Charmed Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  “Do you believe the witches have powers?” He countered with a question of his own.

  “Yes.” Tinkie didn’t even hesitate.

  He arched his eyebrows and waited for me to answer.

  “No.” But I was lying. A little. My hand went instinctively to my chest where the silk charm hung beneath my shirt. I did believe. The afternoon of lovemaking with Coleman had been extraordinary.

  Malvik grinned. “I see.” He sipped his drink and I wondered if he was giving me a chance to come clean. “They are truly witches. Genetic witches. And they have powers. Which they use mostly for good. They are also exceptional teachers, and the world needs the things they want to teach.”

  “Okay. So how does that involve you?” I asked.

  “I’m going to teach the physics, astronomy, and geography courses. Hope is strong in the creative arts and languages. Faith is a genius with math and business. Charity is into agriculture, growing things, caring for the planet and the environment.”

  “She’s the one with the green thumb?” I asked, wondering again what kind of poison had killed Trevor Musgrove and if it could be growing in the Harrington herb garden.

  “Yes, she can grow anything, and they plan to produce all of their own organic foods at the school. Imagine the impact. Students will learn to sustain life, provide clean and healthy food for themselves, and also apply themselves to the subject matter that elevates the human soul. Compassion and responsibility. And they’ll be disconnected from technology while they garden and farm.”

  It did sound like something the world needed. Too bad it came with a dollop of murder. “Do you know what happened to Trevor?” I was tired of pussyfooting around.

  “I believe he died of fright.”

  Now that was an unexpected answer. “What could have frightened a grown man to death?” I asked. “After all, he saw Kitten Fontana naked and he didn’t die from that.” Tinkie and I high-fived each other.

  “You’ve felt something there, at the manor, haven’t you?” Malvik stared at me, watching.

  The claw marks on my door and on the beautiful old wood of the third floor—Trevor’s floor—came back to me. I had sensed something very sinister in the woods. And Tinkie had, too.

  “What is it?” Tinkie asked Malvik. “Do you know what it is? Faith warned me that evil was afoot in Sunflower County.”

  “She did?” I was more concerned about Tinkie than ever. What if they’d given her some kind of hallucinogen to make her believe she was pregnant? “What kind of evil?”

  “You’ve felt it. The oppressive presence. The sense of being watched.” Malvik finished his drink, eyed Tinkie’s full glass, and signaled the bartender for another. He was going to be toasted by five o’clock. “There is something afoot here in Sunflower County, and it isn’t the witches. But it is dark. I believe Trevor was a victim of this darkness.”

  “That’s mumbo jumbo, and I don’t scare that easily.” I felt it was imperative that I didn’t show him that he was succeeding in frightening me. Once Malvik and the sisters realized they had gained the upper hand—the perception that they were powerful, magical people—we would all be their victims.

  “It’s not made-up, and you know it. Deny it to me, but in your heart you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “There are these huge claw marks on Sarah Booth’s door,” Tinkie said before I could stop her.

  Malvik’s gaze was almost mesmerizing. I couldn’t look away when he spoke. “You’re a target, Ms. Delaney.”

  “Anyone could have done that to frighten me.”

  “Yes, that’s one possibility. And the other possibility, that something wicked and cruel is roaming the countryside, is the one you run away from. To quote the bard, ‘There are more things in heaven and earth.’ Shakespeare knew many things.”

  That was a quote my aunt Loulane used when she wanted to make a point that my worldview was too narrow. Hearing it on Malvik’s lips was upsetting. “If there’s this evil creature in the woods, what is it? What does it want?” I asked.

  “It protects the sisters. And it will do whatever is necessary to make sure no one threatens or harms them. You know about Ted LaRue. He might have had a heart attack, but it wasn’t from natural causes. And Kenny St. Pe. Were you aware that shortly after his divorce-court episode his wife Lurleen drove off the road on a perfect, sunny day and into a slough? They said she was alive when the alligators came after her.”

  He was scaring me, and good.

  “Then you’re saying the witches are responsible for this evil?” Tinkie asked.

