Spirits, Pies, and Alibis

by Nicole St Claire

  Wrapping the bottle carefully in layers of tissue, I buried it in the bottom of my purse before leaving the bathroom. I’d made it three steps in the direction of Douglas Strong’s office when once again I heard a sound, this time Noah’s voice as he came closer down the hall.

  “Tamsyn?” he called. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Yes, I’m ready.” Frustrated, I turned my back on the office door. I’d missed my opportunity to steal something belonging to Douglas Strong, but as I returned to the main room, I tried to look on the bright side. I’d uncovered what could very well be the bottle of pills that had led to Douglas Strong’s death. That had to be worth something. As for finding the item I needed for my spell, I would just have to come back soon and search some more.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The next morning, well before any of the inn’s guests had risen, I found Aunt Gwen standing silently at the stove, slowly stirring the largest of the cauldrons with her wooden spoon. There was no mistaking the fact that the steam rising from the pot was glowing a bright and mystical blue, but by now I’d gotten used to this type of thing, and it hardly fazed me. I cleared my throat loudly to announce my presence, but my aunt continued the rhythmic circles while staring blankly at the wall. Finally, after at least a minute had passed, she turned her head toward me, her eyes blinking rapidly as if coming out of a trance.

  “Good morning, my dear,” she said with a smile.

  “Good morning, Aunt Gwen.” I craned my head to see into the pot. I’m not sure what I had expected to see in there—a large batch of oatmeal, perhaps? Instead, I was surprised to find a dark liquid topped with soap suds. “What are you up to?”

  “Cleaning the house,” she replied, tapping her spoon against the pot to shake off the water droplets. A single bubble that had clung to the spoon popped as she slipped it into the pocket of her apron.

  “What is that, a magical cleaning solution?” I expected the next step involved handing me some rags and the contents of the cauldron and telling me to get to work. I was, after all, the summer intern. “Just tell me where to start.”

  “No need. The cleaning’s done.”

  “Are you…?” But as I looked around, I realized she was right. The kitchen was immaculately clean, every surface shining. I poked my head into the dining room and saw that it was the same. “The whole house?”

  She nodded. “My grandmother’s cleaning spell. It takes some practice to perfect, but once it’s done, you can get all three stories sparkling clean in the time it takes to boil the water. I wouldn’t be able to run the inn without it.”

  “That’s amazing,” I said, then frowned as I recalled the hours I’d spent helping her prepare the rooms for our latest arrivals. “If that’s the case, why did you have me changing the sheets on all the beds the other day?”

  “Nothing beats the sunny smell of line-dried sheets,” she replied. “Besides, I’ve never been able to perfect the spell so that it produces a sharp hospital corner. Even the best witches need to know their limitations.”

  “Speaking of limitations,” I said, suddenly remembering my breakfast with Noah, “I may have gotten myself into a little bit of trouble over some pies.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “You didn’t blow them up again, did you? Because the cleaning potion doesn’t do very well on burnt blueberries. I’ll have to find the scrub brush.”

  “No, nothing like that,” I assured her. “It’s just, I was talking to Sheila at the Dockside Diner, and she heard a rumor that we were expanding the pie business and wanted to place an order.”

  “Where did she hear a rumor like that?”

  “It’s a long story,” I mumbled. “Anyway, she looked so happy about it that I didn’t have the heart to say no. So I was, uh, sorta hoping you would consider it.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s not such a bad idea. I already do the occasional special order. And with you here to help—”

  “Me, help?” I shook my head so vigorously something in my neck popped. “Remember the part about how hard carbonized blueberries are to clean off the ceiling?”

  “This is the perfect opportunity for you to really master the techniques. We’ll start tomorrow.”

