The Innocent Dead: A Witch Cozy Mystery (The Maid, Mother, and Crone Paranormal Mystery Series Book 1)

by Jill Nojack

  But what had she really wanted from him? Not to die a maid, that was all. She was curious what all the fuss was about. She’d waited too long and time had run out on her romantic chances. By the time she’d realized that, Robert had simply been the last man standing, the only potential age-appropriate partner whose address wasn’t a pine box.

  It annoyed her to admit it, but Robert and Gillian were good together. They both had a happy glow about them these days, at a time in life when the glow usually went out. She should probably try to be more generous about it.

  Phfft. She’d prickle if she felt like it.

  Robert took his place at the council table while Gillian wended her way down the aisle between the tidy rows of metal folding chairs and took the empty seat to Natalie’s left. She wiggled her fingertips at Tom and Cassie who sat to Natalie’s right.

  The room was only about a quarter full. The townspeople of Giles tended to leave the governing to their elected officials unless there was something that piqued their individual self-interests or sounded like a hot topic for gossip. It didn’t appear there was anything like that on the agenda tonight.

  “I don’t see why we have to continue attending these meetings every week,” Natalie said. “I’m sure the council can manage without us.”

  Gillian tsked. “You know that Robert enjoys having us all here, his friends. Truthfully, I don’t think he’s going to run for reelection in the fall. It’s begun to drag on him. He just likes to see some friendly faces in the seats.”

  “Fine. Council meetings every Thursday, it is. I’ll wear my friendly face. Oh wait . . . I haven’t got one. I’ll just assume this one will be fine.” After a beat, she added. “How is that Gerald fellow doing?”

  Gillian’s eyebrows drew together, and she clasped her hands in her tie-dye skirted lap. “He’s gutted. I know his wife wasn’t a very nice woman, but he obviously doted on her. As it turns out, he and Robert met when Gerald was a teenager. Robert was quite a bit older, in his twenties at that point. But Gerald told me he had a very positive impression of Robert. My partner was apparently a skilled politician even then.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid he was. Which is why he and I stopped seeing eye to eye after a childhood spent roaming the woods together. It would never do for him to be seen spending time with my type.”

  “Really? The way he tells it, you were the one who pulled away from the friendship as the two of you got older.”

  “Yes, yes. Take his side, dear.”

  Cassie turned and leaned in toward them from her place next to Natalie and said, “Could you two stop fighting for five minutes? The meeting is starting. Robert is staring the two of you down and everyone can hear you.”

  Natalie’s eyes flew to the front of the room, where Robert was looking directly at them with that infuriatingly patient expression of his. How embarrassing.

  With a final, “think what you like” look at Gillian, Natalie settled in to listen to the council consider the insignificant tasks of governing the town in excruciating detail. As the first order of business, the council took a moment to review the sad passing of its new publicist, Caroline Akers. There were quiet acknowledgments, but no wet eyes. It had become clear to Natalie through her investigation that Caroline was not the kind of woman who would inspire a sense of loss in anyone but her husband. Out of respect, the discussion of the town’s tourist trade was tabled for another day.

  The council moved on to its general agenda. Budgets. Easements. Noise complaints. All very stirring stuff, Natalie thought. She didn’t bother to stifle her yawn.

  She closed her eyes and considered taking a nap until Gillian’s elbow rammed into her ribs. Muttering under her breath, she opened her eyes and tuned back in to the discussion at the front of the room.

  The council had taken bids over the past two months to repair the statue of Giles Corey that had been damaged during the “freak high winds” that had occurred during the “live entertainment” at the town’s last Witching Faire. Natalie had been there when the council had discussed the damage to the statue at length, and now they discussed it again. The damage was described again in detail for some of the councilors who had not been present at the original meeting, and Robert explained in a way that most of them would understand—not as art but as a legal issue; the town would be liable if the damage progressed and someone was injured by a falling limb. The discussion would be much more interesting if he could add that the statue had been damaged by a demon goddess who had tried to suck the entire town into the afterlife because she was jealous that Cassie had taken her pet tomcat away.

  She looked over at Tom, who had been the cause of all the trouble. Natalie found him handsome, as any reasonable woman would, but she couldn’t imagine being so jealous over any man that she’d imprison him in the body of a cat for decades or try to destroy the world. Accidentally spill a cup of tea into her competitor’s lap, maybe, but rend the fabric of reality out of petty jealousy? Probably not.

  At least with the repairs now being attended to, Robert explained, the statue wouldn’t end up falling on some poor passerby and hand them the same fate that old Giles Corey had himself endured when he was pressed to death during the Salem witch trials. Natalie thought, not for the first time, that the town should have picked a better patron saint.

  The side door to the council hall clattered open and a tall, older man with a white, curly shock of hair that fell over one eye walked confidently to the front row of seats. He planted himself there, directly in the council’s view.

  Natalie almost didn’t catch Cassie’s whisper to Tom. “That’s Lou Frank. The guy who did the painting.” Tom’s reaction was interesting. If he’d been attending the meeting as a cat, Kit’s tail would have been bushed out to maximum effect. She remembered Cassie saying something about an artist who had been flirting with her. She decided to keep an eye on Tom; this could get interesting.

