Murder to the Max: Witches of Keyhole Lake Mysteries

by Tegan Maher

  I placed my hand over my own to make sure it hadn't jumped clear out of my chest. "Don't do that!” I snapped. “You nearly scared us to death. Then where would you be?"

  "Well, gee, princess. I'm sorry I didn't slam a door or stomp so you'd hear me. Oh wait—I can't. I have no body!" He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at me.

  He had a point, but still. A cough or something would have been nice.

  "Speaking of my body, there it is." Work boots leading to ankles clad in jeans matching the ones our ghost was currently wearing were sticking out from behind a pallet of tiles. He floated down to hover over his body and shook his head. "Of all the ways I thought I'd go, being beat to death by a toilet tank lid didn't even come close to making the list."

  I coughed to cover up a nervous laugh. If it weren't for the fact that there was a dead body lying just a few feet in front of us, and the ghost of said dead body hovering behind us, that would have been funny.

  Max started flickering again and his eyes glazed over. Just like before, he glanced at his watch and his voice faded to nothing as he blinked out for good. "Gotta go meet Darlin ... ."

  Hunter strode toward the body and when I started to follow, he put his palm toward me. Even the iron-stomached cop from Indianapolis was a bit green. Through gritted teeth, he told me to stay back.

  "This isn't something you need to see, sweetie; trust me."

  His tone wasn’t patronizing; he could hardly look himself. He turned his back on the body and called the station. My gaze drifted unbidden back to the boots. There was a broken toilet tank lid by Max's feet, with bloody smears and splatters on it. Six or eight feet away, the rest of the toilet leaned against a stack of plywood, along with some other bathroom fixtures apparently gathered to take to a job.

  My stomach turned and for once, I was glad to do as I was told. My imagination was more than sufficient for the situation.

  I averted my eyes and a pop of red caught my eye on the doorframe to his office. I stepped closer to see what it was. A piece of from a red-and-black flannel fabric had snagged on a nail sticking out of the doorframe about four feet off the ground. I wanted to see it, but if I went to it, that would put me within sight of the body. I pointed it out to Hunter instead.

  He bent down to examine it as he disconnected the call, then lowered his eyebrows. "I can't tell for sure, but the nail probably scraped the skin when it caught the shirt. Good eye."

  I just nodded, doing my best to keep my eyes away from Max.

  Since there was nothing else we could do, we opted to wait outside until the cavalry, such that it was, arrived. The term's a bit misleading in our case. Dog and pony show may be a more accurate description; the only experienced, non-socially-awkward cop in town was standing beside me.

  At least we wouldn't have to wait for the county to send a CSI to process the scene; we were fortunate enough to have our very own on staff. Well, sort of.

  Jim Sanders was born and raised in Keyhole Lake but had earned his degree in forensic science at UGA. He worked full-time for the state, but still lived in Keyhole when he wasn't out on a case somewhere. We didn't have hardly any crime, but when somebody did turn up dead, he helped out if he was in town. Of course, those situations usually consisted of closing Great Meemaw Geraldine's eyes and expressing his condolences. Not that people didn't occasionally want to bash somebody's brains in, but every publication we’re browbeaten with growing up, from Miss Manners to the Bible, expressly forbids it, and most people manage to control themselves if for no other reason than fear of prison. Until now, anyway.

  It just so happened that we were having our annual bass fishing tournament that weekend and Jim had won it three out of the last five years. It was a sure bet he was around. The only possible problem was that he might be out on the water.

  When a black Escapade pulled up—yeah, another cliché, I know, but it is what it is—Hunter released an audible sigh of relief.

  Jim climbed out and we greeted him as he walked around and pulled a black case out of the back. Hunter reached out to shake his hand. "Jim, thanks for coming out. I hope we didn't interrupt your fishing."

  "Not at all. I was gettin’ skunked anyway. Been on the water all day and didn't catch anything much bigger than a minnow. Now I can say that I'da caught the big one if I hadn't been called away to work.” He looked around as if expecting to see a body lying somewhere. “What do we have?"

