Witch at Odds: A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 2 (The Jinx Hamilton Mysteries)

by Juliette Harper

  The streets were deserted when I turned my cherry-red Prius onto the courthouse square and steered down the narrow alley behind the shop. There is one good thing about driving a hybrid when you’re trying for stealth; they’re very quiet cars.

  I parked under the new carport and we all got out. Well, Tori and I got out. Beau was just suddenly standing there, and Darby must have scrambled over the front seat and followed one of us through a door. When I asked if he was okay, I got a quiet, “Yes, Mistress,” from the vicinity of my right elbow.”

  After I unlocked the back door, we all trouped into the shop. I hadn’t even managed to lock the door behind me before Darby popped back into view and scurried to the center of the store, where he dropped to his knees, bowed his head, and said, “Your Majesty, forgive me I did not know I would be in your presence this day.”

  Your Majesty?

  A small beam of light fell on Darby’s bowed head, and flower petals rained down around him.

  The little brownie raised his head. His expression was absolutely joyful. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said. “I am very happy to see you as well.”

  He was talking to Myrtle.

  “I’m afraid I do not understand,” Beau said.

  “Join the club,” Tori said.

  They both looked at me, as if I knew what the heck was going on.

  “What?” I said. “Why am I supposed to be the one with all the answers?”

  “Hello?” Tori said. “Resident witch?”

  “Oh, right,” I grumbled, “because I’ve so been knocking that one out of the ballpark tonight. Okay, Myrtle, what gives with the royalty thing?”

  Darby inclined his head as if listening to someone, and then said, “Her Majesty has asked me to say to you, ‘A girl is entitled to her secrets.’”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Very funny, Myrtle,” I said. Turning to Darby, I asked, “What is Myrtle, exactly?”

  He looked at me like I’d grown a second head. “She Who Has Always Been,” he said.

  “Darby, come on,” I said. “Can I get a straight answer here, please?”

  The brownie tilted his head to the side again and appeared to be concentrating. Then he said, “Her Majesty says that she is exactly who you have always known her to be, and I am to tell you that she has reconsidered the issue of the paint and is willing to look at the Cerulean Blue again.”

  Behind me I heard Tori say, “Yes!” I’m sure there was an accompanying fist pump, but I was too tired to turn around and verify that.

  “Okay, fine, whatever,” I said. “I'm too tired to deal with this right now. Myrtle, can you take care of Darby while we get some sleep?”

  I was answered with the three-note trill Myrtle used to signal agreement.

  Turning to Colonel Longworth, I said, “Will you be okay, Beau?”

  His eyes were fixed on the Confederate Veterans Memorial across the street on the courthouse lawn. “If you are in agreement,” he said, “I think I will spend some time there on the lawn thinking about my comrades in arms and perhaps take a stroll around the square.”

  “Okay, that’s fine,” I said. “We’ll see you later.”

  As Tori and I started dragging ourselves upstairs, I looked back to see Darby apparently in rapt conversation with thin air. I was guessing he and Myrtle had a lot of catching up to do.

  When I opened the door of the apartment, we were greeted by four fixed and steely feline gazes. The breakfast service was running almost two hours behind.

  “I’ve got this,” I told Tori, who was already headed for the couch.

  She mumbled something that sounded like “thanks” before collapsing into the cushions. I fed the cats and stretched out on the bed, being careful to set the alarm on my phone. I swear I hadn’t even closed my eyes before the dang thing went off. Tori was still snoring in the other room, so I took a quick shower before I woke her up.

  “Hey,” I said, shaking her shoulder lightly, “I’m heading downstairs.”

  “What time is it?” she mumbled.

  “ A little before 8:30,” I said. “Mark and the guys will be here in half an hour and I need to open up.”

  “Okay. I’ll be down in a few,” she promised.

  I left her sitting on the couch blinking in the morning sunlight that was streaming through the front windows. She looked like a disgruntled owl with partially magenta feathers.

