Witch Way to Mistletoe & Murder

by Jane Hinchey

  "Building and contents for the bookstore," I replied, "and public liability. They also mentioned I could be eligible for magic misuse cover?"

  "Hmm. I'll have to look into that since currently, you don't have your witch’s license. But I can certainly arrange the building and contents for you today. Let me see if I can pull up the evaluation Whitney would have done on The Dusty Attic and we can take it from there."

  "So, Whitney did all the evaluations?" I asked, taking a seat.

  "She took care of the onsite inspections and would write up the evaluation and I would fill out the official forms with what she'd provided. Here it is, found it."

  "Interesting." Tapping my fingers on my bag I mulled over what she'd just told me. Christina was the rep; she was the one pocketing any commissions. How would Whitney benefit by over-inflating the value? "Could I take a look at the information Whitney provided? Before you typed it up?"

  Looking up from her screen, Christina frowned. "Why?"

  "Because I think there's an error. My valuation is wrong."

  "Oh, we get that a lot," Christina said, dismissing my concern. "Most people think their property is worth more than it actually is."

  "I'm the opposite. I think you've overvalued my property."

  She sniffed. "Highly doubtful."

  "By about one hundred thousand dollars," I stated calmly.

  Christina ran a finger around the collar of her blouse, then cleared her throat. "You're right. That does sound like an error. But the problem is..." She paused, and I could see she was struggling to find words. Then she raised a finger and continued on in a rush, "The thing is, Whitney fills out the forms initially, I type it up, then I throw out the hand written one."

  "Are you sure?" I pushed, "because I saw several of those in Whitney's office when I was searching for my contract."

  Silence filled the room. I waited. She was lying. Christina swallowed, sweat beading on her forehead, then a slow flush crept up her neck. Quite unexpectedly she launched herself at me, screaming, "You bitch!" as she tackled me. Her momentum tipped the chair backward and we crashed to the floor, Christina on top of me. I'd wrapped my arms around my head to fend off her blows. Thankfully she didn't know how to throw a decent punch and was slapping at me more than anything else.

  I heard a door open and male voices, then Christina was being hauled off me. I lay there for a second, sucking in a deep breath, before Jackson came into view, crouching by my side.

  "You okay?" he asked, taking my arm and helping me up.

  "Yeah, I'm fine." Brushing myself off, I turned to look at Christina who was twisting in Mike's grip, her hair falling out of its bun and hanging around her face. Her very angry face.

  "What did you do?" Jackson asked, standing next to me and watching Christina too.

  "That's just it, I didn't do anything," I replied. "I was questioning an error in the valuation on The Dusty Attic." I told him the rest of the story and he listened attentively before turning his attention to Christina, who had quieted down as I spoke.

  "You do realize you've just assaulted Harper?" Jackson said in his cop voice. "So, cut the theatrics and let's sort this out like reasonable adults. Harper said she believed there was an error with the valuation of The Dusty Attic. What do you know about that?"

  Christina stared at him with stormy eyes, then her face crumpled, and she began crying. I looked from her to Mike, to Jackson and back to Christina again, totally confused with the display of emotion.

  "Okay, okay, I did it!" she cried, finally wrenching her arm from Mike's grip. With shaking hands, she smoothed back her hair and straightened her clothes. "I falsified the valuation."

  "What?" Mike and I said in unison. Damn. I'd totally thought Whitney had been behind it.

  "Why?" Jackson asked.

  "My commission is based on the valuation of the property." She sniffed.

  "Yes, but that would mean I'd be paying a higher premium, more than what I'd have to," I pointed out. She shrugged, seemed she didn't care about that.

  "Damn it, Christina." Mike was shaking his head in disbelief.

  "Is Harper the only one?" Jackson asked. She shook her head no.

  "What?" Mike's voice went up three octaves. "Are you kidding me? Christina, how could you do this to me? Shafting my clients?"

  Christina cried harder and I dug in my purse for a tissue, pressing it into her hand.

  "I didn't usually alter it so much," she said miserably. "I only added ten grand or so to the original figure. But then..." She turned to Mike. "It's your fault," she accused him. "You gave Whitney that Christmas bonus and I figured I'd get mine another way, so I adjusted Harper's valuation."