  Hunter explained the situation using the story we'd cooked up. "And when we walked through to the back, we saw his feet and called it in," he finished.

  He whistled. "I'm assuming I don't have to ask this since it's you, but you didn't touch anything, did you?"

  We shook our heads.

  "Good. It's always nice to start with a clean scene."

  He was just heading for the door when we heard the wail of a siren. Hunter took a deep breath and shook his head. "Great. Now everybody on this end of town is gonna know something's up."

  "Nah," I grinned. "Everybody between here and the courthouse is gonna know."

  He ran a hand down his face. "Fantastic. I give it ten minutes before this place is crawling with—"

  A city squad car pulled up, lights flashing and siren still blaring, followed by one of Keyhole's two ambulances, a Ford Taurus station wagon full of the Clip N Curl ladies—the spokes that extended from the hub of the local gossip wheel—and a jacked-up pickup with two men in the cab and three in the bed, all dressed in fishing gear. Honestly, I was surprised those were the only looky-loos who followed to see what the fuss was about.

  I sucked on my tongue to keep from laughing and turned to Hunter. "You were saying?"

  Hunter scowled at the deputy and motioned for him to cut the noise. Blushing, the young deputy fumbled for the switches then stepped out of the cruiser. "Hey Hunter ... I mean, Sheriff. What do you need me to do?"

  "Hey Smitty. What part of 'keep it to yourself' didn't you understand?"

  Smitty looked bewildered. "I didn't say a word to nobody, Sheriff. I swear."

  Hunter rubbed the spot between his eyes as if warding off a monster migraine and motioned to the crowd. "Please tape off the area and keep them back, and for god's sake don't tell them what's going on. They'll know soon enough."

  He motioned to the two EMTs. "You guys can come in if you want, but we won't need the stretcher until Jim processes the scene. He glanced at the growing crowd as another truckload of people pulled up and sighed. "On second thought, bring it now."

  Hunter waited while they pulled the stretcher out, then led them into the building. I took one look at the crowd, who turned their attention to me as soon as everybody else went inside, and decided there was no way I was standing out there like shark food. Instead, I went back inside and perched on an office chair, careful not to touch anything else. While I waited, I called Raeann, my cousin and best friend, to let her know I’d made it back safely. And because she’d never forgive me if she heard about the murder through the grapevine.

  She ran a kitschy little coffee shop called Brew4U, and was probably getting ready to close up for the day. She picked up on the third ring and I gave her the 411.

  “Isn’t that the guy who’s doing your pool?”

  I heaved a sigh. “Yeah. But I feel horrible even thinking about that.”

  “I bet, but it’s a thing. What are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know. I guess just wait until Hunter’s done.” One of the paramedics had gone outside a few minutes before and came back in carrying a first aid kit, which a detached part of my brain found odd. There weren’t enough Band-Aids and betadine in the world to fix that boo-boo.

  “Anyway,” she said, “we need more pastries. How bout I come over later and we’ll bake. You can tell me how you sat by a romantic fire all week with a hot guy, and I’ll tell you all about my mani-pedi night with my mother.”

  I laughed. To say she hadn’t had much luck with men lately would be an understatement of epic proportions. She’
d sworn off until she could find a coupon for a thorough background-checking service on Groupon. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll text you when we leave here.”

  I disconnected and pulled up a game on my phone.

  I'd been playing Candy Crush for about ten minutes when my phone rang. It was Bobbie Sue, my friend and sometimes-boss. She owned the best barbecue joint in the state and I'd waitressed there full-time for almost four years until just recently, when I'd received a fifty-grand reward for finding our former sheriff's murderer. Shortly after that, I’d been refunded thirty grand by his widow—a long, convoluted story you've hopefully heard—for back taxes he’d screwed my family out of over the years. Like I said, the man was a real peach.

  Since my windfall, I'd been spending much-needed time with my kid sister Shelby and trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. So far, I was coming up empty. I refused to squander the money on any half-baked ideas or let it dwindle away though, so I worked a couple shifts a week and provided Rae with baked goods for the shop to cover the bills. It wasn’t in me to not work.

