Haunted by Murder Read online

  But, Mag had also harbored a soft spot for Maypole, the pixie who had just winked at Clara like a kid with her hand in the cookie jar. The pixie who had not gone back to Faeland with all of her friends as they’d thought.

  ***

  Back at Balms and Bygones, Clara paced the floor in front of the parlor fireplace while Mag warmed her toes in the Balefire. Roma hovered around, blinking in and out and causing the lamps to flicker incessantly.

  “Can’t you stop that?” Mag barked harsher than she’d intended. She preferred the quiet solitude of her backyard hut on a good day, and having a ghost hovering over her—old friend or not—constituted anything but a good day. It was grating on her nerves.

  “Solve the mystery and I’ll have somewhere else to go,” Roma replied, kicking her antics up a notch while Whizzer romped about excitedly.

  A mighty crash sounded from above, and Clara about jumped out of her skin. “Pyewacket?” she hollered. “What’s going on up there?” Clara hoped nothing in her bedroom had been broken, and rushed upstairs just as Pye exited the room with an irritated expression on her face.

  “Everything is fine, except for the fact that my nap was interrupted by another damnable ghost. She’s gone now.” Pye fixed Clara with a self-satisfied stare.

  “How did you get her to go away?” Clara asked, curiosity obliterating her irritation.

  Pye’s lips curled into a decidedly feline smile. “I used your cell phone to pull up her Facebook account. She moved on once she realized her boyfriend had received her last text message. They’d had a fight, and she couldn’t go into the light thinking he might not have seen her apology. Not that it makes any difference, in my humble opinion.”

  Clara rolled her eyes and bounded back down the stairs with a thump. “Crisis averted. Too bad they aren’t all that simple. Though, that does give me an idea.” She disappeared into the shop and returned a few moments later with her laptop.

  “How is that going to help us?” Mag’s question lacked its usual disdain for modern technology. Clara’s methods had proven invaluable in the past, much as Mag hated to admit it.

  Clara shot her sister an exasperated look. “You really have no idea what’s happening on the Internet, do you?”

  “No, I don’t, and you know it. And I don’t care, so what’s your point?”

  “People post everything from what they had for breakfast to where they’re going on vacation to their kids’ shoe sizes. But more importantly, they post photos and tidbits of information that might be useful in tracking someone down. Basically, we’re going to cyber-stalk Brad.” Clara booted up the computer and avoided making eye contact with Mag, who finally relented and agreed to peruse Facebook with an open mind.

  “Here we go. Bradley Graham, thirty years old, in a relationship with Stephanie Huffington. That’s him all right.” Clara clicked on Brad’s profile picture and scrolled through his recent photos, noting how besotted he appeared in all the ones including Stephanie.

  Mag pointed at the screen. “The last time he posted was the day before he left, is that correct?”

  Clara made sure the feed showed recent posts first and nodded. “Yep, it sure is. That tracks with the time of his disappearance. Look at most of these—they’re either about Stephanie or about work. He was dedicated, just like she said. Doesn’t add up to him packing up and leaving.”

  “Well,” Mag drew out the word in a skeptical tone. “There’s no evidence he didn’t. Probably got cold feet. A woman like that comes with baggage; it might have been too much for him to take on.” She chanced a look at Roma, whose eyes had narrowed to slits.

  “I didn’t come to you so you could drag poor Stephanie’s name through the mud.” Roma snapped, her edges blurring.

  Mag gave it right back to her. “No, you came to me because you didn’t have any other choice.”

  She stopped talking abruptly as a wintry wind blew through the parlor, calling all the hairs on her arm to attention.

  “Stephanie Huffington’s baggage is none of your concern!” Roma wailed. “Margaret Balefire, don’t make me make you sorry—”

  “Make me sorry for what, Roma? I’m already sorry you came here and got me all entangled in your unfinished business. But you asked for my help and now you’re all ticked off because the outcome isn’t what you expected!” Mag fired back.

