Charms & Witchdemeanors (Wicked Witches of the Midwest Book 8)

by Amanda M. Lee

  “Even though it’s kooky?” I asked.

  Landon grabbed the front of my T-shirt and hauled me up to the tips of my toes before planting a scorching kiss on me. “Even though,” he said when we parted. “Do you promise to be careful?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you promise to call me if things get out of hand?”

  I nodded again.

  “Then go,” Landon said, releasing my shirt. “Hurry back as soon as you can. Even if I only get a few minutes with you before we go to sleep, I’ll take it. I feel like I’m going through Bay withdrawal we’ve had so little time to spend together.”

  “Oh, that’s sweet,” Thistle said. “Will you be excited to see me when I get back, Marcus?”

  Marcus shrugged. “Don’t wake me up when you come in. I have to be up early.”

  Thistle frowned. “Where’s the love?”

  Marcus leaned over and gave her a sweet kiss. “Hiding until you get Aunt Tillie out of the guesthouse,” he replied. “Be good, and don’t be mean to Clove.”

  “I’m never mean to Clove,” Thistle countered.

  “Oh, whatever,” Clove said. “You’ve been mean to me all day.”

  “That’s because you’ve been whining all day,” Thistle shot back.

  I shot Landon a rueful smile. “And Clove worried things would be different once she moved out of the guesthouse.”

  Landon planted his hands on the side of my face so he could kiss my forehead. “Some things will never change, and that is one of them. Hurry up and do this, and then get your butts back here. I don’t want to give Noah a reason to be suspicious.”

  “What are you going to tell him we’re doing?” I asked.

  “Chick things.”

  “Do you want to be more specific?”

  “I’m sure I’ll figure something out,” Landon said. “I am a professional, after all. It will be a breeze.”

  Twenty

  “I’m never doing that again,” Clove announced, dumping the graveyard dust into a baggie and shaking the potion ingredients so they mixed completely. “You know how I feel about cemeteries. I can’t believe you made me do that.”

  Thistle rolled her eyes. “We gave you the option of staying in the car while we collected it.”

  “You wanted me to stay in the car alone in a cemetery parking lot,” Clove said. “How is that safe?”

  “It’s not even nine yet,” Thistle snapped. “There are kids still playing in their front yards.”

  “And listening for the ice cream truck,” I added.

  Clove refused to let it go. “But they’re not playing in the cemetery, are they?”

  “I can’t even talk to you when you get like this,” Thistle said, shaking her head. “Next time I suggest we bring Annie. She’s braver than Clove.”

  That was an interesting suggestion. “Did anyone else catch the way Annie’s eyes lit up when Clove grabbed her boobs at the dinner table tonight?”

  “Yeah, she liked it,” Thistle said, smiling. “She’s funny. Her crush on Marcus is adorable.”

  Thistle doesn’t like most kids, but she has a soft spot for Annie. We all do. When Belinda finally got on her feet and moved, we would miss her. That didn’t look to be happening any time soon, though.

  “Aunt Tillie saw Clove messing with Noah, too,” I said. “She thought it was funny. I guess that means she has the sense of humor of a child. I think we already knew that, though.”

  “She was drunk,” Thistle said, turning so she could face Clove in the back seat. “Are you ready?”

  Clove nodded. “I made it so we just have to toss it on the threshold,” she said. “The spell will last only an hour. I didn’t want to risk something happening and us not being able to remove it. I also tossed a piece of hair from all three of is in it so we’ll be immune. We don’t want to accidentally get stuck telling the truth.”

  “Yeah, that would suck,” Thistle said. “That was a good idea. Let’s do this.”

  We climbed out of the car and headed toward the senior center. The music pulsing from inside caused me to smirk. I recognized it, but sadly only from repeated viewings of Dirty Dancing. “You don’t think they’re putting Baby in a corner, do you?”

  “Oh, man.” Thistle made a disgusted face. “I can’t believe you brought that up. Now I’m going to picture them doing dirty dancing moves. You don’t think skirts are flying up in there or anything, do you?”

