"I guess so," he replied good-naturedly. “To be perfectly honest, I’ve never actually met a sorceress. The ones I read about in books appear to be difficult on the eyes, if you know what I mean."
I laughed. "I'm glad to set the record straight, then."
Astrid steered the conversation back to the matter at hand. "We’re here to talk to you about Milton."
Marcel’s expression darkened. "It's a terrible loss for the community. He was someone to emulate."
"We have some questions about your relationship with him," Astrid said. "Do you have a few minutes or should we arrange a time to talk in my office?"
Marcel gestured us forward. "I'm happy to talk to you right now. I was winding down for the day anyway. As you can see, my staff has gone home."
We followed him into his office and he took his place behind the desk. Astrid and I sat in the wingback chairs opposite him.
"You typically work late?" Astrid asked.
"I don't consider it work," Marcel said. “If you love what you do, it never feels like work."
"When you love what you do, you never work a day in your life," I said. "My grandfather always liked to say that."
Marcel smiled at me. "And does he love what he does?"
I shook my head dismissively. "Oh no. He hated his job. He wanted better for me, though. I think he believed if he said it often enough, that it would sink in by osmosis.”
"So what did you do before you acquired the company from Milton?" Astrid asked. “I take it that you didn’t love that job or you’d still be doing it.”
Milton barked a short laugh. "Absolutely not. I didn't own my own company before Lumberland. I worked as the Vice President of Operations for Spellbound Ale." He grimaced. "I didn't enjoy working for someone else. I've been wanting to do my own thing for a long time, so when this opportunity came along, I grabbed it with both hands.”
"And how is business these days?" Astrid asked. "Is the company doing well?"
"Extremely," Marcel said with obvious pride. “Before he decided to sell, Milton was worried that it would fall into the wrong hands and destroy his legacy, but I'm proud to say that we've continued Lumberland’s success. Exceeded it, even."
“I heard that he gave a small stake in the company to a waitress at the Red Velvet,” I said. “Is that true?”
Marcel nodded. “Jana. Nice girl. I send her a small cut of the profits every quarter.”
“That doesn’t bother you?” I asked.
“Heck no,” Marcel said. “That’s perfectly in line with Milton’s ideals. He wanted to spread the wealth. Give the less fortunate a leg up. I fully supported it.”
"Would you mind if we took copies of your financial records?” Astrid said.
“And also the contract of sale between you and Milton for Lumberland," I added. It was always good practice to look at the underlying contract in a business transaction, plus I was curious to review the provision that mentioned Jana.
"No problem at all," Marcel said. He trotted over to the filing cabinet in the corner of the room and pulled several folders from the drawer. "Everything you need should be in here, but let me know if something is missing and I'll have my assistant look into it." He handed the files to Astrid.
"We don't need to take the originals," Astrid said. “Copies are fine.”
Marcel grunted. "I trust you. You’re the sheriff, after all. We need to trust our leaders in Spellbound, wouldn't you agree?"
"And you trusted Milton?" I asked. "You believed he’d be a good mayor for the town?"
Marcel slammed his open palm on the desk in an emphatic gesture. "Without a doubt. This town needed someone like Milton in charge. He was a successful businessman. He knew how to run a place without alienating people and destroying the company.”
Milton’s supporters certainly were enthusiastic. “Were you at Speech Night?” I asked.
“Of course,” Marcel replied. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. I was a huge campaigner for Milton.”
“Is that why you allowed him to use Lumberland property for his campaign headquarters?" Astrid asked.
Marcel nodded. "Absolutely. Lumberland was his second home. We had the space and resources to provide assistance, so I leapt at the chance to help." He gesticulated to his surroundings. “Without him, I would still be miserable working for someone else."
"Who will you vote for now?" I asked. While I realized it was impolite to ask about someone's voting preferences, I was curious to see Marcel's alternative to Milton.
