Witchy Trouble (Witchy Fingers Book 1)

by Nic Saint

  So she dragged herself out of the bed, fished one of Estrella’s socks from her person—the same spell still at work, apparently—and slouched from the room, dragging a towel behind her. She was probably the last one up, but she didn’t mind. At least she’d have the bathroom to herself, and didn’t have to suffer the indignation of her sisters pounding on the door and telling her to hurry up.

  She hated hurrying up almost as much as she hated bright and early.

  When she arrived at the bathroom, she was surprised to find the door locked. After a tentative knock, a croaky voice announced, “Be right out!”

  Her jaw dropped a little. “Gran? Is that you?”

  “You bet it’s me! Who else would it be? George frickin’ Clooney?”

  She stared at the closed door for a moment, wondering if she was still dreaming. Gran never got up this late. She rose with the chickens—not that there were any chickens in this part of Brooklyn—and was the last one to turn in at night. Finally, she felt compelled to ask, “Are you all right?”

  “Never better!” Gran yelled. “Top of the world!”

  “Yes, well, that’s great,” she muttered, and stood there for a moment, wondering what to do. She needed to take a shower, or else she’d be late for work, and knowing Ginger, she just might take her job away this time.

  “Um, Gran?” she asked, therefore. “Are you going to be in there long?”

  In response, the door suddenly opened to a crack, and she tentatively put her finger against it and pushed it open further. What she saw startled her. Her grandmother was… waxing her legs!

  “What are you doing?!” she gasped.

  The woman looked up, and Edelie was even more surprised to find that a cigarette was dangling from her lips. She took a long drag, then croaked, “What does it look like I’m doing? Did you know this hurts like hell?” She took a good grip on a strip and yanked it off, yammering “Owowowowow! How you girls manage to do this without a little magic, I don’t know!”

  Without a little magic? “So why don’t you use magic, Gran?”

  “Don’t feel like it. Wanted to try it the old-fashioned way for a change.”

  Edelie stared at her grandmother’s hair. It had taken on a strange color. A sort of blueish, greenish, pukeish tinge. “Have you been dying your hair?”

  “Like it? It’s called Danube Blue. Picked it up when I got back from the hospital yesterday. Ronny says it’s all the rage these days.”

  “What does Ronny know about hair? Is he a hairdresser or something?”

  Gran laughed a raucous laugh. “A hairdresser! That’s hilarious! He’s a thief, honey. A burglar, in fact. Specializes in cracking safes and stuff.”

  “A thief! But… how can he be your friend?”

  “Don’t you be hard on Ronny!” Gran admonished her. “He’s a great guy.”

  This was getting weirder and weirder. “How do you even know him?”

  “Met him the day before yesterday while he was trying to burgle the house,” muttered Gran. “Taught him a lesson, didn’t I? Turned him into a pig. Look, I think I’ll stick with the one leg for now, this hurts too damn much.”

  Edelie stared at her grandmother, aghast. She never used this kind of language. “Your face!” she cried, only now taking a good look at Gran’s face. “What did you do to your face?!” It was mottled, covered in red spots.

  “Yeah, I used one of them face masks. Suppose I bought the wrong one?” She gave herself a quick glance in the mirror. “Yeah, guess I did.” Then she shrugged. “Oh, well. Can’t have it all, can you? Rich and beautiful?” She laughed again, then stepped into the shower and started undressing. “Do you mind, honey?” she asked, but Edelie had already left the bathroom, the sight of her naked grandmother not something she was willing to endure on an empty stomach.

  And she was still clutching at her head when a shrill sound pierced the morning air. It was coming from downstairs. The smoke alarm!

  Hurrying down the stairs in her black undies, she arrived in the kitchen just in time to see Estrella coughing and waving a kitchen towel at a pot on the stove, black smoke billowing up in thick, acrid clouds.

  “What’s going on?!” she cried, rushing over to open a window.

  Estrella glanced over with eyes red from the smoke, coughing a little. “Gran told me to prepare breakfast! I’ve never done it before!”

  That was true enough. Estrella might know everything about style, but she was a lousy cook.

