Witch at Heart: A Jinx Hamilton Witch Mystery Book 1 (The Jinx Hamilton Mysteries) (13 page)

S
ince we couldn't speak freely
about Beth in front of Chase, the remainder of our lunch conversation was blessedly murder free. It wasn't like we didn't have other things to talk about. Chase knew nothing about what had been going on during the last week in regard to magic and resident apparitions at my place, so he had no way of understanding that our lunch conversation was a welcome relief from those topics.

He proved to be a receptive and appreciative audience as we both regaled him with stories about our tenure working at Tom's cafe.

Lord knows that waitresses meet some odd ducks over the years. Not all of them are out-of-towners coming in off the highway or seasonal tourists. Tom’s also boasts quite a crew of unusual regulars. The big round table in the front is permanently reserved for a rotating gang of locals who migrate in and out during the day according to their current need for caffeination.

Don’t bother going to the CIA for intel. If you want to get the scoop on pretty much anything from politics to the latest divorce brewing in town, the round table at Tom’s is the place to go.

Tori told us all about training the new girls, which really was primarily a matter of getting them used to Tom himself. Don't get me wrong, the guy is an absolutely wonderful boss when you get to know him. Unfortunately, he has only one volume level, extreme.

To our surprise and delight, Chase joined in with hysterical accounts of his own brief stint as a short order cook during college.

“It paid the bills back then,” he said self-deprecatingly. “But I knew it wasn't my calling in life. Every single time I had to yell ‘order up,’ I was terrified that everything on the plate was inedible. I'm probably the only person in the world who lost 20 pounds working as a cook.”

I really liked the fact that he has the ability to laugh at himself. Humor should never be underestimated as a valuable asset in a boyfriend.

Although I had intended for us to split the check, Chase insisted on picking up the bill. He said it was his way of welcoming us both to the town square.

Funny and a gentleman. He was racking up points all over the board.

Just as we had done after dinner the evening of our date, Chase suggested we all take a walk around the square after we left the pizzeria.

The fact that Pete’s was the only eatery on the square made me even more enthusiastic about Tori’s idea of converting a portion of the store into a coffee shop / espresso bar. I said as much as we strolled down the sidewalk.

“It wouldn’t just be for the tourists,” I said. “Don't you think people on Main Street would like to be able to come in and have morning coffee?”

“I do,” Chase agreed. “There was a coffee shop on the corner across from the grocery, but it closed down a couple of years ago when the old guy who ran it died. People have really missed having someplace like that to hang out.”

Tori chimed in enthusiastically. “I have a brilliant idea,” she said.

She’s humble like that.

“Why don't we go ahead and ask Mark to do the remodel for the coffee shop at the same time he’s working on my place?” she asked. “Is there really any reason to wait? He might give you a better rate for doing all the work at one time.”

“That's what he did when he remodeled my place,” Chase said. “Amity had him do a lot of work at the pottery shop at the same time. It worked out really well, because he had all of his crew on site and could rotate them out. We were able to split the cost on some of the materials, and Mark supervised both jobs at once. He did so much running back and forth between the two stores, Fiona said we ought to put a traffic light on the sidewalk to keep folks from getting run over.”

I laughed. “That sounds like her,” I said. “She really did have a wonderful sense of humor. I'm beginning to appreciate what a natural she was at running the store.”

“How are you doing with it?” Chase asked.

“It was a good week,” I said sincerely.

I wasn't about to tell him that in the last ten days I learned how to push and pull objects with my mind, or that I was facilitating the binge-watching habits of a ghost who was using Netflix to catch up on 80’s sitcoms. I also didn't mention I suspected that both the store itself and the resident rodent were far smarter than I was.

What I was discovering I liked most about being a business owner was the “owner” part. Even on a slow day, I could look around and know that everything in the place was mine. I missed some parts of working at Tom’s, like seeing the regulars every day and taking part in the steady flow of information, but the shop belonged to me. Everything there was ripe with potential for the realization of my own ideas.