  "By a hundred thousand," I muttered, "giving yourself a nice fat commission."

  Jackson shook his head. "You're under arrest for fraud. Go take a seat and do not move." He pointed to a chair across the room. He waited until she'd done as instructed before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone.

  "Hey, Liliana." He paused to listen. "Yeah, that sounds great. Listen, can you come on by Palmer Construction? I've just arrested Christina Wallace for fraud. I need you to take her in and book her. I've still got business here."

  "Harper, I cannot apologize enough." Mike looked positively ill at this turn of events. "I had no idea this was going on under my nose. Or how long."

  "We're going to have to subpoena your records, Mike, shut down your office," Jackson interrupted.

  "Yeah, I figured." He sighed. "That's okay. We close for the week between Christmas and New Year anyway, so I'll just start my holidays a couple of days early."

  I placed my hand on Mike's arm. "It's not your fault Mike, although..." I hesitated, wondering if I should say more.

  "Although?" he quizzed.

  "Well, this ten-thousand-dollar bonus you paid Whitney seems to have created a lot of ill will," I pointed out.

  "Christ, not you too." He shook his head and looked at Jackson, who shrugged.

  "What?" I asked.

  "The ten thousand I gave Whitney was not a bonus or a gift. It was a loan. To help her establish her own realtor office. She came to me last month, said her marriage was in trouble and she didn't feel she could go to Bruce with her financial plans. She needed a deposit to lease office space. I gave it to her. I'd always known I stood the chance of losing her, but I thought maybe this was what she needed to get herself back on track. You saw the state of her office, Harper. She was a mess and that wasn't like her. She needed a fresh start, to follow her dreams, and I was happy to help her with that. And I was going to promote Christina to office manager. Damn it. Now I'm down two staff members."

  I cleared my throat. "So...not a Christmas bonus then?"

  "No."

  "Nor blackmail?" I risked a glance at Jackson out of the corner of my eye, wondering if he'd be angry I brought it up.

  "No. Whitney didn't take that photo. She found it taped to the office door one morning. I don't know who put it there, or why. A warning from my pack perhaps."

  "Who is she?" I asked.

  "No one you know. A stranger passing through. We hooked up. Then she left town."

  "I'm going to need her name and number, Mike," Jackson said, "to corroborate your story."

  Mike snorted, "If I had her name or number, I would have called her by now. As I said, we hooked up. Names didn't come into it."

  "Is that because she's a fox shifter?" I asked.

  "Partly. But honestly, guys, you're reading far more into this than what it was. It was a random hook up. Nothing more."

  The office door swung open and in marched Officer Miles, the cold wind turning her cheeks pink. She smiled at Jackson and then saw me. "Should have known you'd be in the middle of this," she snapped, before crossing to Christina and barking, "Up!"

  Christina shot to her feet, face pale, while Officer Miles cuffed her hands behind her back and read her her rights before marching her out of the office. "I'll see you back at the station," she said to
Jackson, and then she was gone.

  * * *

  Thunder rolled overhead, shaking the windows, a flash of lightning briefly illuminating the night sky before plunging us back into darkness. Clutching my umbrella, I battled against the wind as I hurried from my car to Brewed Awakening, the bar where Monica worked. I was meeting Jenna here for drinks and quiz night. It was the perfect opportunity to update them on what I'd discovered today. After I'd returned from Palmer Construction Gran had scurried off for her pole dancing classes and I'd had a steady stream of customers until late afternoon when the impending storm had chased them away.

  I'd just reached the foyer of Brewed Awakening and was shaking the rain from my umbrella when I heard Jackson's voice, only he wasn't speaking to me. Casting a quick glance over my shoulder, I saw him and Officer Miles—Liliana—huddled together on the opposite side of the foyer, peering outside at the downpour. They must have ducked in for shelter for they showed no signs of intending to move inside. I was about to call out hello since they hadn't noticed me when I hesitated—Liliana's voice carried and what she'd just said piqued my interest. Turning my back again, I huddled into my coat and unashamedly eavesdropped.

