Witch on Second: A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 5 (The Jinx Hamilton Novels)

by Juliette Harper

  She looked so earnest; I managed not to laugh, even as my mind flashed on the phony rubber-suited “monster” of movie fame.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I know I speak for everyone when I say your help is much appreciated.”

  “You are just so welcome,” she gushed. “And could I ask you for a little favor?”

  “Sure,” I said. “What do you need?”

  “I left my megaphone up at Graceland East,” she said. “Would you mind getting it for me? It’s in the living room.”

  Glory is right at 11.5 inches tall. When you’re up close to her, hearing what she has to say isn’t that hard, but across the room or when we’re all in the lair, she can have a hard time making herself heard.

  As it turns out, Glory and Barbie are the same size, which has made facilitating Glory’s life a lot easier for us. We just ordered the Barbie cheerleading outfit complete with pink megaphone, and Glory had instant voice amplification.

  I carefully reached through the door of Graceland East, snagged the megaphone, and sat it down beside Glory on the desk.

  She thanked me, and then said, “I might have something important to say. You know, I worked in the state archives when I was a normal-sized person. I’m very good at research, even if I don’t have a clue what any of this stuff means.”

  While that statement didn’t necessarily bolster my confidence in our tiniest team member, I didn’t say that to her. Instead, I turned toward Beau who was standing in front of the bookcase to the right of the fireplace consulting a text he held open in his hand. I could just make out Rodney’s slumbering form tucked inside the collar of Beau’s shirt.

  “Hey,” I said, “So what’s the scoop?”

  Beau was so absorbed in what he was reading; he must not have heard me come in. “Ah,” he said, “there you are. I trust you resolved matters of . . . protocol to your satisfaction?”

  Getting up from the chair and joining him, I said in a low tone, “To my satisfaction, yes. I don’t know about his.”

  In an equally soft voice, Beau said, “I believe you took young Mr. McGregor by surprise with your uncharacteristic assertiveness, which he did not appear to appreciate. I, on the other hand, am quite proud of you. I do not like to see your talents downplayed.”

  “That makes two of us,” I said. “And thank you. So, what’s everyone doing?”

  “We are going through the various elements of vampiric lore in an attempt to determine the potential physical and magical capabilities of the two creatures you encountered,” he said. “Since they have already appeared to you in daylight, for instance, we can rightfully assume their movements will not be limited to darkness.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better or worse?” I asked.

  Beau ignored the sarcasm and gave the question serious consideration. “Rather worse, I should think,” he said finally, with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Gee, thanks,” I said, smiling in spite of myself. “What else are you looking at?”

  “The standards,” Beau replied. “Holy water, mirrors, and crosses.”

  I frowned. “Aren’t all of those things just movie props?” I asked.

  From across the room, Gemma spoke up. “Not necessarily,” she said. “Now that you’re starting to learn about the Grid, you may be realizing different woods have varying levels of associated power. I’m not ready to rule out crosses because of that, but we need more research.”

  Just then Chase walked into the lair. We all paused for maybe the space of a heartbeat, and then went right on with our business. He’d apparently taken the extra time to get his temper in check, so I opted for the high ground and treated him with the level of professionalism I expected to receive.

  “Has Ironweed found anything?” I asked.

  Although his tone was subdued, the earlier note of arrogance was gone. “I don’t know,” Chase said. “He’s using some new micro drones called GNATS.”

  “As in small annoying insects that stick to your sweaty skin in hot weather?” Tori asked. “‘Cause ewwwww.”

  Everyone laughed at that, easing the undercurrent of tension in the group. When Chase spoke again, his voice sounded normal.

  “Yes,” he said, “except these GNATS are powered by fairy dust and outfitted with high definition cameras.”

  “Sweet!” Tori said. “You have to get me in to see one those things.”

  “Down, Geek Girl,” I said. “Have the drones found anything?”