Now Tori’s fertile mind had been added to the mix as well. She was right, there was absolutely no reason to wait to add a coffee area or anything else. I was the boss.

Let me inject another little bit of literary foreshadowing here. We may not get to it in this story, but I think it bears mentioning that I had not yet realized that Myrtle is the real boss. Failing to ask her opinion about my plans would prove to be something of a problem sooner than later.

At that moment, however, none of us had anything more pressing on our minds than leisurely strolling around the town square on a beautiful spring afternoon. I already regarded the square as a little town inside the slightly larger town that was Briar Hollow.

Something of a renaissance had been taking place on the square over the last several years, so that all of the old red brick buildings were either occupied or were under renovation to house some new endeavor. A lot of it was motivated by the seasonal tourist traffic, but there was also a sense of renewed municipal pride. I had noticed that locals spend a lot of time downtown now, which made the idea of having a coffee shop with sandwiches and a few baked goods all the more appealing.

Some of the stores already stayed open on Friday and Saturday nights, just the way they had back in the 1930s and 1940s, or so George and Irma told me. According to them, old-timers talked about how much fun it had been to come to town and park their cars on the square to visit with everyone who was walking up and down the sidewalk.

I liked that image. My mental “to do” list included joining the Chamber of Commerce and the Town Square Association. I didn't want the store to be some kind of passive inheritance. I wanted to make something of it. Neither Tori nor I could remember if we’d ever shared our dream of jointly running a business with Aunt Fiona, but we still felt like she had given us both an incredible gift.

Three times around the square seemed to be about the norm for Chase. We once again parted at the door of my shop, but this time, I suppose because Tori was standing there, I only got a hug and a little peck on the cheek.

Considering the fact that Chase is a very accomplished hugger, I didn't consider the parting a downgrade.

Once we were inside, Tori and I adjourned to the storeroom to discuss what Sheriff Johnson told us about Beth.

Flopping down once again on the loveseat, Tori looked at me and said, “Are you going to tell Beth that her mother is organizing her funeral, or am I going to tell her?”

Surely I hadn’t heard that right.

“Are you actually volunteering?” I asked.

“No. Duh,” she said. “Can't you recognize one of those facetious question things when you hear one?”

I laughed. That was more like it.

“How about
we
tell her?” I suggested.

“In that case, I think
we
should find out when the service is scheduled before we talk to her,” Tori replied.

Good point.

I walked out to the counter, retrieved the phone directory, and came back into the storeroom. All I could remember about the local funeral parlor was that it was named “J” something. Thankfully, as sections of the alphabet go, there were very few people living in town whose last name started with “J.”

As for the funeral home, it was the Jenkins Mortuary. I dialed the number only to be greeted with doleful music and the assurance that my call was extremely important to them. I was asked to please hold while they attended to the needs of the currently bereaved.

I rolled my eyes and held the phone out so Tori could hear an organ playing, “Nearer My God to Thee.” On the third verse, a man’s voice came on the line. “Jenkins Mortuary,” he said. “May I help you?”

“Yes,” I said. “I was wondering if the service for Elizabeth Barlow had been scheduled?”

“It has,” the man intoned mournfully. “Such a tragic loss.”

Uh, yeah, during the Reagan administration.

“The services will be held Wednesday afternoon at 3 o'clock,” the undertaker continued. “Given the long-term effect of this case on the community, I would suggest an early arrival. The service will be here in our chapel, and out seating is limited.”

I thanked him and ended the call. “Sounds like Beth is going to get a standing-room-only funeral,” I said.

“I have no doubt,” Tori said. “Even 30 years after the fact, murder is juicy stuff.”

Okay. Seriously bad choice of verbal imagery there.

Steering the conversation in a slightly new direction, Tori asked, “What do you think about Mr. Warmth and Personality up at the campground being a suspect back in 1985?”

