by Fitz Molly
She exhaled, and her frustration was evident. “No, it’s fine. Just run that stuff by me before you put it up, okay? This is my brand, and I want it to be consistent.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She flicked her head, mumbling something under her breath as she marched off.
Maggie tiptoed from the receptionist's desk to my office. “Someone needs to back off the coffee.”
I shrugged. “I don’t think it’s the caffeine that makes her so snooty. I think it’s just who she is.”
She examined a photo of my grandmother I’d recently hung on the wall. “I sure miss her.”
I sighed. “Me too.”
Maggie and I have been best friends forever. Maggie isn’t a supernatural, and she has no idea I’m a witch. Since each witch and warlock is tasked with keeping a watchful eye on a human, I was lucky to be able to have Maggie as my charge. Don't let the supernatural books and movies fool you. Witches can do a lot, but we can’t do even more, and it’s frustrating.
“She should give you a raise. You’re her personal assistant, not one of her agents. You shouldn’t be doing the stuff you do.”
“She pays me the commissions, so it’s worth it.”
“No, she pays you a portion of the commissions. She keeps some of it for herself.”
“Yeah, but that’s what all real estate brokers do, right? They get a piece of the pie when one of their agents sells a home.” I clicked on my computer and waited for the old thing to come to life. “Besides, I don’t want to be a real estate agent full time. I like that I can dip my toes into it a little but not have to dive into the deep end.”
“So what, you’d rather spend the rest of your life running errands for a self-righteous know it all who doesn’t know how to be appreciative?”
I smirked. “For now.”
She shook her head. “Well, I’m not long for this job, that much I know. I’m ready to move onto something with a nicer boss.”
Maggie was the one who got me the personal assistant job with Iris, and I’ve lasted over a year now. I’d barely made it past three months with all my other jobs. No, it wouldn’t be a career for me, but it paid the bills, and I wasn’t stuck behind a desk all day, and that’s all that mattered for now. “You’re smarter than what she has you doing. You have a degree, and you should use that. I’m still figuring out what I want to be when I grow up.”
“Let me know when you figure it out.” She laughed. “We still on for dinner tonight?”
I cringed. “Can we reschedule? I’ve got something I need to do, and I’m not sure when I can get to it otherwise.”
“Because Iris is a slave driver.” She exhaled. “Fine. Just let me know when.”
“You know it!”
As she left, I typed into the search engine for the supernatural web. Corneilus Mayfield links filled the screen. I clicked on the first one, his supernatural obituary. Though it was well written, it didn’t hint into what could have happened to him. I scrolled down, reading through the links, but most had nothing to do with his passing. I clicked on the search bar again and typed in Grace Mayfield, his daughter. The computer hummed loudly as the links populated.
I clicked on Grace Mayfield, wicked witch of Swan Hollow just because it sounded like something I’d want to read. And it was. Grace wasn’t a good witch, and if any of what I read was right, she should have had her powers bound years ago. The supernatural internet is a lot like the human internet. It’s hard to determine what’s real.
I finished Iris’s to-do list, packed up my things, and headed to my car. Roland followed behind.
“Hope you get done whatever it is that’s more important than dinner with your bestie,” Maggie said as I walked past the reception desk.
I turned around and stuck out my bottom lip. “I’m sorry.”
She smiled. “I know. I’m not mad.”
“You sure?”
“As sure as a pig plays in the mud.”
I rolled my eyes. Maggie imitated her grandmother’s Deep South Southern accent every time she used one of her old sayings. “Text ya later.”
“Ditto.”
John appeared from under my front tire and climbed onto the driver’s side door. “I’m going to need you to start carrying me in your bag more often. It’s slim pickings out here in the food scraps department. You’ve got that nice kitchen with that drawer full of saltine crackers just begging me to attack.” He jumped into the car when I opened the door. Roland followed behind him.
“You can come in any time you want.” When he didn’t respond, I said, “Cat got your tongue?”
He eyed Roland. “Don’t put that out in the Universe. He might think it’s a good idea.”
I laughed. “Roland has a very defined taste. One that doesn’t include rodent.”
His eyes popped open. He stood on the top of my steering wheel, nailing a death stare directly into my eyes. “I’m here to protect you, and you call me a rodent yet again.”
This is our thing. I always expected a super cool familiar like one of those hairless cats or maybe a wolf or something, not an ounce-sized creature with a scaly tail. John has proved to be a wonderful familiar, and though I tell him that all the time, I like to pick on him too. “Technically speaking, I mean.”
“Technically speaking, I am a Mus Musculus, which in your obviously unknowledgeable brain means house mouse or pet.”
“A mouse is a mouse, but if it gets in your blouse—” I couldn’t think of a good ending to my rhyme.
He held up his little claw. “It’s amazing to me that you can write spells.”
I pulled out of my parking spot and headed to my destination before meeting Abershama at the Anderson house.
* * *
Grace Mayfield lived on the outskirts of Swan Hollow in a rundown log cabin in the middle of the woods. My car bounced down the gravel road leading to it so much, poor John went flying from the dashboard onto my lap.
