The Case of the Power Spell

by Amorette Anderson

  I’m right.

  “They haven’t seemed very happy, these past few years,” Bess says. “I overheard Melanie once, when we were both getting our hair done.” Bess gives her cared-for auburn doo another gentle pat. “She was lamenting the good old days, when she was in her twenties and everything felt exciting. She said that the spark was gone...”

  “Do you think they might be headed for divorce?” I ask.

  Bess nods. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” she says.

  Then, we both fall silent. Neither of us is above a little bit of gossip, but I can sense that we’ve reached our limit. Bess doesn’t want to harp on the sorry state of the Haywaters’ marriage, and neither do I.

  “Well, thank you for looking that up for me,” I say.

  “You’re welcome,” Bess says. She points a finger at me. “And you think about those boots,” she says. “They’re one of a kind, and would really do wonders for your wardrobe. I’ve got them marked at seventy-five dollars, but I’ll sell them to you for fifty.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “Maybe I’ll come back for them.”

  “Do you want me to hold them for you?” she asks. “Because if I don’t, they might go before you return. I know someone in this town is going to snap them up.” Bess gives her fingers a little snap. “I have an eye for things that will go quickly.”

  “No, you don’t have to hold them,” I say. Then, “Bess, one more thing, really quick.” I know that I have to get going soon, if I want to get to the law office on time. But something Bess said has been tickling my consciousness.

  “You said that someone bought a dozen Hawaiian shirts, the day before. Who was it?”

  “Right. I’d almost forgotten about that...” Bess says. “I was so happy to be getting rid of all that summer wear. If I don’t sell it, it just sits in the back all winter. Now that I think about it though, I think that bag of shirts is still sitting in the back.”

  Bess has been leafing through her binder, and now she points her finger to the page.

  “Here it is—the receipt!” She scans it quickly. “My, my, my. What a funny coincidence!”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Well, this customer who bought the shirts. He picked them all out and paid on the thirteenth—I remember now—and was going to come back to get them on the fourteenth, so that I’d have time to steam out the wrinkles. I do hate selling things with wrinkles. But he never came back. Now I know why!”

  She looks up at me with surprise.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Because,” she says, her eyes wide. “He died! I sold all of those Hawaiian shirts to Joe Gallant!”

  Chapter Twelve

  Why did Joe Gallant buy up a dozen Hawaiian shirts? I wonder, as I ride my bike down the hill from main street towards Hiroku’s law office.

  Was he planning a vacation too?

  Was he planning a vacation with Melanie, maybe?

  My bike picks up speed, and as I coast, I consider the possibility that Melanie and Joe were going to jet off together. She was getting divorce papers drafted, after all. Maybe it was because there was another man in the picture.

  Phew. I’m kind of glad that I don’t have to report back to Cliff any more. It was going to be bad enough telling him about the divorce, I can’t imagine having to tell him that his wife was interested in another man.

  I’m whizzing along the street now, and I can hear Chris’s voice, playing in my mind again: ‘Don’t go imagining things’.

  I can’t help it! I argue back, mentally, of course. See? I can’t help but imagine things. Now I’m imagining a conversation with Chris!

  I’m an imaginative woman. Some might say that’s why I’m well suited to be a private investigator.

  Oh, shoot! I just zoomed passed the law office. I hit my bike brakes hard, and they squeal as my bike lurches and skids to a stop. Several pedestrians swivel their heads to look in my direction.

  I wave. Nothing to see here!

  As I steer my bike in a U-turn, my thoughts change direction too. Am I a good private investigator?

  I did just get fired from the first real case I’ve had in months.

  Maybe my wild imagination makes me a poor private investigator. The fact that Joe bought a dozen Hawaiian shirts around the same time that Melanie did, could really just be a coincidence. Joe may have been browsing the store, and noticed the shirts were on sale. All of us love to find a bargain, right?

  I dismount my bike, and search around for somewhere to lock it.

  Joe could have simply been a bargain hunter, but that would be so boring, I think, as I begin strapping my bike lock around a tree. It is much more exciting to think that Melanie and Joe were heading off on a scandalous vacation to Hawaii together.

