“Sure, they’re cute and all,” Mag grudgingly agreed, ignoring the mental image of Hagatha’s bunion-covered toes, “but they breed about ten times faster than bunnies, and they’ll need something to feed on. I’d rather it not be all the sage in New England.”
“Pish posh!” Hagatha brushed off Mag’s warning. “They’re going to eat what I brought them here to eat—the black flies, mosquitoes, and midges that have gotten out of control. You should see my backside after every ritual—chewed to shreds, and even if it wasn’t cruel, I don’t care for the scent of those bug sprays.”
She held the mesh enclosure up, smiling at pixies within. “Tea tree oil doesn’t seem to deter them any either, and once we start dancing around the fire, all that stuff slides down into my nether regions and stings.”
The image of Hagatha dancing skyclad around the ritual fire roared into life behind Clara’s eyes, and she wished she had a gallon of brain bleach handy. Mag’s pained expression indicated she was thinking the same thing.
“So it’s cruel to kill them with bug spray, but it’s fine to let a swarm of pixies eat them?” Mag demanded.
Hagatha shrugged. “Circle of life. It’s either that or Penelope Starr gets her way, and we nix the naked-dancing custom altogether. Then what’s next? Do you have any idea how much tradition we’ve already lost over the years? It’s despicable.”
She waved her hand. “Fine, nobody has the stomach to sacrifice a goat anymore; I can live with that. Too squeamish to prick their fingers for a little harmless blood magic; okay, there are a lot more communicable diseases in this day and age, so I’ll let it slide. But if this coven takes much more of the magic out of being a witch, we might as well chuck our wands and smother the Balefire. I. Won’t. Have. It.” She rattled her walker, emphasizing each word.
“You’ve stirred the entire garden club into a tizzy,” Clara said. “A member has already been attacked by one of your little pets, and Angela Sinclair told me they’re considering contacting the ornithological association and inviting an expert to weigh in on the problem.”
The senior witch merely shrugged and returned to tending the pixies, and Clara sighed, knowing the trouble had only begun.
Chapter Three
“Put that thing away.” Clara took her hand off the wheel long enough to shove at the map fluttering into her line of sight. “I’m using the maps app on my phone, and where did you even find a paper version? No one uses them anymore.”
A faded teal blue, the VW bus Mag had acquired when they’d moved from the bustling city of Port Harbor hadn’t had a working engine, but the Balefire sisters had seen to that with a few waves of their wands. Still, it sputtered with every tap of the gas pedal, and a faded, ‘70s-era mural gave gawkers the impression that the two elder witches had stolen the original Mystery Machine from Scooby Doo himself.
“If you get to the main entrance to the golf course, you've gone too far." Side-seat driving was Mag's way of punishing Clara for being the one behind the wheel. "Ridge Road runs parallel to the country club."
"I know. I looked it up before we left the house and the customer gave us directions once you settled on a delivery fee." One Clara thought on the high side, but her sister was all about the Benjamins.
"Take the next right. On Ridge Road,” Mag announced at the same time as Clara’s app suggested the turn. She rustled the map again, squinted at the fine print, and angled it toward a patch of sunlight streaming across the dashboard.
When the colorful sheet blocked Clara’s view of the road again, she simply conjured a spark of the magic Balefire from which she took her name and, knowing the heat wouldn’t touch her sister’s flesh, pointed to the map. It went up like a torch and burned to cinders in under a second.
“I’m trying to drive with some semblance of safety.” Clara spun the wheel and rocketed up the road that ran along the southern border of the country club and golf course. The squeak of rubber on heated pavement belied her claim and netted an icy look from Mag, who was holding two shreds of colored paper and a furious expression.
The masculine snort issuing from the cargo space in the rear of the VW bus came from Jinx, who would be providing the muscle during the delivery of an oak dresser aged to a fine, caramel sheen.
Whatever hot retort Mag might have made died on her lips when she spied the red-and-blue eagle emblazoned across the side of the mail truck nestled into a turn-off on her right.
