“Did she ever tell you?”
“No.” Mrs. Gunderson shook her head. “In a place as small as Walkerville there’s not enough population to have real problems. That allows the smaller problems to turn into real problems, and that’s what happened here.
“Over the years everyone changed,” she continued. “Floyd beat me. Margaret had an affair with Floyd. Margaret’s husband killed Floyd. The body ended up on your property. You know all of this. Our lives overlapped, but they weren’t interconnected.”
“Why would someone kill Patty now?” I asked. “It sounds as if she led a solitary life. Fay is dead, too. The only connection I can find is old Walkerville ties.”
“There’s a lot of anger to go around, and everyone has secrets,” Mrs. Gunderson said. “I’m sure Patty had her share of secrets. I don’t know what they were, though. Have you asked Tillie about all of this?”
“Aunt Tillie won’t talk to me,” I admitted. “You know how she is. She’s great at keeping secrets, even if we need the information to keep her safe.”
“She’s loyal,” Mrs. Gunderson said. “The thing you have to remember, Bay, is that Tillie would tell her own secret to save herself and keep you guys out of trouble. If she’s not telling the truth, it’s because she’s protecting someone else.”
The thought hadn’t occurred to me, but instinctively I knew Mrs. Gunderson was right. “Aunt Tillie isn’t being a pain because she doesn’t want us to know what she’s hiding,” I said. “She’s being a pain because she knows Patty wouldn’t want anyone to know her secrets.”
“Exactly.”
“Well … crap.”
Mrs. Gunderson chuckled. “You’re a smart girl, Bay,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. This tale is probably tangled, but when you unravel it, I know you’ll find the common thread covers decades of lies and subterfuge.”
“And it all leads back to Mrs. Little and her bitterness.”
“I’m probably not the right person to ask about that subject,” Mrs. Gunderson said. “Margaret betrayed me and I’ll never forgive her. In the grand scheme of things, though, she did me a favor. Floyd would’ve killed me eventually. Because of what she did and the actions her affair set in motion, he never got the chance.”
That was a nice way of looking at it. “I was talking to Viola Hendricks last night before we discovered Fay’s body. She didn’t have the answers we were looking for,” I said. “I’ve tried talking to Mrs. Little, but she shut me down. Now that Patty and Fay are gone, that really leaves only Viola to provide answers. Do you think she’s lying?” Given the truth spell, I had a hard time believing it. I didn’t know who else to focus on, though.
“I think Viola is the smartest person in the room, yet no one notices,” Mrs. Gunderson answered. “She might not remember things distinctly. Age does have disadvantages. She always kept a diary, though. If she does know something – or ever did – I can guarantee she wrote it down.”
Wait a second … . “Are you suggesting I read Viola’s diary?”
Mrs. Gunderson smirked. “I read one when I was a teenager,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “It seems Viola is a lot more colorful than she lets on in polite circles.”
That would probably explain the bedroom acrobatics – and the weird mirror fetish. “How am I supposed to read her diaries?”
Mrs. Gunderson shrugged. “I have no idea,” she said. “I do know there’s a euchre tournament at the senior center this afternoon. Viola loves euchre … and she lives alone.”
Was Mrs. Gunderson telling me to break into Viola’s house? That was horrifying … and kind of a fun idea. “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Gunderson,” I said, digging in my purse for cash to pay for my iced tea. “You’ve given me a few ideas.”
“I should hope so, dear,” Mrs. Gunderson said, smiling. “I practically drew you a map.”
Isn’t that the truth?
BY THE time I returned to Hypnotic, Thistle was back to her snarky self. Clove pouted behind the counter, shooting occasional eye daggers in Thistle’s direction as our cousin added new candles to the wall display.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Thistle is being mean,” Clove said, crossing her arms over her chest. “She won’t let me arrange the candles.”
“They’re my candles,” Thistle argued.
“Fine!”
“Good!”
“Whatever,” Clove said, rolling her eyes.
Ah, all was right in the Winchester world. We were fighting over little things again rather than worrying about big things … like murder. “I have news to share if anyone is interested.”
“Just a second, Bay,” Clove said, holding up a finger to stay me and narrowing her eyes. “Sam bought that tanker I was telling you about. It’ll be here the day after tomorrow. I was going to invite you out to see it and start planning for the haunted attraction, but now I changed my mind.”
Thistle scowled. She didn’t want to admit it, but her imagination had been running wild since Clove mentioned the tanker. “Oh, come on.”
“I’m going to decorate it myself. You’re not going to be able to even visit it,” Clove said. As far as threats go, it was fairly lame. Still, it was enough to shake Thistle. She was desperate to decorate the tanker.
“Fine,” Thistle said, stepping away from the display. “You win.”
“Good,” Clove said, flouncing over to the shelf and shifting one of Thistle’s candles so it faced outward instead of to the right. “Perfect.”
Thistle’s mouth dropped open. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“You’re a piece of work,” Thistle muttered, stomping toward the counter. “I just … you drive me crazy!”
“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better,” Clove said, winking at me. “What about you, Bay? What’s your big news?”
I related my conversation with Mrs. Gunderson, and when I was done my cousins’ mouths were agape.
