Bell, Book & Candlemas

by Jennifer David Hesse

  I allowed a small smile in return. “Thanks. I need to get to work, but I wondered about all this commotion.”

  “Just a teenager’s prank, probably.”

  “How could this happen with a police station right down the street?”

  Wes shrugged. “It’s pretty dead around here between last call at the bars and those predawn hours when some poor saps have to get up and make the doughnuts. It probably happened shortly after the three A.M. shift change when the on-duty cops were all at roll call.”

  “That doesn’t give me a lot of confidence in our police force,” I commented.

  “Right,” Wes said, with a wry grin. “Especially when they still haven’t made an arrest in any of those break-ins that happened a few weeks ago.”

  I gazed down the street, trying to recall what I had read about those earlier burglaries.

  “Anyway,” Wes continued, “this is different. From what I heard, there was no cash in the store, and nothing appears to be missing. There’s just some damaged merchandise—and, of course, the lovely graffiti.” He inclined his head toward the front of the shop, where the police officer was now shooing the spectators away. There was no sign of Mila and Catrina. They had probably gone in to start cleaning up.

  I would have liked to go help, but that would seem too strange. After all, why should I have any special interest in a New Age gift shop? Why would I be friendly enough with the “psychic” shopkeeper to help clean her store?

  Why indeed?

  As I said good-bye to Wes and headed to my office, I couldn’t shake a feeling of uneasiness about the whole scene.

  Chapter 2

  After checking messages, reviewing my calendar, and planning my agenda for the day, I grabbed a notebook and pen and walked down the hall to the corner office suite of Beverly Olsen, senior partner. Having just returned from a two-week cruise, Beverly called a special meeting of all the lawyers—three partners and five associates in all—to bring her up to speed on everyone’s projects.

  I entered Beverly’s lounge—a spacious area outfitted like a sitting room with upholstered seating, fresh flowers on side tables, and snacks on the coffee table—and joined the other attorneys in welcoming Beverly back from her vacation. She stood in front of the decorative fireplace, looking radiant and relaxed even in a power suit. Her salon-styled auburn hair was streaked with artful golden highlights, and her smiling face was softly suntanned.

  As we chatted, I noticed something new on the mantel behind her. Seeing my stare, she turned around and picked up the item, which appeared to be a long curved animal horn mounted on a wooden base. With a sparkle in her eye, she held up the brownish black piece in two hands for all to see. “What do you think?”

  I struggled to keep a neutral face. “Um, is that a souvenir from your trip?”

  She shook her head. “This was a belated Christmas gift from Edgar. I saw him at a party he hosted last night.”

  We all knew who Edgar was: Edgar Harrison, prominent businessman and top client at our firm. Among other ventures, he owned a riverboat casino, a hotel, and a number of properties around town. He was also a longtime family friend of Beverly’s.

  “It’s marvelous, isn’t it?” Beverly went on.

  “Where did it come from?” I asked. “I mean, is it a rhino horn?”

  “What’s the matter, Ms. Milanni? Does the objet d’art offend you as a vegan?”

  Offend me as a vegan? No, it offends me as a human being.

  I looked over at the source of the smarmy voice: Crenshaw Davenport III, fellow associate and perpetual thorn in my side. From his perfectly pressed pants and perfectly trimmed beard, to his perfect little side-part, he was a perfect pain in my butt. Last summer, a couple of incidents led me to believe he harbored a crush on me. As obnoxious as he was, I wasn’t so sure anymore.

  With everyone looking expectantly at me, I shrugged one shoulder. “I was just thinking it might be illegal. I’m pretty sure rhinos are endangered.”

  Beverly scoffed. “Oh, I highly doubt Edgar would have something illegal, at least not knowingly. To be safe, why don’t you do some research, Keli? Prepare a memo on wildlife import law.”

  I nodded, but Beverly had already turned to re-place the unpleasant thing. Everyone found seats and we began the meeting, leaving me to stew inwardly about this new homework—an assignment I would somehow have to fit in around my normal billable hours. Terrific.

