by CeCe Osgood
"I’d be happy to bring you a bale or two at absolutely no charge."
“That's okay. I don't need much but thank you.”
"In that case, how about another offer? Let me buy you a milkshake."
Located in the rear of the Trading Post was an old-fashioned soda fountain with four red vinyl stools and a white bar dotted with ice cream cones.
"Yummy," Abby said, issuing her verdict after the first sip of her chocolate shake." "There's an old-fashioned pharmacy in Martindale with a soda fountain similar to this, although I have to admit the shakes aren't nearly as good."
"Do you miss Martindale?”
"You know, I thought I would, but so far, no. I'm adjusting better than I expected. Where are you from, Jay?"
"All over."
"But if you had to pick a favorite?"
He mused. "Well, now that I've met you, I'd say Moon Water is my favorite." He grinned. "I'd like to see you again soon. Why don't you and Jill come out for a trail ride the Sunday after Halloween?"
She beamed. "That sounds wonderful." And yet she caught herself wondering if he was flirting or being evasive. Me and my suspicious mind.
Jay peeked at his watch, slipped off the stool. "I'm in trouble. I need to pick up a feed order."
"What time?"
He raked a hand through his blondish hair, confused. "Right now."
"No. I mean, for the trail ride."
"Oh. As close to eleven as you can make it.
Arriving back home from her shopping trip, she dumped two bags of caramels and one large bag of assorted hard candy on the kitchen counter along with a clown zombie for the front door. The sandpaper, straw and other items she took outside to the back steps.
After a half hour sanding the tree branch, it looked like a broom handle.
Next, she concocted a solution listed in the Make Room for A Broom book's instructions by mixing four ounces of dried wolfsbane with one ounce of belladonna and one ounce of dried mandrake root—three of the herbs Selene had given her earlier.
To the mixture, she added a gallon of salted boiling water. Once it cooled, she bathed the handle and left it to dry in the sun. She dipped the straw in the same solution and left it to dry too.
Sometime later, she found the straw had hardened into bristles. Just like the book said it would. She attached the bristles to the handle with the wire and twine. Then she slathered the broom with the magic balm from Selene.
The next step was to place it in a dark space for a minimum of six hours.
She decided against the pantry in the kitchen as the door didn't seal well. Light could leak in. The hall closet was a better choice.
Shortly after eleven that night, Abby peeked into Jill's room. The kiddo was already asleep after an exhausting day of binge-watching Black Mirror.
Abby tiptoed down the hall. It was the perfect time for a trial run.
She removed the book and the broomstick from the hall closet and went to the backyard.
A mantle of clouds concealing the moon notched up the darkness around her. She checked the instructions in the book again, set it down on the steps and straddled the broom. Tightening her grip on the broom handle, she quietly spoke the chant from the book. "Volanrum, volanri, volanris."
A subtle glow appeared around the broom.
Abby's eyes widened with astonishment as she continued the chant and the broomstick reacted. Wobbling unsteadily, it rose until her toes were just off the ground.
According to the instructions, her intention had to be strong; her concentration even stronger.
Suddenly the broomstick lurched up and danced past the treetops.
She glanced down and shivered when she saw the cottage's roof. Next door, the tan van was in the driveway. Wyatt had finally returned home.
Suddenly the broomstick soared higher into the dark night sky. The nightmares of flying and falling that had haunted her for months came rushing back. She screamed, "Get me down, get me down!”
Realizing screams alone wouldn't work, she told herself to concentrate.
The broomstick responded by swooping downward. Her sneakers skimmed along the grass forming a shallow track. “Ow, ow, ow.” The broomstick halted and she swiftly jumped off.
Limping up the back steps and into the house, Abby trundled down the hallway and opened the closet. Pushing aside the parkas and other clothes, she hid the broomstick and the velvety black book in a corner.
Then unable to stop herself, she walked out of her cottage to the one next door.
