That Voodoo That You Do

by Ann Yost

  “It’s a big house. I’ll stay out of your way if you stay out of mine,” he said. He didn’t wait for a response. “I’ll get your bags.” He strode down the path, opened the hatchback, and extracted her yellow suitcase.

  “What’ve you got in here? Bricks?”

  She let out a helpless, hopeless giggle as she remembered. “Lingerie and cruise wear. I’m supposed to be on my honeymoon.”

  ****

  Luke had felt restless all day. He hated being back in Mystic Hollow where everything from the gazebo in the town square to Blanche’s big Victorian house reminded him of how he’d let everyone down. Blanche. Crystal. Even himself.

  He wanted to take a run to let off some steam, but he didn’t. The sixth sense he couldn’t seem to shake, told him she’d be here soon.

  He threw on his battered black leather jacket and paced the length of the wrap-around porch that hugged the house. As usual, when he was in Mystic, he couldn’t breathe. He thought longingly of his sparsely furnished apartment in D.C., of the solitude and peace. He didn’t know when he’d get back. Days, maybe. More likely a week.

  He cursed under his breath. He had no choice. He owed Blanche, and this was his last sorry chance to repay her.

  Too bad she’d asked him to babysit.

  Luke’s eyes narrowed as the red Jeep tooted around the corner. He stifled a groan as he watched the driver park and climb out. Christ, she was short. Just a kid. Her mass of curls barely reached the roof of the car. Like every female he saw these days, she had a cell phone glued to her ear, and despite the chilly weather, she was wearing some kind of loose fitting pajama-like outfit.

  What did she think this was? A health spa?

  She marched up the short walk, a woman on a mission. He listened to her voice as she spoke into the phone. It was low, a little husky, like pebbles brushing against each other in a shallow steam. Strangely compelling, at least until she spotted him. Then it was more like black ice.

  While she glared at him, he found himself staring into a pair of wide, whiskey-colored eyes. She wasn’t beautiful like Crystal. Her face was softly rounded without the razor-sharp cheekbones of his ex. Her straight nose was sprinkled with freckles and “short” had been a euphemism. He had her by at least a foot.

  Blanche had sent him an elf.

  A clueless one.

  Luke sucked in a breath.

  Blanche had been right about the babysitter. He just wished it didn’t have to be him. He let his gaze drop, and it hovered around her sandal-clad feet. He knew she’d come from Chicago. What was wrong with her brain?

  “Sinful strawberry,” she said, helpfully.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “You were looking at my toenail polish. I thought you’d like to know the name.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Think it would look good on me?”

  She laughed. It was a joyful burst of sound so spontaneous it seemed to surprise even her. It made something move in his chest. He didn’t want any complications. He wished, not for the first time, that Blanche had cut him out of her will. Half of this house was not worth the irritation of watching out for the elf from Middle Earth. At least it wasn’t forever. At least he hoped. He frowned. Not that it mattered. He owed Blanche Maynard a lot. Everything. It was a debt he’d pay if it killed him.

  “I have to tell you,” she said, in a confidential tone. “I came down here hoping to be alone.”

  His eyes narrowed on her. “Well, that’s one thing we have in common.”

  He heard the oohing and aahing behind him as she got a glimpse of Blanche’s parlor with its Victorian furniture, lace doilies, and its wide fireplace, but he didn’t even slow down. A minute later the two of them and her egg-yolk-colored suitcase reached the tower room.

  He dropped the case on the bed and turned to go.

  “What’s this?” She was looking at the framed certificate.

  Shit. He’d forgotten the damn thing.

  “Wow.” She squinted at him. “A Silver Star. So you’re not just a bad seed, you’re a war hero, too.”

  He felt an almost irresistible urge to jump in his truck and just drive. Instead he struck out.

  “And you’re a runaway bride.”

  Her yelp surprised him. It sounded more scared than angry.

  He glanced down to see Pye twining around her slim ankles.

  “Good grief,” she gasped. “That cat’s as big as Detroit. How’d he get so fat?”

  Luke scooped the feline into his arms. “Sex.”

  “What?”

  “Pye’s pregnant.”

