by R M Connor
“She’s his sister’s daughter—different last names.” Tessa bit into her scone, crumbs falling around her. She mouthed a sorry and turned to eat over the small, white plate. At least I hadn’t swept yet.
“I didn’t know he had a sister.” Actually, I didn’t know anything about the Vargas’. “Were she and Sasha close?”
“I don’t think so.” She stopped talking and I heard a slurp. “The sheriff does a good job of keeping his family life private. I’m not surprised you didn’t know who she was.”
I remembered how upset Sophia had been when the officer had spoken to her and Vargas. I suppose even if they hadn’t been close, losing a family member would still bring the type of pain she had expressed. I didn’t even know Sasha and I had been—still was—upset. I felt guilty for not having seen something that could help him find his wife’s murderer.
“I’m sure the sheriff has every officer on the case. He’ll get to the bottom of it, don’t worry.” Tessa jumped from the stool then walked around the counter to grab a to-go cup. “Do you guys want a ride home? I don’t mind waiting.”
Her drooping eyes told a different story. She was tired. I gave her a weak smile. Maisie and I had more to do than I was willing to have her wait on. “Go home. Go to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Tessa wrapped her arms around my shoulders and squeezed tight. I locked the door behind her, staring out the glass to the snow-dusted street. I didn’t remember anything helpful, but I could do something to express my condolences. I would pick up a sympathy arrangement from Connie Fields, our local florist. I grimaced as the image of the broken vase and scattered flowers over the bathroom floor popped into my mind.
On second thought, maybe I should skip the flowers.
Turning the open sign to closed. I shook the images of Sasha’s lifeless body from my mind as I swept a pile of crumbs into a dustpan. I wondered who could be so bold to murder her in the middle of a crowded party. No one heard anything—no noises of distress. She had to have known her killer, though other than the broken vase, I hadn’t seen any signs of a struggle. She could’ve knocked it over herself. Afterall, she had been pretty upset.
A knot formed in my stomach. Glancing out of the large window at the front of the café, I looked across Town Square to the police station. Now that I was thinking about it, besides the vase, there had been no other signs of foul play. She hadn’t been bleeding, hell, there hadn’t been any blood on the vase. So, why then did the sheriff immediately assume murder?
“Riley, you ready?”
I jumped, turning to see Maisie zipping her coat.
“Yeah,” I squeaked and leaned the broom beside the door inside the kitchen then untied my apron.
“Are we going to tell Agatha about the grimoire tonight?”
“Yep.” I froze in the middle of putting my jacket on. “Oh, no.” It hit me like a ton of bricks. I had trapped her in the hat and never let her back out. I looked at Maisie, her eyes were as wide as mine. She remembered too. “This is not going to go over well.”
I prayed the whole way home that she wasn’t still inside the old, floppy witch hat. I hoped she hadn’t been trapped inside and was floating around the house, waiting on us to return.
“Agatha?” I called as we walked in the door.
Her hat sat on the kitchen island. Maisie and I exchanged looks. She was not going to be happy. Nope, she was going to be especially upset about this.
“You do it.” I pointed to the hat, stepping backward toward the safety of the front door.
Maisie shook her head. “No, you do it! You’re the one who trapped her in there!”
“And that’s why you should reverse it.” I hid around the corner of the entryway, poking my head out with a grimace.
Maisie shook her head. “I’m not going to be the first one she sees! Hell, no!”
Somebody better let me out of this damn hat or I’m going to . . . Agatha’s voice echoed in my head, and I knew Maisie had heard it, too, by how she winced.
“Fine,” I grumbled to myself and flicked my hand toward the hat. “Contrarium.”
A thin twister of black smoke appeared under the hat then vaporized, leaving Agatha standing in its place with the hat on top of her head. Her arms were down by her sides, her hands closed into fists, and her face set into a deep scowl. She looked back and forth between Maisie and me. Pointing a finger at each of us, then said, “Don’t ever do that again.”
