Witchy Worries (Neighborhood Witch Committee Book 2)

by Nic Saint

  “You might,” she said seriously. “Or, better yet, I’ll type it up and hang it in the bathroom. Ernestine might also benefit, as I’m sure she spends way too little time on personal hygiene.”

  Stien, who’d joined us, muttered, “What’s all this about my personal hygiene?”

  “Don’t ask,” I said in hushed tones.

  “Now for a very important question. Do you use a washcloth?”

  “Yes, I do,” I said.

  Strel turned to Stien. “What about you?”

  Ernestine frowned. “I consider that a very personal question.”

  “Well, don’t. Use a washcloth, I mean. They’re breeding grounds for all kinds of bacteria.”

  “So what are we supposed to use?” asked Ernestine. “Our hands?”

  “A Salux cloth. It’s Japanese,” she added, as if that explained everything. “You put a small amount of product on the Salux, wad it into a ball and then place it across your neck and upper shoulders and swipe back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.” As she spoke, she swayed back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

  I held up my hand. “I think we know how to wash ourselves, Strel.”

  “And I think you don’t.”

  “Just… tell us what’s next.”

  “Well, you do your back first, then your front—avoiding your private parts, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Wait—why aren’t we washing our private parts?” asked Ernestine, looking confused.

  “Because those are for the next step,” I guessed.

  Strel smiled. “You’re getting the hang of this, Edie.”

  “And it’s all thanks to you,” I said, giving her my best fake smile.

  “Next, legs.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sakes,” Ernestine muttered. “How long is this going to take?”

  “The legs or the complete procedure?”

  “The explanation!”

  “Look, if you guys don’t want to learn about personal hygiene, it’s no biggie to me. But Glenn might think different.”

  “Glenn?” asked Ernestine, pushing her glasses up her nose. She had recently developed a not-so-secret crush on the actor. “Glenn talked about my personal hygiene?”

  “He didn’t have to. I saw him sniffing the air when he was standing next to you yesterday at breakfast, and he wasn’t smiling.”

  Ernestine slapped her brow. “I knew I shouldn’t have used that new shampoo! Suave Coconut Tropical Sensation. What a washout.”

  “Anyhoo,” said Strel. “Legs! You want to choose one leg and work down the front to the ankle before moving back up the same leg.”

  “Strel!” I cried. “I know how to wash my legs!”

  “Of course you do. Next: your lady parts. They need to be cleaned.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Do you also use the Japanese thingie for that?” asked Ernestine, suddenly very interested.

  “The Salux? No. For our lady parts we use our hands.”

  “Our hands?” I asked with a frown. “Whose hands?”

  “Whose hands do you think? Glenn Kerb’s? Your own hands, of course, silly.”

  “Too bad,” Ernestine said, probably wishing Glenn would volunteer to wash her lady parts.

  “Use special soap,” Estrella admonished us. “And don’t let the soap get into the parts where your outsides turn into your insides.”

  “Huh?” asked Ernestine.

  “The parts where your outsides turn into your insides.”

  Ernestine frowned as she tried to visualize this. “Oh,” she finally said. “The pink bits.”

  “If you say so,” said Estrella with a disapproving frown. “I would also like to remind you that this is the perfect time to shave, as your skin is soft and clean and your pores are open.”

  “Ugh,” I said, thinking about pores. Estrella was genetically gifted in that respect. She had great skin. I didn’t. Mine was pasty and blotchy, and my pores were always holding open house.

  “And feel free to tinkle,” Estrella announced cheerfully. “Great for our planet. Save water.”

  We both stared at her. “You pee in the shower?” I asked. “Yuck!”

  “Not yuck. It all washes down the drain,” Estrella stressed.

  “I’m never taking a shower after you again,” I said. “From now on I always go in first.”

  “Me second!” Ernestine hurried to put in.

  “But, you guys, it’s the most natural thing in the world!”

  “I don’t care! I don’t want to traipse around in your pee.”

  She rolled her eyes again. “Whatevs. Time for your feet.”

  “Huh?”

  “I knew it! You don’t wash your feet, do you?”

