Down on the Charm

by E L Wilder

  “Harper?”

  “You’ve met?”

  “She comes here and reads sometimes. The girl has posture worthy of a queen,” he said, nodding toward one of the back-breaking pews.

  “Every inch of that girl is regal,” said Hazel, beaming. “Listen. I need you to make yourself scarce when Charlie gets here. Or tone it down a little. She’s still acclimating.”

  “Understood,” said Theo, bowing deeply. “I would hate to upset the lady further. If you have need of me, simply send a summons and I shall come forthwith.”

  But before he could retreat, the chapel door opened and Charlie entered, her hair and shirt plastered with flour and dough.

  “Don’t ask,” she warned as she came in. “We just got a new industrial mixer today. Give me a whisk and a bowl and I can work wonders, but this thing—I swear it’s possessed. On the plus side, Bretta now officially knows that I’m a complete idiot.”

  “I’m sorry, Charlie,” said Hazel.

  Charlie stopped at the altar where she set her purse down. It clinked tellingly. With the flair of a performing illusionist, she withdrew a bottle of shiraz, some stemware, and a corkscrew. “C’est la magie!” she cooed. “You’re not the only magician around here. Now behold my next trick as I make my day disappear!” She uncorked the bottle with the precision of an assassin.

  “Where did you get those?” asked Hazel. “You haven’t been home since yesterday morning.”

  “A magician never reveals her secrets.”

  “Don’t you have to drive home tonight?”

  “I’m staying at your house again,” declared Charlie. “I told you. Until this clears up,” she gestured at Theo, “I’m no longer living alone.”

  “My dear,” Theo said, cowering under Charlie’s glare. “I have been privileged to exist here since I died fighting Lobsterbacks in the War for Independence! I am not going to clear up anytime soon.”

  Charlie pretended she had heard nothing, picked up her wine glass, drank deeply, and smiled as she approached the crazy wall. “So where do we stand? Debrief me!”

  “Yesterday’s interview was hardly conclusive,” Hazel said. “Ruby was lying to us, and perhaps in more ways than we realized.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Something just wasn’t adding up with this whole situation,” said Hazel. “Then I talked to Juniper earlier.” She recounted the details of the call.

  “So there’s no way Juniper, or anyone, could have driven that tractor into Eric Moore?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Where does that leave us?”

  “We still need to question Jess Tully,” said Hazel. “Those two are lying and we need to figure out why.”

  “Well that ought to be fun,” said Charlie. “If you thought Eric Moore was a peach, just wait until you meet his bitter half. Those two deserved each other if you ask me.”

  “But that’s tomorrow,” said Hazel. “What about tonight?”

  “Tonight?”

  Hazel had already formulated the plan. She knew she just needed to sell Charlie on it. “What about the crime scene?” Hazel asked. “We can only get so far with interviews. I’m guessing these things rarely end with feature-length confessions a la Jessica Fletcher. We need hard evidence. We need to scour the scene for clues.”

  “Clues?” Charlie asked, nervous laughing through her teeth. “Should we do a dust-up for prints, Blue?”

  “Something like that,” said Hazel.

  “Don’t you think the police have already done a thorough job of that?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “But only if they were looking for typical clues.”

  “Hazel, you have some ’splainin’ to do.”

  “I have something that might help,” Hazel said, reaching into her satchel and pulling out the rolled-up parchment. She had found the old leather bag in the cloakroom of Bennett Manor and requisitioned it as her official traveling spells and clues bag. Try finding that in current the Fjällräven catalog. “A spell.”

  “An honest-to-goodness spell?”

  “It’s called ‘For the revealing of proximal ensorcellments and practitioners of magicks.’ ”

  “Oh honey,” Charlie said, consolingly. “We need to work on that.”

  “Detect magic, Charlie.”

  “Better. How does it work?

  “I haven’t the foggiest.”

