“None of that matters if you’re hurt or dead. There are people in this county who are terrified of anything other than exactly what they knew growing up. You need to excite their curiosity first. Make them want to know about you. Knocking them over the head with it won’t help you.” I was shocked at my reasonable argument, because I understood Hope’s point. She was free to practice her religion. That was what America was all about. But it couldn’t raise her from the dead if someone killed her, and I doubted if magic would be helpful in such a case.
“People don’t change unless they’re forced to,” Charity said. Her big blue eyes misted over. “Why can’t people just try to get to know us?”
I shook my head. The answer was way too complex for me. I didn’t have a chance to answer anyway. The protesters came marching down the driveway, chanting “Witches Go Home.”
“Should I call the law and have them removed?” Tinkie had her phone in hand. “They are trespassing.”
“Let them get it out of their system,” Faith said. “We aren’t afraid of them.”
I herded the sisters into the house and called Coleman to come watch over the protesters to make sure they stayed orderly. When I closed the front door, I had a question for the Harringtons. It went to the financial aspect of the Harringtons and their school. “What does Trevor think about all of this?”
“He’s up on the third floor,” Charity said. “He may not be paying attention. When he’s in the middle of a painting, he forgets to eat. He’s seriously involved in his art. The project he’s working on now is so interesting. Nude women as tree trunks. Eerie and exquisitely beautiful. He contours the wood grain to give the women their curves and shapes. Who knew a cedar trunk could be so sensual?”
“Let’s go talk to him,” I said to Tinkie.
“You go. I’ll get some info from Faith, Hope, and Charity about their school and such.”
More like she’d get another spell or potion or enchantment for her baby. But I couldn’t stop her and I had work to do. If I could find out how the Harringtons were funding their school and the purchase of the dairy and acreage, I’d have something to report to Kitten. The sooner I found information, the quicker I was done with Queen Fontana.
4
The Musgrove Manor staircase was dark mahogany with a dragon motif carved into the banister and railings. I had to admit it was perfect for a witch school, very Harry Potter. The house had elegant and Gothic touches throughout, and I would have enjoyed walking around exploring if I’d had more time.
At the third floor, I was filled with a sense of foreboding so strong I halted. The landing was furnished with a comfortable-looking sofa and two chairs. The lighting was soft but serviceable. There was no reason for the sense of dread that filled me. And then I heard it. The soft scrabbling sound of something moving down the hallway behind a closed door. Toenails on wood. The hair on my arms stood on end. Was this the creature that had scored my front door?
“Mr. Musgrove.” I had to force his name out past my fear. “Mr. Musgrove?” I hadn’t really spoken to the eccentric artist since a long-ago school visit to the dairy. He’d been wildly handsome—dark and brooding, like a proper hero.
The door closest to me burst open and a handsome man in a beautiful paisley silk smoking jacket and tailored black slacks popped out at me. “Who might you be?” He sized me up. “I don’t have a model coming today, but I can work you in.” He grabbed my arm and pulled me into the room he’d come from, which turned out to be his bedroom.
The unkempt bed and the empty wine bottles on the floor told a familiar story. One that warned me to watch my step. Trevor Musgrove was a very handsome older man in his late fifties, and he had a well-earned reputation as a lothario.
Torn between a confrontation with a tipsy artist and whatever I had sensed in the hallway, I decided to take my chances with Trevor. He was a seducer, not a rapist. “Would you mind answering a few questions?”
“Would you care for a glass of wine?” he asked.
“No thanks, Mr. Musgrove. I’m working.” I tried not to sound prim and proper but I wasn’t certain I was successful.
“What kind of questions?” He found a corked bottle on the floor and filled a Waterford Crystal wineglass. He was a study in contradiction of sloth and taste.
“About your property here. What made you decide to sell it?”
