Magic, Mayhem and Murder

by January Bain

  “You know, the saskatoon bushes are ripe. Anybody want to go picking later?” I asked, pretty much knowing the answer.

  Star groaned the loudest. “I hate mosquitoes. This year they’re as big as dragonflies, I swear.”

  “Two words. Bug spray.”

  “Yuck. I hate that stuff. I’ll smell like a chemical factory.”

  “Better than smelling like a homeless person with no access to soap, which is what we’ll be if we don’t step up our game and bring in more income.”

  “We do all right.” Star got that mulish look. “We’ve paid our own way. And I was hoping that maybe I could take a little loan and head to—”

  “Absolutely not! Every red cent goes into this café to keep it on a sound footing. Maybe one day we’ll even be able to franchise it, have a string of cafés all across Canada.”

  “That’s your dream, Charm, not mine.”

  Tulips looked up from working on her blog. “I have one word for you both for making a lot more money—edibles. We could learn how to add marijuana to our muffins, brownies, slices and cookies. And sell them for three times as much. We should perfect the process now, before the October seventeenth deadline and the law makes it legal. We could beat everyone else to the game. Advertise online. If I mention them on my blog, it’ll bring in tons more traffic. In a year we’d all be filthy rich. I’ve been researching how to make cannabutter, proper dosages—everything. Even ganja-bread houses for Christmas. Just say the word and I’ll start the experiments rolling. They’d fly off the shelves like hotcakes.”

  “Don’t you mean fly off the shelves like potcakes!” Star quipped.

  “No! Absolutely not!” I was equal parts horrified and stunned.

  “Charm, Mrs. Hurst is on the phone again,” Tulip said, trying to get my attention.

  I hadn’t even heard it ring in my shock at her suggestion. Had she forgotten our family history? What hard drugs had done to our parents? And wasn’t marijuana a gateway drug? I had no idea, but I wasn’t taking chances with my family, even if it did look like a harmless leaf. Belladonna also looked harmless, but it most certainly was not. Beauty aid or agonizing death. Go figure taking a chance with it. I was up on those things, my love for reading Agatha Christie mysteries my favorite pastime in the precious hour before sleep.

  My fingers trembling, I took the old-fashioned phone from Tulip. There was no point in relying on cell phone service in Snowy Lake. Half the time it didn’t work, so why pay for it? One less expense was a good thing.

  I cleared my throat before speaking. “Charm here. What can I do for you, Mrs. Hurst?”

  “I must see you right now! My pearls—left to me by my grandmother Doris on my mother’s side—they’ve gone missing. And I’ll just bet Suzanna’s the guilty one. Never trust a maid that smiles. Always trying to hide something.”

  “Suzanna wouldn’t do that.” I rubbed at the sudden pain in my neck, watching my mid-morning snack vanish. I still needed to bake my favorite muffins—lemon glazed. Who says muffins don’t require icing? The lady in question, however, only lived one block away from our café, which was part of the problem. What was that quote about familiarity breeding contempt? Make it double—no, triple—in Mrs. Hurst’s case. “Okay. Come right on down. I don’t want you blaming anyone else. I’m sure you just misplaced them.”

  “Well, we’ll see about that.”

  We most certainly will. My gift—tracking anything down—would sort it out. Now, if only my gift included giving a customer an automatic side order of niceness, we might have been getting somewhere.

  True to form, Mrs. Hurst was pounding on the front door not two minutes later. Even on our one day off, I couldn’t afford to ignore her needs. She was one of our best customers.

  “Is that apricot jam I smell?” she asked, bustling through the doorway, making the windchimes rattle with concern. I barely had the time to unlatch the screen door. No idea how she does that. Most times the tiny angel figurines sang out to announce a customer, not screamed their disapproval to the high heavens.

  She didn’t give me a chance to reply, but motored on. “Because if it is, I want to place my order right now for a dozen jars. No, just a minute, make that two dozen, if I get a proper discount.” She waggled her thick eyebrows at me to make her implication clear. I got it. Generous as she is nice. “I’m going to send some back with my niece who’s coming to visit tomorrow. She can dole them out to the rest of the family.”

