Beignets and Broomsticks

by J. R. Ripley

  Her four-page introduction hinted that this would be a tale of murky business practices, greed, deceptions, bogus rites, fraud and malfeasance.

  I leaned back and thought. The Sacred Church of Witchkraft. They were one of many peculiar religions headquartered in and around Northern Arizona. I had seen some of their notices for events and classes. I was pretty sure they were located west of town near the mountains.

  Nancy had had a lot of books about Wicca, witchcraft, magic, religion and other similar topics lying around her apartment. It all fit.

  I went out front, turned on the deep fryer to heat up the oil for the day, then made a pot of coffee in the French press. Aubrey let herself in with her key. Kelly showed up not a minute later.

  Aubrey followed me to the storeroom. Kelly was getting everything ready for opening in front. There’s a long table in the center of the backroom with a sink and prep area. Aubrey grabbed a four-quart stainless-steel bowl from a shelf beneath the counter. ‘OK to start making Belgian waffles in earnest now, Maggie?’

  ‘Sure,’ I replied, carrying a cup of coffee to my work desk. ‘Go for it.’ I set the coffee down carefully and tapped a key of the laptop, bringing it out of its stupor.

  ‘What are you reading? More beignet recipes?’ inquired Aubrey, dumping waffle mix into the bowl.

  ‘No. It’s—’ Once again, I realized my dilemma concerning how much or how little I should say. ‘Just catching up on my reading.’

  Aubrey shot me a funny look as she carried her bowl of waffle mix to the front. ‘If you say so.’

  Alone once again, I dove into the manuscript. Nancy was a good writer and her subject was compelling. My forgotten coffee turned cold.

  ‘Hi, Maggie.’

  My eyes jumped from the laptop’s screen to the swinging door to the storeroom where Brad Smith stood smiling. ‘Brad? What are you doing here?’

  Brad grinned. ‘Good to see you, too.’ He glanced at the computer. ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘I was researching some new recipes.’ I looked past him as I lowered the screen.

  ‘In case you are wondering, the ladies said it was OK for me to come on back.’

  ‘No problem.’ I pushed a hand through my hair as I rose. My muscles were stiff from leaning over. I’d been reading for over an hour.

  ‘Don’t let me keep you.’ Brad unzipped his lightweight tan jacket to reveal a button-up navy-blue shirt tucked into a pair of nicely fitting blue jeans.

  Brad was a reporter for the Table Rock Reader, a local newspaper. Being tall and of slender-waist with electric-blue eyes and wavy brown hair, he was also trouble. The fact that he looked a bit like my not-really-dead ex-husband Brian was something I tried but didn’t always succeed in not holding against him.

  There’s the cutest little gap between his two front teeth that’s revealed every time he smiles. Like he was doing at that moment.

  ‘That’s OK.’ I rubbed my knuckles into the small of my back. ‘I was about to take a break anyway.’

  ‘Stiff? Let me get that.’ Brad swept behind and began digging his fingers deep into the flesh of my lower lumbar region.

  I was in heaven. I closed my eyes. It was all I could do to keep from groaning out loud. As the pleasure grew, so did my discomfort.

  I twisted around. ‘Thanks.’ I felt my face heat up. ‘I’m good now.’

  His eyes danced. ‘Are you sure? We don’t have to stop.’ He wriggled his fingers seductively.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, straightening the bottom hem of my long-sleeved polo shirt. ‘We do.’ I moved to the other side of the island, putting some distance and a nice solid object between us. I was pretty certain I could trust Brad.

  It was me I wasn’t too sure about.

  ‘Are you here for any particular reason?’

  With Brad Smith, reporter, there practically always was a reason. Brad and I had some history too. There was even a point, the tiniest speck really, where I’d thought, and I’m sure he had too, that there might be something developing between us – something more than the two of us trying to find the same murderer.

  But that moment had passed several weeks ago and we had seen little of each other since. The reason for our rift stemmed from what had happened over Labor Day weekend. We had made plans to meet up at an outdoor fair, the annual Labor of Love, on the town square. Brad showed up with a beautiful woman on his arm. Hurt, I took my revenge by spending the afternoon with Dr Daniel Vargas, a fortyish, six-foot Latin looker. He was VV’s older brother, but I did not hold that against him because the two siblings were as different as could be.

