Murder Above the Fold Read online

  “I dug out some photos of Marsha, which were slated for a memorial spread, but when I got to the office and started leafing through them, it all came rushing back. Marsha’s I’m silently correcting your grammar mug was still sitting on her desk right where she left it, and I couldn’t stop the tears.”

  “That’s when Perry found me in a puddle of my own snot. I think that crazy cat of his was probably yowling right along with me.” She gasped and put her hand to her chest. “Oh, no, did Max get out all right?”

  “Yes, yes, everyone else is fine, don’t you worry.” Clara patted Leanne’s hand.

  Leanne closed her eyes for a moment, her contorted face smoothing back to normal after a few deep breaths. “Anyway, I may have had a tiny breakdown, and sputtered on a bit about how things weren’t going to be the same ever again, and how depressing it would be if the paper closed after all of Marsha’s hard work. Perry told me not to worry, and that the paper would survive one way or another—Marsha had made sure of it—and I should mobilize the staff to prepare for some changes.”

  Mag and Clara waited patiently while Leanne skirted the events involving the actual fire, offering the expected oohs and ahhs when necessary to keep her calm.

  “Did you see anyone else throughout the day? Talk to anyone, see anything suspicious?” Mag asked.

  She thought for a minute, then shook her head. “No, but that’s partly because I had the blinds drawn. It’s like an oven in there when the sun beats in, and I forgot to open them again later. I never even unlocked the front door. I didn’t realize how long I’d been there until the delivery truck showed up at the back door.”

  “You see, usually, we only get one box of each edition delivered to the office, but when we do a special, they’re all stored in the back room, and we distribute them by hand.” She let out a defeated sigh. “Of course, we won’t be distributing this batch because they’re all ruined, and there isn’t time to have them reprinted.”

  “Anyway, Steve—the driver—helped me unload them into the hallway before he left. I got the boxes situated, closed the connecting door, and turned on my iPod while I finished the filing project I’d started earlier. A little while later, I smelled smoke and went out back to investigate. Stupidly, I opened the door”—Leanne held up a gauze-covered hand—“and burned myself in the process.”

  She lowered her hand back to the bed, twisting a little to accommodate the IV. “The smoke was like a wall, and the fire spread so fast. The front door was still locked, and I couldn’t find my keys. I thought I was going to die in there. Then I heard sirens and felt myself being lifted up and carried outside. Those firefighters are going to be getting a huge gift basket, that’s for sure.”

  “Actually, you were rescued by Bryer Mack, so you might want to funnel your thanks in his direction.”

  “Bryer? Really? And I always thought he didn’t like me.” Leanne made an attempt at lightheartedness that fell flat as she convulsed into a fit of ragged coughs.

  Mag and Clara exchanged a look, agreeing they’d learned all they could and that it was time to take their leave.

  “You rest, dear, and we’ll be back to check on you tomorrow,” Clara said as they left.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “The fliers are working, and they were a stroke of genius.” Mag figured laying the praise on thick might net her an IOU from her sister—and she fully intended to cash in for something big, eventually.

  Clara shrugged, “Thank Pye and Jinx. They were the ones who posted them all over town in the dead of night. The enchantment spell was a piece of cake. You know how I hate to interfere with free will, but what Hagatha did was worse. Anyone affected by the tainted merchandise will read the flier and be compelled to return to the shop, where we’ll reverse Hagatha’s spell and put an end to this madness. Anyone else will just see an ad for our sale—two birds, one stone.”

  A steady trickle of customers during the morning hours kept Mag and Clara both busy, and Clara noticed her sister couldn’t keep the grin off her face as the cash register filled with bills of every denomination. But as the lunch hour approached, it became more and more difficult to maneuver around the growing swarm.

  She wasn’t sure how more people had managed to get the samples that were in the box, but she blamed Hagatha for that. If the old witch’s goal had been to increase business—and Clara figured there was a good chance she’d had something else entirely in mind—she’d certainly succeeded.

