A Murder in Hope's Crossing

by Brooke Shelby

  17

  “We will call you as soon as it’s ready, yeah?” the greasy towing guy grinned at Maggie. He was quite taken with the very good-looking young woman who’d called his towing company to handle her vehicle’s repairs. “Insurance people said they will discuss who pays what and what not, ’kay?”

  Maggie tried to be civil to the man who made no secret that her shape appealed to him. His beady black eyes darted up and down her body as he spoke, instilling a sickening repulsion in her man-radar.

  “Um, ’kay,” she repeated as she signed the clipboard document.

  Deep inside, she scheduled a reprimand for Carl Walden. He was the one who’d referred her to Guido’s Towing in Danvers because he knew the family and Guido’s was not too far off the 95.

  “You be okay without wheels for the weekend, miss?” the man asked. “I bet a lady like you don’t like stayin’ at home over weekends, right? Right?”

  His dirty cackle and suggestive manner made her cringe, but he was giving her a substantial discount thanks to Carl Walden’s influence (no doubt consolidated by her pretty face as well) and she had to tolerate his messy repartee.

  “No, I will be home,” she said emptily, desperate for a snide retort. Sadly, such a manner might jeopardize her discount, so she opted for a boring answer.

  “Pity,” he scoffed with a smile he mistook for charming. “Me myself too will be busy with work over the weekend, so no fun. Then again, looks like youse have some nasty weather coming.”

  All Maggie could muster was an understanding nod, while her brain screamed for him to scram. He studied the rapidly graying sky before getting in the tow truck. He started the powerful engine and pulled away with a gloat that threatened to make her laugh aloud.

  “My God, you really think you are Tony Soprano, don’t you?” Maggie chuckled as she walked back to her porch.

  He was right, though. The weather was restless and the news said that it would continue throughout the weekend. It was relatively good news to Maggie. With her car absent and the streets wet enough to keep the riffraff away from her house, she had ample time to study Aunt Clara’s volumes. A gentle rumble inhabited the vast cloudy skies, promising a lengthy downpour soon. Maggie started a fire in the hearth and procured a good bottle of wine. She decided to make a ceremony of her little family history education and used the couch as her chambers.

  Friday night turned into Saturday morning, but she hardly noticed. In fact, her brain was so busy that her liver never noticed the onslaught of the entire bottle by 2:00 a.m. Like this, she spent her whole weekend in leisure and literature, unperturbed by the inimical town and egged on by the wonderfully wet weather that clamored on her porch roof.

  “Look at this,” she muttered under her breath every time she discovered something that surprised her. “The Corey name was famous for Giles Corey, the man who was pressed to death, crushed with rocks by the town authorities. They accused him of being a witch? Geez, I see primitive thinking has not changed one bit after all these centuries past.”

  The thunder clapped outside the old house and Maggie assumed it was applause for her correct assumption. She read in disgust how the original Corey and his wife were persecuted by witch hunters in Salem, how Giles Corey refused to plead, even under the force of brute torture for three days. Bramble’s voice echoed in Maggie’s head: Clara fought right to the end, Maggie. I suggest you read through all her books so that you can appreciate the stock of your family.

  The stock of her family. Maggie smiled. Even by only this one account of the tenacity and spite Giles Corey exhibited she should be proud, she thought. To be from a bloodline where people did not surrender to evil men with greed and hate in their hearts was indeed an honor. Once more, she was reminded of how her troubles of hard words and harsh looks were nothing compared to what her ancestors and Aunt Clara suffered for the sake of what they were—innocent.

  “Bramble, your pork rillette hand pies are on the dining room table,” she muttered indifferently as the feline shadow lurked into the corridor. He descended the stairs from where he had been napping on her bed. Maggie had her nose squarely in one of Clara’s books, which pleased Bramble no end, and he elected not to tease or remark on the delicious pork odor that woke him.

  “Riveting reading?” he asked in passing.

  “Positively spellbinding,” she smiled and winked.

  “Told ya so,” he called with a groan as he jumped up on the table where his porcelain dish awaited.

