Murder Above the Fold Page 7

  From her outsider’s perspective, the Harmony coven, while having a valid reason to worry about being outed by Hagatha, had gone a step too far in the other direction by banning even the smallest spells in public. If they wanted Balefire help to keep their aging high priestess under wraps, they were going to have to lighten up a little. In fact, if they lightened up a little, there might not be the need for anyone to be on Hagatha detail. A circular problem of their own making.

  Despite her methods, Hagatha’s instinct had been sound—the plaintive tune had left hardly a dry eye in the crowd.

  By the time the last strains of “Amazing Grace” wafted into silence, Mag had Hagatha under control. As much as anyone ever did, anyway. It wasn’t that they’d intimidated Hagatha into behaving, but that she’d come to pay her respects to the dead, and so she remained subdued until the service ended.

  “Hard way to die, but then so’s most ways unless you toddle off in your sleep.” The old witch commented a little too loudly. “Better than being burned at the stake though, hey?”

  “Hush up, you old coot.” Mag risked being hexed into the middle of next week, but Hagatha was so caught up she didn’t register the hissed command, so the sisters gently ushered her toward the rear of the crowd.

  “Drowning. Now there’s a good way to go, and if you’re lucky, you get to be fish food. Circle of life. Clean, too. That’s the best way. Killing’s messy. Once you’ve done the deed, there’s always the body to hide. ‘Course, sometimes it works out, so murder looks like an accident and that’s how the guilty avoid having to pay for their crimes.” Hagatha raised her voice to a quavering shout at the end and banged her walker on the ground to make a muffled sound that was part thump and part squelch.

  Behind her, Clara heard a startled gasp and the sound of bodies colliding, right before her own breath slammed out of her in a rush as Mag took her down. The sisters hit the ground in a tangle of arms and legs and Mag’s cane. Dazed, she gazed up at concerned faces and sighed with relief when someone levered Mag’s body off hers. For someone so frail looking, her sister packed a wallop.

  “Are you all right?” Leanne Snow’s face, tear-stained and blotchy, came into focus.

  “Uh, I think so. What happened?”

  The man with Leanne, presumably her husband, made sure Mag was solidly on her feet then offered Clara a hand up. He might have started out the day impeccably dressed and smelling good, a scent she recognized, but she’d managed to muddy him up a little as he pulled Clara off the ground. “Human dominoes, and you happened to be on the end of the chain. I’m not sure who started it, though.”

  That was the question Clara would most like answered since the incident appeared to have been touched off by Hagatha’s veiled accusation of murder. Of the handful close enough to have heard Hagatha’s challenge, Gertrude Granger and Bryer Mack were the only two people she knew by name. Neither seemed to have a clear-cut motive for killing Marsha, so she directed her search beyond them and saw the back of Perry Weatherall’s head as he cut through the crowd of mourners.

  The whole town must have turned out to say their goodbyes. The four rows of chairs facing the coffin were packed, with more people clustered on either side and along the back.

  “I’m Dylan Snow, by the way. I think you know my wife.” Now that Clara was back on her feet, he cradled Leanne with an arm around her waist, and she leaned heavily against him. “Hell of a way to meet our new neighbors. Sad day for the town, but it’s in times like these when you see folks pull together and support each other.” His inflection and the way his eyes clouded with pain suggested he’d had a brush with tragedy at some time in the past.

  “Yes.” Mag injected concern into her voice while she pried gently and rubbed a hand absently over her left hip where it had made contact with Clara’s knee. “I only met Marsha once, but I can see she was well-liked. Were the two of you close?”

  Both sisters studied his face carefully; It wouldn’t be the first time a married man found solace in the arms of another woman.

  “She was Leanne’s boss and a good friend. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Leanne has prepared some remarks for the eulogy, and the service is about to begin.” Supporting his wife, Dylan guided her toward the casket where the pastor waited.

  Clara quirked an eyebrow at Mag, who gave a slight head shake which Clara answered with a near-imperceptible nod. Unless he was a consummate liar, the knee-jerk reaction to Hagatha’s bald assessment of murder had not come from Dylan.