  Darby was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs with a steaming cup of coffee in his hands. “Good morning, Mistress,” he said. “I took the liberty of preparing a hot beverage for you.”

  Maybe Tori had a point about this house elf . . . excuse me, house brownie, concept.

  “Darby, you are an angel,” I said.

  “No, Mistress, angels are. . . .”

  I held up my hand to stop him.

  “Don’t tell me,” I said. “I’m not awake enough for more metaphysical creatures right now.”

  That’s when I took a sip of the coffee.

  Oh. My. God.

  How do you describe heaven in a cup?

  Not only was the brew fragrant, strong and smooth, but it slid into my nervous system with quiet authority. I felt every cell in my body start to wake up.

  “What did you put in this?” I asked.

  Darby smiled. “It is to your liking?”

  “Very much so,” I said, “but I still want to know what you put in it.”

  “Nothing, Mistress,” Darby said earnestly. “I found a selection of coffee beans in your storeroom. Rodney was quite gracious in explaining your daily routine to me.”

  Rodney explained my routine?

  “You had a conversation with Rodney?” I interrupted.

  “Of course,” Darby said, blinking, “it would have been rude of me to ignore him.”

  Literal much?

  “Fine. We’ll sort that out later,” I said. “Go on about the coffee.”

  “As I was saying, I found a selection of beans and merely mixed them to achieve the right blend,” Darby said. “I also cleaned your coffee machine, calibrated the grinder, and adjusted the internal thermostat to reach the optimum level for brewing.”

  “What century did you say you’re from?” I asked.

  I meant it as a wisecrack, but again, literal.

  “I was last in service in the 19th century, Mistress,” Darby said helpfully.

  “Okay, let me rephrase that,” I said. “How did you know to do all that with the coffee and the machine?”

  “Oh,” he said, “Her Majesty introduced me to the Internet last evening.”

  Okay. Hold the phone. Myrtle was jacked in?

  “She did, huh?”

  “Yes,” Darby said happily. “You now have a Facebook page showcasing the products in your store, as well as a Twitter feed and an Instagram account.”

  It was a good thing he gave me the cup of coffee first.

  “Darby,” I said, as patiently as I could, “I think you better show me what you’ve been up to.”

  When I followed the little guy into the storeroom, I was shocked to see Rodney sitting in front of my laptop peering at the screen.

  “And just what do you think you're doing?” I asked, sitting down in the easy chair and peering over his shoulder.

  Rodney pointed at the screen, which was displaying my new Facebook page — which already had 1,200 likes. The feed was full of photos of the renovations in progress, and a lot of upbeat posts about the new “coffee house.”

  I wasn’t sure who did the typing —the rat, the brownie, or the store, — but they made for one heck of a social media team.

  Fifteen minutes later, Tori was sitting beside me with her own cup of hot coffee, perfectly laced with half-and-half. Two sips in, she turned to me and asked, "Oh my God, what is in this? I feel like I've had 10 hours of sleep."

  "Darby says he didn't do anything but blend the beans," I said. "Wait until you see what else he and Rodney have been up to.”

  She was staring ope
n mouthed at the screen of the laptop.

  “You did all this?” she asked Darby, who was so pleased with himself he was almost dancing in place.

  “With assistance from Her Majesty and Rodney,” he said graciously.

  “Jinksy,” she said, clicking a few keys, “we have better than 3000 followers on Twitter already. There are people on Facebook planning to come visit us when they drive the Parkway. And look at these pictures Myrtle put on Instagram. You have to let me keep working with these guys.”

  Raise your hand if you think I stood a chance of stopping them. Anybody? Anybody?

  “Fine with me,” I said. “There’s your job, Darby. Help Tori make our coffee shop a success.” I paused and then added, “And keep greeting me every day with a cup of this stuff.”

  Hey, I have to get some personal perks out of this situation.

  “With pleasure, Mistress,” Darby said happily.

