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

by Juliette Harper

  Even though there was no one else in the chapel, Tori leaned over and whispered, “If that bunch we were in school with sent flowers, the ribbon would say, “Thank God and Greyhound she’s gone.’”

  Stifling a laugh, I channeled my mother and said, “Stop that. Be reverent.”

  That did nothing but set us both into a fit of suppressed giggling since we’d each routinely received the same admonishment in church from the moms all our lives.

  From the front of the room, Beth shot us a very convincing disapproving look for a middle-aged teen. We hastily composed ourselves just as other people began to filter into the chapel one and two at a time. Within 30 minutes, the service was indeed standing room only.

  Just before 3 o’clock, the minister came down the aisle leading the pallbearers, who took their seats on the front row. I was surprised to see Chase with them, looking trim and handsome in his dark suit, with a single white rosebud pinned to his lapel.

  Once the men were in place, the funeral director escorted Emily Barlow to her seat in front. We all stood as Beth’s grieving mother passed. She was a small woman with gray hair that still showed hints of a more youthful chestnut. As I watched her walk, I could detect just the slightest suggestion of a limp. Chase did his work well with her shoes.

  The minister held his hands up and motioned us back into our seats. That’s when I saw Beth. She was standing directly in front of her mother, looking down at her with an expression so filled with love and longing, I felt a knot rise in my throat.

  Apparently, Mrs. Barlow had no family, because she sat alone on the front pew -- or at least she thought she was alone. As the preacher began to speak, Beth sat down beside her mother. At the same time, Mrs. Barlow turned toward the empty space beside her. Frowning slightly, she tentatively reached out. Her fingers touched Beth’s chest, just where her heart would have been, and Beth’s form grew stronger from the contact. I don’t know if her mother saw her, but a look of great peace settled over the grieving woman’s features as she turned her attention back to the sermon.

  The minister refrained from using the circumstances of Beth’s death to deliver some ponderous consideration of God’s mysterious ways. Instead, he built his remarks around Matthew 19:14, “Jesus said, ‘Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.’"

  When he was done, a woman from the Methodist church sang, “In the Garden.” On the last verse, the undertaker began to direct the mourners out of the chapel one row at a time. We filed out with the rest, joining the silent crowd lining the walkway from the door to the hearse. In a few minutes, the pallbearers appeared, walking slowly with Beth’s casket. Mrs. Barlow followed behind, Beth at her side.

  On the way to the cemetery, I looked in the rearview mirror and saw a long line of cars with their headlights on. “Can you believe how many people came to the service?” I asked Tori.

  She looked at me with red-rimmed eyes. “Do you think Mrs. Barlow knows Beth is with her?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said softly, “but I sure hope she does.”

  Once the casket was unloaded at the cemetery, Chase came to stand with Tori and me. He hugged us both briefly and during the prayer, he took hold of my hand, entwining our fingers.

  When the brief service ended, we all stood in line to offer our condolences to Mrs. Barlow.

  “I didn’t know you’d be here,” I said to Chase in a low voice. “We could have all come together.”

  “Emily called me last night,” Chase said. “They were shy a pallbearer. I was glad to help out even though I didn’t know the girl.”

  As we approached, Mrs. Barlow, who had been sitting, stood to hug Chase. “Thank you so much for stepping in at the last minute,” she said.

  “I’m honored you asked me,” he said. Turning slightly toward us, he added, “Emily, this is Jinx Hamilton and her friend Tori Lewis. They’re the ones who found Beth.”

  “Oh!” Mrs. Barlow said. “I’m so glad you’re here. I was going to come to the store to talk to you.” As she spoke, she engulfed me in a hug and whispered against my ear, “Thank you for giving me my little girl back.”

  From behind me Beth whispered urgently, “Please tell her I’m glad to be home.”

  Still holding Emily Barlow close, I said, “I think she’s glad to be back with you, too.”

