02 Pies and Potions - Mystic Cafe

by Rose Pressey

  I turned to Rory and pointed across the park. “I think Tom might be in trouble. I think Sydney is yelling at him.”

  “He can handle himself.” Rory followed my finger, letting out a little sigh.

  I didn’t take my gaze off them. Sydney folded her arms in front of her chest.

  I felt Rory’s stare, but didn’t turn to him.

  “But you want to know why she’s yelling at him, don’t you?” he asked.

  I finally met Rory’s gaze and nodded. “I’m sorry, I do. I think it might have something to do with magic. Maybe magic gone wrong?”

  “Again? Trouble seems to follow this guy.”

  “I don’t think it follows him really, the first time was my fault,” I offered in Tom’s defense.

  Rory stood and grabbed my hand. “Come on, let’s see what’s going on.”

  When we approached, I heard Sydney say, “I can’t let the town spiral into chaos.”

  “What does she mean?” Rory whispered.

  I shook my head. Of course, he hadn’t noticed the strange behavior, I wished I hadn’t noticed either. I’d explain it to him later. Would I have to share with him that he’d received the spell, too? Could we keep that little tidbit a secret?

  Sydney stopped talking when she noticed us approaching, sending an evil glower our way.

  “Oh, good,” she said with obvious disdain. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  Tom spun around. “You don’t need to get her involved,” he said to Sydney.

  “Involved?” I asked.

  Tom’s face turned red as he frowned at Sydney. Neither one answered my question.

  “I heard you talking about Mystic Hollow. If something is wrong with this town, then it’s definitely something I should be involved in,” I said. It didn’t take a brick over my head to know where this conversation was headed. So a few people were acting weird? Did I really deserve punishment for that? It was considered quirky behavior, right? Yeah, I knew the answer to that question, but you couldn’t blame a girl for trying.

  Was this the time when she would finally tell everyone that I was responsible for the magical mishap? Could I call it a mishap? More like a catastrophe.

  I needed to step up to the plate. Allowing Tom to take the blame was cowardly and a rotten thing to do. I wouldn’t do something like that to him.

  “It’s nothing,” Tom said over his shoulder while he still glared at Sydney.

  I sensed she wasn’t his favorite person right now. Sydney glared back, then looked to me. Something else was going on between the two of them. I sensed it.

  “The happiness spell is wrong. Terribly wrong. Everyone is out of whack and we think Tom is involved in making the spell bad.” What? I couldn’t let him take the blame for this. Sydney continued, “Obviously, you had some help in this matter, as well.”

  My mouth fell open, then I said, “I would never do something like this to the people of Mystic Hollow on purpose. I love this town, I would never do anything to hurt anyone here.” Tears formed, but I pushed them back. “Tom is not involved. It was all my fault. I accidentally added too much potion.” When the words slipped from my lips, I actually had an out-of-body experience, as if my life had flashed before my eyes. Did I really just tell them that?

  “Thank you, Ms. Blair, for being so noble and trying to cover up his mistake, but this happened when Tom came to town. That isn’t a coincidence.”

  “I’m not just saying this,” I insisted.

  She shook her head. “Please. Say no more.” She gestured for me to stop. “We’re going to have to ask you not to perform any magic until this is under control. It’s such a mess we don’t know how we’re going to deal with it.”

  “I don’t know what to say. Elly had nothing to do with this,” Tom said vehemently.

  “Tom, please,” I pleaded in a strangled voice. The sheer weight of my guilt was overwhelming.

  Rory gently pulled my arm to try to comfort me.

  “So you’re admitting you did this?” A slight grin almost seemed to pull at the corners of her mouth. I guess she was excited to have her criminal.

  Tom stood his ground. “No, I have no idea why any of this is happening. But I do know that Elly would never do anything to hurt this town. She loves it.”

  Rory stepped forward. “I don’t know what’s going on, and maybe it’s none of my business, but I agree with Mr. Owenton, I can tell you that Elly had nothing to do with anything that would harm this town. She loves Mystic Hollow.”

