Get Witch or Die Trying

by Tonya Kappes

  “Your precious Marjorie?” I asked. “As in Steepleton?”

  “She and Lori were all I had from my beloved Irene,” Artie began to tell his story, “who died of cancer. Irene was a very independent woman and I loved that about her. She kept her name when we married and agreed we’d have two children. One bearing each of our surnames. Since Marjorie was our first and was a girl, Irene insisted she have her last name. When our second child, Lori was born, we gave her my name. Then you.” He jabbed the gun toward Mick. “It was your responsibility to keep her safe.”

  “This explains why I’m not getting any help seeing you,” Mick muttered. “You’ve been sabotaging our appointments for years. I knew I wasn’t crazy, you just made me feel like it.”

  “Initially I wanted to make you go crazy and be admitted for the rest of your life, but you fought me the whole way. It was then that I thought I’d wait you out and kill your child as you did mine, but you seem to pride yourself on being a bachelor. It was easy to find all the women you had loved and left through our sessions. You rambled on and on and I kept every single detail about them. But you.” He slid the barrel of the gun at me. “You seem to have a special place in his heart, so I knew that I would have to have to perfect opportunity to kill you. When I followed you home and Mick just so happened to be there, I knew it was going to be perfect to kill you right in front of him.”

  The evil words dripped out of his mouth and onto each of us. He made my skin crawl with fear.

  “Can you just let me go?” Brian spoke up. “I won’t breathe a word of this to anyone and you can keep the painting.”

  “Shut up!” Dr. Artie yelled. “You are the killer.” A deep laugh escaped Dr. Artie’s mouth. “Can’t you see? It’s perfect. Mick told me all about your little argument growing up years ago when we first revisited his past. I kept very detailed notes. When he said that his longtime friend and famous artist Angela Fritz was coming to town, I knew it was then that I had to plan the murders because he’d been trying to help her solve the little tiff you, Franklin Bingo, were having with her. When I did a little digging around and found out that you were Brian Mingo, it all fit together like a nice little puzzle.”

  “A little too nice,” Burt’s voice boomed out from behind his. “Drop the gun, Artie. You are surrounded and we have every word you said on tape.”

  Artie stood there with the gun pointed as if he had options to weigh.

  “Daddy, please. Please drop the gun,” a heartbroken Lori pleaded behind Burt.

  It was as if something snapped deep inside of Artie. His grip on the gun opened, dropping the weapon to the floor. Mick scrambled to get it and once he had it he pointed it at Artie. Lori came rushing to his side, taking her distraught father into her arms before the SKUL agents zeroed in on them, hauling Artie out of the room.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “I have to admit that I didn’t think you were going to be able to get it done.” I stood in Mrs. Hubbard’s kitchen and checked out the newly remodeled room that was going to be perfect for Mrs. Hubbard to make her cakes. “You did a great job.” I nudged Brian with my elbow. “Maybe you should think about going into carpentry instead of painting.”

  “No way. I can’t wait to get back to work.” He stood in the middle of the kitchen admiring his handiwork. “This was sort of like artistry work to me. It was fun fitting in all the pieces and doing it in a way that was functional for my aunt. Now that I have the money from the sale of The Ville and the back money that Angela had been paid for it, I’m happy to have helped my aunt out by fixing everything that wasn’t working.”

  “Plus she got that deal with that bakery too, so she’ll be able to have even more money.” I helped him move some of the kitchen furniture back in place.

  “If it weren’t for you and your aunt giving her that little time to make her cakes at the diner, the bakery owner never would’ve ordered one.” Brian smiled.

  “So, I guess you are for sure leaving right after supper?” I asked.

  “I really wanted to leave before now, but I do have so much to be thankful for and since your family offered to host us for Thanksgiving, I knew I could extend my stay,” he said. “Plus, your sister said she’d take me to The Derby. Maybe this time I can get her drunk.”

  “Don’t count on it.” I laughed. “I’m going to head on over to the house and check on the turkey. I’ll see you and Mrs. Hubbard soon.”

