by Tess Lake
I finished my lunch and then strayed away from my Talica Moore research to check out the new, revamped Harlot Bay Times website. Carter had been evicted from his old office by his landlord, real estate developer and all-around general sleazy guy Sylvester Coldwell. He’d left Harlot Bay until his fractured arm had healed (he’d fallen through a step at the Harlot Bay Times and demanded it be repaired, and Coldwell had then evicted him rather than do so). Carter hadn’t been gone long, and since he’d returned to Harlot Bay, I hadn’t heard much from him at all, until one day there was a sparkling new website that was full of gossip and junk news. The paper version of the Harlot Bay Times had restarted, and while it wasn’t as bad as the online gossip mill, it had significantly degraded in quality. Now Carter was reporting on rumors and gossip from around Harlot Bay, the rest of the state, and the country. The locals around town who had kept a subscription were now being subjected to articles with titles like “Which Celebrity Had a Secret Baby?” and “Murder on the Set of Bella Bing’s New Movie?”
Wait, what?
I scrolled down to the bright purple headline and clicked on it. It was Carter’s article about Mattias Matterhorn dying of a heart attack on set. There was even a blurry photo that looked like it had been taken from the back of the set, showing Mattias on the ground clutching his chest, his face red. The article was light on facts and heavy on speculation. While it stated that the legendary film actor had died on set, it also queried whether this had been murder and noted that Mattias had made a lot of enemies in his life.
I quickly found another article with the headline, “Bella Bing Refuses to Talk to Press!” There was a single photo accompanying it, with an out-of-focus Bella in the background and Ru approaching the camera with her hand out to block it. Carter had reported that Bella Bing refused to talk to the press and thus she obviously had something to hide. From the look of the building behind Bella, it appeared the confrontation had taken place about one street away from Traveler, presumably after she’d left us.
I clicked through a few more articles on Carter’s website, shaking my head in disgust at how far he had fallen. He’d originally taken himself quite seriously, fancying the Harlot Bay Times as the only true source of news for our area. But over time, he’d become more hysterical in his reporting. I presume it must’ve generated more attention, so he’d followed that path to its logical end. He hadn’t yet reported that alien fish monsters stole my husband, but you could see it coming from a mile off.
I found a hyperbolic article about the fundraiser the town had held to help rebuild Big Pie. We’re only a small town, so in the end it had raised around nine thousand dollars, which had been used to clear the Big Pie site of all the rubble and burnt bricks. The moms had gotten a few quotes on rebuilding Big Pie, but they were simply eye-watering. So for the time being, there was a gap in the row of shops where Big Pie Bakery had stood, like a missing tooth.
Carter’s article barely mentioned anything about any of this. Instead, he speculated that the three Torrent sisters were making out like bandits, having received a massive insurance payout and duped the local citizens into holding a fundraiser for them. I clicked away from that article before my blood could start boiling. There had been insurance on Big Pie Bakery, but it hadn’t been enough to cover a complete rebuild. Not only that, because it had been an act of arson, the insurance company was dragging its feet in every way possible, trying to assign the cost of rebuilding it to Dominic Gresso and his brother. They were both still in prison, awaiting the long, slow justice that would eventually come to them. The insurance company was essentially trying to get us to claim reparations from Dominic Gresso, something that simply wouldn’t be able to happen until they were conclusively proven guilty and sentenced for their crimes. Even then, it would take a civil case to extract money out of them.
I glanced over an article about Sylvester Coldwell in which Carter suggested he was heavily involved in the fires that had struck Harlot Bay. Thus far there was no concrete evidence linking Sylvester Coldwell to the fires, and the special arson investigator, Detective James Moreland, had returned home approximately a month ago, declaring that unless new evidence arose, his job was finished.
I closed Carter’s website lest I see something that made me want to curse him. Currently, he was essentially the only source of news in Harlot Bay. Despite my throwing all of my effort into my online newspaper and reporting on anything and everything I could possibly find, the fact was that Harlot Bay was a tourist town and also a retirement town. The locals liked their news printed on paper, not available digitally. When I got the offer to cover the production of the film, I’d pretty much given up on writing anything more on my website. The last article was from a number of weeks ago, when a local teenage boy had gone missing. I know that sounds like big important news, but although he hadn’t been found yet, there were reports that he’d simply run away to New York to escape his abusive alcoholic father. As in many small towns, that side of it was simply swept under the rug, and now everyone assumed that he had run away and no one wanted to hear anything else about it.
I closed my laptop and checked the time. I didn’t have long before I had to leave to drive to Bella’s vacation rental up in the rich part of Harlot Bay for our very first official movie interview. I checked over my list of questions that I’d come up with based largely on information I’d gathered from other online sources. While I’d been given this job by a marketing person, it seemed I didn’t exactly have a boss, so I wasn’t quite sure how far I could go in asking personal questions of Bella. Was I supposed to be producing light puff pieces to help promote the movie? Or could I dig into the behind-the-scenes of how movies are made, including all the stresses and fights and, yes, the death?
