A Murder in Hope's Crossing

by Brooke Shelby

  Sharon plopped her muddy, gloved hand on Maggie’s hand, evoking a cringe from the poor woman from the cold dirt on her warm skin. “You owe me no such thing, doll. No such thing, but I will have some cookies. You are possibly a better cook than Clara herself.”

  “Thank you,” Maggie said and held out the basket. “I already have them in a dish. Just take off the cling wrap. I didn’t want them to get wet.”

  It was clear that Sharon was tipsy from the drink in her hand that she promptly replaced on the little table. The drizzle colored the entire panorama in a spooky mist of oblivion that Maggie found quite beautiful, even with Sharon’s eyesore yard within sight. Next to Maggie, Sharon was crunching on the butter cookies, offering her the plate. Maggie had to join her so as not to let on that the cookies were tampered with, so to speak.

  “I am so glad you came, Maggie,” Sharon muttered through a mouthful of crumbs. “So nice to see you again. You are a bit of a recluse.”

  “Not really. Just been busy,” Maggie sighed.

  “Busy being locked up for nonsense, I’d say,” Sharon blurted, rather surprising herself.

  Great. That was blunt. Maybe the truth serum is working, Maggie thought in amusement.

  “Nonsense indeed,” Maggie agreed, thinking about the fiasco at the jail.

  “Nobody with an ounce of common sense will believe that crap, Maggie,” Sharon said firmly, grabbing her next cookie. “You must know that. I want you to know that. I want you to be sure that not all the townspeople are against you. Many of them loved Clara and her magic brews. How could they not? Her witchcraft was good and clean and wholesome.”

  “Whoa,” Maggie uttered inadvertently.

  “True!” Sharon affirmed. “Let us not fool ourselves. We both know what she was, and it was because of me, Maggie, that she came to a terrible end! My fault!”

  “Why do you say that? You couldn’t harm a fly,” Maggie played along, but she could see that Sharon was ready to talk.

  “Ha! No, I could not, but my bloody tongue when I am drunk …” she paused, her chest heaving and falling as the guilt gripped her once more. “I was drunk and I said too much, Maggie. My God, I said too much, and I caused that lovely woman’s death.”

  “Wait, take a breath, Sharon,” Maggie consoled her.

  “No, you have to know. You must know the truth. It was my big mouth and alcohol breath that admitted in front of all those church people that Clara’s curative soup was a magic brew to heal the children. Me! I exposed her, but I swear, Maggie, I never meant to!”

  Maggie took her hand and caressed it with her thumb, allowing Sharon to spit it all out and hopefully spill solid information in the process. Sharon Blake did not disappoint.

  Maggie urged gently, even in her shock at the revelation. “Why would they go as far as killing her over soup, Sharon?”

  “Because they believed that she was a witch and that alone must have spurred someone to actually kill her for it!” Sharon rambled, her eyes once more welling with tears. “They must have spread the news until it reached someone who actually had a black enough heart to do that to her.”

  “Who, though? Who did you tell, Sharon?” Maggie pressed, trying not to push too hard, but she was so close now that her heart was beating madly.

  Sniffling, Sharon looked up in recollection of that night. Her eyes darted across the porch roof as she tried to remember. “Um, let me see. There was Sheriff Walden …”

  Bingo! Maggie thought.

  “… and his daughter. There was Oroville Chance and his mother-in-law Bettina,” Sharon named them and then looked at Maggie. “That is the woman they accused you of killing the other day.”

  “Yes, I know,” Maggie rushed in, not keen to hear about it again. “So the sheriff and the son-in-law both heard you say that?”

  Sharon nodded affirmatively, crunching on the last cookie.

  This confirmed Maggie’s suspicions, although she could not narrow them down to one suspect. Both Sheriff Walden and Oroville Chance had been present when Clara’s secret came out. Both men were big in stature. Both men knew where she lived.

  23

  As Maggie returned home, she found Bramble sitting at attention.

  “Well?” he asked. “Did she spill it? I wager that she spilled it.”

  Maggie nodded and put down the empty basket minus the cookies and wine. “She leaked, and then she broke the dam.”

