Bell, Book & Candlemas

by Jennifer David Hesse

  I frowned slightly. “I’ve been pretty busy. I don’t think anyone’s going to make partner until the firm hires some more associates. And that’s not going to happen for at least a few more months yet, when there’s a new crop of law school graduates in May.”

  Wes nodded, chewing on his sandwich and waiting for me to continue.

  “Um, congratulations on your new job. How are you liking it?” I asked.

  “It’s good. It pays the bills. I mean, when I’m taking pictures for the paper, I don’t get to be as creative as I’d like to be. But it’s still a good fit for me. I can still ‘make art’ on my own time.” Wes gave me a brief crooked grin, then fell silent again.

  I was starting to feel awkward about imposing upon him. There was definitely a strange, dense energy between us. As I nibbled on my lunch, I found myself looking around the room, wishing there was a candle I could light and wondering if there were any way I could subtly cast an air-clearing spell.

  “I have that paper you wanted,” Wes said, interrupting my thoughts. He reached into a scuffed leather satchel and pulled out a rolled-up newspaper, which he set on the table.

  “Great, thanks. I thought about looking for it at the public library, but I figured you could probably access it faster. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble. I didn’t want to bother you.”

  Raising one eyebrow, Wes shook his head slowly. “You’re not bothering me. You’re kind of mystifying me, though.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, never mind.” Wes took another bite, polishing off his sandwich, and then took a swig of soda. “I’m sure you need to get back to the office,” he said, pushing back his chair. “Time is money, right?”

  “Hang on,” I said. Irritation bubbled over, drowning out any remaining qualms. “What is going on? What did you mean when you said I mystify you? Why are you acting like this?”

  Wes sat back down and shrugged. “I don’t know what to say. I thought you didn’t want to see me anymore, and then you called and invited me out. And then, I don’t know . . . I’m getting mixed signals from you.”

  My mouth dropped open, and I quickly closed it. “You thought I didn’t want to see you? You’re the one who failed to return my calls!”

  Wes scoffed. “Not so. I left you, like, three or four messages, and you never called me back. I can take a hint.”

  “You left me messages? When?”

  “I don’t know, last fall. A few weeks after our last date, I guess.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, the light suddenly dawning. “The last I heard from you was a text, saying you’d call me later. Then, nothing. But . . . there were a few days when my cell phone was acting weird. I had to take it in to the dealer and have them reinstall the operating system. I lost a bunch of data. . . . ” I trailed off, feeling like a fool.

  Wes closed his eyes and let out an audible breath. Then he opened his eyes and gazed at me with a sheepish grin. “I should have called again. I’m sorry.”

  “No, I should have called you. I was so busy at work that time sort of got away from me. It never occurred to me that I missed your calls.”

  I gave Wes an apologetic look and wondered if there was any way we could pick back up where we left off a couple months ago. I also began to realize how the misunderstanding had happened. I had first met Wes shortly after casting a love spell. Ever since then, I had had these nagging doubts about the authenticity of our relationship. As a result, I had started to let him take the lead more and more, leaving it up to him to call me. That was why I didn’t call him.

  “Come on,” Wes said. He squeezed my shoulder gently and gathered our trays. “I’ll walk you back to your office. I’m going that way anyway.”

  I pulled on my jacket and followed Wes toward the exit. Before leaving, he stopped at the counter and purchased a ready-made sandwich, a bag of potato chips, and a bottle of water, which he stuffed in a brown paper sack. Leave it to Wes to be thinking ahead to his dinner.

  “So, you really thought I was blowing you off?” I asked, as we strolled down the sidewalk. The warmth from our heated exchange—not to mention our close proximity—kept the chilly air at bay.

  “Well, yeah. I thought maybe you’d started seeing someone else. Like another lawyer. I thought maybe you’d grown tired of slummin’ with a struggling artist.”

  Before I could respond, Wes grabbed my hand and led me toward the town square next to the courthouse. “This’ll just take a second,” he said, as we approached the bench where the elderly man in a baggy suit sat surrounded by pigeons pecking at crusts of bread. The pigeons scattered as we drew near, but they soon crept back.