  The tale of Bryer Mack’s daring rescue was the talk of the day, and Clara suspected a ticker-tape parade in his honor was forthcoming.

  Not that she blamed them; Leanne’s wan face was burned into her memory, and Clara was thankful Bryer had saved the woman who, she realized, was becoming a friend.

  She was so lost in thought that she hadn’t been paying attention to the chatter around her, but her ears perked when she picked up a particular conversation.

  “I never would have expected it from him. Such an awkward boy, always covered with bruises. His mother said he could trip over his own shadow, but he’s done well for himself.” Mrs. Green delivered the proclamation with her typical elevated level of conviction, directing her comment toward anyone within earshot willing to engage in a good gossip session.

  “What does one have to do with the other?” Mag mumbled in Clara’s ear as she lumbered past the cash register with a box of Hagatha-free beauty products.

  Clara grinned and tossed her a wink, “You read my mind.”

  “Essie Jones said it made her see him in a whole new light. She thought he was a geek in high school, but I saw her practically drooling as Bryer carried Leanne out of the building. And she wasn’t the only one.” One of the women amongst the group of Leanne’s friends from the hospital waiting room piped up, wiggling her over-plucked eyebrows suggestively. Clara remembered she’d been named after some random color, but couldn’t recall which one.

  Another sort-of-familiar face answered Clara’s question, “Well, Tawny, can you blame the women in this town? It’s not as though we get a lot of fresh meat through here if you know what I mean. Sometimes, you have to shift your perspective in order to enjoy the view.”

  Several giggles followed, and when Clara caught Mag’s eye from across the room, she knew her sister was running an internal dialog disparaging millennials, which to her, meant anyone under a solid century old. It occurred to her—not for the first time—that her sister had lost more than just her outward appearance. Take Gertrude Granger, for example: at least five hundred years beneath her Santa Claus-inspired gold buckled belt—twice Mag’s age—and not even half as stodgy.

  Something to do with the difference in attitudes. Gertrude saw the magic of Christmas sparkling over everything. Never mind that the secular side of the holiday rested outside the confines of witch traditions; Gertrude loved Santa and elves and toys and cookies and the rest of the whole shebang.

  Mag, Clara was coming to realize, preferred a problem to dig into, a mystery to solve. But looking on the darker side of life for so long had biased her to believe the worst of people most of the time. And her focus on protecting others meant she spent too little time on herself. Something Clara vowed to rectify.

  “Incoming,” Mag muttered under her breath, sending the sentiment across the room to her sister on the wisp of a breeze.

  Clara’s head whipped toward the big bay window behind her, where Penelope, accompanied by Mabel and Evanora, marched up the front path in a beeline for the store entrance.

  “Impeccable timing, of course.” She rolled her eyes and returned her attention to a harried-looking customer waving an empty container of face cream. Holding up a hand, she said, “Ma’am, please relax, I promise I have plenty of stock in the back. Just hold on a moment, and I’ll be right back.”

  The woman nodded her head several times in quick succession, trailing Clara to the rear stockroom door with desperation written all over her face.

  Clara sighed, shot Mag an apologetic look, and
disappeared into the recesses just as Penelope and company entered through the front, faces sour.

  Bring it you hags, Mag thought to herself as she approached the trio with an excess of enthusiasm. “Hello, ladies. What can I help you find today? Perhaps some of Clara’s miracle face cream? It’s a hot seller.”

  Penelope’s gaze zeroed in on Mag’s face in an attempt to look intimidating, utterly failing against the unflappable Margaret Balefire.

  “Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”

  Choosing as secluded a corner as she could find, Mag dropped a dome of silence. Clara wouldn’t appreciate it if Mag invited Penelope upstairs. Particularly if the woman continued to wear the I-smell-something-nasty look on her face.

  “Do you think the coven invited you here to take advantage of the good people of Harmony? This is a clear violation of coven principles, and you two should be ashamed of yourselves. Using magic to boost sales is not just immoral, it’s shameful. I expected more out of the famous Balefire sisters. Not much more, mind you, but the fact remains.”

