Murder Above the Fold Page 3

  The Moonstones hosted all sorts of functions over the course of every year. Potluck dinners to benefit families in need, a summer program for kids, bake sales, dances, and town-wide celebrations. Despite the Brotherhood of Badger’s attempt to take credit for anything that benefited the town, the women of the coven were responsible for revitalizing Harmony and taking advantage of its location to attract tourism. It didn’t hurt that Harmony’s Founder’s Day landed near Memorial Day weekend, the official kickoff of tourist season.

  Mag waited until the ancient witch was out of sight and hearing range before she stomped into the back room. Mere seconds passed before she returned. “Whole place reeks of some kind of spell, but since she’s so smooth with her magic, I can’t tell exactly what she did. Crazy old bat.”

  Enchanted to double the size of what had once been a cramped storage space, the area behind the curtain, as it were, of Balms and Bygones included a generous workstation where Clara whipped up and packaged her product line. Bottles and jars, after being purified by the flames of the Balefire crackling merrily in the hearth, filled boxes piled under a long, low table. Half a dozen mortar and pestles in various sizes lined one end and a handsome set of antique scales that Mag was dying to put up for sale in the main shop rested nearby.

  The packing station boasted funnels, measuring beakers, and rolls of peel-and-stick labels mounted to a shelf above a tall countertop where rested the box of samples Hagatha had raided. Only two of the five cauldrons contained product in some stage of readiness, and Clara focused on those first.

  “I’m not taking any chances,” she sighed and with a flick of her wrist, winked the cauldrons empty. “Two day’s worth of brewing down the tubes. I’ll have to start from scratch.” Another flick sent a flood of containers flying off the shelves and deposited new ingredients into the sparkling clean, cast-iron pots. “You don’t think she got into anything that was sealed, do you? There’s at least two months’ worth of inventory in here, and I’d hate to lose it all.”

  “I don’t know, Clarie. I’m not sensing hurtful intentions, even if Haggie’s mischief knows no bounds. Still, you seal the jars using magic, so that’s one bit of protection right there. And you put the best of intentions into everything you brew, so that’s another. Probably cast a divining charm to see if she could ferret out your secret recipes.”

  “Well, she’s barking up the wrong tree there, though why she would even care is beyond me.” Clara retorted.

  “Something tells me she’s already marked every tree in the forest. Looks like we’ll be needing a little extra protection—Hagatha-specific. I’ll see what I can come up with.” Mag followed Clara back into the shop.

  “Thanks, Maggie. And get rid of those doilies while you’re at it. Don’t think I didn’t notice you sneaking them back into my displays.”

  Mag stuck out her tongue in an infantile gesture, but she flicked the lacy circles away, at least for the time being. Irritating her sister had become an integral part of Mag’s day, and she’d no intention of stopping anytime soon.

  Chapter Three

  “Get your lazy butt out of bed, Clara Balefire. It was your idea to pick a peck of mugwort at the crack of dawn. Why I’m forced to act as your alarm clock when I’ve already brewed your coffee is beyond me.” Mag’s voice trailed off as she stomped back downstairs to the kitchen while Clara rolled her eyes, sighed, and attempted to yank the covers back over her head. Before she could drift back into dreamland, Pyewacket and Jinx pounced on top of her and let out a pair of yowls loud enough to wake the dead.

  “I’ll ban tuna from the house if you do that again.” The familiars knew full well the threat was an empty one, and so they stepped up their game. Flashing into human form, they treated Clara to a duet in perfect harmony of “The Song That Doesn’t End.”

  “All right, all right, I’m up.” Clara’s fuzzy-sock-clad feet hit the floor with a resounding thump, and with a snap of her fingers, she was dressed to start the day. “Shoo, you two.”

  When Clara finally descended the stairs, her sister was anxiously tapping her foot against scrubbed-to-gleaming oak floorboards, wearing an irritated expression on her deeply-lined face. Mag ignored Clara’s blown raspberry, shoved a thermal mug of hazelnut-scented, caffeine-laden perfection and an empty basket into her hands, and the pair padded out onto the back porch.

