Witch on First: A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 4 (The Jinx Hamilton Novels)

by Juliette Harper

  Which only made her feel worse, because she was taking orders from a very bad man.

  What was she ever going to do?

  Time and time again, Glory tried to work up the courage to just step off the cup and introduce herself, but she’d never been able to do it. She had to send her reports to Mr. Chesterfield every day, or he would be furious. Now they were suspicious about the chessboard. Pretty soon, they’d probably catch her, too.

  Glory gulped as an awful idea came into her mind.

  What if they just squashed her like a bug or sent her levitating out the back door like that cockroach?

  Glory would never survive outside at just three inches tall. Something would eat her and . . . oh . . . she just could not think about that.

  She had to be like her other hero, Scarlett O’Hara. Glory would just have to think about all of that tomorrow. The middle of the night was the only time she could move around the store freely and she wasn’t going to waste one minute of it worrying, especially if her days were numbered.

  Climbing on her broom, Glory flew to the shelf by the front window where the old Philco radio sat. When she first came to the store, she spent three nights working to get the knobs to turn, but now Glory had the volume down just as low as it would go and the dial set to pull in a classic rock n’ roll station.

  She threw her weight against the power knob, and sat down with her back to the speaker, dangling her legs over the edge of the shelf and absentmindedly swinging her feet back and forth.

  As she gazed out over the deserted courthouse square, Elvis began to sing “Love Me Tender.”

  “Oh, Elvis,” Glory whispered, “if you’re out there listening, please tell me what to do, ‘cause I’m sitting right here in Heartbreak Hotel, and I just don’t know how to check out.”

  8

  Great. Just freaking great. We couldn’t talk freely in the store because Myrtle might be listening and now the damned chessboard was eavesdropping, too. After we had decided there was nothing more we could do about the chessboard that night, Tori and I went upstairs to my apartment. She wasn’t all that thrilled with the idea of sleeping downstairs, and I knew my cats would be demanding their breakfast in just a couple of hours.

  The boys were ecstatic to see “Aunt Tori” and happily settled on the couch with her in a big cuddle pile, which is where I had been sleeping until someone woke me up to go downstairs and play with The Little Chessboard of Horrors. In theory, Tori and I were both too wired to sleep, but five minutes after she sat down, she and the cats were snoring, and I was wide awake.

  The day before when Tori first suggested that we might not be able to trust Myrtle, the idea bothered me so much I was up at midnight working off magical steam, but I’d still privately held out hope that there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for Myrtle’s behavior. I had no idea what that reason might be, but denial isn’t based on logic or facts. Then Beau raised the possibility that there might be something wrong with the aos si. That took me to such a deep level of worry; I didn’t know what to do with it. Tori and I are the latest in a long line of witches in our family stretching back to Knasgowa. Myrtle trained them all. She’s our protector, teacher, and friend. What would we do if . . .

  My mind slammed on the brakes.

  I got up to make tea, casting an annoyed look at best friend and traitor tomcats on the couch. If I was up in the middle of the night worrying myself half to death, why should they be getting their beauty rest?

  The more annoyed and worried I became, the more “innocent” noise I tried to make to get Tori to wake up and worry with me.

  I banged the kettle down on the stove, slammed the cabinet door, and clanked my spoon against the side of my cup.

  Nothing.

  For just a brief moment of insanity, I considered using the can opener, which would have snapped the cats into instant consciousness, but I stopped myself.

  Do things with cats once, and they think it’s the new routine. Nothing was worth risking 3 a.m. becoming the new breakfast hour.

  Instead, I took my tea and sat in the big wingback chair by the front window and watched the sun come up over the square. When the cats were ready to eat, I had already showered and dressed. I was on my second cup of coffee when Tori came blinking awake.

  “Is there more of that?” she mumbled.

  “There are more little plastic cups,” I said.

  “Right. Plastic cup. Blue button. Coffee,” she rattled off as she made her shuffling way to the kitchen.

