Just as I think this, she lowers her hand and gives it a shake. A small, twig of a stick slides out from within her sweater sleeve. She palms it and then raises it into the air.
“Okay, enough talking”, she says, while pointing the little twig my way. “I asked you nicely, twice. Now, I’ll ask you a third time. Where... is... the... BOOK?” Her eyes flash at me.
Woah. This woman has anger issues. But I’m not giving in easily. I’ve decided that I want to keep the book, at least for now, and I don’t like her attitude.
“I said I’m keeping it!” I say.
“Verra capillum!” She cries, shaking her little twig in my direction.
Suddenly, I feel a tugging sensation at my scalp. It’s as though someone has wrapped their fists into my hair and is giving my hair a good, hard, yank.
My hands fly to my head. “Ouch!” I say. “Stop that!”
“I’m tired of talking,” Azure hisses, in a decidedly less friendly tone. She sounds sinister, but at the same time slightly amused. “I warned you that I’m not above making a scene.”
“Who are you?” I cry. “What did you do to Claudine? Did you kill her?!” My voice rises to a shout.
Rebecca hustles over to us. “Ladies!” She says in a hushed tone. “I’m going to have to ask you to take your conversation outside. And is that a cat in your bag? Penny! You know very well cats aren’t allowed in here!”
The tugging sensation on my scalp subsides.
Whatever invisible hand was pulling on my hair has now stopped.
Rebecca’s presence seemed to have caused Azure to lose her focus. Azure is still glaring at me as she lowers her little stick.
“Sorry, Rebecca,” I say. “Actually, this conversation is over. I was just leaving, anyways.”
“I hope you’re planning on paying for those copies before you leave,” Rebecca says, motioning to the tall stack of papers resting on the copy machine.
“I will.”
“What copies?” Azure asks. I watch her follow Rebecca’s gaze to my stack of papers.
I scoop them up and hug them to me. Then, I push them into my bag. I want to get as far away from Azure and her crazy Latin mutterings, as soon as possible.
“This isn’t over,” she hisses, while I scoot away towards the desk to pay for the copies.
“No,” I say back. “It isn’t. If you hang around Hillcrest any longer, I think the police are going to want to have a word with you. There’s a murder investigation going on, you know.”
Her already pale face turns ghostly white.
There. Finally, I seem to have gained some ground with her.
“There is?” She asks
“Yes. Claudine was killed. And her killer is not going to get away with it. Not if I have something to do with it. If you keep on making scenes like this, you’re going to be suspect number one.”
“Persecution!” She mutters. “Always, the humans are bent on persecuting those who are different.”
“Excuse me?” I say.
“I would think you of all people, would know better than to cast suspicion on me just because I’m different,” she says. “You’re one of us now, Penny.” She scowls at me, and then stalks off.
Rebecca is staring at me, dumbfounded. “What do you mean, a murder investigation?” She asks.
“Claudine Terra,” I say. “She was killed.” Okay, so I don’t exactly have all the facts to support this statement yet, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure that foul play was involved. If there’s a murderer on the loose, the people of Hillcrest deserve to know.
“I had no idea!” Rebecca says. “ I thought she died peacefully in her sleep.”
I shake my head. “Unfortunately, it’s looking more and more like foul play was involved. The police are conducting an autopsy, but for now, I’d just be very careful. If Claudine was killed, the perpetrator is still on the loose.”
“Who do you think it was?” Rebecca asks.
“It’s hard to say,” I tell her, while handing her a twenty to pay for my copies.
It really is. Lucy, the niece who hated her aunt, and wanted to collect her inheritance? Gunther, a man who was secretly sleeping with the old woman? Buttercup, Gunther’s jealous ex-lover? Or could Claudine’s death have something to do with the fanged distance runner or blue haired self-professed witch, both of whom wanted the rare book that she had in her possession?
I’m not sure.
But I sure as heck want to figure it out.