  After the other partners updated Beverly on their cases, it was my turn for the spotlight. That is, it would have been my turn by virtue of my seat next to the last person who had spoken. Wasn’t it common courtesy to take turns, going around a room in order? Apparently, Crenshaw didn’t think so. I had barely opened my mouth when his amplified voice filled the air.

  “Beverly, you will be happy to know that, whereas you had sunny skies, I produced rain, as it were. In your absence, I picked up a new client.”

  Well done, brownnoser. I sat back in my seat and listened to Crenshaw’s oratory for the next ten minutes, doing my best to appear interested. As he finally appeared to wind down, I readied myself to jump in next. Crenshaw was still talking when there was a tap at the door. Julie, our young receptionist, poked her head in and scanned the room above her trendy horn-rimmed eyeglasses. Her eyes fell on me.

  “Keli, could you come here a minute, please?”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “There’s someone here to see you. Could you please come up front?”

  I frowned. “I don’t have any appointments this morning. Tell them I’m in a meeting, and they’re welcome to wait or come back later.”

  “Um, I really think you should come now. She’s making the other clients uncomfortable.”

  “She?”

  The sound of Beverly’s impatient throat-clearing spurred me to hop out of my seat. “Excuse me,” I said, nodding at the inquisitive group of lawyers staring at me. I followed Julie to the lobby and stopped short when I saw who she was talking about.

  With balled fists and flashing eyes, Catrina, the store clerk from Moonstone Treasures, paced like a tiger in front of Julie’s walnut reception desk. I could almost see the energy crackling around her. She seemed oblivious to the gray-haired couple shrinking into the far corner of the brown leather sofa. They were clearly repulsed at the inch-wide wooden rings stretching the tissue of Catrina’s earlobes. Or maybe it was the shaved half of her punk hairstyle that bothered them. On second thought, it might have been her ripped sweatshirt featuring the words “Heterosexually Challenged.”

  “Trina!” I said. “What’s up? Is everything okay?”

  “Catrina,” she said automatically. “And, no, everything’s not okay. Somebody is viciously attacking Mila, and it has to stop.”

  I glanced at the gray-haired couple, offering them a reassuring smile, and ushered Catrina back to my office. I had known Catrina for a few months, since meeting her and her girlfriend, Andi, at Mila’s shop. My first impression was that Catrina was intensely feminist, sweet and likeable. She went by “Trina” then and wore her dishwater blond hair in barrettes. Somewhere along the way, she began to change her image, becoming edgier and more hard core. I wasn’t sure if she was still with Andi.

  “Have a seat,” I said, shutting my office door. “Is Mila okay? I saw the store this morning, so I know what happened.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” she said. “Someone has been harassing Mila, threatening her, trying to drive her out of business. And it’s somebody who obviously hates Wiccans. That’s why they’re targeting Mila. That makes this a hate crime!”

  Whoa. Catrina was talking a mile a minute. Before I could think of a response, she continued.

  “You should see the notes Mila received! Full of anti-Wiccan bigotry and fundamentalist bullshit. It’s getting worse and worse. First it was private, but now it’s public. The police are worthless, and Mila’s at her wits’ end. Keli, Mila needs you. Moonstone needs you. The whole Wiccan community needs you.
You have to help!”

  I opened my mouth but couldn’t seem to form any words. As Catrina’s intense gaze bore a hole through me, I finally found my voice. “Catrina, I’m not sure how I can help.”

  That set her off again.

  “This is not only property damage and harassment we’re talking about here—it’s a violation of our constitutional rights! Mila needs legal representation. She needs justice. We also need to raise awareness about this, about the fact that witches are still being persecuted even in this day and age.”

  I chewed my lip and looked at Catrina. I was conflicted. What she was saying was pretty disturbing, and I really was concerned about Mila. Mila had been like a big sister to me, or at least a hip aunt, always there to listen and offer helpful advice. With Farrah, I could gossip endlessly about men, but with Mila I could obsess over the love spell I’d cast shortly before I met Wes. Farrah and I could gab about music and books and politics. But with Mila, I could discuss symbolic dreams, signs from the Goddess, lunar phases, and herbal magic.

