“I like the color,” Thistle argued.
“The color is fine in a blouse – not on you though, it washes you out – but it’s not okay for hair. Hair should be natural.”
“Your hair isn’t natural.”
“My hair is natural for me.”
“Maybe this is my natural color.”
Twila regarded her daughter contemplatively for a second. “No, dear, it’s not.”
I pulled Thistle away from her mother before she could say the words that were dying to come out of her mouth. I didn’t want the yelling to start until after I had gotten the stuffed cabbage in my stomach to sustain me.
“How was work today?” My mom asked.
“Fine. Same old, same old.”
“And how is Edith?”
“The same.”
“So she’s still a frigid old biddy?”
Every head in the room turned as my Great Aunt Tillie entered the room. If Marnie and Clove were tiny, Aunt Tillie was miniscule. She was 4’8” of raw power – and general disdain for everyone. She reminded me of a hobbit – without the hairy feet. Actually, I don’t ever remember seeing her feet – so it was entirely possible they were hairy. She had dark hair and olive skin like Marnie and Clove – while her sister, our grandmother, had been blonde and fair before she died a few years ago. She had long ago given up the battle to keep her dark hair intact, though. She’d embraced the gray a long time ago. I didn’t actually remember her without the gray hair. I had seen pictures, though.
“She’s not a frigid old biddy,” I argued. “She’s just stuck in a time long since past.” Like most of the town, I thought.
“You forget, I knew Edith when she was alive,” Aunt Tillie pointed a gnarled finger in my direction. “I know who she was – what she was.”
“And what was she?”
“She was a nasty woman that tried to ruin my life.”
I sighed heavily. Here we go.
“She tried to steal your Uncle Calvin from me, you know?”
My Uncle Calvin had died thirty years ago and my Aunt Tillie still acted like he was going to come through the door at any time. He had died before I was born, but from all the stories I had heard he was a wonderful man. How he put up with Aunt Tillie was a mystery to us all. I loved the woman, but she was mean – and she could hold a grudge like nobody’s business.
“Well, I’m not sure I believe that,” I started to argue with Aunt Tillie. We were like oil and vinegar. All of our interactions always devolved into an argument – and sometimes a slap fight.
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“No. I’m just saying that maybe you are exaggerating.”
“I don’t exaggerate.”
Thistle and Clove snorted. Aunt Tillie swung on them with speed that belied her eighty-five years. Thistle and Clove immediately stifled their reactions. They were more scared of Aunt Tillie than anything else – including wild animal attacks and mismatched socks. They were in self-preservation mode. Aunt Tillie was more ferocious when cornered than any animal ever could be.
“She used to bring your Uncle Calvin cookies all the time,” Aunt Tillie had turned back to me.
“Was she naked when she brought him the cookies?”
Aunt Tillie looked scandalized. “Of course not.”
“Then why do you think she was trying to steal Uncle Calvin?”
“Why else would she make him cookies?”
“Maybe because she knew you couldn’t cook.” I hadn’t meant to actually say it out loud, but I did. The truth was, while my mom and aunts were accomplished cooks – kitchen witches each and every one of them, like my grandmother – Aunt Tillie was known as something of a disaster in the kitchen. She couldn’t boil water – and when she tried, she burned it.
“I can too cook,” she growled. “I just choose not to. I’m an old lady. I shouldn’t have to cook.”
The truth is, Aunt Tillie is only old when she doesn’t want to do something. When she wants to do something dangerous – and we remind her of her age – she tells us she’s old, not dead.
“Fine, she was after Uncle Calvin. It obviously didn’t work.”
“Not for lack of trying,” she huffed. “The only thing that stopped her was the fact that she was murdered.”
“You didn’t do it, did you?” I asked suspiciously.
“Of course not.”
“Then how do you know she was murdered? I thought she was found slumped over her desk and everyone thought she had a heart attack?”
“I never believed that,” Aunt Tillie sniffed. “And that was before I knew she was a ghost.”
Aunt Tillie was post-cognitive, too. She could see ghosts and talk to them. “Did you ever ask her about it?”
“Of course not. Why would I want to help the woman that tried to steal my husband?”
“I don’t know, to do the right thing?”
“Have you ever asked her?” My mom was trying to ease the conversation before Aunt Tillie hexed me with some horrible curse. Don’t scoff. She’s done it before. When I was a teenager, she gave me a big zit on the end of my nose right before the prom – I swear it was her. When I was in college, she once made it so I could only turn to my left for an entire week. It made getting to classes a nightmare – and a long ordeal -- on a daily basis.
“I have, but she doesn’t remember anything,” I finally answered my mom. I couldn’t help myself from arguing with Aunt Tillie – but I also didn’t want to try and cover a story when I could only make left turns. People would think I was stranger than I already was.
“Well, you should help her find out so she can move on,” my mom clucked.
“I offered,” I admitted. “I don’t think she wants to move on. I think she’s generally happy as she is.”
“She’s not happy, she’s miserable,” Aunt Tillie admonished me.