  When I left the room to go open the shop for the day, Rodney was sitting on Tori’s shoulder, and she and Darby were deep in conversation about the wisdom of getting on Pinterest. We still had a cemetery full of ghosts to put back in their graves, but in general, things didn't seem to be getting worse.

  Note to self. Never allow yourself to think that things aren’t getting worse.

  Halfway to the front door, Beau Longworth materialized in front of me. “Miss Jinx,” he said, “I fear we have complications.”

  7

  In case you don’t know it, Southerners can have a real talent for understatement. The complication in question? Howard McAlpin.

  During Colonel Longworth’s exploration of the town square, he wandered into City Hall only to discover His Honor the Mayor attempting to reclaim the reins of power.

  “He did what?!” I exclaimed as Beau described what he witnessed.

  The Colonel patiently repeated himself. “In a fit of pique, Mr. McAlpin swept the current mayor’s desk clean of its contents.”

  “And how did the mayor react?” I asked.

  “Which mayor?” Beau asked.

  “Beau,” I said in exasperation, “the living one.”

  “Fortunately, the window of his office was open and he has allowed himself to believe that a rogue gust of wind was responsible,” Longworth answered.

  I looked across the street at the trees on the courthouse lawn. Not a leaf was stirring. The power of human beings to deny what is right in front of their eyes should never be underestimated.

  “What were Howie and the councilmen doing when you left?” I asked.

  Howie and the Councilmen. Now there’s a band name for you.

  “The deceased mayor appears to be particularly interested in the county land office,” Beau said. “He was there when last I saw him.”

  Just then, Mark and his workers arrived. We said our good mornings, and my contractor brought up a sore subject with me. “Have you decided about the downstairs bathroom remodel?” he asked.

  If we were going to open a coffee shop, we had to have public restroom facilities. The downstairs bathroom at the shop was in perfect working order, but the fixtures were old, noisy, and only dubiously up to code.

  “Mark, seriously, not today,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said, accurately reading my expression, “but you have to make a decision this week. If you wait for the inspector to give you the thumb’s down, I’m already going to be on another job.”

  I promised to let him know by the next day and excused myself to go into the storeroom. After I filled Tori in on what Beau told me, I said, “I’m going over to City Hall and see if I can get Howie to knock it off. You’re in charge.”

  “Take your bluetooth headset,” Tori said.

  Oh for God’s sake.

  “Tori, I am not going to have time to call you and give you a play by play,” I said.

  “I don’t want a play by play,” Tori said. “If you’re wearing your headset and you start talking to yourself, nobody is going to think anything about it.”

  Oh.

  “That’s actually a really good idea,” I admitted.

  “I have them,” Tori snarked.

  As much as I hate to admit it, I went for an extremely adult response. I stuck my tongue out at her.

  As Beau and I started across the street to the courthouse, he said, “May I ask what you are planning to do?”

  Making a show of touching the headset in my ear, I said, “First, we need to find Mayor McAlpin.”

  “Do you have any legitimate business with the local government?” Beau asked.

  “I could stop by Inspections and Permits and see if we’re still set for them to take a look at Tori’s apartment Friday,” I suggested.

  “While you are doing that,” Beau said, “I will locate Mr. McAlpin.”

  Divide and conquer. I liked it.

  The courthouse was an old, cavernous building with cool, echoing halls tiled in moss green. I passed the Sheriff’s Office and waved to the dispatcher, repeating my greeting to the County Clerk. Even though I hadn’t been in town long, I already knew everyone who worked in the courthouse and in the businesses that lined the square.

  In the Office of Inspections and Permits, Sally Martin greeted me with her usual enthusiasm. “Why, Jinx Hamilton! Bless your heart, honey, how are you today?”

  Yes, there are alternate meanings to the phrase “bless your heart.” This was the good one.

  “Hi, Sally,” I said. “I’m good. How about you?”

  “Oh, I’m just fit to be tied,” she said, sighing heavily.

  Here we go.

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “M.J. is supposed to be mowing my grass today and danged if that man isn’t off fishing again,” she said.

