Charms & Witchdemeanors (Wicked Witches of the Midwest Book 8) Page 2

  I snickered. “She has been pretty quiet,” I mused, searching my memory for an instance when she acted out of line. “She’s kind of been keeping to herself.”

  “That’s probably because she’s plotting something,” Clove said. Those were bold words coming from her, and I couldn’t help but notice she glanced over her shoulder to make sure Aunt Tillie hadn’t sneaked into the shop. “The last time she behaved this long we found out she’d been cursing all of the women in that sewing club to use the wrong thread.”

  “Ah, yes, the great quilting catastrophe of 2014,” I said, smirking at the memory. “They shouldn’t have kicked her out of the group if they didn’t want repercussions. That was really on them.”

  “The woman can’t even sew,” Thistle argued. “She only wanted to be a part of the club because she sold them wine. Those were some ugly quilts that year, though. Sheesh.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I kind of liked the one that had red and pink hearts all over it. It was like Valentine’s Day threw up.” Clove preferred looking on the bright side of things.

  “Those weren’t hearts,” Thistle shot back.

  Clove was confused. “What were they?”

  “I believe someone was singing a song about apple bottoms because of all the wine Aunt Tillie gave them,” Thistle replied.

  “Oh, well, that’s less pretty.”

  We fell into amiable silence, and while I knew it wasn’t the last time we would hang out like this, part of me felt a little sad because once Clove moved out of the guesthouse we shared, things would be markedly different. She was the first to leave the nest, so to speak. Because we shared the guesthouse on our mothers’ property and lived on top of one another, it was frustrating, maddening and annoying every single day. It was also comfortable and familiar, and I never fare well with change.

  “When are you officially moving in with Sam?” I asked, shifting my eyes to Clove.

  Sam Cornell owned the Dandridge, a local lighthouse, and after months of dating and helping him refurbish the place, Clove was taking their relationship to the next level. She was excited, which was kind of cute. Thistle pretended to be excited, but I could tell she was really upset – though she didn’t want to admit it.

  “We haven’t picked a set day yet,” Clove replied. “I’m moving my bed out there because it’s so much nicer than his, and I have several loads remaining at our place. I think he wants it to be soon, though. Maybe really soon.”

  I expected the answer, but it was still sobering. “Well, we should plan a fun chocolate martini night before you go,” I suggested. “It will be the last one with us as a group.”

  Clove balked. While she was happy to be moving in with Sam, she was frustrated to think the group dynamic wouldn’t be the same. She would still be one of us, of course, but it wouldn’t be the same. “It won’t be our last martini night,” she said. “It’s not as if I’m leaving the family.”

  “It’s close enough,” Thistle challenged. “Now you’re going to be all the way across town. When we have martini nights you’ll have to drink one and then leave so you’re not drunk when you drive. You won’t wake up with a raging hangover to find upset mothers watching you. You’re out of that particular loop.”

  “That sounded bitter,” I said.

  “I’m not bitter.”

  “You sound it.”

  “Oh, shut your mouth,” Thistle muttered. “I’m not bitter. I’m happy for Clove.”

  “It’s okay if you’re bitter,” Clove said. “I know you’re going to miss me. You can even cry a little if you feel the need.”

  “Ha!” Thistle bellowed so loudly it caused me to jolt.

  “Ha what?” I asked.

  “I’m going to see her five days a week here, so I won’t miss her,” Thistle said. “You guys are making a big deal out of this move when it’s a normal part of life and very little will change.”

  “You just said you were upset Clove wouldn’t wake up with a hangover at the guesthouse again,” I reminded her.

  “I didn’t say I was upset,” Thistle argued. “I said it’s going to be different. Different isn’t bad. I’m looking forward to it. It will give us more room to spread out. That guesthouse is too small for six people, and when Sam spends the night, that’s how many people live under that roof.”

  “Bay, you’re going to miss me, right?” Clove was in desperate need of emotional encouragement. Fear often held her back, and I knew she was looking forward to this move. Her biggest fear was being forgotten, though. That was impossible, but she couldn’t see it.

