That Olde White Magick

by Sharon Pape

  “You’ve never been to the Grotto? For Italian, it’s as good as it gets around here. You have to get out more.”

  “I probably should,” I said rising. “I’ll call when I have the possible dates for the reunion.”

  * * * *

  Before heading home, I stopped for a prewrapped turkey and Swiss on whole wheat at the Grab and Go Mart outside of town. I was eating it at my desk when Lolly came in. I was so preoccupied thinking about my meeting with Ingersoll I’d momentarily forgotten that she and I had planned to talk after she got back from Amanda’s funeral. I came around to the front of the counter and hiked myself up on it, sandwich in hand. I offered Lolly the other half. She took it and collapsed into the customer’s chair.

  “You’re a lifesaver. I’m starving.” She took a big bite of the sandwich. “Funerals always leave me exhausted and hungry,” she said after swallowing. “A shrink would have a field day figuring out what it means.” We ate in companionable silence for another couple minutes. “Dessert is on me,” she said and popped the last bit of sandwich into her mouth. “I made a big tray of chocolate-dipped fruit for the Boswells, and I brought the leftovers to my shop for us.”

  “How was the funeral?” I asked. She’d agreed to be my ears and eyes there. I’d stopped in at Amanda’s wake the previous night to pay my respects to her family. Her elderly parents were there, standing beside their nineteen-year-old granddaughter, Kate. Alan Boswell, Amanda’s almost ex, was on Kate’s other side. The tension between her father and grandparents was palpable, riding just beneath the grief. And Kate was literally in the middle of it.

  Although I’d never met the family, I needed to go as much for myself as for them to acknowledge their loss as well as the second loss to our town. I had skipped the funeral itself because the service was to be held in the small church Amanda had attended, and I didn’t want to take a spot away from someone closer to the family.

  “It was heartbreaking,” Lolly said, shaking her head. “Nineteen is too young to lose your mother. Those two were so close. What a pointless, unnecessary death.”

  “Except someone thought it was necessary.”

  “You did the right thing by not going. The church was jammed. I made sure I was there early enough to find a seat in the pews, but we were packed in tight as a tin of sardines. They had a sound system rigged up so people who weren’t able to get into the church could listen to the service from outside. A lot of people from the school were there. Even Rusty Hinges. That’s what my grandson used to call him, but I don’t think I ever knew his real name. Isn’t that awful?”

  “Higgins,” I said. “Rusty Higgins.”

  “Oh, now I get it,” Lolly said, brightening for a moment. “Anyway, I felt so sorry for him. He was standing in a back corner alone, weeping. I don’t think he ever got married, so I guess the faculty and the kids are kind of like his family.” She took a deep breath and twitched her shoulders as if to shake off the lingering gloom of the funeral. “I did my best to stay alert, but I’m afraid I didn’t catch any useful leads for you.”

  “Wishful thinking on my part. How did her husband seem?”

  “He was front and center, playing the grieving widower.”

  We were quiet for a while, thinking our own thoughts. Lolly finally broke the silence. “Kailyn, if you’re determined to find the killer, I’d like to help out in some way.”

  “And by ‘help,’” I said, “you mean doing more than keeping me supplied with chocolate?”

  Lolly laughed, her body vibrating. “Thanks. I needed that.”

  “Seriously, though, you already have a lot on your plate. You’re up at all hours of the night making candy. You work all day. You babysit your grandkids. I don’t know how you do it.”

  “That’s how I stay young,” she said. “Seriously, though, tell me what I can do to help.”

  “Continue what you were doing at the funeral. Listen to what people are saying, who they think the killer is, and why. But I don’t want you to question anyone unless it’s in the normal course of conversation. If you’re too obvious, you could catch the attention of the killer, and that might become dangerous fast.”

  Lolly blanched, but she recovered quickly. “Don’t you worry,” she said, “I know how to play it cool. I wasn’t the star of my high school drama club for nothing.”

