Hagatha keened each loss since she’d become attached to her charges over the past few weeks.
All Clara wanted was a breath of fresh air and a get-out-of-the-dome-free card. The heat turned her hair to frizz and drained away her vitality.
Add in the stench of burning rock, the smoke that slipped past her makeshift fans, and the low-level hormone bursts even her charms couldn’t fully counteract, and she was nothing but a raw nerve.
Mag had to shake her twice to pull Clara out of a daze when it was time to leave. Wisely, the elder Balefire held back comment when her younger sister kicked away the stones anchoring the dome to the earth. One of her best smoky quartz crystals had just sailed into the woods on the wings of Clara’s ire.
“It’s late, but if we go straight to town from here, we can still catch the end of crochet group.” Daring Mag to argue, Clara made the decision. “Aim for the storage closet in Circle headquarters. No one should be there today. We can take the path from there to the library.”
“Shouldn’t we get cleaned up first?” Once Mag pointed it out, Clara realized she looked like hell. Almost literally, given the smoke damage.
“If I let you go home, we’ll never make it back there in time. Aren’t you curious to hear what Maude has to say about that cozy? We’re witches; we’ll use glamour.”
“But isn’t that against the rules? Penelope will have a fit.” Mag grinned; she didn’t give a two-bit tin whistle about Penelope or her rules and enjoyed Clara’s current state of rebellion.
“She’s tap danced on my goodwill for the last time.”
Winking out, the sisters reappeared inside the dark closet, and Clara stepped in a bucket before she had the wit to conjure up a ball of witchfire for light.
“This day just gets better and better.” Riding her annoyance, Clara sailed out the door leaving Mag, snickering silently, to follow along behind. Glamour in place along with an anti-stinky spell, they hurried toward the library with fifteen minutes to spare before crochet club broke up for the day.
“Don’t think I didn't see you making faces at me, and you have a lot of nerve acting as though I’m the one being unreasonable,” Clara ranted as she led Mag outside. “You’re supposed to be on my side Maggie, and not only did you encourage Hagatha, you provided her with the means to create that mating ritual. What could you have been thinking?”
“Clara, shush,” Mag spied an approaching figure and elbowed her sister in the ribs a little harder than necessary. “The name McCreepy is starting to sound more appropriate by the day since that’s how frequently we seem to find the mayor of Harmony skulking around in the shadows.”
“Well, hello ladies,” he greeted both sisters with friendly smiles, but his eyes were trained on Clara’s figure, as usual. At least he had enough manners to refocus with a slight blush at Mag’s pointed stare.
“Norm,” Clara nodded, her gaze flicking to the library. Her thoughts were singularly fixed on pursuing the murder investigation. It was clear Norm McCreery sincerely wished they were focused on pursuing a different sort of satisfaction.
The mayor’s grin widened while Clara’s faltered at his next statement, “I’m not sure how you did it, but mysteriously, Chief Cobb has declared that the two of you are no longer suspects in Taylor’s death.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Mag commented, maintaining the facade of having no idea what he was talking about.
“In fact, he seems to have forgotten that he questioned your involvement in the first place. Gone right out of his head. Mysterious, that.”
Clara flashed him a dazzling smile and brushed off the insinuation. “I’m sure he simply realized he was barking up the wrong tree.” She infused her next breath with the faintest hint of magic and leaned a little closer. “You might encourage him to look into Reggie Blackthorne’s accounts, once this murder business has been laid to rest.”
“Reggie Blackthorne’s accounts … yes, those do bear some attention.” Mayor McCreery bid the Balefires goodbye and wandered off, shaking his head as if coming out of a daze.
Unfortunately, by the time they reached the darkened doors of the library, knitting group had dispersed, and the opportunity to speak to Maude had passed.
Chapter Eighteen
Parched and filthy under the thin guise of glamour, Clara figured she had about one good burst of magic left in her. She dragged Mag into the dim recesses between the library wall and a bank of shrubbery and winked them both into the middle of her living room.
“I could drink a gallon of water and still not be able to work up a mouthful of spit.” While magic runs through the blood of a witch, it also requires a solid connection to all the elements, water being an essential one.