  Sydney glared at Rory. “You’re right. You have nothing to do with this, so stay out of it.”

  “I don’t like the way you’re talking to Rory and I don’t like your attitude.” I pointed at her and stepped closer.

  Rory grabbed my arm again. Okay, perhaps I shouldn’t anger the magical investigator, but she was way out of line with her attitude.

  “Elly, I’ll handle Sydney Whitman.” Tom motioned for me to stay back. “Come on, Sydney, let’s go somewhere and talk about this.”

  I was so upset. I didn’t want them to go away and talk about this in secret. She was accusing Tom of something he hadn’t done. I didn’t want to just stand there and let her do it. I needed to tell Tom what had happened—something that I should have done already.

  “Fine. Let’s go.” She motioned toward the blue sedan.

  Tom turned to me and moved closer. He touched my arm and I was surprised Rory hadn’t jumped between us. “Elly, everything will be fine. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for all of this. I’ll deal with it. Please don’t worry.”

  “You know it’s not possible for me not to worry,” I said. “But I really did accidentally add more to the spell. It was an accident, honest. I’m sorry I didn’t mention it sooner. I was worried they’d close the café again.”

  Tom’s expression didn’t change. I had expected a disappointed look or anger, maybe. “It’ll be all right. I’ll call you soon.” He turned and climbed into Sydney’s car.

  I watched them drive away with a sinking feeling in my stomach.

  “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.” Rory placed his hand on the small of my back and guided me toward his truck. “Have you noticed strange behavior around here?” he asked.

  I wanted to say no, but I knew that would be a lie. As I searched for the right words, I nodded. Once we had slipped into the truck, I said, “I have noticed weird things. Not just a little either, but a lot.”

  “What type of things?” he asked.

  How did I even begin to explain? Rory would never believe that the mayor had ridden a donkey down Main Street. “A lot more fighting and bickering between residents, I guess.”

  “I really don’t like that investigator. What’s her name? Sydney?” Rory asked as he navigated around a turn.

  “Yeah, she isn’t making any friends in town.” I stared out the window, watching as the twinkling lights of the town faded into the distance.

  He let out a deep breath. “I didn’t even realize until now.” He paused. “I guess I have felt a little strange. Did I get the spell?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the road.

  I nodded, knowing that he’d see my answer from the corner of his eye. “It was Grandma Imelda who gave it to you. In the red velvet cake. Honestly, it doesn’t make sense when you say that you’ve felt strange. I didn’t add too much potion to the cake that you ate. Only to the mashed potatoes.”

  “You put magic in potatoes?” The little line crinkled between his eyebrows.

  “Yeah, remember, Grandma Imelda says it makes the best base. You’re not mad about the spell?” I sank my teeth into my bottom lip, attempting a flirtatious look. I’d never mastered the art of flirtation. Most of my attempts at sexiness made me look as if I had stomach gas pains.

  “No, I’m not mad.” He grinned.

  Mary Jane was right; he was my Jake Ryan.

  “I can’t believe they think you had anything to do with this,” Rory said with a shake of his head.

  “But
I did, Rory. The extra potion is the only explanation, right?” I asked, my voice cracking like an egg.

  “I wish I knew, honey… I wish I knew,” Rory said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When I was worried or upset, I baked, and that was exactly what I did after our encounter with Sydney. Rory hadn’t wanted to leave me alone at the café, but I had insisted. And as he’d said with a chuckle, “You’re stubborn like your grandmother. When you get an idea in your head, you don’t stop until you see it through.” Anyway, I needed the time to think and I did my best thinking while baking. I had to release my frustration and anxiety before ever attempting sleep. As wired as I felt, there was no way I’d get any rest until I worked out the nervous energy. With any luck, the baking would tire me out.

