Hotter Than Spell

by Annabel Chase

  “I resent the implication that I only come to you on official business,” I said.

  Evian brightened. “You mean you’re not here with your tourism hat on?”

  “Oh, I definitely am,” I said, and felt a pang of guilt when I noticed her crestfallen expression. “I need as much coverage of the competition as you can offer. From the time it starts in the morning, until the winners are announced that night.”

  Evian consulted her schedule. “I blocked off from nine to nine.”

  “No, that’s not enough,” I pleaded. “You’ll need to be there far later than nine to include coverage of the winners.”

  “I’ve been playing songs by the participants all week,” Evian said. “Thanks for that list, by the way.”

  “You’re welcome. There’s going to be a lot of talent in one place,” I said.

  “What about Skye?” Evian asked. “Will she be covering it for The Town Croaker?”

  “Of course, but that won’t print until the next day,” I said. “I want the music to be piped into every establishment on the island possible. The only way to do that is through the radio station.”

  “It’ll be a nice break from ’80s music,” Evian said. She inclined her head. “The bands won’t play ’80s music, will they?”

  “They’re not cover bands,” I said. “They play original songs.”

  Evian wiped her brow. “Phew. Thank Goddess for that small mercy.” She marked her schedule with a red pen. “Fine. I’ll continue live coverage for as long as you like.”

  I tensed. “Really? What’s the catch?”

  Evian smiled. “What makes you think there’s a catch?”

  “Because I’ve known you far longer than I’d like to.”

  “That’s a bit mean.” She pretended to sulk.

  “Where’s Paul?” I asked, craning my neck to see around her desk. Sometimes Evian brought him to work with her. I tended to leave Gerald at home to take care of domestic duties.

  “He wanted to hop over to the pond today,” Evian said. “Do a little sunbathing. I was tempted to say no, but I’m trying to support his independence.”

  “The pond in the woods?” I queried.

  Her brow furrowed. “That’s his usual hangout. Why?”

  After what happened to Clover, I figured I’d better warn her about the flying monkey problem. Ugh. I hated to say this when she was finally making an effort to extend Paul’s leash.

  “You should have him steer clear of that area for the time being,” I said. “Have him stick close to home.”

  “Why? You’re one of the people harping that Paul needs a break from me every now and again. And he values his ‘me time.’”

  “He also values his life.” I shared what happened to Clover, and Evian gasped.

  “They have to be coming from that hellhole,” she insisted.

  “That’s the running theory,” I replied. “I’m going to set them on the highway back to hell as soon as I’m able.”

  “I’m glad Clover’s going to be okay,” Evian said.

  “Me, too, but maybe she’ll finally learn a lesson and stop playing dead,” I grumbled.

  Evian suppressed a smile. “You really hate that, don’t you?”

  I didn’t respond. “Do you remember Skywalker?”

  Evian burst into laughter. “How could I forget that sweet boy battling branches with a lightsaber? He was amazing!”

  “He’s even more amazing now,” I blurted out before I could stop myself.

  Evian arched an eyebrow. “Is that so? Do tell.”

  I was stuck now. I’d raised the topic, after all. What did I expect to happen?

  “I just mean he’s very successful. He’s a pilot.”

  She studied me. “How is that successful in your eyes? You hate the idea of flying. You flunked Broomstick 101 because you refused to leave the ground.”

  “And it destroyed my GPA, too,” I said hotly. That fact still rankled me.

  “He still goes to the Cottonmouth Copse,” I said. “It’s his thinking spot.”

  “Does he pack any heat?” She laughed at her own joke. “And, by that, I mean his lightsaber.”

  “No, but he sometimes brings his Great Dane, Leia.”

  She laughed again, clutching her stomach. “His dog is named after Princess Leia? Classic.”

  “He seems incredibly nice,” I said. “I feel bad about what we did to him.”

  Evian shrugged. “Look, those kids weren’t exactly welcoming to us when we left St. Joan’s.”

