The Case of the Banishing Spell

by Amorette Anderson

  The Case of the Banishing Spell: A Hillcrest Witch Mystery

  Hillcrest Witch Cozy Mystery

  Amorette Anderson

  Published by Amorette Anderson, 2018.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  THE CASE OF THE BANISHING SPELL: A HILLCREST WITCH MYSTERY

  First edition. December 28, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Amorette Anderson.

  Written by Amorette Anderson.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Case of the Desire Spell | Chapter One

  Chapter One

  I’m midway through a row of knit-one purl-one on my latest scarf when my cell phone rings. It’s been a slow, quiet Thursday in my supply closet turned office, and the sound makes me jump. I pick up on the second ring.

  “Penny Banks, Private Investigator. How can I help you?” I say.

  I’ve been working on sounding more professional on the phone. Usually, the person on the other end of the line isn’t a potential client, but you never know, right?

  Besides, my best friend Marley and my boyfriend Chris (my two most frequent callers) get a kick out of my business-like greeting. Sometimes Marley pretends to be interested in my help, just to pull my chain. Once she had me going for a full fifteen minutes, pretending that she was my elderly neighbor, Ginny, and her cat was missing. Marley is surprisingly good at doing vocal impressions.

  “Penny!” says a female voice on the other end of the line. “Oh! Dear. I’m so glad it’s you. I need your help!”

  “Marley?” I ask, squinting my eyes and analyzing the voice I just heard. “Is that you?” It doesn’t sound like Marley, but she’s tricked me before, so I can’t be sure.

  “Marley? No, dear. This is Dawn, from the inn.”

  “Really?” I ask.

  “Yes. Penny, there was a bloody paw print in a room we rented out. Neville and I are not at all sure what to do about it. I remembered you were a detective of sorts, and I thought maybe you could lend a hand.”

  Hunh. This really isn’t Marley.

  This really is a work call!

  An honest-to-goodness client! I sit up straighter at the thought of it.

  “Dawn,” I say, as professionally as I can manage. “I’m not a ‘detective of sorts’. I’m a detective. Period. What kind of paw print are we talking about here? Chipmunk, mouse, mole, dog... mountain lion?”

  “Now that’s a good question, Penny. It is. I think it was a dog, I believe. A large dog. Er... perhaps... this is what Neville thinks... a wolf.”

  “A wolf?”

  “I know that sounds odd. But that’s the thing—something odd is happening here at the inn. Neville and I are not very happy about it.”

  A wolf! “I’ll be right over,” I say, managing to get up off of the Swiss ball that I use as a chair.

  “We would really appreciate that,” Dawn says. “We’re hosting the Hillcrest Harvest Bonfire Dance this Saturday—you know, the one that raises funds for the Historical Society?”

  “Of course,” I say. “I have it on my calendar. You’re going to serve your caramel covered apples?”

  “Yes, dear,” Dawn says. I can almost hear her smiling through the phone. “I know how much you love those.”

  “What does the dance have to do with the paw print?” I ask.

  “It’s just two days away! We can’t have a wolf running around the property! And the room that we found the print in... it’s rented out to a very strange fellow. I’m concerned he’ll make trouble while the dance is going on.”

  “Strange fellow?” I ask, my interest piqued again. “I thought we were talking about an animal here.”

  “Well, there’s a—”

  “Wait, Dawn,” I say, reaching for a pen and a scrap of paper off of my desk, and shoving them into my bag. “Don’t say another word. I’d like to talk to you in person and take down some notes.”

  “Right. But before you make the trip, Penny, there’s one more thing I should tell you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Funds are a little bit tight right now, dear. Neville and I just paid to have the front of the inn freshly painted, and the bill was twice what we expected.”

  “Oh.” My heart sinks. I was hoping Dawn would be a paying client.

  “I don’t expect you to work for free,” Dawn rushes on. “No, nothing like that. I can pay you...”

  My ears perk up.

