Any Witch Way You Can (3 page)

“You have a reason to go back. We always need feed. I think the aunts are using it for more than feeding the horses.”

“They’re probably using it for spells,” Clove agreed. “There’s no way four horses use as much food as they order.”

“Speaking of, we have family dinner tonight,” I remembered.

Thistle and Clove groaned in unison. I felt their pain. We all loved our mothers. We all loved our aunts. We all really loved our Great Aunt Tillie – even though we often wondered if she hadn’t went completely round the bend in recent years. Family dinners, though, were more work than anything else. The women in my family were witches also – obviously – but they were also spastic at times. Much like Clove, Thistle and I, they were ridiculously close. It didn’t help that they ran the bed and breakfast together – and were constantly on each other’s nerves – and at each other’s throats.

“I wonder what they’ll be fighting about tonight?” Clove wondered aloud.

“The same thing they always argue about. Who is the best cook, who is the best gardener, who is the smartest . . .”

I smiled to myself as I pictured the scene that was sure to unfold this evening. Utter chaos.

“We could say we’re too busy to go?” Even as I uttered the words I knew how ridiculous they were.

“Yeah, they’ll believe that. It’s a small town. They know we’re not too busy,” Thistle said.

“I like family dinner sometimes,” Clove admitted.

“I do, too,” I said hastily. “I’m just always so tired from the arguing afterwards.”

“It is exhausting.”

Thistle fixed a no-nonsense gaze on both of us. “There will be no Marcus talk tonight,” she said. It was a statement, not a plea.

“Of course not,” I agreed. It was one thing for the three of us to bag on one another. It was quite another thing for the aunts to do it. They would be down at the livery casting love spells before dessert hit the table if they had even an inkling anything was up. It had become the standard between the three of us: No lies for the younger crowd, but nothing but lies for the older crowd. These are wonderful women – don’t get me wrong – but they are the four biggest busybodies you have ever met. They never met a life issue they didn’t want to weigh in on. Or a romantic interest they didn’t want to horn in on.

“What time are you going up to The Overlook?” Thistle asked me.

“I still can’t believe they renamed it that after the renovation,” Clove muttered.

“We tried to tell them,” I said. “We told them that was the name of the hotel in
The Shining
, but that only made them more resolute. We told them to keep the old name, but you can’t argue with them when they make up their minds.”

“They think it will make tourists want to stay there.”

“It’s worked so far,” I admitted.

“Yeah,” Thistle blew out a breath “It’s still creepy. I expect to see ghosts around every turn, like a self-fulfilling prophecy.” She turned to me expectantly. “You’ve never seen a ghost there have you?”

“No,” I shook my head. “That’s been our family home since it was built in the 1600s. Witches don’t usually become ghosts.”

“I didn’t know that,” Clove said. “Why is that?”

“I don’t know either. I’ve just never met a witch that became a ghost and didn’t move on.”

“It’s probably because witches usually finish their business before they die,” I said.

“In the case of our family, it’s usually because witches finish everyone else’s business, too,” Thistle snickered.

I laughed pleasantly on the outside– but on the inside I shuddered. Wasn’t that the truth?

Three

I gossiped with Clove and Thistle for another half an hour before I made my way back to The Whistler. I had to file the holiday happenings roundup before dinner. It wasn’t exactly taxing work, but given the makeup of the town it was a lot of work. Every business had some sort of event happening over the next couple of weeks and if I missed one, then I would be accused of purposely omitting it.

It took me about two hours to do the write-up and send it to the layout people via email. The edition would be printed tomorrow, so I had gotten the article in just under the wire. I was happy to see that Edith had apparently forgotten her discomfort with the populace’s fixation on gruesome deaths and was back to being her usual snippy self.

Thankfully, I was alone in the office this afternoon so I didn’t have to explain to anyone why I was talking to thin air. Usually, I just told the handful of part-time workers that filtered through the newsroom that I was talking to myself and planning the latest edition of the newspaper. I’m not sure – given the stories that flew around the town regarding my family – if they believed me. I really didn’t care, though. I was beyond worrying what other people thought about me. The city had taught me that.