I glanced down at him as he twisted his neck from side to side. “I think I’ve got whiplash,” he said.
“I’m sure Esmerelda can fix you right up in the morning.”
“I’m going to need some Havarti to ease the pain.”
I laughed. “Yes, sir.” A few seconds later, a fresh slice of Sargento Havarti cheese appeared on the passenger seat.
“One slice? That’s all I get for my misfortune?”
Roland climbed into the front seat and sniffed the cheese slice. He gazed up at me and meowed.
I waved my hand and flicked my head toward the passenger seat floor. “Gobble it, please. That stuff stinks.”
He climbed to the floor and began lapping up a can of water-packed tuna and finished it in less than two minutes, the time it took to drive down the rest of the gravel road to Grace Mayfield’s home.
Roland went off, exploring the weeds in front of the home while John positioned himself on my right shoulder as I knocked on the door.
Chapter Five
The door flung open, and an old woman with long, messy salt and pepper hair and a crooked nose with a big bump in the center appeared. She eyed me suspiciously. John’s needle-like claws dug into my neck.
She narrowed her dark eyes at me. “What?”
I stuttered. “I’m, uh…” I swallowed the lump of fear pushing its way up my throat from my stomach. “Are you Grace Mayfield?”
“Who’s askin’?”
Roland weaved in and out of my feet.
The old witch aimed her eyes at him. “That your cat?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She pointed to John. “He knows there’s a rat on your shoulder?”
“Did she just call me a rat?” John asked.
I scooped John into my palm and dropped him in my bag hanging from my shoulder. “He’s a mouse, and yes, Roland knows about him.” I pushed the body of my bag to the other side of my hip, letting it balance on my backside. “My name is Alyssa Grey. I work with Iris Blackwood at her real estate company.”
&nb
sp; “I’m not interested in selling my place. Not that anyone would buy this dump anyway.” She moved to close the door.
“I’m not here to list your home, Ms. Mayfield.” I still wasn’t sure that’s who I was talking to, but I made the assumption anyway.
“Then what do you want?”
“We’ve recently listed your father’s old home, and I wanted to ask you some questions about it. About him.”
She raised a graying eyebrow. “Why?”
“The Andersons moved out rather quickly, and there have been rumors about your, uh, your dad remaining in the home.”
She examined me carefully, then leaned toward me and sniffed.
John squeaked then said, “Ew. That’s gross.”
I agreed.
“I smell witch.”
I guess the nose knows. “Yes, ma’am. You smelled correct.”
“If my old man is haunting the place, what’s it matter to you? You can’t see him anyway.”
“I’d just like to understand the background in case the matter comes up with a human purchaser.”
“Don’t sell it to a human, and you won’t have a problem.” She tried to close the door again, but Roland stuck his body between it and the frame.
“This won’t take long. I just have a few questions.”
She sighed and swung the door open further. “Fine. Come on in.”
Grace Mayfield was definitely an old school witch. A large black cast iron cauldron sat on top of a wood-burning stove with a hot liquid bubbling inside. It smelled like boiling chicken, but that didn’t mean that’s what it was. I breathed from my mouth to stave off the awful smell but just wound up tasting it instead.
The rest of the main floor was dark, and also styled like traditional old school witch, the ones fictionalized in fairy tales. Herbs hanging from clips on a clothesline from one side of the room to the other, old hardback books, scarves, bottles, and other witchy things spread out on the floor and tables.
And a new looking dark leather couch with a flat-screen TV hanging on the opposite wall. Hocus Pocus, the human favorite Halloween movie, played on the screen. I went into stare mode, and Grace Mayfield coughed. I pointed at the screen as I shook my head. “You’re watching Hocus Pocus?”
“Why not? It might not be a true testament to our craft, but I’d bet you Bette Midler is a witch. No one can act that well.”
John whispered in my ear, “Maybe she could try sniffing the TV and find out?”
I bit my bottom lip.
Grace clicked off the TV and walked over to her pot. She dipped a long metal spoon into it and stirred carefully. “So go on, ask me what you want to know.”
I wanted to know who murdered her father, but that wasn’t the way to start the conversation. “Your father passed in his sleep, correct?”
She sprinkled something from a small bottle into the pot and continued stirring. “Just like I’d hoped he’d go. Didn’t feel a thing. Just kicked the bucket and moved on.”
“Except some people don’t think he moved on.”
She turned around and smiled. “It’s an old house. Humans always think old homes are haunted. They love that kind of stuff, but I don’t think it’s a big deal.”
You would if you knew your father said he was murdered, I thought. “Is there a reason your father might be sticking around?”
“Why? What’re you going to do, send him off to the witches retirement home in the sky? He’s dead. He died peacefully, and I don’t think there’s anything that could keep my daddy here. He was ready to go long before it was his time.”
“So, he didn’t have any unresolved issues or business with anyone here?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“Ms. Mayfield, do you know Iris Blackwood?”
“Sure do. Who doesn’t? Woman’s got her face on every bench and sign in the whole town.”