  “When I was with Ironweed, he did a preliminary fly over of the Ionescu compound,” Chase said. “Every one of the houses has a super-sized generator in a shed behind the residence. I imagine that’s their food source. I wasn’t able to give Ironweed any specifics about what he might be looking for, so that’s all I know right now.”

  “Actually,” Tori said, “I have some ideas in that department. Let me just throw some stuff up against the wall and see what sticks.”

  Beside me, Beau frowned. “Why do you need to throw things against the wall to share your thoughts with us?”

  “It means she’s going to think out loud,” I said. “Come on, let’s sit down for this.”

  Everyone settled in their previously claimed spots, and I nodded at Tori, “Go ahead.”

  “Okay,” she said, “so go with me on this. We know the Strigoi Sisters died in the wreck even if it was just temporary dead. And since they’re here now, somebody didn’t do the old stake/beheading two-step, which should mean those chicks have been running around as vampires for what, 35 years?”

  “Closer to 40,” Mom said. “Gemma and I were 15 the year the wreck happened.”

  “Right,” Tori said. “So where are the reports of strange deaths? They have to feed on blood, so there should be unexplained bodies piling up. I did a search online. Nothing. The only unsolved murders in this area for the past 30 years were the girls on the hiking paths, and we took care of that one. So what, exactly, have the Strigoi Sisters been eating?”

  No one had an answer for that, but Glory piped up with an idea of her own. “Maybe whoever was taking care of those girls just put a stake in their heart,” she suggested.

  “You know about real vampires?” I asked in surprise.

  “Of course,” Glory said, “I know them all. Bela Lugosi, Peter Cushing, Christopher Lee . . .”

  Right on cue, my movie trivia-obsessed mother chimed in with, “Peter Cushing didn’t play Dracula.”

  “He did so,” Glory said.

  “He did not,” Mom countered. “Cushing played Van Helsing . . . ”

  Oh, for Heaven’s sake. Not. Productive.

  “Ladies,” I said, “a little focus here. Glory, what is your point?”

  “Well,” she huffed, “in those movies, if someone staked a vampire he turned into a skeleton, but if the stake was pulled back out, the vampire got all flesh and blood again.”

  Festus, who had been staring into the fire, turned his head. “Dang,” he said, “the cocktail pickle may be onto something there.”

  “Hey!” Glory cried. “Who are you calling a pickle, you, you, you . . . yellow tomcat.”

  Turning impassive eyes toward the desk, he said, “I’m sorry, but is that supposed to be an insult? I am a yellow tomcat.”

  “Enough, you two,” I said. “Festus, is there something to what Glory said?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “What if staking the girls put them in a state of limbo? Ionescu could have kept them stashed for years.”

  “But why would he do a gruesome thing like that?” Mom asked. “He doted on those girls.”

  “Think about it,” Festus said. “The only reason the Strigoi are here in Briar Hollow is because someone thought they could be cured. Maybe Ionescu got it in his head that he could do something like that for the girls; control their transformation into Strigoi mort or even reverse it.

  I turned to Beau. “What do you think?”

  “It would seem reasonable that such an attempted cure would be a natural line of thinking fo
r a man with Mr. Ionescu’s family history,” Beau said. “Especially since your mother tells us that he was inordinately fond of both young women. Perhaps he was incapable of letting them go.”

  Gemma reached for Mom’s hand. “You remember the funeral?” she asked.

  Mom nodded. “Mr. Ionescu was completely shattered,” she said. “He sobbed through the entire service.”

  “You went to the funerals?” I asked, shocked.

  “It was a memorial service,” Gemma said. “There was just one for both of them. The actual funeral with the caskets was private. Sally Beth was Ionescu’s daughter. Her mother died when we were in grade school. Then Anton’s brother and sister-in-law were killed a couple of years later. That’s when the niece, Jo Anne, went to live with them.”

  “What’s up with the name switching thing?” Tori asked.