  The most recent attendee spread his arms across the backs of the empty chairs beside him. He was the very model of a modern artist: all show. His legs were spread in that masculine way, saying, “I could run with the bulls at Pamplona,” and the sweep of curls at his forehead and the scarf he wrapped rakishly around his neck said, “and I would make even the bulls weep for the beauty of my artistry.” He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him.

  “And finally,” Robert announced, “we’ve finished reviewing the bids to repair the Corey statue, and . . .” Robert nodded his head apologetically to the man in the front row, “unfortunately, we received a lower bid from an arts restoration firm out of Boston. Lou, I know you were expecting the job, but we have to go with the lowest bid.”

  The man leaned forward, suddenly tense, all the pose gone out of him. “I’ll bid lower.”

  Robert replied, “I’m afraid the bidding is closed.” There were disappointed noises from the other council members, but no one disagreed.

  Natalie smirked when Tom said, loud enough for everyone near them to hear, “Looks like someone is wishing he could go back in time and adjust his rates.”

  Even from the back, she could tell that Lou Frank had heard it too. There was an almost imperceptible shift in his posture. The gauntlet had been thrown down, and with his next words, he picked it up.

  “I’ll do it for free! I’ll contribute the materials and my work to the community for the sake of art.” He turned his head and smiled smugly back at Tom, appearing to know exactly where the comment had come from.

  Hmmmm . . . as far as Natalie knew, Tom and Cassie’s elderly suitor had never met, so how had he known to look at Tom? There were at least two other men scattered in the seats nearby who could have been the heckler.

  “It’s unusual,” said Robert, “but I think we can readjust our decision based on this offer. We can’t accept additional bids, but there’s nothing to stop us from canceling the offer since we haven’t contracted with the winning bidder yet.” He looked to the other members of the council. “All in favor?”


  There was a solid round of ayes.

  “All opposed?”

  The room was silent except for the sound of papers and feet shuffling restlessly.

  Robert got up and walked around the table. The man, Lou, rose to meet him, and the two shook hands.

  Natalie watched Lou’s eyes drift to Cassie. Was he really trying to impress her when her sexy, young husband was right there in the room? Some men just don’t know when to quit, Natalie thought.

  13

  Natalie sipped her tea mechanically, watching the spring rain bead on the display windows from the counter. The tea was the shop’s newest mix; it smelled and tasted strongly of cardamom and maple sugar, although Cassie had repeatedly sworn she hadn’t put in a single grain of the stuff. Natalie would normally have savored it as a treat, but this morning she barely knew she was drinking it. With every hint of movement in her peripheral vision, her head twitched, searching for a specter, but there was never anyone there.

  It had been two days already, and William still hadn’t shown up at home or at the shop. That wasn’t like him. He might be gone for good.

  She simply wasn’t having it. She looked at her watch. It would be a full hour before Gillian came in. She walked purposefully to the front door and reversed the sign from Open to Closed. Satisfied, she marauded through the shelves, picking up the items she required: lavender candles, toadstool, moonflower, and one of the larger incense burners. Once she had what she needed, she mixed a selection of herbs: gardenia, camphor, jasmine, myrrh, sandalwood, and willow at the counter.

  It was too light for her purposes in the shop despite the rain, so she poked her head into the small storeroom. Cinnamon’s table was still set up. It would be the perfect place. She lit the candles and pulled the door closed.

  The small pile of dried herbs at the bottom of the incense burner caught easily. As it burned, she fed in small pieces of the toadstool and moonflower as offerings to the dead. With her eyes closed, she could sense the spirit world around her open up. She focused and spoke softly, rhythmically, then reached around her own neck to undo the clasp of the silver necklace she had worn there for over fifty years. She opened the locket and there they were, the both of them in their separate frames, just as they had been when William had first given it to her.

  Had she ever been that young?

  She placed the locket in front of the candles and started talking, quietly, commandingly. “William Sanders, if you be this side of the veil, come take back your gift to me.”

  She waited, but nothing stirred. It should have worked. Calling a spirit is easiest when you have something that is personal to them, something charged with emotion.

  She picked the locket up and carefully opened the compartment behind his picture, where a lock of his hair was stored. Her heart ached—she’d carried this piece of him for so long. And still she did it. She separated half of the hair from the strand and pulled it away, then dropped it into the burning pile of herbs.

  “William Sanders, you must come to my call, for I remember you today with this small piece of the man you were.”

  And still, nothing.

  So he was gone. She’d barged into something that had never been her business, and it had ended up costing William his afterlife. And what good would it have done him if she had cleared his name? He’d be no less dead.

  She cleaned up the storeroom, blew out her candles, and went to the kitchenette. She made another pot of tea before she flipped the sign back to Open.

  As she sighed into her cup, steam rose into her eyes, joining the moisture that was already there. She blinked it away. And had to blink it away again.

  Enough. William should have gone on to the Summerlands when he’d still had the chance. If he had, none of this would have happened. She would have forgotten him years ago, she was sure of it, if she hadn’t known he was always there, waiting outside the boundary of the ward to come charging back to her if it ever failed.