  My mouth was wide open but nothing was coming out, and it didn’t really matter because Aunt Gwen had turned her attention to emptying the cauldron’s dark suds into the kitchen sink. I set out fresh fruit and muffins for any of the early risers among our guests who wanted to get a head start on breakfast, then swiped a blueberry muffin for myself and returned to my room. Sure enough, it was cleaner than when I’d left it. While my bedcovers were still rumpled and in need of smoothing, this fact was more than made up for by the neatly folded pile of laundry sitting on top of the dresser. I’d been aware I was a witch for nearly a month, but realizing that someday I might perfect a cleaning potion myself was perhaps the first moment I truly appreciated it.

  There was a clicking noise as something fell onto the floor. Turning toward the sound, I discovered Gus tiptoeing across the surface of my desk. He’d knocked over a container, which, thanks to Aunt Gwen’s spell, had magically refilled itself with all the pens I’d left scattered around the room. One pen was on the floor, and soon there was another click as a second pen followed, and then a third.

  “Gus…”

  A fourth and fifth pen joined the growing pile. Without so much as looking me in the eye, he swiped the container with his huge, furry paw and sent it rolling off the desktop. Then he stood and moved toward my laptop, which sat open on the desk. Using a single claw on his massive front paw, he popped off a key with surgical precision.

  “Hey!”

  Ignoring me, he dispatched three additional keys to the floor in record time while I stood frozen in horror. My laptop didn’t work all that great as it was, but without keys it would pretty much be useless.

  “Gus!”

  This time he looked up at the sound of his name and stared me down. I stomped my foot at him, and he jumped to the chair where he proceeded to dig through the large straw handbag I’d carried the previous day. Before I knew it, he was buried head deep into the bag, and I heard the distinctive crunching noise of cat teeth on a plastic wrapper. A moment later, the sound was joined by that of paper being shredded and torn.

  “All right, buddy,” I growled. “I have had it with you.”

  I lunged toward the chair, but he used my handbag as a springboard to launch himself midair toward the windowsill. My handbag tumbled from the chair with the open end facedown, and even as I kneeled to inspect the damage, I already knew there would be no way to retrieve it without all the contents dumping out onto the floor. Gus sat in the open window, his tail twitching in a silent taunt. His eyes sparkled in the light, mocking me.

  A hot wave of anger overcame me, and although I was nowhere close enough to reach, I lashed out at him with my arm. Before I could process what was happening, he jumped vertically several inches into the air. I screamed and shut my eyes as he disappeared over the sill.

  My regret was immediate as the heat that had filled me dissipated, replaced by cold dread. The drop from my third-floor window was precipitous, with nothing on the way down to break a fall. Common wisdom was that cats always land on their feet, but from a distance of more than twenty feet? I wasn’t convinced. How could I have forgotten the window had no screen?

  My knees cracked as I rose to creep close enough to see down, but it took every ounce of effort I could muster to overcome my guilt and force my eyes to look at the ground. When I did, I saw nothing. The flowerbed below my window was undisturbed. There was no sign of an impact. No footprints leading away. Gus had simply vanished. I backed away from the window, the weight of blame replaced by dizzying confusion. Where could he be?

  I massaged my temples, looking from the window to the open bedroom door. In the split second in which my eyes had been closed, could he have actually fallen inward and scampered out of the room? Though it felt unlikely, it was the only explanation, unle
ss Gus could fly. My eyes widened. Gus can’t fly, can he? Then again, maybe he could. No, he can’t, I reprimanded myself, forcing the craziness out of my mind with every ounce of my will. He was just a flesh-and-blood cat, albeit one whose naughtiness approached the level of a superpower, and he was probably hiding in the attic and laughing at me. Not actually laughing, I corrected. Laughing out loud wasn’t something a normal cat could do, but I felt certain he could do it in his head and frequently did. I made a mental note to ask Sybil and Cass next time I saw them if they’d ever encountered flying cats, just to be sure.