  “I’m definitely going to miss you,” I said.

  Clove shot a triumphant look in Thistle’s direction. “See!”

  Thistle made a comical face. “Whatever.”

  “You always take my side in fights with Thistle,” I added. “Now we won’t have a deciding vote. It’ll be a fight to the death when we argue.”

  “Yes, I’m looking forward to it,” Thistle said, her eyes gleaming. “We both know you can’t take me.”

  “You’re going to miss me for other reasons, too, right?” Clove appropriated a whiny tone. “You’re going to miss me because you love me. I know it.”

  “I love you,” I said, nodding. “I’m going to miss you most because of the arguments, though. I’m sorry if that hurts your feelings, but I’m worried about myself and what will happen when Thistle starts acting like Aunt Tillie Junior.”

  Clove didn’t want to laugh, but she couldn’t help herself. “Yeah. I feel a little sorry for you on that front.”

  “You should feel a lot sorry for me,” I said. “On days when Landon is here it will be okay because he has a badge. When he’s not around, well, look out world. I knew the fact that Thistle was most like Aunt Tillie would come back to bite me eventually.”

  My FBI agent boyfriend Landon Michaels spent as many nights as possible with me in Hemlock Cove, a small tourist town in northern Lower Michigan. His office was in Traverse City, though, so at least three nights a week he had to stay in his small apartment near Grand Traverse Bay. That’s where he was now, in fact. I wasn’t due to see him until the following evening – and I only felt like crying a little bit. What? He’s hot. Sue me.

  “I am nothing like Aunt Tillie,” Thistle snapped. “Take that back.”

  “You’re exactly like her … except, well, you dress better,” I said. “That said, I can see you wearing a combat helmet and yoga pants with the word ‘juicy’ on your rear end eventually.”

  Thistle shifted her murderous eyes to Clove. “Tell her I’m not like Aunt Tillie.”

  “So we’ve reached the lying portion of today’s festivities? Is that what you’re telling me?” Clove deadpanned.

  “You’re both dead to me,” Thistle grumbled, rolling her neck until it cracked. “I just … I get absolutely no respect in this family. I’m sick of it.”

  “I believe Aunt Tillie said that last week during dinner when Mom told her that sequins were banned from the dinner table so her new coat had to go,” I said.

  “I will make you eat dirt,” Thistle warned, evoking a popular family threat. “It’s hot as Hades out there, but I’m willing to work up a sweat to shut your mouth. If I do it with dirt, it will be all the better.”

  “I can’t hear you over all of Aunt Tillie’s inane chatter,” I shot back, smirking as Clove’s eyes widened. I had no doubt the first few weeks without Clove as a buffer in the guesthouse were going to be interesting – and by “interesting” I mean all-out war.

  “I’m going to cook a mud pie with worms in it,” Thistle said. “Just you wait.”

  “Whatever,” I said, lifting myself to a higher position and glancing at the street. Two women, both of whom I recognized as advertisers in The Whistler, the weekly newspaper I edited, stood outside the door excitedly gesturing to one another. “What do you think that’s about?”

  Thistle suspiciously followed my gaze, as if I was trying to distract her long enough to make her forget I had
been irritating her. “I don’t know,” she said. “They do look worked up, don’t they?”

  “Isn’t that Beth Farmer and Toni Johnson?” Clove asked.

  I nodded as I pushed myself to a standing position. If something big was happening – even if it was only big by Hemlock Cove’s pitiful standards – I should probably check on it. So far my cover story for this week’s edition focused on the new fence in front of the diner’s outdoor seating area. I was desperate for something else – anything really – to bump the fence story inside.

  “I’m going to see what’s going on,” I said. “Don’t kill each other while I’m gone, and decide where we’re getting lunch. I’m starving.”

  When no one answered, I turned to see if they’d heard me or were purposely ignoring me. I found both of them trailing me to the door. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Winchester women love gossip. It’s second only to drinking when it comes to family activities enjoyed by the lot of us.

