Coon Hollow Coven Tales 1-3

by Marsha A. Moore

  “Do you have reason to not trust the sheriff?” she asked.

  “I have suspicions…” Logan’s voice trailed off, as if containing unwanted words that might slip out.

  Rowe lifted his pen and glanced at the high priest, who gave him a nod. “We’ll check that trail now. Normally we’d take you, but to not put you in more risk Logan and I will examine the area alone. If it leads to Eugenia’s, we’ll follow up at her place and with her neighbors. She has no living family. We’ll check with any house spirits and empowered deceased relations she may have in the cemetery.”

  Esme tilted her head. “House spirits and empowered dead relations?”

  Rowe closed his notebook. “Our coven members can learn advanced witchcraft during their lives that will empower their souls after death. Eugenia kept to herself. I don’t know if she or her family gained empowerment.”

  His explanation blew past Esme. “Gram only taught me hedge witchcraft. How can I learn more about empowerment?” She wondered if this was something she needed to understand in order to gain ceremonial status.

  “We have publications in the Council office,” Rowe offered.

  “Um…I’m not comfortable going—”

  “No problem. I should’ve thought about that. I’ll bring one by sometime soon.” He addressed Logan. “Is that all?”

  “One more thing.” Logan shifted in his seat. “Do you think anyone else could’ve witnessed the alleged crime?”

  “No. Alice didn’t mention anything, and she knows all the gossip.”

  The men chuckled, and Rowe added, “She certainly does. A hen-huzzy.”

  Joining in the laughter, Esme’s gaze drifted to the ice coating the front window. “But The Cousins know what happened. A few have told me.”

  “Hmm.” Logan steepled his fingers at his chin. “I don’t know how to contact The Cousins. Do you?”

  Esme clasped her hands together under the table. She needed to demonstrate her abilities at the hedge to be accepted as a healer. Could she initiate contact with Relic or Shade or any other faery? Faking out the two men who seemed to be on her side wouldn’t be wise. She wiped sweaty palms on her skirt and gave a positive but honest answer. “With some. I’m still building relationships with others.”

  Rowe met her gaze. “Maybe you need to write a publication for the Council on this matter. Empowered witches have no clue and really need a basic understanding of the fae world.”

  She took hold of the table edge and leaned forward. “I’d be glad to work on that project. And maybe some methods of communication with plants also—one of my specialties.”

  “Definitely.” Rowe grinned and put his notebook away.

  Logan laughed at him. “With all this innovation you’re pushing through, it’s no wonder you wanted your friend in as high priest.”

  The two men rose and Logan offered his hand to Esme. “I can’t thank you enough for stepping forward. It took a lot of courage. We’ll be in touch.” His firm grip gave her unstated reassurance of his sincerity as well as hope he would work to help elevate her standing.

  She saw them to the back porch, and they pursued the trailhead.

  ***

  An hour later Esme pulled out of the driveway using extra care on the thick ice. The Airflow lurched in first gear until she moved past Holly Cabin to dry road, where she could get some speed.

  With a toot, she parked at Alice’s and hopped out.

  The old woman popped out and secured her door. “Ready and waitin’.” She’d dressed up a bit for their scheduled afternoon home visits to meet Grammy's clients who might continue doctoring with Esme. Her wild white hair had been corralled into two braids beneath her usual red bandana. Instead of pants, thick wool stockings encased her scrawny legs under a corduroy skirt. Walking shoes replaced hiking boots, but a bright purple down vest still let the world know Alice might trek into the woods at any moment.

  Esme met her at the porch and took charge of two heavy baskets. “These weigh a ton. What’s in here?”

  “Oh, just venison jerky I made up for Gertie’s fambly from a deer her husband shot an’ butchered.” Alice bucked up under her lightened load and took strong strides toward the Airflow.

  Esme groaned, “Really? Are you sure there aren’t rocks in here, too?”

  “Oh, an’ a couple jars of apple butter.”

  “At least.” Esme hoisted the baskets into her roomy trunk alongside her own crate and baskets of healing products she’d packed that morning.

  “See yer set to impress some potential clients.” Alice eyed the trunk’s contents, then opened the passenger door. “Dove’s not comin’?”

