That Olde White Magick

by Sharon Pape

  Chapter 12

  Business was slow but steady the next morning. A string of locals came in for remedies to treat a range of problems from athlete’s foot to the side effects of chemo. Every one of them was unhappy with the mayor’s efforts to seat a board member of his own choosing. Yet no one had the time or energy to run against Patrick Griffin. A few people admitted to being afraid of meeting the same fate as Amanda. But unless someone stepped up, Patrick would automatically become our new, albeit temporary, board member. I wondered if this was how democracies started slip-sliding away.

  One customer suggested Tilly for the position, but my aunt didn’t have the right temperament for campaigning or sitting on the board. She was too easily upset and flustered. Besides, she, too, had a business to run. And although no one was aware of it, she was the other half of our Merlin security program. Keeping the legendary wizard out of trouble and off the grid required more woman hours than you might think. With all this talk swirling around me, I felt a twinge of guilt about not tossing my own hat into the proverbial ring. But between Merlin, my magick shop, and trying to find a killer, there were not enough hours in the day. Judging by the way the media kept recycling the old news, I had to assume that Detective Duggan hadn’t made any progress in his investigation, meaning I needed to stay focused on the case too.

  When I was trying to decide on my next move, Hugh Fletcher came to mind. Travis had said the man would never do his own dirty work. Could that mean Eric Ingersoll did it for him? He’d told me he was wining and dining his girlfriend at the time Amanda was murdered. Verifying his alibi shouldn’t be too difficult. I found the Grotto’s website with its phone number and hours of operation. They opened for dinner at five o’clock.

  I called as soon as I got home from the shop. The earlier in the evening, the more likely it wouldn’t be too busy. I took the precaution of blocking my number. The woman who answered the phone was upbeat and friendly until I asked to speak to the manager. At that point, I was told in a more officious and wary tone that I was speaking to her. Maybe she was expecting a complaint because after I explained that I was writing an article for the e-magazine, The New York Palate, and that it would highlight the best places to eat in Schuyler County, her tone quickly warmed up again. She introduced herself as Sherry Atwood and assured me she was “tickled pink” to have the Grotto included in my article.

  “May I inquire how you chose us?” she asked.

  Although she was clearly trying to remain professional, I had the sense she was doing a happy dance in her head. “Eric Ingersoll is one of our freelance food critics. He’s eaten in the Grotto on a number of occasions. The last time would have been August fifteenth. You can probably find him on your reservation list for that date. He has nothing but praise for your establishment.”

  “Would you excuse me a minute?” When she returned to the phone she was pleased to confirm that she did indeed find his reservation for two at seven o’clock on the night in question. “Now I can picture exactly where they were seated. I’m so glad he enjoyed his meal.”

  I hadn’t said Ingersoll was there with a date. By mentioning the reservation was for two, Sherry confirmed his alibi. I felt a little guilty about conning her, but I couldn’t think of any other way to verify it. If Fletcher hired a hit man to kill Amanda, it was not Eric Ingersoll. Speaking to the business mogul in person moved up my to-do list. The problem was that he lived and worked in Manhattan. It would mean having Tilly tend my shop on a day when she didn’t have any appointments in hers. And she’d have to take full responsibility for Merlin. It wouldn’t have been an issue if I’d perfected my teleportation skills, but that was wishful thinking and a long way off.

  * * * *

  I didn’t sleep well that night. I was awakened by troubling dreams. In one I was running from an angry mob, and when I looked over my shoulder, I recognized their faces. They were the faces of my friends and neighbors, people I had known all my life. But as I watched, their features morphed into vicious caricatures.

  In another dream, they were pelting me with rocks. I was crouched on the ground against a wall, a dead end, with nowhere to run. I tucked my head down, trying to protect myself with my hands and forearms. The smaller stones pinged off me, stinging like insect bites. The larger rocks slammed into me, eventually knocking me over. I felt blood running from my head into my eyes and down my cheeks. It was getting harder and harder to breathe, to expand my diaphragm enough to draw in the air. Mercifully the barrage stopped. I was in a pocket of quiet where the only noise was the thudding of my heart. Then I heard Travis saying, “Don’t worry. We’ll figure this out.”