  “Of course I wash my feet! I wash everything.”

  “Do you use a pumice stone?”

  “I… do,” I said, prevaricating. Sometimes.

  Strel frowned. “Just mind you don’t use mine. Mine’s the pink one. Yours the red one, and Stien’s the black one. You can’t miss.”

  “Whatevs,” I said. “Are we done?”

  “Rinse your Salux cloth thoroughly and hang it up so it can dry. Then use a towel to pat your body dry. Pat—not rub!”

  “Oh, for the love of Mike, Strel!”

  “And, finally, apply body lotion and face cream, as the pores—”

  “Enough with the pores already!”

  She spread her arms. “And that’s it. If you observe these basics, you’re off to a good start.”

  “A good start?”

  “Oh, there’s a lot more, but that will have to wait.” She gave us a goofy grin. “I have to tinkle!”

  And then, before we could stop her, she hurried into the bathroom and locked the door.

  Chapter 3

  As usual, breakfast was served in the kitchen. Since at any one time Gran’s B&B only hosts two guests, there was plenty of space in the large and cozy kitchen. Besides, most of the guests listed breakfast as one of the best features of Safflower House. As an aspiring baker, I’d decided to offer our guests an exclusive taste of my latest baking experiment: pumpkin spice cutout cookies.

  I’d made the cookies late last night, and now took a peek in the oven, where I’d left them to cool overnight. To my surprise, they didn’t look as well as I remembered. For one thing, they weren’t orange, as they were supposed to be, but a mottled brown. The shape was off, too. Not the nice round pumpkin shape but more of an odd lumpy shape. As if someone had beat up my cookies.

  “Oh, are those your pumpkin cookies?” asked Gran. “What a nice treat!” And before I could stop her, she’d pulled the baking plate from the oven and was dumping the cookies into a glass bowl and setting it on the kitchen table. “Mrs. Oats will be delighted,” she added.

  I cast a quick look at my cookies. I wasn’t sure Gran was right. At the very least I should probably have a taste before anyone else touched them, but just as I was reaching for them, Mona Oats waltzed in, accompanied by Glenn Kerb and… Great-aunt Leigh.

  “Leigh!” Gran cried. “I thought you were going to fast today!”

  “I thought so, too,” said Leigh with a confused smile. “I changed my mind when I saw that the stars were aligned in such a constellation that I can’t possibly deny myself nourishment today.”

  “Probably the same constellation those ‘healing stones’ formed around my bed,” Mona grumbled as she took a seat at the sturdy oak table and reached for the coffee can.

  “Oh no,” said Leigh. “Those stones were placed to synchronize with your soul rhythm.”

  “Soul rhythm,” Mona grumbled. “What a load of—”

  “And of course I also took into consideration your very particular aura emanation.” Leigh, taking a seat next to Mona, stared at her neighbor for a moment, her expression dreamy. “Your aura still needs cleansing, Mrs. Oats. If you want I can give you a session of my well-known soul cure.”

  “Soul cure? There’s nothing wrong wi
th my soul,” grunted the crusty old lady.

  “Oh, it’s got nothing to do with that,” Leigh assured her. “It’s simply a way to create a bridge from my soul to your soul. A soul-to-soul connection, permitting me to examine what blockages might be preventing you from reaching your full potential. My friends back home in England are always very happy with my soul-to-souls. They say they remove a lot of ballast. Spirit ballast.”

  “Well, I like my ballast. So I’ll have to say no to your soul-to-soul and no to your stones.”

  “Resistance,” said Leigh knowingly. “I see it all the time. You’re not allowing yourself to be healed, Mrs. Oats.”

  “I’m not allowing you to come near me,” Mona corrected her. “There’s a difference.”

  “Well, be that as it may, I’m still going to give you the benefit of being in my energetic aura.”

  Mona moved back a little. “Your aura?”

  “Yes, simply from being within ten feet of me, you’re already benefitting from my heightened energetic state.” She gave her neighbor a beaming smile. “You’ll feel better in no time, Mrs. Oats.”

  “But I don’t want to feel better. I’m feeling just fine!”