  The temperature in the room dropped a few more degrees as the ghostly witch slammed her hand on her hip and wagged a finger at the sisters.

  “You listen to me, because I’m only going to say this once: I’m not leaving here until you help Stephanie and figure out what happened to Bradley Graham. The man did not just up and disappear into thin air, and I won’t be satisfied until you find him. If you don’t want me and half of the undead contingency of Harmony camping out in your living room for the next hundred years, you’d better hop on your broomstick and work that Balefire magic.” The house rumbled beneath where her feet hovered above the floor while Roma crossed her arms and squared off against Mag, who turned beet red and looked like she was about to shoot steam out of her ears.

  Half horrified and half amused, Clara sat back, her mouth agape. Yeah, she’d definitely missed out at not having met the living incarnation of Roma.

  “I said we’d help and I don’t break promises, Roma.” Mag turned away and refused to acknowledge the ghost after her parting shot. “Now shut your yap and let us do what we do.”

  Chapter Six

  “I thought Sundays were supposed to be for relaxing. This does not qualify,” Mag commented, wiping a coating of soil off her hands and onto the front of her raspberry-colored tunic. Clara winced, having bought the garment for her sister as an alternative to the 1970s remnants Mag typically wore. Apparently, the absence of outdated paisley prints and tie-dyed colors had relegated Clara’s gift to yard work-appropriate attire.

  “You know as well as I do that Mother Nature doesn’t care what day it is,” Clara reminded her sister. “If we don’t get all these beds prepared for winter, we’ll be looking at a significant amount of spell work to make it right next spring. Especially if old Haggie’s knee is accurate and we’re going to get an early frost. I’d really rather not take the chance on Mrs. Green seeing anything magical from her post by her kitchen window, and I doubt she’ll have deserted it by the time the snow melts.”

  Mag grinned, and bent back over to continue her task, taking care to settle her leg into the most comfortable position possible. “That woman needs to get a new hobby.” She spread a layer of compost onto the square of garden patch at her feet, admiring the way Clara had arranged the beds both horizontally and vertically to maximize space and create shady corners for plants that required less sun.

  “The only time she leaves her house is for knitting group and the garden and book clubs. But I don’t think her motives have much to do with keeping anything but her big mouth busy. Though, as far as neighbors go, she could be worse. That hummingbird cake she brought over last month was delicious.” Clara’s mouth watered at the thought of the moist, walnut-studded loaf coated in a thick layer of cream-cheese frosting.

  Idly, Clara made a mental note that between Evelyn’s donuts, the snacks offered at every community gathering, and the plates of goodies regularly dropped off by friendly neighbors, she’d be quite a few pounds heavier come spring if she didn’t rein it in. Witch genetics might keep her looking young, but they had no effect whatsoever when it came to net calories.

  Mag had long ago decided that since she already looked as though she was entering her crone phase of life, it didn’t matter much whether she had a little extra junk in her trunk. The idea of counting calories seemed about as useful to her as a screen door on a submarine, and nothing was worth giving up her butter pecan ice cream addiction.

  “Clara, can you please come inside and pick up your phone?” Pyewacket hollered from the back porch in an irritated tone, interrupting the serenity her companion had been enjoying. “It’s been ringing for a solid ten minut
es and this is my day off. Between the random ghosts, the customers, and the phone, this place is entirely too loud lately.” She arched one perfectly-shaped eyebrow and retreated back indoors, presumably to grapple with Jinx over the coveted spot next to the roaring Balefire.

  Clara hurried inside, Mag on her heels, and picked up her cell phone from the counter in the back room of the shop where she’d left it. Before she had a chance to look at the screen, Roma appeared out of the ether and spewed in a frustrated tone, “Stephanie Huffington has called six times while you ladies were out playing in the dirt.”

  “That can’t be good.” Clara’s eyebrows furrowed as she contemplated the implications.

  “Call her back already.” Roma demanded, earning herself a sideways glance from Mag, whose patience was stretched to the breaking point when it came to the ghost of her dear friend.