“Maybe she’s happy being miserable? I know some people like that,” I said pointedly.
Marnie hurriedly ushered everyone into the dining room. I think she was trying to head off a big showdown between Aunt Tillie and myself.
Clove, Thistle and I helped carry dishes into the dining room – where a handful of inn denizens were milling about and waiting for the meal. One rule that held fast in The Overlook was that dinner was served at 7 p.m. sharp – and everyone ate together. If you wanted food before or after that, you were just fresh out of luck. Despite that, the legend of the Winchester women and their cooking was enough to keep the inn at capacity most of the time. The curiosity factor is enough to draw in a lot of people.
After everyone had taken their seats – Thistle, Clove and I always sat together as a show of unity for each other– everyone began passing the dishes around the table. The guests were chatting away happily. They all seemed enthralled with Hemlock Cove – and they couldn’t stop talking about the magic that abounded in the small hamlet. They also couldn’t stop raving about the food – which always made my mom and aunts happy.
Occasionally, they would ask questions. We had been trained to answer them politely – and honestly.
“Did you ever have any witch burnings here?” The woman who asked looked to be about twenty-five or so. She was here on her honeymoon. I could tell she just liked the thought of horror. She didn’t really want to hear about any horror.
“Not to my knowledge,” I answered.
She looked a little disappointed at my answer.
“Of course, the records from back in the day were destroyed in a fire in the early 1900s, so there’s really no way for us to know for sure.”
My mom beamed at my answer. The woman nodded thoughtfully. “They might not write it down if they did it.”
“They might not,” Clove said with a smile. “You should never write down your misdeeds.” She’d learned that from personal experience when Aunt Marnie read her diary when she was a teenager. She’d been grounded for a month over the dalliance under the bleachers with the quarterback.
“That’s for s
ure,” Aunt Tillie muttered as she sipped from a glass of wine. I frowned when I saw her doing it.
“I thought the doctor said you weren’t supposed to drink anymore?”
“Red wine is good for you,” Aunt Tillie argued.
“Yes, but the doctor said one glass a day and I know you’ve had more than one glass.”
Aunt Tillie glowered at me. “You mind your own business. All you reporters, you’re so nosy.”
I thought that was rich coming from any woman in this family, but one look at my mother’s frown told me that pointing that out would be a mistake. Instead, I turned back to the inquisitive woman.
“What are your plans while you’re in town?” I feigned interest – if only to keep my mother off my back.
The woman – I learned her name was Emily -- seemed to glow under my attention. “We’re going to go out to a corn maze tomorrow.”
“The one at Harrow Bluff?”
“I think that’s where it is. It’s new.”
“I’m going out there tomorrow to do a story on it.”
“Maybe I’ll see you there?”
I smiled brightly at the suggestion, but inside I was hoping I would be able to avoid her. Tourists can be a pain.
Emily had glommed on to me, though. She monopolized the conversation for the duration of dinner. I continued to answer her questions throughout the meal – and then quietly excused myself to the kitchen when there was finally a break in the conversation. I was surprised to find Aunt Tillie there. I hadn’t noticed her leave the table, which meant she had done it sneakily -- and she was chopping up something on the cutting board.
“What are you doing?” I asked suspiciously.
“Nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing.” She had pushed her stool up to the counter so she could reach it easily. She obviously meant business.
“I’m just chopping herbs.”
I tried to peer over her shoulder, but she actively tried to block my gaze. That only made me more suspicious. When I finally got a glimpse of what she was doing I grabbed her wrist.
“That’s belladonna,” I admonished her.
“So?”
“What are you planning on doing with that?”
“I’m putting together a sleeping potion. I’ve been having trouble sleeping.”
I’d once seen Aunt Tillie fall asleep at a parade, so I knew she was lying. “What are you mixing up?”
“I told you,” Aunt Tillie wrenched her wrist free from me. “I’m making a sleeping potion.”
“For who?”
“None of your business.”
“I’m telling mom,” I warned her.
“Go ahead tattletale. You always were a bothersome little pain in the ass.”
“You could hurt someone with that if you give them too much.”
“I never use too much.”
“Just tell me who you’re planning on drugging.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Aunt Tillie seemed to be growing in height as her anger at my interference blossomed.
“It matters to me.”
“Why?”
“Maybe I don’t want to see you spend your final years in jail?” Just locked in a home where she couldn’t do any real damage.
“Since when? You’ve never liked me.”
“That’s not true. I love you. You’re just always up to something.” That was also the truth.
“I am not always up to something. That would be you and your two cousins. The three of you were nothing but trouble since the moment you could walk. Before then, you were cute. After that, though? You were always into everything.”
“That’s what little kids do.” I realized she was trying to distract me. She was good at that. “Who is the potion for?”
Aunt Tillie let loose with a long-suffering sigh. “I’m just going to put a little in the tea.”
“What tea? Your tea? Mom’s tea?”
“Everyone’s tea,” she finally admitted.
“Why?” I narrowed my eyes as I regarded her.