  “But why didn’t she ask me? I’m supposed to be the cook around here!”

  “I guess it didn’t occur to her,” said Estrella.

  Edelie quickly moved over to her sister, bumping her out of the way, took out two oven mitts, grasped the smoking pot and hurried outside. Through the kitchen door she went, placing the pot on the stone terrace floor.

  “What is that stuff?” she asked as she stared into the pot. All she could see were two black strips of something that might have been food once.

  “Bacon,” Estrella said. “I guess it didn’t come out too well.”

  “You have to bake bacon, hon,” she said. “And to bake something you need a pan, not a pot. You use this pot for cooking stuff, not for baking.”

  “Oh,” said Estrella, chewing her bottom lip. “Good to know. Where is Gran, by the way? She disappeared after putting me in charge of breakfast.”

  “Upstairs, shaving one leg and ruining her face.”

  Estrella cocked an eyebrow. “She’s acting a little weird this morning, huh?”

  “A little weird? Try extremely weird,” a voice announced behind them.

  Ernestine had joined them on the terrace, and the three sisters now stood around the still smoking pot. Both Edelie and Estrella stared at their sister.

  “Stien! What happened to your hair?!” Estrella cried.

  It was as if a rat had taken huge bites from Ernestine’s hair, turning it into something from The Walking Dead.

  “I woke up when I felt something tugging at my head,” she said, sounding a little subdued, her hand stealing up to touch her ruined hair. “It was Gran. She asked if I remembered the good old times when she used to cut our hair. I said there were never any good old times when she cut our hair, only good old times when she magicked our hair and made it look super-duper. But by the time I finally managed to make her stop, the damage was already done.”

  “Looks like that hit on the head did more harm than we thought,” Edelie grunted.

  “A lot more,” Estrella confirmed.

  “She’s forgotten how to do magic!” Ernestine exclaimed.

  “Who’s forgotten how to do magic?” Gran croaked from the kitchen door. She was dressed in a ratty old housecoat, flapping around her half-shaven legs, a cigarette dangling from her lips, her hair the same ratty mess as Ernestine’s, and a very weird color too, her face still mottled and swollen.

  “Gran,” said Ernestine carefully, “shouldn’t you be in bed?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, waving a hand. “I feel like a million bucks!” Then she grinned, her eyes widening. “Hey, you know what we should do? We should go to the mall. Haven’t been there in ages! Catch a movie, just the four of us. How about that, huh?! A day out with the girls!”

  “Gran, I have to work,” Edelie pointed out.

  “So do I,” Ernestine chimed in.

  “Yeah, and I have to find work,” Estrella added.

  “Work?” asked Gran, taking a long drag from her cigarette, puckering her face into a frown. “Why work when you can have a ton of fun instead?”

  The trio stared at their grandmother. This was not the gran they knew!

  “Um, Gran?” Edelie asked. “Don’t you want to lie down a bit?”

  “Yes,” Ernestine agreed. “You don’t look too good. Why don’t you take a load off your feet while I call a doctor, huh?”

  “Doctor?! What doctor?!” Gran grumbled. “I don’t need a frickin’ doctor! I’m telling you guys; I’m on top of the world! Never felt bet
ter in my life. Now let’s have some fun, shall we?” She pointed to Estrella. “You first. I want you to fix my hair for me, hon. Go on,” she goaded when Estrella hesitated. “Cast a nice little spell that will fix my hair right up, will you?”

  Estrella cast about for the right spell for a moment and finally seemed to have found it. “Koifferato,” she muttered without conviction.

  “Louder!” Gran yelled. “And put some energy into the thing, will you?!”

  A little louder, this time, Estrella repeated, “Koifferato,” and waved her hands about helplessly. The three sisters watched as Gran’s hair started moving this way and that, then finally flopped down into some kind of blue pudding, piled high on top of her head. It looked even worse than before.

  Gran patted her hair and grinned. “Thanks, hon. Feels great. Now you,” she said, pointing at Edelie. “I want you to magic us up a nice breakfast.”

  Edelie gulped. “You want me to use magic… to fix us breakfast?”

  “Sure! What else is magic for, huh?”