  I headed out the front door and across the green. The sky had turned grey and there were some rumblings on the news that there could possibly be a flurry or two later in the evening which just might put my mom in the Christmas spirit she still hadn’t seemed to find after all these weeks of trying to get the house decorated in time for the Belgravia Court Historic Homes Christmas Tour, which would start next weekend.

  The house smelled delightful. Auntie Meme had been cooking all day long, granted it was her witch way of cooking and she probably put fake scents around the house, but it still smelled like Thanksgiving.

  “How is it going?” I asked Mom and Auntie Meme when I walked into the kitchen.

  “It’s going good,” Mom nodded. “Can you go outside and help your sister get the table set. Our guest should be arriving any minute.”

  “Guests?” I questioned with a chuckle. “That’s a little formal for Mrs. Hubbard and Brian.”

  Mom gave me the look and I did what she asked. Riule and Miss Kitty were outside watching as Lilith and Gilbert hurried underneath the white tent that Mom said she’d rented when in reality, she’d snapped. Lilith was arranging the place settings of white china while Gilbert flew overhead dropping a perfectly folded cloth napkin in the shape of a turkey on each plate.

  “Me, you, Mom, Auntie Meme, Mrs. Hubbard, Brian,” I said out loud as I counted the seats. “Who’s the extra place setting for?”

  “I’m assuming that’s for me.” Mick Jasper entered the tent with a bouquet of fall daisies in his hand and a pumpkin pie in the other. “I had come by The Brew yesterday to wish you a Happy Thanksgiving. Your auntie asked me over for dinner after I told her that I wasn’t going anywhere since I was working a new case.”

  “Oh.” I tried to conceal how happy I was to see him. We hadn’t seen each other since we’d given our statements about the night we discovered Dr. Artie was the killer. “You’re more than welcome.”

  “Then you can help finish setting the table so Gilbert can go away before the neighbors get here.” Lilith sent Gilbert and the other familiars off so our nosy neighbor wouldn’t be asking any unwanted questions.

  Mrs. Hubbard had already been on the lookout for Miss Kitty since she was a rare owl species and the paper was offering money for any additional pictures of her—Mrs. Cartmell had taken pictures of Miss Kitty a few months ago and leaked them to the paper. Now not just Mrs. Hubbard, but also the entire Louisville population was on the hunt for the rare bird that wasn’t native to the United States. Just another reason for Auntie Meme to have a feather in her craw about Mrs. Hubbard. But today was Thanksgiving and I’d hoped Auntie could put all that behind her for just the day.

  In no time, the table under the tent was filled with food, people around it, and the sounds of laughter of family and friends. It was the first time that I’d ever recalled a mortal Thanksgiving where we actually did the mortal traditional turkey supper. It was as if our witch heritage didn’t exist for that moment. Even Auntie Meme and Mrs. Hubbard had made peace for the moment and exchanged a few recipes. Which I knew were all made up in Auntie’s head but they sure did sound good.

  All the happy, thankful merriment was getting to me. I grabbed a couple of empty plates and excused myself to put them in the kitchen while I gathered my wits. It wasn’t that I wasn’t happy, I was happy. But my Life’s Journey sure wasn’t what I thought it was going to be. Working with SKUL was my happiest, but it seemed that those opportunities were few and far between. Burt only called when he needed me to be a blend in citizen and it was the only time that I tal
ked to or saw Mick. I hadn’t heard a peep out of SKUL since the day I’d gone down and given my statement to them about Dr. Artie. They’d even kept Mick and me away from each other.

  Mick hadn’t tried to reach out to me, so I let it go. Seeing him tonight, for the first time in a couple weeks, really threw me off.

  “Are you getting dessert?” Mick walked into the kitchen just as I had wiggled my nose at the dirty dishes and magically made them clean.

  “Oh.” I jumped around. “I didn’t see you standing there. I guess I shouldn’t have done that. Don’t tell Mom, she doesn’t like the whole lazy magic way out.”

  “Trust me.” Mick dragged his finger across the whipped cream on the pumpkin pie and stuck it in his mouth. “If I could do dishes by wiggling my nose, I would.” He pretended to wiggle his nose like a bunny rabbit.

  I laughed, swiping my finger across the whip cream and dotted his nose with it.