  “Your niece Georgia?” I inquired, leading the way to the back corner and the small booth there, with its midnight-blue fabric canopy. We preferred to take turns doing readings in private. Tulip was the best at dream interpretation, Star at tarot and me at tracking down lost articles. Star, our resident glitter-mistress, had added one extra-large gold star over the opening, of course.

  Our patron was in fine form that morning. Her impeccable navy-blue shirtwaist dress kept her ample figure constrained and her starched crown of dyed-black curls was aligned in rigid rows. Her wolf-like gray eyes kind of spooked me, I admit. The woman was always looking for fault or something to pick at. She sat down and placed her hands palms-up on the small wooden table. She was rumored to be the wealthiest person in Snowy Lake, though she never had many customers in her store. Must be selling her antiques online. Used furniture would do better in Snowy Lake.

  “I’m in a hurry. Let’s get on with it.”

  “Just think about what it is you lost.”

  “I know what to do.”

  “Of course,” I murmured, ignoring her impatience. Taking a deep breath, I laid my hands atop hers. I took another deep breath, then released it, letting go of anything clutching at my mind.

  I closed my eyes and waited. Out of the darkness, an image appeared, unfocused at first then clearer as it coalesced into something recognizable. A thick strand of soft white pearls. Where are you?

  The image expanded outward and upward like a camera aperture opening, exposing a set of dresser drawers and a bit of beige carpeting. Cold chills crept up my forearms, adding a queer vibration. I shivered and pulled my hands away from hers with dread. Other vibrations were coming across the channel that had opened, unstoppable even though the connection had been severed. The sensation slammed into me with such force that I grasped the edge of the table to keep myself upright. This was new. Sure, I’d always gotten a few bad vibes off her—I think everyone did, according to gossip I tried to ignore—but nothing this intense.

  “They’ve fallen through a crack at the back of your dresser between the carpet and the wall.” My lips were stiffened by dread, the words coming out odd and squeakily.

  “You’re sure?” she asked, her tone skeptical, her beady eyes boring into mine.

  I worked at keeping calm, not wanting her to see the state I was in. She was like a feral cat chasing down her prey. I shivered. “As sure as I can be.”

  “You don’t mind waiting, then, until I check before paying you? That will buy you time to consider a proper mark-down for the jam.”

  I squirmed at her condescension, sweat tricking down my sides. Such a lovely old soul. But it did keep my mind off the unwanted experience.

  “No problem. Same deal as always.” I pretended nonchalance, uncertain of what had just occurred and praying it never happened again. A few negative vibes were one thing, but this had been something far more powerful. And scary.

  “And deliver the jam soon as it’s ready. Oh, on second thought, I’ll take a jar now.”

  I gave a curt nod. She got up and I dimly heard her ordering Star to bring her the jam. I stayed in the cocoon, chewing on my thumbnail. Was something bad going to happen? I’d never had a premonition of such magnitude. They were usually more along the lines of someone calling then the phone ringing a minute later, and it being them. This, whatever it was, had no sense of direction, just an overwhelming sense of foreboding. Okay. Shake it off. I had stuff to do.

  Chapter Three

  After grabbing a bunch of recycled wh
ite ice-cream pails with the handy wire handles from under a counter for the berries, I bolted out of the café’s front door. I stopped short then poked my head back inside. How can I have forgotten? It must have been the conversation about those darn edibles. I ignored the other, darker, part, one of my mottoes being, don’t think of something and it will go away. Eventually.

  “I’ll be back by dark. Lock this door. If we start selling on our one day off, we’ll never gain it back. And I expect everything perfect for Granny’s homecoming—you hear me! And don’t forget, we still need more peanut butter cookies and chocolate cream cupcakes for tomorrow’s ’Eh Neighbor Festival. Oh, I’m working the dunking booth from one till two, so you’ll have to do without me.”

