Witch at Heart: A Jinx Hamilton Witch Mystery Book 1 (The Jinx Hamilton Mysteries)

by Juliette Harper

  Oh no. No, no, no, no.

  I didn’t realize I was shaking my head until Tori started laughing at me.

  “You already know what I’m going to say, don’t you?” she asked.

  “You’re fixing to tell me we’re going hiking next weekend, and I’m telling you we’re not,” I said.

  Tori knew me well enough to understand I was nearing my limit. “Okay,” she said, “how about this? I’ll send you a bunch of links and some book titles. You do the reading. If you don’t come to the same conclusion, we won’t go up to the other hiking trail. We’ll just make sure Beth sees her mother and we’ll try to figure out Jane’s name and be done with it. Okay?”

  I agreed, but I already suspected there was a catch. Tori does not give up that easily. Color me right.

  19

  The rest of the week was normal -- or as normal as life was ever going to be in a self-aware store with a hyper-intelligent rat and a resident teenage ghost coming to terms with being murdered before her life even really began.

  If it sounds like I was taking all of this in stride, I'm telling the story the wrong way. Honestly, I think I always believed in the possibility of ghosts, I just never expected to have one living with me. For the most part, Beth seemed extraordinarily normal. We had conversations. She asked questions. She wanted to understand how the world had changed without her. I did my best to offer explanations and to feed her obvious interest.

  But then, without warning, she would lapse into foggy confusion. She didn’t always seem to get that death is basically an incurable condition. This was particularly evident when she asked to see her mother. Those were the times when my heart really ached for her. The kid just wanted to talk to her mom. I had no idea how to set something like that up, or even if I should try.

  Just for the heck of it I watched a few episodes of Ghost Whisperer on Netflix. Come on! If Jennifer Love Hewitt couldn't always make people listen when she told them she was seeing dead folks, how was I supposed to do it?

  The more I thought about the situation, the more troubled I became over exactly how I was supposed to help Beth and Jane. Was it my job to get them to some sort of portal? This “door” everyone seems to talk about? Was I supposed to be the one to show them “the light?” If so, man, were we in trouble. In the celestial lighting department, I’m not even a 40-watt bulb.

  And what was the deal with Aunt Fiona? She seemed to be rocking the afterlife. Was that because she was a witch or because she died without any unfinished business weighing her down? Or was she really in the same situation as Beth and Jane and just didn’t want to tell me?

  Tori and I talked every night about the wisdom of taking Beth to the cemetery to meet Jane. The longer we discussed it, the more we agreed that risky or not, it was a meeting that needed to happen. We had to find out if there was any common ground between the two girls. Maybe the fact that Beth now remembered parts of her life would help to trigger similar memories for Jane.

  For the time being I settled on letting Beth do whatever seemed to give her the most comfort. That basically amounted to sitting on my couch with my cats watching TV. I did mention that Beth is a forever teenager, right?

  All in all, I think she was handling the culture shock pretty well. She checked out in a Dynasty world and came back right in the middle of Keeping up with the Kardashians. Have you ever tried to explain to anyone that Kim is famous just for being famous?

  Everyday things I took for granted left Beth wide-eyed with wonder. My cell phone fascinated her. When she died, the average cell phone had a battery life of 10 minutes and weighed 5 lbs.

  I didn’t mind answering her questions, and there were plenty of them. It made me feel like her big sister, but get your head wrapped around this idea. I was born after Beth died.

  She had a lot of catching up to do and I was her only source for information. It wasn’t like she could use Google herself, although she certainly had me consulting the search engine daily.

  As for me, I would have been perfectly happy to sit on the couch with the cats, too. I don’t like disruption, and I was ready for that to be over. Not that I thought the end was in sight, but a girl can dream -- and get her comfortable, predictable ruts in place.