  Malvik hesitated. If he was pretending to consider his words, he was doing a fine job of it. “Not responsible. It’s not as if they willed this thing into existence. It’s part of their heritage.”

  “All the way from Salem,” I said sarcastically.

  “The witch trials in Salem and subsequent hangings were only one of the horrific events aimed at females who lived even slightly outside the norm. They were burned at the stake, drowned, crushed, tortured. It was a wholesale war against women of property who didn’t have a husband to protect them. The witch hunts were far more economic than religious.”

  “And they were all innocent? None of them practiced magic?”

  Malvik grinned. “I didn’t say that. But the practitioners and the cunning men, such as I am, weren’t generating plagues and curses on communities as we were depicted. Witches were and often still are healers, those trained in the use of barks and leaves to make potions and poultices. The idea that witches or those who practice Wicca are Satan worshippers is laughable.”

  “A lot of people aren’t laughing,” Tinkie said.

  “Because they haven’t bothered to do a simple Google search of Wiccan beliefs.”

  “And you’re saying there are no witches who call upon the darkness to aid their agenda?” I wanted to pin him down.

  “There are people who court the devil in all professions and all religions. Pedophiles who use their religious power to abuse children. Doctors who do the same. CEOs of companies who knowingly leave indigenous populations starving after the land has been raped. Evil is everywhere. Just because three women like to perform modern dance around a cauldron doesn’t make them evil.”

  I couldn’t argue with his point, but my thoughts on Wicca and witches wouldn’t amount to a hill of beans. It was what the public thought. And if the masses were pushed into fear, a mob would result. Then, innocent of any misdeeds or not, the Harrington sisters could be injured. Kitten had already shown success at gathering a group of people upset by the idea of witches. The group had been restrained, but that could change.

  “If the Harringtons aren’t evil, why is this dark presence following them?”

  “They are chosen.” Malvik put just the right emphasis on the phrase so that it made the hair on my arms stand on end.

  “Chosen for what?” I asked.

  “They are true witches, Ms. Delaney. It’s their birthright. They have abilities, and you should never forget that.”

  “The ability to frighten a healthy man to death?” I’d had enough of his attempts to intimidate me.

  “I don’t think Trevor’s death was their intent or ambition. I think he was meeting someone in the apple orchard that he didn’t want the sisters to know about. I believe he was getting ready to betray them and sell the land to someone else.”

  “That would be crappy,” Tinkie said. “They’re making improvements on the property, and they’ve done a lot of work to get the school accredited.”

  “Yes, it would be a bitter disappointment.” Malvik let us draw our own conclusions.

  “Was Malvik meeting Kitten Fontana in the apple orchard?”

  “I don’t know. But if I had to guess, she would be at the top of my list.”

  “What does Esmeralda Grimes have to do with any of this?”

  He shook his head. “I pay attention, but I’ve not been able to determine how Ms. Grimes benefits from this association with
Ms. Fontana. Perhaps that’s a lead for you.”

  “Perhaps it is.”

  “Now I must be off. I’ve chartered a flight to New Orleans to pick up some herbs for the sisters. They’re brewing up a concoction that should draw the roaches into the sunlight. Be ready to smash them with your shoe.”

  He signed the check for the bar tab and was gone with a flutter of his cape.

  12

  This was going down in history as the longest day of the year. It wasn’t even cocktail hour and I felt like I’d completed the Iron Man Triathlon. I was exhausted. Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll. That would teach me to jump Coleman’s bones in the middle of the day.

  By mutual consent, Tinkie and I walked through town and to the courthouse square. Coleman’s cruiser was gone, and I felt a stab of disappointment coupled with relief. How could I possibly greet him in public without fainting or kissing him?

  “Thinking of the sheriff?” Tinkie asked.

  She was damn perceptive. “Yes.”

  “I know you’re scared.”

  Did I mention she was perceptive? “I am. What if I blow this up?”

  “You didn’t blow up Graf. And neither did he. I’m over being mad at him. He didn’t know about his daughter. The whole thing was just … maybe it was destiny.”

  “Maybe it was.”

  “If I’m pregnant, Sarah Booth, I’ll continue as your partner.”