“There’s lemonade in my fridge. More Electrolytes. I’ll get it.” Clara’s knees wobbled a bit but carried her there.
“Electowhatsits?” Mag’s brow furrowed.
“Lytes. Electrolytes. They’re … oh, never mind, just drink it.” The pitcher and two glasses landed on the coffee table. “Turn on the ceiling fan, would you? Blow some of the stink off us.”
“You look like you took a visit to the sun,” Mag figured she probably didn’t look much better as the sugar-laced nectar hit her belly. Two glasses later, she announced, “I’m starving.”
“There must be something in the fridge, so knock yourself out. I’ll be in the shower.”
Mag had been right, Clara decided when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Dusky red tinted all but the skin around her eyes, leaving her to resemble a reverse raccoon. Ten minutes with the taps on cold cooled Clara’s bones and took the color down to something between cooked lobster and her normal skin tone.
“My turn.” Sprawled across the sofa with her feet propped up on the coffee table, Mag pointed to the plate resting on her belly. “That pear thing was delicious. Almost as good as ice cream. You’ve been holding out on me.”
“What pear thing?”
“Kind of like a tart, or maybe a cake. How should I know? You’re the baker.” Finally stirring, Mag set the plate on the table, creaked to her feet, and shuffled off into the bathroom leaving Clara staring after her.
Heat stroke must have addled her brains, Clara decided. But when she picked up Mag’s plate to put in in the sink, pastry crumbs dotted the pale green surface.
Frowning, Clara yanked open the fridge door and there on the shelf, in an unfamiliar serving plate, she found what Mag had been eating.
The pastry was light golden in the center, with crispy, caramelized edges and studded with slices of glazed and nutmeg-flecked pears. The faintest perfume of lavender tickled Clara’s sensitive nose. A tentative forkful proved it tasted as good as it looked.
After a sigh and a second bite, Clara descended the stairs to the shop. “Pye, where did that pear tart come from?”
“It’s a galette. One of your customers dropped it off this afternoon. The tall one, with the sour face when she thinks no one is looking. Mavis, something? No, that’s not it. Starts with M, though.”
“Maude Prescott.”
“I guess so.” A shiver rippled across Pye’s skin. “What happened to you? You’re looking a little pink.” With no customers in the shop, Pyewacket allowed herself a feline moment. Tawny fur replaced golden skin as she nestled herself into Clara’s arms for a cuddle and a chin scratch that soothed both witch and familiar.
“Hagatha.” There was no need to say more, and when Mag’s footsteps sounded above, Clara reluctantly left Pye to watch the shop.
“Want one?” Caught in the act of cutting a second slice of the galette, Mag offered, but Clara’s mind was too busy to answer. Some niggling realization kept poking at the edge of conscious thought and then retreating to tingle along the back of her neck.
A connection between Maude and the pear galette.
“Maude made it.” Maybe Mag would pick up the thread. “She dropped it off while we were out.”
“I, for one, am not complaining. I’m tasting h
ints of lavender and nutmeg, but the pears are what makes it special. The texture is silky, smooth. Almost buttery. Sweet, but tender and so juicy. I’ve never had better.”
“Wait a minute.” Mag’s description sounded like something right out of an advertisement. Because it was. The ad for the fruit of the month club. Racing to her computer, Clara tapped the keys while Mag, plate in hand, watched over her shoulder.
“Look at that, would you?” Scrolling down, Clara read, “Tosca pears, a summer pear from Italy with a silky texture. Featured in this month’s club order.”
“Well hurrah for Hollywood, but I’m not getting why you’re all excited. Now that I’m getting a taste of them, I’m annoyed ours didn’t come. But, I'm glad Maude’s did.”
When it hit her, Mag stopped chewing. “Oh. I see.” Her eyes went wide. “I distinctly remember Maude saying her order never came, either.”
“Right? So where did she get these?”
Impossible as it seemed, only one scenario covered all the bases. Maude had stolen a fruit of the month order from the mail truck, and the only time she would have had unfettered access to the contents of his mail truck was around the time of Taylor Dean’s murder.
