A Hillcrest Witch Mystery Collection

by Amorette Anderson

  Right.

  I clear my throat.

  “As you all may know, I am a detective. On Saturday evening, before the first Walterdon games even had a chance to begin, a fine woman named Janice....” My voice trails off. Oh, crap, I don’t know her last name.

  “Henderson,” Fred supplies.

  I nod. “Right. Of course. On Saturday evening a fine being named Janice Henderson was killed.”

  “I don’t know if I’d call her a ‘fine’ being’,” says Beth.

  “Okay then, on Saturday evening a being named Janice Hendricks was killed.”

  “Henderson,” whispers Max.

  I hurry to correct myself. “Janice Henderson!” I say. I clear my throat. “After many grueling hours of investigative work, this evening I uncovered evidence that will reveal to all present here who the murderer is!”

  At least, I think I have evidence that will reveal who the murderer is. That doesn’t sound as dramatic, though.

  Annie raises her glass in the air. “Hip, hip, hooray!” she says. “Three cheers for Detective Penny!”

  Marley joins in. “Good work, Detective Banks!” she says happily.

  Fred begins clapping. Others join in. Soon the whole room is applauding me. I hope I deserve it.

  Fred speaks above the applause. “Tell us, Detective Banks,” he says. “Please! We’d all like to know.”

  “Yes!” chimes in Pat. “Who did it? Who’s the criminal amongst us?”

  Henry steps forward. “What kind of evidence?” he demands.

  “What’s that in your hand?” asks Marve, stepping forward. He’s holding his precious camcorder. With his free hand, he makes a grab for the videotape in my possession.

  I snatch the tape in closer to me, hugging it close. He’s not going to grab it away from me. “Important evidence,” I say. “Evidence that can’t be disputed. We’re going to watch a scene on this video that will make it perfectly clear who killed Janice Himmel... Hersch...”

  “Henderson,” Max whispers.

  “Right.” I say. “Marve, I hereby demand that you let us use your video camera so that we can watch this footage.”

  Marve scowls, “I don’t have to do what you say just because you said ‘hereby’.”

  “Yes,” Marley says, stepping away from the crowd and up to my side. “Yes, you do. That’s a rule that this coven has. Starting now. When we say ‘hereby’ it means you really have to do what we say.”

  “That’s a rule we have?” Annie asks.

  “Starting now it is,” Marley says. Then, because we are a democratic bunch, she adds, “If we all agree on it.”

  “I’m in,” I say.

  “Me too,” Annie says.

  “Sure!” says Cora.

  Marley nods. “Great. Now, Marve—We hereby command you to let us use your video camera. Or else...” she leans over him and glowers.

  Go Marley! She really is good at the bad cop role.

  “Or else what?” Marve asks. He tightens his grip on his camera, and then stands on his tiptoes, glaring back at her.

  It’s quite a standoff to witness; a seventy-year-old male spirit versus a twenty-seven-year-old witch. Neither one looks as though they’ll back down. Marley inches forward, eyes flashing.

  Marve steps in too; they’re now toe to toe, nose to nose.

  “Or else this—” Marley says, reaching out so that her hands squeeze under Marve’s armpits. She starts wiggling her fingers.

  Tickle attack! Oh, man. Marve is in for it! I’ve fallen victim to Marley’s tickle attacks many a time, since a young age.

  Marve’s eyes fly open. “Oooh!” he says, as Marley moves her fingers.

  “Oh—ah! Ha ha ha!” He opens his mouth wide as he laughs. He squirms around, dancing as if his pants are full of ants. “Stop that! Right now—Ah! I’m telling you— ha ha ha-—don’t—I can’t-—I can’t breathe!”

  Marley is relentless. Even as Marve tries to duck down and out of reach, she keeps contact. She’s a master of the sport. Is tickling a sport? I’m not sure, but it should be. And Marley is playing full contact.

  “Give us the camcorder!” she says, still tickling.

  “Hereby!” shouts Annie randomly.

  I smile. My crew is not one to be messed with.

