A source familiar with Sarah Pelletier's history states that this is not the first time that she has purchased large amounts of land from a variety of individuals and then sold it to Powder Paradise.’
The article ends there. I look up at Turkey. “What happened?” I say, taking a quick look at the date on the article. “This article is from almost a year ago. Did the ski resort go in?”
Turkey nods. “It did,” he says. “And that’s not all. Look at this.” He pats his paw against the touchpad, bringing up another article. “Two years ago, Sarah bought up 105 acres of land from four different private landowners in rural Montana. She then sold the land to Powder Paradise, again stirring up controversy and frustration within the town.”
I skim the words of the article. Yep, it’s the same storyline as the first article—Sarah arrives in town, buys up land, and then turns around and sells it, much to the townspeople’s dismay.
Turkey clicks the mouse pad again. Another article pops up.
“Prior to that, Pelletier purchased close to eighty acres in New Mexico. She owned the land for under a year before turning it over to Powder Paradise for development.”
I don’t even bother reading the article. I’m starting to see what Turkey’s getting at.
“Turkey, Dawn said that Sarah bought up close to seventy acres here in Hillcrest. Do you think she’s planning on selling it to Powder Paradise?”
“If her past is any indication,” Turkey says, “Then I think she will. It seems to be her modus operandi.”
“Her what?”
“Modus operandi,” Turkey says. “Her M.O. That was in class number three of your Speedy’s Online Personal Investigator Program’.
“Turkey, I think you’re a better PI than I am,” I say.
“You just need to spend less time mooning over men, and more time studying,” Turkey suggests.
“I do not moon over men,” I say.
Turkey raises one of his little whiskered eyebrows.
I choose to ignore him. “Turkey... this is awful. Powder Paradise can’t open up in Hillcrest. That corporation is a monster. It would take over the town— bigger roads, huge hotels, fancy new retail shops. It would be a disaster!”
Turkey moves his paw over the computer, scrolling down a bit in the article. “There’s more,” he says. “Keep reading... this part here is important.”
I give my eyes another rub. My goodness. I am really tired.
‘Sources close to Sarah state that while her recent land sales have been extremely profitable, that has not always been the case.
Ten years ago, Sarah bought up close to a hundred acres in Southwest Colorado. She was meaning to flip it over to a ski resort, but a scandal on the property prohibited this. Shortly after Sarah leased the land to Powder Paradise for a trial period, mountain lion sightings became frequent. After one skier was chased down the hill by a mountain lion, guests named the hill “Mountain Lion Death Trap.”
George Barter, when questioned about whether or not he was interested in continuing to lease the land from Sarah, stated, “I wouldn’t touch that hill with a twenty-foot ski pole. It’s doomed to failure, now that it has a reputation.”
When questioned about this failure, Sarah refused to comment.’
“Hunh,” I say aloud. I’ve reached the end of the article. My head is spinning. I flop back onto the couch, and close my eyes. Just for a minute. As soon as my eyes close, my mind begins to drift.
Sarah Pelletier... buying up and selling it to a bigwig in the ski industry...
Angry land owners.
Hillcrest—with a highway running through it, and a new, shiny, hundred-foot resort hotel, right where the Death Cafe is now located.
Mountain lions... chasing after skiers.
A wolf... running up the street, away from Hillcrest Inn.
Then, my mind goes blank.
The next thing I know, I hear purring by my ear. I feel the couch cushion behind my head rocking up and down. I hear Turkey’s little claws making little ripping sounds as they knead the couch cushion.
I open my eyes. It’s light out.
“Hunh?” I say, and then I smack my lips together twice.
Yuck.
I need to brush my teeth.
“Turkey?” I say. “What time is it? What day is it?”
I’m disoriented. It feels weird to wake up on the couch instead of snuggled in my bed. Or Chris’s bed, for that matter, but I don’t want to think about that at this exact moment in time.
“It’s exactly nine minutes past eight o’clock in the morning,” Turkey says. “One hour and nine minutes past my preferred breakfast time. It’s Saturday.”