  I heard the machine come to life and then Tori came back clutching a mug in both hands. “Why are you so awake?” she asked with a note of accusation in her voice.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said sarcastically. “Maybe because I have to take my mother to The Valley to reunite with her older sister who faked her death — the aunt my Mom always called “crazy” — and while I’m there, I have to talk to Barnaby about the demonic chessboard, the body on our front sidewalk, and Chase still hasn’t gotten in touch with me.”

  “Whoa,” Tori said, “sorry I asked.”

  Sighing, I ran my hand through my hair. “I’m sorry I snapped. This is all getting to be just a little much,” I confessed.

  “I hear you,” Tori said. “Just go and handle it all. Take as long as you like. I’ve got things here to do.”

  “We really should be back by noon,” I said. “There’s a potluck at the Lodge tonight and Mom has to go with Dad. She’s making the green bean thing with the onions.”

  Tori’s face brightened. “Oh! Is she bringing some over for us?”

  Grimacing, I said, “You know that casserole is funeral food?”

  “All casseroles are funeral food,” Tori said. “I wish she’d make the one with the chicken and the potato chips again.”

  Clearly, both her brain and her stomach were kicking in.

  “You going to be okay here today while I’m gone?” I asked.

  “I’ll be fine,” she assured me. “I have Beau and Darby if I need any help.”

  “Okay,” I said, standing up to head downstairs. “You coming?”

  “Yeah,” Tori replied, getting to her feet. “I’ll bring the mug back.”

  We walked down together and went straight to the chessboard. The pieces were no longer arranged as they had been last night. Now all the men were lined up, ready to do battle. I started to say something and then thought better of it. Motioning Tori to follow me, we went into the storeroom.

  “I don’t want to talk in front of that thing,” I said.

  “Me either,” Tori agreed.

  “Keep an eye on it, okay?”

  “Don’t you worry about that,” she said. “I couldn’t not watch that thing if I wanted to.”

  Scampering feet sounded on the shelf that runs along the back wall. Rodney emerged, stood up on his hind legs and gave us a good morning wave.

  “Hey, Rodney,” Tori said. “What’s shaking?”

  The sleek black and white rat trotted along the edge of the shelf, jumped effortlessly onto the back of the loveseat, and descended Tori’s arm. He looked at her coffee cup and raised his little whiskery eyebrows.

  “You want some coffee?” Tori asked.

  Rodney nodded his head vigorously.

  “The last time I let you have coffee you ran on your wheel for four hours,” Tori said.

  The rat fixed her with an appealing look.

  “Okay, fine. But one rat-sized cup and no more,” she said, opening the drawer of the end table and taking out a china cup from a doll’s set. She carefully poured coffee from her cup into the tiny receptacle and sat it on the table.

  “It’s not too hot to drink,” she said, “but don’t slurp.”

  I swear to you the look Rodney shot her said just as plain as the world, “I do not slurp.”

  Tori read the expression as clearly as I did. “Fine, fine,” she said, “you don’t slurp.”

  Mollified, Rodney held his nose over the coffee, sniffing appreciatively, t
hen began to lap up the dark liquid.

  “I don’t think that’s good for him,” I pointed out a little belatedly.

  “It’s probably not good for us either,” Tori said, “but that doesn’t stop us.”

  “Enabler,” I countered.

  “Guilty,” she admitted.

  Leaving them with their coffee, I started to head down to the basement. As I came around the corner from the storeroom, Mom walked in the back door. Instead of a “good morning,” she started our day together with, “What have you learned about Fish Pike’s murder?”

  I called Mom the day before in between the covert conversation on the bus bench with Tori and setting up the surveillance camera. I told her about Fish and warned her to be extra careful. She still didn’t know that Festus had been carrying a torch for her all these years, so I wasn’t exactly forthcoming about the “werecats in love” angle of the whole situation. She told me Dad was at the river trying out new equipment he’d bought at the convention in Houston, but promised to call Gemma to come over and stay with her just in case.