  “Hello, Charlie,” said Wes. “Nice day today, huh?”

  Charlie looked up at Wes and beamed, revealing the gaps where his front teeth used to be. Deep wrinkles creased his yellowed skin, but his eyes shone brightly. “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor,” he chirped. “Beautiful day, beautiful neighborhood. Beautiful day, beautiful neighbor.”

  Wes nodded and handed Charlie the bag of food from the bakery. “Yes, it is,” he agreed.

  Charlie’s bony fingers crinkled the top of the bag, but he didn’t open it. His eyes fell upon me then, and his gums worked soundlessly until he began his chant again. “It’s a beautiful day for a neighbor. A beautiful day for a beauty.”

  Grinning, Wes put his arm around my shoulders. “She is a beauty, isn’t she, Charlie? You’ve got a good eye there.”

  I smiled at Charlie and felt beyond moved at Wes’s thoughtfulness. It suddenly hit me how much I had missed him. It felt so good to have the air cleared between us. This lunch date had turned out so much better than I could have imagined. After bidding the old man a good day, we continued down the sidewalk hand in hand.

  “How did you meet Charlie?” I asked, after we had crossed the street.

  “I was experimenting with street photography a few weeks ago, especially around the square. Charlie kept showing up in my pictures, so I decided to get to know him. He’s a real sweet guy.”

  As we neared Moonstone Treasures, I paused, thinking of Mila.

  “Wes, I’m going to stop in here before I go back to the office. I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “Promise?” Wes said, the corner of his mouth twitching playfully.

  “Cross my heart.”

  * * *

  The sound of delicate chimes followed me into the shop, but when the jingling died away it was unusually quiet. Normally, Mila would have classical or world music playing softly in the background. The air was thick with the scent of a cloying herbal incense. Coughing and squinting to protect my eyes, I walked through the shop until I found Mila in the book section of her store. She held a ceramic dish in one hand, while using the back of her other hand to waft the aromatic smoke toward the edges of the room.

  “That’s a little strong, don’t you think?” I asked, blinking back tears.

  Mila looked at me and dropped her hand. “Is it? I’m sorry. I’ll prop the door open for a few minutes. Let me just find Drishti first, so she doesn’t escape.”

  I glanced around the shop looking for Mila’s cat. Maybe she was upstairs hiding among the flowing dresses, capes, and other clothing for sale. “You don’t usually bring her to work, do you?”

  “Not usually,” said Mila, putting the incense in a cabinet behind the register. “But I feel safer when she’s near. Can I get you some tea or water?”

  “No, thanks,” I said, joining her by the counter. “I just wanted to see how you’re doing. The shop looks good. You’d never guess there was a break-in here.”

  “Not unless you know where to look.” Mila pointed to a small crack on the top of a glass display case. “I bagged up all the damaged merchandise and cast a spell to contain its dark energy. I don’t want to throw it out until this person is caught.”

  I noted the circles under Mila’s eyes and felt a pang of sympathy. “Nothing was stolen, right?”

 
“Actually,” said Mila, “there is one thing I couldn’t find. A small mantel clock made of mahogany and brass. There was a little poem about the circle of life etched around the face of the clock.”

  “Oh!” I suddenly remembered. “I think I found part of that clock on the ground outside, on my way home from work yesterday. It’s in the pocket of my other coat.”

  Mila frowned. “I guess they didn’t want the piece for its beauty then. That must be what they threw to break the window.”

  I turned and looked at the repaired storefront window and thought for a moment. “You mean the window was broken from the inside? Then how did the vandal get in?”

  “The police said they either picked the lock or had a key. The doorknob was so old and scratched up, it was impossible to tell. I always meant to change the lock after I bought this place, but I never got around to it. Until yesterday, of course. So, it’s possible there were other keys—”

  A sharp scream from the back room interrupted Mila. We both jumped, looking at one another in alarm. Together, we rushed through the gauzy purple curtain, past the round table where Mila gave private psychic readings, and into the storage half of the back room. Catrina was standing by the open back door. She held a sheet of white paper by the tips of her fingers like a used tissue.