“Saturday!” I say aloud, springing up into a sitting position. “Crap! I fell asleep, didn’t I?”
“Indeed,” Turkey says.
“I was supposed to practice the Banishing Spell last night!” I say. “I shouldn’t have fallen asleep—there’s so much to do!” I stand up, and run my fingers through my hair.
Well—I try to run my fingers through my hair.
They get stuck halfway down, on a giant tangle of hardened marshmallow. “Crap, crap crap!” I repeat. “You shouldn’t have let me fall asleep,” I say.
“I tried to wake you,” Turkey says. “You wouldn’t budge. You were snoring quite loudly.”
“I was not!” I say. “I don’t snore. I might have been breathing loudly, but I wasn’t snoring.”
“If you say so,” Turkey says. He’s sashaying into the kitchen area. I follow him.
Coffee is calling my name.
I start a pot brewing, and then fix Turkey his food. Next, I peel off my campfire smoke infused clothes, and hop in the shower.
Once I’m clean and dressed, I try to run a brush through my hair.
It’s useless. No matter how hard I jam the wire brush into the giant tangle that has formed, I can’t get it through.
It’s frustrating, not to mention painful. I do not have the pain tolerance or patience for this—especially not this morning. I reach for a pair of scissors, and then hold the tangle out to the side.
Snip, snip, snip!
The tangled mess falls into the sink.
Ah! It’s gone. Done with.
My relief is short lived.
I look up into the mirror. My face is now framed on one side with my normal, long wavy locks. On the other side, my hair stops abruptly at cheek level.
Any hope that my little fix-up would go unnoticed flies out the window.
Looking at my reflection, I grimace. “Ooops,” I whisper. “That didn’t go so well, did it?”
I hold the short hair up to the side, and then let it flop back down. “Well, there’s only one thing I can do to fix this.”
I raise the scissors up, and begin cutting.
Twenty minutes later, I emerge from the bathroom. I’ve cut my hair to about three inches long, all around my head. It’s starting to dry and as it frizzes up it expands. Somehow, I now have a puffball of brown hair around my head that makes me look like I belong in the Jackson Five.
As I walk to the coffee pot, Turkey stares at me. “New do?” he asks.
“I do not want to talk about it,” I fire back.
I fill up a mug with coffee and begin drinking.
Immediately, the caffeine starts to wake me up. Perhaps I should have had my coffee before I gave myself a haircut.
My phone battery is still dead. I plug my phone in and then fix up some breakfast while it charges.
I’ve been dying to try Dawn’s jam. I coat two pieces of toast with butter, and then smother them with the thick raspberry preserves. Taking a seat on one of the barstools near my countertop, I eagerly turn on my phone before taking the first bite.
Has Chris called, to give me an update on the police department’s progress with the case? Or to apologize for his behavior? Or to check up on me? Or maybe... all three of those things?
Better yet, has he called to say, ‘I love you Penny’?
I have a sinking feeling in my stomach as soon as I’m able to turn my phone on.
I have zero missed calls.
There are four new emails, however, but none of them are from Chris.
What the heck?
He’s supposed to be my boyfriend, and yet he hasn’t even called to see if I’m still alive?
Then again, I’m his girlfriend and I haven’t called him.
Turkey hops up on the countertop. “Communication is a two-way street,” he says.
“I know,” I mumble aloud.
“Then are you going to initiate a conversation with Christopher?” Turkey asks telepathically. “Like a mature adult?”
I don’t have an answer to that, so I say nothing. Instead, I bite into my toast. Wow! This jam is even better than I hoped it would be.
“Are you?” Turkey presses.
I place the toast and jam down. I can feel sticky wetness on my cheek, and I look around for a napkin.
All I see is an empty paper towel roll. Shoot. I meant to get more of those.
I lift my sleeve, and give my cheek a quick wipe. I don’t feel like receiving a lecture from Turkey about my manners this morning, so I glance up with the hopes that he missed this. He didn’t. He’s frowning at me. His little silvery whiskers point down towards the floor.