  “But you always said I shouldn’t use magic in the kitchen. Not since that time I practically destroyed the house.”

  “That was a long time ago,” Gran croaked. “I’m sure you’ll do fine this time. Now get cracking. I’m starving! And you,” she said, gesturing at Ernestine, “I want you to fix the garden. Turn it into something presentable.”

  “Fix the garden? I don’t understand,” Ernestine said.

  Gran waved an arm at the garden. “Look at this mess!” she yelled. She was pointing at the rose bushes, which were in bloom and looked gorgeous, like a feast of color and scent. “I want you to turn the place into a nice patio so we can host some decent parties around here. And back there,” she added, pointing to the flower beds, “I want you to put a nice big pool. And add in a Jacuzzi, will you? Just put it where that ugly garden house is.”

  “But, Gran!” the three women yelled. “You love your flower garden!”

  “Not anymore I don’t,” she said. “I’m sick and tired of messing about, digging in the earth like a frickin’ worm. I want this garden to be something I can show off to my friends, not some sort of Amazon rainforest!” Finally, she gave the pretty little greenhouse a long, lingering look and a grin crept up her face. “And that,” she said, pointing to the greenhouse, “has got to go.”

  “Gran!” cried Ernestine. “You don’t mean that!”

  “Sure I do.” She thought for a moment. “Let’s turn it into a garage. I’ve got my eye on a few nice muscle cars, and I need some place to store them.”

  And as Gran returned indoors, the three sisters were left staring at each other, horror displayed on their features. Gran was out of control, that look said, and she was quickly turning Safflower House into the House of Horror!

  Chapter 18

  Selena Bloom née Carter was walking along Arena Street, returning from an appointment at this cute little new nail salon she’d wanted to try out, and wondered where that persistent clickety-clack was coming from. The sound had been echoing in her ears for the past ten minutes, from the moment she’d left the salon, en route to the parking garage. She’d already checked her shoes, but the clickety-clack definitely didn’t originate from her brand-new Jessica Simpsons. She’d stopped to look around, but the street was pretty much deserted, only a middle-aged lady walking a few feet behind her on the other side of the street. Figuring she was just being paranoid, she walked on.

  Tossing her blond hair, she tried not to frown, because that would only lead to wrinkles, and at the age of thirty-six she had to protect the collagen in her skin like a lioness protects her cubs. She was on Botox, of course—had been for over a decade—along with every new revolutionary cream promising eternal youth, but still her pores were widening, and minor blemishes had started to appear on her face, especially around her eyes. Her latest worry was her bust, where extensive tanning was starting to show in the form of cleavage wrinkles. Very unflattering. She’d been using silicone pads at night to smooth out the skin and prevent sagging, and even injections with hyaluronic acid to plump up the skin, and saw a noticeable difference.

  In spite of the fact she’d sworn never to frown again, she did so now, thinking about her latest dating disaster. She met Brandon—if that was even his real name—at Ruby Rourke’s party last week, where she’d been celebrating her divorce. Lyndon, her soon-to-be ex-husband, was lawyering up, but her own lawyer, a woman who’d handled several celebrity divorces and had written the book on the subject—literally—said she had nothing to worry about. She foresaw a settlement to the tune of several million, enough to continue living the life she’d grown accustomed to as Mrs. Lyndon Bloom.

  Brandon had told her he was a lawyer himself. Tall, dark and handsome, like all the men she’d dated throughout her marriage to that hapless sap Lyndon, he’d impressed her with stories about his Jag, his Manhattan condo, and his million-dollar trust fund. But when she’d called the law firm where he was supposedly a partner, they’d never even heard of the guy! He’d made up the whole story! And to think she’d invited the moron back to her place!

  She’d instantly tried his cell, but the number didn’t even exist! She’d been duped, and it irked her to no end. She was usually the hunter, not the prey.

  There! It was that clickety-clack again, and this time it sounded a lot closer, as if someone was stalking her. She whirled around but all she could see was the middle-aged lady, now walking behind her, and she looked as unsuspicious and harmless as could be. Her eyes dropped to the women’s feet. She was wearing high heels, she saw, and she almost laughed. All this paranoia for some dowdy old Carol Brady lookalike with heels. What a joke!

