Down on the Charm

by E L Wilder

  Charlie had left her a note on the desk:

  Meet me at the barn on my 10:30 break. We’ll crack this case wide open. You’ve never needed magic to figure out what to do. You don’t need it now. Just your crazy wall and your crazy friend. Sherlock Holmes never needed magic, just Watson.

  Hazel grinned. Maybe Charlie was right. Maybe it didn’t matter that the book had been missing from its proper resting place. Granted, its disappearance was problematic—yet another mystery she’d need to solve at some point—but it was hardly the end of the line for solving this crime and clearing Juniper’s name. For all she knew, the book might have offered little help anyway, assuming she even had the skill and knowledge required to use it. What did she really know about spellcasting? She’d spent her life up until now actively avoiding the topic. She hardly had time for a steep learning curve.

  She dressed quickly, wrestled her curls into a ponytail, and rushed downstairs to grab some breakfast to go. She peeked into the dining room. Harper and Link were hard at work on their Athlons, writing furiously as they referenced countless books laid open before them. Her mother sat nearby. The Athlon waited for nobody and halted under no circumstance. Not even now with Juniper in dire straits. This was a long-standing Bennett-family rule. Legend had it that Hester Bennett made her children continue working on their Athlons during the Revolutionary War even as a naval battle between Rebel and British forces was fought just offshore and even after a cannonball pierced the wall of the Hearth and crashed through the kitchen table where they worked.

  Hazel’s mother noticed her in the doorway and, true to familial form, she shook her head sternly and waved Hazel away.

  Hazel didn’t need to be told twice. Her memories of her own Athlon experience were still fresh enough to put the fear of god into her. Even after she had, in her sophomore year, started attending public school, she had not escaped the project. It a demand placed on every Bennett, a test of not just academic prowess, but of family history, mythology, and magical lore. She wished now that spellcasting had also been part of the assessment, but that would defeat the purpose. The Athlon wasn’t just for Bennetts with the Knack; it was for all Bennetts, to ensure they understood the nature of their world and of their responsibilities to the land, to the Postern, and everything that lay on the other side of it.

  Hazel had both loved and hated the Athlon, but as she stepped out of Bennett Manor into a brilliant summer morning, she was thankful for the knowledge it had provided her. At least she could identify the creature now swinging from the rafters of the carriageway. The small and red humanoid let go and hurtled toward her, nearly clobbering her in the head. She jumped aside and raised her hands in defense, the familiar warm tingle already building in her palms.

  The creature danced, cackling madly as it turned circles. An imp. Maybe the same one she had seen hanging from the rafters of the covered bridge a few days earlier.

  “Go on!” she shouted, stamping her foot on the cobblestone.

  The creature gestured uncouthly before scampering off across the lawn and into a cluster of trees. This was hardly acceptable. If there was one thing the Athlon had taught her, it was the Bennett Family creed: Protect the land, preserve the secret. That was pretty hard to do when there was an entire mythological cast running amok. She would need to talk to Ronnie and his new hire. With Juniper not around to call the shots, somebody had to step up and make sure things got done. She didn’t know if the new hire was a proper successor or not, and if so, where he stood in the vetting process. Letting somebody into the inner circle of Bennett Farms was not a task to be taken lightly. Maybe she could give Ronnie a hand with wrangling some of these interlopers.

  She set out on the South Way but when she arrived at the caretaker’s cottage, she saw that nobody was home. The rose bushes had been removed, leaving only a dirt scar in the yard. Blooms do wither. She shivered. Wasn’t that what the strange voice had said to her during her cold call? She shivered despite the warm summer sun peering over the Tanglewood.

  * * *

  “Did you sleep okay at least?” Hazel asked.

  “Not a wink,” scoffed Charlie as she spooned dollops of cookie dough onto a baking tray. “I spent the whole night watching your bedroom door and praying that the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man didn’t bust in.”

  “I really am sorry, Charlie . . .”

  Charlie waved away the apology. “And then on the way in to work this morning, do you know what I saw?” Charlie asked, continuing her work with the sort of speed and precision usually reserved for ninjas.

