“What?” he urged.
I played coy. “Let’s just say I hope all the people who bet on Fat Gandalf to win don’t change their minds.”
Seymour appeared mildly surprised by my admission. “Ah, I see. Then I’m not alone in my pursuits.”
“Manny?” I asked in a hushed voice.
“Who else?”
“Are you concerned,” I asked, “now that Pete is dead?”
“I hate to sound crass, but it’s good for me,” Seymour said. “As long as word doesn’t get out, and I get the sense you and Buddy will want to sweep the death under the carpet.”
I felt a rush of indignation. “I don’t want to sweep something so important under the carpet.”
Seymour danced to the next cage. “Then why hasn’t The Town Croaker run a story on the death?”
“Because Skye is lazy,” I blurted. Ooh, I’d pay dearly for that lie if word ever got back to her.
“Yeah, I believe that,” he said. He stroked the top of the bird’s head.
“Were you at Anchors Away the morning it happened?” I asked in a conspiratorial whisper. Not like anyone was within earshot. We were the only two in the shop.
“I would like to have been there because, as I said, I love live music,” he said. “But I was here, running the shop.”
“Alone?”
He gave me a funny look. “Of course alone. I’m the only one who ever works here.”
“I thought maybe you had a part-timer.”
“No, and, even if I did, I wouldn’t have gone. I steer clear of bars.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m an alcoholic.”
I recoiled. “You are?”
“Don’t look so horrified,” he said. “It isn’t contagious.”
I was mortified. I didn’t mean to react so strongly to his admission. He took me off guard, that’s all.
“Of course not,” I said. “I just wasn’t expecting you to say that. So you don’t go to bars at all? Not even to meet with friends?” That seemed highly unlikely. There was no way the weird guy had friends. Guilt sat like a stone in my stomach. Now I felt guilty for thinking of him as the weird guy. He was fighting a battle no one knew about. Ugh.
“I avoid bars like I avoid cats,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow. “You avoid cats?”
“You would, too, if you had all these birds.” He opened his bony arms wide.
Fair point. “Did you have any customers the morning of Pete’s death?”
Seymour inclined his head in that awkward manner of his. “Are you…questioning me in your capacity as director of tourism?”
I laughed weakly. “No, of course not. I was just thinking about how lonely it must be to work alone all the time, and then I thought about our topic of conversation. The two things merged together.” I tapped the side of my head. “Silly brain.”
“As a matter of fact, Mrs. McNulty came in that morning. I remember distinctly because she asked me what all the fuss was about at Anchors Away. She’d ridden by there in her golf cart and noticed the commotion.”
“Was she good enough to buy a bird?” I asked.
He gave me a haughty look. “She was.”
I folded my arms, preparing a sharp retort.
“Skye is lazy,” a bird squawked.
I whipped toward the bird. “What?”
“Skye is lazy,” another bird said.
“No,” I objected. “You didn’t hear that.”
Then every bird announced in a chorus—“Skye is lazy.”
Crap!
It was easy enough to stop and verify Seymour’s alibi. I knew Mrs. McNulty because she drove around in a golf cart with a picture of a mermaid painted on the side. A beautifully-rendered, accurate picture—as in no shells over the boobs. Needless to say, she was a popular sight around town with a certain crowd. There was a situation about a year ago when some of the women in town tried to force Mrs. McNulty to preserve the mermaid’s modesty, but Judge Farrell dismissed the case. Victor Lamb, a lawyer in town, defended her pro bono. Apparently, he was a huge fan of the…golf cart.
I identified the infamous golf cart outside a modest bungalow. There was a wooden sign placed over top of the front door that read What Happens at Grandma’s, Stays at Grandma’s.
I strode up the path and used the knocker on the front door. I heard the shuffle of feet and an elderly woman answered the door, her silver hair still in curlers.
“Well, aren’t you a pretty one?” she pronounced. “Is it Girl Scout cookie season already?”
I bit my lip. “Um, no. I’m Kenna Byrne.” And I’m thirty years old. “I’m looking for Mrs. McNulty.”