  I think the Hawaiian shirts are a clue. But how do they fit in with Joe’s death?

  I wish I could go straight back to my office and create a mind map of the case.

  Mind maps were covered in my PI program. They involve lots of circles and lines and are supposed to help detectives make connections.

  A few connections would really be useful, right about now!

  Unfortunately, mind mapping in my office is not in my immediate future.

  Blueberry Muffin, the high-maintenance Chihuahua, is waiting to meet me.

  When I walk into Hiroku Law Office, I see Cora sitting behind her desk. She’s typing away busily but spots me out of the corner of her eye.

  “Penny!” she says happily, jumping up from her chair. “You never come visit me at work! I feel so honored!”

  Wow. I knew that I loved it when my friends visited my office (mostly Marley, when she’s in between massage clients), but I never considered the fact that my friends might be waiting for me to visit them.

  Note to self: Visit Cora at work more often.

  She looks like I just made her day!

  I feel a little bit bad as I say, “I’m actually here to see Hiroku about the nannying gig.”

  Cora isn’t as sensitive as I am. My statement doesn’t faze her. In typical Cora fashion, she remains chirpy and upbeat. “Oh, that’s great!” she says. “I knew that you’d be interested. I’ll go see if she’s ready for you.”

  She turns, blonde ponytail swinging, and I’m left standing in the lobby.

  In two minutes, Cora returns, followed by her boss, Hiroku Itsu. The petite Japanese woman is cradling a little Chihuahua, who, I can see, is appropriately named. The little mutt looks almost exactly like a blueberry muffin.

  Seeing me, the muffin barks. It’s a high-pitched, yipping sound that pierces through the air in the office.

  “Oh?” Hiroku says, stroking the top of the muffin’s head. She looks at me. “Blueberry Muffin says that you’re a cat person.”

  The dog is darn right. I am a cat person. I just realized that, when I flinched at the sound of that bark. Cats don’t bark. I hadn’t realized how much I favored sophisticated, quiet, fluffy, cuddly cats over yippy rambunctious dogs until just now. Apparently, this dog realized the same thing. How did he know that?

  Just as I’m about to ask, Hiroku pulls a bow from her pocket, and clips it to the hair on the top of the muffin’s head, and I have to revise my thoughts. How did she know that?

  “Blueberry is very perceptive,” Hiroku says. “She also has a powerful sense of smell. I think she can smell cat on you”

  I frown. Did this woman just tell me I smell like a cat? Should I take offense to that? Hm.

  I want to deliver a rebuttal, but I better keep my attitude in check if I want this job.

  “Does, she, um... like cats?” I ask, meekly. I really need this job, and this is pretty much my interview—as sad as that is.

  Hiroku takes a moment to think over my question.

  Cora shoots me a thumbs up, and mouths “good luck!” before sneaking back to her computer.

  After a moment of tense silence, Hiroku says, “Blueberry likes some cats. Not all cats. She’s very particular. And she only likes certain
people, too.”

  “Does she like me?” I ask, tentatively.

  Blueberry Muffin yips again. Twice.

  Hiroku nods. Then she says, “Blue doesn’t love you because your energy makes her a little bit nervous, but you’re our only option right now. No offense, I’m just letting you know how she feels. I know. I can sense when she’s anxious. She shakes. She’s shaking now.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  “She’ll calm down,” Hiroku says. “Why don’t you hold her for a minute? I’ll go get her supplies.”

  With that, she deposits the shaking bundle of fur into my arms.

  I must look surprised by this, because Hiroku raises her brow. “You are prepared to care for her for the afternoon, correct? I have a meeting at four, and she can’t miss her forest bathing.”

  “I—um—I wasn’t exactly prepared to—” I stutter, as Blueberry Muffin starts squirming to get free. “I have a few other things going on—” I hug the shaking Chihuahua harder and begin petting her to try to get her to settle down.