  “Giles Corey was a badass, even at eighty-one years of age,” she mentioned, but she soon realized that she was talking to herself. Bramble never paid attention to anything less significant than his feasts. Maggie read on and found passages referring to another family, people who had many foes in Salem. They were, however, apparently in cahoots with the Corwin clan, and due to mounting tension between them and several rivals, this family had left virtually on the heel of the surviving Coreys. Shortly after the Salem witch trials concluded on record, this family had followed the Corey family.

  Maggie read the rough handwriting of Clara’s rushed page:

  They arrived in the new settlement we Coreys established (ref Elizab Moulton), acting like charity cases willing to help raise the place founded, but they were affiliated with Corwin’s bastards. Now baptized Hope’s Crossing (ref Samuel Corey), the Masons and Reesewalts fled Salem only to attempt usurping the new town from the Coreys.

  “Reesewalts?” Maggie frowned. “Never ever heard that name.”

  Her mouth twisted in anger when she read the passage.

  “Mason. Now that is a name I have been unfortunate enough to have heard,” she hissed. Maggie paged back to find a reference point for the marked brackets.

  “Who is Elizab Moutlon?” she scowled as she fumbled through the previous chapter and then back again. “Ah! There you are. Elizabeth Moulton, daughter of Giles Corey, extorted by Corwin, yap, yap, yap. Geez, these Salem leeches really dug into the Corey family.”

  At once, Maggie found another piece she was looking for.

  Founded in 1653 by Samuel Corey, Giles Corey’s eldest son (wife Della—hex)

  Hope’s Crossing named for Hope Corey, their daughter, who would go on to become a legendary healer and midwife.

  “Bramble, I cannot make sense of the scribbles Clara left in the margins and on the bottom here,” Maggie asked her familiar.

  “Not had pudding yet!” he exhorted her. “No information seems to come to the fore.”

  Maggie laughed, though she was frustrated by the delay she would have to tolerate to serve the cat’s sweet tooth. After all, his tributes were the key to his assistance.

  “What do you prefer?” she asked.

  “Do you have mousse?” he asked plainly. “I am feeling mousse-y tonight.”

  “Oh, a quick treat then,” she said, relieved. “Done.”

  She whipped out the ingredients as the rain pelted the windows.

  “I am glad you are getting into the guts and glory of the Corey line, my dear,” he remarked.

  “Not just them,” she said as she worked. “Guess who was a rival family?”

  “No! Really? You don’t say! Let me guess. Mason?” he gasped sarcastically.

  “I know, right? Looks like he and his filthy family have been trying to lord it over this town with their biblical hypocrisy for centuries. Ooh, it makes my blood boil!” she seethed, stirring the mixture roughly in her malcontent.

  “Careful with that delicate recipe,” he cautioned.

  “Speaking of recipes,” she answered without thinking twice, still stirring vigorously, “I see so many untried recipes in the books, all scattered about like quick notes. Did Clara ever try them?”

  Bramble scoffed. “You still don’t get the magic thing at play here, do you, my dear?” He laughed hoarsely at Maggie’s befuddled look. “Those are not recipes. They are magic spells Clara created and jotted down.”

  “Ugh, I would rather just stick to the magic spells I kno
w—cooking,” she jested. “Not too keen to just go and conjure up stuff I have no idea of.”

  However, thinking back on the interesting ingredients and intriguing ‘poems’ she’d read along with them, Maggie had to admit that she was, for lack of a better word, charmed by the idea.

  18

  The weekend was gone and so was the rain. Over the small town of Hope’s Crossing, the sky was clear, but some people noticed an unusual concentration of ravens flying over the main street and settling on the roof of the church. On their way to the local diner, some tourists took pictures of what they called ‘the ominous signs of dead souls’ traveling over Hope’s Crossing. It was rather fascinating that the birds flocked on the church roof and spire, as if foretelling where the true omens came from.