I moved out of my hiding spot; my palms held out. “I didn’t mean to—”
She walked toward me with an angry scowl. “I was trapped inside that hat for twenty-eight years. Do you know what that’s like? To be trapped for decades?”
Her body was becoming opaque. Static saturated the air. I smoothed the strands of hair starting to rise on my head. I had no idea she had been trapped in that hat for so long.
“Who—” I started.
“It doesn’t matter.” Agatha shook her head. She crossed her arms, rubbing a hand over her upper arm as she stared at the floor.
“It does matter,” I argued. “Who trapped you?” I had always wondered why her spirit had been attached to that hat. I figured it had been her own doing, but I had been wrong. Then I thought that maybe Esther had trapped her. They weren’t exactly friendly toward one another.
Agatha gazed at me, her body relaxed a bit. The static in the air calmed. “Your mother.”
I winced. Why would she do that? What purpose had keeping Agatha’s soul around serve her? I wanted to ask, but Maisie cleared her throat. She cocked her head toward my bag still lying next to the arm of the couch from the night before. It was probably best to change the subject. I pulled the large book out, moving closer to Agatha, and hoped she could contain her irritation for a moment longer.
“We found something.” Balancing the book in my arms, I pushed open the front cover.
Agatha’s mouth opened. “You—” Her fingers solidified and brushed the word Wildewood. “Where? How?” She glanced at me and it almost looked like tears were forming in the corner of her eyes. Could ghosts cry? I regarded her long enough for her to turn around. If I didn’t know any better, she’d discreetly wiped her eyes.
“Esther—” I began, but Agatha jerked her head toward me.
“Of course.” She patted the island counter. “I should’ve known she had it in her possession this whole time.” Agatha then mumbled a few choice words about Madam Mayor before shaking her head.
I laid the book in front of her. She fanned her hand over it and the pages flipped. I had never seen Agatha use magic. I figured it had died along with her physical form.
“I’m not entirely useless,” Agatha responded to my thoughts. I hated when she did that.
“Now that we have the grimoire”—Maisie walked to the island—“what now?”
Agatha scowled at her. “Unfortunately, without being able to unlock it, the grimoire itself is useless.”
Unlock the book? I frowned, confused.
Her hand stopped moving, and I looked down at the open page. It was blank. I had hoped she would’ve been able to bring the pages to life, but it seemed even a witch as powerful as she once was couldn’t do it.
“Thankfully, you have me. I remember some of what’s in this book. So, now, you two will learn how to use your magic.”
“We already know how to use our magic.” Maisie crossed her arms.
Agatha shook her head and a sharp laugh erupted out of her. “No. You have a very naive understanding of your abilities.” She slammed the book closed with a quick swipe of two fingers.
“Naive?” I placed my hands on my hips. “I think we’ve done a damn good job without anyone teaching us anything.”
Agatha thrust her nose into the air, staring at the ceiling. She took a moment, closing her eyes before looking back at me. “All witches have an inherent knowledge of how their magic works. You tapped it. Good for you.” She clapped her hand condescendingly. “But you shouldn’t have to think about it.�
��
I did have to think about it. After the first “magical happening” I spent weeks trying to figure out how to do it again without any luck. It took me finally stopping and thinking, grounding myself, and allowing that inherent knowledge as she called it, come to the surface for me to perform any of the spells I now knew by heart.
Agatha huffed and threw her hands into the air. “You are Wildewoods, for goodness’ sake, and you couldn’t even stop a simple spirit.”
Agatha’s words pierced like a dagger to my heart. She was talking about the possession of Leah Crane. We tried—it wasn’t our fault our magic didn’t work outside of Wildewood. But she was right. We could’ve saved Leah before she left the café, but our magic hadn’t been strong enough. We didn’t know enough.
“Tomorrow, you two will start training.” Her image began to quiver. “We should’ve started a while ago but I was hoping to have the grimoire first. Oh, well. I need to rest up in order to show you how to perform more powerful magic.” She snapped her fingers, vanishing into thin air in a puff of black smoke. The gust of wind following her disappearance ruffled my hair.