  Without turning loose of me, Emily drew back and met my eyes. “You feel her, too?” she whispered. “You know that she’s here?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I do.”

  27

  As we started to walk away from the temporary canopy by the casket, Tori caught hold of my arm and discreetly pointed at the granite marker beside Beth’s open grave. “Donald Barlow, Beloved Husband and Father, 1940-1983.”

  “That poor woman,” Tori whispered. “She lost her husband two years before Beth was murdered, and he was just 43 years old. That’s awful.”

  Since Chase was walking with us, I couldn’t very well bring up the point that Beth had never mentioned her dad, which seemed a little strange.

  “From what I’ve heard,” Chase said, also keeping his voice low, “Don Barlow died of pancreatic cancer.”

  After watching her husband succumb to such an awful disease, I couldn’t imagine how Emily Barlow had been able to keep her sanity when her daughter disappeared.

  “Mrs. Barlow must be a very strong woman,” I said, as we made our way to my car. That’s when I noticed Colonel Longworth beckoning to me from his obelisk. I caught Tori’s eye and nodded covertly in the vicinity of the marker.

  She turned her head as unobtrusively as possible and I saw her eyes widen. She saw the Colonel as well.

  “Are you two headed back to the store?” Chase asked.

  “Actually, no,” Tori said. “I’m entering another online photo contest, so we’re planning on exploring the cemetery a little bit.”

  “Well, I have to get back,” Chase said, “but maybe we can all get together later?”

  Tori and I had already agreed to spend the evening running down everything we knew about the murders, but I couldn’t tell Chase that. “We’re sort of planning a girl’s night,” I lied. “But how about breakfast? Tori here makes a western omelet that’s out of this world.”

  Chase’s eyes brightened. “That would be great,” he said. “And I haven’t met your cats yet.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “Come on over at 8 and we’ll have the food ready. That way neither one of us will have to open up late.”

  As Chase walked off to his own car, I said to Tori under my breath, “That photo contest excuse comes in really handy.”

  “I know,” she said, “and it’s totally reusable.”

  We took our time threading over to Colonel Longworth. He seemed to get that we didn’t want to be noticed and waited patiently for us.

  “Hi, Beau,” I said, when we came within earshot.

  “Ladies,” he said, performing his usual bow. “The service was lovely.”

  “You were there?” I asked. “I didn’t see you.”

  “The farther I wander from my marker during the day,” he said, “the more insubstantial I appear to become, but I thought circumstances behooved me to pay my respects.”

  Tori was going through the motions of taking photographs of his tombstone, an activity which seemed to interest the old soldier. “May I ask what you are doing with that device, young lady?” he said.

  “I’m making it look like I’m taking pictures so anyone watching us won’t think we’re talking to thin air,” she replied.

  Longworth frowned. “I am familiar with the battlefield photographic work of Mr. Matthew Brady,” he said, “but his equipment was much more ponderous than what you are holding.”

  “Things have changed a bit since the 1860s,” Tori said. “Here, let me show you.”

  She aimed the camera at Longworth, who was standing in front of his monument, and snapped a picture. Then she walked over
beside the old spirit and called the image up on the phone’s screen.

  She let out a little gasp and gave me an astonished look.

  “What?” I said.

  “Come see for yourself,” she answered.

  When I stepped up beside her and looked at the image, I could just make out a hazy corona in the vague shape of a man standing in front of the impressive marble obelisk.

  “I would not say that is my best likeness,” Colonel Longworth observed politely, “but I do appreciate the effort, Miss Tori.”

  Uh, yeah. Never mind that if we wanted to, we could go viral with that picture and probably make some money with it. Which, in case you don’t already know, we weren’t going to do.

  “Was there something you wanted to tell us, Beau?” I asked, remembering why we’d come over to speak with the Colonel in the first place.

  “Yes,” he said. “We have all been trying to offer dear Jane some degree of consolation after the upset of your last visit. I cannot tell you why, and I do not know if the information is of any use, but she seems to have developed a preoccupation with President Andrew Jackson of Tennessee.”