  Until she finishes her sentence.

  “....in raspberry jam.”

  Raspberry jam? What kind of business does she think I’m running here?

  She continues. “It’s my great-grandmother’s recipe. I make it with wild berries from up on Mill Creek Road. The harvest this year was especially flavorful. I don’t think you would be disappointed.”

  As she talks, I start thinking about Eggo waffles dripping with jam. Or hot, buttered toast smothered in the stuff.

  My mouth begins to water.

  “I can give you a twenty-ounce jar,” she says. “We made quite a lot, and I really do appreciate your time. It would last you all winter. You could have a winter filled with raspberry jam.”

  A winter filled with raspberry jam. I start to imagine it.

  In fact, I have a sort of movie montage happening in my mind: Me eating treats heaped with jam, and then licking my fingers free of the sticky-stuff. A song plays in the background. Snow falls just outside the window, and I’m wrapped in my fuzzy bathrobe, with thick slippers on my feet. Heat, blasted from my baseboard heaters, lifts my hair like a fan might for a model at a photoshoot. Glorious!

  “All right,” I say, dreamily, while the scene is still fresh in my mind. “You’ve got me there. A winter filled with jam does sound nice. But could you do me a favor and keep this between us? I don’t want word getting out around town that I will work for preserves.”

  Dawn agrees to this, and soon I’m out the door.

  All the talk of flavorful wild raspberries has whetted my appetite. Since it’s after four in the afternoon, and the bagel I packed for lunch has long since been burned off with my knitting, I swing by my friend Annie’s cafe for a blueberry scone. Then I munch on it while I ride my bike down the steep pitch of pavement to the Hillcrest Inn.

  If you think eating a scone while riding a bike sounds hard, you would be absolutely correct. I’m coughing on crumbs by the time I skid to a stop in front of the Hillcrest Inn.

  It’s a good thing I always travel with a water bottle. I put my cowboy-booted feet out to balance on the pavement and then rummage through my messenger bag until I come up with my drink. I’m washing down the last of the crumbs, still balanced on my bike, when the door to the inn opens.

  The Hillcrest Inn is basically a converted Victorian house. Dawn and Neville, a couple in their late sixties, have owned it for as long as I can remember. I grew up in Hillcrest, and I’m now twenty-seven, so that’s a long time.

  It’s called the Hillcrest Inn, but no one ever stays overnight in it, like you might expect from the name. At least not often.

  Dawn, Neville, and their grown son Dawson live in the back of the inn, and the fr
ont mostly functions as a place for events in our community—weddings, reunions, meetings... that kind of thing.

  The building is blue, with white shutters. Since it’s mid-October, the aspen trees scattered around the property are dotted with butter-yellow leaves. The front porch steps are lined in orange pumpkins and maroon mums. The whole scene looks as picturesque as a postcard.

  As I guzzle water, a woman steps through the open front door, out onto the front porch. I recognize her as Sarah Pelletier. She moved to town about six months back, with a husband and a big black fluffy poodle, if I’m not mistaken.

  I’m no dog expert though. I’ve never owned one. I did a short stint as a nanny for a Chihuahua, but that didn’t last long. I was fired after I let the Chihuahua loose up at Rainbow Lake. It was for her own good, but that’s another story altogether. I guess I’m more of a cat person.

  Sarah pulls sunglasses down over her eyes, and then dusts off her tight-fitting pencil skirt as if being inside the inn made her feel dirty. She begins descending the wooden porch steps, and spots me.

  I stop chugging water, give one last cough, and then wipe the back of my hand across my mouth. Whew! I’ve just narrowly avoided death-by-scone while biking, and I don’t have time to worry about manners. I’m just happy to be alive. Plus, I don’t have a napkin.

  Despite her dark glasses, I can tell that Sarah is giving me a look of distaste. For some reason, she’s not pleased to see me. What did I ever do to her?

  “Are you here to see the bloody paw print, too?” I ask.