  Marve is barely breathing. “Eek! Stop, I said! Fine—ah!—fine! Here! Take it! Take it! Let me go!”

  “Thank you,” Marley says, giving her fingers one last torturous wiggle before letting Marve go. He surrenders the camera and she grabs it.

  He almost collapses as he struggles to catch his breath. The air is thin up here in the mountains, and a tickle attack can be hard to recover from. I know from experience. I feel Marve’s pain as he sucks in air in big, gasping breaths.

  Marley doesn’t waste any time. She looks at me. “Penny, catch!” she says. Then she reaches her hand up as if she was going to throw a football. Except, instead of a football, she’s holding an expensive, delicate piece of complex machinery, with a glass screen, glass lenses, and plenty of breakable parts.

  She’s not going to throw it, is she?

  I’m standing just five feet from Marley. For most people, that would be a short distance.

  Catching an item thrown from just five feet away should be no problem.

  However, I am extremely uncoordinated. I mean, I was always the last kid picked in gym class. Marley knows this. She grew up with me! She won’t possibly throw the camcorder.

  Her arm dips farther back. Then, as if in slow motion, I watch her begin the throw.

  “Marley, noooooooo!” I say.

  It’s too late. She releases the recorder, and it starts flying through the air towards me.

  I reach my hands up.

  Maybe I’ve got it!

  Maybe my uncoordinated days are behind me! Maybe, with all of the daily sit-ups I’ve been doing, plus Zumba every Saturday, I’m finally athletic and coordinated enough to make this awesome catch in front of everyone!

  This is my moment!

  It’s closer! I’ve got it! I’m going to make the catch! I’m going to—

  Clunk! Clatter! Crack!

  The camcorder hits the ground by my feet. My hands are empty. I didn’t get it.

  I stoop down to pick it up.

  Did it break? I sure hope not. I feel my cheeks flush. “I almost had it,” I say aloud.

  The crowd is hushed. I hear someone groan. I wonder if they’re embarrassed for me. I turn the camcorder over in my hands and then hold it up triumphantly. “It didn’t break!” I say.

  A loud and boisterous applause breaks out. I smile. “Now—time to watch the evidence! Cora, can you hook this thing up to your tv?”

  “I don’t know,” Cora says. “Is there a USB port?”

  “Uh...” I say.

  “Toss it over here!” Cora says. She’s across the living room.

  Who knew that being a PI required so much physical coordination? Not I.

  I shake my head. “I’ll walk it over,” I say.

  The crowd parts as I bring Cora the recorder. It takes her just a few seconds to hook it up properly. Soon, the crowd is huddled around Cora’s flat screen TV. Marley grabs a bowl of popcorn off of the coffee table and starts passing it around.

  “Someone dim the lights!” calls out Annie.

  I’m nervous. They’re all expecting me to show some fascinating video to them. But all I really have is thirty hours of footage from Marve.

  How will I possibly find the clue I need?

  I feel like it’s a needle in a haystack situation. The clue I need could only be a few minutes long. Maybe even a few seconds.

  What if I can’t find it?

  What if I put in the tape, and it shows footage of Fred, doing wobbly pull-ups in the half-lighting of the park? Then I’ll really look like something I’ve already been accused of: a joke of a PI.

  I take all five tapes out of my pocket and set them on the TV stand. I poke my tongue out to the side as I look at them.<
br />
  “We’re ready!” Annie says.

  “Put in the video!” Henry says.

  “You don't even know what you’re doing, do you?” Marve asks. He’s recovered from the tickle attack and is once again as condescending as ever.

  “Give me a minute,” I say.

  Then, I close my eyes.

  I take a breath.

  I can do this. I’m worried, yes. I’m nervous that I’m about to embarrass myself, big time. I’m also scared that the killer will get away.

  But what if I wasn’t scared or worried? What if I felt certain that everything would go perfectly?

  What if I felt trust?

  What if...

  I take another breath.

  What if I felt connected to everything, and I knew everything was working in my favor?

  A relaxed feeling shimmers in my chest. There. There it is. Trust.