Mag swiveled in her seat and leaned halfway out the window to stare at the blue-uniformed figure of Taylor Dean in the middle of yet another confrontation with a man.
Arms waving, his face a mask of fury, the mailman consumed Mag’s attention, so she barely noticed the red truck standing half in the ditch on the other side of the VW as Clara eased on past.
It looked like Taylor had been interrupted in the act of rooting around in the packages stacked up in the open rear hatch. More boxes lay on the ground near the bumper.
“Honestly, the Pony Express did a better job getting the mail delivered on time.” Mag should know since she’d lived through part of the evolution leading up to the current postal system. “And don’t get me started on that schoolboy uniform.”
Shutting Mag off mid-rant was like trying to stuff a cork back in a bottle of champagne while it was still fizzing. You could do it, but it would be messy and not quite worth the effort, so Clara tuned her sister out and tried to enjoy the drive.
Two minutes later, Clara let out a sharp sound and hit the brakes hard enough to send Mag pitching forward.
“Sorry, the road turned to gravel without any warning. You okay back there?” She called out to Jinx. His answering grunt earned a glance in the rearview mirror. Like many cats, Jinx considered a ride in a car as an exercise in torture, only relieved by the occasional bird or squirrel or rabbit sighting.
A washboard texture and potholes big enough to swallow a Buick sucked all Clara’s pleasure out of the drive. Banking out of the third in a series of tight turns, she jammed both feet on the brakes again when a figure in a reflective vest waved a stop sign at her.
“At least the road crew is here doing something about the problem,” Clara injected false cheer into the comment while Mag continued to sulk over the loss of her map and two jolts against the seat belt. Jinx stared intently out the window. Amid a great deal of beeping and scraping, the grading machine worked on.
And on.
And on.
After ten minutes, Clara started tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, and Mag’s desire to complain outran her ability to maintain the silent treatment.
“I’m this close to doing something witchy,” she held her thumb and forefinger practically touching. “Come on, we’ve got places to go, furniture to deliver.” The energy level in the bus ticked up a couple of notches to prove she was hitting her limit. “All he has to do is pull over to the side for a minute, and we can go right by. Come on, what’s the holdup?” Reaching over, Mag blasted the horn. Or she would have if the horn on the bus had actually been up to the task. The best it could do was a half-hearted, double meep that wouldn’t scare a fly.
“Someone else is coming up behind us.” Clara caught the movement out her side mirror. “Maybe with two vehicles waiting, they’ll be more motivated to let us through.”
But it was not to be, Clara realized as the truck eased into the other lane and the driver jumped out. Square was the best word to describe the man. His blocky head sat on wide shoulders without benefit of a neck to break up the shapes.
The temperature went up another degree in the bus, no doubt due to Mag’s rising level of annoyance, while the newcomer strutted over to have a word with the sign-waving flag person who, Clara thought, looked about ready to melt under his heavy vinyl vest.
“Hey, isn’t that the same guy the mailman was arguing with back there?” Clara said. “It’s the same truck I saw parked on the side of the road.”
A sign reading Blackthorne Excavation scrolled across the door of a
truck that should have been called the Compensating for Something model: dual rear wheels, four doors, a huge roll bar covered with lights, all in look-at-me red.
“I guess so. I wasn’t paying much attention.” Mag admitting she’d missed something happened about as often as a solar eclipse, but Clara decided it was better not to gloat.
No-neck moved on from the flagman to carry on an animated conversation with the driver of the beeping monstrosity that included several gestures toward Mag and Clara. Finally, with a nod, he swaggered over to the side if the VW to have a word.
“Morning ladies.” Apparently, Jinx’s human form counted for female, but it was Clara who got the cheeky grin and the inevitable downward sliding eye. “I’m Reggie Blackthorne of Blackthorne Excavation. Sorry ‘bout the delay. Road needed to be scraped down to the substrate after all that rain. I’ll get Charlie to move over so you can go by. Be careful now—it’s a little rough going.”
