Murder Above the Fold

by ReGina Welling

  “Hey!” Mag protested the use of forbidden slang by the very person responsible for the ban. “I thought you hated that kind of language. What about the charm on the house that twists my words every time I try to cuss? And while we’re on the subject, I’ve tried everything except burning the place to the ground to break that.”

  While Mag pursued the subject of the anti-swearing charm, Hagatha’s attention remained focused on adjusting the playback speed of her holographic event. Standing in the center of the square, she used her wand like a conductor. A flick of the wrist sped up the parade just enough to push it into the territory of high comedy. Another eased the speed back slightly to whittle the after party down to a spare few minutes, and when it was over, she clapped her hands to end the show.

  “Imagine the applause.” In a surprisingly graceful motion, Hagatha curtsied. How her ancient knees let her bend so deeply seemed like a miracle.

  “It’s a little premature to be taking your bows before the story ends, isn’t it?” Having been shut down on lifting the cussing ban, Mag let the question turn into a sneer.

  “I don’t know what you’re—” So rarely did Hagatha experience an event she couldn’t anticipate that the flickering image of a young woman standing on the balcony under the belly of the clock shocked her into silence.

  A shining wing of blond hair swung around a heart-shaped face made more remarkable by her smile. The woman stepped up onto the railing, wrapped an arm around the narrow column, and leaned out over the square.

  Clara’s heart kicked against her ribcage at the reckless sight.

  “She’s going to fall.”

  But she didn’t. The shining beauty executed a perfect pivot around the pole and landed safely at the edge of the clock’s shadow. There was no audio, but there didn’t need to be. The twitch of her shoulders, the abrupt way she froze in place was all it took to know someone had entered the tower.

  Tension settled into narrow shoulders as slim hands lifted to paint the air with sharp gestures. She spun away once, presented an angry expression to the dumbfounded witches below, then turned back to continue arguing.

  The next part happened fast, like a blur. The blond took an angry step into the shadows, and then she was falling backward. The railing caught just below her center of balance, and she flipped over to plummet toward the ground.

  Clara turned away to keep from seeing the gruesome impact, but Mag’s attention stayed trained on the tower where one shadow moved dark against the rest. Anticipation settled over her as the chin and jawline of a face came into view. A man, a boy really—she could tell by the softness of the curve—but that was all she saw before he retreated and the magic image sparked and fizzled into darkness.

  “I knew it. I knew it.” Hagatha chortled. “Been saying for years someone got away with murder that night and no one ever believed batty old Haggie.”

  “Did you see who it was? Run it again and let it go another few minutes, would you?”

  “Can’t. Takes time to regenerate. Won’t be ready to play again until the final showing tomorrow night. See you then, ladies.” Hagatha took herself off, presumably to her niece’s house. Word had it she’d taken over the run of the place, and the niece was now living in a potting shed. But rumors can often become exaggerated in small towns.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Once the square was quiet again, Mag looked at Clara with resignation. “It pains me to dismantle some of the finest spell work I’ve ever seen. If not for the nasty ending, I’d be tempted to let it play out.”

  Stepping into the shadows, Clara conjured a wheelbarrow and started tossing in the charmed stones Hagatha had hidden around the base of the clock tower. If she agreed with Mag, she was careful not to let on.

  “What on earth is going on over here?” The voice of Gertrude Granger coming out of the darkness sent Clara’s heart lurching.

  “Good goddess, you scared a year off my life, Gertrude,” she said, clutching her chest as her heartbeat returned to normal. “What brings you back so late at night?”

  “I felt the magic building and figured I’d better come and check just to make sure Hagatha wasn’t up to something.”

  “She was, but we put a stop to it. Was she always like this? It seems like she’s hellbent on exposing herself, and us by extension, to the town of Harmony. Did something set her off?”

  Bending to help lift a sizable chunk of the stone, Gertrude grunted, and Clara wasn’t sure if from effort or from the question.

