Murder on the Backswing

by ReGina Welling

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Excerpt from Murder Below the Waterline

  Chapter One

  “Unbelievable,” Margaret Balefire muttered as she raised a pair of magically-enhanced high-resolution binoculars to her eyes and studied something across the street. Her sister, Clara, wondered how she could see anything at all, eyelids narrowed to slits as they were.

  “What now? Is Mrs. Green not picking up after her Corgi again?” Mag tended to take the watch half of the term neighborhood watch to the extreme, even though she’d never be caught dead joining such an organization. In fact, the only group to which she deigned to claim membership was the local witch’s coven—and even then, Mag participated only grudgingly.

  She cocked her head toward Clara and directed a glare in her sister’s direction. “No, Miss Smarty Pants, it’s Taylor Dean, that mailman of ours. He just put Georgia Macomb’s package under the rain gutter, and it’s pouring outside. Yesterday he left our mailbox door open and the check for that console table I sold last week got completely soaked. I had to use a drying charm, and it was still wrinkled so badly the bank cashier gave me a dirty look.”

  “Are you sure the look was about the check or the fact that you like to bring her half the morning deposit in quarters? I know you think I’m too uptight about using magic for personal gain, but doesn’t irritating the teller count as mischief?” Clara shot back.

  “It counts as entertainment, Mag said, adjusting the binoculars, “which is in short supply around here. Stop being such a downer.”

  Clara raised one eyebrow at the statement and opened her mouth for a rebuttal, but the bell tinkled above the door of the shop, signaling the entrance of a customer.

  Clara turned her attention to the new arrival and offered the harried-looking middle-aged woman a welcoming smile. “Welcome to Balms and Bygones. I’m Clara, how can I help you?”

  “Angela Sinclair,” the woman nodded, looking around. “Nice to meet you. I hear you carry the best anti-aging face cream this side of Port Harbor. That true?” The customer, who Clara only vaguely recognized, looked skeptical as she took in the contents of the shop. Since moving to Harmony and opening the store a few months prior, Mag and Clara had been asked why they’d chosen to peddle the odd combination of botanicals and antiques at least a hundred times—basically, by just about every person in town.

  Clara shrugged off the unspoken insult and instead forced the corners of her lips into an even deeper smile, “You’ve heard correctly; I make all the products myself, with locally-sourced ingredients. And my mother, Margaret, deals in antiques. We can sell you a beauty arsenal, plus a cupboard to keep it all in.”

  Proving true the adage that whatever a witch sends out into the world comes back to her threefold, Angela Sinclair caught Clara’s infectious good mood and cracked an answering grin. “I’m not in the market for furniture, but show me what you’ve got that can help with these crow’s feet.”

  While Clara peddled her wares, Mag returned her attention to the street where the mailman had delivered three more batches of letters without seeming to care whether they’d made it to the addressees intact. Cursing under her breath, she watched as he ambled down the front walkway and bypassed the “open” sign on the shop door. Without bothering to knock or ring the bell, Taylor deposited a package on the front stoop and continued down the block, not caring that it was raining.

  “Rat bastard!” Mag exclaimed, causing Clara and Angela to whip their heads in her direction.

  “I don’t know how that man keeps his job. I can’t have been the only one to notice he’s completely incompetent.” She griped.

  Clara shot daggers at Mag and attempted to usher Angela to the other end of the store, “I’m sorry about my mother. She takes mail delivery very seriously—a sign of her advanced age, I think.”

  Angela laughed and brushed Clara’s apology aside, “Just one of the perks of small-town life. She’s not wrong, but you won’t get anywhere trying to get Taylor fired. The last time someone quit, it took six months to find a replacement. No one wants the job.”

  “Wonderful.” Mag muttered as she stomped out through the door to retrieve the bundle. She glanced around, did a quick sweep to make sure no prying eyes would witness what she was about to do, and directed a bolt of magic across the street. Mrs. Macomb’s package lifted in the air, spun around, and shot onto the dry, covered porch. “You’re welcome.”