  Although the sun was shining, the morning was plagued with whipping gusts of wind that lifted some loose trash up in swirls and carried it to the next block. Dust blinded passersby on the sidewalks and businesses kept their doors closed on account of the vicious rattling that threatened to break the glass. It was warm, but unpleasant, and the still-wet soil and grass made for a strange and awful smell under the sun.

  Carl Walden was on his way to the Corey residence. He had not slept since Sunday morning and naturally that had gotten him a stern talking-to courtesy of Reverend Mason. The minister simply did not want to conceive of the pressures that Carl was under, let alone how tired he was. Nobody cared that the police department was understaffed and that Sheriff Walden had to juggle almost all aspects of the station by himself, save for three other subordinates. He was exhausted.

  Reverend Mason and the mayor both treated Carl and his department as a personal armada on the doldrums of Hope’s Crossing. Carl was fed up with it, but he had no choice. Between the two main men of authority, he was legally obliged to serve them. However, being lectured about loyalty to God and disrespect to his representative just because he missed Sunday church service was scratching at his patience.

  Now this.

  Carl had been up since 6:00 a.m. with less than three hours’ sleep and he knew that this next visit would be the worst part of his day. He parked in front of Maggie Corey’s house and took a moment after he switched off the engine. In the passenger seat, Deputy Hill sympathized with him, but she kept quiet. She knew how heavy the yoke of Sheriff Walden’s duties had become.

  “Wait here. I’ll call you when I need you,” he told her.

  “Yes, sir,” she replied obediently.

  “God, this is going to be a long day,” he muttered as he exited the car.

  “That’s what the crows came for, I suppose,” she answered in the suddenly dead-silent car. “Maybe them birds really do ferry souls to the land of the dead.”

  Carl knocked at the door and waited. It was a big house and his common sense dictated that he give Maggie some time to reach the front doors. While he waited, the large gruff sheriff looked at the empty drive next to Maggie’s house. It reminded him of the car problem she’d called him about and he regretted not having gotten to her at all after he’d texted her Guido’s number and hooked up a deal with them. Carl hoped that the referral absolved him somewhat from breaking his promise to come and see Maggie for her to lodge a formal complaint.

  He knocked again, but this time he barely knocked before she opened the door. It was obvious that Maggie had still been sleeping when he called at her door.

  “I am so sorry to wake you, Maggie,” he immediately apologized.

  “Well,” she groaned while she wiped her eyes, “better late than never. Come in.”

  Her hair was loose, for once, cascading down her slender body. The ends of her hair bounced off her buttocks as she walked barefoot, the loose pants she wore dragging along her feet on the floor. Carl felt terrible.

  “Um, Maggie, I am afraid I am not here about the vandalizing problem,” he rambled quickly, to get the first stab in and out. His face begged to cringe, but he kept the poker face of all professional law enforcement officers.

  She turned and folded her arms, leering at him. “Oh? Then do tell, please.”

  He sighed at the effort of avoiding his personal opinion in what he was about to say.

  “I am here to question you,” he started, but stopped with a look of extreme discomfort.

  “About what?” she asked. The beautiful woman raised her eyebrow at him, making him wish he was not a cop.

  “Can we sit?” he asked.

  “Sure. Do I need a drink for this?” she jested, but in truth, it was her keen witch senses imposing a sixth sense on her wits.

  “I would not advise it right now,” he replied, “although I wish it was a privilege I could afford us both.”

  “Just say it, Carl,” she said.

  “This morning a well-known woman in town was found dead,” he sighed. “And I just want to ask you about …”

  “What in the name of God is going on, Carl?” she shrieked suddenly, those icy eyes burning again. He raised a hand and closed his eyes for a moment.

  “Please, just listen,” he said.

  “No! You are questioning me about a dead woman? Seriously? Me? Why me?” she wailed, her chest heaving and falling as she panted.

  “Well, you see, she was in your store on Friday, and from what we were told, several witnesses saw you two having words,” he recited the statement.

  “Oh,” she nodded calmly. “I remember, yes.”

  “You do? Good,” he tried to conduct the interview, but neglected to remember who he was talking to—Maggie, Queen of Sarcasm.