  Once the service started, Hagatha fell oddly quiet. Maybe death held more of an allure than life at her age, Clara thought. Or else she was up to something. With Hagatha, it could go either way.

  There were prayers followed by some personal remarks about the deceased, and an introduction to Marsha’s cousin from out of town—the only family member to attend the funeral. She appeared to be a few years younger than Marsha had been, and as far as Clara could tell from the back, appeared to be genuinely devastated. Too upset to talk.

  When the pastor nodded to Leanne, she stepped forward and spoke eloquently, if tearfully, of her friend. By the time she finished on a choked sob, even Mag had gotten a little misty-eyed.

  “I’ll miss her forever.” With those as her parting words, Leanne broke into something between a fast walk and a trot, right down the center of the aisle between the rows of chairs and kept on going through the cemetery gates, leaving her husband behind. The last anyone saw of her, she was headed back toward town as fast as her high heels would carry her.

  One final prayer ended the funeral service, and with nothing left to see, the crowd began to thin out. Hagatha stayed rooted to her spot until everyone else had gone except for Mag, Clara, and the undertaker who triggered the mechanism that lowered the casket into the ground.

  “It’s time to go now.” Clara gently tried to pull the elderly witch away.

  “You can go. I’m going to stay right here. I want to see this.”

  “What do you think is going to happen?”

  Dead witches departed this world amid the flames of a funeral pyre, either built on land or on a small barge, to be set adrift so the smoke could carry them to the Summerlands. To Clara’s way of thinking, the practice of burying the dead and putting up monuments was sheer hubris.

  To Hagatha, the process was fraught with high drama, a spectacle to watch with avid curiosity. Or maybe she hoped to catch a glimpse of the grim reaper. After all, she’d escaped his clutches for years untold. Whatever her reason, the Balefire sisters finally left her to it. Cleaning up her magical messes might fall under their current list of responsibilities, but her day-to-day care and feeding was someone else’s problem.

  “We’re done here, right?” Without waiting for the answer, Mag made for the cemetery exit closest to the ice cream stand. “I wore the clothes, I went to the thing, I nearly broke a hip, and now it’s butter-pecan time.”

  “You’re welcome for the soft landing,” Clara said, brushing the dirt off her clothes. “I’ve got skid marks on my ribs that’ll be there for a week, there’s mud seeping into my backside, and we’re no closer to knowing who killed Marsha than we were before. Ice cream won’t cure any of that.”

  “Make me less cranky, though.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s one benefit.” Locking her arm through Mag’s, Clara checked for anyone nearby, then chanced a drying spell on her clothes and matched her sister’s pace.

  From the outside, the town looked like it always had: a little sleepy, a place where neighbors helped each other, and children played without fear. Mag had called it about the seedy underbelly, though. The person who killed Marsha was someone she had known. Someone she probably trusted, and that was the saddest part. Moreover, the killer was getting away with murder.

  Caught up in her thoughts, Clara didn’t answer the first time Mag spoke, and it wasn’t until she felt a jab in her already sore ribs that she came back to the present.

  “What? That hurt. Are you trying to make a per
manent dent?”

  “Wimp. Look.” Mag pointed to an unexpected sight. Leanne Snow, still in her funeral attire, pulling a metal dolly-type cart down the sidewalk. It was a flatbed with a tall handle, like the ones at the big chain building-supply stores, and was piled with heavy-looking boxes.

  “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

  “That Leanne had the means to move the body as well as the opportunity? Yes, and maybe that husband of hers wasn’t as attentive as he seemed. She was right there when Hagatha made that murder comment. Looks like Leanne’s back on the list.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Need some help with that?” Clara’s voice nearly startled Leanne out of her skin as she maneuvered the overloaded cart up her front walkway.

  Arms too tanned for the current season and the ever-present layer of foundation that looked troweled on evidenced Leanne’s attempts to slow the ravages of time. Clara could have prescribed an essential oil blend that would have done the trick with far less effort and a more natural-looking result.

