Haunted by Murder Page 3
When the shaking ended, a newly-sobered Clara shot Roma a dirty look and hustled off to check on the state of her shelves.
Roma held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Wasn’t me. Did you check the history of this place before you moved in?” She tilted her head to one side and drifted toward the door between the workshop and the storefront. What Roma might be listening or sniffing around to find, Mag had no idea.
And that chafed at a woman who was admittedly a control freak when it came to her surroundings. But then, in Mag’s former line of work, her life had depended on being aware of the world around her. Going soft now was not in her plan.
“It belonged to our current high priestess, Hagatha Crow, who’s at least a thousand years old and one of the most powerful witches I’ve ever met. Ask five people in town about her past, and you’ll get five different answers.” Mag explained.
“That leaves a lot of history, even assuming she was part of the mass colonization. I’d imagine she has a good many stories to tell, and so does this house.”
Clara thought about what Roma had said, which made her think about the history of the Balefires before her. Hailing from Ireland, her parents had come over on one of the first boats when Mag had been nothing more than a twinkle in her father’s eye. Being mortal, her father had passed at the ripe old age of ninety and, their mother shortly thereafter. Tempest Balefire had been a force of nature, and a talented witch, but her heart couldn’t bear the loss of her one true love.
She and Mag hadn’t exactly been children at the time of their mother’s death, and while they’d always known they’d one day lose their father, it hadn’t occurred to either of them to prepare for life without Tempest.
Mag had hightailed it, leaving Clara to become the new Keeper of the Flame, a position of authority she held for a good many years until a magical mishap during a fight with her daughter left Clara encased in stone and unable to continue. The baton passed to Clara’s granddaughter, Lexi, the current reigning Keeper.
While it had always been painfully obvious to Clara that she’d never learn many of the details of Mag’s life on the road, it had only recently begun to occur to Mag that she’d left a sizable hole in her sister’s existence during the dark years she’d spent running from her grief. It was part of why she’d agreed to move to Harmony in the first place—penance for not being there the last time she’d been needed.
“Hagatha has stories, all right,” Mag said, shaking her head. “Problem is, you never know which portions are truth and which portions were whispered by the voices in her head. We’re supposed to be keeping her itchy wand hand in check, but most of the time it’s like herding butterflies. I doubt she’d choose to be helpful, if I even knew where to find her right now.”
The last thing Mag wanted to do was seek Hagatha’s assistance, and she wasn’t about to admit to Roma that a fraction of the reason had to do with her own pride.
Roma shrugged. “No mind, like I said, you’ll help me fix Stephanie’s problem and then we’ll all be on our way.” She looked at Mag expectantly. “Let’s go.”
“Lead the way, Roma,” Mag replied, pride showing in the lines of her jutting chin.
Clara followed as Mag led the way through the shop and out the front door. Roma made it as far as the frame, where from Mag’s vantage point on the other side, it looked as if the medium walked into a glass door. Her filmy essence roiled and recoiled back in on itself, and for a moment, there was nothing where the ghost had floated.
Slowly, the frothy white mass reconstituted itself, and bit by bit reformed into the shape of the old medium. She tried again to exit Balms and Bygones, the entire scene playing over once more while Mag and Clara stood, open-mouthed, watching in fascination.
“It looks like you aren’t going anywhere, Roma.” Mag said gently. She felt little remorse giving her friend a hard time—Mag felt little remorse giving anyone a hard time—but she wasn’t cold-hearted. Now Roma wasn’t simply stuck on this plane of existence. She was stuck in the Balefire house. For how long was anyone’s guess.
“And it looks like you’re going to have to do some digging, Maggie. Go talk to Stephanie, and then find this Hagatha Crow and figure out what sort of ju-ju she’s hexed this place with.”
The idea of knocking on some random woman's door made Mag's eye twitch. "What are we supposed to say to this Stephanie? You know she's going to think we're a couple of weirdos, right?"
