Magick & Mayhem Read online

  Chapter 19

  Tilly was all aflutter when she called early the next morning and told me to put on the news. The medical examiner was about to release his final report on Jim’s death. I turned on the TV, to see journalists and cameramen staking out their territory in the same press room where the ME had given his preliminary report. Off to one side of the fray, stood Travis Anderson. It was one of those smack-your-forehead moments. Now I understood why he’d looked familiar, but hadn’t shown any signs of recognizing me. He was dapper in a summer gray suit, peach gingham shirt, and peach-and-gray striped tie. Professionally coiffed and made up, he looked like a plastic, more perfect version of the man who’d come into my shop. I turned up the volume. He was using the lag time before the ME took the stage to refresh viewers’ memories on the particulars of the case. Jim was still so front and center in the minds of our small community it was easy to forget that to the rest of the nation he wasn’t much more than a statistic.

  I was watching for less than a minute, when Travis cut himself short to announce the arrival of the ME. The room went from noisy to hushed in an instant as the camera swung away to focus on the podium where Police Chief Gimble was once again introducing the ME. Westfield joined him on the stage, wearing a white lab coat over blue scrubs as if he was headed straight back to the autopsy suite the moment he finished with this annoying speed bump in his day. He thanked Gimble and took a moment to adjust the microphone. “I’m here today to present my final report on the death of James Harkens,” he said without inflection. “Mr. Harkens died of a single gunshot to the forehead. The bullet entered the cranial cavity at an upward angle, passing through several critical structures of the brain, killing him instantly. There were no other significant findings.” The hands of a dozen journalists shot up. Westfield pointed to a reporter in the third row.

  “Why is the angle of the bullet important?”

  “It indicates that whoever fired the shot, did so from a position lower than the victim’s head.”

  A reporter in the back of the room: “Did you find anything noteworthy in Harkens’ blood?”

  “As I said, there were no other significant findings.”

  A woman midway back on the left side: “Would his death have been instantaneous?”

  “Yes, most certainly.”

  A woman in the fifth row: “Did he have any cuts, bruises, or other signs of violence?”

  “I’ll say it once more—there were no other significant findings.” My heart went out to him. If people kept asking me the same, repurposed question, it meant they weren’t paying attention. He showed a lot more patience than I would have.

  A man in the front row: “Did he have any enemies?”

  “I don’t have that sort of information, so I’ll let Police Chief Gimble respond.” Gimble, who was standing at the back of the stage, hustled up to the microphone. Westfield switched places with him, left the podium, trotted down the steps, and was out the door before the reporters and cameramen could intercept him. I had to admire his style. Some of the reporters appeared torn between staying to hear what Gimble had to say and running after the ME with more questions. From what I could see, the police chief won out.

  “I believe the question was with regard to Harkens having any enemies. I’m afraid I can’t get into any particulars about that, since we’re still conducting our investigation. Suffice it to say that there’s a good chance he had at least one.” Although Gimble’s tone was entirely professional and serious, his last remark was met with a low buzz of laughter from those in attendance. He fielded another half dozen questions that provided little more in the way of new information, before ending the press conference.

  As soon as Sashkatu and I arrived at my shop, Tilly toddled in through the connecting door. In deference to the warm temperatures, she was dressed in one of her frothier muumuus, but her feet were clad in sneakers for what had to be the very first time. Over the years Bronwen, Morgana, and I had each tried to coax her into buying a pair as a compromise for her aching feet, because she’d steadfastly refused to consider orthopedic shoes. I suspected Merlin had something to do with her sudden change of heart. If so, way to go, Merlin! I made a big deal over how stylish and youthful they made her look. Of course I might have suggested a tamer color than turquoise with racy, orange laces, but I kept that thought to myself.

  “They’re so comfortable,” she said as though she was the one who’d discovered them. “I got Merlin a pair that are almost identical.”

  I struggled to suppress a laugh at the thought of the two of them in the wild, matching footwear. “What did you think of the press conference?” I asked, to change the subject before the laughter won out.

  “Disappointing,” she said. “A lot of waiting to be told nothing new. I don’t know why they bothered to trot Westfield out for the event.”

  Sashkatu chirruped impatiently, looking from me to his steps and back again. “Oops, sorry, your majesty,” I said, moving them into position and locking the wheels, so he could ascend to his window throne. I turned back to Tilly. “Maybe we’re jaded from all the cop shows on TV with their plot twists and melodrama.”

  “I suppose,” she said with a sigh. “I was really hoping he’d find something that would point the investigation in a new direction, away from Elise.”

  “You and me both. But I found something in Jim’s files last night that will interest you. It seems our friend Beverly was a client of his.” I spent the next few minutes filling her in on the details.

  “The photo!” she exclaimed with the passion of a miner discovering gold. “I’d forgotten about it after all this time.”

  “What photo?” Sometimes talking to Tilly was like walking in late on a movie.

