After breakfast, Clove, Thistle and I moved to the front foyer to leave but Marnie stilled us. “By the way, we called you here for a reason.”
I had forgotten that there was something they wanted to talk to us about before the Aunt Tillie drama took over – as it so often did. “Oh, yeah, what did you want to tell us?”
“It’s not a big deal, but we’ve hired a handyman to do some stuff around the inn,” Marnie said. “His name is Trevor. He’s a nice boy. Very nice looking, too.” Marnie looked at Clove knowingly.
“I don’t want to be set up,” Clove said quickly.
“It’s not a set-up,” Marnie corrected her. “He’s an employee. He just happens to be a very nice and handsome employee.”
Thistle and I rolled our eyes at each other. This had disaster written all over it. Clove was a hopeless romantic that always second-guessed her decisions. Marnie was a hopeless meddler that always pushed her own agenda. One of them would end up disappointed in this scenario – maybe both of them.
“Why are you telling us about the handyman?” Thistle broke in to save Clove.
“We’re sending him down to the gatehouse to put in some new insulation,” Marnie said. “I just wanted to make sure you guys wouldn’t be taken by surprise when he showed up. And maybe that you would change your clothes,” she added to Clove pointedly. “Maybe that nice pink sweater I got you for your birthday. It brings out your eyes.”
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Um, Trevor Murray,” Marnie said.
“Well, we’ll be nice to him,” I started to move towards the door again but I was stopped when Marnie’s hand shot out and grabbed my elbow to hold me back. “What?”
“He’s for Clove,” she whispered. “Not for you.”
“Thanks for the update,” I said irritably. “As you might well remember, I’ve sworn off men.”
“I’m just making sure,” Marnie warned.
“Why aren’t you warning Thistle?”
“Because she’s with Marcus,” Marnie said. “You’re the sad and needy one right now.”
Well, that was a low blow. Apt, but low. My most recent love interest had walked (more like ran) away when Aunt Tillie had brought a storm down – literally – on a gun-wielding maniac down by the Hollow Creek. He had asked for answers that I wasn’t ready to give and I had let him walk away. I was still wondering if it was a good decision.
“I am not sad and needy,” I scoffed. What? I had only watched The Notebook once (okay, maybe twice) since Landon had walked away from me. Okay, I admit it, I’ve watched it like ten times. It’s a great movie. Oh, leave me alone. The point is, I’m not sad and needy.
“What’s going on?” Thistle asked suspiciously.
“Nothing,” Marnie was suddenly studying her manicure as if it was the most interesting thing in the world.
“She was warning me that Trevor is for Clove and not for my needy ass,” I said grimly.
“Bay wouldn’t steal Clove’s guy,” Thistle said dismissively. “That’s kind of a low thing to say.”
Marnie looked horrified by Thistle’s statement. “I wasn’t inferring anything.”
“I really think menopause has made you mean,” Thistle said. “Hurting Bay’s feelings like that is just a terrible thing for an aunt to do.”
With those words, Thistle linked her arm through mine and flounced out the front door. Once we were outside, I turned to her. “I don’t think she was trying to be mean.”
“I know,” Thistle waved off my concerns. “I just like messing with them. There’s not a lot to do in the winter here and I have to get my fun somewhere. Especially since Aunt Tillie is being such a pill.”
“You should be careful. She’s got revenge on her mind.”
“I’m not scared of her.”
I gave Thistle a knowing look.
“I’m not scared of her,” she repeated.
I knew that wasn’t the truth. We were all terrified of Aunt Tillie.
BY THE TIME we got back to the gatehouse Thistle had worked herself up into righteous frenzy – and a good and proper snit.
“I’m not scared of her,” she said, throwing herself on the couch haphazardly. “You guys give her more power than she should have. If we all stood up to her she would back down. She’s a bully. That’s what bullies do.”
“You’re a bully, too,” Clove reminded Thistle.
“I’m not a bully,” she argued. “Bay is the bully.”
