Happy Witchgiving
A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Short
Amanda M. Lee
WinchesterShaw Publications
Contents
Copyright
1. One
2. Two
3. Three
4. Four
5. Five
6. Six
7. Seven
8. Eight
9. Nine
10. Ten
Mailing List
About the Author
Books by Amanda M. Lee
Copyright © 2016 by Amanda M. Lee
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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One
Twelve years ago
“What the … ?”
I glanced down at my foot, disbelief washing over me. That couldn’t be … nah, no way. I had to be dreaming.
“Your foot went through your front deck and there’s a big hole.” Ronnie Duncan, Walkerville’s lone mail carrier, leaned over so far his big bag of envelopes and flyers tipped him to one side so he had no choice but to put both hands out to steady himself. He hissed when his bare hands met the cold wood.
Fall was officially here – and the mornings were much cooler – but it hadn’t turned downright cold yet. At least I had that going for me. My mother used to call me an optimist – but I think she was an optimist and that was wishful thinking on her part. I definitely lean toward pessimist – or at least “meh-ist.” That’s a thing … which I just totally made up, by the way.
The fact that my foot was lodged in the deck would never be a good thing, but it could be worse because snow might’ve gotten in my boot a month from now. That’s upbeat thinking, mind you. My mother would be proud – if she was watching from up above, that is.
“Thank you, Ronnie,” I intoned, working overtime not to snap at the man – and then cuff him up the backside of his head for good measure just because I could. As the newly minted police chief I have a certain reputation to uphold, and cuffing people … or shoving them … or outright kicking them … was frowned upon by the good residents of Walkerville. Even good things have drawbacks. For example, I get more money now, but I can’t do the things I really want to do, like shove Ronnie’s face into the deck until he ceases stating the obvious.
“You’re welcome,” Ronnie said, completely missing my sarcasm. “Why do you think there’s a hole in your deck?”
That was a good question. I had no idea. “I don’t know. Maybe the wood just rotted.” I’ve had this house ten years and never done anything but waterproof the deck that circles the entire front and two sides of my home. Something like this was bound to happen eventually. Er, at least that’s what I’m telling myself. “It probably just has a weak spot.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I thought I would just stand in this spot all day and work from here,” I replied, my temper getting the better of me. “How does that sound?”
Ronnie shrugged. “It doesn’t sound particularly constructive to me, but then again, I’m not you, so maybe you could get a lot done working that way, Chief Davenport.” He scratched the side of his head as he studied the hole. “What if your foot is stuck in there and it’s never going to come out? Maybe there’s an animal in there. Ooh, maybe there’s a demon. I saw that in a movie the other day. That would be creepy, wouldn’t it?”
That was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard. The only reason I was even out on the deck is because I heard Ronnie dropping the mail in the box on the side of the house and decided to collect it before heading to work. In reality, this was his fault. Sonovabitch! Now I can’t stop thinking there’s something brushing against my foot down there. I know there’s no demon but … is that a horn slipping under my pant leg?
“Help me get my leg out,” I barked, the frayed reins of my sanity slipping.
Ronnie isn’t known as one of the great thinkers in this world, but the look he sent me was downright smug. “Do you feel the demon?”
“I feel pain because I scraped my ankle going down,” I replied, irritated. That technically wasn’t a lie, by the way. My ankle did hurt … and there might be a demon down there. I want to get this entire town drug tested one day. That’s not an exaggeration.
“Oh, sorry,” Ronnie said, instantly contrite. He leaned closer so I could use his shoulder as leverage, and when I tried to pull my foot free I found resistance. I tried another angle and came up against the same problem.
“Son of a … .”
“It’s probably the demon working against us,” Ronnie said with an air of certainty.
“There is no demon down there,” I barked, frustrated. “Stop saying that.”
“There’s no reason to be testy,” Ronnie said. “You’re the chief of police. You should be able to call the station and have a hundred different men come out to rescue you.”
That sounded like the worst idea I’d ever heard. I would never live that down. Rescued from my own deck? No thank you. “We’re going to try again,” I said. “This time I want you to grab my ankle and really give it a tug.”
Ronnie didn’t look thrilled with the idea. “What if the demon gets me?”
“You need to worry about me a lot more than a demon,” I snapped. “Now … grab my leg.”
“Sheesh. I hope no one sees this,” Ronnie whimpered as he wrapped his hands around the part of my calf remaining above the splintered deck. “People might talk about what we’re doing.”
“You’re helping me get my leg out of the deck.”
“Yeah, but it could look like something else from a distance.”
It took me a second to grasp what he was saying, and it wasn’t until I caught a glimpse of our reflections in the nearby window that I realized what he was implying. He was on his knees in front of me and … oh, man. A demon would be so much better than this. “Just help me,” I snapped, gripping his shoulder and giving my foot a vicious yank as Ronnie jerked on my pant leg to help.
“Turn your ankle to the right just a bit and then poke your toes down,” Ronnie ordered.