  “Pie?”

  “Pyewacket.”

  “Pyewacket. Like in Bell, Book and Candle. Is she yours?”

  “No,” he said, automatically.

  She lifted onto her toes which brought her up to about five-foot-one, and she peered into his eyes. Then she looked at the cat’s and back to his. “Your eyes match.”

  He refused to smile at her. “We’re not related.”

  He finally escaped down the narrow back staircase that emptied into the kitchen. He dumped a can of tuna into the cat bowl and laced it with prenatal vitamins while Pye watched.

  She seems nice.

  “I’ll bet you a catnip mouse she’s the kind who minds everybody’s business but her own.”

  Pyewacket didn’t respond. She was too busy eating supper.

  “I’ve got to go out,” he said. “You all right?”

  What he really wanted to know was whether there would be any kittens arriving tonight.

  The cat acknowledged the unspoken question with a succinct answer.

  All quiet.

  Luke believed her.

  That was the difference between felines and women.

  A guy could trust a cat.

  Chapter Two

  Giant cabbage roses bloomed on all eight sides of the tower room. The celery colored shade on the bedside lamp made the room seem as restful as a summer day.

  The four-poster bed, covered by a well-worn, hand-stitched double wedding ring quilt, stood some four feet off the ground. Jessie made a face. She’d have to hurl herself like a high jumper just to reach it. The bed faced a fireplace smaller than the one in the parlor Luke had hurried her past, but this one had a pink marble surround. Above it was a handmade broom mounted like a trophy head.

  Jessie glanced at the books scattered on the padded bench beneath the arched window. The Bible didn’t surprise her. And neither did the bloody picture on the front of a suspense novel. The third volume, though, was unexpected. She picked it up and read the title aloud. “A Journey Through Wiccan Rituals: From Imbolc to Yule.”

  Jessie remembered, again, the sign on the gift shop. It looked like Great-Aunt Blanche had been interested in witchcraft.

  It must have been a recent development. It was hard to imagine Aunt Blanche, a staunch Christian, involved in Wicca. But maybe there was another explanation. Jessie felt a wave of sadness. She missed the old lady.

  All the Maynards had known Blanche had “adopted” a foster son who’d been in trouble with the law, but that had been years ago. Why hadn’t Blanche told her about Luke Tanner? Was there a reason to keep him a secret? Had he killed somebody?

  Jessie peeked into a walk-in closet and inhaled the strong scent of cedar. Cotton housedresses hung neatly on hangers along with a few sweaters and a white parka and a bright magenta-colored robe that looked almost shockingly out of place. There were three pairs of black lace-up shoes lined up on the floor. Overhead were hatboxes. Jessie took them down and peeked. One held a small black hat with a half-veil and a white one in the same style. Nothing except the robe looked as though it had been bought in the past twenty years. Maybe thirty.

  Waste not, want not. That was her Aunt Blanche, to a tee. But she hadn’t been stingy with her heart. She’d always had time to listen to Jessie’s ideas and her woes. More time than any of the other Maynards.

  The bathroom boasted a claw-footed tub, a pedestal wash
stand, and a commode set as high as a throne. The walls were sage with cocoa brown colored towels. Colors of the earth. An apothecary jar full of bubble bath looked too good to pass up. Moments later Jessie was soaking in the old-fashioned tub as the scented water washed away the grime, fatigue, and disappointment of the past twenty-four hours. She made a decision to banish all thoughts of the aborted wedding. She was here for R & R, and she wouldn’t let anything or anybody interfere with that. Not even the green-eyed interloper downstairs. She thought about him trying to fold his tall form into the tub, and she giggled. She hoped he had a shower stall.

  Moments later, cleaner and fresher, she stared at her sartorial choices. A white satin negligee? A polka-dot two-piece bathing suit? She settled on coral colored linen slacks and a turquoise blouse with rhinestone buttons. She ran a brush through oblivious chin-length curls and slipped on her rhinestone sandals. Not exactly country gear. She’d go shopping tomorrow.