  I do best when I have routines. Even with everything else that was going on, I quickly settled into the rhythm of store life. The local soap maker came into town on Wednesday with a wonderful selection of her products. We struck up an agreement on the spot. She had a friend who raised alpacas to harvest the fiber, which she then spun and dyed by hand to make luscious scarves and sweaters. By Thursday, a small assortment of those items was also on display downstairs.

  Myrtle was helpful with all the changes I was making in a way I interpreted as support. When I was alone in the store, I continued the process of rearranging and sorting. Sometimes, without my asking, that strange disembodied spotlight would fall on a cabinet or drawer and I’d find more merchandise in keeping with my current organizational scheme.

  Every morning I went out and swept off the front sidewalk, saying good morning first to Festus sunning on his bench, and then to Chase who began watching for me and coming out with a hot cup of coffee in each hand.

  I enjoyed those few minutes of chat with him at the start of the day and twice accepted his invitation to have a sandwich in his shop over the noon hour. We were still in the process of getting to know one another, so there were lively discussions about everything from books and cats, to my future plans for the store.

  The contractor, Mark Haskell, dropped by and took some measurements out back, promising to return Saturday morning when Tori was in town. He was enthusiastic about the project and his early price estimates were beyond reasonable given the quality of the work I saw at the pizzeria.

  All in all, life began to take on a feeling of progress and accomplishment that was both satisfying and exciting. At some point in every day, I took a few minutes to practice my ability to manipulate objects, improving my focus and control. I also tried a couple of cautious psychometry experiments with objects in the store.

  According to my visions, the silver-headed cane in the umbrella stand belonged to a World War I veteran who carried a fragment of shrapnel from the Somme in his leg for life. The vintage ladies’ hat, complete with feather and net veil, harbored the details of a somewhat torrid affair between a local society matron and the Methodist minister from the 1950s.

  Frankly, that kind of thing was fun, but I also had serious metaphysical business that required my attention. Each day after I closed and locked the front door, I devoted the evening hours to research. That first morning when I levitated the figurine and had coffee with my dead aunt in the kitchen, “reality” became a multi-faceted concept for me.

  If anyone else had come to me with that story, by the way, “reality” is not the word I would have used. I probably would have asked what they had been smoking.

  It's hard to describe my mindset during those first days, because my thoughts were all over the place. I like a healthy dose of good fortune as well as the next person. Give me a rabbit’s foot I’ll carry it. But frankly I think you’ll cultivate better karma leaving it on the rabbit where it belongs.

  Over the years, I’ve certainly thrown my fair share of coins into wishing wells. I don't risk walking under ladders. And Friday the 13th is not my favorite day in any month. In the magic / superstition category I’d say I’m pretty average -- or at least I was until life threw me a curveball.

  Aunt Fiona’s wine bottle note said my powers were still sorting themselves out. That added an element of uncertainty to my daily life that I really wasn't ready to cope with. I needed to take charge.

  Tori gave me a good suggestion when she said I should get to work learning about what it really means to be a witch and to be dealing with ghosts and powers, and God only knows what else.

  Judging from the extensive list of web links and books Tori emailed to me, she was already several steps ahead of me in the “learning
how to be a witch’s best friend” category.

  I wasn't silly enough to think that a wart would suddenly appear on the end of my nose or that I needed to run out and buy a pointy black hat. I did wonder, however, if I needed to join a coven or try to meet others like myself. Was there a union? Or, for that matter, were there any others like me?

  Aunt Fiona said she gifted me with my magical powers. Did that rule out the possibility that being a witch was hereditary? Suddenly, I was filled with questions and hungry for answers.

  In my childhood, my mother dragged me to church just enough that I was now vaguely uneasy that I might be involved in something associated with devil worship. Getting my head wrapped around the notion of “white” witches versus “black” witches took up the better part of a day.

  After reading several Wiccan websites, I was relieved to learn that the religion doesn’t divide the world into opposing camps of ultimate good and ultimate evil. Satan is pretty much a Christian construct and I was good with him getting the heck behind me and staying there. All the Wiccan pages talked about being in balance with nature, which I immediately liked. I mean seriously, isn’t that what the Golden Rule is all about?

