Collards & Cauldrons

by Bella Falls

  I knocked on the door and waited for an answer. Impatient, I stuck my ear to the wood and listened to see if she was there. A muffled voice that sounded like her spoke out loud, but the male voice that replied surprised me. Abigail’s raised tone suggested they were arguing, but I couldn’t make out specific words while eavesdropping.

  Concerned and curious, I pounded on the door again. “Abs, are you okay?”

  The voices on the other side stopped. After a second, my cousin called out, “Hold on a minute, please.” She unlocked the door and opened it a sliver to look out. “Oh, Charli. It’s you.”

  “Do you have a guy in there? I didn’t know you had a boyfriend or significant other.” I attempted to look past her, but she pulled the door tighter to her to keep me from seeing.

  “No, it’s just me. You must have heard the television,” she explained, biting her lip.

  “I guess that makes sense.” My gut screamed nothing about what she was saying made sense. “And that you’re okay.” The terrified reflection in her eye warned me she was far from okay.

  “I’m fine,” Abigail lied, swallowing hard. “Is there something you wanted?”

  Remembering my task, I chose to ignore my gut since I needed her help. “Some of the Charleston witches have arrived to set up a big potluck dinner for all of us stuck here in the hotel. You said your magic would work better if you had access to the person who wanted the ring. Priscilla’s daughter Peyton will be the strongest candidate.”

  My cousin’s face dropped. “And you want me to try to find the ring again. Even after my failure today.”

  I reached out to reassure her, but she pulled back, hiding behind the cracked opening of the door. “Fail isn’t the right word. You tried and it didn’t work…that time. Failure is what happens when you don’t try again. And I need you to try again tonight.”

  Abigail squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “Listen, it’s the best opportunity we’re going to get to find that ring. If we don’t grab it now, then the chances of saving my grandmother will drop drastically as the wardens will definitely make a decision soon,” I explained, failing to keep the desperation out of my tone.

  “Charli,” Abigail protested.

  “You don’t know me or my background. In my family, we’re not too proud to ask for help. In this situation, I’m definitely not too proud to beg for it. If you want me to get down on my knees and plead with you, I will. But I’m not leaving until you agree to help me,” I stated, planting my right foot in the crack of her door so she couldn’t slam it shut.

  She took way longer than I thought she might to ponder my entreaty, and I considered how much it might actually hurt to get down on the floor to beg. With a resigned sigh, she nodded. “Fine. Just give me a second.” Abigail tried to close the door, but my foot prevented her.

  “I don’t want you changing your mind and locking me out,” I declared.

  Her thin mouth turned up in a side grin. “You’re really stubborn, you know that?”

  I crossed my arms in satisfaction. “Another trait I got from my family.”

  Her smile faded at the word family, and I added her reaction to my growing list of concerns about the Wilsons. True to her word, she got ready quickly and joined me to go downstairs.

  Instead of chairs laid out like we had for the first panel of the conference, the hotel staff had set up rows of tables. A few volunteers unstacked chairs from the sides of the room and distributed them around the tables. I spotted my little group from Honeysuckle helping out and engaging others in conversation. Without talking to them, I scanned the room for Peyton, but only recognized a few of the faces from yesterday. No signs of Priscilla’s daughter.

  A lady from behind us asked Abigail for help setting out the homemade baked goods on a nearby table. My cousin shrugged at me and obliged the request, leaving me alone in the middle of the room.

  “Stand there long enough, you’ll sprout roots and leaves,” a familiar voice teased. Molly, the brownie who’d spoken to me on the roof, waited for me to move out of her way while she struggled under the weight of carrying a tray full of shiny serving utensils.

  “Let me help,” I offered.

  “I’ve got it,” the brownie insisted. “Besides, my sister would have my head if I let anyone touch these. They’re Legare and Ravenel silver.”

  My heart quickened. I’d forgotten Molly’s sister worked for Priscilla’s family. If anyone had access to useful information, it would be the one who possessed intimate knowledge of the inner workings of the family.

  I followed Molly to where she put down the tray. “I’m sure the hotel has lots of serving spoons and such. Why would anyone want to use their family’s silver?”

  The brownie huffed. “Because Peyton wanted to use the good stuff to show respect to all of you stuck in the hotel. And my sister would do anything for the darling daughter.”

  “Why?” I asked, tempted to dip one of the large serving ladles into a nearby steaming pot of she-crab soup.

  Molly led me away from the tables and into a quiet corridor the hotel staff used. “You see, Meg’s taken care of Peyton all her life. My sister treats her as if she had birthed her herself. Gave up her entire life to tend to someone who wasn’t her own blood or even kind. We brownies like to stay near our families, so I tried to work in the house, too. But the way that awful woman treated those who worked for her sickened me. Meg’s insistence on staying only made things worse. I took a job here at the hotel just to stay close to my sister.”

  I started to ask another question, but a light voice called out for Molly. “There you are. Peyton will be arriving soon, and I want everything set up just perfect for her.”

  Another brownie less than an inch shorter but with a face full of more wrinkles and worry than Molly approached. She glanced between the two of us and frowned.