  When she was dressed, she stepped out into the corridor. Her heart kicked up. She wondered whether she’d run into Luke and which was his bedroom before she remembered she wasn’t supposed to be thinking about him at all. They were sharing a house, not a life.

  A doorbell produced a three-note chime, and she found herself tripping down the wide center hall staircase in her haste to get to the front door. She didn’t know anyone in Mystic Hollow. Maybe Luke had gone out and forgotten his key. Her heart raced as she pulled open the heavy front door. But it wasn’t a green-eyed sorcerer.

  It was a trio of elderly ladies who reminded Jessie of the eccentric sisters in the old film Arsenic and Old Lace.

  “Hello, Jessie, dear.” The one in the center was both the tallest and the widest. Black hair with a skunk-like stripe down the middle splayed out around her shoulders. Her purple cloak could have hidden half a dozen children, and her smile was merry. “Welcome to Mystic Hollow. I’m Mabel Ruth Doyle.”

  “And I’m Millicent Underhill,” said the tall, thin lady with sharp features and small spectacles to her left. Stiff white lace peeked over the top of her stark black coat. Despite her slender neck, the collar was so tight and high it made her head look separate from the rest of her, like a balloon floating above her body.

  “This is Maude,” she said. She indicated the third member of the party, who was just Jessie’s height and a dead ringer for Mrs. Claus.

  “Maude Umphrey,” the little lady said. Her blue eyes twinkled. “We’re Blanche’s friends, and we’re so glad you’ve come, Jessie, dear.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” Jessie murmured. “What is that heavenly smell?”

  Maude chuckled. “Brownies. My niece, Molly, owns the bakery. She’s famous for her brownies.”

  Jessie realized, belatedly, they were all carrying food. “You brought me supper?”

  The old ladies’ thoughtfulness nearly brought tears to her eyes. Or maybe it was the smell. She couldn’t wait to see what was in the big pot.

  “Please, come inside.”

  The words were not so much ignored as anticipated. Mabel Ruth led, and Jessie brought up the rear as they marched single file through the glass doors to the parlor, into the adjoining dining room, and on through the swinging doors of a tiny butler’s pantry, into a big, sunflower yellow kitchen where they began to set a round wicker table with plates and bowls, silverware, and glasses. They chatted easily as if they’d known each other for years.

  The unusual stew was so tasty, and Jessie was so much hungrier than she’d thought that she didn’t ask the pertinent question until most of the food was gone.

  “What a wonderful meal,” she said, “but how did you know I would be here?”

  “Blanche told us you were coming,” Maude said.

  “But she’s dead.”

  Millicent cast her friend a quelling look. “We normally bring food for Lucas.”

  Luke! Jessie’s heart jumped. “We didn’t save him any.”

  “Not to worry,” Mabel Ruth said, airily. “The pantry’s full.” If the pantry was full why had they brought more food?

  “How are you two getting along? Any sparks yet?”

  “Maudie!” It was Millicent again. “That’s none of our business.”

  “Fine,” Jessie said, clearing her throat. “I mean, we’ve barely met, but it is a big house. I don’t expect to see much of him.”

  “Jessie, dear,” Mabel Ruth said, “we’re going to the festival on the green tonight, and we’d love to have you join us.”

  “Great,” she replied, only afterward remembering she’d come to Mystic Hollow for solitude and reflection.

  Later, when Jessie was helping Maude into her cuddly faux fur coat, she remembered an unresolved subject.

  “Earlier you said Aunt Blanche told you I was coming here? But she couldn’t have known I would call off my wedding.”

  Maude pulled a bright red scarf around her neck. “Blanche was always anxious for you to come,” she said. “She wanted you here. She wanted you both here. In fact,” she said, “she summoned you.”

  “Maudie!” Millicent shook her head. The iron gray hair skinned back from her face didn’t move.

  Mabel Ruth sighed.

  “We’ll have to tell her sometime, girls. Now’s as good a time as any.” Mabel Ruth’s kind, dark brown eyes turned to Jessie. “Blanche has an assignment for you.”

  “An assignment?” That didn’t make sense. “But she’s dead.”

  “Exactly,” Millicent said. “And we want to know why.”