Chapter Seven
I spend the rest of the evening in a state of mild shock. I drop off the copied packets to my Knitting Circle ladies. None of them are home, which is probably good given my state. I don’t know which way is up and which way is down, and I won’t be the best conversationalist at this point. Turkey and I just need to get home.
It’s been another long, crazy day.
My sheets and comforter are clean and dry now, but I have no energy for making my bed. By the time I curl up in my sleeping bag, I’m starting to wonder if I am dreaming. Was this whole day just a figment of my imagination?
Please, please, I think, as my tired mind drifts off towards sleep, let me wake up tomorrow to a normal world. A world without speeding BMWs or men with fangs. A world where I’m not caught up in a murder investigation.
Regular old, sleepy, sometimes-boring Hillcrest.
Sure, I’ll miss this lit-up, firefly feeling in my chest, but normalcy will be well worth it.
Turkey is curled up at my side, purring contentedly. He didn’t eat any of his Finicky Feline Feast for dinner, but at least he’s not throwing up.
Poor Turkey.
The next morning, I cozy up on the couch with my computer in my lap.
It’s time to learn more about Dr. Max Shire.
At first, too many search results pop up. I comb through them, hoping to find the correct Max Shire out of the many that I see, but none seem to fit. I see a car salesman in Minnesota, a middle school lacrosse star, an aspiring musician with long, stringy blonde hair.
After trying my best to sort through my results, but getting nowhere, I return to rarebooks.com. There, right below his signature, “Dr. S.,” I see little words, in very fine print: Professor of Life Mastery and Longevity at Esseleve College.
Hm. I quickly enter the college into my search bar, and click through until I get to a list of professors. And there he is! In his head shot, his mouth is closed—hiding his fangs—but his smile stretches wide into his cheeks, producing those handsome-as-hell dimples. His hair is dark, wavy and wild, and his eyes glitter even in this computer-screen image. He has a deep tan, and even though I can just see the upper eighth or so of his chest in the photo, I get a reminder of just how muscular and fit he is.
Below his headshot, I see a small, grainy picture. It is of Max, kneeling by a goat. The goat seems to be dead. There is some blood on its grey fur, and Max’s hands are also bloody. A group of students crowd around Max and the goat, and some are holding notebooks and pens as if they are taking notes.
The caption of the photo reads: ‘After tracking a mountain goat, Doctor Shire teaches students how to kill it with his signature strangling technique.’
Then there is a paragraph of text. With interest, I start to read.
Professor Max Shire is considered an expert in the field of life mastery, longevity, and happiness. He has studied extensively with the Nagmori Tribe of New Zealand, the Zambi in Africa, and the Eyach in Antarctica.
In addition to traveling the world and garnering experience from living tribes, Dr. Shire has also headed several research projects that consolidate data from ancient texts related to the art of life mastery. He speaks seventy-two languages and has written fifty-seven books. Students of Longevity 101 will read his most recent book: ‘Why Man Was Built to Run: How Distance Running for Hunting Purposes Leads to a Longer Life.’
The text of bio ends there.
Immediately, I do a quick search for his book. It pops up on a few different
websites, and I take a quick look at the cover. It’s of a man in a loincloth, running across a dry, grassy stretch of land in hot pursuit of a fleeing antelope.
I click on the book, and read the description.
In this book, Professor Maxwell Shire takes you on an exciting journey that will redefine the way you see your food, your body, and your health. Learn how an all-protein diet, rich in raw red meat will boost your blood-iron, testosterone, and immunity cells. A radical, out-of-the-box approach to sustainability and longevity!
Next, I do a quick google search about fangs. Maybe I do have an overactive imagination. Maybe Dr. Max Shire is simply a man who has longer than average eye teeth, and isn’t some fanged-magical creature.
Like, for instance, he couldn’t be a vampire. Blood-sucking, live-forever, fang-toothed vampires don’t actually exist.
Just like witches don’t actually exist.
Nope.