Thanking him, Clara drove on. Once they were past any possible chance of being overheard, Mag asked, “Don’t you get tired of men talking to your boobs?”
Shrugging, Clara replied, “I entertain myself by imagining what might happen if I enchanted them to respond. I can assure you it’s a temptation I work hard to resist.”
Destination on the left in 500 feet, the GPS app intoned.
Forty-five minutes later, after the dresser had been moved three times to get it in just the right spot—no, it’s no trouble at all, ma’am—Mag left Clara to collect payment and dashed for the driver’s seat. She planted her butt there and refused to move, leaving Clara with no choice but to ride shotgun.
The men had made a few hundred more feet of progress with the road scraper before abandoning it on the side of the road, leaving just enough room to slide past. Which Mag did at about twice the speed she should have been going.
“Lunch break.” Clara commented after glancing at the position of the sun—no self-respecting Balefire woman ever wore a watch.
“Speaking of,” Mag said, grinning. "I could do with a bite. Want to blow the delivery money on seafood?” Her mood much improved by the sale and the thrill of speeding down a back road, Mag was happy for the first time since leaving the shop.
Stretched out in cat form to enjoy the heat from a swath of sun across the back seat, Jinx meowed his agreement, and Clara was outnumbered.
Mag’s good mood lasted all of a minute and a half—right up until she spied the familiar square body of the mail truck still sitting in the turnoff. The air literally turned blue and smelled slightly of burnt toast when she loosed a string of curse words.
“It’s been over an hour, and he’s still screwing around out here?” She spun the wheel, pulled to the side of the road, and jumped out of the driver’s seat faster than a woman who looked her age ought to be able to move. Assuming a little diplomacy was about be in order, Clara applied feet to the ground and hurried to intervene.
Rounding the rear corner of the truck, she quickly learned it was already too late. Mag stood over Taylor Dean’s body, which was sprawled across the grassy verge.
Clara’s breath left her in a whoosh. “Is he dead?”
Sightless eyes stared up at Mag, and she didn’t need to go through the formality of testing for a pulse, but she did it anyway. The look on her face told the tale.
“What did you do?”
“Oh, for Hecate’s sake, Clara. I didn’t kill the poor lout, though I find it illuminating to see what you really think of me.” A hundred gallons of water would have evaporated in a flash under the dryness of Mag’s tone. “Can’t say I wasn’t tempted, but you can tell he’s been here a while. Hit in the head, I’d say. Maybe with a baseball bat. Something like that.” While Clara composed herself, Mag bent to take a closer look. “I guess this means our fruit-of-the-month order is going to be late.”
Clara rolled her eyes. “Really, Mag. A little sympathy, please.”
“I do feel sorry for him in case you’re wondering,” Mag said, lifting a shoulder. “Lousy at his job, but no one deserves to go out with the side of his head bashed in like that.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Mag caught a flash of white as Jinx’s agile body bolted back toward the bus. He must have seen a squirrel or a bird and been unable to resist the thrill of the catch.
“Don’t you make a mess on the seats!” She yelled toward the open window and received a plaintive howl in response. The thumping sounds of a cat at play followed, but she turned back toward the business at hand.
Clara was already on the phone. “Ridge Road. Yes, we’ll stay right here.” She tapped the screen to end the call. “The police are on the way. We’re to stay here and guard the scene. And don’t touch anything.”
That last came a beat too late. Mag had already begun poking around the truck, her sharp gaze taking in details like a hawk. The boxes she’d observed earlier were still piled on the ground behind the open rear door.
One lay on the carpeted floor, flaps open, the contents looking like they’d been rifled through. Somebody had tossed a roll of packing tape next to it, and there was a second box that had been carefully resealed. If she hadn’t seen the man himself in the act of sorting through boxes, this might look like murder followed by theft. Or vice versa.
