by Ward Parker
Wendall turned away and began reeling in the line on one of his rods. “Wouldn't know about that.”
Wendall had a long, craggy face with a lantern jaw clamped tight with thought. His eyebrows were white and his eyes slate-blue. He used to be one of the most famous wizards in Florida at his peak.
“Do you have confidence in the investigation that cleared her? Bob said there were some doubts about it.”
He turned back to her, his eyes troubled. “I trusted it.”
He said nothing while he reeled in the rest of his line and found an empty hook beneath a sliding sinker. He baited it with a live shrimp from a bucket and tossed it back into the ocean.
Missy wanted to push him to say more but stayed silent. Finally, he spoke again.
“The investigator was a smart man,” he said.
“Bob told me some in the Guild back then practiced black magic.”
“Black magic is like cancer. It spreads and metastasizes. The witches of the Guild responsible for finding and eliminating black magic in our territory sometimes got a little too close to what they were trying to root out. Once you dabble in black magic, it corrupts your soul.”
“So, the investigator, who believed Ophelia’s alibi that she was in Orlando, was corrupt?” Missy asked.
“I didn’t say that. I believe he was an honest wizard.”
“Is he still alive? Can I speak with him?”
“I think he is. He’s in a nursing home called Wellbrook, west of town. Name’s Tommy Albinoni. You can tell him I sent you.”
“Thank you.”
“And I’ll give you one more name. Eliza-May Jenkins.”
“Who’s she?”
“At the time of the incident, she was a young witch-in-training. She was an acolyte of your father. Totally smitten by him, in fact. She spent a lot of time with him. Maybe she knows something useful. Maybe not.”
“Do you know where to find her?”
“Not a clue, my dear. You might have to use some magic.”
Actually, Missy used some Google. Eliza-May was an actor. She had dozens of commercials and low-budget films among her credits, but her mainstay was local and regional theater. Her name popped up in several recent productions at the San Marcos Playhouse, including one that was currently running. Missy could not find any personal contact information for the actor, aside from her social media pages. So, she decided to drop by the theater downtown.
She had hoped to wander in and find the actor doing whatever actors do when they’re not on stage. But there was a matinee performance in progress. She knew she wouldn’t be allowed backstage after the show, so she sat on a bench outside the theater. If she was lucky, Eliza-May would step out for some fresh air during the downtime before the evening performance.
Missy was lucky. After all the audience had exited the theater, a group of younger folks, who looked like stagehands, left. A little while later, a thin woman in casual clothes stepped out onto the sidewalk.
Missy recognized her instantly as Eliza-May. She was older than the headshots found on the internet, probably in her late sixties. And she’d definitely had some plastic surgery done. But she held herself with confidence and poise, with all the airs of a diva who could command attention on the stage. Even though the stage was in little ‘ol San Marcos.
The actor squared her shoulders and headed down the street. Missy didn’t know how to approach her without seeming like a crazed fan.
Half a block ahead, the actor entered a historic-looking tavern. Missy followed, waited a couple of minutes, then went inside.
When her eyes adjusted to the dark interior, she spotted Eliza-May in a booth with a tiny lamp and lampshade. Eliza-May returned the menu to a male server with her order.
Missy sat at the bar and ordered a cola.
“Excuse me,” she said to the server as he passed by. “Could you please tell Ms. Jenkins her meal is on me?”
The server smirked, thinking Missy was a psycho-fan. “Sure.”
He returned to the table, spoke to the actor, and nodded toward Missy. The actor smiled warily.
Missy walked over.
“Thank you so much, dear, but I cannot accept,” the actor said. She had a southern accent and a flamboyant style like Blanche from A Streetcar Named Desire.
“Please, I insist. I’m not some crazed fan. I wanted to meet you because you once knew my father. My name is Missy, and he was Ted Lawthorne.”
Eliza-May’s eyes opened in shock. Missy didn’t know if it was real or acting.
“You’re Ted’s daughter?”
Missy nodded. “After his death, I was raised by his cousin’s family. I knew very little about Ted until recently.”
Eliza-May struggled inwardly. Was she going to welcome Missy, or run away?
“Please sit down, dear.”
Missy grabbed her soda and slid into the booth across from her.
“I didn’t know you had survived,” Eliza-May said. “There was a rumor at the time the demon had killed you, too.”
“Who summoned the demon? They made it sound as if my father did it and lost control of the demon. But he would never do black magic. At least, that’s the impression I have of him.”
“You are correct. Ted disdained the black arts. He was a great man, your father. I practically worshipped him. He not only knew more magick than anyone else, but he also developed new spells. Healing spells and other beneficial magick.”
“I suspect my mother summoned the demon to kill him,” Missy said. “What do you think?”
“Of course, she was accused of it. She was the first person who came to my mind. But the Guild’s internal investigators cleared her. To be honest, she wasn’t the only witch or wizard secretly involved with black magic at the time. It’s quite possible someone else summoned the demon.”
“But why? Who else would want to kill my father?”
“A rival.”
“A rival? It’s not like my father was a drug lord. He was a witch. There weren’t territories or profits to fight over. And being jealous of his abilities doesn’t seem enough reason to kill him.”