  “With all due respect, Penelope, you have no idea what you’re talking about. Clara’s wares need no embellishment; if you want to burn someone at the stake, go find the old crow. Hagatha did this, and we’re cleaning it up. If you’d like to help, please, by all means, go for it. Otherwise, we’ll see you at the next coven meeting.”

  “How dare you flout the rules this way? How dare you?” Proving the need for the silencing spell, Penelope’s voice took on the high-pitched tones of a restrained shriek.

  “Me?” Mag barked, moving closer into Penelope’s space. “How dare you restrict the right of every witch in the coven to live her life to the fullest of her magical potential? Blood witches live in every part of the world and have managed to conceal themselves without needing some tarted-up tramp to impose restrictions on them.”

  She took a breath, giving her words a second or two to sink in before continuing. “Look at Hagatha, for Hecate's sake. She’s lived in this town since before it was a town, and no one seems to have noticed she’s always been here. That’s subtle magic. We were given these gifts to help, remember? Harm none, that’s our way. The flip side of harm none is helping all. Don’t you get that at all? Who raised you, anyway?”

  “But I…” Inside the cone of silence, magic that had nothing to do with subtlety prickled along her skin and Penelope got a taste of what it meant to be on the bad side of a Balefire witch.

  “But nothing,” Mag said. “If you and your little playmates here can’t handle yourselves in public…” Three sets of eyes decided shoes were more interesting than faces, and Mag finally clued in.

  She crossed her arms and smirked. “Well, well, well. What was it? Love spell gone wrong? No, don’t tell me. I’d rather let my imagination play with the visuals.”

  “It’s what’s best for the town. We all decided, and you can’t go against the coven. Hagatha’s already against us.” Penelope shot back with less conviction than she’d previously displayed.

  “How did you ever get her to agree to something like that in the first place?” Mag huffed through her nose. “You know what, I don’t want to know.”

  “What are you going to do?” Penelope asked. “If you flout the rules the rest of the coven will do the same.”

  “And so they should. Witches were born to magic and sworn to use it responsibly.”

  With that, Mag dropped the spell, turned on her heel, and stalked into the back room where Clara was taking an inordinate amount of time packing a box to bring out front, especially considering she could have done it all with a snap of her fingers.

  “Did I abuse you when we were children?” Mag demanded, glaring at Clara through a tuft of fluffy hair that had come loose during her huff. “Am I being punished for some long-forgotten transgression?”

  “Sister dear, if I were punishing you, it would be for a recent and not-at-all-forgotten transgression. I simply provided you with an opportunity to grow as a person. The Mag I know would have gone all medieval on their badonkadonks.” She scowled. “Fuzzy puppies! We’ve got to get her to break that no-cussing spell, or I might snap right along with you.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Velvet night settled over the town of Harmony like a balm, a full moon teasing silvered shadows out of the decorations readied for the upcoming festivities. Mounted on light poles, banner flags rustled in the gentle breeze.

  Behind the closed doors and magically shuttered windows of Moonstone central, witches gathered to work on the final preparations.

  Somewhere around dusk, the last of Mag’s patience kissed her on the cheek and trotted merrily out the door. Without Clara to keep the peace, Penelope Starr might have earned a second taste of what it meant to be on the business end of a Balefire’s wrath.

  Not that Mag hadn’t been provoked to the fine edge of reason and back by Penelope’s doggedly superior attitude balanced by a complete lack of wits. Back in her bailiwick, she’d taken every opportunity to spout off about the no-magic rules while exhorting the witches to higher feats of it to get the rest of the tag-sale tables ready.

  Double standards. Mag hated them.

  Half an hour later, Penelope declared the Moonstones ready for the next morning, and since the rest of the town had long settled into their beds, she and her henchwomen took the instant route home. A wink, a blink, and they were gone, leaving Mag and Clara to lock up.

  Shoulders lifting as if an enormous weight had dropped from them, Mag declared, “If she had shot her mouth off one more time, I was going to give her a new one on her butt.” A flicker of witchfire dribbled sparks from the fist clenched at her side. “That woman does the two-step on my last nerve. And you’re smiling. Do you find my pain amusing?”

