Tinkie as much as I did.

  He shook his head. “Tinkie is one of the smartest, most reasonable people on the planet. It’s only on this subject that she can veer off the rails in a big way. I only know we have to help her.”

  “Has the sale of the Musgrove dairy gone through or do you know?”

  “My understanding is that Trevor and the Harrington sisters had an agreement drawn up by a lawyer and signed. There’s been no financing through the bank, but they could have used any number of financial institutions.”

  “Do you know any local lawyers who drew up the paperwork?”

  “I’ve mentioned it to several, just in casual conversation. As far as I can tell, neither Trevor nor the witches have hired any of them to do this.”

  “Is zoning at the dairy good for a boarding school?”

  “It is. As far as I can tell, the sisters have crossed every t and dotted every i in regard to state laws for an educational facility. The only hitch I can see is the community reaction to a Wiccan school. Most people don’t have a clue what Wicca really is—they’re opposed on the surface. They associate Wicca practitioners with the old witches from movies, fairy tales, and Halloween stories. The spell casters who try to destroy the fair princess.”

  “It’s very easy to stampede people into fear.” As much as I loathed the idea of using fear to run the Harringtons out of town, I had to protect my partner.

  “You can’t do that, Sarah Booth. Not even to save Tinkie.”

  Sometimes Harold was a better conscience than even Jitty. “I have to do something.”

  “You can’t use people’s ignorance and fear against those women.”

  I sighed. I could, but I wouldn’t. My father had taught me better than that. James Franklin Delaney had been a man who believed in Justice with a capital J. The Harringtons had as much right to live in Sunflower County and open their school as I did. It wasn’t the Harringtons who were dangerous but my partner’s expectations.

  “You’re right. That would be unethical.”

  “And possibly immoral.” Harold’s smile took the sting out of his response. “Look, Tinkie has to deal with her issues of infertility once and for all. This is an opportunity for her to do that.”

  “It could break her.” I clearly saw the risks.

  “Don’t underestimate Tinkie. She’s powerful and strong. And deep down, she knows a potion or spell or enchantment can’t give her a baby.”

  He was right, but it didn’t make it any easier for me to watch this play out. “Do you know anything about the Harringtons? Kitten has hired me to dig into their finances, and since I can’t find anything current, I need to excavate their past.”

  “They lived in Lafayette, Louisiana. That’s what I know. They ran a Montessori school is the gossip I heard. Why not check with the State Department of Education there?”

  “Genius.” I stood. “Thank you, Harold. I never underestimate what your friendship means to me.”

  “I love you, Sarah Booth. I can love you as a friend. I don’t want to lose that.”

  When I walked out the door I wondered if I’d ever known a smarter man.

  5

  My thoughts were on internet investigative techniques when I turned down the driveway to Dahlia House. To my surprise, Pluto put his front paws on the Roadster’s dash and bristled like a porcupine. Sweetie Pie, too, sat up and stared toward the house, which was visible through the bare limbs of the sycamore trees that flanked our path.

  “What’s going on with you two?” As I drew closer, I didn’t see any vehicle in the drive that might support such animosity from my pets. But they were clever animals, and I had learned not to discount their reactions.

  I stopped at the front steps and got out slowly, moving to the trunk of the car to get my pistol. Tinkie was by far the better shot, but I knew how to use a firearm and I would protect myself. The animals raced up the steps and Sweetie Pie started howling and barking at the front door. Pluto arched his back and danced sideways, as if an enemy were near.

  The beautiful wood had earlier been scored with claw marks, and a tremor of foreboding shot though me. What in the hell was running loose all over Sunflower County? But the damaged wood wasn’t the worst. My front door, which I knew I’d locked, stood open. A chill raced up my back and I felt again the dread that had swept over me in the woods at the dairy. “There’s no such thing as a witch,” I said aloud.

  “Deny not what your eyes witness.”

  The voice came from behind me and I almost tripped over Sweetie Pie as I whirled around to confront the Red Witch of child burning, wars, demonic impregnation, and other horrors from the TV show, Game of Thrones.