“I’m writing in Milton's name," Marcel said. "It's my understanding that we can do that."
Astrid and I exchanged glances. That was exactly what Milton's wife had said.
"Yes, write-in votes are acceptable," Astrid said. "But I would be curious to see what would happen if he won. As far as I know, necromancy is still against the law.”
Marcel chuckled. "I imagine many of his supporters will vote for either Lucy or Hugo now. They won’t all be as loyal as I am."
"Seems like a wasted vote to me," Astrid said. "But to each his own."
"We appreciate your time, Mr. Griffith," I said. "You've been a great help."
"If there's anything else I can do, please let me know. Milton was a friend and I'd like to see his killer brought to justice, assuming the new mayor believes in justice, that is.”
I couldn't speak for Hugo, but I knew Lucy certainly did.
"Thanks for your help, Mr. Griffith," Astrid said.
We left the office and, once in the sheriff’s jalopy, Astrid only waited a hot minute before dropping the files onto my lap.
"You're the one who's going to read these, right? Small print in a contract will make my eyes glaze over."
I stared at the pile of papers in my lap. "I was hoping to do a bit of light reading later tonight anyway." Of course, I'd expected to be reading My Sorceress, Myself, but I would make an exception for crime solving.
"And the next time Britta lets me down, I'll make her do it," Astrid said.
"I don't think she's letting you down," I said gently. "I think she’s finding a different role for the deputy than the one you carved out. You were basically doing Sheriff Hugo's job, remember? Now you are the sheriff, so Britta doesn't need to do your job because you’re actually good at it."
Astrid cast a sidelong glance at me. “She’s patrolling the Shamrock Casino because it’s fun.”
“But it’s also necessary,” I said. “Britta handles the drunk and disorderly better than anybody. Let her carve out her own niche.”
“You know what? That's a really good point, Emma. I didn't think about it like that." She pulled the car out of the parking lot. "Has anyone ever told you you're kind of smart?"
I smiled. “Can I take advantage of your good mood and ask you to drive me to the secret lair? I’m supposed to meet the girls to work on our special projects.”
“If it’s a secret lair, how can I drive you there?” she asked.
“I know a place where you can drop me,” I said. “Keeps the integrity of the location intact.”
Astrid turned the wheel away from town. “With everything you do for me, how can I say no?”
My reservoir of goodwill runneth over.
The other witches were already gathered in the secret lair when I arrived.
"What are you painting?" I asked.
Begonia sat at the table with pots of different colored paints and a paintbrush. She was in the midst of drawing a beautiful butterfly.
“I thought you were going to work on your spell for class.”
“I am,” she said. "I'm creating a tattoo with magical paint and then I’ll do a spell for the animated affect."
Laurel came over and leaned her elbows on the table. "I think yours is my favorite aside from my own."
Begonia beamed. "Yes, I'm really excited about it. I like the idea of animated body art."
I groaned. “Animated body art?”
Begonia gave me a sharp look. "What's
the problem with it?"
"Nothing," I said. "I'm just imagining the frightening possibilities if someone like Agnes gets her hand on this spell."
The others laughed.
"It's not like I intend it for mass distribution," Begonia said. "Like everyone else, I only want to impress Lady Weatherby."
"What if you could distribute it, though?" Laurel asked. "You could start your own business. I bet people would pay good money for a tattoo like this."
"Let's see if I can get it to work before we start dreaming about a corporate empire," Begonia said.
“You could be like Milton Braun,” Laurel said. “Creating an empire and then using the proceeds to contribute to society.”
“And pay the ultimate price?” Begonia said. “No thanks.”
I smiled. "I think that's the first time I've ever heard Laurel be the dreamer and Begonia be the sensible one." I looked quickly at Begonia. "No offense."
"You know I don't mind being labeled as a dreamer," Begonia said. "The world needs dreamers too."
I wholeheartedly agreed with that. It also needed doers and the best combination was a dreamer who was also a doer.