  “No. Of course, I don’t. But I did enjoy the fact that ever since she returned from the ladies, she was flying the white flag.”

  “The what?” Mag didn’t remember seeing any flag, or Penelope surrendering anything.

  “The white flag,” Clara repeated. “Toilet paper.” She clarified when Mag missed the reference a second time. “Caught under her shoe.”

  Clara shook her head but smiled. “Sometimes your sense of humor would rival a twelve-year-old boy’s, but lose out because it wasn’t mature enough to compete.”

  One by one, the remaining coven members disappeared—each dimensional shift displacing enough air to make Mag’s ears pop. Soon, only she and Clara remained behind to lock up.

  “Go on ahead, I’m going to walk,” Clara said. “I like the feel of moonlight on my face.”

  Mag looked at the clear, starry sky and shook her head. “No, I think I’ll walk with you. Let the fresh air blow the stink of power-mad witch off me.” She shrugged a lacy shawl, complete with fringe, over her shoulders.

  Clara shot it a look of disdain. “Once this hoopla is over, we should skim back to Port Harbor and go clothes shopping. Not the second-hand shops, either. And maybe think about getting you a pair of jeans. This Victorian grandmother meets flower child thing you’ve got going on is a little eccentric. We’re business people now, you should dress the part.”

  “I don’t like jeans. My lady parts—”

  “Did you see that?” Grabbing Clara’s arm and giving it a yank, Mag turned her to face the clock tower.

  Clara was just thankful she didn’t have to hear the end of that sentence because it might have scarred her for life. “No, I didn’t see anything.”

  But then, she did. Moonlight glinted off something shiny at the base of the tower, flickered, and went out. Probably nothing, she thought, right up until strong magic prickled across her skin, raising every tiny hair to quivering attention.

  “I think we’d better take a look.”

  On full alert, Margaret Balefire gave off a don’t-mess-with-me vibe only an idiot would ignore. Or a high priestess with an agenda.

  “Come to watch the preview?” Hagatha’s voice creaked out of the shadow of the hydrangea bushes at the
base of the clock tower. “It’s going to be one hell of a show. They’ll be talking about it for years.”

  Falling into the tone most people use with either the very young, very old, or someone who has strayed into the realm of the incurably wonky, Clara said, “Why, Hagatha, I can see you’ve certainly been up to something. We’d love a chance for a sneak peek.”

  Whether or not she saw through Clara’s attempts to placate her, she was so eager to share her big plan that Hagatha practically danced in place—as much as anyone who needed a personal mobility aid could dance—and rubbed her hands together.

  “Easier to show than tell.” She snapped her fingers, and when dozens of candles flickered to life, the mystery of the great ulexite caper was solved. Chunks of the stone ringed the base of the clock tower, sparking in the light of the candles and the nearly full moon.

  Amplified by Hagatha’s abundant power, the fiber-optic qualities of the slices of stone created the perfect medium for a holographic show. So lifelike it was hard to tell the images were made from light and magic, the history of the clock tower played out in great detail.

  A long, low whistle slid from Mag’s lips. Old she might be, stubborn into the bargain, but Hagatha Crow had skills. “That’s—”

  “Better than a bunch of photos in a newspaper,” Hagatha crowed. “It’s almost like being there to see it in person.”

  She wasn’t wrong. Both Mag and Clara felt compelled to step aside when they found themselves in the path of workers hauling in pieces of lumber to build scaffolding for the repairs done ten years before.

  “It’s fascinating,” Clara said, meaning it. “Marvelous, really. But you know there’s no way we can hide the existence of magic if the townspeople see this, right?”

  “The magic-less never believe what’s right in front of them. They’ll think it’s some new technology.” Dismissing Clara’s caution, Hagatha let out a cackling laugh. “See that? Look familiar? I'm the one who designed that float. Same as the one you built again this year. Penelope wouldn’t recognize an original idea if it crawled up her leg and bit her on the ass.”