  “But Lucas wasn’t one of them,” I objected. “We only pranked him because the opportunity presented itself, not because he deserved it.”

  Evian fiddled with the pen on her desk. “I guess that’s true. Well, what do you want to do about it now? We can’t go back in time.”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I’m feeling guilty, that’s all.”

  “There’s something new,” Evian said.

  I shot her a quizzical look. “Why the sarcasm?”

  “No reason.”

  I pressed my palms flat on her desk. “There’s obviously a reason or you wouldn’t have said it.”

  Evian put her fingers to her lips and turned an invisible key, then tossed it over her shoulder.

  “Your vault is weak,” I said. “I can get it out of you if I really want to.”

  “Then maybe I’ll reconsider our arrangement for the Battle of the Bands.” Evian offered a smile of sugary sweetness. “Goodness me, Kenna, are those tears? But you’re usually so reserved.”

  Water splashed onto my cheeks and I touched the so-called tears. “Very funny, Evian.”

  “Reducing yourself to waterworks to get your way. Really now, Kenna.” She clucked her tongue. “I would have thought such behavior was beneath you.”

  “There’s going to be a pit of lava beneath you in about two seconds if you don’t back off,” I warned.

  “You have such violent tendencies,” Evian said. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “You’re just jealous because your best move involves wet pants.”

  Evian twirled her finger in the air. “It can be awfully embarrassing, especially for a neat-freak like yourself.”

  The twirling finger was my cue to leave. “This conversation isn’t over, Aquawitch.”

  “It is for now.” She wiggled her fingers at me. “Toodles.”

  I left the radio station in a huff. My witchy sisters had a way of getting under my skin like no others. Why was Evian under the impression that I suffered from some kind of post-traumatic guilt? I mean, we were all scarred by the Incident. I wasn’t any worse than the other three.

  Standing on the pavement, I realized that Marta’s Vineyard was at the far end of the block, on the corner. There was no time like the present to confirm Tiffany’s story.

  Marta Hammond was a stout woman with wiry hair, usually pulled up in a severe bun. Her hair was the color I dreaded—not the sleek silver some women were blessed with as they matured, but the dull, lifeless gray that reeked of old age and decay.

  “Kenna, what a nice surprise,” Marta said. She stood in the birdhouse aisle, swapping out price stickers.

  “Hi, Marta,” I said. “How’s business?”

  “Not too bad,” she said. “It’s cyclical, like most businesses. What brings you by? Something for your garden?” She paused. “I tried to order you a custom armadillo lawn ornament, but no one seems to make them.”

  “Can’t say I’m surprised,” I shrugged, “but I appreciate the thought.” And I was grateful for their non-existence. The last thing I wanted was a metal armadillo on my front lawn. My garden was perfectly symmetrical. A lawn ornament on one side would unbalance the landscape.

  “How’s everything going?” Marta asked. “I don’t suppose you’ve snagged yourself a serious boyfriend yet.”

  Marta seemed to think every woman’s goal in life should be marriage, quickly followed by children. One some level, it was amazing that she ran her own shop. The
n again, she only started the shop after her husband left her for another man. Hal Hammond was one of those men who seemed obviously gay to everyone except Hal and Marta. It was only when famed performance artist Rodrigo Gomez came to the island to perform in the mud pits that Hal experienced his sexual awakening. Hal quickly swapped his overalls for skinny jeans and his wife for Rodrigo. The happy couple moved to the mainland five years ago to escape the scrutiny that followed. Despite Marta’s experience, she still seemed to adhere to a certain belief system that tied a woman’s success in life to her marital status.

  “I’m too busy to worry about that,” I said vaguely.

  “I have plenty of attractive young men shopping in here,” Marta said. “I’d be happy to set you up.”

  “Save them for yourself,” I replied.

  She chuckled. “They’re far too young for me. I’m lucky if I can attract the attention of the gentlemen at the senior center. Even the eighty-year-olds want to date fifty-year-olds. That puts me out of the running.”