  “They would throw a hip out,” Clove said, widening her eyes when Thistle scorched her with an accusatory look. “What? That wasn’t rude, just honest.”

  “I’m sensing a double standard here,” Thistle said. “We’re not allowed to say anything mean but you are? How does that work?”

  “It’s karma,” Clove explained, tilting the baggie on its side and dumping the contents on the front walk. “I’m sweet and nice, so I get to say the occasional nasty thing. You’re always mean, so you can’t afford the bad karma.” She pressed her eyes shut and whispered a short spell over the ingredients.

  “That makes absolutely no sense.”

  “It does if you have good karma,” Clove said, opening her eyes and dusting off her hands. “Are we ready?”

  She wasn’t thrilled with the cemetery portion of tonight’s festivities, but she appeared excited for the dance. I couldn’t help but be suspicious. “Why are you in such a good mood all of a sudden?”

  “I think senior citizens are cute,” Clove said, wrinkling her nose. “I’m excited to see them dance. We only get to see our senior citizen dance when she’s naked, and that’s terrifying. These senior citizens will be clothed … er, well, hopefully.”

  “You’re extremely odd sometimes,” Thistle said. “You know that, right?”

  “You have purple hair and you’re calling me odd? That’s rich.”

  This would get out of hand quickly if I didn’t put a stop to it. “We’re all odd,” I said. “How about we take this show inside and be odd in there?”

  “I’m only agreeing because I want to get home before Marcus goes to sleep,” Thistle said. “Otherwise I would throw down and shove a mud pie in her face.”

  “Duly noted,” I said.

  “And that’s why you have bad karma,” Clove said, laughing as she scampered away from Thistle’s slap and followed me into the senior center.

  I don’t know what I expected. I went to dances in high school, and unless they were for a special occasion they basically consisted of muted lights, Top 40 music and wandering hands. This was something entirely different.

  “What the … ?” Thistle’s mouth dropped open as she took in the scene.

  The center’s main room served as a place to play cards and drink coffee during the day. Once a month, though, it apparently turned into a John Travolta movie from the seventies.

  “I didn’t know they still made strobe lights,” Clove said, gaping at the twinkling orb turning in the middle of the ceiling as a group of women gyrated beneath it.

  “I didn’t know they still made balloon arches for anything other than ‘Under the Sea’ proms,” Thistle said, running her hands over the festive archway as we stood beneath it. “This is just … so eighties.”

  “The music is from the seventies, though,” Clove said.

  “That music is from the fifties and sixties,” I corrected. “The music from the seventies was much more … .” I couldn’t find the right word.

  “Suckier?” Thistle suggested.

  It wasn’t the word I was looking for, but it wasn’t incorrect. “Pretty much.”

  “Wow,” Clove said, shaking her head. “Look how everyone is dressed. The women are in dresses and the men – both of them – are in suits.”

  “And they’re real suits, not like those tracksuits I see all the old guys wearing at Wal-Mart,” Thistle said, amused. “This is like traveling through time or something. It’s … far out.”

  I couldn’t stop myself from laughing. “It’s trippy.”

  “It’s … rad,�
�� Clove said. “Wait, that was an eighties thing, right?”

  “Close enough,” I said, scanning the crowd. Most of the women were split between the tables and the dance floor. Kenneth and Arthur sat at one of the tables regaling the women with stories. Because they were the only ones in the room boasting at least a hint of testosterone, they were the hit of the event.

  “Look how popular they are,” Clove mused. “I wonder if Aunt Tillie knows how many women fall over Kenneth on a daily basis. She might want him back if she sees something like this.”

  “We can’t deal with Aunt Tillie’s romantic life until after we clear her of murder,” I said. “Speaking of that … .” I pointed toward a woman standing alone next to the punch bowl. “There’s Viola. Let’s talk to her first.”

  “She was the one who told you about the hidden money in the first place, right?” Thistle asked, cringing as we walked past the speakers blaring music so loud it rocked our spines.

  I nodded. “She has memory issues,” I said. “Part of me thought she could’ve been faking that, though. Maybe she realized she said something she shouldn’t have and covered with the memory lapse.”