Oh, goody. I glanced at Maisie, who looked just as excited as I felt. Telling her goodnight, I crawled up the steps to the loft in hopes to sleep away the rest of my hangover.
I pushed the swinging double doors of the kitchen open with my back, turning slowly so the new batch of blueberry muffins wouldn’t fall from the tray. It was early morning, and incredibly busy. Maisie bounced from one customer to another across the café. I could see the stress on her face. Hopefully, this Zachary character would pan out so she could take a breather. Hell, just having another person to handle one side of the café during the rush would be ideal.
The door chimed and the smell of patchouli wrinkled my nose. I had only smelled this perfume on one person—I stilled, almost scared to look. Was Sasha . . . Don’t be silly, Riley. I swallowed and saw Jessica Freki. Her face was pale, her cheeks and nose reddened. Her eyes were puffy, and I wondered if she had been crying over the loss of her friend.
I placed the last cupcake into the display case and laid the tray on the counter next to the coffee machine. I grabbed a carafe. “Your usual?”
She wiped at her nose with a tissue. “No, just some tea.”
Jessica shoved the used tissue in one pocket then pulled out a clean one from another. She probably had a winter cold. I replaced the carafe and grabbed a packet of honey-lemon tea. There wasn’t a large variety of tea to choose from at The Witches Brew, but now that I was trying to get on Officer Russel’s good side, I should invest in more flavors. Though, I had a feeling he’d still order “Earl Grey, to go.”
I placed a cup of hot water in front of Jessica and handed her the teabag. Last time I had seen her, she had been livid at the Christmas party. Whatever she and the Vargas’ had argued about had sent Sasha running away in a fit of tears before she was murdered. Guilt clutched my chest, knowing that was the last time she had seen her friend. “How are you doing?”
She ran the tissue under her nose again. “I’ll be all right. It’s Manuel I’m worried about. He’s not in his right mind.”
“I’m sure we’d all feel the same if we lost a spouse.”
Jessica snorted, quickly covering her nose with the tissue. “If only that were the reason.”
She bobbed the tea bag into the water. Of course, Vargas was upset over his wife’s death, right? Jessica placed the plastic lid on her cup. She wiped at her nose again. Or maybe he was upset over the business with Eugene. He certainly wasn’t letting up, whatever they were arguing about . . . even with his wife’s murderer on the loose.
Jessica looked over her shoulder at the sound of the chime. She slid off her stool and laid a few bucks on the counter. “I gotta go.” She rushed past Pete Kelley as he brushed snow off his shoulders. The sun was barely peeking above the treetops, shining through the open blinds of the café.
A timer went off in the kitchen. I hurried to pull the last batch of lemon-blueberry scones out. I would never take advantage of having two working ovens again. I laid the hot tray on the island and fanned myself with the big, gray oven mitt on my hand. I turned the oven off and walked to the back door to crack it open. The soft jingle of a bell echoed through the alley.
“Bean?” I opened the door further and stuck my head out to listen.
Little paw prints littered the fresh snow. I hadn’t imagined his presence. Where was he? I stepped into the alley, and something red caught my eye. I walked to the smaller alley between The Witches Brew and the neighboring bookstore. Eugene’s toolbox rested against the bricks, buried in a quarter-inch of snow from last night.
I brushed the snow off, and wrapped my fingers around the handle of the toolbox; it was heavier than it looked. I told Maisie I’d be right back then hurried down the street to return it to Eugene before his day began. Without stopping, I reached out to push open the door and smacked my forehead against the glass. Trying the door again, it wouldn’t budge. That was weird. The hardware store should be open by now.
Setting the toolbox down, I cupped my hands against the glass and peered into the dark store. I wiped away the fog my breath caused with the sleeve of my sweater.
“Hey, Riley.”
I jumped at the sound of Michael’s voice behind me. He reached out to push on the door, and I opened my mouth to tell him I had already tried.