  “Hey.” He grabbed me around my waist and dragged me to him with one arm as his other hand took a big swipe through the whip cream. After he pulled me close, his fingers wiped the cream over my mouth and chin.

  I tried to move my head side-to-side.

  “You deserved that.” His breath prickled the skin on my neck. His broad shoulders heaved as he breathed. His clean and manly scent was better than any happy potion I’d ever had.

  My heart hammered in my ears as I felt his gaze unlock something inside my soul. His gaze fell to the whip cream that he had spread across my lips, sending a tingling in the pit of my stomach. His lips lowered to where his eyes were looking. His kiss sang through my veins. It was then that I closed my eyes and saw my destiny and Life’s Journey become one.

  THE END

  Keep reading for an excerpt of Spies and Spells and how Mick and Maggie became crime fighting partners.

  Chapter One excerpt of Spies and Spells

  Rowl! The soft, pink paw tapped my nose a couple of times before the old cat gave me the ole one-two punch. His midnight fur helped him blend in with the unlit room.

  “Stop, Riule,” I groaned, batting my mom’s familiar feline away from me and jerked the pillow over my head. “Tell her I’m up.” My voice muffled from underneath the pillow.

  Rowl! The damn cat took a couple of more swipes at my hands gripping the pillow across my face.

  I took the pillow off my face and sucked in a deep breath when I heard the paws of Riule’s feet dance across my bedroom hardwood floors and out the door. Outside, the early morning breeze caused the leaves on the tree beyond my window to move around, directing the sun’s rays to trickle through my blinds and dancing along my ceiling. It was a habitual morning dance between the two, which let me know I was going to be late for work if I didn’t get my lazy hinny out of bed.

  Same shit. Day in, day out. I got up, got ready, went to work, came home, ate dinner, and went to bed. Sometimes that routine included a social visit with Lilith, my sister, but definitely not a regular basis, as she too had the same schedule as me. Only she got up a couple hours earlier to go to work. Lilith worked the early shift at The Brew, our family diner that was only open for breakfast and lunch.

  At twenty-eight, I still hadn’t found my life’s journey. No. We, my family, did not call it our ambition in life. In fact, we didn’t grow up like mortal children, going to school and figuring out that we wanted to be: a teacher, doctor, lawyer or whatever. We had what was called the Witchy Hour. It was the hour on which we stumbled into our life’s journey.

  There wasn’t much I could say about the Witchy Hour, because I had not had mine, therefore, I got up every morning and worked at the diner. Clearing dishes, taking orders and delivering food could not be my journey. I knew it in my soul.

  My family was witches. Modern day, every day, normal looking kind of people. Only witches. Witches who made sure we blended into the area where we lived.

  Historic Old Louisville, Kentucky, on Belgravia Court to be exact. The area was a very artsy area where a lot of hipsters hung out in the local eateries and bars.

  The city was not too big or too small, allowing us to more easily fit in. And so, at age twenty-eight, I worked in our family’s dinner, The Brew, until I was hit with my life’s journey.

  I had heard, as well as seen, witches in their journey. Take my mother, for instance, who Lilith and I still lived with along with my Great Auntie Meme along with all of our familiars. Yes, witches did have familiars. Only mine happened to be my car, Vinnie. Riule, the ornery cat, happens to be my mother’s, who, by the way, was doing her dirty work this morning. Gilbert, the macaw, was Lilith’s familiar and Ms. Kitty, an owl, was Auntie’s.

  I was the only one with a non-animal familiar, which spoke volumes to how I had led my life. I had been on a mission to find my life’s journey. My job. And get out from underneath my family’s home.

  At times I had even wondered if Mom or Auntie Meme had put a spell on me so I would not find my journey, and so they’d have to keep me here. On Belgravia Court.

  I pushed back my long black hair away from my eyes, peeling a few strands away from my cheek where it had been glued from nighttime drool, something I wasn’t proud of, and pushed the quilt off me. If I didn’t make some sort of movement, the one-hundred-year-old historic home wouldn’t creak from under my feet and Riule would be sent back up to see what I was up to. Then smugly running back downstairs to Mom, giving her the lowdown on my laziness. They didn’t realize that if I had my life’s journey, I would be happy to get up every morning and go do it, just like Mom and Auntie Meme.