  “We don’t really know anything so far,” I said, opening the door to the basement. “While you’re talking to Aunt Fiona, I’m going to find Barnaby and discuss it with him.”

  Mom paused halfway over the threshold. “None of you have been to The Valley yet?” she asked, sounding shocked.

  As evenly as I could manage, I replied, “Chase went yesterday, but I don’t know if he’s back or not.”

  Her mother radar instantly surged to high alert. “Have the two of you had a fight?” she asked.

  “It’s a little more complicated than that,” I hedged. “Can we please just talk about this later?”

  We were halfway down the stairs by this time and thankfully an unexpected savior intervened — Festus.

  “Would you two dames get the lead out?” he groused. “I want to be back from The Valley before Chase realizes I’m gone.”

  Well, okay then, so that answered the question about channels of communication with my boyfriend, which ticked me off enough that I was sharper with Festus than I needed to be. “Who says you’re going with us, hairball?” I snapped.

  “Norma Jean Hamilton!” Mom said, outraged. “You apologize to Festus this instant.”

  Yeah. That’s my real name. And as any Southern child will tell you, when your mama uses your full name? You better start backpedaling fast.

  “Sorry, Festus,” I said. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  Fixing me with a beatific feline smirk, Festus said, “Apology accepted. Can we get going, please?”

  Gritting my teeth at his smug satisfaction at having me over a barrel, I said, “May I ask why you need to go back to The Valley today?”

  “Because yesterday that stuffed shirt son of mine wouldn’t let me go to The Dirty Claw,” Festus replied complacently.

  That did it. Mom could just have a fit. “I am not hauling your scruffy butt up to Shevington so you can get crocked in a werecat dive,” I said.

  Mom started to pounce on me, but Festus held up one paw. “An understandable assumption, given my proclivities, Kelly,” he said smoothly. “And may I say you look lovely today. That blouse compliments your eyes beautifully.”

  “Why, thank you, Festus,” Mom said, smoothing the fabric with her hands. “How gallant of you.”

  “Yeah, that’s him,” I muttered.

  Festus acted as if he hadn’t heard a word. “To answer your rather direct question, Jinx,” he said, “I want to go to The Dirty Claw to see if I can find out anything about Fish Pike’s murder. Barnaby is in agreement that the killing could have a werecat angle due to the Pike family history.”

  Since there was no way that I was going to be able to ditch Festus, I retrieved the backpack with the special mesh compartment and unzipped it for him. As he stepped inside, I whispered, “Having fun?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Festus grinned. “The alley cat scores and the crowd goes wild.”

  Shouldering the backpack, we started walking toward the portal. Mom stoutly refused to risk her neck trying to “ride a bike at my age.” She’s 55, and hardly what I would call rickety, but I knew it was pointless to argue. I spent most of the next hour listening to her and Festus hash over the sad tale of Jeremiah Pike’s marriage to a human oddly interspersed with stories about the fishing convention. Since my mind was mainly on my growing irritation at Chase, it was just as well that the two of them were entertaining one another. I managed to get by with the occasional “uh-huh” or “really?” at appropriate moments.

  Before I knew it, we were inside the city gate — where Mom stopped and asked me for the directions to Aunt Fiona’s house. Surprised, I stalled. This was, after all, the first time she was going to see her sister since Fiona faked her death.

  “The house is hard to find if you’ve never been here,” I said. But Mom cut me off.

  “I’ve been to Shevington before, dear,” she replied placidly.

  Which only made sense, since both she and Gemma trained with Myrtle until they were teenagers. I should have known Mom had been to Shevington before, but I just didn’t put it together.

  That left me standing there awkwardly for a minute until I managed a lame, “Don’t you want me to come with you?”

  Mom sweetly stood her ground.

  “No, dear,” she said. “I’d like you to go to The Dirty Claw with Festus while Fiona and I talk.”

  Over my shoulder, I heard the zwoosh of a zipper opening. A yellow head appeared over my shoulder.

  “Listen to your mother, dear,” Festus purred sweetly.

