Beewitched

by Hannah Reed

  “Then how?”

  “A scary thought popped into my head . . .”

  “And it grew and grew,” I finished for her. “That’s my line.”

  “The truth is that I don’t know how I knew. I just did. And I was right.”

  No way could I deny that!

  Walking back to the truck, I thought about all the times I’d had “feelings.” Call it intuition or telepathy or whatever, any way you look at it, it’s totally undefinable and inexplicable. I’d have to pay more attention in the future, tune in to those little knocks that happen inside my brain when they call out for my attention.

  I’d had one of those sensations while watching the ritual preparation. I’d thought Aurora was in danger, but maybe it was Rosina who was the one actually in trouble. After all, one of the thirteen women really had died.

  What if I could fine-tune and sharpen my instincts into something really cool?

  Who knew? Maybe I could turn a gift like that into something useful. Like powering up my mind and sending Lori Spandle off into outer space. To the moon, Lori.

  Yes, I definitely could see a whole lot of exciting possibilities.

  Fifteen

  Mabel Whelan’s niece, Iris, lived in the town of Erin on a road that ended abruptly in a parking lot at Loew Lake. I’ve dipped my kayak’s paddle into the Oconomowoc River behind my house and made my way upstream to that lake many times. Today, with an agenda, a vehicle with wheels had to take the place of a glide along the river with all its secret beauty unfolding only to those traveling within its banks.

  Sigh.

  I needed one of those silent journeys ASAP.

  I found Iris in her backyard, behind a modest and aging ranch, where she was burning leaves in a rusted-out drum barrel. Iris was shorter than me and carried more weight. And was at an age where distrusting other people’s motives sometimes became a way of life. She didn’t recognize me, even though she came into the store occasionally and I’d chatted her up like I do all my customers.

  She swung around, startled by my approach, and it would be a huge understatement to say she wasn’t one bit friendly. “You Jehovah Witnesses were warned last time you came around,” she snarled. “Stay away from my house.”

  “I’m Story Fischer.”

  “I don’t care what your name is, you’ve already worn out your welcome. I’m not going to tolerate you people sneaking up on me and trying to convert me. I’m a Lutheran, and that’s that.”

  “But I’m not a Jehovah. I’m Helen Fischer’s daughter.”

  “Helen?” Iris, still suspicious, stood down from attack mode, but only slightly. “Prove it.”

  So to ease her mind and gain her confidence before she ran me off her property with a makeshift torch from her fire, I had to relate my family genealogy, going all the way back to two generations prior to Grams’s time, before Iris decided that I was legit.

  “Fischer? You must be the one who’s shacking up with Hunter Wallace,” she said, grabbing the rake and jabbing it into a pile of leaves then shaking it into the fire. This batch of leaves must have been damper than the others, because thick smoke rolled out of the barrel. “You’ve made your bed,” she advised me, “now lie in it.”

  What the heck did that mean? This woman was like a clone of my mother before Mom fell in love with Tom and went all soft around the edges. Well, “soft” compared to the old Mom.

  My brain wanted to tell her about Rosina first thing, but I had the same problem as I’d had with Al. My mouth didn’t want to spit it out. Instead I sidestepped a plume of smoke that headed directly for me. Figures. It doesn’t matter where I’m standing, smoke always targets me when a fire is in the vicinity. Par for the course, smoke curled around me, making me cough.

  “Stand upwind,” Iris said, shaking her head in a certain way that meant I was a big dumbo, so I moved again, worrying over how to broach Rosina’s death.

  Which gave me a few seconds to fashion a response to her weird (and snarly, if you ask me) comment.

  You’ve made your bed, now lie in it. I was pretty sure I’d just been insulted.

  For a split second I considered denying the charges against me and letting Holly take the rap. My sister would never find out. As tempting as it was, I couldn’t pull it off. “That’s me,” I admitted, reluctantly sparing Holly’s good name and taking what I had coming (I guess).