“That’s all really interesting,” Thistle said. “You got a lot more information out of Mrs. Gunderson than anyone else.”
“It’s because she hates Mrs. Little,” I supplied. “Even though Floyd was a jackass, Mrs. Little still betrayed the friendship and slept with him. I don’t blame Mrs. Gunderson for being bitter.”
“It seems everyone is bitter,” Clove said. “I never realized how … petty … things were. They’re adults. I expected them to act like adults.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m glad we’ve never dated the same person. Can you imagine how bitter things would get if we overlapped men?”
“Yeah, we all have different taste in men,” Thistle said. “I’m pretty sure that’s divine intervention. What do you want to do about the diary?”
I smiled. “Well … .”
“No way,” Clove said, immediately shaking her head. “We cannot break into Viola’s house and read her diaries. That’s just … no.”
“Oh, come on,” I whined. “This will be a fun adventure. I promise.”
“We’ll be breaking the law,” Clove countered.
“When has that ever stopped us?” Thistle asked. “I’m totally in, by the way. I’m dying to read those diaries. After hearing about what a tiger Viola is in the sack, they’re bound to be entertaining.”
“And what if she writes about what she sees in the mirror when she plays that game she told us about?” Clove challenged.
“We’ll skip that part,” Thistle said. “This sounds fun!”
“Good,” I said. “The euchre tournament starts in an hour. We’ll watch the senior center and make sure she’s inside before heading to her house. That should give us a few hours to break in and go through her stuff.”
“How do you even know the tournament is still on?” Clove asked. “They found a body there last night. They probably shut the center down for the day.”
“Mrs. Little would revolt,” I said. “Those seniors are addicted to their euchre. Trust me. It’s happening.�
�
“Bay is right,” Thistle said. “Chief Terry wouldn’t risk the wrath of the senior population and shut down that tournament.”
“But … .” Clove wasn’t ready to give in. “What if we get caught?”
“We’ll lie,” Thistle said. “We’ll tell Noah that Sally made us do it. He already thinks we’re crazy.”
“Besides, we won’t get caught,” I added. “I got caught last time because Aunt Tillie distracted me. She won’t be around this time.”
“I don’t know,” Clove said, chewing her bottom lip. “I need to think about it.”
“Go ahead and think about it,” Thistle said. “Just remember, though, we’re inviting you on our adventure and you’re saying no. We won’t forget it.”
I caught on to Thistle’s tactic. “That’s right,” I said. “Eventually we’ll get tired of you turning our adventure suggestions down and stop asking you. It’s inevitable.”
Clove groaned and slumped her shoulders. I knew we’d won before she even opened her mouth. “Fine. I’m in. If we get caught, though, it’s every witch for herself.”
“That’s the way it always is,” I said, sharing a triumphant smile with Thistle.
“That’s the way we like it,” Thistle said.
Clove shook her head as she adjusted another candle on the shelf, practically daring Thistle to admonish her. “That Sally is turning into quite the troublemaker,” she said. “I think our mothers are going to kick her out of the inn before it’s all said and done.”
“Oh, I’m looking forward to that,” Thistle said.
“We all are.” What? Clove isn’t wrong. Sally is a pain. Oh, crap. Now I’m thinking of her as a real person, too.
I blame Aunt Tillie.
Twenty-Six
“This is the worst idea we’ve ever had.”
After sitting in Thistle’s car and watching the front door of the senior center until we saw Viola enter, we made our way to her house. Viola lived on a quiet street with only four other houses on the short drive, but we decided to play it safe and parked one street over to minimize our chances of getting caught.
To any outside observer we looked like three young women out for a walk. Of course, anyone who knew us would be immediately suspicious, but as long as we didn’t draw unnecessary attention I figured we would be okay.
Instead of approaching Viola’s house from the front, we cut through the back alley. Thistle used a little jolt of magic to unlock the back gate so we could gain entry into Viola’s fenced-in back yard. Once inside and cut off from neighbors thanks to the privacy fence, we had another door to get through. That’s when Clove decided to voice her dislike of the plan for what felt like the hundredth time.
“This isn’t even close to the worst plan we’ve ever had,” Thistle countered. “Do you remember when we were seventeen and we decided to glamour ourselves so we could get into that bar? We made ourselves look old enough to be mothers of teenagers?”
Clove frowned. “We ended up with eight different people asking us if we offered daycare services,” she said. “We were teenagers then. We should be smarter now.”
We should be smarter, but we weren’t. “How about the time we decided to make ourselves invisible to sneak into Aunt Tillie’s room and steal a bottle of wine?” I challenged.
“We couldn’t see our own hands, so we couldn’t cast the counter spell and we had to find our mothers and confess. We were grounded for a month.”
“Ah, good times,” Thistle said. “I can see why you were worried we would forget to bring you on adventures.”
“I still hate you sometimes,” Clove groused.
“You love us and you know it,” Thistle said, reaching for the sliding glass door handle. “I’ll spell the lock. I’m the best at it.”
I made a face as I slapped her hand away and then tugged on the door. It easily slid open.
“How did you know it would be unlocked?” Clove asked, making a face.