  Dawn did say that she was calling in any help she could think of, so my question makes sense.

  From somewhere in the back of my mind, I recall that Sarah is on the town council, and was just elected to the position of director of tourism. I’m not entirely sure why Dawn would have called in the director of tourism—heck, I’m not even sure why our small town has a director of tourism in the first place—but it seems possible.

  “Who told you about the paw print?” Sarah asks. “You’re Penny Banks, right?”

  I tuck my bottle back into my bag, and swing my leg over my bike. As I wheel my bike towards the picket fence that lines the inn’s property, I answer. “Yep. Penny Banks. Private Investigator. And you’re Sarah Pelletier?”

  I lean my bike against the fence and then stick my hand out as I approach Sarah.

  She nods as she shakes my hand. “Correct,” she says curtly.

  “Dawn called me and told me about the print,” I say, to answer Sarah’s question. “She wants me to see what I can find out, I suppose. She said something about a strange man, too.”

  Oops. Did Dawn mean to tell me those things in confidence?

  Oh well. It’s too late to worry about that now.

  “Did she, now?” Sarah asks, pulling her dark sunglasses up and propping them on top of her head. She narrows her eyes. “Well, you might be disappointed, Miss Banks, if you think there’s private investigative work for you here. There isn’t. You might as well turn around and go home.”

  She’s now standing in the middle of the last step, and hasn’t moved to either side to let me go by. It’s as if she’s blocking me from the inn’s entrance.

  I’ve only ever really seen Sarah from afar, and we’ve never had a proper conversation. She’s usually bustling around town, putting up fliers for the town council, too busy for small talk. Now that we have a reason to talk, I’m not sure that I like her.

  I’m getting a very stand-offish vibe.

  “I think I’ll go in and talk to Dawn,” I say, ignoring her advice to turn around and go home.

  I step forward. She doesn’t budge.

  “Excuse me,” I say.

  She glares at me, and stays rooted to the spot.

  I step forward again. I’m so close to her now that I can smell her hairspray. It’s keeping her chestnut brown, straight hair neatly in place in her coiffed updo.

  Finally—while I look at her foundation-caked face from just inches away—she steps aside.

  I brush past her.

  “Nice to officially meet you,” I say, as I pass. “I’ve seen you around town many times. You have a black Poodle, right? I’ve seen you walking him.”

  “Hermes,” Sarah says. “He’s a Bernedoodle. Part Bernese, part Poodle.”

  Despite the pleasant topic of conversation, she still looks sour.

  “And you’re on the town council, too?”

  This is what I really want to know. I was just buttering her up with talk of her dog. People usually love talking about their pets. Myself included. I have an eleven-year-old calico cat named Turkey, by the way.

  “Yes, I am,” Sarah says. “I’m the director of tourism.”

  I thought so!

  Sarah seems to have had enough of our chit chatting. She’s finally surrendered her position at the base of the stairs, now that I’ve gotten around her, and she’s making her way towards the sidewalk.

  “Is that why you’re here?” I ask “Did Dawn ask for your help, as a council member?”

  Sarah reaches the sidewalk. Her back is to me. She doesn’t turn as she answers, but instead calls out over her shoulder, “Yes. I’ve already given her my take on things, so you really don’t need to bother. But if you insist on going in, I can’t stop you.”

  She walks off, without so much as saying goodbye.

  Well! Her panties sure are in a twist!

  I reach the front door, which has swung closed, and pull it open.

  The Hillcrest Inn lobby is spacious, clean and well kempt. I know that the owners, Dawn and Neville, make cleaning a priority because I worked here myself for a short while during high school.

  I was working here when my mother died, during my senior year. Dawn and Neville helped me out a great deal during that time—which might be one of the reasons I’ve agreed to work for jam. It feels nice to finally be able to return their kindness.

  I look around the lobby, remembering all of the times I swept, vacuumed and dusted the space.