  I trust that this is going to turn out well. I trust that I can do my job. I trust this situation, the earth, the magical multiverse, and all things beyond. I’m connected, and my wellbeing is guaranteed. I can’t fail.

  Failure is impossible.

  I trust.

  I open my eyes. My hand moves out; my fingers graze over the videotapes. The first, second, and then third. On the fourth tape, my hand stills. My fingers press into the cool plastic.

  This one.

  I pick it up. I hand it to Cora.

  “Can you play this one?” I ask. “Put it in and hit fast forward.”

  “Can do!” Cora says brightly.

  The crowd is hushed once again, all except for the munching of popcorn and the occasional slurp of a beverage.

  The image on the television screen is a blur of colors as Cora fast forwards. Keep going, keep going, keep going.

  Stop.

  “Stop!” I say aloud.

  Cora stops the video.

  “Now play,” I say.

  She hits play. The video starts to play.

  The footage is from inside Cora’s lobby. The camera is half obscured by a coat on a rack. It’s clear that Marve was hiding as he filmed, poking the camera out into the lobby.

  Boris is in the room, seemingly alone. He looks left and then right. He’s standing over Beth’s pink duffle bag.

  Cora’s Chihuahua, Blueberry Muffin skitters into the room and gives a few yips.

  Hearing herself on the television, the actual Blueberry Muffin barks a few times.

  “Yes!” Cora coos to her familiar. “Look at you on the TV! You’re a movie star, my little love!”

  Blueberry yips twice more.

  Back on the screen, Boris drops down to one knee. He unzips Beth’s bag and then reaches for the trophy. He looks up at Blueberry Muffin. “Shoo,” he says gruffly. Blueberry skitters out of the room.

  Boris pulls the trophy from Beth’s bag, and then lifts it to his lips and kisses it. Then, he looks to the staircase.

  He gets to his feet and heads towards the stairs. He begins climbing.

  A gasp goes up in the crowd. Beth speaks first. “It was Boris!” she says. “Boris murdered Janice!”

  “Boris is the killer!” seconds Henry.

  “My husband not kill!” Boleslava insists. “Boris?”

  I keep my eyes trained on the screen. Boris has already admitted to taking the trophy out of Beth’s bag. He said that he wanted to hold it for a minute or two. He said that he started to walk up the stairs with it, but then Boleslava called him to dinner. He said that he put the trophy back into the bag. I watch the screen carefully.

  Boris heads up the stairs. One step. Two. Three.

  He doesn’t turn around. Boleslava doesn’t call out to him. He keeps marching up the stairs with the trophy in hand.

  Four, five, six. He’s moving fast.

  He disappears out of the shot after he climbs the last step.

  The camera angle changes. Now it’s pointed at the floor. All we can see is Cora’s spotless wood floor.

  Then, the film ends. The next shot is of the teary athletes gathered in the living room.

  “That’s the proof, isn’t it?” asks Beth. “Boris took the trophy and went up the stairs to kill Janice!”

  I look out at the crowd. My eyes land on Boris.

  “I didn’t!” Boris says. His eyebrows are up high; his eyes are wide.

  I take in Boris’s expression of shock, but not for long. There’s also another man I want to monitor.

  I swivel my head so that I can watch Marve’s reaction as well. He’s smirking.

  “It’s all on film,” Marve says. “There’s no disputing it. Boris was upstairs with the trophy. It had to be him.”

  “You lied to me, Boris,” I say. “You told me that you didn’t go all the way up the stairs. You said that you only held the trophy for a short time, and then you put it back in Beth’s bag.”

  “I had to lie!” Boris says. His tone doesn't sound right. I don’t pick up on any of the malice or threatening defense that I’d expect from a killer.

  Why not?

  I narrow my eyes.

  Boris continues. “I couldn’t tell you what really happened,” Boris says. “I couldn’t.”

  I focus again on Marve. He looks very pleased with himself. Too pleased.

  Suddenly, I remember the letter in my pocket. I whip it out and open it urgently.

  .