  I pushed open the door, fixing a pleasant smile on my face as I regarded the women. I wasn’t particularly fond of either of them, although I didn’t openly dislike them. We didn’t run in the same circles, so we didn’t spend a lot of time trading life secrets. Okay, you got me. They’re a little too prim and proper, and they bug me. I prefer my friends bawdy instead of boring.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. “You guys look excited.”

  “Haven’t you heard the news?” Beth asked, her blond bob gleaming in the sunlight.

  I shook my head. “What news?”

  “Patty Grimes is dead.”

  I stilled. “Patty Grimes?” I was pretty sure that was the woman who lived a relatively isolated life on the north side of town.

  “Isn’t that the old lady up on Winchester Road who talks to her cats?” Thistle asked, making a face.

  “She’s a very nice woman,” Beth shot back. “A lot of people talk to their animals.”

  “Yeah, but she once told me the cats talked back to her and one of them told her the flowers were alive and planning a mutiny,” Thistle replied, unruffled.

  “She was elderly,” Beth said. “Many people lose certain … faculties … when they’re elderly. You should know. I believe you have an elderly aunt who does much worse things.”

  “I would argue, but it would be useless,” Thistle said, taking me by surprise with her capitulation. “What happened to Patty? Did she die in her sleep?”

  “She was murdered,” Toni said, her tone ominous. “She was poisoned, and I heard the police already have a suspect in custody. Her body was found a few hours ago and they moved quickly, so they must have open-and-shut evidence.”

  I couldn’t help but be dubious. It wasn’t often I missed a story this huge. “She was murdered? How do you know that?”

  “Skip Taylor heard the paramedics say they smelled something around her mouth and her skin was blue under her fingernails,” Toni replied, puffing out her chest. “That means she was murdered. Skip saw it on television, and I believe him.”

  “Did she just explain something?” Thistle asked, annoyed.

  “Changing skin pigment is a sign of poisoning,” I offered. “Landon told me when we were watching one of those mystery shows on television one night.”

  “So you learned it from television, too? That must mean it’s true.” Thistle said, wrinkling her nose and forcing me to ignore her.

  “Could it be true?” Clove asked. “I mean … who would harm a little old lady like that?”

  “I just told you they made an arrest and they’re bringing the person in,” Beth said.

  “But … who?” I asked.

  Beth pointed toward the police station across the road and down a block. Hemlock Cove’s Police Chief Terry Davenport pulled in to his usual spot, and I watched as he exited the driver’s seat and moved to the back of the cruiser so he could open the door.

  The person he ushered out – all four feet and eleven inches of her – took my breath away.

  “No way,” Clove intoned, her eyes widening to anime proportions. “It can’t be.”

  “Who is it?” Beth asked. “I can’t see through Thistle’s very loud hair.”

  “Oh, stuff your mouth like you do your bra, Beth,” Thistle said. She hadn’t caught sight of the person in the car either and stood on the tips of her toes as she tried to get a glimpse of Hemlock Cove’s latest murderer. “Who is it?”

  “Aunt Tillie.”

  “Oh, well, I guess that explains why she’s been on her best behavior,” Thistle said. “Whoops.”

  Two

  “This is … unfreaking believable,” Thistle said, her eyes locking with mine. “I … there are no words.”

  “This can’t be right,” Clove protested. “Aunt Tillie would never kill anyone.”

  Beth narrowed her green eyes. “Haven’t several people gone missing after attacking your family? Word on the street is that Aunt Tillie killed all of them, and you buried the bodies on your property during one of your naked dancing rituals.”

  Technically, she wasn’t wrong. Not about the bodies, mind you, and the naked dancing is a long story. In each case in which Aunt Tillie eradicated a threat there was no body to bury. Now probably isn’t the time to bring that up. “Yes, that sounds just like us,” I deadpanned. “In our spare time we bury bodies while my FBI boyfriend eats popcorn and watches.”

  “Hey, I’m not casting aspersions on you,” Beth said, raising her hands in a placating manner. “I’m just saying that’s the word on the street.”

  “Hemlock Cove has exactly one street, Beth,” Thistle snapped. “Who are all these people talking on it?”

