“No, Malady, the man is right. This is his law practice from now, at least some of it.” She licked her lips and nodded at Daniel. “I'm not used to having to run things by someone. This has always been a family enterprise. It's always just been us. I guess I just need a little bit of time to adjust. It won't happen again.”
My heart sank. Norwood, Norwood, and Norwood had fallen (at least partially) into the hands of a stranger, and it was all my fault. I was happy once, and this was what came of it.
“I appreciate that,” he answered. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it looks like I’ve got some preparing to do. We’ve got a pretty big case we need to win.” He walked toward the door then, shooting me a look and smile that ridiculously made my heart skip a beat, he added, “See you around, Q.”
I groaned in response.
When the door was closed, I plopped down on the chair across from Grandma Misty. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Maybe I should have brought things to you before just taking it on, but it was Mason. And I know he didn’t do it. I just--”
“I’d have done the same thing,” she responded. “It’s fine. We’ll just have to figure out what’s going on. Daniel is pretty good about that. He paid his way through law school by doing private detective work, you know.”
“That’s the thing,” I said. “I don’t think this is in his area of expertise.”
Grandma Misty’s chair creaked as she leaned forward again. “Go on.”
“Something happened to Mason yesterday, something he can’t explain.” I swallowed hard. “I think - I think someone spelled him.”
Grandma Misty’s eyes got large. “Get the family together,” she said. “It’s time we had a meeting.”
6
“It’s Friday night, you know,” Christopher told me, staring at me with blatantly upset eyes, his arms crossed over his chest and a sour look on his face.
In his human form, he wasn’t a bad looking guy. Dark hair, olive skin; he looked a lot like his sisters, albeit without the constant bickering.
“I know that Chris,” I answered, sighing heavily as I helped him set the table. The Norwood family dinner table was the thing of legend. A huge polished wooden slab of oak on six legs, this thing had borne witness to hundreds of years of Thursday night Norwood family dinners. It was happening on Friday this week, of course. And that was an oddity that was really grinding Christopher's gears. There was a reason for it though, a complicated and likely magical one. “I'm sorry. Grandma Misty wanted to see everyone together tonight. I figured a family dinner was the most efficient way to get that done, especially considering we missed it last night.”
“Right! Last night!” he said, placing forks to the left of the plates and glaring at me accusingly. “On Thursday, when no one is doing anything racier than watching singing competitions and drinking wine coolers.” He shook his head. “Not on Friday though, not on the gateway to the weekend.”
He dropped the last of the forks loud against the table and scoffed at me. “Do you have any idea what Debbie Wilcox is probably doing right now?”
“Debbie Wilcox, the cashier at the Main Street Dress Barn?” I asked, shrugging. “Cataloguing inventory?”
“No, she's not cataloging inventory,” he spit at me. “She doesn't catalog inventory on Friday. She catalogs inventory on Tuesdays. On Fridays, she sips martinis at Rosco's Bar and transforms into a hot love goddess.” He blinked and then added. “Not literally.”
“Well, if it's not literally, then I'm not sure why you care,” I answered, grabbing a pitcher of sweet tea from the counter and filling the glasses. “Now, if it was literally, then I could totally get behind this reaction. Love goddesses are hard to come by if I remember my History of Supernatural Creatures lessons correctly.”
“I'm serious,” he said, grabbing the glass I had just filled and swallowing it in one giant gulp. It slid down his chin and covered his chest. “She's probably sitting there waiting for me right now, and I could be there if I weren't wasting my one precious ‘Gateway to the Weekend' hours on a stupid family dinner.”
“You’ve got a little on your shirt,” I said, pointing to the river of sweet tea which ran all the way down his front side.
“Sorry,” he answered. “I’m not used to drinking with lips anymore.”
“A sentence you probably don’t hear around the dinner table in other families,” I mused and refilled the glass in Christopher’s hand. “Look, I know you had stuff to do. I know you only get a little bit of time to do what you want in the run of the day, and that’s awful. But something’s going on, Chris. Something happened to Allison, and Mason is getting blamed for it. I know you knew him. You were friends on the football team.”