  When I slipped into the café, I flipped on the light, but it did nothing to shed light on the situation. The space was eerily silent as the clanking dishes had disappeared, along with the chatter and demands for refills. As I ambled across the room, I ran my fingers along the chairs and booths, then moved over to one of my favorite things about the décor, a picture of Mystic Hollow from 1952 that grandma had hung on the wall years ago. The picture had yellowed from age, but in spite of that, it seemed bright and almost glowed. I had studied that photo many times recently, realizing that the town appeared virtually the same back then as it did today. It looked like a simpler time, but was the magic easier back then? Probably not. Grandma Imelda may have left, but her presence would always be with me in the café, always when I needed her the most. What would she have done in my situation? She wouldn’t have let the problem slow her down, that was for sure.

  I moved toward the kitchen to begin work and attempt to relieve my melancholy mood, but a lump formed in the pit of my stomach. It was as if invisible predators waited at each door and I didn’t know how to shake the feeling. Once in the kitchen, I collected the items for the cake and glanced around the room periodically, checking for that unseen presence. It was never visible. I felt the magic in the air, though.

  After slipping on my Mystic Café apron, I dumped the ingredients in the bowl, adding the eggs to the flour, sugar, and cocoa. I stared down at the stainless steel bowl, then added some vanilla and bright red food coloring. The contents in the bowl looked like my life felt: a big mess. But with the right steps, I knew it would be possible to make the cake whole and wonderful… along with my life. I turned on the mixer and listened to the whirl of the machine. It was noisy and a distraction just like the many problems life threw my way, but a necessary step, nonetheless.

  After the mixing was complete, I poured the batter into the pans, attempting to spread it out evenly. Not having enough to go around was a problem not only with the cake batter, but with life as well. As I had expected, my apprehension about Sydney and the spell had eased. I knew I’d try my hardest to fix the problem, but the other strange feeling of being watched hadn’t dissipated. Attempting to shake it off again, I slipped the pans into the oven; they needed time to get to the perfect point… I needed that time to get to my perfect point, too. With any luck, I’d get there.

  While the cakes baked, I moved out to the dining area again, studying the space that had become my life. It had happened overnight really, and that was something that needed adjustment time. I’d finally accepted that change when this disaster had happened. When I glanced at my watch, I realized that my musings had taken longer than I had thought, so I hurried back to the oven.

  I grabbed the oven mitts and slipped the pans from the oven, placing them on the counter. As I waited for them to cool, I busied myself straightening the prep area. Once the cakes had reached the perfect temperature, I began spreading on the cream icing. I couldn’t help but realize that life was made up of layers just like the cake, and with the right amount of icing, those layers would come together. I needed courage and will power, but those things were unraveling from a steady rope to a frazzled hair-like thread; I had to stop that thread before it snapped. The answer to my problems would never fall at my feet.

  After cleaning up the café, I stepped out the back door, lugging a huge bag of trash in my arms. I’d cleaned and mopped until I didn’t think I could give that mop one more swab. The floors had been dirtier than I’d expected. The temperature had finally lowered to a bearable level. The sounds from the day’s events had died and now only the crickets echoed across the night air. It felt strange being out there all alone.

  Mystic Hollow had to be one of the quietest towns in the United States after the sun went down. Heck, it was quiet when the sun was up, too. But who knew what kind of weird shenanigans were really going on behind closed doors because of the spell.

  Since my arms ached and my feet throbbed until I thought I might collapse from exhaustion, I dropped the bag, dragging it along the pavement toward the Dumpster. I froze when I got a few feet away. A pair of shiny black shoes stuck out from the corner of the Dumpster. The loafers were attached to legs, but the rest of the person was hidden behind the trash container.

  Had the town drunk passed out? Grandma Imelda had warned me that Henry liked to hang out back there. I needed to get him a cup of coffee. A faint rustling noise caught my attention and I spun around. I held my breath and listened for more noise. Did the sound come from the tree line? A rat?

  “Who’s there? Henry, is that you?” I called.

  My heart raced when no one answered. I released my grip on the trash bag and inched toward the Dumpster. There was a body beside the Dumpster all right, but it wasn’t the town drunk.

  “Mr. Wibble, are you okay?” My hand flew to my mouth as I gasped.