“So they’ll go to bed early.”
“Why do you want them to go to bed early?”
“So I can get some peace and quiet.” She was lying. She had something else in mind. I just couldn’t figure out what it was.
Aunt Twila had entered the kitchen and was regarding us curiously. “What are you two doing?”
“She’s mincing up belladonna to put in the tea.” I don’t like being a tattletale, but I also don’t want Aunt Tillie poisoning the guests. She was unpredictable – and that made her dangerous.
Twila wandered over cautiously. “Why?” She had grown up with Aunt Tillie so she was understandably nervous around her when she was plotting something. She knew the extent of the damage Aunt Tillie could wreak when she set her mind to it – which was fairly often.
Aunt Tillie threw up her hands in defeat. “Can’t a body have any privacy in this place?” She clamored down from the stool, cast a disdainful look in my direction – which promised retribution at a later date -- and then flounced back out to the dining room, leaving the mess for us to clean up.
Twila started absentmindedly brushing all of the herbs into the open garbage can on the floor. “I’m worried she’s starting to lose her mind.”
“Starting?”
“That woman is our family,” Twila reminded me. She always was the kindest of her three sisters – which meant she was also the most easily manipulated.
“That doesn’t mean she’s not crazy.”
Twila regarded the belladonna remains ruefully. “No. She’s definitely crazy. She’s still family, though, and in this family we don’t chastise the crazy, we embrace them and love them for their eccentricities.”
Truer words were never spoken.
Four
With the joys of another family dinner behind us, Thistle, Clove and I made our way across the property towards the guesthouse. I had told them about Aunt Tillie’s weird behavior in the kitchen – but they didn’t seem as worried as I was.
“She was just looking for attention,” Clove protested.
“Yeah, but her ways of seeking attention could leave a body count in her wake.”
“She wouldn’t do that again,” Clove said.
“Again? What again?”
Clove bit her lower lip. I could tell she had let something slip she hadn’t planned to. “We were told not to tell you.”
“By who?” I asked suspiciously.
“Everyone,” Clove admitted.
“What did she do?” I swung around to ask Thistle – but she was caught in her own little world and holding a conversation with herself.
“Blue washes me out? Blue washes me out? This from a woman that’s trying to make Ronald McDonald’s color palette look good. I don’t know why I even listen to her. She drives me crazy. Crazy! She does it on purpose, too. I don’t know why I listen to her! She named me after a remedy for people that drink too much. You were named Bay. Clove was another herb. So she wanted to follow the pack. So what did she do? She looked at a bottle of vitamins – not even an herb really. Okay it’s kind of an herb – and read milk thistle on it -- and thought Thistle was a great name? So how she thinks she can say that my hair looks bad is beyond me.”
Yeah, there was no talking to Thistle when she got like this. I swung back to Clove expectantly. “What did she do?”
Clove took a deep breath as she regarded me. “I’m going to tell you, but you can’t, you know, pull a you?”
Pull a me? What could that possibly mean? “I promise. I just want to know what she did.”
“It happened like eight years ago – when you were in Detroit – so it’s really not a big deal,” Clove cautioned. She was stalling.
“What did she do?”
“It really wasn’t a big deal when all the dust settled,” Clove was still hedging telling me. It was driving me crazy.
“I’m going to wrestle you down and make you eat dirt if you don’t tell me,” I
threatened.
“That hasn’t worked since I was ten,” Clove argued.
“That’s not true,” Thistle finally piped in. “It worked last year when you borrowed her favorite boots and then lost one – which I still don’t understand how that happened – and then you refused to replace them because you won’t buy leather products.”
Clove glared at Thistle. “Well, other than that time. You just had to bring that up, didn’t you?” She hissed.
Like I had forgotten about the boots.
“I didn’t mean to bring up the boots,” Thistle said sincerely – although I had my doubts that was true. “I just wanted to point out that whenever she makes you eat dirt, you fold like a bad gambler.”
“Well, at least my hair doesn’t wash me out,” Clove shot back.
“It doesn’t wash me out! My mom is crazy!”
“I like your hair,” I admitted. What? I like the color blue. I like purple better. I wonder how she would look with purple hair? Wait. I was letting them distract me. “Back to the subject, though. What did Aunt Tillie do when I was in Detroit that everyone thinks is too bad for me to know about?”
Clove averted her gaze again. She still wasn’t sure she wanted to tell me.
“Oh, good grief, it’s really not a big deal,” Thistle finally said. The more they said it wasn’t a big deal, the more I was convinced it was a huge deal.
“Then tell me what it is,” I challenged her.
“She poisoned everyone at the Senior Center.”
Never what you expect. “And how did she do that?”
“She mixed up some concoction and put it in the coffee.”
“Why would she do that?”
“She was convinced that they were cheating at euchre and she wanted to teach them a lesson,” Thistle answered simply.
“All of them?”
“She was convinced they were all in on an elaborate plan to make sure she always lost at euchre when she was there,” Thistle said.
Any Witch Way You Can Page 3