The Witch's Homecoming

by Iris Kincaid

  “Wow. That’s kind of awful. So, she must have died immediately.”

  “No. She was blown out of her bedroom window. And from the evidence around her body, she was still alive and trying to crawl after she landed on the ground. She may have been alive even as firefighters were working on her house because they didn’t realize that any injured people were outside.”

  “A painful death. And a slow one. This is bad. It’s really bad. But Muriel didn’t do it. Someone else could easily have slipped an explosive into Harriet Jolly’s purse, right? But when?”

  “That’s the big question. When did someone have the opportunity to do it? Plus, there’s the small matter of motive. It probably won’t surprise you to know that Harriet Jolly had quite a few public clashes at her workplace,” the sheriff said.

  “What would surprise me is if we leave this meeting with fewer than half a dozen more suspects. I honestly don’t think I’ve yet heard a single good thing about this woman.”

  The sheriff chuckled. “Here’s the principal’s office. Ed Whitley. He’s a pretty reasonable guy, I think.”

  The sheriff and the principal greeted one another.

  “And who have we here?” the principal asked.

  “This is Beryl Shimmer. She’s here to make sure this investigation has some quality assurance.”

  “I’ll help you in any way that I can,” the principal said. “What did you need to know?”

  “Who were her enemies?” Sheriff asked.

  “As I’m sure you know, Harriet Jolly did not like the witches. There are over a dozen students here who are openly known to us as witches. Probably several more who have hidden their identities.”

  “Do you know Muriel Wilding?” Beryl asked.

  “Muriel Wilding. She’s pretty hard to miss. I guess she is what most would call a troublemaker. But I don’t mean for that to sound as harsh as it does. I have been an educator long enough to see troublemakers, fifteen years after they have graduated, become model citizens, with mortgages and children. We who know them in their high school years have to endure them when they’re at their worst, and I imagine it will probably be the same with Muriel.

  “I tried not to treat her differently. Or any of the other students who are witches. And most of the teachers here feel the same. A lot of them were angry with Harriet Jolly for her unapologetic bias against the little witches.”

  “Who was the angriest?” Beryl asked.

  “Lori Struthers.”

  “Could we have a word with her?” the sheriff asked.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It only took five minutes for Lori Struthers to arrive in the principal’s office.

  “We have some questions for you, Ms. Struthers. This should only take a few minutes,” the sheriff said.

  “Sure. I’ll answer as best I can.”

  “Where were you on the night of the eleventh—that’s two nights ago—the same night as the explosion at Harriet Jolly’s house? Do you recall your whereabouts?”

  “Wednesday night? I know exactly where I was. I was alone, at my apartment, grading papers. I’ve got five summer school classes. There’s not a whole lot of variation to my evenings.”

  The sheriff nodded, satisfied. “Okay, tell me about Harriet Jolly. I gather that you weren’t friends.”

  Lori Struthers tensed. “She was the poorest excuse for a teacher who was ever entered our profession. She would falsify the grades of any students that she identified as a witch. She would downgrade them. And some of them brought the work to me afterward and I looked at it and it was always superior to the grade that she’d given them. Sometimes perfect.

  “But she always downgraded. Because she never wanted to give them credit for any of their accomplishments. She always called them cheaters and said that how could they possibly be rewarded for accomplishments that were acquired through witchcraft.”

  “So, the students might have had some serious grievances with her.”

  ‘Students. Parents. Other teachers who felt the same way I did, who wanted our school to be a fair and unbiased place. And well, obviously, there’s the case of Henry Colgate.”

  “Tell us about Henry Colgate,” the sheriff said.

  “He was one of the biggest advocates for the witch students. Which irritated Ms. Jolly so much that she went and dug up some dirt on him. Found out that he had been arrested and spent a very short time in jail. And he lied about it on his job application to the school.