Thinking of Mattias Matterhorn, I wondered if I would see his ghost again. I’m no expert in this field, but generally when someone becomes a ghost after death, there’s some persistence there. I remembered Aunt Cass telling me that if a ghost makes it past their first day, then they’ve got a very good chance of hanging around for years until they move on. When I’d gone to his trailer before leaving the movie set, I hadn’t seen him there. Given he had died on set, I was expecting that if he did show up again, it would be there. If he did, I’d have to get him somewhere private so I could ask him if he thought he’d been murdered. That was, of course, if he could even leave the area. Some ghosts stayed locked to one particular place or object. I’d even briefly met a ghost who had been locked to his favorite coffee mug, unable to move more than two feet away from it. Luckily he’d moved on when the coffee mug had been smashed to pieces. It was entirely possible Matterhorn wouldn’t remember much of his own life.
I emailed my interview questions to myself so I could read them off my phone and checked to make sure my brand-new handheld recorder was fully charged. It was technically the property of the movie producers, but I was pretending this beautiful, sleek little technological marvel was mine. I hoped after the job was done they would consider giving it to me. It was an upgrade on my old recorder that was quickly reaching the end of its life. I said goodbye to Adams, who was now strategically placing his toy mice in different positions around the house and telling them to be on the lookout, and drove back through town and then out the other side, heading up into the hills.
On the way out, the houses transformed from standard average to slightly richer, then to amazingly rich. The most expensive houses were on Barnes Boulevard, and that’s where Bella was staying. As I drove along, I passed the house where Zero Bend had been staying before there had been a fire caused by leaving a kettle on the stove. Renovations had now finished and the house was looking as beautiful as ever.
I soon found the mansion where Bella was staying. It was probably better described as a palatial estate. It was sitting on a gigantic block of land that had an established garden out in front and then an actual hedge maze out back. It was one of the largest properties in Harlot Bay. I parked on the street and walked up to the g
ate.
There was a security guard dressed in full black, wearing black sunglasses and an earpiece blocking the way. Although we were heading towards winter, it was still quite warm and it was clear he was very uncomfortable. I introduced myself, he spoke into his sleeve, and then after a moment the wrought-iron gate buzzed open and I walked in, following the long, winding driveway up to the mansion.
The gardens were simply beautiful. There were stone love seats everywhere, birdbaths, and a riot of color from hundreds of different plants growing in harmony. I am not a nature witch, but all witches have an innate connection to the living world. The magic here was cool and calm in some spots, and in others it was boisterous and lively as fresh daisies burst out of the soil and turned their faces towards the sun. I passed a bed of sunflowers and felt a wash of joyous happiness come over me. Whoever had planted them had loved their job intensely and had left an emotional imprint on the spot.
Despite only having about a minute before I would officially be late for the interview, I took my time to stroll through the gardens on the way to the mansion. I wished I could’ve ditched the interview altogether and simply lain down on a soft bed of mint and slept in the warm sunshine, curled up like a cat. As I walked through the garden, I caught hints of other emotions. A girl excited, hiding from someone. A boy chasing his love. Children had played hide and seek at some point. I caught the impression of a cat crouched down behind some ferns, watching bees lazily bumble about. By the time I reached the main part of the house, I was feeling incredibly relaxed and quite happy. I even smiled at the very expensive-looking car parked out front.
That relaxation fled like a scared rabbit when a woman screamed from somewhere up on the second floor and then something came smashing out the window before crashing onto the ground in front of me. It was an antique wooden globe and it did not survive the fall. It smashed in half, one half remaining intact as it skidded away across the gravel, the other half reduced to a pile of splinters. I looked up at the window to see a red-faced Bella glaring down at me, panting. I saw a dark figure pass behind her. It looked like the director, Cyro Nash. My suspicions were confirmed a moment later when he came rushing out of the mansion and got into the very expensive car before squealing off in a screech of gravel.
He’d left the front door hanging open, so I walked up and went inside, where I found Ru waiting for me.
(The inside of the mansion was, by the way, simply spectacular. Polished wood floors, expensive everything on every level. But I was a little too caught up in what had just happened to take much note of it.)
“Ms. Bing will be with you shortly for your interview. Would you care for a cup of herbal tea?” she asked. I glanced up at the second floor. I could hear someone muttering up there. It sounded like Bella, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying.
“I’d like a peppermint tea,” I said.
“Excellent, please follow me,” she said. I did so, not really sure whether I should ask about what had happened. We entered the kitchen, and I came face-to-face with Aunt Ro and Molly hauling buckets of cleaning supplies.
Oh no, this was the big cleaning job?
The look on Molly’s face was a mixture of anger and intense humiliation. It’s bad enough to come face-to-face with someone you went to school with and then to find out that they’re more successful than you, but then actually being sent to their house to clean up their mess for them? That was a whole new level of humiliation.
Molly gave me a wan smile that quickly fell off her face, and shook her head to indicate she did not want to talk whatsoever. They must have finished, because Aunt Ro merely nodded to me and hustled out of there with Molly close behind, heading out the back and around the side. While Ru made me a peppermint tea, I heard Aunt Ro’s car start up and the soft crunch of gravel as it drove away.
“Can I—” I began.
