Witch of Mintwood Mysteries 7-9

by Addison Creek

  But the cat halted his rant mid-sentence when he saw Honolulu jump out of the car. She was now wearing a pretty dress and pearl earrings and looking ever so delicate. I didn’t waste any brain cells wondering how she had accomplished the transformation in a matter of seconds; she was a ghost, after all.

  At the sight of Honolulu, Paws came to a complete halt at the bottom of the stairs. I was pretty sure this was the first time in all the years I’d known him that he’d been rendered speechless.

  Greer was enjoying the spectacle immensely.

  “Paws, this is Honolulu,” I said. “She needs a place to stay for a few days.”

  Silence.

  “Paws?” I tried again.

  He still didn’t say anything. Our new guest was sitting nervously behind me, peering around my lower leg at my cat.

  “You’re embarrassing yourself,” said Charlie through gritted teeth. “Get it together.”

  Paws started a little and licked his chops, a motion I doubted Honolulu found cute. When I looked down at the new ghost she was still staring at Paws as if she’d never seen anything so wonderful before.

  “What is that gorgeous creature’s name?” Paws asked.

  Suddenly, he smartened up. He couldn’t have looked more proper if he’d been wearing a top hat.

  “Honolulu,” I said. “Like I said, she’s going to stay with us for a couple of days if that’s okay with you.”

  “Okay, it’s more than okay! It’s the best news I’ve ever heard! Welcome, dear lady. It is a delight to have you,” Paws said as he floated sideways down the stairs to greet the newcomer.

  Greer’s jaw dropped.

  Paws reached the front of my shin and bowed.

  Honolulu looked totally bashful at the attention.

  “Come this way,” Paws said, leading the other ghost cat up the rickety old stairs. “Don’t mind the wobble of the steps. I’m about to fire my contractor.”

  “What wobble?” Honolulu blushed.

  “I’m sorry the accommodations aren’t better. If I had known you were coming . . .” Paws came very close to glaring at me, but Honolulu managed to reply in a way that distracted him.

  “It’s hard to plan house fires. I didn’t get out,” she said softly.

  “Oh, that’s terrible,” said Paws. He didn’t sound very sorry about it. “Well, don’t worry. You’re here now.”

  “I’m here now. It’s beautiful,” said Honolulu.

  “She actually believes that,” Paws said out of the side of his mouth.

  “Don’t ruin it for her by showing her your real personality. Besides, beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” I said.

  Paws decided to get Honolulu settled in the shed out back. She was used to being indoors, but we wanted her to be able to come and go as she pleased, and there was no way for her to do that if she stayed in the house.

  Greer, Charlie, and I sat on the porch while Paws took Honolulu to show her her quarters. Lena had left a message for Charlie saying that she, Lena, had been at the fire and would write the article herself, so Charlie had the night off. We settled in to relax a bit before heading in for the night.

  “It’s strange, but I didn’t see her there,” said Charlie. “Either way, I’m just as happy not to have to write it. It’s late.”

  After some quiet time in which we tried to process the day’s events, Charlie asked, “Do you believe Honolulu that Tabitha was murdered?”

  “I think so,” I said. “She sounded pretty sure. I have a feeling we’ll know by tomorrow.”

  “Poor Mrs. Cook was so devastated,” Charlie said, shaking her head. “I hope she gets some rest tonight. Maybe she’ll hear some good news tomorrow.”

  She looked pointedly at Greer, who snorted in a very unladylike way. “If you mean by my telling her I’ve changed my mind about the baking competition, there’s no way.”

  “Why not?” Charlie pouted.

  “Because I’m not a baker. The end,” said Greer.

  “HOW COULD YOU NOT TELL ME WE WERE HAVING COMPANY?” Paws bellowed.

  None of us reacted to the tone. Although I hadn’t heard the cat come up the porch steps, I wasn’t surprised.

  “Don’t have a hissy fit,” I advised. “It’ll ruin your fur.”