  Speaking of siblings, the beautiful young woman on Brad’s arm turned out to be his kid sister, Sophie.

  Oops.

  Things had been uncomfortable between us ever since, which was why I had avoided him. Maybe I was a little embarrassed, too. Brad had apparently been avoiding me as well because this was the first time that he had come into the café since our little misunderstanding.

  ‘I was chasing down leads on the Nancy Alverson case,’ explained Brad. ‘I heard you were on the scene.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yeah. Am I wrong?’

  I hesitated. ‘Where did you get your information?’

  Brad shrugged and strolled over to my laptop. ‘Chip Kurkov told me you were at Ms Alverson’s apartment.’ He turned and pulled a small notebook from his inside jacket pocket and clicked open his pen. ‘Tell me what you saw.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell. When I got there, she was dead.’

  ‘Come on, Maggie. Help me out here. I’ve got a story to write.’

  ‘You’ve already spoken with the police. I’m sure they can tell you much more than I can.’

  Brad’s face said it all. ‘They’ve told me practically nothing.’

  Kelly stuck her head through the opening and looked from Brad to me. ‘Maggie, we’re getting a little backed up out here.’

  ‘I’ll be right there, Kelly.’ I looked at Brad. ‘Sorry, I’ve got a business to run.’ I grabbed my apron.

  ‘I’ve got a job to do too, Maggie. Haven’t I helped you out before?’

  I suppressed a sigh. That he had. He had even suffered speeding tickets and broken bones. ‘What do you know about the Blessed Witchkraft Church?’

  ‘You mean the Sacred Church of Witchkraft?’

  ‘Right, that.’

  ‘The place at the edge of town with all the kooks?’ Brad scrunched up his brow. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘I don’t know, but buy me lunch and maybe between the two of us we can figure it out.’

  ‘Sounds weird. But OK, Maggie Miller, woman of mystery.’ Brad closed his notebook and stuck it and his pen in his outside pocket. He zipped up his jacket. ‘I’ll meet you. Shall we say Señor Sapo’s at noon?’

  Señor Sapo’s was the Mexican restaurant a few doors down.

  ‘Fine. No, wait. Make it Hopping Mad at one-thirty and it’s a date. Well, not a date,’ I stammered, seeing the smug look take over Brad’s face and remembering the time I had taken him by surprise and kissed him full on the lips on my front porch. ‘A meeting. A lunch meeting.’ My face was burning.

  Brad smirked. ‘One-thirty, Hopping Mad it is. My treat.’ He let himself out the back way.

  I waited for my cheeks to drain and my blood pressure return to normal before going out front to pitch in. I couldn’t wait to get back to the laptop and read some more, and found myself praying that business would slow down.

  Eating lunch at Hopping Mad would give me a chance to interrogate the staff. Not that I was investigating anything, but I felt I owed it to Nancy to find out what was going on and who was responsible for her death.

  Business remained brisk. Mom showed up at noon to lend a hand. We were working side by side, me cranking out beignets, Mom now on the register, and Kelly and Aubrey handling the rest, when the café phone rang.

  I grabbed the receiver off the wall and answered. ‘Maggie’s Beignet C
afé. How can I help you?’ It was Rob Gregory wanting to confirm that I was intent on signing up for his yoga class. ‘Yes,’ I turned my back to the others, ‘that’s right.’

  ‘Are you interested in the yearly plan or the monthly?’ Rob inquired.

  ‘Um, I hadn’t really thought about it.’

  ‘Maggie! We’re getting backed up over here!’ Kelly stood at the counter with a handful of drinks waiting for beignets.

  I clamped my hand over the receiver. ‘Aubrey, can you handle the fryer for a minute? I need to take this.’

  Aubrey nodded and scooted over to the deep fryer.

  I removed my hand from the receiver. ‘I’m not really sure. Do you have some sort of free trial membership?’ Free being the key word.

  ‘No, but I do accept walk-ins.’

  ‘Great. I’ll go with that.’

  ‘Are you sure? I can save you a bundle if you go for the yearly plan. Even the monthly option is a far better rate. Think about it, Miller.’

