Nann’s stomach voiced a number of off-key notes at work the next day. She wasn’t feeling right. Stress, she thought. Damn that Blake Simmons. Or pizza. Damn that Pokey. She opened the internet on her cashier computer. It was time to take a look at the town supervisor. She found a website touting the man’s bid for election to county councilor.
There were a few tidbits about local government she hadn’t known. In Port Argent, town councilors and supervisors were not as interchangeable as she had thought. Both were seats you had to run for, but traditionally, if you were elected to the council, you were elected to the supervisory board as well. County supervisor was a whole other ball game. They were the ones who administered the sheriff’s department, public works, health and welfare. Her stomach took a turn at the thought of Blake Simmons in charge of anything important.
Simmons’ main income came from an antique shop he ran with his wife. Oddly, there was no mention of Lakeshore Properties or any redevelopment on his page. Hmm. Her house was full of antiques. Maybe that’s why he wanted to get his meat hooks on Founder’s House.
Though she had a few customers in, Nann was only cordial to them. Usually, she was trying to up-sell the whole store. There was definitely something going on with her. She took the time in between shoppers to page through Nick O’Broin’s book.
It was a fascinating history of the towns of Port Argent, where she lived, and Amity Corners, where she worked, competing with each other over the decades. Still, no matter how many times she read over the section about Captain Argent, founder of Port Argent, and his house, there was no mention that the old log cabin used as a garden shed was the original home.
The idea was stupid, she chided herself, and she had nothing to worry about. Heck, people stopped by all the time to take pictures of the place. Of course it was a historic building. Nobody ever bothered to ask about the fabulous and historic shed.
Still, she would feel much better about the whole thing after she talked to Keith Schwenk. Their mild attraction had turned more serious. Nann and the deputy had been on two dates together—as many as their schedules allowed. There weren’t nearly enough deputies in the sheriff’s department, and Nann’s only day off was Sunday.
Two dates, though. This would be date number three. The big one. Nann’s stomach twisted. Or maybe not, if she was feeling so poorly.
Even if her stomach felt queasy, the thought of Keith and a third date at least made her heart feel lighter. A little romance might make her feel right again.
Zinnia burst in just after noon. Her white smock was smeared with primary colors. Saturdays were kid art class days.
“Jeeze Louise, those little monsters!” Zinnia looked down at herself. “I’m lucky they didn’t paint my hair.”
Nann gave her the eye. “Should you be teaching kids so close to the full moon?”
“I have to.” She sighed herself into the chair beside Nann. “Rent’s due.”
Rent didn’t cost much in Amity Corners. Locals called it Calamity Corners. It was not the greatest place to own a business. Nann understood. She’d had a few close calls since opening here. If not for her online bookstores, she could never make it.
“You wanna get lunch? I could eat a horse.”
Nann’s hand stole over her stomach. “Nah, not today. Bad tummy.”
“I get that. You must be pretty upset. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. But...”
Zinnia looked around the store. Several moments passed. Nann finally had to ask. “But what?”
The small blonde artist shrugged. “The vibe in here. Usually, this is the calmest place around. It feels a little weird in here right now.”
“What, you’ve got super alligator senses all of a sudden?”
Zinnia leaned forward. She spoke through her teeth. “Let’s not advertise the alligator thing.”
“Sorry. I’ve been on edge.”
She nodded. “Yeah, I kinda don’t blame you. Some guy comes in here threatening you. What did Keith say?”
“I, uh, I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
Zinnia gave a squint. Then, her face opened in understanding. “Oh! Right! Date Number Three—the big one. Is that tomorrow?”
“Yep. But not if I feel so dizzy and... I don’t know, out of sorts?”
“Is it because of Keith? The two of you have had a tough time getting together, I know. He’s a cop, and you end up solving all his murder cases. Talk about awkward.”
Nann folded her arms. “I do not solve all of his murder cases. Just the weirder ones.”