“Until my sixteenth birthday,” he answered. “After that, I was kind of the unofficial team mascot.” He shrugged. “Not that anyone knew that. I sort of buzzed around in the background just eating up the scenery.”
“He’s a good guy,” I said, setting the pitcher down and staring Christopher right in the face. “He doesn’t deserve what’s happening to him.”
“Unless he does,” Chris said, chugging his second glass of tea. I stepped back as the Cat’s Cradle Fighting Crows former unofficial mascot let another torrent of sugar water stream down his chest.
“What does that mean?” I asked, folding my arms across my chest.
“It means you don’t know the guy anymore, Mal,” he answered. “None of us do. We grew up. We’re at work. Well, some of us are at work. Others just kind of fly around all day. The point is we have lives. I know Mason used to be a good guy, but high school was years ago. We’ve all changed a lot since then.”
“Not that much,” I answered. “People don’t just become murderers, Chris.”
“That’s exactly what they do, Mal,” he answered. “No one’s a killer until they are. I know you used to be sweet on the guy, and I know you just went through a horrible breakup.”
“I’m not going to get all happy again if that’s what you’re worried about,” I answered, my eyes flickering to the floor. “I promise you won’t have to suffer through anymore catastrophes on my account.”
His eyes narrowed and his dark brows knit together closely. “I’m not worried about myself, stupid. I’m worried about you.” He pulled a chair out from the table and hopped onto it. Throwing his feet up on the table, he pushed a setting away with his bare feet.
“That’s disgusting,” I said, wrinkling my nose.
“It's freeing actually,” he said, smiling. “You guys have no idea how confining shoes are against your toes until you spend twenty-three hours a day without them.”
“Well, unless you want Grandma Misty chopping them off, I’d take them off the dinner table,” I chuckled. “And why on earth would you be worried about me?”
“I don’t want you losing your objectivity,” he said. “You’re a lawyer. Your good name is all you’ve got, and I don’t want you putting it at risk for a guy who used to make you feel weak in the knees.” He leveled a glare at me. “Grandma Misty told me how upset Daniel Price was you took the case on in the first place.”
“My knees are just fine,” I answered, huffing angrily and settling next to him and swatting his feet off the table myself. They landed on the hardwood floor with a thud. I ignored them and continued. “And Daniel Price can go kiss a frog for all I care. He hasn't even taken the time to learn my name, let alone the facts of the case.”
“Have you?” Chris asked, leaning forward. “Because, from what I heard, you basically told Sheriff Dots where to stick it after failing to keep Mason from confessing. That’s the other thing. The guy confessed, Mal.”
“He didn't know what he was doing,” I said, slumping onto the table myself. “He said time got away from him like he was under some spell. Like he was under the effects of magic. What does that mean?”
“It means he either angered some witch who's punishing him badly or - and this is my guess - he's doing what every guy who just pushed his fianc
ée off the top of a barn to her death would do. He's lying about what happened. Either way, it's not your issue.”
“Of course it is,” I scoffed. “I’m a witch and a lawyer. This is my business in every way.”
“And I’m a bird and a ladies’ man. You don’t see me sticking my beak in every droopy wing come mating season, do you?”
“That’s different,” I huffed. “Someone’s life is at stake here.”
“I know,” he said, standing up. “I just want you to be careful. I hope you’re right about Mason. I really do. He was a cool guy back in the day, but if you’re not - if this guy is responsible for this horrible thing - then I don’t want you getting hurt out of it.”
I blinked hard, considering for the first time that Christopher might be right and wondering what that might mean for me. “Do you mean that professionally or-or in some other way.”
“I mean in all the ways,” he said and leaned in closer. “Do you remember when we were kids? The way Agnes and Abigail used to torture me?”
I laughed lightly as the memories dripped into the forefront of my mind. “They used to hang you on tree branches from your underwear.”
