Wands Have More Fun

by Rebecca Regnier

  Wands Have More Fun

  A Widow’s Bay Novel

  Rebecca Regnier

  Text copyright ©2019

  Rebecca Regnier All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law or for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Up Next - Curse Strings

  A Note From Rebecca

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  The wail of sirens sliced through downtown Widow’s Bay. That usually meant I was going to be busy.

  I had an early morning coffee date with Aunt Dorothy, and her besties, the original gangsta Distinguished Ladies Club members, Frances and Maxine. Frances was on the mend from our last encounter with ancient evil, and Maxine was on the mend from a nasty fall at Aunty Dorothy’s place. Maxine insisted on shoveling every flake of snow that dared to descend on the sidewalk in front of the house. No matter if it were icy or not, Maxine would intimidate that snow into getting out of their way, by magic, snow blower, or force of will.

  “You’re not supposed to be doing that,” I said for the millionth time. I was always trying to tell them they were too old for this or that. They didn’t listen. Maxine nodded her head to shake off my warnings and concerns. All three ladies now lived with Aunt Dorothy in her expansive Victorian home. They were situated only a few blocks from my own. It had become a ritual for me to pop in on my way into work or home. I’d generally assess that the three ladies, all in their nineties at least, were doing as well as ancient witches could be.

  Mostly, they were, except for Maxine now with this shoveling injury. It wasn’t serious, but at their age, everything could be serious.

  The younger witches, like myself, half the age of the older, were now taking most of the work of Widow’s Bay. This included rooting out evildoers, mediating disputes, running our businesses, and generally helping keep things on track in town. It was a big but never boring job since Widow’s Bay was now filled with witches, vampires, werewolves, trolls, psychic travelers, and tourists. It was a lot.

  “I heard on the weather report there’s another batch of weather on the way. You don’t let ice get on top of ice,” Maxine said. It was a relief to me that they lived together now. Having them all in one place meant they watched out for each other. But Maxine still believed there was nothing she couldn’t tackle. Heck, being 100, she’d do what she wanted. I supposed that was one of the perks of being 100. But it drove me nuts with worry some days.

  “I’m going to get someone here, twice a day, to be sure you’re not out there shoveling yourself,” I said. They really should have a live-in helper, but I had to ease into this if I was going to get them to accept it.

  In the distance, the sirens continued, and I knew I’d have to cut this short.

  “Ooh have Grady send one of the younger wolves. I like that one called Finn,” Frances replied, waggling her eyebrows.

  “Frances, I think Finn’s got a girlfriend.”

  “Well, he’s also got a cute butt. I’m too old not to appreciate the view!” Frances had always been a little nutty, but since her recent convalescence, she had now lost whatever ability she’d once had to filter her thoughts. If Maxine did what she wanted with no regard for the outcome, Frances said what she wanted.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Good. I’ll walk you out, dear.” My Aunt Dorothy stood up and ushered me to the front door. She was the least free and loose of the group. She’d had the most responsibility back when their generation was in charge of Widow’s Bay. She was just as loopy as the rest, but understood, in a more profound way, the responsibilities that went along with the power of the Widow’s Bay Witch.

  “I know you hear the sirens. Go get that story, dear.”

  “Yep, and I’ll get Grady to get one of the werewolves over here, maybe not Finn, but one of ‘em. Maxine needs to stay away from that shovel.”

  “Well, that strained wrist will slow her down, but not for long. And all the wolves in Grady’s pack have nice hinnies. Any one of them would do nicely. We’re not too choosy.”

  “Aunt Dot!”

  She smiled and I kissed her on the cheek.

  “Have a nice day!” she said, and I left with a shake of my head and a smile on my face. I loved them all fiercely. I knew now that they’d helped me find my purpose in the world since I’d moved back to my hometown.

  I was a witch, just like them. Well, I was learning to be just like them.

  But it was time to put my witch duties aside for a bit and go to work. I was also a reporter for the online news site Your U.P. News.

  There were sirens blaring.

  Witching was my heart and soul, but breaking news was my bread and butter.

  “She’s dead.”

  The atmosphere at Pizzazz Academy was decidedly lacking the titular pizzazz. There was energy all right, but the enemy wasn’t razzle-dazzle; it was frustration and shock.

  Pizzazz Academy was the place for the young dancers of Widow’s Bay to learn their craft. The school, I’d learned, was the only one in town where a kid could learn tap, jazz, modern dance, and cheerleading skills. I’d discovered all this thanks to my Google skills. The sound of the sirens had led me to Pizzazz Academy.

  Florine Laplaisance—or Miss Florine as she was known—was the owner and head dance teacher.

  She was also recently dead.

  There was a crowd gathered outside the police tape. On my way to get a closer look, I passed a few mothers; some were shielding their children, others just gawking from a respectable distance.