  “Do you remember a number of years ago when Beverly started that book club and invited me?”

  If she’d told me, it hadn’t made a blip on my radar at the time. “Okay,” I said, waiting to hear where she was going. Tilly always got to the point eventually, but the trip there often required a lot of patience on the part of the listener.

  “I quit after a couple of meetings, because Beverly led the discussions and she loves nothing better than the sound of her own voice. But that’s beside the point. At the last meeting I attended, I got so bored I excused myself to visit the bathroom. When I came out, I could still hear her yakking, so I wandered into her bedroom. That’s where I saw this photo of her and Jim, you know, one of those self-ies. She’d tried to use a black marker to obliterate him from the picture, but it didn’t work very well. The photo paper was probably too glossy to hold onto the ink. I guess I put the whole thing out of my head. But after what you’ve just told me, I wonder if she decided to erase him in a more permanent fashion.”

  “Back up a minute,” I said. “Beverly left that photo out in the open?”

  “Yes and no,” Tilly murmured, suddenly busy brushing some invisible lint off her sleeve.

  “It was either out in the open or it wasn’t,” I said, although I already knew the answer.

  Tilly raised her head to look me in the eye. “If you must know, it was in the top drawer of her nightstand. Under a pile of other stuff. In an envelope. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s turned out to be an important piece of information, thank you very much.” She straightened her shoulders as though she’d been vindicated. “For all we know my psychic ability lured me to that drawer.”

  “What lured you to that drawer, Aunt Tilly, was pure nosiness. And I’m afraid one day it’s going to lure you into something dangerous, not merely unethical.”

  “You worry too much, dear,” she said, pulling me into a smothery embrace of bosom and chiffon and the potent floral scent she’d worn since I’d drawn my first breath. “So, what do you think?” she asked upon releasing me. “Could Beverly be the killer? It would be sort of wonderful if she was. I don’t think there’s a single person in all of New Camel who’s overly fond of her. For that matter, I doubt she’d be missed if they sent her of
f to prison.”

  Tilly had already tried and convicted her. But although she’d won a place on my list, she wasn’t at the top of it. “I don’t know if she’s smart enough to plan and carry out a murder like this,” I said. “Don’t forget, she would have had to sneak into Jim’s house to steal the gun too.”

  “You may be underestimating her, Kailyn. She’s a lot craftier than you think.” I took my aunt’s words to heart. She knew Beverly better than anyone in my family did. I glanced at my watch, and it dawned on me that we’d been talking for fifteen minutes and Merlin hadn’t yet made an appearance. “Is our time traveler still asleep?” I asked.

  “Hardly, he’s in my shop, polishing off the last two cucumber and watercress sandwiches. Having him around, I don’t have much garbage anymore. Oh, I almost forgot why I came in here. You don’t have to watch him today. I don’t have any appointments, so I thought we’d forage for the plants we didn’t find for you the last time. With my new sneakers, I’ll be able to cover a lot more territory. I packed us a picnic lunch to make a whole day of it. Can’t remember the last time I was on a picnic.”

  I didn’t let on how glad I was to be without Merlin for the day, but on the inside, my heart was doing a happy dance. A day alone in my shop, without the stress of trying to keep our elderly ward out of trouble felt like summer vacation when I was a kid. I saw them off in Tilly’s convertible and went back inside to order more organic, non-GMO food for my cats. If big business kept messing with our food supply, every healthy alternative would need a name ten words long. I was finishing up when the first customer of the day came through the door. He was a large, florid man, on the cusp of fifty. He strode in like he was hurrying to catch a train. He was wearing pants that looked like they came from a suit and a long-sleeved dress shirt, the buttons straining to stay closed over the substantial mound of his belly.

  I was still at my desk behind the counter, when the door chimes announced his arrival. “Is this the magic shop?” he called out as he crossed the threshold.

  “Yes, Abracadabra is a magick shop,” I said, rising to greet him.

  “Yeah, I think that’s the name she gave me.” His voice was deep and loud, the accent definitely New York City, although I couldn’t pinpoint the borough.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked, wondering if he’d made the trip for his own purposes. I didn’t get many men in my store, unless they were dragged in by wives or girlfriends. I couldn’t count Travis, since he’d come at his mother’s behest.

  “I need a spell or a potion or whatever you call it.”

  “I’ll be happy to help you, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Dutch, call me Dutch.” He stuck out a large, beefy hand that swallowed up mine like a starving Venus flytrap.

  “Nice to meet you, Dutch. I’m Kailyn,” I said, waiting a respectable few seconds before rescuing my hand. I didn’t want to be rude, but I’ve always found it awkward to continue a conversation with my hand still trapped in someone else’s. “Why don’t you tell me what the problem is.”

  “I can sum it up quick. Things were going fine until a few months ago, then all of a sudden everything dropped into the crapper.”

  “I think you’ll need to narrow that down a little more,” I said.