  “No. Not till I learn if it’s okay with customers.” Esme took her seat and backed onto the road.

  “Not everybody takes to cats, I s’pose. Head us off to Rabbit’s Notch Road, where we’ll pay a visit to Miss Clara Primmer. You know the way?” The old woman lifted a bony hand and crooked a finger in the general direction.

  “I can’t drive through that ravine you’re pointing at.” Esme laughed.

  Alice cackled. “Clara’s over yonder as the crow flies.”

  Dozens of turns and hills later, they arrived at a limestone-fronted ranch home.

  A hunched and prune-faced old lady greeted them at the front door with a warm smile. “Oh, my. It’s chilly out. Come on in, ladies. Have a seat in the parlor wherever you like.” She closed the door after them and fastened the top buttons of a fuzzy white cardigan that matched her halo of cottony curls.

  “Miss Clara, I’m Grammy Flora’s granddaughter Esme. It’s been a while.” She took hold of the elderly lady’s arm, and, together, they shuffled to a wood-framed floral loveseat. Esme placed a market basket of supplies at her feet on a rug covered in large cabbage roses. The air smelled of baby powder tinged with subtle notes of doubt coming from their hostess.

  “Indeed it has. Why, I last remember you as a pretty little thing of about ten, a good helper to Flora, you were.” Clara patted Esme’s hand. “You’re still pretty. Same shiny brown ringlets.”

  “Should have a fella, shouldn’t she?” Alice added.

  “Oh. A bachlur girl. No beau?” Clara wrinkled her pug nose. “Why in sakes not?”

  “Too busy learning to be a root worker like Gram.” Esme dug in her basket and withdrew parcels wrapped in butcher paper.

  “Pshaw!” Clara slapped her knee. “Flora was devoted to your grandpa. They were the picture of true love till he passed.”

  “Two peas in a pod.” Alice chuckled. “But Esme wouldn’t have know’d that. Flora’s Earl passed before she came along.”

  “Sakes.” Clara adjusted her glasses and peered through them at Esme. “I reckon you are still a young’un then, still learning the ropes.”

  Heat crept up Esme’s neck at the mention of her inexperience. To change the topic, she passed the parcels to Clara. “I found Gram’s receipt for the sachet pillows you like and made up two that aid sleep, one for indigestion, and another for congestion. Tuck these under your pillow at night so the herbs can work.”

  Miss Clara opened the packages and sniffed the envelope-size muslin bags, as a slight frown pulled on her lips. “Looks like Flora’s doings, but smells a bit off for the ailments. The sleep ones are nice though, a bit more lavender than she used, which suits me fine.” She set the sachets on a side table and accepted two mason pint jars Esme handed her.

  “Well, give them a try and see if they work for you,” Esme said. “Here’s some goose grease I made fresh yesterday, ’specially for this year’s early cold season upon us, and a jar of rose salve from Gram’s supply.”

  Clara opened the new goose grease and grimaced. “Strong’s what we’ll need for this early winter.”

  Alice took the jar and sniffed before passing it back to Clara. “Smells like real med-cin to me. Bet this works. I’ll buy me a jar when we get home.”

  “It does smell like it’ll work, doesn’t it?” Clara took a tentative whiff and nodded. “
It’ll do. I’ll take one. And definitely want Flora’s rose salve. You need to keep to her receipt with that one. None better.” She opened the lid and inhaled deeply with a broad smile.

  “Do you have any new ailments you’d like me to treat?” Esme asked.

  Clara clutched the jar as if it would jump from her hand. “Not particularly, but I’ll be sure and let you know if I do.”

  Esme appreciated Alice’s help in winning Clara’s favor, but wished the client was more accepting. After she paid, Alice and Esme continued to their next stop.

  “That weren’t so bad, was it?” Alice asked. “Clara’s just full of twitter like a bird on a perch.”

  “Hmm. Not so good either. And you said Miss Clara would be one of the easier sells?”

  “Don’t git yer back up. Takes time. Have yerself some patience.”