  I also remember sitting in the stuffed armchairs, just after getting news that my mother’s illness had returned. I had just finished dusting the mantle. The feather duster was in my lap. Dawn served me tea spiked with whiskey even though I was only seventeen at the time. I remember that I thought it tasted awful—but I appreciated the kind gesture nonetheless.

  The polished pine wood floor is scattered with throw rugs, and a fire cackles in a hearth across from the front desk. The lobby is empty at first, but as I look around Dawn comes bustling out of the dining room, which is to the left of the lobby. She has large jar of jam in her hands.

  “Penny!” she says, as she spots me. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long? I just went to the kitchen to get your jam.”

  “Not long at all,” I assure Dawn. “I just got here. I talked to Sarah outside for a minute or two.”

  “Oh! You saw Sarah. Wonderful.” Dawn holds the jam out to me. “Isn’t she such a pistol?” she says.

  Pistol. That’s one word for Sarah Pelletier. Another one that comes to mind is ‘ice-queen’. I’m still feeling chilled by our encounter. However, now that I’m standing within the presence of Dawn, one of the friendliest women in Hillcrest, I’m beginning to warm up.

  I smile. “Yeah, she’s a pistol all right,” I say, accepting the jar of jam that Dawn is holding out. It’s nice and heavy.

  As soon as I’m holding the jam, Dawn wraps me in a warm hug. She squeezes me tight.

  “Thanks for coming,” she says into my ear.

  When she releases me, she gestures towards the door. “She has a real head on her shoulders, that Sarah does. I’ve been working with her to get our inn listed on some travel websites. Marketing has never been my strong suit, you know. Websites? Pff!” Dawn waves her hand. “What do I know about that nonsense? But Sarah’s a wiz.”

  “It’s nice that she’s helping you out,” I say.

  Dawn nods. “We both benefit from it. Sarah wants more people to visit Hillcres
t. She keeps telling me that she’s working on our town’s reputation. Imagine that... a town having a reputation!”

  “I guess it makes sense,” I say.

  “I don’t know. People have reputations—of course. That makes sense to me. But towns?” Dawn shrugs. “But what do I know? Like I said, I’m no marketing expert. She wants people to see Hillcrest as a welcoming, friendly place to visit. She thinks our inn can help with that reputation. We are offering the only overnight accommodations in town!”

  “True,” I say.

  “But enough about that. How are you doing these days, Penny?”

  “I’m great,” I say.

  “Still at the apartment?”

  “Still at the apartment,” I say.

  “And Turkey? He’s holding up fine?”

  “Just fine,” I confirm with a smile. Then, still baffled by my experience out on the front steps, I steer the conversation back to Sarah Pelletier. “So, she’s been helping you out with your marketing—Sarah has?” I ask.

  “Unofficially,” Dawn says. “You know—we didn’t hire her or anything. She just seems to want to help us out. She really is on a mission.”

  “I wonder why,” I muse. “She just moved to Hillcrest. Why does she care about our reputation? Why does she want more people to visit our town?”

  Dawn shrugs. “I suppose that’s just the sort of person she is. You know, some of us like to have a cause. She’s very serious about her mission. Sometimes it’s a bit of a headache—when she talks about marketing and all that.” Dawn shrugs. “But Neville and I would be thrilled to have more income from overnight guests.”

  “How has business been?” I ask.

  Hillcrest is a very small town, nestled at the foot of three mountains in Colorado. There is only one main road into town, and we’re hours from any other town. Melrose is our closest neighbor, and it’s an hour and a half away. People don’t travel here—at least not usually—though it sounds like Sarah wants to change that.

  “We had a good wedding season,” Dawn says. “And of course, working with the Historical Society to host the Bonfire Dance is always a big to-do for us. It’s a wonderful celebration of the founding of Hillcrest. Not to mention it accounts for almost all of our fall revenue. It’s coming up this Saturday, like I said on the phone.”