  “Catrina, what is it?” said Mila breathlessly. “Are you okay?”

  “It’s another creepy note,” said Catrina, through gritted teeth. “It says, ‘Witch be gone’ above another Bible reference.”

  “Why did you scream?” I asked, looking around the room. Nothing seemed to be out of place. Metal shelves lined the long wall, holding neatly stacked boxes of inventory. In the nearest corner to my left, two tall filing cabinets flanked a built-in desk on which sat a computer and some papers. To my right, a pair of Japanese folding screens separated the unadorned storeroom from the warmly decorated divination area.

  “It freaked me out,” said Catrina. “I had just taken out the trash, and when I returned, it was right there on the floor in front of me, as if it had materialized out of nowhere.”

  Mila dropped into the office chair by her computer desk. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a blur of gray cross the floor, and then Drishti sprang into Mila’s lap. Wordlessly, Mila began stroking her cat.

  I turned back to Catrina, who handed me the paper. “I’ll look up the Bible verse,” she said, pulling a phone out of her back pocket.

  As I scrutinized the sheet of paper, I saw there was a piece of dusty Scotch tape along the top edge.

  “This must have been taped to the back door,” I said. “It probably blew into the room when you went outside.” Even as I said it, I realized this theory didn’t make sense. The door opened outward, toward the alley. If the note was taped to the door outside, it should have fallen outside, not inside.

  “Let me see those numbers again,” said Catrina, taking the paper from me. She glanced at the note and then read from her phone: “‘Revelation 21:8: But cowards, unbelievers, the corrupt, murderers, the immoral, those who practice witchcraft, idol worshipers, and all liars—their fate is in the fiery lake of burning sulfur. This is the second death.’”

  For a moment, none of us said anything. Then Mila sighed. Addressing her cat, she spoke quietly. “I don’t know who’s doing this, Drishti. Whoever they are, their ill will is going to come right back to them. By the Rule of Three, that which they are giving shall return to them threefold. And, when the time is right, I will do everything in my power to make sure it does.”

  Chapter 5

  As soon as I returned to my office, I called Farrah to cancel our after-work run. I apologized profusely and promised I’d make it up to her. I blamed it on my heavy workload—which was partly true. Mostly, though, I needed to do something to help Mila.

  I pulled out the old newspaper Wes had retrieved for me and opened to the opinion page. It didn’t take long to find the letter I was looking for. Written in the lofty language of a dogmatist, the letter condemned all psychics as “agents of the Devil” and repeatedly referred to Mila as an “avowed witch.” The letter urged city officials to deny her application for a business license. It was signed by Reverend Nathanial “Natty” Schmidt of the First Church of the New Believers, over on Hickory Street.

  For the next several minutes, I perused the Internet for everything I could find out about Reverend Natty. Apparently, he was a native of Edindale and a college dropout who had started his own church about twenty years ago as an offshoot of another Evangelical church he felt was becoming too modern. As such, his “New Believers” denomination took a more literalist approach to biblical interpretation—and they weren’t shy about vocalizing their position. As I soon learned, Reverend Natty was a regular contributor to the opinion page of the Edindale Gazette, railing against everything from women’s rights and gay marriage to Star Wars and Harry Potter.

  In spite of—or perhaps because of—his extremism, Reverend Natty seemed to have attracted quite a following. According to the church website, more than two hundred congregants counted themselves as members of the First Church of the New Believers. In fairness, it appeared their work wasn’t all about opposition. As proponents of abstention, they were particularly welcoming of recovering alcoholics.

  I was so engrossed in my reading I didn’t hear the tap on my door until it was accompanied by a shrill birdlike whistle. I jerked my head up to see Julie standing there with an expression of amused sympathy.

  “Your client’s in the waiting room,” she said.

  “Oh! Thank you, Julie,” I said, glancing at the clock on my computer. “Please bring her in.”

  I switched off my computer screen and cleared off the small round table in the corner of my office. I was dragging a second chair to the table when Julie ushered in my client, a tired-looking young woman wearing slacks and a nice sweater.