“I’ve exhausted the area women willing to model. I want to end my days in a big city, in a place with … amenities like good health care and clean air. I have no heirs, that I know of. No one to carry on the Musgrove name. I might as well enjoy spending my last years as I wish. Yes, a big city calls to me.”
“New York?” I asked.
“Heaven’s no. Stockholm. Or perhaps Copenhagen.”
“You’re going to move there?” I was a little surprised. I didn’t often hear of Delta residents moving to Scandinavia, but he had a point. Best health care and education systems, and a terrific support network for artists.
“I need a new perspective. The land here is lush and so … humid. I thought perhaps a cold climate would give me new ideas for my paintings.”
I didn’t really understand. The bedroom walls were covered in fantastic paintings of nude women in various poses. I wasn’t an art critic but I could see the paintings were rich in detail and the earthy colors of the Delta. The landscape was as sensuous as the female models. “But you paint nudes.” Stating the obvious was a talent of mine.
He glanced around the room. “My summer series. Their bodies are as generous and fertile as the Delta soil. That was my inspiration. I wonder how I’ll view the human form in a frozen terrain.”
Trevor’s take on his art was fascinating and I really would have liked a chance to study the paintings to see which of his models I knew, but I’d come for financial information. And I was worried about what Tinkie might be getting into. The witches seemed to have co-opted her reasoning ability.
“Have you signed a contract on the dairy with the Harrington sisters?”
“There was a time when a gentleman’s handshake was enough.” Trevor was savvy like a fox.
“So true, but I doubt three businesswomen would begin renovations without a contract.”
He smiled. “They’re very pretty, aren’t they? Each one exquisite.”
“Mr. Musgrove, Trevor, this could really help me on my case.”
“Sorry; poking into my business shouldn’t be your case.”
Well said. “You could have sold the property long ago for development. I’ve heard Bob Fontana has been hot to buy it for years. Golf course, exclusive subdivision, a real appeal to the upper crust, and close enough to Ole Miss for football games and alumni functions.”
He shrugged. “Golf doesn’t interest me. Our educational system needs a shake-up, and if the Harringtons can get state vouchers for their school, that will give people something to think about. Vouchers are an attack on the public school system, but if the state is going down that road, then I want to be sure there are diverse schools for students to choose from. Those witchy women are going to stir the pot. Or the cauldron.” He chuckled.
“Yes, indeed they are. And some of the people getting stirred are protesting right outside this manor.”
He flicked his fingers. “Let the gnats buzz.”
“If you’d confirm the details of the sale of the property—”
“It’s no one’s business but mine if I gave them the property.” He refilled his wineglass. Holding the bottle, he nodded toward a door. “Step into my studio.”
Curiosity made me fall in behind him. And when he opened the door onto the long room with a vaulted-glass ceiling, I couldn’t stop the sharp intake of breath. The room was stunning, filled with winter light. The view was of well-maintained pastures still in hues of brown and tan, but soon the spring would turn the vista green. I could see his inspiration for the summer series.
Once I’d had my fill of the view, I turned to the paintings that lined the back
wall. I noticed several of my former classmates—who were married to prominent businessmen. Many were women I didn’t know. All were magnificent.
“Let me paint you,” Trevor said. He’d filled a glass with wine and handed it to me. My fingers closed around it of their own volition.
“I’m not a model.” And I had no intention of taking my clothes off.
“It’s an experience every beautiful woman should have. To model for a man who appreciates the female form. I paint my models as goddesses.”
And he did. Gazing on his paintings, I saw a total appreciation of the female form in all of its varieties. The women were sirens, seductresses, femmes who owned their power.
“I’m really here to ask some questions.”
“Which I don’t intend to answer.” He stared unflinchingly at me. “It’s no one’s business.”
“It’s my job, Trevor.”
“Posh and fuddletops. I’m not answering. Think about modeling. My paintings sell mostly in Europe. My religious icon series sold at well over six figures a painting. You might grace the wall of a Swiss château or a villa in Italy. Your bone structure is so … the way the light strikes the planes of your face.” His smile revealed the true source of his seductive ability. He liked women and he loved painting them. He was almost irresistible. Almost.