  You never know how someone from older generations will react to that kind of news, that two people are living together without benefit of marriage, but all Iris said next was, “How’s your mother these days?”

  “Getting married.”

  “So I heard. I never got married, and I’m happy that way.” Iris stopped raking leaves to look me in the eye. “And I never shacked up, either.”

  “Oh, we’re getting married,” I fibbed. Sort of. After all, it could happen someday.

  “Just as foolish as your mother.”

  I wanted to tell her how much my mother had changed since finding the right man, but I had a pretty good idea that Iris wouldn’t listen anyway and might even run me off her property before I could ask questions and get answers.

  “Claudene Mason passed on,” I forced myself to say, but gently, really hoping she had read the local paper or watched the news and already knew.

  “So I heard.”

  “I learned that you used to be good friends with Claudene and my mom when you were young,” I pointed out.

  Iris kept adding leaves. At this rate, the fire would smother out under all the dampness. Then she stopped, leaned on the rake, and said, “For a little while we had our own schoolgirl clique, just the three of us—me, your mother, and Claudene Mason. But it was short-lived. A word of warning to you—girls are better off running around in even numbers. Two of them, or four. But three? Three will fight like cats and dogs and have lots of personality issues. So will five.”

  Uh, okay. “Grams told me about the love potion incident.”

  “Did she now? I always liked that woman. She was the best mom in the whole school.” Then a faraway look came into Iris’s eyes and she stared into the smoky fire. A hint of a smile touched her lips. “I was in love with an older boy, a senior. But I was just a starry-eyed freshman, and he didn’t even know I existed. Claudene was reading up on potions and such, making out like she had special powers. Your mother didn’t approve and told us so, but we were convinced it would work. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, I always say. I thought I was supposed to get him to drink it, but Claudene said no, I was the one who was supposed to drink it, and after that he’d find me irresistible and he’d be putty in my hands.”

  Iris laughed, which made her look ten years younger. “Like I always say, fools rush in where angels fear to tread,” she exclaimed. “Unfortunately the stuff almost killed me.”

  “And you didn’t get the boy.”

  “No, plus Claudene was sent away to live with some relatives in Milwaukee, which seemed harsh to me. I never thought she intended me any harm. We stayed in touch all these years, and she must have apologized at least a hundred times for what happened that day.”

  Iris’s expression turned grave. “And now she’s gone. I read that the police suspect murder. But they need to look into that more carefully. Claudene had been battling depression for some time. I wouldn’t be surprised if she took her own life.”

  I was about to open my big fat mouth and inform Iris that Rosina couldn’t possibly have committed suicide, since stabbing herself to death wasn’t at all realistic. In fact, was it even humanly possible? Then I remembered that the police were withholding most of the details. I had more information than the average citizen (for a change) and caught myself just in time.

  Wait, had Iris said Rosina had been depressed? I should follow up, right, if I was going to be an investigator on this case?

  “She was depressed?” I sa
id. “About what?”

  “She lost a man she cared about very much. She’d been so sure they would live happily ever after.” Iris snorted. “Men! They really can mess up a woman’s head. It was too late for me to stop the involvement anyway by the time I found out. She was in over her head. But a friend in need is a friend indeed, so I didn’t share my personal opinion of their relationship.”

  What was with this woman and all the old sayings? And she acted like she’d thought them up herself. By now, I was pretty sure that Iris had memorized every proverb out there.

  “Was he that bad, that you considered interfering? Was he an ex-con or something?”

  “He was . . . well . . . a man,” Iris said with distaste, “and men break hearts all the time. I didn’t want that fate for Claudene.”

  Okay, I was in the presence of a certified (or certifiable) man hater who wasn’t afraid to make her opinions public. Maybe that love potion had soured her for life.