  The next three stops to see Lucilla, Phoebe, and Clyde proved the same mixed bag of cautious politeness. At least Clyde showed Esme a bad rash that needed treatment. Esme proudly whipped out a special witch hazel based lotion she’d concocted. So sure of her remedy, she gave him a generous free sample and left several of her business cards that included her booth number at the Saturday market.

  Esme and Alice arrived at their last stop, to see Gertie’s family. Esme looked at the wide log wraparound porch on the sprawling cabin and took a deep breath. Treating folks who weren’t elderly had to go better. She filled her arms with supplies and followed Alice to the door.

  Their knock set off a cacophony of noise—dogs barking, kids yelling, and footsteps chasing—until the door opened to reveal a stringy-haired barefoot girl, who looked about eight years old. She shined big blue eyes at the visitors but didn’t say a word.

  From inside a woman called, “Lottie, is it Alice?”

  The child left the door ajar and ran back inside. “It’s Auntie Alice and someone I don’t know carrying Grammy Flora’s basket. Where’s Grammy Flora?”

  Through the crack, dogs sniffed and yipped at the two women on the porch.

  “Did you ask them in? Why not?” A raspy female voice drew nearer. A thirtyish woman, in overalls and a red flannel shirt, swung the door open. She pushed a terrier and a black lab out of the way with her moccasin-clad foot. “Hi. You must be Esme. I’m Gertie. Sorry ’bout that. Come on in, ladies, if you can get past the dogs.”

  Alice edged in first. The two dogs gave her legs a brief sniff and then circled Esme. They jumped at her baskets, which she lifted higher.

  “Sadie, Max, get down!” Gertie motioned toward the girl and two boys, who were older by a couple years. “Get a hold on these dogs, while I talk with the ladies.”

  When the children corralled the pets, their mother showed her guests into a large great room. Filled with a jumble of toys, clothes, and homemade artisan furniture, it contrasted with the antique décor in other coven homes Esme had seen.

  “Great furniture,” Esme remarked and moved a doll aside to sit on a bentwood chair upholstered in pieced animal hides. “I’m still learning coven rules. Are you allowed to make your furniture?”

  Gertie moved through the area, tidying up, and huffed, “That’s about the only exception allowed. If you make it, you can use it. Under a clause written way back by homesteaders who couldn’t afford readymade things. Alice, this rocker’s clear for you now.” She tossed her armload into a pile and planted her wide bottom onto a settee that matched Esme’s chair. The woman’s fiery character matched her russet-colored hair worn in a long, loose braid.

  Alice presented her with the deer jerky and apple butter.

  “Tad will be in heaven with that jerky, but I’m hidin’ that apple butter for me.” Gertie laughed.

  Her confidence boosted by a little experience, Esme relaxed into her sales pitch to a woman closer to her own age. She displayed items like before, some from Gram’s stock and some Esme made according to previous records and recipes. “If you and any of your family are ailing and need a new treatment made, let me know about the symptoms.”

  Gertie examined the assortment of products on the table between them. She sniffed and held each up to the light of a lamp.

  Esme continued. “I earned a master’s degree in botany and will be able to create some new treatments once I get fully set up. I just moved in earlier this week.”

  After much scrutiny, Gertie collected items that were made by Gram. “Other than Gram’s salve, I’ll take a chance on these congestion sachets. Smell enough like Grammy’s. Those are all that’ll keep the coughs down for my little guys so they can sleep. I considered your goose grease, but it ain’t Grammy’s blend.”

  “I assure you, it’s effective,” Esme interjected.

  “Since you don’t have ceremonial status, you test it out at tomorrow’s market first. If it sells and folks come round for more, I’ll buy. Sorry, but that’s how I do things. And I wouldn’t drop that line about your fancy degree there or you’ll turn folks away. It might impress Kandice and her crowd of empowered witches who think they run the coven, but simple folk like us think differently.”

  The sweep of blunt words and sudden fragrance of sharp anise licorice from the woman stunned Esme. Anger boiled inside her, and she struggled to stay calm and professional to avoid losing a customer, albeit a rude one. She nodded to stall for time, then stammered, “Would you like to try a sample of my goose grease to see how it works?”