  “There was an incident that could have led to the harm of an innocent, and Penelope decided that the only way to keep it from happening again would be to stop doing magic in public at all. She lobbied, and while we don’t run a coven like a democracy, exactly, it turned into a rule. Hagatha rebelled and keeps rebelling, and that’s how you ended up here.”

  As the pair of them rounded the third corner of the tower, Clara described the elderly witch’s latest caper and couldn’t quite keep the admiration from her voice.

  “We saw that poor girl die and it was no accident.” Mag rejoined them.

  Gertrude tossed another stone in the wheelbarrow with a clatter. “You really didn’t know that Marsha wasn’t the first woman in town to die of suspiciously accidental circumstances, did you? You’ve been here a few months now; I can’t believe you haven’t heard the story of Blossom Von Gunten.”

  Gertrude dropped the bomb as innocuously as if she were sprinkling seedlings into a pot of soil—with similar effect, considering the rate at which realization sprouted and bloomed into something resembling understanding.

  “Von Gunten, Von Gunten—where have I heard that name before? It’s not a common name.” Mag searched her memory, her eyes darting back and forth until realization dawned and she and Clara both spoke at the same time. “From Marsha!”

  “She mentioned an Aldo Von Gunten the day we met her. He was the expert who restored the tower clock to its former glory.”

  “And she started to tell us that something happened to his daughter.”

  “Sounds like you had a front row seat for what happened to his daughter, a tragedy that rocked the whole town.” Gertrude intoned.

  “Well, stop beating around the bush and tell us what you know.” Mag sent the wheelbarrow full of stones to the safety of her backyard.

  “Come back to the house for a cup of cocoa, and we’ll talk,” Gertrude said.

  With a pop, they landed in the shadows at the edges of Gertrude’s yard. Refusing to answer more questions until safely ensconced, she strode out of the entryway and into the bowels of her very merry house, leaving the sisters to follow as she made her way to the parlor.

  She settled onto a tufted armchair next to the flickering flame of Balefire every witch keeps burning in her hearth all year round. The elf-obsessed witch paused for dramatic effect until the steam pouring out of Mag’s ears went from proverbial to literal.

  “Blossom Von Gunten was just about the prettiest girl I’d ever seen—and I’d say she had one of the sweetest dispositions as well. I watched her grow up from a babe, as I have watched every person in this town be born, live their life, and die for a very long time now. But Blossom was different. Selfless, innocent, and kind don’t begin to describe that girl.”

  She blew on her cocoa and took a sip, staring into the Balefire. “Only child she was, and no mother to speak of. Followed her father around everywhere. Right little tomboy, though she looked like a princess. Always climbing around up in the clock tower—so dangerous—and everyone warned her that one day she’d fall to her death. Didn’t stop her from climbing though.”

  Gertrude shook her head, the faraway look clearing. “Anyway, like so many young people, she wanted more than what Harmony had to offer, so Blossom worked hard and won a scholarship to some fancy ivy-league college. And then, like so many slightly less young people, she learned that sometimes, your home really is where your heart belongs.”

  “Of course,” she said with a wistful smile, “it did
n’t hurt that she’d met a nice young man who wanted to marry her, settle down, have babies, and raise them someplace quiet, in a sleepy little town just like this. She came back, as they so often do. Although, this time I sorely wish she hadn’t. Maybe things would have turned out differently, and Blossom might have had the life she deserved.”

  Clara and Mag listened with rapt attention, their cocoas going cold.

  “I remember clear as day—the Circle had gone all-out in preparation for the bicentennial celebration, and though Mr. Von Gunten had achieved great fame as a restoration expert, he certainly didn’t have a lot to show for it when it came to money. Once we’d closed up for the night, most of the town pitched in to transition the decorations into something suitable for a low-budget wedding. That’s how many lives Blossom had touched.”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Gertrude raised an eyebrow at Mag’s unhidden eye roll.