Grinning at the description, Roma provided enough details that Mag and Clara should be able to convince Stephanie she'd sent them, and then shooed them out the door.
Chapter Four
“I don't care what Roma says, we're going to look crazy if we show up at this woman's door spouting some cockamamie story about a dead medium.” Mag seemed worried, an emotion she rarely displayed, giving Clara confirmation of how much she cared about helping Roma find her final peace.
“You’ve been living in hiding for far too long, Maggie, if you don’t remember how effective the truth can sometimes be. Stephanie Huffington is already a believer. I don’t think it will be difficult to convince her that we’ve been sent to help and that our motives are pure. Plus, she’s got a little bit of the sight, and from what Roma said, an open and accepting nature.”
Clara was unperturbed by the task set before them, and it calmed Mag’s nerves enough for her to enjoy the view of town from where they rode, slowly, up Pine Hill toward Huffington Manor.
The VW minibus the Balefires had acquired shortly before moving to the country chugged and clunked as though traveling over potholed dirt, jarring and jostling its passengers even though the road consisted of smooth, meticulously-maintained pavement. One of Mag’s little jokes.
Hailing from the fifties, the engine had long since given out, forcing the sisters to resort to magical means to keep it running. In a town like Harmony, where status mattered to many, the Volkswagen was considered an eyesore, a fact that brought a smile to Mag’s lips. Any excuse to thumb her nose at the irrelevancies of mortals was icing on her cake.
Though it lacked the pretentiousness to be called such anywhere else, the stately manor considered a mansion by Harmony standards sat in a clearing of white birch and towering pine trees bordered by an intricately wrought iron fence.
Mag half expected an armed guard to greet them at the end of the driveway, but instead found the entrance open and unmanned. Tall pots filled with the last splash of autumn flowers held the gate open in a welcoming gesture. Mag hoped that it was an omen, a foreshadowing of Stephanie’s character, and that her sister’s reassuring statement would hold true.
Because she valued privacy above all else, the thought of showing up at someone’s door with news sure to disturb their equilibrium made Mag twitchy.
As they pulled up in front of the house and climbed out of the VW, it became obvious no expense had been spared to keep Huffington Manor in top condition. A row of perfectly square hedges rose out of a bed of scarlet mulch, and not a speck of the stuff spilled out onto the pristine white walkway.
Autumn had long since chased away the last vestiges of summer heat, but a set of oscillating fans positioned every six feet along the ceiling of a grand wraparound porch carried no trace of dust. There wasn’t even a spider web to be found, though the eight-legged freaks guarded the door of every other house in town.
And yet, here and there, it was obvious the owner enjoyed a unique sense of style and humor. A family of garden gnomes with jaunty hats in a rainbow of colors peeked from beneath the hedges. Tendrils of ivy snaked from the top of each stately porch column to kiss the floor with the tips of their leaves.
Mag took a deep breath and shuffled her feet impatiently while Clara tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and jabbed the doorbell.
“Either that door is a good six inches thick or the bell is broken.” Mag commented when no jingling or dinging sounded from within. She pressed the bell again and waited, and was just about to start pounding on the door when the l
atch clicked and a woman wearing an apron slowly pulled it open.
“Hello, how can I help you?” she asked in a matter-of-fact tone with an accent that carried the memory of Yorkshire in its rhythm.
Mag was pleasantly surprised for the second time since finding the gate open when the starched and pressed yet friendly housekeeper motioned for the sisters to follow her inside, accommodating Clara’s request to speak to Stephanie without ado.
Chagrined, Mag performed a mental face-palm, realizing she’d just subjected Stephanie Huffington to what she’d spent the last few decades watching her sister endure: judgment without provocation based solely on outward appearance.