  Or perhaps, Clara thought, this was the kind of relationship they’d always had—the kind of relationship Mag had with most of the people she knew. Anyone who had hung around long enough to learn how big her sister’s heart was also knew she was mostly bluster, and Roma appeared unperturbed by Mag’s gruff demeanor. It earned her a few more points in Clara’s book.

  “Hello?” Stephanie’s voice was strained and hoarse when she answered the phone, and Clara could tell she’d been crying.

  “Hi Stephanie, are you all right?” Motherly concern threaded through Clara’s tone.

  Stephanie blurted, “No, I’m not, and I’m sorry for bothering you and I didn’t know who else to call, but you said Roma sent you to help. Something has happened. I’m not sure exactly what’s going on, but would you and your sister mind coming by today? As soon as possible, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  Mag, her head bent over Clara’s, noticed how even in the throes of whatever had prompted her to call two virtual strangers for assistance, Stephanie still maintained a level of politeness Mag wouldn’t have attempted even on her best day.

  “Of course. We’ll head right over. Are you safe?” Clara asked, though she expected so, or presumably, Stephanie would have called the police regardless of her feelings about Chief Cobb.

  Stephanie assured her she was in no physical danger, and Clara disconnected the call with another promise to hurry.

  ***

  Stephanie answered the door before either Mag or Clara could ring the bell, and though her hair had been smoothed into a neat topknot and she was fully dressed, it was clear from the red rings around her eyes that the previous night’s sleep hadn’t been a restful one.

  “Thank you so much for coming.” Cold fingers closed over Clara’s warm ones and drew her inside. Mag followed.

  “I know I must seem like a raving lunatic, and I’ll give you fair warning: that might actually be the case.” She ushered the sisters through a Food Network-worthy kitchen bathed in shades of yellow and into a lavish but homey sitting room positioned on the southern side of the house.

  Through a set of bay windows, Clara could make out the edges of an impressive herb garden. Even though it was wildly inappropriate given the circumstances, she vehemently hoped the opportunity to view more of the house and grounds would arise.

  Under normal circumstances, Mag would have been thinking the exact same thing, her antiquer’s eye roving the space for rare and interesting finds. But she once again found herself in the all-too familiar situation of being counted on to provide assistance to someone either more unfortunate than she, or less able to help themselves. In other words, her comfort zone.

  “Can I offer you anything to drink?” Stephanie clung to conventions of politeness in the same way she would have clutched onto a life raft, but Clara noticed her hands were shaking.

  “No, thank you. We’re fine.”

  Once her guests were seated and she was assured of their comfort, Stephanie settled onto the opposite end of the sofa from Clara. As soon as her back touched the floral brocade, her put-together facade crumpled like a sheet of tissue paper, and though her throat worked with the effort to hold them back, she finally burst into tears.

  “What is it, dear?” Mag prompted gently while Clara moved to gather the girl into her arms and make soothing sounds. Sometimes Clara wondered if her sister saved all her patience for other people, and had none left to spare for herself. Mag might have argued that that’s how it should be.

  After a minute or two, Stephanie gathered herself together and launched into her story.

  “It’s all a mess, and I'm starting to think Cobb is right and I need to go check myself into a facility. The last two days, I keep finding things out of place. I expect that in the common spaces since there are other people living here, but not in my personal areas. My office, my bedroom.”

  “Who has access?” Mag asked.

  “I don’t lock my bedroom door, but the office is always locked. Brad had a key, and Constance has a master that works on every lock in the house. No one else can get in there. Maybe I’m just imagining things because I’m not sleeping well, which is the other reason I called you here.”

  “Ever since Brad … well, I told you I’ve been having nightmares and now they’re getting worse. The one last night was so vivid it was like a movie playing in my head. Except I was in the movie, not watching it.” She shivered, and snuggled into the nubby chenille throw Clara took from the back of an armchair and draped across her shoulders.