  “Perhaps I can be of some assistance,” said Theo, stepping forward, and raising his hand with a debonair flourish. “I did, after all, marry a young Bennett at the time of her magical awakening.”

  “Wait wait. You were a Bennett and you married a Bennett?”

  “I am Theophilus Cincinnatus Bennett née Windham. I am a Bennett by marriage only.”

  “You changed your name to Bennett?” asked Charlie. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m just as progressive as the next woke girl. But how did that work?”

  “The Bennetts were very ahead of their time,” he said defensively. “It was a price I was willing to pay to earn the love of your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandmother.”

  “Great,” said Charlie.

  “Besides,” continued Theo, “it was required of anyone marrying into the Bennett clan, particularly one marrying a woman with the Knack . . .”

  “You know about the Knack?” asked Hazel.

  “Of course. As I was trying to say, my wife, your great-great—”

  “We got it,” said Charlie. “Great times nine.”

  “Yes, your ancestor, Hisolda Roisin Bennett was what might traditionally be termed as a witch. Even in the few short years we were together, before the War for Independence and my untimely departure, I saw more than my fair share of magic practiced. This spell was one of the first that Hisolda learned. She and her brothers used to use it to track down interlopers that came through the Postern.”

  “Can it be used to do more than track down magical beings? Can it detect a spell that’s been cast, even if it’s been a few days?”

  “Hisolda always said that magic leaves a residue. I wouldn’t profess to know how it worked beyond that.”

  “So if we go to the scene and cast this spell . . .” started Hazel

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Charlie. “Can somebody please explain to me why we’re going to go break the law to cast a spell that might or might not work in order to accomplish . . . what exactly?”

  “There’s no way that tractor moved of its own accord, Charlie. You said so yourself.”

  “I mean I’m no mechanic . . .” said Charlie.

  “But Juniper is,” said Hazel. “And if she says that it defies mundane explanation, then magic is at the heart of this murder.”

  “I’m not so sure about that leap of logic . . .”

  “You’ll have to trust me on this one, Charlie.”

  Charlie grumbled. “The classic Hazel Bennett trust fall. For the record, this is still crazytown.”

  “Let me come with you,” said Theo, stepping forward so suddenly that Charlie jumped back, fists raised in defense.

  “I thought you dwelled here, boogeyman?” said Charlie.

  “Indeed. But it doesn’t mean I’m bound here. I do like to get out every once in a while—discreetly.”

  “What about the glow?” Hazel asked. “Can you tone it down?”

  He pulled out an old cloak and threw it around his shoulders like a matador fanning his cape, dampening the light he projected, even though the cloak itself was just as spectral as its wearer.

  “That barely makes sense,” said Charlie, shaking her head. “But whatever. Sense has left the building.” She made to swig from her glass again, but Hazel snatched it from her before it could touch her lips.

  Charlie fired a murderous look at her. “Girl, there is no friend so near and dear to me that she can swipe my wine glass.”

  “We’re going to need our wits about us,” admonished Hazel. “If this goes well, you and I can toast to our success a dozen times over.”

/>   “Fine,” Charlie muttered. “Though a little liquid courage never hurt anyone.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  They navigated to the barn by thin moonlight. As they broke from the tree line and snuck toward the East Barn, Charlie hit her shin on a rock. She hissed, and then hoarsely whispered, “If I can’t wear shorts because of this, I’m going to be the suspect in a whole new murder investigation.”

  Hazel shushed her. “We’re close.”

  Along the way, Charlie had picked up a fallen branch and now brandished it like a club. “Just in case,” she’d said.

  They approached the backside of the barn and crept down the little dirt track that led to the rear entrance of the tractor garage.

  “Of course it’s locked,” sighed Charlie as Hazel strained hopelessly against the door.

  “You would think, considering my family owns this place,” scowled Hazel, “That I wouldn’t run into so many locked doors.”

  “You should see my apartment. Nothing but open doors. Like most of the doorways don’t even have doors. I’d kill for a lockable door or two. It’s all beaded curtains. Whenever I have company over, I pee in terror.”