  “Told you so,” he said with no small measure of self-satisfaction. “And are you any wiser for it?”

  Maggie sighed wearily. “I know for sure that Aunt Clara was killed for being a witch. I also know that Sharon told a group of people that Aunt Clara’s soup was a magical brew.”

  “Curses,” Bramble said.

  “And in that group, both the men I suspect were present, so I cannot be too far off,” she speculated. “Oroville Chance. I don’t know him at all, but for some reason I am thankful I don’t. Then there is Carl Walden. They were both there when Sharon blurted.”

  “Drunken wench,” Bramble scoffed. “Knew that one day she would do something idiotic. Just never thought it would come to something so deadly, so serious. Stay away from her, my dear, before she does you the same courtesy.”

  “It is not like they don’t already think that of me anyway, Bramble,” she reasoned. She sighed as she put the kettle on. “I am just disappointed that Carl is involved at all, even in a suspicious capacity.”

  “Why?” Bramble asked curiously.

  Maggie stared at her familiar. She knew she was supposed to trust him with her life, that she could tell him anything and everything, yet she felt awkward in discussing her personal feelings.

  “You like him, don’t you?” the cat beat her to it. His tone was so casual that Maggie felt more at ease by admitting it. After all, if Bramble already knew she liked Carl, he would not be taken aback with an affirmation.

  “I do,” she moaned, pulling a face. “I don’t want to. No, I mean … I want to like him, but I don’t want to like him and suspect him at the same time.” She sank down on the chair and played with the coffee mug between her hands. “I mean, he did actually arrest me, you know? It’s just that this not knowing is driving me mad. Why do I always attract maniacs?”

  Bramble had a few good ones, but he refrained from pestering her—for now.

  “Just bake more cookies and feed him some. See what he says,” Bramble advised her. “I’ll take honey with my tea, thank you.”

  Maggie gasped. “Sorry, Bramble. My head is not on straight.”

  “Ugh, don’t I know it,” he sighed as she quickly grabbed his favorite tea bowl to prepare his Earl Grey with honey and mint.

  “You know, I might just do that,” she replied. “The truth cookies.”

  She gave this a lot of thought over the next day. There were no illusions in her heart. She had to know somehow, but she was not desperate enough to force herself to do such a conniving thing again. It took a lot of mulling over, but she prepared for any eventuality regarding Carl Walden’s knowledge. Having finished another batch of marjoram butter cookies, she was still contemplating actually using them.

  Just before she opened the store for the day, Maggie elected to put the cookies on a display tray for her customers. In the end, she did not like the ethics of what she desired here and she folded under the iron of congeniality. Maggie tried to keep busy while the day drew on, but she could not help but start a little every time someone entered her shop. After all, the last person who did utterly spoiled her day, not to mention that she was now cold and stiff in the worst way.

  As if Maggie’s very soul was wary of the town, she found herself alert to passersby. It felt as if the Reverend Mason was watching her, although the notion was quite preposterous. Maggie sensed that he was in some way lurking, keeping a keen eye on what she was doing, and she hated it. She hated it mostly because she could not prove it and she could not still the unrest it stirred in her deeper consciousness.

  A giant silho
uette darkened her door and startled Maggie. It was the sheriff. He gave her a skewed, uncomfortable smile as he stepped inside.

  “Did I scare you? Sorry if I did,” he said awkwardly, holding his hat in his hands.

  “No, no,” she smiled, but when she looked into his dark eyes, her heart begged to speak the truth, like a marjoram curse. “Well okay, yes. You scared me. I have just been a bit on edge today.”

  “More than usual?” he jested, immediately examining the silver tray and green doily that presented some scrumptious cookies. He looked at Maggie’s cat, grooming himself in the light of the afternoon sun.

  He is going for it! Shall I stop him? No, don’t stop him. You want to know what he is thinking, what he knows, her inner self argued with her. Leave it. Don’t make it look as suspicious as it should be. Let him eat, dammit. It is, after all, why you made them!

  “May I?” he asked, his huge hand halfway to the tray.

  No!