  I put on my best friendly demeanor. “You must be Meg. My name is Charli, and—”

  “I know who you are, miss,” the brownie cut me off. “If you would stop distracting my sister, we have much work to get done.”

  “Give her a chance to speak, Meg,” Molly insisted. “Now that the old hag is gone, surely your loyalties won’t keep you from helping.”

  Meg crossed her arms. “If she wants to talk to me about the family, then I have nothing to say to her.”

  I ignored her tactic to talk about me but not to me and took a cautious step closer. “Please. Right now, the only suspect the wardens are considering is my grandmother, and I know she didn’t do it. If you have any information at all, like if there was anything you witnessed that might point us in a direction of someone else who had reason to want Priscilla gone, please share it.”

  The shorter brownie stood firm. “I will not be betraying the family.”

  “But they’re not your family.” Molly tugged on her sister’s arm. “I will never understand why you stayed or why you are choosing to remain with them even now. Whatever that woman had over you to keep you in her service, she’s gone. Surely, Peyton would let you go if you asked. She’s nothing like that old monster was.”

  Meg’s face softened. “No, Peyton is nothing like her mother.” A strong emotion flashed in her eyes for a moment and then disappeared. “I will not divulge any family business. But I can tell you that there are other witches who would have good reason to want harm to come to my mistress’s mother.”

  With time running out, I would take any crumb of information I could. “Can you provide names of any that might be here tonight?”

  Meg’s lips clammed up tight, but Molly whispered something in her ear. Softened by her sister’s words, the older of the two sisters sighed. “Many of the witches were willing to send food either homemade or ordered from our local restaurants. But not as many were willing to come in person. The one who you should look for is named Frances Whitcomb.”

  “What can you tell me about the issues between Priscilla and her?” I pushed.

 
; “That is for you to find out now that you have her name. I need to continue helping so that everything will be ready for Peyton.” She turned to walk away and stopped. “I am sorry your family got caught up in all of this. I hope you will be able to untangle her from the web in the end.”

  Meg left before I could ask her anything else. Molly watched her sister walk away with deep sadness in her eyes. “I will never understand her choices. But as always, I will support her in any way I can. Good luck, Charli.”

  I stood in the empty corridor, wishing there were a way for me to convince Meg to give me more. Then again, I understood better than anybody what a person would do out of loyalty to family. Because of my own love for Nana, I had to let the brownie go for now and chase down the witch named Frances.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mason found me when I entered the hall with the dinner preparations in full swing. “Where were you?”

  I told him about my conversation with the two brownies and asked if he had any ideas about finding Frances. He surveyed the activity buzzing around us.

  I tried to stop him when he picked up a tinfoil covered platter. He approached another person walking by and spoke to them, pointing at the stolen food he was holding. When they finished talking, he waited for a beat and set the tray back down.

  “Come on.” Grabbing my hand, he dragged me out another door that led outside.

  We spotted the behind of a woman wiggling as she rummaged through the backseats of an expensive car. When she extracted herself and stood up, I found myself staring at Frances Whitcomb, the woman who had helped moderate the first panel and one of the top names from the list.

  “Oh, good. I’m glad they sent help. I’ve got several containers full of food in the back of my car to bring in and only my two hands.” She smiled in relief.

  Mason approached with purpose. “We’d be glad to assist you.” He flashed me a knowing glance.

  Frances stuck her head back in the car. “So, where are y’all from?” she tittered from inside.

  Mason shot an uncertain look at me, and I fought to come up with a quick lie. “Um, we both live in Cricket Creek. About a two-and-a-half hours drive northwest from here.”

  “I’ll bet you’re tired of being cooped up in here. But from what I hear, things should be over real soon and y’all can head on home,” she revealed.

  A rustling behind us caught my attention, and I found a warden sitting next to the side entrance in a chair, munching on a brownie he must have snagged from inside and reading his phone. Mason and I tried not to be noticed while we waited for Frances.

  She pulled out a large roasting pan and handed it to Mason. “I didn’t cook all of this, in case you’re wondering. Some of the ladies were willing to contribute but didn’t want to return to the hotel until they arrest the person responsible for Prissy’s death.”

  My fingers curled into fists, and Mason bumped me with his hip to keep me steady. I took the next aluminum foil-covered pan from her and resisted the urge to dump the hot contents down the entire front of her dress.

  “The word is,” she kept going, pulling out a smaller dish and setting it on top of the one I held, “that they think they already have the murderer here.”

  “Really?” I glared at her, gritting my teeth to stop myself from saying more.

  Frances straightened all of a sudden. “Oh my goodness, what if that person ends up in that room, eating our food? Is it legal to feed a murderer?” She bent down to sort through the other dishes.

  “I don’t know, have you fed yourself today?” I mumbled.

  “Shh,” Mason hissed beside me.

  Frances pulled herself out of her car. “What was that?”

  Plastering on a smile, I amped up my Southern accent. “I was just conversin’ with my friend here about the rumors that have been going around. I heard that the lady who died deserved it. That a lot of people didn’t like her.”