There has to be some kind of logical explanation for the fangs I spotted.
I scan the info that pops up on my screen, and learn a few things quickly. First, the size and shape of incisor teeth is a genetic trait. Secondly, teeth are constantly growing and changing with age. Thirdly, the way a tooth wears down over time has to do with what it is used for.
Maybe Max Shire’s diet of mostly (gulp) raw meat, means that his teeth wear down very little, yet keep growing as he gets older.
How old is Max, anyways? His bronzed, glowing skin and strong, athletic build made his age nearly impossible to determine!
Next, I try doing some research into witch covens, but I end up in one of those black holes on the internet that just suck you into a massive tangle of information.
I emerge from the black hole only for food and drink. By the time five o’clock rolls around, my neck aches due to hours of surfing the web. I’m late for the Knitting Circle!
In a rush I grab my tote bag of knitting supplies, hop on my bike and pedal hard to the Death Cafe. It’s only about a mile away so I make it by ten after.
As soon as I walk in, all eyes are on me.
Annie, Cora, and Marley are seated around a table in the middle of the room. The cafe is closed, and we’re the only ones in here.
All three of them have wide eyes. I see my photocopied packets on the table, one in front of each lady. There’s also bags overflowing with yarn and knitting needles, but these are settled on the floor as though they’re an afterthought.
Annie stands up as I approach the table. “Penny! This book is out of this world!” She wraps her arms around me and gives me a squeeze.
“You thought so?” I ask. My voice is muffled as it hits a cloud of her puffy white hair. “In a good way?”
“Absolutely. Completely captivating. I couldn’t put it down!” She gives my back a pat and then releases me.
“Neither could I,” Cora says. Her usually chipper voice is uncharacteristically sincere. She sounds revenant as she adds, “It did something to me.” Then she jumps up and gives me a hug too.
“I couldn’t stop reading either,” Marley adds, from her seat. “I even took it into the bathroom with me.”
“Too much info!” Cora says, letting me go.
We all take seats around the table which is bursting with a rainbow-colored array of fruits and veggies on a platter. That would be Cora’s contribution. Next to this is a dish packed with muffins, little squares of coffee cake, and tall towers of double-fudge brownies.
Of course, I reach for a brownie. I’ll be sure to have some healthy snacks later. I’m very responsible like that. For instance, today I ate a balanced diet of choco-puffs cereal with soy milk—and banana slices on top. See? Potassium. Go, me.
“I’m glad you guys liked it,” I say, trying to sound casual—as if the book hasn’t completely messed with my worldview since I read it. “I found it... interesting... too.”
I say this carefully, looking around at my friend’s faces.
“Interesting!” Annie scoffs. She reaches for her knitting. “You make it sound like it’s some scientific report on the water levels of the Hillcrest Creek. That would be merely ‘interesting.’ This is fantastic! Magical! Absolutely earth-shattering!” She’s nearly shrieking now, as she pulls out balls of yarn from her bag.
Cora takes a cue from Annie and reaches for her own bag. Next, Marley and I are rummaging in our knitting supplies.
Because this is the way we work. This is the way we communicate. This is the way we feel comfortable.
With knitting in hand, we can talk about anything. Even witchcraft.
It’s like a weird, social loophole that we all stumbled into. Knitting takes away the barriers between us. Knitting bonds us together.
After I flunked out of the police academy and broke up with Chris, my life felt like it was falling apart. I was practically inconsolable. I couldn’t stop crying. The worst part was, I was living alone. My mother, who raised me, had died several years before. I never knew my father.
Marley was my closest friend, and she did everything she could to cheer me up, but I just felt so lost. So purposeless.
Then, one snowy Wednesday afternoon, she dragged me to a knitting group that had just started up in town.
I didn’t know Annie well, back in those days. When I picked up the needles, I felt better. I had a clear task to focus on. My suffering subsided.
And I started talking.
