May Day Murder

by Jennifer David Hesse

  As soon as I reached the relative privacy of the maple grove, I allowed myself to interrupt. “Mrs. Hammerlin! Wait a minute. Just think about what you’re saying. I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation—”

  She cut me off, leaving me to pinch the bridge of my nose. I took a slow breath in and out and tried again. “Okay,” I finally said. “You’re right. I agree. We don’t know for sure what happens to our spirits after we die. But, really, it’s highly unlikely that the noises you’re hearing—”

  “Keli?” I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see a tall man in an old-fashioned tuxedo and flowing black cape. He had slicked, coal-black hair and a matching trim beard. Most striking, though, was the glowing white powder, which rendered his normally pale face even more anemic. Not to mention the two pointy false teeth protruding from his blood-red lips.

  In spite of the Dracula getup, there was no mistaking the impatient scowl. It was my fellow junior partner, Crenshaw Davenport III, Esquire.

  I nodded and rushed to end the call with my client. “I have to run now, Mrs. Hammerlin, but I promise I’ll stop by later this evening. Okay? Okay. Good-bye.”

  I sighed loudly as I stuffed my phone into my purse.

  “I trust everything is under control?” said Crenshaw around his plastic canines. “You gave me quite a start. When I saw you leave your post, I was afraid you were going to abandon your ticket-selling duties.”

  “I wouldn’t do that. I just had to take this call. This client is driving me crazy. We closed on her new house last week, and she’s called me every day since—several times each day.”

  “Ah. Buyer’s remorse?”

  “I don’t know. It’s the weirdest thing. She insists the house is haunted, and she wants to go after the seller for failure to disclose.”

  Crenshaw raised his eyebrows. “You do attract the most interesting people, don’t you? But there’s no time for that now. Doors will open soon, and those tickets won’t sell themselves.”

  “Fine,” I grumbled. “Though I still can’t believe we have to do this. I have better things to do with my Friday night.”

  He ignored my complaint and gave me a nudge. We’d already been through this earlier in the evening, when he’d met me in the parking lot near the ball field. He must have been watching, waiting for me to pull in, because he pounced the moment I opened my car door.

  “At last!” he’d said.

  “What’s the rush?” I asked, checking my watch. “I’m not late.”

  “People are already starting to arrive, and we need to get changed. Come on.”

  “Changed? What are you talking about?” I stepped out of the car and stared at his hair. It was different from how it had appeared at the office earlier in the day.

  “Here.” He thrust a garment bag into my arms and tossed another over his arm. “I brought our costumes, so we can arrive at the barn in character.”

  “Costume? What costume? I’m not wearing a costume.”

  He glared at me under heavy dark eyebrows that were normally ginger-colored. “Of course you are. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Ridiculous? A grown man who dyed his hair for a silly haunted house gig is calling me ridiculous?

  “Come along now,” he said.

  I shook my head and dug in my heels. “I’m only selling tickets at this thing. I don’t need to be in costume.”

  Crenshaw looked down his nose. “You do understand the concept of a haunted house, do you not?”

  “I do. But I’m not going to be in the haunted house.” I had to trot to keep up with him as he led the way toward the restrooms. I realized it was futile to keep arguing. As an amateur actor involved in the local theater scene, Crenshaw fancied himself a true thespian. He loved playing dress-up.

  I unzipped the garment bag as we walked. “What is it anyway?” I asked, trying to look inside. “Please tell me I’m not the Bride of Frankenstein.”

  “Where’s your Halloween spirit, Milanni? More to the point, where’s your community spirit? You know Beverly’s on a big push to raise the firm’s visibility. As partners, you and I have a vested interest in promoting—”

  “I know, I know. Hey, what is this? A witch costume?”

  “What’s wrong with a witch costume? It’s a classic Halloween character.”

  “Never mind. Here we are. Wait for me?” I dashed inside the ladies’ room without waiting for a response.