“Hey! How did I get involved in this?”
“You’re the oldest,” Thistle pointed out. “Being a bully was your birthright.”
“I am not a bully,” I argued. “If any of us is a bully, you definitely fit the bill.”
“How do you figure?”
“You’re the stubborn one that digs your heels in,” I said.
“She’s got a point,” Clove said.
“It’s not bullying when you’re a walking doormat,” Thistle said pointedly.
“I’m not a walking doormat!” Clove’s voice rose an octave when she said the words. She looked to me for confirmation.
I shrugged. “If any of us is a doormat, that would easily be you.”
“I am not a doormat,” Clove crossed her arms over her chest huffily.
“You’re the middle child,” Thistle said sagely. “You have Jan Brady syndrome. You’re the people pleaser always looking for attention between Bay the bully and me the . . .”
“Baby,” I supplied helpfully.
“I am not a baby!”
“If any of us is a baby, that would be you,” Clove said snottily.
“You’re both dead to me,” Thistle muttered.
I decided to change the subject. “So, what are you guys doing today?”
“Just inventory at the store,” Clove said. “There aren’t a lot of people around. We’re going to decrease our hours this winter. We might as well take advantage of it. We’re too busy the rest of the year to take any time off.”
“That’s a good idea,” I said.
“I am not a baby,” Thistle said again. “And Bay is a bully. She’s just like Aunt Tillie.”
My mouth dropped open in surprise. “That’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“It’s the truth. When you don’t get your way you bully Clove until she agrees with you. That’s exactly what Aunt Tillie would do.”
“You do the exact same thing,” I argued.
“I’m serious,” Thistle said suddenly, sitting up straight in her chair. “I want us all to band together against Aunt Tillie.”
“That’s okay,” I said dismissively. “I like the ability to talk.”
“She’s the reason we don’t have fathers,” Thistle said.
The statement surprised me. This was obviously something Thistle had been stewing about for some time.
“We have fathers,” I corrected her. “We just never see them.” I didn’t add that a healthy fear of Aunt Tillie could easily be a contributing reason why we rarely saw them.
“My dad sent me a card for Halloween,” Clove said brightly.
The truth was, none of us had a definitive fatherly influence. All of our mothers had been married at one time. Actually, they had all been married around the same time. They had all married local boys and moved into small houses around Hemlock Cove – leaving Aunt Tillie and our grandmother alone in the big house. When our grandmother had died a few years later, Aunt Tillie had been left alone. Once alone, Aunt Tillie had nothing better to do than meddle – and that meddling often took the form of poking our fathers with a magical spear (or her forked tongue) until they cried for mercy.
One by one each marriage had crumbled. Twila’s went south first. My Uncle Teddy had been a kind man – from what I could remember – but he had also had some form of OCD. He needed things to be neat and orderly. Twila would be considered scattered on her best day. The marriage never really had a chance.
After the divorce, Uncle Teddy had moved to the De
troit area, and his visits with Thistle had steadily diminished throughout the years. Now they had a phone relationship – and by that I mean they talked on the phone every couple of months. He never came up to visit her – and since Thistle owned a business she didn’t go down state to visit him either.
Aunt Marnie’s marriage was the next to go. My Uncle Warren was a loser from the beginning, if you listened to my Aunt Tillie, that is. He was a local construction worker that had whistled at Aunt Marnie when she was crossing the street one day. They were married two months later.
The marriage wasn’t exactly what I would call happy. Uncle Warren was a patient man, but Marnie was a master at trying the patience of men. And women. And small animals, quite frankly. I don’t remember a lot about the time they spent together, but what I do remember was fraught with some really loud fights.
When they divorced, Uncle Warren stayed in the area for a few years – seeing Clove on alternating weekends. He left the state for Minnesota when she was four. He still sent regular cards and gifts, but he didn’t visit very often. He had remarried two more times – and divorced two more times – since his marriage to Marnie imploded.