Under any other circumstances I would’ve ignored his advice but I wasn’t in a situation that warranted putting up a fight. I did as I was told, momentarily smiling when I felt my foot come free. The smile didn’t last for more than a split second because I realized that I was falling backward thanks to my newfound momentum.
I hit the deck hard – my rear end almost bouncing from the impact – and I fought the urge to yell at Ronnie for letting me fall. Hey, I didn’t say the inclination was rational.
“You fell over,” Ronnie said.
I gritted my teeth. “I hadn’t noticed. Thank you.”
“I’ll bet you’re glad there’s not a demon down there,” Ronnie said, warily eyeing the hole. He remained on his knees, seemingly in no hurry to get back to his route.
“I’m thrilled there’s not a demon down there, Ronnie,” I said. “I want to throw a party just because of it.”
Sarcasm is wasted on someone like Ronnie. He either doesn’t get it or pretends he doesn’t understand it. Either way the effort is never put to good use. “I wouldn’t throw a party just yet,” he said.
“I wasn’t really going to throw a party, Ronnie.”
“That’s good,” Ronnie drawled. “The demon isn’t down there, but a whole bunch of termites are.”
“That can’t be right.” I moved closer to the hole, staring down into the darkness. I couldn’t see one particular bug, but I could see a decent amount of movement. “Son of a … !”
“YUP, THOSE are termites.”
I stood next to the side door of the house, checking email on my Blackberry and messaging instructions to the office. Just because I had a domestic disturbance didn’t mean I could shirk my duties. I was the chief, after all. Terry Davenport, chief of police and lunatic wrangler. Termites couldn’t stop me. Of course, the mere idea of those things crawling over my body while I slept was freakier than Ronnie’s demon. Thankfully he’d returned to his route and I didn’t have to worry about more demon talk – or him mentioning our peculiar position when he helped me out of a jam. I moved closer to Jim Stinson as he held a flashlight high and stared into the hole. That hole really sucks, by the way. I was having a great day before that hole.
“Is it bad?” I asked.
Jim shrugged. “I guess that depends on how you feel about millions of tiny monsters with huge mouths – for their size, I mean – eating the very foundation of your house.”
He’s such a comforting soul sometimes. “What should I do about it?” I asked, tamping down my irritation. Walkerville is the size of a pinprick. You don’t have a lot of options when you need certain things done. If you need food, you’re good because there are five restaurants in town. If you need varmint eradication, though, you’re in a pickle because Jim’s the only game within a fifty-mile radius. You can’t tick him off, no matter how much you might want to shove your boot in his butt and … huh, what were we talking about again?
“I meant … never mind what I meant,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck as I shifted my eyes to the driveway. The morning was quiet – as they so often are in Walkerville – but my head was mired in noisy tumult. “What happens next?”
“Well, it depends,” Jim said, rubbing his chin. I could tell already whatever he was about to unveil would be a sarcastic masterpiece. It was too late to stop it, though. I’d already asked. “You can continue living here and adopt the termites as pets – that’s your first option, although I don’t really recommend it. You would probably have a decent six months before the house completely falls down, though. Maybe that’s your thing.”
“What’s my other option?” I asked, hating that I had to play the game.
“Your other option is tenting the heck out of it and then getting my team in here to fix things,” Jim said. “You might miss the termites. I have no idea if you’re an animal lover, but I hear they make cuddly bed friends.”
He’s a sick man. “I’ll take option number two,” I said. “I need an estimate and a schedule. If you need to tent first, do you do that today?”
“Probably not until tomorrow,” Jim replied. “I need to get all of the equipment ready and my crew is over at a house on the south side of town.”
I couldn’t really expect him to drop everything and bump me up the list, but it was still disheartening information. “Fine,” I said. “So you tent tomorrow. If you do it in the morning, can I be back in by the afternoon?”
Jim snorted as if I’d said the funniest thing imaginable. “No.”
I blew out a sigh, resigned. “How long?”
“Well, we’ll tent tomorrow and you usually need to stay out three days,” he replied. “That’s a minimum of two nights, but I recommend three. I also recommend packing up some belongings and spending the night someplace else this evening because you won’t be able to sleep in here now that you know there are bugs running around.”
“Weren’t the bugs running around yesterday, too?”
“Yes, but you didn’t know about them then so you didn’t imagine them crawling all over you,” Jim replied. “I’ve seen this happen a million times. Trust me. You’re going to want to get out of here tonight.”
I considered putting up an argument, but he wasn’t wrong. “I’ll figure something out,” I said. “It’s not like this place isn’t bursting at the seams with inns. It’s freaking Walkerville, for crying out loud. Inns we have in excess.”
Walkerville is a touristy town, and the number of inns scattered around the general area outnumbered just about everything else. I’d have no problem finding a bed for a few nights.
“Yes, but it’s Thanksgiving weekend,” Jim reminded me. “That means all the inns probably filled up weeks ago.”