Don't do it, her cautious side bellowed in her head. But her insistent curiosity had to be satisfied.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The door wasn't locked. It wasn't even properly shut. She peeked through the crack, vowing to be subtle, on her guard and wary. No way was she going to be alone in an enclosed space with this guy who might or might not be George's nephew.
"Wyatt?”
He came to the door with a three-day stubble, a bright white smile and a long-necked beer. "Place looks super cool, Abby, and I'm not sneezing."
Subtlety be damned. She blurted out, "Who are you?"
His eyebrows lifted. "Pardon me?"
"I want the truth. Was George your uncle?"
Wyatt fidgeted with the rim of the beer bottle. "Well, um, yes ... and no."
Abby's eyes flashed fire. "What does that mean?"
Wyatt's jaw tightened momentarily before he said softly, "George was my father."
"He was what?”
"I grew up calling him my uncle." The sincerity in his voice made most of her anger recede like mist encountering sunlight, but she held onto a smidgen, in case he was a natural-born liar.
"He was always Uncle George to me until five years ago. Then Dad, the good-hearted man I called my father, died from a stroke.
"Shortly after Dad’s funeral, my mother was so riddled with guilt she told me the truth. She'd had an affair with George, my father's best friend back then, and you can guess the rest.
"George showed up at Dad's funeral, and the three of us had a long talk."
Wyatt studied the floor before taking a sip of his beer.
Abby stood speechless as he continued. "Aunt Doris never knew. The three of us—my mother, Uncle George and me—thought it would be best that way. Besides, I'd only known him as Uncle George, so that's what I always called him.”
"Why did you let me think your name was Wyatt Perkins?"
"I didn't do it. That was your assumption. Everybody calls me Wyatt. It's my last name. My full name is Hercule Faulkner Wyatt.
"Hercule?”
"My mother taught English. She loved mysteries." He gulped a mouthful of beer. "The kids in school ridiculed me, as you can imagine. Some friends, good ones, called me Wyatt. I certainly couldn't use Faulkner. You can imagine what kids would do with that. So, when I left home for college, I refused to answer to anything but Wyatt."
He chuckled. "Guess I was lucky. It could’ve been Ishmael. She named the cat Mrs. Danvers and the dog, Oliver Twist." He took a long pull of his beer.
A twitch in her lips turned into a grin. "Hercule, huh?"
"Don't ever call me that.”
She grew serious again. “Did you stay in touch with George after you learned the truth?"
"Not really. My mother discouraged it. George did too. Because of Aunt Doris."
“When did you learn he’d made you his heir, his beneficiary for this cottage?”
"After Aunt Doris died, he called my mother and told her he wanted me to have this place free and clear. He'd paid cash for it since they'd made out fairly well when they sold their house in Chattanooga. He set up a trust with the cottage as the primary asset."
Wyatt cocked his head, assessing where he stood with her. "So, do you want a beer? Or do you want to see my birth certificate first?”
She flushed, embarrassed, while at the same time appreciating his snarky side.
"Not tonight. Thanks.”
Abby walked home wonderi
ng if it was true. Before her divorce, she would've believed everything he'd told her without question. She wasn't so trusting these days.
Her mind picked at Wyatt's story. Even if it was true and George was his biological father, Wyatt still might be the killer. “He benefitted by getting the cottage.”
She was crawling into bed when her cellphone sang out. The screen told her the caller's identity. Hoping he wanted her to temp again, she was super cheery. "Hi there, Mr. Steed."
He didn't respond in kind. Instead, his solemn voice chilled her. "Selene left for an emergency meeting with the League.”
"Why?"
"I don't know. I'm worried though, especially since she left a warning for us. We must stay alert, she said, and do absolutely nothing that would make someone suspicious. We must act like normal human beings."
Normal. For the first thirty-five years of her life, being normal had been her goal.
Now everything had shifted.
In this wholly unexpected but fascinating world of enchantment, being normal wasn't possible.