“According to the coroner, we arrived on the scene within minutes of his death. Doesn’t leave much of a window of opportunity.” Thinking back over the timeline, Clara added, “Maude must have seen the killer. Nothing else for it.”
But it was Mag who took it to that next step. “Or she was the killer.”
“Over what? A box of fruit?”
“Maybe,” Clara postulated. “People have killed for less. A pair of shoes, an imagined slight. Just for the fun of it.”
The more they rehashed the evidence, the more it fit. Maude had been at the club that day, which gave her plenty of opportunity. It stood to reason if she crocheted club cozies for charity, she might also have made a set for herself.
As to motive, there was no evidence of blackmail, but Maude had made no effort to hide her dislike of the mailman. “What about the golf cart? Remember she said they gave away her favorite one?” Going back over everything, Clara wanted to be certain it all fit.
“Easy enough to grab a different one since they just leave them lying around with the keys in. You know, for all the supposed security, the place is no Fort Knox.”
“Let’s say I agree with you and Maude whacked the mailman. It couldn’t have been premeditated, and that’s where we’ve been slipping up all this time. She must have been out golfing and seen him fooling around in the back of the truck the same way we did when we passed by earlier in the day.”
Appetite gone, Mag scraped the rest of her pastry into the trash. “He was probably sorting through the packages for something he could lift and turn into a profit later.”
Nodding, Clara said, “And then, along came Maude, and caught him at it. ‘Where’s my fruit order?’ and all that jazz. He’d already skipped the delivery, so it either got damaged, or he gave it to Babette. However it happened, the fruit-box ship had sailed.”
Mag took over the narrative, “She’s carrying the club with her, or maybe it’s in the cart. Either way, she snaps. Whack! Down goes the mailman.”
“And then she what? Sees our fruit box and just steals it? That’s just cold.” Cold enough to give Clara a shiver when a vision of it played out in her head.
“Psychotic is what it is, but it’s a theory that covers all the bases. The deed is done, so she gets back in the golf cart and rides away. Show me the photos again. The ones you took of the inside of the truck.”
Before she did, Clara uploaded the image folder to her computer. “Bigger screen,” she explained when Mag huffed over the extra time it took.
“Look, do you see that? Make it bigger. Right there. And can you lighten it up a bit?” After a few seconds of fiddling around with settings, the area Mag had indicated came into focus.
“Dang, Maggie. You’ve got eyes like a hawk.” Maude’s fruit-of-the-month-club box, clearly marked for special handling, had been tossed willy-nilly into the mail truck. Not only was it tipped on its side to show her address label, but he’d piled it over with heavier items crumpling the box, and certainly crushing its contents.
Mag fumed. “I think we have a winner. What boils my cauldron is that she planted the murder weapon in the shop to throw suspicion on me.”
When a fit of pique set Mag’s blood boiling, telltale spurts of magic sometimes leaked out. Like now, when the balefire shot sparks across the room, and the lights flickered. Woebetide Maude Prescott if she could not be brought to justice by other than magical means.
“What are we missing? I feel a sense of foreboding.” Never one to ignore witch-based intuition, Clara knew there was a link left unexplored.
She went over the situation again. "For one thing, we have no proof. The murder weapon is a bust, and no one is going to believe she killed a man over a box of pears. Can you imagine the look on Cobb’s face if we went in there and accused her? She’s in a position to deny everything and get away with murder.” Maude’s eternal fate edged closer to being circumvented by magical means.
“I could turn her into a worm and let her loose in a pear grove as a bit of divine retribution.” Mag wouldn’t hesitate.
Clara directed a quelling look in her sister’s direction and asked her to go over the conversation from the last crochet group again. “How did she figure out you were on the suspect list?”
“It wasn’t difficult, Clarie. She was here the day Cobb came around asking questions, and then the club turned up here.”
“That’s why she was out of breath when I went outside after he left. Hotfooting it away so I wouldn’t catch her eavesdropping.” When Clara played it back it seemed so obvious.