We’d been standing on the opposite sides of the kitchen island, me resting my hands on the cool black marble. I’d only spoken two words before Ru put her hand on the back of mine and gripped my wrist with her strong fingers.
“No, you cannot. I am to remind you that everything you record is our property, not yours. You have signed a confidentiality agreement, and you must keep the interview strictly to yourself until it is approved. You must not play it for anyone else, and you must ensure that your recorder remains in a secure location at all times. Do you understand?” she asked, staring at me with those vivid green eyes.
“I understand,” I muttered and tried to pull my hand away, but she was too strong.
“You may ask about Mattias, but if I give you this sign, then you will move on to another question,” Ru said. She let go of me and then held up her hand and tapped her thumb against her three fingers as if imitating somebody talking. She finished making the cup of tea while I stood there willing my heart to stop thudding like a drum. I was a little bit scared and honestly had the feeling that Ru could snap my neck with one hand if she chose to.
“Ru… I’m ready!” Bella trilled from the other room.
“Remember what I said,” Ru said, pointing her finger at me. I noticed the nail on the end of it was painted deep red and looked quite sharp.
I picked up my cup of peppermint tea and sipped it, slightly burning my tongue.
“I will,” I said. Then I followed Ru out into the other room, wishing that I was just a journalist struggling to get by. Anything was better than getting tangled up in whatever this was.
Chapter 4
By the time I arrived at Jack’s house, I was soaked to the bone courtesy of the magical storm that had formed over Harlot Bay.
I’d endured an hour of the Bella Bing Show. In this episode, she gave all the trite answers movie stars give when asked questions about their current movie. It was a boring, shallow interview, and with Ru watching over us, I couldn’t ask her any questions about what I’d seen with the director rushing out or the expensive antique globe that had come smashing through the window. Once it was done, I’d come home to feed Adams and have a quick shower before going over to Jack’s.
I was halfway through said shower when I felt a prickle of magic rush up from my feet. It was cold, like being pelted by a thousand shards of ice. I’d slipped. I cautiously left the shower, looking around for any signs of what this new slip power might be. The thing about being a slip witch is you don’t automatically know what has happened to you.
One time I’d started curdling milk and cheeses when I came near them. Try to work that one out by experimentation. Not seeing immediately what the new slip power might be, I dressed and then rushed outside, only to be instantly hit in the face by what felt like a thousand gallons of water coming from the sky. I knew immediately that the storm was magical and it had been caused by me. It was centered over half of Harlot Bay, raining warm water across the town. I was faced with the same dilemma I’d been faced with many times in the past: change my plans to accommodate the fact that I’m a slip witch, or ignore the newfound problem. I was so done giving up on the things that I wanted because of this stupid affliction, so I chose to ignore it.
I was staying over at Jack’s, so I already had a bag packed with fresh clothes for the morning. I got into my car and drove over to his new rental house. Jack opened the door and looked me up and down.
“Did you swim here?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye.
“Pretty much,” I admitted. Jack waved me in and gave me a quick kiss on the lips but didn’t come too close, considering I was dripping water everywhere. He had flour on his hands and had obviously been cooking.
“I’m going to get changed,” I told him. Jack headed off back to the kitchen while I went to the bathroom.
I’d been to Jack’s place a few times now, and he was still gradually unpacking all of his boxes. The bathroom was now in order. Bottles of aftershave lined up in a cabinet, soaps and razors and other manly things. This was set off oddly by a pink towel that had a grinning tiger stitched on it. I stripped off my wet clothes an
d dried myself before getting changed into my spare dry clothes. I squeezed as much water out of my clothes as I could before hanging them over the shower rod in the hope that they would be somewhat dry by tomorrow. Then I put the pink tiger towel back in place and padded barefoot out to Jack’s kitchen.
Yes, I am very much aware that I am still in that place where everything about your new love is wonderful and amazing. But Jack’s house was actually incredible. It had polished wood floors, big windows to catch the light, and a comfortable feel of home. The owners had half-renovated it before putting it up for rent, so the kitchen was beautiful and new on one side before stepping straight back into the 1970s on the other side. Jack was standing behind the counter kneading pizza dough, a touch of flour on his cheek. Sitting in front of him were two glasses of white wine.
With the storm outside blowing a gale, I was feeling very warm and dry and comfortable.
“The secret to a good pizza dough is honey,” Jack said, taking out a rolling pin and dusting it with flour. “You don’t want too much because then the dough will be too sweet, but if you add a nice dollop of honey, the yeast has sugars to feed on and it gives the crust a delicious flavor once it’s cooked.”
I leaned on the kitchen counter from the other side and picked up my white wine and sipped it.
“Go on,” I said, smiling at him.
Jack cut the large ball of dough in half and then shaped two smaller balls. Then he rolled one of them out until it was ultra-thin.
“I prefer a thin base, enough to hold the delicious toppings. Some people prefer a pizza that’s ninety percent base with a tiny scattering of toppings, but I think this is the best,” he said.
“What was the name of your cooking show again?”
“Dinner with Jack,” he replied without hesitation.
He very carefully peeled the dough up off the counter and placed it on a pizza tray. Then he rolled out the other ball of dough and did the same.