“Debbie Wilcox, the cashier at the Main Street Dress barn?” I asked, shrugging. “Cataloguing inventory?”
"No she's not cataloguing inventory," he spits at me. "She doesn't catalogue inventory on Friday. She catalogues inventory on Tuesdays. On Fridays, she sips martinis at Rosco's Bar and transforms into a hot love goddess." He blinked, and then added. "Not literally."
"Well, if it's not literally, then I'm not sure why you care," I answered, grabbing a pitcher of sweet tea from the counter and filling the glasses. "Now, if it was literally, then I could totally get behind this reaction. Love goddesses are hard to come by if I remember my History of Supernatural Creatures lessons correctly."
"I'm serious," he said, grabbing the glass I had just filled and swallowing it on one giant gulp. It slid down his chin and covered his chest. "She's probably sitting there waiting for me right now, and I could be there if I weren't wasting my one precious ‘Gateway to the Weekend' hour on a stupid family dinner."
“You’ve got a little on your shirt,” I said, pointing to the river of sweet tea which ran all the way down his front side.
“Sorry,” he answered. “I’m not used to drinking with human lips anymore.”
“A sentence you probably don’t hear around the dinner table in other families,” I mused and refilled the glass in Christopher’s hand. “Look, I know you had stuff to do. I know you only get a little bit of time to do what you want in the run of the day, and that’s awful. But something’s going on, Chris. Something happened to Alison, and Mason is getting blamed for it. I know you knew him. You were friends on the football team.”
“Until my sixteenth birthday,” he answered. “After that, I was kind of the unofficial team mascot.” He shrugged. “Not that anyone knew that. I sort of buzzed around in the background just eating up the scenery.”
“He’s a good guy,” I said, setting the pitcher down and staring Christopher right in the face. “He doesn’t deserve what’s happening to him.”
“Unless he does,” Chris said, chugging his second glass of tea. I stepped back as the Cat’s Cradle Fighting Crows former unofficial mascot let another torrent of sugar water stream down his chest.
“What does that mean?” I asked, folding my arms across my chest.
“It means you don’t know the guy anymore, Mal,” he answered. “None of us do. We grew up. We’re at work. Well, some of us are at work. Others just kind of fly around all day. The point is we have lives. I know Mason used to be a good guy, but high school was years ago. We’ve all changed a lot since then.”
“Not that much,” I answered. “People don’t just become murderers, Chris.”
“That’s exactly what they do, Mal,” he answered. “No one’s a killer until they are. I know you used to be sweet on the guy, and I know you just went through a horrible breakup.”
“I’m not going to get all happy again if that’s what you’re worried about,” I answered, my eyes flickering to the floor. “I promise you won’t have to suffer through anymore catastrophes on my account.”
His eyes narrowed and his dark brows knit together closely. “I’m not worried about myself, stupid. I’m worried about you.” He pulled a chair out from the table and hopped onto it. Throwing his feet up on the table, he pushed a setting away with his bare feet.
“That’s disgusting,” I said, crinkling my nose.
"It's freeing actually," he said, smiling. "You guys have no idea how confining shoes are against your toes until you spend 23 hours a day without them."
“Well, unless you want Aunt Misty chopping off those untethered toes, I’d take them off the dinner table,” I chuckled. “And why on earth would you be worried about me.”
“I don’t want you losing your objectivity,” he said. “You’re a lawyer. Your good name is all you’ve got, and I don’t want you putting it at risk for a guy who used to make you feel weak in the knees.” He leveled a glare at me. “Aunt Misty told me how upset Daniel Price was that you took the case on in the first place.”
"My knees are just fine," I answered, settling next to him and swatting his feet off the table myself. Then landed on the hardwood floor with a thud. I ignored them and continued. "And Daniel Price can go kiss a frog for all I care. He hasn't even taken time to learn my name, let alone the facts of the case."
“Have you?” Chris asked, leaning forward. “because, from what I heard, you basically told Sheriff Dots where to stick it after failing to keep Mason from confessing. And that’s another thing. The guy confessed, Mal.”
"He didn't know what he was doing," I said, slumping onto the table myself. "He said time got away from him like he was under some spell. Like he was under the effect of magic. What does that mean?"
"It means he either angered some witch who's punishing him badly or this is my guess- he's doing what every guy who just pushed his fiancé off the top of a barn to her death would do. He's lying about what happened. Either way, it's not your issue."
“Of course it is,” I scoffed. “I’m a witch and a lawyer. This is my business in every way I can be.”
“And I’m a bird and a ladies’ man. You don’t see me sticking my beak I every droopy wing come mating season, do you?”
“That’s different,” I huffed. “Someone’s life is at stake here.”
“I know,” he said, standing up. “I just want you to be careful. I hope you’re right about Mason. I really do. He was a cool guy back in the day, but if you’re not- if this guy is responsible for this horrible thing- then I don’t want you getting hurt out of it.”