“You know I’m not a mature adult,” I say.
“Penelope, you’re twenty-seven,” Turkey chides. “You’re not a teenager anymore. I know your mother died when you were only seventeen, but that doesn’t give you an excuse to remain a child.”
I feel myself pouting. It is too early for this conversation. I don’t want to have it now. Or ever.
“Can you just let me eat my breakfast?” I ask, my telepathic tone rich with annoyance.
Turkey continues. “Penelope, I know that at times you feel that your mother abandoned you, and that without her, you can’t—”
“Turkey!” I transmit. “Please. I’m not in the mood for a therapy session. Not today, of all days. I have enough going on. Mayor Haywater’s life might be in danger—not to mention my own. If we don’t deal with this Lux wolf tonight, Hillcrest is going to be in big trouble.”
“Fine,” Turkey says. “But I think you’d be in a much better frame of mind if you dealt with your feelings for Christopher first, before you attempt to save Hillcrest. You’re lacking in clarity right now, and you’re going to need all of your clarity and focus if you’re going to feel strong enough to deal with Zeke tonight.”
Ugh. He’s right.
“I know that you want to use the Banishing Spell tonight,” Turkey says. “It’s the logical thing to do. But it’s going to be a lot harder to put all of your focus on the Banishing Spell while you’re so worried about the state of things between you and Christopher.”
I want to ignore my cat. I want to eat my toast and jam in silence, and then rush head first into my day, pushing all of my feelings for Chris off to the side.
But Turkey’s right.
My emotional confusion is going to keep bubbling up, taking up a part of my energy all day.
Turkey can see that he’s wearing me down.
“I bet he’s home right now,” Turkey says. “You could walk over there and tell him what’s on your mind. That’s the right thing to do.”
I lift my toast. It would be so much easier to ignore Turkey. I could just eat the rest of this toast, and—
“You know it’s the right thing to do. I’m your familiar, Penelope. I’m a part of you. I’m only saying what you’re truly feeling, deep within you.”
Drat! I lower the toast, and push my plate away.
“Fine!” I say. “I hear you. I’m going.” I reach for my fake glasses, which are lying on the counter, and slide them into place.
“You’ll thank me later,” Turkey says, as he follows me to the door.
I don’t know about that, I think as soon as I step out into the chilly morning air.
I cross my arms over my chest, and march towards Chris’s door.
At least, in my mind I’m marching. In reality, I’ve got more of a slow sort of shuffle going on.
I inch my way towards Chris’s door. When I reach it, I ball my hand up into a fist and lift it to knock, but then I pull it down to my side again.
I don’t want to do this.
Not one little bit.
Not a even a smidgeon.
I’m wimping out, fast. I should knock, but I can’t seem to get my hand to move. I’m frozen. I bite my lip.
I can do this. I can do this.
“I am confident,” I whisper. Jumper Strongheart says that affirmations really help. I could use some help, right about now, so I might as well repeat mine. “I am strong!” I whisper, a bit louder. I push my glasses up on my nose.
“I am smart. I am strong. I can do anything I put my mind to.” My voice grows louder. Then, I repeat the whole thing. It’s working! I’m feeling better. I make a fist. “I am confident. I am smart. I am—-”
The door opens.
“—Strong.” I finish, weakly.
Chris is dressed in his police uniform. He has a mug of coffee in his hand.
“Penny?” he says.
I see him eying my hair. I reach a hand up, and try to flatten it furiously. I feel it spring back up beneath my fingertips. Why, oh why did I have to give myself the worst haircut in the history of all haircuts this morning?
Chris finally looks past my unmanageable fro, out into the open hallway behind me, right and then left. “Who are you talking to?” he asks.
“Um... myself?” I say. Then, before I can lose my nerve again, I ask “Why haven’t you called me?”
My tone is angry. My cheeks flush. I still have my hand balled into a fist. “What,” I continue. “All of a sudden you don’t care about me at all? Just like that?”