  “Melisandre,” I whispered. Her ambitions knew no bounds.

  “We all must choose. Man or woman, young or old, lord or peasant, our choices are the same. We choose light or we choose darkness.”

  In the February sunlight on my front porch in the Mississippi Delta, the Red Witch held me in a trance. I couldn’t move. Sweetie and Pluto were caught in the same spell.

  “Witches aren’t real,” I said.

  “Explain real. Reality is but perception.” She clutched the necklace of red stones at her throat. “Am I old? What do you perceive?”

  “You need to leave.” At last I’d found my tongue. And my spine. “Get off my property.”

  She brushed a hand over the gouges on my door. “And leave you alone with this?”

  The hint of a slow Southern drawl had crept into her voice.

  “Jitty! Damn it.” Relief flooded through me and with it a desire to slug her. She’d truly scared me. The whole witch thing—built on top of my fear of Margaret Hamilton as the green witch in Dorothy’s Oz—had really gotten to me.

  Slowly Melisandre morphed into Jitty, who still wore the red gown and necklace. She was even more beautiful than the television Red Witch.

  “Why are you scaring me?” I asked. “Who’s been in the house?” Gun at the ready, I stepped inside. Dahlia House was still and quiet. If anyone had been there, nothing was disturbed, but I did a quick tour, checking empty rooms and closets. Jitty was on my heels the whole way, with Sweetie Pie and Pluto in line like ducklings. “You should guard Dahlia House while I’m away.” Jitty needed a job.

  “Nobody has been here,” she insisted.

  But the open door was a contradiction of that fact. I’d locked it, yet it was open. It made me doubt my own actions—and my memory. “Are you sure?”

  “No livin’ person has been here. Can’t say about anything else.”

  That wasn’t very comforting.

  Jitty continued. “You have to stay alert, Sarah Booth. There are worlds beyond the one you know. Fantastical worlds. For those who believe, the rules of your reality don’t apply.”

  “Are you telling me those Harrington women are real witches and they sent something over here that went into my house?”

  “I’m tellin’ you to consider the implications.”

  I took a step back—literally and figuratively. Jitty was pushy, demanding, annoying, and downright troublesome. But she loved me. “If those women have real powers…” The possibilities were scary. For Sunflower County, but also for Tinkie. Call me superstitious, but I was a big believer that gifts from the dark side always came at a terrible price.

  I put in a call to Coleman and left a voice message inviting him to drop by. I’d tell him about the open door when he arrived, and this time he couldn’t accuse me of not keeping him informed of dangerous situations. When darkness fell over Dahlia House, it might be nice to have two-hundred-plus pounds of muscle and bone in bed beside me.

  I went to the Delaney Detective Agency office in the wing off the music room and called Tinkie. She didn’t answer. She always answered. This did not bode well. She must be really mad at me. I sat down at my computer and went to work on tracking down the Harringtons’ past lives. It didn’t take long to find newspaper stories about the Monte
ssori school in Lafayette. Though the reviews of the school were mostly five star and some parents raved about the wonderful education the two sisters gave, there were articles of protests. Also, only Hope and Charity were involved with the school. There was no mention of Faith.

  I called the Lafayette newspaper and spoke with Cheri Sistrunk, who’d reported on the school. As it turned out, Cheri’s daughter had been enrolled and she had nothing negative to say about the school or the Harringtons’ approach to education. “Hope and Charity hold teaching degrees from a major university. They followed all the health-code rules. They taught my daughter more in two years than she’s learned in the public schools since.”

  “And the third sister, Faith?” I asked.

  “She wasn’t involved in the school. It was just the two.”

  “Do you know why they left Lafayette and moved to Mississippi?”

  “Not for a fact, but there was a rumor.”

  Rumors were notoriously unreliable, but I wanted to know. “Please.”

  “An inheritance. I don’t know how much or from where, but they were supposed to come into some money.”