I blinked hard. “Do you professionally or-or in some other way.”
"I mean in all the ways," he said and leaned in closer. "Do you remember when we were kids? The way Agnes and Abigail used to torture me?"
I laughed lightly as the memories dripped into the forefront of my mind. “They used to hang you on tree branches from your underwear.”
“I seriously think that’s why my curse took the shape it did,” he answered, smiling back. “So that I’d never really get out of those trees.” He cleared his throat. “But the point is, you were always the one who cut me down. You were always the one who did everything for me. When they cast that spell to turn my hair pink, you told all the kids at school that I was making a stand for breast cancer awareness. Got my first girlfriend out of that,” he nudged me. “When they magically gave me webbed hands, you sewed those gloves for me so I could still play football. And when I got really depressed after I found out the shape my curse took, you were the one who was there for me.”
“You slept in a cage in my room for months,” I said, letting my hand drop into his and squeezing it.
"It was the only place I felt safe, and I only felt safe because you were there. You're probably the best person I know, Mal. You definitely have the best heart. So, regardless of what I think happened with Mason and Alison, if you think he's innocent, if you think you need to defend him, then I've got your back."
I smiled as warmth ran through my heart. "So, to use an old American Idol reference, what you're saying is, you're my dog."
“I’m better than that,” Chris answered, winking at me. “I’m your bird.”
Chapter 7
“Aunt Misty, don’t exert yourself,” I said, looking at the older witch waving her hand in a circular motion and causing the spoon setting in the mashed potatoes at the end other end of the table to do the same.
While Christopher and I had set the table physically placing the plates and silverware down the way they likely had on dinner tables across the country- Aunt Misty was delivering the food in a much more unconventional manner. Of course, magic can be taxing, even for a senior witch like Aunt Misty, and with her condition, I wanted to make sure she didn't go at it too hard.
“Don’t you tell me what to do, little missy,” she answered, still waving her hand. “I was doing this sort of thing since before you owned your first starter cauldron. It’ll take more than a fractured leg to keep me from tak
ing care of my people. I’ll tell you that.” She nodded assertively.
That was my Aunt Misty, living proof that stubbornness was more prominent a trait in the Norwood line than magic ever could be.
We all gathered around the table and started to dig in. Fried chicken, sweet potato casserole, the aforementioned mashed potatoes, and tomato pie with biscuits. It was a quintessential southern dinner, whether you happened to be a witch or not.
“The chicken is fantastic,” Sadie said, taking perfectly sized bites from her fork and dapping her lips daintily with a napkin when she was done.
“Why are you telling her?” Abigail asked, her lips turned down distastefully at the ends. “I’m the one who made it.” She had been in a sour mood all day, which meant her date last night probably didn’t go too well. Guess a cute mute girl in a black dress with a bad attitude wasn’t the sort of man-nip she hoped it would be.
“You did not!” Christopher said, slapping a spoonful of casserole on his plate and laughing at his sister like the idea of her making an edible meal was about as likely as the moon falling from the sky. “You couldn’t make a grilled cheese with a diagram and a six-month head start.”
“How would you know, Sparrow?” she asked, using the nickname Christopher had always hated. “You’re not even eating any.”
“Oh course I’m not eating any, you moron. I spent three months last year as a chicken. I’m not going to go around eating any.” He looked over at the plate uneasily. “Those guys could be my friends for all I know.”
“Well, I did,” she said, slamming her fork angrily against her plate. “In fact, I helped cook this entire dinner.” She shook her head. “And look at the thanks I get. No wonder No wonder Aunt Tilly left this place. None of you ingrates appreciate anything.”
"Enough of this!" Aunt Misty said sternly, snapping her fingers so that all of the magically stirring spoons and mystically floating tongs fell to the table. "My sister Tilly left because she wanted to, because she's always had a gypsy soul, and because with all of you grown up, there was nothing to keep her here." She rolled her eyes. "The fact she ever stayed as long as she did was a miracle the likes of which I could never fully explain. And Abigail, helping me slide a pan into the over and dip a few legs of chicken into a fryer doesn't make you Emeril Lagasse. Stop pretending it does." She looked from Abigail over to Agnes. "Now why don't you let your sister use the voice for a little while? We have bigger things to discuss and honestly I could use the quiet."
Agnes perked up a little at the suggestion. She had been in possession of their shared voice for most of the day earlier and probably wasn’t expecting it so soon. The smile draped across her face said she definitely wouldn’t turn it down.
Not that Abigail was going to give it up without a fight.
“But Aunt Misty! She’s used it all day,” she whined. “I can’t even-”
"Now," Aunt Misty cut her off, her flat and no-nonsense tone leaving no room for discussion.
Abigail huffed and shrunk in her seat. Still, she cleared her throat loudly. The noise turned into a hum and then it transferred over to Agnes. Soon it was she humming and soon after that, Abigail was left silent and huffing with Agnes humming and grinning like a fool.