“I think it's entirely too convenient,” I said. “Besides, I’m sure the authorities ruled out everyone who worked at the campground as persons of interest”

Listen to me with the crime talk there. Persons of interest.

“You know what's bugging me?” Tori said.

“No, what?”

“If Aunt Fiona was this big deal witch, and she was interested in who killed Jane, then why didn’t she figure out there was a connection back to Beth and catch the killer?”

I didn't want to be disloyal to my aunt, but that question had crossed my mind more than once.

“If Fiona would answer my calls and come talk to us,” I said, “that’s one of the questions I’d like to ask, but I’m getting nothing but dead air from her. My best guess so far is exactly what you said. Maybe all witches aren’t the same. Maybe Fiona didn’t have the right set of powers to catch the killer.”

Tori cocked her head to one side and looked at me appraisingly. “Does that mean you
do
have the right powers?”

Why did I feel like somebody had just looked at me and said, “Luke, I am your father?”

“Do
not
go there,” I warned. “I am totally making this stuff from one minute to the next.”

“Fair enough,” Tori said, “but there’s something else I find real interesting.”

“And that would be?”

“That the old campground coot went to the trouble of paying for a lawsuit to protect a hickory tree. Both Beth and Twenty-Five were buried at the base of hickory trees. What's the deal with hickory trees?”

I shrugged. “You’ve got me on that one, too. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. There are hickory trees all over this part of the country.”

“Maybe,” she said, “but I’d like to know more about that lawsuit.”

“Well, that’s easy enough,” I said.

My laptop was lying on the new coffee table, so I opened the machine, and in just a few keystrokes, had a series of stories about the well-publicized legal action of one Woodrow Evers against the regional power company.

Sheriff Johnson hadn’t been kidding about how serious Evers was about that tree. So serious, in fact, the guy actually chained himself to the trunk at one heated juncture of the fight. The
Briar Hollow Banner
carried a front page photograph of a much younger version of the man we encountered the day before sitting resolutely on the ground, manacled to the hickory.

As I studied the photograph, I could see that the controversial tree was about 200 yards from the party barn in the center of the campground. If I had my bearings right, the venerable hickory would have been to our left as we drove in. The longer I stared at the picture, the more determined I became to see that tree for myself.

Tori was watching me and apparently reading my expression. “You want to go back out there, don't you?” she asked.

“Yes, I do,” I said, warming to the idea forming in my mind. “If I can touch things and get these visions, why couldn't I touch that tree and see if it has anything to do with Beth's disappearance?”

For once, Tori was the voice of caution.

“I don't know,” she said reluctantly. “You heard what the Sheriff said. Mr. Evers has a bad habit of shooting at trespassers. Getting shot at is not a good idea, Jinksy.”

Dodging bullets was not part of my plan, but I was determined to get back on the land. Maybe I could use the fact that Fiona and Evers didn't like one another to my advantage.

In the south, there are very predictable times when we take to the kitchen and prepare food. One is when someone dies. There is nothing like a death to initiate a frenzy of green bean casserole making and Cool Whip slathering. Baked goods are also a highly acceptable way to tender an apology.

“How about this,” I suggested. “What if I bake up one of my world-famous lemon pies, and take it out there tomorrow to apologize for trespassing on his land? That way, I can see if I'm right about the location of the hickory tree and maybe figure out how you and I can sneak back in when you’re here next weekend.”

“You mean when I’m here for the service on Wednesday,” she corrected me. “I've already texted Tom and told him I need that day off and that I’ll be in late on Thursday.”

Shaking my head ruefully, I said, “You know, girlfriend, we really have to get ourselves some better hobbies. Lately, all we do is look for ghosts and hang out with dead people.

From the doorway, Beth said in a small voice, “What's wrong with dead people?”

Now there’s an opening line for a conversation if I ever heard one.

