Autumn Alibi

by Jennifer David Hesse

  “Oh,” I breathed, accepting the brown envelope. “Thanks.”

  “The delivery guy wouldn’t leave it without a signature,” she went on. “He didn’t want to come back yet again, so he knocked on my door, and I signed for you.”

  I glanced at the return address on the envelope and recognized the name of a law office in a nearby town. “This must be the signed settlement agreement I’ve been expecting.”

  “You should have important mail held at the post office, if you won’t be here every day. Either that or hire an assistant.”

  “Yeah, maybe. I’m sorry for the trouble. I guess I’m still figuring out the ropes as a solo practitioner.”

  “No worries. I’m not always here either, you know.”

  I knew. It seemed like all of the occupants of this building were rarely here. Many were small-business owners who worked from home or in other towns and kept a small office here for the occasional appointment. Annie was a physical therapist who spent most of her daytime hours at the hospital. She used her rented office space to meet with private clients in her off-hours. As a result, I often felt like I was the only person in the building—which could be lonely and a little eerie, especially in the evening. That was part of the reason I didn’t spend as much time here as I had at my old law firm.

  I thanked Annie again and went inside. Everything was in order, just as I had left it a few days ago. There was the tidy little reception area, outfitted like a miniature living room with two plush chairs facing a small coffee table. In the far corner was a discreet kitchenette tucked next to a vintage wooden storage cabinet. And to the left were two doors, one to a locked closet where I kept my clients’ files and one to my private office. I entered the office and flipped on the light.

  This room was smaller than the first, but tastefully decorated with pictures, books, and shimmering crystals. I tossed the envelope on my desk and turned on the computer. While it booted up, I checked on the plants that hung from the ceiling and lined the cabinet behind my office chair. They weren’t doing very well. The only window in the place faced an alley, but it let in an ample amount of sunlight. The problem was some of the plants needed watering more often than I made it here.

  I broke off the dead leaves and gave the plants a drink, then got to work on client matters. For the next two hours, I knocked out some quicker tasks, then set about rearranging things on my schedule to free up time for the “Turnbull Project,” as I noted it on my calendar. I did have one court appearance on Wednesday that I’d have to keep, but everything else could wait.

  Ever since branching out on my own, I had become more of a general practitioner than I had been before. While the bulk of my caseload still fell under the umbrella of family law, I wasn’t picky. If I felt I could handle it, I was willing to take on just about any case that happened to walk in the door.

  Of course, no one was actually walking through the door. Clients usually called or emailed. Even if they wanted to walk in, I might not be here to greet them.

  My stomach growled, telling me it was time for lunch. I wandered over to the kitchenette. The mini-fridge contained a bottle of soda water and a container of soy yogurt—expired. I wrinkled my nose and went back to my desk. I’d have to go out for food, but first I needed to work on billing matters and prepare invoices for mailing.

  I sighed. Annie was right. I really could use an assistant.

  My cell phone rang, and I snatched it up. It was my cousin, Ricki Day. “Hey, cuz!” I said brightly.

  “Hey, Keli. Doing anything right now? I have some time to kill while my car is at the auto shop.”

  “I was about to go grab some lunch. Can I pick you up?”

  “That would be great.” She told me where she was, and I gathered up my things and headed out. A short while later, we were sitting across from one another at the Cozy Café diner.

  I loved the Cozy Café, not only for the convenient location, friendly staff, and pleasant ambience, but also because of its decent selection of vegetarian options. It was one place in town where I felt comfortable inviting both my meat-eating friends and fellow vegans. My cousin fell into the former camp, so I was a little surprised when she asked the waitress to make her order the same as mine: a black bean burger without cheese, sweet potato fries, and a side salad.

  “I’ve been thinking about my birth mother a lot lately,” she explained. “Josephine was the quintessential hippie, you know? Living close to the land, advocating for the environment. I mean, I may be an environmental inspector, but I never really thought about how my own lifestyle impacts the environment.” She paused, searching for the right words. “Don’t get me wrong—I wouldn’t have traded my adoptive parents for the world. I had a wonderful upbringing. But sometimes I imagine how different my life would be if I’d been raised by Josephine.”