  Pizzazz Academy was on the first floor of a three-story building on Main Street. The front window was large and faced the street. I’d driven by on occasion, and there were always a dozen or so students inside, lined up, rehearsing.

  I’d seen, but never met, the owner. From the street, on any given afternoon, Florine Laplaisance could be seen circulating among the young dancers and correcting a hand position here or a posture there.

  I had no interest, other than passing, nor knowledge of life as a dance mom, as my two sons were jocks from the crib to college. I had to figure it was similarly intense though. Almost any activity a kid engaged in—from robotics to chess to football—could get a parent’s insides contorted into a ball of nerves and their minivan converted into a shuttle service to performances, competitions, or tournaments. I didn’t judge the dance mom: I was the dance mom. We were all dance moms, really.

  Detective Byron DeLoof was on the scene, and so were my friendly neighborhood coroner van drivers, Greenie and Graham. I craned my neck about to listened in as they got the stretcher out of their van and walked to the door of the Pizzazz Academy. They were alway
s good with a little extra tidbit or two for my stories.

  “I took dance here.”

  “You did not!’

  “Yep, mom made me because I slouched.”

  “Miss Florine was not too thrilled to have me.”

  “Cause you’re a klutz?”

  “No, because she was none too thrilled about anyone, much less a klutz.”

  “Hey, fellas,” I greeted them when it became clear they weren’t saying any more.

  “Hey, Marzie.”

  “Hear anything? Heart attack? Stroke.” I had no idea what I was dealing with here.

  “Can’t say, but I can tell you the EMTs don’t look too tired.”

  I leaned my head into the glass and saw what they’d indicated. The EMTs usually left a trail of gloves, cotton, syringe wrappers—you name it—in their wake when they raced the clock to save a life. This time, I would bet they’d got here past the time they could do a thing for the person on the wood floor of the dance studio. Things were spic and span if you didn’t count the body on the well-worn boards.

  I got to work immediately.

  “Hello, Marzie Nowak, Your U.P. News. What happened?” Sometimes, if you wanted the story, you couldn’t beat around the bush. It meant people in the middle of the story didn’t have time to frame answers, so you got their unvarnished truth. Most of the time, I was the first experience a person had with a member of the news media in their face. I’m not ashamed to say I used that to my advantage to get natural reactions and impressions.

  “We got here, and she was on the floor, it was terrible,” a woman said, clutching a teen girl’s arm. “The girls are rehearsing so hard to get ready for the Miss Vernal Equinox Pageant.”

  “Does your daughter go here?”

  “Yes, she’s in the Intermediate Level.” I had no idea what that meant.

  “Do you mind if I tape this for the news?” I lifted my phone camera. People were so used to phone cameras these days; the woman didn’t even blink. She did pull a long lock of hair around to the front of to her shoulder and stood a little straighter.

  “No, go ahead. My daughter is incredibly talented. Miss Florine gets so much credit for recognizing that.”

  “Miss Florine, is that who they say is, uh, in there? Is she the one who passed away?” I tempered my usual bluntness because of the daughter. I got the sense the mother could use a little bluntness.

  “Mom.” The daughter, a mini version of the mother in the looks department, stood slightly behind her. She had been quiet, but the bragging had embarrassed her enough to speak up.

  I focused my attention on the teen for a moment.

  “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Abbie Grupp,” the mother answered for her, “and this is my daughter, Tiffany.”

  “How old are you Tiffany?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “I’m sorry about your teacher.”

  “Yeah, it’s very weird.”

  “Miss Florine was the only dance teacher in three counties with Superstar Showcase Gold Level Certification,” Abbie added.

  I could tell from the way she said it that Superstar Showcase Gold Level Certification must be a big thing.

  “It sounds like a real loss. Did you see anything?” I asked the pair.

  “Miss Florine wasn’t…the right color,” Tiffany replied hesitantly.

  I pulled the camera down. I didn’t want to exploit the girl. I needed the information, so I recorded, but wouldn’t show this part of the interview when I sent it to Your U.P. News. I had standards, and they helped me sleep at night. When I did sleep, that is.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Purple, I’d say purple. She was purple,” Tiffany said. She put her head down, and I reached out to put a hand on her shoulder. Abbie Gruppe’s eyes were focused on the camera and didn’t see the distress on Tiffany’s face.

  “I think you might want to take Tiffany out of here, it’s a lot for a teen.”

  I knew I shouldn’t be saying this. The better story would be a distraught pupil, but that’s not who I was anymore. I might be a hard-charging small-town reporter witch, but I wasn’t a monster.