“Like all the murder cases in Calamity Corners aren’t weird. A town like this needs a Nancy Druid.”
Nann couldn’t argue the point. A lot of magic-related crimes happened in the town. According to Nick O’Broin’s book, Amity Corners was founded by a galère of sorcerers two hundred years ago, and not a lot had changed over time.
“Sorry you’re not feeling well, but this girl’s gotta eat. There’s a full moon tonight. I want to be full myself. Who knows what might happen if my inner gator gets the munchies?”
Nann didn’t want to think about it. She used the electric kettle to brew some tea. Hopefully that would make her right. She lifted her mug as the leaves steeped, and charged it with her own energy. Maybe that would get her through the rest of the day.
She readied some online orders for shipping in the morning. Then she pulled a few boxes of returns to publishers. There was also a box of recent purchases for the occult section that had to be priced and shelved. Greenpoint Books was internationally known for the outré selection. It kept her busy until the end of the day.
As she was finishing up, the bell above the door tolled. Nann turned from her work to see Deputy Schwenk enter the store. For an instant, her heart lifted. At the expression on his face, her heart dropped like the first dip on a roller coaster.
“Are you canceling our date?” she asked. Nann didn’t elaborate that this was Date Number Three—the big one.
“Yeah, sort of.”
She walked over to him. “What’s going on, Keith?”
He let out a sigh. “There’s been a murder.”
“Ah, man. So you’ll have to work tomorrow.” It wasn’t just a cliché that the first forty-eight hours were the most important in a homicide investigation.
“It’s not just that.”
“What do you mean?” Nann got the feeling he was pulling away from her. “What’s going on? Who was it that got killed?”
“Blake Simmons.”
All Nann could come up with was: “Oy.”
Keith’s eyes wandered from hers. “It’s not just that I have to work.”
“I’m a suspect,” Nann said.
“From what we’ve uncovered at the scene, you’re more than a suspect.” He managed to look at her again. “You’re the prime suspect, Nann.”
“Oy.”
Chapter 4
“Is it because he was blackmailing me?”
“Actually, yes. We found a copy of a letter to you on his desk, along with a bunch of documents relating to Founder’s House.”
Nann fished her conjure bag out from behind the counter. She pulled out the blackmail papers. “Like these?”
“Almost exactly like those.” Keith took the sheaf. “Except not drenched in blood.”
“Eew.” Nann said. “You’re welcome to the clean copies.”
“They’re evidence now.” He pulled a folded envelope from his back pocket. The evidence went inside. Keith sealed and signed the front.
“Shut. The front. Gate.” Nann inhaled sharply as it fully occurred to her the depth of the trouble she was in. “Evidence.”
“Sorry, Nann.”
Feeling wobbly, she took a seat behind the counter. “I was going to talk to you about this tomorrow. I called my attorney, Mr. Greenbaum, but he wasn’t in.
Keith managed a smile. “He’s never in. If I hadn’t seen him in court a few times, I’d have to put his existence down to rumor.”
“Simmons was trying to threaten me with the IRS, saying the house wasn’t a historic site.”
“We got the gist of it. It isn’t very actionable as a blackmail scheme, as far as we can tell, but we’re looking into it.” Keith folded his hands in front of him, tapping his thumbs together.
He didn’t say anything for a while. Nann felt a current of apprehension. “What? Why aren’t you talking?”
“I have to ask, Nann. Where were you last night?”
The question landed with a thud in her heart. “Getting pizza. Take and bake. I have a receipt. Maybe.”
“Okay—”
“There will be witnesses. I was there. Unfortunately, the witnesses are all unobservant, self-absorbed teenagers who hardly look up from their phones. Half the time, they can’t even get my order right. Hello, I’m standing right here. Take and bake. I don’t want the pepperoni. This isn’t professional pizza shop behavior. But it must be on my bank statement, right? They sure take the money out quick enough. But I’ll bet it takes five business days to get a report out of them. Right?”