  I had to admire her. She had a lot of pluck for a seventy-something grandmother of five. I just hoped she wouldn’t put herself in harm’s way.

  “I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I’m ready for dessert.”

  “One quick question before I forget—do you happen to know what Alan Boswell does for a living?”

  “He’s a plumber. I’ve actually used him a couple of times. Are you having a problem?”

  “I’m planning on it.”

  Lolly frowned. “What am I missing here?”

  “I want to question him without his knowing it. If he’s a plumber, all I need is a clogged drain, and he’ll come right to my door.”

  Chapter 9

  A week after Amanda’s funeral, I set my plumber plan in motion. Although a week isn’t nearly enough time to mourn a supposed loved one, the man worked for himself and had to pay his bills, at least until Amanda’s will was probated and he inherited all of her assets. If he was indeed her killer, once the estate was settled, he’d most likely take off for parts unknown. I had to find out what I could about him before that happened. After dinner, I spent the better part of an hour trying to catch and brush my cats, except for Sashkatu, whose age and infirmities bought him an exemption. I wound up with nothing for my efforts, but a bunch of scratches and a lot of feline ill will. I finally gave up and called Merlin.

  “To what end are you trying to wrangle the critters?” he asked, his speech already showing evidence of his most recent TV obsession—old westerns from the fifties.

  “I need their fur, and they’re not cooperating. If anyone can help, it’s you.”

  “Should I take it you’ve found a use for the pesky stuff?”

  “A very limited use, but I’ll explain later. Ask Tilly if I can borrow you.” I heard them talking in the background; then Tilly got on the line.

  “I’ll drive him right over,” she said. “I’m intrigued. I’d love to find a use for all the fur my Isenbale sheds. He’s an eating, walking fur factory.”

  The moment they stepped into my house, the five cats came from their low or lofty perches and congregated around Merlin like kids around an ice cream truck. I swear they gave me nasty glances as they passed me on their way to him. Sashkatu remained a safe distance away. He’d seen me chasing his kin around the house and was probably wary of this new development.

  “Howdy,” Merlin said with a twang.

  “Thanks for coming over,” I said, wondering how long it would be before he “wrangled” Tilly into buying him a ten-gallon hat and cowboy boots.

  “Is it mandatory that I brush them by hand?” he asked. “Because one quick spell and they’ll shed that lose fur in less time than you can skin a skunk.”

  “No spells, Merlin!” Tilly said, “Not. A. Single. One!”

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard my aunt sound that menacing. I agreed with her. We had to provide a united front if we expected him to take us seriously. Besides, if the magick went awry, I could wind up with five bald cats.

  I led the way into the living room followed by Tilly, Merlin, and the cats. It was a slow procession because the cats kept getting under the wizard’s feet as they tried to outmaneuver each other to get closer to him. I had spread a sheet on the living room floor, beside one of the arm chairs, and placed the cats’ brush and a plastic bag on it. I asked Merlin to sit in the chair, and once the cats were settled around him, I sat on the sheet close to his legs. Tilly chose the couch for the best viewing angle, and Sashkatu watched the proceedings from the ba
ck of the couch. In his younger, sprier days, he would have headed for a seat in the bleachers—on top of the china cabinet.

  I handed Merlin the brush and asked him to start with the two long-haired cats and work his way down to the one with the shortest hair, in case they mutinied in spite of his charm. When he reached down for the first cat, there was a mad scramble to be chosen, punctuated by hissing and yowling. I have no idea how he restored order, but in no time the cats were once again minding their manners.

  He picked up the Persian-Himalayan mix, and the fur was soon flying. I managed to stuff most of it into the plastic bag, but bits escaped, floating off like dandelion fluff. If they reached Sashkatu, he swatted them back in our direction. One cat done, we were all picking the errant fur out of our mouths. By the time Merlin was finished with the five of them, I had a bagful of fur and the bonus of a well-groomed clowder of cats.