  “I’m afraid the universe has brought us together for a reason, and that reason might well be that our souls share a high level of compatibility and energetic synchronicity.” She placed a hand on the old woman’s brow. “Can’t you feel it, Mrs. Oats? Can’t you feel the vibrations?”

  “No, I certainly can’t,” said Mona snappishly. “Please remove your vibrations from my person, Mrs. Shamrock.”

  “Too late,” said Leigh with a sigh. Then her face clouded. “Oh, dear.” She cast her eyes up at the ceiling. “I sense a strong disruption in the energetic continuum.”

  “What’s the energetic continuum?” asked Glenn, taking a seat across the table from the two ladies.

  “The veil that covers us,” said Leigh vaguely. “There’s a powerful disruption headed our way.”

  “You mean like a storm front?” asked Glenn, genuinely interested. He picked a cookie from the glass bowl and nibbled it absentmindedly. I watched him with alarm, but so far all seemed fine.

  “Trouble is stirring,” said Leigh, her voice taking on a dramatic note.

  ”If you keep dumping those rocks of yours in my room, you’re certainly right about that,” said Mona, also picking up one of my cookies and taking a bite.

  To my surprise, both she and Glenn seemed to like them, as they quickly gobbled up the entire cookie and then added a second to their plates. I heaved a sigh of relief. My baking skills must have improved. My cookies might not be much to look at, but apparently the taste was fine.

  “Look, I’m all for people expressing themselves and doing whatever the good Lord designed them for,” said Mona. “But there are limits. And those limits are clearly reached when people start tripping over stones when trying to get out of bed in the morning. So for the last time: please don’t put any more of that junk in my room, Mrs. Shamrock.”

  But Leigh wasn’t listening. Instead, she seemed to be having some kind of vision. Gran was eyeing her closely, indicating she, unlike Mona, was giving credence to her great-aunt’s ramblings.

  “What do you see, Auntie Leigh?” asked Gran.

  Strel and Stien had joined us at the table and were giving my cookies a suspicious glance.

  “I see… old scores being settled,” said Leigh in a soft voice. “I see blood being spilled and violence being indiscriminately doled out. I see a family being ripped apart. I see… murder and mayhem.” At this, she glanced up at Gran, whose face had taken on a grave expression.

  “Oh, dear,” Gran muttered.

  Just at that moment, a stentorian voice rang out in the corridor. “Knock knock. Anyone home?”

  It was Sam Barkley, my cop boyfriend. Which meant Auntie Leigh might be right.

  Chapter 4

  Sam walked into the kitchen and immediately had the floor. We all looked up at the handsome NYPD detective as he stood there, tall and imposing, his square jaw working, his blue eyes piercing, his dark hair slightly tousled as usual. He allowed his inquisitive gaze to roam across the room until it found what he was looking for. Meanwhile, a hushed silence had descended upon the group.

  Finally, Sam’s eyes settled on Glenn. “Mr. Kerb. Detective Sam Barkley. NYPD. A word, please?”

  Glenn pointed at himself. “You want to talk to me?”

  Sam nodded. “Let’s step into the parlor.”

  Glenn darted a quick look at Gran, then wiped his lips with his napkin and rose to his feet.

  The moment he and Sam had left, Ernestine asked, “Is he going to arrest Glenn?”

  All eyes swiveled to Leigh, who sat buttering a bagel, blissfully oblivious.

  “Leigh?” asked Gran. “What’s going on?”

  Leigh looked up, the picture of innocence. “Going on? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  Stien blinked nervously. “You said something about murder and mayhem and blood being spilled and families ripped apart and suddenly Sam walks in and asks to have a word with Glenn?”

  “Oh, was that strapping young man a detective? They do look quite different in the States, don’t they? Our London Bobbies are rarely that handsome. More roly-poly. Plump, if you know what I mean. Must be all that starchy food. And bacon and eggs in the morning. And all those sausages…”

  “What’s going on, Leigh?” asked Gran, not to be deterred.

  “And how is she supposed to know?” asked Mona. “She’s not a psychic.”

  “No, I’m not a psychic, Cassie,” said Leigh. “Though I do have a finely honed intuition.”