  On the other hand, I was inwardly recoiling at Catrina’s suggestion about raising public awareness. For one thing, my firm intentionally avoided controversy and politics. Discretion is what most clients expected of us.

  Then there was also the small matter of protecting my secret Wiccan identity.

  The phone on my desk rang, reminding me I had real clients to see that day. I let the call go to voicemail and took a deep breath before speaking.

  “Catrina, I hear what you’re saying, and I would like to help. Really, I would. But, this is a criminal matter. You should just let the police conduct their investigation. Besides, until the perpetrator is identified, we have no one to sue.”

  Catrina looked as if she wanted to keep arguing, but then thought better of it. She nodded. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  Not if I can help it. I needed to speak to Mila. I wondered if she even knew her employee had come to me. Maybe Mila could keep Catrina from showing up at my office again. I couldn’t have the girl frightening clients and drawing unwanted attention to myself.

  * * *

  As it happened, the day flew by, giving me no chance to skip out. After working straight through lunch, I looked up to see that it was now dinnertime. I stood up from my desk, stretched, and shut off my computer. After grabbing my purse, I flicked off my light and headed down the hall—only to run smack-dab into Crenshaw, who was trying to pull on his suit coat and pocket his keys at the same time, all while looking over his shoulder toward Beverly’s office.

  “Oh, pardon me!” he exclaimed.

  Startled, I could only laugh.

  “I must run,” he said. “A thousand apologies.”

  I stared as Crenshaw hurried away. Smelling rose perfume, I turned to see Pammy Sullivan waft out of her office next. With smooth ash-blond waves, raspberry-red lips, and classic white pearls, Pammy today resembled a plus-size Grace Kelly, circa 1980. I smiled at her as she walked up to me.

  “Oh, Keli. I’m glad I ran into you. After you left the meeting this morning, we talked about the Groundhog Festival. We’re sponsoring a float in the parade, and I’m collecting donations. It’s less than two weeks away, so if you can bring in your contribution tomorrow that would be great.”

  “Sure, no problem. Gosh, is it really less than two weeks away? I’m supposed to be doing the 10K, and I don’t feel a bit ready.”

  Pammy waved away my concern. “Oh, I’m sure you have nothing to worry about. You’re in such great shape. Did you hear Rhett Shelby is performing at the festival?”

  “Who?”

  “Rhett Shelby, the big country music star?”

  I shook my head. I had a hard time keeping up with popular music trends, country or otherwise. My tastes ran to the more indie and eclectic.

  “This festival is the first big event since Tish Holiday took over as the city’s tourism director. It seems like she really knows how to draw a crowd.”

  “Mmm.” Pammy’s chatter was wearing me out. My mind had gone back to the 10K I had committed to running with Farrah. When was I going to find time to train? Over the summer, when we signed up, I had no problem hitting the trail just about every evening. Then work picked up, especially when I was forced to take on half the caseload of a former associate who had abruptly left the job. But that was another story.

  After saying good night to Pammy, I walked out into the cool, dark evening and headed toward Mila’s shop. It wasn’t yet 7:00 P.M., so the shop should have been open. By the light of the street lamps, I saw that the windows had been repaired and the graffiti removed, but the sign on the door said CLOSED. Cupping my hands around my eyes, I peered through the glass to see if perhaps there was a light on in the back room. All appeared dark.

  For the heck of it, I walked around the side of the building to the narrow alley, where I knew Mila usually parked. There were a couple parking spots next to the steel door that served as Moonstone’s delivery entrance. The spaces were empty.

  Standing by the Dumpster, I tried to decide what to do next. I had only ever interacted with Mila at her shop. I didn’t know her phone number or her home address. It seemed strange, now that I thought about it.