We all did. In those early days, there were many women in town who drifted in and out of the meetings. Marley and I praised the meetings so much that we even got our Zumba instructor, Cora, to attend.
Eventually, Cora, Marley, and I were the core group of regulars. And our group stuck. We kept meeting, year after year, almost every Wednesday afternoon.
Somehow, between the knits and the purls, the stories, the treats and the tea, we became a sort of family.
Annie became like a grandmother to me. Cora took on a motherly role. Marley, my longtime best friend, turned into my sister.
Not to be cheesy or anything. That’s just how I really feel.
That, and a bit nauseous. It turns out, chocolate cereal plus a chocolate double-fudge brownie does not equal a happy tummy.
Maybe a second brownie will help. I reach for one as Cora starts talking. “At first, I thought it was all nonsense. I was kind of annoyed at Penny, actually—no offence, Penny...”
“None taken,” I say, my mouth full of brownie.
Cora’s needles are flying as she chats, “...because I didn’t want to read about weird witchy stuff. I mean, I don’t believe in ghosts and goblins, so why should I spend my valuable time reading about something as fantastical and fake as witchcraft?”
“But then... you kept reading?” Asks Marley. She has the chunky cable-knit blanket she’s been working on for the past few months spread out on her lap, and she’s busy adding a new row.
Cora continues. “It was like a part of me couldn’t stop reading. There I was—part of me so angry and part of me just thirsty for more. It was so bizarre!”
I swallow a hunk of brownie. “The same thing happened to me,” I admit. “I read it ten times in one night. Stayed up ‘til five in the morning.”
It feels good to say this out loud. I feel like an addict must feel, when claiming their addiction for the first time. ‘Hi, I’m Penny, and I’m a witch-aholic.’
Marley is laughing as her needles click steadily together. “I was up until three. When I woke up, I had the strangest feeling.”
“Me too!” Annie says. “I’m telling you, I have a new spring in my step. I feel like there’s a fire lit inside of me! I haven’t felt this way for years... it reminds me of when I first fell in love with my husband. This was just what it felt like.”
Annie’s husband passed away years ago. We show respect for her comment up with a long pause in the conversation.
“Well,” Cora says after a moment. “The book does say that being a witch has to do with the power of love. There was the whole thing about the Love Spell
that was covered in the beginning. Did any of you try it?”
Annie, Marley, and I shake our heads no.
“Me neither,” Cora says. “I jumped ahead a little bit, to the ‘Manifesting Spell.’ I cast out a ‘manifesting net’ to attract a new pair of sunglasses.”
She leans down and reaches into her purse, which is resting on the floor. “And look at this!” She holds up a shiny new pair of oversized glasses with stylish black frames.
“Woo hoo!” Calls Marley, setting down her knitting needles so that she can clap.
I grin. “So it worked?” I ask... “Did they fly through your window after you cast the spell?”
I’m really curious. After my experience with the phantom hair pulling at the library the day before, I feel like anything is possible.
Cora laughs. “Not quite. I bought them at the market this morning.”
I feel my shoulders slump with disappointment.
“But...” She says, holding the glasses up and shaking them to emphasize her point. “They were only two ninety-nine. Less than three dollars! Have you ever heard of such a thing? And I literally tripped over the rack on my way to the checkout line, and they fell into my hands. I caught them as they fell through the air.”
I scrunch my mouth up to the side as my fingers work steadily along a row of ‘knit one purl one.’ My current project is a pair of mittens. It’s been slow going, but I’m hoping they will be completed by the time October comes around, and the temperature drops.
“I suppose that counts as magic,” I say once I finish the row.
“Magic,” Annie says, reverently. She gives a long, low whistle. “I always knew there had to be something more. I always knew it! But Cora, dear, I do think that you shouldn’t jump ahead like that. The book is very specific about the order of things. The Love Spell has to come first.”
Marley giggles again. “Are we really all on the same page here? I mean, we’re saying that this stuff exists?”
The Case of the Love Spell Page 8