Landon Calling: A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Short Read online

  Two

  The walk to the inn seemed longer thanks to the cold, but I was grateful for it because Bay takes a while to become cognizant after waking. She sleeps hard – sometimes snoring loud enough to wake the dead, which is frightening considering the fact that she can see and talk to ghosts. I generally find her waking period enjoyable because I can talk her into almost anything thanks to a muddled mind and a lack of patience. Because dinner is served promptly at seven, however, I couldn’t waste time letting her wake naturally.

  “You look grumpy,” I said, capturing her hand and squeezing it. “I heard you had a rough day.”

  Bay shot a dark look over her shoulder, glaring at Thistle as her cousin and Marcus trailed us. “I’m sure you heard her side of things.”

  “I heard what happened,” I clarified. “I know that she sent Aunt Tillie to help you put out this week’s edition and things got ugly. I’m sorry for that, but … it’s done. There’s no need to dwell on it.”

  “I did not send Aunt Tillie to The Whistler,” Thistle countered. “Why would I do that?”

  “I heard it’s because Aunt Tillie has been helping you around Hypnotic,” I replied. “I’m guessing that wasn’t easy and you needed a break. I think anyone would’ve done what you did.”

  Bay was affronted. “Hey!”

  I held up a finger to quiet her. “Most people would admit they did it, though,” I added, my gaze pointed as I pinned Thistle with a hard look. On most days I don’t mind her company, but there are moments when I have to fight the overwhelming urge to shake her.

  “I didn’t do it!” Thistle’s face flushed with color as Bay swiveled.

  I caught Bay’s arm before things could get out of hand. “Sweetie, I know you’re upset, but do you really want to ruin our night? We both know what Thistle did. Can’t that be enough?”

  “Not until she admits she’s evil,” Bay snapped. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to work with Aunt Tillie? She wanted to write her own editorial about how Mrs. Little should be banned from town and how every restaurant should be a ‘no kid’ zone except for one hour each day.”

  Laughing wouldn’t help, but I couldn’t stop myself. “I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”

  “Not in her world,” Bay muttered. “She used to tell us her truck was a ‘no kid’ zone when we were little and threaten to leave us by the side of the road in the middle of winter.”

  “Yes, that was always delightful, because Clove believed her every time and turned on the waterworks,” Thistle interjected. “It was pathetic.”

  “Clove turned on the waterworks to get her way,” Bay corrected. “I don’t think it was because she really believed Aunt Tillie would leave us.”

  “That’s true,” Thistle conceded. “Clove cried about everything for a time when we were kids. It worked for her, too.”

  I sensed a thawing in the temporary freeze and almost heaved a relieved sigh. I managed to contain myself, though, because neither of them would play nice if they thought it reflected poorly on their ability to be proclaimed “victor” for the evening. “I think we should enact a ‘no Aunt Tillie’ zone,” I suggested. “I think that would be best for everyone’s mental health.”

  “I agree with that,” Thistle said.

  Bay flashed a genuine smile as I led her up the back steps and into the inn. Her relaxed attitude lasted for a moment or two – right until she saw Aunt Tillie sitting on the couch in the family living quarters watching Jeopardy – and then the anger returned to her eyes. I didn’t miss the hot flush washing over her cheeks.

  “It’s Detroit, you idiots,” Aunt Tillie barked at the television, not bothering to look up. She was dressed relatively normal – for her, at least – in simple cargo pants and a “Flip the Witch Switch” shirt. The ensemble made me smile when I saw her socks as she rested her feet on the coffee table. They were bright orange and had monsters on them. Some things never change.

  Aunt Tillie scowled when Alex Trebek announced the answer was Chicago. “That’s such a load of crap. Don’t they have fact checkers?” As if sensing us for the first time, she shifted her eyes to the entryway and smirked. “You have sleep lines on your face, Bay.”

  Bay frowned as she rubbed her cheek. “Do I?”

  “You’re beyond cute,” I replied, kissing her cheek before scalding Aunt Tillie with a dark look. “Do you have to cause problems?”

  “That’s what she does,” Thistle interjected. “She sits around dreaming up ways to cause problems. She’s a professional.”