  “What?” asked Hazel.

  Charlie looked over her shoulder to make sure they were alone, then leaned closer and lowered her voice. “A lady with fish legs.” She paused, looked around again, and leaned in even closer. “Sunbathing on a rock!” On the third lean-in, Hazel thought there was real risk their eyeballs might touch. “In. the. buff.”

  “She does that.”

  “So you know her.”

  “I’ve never talked to her, but I’ve seen her around.”

  Charlie shook her head in disbelief. “Anyway, I took it in stride, Hazel, because I have a new perspective on life. No, on existence.” Her whispers were starting to sound like a hysterical confession. “And you want to know what I saw next?”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “A cat, Hazel. Walking up the path to the Carriage House, a cat.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “With two tails.”

  Hazel perked up. Hadn’t she seen that same cat the day she’d arrived home? She had forgotten about it, but in light of the new Bennett-family crest she’d seen since, this had to be more than mere coincidence.

  “Have these . . . things always been here?!” demanded Charlie.

  “You bet.” But the two-tailed cat? Had that always been there? Hazel wracked her brain trying to dredge up some memory of it but came up empty.

  “I spent countless hours here as a teenager,” said Charlie. “I’ve been working here for the last six months! How have I never noticed any of these things until now?!”

  Hazel wondered the same thing about the feline that graced the secret family crest. “It’s amazing what you don’t notice when you’re not looking for it.” This very principal had kept the secrets of Bennett Farms safe until now and, she hoped, would keep it safe even after the farm’s grand opening. It was also a principle she hoped would also transfer to solving mysteries. If nobody was looking for evidence of Juniper’s innocence, would they ever see it?

  Charlie finished filling the tray and then shouted, “Bretta, I’m going on break!”

  “Thirty minutes!” Bretta called back from somewhere deeper inside the bakery.

  “We need to make this fast,” said Charlie as they pushed out the door and bounded down the stairs of the Doughn’t Even Bakery. “I can’t be late.”

  “Being late didn’t bother you last night,” Hazel teased.

  “Hey now. I worked my keister off to land this apprenticeship and I’m not going to screw it up. If I do this right, I can work anywhere—New York, Paris, my own bakery, whatever.”

  They found a shaded patch of grass on the far side of the courtyard, farthest away from any of the businesses.

  “So how do you want to do this?” asked Charlie. She reached into the front of her apron, which she hadn’t bothered removing, and fished out a small spiralbound notebook featuring a sparkling unicorn prancing on the cover.

  “Where did you get that?” Hazel asked.

  “The desk in your room. After you fell asleep last night, I needed to jot down some notes and write a list of questions. First question: Why do you have unicorn stationery?”

  “None of your business, Camelbow.”

  “Uncalled for,” reprimanded Charlie, then clucked her tongue. “Now, do you want to be good cop or bad cop? I think I’d make a better bad cop.”

  Hazel stopped and smirked at her friend.

  “What?” asked Charlie. “I can totally do
bad cop if I need to.”

  “You’re really getting into this.”

  “Like I said, I had a lot of time to think. Sometime around three in the morning, it really started to sink in, what we’re doing here. I know I bitched up a storm yesterday, but to be honest things have been pretty boring around here since you left. I could use a little Hazel-inspired adventure in my life. Consequences be damned.”

  “I’ve missed you too, Charlie,” she said. She held her hand out for the notebook. “Mind if I see?” Charlie reluctantly handed it over.

  “Now I’m not married to any of these,” she said. “I figure we can improvise as needed. You must be good at that.”

  “I don’t improv.”

  Charlie shot her a sour look. “You’re an actress that doesn’t improv and a witch that doesn’t cast spells,” she scoffed. “And I’m a baker that doesn’t know how to use a measuring cup.”

  “Funny.”

  “Just to be clear. I’m still not entirely comfortable with this whole Witches of Eastwick and Blithe Spirit business.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “But I’m working on being comfortable.”

  “Charlie, I couldn’t possibly ask anything more of you,” said Hazel, grinning at her friend. “Before you know it, you’ll be cavorting with centaurs and basking with mermaids.”