  I hadn’t even given that consideration, because I knew she wasn’t pregnant. “Of course.”

  She chuckled. “You say that so easily because you have no belief that I’m with child. But you’ll see. I’ll be the best pregnant partner ever.”

  I put my arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “Now that I have complete faith in. And you shared some brownies with a powerful punch to them. I wouldn’t have been brave enough to be with Coleman without a little weed to relax me.”

  Tinkie stopped dead in her tracks, her mouth a little O like Mr. Bill about to be crushed. “Uh, about those brownies. I need to tell you—”

  I laughed. How like Tinkie to try to wiggle out of even mild drug use. She was a Daddy’s Girl through and through. “They were pretty mild. Just enough to take the edge off my anxiety.”

  “Really, Sarah Booth. They were double-chocolate walnut brownies. You needed permission to reach for what you wanted, but you had to give it to yourself. The idea of being a little stoned did that for you.” She shrugged. “So it worked. Good for us.”

  “I can’t believe—”

  She cut me off. “Let’s check Esmeralda’s lawsuit against Trevor. That could prove interesting. We can use Coleman’s computer.”

  He wouldn’t care and we’d share what we found with him. “Sure. And I’ll follow up on the lead Harold gave us with Lisbet Bradley.”

  We found DeWayne sitting at the dispatcher’s desk reading a Western. He gave a wry grin and waved me into Coleman’s office when I asked to use the computer. Tinkie went down the hall to the chancery clerk’s office to see about the civil suit Esmeralda had filed against Trevor. I’d know soon enough if there was serious bad blood between the so-called journalist and the artist.

  A Google search of Lisbet Bradley brought up some very interesting facts right off the bat. Lisbet was serving time in the Central Mississippi Correctional Facility in Rankin County for embezzlement and fraud. Lisbet had been a real estate broker who’d sold homes in the Arlington Woods subdivision just north of Jackson, Mississippi.

  The subdivision had been built on fill land near the Pearl River. At first it was unstable foundations that cracked and began to sink, but the real trouble came with a record-high flood of the Pearl River. The homes were destroyed, for all practical purposes. And it turned out the subdivision was clearly in a floodplain and Lisbet had known about it all along. She’d gambled that the river would never get that high in her lifetime—and lost.

  And Bob Fontana had been the contractor on the houses, yet Bob was not named in the prosecution.

  It was a nasty kettle of fish. Lisbet had taken the fall and never implicated Bob Fontana. Tinkie was going to love this. It seemed that Bob and Kitten had their fingers in a lot of pies. Now if we could tie them to Trevor’s murder—because I didn’t for a minute believe Trevor had died of fright—then we’d be on the road to solving the murder and putting the guilty behind bars.

  The one ball I’d dropped was investigating the Harringtons’ finances—what I’d actually been hired to do. Digging into the witchy sisters involved Trevor’s murder, and possibly a whole lot more nefarious events, including Musgrove Manor and how the witches had come up with the money to pay for it. Somehow, the Fontanas were at the root of a lot of problems. It was puzzling why Kitten would hire a private investigator to look into something that might splash back on her and her husband. She was either not very bright or very delusional—or both.

  I made notes on the details of the Arlington subdivision case to share with Tinkie, and just as I was finishing she returned from her quest.

  “I ran into DeWayne in the courthouse hallway. He told me Coleman picked up Corey Fontana at the Zinnia Dispatch. Corey slashed two of Cece’s car tires. He said she was writing lies about his parents.”

  “That boy needs professional help.”

  “Unless the court orders it, Kitten won’t get it for him. She thinks he’s standing up for her. That’s what she told Coleman. Anyway, the Fontana lawyer got him out. Kitten bought Cece four new tires.”

  “If I had more time, I might pity that boy. He’s been raised by wolves. Right now, he seems more like a little punk than someone to be pitied. Why isn’t he upset about what Esmeralda writes?”

  “Esmeralda is nuts,” Tinkie said. “She sued Trevor for selling the nude painting she modeled for, saying she was never paid for modeling.”