And my father? He had a Type A personality that rivaled my mother’s Type A personality. They just weren’t a good fit. He had moved down state to the Grand Rapids area after the divorce.
We talked to each other on the phone every couple of weeks and met each other for neutral visitations – meaning far away from the Winchester witches – every couple of months.
Basically, the Winchester women are hard to live with – and Aunt Tillie was practically impossible. Ironically, she was the only Winchester woman – to my knowledge, at least – that had kept a husband until he died. By all accounts, my great-uncle, Calvin, had been some sort of saint. Apparently he had been the only person that could ever exert any control over Aunt Tillie – and that was, reportedly, a pretty limited control. It was more like he doted on her and she let him.
“You can’t say that Aunt Tillie didn’t have something to do with the divorces,” Thistle said.
“I think Aunt Tillie is a pain in the ass to deal with, but I think all those marriages would have imploded on their own,” I answered.
“My dad sent me a card for Halloween,” Clove repeated.
“Yeah, we heard you the first time,” Thistle said angrily.
“Don’t be mean to her,” I said. “That’s something a bully would do.”
Thistle reached over and pinched me. Hard.
“Ouch! What was that for?”
“I’m a bully. I don’t need a reason.”
Thankfully, things didn’t have a chance to devolve much further. We were interrupted from what was sure to be a righteous hair-pulling fight by the knock at the front door.
“It’s probably the handyman,” Clove said finally.
“Well, he was sent here for you,” I said. “You should probably get the door.”
“Oh, right,” Clove jumped to her feet. Realizing we had tricked her into answering the door, she swung back on us. “I really am the doormat.”
Clove’s self-realization didn’t last long. Once the door swung open her attention was entirely taken over by the hunk – no, I can’t think of a better word – on the other side of the door.
Trevor Murray was six feet of well-muscled perfection. He had dark brown hair, deep blue eyes and just enough stubble to make him sexy and not disheveled. One look at his narrow hips – and the denim that snugly fit his muscular rear end – and I knew that Clove was actually happy with one of her mother’s set-ups.
“I’m Trevor Murray,” the man at the door introduced himself. I could tell he felt uncomfortable with the silence that had encompassed the room when the door opened.
“I’m Clove Winchester,” Clove introduced herself coyly.
“Nice to meet you.”
Thistle and I waited expectantly, but Clove didn’t acknowledge our presence in the room. “I’m Bay and this is Thistle.”
Clove shot me a dirty look and I took an involuntary step back.
“And we’re going to work,” Thistle supplied quickly, grabbing my arm. “I’ll ride with Bay. Why don’t you show Trevor around and come to work whenever you feel like it?”
Clove shot a shy smile at Trevor. “It’s not a big place, but I’ll show you were the attic entrances are.”
“That’s great,” Trevor said, smiling down at her. Oh, man, he had dimples. Clove was a goner. “This is a great place.”
“Oh, yeah, we’ve done a lot with it since we moved in,” Clove said, ignoring Thistle and I. “I did most of the decorating.”
“We’ll just go,” Thistle laughed, slipping out the door behind Trevor.
Once we got out to the car, I turned to her. “How long until she realizes we’re gone?”
“Let’s just say I doubt I’ll see her at the store today.”
Three
I dropped Thistle off at Hypnotic, the magic store she co-owned with Clove on Main Street, and then headed towards The Whistler’s office. Since the paper was only a weekly, there were only a handful of full-time employees. Basically there was me, the editor, a paginator that worked nights, an advertising representative and the owner, Brian Kelly.
Brian Kelly’s grandfather, William, had actually hired me when I returned to Hemlock Cove from Detroit a few years ago. When he passed away a few months back, William had given the newspaper to his grandson with the stipulation that he keep me on as editor.
Brian Kelly wasn’t a bad guy. He was a narcissistic guy. He was a fake guy. He was an obnoxiously flirty guy. He just wasn’t a bad guy. He kept sniffing around looking for an in with me – even though I had made it pretty clear that he wasn’t my type. That was annoying, but I felt it was pretty harmless – for now, at least.