  But then I came to understand that modern Wicca is just the tip of the witch iceberg. There are many, many traditions of witchcraft spread out over centuries of folklore and mythology from all over the world. Something Joseph Campbell talked about in The Power of Myth just blew my mind. A myth isn’t necessarily false, it’s just somebody else’s explanation for what you call religion.

  For the first time in my life, I wasn’t just thinking outside the proverbial box, I was building a different box altogether.

  Please don’t get the idea that I just took a few days and figured everything out. It’s an ongoing process. Asking questions and learning new things is what my life is about now. Actually, I think it’s a major part of being alive. If my new identity as a witch has brought me anything, it's a reawakening of my native curiosity and a reopening of my heart to the potential for miracles.

  That’s pretty happy stuff, people. In fact, it’s often downright joyous.

  There’s more in the world we don't understand than what we do.

  From my perspective, that’s pretty darn cool.

  That single realization changed my thinking about going after the third ghost and trying to help them all move on. If potential was opening up before my eyes right and left, how could I deny a chance to access that same magic to girls whose spirits were trapped in an earthbound existence not of their own choosing?

  I didn't completely understand why Jane and Beth were different from Aunt Fiona or Colonel Longworth and the others. All I really knew about ghostly social structure came from my initial conversation with the Colonel in the cemetery.

  He told me Aunt Fiona believed all of them were trapped in the graveyard because they had unfinished business. That explanation held up just fine until Beth showed up. Her grave wasn’t in a cemetery and she had complete freedom of movement. To my way of thinking, not knowing the identity of your murderer qualified as “unfinished business,” but Jane seemed to care more about discovering her name than learning who killed her.

  Yeah, yeah, I know. Every rule has an exception, which does nothing to make the exceptions less annoying.

  There was one thing I did know for certain, however. Jane and Beth weren’t happy, or even content like the cemetery ghosts seemed to be. I might not be able to help any of these spirits find some light to walk into, but I might be able to help the murdered girls find some measure of peace.

  When Tori arrived at the shop around 5 o’clock Friday afternoon, Myrtle started playing the tune from Ghostbusters the minute my BFF walked in the door.

  “Way to steal a girl’s thunder, Myrtle,” I said, as the music died down.

  As Tori hugged me hello, she asked, “Does that mean what I think it means?”

  “Yeah,” I said, hugging her back. “We’re going looking for another ghost.”

  20

  Looking back now, that Saturday was a big day all the way around. Mark Haskell dropped by the store around 9:30 with Chase in tow. My next-door neighbor and potential boyfriend was a man of many interests. He explained that he enjoyed doing carpentry work and sometimes helped Mark out on his jobs.

  Since this project was going to be done right next door to his own shop, it made perfect sense for him to lend a hand, didn’t it?

  The whole thing sounded like an excuse for Chase to spend more time in my near vicinity, which pretty much left me floating on cloud nine.

  Tori and Mark hit it off immediately. His initial designs were very close to what she had in mind for her new quarters. They worked together for about an hour to refine the overall concept while Chase and I offered suggestions from the sidelines. Chase seemed to have a good sense of space, and I was intrigued by some of his creative solutions for storage options.

  After Mark left, Chase asked if Tori and I would join him for supper that night. I was genuinely disappointed to have to tell him that we had another obligation. He accepted the news with graceful flexibility and suggested instead that we all have Sunday dinner at the pizzeria so Tori could meet Pete.

  That option suited all concerned perfectly, and we made firm plans to convene out in front of the store at 11 o’clock the next morning in order to beat the church crowd. Chase said he’d give Pete the heads up so Tori would be able to see his living space.

  As Tori watched Chase exit the store, she said, “Oh. My. God. Jinx. He's an absolute dream.”