  That was interesting and useful, actually, since it spoke directly to their financial situation and also confirmed another rumor I’d heard. “What kind of inheritance?”

  “Just a lot of money. I know the Montessori school didn’t bring in big bucks. Their tuition was very reasonable. But I heard they’d bought an extensive property in Mississippi, so it had to be a nice bundle of cash.”

  She made good sense. If the witches bought the property outright, all it would require would be a deed transfer. “But why did the sisters relocate to Mississippi?”

  “I assumed it was for the property. And to get away from hurricanes and flooding. Lord knows I wouldn’t mind moving inland.”

  She had a point. “Do you happen to know how they found out about Musgrove Manor in Sunflower County? I mean the place was never advertised for sale, and most people aren’t driving around the Delta looking for a piece of property.”

  “Hope was excited about the prospects for her boarding school. She said Mississippi had the easiest route to getting state vouchers for private schools. From what she said there are hundreds of private religious schools and home-schooling agencies, and in Mississippi almost anyone qualifies to get state funds through the voucher system. Freedom of choice is more important than quality education.”

  It sounded almost as if the Harringtons had set out to game the voucher system. Almost. And that wasn’t a crime. Plenty of other people did it.

  “But you said the Harringtons provided a quality education.”

  “Oh my, yes. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. They are fabulous teachers and, even with the little ones, they made connections between the world today, the past, and the future, in science, history, geology—you name it. I’m actually thinking of sending my two children over to Mississippi next fall. That’s how great I think they are.”

  A high recommendation—unless there was more to the situation than met the eye. I’d known a few kids who had been shipped off to boarding schools and education wasn’t the reason. Distance was. The parents wanted the kids as far away as possible.

  “The whole Wiccan thing doesn’t bother you?”

  Cheri laughed. “I grew up in an area where people go to traiteurs for healing. Some areas practice voodoo, which is also a misunderstood religion. If everyone in the world practiced Wicca, we wouldn’t be fracking and mining and destroying the balance of nature. I have no problems at all with what the Harringtons teach. I hope my children learn and become part of the solution, not more of the problem.”

  Someone had really drunk the Kool-Aid. Or been enchanted with a spell. That thought was like a shadow passing across the sun. Was it possible the witches had powers? I had a vision of Sunflower County with all of the residents smiling and agreeable as they went about their daily chores. I pictured an elegant Victorian house in the middle of town. Ensconced in a turret was Bette Davis. The young people of town paraded down the street, and she watched them. As she looked out the window, she picked the sacrifices for the next harvest ceremony.

  I snapped myself out of it. Yeah, I’d watched way too many horror shows and The Dark Secret of Harvest Home was another favorite.

  “Ms. Delaney, do you have any other questions?” Cheri was ready to get back to her day.

  “Not for the moment. May I call again if I do?”

  “Absolutely. And give Hope and Charity a hello from me. I’m sure once you get to know them, all of your fears will be set aside.”

  * * *

  The next few hours zoomed by as I navigated old reports of strange behavior and the history of the Harrington sisters, who claimed to come from a long line of witches.

  I found only one incident of negative publicity, where Hope Harrington was accused of stealing another woman’s husband. It was a lawsuit filed in the Evangeline, Louisiana, civil court. The small town was several parishes over from Lafayette. In the divorce proceedings, Lurleen St. Pe named Hope as a co-respondent in her suit against Kenny St. Pe.

  The interesting part was that Lurleen had claimed that Hope put a spell on her husband and forced him to be unfaithful. I could imagine the shock value of that trial, and I saw that the date came only six months before the sisters moved to Mississippi. The timeline began to make a lot more sense.

  I called Tinkie again. Still no answer. Now anger began to mingle with my concern. If Tinkie wanted to shut off our friendship, she could at least tell me to my face. There was no help for it. I was going to have to drive to Hilltop and confront her. We’d had disagreements in the past, but Tinkie had never shut me out of her life in this way. I couldn’t let it continue.

