Sitting outside the Main Street home that also served as Barb’s office, Nann prepared herself. She wouldn’t let Barbara hoodwink her. Nann took a small black knife from the hidden bottom pouch of her conjure bag. Holding the Athame in front of her, she waved it back and forth.
“Divulge to me what my eyes can’t see,
cast away all anonymity,
disregard the forms my mind finds real,
let any magic stand now revealed.”
With a deep breath, she hopped out of Cricket and knocked sharply on Barb’s front door. Nann stood for a while, hearing noises within. She remembered breaking and entering with Zinnia and Tink. Her eyes scanned the facade, but saw no sign of a security camera. Finally, the door opened.
“What?”
Barb scowled at Nann, squinting. She usually looked well put together in her bright power suits and a helmet of perfect hair. Now, corkscrew curls and cowlicks sprung haphazardly. The woman wore paint-spattered sweatpants and a SUNY Oswego T-shirt. Nann thought the shirt looked as if Barb got it when she went to college at the State University of New York—a long time ago.
Nann scanned the place. She didn’t see any sign of hidden magic. Might as well get to the point. “I wanna talk about Blake Simmons.”
“Well, if you killed him, more power to you. I never had the guts.” Barb staggered as she turned. Since she left the door open, Nann figured it was an invitation. She could smell the alcohol in Barb’s wake. The woman was smashed.
Barb half-wondered into the living room that now served as a conference room. A map lay spread out on the long table, corners held down by bottles of booze. With a practiced hand, Buford knocked five different liquors and a splash of Coke into a pint glass. After guzzling half the Long Island iced tea, she turned bleary eyes on Nann.
“Was he blackmailing you too?” Nann asked.
Barb waved her hand in the general direction of the map.
“This is Port Argent Resort, three hundred acres of golf course. Our company purchased the land to the east and west of yours, Nann. Overextended ourselves. The only problem was, your property splits the resort in half. Since the police have already been here, I guess I’ll make a confession to you.”
To Nann’s dismay, Barb knocked back the rest of her drink. She plopped down into a chair, nearly missing. But her eyes were now focused.
“Ten years ago, we thought we had it all in place. Your Uncle Ed originally started Lakeshore Properties to build up the town. He sold out to us when he retired. But with all the new hotels, refurbished B&Bs, plazas, strip malls, we had the opportunity to become a destination. Blake Simmons got it into his head that the destination be a world-class golf resort. When Ed died, Nancy decided to remain in the house. What for? All that room? All that acreage? I thought she was crazy. Which sparked the idea.”
Nann leaned forward in anticipation. For a long time, she’d suspected Barb and her cronies of messing with Aunt Nancy. A drunken truth was about to be spilled.
“Nancy, bless her soul, was always an oddball. All you magic types are in one way or another. It didn’t take a lot to convince Adult Protective Services that she couldn’t be left on her own. Of course, once we took the pig away, well... She did kinda lose it,” Barb hiked her shoulders.
“Oh. My. Gawdess! You kidnapped Pokey. Just like you arranged when I got here,” Nann blurted, unable to help herself. Forcing back more angry words, she let the woman talk.
Barb hung her head. “Blake thought it would make her more susceptible to our offers. I thought it was a stupid idea. I’m no fan of pigs, but that was Nancy’s only companion.”
“So Blake Simmons came up with this plan?” The more she learned about the guy, the less she liked him. And the more she understood why he was murdered.
“He was the only one mean enough to come up with such a thing. Except it worked. Nancy went more batty than usual. The authorities thought she needed to be institutionalized.”
But Nann and her mother had stepped in and taken care of Aunt Nancy. Not long after her aunt came into their care, Nann stopped thinking of Aunt Nancy as delusional. While Nann had spent her childhood summers in Port Argent, a much stronger bond was forged between them in the last years of Nancy’s life.
“We thought that would be it, we would buy the house, complete the project. Except the house was held in a trust for you.” Barb’s face sagged into a pout. She vaguely pointed an accusatory finger. “Nancy had accounts set up to pay the taxes, for maintenance. The company bought more property, houses on the west side of Calamity Corners. The owners were mostly mill workers, who struggled with their mortgages when the mill was shut down. We were poised to build a fantastic resort with Founder’s House as a clubhouse.