  Gertie held up a hand. “Nope. I spoke my terms. You’ll catch on soon enough since you’re Grammy Flora’s kin. That said, I’d like to give you a chance to get to know my family better at Thanksgiving. You and Alice are invited.”

  Confused by the prickly woman’s unexpected twist of kindness, Esme gave a single nod that lacked enthusiasm.

  “You can count us in fer sure.” Alice jumped to her feet and moved to stand beside Esme with an arm around her shoulder.

  “Yes. Thank you for the kind invitation.” Esme wondered what she needed to do at that dinner to be accepted.

  Through a maze of five kids and two dogs, Esme and Alice made their way to the car. On the drive home, the old woman hummed at the setting sun, while Esme sorted and weighed the afternoon’s events. The scale tipped more negative than she’d expected. Fitting in would require more than she had anticipated.

  On the road ahead a possum darted to the middle and looked at their approaching car. The critter’s eyes shone like gold marbles in her headlights. It wrinkled its snout and ambled away, a solitary hunter.

  Maybe she was like that possum, solitary and a wayward like her father, destined to not fit in anywhere. Esme shoved the thought away and wrangled her mind for ways to improve her success as a root worker. Tomorrow was market day. She’d work a long evening tonight creating more new products. She really needed approval from the Council. Logan and Rowe might help her with that, if she could find the few approachable people who would let her demonstrate her abilities. Or if her evidence as a witness against Oscar Burnhard proved useful in their politics. Political maneuvers were shaky at best and based on family histories she couldn’t begin to guess at. She blew out a breath. I knew this change, my new life, would be hard, but not this hard.

  Chapter Eight: Market Day

  Esme closed the Airflow’s trunk as Rowe’s long, black Studebaker turned into her drive.

  The first morning sun rays peeking through trees reflected from the sedan’s chrome and blinded Esme’s sleep-weary eyes.

  She waved, buttoned her hand-knit cardigan over her shirtwaist dress of pretty but thin green-flowered cotton and waited for him to park. Alarm bells clanged in her head. Why had Rowe come this early? Had they turned up something important in the investigation?

  He stepped from the car, moved toward her, and tipped his fedora. “I was just over at Eugenia’s and thought I might find you getting ready for the market.”

  “Thanks for stopping by. Did you learn anything?”

  “Yes, we did. The area behind the shed, where you said you saw the body buried, didn’t test p
ositive for human remains. With our readings we could only detect a deer carcass in the freshly dug pit.”

  Esme’s brows drew together. “I’m sure what I saw was a human form, and it wasn’t as heavy to drag as a deer.”

  He rubbed a hand over the stubble along his jaw. “I believe you. That’s why I went back this morning to try a different revealing spell. No luck with that, though. But it seems Eugenia’s gone missing. None of her neighbors have seen her since the morning of the event you witnessed. As high priest, Logan has the right to enter Eugenia’s cottage. Inside, we found signs of a struggle in the parlor. Lunch dishes on the kitchen table with a half-eaten sandwich, as if she’d left in a hurry. Today we’re going to bring in one of the coven’s prominent seers to help locate the body.”

  “Can you trust him?”

  “No problem. He’s a close friend.” Rowe glanced past her, in the direction of the trailhead, then lowered his voice. “If we can’t piece anything together, we’ll call in support from the sheriff. It’s not a step we’re eager to take. Like Logan said, we suspect some Council members have bartered favors of magic for privileges. We don’t know who in the sheriff’s office may have been involved. There’s a lot of corruption left from the last high priestess’ term we haven’t had time to sort through.”

  “There’s a Deputy Garrett Nesby who’s been keeping tabs on me. Seems friendly and sincere.”

  “Nesby. He’s new to the force. Could be unaware of the payoffs. Or sent out as a scout to gather information so he can keep his job. Keep a record of his interactions with you and be careful what you say.”

  “I will.”

  “Well, wish I had better news but wanted to keep you informed.” Again, his gaze darted beyond her.

  Esme turned. “Do you see something?”

  “I thought I saw some branches bend opposite from the way the wind’s blowing.” He scanned the entire hedge visible from where they stood, then whispered, “Does that mean The Cousins are present? Listening to our conversation?”