“I seriously think that’s why my curse took the shape it did,” he answered, smiling back. “So that I’d never really get out of those trees.” He cleared his throat. “But the point is, you were always the one who cut me down. You were always the one who did everything for me. When they cast that spell to turn my hair pink, you told all the kids at school that I was making a stand for breast cancer awareness. Got my first girlfriend out of that,” he nudged me. “When they magically gave me webbed hands, you sewed those gloves for me so I could still play football. And when I got really depressed after I found out the shape my curse took, you were the one who was there for me.”
“You slept in a cage in my room for months,” I said, letting my hand drop into his and squeezing it.
“It was the only place I felt safe, and I only felt safe because you were there. You're probably the best person I know, Mal. You definitely have the best heart. So, regardless of what I think happened with Mason and Allison, if you think he's innocent, if you think you need to defend him, then I've got your back.” I shook my head, slapping him on the back, grateful he actually had a back right now, and grateful he had a mouth to form these words with. They meant more than I could have ever explained to him. “So, to use an old American Idol reference, what you're saying is, you're my dog.”
“I’m better than that,” Chris answered, winking at me. “I’m your bird.”
7
“Grandma Misty, don’t exert yourself,” I said, looking at the older witch waving her hand in a circular motion and causing the spoon sitting in the mashed potatoes at the end other end of the table to do the same.
While Christopher and I had set the table physically placing the plates and silverware down the way they likely had on dinner tables across the country - Grandma Misty was delivering the food in a much more unconventional manner. Of course, magic can be taxing, even for a senior witch like Grandma Misty, and with her condition, I wanted to make sure she didn't go at it too hard.
“Don’t you tell me what to do, little missy,” she answered, still waving her hand. “I was doing this sort of thing since before you owned your first starter cauldron. It’ll take more than a fractured leg to keep me from taking care of my people. I’ll tell you that.” She nodded assertively.
That was my Grandma Misty, living proof that stubbornness was more prominent a trait in the Norwood line than magic ever could be.
We all gathered around the table and started to dig in. Fried chicken, sweet potato casserole, the aforementioned mashed potatoes, and tomato pie with biscuits. It was a quintessential southern dinner, whether you happened to be a witch or not.
“The chicken is fantastic,” Sadie said, taking perfectly sized bites from her fork and dabbing her lips daintily with a napkin when she was done.
“Why are you telling her?” Abigail asked, her lips turned down distastefully at the ends. “I’m the one who made it.” She had been in a sour mood all day, which meant her date last night probably didn’t go too well. Guess a cute mute girl in a black dress with a bad attitude wasn’t the sort of man-nip she hoped for.
“You did not!” Christopher said, slapping a spoonful of casserole on his plate and laughing at his sister like the idea of her making an edible meal was about as likely as the moon falling from the sky. “You couldn’t make a grilled cheese with a diagram and a six-month head start.”
“How would you know, Sparrow?” she asked, using the nickname Christopher hated. “You’re not even eating any.”
“Of course I’m not eating any, you moron. I spent three months last year as a chicken. I’m not going to go around eating any.” He looked over at the plate uneasily. “Those guys could be my friends for all I know.”
“Well, I did,” she said, slamming her fork angrily against her plate. “In fact, I helped cook this entire dinner.” She shook her head. “And look at the thanks I get. No wonder Aunt Tilly left this place. None of you ingrates appreciate anything.”
“Enough of this!” Grandma Misty said sternly, snapping her fingers so that all of the magically stirring spoons and mystically floating tongs fell to the table. “My sister Tilly left because she wanted to, because she's always had a gypsy soul, and because with all of you grown up, there was nothing to keep her here.” She rolled her eyes. “The fact she ever stayed as long as she did was a miracle the likes of which I could never fully explain. And, Abigail, helping me slide a pan into the oven and dip a few legs of chicken into a fryer doesn't make you Emeril Lagasse. Stop pretending it does.” She looked from Abigail over to Agnes. “Now why don't you let your sister use the voice for a little while? We have bigger things to discuss, and honestly, I could use the quiet.”