W
hen we explained
to Beth about her funeral, the only thing that seemed to register with her was that her mother would be there. As delicately as I could, I pointed out to the girl that she wouldn't actually be able to speak to her mom. Beth’s reaction brought tears to my eyes.

“I know,” she said. “It's just going to be really good to see her again. It's been a long time.”

“Honey,” I said gently, “do you realize that your mom may not look quite the way you remember her? She's going to be 30 years older than she was the last time you saw her.”

Beth's brow crinkled, and then she said very sweetly and a little brightly, “I guess that means she’ll look more like Grandma now. Cool.”

And with that, she floated back out of the storeroom.

I looked at Tori and we both shook our heads. If we didn't find a way to help Beth, I didn't think either one of us would be able to stand it.

Tori couldn’t put it off any longer. She had to get back to her place and face the work world the next day. She very reluctantly got her things together and I practically had to push her out the front door.

“You'll call me if anything comes up?” she asked, tossing her suitcase in the backseat of her car.

“Of course I'll call you,” I said. “We've talked to each other every day of our lives since we were in the first grade. You're the first one to hear everything. Quit worrying that you're going to miss out on something.”

Tori got behind the wheel and then rolled the window down. Looking up at me with a serious expression, she said, “Jinksy, are you sure about this idea of taking a pie out to the campground tomorrow? I'm still worried it’s a bad plan.”

“I'm sure,” I assured her.

Who in the world can turn down lemon pie?

The answer to that question would be Woodrow Evers.

The next morning, I spent an hour and a half in the kitchen making pie crust from scratch and cooking up the most beautiful lemon pie I’d made since I won a blue ribbon at the youth show my junior year in high school.

Aunt Fiona could hardly be described as a domestic goddess, but she did seem to have nursed an affinity for plastic ware. I found a pie carrier in the cabinet, and once my creation was cooled, I taped a sign on the front door. “Out for Errands. Be back in an hour.”

The instant I drove into the campground, Evers came charging out. I guess he recognized my Prius. Let's face it; in a state where big trucks are the norm, a hybrid sticks out like a sore thumb.

The old man stormed toward me, shouting orders for me to get off his land before he called the law. I hadn’t even managed to offer him a civil good morning.

When he finally paused for breath, I said, as politely and patiently as I could manage, “Mr. Evers, I'm just here to apologize for being so rude and trespassing on your land yesterday.”

He interrupted me immediately. “Your idea of apologizing for trespassing is to trespass again, young lady?” he demanded with a derisive snort. “You really are related to Fiona Ryan, aren't you?”

Setting my jaw, but keeping the forced smile on my face, I tried again. “I don't mean to be trespassing, sir, I just brought you a pie.”

“I don't like pie,” he snapped. “Now get the hell off my land.”

From behind him, a voice said, “Now, Dad, that's not very neighborly.”

Evers glanced over his shoulder and scowled. “WJ,” he said, “you need to learn to tend to your own business.”

I looked past Evers, and saw a man in his mid-forties walking toward us. Although he didn’t have an athletic build, his tanned features indicated he spent a lot of time outdoors. There was a strong resemblance in his face to Evers, which led me to guess that “WJ” might stand for “Woodrow, Jr.”

“Hi,” I said to the newcomer. “I really am sorry to cause such a fuss. I just wanted to apologize for trespassing yesterday.”

WJ gave me an open and genial smile. “I'm sorry for Dad’s reaction,” he said. “He doesn't like anyone but registered campers on the premises. He told me that you drove through yesterday just to have a look around. I assured him you weren’t here to do any harm then, and clearly you’re not now. That pie is beautiful.”

“It’s lemon,” I ventured, trying to keep the thin line of communication open. “I baked it fresh this morning.”

“Since you're related to Fiona Ryan,” the old man growled, “I wouldn't be surprised if you put arsenic in the damn thing.”

