Murder on the Backswing

by ReGina Welling

  Emotion swirled behind Maude’s eyes, flickering from shock at seeing Babette alive and well, through anger and fear, finally settling somewhere between resignation and an iota of remorse.

  “I didn’t intend to hurt anyone.” She sighed and slid onto one of the tall stools lined up next to the kitchen island, and dropped her head into her hands.

  “I had just finished a round of golf and decided to do a lap in the cart before returning it. The breeze through my hair felt so nice, and I had the pear galette recipe on my mind. When I saw Taylor’s truck, I thought it was serendipity. I just wanted my fruit-of-the-month basket, but when I got closer, I realized what he was doing. Tampering with the mail, he was.”

  Her breath hitched, then her voice raised an octave, and she waved her hand, angry. “And there was my fruit-of-the-month-club box, crushed half flat. My Tosca pears, ruined. He truly was the worst mailman on the planet.”

  If that was her excuse, it was a flimsy one.

  “White-hot rage rolled through me as I walked back to the cart. I don’t know what happened, honestly, but I knew I needed to do something. I grabbed the club and did the world a favor.” To Babette, she said, “I’m sorry, dear, but you’re better off.”

  Turning to Mag, Maude admitted, “I took your box of fruit. It was the wrong thing to do. I made you a nice galette, though.”

  As if that was her biggest crime.

  “You’re crazy. You’re going to spend the rest of your life behind bars,” Clara said.

  “Positively psychopathic,” Mag agreed.

  “I never noticed I was missing one of my golf club cozies until I heard the police accuse one of the Balefires, and it occurred to me she’d make the perfect patsy. Leaving the club at your shop should have worked, but then Babette showed up here, and I knew I needed to get rid of her, too.”

  She pointed toward a plastic water bottle sitting open on the counter near her hand. “You should be dead. Why aren’t you dead?”

  Maude’s shoulders squared resolutely, and before anyone had time to make a move, she grabbed the bottle of poison and swallowed what was left. Her eyes widened, then went blank, and she slumped, unconscious to the floor.

  “No!” Clara yelled, rushing to Maude’s side. She attempted CPR and was about to throw caution to the wind and call upon the magics when Hagatha interrupted her ministrations.

  “It’s too late. This is what she wanted. Let her go.”

  In death, Maude’s face lost the severe look lent by a self-righteous personality and the constraints of living up to her own ideals. Sadly, Clara thought there had been a kind of unexpected beauty underneath.

  “I’ll call 9-1-1.” Babette volunteered, her face an unreadable mask.

  Hagatha and Gertrude were the first to give Deputy Nye their statements when the young officer arrived on the scene a scant fifteen minutes later.

  Gertrude offered to skim Hagatha home, which sparked a short argument and some harsh words from old Haggie about being thought feeble-bodied. In the end, they settled on the long route and toddled off together with Gertrude talking a blue streak all the way down the block.

  Penelope hung back until the coroner had loaded Maude’s body and the rear lights of the ambulance disappeared into the night. “Can I have a word, please?”

  Mag and Clara exchanged a rueful eye roll; they’d expected backlash and settled in for the duration.

  For once, Penelope Starr’s expression lacked the usual measure of disdain as she directed her words to Clara. “It’s possible I may have slightly misjudged your character.”

  Mag snorted, considering the use of the word ‘slightly’ as just slightly insulting.

  “You wanted to save Maude’s life back there. Even though, it would seem, she didn’t deserve it. I have to say, your actions didn’t jive with my perception of you as a murderous witch.”

  Exasperated and protective, Mag answered for her sister, “That’s because you’ve been incapable of listening to reason. We’ve tried to explain how Clara ended up encased in stone—as much of it as she’s willing to share, considering it’s private, anyway. Had she killed her own daughter, she’d still be a statue. Sylvana is alive and well, and that’s all the proof you should have needed.”

  Clara rested a hand on Mag’s arm, “Penelope, I accept your apology." She assumed that the admission of error was as close as Penelope could come to one, but still emphasized the word. "I don’t expect us to become best friends, but we are part of the same coven, and I am willing to try to get along.”