  She contemplated tossing another spell toward the mail truck Taylor had left parked at the corner, considering a wet seat fitting punishment for his crime. However, she made the mature decision to refrain, figuring he’d reap what he had sowed eventually, without her interference.

  Clara and Angela were chatting like old friends by the time Mag returned to the shop interior.

  “The garden club meets on Tuesdays at ten a.m. in the library solarium. Then we fan out to take care of the community plots. Actually, there’s a special session tomorrow to discuss how we can battle this hummingbird problem. Have you noticed how much larger they are this year? Maude Prescott was attacked by one when she didn’t fill their feeder fast enough, and now her flower beds are full of weeds because she refuses to go into her backyard.”

  Mag snorted loudly and rudely enough to earn a glare from her sister, which she duly ignored while pretending to dust an antique canning cupboard.

  “We have a delivery scheduled for the morning, unfortunately,” Clara said with just the right amount of disappointment in her tone. She finished up with Angela, agreed to attend the next regular garden club meeting, and ushered her new friend to the door before descending upon Mag with a furious expression.

  “Are you trying to alienate every paying customer who walks through the door?”

  “Of course not,” Mag said, wrinkling her nose, “and don’t talk to your mother like that.” Though she claimed she wasn’t bothered that her outer appearance didn’t reflect just how close they were in age, Clara knew it rankled just the same.

  “You know, I feel the same way you do, but in the opposite direction. At least you’re perceived as the wise old woman you are, whereas I don’t look like I’ve had time to contemplate a midlife crisis—of which I’ve experienced several.”

  With only a handful of years between them and, thanks to the blessing of long life bestowed upon all witches, neither of them appeared their actual age—which had already surpassed two centuries. Humans tended to assume Mag was closing in on her eighties and pegged Clara for about fifty years younger. Not even the town drunk would have believed them sisters.

  Though she would never mention it to Mag, who wore her battle scars proudly, Clara had been working her way through an obscure collection of magical texts to see if there was a way to reverse the damage done by the Raythe attack that had leached away Mag’s youthful appearance.

  Mag would give birth to a pink unicorn with a rainbow cottontail if she suspected for one minute her front of indifference had been penetrated. And Clara would do anything in her power to restore what her sister had lost.

  A commotion outside caught Clara’s attention as she arranged a new batch of lavender pi
llow spray on a recently-acquired hutch near one of the front windows.

  “Maggie, it looks like your mailman is getting his just desserts.” Clara waved her sister over.

  Taylor had just returned from his trek up and down the waterlogged Mystic Street when Leonard Wayland, half of the couple who owned the house next door to Georgia Macomb, descended his porch steps. Leonard approached the mailman with an angry expression, and Mag bustled outside just in time to hear him spit vim and vinegar.

  “I won’t stand for this any longer!” Leonard said, waving his mail. “I’ll file another complaint with your supervisor if I have to. How difficult is it to close the mailbox door? If my wife’s magazines keep getting soaked, I’ll either have your job or your head, Taylor Dean!” Leonard shouted, his patience having reached the breaking point.

  Taylor took a step back, puffed out his chest, and when he spoke it was too low for Mag to overhear. Whatever he said turned Leonard’s face even redder than before and slackened his chin in surprise. Not for long, though, because after a second, Leonard’s eyes narrowed and his posture changed to match Taylor’s.

  “Don’t mess with me; I'm a big old man.” Mag muttered her own mocking version of the conversation. “I’m bigger and hairier, too/” She hmphed. “Idiots, the pair of them.”

  The discussion petered out quickly, and it didn’t look to her like either side had come away entirely happy.

  His face devoid of expression, Taylor strolled toward Mag, who stepped into his path. When she lifted her hand, first and middle fingers in a V shape and used it in the swiveling gesture pointing to his eyes and then to hers to indicate he’d better listen, Taylor’s eyebrows shot up. And so did Mag’s temper.