  “Old cat,” I warned, “you are seriously pushing me.”

  “You can’t let him go to The Dirty Claw alone,” Mom said reasonably. “Left to his own devices, Festus will ask his questions, and then he’ll tie one on.”

  To his credit, Festus shrugged and nodded, admitting that’s exactly what he’d do.

  “If that happens,” Mom went on, “you’ll have to explain to Chase why you let his father get roaring drunk, and since it would appear that the two of you aren’t on the best of terms, that would be an added complication, now, wouldn’t it?”

  Mom logic. The bane of every daughter’s existence.

  9

  Kelly smothered a smile as she briskly walked away from her daughter and Festus, making a point not to glance back over her shoulder. She knew she should feel guilty for being so happy to be back in The Valley after 37 years, especially with all the problems Jinx was facing, but Kelly couldn’t help it.

  Kelly raised her daughter in the immaculate house she shared with Jeff, but that three-bedroom ranch with the attached garage was also the place where her anxieties and insecurities took on a life of their own. From the labeled and dated plastic containers in the refrigerator to the plastic sheets covering the upholstery, Kelly had crafted a life of caution.

  But then Gemma looked at her that night in the basement and told her that if they wanted to defeat Brenna, it had to be like it was “in the old days.” Kelly already felt the first vague stirrings of her long dormant magic, but in that moment the embers kindled to life. Power coursed through her veins, hotter than her own blood — and Kelly wanted it, more than air, more than safety, more than fear.

  When the battle with Brenna was all over, and Gemma took her home, the first thing Kelly had done before she went to bed was to rip that damn plastic off the couch. Being alive means getting splashed with mud every now and then. Trying to avoid it means you never get to play in the rain. Kelly wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  The house was the home she made with her husband and daughter, but Shevington was a different kind of home — her magical home. How she’d longed to walk these streets again!

  But even in her joy, Kelly felt pangs of regret, especially when a gang of happy children rushed past her clutching enchanted kites. The way the tails twitched and tugged, Kelly knew the kites wanted to reach the big meadow across from the field where the fairy guard dri
lled. There, the kites would take flight, dancing aloft in intricate patterns of their own making.

  By lying to Jinx about her true heritage, Kelly denied her daughter this part of her childhood; carefree play in a place where her magic could have been practiced with complete freedom. Kelly and Gemma used to lie on their backs in that same meadow. They gazed up at the clouds, surrounded by singing butterflies, and dreamed of completing their training with Myrtle and Moira. Gemma planned to be the first alchemist to find the fabled Philosopher’s Stone, and Kelly privately hoped she would be the chosen one in Knasgowa’s line and the next leader of Shevington.

  Now, all these years later, Kelly marveled they’d ever been so young — so untouched by the harsher realities of life. A few days after Brenna’s death, in a private moment, Kelly apologized to Myrtle for rejecting all this and for denying Jinx her birthright.

  Myrtle, in her librarian guise, simply grasped Kelly’s hand and said, “There are no accidents, Kelly. You have walked the path that was meant for you, and Jinx will do the same.”

  A new hope filled Kelly as she drank in Shevington’s vibrant colors and brimming life. So many things seemed possible now, including one dearer to her heart than she could describe.

  She’d asked Myrtle about that, too, and the aos si counseled patience, but Myrtle hadn’t said no. Had she?

  The instant Jinx began to recite the directions to Fiona’s cottage; Kelly knew where she was going — Endora Endicott’s house. Endora and their mother, Kathleen Ryan, were lifelong best friends. Kelly and Fiona spent hours in Endora’s back garden learning about plants and herbs, stealing away from their lessons when no one was looking to go next door and feed tender green shoots to Stan’s rabbits.

  Stan.

  An image of the sweet, eight-foot tall Sasquatch loomed fondly in Kelly’s mind, and she thrilled at the physical memory of the earth falling away beneath her as he swept her skyward in his strong arms before depositing her securely on one broad shoulder for a walk to the marketplace.