“Penny—wait a second,” Chris says. He hasn’t moved aside to let me in. Something is definitely different between us. I can feel it in my bones.
His voice is edged with anger too. “I tried to call you,” he says. “About a hundred times. Your phone went right to voicemail. I thought you were ignoring me. I even stopped by your place, but you weren’t home!”
Ah. Right. My phone did die, pretty early on in my evening. “I wouldn’t ignore you, Chris.” I say. “I’m not a child.”
Well, at least not technically. But according to my telepathic cat therapist, I’m a bit emotionally stunted. I straighten my spine. That ends now. It is time for me to start acting like a mature adult. “My phone died,” I say. “I went for a hike up Never Summer Peak last night. I didn’t get back until around midnight, and I didn’t have a chance to charge my phone until this morning.”
“Why in the world would you hike up Never Summer Peak in the middle of the night?” Chris asks, horrified.
“I was looking for werewolves,” I say.
Chris groans. “Not this again, Penny. Please.”
I blow out a burst of air. I don’t know what to say. If Chris refuses to speak about magic, how am I supposed to tell him how I feel?
Magic is the center of my world right now. Everything else feels irrelevant.
Chris and I stand for a minute, facing each other mutely. Our eyes are locked. I see pain in his eyes; I feel it in my own.
“Chris,” I say after a moment. “We can’t not talk about this. I’m becoming a witch. You’re a human.”
“A human?” Chris laughs. It’s not a friendly laugh. “Penny, I don’t know what to say to that!”
“Don’t laugh at me!” I say. I feel my cheeks flush even brighter. “This isn’t funny! Not to me. Max warned me that magical beings and humans can’t be together, and I ignored him. I thought you and I were different, somehow. I thought we could get past it. But clearly—”
“Max!” Chris says. “That creepy dude that just moved in to Unit D? What does he know?”
I could tell Chris that Max is a five-hundred-year-old vampire who has plenty of experience wi
th all things magical, but I feel like that would just put Chris over the edge.
“I can’t handle this anymore!” Chris fumes.
All right, maybe he’s already over the edge.
“You’re acting crazy,” Chris says. “Talking about magic and werewolves and now bringing Max into things. I don’t like that guy, Penny, and I see the way he looks at you.” Chris shakes his head. “I’ve had enough.”
My breathing is shallow. I feel my heart constrict, like someone is squeezing it. “You don’t even like me anymore,” I accuse Chris.
Chris presses his lips together.
“Admit it!” I say. “I showed you that thing with the light on my palm, and it scared the daylights out of you. Your brain short circuited. You rejected what you saw, because it scared you. Now, you’re scared of me. You’re rejecting me.”
It feels awful to say this. I feel tears springing up in my eyes. “You used to love me,” I say quietly. “And now you don’t even like me.”
“Penny,” Chris says. “I just don’t know what’s happening. I can’t—” He stops short, and presses his lips together again.
Tears are welling up in my eyes. Chris’s image begins to blur. That’s all right with me. I know where this conversation is headed now, and it will be easier not to see Chris clearly as he breaks up with me. Or—as I break up with him. I don’t know which is going to happen first at this point, but I know now that the breakup is inevitable.
“You can’t what?” I ask, my voice quivering.
“I can’t understand this,” Chris says. “Any of it. I don’t know what you were doing with that light in your hands. I don’t know what you’re talking about when you start talking about weird stuff—”
“Magic,” I say, with a trembling lip.
“Yeah,” Chris says. “That. And, yes, I guess it freaks me out.”
“I freak you out,” I say.
Chris is quiet.
He doesn’t say yes, but more importantly, he doesn’t say no.
“Okay,” I say. “I guess I have to live with that. I —I really loved you Chris.”
“Loved?” Chris says.
I nod. I reach up, under my glasses, and wipe a tear away. “I don’t think—” I pause, and take a wobbly breath. “I don’t think we should be together anymore.”
Chris’s lips are sewn into a tight, thin line. He nods twice. “I know,” he says.
The Case of the Banishing Spell Page 13