  I nodded and, for some reason, my mind jumped to Lana Turnbull. To understand the girl who ran away, I was going to have to learn about the family she left behind.

  Ricki and I continued chatting as we ate our lunch. When the check came, we divided the bill, and I asked her if she wanted me to take her back to the auto shop.

  She checked her watch. “Yeah, might as well. My car should be done soon. It doesn’t take that long to repair two tires.”

  I froze with my hand on my purse. “Tires? Don’t tell me. Did someone slash your two rear tires?”

  “Yes! How did you know?”

  “Didn’t the cops tell you? Apparently, there’s a mad slasher on the loose. I have two other friends who had the same thing happen.”

  “Dang. I hope they catch him soon.” Ricki pushed her chair back and stood up. “That’s too bad for your friends, but I’m glad to know I wasn’t targeted. At first I thought someone was getting even with me for issuing them a violation notice.”

  We stepped outside and headed to my car parked along the curb. I immediately checked my tires, which were fine. But something about Ricki’s assumption that she had been targeted wasn’t sitting well with me.

  “Where was your car parked when it happened?” I asked.

  “In my driveway, in front of my house.”

  “And none of your neighbors had their tires cut?”

  “Nope. Just my luck, huh?”

  I didn’t respond. I was starting to have a funny feeling about these tire-slashing incidents. Maybe they weren’t so random after all. So far, I had only heard about three victims—and they all happened to be friends of mine.

  Chapter Eight

  For the rest of the afternoon, I crossed items off my to-do list, finishing up at the drop-off box outside the post office. With my last errand out of the way, I decided to reward myself by paying a visit to one of my favorite people at one of my favorite places: Mila Douglas and Moonstone Treasures.

  In the past, I tried to be discreet when patronizing the occult gift store and witchcraft emporium. I had been afraid of being caught buying tarot cards, herbal potions, or pentacle-adorned trinkets, for fear that my more conservative clients and colleagues might judge me as frivolous—or worse. In fact, I did lose a couple of clients last spring, when a reporter implied I might be a witch. But around the same time, I ended up attracting some new clients for the very same reason. Where one door closes, another opens.

  Besides that, over the last year or so I had dared to show my true nature a little bit more, and the world hadn’t ended.

  I entered Moonstone Treasures to the tinkling of bells and the scent of cinnamon and patchouli. Soft lighting, combined with velvety rugs underfoot and flowing tapestries on the walls, added to the soothing atmosphere. Mila was helping a customer at the counter, so I gave her a wave and turned to admire the newest display near the entrance.

  Mila changed the decorations in her shop windows every eight weeks to match the turn of the Wiccan wheel. Showcased in the window today was the traditional Mabon cornucopia, surrounded by other symbols of autumn abundance, including apples, pomegranates, and Indian corn. Nearby, a round table he
ld a fat orange pumpkin encircled with assorted scented candles. I was sniffing one when Mila came up to join me.

  “What are your feelings on pumpkin spice?” she asked. “Love it or hate it?”

  I set the candle down. “This one’s not bad. It’s subtle, which I like. Some of them can be too overpowering.”

  “I agree. Given its ability to evoke strong emotions, scent can be a powerful tool in magic. But it’s so personal. A scent that’s attractive to one person might be repellant to another.” She beckoned me with one finger. “Crystals, on the other hand, derive their power from the earth, so their magic is more universal. Come see the jewelry I was telling you about.”

  I followed her to the jewelry case in front of the checkout counter. Mila unlocked the glass door and brought out a flat, velvet-lined box containing five rows of pendants. They were various sizes, from the delicately small to the chunky and bold. Most were fashioned in silver or gold and inlaid with a stone or crystal—amethyst, tourmaline, and hematite among them. In spite of their variety, there was one thing they all had in common: Each pendant was designed in the shape of an eye. I looked down at an assortment of eyes—the Eye of Horus, the all-seeing eye, the evil eye—and they all stared back at me. Their message was clear: “Watch out.”