  I felt a pang of sympathy for Marta. It couldn’t have been easy, dealing with Hal’s abandonment under the watchful gaze of the whole town. Five years later and Hal was still in wedded bliss with Rodrigo, while Marta toiled away amongst birdhouses and pink flamingo ornaments.

  “I have a fulfilling life,” I said. “I love my job and I have the best armadillo a person could ever hope for.”

  Marta set down her pricing gun. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but do you still think of yourself as married to God? Because maybe that’s the problem.”

  I bristled. “There’s no problem, Marta, and I do not think of myself as married to God.” The convent had been the coven’s cover story for St. Joan of Arc, a cover story I bitterly regretted as an adult woman still stuck in Eternal Springs. I felt like I’d never shake the reputation loose. Maybe that was half the reason no guys ever asked me out.

  “You know, if you’re saving yourself for marriage, there are plenty of things you can still do…”

  I cut her off immediately “Marta, as it happens, I’m not religious, but thank you for the tutorial.”

  Marta pursed her lips. “I guess that’s the result of the fire, huh? Did you feel like God punished you and your friends?”

  Murder investigation or not, I was beginning to regret stopping in here.

  “I prefer not to talk about that time in my life,” I snapped. That much was true. While I couldn’t put physical distance between the island and me, I could put emotional distance between the Incident and me.

  “Perfectly understandable,” Marta said. “A terrible shame about that dead saxophonist, isn’t it?” Marta gave a sad shake of her head.

  “Dead saxophonist?” I said.

  She blinked in confusion. “Aren’t you the one who found him?”

  “Oh, you mean Pete.” I actually felt relieved. For a split second, I thought the island had another musical victim. “He was a drummer.”

  Marta slapped another price on a birdhouse. “Drug overdoses are such a tragic waste of a life.”

  I felt my blood pressure begin to rise. “Who said it was a drug overdose?”

  “He took too much pot,” she said matter-of-factly. “He was trying to boost his energy level for his performance.”

  I smacked my forehead. Did I need to educate this woman on marijuana? Because I really didn’t want that job.

  “The toxicology report hasn’t come back yet,” I said. “And pot…You can’t…” I shook it off and focused on the reason I was here. “I understand you were with Pete’s wife when he died.”

  Marta appeared surprised. “Was I?”

  “She said she was here discussing a delivery with you that morning,” I pressed.

  Marta kneaded her earlobe, thinking. “Which morning was it? Tiffany was here recently. I remember we talked about more bee ornaments.”

  That made sense in conjunction with Tiffany’s statement. “It would have been Tuesday. Does that sound right to you?”

  Marta’s eyes lit up. “Yes, yes, it does. After she left, I had an appointment with my podiatrist to deal with my bunions. That was Tuesday.”

  The bell over the front door jingled as someone else entered the shop.

  “What have we here?” Buddy ambled into the shop, assisted by Mitzi. She looked like she was about to collapse under the strain of his ample weight. “Kenna, I hope you’re here to talk Marta into coming to the Battle of the Bands.”

  “But who would mind my shop?” Marta asked.

  I took the opportunity to pump Buddy for information. “Have the results of the toxicology report on Pete Simpson come in?”

  “Um, not yet,” Buddy said, in a way that suggested there was a snafu with the report. “These things take time, but I have no doubt drugs are the culprit.” He said the last part loudly, as though other people were in the shop who needed to overhear.

  “Mitzi, I really enjoyed this week’s show,” I said. The woman had to have a rough life, sleeping next to Buddy every night. I figured I’d throw her a bone.

  Mitzi cheered slightly. “Thanks, I didn’t know you were a fan.”

  “I listen all the time,” I said. “It’s very soothing.” Like anesthesia.

  “Listen, Kenna,” Buddy said. “I’m not sure why you’re hanging around Marta’s Vineyard when you should be out there making me…I mean, Eternal Springs look good.” He was doing that thing when he tries to sound charming, but ends up sounding like a pompous ass. In other words, he spoke.