  Feigning innocence I said, “Which one? Mark or Chase?”

  She gave me a mock punch in the arm. “Chase. Mark was wearing a wedding ring.”

  I sighed happily. “Yeah,” I agreed. “He’s pretty dreamy, but so is Pete. I’m glad you’re going to have a chance to meet him tomorrow.”

  “I could do with some dreamy," Tori said ruefully. "It would be a nice change of pace from ‘nightmare.’”

  She wasn't going to get any argument from me. There was nothing I would like better than to see Tori dating a nice man who truly appreciated her. Actually, it was about time we both drew some good numbers in the romance lottery.

  With our social life in order and the renovation jumpstarted, Tori and I were now free to drive up to the hiking trail where the other girl was found. If we were successful in locating the victim’s spirit, and if she agreed to come back with us, we would all go to the cemetery that evening for a ghostly summit conference.

  I didn't think it was fair to ask Beth to go to the graveyard without explaining the potential consequences to her, however. The night before, Tori and I described the invisible barrier that kept the spirits confined in the burying ground and asked Beth how she felt about coming with us to meet Jane.

  I wasn’t surprised when the girl’s first reaction was resistance. “If I get trapped in there,” she said in a worried voice, “then I can’t be with the cats.”

  Nothing gave Beth more sense of stability than my four furry hooligans. I quietly blessed them for being so attentive to her and rewarded them with extra helpings from the small, expensive cans of chow they favored. But honestly, the bribe wasn’t necessary. The cats seem to understand that Beth truly needed them and they responded to her with loving devotion.

  In the end, we settled on a compromise. Beth would come with us, but she would stay outside the cemetery fence. Tori could see her consistently now, even when I was not present, so she would stand at the gate and relay anything Beth said to me. I would be inside the graveyard talking to Jane. The arrangement would be cumbersome, a little bit like an otherworldly version of translating a United Nations’ session, but it was the best we could work out.

  As Tori and I prepared to leave for the hiking trail Saturday morning, she asked me, yet again, "Should we tell Beth where we’re going?"

  We’d gone back and forth on the issue of full disclosure for good reason.

  "I still think the idea of asking anothe
r ghost to the party will freak her out completely,” I said. “Just talking about introducing her to Jane upset her enough. If we do get the other girl to come home with us, we’ll just have to wing it when we tell Beth."

  Initially we had planned to tell Beth everything, but silently agreed to abandon the idea the evening before when the girl started doing that fading in / fading out thing during our conversation.

  "I really don't blame her for getting stressed out," Tori said. "You get a few more spirits in here and this place is going to turn into a ghostly sorority house.”

  How’s that for a terrifying image?

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m really not wanting to see that happen. The idea isn’t to adopt the ghosts, it’s to get them to move on.”

  Do I even need to point out that being the crazy ghost lady is way worse than being the crazy cat lady?

  Since it would take us at least an hour to reach the hiking trail, and another 45 minutes to get up to the spot where the skeleton was found, we packed a picnic lunch. Spring gifted us with another gorgeous day. We both enjoyed the drive, talking non-stop the whole way.

  Tori filled me in at greater length about the new waitresses currently on probation at Tom’s, but changed the subject when I asked if she’d talked to her mom about the impending move.

  “You can’t put it off forever,” I warned.

  Giving her studious attention to the passing landscape, Tori said, “Oh, look. Trees.”

  “Nice try, kiddo,” I said. “Seriously, how mad can Gemma be?”

  “I don’t know,” Tori said. “How mad was your mom?”

  She had me there. We let the subject drop.

  The map application on Tori’s phone led us directly to the trailhead. I’m glad we used it, because we might have missed the sign otherwise.

  “People have to really know about this place to find it,” I said as I climbed out of the Prius and pulled my daypack out of the backseat.

  “Maybe that’s why the killer thought it would be a good place to dump a body,” Tori said, shouldering her own pack.