“Gladys is right in here,” she said. “I’m Anne Kelley.”
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Kelley.”
“How about a nice Irish coffee?” the old woman asked.
“Irish?”
Mrs. Kelley winked. “The liquor keeps us young. That, and routine visits to the spa for a sprinkle from the Fountain of Youth.”
At least it was the water from the spa and not the carving knife of Dr. Abigail Marley.
“I’m fine, thanks. I’d just like a quick word with Mrs. McNulty and I’ll be on my way.”
“This way, my dear.” Mrs. Kelley beckoned me forward.
I followed her through to an adjacent room where six women sat around a circular table. In the middle of the table were boxes of colored pencils, and each woman had a different coloring book.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said. “I didn’t realize there was…an activity taking place.”
“We color here every week,” a white-haired woman said. “We find it soothing. This week’s theme is Under the Sea, so all our books have to fit the theme.”
I observed the woman’s coloring of a school of fish. It looked like she’d used every colored pencil in her arsenal. I tapped the page. “You went out of the lines here.”
The white-haired woman smiled at me. “It’s nice to break the rules once in a while. You’ll figure that out when you’re older. I’m Chantelle Whitbury. This here is Margaret Middleman.”
The woman beside her wiggled her fingers. “I’m Gladys McNulty and across from me is Justine Fogelman.”
“And I’m Pepper Latham,” a woman with long, silver hair said. It was the kind of hair that must have been glorious in her youth. Even now, I felt a surge of hair envy, despite the silver.
“We call ourselves the Widowmakers,” Mrs. Whitbury said.
I blinked. “The Widowmakers? Doesn’t that mean…?”
“That we killed our husbands?” Mrs. Middleman asked, and the women broke into raucous laughter. “Arguably, we sent them to early graves, but not by illegal means, honey.”
Phew.
“You look vaguely familiar,” Mrs. McNulty said, peering at me over her glasses.
“I’m the director of tourism for Eternal Springs,” I said.
She flicked a dismissive finger. “No, that’s not it.” She licked her chapped lips. “Weren’t you one of those nuns-in-training?”
“They’re called novices,” Mrs. Kelley corrected her.
“I went to St. Joan of Arc before…the unfortunate incident,” I said.
What are you doing here? a strange voice asked. A yellow and white cat leaped onto the table, eyeing me suspiciously.
“Lemondrop?” I said, aghast. Lemondrop was one of the familiars from the forest that ran with Tut’s gang.
“That’s not Lemondrop,” Mrs. Kelley said. “My cat’s name is Garfield. He just loves my lasagna.”
“He’s the only one,” Mrs. Middleman murmured.
Lemondrop/Garfield swished his tail from side to side. I never thought I’d see any of you witches again. How’s my crew?
Your crew is fine, I said. A little issue with excess poop in the forest, but nothing we can’t handle.
“Garfield used to show up on my back step, begging for food,” Mrs. Kelley explained.
I never begged, Lemondrop said i
ndignantly. I only liked to hang around the back door because she’d throw away a lot of food in the compost bin.
“Finally, I just opened the door and invited him in,” Mrs. Kelley continued. “He’s lived with me ever since.”
“I always wanted a cat,” Mrs. McNulty said. “Raymond was allergic.”
“Raymond hasn’t lived with you in ten years,” Mrs. Latham said. “What’s stopping you? Heaven knows we have a surplus of cats on this island.”
“I don’t know.” Mrs. McNulty hesitated. “I bought a bird recently. I don’t know what possessed me to do it.”
Aha! “From Feathered Friends?” I asked.
Mrs. McNulty glanced at me curiously. “That’s right. The weird fella sold it to me. It took all my strength not to attack his hair with the scissors in my purse.”
“You’re still carrying those scissors?” Mrs. Latham queried. “I told you to stop doing that. An attacker could use them against you.”
Mrs. McNulty puffed out her chest. “I’d like to see him try.”
“What kind of bird did you buy?” I asked, trying to steer the subject back to Feathered Friends.