  He checked his watch as if he’d already spent too much time in the shop. “Okay, here’s the deal. I’m heavily invested in the market—the stock market. From my early twenties, when I bought my first stock, until recently, I’ve had the old Midas touch, if you know what I mean. Couldn’t pick a bad stock if I tried to, and believe you me, I tested that theory a few times.” He coughed up a chuckle that made his double chins jiggle. “But I woke up one morning a month ago and my mojo was gone, gone like some gypsies came and stole it in the night. Now I know that’s not possible.” He paused and looked at me as if for confirmation.

  “No,” I said soberly, “I doubt gypsies were involved.” Or any other ethnic group.

  “So, can you help me get things back on track or not?”

  “I can certainly provide you with the means to regain your winning abilities, but how well it works will depend to a large degree on you.”

  “No problem. You tell me what I’ve got to do and I’ll do it.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple. Do you believe in magick?”

  “If you mean like the guys who saw girls in half—no. But I’m willing to believe in real magick if that‘s what you’re selling here.”

  “Belief plays an important role in how well magick works,” I said. Dutch was coming at this all wrong. “It comes from within, it can’t be bought and taken for a trial spin.”

  “Got it.”

  I had some serious doubts about that, but there was just so much you can argue with a customer who’s bull-headed. I forged on, hoping I’d get through to him on some level. “You should also know that while magick can bring you prosperity, it won’t work if greed or malice are at the core of your intentions.”

  “No problem. I’m a good person,” Dutch said, standing up a bit taller. “I donate to charities. I even worked at a soup kitchen a couple of Thanksgivings back. There isn’t an evil bone in my body.”

  “You don’t have to prove anything to me,” I said. “It’s really none of my business. I’m simply explaining how white magick works.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that I’d be better off with black magick?”

  “Absolutely not. Trust me when I say you don’t want to mess around with black magick or anyone who uses it.”

  “Noted. We’re good to go then. Lay that old white magick on me.”

  I asked him to have a seat in the chair near the counter, and since he didn’t seem to have brought pen and paper with him, I handed him the ones from my desk.

  “No thanks,” he said, pulling his phone out of a holder on his belt. “I’ll put it into an email to myself. Much easier that way.”

  “Sorry, no electronics for this.” I’d thought about putting the most frequently requested spells into the computer, so I could print them out with a click of the mouse, but I’d decided against it. Something intimate, intrinsic was lost when computer technology was inserted into the process. I’d found that magick worked better when the would-be practitioners wrote the instructions the old-fashioned way, the words flowing into their ears, through their brains, and out through their fingers onto actual paper. Morgana and Bronwen were right about keeping to the old ways in some things.

  Dutch didn’t look too happy about my rule, but he stowed the phone and accepted the pen and pad. “Ready when you are, but it feels like I’m back in Little House on the Prairie days.”

  I ignored the remark. No amount of explanation was likely to meet with his approval. “You’ll have to perform this spell on a clear night with a full moon,” I began slowly. “Place a silver coin into a non-metal bowl and pour fresh rain or spring water over it. Place the bowl where the moonlight can shine on it, then drop seven fresh basil leaves into it one at a time as you say these words three times:

  By the light of the moon

  Bless me soon.

  Water and silver shine

  Make wealth mine.

  Leave the bowl where it is until morning, then pour out the water and leaves and carry the coin on your person.”

  “That’s it?” Dutch sounded disappointed and skeptical. “That’s all I have to do?”

  It was a common reaction, one I’d come to expect from people who were new to magick. “Yes, as long as you’ve met the requirements about belief and good intentions.”

  “Oh yeah, right,” he said, his eyebrows bunching together in a frown as if it had finally dawned on him how important those requirements must be if the spell itself was so simple. Clearly lip service wasn’t going to suffice. He tore the page with the spell off the pad, folded it carefully, and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “I don’t suppose this spell comes with any kind of money-back guarantee?” he asked, handing the pad and pen back to me.

 
“I’m sorry. Its effectiveness relies too much on the person using it.”

  “I kind of figured, but it was worth a shot.”

  We took care of the financial end of the transaction and I wished him good luck. The phone started ringing before he was out the door. Tilly was on the other end and she didn’t sound at all chipper.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked warily, hoping I’d read her mood wrong.

  “No,” she said, “everything is not okay.”

  I felt my body tensing. “What’s the matter?”

  “We’ve had a bit of an accident.”

  “Are you and Merlin all right?” I asked.

  “I suppose we are, in a strictly physical sense.”

  I could hear angry voices in the background. “Was anyone else injured?”

  “No, but perhaps you should come meet us here.” A police siren nearly drowned out her words. So much for my lovely day of freedom.

  “Where are you?” I had to yell over the noise.

  “Outside Watkins Glen,” she yelled back. “I’ve got to go talk to the police.”

  The thought of Tilly and Merlin dealing with the police filled me with dread. I grabbed my purse and said goodbye to Sashkatu, wishing I could change places with him.