  “Yes, of course,” she chuckled nervously. “All yours. On the house.”

  “Thanks,” he smiled. Maggie tried not to notice that Bramble had perked up in curious fascination.

  “So, to what do I owe the honor of the sheriff’s patronage today?” she fished.

  He shrugged, trying to sound civilized through a mouthful of marjoram cookie. “Nothing, really. Just thought I would come and check on you.”

  “Checking if I left town?” she asked inadvertently. Maggie could not help it. Her wit was faster than her tongue and utterly merciless. She regretted it the moment it left her lips, but he took it in stride.

  “Yes, Maggie. Just dying to slap the cuffs on you again,” he said, taking another cookie. Maggie could not help but notice the naughty glint in his eyes at the mention of the cuffs. It made her heart jump and her face flush and she had to change the subject quickly.

  “So, between you and me,” she started, “who do you really think committed these murders?”

  Work, cookie, work! that inner voice begged.

  Licking his lips and wiping his mouth a bit ruggedly, Carl swallowed before he spoke, leaving Maggie on tenterhooks. “Um, well, all I can say is that personally I believe both murders were committed by the same perpetrator. Of that, I am certain.”

  “Oh okay,” she answered, trying to figure out what exactly that meant.

  “Well, I see you are in good spirits and don’t need the assistance of the law right now, so I had better be off,” Carl said.

  “Suave, that one,” Bramble said, but Maggie had to pretend that the meow was just incidental.

  “All right, sheriff, have a good day further,” she smiled, pursing her lips in frustration as Carl gave her a smooth salute and left the shop.

  Maggie swung around to look at Bramble. “What a crock!” she said. “These cookies are about as potent as a teabag in the ocean! What a scam! How come he said nothing honest? These cookies are crap, man.”

  Bramble sighed and leaped onto the counter, eating one of the cookies without explanation. Licking his lips and cocking his head, he only had one thing to say to her.

  “Nope, it works. Here is what I think. I honestly and truly think you are an idiot for giving up so quickly, Miss Corey. Get it together. See? Truth.”

  24

  In the newspaper delivered to Corey’s Herbs and Simples every day, Maggie saw something interesting that she construed as a sign of sorts. She was thumbing through the large pages, looking for a local car parts shop when she saw the Obituary section.

  “Bramble,” she said, “there is a notification of Bettina’s funeral. Bettina Reece, 48, of Hope’s Crossing, taken too soon, blah blah blah.”

  “That is monumentally insensitive of you, Maggie!” Bramble exclaimed from his comfy spot on the windowsill. “I love it.”

  “No, seriously,” she replied, “she was a total bitch, even upon first meeting, and you heard her. She had it in for me from the moment she walked in here. I am not sorry she is dead, and I am done lying to myself just because I am trying to be a good person. Besides, it is just you I am talking to.”

  “Just me?” he gasped. “I resent that.”

  “You know what I mean,” she smiled and stroked his back. “Just you, as in, only you and no other ears. Only you, the only one I can trust to be honest with.”

  “All right, all right. Enough with the thick smearing. I get it,” he purred, craning his neck to get optimal affection from her absentminded petting. “Are you going, then? Do you think it is a good idea for the evil witch to show up at the funeral of her victim?”

  “Quite the opposite, methinks,” she replied, staring out the window onto the bustling street, ripe with goth tourists on their way to Salem and bored retired wine connoisseurs. “If I show up to pay my respects, people will see that I am just a normal woman with morals.”

  Bramble scoffed and coughed a fit.

  “Oh shut it,” she grinned. “Seriously. I didn’t know her and I really didn’t like her, but I am not a monster.”

  “Why do I feel that you have some underlying agenda in attending Bettina’s funeral, my dear?” he meowed lazily. He knew Maggie as well as he knew her aunt. After all, they were blood, and blood carried strong associative traits that could not be denied. Not even Maggie herself realized how well her new familiar knew her mannerisms and thoughts. Her blue eyes fell sternly on him as she lodged her hand on her side.

  “Why do you always think the worst of me?”