  “We’ll have plenty of time; the sun hasn’t even started to crest yet. You’ll thank me next time one of your spells calls for mugwort dew, Miss Snarky Pants.” Clara teased her sister.

  Mag snorted. “There’s a first time for everything.”

  Heaving an exaggerated sigh, Mag leaned more heavily on her cane than necessary, and followed Clara down a cobbled path leading toward the riverbank. When they’d scouted the property the previous winter, a recent thaw followed by a sudden re-freeze had pushed large chunks of broken ice far enough onto the shore that when spring arrived, and the water level returned to normal, it felt like the backyard had doubled in size.

  The phenomenon had also disturbed the soil enough to create the perfect conditions for an abundant mugwort harvest, and Clara was determined to take advantage of the blessing. Being able to use the term “locally grown” in the ingredients list for her homemade products was an added bonus.

  For all of Mag’s griping, she enjoyed walking the trail between her new home and the town square. Not as much as she would enjoy a solo trip across the Andes lost in the wild thrill of the hunt, but that life was over. Time might heal most wounds, but never the ones of its own making, and if she had to be put out to pasture, Harmony’s grass was as good as any.

  “This is certainly a change, wouldn’t you say?” Clara asked as they picked their way along the shore, every now and then finding a patch of feathery, dew-laden greens. With a snip of her shears, Clara clipped off some of the tender plants, shaking the beads of moisture into a wide-mouthed jar before adding the cuttings to the basket.

  “I watched the suburbs swallow our home,” she said as she sorted through to find the best shoots, “and I thought if I ever got back to myself again, I’d seen enough that it would be easy to acclimate. Twenty-five years frozen in time went by so slowly, but the world moved on, and I still feel like a walnut in an almond shell sometimes. Harmony seems like a nice enough place, and it’s good to feel needed and vital after all those idle years.”

  “You know how I feel about crowds, Clarie,” Mag replied. The use of her special pet name for her sister indicated she’d finally softened. “Still, maybe this little adventure of ours won’t be so bad after all. I’ll get to spend time with you, and watching Hagatha at work is anything but boring. I can see why the coven got tired of dealing with her.” Mag accepted another handful of clippings from Clara and placed them in the basket.

  “Can’t say I blame them for that, but it’s a shame nonetheless. I hope when we start to turn senile, we don’t get tossed off like an old pair of shoes. Speaking of which…” Distracted by something she saw on the ground, Clara tripped, let out a grunt, and wound up on her backside covered in mugwort clippings, chestnut hair floating around her head in a disheveled halo.

  Mag barked out a laugh, only sobering when she noted the expression of shocked consternation on her sister’s face as she stared at a pair of shoes protruding from under a leafy bush.

  For a fraction of a second, Mag wondered if either the glare from the rising sun or perhaps her old, tired eyes were playing tricks on her before resigning herself to the fact that there were, indeed, feet and legs attached to the shoes.

  “I’m afraid we’re not in Kansas anymore,” Clara said, pushing herself up and taking a closer look at the feet that had tripped her. “Is that what I think it is?”

  Clara nodded, “If you think it’s a dead body, you’d be correct. What should we do?”

  “Well, obviously you need to get out that blasted little contraption of yours and for once put it to good use. Call the cops. And don’t touch anything. Forensics will want
to sweep the area for trace evidence.” Mag said knowingly. “It’s procedure for unattended deaths.”

  Given the gravity of the situation, Clara resisted the urge to point out that Mag’s closest dealings with a human forensics team came from her nightly obsession with police and crime shows. Instead, she pulled out her cell phone to do as her sister instructed.

  “It’s a woman, for sure, but I can’t see her face from this angle.” Mag crouched into a squat position worthy of the Yoga Journal, her injury forgotten and her cane left lying in the grass at her side. “It looks like she must have fallen and then rolled under there. See how none of the branches of this bush are bent or broken?” Mag pointed to the bridge towering overhead. “I didn’t realize we’d come this far already. Tell them to take the footpath from the clock tower; we’re not more than a stone’s throw from the town square.”