  “I guess we’re about to find out,” Thistle said, her face splitting into an unnatural smile as she approached Viola. “Hi!”

  Seriously, someone needs to talk to her about the way she approaches people. She thinks she’s being pleasant and nice, but nothing could be further from the truth. She puts people off with her fake tone. That’s what happens when you go through life being mean and stomp on the pedal pretending to be nice. It’s … unnatural. Wait, did I just sound like Clove?

  “Your hair is purple,” Viola said, focusing on Thistle.

  “I guess we know the truth spell works,” Clove muttered.

  I wasn’t so sure. “We need to ask her a pointed question she wouldn’t generally answer to be sure.”

  Thistle held up her hand. “I’ve got this.”

  Should I be worried? I’m pretty sure I should be worried. Thistle is out of her comfort zone in this environment.

  “What do you really think of Mrs. Little, Viola?” Thistle asked, going straight for the jugular. Apparently her nice and pleasant act was already discarded in favor of the hard questions. It was probably for the best.

  “Well, she’s my best friend,” Viola said primly.

  I waited. That couldn’t be the end of it. If we screwed up the spell twice we were going to have to get help, and our best option for that wasn’t likely to offer aid given what we were after.

  “She’s also a gossipy old biddy who is only happy when she’s making others miserable,” Viola added. “I’m pretty sure she has a stick up her butt because she sits like she does most of the time. Also, I think she’s jealous of me because Kenneth clearly wants to get with me, and she doesn’t understand it. I’m a freak in the bedroom, though. Everyone wants me.”

  “Uh-oh,” Clove said, making a face. “I think I might have put too much graveyard dust in the spell. This is … a little much.”

  “Do you think?” Thistle asked, widening her eyes to comical proportions.

  I held up my hands to cut off an argument before they got up full heads of steam. “We’ll fight about that later,” I said. “We have to work with what we’ve got. At least we know the spell is working.”

  “And they’ll forget in fifty-one minutes,” Clove added.

  “Spell?” Viola shuffled from one foot to the other as her gazed worriedly bounced between us. “Are you talking about a witch spell?”

  “No,” Thistle lied, shaking her head. “I was talking about a dizzy spell.” Thankfully Clove’s attempt at shielding us from the spell appeared to be working. We could lie to our hearts’ content. We’d learned a hard lesson about casting the spell on ourselves when we did it at the Dragonfly a few months ago.

  “Oh, that’s a relief,” Viola said, resting her hand on her stomach. “I thought you were going to cut my throat and bathe in my blood to keep yourselves young and fresh like Tillie.”

  Huh. There were so many ways to go with that statement I didn’t even know where to start. “I thought the rumor was that Aunt Tillie had to kill virgins to bathe in their blood if she wants to stay young.”

  Viola nodded. “It is.”

  “Are you are a virgin? Because you just told us you were a freak in the bedroom.”

  “Well, no,” Viola hedged. “I thought she might’ve eased up on her rules. She’s no spring chicken.”

  “And yet you guys still think she’s sacrificing virgins to stay young,” Thistle said. “How does that even work?”

  “I have no idea,” Viola replied. “Why is your hair purple?”

  “I like it that way.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I do.” Thistle’s patience wouldn’t hold much longer. I was sure of that.

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, someone end the pain,” Clove moaned, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “Oh, look, there are balloons up there, too.”

  “Yes, it’s quite the shindig,” I said, forcing Viola’s eyes to me by snapping my fingers. “We don’t have a lot of time here, Viola, so I have a few questions to ask. Do you think you can answer them for me?”

  Viola shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

  “Great,” I said, forcing a smile. “Mrs. Little, Patty Grimes and Aunt Tillie share a secret. Do you know what it is?”

  “No,” Viola said, widening her eyes. “Do you know what it is? I would love to spread that around.”

  “Do you spread gossip about Mrs. Little all the time?” Clove asked.

  “Yes,” Viola answered. “She thinks it’s Fay, but it’s really me. I don’t correct her because I don’t want to get on her bad side. I don’t like her, but I don’t want her disliking me. She’s powerful – and vindictive – when she wants to be.”