  Oh God. Please, no dead presidents in the mix unless their pictures are on spendable paper.

  “What do you mean ‘a preoccupation?’” I asked.

  “She just keeps repeating ‘Old Hickory’ over and over again,” the Colonel said. “You may not be aware that ‘Old Hickory” was President Jackson’s nickname. I did not know the man personally, as he died in 1845, but my father had the privilege of Mr. Jackson’s acquaintance.”

  There was no point in trying to explain the significance of hickory trees in relation to the murdered girls to Colonel Longworth. We thanked him for telling us about Jane and promised to come back to the cemetery at night just as soon as we knew anything that would help her.

  As we walked away, Tori said, “Again with the hickory trees? What the what?”

  “I’d say our research begins with just that question,” I replied.

  We had expected Beth to ride with us to the cemetery from the funeral home, but she stayed with her mother in the limo. As we approached the car now, however, the girl was sitting in the backseat waiting for us.

  Tori and I climbed in and endured a little awkward silence, which Beth finally broke. “My casket was pretty, wasn’t it?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Yes,” I agreed, looking at her in the rearview mirror, “it was.”

  “Those little roses on the lid were just like the ones on the wallpaper in my bedroom,” she said, sounding wistful. “Do you think my mom knew I was sitting with her?”

  “I do,” I told her. “Your mother told me she could feel you with her at the service.”

  “Is that what she whispered to you when she hugged you?” Beth asked.

  “Yes, it was.”

  “I wish I could hug her,” Beth said, her voice catching. She was silent for a minute and then said, “My dad’s service was at the same funeral home as mine.”

  “You’ve never talked to us about him,” I ventured tentatively.

  “I’m kind of mad at him,” Beth admitted, staring out the window at the tombstones.

  “About what?” Tori asked.

  “Because he died,” Beth said, “and because he didn’t come find me and take me some place better when I died.”

  Neither one of us knew how to respond to that, so I simply started the car and pulled away from the graveyard. After we’d driven a couple of blocks, Beth said, “Who were all those old people sitting there wearing the red-and-black ribbons?”

  Oh boy. This was going to be fun.

  “Those were the people in your graduating class,” I said.

  “My class?” Beth exclaimed. “But they looked like somebody’s parents!”

  “Honey, they probably are somebody’s parents,” Tori said. “If you were alive, you’d be 48 years old.”

  That idea threw Beth so completely for a conceptual loop, she didn’t say another word all the way back to the store. Once we were inside, for the first time since she’d been with us, she disappeared completely without a word.

  “Uh oh,” Tori said. “I don’t like that.”

  “Me either,” I agreed. “Let’s just hope she comes back later.”

  We went upstairs and changed into more comfortable clothes before camping out in the storeroom with Rodney and our laptops. For the next couple of hours, we went at the hickory thing from every angle we could imagine, even trying to figure out if there really was some sort of Andrew Jackson-worshipping death cult running amok in the area.

  Finally, I threw my hands up in disgust. “The hickory trees are just a coincidence,” I said. “We need to move on to something else.”

  All of a sudden, a small roundish object came whizzing out of nowhere and hit me right between the eyes.

  “Hey!” I yelped, jumping up from my chair and rubbing my forehead. “What the heck was that?”

  In a bid to be helpful, Rodney scampered under the sink and came out with a nut of some kind. Standing upright on his hind legs, he offered it to me. I took it, and Tori and I both bent down for a closer look.

  “What is it?” she said, as Rodney scampered up my arm and joined in our examination of the mystery object from his vantage point on my shoulder.

  Before I could answer, another one of the missiles came careening toward me, but this time, Rodney was on the case. He made a brilliant leap from my shoulder, catching the projectile in mid-air and executing a perfect three-point landing on top of Tori’s head.

  Too stunned to react, Tori looked at me with an expression that said “do something.”