When I was sure everything was set – and I’d marked the mockups accordingly and left them on the paginator’s desk – I left the office. I had about a half an hour before dinner and if I wanted to make it to The Overlook in time I would have to hurry. Lateness was frowned upon in the Winchester house. So was swearing, burnt dessert and sarcasm.

I had walked to work that day. It was only a mile and I wanted to enjoy the fall colors and warm weather while I still could. When the snow hit, walking wouldn’t be an option. The town was beautiful in the winter, with all the twinkling lights and decorated Christmas trees, but even when plowed the roads were largely impassable.

The Overlook is the biggest house in the county. It’s an old Victorian that the Winchester family built in the 1600s. It has grown throughout the years, with each generation adding something new to the house. Now it boasts twenty guest rooms, a four-bedroom core where the family resides, a huge greenhouse and adjacent stables. There’s also a large guesthouse on the premises where Clove, Thistle and I reside together. It’s not technically part of The Overlook – but that doesn’t stop my mom and aunts from coming and going from the guesthouse whenever they see fit. We can’t really complain, either, since we live there rent-free. The lack of privacy is disturbing, though. Thankfully, the aunts only make their presence known about once a week – just long enough to comment on our housekeeping skills.

When I got to The Overlook, I stopped at the guesthouse long enough to drop off my purse. Thistle and Clove weren’t there, so I figured they had already made their way up to the main house without me.

When I got to the main house, I let myself in through the back door. A few months ago, the house had undergone a massive renovation to make the core of the house – where my family resided – more separate from the rest of the building. After the renovation, the aunts decided that they needed to rename the property. Hence, they now live in The Overlook.

The family living quarters are located at the back of the house and include four bedrooms, a living room, a library and a warm den where my mom and aunts take their evening tea – and gossip sessions. The family living quarters are attached to the rest of the inn via a stairwell and through the large kitchen.

When I entered the house I couldn’t help but smile when the tantalizing smell of stuffed cabbage hit my nostrils. My favorite.  My family may be out there – but there are no better cooks in the county. If you hear them talk, there are no better cooks in the world. They might be right. I never told them that, though. I didn’t want to encourage them.

I could hear the steady stream of chatter from the adjacent kitchen. Everyone must be in there, I figured.

“You’re late,” my mom admonished me when I entered the warm room.

I looked up at the clock on the wall and sighed. “One minute is not late.”

“It’s not on time.”

My mom, like her sisters, is short. She’s about 5’3” tall and still has the same blonde hair she had when I was kid. She claims it’s natural – but I have my doubts. I never voice those doubts out loud, though. I know exactly how that conversation would go.

Clove was sitting on the counter munching on a cookie. Her mother, Marnie, was standing on the floor in front of her with her hands on her hips and glaring at her disdainfully. “Who taught you to sit on the counter? That’s what heathens do.”

Clove sighed dramatically and hopped off the counter. Standing next to her mother, the resemblance was startling. Marnie was the same height as her daughter – and she had the same expansive bust. Like my mom, her hair seemed untouched by time. I knew for a fact she dyed her hair, though. I’d seen the empty dark dye bottles in the trash. Marnie owned her color jobs, though.

My Aunt Twila was stirring something on the stove as she talked to Thistle. “Blue dear? I don’t think it’s flattering to your coloring.”

I could see Thistle bristle at the comment. She was fighting the urge to argue with her mother. She knew it was a fruitless endeavor. We all knew that. That didn’t mean we didn’t engage in fruitless endeavors from time-to-time – or from minute-to-minute, for that matter.

I stifled a smile. My Aunt Twila’s hair had always come out of a bottle for as long as I had known her. A bright red Ronald McDonald bottle. She had the same coloring my mother and I had – and Thistle naturally had – but she never embraced it. She liked to be different. Her hair, much like Thistle’s, was cropped short. Marnie and my mom had chosen to keep their hair longer – and they often swept it up in messy buns to keep it under control. Twila never had that problem.

“I like the color,” Thistle argued.

“The color is fine in a blouse – not on you though, it washes you out – but it’s not okay for hair. Hair should be natural.”

“Your hair isn’t natural.”

“My hair is natural for me.”

“Maybe this is my natural color.”

Twila regarded her daughter contemplatively for a second. “No, dear, it’s not.”