“A cockatiel named Spike,” she replied.
“Do you remember which morning you were there?”
“Of course I do. It was after my hair appointment with Tucker. I went straight to the bird place from there.”
“Oh, I just adore Tucker,” Mrs. Middleman said, fanning herself. “He can butter my biscuit anytime.”
“Butter’s too fattening” Mrs. Latham said. “I always use a butter substitute.”
“I think you’re missing the point,” Mrs. Middleman replied.
“And which day was your hair appointment, Mrs. McNulty?” I asked. Trying to keep these women focused was like herding the stray cats in the forest.
“Same day as the ruckus over at Anchors Away,” she said. The other women murmured in response. “Did you hear about that poor musician dying?”
“I did,” I said. “It’s a terrible tragedy.”
“So young,” Mrs. Middleman said, clucking her tongue. “His whole life still ahead of him.”
“Have another fried pickle,” Mrs. Kelley urged, pushing the dish toward her friend. “There’s no point in holding back now.”
“And where’s the bird you bought?” I asked. I didn’t see any evidence of one.
“In my bedroom,” she replied. “I like company in the evenings when I go to bed. We read a book together before I fall asleep.”
“The bird reads?” I asked.
“He sits on my shoulder and it seems like he’s reading,” Mrs. McNulty said. “Do you have any pets?”
I dreaded this question almost as much as I dreaded questions about my love life. “I do.”
“A dog?” Mrs. Latham asked. “You strike me as a poodle person. They’re very fussy.”
I balked. “I’m not fussy.”
“You’ve color coordinated your ensemble within an inch of your life,” Mrs. Latham said. “That’s what I call fussy.”
“I don’t have a poodle, or any dog for that matter,” I said.
“I suppose it’s a cat then,” Mrs. Kelley said. “They make such excellent companions.”
“Actually, I have an armadillo,” I said.
The women gaped at me.
“Why on earth would you have one of those?” Mrs. Latham asked.
“It’s a long story,” I said.
“Is it a religious thing?” Mrs. Middleman asked.
“No, I’m not aware of any religion that involves armadillos,” I said.
“Oh, I’ll bet there is,” Mrs. McNulty said. “You’re just not looking hard enough.”
I frowned. “Well, I’m not really looking at all.”
“For a boyfriend?” Mrs. Kelley asked, chomping on a fried pickle. “Are you fixed for one of those? I’m partial to Dirk Jenkins down at the rec center, but these ladies don’t think he’s up to snuff.”
“He smells like glue,” Mrs. Latham objected. “A grown man shouldn’t smell like glue.”
“He’s a handyman,” Mrs. Kelley said. “It seems perfectly natural to me.”
“You just make excuses so you can justify the relationship,” Mrs. McNulty said.
“I don’t need to justify anything,” Mrs. Kelley said plainly. “Mark my words, young lady, when you get to be our age, reasoning goes out the window. We do as we please and to hell with anyone’s opinion.”
“You’d like my friend Skye,” I said.
“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you know to find me here?” Mrs. McNulty asked.
“I recognized your golf cart,” I said.
“Of course. Who doesn’t?” Mrs. McNulty sighed. “Some days I want to take a spray can to the whole thing.”
“What’s stopping you?” I asked.
She tugged on a fine chin hair. “For one thing, my late husband painted that picture. I’d feel terrible defacing it.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t realize.”
She waved me off. “It isn’t so much affection for him as it is for the picture. He painted it of me.”
“You?” I echoed.
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” She smiled. “My boobs have been strongly influenced by gravity since then, but once upon a time…” She pursed her chapped lips. “I like seeing myself in my prime. Sometimes it’s like looking in the mirror. For a split second, I forget my age. I forget how much time has passed.”
“It’s a nice reminder,” I said. “We should all be so lucky to have a painting like that.”
“You should have one done now,” she said, glancing at my chest, “while your boobs are still perky.”
“I appreciate the thought,” I said. “I’m not sure that I’m as adventurous as you were. Besides, I don’t have an artistic husband.” Or any type of husband, for that matter.