  I promised I would. ‘What time is the next class?’

  ‘I’ve got a beginners’ group that meets tomorrow at seven.’

  ‘In the evening?’

  ‘That’s right. Don’t be late. It’s disrespectful.’ He hung up on me. Sure, no disrespect there.

  I replaced the handset on the wall and returned to the fryer station. ‘I’ll take over, Audrey. Thanks.’

  Audrey moved back to handing out orders.

  ‘Do you know a place where I can get a yoga outfit cheap, Mom?’

  I had seen the way some of those women going into Rob’s studio dressed. Some of the men, too. I had a really good feeling that Rob Gregory wouldn’t be pleased to have me show up at his fancy yoga studio in my Walmart sweatsuit.

  Mom closed the cash register and handed her customer a receipt. ‘Yoga clothes?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I ran a towel across my forehead. Working the fryer for hours left me hot and wet. ‘You know, yoga pants, maybe a tank top.’

  Mom looked pensive. ‘There’s a shop at the spa, of course.’ Mom taught yoga part-time herself at a local green-certified spa retreat called Sol Serena.

  ‘Right. Maybe I’ll try there.’ Although I knew their prices would be outrageous. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Why?’ Mom asked. ‘What do you want yoga clothes for?’ She refilled the napkin dispenser beside the register.

  ‘I’m taking a yoga class tomorrow night.’ I busied myself at the fryer, avoiding eye contact.

  ‘You are? Where? With who?’

  I tucked my chin into my neck. ‘Rob Gregory.’

  Mom looked incredulous. ‘Rob Gregory? Yoga By Rob?’ That was the name of his yoga studio. ‘You’re taking a class at Yoga By Rob?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said softly. I felt not only my mother’s but Kelly’s and Aubrey’s eyes boring into me. It was like being drilled by six hungry yellow sapsuckers all at the same time.

  ‘Maggie Miller, I have been trying to get you to do yoga with me ever since you came to Table Rock.’ She planted her hands on her hips in indignation and hurt. ‘You know I teach a class twice a week at Sol Serena. Why would you go to Rob instead? You don’t even like the man!’

  I grabbed my mother’s hand and dragged her through the swinging doors to the storeroom. We had provided enough entertainment for the customers and the employees. Besides, I didn’t want word spreading about what I was up to.

  As the saying goes, loose lips sink ships. And I’ve never seen a ship in Table Rock. Tells you something, doesn’t it?

  ‘It’s not what you think, Mom. It’s not the yoga that I’m interested in.’

  She eyed me suspiciously. ‘It isn’t?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘It’s the fact that Yoga By Rob is directly above Karma Koffee.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And Nancy Alverson’s apartment is directly above Yoga By Rob.’ I pointed my finger upward and raised my brow suggestively.

  Mom’s eyelids fluttered in confusion for a moment, and then she smiled. ‘Oh. Oh, yes. I see. You want to do a little snooping.’

  I put my finger to my lips. ‘Our secret, OK?’

  ‘Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.’

  ‘Thanks, Mom.’

  ‘Promise me one thing, Maggie, dear.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That I won’t have to come and post your bail.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ There was no point in making promises I might not be able to keep.

  Mom returned to the front and I went to the laptop on my desk to continue reading Nancy Alverson’s book.

  I flipped open the lid and hit the space bar. The screen was empty. I clicked the directory to open the file but there was no file.

  There was no directory.

  My hand flew to the side of the laptop.

  The flash drive was gone!

  NINE

  Brad was seated at a black vinyl upholstered booth near the middle of the brick wall to the right of the bar inside Hopping Mad. The Hopi-Irish pub was owned and operated by Johnny Honanie, a colorful and gregarious local. He insisted that everybody called him Joho.

  Brad’s jacket was hanging off the end of the booth. I had left my sweater in the café. It was warm enough outdoors this time of day to walk around in shirtsleeves.

  A bottle of orange cream soda stood waiting for me. There was another in Brad’s hand and he had ordered a basket of pepper-and-lemon-seasoned buffalo wings. He was nibbling on one as I slid into the seat across from him.