Meg scowled, irritated because she’d just started to like the woman. “You didn’t tell me about that. Probably didn’t seem important, because who would suspect Maude? If she tells Babette the cozy was hers, though, then I think we’ve got her.”
Babette.
At the mention of her name, tension seized control of Clara’s spine. If this theory proved correct, they’d sent Babette into the den of a killer with the only piece of evidence that mattered: the golf club cozy.
Clara called Babette, her heart sinking more with each unanswered ring. Meeting Mag’s questioning gaze, Clara shook her head. “She’s not picking up.”
“I’ll drive.” Time wasted on arguing was time Babette might not have, so with Mag behind the wheel, Clara worked on their excuse for dropping by unexpectedly.
Conjuring up a box of supplies, she visualized a dozen finished golf club cozies. Variegated yarn slid and knotted over steel hooks while Clara orchestrated with flashing fingers. The last one, an exact match to the one Jinx had found at the scene of the crime, knotted itself securely and fell into the box as Mag screeched the bus to a halt.
“You schmooze, I’ll snoop. It’s best to play to our strengths.”
Feeling a little like the fly, Clara rang the bell and waited for the spider to invite them into her web.
“Why, Clara. What a lovely surprise.” Now that they knew to look, it was easy to see the lie behind her Maude’s eyes. She was not happy to have visitors. Not one bit. But, as manners dictated, she led Clara inside, where the foyer opened into a small-scale but enviable chef’s kitchen.
“I missed you at crochet group. Unavoidably detained, don’t you know, and I wanted to get these to you today.” Shooting for affable, and folksy in her tone, Clara set her sights on distracting Maude long enough for Mag to work whatever mojo she had in mind.
If Penelope Starr wanted to argue over magic used to save a life, she’d be dealing with both Balefire sisters for a change.
“Could you take a look at my work? These are my first attempts, and I’m not sure if they’re up to par.” With a grin that didn’t quite make it up to her eyes, Clara tossed in the pun and opened up the box.
If there had been any more need for proof, Maude remo
ved it by snatching up the replica cozy and seizing Clara by the arm. “Where did you get this?”
“I told you, I made these for the sale. Is something wrong?”
With Maude’s attention focused on Clara, Mag activated the silencing charm she carried in her pocket and took a step around Maude and moved toward the back of the house.
An audible step.
She’d neglected to cleanse the charm under running water after its third use. Just great.
“You made this? This pattern? These colors?” Face a dull red, eyes blazing, Maude’s attention was so focused on Clara, Mag could have done the hokey pokey without being noticed, so she hurried from the room.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what I did wrong.” So much for schmoozing, Clara thought and rolled with the changes. “I saw the combination somewhere and I liked it. I had no idea you’d be so upset. Tell me what’s wrong, Maude. I didn’t mean to cause offense.”
Under the dithering front, Clara’s resolve turned to steel. Drawing on the fire that brought her magic to life, Clara turned up the heat until the vice-like grip on her arm fell away.
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I had a set just like these, and one turned up missing.”
“What a shame.” Clara needed to buy Mag more time. “By the way, that pear tart was fabulous. The lavender came through just perfectly. Top-notch bake and the pears were delectable. They were Tosca pears?”
“They were, indeed. The featured item in the club this month.”
Clara’s eyes narrowed, and suddenly, she appeared less like an unwelcome nuisance and more like a formidable opponent, “I wouldn’t know because I never received my fruit basket. Any idea why?”
Maude blanched and stared at Clara for a moment before realizing that her secret wasn’t one any longer. When Maude looked frantically around, her eyes lighting on a sizable carving knife lying on the counter, Clara understood that Maude knew she’d been discovered.
Clara felt adrenaline course through her veins and, taking advantage of nature’s danger indicator, combined the rush with a swell of magic. Hagatha’s magic, to be precise. Calling on the elements, Clara let her intention flow. Earth, air, fire, and water all ceased activity, turning Maude into a harmless mannequin, poised over her kitchen counter with knife in hand. Minus the ferocious expression on Maude’s face, and with the addition of an apron and chef’s hat, she could have passed for a television cook.
Murder on the Backswing Page 13