  She gave the frumpy housewife a cold look and walked on. She was passing a graffiti-sprayed wooden fence, put there to hide one of Brooklyn’s eyesores: an abandoned construction site. She briefly glanced through a gap in the fence, and wrinkled her nose in disdain when she saw the maze of concrete pillars and girders rising up from a gigantic pit in the ground, twisted pieces of rusted rebar lending it an H. R. Giger feel.

  She didn’t notice, therefore, that the woman was fingering her ring finger intently, her eyes focused on the back of Selena’s head. The ring, a gold band with a nice yellow diamond, was sparkling prettily in the New York sunshine. Just then, the stone popped from the ring and morphed into a small hoop that slowly drifted in the direction of Selena, spinning gently in midair.

  With a soft crackle, it slung itself around her neck, and the effect was like a sudden heat around Selena’s throat, and her hands instantly moved up to try to relieve the burning sensation. But instead, tension started building, pressing into the soft tissue of her throat, and before long she realized she couldn’t breathe! She whirled around to cry for help, but the woman simply stood staring at her, eyes wide in obvious delight. And those eyes, she now saw, were the blackest black she’d ever seen.

  She was being dragged toward the gap in the fence, and then she was squeezed through, tension around her neck still building, and then she was hurled over the edge, her terrified screams cut off by the murderous device choking the life right out of her.

  Mercifully, Selena passed out even before she hit the bottom of the pit.

  Chapter 19

  Sam got the call as he walked out of the Manhattan branch of Brigham Shatwell empty-handed. The skinny woman behind the counter looked harried, working her way through a long line of customers. Apparently, they were a man or a woman short, for the queue was crazy, even for a Brigham Shatwell. So he walked, cursing under his breath, and just then his phone rang. He picked it up with a gruff, “Yah.”

  “Sam, better get over to Brooklyn. The body of a woman was found…” The dispatcher hesitated before continuing, “It’s Lyndon Bloom’s wife.”

  “Oh, Christ,” he muttered, putting his phone away and hurrying over to his car, where Pierre sat waiting patiently.

  His partner looked up, his face falling when he saw that Sam wasn’t carrying any gi
fts in the form of Brigham Shatwell coffee or donuts.

  “Sorry, the line is too long, and we can’t afford to wait,” he grunted as he crawled behind the wheel. “We’ve got ourselves another homicide, buddy. Lyndon Bloom’s wife.”

  “Oh, crap,” Pierre said, looking distinctly unhappy. Whether he was unhappy about having to start his day without the best coffee and donuts in town or that one of New York’s premier financiers had just lost his wife was hard to say. Probably the former, Sam thought as he put the car in gear, switched on the bubble and stomped on the accelerator, the Ford Crown Vic screeching away from the curb. Pierre had a sweet tooth and liked his donut of a morning. In fact, it was rare not to see him munching on something.

  “Where?” Pierre finally asked, when his donut mourning period was over.

  “Arena Street. Happened just now.”

  And as the car sped on, Sam thought he caught a glimpse of a beggar who stood eyeing him curiously from the sidewalk. He grinned as Sam zoomed past, a single silver tooth in his mouth. Sam held up his hand in greeting, and the bum returned the gesture, visibly pleased. Perhaps the guy liked cops?

  They arrived at the scene and found the place already crawling with cops, putting up police tape to cordon off the area. He haphazardly parked the vehicle and joined the throng, Pierre close on his heels. And as he ducked under the police tape, he saw a familiar face. It was coroner Angela Jacobs.

  He nodded a greeting to the stony-faced woman. “Fancy seeing you here, Jacobs.”

  “Fancy that, Barkley,” she returned, unmoved.

  Either the petite dark-haired woman was one of those anomalies who didn’t possess facial muscles, or she simply didn’t like to use them. Whatever the case, she had but one expression, and it wasn’t a very friendly one.

  He followed Jacobs as she made her away along the fence, then crawled through an opening. Sam had a little trouble negotiating the gap, as he was a great deal taller and bigger than the fine-boned coroner, but he finally managed, and so did Pierre.