“Thank you for your time. You’re a talented painter.” I put my wineglass down, untouched, and found the door to the hallway by the stairs. Whatever presence I’d felt earlier was gone, but I noticed claw marks on the floor that I didn’t recall seeing. I hurried down the stairs to find my partner sitting in a chair surrounded by the three sisters. They were chanting something and blowing aromatic smoke onto her.
I’d arrived not a moment too soon.
I ran into the huddle like a linebacker and snatched Tinkie out of her chair. “We’re going home.”
“It’s fine,” Faith said. “We’re done.” She turned her full attention to Tinkie. “Within three days you’ll conceive, if you make love with a virile man.”
“Oscar’s fine. We’ve had his sperm count checked,” Tinkie said matter-of-factly. “The problem is me. There was scarring.”
“And that problem is resolved.” Faith radiated confidence.
I gave them all a mean glare and took Tinkie’s arm. “We have to go.”
Without further conversation, Tinkie and I left the manor. Outside, the protesters had dispersed and Cece had returned to the newspaper after snapping a few photos. Coleman, strangely, had never shown up.
Tinkie freed her arm from my grip and faced me. “The Harringtons told me they came to Mississippi with a nest egg to put into the school. It had to be a considerable sum, maybe an inheritance.” She’d done her work toward finding the answers Kitten wanted. “Sarah Booth, you have to stop treating me like a child,” she said. “I’m capable of managing my own life.”
“Tinkie, I can’t stand to see you get hurt.”
“And you have no right to interfere. I mean it. Back off.” She didn’t wait for a response but went to her car and drove away.
The protest march of the anti-witch forces had been short-lived, but the day was bitter cold and since the sisters didn’t come outside for the hecklers to torment, the event had turned boring. I wasn’t worried at all that the witches would be run out of town by Kitten and her cohorts. My concern rested squarely on my partner’s heart and how easily it could be broken by false hopes.
* * *
After Tinkie’s abrupt departure, I loaded the critters up in my car and made a beeline for the bank. I wanted a word with Oscar about Tinkie, and I also needed a moment’s consultation with Harold Erkwell, a man I cared greatly for.
Before I went to the bank, I stopped at Millie’s Café. I ran in and ordered a hamburger steak and broiled catfish to-go for Sweetie and Pluto. Because my pants were tight, I got a chicken salad plate for myself. I ate at the counter and talked to Millie while the kitchen made the food for my pets. As I predicted, Millie was agog at the fact Esmeralda Grimes was in town, and thrilled at the prospect that the witch sisters had resurrected Elvis. She let me know that the protest had been a dud. “Cece and I got there and snapped maybe three photos and then everyone packed it in and left. What kind of protesters do that? They don’t have any grit or perseverance. They’re just pantywaist protesters.”
“I’m just glad they didn’t shoot the witches.”
“I’d really hoped to see Elvis,” Millie said with a measure of wistfulness. “You can’t imagine the impact Elvis had on my aunts and older cousins. He was this rebel, this handsome boy who gave people Cadillacs because he could, this sexy man who treated women like princesses. And he could sing in a way that made shivers run over their bodies. I think every one of them was in love with him.”
Millie had swept me up in her memories. The King of Rock and Roll had captured my mother’s heart, too. “He was a handsome man,” I agreed. Every Mississippi girl had at one time or another fallen for Elvis. He’d been an icon for another generation, but his charm and legendary kindness still lived on, forty years after his death. “My mother taught me to dance playing his records.”
“If those witches could really bring Elvis back, maybe he could push Mississippi into the future.”
“Maybe.” Millie believed her idols were capable of all kinds of magic. Who was I to step on her dreams?
“Do you think you could set up an appointment for me with the witches?”
I turned my head so fast I almost got whiplash. “You? Why?”