  But in any event, I had new news! Rosina had been in a relationship and it hadn’t worked out. She had loved and lost. Plus, she’d been depressed. That could mean something, but I didn’t know what. Maybe she’d shared certain concerns with him that could lead to her killer. “Do you remember the man’s name?”

  Iris peered at me, slyly, suspiciously, I thought. “Why?”

  “Uh . . .” I shrugged. “No reason, just curious.”

  “You know what I always say,” Iris said. “Curiosity killed the cat.”

  Well, wasn’t that a creepy thing to say. Was she threatening me? Suddenly this detective business didn’t seem like so much fun. I could see where it might get dicey as I went around asking questions. “Thanks for your time,” I said, taking a few steps backward toward the truck, suddenly in a hurry to get away.

  “Wait a minute,” Iris called out, following me. “Let’s see. I think I do remember his name. It was unusual. Maniac? No, that’s not it.” She paused.

  I did, too.

  “Martini?” I suggested. “Mantese?”

  “No, no . . .” Then she snapped her fingers. “I’ve got it. Marciniak.”

  That really was a mouthful. No wonder it took her a few tries to get it right. “And his first name?”

  “Claudene just called him Buddy.”

  Okay, I had a lead. My next step would be to locate Buddy Marciniak. He’d be easy to find with a name like that. Hunter was going to be so proud of me. “Thanks for taking the time to talk with me,” I told her, heading for my truck. “It was a pleasure.”

  “All good things must come to an end,” she called out before going back to her pile of leaves and the smoky fire.

  As I hurried out, I countered to myself, and a rolling stone gathers no moss.

  Sixteen

  “But why do we need two wedding planners?” Mom said from her favorite spot at the head of the table. Grams had her offering ready—hot tea, apple crisp just out of the oven, and heavy cream to pour over the crisp. “And besides,” Mom went on, “all the details have been worked out already. What’s left to do?”

  “I can make a wedding honey cake,” I piped up as I devoured a big, gooey piece of apple crisp. I couldn’t mention that I’d missed lunch or my mother would have a field day with me.

  Mom shot my cake idea right down. “Milly has the wedding cake handled,” she said. “It’s a traditional cake, with white layers and a little bride and groom on top. But it was a nice offer, Story.”

  “Well, can I at least supply the bride’s honey?”

  “You are a real sweetie,” Grams added, before my mother could reject that, too. “I can’t wait to try some.” Then to Mom, “Something old, something new. Bride’s honey is the new.” She smiled while she took a picture of Mom, Holly, and me. Unfortunately, she caught me with my cheeks packed and the fork on its way up to my mouth again.

  Holly sounded firm about her decision, which didn’t happen often. My sister could be pretty wishy-washy. “The day before and day of will be very busy,” she reminded Mom. “Lots of errands to run, flowers to pick up, last-minute consultation with the caterer to make sure everything is on track, decorations to put up, lots of little details to remember. Everything will go smoother with two of us splitting the workload,” she told Mom. “I can’t do it without Story’s help.”

  I looked up from my plate.

  Aha! So that was why I’d been recruited. My work-phobic sister planned to use and abuse me. Here I’d thought she was being generous and considerate by including me, and all she wanted was a gopher while she was out having her nails and hair done for the wedding. I should have guessed. Instead I had walked right into it.

  “I suppose,” Mom relented.

  Grams said to me, “The guest list is still a hot topic.”

  “That list was a done deal months and months ago.” Mom scowled as she said, “Your grandmother wants to disrupt everything by inviting the entire town.”

  “And why not?” Grams argued. “We have a whole lot of friends from way back. They should help us celebrate.”

  “Family and close friends only,” Mom told her.

  “Another piece of apple crisp?” Grams asked me.

  “I’ll never fit into my dress if I do,” I told her.