“A rival for my affection,” Eliza-May said. “Jealous that I was in love with your father. I’m talking about my boyfriend.”
“Oh, wow. I didn’t expect for you to go there.”
“I’m just speculating he may have done it. The possibility occurred to me after your mother was cleared of the crime.”
“So were you and my father . . .”
“Intimate? Yes, but only after he separated from your mother.”
“I never thought the Magic Guild would be so melodramatic,” Missy said. “The only witches I know back home other than me are old crones and a real estate agent. No one’s a rival. No one slays people with demons.”
“Well, the more witches you have per square mile, the more melodrama there is. San Marcos is like Ground Zero for magicians. And those days back then were a golden age for magic.”
“They don’t sound so golden to me.”
“It did get to be too much. That’s why I left the field. I wanted an honest job. If you can call acting honest.”
“You’ve completely given up magic?”
“Mostly, except for a few spells now and then, like when a fellow actor forgets his line. Or a stoplight is red for too long.”
“Can I ask who this boyfriend was? And how to reach him? I want to talk to him, even if he’s not honest with me.”
“You can’t talk to him,” Eliza-May said.
“Why not?”
“He’s dead. He was a much older man when we dated, and too many years have gone by since then.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. Can I have his name, though?”
“No. I promised him I’d never divulge it.”
Missy didn’t know what to say.
The server arrived with Eliza-May’s burger.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to pay for my meal anymore,” the actor said.
“I still do. Every
bit of information helps.”
Next, she needed to speak with Tommy Albinoni, who had been the Guild’s investigator. The Wellbrook Assisted Living facility was outside of town, in a leafy area just past a veterinarian and a landscaping store. The single-story brick structure looked old but well maintained.
As she pulled in and passed the sign for the facility, Missy's eye caught a strange symbol in the bottom corner. It was an emblem with the letters "MG.” The public would have no idea what the symbol meant, but Missy knew it represented the Magic Guild.
So, this was a retirement center supported by the Guild. The folks living here were retired witches, wizards, and mages. Bingo Night must get really crazy, she thought.
The middle-aged woman at the front desk didn't seem like she had magic in her, but Missy's senses couldn't always be reliable in determining that.
“Could you please tell Tommy Albinoni that he has a visitor?” Missy asked. “A friend of a friend.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“No, but I’ll wait.”
She sat in a plastic chair and did just that: waited. For an hour. What did Albinoni have to do that was so important he couldn't come see her? Macrame class?
During the excruciating wait, a group of residents walked by, headed outside. The women all used canes and seemed normal. Until they got outside, that is. One of them began levitating and chased a squirrel up a tree. Another waved her hands, and the clothing flew off a male landscape worker. The naked, muscular guy continued with his weed-whacking, oblivious to his nudity. The woman who had hexed his clothes off, was not oblivious to it at all.
About twenty minutes later, the front door opened on its own. Missy wondered what had caused it. Then, a case of beer floated into the building and headed down the hallway.
The front-desk worker cursed and ran after the beer, catching the case and carrying it back to the lobby. She dialed a number on the switchboard.
“Mr. Johnson, your doctor said no more drinking! Knock it off.”
Finally, a male aide pushed a wizened man in a wheelchair down the main hallway.
“Are you Mr. Albinoni’s visitor?” the aide asked.
“Yes,” Missy said, standing. “Hello, Mr. Albinoni. I’m Missy Mindle.”
“Yeah, what do you want?” the elderly man asked in a gruff voice with a hint of an Italian accent.
“My parents were Ted and Ophelia Lawthorne,” she said, waiting to observe his reaction.
There was none.
“So what?”
“You oversaw the Guild’s investigation of my father’s death. You ruled it murder by a demon.”
“Right. Asmodeus it was.”
“Many in the Guild suspected my mother was the one who summoned the demon. You ruled her out. Why?”
“From what I remember, her alibi held up. She was too far away from the death scene to have controlled the demon.”
“You simply took her word for it?”
“No, I corroborated it.” He was angry. “I don’t appreciate being accused of malfeasance. There was no wizard more concerned with integrity than me. Not just my personal integrity, but the Guild’s, as well. We must be just and righteous. We must be impartial. Even the hint of not living up to those qualities completely erodes our authority. And then what do we have? A Guild must be trusted absolutely, or no one would follow its rules. We regulate the supernatural and paranormal, and people who study those arts are always pushing limits. How could we claim authority to regulate them if we’re seen as biased and corrupt?”
“So, you’re telling me I just need to trust you?” Missy asked.
“Yes! You have no respect for institutions. But you will when you’re no longer young.”
“I’m not young. I’m in my forties.”
“You’re a baby, young lady, to someone like me.”
“Thank you. I guess.”
“Well, go on about your business. I have nothing else to tell you.”
“You know of no one who could have summoned the demon?”
“No. I didn’t then, and I don’t now. There is no forensic evidence when you summon a demon, aside from the paraphernalia you used in the ceremony. And that is almost worthless as hard evidence. Daniel, I am done with this interview. Please wheel me to the Pilates studio.”