  Her voice held a level of gentle reproach. “Which means you’ve got to ease up on some of these rules. We’re going to need all the power at our disposal if we’re going to continue to keep Hagatha’s exploits under wraps. Annoying the pants off the rest of us seems to have become an obsession. We’ll handle it, but you have to back off. Agreed?”

  Lynn Nye unrolled the yellow tape, prepared to fasten it over the door, and gave the Balefire sisters a pointed look that said she was finished with them for now.

  Taking the hint, they prepared to leave.

  “You know, Maggie, I could have killed you when I found out you’d given Hagatha that combustion powder. But, if you hadn’t, we might not have had what we needed to save Babette. Her death would be on my hands, and I’m not sure I could have handled it.”

  Mag’s response came in the form of an elbow nudge.

  “I’m serious. What I’m trying to say is, I’m sorry I gave you such a hard time, and I’m glad to have you around.” Clara’s sentiment was sincere, and Mag cracked a rare, genuine grin.

  “No problem, sis. I’ll continue to be a pain in your badonkadonk for as long as you’ll let me.” Mag quipped.

  “Also,” Clara hedged, wandering into dangerous emotional territory, “I have to know. What was on your mind when Hagatha was complimenting me in the kitchen? About the immobility spell on Maude.”

  Mag was silent for a long moment, and Clara swore she saw a tear welling in the corner of her sister’s eye. “A moment of self-pity. And before you start feeling bad, let me just say that I’m extremely proud of you for having pulled it off. I can manage small things, like insects and the rare squirrel or rabbit, but a human is an entirely ’nother level. Not as difficult as demons, though. Or hell beasts. They’re fast. Much too fast.”

  Realization dawned on Clara, and she reached for Mag’s hand, gave it a comforting squeeze while allowing the revelation to continue uninterrupted.

  “That’s the second time you’ve shown me a skill that could have prevented this,” Mag indicated her aged appearance. “You have no idea how invaluable your little soda-can-tab-silencing charm would have been to me during my hunting days. It seems I might have a thing or two to learn from my little sister.”

  Clara glowed under the praise of the person she’d spent more than a human lifetime trying to impress. “Seems like we work best as a team.” She was about to suggest she and Mag should stick together when a pink, bee-sized body zipped toward her face.

  The baby pixie hovered at nose height long enough for Clara to get a good look at it’s cherubic face. Adorable. And trouble, she knew just be looking.

  When a second, harried-looking pixie winged close, the baby chirped once, and fled.

  “Did Hagatha happen mention anything about the duration of a pixie’s gestation period?” Clara asked Mag.

  “No, but I'm assuming it’s not lengthy. And you’re going to have fun coming up with a good story to tell Angela and the garden club.” Smug, Mag grinned.” But for now, I think it’s time for some butter pecan ice cream.”

  The End

  ***

  Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed this book as much as we enjoyed writing it.

  Read on for an excerpt of Mag and Clara’s next case, Murder Below the Waterline

  The town of Harmony's annual canoe race is slated as the summer's biggest event, and this year the prize is more prestigious than ever. Maybe that's why someone had to resort
to murder.

  When abnormal weather patterns plague the race, Mag suspects the pesky Hagatha Crow is up to something. Again.

  In order to solve the case, sister witches Mag and Clara Balefire might have to test the old myths about whether witches can swim.

  Can’t wait to find out what happens next?

  Join ReGina’s Page Turners group and get news and updates plus a new release alert whenever a new book comes out. To be notified when a new book is available by Erin Lynn, join her reader group.

  Other series by ReGina Welling and Erin Lynn

  The Fate Weaver series

  Featuring Lexi Balefire, a matchmaking witch with a certain something extra. Her story is full of magic, romance, zany family antics, and intrigue.

  A Match Made in Spell

  All Spell is Breaking Loose

  To Spell & Back

  No Chance in Spell

  Spell Hath No Fury

  A Cold Day in Spell

  The Mag and Clara Balefire Mysteries

  Featuring Mag and Clara Balefire. Sassy sisters, witches, detectives.