  “Okay, we’ve been patient,” Tilly piped up. “What on earth are you going to do with the fur?”

  “Clog up a drain or two,” I said, enjoying the confusion on her face. “Don’t worry. I haven’t lost my mind.” I explained my plan to speak to Alan Boswell.

  “Add some honey to the fur and that will do the trick,” Tilly suggested with the authority of one who’s had experience in the matter.

  I decided not to ask for details. My aunt can be longwinded at times, and I was tired. I still had drains to clog and a plumber to call bright and early the next morning.

  * * * *

  Alan Boswell was polite, but his voice was lifeless on the phone. He sounded like someone in mourning, which begged the question of whether he was truly suffering or pretending. My cynicism was based to a large degree on what Beverly had told me about him and the fact that Amanda had decided to finalize the divorce right before her untimely death. Even so, the law of the land stipulated that a person be considered innocent until proved guilty, and I wanted to afford Alan the benefit of the doubt. Making that determination was uppermost on my agenda. Well, that and having my drains unclogged. I’d done a dandy job of clogging them.

  I was up before the sun and immediately made my way downstairs to take the emergency coffee cake out of the freezer to defrost. It was one of Tilly’s magnificent creations, irresistible to anyone with a sense of smell and working taste buds. If Alan didn’t open up to me over cake and coffee, he never would.

  The grandmother clock in the living room was chiming eight o’clock when I tucked the cake into the oven to warm. Five minutes later the doorbell rang. When I opened the door, I was looking at a stocky man of medium height with hair the unlikely color of black shoe polish. I thanked him for being prompt and expressed my condolences once more. His eyes were sunken in dark circles, and it was clear he hadn’t shaved in days. He was carrying a toolbox, and there was a motorized machine beside him, which he said was for snaking deeper in the pipes than handheld snakes could go. He followed me to clog number one, the sink in the laundry room, sniffing the air that was redolent of cinnamon and sugar.

  “Something smells good,” he said. “You baking?”

  “It’s coffee cake,” I said. “It’ll be ready in fifteen minutes. If you’re not in a hurry, I hope you’ll stay and have a slice.”

  “That’s mighty nice of you,” he said, his tone a little brighter. “I might just take you up on that.” He set his toolbox on top of the drier and pulled out a simple telescoping snake that I recognized from other plumbers’ visits over the years. He rooted around with it for a bit, and when he pulled it out, he studied the tip, where a bit of the clogging material was hanging. “Fur and honey?”

  “I was bathing my cats.”

  “Cats don’t like to be wet.”

  “That’s why I was using honey to bribe them.”

  “How many cats do you have, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Six, but I was only bathing five of them.” Why had I felt the need to explain that? If I was worried about becoming known as the crazy cat lady, I wasn’t doing myself any favors.

  “I’m afraid this is going to take the big guns,” he said, wheeling the machine into place. “It’s going to be noisy; you may want to wait in another room.”

  He turned it on for a second to demonstrate. It was a deep, grinding noise, like a dentist’s drill on steroids. It vibrated in every bone, muscle, and sinew of my body. Since there was no way to have a conversation over the noise, I took his advice and retreated to the kitchen where the noise wasn’t as much of an assault. The coffee was ready; the oven timer had five minutes to go. I set out coffee mugs, plates, utensils, napkins, and fixings for the coffee. When Alan finally turned off the machine, the silence was like a gentle blessing, so deep it seemed as if a giant blanket had been thrown over the house, smothering all sound.

  After he unclogged the second sink in the main-floor powder room, I invited him into the kitchen. I poured the coffee into the mugs on the counter and carried them to the table where Alan was already seated. I cut the cake and set a hefty slice on his plate.

  “This is amazing,” Alan said around his first mouthful.

  “Thanks. I’ll tell my aunt you enjoyed it; she’s the baker in the family.” Since Alan was busy eating, I took the opportunity to dive right in with my questions “How is your daughter doing?”