Keith leaned forward and put his hands on her shoulders. “Nann. Breathe. Just breathe for a minute. You’re getting all flustered.”
“I don’t want to get flustered giving a statement to the cops about an alibi that hinges on eyewitness testimony of utterly dense kids and cold, uncaring banks—”
He gave her a slight shake. “Breathe.”
Nann took a breath. And another. She focused on her breathing, where the breath stopped both within her and without. In a moment, she felt centered.
“What time did you get the pizza?”
“Around nine-thirty.”
Keith nodded. “What were you doing at ten?”
“Waiting for the bake part of my take and bake pizza.”
“Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts at ten?”
The questions undermined the dam keeping words from spilling everywhere. “Well, Pokey, of course. The pizza was all his idea in the first place. I don’t know how a judge would view that, or, ha-ha, a jury, an alibi corroborated by a pig, but we were watching the news while we ate, and I don’t remember seeing anything about a murder, but there was a nice piece about the color of the leaves peeking next week, and the weatherman saying we shouldn’t have a whole lot of wind before that, so it could be spectacular—”
Keith’s head angled slightly to the left.
Nann stopped talking. “Breathe,” she said.
“You know, it’s not a huge shock that he was blackmailing you.”
Afraid the babble would begin anew, Nann kept her mouth shut. She offered Keith what she hoped was an interested expression.
“It’s not the first we’ve heard Simmons’ name mentioned with blackmail. We found boxes of documents, files on all sorts of people. Forensics will be going through the information for days. With the exception of your letter, most of the documents were hidden in all kinds of secret places. There was a hidden drawer in the pool table, for instance; behind some of the mounted heads on the walls.”
“Hmm,” Nann said, keeping her lips shut.
“I shouldn’t be telling you all this.”
Nann shook her head.
“In fact, the sheriff wanted me to bring you in for questioning.”
Finally, she couldn’t help herself. “If he’s been tied to blackmail before, why hasn’t he been arrested?”
“Because the dirt he has on people is really good, from what I’ve seen. So good that someone might report the blackmail to us but would never press charges. They’d be too afraid of the information getting out. And that’s part of the reason why I’m not bringing you in.”
“What’s the other part? I’m charming and look good in sweaters?”
“No. Well, that’s the other, other part. The fact is, Simmons was killed in a locked room—a panic room, in fact. We have no idea what the MO is, and until we do, we probably won’t find out who did this.”
“Oh. My. Gawdess! A locked room mystery. I’m really good at those. Do you have any idea how many I’ve read? I could totally help you out with this.”
Keith frowned. “Considering the sheriff likes you for this, let’s not go there for now.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“Officially, I can’t.” Keith took a seat in the chair next to her. “Since I’m sure it’ll be on the news tonight, here’s what we know. Just before twenty-two hundred hours, 911 received a call from the Simmons’ house, from the house phone, in fact. We actually had a car in the vicinity, and within three minutes, first responders were at the scene. It took a while to breech the door to the panic room. It locks only from the inside.”
“Wow. This really is a locked room mystery.”
“Officers forced the door with a crowbar, and found Blake Simmons at his desk, apparently killed by a battle axe.”
Nann felt her brows crinkle. “A what?”
“Simmons’ man cave was full of suits of armor, antique and modern weapons, taxidermy, and you could probably define toxic masculinity by that room’s décor alone.”
“But if there were weapons everywhere, why use a battle axe?”
Keith held up a finger. “The first impression was that the axe actually fell from the grip of the armor behind Simmons’ desk. An accident.”
“Except the 911 call.”
“It could’ve been a medical emergency call.”
“I’ve been hit by a fallen axe and I can’t get up.”
Keith spread his palms. “Sure.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“Nope. Coroner says the angle is wrong. Simmons was deliberately struck. It was that and the actual contents of the 911 call.” Keith paused.