“I’m about finished," Begonia said. "Who wants to be my guinea pig?"
Sophie raised her hand. "I've always wanted a tattoo, but my mother says not until I'm at least twenty-five.”
"Well, this one is designed to be temporary," Begonia said. "So this shouldn't be a problem for you."
Sophie admired Begonia’s handiwork as she put the finishing touches on the butterfly.
"It's so pretty," Sophie said. "Where will you put it on me?"
"That's up to you," Begonia said. "Your ankle? A shoulder blade?"
Sophie tapped her chin thoughtfully. "What about my hip?" She tapped her left side. "When I twist left and right, it will be even more animated. It will look so cool when I’m dancing.”
"Sounds good to me," Begonia said. "Laurel, will you hold up the paper with the butterfly while I perform the final part of the spell?"
Laurel lifted the paper from the table and stood beside Sophie. Begonia took her place in front of them and held out her wand. "A remedial witch’s invocation/give this butterfly animation."
We watched in wonder as the butterfly lifted off the page and flew to Sophie's hip. It flattened itself against her skin and began to look like a normal tattoo. Then its wings fluttered and Sophie shrieked with delight.
"It's amazing," Sophie said. "It doesn't even feel like anything is there."
The spell seemed to work perfectly, however the moment was short-lived. Suddenly the butterfly began to vibrate, its wings beating rapidly. The artwork began to multiply all over Sophie's body. Within seconds, her skin was covered in animated butterflies. Sophie began to swipe at her body, trying to get them off.
"Oh no," Begonia cried. "Why are they multiplying?"
"Make it stop," Sophie cried, as the butterflies continued to climb all over her. These were more than animated tattoos. They were nearly real.
Begonia pointed her wand and tried to do a counterspell. Her nerves got the better of her, though, and she kept stumbling over her incantation.
Millie shoved Begonia out of the way and focused her wand on Sophie. "Like the flowers on my lawn/butterflies be gone."
The butterflies didn't disappear, but they did drop to the ground and revert to paper form. Begonia knelt on the floor and touched her failed project.
"I don't know what I did wrong," she said sadly. "I was so sure this was going to work."
I patted Begonia on the back. "It's no big deal," I said reassuringly. "This is how we make progress. If we never did anything wrong, how would we learn anything at all?"
Begonia sighed. “I guess that’s true.”
"Thank you, Millie," Sophie said, dusting off her arms as though she still felt the fluttering wings of the butterflies.
"I'm sorry I froze up," Begonia said. "I was so startled. I wasn't expecting all of those butterflies."
Laurel stared at the butterfly remnants on the floor. "You added something to the spell that caused it to multiply. If you can isolate that problem, then you can fix it. I'm happy to help you."
Begonia smiled at her and wiped away a stray tear. "I'd really appreciate that."
"This is why we practice," Sophie said. "Can you imagine what would've happened if you’d done this to Lady Weatherby instead of me?"
Begonia shuddered. "I'd really rather not think about that."
“To think I was going to suggest a snake tattoo,” I said. Now it was my turn to shudder. It was scary enough working in close proximity to Althea and her head of snakes. The thought of animated snake tattoos coiled around my body was positively frightening.
“It just goes to show you there is such a thing as too much of a good thing,” Millie said. “Even pretty butterflies have a limit.”
“I’d better get to work. I need to perfect my spell soon,” I said. “I’m running out of time.”
Begonia stared at the motionless butterflies and sighed. “We all are.”
Chapter 16
I walked down a long, unfamiliar corridor, passing doors on either side of me. A red door. A brown door. At first, I thought I was in some kind of strange hotel with bare walls and nondescript carpet. Then I glimpsed a door on my right and my heart began to pound.