  “Of course,” she said. “Let me show you the greenhouse, where I keep every customer of my shop after I kill them.”

  “Maggie,” he whined, shaking his head.

  “No really, let the witch show you where she keeps body parts for black magic,” she hissed through a clenched jaw. “Do you even hear what you are insinuating? How did she die?”

  He took pause.

  “She died exactly like your Aunt Clara did,” he revealed. “Brutally beaten to death.”

  The revelation stunned Maggie to momentary silence. It was uncanny. Both women had something to do with her and they died in the same way?

  “Was she a witch too, just like my aunt?” she carried on. “I see that rumor seems to be the common denominator for murdering women in this town.”

  “She was a church woman, I’ll have you know. A firm supporter of the teachings of Reverend Mason and prominent member of this society,” he informed Maggie.

  “That means nothing in this town,” she grumbled. “That just means the hypocrites of Hope’s Crossing are getting their comeuppance, but it is unfortunately not at my hand. A girl can wish, though.”

  “Maggie, please don’t say stuff like that. That is incriminating, you know?” he advised. “I left my deputy in the car because I knew you would say something reckless that would affirm speculation and then you would look irrefutably guilty.”

  “That old girl was hefty, Carl. Explain to me how all of my 130lbs could possibly beat her to death,” Maggie defended. “More so, I would have had to follow her home to do that, and I could hardly catch up to the maniac …” Maggie stopped abruptly and gasped.

  “What?” Carl asked.

  “The man she was with! He waited in the car and they had some sort of heavy argument before they sped off like a bat out of hell!” she recounted. “He is muscular and tall. Have you questioned him or are suspects restricted to small-framed women?”

  Carl shook his head. “That man is Oroville, her son-in-law, Maggie. He would never lift a finger to Bettina. The guy lived completely under her thumb and did everything she told him. He would never harm her.”

  “Hfm,” she scoffed, “sounds exactly like the right psychology for a guy to snap, but hey, what do I know?”

  “Look, the mayor is breathing down my neck to charge you for this. They already suspect you of Clara’s murder, and now you have an argument with Bettina and she ends up the same way,” he tried to elucidat
e.

  “Can you just, for a moment, try and fathom what you are claiming, sheriff?” she reiterated. “This is ridiculous! Oh, and I am fully aware that it is not just the mayor breathing down your neck. It must be so taxing to carry the demon reverend and a crooked politician on your shoulders at the same time, huh?”

  Carl knew that she was right, much as she was defiant and talked to an officer of the law as if he were an idiot and an errand boy. However, he felt that this was exactly what he was and there was not a thing he could do about it unless he wanted to lose his job.

  “Please get dressed, Maggie,” Carl requested politely.

  By now, she had given up trying to talk sense into him. She knew he was in a corner, but still she resented him for not even trying to restore justice by defying the mayor and the insidious preacher. She stormed upstairs, shouting and slamming doors as Carl summoned Deputy Hill to assist in the arrest.

  As the ravens cawed on the church roof, a handcuffed Maggie Corey stepped out on her porch with no tears and no words. Her cold blue eyes were sharp. As Deputy Hill carefully ushered her down the steps, Maggie’s eyes landed on the tall black figure that leered from a safe distance.

  “Coward,” she smiled at him, and he promptly vanished into the other direction behind the thick hedges. In dismay, Carl Walden looked at the same figure with a defeated expression. He was aware of the brutal injustice that he was forced to enforce and it made him sick.

  19

  While Maggie was in the county lockup, Bramble set out to help. He knew that her temperament was not fit for life in jail, let alone life in a maximum-security prison. She had been gone all day thus far, which assured him that she was probably not just there for an innocent bout of questions to satisfy the town elders to make her life difficult. This was serious.

  Maggie had passed the stage of anger as she sat in the small detention room assigned to her while she was waiting for news on new developments. She was proud of herself for not throwing a tantrum while in questioning (although she had lost her marbles in front of Carl this morning) and she used the time and solitude to formulate a way to get back at the mayor and the preacher. They had to be supremely knocked down a few notches and pulled out of the dark ages, but how?