  Sculpted biceps flexed with the effort, and Clara wondered why Leanne felt she had to try so hard, and whether enough gym time to cultivate that level of strength had been for looks or for another, more deadly reason.

  “I’ve got it; don’t trouble yourself,” Leanne’s surprise smoothed into a welcoming smile too light to completely cover the signs of grief. Maybe she was one of those people who found solace in physical labor.

  When Mag toddled up behind her sister, Leanne took one look and resigned herself to the fact that she’d have to invite the Balefires inside. Only Clara recognized the sheen of sweat on Mag’s face for a carefully-constructed glamour spell. “Would you like a glass of lemonade? You look positively dreadful.”

  Mag swallowed the urge to reply with the vim and vigor that bubbled into her throat like bile and instead made the unusual decision to play nice. For the moment, at least. “Yes, please, that would be lovely.”

  “We don’t have much time before her husband gets back, I’d wager. Let’s make this quick.” Clara whispered when Leanne had deposited them in her floral-themed living room and retreated to the kitchen for refreshments.

  “So, what you’re saying is, we need to pull the truth out of her?” Mag flashed Clara a mischievous grin as Leanne returned with a pitcher and some glasses, and took a shot in the dark. “So, Leanne, tell us why you lied about hurrying home to put the kids to bed on the night Marsha died.”

  “Excuse me?” Leanne sputtered, her gaze traveling from Mag to Clara, who she apparently judged as the saner of the pair. “What is your mother talking about?”

  Clara glared at Mag who returned the look with a little wink. “I’m just going to cut to the chase. We think—no, we’re sure Marsha didn’t fall from that bridge by accident. And equally certain she didn’t jump on purpose, though that seems to be the consensus around town.” She paused to let the implications set in.

  “You’re not being honest about something, so unless you want us to go have a little chat with the police, I’d suggest you fess up.” Clara’s tone was the embodiment of sweetness and light, exactly like a grandmother’s—when she’s had enough and is getting ready to lower the boom.

  “First of all, like I told you before, Marsha was my friend, and I would never do anything to hurt her. And no, I didn’t go straight home that night. You want to know my big secret? See what it is I’m hiding? Hold on.” Leanne stomped down the hallway, the sounds of her rummaging around in the next room covered by a hurried conversation.

  “What do you think you’re doing? We didn’t agree to accuse her of anything.”

  “You wanted the truth, didn’t you? I figured she was lying about something. Everyone does.”

  “I hope she’s not looking for a gun.” Clara cast Mag a steely-eyed glare and readied a shield spell in case it was needed.

  Leanne returned with a large white envelope, threw it on the coffee table, and stood back expectantly, her hands on her hips.

  Clara shrugged and pulled out a sheaf of photo proofs, her eyes widening and her cheeks flushing crimson with the effort not to grin. “She has an alibi.”

  Mag snatched the photos from Clara’s hands and let out a low whistle, “How do these prove anything, except that women these days have zero decorum?”

  “There’s a time stamp, Mother. And something tells me these are for Leanne’s husband’s eyes only.” Clara certainly hoped Leanne wasn’t planning on handing out photos of herself, spread-eagle and wearing nothing but a few strategically-placed wisps of a feather boa.

  “Yes, of course, they are. And for me a little, too. A post-baby-weight pick-me-up to bolster my confidence. Was I supposed to get your permission first?” The admission came with the kind of difficulty that often stemmed from a history of self-esteem issues. If only the woman could see her own beauty. Clara thought a clear vision spell wouldn’t go amiss and nearly gave in to the temptation.

  “I—we’re—sorry for…well, everything. But the fact remains that someone killed your friend. Maybe you can help us find out who.”

  Leanne’s ire gave way to fresh grief as she considered the implications of Clara’s statement, “Yes, maybe. I’ll do whatever I can. But why aren’t the police investigating, if it was murder?”

  “We don’t have any hard evidence and Cobb certainly isn’t going to go out of his way to look deeper into what he assumes is a cut-and-dried accident.”