  He licked crumbs from his lips. “She’s holding up okay. But it’s hard, you know. She acts like she’s grown up, being in college and all, but she has a little girl’s heart, and she misses her mom. I can tell.” There was a little quaver in his voice. Nicely played, if it wasn’t genuine.

  “How about your in-laws?”

  Alan poured cream into his coffee and watched it swirl around the surface before stirring it in. “To be honest,” he said without looking up, “they’ve never liked me. They always thought Amanda could have done better. They were probably right. Anyhow, now that she’s gone, they’re trying to turn Kate against me.”

  Although the whole point of clogging the drains was to give me a chance to find out more about him and his relationship with Amanda, the quick admission caught me by surprise. I didn’t know how to respond. I’d expected at least some resistance to my questions. Why was he so eager to air the family’s dirty laundry to a complete stranger like me? Either he desperately needed to vent to somebody or he’d heard I was investigating Amanda’s death and wanted to get me into his corner by playing the loving, but misunderstood, husband. He might have succeeded, had I not been aware of the impending divorce and his frequent money problems.

  “Your in-laws have lost their daughter, and everyone’s nerves are raw after such a tragedy,” I said. “Given time, they may come around.” I was apparently full of useless platitudes.

  Alan sniffled. “You really think so?” I swore I saw a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “I can’t bear the thought of losing my little girl too. You have nothing in life if you don’t have family.”

  I had to admit he was making headway in winning me over or at least in making me less sure of what I thought I knew. His words alone hadn’t done it; they were more trite than eloquent, but it was increasingly difficult to believe he was faking his emotions. I found myself weighing what Beverly had said about Alan against the man across the table from me. Given her propensity to exaggerate and indulge in malicious gossip, I couldn’t dismiss the possibility that she had her own reasons to vilify Alan or to send me on a wild-goose chase. I was sorry I hadn’t asked Tilly to be there for another opinion. Then again, she was hardly neutral about her dislike of all things Beverly.

  After forking the last of his cake into his mouth, Alan asked if he could have more. I was happy to oblige, as long as our little barter system of “cake for information” continued. I gave him another wedge.

  “I heard you and Amanda were thinking of getting a divorce,” I said.

  I’d heard a lot more than that, but I thought a vague approach would be less likely to
antagonize him. He looked up at me from his plate as if trying to decide if he could trust me. I wanted my face to show compassion rather than nosiness, but without a mirror it was hard to assess how well I was pulling it off.

  “Yeah, you know how it is. Like most couples, we’ve had our ups and downs. But I think we were at a point where things were going better. The sad part is that the last time I talked to Amanda, she wanted me to move back in and give it another go. Now we’ll never have that chance.” He blinked rapidly as if he were trying to hold back tears.

  “Life isn’t always fair,” I said.

  Alan glanced at his watch, immediately pushed back from the table, and got to his feet. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention to the time. I’m going to be late for my next appointment. Thanks for the coffee and cake. You’ve been very kind to listen to my tale of woe.”

  “Not at all,” I assured him. “Everyone needs a shoulder now and then.” I could write a whole book of clichés. I paid him for his work and sent him on his way with the remainder of the cake, feeling like I’d come away with a bargain.

  I was forty minutes late arriving at Abracadabra. When I opened the front door, Travis literally fell on me, shoulder first and we both went down in a heap. He apologized as he helped me up.

  “Are you okay? I was leaning on the door, waiting for you.”

  It was a riff on our first meeting when I’d also been late. This time was considerably more awkward though and left me wishing we could go back to that other day and start off fresh.

  “Are you all right?” he asked again.

  “I think so. Everything feels like it’s still connected to everything else.”

  “You know your door isn’t up to code, right?”

  Was he seriously trying to lay the blame on me? “What are you talking about?”

  “Buildings that serve the public are required to have doors that open outward.” By the look on his face, I could tell he regretted bringing it up when things between us were rocky enough. “It’s actually a fire safety regulation,” he added lamely.