  “People glorify the dead—forget they had faults just like the rest of us still among the living—but in this case, I assure you if Blossom had any skeletons in her closet, they were of the inflatable sort you see during October. The next morning, her body was found on the front steps. It was ruled an accident, though the police conducted a thorough investigation. Hogwash if you ask me, not that anyone ever did.”

  “Why didn’t you speak up, then? And why didn’t you try to figure out who the killer was?”

  “Haven’t you ever heard that old expression about not meddling in the affairs of mortals? When you’ve seen as much as I have, you learn that there’s a circle of life. Where would I draw the line? You two were invited here because one of us became embroiled in the world of normals and set off a skirmish that came close to breaking up our coven. Having truck with humans is fraught with danger.”

  A sharp crack sounded when Mag banged her mug on the table.

  “Don’t even get me started on how a clash of egos rendered it necessary to call in outside help for your coven. Or how ludicrous it is for Hagatha to engage in a role reversal to make a point. We’re here now, and caught in the middle, but at least now we know what the sides are all about. All of that pales when there’s a young woman who has gone without justice far too long, and you could have done something about it.” Mag’s face was red with outrage.

  “Piffle.” Gertrude snorted. “If I got involved with every wrongdoing I saw, I’d never get anything else done. Besides, what was I going to say? My witchly intuition tells me someone murdered this girl. I don’t know who or why, but you should look into that?”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “You must have noticed the law enforcement in this town is sorely lacking imagination—and it’s been like that for as long as I can remember. When you’ve lived here as long as I have, you’ll learn to ignore coincidences like two women falling to their deaths ten years apart.”

  Before Mag’s head exploded, Clara intervened and dragged them both out of there, thanking Gertrude for the cocoa.

  On the short walk home, Mag postulated, “There it is again, Clarie, that word coincidence. Two murdered women; the same MO, in the same small town. There has to be a connection.”

  “I agree. We’ve looked at Marsha’s death from every possible angle, and it’s pretty clear we’re missing something. Maybe it’s time to shift our perspective.”

  “Exactly. Maybe if we solve Blossom’s murder, we’ll solve Marsha’s as well. Two birds, one stone.”

  Clara’s nostrils flared, “Nice choice of words, Maggie.”

  Mag ignored the admonishment, her mind racing ahead. “Marsha must have known something she wasn’t supposed to know. The question is whether she went looking or stumbled onto the evidence.”

  “You think she figured out who the murderer is?”

  “Maybe, or maybe she was on the right track. Either way, she got close, which is good for us because that means there’s evidence, and maybe even proof somewhere.” Mag looked positively thrilled at the prospect.

  “But we’ve got to begin at the beginning—investigate Blossom’s death, and then see where it meets up with Marsha’s.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “You doing okay, Maggie?” Loathe to admit the slope was stealing her breath, Clara used her sister as an excuse for a short rest. Or tried to, anyway. It had been her idea to combine the trip to visit Aldo Von Gunten with a bit of morning exercise, so complaining about the workout wouldn’t fly with Mag.

  “I’m fine. Ain’t the uphill that bothers me; it’s going to be the return trip that does me in. If we’re going to mostly live like non-magical folk, we should use the bus more often.”

  “The exercise is good for you. You have to admit your mobility is much improved. And isn’t your new life better than the way you were living in the Fringe? Sitting in some grungy hovel made out of sticks and feeling sorry for yourself?”

  Looks don’t kill, not even magical ones, but Clara felt the heat and sting of her sister’s glare.

  Von Gunten lived in a tidy Dutch colonial about two-thirds of the way up Turner Street. His meticulously painted front porch faced an impressive view of the town and the clock tower. Having witnessed Blossom’s last moments the night before, Clara’s soft heart felt a pang for the man who faced the sight of both a personal triumph and his greatest tragedy on a daily basis.

  While she mused over that sad thought, Mag rapped her knuckles briskly against the leaded-glass panel of the front door and listened for a response. There was none. Not right away, at least, and before she had time to knock again, the clock struck the hour.