So, off he went, leaving Missy with nothing. Still, Albinoni was a bit too defensive. Maybe, there was more he hadn’t told her.
`The text from Agnes was cryptic:
“Please return to Jellyfish Beach at once. The war has begun.”
Missy drove straight to the Esperanza Inn, gathered her things, and checked out. She gave Darla a big hug.
“When will you come back?” Darla asked.
“Very soon. I still have several stones to uncover.”
She threw her bag into her old Toyota, recited a spell to ensure it wouldn’t break down, and headed toward a crisis of unknown dimensions.
9
Playing Through
The foursome from Dearborn, Michigan, were the only humans on the golf course. The men, in town for a ball-bearing convention, were such atrocious players that six hours after they teed off, they still hadn’t completed eighteen holes. What fooled them was the golf course’s late closing time. They had believed this meant the course was lighted.
They were wrong. The course stayed open until 3:00 a.m. because it accommodated the vampire retirees in Jellyfish Beach, and vampires didn’t need lights to see what they were doing. The owner of the club was a vampire, as were most of the club members. During the day, a small number of human players enjoyed an uncrowded course. They would leave before sundown. And then, the vampires would tee off.
Except tonight, the four Michiganders were still stumbling around in the darkness on the sixteenth green.
Until the stars were blotted out by immense dark shapes flying above.
“What the heck is that?” asked Fred Dwimblebutt, Senior Ball Bearing Sales Consultant. He pointed to a dark shape sweeping across the sky directly toward them.
“A bat?” asked his protege, Pablo Pascales.
“That’s awfully big for a bat,” said Doug Delish, Ball Bearing Design Director. “Of course, this is Florida, so I’m not surprised they have freakishly large bats.”
“Maybe we should wrap this up,” Billy Pickler whined. “I can’t find my ball. Can’t see a darned thing.”
As if to answer his need, the green was illuminated by a great light. It was a gush of flames coming from the freakishly large bat’s mouth.
The flames engulfed Billy Pickler. The last words he emitted in his earthly existence were:
“I don’t think they’re bats.”
His coworkers scurried away in every direction. Doug Delish made it to an oak tree beside the next fairway. He wondered if he should follow the rules about avoiding lightning and trees. Instead, he followed the ancient primate ancestral instinct in his brain and jumped, grabbing the lowest limb of the tree, and pulled himself up, climbing the branches above until he was hidden. He survived.
Pablo Pascales sprinted toward the nearest water hazard. He dove into the pond and remained underwater, holding his breath.
He, too, survived the dragon attack. However, unbeknown to him, he shared the pond with a twelve-foot alligator. He survived the dragon, but not the gator.
Fred Dwimblebutt, who considered himself the smartest guy of the foursome, made it to the golf cart. He zipped down the paved golf cart path toward the clubhouse. The path was the only part of the course illuminated at night.
Unfortunately for Billy, the lighting made him an easy target. Three dragons glided behind him, low to the ground. The dragons entertained themselves by seeing which one could get closest to their prey without knocking him off the path. Finally, they allowed the younger of the three to enjoy the easy pickings.
The dragon picked up the cart in his jaws. Being a younger dragon, he was fascinated by the high-pitched squeals the driver was making. The human gripp
ed the steering wheel and repeatedly slammed the cart’s brake, as if that would stop his ascent into the sky. The dragon watched him with one eye and giggled in a dragon’s way. He wanted to play with his prize.
So, once he reached several hundred feet in altitude, he dropped the cart. He let it fall, then swooped down and caught it again. He did this several times until the human fell out of the cart and landed on the roof of the clubhouse. By then, the dragon had lost interest and dropped the cart upon the human. He flew after his companions to look for more prey.
The senior dragon of the group realized their first victims were humans, not vampires, but the distinction seemed irrelevant to a dragon. However, all the other humanoids spread out across the golf course were vampires. And among them was Bill.
Bill’s game was rusty, because over the last hundred years he’d preferred to spend his time at the shooting range instead of the driving range. But he was talked into playing tonight by his friend, Stanley Gardiner, who was hosting Bill at his home. Stanley had invited him to stay at his community called Alligator Hammock, a fifty-five-plus retirement village west of town. It was the only other all-vampire community besides Squid Tower.
Bill didn’t enjoy being a houseguest of Stanley and his wife. They wouldn’t let him bring his weapons into the house. He had to keep them in the trunk of his car, only a fraction of his total arsenal. He couldn’t wait until the vampires of Squid Tower accepted the righteousness of his war against the Reptilians and welcomed him back.
“Did you see that human falling from the sky?” Stanley asked while they were putting on the fourteenth green.
Bill glanced up as dark shadows flew by overhead. Flames shot from the shadows, and the vampire foursome playing ahead of them disappeared from the fifteenth tee.
“Get down!” Bill shouted. “It’s Reptilians!”
Since he was playing golf, Bill was only lightly armed tonight. Besides his Glock 9 mm weapon of choice, he had a .45 Colt revolver, an electric stun baton, pepper spray, and a hunting knife. He felt vulnerable with so few weapons.