  Mayor Norm McCreery chose that inconvenient moment to appear on the sidewalk, headed toward Balms and Bygones to stare at Clara, Mag could only assume. And so, he was on the spot to hear her grit out the warning, “I’m watching you.” A chill fell, one that had nothing to do with the rainy day, and for a split second, something untamed and powerful rose in the old woman’s eyes.

  Taylor shrugged past her and only turned once to find her gaze still heavy on him as he made for his truck and drove away.

  “Problem?” Norm asked.

  “Not for long,” Mag answered, turning to go back in the shop.

  Chapter Two

  Beads of perspiration pearled on her forehead, beginning a slow trickle into Clara’s eyes by the time Mag bustled into the alchemy lab tucked behind the shop’s display floor with a tray full of finger sandwiches and iced tea.

  “One of the perks of living in such a small town is that we can take a break for lunch and nobody bats an eyelash,” Mag said as she eyed the food. “Heck, even the post office closes down between noon and two o’clock. Want to take a quick walk down the back trail once we’ve eaten? That big patch of sage needs to be clipped and layered.”

  Clara wiped her brow, twisted her chestnut mane into a topknot, and secured it with a pencil while, at her command, the bubbling cauldron cooled and deposited its contents into a lidded container complete with easy-pour spout. “It’s still coming down in sheets out there. Are you sure you want to look like a drowned cat for the rest of the day?”

  “For Hecate’s sake, Clarie, haven’t you ever heard of an umbrella? And we’ll take the path through the woods where it’s less wet. Besides, my knees tell me it’s about to stop raining.”

  Unwilling to nix Mag’s plans when she was in a rare jovial mood, Clara acquiesced while contemplating how much easier it had been raising a willful daughter with a penchant for trouble than it was dealing with her fully grown, cantankerous sister. Not that she’d trade the opportunity to spend more time with Mag for anything in the world. They’d had enough time apart while Clara passed twenty-five years encased in stone for a crime she didn’t commit—and many more years besides, during the decades Mag traveled the world making her name as a rogue Raythe hunter.

  Considering how close she’d come to losing her sister altogether, Clara chose to approach Mag with as much patience and understanding as humanly possible. So far, it had netted her a few more gray hairs than she’d have liked, but they’d settled into a companionable—if not always agreeable—relationship and Clara couldn’t imagine living without her.

  “Your walks tend to take far longer than planned. Get Jinx and Pye to agree to man the shop, and I’ll come along.” Clara said, giving in.

  Halfway down the stairs, the pitter-patter of little paws turned to human footsteps as both familiars answered the call. Pyewacket’s human form was as sleek and powerful as her feline one. Tawny skin that shone like velvet deepened across her face to create a natural smoky eyeshadow effect, and when she turned those crystal blues on a male customer, he was sunk. Women responded to her friendly smile and willingness to find the beauty in everyone, and it was a good thing, too.

  Since the two Balefire sisters had moved to Harmony, Clara had put most of her magical efforts into creating a personal care product line; a prospect Pye found slightly boring.

  Jinx, on the other hand, preferred boring. Left to his own devices, his white, fluffy feline form followed a slow arc across the floor as he followed the hottest sun-warmed spot he could find throughout the day. People interested him less than flies, but Mag paid for his services in the one currency he could not resist. Succulent, juicy tuna.

  After finishing lunch, they set out into the gloomy weather. By the time the sage plot came into view, Mag’s knees had proved themselves better forecasters than the channel five weatherman, and the umbrella was no longer necessary.

  “What in tarnation is going on here?” Mag exclaimed as she took in the decimated crop. “It’s all been chewed off at the stem!” She held up a handful of pockmarked leaves for Clara’s examination. Mag was right; the entire crop appeared to have been eaten by some kind of bug.

  “Caterpillars? Or maybe slugs?” Clara wondered aloud, while a niggling feeling crept into the recesses of her mind. Before she could put the pieces together, a loud buzzing sound claimed the air, and a charm of hummingbirds swooped out of the forest.