“That’s weird,” he mumbled. “Dad’s always here early.” He pulled a set of golden keys out of his pocket and unlocked it.
Michael sneezed as we walked into the hardware store. The smell of sawdust wafted around me. It was what I expected to smell whenever I paid a visit, but there was something else lingering I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Something wasn’t right. The first three rows of shelves were leaning, the shelf in the middle holding them all up. It was teetering, begging to fall under the weight of the others. Michael flicked the light switch on then off, but nothing happened. The hair on the back of my neck stood.
Slivers of soft sunlight poured in from the back and then I noticed the rolling service door wasn’t closed all the way. I took a step forward and my boot slipped, sending me to the ground on my butt. Putting my hands down to brace myself, they slipped in something slick. I held them up, and a cry bubbled out of my throat. I looked past the tips of my boots at a trail of blood. I had walked right in it.
I scrambled to my feet, slipping and sliding. There was blood on my jacket and my pants. I looked over at Michael, but his focus was on the ground—on the trail of, what I could only assume, was his father’s blood.
He finally snapped his jaw shut, looking at me. “You need to get out of here.” He took a step toward me.
I moved back, almost losing my balance. “What?” Where was I going to go? I was a part of the crime scene.
Michael raised his voice, telling me to leave again, and I burst into tears. I stopped myself from touching my face, my hands wet with blood.
Michael’s shoulders tensed; his jaw tight. He ran a hand over his face. “Call the police.” Carefully, he walked around the pool of blood toward the back. The snow from the morning had blown into the building and had turned a shade of brown from mixing with the blood. “I was never here.” He jerked his head in my direction.
“What?” My heart began to race.
“Riley. You never saw me. I was never here.” He took a long step over the bloody snow. “I cannot be here when they come.”
“I don’t understand!” I cried out, but Michael vanished, slipping out the open service door. I looked around, feeling stunned. What was he hiding from? He had been just as shocked as I had when we walked into the store. He hadn’t done this, so why was he running?
With my feet wanting to slip out from under me, I carefully walked to the register and picked up the phone. I dialed 9-1-1 and recognized Suzie’s voice on the other end. She was one of Wildewood’s only operators.
“Hey, Suz.” I sniffled. “Something really bad hap
pened at Fletchers Hardware.” I choked back a cry. “Something really bad.”
I lowered the phone back into the cradle, leaving a bloody handprint wrapped around it. I faced the store, taking in the scene. What happened here? Who would want to hurt Eugene? I sniffled, needing to wipe my nose desperately. Did this have to do with the argument between Eugene and Vargas? Without getting blood on my face, I used my upper arm to wipe at the snot draining from my nose. I sucked in a deep breath and whimpered.
I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to mess anything else up. So, I stared at the service door instead. My eyes trailed the drag marks. Had Eugene been attacked and dragged out of the store? He was a big guy, a real big guy. I couldn’t think of one person in this town who could overtake a man the size, and presumed strength, of Eugene.
Something under one of the shelves that had fallen over caught my attention. I took a step but stopped. Don’t make it worse, I reminded myself. I lowered on my haunches and leaned closer, using only my fingertips to keep me balanced. There was something purple. It almost looked like a flower petal.
I jumped up when the front door opened.
John Russell walked in with his nose wrinkled, stifling a sneeze. His eyes landed on me, looking me over from head to toe. I lowered my head. This was not going to do anything for our relationship. No amount of tea would help him overlook this mistake.
Hours later, I sat beside Pete’s desk in a pair of dark-blue sweats with “WPD” in bold, white letters across the chest and down the left pant leg. Suzie gave me a pair of bright-yellow flip-flops she had in her car that were at least two sizes too big.
I stared into the watered-down coffee I held with both hands in my lap. After taking a print of my boots, one of the investigators had offered them back to me . . . but they were trash. The thought of trying to scrub the blood from them turned my stomach. I did not want them back. I didn’t want my clothes back either, though no one had offered.