“Then you might know she’s a tough woman to please. I’d like to sell the home quickly, but since there are rumors about why the Andersons left like they did, I would like to be prepared to address them when they come up from potential clients.”
She picked at a long broken fingernail. “Pa had trouble with that lawn person he used. Jacob, something or another.” She shook her head. “I can’t remember his last name, but he’s one of those organic food eating, vitamin addict kind of people. You could probably find him working out at the gym.”
“What do you mean by trouble?”
“After my daddy died, he came ‘round looking for money. Said Pa owed him three thousand dollars for yard work. Thought I was responsible.” She pointed to an old broom in the corner. “Told him if he didn’t get off my property right quick, I’d shove that broom where the sun doesn’t shine.” She pressed her lips together and then laughed. “Gave him a case of poison ivy just for fun.”
I swallowed hard. “Oh, well, thank you for talking with me. I appreciate it.”
As we took the few steps toward the door, I eyed a mouse skitter by on the floor.
“That’s a rodent,” John whispered in my ear. “He doesn’t belong in the house.”
I was too happy to leave to take a second look.
* * *
Cornelius Mayfield met me near his front stairs just inside his old house. “Do you know who killed me?”
Since I used the key provided in the realtor lockbox, I knew there was no way for Abershama to get inside, yet there she was, leaning against the door frame into the small vanity bath. “How’d you get in here?”
“How else? Magic.”
“You’re a shifter. You don’t have supernatural powers.”
She ran her finger over her closed lips. “Two people can keep a secret if one of them is dead.”
“Again, you’re a shifter.”
“She opened an unlocked window in the kitchen,” Cornelius Mayfield said.
I smiled at Abershama. “Did you at least lock the window after you closed it?”
She narrowed her eyes. “How’d you—”
I pointed to the ghost, knowing she couldn’t see him. “My little friend told me.”
Her head shifted back and forth. “He’s here?”
“He says hello, and he wants you to be kind to your uncle. He said he’s a good shifter.”
She smiled. “He sure is.”
In my world, shapeshifters and witches put their issues aside and get along, but my world is Swan Hollow, and it’s small. In the rest of the world, shifters have centuries-long hate for witches and warlocks. When a new witch or warlock comes to town and senses a shifter, they usually panic. Someone has to fill them in on the rules of Swan Hollow, and they eventually adjust, but it makes for an interesting experience, for sure. I’m just grateful Abershama follows the rules, because I’ve seen her shift, and her wolf self is pretty darn intimidating. And in desperate need of a mani-pedi.
Chapter Six
I should be an interpreter. I spent the next hour relaying a conversation between a ghost and a human-like she-wolf. Mr. Mayfield heard Abershama, but she couldn’t see him.
Abershama tinkered with a purple witch’s hat. “Whoa. This Jake Cardinal dude sounds cray-cray.”
Mr. Mayfield tilted his head. “Cray cray?”
“She means.” I twirled my pointer finger in a circle next to the side of my head.
“He was a very nice man, but something happened, and he changed.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. He had a key to the door on the side of the garage. He gave me a discount for using my clippers and things, so I had a key made for him. I usually kept the door from the garage into the house locked, but I guess I forgot one day because I came home and found him searching the desk in my office. When I asked him what he was doing, he just up and left. Ran past me and pushed me into the wall on his way out the door. At least that’s what I think happened.”
“Did he still work for you after that?”
He shook his head. “He came by wan
ting me to pay him for some partial work he’d done a few days before, but I told him he had to finish the work before I’d pay him. He refused. I figured he was looking for money, but I didn’t keep money around the house.”
“Did you get your key back?”
He pursed his lips. “I don’t remember, but I don’t think so.”
I gave Abershama a summary of Mr. Mayfield’s part of the conversation.
“Suspect number one,” she said.
I agreed and dug deeper. “Do you have any idea what he might have been looking for?”
“Other than money? Can’t say for sure.”
“How long had he been doing your lawn maintenance prior to this?”
He rubbed his chin. “A few years at least. I couldn’t do it anymore, and Grace told me she was too old to do it too. I thought about using my magic, but you know the rules, and knowing I didn’t have a lot of time left, I didn’t want to cause myself any trouble.”
Mr. Mayfield was worried about where he’d go when he died if he’d made trouble for himself in his last years. I didn’t think magically mowing your yard when you’re an old warlock would send you to the wrong side of the eternal supernatural tracks, but I understood why he didn’t want to take the chance.
“You said he used your equipment. Did he ever ask to use it elsewhere or lead you to believe he wanted it?” Lawn equipment didn’t seem like a valid reason for killing someone, but the murderer's reasons weren’t always valid.
“I don’t think we ever talked about that.”
I nodded. “Is Jacob Cardinal a supernatural?”
“If he is, he never told me, and I never saw him do anything to make me think he was.”
“Good to know. Okay, I’ll see if I can find him and talk to him. I did talk with your daughter Grace. How was your relationship with her?”
“Don’t think I know anyone that has a good relationship with that witch except her daughter Rebecca. Two of them are thick as thieves and a lot alike.”
“Do you think she could have been the one to poison you?”