Nann knew what that meant. “Let me guess. The 911 caller mentioned my name.”
Keith didn’t say it, but the expression on his face was answer enough.
“Oy.”
Chapter 5
Nann chopped veggies in the kitchen when Pokey’s voice nearly made her cut her fingers off.
“Hey, Nan, you made the news!”
She rushed into the living room. “What did they say?”
Pokey gave her the up-and-down. “You sure are crazy about knives these days.”
The knife was still in her hand. Nann put it on an end table. Since she paid a lot for cable TV, she rewound the live broadcast. For a moment, the anchor, then a reporter, went on about a murder of prominent Port Argent resident, Blake Simmons. There was an image of his house on the screen.
“Police have just released this chilling 911 call,” the reporter said.
The ever-calm voice of an operator gave the usual greeting. Nann reacted to the familiar voice on the tape. “There’s someone in my house! I need the police!”
“Have you seen the intruder?”
“In my room, my panic room. I need the police!”
This was followed by a thump. Nann thought it was the dropped phone. A distant voice could be heard. She couldn’t make it out. Another impact followed.
“Sir? Sir? Are you still on the line? Police are minutes away.”
The reporter appeared, mic in hand. She talked about police responding within minutes. Despite the swift response, Blake Simmons was found dead at the scene.
“See?” Pokey turned to her.
Nann shook her head. “There wasn’t anything about me on there.”
“No, the 911 call. He was saying, ‘Nann, no! Nann, don’t!’” Tiny pig eyes squinted. “You couldn’t hear that?”
Nann rewound the broadcast again. Even with the volume up, she could make nothing out of the distant voice.
Pokey sat up on his haunches. “Right?”
“I don’t hear it.” She did another rewind. Still, she heard only indistinct cries on the recording.
“Must be my super-pig hearing,” Pokey said.
Nann tried to keep the skepticism from her face. “I’ve never heard of super-pig hearing.”
“Oh, yeah. It’s a thing
. Super-pig smelling too. I’m blind as a bat, however.”
“And you can really hear him call my name?”
“Definitely.” He turned and flopped back down on his belly. “But we watch all the forensic shows. You know police have all those audio thingies.”
Nann felt a current of cold run through her. “They might be able to duplicate super-pig hearing.”
“Well, they might get close.”
“I’m already the prime suspect.” She briefly told Pokey about Simmons’ threat.
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Damn, girl. You might be in trouble.”
She picked up the knife and headed back to the kitchen. “Only one thing I can do.”
“What’s that?” Pokey’s voice came through the radio in the kitchen.
“I’ll have to clear my name.”
“ABSOLUTELY DO NOT TRY to clear your name.” Keith appeared in her yard.
Nann, allergic to food pollen, was spending her Sunday morning prepping beds for flowers next year. Tulip, crocus, and daffodil bulbs lay around in burlap bags. She stabbed her trowel in the earth. “What? Why not?”
“Because we don’t want to complicate the prosecution of the actual murderer.”
Nann tossed some plant debris in the wheelbarrow. “Oh? Not because my pizza alibi panned out?”
“No.”
“It didn’t pan out?”
Keith, dressed in civvies, helped her load the uprooted flora. “We can place you at the take-and-bake, but that still presents a problem. Simmons’ house is maybe four minutes from there. It puts you in the right time frame.”
Nann very well knew where Blake Simmons’ house was. She had staked it out once. There were magical murders involving the paper mill board of directors. Simmons’ partnership, Lakeside Properties, were at odds with the big, ugly pollution-spewing facility.
Unfortunately, Keith had caught her in the act. He knew that she knew where his house was. She wasn’t the one who killed Simmons. They both knew that, too—regardless of her flimsy pizza alibi.
Nann furiously dug a few holes. “Somebody must have a better reason for killing him than I do. Did. Whatever.”
A Cauldron of Witch Tricks Page 2