  My conscience somewhat assuaged and sanity minimally restored, I turned my attention back to the mess the cat had made on the floor before he disappeared. I lifted my overturned bag carefully, leaving the contents in a pile. The source of the shredded paper was immediately clear. Gus had ripped and clawed through the first several pages of the magazine we’d used for the summoning spell, the one containing the article about Strong Corp. I plucked the magazine from the pile and leafed through the pages, dislodging thin ribbons of torn paper that fluttered to the floor. When I came to the first page that had not been shredded, I gasped. On it was a full-page photo of Douglas and Curtis standing beside a man I’d seen once before. The name in the caption identified him as Marcus Levine, CEO of the Papagayo Development Initiative. I knew him better as the man in the fancy suit at Cabot Memorial Airfield.

  “Not a claims adjuster after all,” I muttered. And another letter L associated with an airplane. Perhaps he would turn out to be the right one.

  I turned to my laptop to look up more about him and was confronted by the sight of five gaping holes where keys used to be. Not just any keys, mind you, but the shift, return, and delete keys, plus the space bar. In addition to these, Gus had managed to remove the letter L. No matter how hard I looked on the surrounding floor, not a single one of the missing keys was visible. They’d vanished just as thoroughly as had Gus. If I wanted to know everything I could about Marcus Levine and whatever Papagayo was, I had only one option. I grabbed my backpack, hopped on my bike, and headed for the library.

  It was midmorning when I arrived, and as I pedaled into the parking lot, I saw Sybil standing in front of the door with a cup of coffee in each hand, shifting her weight as if trying to figure out whether it would be possible to grasp the handle with an elbow or her foot. I stowed my bike and hurried over.

  “Here, let me get it,” I said, pulling the door open. A rush of cold air flowed out, pushing back the humid warmth of outside.

  “Thanks, Tamsyn,” she said with a bright smile. “I’m bringing my gran her favorite latte. What brings you here?”

  “A little bit of research,” I replied. “I need to borrow a computer.”

  “Internet troubles at the inn?”

  “Not exactly. Say, have you ever heard of a cat being able to fly?”

  “What?” She shot me a thoroughly confused look. “Is this what you’re researching?”

  “No. Never mind. I was just curious.” It was obvious by her response that flying felines were not the norm in the world of witchcraft.

  As Sybil turned toward the archives desk to deliver the coffee, I made me way to an empty computer to begin my search. As it turned out, having a functioning L key wasn’t the only barrier to me finding the information I needed. Although I searched everywhere I could think of for any mention of either Marcus Levine or the Papagayo Development Initiative, the only thing I had to show for my trouble was a stiff neck. After what felt like an eternity of fruitless searching, which in reality was probably closer to twenty minutes, I inched my way to the back of the library and, with some reluctance, approached the archives desk. Auntie Sue was in her usual spot, sipping her latte and chatting quietly with Sybil, who was leaning against the desk.

  “Good morning, Tamsyn,” Auntie Sue greeted me warmly. “How nice to see you this morning. Sybil mentioned she’d run into you on the way in. Did you change your mind about those articles on your mom I mentioned?”

  The news coverage of my mother’s disappearance and presumed drowning at sea fifteen years ago? My stomach churned at the thought of them. No, I had not had a change of heart and didn’t expect to. I shook my head fervently. “Actually, I have a favor to ask. I’m trying to find out more about someone I saw on the island recently. I know his name and the company he works for, but I’ve spent all morning on the internet and have come up empty-handed.

  “You think I might have something in the archive?”

  As a matter of fact, I didn’t think that at all, which is perhaps why I was having so much trouble making my request. “Actually, I was wondering if you might have some more…uh, unorthodox means of finding information. You know, by like…”

  I looked to Sybil, hoping she would jump in with the right term for whatever it was I was wanting, but when she didn’t, I put a finger on the tip of my nose and wiggled it back and forth. It was, I assumed, the universal symbol for using your witchy powers to put your nose where it didn’t belong, though I’m not sure why since as far as I had been able to work out, a talent for nose twitching wasn’t an automatic part of every new witch’s tool kit, no matter what the television wanted you to think. At least, it hadn’t been for me. Then again, maybe that’s why I was turning out to be such a disaster at it.