  “No, we’re going to stay. Look, Tiffany, I think that’s the Sault Ste. Marie television station.” Abbie Grupp pulled Tiffany toward the cameras and away from me. I had the impression that the more cameras, the better for Abbie Grupp. I’d bet a million bucks it wasn’t television station, but there was another camera, which was rare for Widow’s Bay.

  I walked to another group of moms and daughters, huddled, watching, and murmuring. I recognized some of the moms, though most were younger than I was. This time I decided to skip my camera altogether.

  “Marzie Nowak, Your U.P. News.”

  “Hi, I recognize you from Facebook,” one of the moms said.

  “Can I ask what class was supposed to be going on this morning?”

  “Advance modern dance and competition practice,” one of the kids offered up.

  “How many classes did Miss Florine teach?”

  “Teach, ha, she didn’t teach any of them, she preached and prodded though,” one of the daughters said.

  “Sarah, that’s not nice,” one of the moms scolded her daughter.

  “Well, it is true though,” another mom added. I was getting the impression that Miss Florine was not the sweetest teacher on the block.

  “She was stern…that said, she did care about making the kids the best,” another mom said.

  “Yeah, if you were a favorite like Tiffany.”

  This wasn’t going well.

  “Yeah, but she liked Sofia Fisher more. I heard her say that.” Another of the girls chimed in. The girls devolved into a debate over who was the favorite. This was not going to make the news.

  “It is very sad, dozens and dozens have taken classes with her, now we’re going to have to drive all the way to The Soo for dance class.” Spoken like a true mom who’d been driving her kids to everything.

  Ugh. I didn’t have what I needed yet to file a complete story on this situation. Miss Florine could have dropped dead of a heart attack or choked on a peanut M&M for all I knew at this point. I needed official word.

  “Thank you, ladies, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  I thought about what they’d said. I guess I did have a little information. I could report that her students thought it was sad, and that she did care about making the kids the best—oh, also that she had won awards.

  People say they want journalists to tell the unflinching truth when we do stories, except when the truth is unpleasant at the wrong time. Negative quotes about the recently departed were bad form to report. It appeared her students and parents had mixed feelings, even at this early stage. But maybe that’s just because the snapshot that was forming was of a tough teacher. That wasn’t a bad thing.

  The moms and daughters waited, and I did the same. I took note of the locks on the front door, the cars around the parking area, anything that would stand out. Sometimes something jumped out at me later, something that revealed itself as an angle to pursue when the dust settled of the initial breaking news story. I waited, I listened, and I watched.

  Greenie and Graham lifted the body bag and wheeled it to their Grim Uber.

  Finally, I was able to grab an interview with Detective Byron DeLoof. For him, I didn’t spare the camera. He was getting used to it and me.

  “What can you tell me?”

  “Hi, Byron, how are you? Did you get a good cholesterol report yesterday? No, I’m going to have to work on that LDL, or was it HDL? Cutting out the ice cream.” I suffered through DeLoof’s sarcasm and report on his cholesterol levels.

  “Haha, I’m working here, what happened to Miss Florine?”

  “We found the victim, fifty-five-year-old female, deceased for at least an hour. She was dead when we arrived. There was no chance to revive her or enact lifesaving measures.”

  “And it is Florine Laplaisance?”

  “Yeah, her daughter is
here, inside. So, the family’s been notified.”

  “What caused it?”

  “It’s the damnedest thing.”

  “What?”

  “Well, we need to get the official word, so it’s not for print. But it looks a heck of a lot like poison.”

  “You’re kidding me?” I exclaimed. “Accidental, like could she have eaten something that was bad?”

  “Well, even romaine lettuce takes a while to kill you.”

  “Loof, here’s that coffee cup you wanted bagged,” a patrol officer interjected, handing Loof a ziplocked bag. Through the clear plastic, I could see bright pink lipstick marks on the rim of a to-go cup from Maggie’s Diner.

  I ventured a look at the studio.

  There were mirrors from the floor to about a foot above the ceiling. There were award plaques that bordered the mirror and lined the entire room. Miss Florine had a desk in the corner, and a large, framed inspirational poster hung on the wall, which read: “Do It Again, Correctly.” The poster gave me a good insight into the street gossip I’d acquired. Miss Florine was clearly a taskmaster. Tough coaches were coaches that cared, so that didn’t bother me, and certainly, it wasn’t a reason to suspect murder.

  What did bother me was the state of the dance studio.

  “Why’s the door broken down?” I asked Loof.

  “It was locked, couldn’t get in. The guys were moving fast at first, thought maybe they had a shot at CPR.”

  “Authorities broke down the door. Okay, so who found her? Who called it in?”

  “The first girls who showed up to class. Miss Florine’s daughter, uh, Babette, arrived after we did. EMTs were already working on her. Unfortunately, the girls saw her through the window.”