  “Not as much as the shock did!” said the ghost cat.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Next time you’re going to bring a gorgeous creature home to be in my care . . . well, just don’t,” cried Paws.

  “Don’t suppose you’re talking about me?” said Greer.

  “Certainly not,” said the cat. “Do you have luminous eyes? Do you have the most gorgeous two-tone fur? Do you walk as if on air? I think not!”

  “My hair might not be two-tone, but I didn’t think it was ugly.” Greer ran her fingers through her long brown locks.

  “We didn’t exactly have time to get in touch,” I said. “The fire happened and then we needed a place to bring her.”

  “What am I supposed to do with her? She’s already seen that my crate is a mess! She’ll think less of me forever!” the cat moaned.

  “You’re supposed to be nice. If possible,” I informed him.

  “We’ll try to tell you next time we’re going to have a guest,” said Charlie, ready as usual to pour oil on troubled waters.

  “There will never be another like her, I’m sure,” said Paws. “She is grace. She is beauty. She is the most gorgeous . . .”

  “Hi, Honolulu,” I said loudly.

  The other ghost cat walked up to the bottom of the steps and said, “I just wanted to say thanks again for having me. I’m very comfortable here and very happy.”

  And she trotted away again.

  “She’s very comfortable and very happy,” whispered Paws. “I’m doomed.”

  Chapter Eight

  The next morning, having let myself sleep in for a good long rest, I went to check on Cesar. Mr. John’s dog was becoming friendlier every time he saw me. Like a lot of pets, and people, he just didn’t trust strangers, but now that he knew me he’d decided that I was okay; I did give him food and all.

  Charlie and Greer were just sitting down to breakfast and the papers when I got back to the house.

  “My favorite part about morning is breakfast,” said Charlie.

  “Mine is breakfast too, because it includes coffee,” said Greer.

  Splashed all over the front page of the Mintwood Gazette was a huge picture of Tabitha Tolls’ house ablaze. It was accompanied by a long article that finished by stating that Tabitha was believed to be out of town with her cat Honolulu, but so far no one had been able to find her.

  Once we had consumed a hearty breakfast and all the news, we headed downtown. We shuddered as we stepped out of the car and smelled the char.

  “Think they’ll be able to go in soon?” I asked.

  “Yes, not long now,” said Charlie. “I imagine they’re already combing the place. The house burned quickly.”

  “The Daily Brew is hopping,” Greer observed.

  She was right. The line snaked out the door, and everyone in it was turned toward the line of trees down the street. Tabitha’s house was just visible through the thick branches.

  “Really, must there always be a spectacle in this town?” snapped Mrs. Snicks, the librarian, who was standing in front of us with a bushel of flowers spilling out of her arms. “First there’s a window display competition and then there’s a new hair salon and now there’s a fire. Why are we always gawking?” Mr. Snicks, who was standing next to her, looked uncomfortable, but he didn’t intervene.

  “Because we care about each other,” said Frannie, who was standing behind us in the line, next to Fearne.

  “We should care a little less,” said Mrs. Snicks, her lip trembling.

  “Don’t be sad, dear,” said her husband. I rarely saw them together because he often worked in the cemetery while she was working in the library or out protesting the latest cause.

 
“We need to stick together as a community,” said Fearne.

  “Is that why you broke into other people’s shops not that long ago?” Mrs. Snicks demanded.

  “Certainly. Just checking up on things,” said Fearne, not even bothering to deny it. “I’ve lived here longer than you have.”

  “So that makes you the most senior?” Mrs. Snicks asked.

  “We’re all stressed by what happened last night and by the fact that Tabitha’s missing, but let’s not turn on each other,” said Mr. Snicks. “Soon the fair will start and something nice will take our minds off the bad stuff that’s been happening.”

  Mrs. Snicks gazed at her husband for a moment as if she was waking up from a daze, then said, in perfectly sincere tones, “I’m sorry, Fearne. I didn’t mean to be rude. The stress of all of this is getting to me.”

  “No harm done,” said Fearne.