  “I never said it was a bad agenda, did I?” he asked. “I can just tell that you are up to something. Something more than paying your respects. Look, Maggie, you are simply not someone who allows injustice to triumph, and I think that is a very decent attribute you have there. Your aunt had it too. I know you are going to Bettina’s funeral to see what you can uncover about her and her relationships, but what I do not know is to what end you wish to risk your reputation again.”

  “Maybe I just want to see who is there and see if I can accidentally overhear something that might help me find the killer. You never know. Grief loosens the inhibitions of people and just maybe I can get some information on that unsavory cur she had a tiff with before she ended up beaten to a pulp, you see?”

  “I see,” he merely acknowledged.

  “What? No speech?” she asked.

  “Nope. I was curious about your agenda and you told me. Plain and simple,” he explained. “You have to remember that I am on your side, my dear Maggie. No matter how I bicker and tease, in the end, you are my witch, and I am bound to you with affection and mostly, security. I make sure you don’t step in something you can’t wipe off and I assist you in every way you need me.”

  She picked him up and cuddled him. “Aw, thank you, my darling Bramble.”

  “That is lovely,” he sighed with mock impatience. “So what are you going to take? Flowers? Napalm?”

  Maggie put him down and giggled as she rounded the counter. With a gleeful smirk, she lifted the tray of cookies, meager as they had become after the sheriff’s visit.

  “Oh dear!” he said, impressed. “You had better get started on the batter, then, Miss Corey. Defender of the innocent. Interrogator of culprits.”

  “I had better, yes,” she nodded with a sly glimmer in her eye he at once recognized as the Corey cunning he so adored.

  The following day, Maggie did not bother to attend the church service of Bettina’s funeral, for several reasons. She especially did not need to see or engage the foul Reverend Mason, so she elected to join the procession and then proceed to the gathering to deliver her cookies. In fact, the very act reminded her of Aunt Clara and the soup sneaking, and for reasons equally serious.

  Not surprisingly, her presence caused a murmur of discontent among some of the townspeople, not to mention the gaunt and miserable countenance of Reverend Mason, who presided over the wake. The mayor was there too, visibly recoiling from the beautiful Corey woman as he backed into a corner to eat what was on his small plate.

  Everyone knew t
hat Maggie Corey was not to be trifled with, simply for the fact that she had a hell of a lawyer, if her enemies were lucky enough to suffer her litigation approach and not her magic. If only Maggie knew how they had come to fear her now.

  “The gall of that woman,” she heard someone whisper from the small, churning crowd. “She kills Bettina and then dares to show up for her funeral?”

  “That is disgusting,” another replied. “Not to mention evil. Only serial killers are that sick.”

  “Enough said,” said another.

  Maggie tried not to let them get to her. If she could find the killer, they would all feel like fools and come groveling for her forgiveness. Then she could gloat.

  Dressed in her best black attire, Maggie waited at the table where she had placed the marjoram delights. The delectable confection she’d brought filled the air with a wonderful smell, quite the opposite of the atmosphere of the wake. On the other side of the table, she noticed the vacant expression of the freakish Oroville, just standing about with no decorum. His slapdash suit was clearly made for a man six inches shorter as his hands dangled from the cuffs that practically sat halfway up his forearms.

  He must have bothered some to do whatever he deemed as grooming, in that he’d shaved for once, and parted his greasy brown hair in an attempt to look presentable. Maggie winced at the sight of him. A lug of brainless muscle with questionable breeding, he locked eyes with her as she approached him. She could see the disdain in his face.

  Geez, pal, it looks as if you just tasted your own earwax, she thought as she smiled and presented her cookies.

  “I am so sorry for your loss, Mr. Chance,” she lied sweetly. “I baked these for you, hoping that you would at least feel a bit better after your mother-in-law’s passing. Please feel free to let me know if there is anything I can do.”

  Without hesitation or ceremony, he lashed his hand out to the cookies and started crunching them down. Maggie was repulsed by his eating habits, as she’d suspected she would be. Oroville’s eating habits were on par with his appearance and he snorted like a swine as he swallowed down the first two cookies, looking at her with no small amount of suspicion.