  “Which he only did because he had previously discovered that no one would hire him, with just that tiny little blip on his record, which incidentally came from an environmental protest. He was in and out of prison in seventy-two hours, but it became part of his record and totally crippled his efforts to get hired, so he lied.

  “And then this school fired him for lying about his jail time. But Harriet was behind all of that.” She looked at the principal. “I wish you could’ve seen that there was an exception to be made on his behalf. Not only was he a fantastic teacher, but the witch students needed someone like him to protect them against someone like Harriet.”

  The principal flinched apologetically. But Beryl wasn’t letting him off that easily.

  “You know, it’s a really big deal to lose your job. It can ruin your life. You can wind up eating off other people’s plates.”

  This time, it was Lori Struthers who flinched. “Speaking of other people’s plates . . .”

  *****

  Sheriff Ortega and Beryl watched Henry Colgate bustle around The Happy Frog Restaurant in his new job—bussing tables.

  Beryl shook her head. “The man’s a chemistry teacher and he’s washing dishes. If that was Harriet Jolly’s doing, well, I sure hope he didn’t kill her, but . . .”

  “Motive. For sure. Big-time motive.”

  “Mr. Colgate. Sheriff Ortega, and this is Beryl Shimmer. Can I ask your supervisor if you could sit with us for ten minutes?”

  With permission obtained, they were able to sit in a corner booth with Henry and try to size up this new potential suspect.

  “How long have you been working here?” the sheriff asked.

  “Six months. Ever since my unemployment ran out.”

  “That sucks,” Beryl said sympathetically.

  “Beats prison. But just by a little.”

  “Can we talk to you about Harriet Jolly?”

  “What about her?”

  “You heard of her death?”

  “Of course I did. It was . . . it was . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I hate to say it. It doesn’t reflect very well on me.”

  “Then we’ll do our best not to hold it against you.”

  “It was a sweet relief to know that she would never again abuse her power, in the school or even on the city council. She tarnished our institution. The more it’s purged of these unethical and bigoted teachers, the better.”

  “Where were you on the night of the explosion two days ago, between nine P.M. and midnight?

  Henry hesitated. “I was out with a friend. An old colleague, Lori Struthers. She treats me to a movie or beer every now and again because she knows I’m on a tight budget. Yeah. I think I was over at her place watching Netflix that night and didn’t leave until one o’clock or so. I remember her telling me to get going because she had to teach in the morning.”

  “You were at Lori Struthers’s home until one o’clock in the morning. You must’ve heard the explosion.”

  “Of course. Sure, we both heard that. We didn’t know what it was, but yeah. And then I left for home soon after that.”

  Beryl and the sheriff exchanged looks. That was not what Lori Struthers had said.

  “One last thing, Mister Colgate. Did Harriet Jolly ever come into this restaurant?”

  “She sure did. Even more frequently after she found out I was working here, I think. She loved seeing me up to my eyeballs in dirty dishes. Got a kick out of it. Found that watching me scurrying around at rock-bottom was very entert
aining for her.”

  “Did she have dinner here on the evening that she died?”

  “She might have. It’s not easy to remember. But sure, she might have.”

  “Thank you, Mister Colgate. We’ll be in touch.”

  Out on the sidewalk, Beryl turned to the sheriff.

  “Lying to the sheriff is a very bad idea,” Beryl noted.

  “Happens every day,” the sheriff said grimly. “I try not to take it personally.”

  Beryl could tell why her father had trusted this man. She just wished she had more to bring to the table. This investigation could use someone with the talent and wisdom of the father. But in his absence, a very strong witch might suffice. She had to dedicate herself to becoming that very strong witch.

  *****

  Beryl spent the entirety of that evening and the following morning organizing the herbs that she found in the kitchen, as well as various other stashes in the attic, the basement, and the bathrooms. The attic was crammed, and Beryl reluctantly had to put off its full exploration for another day.