  By now the Snickses were next in line. As soon as they were distracted, Fearne fixed me with her beady-eyed stare. “Ratted me out to the whole town, did you?”

  “I most certainly did not,” I said.

  “If it wasn’t you it was Liam! He always had it in for me,” said Fearne.

  “Liam doesn’t have it in for anyone,” said Charlie. “It wasn’t us.”

  “Reporters can never be trusted,” said Fearne, turning away with a snort.

  “I need coffee,” said the usually peppy Charlie, who was having a hard time with all the bad feeling floating around.

  Each of us ordered a coffee and a croissant, and when our orders came through Greer said, “Let’s go outside and sit on a bench.”

  As we headed toward the door we walked smack dab into a woman in a dress and high stockings. Her hair was swept into a hairnet and she was wearing very small glasses.

  “Excuse me,” muttered the woman. “I can’t believe someone with such inferior croissants tried to get in my way.”

  Greer stopped dead.

  In fact, everyone in the café ceased all motion.

  Mrs. Barnett, who had made the croissants in question, had looked tired when we came in, having no doubt been up late with Mrs. Cook. When she caught wind of what the stranger had said she changed from looking tired to looking angry.

  “These are the best croissants I’ve ever had,” said Greer, clutching the bag.

  Surprised by her vehemence, everyone now turned to stare at her.

  The women who’d complained gave a thin smile.

  “You must be from Mintwood,” she said, and not as if she thought that was a good thing.

  Greer made a show of turning and looked around. “Yes, as a matter of fact I am.”

  “I’m from Caedmon. We do baking properly there,” said the woman.

  “Why don’t you go back there then?” said Greer through gritted teeth.

  My bartender friend was not what I would call mellow, anything but. Even so, I had never seen her get into an argument with a stranger outside the confines of her job as a bartender, where part of her duty—and she was very good at it—was keeping order.

  “Mrs. Barb, what can I do for you?” Mrs. Barnett said, a little louder than was necessary.

  The sound of the bakery owner’s voice, or maybe the name she used to address the woman facing us, appeared to snap Greer out of a trance.

  “Barb?” she asked, incredulous.

  The other woman looked down her nose at Greer. “And you are?”

  “Greer Dice,” said my friend.

  “Never heard of you,” said Mrs. Barb.

  “You probably wouldn’t, all the way in Caedmon,” said Greer.

  Mrs. Barb looked hard at my friend as if she was trying to figure out whether Greer was being sarcastic.

  A good rule of thumb was that she was, but a stranger couldn’t be expected to know that.

  Charlie and I were standing on either side of Greer, not knowing what to say or do. But what we were thinking was that this was the woman who was supposed to be the best baker in the area, the woman whom Mrs. Cook didn’t want to win the competition at the fair, but who, if Greer didn’t enter, surely would. She ran one of the bake shops in Caedmon and there was usually a line out the door.

  “I’m surprised you have enough time to come all the way over here,” said Fearne.

  Mrs. Snicks nodded in agreement. Nothing like the Caedmon rivalry to unite the Mintwooders.

  “I’ve been taking a bit of time off to prepare for the competition,” said Mrs. Barb.

  “Is that what you’re calling the fair?” asked Mrs. Barnett.

  Mrs. Barb turned her steely gaze on Mrs. Barnett. “Mintwood Fair has been the talk of the county for decades. All these years and you haven’t let anyone else in, until now. You bet I’m taking it seriously.”

  Several of the fair volunteers sitting around the tables actually seemed to appreciate the fact that Mrs. Barb thought the well of the fair, but the feeling was far from unanimous.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me,” she said, brushing past us. I could smell flour and what I was pretty sure was daisies as she passed.

  “You still want to go to the bench?” Charlie asked, looking over at the wrought iron bench at the edge of the green.

  “Sure,” I said.

  We walked over, sat down, and ate our croissants in silence for a while. Then Charlie talked a bit about work, and I talked a bit about the dog I was currently walking.