  I held out my hand and Rodney climbed into my palm, clutching another one of the nuts in his paw.

  “Let’s go out on the proverbial limb here,” I said. “Myrtle, are these hickory nuts?”

  The shop responded by sending down a veritable hickory nut shower.

  “Okay, okay, stop!” I ordered. “We get it. The hickory thing isn’t a coincidence, but could you give us something else to go on?”

  At that request, an arrow winged past my nose and landed smack in the middle of the calendar on the far wall, skewering the image of Bart Simpson on the illustration.

  Which was fine with me, because what the heck was Aunt Fiona doing with a Simpsons calendar anyway?

  Being careful to put the important part first, I said, “Don’t answer me with any more arrows, but are you trying to tell us there’s a connection between the Indian thing and hickory trees?”

  Myrtle threw a confetti shower of gold stars at us and blew on an invisible party horn. Apparently, the teacher was pleased.

  “Well, okay then,” Tori said. “Back to square one. Indians and hickory trees.”

  It took us until almost 2 o’clock in the morning to find the answer. Tori was half asleep on the loveseat, but I was reading an article about Seneca Indian mythology when a single phrase jumped off the page at me “bringing the dead to life.”

  “Tori,” I said, “wake up. You have to hear this.”

  “Huh? What?” she said, sitting up blinking and trying to get her eyes to focus. “You find something?”

  “Listen to this,” I said, reading from the screen of my computer. “‘In the mythology of the Seneca peoples, the hickory tree plays a prominent role in tales associated with bringing the dead back to life. In a series of well-recorded stories, the bones of the deceased are placed at the base of a large hickory tree, often after the flesh has been consumed by cannibals.’”

  “Cannibals?!” Tori said, now fully awake.

  “Hold on,” I said. “There’s more. ‘The person who positions the bones attempts to resurrect the deceased by pushing them against the tree while commanding the departed to rise. If the departed does not rise from the dead, the tree will fall, crushing their bones to dust and ending any chance they have for a second life.’”

  “So you think some Seneca Indian tried to kill Beth to see if he could b
ring her back to life?” Tori asked.

  “No,” I said. “I think someone obsessed with Seneca Indians tried to perform the resurrection ritual.”

  “Who?” Tori asked.

  “Woodrow Evers, Jr.”

  28

  I was now more determined than ever to sneak onto the Briar Hollow Family Campground. I’d been thinking a great deal about my tomahawk-inspired vision and had developed a working theory, which I now explained to Tori.

  “If I could see Beth tied to the tree while I was holding the tomahawk,” I said, “then if I touch the tree, I should be able to see the same scene from Beth’s perspective.”

  “Which means you could see her killer,” Tori said.

  “Exactly.”

  “And we take this as proof to the authorities how?” Tori asked.

  “That I don’t know,” I admitted. “First, I think we just have to find out if WJ really is the killer.”

  “Well,” Tori said, “it’s 2 a.m. and we’re both beat, plus we have a hot guy coming for breakfast at 8 o’clock. I say we call it quits for tonight. I’ll tell Tom I have to stay an extra day and we can sneak into the campground tomorrow night.”

  “Tom is not going to be happy,” I warned.

  “When is Tom ever happy?” she countered. “Besides, the new girls are doing fine. I texted them when we got back from the funeral and they both sent me thumbs up emoticons.”

  Which was way better than that smiling little turd guy.

  I think we were both asleep before our heads hit the pillow -- or in Tori’s case, the sofa. That didn’t keep us from being up bright and early; me to feed the cats and her to start cooking.

  At about 10 minutes of 8, a strange banging filled the kitchen. Tori and I both jumped, and then I started laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Tori asked. “It sounds like the building is falling down.”

  “That’s Chase,” I said, reaching for a heavy wooden spoon. I used it to beat out a response on the pipes in corner of the kitchen, which was promptly answered with more banging from the other side of the wall.