  “I think as they got older the girls wanted to fit in more,” Mom said. “The Ionescus have always been extremely reclusive people; homeschooling their children, never coming into town. I’m not sure why Ionescu let them go to public school with the rest of us. When we were in the 8th grade, they changed their names from Seraphina and Ioana to Sally Beth and Jo Anne.”

  “Okay,” I said, “I like this theory. But if Ionescu did manage to put them in suspended animation, why would he wake them up?”

  “Perhaps he believed that he had the means of curing or controlling them, and he woke the girls up to test it,” Beau suggested.

  “Yeah,” Festus said. “Or maybe someone conned him into believing there was a cure.”

  “Chesterfield,” I said.

  “Chesterfield,” Festus nodded.

  I turned my attention back to Chase. “When will Ironweed have more information?”

  “Late Monday afternoon or early Tuesday morning,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said, “so here’s what I think we should do. Tori and I should try to find the car so I can see if I can get a reading off the wreckage psychometrically.”

  Mom paled. “Oh, honey,” she said, “is that really necessary?”

  “It’s the closest thing we have to a time machine, Mom,” I said. “No one else was there when the accident happened. The car is the only ‘witness,’ but finding it is a long shot.”

  She looked at Dad, then at me again, blinking back tears. “I can tell you exactly where the car is,” she said softly. “They towed it to Murph Lawson’s junkyard. It’s sitting in the far back corner by the fence.”

  Dad turned on the sofa to look at her. “How do you know that, honey?” he asked.

  “Through the years I’ve . . . I’ve gone there to . . . see it,” she admitted.

  For as much as I hated to think of my mother visiting what she had always believed to be the scene of her “crime,” she had just saved us a lot of time.

  “Thank you, Mom,” I said. “That’s a big help.”

  From the stricken look on Dad’s face, I could tell he wasn’t dealing well with Mom’s admission that she had been torturing herself with those junkyard visits.

  “Hey, Dad,” I said. “I need you to do something for me. You up for a little errand?”

  I had to ask twice before he answered. “Hmm, what? Oh. An errand. Sure. What do you want me to do?”

  “Get Chesterfield’s chessboard the hell out of my store.”

  “Not that I’m objecting,” Tori said, “but is that a good idea?”

  “If Ionescu and Chesterfield are working together,” I said, “there is no way that Chesterfield doesn’t know we’ve figured out the truth about the chessboard. We can’t take even the slightest chance that he has a way to use it to get information.”

  Behind me, a pen hit the floor. When I looked over my shoulder, I saw Glory standing on the edge of the desk looking for all the world like she might be thinking about jumping.

  “I didn’t do anything bad,” she said in a choked voice. “I haven’t told him one thing since you all made me bigger and gave me a place to live and music and movies. I haven’t. I really haven’t.”

  I got up and went to the desk. At least if she did do some dramatic dive over the side, I’d be in position to catch her.

  “We know that Glory,” I said. “No one is accusing you of being in touch with Chesterfield, but there could be a chance that chessboard can work without you. Wouldn’t you feel better if it was gone?”

  She nodded so vigorously she looked like one of those dashboard dogs. “Oh,” she said, “I would. I truly would. But I’m afraid if you do anything with it, Mr. Chesterfield will find me and do something even worse than . . . worse than . . . turning me into a cocktail pickle.”

  At that, she burst into tears. I shot Festus a murderous look. “See what you’ve done?” I said. “Get over here and apologize.”

  Festus rolled his eyes, but he limped over to the desk and sprang up to the surface with surprising ease. When he put his paw out, I was half afraid he might be about to try to smack some sense into the wailing witch. Instead, he gently patted her on the back.

  “I’m sorry, Glory,” Festus said. “I shouldn’t have called you a cocktail pickle.”

  “That’s alright,” Glory sniffed magnanimously. “I shouldn’t have called you a yellow tomcat.”

  Festus started to say, “But I am . . . ” and then opted for, “No problem,” instead.

  Sometimes trying to sift through Glory Logic is just not worth it.