  Why had I agreed to that? Now I’d be a drowned rat for the better part of the afternoon. For the sake of the town’s Christmas budget, that’s why. But least I didn’t have to kiss a mule like the postmistress did. She’d raised fifteen hundred dollars already, which was quite impressive for our small town. Dunking a McCall didn’t rate nearly as high.

  “Aye aye, Captain. And be careful, Montana Jones spotted a huge black bear when she was out picking yesterday.” Tulip’s easy-going grin was quickly followed by Star’s piercing stare. Though the pair were identical in appearance, they were nothing alike, personality-wise. And I was odd girl out, having been spawned from a separate egg—or universe, apparently. We don’t even look related. The twins were fair, tanned beautifully and had light blue eyes, while I was ebony-haired with violet eyes and naturally red lips. Granny Toogood liked to say I reminded her of Elizabeth Taylor and Snow White. Now if I just had seven little people to help…

  I didn’t catch Star’s mumbled words, which was probably for the best. I gave a quick look both ways down Main Street, admiring how everyone had gotten onboard this year with the new town council to give their storefronts old-world charm. Flower boxes, red cobbled pavestones, antique street lights with hanging plants, wrought-iron benches with silver plaques complementing the business that had donated them, and bright red barrels for trash gave the town a look I declared perfect.

  Swinging my pails, I headed for my rusted Cherokee jeep—AKA Thor—that I’d bartered off an old trapper last year. Once I’d thrown the pails in the back, I gunned the motor and headed for the edge of town, a few blocks away at the end of Main Street and Sixth Avenue. Snowy Lake was a compact town and had added only a few more residents over the past decade, and had lost about the same. I turned onto the narrow trail leading into the forest.

  I bounced along the rutted path, accompanied by the pail’s metal handles jingling merrily from the sway of the ride, the jeep’s worn-out suspension groaning and squeaking from the effort. The lack of a radio didn’t faze me. I let out a lusty chorus, thinking of my second favorite country and western singer next to my sister, the one and only Johnny Cash.

  “We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout. We’ve been talkin’ ’bout Jackson, ever since the fire went out. I’m goin’ to Jackson, I’m gonna mess around. Yeah, I’m goin’ to Jackson. Look out Jackson town.”

  Singing was one way to alert the black bears I was in their territory, though that didn’t mean I don’t carry my own brand of homemade pepper spray made from extra-hot chili pepper essence, concocted on the kitchen stove last winter.

  I pulled off to the side of the trail near my favorite picking area, switched off the ignition and jumped out of the jeep.

  Ah, nature. A bald eagle flying overhead suited my mood to a T. He wheeled majestically against the soft blues of the mid-summer sky, his white crown proof of his continued reign. Tucking my pant legs into my boots—I really hated blood-sucking ticks—I sprayed myself with bug repellent and strode over to the first saskatoon bush. The dry grass rustled with my movements, and I sneezed loudly from the assault on my olfactory nerves. Three loud sneezes. My nose was going to be red as a beet. Taking a second to swipe at it with a tissue, I pulled my high ponytail tighter at the base and surveyed this year’s crop that I’d been keeping an eye on for weeks. Aha, beat the bears to them this year.

  Making sure the pepper spray was latched onto my belt, I got down to the sticky business of removing the plentiful bounty. I kept up the singing to alert the wildlife—it was better than an airhorn—changing from Jackson to Sunday Morning Coming Down by Kris Kristofferson. Though Star would have had a field day with some of the drug-reference lyrics, I loved the lonely old tune by the poet bard.

  “Cause there’s something in a Sunday, makes a body feel alone. And there’s nothin’ short of dyin’, half as lonesome as the sound. On the sleepin’ city sidewalks, and Sunday mornin’ comin’ down.”

  Less than two hours to fill four pails. Unbelievable. I’d have gallons of the tart deep-purple berries by day’s end. This year’s harvest turned into our best-selling brand of jelly would bring in a sweet chunk of cash. I lugged each pail back to the jeep as I filled them, not wanting to accidently knock them over and spill their precious contents into the dirt.