“When you showed up, we thought it was a done deal. What does a young woman from Brooklyn want with a big house in the middle of nowhere? And yet, you stayed. Our backers didn’t. We were stuck with all these valueless properties, bleeding money.” The pointing finger slowly dropped. Barb’s head dropped a little.
Nann had to keep her talking before Barb passed out. “So you stole the tax records from my house? And the page from a book—"
“I had nothing to do with that.” Barb snapped back to full focus. “Insanely desperate schemes were Blake’s doing. The town supervisors could destroy your tax records. They had the access. I went along. I had to. Blake had... compromising information about me. Personally, I hate golf. I just wanted my investments to pay out.”
Nann was about to lay into Barb. If she knew that the local politicos were futzing with public records, she should’ve gone to the cops.
Words failed her as Barb’s features bunched up. She began to sob. “I’m sorry, Nann. I think what I did hurt your Aunt Nancy. I can kid myself it was all for her benefit. She did get to spend her last years with you.”
Nann got up, leaving a quietly crying Barb Buford to pour herself another dose of oblivion. She was disgusted, outraged, but now she knew the truth. Her suspicions had been right on. Still, there wasn’t much she could do with the information. It was too late to act on it. Blake Simmons was dead. Good riddance, maybe. All Nann could think was that there were probably dozens of probable suspects in the evil man’s murder.
Chapter 8
Luckily, Cricket did most of the driving home. Nann was deep in thought. Blake Simmons, a blackmailer, didn’t seem like the type to dirty his hands with burglary, or tampering with government property. He must’ve had an ally, someone who did the actual work. Who would that be? And, if such a person existed, would he or she have had motive to kill the man?
When she first moved to Port Argent, Jim and Branden had been hired to steal her pig. The job had come anonymously through a make-shift employment service. Nann had learned that the anonymity was spoiled by simple caller ID. Lakeshore Properties wanted the job done. And now Barb had confirmed it.
“It makes sense,” Pokey said as he chomped through pig chow and sweet potatoes.
“What part?”
“The pig-napping. Nancy was my familiar. We balanced each other.”
Nann put a microwave Salisbury steak in the microwave. “So you’re thinking they know about the magic stuff.”
“People around here know, Nann. They just don’t talk about it. But really, even if you didn’t know that Nancy was the unofficial Arch Druid, separating an old lady from her companion animal could really send her right over the edge.”
She watched the dinner spin around on the turntable. “That makes sense. But why do the same thing when I arrived? I didn’t know you were my familiar. You were a feral pig, stealing my toilet seats.”
“Good times,” Pokey said.
“Why did you do that, anyway?”
He looked over his shoulder at her. “It was the evilest thing I could think to do. Look at me, I’m tiny. I’m a Prete, Nann, I have powers. I’m not a normal creature.”
A Prete, for preternatural. That was the term that Tink liked best. “At that time, getting
rid of you could only benefit me. You were an evil Prete out to make my bathroom visits miserable,” Nann said.
“You didn’t know you were my familiar,” Pokey said. “See, you balance me. I’m barely evil at all now.”
“That still only proves that the people who wanted you gone must know a lot about magic,” Nann said. “Not just know it exists, but how it works.”
The microwave beeped. Pokey looked hopefully at the steaming tray. Nann put it on the counter. “You think Barb Buford knows how magic works?” Pokey asked.
“I think Barb Buford knows how hairspray works and not to wear white after Labor Day,” Nann said. “Maybe she knows I’m a Druid, but I think that’s the extent of it. Besides, she said all the plots and schemes were Blake’s.”
“Easy to pin it on a dead man,” Pokey said.
Nann nodded. “Hard to picture that big fat guy as a cat burglar.”
“Maybe he had henchmen. Like a super villain.”
She had to agree. “I was thinking the same thing. I just need to figure out who they are.”