  Luckily, the facilities at Fieldstone Park were well-maintained. Still, I wasted no time in switching outfits. In spite of my protests, I didn’t want to disappoint our boss. As it turned out, the gauzy black dress with jagged trim and bell sleeves wasn’t too terrible. But the accessories were another story. I cringed as I pulled the bushy, Elvira-style wig over my own chestnut-colored hair. The artificial black mop made my face appear wan and washed out.

  Or, I realized as I peered into the mirror above the sink, maybe I just needed to get outside more. Now that I thought about it, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d sat outdoors in the sun. What kind of Wiccan was I? I’d been so busy at work; I had let the entire summer pass me by without a single trip to a lake or swimming pool. If I didn’t make a change soon, the last mild days of autumn would pass me by, too.

  I grabbed the garment bag, now containing my business suit, and joined Crenshaw, who had just emerged from the men’s room in full creature-of-the-night formal wear. I did my best not to laugh, but he looked none too happy. “Where’s the rest of your costume?” he demanded.

  “This is good enough.”

  “Well, at least put on the hat.” He gestured toward a pocket on the outside of the garment bag. “A witch isn’t a witch without a pointy hat.”

  Ha! I thought. Out loud, I muttered, “Shows how much you know.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nothing,” I said, as I donned the pointy hat.

  The truth was, in all my years of being Wiccan, from the time I discovered and embraced the path at age sixteen to now, I had never been offended by the image of the Halloween witch. Some might disagree, but I didn’t view the stereotypical witch’s costume as demeaning to my religion—or even some kind of cultural misappropriation. How could it be, when the “wicked witch” archetype predated Wicca by hundreds of years? Besides, fictional witches came in all stripes. Considering all the pop-culture teenaged witches, not to mention the Harry Potter franchise, witches were as likely to be seen as cool rather than scary. After all, we could wield magic!

  Even so, I had to draw the line at the warty rubber nose and sickly green face paint. A girl was entitled to a smidgen of vanity.

  Now, as we left the maple grove and made our way back to the entrance of the barn, I was glad to see the business crowd had already gone inside. I took my place behind the cash register. Crenshaw paused at the counter. “Say, do you happen to have a mirror in your handbag? I’d like to check my stage makeup.”

  “Sure,” I said, reaching into my purse. “But it won’t do you much good, if you can’t see your reflection.”

  Crenshaw stared at me, evidently not getting the joke. I waved a compact mirror in front of his face as if to clue him in.

  While we bantered, a side door opened and a middle-aged man in a charcoal-gray suit came barreling out of the barn. I recognized him as Tadd Hemsley, a local business owner who advocated for small farmers. He was usually pleasant enough, but now his lips curled above his grizzled soul patch as he glared at his cell phone. I could relate to the sentiment. My own phone had buzzed in my handbag at least three times in the last five minutes.

  As Tadd passed us, he bumped into Crenshaw and glanced up. His frown turned into a smirk. “I always knew lawyers were bloodsuckers,” he drawled. “I guess this proves it.”

  Crenshaw flushed beneath his white makeup, and I suddenly felt sorry for him. That was a cheap shot, I thought. With a strange sense of almost-parental indignation, I stood taller, ready to defend my overeager colleague. But it was too late. Tadd Hemsle
y was already halfway down the sidewalk with his phone pressed tightly to his ear.

  I looked at Crenshaw and tugged lightly on his cape. “Still want the mirror?”

  “Never mind that. I need to join the monsters inside.” He straightened his stiff high collar, then disappeared behind the ragged strips of black cloth that blocked the main entry to the “haunted barn.”

  I shook my head as I peeked at my own reflection, then tossed the mirror back into my purse. While I appreciated the fun factor, Crenshaw was right that my spirit was lacking tonight. Halloween was usually one of my favorite holidays, especially since it coincided with Samhain, one of Wicca’s most important festivals. I was probably just too tired to be in the mood tonight. I still had a week before the big day. I’d find the spirit before then.

  As I unlocked the cash register, I became aware of a man loitering near the picnic tables. He appeared to be alone, some distance apart from the group of teens clustered a few feet away. He caught me eyeing him and ambled up to the counter.

  “Open for business?”