  There came a loud snapping of branches. Darn it, unwanted company. My fingers grasped at the aerosol spray bottle at my waist. I waited for another sound to alert me to the direction of the intruder. The sun in my eyes, I squinted to survey the landscape, swiveling my head back and forth.

  There.

  I caught the movement of a humongous upright creature headed straight for me, plowing through the thick undergrowth and overhead canopy as though he had just one intention—to do me harm. I didn’t care if it were a huge black bear or the legendary Bigfoot. Either way, I’d strike first, with the sharp knife hidden in my boot if it came to that. I sprayed the noxious substance from the hip, directing the wide stream from my belt holster.

  A loud grunt of surprise sounded. “Aww, why did you do that?” More moans of human agony followed.

  Oops.

  Out of the bushes stumbled a very large man—not Bigfoot, but darn close. Dressed in a black windbreaker, black jeans and extra-large combat boots, he wore a very nice black Stetson, accompanied by a full-on grimace. And oh my, when he pinned me with a look from his haunting brown eyes under that spectacular bad-boy hat, my insides somersaulted. Wow.

  “Oh, my goodness! I’m so sorry! Thought you were a black bear. If I’d known you were—well, you, I’d never have sprayed.”

  The tall hunk of a man was too busy flushing his face with a water bottle to give me an answer. I waited, chewing on my lower lip and wishing I could just sink into the ground. But who rumbled through the bushes in such an obvious way? A bear, that was who. A land predator unafraid of humans and wanting to take a bite right out of me.

  “Ma’am, I was coming to warn you. There’s been a bear sighted not far from here. I heard you caterwauling and thought you might be in trouble. Didn’t expect to be pepper sprayed for my trouble.”

  I looked around warily. Maybe it was time to head back to town and bring a group of people to pick berries another day when I could assign someone to keep a lookout. I had filled four buckets. Not too shabby.

  Wait.

  What did he just say?

  “I do not caterwaul. I was singing. And it sure beats crashing through the bush like Bigfoot.”

  “If you say so, darlin’.” Was that a twinkle in his eyes? The rest of his handsome mug remained inscrutable, launching another fussy crop of butterflies into my body, looking to land. He came closer and the acrid stench of the protection spray on his clothes made my eyes water in sympathy. Oh, my.

  He caught my grimace. “Not so pleasant an odor to be around, I agree. I’m Constable Ace Collins, by the way.”

  “As in RCMP?” My voice came out in a high-pitched squeal. Darn it. Of all the people to mace, how did I manage a lawman? He must have been new to town or I would have heard about him by now. News traveled faster than the speed of light here. Not bad, considering light traveled at 299,792,458 meters per second and took eight minutes and seventeen seconds to reach us from the sun. I did love odd facts. />
  “I apologize.” I gave him my best I’m-so-sorry face. “But with you thundering through the bush, I really thought you were a bear. Heck, you’re big enough to be one.”

  “And you are?” Nary a hint of a smile on that stern face. I’d bet he had all the perps ready to surrender. One look at those extra-wide muscular shoulders and granite jaw and they’d give up.

  “Charm McCall. My sisters and I run the Tea & Tarot café on Main Street.”

  “Well, Charm McCall, I think we’d best get a move on. There’s the bear now.” He pointed at an advancing lumbering shape, just visible out of the corners of my eyes.

  “Oh, shoot!” Survival mode clicked in. Run. Never play dead with a black bear—they think you’ve decided to become a high-protein snack. I made the jump into the jeep in record time. An explosion of activity on my right proved the lawman had similar quick wits. I fired the motor, slamming the vehicle into gear.

  “Hang on!”

  We bounced along at breakneck speed for a couple of insane minutes before hitting the main road back to town. I eased up on the gas petal and glanced over at my passenger. He looked a tad pale.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, sure.” He prised his fingers off the dash and straightened his hat which had slipped forward. “You always drive like that?”

  “Nah. Only when a bear wants a chunk of my hiney.” I glanced over at him and caught him checking me out. He looked to be in his mid-to-late twenties. Yup. Perfect.