TINK AND ZINNIA WERE going to try the new Italian restaurant down the street for lunch. Nann envied them. She was heading to Port Argent for no lunch. It occurred to her that she was looking at this the hard way. Sure, there were plenty of suspects. Far too many for her to pursue on her own. Especially since she had no official standing. No one had a good reason to talk to her. Given that she was a suspect herself, they had even less reason.
Instead, she decided to focus on Blake Simmons. She parked Cricket outside his campaign headquarters. People were carrying boxes out of the small storefront on Main Street. Hard to stump for a dead man, she thought.
As she got out of the little Jimny, the full stares of anger and suspicion of the former campaign volunteers hit her. Nann shrugged it off. She got worse from the local market employees. Still, when she entered the building, she was hit by a dizzy, queasy sensation. Nann recognized it from a few days before. She’d put it down to bad pizza toppings. Now she realized there was something else at work. What, she couldn’t say. A buzzing tingle set upon her nerves. This was far beyond the stress from getting a few harsh glares.
“Nancy Ann Szymanski. You’ve got a lot of nerve.”
She turned, recognizing the speaker. Doug Baker, one of the three town officials who tried to steal her house. In appearance, he was Blake Simmons’ opposite, skinny and short. But they did seem to share the same evil and greedy purposes.
“I told him the IRS thing wouldn’t fly. Now look at him.”
Nann cocked her head at Baker. “You think I killed him?”
“We all knew Blake would go too far one day. That someone wouldn’t put up with his BS. Think about it, kid. He sets up this new blackmail scheme, and a few hours later, he’s killed. Maybe you could believe it was a coincidence but come on.”
This seemed to be the consensus around Port Argent, although how everyone knew she was the last one Simmons tried to blackmail was beyond her. “What are you doing cleaning out his campaign office? You don’t strike me as a guy who would do a personal favor for a colleague.”
“Guilty as charged. But this is no favor. I’m Blake’s campaign manager. Or was, anyway. If we don’t get this cleared out in a few days, there’ll be another month’s rent to pay.”
That made more sense. Baker didn’t want to get stuck with the bill. “You were managing his run for county office?”
“Our little group thought things would go better if we had someone in county government.” The left side of his mouth twisted upward.
Nann knew who the little group was. “You mean the little group who tried to steal my house to build a golf course? There’s already a golf course in Port Argent.”
Baker shrugged. The smug half-smile remained in place.
Of course he wasn’t going to admit how crooked the whole thing was. And speaking of. “You really think Blake Simmons could’ve won a county seat?”
“I’m sure Blake Simmons could’ve blackmailed his way all the way to the state senate. Maybe even farther. A regular Richard Milhouse Nixon, Junior.”
Nann didn’t know what to say to that.
“He and Blake were both terming out as town supervisors. But, with Blake out of the way, Gene Wozniak stands a much better chance of winning the election.”
That sounded a little like motive to Nann. “I don’t get involved in local politics.”
The smirk disappeared. “Then you have no idea what’s at stake. If you’ll excuse me, I have an office to vacate.”
NANN HEADED OUT, THE uncomfortable feeling dissipating as she exited. This despite more suspicious looks and whispers from the people on the street. She headed up the block toward Gene Wozniak’s campaign HQ. Would changing the odds for an election be enough to murder someone over? Elections were never a sure thing. One less candidate might make the odds better, but it wouldn’t be enough to make the outcome a certainty. Maybe she didn’t follow local politics, but she knew that much. There were at least two or three other candidates for the same seat.
As she walked, she spotted Simmons and Son Antiques on the corner. Well, if she wanted to get closer to Blake Simmons, what better place than his business? Squaring her shoulders, she walked in.
Again, the tingling, woozy sensation rolled over her. Nann breathed through it. She really needed to find out what was causing this, and do something about it. The fact that the shop was a riot of antiques from all eras, piles of furniture, decorative pieces and collectibles forming wandering aisles, only added to her disorientation.
As a bookseller, she grabbed a couple volumes from a shelf. Like everything else in the place, these were way overpriced. She put them back. Despite the alien sensation roiling through her, she felt drawn toward the back of the shop.