  “There’s no need to get snippy, Thistle.”

  “Oh, I beg to differ,” Thistle said, clenching her fists as she worked overtime to control her temper. “I think there’s definitely a reason to get snippy.”

  “Knock it off, Thistle,” I ordered, grabbing the back of her neck and tugging her toward the street. “We have to check this out. We don’t have time for you to … smack Beth’s stupid head around.”

  “Hey!” Beth was affronted. “I resent being talked about like that. It’s not my fault your family is full of weirdos.”

  “Beth, if we were burying bodies on our property, do you really think messing with us would be the brightest course of action?” I asked, causing her to take a step back. “Come on, Thistle,” I ordered, grappling with my wiry cousin as she muttered about a chick fight on Main Street. “We have to check on Aunt Tillie.”

  “I’ll lock up the shop and follow you over,” Clove said. “I … do you think I should call our mothers?”

  The question was enough to knock some sense into Thistle, and she immediately stopped struggling against me.

  “Absolutely not,” Thistle said. “If we call out there and tell them Aunt Tillie has been arrested for murder they’ll completely freak out. They’re making pie tonight. They cannot freak out on pie night. I’ve been looking forward to Marnie’s strawberry-rhubarb pie for days.”

  “Yes, because that’s the most important thing here,” I said, rolling my eyes. “They probably already know she’s been arrested. It’s as if she wanders around town. Chief Terry had to pick her up somewhere. Where do you think that was?”

  “Hell?” Beth offered.

  “I will rip your fake blond hair out with my teeth if you don’t go away,” Thistle threatened, causing Beth’s cheeks to flush with color. “If you think Aunt Tillie is terrifying, you should see me!”

  Beth and Toni exchanged a look before scurrying down the sidewalk in the direction of the ice cream shop. I knew the gossip there would be terrible, but I couldn’t worry about that given Aunt Tillie’s predicament.

  I risked a glance across the street and found Chief Terry struggling with Aunt Tillie. My elderly great-aunt was putting up quite the fight. Every time Chief Terry tried to grab her arm or usher her toward the building she slapped his hand back – and hard. Because he’d known our family since before I was b
orn, I understood how difficult this was for him.

  “We have to help Chief Terry,” I said. “She looks to be in a mood.”

  “When isn’t she in a mood?” Thistle asked. “Oh, and I’m not helping Chief Terry throw her in a jail cell. Can you imagine the curses that will be flying if we help him? I like my hips the size they are, thank you very much.”

  I scowled. “I’m not saying we help put her in a jail cell,” I clarified. “I’m saying we help him figure this out so he doesn’t lock her up. We don’t even know what’s going on yet. He might only want to question her.”

  “About a murder,” Thistle supplied. “He wouldn’t have brought her in if he didn’t have evidence. He’s too afraid of our mothers.”

  “And of never having a home-cooked meal again,” Clove added.

  “He took her in for a reason,” Thistle said. “That means he has to be pretty darned sure.”

  I hate it when she’s right. Crud. “Well, we can’t make a plan of action until we talk to Chief Terry,” I said. “Clove, lock the store and meet us over there. No matter what you do, though, don’t call our mothers.

  “If they know, they’ll be down here shortly and things will … get ugly,” I continued. “If they don’t, perhaps we can nip this in the bud before the massive Winchester meltdown burns us all.”

  “Oh, I love it that you still seem like a naïve kid sometimes,” Thistle said. “You’re so … cute.”

  “I hate you,” I muttered, slapping her hand away as she tried to pet the top of my head. “Come on. We have to deal with Aunt Tillie.”

  Thistle and I took a slow approach, giving Aunt Tillie a wide berth as we approached. Chief Terry looked almost relieved to see us, although that relief turned to regret when he realized how this looked.

  “I’m sorry I had to take her in, but I have some questions for her and she refused to answer them,” Chief Terry said, holding his hand out and pressing it to Aunt Tillie’s forehead to keep her from punching him. He was a tall man, and even though Aunt Tillie is big on personality, she’s short on stature. She couldn’t quite manage to get her hands on Chief Terry.