“Thank you Aunt Misty,” she said, smartly keeping her voice demure.
Abigail shot her a look that might have withered flowers if she’d have been able to put words behind it. Instead, all she could do was sulk.
“Alright. Let’s get down to business,” Aunt Misty said, and her eyes fell right on me. “A girl is dead, her fiancé has been accused of the act, and Malady here thinks someone in town has been abusing magic to get it done. Is that an accurate synopsis of what’s gone on?”
“You forget the part about the girl being Mal’s high school nemesis and her fiancé being sweet on our girl here,” Christopher said, chucking hard and glancing over at me.
"Shut up Chris," I said and thumped him in the shoulder. "He's not sweet on me. Before today, we hadn't talked in over a year."
“That’s right, and he still always looked at you like you just won prom queen or something,” he answered.
“I really don’t care about any of this,” Aunt Misty said, drumming her fingers against the floral tablecloth that had been in my family much longer than I had. “What I do care about is whether or not magic is being misused in Cat’s Cradle.”
"Why?" Chris asked. He leaned backward and started to put his bare feet up on the table like he'd done before. Aunt Misty spun her finger in a circular manner and Christopher's chair slammed back against the floor, his feet quickly following suit, sticking to the hardwood floor and staying put.
“Don’t you dare,” she said lowly. “And you should know why I care about that. If magic is being used to cover up murders, then it’s not going to be long before people start looking around, and look to us, Christopher. They’ll look to us because we’re witches.” She shook her head. “Just like they always do.”
“I think the idiot is lying anyway.” Chris shrugged.
“He’s not lying,” I said. “Mason isn’t a murderer. Someone else is behind this. They just have to be.”
"That's what I want you to get to the bottom of," Aunt Misty said, blinking hard at me. Her hair hung down over her eyes and in this light, she sort of did look like the spooky witch some of the younger children in town said she was.
“Me?” I balked. “Why me?”
“Because we’re in this mess because of you,” Christopher said.
“Quiet Chris,” Aunt Misty said. “This has nothing to do with Malady.”
“The same way your leg has nothing to do with her?” Agnes asked.
Shocked, I looked over at the woman. I would have expected that sort of snippy comment from Abigail, but not from Agnes.
“Seriously?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, Mal,” she answered, looking down at the table and running a hand through her hair. “But we’ve never had a murder in town before, and we’ve certainly never heard of someone misusing magic. I know making bad things happen isn’t your fault. I know you don’t mean to do, but you did just get home. And now this happens. Can that really be a coincidence?”
My heart dropped. Was she right? Had I inadvertently caused this? Was this my fault too? Had Alison died because I came back to town?
"I don't want to hear any more about any of this. I don't care why this happened, only that it did." Aunt Misty said. "And yes, it has to be you Mal. He trusts you. You said so yourself. It has to be you because you're the only one who's going to be able to get him to drink this."
From her side pocket, she produced a vail of glowing purple liquid.
I gasped. “It that what I think it is?”
Aunt Misty grinned. “Absolutely, little missy.”
Chapter 8
Heading to the small county jail where Mason was being held until his arraignment date, I couldn't help but be nervous. Aunt Misty had put this entire operation on me. I had no backup unless you counted a pigeon-shaped Christopher flying behind me for moral support. And, while that was certainly sweet on his part, it wasn't exactly going to help me do what I needed to.
I checked in at the front desk, requesting to see my client. Mr. Connington, who used to be my math teacher in grade school but must have gotten a job at the jail to supplement his retirement, smiled and nodded at me as he took down the message.
I slunk away and waited on the adjacent bench, half afraid he was going to ask me to do some long division or something for old time’s sake.
They called my name not three minutes later and, with a purse in hand, I headed to be checked out before I would be able to see Mason.
As a lawyer, I had been through this process more than a couple of times. Up in New York, I was in and out of the jails so much visiting clients that I worked up a rapport with the folks working there. One of them even invited me to watch a performance of Wicked with him. It would have been sweet if it wasn’t so on the nos
e.
Still, as a veteran to this kind of thing, I knew the drill. I would be patted down and my purse would be checked for suspicious items. The fact is that at this very moment- my purse contained a magical elixir created by my Aunt Misty in an attempt to get to the bottom of whatever was going on here didn't bother me.
The purple liquid in the vail might have glowed when she gave it to me, but the magic wasn’t nearly as new anymore and the luster had long faded. It basically looked like a shot of grape juice now and- while they might find that interesting- they certainly wouldn’t consider it suspicious.
The lady finished patting me down and checking my purse. I hadn’t seen her before, which meant she was a relatively new transplant to town, something you don’t see a lot of in Cat’s Cradle. She checked my purse, came across the Welch’s looking magic potions, shrugged, and sent me on my way.
Cursed at First Sight (Cursed Coven Cozies Book 1) Page 4