  "So that whole blackmail angle was a wash," she said. I didn't hear what Jackson said, imagined he was nodding in agreement, because she continued, "And so far we've got nothing on the vehicle that was used in the drive-by shooting. A dark sedan. Does Sims know how many dark sedans are in Whitefall Cove?"

  "You've got the first three numbers of the license plate though," Jackson pointed out. "Have you run them?"

  "Of course I have." She sounded snippy tonight and I wondered what had her so riled up. I thought she only used that tone with me and I wanted to chance another look to read their body language, but refrained from doing so, instead pretending to fiddle with my umbrella just in case they busted me.

  "Three potential matches," she said, then, "It's easing. Let's go."

  I heard the door open, then close and chanced a peek over my shoulder. Yep, they'd gone. My mind was mulling over what I'd just overheard as I hurried inside, waving to Jenna who was sitting at the bar, a fancy cocktail in front of her.

  "That looks good." I nodded at her drink and she smiled.

  "It is delicious." We kissed each other’s cheek and I slid onto the stool next to her. Monica was serving a customer at the other end of the bar, so I waited until she was finished before indicating the cocktail in front of Jenna. She gave me a thumbs up.

  "You look like the cat that got the cream." Jenna grinned, sipping her drink.

  "I've got so much to tell you!" I agreed, shrugging out of my jacket and draping it over the back of the bar stool. "But I'll wait until Monica gets here."

  I didn't have to wait long. Within seconds Monica was sliding an exotic cocktail in front of me and leaning over the bar to plant a kiss on my cheek. "Merry Christmas." She beamed.

  "Merry Christmas!" Jenna and I raised our glasses in a toast, then I took a sip of my drink. It was nirvana. Sweet, yet not too sweet. I couldn't identify the alcohol, but I could feel the tingling buzz that told me there was a fair amount of it in my drink. I'd have to take it easy or I'd easily get plastered with Monica's cocktails.

  "Harper was just going to tell us about her day," Jenna said. "Apparently it's been eventful."

  Monica laughed. "I don't think you've had a quiet day since you've been back in Whitefall Cove," she joked. "There's always something happening."

  "Well…" I leaned in and the two of them did the same, Monica's dark head, Jenna's blonde one, and my chocolate locks. "Christina Wallace has been falsifying documents to earn herself higher commission from Phoenix Feather Insurance." I nodded my head in a “what do you have to say about that” manner. They were suitably shocked. Then I filled them in about the ten thousand dollars not being a Christmas bonus but a business loan for Whitney to open her own realtor office. And Whitney hadn't taken the photo of Mike kissing a strange woman. It had been left anonymously on the door of Palmer Construction.

  "You have had a fruitful day," Monica said, wiping down the bar.

  "There's more."

  "Spill," Jenna demanded.

  "On my way in here, I overheard Jackson and Liliana talking about the shooting. Apparently, they've run that partial number plate and have three potential matches."

  "Well, that's good," Monica said, "but you didn't see the car that night, did you?"

  "Not really. It approached from behind me, so Bruce was facing it—maybe that's when he noticed the plates? But then the shooting started, and he'd leaped on me and I was flat on the sidewalk looking at the sky. I couldn't say what type of car it was, what color, nothing really other than it was a car—I heard the engine."

  "I'll follow up with my informant." Jenna pulled out her phone and shot out a text message. "He should have something for me by now."

  "Aren't you going to ask me more about Christina?" I said. "I thought you'd be all over that."

  She sighed. "Rick has that story. He was coming out of the Tribune offices when he saw the police car arrive, actually got some really good photos of Christina being put into the back. I would have thought he'd have contacted you by now for an interview or a quote." She frowned when I shook my head.

  "I'm sorry he beat you to it."

  "I'm not worried," she assured me, "because I'm going to break Whitney's story and that is going to get me a Journalist of the Year award."

  "Hey, Harper."

  I turned to see the young witch I'd sat next to in Drixworths Academy smiling at me. "Hey, Alayna." I smiled in return. "Here for quiz night?"