  Marta interjected, “She was asking me about…”

  “Lawn ornaments,” I said. “I’ve been thinking about adding a splash of color to my yard.” I didn’t want Buddy to know I was skulking around town asking questions about Pete. He’d accuse me of undermining his authority, which I kind of was.

  “Good thinking,” Buddy said. “The house is a nice shade of purple, but everything else is white and black. You could spruce it up with some orange or green.”

  I fought the urge to gag. Instead, I forced an enthusiastic smile. “Thanks for the idea. I’ll take it under advisement.” I turned to Marta. “It was great to see you. I need to get a move on or my schedule will completely fall apart.”

  Buddy wagged a finger at me. “As long as your big event doesn’t completely fall apart. I’m counting on you, Kenna Byrne. You know what happens to people who let me down.”

  You eat them? I wanted to ask. “Failure isn’t in my wheelhouse, Buddy.”

  At least I hoped not, or there was a lot more at stake than a music competition.

  Chapter Seven

  I trudged up the front porch steps and unlocked the door. Although the day was only partially over, I felt ready to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head. Naps weren’t in my nature, but sleep looked very appealing right now. I attempted to open the door, but it only budged an inch. What the hellmouth? I peered inside the house to see what was blocking the door and realized that it was my couch.

  “Gerald,” I yelled. “Why is my couch blocking the door?”

  I am frightfully sorry, miss, Gerald said. Not to worry. I’m working on a solution right now.

  “A solution for what?” All I wanted to do was get into my house and relax, listen to a little Mitzi on the radio, and release the stress of the day.

  I think it would be best if you waited to come inside, Gerald said. Perhaps you could go down to the coffee shop for a bit. Head to the beach or perhaps visit a friend?

  “Visit a friend?” I queried. “Gerald, let me in right now.” I didn't wait for him to respond. Instead, I pushed the door as hard as I could until there was a gap large enough for me to climb over the couch. I stood in my living room, gobsmacked.

  “What in the Goddess’s name…?” The furniture looked as if it had been arranged by a toddler group. The contents of the kitchen cabinets seemed to have found a new home on my living room floor. Things were…messy. My throat was too dry to speak.

  I warned you, miss. Gerald appeared fr
om upstairs. This won't be good for your mental state.

  My eyes bulged. “You think?” Everywhere I turned was a punch in the boob. Every single thing appeared to be out of place. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  Quite the opposite, Gerald said. I was researching an organizational spell, one designed to kick in automatically whenever something is out of order and make it right.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “You suffered a setback.”

  It's merely a glitch, Gerald said. I'm quite sure I can mend it, but I need time. I was not expecting you home so early or I would have held off on the experiment.

  I struggled to control my breathing. I felt an anxiety attack coming on if I didn’t get out of here soon. “Does the whole house look this bad?”

  I would advise you not to go upstairs, miss. It's much worse.

  “Worse?” I shouted. How could it be worse than what I was seeing down here? I couldn't bear the thought.

  Please go for now, Gerald said. I can assure you I’ll have this back to your usual high standards before teatime.

  “You'd better,” I said, pointing a finger at him, “because Stuart is looking pretty good to me right now.”

  From outside the living room window, I heard a muffled cry of joy.

  I pulled the sofa away from the door so that I could escape. I didn't want to say anything to Gerald that I’d regret.

  I went to climb on my scooter and immediately noticed its condition had changed. Although I'd left it only for a few minutes, Zola had managed to get to it. I guess my help with Clover wasn’t enough to stave off her retribution. The entire scooter was covered in the island’s famous mud. Leave it to the earth witch to use mud in her prank. I knew why she’d done it, but her timing couldn't have been worse. I was already apoplectic about my house. This was not helping my mood.

  “Incoming,” Stewart called. “Out of the way.”

  Instinctively, I took a step back. It was a good thing, too, because Stuart swooped down with a bucket clenched in his beak. He tipped the bucket over the scooter and dumped scratch doused it with water. It wasn't enough to remove all the mud, but it was a good start.