“Because this is Hemlock Cove and the back gate was locked,” I replied. “Most people don’t lock their doors here. Given our murder rate these days, they should lock their doors, but they don’t. Even our mothers don’t lock their doors.”
“Hey, when you live with Aunt Tillie, the bad element is already inside, so there’s nothing to keep out,” Thistle said, walking into the house. “Okay, where should we look?”
“I think we should start with the bedroom,” I said, following Thistle. “I … .” I lost my train of thought as I got a better look at Viola’s house. There were blind circus folk with a penchant for plastic knickknacks with better decorating taste. “Oh … my.”
“Son of a freaking dingdong,” Clove hissed, dumbfounded as she scanned the room. “Are those … ?”
“Clowns,” Thistle finished, nodding as a grimace washed over her features. “I just … it’s like fifty ceramic clowns.”
“I don’t like clowns,” Clove whined. “They’re freaky.”
“No one likes clowns,” I said, wrinkling my nose as I stepped closer to the curio cabinet in the corner. “What demented mind would even think of making something like this?”
“I think they’re supposed to be cute,” Thistle said, tipping her head to the side and studying one of the bigger figurines. It sported a red nose and large shoes, and held a bundle of balloons. He was supposed to be endearing, but he made my skin crawl. “These aren’t cute.”
“They’re horrible,” Clove said. “I’m going to have nightmares.”
Thistle snorted. “Are you worried the figurines are going to come to life and find you out at the Dandridge? I can see it now. You’ll wake up with little dents in your skin from their ceramic fingers.”
Clove shuddered and made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. “Oh, man. Now I’ll have nightmares about that.”
I fought the urge to chuckle, although the clown collection was discombobulating. “Let’s find the bedroom,” I suggested. “Hopefully the clowns are a kitchen thing.”
“And a living room thing,” Thistle said, pointing toward another cabinet in the next room.
“If they’re a bathroom thing, I’m out of here,” Clove warned.
“Yeah, because that will really scare the crap out of you,” Thistle deadpanned.
Viola’s ranch wasn’t large, and offered only one floor to search. I initially suggested splitting up, but Clove balked so we remained together. The first room we found was the bathroom, which looked normal if you ignored the huge clown watercolor print on the wall above the toilet. The second room, a bedroom turned into a craft room, looked mostly unused. The next room was a small library or den, boasting floor-to-ceiling shelving units. One entire unit was filled with diaries.
“Jackpot,” Thistle said, striding into the room and grabbing one of the diaries.
“Holy cannoli,” Clove intoned. “Are all of these diaries full?”
“They look it,” Thistle said, sitting on the small loveseat in the middle of the room. “Listen to this. It’s from March 1985, which I think would’ve made Viola around fifty-two or so: ‘Margaret insisted we get matching hats,’ she read aloud. ‘She got to pick everyone’s hat color and I got stuck with orange. I hate orange. I look like a pumpkin. I want to douse the thing in gasoline and shove it up Margaret’s you know what and light a match.’”
I snickered. “That sounds about right.”
“I’m really starting to like Viola,” Thistle said.
“Aren’t you worried about stumbling across entries about her sex life?” Clove challenged.
“Not in the least,” Thistle replied. “Maybe I’ll get a few tips.”
That was an interesting – and terrifying – thought. “Let’s start reading,” I instructed. “The faster we get through this, the faster we can get out of here.”
“And away from the clowns,” Clove said.
“Definitely away from the clowns.”
“OKAY, here’s something,” Clove said an hour later, sitting cros
s-legged on the floor. “This is from when Viola was about seventeen.”
“At least that’s getting closer to the time period we’re looking for,” I said. “There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to the order of the journals.”
“Sure there is,” Thistle argued. “She has them arranged by genre. Clove got the mystery section, you got the cooking section and I got the erotica section. I think I got the better part of the deal.”
“Yes, and if you could stop reading the sex reenactments out loud that would be wonderful,” I said.
“Do you want to hear what I found or not?” Clove asked, irritated.
“Yes, Clove. We’re waiting with bated breath.” Thistle’s face was serious, but I could tell she would jump on the opportunity to annoy Clove as soon as it became available.
“Thank you,” Clove said, her eyes flashing before shifting her attention to the diary. “‘It’s been two weeks since Margaret announced plans to make Tillie do her bidding. She’s convinced Tillie is hiding something. I think Tillie is hiding something, too, but I’m not sure it’s what Margaret is looking for.
“‘Margaret wants Tillie to teach us to do what she does, but Tillie keeps saying she’s imagining things,’” she continued reading. “’Tillie and Ginger are always whispering, and I know they did something that night at the dance to make the lights blow up at the same time Margaret was going after them.
“‘Margaret is determined that Tillie has a big secret, and she thinks she knows what it is,’” Clove read. “‘What if she’s wrong and it’s worse than we think?’”
I rubbed the back of my neck as I leaned forward, rolling the entry through my head. “It sounds as if everyone had suspicions about Aunt Tillie and Grandma, but no one could ever prove anything. That’s not really a surprise.”
Charms & Witchdemeanors (Wicked Witches of the Midwest Book 8) Page 24