  Clara relayed the necessary information, and to Mag’s surprise, snapped a few photos of the grisly scene.

  “What? If you weren’t so tech-phobic, you’d be doing the same thing. Besides, you know you’ll thank me later because if my intuition is screaming, yours must be whistling Dixie.”

  Using her cane for extra balance, Mag navigated the rocky hill to get to a position that revealed more of the body.

  “Come here and look. I think I know who it is.” Her voice held a note of sadness, and Clara scrambled up the bank to stand next to her sister. Leaves concealed the dead woman’s face, and the terrain was too steep for them to bend over for a closer look without losing balance, so Clara snapped another series of photos before pocketing the phone.

  Paisley cloth in colors now muted by mud and moss stains wrapped around thighs scraped by rough passage over sticks and stones. The bodice, barely visible below where the rest of the body disappeared into the glossy green foliage, was badly torn.

  “You recognize that dress, don’t you?” Mag asked gravely.

  “I do,” Clara replied. “Let’s say the blessing for the dead, then leave her for the proper authorities, and we’d better make it the short version.”

  Together they chanted:

  Gentle air carry her spirit home.

  Mighty fire purify her soul.

  Abiding water cleanse her pain.

  Mother earth receive her heart.

  Blessed be until the wheel returns thee.

  Less than five minutes—which felt like at least fifty—later, a rustling noise signaled the approach of two men as they marched down the embankment to where the poor, dead woman lay. The younger of the two, a salt-and-pepper-haired man of about forty-five, clad in a police uniform, looked from Mag to Clara with a suspicious glint in his eyes.

  “What were the two of you doing out here at this time of day? I don’t know how they do things in the big city, but…” His beer belly jiggled over a large belt buckle in the shape of a ram’s head. Neither Mag nor Clara got to hear exactly how things were done in a small town because the second man interrupted the interrogation with a wave of his hand.

  “Chief Cobb, I think you can relax. See that basket? I believe these ladies are out here picking…some kind of weed.” He reached out and pulled a piece of mugwort out of Clara’s hair, his pleasant face turning bright red as his eyes met hers.

  “I’m Mayor Norm McCreery, and I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. You two recently purchased the old crow’s house—I mean, Hagatha Crow’s old house. Margaret and Clara Balefire, am I right?” As if Mag didn’t exist, he directed his comments to Clara.

  “Balefire,” he said, tapping his chin and appraising the two women. “Interesting name. I apologize for Chief Cobb’s lack of sensitivity. His people skills could use a little work. Ah, here’s the EMT crew. Too bad it looks like it’s too late for them to do anything.”

  As is the way of it in many small northeastern towns, people often wear several hats, and one of the emergency technicians conveniently served as the county coroner.

  Treating Clara to a crooked smile, the mayor rejoined a scowling Chief Cobb who had finished his preliminary examination and stepped aside to allow the coroner to move the body.

  “If you ladies wouldn’t mind taking a few steps back,” the mayor said, “we’ll need to ask you some questions as soon as we’re done here.”

  “The chief is a bit brusque, but Mayor McCreery seems nice,” Clara said in a tone low enough that only her sister could hear her.

  “Mayor McCreepy if you ask me,” Mag muttered under her breath.

  “I don’t know. He’s handsome in that backwoods kind of way. Strikes me as the type of guy who owns a pair of red plaid flannel pajamas.”

  Mag rolled her eyes, “There’s absolutely no reason for you to be imagining that man in his pajamas.”

  Clara jabbed her with an elbow. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Get your mind out of the gutter and look—they’re pulling her out.” Clara jumped to her feet and stepped a few paces closer to the victim, Mag on her heels.

  “We were right. It’s Marsha from the newspaper office.” Clara confirmed unnecessarily since Mag could see that clearly for herself.

  The coroner squatted next to the body, looking back over his shoulder to speak to Chief Cobb. “This head wound looks like the cause of death. I’d say she bounced off a rock somewhere before landing here. The preliminary estimate is she’s been dead maybe twelve hours, a little less. Between ten and twelve. I’ll know more when I get her on the table.”