  “I remember Brad and I were fighting, which isn’t something we’ve ever done. Don’t get me wrong—we’ve had our moments of irritation just like anyone else. But I know exactly how fast your family can be taken away. None of the petty life stuff means anything compared to that.”

  From the greatest tragedies come the greatest lessons, but if Clara could turn have turned back time for Stephanie, she’d have done it and never counted the cost.

  “Besides,” the younger woman continued, “Brad is the most even-keeled person I’ve ever met. We talk through our issues like adults. Except not in my dream. It felt so real, but at the same time muddled, you know? Like I couldn’t hear my own words, only what Brad was saying. He was talking about money.”

  Stephanie paused, and during the silence her eyes darted back and forth, making Mag wish she could just crawl into the poor girl’s head and see what it was she was seeing.

  She let the money comment slide by, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t made a mental note of it. Stephanie might not understand that even the most seemingly rational person could turn greedy when finances became involved. It wasn’t her fault; she’d never been strapped for cash and had no idea what kind of toll it could take on a person.

  “I know it’s hard to explain,” Mag said. “Dreams always are. You dream with all five senses, but when you recount them it’s all about the visual.”

  “Exactly,” Stephanie confirmed. “What I saw and what I felt don’t fit together because I was inside Brad’s perspective for part of it.”

  Clara opened her mouth to ask the burning question, but was quelled by a look from her sister.

  “He was furious, but underneath the anger, he felt like he’d been betrayed. It was like a fist in the gut.” Another sob escaped and Stephanie had to force herself to say the rest.

  “His eyes. They were full of hate and I could feel them cutting into me like knives. He turned away and I saw myself grabbing a glass paperweight from the desk and whacking him over the head with it. That’s when I woke up.” Stephanie looked absolutely miserable as she finished recounting the dream.

  Mag stepped in before Clara had a chance to open her mouth, but expressed the same sentiment her sister was about to voice. “It was just a dream. You know that, right?”

  “But I—” Stephanie was interrupted by a clink coming from the hallway, and then by Constance wheeling in a cart with an antique porcelain tea service into the room. She ignored the palpable tension and began filling rose-decorated cups with water from the pot. “I thought you could use a cuppa, dear. I’ve brought a selection of flavors and some fresh-bake
d muffins. You need to eat.”

  “Thank you, Constance,” Stephanie said. “I promise I’ll have a bite.” She waited until the door had shut behind the woman before returning her attention to Mag and Clara. “Constance thinks everything can be solved by a cup of tea. But she just doesn’t understand.”

  “Understand what?” Clara asked. “It’s okay, you can tell us.”

  “It felt more like a memory than a dream. I think Brad is dead.” Stephanie stared down at her fingers, twisting the blanket between them for a moment that stretched out long. When she looked up, her eyes were filled with conviction. “And I’m almost certain I killed him.”

  “That’s crazy,” Mag exclaimed before she had time to think.

  “I did warn you.” Strangely calm now that she’d made her confession, Stephanie sucked in a breath and let it out in a long sigh. “It feels like I can remember doing it, only it’s all hazy. What else could have happened?”

  Mag and Clara exchanged a silent conversation of a look. Subtle eyebrow movements and twists of lips spoke volumes, and when it was done, Mag took point in a matter of fact tone.

  “A hundred things could have happened and none of them would involve you killing your fiancé. Now, tell us the dream again. From the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.”

  Calmer now, Stephanie repeated the story, and when she was done, Mag asked her to lean back, close her eyes, and picture the beginning of the dream.

  “Pause it right at the beginning and tell me where you’re at. What can you see?”

  Straining to follow Mag’s commands, Stephanie’s shoulder muscles bunched. “Just Brad’s face, like before. Everything else is hazy the way it is when you look outside on a rainy day and the window is foggy and wet.”

  Another look passed from Mag to Clara, who pitched her voice low and soothing. “Just breathe into it. Let the tension drip down your body and flow into the ground.”