  Charlie grimaced.

  “I kid, I kid. Now let’s see what you’ve got here.” Hazel looked at the list written in pink pen with Charlie’s bubbly and looping penmanship. “ ‘Where were you on the afternoon of Eric Moore’s murder?’ ”

  “That was a warm-up question,” said Charlie, chewing on a cuticle. “They get better.”

  Hazel certainly hoped so.

  “ ‘Have you ever been tried for or convicted of a violent crime?’ ”

  “Okay, so I wrote these after a glass of Riesling. Sue me,” Charlie confessed. “Incidentally, I owe your mom a bottle of Riesling.”

  Hazel handed the notebook back to Charlie, who defensively clutched it to her chest. “Let’s start over,” Hazel said. “Who first? Ruby Northinger or Jess Tully?”

  “Maybe we should warm up before we move on to the widow . . .”

  “Good call. So what do you know about Ruby?”

  “Well, she’s been here all summer setting up shop and doing her thing. She seems nice enough most of the time, but she’s not much of a talker unless you get her mad. Her fuse is long, but it’s attached to one heck of a powder keg. So, you know, don’t set an open flame near her.”

  “Duly noted,” said Hazel. “Angry enough to harm somebody?”

  “I mean, I’ve never seen her kill anyone if that’s what you mean.”

  Hazel stared blankly at Charlie, but Charlie just shrugged sheepishly, adding, “I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

  “Any idea what she, Jess, and Eric might have been fighting over yesterday?”

  “If I had to guess, Jess found out about Eric’s little indiscretions.” It was possible, and really the most plausible lead they had. But if the trio had been fighting over a love triangle, why had they been looking to talk to Juniper?

  “Any tips you have for handling Ruby?”

  “Don’t make her mad. You know, in case she is the killing type.”

  “Good work, Watson. You’d better do good cop.”

  “Fine.”

  They crossed the courtyard to the door of Kindred Spirits and stepped inside. A makeshift shop had been set up with a wooden countertop laid atop a row of barrels and a curtain that shielded the rest of the space from view. Charlie waltzed up to the counter and slapped the ringer on the service bell there.

  A none-too-pleased woman shouted. “Yeah. Hold on.” Charlie nodded curtly, wearing the smug expression of somebody who was taking care of business.

  A few moments later, the curtain parted and Ruby Northinger stepped out, scowling, and wiping her hands on her jeans. She was tall and built like a gym enthusiast. Her frizzy straw-colored hair was tucked underneath a Red Sox cap. When she saw Hazel and Charlie, she stopped in her tracks, her eyes darting back and forth skittishly between the two of them. This was hardly the stern and hawkish woman Hazel had seen the day before. “Oh, hey, Char. I thought you might have been . . . someone else. What can I do for you?”

  “Good mornin’, Rubes,” said Charlie.

  Rubes? Char? How well did Charlie know this potential killer anyway?

  “You’re expecting somebody?” Hazel asked, stepping forward.

  Ruby stared at her in unease before saying, “This is a place of business. I expect a lot of people. Or at least I hope for them.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Hazel, holding her hand out to shake. “I’m Hazel. Hazel Bennett.”

  Ruby’s eyes narrowed and her jaw tightened. “You’re Juniper’s sister.”

  Hazel was about to start in with some questions—particularly “What were you and Eric Moore arguing about yesterday?”—when Charlie jumped right in. “We’re looking to get tanked tonight, Rubes, and we were hoping you could help us out.”

  “Charlie!” Hazel chided.

  But Ruby laughed, and for a moment she relaxed her rigid posture. “Did you finally decide to ditch your grape juice and take up some aqua vitae?”

  “If the price is right.”

  “I might be able to front you a bottle,” Ruby said.

  “No freebies,” said Charlie kindly.

  “How about a work trade? You keep me in bread and I’ll keep you in single malt.”

  “Super nice of you, but Bretta would slay me if I pinched a loaf.” Charlie halted, made a face, and hastily added, “That was an unfortunate choice of words . . .”