  “So when you threatened me before, that was—”

  “Call it motivation.”

  Leanne raised an eyebrow, “Well played.”

  “Tell us what you know about Marsha. Did she have enemies? Was she involved with anyone? That kind of thing.”

  Leanne took a seat on an overstuffed chair across from Mag and Clara and heaved an enormous sigh. “I’ve heard the rumors, and most of them are ridiculous, not to mention way off base. Marsha wasn’t private because she was hiding some deep, dark secret—and if I’m wrong, I didn’t know my friend nearly as well as I thought I did. She was private because of what happened before she moved back to town.”

  Falling silent, Leanne bit her lip. Betraying Marsha’s confidence might be necessary, but it wouldn’t come easy.

  “It’s okay, you’re not betraying her; you’re helping her, even if it does feel like a breach of confidence. I know we’re strangers, and that we came on a little strong, but please believe we only want to find justice for Marsha.” Clara considered using magic to show Leanne their true intentions but instead gave the woman a few moments to come to terms with her statement. After what felt like an eternity, Leanne nodded, swallowed hard, and continued.

  “Marsha had a turbulent—and somewhat inappropriate—relationship with a high-profile journalist who just happened to be her superior at the time. When a rival reporter found out about the affair—and it was an affair, though Marsha thought he and his wife were estranged—she leaked the story to another news outlet and effectively ended Marsha’s career.” She slid the pictures back into the envelope.

  “This all happened right around the time Marsha’s grandfather died and left her the Harmony Holler,” she continued. “She came home, settled down, and kept her personal past private. Of course, there are enough busybodies in this town to fill a turnip truck, and they’re not all technologically handicapped.”

  She sighed. “I wouldn’t call it public knowledge, but I’m almost positive there are a few people who were aware of Marsha’s indiscretion. Still, that business was put to bed years ago, and I can’t see how it could have anything to do with her death.”

  “Unless,” Mag spoke up for the first time, “the rumors about another clandestine affair are true, and Marsha had been seeing someone else in town. Someone who wasn’t exactly available.”

  If Leanne thought her husband had been embroiled in a dalliance with Marsha, her face would give it away, Mag was certain, and her eyes narrowed as she watched for the telltale reaction.

  Leanne shifted unco
mfortably in her seat and busied herself with picking an imaginary piece of lint from the arm of the chair. “If Marsha had a lover, she didn’t see fit to confide in me, but I’ve suspected there was someone special lately. She never was a fashionista, but over the last few months, she’d upgraded her wardrobe to include higher hemlines and lower necklines. I noticed she’d added more frequent salon appointments to her calendar, and started a gym membership. She seemed happy, for the first time in a long time.”

  “So, it’s possible she was seeing someone she shouldn’t have been?”

  “No. I don’t believe Marsha would make that mistake again.”

  “But you can’t know for sure.” Mag prodded without remorse.

  Clara shot her a look that could cut glass and rolled her eyes, “What makes you so certain, Leanne?”

  “Well, about six years ago, when Mary Mountain and Johnny Farber got married, we rode the limo bus into Port Harbor for an over-the-top bachelorette party. I’m no prude, and neither was Marsha, but a male strip club really wasn’t either of our scenes, so we stayed behind and cleaned out most of the champagne from the mini bar. It was the first time she ever let her guard down with me, and that’s the night our friendship began.” Leanne’s eyes misted over at the memory.

  “Anyway, she broke down and told me the whole story. How she’d been duped into believing everything her boss had said about the rocky relationship between him and his wife. For crying out loud, she was in her early twenties at the time, and to hear her tell it, he had charisma coming out his ass. She wasn’t the first, and I doubt she was the last. She told me how she’d followed him home one night only to watch him playing a convincing Ward Cleaver to his wife and kids. It crushed her, and she broke off the relationship. Marsha said she’d never be put in that position again, and that it was the biggest regret of her life.”

  “Why keep this new man a secret then?”

  “I assumed she was exercising caution, keeping her private life private. I refuse to believe otherwise. This had to be about something else, but I can’t imagine what.”