  “Uh, sure.” I glanced at my watch. “Doors will open to the public in about five minutes.”

  “I’ll take one ticket,” he said.

  I took his cash and handed over a ticket. He accepted it but didn’t leave right away. He seemed to be studying me, which made me slightly uncomfortable. He had a friendly enough face and wasn’t bad-looking—with his blue-gray eyes and smattering of freckles, he reminded me of my mother’s Irish cousins—but wasn’t it odd for a fortysomething-year-old man to hang out at a place meant for kids?

  Perhaps he read my mind. He cleared his throat and looked away. “I haven’t been to one of these things in ages. Guess I’m feeling a little nostalgic.” He flashed me a small grin. “Is it very scary?”

  “Oh, I’m sure it’s a fright fest in there.” I smiled. “You’ll be fine.”

  A small line had formed behind him, so he finally stepped aside. I sold tickets to several teenagers and a number of giggling tweens, then looked up in surprise at the last two people in line—a bubbly blonde with a large smile and a sharply dressed man with a glint of amusement in his warm brown eyes. If I didn’t know better, I might have mistaken them for a couple.

  “Hey, you two.” I looked from my best friend, Farrah Anderson, to my colleague, Randall Sykes. Although Farrah was a lawyer, too, she had left the traditional career path to become a legal software salesperson, which perfectly suited her outgoing personality. Randall, on the other hand, was cool and laid back with a wry sense of humor. Catching a glimpse of Randall’s single gold earring, it occurred to me that he and Farrah might not be a bad match after all. “What are you guys doing here?”

  “Oh, my God,” said Farrah, lifting the ends of my black wig. “This . . . is . . . awesome.”

  Randall chuckled. “Your friend stopped by the office just as I was heading over here. How is everything?”

  “Peachy,” I said drily. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be right now.”

  Farrah whipped out her cell phone and snapped a picture of me. She probably had several shots before I realized what she was doing and held up my palm. She laughed. “What’s the matter? You make a perfectly lovely witch. There’s something so, I don’t know, natural about seeing you this way.”

  I wrinkled my nose at her. Farrah loved that I was Wiccan and that she was privy to my secret. While I trusted her like a sister, I sometimes feared that, with her overabundant enthusiasm, she might inadvertently spill the beans. Given how judgmental some people could be about unconventional lifestyles and lesser-known religions, I felt I had to be discreet to protect my job. Not that I thought Randall would care, but he wouldn’t be above some good-natured teasing. And that wasn’t the kind of attention I wanted at work. Heck, even my family back in Nebraska didn’t know I was Wiccan.

  Luckily, at that moment a skeletal arm beckoned the group inside, and I was left alone with my thoughts. I exhaled softly as I gazed across the empty ball field at a line of trees in the distance, the shadowy branches swishing in the breeze. It was a quiet evening. The low rumble of ghostly sound effects emanating from the barn, punctuated by the occasional bloodcurdling shriek, made for an eerie backdrop. My mind flickered briefly to Mrs. Hammerlin and the strange noises she’d been hearing in her new home. I was sure they’d turn out to be as innocent as the ones within the barn.

  Thinking of Mrs. Hammerlin, I reached for my phone to check my messages. Sure enough, I had missed another call from the anxious woman. The other missed calls were from my office and from my boyfriend, Wes. I felt a twinge of guilt for not checking in with Wes sooner, but he knew I was working tonight. I shot off a quick text to let him know where I was. I would have added that I planned to stop by Mrs. Hammerlin’s on my way home, but I was distracted by another person coming up the sidewalk. She wore a colorful kaftan with matching head scarf and walked with short, deliberate steps. For a moment, I wondered if she was another volunteer.

  “Keli Milanni?”

  “Yes?”

  “I was told you would be here. I recognize you from your photograph.” She spoke with a Caribbean accent and gazed at me with earnest ebony eyes. “I must speak with you. Please. It is urgent.”

  I glanced around the empty barnyard. Who told her I’d be here? And where did she see my photograph?

  “What can I do for you, Ms. . . . ?”

  “My name is Fredeline Paul. I need to speak with you about Josephine.”