I pulled Thistle away from her mother before she could say the words that were dying to come out of her mouth. I didn’t want the yelling to start until after I had gotten the stuffed cabbage in my stomach to sustain me.

“How was work today?” My mom asked.

“Fine. Same old, same old.”

“And how is Edith?”

“The same.”

“So she’s still a frigid old biddy?”

Every head in the room turned as my Great Aunt Tillie entered the room. If Marnie and Clove were tiny, Aunt Tillie was miniscule. She was 4’8” of raw power – and general disdain for everyone. She reminded me of a hobbit – without the hairy feet.  Actually, I don’t ever remember seeing her feet – so it was entirely possible they were hairy. She had dark hair and olive skin like Marnie and Clove – while her sister, our grandmother, had been blonde and fair before she died a few years ago. She had long ago given up the battle to keep her dark hair intact, though. She’d embraced the gray a long time ago. I didn’t actually remember her without the gray hair. I had seen pictures, though.

“She’s not a frigid old biddy,” I argued. “She’s just stuck in a time long since past.” Like most of the town, I thought.

“You forget, I knew Edith when she was alive,” Aunt Tillie pointed a gnarled finger in my direction. “I know who she was – what she was.”

“And what was she?”

“She was a nasty woman that tried to ruin my life.”

I sighed heavily. Here we go.

“She tried to steal your Uncle Calvin from me, you know?”

My Uncle Calvin had died thirty years ago and my Aunt Tillie still acted like he was going to come through the door at any time. He had died before I was born, but from all the stories I had heard he was a wonderful man. How he put up with Aunt Tillie was a mystery to us all. I loved the woman, but she was mean – and she could hold a grudge like nobody’s business.

“Well, I’m not sure I believe that,” I started to argue with Aunt Tillie. We were like oil and vinegar. All of our interactions always devolved into an argument – and sometimes a slap fight.

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“No. I’m just saying that maybe you are exaggerating.”

“I don’t exaggerate.”

Thistle and Clove snorted. Aunt Tillie swung on them with speed that belied her eighty-five years. Thistle and Clove immediately stifled their reactions. They were more scared of Aunt Tillie than anything else – including wild animal attacks and mismatched socks. They were in self-preservation mode. Aunt Tillie was more ferocious when cornered than any animal ever could be.

“She used to bring your Uncle Calvin cookies all the time,” Aunt Tillie had turned back to me.

“Was she naked when she brought him the cookies?”

Aunt Tillie looked scandalized. “Of course not.”

“Then why do you think she was trying to steal Uncle Calvin?”

“Why else would she make him cookies?”

“Maybe because she knew you couldn’t cook.” I hadn’t meant to actually say it out loud, but I did. The truth was, while my mom and aunts were accomplished cooks – kitchen witches each and every one of them, like my grandmother – Aunt Tillie was known as something of a disaster in the kitchen. She couldn’t boil water – and when she tried, she burned it.

“I can too cook,” she growled. “I just choose not to. I’m an old lady. I shouldn’t have to cook.”

The truth is, Aunt Tillie is only old when she doesn’t want to do something. When she wants to do something dangerous – and we remind her of her age – she tells us she’s old, not dead.

“Fine, she was after Uncle Calvin. It obviously didn’t work.”

“Not for lack of trying,” she huffed. “The only thing that stopped her was the fact that she was murdered.”

“You didn’t do it, did you?” I asked suspiciously.

“Of course not.”

“Then how do you know she was murdered? I thought she was found slumped over her desk and everyone thought she had a heart attack?”

“I never believed that,” Aunt Tillie sniffed. “And that was before I knew she was a ghost.”

Aunt Tillie was post-cognitive, too. She could see ghosts and talk to them. “Did you ever ask her about it?”

“Of course not. Why would I want to help the woman that tried to steal my husband?”

“I don’t know, to do the right thing?”

“Have you ever asked her?” My mom was trying to ease the conversation before Aunt Tillie hexed me with some horrible curse. Don’t scoff. She’s done it before. When I was a teenager, she gave me a big zit on the end of my nose right before the prom – I swear it was her. When I was in college, she once made it so I could only turn to my left for an entire week. It made getting to classes a nightmare – and a long ordeal -- on a daily basis.