  That was pathetic and sad. “Are you sure you’ve never heard about a shared secret between Aunt Tillie and any of those women?” I pressed, dragging Viola’s attention back to me. “I know they’re hiding something.”

  “I wish I could help,” Viola said. “Honestly, Margaret would never confide in me. She doesn’t trust me. In fact, I’m not sure she trusts anyone.”

  “She must talk to someone,” Thistle prodded. “Everyone has to tell their deepest and darkest secrets to someone. No one can go through life without a confidant.”

  “That’s true,” Viola said. “Hey, speaking of that, did you know that you’re supposed to sit on a hand mirror once a month to study your … you know … because it makes you more comfortable with your femininity? I saw it on television, so I know it’s true.”

  “Holy crap,” Clove said, dumbfounded. “I used way too much graveyard dust.”

  “Yes, and now I’m going to have nightmares forever,” Thistle said, disgustedly cuffing Clove. “Way to go!”

  I fought the urge to join in their disdain, silently reminding myself that Viola didn’t have a choice in what she was volunteering. The spell made her do it. Er, well, at least I hoped that was true.

  “Viola, that is a very important admission,” I said. “I’m glad you told us, but you should probably keep it to yourself from here on out. Most people won’t want to hear about that.”

  “Or be able to stop themselves from throwing up,” Thistle added.

  “That’s because people aren’t comfortable being in touch with their femininity,” Viola replied, unruffled. “You guys should totally do it. You’re all wound tighter than a virgin on prom night.”

  “I’m going to thank you for the offer, but decline,” I said, pressing my lips together.

  “It’s your loss,” Viola said. “I’m thinking about doing it right now. This dance is a major bust. Of course, they all are. We have only two men, and they’re in their eighties. They only have so much energy to go around. Thank the maker for Viagra.”

  “Okay, now I’m definitely going to throw up,”
Thistle said. “You need to end this conversation now, Bay. If that woman pulls out a mirror, I’ll take it from her and beat you with it.”

  I couldn’t argue with the sentiment. “Viola, if Mrs. Little confided in anyone, who would it be? There has to be someone who listens to her.”

  “The only one is Fay,” Viola said. “Margaret tells her some things, and what she doesn’t tell her Fay finds out because she spies on Margaret when she thinks no one is looking. Margaret doesn’t know that, though.”

  “Of course not,” I said, shifting my eyes to the dance floor. Fay wasn’t there, and after checking Kenneth’s table and not finding her fawning over him, I turned back to Viola. “Where is she?”

  “She’s probably in the bathroom,” Viola said. “We all had prunes at dinner, which was a terrible idea in hindsight. I can look if you want.”

  “We’ll look ourselves,” Thistle said, grabbing Viola’s arm and directing her back toward the dance floor. “You should dance.”

  “And stay away from mirrors,” Clove said.

  “Okay,” Viola said, happily hopping toward the dance floor and clapping her hands. “Who wants to limbo?”

  “We have to get out of here,” Thistle said. “This is just … too much. The graveyard dust is working overtime, and now they’re acting like crackheads instead of just telling us the truth. I can’t take this.”

  I considered making fun of her, or challenging her bravery, but I couldn’t take much more either. It was too … frightening. Would we end up like this one day? “Let’s look in the bathroom for Fay,” I suggested. “If she’s not there, let’s go. We’ll figure out something else. If she is there, let’s question her. She might be our only shot.”

  “Okay,” Thistle said, moving in the direction of the bathroom. “If she has a mirror and is looking at something in an attempt to get closer to her femininity, though, I’m out of here.”

  “You’re not the only one,” I said, watching as Thistle pushed open the bathroom door and disappeared inside.

  “Oomph.” It sounded as if someone stumbled, but I couldn’t be sure because the music was so loud.

  “Thistle?” Part of me feared pushing open the door. The other part knew it was necessary. Still, if Thistle was looking at something gross, I didn’t want to be a part of it. “Say something if you’re okay.”