  Holly and I were going to be our mother’s only bridesmaids. Mom had snuck off on her own to pick out our dresses. No advance warning at all. That’s how controlling she is. It would have been nice if she’d included us in the decision-making process, but that’s not who she is. Even Holly hadn’t been able to talk Mom out of the puce bridesmaid’s dresses from hell once she had her mind set on them. We looked like replicas of Pollyanna: poofy sleeves, a sash with a big velvet bow taking up most of the front of the dress—not a good look for an adult. My sister and I are in agreement that the god-awful dresses are going to charity the minute this wedding is over.

  “Speaking of dresses,” Mom said, “I think it would be fun to dress up in our wedding outfits every year on the anniversary of our marriage, don’t you, girls?”

  “And every year I’ll take the pictures,” Grams offered, adding momentum to this terrible idea. Holly looked the color of . . . well . . . puce. We shared eye contact agony.

  Okay, if donating the things wasn’t an option, they would just have to have a fatal accident. A bottle of wine spilled, or a vicious dog snatching it out of my hands and ripping it to shreds. Or maybe it would be the victim of a robbery. Such a fine gown that a thief had run off with it. I had many more ideas where those came from if worst came to worst.

  “I think I will have another piece of apple crisp,” I told Grams. Not fitting into the dress suddenly sounded like another brilliant plan and the most fun of the bunch.

  Grams beamed, scooped a generous helping onto my plate, and passed the cream.

  My visit with Iris popped into my head as I made short work of apple crisp number two.

  “I ran into Iris Whelan today,” I told my family, nonchalantly, as though she’d popped into the store and we’d had a little chat. “She said to say hi, Mom.”

  “Was anybody hurt when you ran into her?” Grams asked. At my grandmother’s advancing age and with the limited driving ability I’d witnessed from her, this wasn’t an unusual assumption on her part.

  “That whack job?” Mom sputtered. “What did you talk about?”

  “Who is Iris Whelan?” Holly wanted to know.

  “Mom’s old chum,” I replied to Holly. And to Grams, “The other kind of ran into. Not ran over, ran into as in while out and about. Anyway, I ran into her.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Mom said suspiciously, sniffing like a pig after a truffle. “Where exactly did this conversation take place?”

  I can’t pull anything over on the woman, even something as small as this. “Actually,” I said, not wanting Mabel to find out I went over her head on this one, “I paid her a
visit.”

  “Mabel and I were looking forward to going over with you,” Grams said, disappointed.

  “A real whack job,” Mom repeated.

  “Whack job, Mom? That’s a little extreme.” Although I’d been thinking something along the same lines myself.

  Mom’s lips curled in distaste. “All those pithy little sayings. If I had to hear one more of them, I’d go crazy myself. She isn’t still doing it, is she?”

  “Yup,” I said. “But you should be more tolerant. You know, as they say, you can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar.”

  “Don’t annoy me, Story.”

  I did an internal pleased-as-punch high five for getting Mom’s goat (is that one of those Iris sayings?), although let’s face it, Mom is pretty easy to annoy.

  Suddenly, I realized that we hadn’t even mentioned the demise of a former local resident who had gone to school with my mother, one who was related to a family who went far back to the early days of Moraine. And that wasn’t like us. So I said, “It’s terrible what happened at Al’s farm. Mom, you were friends with Claudene and Iris, right?”

  “Yes, briefly, until I realized that they both had issues.”

  Like she didn’t?

  “They fought over your mother,” Grams explained. “Both of them wanted her for themselves because she was always so gay.”

  Holly shot me an amused look at the unintentional implication. Mom and Grams were always saying things that could be taken the wrong way. In fact, our mother still called flip-flops thongs. That always gets a reaction. And Grams didn’t seem to realize that the definition of gay has changed over the years.

  “Your grandmother means that they competed for my attention,” Mom told us. “They didn’t like each other much, but both of them wanted to be my best friend. I was always in the middle.”

  This was too weird. My mother was popular? Gay? As in happy and fun to be around?

  “They broke the rule of three,” Grams added. “Three girls together just can’t get along.”