She made her way through the warren of merchandise, avoiding the few customers. At the very back, a card table illegally blocked the emergency exit. A couple cardboard boxes sat atop. In heavy black sharpie, the words “Internet only” marked both cartons.
Glancing over her shoulder, she grabbed out her Athame and recited the ceremony. Nauseating discomfort struck her in waves. Still, a glow issued from the boxes. She put away the knife and moved in for a close look.
“Magic stuff,” she whispered.
She saw Ouija boards, dressed candles, a palmistry model, crystal wands, ceremonial blades, and, right on top, a perfectly clear scrying sphere in an ornate pewter stand. She picked it up, feeling its charge through her fingertips.
“I’m sorry, those boxes shouldn’t be in here.”
Nann started, nearly dropping the fragile ball. A tall brunette in a black dress stood behind her. Nann recognized the good bone structure and wavy coif...Audra Simmons, Blake’s wife. Eek.
“Uh, how much for the scrying sphere?”
The woman made a “whatever” face. “That’s not a scrying sphere. It’s a crystal ball. It’s not for sale.”
“I’d take both of these boxes off your hands,” Nann said.
“I said not for sale. There’s so much spooky junk in this town, I swear. This goes on the internet only. Why my husband, God rest his soul, collected this crap I have no idea. But the rule is, we only sell occult bric-a-brac on the internet and out of state.”
Blake collected occult objects? “Oh? Why’s that?”
“We do our best to rid Port Argent of negative and occult influence. Maybe Blake had the right idea, gathering it up, shipping it away, and making money in the process.” Audra squinted at her. “Who are you, anyway? Do I know you?”
Before Nann could wiggle away, she heard a voice behind the towering Audra.
“I thought I saw you come in here. Is this murderess bothering you, Audra?”
Doug Baker! The little man put himself between Mrs. Simmons and Nann. Nann nearly rolled her eyes at the feigned gesture of protection. Audra could pick up Baker and snap him in half. But when Doug reached into his pocket and began to withdraw something, Nann felt he
r knees buckle.
Audra’s face went blank. “Murderess?”
Nann replaced the scrying sphere and dodged around the two of them. She felt like she was going to be sick. Muttering something, she hurried outside. Once again, the feeling vanished as she stepped outside. She leaned on a lamp post, catching her breath. Whatever this anti-Nann stuff was, she really needed to put a stop to it.
Feeling fine, she started toward Gene Wozniak’s headquarters, trying to piece together what she had learned.
Chapter 9
“Are you mad at me?” Zinnia looked up as Nann entered the bookstore. There were a few customers inside, and Zinn was manning the check-out. “I thought it would be okay to let them in.”
“I’m not mad, I just feel terrible.”
“Maybe you should close for the day and go home.”
Nann shook her head. “I’m okay now.” She told Zinnia about her lunch hour stops, and how each place made her feel dizzy and weak. While it was bad at Blake’s former HQ and antiques store, it was doubled at Gene Wozniak’s campaign storefront.
“I don’t get it,” Nann said. “There were just a bunch of kids inside, all wearing shirts and hats that said ‘Wozniak—keeping the county real.’ But when I stepped in, I felt like I was on a wobbly carnival ride. I mean, no one even looked up when I went in.”
Zinnia pursed her lips and tapped them. “You started feeling like this when Blake Simmons came in here. It could be stress.”
Nann shook her head. “It’s magic. Or anti-magic, maybe. Could be a charm, or a potion.”
“Not my forte,” Zinnia shrugged.
Nann sat next to her behind the counter. “Mine, either. This is witchy stuff, not Druid-y stuff.”
“Who would know about that? Maybe the swamp wizard?”
Certainly, Brock Miller Junior, Sorcerer of the Swamp, would know about witchy stuff. Still, Nann balked. “Yeah, I don’t know. It’s kinda late in the day. Plus BJ rarely wears pants. Or bathes. Or has rational thoughts.”
A Cauldron of Witch Tricks Page 4