I recognized that door with a cast iron latch. It was the door to my grandparents’ old barn. It hadn't been a barn since before they'd bought the property, but the building still retained its character. My grandparents had used it for storage and I’d used it as a playhouse. I’d spent many afternoons as a pirate on the high seas, using wooden spoons for oars while sitting in an empty cardboard box. A lonely child like me found comfort in imaginative play.
I stood in front of the barn door, contemplating my next move. Why was I here? Did I open the door? If I dared, what would I find? I lived in a paranormal town with witches, vampires, and shifters. What could I possibly fear behind a door?
I sucked in a deep breath and pushed it open. The interior seemed dark at first, until my eyes adjusted to the dim light. The small building was exactly as I remembered it. Boxes piled neatly on top of each other. Containers marked Christmas and Easter. Was this a memory or a dream? Right now, I wasn't sure if I was asleep or in one of Dr. Hall's sessions.
I touched a nearby plastic container to make sure it was real. It certainly felt real. I opened the container marked with Barron, my father's name. My heart ached when I saw the contents. There were items I hadn't seen in years. Some I had never seen it all. A Father's Day card in my feeble handwriting featuring a cat that looked more like an octopus. Apparently, my artistic skills hadn't matured much since childhood. Happy Father's Day to the best dad in the whole world. I recognized this card. It was the last one I’d made for him before he died. I never got the chance to make another one.
Who had saved these mementos? Certainly not my stoic grandmother who never shed a tear, not for my mother when she died, and not for my father. I remembered they’d seemed angry with him, probably because he’d stopped taking care of himself after my mother died. And he’d stopped looking after me, so I stepped in to take care of both of us. A role reversal where I acted as caregiver for my father. Although my grandparents didn’t talk much about it—or about anything, for that matter—I knew the situation had upset them.
I continued riffling through the container. There were cards to my mother from my father. Happy anniversary. Happy birthday. Lots of cards with owls. I sighed contentedly. How my mother loved owls.
At the very bottom of the container, in an unmarked manila envelope, was a stack of letters wrapped in a yellow ribbon. I quickly untied the ribbon and examined the contents of the letters. Each one bore the same elaborate script and each one was signed with the letter B. It only took a cursory glance to realize that the letters were about me. How tall is she now? How much does she weigh? Does she have her father’s smile? Has anyone come for her?
Has anyone come for her?
I swallowed hard. Were these letters written by my biological mother? The woman who looked like me on my parents’ doorstep? Or was she someone else with an interest in my well-being? Who was B? And why didn’t she come for me after my father died? Or after my grandparents died?
My breathing became rapid and shallow. I couldn’t tell how much of my dreams to believe. Was this an unearthed memory? Was everything I’d been experiencing lately an elaborate, imaginative dream? I was, after all, the product of an imaginative childhood. Maybe none of this was accurate.
I sank beside the container and continued to pore over the letters, analyzing each and every word for clues. All the letters were short and vaguely desperate. There were no envelopes, so no postmarks or even dates. I counted twenty-seven letters in the packet. Twenty-seven times someone inquired after me. Someone who seemingly cared about me.
Were these letters the reason I was revisiting this memory of the barn? Had I ever looked through these containers as a child or even a teenager? Surely I would have remembered a stranger sending repeated requests for updates about me. All children are narcissists to a certain degree, and I was no exception.
I slapped the letters onto the concrete floor, wondering whether to return to the strange corridor. My breathing halted. On the back of the letter was a symbol.
An oval wreath.
It looked like the same oval wreath from the goddess in the tarot card deck. The goddess of creation and destruction.
I whipped through the back of every letter. Each one bore the same symbol. It was like a watermark.
I clutched the letters in my hand. If I shoved them in my pocket, would they return to Spellbound with me? Or would I need to memorize them? What if I awoke and remembered none of this?
I rose to my feet and folded the letters carefully before placing them in my pocket. It was worth a try. I placed the lid back on the container because my grandmother would have objected if I didn’t—dream or no dream. Then I pulled open the barn door and stepped into the corridor.
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