  Josephine. Ms. Paul didn’t provide a surname, but she didn’t have to. There was only one Josephine she could mean: Josephine O’Malley—Josie, to her old friends, Aunt Josephine to me. The name brought up a rush of conflicting feelings: affection, curiosity, exasperation. Coating it all was a sense of frustration. Aunt Josephine was a mystery. I had never met her, yet I felt like I knew her—or at least a part of her. At one time, I’d even thought I might take after her. But, for some reason, she never let me find out.

  “What about her?” I asked.

  “She is missing.”

  Photo by Jay Grabiec

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  JENNIFER DAVID HESSE is an environmental attorney by day and author by night. Born and raised in Central Illinois, Jennifer now makes her home in Chicago with her husband, guitarist Scott Hesse, and their daughter, Sage. When she’s not writing, Jennifer enjoys yoga, hiking, and movie night with her family. Please visit her at www.JenniferDavidHesse.comoronFacebookatfacebook.com/AuthorJenniferDavidHesse.

  MIDSUMMER’S NIGHT MISCHIEF

  As the Summer Solstice approaches in idyllic Edindale, Illinois, attorney Keli Milanni isn’t feeling the magic. She’s about to land in a cauldron of hot water at work. Good thing she has her private practice to fall back on—as a Wiccan. She’ll just have to summon her inner Goddess and set the world to rights . . .

  Midsummer Eve is meant for gratitude and celebration, but Keli is not in her typically upbeat mood. The family of a recently deceased client is blaming her for the loss of a Shakespearean heirloom worth millions, and Keli’s career may be on the line. With both a Renaissance Faire and a literary convention in town, Edindale is rife with suspicious characters, and the intrepid attorney decides to tap into her unique skills to crack the case . . .

  But Keli weaves a tangled web when her investigation brings her up close and personal with her suspects—including sexy Wes Callahan, her client’s grandson. The tattooed bartender could be the man she’s been looking for in more ways than one. As the sun sets on the mystical holiday, Keli will need just a touch of the divine to ferret out the real villain and return Edindale, and her heart, to a state of perfect harmony . . .

  BELL, BOOK & CANDLEMAS

  A new year has barely begun and Edindale, Illinois, family law attorney Keli Milanni already has her hands full at work. But her private practice—as a Wiccan—may cause her worlds to collide . . .

  The Wiccan holiday of Candlemas is right around the corner, but when vandals target the New Age
gift shop Moonstone Treasures, the mood is far from festive. Frightening threats and accusations of witchcraft aimed at the owner have some Wiccan patrons calling it a hate crime. And when things escalate to murder, the community turns to Keli . . .

  As a friend and customer, Keli wants to help.

  But there’s one problem: she’s fiercely private about her religion. How can she stop the harassment, not to mention catch a killer, while keeping her faith hidden from her colleagues, clients, and her promising—and long-awaited—new boyfriend? At a time meant to banish darkness, will Keli have to choose between risking the spotlight and keeping her beliefs locked in the proverbial broom closet?

  Or will she call on her deepest convictions to conjure the perfect path?

  YULETIDE HOMICIDE

  It’s Christmas in Edindale, Illinois,

  and family law attorney Keli Milanni is preparing

  to celebrate the Wiccan holiday Yuletide,

  a celebration of rebirth.

  But this Yuletide

  someone else is focused on dying . . .

  After years of practicing in secret, Keli has come out as a Wiccan to her boyfriend, and she feels like this Yuletide she’s the one who’s being reborn. But the Solstice is the longest night of the year, and Keli is about to stumble on a mystery so dangerous, she’ll be lucky to make it to morning.

  Paired with her unbearably stuffy colleague Crenshaw Davenport III, Keli goes undercover at a real estate company owned by mayoral candidate Edgar Harrison. An old friend of Keli’s boss, Harrison is being blackmailed, and it’s up to her to find the culprit. But the morning after the company holiday party, Harrison is found dead underneath the hotel Christmas tree. The police rule the death an accident, but Keli knows better—and she’ll risk her own rebirth to nab a missing killer.