  Gran frowned. She, too, had a finely honed intuition, and judging from the look on her face something was definitely going on.

  Stien heaved a deep sigh. “Looks like a job for the neighborhood watch committee.”

  “Neighborhood watch?” asked Mona. “You have a neighborhood watch around here?”

  “Oh, sure,” Stien said. “We’re it, actually. Me and my sisters.”

  Mona didn’t seem convinced. “You are the neighborhood watch?”

  “Yes, me, Strel and Edie. We started it last month, when one of our neighbors was murdered.”

  “She was murdered by one of Gran’s guests, actually,” said Strel helpfully. “It was a big thing.”

  “One of your guests?” asked Mona, eyes widening. Then she turned those same eyes on Leigh, and I could see what she was thinking. If anyone was capable of murdering guests, it was Leigh!

  “So we decided to form a neighborhood watch. Make sure people are safe,” Stien continued.

  Judging by the sudden appearance of Sam, people weren’t that much safer. To be honest, we hadn’t done much with the neighborhood watch. It existed, but only in name. We probably should have been patrolling the neighborhood and organizing meetings and all that kind of stuff, but since we already had the shop to run, those things had gone by the wayside. Besides, we had no idea what a neighborhood watch was supposed to do, which made it a little difficult to make this work.

  “So… there’s a lot of crime in this neighborhood?” asked Mona. “Nobody said anything about that on the website.”

  “Well, it was just the one murder, really,” I said, not wanting to give the impression that Haymill was a crime-infested slum.

  “One murder is one murder too many,” said Mona disapprovingly. “If only my son had known this before he booked me this bed and breakfast…”

  “I’m sure you’re quite safe here, Mrs. Oats,” said Leigh, deciding to put in her two cents.

  Mona stared at her, as if feeling she was the leader of the crime syndicate controlling this particular slum. “If you’re so sure, why is that policeman here, interrogating Mr. Kerb?”

  “Drugs,” said Estrella knowingly. “All of those Hollywood stars are doing drugs.”

  “No, he’s not,” said Ernestine heatedly. “He’s a teetotaler!”

  “See? I
knew there was something wrong with him,” said Strel.

  “A teetotaler is a person who doesn’t drink,” Stien said tersely.

  Strel shrugged. “That’s what he wants you to think. They all have a vice.”

  “Glenn doesn’t have a vice. Glenn is into clean living. He told me so himself.”

  “He’s an actor, Stien. He’ll tell you what he wants you to believe. What you need to do is check the professional literature. Like I do. It’s all there, if you just know where to look.”

  With professional literature Estrella meant the tabloids, of which she was an avid fan. Though I very much doubted whether even half of the stories they wrote were true. As it was, I believed Ernestine when she said Glenn was clean. He didn’t do drugs, or booze, or even flash his costars.

  “I think Glenn is a fine young man,” said Leigh. “He reminds me of some of the fine actors of yore. Fine British actors like Cary Grant.”

  “Cary Grant wasn’t British,” said Mona. “He was American.”

  “No, he was not,” said Leigh. “Cary Grant was British, born and raised.”

  “He was American!”

  “I’m quite sure you’re mistaken, Mrs. Oats.”

  “And I’m quite sure I’m right, Mrs. Shamrock!”

  “Actually, I’m afraid Leigh is right,” said Gran. “Cary Grant was born Archibald Leach, and hailed from Bristol. He moved to the States when he was a teenager and built his career here.”

  Mona shot up from the table. “This is an outrage!” she fumed. “First rocks, then murder, and now appropriation of an American icon! My son will hear about this!” And with these words, she stormed off, but not before snatching another one of my cookies from the bowl.

  At least my batch of pumpkin spice cookies was a big hit.

  “Oh, dear,” said Gran, looking distraught. “I think I upset Mrs. Oats.”

  “Do you think she’ll write a one-star review?” asked Estrella.

  “I’m afraid she will,” said Gran. “Unless…”

  “Unless what?” I asked. Too many bad reviews, and Gran could kiss her Airbnb goodbye.

  “Unless we wipe her mind,” said Gran grimly.