Feigning normal, however, to avoid danger had to become her new goal now.
After he hung up. Abby reached for the velvety black book, which was still on the nightstand. She opened it, surprised to see a new page of chants written in aquamarine ink.
She read them, delighted an English pronunciation guide was included, then discovered pages relating to myths and legends—some labeled bogus while others were to be studied for wisdom and tactics. The last new page was for a protection spell.
It involved mixing garlic power with coarse salt. The catch was, it could not be commercially produced garlic powder. It had to be homemade mixed with the salt and then sprinkled around every entry in the house: doors, windows and the fireplace.
With a yawn, Abby closed the book, placed it on the nightstand before she turned off her light. She had fresh garlic in the fridge. After drying it in the sun, she could make the powder to cast the spell. Tomorrow would be soon enough.
Chapter Thirty
The next day, Saturday, she remembered the spell and hurried into the kitchen. Once she'd diced the garlic, Abby plopped the pieces into a bowl and set it outside to dry.
"Momma?” Jill called from the kitchen.
"What?” Abby darted back inside.
"How's this look?"
Her daughter had on her black boots, black leggings, a long-tailed black shirt and a blood-soaked bandaged head. "I don't wanna look too costumey."
Abby's stomach clenched at the sight of blood—fake or not—on her child. Jill had changed her mind about the school's Haunted House when Devon asked her to go with him. Abby said she would like to go too, but Jill had ruled that out. Totally and completely out. “I thought you said wearing a costume would be lame.”
"Devon's wearing something. I decided to do the minimum.”
Later that afternoon, Abby heard a car honking outside. Jill came breezing out of her room. She’d added fangs and slicked her lips a bloody red. “Bye,” she said and headed out the door.
"You're going this early?”
"We're on the decorating team.”
Abby followed her to the car to say "hello" to Annette, Devon's mother, the nurse she'd met at the clinic.
Annette had volunteered to be part of the medical unit for the Haunted House, in case someone panicked or got overheated.
Watching her daughter leave with Devon, Abby gave in to a sniffle. Jill's first date. "Well, at least she'd waited until the ripe old age of fourteen, a miracle these days.”
Abby's gaze strayed to Lulu's foursquare across the street.
Jack-o'-lanterns lined the walkway, a giant spider perched on her front door, and a gauzy ghost hung from a tree. It reminded her of Winston, the ghost dog, and she flushed with guilt remembering her promise to find George's killer.
Back inside, she grabbed the clown zombie she’d bought at the Trading Post and taped it on the front door. That, and leaving her porch light on, was all she intended to do for Halloween.
Seated on the maple leaf patterned sofa, she ripped open a bag of caramels and popped one in her mouth.
She ate two more in quick succession as she pondered what to do to keep her promise to Winston. She did have three potential suspects. Wyatt. Gilbert Inglewood. And Hank Holcombe who still ranked as number one.
She'd seen his dark side when she encountered him on the path in the woods. That man would not risk exposure of his affair with Denise Elba and what that might mean to his marriage. "Yep. He's definitely on the list."
And Gilbert Inglewood, possibly the mayor’s partner in crime, would also not risk being exposed. He could face legal consequences. "Gosh, he might lose his law license.”
Then again, there was Wyatt, the only person she knew of who had profited from George's death.
She was reaching for another caramel when her phone rang. Finally, Harriet Dill was returning her call.
Before Abby could ask her if George had a nephew, Harriet blurted out, “I thought of something. Remember when I told you George was sitting at a table in the diner staring out the front windows, muttering 'it can't be' and 'my records'?”
“I remember.”
“Something else occurred to me just now. I said he was staring out the window. What if I was wrong?"
“Wrong how?”
“What if he wasn't staring out the window. What if he was staring at the table near the window. He could've been staring at the three people seated at that table."
"What three people?"
"Mayor Holcombe, Gilbert Inglewood and Jay Browder."