“Dad,” WJ said firmly, “that really is enough. Why don't you go on back to the office and let me talk with Miss Ryan?”

“It’s Hamilton,” I said. I shifted the pie container to my left hand and held out my right as the younger man leaned in for the handshake. “Jinx Hamilton,” I said, clarifying the introduction. “Fiona and my mother were sisters.”

He shook my hand with a firm grip. “WJ Evers,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Beside us, Woodrow cleared his throat and spit dismissively in the dirt at our feet. “I've had enough of this chit chat,” he said. “You can stand out here yacking with white trash if you want to, boy, but I've got work to do.”

My mouth dropped. I wasn’t sure what was more shocking, the disgusting spitting part or the fact that the old guy had just had the nerve to call me white trash. I watched with a dumbfounded expression on my face as he stalked off.

Before I could say anything, WJ rushed to fill the void. “I am so incredibly sorry for my father’s utter lack of manners,” he said.

“I hope you'll excuse me for saying so,” I said, “but your father doesn't have much in the way of people skills.”

WJ laughed. “No,” he agreed. “Nobody is ever going to describe Dad as warm and fuzzy.”

Since I didn’t know what else to do, I handed him the pie, which he accepted with a smile.

“Thank you for this,” he said. “I really mean that. And if you're interested in camping with us, I'll speak with my father.”

Since the conversation was starting to take on that tone of polite pre-termination, I told a white lie. “I love to camp,” I said with faux enthusiasm. “And the grounds here are so beautiful.”

I used the statement as an excuse to turn around in the spot and survey my surroundings. In the distance, down the slope and to the right of where I was standing, I spotted the majestic old hickory exactly where I expected it to be.

What I didn't expect was a small building that was obviously a recent addition to the compound. A tidy little sign hanging from the eave said, “Museum.” Perfect. I could use that to buy myself more time.

“You have a museum on the property?” I asked with interest. ”What’s in your collection?”

WJ brightened considerably. “I specialize in Native American artifacts,” he said. “Not just the tribes in this area, but also groups that extend up into New England and all the way to the border with Canada.”

“Oh,” I said, making the word sound a little breathy. “That's fascinating. Is there any chance you might show me?”

Yes, as much as I hate to admit it, I might have fluttered my eyelashes a little bit when I said it.

WJ flushed with pleasure. “You're really interested?” he asked.

The way he posed the question, I suspected that even though his museum was smack in the middle of his property, he didn't get a lot of foot traffic through the front door.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “I'm very interested.”

This time, his response shifted into full-blown gallantry. “Then of course I'll give you a tour,” he said. “It would be my pleasure.”

I fell in beside him as we walked across the campground. The longer that I could keep him talking, the better chance I might have to learn something about his eccentric father.

“How in the world does your mom put up with your dad being so grouchy?” I asked.

WJ answered in an almost hushed voice. “My mother died when I was 12 years old.”

“I'm so very sorry,” I said. “That was a very presumptuous thing of me to ask.”

“No,” he said, “not at all. I think Dad would be so much better if she were still here to keep him company. She really was the only person he got along with.”

As we approached the small building, I said, “It must have been very hard for him to be out here raising you by himself all these years. What year did she die?”

“Nineteen-eighty-two,” WJ said. Then he added sadly, “I can't believe that she's been gone 33 years.”

In my head, I did the math. In 1985, when Beth disappeared from the party, WJ was 15 years old.

“Was this an interesting place to grow up? I asked, as he held the door of the building open for me.

“It was, ”he said. “When you run a campground, there are always new people to meet and watch during the season. The winters can get a little lonely, but otherwise, I've always liked the business.”

“Are you here for a visit?” I asked.

“No.” he said. “I've just recently moved back home. Dad is getting on up there in years and he needs more help than he's willing to admit or accept.”

Something told me that was an understatement.