  She also understood that she was never going to want to put anyone’s health or well-being at risk on a treatment or spell that hadn’t been safely tested first. Safe for others, because it had already been tested. Not quite as safe for herself, since she was going to be the original guinea pig.

  But what other way was there to learn? But not with the scary-sounding ones. Anguish. Pain. Punish. Best to start with a harmless one. Hair. Would that change her hair color as Gwynifer had done to Mosh on their first night? Not the worst thing in the world. As Gwynifer had shown, it was clearly reversible. Hopefully, it wouldn’t turn her into the bearded lady.

  It had a lovely almond smell. But it certainly didn’t look special or powerful. How would she know if she had even prepared it properly? Remembering the successful effort to get herself down from the ceiling and how her sisters hadn’t been able to do the same until they really concentrated on it, Beryl closed her eyes and focused intently. Hair. Hair. Hair. When she opened her eyes, she say a deep blue glow emanating from the tea. And just as quickly, it faded away.

  What did that mean? Did it work? It sure wasn’t having an immediate effect. Maybe it had to be taken for days or weeks, or who knows how long, to have some kind of effect. And obviously, it didn’t have any promising applications for helping to solve the murder. But baby steps.

  Lucinda and Mosh had invited Beryl to spend the day with them testing coffee brands from a local fair-trade supplier. That much caffeine was one too many variables to take into consideration when she was trying to figure out the results of these potions.

  But there was a welcome interruption to her afternoon. Emerson had disappeared from his construction work for a long lunch and returned with a delectable basket of goodies.

  “What is this?” Beryl asked, delighted.

  “It’s an audition. You will need a bakery supplier. Cookies, muffins, sandwiches. Soup. I’m your guy. I brought over a bunch of stuff so you could sample the goods.”

  “You know how to cook?”

  “Yeah, don’t you remember? I told you all I won that pie contest. That’s right. Champion pie maker. Although all credit to that pie goes to my grandmother. It was an old recipe of hers and I only entered the contest because I wanted her cooking to get a prize. Even posthumously. I wanted the world to know what a great cook she had been. So I entered the contest under both of our names.”

  “Your grandmother? It was your grandmother who made the cookies that you brought to our father, wasn’t it?”

  Emerson nodded. “My grandmother died almost a year after I met your father. I showed up at his door, just a weepy, wretched mess, apologizing for the lack of cookies and explaining that there would never be any more cookies again. Ever.

  “Your father puts up a real tough act, but when it came down to dealing with a heartbroken six-year-old at his door, he just couldn't turn his back.

  “He let me come over a few times every week. Showed me around his house. Even showed off a bit of magic, which I know now that he never did in front of any other Moles. And whenever I had a big fight with my aunt and uncle—they took over my guardianship—I would run away from home and come straight here.

  “So, anyway, I decided to take up the mantle of my grandma's cookie skills and set out to learn all her recipes. I would make these burnt cookies and I would bring them over to Oberon, and because I was still in a fragile state, he was obliged to tell me that they were every bit as good as my grandmother's. And so, I started cooking. Went to culinary school. Became a chef.”

  Beryl was both jealous and grateful to Emerson for this memory.

  “But I'm still not understanding the whole chef to handyman thing,” Beryl said, hoping that she wasn't being too nosy.

  “I got a job here in Marvel Canyon at a really great restaurant. I was just out of culinary school and I couldn't have asked for anything more.

  “But then, the hurricane. Business was okay, but never as good as before. Five years ago, the restaurant got closed. I met the new owner and he said he'd have a new place up and running within a year. But nothing ever happened. He just bought it and let it sit empty. And no one was hiring.”

  “And you didn't want to move out of Marvel Canyon and get a chef position somewhere else?”

  Emerson looked at Beryl intently. “That was once the plan. I really wished I had been free to go. But I made a promise to stay.”

  “Something tells me there's a woman involved.”

  He nodded wryly.

  “And she’s still in Marvel Canyon?”