  I opened my eyes, surprised to find myself in bed. All the cats were arrayed around me sleeping, except Sashkatu. He was sitting on my chest staring at me. I really had to put him on a diet. It was his weight on me that was making it hard to breathe. At least that part of the dream made sense. I felt for blood on my face but found none. My nightgown was damp with sweat, though, as if I’d actually been running from my attackers. I didn’t have to look at the clock on the bedside table to know it was still the dead of night.

  I’ve never been afraid of the night, not even as a child. But something about this night was different. Whatever had disturbed my sleep was still lying in wait. Sashkatu must have sensed it too. He’d been known to sleep through thunderstorms that shook the house to its foundations, through hurricane-force winds that mangled patio furniture, through minor earthquakes, and through breakfast smells that awoke all his brethren and stray dogs from miles away. But here he was, wide awake, sitting on me. He must have come to warn me about some approaching menace, the same way the dreams had.

  “Good boy,” I whispered to him, “I’m going to make sure the wards are still working.” I set Sashki on his pillow and got up without disturbing the others. I didn’t want to turn on lights, thinking that would alert an intruder that he’d been found out. I opened the top drawer of the nightstand and fumbled around until my fingers closed around a flashlight. I picked my way slowly down the stairs, flinching at each squeaking floorboard. Everything seemed to be as it was when I’d gone up to bed. No one lurked behind the living room drapes or in the hulking shadow of the china closet. I was about to attribute Sashkatu’s distress to old age creeping into his brain when I heard a truck’s engine roar to life.

  Late-night traffic, especially on the side roads of New Camel, was rare and limited to the beeping of snowplows in the wake of a big storm and the infrequent shrill of emergency vehicles. I unlocked the front door and stepped onto the porch. Whatever truck I’d heard was gone. The night was still and calm. The street lamp closest to my house cast a dim yellow halo that didn’t reach beyond the perimeter of my property. I ducked back inside and switched on the exterior lights, a sconce on the wall next to the door, and a lamppost that illuminated the steps and walkway.

  I padded halfway down the walk and turned back to look at the house. The front windows were intact. There was no egg stuck to the clapboards or toilet paper laced through the trees. The protection wards I’d placed during the Harkens’s case seemed to be holding. But as I turned to go inside, the wind lifted, billowing my thin nightgown and carrying with it the unmistakable smell of paint.

  The wards extended to the edges of my property, including the fence, but it was possible that something as innocuous as paint could slip past them. I followed the smell the rest of the way into the street where it was strongest and looked back at the fence. My breath caught in my throat, and a chill slithered wormlike through my heart.

  * * * *

  I had to wait for morning before I could do anything about the hateful message on the fence. Heart racing, I lay in bed, sleep a hopeless wish. I was dressed and ready when the sun rose. But once I was outside my resolve faltered. I gave myself a no-nonsense pep talk and, jaw clenched, marched down the flagstone path and out into the street. In daylight it was worse than I had realized. The messa
ge was scrawled in red, the excess paint dripping from each of the letters making it look like the cover of a horror novel. There was no mistaking the words and sentiment: We Hang Witches! It was accompanied by the crude drawing of a woman hanging from a noose.

  I’d encountered similar threats during the Harkens case. But what if this was not just to scare me into dropping my investigation? What if there had always been an undercurrent of bias against my family? I didn’t want to believe that. No, I couldn’t. Our friends were truly friends. How could I entertain doubts about Elise, who was like an older sister, or Lolly, who always had my back? Or any of the others who greeted me with a smile whenever our paths crossed? Yet it takes a lot of hatred to fuel an act like this.