  I felt the blood rush out of my face and my stomach turn. The stench from the trash didn’t help my queasiness. My breathing sounded like a large bear or a small Sasquatch.

  No response from Mr. Wibble. Please let him being taking a little nap. People napped beside Dumpsters, right?

  It sure didn’t look as if he was sleeping. I nudged him slightly. Still nothing, not even a snort or snore. Crimson liquid covered the ground underneath him, covering his white shirt. That was when I noticed the handle sticking up from his chest and I recognized it right away. At least I thought I did. It looked exactly like the knife I’d used earlier in the kitchen. Raised dots covered the long silver handle. I remembered thinking how unique the knife looked. Mr. Wibble was dead. His body had been disposed of behind Mystic Café.

  Bending down, with a shaky hand, I tried to place my fingers against his neck, but chickened out. It didn’t take the county coroner to tell me he was gone. What do I do now? I gazed down at his blood-covered body. The only time I’d been this close to a dead person was at a funeral and it had creeped me out.

  Something shiny caught my eye. Beside Mr. Wibble was a pink and silver scarf. Where had it come from? One thing was for sure, it wasn’t Mr. Wibble’s. Unless Mr. Wibble wore pink scarves, and I’d never seen him in a scarf, much less a pink one. He didn’t seem the type to go for pink. Brown or gray maybe, but no pink.

  Pushing to my feet, I stumbled backward. My vision blurred and I struggled to breathe. This was no time to hyperventilate. I needed to get a hold of myself. The coppery scent floated upward and assaulted my nostrils. My mouth felt as if it were stuffed with a bag of cotton.

  The wind picked up, rustling the branches from the tall oak trees, which added to the eerie scene as if they were sending me a warning. I blinked, trying to adjust my eyes, still not believing that Mr. Wibble’s dead body was behind the café.

  I ran toward the café’s back door, but stumbled halfway. I’d never been the athletic type. And heaven knew I was as clumsy as clumsy could be. I’d never thought to look around and make sure the killer had gone. The silence now made the night feel cold and bleak, in spite of the heat.

  After stumbling through the door, I stood for a few seconds, trying to remember where I’d left my phone. Finally, it hit me—the kitchen counter. I grabbed the phone, punched in the number, then looked into the sink for the knif
e. My knees buckled. It was gone. What had happened to it? The knife was missing which meant only one thing: it had to be the same knife. How had someone gotten it? Someone had to have been in the café and taken the knife. But why would Mr. Wibble be behind the café? Would my fingerprints be on the knife? Duh. Why did I ask such stupid questions? Of course they would. My stomach turned.

  A female voice snapped me back to reality. “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

  “There’s a dead body behind Mystic Café.” My voice trembled.

  I tuned the operator out and went back to my thoughts. Could someone else have the same knife? Sure, maybe Grandma Imelda purchased it here in town and everyone had one. But used as a murder weapon behind the café? My mind raced with thoughts. Who would want him dead? How could this little old man possibly have any enemies?

  Chapter Nineteen

  How could something like this have happened in Mystic Hollow? We were supposed to be a happy town and happy towns didn’t have murdered magical investigators.

  The night air had been pleasant until now. Waves of magic shimmered in the air circling me. My hands felt clammy and my face flushed. I guess finding a dead man would do that to a person. A nervous vibration pulsed through me and shaking it seemed next to impossible.

  Since Mystic Hollow was the size of a postage stamp, the sirens sounded quickly. Thank heavens. It seemed like only seconds passed before car doors slammed from what sounded like the front of the café.

  The echoes of footfalls running hit my ears seconds later. I stood by the back door with my feet frozen, yet my whole body trembled. I turned and stared out into the opposite direction of the Dumpster. The thought of watching any longer made my stomach turn.

  Sheriff Jasper appeared from around the side of the building. He looked at me, but didn’t stop as I pointed toward the Dumpster. A couple more policemen ran after him. I was pretty sure the entire force was now behind Mystic Café—not that we had a lot of police, only a handful, actually.