Agnes perked up a little at the suggestion. She had been in possession of their shared voice for most of the day earlier and probably wasn’t expecting it so soon. The smile draped across her face said she definitely wouldn’t turn it down.
Not that Abigail was going to give it up without a fight.
“But, Grandma Misty! She’s used it all day,” she whined. “I can’t even--”
“Now,” Grandma Misty cut her off, her flat and no-nonsense tone leaving no room for discussion.
Abigail huffed and shrunk in her seat. Still, she cleared her throat loudly. The noise turned into a hum and then it transferred over to Agnes. Soon she was humming, and soon after that, Abigail was left silent and huffing with Agnes humming and grinning like a fool.
“Thank you, Grandma Misty,” she said, smartly keeping her voice demure.
Abigail shot her a look that might have withered flowers if she’d have been able to put words behind it. Instead, all she could do was sulk.
“Alright. Let’s get down to business,” Grandma Misty said, and her eyes fell right on me. “A girl is dead, her fiancé has been accused of the act, and Malady here thinks someone in town has been abusing magic to get it done. Is that an accurate synopsis of what’s gone on?”
“You forget the part about the girl being Mal’s high school nemesis and her fiancé being sweet on our girl here,” Christopher said, chuckling hard and glancing over at me.
“Shut up, Chris,” I said and thumped him in the shoulder. “He's not sweet on me. Before today, we hadn't talked in over a year.” Still, the idea that he might have been hung over me like a swinging axe. What if his feelings for me were clouding my judgment? Worse still, what if I was starting to feel something for him? I didn’t think I was, but it wouldn’t be the first time this sort of thing snuck up on me. I couldn’t risk that, not when it meant destruction for the people I cared about.
“That’s right, and he's still always looked at you like you just won prom queen or something,” he answered. “He might not have talked to you in over a year, but that doesn't mean he didn't talk about you.”
I felt my heart spee
d up just a little.
“What?” I asked, feeling heat rise into my cheeks.
“Did you really think he just got over you?” Christopher asked, rolling his eyes at me and putting on that classic, cocky smirk that had melted so many feminine hearts in town over the years.
“He was engaged, Chris,” I said uneasily, thinking about poor Allison and the way she died. “And, in case you forgot, his fiancée wasn't me.”
“Like that's ever stopped anybody before,” Christopher balked.
I gasped. If that sort of thing happened in Cat’s Cradle, it wasn’t the sort of thing I wanted to hear about, not even from someone as outspoken as Christopher.
“I really don’t care about any of this,” Grandma Misty said loudly, drumming her fingers against the floral tablecloth that had been in my family much longer than I had. “If you want sappy, overwrought drama, go watch Dawson's Island or something. What I do care about is whether or not magic is being misused in Cat’s Cradle.”
“That's not right,” I muttered. “Also, it's really old.”
“Focus, Malady,” she warned. “Otherwise I'll be taking you off the case... and possibly turning you into a gnat, depending on my mood.”
“Yes, ma'am,” I answered sheepishly. It was a joke, of course. Grandma Misty wouldn't actually turn me into a gnat (I didn't think), but she would most definitely throw me off the case. I might have been one of only two family attorneys at Norwood, Norwood, and Norwood, but she wasn't above going this one alone. And having Daniel Price raring to prove I wasn't as capable as I'd like to think, I couldn't risk that.
“Why? We're not the protectors of magic. If you ask me, we should have a very real vendetta against magic, seeing as how poorly it's treated us through the years,” Chris asked. He leaned backward and started to put his bare feet up on the table like he'd done before. Grandma Misty spun her finger in a circular manner, and Christopher's chair slammed back against the floor, his feet quickly following suit, sticking to the hardwood floor and staying put.
Cursed at First Sight: A Witchy Cozy Mystery (Cursed Coven Cozies Book 1) Page 4