  “TMI, Charlie.”

  Charlie shrugged. “Now what do we do? Your mysterious benefactor didn’t happen to drop an unlocking spell in your lap, did he?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “How do we get inside?”

  “You don’t think I spent my childhood here without picking up a secret or two. See up there?” Hazel pointed to the southwest tower of the barn, which was now wrapped in scaffolding up to the roof. “Start climbing.”

  Hazel set out at a jog, Charlie protesting in a whisper the whole way. Here on the farm, intruders, at least of the non-magical variety, were hardly an issue so no effort had been made to secure the area. Hazel adjusted her satchel and started climbing the first access ladder.

  Charlie called up to her. “This seems super dangerous.”

  “Then stay here,” said Hazel over her shoulder.

  “Alone?”

  “Maybe Theo will keep you company.”

  As if on cue, the ghost appeared at the foot of the ladder next to Charlie, forcing her to clamp a hand over her own mouth to stifle a scream. “Wait for me,” she called.

  They climbed to the third level of the scaffolding, where a series of windows girded the tower.

  “Now what?” asked Charlie.

  “These windows don’t actually lock,” Hazel said. “But they’re a pain in the butt to open. I guess the Bennetts that built this barn weren’t too worried about people trying to break in from the third floor.”

  “And look how shortsighted that was,” said Charlie.

  Hazel took a pen out of her satchel and carefully worked it under the window sash until she had leveraged it enough to work her fingers underneath.

  “The pen is truly mightier than the sword,” crooned Theo.

  Charlie gritted her teeth so loudly, Hazel was surprised she didn’t shatter a few molars. Perhaps it would be best to intervene before Charlie truly lost it. “Theo,” Hazel said. “Why don’t you serve as the lookout? There should be an officer on guard down in the courtyard. I don’t want to get caught flatfooted.”

  Theo stood at attention like he had just been given an order by his commanding general. “Sentry duty!” he said, delighted. “I will not fail you, granddaughter.” He sank into the floorboards of the scaffolding and then was gone.

  “Oh thank god,” said Charlie. “Now I can commit my crime-scene tampering in peace.”

  They climbed through the tower window. The space was swallowed in shadow, save for the swath of moonlight painted across the floorboards. Yet another place on the farm she had never braved at night.

  She and Charlie wasted no time making their way down through the tower, descending narrow and steep staircases, unlatching and opening doors that refused to stay quiet. They finally came to the space above the tractor garage.

  It had once been a hayloft but was now home to one of the new businesses that had hung its shingle at the East Barn. In the dim illumination of the moonlight, she could see the room was filled with countless racks. A massive round table stood at its center.

  “Oooo,” said Charlie. “We’re in Knits of the Round Table!”

  “What?” asked Hazel, genuinely perplexed.

  “The knitting atelier that moved in here at the end of May!” Charlie detoured to the racks and started running her hand over folded knitwear and poking at baskets filled with skeins of yarn. “This stuff is so nice!” she cooed. “I totally plan to blow a whole paycheck here when sweater season arrives. If I’m draped in alpaca wool and hemp and sipping an endless cup of cider come September, I’ll be living the life.”

  “Charlie,” said Hazel. “As lovely as that sounds, can we focus here?”

  “Right!”

  Hazel approached the eponymous round table, which, she realized, was not a table at all but a massive cable reel turned on its side.

  “So now what?” asked Charlie

  “It should be around here somewhere.” Hazel dropped to her knees and pawed around on the floor. That ring had to be around here somewhere. Hopefully the table wasn’t on top of it.

  “Maybe we should have just sweet-talked our way past the guard,” offered Charlie.

  Hazel found what she had been looking for. A metal ring set in the floor. She grabbed hold of it, set a wide stance, and pulled. The ring didn’t budge. How had she and Juniper been able to do this as kids?

  “Help me with this,” she said to Charlie.