A shallow, pebble-lined ditch gave way to a low rise bordered by a gravel access track used, Mag could only assume, by the grounds-keeping staff. Beyond that, a sparse band of trees divided the road from the country club proper. A pair of muddy gouges about the width of a golf cart trailed between a pair of young maples to intersect with the access track.
“Look here.” Mag navigated the shallow incline and pointed to clumps of mud spit out by tire treads onto the drier surface below. “I’d bet you anything the killer left those wheel marks. Get out that infernal device of yours and get some pictures. You never know, we might need them. The tracks, the body, the truck. I want it all.”
“The police are on their way,” the distant wail of sirens proved it true, “why don’t we leave this to them?”
“I have a feeling, Clarie. One of my flutters. The ones I used to get when it was time to go on the hunt. I’m needed.” She paused. “We’re needed, I suppose.” The excitement brought back the glitter Clara remembered from her youth. Margaret Balefire had always had the shine. More than any other witch she’d ever known, and there was no way her sister would stand in the way if Mag felt a compulsion to act.
“Okay, I’ll do it.” Maybe Mag’s excitement was contagious, but Clara could feel a few flutters of her own. Snapping shot after shot, she recorded the entire scene and slid the phone into her pocket as the first black-and-white skidded into view.
Chief Cobb’s eyebrows shot to his hairline then dropped into a scowl when he saw who was waiting for him at the scene of the murder.
“Well, you ladies certainly do seem to find trouble everywhere you go. Might make a thinking man wonder what it is you been up to.”
Mag’s quiet snort revealed her opinion of him as a thinking man and Clara treated her sister to a quelling look.
“What were you doing way out here anyway?” Cobb squatted down to check the mailman's pulse even though it was clear there would be nothing to find. Clara caught the brief expression of compassion flitting across his face, and it made her think a little bit better of him.
“We were out here to deliver a dresser to the house at the end of the road,” Clara replied. “Mr. Dean was alive and well about an hour ago when we passed by. It looked like he’d been rearranging the packages in the rear of the truck.”
“And he was alone? Did you see anyone else on the road?” Holding up a finger to keep the sisters from answering, Cobb listened to dispatch giving him an ETA on impending backup, then continued, “I want you to think carefully and tell me everything you saw.”
“As a matter of fact,” Clara said, “he was arguing with Reggie Blackthorne when we passed. It couldn’t have been much of a fight, though, because a few minutes later, Mr. Black
thorne pulled up behind us and had a word with the road crew.”
Mag added, “Then he came over to introduce himself to us, explained why the crew was taking so long, and they finally let us through after making us sit there for at least ten minutes.”
“Do you remember how many men or women were part of the road crew?” Cobb raised an eyebrow at Mag’s tart tone but kept his even and professional.
“Four, I think,” Mag said, holding his gaze, “but they left during the time we spent delivering the desk.”
“Which took?”
“Forty-five minutes give or take,” Clara said.
“Plus another fifteen waiting for the workers to clear the road,” Mag fumed inwardly just thinking about it but kept a level tone.
Backup arrived with more lights and sirens and a rush of activity.
“Stay here. I’ll send someone to take an official statement. You didn’t touch anything did you?”
“Checked for a pulse and then called you straightaway,” Mag lied without batting so much as an eyelash.
Cobb assigned a young officer by the name of Lynn Nye to interview Mag and Clara. Bright-eyed and eager, Nye looked like she had just exited the Academy and this might be her first assignment. Every few seconds, her eyes slid toward where the body lay, and she swallowed hard, but to her credit, the young woman conducted a thorough questioning.
Over the next half hour, she took both women through the series of events at least three times. While mechanically answering question after question, Mag tuned her attention to the crew’s chatter.
“Blunt force trauma delivered with a long-handled weapon. Golf club, if I had to make an immediate guess. Makes sense, given the location.” The coroner reported to Chief Cobb, who answered with a short nod and a sidelong glance in Mag and Clara’s direction.
Murder on the Backswing Page 2