  She nodded. "A bunch of us from class have put a team together." I followed her gaze to a table where at least ten witches were gathered. "I was wondering if you'd like to join us?"

  "Oh." I was taken aback. "Thank you—" I was about to decline, but Jenna nudged me. "What?" I whispered to her over my shoulder. I was here with her, I couldn't go and join another team.

  "Jenna can come too," Alayna offered.

  "Sure," Jenna agreed before I could stop her, "that'd be fun. Come on, Harper." And before I could protest, Jenna was dragging me behind Alayna as she led us to the table of witches. Young witches. Witches who looked like they were twelve years old and had no business being in a pub. Young witches who made me feel decidedly old. "Stop scowling." Jenna elbowed me in the ribs. "And have some fun. It's Christmas. Forget about murder for a while."

  "Okay, okay," I grumbled, plastering a smile on my face. We went through introductions and I did my best to remember names, but failed miserably. The others had scooched up to let us squeeze two more chairs around their table, making room for us.

  Then I saw Gran, dressed in a slutty Santa outfit, standing behind the podium on the stage in the corner and tapping the mic. "This thing on?" she demanded. It was, and she was loud.

  "Good evening, Twunkbergers!" A roar of laughter met her words and I cringed. Oh God. Why hadn't Gran told me she was MC for the Christmas Quiz? I'd have stayed home. "Are you ready for some fun?"

  The crowd yelled, “YES!”

  "Good!" She beamed at them. "Because there's an extra prize on the cards tonight! The winning team will get a lap dance by...drum roll please....mwah!" She danced out from behind the podium and twerked at the audience, who hooted and hollered. TWERKED. My eyeballs rolled so far into the back of my head I was looking at my spine. I was way too sober for this.

  14

  I started my morning with my usual cup of coffee and scorched retina's. Gran was wearing yet another transparent negligee. "If I start leaking blood from my eyeballs, I am going to come back and haunt you so bad."

  She strutted across the kitchen, did a hip thrust, then flung open the refrigerator door, thankfully blocking my view. "You have no appreciation of the female body."

  "Nope. I do not," I agreed. I heard a floorboard creak upstairs and shot her a glare. "Who do you have up there?"

  "Henry," she said, then straightened and peered
at me over the fridge door. "Or is it, Adam? Damn, memory isn't what it used to be." She disappeared back into the fridge, then held out her arm, a can of whipped cream clutched in her hand. "Found it!"

  Oh God, the visual was alarming. I did not want to think about what Gran intended to do with a can of whipped cream and the man she had upstairs. She sashayed out of the kitchen, humming to herself and I rested my head on the table. My hangover gnawed at my insides, making my stomach churn. Last night had been a lot of fun. Gran, as it turned out, was a very talented quiz master, but I'd never been more grateful when our team didn't win. A lap dance from my own grandmother was not what I’d consider a prize.

  My phone buzzed, and I glanced at the screen. Jenna. "Hey," I picked up the call.

  She laughed. "You don't sound so hot."

  "How are you not hung over?" I demanded.

  "Stronger constitution and you're out of practice," she told me. "This might make you feel better. I've got a lead. On the number plate."

  She was right. I immediately forgot my hangover. "You do? What?"

  "My informant tells me that there's a car that matches that description out at the fox's compound." The fox's compound was basically a commune type setup where fox shifters lived about ten miles out of town.

  "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" I said, draining my coffee.

  "That we hit the compound tonight?" she suggested.

  "Exactly! We'll take a look under the cover of darkness, see what we can find." And maybe, just maybe, seeing the car might jog something in my memory, something I may not have realized that I'd seen. Like the driver.

  * * *

  It was not only dark but also bitterly cold. Jenna picked me up and we'd headed out to the fox's compound, and I rubbed my hands together and held them to the vent in her car. "So, this compound," I began, "is it really a compound? With barbed wire and locked gates?"

  She shook her head. "I've only been out here once before to cover a story, but no. It's a bunch of cabins and caravans scattered around a field in no particular order. I'm not sure if fox shifters are packrats in general, but this pack is—are they even called a pack? Anyway, they've got junk everywhere. Old car bodies, engines, that type of thing. They seem mechanically minded."