  I was still standing there trying to make sense of the senseless when Tilly’s car pulled to the curb beside me. She and Merlin jumped out, or came as close to jumping as a woman with bad feet and an elderly man could. Tilly grabbed me in a smothery hug, the thin layers of her muumuu pressing against my face and suffocating me. I had to pull back enough to breathe.

  “Poor, dear girl,” she said, choking on emotion as she released me.

  “Your aunt woke up screamin’,” Merlin said, sounding a touch irritated. “A cowpoke could die of a heart attack.”

  Tilly had gone quiet, staring at the fence. “The work of a spineless coward,” she hissed. “And if I ever catch him, I’ll have Merlin turn him into a slug. Permanently.”

  Maybe it was the product of my tension and distress, but her statement struck me as hysterically funny, like a kid siccing his older brother on a bully. I burst out in laughter, great belly-aching peals. My eyes filled with tears, causing my aunt to regard me with startled concern. Merlin joined in the laughter, having a grand time, though I doubt he understood why. Only Tilly remained sober and perplexed. Once the laughter ebbed, I wiped the tears from my face and embraced her.

  “What would I do without you?” I said, meaning it with every fiber of my being.

  “I’ll have your fence fixed up proper before you can whistle ‘Dixie,’” Merlin said, still invested in cowboy lingo.

  “Oh no you don’t,” I warned him. “No spells.”

  “Can’t we make an exception for this, this...” Tilly threw her hands up, unable to find a word adequate to the situation.

  I wanted to say yes, but I couldn’t be a hypocrite and let Merlin cast a spell simply because it suited me, especially out here in public. “No spells means no spells,” I said. “I don’t want to stoke the suspicions or misgivings people may already have about us.”

  “But people come into your shop asking for spells all the time,” Tilly protested. “It’s part of your merchandise.”

  “That’s different. Those people want spells. There are plenty of others who want nothing to do with spells or anything I sell. They’re afraid. And every time they see us using sorcery, that fear grows darker. You know how fierce Bronwen was about obeying that rule,” I reminded her.

  “I suppose.”

  “Dagnabbit! Then how are you fixin’ to remedy this?” Merlin asked.

  I really had to find a different TV channel for him to get hooked on. One with more contemporary language. He attracted too much attention as it was, without sounding like a refuge from the Old West. “If it’s washable, we’ll wash it,” I said. “If not, we’ll use primer and paint.”

  “And a passel of elbow grease,” he muttered.

  He proved to be right about that. I spent the morning trying five different products to erase the red paint, without success. Tilly, who didn’t own appropriate garments for painting, supervised and cheered me on. To his credit, Merlin took a turn at scrubbing the fence, though he nattered endlessly about the unnecessary work.

  We adjourned for lunch. Too tired to try painting over the mess, I chose the easier, though more expensive, solution. I’d buy a new piece of fencing. I was heading upstairs to change out of my painting clothes and head to the store when Merlin came up with an idea that seemed both practical and not likely to go wrong—a winning combination. Or maybe fatigue had left me in a weakened state.

  While we were inside, he would cast a spell over a bucket of soap and water, giving the simple mixture the ability to remove paint of any kind. We would scrub the fence again, using the magickal water. To anyone passing by, it would seem like we were using manual labor and not sorcery.

  “Brilliant,” I said, glad to have a reason to praise him because all too often I was lecturing him.

  “At your service, ma’am,” he said, with a sweeping bow from the waist that went too low, nearly sending him face-first onto the hardwood. Arms wind-milling like crazy, he caught himself at the last moment, and the three of us heaved sighs of relief.

  I should have felt better now that we had settled on a plan, but I still felt like a hypocrite. So I came up with an idea to fix that. “I’d like to loosen the rule against Merlin casting spells,” I said, which instantly caught my cohort’s attention. “From now on, Merlin can present his case for casting a spell, and if we all agree, he may proceed with it.”