  Murder Above the Fold

  Murder on the Backswing

  Murder Below the Waterline

  Haunted by Murder

  Ponderosa Pines Mysteries

  Nothing bad ever happens in the weird little town of Ponderosa Pines…until someone dies.

  Cat Killed A Rat

  Crafting Disorder

  Caught in the Frame

  Bait and Snitch

  Also by ReGina Welling

  The Psychic Seasons Series

  A little mystery, a little romance, and a paranormal twist hit Julie Hayward when the ghost of her grandmother shows up with some interesting news.

  Rings on Her Fingers

  Bells on Her Toes

  She Shall Have Music

  Wherever She goes

  Earthbound Bones

  Earthbound Wings

  “I changed my mind. I don’t think this is a good idea after all.” Margaret Balefire cast a wary eye over the cobbled-together piece of floating death she’d helped her sister build for the town of Harmony’s ‘Anything Goes’ flotilla race. “It doesn’t look seaworthy.”

  Hagatha Crow, the third member of their crew, scoffed. “We’re not going to sea, you weenie. We’re just taking a lazy float down the river. You can swim, can’t you?” The ancient witch cackled and completed a hop-and-roll motion onto the precarious craft, leaving her walker, complete with tennis-ball-covered feet, standing on the dock.

  She’d probably enhanced the aerial feat with the subtlest wisp of magic, but Mag had to give it to her—it was still impressive. Even though Hagatha was more powerful than any three regular witches put together and about as predictable as a tornado, she was older than dirt; Mag refused to be outdone and boarded the craft.

  Mag wished she could tell old Hagatha to take a flying leap off a short broomstick, but it had been her idea to fashion a boat out of an old brass bed and four claw-footed bathtubs in the first place. She figured it would be a good play on their store, Balms and Bygones.

  Instead, she climbed into the contraption, scowling when it rocked and wobbled as she settled in. What was the worst that could happen, anyway?

  Nothing good ever came of asking that question, but she’d survived much worse in her years as a hunter of rogue magic; surely a flotilla race wasn’t going to kill her.

  “All set?” Clara Balefire winked at her sister, tugged at the bottom of her life vest to settle it more firmly into place, and handed Mag a paddle.

  Mag glared at her sister as she took it. “If I die, I'm going to kill you.”

  Clara smirked, and with more grace than she normally showed, leapt from the dock to the foot of the bed. Springs creaked and Mag didn’t bother hiding a smirk when the bounce-back effect nearly tossed Hagatha into the river.

  “Nobody’s going to die, but I might have you fitted for a crown if you’re going to be such a drama queen.” Clara tossed over her shoulder.

  Shoving the awkward craft away from the dock took all of Clara’s concentration and a bit of assistance from Mag.

  “We’re supposed to paddle across, float past the judges panel, then get ourselves into position at the starting line,” Clara said, focusing on moving in the right direction.

  Big Spurwink river, fed by a convergence of smaller tributaries, was wide and deep where it flowed behind the downtown section of Harmony.

  Once past the narrows just south of town, the banks spread in a gentle curve to create a slow-moving basin making that section the ideal spot to hold a flotilla.

  The requirements for inclusion were simple: If it floated and had at least a three-person crew, it qualified. The tendency to stray toward the ridiculous was one of the things that made Harmony special, and the event drew tourists and residents alike.

  Hunkered down on her side of the bed, Mag dipped her paddle into the space between the two bathtubs on her side and waited for Clara to settle into a similar, opposite position. At the head of the bed, Hagatha manned the tiller.

  “Easy now,” Clara grinned at Mag, “and go.” It took half a minute for the motion to smooth out, and then the boat settled and they were off.

  “This first bit is the tricky part.” Shoulders bunching, Clara paddled harder to help turn the craft upstream. “There’s just enough of a current to make it a chore, but after that, it’s a walk in the park. She’s going to float better than that raft of trash Penelope and her minions entered.”