In Clara’s case, the judgment had come from all of the witches who assumed she’d committed the unpardonable sin of killing another witch—a crime for which the punishment was an eternity turned to stone. When Clara’s rocky relationship with her daughter, Sylvana, came to a magical crescendo, leaving Clara frozen mid-spell and Sylvana nowhere to be found, it was assumed the Keeper of the Flame had turned to the dark side and dispatched her own daughter.
Smug and self-righteous, her sisters in magic had paraded in front of her stoned form to confess their own petty crimes to the one person who they knew would never be able to repeat them. It had come as quite a shock when Clara was proved innocent, and upon being restored, it turned out she’d not only heard but remembered each and every indiscretion.
Panic ensued as they expected her to use the information against them.
But those women had been wrong—Clara had more class than they realized, and had kept the secrets of her fellow witches even when it would have behooved her to let them fly from her lips. Amid the aftermath, Mag had vowed to stop making snap judgments, but the practice had become so ingrained it was easy to fall back into old habits. She respected Roma enough to believe Stephanie deserved her best efforts, and reaffirmed her pledge to keep an open mind.
As Clara followed the housekeeper through the foyer, she grew more curious about the woman she was about to meet, but Mag only had eyes for the decor. There was a Demilune console table with a marble top, inlaid marquetry, and exquisitely matched banding detail that sparked a memory from the golden twenties when the piece would have been new.
There’d been a delicious young man and just enough bathtub gin to ensure a good time was had by both. But that was then, and this was now, and she identified with antiques because she felt like one herself most of the time. Old and past her prime.
Except when she and Clara were in the midst of a new mystery and the excitement tingled along her nerves—then she felt alive again. Like right now. This was the beginning of something; she just knew it.
The housekeeper ushered Mag and Clara into the library where a petite blond curled up on a window seat overlooking the golf course-sized backyard. In her arms lay a mottled black, brown, and white mutt of indeterminate breed, the exact opposite type of dog one would expect the richest woman in the county to own.
“Dear, there are some women here to see you.”
The little dog hopped down with a thump and wiggled over to the Balefire sisters. He gave each a curious sniff before trotting out along with the housekeeper. His little ears perked and his tail wagged with anticipation when she said something about a treat.
“Thank you, Constance.” Stephanie called, then offered a warm, genuine If she felt any irritation or curiosity about receiving unannounced visitors, she didn't let it show. It was a skill likely born from necessity and honed by a lifetime of practice. “I’m Stephanie Huffington. And you are?”
“I’m Clara Balefire, and this is my sister, Margaret.” For the first time since moving to Harmony, outside of dealings with the coven, she didn’t pretend they were mother and daughter. Stephanie’s raised eyebrow indicated her curiosity at how two women who appeared separated in age by at least four decades could be siblings, but maintained her polite composure and didn’t press the issue.
“Call me Mag. We’ve been sent by Roma to lend you our assistance.”
Stephanie’s hazel eyes widened, and she faltered slightly, “When did you speak to Roma?”
“She visited us last night.” Mag explained.
“Well, that’s a great story but Roma died last week.” Stephanie placed her hands on her hips, fingers trembling even as she returned Mag's steely-eyed gaze. “I attended her funeral.”
Mag and Clara exchanged a look, and Clara nodded at her sister. “Go ahead.”
“Yes,” Mag said, her voice clear, “she did, unfortunately. But that doesn’t mean she’s gone. And she won’t move on until she’s sure you’re safe. That’s why we’re here.” Listening to the words coming out of her mouth, Mag wouldn’t have blamed Stephanie if she booted them to the porch and slammed the door.
But Roma needed help, and Balefire women never turned away a friend, so Mag took a deep breath and prepared to tell Stephanie the truth. The whole truth because Roma thought it was the best way to proceed.
“We’re witches, as crazy as that might sound to you. But it’s the truth, and Roma thinks you might need our particular brand of help.” Pausing, she waited for a response that never came.
Clara jabbed an elbow into Mag’s ribs. Telling Stephanie their secret was one thing, but blurting it out with no preamble must have come as a shock. She stepped in to try to soften the blow.