  Ruby chortled as she reached behind the counter and came up with a bottle of Kindred Spirits whiskey. “No pinching required. I’ll mark it as a promotional bottle,” she said, handing it over to Charlie.

  Hazel marveled as she watched Charlie work her own brand of magic, completely cutting through the tense air and putting Ruby somewhat at ease.

  Ruby glanced at Hazel. “I know,” she said, something suddenly dawning on her. “Maybe you can do me a favor. I’ve got some serious issues that need tending, and every point person on the project is . . . unavailable at the moment.” Ruby cleared her throat and cast her eyes down. “I sent word to your brother-in-law but he’s missing in action so far. Maybe you could come take a look.”

  “Me?” asked Hazel dumbly. She wasn’t entirely sure what problem Ruby was referring to or how she with almost no working knowledge of the farm’s operations could be of assistance. “I don’t think—”

  Charlie subtly elbowed her in the ribs. Hazel winced but she kept her mouth shut. She could take a hint. “Yeah, sure,” she said. “I can help . . .”

  Ruby motioned for them to follow and then ducked behind the curtain.

  “What was that about?” Hazel whispered to Charlie.

  “As an actress, you could try to work your audience a little better,” Charlie responded.

  “I don’t really want to be alone with her,” said Hazel. “What if she tries to off me for poking around?”

  “You’re not alone,” said Charlie. “You have me.” She swiped a sharpened pencil from the countertop, stabbed the air a few times, and then winked as if it settled everything. She ducked through the curtain, following Ruby’s lead.

  Hazel swore under her breath and followed.

  Just beyond the curtain stood an unfinished wall. It featured a huge picture window waiting for the glass to be installed and the doorframe still wanting a door. Beyond, stood the cask room, rows of cask racks filled with wooden barrels receding into the distant reaches of the space.

  “Wow,” marveled Charlie. “The cask room is coming along nicely.”

  The comment earned herself a withering look from Ruby. “Hardly. This was supposed to be done weeks ago, before we even moved the stock over. We were promised a temperature-controlled environment for storing our barrels. Instead, we’
ve had delays and excuses for months.”

  “Is that why you were arguing with Eric Moore and Jess Tully yesterday?” asked Hazel. “The delays?”

  Ruby glanced at Hazel warily and ignored the question. “This morning, I come in to find a whole new problem.” She led the way into the cask room. As they moved down the rows, Hazel was struck by the stench of whiskey. She’d attended more than her fair share of swanky parties, some held at California distilleries and wineries, and while a cask room always had a distinctive smell to it, it never smelled of alcohol.

  “You been doing a little midmorning taste-testing back here?” asked Charlie, grinning.

  “Hardly,” Ruby responded. “That’s the problem.” She led them to the very end of the rows, where the racks abutted the stone wall that marked the end of the space. There, the stench of whiskey was almost overwhelming, and Hazel saw why. The last few barrels in the row had burst open. Their sundered planks and the floorboards beneath were soaked with whiskey.

  Ruby crouched next to the mess. “Eight barrels of five-year-old whiskey lost. I hate to tell you what that translates into in terms of revenue, but let’s just say it’s more than a few promotional bottles.”

  “What happened?” asked Hazel.

  Ruby pulled at a stave from one shattered barrel and it peeled away like bark, flaking apart in her hands. “Rotten wood.”

  “How is this possible?” asked Hazel. It seemed to defy logic that a cask containing an effective preservative could rot through like that.

  “You got me,” Ruby said, pursing her lips. “But that’s eight barrels that were all completely fine when we moved them that now look like they’ve been sitting in a field for years. Somebody is going to pay for this. I don’t care if it’s Ladle Creek Construction or Bennett Farms. But this is hardly the environment I was promised when I made this deal and I want my forty thousand dollars back.”

  Hazel felt giddy suddenly. This certainly sounded like motive to her. “So you brought it to Eric Moore’s attention and he pushed the blame onto Juniper?” She was pretty sure that sort of question might be considered leading the witness, but this was hardly a court of law.