  “Oh, suck it, mouth.” Aunt Tillie narrowed her eyes as she looked Thistle up and down. “That blue color washes you out. You should go with richer, earthier tones.”

  “You suck it,” Thistle shot back, annoyed. “You’re a pain in the butt. Like … a big pain. You’re like a hemorrhoid.”

  Bay snickered. “That was so weak.”

  “I just woke up,” Thistle protested. “You know what I hope, old lady? I hope now that we’re going to have an inn full of cops and FBI agents that you screw up in front of one of them and they lock you away.”

  As far as arguments go, this was one of the tamer ones I’d witnessed in the Winchester household. Thistle and Bay were off their games, so I expected things to pick up when their minds were firing on all cylinders. What I didn’t expect was the shocked look that flitted over Aunt Tillie’s features.

  “What do you mean?” Aunt Tillie asked, leaning forward. “What cops? What FBI agents?”

  Uh-oh. I sensed trouble. Clearly Bay and Thistle did, too, because their eyes gleamed with twin doses of mischief as they exchanged a quick look.

  “You don’t know,” Thistle said after a beat, rubbing her hands together. “You don’t know who’s visiting this week. Our mothers didn’t tell you.”

  “That has to be on purpose,” Bay noted. “They knew she’d have a panic attack, so they kept it quiet until it was too late.”

  “And it’s officially too late tonight,” I said. “My boss should be here for dinner.”

  “Oh, this is too good.” Thistle looked like an evil cat preparing to pounce. “You’re in for a rude awakening, old lady. The cops are coming for you.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” Aunt Tillie said, resting her hands on her knees as her eyes bounced between faces. “What does that mean?”

  “Do you want to tell her, or should I?” Bay asked Thistle.

  “Oh, let me do it,” Thistle pleaded. “I’ve been waiting for a moment like this for decades. This might be the one that actually kills her.”

  “Go ahead.” Bay slipped her hand into mine and rested her head against my shoulder. The color was back in her cheeks. I didn’t want to admit it, but being evil did wonders for her skin. She almost glowed. “Lay it on her.”

  Thistle was gleeful as she stepped forward. “The FBI is hosting a special investigative techniques event in Hemlock Cove this week,” she said. “Police officers and agents from all across the state will be in town. A lot of them will be staying here. In fact, every room is booked, and it’s all cops and FBI agents.”

  “You’re lying.” Aunt Tillie’s voice ratcheted up a notch. “There’s no way that’s true.”

  “Oh, it’s true,” Thistle said, grinning like a crazy woman who just found out there was a sale on invisible friends. “For the next few days, Hemlock Cove and this inn are going to be filled to the brim with cops. So stick that in your straw and suck it.”

  Thistle was haughty as she strolled across the room and disappeared through the door that led to the kitchen. I had to hand it to her. It must take a lot of stamina to look that full of herself given Aunt Tillie’s history of cursing her nieces for insubordination.

  “She’s lying, right?” Aunt Tillie swiveled and fixed her eyes on Bay. “She’s making that up to tick me off. That’s the only explanation I can accept.”

  “I’m sorry.” Bay’s voice was devoid of emotion as she patted Aunt Tillie’s arm. “I guess it’s going to be a r
ough few days for you, huh? Total bummer.”

  I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing as I prodded Bay toward the kitchen. Aunt Tillie looked furious, and I didn’t want to be caught in a room with her when she popped a cork on her homemade wine. Instead of reacting out of anger, though, Aunt Tillie seemed desperate as she grabbed Marcus’ wrist.

  “Tell me this isn’t true!”

  Marcus looked caught. “I … .” He cast a pleading gaze in my direction. “Are you going to help me?”

  I shook my head as I marched Bay toward the kitchen. “It’s every man for himself. If it’s any consolation, you sacrificed yourself for a good cause.”

  Marcus glowered at me as I disappeared through the doorway. “I won’t forget this.”

  If I were in his position, I wouldn’t forget it either.

  The kitchen bustled with activity, but Thistle’s smugness managed to survive the change in audiences with little variation. Apparently she couldn’t wait to tell her mother and aunts that she had lit Aunt Tillie’s fuse.