“I have some important decisions coming up in my life. I might need some assistance.”
“Millie, surely you wouldn’t trust your future to three women who pretend to be witches?” I couldn’t believe it. Maybe Kitten and the Anti-Satan League had a point. Everyone in town was acting like a spell had been cast over them.
“How do you know they’re pretend witches?”
I didn’t have evidence one way or the other. Yet. “I’ll find proof. And then you and Tinkie can snap out of it. If Tinkie doesn’t get pregnant, her heart is going to break. All of that because those women are playacting.” I sounded hot and I was. I picked up the to-go order and prepared to leave. “If you care about Tinkie, don’t encourage her to believe this foolishness. And please don’t tell her you’re thinking of going to the Harringtons for advice.”
“I won’t. I’d never do anything to harm Tinkie.”
I felt a rush of remorse. “I know you wouldn’t. I’m just worried sick that she’s going to realize this is all pretend and then she’s going to grieve all over again about a baby.”
Millie nodded. “You’re right about that. If she doesn’t get pregnant, it’s going to be bad.”
* * *
Oscar shared my concern about Tinkie’s investment in a magic potion to guarantee pregnancy, but his long years of marriage had taught him a valuable lesson—sometimes he had to step back and let things play out.
“I can’t forbid her from believing something,” he said. “Belief and faith, Sarah Booth, they can’t be conquered by rational thought. That’s why so many people believe some crazy things.”
He was right. No argument. “So how do we minimize the damage?”
“We remind her how much we love her, and we make her remember how worthwhile life was before this unrealistic obsession cropped up.” He pushed back from the huge desk he sat behind and stood up. I had to work hard not to visualize Tinkie and Oscar working their mojo on top of that desk. He continued talking. “I’ll do everything I can to try to convince Trevor to abandon this sale of the property to the Harringtons. Trevor is notoriously hardheaded and eccentric.”
So, Oscar wasn’t as Zen as I’d feared. His method of helping Tinkie involved getting the witches to move on down the road. “Right. If the witches leave town, maybe we can minimize the damage. Tinkie said the witches had come into some inheritance. Have you heard anything about their funding?”
“They haven’t opened an account
here.”
That was as much as I would get from Oscar, but it was at least a fact I could trust.
“Maybe you can have some sway with Trevor. That property is worth a fortune. I just don’t see how three women selling salves, potions, and spells could come up with the funding. Maybe they will move on.”
“For now, that’s the plan.”
I left Oscar’s office and stopped by Harold’s. The décor reflected my friend’s artistic interests. Harold bought a lot of local art to support potters and painters, and his walls and shelves were covered in interesting work. I could have spent four hours just examining everything he’d collected, but I’d come for a different reason.
“Sarah Booth!” The anticipation faded from his features. “I gather you haven’t come to tell me I’ve finally won your heart.”
He could read me like a first-grade primer, and I got right to the point. “I’m going to give Coleman a chance.” Harold and I had flirted on and off for the past two years. No one could have asked for a better friend, and though he’d made it clear he wanted more, he’d respected my boundaries. Of all my suitors, he knew me—and accepted me, warts and all.
“I see.” When he smiled, I felt my heart crack a little. “Coleman is a good man. I’ve known all along you had unfinished business with him. I think it’s best to resolve that.”
He was one of the most generous and kind men I’d ever known. “Thank you.”
“You deserve everything, Sarah Booth. Don’t settle for less.”
“I won’t.”
He motioned me to a chair. “I’m worried about Tinkie.”
“I was just here to speak to Oscar about the whole … baby thing.”
“I saw her down at the baby boutique. Remember when she kept the little redheaded baby and bought everything in the store for her?”
I nodded. I remembered that very well. Tinkie almost fled the country with the infant she’d named after my mother, Libby.
“She’s doing it again. She’s so certain she’s going to have a baby she’s refurbishing the nursery at her house. Oscar can’t reason with her.”
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