  Hiroku retrieves a thin change purse from her pocket, and starts pulling out bills. “How about I throw in an extra fifty dollars?” she says, holding a thick wad out towards me. “I’ll give you the three hundred advance payment, plus another fifty. If you start today, that is.”

  My head bobs up and down, almost involuntarily as I reach for the bills with one hand. Maybe I’ll get those cowboy boots after all!

  “I guess I can push my other work back,” I say, stuffing the bills into my bag. Blueberry is calming down a little bit. I feel her nuzzle her little chin against my shoulder.

  It feels kind of good. She’s very soft.

  And cute.

  And cuddly. More cuddly than I expected, actually.

  Maybe I’m just a cat person because I’ve never had a dog.

  Not a dog this cute, at least.

  I barely notice that Hiroku has left us alone. Blueberry is licking my chin now.

  When Hiroku returns, she has a strap-on baby carrier in one hand and sunglasses in the other.

  She holds the pale pink baby carrier out to me. “It’s all packed with everything you’ll need,” she says. “A water bottle, her no-rawhide chewy bones, her toothbrush, and her earmuffs.” She pats the pockets as she speaks.

  “If she’s barking, it means that she’s either thirsty or hungry. Try the bottle first, and then if that doesn’t work, give her a treat. If she takes a treat, be sure to brush her teeth after. Of course, if she drinks water, you’re going to need to give her a pee break. And if you happen to be anywhere with loud noise, please put the earmuffs on her.”

  Before I really know what’s happening, Hiroku has bundled Blueberry into the carrier, on the front of my chest, and I’m threading my arms through the shoulder straps. Hiroku buckles the whole contraption at the back, and then tightens the straps. “How does that feel?” she asks.

  “Um... good?” I say. I’m not sure how having a baby carrier loaded with a Chihuahua is supposed to feel. I wiggle my spine, as if assessing the fit of the carrier. “Yeah, that’s good,” I say again, as if all of this is normal.

  Hiroku places the sunglasses over Blueberry’s eyes. The glasses are tiny, and look like a cross between sunglasses and goggles. They fit with a strap around the little mutt’s head.

  “There,” Hiroku says. “She absolutely can not go outside without her glasses. The sun is far too bright up here at altitude—it could lead to macular degeneration if she’s exposed.”

  “We don’t want Blueberry to get macular degeneration,” I say, even though I have only a vague idea of what that is.

  “Not at all. Well, it looks like you’re all set for a good session of forest bathing.”

  “Could you, maybe, explain to me what that is, exactly?” I ask.

  Hiroku furrows her brow. “I thought you knew,” she says.

  “Not really,” I admit.

  “Shinrin-yoku,” Hiroku says. “Forest bathing. You really haven’t heard of it?”

  I shake my head again.

  “But you have a cat?” Hiroku asks.

  I nod.

  “A male, or a female?” asks Hiroku.

  “A boy,” I say.

  “Well, how is his mental health?”

  I consider Turkey’s attitude of late. My furry roommate has been a little bit moody.

  I hold out a hand and wave it back and forth. “So -so,” I say.

  She nods. “It’s no wonder. If he’s cooped up inside, he’s missing out on the natural atmosphere of the forest. Trees are very healing for people and animals alike. Shinrin-yoku is the Japanese practice of spending time with trees. It’s essential for mental health. Especially for animals.”

  “Oh,” I say, guiltily thinking about all the time that Turkey spends indoors.

  “Too many right angles are bad for the psyche,” continues Hiroku. “Animals need to gaze out at organic shapes. “

  “So how does it work?” I ask.

  “I bring Blueberry out into the forest for at least two hours a day,” Hiroku says. “All the research shows that it must be at least two hours out of every twenty-four. Blueberry and I usually go out from four to six. However, I’ve been so pressed for time lately.” As if this reminds her of something, she glances at her watch.

  When she speaks again, her words are more rushed. “Meetings, deadlines and such,” she says. “That’s where you come in. You’ll be taking Blueberry out into the woods three times a week for her therapy.”

  “Got it,” I say, as if this all makes perfect sense.