  “Oh, she knows,” Thistle said, grabbing a radish from the salad bowl and popping it into her mouth. “She’s very excited, too.”

  “Why would you tell her that?” Winnie, Bay’s mother, looked furious as she stared down her niece. “There’s a reason we kept that a secret.”

  “No offense, but how long did you think you’d be able to keep up that ruse?” Bay challenged. “Some of the guests arrived today, and the rest hit town tomorrow. She was going to find out eventually.”

  “You don’t know that.” Marnie, Clove’s mother, shook her dark head and made a clucking sound in the back of her throat. “Aunt Tillie doesn’t pay attention to the guests. I believe she once likened them to ants and herself as the person who stomped on the ant pile. She could very well have gone the entire week without knowing that cops were converging on the inn.”

  That seemed unlikely. “She’s not an idiot,” I pointed out. “One of the demonstrations is being held here. You agreed to it.”

  “What demonstration?” Twila asked, her eyes dark as they settled on Thistle’s blue hair. Twila picked hues to dye her hair according to the Ronald McDonald, scale so it was always funny when she lectured her daughter on her color choices. “That color is hideous.”

  Thistle ignored her. “Yeah, what demonstration is being held here?”

  “It’s a fake murder investigation,” I supplied. “We have a new device that’s aimed at gathering evidence. It involves personal scanners – which we got a huge grant for – to get fingerprints while the victim is still on scene.”

  “That sounds … delightful,” Marnie said, making a face. “Will there be fake blood?”

  “Of course there will be fake blood,” Twila said, her eyes flashing. “People love fake blood. Do you have an actress to play the dead person?”

  I shifted uncomfortably. I recognized the gleam in Twila’s eyes. She fancied herself a budding thespian – or perhaps an overlooked one, I really can’t be sure – and I sensed trouble. “We’re going to have one of the younger agents pretend to be dead for the demonstration.”

  “Oh, now, that would be silly,” Twila said, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead and reminding me of a scene from one of the soap operas my mother watched when I was a kid. “I’d be happy to serve as your murder victim.”

  “Um … .” I glanced at Bay for help, but she was steadfastly avoiding eye contact. Her message was clear: You’re on your own. “I don’t want to take time away from your busy day.” That sounded plausible, right?

  “Oh, please take her,” Marnie grumbled.

  Twila ignored her sister and remained focused on me. “How will everyone learn if you’re taking away someone’s ability to focus on the crime scene? I’m doing you a service.”

  I heaved out a sigh. “I’m not in charge. My boss is. I believe he checked in tonight. You’ll have to ask him.”

  Twila smiled at the suggestion. She grabbed a platter of vegetables and moved toward the swinging door that separated the dining room and kitchen, an added swing in her step. “His name is Steve, right?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Make sure he knows it was your idea and not mine, okay?”

  Twila winked. “You don’t want him to think you’re playing favorites. I get it.”

  I waited until she was gone to focus on Bay. “This won’t end well.”

  Bay giggled and gave me a hug. “You’re a good man for letting her do this. That’s one of the reasons I love you.”

  Even now, after we’d been saying the words for months, she still had the ability to wow me with three little words every time she uttered them. I cupped the back of her head and pressed a soft kiss to her mouth. “I love you, too.”

  “Oh, puke,” Thistle muttered. “You two are sickening.”

  “Then don’t look,” I suggested, grabbing Bay’s hand. “We’re going to the table. I want to see how Steve reacts to Twila’s request.”

  Winnie seemed genuinely amused at the turn of events. “We’ll be right behind you.”

  Steve sat wide-eyed at the middle of the table as Twila explained why she’d be the perfect person to play a dead body, even going so far as to list her community acting credits. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing as I led Bay to our usual seats.

  Steve darted a desperate look in my direction as he continuously nodded and made “uh-huh” sounds whenever Twila took a breath – which wasn’t often – and when she finally wrapped up her argument he appeared lost. “I guess that would be okay,” he said finally, dragging out the words as if he expected someone to swoop in and save him from the inevitable. “If you want to be the dead body, I don’t see any problem with it.”