  Noon meant a solid dozen peals of the bell, every one of which was echoed by a chorus of chimes and cuckoos coming from inside the house.

  “They’d be carting me off to the funny farm inside of a week if I had to listen to that racket every day. Do you think they all go off like that around the clock?” Mag muttered.

  Mercifully, since the Balefires now lived within hearing distance of the big bells, there was a mechanism in place that stilled the hammer from nine o’clock in the evening until nine in the morning. Even so, Mag vowed she would eventually be forced to put the kibosh on the bell, or she might be tempted to kill someone.

  “I’d assume so. Seems reasonable to me that a clock-maker might want to have—oh, I don’t know—clocks in his house.” Sometimes Mag’s carping got on Clara’s nerves.

  And so, if for no other reason than to curtail a diatribe, she nudged her sister aside and rapped more firmly on the glass. “Mr. Von Gunten, are you there? We’d like to speak to you for a moment.”

  “Hold your horses, I’m coming.” The thick panel muffled his voice, but Clara saw the shape of someone moving through the patterned glass. “Who’s there?”

  “Well, my name is Clara, and I’m here with my mother, Margaret. We’d like to ask you a few questions about—I’m sorry to say—but about your daughter. If you wouldn’t mind.”

  The door opened, but barely a crack, and at that moment, it occurred to Clara they hadn’t thought this through before making the trek up the hill. Asking questions about his daughter’s death would be painful at best, and awkward to boot.

  “Was there anyone who might want to—” Mag got no further before Clara trod heavily on her foot, but she took the hint and fell silent.

  “May we come in, please?” Even to Clara, the smile on her face felt full of false cheer.

  “Don’t know you, don’t want to talk about Blossom, don’t see any reason why I should let you traipse through my place.”

  “I’m sorry for intruding, but I have to ask.” Trying to frame it more delicately than her sister would have done, Clara said, “Was there ever any doubt your daughter’s death happened by accident?”

  What little bit of his face that showed through the crack between the frame and the door went pale. “I never thought Blossom would fall. Not after all the hours she spent with me while I worked. Can’t tell why you’d want to dredge this all up now, after so many years, but if you want to know who had a reason to h
urt my girl, go talk to that ex-boyfriend of hers.”

  The door shut firmly in their faces, and the clicking of the lock put an exclamation point on the dismissal.

  “Would have been nice if he’d bothered to give us a name.” Grumpy about the futility of the trip, Mag stomped down the steps while Clara pulled out her phone.

  “We should have asked Gertrude for more details, but a tragedy like that in a town this size would have been covered in the paper and even in the statewide news outlets. Shouldn’t take me more than a minute to find something.”

  While Clara’s fingertip whizzed across the touch screen, Mag’s annoyance translated itself into the staccato tap of her cane on the sidewalk.

  “You’re going to be staring down at that thing and fall in a well one of these days,” she grumbled.

  “If I do, I’m sure Lassie will alert Timmy, and he’ll find you to save the day. And I’ve found it.” Clara let out a long, low whistle. “You’re never going to guess who Blossom’s fiancé was. Come on, give it a go.”

  “If I wanted to play twenty questions, I’d go find a child. Just tell me.”

  “Dylan Snow. Isn’t that an interesting coincidence?”

  “Dylan Snow? Leanne’s husband.” Picking her way slowly down the steepest part of the hill, Mag fell to silent contemplation while Clara continued to read.

  Three-quarters of the success of a good spell came down to the witch’s ability to visualize the outcome in meticulous detail. Mag tapped into that skill now.

  In her mind’s eye, she cast images of the key players against a blank wall. Marsha, Leanne, Dylan, Perry, and Blossom ranged in a loose circle around the edges. After another moment’s thought, she added a hazy silhouette in the center with a question mark for a face.

  Like a game of connect-the-dots, she drew a green line between Marsha and every other person on the board except for Blossom, who got a red line until the connection between the two women could be established. For all Mag knew they’d never met.