  I looked up at Mila in amazement. “How did you know?”

  “How did I know you could use a little extra protection? I couldn’t say. Just a feeling, I suppose.”

  “Of course.” I smiled and shook my head, then turned my attention back to the charms. After a moment’s consideration, I selected an Eye of Horus with a dark green moldavite gem in the round center. When it came to connecting with a higher power, I drew from an eclectic pantheon, and I had always been fascinated by the myths of ancient Egypt, so solemn and regal and magical. Mila slipped the pendant on a chain and fastened it around my neck, and I felt instantly braver.

  “Anything else you’re looking for today?”

  I smiled at her choice of words. “Actually, yes. I’m looking for a few things, though not here. Honestly, I could use all the help I can get.” She waited expectantly, as I considered how much I should say. “I’ve cast finding spells before, as you know, but this is a tough case. Two cases, really. I need to find a missing person who probably doesn’t want to be found and a missing will that may or may not exist.”

  “Hmm.” Mila narrowed her eyes, already coming up with ideas, I was sure.

  “Plus, time is short for a few reasons,” I went on. “I have my other clients to attend to, and—”

  “Say no more. I have just the thing.”

  I blinked. Of course she did.

  “Astral projection.”

  “Astral projection?”

  “Right—the act of traveling through non-ordinary reality without your body. You’ve done this before in visions and dreams. You can also do it very deliberately for specific purposes.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I have done that before. But it’s not always clear what I’m seeing. My visions are usually symbolic, and sometimes I see only part of the picture.” I looked away. “And sometimes it’s scary.”

  “There are ways to make it less scary,” Mila said gently. “But when you’re looking for answers, you won’t always like what you see. Visions, like all divine messages, almost always require interpretation. Step one is to be clear about what you’re looking for.”

  I smiled ironically as a thought occurred to me. “Is this how psychics help locate missing people? Through astral projection?” I had told Wes I was no psychic, yet here I was about to act like one.

  “Mm-hmm.” Opening a cabinet behind the counter, Mila rummaged through an assortment of bottles, vials, and jars as she spoke. “First, you need to get yourself into a relaxed, open, trancelike state. Make sure you’re in a safe, quiet place where you won’t be disturbed. Concentrate on the object of your quest . . . then prepare to take flight.”

  I couldn’t help snickering. “All I need is a broomstick, right?”

  She found what she was looking for and held out her hand. “That, and some flying ointment.”

  * * *

  My house was quiet when I returned home. Even Josie was curled up in a patch of late-afternoon sun shining on the living room floor. With Wes out of town, I almost wished I could go ahead and leave for Turnbull Manor today instead of tomorrow. I didn’t relish the idea of being home alone.

  In the kitchen, I noticed a basketful of apples practically begging to be cooked up into something delicious. That’s what I need to do, I decided. Some kitchen witchery. Mabon was about honoring the harvest, and the best way to do that was in the kitchen.

  As I washed and sliced the apples, I hummed a tuneless melody. My intent was to raise my spirits and reinforce my stronghold, both in heart and hearth. Yet my mind kept returning, unbidden, to darker thoughts: memories of stalkers, smugglers, murderers, and thieves—all of whom I had encountered in recent years.

  As much as I loathed to dwell on the past, the truth was there were several people out there who had reason to feel ill will toward me. One way or another, I’d helped send more than one criminal to prison. And they all knew it.

  I dumped the chopped apples into a large pot and covered them with water. Then I measured in the fragrant ingredients, including cinnamon, cloves, and ginger. These potent spices reminded me of all the protection spells I’d casted since meeting so many bad guys.

  Thankfully, I’d never had to testify against any of them in court. They had all entered into plea deals. As far as I knew, they were all still safely behind bars. Surely I would have heard if any of them had been released. Wouldn’t I?