  "Hey Bobbie Sue. What's up?"

  "Oh thank god you answered, sugar! Are you back in town yet?" She sounded winded and panicked, which meant that whatever the situation was, it was at DEFCON 1. I'd known her most of my life and could count on my hands how many times I'd seen her in a tizzy and have fingers left over.

  "Please say you're back in town. If you are, I desperately need you to come in and work tonight, just through the rush."

  The new girl she'd hired on to replace me had more hair than brains, but surely she and Sarah, a competent girl who'd been there as long as I had, could handle things.

  "Why? You have Sarah and Miss Ditz, right?"

  "It seems Miss Ditz apparently has better things to do than work tonight, and with the tournament, there are triple the people in town and it's all-you-can-eat rib night. There's no way Sarah's going to be able to handle it by herself."

  I groaned; I hadn't even been home yet and frankly, after the Max ordeal, I just wanted to drink a glass of wine or three and chill out with Raeann. “I’m home. Well, not home, but back in town. I’m at Wheeler Construction. Somebody up and killed the owner.”

  “Max? You sayin’ Max Wheeler’s dead? What happened to him?”

  “Somebody clocked him with a toilet tank lid.”

  "Huh. Well, damn,” she said, pausing for a beat. “He’s dead though; ain’t nothin’ to be done for him tonight that won’t wait 'til mornin’. This place, on the other hand, is about to get overrun with hungry folks lookin’ for all-you-can-eat barbecue and I ain’t got enough people to serve it to ’em. That right there’s the bigger emergency." I could picture her stabbing the air with her finger for emphasis. Nobody can say she isn’t pragmatic. “I'll throw in an extra hundred bucks if you come in. Please?”

  I heaved a sigh. It wasn't about the money. I couldn't leave her in the lurch and I wouldn't throw poor Sarah under the bus like that. I checked my watch. It was already after three, so I'd have to hustle. "Fine. I'll be there as soon as I can get a ride into town. But it's a good thing I love you."

  I headed back to see if Hunter would be able to give me a ride, but I was pretty sure that would be a no-go. Still, I needed to let him know I was leaving.

  He gave me a distracted peck, then turned back to his work. I took a second to admire the view as he walked away, and one of those old velvet oil paintings of dogs playing poker caught my eye in the background. It was hanging on the wall in an odd spot below the window-unit AC, and it was askew.

  I figured it was probably just knocked aside in the struggle and shrugged it off even though something seemed off about it.

  After a lifetime of having hunches, you’d think I’d learn not to ignore them.

  Chapter Three

  I caught a ride back to town with the Clip N Curl ladies, and they about pecked me to death like the old hens they were, trying to get the inside scoop. I fed them a few scraps because I had no choice; they weren't going to let me out of the car in one piece if I didn't.

  There was no way I was going to tell them about Max's ghost or about how he died, but it gave me a chance to test our cover story. I dodged the rest of the questions by swearing all I saw was his feet before Hunter shuffled me out of the building and called it in.

  Technically, that was all true so I didn't really feel guilty. Besides, they'd know more about it than I did by the time I got off work. Though we had a great local news station and a county newspaper, channel 3 and the Keyhole Chronicle didn't have anything on the Clip N Curl girls as long as you understood that fact checking wasn't high on their list of priorities.

  While we drove, the ladies began speculating. Marge, who runs the hardware store with her husband Bob, told me Max had fired his foreman, Basil Bennett, just that week. “Bless his heart, from what we understand, he likes to take a few nips during the day,” she said, lowering her voice.

  Coralee, the owner of the shop, snorted. “Pht. Ain’t no reason to beat around the bush about it; that boy’s drunker’n Cooter Brown by noon, and that’s on days he sleeps in!”

  Roberta, a rotund woman who was head of the ladies' auxiliary, waved her off. "Yeah, but you know Max was fighting with Emily because she thinks he was cheating. Maybe an angry husband found out about it."

  "Roberta!" Coralee exclaimed. "Shame on you. Poor Emily now has a dead husband on her hands. There's no proof he was cheatin’, so don't go speakin' ill of the dead about something like that less’n you know for sure it’s gospel."