  “Did Trevor pay the models? How much does a model make?” It was a legitimate question. “Who did he sell the painting to?”

  Tinkie rolled her eyes. “One question at a time, please. You sound like you’re on speed.” She stepped close to me and peered into my face. “Trevor normally didn’t pay models, as far as I can tell. Who knows what models make, and I have no clue who bought Esmeralda’s painting. Your eyes are really red, Sarah Booth. I hadn’t noticed before.” She grinned. “Maybe there was something illegal in those brownies. I hope Coleman doesn’t catch on that he’s sleeping with a drug hoochie.”

  “Stop it. You gave me the brownies.”

  “And you ate them.” A sly smile slipped over her features. “I can’t believe you ate all three of them.”

  “Speaking of eating, I’m starving.”

  “I’ll just bet.”

  “Let’s go to Millie’s and you can tell me all about the nude model lawsuit.”

  “Time’s a-wastin’,” Tinkie said, and for yet another time that day, I was reminded of my aunt Loulane.

  * * *

  Tinkie had another order of fried dill pickles and a diet soda, and I had a pulled pork sandwich with Millie’s famous coleslaw. Memphis eateries tried to lay claim to the best barbecue title, but I’d give it to Millie any day of the week. “So what about the lawsuit?” I mumbled around a mouthful of tangy sandwich.

  “Esmeralda claimed that Trevor agreed to pay her ten grand to model for him, but then he reneged. When she asked for the painting as payment, he said he’d sold it already and refused to tell her who had purchased it.”

  “And?” I was curious where the painting had ended up.

  “The owner of the painting wasn’t disclosed in the suit, only listed as Customer X, because that’s how Trevor had listed the purchaser. The judge said Trevor didn’t have to disclose who had bought it and pretty much said if Esmeralda didn’t have a written contract stating the terms of her modeling, she was up the creek without a paddle.”

  “Disappointing for her.” Sarcasm was my friend.

  “I wish I knew who bought that painting.” Tinkie ate the last dill pickle with a sigh. “These th
ings are addictive. I try not to eat fried, but I can’t get enough. Especially with Millie’s special sauce.”

  I’d once gone on a binge of eating chocolate-almond mocha ice cream that lasted five days. My consumption rate was probably worthy of a record, but I was too horrified to tell anyone. I wasn’t going to rag on Tinkie about some pickles. Especially not when I’d stuffed down a huge sandwich and what might have been a pint of slaw.

  “Why are you so interested in who bought Esmeralda’s painting?” I asked.

  “Call it a hunch. I think it figures into what’s going on with the witches and Trevor. Esmeralda and Kitten both had a thing for Trevor. It smells of a good reason for murder.”

  “Shush!” I watched Esmeralda come in the door and make a beeline for our table. “Esmeralda is here.” I wondered if she was still meeting Coleman for dinner. I had to admit, it didn’t sit well with me, case or no case.

  “Did she park her broomstick outside?” Tinkie asked.

  “Hush!” She was almost at our table. “She can hear you.”

  “Good. I can ask her myself.” And she did just that as soon as Esmeralda plunked down at our table.

  “Grow up, Mrs. Richmond,” Esmeralda advised. “I don’t have a broomstick.”

  “I’ve heard there’s some interest in who bought Trevor’s nude portrait of you.” Tinkie smiled. “Did you ever find out who the buyer was?”

  “No. There are no records. Someone local is all Trevor ever told me.” She tried to show disinterest, but her right eye started twitching.

  “Local, like in Zinnia?”

  “Somewhere around here. Trevor was gleeful about it. Sometimes he could be so mean. He knew I wanted to own that painting and he took pleasure in selling it to someone else.”

  “How was that mean?” Tinkie asked. “I’ve read the stories you write about people. Now that’s what I consider mean. I don’t even understand why a paper based in Memphis would be interested in anything that goes on in the Mississippi Delta. We’re a world removed.”

  “You don’t understand what sells papers,” Esmeralda said. “It’s my job to create drama, to exaggerate, to stir people up and get them talking. The more they talk, the more the newspapers fly off the shelf.”