  “She is in Marvel Canyon.”

  Obviously, it was difficult for him to say more.

  After all this prying, it was only fair for Beryl to offer something in return. “My plans also got off track. Ridiculously, pathetically off track. I didn't go to school. I dreamed about being a pharmacist or a medical researcher. And I wound up broke, unemployed, and wasting three years of my life with an absolute jerk. Before I got the letter telling me to come to Marvel Canyon, I'd been living out of my car for two months. So I know quite a bit about life not going the way you had planned.”

  Her confession seemed to leave him speechless. Good time to munch on the hazelnut chocolate chip cookies and to enjoy the weight of life’s most burdensome shames and secrets being unloaded, not to smug, unbelievably successful siblings, but to someone who would have had his own uphill battles to overcome.

  And it was probably a very good thing to know that his heart was still tied up with someone else. Not that it should make any real difference to her. But good to know.

  “So, I would still put in a solid six hours daily with the renovations. Supplying the food is only to take me another three or four hours. I can deliver it fresh-baked first thing in the morning and then get to work with the house. Cook up a little more at lunch, depending on demand. And get back to hammering.”

  “You’re hired.”

  “Don’t you have to see what your sisters think about my cooking first?”

  “No, I don’t. I am, after all, the head of the Shimmer family, gosh darn it. And this is as much my café as anyone’s.”

  “Chip off the old block,” he marveled. “Are your sisters aware of their lowly secondary status?”

  “Absolutely. They were informed of my . . . supremacy to their faces, in no uncertain terms, by Gwynifer.”

  They both chuckled.

  “Um, Beryl? What’s up with your hair?”

  What did he mean? Was her hair all messed up? Beryl glanced down where she expected to see the edge of her hair, right at her collarbone. But now, it was dangling just above her waist. Holy crap. The tea worked! Umm. But she was going to need a haircut pronto. Tomorrow was a really important day for the Shimmers, and flaunting her witch talents was not going to be a good idea.

  *****

  With Emerson’s help, the Shimmers were able to quickly arrange an expedited kitchen inspection, as well as set up an emer
gency permit session at the city council. Harriet Jolly had been a long-time city council member. Beryl could only wonder whether her absence was causing sadness or relief. They would soon find out.

  All three Shimmers came to the city council meeting, and the sheriff attended as well, sitting in the back. The city council consisted of six members. It had been seven with Harriet Jolly, but of course, her seat had yet to be filled.

  Their case was scheduled for the end of the meeting, which gave Beryl plenty of time to examine the group that held the fate of the Shimmers in their hands. Sitting on the far left was Winston Bass, a sixty-four-year-old black gentleman, tireless and enterprising. He had once owned a houseboating business in the Marvel Canyon boom days. Now he was collecting early Social Security and earning spare cash in scrappy Renaissance fashion. He officiated marriages, walked dogs, gave tarot readings, and was the town’s go-to notary public.

  Then there was Canary Meddle, a forty-five-year-old soccer mom with three kids, the eldest of which had been a barista in the recently closed-up coffeehouse. Emerson had let them know that this woman really needed a job for her son.

  Aaron Ledger was the temporary chairman of the council. Temporary, because they rotated through a different chair every three months, not out of any conviction of shared responsibility but apparently because being chair was a pain in the butt.

  A bald man in his late fifties, Aaron Ledger used to run a popular souvenir shop. It had been closed ten years now, and he got by with substitute teaching and a little online freelance work.

  A sleepy, somewhat disheveled woman in her late forties, Whiskey Hodge had almost certainly earned her nickname. Every time she opened her mouth to speak, the smell of beer would waft toward the audience. She might not have been drunk right this moment, but clearly, that was a frequent pastime.

  There was a young Latina mother in her early thirties, Claudia Reyes, who spent most of the meeting staring daggers at the Shimmers. Emerson had warned them that there was an extreme witch hater on the council.