“Roma spoke highly of you and told us about the first time you ever came to visit her. You were six years old, and you couldn’t stop staring at a glass unicorn figurine in her curio cabinet. She said you named it Amalthea after the unicorn from “The Last Unicorn” and she found you so charming, she gifted you the figurine.”
Pushed out of stasis, Stephanie’s expression ran through a gamut of emotions, beginning with incredulity and then softening into acceptance. “I still have Amalthea, and there’s no way you could have known about that, so I suppose I have no choice but to believe you.”
Still curious, she invited Mag and Clara to sit down on a set of chairs angled toward the breathtaking view. “I can tell that Roma means well, but I don’t think it’s me who’s in danger. I think something might have happened to my fiancé, Bradley. What exactly did she tell you? Wait, first answer one question. Why didn’t Roma just come here and communicate to me herself?”
“Well, she wanted to, but it seems she was unable to make contact. Then there were some extenuating circumstances involving our house. We own Balms and Bygones, a little shop on Mystic Street. She came to us for help, and now she’s stuck there with the rest of the spirits who followed her through the veil.” Clara explained. “I know how it sounds, but I promise you it’s real.”
The fact that Stephanie didn’t bat an eyelash made Mag like her even more. “Balms and Bygones, yes I know the place. And you’re those two women who solve murders. I’ve heard of you.” Clearly curious, Stephanie motioned for Clara to continue.
“Roma told us how you’d come to her a few weeks ago, and why. But we’d like to hear the story from your perspective.” Clara prompted.
While the girl settled into an armchair, Constance returned to the library carrying a tray of refreshments and offered the Balefires lemonade and cake that looked like it had been made from scratch. She puttered for a moment, straightening a couple of throw pillows and setting a few knick-knacks to rights while her concerned gaze kept returning to Mag and Clara.
“It’s okay, Constance, I’m just fine.” Stephanie reassured her, “In fact, please take the rest of the afternoon off. I can fend for myself.”
Constance sent Clara the type of look a mother gives someone she doesn’t quite trust around her child. It was obvious the two enjoyed more than an employer/employee relationship.
“Thank you, Stephanie. There’s a homemade macaroni-and-cheese casserole in the refrigerator for you, dear. I think I’ll head into town and join the ladies for some Bridge at the senior center. I’ll be back this evening.” She nodded once at Mag and Clara, then made a hasty retreat.
Mag jumped in to reassure the girl. “I’ve known Roma since she was a bright-eyed teenager, and never expected her to go quietly into that good night. Communing with the dearly departed piqued her curiosity, and she’d have found some excuse to stick around and see what it’s like on the other side of the table. However, I’d prefer if she weren’t haunting our shop, especially since she brought an entourage through with her, so let’s see what we can do to send her on her way, shall we?”
Stephanie nodded gravely and launched into her tale, “About a year ago, an article about animal kill shelters got under my skin. I made an appointment with a non-profit animal advocacy agency, and expressed an interest in donating to the cause. The director explained that they’d received a sizable grant and enough donations to keep them in the black for the year, but suggested I parcel out the sum to a few of the private rescue shelters that were struggling to stay afloat.”
As if her fingers needed something to do, Stephanie used the edge of her fork to cut off a piece of cake, but the bite never made it to her lips.
“I decided to tour the list she gave me, and the first one I went to was run by a man named Bradley Graham. I came home that day with a dog and a date. It was a whirlwind romance, as silly as that phrase sounds. We fell deeply in love, and he proposed six months ago. Everyone said Brad was in it for my money, but they were wrong.” Stephanie paused when Mag and Clara exchanged a sideways glance.
Stephanie held up a hand. “I know what you’re thinking. People in my situation always say that, but I’m not some silly, air-headed heiress. I went to Yale, for crying out loud. And I can spot a phony from a mile away. Brad encouraged me to do what I wanted with my money, and never asked for a penny.”