  She straightened her shoulders and composed herself. No point dwelling on his absence now. He’d been dead for most of the time she’d known him.

  Of course, there was still the little matter of her not being any closer to solving the mystery. Her forehead crunched up at the thought—there, now she felt more like herself.

  So, where did her investigation stand? She reviewed her mental notes as she cleaned up the residue from her ritual. There was no suspect that seemed to have the means, motive, and opportunity.

  After talking to Marcus’s mother, with a little help from a harmless truthing potion she’d slipped unnoticed into the woman’s beer, she’d been sure that Marcus had been visiting her as he said he had when the original murder occurred. And just look at him, anyway—he was as ridiculous a suspect in a murder investigation as William had been. Some people were simply born with gentle souls—there was nothing that could be done about it.

  The only suspects left now were the husband and that handyman, Sean. It was difficult to see either of them as potential murderers; the husband was a milksop, and the handyman was an uncomplicated womanizer. She couldn’t picture either of them stalking anyone with a rope in hand.

  Maybe it had been accidentally done in a fit of passion and the killer had later moved the body and dressed the scene to copycat the old murders? Accidental strangulation, perhaps. A romantic game gone wrong.

  And romance pointed back to Sean. Why hadn’t Denton brought him in yet? What was he waiting for? She imagined him sitting there with his feet propped on his desk, head back and eyes closed, having an afternoon snooze, completely unconcerned that there had been a murder on his turf.

  Natalie already had her coat on when Gillian came through the front door.

  “I’m on an errand. Fend for yourself,” she said, brushing past on her way out, brandishing her umbrella, ready to enter into battle.

  ***

  “Denton, I deserve answers,” Natalie barked as she barged into his office, having already pushed past the young patrolman who had tried to bar her way while politely telling her to stop.

  The police chief sat taller in his seat and waved the officer out, saying, “Go ahead and close the door, Rogers.”

  Natalie stood to the side of the desk, declining the chair that he waved her to. “I’ll stand, thank you.”

  “Suit yourself,” he replied, picking up a mug. “Coffee?”

  “No. I don’t anticipate being here long. I’ve come to find out where you are in the investigation of my attack.”

  “We’re still following up some leads.” He leaned in and set his elbows on the desk, bringing his fingertips together in a fleshy steeple. “This is a complex investigation. Your insistence on opening the old files made us take a close look at the history of the case. Unfortunately, most of these old cases weren’t as well documented as they are today. There’s an indication that the murders had something else in common other than the use of a wet rope and the presence of the toys left at the scene. Unfortunately, it appears that whatever it was wasn’t written down, at least not in the official records. I’m hoping we can find something to fill in the blanks. We’ve found something interesting on the body, and I want to confirm a link to the previous killings.”

  “And what does that mean, exactly?”

  “I’m trying to get in contact with any of the officers who might have worked here at the time. As you can imagine, the older members of the force are no longer with us, and I’m having difficulty locating the two officers from that time period who might still be around.”

  “Which two?”

  “Bill Charcross and Jeffrey Ames.”

  “I can’t help you out with Jeffrey, but I know where Bill is.”

  He looked at her, waiting. When she looked at him in return, mute, he said, “Do we have to play these games? Ms. Taylor, I would appreciate any information you have about the location of Bill Charcross.”

  She didn’t change her expression.

  He looked like he was sucking a lemon when he added, “P
lease.”

  “Since you’ve asked so nicely, you can find him in the cemetery. Out by the shell of the Episcopal church that burned down in the nineties.”

  “I’d say that pretty much rules him out as a source of additional information.”

  Natalie smirked when she replied, “Not necessarily,” as she flipped the edge of her black-and-white fleur-de-lis silk scarf back over her shoulder. “Good day to you, Denton. It’s been educational.”

  ***

  Natalie wasn’t sure if the smell of spring coming through her open window as she drove was a positive or negative. On the one hand, the damp earth smelled of renewal as new growth pushed up through the mulch of last year’s bounty. On the other hand, all of the dead things that had been preserved by the snow had begun to decay in earnest. Sometimes, on the first warm day after a particularly bitter winter, Corey Woods smelled like a slaughter house.

  Fortunately, everything in the old Episcopalian cemetery had been dead for a long time. It smelled green. The graveyard had been mostly left to the vines, weeds, and the young trees after it had been closed to new burials. Some of the townspeople complained it had become an eyesore, but Natalie liked it that way—well, except when she was looking for a particular gravestone like she was today.

  “Gillian, just look over there,” she said irritably, waving her toward the back fence. If they didn’t find it soon, they’d have to search in the dark. “I know he was buried here, but I don’t know where. I may never have known. It was thirty years ago.”

  “Here it is, I think,” Gillian called.

  Natalie turned to see her pulling last year’s vines away from the front of a stone. “William Charcross. Is that him?” Gillian said.

  “Yes. Start clearing the ground above the grave. I’ll be there in a moment. Who am I to miss a chance to harvest a few ivy saplings from the grave plantings?” She bent to her work with a spade, placing a few small vines into a plastic bag that she tucked into her red purse. When she was done, the spade went into a larger baggie and disappeared inside the purse as well.