  Jessie stared at each of the elderly ladies in turn. Her eyes widened.

  “Do you mean you think Aunt Blanche was murdered?”

  “Not think,” Millicent said, firmly. “Know.

  What’s more, we know who did it, too.”

  “We just don’t know why,” Maude added.

  Jessie looked from one to the other of the wrinkled faces. “But if you suspect murder shouldn’t you go to the police?”

  Mabel Ruth shook her head, her eyes solemn. “The death certificate says natural causes, and Chief Smith said there’s not a thing we can do about it. But that’s ridiculous. It couldn’t have been natural. Blanche was only eighty-six. And sharp as a tack.”

  Jessie decided to opt for diplomacy and not argue about age. “Whom do you suspect?”

  “It was the pastor at St. Michaels,” Millicent said, grimly. “The Reverend Dennis Prendergast. Blanche learned his dark secret, and he did her in.”

  This really was Oz. Jessie tried to absorb the accusation.

  “But why would a minister kill her? She was a pillar of the church!”

  “Was being the key word,” Mabel Ruth said. “Dennis Prendergast made it impossible for us to continue to attend. We were forced to leave. All of us.”

  “All of you?”

  “The Tuesday Afternoon Canasta Group.”

  “Including my aunt Blanche.”

  “Certainly,” Millicent said.

  Jessie just stared. She expected to see frogs rain down out of the sky.

  “We were forced to go in a different direction,” Mabel Ruth continued.

  Jessie barely heard her. “What was the pastor doing that you didn’t approve of?”

  “He closed the public library we had started in the Sunday school building,” Millicent said, indignantly. “And the preschool, too.”

  “He disbanded all the committees and eliminated Wednesday potlucks,” Maude put in.

  “He’s locked up the church,” Mabel Ruth explained. “Except for Sunday mornings, holidays, and funerals.”

  “What about weddings?”

  “We don’t have many of those in Mystic Hollow,” Maude said. “More people are getting buried than married.”

  “His story is that there’s a mold problem in the building, and that he is taking bids to have it removed,” Millicent said.

  “And then there’s Mister Epps,” Maude said.

  “Who’s Mister Epps?” Jessie was starting to feel like part of a comedy act.
r />   “The undertaker.” Millicent’s voice was grim. “Prendergast let him take over the manse to use as a funeral parlor while the reverend and his wife moved into a tiny duplex with Miss Letty.”

  “Poor Eleanor,” Maude crooned before Jessie could ask why having a funeral parlor next to a church was a problem. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a woman as squashed as Eleanor Prendergast. She simply hasn’t got any life in her.”

  Jessie’s head was spinning.

  “Blanche found out something, and she confronted Prendergast?”

  “She was fearless,” Maude said.

  Millicent nodded, sadly. “Blanche was a hero.”

  Jessie was still at sea. She decided to try another tack. “You said you left the church.”

  Mabel Ruth nodded. “That’s right. We were powerless as insiders, so we took up a new religion.”

  “We wanted to have some special powers at our disposal,” Millicent said.

  “Special powers?” Jessie suddenly remembered the homemade broom on the bedroom wall and the book on the window seat.

  “Are you telling me you’ve turned to witchcraft?”

  “Wicca,” Mabel Ruth said.

  “We still call ourselves a canasta club,” Maude put in, “but now we use the time to work on our spells.”

  Jessie looked at each of the ladies. She could see them sitting around a card table. She could see them lined up in a pew at church. She could not see them dancing around a campfire.

  “Do you have any idea about the dark secret?”

  “Drug smuggling,” Maude said. “Maybe white slavery.”

  “Or terrorism,” Millicent put in, darkly.

  “We don’t know, dear,” Mabel Ruth said. “That’s why you’re here.”

  This was getting way too spooky. “That’s very flattering and everything, but I’m not qualified to investigate a murder,” Jessie pointed out. “I just came to Mystic Hollow for some R&R.”

  Maude patted her hand. “Don’t worry, dear.

  That boy wasn’t the right one for you.”

  Jessie nodded. Maude had that right.

  “And don’t worry about the investigation,” Millicent said. “That isn’t your job.”