When I got to my office, I sat down at my desk and started going through the weekly budget. If there was a lack of news in Hemlock Cove on a normal week, then the winter months were decidedly skimpy. I frowned when I realized that this week’s top story was the remodel of Mrs. Gunderson’s bakery.
“He’s up to something.”
I looked up to see the source of the voice, and was not surprised to find Edith – The Whistler’s resident ghost. Edith had died almost fifty years before. She had taken a nosedive into her evening dinner – one I suspected was poisoned – and she’d been haunting the halls of The Whistler ever since.
Oh, yeah, I can see ghosts. That’s kind of my witchy super power – if you want to call it that. Sometimes it is a helpful gift. Other times it is a big pain – like when I was a kid and people thought I was walking around talking to myself. My mom always lied to people that asked and said I had an imaginary friend – which made the town think I was even weirder than I actually was.
“Who’s up to something?” I asked wearily, turning my attention back to my laptop. Edith was always coming up with some sort of nefarious conspiracy. Last week she had been convinced that Mrs. White, the local pewter unicorn peddler, was really selling cocaine. In reality, she had just spilled baby powder on her bathroom floor. As a ghost, Edith had access to anywhere in Hemlock Cove she wanted to go. She usually stayed close to the paper, but when she was bored she made a few excursions into town. Since she had died so long ago, though, she didn’t know many people in town anymore. Unfortunately, Aunt Tillie was one of them. And, since the two of them had not gotten along in life, Edith was now taking great joy in haunting Aunt Tillie in death.
Aunt Tillie wasn’t taking it well. You can imagine, I’m sure.
“Brian,” Edith hissed. “He’s up to something.”
“What do you think he’s up to? You don’t think he’s a spy again, do you?”
A few days ago, after catching a rerun of Alias on the newspaper’s small television, Edith had been convinced Brian was working for a covert terrorist organization bent on building a dirty bomb right here in Hemlock Cove. It had taken me two hours to talk her off that metaphorical cliff.
<
br /> “No, I realized that setting off a dirty bomb in Hemlock Cove doesn’t make a lot of sense,” Edith said. “You were right on that front. That doesn’t mean he’s not evil, though.”
“What does William think?”
“I haven’t seen William in weeks. I think he moved on.”
That was news to me. Last time I had seen William, he had been walking through the downtown with the son he had never claimed in his life. They were getting to know each other in death. Maybe they had moved on together.
“That’s why you’re so keyed up lately,” I said, realization dawning on me. “You’re bored without anyone to hang around with.”
“I am not bored . . . and he is up to something.”
“You’re going to have to be more specific,” I said. The truth is, since Edith is a ghost, she can haunt me whenever she wants. Sometimes it’s just easier to listen to her than to try and get rid of her.
“He’s been having secret phone calls,” Edith said.
“With who?”
“I don’t know; I can’t follow the phone line through to the other end.”
“You tried?” Explaining technology to Edith had proved to be an impossible feat.
“Once. It doesn’t work. There’s nothing to follow. It’s like magic.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that technology wasn’t magic. Now talking to a ghost? That was magic. “So, what was he saying?”
“He was saying that he would make sure you didn’t find out about the meeting.”
Well, that was interesting. “What meeting?”
“I don’t know,” Edith shrugged.
“But he specifically said to make sure that I didn’t find out?”
“He said, and I quote, ‘Bay doesn’t know anything. I told you I would keep it a secret. I’m a businessman. I know how important this is.’”
“And you have no idea who he was talking to?” My distrust of Brian Kelly was rearing its ugly head again. Last month I had thought he was a suspect in the death of his own grandfather. As it turned out, I was wrong, but I was still suspicious of his motivations at times – even if I was constantly reminding myself that I had no proof he was up to no good..
Witching You Were Here (Wicked Witches of the Midwest Book 3) Page 2