  “How are you, Alisha? Did Julie offer you something to drink?”

  “Fine, and yes,” said Alisha, holding up a plastic bottle of water. “I’m just eager to get this over with so I can move on with my life.”

  “Of course,” I said, grabbing a file folder from my desk. “This shouldn’t take long. I have good news for you. They’ve agreed to our terms.”

  As we took our seats, I flipped open to a clean page in a yellow legal pad and made a note of the time. Then I handed Alisha a copy of the custody agreement I had negotiated with her soon-to-be-ex-husband’s attorney. I proceeded to go over every provision, making sure she understood all of the terms, and answered all her questions as we went. In less than an hour, we had finished, and she signed and initialed all the appropriate spaces.

  Sitting back in her chair, Alisha exhaled. “You know,” she said, “the thing that bugs me most is that I can’t just pick up and move now. I mean, I’m glad we have joint custody; I know this is for the best. I just hate that I’m kind of stuck here now.”

  I looked at her in surprise. “I thought you were happy here,” I said. “I thought Edindale was a good place to raise children. The schools here are supposed to be really good, right?” Hoping to have children myself one day, I paid attention to such things.

  “Well, yeah,” Alisha agreed. “But, I’m worried crime is on the rise. There have been all those burglaries that the police can’t seem to solve. And there was all the ruckus with that occult bookstore, or whatever it is.” She made air quotes when she mentioned the “occult bookstore” and shook her head in disgust.

  I said something vaguely reassuring to Alisha, as I walked her out of my office. Inside, I lamented the fact that Mila was the one getting a bad rap just for being the victim of a crime. I could hardly wait for the end of the day, so I could do some investigating and, hopefully, shed some light on Mila’s problem.

  * * *

  It was nearly 8:00 P.M. when I steered my silver-blue Ford Fusion into a street-side parking space in front of the First Church of the New Believers. After cutting the engine, I pulled up the collar on my long wool coat and
peered over at the white clapboard building. To me, it looked more like a quaint old house with a steeple than a vibrant church large enough to hold two hundred congregants.

  Stepping out of my car and into the cold air, I gazed at the dark church. The only light came from a basement window on the west side of the building. From what I had read on the church’s website, I knew there was an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting from 7:00 to 8:00. My plan was to strike up a conversation with someone in charge as soon as the meeting let out.

  With a flutter in my stomach, I walked up the sidewalk, wishing Farrah were with me. I should have asked her to come along! As a legal software saleswoman, she was a much better schmoozer than I could ever pretend to be.

  As soon as the door opened and a young man came out, I slipped inside and walked downstairs, following the sound of cheerful voices. Before long, I found myself in a bright wood-paneled room with folding chairs arranged in a circle on the linoleum floor. In the back of the room, an old green card table held a coffee urn and several packages of store-bought cookies.

  Luckily, I didn’t recognize any of the attendees chatting over coffee or leaving the meeting. But the tall man shaking hands at the doorway looked vaguely familiar. Spotting me, he immediately pasted on a practiced smile and waved me over.

  “I’m afraid you’ve just missed the meeting,” he said good-naturedly. “Welcome. I’m Natty Schmidt, pastor, preacher, and founder of New Believers. Most folks call me Reverend Natty, but it’s not a requirement.” He flashed a toothy grin.

  I offered my hand, and he grasped it with both of his. His penetrating eyes made me feel uncomfortable, but I managed a small smile.

  “Hi, I’m Keli. I’m actually here to pick up some information for a friend,” I said, not caring if he thought the information was actually for myself. “Do you need to sign up for these meetings?”

  “Not at all,” the pastor replied. “We’re more than happy to have folks just show up. We understand that oftentimes it’s a last-minute decision.” He shifted his gaze and waved at someone over my shoulder. As he said good-bye to a middle-aged woman with gray hair, I suddenly remembered where I had seen the pastor before. He was one of the people who had passed by me in front of Mila’s shop. His companion had made a nasty remark about the shop being bad news.