  Tilly looked dubious, but Merlin was gleeful enough for both of them. The new rule was completely dependent on the wizard’s discipline not to rush into anything before getting our permission. Only time would tell if I’d made a wise decision or opened a Pandora’s box chock-full of disasters.

  We trooped outside again to test the charmed water. It proved so potent that I only had to touch my brush to the paint to see it dissolve. The only downside was that I had to go slowly and pretend to put my back into it, or I would have been finished in eyebrow-raising seconds.

  Doris Steinmetz, from down the block, came by with her Lab mix, Maggie. “I can’t imagine who would do such a despicable thing,” she said, shaking her head. “I hope you know that most folks in New Camel are fond of you and your family and always have been. I, for one, truly miss Morgana and Bronwen. They were women of substance and wisdom. There’s a scarcity of that these days.”

  Tilly and I thanked her. Merlin went on pretending to scrub the fence, which was fine with me since I never knew what might come out of his mouth.

  “Do you have any idea who’s responsible for doing this?” Doris asked.

  “I didn’t get outside in time.”

  “You should get yourself a dog,” she said. “Both you and Tilly. Maggie here gives me such wonderful peace of mind. If she doesn’t hear something, there’s nothing to be heard. Cats are lovely companions, but a dog is better for protection.”

  I assured her I’d think about it. She spent another few minutes chatting with us until Maggie started to whine and strain at her leash. “Excuse us,” Doris said, “I think she needs to relieve herself. I hope the police catch the culprit,” she called as Maggie pulled her away.

  For that to happen, I would first have to report the incident to the police, and I wasn’t planning to go that route. I’d already decided to buy a high-resolution video camera to record the perpetrator should he or she ever come back.

  Chapter 13

  After another night of little sleep, I showered, dressed, and downed a cup of coffee before rushing out of the house. I promised Sashkatu I’d be back for him soon. He regarded me from atop the couch with a skeptical look in his eyes.

  “Sorry, Your Highness,” I said, “but I have to go.”

  I was a woman on a mission. If I’d installed a video camera two months ago, it might have captured the miscreant who’d painted the message on my fence and possibly his or her vehicle and license plate as well. No more procrastination.

  I was headed for one of the big-box stores with no charm whatsoever. But who needs charm when the price is right? As soon as I walked in, a gangly young salesman swooped down on me. I told him I was looking for a video camera. He led me over to the display and tried to sell me the most expensive one there. I selected one he grudgingly declared “okay,”
although it didn’t have all the bells and whistles he himself might have wanted. Having lost that battle, he did his utmost to convince me it would be foolish not to purchase the extended warranty. I stood my ground, though. I had my own kind of warranty that didn’t cost a penny.

  I pulled back into my driveway a scant hour after I’d left; scooped up a huffy Sashkatu, who acted like I’d abandoned him in a back alley somewhere; and off we went to open my shop. I planned to install the camera after work. How hard could it be? I could have had the security company, Third Eye, take care of the whole thing, but then someone would be monitoring the feed and alert the police of any questionable activity. I didn’t want the police involved. I figured I had the right to make that decision.

  My first customers of the day were three middle-aged women who hailed from Buffalo. They’d heard about Abracadabra from a friend who’d been here with a tour group earlier in the summer. I watched their eyes pop as they walked in. They weren’t stingy with their praise. They loved everything about the shop, from the arched door to the wicker shopping baskets. They especially loved Sashkatu basking in the sunlight, as if this were a mini Disneyland and I’d installed the sleeping cat on the window ledge for their pleasure. They asked dozens of questions about the products that crammed the shelves and wanted my help in choosing the best skin creams for the harsh winters they faced at the edge of Lake Erie.

  The petite one was finished shopping first. She came up to the counter to pay. “Are you an actual practicing witch?” she whispered as if she feared I’d find her question too impertinent.

  I didn’t know why she felt whispering the words would make them more acceptable. If I minded, it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d whispered or shouted from the hilltops. I gave her a reassuring smile. “I prefer to be called a sorcerer.”