  To: Marve Clark

  From: Richard Silverton

  Re: Earth Tournament

  Date: Friday, January 14th

  Marve, we received your request to have the Earth Realm tennis tournament broadcast during prime time to our viewers. As you are well aware, this is a very competitive time slot. We would need to ensure that viewers would be excited by the tournament content.

  Unfortunately, sport alone does not retain their attention. In order to be considered for prime time, we would need to add another element to the tournament. If you feel that there is an angle with some intrigue, such as romance or some other compelling drama we will reconsider. But for right now, our answer is no.

  If, however, you can capture footage with a highly dramatic angle, we will air it during prime time. Since this would be a highly lucrative program, you could also expect a large bonus payment, as well as the partnership opportunities we’ve discussed in the past.

  Sincerely,

  Richard Silverton

  CEO, W-SPORT

  I look up from the letter.

  Everyone is watching me.

  Marley speaks up. “Did Boris do it?” she asks. “We’re still confused.”

  “Hang on,” I say. My mind is going a mile a minute. The pieces are falling into place, one by one.

  I adjust my glasses and then speak. “Marve,” I say. “You’ve been working for W-SPORT for 25 years. Over that time, you’ve seen many changes in the industry. Viewers demand more from their sports programming. They want drama and intrigue. Is that right?”

  Marve nods. “Yes,” he says, hesitantly.

  “You learned early on that if you included some drama in the tournaments you filmed, the views would go up. You learned that by accident, didn’t you?”

  Now Marve looks very nervous. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

  “I think you do,” I say. “Twenty years ago, you shot footage for the qualifying games for the Earth Tennis Tournament. That year, Fred’s partner was killed—by you.”

  A gasp rises up in the crowds. Fred’s voice rises above the rest. “What?” He says. “Buddy... Marve... no! You didn’t!”

  I search for Fred and find him in the crowd, near Annie. “He did,” I say solemnly. Then I turn back to Marve. “You were fascinated by the game of tennis. By hanging around the court and picking up a ball and racket now and then, you learned that you were quite good. You wanted to be part of it all, so you poisoned Fred’s partner, and took his spot.”

  “No!” shouts Fred, clearly distraught. I look over and see Annie take his hand, trying to comfort him. Poor Fred. I ca
n’t worry too much about him now. I’m mid-speech here!

  I clear my throat and continue, locking my eyes back on Marve. “That year, there was a significant spike in the number of viewers who tuned in to watch the games. You realized that it was because of the drama of Fred’s partner’s death. You tried to fuel the fire with even more drama—you started rumors that Judge Janice was romantically involved with Henry. That wasn’t enough, so you added in Boris.”

  Marve’s silvery-white, semi-see-through face is turning pearlescent pink.

  I take a breath and then continue.

  “You received a great deal of praise for your camera work during that tournament,” I say. “You loved it. You wanted more. But you had to wait... twenty years. When Fred told you that you’d be filming another Earth Tournament, you saw it as an opportunity for more praise. You asked the executives at your station to feature the tournament on prime time. And what was their response to your request?”

  Marve’s face is beet red now. “That’s confidential information!” he says. “I don't have to tell you!”

  I hold the letter up and wave it around. “You don’t have to tell me,” I say. “I know. They said no. They said that they couldn't feature the tournament... unless something dramatic happened. Well, you knew just what to do about that, didn’t you Marve?”

  Marve glares at me.

  I glare back. “You created drama. You murdered Janice, just to create a story around the Earth Tournament. You wanted viewers! You wanted praise! You wanted the footage you captured to be featured on prime-time television! And more than that, you wanted the bonus and promotion that went along with it!”

  There’s another gasp. “You received so much praise for the footage you had during the qualifying games,” I say. “So you arranged that again. Only this time, you staged the whole thing—almost like a movie. You told Boris to remove the trophy and go up the stairs. You were planning on framing him and collecting the money when you sold this exclusive footage to your company.”

  Boris growls. “Marve?”

  Marve is looking wildly around the room. I know he’s going to try to bolt soon.

  “How much did he pay you to take the trophy out of the bag and climb the stairs?” I ask Boris. “A thousand? Two thousand?”