  Greer remained quiet.

  When Mrs. Barb came out of the café, she was holding a single bag, which I imagined held one scone. She walked quickly back to her car and drove away without looking at us.

  “The nerve of that woman,” Greer said, shaking her head. It was the first word she had said since we sat down. Charlie and I exchanged looks but didn’t respond. We both knew what we were waiting for.

  “Come on,” said Greer. She stood up and dusted her hands of crumbs, and the two of us hurried to follow suit.

  “Where are we going?” Charlie asked.

  There were a few people out and about on Main Street now, including some familiar figures. After the unpleasantness with Mrs. Barb it was a comfort to see some of the folks who formed the backbone of Mintwood.

  Liam’s mom was standing in the window of his shop. I waved at her happily and she waved back.

  Keith, the owner of Mintwood Mucking, was on his front steps sweeping. He gave us a hearty grin and a nod as we passed. We had recently cleared him as a suspect in a murder investigation, and the fact that he was still talking to us was a good sign. Sometimes after an investigation was all over, suspects didn’t.

  “This way,” said Greer. She marched down the sidewalk toward an expanse of nicely cut grass and stopped in front of a gold sign stating where we were.

  “We’re going into the town hall?” I asked.

  My grandmother had warned me against the place, and I had managed to stay out of it for a long time, but I’d had to relent when Gracie Coswell went missing.

  Still, the place gave me the creeps.

  “Yes,” said Greer, without elaborating.

  “Why?” Charlie prodded.

  “She isn’t going to tell us,” I said, when Greer didn’t answer. “It’ll be a surprise.”

  Chapter Nine

  With Greer in the lead we marched into the town hall and upstairs to the mayor’s office. On guard outside his doorway was Shirley, his longtime secretary, a hard-nosed woman who kept quiet most of the time, the sort of person who didn’t have to say anything for you to know where you stood with her. I imagined that the mayor had quite a few secrets, and she kept them all.

  Most relevant to the current situation, if you wanted to see the mayor without an appointment, you could bet that your standing with Shirley would be poor.

  “I’d like to see the mayor,” said Greer.

  “When?” asked the secretary.

  “Now?” said Greer.

  “I’m sorry, but he’s very busy,” said the secretary. “Please make an appointment and come back then.”
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  “Okay, when is his first available appointment?” Greer asked.

  “Let me see,” said the woman.

  She picked up a fancy leather calendar and started flipping through the pages as we stood there waiting patiently. The nearby grandfather clock was ticking and downstairs someone laughed. I could also hear running water and the sound of footsteps in the room next door. So yes, the mayor was in his office.

  The woman was looking through the calendar very slowly.

  “Anything?” Charlie asked, growing impatient at last.

  “Just a moment,” said the woman. She was running a perfectly sharpened pencil down each page.

  “He has an opening three and half weeks from now. With the fair coming up, he’s very busy at the moment,” she said, meeting Greer’s eyes.

  “Three weeks from now,” Greer repeated, nodding. Charlie flinched. Greer was using her irritated voice, and Charlie and I knew what that meant even if Shirley didn’t.

  “Can I see that?” Greer asked.

  “Certainly,” said the secretary, using her pencil to point to the date of the appointment she had offered Greer.

  But before the secretary could react, my friend was flipping the pages gently backwards, backwards, backwards toward an earlier date.

  Today, perhaps.

  The secretary tried to seize the notebook back, but Greer was having none of it. “I’m just looking. May I borrow this?” she asked. Without waiting for an answer, she picked up a pen that was jammed into an overstuffed holder on the desk.

  Now the secretary was in full-on panic mode. “I demand that you return the property of the mayor of Mintwood this instant and at once!”

  “Just a minute,” said Greer, now moving just as leisurely as the secretary had.

  The secretary stood up as if to emphasize that she was not, in fact, going to wait a minute, then she started to walk one way around the desk just as Greer started to walk around it the other way. They both stopped again, facing each other from the opposite sides from which they had started.