  Her husband, M.J., is the best fisherman in the county. He’s famous in these parts for putting off an emergency appendectomy long enough to weigh in his catch at a bass tournament, and near legendary for his yearly trips to Oklahoma to compete in a noodling tournament.

  Noodling involves catching catfish by getting in the water with them and sticking your hand in the fish’s mouth. I kid you not.

  Anyway, I took a minute or two to commiserate with Sally. My Mom is a fishing widow, too, so I knew all the right things to say. At the appropriate juncture in the conversation, I asked about the scheduled inspection.

  Sally looked at me funny and said, “Sugar, you could have called to ask me that question. Of course I’m gonna send Louie over. He’ll be there first thing Friday morning.”

  Since I didn’t want her to think I was questioning the efficiency of her office, I said, “Oh, I know I could have called. I just wanted an excuse to get out of the shop. Mark and the guys are working on the coffee shop today and all that hammering is driving me nuts.”

  That was an excuse no one would dispute, and Sally launched into her own story of enduring a home remodel the year before. Just then, I saw Colonel Longworth standing in the hallway trying to get my attention.

  I had to stand there and listen to Sally long enough to make it sound like I cared, which involved making sympathetic noises and nodding a lot. Finally, she took a breath and I said, “Well, I guess I have to get on back to the store. I can’t play hookie forever.”

  “Well, I do feel for you, sugar,” Sally said. “You hang in there, now.”

  As I started for the door, something suddenly occurred to me. “Sally,” I said, turning back toward her, “did you know a man named Howard McAlpin.”

  “Lord God in heaven,” she said, “I sure did. What in the world made you ask about that jackass?”

  I had another story ready that no one would disbelieve. “Oh, I was cleaning out more of Aunt Fiona’s stuff and found an old campaign poster of his.”

  My aunt’s approach to inventory can best be described as “pack rat.” Five years from now, I could still be telling people that I was “cleaning out her stuff” and they’d believe me.

  “I don’t doubt that,” Sally said. “He used to wallpaper the tow
n with those danged things every election. He died in office back in ‘83, and it was good riddance to bad rubbish if you ask me.”

  “Oh?” I said, innocently. “Why do you say that?”

  “Well,” Sally said, lowering her voice, “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but Howard’s main reason for being mayor was to line his own crooked pockets. He was doing everything he could to drive the little stores in this town out of business. I’m really surprised that Fiona would have had one of his posters.”

  “Did I mention it was ripped in two?” I improvised.

  Sally chuckled. “That sounds about right,” she said.

  “Why was he trying to shut the small shops down?” I asked.

  “Rumor had it that he had a kickback deal with one of those big ole super stores like Wally World,” she said. “You know how they just swallow up the local economy when they move in.”

  “So what happened?” I asked.

  “Well, Howard was found dead at his desk,” Sally said.

  I was already not liking the sound of this.

  “Heart attack?” I asked.

  “Oh no,” she said. “He had a swordfish bill stuck right through his heart.”

  Now let me tell you something. By virtue of the fact that I am a southerner, I am used to hearing strangely dichotomous statements come out of people's mouths, but that one got even me.

  “He was murdered with a fish?” I said.

  “That’s what the official report says,” Sally said, with a bemused smirk.

  Now she had me hooked. Pun intended.

  “Okay, I’ll bite,” I said. “What really happened?”

  “He fell on a fishing trophy,” she said, her eyes sparkling with barely suppressed mirth.

  “The trophy was shaped like a swordfish?” I asked.

  “Yep,” she said. “A brass swordfish.”

  By this time, Beau had stepped into the office as well and was clearly as fascinated by this story as I was.

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “Howard was into deep sea fishing,” she said. “The trophy was a gaudy brass swordfish mounted on a marble base that sat on his desk for God and everybody to see. Dang thing weighed a ton. Howard tripped on the mat under his chair, fell on top of his desk, and ran that swordfish’s bill straight into his heart. Bled out right there like a stuck pig.”