  Ten or twelve hours would put the time of death between six and eight o’clock the night before. Just a few hours after the sisters had met Marsha for the first time.

  “Seemed like such a nice woman,” Clara whispered to Mag. “What a shame. I wonder if she fell, or if she…you know…jumped on purpose.”

  Mag drew her brows down and huffed. “Don’t be stupid. Anyone who’s serious about jumping off a bridge doesn’t do it so close to the end. You want to die, you go right out into the middle where there’s less chance of anything breaking your fall. Maximum velocity.”

  Clara looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “That’s the most morbid thing you’ve ever said to me. Shh, he’s coming back.”

  Mayor McCreery ambled back over to Mag and Clara. “I’m sorry you had to find her like this. Did you know Marsha Hutchins?”

  “No.” Clara replied, “I mean, we met her just yesterday at the newspaper office. She seemed nice. Do you know if she—”

  “The guardrail on that bridge has been in need of repair since the Lester boys rammed it with their Jeep Wrangler last fall. It looks like Marsha must have been on her way home, stumbled and fell. She was known to take the footpath. Wouldn’t be the first time someone has fallen—”

  “Well, don’t you think, Mr. Mayor, that you ought to do something about it?” Mag interrupted without mincing words. It didn’t seem to matter to her that perhaps another time and place would have been more appropriate for a conversation about civic duties. Then again, Mag had never been fast friends with Miss Manners.

  Mayor McCreery’s face flushed a darker red than before. “Well, yes, you’re probably right.” He turned his attention back to Clara, obviously considering her the more reasonable of the pair. “I assure you, this was nothing more than a tragic accident, but the crime scene team from our county office will follow up. I do apologize. You and your mother have only been in town a few weeks, and I can’t imagine how we compare to the way things are run in the city.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Mayor. Port Harbor isn’t the thriving metropolis some people imagine it to be. I’m sure you’ll do your due diligence.”

  “Clarie, I seem to be having another of my episodes,” Mag’s voice had gone from commanding to breathy in a matter of seconds, and she once again leaned heavily on her cane. Clara quirked an eyebrow but followed through with the necessary niceties before leading her sister slowly up the hill and into town.

  Once they were out of sight of the mayor and police chief, Mag’s strength returned full-force. “I�
��d bet my wand hand and a wad of Ben Franklins this was no accident. Couldn’t you feel it?”

  Clara nodded, glancing over her shoulder. “Something was definitely off, but we shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

  “I have no intention of jumping in any way, shape, or form. I intend to investigate, and you’re going to help me.” Mag marched ahead of Clara, who remained pensive as they ascended the hill and wove their way through a maze of gardens adjacent to the town office. Her absentminded admiration of a rainbow of budding tulips was rudely interrupted as the clock tower looming overhead rang out the seven o’clock hour.

  “I’m glad we don’t live right next door to that thing. We’d both need hearing aids inside of a week. It’s loud enough at the house as it is.” Clara griped, sticking a finger in her ear and wiggling it around.

  “What’s that now?” Mag cupped her ear with one hand and grinned.

  “You goof. Look, there’s Leanne in the newspaper office.” Clara pointed and dragged Mag across the grass and onto Main Street. Spurred by the desire to get as far away from the clock bells as possible, she set a brisk pace. “Should we go talk to her?”

  Mag squared her shoulders as much as she could, anyway—they remained slightly hunched even when she stood upright—and led the way inside. “Hello, Leanne,” she said to the young lady inside. “Do you remember us? I’m Mag, and this is my daughter, Clara.”

  “Sure, sure, come on in. Marsha should be here any minute. Maybe she slept in because we worked late finalizing the layout last night. Still, It’s not like her to be tardy when there’s a special edition in the works.”

  Clara and Mag exchanged a glance that included a silent conversation:

  She doesn’t know.

  We’re going to have to tell her.

  You do it.

  No, you do it.