  She balanced two smaller dishes, one in each hand, and closed the car door with her foot. “That’s a terrible thing to say,” she scolded. We headed back inside, and once we got into the hall, Frances slowed down. “Although, truth be told, I think our entire witch community will be better off without Prissy.”

  “Why’s that?” pushed Mason. “Here, stack that second dish on top of mine so you don’t have to carry as much.”

  “Thank you, sugar.” Frances beamed at the detective. Looking around her, she leaned in and whispered loud enough for us to hear, “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but she had a pretty nasty side to her underneath her veneer of perfection. She always got what she wanted, no matter who her heels had to step on to get it.”

  “Hmm.” It took hardly any prompting to keep her talking.

  “Like, I didn’t want to do anything for the conference other than volunteer behind the scenes,” she admitted as if the job had been strenuous. “But Prissy asked me to moderate that first panel for her. And refusing was out of the question because…oh, look at me, prattling on. Let’s set these down and go back for more.”

  On our second round, once we were out of earshot of the others, Frances continued to tell us other of Priscilla’s transgressions. Since she no longer had the woman’s proverbial stiletto heel on her back, her newfound freedom loosened her wagging tongue.

  While she pulled out the last dishes from her car, I found a break in the conversation to turn things around and shine the light back on her. “It sounds as if you could understand that someone who had a considerable reason to hate Priscilla could be her killer. If you had to guess, who would you say did it?”

  Frances stopped digging around in her car and stood straight. Her face sobered. “I wouldn’t presume to guess. You can take those dishes inside now.”

  I took a step forward, closing her in against her own vehicle. “Come on, surely there’s been talk. Who does everyone think is the murderer?”

  “I-if you believe what they’re saying, then it’s the lady who was on the panel with Prissy. The one from Honeysuckle Hollow,” she stammered. Her eyes darted over to where the warden had been sitting and found the seat empty.

  “Why? What grudge did she hold against Priscilla that would spur her to kill?” I handed off the dish in my hand to Mason. “Her only issue was when Priscilla’s brother overstepped his reach from your town’s witches’ council and tried to take over her town. But that was all settled and done with.”

  In my frustration, a little power erupted to life in me, and sparks flowed down my arms and danced on the tips of my fingers.

  “Charli,” Mason warned.

  “You’re not from Cricket Creek, are you?” Frances squeaked.

  “No,” I stated. “And you had more reason than most to hate Priscilla Ravenel Legare, didn’t you, Ms. Whitcomb? And now that she’s gone, so is her treatment of you, right?”

  Her eyes widened until the whites of them almost swallowed the rest. “Fine. Yes, I hated her. Please don’t hex me,” she pleaded.

  Realizing how far I’d gone, I breathed in a cleansing breath and released my anger. The sparks faded and I held up my hands to show her my good intentions.

  “I wouldn’t have done anything.” I tried to believe myself so she wouldn’t hear a lie. “But I think you need to admit the truth. That you had more than enough reasons to hate Priscilla, including a fight you had with her a couple of months ago at an event here at the Hyperion Hall.”

  Frances’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know that?”

  I cringed at my mistake, and Mason continued the conversation. “What happened to cause the argument?”

  The woman slouched against the side of her car in defeat. “She found out I’d been supporting the other side, talking to those who were looking for ways to change how things ran with us here in Charleston a while back. She threatened to ostracize me in every way possible.”

  “Why didn’t you just leave Charleston?” I asked. “That seems like a simple solution if you didn’t like her leadership.”

  “B
ecause my family has been here for generations. My husband’s family goes back to the city’s founding. I want my children to live here.” Frances sniffed. “My pride kept me from walking away. That night of the event a couple of months ago, I attempted to back her off of her threats by making one of my own.”

  I lifted my eyebrow. “You tried to play her at her own game. Using what ammunition?”

  Frances shook her head and pursed her lips. “I think I’m done talking. I don’t know how you knew about our argument, but now that Prissy’s dead, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  With one last effort to get her to understand, I attempted to appeal to her sympathies. “Ms. Whitcomb, you said you didn’t like how Priscilla ran things or how she treated people. Well, the person they’re trying to pin her murder on is the absolute opposite. She stays our leader because she protects her people, not because she tries to stay on top by destroying them.”

  The hardened expression on her face morphed to one of regret. “Then whoever she leads is very lucky to have her.”

  “Well, we won’t for much longer unless the real killer is found.” Unable to stop myself, I pushed harder. “Frances, I’ve heard from more than one source you had ample reasons to do it.”

  The woman’s eyes widened in fear. “But I didn’t. I swear it. Sure, I wanted someone to finally stand up to the old witch and take over. But I could never take another person’s life. Whoever is saying otherwise is lying.”

  “Or you are.” I watched her face to catch her reaction to my bold accusation.

  She tilted her head to regard someone behind us, and Mason and I spotted the warden returning to his seat with a plate full of food. Frances cleared her throat. “Unless you have proof to have him come over here and arrest me, I suggest you go back inside.”

  I held up my hands in surrender to keep her from involving the warden. “Then consider this. Whoever did commit the murder is willing to let an innocent woman take the blame. That person, even if they killed for a good reason, would be no better than Priscilla in the long run, willing to sacrifice someone else’s life for their own gain.”