“I don’t see why you can’t commission it,” Mrs. McNulty said. “Any virile young painter would be more than happy to paint you topless. Trust me. They act like it’s all about art, but before you know it, your skirt’s wrapped around your waist and your legs are in the air.” She blushed profusely. “Forgive me. It’s been quite some time.”
Mrs. Kelley winked. “A handyman’s looking pretty good about now, isn’t he?”
Chapter Nine
I sat at the desk in my office, trying to force myself to concentrate. Although the Battle of the Bands was imminent, the murder was taking over my schedule in a way that I didn't like, not to mention I hadn’t done anything about the flying monkeys. What if someone spotted them before I had a chance to eradicate them? My compulsion was for things to run smoothly, but these extracurricular activities were interfering with that goal.
An insistent knock snapped me back to earth.
“What is it, Dottie?” Dottie Hayes was my sixty-five-year-old assistant. She’d also served as the assistant to my predecessor, Cyril Rhodes. I’d worked as a manager under Cyril until his retirement, when Buddy promoted me to director. When I gave Dottie the option to stay, she did. The woman was borderline crazy, but she was as dedicated to her job as I was to mine. I knew that was a rare find, so I wasn’t inclined to replace her.
The door opened and Dottie entered the office, her cherry red hair styled in a bouffant worthy of The B-52s. “There's a cat here to see you, doll. Should I show him in?”
My brow lifted. “A cat?” Only someone as crazy as Dottie would say this as though it were perfectly normal. Then again, she was accustomed to my pink fairy armadillo and the albino raven that followed me everywhere. She mistakenly believed I was as eccentric as she was, rather than a witch.
“Well, at least I think it's a cat.” She scratched her foundation-encrusted cheek. “It's got no hair and it looks at me like it understands me, which is mighty impressive because most people don’t seem capable of that.”
A hairless cat? That could only mean Tut, the self-appointed alpha of the cat pack. What was Tut doing here?
He wouldn't normally bother me at the office. He was more of a home invader, stepping out of the shadows and scaring the pants off me.
“I have a few minutes to spare,” I said. “Show him in.”
Dottie wrinkled her nose. “I don’t suppose he wants coffee or tea. Should I offer him a saucer of milk?”
Bless her heart. “You can offer, but I don't think he's partial to milk.” I knew for a fact that Tut liked to lick the empty beer bottles outside places like Coconuts and Anchors Away. I caught him lurking amongst the garbage bins one time too many.
Dottie disappeared for a brief moment and returned with Tut hot on her heels. He jumped up into the chair across from my desk and made himself comfortable.
“Thanks, Dottie,” I said. “Would you mind closing the door behind you?” I didn't need anyone overhearing my conversation with the hairless cat. For one thing, they would only hear my end of it because regular humans can't hear the animals speak. Like the sarcastic trees, it was more of a witch thing.
“This must be serious for you to come all the way to my office,” I said.
“I'm here to lodge a formal complaint,” Tut said with an air of authority.
I braided my fingers together. “Is that so? And what's the issue?”
Tut fixed me with his slanted cat eyes. “There's been an excess of excrement in the forest as of late. It has become a nuisance. The cats can't take a step without fear of an unexpected visit to Pooptown.”
I frowned. “Why the formal complaint?”
“You’re in charge of tourism here,” Tut explained. “It's your job to keep everything nice. Tourists don't want to be wandering through the woods and dodging poop patties wherever they walk. The smell wasn't so great, either, I’ll have you know.”
He had a point. Tourists did like to partake in hikes and other nature-based activities.
“The cats are concerned that there are animals encroaching on our territory,” Tut continued. “One of the kittens came home the other day, completely coated in it. His mother was none too pleased.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but Tut continued.
“Before you offer up a reasonable reply, it’s not big enough to belong to a Great Dane, if that's what you're thinking,” Tut said.
Hotter Than Spell (An Elemental Witches of Eternal Springs Cozy Mystery Book 3) Page 8