  “That’s all I need,” I muttered. “A felon on the loose—with a grudge against me.”

  I stirred the apples, then fired up the burner and covered the pot. As I cleaned the kitchen, setting aside the apple cores for the compost bin, I tried to alter my negative train of thought. On the plus side, I had helped a lot of people in my short career as an amateur detective.

  I had even helped myself, I realized with a start. After all, it was a mystery that had brought Wes and me together.

  As the apples simmered and the kitchen filled with the warm scent of cinnamon spices, I recalled the circumstances of our meeting. It all started with the death of Wes’s grandmother and the theft of a valuable Shakespearean heirloom. The treasure belonged to Wes’s family by rights, but someone thought otherwise. For a while, I had thought the thief might be a wayward member of the family—maybe even Wes himself! Luckily, it turned out to be a former colleague of mine who had his own dubious claim to the folio. As it happened, he was also involved in an illegal money-lending scheme that targeted gamblers.

  Nice guy, I thought ruefully.

  I got up to give the apples a stir—something I’d have to do every fifteen minutes or so, until they were soft enough to purée. Every time I did so, I recited the same little incantation:

  Bless this kitchen, bless this food

  Fill my home with a happy mood

  With a pinch of luck and a lot of love

  Let magic flow from high above.

  In between stirrings, I made labels for the glass jars I would fill. I planned to make gifts of my special Mabon recipe. “Apple butter like no other,” I thought with a giggle. By this time, the spell had worked, and I was in a much better frame of mind. I had succeeded in pushing away negative thoughts of intruders and enemies.

  Mostly.

  Chapter Nine

  My second visit to Turnbull Manor was a far cry from the first. Without Wes, there was none of the Saturday-in-the-park, carefree feeling that had offset the strange vibe I’d picked up from the house. Now the mansion appeared almost foreboding under the slate gray sky. The lack of sun didn’t help. Overnight, the September winds had shifted, letting loose a chill dampness in the morning air. As I stood on the doorstep, the collar of my coat turned up, a suitcase in one hand and a cat crate in the other, I couldn’t help feeling a bit forlorn myse
lf. Like a maiden in a Gothic novel, I thought. Sent to live with peculiar relatives in a run-down castle . . . on the moor.

  “Good grief, Keli,” I said to myself. Get a grip.

  I rang the bell and waited. There was no response. I dug out my phone to give Crenshaw a buzz and saw that he had sent me a text: Held up at the office. Get settled in and I’ll meet you at the manor by ten.

  Great.

  When no one answered my next two rings, I tried the doorknob. It was unlocked, so I let myself in. With hesitant steps, I walked through the foyer and into the great room. A lit Tiffany lamp on a marble-topped console table was the only sign of life.

  I set my suitcase down at the foot of the broad staircase and checked on Josie. She was being exceptionally docile in her traveling crate. It was like she knew she’d better be on her best behavior if she wanted to stay with me on this unusual adventure. Of course, I could have left her home, popping in once a day to freshen her food and water. But I felt better having her with me.

  “I’ll let you out of there soon,” I murmured. “I hope.”

  I removed my coat and draped it over the bannister. I was glad I’d opted to wear nice clothes—a cream-colored turtleneck sweater and long pleated skirt—the better to fit in with my surroundings. Gazing around the spacious room, I took in the wide variety of artwork adorning the walls and pedestal tables. I hadn’t paid much attention when passing through the other day, but now I was in awe. There was one piece in particular, a striking bronze sculpture, that captured my attention. At about twenty inches high, it depicted a male nude bearing a rock on top of his head. A small plaque indicated the artist was Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney. Amazing.

  Wandering around the room, I was struck by the apparent quality and authenticity of all the paintings. These were no reproductions. I ventured up to one oil painting, a pastoral scene in vibrant shades of green and gold, and was startled to recognize the printed signature: Grant Wood.