  “Yay!” Twila hopped up and down as she clapped her hands, and then hurried back to the kitchen.

  “I only heard the tail end of that, but you’re going to regret agreeing to it.” Terry Davenport, Hemlock Cove’s chief of police, smirked as he took a seat between Steve and Bay. He graced Bay with a wide smile. “Hello, sweetheart.”

  “Hello, honey,” I tossed back, grinning when he scowled. Terry has a unique relationship with the Winchester family. He’s especially fond of Bay. For a long time he was the only father Bay, Clove and Thistle had during their childhood years. I wasn’t surprised to see him at dinner. “Anything interesting going on around these parts?”

  “Only if you find it interesting that Thistle tried to throw Aunt Tillie out of Hypnotic’s front window earlier today,” Chief Terry replied. “Thankfully she didn’t, and Aunt Tillie headed to The Whistler, so I didn’t have to issue public nuisance citations.”

  “Thankfully?” Bay arched a challenging eyebrow. “There was nothing thankful about that situation.”

  Chief Terry chuckled. “Well, at least no one died.”

  “Yet,” Bay muttered.

  “I’m looking forward to getting a chance to see more of the town,” Steve said, reaching for a slice of warm bread. “I’ve only spent time here in passing. It’s a lovely place.”

  “You’re only saying that because you haven’t spent any time with Aunt Tillie yet,” Bay pointed out. “You’ll change your mind after that.”

  “On the contrary. I find her delightful.”

  “Give it time,” I said. “I … .” I snapped my mouth shut, forgetting where I was in the conversation as Aunt Tillie picked that moment to flounce through the door. She’d changed her outfit, now sporting camouflage pants and a combat helmet. Her shrewd eyes bounced around the table.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Winchester.” Steve’s smile was amiable. “I’m so happy you’re here. I’m excited to stay at the inn and get to know you better.”

  “Save it,” Aunt Tillie barked. “I know your game.”

  Steve was understandably confused. “What game?”

  “You can’t arrest me without a warrant, and there’s no judge in three counties who will sign a warrant,” Aunt Tillie said. “I made sure of that.”


  “You probably shouldn’t be admitting that to law enforcement representatives,” Bay said dryly. “I’m pretty sure they frown on paying off judges.”

  Aunt Tillie snorted. “Paying off? I would never stoop so low.”

  “I saw you bribe the mailman with wine to lose that catalog with all of the Halloween decorations a few weeks ago,” Bay reminded her.

  “Yes, but that had ghosts and monsters that talked – something Twila would not have been able to stop herself from buying – and it was too irritating for words,” Aunt Tillie said. “That was a public service.”

  “Whatever.” Bay rolled her eyes. “I’m pretty sure no one has any interest in arresting you.”

  “Don’t be so hasty,” Chief Terry said, grinning as Aunt Tillie scowled. “I’m not ruling it out.”

  “Me either,” I teased, ignoring the hateful expression on Aunt Tillie’s face. “The first thing you learn when you become an agent is that you can’t labor under preconceived notions. You have to be open for anything … even arresting senior citizens.”

  Aunt Tillie’s mouth dropped open. “I am not a senior citizen. I’m middle aged!”

  Aunt Tillie’s in her eighties, but could easily pass for a spry ninety-year-old. “I forgot. I apologize.”

  “Why would we want to arrest you?” Steve asked, genuinely curious.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Bay warned. “It could be a variety of reasons. They shift from day to day. It’s better to pretend you have no idea what she’s up to.”

  “I see.” Steve seemed amused. “I think this is going to be a fun week.”

  “Then someone has slipped acid into your wine,” Aunt Tillie shot back, her eyes flashing. “I want to make everyone aware that I know what’s going on, and I won’t stand for it. There will be no nonsense in my house!”

  Thistle picked that moment to walk into the dining room, amusement licking the corners of her mouth. “And there go my plans for the week. I love a good bout of nonsense.”

  Aunt Tillie narrowed her eyes as she glanced between faces. “Be forewarned. You’re all on my list.”

  Oh, yeah. This is going to be a great week.