  “Freeze,” Mag hissed, having gone stock-still herself, “those aren’t hummingbirds. They’re honey pixies, and they can be dangerous in groups, especially during mating season.”

  Clara did as instructed; she’d learned long ago that when Mag used her big sister voice, it was best to listen. Once, when she was five and approaching an ornery but beautiful phoenix at a fellow witch’s birthday party, Clara had ignored a warning just like this one—and wound up with a pair of singed eyebrows, a sizable peck mark on her peaches-and-cream cheek, and a violent dislike for anything with feathers.

  Even so, Clara couldn’t deny her curiosity and slowly raised her eyes to peer at the tiny creatures. To her surprise, they didn’t look at all threatening. In fact, they reminded her of faeries in their miniature form, tiny little bodies with wings that beat so fast she couldn’t tell what color they were. One female with cropped hair the color of glittering aquamarine swooped over to Mag, took a sniff, and let out a series of chirps that set the whole flight chattering as they zoomed into the forest and out of sight.

  “I guess they didn’t think we were a threat. Come on, now.” Mag headed toward the path and beckoned Clara to follow.

  “Where are we going?”

  An exasperated Mag directed an eye roll at her sister, “To find where those pixies went, duh. They aren’t here by accident, I can assure you. Native to the Faelands, which means someone—and I have a sneaking suspicion I know exactly who—brought them to our realm.”

  “Hagatha.” Clara and Mag spoke in unison.

  “What do you suppose she’s got planned?” Clara wondered aloud.

  “How in the world should I know? Everything that woman does is a mystery to me. She’s not the first thousand-year-old-plus witch I’ve met, but she’s most definitely the nuttiest. No wonder the coven didn’t want to deal with her shenanigans anymore.”

  Cl
ara snorted. “When they called us here to keep tabs on her, I thought it was because they respected the legendary Balefire sisters. After all, I was Keeper of the Flame for over a century, and your reputation as a warrior precedes you across realms. But now it just feels like glorified babysitting, and I can’t help but wonder if there’s a conspiracy behind it all.”

  The stroke to Mag’s ego lightened her feet and the gentle shushing sounds they made in the knee-high grass fed something primitive in her soul. If she wanted to, Mag could lay a hand on the soil and ask Mother Earth to give up her secrets. The connection to the elements came down from mother to daughter or, more rarely, from father to son. Earth, fire, air, and water carried the magic to feed her own and today, the air spoke to her of strange charms and enchantments.

  “All the more reason to prove those lazy witches wrong. Listen, I hear something up ahead,” Mag said, motioning for Clara to follow her. The brisk pace she set spoke volumes about her level of concern. “I’m going to pay for this later—I hope that batch of hip ointment is almost ready.”

  “I’ve got you covered, Maggie. Look, there she is.”

  Mag descended upon the old woman who had just wrangled the swarm of honey pixies into a mesh enclosure. Hagatha’s tennis-ball-footed walker stood in the center of a mossy clearing, the sun glinting off its chrome frame. How she’d gotten all the way up the hill with the thing, Clara couldn’t imagine.

  “What in Hades are you thinking?” Mag demanded as Hagatha’s eyes bounced between the sisters with no trace of remorse. Looking at the bones of her—which was easy since there wasn’t enough flesh on them to see much of anything else—and squinting a little, it was plain to see that Hagatha had once been a robust and lovely woman. These days, the ones she must be counting as some of her last, the old witch could have been the poster girl for, well, old witches. Wrinkled and wizened, she reminded Clara of a bitten apple left in the sun to dry.

  Hagatha could barely contain her excitement despite having gone to great lengths to keep the pixies a secret. “Aren’t they beautiful? Picked up a half dozen from a black-market dealer in the Fringe. Cost me a pretty penny, but I was able to cut the price by half—did you know there are people out there who will pay top dollar for the toenail clippings of a millennial witch?”