  18

  With the Glory drama resolved, everyone could get down to business. Beau volunteered to help Dad move the chessboard. I wanted the thing gone, but I didn’t know where to put it. Then Beau suggested a long-abandoned crypt at the back of the cemetery.

  “The inhabitants died just after the Revolutionary War,” Beau said. “They have not put in an appearance among the spirits in at least a hundred years. The crypt, however, is well built. With a chain and lock on the door, I do not think the chess set will be disturbed.”

  “Won’t somebody notice a brand new lock and chain?” Tori asked.

  At that, Darby jumped on his yellow bicycle and went tearing off into the archives, only to return in under five minutes with an old wooden box balanced precariously in the bike’s basket.

  Dad grabbed the box before it fell and knocked Darby over in the process. “Whoa there, Shorty,” he said. “What have you got here?”

  “I thought these would be of help, Master Jeff,” Darby said excitedly. “They are not new.”

  “Not new” didn’t do justice to the mass of rusty chains and ancient, massive locks in the box. I’ve always thought it was a rule that no lock ever gets stored with either its keys or the combination. You know, the way the dryer eats socks and Tupperware lids never match the containers?

  In this instance, however, every single lock sported an equally rusty skeleton key.

  “Perfect, Shorty,” Dad grinned. “You want to come with us to the cemetery?”

  That set Darby fairly jumping up and down with excitement. “Road trip!” he crowed. Then, remembering himself, he turned to me and said, “May I go, Mistress Jinx?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, would you guys get out of here already!” I laughed.

  As they went up the stairs, I called out to my father, “Take Darby to Dairy Queen while you’re out, Dad. He likes their ice cream with hot fudge.”

  Darby came rocketing back down the stairs and jumped into my arms to give me a big hug before he went trotting happily after Dad and Beau.

  That’s how things are in my world. Dark and complicated one minute; light and endearingly simple the next.

  After that, Chase excused himself, and for once, Festus didn’t linger behind on the hearth. I suspected father and son would have a long talk when they got home. So far, the evening could not have been pleasant for Chase.

  That left me, Mom, Gemma, and Tori alone for the time being. We walked upstairs into the dark store to have a look out on the square. By then it was after 11 o’clock. The band had been hired to play until midnight,
and there were still plenty of people dancing in the street.

  “Irma must be ecstatic,” Tori said. “The festival is a huge hit.”

  “Yes,” I said, “but we have to make sure that none of the attendees turn into juicy Strigoi snacks before the week is over. I think we should all stay here at the store until this business with the Sisters is resolved.”

  Gemma would bunk with Tori in the micro apartment, and Mom and Dad could stay with me. The cats would be thrilled to death to have me on the couch. There was just one nagging question. Was Tori’s dad safe at the lumberyard with the Strigoi Sisters on the loose?

  By the time that problem came up for discussion, we’d migrated to the espresso bar and were talking over a pot of tea. Tori confessed that she had been planning to drive to Cotterville the next morning and see her father anyway.

  “I think I better come with you, honey,” Gemma said. “He might listen to me and agree to come back here for a few days, just until this all blows over.”

  “And if he doesn’t?” Mom asked.

  “Then Tori can distract him long enough for me to ward his office,” Gemma said. “That may be the best we can do.”

  Tori brought the car to a stop in front of her father’s business, Andrews Lumber, which sat on the northern edge of Cotterville several streets away from the downtown business area.

  After she cut the engine, Tori and her mother sat quietly, just listening to the Sunday morning stillness.

  “I always loved this place,” Tori said finally. “When I was a kid there wasn’t a square inch of it I didn’t know.”

  Her mother’s eyes roamed over the bins of wood. “It’s the smell I love,” Gemma said. “The scent of new lumber always makes me think of your father.”

  “Guess it’s a good thing he didn’t go into pig farming, huh?” Tori said.

  Gemma chuckled and shook her head. “You get that smart mouth from me, I’m afraid. And your level-headedness from your father.”