Just as WJ finished his sentence, he flipped the light switch by the door and flooded the interior of the museum with brilliant light. I have to admit I was immediately impressed by the collection, which appeared to be lovingly and meticulously curated. Antique display cases lined the walls, no doubt rescued from stores in the area. Many of them looked like the cabinets that filled my own shop in town. The shelves contained perfectly aligned groupings of artifacts, all carefully labeled. As I took in more detail, I realized the cases were arranged in regional groupings, with individual cases dedicated to particular tribes.

“This is an incredible private collection,” I said. And meant it.

“Thank you,” he said. “I've been doing this since I was a boy. I saved my allowance to buy my first pieces. Many of the things in my collection now are of museum quality.”

“What was your first artifact?” I asked.

“Oh,” he said, giving me a boyish grin, “that's easy. It was a Seneca throwing tomahawk. I still have it. Let me show you.”

He crossed the room, opened one of the cabinets, and took out a long-handled tomahawk. The head was slightly elongated with one broader, crooked end. The piece strongly resembled a modern hatchet, but it had clearly been worked by hand.

WJ held the artifact out to me. “Hold it,” he said encouragingly. “The balance the Seneca were able to achieve in their throwing tomahawks is a testament to the sophistication of their workmanship.”

I didn't want to tell him that I wouldn't have been able to recognize balance in a tomahawk to save my life, but I took the weapon he held out to me.

That's when it happened. I should have known that touching an artifact that old would likely trigger a vision, but I was still so new to psychometry, I simply forgot to exercise the correct amount of caution. The instant my hand touched the wood, the modern scene around me disappeared.

I was still looking at the Tomahawk in my hands, but now they were the hands of a young male. I could see my feet and make out a pair of moccasins, but my legs were bare. At my waist, I could feel the weight of a belt.

From somewhere in front of me, a girl’s voice called out to me. Looking up, I realized it was nighttime, but off to my left I could make out a strange light. It didn’t fit the rest of the picture. The illumination seemed to be oddly mechanical.

The girl spoke again. Squinting in the half-light, I tried to locate her, only to realize I was looking at Beth tied to the trunk of the hickory tree. She met my eyes directly, and said in a pleading voice, “Please, you don't have to do this.”

The words echoed in my mind, and then the room righted itself and I was back in present time. WJ was looking at me with a concerned look on his face. “Are you okay?” he asked. “You were here with me one minute and then you were just gone.”

“I’m so sorry,” I stuttered. “Yes, uh, yes, I’m fine. I zone out like that sometimes when I get hungry. It’s a blood sugar . . . thing. I skipped breakfast this morning. Bad idea.”

It was a lame excuse, but in a pinch, blaming your blood sugar generally works. Or at least it always did with my mom, who is, admittedly, a little bit of a hypochondriac.

“Oh my goodness,” he said, “do you need to sit down? Should I find you something to eat? Like a piece of candy?”

“No,” I said, “but thank you. Really. I’m fine. And I should be going anyway.”

“Are you sure you’re alright to drive?”

“I feel much better now,” I said. “I just need to get back to the store. I’ve been away too long. I don’t have any help, you see. It’s just me, so I had to close up this morning. I’ll have something to eat when I get back.”

“I’d be happy to follow you into town to make sure you get there okay,” he said.

I declined his offer with more assurances that I would be fine and thanked him for showing me his collection. “Maybe I can come back sometime,” I said, “and we can finish the tour.”

“Any time,” WJ said. “I'll make sure you get a more cordial reception from my father on your next visit.”

Thankfully I didn’t say what immediately popped into my head. When pigs fly.

WJ walked me back to my car and thanked me again for the pie.

As I drove away, I looked in the rearview mirror to see that he was watching me closely. I wondered if WJ, like his father on Saturday, wanted to make sure I really was leaving the property.

At the time, however, I wasn’t nearly as interested in understanding the motivations of the Evers men as I was in trying to figure out how in the world Beth managed to get herself killed by a Seneca Indian in 1985.