Crud. I hadn’t thought about that. “I’m sure that … .” What am I supposed to do?
“I’m guessing if you’re a good boy and go charm those Winchester women you’re so fond of they’ll give you a place to stay,” Jim said. “I’m thinking that’s your best bet.”
The mere mention of the Winchester women was enough to make me smile – and then internally cringe. That essentially sounded like three days of heavenly food accompanied by loud women arguing about absolutely nothing whenever they get bees in their bonnets. The food more than makes up for it, but there’s a lot of estrogen flowing free in that house – and that’s on top of the rumors about them being witches.
“I guess I’ll have to give it some thought,” I said finally. “I’m sure they could find room for me, but … .”
“Yeah, they’re crazy,” Jim said. “That Tillie is a … whew!”
Tillie was another problem. I hadn’t even gotten to her yet. “I’ll figure it out,” I repeated, glancing toward my driveway as one of Walkerville’s dedicated police cruisers pulled in. “Get this place tented as soon as possible. I don’t want this mess dragging into more than three days.”
“Yeah, I love it when the guy being eaten alive by bugs puts me on a timetable,” Jim deadpanned, smirking when I darted a dark look in his direction. “It’s almost as if you think you’re in charge, but … no offense, Chief Davenport.”
Yeah, that’s me. Chief Terry Davenport. I’m the top cop in Walkerville, yet I have absolutely no power over the guy slaughtering termites. This day bites. “Just get it done,” I repeated, moving toward the driveway to greet my officer. “I don’t have a lot of time to mess around with this stuff. Like you said, it’s a holiday weekend coming up. That means we’ll have a lot of drunks to deal with the night before Thanksgiving, and a lot of family fights on Thanksgiving Day. Those family gatherings are usually worth a few stabbings.”
Jim smirked. “I do love a holiday free-for-all,” he said. “Make sure you get everything you need out of the house before leaving. You can’t go back inside when it’s tented. You could die from the fumes. I don’t think that’s how you want to spend your holiday.”
He’s such a pain. “Thanks,” I replied dryly. “I’ll keep that in mind.” I turned my attention to David Parker, a local graduate who joined my team only two months ago. He was green and gung-ho – a terrible combination. “What’s going on, Officer Parker?”
“Well, Chief, we got a BOLO,” Parker said, tipping his hat back on his head as he handed me a sheet of paper. I think he saw that move on some cop show and thinks it makes him look distinguished. He reminds me of Barney Fife when he does it. “A BOLO means to be on the lookout, by the way.”
I frowned. Did he think I didn’t know that? “I’m well aware of what a BOLO is,” I said, studying the sheet. “This says they’re looking for a con artist who may be in the area. They say he bilked some women out of their money in a land fraud deal.”
“I know,” Parker said. “I thought if he’s here, we should find him.”
The boy is nice – and the local teenage girls seem to love his looks – but he’s not the sharpest tack in the bulletin board. “How do you suggest we find him?” I kept my tone even so as not to embarrass him.
“We should look,” Parker said, his expression completely serious.
Wow. That was almost profound. Or … not. “Okay, I think that this should be great for your first solo case,” I said. What? It’s not like he’s going to find anyone. The guy could be anywhere in the state. The odds of him landing here have to be astronomical.
If Parker spends the next few days looking, though, that keeps him out of my hair. “Just keep me updated on your search efforts.”
Parker looked thrilled. “Thank you for trusting me with this, sir!”
“You’re welcome,” I said. “By the way, if you guys need me I’ll be at the Winchesters’ bed and breakfast. This place needs to be tented and I can’t stay here. So if you run into trouble and can’t find me in town, track me down there.”
Parker’s face clouded. “People say the Winchesters are witches, sir. Are you sure that’s safe?”
I scowled. “People have too much time on their hands,” I said, even though I’d seen the witch rumors proven myself. “Don’t worry about the Winchesters.”
“But … Tillie,” Parker said, lowering his voice. “She threatened to turn my thing green once because she caught me talking to Bay. I think she meant it. Don’t let her turn your thing green, sir. Pick another inn.”
I did the math in my head. Parker was young – only twenty-two – and dumb, but Bay Winchester was only seventeen. I took the opportunity to vent my morning aggression and cuffed the back of Parker’s head, taking him by surprise. “Bay is still a child,” I said, extending a finger. “If Aunt Tillie turns your thing green for looking at her, I honestly have no problem with it.”
Parker swallowed hard. “I was just talking to her, sir.”
“Well, don’t do it again,” I said. “I’ll be fine at the Winchester place. No matter what anyone says, they’re just women. Sure, they’re loud women, but they cook like angels and I’m sure I’ll get a good night’s sleep there.”
“Maybe we should come up with a code in case you get in trouble,” Parker suggested. “You could call me with a safe word or something.”
I pressed my lips together as I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “I think I’ll be okay,” I said. “It’s just seven women, after all. How terrible can they be?”
Happy Witchgiving: A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Short Page 1