  “Move aside.” Charlie gently shouldered her out of the way. She crouched over the ring and pulled hard, grunting under the strain. Hazel was just about to step in and assist when, suddenly, the trapdoor gave way with a groan of swollen wood and a shriek of rusty hinges, revealing a gaping black hole beneath.

  “If that didn’t attract anyone’s attention,” said Hazel. “I don’t think we have to worry about making too much noise.”

  “I think you meant to say thank you.”

  “That too.”

  Hazel set her satchel on the floor and lowered her feet into the black space. “I’m afraid there’s no ladder. But it’s not too far down.”

  “Once we get in,” said Charlie, “are we going to be able to get back out?”

  “We should be able to unlock the back door and slip out.”

  “Should be. Those sound like words to choke on.”

  Regardless, Hazel needed to do this, consequences be damned at this point. She tossed the satchel down and then lowered herself, held her breath, and let go. The floor came up faster than expected and she landed hard, twisting her ankle.

  “You alive down there?” called Charlie in a stage whisper.

  “Technically.” She reached blindly until she found her satchel. She fished out a headlamp, donned it, and turned it on. There were no windows in the tractor garage space, so it should be safe.

  Charlie peered down at her.

  “Maybe I should stay here,” said Charlie. “In case you need to get out.”

  “The only way out from there is back up through the tower,” she said. “By yourself.”

  Charlie grimaced. “Look out below, I guess.” Charlie shimmied down backward and Hazel did her best to support her.

  Together, they crept to the recesses of the garage, where the steam tractor still rested, pulled back just a few feet from the wall.

  “What if we contaminate the scene?” asked Charlie

  “You’ve been watching too much CSI.”

  “I don’t like being here,” said Charlie, eyeing the murder scene. “Let’s do our business and then get gone.”

  Hazel nodded. She slowly circled the tractor, searching for anything unusual. When she flashed her light upon the rear of the tractor, something caught her attention. The storage drum fixed there and the metal rails on the back of the cab were dented, the crenulations flattened in a way that made her think of a car
toon wooden tent stake pounded until its edges curled down. The police must have overlooked this kind of damage on a hundred-year-old tractor. She was certain that Juniper had said the body was in near-mint condition.

  Hazel took out her phone and snapped a few pictures.

  There was a shuffling noise in the darkness, and Hazel stopped, her heart beating wildly. She doused her light and held her breath. But she heard nothing more. When she was satisfied they were alone, she again turned her light on and swept the garage tractor. Just rows of long-dead tractors. Nothing more.

  “What the hell was that?” asked Charlie.

  “Rats?”

  “Not comforting.”

  They turned back to the tractor.

  “So now what do we do?” asked Charlie.

  “Work some magic.”

  Hazel dumped her satchel in Charlie’s arms. “Hold this.”

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “Harper and I worked on making sense of it all afternoon. Then I had to gather the materials.”

  “Materials . . .”

  She fished into the bag and pulled out her tools: a small paintbrush filched from Harper’s art set, a jar of setting powder retrieved from Gammy’s vanity, and a pair of rubber dishwashing gloves pinched from underneath the kitchen sink.

  “Oh my god,” said Charlie, horrified as she watched Hazel snap on the rubber gloves. “You really are going to dust for prints.”

  Hazel grinned.

  “I thought you were going to cast a spell . . .”

  “Watch and learn,” said Hazel, projecting a confidence than she hardly felt. She pulled the spell from the satchel and read through it one more time, stopping at Gammy’s note etched next to the list of ingredients. Hogwash. Use what works. Improvise.

  A few days ago, Hazel would have had no idea what that note meant, but it made perfect sense. Because casting is believing—believing in yourself and your materials. If traditional items—wands, rings, cauldrons, brooms—performed better, it was only because of the power of suggestion. Much the same way an actress with a few simple props and some impressionistic scenery could make a theater audience imagine entire worlds.

  Hazel held up the paintbrush and the powder for Charlie to see.