  I returned to the front of the shop to take one last look before walking home. Whoever Mila hired to do the repairs had done a good job. There was no trace of the earlier destruction. I sighed, remembering Catrina’s tirade, and turned to cross the street, when a glint of something in the gutter caught my eye. On the boulevard near the curb, the slush was littered and dirty—likely from the morning crowd. Leaning over to pick up the shiny object that was pressed into the slush, I discovered it was the broken face of a small clock. The metal arrow-shaped hands were bent, but the whole face was intact. I flipped it over and realized it must have popped out of some sort of casing, leaving the clockworks behind.

  Turning back to the dark shop, I wondered if the clock had been among the damaged merchandise Wes had mentioned. I slipped the piece in my coat pocket, promising myself to ask Mila. That is, if I could ever seem to catch up to her.

  Chapter 3

  A friend in need is a friend indeed. A friend in need is a friend indeed. . . .

  All evening, the saying kept going through my head. On my way home from work, I had passed an older gentleman in a baggy suit feeding pigeons from a bench by the courthouse. He had smiled happily, muttering to his feathered friends. The words that caught my attention naturally made me think of Mila. What kind of friend was I, not to check in on her earlier today?

  After a late supper of spinach salad and spiced quinoa with chickpeas, I curled up on the couch with my laptop and pulled up the website for Moonstone Treasures. On the “Contact” page, I sent Mila a message asking her to give me a ring. That done, I browsed on the Internet until I found myself on the homepage of the Edindale Gazette, searching for photos by Wesley Callahan.

  Why had he stopped calling me? Was he really not into me? I began to question whether I had been mistaken about the signals I’d picked up from the man. We’d always had a great time together. The attraction was unmistakable. Wasn’t it?

  The buzz of my cell phone made me jump. I reached over to grab it from an end table. It was an unfamiliar local number, but somehow I still knew who it was.

  “Hello? Mila?”

  “Hi, Keli. I hope it’s not too late.”

  “Not at all. I’m glad you got my e-mail.”

  “Catrina set it up so that she gets alerts every time there’s a message sent through the Moonstone website. She’s here now, so she gave me your number.”

  Catrina. Of course. So much for circumventing the punky little pit bull.

  “Mila, are you okay? I just wanted to check in on you, and see if . . . if there’s anything you need.” I hesitated slightly, careful not to offer something I couldn’t deliver.

  “I’m fine, just fine. Circle is here. We just finished our meeting. My husband is out of town this week—construction job near St. Louis. I convi
nced him there was no need to come home. So, the ladies stayed late tonight. They didn’t think I should be alone. It’s so silly. We just finished, and—” She faltered, as if aware she was beginning to babble.

  “Mila, if you’re not too tired, I’d like to stop by. Where do you live?”

  She gave me her address without any argument, in spite of the late hour. By the time I threw on my coat and drove the ten blocks to her house, it was after 10:30.

  Mila lived in a well-kept subdivision on the edge of town, bordering a patch of privately owned woods. I parked on the street in front of her red-brick bungalow and walked up the lighted path to her front door. No sooner had I pressed the doorbell than the door swung open. Catrina ushered me inside, eyes flashing excitedly. The dishwater-blond hair on the unshaven half of her head stuck out as if she’d been twisting it worriedly.

  “You’ve made the right decision,” she said. “I knew I could count on you.”

  “Oh, I didn’t—”

  There was no point arguing. Catrina had turned her back, motioning me to follow her through the foyer and into the living room. When I walked through the arched entryway into the cozy, candlelit space, I saw Mila sitting on a cushy green sofa next to a young redheaded woman I was surprised to see. I recognized her from my visit to the English department at South Central Illinois University last summer. Both women looked up and smiled at me, and Mila patted the seat next to her.

  “Professor Eisenberry,” I said, as I walked over to join them. “I didn’t know you were in Mila’s . . . group.” As a Solitary Wiccan, I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of joining a coven. Mila had tried several times to coax me into attending a gathering of the sisterhood she called “Magic Circle.” Now it seemed she almost had her wish, though the meeting was over and everyone else had left.

  “Call me Max,” the professor said warmly. “Small world, isn’t it? I think it’s so excellent that you’re taking an interest in Mila’s situation. I told everyone in Circle how you caught a thief and recovered that stolen Shakespeare Folio last year.”