  Roberta crossed her arms and put on her best self-righteous face. "I'm just sayin’ what all y’all were thinking."

  "What I was thinkin',” Coralee snapped, “was that it's gonna be bad enough her husband was kilt with a toilet tank lid. That poor woman's gonna have to say that each time somebody asks her how he died. She doesn’t need to have any of them kinda whispers goin’ around, too."

  She was shaking her head, serious as a heart attack. I'm ashamed to admit I had to bite back a giggle, not because Max was dead, but because the embarrassment caused by him taking one with a commode lid was the grand tragedy in the situation. Thinking about it though, it was kind of a crappy way to go, pardon the pun.

  The rest of the ride was fairly quiet, mostly because we'd run out of details and they were busy speculating, thinking of people and reasons to put on the list. At least this time around, the whole town didn't have motive like they did when Hank bit the big one, so they were gonna have to work a little harder.

  By the time they dropped me off at Bobbie Sue's, it was nearly time for the rush to start. I made a beeline for the back, where there were always a few extra t-shirts and aprons. As I passed through the service station, I tossed a giant teabag into the tea maker and hit the button just as Sarah pushed her way out the swinging door from the kitchen carrying two pans of lemon wedges.

  She smiled and hip-checked me as she slid the pans into the cooler under the counter. "Hey, girl. How was your vacation with Sheriff Sexy?"

  I knew I was grinning like an idiot but I couldn't seem to stop myself. "Great, actually. Except for the very end when Max Wheeler's ghost showed up and bossed us into going to his shop to find his body."

  I didn't often confirm the suspicions most people had about me, but Sarah wasn't just a coworker; she was a friend. She'd found me out after a particularly long ten-hour shift years ago when she'd walked into the back and seen the ketchup jug upended, filling bottles all by itself while I was loading the dishwasher.

  She'd watched it pour for a few seconds and I'd held my breath, waiting for her to freak out. After all, it’s not like setting it down would have been any less weird, and the bottle wasn’t full yet. Instead, she'd paused, tilted her head toward the self-filling condiments, and said, “Sweet! Do the rest of the sauces like that so we can knock out the dining room and get the heck out of here. I'm beat."

  And that was that. Apparently, her grandma had the sight, so a few ketchup bo
ttles refilling themselves weren’t too far-fetched for her. As far as she was concerned, it was just another part of me, same as my red hair and sass.

  When I finished telling her about Max, she smiled and shook her head. "Well, nobody can ever accuse you of being boring. How's Hunter processing?"

  I thought about that for a second. "I don't think he is yet. He hasn't taken time to slow down since Max appeared. I mean, we had the drive back, but I think he was in shock. He seemed lost in thought and was crazy quiet."

  "Wow. So I guess it's time for the rest of the crew to come out of the casket?"

  That was a good question. I hadn't really given it much thought because it's never been any different for me. We have a thriving post-life community comprised of folks like my Aunt Addy who’d decided to stick around for one reason or another rather than cross over.

  They’re not the chain-rattling sort and would look at you like you had corn growing out of your ears if you brought up that ridiculous stereotype. They’d just decided when they’d died that they weren’t done living yet. Therefore, it only made sense that they showed themselves to many of the locals—to those of us in the inner circle, anyway—but never until folks crossed that invisible line that all small towns draw between stranger and local.

  The last thing anybody wanted was one of those reality-TV ghost shows taking over the town. If somebody toes over that line before everybody agrees, the rest of the crew can ghost-shame with the best of ’em. Some of those girls—and guys, though they tend to let the gals handle that part—have been around for over a century if you count both pre- and post-mortem years, and let me tell you, there’s nothing more anxiety-inducing than a southern woman who’s had a hundred years to practice guilting and shaming. That’s a powerful motivator.

  "I don't know," I said as I filled our tea pitchers. “It's really up to them. Honestly though, Addy's been chompin' at the bit to spill the beans. It drives her nuts that she can’t throw her opinion in the hat when he’s around. She thinks he'll be fine with it."