  “Oh, I see.” Auntie Sue winked at Sybil, who was covering her mouth with one hand in a not so subtle attempt to hide her smirk. Then Auntie Sue sat quietly behind her desk for several moments, so deep in thought I was certain what I’d asked must be well outside the realm of what was possible, or at least what was allowed. But when she spoke, it wasn’t the difficulty of the task that had been weighing on her. “Are you certain you shouldn’t ask your Aunt Gwen for help? It would be a wonderful learning opportunity for you to figure out how to use your abilities to get what you need on your own.”

  I sighed. Finding information that didn’t seem to exist was right up there with making a soufflé. Sure, I should probably learn how to make one someday but perhaps not when my greatest culinary triumph to date was managing not to turn a pot of blueberries into miniature incendiary devices. Baby steps. “I would, Auntie Sue, but I’m a little pressed for time.”

  “Okay, I guess I can help just this once,” she said, and my heart leaped.

  She opened the top drawer of her desk, pulled out a clunky, black laptop, and set it with a thud on the work surface in front of her. When she opened the lid, the machine whirred to life with all the creaks and groans of an old woman being woken up early from her nap.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Marcus Levine of the Papagayo Development Initiative.”

  The elation I’d felt moments before fizzled as Auntie Sue’s fingers hunted and pecked their way across the keyboard. “Mar…cus. Levi was it?”

  “Levine,” I replied, sounding more impatient than I had a right to be considering I’d brought this on myself. “But I’ve already checked the internet.”

  Her lips twitched into a half smile, though she didn’t look up from the screen as her fingers continued to poke at the keys. “I’m not checking the internet, dear.”

  “No, she isn’t,” Sybil said with a shake of her head, confirming her grandmother’s assertion.

  “Uh, right. Of course.” I had no idea what that meant, having zero frame of reference for what might constitute the magical equivalent of the world wide web for witches. I gestured vaguely toward the nearby bookcases. “I’m just gonna…”

  I took a step back from the archives desk and wandered toward the stacks as nonchalantly as I could. The senior witch’s monotonously slow clicking of keys felt like a bird pecking at my brain at half speed, and I moved deeper into the aisle of books to escape the sound. Whatever her sluggish efforts might produce, my expectations weren’t overly high.

  My eyes skimmed the titles along the book spines without much comprehension. I’d chosen the row for its convenience and to pass the time, not because I had any interest
in the books it contained. This changed halfway along when I landed on an old hardcover copy containing a history of Pinecroft Cove. I pulled it from the shelf, its cover a cheap blue cloth that would usually be hidden under a dust jacket that was long since gone, and cracked it open to the copyright page. The publisher was a local operation I’d never heard of, and since the publication date was decades in the past, there was every chance they were no longer in business.

  I thumbed idly through the pages, less for any specific information and more to pass the time, but when I reached a full page black-and-white photo a third of the way through the book, my fingers began to tingle. I knew the woman’s face almost as well as I knew my own by now, and a glance at the caption confirmed that it was Lillian Bassett. The photograph was dated 1929.

  I hadn’t realized I’d made a sound until Sybil suddenly popped her head into the aisle. “Are you okay?” she asked. “I thought I heard you say something.”

  “Sybil, come take a look at this.” I held out the book and tapped my finger on the photo. “This is the woman I told you about. The one from the dream.”

  Sybil studied the picture and let out a quiet whistle. “She looks just like you, all right. And did you see this?”

  My eyes widened as I read the title of the chapter on the page opposite Lillian’s photo, first silently to myself and then out loud. “Local Woman Lost at Sea?”

  A deep line formed across Sybil’s brow. “Isn’t that what happened to your mom?”

  Out of nowhere, I experienced a searing heat encircling my wrist. I looked down to see my silver bracelet glowing as if it had just been taken from a kiln, with a deep orange shine emanating from the center link, the one with the initials LB engraved in it. My pulse ticked like a stopwatch. LB. The bracelet from the attic had belonged to Lillian Bassett. My fingers flew open, and the history book dropped to the floor. Sybil gasped. “Tamsyn, what’s wrong?”