  ‘Glad you made it.’ Brad dabbed at his greasy fingers with a paper napkin.

  ‘Was there any doubt? Thanks for this.’ He knew what I liked. I grabbed the neck of my orange soda and took a quick sip. I helped myself to a couple of wings, dropping them onto the small plate beside me.

  ‘With you, there’s always doubt.’

  It was true that I might have stood him up once or twice – and it might have been on purpose – but it was time to let bygones be bygones.

  We spent a few minutes nibbling buffalo wings and catching up, now and then drifting into awkward silence.

  We had hit one of them. I snatched up my laminated menu and studied the offerings, not that I didn’t know them by heart. ‘What looks good?’

  ‘I’m having the cheeseburger and fries,’ Brad said, reaching for the last buffalo wing. ‘You want this?’

  ‘You can have it.’ I loved the wings but I loved the hand-cut French fries more. I threw down my menu. ‘When in doubt, go with the classics.’

  Brad laughed and folded his hands atop the table. ‘I did some digging back at the office before coming here.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He nodded. ‘I found out quite a lot about the Sacred Church of Witchkraft.’

  ‘Anything suspicious?’

  ‘No.’ Brad straightened as a college-aged waitress stopped at our booth and asked if we were ready to order.

  ‘Hi, guys. I’m Chloe and I’ll be your server today.’ Chloe’s hair was short and dark and curled forward along her jawline. A blue Kokopelli tattoo danced on the back of her left hand. On the back of her right hand was a tattoo of a feather.

  Representations of Kokopelli were as common as cacti in Arizona. Kokopelli was supposed to represent fertility, both human and agricultural. I wasn’t familiar enough with Native American culture to know what the feather represented.

  Maybe it meant she was ticklish.

  Chloe held up a small electronic tablet. ‘Are we ready to order?’

  ‘A cheeseburger and fries. Hold the tomato for me, please.’

  ‘Same here,’ I said. ‘Except you can give me his tomato.’

  ‘You got it. Done with these?’ the waitress asked, reaching across the table for the now-empty tray of wings, her chest passing so near Brad’s face it could have been considered foreplay.

  ‘Nah.’ Brad was smiling. Sure, of course he was. ‘We’re good. Right, Maggie?’

  ‘Right.’ I
bit my lip to keep from saying more.

  She disappeared, taking the empty tray, our orders and a little piece of my dignity with her.

  Brad laughed. ‘Now, what were we talking about?’

  ‘You were telling me what you found out about this church.’

  Brad shrugged and took a pull on his soda. ‘Lots of stuff. They have an extensive website. Plus, there was the usual ranting from disgruntled ex-members who’ve posted their own stories on the internet. Nothing that I wouldn’t have expected.’

  He played with his bottle, making a series of damp rings on the paper placemat that bore pictures of numerous area tourist sites.

  ‘Your turn.’ He made come-hither motions with his fingers. ‘Why the interest in the Sacred Church of Witchkraft and what does it have to do with Nancy Alverson’s murder?’

  ‘First, you have to promise that this is just between us.’

  ‘What do you mean just between us? Come on, Maggie. We’re talking about a murder here. My readers want to know what happened.’

  This being Table Rock, not Los Angeles or even Phoenix, I wasn’t sure just how many readers that was but I understood his point.

  ‘I want to know what happened too. I knew Nancy, sort of. She was a regular at the café.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Brad patted the back of my hand.

  ‘Thanks. Had you ever met her?’

  ‘Never. I didn’t know she existed until the murder. If there’s anything you can tell me, it would help with the personal angle for the story.’ He pulled his little notepad and pen from his jacket and set them on the table beside his plate.

  ‘Nancy Alverson was a person, Brad. Not an angle.’

  ‘You know I didn’t mean it like that.’ He looked genuinely offended.

  ‘Sorry. How about this? We work together, share information.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ Brad replied eagerly.

  ‘But.’ I held up my index finger.

  Brad pulled a face. ‘But what?’

  ‘But you don’t write your story until we are absolutely sure we’ve found the killer. Or that the police haven’t found him or her first.’

  ‘No deal.’ Brad shook his head. ‘If the police do solve the case first then I’ve got nothing.’