“Jay Browder? You're certain?"
"I got to thinking about it and, yes, I'm certain. The reason it stuck with me is because all three of them ordered pecan pie. I only had four slices left. When George came in, I remembered thinking I was lucky to have a slice left for him.”
“Hmm. Tell me what you know about Jay Browder."
“Not much. He moved to Moon Water in the fall of last year. The grapevine said he bought the old Foster ranch and it keeps him so busy, he rarely comes into town.”
"Harriet, did George ever meet Jay Browder?”
"Not that I know of. But George knew the other two at the table. The mayor and Gilbert Inglewood."
“What’s Gilbert Inglewood like?”
“You mean what’s my witchy woo woo say? Almost nothing. I draw a blank when I’m near him. I didn’t used to. I remember him as being sociable, talkative, a charmer. These days he's moody and aloof. I don't know what's up with Gilbert.”
Abby wondered if the change in Gilbert had anything to do with Camille. There was something about her. “Abby, I got your message. Why did you call me?”
“Did George ever mention a nephew?”
"No. Although I believe Doris did. I do sort of recall something about a nephew in a postcard she sent me years ago.”
Abby heaved a sigh and removed Wyatt from her suspect list.
She still had three names, now with the addition of Jay Browder.
There was Holcombe, Inglewood, Browder. The three men at the table.
A knock sounded on the front door. "Harriet, I have to go. I think I've got trick or treaters at the door."
She hung up and grabbed the bowl of candy.
Instead of kids, she found Lulu and couldn't quite stifle a chuckle. Lulu had on what looked like a black onesie with a white skeleton running down the front and a bright pink fanny pack on her hip.
In her hands was a foil-covered dish. "I have three things for you.”
She shoved the dish into Abby's hands. "This is the first thing. I made so much chicken salad I brought you some.”
“Thanks. What are the other two things?" she said, moving aside to let Lulu enter.
Lulu went straight to the sofa and tucked her legs underneath her bottom while Abby stuck the dish in the fridge.
"Buttercup, would you bring me a glass of water, please, and brace yourself for the second thing.”
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Abby came back with the water. "Okay. Let's hear the second thing.”
"I bribed a deputy."
"You did what?"
Lulu leaned back against the sofa pillows with a smug grin tipping her lips. "I used a batch of my fabulous gourmet chicken salad to elicit an answer from one of the sheriff's deputies. Turns out, it wasn't the answer I was hoping for."
"I'm lost." Abby eased into an armchair.
"Hank Holcombe has a solid alibi. I no longer consider him a suspect." Her watched pinged. "Gotta take my meds," she said, unzipping the fanny pack on her hip. She chased the pills with the water, and then held up three fingers. "Number three is the important thing. Remember that note from George? The one I found stuck on my screen door."
"I do.”
Lulu reached into the pink fanny pack and pulled out a yellow post-it note. "Check the top right."
On the top right of the yellow post-it note was a circle with a 1 inside of it.
Below that, George had scrawled a message. Maybe I am losing my mind. I don't feel safe. It's like I'm being watched.
Abby looked up after reading. “And?”
Lulu reached into the fanny pack again and brought out another yellow post-it note, but this one had been badly torn and was now the size of a postage stamp.
"I found this a couple minutes ago. I was outside adding another ghost to the tree and found it clinging to a bush. I figure George left it on the back door too, but the wind got to it."
Abby peered at the scrawled letters: the first one was a capital "G" and the second one was a capital "A."
“Look at the top right. See the 3 inside a circle? George left me three notes. This is the third one."
Abby said, "I get it. The second note is missing."
Lulu touched the tip of her nose. "Right on, Buttercup. It could be the most important of the three. I've scoured my yard, front and back, to find it and"—she lifted her shoulders—"it's not there."
Another knock on the front door had Abby jumping up with the bowl of candy. Once again, it wasn't a trick or treater.
Chapter Thirty-one