  “What to wear?” I asked.

  Growls and barks were coming from outside my front bedroom window. I made my way over and pulled back the curtain to see what all of the ruckus was about, hoping Riule hadn’t gotten Mrs. Hubbard’s yappy dog all stirred up.

  Mrs. Hubbard was the old lady who lived in the house across from us. She bent over her flower boxes that were sitting on the brick ledge of her front porch fussing with her plastic Patagonia flower she had wired together with bread ties. She had one end of the plastic bouquet while King, the yappy Yorkie, had the other end in his mouth. King looked like he was playing. Mrs. Hubbard looked like she was not. The two played tug-of-war until King won out, rushing off the porch and under her row of hedges that lined the front of her home.

  Mrs. Hubbard stood five foot with grey hair that hung down past her ears, parted to the left side, with side bangs. Mrs. Hubbard was never without her pearl earrings, pearl necklace and a cardigan. She must’ve had stock in pleated black slacks because it was the only color, or style, of pants she ever wore. Today her choice of cardigan happened to be hot pink, making her crazy stand out even more.

  As though she knew I was watching her, she looked up and gave a slight wave. I waved back, but not quick enough to pull back and avoid her gesture to have me open my window.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Hubbard.” I tried to be as pleasant as I could at seven in the morning. I pushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “How are you?”

  Ruf, ruf, ruf. King had emerged from the hedges and went from attacking the flowers to attacking the air and space between the two of us. I glared at the scrawny, wiry spit fire wondering if I could just send him up in flames, right there in front of Mrs. Hubbard. No one on Belgravia Court liked the yappy dog.

  “Fair to middlin’. Fair to middlin’,” she repeated shaking her head and pointing at the fake garden. “I’m trying to bring home the blue.” Her eyes slid over to the front of our home where Mom took a lot of pride in her landscape and gardening.

  The blue Mrs. Hubbard referred to was the annual Historic Old Louisville Hidden Treasure Garden Tour that was taken very seriously by the residents on Belgravia Court. Mrs. Hubbard being one of them. Little did they know Mom was a witch and her specialty was all things earth. She was kind of like Mother Nature, only in witch form and she also grew the best herbs for potions, which Auntie Meme liked to use on customers at The Brew.

  “I need another bread tie.
It looks like the coons got my flowers. I’m going to give those coons a knuckle sandwich,” Mrs. Hubbard said in a silvery tone. She shook her thin fist in the air.

  I smiled. Mrs. Hubbard was the queen of what I called southernisms. Most of the time I didn’t even understand what she was talking about. I wanted to tell her she wasn’t going to bring home the blue with plastic flowers but there was no telling her that unless I wanted a good cussing.

  “You know.” She squinted up at my window. “I’ve never seen y’all have any sort of rodents over there.” Her brows furrowed. “What’s your secret?”

  And there she went.

  Mrs. Hubbard was nosy and she and Auntie Meme had had a few words right there in the courtyard in front of everyone. Auntie Meme told her to mind her own business, only her exact words were my business isn’t your business and unless you’re my panties don’t be up my ass.

  Mrs. Hubbard was as mad as a wet hen but it didn’t stop her from still being nosy.

  “There’s no secret.” There was. Auntie Meme put a rodent spell on Mrs. Hubbard’s house sending every rodent on Belgravia Court over there. The Orkin man was a fixture over there.

  Susie Brown, our other neighbor and Belgravia Court’s neighborhood watch president, even started a rumor that Mrs. Hubbard and the Orkin man were having a fling. Only we knew the truth and we never gave into gossip. In fact, the women loved to meet up in the courtyard on Saturday nights with their fancy cocktails and catch up on the gossip on Belgravia Court. The Park family—my family—were always a topic of interest because we spent much of our time to ourselves. Well, not Auntie Meme. She spent a lot of time looking out the front window wondering what type of spell she could send Mrs. Hubbard’s way. When she’d get down to the nitty-gritty of a spell, Mom wouldn’t let her send it. Auntie Meme fussed that Mom let her make the spell, why not let her send it. Mom let Auntie Meme concoct the spells so she wouldn’t have to entertain my feisty auntie.