  My fingers grasped the car keys when the phone rang. Relief! I answered instantly and the voice on the other end was like a slap.

  “Trevor Musgrove is missing. Those witches have done something to him and it’s on you. You should have found something to run them out of town.” Kitten Fontana was practically spitting with fury.

  “How do you know Trevor’s missing?” I asked.

  “He missed an important appointment with me, and I have my sources, which obviously you do not. What kind of private investigator doesn’t have any good sources?”

  “The kind who’s going to quit if you keep being a bitch.” I needed the money, but not enough to take Kitten’s claws.

  “Find out where Trevor is.” Kitten hung up. I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of appointment Kitten might have had with Trevor—probably trying to buy the manor and land out from under the witches. If she was telling the truth, which I’d give a fifty-fifty chance.

  I picked up my keys and headed out the door. My fingers were dialing Coleman on the cell phone as I walked. What was going on with my friends? Tinkie was dodging me and Coleman had failed to appear.

  “I haven’t forgotten you.” Coleman answered his phone with a statement that made my heart pulse.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Kitten Fontana says the witches have murdered Trevor Musgrove to get his property.”

  “I know. She called me, too. She wouldn’t say how she knew Trevor was missing, only that he’d missed an appointment.” Kitten had a way of co-opting the “truth” as her own version of reality.

  “I have to check it out; it’s my job.” Coleman didn’t sound enthused. “He’s probably up in that attic painting away.”

  “I’ll meet you there.” It seemed if I wanted Coleman time, I was going to have to find a way to see him on the job. Jitty’s lascivious recommendations came to me and I felt heat creep up my neck. I was ready to take the action to the front seat of the patrol car, if necessary.

  “Maybe afterward we can take a ride over to the river.” Coleman managed to keep his voice innocent.

  The thrill of a possible high school make-out session left me breathless. “Going to the river” had been code for those long, intense sessions of kissing and lon
ging that every Delta teenager knew so well. If we were ever to have some alone time, it was obvious we were going to have to find it away from my house. Our rendezvouses at Dahlia House seemed cursed.

  The minute I thought the word, a darkness passed over me. Damn. The witches were working on me and I knew better!

  “See you there,” I said to Coleman and ran across the porch to the steps. Sweetie Pie and Pluto weren’t going to be left behind, and I was glad for their company. I was surprised to see the day had slipped away from me. I’d been so absorbed in the witches that I’d lost all awareness of time. Now the sun was setting, and along the western horizon a bank of clouds was limned in pinkish gold. Another Cecil B. DeMille moment of gorgeous Delta landscapes. And still no word from my partner.

  The weather had been cold and dry, a true relief from the swelter of summer. But if rain came, February could be a brutal month for livestock and those who worked outdoors. I stopped along the drive to watch Reveler, Miss Scrapiron, and Lucifer frolicking. Horses have a method of communication that fascinates me. They all rush forward and cut right as if their play has been choreographed. The way they moved told me they had a psychic connection—one that I shared with those horses. It was the ultimate bond between equine and rider, to move and think as one.

  Pluto put his paw on the car horn and let me know that idling in the driveway was doing nothing to solve my case. And Coleman was waiting. I put the pedal to the metal and roared toward Musgrove Manor.

  I tried once more to call Tinkie, and at last she answered. Her voice sounded muffled and weird, like she was in a tin can. “Where are you?” I asked.

  “Working the case.”

  The way she said it, I knew she was lying. Why was Tinkie doing this? “Where are you?” I asked again, this time with a cold anger.

  “Headed to Musgrove Manor.”

  “Good. Me, too.” I hung up, letting my hurt feelings get the better of me.

  6

  Coleman and I weren’t the only people gathering at Musgrove Manor—though Tinkie was nowhere in sight. Kitten Fontana and the half-dozen members of the Anti-Satan League were back on the property, picketing the gift shop. Esmeralda Grimes was there, too, broadcasting a live feed back to her trashy newspaper’s website, which was the photo op for the protest.