  Hiroku seems to like my answer. She gives a curt nod, and then steps forward and kisses Blueberry Muffin on the nose.

  As she backs up, she sends us off with a wave. “See you at six thirty,” she says. “Meet me here!”

  “Got it,” I say again, since that response went over so well the first time.

  With that, Blueberry and I head out the door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  With Blueberry strapped to my chest in a baby carrier, it’s nearly impossible to ride my bike. I try it for at least a block, and nearly crash several times. I give up, and lock my bike to the bike rack in front of the library. Then, I begin hoofing it to my apartment by foot.

  All this talk about pet care has me feeling like an awfully neglectful pet owner. Poor Turkey, cooped up in our little apartment all day, surrounded by right angles! Maybe he really does need some fresh air. I’ve decided to pick him up before heading out into the woods for my first forest bathing session.

  We make it to the apartment and luckily, the door to unit B is closed, and there’s no sign of Azure. I am sure she would have plenty to say about my current get-up, and I’m not sure all of it—or any of it—would be nice.

  “Turkey?” I call out, as I open the door to my apartment. “I’m home! Want to go out for an outing?”

  My eyes rove over the kitchen and then into the living room. Turkey is curled up on the couch, napping in a square of sunlight. At the sound of the door slamming closed behind me, he looks up sleepily.

  “Hi!” I say, this time telepathically.

  “Who is that?” Turkey asks.

  “Meet Blueberry Muffin,” I say. “I’m her nanny. We came home to see if you wanted to go for a walk with us.”

  “A walk?” Turkey’s telepathic tone is a bit snooty, I must say.

  “Yes. A walk. In the forest. I think you could use some fresh air.”

  “A walk,” Turkey says. “With that thing?”

  “She’s a Chihuahua!” I say. I’ve walked over towards Turkey, and now I scoop him up.

  Blueberry Muffin barks, and Turkey meows.

  Both of them start squirming.

  “Now, now,” I say aloud. “Let’s all be friends. Turkey, this is Blueberry Muffin. Blueberry, meet Turkey.”

  Blueberry barks. I might be imagining things, but I think it’s a happy bark.

  “Aw, Turkey, she likes you!” I say, as I hold my cat up to the car
rier.

  Is there room in this thing for both of them? I wonder, as I eye the carrier strapped to my chest. It is built for a human baby, and the little Chihuahua only weighs a couple of pounds. Turkey was the runt of his litter, and never grew to be very big.

  Yes. I’m sure there’s room in here for both of them.

  Turkey is used to riding in my messenger bag, so this carrier shouldn’t be too far of a stretch for him.

  I begin loading him in.

  “I am not going to ride in this thing with a dog!” Turkey transmits, haughtily, as I tuck his furry behind into the carrier.

  “You’ll like it,” I tell him. “I promise. Just relax. Blueberry is really nice.”

  “She’s a dog!” Turkey protests, still squirming.

  Blueberry is yapping away happily. She’s wiggling too.

  “And you’re a cat!” I tell Turkey.

  “What’s your point?” Turkey asks me.

  “I don’t know! What’s yours? You said she’s a dog like there’s something wrong with that. There’s nothing wrong with dogs, Turkey. Dogs are great.”

  “No, they aren’t,” Turkey says. “They slobber and drool and sniff each other's bottoms.”

  “Oh, don’t be so judgmental. Just give her a chance.” I can’t believe I’m arguing with my cat.

  I start walking towards the door, and on my way out I spot a pair of my sunglasses on the edge of the countertop. Marley gave them to me. They’re oversized, with dark black lenses and red, green and yellow frames. Marley has a thing for Rastafarian colors.

  I pick up the glasses and place them on Turkey. At first they slip off, so I undo my ponytail and use my hair tie to fasten the ends of the glasses together. When I put them on Turkey again, they stay on—even when he shakes his head.

  “You are torturing me!” Turkey complains as he uses a paw to try to get the glasses off.

  “No, I’m not,” I respond. “This is for your own good. You don’t want to get macaroni generation, do you?

  “Macaroni generation?” Turkey says. “What is that?”